Written for the fanfiction Challenge on 2/3/2014, posted by CM Nethaera. The prompt was to write about your character being present at the trial for Garrosh Hellscream. My response was originally posted here: http://us.battle.net/wow/en/forum/topic/11581188323?page=1#9
If these prompts become a regular thing, I may try to participate as much as I can. Practice makes perfect, even for writing!
If any of you post something for this, or future challenges, let me know! I'd love to read your responses as well. ^^
The scene was an intimidating one. Cerylia Dawnwing had to admit, despite all she had seen in her life, being in the presence of so many powerful individuals, leaders and heroes and adversaries alike… it was enough to make her feel like a little girl again. Vague flashbacks of hiding behind her father as she attended magus meetings with him in Silvermoon came to mind, though the scenario now was certainly not the same.
No… rather than a simple meeting, this was to be a trial. And not just any trial involving a common criminal. This was the trial of Garrosh Hellscream. The former warchief of the Horde who had committed numerous atrocities against not only the Alliance, but his own supposed “allies” in the Horde and everyone else who got in his way—which included the Pandarian populace. Cerylia’s fel-green eyes narrowed as she stepped closer to the edge of the balcony, peering down at the scene below her. She had been granted a seat in the gallery of Garrosh’s trial and she wanted to take it all in.
The leaders of both the Horde and Alliance were assembled, as expected. A number of the Shado-Pan were there as well. Cerylia caught a glimpse of Taran Zhu as he spoke quietly to the two burly Pandaren on either side of Garrosh. Powerful as the orc might be, he wouldn’t be escaping his bodyguards anytime soon.
Good, she thought, with more than a touch of grim satisfaction. Feel helpless as those around you discuss your fate. That weakness you hated so much… I hope you drown in it now.
Cerylia always thought she was not given to fits of vengeance and hatred. While other sin’dorei reveled in it in the wake of Quel’Thalas’s destruction years ago, Cerylia clung to a beautiful hope of peace. That maybe one day, there would be no more pain. No war. The world would surely see that she and her people just wanted to live like everyone else did. And how could that be wrong? It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.
But no, she thought, glaring down at the brown-skinned orc. There was no room for peace in your world. You wanted to burn our world and everyone with it. You in a long line of betrayers. To you, our sin was existing. And so you threw us under the wheels of your war machine and laughed.
Her anger wasn’t confined to Garrosh, though. Cerylia’s sharp gaze flickered briefly to a slender figure hidden just behind Varian Wrynn, seeming dwarfed by the human king’s intimidating stature. The shock of white hair made it clear who she was—Jaina Proudmoore, former leader of a ruined Theramore, and now leader of the Kirin Tor. Perhaps in months past Cerylia would have sympathized with the mage, for she had been horrified by news of the mana bomb also. But after what she did in Dalaran…
Watch the path you tread, Lady Proudmoore, Cerylia thought coldly, digging her nails into the wooden railing before her. For it is the same as the one my prince walked years ago. The same that your precious Arthas chose. Shall we meet in battle the same way as we did Garrosh, I wonder? Will the history books mourn such a paragon of peace and her fall to vengeance?
Perhaps Garrosh really had brought out the worst in everyone.
Cerylia sucked in a deep breath and held it, briefly. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest and realized it was wreathed in hatred too. She remembered the sha and she shuddered. Even if these war crimes were punished, it would not save the survivors.
Garrosh suddenly shifted his gaze, lifting his head towards her as if noticing the blood elf for the first time. Their eyes met, but Cerylia did not look away from the orc she once called warchief.
It’s too late to apologize, and it’s too late to forgive.