Kindling

Fog lingering at the corner of vision. Sulfur snuffed out almost every other sense. A forest of trees as far as the eye could see, their bark brittle, cracked, and scorched black. It was nearly impossible to distinguish between the earth and sky. All was swallowed by the abyss. Even the stars, yet there was light. Light in the trees, in the rocks, and dead, dry grass. There were no spirits here, only hunters, and the hunted. 

A low growl rippled through the mist—no, from inside her bones. One, then another, until the sound reverberated in the chest. Merada began to run. She had to, she had to find help, find the Expedition, find- something other than the sea of dark. 

What would it matter? With every turn, the world spun on its own axis. The path twisted, folding back on itself. She took a step forward, and the same step echoed behind her, like she was walking in two directions at once. Tree branches pushed her back, shoved her forward. 

She would run and make no progress, and the wolves grew closer, burning fur like comets in the night. Burning with hunger, with hate, with the Fel. Each step they took scorched the ground, killing what could hold no life. The sound of their claws raked against her ears as though her skull itself was being scored.

They circled. Herding. Waiting.

A voice called her daughter. Only it wasn’t one voice—it was a chorus, every word echoing at different times from every maw of every wolf. It was a ripple of overlapping sound that made Merada’s teeth ache, their words too distorted to hear and yet all that could be. 

They asked why she ran, why she was afraid. 

The mists parted, the forests bowed. A towering figure emerged, the silhouette a grotesquely familiar image of a mother. Once brave, now broken. Rocky spikes erupted from a bent back. Ash-choked skin clinging to bone. Lips split into a jagged smile. Green coal eyes pressed into rotting, torn sockets, which oozed and dripped with corruption. 

It was time to come home. 

The mother-monster issued the wordless command, and the wolves lunged as one. Claws and fangs flashed, tearing through the fog toward her. Merada stumbled back, throat locked in a scream that never escaped, vision narrowing to the burning maws. She raised her fists to fight, but there was no hope. She was alone, and there was too many. 

An axe bloomed in her mother’s hands; massive, runed, dripping green embers. It fell, too fast, filling her vision until there was nothing but the blade, the shriek of air splitting—

And then Merada snapped awake, gasping, but alive. 

Sweat chilled her skin. The darkness of the inn pressed in heavy and close, and her hands clawed through it until they found the vented pommel of Azier. She pulled the blade close to her chest, white knuckles shining under the moonlight that streamed innocently through the window. Slowly, she lifted a hand to her temple, fingers brushing the spot where the axe should have split her, half-expecting to find blood. There was nothing. Just trembling, damp skin.

She sat up slowly, careful not to draw attention even in the privacy of the room, and curled her knees up into her chest so her body would be as small as possible. Wishful thinking, her ogre blood would never allow her to be “small”, but after weeks of sleepless nights and haunting visions, it was one of the few proven things that helped steady her. That, and a weapon in her hand. There was never one in her nightmares, none but the axe that would always prove her doom in those cursed woods. To feel even a sliver of power back in her hands was a blessing, even if it came at the cost of not hearing the voice that belonged to blade.

The window stood half-open, a faint, cool night breeze slipping through. Merada crossed to it and leaned against the sill, letting the cool air touch her fevered skin. Outside, the village was hushed, shadows heavy across the streets and the valley beyond. At least they weren’t haunted by the ghost of the mogu Spirit-binder any longer. 

But in the distance, one light still burned as it always had—the steady orange of a forge fire. Dorant’s forge. Her gaze lingered there longer than she meant it to, but there was no one to catch her staring. 

It occurred to her then that she had never thanked him or Azier properly for saving her life. They had all been in such a hurry to return to Halfhill and see that sleeping sickness had indeed passed with the containing of the cursed Urn that there hadn’t been time.

But there was time now. It was very late into the night, but she could make her way across the field, give a blessing to the forge that remade the living blade, and be back well before morning. She would have to be quick.

Before Merada could consider the matter further, she wrapped her fur cloak like a shawl around her shoulders and slipped out of her room.

---

Dorant had been inside his home when he heard the faint scrape of movement from the forge next door. No one announced themselves, but neither did they make any effort to conceal their movements, the easy cadence lowering his guard. Even so, he noted how close a weapon lay at hand, though instinct told him that it wouldn’t be needed. Deciding to investigate, the large orc took a step outside, wearing simple leather pants and little else as he exited his home. The night air met his skin as he turned the corner, pausing at the forge’s threshold to peer into the dim interior.

He immediately recognized Merada as she sat on the edge of the burning coals, smiling faintly as her fingers stretched out to dance with the heat radiating from the forge. Her state cut the relaxing caution short; hair falling loose and unbraided past her shoulders, layers of rigid formality shed to reveal tired eyes with dark circles beneath them. She wore no armor, just the shift she had slept in and her wolf pelt cloak, pulled tight around her. Nor did she bring any weapons, except for the dagger Azier that she juggled in one hand. It hadn’t left her side since her encounter with the Mogu Spirit Binder.

“Merada? What are you doing here?” he asked in a gentle tone filled with curiosity and concern. Even in the dark of the night, the Blackrock orc’s fiery eyes were the most visible part of him, though his form filled much of the entrance as he stepped forward.

 Gentle as his voice was, it startled her a bit as her mind was lost staring into the coals. “Dorant.” Merada’s eyes snapped to him—sharp as lightning—before softening, retreating like the slow roll of thunder. The fur wrapped around her slipped from her shoulder, revealing bare skin to the forge’s glow. “I couldn’t sleep,” she answered quietly, “And I thought it time I should come honor the blacksmith and the forge that proved to be my salvation.”

Dorant shifted slightly, not from discomfort, but perhaps a hint of awkwardness. He shook it off in a moment as he walked towards her and the forge, and in a move that seemed more habit than anything, he took up a metal instrument and tossed the coals around, reawakening the forge for both of them. The rush of heat came too close to Merada’s hand, prompting her to pull it away. It left more light for her tired face.

“There is no need to honor me or the forge. The forge is where I work my craft, and I use it to be useful. I am glad that it and I could serve you well...” he said gruffly. “I am glad you are safe after our recent ordeal. I...was concerned when you fell. Thankfully, Azir was there to lend me his strength to banish the phantom along with the help of our friends...but tell me...why does sleep evade you this night?” He turned his fiery gaze to look at her with a faint tightening of his jaw.

“It’s evaded me every night since we encountered that thing.” She confessed, her rage subtly biting at the consonants as she spoke, but when she met his gaze, her edges softened with a new kind of warmth. “But seeing your forge from my room in the inn has proven to be… a comfort. One that I’ve come to rely on, along with Azier. He loves recounting that battle with you. Often.” She chuckled hollowly, then added, “You have a way with the elements of Fire and Earth, even if you can not hear them speak. You are the reason I am here at all, and not still trapped there. That deserves a kind of honor, I think.”

Dorant couldn’t hold back a smirk. “I have always felt a kinship with the elements of fire and earth. I know not why, but though I do not hear them, I feel best when forging, when molding metal with fire and water. Feeling the rumble of the earth under my feet and the cooling wind when stepping out,” he said with a small chuckle. “I was not born to be one of the shamans; I am a warrior, a soldier, and a smith. And this is enough for me to feel content. I am humbled and grateful to Azir, of course. But I think it was our mutual desire to protect you that ignited the proper spark...that thing was a phantom of dreadful power, but even it could not handle his ancient flame,” He shifted a moment, “I am...happy to know you find my forge comforting. I feel similarly when I am in here...You are welcome to stay...if you wish.”

Merada did not respond for a moment, considering his offer, with conflict written on her face, as if she was hopeful for the offer but too afraid or proud to ask directly. “I would like that…..For the moment, if it would not be imposing.” She corrected, looking down at the fraying edges of her fur cloak, “I would not be a burden to you. It is shameful enough that I fell so easily before. My only excuse is that it was not a physical force that took me under… or away, perhaps.”

He shook his head. “You are no burden, so think not of it. I am happy to welcome you into my home. As for the battle, the only reason our enemy struck you down first is that, out of all of us, you were likely the greater threat to it. A shaman would have been able to banish such a dark phantom...But I must ask...what happened to you?” He stepped a short distance away and came back with two cups of water, offering her one.

She took the cup gingerly, her fingers brushing against his. “I am not sure. I am not skilled in the ways of dark magic. But I remember standing with you and our friends. The Urn awoke, then… a forest. Dense and thick. Like the ones my mother once told me covered a portion of Nagrand, back when it was still Draenor and not Outland. But it was wrong; the trees were dead. Black. Like the night sky without moon or stars. Charred, but without the signs of wildfire you would expect. There was fog, but I could see with a light that had no source. I don’t know how long I wandered until I encountered resistance.” Her face darkened. “Demons. Or perhaps they only looked like demons to me. I think whatever realm, like that entity, knew what memories to prey upon, somehow. Fears. Regrets. Doubts. Otherwise, how else could my-” She stopped, shaking her head and pushing away whatever images her words conjured in her mind. She couldn’t bring herself to tell the whole truth. “Otherwise, how else could it have felt so real? My wounds bled enough to convince me. The pain, too. I was about to fall in battle with the demon’s leader when a heat enveloped everything, and I awoke back in that tomb. No physical wounds yet… I feel something has been taken from me still. I worry the spirits sense it, too. It is hard to explain, but they do not answer me as they once did.” She took a drink of water, stamping out the fear that had begun to creep into her voice from the start of her story.

Dorant listened intently and silently until Merada finished. “Quite the ordeal. I am not versed in the knowledge of magic, but I have seen many things during war that shook my own heart at times. There are powers in this world that one cannot always understand. I have full faith in your fighting spirit, but I am glad we managed to get you out of there before any worse damage could have been done. As for the Elements...well, I cannot pretend to know their wisdom, but I think it is not a matter of respect; they can see in your heart, and from Bazrokh has told me, in his time, he had seen many shaman lose their bond to the elements because of what resided in their hearts. Fear, Anger, Hate...even doubt. The spirits are wise and know what such emotions can unleash through their ancient power. I think, in their wisdom, the elements await to see how you will uplift yourself past this ordeal, find strength in your ability, temper those emotions into something strong, reliable, and under your control. Courage cannot exist without fear. But you cannot let it control you, much like anger, hate, or even shame. You are no meek person, Merada. On the contrary, you have great wisdom beyond your years, you honor the old ways, and more than that, you have the counsel of an ancient being in that dagger of yours. As well as...friends and allies to support and counsel you...” The orc paused for a moment. “And you have me,” he said.

At that, she smiled, faint and weary though it was, but it grew stronger, giving her the courage to stand. “You are right... As is Bazrokh... Again. I just have to earn their respect once more. Though I suspect this time it will take more than when I was a girl.”

The alarm on his face was obvious. “There was another time?” 

Merada hesitated, unsure why she bothered to tell him, until she looked back at Dorant, his attention still on her, undeterred and unwavering, as he had always been. She had never told the story to anyone before. Maybe he would see the shame in it and think poorly of her. They had become close and shared much in their time together. It shouldn’t matter, and yet, it did. He mattered. He was not like those from Garadar, and if she could trust him with forging her shield and arms, with guarding her life in their battles, then she could trust him now, with the truth of herself.

Nodding, the Lorekeeper shifted her weight, the fur slipping off her other shoulder as she wrapped it around her body. “Yes, there was. The last time I felt this absence was after my mother’s death...”

When he did not interrupt her, she continued. “Back then, she was all I had, and I was all she had. She taught me everything I know in hopes it would ensure my place in the clan. It was... supposed to be my Om’riggor. I was already older than I should have been, but the Elders dragged their feet before giving their blessing to my mother to lead it. As ritual demanded, I named my prey the White Ghost. He was a warp stalker that had found its way out of Terokkar Forest and had chosen our talbuk, wolves, and later our warriors as its source of food. In hindsight, it was foolish. A girl was going to catch that which not even our best, seasoned warriors could. But I thought that I could. I thought I had the spirits on my side, the elements to guide me... and I did, in a sense. I figured out the pattern of teleporting based on the change of wind and tracked him down easily enough, all the way west to the old Legion Forge Camps...What I didn’t realize until it was too late was that I was being followed— hunted, much like the White Ghost. The Forge Camps had reignited, the Legion had returned to reclaim what was theirs, and their scouts were closing in on me.”

The Blackrock nodded along, expecting as much. The Legion’s third invasion rocked reality. Nowhere on Azeroth was considered safe in the early days; why should Outland be any different? Of course, they would seek to reclaim what was once a strategic foothold of theirs.

“My skull should have been ornamentation for the belt of the demon that had me until my mother’s axe split his head clean in half. She stepped between me and them, told me to run... and I didn’t.” Her voice wavered, the memory feeling as fresh as spring, even as it had been tainted by the nightmares of the Urn. “It nearly drowned me. I thought for so long that my pride had doomed her. That he did not see the sword that impaled her until it was too late because of me. I realized my error in time, when news from Azeroth reached us, but now...what the nightmares of Vaer Ming have shown me...”

Instinctively, the larger orc put his arms around Merada, but at the back of his mind, his thoughts fought a battle all their own. Was this too much? He told himself no; protection had always been his way, and protecting those who mattered to him was as natural as drawing breath. But this moment was different. Her closeness weighed on him in ways he would not acknowledge— Damn his feelings! This wasn’t about him. Merada had gone through a much terrible ordeal, and now she was placing her trust in him. That trust was a gift he would not betray, no matter what it awakened in him.

Merada fell into him, the gesture easing the burden that weighed heavily on her heart, even as the words tumble out in stops and starts, “It should not surprise me her spirit would be dragged from the depths of memory to torment me, yet... what could have prepared me to face her Fel-pocked corpse again, now puppeteered as my would-be killer? Dorant, I see her in my dreams! In the dark, when I close my eyes. I do not want to drown again, but I fear I am being dragged down all the same.” 

The admission is raw and immediate, and she trembled at the utterance. Likely the first time she had done so. Dorant turned to look into the fire of the forge, an expression of stoic determination, but eyes reflecting a life of many terrible experiences. Some of which, too, had been forcibly unearthed by the witch during their fight. But unlike Merada, who had been taken deeper in her thrall than he, the attempt to poison his mind had only served to hasten her doom at his hand.

He cleared his throat, still holding her. “That is- was not your mother. That was the twisted manipulation made of illusion and witchcraft to prey on the deepest of nightmares. We figured out quickly that the Mogu witch knew how to pull the right strings of fear, doubt, and regret. Such things used to haunt this very land and even take physical form...but no more. That is all that was: a nightmare born of sorcery and twisted hate, a terrible and cruel way to use the memories of your mother against you. But it was never her. It was that witch, and Azir has burned that wretched thing away.” His arm slid around her shoulders, holding her closer in a gesture of shelter. He continued with a sigh, “From what I see, your mother did exactly what any parent would do for their child. She did not die because it was your fault, or because you made her worry; she died to protect you so you could live. She fought a terrible and implacable enemy. There is no shame in that for you to carry. The witch lies and spits on the memory of your mother to plant this seed of fear in you. To grow a tree of vines made of doubt and regret. Burn it, cut it down. And forge it into something else, something strong. Make it a weapon, make it armor, make it a shield. Anything...We may be forged by our experiences, but it is we who have the power to hammer and temper them into lessons, into wisdom, and newfound strength. Make your heart into a fortress for the memory of those you cherish. And then no one can ever defile those memories for you. Your mother gave her life for her child. To die for your loved ones...is a good death, and I am sure she does not lament it. And is no doubt proud of the daughter she has, who set out of her own free will to find wisdom, companions, and to find her calling.”

She let his larger form wrap around, his strength becoming hers, and the words he spoke soothed her mind. Was this selfish? Perhaps. Did it matter? She clung to him a moment longer, unsure of the answer. “You are right, she would be. If the stories are true, she was just as free-spirited, and not for her chosen path, I would have never been born as I was, never given cause to leave Outland…I only wish that I could hear your words from her lips. Just once.” She sighed, moving her hair out of her face. “I say too much. I am sorry.” 

Dorant shook his head as he held her. “You speak your heart, and that is no bad thing. If anything, I am honored that you confide in me...I am happy to support you, Merada. You are a good person, hardworking, trustworthy, and forthright. All things I admire in you.” Through the faint tightening of his hold, which betrayed a reluctance to let go, he gently moved so his fiery gaze, with gentle eyes like the embers of the forge, could look down at Merada.” I am sorry your mother cannot tell you what you wish you could hear, but I know deep down she raised a daughter to be proud of. And I think many around you would agree with that. Our recent ordeal was a great challenge for us all, I know, for you most of all. But we did our part. We saved the people we could, we took care of the source of the problem, and no one could ask more than that.” 

Merada took a deep breath, nodding along. He was right. She was there with Makuo at the start of the infection. She was there when people started dying, and she was there organizing supplies and directing the healers when the worst hit the villagers of Halfhill. She helped the Expedition put down the Spirit-Binder in her own way; there was nothing to prove to anyone.  

“I think for the near future, you need to reconnect with your inner self and, by extension, reaffirm and perfect your connection to the elements, much like how I work to perfect my skills in the forge and combat. Nothing else matters. Azir, I am sure, can guide you. He is ancient, powerful, and wise.”

“I... I can not hear him, Dorant. Not since the tomb. Not even Iggy will respond. At most, it is impressions to interpret; otherwise, it is only silence.”

That caused him to pause, clearly taken aback by the news, but he only responded with an assured smile when he answered, “Then you rely on that strength within you; that is the legacy your mother left you. Not sorrow or regret, but strength and the power to heal.... and I promise to help you do that anyway I can. Much like I have already.”

“There are... Some things will reconnect me, as you describe. It will be dangerous and require preparation.” Especially given the upcoming Kosh’harg, which held special significance for orcish tradition and spiritual rituals, but that was not where her mind was set at that moment. “You are the Director, however. The Expedition requires your leadership and strength more than I as an individual...” A smile crept on her face, the light and strength returning to her eyes somewhat as she added, “...Then again, I know you, Dorant Emberscowl. You will take my words as a threat, even a challenge, and ignore all protests; you will follow me regardless of what I or anyone else says. Do you deny it?”

Dorant could only scoff humorously, almost offended by the insinuation. “Not a challenge, no, or a threat. I would say that I offer my aid because I want to. What leader would I be if I refused to help others? You especially. I would be remiss if I did not accompany you now. Especially as I motivate you to pursue it. It is not a matter of pride for me, but of duty, and because in my heart, I know it is the right thing to do. So I do it. Whatever you require of me, my shield is yours.” He then added with a stoic nod, almost more to himself, “Worry not about the rest of Emberheart. They know me well enough to expect this of me.”

She scrutinized him before chuckling to herself, despite her better judgment. Her smile was a little too wide, with a touch too much tusk. “I was joking, Dorant. You are a good man, an honorable warrior, even if your head is often protected by more than your helmet at times.”

He gave her a strange look as the realization hit him, as though weighing the truth she’d unwittingly let slip between her words. But it was right there; Merada had come to his home of her own volition, seeking comfort and warmth. She had other friends, but she chose to come here, without pomp or circumstance. Her gold eyes, tired yet full of mirth, were edged with something he would not name until now. He’d have to be ogre-levels of stupid not to see the obvious. He could almost see the old orc mocking him right now in his mind. His silence lingered, heavy but not unkind. At last, a faint breath left him as he shook his head to himself.

“Bazrokh always did say I was always too stubborn for my own good... Also told me I was foolish not to pursue my heart...” he said, surprised by his own openness. Clearing his throat and shifting a bit awkwardly before righting himself, he continued, “You need rest to restore your strength before we prepare for such a journey. You are welcome to stay with me for the rest of the night if it would make you happy— or feel safe.”

Dorant could face down the worst horrors the world could throw at him, but putting out an invitation to her was the greater battle, it seemed. 

He need not have worried. Merada's eyes widened at his admission. Her breath quickened, and her body froze in his arms. But not out of fear or rejection. If she feared him, then her hand wouldn't have found its way to him, to his chest, where his heart beat with the strength she always admired him for. If she rejected him, then her warm eyes wouldn't have softened as they did with unshed tears when she looked into his eyes again.

“I-I think... I think my heart would be stronger if I knew it was safe with you. If I knew it held your love as well." Her hand slid to cup his cheek, her thumb caressing him. 

His eyes closed a bit as he felt Merada's hand touch him. He couldn't help but nudge it a bit, enjoying the sensation. "Your heart is safe with me. As mine is with you, Merada."

“Then I will stay, to stay with you."

For a long moment, neither one moved, the silence settling in heavy like iron. Then she tilted her head, a faint smile touching her lips—half challenge, half invitation—and his breath caught; the stern line of his mouth softened. The smile eased into something vulnerable, his eyes darkening in the dim light, and the inevitable happened; her lips brushed his in a hesitant, feather-light touch. 

Trembling. Testing. 

But in the pause that followed, in how her eyes searched his and found no retreat, the hesitation dissolved. He leaned in again, slower and surer, and this time the kiss deepened. What started as tentative grew warmer, hungrier. She clung tighter to him, her breath quickening, and he responded with a low sound that vibrated against her chest. 

In one swift move that seemed almost effortless, he took Merada weightlessly up in his arms, and she went willingly. As he carried her inside from the forge to his home proper without breaking the kiss, only pausing to breathe against her lips, to steal another, and another still, neither one broke the other's gaze. Neither one expressed a shred of doubt.

In the dying embers of a lit fire, they spent the night together in safety, in warmth, and in romance. Under the stars, two hearts now beat as one; no more hesitations, or stubbornness, or foolishly imposed boundaries.