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| Details |
| Author: | Mrmook |
| Summary: | Atley has a brief encounter with a footman after the razing of Orgrimmar. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
Orgrimmar burned. The few remaining structures had been pierced by Alliance banners, flapping in the suffocating, ash-filled desert winds.
Garrosh Hellscream’s head was mounted on a pike in what the greenskins had once called the "Valley of Honor." The Warchief had demanded to fight to the death, and his request was granted. With his demise, and the end of his reign, perhaps the valley had finally earned its name.
Alliance soldiers not tasked with overseeing the civilians—young, old, and the few orcs who had surrendered—ventured to see it. This was their chance to witness the remains of the last Warchief, though they were forbidden from further desecration. Atley, however, couldn’t muster a similar excitement. Relief over the victory was palpable, but what was one orc’s severed head after you’d seen hundreds? It was what the skull on the spear represented that truly gave Atley solace, but he wouldn't deny the soldiers their celebration. The fight had been hard, and costly.
He stood atop a mound of red sand, surveying the war-torn canyon below. Above the black smoke, the sky shimmered crimson, stars faintly glimmering like light scattered across grains of sand. Whether it was dawn or dusk, he couldn’t say—the battle had raged so long, time had lost all meaning.
The knighthood had strict orders to prevent looting, though little remained worth taking from the smoldering ruins. High King Varian had grown merciful with age. Atley didn’t mind. He, too, had grown weary. Decades of war had taken their toll, leaving him too tired to revel in the chaos of a proper sacking. He often marveled at how Lothar had maintained his vitality at this same age—a lifetime ago. Now, even day-to-day life felt like a never ending battle against his own failing body.
A soldier limped toward him, emerging from the shadows of the swirling steel and carnage below. He clutched his side, stopping beside Atley to gaze out at the ruinous hellscape.
“It’s a gut wound,” the boy said.
Atley’s gaze shifted to the soldier’s blood-soaked Stormwind tabard. He nodded grimly. “Aye. You ought to get that seen to, and soon.”
The soldier shook his head, his hand never leaving his side. “There’s no point,” he said with a shrug. “I’m done for. Won’t be long now.”
Atley looked into the boy’s blue eyes, barely visible through the shadows of his scarred helmet. “I’m sorry,” he growled.
“Don’t be,” the boy replied. “Not your fault the Kor’kron ran me through.”
Atley grunted, shaking his head. “I’m sorry this didn’t happen sooner,” he said, gesturing at the devastation below. “We didn’t have time. The Lich King, Deathwing… Only when we were ready—properly ready—could we strike.”
The soldier reached up and clasped Atley’s shoulder, leaning heavily against him. His strength ebbed with every breath. “Well, I’m not sorry. I’ve waited my whole life to march into battle with you—and to do it here, of all places. It's an honor.”
A pang of guilt struck Atley like a spear, but he stood firm. This boy wouldn’t be the only bright-eyed soldier to die today—one raised on tales of valor and triumph. Stories never mentioned the stench of “triumph” on the battlefield. They didn’t capture that much in the tapestries.
“I’m sure my grandparents are proud,” the soldier said wistfully. Atley glanced at him, shaking his head. The boy pressed on. “Grandmother especially, I wager.”
Atley’s eyes dropped to the tabard, its once-proud lion now drenched in blood, its golden mane weeping dark, crimson tears. “Wot’ are you on about? Go see a healer. Your blood’s all over you, lad,” he snapped.
The soldier tilted his head, blinking slowly. “You mean our blood, father.”
His arm slipped from Atley’s shoulder as his body crumpled and tumbled down the hill, joining a pile of other fallen footmen.
Atley shot out a hand, far too late. “Wait!”
He blinked at the ceiling, breath hitching in his chest. The weight of the passing seconds pressed down on him like an unseen hand.