Thrall - Christie Golden [4]
There, he had studied and learned with a beautiful but often irritating and frustrating shaman named Aggra. She had pushed him, forcing him to dig deep for answers, and the two had fallen in love. He had returned to Azeroth and, once the Cataclysm had struck, decided to continue on to the Maelstrom to serve with his beloved.
It had sounded like the right thing to do—the hard choice, the best choice. To leave something familiar and loved, to work for the greater good. But now he was having doubts.
While Thrall had been traveling in Nagrand, Garrosh had killed Thrall’s dear friend, the tauren chieftain Cairne Bloodhoof, in ritual combat. Thrall had later learned that Garrosh had been tricked by Magatha Grimtotem, a longtime rival of Cairne’s, into fighting Cairne with a poisoned blade. Thrall could not shake the thought that had he not left Azeroth, Cairne would never have felt the need to rebuke Garrosh’s leadership and would still be alive.
With Aggra, he had anticipated … he did not know what. A different sort of relationship from the one they had, at any rate. He had initially been put off by her bluntness and rough edges, then had grown to appreciate and love them. Now, though, it felt as if, instead of a steady companion to support and encourage him, he had found only another person to criticize him.
He wasn’t even succeeding at helping the Earthen Ring calm the elements, if today’s debacle was any indication. He had put aside the mantle of warchief and endured the murder of a beloved friend in order to come assist the Ring. And this, too, wasn’t working.
Nothing was working; nothing was going the way it was supposed to; and Thrall—erstwhile warchief of the Horde, warrior, shaman—felt as if nothing he could possibly do could make any of it work.
It was not a sensation he was accustomed to. He had led the Horde, and led it well, for many years. He understood battleground tactics as well as diplomacy, knew when it was time for a leader to listen, when to speak, and when to act. This strange, belly-knotting feeling of uncertainty … this was new and alien, and he despised it.
He heard the sound of the bearskin being drawn back, but did not turn around.
“I would box Rehgar’s ears for what he said to you,” came Aggra’s voice, husky and strong, “if I did not wish I had said it earlier.”
Thrall growled softly. “You have a fine way of supporting,” he said. “That helped tremendously. Now I shall go outside and be able to drop into my deepest self with no problem. Perhaps it is you who should have led the Horde all these years, instead of me. No doubt we would see a union of Horde and Alliance, with children of all races frolicking in Orgrimmar and Stormwind.”
She chuckled, and her voice was warm, as was her hand when she placed it on his shoulder. He fought the urge to shrug it off angrily, but he did not soften, either. He stood in harsh silence, not moving. She squeezed his shoulder, then released it and moved around to face him.
“I have watched you since we met, Go’el,” she said, her eyes searching his. “At first out of resentment, and then later out of love and concern. It is with love and concern that I watch you now. And my heart is troubled by what I see.”
He did not reply, but he was listening. Her hand stroked his strong face gently, running along the furrows in his green forehead as she spoke.
“Despite all you have endured, these lines I now touch were not there when we met. These eyes—blue as the sky, blue as the sea—were not sad. This heart”—she placed her hand on his broad chest—“was not so heavy. Whatever is going on inside you, it is causing you harm. But because it is no external threat, you do not understand how to confront this enemy.”
His eyes narrowed in slight confusion. “Go on,” he said.
“You waste away … not your body—you are still strong and powerful—but your spirit. It is as if part of you is borne away with each gust of the wind, or washed away