Thrall - Christie Golden [17]
Ysera had seen him floating in and out of her dreaming. She had thought she understood his role in things, but now, peculiar as it seemed, something—some inner certainty that even she did not fully understand—was leading her to think she had not seen the full breadth of his contribution to Azeroth.
He was not a dragon. But he had the interests of the dragonflights in his heart—whether he knew it or not. He straddled worlds—but did not seek to rule or command or destroy them. He was unique.
She tilted her head, let the wind play with her long green hair. Perhaps that was why he fit in. Even the Aspects were not singular beings, although each had unique abilities. Not one but five there had been at the beginning, when the titans had come and shared their power for the good of Azeroth. Four there were now, but there would soon be five again, when the blues determined how to choose the one who would lead them.
But there was only one like this being.
There was only one Thrall.
FOUR
Thrall could not sleep. Aggra drowsed quietly beside him on their sleeping furs, but his mind would not be still. He lay on his back, staring up at the skins that covered the hut, and then finally rose, threw on some clothes and a cloak, and went outside.
He took a deep breath of the moist air and looked up at the night sky. The stars, at least, seemed to have some sort of peace about them, and the two moons—the White Lady and the Blue Child—were unaffected by Deathwing’s violent rebirth into Azeroth. For the moment, the elements were as stable as they ever could be here in the Maelstrom—due in no part at all to Thrall’s help, he knew, and he frowned to himself.
He began to walk, with no destination in mind. He simply wanted to move, in silence and solitude, and see if that calmed his thoughts enough so that he could finally sleep.
What had transpired during the spellcasting and afterward—both with the other members of the Ring and with Aggra in particular—had shaken him. He wondered if they were right. Was he truly helping here? He had given up everything to come—and yet it seemed that not only did he have no aid to offer, but he was disruptive. He had stayed behind today, “resting,” while the others did workings all day. It was humiliating and painful. He growled low in his throat and picked up his pace.
He did not want to believe that Aggra was right—that he hid behind the mantle of leadership and was a “thrall” to duty. If that were so, then why could he not lose himself in the work here?
“What is wrong with me?” he muttered aloud, slamming one great green fist impotently into the palm of his other hand.
“That,” came a lilting feminine voice, “I do not know the answer to. Maybe I will, at some point.”
He turned, startled. A few feet away stood a tall but slender cloaked figure. The cloak, wrapped about her frame, revealed it to be a female, but her face was hidden in the shadow of the cloak’s cowl. Thrall did not recognize the voice and frowned slightly, wondering who this stranger might be.
“Maybe I will too,” he said. He inclined his head in greeting. “I am Thrall.”
“I know. I’ve come for you.” Her voice was musical, mesmerizing.
He blinked. “For me? Why? Who are you?”
“It’s … hard to explain,” she said, and cocked her head as if listening to something he couldn’t hear.
“It’s hard to explain your name?”
“Oh, that … no. It’s the other that is challenging. You see … I have a small task for you, Thrall.”
He found himself more amused than annoyed. “A task? Something for the Ring?”
“No, something for the villagers.”
“The villagers?”
“In Feralas. It is little more than a small camp called”—she chuckled as if at a private joke—“Dreamer’s Rest. There is suffering there. Suffering of the land, and an old-growth grove that has seen many years, and the druids who live near it. The elements there are out of control, as they are in many parts of this poor wounded world, and they are going to destroy the village if something isn’t done. Only a shaman