Images. Part 1.

A Prayer.


Cold room, thick, wet and chilling air fullfilling it, surrounding every horde soldier, crawling in their heads, bringing disgust of the rotten flesh and essence of hatred. The air was somehow dead here, silent, still. A couple of hordies were walking around on their own buisness, barely breathing with this... substance. But who cares? They couldn't make this room alive even if they would set up a party here.

Quiet "shoosh" - it's leather sliding the stones, and then an inevitable point in the end - "crack!" - sound of bones.

Knees are aching, mind is messy, thoughts are blur. There's nothing else but this pain in the knees, pressure in the chest, Her will and those cold stones. But once again, who cares?

It was a prayer. A long prayer lasting for several hours... a prayer to salvation, to freedom. A return of the debt and act of loyality.

Cr-r-rap...

Yes, it was a lie as well. A long, perfect lie, lasting for several years... blinding and bringing salvation and an illusion of peace. So precious, so needed. On the other hand, perhaps, it's just a doubt, a question that was longing to be asked. Yes, this is possible and it's too hard to figure out what is lie and what is doubt.

But in the end, it doesn't matter. Nobody have ever proved that the truth is more valuable that the lie. It's the other way around. Lie supports life, truth ruins future... cruel, but nobody said there's justice in this world either.

So, back to what we have started from, how many hours could you spend on your knees? Is it hard? Does it hurt?

Literally, years. You kneel in your mind, bend to the will of the other... overcome yourself, your freedom, and kneel - then it's easy. Kill your pride and it won't hurt. And what if your pride, your will is actually stronger than those who want to bend or break it? No, wait... this won't do. Such questions are wrong - better not to ask them at all. Better to escape them.

And in the backpack there's an escape. There's always a salvation. It's called - rum. You drink it and forget everything... you stop asking questions, you just do your work or, finally, manage to fall asleep. Or even if you do ask questions - you're too relaxed to be bothered with your real attitude.

If I insulted, killed or @%@%d anybody, I apologise. I was drunk and made this not on purpose... thorry.

Gharb smiled inside - it was good. The smile was alive. This dim light that was keeping him alive. If it's still there at this moment - then there're some chances. Smile fades away - and you die. There're too much things to crush your will. Unless you smile at them and then they become weak and vulnerable.

But wait... there're cold stones and pain in the knees.

Gharb swallowed. He dared not to take a look at Her, repeating in his mind...

She has saved my life. She owes my life. I serve Her, She has a right to take what She has given to me, no matter what I have done in all those years... I am blind. I must be blind. I follow orders... I do my job...

Repeating, repeating, bluntly forcing those thoughts to stay in the head. Screaming just to hear himself.

Gharb stood up, his back ached - for too many hours it was bended. Then he steady and slowly walked out of the Royal Quarter. Sylvanas said nothing. In fact, she never did as if Gharb had never existed.

He left the Royal tunnel, passed by a wing of the Apothecarium. Thick slime was slowly flowing the ditchs, bubbling as if it were boiling.

Gharb turned around the corner and made sure nobody sees him.

DAMNIT!!

With all the strength he hit the stone wall with his fist.

Crack!

Pain was born in the fingers and like a thunder striked through all the arm, coming out of the shoulder. Fist slipped off the stones, damaging rotten flesh even more badly, burning it to the bone. Gharb fell down, holding his arm, mumbling to himself.

Something is wrong.. somet-hing is terrrrrib-ly wrooong hee-re.... so many lives i've taken... for Her... why i feel this freedom is a burden now... Mistress... kill me... kill me cause i'm a cursed traitor... misery... miz-zeer-ryy... - Gharb's voice turned into a mindless whisper - miss-err-ryy... i'm just a rott-ten wor-rmmm...

Itching in the head, scratching the mind... like a needle that is too small to see it but it's inside, in your skin, festering it, poisoning, not letting you to rest, driving you mad of utterly hopeless efforts to find it and remove without cutting off your limb. With shaking hand Gharb took out a flask of rum, opened it with his teeth and with greedy relief poured the liquid in the mouth. Cuddling himself on the floor he closed eyes, whispering, mumbling like in fever.

I'm... fine... fine. I am. Just... tired. Just need... rest....

With those words former Leutenant General of the Horde, killer of hundreds allies, skilled assassin, merciless predator, loyal servant, blunt romantic and just an impudent man, lonely Gharb, fell asleep tucked in the corner of the dirty Undercity Sewers. Life goes on.