Old Hatred (Flash fiction, 971 words)

A veteran of the Fourth War is adjusting to a new era of peace and cooperation

Morning in Valdrakken had come bright and mild. Already the Artisan’s Market was humming - not quite the crowds it would attract by midday but enough to fill the air with the low buzz of conversation and activity. Artisans hawked from their stalls. The shrill laugh of a gnome came from somewhere near the jewelcrafting stations. Overhead where the dragons, some with riders, some without. Some glided gently through the gentle morning breeze while impromptu races started up along with the occasional near collision. From the blacksmith’s forge near her, she could hear the steady ringing clang of the hammer shaping metal.

So distracted was she that she didn’t realize the clerk was talking to her until a few seconds later. “Again, miss, I’m really sorry about the delay in your service. We’ve been so busy since Raszageth opened that Vault.”

“Oh!” Zhanxie replied with a stammer after being yanked so hard back down to Azeroth. “That’s okay! Sorry,” she added sheepishly, “…head in the clouds.”

The clerk, a pandaren like her, chuckled. “That’s totally fine, ma’am. This city does that to you - so much to see. Reminds me a lot of home, actually.”

Zhanxie smiled. “Oh are you from Pandaria? Or Shen-zin Su?”

He chuckled, patting himself proudly on the chest. “Pandaria. Dawn’s Blossom. You?”

“Turtleback, born and raised.” Zhanxie replied.

“I thought as much, given your accent.” She hadn’t even noticed that the two slipped into speaking pandaren together.

Zhanxie smiled in reply and the conversation lulled. She looked down at the weapons on display - fine craftsmanship on them all.

The clerk’s salesmanship kicked in and he perked up. “Are you in the market for a new weapon, miss?” and then he continued on before Zhanxie could say anything, “I noticed that blade of yours was looking a bit worn. Been through a lot? Could be time to retire her?”

Despite the obvious urge in his voice towards making a sale, it was hard to deny that he had a point. Her sword, brought here for polishing and re-honing, was getting a bit on the older side. The hilt was scratched and marred, the grip desperately needed a re-wrap. Maybe it was time to set it aside and get a new one.

The clerk pressed on. “Given the sword you brought here, I think you have a preference for the short blade? I might have just the treat for you.” He ducked behind the display for a second and emerged with a sword-shaped bundle of cloth. He set it atop the display and began to unwrap it. The blade inside had the sheen of the newly forged. A gold inlay ran down from the tip of the blade and Zhanxie felt compelled to reach out and touch her finger to it, tracing the path as it split into two inlays travleling down opposite sides of the blade, crossing over the guard and became threaded through the grip’s wrap, swirling down to where it reached the pommel and…

Oh.

She paused.

Embedded into the pommel was the unmistakable crescent sigil of the Horde. She drew her finger back from the blade.

The look on her face must have perplexed the clerk as he followed it to where she looked and…

“Oh? Oh no. Are…are you with the Alli-” He asked, hastily.

“Yes,” she replied curtly. Flatly.

“I’m so sorry ma’am,” the clerk stammered as he pulled the blade away, beginning to wrap it up again. “I just assumed from your cloak. The red…” he left it hanging.

She looked down at her red cloak, fingers reaching for its edge. “Red happens to be my favorite color. The Horde doesn’t have a monopoly on a color now, does it?” She was getting angrier, the last few words coming out like barks. She could feel things bubbling to the surface in her mind, battles, friends gone, the burning of a tree, the heat surrounding her as she tried to fight the fire. Tried desperately to save the tree, the people living on it. The smoke and the ash and the screams.

“No ma’am. I’m sorry ma’am. It was my mistake.”

She fingered the edge of her cloak for what felt like a few seconds, her heart thumping in her ear.

How long had it been since the tree? Seven years now. How long would that memory haunt her? How long would she taste the ash on her tongue? How long until she stopped hearing the screams?

“Would…would you like to take your sword somewhere else for service, ma’am? If that would make you feel more comfortable?” The clerk stammered.

How long would she feel like she has to fight? How long until she stopped looking at the world and seeing battle lines drawn?

She shook her head - she must have looked angry. She had been holding her breath, her arm tense. The buzz of conversation in her immediately presence had quieted, careful but curious gazes staring at her. The clerk had pulled her sword from under the counter, where it was still sheathed and was offering it.

Zhanxie swallowed, letting herself breathe again, her sword arm reaching up to take the weapon and she caught herself. “No…no, that’s okay. The Master Smith here has always done a fine job. Thank you.” Her voice was flat, measured. She held up her hand, not taking her weapon.

The crowd around her had returned to its normal buzz.

The clerk took the sword, placing it back under the counter and muttered something about the weapon being done in the afternoon before excusing himself.

Zhanxie smiled weakly as a social nicety and turned to look back up at the dragon riders. An orc, riding a bronze dragon, let out a joyous yelp while a dwarf nearby, hovering nearby was clapping and laughing.

Morning in Valdrakken had come.

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