Warcraft The wet dawn

The wet dawn.

The morning is being born right outside the war chief's window. The wet smell of dawn creeps through the heavy hide flap as the sky turns from a dark blue to a light purple outside. She can hear the city of Ogrimmar start to stir. She sinks into the bed a bit, guilty almost of her presence here. She considers for a moment, getting up and drawing the curtains closed, as if by blocking out the sun she can prevent it from rising all together.

In the coming light she can see all the scars littering his naked body, his back, his arms, his chest… a massive map illustrating the most brutal of battles in carved and twisted mutilated tissue. Her gaze settles not on his body though, but his face. She recons she has never seen him so peaceful before. His heavy brow is relaxed in a sleep so deep it could only be induced by the combination of alcohol and severe exhaustion. She knows he doesn't sleep well on most nights. His wide lips are open ever so slightly, his tusks protruding and pressing lightly against his cheeks. He is badly in need of a shave. It almost breaks her heart, looking at him like this. Although he has a warrior's heart and a body undeniably built for battle, he has a soul like hers that desperately longs for more peaceful times.

Rubbing her temples in wide, slow circles she sighs heavily and sinks into the thick furs. _"Isn't that all we ever wanted?"_ She asks herself in silence_. "Somewhere we can live simple lives far away from needless bloodshed?" _Her eyes wander over his features. _"Somewhere you can relax that crease in your brow and let your shoulders sag? Why is such a dream so out of reach no matter how hard we try?" _

Her body is more than tired. She is sore, for no matter how gentle he was with her (which he always is) their bodies don't fit together right. She isn't built to be with an orc, especially an orc the size of Thrall. Everything about the war chief is massive. He stands about a head taller than most of his people, his chest is wider, his shoulders broader. She assumes other parts of him are larger than average as well. To say she is getting used to it would be a lie, but the pain isn't so bad anymore. He probably knows that he hurts her, but she says nothing about it, so neither does he.

She has to close her eyes because looking at him makes her feel too much. Jaina is the master of controlling her emotions (or at least pretending to) but Thrall causes her pain. Pain similar to when she first realized that Arthas had slipped out from between her fingers forever. But with Thrall it seems sharper. It seems to hurt more, because it's fresher. The wounds haven't even started to close, let alone scar over. The knife is still in her flesh, still carving out its trenches in her insides. She is exposed and at high risk for infection. A part of her died with Arthas's rebirth. Another had died when she played the hand that killed her father. When Thrall had killed her father…

She is a fool to allow herself to have such 'relations' (such intense emotions) for the war chief. She doesn't have enough heart left to be able to loose anymore. Any heartbreak Thrall will inevitably cause her might actually be too much for her to handle. …But the way he makes her _feel!_ Both physically and intellectually… it almost seems worth it. Her mind wanders to thoughts of her father and the look his face would have harbored if he had lived long enough to know his daughter gives herself to the leader of the horde of her own free will. He would be beyond furious. There would be no words to express his distain at the situation. But Thrall is a _good_ man, a kind soul and a passionate leader. (A passionate lover as well.) He is everything her father had wanted for her in a man. A human man, of coarse…

She shouldn't be here. She should have _never_ been here. Their relationship should have remained how it was for years. Friends and leaders, conversing about politics through letters every few months. An occasional personal visit outside of razor hill every once in a while to discuss matters of importance to their cities. Not this… meeting in secret or this exchanging of hungry kisses in the dark. She grows afraid of this heat that swells in her belly whenever she thinks of him, alone in her tower at night. She is afraid of how close she wants to hold him. Jaina is not a very secretive person, nor does she like to be, but she doesn't dare mutter a word about any of this to anyone in case it destroys the very foundations she has built her world upon.

He stirs in his sleep. A grunt and the grinding of teeth indicates he's still deep in a dream. She wonders for a moment what it is the war chief of the horde dreams about before realizing its probably the same as herself. She lifts the warmth of the furs from her body and the chill of the morning bites her flesh as she quietly makes her way to the other side of the small room. She finds her robes and dresses, fixing her hair a bit with her fingers and straitens herself out. She focuses on the thought of Theramore, her vision so magically attuned she can actually see her tower in her mind. She closes her eyes as she begins to draw her energies into her core. Her stomach turns itself inside out and with a 'pop' she is gone.

She is never there when he wakes, but perhaps its better that way.


End file.

Warcraft, Romance