30. Fallen Hero

The sun was rising on the Barren, the arid plain and hills merging to the ancient forest of Ashenvale where it had set for millennia untold, now a wasteland of death and destruction.

Upon the lowest point between three hills was a small canyon. It had only been days since it was a lush grove tauntingly laid the skeletal, headless remains of the leading pit lord of the demonic host, having enslaved the Warsong clan once more.

It had been a night since their defeat and this demon's death. However, it wasn't a victory to celebrate; Azgalor had been this pit lord's name. He wasn't the King of All Pit Lords, Mannoroth, and evident as it may be, the implications were far less so the case.

Before his demise and subsequent detonation, he gloated that the Destructor had been slain days ago had been a charade. Azgalor had been a simple replacement. A pawn of a greater and grander plan for the eternal crusade across the Great Dark Beyond of the Burning Legion.

Gorehowl, in the hands of its purified master, cleaving his burning skull in two, changed absolutely nothing.

The orcs remained the same. They were bound, just as much sworn under the oath taken as they had been on their home planet. Freedom from the unnatural bloodlust haze of the Blood Curse in their every thought remained unattainable. The same was for the lethargy if the last was left unsatiated.

And this cracked, charred skeleton was this symbol of shame, dishonor, and deception. A hasty hope that had been broken just as fast as it was born. It couldn't have been so easy.

But it was anything but a fatality. It was a tragedy to live through, yet one to walk stronger from as the orcs did again and again and will continue to do so evermore. They have lived with it for more than twenty years and would continue to do so until a cure was found.

Still, it wasn't without ripples, and the greatest participant was alive. His heart was beating with life, and his lungs were filling and emptying with the smell of burning flesh and death as he gazed solemnly at the destruction he had wrought.

Though the destruction of the natural world was of no true value in his mind, it was the blood of his people spilled fighting his people for his weakness as he fell to his pride and baser instincts like an untrained worg pup.

His eternal bloodlust that even now tormented his every thought was at fault, but it served as a poor and cowardly excuse for his sins. It wasn't a part of him just as much as anything else for how long he had known it.

His clan was no more than shambles, with many rampaging in the wild. The fragment of the Darkspear tribe entrusted to him had been given to the Legion, and their warning was ignored; less than a fraction remained.

He dishonored himself, his clan, his Warchief, and the Horde as a whole at once, and with a ferocity none ever did, barring the Betrayer of the Orcs, Gul'dan.

He deserved nothing but death.

Yet he was alive. Healed and brought back from the brink of death after the pit lord's self-destruction. However, it would be an even greater dishonor if he were to slit his own throat.

"Brother…" Footsteps accompanied by a familiar voice reached his ears. The tone was soft and warm, but to the orc responsible for this many of his people's utterly honorless and pointless deaths, it was no better than a cold dagger to his chest.

There was a well-hidden yet evident sadness permeating his tone, a tone that sounded to Grommash as immense and fitting disappointments. It made it all the worse, and shame surfaced in even greater intensity.

He didn't answer immediately, barely reacting to Thrall's call, but when he did, it was short and lacked the force of will carried for decades. It was almost unrecognizable.

"I'm not worthy of such consideration, Warchief."

"I fear that's not how it works, big brother." The younger orc answered smoothly, taking a seat next to him and observing down the scarred canyon where Azgalor's incomplete body was. A complex expression settled in before hardening.

"Boy…" The blademaster growled, turning to the younger orc with a faint smile that died soon after as words he kept inside after killing the pit lord flowed freely, "My excuses are weak and will never pay for my sins against our people. But… I'm sorry… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry… Death should have been my fate, my last clarion of honor. My first and last moment to be granted it is gone. What am I to do? Live in shame?"

Those words were not hollow despite their lack of usual vigor; they were of utmost sincerity. Grom knew he didn't have the right to live; a useless death to a false puppet master would have been fit for one such as him.

Honor had left him when he fell to temptation again, and all should remember the name of Grommash Hellscream as a warning. A figure to learn the greatest mistakes and worst failures from so no orcs had to make them again.

If he ever had been honorable from the moment he took Gul'dan's offer, knowing of the price that was. Or even before, under a falsehood where he assisted in ravaging his home world of Draenor, destroying all that the orcs once were, betraying the elements and ancestors, and turning them into a machine of war.

But he saw that was far from what most young and even old orcs who lived it all viewed him. They couldn't accept as reality what he had done or, worse, rationalize it from the little they knew. The demon blood had been a necessity, or he would have perished and such.

For them, he remained the paragon of an orcish warrior, a mighty general to trust and die for, a beacon of greatness to aspire to. It was all but an illusion Hellscream crafted and deluded himself into believing by hiding the truth and, until now, had been content to continue embellishing.

It was an eye-opening experience.

Yet now, it was too late. The half-truth, untold story, and distorted recollection were the truth, and the truth was lies. But neither could be told apart. It was a tragedy.

Thrall's dream had been and still was at risk of burning in demonic fire because of his actions, the one he swore to follow and obey, to lay his life for, to advise under war and peace, someone who was a brother in all but blood. Few words could describe the deep-seated shame the Chief of the Warsong felt.

"If that's what you truly believe, then act, Grommash Hellscream. The curse has begun with you, and it's your duty to end it. I do not ask you to do it for yourself as a brother. I order you as your Warchief for the Horde, for our people you have wronged. Live, fight, and die. Grow beyond the errors of your ways. I'm as much to blame for the recent tragedy. If I had harnessed my anger, if I had sought to know the lands better, this would have never come to pass." Thrall said, extending a hand to Grom.

With renewed vigor, the blademaster stood up, taking the offer with a firm grip. Light filled his aged yet aware eyes once more. The shaman understood his friend had changed at that moment and held just as strongly.

Then Grommash snorted, "Foolish boy... Hm, Gorehowl hunger for demons' blood."

•••••

Yawning, I waved my paw in the air as I leisurely strutted through the camp. My nose was high, sniffing the air as I focused on finding my way to a meeting I organized.

Nobody stood in my way, of course. They immediately parted like that legend of my past life, with an old man wielding a magic stick cutting a path through some kind of sea.

What happened yesterday remained more than fresh in the mind of both the Horde and Alliance, well, the Horde mostly. They were the ones who saw most of it and quite openly spoke of it. Aside from when I was nearby, they didn't grasp how great my hearing was.

All in all, it was amusing and flattering to a certain degree.

I was the Unstoppable, among other titles beyond 'shit fuck avoid eyes contact and hope the spirits, Light, Loa, and whatever else so the giant magical bipedal bear doesn't decide to eat or disembowel me because I angered him' types of mildly annoying sticks funny only the first dozen times.

I did let off steam against the Warsong clan, after all. I should have expected that kind of reaction. Seeing thorns burst from someone's chest wasn't without impact.

I scared shitless many before, and my show of violence proved it wasn't a misplaced feeling. And they would be correct in their judgments.

I probably changed their view of a healer, too. I preferred prevention, and I showed it through my actions.

Be that as it may, the likely source of their behavior was because I favored neither outlanders for the most part. And I don't think I was obtuse regarding the fact it was an alliance of necessity first and foremost.

I was a wild card, a friendly one, but that was right now to fight the Burning Legion. It was a delicate balance.

It could also evolve into something more; I wasn't an idiot blind to that evidence. But it was too soon. It had literally been slightly more than twenty-four hours since we met.

It didn't take long to reach my destination, as usual, a tent built too small for me, but sitting right in front like I owned the place was just as good. Asking for the help of the ancestors to translate, I spoke.

"Greetings, I see you came, Jaina, Cairne… And you… I have seen you… you made sure no infighting happened, but I didn't get your name." I trailed off, staring at the old human male, a paladin. His lips quirked into a nervous smile at my prompting.

"Duke Lionheart, one of the surviving holy knights of the Silver Hand and humble servant of the Light, at your service." He swiftly said. Nodding at his answer, I turned to the Bloodhoof Chieftain and asked a simple question, yet one that shouldn't be.

Not that I blamed him.

"Where's Thrall?"

"With Blademaster Hellscream, young furbolg. He said he wished to speak to his brother." He calmly said with a flick of an ear, and I retained an irritated huff. But a small one came out nonetheless with a pawing of the dry soil.

A substantial part of me regretted not letting the orc die yesterday, but Grommash was an excellent warrior. A warrior, if I acted arrogantly like Cenarius and didn't play my card right, could kill me.

And great fighters were something we desperately needed beyond the fact it was useful to have as leverage on the Warchief. Thrall had begged me to save him, bringing me a heavily burned yet breathing body.

I wasn't Magatha and preferred the beautiful simplicity and finality of mauling people, but it was sadly extremely limited. It was a significant risk. If not a straight-up mistake, only the future would tell if that was the case or not, as much as I hated this idiom.

"To stop his nonsensical moping, I presume." I rumbled. That was an understatement for the poor little psychotic manchild. Really, I tried to make it appear I didn't have my claws to grind, but I fooled nobody.

My self-control extended only to not maiming.

I won't be the only one in the coming days. I foresee many wanting Grom's head, but that was good; it steers the righteous hate on an individual. Or so I hoped. I was way out of my depth with everything in the past weeks.

It all felt like a very bad psychedelic dream you couldn't wake up from when I wasn't angry in some form.

Then I informed them of something more important and why I was here in the first place, "I have communicated with the Sentinel Army, and we will speak to them soon before entering Ashenvale. Well, me first, but that's the general idea. There's no need to pointlessly kill each other."

It was a simple matter. My bull student Ton was with them–the High Priestess was easily contacted through Shandris–and asking a bear spirit in the Dreaming was all it took.

The answer I got two hours later was less than enthusiastic. It was a night elf druid under–to my surprise–Tyrande herself, who sent what she wrote, but it had worked very well.

It was not like she had a choice right now, and I wasn't any random furbolg. Ursol graciously informed me of his situation, as did I. I knew how overwhelmed the night elves were with demons and undead and the resulting demand my teacher got from them because of that.

There was a reason why I asserted only furbolgs were allowed entrance to Timbermaw Hold and Hollowmaw beyond the risk of increasing the potential of Legion infiltrating.

"A most wise course of action." Cairne hummed with closed eyes, and the paladin twirled his somehow manicured mustache at that. Very much pleased by that piece of news.

"That is… great, excellent, even we don't need any more bloodshed on our hands right now." Jaina breathed out, her shoulders relaxed, and her expression appeared exhausted. Gone was anything remotely regal. A trait shared with everyone, it was an unpleasant time.

"Then I'm flying there right now-" I suddenly stopped, my round fluffy ears turning to the right, and two distinct smells arrived seconds after. They didn't take long to motivate themselves then.

Preemptively pushing my head back, I stood stretching as I did so and stated heatlessly to a distinct duo of orcs walking my way, "You're late."

The older of the pair glared right back at my relaxed stance and innocent barb. The people around tensed up and skirted more than they were doing until now.

"Brother-" Thrall lifted a hand in front of Grommash, whose hold on his axe had tightened, "No."

A grunt later, and I didn't have to make sure even the Lich King wouldn't be capable of making the Warsong Chieftain's corpse into basic materials.

"My excuse, Ohto, for my lateness. Are we to march to Ashenvale?"

I tilted my head at the Warchief. What a silly question unless your objective was to become a pincushion.

"I wish, Thrall. Time is against us. But I'm going to speak with the night elves for exactly that. I trust you to rein in your less agreeable people when the time comes." Without waiting for his answer, my body transformed into that of a large predatory bat, and I took to the sky.

*

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