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sekhisadventures · 2 years ago

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Dark Dreams

Orgrimmar, Year 28 AFW

The crowd was near rioting, the shouting in the stands deafening… but one person wasn’t shouting, she wasn’t doing anything. She could only stare down in horror at the lifeless body of her chieftain as Garrosh Hellscream stood over him, roaring in triumph.

Carine had declared Mak’gora against him. A duel of honor, due to his actions as Warchief, and Hellscream had won.

Nitika Dawnhoof stared down at the scene before her and felt as if her chest might explode, her heart pounding. She wanted to scream. She wanted to vomit. She wanted to… to…

Kill him.

She shuddered, holding her head.

Kill him. You can do it. You can attack him from an angle he’ll never see coming. You can reach out and make him cut his own head off. The power is within your grasp, all you must do is take it…

She shook her head, then looked to her right and gasped, stumbling back.

Standing there was another tauren woman, her body wreathed in shadow. She couldn’t make out her features, but something about her words resonated with Nitika in a way that terrified her… and yet…

If you don’t want to do it, I could do it for you… the strange apparition said.

Nitika shook her head, her eyes huge. “W-who are you?!” she gasped.

… you mean you don’t know? Pity, maybe you’re just not ready yet Sunny…

The Barrens, a day’s walk from the Crossroads, Year 29 AFW

Nitika awoke with a start, the tauren sitting up on her bedroll with her heart pounding. She looked around in terror, then slowly she calmed down as she woke the rest of the way. “It was just a dream…” she mumbled.

That’s right. That had been a year ago now. It had been revealed that Carine’s death was due to the actions of Magatha Grimtotem poisoning Gorehowl and that when she tried to take Thunder Bluff for her own Garrosh had found out about her treachery and stood aside so that the forces of the Horde could take it back, banishing her from Mulgore along with the rest of the Grimtotem Tribe.

“Having trouble sleeping youngblood?” came a voice from beside her. Seated on a bedroll next to her was Krag’thar Stoneshaper. The aging orcish shaman had taken this job with her to attempt to find out who was ambushing carts along the path between the Crossroads and Splintertree Post. The obvious suspect would be the Night Elves, the Sentinels having become very aggressive at seeing their ancestral home get stripped down by goblin shredders… but the carts were passing the Barrens checkpoint at least… so it could still be something else. Centaurs perhaps, or the quillboar, or even the renegade Burning Blade Clan.

“Yeah… sorry Krag’thar…” she sighed, rubbing her eyes, “Ever since Wyrmrest. I swear its every night anymore…” she frowned, gazing into their campfire.

The old orc nodded, “Mmm… you sound like me when I was your age. Before the Legion came to Draenor I was part of a group sent to deal with… well, we never really found out what they were. Some sort of strange sickly orcs with pale skin and glowing white eyes. ‘Pale Orcs’ was as good a name as any for them really.” he shrugged. “I went in with the warriors of our clan, ready and eager to show them the fury of the elements… and they ambushed us the minute we entered their caves.”

He shook his head, “We fought well, and we did win… but it was costly. Half of our group died to them, and I saw the mad things cannibalize those who did fall.” he sighed, “Every night for the next month at least I woke just like you did, just now. My dreams full of glowing eyes in the dark, and long sharp claws.”

She looked at the orc curiously, sitting up and picking up her waterskin. She wasn’t likely to sleep again after that anyways. “I never heard you talk about Draenor before…” she commented.

Krag’thar shrugged, “Mmm, let the youngbloods imagine what it was like. Those of us old enough to remember it, well… we’re also old enough to remember what we did to it.” he frowned.

Nitika nodded, “I’ve heard bits and pieces… but… you were tricked by the demons into the blood pact. You had no idea what it’d do to you…”

Krag’thar snorted, “HMPH! You know the barest terms of it girl. Garrosh’s father was first in line for that cup, and we saw what it did to him… and even then…” he sighed, “We wanted it, we saw how powerful it made him. We didn’t know what else it did at the time, but not one of us questioned it… even after seeing the monster whose blood he drank.”

He gazed into the flames, and his annoyed expression slowly became one of sorrow, remembering an ancient pain. “The moment I drank it… the elements turned their back on me. I could hear the furies raging at what the demons did to them, though I didn’t know it was the Legion at the time, but the very moment I swallowed Mannoroth’s blood, I heard nothing… just the pounding of blood in my ears and…” he trailed off, shaking his head.

“… you don’t need to hear the rest. You know it well enough from those who went to Outland and saw what’s left.” he finished.

Nitika nodded, glancing away. “I’m sorry you had to endure that…” she whispered.

“Don’t be. We did it to ourselves and did worse after that. We don’t deserve any sympathy for the horrors we committed under Gul’dan and his Shadow Council. All we can do is hope that our actions are remembered so the next generation of orcs won’t repeat them…” he frowned, “… by the spirits I hope they won’t…” he grumbled, thinking on some of the more recent actions by Garrosh. If the rumors he was hearing were true then it would seem he was taking after his father in the worst possible ways.

Nitika shook her head, “But Mannoroth is dead now, you and all the other orcs are free, aren’t you?” she asked.

Krag’thar shook his head, “Not… entirely.” he glanced back at her, “We remember it, we remember how it felt. Anyone who is old enough to remember Draenor was there when we made that pact with the Legion, and we remember what it was like…” he took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly, “… the burning in our veins, the power… I felt like I could tear an entire clefthoof to pieces with my bare hands… like I could run across the whole continent… like…” he gritted his teeth, “… like I could just fight and fight and fight and kill and slaughter and never…” he stopped as he saw Nitika’s expression, the tauren actually having scooted back a bit on her bedroll.

Krag’thar shook his head, “… the point is… we are free from Mannoroth, yes… but while it was corruptive… it felt incredible, and we older orcs remember that. Even now, even after the elements accepted me back, after I begged and pleaded with them to forgive what I had done and speak to me once more…” he sighed, running his hands along the ground, feeling the earth below them, and hearing it’s reassuring rumble in his mind. “… part of me still craves it girl. I still remember it, and I’ll remember it until the day I die.” he nodded. “Even knowing what it made me do, I’ll never stop wanting it. Unlike your nightmare, I can’t wake up from mine.”

The tauren nodded, “I… In my dream I was back at the Mak’gora where Carine died… but there was another tauren next to me, covered in shadows, telling me to… kill the Warchief.” she winced, glancing nervously at Krag’thar. Some of the orcs were very protective of the Warchief.

The shaman nodded slowly, “Mmm… plenty of tauren wanted to after that, I don’t blame them. Carine was a good and wise leader, may Baine live up to his legacy.” replied the orc, “I know I was ready to go to Thunder Bluff myself when I heard of Magatha’s treachery.” he growled.

Nitika nodded, “I was lucky, I wasn’t in Mulgore when she took control of the city. Grimo had me helping to move goods in Stranglethorn Vale.” she replied, “I... didn't mind... I wanted to be as far away from Orgrimmar as I could after that...” she shuddered.

Krag’thar nodded, then took another bite of his jerky, “They’ll stop, eventually. The dreams I mean.” he said simply, “I still have them every now and again… but… eventually they stop. They have to, you go mad otherwise.” he shrugged.

Nitika sighed, “I hope you’re right Krag’thar…” she whispered.

The old orc shrugged, then held out the rest of his jerky to her. “Here, you should have the rest. If you’re up I’ll try to get some sleep. No point in both of us being tired when whoever is attacking caravans finally decides to make themselves known.” he grunted.

She took it with a grateful smile as the orc stretched out on his bedroll with a protest from his back, wincing a bit as he lay on the dusty ground. “Goodnight Nitika… remember, they do stop eventually. They did for me, even the worse ones.” he said.

Nitika paused as she chewed on the piece of meat, looking at him. “The worse ones? Worse than seeing your friends get killed?” she asked, “What was worse than that?”

Krag’thar rolled onto his side so she couldn’t see his face, then replied, “… the dreams where I remember who I killed.” he grunted in a tone that said he wouldn’t be saying any more on the matter.

Nitika looked at him sadly, then finished the jerky and crossed her legs, resting her hands on her knees as she bowed her head. “… An’she, light our path… warm our spirits and show us the way under your watchful gaze…” she murmured in prayer as she waited out the rest of the night, until An’she’s gaze did, indeed, warm them once more.

#adventures in Azeroth #warcraft fanfiction #warcraft roleplay #world of warcraft #cataclysm

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bladebloodied · 2 years ago

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refs from all her mentions in the books

He forestalled the gesture by turning to the blood elf. She had golden hair and pale skin, and wore the bright, gleaming armor that marked her as one of her people’s paladins. “Where is Lor’themar?” Garrosh asked bluntly. Her full lips pressed together in irritation, but when she spoke, her voice was calm and pleasant. “He has sent me to oversee the blood elf troops. My name is Kelantir Bloodblade. I trained with the lady Liadrin, and I serve under Ranger-General Halduron Brightwing.” “Neither of whom is here,” said Malkorok, stepping protectively near Garrosh. “Instead we have this little third-ranking whelp.” Kelantir turned coolly to Malkorok. “You also have two ships filled with blood elves willing to fight and die for the Horde,” she said. “Unless you are so sufficient in numbers and supplies that our feeble support will not be necessary.” Garrosh had never much cared for blood elves, and this female was getting under his skin. “You have a chance to prove your people’s worth in battle today,” he said. “Take care you do not squander it.” “My people are familiar with war and battles and sacrifice, Warchief Garrosh,” snapped Kelantir. “You will not find us lacking.” With that, she turned on her heel and marched back to the docks, her plate mail— how can she even bear it on such a tiny, twig-fragile frame? Garrosh wondered—clanking slightly as she strode.

“Blar speaks truly, if somewhat inelegantly,” said Kelantir. “We have heard what happens to those who speak out against Garrosh. Thrall at least would have listened! And he never would have led us down this path! The Alliance will—” Baine held up a hand. “Peace, my friend. You are right about such things, but Thrall is no longer our warchief. Garrosh Hellscream is. And our purpose here tonight is not to lead an insurrection, but to discuss what he has done up until this point and the wisdom—or lack thereof—of his choices.”

“Yet knowing all this, Lady Sylvanas agreed to send aid to the endeavor. But to what end? We are gathered! The Horde has food, supplies, and for those of you whose blood still flows in your veins, I know that blood burns hot for battle. Why is he waiting? Each day that passes, his troops become more uncertain. This is not wisdom. This is simply…” He groped for words. “Irresponsibility.” Bloodblade extended her hand for the speaking stick. “I agree with Captain Farley. His lands and ours are vulnerable if the humans decide to retaliate there instead of sending ships to Theramore. The swifter the strike, the swifter the reward. I cannot comprehend why Garrosh delays. More time serves our enemies and harms us.”

“The inexplicable love some of you have for that peace-hungry shaman astounds me,” he said. He moved as he spoke, looking from face to face. “You would do well to remember it is because of Thrall that we are in this position to begin with! It was Thrall, not Garrosh, who let the Alliance encroach. Thrall, who held secret meetings with the human mage Jaina Proudmoore and all but sat like a dog at her feet. Thrall, whose mistakes I must now correct!” Bloodblade began to speak. “But, Warchief—” Garrosh whirled on the blood elf, striking her hard across the face. There was an angry murmur and a slight surge of the crowd. At once, Garrosh had Gorehowl in his hands, and the Kor’kron had swords and maces in theirs. “Your warchief is merciful,” Garrosh snarled. “You live, so that you may obey me, blood elf!” Bloodblade nodded slowly; the gesture was clearly painful.

Frandis Farley, having a poor excuse for a drink with Kelantir Bloodblade, turned at the sight. “Trouble,” Kelantir whispered. “Not necessarily,” Frandis replied in an equally soft voice. Before his companion realized what he was about to do, the undead was waving and calling cheerfully, “Friend Malkorok! Are you slumming? The contents of a chamber pot are probably better than the swill this rascal Grosk serves, but it’s cheap and I hear it does the job. Come, let us buy you a round.” The Kor’kron looked to their leader, who nodded. “Grosk,” Malkorok rumbled, “drinks all around.” He clapped Frandis on the back so hard the Forsaken nearly fell forward on the table. “I might expect to find tauren or Forsaken here.” He sneered as Grosk busied himself plopping down dirty glasses and a large jug of grog. “But I must say, you look sorely out of place.” “Not at all,” said Kelantir, narrowing her eyes. “I have been in worse places than this.” “Perhaps, perhaps,” Malkorok said. “But why are you not in Orgrimmar?” “Iron allergy,” Kelantir said. For an instant, Malkorok stared at her, then he threw his head back in a guttural laugh. “It does seem that you and several others prefer more rustic environments,” he said. “Where is that young bull Baine, and his toady, Vol’jin? I had hoped to speak to them.” “I have not seen them in a while,” said Kelantir, putting her boots up on the table. “I do not much involve myself with the tauren.” “Really?” Malkorok looked puzzled. “Yet we have witnesses that put both you and Frandis right in this very inn just last night, in close conversation with both the tauren and the troll, among others. They reported that you were saying things like, ‘Garrosh is a fool, and Thrall should return and kick him all the way to the Undercity, and it was cowardly to use the mana bomb on Theramore.’” “And the elements,” put in another of the Kor’kron conversationally as he reached for the jug of grog and refilled his cup. “Yes, the elements—something about how it was too bad Cairne hadn’t killed him when he had the chance, because Thrall would never utilize the elements in such a cruel and insulting fashion.”

The blood elf and the Forsaken were silent now. The two watched them go. When the Kor’kron had departed, Kelantir closed her eyes and exhaled. “That was far too close for comfort.” “Indeed,” said Frandis. “For half a moment, I expected to be arrested, if not outright attacked.” The blood elf turned to signal for more drinks, then frowned. “That is odd,” she said. “Grosk is gone.” “What? With such a crowded inn? He should be hiring more help, not skipping out with several thirsty customers waiting on him.” Their eyes met. No word was spoken between them, but as one, they rose and charged for the door. They almost made it until a frost grenade locked them into position. Three frag grenades finished the job, and Razor Hill Inn exploded.

Anduin had never been to the inn at Razor Hill, and saw nothing in the scene before him to make him want to have visited before it had been destroyed and rebuilt. It was dark, raucous, filthy, and likely foul-smelling. He noticed the bronze dragon Kairoz hiding a smile at some of the reactions that this particular tableau engendered. Nonetheless, it seemed to be a boisterous place of good cheer, until the Kor’kron entered. They paused at the door, their hulking presences blocking out most of whatever light penetrated into the tavern’s main room. Two patrons, a Forsaken and a sin’dorei, were drinking together, but looked up at the newcomers. “Pause,” Tyrande said. “These two Horde members are Captain Frandis Farley and Kelantir Bloodblade. Captain Farley was sent by the lady Sylvanas to command the Forsaken units that would serve under their warchief. The Blood Knight, Bloodblade, had previously served under Ranger-General Halduron Brightwing. Both, by all accounts, fought well in the battle against Northwatch Hold.” Anduin glanced over at the Horde area. Both Sylvanas and Halduron were leaning forward. Anduin had not heard of either Farley or Bloodblade, but judging by how their leaders reacted to their images, the two were held in high regard.

Bloodblade had hair the color of the sun and skin so pale as to look untouched by it. Even off-duty, she kept pieces of her armor on. “Perhaps, perhaps,” Malkorok said. “But why are you not in Orgrimmar?” “Iron allergy,” Kelantir said. Despite the tension, Anduin grinned. He liked this Kelantir. She was brave. It was the sort of thing his friend Aerin, a gutsy dwarf, lost to the upheaval of the Cataclysm, might have said.

“That was far too close for comfort,” Kelantir said, exhaling in relief. “Indeed,” said Frandis. “For half a moment, I expected to be arrested, if not outright attacked.” Kelantir looked around. “That is odd. Grosk is gone.” Frandis brought his jaw back into position for a frown. “What? With such a crowded inn? He should be hiring more help, not skipping out with several thirsty customers waiting on him.” And as the two locked gazes, Anduin knew. The hair at the back of his neck rose, and he wanted to shout out a warning. But this was not the present; it was the past, and it was too late, had already been too late by the time Farley and Bloodblade had realized what was going on. The ill-fated pair leaped to their feet and raced toward the door. Ice crackled up to stop them in their tracks, and the scene went white. The sound of an explosion echoed through the hall, and then the Vision disappeared.

#» character study — ⌜with sunlight shining through her scars.⌟#» out of character — ⌜number one elf apologist.⌟

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artistgem · 20 days ago

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Promises

The Siege of Orgrimmar angst fic no one asked for.

2,464 words.

Taran, truthfully, had no idea how he had survived.

One moment he was standing on a shoddy wooden bridge, determined and at peace, ready to give his life for all of Pandaria, the next he was bleeding out from being gouged in the stomach atop the spiked eye of Garrosh Hellscream’s battleaxe, Gorehowl. Force to his knees and could only helplessly watch as the Heart of Y’Shaarj tainted the sacred pools he had so desperately tried to protect. The resulting explosion of corruption blooming into the sky, polluting once clear skies into an ominous black and white, and that was not even getting started on the blight that soon befell the golden, eternal vale all around him.

A series of explosions erupted underneath the ground and the only thing Taran – completely shell-shocked – remembered was plummeting off the platform.

What ever happened between then and how he got to the final chamber were only brief flashes in his mind. Stumbling over unsteady terrain. Coughing up blood. Confronting Garrosh once more.

He must have blacked out again afterwards – or been knocked out - as he found himself laying in a pool of his own blood, which was seeping out from his leather armour, and a faint ringing in his hears. A pounding in his head.

He barely registered the fact the Sha of Pride was several feet away from him and it was helped by the fact the Sha seemed to care less for the pathetic Pandaren dying on the floor.

Because that is what was happening, Taran was going to die here.

It was not a noble death. He would die here as a failure.

He should have tried harder. He should have tried harder to stop Garrosh, he should have pushed himself to his upmost limits even if it costed him everything. He should have tried harder to convince Xuen not to allow the Alliance and Horde into the Vale. He should have – could have – done so, so much more and yet he had not.

For just the briefest moment, he allowed himself a moment of vulnerability and shed the tears that were brimming in his fading eyes.

He was not going to pass on to the next life in peace. Not when he had failed his people. His Celestials. His-

Cho…

His mate.

…

He was leaving his mate a widower.

Fresher, hot tears fell faster.

He had wanted to spend the rest of his life with his mate and now it was ending so soon. He was leaving Cho to go on with the rest of his life alone, with only the reminder his mate had died without peace and marked with failure.

And Cho had asked him to come back to him safe, the last they had talked when Taran saw to the evacuation of the Seat of Knowledge personally, just to make sure Cho would be far, far away from the conflict. He had promised him he’d return.

A broken promise now.

Maybe there was one bit of peace for him, however. Cho was far away from here by now and would not have been caught in the cross-fire of the corruption of the Vale. Taran would never forgive himself, in life or death, had Cho been a casualty.

He had promised to protect him in his vows.

Taran coughed harshly, the rattling of his ribs shooting pain throughout his body and he stared blankly at the blood that splattered onto the ground.

Well. This was it.

He just wished – even for a second - he could tell Cho one last time he loved him.

Cho was his sun. His warmth where he was cold and harsh like a blizzard.

He was so, so cold now…

He shut his eyes for what he knew was the last time and coughed and wheezed as blood caught in his throat. Such a pitiful noise from someone who was once larger than life.

Ready to see what waited for him on the other side, he was not prepared to faintly hear the great doors opening before him and a rush of feet passing by him, nor the sudden burst of life from the Sha of Pride, who welcomed the lambs to the slaughter.

He was not prepared to hear Cho cry his name.

When he opened his eyes, for a split second he had thought he was hallucinating in his final moments. That the image of his mate was some way to ease his mind as he passed on.

The moment Cho’s paw touched his own and squeezed it tightly made him realise he was all too real.

Why-…why was he here?

He was so confused.

He was in so much pain.

He was so tired.

“Cho?”

His body shuddered with repressed wheezes and coughs. He did not want to traumatise his mate more by hacking up even more blood. There was enough surrounding him already and the fact he was dying in front of him.

Tired golden eyes lingered to the enlaced paws. His heart ached seeing how Cho’s was shaking. He could not bare to look at his face.

“The-…the outsiders”. Taran’s voice crackled for a bit; it was taking so much energy to speak. “They did this…w-we should have never had l-let them in…”.

Taran could not muster any true ire towards the Alliance and Horde champions, who were currently engaging with the Sha of Pride not far from him. He barely had enough energy to speak, much less waste it on an emotional outburst.

He was tired. Defeated.

The faint press of lips to the bridge of his nose soothed the ache in his heart briefly, as did the gentle hush that was as light as breeze.

“Don’t speak…save your energy, I’ll get you to the healers”.

Had this been anywhere else, under different circumstances, Taran Zhu would have been greatly amused of his smaller mate attempting to carrying him anywhere. Cho only barely reached his chest and lacked any form of muscle as ‘knowledge was his armour and the quill was his sword’. Taran was now worried Cho would get injured trying to drag him out or make himself vulnerable to any lingering enemies who would easily pick him off given his sole protector was out of commission. Or he was just giving his mate false hope.

Taran had no time to tell Cho something cliché such as ‘I’ll only slow you down’ because the smaller male was wiggling himself underneath Taran’s left arm and heaving him up as best as he could. Cho was clever as well because he muttered a quiet yet determined “I’m not leaving you” that brooked no arguments whatsoever.

Mustering every last bit of strength he had left, Taran stumbled onto his feet to at least take some of the strain of his small mate. With one arm slung around Cho’s shoulders, his other hand was clutching the wound on his abdomen where a cloth had been-

When had that-…

It was Cho’s tabard.

When had he wrapped it around him?

It was already stained a deep red.

They took their first few steps. Taran gritting his fangs tightly. Locking his jaw as his body ached and screamed to rest yet he soldiered on for the sake of his mate, who was staring straight ahead. Repeatedly squeezing the paw Taran had around his shoulders every so often, whether that was to comfort Taran, or himself, or both…who knew.

It…was a long walk through the ruins and then out through the mine, all the while he battled between slipping into unconsciousness and trying in vain to stay alert. Not only for any left over sha but just to listen to the soft rambling coming from his mate.

If he died, he at least wanted to die hearing his mate for the final time.

His ears finally picked up on something else, commotion from the entrance to the mine which instantly had him on edge but Cho kept walking them forward.

“It’s the relief efforts”.

And he was right, outside the mine several first-aid stations had been quickly set up and healers of all factions, races and classes were banding together to tend to the wounded and paying respect to the deceased. Those who were not medically inclined worked in tandem to clear the area of any leftover sha or were scouting through wreckage and bodies, bringing survivors to the healers.

Something stirred within Taran’s chest as he was lead to a tent and slowly laid down, immediately being swarmed with healers and medics, all the while Cho was by his side.

“We made it, My Heart. Just stay awake with me now”.

Their paws never parted for a second even as the top half of his armour was stripped away, the blood-soaked tabard removed, and his wounds were tended to.

“You are lucky you are pure muscle; you are going to pull through, Taran. You are going to be okay”.

Taran finally had the guts to look at his mate fully and his heart broke into many splintered pieces at seeing the tears in his eyes, in spite of the smile on his face. It was too forced. Cho was still shaking. He always hated seeing Cho cry, such gorgeous eyes and kind face should never have a hint of sorrow ever.

Achingly, he lifted his free paw to wipe away those dreadful tears with his thumb. Cho leaning into the palm of his paw with a mix of a sob and a laugh.

“’m…I’m so sorry…”

“What ever for, My Heart…you are here you came back to me like you promised”.

Taran squeezed his eyes shut.

“I failed…the Vale I-…I tried…I should have done more I’m so sorry”. He hated how his voice cracked. “So…so many good people died”.

Cho’s face contorted into worried horror.

“Taran…Taran, no…no nonono do not say such things you did everything you could have”. His own voice was breaking as tears were flowing even more freely. Purple eyes lingering on the wound to his abdomen before Taran firmly tilted his head back to look him in the eyes again.

(He was grateful the healers and medics were professional and focused on tending to him rather than actively eavesdropping in on a vulnerable conversation).

“I just want you here – alive – with me. The Vale can be restored. The dead can be put the rest. I cannot replace you…please, I cannot- I can’t I can’t I can’t…”

He was sobbing now. Gut wrenching sobbing and Taran was shaking now, squeezing Cho’s paw tightly.

“Don’t cry…I hate seeing you cry”.

Cho sniffled.

“I could say the same to you…”

With another sniffle, Cho laid down on the hard dirt and burrowed his face into Taran’s neck, who rested his chin atop his mate’s head. The healers and medics worked dutiful and ignored the howling cries and barely repressed sobs.

Soon their work was done. Wounds were stitched, bandaged. Blood lost was slowly being transferred back.

Taran and Cho still laid side by side. Exhausted and red-eyed and silent. Their clasped paws were held between them and at some point Taran had brought his other arm around Cho to cushion him off the uncomfortable ground. Cho was busy focused on his heartbeat.

There was movement at the tent’s entrance which Taran and Cho could only blankly glance over too, being greeted by one of the relief effort volunteers who looked reluctant for their sake.

“Lorewalker Cho, you are needed out here. Lady Proudmore and Lord Regent Theron require someone who has been into the chambers below and no one from the previous party has returned…”

Cho did not move for a moment before slowly sitting up. Even more slowly bringing the palms of his hands to rub at the corners of his eyes and sniffed.

“May I have a moment…I will be out shortly”.

“Of course”.

The volunteer turned and left quickly. Cho shakily sighed before straightening up, taking slow and measured breathes. Taran watched him undo his hair bun, fix his hair before redoing it up again, carding blunt claws through his sideburns and harshly rubbing at his cheeks to remove the feeling of tear stains. He reached to the side and slipped on a fresh, clean tabard – that one of the medics must have left for him earlier.

He did not look ready to face anyone but Taran admired how quickly he put on a fake mask to appear fine when things were not fine.

Cho looked at him and smiled (it did not reach his eyes).

“Seems they need a navigator”. He laughed humourlessly. “No idea why…getting down there is simple enough and the champions cleared everything out”.

The Lorewalker bent down and pressed a soft kiss to Taran’s forehead and made to stand up when Taran reflectively grabbed his wrist. Fur standing on end. Cho was briefly startled but his smile settled into something more genuine.

“Taran, I’ll be fine”.

The Lord stared at his paw around Cho’s wrist and slowly loosened it, not releasing it though. Mildly embarrassed but could you blame him for being on edge and not wanting his mate to go back down there.

But he could not delay Cho any longer.

“Come back to me, safe”, he begged. Quietly.

Cho’s features softened even more. This was the Cho he knew and loved. “I will, I promise”.

He bent down again and Taran leaned up, aiming for a kiss to the lips but Cho planted the kiss to his nose instead. Upon seeing the confused look on his mate’s face, Cho raised an eyebrow, amused.

“We can have a proper kiss once you wash the blood out of your mouth”.

Taran blinked and – for the first time that day – laughed, even if it was soft and short. His fingers slipped from Cho’s wrist and he let his mate stand and move to the tent’s flap. Cho paused and turned back to Taran. Face sincere and eyes captivating and Taran was reminded all over again how wonderfully, radiantly gorgeous Cho was.

“I love you, My Heart”.

His heart quickened.

“I love you too, My Flower”.

Cho closed his eyes, breathed in deep before composing himself. Set his shoulders and stepping out of the tent, leaving with a flutter of his cape.

It was silly how quickly Taran immediately missed his presence but there was not much he could do until he was given the clearance to leave. However long that was.

So instead he laid back down and tried to rest. Holding on tight to the promise Cho would be back and he would be fine and safe.

When a healer entered his tent and finished up some exams, they asked if he needed anything – food, something to drink, some painkillers?

He asked for mouthwash.

#pandaren #taran zhu #lorewalker cho #hitting books #fanfiction #fanfic #writing #story writing #creative writing #angst #angst with a happy ending #tw near death

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