Guess we’re about to find out about the cut off point, ey Rig? 
He left the next day. Waiting longer would have been unbearable.
As Dor’ash came to tie his packing onto Grey’s saddle, the wolf yipped and wagged his tail like a delighted puppy. It wasn’t that the wolf disliked Karg, he obviously didn’t. However, he had a special bond to Dor’ash, and he could also sense his old friend’s excitement for the journey.
“Strange to see you off like this again,” Grema murmured with a soft laugh as she pressed her forehead to his.
He squeezed her shoulders in his hands, then turned to Karg. There was too much gratitude in him, for such a simple, thoughtful thing from both of them, that Dor’ash couldn’t find the words for it. He was normally never at a loss for words, but this was too great. The way Karg softly grinned at him, though, told him that it showed on his face.
Then, he rode off.
He hadn’t been on the road for over a year. It felt odd, to feel the cool morning wind blowing around his ears while Grey bounded forwards beneath him. Odd because, echoing Grema’s parting comment, he hadn’t really thought that he would travel like this again. That had been fine with him. Not that he hadn’t sometimes missed all the things he had seen, and all the things he might never see. Yet, it wouldn’t have been the same anyway.
There were some changes in Ashenvale since last he had seen it. He noticed it even as he neared the border. There were still guard towers, but apart from those of orcish design there were also tall, square shaped towers rising up, made of carved wood and in night elven style. The Warsong clan soldiers were nowhere in sight, replaced instead with tauren and night elves wearing the tabard of the Cenarion Circle. They let him pass with merely a few nods.
The leading deeper into Ashenvale seemed a bit broader than he remembered it, too. Other travelers passed or came down the road as he continued on, but none bothered him whether they were Horde and Alliance. Still, he was wary and followed a larger group of trolls and tauren along the way. Over the next couple of days they continued towards Felwood, replacing the crisp, fresh scent of the nightly forest with the thick scent of decaying plants and murky, slimy water.
It took the better of another day to reach the Emerald Sanctuary. While the other travelers prepared to rest and restock what they could and the druids might offer for their continued journey, Dor’ash approached one of the tauren druids overlooking the outpost. The bovine creature watched him approach with Grey at his side, and murmured a soft, questioning greeting.
“My name is Dor’ash Coldbane,” Dor’ash said in a low voice. “Do you know a woman named Sarah Nebula?”
The tauren slowly blinked once.
“And why do you seek this woman?” he asked, in a low voice as well.
“I am her honor brother.” It felt wrong to say that, but if Sarah had ever mentioned him it was probably with the title she was comfortable with.
Nodding, the tauren started to turn away.
“Wait here,” he simply said and walked off to duck into one of the wood huts making up the sanctuary.
A few minutes later he returned together with a night elf. Dor’ash’s brow creased with a thoughtful frown as he watched the tall, violet-skinned man approach. There was something about him that tugged at a distant memory.
Something seemed off with the way the night elf looked and moved, as well. His cheekbones were more rounded than on any other of his kind Dor’ash had ever seen. When he walked, the steps made little sound but the motions were lumbering and heavy, and the way he swung his arms, while slight, also added to the peculiar image.
It was not within his realm of expertise, but Dor’ash did know that a druid who spent too much time in animal form began to take on some features from the animal.
This one looked like…
“After your son’s visit, I wondered whether you would come here as well, Master Coldbane,” the night elf said in Orcish, pressing his palms together and bowing from the waist.
And those palms had been slick with blood and he had so clumsily dried his mouth on his upper arm before offering his help to a small war band of Horde.
He looked like a bear.
It took a moment before Dor’ash managed to conquer the surprise enough to speak.
“What, you?” Nothing else seemed appropriate.
‘Fuzzik’ straightened, chuckling softly.
“I don’t think I ever did tell you my name back then,” he said. “It is Shamar.” He looked a little more serious. “We know that Miss Nebula is supposedly dead to the Horde, and so we cannot risk that somebody only claiming to know her is allowed to see her. I would recognize you, of course. When your Karg came here, he only said that he was your stepson and nothing else. Sarah herself decided to write a letter when she learned of that.”
Dor’ash slowly nodded. He appreciated the caution, but he was still reeling from the surprise of seeing this druid again. It wasn’t so strange, of course, that one with Shamar’s past would work only for a neutral faction.
The night elf asked him to follow, and together with the tauren they headed towards the back of the sanctuary, starting up a small path on the mountain. Grey had no problems following it, as it was wide enough to let the tauren walk without any greater trouble.
“I’m not sure if I want to know,” Dor’ash said after a little while, “but since you are here, what about Deran?”
Shamar’s lips twitched, and he looked both amused and pained all at once.
“He is elsewhere right now, but he also serves the Circle,” he said, then sighed and gave Dor’ash an embarrassed look. “Would you believe he knew all along that I was a night elf? I must admit I was mortified to find out.”
“Really? I never would have thought that he was that perceptive,” Dor’ash innocently said, and almost bit his tongue off to keep from laughing.
“Neither did I.”
They continued along the path. Now and then a large, feline shadow flitted between the rocks above the path. Felwood was no safe place, and the druids had ample reasons to protect their small strongholds.
Finally, the road turned around a corner of the cliff and beyond that stood several sturdy, night elven buildings set on a fairly level part of the mountain. Unlike most other houses in the same design Dor’ash had ever seen, though, there were very few open walls and large windows. It was much like in Cenarion Hold in Silithus, where the stinging, salty sand and clouds of insects had to be kept out.
The size of the place made Dor’ash wonder how many more projects the Emerald Circle had going. Then again, saving Felwood was no light matter.
Guards, both tauren and night elf, patrolled the path closer to the houses, but moved aside when greeted by the druids showing Dor’ash the way. One of them exchanged a few words with Shamar, then in a cloud of smoke disappeared and reappeared as a leopard bounding towards the settlement.
They first took Grey to the stables, where sleepy nightsabers laid curled up on one side of the building and peacefully rumbling kodos on the other. Grey was given his own box, closer to the lizard creatures than the cats for safety’s sake. While Dor’ash trusted his wolf to behave himself, he wasn’t convinced about the cats.
It was difficult to walk calmly at this point, and not let his growing impatience show. Such a thing was unfitting for a shaman, but knowing that he would see Sarah again soon after so long was almost too much to bear. At the same time as he missed her, a niggling unease settled in his gut. The spirits gave him no gentle promises, as agitated in this cursed landscape as in the Blasted Lands.
If Shamar and the tauren noticed Dor’ash’s state of mind, they didn’t show it. They lead him towards one of the larger buildings, the one the leopard had hurried to.
A female tauren with deep brown fur, dressed in a green robe, came to meet them as they climbed the stair. She waved at the others to leave as she bowed her head in greeting towards Dor’ash.
“Welcome, Master Coldbane,” she said while the other druids walked off the same way they had come, with brief goodbyes. “I am Meeva.” When Dor’ash returned her greeting, she continued, “I am in charge of overseeing Sarah’s physical state. You could say I am her caretaker. If you will follow me…”
She started to lead the way, her hooves steadily clopping against the wooden floor.
“Caretaker?” Dor’ash repeated as he fell into step beside the druid.
“I don’t like the phrase ‘guinea pig,’” Meeva said, her soft lips curling in distaste. She sobered. “Sarah takes part in experiments, but she did volunteer.”
It made Dor’ash wonder how much the druids knew about the events that led Sarah to come to this place. Just as well if they didn’t, though. As long as they never mentioned it to outsiders, in case it would reach ears that shouldn’t hear about her not being dead.
“Now, Master Coldbane, I would like you to know that even though there hasn’t been much progress in this project,” Meeva continued, “there have been some cosmetic changes.”
Dor’ash frowned, confused.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Meeva shook her head and stopped by a wooden door just like any other.
“It’s a symbolic thing more than anything else, I just don’t want you to be surprised,” she said.
She knocked on the door, and softly called out.
“Sarah, you have a visitor.”
All of a sudden it was difficult to breathe.
Under Meeva’s hand the door swung open, slow as if through water, the soft swoosh of air moving too loud in Dor’ash’s ears.
“What?” said a pale shadow curled up on the corner of a simple cot, looking up sharply.
Blond, shoulder-length hair rustled at the movement, and a needle fell from pink, almost white fingers to dangle from the thread it was fastened in. The half finished whatever-kind-of-garb-it-was slipped out of the other hand’s grip and tumbled over her lap onto the mattress.
Dor’ash blinked in disbelief, and a pair of grey, dead eyes stared back at him.
There were no bare bones visible between patches of rotten flesh. All those holes had been repaired, and instead of a green hue her skin had a cold, pink color. Though still thin, her body didn’t look like it was caving in under its own weight anymore. At least, not any of what he could see, as she wore a simple pale robe.
He only needed to look at her for a second to sense how wrong it all was. She didn’t look any healthier than before. She looked fake. Like a doll that could move.
“Breathe,” Meeva said as if from far, far away.
Sarah drew in a wheezing gasp, but then held it as she sat stock still, staring straight at Dor’ash. He couldn’t speak either.
“Breathe out,” Meeva said, sighing.
Sarah did, and then she didn’t draw another breath. Again Meeva sighed and stepped into the room.
“Why don’t you stand up?” she kindly said. “He’s come quite some way to see you.”
Obedient as an automaton, Sarah did as she was told. Apart from that, she didn’t even acknowledge that she was listening to the tauren. The cloth she had been stitching fell onto the floor. Dor’ash half expected Meeva to tell her to pick it up, and Sarah to mechanically abide. He was rather relieved when that didn’t happen.
Uneasy with the thought of observing Meeva give any more dumbly obeyed commands, Dor’ash managed to find his voice.
“How are you, Sarah?” he said. It sounded idiotic to his own ears. There were thousands of things he wanted to say, and that was all that made it out.
More than anything, he wanted to ask what in the Nether they had done to her.
“Oh, eh, I wrote that I was well, didn’t I?” she blurted. At least her voice sounded mostly the same. Catching on to his staring at her, she looked down at her left arm and brushed the healed skin over her elbow. She grimaced. “All this? It’s going… sort of alright, I suppose.”
“If you wish to hear the scientific terms,” Meeva said, then continued without giving Dor’ash time to say no, “although we have had some success in restoring some of Sarah’s bodily functions to a state that at least resembles ‘life’ so to speak, there are still issues that lead to failure. We still need to work out such things at keeping the respiratory systems active during periods of no observation.”
“I forget to breathe unless they keep reminding me,” Sarah translated with a roll of her head. “Not that I need to.”
“Yes you do, what little we manage to restore in your body dies if you can’t keep it up.”
“Mmrf. I have to breathe but my heart isn’t beating properly. The logic, it bleeds.”
In that moment, she sounded like herself again, and her rebuilt features slid into place to fit her old expressions. Dor’ash’s heart lurched, relieved, disbelieving, and disturbed all at once.
“It’s training,” Meeva said with a sigh. She cleared her throat and smiled at Dor’ash. “Regardless, I am certain that the two of you have much to talk about. I will leave you alone.”
With that, she left and closed the door behind her.
Dor’ash met Sarah’s gaze. She fidgeted, then looked away. Silently, she bent down and picked up the fallen cloth, dropping it on the one chair. That, the cot and an empty table was all the furniture in the room.
He had no idea where to start. He didn’t know how he could start.
How could it be so difficult? But she looked so different, acted so different. She might look somewhat like she had done those two times he had seen her soul, but her voice seemed to be the only remnant of her that he could recognize.
“Sit?” she finally said, plopping down on the side of her bed.
He went over and sat a little ways away from her, studying her all the time. Desperately searching for something else that was familiar.
“I should have know… when I wrote,” she said, glancing away and back and away again. “But I have some manners, and Karg was there…”
She trailed off.
“Are you really well?” Dor’ash said.
“Fine.”
It was a lie.
“How do you deal with the elves picking you apart?” he asked.
“I am but a humble servant of the Warchief.” Saying so, she threw out her arms and gazed at the ceiling. That was familiar, but the movements had a sluggish way about them.
“You punish yourself.”
“Nonsense. I let them do the job.” Her hands sunk back into her lap.
He looked at her, wondering if those dead eyes really made the elves and tauren feel any better at all. There was no emotion in them, not even when the eyelids and tiny muscles in her face moved around them. Blind. Cold.
“You traumatized me, but you probably saved my life,” he said.
“I messed up. Amazingly. That’s all there is to it.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment, until Dor’ash shook his head.
“I’m not angry at you, Sarah.”
“That’s nice.”
An unnatural, heavy silence fell between them. It should not have been like this. They both knew it.
“Jonathan sought me out,” Dor’ash said after a few seconds, and watched her not move a muscle. “He wanted to know if I really killed you.”
Silence.
“You should have lied to him,” Sarah finally muttered.
“You must have seen your own kind light up with hope sometimes.”
“Seldom.” She turned her head away. “Very seldom.”
He watched her for a little while, seeing her chest heave and heard the rasp of forced breath. The body probably didn’t even know what to do with the oxygen.
Did he regret coming to see her? Perhaps. Not sure what he had expected, but sitting in this awkward air was slow torture. Maybe it would have been better to let the last memory be of that cell deep inside Orgrimmar, and her final smile.
He was in half a mind to stand up and leave, but perhaps she heard it in his breathing because suddenly she turned towards him completely. Unseeing eyes gazed up at his face, and somehow she saw him, not through those cold, artificial orbs stuck in her head but in some strange, magical way.
“Don’t go. I have nothing to tell you.” He had never heard her voice so low and seen her look so vulnerable, thin shoulders halfway to her ears. Not even that time in the Alterac Mountains. This was something else. “Nothing worthwhile ever happens. No one here has a decent sense of humor.”
Dor’ash may have been about to get to his feet, but every nerve involved in that motion fell back as he heard her, looked at her. Had she always been so small?
“Don’t they speak with you?” he asked, softly.
“Yes,” she grunted, face twisting in a grimace. “But they take me way too seriously when I reply. I’m bored, Dor’ash.”
It was not a childish whine, but a plea. Never, ever had she begged for anything in the past, except for when playing a weak and frightened girl to confuse enemies. This was nothing like the theater. One with so much power inside, craving an outlet – one such, trapped and closed in, who had to keep feeling that her life was worth striving for against that dark whisper in the back of her head, and she was now fading into the dullness of her situation.
Dor’ash looked at, not into, her eyes.
“Can you take those out?” he asked, waving a finger horizontally in front of her face.
“Hell yes.” The two words rolled through her mouth, relished like a delicious treat. A matching look remained on Sarah’s features as she reached for her own face.
As she leant forwards to catch the eyes in her hands, Dor’ash withdrew a thin roll of bandage from one of his small bags. It was one of those things he kept, had always kept, just in case.
The two small glass balls rolled and clacked against each other in Sarah’s thin hand, an uncanny sight until she dropped them in a pocket. The healers had obviously spent some time on her face, restoring sunken flesh and the eyelids which now hung against nothing like a pair of meaty curtains.
She only smiled wider when Dor’ash wrapped the bandage around her head, covering the hollow eye sockets like her old, often lost leather mask had done.
“Much better,” he said, tying a secure knot at the back of her head. Then he smirked, straightening. “And by the way, I suspect that the problem rather is that people here have a decent sense of humor, and you don’t.”
“Bah, those wimps wouldn’t know a good ol’ case of gallows humor if it jumped up and ate their face.” She straightened up, shrugging her shoulders. “Come on, give me some juicy gossip. Even hearing about Grema deciding to burn your old pants will cheer me up.”
“She usually cuts them up and uses them to make bedding for the pregnant sows,” he said, sighing at the memories. He had liked several of those pants, too.
“Oh, the humanity!”
He told her about what had happened on the farm, then about the village. About how he found himself called to help the people living there whenever somebody was sick or troubled. Told her every little funny everyday tale he could think of. More serious matters too, as when the elderly, gloomy blacksmith of Drakamash finally admitted to him that he had been a warlock in the olden days, brash and arrogant, dreaming of becoming a member of the Shadow Council.
Sarah was not a silent audience. She came alive under his gaze, soaking up every word as if they were a rejuvenating nectar, throwing back more or less respectable comments and sniggers at every turn.
“Nowadays you go somewhere else to get your hoe fixed, huh?” she said about the story about the blacksmith, jabbing a finger at his arm.
Her fingertip was no longer sharp, but the skin and flesh felt squishy. He half expected the bone to cut through, but it didn’t.
He shook his head, and she made a disbelieving sound.
“I only thought about that for a bit,” he said in an overly huffy tone. “But most of all, he regrets all of it and told me in confidence. I can’t judge him.” A pause. “And also, he’s the only blacksmith within five miles.”
She laughed then, so hard that she slumped against him. It was a brief touch, she straightened up almost immediately as if realizing her mistake. He didn’t comment.
“You’ve gotten lazy, if you’re prepared to let a warlock fix your broken tools,” she said.
“Karg took Grey as he left home.”
“So? Run along as a wolf then.” She swept her hand out, wiggling the fingers downwards as to emulate something running. Then the hand swung back and she slapped it against her mouth with a dramatic gasp. “Or… you’re getting old!”
Snorting, he poked at her shoulder. It had been so long that he didn’t remember how much strength he could use, and so he did it only very lightly. She still swayed as if shoved, but clearly for show.
“You watch your manners, young lady,” Dor’ash said.
“Yes, mama.”
Both fell silent after that playful nickname left her lips. The quiet lasted only a heavy, pregnant second.
Grema had called Sarah a coward on this matter. She proved it to be true.
“They said you introduced yourself as my honor brother,” she said, grinning as if nothing had happened. The healers had even mended her teeth – still yellow at best, but no longer chipped.
Part of him wanted to protest, make a jab about what she had just called him. Confront her.
Still, he had indeed named himself that. It was so much easier to explain.
He let it drop, not keen on risking that awkward atmosphere returning.
“That was your idea, if I recall correctly,” Dor’ash said. He lightly rapped his knuckles against her shoulder. “Yes, that makes you an honorary orc.”
“My life is complete.”
He was still a little taken aback when she scooted closer and leaned against his arm.
“Sarah?”
“Alright, fine,” she grumbled. “I missed you. Happy?”
For a moment he watched her unmoving form. She still had no body heat, feeling as lukewarm as the air around them. When she got this close, he also caught a faint, familiar scent. She wasn’t exactly rotting, but the body was dead. The smell wasn’t unpleasant to him. He reached around her back and gave her a gentle squeeze.
“Yes.”
Her fingers twitched, hand raised, paused, sunk back, and then finally came up and pressed against his chest. Dor’ash’s heart tightened, swelled and constricted again. He wanted to gather her up and carry her away from this place where she was only miserable. But he couldn’t do that. Being allowed this moment of comfort had to be enough.
“I’m sorry I made you so upset,” she muttered. “I really screwed up.”
Dor’ash had to swallow to be able to breathe.
“Apologizing? Really now…” he managed, eventually. To a degree the surprise was genuine. Still, somehow his tone remained calm.
“Yeah, yeah, mock me, just do it…” She made as if to move away, but he tightened his hold of her shoulder just the slightest bit.
Her face turned up towards him, rebuilt eyebrows knitted and mouth tight. A small smile stretched Dor’ash’s lips.
“I meant that, I’m not angry at you,” he said.
A stray, stringy lock of hair fell over the side of her face, and she probably couldn’t even feel it. He brushed it behind her ear with his thumb. It was a clumsy motion. His fingers were so large. Before, he’d never have done something like that because he knew she wouldn’t want any of that mushy stuff. She might have allowed it, because it was he who did it, but she would have given a heartfelt grimace or sarcastic comment.
But back then, they had the never ending road ahead of them. Now, they had so little. She didn’t lean into his touch or smile, but she didn’t protest either.
“You know I could never stay angry at you,” he added.
“You’re such a teddy bear.” A slow, long snort escaped her nose and she glanced away for a moment. “I guess… I can say I’m not too angry at you for not leaving me dead.”
“But you’re unhappy here.”
His good mood evaporated with that obvious fact. In essence, it was his fault for egoistically not letting her have her wish. Just to make himself feel better.
“I am, but…” Her small hand caught one of his fingers and squeezed. “I don’t think I deserve this, but I’m stuck here. And if they can find some kind of cure for demonic taint through their experiments, then–” She cut herself off and scoffed. “Screw it, I don’t care about that. But I can write to you now, right? And you will write me back?”
He looked at her with no little disbelief.
“I would have written you back before too,” he pointed out.
“I couldn’t write to you before you wrote to me,” she said. “Or, well, Karg came along.”
He was about to ask why in all spirits’ names she would wait for that, except for fear of being found by possible spies.
But then again, why hadn’t he written her in this past year? Letters could have been safely delivered through the Emerald Circle.
The ugly truth was that he had been angry. And he could see that she hadn’t written because no matter what she said, she had been punishing herself. Her questions now were those of a prisoner wondering if they were pardoned.
Of course she was. How could he not forgive her the moment he saw her?
He nodded.
“And I’ll come back to see you, too,” he said and half-smirked. “Not telling you when. It’ll give you something to counter the boredom with.”
Her grip of his hand tightened.
“Smashing, but you’re not going yet, are you?” The question blurted out very quickly.
“Of course not,” he said, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. It helped to keep his heart from breaking.
She visibly relaxed.
“Good. Now…” She straightened up and grinned. “Tell me all about Jonathan. You said he showed up.” She sighed dramatically.
“There’s nothing much to tell,” Dor’ash said, sobering as he recalled the bitter mage. “Well, he took a gem from your old staff. He misses you, I think.”
“Such a romantic… he always was like that, the silly princess.”
Dor’ash was very, very close to telling her that Jonathan had a dark secret which he had been terrified about her finding out. But that nickname had always made the orc wonder if maybe she knew. On the other hand, Jonathan had never recoiled when she called him that.
“Why don’t you tell me about him, and you, instead? You never did talk much about that before,” Dor’ash said, then grunted as he realized that restrictions were in order. “Without any squishy details.”
She cackled.
“Aww, you’re such a prissy.” A chortled snort escaped her and she grinned. “But there aren’t any ‘squishy’ details, not anymore than us making out in public. You already saw that.” She grinned even wider. “He’s… lacking, so to speak.”
Then she broke down laughing as he gave her a long stare.
It was an absolutely beautiful sound.
Who, me? Trying to be a tear-jerker? Perish the thought!
