Chapter Text
"Fel is that sound?"
"Look, sir, out toward the horizon!"
"It's... an airship! Not one of ours, is it?"
"It's taking a nosedive. It's— it's going to crash!"
"But it's not ours, is it?" Varok Saurfang grumbled.
"No, High Overlord, those are Alliance colors."
"So quit gawking and get back to work!"
"SAURFANG!"
Garrosh Hellscream, overlord of the Warsong Offensive, appeared on the balcony and approached the group. "This is my keep, these are MY soldiers, and I will order them as I see fit!"
The elder orc tightened his scowl. "I am the chief advisor to Thrall, and here I was sent to be the same for you. It is not a position I earned by accident, nor did I fight to wrest it from his hands like a greedy child." A low blow.
Garrosh clenched his fists. "You may be Thrall's right hand, but he is not here, is he? Here, I am in charge."
"Show, don't tell." Varok glared at Garrosh with a sour smirk.
Preceded by an indignant snort, Hellscream bellowed, "Scout the crash! With any luck we'll find out what the Alliance are up to."
--
AGONY AGONY AGONY AGONY
MUST SCREAM CANNOT SCREAM
HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME
Shaking, you're holding your jaw in place. Shaking, holding your neck in place. Shaking, shaking, shaking, trembling, all of you, shaking.
Hurts, hurts, by the light, hurts, holy light, holy light, it hurts, it hurts.
Everything is dark, everything is smoke, fire, everything is cold, everything hurts, everything hurts.
Wolves howling in the distance. Take me now, for I cannot bear this. Take me now, tear me apart; I cannot bear this pain.
Orcs, you hear them. Orcs, stampeding toward you, the monsters, galloping along on their heavy, loud, merciful wolves. Spare me this pain. Let me die, let me die, kill me now, it hurts, it hurts. There are sounds coming from you, too, but you aren't sure how you're making them or from where inside you they come. The sounds you make are all around you, never stopping, piercing, all-encompassing.
"Krag"s and "mok"s and "osh"s resounded in the distance, all of the hard words hitting like splintered glass, growing closer, surrounding you. It is growing dark. The sun endures the blanket of blight across the tundra and dares to shine, even still, but you cannot see it now. It grows dark, perhaps just for you.
"Lok'tar!"
What a dreadful sound.
--
You are awake. Your fingers are tightly woven in the fur of a panting wolf. It is not yours. It is alive. It is Orcish.
It is all Orcish.
Orcish and pain. It is all pain, it is all Orcish.
The room about you swirls, head dizzy and swimming with pain. It cannot be real, you assure yourself, as you were sure the plane was going down. You had accepted death and you are positive it had come for you. There was no way it hadn't. It claimed everyone else on board. Tailspin's bright cheeks and wide smile shimmer in your mind. He is so brilliant. You know he did everything he could. But you had accepted death and had the thought, "Here it comes," seeing its dark hands reach for you amidst the smoke and fire and all of the noise of the aircraft scraping across the sky.
You wonder what curious sort of afterlife awaited you that would place you within the iron walls of a Horde fortress. This certainly wasn't real, after all. As you stir, so too does the massive wolf, rearing its head back and snorting. Though happening right in front of you, the conversation between the orcs sounds terribly far away. Orc words are tools, you think. They sound like axes and hammers, taking everyone else's words and chopping them into little bits.
Things are starting to settle, now. Your eyes have finally stopped rolling enough to focus on your surroundings.
Iron stretches all the way to the ceilings, flanked by dark wood and hundreds of cold connector rivets. Scattered fire pits serve as warmth and light, of which there is very little. Various races of the Horde mill about—a tauren and elf you recognize immediately—but in your current presence are a handful of orcs fanned out in a semicircle around you. Men, women, young, old. Some familiar, all various shades of green. Except one.
The brown one stares you down. Lips tightly curled around his tusks. He leers. He does not stop. He looks you over, all over, boring his daggers into you, unyielding. You can feel his hatred.
--
He hated you. He hated looking at you. He hated your shrunken face; how worm-like humans looked, their features always narrow and sunken in like their souls were a collapsing mine shaft, like their faces got beaten in at birth while their skulls were still soft. He ought to beat your face in. Spirits, he hated you. He'll crack that leper eggshell of yours if he has no need for your mushy brain and slack mouth. Hate you.
Hate you. Look at you: bloated, swollen, diseased. That his scouts would contaminate his hold with your presence disgusted and bewildered him. The pus and blood seeping from your legs agitated the wolves and roused them to hunger for your gore, the skittering droves of undead that encircled the blasted continent besides. You fetid flypaper of a human; your sweet copper blood stinking and staining his Warsong steel. Hate you.
Hate you.
You dare. Hate you. Hate you. You cannot fight, you cannot run, you yet cannot even speak. Useless. Useless. Hate you.
"Words will not come until shock subsides," a healer tells him.
"Do what you will. Just get this thing out of my sight," he spits.
--
Stings.
It stings.
Wet.
Dead...? No. It stings.
You see your feet in the water. You see your legs in the water. You are in the water.
The water is very hot.
You feel your face. It is wet.
You are sitting in the very hot water.
Hard to breathe. Very hot.
Close your eyes...
Close your eyes...
Loud.
You look. Can't see.
Close your eyes.
You hear something. It barges into the basement of the stronghold to survey the small array of wash basins, as if searching for the one that is occupied. Its harried rummaging tempers as it sees the steam rising from a corner. It approaches steadily, belying a sense of urgency. As it pulls away the banner-turned-curtain, the especially cool gust of outside air revives a sliver of your consciousness. You can feel moisture forming and dripping down your face. Your window was short; an orc's massive frame fills the space and blocks the breeze. It is the brown orc.
He sees you slumped against the side of the basin, non-responsive. Drool pools on your chest, still attached to your mouth in a thick string. Your skin beneath the water is an entirely separate color from that of your face.
He mutters in Orcish. You do not understand, but you can tell he is upset. He has not stopped being upset. He shouts toward a doorway from which he came; perhaps an order, perhaps a curse. Perhaps both. Nothing happens. You hear him shout again, but listening is hard. Eyes closed. Very hot. Sleep.
Hot under skin. Where do you end? Where do you begin? Water in your ears. Blood?
He looks at you, then to the door, then ducks beneath the curtain and departs. Quiet returns. You're alone again. All hot again. Hot. Hot.
Hot.
Too hot...
An arm hooks around you and reels in from the bath, a brick wall of cold air slamming into you. You are lifted. Put up somewhere. On your belly. Water sounds. Eyes flutter open, and below you see a pail of readily melting snow being scooped into the bath. An orc's thick brown arm serves as a stirrer, air sucked through the teeth and hand flinching as it first hits the water. More snow in the bath. Stirring, stirring. You exhale and feel yourself slipping from where you are perched, wherever that is. On the orc? A jerk, then you are hoisted back up.
Are you naked? You aren't sure. You feel as if you're wearing a suit of steel wool.
Feeling dizzy. Hot, hot, then cold, cold. Skin might come apart, might slough off. You feel yourself slipping again, but with guidance. Warmth surrounds you. Water again this time. Hot, cold, warm. Your gut twists and shoots up your throat, thrusting your head over the side of the basin and splattering the ground with runny vomit. Again. Then again.
The orc is still there, the stirrer. He grunts, unfazed. Same one. Must be. Your chin rests on the edge of the basin and you wearily roll your head toward him.
Yes, it's the same orc from before. He's the only brown orc in the place, you suspect. Is he not a member of high command? His armor suggests so. To what end is he serving as your caretaker? He crosses his arms, one much more flushed than the other. He speaks to you in Orcish, which you never learned a lick of. He realizes this.
"You. Say Common?" He stumbles over the words but maintains an authoritative tone. You nod. Slowly.
"Garrosh Hellscream." He proudly beats his chest with a fist. It's your turn.
Your name is—
He doesn't give you chance to answer. "You in orc place. My place. You go from my place. Go or die."
You were going to die anyhow, but the orc scouts brought you here. It is difficult to relay this concept to Hellscream due in part to both the language barrier and your floundering physical condition.
"Will I die?" is all you can muster.
Garrosh frowns, a mix of pity and irritation. "No need you here. You go die." From behind him the curtain parts, revealing a very cross elder Saurfang. He looks at you, then chastises Garrosh from the sound of things. The younger orc turns to leave, shooting you a glance over his shoulder before disappearing behind the curtain.
Did he say Hellscream?
"So, you survived the crash. Right before the airstrip too, wasn't it?"
You nod. Varok is familiar with Common.
"How are you feeling?"
"Hurts."
"Good. And who are you working for? The Alliance?"
"Me. Just... me."
"It's pretty cold tonight. Have you more information for me than that, or would you like to join the nerubians in the quarry?"
"Really... really mean it. Just... trapper. Hunter. Heard about animals," you manage. It's the most you've said in what feels like days.
"Both Horde and Alliance have barely gained a foothold in the tundra and you expect me to believe precious resources are being frittered away on tradesmen? Hobbyists at best?"
"Fizzcrank." It's a miracle you remember the name. "Gnome... needed builders."
"Builders, not trappers. And how could a human's hands be of any use to a gnome?"
"Builders need food. Engineers aren't trappers. Had to find new food... Food that isn't rations. To be here a long time."
"Feh," Saurfang spits. "That your Alliance are so unequipped with basic skill sets for survival is always astounding to me. Bringing extra mouths to feed you instead of figuring how to feed your own. The Horde has no such luxury."
"I'm... All of the gnomes died. Tailspin... might have lived. We were both injured."
"Well then. Lucky you, trapper." Varok chuckles. "But your luck has run out. I don't like to be the one to put down the dog, but—"
"Wait— I," you stammer, "I can give you the location of the airstrip. The gnomes, they found something there."
"Ha! You think something like that will spare your pitiful little life? Besides, you're just a civilian, not remembered and no use to anyone. What's left of you to salvage after nearly being boiled to death?"
You scramble for a reason to spare your life.
"You've proven to be of no use. A trapper knows nothing that we don't. All you've taught us is that the geysers—" Saurfang leans in for emphasis, "Which we can see from our own base— are deadly."
"Then... you'll let me go?"
"Go? Go where?" The old orc laughs. "This land is overrun with Scourge and you're looking halfway there. You are too crippled to fight. Valiance Keep will not take you even if we deliver you. You want to wander these wastes as an exile forever?"
You don't want to die. It is the only thought you can articulate. As the bath cools you become acutely aware of the searing pain coursing throughout your body. Your veins are molten, your skin beyond raw. You were thoroughly cooked by the geyser and battered in the crash. Your gaze then floats down to your legs, which are nearly unrecognizable. You most likely are not capable of wandering anywhere, regardless of affiliation.
"Please... please don't kill me."
"Then you remain our prisoner. Whether you've information or not."
"But—please—you could take me to the Alliance. How do you know they won't—"
"You aren't worth the trip. We get the lowest grunts to exchange Alliance deserters at the gate only because they are soldiers. If dishonorable ones," Saurfang grumbles. "But you? Not even a peon would deliver you."
"So why keep me here?"
Saurfang leans back and folds his hands behind him. His red eyes close as he relishes a brief moment of candor out of the earshot and language of his Advised. "To protect the frail and ignorant ego of a frail and ignorant boy." He chuckles to himself.
"Hell...scream?" He... seems strong, you want to say, recalling the sheer size of him, the fire coiled in his ruthless glare, but you dare not argue. Was he really just a "boy"?
"Son of Hellscream, rather. He sends scouts to the site, he'll take what they fetch. The fruits of his impulse," he muses. "Ah, but he has the weight of the Horde upon his shoulders now. He must keep his spirits above that mantle."
Another lump of vomit lingers in your throat but you suppress it. The bath has run almost cold, rekindling the heat of your wounds. You need medical attention. You are no soldier but no mere civilian, not like they say. After all, you were in Northrend, weren't you?
...Weren't you?
"Am I stuck here to wait and die? For no reason—" Feeling lightheaded, you sway and then clutch the side of the bath.
The orc watches you and smiles to himself, pleased with your suffering. "Go there yourself, then. You will get sick and die in a week if the burns do not kill you first."
"Saurfang," an orc shaman addresses the High Overlord from outside the curtain. He grunts, eyes flitting and sizing up your frail self. His demeanor shifts, posture tense.
"This is your last chance, human. I offer to spare you a lingering death."
You gather your bearings the best you can, fever rising and head clouded with pain. "I survived the crash. I will survive this too."
The orc shakes his head. "Doubt it. One week at best. If you aren't foolish or well enough to leave by then, you're spider bait. Understand?"
You cannot meet his eyes. He moves closer to you, curling some fingers around the edge of the bath, and his voice drops low.
"Listen, human. I am old. I am experienced. I have much wisdom from both sides of conflict. You will go softly, as in a sleep, and not have your body break down around you. Otherwise, the last of your days will be here, in this place, cold and alone and subject to Garrosh's whims like the rest of them."
You feel that he is being sincere, but you say nothing.
"You are young. If your time has come, then you should greet it. Do not let yourself waste away like this."
It... can't be that bad. You only think it, but the old one sees it spoken on your face and leans closer, his raspy voice its closest ability to sounding tender.
"I am a father, you know. Yet if my pup were in your position, I would put him down myself. You will not recover from this."
"I... I will."
"Saurfang," the shaman calls again.
"Very well." He turns from you. "Remember: I granted you the mercy of a swift end, yet you rejected. You only delay the inevitable."
Saurfang leaves, the healer readily replacing him. She dips a towel in your bathwater then uses it to clean the side of the basin where you vomited. She hands you a clean towel, then nods at you.
You are naked.
==