His gaze looked over his brother’s face.
“You seem a little worse for wear,” Clawmane said, chuckling. “I suppose we’ve all changed, though. The whole world’s changed since I’ve departed these walls.”
He looked out over the hill, toward the sundered Gilnean wall in the distance. The sounds of battle with the Scarlet Crusade had died down some hours ago, and the diffused sunlight pushed its light through the overcast grey, providing the hillside with some semblance of daytime.
Clawmane smiled a little, reminiscing.
“I was so unsure of the world when I had to flee through that wall,” he said. “I had such little knowledge of what lay beyond to know how to even survive. Even as a Druid-- and I distinctly remember your disdain for Druidry-- how I learned those things gave me such little solid footing to know how I’d make it through the week following.”
He turned back to look at his brother. “I was able to put my sculpturing to work for a while before I found more of my calling. But I was so hesitant to approach anyone because of our curse… because of how Gilneas had turned a cold shoulder to the world in a time of need.”
He breathed a deep sigh, the rain running off his mane as his gaze cast downward.
“I didn’t know if the world would forgive Gilneas,” he continued. “We were so fool hearty to think ourselves above any other cause. And yet… the world welcomed us back in. The Alliance welcomed us back in. We found refuge in the most magnificent place. It’s a tree we would have loved to climb as kids.” He laughed half-heartedly at the sentiment.
“I didn’t know if I could forgive…” he started, but choked up a bit. “…forgive myself. For what I had done after the curse took hold.” He paused, recollecting himself. “But the world showed me that all things can be mended. Time, itself, is not the answer. But for all the things that I would have guessed were beyond the wall, I would have been correct about none of them.”
The rain beat on the ground and the nearby buildings, heavier drips falling from perched spots to accent the white noise. True silence was never a thing in Gilneas. Clawmane crossed his arms, looking toward the city.
“And of all things… for the Forsaken to help us reclaim this city,” he said, looking back at his brother, smiling in mild disbelief. “Forgiveness was something that I finally understood.”
He paused a moment, turning his gaze downward once more.
“Until I realized that I would come back here.”
He reached into his pouch, pulling out a toy. It was a simple carved horse, paint all but worn from the trials of time and the constant, unforgiving attention of a small pouch ensuring nothing but the form made it telltale. Clawmane looked at it in his Worgen hands for a moment, turning it over.
“Charlie’s been everywhere with me though,” he said, holding up the named horse to his brother. “I had always held onto it for you. I was hoping that…” he choked up again, “…that if you couldn’t forgive me for what I had done to you, you would have at least thanked me for keeping Charlie safe like you had asked.”
At that moment, the sobbing began to rack his chest, and he knelt down in front of his brother. He shifted, slowly, from his Worgen form back to his Human shape, the fittings of a Druid’s armor shifting in size with him. His cowl fell off as his hand pulled, the wood and cloth hitting the soft, rain-soaked dirt beside the both of them. He cried in earnest, tears and rain both falling from his cheeks to the earth below.
He worked up the strength to look back up at his brother, a seemingly more difficult task than some of his recent battles.
“But,” he said in between heaved breathing, “if anything, I hope you can forgive me being away for such a long time. I have been doing so much, and it would have all been things you would have found exciting, I am sure.”
He heaved a few more sobs, working the strength to stand back up. He placed Charlie, the carved wooden horse, at the feet of his brother’s statue, stood atop a dais in the graveyard with the words, ‘Where my claws unmade you, with my hands I remake your visage’ etched into the front.
“I think you would have been proud, brother,” he said, swallowing heavily. His breath shuddered as he recomposed himself. “All of the things I have done, the people I have saved… the new World Tree I lent efforts to…”
He looked back up at his brother’s face, his face partially chipped on his cheek where time had weathered him poorly.
“It all has led me back here, different. Experienced. We were able to take back home, Thomas.”
He sighed a last time, kneeling to pick his hooded garment off the ground. “And in these last few hours, I’ve been able to do something that I thought was impossible.”
He looked back up at his brother’s statue. He smiled, albeit weakly, as rain washed around his dimples.
“…I forgave myself,” he said, his eyes reflecting warmth. Hope. “And perhaps that is the most important thing I could have ever done.”
Slowly, he placed his cowl back on his head. His size shifted as his claws slowly crept back, his fur rising beneath and his form shifting as an imposing Worgen once again stood before the grave. He reached his claws to his brother’s face, this time in kindness.
“I will visit again soon, Thomas,” he said, letting his paw linger a moment longer, before he turned and walked out into the Gilnean countryside.