Thrall - Christie Golden [26]
Thrall went to sleep while his night elf hosts were still singing songs to the stars, the sounds of the wilderness music to his ears, wrapped in sleeping furs with only his hand for his pillow.
He slept very soundly for what seemed like the first time in a long while.
Thrall was awakened at dawn by a gentle shaking.
“Thrall,” came the musical voice of a kaldorei. “It is Desharin. Wake up. I have something to show you.”
After so many years in battle, Thrall was not unused to waking swiftly and fully alert. He rose quietly and followed the elf, stepping carefully around and over drowsing night elf bodies. They moved past the moonwell and pavilions deeper into the old-growth fringe.
“Wait here, and be still,” Desharin whispered. “Listen.”
The trees, those that had been spared the worst of the blaze, moved and sighed, their branches creaking, their leaves murmuring. Thrall waited for a moment longer, then turned to his companion, shaking his head.
“I hear nothing.”
Desharin smiled. “Thrall,” he said quietly, “there is no wind.”
And suddenly Thrall realized that the kaldorei was right. The trees were moving as if in a gentle wind—but the air was still.
“Look at them,” Desharin said. “Carefully.”
Thrall did, focusing intently. The knots and gnarls on the tree trunks … the spiky branches …
His eyes widened, and he suddenly understood what—who?—he was beholding. He had heard of them before, of course, but he had never seen one.
“These are ancients,” he breathed. Desharin nodded. Thrall gazed in awe, wondering how it was that he had not seen this before. He shook his head slowly. “And here I thought I was coming only to save a forest. They seemed … just like trees.”
“They were sleeping. You awakened them.”
“I did? How?” Thrall didn’t want to tear his eyes from the ancients. These were old, old beings, many of them keepers of wisdom from aeons past. They moved, and creaked, and appeared to be … talking?
Thrall strained to understand, and after a moment, he realized he could decipher the deep, softly spoken words.
“Dreaming, we were. Confused dreams that held us in our uncertainty. And so we did not awaken when the fire came. It was only when we heard the ancient ritual, of shaman to element, that we were awakened. By your actions, you saved us.”
“The fire told me that it was trying to cleanse you. That it felt you were … impure,” Thrall said, trying to recall exactly what it was the fire elemental had communicated to him. “It said you were confused. You did not know what you knew, and what you knew was incorrect. I asked if you could learn what was correct, and the spirit of fire thought you could. That was why it agreed to cease burning you.”
Thrall realized, now that the fire was no longer a threat, that some of the ancients had small creatures nesting in their branches. They looked like tiny dragons with delicate, vibrantly colored wings like a butterfly’s and feathery antennae adorning their bright-eyed heads. One of them flew out from the branches, fluttered about, and landed on Desharin’s shoulder, nuzzling him fondly.
“They are called sprite darters,” Desharin said, petting the small creature. “They are not dragons, but they are magical protectors and defenders of the Emerald Dream.”
And suddenly Thrall understood. He looked at the ancients, at their little magical protector, at Desharin’s green hair.
“You are a green dragon,” he said quietly. It was a statement, not a question.
Desharin nodded. “My task was to watch you.”
Thrall frowned, the old irritation returning. “Watch me? Was I being tested? Did I perform to Ysera’s expectations?”
“Not quite like that,” he said. “It was not an evaluation of your skills. I was to watch and see what was in your heart as you aided us, how you approached the task. You have a journey to make, Thrall, son of Durotan and Draka. We needed to see if you were ready to undertake it.”
The ancients began to speak again in their strange, creaking language. “Long have we kept the memories of this world. Long have we tended knowledge that others