Relative revelation

[moonshadows]

“I don’t want to do it,” Ryxl said shortly.

The big Mag’har man pulled her into his arms, lowered his mouth to her ear, and murmured, “Please?”

She sighed. He knew this was her weakness, but she tried again. “I don’t care who Garrosh’s mother was.”

“Even if knowing helps him settle down?”

He had her there, damn him. Living with Garrosh in Warsong Hold while the self-proclaimed Warlord of the Northern Horde pacified the area had the benefits of Sarok being near his childhood friend to keep him grounded and little Dranosh having a playmate in the form of Garrosh’s son while also keeping little Dranosh away from his future Warchief until the wedding, but it had the downside of living with Garrosh. A pup whose balls dropped late, she’d called him once. Three years later, he was still barking at every squirrel and rabbit he saw.

“If it helps him settle down, I will be grateful for it,” she growled into her mate’s shoulder, “but I don’t see why I have to be there.”

“Because you have the best chance of recognizing her,” Sarok said quietly.

Ryxl sighed again. “Fine. I’ll go.”

 

The Taunka shaman chanted in a language that wasn’t…quite…taurhe, herbs causing the fire to produce billows of lavender smoke. At his nod, Garrosh sliced his forearm and his blood dripped onto the coals to sizzle hypnotically. When the magic took effect, Ryxl was the only one who did not gasp.

The smoke which had made the room hazy now cleared to show a grassy plain filled with tents and brown-skinned orcs. In the distance, the holy mountain – spaceship, thought Ryxl – of Osha’gun glinted in late-morning light. The vision zoomed in on a figure, a woman walking purposefully through the city of tents until she entered a circle and strode up to a lanky orc male with long, wild hair pulled into a topknot and a lower jaw tattooed entirely black. He said something inaudible – the vision was completely silent – and she threw back the hood of her cloak, revealing her face. Grom Hellscream grinned in what Ryxl recognized as anticipatory lust, but the expression faltered when the woman thrust a cloth-wrapped bundle at him with an indifference marred by impatience and distaste. He took it, asking a silent question while she nodded. As she strode away, he peeled back the cloth to reveal the brown face of a sleeping orcish baby.

The vision ended, leaving them in the smoke-filled room.

“That was my mother?” demanded Garrosh, the effect ruined by awe in his voice and longing on his face.

“A vision of your parents together,” the shaman confirmed. “This seems to have been the only time they were – aside from…”

Garrosh flushed slightly, then turned to his friend. “Sarok, did you see…?”

“I did, but I don’t know her.” He turned to his mate, somewhat startled to see her glaring at the dying fire. “Ryxl?”

“I know her,” the orc woman ground out.

Undaunted, Garrosh demanded, “Tell me about her.”

“She was a Dragonmaw, a fierce and fearless warrior. She was one of the first to ride captured red dragons into battle, and personally led the charge against the Third Fleet of Kul Tiras as they chased down orcish ships. Her dragon was the one to slay the oldest son of Admiral Proudmoore. She was dangerous enough that even Blackhand the Destroyer feared to cross her.”

“How did she die?” asked the son of Grom, leaning forward eagerly.

A bitter smile curved Ryxl’s lips. “She was killed by a giant purple raptor who ate her heart and gained her strength.”

Garrosh leaned back in satisfaction. “What a beast! Image the weapon he would make, if he could be tamed!”

“He was a deadly war-mount,” Ryxl confirmed, “but he was slain by Blackrock warlocks.” Her face gained a closed expression Sarok knew too well. “I earned my surname that day. When he died, I ate his heart.”

“So the beast is dead. Pity.”

Ryxl’s glare snapped from the embers to his eyes. “He was a faithful and loyal companion to me for nearly three years, and his death on top of everything else that happened that day nearly broke me.”

“I meant no disrespect,” Garrosh said hurriedly, both hands up. “I didn’t know he was yours. But what of the woman?”

“Her name was Kalika Ironheart,” Ryxl spat, “and she was my mother.”

The implications sank in while the shaman quietly and discreetly absented himself.

“You mean we are-”

“Our sons are cousins.”

“And yet,” interrupted Sarok gently, “you’re unhappy about this.”

Ryxl ignored him, still pinning her half-brother with a furious glare. “The only reason she did not strangle you with your own birthing cord is because your father was a chieftain without an heir. The only reason she did not strangle me with mine,” she continued as his mouth fell open in shock, “is because the Zandalari convinced her I could be made into a weapon to serve Doomhammer instead of being sent against him. When the two ships landed on the shores of our village and I saw orcs who were not my mother for the first time, nearly every single one of them said the same thing to me: You’re Kalika’s child? And she didn’t strangle you with your own birthing cord? She was not a kind and loving mother, Garrosh. She earned the surname ‘Ironheart’ before the Dark Portal opened and she left me in a nest of raptors on my Naming Day, hoping they would eat me. She only took an interest in me when I killed my first man and proved that I was a weapon longing for a hand to wield me. I have enough evidence now, I am wise enough in the ways of voodoo and the loa, to suspect that she wasn’t just killed, that she sacrificed herself to ensure that I would never serve Rend Blackhand, a last act of defiance against the False Warchief. She certainly didn’t do it for me; she hated me, hated that I was a reminder of the warlock who had violated her in more ways than one and saddled her with a child that would not die in the womb. She raised me with no more fondness than you would give to a favored weapon, because that’s what I was: a weapon she was forging and honing, a gift for the true Warchief. My bedtime story was the tale of her murdering my father, my name was the sound he made when she cut his throat, and the moral was Don’t let the bad male orcs touch me or I’ll get knocked up and have to kill them. Kalika Ironheart,” she said in a threatening growl, “was not a woman to cross, and if you even think about claiming her surname for yourself or for your son, Warchief’s orders or no, I will ensure you do not have the means to provide him with a sibling. Do I make myself clear?”

Sarok held his tongue, glancing back and forth between the woman he loved and the man who was like his brother, one face a mask of cold fury and the other a welter of roiling emotions.

“If she had seen you in Nagrand,” Ryxl said in a low, intense voice, “and recognized you for her son, she would have killed you and spared your father having to do it in order to cleanse them both of the dishonor you brought by the way you were acting. You want to take pride in being her child, then act like someone she would not regret allowing to live to see his Naming Day.”

Garrosh found his voice at last. Somberly, he nodded. “I understand.”

Without a word, Ryxl stood and left the room.

For a handful of minutes, the two Mag’har sat in silence.

“She doesn’t exaggerate,” Garrosh said quietly. “She knows it’s more intimidating to shrug off threats.”

Sarok said nothing. This was a revelation a long time coming, and it would be better for him to not be given any excuse to evade it.

“Thrall was honor-brother to my father, and Ryxl is shaman to Thrall.” He knew it wasn’t precisely the relationship between them, but it had been an easy explanation when she first came to Nagrand ahead of her Warchief – I am like a shaman, only instead of listening to the elements and serving them, I listen to and serve Warchief Thrall – and at the moment, he wanted to emphasize that spiritual connection. “She hears things from Thrall that no one else does; if anyone could know how proud or disappointed my father would have been with me, it would be him.” Shakily, he rubbed one hand over his face. “I was so proud to be the son of Grom Hellscream, the first to drink demon’s blood but also the one to end the curse, that I didn’t listen to anything else Thrall said about him. Now I have burned that bridge, unless I humble myself to ask Ryxl, who detests me, or humble myself on paper and wait two months for a reply. And I meant less than nothing to my mother; there is no pride to be had there. What have I done with my life, son of Saurfang?”

Now Sarok reached out to clasp his friend’s shoulder comfortingly. “The question is: what are you going to do with your life? Your father lived with his shame for twenty years, struggling against the very curse he’d embraced, and died freeing himself from it. Your mother exiled herself and raised a child she did not want before sacrificing herself to ensure that Ryxl would not serve Blackhand. Both of your parents bought victory with their lives, lives they spent fighting for what they believed in, for their honor.” His hand trembled. “I spent three years as the champion of the Lich King, committing atrocities that still haunt my nightmares, and my last moments before the year I spent hovering between life and death were of the woman I loved shooting me in the chest, coldly and without hesitation. If I had given up, if I had stayed dead, my father’s name would have remained forever stained by my acts. Grom put his faith in Thrall, trusting him to see that his legacy was more than just the bloodthirsty orc who was first to drink. Kalika put her faith in Ryxl, trusting her to be Thrall’s loyal champion and ensure that her legacy was not one of horror and dishonor. What legacy will you leave for your son?”

The son of Hellscream thought about that for a minute.

“I will write to Thrall,” he said at last. “Our children will be married some day, and I will not simply trust my son to repair what I myself have ruined. But do not breathe a word of this to anyone,” he growled. “I don’t want to see my half-sister smirking at me every time I turn around.”

Sarok laughed. “You have my word.”