In the solitude of the small and unremarkable room that had been afforded to Arron for the Zandalar campaign, he could swear that that he heard two voices, nature and origin both unknown, arguing over him in the silence of the dark.
Sleep now. You look so weary.
He has never needed it before. `
Nonsense. Can’t you see he is close to collapsing?
He has endured war before.
Not this war.
Sleep was a stranger to undeath, at least it should be. Yet he could not deny the meager ‘bed’ in the corner, albeit little more than a cloth placed over a slab of stone and two planks of wood, was looking unusually appealing.
Every creature in this world needs an opportunity to regain its strength. You are no exception.
And yet, lapses in consciousness have historically been rather unpleasant for you.
Which simply means that you’re overdue for some pleasantness.
He felt weary. Albeit consistent in appearance, he could feel his strength gradually waning ever since the war began, and he knew neither why nor how to stop it. He simply wanted desperately to feel the relief of respite.
That is a luxury reserved for the living.
Or perhaps a right that need simply be reclaimed?
He rolled the dice. With a twinge of exasperation Arron collapsed into the bed and shut his eyes, submitting himself to the mercy of forces he did not fully understand.
See? Look. You’re back home now. Everything is fine.
Indeed, it seemed so. Arron was standing in the village of his childhood on a bright summer day. He could faintly smell the aromas of freshly baked pies, hear the gossip shared between villagers traveling down the road, and linger upon the visual nostalgia of those old humble houses of brick and wood that eschewed the language of opulence in favor of the language of home.
Stop. It is unhealthy to keep coming back here.
The idealism of the scene before him morphed into a frenzy characterized by the scent of burning wood, of the sky tinged red and of people screaming in terror. And through it all were inhuman howls that sliced through the chaos and flashes of green that made themselves just barely visible in between the bodies of men, women and children fleeing for their lives.
Stop! This is not how the memory goes!
It was true enough of a memory for countless others.
But not for him.
Does it matter?
The people were gone now, any trace of them extinguished. Arron could now see the monsters, faintly obscured by the smoke, yet blatant in all their terrible savagery. Lumbering brutes with skin a sickly green and eyes a fiery red. Thick chests and arms that looked as if they could tear a grown man apart with great ease and two sharp teeth that jutted outwards from their lower jaws. They approached him slowly yet steadily, some carrying their great swords and axes over their shoulders, others crackling with fel magic as they let out sinister cackles.
It’s time to wake up.
How different do you think things would have been if these creatures never stepped foot upon your world? If they had never brought their savagery, their defilement of nature, here?
Wake up.
There would be no Horde. There would be no Scourge. You would still wear the blue colors of your home.
Wake up.
In the corner of his eye Arron could see a thin, fair, elven figure with long reddish hair beckoning towards him. She laughed softly, pleasantly, welcomingly. For a moment, Arron felt happy.
You could have had a life with her.
The form of the elven woman vanished in a puff of smoke, leaving a cold sensation at the sight of her departure.
You could still.
You could have had a -life-.
With a flare of hatred in both his eyes and heart, Arron drew his bow upon the encroaching monsters. He could see their forms clearly now, their ugliness on display, as he aimed at the heart of the nearest one.
Stop.
He was back in the room, bow aimed at nothing but a distant wall. Yet something was amiss. His eyes drifted to the hands in which he clutched his weapon and, in horror, he discovered them to be covered with heavy green flesh. Holding the bow felt wrong, as if his fingers were too thick for the drawstring and his left hand required only a slight bit more effort to snap the wood in twain. His bow dropped with a thud as Arron raced to a mirror positioned on one of the walls, confirming his fears. The face that stared back was as green and brutish as those in the burning town. He traced his face with his right hand and watched the alien reflection follow suit, his fingers dancing over the jutting eyebrow, the pointed ears, the sharp nose, and the rugged chin. It all made him seethe.
Do you not see? You have always been brothers unified by the same house, the same story. Abandoned, maligned, mistreated, hated. And, above it all, misunderstood.
Misunderstood?
But despite the ire of the world you found each other, your bond strengthened by your kindred hearts.
They are nothing like you.
You are more alike than you allow yourself to admit.
They are villains who craft the image of a poor noble savage to play the role of victim before an audience of fools.
They seek honor as you do.
A word that curiously changes with the seasons.
Both of your hearts beat for the same home.
You never asked for -this- home. You had a perfectly good one once upon a time.
Arron waved his hand in the front of the mirror, back and forth, back and forth. The reflection followed suit, but it seemed off by a second or so. Arron waved it faster, faster, faster. The delay increased from one second to two, and then three, and finally the reflection put its hand down and refused to move any longer.
What is it you would have done with them?
There seemed to be an element of sadness in the question.
Isn’t it obvious?
Another figure of elvish proportions materialized behind Arron, just faintly visible in the mirror. But this one was darker and wispier, pulsating with sickening power.
There will be those that bend the knee, and those that do not. One will be subjugated, and one will be purged. Regardless, it is the end of their will.
The Dark Lady will do much more than just that to the Horde.
If we’re lucky.
This is monstrous.
This is justice.
This will not bring you happiness.
But it will bring you peace.
Arron was grinning now. He was sure of it. He was sure it was a wide, toothy, gleeful grin, borne of the happiest sensation he had felt in a long time. Yet the orcish image refused to match it. Its eyes were wide with terror and its mouth was agape.
She would not approve of this.
Do you profess to being the voice in -her- head as well?
She would want you to move beyond hatred.
Which would be a hypocrisy. She mourns her past too.
If she saw the ugliness that you hid from her, the truth you keep in your soul…
Don’t you say it.
She would loathe you.
The words cut deep. Arron used his newfound physique for the only purpose that ever seemed to suit it; again and again he smashed his fist into the mirror. One crack formed, then they multiplied, each time further distorting the saddened image of the orc. Finally, the reflection faced ultimate obliteration and the last shards of glass shattered upon the floor. Arron looked down upon the mess he had made only to notice it was no longer there. He looked up at the wall which once bore the hated mirror only to find it bare.
Alone again in the dark of his room, Arron resolved to simply sit upon the edge of his bed and think in silence until the coming of the dawn.