Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

Medivh was still weak, but strong enough for what he needed to do now. He rose from the couch, moving his hands deftly, effortlessly, conjuring a circle for her. It was no great mystery to him where Lothar would be at this moment. Part of Medivh’s energy came, of course, from the magical font’s healing. But part of it was his own doing. His choices. His decision to, finally, after so many mistakes and disasters and broken lives as consequence, do something good. Something right. Something true and worthy of the one he had loved so long ago; loved, lost, but never forgotten, not for a day, an hour, a moment.

He would pay dearly for what he was doing. But that was all right. Some things were worth the cost.

This is for you, my heart.

She stared, as the circle shimmered into being; pulsing, radiating blue light. Medivh reached and gathered a small bit of magical energy into his hand, and crafted a small, perfect flower. It was exquisite and beautiful, light made into a palpable thing, its hues shifting like an ember in a blue fire. Garona had seen him work magic before—dangerous magic, designed to cause harm. But this was only for healing. For hope. She understood that, as he knew she would, and her eyes were wide and soft with wonder.

“Step inside the circle,” he instructed. Garona looked at him, then the circle, then, slowly, mesmerized, moving more delicately than he had ever seen any orc save one move, she obeyed.

“This,” Medivh said, his voice rough with emotion as he held out the luminous flower, “is my gift to you.” He allowed himself to savor this moment, giving her no hint as to what this was costing him. She accepted it, her green fingers closing so very gently around the magical flower, looking first at it, then at him.

Peace filled him, and he stepped back. The circle’s white illumination spread upward, becoming a sphere, encasing Garona safely within its cocoon. The white glow increased, its brightness becoming almost blinding, then it disappeared—Garona along with it.

Medivh collapsed.

The Lion of Azeroth had been drinking.

He lay outstretched on the bar in the Lion’s Pride Inn, surrounded by empty bottles. An equally empty tankard dangled from his fingers. His eyes were closed, and Garona wondered if he was unconscious.

She took a step forward, trying to move quietly, but even so Lothar heard her and his eyes opened. He didn’t look at her, but kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Garona wondered if she had should have come. Perhaps Medivh had been wrong. Perhaps this was foolishness, to think that a human could care for an orc, particularly one who could easily be held responsible for the brutal murder of his only child.

But she thought of the Guardian’s words. She was here. She would speak. At least she would know that she had tried.

“I’m sorry.”

He didn’t answer, and Garona had almost turned to leave when, at last, he spoke.

“Callan’s mother died in childbirth. I blamed him for it. For years. I’m not going to blame you.”

His voice was less slurred than Garona had expected, and he was obviously aiming for a conversational, relaxed tone. But she, who had tasted so much pain, could recognize its sharp, bitter notes in the voice of another.

Her eyes widened at the words. Lothar had been carrying such a burden… She moved forward. He sat up and slipped off the bar, stepping back as she drew closer. She halted. He looked almost as awful as Medivh: pale, save where his cheeks were flushed with drink. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen, and he trembled. Suddenly he whirled, flinging the tankard against the wall. It shattered with a musical crash.

He was in a place Garona knew well. A place where anger and grief and guilt collided in an unholy trinity of torment. He was a soldier without his armor in front of her now, raw and aching and unable to hide any of it. She stepped forward, reaching to touch his face, wanting to do whatever she could to ease a pain that was obviously ripping him apart.

“He was so young,” Lothar whispered. His eyes were red from weeping. She trailed her lips over his bearded cheek, mindful of the sharpness of her tusks, then pulled back, gazing at him. “My whole life,” he rasped, “I’ve never felt as much pain as I do now…”

Lothar’s voice, and Garona’s heart, broke on the last word. Then he whispered, “I want more…”

Garona understood at once. Her whole life, she, the cursed, had been in pain. It was never the physical pain of broken bones or ripped skin that hurt the most. It was the pain that stitches and poultices and healing drafts could not mend: the pain of the soul, the heart. More than once, she had found healing, respite, from that torment in physical pain, which provided a distraction and allowed the spirit to, somehow, find its own way. Sometimes it did not work, but sometimes it did.

He lifted his eyes to her, and if there had been any question that she loved, and that she belonged here, at this moment, it vanished like mist beneath the sun.