Play it, Maestro!
(A medley of this was one of the first hits for mysterious music, but the execution lagged.)
Ehehehe… I wonder how long I’ve had most of this written.
A few months after that one visit from Jonathan, Karg turned eighteen. Old enough to serve the Horde, he took off from Drakamash Village on Grey’s back, outfitted with the gear Dor’ash had given him.
At that point, there were already rumblings about a war campaign in Northrend, but half a year would still pass before it was made official and preparations started. Even so, well aware that the Horde and Alliance would sooner or later turn towards the northern continent, both Grema and Dor’ash discussed it with Karg before he left. Luckily, Karg was smart enough to understand the scope of the danger, and though he also knew that he might be needed, if he went there before gaining battle experience and hone his skills, he’d only be cannon fodder. He might be young, but he was not brash.
Besides that, there were things in Kalimdor that he had wanted to do for a long time.
He headed towards the cold north, but not Northrend – only towards the distant mountains.
For three months he was gone, writing dutifully every other week. His letters were never long, just enough to let Grema and Dor’ash know that he was doing well, and what he was seeing. They all knew why he wanted to get closer to Hyjal. His father had died fighting the undead forces lead by Archimonde.
However, the young orc had another thing on his mind as well. That was not something he mentioned to anyone, though.
‘-‘
It was nearing noon. Dor’ash stood in the shade behind the house, chopping wood. The heat made him sluggish, but it was something that needed to be done at regular intervals to make sure there was always a stock. The Barrens might be hot enough to make warming fires unnecessary, but they still needed firewood for everyday cooking.
There were a few more things he wanted to tend to during the day, so he settled on only chopping a few more. The axe dug deep into a thick piece of wood, and he raised the tool again with the wood stuck on it, preparing to bring it down on the block.
The spirits’ voices rose up in a joyful whisper, a promise of somebody they recognized and missed returning.
Dor’ash finished the swing and the piece of wood split in half, falling to the ground while the axe stuck in the block. The orc let go and looked around, grinning wide.
In his last letter, Karg had written that he was nearing the northern border of Ashenvale, on his way home.
Just as he moved towards the rounded corner of the house, Dor’ash heard Grema call his name. He broke into a run. She came to meet him, grinning and laughing as she swung around to rush alongside him towards the fence.
It was just a distant shadow trailed by a cloud of dust at first, but as it came closer it transformed into an orc on a great wolf. The neighbor farm’s young children noticed too and came running, yelling and waving at Karg as they recognized him, calling others to step outside to see what all the commotion was about.
Drakamash was a small village, but it did see its share of travelers since it lay around one of the roads to and from the Stonetalon Mountains. Lately, even the odd Alliance mercenary dared to pass through instead of going in a wide arc around it, if they felt neutral enough. It had been some time since the Warchief and Lady Proudmoore put everything on its head, but it said a lot that it tentatively reached even a small outpost like this one.
It was however very unusual for the village to see one of its own children return, as the few who left home after coming of age had so far joined the army and stayed with it – or died fighting for it.
The neighbors poured through the gate of Grema’s farm and gathered together with her and Dor’ash as Karg got closer, laughing and waving back. He rode through the gate and leaped off Grey to catch his mother in a big bear hug. Dor’ash smacked his stepson’s back and was about to get a grinned greeting in return, but just as Karg turned his head, Grey tackled Dor’ash to the ground and slurped his long tongue all over the orc’s face.
It took a long time before the laughter died down once Dor’ash managed to wrestle the wolf off himself, and even longer before Karg had finished all the greetings and promises to come visit and tell everyone about his travels. Finally, however, the neighbors dispersed and the little family could go inside, where Grema set about finishing the stew she had been preparing for lunch. It was almost finished, so all she had to do was put more firewood in the stove to heat it up properly again.
Karg pulled off his backpack and put it beside him on the floor as he went to sit with Dor’ash by the table.
“How was Winterspring?” Dor’ash asked with a smirk.
Karg gave him a pained look and grasped his own upper arms by the plain memory of the cold.
“By Thrall, how did you survive in the Alterac mountains?” he said, shaking his head hard. “At least up there,” he waved his hand at the northern wall of the house, “there are hot springs.”
“You get used to it after five or ten years.”
Dor’ash laughed at the expression on his stepson’s face.
“At least now I understand why you’ve got the blue tint.” Grinning, Karg poked at the older shaman’s hand that rested on the table, and laughed when he was swatted aside.
Grema dropped a wooden bowl filled with stew in front of each of the two men, then went to get her own.
“Freezing your toes off isn’t very honorable,” she said as she sat down between them. She gave her son an appraising look. “I hope you didn’t stand still long enough for that to happen.”
Karg got the hint, and with a grin he described the still expanding Everlook and the great amounts of people aiding the pilgrims towards the holy summit.
“I want to go back there,” he said, a distant look in his eyes. “It would be worth it to work with the night elves for a while if it meant they would let me into Hyjal.”
“Even when it’s so cold?” Grema said, but her smile was not quite as sarcastic as the words implied.
“Damn the cold!” Karg snarled, and all three of them laughed.
Dor’ash didn’t comment, but he reflected on how that never would have happened in his travelling days. Now, an orc could actually consider the possibility that night elves would learn to trust him. Even with the returned King of Stormwind being who he was, the Warchief and Lady Proudmoore’s marriage and all that followed had created bonds that, while frail, were present.
A warm silence settled after the laughter. They ate, not wanting to let the food get cold, and knowing that there would be time for more talking later when they were not hungry.
Yet, Karg looked into the stew as if trying to divine some truth from it. His thoughts were elsewhere, his movements sometimes impatient.
“What is it?” Grema finally asked.
At first, it looked as if the son would deny that something was on his mind, but then he carefully put down his spoon and reached for a pocket in his shirt.
“I thought we’d eat first, but…” With small, careful motions he produced a folded piece of paper from a pocket, tugging at it so lightly it seemed he feared it would break. “Father…”
“Mh?” Dor’ash murmured, curiously.
By orcish tradition, becoming Grema’s mate had made him Karg’s father in spirit, but the young shaman seldom used that title. The word hung between them somewhat uneasily still, even though Grema smiled.
“I spent some time in Felwood on the way back,” Karg said, looking down at the paper as he turned it over. It looked delicate in his huge hands.
Silence fell, where one could hear each breath.
“I… introduced myself in the Emerald Circle camp.” He held out the letter. “They asked me to wait for a few hours and then gave me this. It’s for you.”
Dor’ash’s spoon hit the stew with a thick splat.
His hand did not shake when the paper passed to his grip, but it would not have surprised him if it had. Grema touched his arm, leaning closer as he opened the letter, baring the short text to their eyes.
It had of course happened that, during their travels, he and his companion sent off letters or messages to one or another person for whatever reasons. [i]Her[/i] careless, scratched handwriting had been the source of more than one smirk and bony slap. Every single letter of every word looked as if a bird had stepped in ink and then walked across the paper several times.
Now his gaze practically ate up every piece of the text, disregarding the horrid handwriting completely.
[i]Hello, old fool,
They tell me young Karg is passing through Felwood. I assume you’d like to know that I’m still moving and aware. I am.
After much work my lungs are functional, although breathing isn’t working out all the time. That’s about it. The nelves insisted I get a pair of fake eyes because the empty sockets and the blindfold gave them the creeps. Sissies.
I know you’re reading this, Karg. Remember to stay away from Azshara. It’s not worth it.
Grema, don’t let my pet get bored. He gets ideas like “hey, let’s try this shortcut through the ooze-infested grove” when he’s bored.
Dor’ash, [/i]
The scratches in deep blue, midnight oak ink looked lumpier after that, as if she had paused for so long that when she wet the pen again, the color had begun to thicken.
[i]I am well.
-Sarah[/i]
He reread the letter several times, wondering at how she could have so little to say to him after so long.
“I’m a bit tired after this first trip,” Karg innocently said in the background, “so I thought I’d stay here for a while before I take off again.”
Dor’ash looked up at him, thoughts whirring in his head.
“So… you could have Grey back for week or two?” Karg said.
“If you’re silly enough to ask me if it’s alright that you go,” Grema said, taking hold of Dor’ash’s chin and turning his face towards her as she regarded him with a wholly serious look, “I’ll break your nose.”
He could have felt a little put off by them teaming up against him and not even giving him a choice. He saw no reason to be annoyed, though.
The travails of a family guy. Though I’ll wait until they meet to make up my mind which is the better cut off point
if he went there before gaining battle experience and hone his skills,
Honing. Or just use the past tense.
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!
So inhumane, torturing Sarah and turning her to an android. Or womanoid, I guess. Then again, normal Sarah would find that funny. I bbet all this research on killing someone’s personality has leaked out in the real world and you can buy it for the low price of $99.99 in six instalments.
Anyway, good one.
Guess we’re about to find out about the cut off point, ey Rig?
I know you know. 
… yeah, more stuff that’s been done for years. The next chapter has been half-done for just as long, will see when I get around to finish it.
He stayed the night, in Sarah’s room, and they talked until he finally fell asleep. She was still sitting curled up by his side when he woke up. Of course she didn’t say good morning. She just cheerfully said that he still snored loud enough to scare an ogre.
Meeva showed up with some bread and cheese for breakfast. Smiling, she declined Dor’ash’s offer to pay for the food and the fact that they let him and Grey stay over the night.
He felt he couldn’t impose on the kindness of the druids, however, and by late noon he reluctantly concluded that he ought to leave. Sarah didn’t protest, but her face became blank for a moment. She caught herself quickly, though, and gave his arm a light punch.
“And don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’ll be much better now, I promise.”
It made him feel a little better.
Shamar showed up to follow him down to the sanctuary again, returning Sarah’s inevitable “hiya, Fuzzik!” with a snort and a half-smirk.
Dor’ash didn’t expect her to hug him good-bye this time either, and she didn’t.
But she did stand by a window and watched as he walked off.
Dor’ash looked over his shoulder briefly, raising his hand as their gazes met, hers perfectly noticeable despite the blindfold. Smirking slightly, Sarah waved back. She remained by the window, watching him walk down the path together with Grey and Shamar. Too soon they disappeared among the rocks.
Silently, she leaned against the wall and kept gazing out, slowly and erratically drawing breath. There was a soft clip-clop of huge hooves behind her, but she didn’t turn around.
“Do you feel better now?” Meeva said, her deep, soft voice warm like a mother’s.
It took a moment before Sarah answered, but finally she slowly nodded. The tauren woman’s lips stretched, and she reached out to brush one of her huge fingers against Sarah’s shoulder.
“Come on,” Meeva murmured. “Better put your eyes back in.”
“Mmh.”
Sarah absentmindedly reached up to the back of her head, pulling the knot on the bandage open. Even as she did so she didn’t move otherwise, still watching the road below. The pale cloth slipped downwards, but she caught it before it fell and held it to her face, breathing. She couldn’t feel any smell, but that wasn’t the point.
Without comment, Meeva watched and waited.
It didn’t take long – after just a second Sarah lowered the bandage and slapped it over her shoulder, then reached into a pocket and withdrew her artificial eyes.
“Do they bother you?” Meeva asked.
“Not really,” Sarah said. She tilted her head backwards, pulling at her eyelid with one thumb and pointing finger so that she could stuff one of the orbs in. She had to struggle with it for a bit, unused to the motions. She seldom cared enough to take them out normally.
Grunting, she finally succeeded and went on to the other eye.
“They seemed to bother him, though,” she muttered.
“Yes well, as finely crafted as they are it shows that they aren’t real,” Meeva conceded, bending down to inspect the offending trinkets. The way that Sarah could see without eyes fascinated the tauren greatly. Somehow she always stuck the two orbs back in just right, too.
The sound of clopping hooves and bare feet against the floor made both of them look up. Sarah pulled the bandage from her shoulder and gripped it in one hand, face unchanging as three male night elves, all with a golden glow to their eyes, appeared in the doorway. A male tauren followed them, but a couple of steps behind.
Two of the elves wore green robes adorned with leaves and embroideries of the same, just like the male tauren and Meeva. The man they flanked, however, wore a more intricate robe and shoulder plates created to resemble grey, petrified leaves. His skin had an odd color, so lightly red purple that he looked almost pink. It certainly did not go well with his teal green hair and beard.
“Ah, Archdruid,” Meeva said, bowing her head in greeting.
“If you’re quite done wasting time that could be used for research…?” Fandral Staghelm said, the gaze from his narrowed eyes moving between the two women.
They spoke Darnassian, as did everyone when Fandral and those with his views of language and culture were around. Usually, the members of the Emerald Circle, like the Cenarion Circle, made do with a mix of Darnassian and Taur-ahe, with rare bits of Common and Orcish mixed in when they really had troubles making themselves understood to each other. By now, Sarah had heard enough of the elves’ language to at least understand some of it, although she wouldn’t place a word of it in her mouth.
Discussions with the Archdruid were not too difficult to follow, though. They always sounded pretty much the same.
“Please, Archdruid,” Meeva said with a splinter of annoyance in her voice. “If we assume that we’re curing a sickness, we ought to treat Sarah as a patient. Visitors are hardly blocking the road.”
She received a very hard look from the glowing, golden eyes. Seeing that Fandral was distracted, Sarah took the chance to stuff the bandage into the same pocket as she had carried her eyes in minutes ago. One of the other elves watched her do so, but didn’t say anything. She made a mental note not to tease him in the future, at least for a day or so.
All such things, the last that still offered a shred of amusement, had seemed so very droll too lately. Not now, though. Looking up at the others in the room – she always, always had to look up – Sarah cheerfully clasped her hands behind her back.
“Be what it may,” Fandral said to Meeva, waving a hand at Sarah, “my time is precious and I don’t appreciate having to wait because our test subject is busying herself gazing out the window like a lovesick girl. You knew very well that I would arrive here today.”
Meeva opened her mouth to speak, probably intent on politely pointing out that Fandral was known to prefer travelling during the night and they hadn’t at all known that he already arrived. However, Sarah placed a hand on the tauren’s thick, furry arm.
“No, no,” the undead woman said in Common, “don’t anger him unnecessarily.”
With great alarm Meeva and the other four of the Emerald Circle watched as Sarah turned towards the Archdruid. They had to restrain themselves from leaping at her to stop her as she curtseyed, arms and hands gracefully bent outwards from her sides.
“My deepest apologies for letting you wait, Master Staghelm,” she said, straightening up again. “I assure you that I remain your most faithful, skinny guinea pig drenched in black magic.”
“Are you mocking me?” Fandral icily asked, replying in Common for the occasion.
Behind him, the tauren stared at the ceiling. The elf druids remained silent, although they shared an uncomfortable look. Meeva stared at Sarah, probably saying a mute prayer to the Earth Mother that the next few words wouldn’t be too scandalous.
The mental plea fell on deaf ears.
“Oh no,” Sarah sweetly said. “If I was mocking you, Sir, I’d ask how you’re doing with the efforts to prune the demon infestation in your orchard.”
“Ah, ha, ha.” The Archdruid slowly intonated each syllable. “Very clever.”
The left elf decided that this was an excellent time to step forwards and usher Sarah towards the door. She smiled every step of the way.
Again there was so much she didn’t want Dor’ash to know, but right then she didn’t mind the elves at all.Look how well-behaved was Sarah for her visitor. Her first visitor, that is.
A couple of months and several letters after Dor’ash’s visit, Sarah’s time ran out.
That morning, while healers hurried about in the laboratory, she stood unusually still and quiet, just staring at the table in the middle of the room.
It was familiar in every detail, every vein, every scratch into the stone hard wood. Every burn mark from that time when the Archdruid decided to perform a different kind of experiment and had her blasted with moonfire until concluding that no, it seemed she couldn’t faint. Meeva’s serious talk about showing respect, afterwards – and especially, if she had to call him “that pink moose,” please to not do it when he could hear her – had been almost as annoying.
If Sarah had ever slept, that damn table would have haunted her dreams.
And it reminded her of that other table, made of stone, that she had woken up tied to in Orgrimmar.
She would have wanted to destroy it. That would have been the first time in ages she even used magic. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to bother. The table had been there for the whole time she had spent with the tauren and nelves, so it might as well be there to the end.
Meeva had given her an odd look when she asked the tauren to have the table destroyed after today. Still, after a little while there had been some understanding in the tauren’s eyes.
Kind old cow.
The lab didn’t usually have that many people in it, but for the past few weeks it had been pretty crowded. After all this time, somebody in the Circle had finally performed a convincing enough diplomatic tap-dance to have Staghelm agree to more outside help.
Being dissected by a few draenei, orcs, trolls, dwarves and humans wasn’t that different from having nelves and tauren try to take her apart to see what made her keep moving.
Watching a troll and dwarf loudly and enthusiastically discuss priest healing techniques and theories – with heavy accents, wrong word choices, stutters, hand motions and translators trying to be quick enough, due to the language barrier – was just about the most bizarre thing Sarah had ever seen.
Almost interesting, even.
Too bad they all came together and decided that they would try something that got everyone terribly excited. Except for the part where it would most probably just kill her once and for all. But everyone seemed to agree that they had done everything they could think of already.
In other words, she’d offered what she could to their science, and now she was expendable. They were all too polite to say that, but Meeva had been visibly upset for several days, and not only because of the risk.
At least, Sarah knew she wouldn’t have to lie on that damn table, staring up at the ceiling while somebody sliced open her belly and discussed how interesting – and utterly illogical – it was that her stomach was working, but her heart didn’t beat and her liver was just a shriveled lump.
She’d written a letter, just to be sure of course, and given it to Meeva. And Shadow help that kind old cow if she let anybody except Dor’ash see it.
Sarah figured that if he still had that uncanny ability to sense when she was near death, he’d need some comforting words. Her actual death would probably make a bigger impact on his poor, fuzzy green heart.
“We are just about ready,” one of the night elf druids announced.
With a shrug, Sarah reached up and took out her eyes, handing them over to somebody standing conveniently close. That happened to be one of the female vindicators. She looked taken aback for a moment, even as she automatically took the offered eyes.
“You must be sure that you don’t have any other artificial things on you,” the draenei curtly said as Sarah started to pull off her robe. “There must not be any disturbing elements.”
“Yes, yes…” Sarah grunted.
They had gone over this already several times. She had not eaten for three days. Her stomach was probably trying to consume itself, if it hadn’t already. They had even cut her open twice to make absolutely sure that nobody had forgotten some dissecting tool within her body during any earlier experiment.
Several of the healers politely looked away when she tossed the robe aside and went to climb onto the table. It was like they only cared about her nakedness until somebody took out a scalpel.
“Everyone ready?” the female vindicator said. She put her hands on Sarah’s shoulders as the undead laid down. The pale blue claws scratched at the restored skin.
Other blue hands grasped her arms, and her ankles. The healers gathered, nodding grimly. They would only have split seconds to take over for each other and do their parts, apparently. Sarah had pretty much stopped listening in the beginning of the explanation, when she was told – in more complicated terms – that she would be blasted with pure Light until the fel magic animating her was seared away. Considering it was so deeply ingrained into her body, well…
But of course, they wouldn’t do it to kill her, they would do it in a planned manner that just might leave something behind of her spirit for the shamans to call back and then blah blah blah.
She was, when it came down to it, fine with dying. There would never have been any other end to her current circumstances, and she had always known that. She could die knowing that Dor’ash really had forgiven her.
It was just that being flash fried by space goats was such a stupid way to go.
“On three,” the draenei holding Sarah’s shoulders said. “One, two–”
And Sarah’s world exploded with white hot flames tearing her every fiber apart.
She thought she might have screamed.
‘-‘
“Can’t get any kind of ore for a decent price these days,” Ba’kor said with an annoyed sigh and shake of his head. “Everyone is hogging what they have because they think we’ll be running off to Northrend any day now, and then the prices will rise even more.”
While speaking, the blacksmith held up the shovel Dor’ash had brought him and felt at the chipped edge with his thumb.
“Not many travelers coming this way nowadays either,” the shaman agreed. “But if anyone stops by our farm I can see if they’re penniless enough to go rob the goblins at Boulder Lode for you.”
They exchanged a smirk, but there was an uneasy edge to it. Nobody doubted that the Scourge was a threat that needed to be dealt with, however, the Horde’s (and Alliance’s) forces were already taxed after the many battles in Outland. Who knew what awaited on the frozen reaches up in the north?
Only a complete fool would press for an immediate attack, but from the rumors reaching the village, there was no shortage of overly keen would-be heroes in the army and out of it who wanted to throw themselves into the undead-infested white.
Well, Thrall was certainly not fool enough to send troops there blindly, but…
“I’d appreciate that,” Ba’kor said with a slightly wider smirk, then sobered. “But, I’m gonna have to give you a lower discount while things are like this.”
“If things are that bad, you don’t have to–” Dor’ash started. He was cut off by a decisive wave of the old blacksmith’s hand.
“Want none of that,” Ba’kor said, his voice a deep yet not unfriendly rumble.
Dor’ash softly snorted, and nodded. It would be ruder to argue.
Being so much older, Ba’kor deserved respect, yet even if the former warlock had stopped tip-toeing (as much as an orc ever does) around Dor’ash, he still treated the shaman as a superior. As one who had not disgraced himself.
“I appreciate–” Dor’ash started to say.
The spirits murmured uneasily, and even as he tilted his head sideways to try to listen, they rose up in a swelling choir, confusion flaring in their voices. He saw Ba’kor open his mouth and quickly close it again, then taking a step back as if to get out of the way.
Then Dor’ash no longer heard the spirits, nor did he see the inside of the blacksmith’s workshop. All he knew was Sarah’s scream, surrounded by other voices crying out. He cared not for the others, though they were strange enough to garner a vague bewilderment in the back of his mind.
It was only her cry that stood out, that was the loudest, agony twisting her voice and he could only listen. For an excruciating eternity nothing else existed.
The other voices changed, becoming raspy and desperate, weakening – but at the same time, Sarah’s turned from tortured to furious. She drowned out the others, crying out one last time like she had done in the past when throwing herself into a battle with unknown outcome.
And then there was nothing.
Only silence.
A bucketful of water right in his face returned Dor’ash to his senses. Coughing and blinking he struggled to push himself to sitting, until Ba’kor grabbed his shoulders and hauled Dor’ash upwards. Somehow the shaman remembered how to move his legs so that he could keep his balance on the floor. He couldn’t sit straight, though, leaning forwards with his hands pressing against his aching head.
“By Thrall, what did you see?” Ba’kor asked, gripping Dor’ash’s shoulders so hard it hurt. It barely registered.
“Huh,” was all Dor’ash could answer. He had meant to say “hear,” but what came out didn’t sound right.
The flesh of his entire head and neck tingled and he felt too dizzy to dare move. A feeling not unlike the one following stupidly being talked into sharing a pipe with a tauren shaman.
He moved his hands to his ears when Ba’kor shifted. Even the scratch of the blacksmith’s boot against the ground was too loud, and his voice thundered through Dor’ash’s head. The words were far too noisy to make sense at first, but after a moment Dor’ash managed to process them.
“I sent my grandson to get Grema,” the blacksmith said.
Dor’ash blinked. He hadn’t heard that happen, and come to think of it, any orc would know better than to rudely awaken a shaman from a trance by tossing water in his face.
“’ow long w’s I out?” he grit, rubbing his forehead.
“A few minutes longer than any vision should take, so I figured you were just unconscious.”
He nodded, absently. The tingling feeling swept down his arms and chest in a fading wave, dissipating along the way. He couldn’t put a name on what he felt. His head buzzed too much for him to even consider asking the spirits for answers, and even so, what little he sensed from them was nothing but confusion.
If he had heard what he thought he had heard, then… and yet, her final cry had been one of defiance, not of pain or fear.
He couldn’t say what it had actually been he heard.
Quick footfalls came from outside, and then Grema rushed in followed by Ba’kor’s young grandson. At least when she started asking questions, it didn’t seem as painfully loud as everything had been a minute ago.
It took a while until he managed to convince all three of them that he was fine, at least enough to be able to leave together with Grema. Though he desperately wanted to talk about it, he could not do so while anybody else could hear. His undead companion was long dead to the Horde, even to those he considered friends.
Though the walk back to the farm was short, it stretched on and it was a relief to be able to go inside and turn to Grema inside the kitchen.
“I think I heard Sarah–” he started, then paused and rubbed his forehead. Grema’s hands cupped his face and she looked into his eyes when he raised his head again.
“What?” she said in a low voice. She knew well the only time he had heard Sarah cry out through the distance.
“I don’t know.” Dor’ash slumped down on a chair. A headache was steadily gaining power. He struggled against the painful throb in his head, and as best he could described what he had experienced at the blacksmith’s. “I don’t feel… and yet, she could be dead.”
Grema was silent for a moment, stroking his hair.
“If she is,” she finally said, “you heard her go bravely, didn’t you?”
He slowly nodded, but it didn’t soothe his twisting emotions. If he had known to mourn, then it would have helped a little bit. As it was, however, he felt too uncertain to know how to deal with anything.
Grema pulled out a chair and sat down with him. Grasping one of his hands, she slowly massaged it with her strong, calloused fingertips as they kept talking for a while longer. Even if he could not completely sort out his confusion, it worked to calm him down somewhat. Afterwards, he thought about how as a shaman, he ought to be better at handling such things, but curing soul sickness in other people seemed so much easier than curing oneself. It was one of those things one needed help with.
There was nothing they could do except wait for news. The Circle had to let them know if something had happened, but with no little dread Dor’ash knew that it could take a week or more. He thought about trying to use far sight to see the research facility, but it was too far away, he understood that well. The idea of running there as a spirit wolf popped up more than once too. But if somebody would ride to Drakamash with a message, that would be quicker and if he took off on his own, he would certainly pass a messenger by without knowing it.
The day wore on in a daze, but Grema helped immensely simply by making sure he kept himself busy so that he couldn’t spend too much time brooding.
As the hours crept on through the afternoon and evening neared, they went about harvesting turnips in the fields.
When the spirits suddenly called out, Dor’ash nearly dropped the half full basket of vegetables he had been lifting.
Look. Look!
He twisted his head around and squinted towards the deepening orange of the evening sky. Noticing his sudden stop, Grema turned as well.
It looked like any regular bird in the distance, but it flew forwards in a straight line, with purpose. Growing out of the distance, soon it also became apparent that it was very large for a bird, with deep golden feathers.
It made a magnificent sight until it swept down over the farm, let out a harsh cry, and crashed as it tried to land in the field. It probably would have broken its wings had it not transformed into a tauren when it became apparent that the landing would be a disaster. Instead of hitting the ground as a ball of feathers, the druid hit the upturned earth and rolled gracelessly before coming to a halt. By then Dor’ash and Grema were almost by him, reaching out to check if he was even still alive.
They struggled to help him get to his hooves, and he tried to help though his limbs trembled from overstrain.
“What–” Dor’ash started, but in the same moment he saw the now very dirty Emerald Circle tabard the tauren wore. Either way, he got no further because two furry, three-fingered hands grabbed his wrist.
The tauren’s fur hung heavy with sweat and he struggled to speak before finally finding his voice.
“I’ve been flying for–“ the tauren rasped, gasping for breath. Despite his obvious exhaust, excitement shone in his big, dark eyes as he stared into Dor’ash’s. “Master Coldbane, we’ve done it!”
Dor’ash blinked. The strange words didn’t make sense, at first.
Then it clicked.
As if from far away he heard the tauren jabber on, and Grema curse in surprise. He took hold of the tauren’s arm.
“Bring us there right now!” he demanded.
Laughing and babbling between harsh gulps for air, the tauren grabbed Grema’s offered hand and all three of them vanished from the yard. In retrospect it was stupid to ask somebody that excited and tired to cast a teleportation spell, but they were lucky. Also lucky in that that their hogs were of a sturdy kind and could take care of themselves for a couple of days, but right then there was little concern about that.
Evening had been falling over the Barrens and Drakamash Village, but in Moonglade it was always midnight. Wisps floated through the air and the mist rising from the waterfall reached all the way up to the wide wooden balcony the two orcs and their guide reappeared on. Two male night elves in brown robes, adorned with the same symbol of the Circle that the tauren wore, waited there. Although they visibly tensed at the sight of the orcs, there was no distaste on their faces.
“Has she said anything more?” the tauren asked, grinning at the two of them as he heavily leaned against the balcony railing.
They actually smirked just the slightest bit.
“Yes,” the one on the right said in Common, hiding his mouth behind a hand. “She has repeatedly expressed discomfort and a wish to pass on.”
The tauren half winced, half laughed and looked at the perplexed orcs.
“You must understand,” he hastened to explain. “She is not as much reanimated as reborn. Her body is extremely weak.”
“I feel sick as a dog! Take your fresh air and shove it!” came a familiar, yet different, voice from the main building.
Dor’ash’s gaze flew to meet Grema’s, and they hurried up the terrace with the tauren and elves following. The tauren woman Dor’ash remembered as Meeva walked towards them through the huge, mostly empty room above, carrying a limp, humanoid body wearing a pale dress. She smiled towards the orcs, deaf to the grumbles from her burden.
“Sarah!”
The complaints ceased and the small woman’s head turned, the motion twitchy – she obviously tried to, but could not move as quickly as she wanted.
Pale face, no hair, lips parted and eyes – living eyes – gazing out in disbelief beneath heavy lids.
“Oh bugger…”
Then her lips closed and spread in an exhausted smile, and she sluggishly lifted one hand from her stomach.
“Careful,” Meeva gently said. “She is like a newborn.”
She had not needed to warn them. Dor’ash grasped Sarah’s hand as if it had been a precious twig. A thin layer of warm muscles squirmed against his fingertips when she wriggled her fingers.
“What, I wasn’t good enough when I smelled, is that it?” Sarah muttered, but she smiled weakly.
Her voice had lost its dry, hoarse note. This was a voice that sounded alive, and a sharp eye could see, upon her throat, the flutter of her pulse.
Grema looked at Dor’ash, and gently smirked as she saw him at a loss for words. She spoke for him instead, touching Sarah’s bare head. So close, it was apparent that she didn’t have eyebrows or eyelashes either. It made her look alien, lizard like, but yet far more familiar than she had seemed when rebuilt and still undead.
“How do you feel?” Grema asked.
“Horrible,” Sarah said, scrunching up her nose. “Weak and heavy and– stop grinning like that, it’s not funny.”
Exchanging a look with Dor’ash, Meeva carefully handed Sarah over to him. She was like a bag of sticks, hanging limply on his arms – but there was no scrape of bone, and through her dress he felt flesh which did not feel as if it would slither away if pushed at. With a grunt she tried to straighten, leaning her head against his arm.
She looked between Dor’ash’s face and Grema’s hand, which held hers in a light grip.
“Were you two always this warm?” she murmured.
Hearing her ask that, Dor’ash finally found his voice again.
“You feel warm, too.”
“Heh… living is overrated.” She grimaced, but she didn’t mean it.
“We’re certain that you’ll regain most of your strength, it will just take some time,” Meeva said.
Letting out an annoyed sound, Sarah sunk back against Dor’ash. The voice of one of the elves made him glance about.
“We need to watch over her for a while to make sure that she is well,” the purple-skinned man said, his natural default of stoic pride cracking up in his triumph. “But she should be fine. We have good hopes of saving Felwood with the same methods. We just need to perfect it, it was extremely tiring and complicated.”
Dor’ash nodded absentmindedly and turned back to Sarah. Later, he would want to know how they had done it. For now, he just wanted to look at her together with Grema, and spirits help anybody trying to take her away.
Sarah raised a shaking hand and turned it over in front of her face. Flesh and skin covered what had once been skeletal fingertips, and blunt nails were growing.
“My blood,” she mumbled, smiling as she bent and stretched her fingers, “it’s sort of… tickling.”
Although he saw it coming with some surprise, Dor’ash hoisted her up higher in his arms just as her hand fell and a sob wracked through her weedy body. The others moved closer in alarm, questioning her about pain as she fisted his shirt, tears slipping over from her cheeks to his skin.
“No… no, I’m… goddammit, don’t you ever tell–” She clumsily snaked one arm around Dor’ash’s massive neck. A squirm let them all see that she smiled despite her sobs, shaking and vulnerable and ashamed… and happy. “You…” She peered up at Dor’ash through the tears. “You smell like a pigsty.”
He stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing.
… yeah I think I just alienated at least three of my regular readers. Please do turn off the Sue-alarms though, things aren’t quite as peachy as they usually are with “teehee I retconned my Forsaken!”
I am connected to the internet sporadically these days, but I keep this in mind.
Hey, no pressure Rig. How are you doing? We don’t hear much of Greece up here lately but I read in the paper that the government cuts are taking its toll on people.
Orgrimmar buzzed with activity as always, even in the obscenely early morning, but there was a new tension in the air. Whispers about Northrend flooded the discussions in the streets, and about Garrosh Hellscream being the loudest supporter for a campaign in the icy north.
There were other whispers about Garrosh Hellscream too, but those were very hushed.
Two tauren riding a kodo steered their way through the busy streets. Both wore the tabard of the Emerald Circle over their leather armor, and the female of the two cradled a small, hooded figure in her arms. This early in the morning, even if there were a lot of people awake most of them were too groggy to bother looking up and take much notice. Either way, it seemed a logical guess that the humanoid figure mostly hidden in a long robe was simply a blood elf.
By Grommash Hold, the tauren left their kodo and headed inside, speaking in low voices with the guards. They were quickly lead into a smaller meeting chamber.
Just as the female tauren pulled out a chair from around the table and placed her burden on it, the door opened again and the Warchief and Lady Proudmoore entered.
They both looked as if they could do with some good news. Or any news that had nothing to do with the king of Stormwind or Northrend.
“Warchief, my Lady,” Meeva said, bowing her head deeply as she motioned at the figure in the robe.
The figure raised its pale, thin hands and pulled the hood back, revealing a just as pale and drawn face. Sarah still did not look healthy, but her eyebrows and eyelashes had grown back since her resurrection, as well as the hair on her head – though it was still just a light carpet on her scalp.
For a moment, both the Warchief and his mate simply looked at her, disbelief in their eyes.
“Is she really alive?” Thrall finally said.
“Barely, Warchief,” Sarah said, her voice hoarse. “Pardon me…”
The male tauren handed her a small water bag and she sipped from it, leaning back in the chair. Sweat beaded her forehead from the heat of the Durotar morning.
“You truly cured her undeath?” Jaina asked.
Lady Proudmoore was a tall woman, but even so, having another human nearby proved that though Sarah was very small in compare to just about everyone she had spent time with in the last few years, she was not really tiny for her species. Her hunched posture didn’t help that case, on the other hand.
Nodding, Meeva took out a scroll from a pocket and unrolled it. The text on the parchment gloved upon her command, and a small illusion of a skeletal, crouching figure appeared above it. Sarah glanced the other way. It was strange to see an image of herself as she had been before she came into the Circle’s “care”.
A small part of her kept wondering if she hadn’t been better off left undead. The water skin was too heavy to hold any longer, and she let it sunk into her lap. She pushed herself up, trying to sit straight for at least a while.
“We did,” Meeva said, “but…”
Sighing, she lowered the scroll and the illusion disappeared. She motioned at Sarah again.
“I’m afraid we can’t really declare this a success, despite the fact that she is alive again, Warchief, Lady Proudmoore,” Meeva said. “She is extremely weak in body, and there has been very little improvement over the weeks since her reanimation. We doubt that she will ever be as she was before her death, or during her undeath.” She shook her head sadly. “She is alive, but she is a cripple.”
“We have not given up,” the male tauren said. “However, in its current form, this technique cannot be used to save Felwood. It can only be used to cure one bush, one tree, one blade of grass at the time, with great effort, and that plant will wither within moments because of its infected surroundings. We need to keep experimenting, both on the plant life and possibly also on undead.”
When the druids and the other healers had been forced to realize this, triumph had turned sour. Not even the Warchief, nor Lady Proudmoore, could hide their disappointment.
“That truly is disheartening,” Thrall said, and his mate sadly nodded. “And as for the Forsaken, I doubt that many of them would be prepared to pay such a price.” He rubbed his chin. “There could very well be some Forsaken who would be willing to help you try to develop the technique, but for now, it is best we don’t let it be widely known. Lady Sylvanas would certainly not approve, if it is essentially to destroy her soldiers.”
“Of course, Warchief.”
Meeva glanced down at Sarah, who was shaking slightly from the strain of sitting straight for so long. Her thin fingers were whitening from her grip of her robe.
“Warchief,” the tauren said, “I have a request.”
“What is it?” Thrall asked. A small smile tugged at his lips, as if he already knew.
“Sarah endured all of the experiments we performed without complaint,” Meeva started. “If one is honest, however, many of them were very alike torture, as she could not be unconscious during them. And now she is like this.”
Sarah looked up at Meeva, an uncertain look on her face, while Thrall slowly nodded.
“I do not know what crime she committed in the past,” Meeva said in an even voice. “But I cannot think of anything that could deserve more punishment than what she has already endured.”
“Not to mention that she seems to have been executed, albeit backwards,” Lady Proudmoore spoke up, the corners of her lips twitching.
“Very true, all of it,” Thrall agreed.
“Breathe,” Meeva whispered at Sarah, out of habit. It was a very good thing too, as forgetting to draw breath in her new state would have been bad.
“Your request is for her to be pardoned, then?” Thrall asked.
Meeva turned back to him.
“That, and… breathe out, Sarah…” The smile filled Meeva’s warm, soft voice. “The other healers and I agree that the air of Felwood is unhealthy, and it might be harming her chances of recovering what she can. It would surely be much better, also, if she could be allowed to recover in a more homely environment.”
Thrall smiled faintly.
‘-‘
“Is this alright?” Dor’ash murmured, glancing at Grema before looking back down at Sarah.
Both the orcs sat on the side of Karg’s old bed, which Sarah laid curled up on. She had slept when the druids brought her, when they carried her up to the second floor and put her to bed, and throughout the long talk between the druids and the orcs. There had been a lengthy list of concerns and things to keep in mind that Meeva counted off.
“Of course it is,” Grema replied, nudging him with her elbow and chuckling softly.
“If she’s as weak as they said, she won’t be able to do much work.”
Think of her current state as that of a baby, Meeva had said. She has about the same body strength and she needs to sleep just as much.
“She doesn’t eat much either.” Grema shook her head. “I’ve always liked her company as well, so it’s not just for your sake that I think it’s fine. And I can think of dozens of little things she can do to make herself useful.”
Dor’ash could think of a few things as well. Ever since that dreamlike moment in Moonglade when he’d held her, the idea of her being allowed back into his and Grema’s lives had swept back and forth through his mind. But it had seemed like nothing but wishful thinking until the two druids came riding into Drakamash, cloaked in the darkness of the deepening evening.
It would do no good to keep her hidden, though. They could not to let the truth out, as that could be a certain death sentence from the Forsaken. Trying to not let anybody see her in such a small village was useless, however, and secrecy would only foster suspicion. After discussing the pros and cons of a few white lies with the two druids, they settled on simply saying that the Emerald Circle had cured her of a strange sickness, and left her in Dor’ash’s care for recovery because he had been of great help to the Circle in the past.
It was that or going with the old “oh, she’s a slave” lie, and nobody in the village would ever believe that one from neither Grema nor Dor’ash. Especially not in the tentatively more Alliance-friendly political state.
Sarah stirred, yawning as she stretched out, still half asleep. It sounded like a little squeak in comparison to the lion yawns an orc would let out when awakening. The low conversation between Dor’ash and Grema halted as they watched. Dor’ash hardly breathed.
Her eyelids fluttered, then blinked open as groggy awareness swept over Sarah’s face. She pinched the furs spread over her, mumbled something and rolled over, squinting up in the dim light.
“Evening, Sarah,” Dor’ash said. He kept his voice a low rumble. It was the best way to keep the emotions down in it.
“Those silly cows…” Sarah cleared her throat to not sound so hoarse, then grunted, “I told them to wake me up when we came here.”
Grema chuckled, and Dor’ash grinned so wide it almost hurt.
“Yes, welcome home, you ungrateful git,” Grema said, still laughing softly.
“It’s not my fault I don’t have any manners. I wasn’t raised right!” Sarah scoffed and stretched, lazily pointing at Dor’ash as she did so.
“Can’t argue with that,” Grema agreed and jabbed Dor’ash with her elbow. He just snorted and shook his head.
There was a slight but audible rumble from an empty stomach. Before anybody could comment, Sarah moved.
She reached out and grasped Dor’ash’s shirt, using that to help herself sit up as she stared earnestly at him. Her motions were heavy and strained, just something so simple as sitting up taking staggering effort. There would be many, many more such situations where she tried to do something that should have been so easy, but left her gasping for breath and often collapsing onto her knees.
But, it would also get better with time.
“Those damn druids are all health freaks,” she said. “For the love of everything holy, feed me meat.”
Chuckling softly, Dor’ash moved his hand to cradle her back and give her support.
“I don’t think your stomach can handle something that heavy yet, from what we were told,” he said. “We’ll start with broth.”
“Oh damn it all.”
A short while later, the three of them were settled around the table on the ground floor – Sarah’s feet dangling high above the floor from sitting in an orc-sized chair, but that was nothing new – with a mug of broth and a slice of bread each. Sarah didn’t even try to lift her mug, but alternated nibbled on bread dipped into the lightly spiced liquid inside and scooping up mouthfuls of it with the smallest wooden spoon that could be found in Grema’s kitchen.
“Is this alright with you?” Dor’ash asked, echoing what he had asked his mate a few minutes earlier.
Sarah looked up.
“Why not?” she said, absently dropping a small piece of bread in the broth.
“You always said you hated living on a farm before the Plague,” Dor’ash pointed out.
Nodding slowly, Sarah used the spoon to fish out the bread from the mug before she answered.
“I was weak then… no, I’m weak now, but not in the same way.” She held up two fingers, and a tiny flame flickered above them, to underline her point. “Rather, I was scared then. I didn’t have anything to look forwards to, either.”
He wondered if that flame was the extent of her magical power in her current state. As it turned out the next day, it pretty much was.
“And what are you looking forwards to now, then?” he asked, smiling.
“Sleeping after dinner, and waking up in a cozy place. That’s enough for now.”
And with that she went back to slowly eating, but the small smile touching her lips said that there was many more things, and somebody else, that she hoped the future had in store. For now, though, this was indeed enough.
They would spend the next few days making plates, cups and spoons as well as light farming tools more suited for Sarah’s hands. Cloth so she could make new clothes for herself was another issue, as well as carefully testing her limits with simple chores. Or rather, Dor’ash and Grema tried to be careful about it, while Sarah immediately proved to be as reckless as ever.
… I wonder if I can make it clear enough that this takes place just before WotLK starts 
Lady Proudmoore was a tall woman, but even so, having another human nearby proved that though Sarah was very small in compare to just about everyone she had spent time with in the last few years, she was not really tiny for her species. Her hunched posture didn’t help that case, on the other hand.
Try to rephrase that. I get your point, but it could be clearer
“We have not given up,” the male tauren said. “However, in its current form, this technique cannot be used to save Felwood. It can only be used to cure one bush, one tree, one blade of grass at the time, with great effort, and that plant will wither within moments because of its infected surroundings. We need to keep experimenting, both on the plant life and possibly also on undead.”
I’m proud of how you effectively turned Sarah into a guinea pig. Going into new places is always good.
I also like how you turn around the whole feel of the story in the end. I always like it when a piece of yours doesn’t read like the two previous ones 
tips hat Corrections made in the version posted on ff.net. Thanks as always Rig, and for the compliment.
And I’ve had sooo much wish to write built up in the last couple of months but been held back by a project for my job that needed to be done. A self-afflicted task, but still. And most of this was written ages ago.
It was a process of trial and error, and getting back up after fainting from exhaust again and again and again. Eventually though, Sarah learned to accept her limits, and struggled to be patient as those limits stretched. Even if the pace was maddeningly slow.
They didn’t talk much about it, but it was apparent to all three of them that the druids had been right. Sarah would probably never be as she had been in the past. The best she could hope for was to reach a halfway mark, if even that. And even that would take years.
There were moments when she wished things could have gone differently. But those were far and few in between, despite her groggy curses whenever she woke up from another swoon, with Dor’ash or Grema dabbing her forehead with a wet cloth.
The world was too full of distractions to let her be bitter about what she had lost. The cool texture of the cloth, a big finger brushing her forehead, the smell of the furs beneath her. The first time she accidentally cut herself on a kitchen knife she started laughing, because it hurt and it felt right.
Dor’ash could sit for minutes, endlessly patient, as she just touched his fingers, mesmerized by the warmth and texture registering on her own skin.
When it came down to it, she was beyond grateful.
It was in the evening about a month and a half since the druids had brought her back to Dor’ash and Grema, and Sarah headed out with a small basket to gather up herbs from the field. It was a simple enough task, and she was well enough recovered to manage it even in the heat of midday by then – provided it didn’t take too long and she drank a lot of water. It was a lot more pleasant to take care of it in the cooler evening winds, though.
Grema had a fair amount of herbs planted in the corner of the fields, but they were all purely for spicing food. The rows of plants were too neat, not the wild grown patches Sarah had sought out in the past. Still, sitting there on her knees and snipping off tiny branches with a pair of scissors did make her feel nostalgic.
In retrospect, it seemed almost as if that nostalgia had acted like a beacon. Maybe it was the sight of her movements, so achingly familiar.
A thin shadow fell over her and the basket, and a smell that didn’t belong assaulted her nostrils. That of dry, rotten flesh.
Having a working heart meant that it could skip a beat.
She shuffled around on her knees, squinting up at the skeletal shape hulking before her. The sun above painted him a black shadow, but two pinpricks of unclean, yellow light were faintly visible in the space where his eyes should be. He leaned on his staff, the wind toying with his thin wisps of hair and the torn hem and sleeves of his robe.
A frozen moment passed.
“Hello, Jonathan,” Sarah finally said. “Took you long enough.”
No reply. His hand, with most of its flesh worn down or burnt off, grasped the weapon tighter at her words. Bone rattled against wood.
“What, are you going to kill me?” she softly said, sitting back.
The staff fell out of his grip and clattered against the ground as he sagged to his knees, reaching his decayed hands towards her.
“You stupid, blasted, thrice damned…”
She didn’t recoil from his touch, not even when he furiously hissed through his teeth. He pulled her close, and she wrapped her arms around the exposed spine of his neck. The smell did bother her, but that was all. Although his flesh and bones felt slimy and rough against her skin, she accepted it for what it was, and for what she had been too not long ago.
Only when his grip tightened so hard it actually hurt did she make a sound of protest. Then he leant back, taking her face between his dirty hands.
“I really… really want to murder you,” he said.
“Ooh, dreamy.”
He stared at her grin for a moment.
“It is you. It is.”
“Yes.”
No reply to that. She remained still, only raising her chin a little when his fingers slipped down until his palm touched her neck. Her pulse beat against the raw bone of his hand and his yellow gaze stuck there, where their bodies met. For a moment he just stared at that point. Then he moved again, drawing both hands along her arm until he cradled her hand in his. Silently, Sarah spread her fingers.
At first Jonathan did not move, but finally he changed his grip and placed a sharp fingertip against the center of Sarah’s palm. A pause, then he let out a hiss and scratched. She winced, but said nothing.
Blood seeped out of the tiny wound, coloring the tip of Jonathan’s finger red. In silence they sat there, he holding her hand and both of them watching the thick drops grow and seep into the crevasses of Sarah’s skin.
Finally, Jonathan curled his hands around hers and looked up at her face.
“It’s horrible,” he said. “I see you like this and my first thought is to break your neck.”
“I hope you don’t try that, though,” a deep, familiar voice said from the shadow of the house, cutting off Sarah’s sneering reply. “Then I’ll have to crush your head with my bare hands.”
They both stood up when Dor’ash walked closer, but he still had to look down to meet their gazes.
“And since I think you’re a decent undead, I wouldn’t want to do that,” he added, watching Jonathan.
“I think I can control myself,” Jonathan said with a snort and grin. He waved his hand at Sarah. “But I want to know what the hell this thing is.”
“You’re an ass,” Sarah said and gave him a shove with her left hand. The other one she held up for inspection, then turned it towards Dor’ash. “I think this is infected.”
The skin around the tiny gash flared an angry red, spreading around the crimson stain in the center. Shaking his head, Dor’ash took her hand in his huge palm and brushed his thumb over the wound. A tiny cloud of healing light was all it took to clean the cut and seal it.
Daaaw, undead romance is SO dysfunctional.
You’re welcome.
It was a lot more pleasant to take care of it in the cooler evening winds, though.
use the active voice, after all Sarah’s rediscovering her feelings (isn’t that the slogan for a shampoo?). Her point of view is interesting right now. Dor’ash is turning into her big brother, eh?
New Head and Shoulders: Revive formula!
Dor’ash is turning into her big brother, eh?
Close, but no cookie. I refer you to post #12 (that was an awful long time ago though, so no biggie)
Ah, the “didn’t sound right” part. Acknowledged.
More undead romance, daaaaw ^w^
… what, why would I need therapy?
I have seen at least two cases of Forsaken smut on the web. Not that anybody should be surprised.
The skin around the tiny gash flared an angry red, spreading around the crimson stain in the center. Shaking his head, Dor’ash took her hand in his huge palm and brushed his thumb over the wound. A tiny cloud of healing light was all it took to clean the cut and seal it. He had hardly finished that before Jonathan reached forwards, taking Sarah’s head between his hands.
Watching the bone thumbs brush over her tanned, freckled cheeks was unnerving to say the least. At the same time, the motions were delicate and slow. Jonathan’s hands drifted upwards, combing through Sarah’s short blonde hair while he craned his neck, seeming hypnotized by the play of shadows on her skin.
“I was angry, but now I’ve forgotten why,” he said. It might have been intended as a murmur, but it was more of a hissing croak.
“Don’t bother remembering, princess,” Sarah said. “It’s stupid.”
“If you say so.” He grinned even wider at the nickname.
“Should I leave the two of you alone?” Dor’ash asked, one corner of his lips stretching.
Sarah looked up at him, her eyes wide.
“Goodness no,” she said. “You couldn’t possibly trust this lecher to conduct himself like a gentleman if nobody keeps an eye on him. I have a warm body now!”
“And it looks delicious!” Jonathan snatched her around the waist with one arm, bending over her and stretching his free arm outwards as had they been in the middle of some odd dance. Sarah didn’t even miss a beat, stretching her own arm after his and hanging the other around his neck. She even delicately lifted one foot from the ground. All the while both of them grinned insanely.
Dor’ash rubbed his forehead, chuckling in disbelief.
It was as if they hadn’t been apart for a day.
Moving his hand to cradle the back of Sarah’s head, Jonathan straightened up again and pulled her along.
“But, seriously now, what in Thrall’s name happened to you?” he asked.
“Archdruid Fandral Pinkskin fried me with moonfire until my pulse kicked into gear,” Sarah said in a tender voice as she stroke Jonathan’s squishy cheek. “No, really.”
“Uh… huh.”
“The Warchief sentenced her to be a test subject for the Emerald Circle’s research into reversing fel taint,” Dor’ash said. “This is the result.”
Sarah turned her head and stuck her tongue out at the orc.
“Way to ruin the mystery, mama,” she complained.
“I’d rather not stand here and guard your virtue if I have to listen to you stringing him on for half an hour,” Dor’ash replied, sneering.
“How did they do it?” Jonathan asked, tilting his head.
“It’s not worth it, trust me,” Sarah said, looking back at him. “It almost killed me and then I couldn’t even stand on my own for at least two months.” But she grinned wide while saying so.
“Hm.”
In the brief silence, Sarah lifted her hand to Jonathan’s cheek, brushing her thumb along his chapped lips and down the torn corner of his mouth stretching towards his cheekbone. It strained his skin and flesh, opening the tear and revealing a sliver of the black teeth beneath.
“You could really die,” she said. “And even if you survive, you’ll be as weak as a lamb. You’ll never be as powerful as you are now, not even a crumb.” She smiled a bit again. “And you’ll probably be only half as handsome.” Here she patted his cheek, smoothening back the cut skin.
“Harsh. And you wouldn’t be able to fondle my liver either,” Jonathan thoughtfully said.
Dor’ash pressed a hand to his face and tried very hard to think of anything but that mental image, while Sarah hummed wistfully.
“But, ultimately,” Jonathan continued, bending closer to Sarah’s face as she grinned back at him, “I think I want to take my chances.”
“And if you’re willing to risk that, you’d better be prepared to risk telling her the truth beforehand, you know,” Dor’ash said with a nasty smirk, with his pointing finger drawing an invisible line in the air from Jonathan’s right ear stump. Suffice to say, the orc had failed to not think about the liver thing. Such a horror could not go unpunished.
Jonathan snapped up and swung his head in Dor’ash’s direction, squeak of protest escaping him. It returned as Sarah grabbed his collar, bringing down his twisted face to just a few inches away from hers.
“Excuse me, what?” she hissed.
“You’re a sadist, Dor’ash!” Jonathan miserably complained while Sarah wrestled him onto the ground, her curses growing louder and more creative by the second.
“If she found out by looking at you after resurrection, you’d feel it a whole lot more.”
Dor’ash watched for a little while, amused, but there was a softness in the corners of his smirk. As much as Sarah cursed Jonathan and scratched at his face, he only batted (relatively) carefully at her arms. He could have clawed her bloody or blasted her away with magic, but he never made a motion as to harm her. This didn’t pass her by, only adding to her insults about his ‘girly, lying, worthless’ self.
“The hell?” came Grema’s voice and she walked up beside Dor’ash, scratching her head as she watched the catfight.
Sarah’s head snapped up, her hands clamped around Jonathan’s thin throat.
“He’s a goddamn belf and never told me!” she snarled and dove right back to the one-sided fight.
“I didn’t know when we first met!” Jonathan wheezed, but the difficulty to talk was the only problem he got from being strangled.
Grema pondered this for a moment.
“I’ll get the small axe for you, Sarah,” she finally said and moved as if to actually go and fetch the weapon. Then she paused and looked back, grinning wide. “Or you could try to squirm out of this, pretty-boy.”
“I’m trying!” Jonathan wrenched his head to the side so he could look at Dor’ash. “Little help here?”
Shrugging and snickering, Dor’ash bent forwards and hauled Sarah off of Jonathan, as easy as lifting a doll. She snarled and pinched him, but he calmly sat both of them down on the ground and kindly but firmly clapped a finger over her mouth.
“Right then,” Dor’ash said while Jonathan scrambled up on his knees. “Grovel in the dust until she forgives you, but if you’re going to get morbid then do it in Gutterspeak. We’re going to eat soon.”
“Ah, yeah. I’ll try.” Jonathan scratched his head for a moment, looking miserable as Sarah growled against Dor’ash’s hand. She’d stopped struggling, but folded her arms across her chest as the grip of her eased up.
Whatever Jonathan said, he did with wide hand motions and a whole lot more gusto than would usually be credited to a Forsaken. Since he only spoke Guttespeak from the first word, though, the orcs had no idea what he said and they didn’t particularly want to know.
It took a while, too, but eventually he fell silent.
Sarah glared at him, drumming her fingers against the opposite arm. Gingerly, Dor’ash moved his hand to let her speak. She wasted no time.
“You know, you’re a smooth talker and all, but it all comes down to one simple fact even if you go up there and the druids manage to reinstall a pulse in your body too.”
“What?” Jonathan said in a wary tone.
Sarah’s small hands balled up and thrust downwards along her sides.
“You honestly, honestly expect me to give up my virginity to a freaking goldilocks?” she snapped.
A few seconds later, Jonathan realized that he should have responded to that, somehow, in that first, stunned moment of silence. But as he was not quick enough, he had to wait for Dor’ash and Grema to stop laughing.
And wait.
And wait.
“I’m actually a redhead! Really!” he finally shouted to be heard over the hysterics.
“You’re supposed to deny wanton desires, you goof!” Sarah shouted back.
“Stop, I’m dying!” Grema choked out, keeling over and clutching her stomach.
Eventually, the orcs managed to settle down, although both of them still twitched with chuckles every now and then.
“It’s not nice to be racist, you know,” Jonathan said, folding his arms. “You never judged me like that before.”
“Should I just judge you for being a filthy ol’ liar, then?”
“You would have killed me if I told you when I remembered!”
“Damn straight!”
Jonathan let out a loud sigh and covered his glowing yellow eyes with a bony hand.
It took a little while longer until Dor’ash managed to stop another wave of laughter, and it remained in the grin on his lips when he leaned down so that his face was level with Sarah’s. She kept her nose turned up.
“You’re being cruel,” Dor’ash said, grin turning into a slanted smirk. “You’re going to forgive him, so don’t torture him so much.”
Sarah turned her face away for a moment, making an annoyed sound. Two of Jonathan’s fingers parted and he peered out between them, but otherwise he didn’t move. Finally, Sarah shuffled forwards on her knees and jabbed a finger at Jonathan’s face.
“Yeah, I’m probably going to forgive you but you’re going to have to work for it,” she said.
Before he could reply, she grabbed him by the neck and pulled him down until she could touch her forehead to his.
“And you only get orc kisses for now because otherwise I’ll puke.” Then she smirked. “But you’d think that’s hot too, wouldn’t you?”
Both Dor’ash and Grema were very thankful that Jonathan responded to that in Gutterspeak. Especially from how both Sarah and Jonathan grinned at each other when he spoke.
Actually, he just suggested that he brush his teeth first instead.
I hadn’t seen that before. Imagine having missed that line though: “Harsh. And you wouldn’t be able to fondle my liver either,” Jonathan thoughtfully said. It would have been a shame.
You really love playing with your undead, don’t you?
Oooohohoo yes, yesss I do