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Chapter Text

Dukhor scratched his nose, grimacing. He'd been in this world a few years, could barely remember when his own world still flowered. He was unable to shake the sneezing when the wind blew across the grassy fields. He shook his head sharply and snorted.

"Quiet," his captain growled low beside him. Ok'mal curled his lip in disgust. "Look at'em." He spat on the ground.

Below them lay yet another village, ripe for plunder. There was frenzied activity; the humans were loading carts, saddling horses, running pell-mell all over. Ok'mal grunted with amusement.

"Better tell Fogak," he observed. "Gonna have to hurry, looks like."

Letting his eyes follow first one distant form then another as they ran about in a panic, Dukhor frowned. He noted women and children, a few grey-whiskered men, but no warriors. His frown deepened.

Dukhor had wielded his hammer for the glory of the Bleeding Hollow clan, and the Horde, ever since the portal spilled them onto this challenging world of plenty. 'Azeroth,' it was called. An eager whelp too young to defend his folk from the deceitful Draenei, the decree of Ner'zhul hurried his om'riggor before his tenth summer would have normally allowed it. Donning his new armor and hefting the warhammer inherited from his late father, he'd run screaming through the gateway with his clan, eager to prove himself in battle at last. He'd believed the words spoken, that the folk of this world, the 'humans,' were weak and soft, easily defeated. Like all of his people, he believed victory would be swiftly claimed, and a new homeland for Orcs was only one more battle away.

Four years later, he wasn't nearly as confident. Those early engagements were against villages like this one, not armed warriors. Dukhor did his duty, slaying any human that crossed his path, no matter how small. They all seemed small to him then. Small and weak. A nuisance, an obstacle to be swept out of the way. Then the Horde attacked Stormwind.

It was a name that inspired furious arguments and bloodshed whenever it was mentioned. None accepted responsibility for the humiliating defeat. Rather, Bleeding Hollow fingers pointed in all directions, shifting the blame elsewhere. The Twilight's Hammer clan was too weak and failed to hold the line, the Warsong clan came too late, the Bonechewer clan's warriors may as well not have been there at all, so bent were they on consuming the fallen. The Horde might have descended into civil war had Gul'dan not placed Blackhand the Destroyer over them all.

Dukhor growled under his breath, recalling the time under Blackhand's boot. He was not the only one pleased when Orgrim Doomhammer relieved the Warchief of his position, no matter how it was done. Yet whether under Blackhand or Doomhammer, the prey they hunted remained the same. He followed Ok'mal from their place of concealment back to the main camp, where a full company of Orcs awaited news from the scouting party.

Ok'mal usually did the talking, for Dukhor was still too young to be counted as a warrior most of the time. He stood silently by, unable to dismiss the nagging doubt that had crawled into his mind and seemed content to fester in the shadows there.

"Looks like they're buggin' out, sir," Ok'mal reported. "Word must've got to'em."

"Then we move now," Fogak growled. "To arms! We'll catch the cowards before they can run!"

Resigned to another day of uncertainty, Dukhor shouldered his hammer and took his place among the ranks forming for the attack.

"I'll take'em all on, I'm not afraid!" Daren cried, brandishing a toy sword wildly. Miona made another vain attempt to disarm the six-year-old and hurry him into the cart.

"Such a brave lad, you are!" she praised, though her voice shook nervously. "But you must get in the cart. Your sisters need your protection, now that you're the man of the house."

Daren's shoulders slumped and his sword arm lowered. He cast a baleful gaze at his elder sisters, Betty and Mabel, sitting huddle together in the cart holding one another in fear. Sighing heavily, he nodded.

Looking toward the barn, Miona fidgeted anxiously. The grain stores were all but depleted; there likely wouldn't be a single kernel missed by the frantic farmers. After a few moments, the children's mother emerged, lugging a hefty sack. Miona sprang to her aid, grabbing one end of the bag and helping load it onto the cart.

"Where did you find it?" she gasped incredulously.

"Near the back, under a tarp." Leaning on the cart to catch her breath, Agatha gave her young nanny a sheepish look. "I might've covered it the other day by accident."

Miona's laugh was brief, for screams erupted not far away. Whirling toward the sound, she saw at least a half dozen Orcs descending upon the Marshall family and their pack pony not ten yards distant. The great ugly brutes were giants to her eyes: standing a head taller than any human, with green skin stretched over bulging muscles, they wielded axes and hammers, swords and halbards. The shining metal common among Stormwind soldiers was disdained by these creatures, who favored mere harnesses of leather reinforced with bone. Their ugly faces, wide of jaw with large and vicious tusks more powerful than any wild boar's, were etched with cruelty and malice.

The widow Marshall fell beneath a hammer to her head; her eldest daughter followed with the Orc's second strike. Five years old and stricken with terror, Billy Marshall stood motionless, and was cloven in twain by another Orc's sword.

"Into the cart, quickly!" Agatha screamed, shoving Miona ahead of her. Betty and Mabel wailed in terror, and Daren scrambled into the cart without further protest. Miona had just turned around to give Agatha a hand up, when she saw a mountainous green form behind the woman.

"Agatha!" she cried in warning, just as a sword thrust through the widow's back, erupting between her breasts in a splash of crimson. Horrified, Miona scooted back towards the children. The Orc shoved Agatha's corpse aside and leered as it made to climb into the cart after its prey.

The cart's bed was dusty from many deliveries. The children's screams loud in her ears, Miona grabbed a fistful of the hay dust and threw it into the Orc's small red eyes. It bellowed furiously and stumbled back, grinding knuckles into its blinded eyes. Miona whirled about and grabbed at the children's clothing, urging them out of the cart.

Putting herself between them and the twitching corpse of their mother, Miona pushed all three into a nearby hay stack, concealing them inside. Leaving a bit of a hole to peer through, she watched as the Orc regained its feet and, squinting, began to search for them.

"Hush," she breathed, "and be still."

Her worst fear was that their hysteria would renew, but shock had stilled them to near catatonia. Miona forced herself to focus on the Orc, and not see the broken form of kindly Agatha, splayed on the ground at its feet. Whether by luck or some blessing of the Light, it looked briefly in the barn, then moved away, never thinking to investigate the hay. But in the distance, amidst the panicking villagers, she could see flames. The haystack would be their tomb if they didn't leave it soon.

Turning to the children, she said in a low, hurried voice, "We must go to the barn, and hide there."

"Mum... mum... mum...," Betty whispered, her tear-dampened face contorting.

"Don't think on it now," Miona urged desperately. "We have to move. Quickly. Before they see us." Eyes widened all around her in the close, musty space. "I'm frightened, too," she confessed. "Come along. Follow me."

Checking once more through the chink, Miona saw that there were far fewer villagers on the move. Most were lying motionless, their murderers bellowing triumphantly over them. Dust and smoke clouded the air; she hoped it would keep them hidden long enough to reach the relative safety of the barn.

Miona led the children out of the haystack and ran for the open barn door. She made sure they were all in before ducking inside herself, and pulling the door closed.

A flash of movement in the corner of Dukhor's eye caught his attention. Perhaps thirty yards away stood a barn with an abandoned cart in front of it. Sighing with resignation, he turned and loped toward the structure.

He'd seen death many times; had dealt it to the humans so often he could not keep count. They became a worthy enemy, a challenging foe, and battles against them were eagerly anticipated. This, however, was not to his liking. His heavy footfalls took him past the crumpled and mutilated remains of the old, the weak, the inexcusably young. Few held what would pass for a weapon amounting to a threat to an Orc. A familar discomfort stole over him as he neared the barn.

I should go elsewhere, he told himself. It was my imagination. A trick of the smoke. Nothing more. After all, the torch bearers were moving from building to building; soon enough, his uncertainty could be forgotten.

Looking down, he saw a human female's corpse, beheaded and hacked to pieces. He recognized the rage of a warrior denied a prize; perhaps it eluded him, taking refuge in the barn? Steeling his waning will, Dukhor strode to the door and kicked it open.

A startled scream greeted him, and he beheld four humans at the far end. Three were very young children, cowering in a hay-filled stall. The fourth was only a bit older, and held a pitchfork in both hands, her breaths coming in gasps. She stood at the stall's opening, her feet apart in a fighting stance, brow pinched with grief and fear. Yet she held her ground, and shouted at him, brandishing the makeshift weapon in challenge.

Dukhor stared at the girl for several seconds, unsure what to do. His weapon lowered of its own accord.

"Get away from here!" Miona shouted again, her voice breaking. She shook the pitchfork threateningly, determined to make the beast bleed before it killed her. To her shock, it suddenly turned and looked outside for a moment. Did it think it required a fellow's aid to take her down? Emboldened by the ridiculous thought, Miona straightened her shoulders and tried to appear more formidable than she felt. Then it turned toward her again, and she held her breath.

It didn't try to speak to her in its incomprehensible tongue, but rather held a finger to its lips. She blinked in confusion.

"What's it doin'?" Mabel whispered, clinging now to Miona's skirts.

"I've no idea," the nanny replied. The monstrous Orc began to slowly approach, and Miona raised her pitchfork higher. "Get back, all of you."

To further confound the girl, the Orc held up his huge, thick-fingered hand, palm outward. If she didn't know better, she would suspect it of trying to convey calm. How could she be calm, when she'd witnessed such horrors only minutes before? Gripping the handle tightly, she refused to back up when the Orc approached.

Again, a placating hand was raised briefly, then it hefted its oversized warhammer, and Miona braced herself for the blow. A long-held breath whooshed out of her in surprise when the beast's hammer fell against the back wall of the barn with a thunderous crash.

First one slat of weathered oak burst asunder, then a second blow took another. It left a wide hole in the wall, then stepped back. Sighing, it jerked its chin toward the exit it just made.

Miona hesitated, her thoughts torn. Could it be trusted?

It raised its head and its large, pointed ears pricked to some sound, though how it could hear anything over the cacophony outside, she had no idea. Then it gave her an agitated look, and waved toward the hole.

"Kagh!" it hissed urgently.

Miona started at the creature's snarling voice. Death at this one's hands or another's was certain. She chose this one; perhaps its strange actions might mean a swift death.

"Come," she said shakily, shifting the pitchfork to one hand and using the other to push the children toward the hole. "Go through, and run."

"Is it gonna kill us?" Daren whimpered, clinging to her arm tightly.

"Never you mind," she told him evenly. "Just take your sisters into the hills. I'll be right behind."

"You promise?" Betty begged. Miona nodded wordlessly.

Seeing the children safely out, she paused before leaving herself, and looked boldly into the eyes of the Orc. Unlike the malevolently glowing red of its fellows, this one's eyes were dark brown and human-like. Its broad face was unreadable to her, yet she had the sense that it would do them no harm. It only nodded, its thick lips grimly tight around its great tusks. She nodded in return, unsure what else to do, then ducked out of the barn after the children.

Dukhor closed his eyes and sagged against the wall. He rubbed his face tiredly. What had he done? Would Kilrogg Deadeye, his clan chieftain, approve of his actions, or condemn him as weak? Were the Warchief to know of it, would Dukhor be branded a traitor and slain? He fretted for several moments, uncertain. Yet in spite of the worries, Dukhor's tension loosened with relief. He'd stained his honor many times that day, and every day since coming to this land. He would likely sully it further in the coming days. But today, he'd followed the teachings of his father, gone to the ancestors in battle before Dukhor reached his seventh summer, but remembered still. Today, he'd obeyed his conscience. This moment he could hold in his heart, this one moment where his honor was not blackened and made shameful to him.

Chapter Text

It wasn't the ideal position to accept, but the second war left few choices beyond cleaning up after each battle, and rehabilitating the Orc prisoners taken from the field. The new camp boasted a strong force of Stormwind soldiers, acting as defenders and guards. Miona's misgivings about being so close to Orcs again were relieved, knowing they'd be restrained. Her confidence was easily maintained while no Orcs were imprisoned there, and sorely tested when the announcement came that the first prisoners were meant to arrive that very afternoon.

Whatever the folk employed in support roles might have understood of their duties, was spelled out clearly by Commandant Fredericks before the morning dew had dried on the grass. The commandant ordered the cooks, servants, laborers, and stablehands to line up as the guards might have for an inspection, then paced in front of the awkward group, growling out his speech. Miona stood next to Gyda, the elderly Dwarf who managed the laundry and was Miona's superior, and noted the commandant's halting limp. She'd seen him getting about the guardhouse painfully with a cane, which he seemed to disdain when addressing his troops, and likewise did without now. His left eye was missing and covered with a patch; the right sleeve of his jacket hung limp and empty. He had a hard, embittered look about him that made her uneasy.

"You may not be soldiers in the King's army," he told them in his booming voice, "but you will conduct yourselves as though you are. I should not need to remind you that you are under my command in this camp, and my word is law. Is that clear?" He scowled at the uncertain and mumbled affirmations. "I said, is that clear?"

Many started at his raised voice, and blurted out a much louder 'yes, sir!,' including Miona. Her nervousness increased, and she clasped her hands behind her back to hide their wringing.

"Good." Nodding sharply, Commandant Fredericks resumed his stiff-legged pacing. "It should come as no surprise that the duty for which you were hired – supporting the troops while we... rehabilitate these wretches – is about to be realized. This afternoon, a collection of Orc prisoners is en route to this camp. Our first shipment." He did not trouble to hide his sneer. "You will occasionally – rarely, mind you – be in some manner of contact with them." He stopped in front of Gyda and Miona. "Foul beasts that they are, they must be kept at least marginally clean so not to infect the rest of us. Monthly, you will collect the scraps they call clothing, and see that it is clean enough to not spread their contagions." Fredericks moved on to the cooks. "You will be most frequently in their company, and should never be without armed guards. You will not, under any circumstances, allow yourselves to carry a blade in their presence, is that clear? I'll not have it wrested from you, thus arming the enemy against us." The commandant's warning glare gave Miona the impression that any such error in judgment would be considered treasonous.

Commandant Fredericks continue to describe his expectations. "Our orders are to contain them, to rehabilitate them. This does not mean that any of you – any of you – have permission to engage with them yourselves. You are not trained soldiers; I will not allow you to put your lives at such risk."

A nervous hand raised from among the cooks. "Please, sir," the young man interjected, "what if we can't help being near, and something... happens?"

"Rest assured," the commandant replied dismissively, "that the Orcs will be shackled at all times, and any act of defiance will be dealt with summarily. A few reminders of their position might be applied, perhaps. You needn't fear, but be wary. All of you, be vigilant. I have seen these abominations crush a man's skull with one hand. It only takes a second for the beasts to strike; do not give them that second. Stay beyond arm's reach, and do not attempt to speak to them; the creatures have no language of their own, and cannot understand ours. Reasoning with them is futile."

Listening to the commandant's words, a sweat broke out on Miona's forehead and she questioned why she'd signed on. Rumors and official reports abounded in Stormwind, where she had fled with the children after Moonbrook fell. None spared the listener the gruesome details of atrocities committed against the innocent, and her own experiences confirmed them. Nightmares plagued her for years. Her breaths now came in sharp gasps of fear.

She might have bolted out the gates and run for the safety of Stormwind, had one moment from years ago not come to her, and quelled her rising panic with its incongruity. She saw again a brutish Orc with brown eyes, breaking the barn wall with his hammer. For a moment, she found herself wondering if the creatures of her nightmares were as irredeemable as Commandant Fredericks seemed to believe.

It was hours before the horn announcing the caravan's arrival sounded. Miona fretted nervously in the stone-walled laundry building hard by the officers' quarters, barely able to assist her superior with the washing.

"Come along, now," Gyda grumped as she pushed a basket laden with muddied shirts closer to the wash basin. The restless and agitated men sometimes engaged in wrestling matches to relieve their tensions. Gyda had muttered darkly only that morning that she was glad the prisoners were finally coming, for it meant the men would have a less bothersome outlet for their frustrations. "Don't wanna miss them beasts comin' to get what they deserve," she smirked.

Miona nodded agreement, but said nothing. She hadn't seen an Orc up close for years, and didn't relish the idea of doing so again.

At Gyda's side in the yard once more, Miona shifted from foot to foot, craning her neck to see past the crowd of people assembled. Her heart beat swift and hard as she noted the positions of each grim-faced guard. Would they be enough? She chewed her lip worriedly.

Soon, the main gates opened, and a cage rumbled in on a great wagon drawn by draft horses. Though the cage was large, it was tightly packed with green-skinned Orcs. The gates were drawn closed again once the wagon was clear of them.

Covering her mouth to stifle an instinctive scream, Miona held her breath. The Orcs glared malevolently at their captors, but made no threatening gestures. Indeed, they were so tightly packed that limbs hung out between the bars. Miona's fear welled and spilled over when she noticed that, in spite of Commandant Fredericks's assurance, these Orcs were not bound.

"Gyda!" she whispered anxiously. "Might they get free? No one has shackled them yet!"

The old laundress waved her charge's worries away. "There's not more'n ten of'em in there. I daresay the forty of our lads can handle'em."

Miona nevertheless gripped Gyda's gnarled hand tightly. The guardsmen clustered about the cage door with their swords out. A pile of chains attached to collars and wrist cuffs lay nearby, where a group of grim-faced soldiers waited. The door was opened, and a few folk gasped in fear as the first Orc was dragged from the cage.

Limbs numbed from the lengthy journey, it collapsed in a heap on the ground. A few guards laughed. The Orc struggled to rise on stiff and trembling legs. It shook its arms to restore the flow of blood, then it roared challengingly at the men. An officer stepped up and clouted the creature across the face with a cudgel, knocking it flat.

"Get them off the wagon and be quick about it!" Commandant Fredericks roared, and his men hurried to obey. The felled Orc was dragged to its feet and pushed toward the soldiers, who swiftly clapped it in irons. Another defiant roar erupted from the beast, and it tried to jerk itself out of reach before the collar could be locked shut. Commandant Fredericks furiously strode toward the struggling soldiers. He drew his sword and thrust it into the Orc's throat.

Miona nearly fainted, and covered her mouth with her hand.

"There now," Gyda muttered. "All's well. The men're all right. It's dead." Her soothing tone chilled Miona to the bone.

It was difficult to see what was happening until the commandant turned toward the prisoners still wedged in the cage, and held aloft the head of the Orc. The captives froze and quieted, but for a keening wail from deep among the clustered bodies.

"This is the only language they understand!" Fredericks barked. "If any of these monsters cause trouble, you are to make your point clearly!" Then he cast the head to the ground and spat on it. "Chain them now."

The next few days saw more wagons bearing cages bursting with captured Orcs. Miona saw children and infants among them sometimes, and wondered where they were coming from. Weren't these Orcs taken in battle? Did they arm their young against the Alliance as well? Or send their females to fight, heavy with child? What sort of beasts were they?

She would soon feel compelled to ask the same question again, but not about the Orcs.

As the weeks passed, she began to notice a decline in the Orcs' spirits. Though they snarled and struggled against their captors and their bonds on arrival, fewer of them continued to resist as time dragged on. At first, Miona thought it might be resignation; they'd been defeated, in some cases surrendered, and were now in an untenable situation. The talk of 'rehabilitation' was not repeated after the first group arrived, and seemed far from the minds of those who guarded them. Yet to hear her superior speak of the Orcs, no punishment was satisfying enough.

"Can't stomach the beasts, meself," Gyda groused one morning. Bent over a washboard, she furiously scrubbed the sweat and filth from an Orc's threadbare shirt, heedless that the thin fabric was tearing under the strain. It was washing day for the Orcs; once a month, Commandant Fredericks wanted them stripped and scrubbed, and their clothing cleaned. Each shelter's complement of prisoners was taken into a corral, ordered to remove their clothing, and forced to endure the splash from many buckets of cold water, as well as the stiff bristles of brooms and the caustic bite of lye soap. Their heads were shaved to prevent the spread of lice to their captors.

Miona had witnessed washing day several times now, each time dreading the event even more. The commandant wanted as many folk as possible in the camp to see, stare at, and in many cases ridicule, the Orcs in their vulnerable state. It was an additional duty Miona was unable to avoid. Yet, where Gyda seemed only to see the monsters that destroyed her village and slew her family, Miona began to discern the expressions of shame and humiliation on their brutish faces. She saw adults shielding the young from the brooms, for the guards were not gentle. She saw the females, who'd seemed as proud and fierce as the males, covering their bodies and hiding behind the males as lasciviously taunting remarks were thrown at them with as much vigor as the water meant to cleanse them.

Then the soaked and bedraggled Orcs waited for hours while their scraps were washed and returned damp and in worse condition than before.

"Miona!" Gyda barked irritably, startling the young woman from her thoughts. "Fetch us another sack of lye. They've started on the second shelter's load of wretches, and we're near clean out."

"Yes, ma'am," Miona nodded quickly, then hurried to the storehouse next door. Frustrated with herself for becoming distracted by thoughts her people would likely think of as treasonous, she pulled open the door without hesitation, then froze in shock.

A man she recognized was leaning over an Orc woman, pinned face down over a crate. He'd stuffed a cloth in her mouth, and bent her arm up behind her back. Her skirt was pulled up to her waist. When Miona walked in, he'd just raised his hand to deliver another blow to the Orc's head.

"Quiet, bitch!" Captain Dawson hissed, then he turned sharply toward Miona. "Get out!"

Years of service made her swiftly obey. Miona darted back out and slammed the door, then stared at it. Now the sounds of the man's grunts could be heard. Gasping for breath, Miona couldn't move. The vision of the Orc woman's bruised and bloody face, contorted with helpless anger, swam before her. Were there tears in her eyes? Had Miona seen tears upon an Orc's face?

Before she could rally herself, the door opened and the officer emerged, the Orc's arm in his grip. He said nothing to Miona, simply smirking at her as he passed. She watched him deliver the subdued and stumbling Orc to her shelter, then depart for the barracks.

Miona's wits returned to her, and with them, a righteous fury. The lye forgotten, she strode purposefully to the commandant's quarters. His secretary was no match for the slight laundress's assistant as Miona brushed past him and barged into Fredericks's office.

"What is the meaning of this interruption?" the commandant demanded. His overweight secretary huffed behind her.

"Sorry sir, she ran past, couldn't stop her..."

Fredericks glared down his nose at his assistant. "Fewer sweets from Stormwind might've made you more effective," he snarled. "Who are you?"

"I am Miona, sir," she replied, dipping a hasty curtsey. "I work in the laundry under Gyda."

"What do you want? If it is supplies, the quartermaster is better suited..."

"I have witnessed the most foul thing of my life, sir," Miona interrupted shakily. "Words cannot describe..."

"If you can't bear looking at the beasts unclothed...," the commandant sighed.

"No, sir, that is not what I speak of." Straightening herself with dignity, she declared, "I witnessed Officer Dawson raping an Orc woman. I demand that you discipline him, sir."

Commandant Fredericks stared at her blankly for several moments, then chuckled, shaking his head. "Do you see this?" he asked, raising his right arm, half of which was missing. "And this?" He pointed to his patched eye socket. "Every step I take is painful. Breathing is a hardship. I would've been a commander in the field – a general in his majesty's army, had these Orcs not come to our world. Did you know this? They did not come from our world, and so are not of our world."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but where they came from is of no consequence now...," Miona began, but was startled into silence when the commandant slammed his palm on the desk and rose to his feet.

"'No consequence'?" he roared. "They do not belong here! They should not be here! The sooner they are removed, whether through that cursed portal or by their own deaths, the better. Each day that passes should be a painful reminder to them that they are not welcome here."

"But sir," she cried, "they are helpless now! Our prisoners. If we truly follow the teachings of the Light, we should be uplifting..."

"Enough! I have listened to the ignorant ramblings of sympathizers and traitors for years, and I will not hear it in my camp!"

"I am no traitor, sir," Miona snapped angrily. "I merely suggest we embrace the Light in how we deal with these... these creatures. Abusing and... and raping them is against all that is taught..."

"Get out of my office," Fredericks snarled. "Do not give me reason to report your wavering loyalty to the king."

"But... but won't you put a stop to...?" she tried once more.

"Everything they suffer – everything – is deserved, Miona. Remember that."

"I'm not sure where all them scraps went to," Gyda grumbled, shaking her head. "Seems the basket empties faster'n I can fill it."

"Perhaps the priest uses them for bandages?" Miona suggested innocently. Her eyes darted to a nondescript sack partially hidden among the crates and barrels at one end of the storehouse, hoping the aging Dwarf's eyes weren't keen enough to see it.

Several months had passed since Commandant Fredericks confirmed her growing suspicions of the internment camp's purpose, and his own bitter desire for vengeance. Miona decided that leaving her position in the camp and fleeing to Stormwind might remove the injustice from her sight, but wouldn't resolve it. Recalling the Orc who undoubtedly disobeyed his commanders in secret to save her life, she steeled her nerve and began to act in equal anonymity.

The first winter was hard, and few allowances were made for the dozens of Orcs in the drafty shelters. There were not enough beds to accommodate them all, leaving many to seek uncomfortable rest on the wooden floors. Worse yet, infants brought with the captives or born after arrival could only be warmed by the bodies of their elders, for no additional blankets were given. Many newborns did not live out the first night of life.

What infuriated Miona was that new shipments of fresh linens were frequently delivered, and the worn and ragged ones shredded for polishing cloths or bandages. None were repurposed for the Orcs' use.

Her first act was to smuggle an old blanket into a shelter with the laundry. An Orc woman was there, shivering in the cold and rocking her fitful newborn. It was a washing day, and the poor woman was naked and wet, her short-cropped hair stiff with ice. Miona unfurled the blanket and wrapped it about her shoulders. The startled look from the new mother was swiftly replaced with suspicion. Her red eyes darted, perhaps looking for the guard who would punish her for receiving such a gift.

Miona patted the Orc woman's shoulder and offered an encouraging smile, then left, flush with relief. That child, at least, would survive.

Now she painted on an ingenuous smile in order to maintain, in Gyda's eyes at least, the illusion that she agreed with the Dwarf's opinions. Excuses for the missing linens were easy to come by, for Gyda didn't approve of Brother Arnold's activities, calling any healing spell directed at a prisoner a treasonous act. Hearing her assistant's suggestion, she huffed with indignation.

"Hmph. Like as not, the fool's using my rags on those wretched beasts."

"I'm sure it's nothing of the sort," Miona replied mildly. "I saw myself that the lake is frozen over south of us, and several of the men went there to slide about on the ice. Not a few of them came back with bruises and scrapes."

Gyda chuckled. "Silly lads. They're getting bored. Likely thought there'd be fights every day from those Orcs."

"Have you ever wondered why they are so complacent? I confess, my experience was that the creatures are incapable of calm."

"No, lass, I've never wondered," Gyda grunted as she and Miona lifted a sack of lye onto a small cart. "Glad I am that this lot knows its place and don't seem inclined to change it. That's not the story elsewhere."

"Yes, I've heard that sometimes, a few Orcs continue to defy. We are very lucky here."

"Indeed," Gyda nodded. "Makes for restless soldiers, but at least it's quiet." The sound of the assembly bell being rung in the yard interrupted them. Gyda frowned. "Wonder what that's about?"

"I've no idea," Miona confessed. "I've not heard it for almost a year."

"Well, come along," the elderly Dwarf grumbled. "See what his lordship wants."

The familiarity of being lined up like soldiers for inspection worried Miona. Commandant Fredericks had a cruel sneer upon his lips, and the laundress's assistant feared the worst.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the commandant began. "I am pleased to announce that the portal which spewed such irredeemable filth upon our world, has been destroyed. Though the mindless beasts continue to wreak havoc, they can no longer acquire reinforcements. The war is nearly at an end."

Sighs of relief and enthusiastic cheers greeted the announcement. Miona's shoulders relaxed; if the war was nearing an end, the need to contain the Orcs might also be waning. Perhaps in time, an accord could be struck, some measure of peaceful coexistence gained.

"Be that as it may," Fredericks continued coldly, his voice quelling much of the celebration, "we must not relax our vigilance, nor lower our guard. There are still Orcs in our world. So long as this is the case, and our King wants them contained, we will keep them here. What this means is that this camp has been identified as an overflow. Recently, a large number of Orcs was taken..." The commandant paused, and bowed his head for a moment. "They were taken after the battle that claimed our beloved general, Anduin Lothar."

A pall hung over the crowd, and many heads lowered in mourning. Miona put her hand to her heart and closed her eyes.

Fredericks squared his shoulders and scowled. "Some of these vile monsters will be coming here to ease the overcrowding in another camp. The first wagon should arrive within the hour. I need not remind you all, I hope, that Orcs taken directly from a battlefront are vicious and should be kept at a generous distance until such time as this... lethargy that has afflicted the others, has taken hold of them as well. Pray as I do that it is a swift decline."

Miona kept her head down for another moment after Fredericks dismissed them. How could this camp accommodate more, when already there weren't enough beds? And how was Miona to continue her work? She spent every night bent over a needle, patching and mending clothing and sewing scraps into broad quilts to cover the Orcs' larger frames. Additional prisoners to tend to would overtax her already meager energies.

"Are you all right?"

Startled, Miona looked up, and met the gaze of Addie, one of several assistants to the head cook. "Yes, I'm well, thank you. I simply cannot understand why we are getting more of them. Don't we have enough already?"

Addie's lips firmed into a grim line, and she looked about her as if making certain she was not overheard. "I can't bear much more of it, and that's a fact."

"Have you spoken to the commandant?"

"Of course not," Addie scoffed. "He would call me treasonous and give me the boot. Or worse, have me executed."

Shocked, Miona hissed, "He wouldn't dare! You haven't done anything to raise suspicion of your loyalty! I simply can't believe it."

Brow creasing with uncertainty, Addie whispered, "Haven't I? Them wee babbies... Can't help meself."

"What do you mean?"

"I've... given their mams a little... extra. Some milk, a crust of bread, some meat... Scraps, mostly. Don't tell the commandant, I beg you!" Addie pleaded.

"No, no, of course not," Miona assured her. A little smile formed on her lips. "Addie, I do believe you and I may be the only ones here who follow the Light."

Startled, Addie asked, "You? What've you done?"

"Mended their clothes," Miona confided. "Fashioned blankets from worn scraps. Anything to ease their suffering."

"I thought I was the only one!" Addie whispered, her face alight with joy. "But I didn't think Gyda..."

"She doesn't know," Miona interjected firmly. "I'd likely take a caning from her if she found out, then she'd hand me over to the commandant."

"Cookie Watson doesn't know, either," Addie nodded. "She'd serve me head on a platter to his lordship."

"We must coordinate our efforts," Miona declared firmly. "How are you with a needle?"

"Not so bad. Much better at sneaking into the storehouse after dark."

Miona's heart swelled, and her smile broadened. "There is a lot we can teach one another."

When the first wagon arrived, Miona stood nervously next to her new accomplice. Fresh prisoners hadn't been delivered in quite some time; she'd almost forgotten their displays of fury, after so long among those whose defiance had faded to nothing. The half dozen Orcs in the cage were at least shackled already, but not completely without their vigor.

One in particular seemed bent on stirring the others, and repeatedly threw himself against the cage door. His roars were loud enough to echo off the walls. Before he ever set foot upon Commandant Fredericks's camp yard, he claimed his place as the commandant's 'favorite.'

"Take that one out," Fredericks ordered. "An example needs to be made, it seems. Nichols, teach these beasts the rules of my camp, if you please."

The Orc was dragged from the cage, his fellows beaten back with cudgels. Still he fought furiously, though his wrists were bound. Miona gripped Addie's hand, and they exchanged an anxious glance. They knew well what the commandant's teachings entailed.

A dozen guards converged on the Orc and beat him until much of his fight was drained. Then they hauled him to his feet and hung his chain from a hook affixed to a post. The post hadn't been needed for many months. Miona's breaths quickened and she covered her eyes.

The Orc's daze was broken with the first bite of the lash, and he roared in protest. Another strike followed quickly, then another. Still, the Orc struggled against his bonds, attempting to wrest the hook from the post.

After a dozen cuts, Fredericks raised his hand, calling a halt. Miona sagged with relief; early on, an Orc died at the post, her lethargy weakening her so that her wounds were too great to withstand. Though this Orc was not yet similarly afflicted, she feared a beating of protracted length would have the same result.

"Nichols," Fredericks said, nodding to the soldier. "The lye." Nichols nodded and fetched a pail of the caustic powder used for washing.

Miona couldn't watch this punishment either, and turned her head away as the Orc's screams echoed all around her. Those in the cage rattled the bars and bellowed savagely on their tortured fellow's behalf.

"There'll be a reckoning," Addie predicted tightly. "You can see it in his eyes." Then the cook's assistant muttered, "Ain't red, them eyes of his. Odd, that."

Surprised, Miona peeked between her fingers, then slowly lowered her hand. As the agony took its toll, the Orc's face began to smooth until conciousness left him. No matter that he wore a beard now, or that his hair was longer than she remembered; before her eyes, his features gradually became familiar.

"By the Light," Miona whispered. "It's him."

Dukhor's eyes slowly opened. Lying face down on a bunk, he immediately knew by the scent that he was in a camp shelter. The stench of unwashed bodies was all too familiar. He tried to rise, but a firm hand pushed him back down.

"Not yet," a woman's voice told him, and he settled again. His back was on fire, yet he could feel the soothing relief of water as the Orc washed the burning powder from the open wounds. "You couldn't know, I suppose."

"Know what?" he mumbled tiredly.

"The commander here; he doesn't like us." She chuckled bitterly. "It seems that his injuries are our fault, you see."

Dukhor frowned and narrowed his eyes. "You speak their tongue?"

She snorted. "No. Who among us would lower themselves? Are we not low enough?"

"It was the same at the other camp," he growled. "Only there a month or so. All it took."

"Yet you seem to have kept your vigor," she observed. "If you would survive, perhaps you should... hide that fact."

He glared sharply at her. "I will see them all dead, whether you aid me or not. We will be free."

She shrugged. "In time, I expect we will be." Her smile became ironic. "You never drank it, did you?"

"No. I was not... worthy."

"Or willing."

Dukhor grunted. "You see too well, old one."

"And you do not see well enough, pup," she chuckled. "I am Zuka. There are those among the humans who do not despise us; learn their faces. Show them respect." Reaching behind her, she pulled forth a thick blanket. "One has seen to it that you receive this."

Gingerly, Dukhor touched the fabric. It was a hodgepodge of scraps, sewn together by a deft hand. Some pieces were softer than others, but he could feel that it would serve him well. He caught a whiff of the human's scent from it, and started.

"What is it?"

Dukhor didn't reply. He struggled to sit up, then pressed the blanket to his face, breathing deeply. The scent... it was familiar. He knew it well, in fact. Though the moment was brief, the memory was strong, and had guided his hand for years.

"She's here," he whispered, lowering the blanket and staring at nothing. "And she remembers."

"What are you going on about?" Zuka asked suspiciously.

Deciding not to share his most prized memory with this stranger, Dukhor shook his head. "Nothing. So there are humans who aid us."

"Yes, a few," she replied, unconvinced by his evasion. "Another passed along a pot of salve for your wounds. What they do is risky; the commander would likely have their heads if he knew."

"How can that be?" Dukhor growled. "At the other camp, we were put to work, yes, but this... None of us were whipped."

"Did you stir trouble there?"

Dukhor shifted uncomfortably. "A bit."

"Hmph. Best not stir it here. Commander doesn't need excuses to punish. Nor does he keep his men from..." Looking away, Zuka struggled to maintain her calm. Dukhor's brow furrowed. "Our women are... their playthings. He allows it."

Dukhor's face contorted in fury. "You would have me stand by and let this happen?"

Zuka grabbed his ear and yanked it hard. "You will keep your head," she hissed furiously. "It does us no good on a spike. Two of our warriors have died defending us. Two less arms to free us. You are powerful, yes. So you must live. There will be a reckoning, a day will come, but that day is not here yet."

"Doing nothing lacks honor," he protested hotly. Zuka slapped his cheek.

"There is no place for honor in this prison," she snapped. "There is only patience."

"I have little of that left."

"Find more."

Having shown his capacity for defiance, Dukhor found himself frequently used as an example to the others, though all of those who came with him soon succumbed to lethargy and needed no reminders. He soon came to accept the truth of Zuka's words, that the brutal treatment he received, often without cause, was the commander's own vengeance upon the Orcs for his condition.

Whether it was Dukhor who had personally inflicted the commander's injuries or not didn't seem to matter.

A few days after his arrival, Dukhor and a half dozen or so others were set loose in a pen, allowed to walk about without leg chains for once. It was the first time since the lashing that the Orc had emerged from the shelter. His wounds were healing with Zuka's careful tending, but still ached and stung. The threadbare shirt he wore clung to the still oozing cuts.

As he walked in a listless circle, the wind carried a familiar scent to his nostrils, and he halted. Just as her scent had imprinted upon his mind, so had her face. The human girl – now a few years older – stood outside the pen, staring at him. In her arms was a large bundle of linens she'd gathered from one of the shelters. Dukhor didn't know what to do; he couldn't speak her language, and any move he made in her direction would be considered a threat.

Without better recourse, he dipped his chin slightly, and pressed a fist to his heart. You are here, he told her, hoping she'd understand. An old Dwarf woman snapped sharply at her, and she tore her gaze from his, then hurried in her elder's wake. Unsettled, Dukhor resumed his pacing.

"He's given the order again," Addie grumped. "Don't know as I can keep quiet this time."

"You must," Miona urged. "Jerod didn't, and you saw what became of him." Both women shuddered, recalling the youth's mistake. He'd questioned Commandant Fredericks's order to cut rations for the prisoners for some perceived offense by the one Orc not afflicted with the lethargy. In the three years since the brown-eyed Orc had come to the camp, he had attempted escape twice. There were rumors of rebel groups, Orcs who remained free, that somehow found their way to Orc ears. Miona's Orc, as she had taken to calling him, must surely seek confirmation of these rumors by escaping and finding the rebels himself.

Twice he made it past the guards and out into the surrounding countryside, and twice he was dragged back in chains to be flogged and confined to the Pit. The Pit was a partially-flooded shaft cut into the earth, with a sturdy grate over the top. Orcs who showed resistance, who fought their captors, were left there without water or food for as long as the commandant felt was needed. Some only stayed a day or so; Miona's Orc's time in the Pit was typically much longer.

It was the last confinement that caused Jerod to be punished himself, for he was caught passing a loaf of bread to the Orc woman tossed into the Pit for scratching the face of the guardsman assaulting her. Jerod was soundly reprimanded and confined to his quarters for a day. Then Miona's Orc shoved the same guard, and Fredericks ordered rations to be cut for all the Orcs as a punishment.

Jerod questioned the commandant's order in public, claiming that it was just one Orc who was causing trouble; why punish the others? The hapless youth soon found himself in the Pit for a full day. The damp, noisome conditions made him so ill, Jerod was dismissed from his duties and sent home to recover. Commandant Fredericks spoke of Jerod's cheek in a threatening manner, as though similar disagreements over his methods would be met with far worse.

"It's not right," Addie muttered, leaning against the laundry wall. Had old Gyda not passed the previous winter, she wouldn't have spoken even half so loudly. "There's a sick babbie in shelter five; her mum's in a state."

"I know. Corporal Birt is seeing about it."

"What can he do?"

"Something dangerous," Miona replied worriedly.

Over the years, Miona learned that she and Addie were not alone in their compassionate natures. Several supporters among the cooks and laborers were found. Even a few guards like Corporal Birt came to realize that Commandant Fredericks did not have the captives' best interests in mind. Talk of 'rehabilitation' had ceased the moment the ones who were to be rehabilitated arrived. Hindered by his injuries, Fredericks did not inflict punishments directly, but ordered them with increasing frequency in spite of the Orcs' inability to likewise escalate their defiance. Even Miona's Orc seemed to have adopted a degree of patience, rarely defying his captivity openly.

Miona assumed her Orc's defiance had dwindled only because Commandant Fredericks took to dealing out his own brand of justice to the camp at large whenever Miona's Orc caused an ounce of trouble.

In the winter months, blankets were confiscated. In the blistering heat of the summer, it was water he withheld. At any time of the year, rations might be cut. Miona's helpers were hard pressed to give discrete aid without endangering the Orcs as well as themselves, for accusations of thieving by anyone, even the support folk, were likely to end in a flogging and confinement in the Pit.

The assembly bell rang out, startling the women. They exchanged worried looks; the bell never preceded a pleasant gathering. In the yard with the others, Miona clasped Addie's hand and shared brief glances with their fellows; none seemed to know the reason they were called forth. Then they saw Corporal Birt being led under guard before them. Miona's hand went to her mouth and her eyes blurred.

Birt had clearly been beaten. His uniform was taken, leaving him in trousers and undershirt. Hands bound and head down, he appeared quite chastened. Commandant Fredericks glared at him, then turned his gaze on the assembled workers. His expression did not soften.

"We are at war. No matter the truces or victories that lead some to believe peace has been attained, make no mistake, there can be no peace. Not with these beasts. They are, and will ever be, our enemy." He gestured back at the shelters behind him, from which a few Orcs had emerged to watch. Miona caught the eye of her Orc; he nodded shortly, as he always did when their eyes met, and she returned the gesture automatically.

"I know that the years have diminished your vigilance," Fredericks continued. "You look upon these wretches, and your memories of their atrocities fade. Perhaps some of you believe they are deserving of such soft sentiments as pity. Compassion. Mercy." He spat the words as though they were poisonous to him. "Some of you have felt compelled to give them aid, and have been reprimanded for it. To some, the threat of disciplinary measures is deemed unfair, and so is ignored. That ends now." He gestured to the men flanking Corporal Birt and they shoved the young man toward the post.

"Oh no," Addie breathed, squeezing Miona's hand. Neither could watch as Birt was flogged in front of all. And still, Fredericks's voice droned on, devoid of feeling, cold and lifeless.

"Corporal Andrew Birt, you are guilty of thievery. More importantly, you are guilty of treason against the Alliance for supplying the enemy with the medicine you stole from Brother Arnold's supplies. You are a soldier of the King's Army, and are subject to the verdict of the courts martial, held yesterday. Your sentence of death by hanging for your treachery will now be carried out."

Miona nearly swooned, and leaned on Addie. When the commandant was satisfied that Birt had suffered sufficiently in this world, he gave the order to send him into the next. Brother Arnold stammered through the last rites, clearly not pleased with the young man's sentence. All the while, Birt stood stoically, even with the noose about his neck, and fixed his gaze upon the horizon. Unable to watch, Addie turned to Miona and hid her face, weeping bitterly. Miona could not look away.

Even as the corporal struggled at the rope's end, Fredericks was not finished. He turned to the workers and snarled viciously, "Learn from this example. If any of you give aid to the prisoners in any form beyond what you are ordered to provide, you will be likewise punished. I will not tolerate any more misguided offers of succor to the enemy of our kingdom. Have I made my orders quite clear?"

Few were brave enough to remain silent and thus appear to disagree with the commandant, though their response was subdued. Thankfully, he was satisfied, and dismissed them. Miona supported Addie, distraught and barely able to walk on her own, and led her back to the laundry.

Late that night, Miona's message to her sympathetic fellows was answered. Meeting in the laundry building in secret, she noted the absences, and hoped they were only momentarily discouraged. Her thoughts returned to her Orc, and her resolve firmed. No doubt, he'd spared her at great risk to himself in a time of war. Could she do less?

"Thank you for coming," she told them quietly. Only seven of them remained, when before this day they'd numbered twelve. "A moment of silence for Corporal Birt, I think. He died with honor. May he find peace in the Light." Every head bowed with respect. Addie dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief.

Steeling herself, Miona said, "We must continue our work. I know the commandant has made the consequences of our actions much more... uncomfortable, but if we do not stand for these unfortunate prisoners, if we do not ease their suffering, then we become the evil we seek to defeat."

"I don't want to die for a damned Orc," a cook's assistant named Todd murmured nervously. "Saw what they did to my uncle."

"Yet you help them," Miona pointed out. "Why do you do so, if you feel hate?"

Todd sagged. "Just isn't right. I'm thinking, I guess, that if... if we were in their hands, wouldn't we want... some of them to... to do right by us? Even if they all wouldn't, maybe some...?"

"That is right, and just," Miona replied approvingly. "I have not told any of you, but now I think it is important to hear. The Orc with the brown eyes – I would not be standing here before you, if he hadn't spared my life years ago. They are not entirely evil, if even one of them may choose to give life instead of death."

Her tale bolstered their flagging wills, and all agreed that to turn their backs upon the redeemable, was to turn their backs on the Light.

Rumors of rebel Orcs who attacked supply caravans and prisoner wagons grew more common over the next few years. Miona watched as the Orcs became agitated and restless, only to be beaten down over and over again. No one suspected another escape attempt was looming, until the horns blew one morning, and a troop of mounted guardsmen accompanied by hounds tore out of the gates with all haste.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Miona said to Addie as they made their way from the servants quarters to their duties. In Miona's wake, an Orcess trailed, her eyes darting about in nervous expectation. The Orcess was young, but fierce. Not once had she consented to learn the common tongue, nor teach Miona her own. She resisted all of Miona's attempts to learn her name. Miona was obliged to use gestures and occasionally draw a picture to convey her meaning, but didn't begrudge the Orcess her defiance.

Upon witnessing the Orcess's assault by an officer a few months ago, Miona saw to it that the woman was employed as her assistant. She reasoned to Fredericks that the linens were getting heavier as more prisoners filled the shelters, and she needed an assistant to help carry and wash. Though Miona could do nothing to completely divert Lieutenant Mitchell's attentions from the helpless woman, she could, and often did, inconvenience him long enough to leave the Orcess in peace.

"I'm not so sure," Addie replied. "There was talk the other day of an escape bein' planned, and your Orc in the middle of it."

Miona sighed and laughed. "How long have you been here, and you still believe the idle gossip in the kitchens?"

"Oh? And the gossip's not near as idle in the laundry, is it?" Addie smirked.

"Not by half."

It was well past the dinner hour when the horns blew again, and the troops returned with their quarry. Miona paused in her sewing and listened for the dreaded assembly bell. When it rang, she closed her eyes for a moment and steeled herself. Then she laid her work aside and joined the throngs filing out of the servants' quarters.

"I'd stay in my room if I could," Addie muttered quietly beside her as they stood in the yard.

"I, as well," Miona agreed.

Commandant Fredericks stood among several soldiers and two horses. Draped over the saddles were the unmistakable forms of dead men. Seven bruised and bloody Orcs stood nearby, their wrists and ankles in shackles. Alarmed, Miona groped for Addie's hand and held it tightly.

"I have been patient," Fredericks began. "But my patience has worn thin. What you see are the bodies of Corporal Higgins and Private Malone, slain by those creatures as we reclaimed them." Furious now, Fredericks strode to the cluster of Orcs, stopping before Miona's Orc. "This one led them, as it has done many times before. Never learning the lessons taught. Always pushing me, daring me. I accept your challenge, Orc." He spat at the Orc's feet. "Stake it to the ground."

Several guardsmen took Miona's Orc by the arms and separated him from the others. He resisted, but was quickly subdued with many blows. In a matter of minutes, he'd been unshackled, thrown to the ground, and secured to stakes, his limbs spread.

"For Higgins and Malone," the commandant continued, "let's have the heads of those two." He jerked his chin toward the closest offenders. Again, the guards converged to carry out their orders.

Miona couldn't look, but she heard well enough. Addie swooned and collapsed; several others cried out. The prisoners collected in the pen nearby roared in protest, urging the guards to strike with cudgels to quiet them. A small sound came from the Orcess behind her, and Miona turned quickly. The helpless grief in the Orcess's eyes was painful to see. When a tense silence fell upon the yard, Miona peeked out, and saw the men securing the Orcs' heads atop pikes thrust into the ground. Their bodies lay nearby.

She stole a glance at her Orc, and even from yards away, she could see the promise of vengeance in his eyes as he glared at the commandant.

"As for the rest of them," Fredericks went on, "give them thirty lashes each, then let them hang by their chains until sunrise. This one... It shall suffer a leader's punishment. Dawson, break its limbs. All of them."

The flogging seemed to go on for hours as each of the four remaining Orcs was brought to the post one by one, then taken to the barracks to be suspended from hooks affixed so high up on the wall that the Orcs' feet couldn't reach the ground. All the while that the others were whipped, Dawson wielded a warhammer upon Miona's Orc where he lay helplessly bound. With the first broken bone came the defeat of the Orc's restraint, and he bellowed his pain. The second break urged tears from his eyes. The third stole his consciousness, sparing him the pain of the fourth.

When the punishments had been delivered, the staff was dismissed. Miona kept looking back, past the crowd of distressed laborers, at her Orc, lying motionless on the ground. The Orcess was openly weeping now. Assuming that she mourned the slain ones, Miona wrapped a comforting arm about her shoulders. For once, the Orcess was too overcome by grief to protest.

"I can't bear that sound," Addie told her before they parted ways. The cook's assistant glanced at the hanging Orcs, who moaned in agony at the ends of their chains. "Why've they not killed us all?"

"Whatever afflicts them," Miona replied, "is all that spares us their vengeance. I..."

She was interrupted by Lieutenant Mitchell, come to fetch the Orcess for his use. He gave his usual explanation for why he required her 'assistance': "My boots need polishing."

"I'll manage that for you," Addie interjected bravely, stepping between the officer and the Orcess. Miona likewise shielded the woman, her expression cold. She well remembered his part in the vicious attack on an Orc girl only a year past, the blush of womanhood barely upon her. He and several others, drunk and reckless, left her broken so badly, none could save her. Miona held the child in her last moments and grieved nearly as much as the silent youth who watched from afar, forbidden from approaching.

If it would not put the Orcess in terrible danger, and likely result in many others suffering, Miona would be sorely tempted to arm the woman when next the swine took her in hand. To spare the others, she could do only one thing.

Mitchell glared down at Addie. "I don't want a kitchen wench getting grease on my boots. Fredericks would have my head." Jerking his chin at the Orcess, he growled, "Hand it over."

Straightening with dignity, Miona stood her ground. "I apologize, Lieutenant, but what with the frequent gatherings, I'm behind on the laundry. I need this Orcess's assistance or I shan't catch up. The commandant's things are already a day behind."

Scowling, the Lieutenant snapped, "Fine. I'll get someone else, then." He shot a furious glance at the Orcess, then turned on his heel and marched off. Miona sagged with relief.

Glancing at the Orcess, she saw a confusion of emotions. Uncertain gratitude flitted warily in her countenance. Smiling a little, Miona gently took her by the elbow and led her to the laundry.

Miona struggled in vain the remainder of the evening to focus on her work. The painful groans of the Orcs dwindled to infrequency, but still she found her steps taking her to the window, and her eyes anxiously peering through the gloom at her Orc.

"He hasn't moved," she murmured to no one in particular. Night had fallen and the moon was on the rise. No one had come to her Orc to heal his injuries, or even carry him back to his shelter. Not even Brother Arnold had stirred from the comfort of his hut, and he'd expressed guarded agreement with her opinions in the past.

The thought of the middle-aged priest urged her to action. Fetching her shawl from a hook, she gestured for the Orcess to join her. There was no point in attempting to convey her aims; the woman wouldn't understand. The two of them left the laundry and made their way to the yard.

Miona made certain the patroling guard was nowhere near, and crept close to her Orc's prone form. Catching wind of Miona's intent, the Orcess followed stealthily in her wake. She was obliged to shush the Orcess, who whimpered when they passed the spiked heads of the two unfortunate Orcs. Miona took her by the hand and held her gaze for a moment, hoping that by her expression, the Orcess might know how sorry Miona was for her loss. Then she knelt beside her Orc.

In the moonlight, she could see the horrid blooms of bruises upon his limbs. Knowing nothing of the healing arts, she was at a loss. Would he walk again? Would his arms ever lift a weapon? Had Fredericks's order crippled this Orc beyond even an experienced priest's abilities?

Her resolve still firm, Miona gestured for the Orcess to stay by the Orc's side, then darted across the yard to Brother Arnold's dwelling. Fearing that any noise would alert the guards, she simply let herself in. The priest lay in slumber on his bed; Miona covered his mouth with one hand and shook him awake with the other.

"Shh!" she hissed quickly when he started and made to cry out. "It's me – Miona. Please, you must come."

"What... what is it?" he inquired sleepily. He fumbled for his spectacles on the nightstand.

"The Orc that was broken," Miona told him. "You must heal him. No one has come, and he may perish if left as he is."

Brother Arnold sighed. "I tried to cover for Birt, and nearly got swept up in Fredericks' mad vengeance for my pains. Now you want me to defy him further? Have you lost your wits?"

"You are a priest of the Light!" she admonished, tugging insistently on his arm. "There is no greater task set upon you than..."

"Don't," he snapped. "I know well what my obligations are. I also know that we are under the boot of a madman, and it isn't wise to draw his attention."

"Only heal him, please," Miona begged. "We'll have some of the Orcs take him to a shelter. Perhaps Fredericks will think he crawled off on his own..."

"Or the Orcs fetched him," Arnold finished thoughtfully. "If any punishment is delivered, it might go to them, not me."

Barely restraining her disgust at the priest's willingness to let others suffer on his account, Miona feigned agreement. "Yes, he'll never know the truth. Only please, help this Orc."

Arnold narrowed his eyes. "What's your stake in this? Why do you care?"

"He spared me, years ago," Miona explained. "When Moonbrook fell. We were overrun; so many died that day. I was cornered in a barn with three young children. He chose to spare us, and sent us to safety. I haven't forgotten his deed, and I will not abandon him now. Please, Brother Arnold. Help him."

The priest's reluctance faded, and he slowly nodded. "It has been a long time since I felt like a true champion of the Light. I will help him, if only for your sake."

Miona led Brother Arnold to her Orc, and was pleased to see the Orcess still with him. She'd drawn his head onto her lap and was soothing his brow.

"I've never healed one of their kind before," Arnold commented. "Keep a lookout for the guard. I will try to do this quickly." The priest knelt beside the Orc and laid hands upon his left arm.

Drawing the Orcess aside, Miona motioned for her to watch in one direction, and Miona took the other. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the healing spells flaring brightly, and hoped the guards weren't particularly attentive. Interminable minutes passed before Brother Arnold finished.

Leaning back on his heels, he huffed wearily, "That's all I can manage. The bones are repaired, but he'll carry the bruises for a while yet. Likely feel a great deal of pain when he wakes, as well. Such large bones..."

"Thank you!" Miona whispered gratefully. She joined him at the Orc's side, and without thinking, reached out a hand to touch the Orc's bewhiskered cheek. His brown eyes fluttered open, then his brow furrowed in a pained wince. A groan escaped him. Pleased that he'd woken, she smiled with relief and stroked his cheekbone with her thumb. "Thank you," she repeated.

For a moment, she held her Orc's gaze. He seemed surprised to see her, and confused by the priest's presence.

"The others," Miona suggested, pointing toward the Orcs suspended from the wall nearby. "Can you ease their suffering, even a little?"

Brother Arnold frowned. "I've already risked my position enough, don't you think? Their condition isn't as dire; they'll survive the night." A flickering light caught his attention, and he nodded. "Guard."

Miona followed his gaze, and saw a dark figure carrying a torch making its way in their direction. She quickly caught the Orcess's attention and did her best to instruct the woman to fetch helpers, and take her Orc to the shelters. The Orcess leapt to her feet and hurried off.

"Don't let Fredericks's men catch you out here," the priest advised as he rose. "Let the Orcs take care of their own."

"I won't," she assured him. Giving her Orc one last encouraging look, Miona slipped away.

The following day, any repercussions for Dukhor's healing were delayed by the capture of an Orc skulking about the woods near the camp. The Orcs who'd spent the night in painful suspension were being taken down when the new prisoner was delivered in chains to the commander. As luck would have it, the stranger was assigned to Dukhor's shelter.

"Stay put, you," Zuka admonished when Dukhor attempted to rise and greet the newcomer. "I'll see to him. You've only just gotten mended; I won't let you undo that woman's kindness."

"I'm fine," he grumbled, but obeyed, sinking back on the bunk. His arms and legs pained him greatly, but at least they worked. To his surprise, the stranger, who'd seemed cowed and submissive under the guards' watchful eyes, became determined and forceful as soon as they left.

"I want as many of you gathered under cover of darkness as can be managed," he announced in a firm voice. Several heads turned his way, their brows furrowed. "A force of rebels waits in the forest; we must be ready when they strike with the dawn."

Dukhor struggled to sit up. "You're with them?" he demanded eagerly.

The Orc nodded. "I am Thrall. I've come to rally what's left of our people here. When night falls, we will talk."

Without hesitation, Dukhor leapt from the bunk and set about the task of spreading the news. So soon after an escape attempt had been thwarted and the participants punished, he wasn't certain he'd be successful. His worries were confirmed by the first group he addressed.

"Yer a damn fool," Goran, an elder Orc, growled quietly. His unkempt hair was streaked with silver, and his voice lacked strength, but the stubbornness of his kind still held firm. "Nothing good's ever come of us trying."

"Listening to you don't get us nowhere. Ain't it enough my mate's... she's carrying one of them?" Grimacing, Zark looked away. "We do somethin' like this, and that commander's gonna cut us off again. Won't get food or water or..."

"You'll sit on your arse, then?" Dukhor snarled. "Wait for the rebels to hand it to you?" Grabbing Zark by the collar of his ragged shirt, Dukhor growled, "You explain that to your mate, eh? You tell her to just let them keep raping her all they want. Because you're too weak to do something about it."

Zark knocked Dukhor's hand away and bared his teeth. "I tried. Lucky I didn't get killed for it."

"Thrall risked everything coming here," Dukhor retorted hotly. "He let himself be captured so he could help us. The least you owe him is to listen to his words."

"I owe him nothing," Zark snapped. Then his resolve crumbled, and he bowed his head in shame. "I can give him nothing."

Seething, Dukhor retreated. "I know. There is little left of us now. But I remember how we used to be. This wouldn't stand, not for one moment. We won't be free if we don't take it."

"I wanna kill every one of them," another Orc muttered viciously. Turning his red gaze on Dukhor, Barag growled, "I'm with you."

"Good," Dukhor nodded. "When the moon is rising, come to my shelter. Bring as many others as you can."

Fearing that any light would alert the guards to their gathering, no fire was lit in the shelter that night, but Dukhor could sense how many Orcs were gathered. Young and old, he could see their shadows in the dark, their red-flamed eyes glowing eerily, as they huddled in silence to hear the words of hope Thrall brought.

"Just beyond the ridge, Grommash Hellscream's Warsong clan waits," he told them in an urgent whisper. "They will attack at first light. You must be prepared to strike the humans down before they can rally in defense of this place. Whatever might you still command, whatever weapons you can fashion, must be brought to bear." Thrall's words caused a stir among the prisoners, who began to murmur restlessly.

"Who do you think you are?" Goran demanded, his voice rasping. "You were spared harsh treatment when you were brought in; we have not been so lucky. If we defy these bastards, they will make us suffer worse punishment than what this upstart won for us just yesterday!"

"You saw us!" another Orc cried. Pointing to himself and three others, he growled, "We were hung all night. And flogged!" A chorus of retellings followed, threatening to undermine the secrecy of the meeting.

"They starve us when we cause trouble!"

"The commander took our blankets away last winter cause one of his men got shoved!"

"Every day, someone's getting the whip for something!"

"Enough!" Dukhor barked. "You want your whining to be heard? Shut it!" Sweeping the assembly with a furious glare, he hissed, "Your words only fuel the flames. Take that fire to the humans, and we will be free!"

"I am ready!" Barag crowed, raising a fist. "We will slay them all, you and I. Let these whimpering milkteeth hide in their shelters. We will win their freedom and hand it to them, since they are unfit to claim it for themselves." The Orc's voice dripped disgust.

"You go too far," Goran snarled. "We are weakened, or have you forgotten? No, Dukhor, the Orcs we used to be would not stand for this. But we are not those Orcs anymore."

"We can be those Orcs again," Dukhor snapped. "All we need to do..."

"All? Say we overthrow this camp, and slay our tormenters. Then what? Where do we go in this world that isn't against us? Our homeland was destroyed years ago," Goran challenged.

"There is a land across the sea we may claim," Thrall told them. "Far from humans, rich in resources. All we need do is gather our people, and make our way there."

"The sea? How are we to cross this sea of yours?" Goran sneered. "Shall we sprout wings and fly? We did not drink the blood of a doomguard, boy."

"One thing at a time," Thrall replied. "We will meet each challenge laid before us, and we will prevail. The first is our freedom. Our forces grow in number with each camp we liberate. Then we will plan our next move."

Dukhor sensed the hesitance, the worry. Each attempt they'd made over the last decade was met with increasingly hostile treatment. The smallest transgression was sorely punished. Fewer were slain outright, for the dead could not be tormented.

Yet with each passing year, it seemed one or two more cooks, maids, stablehands, and even low-ranking soldiers seemed to be rallying to his human's banner. Succor was given more often, and in myriad forms. Even if rations were cut, food found its way to hungry Orc mouths. When blankets were confiscated, clothing sent out for washing came back with extra padding against the cold.

Recalling his human's kindness, Dukhor realized he would likely not be sitting here now, rallying his brethren, if not for her.

"… kill every human in this place, then my vengeance will be complete!" Barag was saying, his words reclaiming Dukhor's attention.

"No," he interjected with finality. "We will not slay anyone who isn't a soldier."

"What?" Barag barked incredulously.

Zuka, who'd remained silent while the hot-blooded males argued, spoke in Dukhor's defense. "He is right. There are many here who have shown us mercy, who have given us aid. We will not kill them."

"Stay out of this," Barag growled dismissively. "Age has made you soft."

Her face contorting with fury, Zuka rose and advanced on the younger Orc. Her fist shot forward with all the power and vigor of one half her age, and laid Barag flat. "I was among the first in this camp, whelp! My mate met his end on that day! Do you think I have not hungered for vengeance all these years? Do you think my thoughts have not been filled with the commander's broken and lifeless body each day since? You will have to run fast if you think you will draw his blood before I do!"

"None will kill him," Dukhor interrupted.

"Yes," another Orc agreed. "You should have the right of the kill. He has made you suffer more than any of us."

"Not more than I!" Zuka snarled.

"No," Dukhor said, shaking his head. A smirk curled his lip. "He is no warrior. Not anymore. He does not deserve a warrior's death."

Goran agreed. "The commander has not dealt us any blow himself. He has ordered others to do his will."

Again, Zuka interrupted. "Have you forgotten Drog's slaying, by his hand? You were in the cage with me, and yet your eyes did not see?"

"I saw, woman," Goran growled. "Yet I have not seen the commander strike any of us himself since that day." He shook his head grimly. "Nevertheless, he is unworthy of us. An assassin's poison is better suited to such a foe."

"We don't have such things," Dukhor replied. Snorting, he added, "If he challenges me, I will spit upon him and turn my back." At his words, Zuka suddenly calmed. A cruel smile spread slowly across her face. To refuse a warrior's challenge was a terrific insult; the warrior would carry the shame of that dismissal throughout his days.

Thrall nodded approvingly. "When the dawn comes, we will turn upon the wall's defenders in any way we can. Distract them, kill them; whatever we can do to ensure Hellscream's forces succeed. You, Barag, will help me clear a path to the gate so we may open it and let the rebels inside. Defense will be strongest there, so gather as many of the prisoners with your same fire as you can."

"I will show no mercy to those at the gate," Barag warned.

"That is what I'm counting on," Thrall grinned. Turning to the rest, he went on, "Heed Dukhor's words. Those humans who have given you aid must not be harmed." Pausing for a moment, he seemed troubled. "Any who... sacrificed their safety on our account... have earned respect."

"I will guard those in the laundry," Renkha spoke up. She'd held her silence, but could do so no longer. "The woman there... spares me, when she can. I will not let any of you touch her." She passed her fierce glare over each Orc assembled. "I'll kill you myself, and save the humans the effort."

"As soon as I'm able, I'll join you," Dukhor promised, pleased that his human was held in such regard, and that she'd helped Renkha. Had he made a different decision all those years ago...

"Remember: do not engage the commander, even if he challenges you," Dukhor reminded them firmly. "Even if we must slay all the soldiers in this place, let him live. Make certain he knows that he lives because we will it." Lifting his chin smugly, he added, "That will satisfy my vengeance."

"And mine," Zuka grinned.

Miona had just begun sorting linens for the day's early washing when a frantic hornblast from the gates tore through the silence. Straightening, she met the Orcess's gaze, and found an uncharacteristic smirk on the woman's face.

"What...?" Miona began, then whirled as footsteps clattered up the stone walk and the wooden door burst open. Addie nearly fell into the room, leading a handful of terrified kitchen staff in her wake.

"Orcs!" Addie blurted breathlessly. "There's Orcs stormin' the walls!"

"Our Orcs?" Miona asked, bewildered. Addie shook her head, then leaned over to grip her knees. It was a brisk run from the kitchens that she was unprepared for.

"Rebels," Todd croaked, clutching his heart. He waved vaguely toward the door. "Outside."

"Oh my," Miona breathed. It was Moonbrook all over again; she had a sudden flash of Agatha's violent death, and the poor woman's young children looking to her for their salvation. Shoving the memories away, she grabbed a long stick used for stirring the dye vat, and positioned herself in the middle of the room, facing the door. She held the stick in both hands and set her feet for battle. She spared a quick glance at the Orcess, and found an unexpectedly knowing smile on the woman's face. Though the Orcess reached for no weapon, she took up position next to Miona and raised her fists in preparation.

At the sound of the horn's call, Dukhor and Thrall rallied those Orcs who'd shown the most energy. Thrall led his group to the gates, and Dukhor's raced for the eastern wall. The rebels intended to force the humans to fight with the rising sun in their eyes; Dukhor aimed to ensure their defense was hampered by an attack on their rear. Several bunks were laid to ruin during the night, and each Orc bore a splintered club. Dukhor and a dozen others roared their battle cries, and thundered up the ramps at either end of the wall. Their bare feet thumped against the wooden walkway. Taken by surprise, the human soldiers cried out in dismay, even as several were felled by arrows sailing over the wall. A few more were thrown from the walkway to the courtyard below, and lay broken where they landed.

Adding to the cacophany of the battle was the loud clanging of the assembly bell, calling forth the guards. A third group of prisoners was ready at the barracks, and held the doors fast against any reinforcements. A handful of Orc women set torches to the building, and laughed gleefully as the flames took hold and roared skyward. From within, the defiant yells of their tormenters turned to panicked screams, and Dukhor grinned.

There were few on the walls when the attack began, and so the skirmish was brief. Dukhor could see from his vantage point that the gates were, indeed, the most vigorously defended. He also saw several people racing toward the stone laundry building. None of them wore steel, nor did they carry it. Chasing after them was a young Orc from another shelter, one who was supposed to be at the gates with Barag. Scowling angrily, Dukhor pelted across the courtyard on an intercept course with the battle-maddened Orc.

"Kroxxar!" he roared. The youth slowed at the sound of his name, and looked at Dukhor. Lip curling in hateful defiance, Kroxxar resumed his pursuit of the screaming civilians. He brandished a sharpened splinter of wood in one thick fist. "Stubborn fool," Dukhor muttered as he poured on the speed. In seconds, he'd reached the whelp and collared him, throwing Kroxxar to the ground.

"Get to the gates!" Dukhor barked, then grabbed Kroxxar's wrist hard when the young Orc aimed to strike. "Don't," the elder Orc warned. "Now is not the time."

"They let her die. I want their blood," Kroxxar snarled, his chest heaving. "Durga's spirit demands it."

Dukhor grabbed the youth by the shirtfront. "You insult her spirit by preying on those who tried to save her. Go to the gates, and take your vengeance on the defenders there. It was they who slew her." His tone softened as he released the distraught youth. "She was sick and weak, even before the guards... Believe me, those people did all they could."

Kroxxar's gaze flicked to the unarmed and terrified group hurrying into the laundry, then back to Dukhor. His jaw tightened, and his eyes briefly revealed his grief before he gave a short nod, and raced back to the gate. Dukhor sagged with relief; the young Orc, not yet of age for his om'riggor, had been sullen and quiet for over a year. Hate had clearly festered, for he'd been helpless to defend his sister from half a dozen drunken men one terrible night. It was an assault too violent for the young Orcess to survive, though Dukhor's human had tried.

For a moment, Dukhor questioned his decision not to rip the heart out of the commander for the atrocities his men had committed upon the Orcs. As if in answer to his doubts, he saw the commander running in his direction, shouting orders, brandishing a sword in his remaining hand. A grim smile spread across Dukhor's face. The human favored his injured leg even now, and Dukhor smirked. As a warrior himself, he knew he would not want to live in a body rendered useless; he would desire an honorable end in battle. Assuming the same of the commander, the Orc strode purposefully forward.

The commander of the camp caught sight of Dukhor and halted. A mad gleam flashed in his eye, and he grinned gleefully. All Dukhor had to hand was a shortsword he'd wrested from a soldier, yet he deliberately lowered it when the commander advanced with his own longsword raised.

Though Dukhor would never forget the words shouted at him, he had no inkling of their meaning. The commander charged, and Dukhor deftly sidestepped, delivering nothing more than a slap to the human's head in passing. Dukhor laughed at the man's frustrated sputtering as he gathered himself for another direct attack. Twice more, the commander attempted to engage Dukhor, and twice the Orc denied him with an amused laugh. Finally, Dukhor's hand darted forth and easily relieved the human of his weapon. Then he threw the sword far away, well beyond the commander's reach.

More incomprehensible words poured from the human's mouth, and his expression turned desperate, begging, yet he did not seem to be surrendering. Instead, the man launched himself at Dukhor and tried to wrap his fingers about the Orc's thick throat. Dukhor dislodged him effortlessly and pushed the commander hard enough to make him fall on his backside in the dirt.

Deciding he had proved his point, Dukhor glared witheringly down at the commander and spat upon him. Snorting with disdain, Dukhor turned and marched toward the laundry building without looking back.

"Be still!" Miona hissed, her voice tinged with fear. "They will hear..."

Frantic pounding on the heavy wooden door interrupted her. Hoping those on the other side were support staff like herself, and not a maddened Orc in search of prey, Miona hurried to the door and shifted the wooden plank set against it to hold it closed. Three cooks and two stablehands tumbled inside, landing in a heap.

"Thank the Light!" one woman cried. "There was an Orc hot on our heels; bar the door!"

"Are you hurt?" Miona asked as she and a few others helped the newcomers to their feet.

"No," one replied, clutching his heart as he gasped for breath. "There was murder in that one's eyes who came after us. Lock the door; don't let him in!"

"I can't!" Miona cried helplessly. "Take up a stick or a flat iron. We must make the best of things." Only a few moments passed as the newcomers tossed soiled linens and washing supplies out of their way in their search for a weapon, then the door was flung open, crashing against the wall. A large green figure blocked the doorway, and Miona sucked in a sharp breath.

It was her Orc, bloody from numerous sword cuts. His expression was grim, yet somehow relieved. He gave her his customary nod, which she returned. Screams erupted behind her, but Miona felt an inexplicable calm. She relaxed her defiant stance, and stood straight, the long pole held in her hands. She met the Orc's warm brown eyes, and knew without a doubt that she was as safe as she'd been that long ago day in the barn.

"Quiet," she said over her shoulder. "He will not harm us."

Her Orc seemed to know by her tone that she called for her little army to stand down. He looked to the Orcess, who approached him respectfully. They exchanged quiet words, his likely informing her of the battle's progress outside. Miona smiled a little, seeing the Orcess holding herself with such dignity and strength; her liberation was, no doubt, close at hand, and so too was the end of her suffering.

On impulse, Miona approached them, and offered the pole to the Orcess. Go to your people, she thought, giving the woman an encouraging nod. Fight with them. Fight for them. And for yourself. The Orcess's mouth twitched, then she broke the pole over her knee. Armed now with two long, sharp stakes, she squared her shoulders and bolted out the open door. Miona sincerely hoped Lieutenant Mitchell still lived, if only to receive just punishment from the vengeful Orcess.

Turning back to her Orc, Miona saw the ghost of a smile on his face, and he nodded again. His eyes darted about the laundry, noting all those who followed Miona, who'd aided his people in any way they could, and gave them an appreciative nod as well. Then he turned to leave. Miona's hand was suddenly on his arm, halting him.

She didn't know what to say, or how to say it in a way he'd understand. At a loss, she awkwardly placed her hands on his broad shoulders, and stretched up. Curious, he bent his tall frame so she could whisper in his ear.

"Light protect you," she breathed. Blushing fiercely, she hastily retreated, and could not meet his gaze. She sensed that he lingered for a moment, then left, closing the door behind him.

When the sounds of fighting faded, to be replaced with the groans of the dying, Miona and her folk cautiously emerged from the laundry building and beheld utter devastation. The walls had been knocked down, the buildings were in flames, and the yard was littered with the dead. None of the fallen were Orcs; either they'd taken their dead with them, or none had perished. Even the two Orc heads were removed from the pikes. In their wake, the Orcs left a swath of destruction.

Addie clung to her arm, her eyes wide. "What'll we do now?"

"I don't know," Miona said in a hushed voice. Her eyes scanned the field, and were arrested by movement. Momentarily alarmed, she hewed close to Addie and squinted through the smoke from the fires. If someone was in need, if they'd left anyone alive, it was the duty of the survivors to tend them, she reminded herself. Even if the person in need only begged for an end to his suffering.

On leaden feet, Miona and Addie approached the dark shape. The figure coalesced in the haze into a man's form, and soon they realized it was the commandant. He sat on the ground with his knees drawn up, and clutched his ruined arm to his chest. He rocked on his haunches, and his words were tinged with madness.

"… gave them a reason. A purpose. A weapon," he gasped. "So little to ask. So little."

"Commandant?" Miona called timidly from several paces away, for his manner made her uneasy. "Are you... are you well?"

The man jerked his head around sharply, and glared at the two women. His eye was red-rimmed and wet. "Get away from me!" he barked through clenched teeth. "Get away."

There was not a visible scratch on him, Miona observed. How could he have encouraged the worst in his men, allowed them to inflict such terrible abuses upon the Orcs, and make it clear to their victims that it was by his will that they suffer so, and somehow escape the massacre unharmed?

"You great pig," Addie hissed. "Everyone's dead but you. How'd you manage that, eh? Hidin' from their wrath, I shouldn't wonder."

Fredericks didn't answer. He stared at Addie and trembled, and his lip quivered. Then he bowed his head and wept.

Chapter Text

The company of Orcs, Tauren, and Trolls stamped its feet restlessly in the chill dawn. Dukhor even shivered a little, though cold rarely affected him. The last time he'd set foot in Tirisfal Glades, the kingdom of Lordaeron was held by humans, and his coming wasn't nearly as welcome then as it was now. But the people who tended the farms, who manned the city walls, who defended this land from the invading Orcs, were alive in years past. Not so now.

Standing on the border in a place known only as the Bulwark, the Horde recruits stood at attention, awaiting orders. Captain Rukalekk still conferred with a nervous human courier from an Alliance cell of the Argent Dawn; Dukhor sensed that their routine sortie into the western end of the Plaguelands was about to be rescheduled.

"I hope you ate your fill," Kuadanath murmured beside him. He glanced up at his friend's bovine face and grinned.

"Enough for both of us."

"If you fall...," she said somberly, letting the now-familiar vow hang. They exchanged understanding nods. If you fall, I will burn you.

Finally, the captain saluted the courier and sent him off with a reply. Then he turned to the ranks of soldiers girded for battle.

"Plans've changed," Captain Rukalekk snapped shortly. "Our... 'brothers' at Light's Hope are besieged. It's up to us to break it." Dukhor noticed the captain's expression flicker. Rukalekk, like Dukhor, was a veteran of the wars, a child of the homeworld. Though many factional differences were set aside at Mount Hyjal only a short while ago, Orc memories were at least as long as the humans'.

The Argent Dawn was technically neutral, ignoring political disagreements for the common good. Yet there remained enough animosity and distruct between the Horde and Alliance that the 'cells' were not integrated. A strong Horde presence existed at the western end of the Plaguelands, while an equally strong Alliance force held position on the eastern border. Rarely did they meet on the field in between.

"Report to the quartermasters; get enough rations for a two-day hard march," the captain continued. If any were dismayed at the order, none voiced it. Rukalekk was known to be free with a cudgel upon the head of any grumblers. "I want you all assembled at the gate in a quarter hour. Anyone who isn't there'll be left behind. I better see your asses running to catch up." He gave them all a beady glare, then grunted. "Dismissed."

Dukhor and Kuadanath hastened to the suddenly swamped quartermasters. One was a Dwarf from the Chillwind cell near Andorhal, at least until his passage to the eastern hold could be secured. The camp was overrun, leaving several Alliance members stranded too far from Light's Hope to make the trip safely with so few. Dukhor smiled down at him when Bergum handed over a half dozen ration packs.

"Yuh got escort," he said in heavily accented, halting Common.

Bergum sagged for a moment. "Would've preferred a wyvern, if it could be spared. It's gonna be a runnin' fight all the way out there."

Dukhor's grin broadened. "No worry, small one." He thumped his chest confidently. "I keep you safe."

"Mind your tongue, lad," Bergum snorted good-naturedly. "I was fightin' nasties before yeh twinkled in yer da's eye."

Several soldiers laughed heartily. None shrank at the chance to fight these particular 'nasties' – the plague had spread throughout the region, infecting towns and villages and turning the inhabitants into the mindlessly vicious undead. True death was a mercy the soldiers of the Argent Dawn were duty-bound to deliver. Though the Orcs were released from their blood curse not so long ago, it was in their nature to fight. Dukhor far preferred the foe they now faced; he'd found a worthy ally in the Alliance, once the ugly past was put to rest. Though it remained an obstacle for many, at least here, among the Argent Dawn, there was cooperation and peace, of a sort.

As the soldiers of the Argent Dawn formed up at the gateway to the Plaguelands, Dukhor's chest swelled with purpose. He hefted his warhammer, lost for years while he languished in the camps, then returned to him by a clanmate who'd found it on the battlefield. Passed down from his father, it was one of the last remnants of his younger years, a symbol of the family he once knew, and a memento of his youth on the homeworld. Looking at it now, he remembered a time years ago when he'd used it, not to destroy, but to save, and he saw again the face of his human. Like the blazing sun embossed on his tabard, she shone like a beacon in his heart, reminding him always to choose the path of honor.

Beside him, Kuadanath strung her bow, then patted her restless raptor. "Remember we slay innocents afflicted by no fault of their own," she told him. For a moment, Dukhor's mood sobered.

"Aye," he nodded. "I know."

Kuadanath smiled down at him. "I remind myself as much as you."

"Form up!" Captain Rukalekk barked, now striding to the front of the assembled troops. "Our goal is Light's Hope, but we'll take out any Scourge we come across. We'll pause only long enough to burn the corpses – yours included, if you're too slow. Don't be slow; your ancestors won't think it's funny that a dead thing killed you." The captain smirked, then turned toward the gateway. "Forward!" he shouted, and led the troops from the Bulwark into the Plaguelands.

Miles away at Light's Hope, Miona's hands shook as she wrapped a bandage about a young soldier's torn arm. Outside the chapel, the sounds of battle raged on, as they had for days. Makeshift barriers were thrown together, and the soldiers of the Argent Dawn fought fiercely, but Miona feared it was all in vain. They were clearly backed into a corner, the mountains behind, and the Scourge attacking from three sides. Few held out hope that the messenger got through the gauntlet. He'd had plenty of time to reach the Bulwark and return, if he still lived.

To add to the Argent Dawn's growing dismay, a terrifying creation of malice now hovered over the ruins of Stratholme to the north. None knew the floating citadel's name, but it had increased the number of undead in the area, and now those additional horrors were determined to destroy the last bastion of the Light in the east.

"Miona, help me with this!" a high-pitched voice called. Pausing, Miona turned to see a diminutive gnome mage attempting to activate the mechanism that opened the floor with one hand, while the other held several scrolls and a thick book.

"Oh Bralla, really!" she scolded, and hastily tied off the soldier's bandage. Then she hurried to her employer's side.

When Miona found herself without recourse after the internment camp's destruction, she returned to Stormwind and took up odd jobs here and there to make ends meet. By happenstance, a group of mages visiting from Dalaran were in need of transcribers, for the many works in Dalaran's libraries were crumbling from age. That Miona had no talent for magic was a boon; there was little chance that she might inadvertently activate a spell while copying it to a newer and sturdier parchment. Eager for meaningful work, Miona signed on, and found herself once again in Hillsbrad.

But not for long. Dalaran fell victim to the Legion's attempt to invade Azeroth, finally quelled at Mount Hyjal only a year or so ago. While the city was being rebuilt, Bralla and Miona took up residence in Theramore, where Lady Jaina Proudmoore herself enlisted members of the Kirin Tor to add their skills to the Argent Dawn's efforts in the Plaguelands.

"Let me have those," Miona murmured, relieving the gnome mage of her burdens. "Where do you keep finding these scrolls?"

"The usual places," Bralla replied absently. She pressed a nondescript brick in the stone wall. There was a loud grating sound of stone across stone; a portion of the floor slid aside to reveal a stairwell leading into darkness below the chapel. "These are the last I brought from Dalaran," she explained as she hurried down the stairs. As the shadows gathered about them, she raised her hand, and a bright white light flared. She released it, and the light hovered ahead of her, leading the way into the catacombs.

"I don't much care for this place," Miona commented, her eyes darting from left to right as they passed. The walls were lined with niches in which the bones of hundreds rested silently. It was said that the grounds of Light's Hope were blessed by the Light, and these remains could not be raised as Scourge, yet Miona couldn't deny the unease that close proximity to the dead inspired.

"It's just bones," Bralla reassured her. "Just round this corner. Ah, here it is."

The chamber wasn't large, yet seemed full to capacity. Chests and shelves had been brought in to store the precious scrolls and books rescued when Dalaran fell. Bralla had been one of many evacuated at the last possible moment, her faithful servant and friend Miona at her side, their arms laden with scrolls. Until such time as the library was restored, the collected works of generations were kept in the safest place available, or so it had seemed before the necropolis appeared to the north.

Bralla carefully added the newest scrolls to the stack on the shelf. Sighing, she laid her tiny hand on the pile.

"I want to index these, and sort them by subject matter," she mused wistfully.

"You'll have your chance, I'm certain of it," Miona told her bravely. Bralla smiled.

"And you will help, won't you?"

"Of course I will." For a moment, Miona was back in Dalaran, facing a daunting room of dusty tomes, the ever-cheerful little mage describing her categorization system in her high-pitched voice. Twin dark brown ponytails bobbing merrily, Bralla darted from bookcase to bookcase, her face alight with joy at the 'gift' of such a disorganized mess as that rarely-visited library room. Her enthusiasm was difficult to resist, and in Bralla's own way, she helped Miona shed much of the sadness that had followed her since the camp was overrun. Though many of the soldiers were deserving of the fate dealt them, there were a few who'd bravely aided her efforts, and now mouldered in their graves. Such was the way of war, she supposed.

Now, however, the war thrust upon them was against their own. Innocent farmers and townspeople were infected by the plague that spread across the land in the form of tainted grain. She well remembered, for it was not so long ago, the day when the crown prince declared Stratholme a lost city, and led the soldiers in the bloody massacre of thousands. Now Arthas Menethil reigned in a frozen land to the far north, his heart as ice-bound as his throne. It was said the undead heeded his call, and obeyed his commands, no matter where they were. It was undoubtedly his voice that urged the legions of undead in their assault upon this place.

The ground shuddered suddenly, as though a heavy weight had fallen above. Miona and Bralla exchanged anxious looks, then the mage scurried out of the room, Miona on her heels. When they reached the chapel, Bralla hastily pressed the brick, closing the door and securing the treasures below. A peek out a colored glass window revealed the cause of the impact.

A giant flesh golem, fully two stories tall, was brought down by the defenders. Their cheers were short-lived, however, as another golem lurched forward out of the haze that hovered over the battlefield. From her vantage point in the relative safety of the chapel, Miona could see that the men were flagging, their reserves almost spent.

Bralla floated to the window on a levitation spell. "Oh dear," she breathed.

"This is the end, isn't it?" Miona said quietly. The gnome laid her hand on Miona's shoulder, but did not reply.

Quite suddenly, a cheer rose, much louder than the first. Bewildered, Miona tried to see what renewed the soldiers' resolve, but their hands pointed beyond her sight.

"Come on!" Bralla cried. "Let's go see!" She led the way on a current of magic to the door of the chapel, and flung it open with a wave of her hand. Then Bralla laughed. "I never thought I'd be so glad to see the Horde charging into battle!"

At least a hundred fresh troops, all wearing the bright sun tabard, were thundering into the fray. At the head of the charge, an Orc carried the distinctive Horde symbol in black on a red banner. They struck hard, and their wedge formation drove through the western front of undead like a hot knife through butter. Miona recognized the sturdy bulk of Orcs, the wiry frames of Trolls, and the tall horned heads of Tauren. Lightning crackled from the hands of shaman, arcing from one foe to the next in a chain. Balls of fire erupted among the undead, scattering them in all directions. Axes and warhammers rose and fell with precision as the Horde members of the Argent Dawn cut a swath through their foes.

Though it was a fierce battle, Miona felt no fear that her people would be caught up in the Orcs' bloodlust. It was well known that the Orcs had rid themselves of the demonic taint, and now embraced honor. Though most wore concealing helms, she knew if they shed them, she would not see a single red eye among the Orcs. They were entirely free.

"We'd better get busy," Bralla said briskly. "They'll want water and rations after this fight, I've no doubt." The mage's confidence that the Argent Dawn would prevail brought a smile to Miona's face.

More than an hour passed before the undead lines were broken, and they were either truly dead upon the field or in retreat. Laborers were detailed out to gather up the corpses – both Scourge and Argent Dawn – and burn them in great pyres lest they be raised once more. All about the hill upon which the chapel stood, uniformed men and women lounged or slept. The weary commanders of both cells conferred, no doubt making plans to deal with the necropolis now that their numbers were twice what they'd been. Miona and Bralla led a handful of civilians in the task of refreshing the soldiers.

Miona had just one packet of rations and a waterskin left when she reached an Orc soldier slowly removing his helm to run a great hand through his sweaty hair.

"Here," she offered, and he looked up at her with warm brown eyes. Miona's mouth gaped open. "Oh my goodness, you're here! I am so glad to see you!"

The Orc – her Orc – grinned with happy recognition. "Glad to see you, too."

"And you speak Common!" she cried with relief. With no other thought in her head but to take advantage of this moment, Miona swiftly sat before him, quivering with joy. "I have so much to ask, so much to say. I wanted every day in the camp to tell you... to thank you..."

"Please," he interrupted with a laugh. He pressed a great green hand to his heart. "Dukhor. You?"

"Of course, of course," she replied, flustered. "I am Miona." Without thinking, she reached out and grasped his hand. He'd removed his gauntlets, and his flesh was warm. "I'm so very happy to see you well."

"Miona," he repeated softly, his voice a deep, rich rumble. "You are here." Once more, he touched his heart, upon which the bright beacon of the Argent Dawn insignia was embroidered. "You remind me of honor. Always."

"And you are here, also." She mimicked his gesture. "I would not even once have looked on your people... as people, if not for you."

"You save me in camp," Dukhor told her. "You heal me. You show me, Alliance has good people."

Miona blushed at the intensity of his gaze. Her eyes fell upon the mighty hammer lying at rest by his side. It was almost as familiar as his face. How had he reclaimed it after so many years in the camp? Time enough for such things later, she was sure. A more pressing question leapt immediately to mind. "I have always wanted to ask you. That day, so long ago. Goodness, I was a child minding children." She laughed to herself. "You spared us. Why?"

He sighed, and his weary face relaxed into a smile. "No honor to kill child, or weak, old. Only warrior death gives honor." His expression clouded. "I killed many childs in wars. Many weak, old. Captain give orders; no choice. I must obey."

"But that day...," she prompted.

"Captain far away. No others to say, 'kill them.' My order to me, 'let them live.'" He smiled again. "You live many year, and save me."

"It is ironic, isn't it?" she chuckled. "I always wondered if you might have been in serious trouble had anyone known."

Dukhor nodded. "Chieftain kill me. Captain kill me." Then he laughed. "Everyone kill me." Sobering again, he went on fiercely, "I don't fear death. But I don't want... hmph." His brow furrowed as he grasped for the right words. Miona guessed that he'd only recently begun learning the language, and it frustrated him sometimes.

"A pointless death?" she suggested, and he nodded.

"If captain see, I die, you die, childs die. No point. But, no one see, I live, you live, childs live. It is good." Furrowing his brow, he asked, "Childs with you. Did they live?"

"Yes, they did," she assured him. "They still write me now and then. All have children of their own." She smiled fondly. "Daren, who swore he could take you all on himself, is now a priest of the Light. A healer, not a fighter."

Again, Dukhor grinned, clearly pleased to know the children survived. For a moment, however, his expression reflected an almost cruel smugness. "Commander of camp. What happen?"

"Oh. Commandant Fredericks," she nodded sadly. "I confess, I didn't fully grasp his madness until after the camp fell. There were inquiries, accusations. Many thought he survived the... the liberation by hiding, while his men were slain. I learned a month or so later that he took his own life."

Her Orc grunted with amusement. "Good. Tell me, 'Fight me, you pig. Give back what you took. You owe me.'" Dukhor shook his head and grunted. "I owe him nothing. He did not deserve warrior death."

"No, I suppose he didn't," Miona agreed. "The wickedness he encouraged in his men... There was no excuse for it."

She was suddenly aware that his thumb was lightly stroking her wrist, and his voice had lowered in pitch. Her cheeks reddened under his gaze.

"You, now. What you do since camp?"

"Oh, nothing exciting," Miona chuckled nervously, waving her free hand. "Although I was obliged to slay a fel hunter that had gotten into the library when we were evacuating Dalaran." She covered her mouth to still another tittering laugh. "I don't know how I can even smile, when at the time, I was terrified. But Bralla was so intent upon rescuing every single scroll before the city was destroyed. She was flitting about the room, her arms loaded down, and suddenly this great red beast burst in..." She shuddered. "I threw a book at it first; it was the only thing close. Bralla actually chastised me for that!" Laughing, Miona shook her head. "In the end, the curtain rod the thing had pulled down when it crashed through the window served me better."

The Orc's brow rose with surprise, then he nodded knowingly. "Miona is fierce. Faced me with fork stick." He grunted with amusement. "You would strike me? If I attack in barn?"

"Yes, I most assurely would have," she confirmed with a laugh.

"You kill demon," he said approvingly. "It is good. Demons..." He spat on the ground to the side, and for a moment his expression was angry. "Demons make us forget honor. Make us go to war against weak and helpless. Make us do things..." He shook his head firmly. "We will never serve them again."

"I know. Your people are now as noble, or as hateful, as any who are free to choose," she agreed. "I am pleased by your choice, Dukhor. I suppose I have always believed you... you must have a noble soul." Her cheeks grew hot again, and she ducked her head.

Dukhor's gentle rubbing along her wrist seemed slower, and more intimate, than before. "Miona remind me of honor. I never forget."

"What about you?" she asked, her voice unsteady. After so many years, and so many moments shared, she felt she knew this Orc as well as she knew herself, and yet not at all. She wanted to know him, to learn his history, to walk at his side. The warmth of his hand, the deep rumble of his kind voice, and the way he looked at her, made her heart beat faster. "I heard there was a city in a desert..."

"Yes. Orgrimmar," Dukhor supplied proudly. "City is big. It is good home for Orcs." He held up his free hand and formed a fist. "Work hard to build. Many months. Strong city, like Orcs." His brilliant smile shone again, and she laughed.

"I have never seen you smile, until this day," she observed, shaking her head in wonder. "You were not smiling as you sent me and the children to safety. And of course, you had no reason to do so in the camp. But now..." She gestured helplessly. "I was told your company fought a running battle for two days from one end of the Plaguelands to the other. You were forced to burn several of your number along the way. Yet you smile! What makes you so happy today, of all days?"

"Miona is here, and we talk, first time," Dukhor replied. Perhaps afraid he'd been too bold, the Orc quickly added, "I fight with honor. I fight to... to save land. For your people and mine. It is honor to protect land for all people. This land is home to me now." A flicker of sadness briefly creased his brow. "I defend land at... at... Hyjal. Your people... we fight together. As one. No Horde, no Alliance. Only one people, one land."

"That is how it should be," she agreed, squeezing his hand. "And so you joined the Argent Dawn?"

He grunted a laugh. "Thrall tell me to join. Rep-... repre-..."

"Represent?"

"Yes. Rep-re-sent Horde. Speak human words. Fight undead." Then he frowned. "But not Forsaken." He curled his lip, clearly displeased with the recent alliance with the undead faction.

"You no longer wear a beard," she pointed out, steering the conversation from an apparently uncomfortable topic. He laughed. So booming was his laugh! It spoke of joy felt deeply.

"Itch," he explained, scratching at his rough cheek. "No choice in camp; no blade."

"I remember," she nodded, "how smooth your face was when I first saw you."

He ducked his head almost shyly. "Too young for beard."

"Were you?" she gasped. "You seemed... grown."

"Big, not grown."

"Well... how old are you now?"

He pondered how best to answer the question, and finally sighed with resignation. Leaning forward, he drew on the dusty ground three slashes, then another seven below it. He paused a moment, and added an eighth.

"You are thirty-eight years old," Miona guessed, glancing at his face for confirmation. He nodded, then grinned.

"Old enough for beard now."

"I should say you are," she laughed.

"You," he said, nodding at her. "How many?"

"The same," she replied, suddenly feeling sad. "So many years of war. I've lost count. And now I am too old for..." She forced a smile. "It is no matter."

His hand about hers squeezed gently, sympathetically. "No mate?" She shook her head. "One will come," he told her confidently. "That is promise."

The way he looked at her in that moment clutched her heart and stilled her breath. "Dukhor..."

"It is promise," he repeated firmly. As he'd done before, he pressed his hand flat against his heart. "Promise."

"Enough lollygagging!" a loud, rough voice called. "There's work to be done! Horde, off your arses and get in line!"

Dukhor's expression became frustrated at the sound of his commander's voice. His grip on her hand tightened. "I want to say many words to you, but I don't know them all."

"Return to me, and we will discover them together," she replied solemnly. "That is my promise."

Firming his mouth with purpose, Dukhor rose. He held her gaze for several heartbeats before turning to join the ranks of his fellows.

"Wait!" Miona called, and he turned. She fumbled the plain brown ribbon from her hair and tied it to his tabard with shaking hands. "Light protect you, and guide you back to me."

"Ancestors bring us together, many times," he told her, his voice a low rumble. He touched the ribbon upon his breast as though he spoke an oath. "I will come back to you."

His smile was affectionate, his gaze warm. She had no doubt his words to her later, though halting and broken, would echo the song of her own heart. Holding the memory of his smile close, she watched him march northward with the Argent Dawn, his head held high, bearing her token proudly.

Chapter Text

Miona gazed out the window of the apartment she shared with Bralla, high up in a tower of the Violet Citadel, and hugged herself against the chill. She watched a blue dragon circle lazily about the slender trunk of an impossibly crystallized tree, its canopy nearly tall enough to brush the underside of the floating city.

Not long after Dalaran was restored to its former glory in the Hillsbrad Foothills, the need arose to uproot the city and transport it to where the might of the Kirin Tor was sorely needed: Northrend. Bitterly, Miona recalled the fruitless battles against the Scourge in the Plaguelands, and the many brave men and women who fell. How it seemed no decisive push was made, beyond the Argent Dawn's own diligence. So long as the threat was contained within a land already lost and beyond reclamation, the leaders of the Horde and the Alliance were content to pursue their own petty grievances, sending only a handful now and then to give the appearance of support.

Such was the status quo, until the Scourge dared to attack Orgrimmar and Stormwind directly. Only then did the leaders mobilize their forces and resolve to take the fight to Northrend where the Lich King reigned.

But by then, it was too late. So many souls lost, their ashes drifting endlessly upon the winds of the Plaguelands, if they were lucky enough to be collected and burned. Not all were so fortunate.

Bowing her head, Miona fought against a grief that gripped her often these last few years. One soul in particular took her heart with him into death, and ever after, she felt as though she were a lifeless shell, feeling nothing save remorse for a lifetime of moments, lost forever. The terrible necropolis of Naxxramas that now hovered over the land south of Crystalsong Forest loomed like a hateful reminder, for it was in battle against the forces of that monstrosity that her love was taken from her. Twisting the knife further, few of the fallen could be reclaimed, for the citadel disappeared from the Plaguelands without a trace. Miona had no certainty of when Dukhor perished, or what fate befell his body. She didn't want to know.

Her thoughts were broken when the sitting room door opened, but she didn't turn.

"I think this is the last of them," Bralla announced. The soft rustling of parchment that seemed to accompany the gnome mage everywhere could be heard. "Are you ready?"

"Of course," Miona replied, leaving the window and joining her employer and friend at a large table piled high with scrolls and letters. Bralla flitted on a magical current from one end of the room to the other, gathering up more scrolls. These she somehow fitted in amongst the piles on the table. Miona seated herself and pulled a blank sheet of parchment close. She uncorked the inkwell and dipped the quill in preparation.

"Now then," Bralla began briskly. "These are all the members of the Argent Dawn, the Knights of the Ebon Blade, and the Knights of the Silver Hand. Maybe the Ebon Blade doesn't quite consider itself part of the Argent Crusade, but what Mograine doesn't know about my bookkeeping won't hurt him." She winked at Miona hopefully, and was rewarded with a wan smile. "I want a master list of all our members: names, homelands, factional affiliation, race, gender, specialization, and... well, to be frank, next of kin. Not all of these documents have that last bit; I'll ask for that information when they stop through on their way to one battlefront or another."

Miona nodded her understanding, and noted the headings on the parchment. Then she pulled the first scroll to her and began to skim for names. Thankfully, the recruitment officer in Ironforge provided a neat list of the ten Dwarves who shipped out for Borean Tundra a month ago. Relaxing, Miona began to write.

Bralla sorted the parchments and scrolls into neat piles, smoothing out bent corners, and occasionally clucking her tongue at the poor spelling or obscuring smudges left by some of the writers. Miona soon settled into the routine, pausing only long enough for lunch.

As an administrative officer of the newly formed Argent Crusade, it was Bralla's responsibility to know each member of the order, and to coordinate travel from one outpost to another. Frequently, those travel arrangements included accommodations in Dalaran itself. In spite of the Argent Crusade's neutral stance, and its complement of soldiers from all over Azeroth, the members' categorization by race to one faction or the other was still respected. It would not do to book a room in A Hero's Welcome for an Orc, for instance.

Hours past noontide, Miona smoothed out a sheet from Orgrimmar; the parchment was wrinkled and battered as though it made the journey in someone's pocket. She copied down one Horde member's name and details, then a second, her thoughts elsewhere. Then suddenly, she froze. Her hand spasmed, snapping the quill in half and flecking the letter with black inkspots.

Dukhor of the Ebon Blade. Male Orc. Clan unknown, origins unknown; Draenor assumed.

She drew a breath, and covered her mouth with one hand to stifle the scream. The beginning of a keening wail escaped, catching Bralla's attention.

"Are you all right? Goodness me, you're pale as a ghost!"

"Huh...," Miona forced out, and all at once, she began to breathe rapidly, gasping for air and clutching her heart. Her eyes welled with too many tears to contain.

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear," Bralla babbled as she hurried to her aid's side. "There now. What did you read? What did you see?" Miona could only point a shaky finger at the letter. Her brow furrowed with confused worry, Bralla took the sheet.

"Um... these are Horde members," she murmured, skimming the text. "Ebon Blade, all of them, it looks like. Death knights, of course. Rukalekk, Abu'gar, Dukhor, Hekka... Oh my!"

Hearing his name spoken aloud, Miona collapsed, laying her head upon her folded arms. Her sobs were muffled, but unmistakable. Bralla hastened to fetch a kerchief. Fluttering helplessly, the mage consulted the note once more. "This lot is... well, they're due here any day now. On their way to Zul'drak. I've put them up in the Filthy Animal." A brief, uncomfortable laugh spilled out. "Such an awful name for an inn. Did you... know one of them? In... in life, or... after?"

Miona struggled to compose herself. She thought she'd shed all the tears she had when the broken, defeated soldiers staggered back to the chapel, so many of their number fallen and lost when the citadel simply disappeared. Without a body to bury, she could only pray to the Light that he found rest, and was not raised by those despicable necromancers of the Scourge. Now it seemed that her prayers were ignored, or they were answered in the worst possible way. Had he returned to her as he'd promised, but only as a mockery of the man she knew?

"Yes," she whispered weakly. "Dukhor." It was all she could manage to say, but it was enough. Bralla pulled a chair close and stood upon it, then embraced her distraught friend.

"I am so sorry," the mage said. "Now I remember. You were so sad after what happened in the Plaguelands. It was him, wasn't it? He didn't come back." Miona shook her head, and fresh tears blurred her vision once more. At a loss for what to do, Bralla tentatively suggested, "Would... would you like to see him? I can arrange something..."

Grief made her reckless and foolhardy. Wiping her tears with sudden hope, she turned to Bralla and nodded. "Yes, please. I want... I need to see him. Please arrange a meeting."

Only now did Bralla seem to see the error in such an offer. "Um... are you quite sure? You do know about... That is to say, he is a death knight. They aren't... living."

"I know what they are," Miona insisted. "I remember when they came to Stormwind months ago, pledging themselves to the king."

"Hundreds of them," Bralla recalled absently. "Standing like statues outside the walls. I didn't envy their spokesman's journey to the keep with Fordring's letter. I imagine it was the same at Orgrimmar." Brow pinched with sympathy, she added, "It says here, 'origins unknown.' I don't think he remembers who he was. He may not remember... who you were."

"He will remember. He made a promise to me. I shan't let him out of it so easily."

"Dear," Bralla ventured reasonably, "a good friend of mine was... turned. Raised. However it's described. She wasn't... the same as the girl I grew up with. Quite different. Rather... dead, actually. Unfeeling, if you understand me."

Her expression hard yet unsuccessfully masking her deep sorrow, Miona hissed, "I want to see him."

Though almost a week passed, Miona stubbornly held to her decision, and Bralla regretfully approached the death knight after his group had settled in the Filthy Animal. Then she informed Miona of the arrangements for later in the day.

"I thought it best if he came here," Bralla said. "Somewhere private and... comfortable."

"I appreciate it," Miona replied sincerely. "I apologize for my rudeness this week. I thought I'd lost him..."

"You likely have, still," the gnome insisted urgently. "I only told him a woman wanted to meet with him. Someone he knew in life. He said he knows nothing from before he was raised. I think he suspects... from what he said, he likely thinks that he did you harm. That you seek vengeance."

Miona's brow furrowed. "Vengeance? Why in the world...?"

"You're human, Miona, and he's an Orc," Bralla explained. "All he knows is that your races are at war. If you want to see him, it can only be because he committed some grievous act against you or your family. I'm afraid many death knights must face these sorts of confrontations each day. The acts of cruelty, butchery, and... cold malice, no matter what power compelled them, will follow them into true death. They will never be forgiven."

Closing her eyes, Miona steeled herself. "Nevertheless, I know him. He would never forsake honor. It was not in his nature. And he will remember. Of that, I am certain."

Bralla sighed, and looked at the stubborn woman sadly. "I'm sure you're right. I'll just... prepare the sitting room for... you both. I'll call for you when he arrives." She paused at the door on her way out. "Do you want me to... to stay with you? When you meet him?"

Miona blinked with surprise. "That won't be necessary. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," the mage replied quickly. "I'll just be downstairs." Then she left. It was several minutes before Miona realized that preparing a room for a private meeting was one of her duties, not the mage's.

Miona stared at the handle of the sitting room door for a full minute before she was able to grasp it.

"I can tell him you changed your mind," Bralla suggested hopefully. In answer, Miona turned the handle purposefully, and the door swung open. The diminutive form of the mage hastened into the room ahead of Miona.

Standing at rigid attention in the center of the richly appointed sitting room stood the hulking figure of an Orc in full battle plate. As soon as Miona stepped into the room, she felt the chill radiating from his body, and the hairs on her arms prickled. The cloying stench of undeath hung in the air, and she faltered. He was facing her, yet his helm was closed, obscuring the face she knew so well.

"Here is the lady who wanted to see you, Dukhor," Bralla said nervously, gesturing toward Miona. The Orc inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. "I'll be, erm, in the next room, if you need anything. Tea. Scones. Anything at all." Excusing herself awkwardly, Bralla hurried out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Miona couldn't speak for several moments; she could only stare at the silent figure before her. He made no attempt to break the silence. No sound came from him at all, not even the occasional breath. She found herself hoping that he wasn't the same Orc, that her Orc died cleanly and completely years ago. If she never saw his face, she might be able to convince herself that it was true. But she had to be certain.

Swallowing hard, she forced breath from her lungs. "Your helmet. Remove it, if you please."

His movements were slow and measured, automatic. He raised his gauntleted hands and lifted the helmet from his head, then tucked it under one arm. Miona's eyes filled swiftly.

There was no mistaking him. Yet instead of the warm brown eyes she'd last seen so full of light and life, his eyes were a cold, solid blue, glowing like icy flames. His once richly green skin, bright as emeralds, was a dull grey, leeched of all color. His impassive face showed no recognition, no emotion, nothing at all. He simply stared at her, unmoving and unmoved.

"You're him," she whispered shakily. "Dukhor. By the Light, it's you."

Nodding once, he replied in a harshly echoing, metallic-sounding voice, "Yes. So I was told."

Miona stumbled to the divan, her knees gone weak. "Do you remember me?" she asked. "Do you know me?"

Dukhor's face seemed to have gone rigid in death. Very little movement of muscle beneath the taut flesh betrayed his thoughts. Yet she could just see a slight pinching of his heavy brow, and his head tilting a bit to one side as he looked on her intently through his horrifying eyes. She felt herself cringing beneath that stare.

"Your face," he finally said, "stirs...something. Shadows. Sensations." Slowly, his free hand rose and pressed to his chest, as if guided by a memory, not by his will. "They are strong, but... I cannot name them. I cannot... quite... touch them." He looked away, and stared unblinking into space. "It is not a memory of blood." Then he turned sharply to her once more. "I did not harm you." There was no note of relief in the statement; he simply spoke a truth.

"No, no you didn't," she assured him. "Try to remember. It was... it was a good memory."

He nodded, and continued to assess her. His memories must be deeply buried indeed. Bralla had said he'd assumed the worst of this meeting. Might he have turned his back on the past if he believed it was as ugly before his death as it became afterward? His stiff brow furrowed, and his eyes narrowed.

"Your face," Dukhor murmured again, then paused. He blinked once. "Was I your mate?" Miona clutched her heart. Before she could answer, he added, "Your grief is profound, though our people are at war. I do not understand."

"You might have been, had... had you... returned," she struggled to say.

"Tell me more," he insisted, his brow furrowing. "Was I... honorable? Did I...?" He closed his eyes, and for a moment, Miona felt relief to be spared the cold intensity of his gaze. She chastised herself for such thoughts. "Was I a man you could... respect?"

"You were," she breathed, a lump forming in her throat. "From the very first moment we met."

"How did we meet?" Dukhor pressed, his eyes opening once more.

With halting words, Miona described that day when Moonbrook fell. As she spoke, his eyes widened. "I expected death at your hands, but you spared us. Do you remember?"

His arm slackened, and the heavy plate helm slipped from his grip to land with a thunk on the carpeted floor. He sank into the chair opposite her. For a moment, it seemed the icy fire in his eyes flared brighter, and Miona drew back in alarm. No breath had escaped his lips since she walked into the sitting room, yet now he exhaled, but whether from habit or need, she couldn't be sure.

"Miona," he choked.

"You remember me," she sighed, relieved. "I knew you would."

His face held an expression of shock, and he stared into the middle distance for such a long time, Miona wondered if he'd suffered a collapse. "Dukhor?" she ventured cautiously.

"I am Dukhor, son of Gardal," he murmured. His hand reached for his back, coming up empty. The hammer he'd wielded at their last meeting was long gone. Instead, twin scabbards hung from his belt; his swords were taken on entering the citadel. Dukhor closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Lost." After a moment, he seemed to recall where he was, and slowly looked up at her. "I failed you."

"No." Miona shook her head emphatically. "No, you didn't. Not at all."

"Perhaps the promise I made was only to myself, but..." He closed his eyes and bowed his head. "I would have..." Looking up at her again, he left the statement unfinished.

"What... what would you have done?" she prompted, though she felt she knew the answer. She'd known it for years. But he only shook his head.

"I am not the man you knew," he said quietly. "You have only given me back the memory of my life. No one has the power to..." He paused as a small sound of grief escaped Miona. "I am grateful for it. I once embraced honor. I was merciful. I was... worthy. When I was freed, my purpose was to destroy the Lich King, to take vengeance upon him for his betrayal. Now, he will pay a thousandfold for the life he took, and the monster he made of me. For what might have been." His hand strayed to his tabard, where she once tied a ribbon as a reminder. Nothing was there. The brilliant sun of the Argent Dawn emblem was replaced by a black tabard bearing the purple blade of his order.

"And then what will you do?" Miona breathed shakily.

"Atone," Dukhor replied. "My soul is damned. Forgiveness for the atrocities I committed will never come. Regardless, I was once a... a good Orc. I will strive to be so again, for what it's worth. Perhaps I may aid the Horde in some way. I don't know."

"Let me help you!" she cried. "Promise you will look for me when the Lich King is vanquished, and... somehow, I will assist you."

"I can make no more promises to you than I have already made, and broken." Dukhor rose from the chair, and retrieved his helmet.

"Please," Miona begged. She leapt to her feet and grabbed his arm. "I forgive you. For all you have done, I forgive you. Please let me help you atone! You promised to return to me! I won't let you forsake your promise!"

The ghost of a smile twitched his mouth. "Miona is fierce." He gently released her grip. "You are a living woman. You must go on living. Be well, Miona."

Fitting his helm upon his head, Dukhor turned away. He walked to the door and let himself out. The latch closed with a dull click.

Miona stared at the door for several minutes. As if stepping through a portal, Bralla appeared next to her. The gnome's expression betrayed full awareness of all that was said. She took Miona's hand in both of hers and held tightly.

When it finally sunk in that she would never lay eyes on her Orc again, Miona collapsed upon the divan and wept.

Chapter Text

"It looks like rain, dad," Adelaide observed. "Are you sure you want to walk all that way?"

"If it rains, I'll duck into a shop," Brother Daren grumped. "I've got to pay the tailor a visit regardless. It's time he made some new clothes."

"Wear a cloak, at least," she advised. "And take Mimi with you. She's been pestering me ever since I told her we'd be coming for a visit."

Brother Daren chuckled. His daughter spent most of her time with her little family out in the Wetlands. Only rarely did they make the journey during peak spawning times along the coast. Her husband of fifteen years now employed several fishermen, making holiday trips easier. Brother Daren was pleased; he didn't often get to see his children anymore, and even less often, his grandchildren.

At twelve years, Mimi was the youngest and most precocious of the eight grandchildren, and Brother Daren's personal favorite. She also bore an uncanny resemblance to her namesake, something that never failed to inspire fond memories in the elderly priest.

"I'd be glad to," he replied. "I need younger eyes to guide my steps."

Adelaide huffed with amusement. "You've walked that path at least weekly for twenty years. You could find it in your sleep."

"She expects me," he shrugged. "I wouldn't fail her for all the world."

Following his daughter's directions, he found Mimi holding court in the park. She'd been too young to do much during her last visit, and so she spent all her time over the last few days exploring every nook and cranny of the great city of Stormwind. Here, however, she was happiest, for the great fountain had been stocked with colorful, exotic fish some years ago. She never tired of watching them, or regaling her swiftly growing army of devoted followers with wild tales of her wetlands home.

"... and green and orange and red. All sorts of colors!" Mimi was boasting as Brother Daren approached the half dozen youngsters gathered around his granddaughter. She lowered her voice dramatically. "I've even seen dead ones. No meat or skin on them. Roaming about." Shocked gasps erupted among the children. Mimi nodded importantly. "I've got a cousin in the Explorer's League, and he promised when I'm older, he'll show me around the digsite where those bone raptors are."

"Ain't you scared?" a boy asked, his eyes wide.

Mimi dismissed the idea with ease. "Of course not. They're just bones; nothing to be afraid of."

"But they move!" a girl whimpered.

"I can move faster," Mimi assured her with a grin. Then her eyes fell on Brother Daren. "Grandad!" She pushed past her new friends and leapt into her grandfather's arms.

"Telling tall tales again?" he chuckled, holding her close.

"It's all true," she protested indignantly.

Beaming down at her, the priest said, "Your mother said you'd like to come with me today, so here I am. Will your friends let you loose for a little while?"

Sudden recognition lit up the girl's face. "Of course they will! I can come? Really?" At his nod, Mimi hastily excused herself, promising to join them after supper. Then she slipped her hand into Brother Daren's, and they made their way down the walkways along the canals.

When they reached Cathedral Square, Brother Daren paused at the flower seller's stand in the courtyard. "Talandra's Rose, I think. It was always her favorite," he murmured half to himself. He pressed the silver coins into the middle-aged woman's hands. With a smile, he passed the bouquet to Mimi. "I need a hand on my cane, I'm afraid. Can you carry these for me?"

"Sure," the girl smiled. She bent her head to draw in the scent. "They're wonderful." The seller straightened proudly at the girl's praise.

"This way, Mimi," Brother Daren directed, gesturing toward the passageway back to the canals. "Have you been everywhere in this city yet?"

"Not everywhere, no. There's just so much to see! Can you tell me again about the valiant King Varian and the Defias Brotherhood?"

"Perhaps another time," Brother Daren chuckled. "That's too exciting a tale for my old heart."

"Will... will he be there?" Mimi asked, her tone suddenly hushed. Her grandfather glanced at her face, and saw fearful anticipation.

"Very likely," he confirmed, and squeezed her hand.

"I'm not afraid," she assured him, though her voice shook a little.

"Good girl."

Before long, Brother Daren's feet had taken them unerringly to the cemetery, forming a great arc around the lake beyond the city walls. He felt calm descend as they passed the threshold. Though there were far more markers now than he knew when he was Mimi's age, he no longer grieved for the lost lives. He knew he would join them in the Light one day soon.

The pathway curved before them, gravestones and tombs on either side. Mimi held tightly to his hand, much of her bravado extinguished as they neared their destination. Perhaps a dozen yards ahead, the lone figure could be seen, dark against the stark white of the immaculately tended stones.

For twenty years, he'd stood behind Miona's gravestone, unmoving and silent. No one save King Anduin Wrynn had managed to pry from his stiff lips the reason for his vigil, for which permission was granted long ago. If any thought his purpose was nefarious in the beginning, their fears eased over the decades of the watcher's statue-like immobility. In spite of the instinctive aversion his presence inspired, when his simple garments rotted and shredded from wind and rain, replacements always found their way to him. Brother Daren himself took ownership of the duty years before, when the previously anonymous donor, an aging gnome mage who'd been a close friend of Miona's, passed away. Soon he would have to name a successor of his own.

"Say nothing of the smell," Brother Daren advised his granddaughter. "He is undead, and can't help it."

"All right," Mimi whispered.

When they reached Miona's grave, Brother Daren slowly knelt to begin his prayers. Mimi automatically knelt beside him, but he knew her attention was focused upon the grim watcher. He was, after all, the true reason for her keen interest, for she was too young to have known the woman who was the family's nanny for years.

"Mimi, you may place the flowers in the vase, if you like," he gently suggested. She clumsily obeyed.

A lengthy silence stretched before it was broken by her timid little voice.

"Hello."

Startled, Brother Daren glanced at Mimi. She was still beside him, her eyes wide and fixed on the watcher. The priest shifted his gaze, and saw that the figure had dipped his chin and trained his blue-glowing eyes on the girl.

"I've... I've never seen an Orc before," she told him. "That is, I've seen pictures, and... from a distance. You're not green."

His response seemed difficult to manage, as though words had rarely passed his lips in all these years. "No. Not anymore."

"How do you do that with your voice?" Mimi blurted, fascination at a curious new thing pushing aside her fear.

Brother Daren almost laughed at the comically baffled expression on the Orc's face. So little movement could ever be seen in the faces of the undead, that he must be startled indeed by such a question. One that Brother Daren had to confess he would never have had the courage to ask himself.

"It is... what my voice sounds like," the Orc replied uncertainly. "I am not of the living."

"Oh," Mimi replied. "I was named for her: Miona. But everyone calls me Mimi."

Again, the Orc blinked. He stared at Mimi for a long moment. When he spoke, a strange tremor could be heard in his sepulcher voice. Unexpectedly, a lump rose in Brother Daren's throat.

"I am pleased to meet you, M-... Miona."

"I've heard all sorts of stories," Mimi ventured, emboldened by the Orc's attention. "You've been here ever so long. I'm quite sure you're the only Orc in Stormwind. Why are you here?"

Brother Daren considered shushing the child, but his own curiosity got the better of him. He knew the Orc's name, and that he was the same Orc who, in life, spared Daren and his sisters from their parents' fate. Whenever the priest saw the lonely figure, his mind filled with the faces of his children and grandchildren, his nieces and nephews and their children. So many lives begun, and lived well, because of this Orc's moment of mercy.

Perhaps the Orc's condition denied him the blessings of the Light, but Daren prayed for him regardless.

"I made a promise," the Orc replied, "that I could not keep in life."

"What sort of promise?"

His mouth twitched. "To be with her always. And to guard her. She will not suffer as I did. No one will raise her as Scourge."

"Oh," Mimi whispered. "That is very brave of you." The Orc nodded politely. "Did... did you love her?"

Brother Daren pressed his lips firmly and fished in his pocket for a kerchief. He knew the answer before the Orc spoke.

"I did, when I lived," he replied. Though his voice was flat and lacked emotion, Brother Daren could feel the Orc's grief as profoundly as his own. "I could not be with her in life, but in death, we are one."