A Good War

His son lay still. He had died weeks ago, but only now was he at rest.

I am afraid for him.

Do not be, Saurfang had said, so long ago.

He knelt on the cold, unyielding stone floor of Icecrown Citadel and gathered his boy in his arms.

They are changing our children. They have changed you.

The warlocks gave me a gift. I was once powerful. Now, I am the whirlwind, he had said. I am war

itself. I shall bring glory to my people until my dying day.

How strange those words seemed now. How tainted.

He lifted his son’s body and carried him from the citadel. The eyes of dozens of champions lay upon

him. Both Horde and Alliance soldiers stood aside. Some offered silent salutes, honoring him in his grief.

Our son must not follow your path.

Keep him on our world, my love. He will be safe. Untouched.

Icecrown Citadel vanished. The dry chill of Northrend was replaced with the warm sun and humid air of Nagrand. He laid his son upon an unlit pyre near the final  resting places of his family. His son was now dressed in simple garments from Garadar, the place he had known as a boy.

Before you go, what will you name him?

He is my heart. He is the heart of my whole world, he had said.

He touched a burning torch to the pyre. Orange flames began to spread, first in the kindling, then in the chopped wooden logs. Shimmers of blue and white danced among the flames as the fire grew hotter. He made himself watch the flames consume his son. It was his boy’s final honor—he would not turn away. He watched skin give way to muscle, to bone, and finally, to ash.

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