Memories

Sleep did not come easily this night, despite the exertions of the day. Running, marching, battle, late night banter; all good things and yet Ghelgor had to force his eyes closed to try and rest. Against the back of his eyelids he saw Draenor, dying wastes and withering forests, his birthplace. He saw his village, rising out of the red, dead soil like a beacon. The blacksmith where he had worked, the arena where he had fought, and his father's house where he had lived. He hadn't remembered his childhood this clearly since before he went through the Dark Portal and left everything behind. Orcs walked the streets; his clan, his people, and his family. Gandrak of the Twilight's Hammer clan; the great warrior, stout protector of the village, slayer of Draenei and Ghelgor's father. He looked so young, so strong and confident, nothing like the old orc who died at Mount Hyjal. He stared down at a young Ghelgor, barely over the age of six, lying in bed, wounded and dehydrated. He was grinning yet palpably serious. “Your trophy was among the most interesting in a long while to come out of that game you cubs get up to in the forest.” Gandrak put a hand on his son's forehead, with a tenderness Ghelgor had completely forgotten. “The Draenei cub adorns the village ramparts as we speak. You've made your father proud. I'll see to it that you get a real weapon in your hands as soon as you're better, it would be an affront to let your talents go to waste.”

The young Ghelgor said nothing, still suffering from the consequences of the “game” he had played. He had slain not only his first, but his second and third Draenei in Terokkar Forest several days ago. He wasn't sure if he was too weak to speak or simply unable to find words. The experience had left him shaken and he had not said a word since he awoke, safe in his bed. The Draenei faces haunted him in his dreams, their eyes staring at him and their voices screaming. Every night he slew them to stop the torment, every night it became a little bit easier to do so. Perhaps with time, they would stay dead.

The scene shifted and the young Ghelgor was out of bed, standing in the streets of the village. There was someone with him. A slightly smaller orcling circled him rapidly with agility and strength. Modrak, Ghelgor's younger brother, showered him with taunts. “I saw you'd been crying when they found you, brother! Orcs don't cry!”
There was a small crowd of orclings around them, egging the combatants on. Ghelgor still said nothing, only moving to keep Modrak in front of him. His brother shot forward and landed a punch, drawing blood from his nose. “Hah! Are you going to cry now?” Modrak grinned and punched again, splitting Ghelgor's lip and eyebrow. He reeled from the assault, stumbling back, and the crowd reformed to keep the fighters in the center. Blood oozed from his nose and lip, filling his mouth. The rich yet unpleasant taste was like a wake up call. Roaring fiercely, for his size, spraying blood, he charged his brother and tackled him to the ground. The two brothers tangled on the dry street, sending up dust that made Ghelgor's eyes sting. They wrestled to the cheers of the crowd, grabbing, clawing, biting and punching. Finally, Ghelgor pinned his brother down, glaring at him with eyes filled of anger. Modrak grinned wolfishly, bringing his leg up and using it to force Ghelgor off of him.

Ghelgor got up from the ground and the scene shifted. He was older now, surrounded by warriors from all manner of orcish clans. To his right stood his father, dressed in his black plate armour and a large axe at the ready. To his left stood his brother, clad in tough leather gear and a bow in his hand with an arrow ready. In front of them was the capital of the hated Draenei race, a majestic stronghold standing defiantly against the onslaught of the Horde. He felt the hate, it was like a part of him, no less so than his arm. Every day since he first took life, he had spent training with weapons, sparring with the older warriors and with the other young orcs. Every night he slew his enemies, tearing their faces from his mind with increasing ferocity and cruelty. It was so easy now, he slew them several times a night. But the time had come to face his enemies in the waking world yet again.


The Horde started marching on Shattrath, their synchronised steps causing the ground to tremble. The land itself feared them, and rightly so. Ghelgor fed off his hate like a drug, letting it fill him up, revelling in its simple pleasure and ecstasy. He wasn't even sure what it was he hated, but he knew what he'd direct it at. The pace quickened and the land quaked in fear. Gandrak glanced at Ghelgor and Modrak. “Fight well, my sons.” The two brothers nodded.

The scene shifted and Ghelgor saw the on-going battle. The orcs fought against the entrenched and desperate Draenei through the streets of the city, in their great halls and temples, and in their homes. Ghelgor was fuelled by hate and adrenaline as he charged through the battle. For every life he took, his reflexes became quicker and his vision sharper; it was intoxicating. All distractions vanished and he saw the world with amazing clarity. The blood haze was the most beautiful thing he had ever experienced.
As the Horde washed the city's defenders away like a tidal wave, the fighting devolved into massacre. There was no stopping the beast that had been unleashed. Houses were brought down on top of its inhabitants, females and cubs crushed by the debris. Unarmed Draenei running for the gates were cut down in mid-step. A female with an almost newborn cub in her arms ran straight into Ghelgor on her way out of her burning house. He picked her up by the throat, roaring in her face. The female, her face now spattered with blood and saliva, stared at him defiantly. He ripped the cub wrapped in cloth from its mother's grasp and held it by its legs, dangling, as it cried out. Its mother screamed and wriggled, kicking at her tormentor’s chest in an attempt to save her offspring. As would any beast. Ghelgor swung the cub with all his might against the wall of the house, crushing its head like a fruit, its contents raining down on both Ghelgor and the female. Her face contorted into a grimace of sheer pain as she let out a primal, blood-curdling scream in a language he couldn't understand, tears pouring down her face. He felt nothing, no emotions clouded the clarity of his rage as he snapped her neck and threw her to the side. Behind her, inside the house, with the flames licking their backs, stood two older cubs petrified by fear. Ghelgor reached in and grabbed the door handle, closing the door and sealing their fates.

Reality rushed to meet him as he shot up in his bed, sweating and breathing heavily. He threw his legs over the side of the bunk-bed and stood up to walk outside. The night air was brisk and Thunderlord Stronghold was quiet. He wiped sweat from his old, scarred face and looked up into the sky. Tonight he had been closer to his home than he had been since he left it decades ago. He had buried it in his mind, erased the memories of it, convinced himself it was gone and that Azeroth was his home now. For the past several years he had lived among the Marauders, trying so hard to be accepted, to act like them, talk like them and think like them. He wanted to fit in, he wanted to belong. And he had been successful. He'd even managed to find a mate, something he had given up hope of since Neda left him. But with each day spent on the corpse of his old world, he remembered more and more. Conflicting thoughts and emotions assailed him day in and day out. And tonight, he had been taken to Shattrath. The walls and ruined houses of the city echoed the past so clearly it had been like a stabbing sensation as he walked the streets. But the people there went about their lives like nothing had happened. It bothered him greatly.

The Marauders had gone to Shattrath to party at the famous World's End Tavern there. Ghelgor remained by the door, unable to party in a place that could just as well be Stormwind. He watched the people passing by with an ever increasing frustration and confusion. Anger, shame, disgust, pride, blood lust; he didn't know what to feel. The orc he had been moulded into in his youth and the orc he had made himself into were at odds, two worlds colliding with potentially terrible results. The bar fight could not have come at a better time, allowing him to vent his frustration on the patrons inside. But it ended quickly as the officers rounded the Marauders up outside the tavern, scolding them and ordering them to march. They were going to let off some steam by raiding a local Alliance base.

Ghelgor tried to remember the battle but it was hazy, like he had been half-asleep. He had fought like a beast possessed, reliving the battle of Shattrath all over again. And he had engaged in a short verbal battle with Stormseer Oceanborn about the killing of cubs. The whole ordeal had been surreal, he hadn't felt in control and it worried him. He was used to letting go and giving himself to his rage in battle, but tonight had been more like the rage taking control by itself, hungrily and greedily grabbing at his mind. The cracks in his façade were beginning to grow wider and deeper. Who was the real Ghelgor? The murderous beast of the battle of Shattrath, the cold and bitter Marauder, or neither? Maybe he only had masks, maybe there was nothing beneath them. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. The sooner they were off the corpse of Draenor, the better. One of the masks had a clan and a mate, and it wasn't the beast of Shattrath.
He let himself slide against the wall of the inn until he sat on the cold, hard ground. Rubbing his face and his tired eyes, he looked around to see if the sentries were at their posts, at least the ones he could see from his position. No doubt there would be heaps of guard duty waiting for him in the weeks and months to come. Grim had promised to have a long talk with him about his behaviour, and they both knew what that usually lead to. First there'd be the insults and the screaming, and then the fighting, and then poor old Ghelgor on guard duty. He sighed, forcing his eyes closed yet again, allowing his memories to flood back in as he tried to sleep.