The Grim Orphanage
A picture swirls in a pool of water, and memories long forgotten clarify and congeal…it is Hammerfall, and this is the Grim Orphanage.
Ceril had looked over this young flock for…how long? The years..they faded into eternity and back again, like standing between mirrors…
The old paladin had never meant to become attached to them; it was dangerous to even show any affection, really; but it was inevitable after so many decades. He tried to remain gruff; but as the years passed…what purpose in it? Children born into pain, and inevitably condemned to die into it as well….did they not deserve some small taste of innocent play?
They were the abandoned, the orphaned, the unwanted…..the endless stream of them, the eternal proof of the mindlessness and cruelty of war. His charges, the youthful and unyielding pawns of the labour trade. No child should have to be told that he or she would never see their parents again; this war had cost them so much in that, and yet more still would be extracted from their small bodies, and their innocent minds in the hard times to come.
The militia-run slave labour orphanages weren’t exactly unheard of; it was deemed a practical solution to a ongoing problem; the constant supply of parentless youth in a world torn asunder by war.
The conditions were minimal at best - meagre rations, rough treatment - the young ones had come to see this as their normal world, bereft of warmth, of any real companionship or compassion, except for Ceril’s restrained and awkward kindness only when the Hammerfall guards themselves were off-duty. Hammerfall’s reputation as a tough and dangerous outpost was not earned in vain. Outside the small orphanage compound, it was run by hardened soldiers, half-mad with battle, often the ones unwilling, or unable, to function in the normal military capacity. Most of the orphans were male - it was only in the darkest corners of his mind that Ceril could imagine where the females were now. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth in anger…briefly.
How..could…anyone…
He sighed with all the weight and gravity of the oldest of souls.
The paladin who had lived during nobler times felt a certain cringing understanding of its calculating efficiency…but a part of him rebelled against it, seeing such warmth and depth in those small and alien faces….when once he believed they were surely capable of neither.
By contrast, Proudmoore saw the ‘arrangement’ as completely practical….he would gain inexpensive labour from the primitive and dirty Horde spawn, and not tax his own troops with the menial and back-breaking work to which the young would be assigned.
There was no question now: the war had..changed in the last few years. Things had started to feel wrong, causes rang hollow, words Ceril had once lived by now tasted stale and sour on his tounge. It seemed so very long ago, that first day here…
The newly-assigned Captain of the Theramore militia had been young, brash, and cold…and had little patience for an aging paladin with a sudden and inconvenient burst of regret. At the Admiral’s instruction, he became convinced the old warhorse would be an appropriate caretaker for these random and wretched urchins…out of his hands, and out of the way of trouble. The last thing he needed was a thoughtful soldier. Ceril took the commission with some degree of resignation and bitterness, with his decades of service, surely it had not all come to this…..
He had sighed then, and the ghosts of countless dead escaped his breath into the chill of the Arathi morning.
“I suppose I am…getting old”
The aging fighter had seen generations die before his eyes, and hundreds by his own hand; fearsome and respected, he had been the son of wealthy Lordaeron nobles, schooled in the arts, philsophy, diplomacy and combat alike. As such, the intelligent and talented fighter also emerged a deeply thoughtful one. After a youth spent passionately embracing the cause, and the kill, his mind matured and his body aged, the torrid burn of a young man’s heart giving way to the gentle, glowing ember of an elderly one. His very being felt tired, soiled, and exhausted..so many years, and so much blood..
His swords hung on the wall, now lightly coated in dust, their dull gleam outlined against the rough-hewn wood of the walls.
Giving the orphans his last few years made him feel renewed and he almost felt washed clean of the countless murders he had no choice but to commit.
Almost.
Some of the boys were nearing..14…15 now? How long did they have left before the relative security of the orphanage was replaced by a lifetime of servility and pain? Ceril’s jaw set, his eyes closed. It was not his war anymore, that much was apparent.
He shifted on his seat and watched Mordakk and Indo outside, almost fully-grown, but really, still children, asserting some measure of authority over the littler ones: Mordakk vigorously admonishing a tauren who had stolen some unfortunate’s bread, Indo diplomatically pulling Quetzetal, a wailing troll toddler, out of some young orc’s hands before the orcen youth tore him in half to “see wha’ dus’ inside ‘em”. The trolls had only recently begun arriving; Ceril had some vague sense that they were only recently allied with the orc and tauren…for none at the Grim Orphanage were over a year or two of age.
They were all so human sometimes, in their funny childish ways, their small battles and compromises, in their natural pecking order…did he kill any of their family, once upon a time?
He sighed.
It had been simpler, once upon a time, in a young man’s world….
In the end, having no better avenue open to him, Ceril made his way to Hammerfall, where he stood now, watching the orphans of war through the window, when the sudden shouts of alarmed voices rang throughout the Hammerfall encampment.
“Guards to posts! IMMEDIATELY! The enemy approaches!!”
Ceril snapped up at the sound of raised voices and stalked out to the orphans, who were still engaged in their play.
“Indo! Mordakk! Gather the young ones and get them out of the yard..NOW!”
The rumbling of what had to be hundreds..maybe thousands of beasts could be heard. The ground began to tremble.
Young Walnut came running up, breathless…
“Cerilsir..what is happening?”
Ceril’s jaw set grimly and he turned to dislodge his weapons from the wall as he answered.
“Get inside, Walnut. Do as Indo tells you.”
Still the forces poured over the hill…they covered the terrain in such number as to make the land beneath them nearly unseen. Fires broke out on the horizon..
Ceril could hear them screaming and wailing, as crops burst into flame…as families were destroyed…the acidic tinge of metal meeting blood on the air, the shouts of men trying to gather their own to the tenuous safety of their homes.
And still they came.
There was no time…he grabbed his swords and pulled Indo aside.
“Take this. Do whatever you have to….protect them, Indo…you and Mordakk must.”
“Ceril?”
The old man did not answer…he had turned to look out the doorway in silence. He radiated…it was almost as if he was alight from inside.
Indo’s youthful hand now held a small and careworn sword. He looked down upon it, uncomprehending but solemn. He looked back to the orphans, a sea of innocent and terrified faces - the faces of his playmates, of his friends, of his brethren.
The smell of flames grew closer. Fires began to erupt in the compound. The crashing of gates…walls being destroyed.
The shouts could be heard quite clearly now….and smoke began to fill the rooms nearby. The battleflags were visible above the fray, the colours that of what he had heard in the whispers of the guards and throughout the compound.
Thrall!
Ceril felt panic tinged with relief..these children would be safe, even if he was not…surely..it was their only chance. He must make them understand…
Flames licked at the walls now. The children coughed and cried…the baby troll screamed as Mordakk tried to hold him still.
He looked back at the two boys one last time before the orcs entered, eyes glazed, thunderous, weapons dripping with the blood of the fallen.
Ceril stood his ground.
Silence seemed to fill the air..where there had been only chaos.
Time stopped.
One orc soldier’s grin was particularly wide as he saw the human….fading to an enraged scowl as he saw the young ones trapped behind the human, trapped in a burning building..
“Throm’ka……pal-o-dan…is ‘dis wha’ you doo to our children?”
He laughed, deep and bitter. Around them, the building continued to burn away..
There was no more time to explain. Ceril shouted desperately back to Indo.
“Get them out!!!” You must get them out now!”
The young one stood, frozen, transfixed…
“Damn it, boy! Listen to my words!”
Ceril had turned only slightly. The orcs moved forward as the ceiling began to crumble. Ceril lifted his swords…
…but he knew the body of an old man was a betrayer to the spirit of the young one. The reflexes will not obey the will, no matter how urgent its call…
Mordakk and Walnut had already began pushing the littlest children out the back window. Indo’s horrified stare was broken only finally by his pleas.
“Indo! COME ON! COME ON!”
Indo looked back at the tired back of his caretaker. Once a tall man, with the power and strength of so many…against a wall of battlehardened orcs.
Lumber crashed and he coughed violently as the smoke billowed.
The voice was quiet…so calm in the midst of such insanity and chaos.
“Go..Indo…go now. While you can, you must. Care for them.”
He gulped…turned, and ran for the window just as flames began taking the chairs and the hangers where the swords of a good man had once hung.
He did not see Ceril again.
They climbed out in panic, the older ones carrying the young, screaming and thrashing, pushing out of the rapidly decaying structure.
They hit the ground and Mordakk tried in desperation to round them all up, to try to keep them together in the madness that ensued….in despair, he knew some were surely lost..where was Quetzetal? Where was..
His thoughts were broken off by his running into a wall of orcen flesh that towered above him. He turned to run, and was pulled off the ground by his collar.
Flailing wildly, he thrashed in mid-air. Half of the orphans rushed to kick and punch the orc..the other half stood in panic and could only watch.
The voice was deep and calm.
“You are a true fighter. Good. We will need your spirit to be strong, young one.”
Mordakk threw his arms wildly and violently.
Indo had appeared, trembling, Ceril’s old training sword in his hand.
“Put him down!”
Thrall’s slow smile was as big as their heads, and surreal against the background of battle behind them. He turned and looked at Indo with a patient stare.
“Loyalty to your brothers…this is also necessary. Good.”
“Why’d ju kill Ceril??”
The accusing tone of Mordakk’s voice rang out over them all. Thrall looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“I have no knowledge of your Ceril, young one….but you are coming with us..all of you. We are taking you from this place. Your life will not be spent in slavery to man.”
Thrall turned and gestured to two tauren who stood nearby. They came forward and began gathering the children…most did not resist, confused, afraid, smoke-stained and in shock, they followed them quietly as the two boys remained behind.
“This is our home! Our orphanage! We live here!”
“Look around you, young one. Your orphanage is no more. Its time has past and you will find a new home among the Horde, in a great city we shall build, where we will show the world our skill and might, once and for all.”
“WE WILL NOT GO!!! YOU KILLED HIM!! WE ARE ORPHANS! THIS IS ALL WE HAVE, AND YOU HAVE DESTROYED IT!!”
Thrall ignored Indo’s shout and set Mordakk down, but kept his massive hand on his shoulder.
“In time, young fighter, you will come to see the wisdom of our cause. The death of this…Ceril…if he was of meaning to a young one as yourself, is unfortunate. But come with us you will, all the same. Feria…”
He gestured to one of the tauren females.
“Take them now.”
Feria stepped forward and smiled at the two boys. Strength and calm radiated off of her like the sun as she nodded to them, an arm outstretched.
“Come. We must go.”
Indo looked back one last time at the remains of the orphanage, flaming, smoking, amidst a background of further destruction. In that fleeting moment, they had aged it seemed, a child’s mind giving way to that of a man…standing for what they knew to be right, for what they believed in.
Ceril had been human..true..in a sea of humans. He had been..different…when others were cruel. He had stood for something good, when so much was so terrible.
He had been so…alone. Orphaned.
The words came suddenly, and to his own surprise. It was as the tauren had read his mind.
Feria spoke gently as she placed her hand on his head.
“An orphan, young one..is not just he who loses his family. An orphan can be many things…one who walks alone for his belief, or for his crime…one who must be apart because he is different…in time, you may see that to be the orphan, is to be truly gifted with an understanding most will not share.”
Tears came to a young face, as he and the others turned to the waiting mounts to bring the Grim Orphans to Kalimdor….and a new life among the Horde.
The years were to change many things for the orphans; noble females joined their ranks - rogueish trolls like Ghanka and Ichi, and serene tauren like Agh and Jaula…undead humans …the disgruntled and fight-happy Indy, the reflective but deadly Horzt, the pious and troubled Linton…the orphans were no longer children, but a state of mind….and as the news spread of this unlikely tribe, forged from loyalty and pain, it grew.
It grows, still.
(Written back then by Heresy)