Hero

Oh Mezzy.

The woods of Elwynn are supposed to be so beautiful.

The sun sifting through the canopy in a golden and green moire, the singsong of the birds carefree upon the warm branches. Even the domestic bustle, the clang of a cowbell, the bark of a dog, the creak of a wagon wheel laden with vegtables market bound, there's a quiet peace in all that. The peace of clothes drying on the line, the softness of a bobber drifting at the end of a fishing line, the whuffle of an old destrier pulling a plow; his days of spurs and barding now but a faded memory.

I can't hear it Mezzy.

Not any more.

I can't taste the hint of apples in the gentle air, the sweet smell of hops and barley. I can't feel the caress of the autumn breeze, that measure of warmth of summers past and the promise of summers to come, the crystal measure of cold, reminding us that winter awaits before us.

Oh Mezzy.

For winter has come early. It is here.

The only thing I can hear are the broken cries of hurt and terror. The only thing I can feel is the cut of steel, the dull ache of that bitter fel miasma, the final heat of cleansing dragon fire. The scent of ash, brimstone and rot choke; there is no deep breath that can be taken, no sweet water that can wash away that taste, no wine potent enough to grant the blurred gift of absolute forgetfulness. I can't close my eyes, afraid of what I might see; black dreams and nightmares pale against the cruel truth that now haunts the borders of Dragonblight.

For I know if I close my eyes I would still see them.

Not just the knights of Stormwind, not just the stone strong of Ironforge, not just the light filled Dranei or the still Kaldorei.

But the children of Gnomergan too.

I never knew her name. But as I looked down the line of rank and file, I saw her. I know she had hair lighter than mine, but tied in the very same pigtails. Her goggles told me she was an engineer, that and how proud she looked standing next to her siege machine. I never knew her name. I should have asked. I should have taken that moment to offer a smile and a greeting.

So that my herald's ride could have come to a close, perhaps at some stone door in Tinkertown, where I could have looked to her mother and her father, unable to offer them anything that could counter such a loss except to tell to them they should be proud; proud of a daughter who had stood in His company.

Somewhere, sometime, behind me, like ripples of a stone in a mirror smooth pond, the other fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters will hear. And that is some manner of solace; knowing that in days upon days, from grandparent to grandchild, they will speak of those who fought with Him; a fragile immortality of lore, that at least some manner of consolation. But the ache is there, the darkest pit, knowing that there must be those who had no family, no kin to remember them, no one to raise a rough wooden goblet in the Thunderbrew in their memory, and yet, they too, stood for a fight for which there was no winning. They may have been alone among Stormwind's many, but that should not, it can not, cast a shadow upon any that fell today.

The shield I carry upon my back is heavy, as if its very weight could press my Dreadsteed's hooves deep into the ground.

I wish ... part of me wishes ... part of me would trade my very breath to have not started that path that lead to Wintergarde and its Scourge bound secrets. Or to have found some way to break that chain that lead to His holdfast. And yet I know in my heart that he understood full well the weight of the words we brought to Him. That they were his to bear, for how could He have given them to another, to ask someone else to take his place, to meet the fate he must have known awaited behind those black steel gates.

I think, I can't help but believe, his bravado, his boldness, there was more to it than simple pride. To call out the Liche King, before his very door, was as much for us as to tempt Arthas Menethil's cold temper. For it stilled the fear in our hearts and bones, which told anyone with even the littlest sense to run. I looked to each side, as those steel jaws opened, as I caught my first sight of frozen armor and the icicle sheen of Frostmourne. You could see that they they knew too, but more ... it wasn't power, it wasn't respect, because both of those qualities can be paid for in the coin of fear, and fear is a very poor leash.

It was trust.

You could trust, that when the world ended, He would be standing there with them, with us.

How could we not offer the same in return?

I can hope, I can wish.

I can wish, that as the final green mist closed in upon him, choking in the betrayal by Varimathras, that he saw a glimpse of the Dragonflight. And just as he stood and did not abandon us, with his fading sight, the stopping of his heart, he knew he had not been abandoned.

And that is why I carried his shield.

Not by griffin, not by some portal carved out of the arcane, by some mage, by some trickery of Dalaran.

But on my back, from the burning wastes and through his country, passing one last time through the forests of Elwynn.

Not abandoned upon that carrion field but homeward bound, one last time.

One last time across that stone bridge, to call witness of the city's elders, their still and carven gaze carrying time's weight, knowing another has come to join their ranks. To hear my Dreadsteed's hoofbeats upon fine paving, to proclaim His arrival louder than any trumpet call and hearing that sound thunder between the buildings and over the familiar canals.

They must have felt it, the importance of my missive, for even the guards at the keep gates stepped aside, as we galloped into the heart of the city. To skitter-skid to a halt before the throne of Stormwind itself; for even a Dreadsteed's hooves are not made for floors of polished marble. You could, however, hear the stone strain and crack beneath their heat, as if marking proof of the fall of Fordragon Hold.

To offer King Varian Wrynn the shield of his sword brother.

How could I have known, Mezzy, of what was to happen next? Am I that naive, am I that silly hopeful, to have sought both wisdom and strength in such a dark hour? Oh I am sure the dark hearted will look upon me as a simpleton. One has but to look at the history of humankind's kings to see how easily pride comes before truth, and how vengence seems to fill their veins.

I expected a call to arms, I am not that silly.

To fell the betrayer that took so many lives at the gates of Icecrown.

Gates beneath which I had heard the challenging growl of orcish war wargs, and it didn't matter that their skin was a different shade then ours. Against the Lich King, upon that field, all were brothers and sisters. Their blood was as red as ours, and the Scourge took them as easily as they swept over our Alliance ranks.

But, of course, I followed His King. A gift of loyalty to honor of those who fell. From Stormwind ...

... into the depths of the Undercity.

There we saw that traitor fall.

And yet, yet, how can I not feel that in the end the only one who held victory in those bloody catacombs is he who rules from a throne of ice?

King Varian Wrynn, how could you have turned against those who came, unbidden, to our aid, upon that Scourge razed stairs?

Or is that why you hate them so?

To strike with accusations of blackened trust, to call for a justice more empty than the scraps of armor smithed in Thunder Bluff; that which now lay beneath Angrathar. Blinded, only seeing the sword as the one true answer, and that scared me, because the last king who followed that broken truth is the very same one He gave his life to stand against.

Is that why you hate them so?

That it was an Orc who stood at His side, against the Lord of Snow and Ice? That when the betrayal came and burned down all, it was Saurfang who stood shoulder to shoulder, Ogrimmar steel beside Stormwind's shield?

Could it be you can not face the question which still echoes from each clip-clop of a Dreadsteed's hooves upon harsh cobbles?

When Stormwind's Hero, when Lord Bolvar Fordragon stood before the Wrathgate ...

Where were you?