I have been done an incredible favor by an incredible artist--Aida has made a beautiful rendering of Lo'jar that you can find here: akai. de-illusion. net / doodles/ lojar. jpg (just remove the spaces). He appears here much like I imagined him. Thanks so much, Aida! You're fabulous.

The Traitor

Chapter Fifteen

"Give me that," the imp told Lo'jar, holding out his hand. The half-troll gave him a confused look, but Morla only nodded her head and so he obeyed. He dropped the stone to the creature and it held it for a moment, pondering, before jogging back to his master.

They were standing somewhere very dark, though the moon grinned at them from above. Lo'jar couldn't imagine how it was night again; he hadn't passed out, and so time couldn't have gone by so quickly. He was distracted, however, by Morla.

She held the stone up to her and looked through it, fascinated by what she saw there. After a time she signed to Lo'jar, "We are in Moonglade. It is still today."

He gave her a confused look. "I asked that someone bring us here. I think he will arrive soon."

Around them were a few trees, and he realized they stood on a path; to either side were small trees, merely saplings, with their upper branches wrapped around bright, glowing lights. These light posts ran all down the path, which seemed to lead toward a small arrangement of buildings.

"It took us that long to get here?"

"No, it's just before morning here. It's a different part of the world." She pointed off to the distance and sure enough, there was a little glow of sun at the horizon. Struck by the deja vu of it all, and the fatigue in his legs, and the turning over of his stomach, Lo'jar sank down so he was crouching. He took a few deep breaths and then heard a voice calling to them.

"Are you Morla?" When Lo'jar looked up, though he heard light footsteps, he couldn't see anyone approaching them; then, looking down, he saw a gnome. Her hair was pink and short, all wild about her head; she was clearly a warlock, by the wand she held in her hand and the voidwalker that trounced on behind her. However, the size of her blue eyes was far more surprising than anything else about her.

Morla nodded her head and the gnome jumped excitedly. "I'm glad it worked! We responded as quickly as we could to your message." Then, curious, she leaned around the human and saw Lo'jar. "Ah, well, there were two of you. Even better! Now, come on." She gestured with her hand for them to follow; Morla obeyed, and Lo'jar thought he would, too.

They had been summoned to Moonglade. As it was told, a little blue spirit had arrived, who had actually been a demon, and was almost attacked until it proved itself to be harmless. It cried out, "Help! Help! Need a portal! Will pay upon arrival!" The gnome, Tribble, had luckily been there; kindly she agreed and the spirit gave her the coordinates. She hadn't been sure her summon would work, but she had gathered some help and was glad it did. After delivering the message, the spirit had poofed out of existence.

They went into the building ahead where a few vendors were set up, obviously leading a long and monotonous life. The three of them sat at a table and were offered food, but Morla declined; however, Lo'jar jumped on it and hastily ordered bread and roast.

Morla handed over two gold pieces to the other warlock, who easily took the offering and smiled. "I'm glad you got here all right," and Lo'jar thought this creature was peculiar for her trade. But she seemed content enough, and her voidwalker lounged without expression behind her. "If you ever need a favor again, just contact me, however you did," she said with a laugh, and hopped up from her chair. She tipped an invisible hat. "Good luck to both of you." With that, she bounded off.

Lo'jar said nothing, and they didn't look at one another when the food he ordered came. He ate and Morla had a little, but her stomach was turned over. They found the inn after a time and got a room, and once inside, she went and got sick, closing the bathroom door behind her.

--

When she felt better, Morla came out and sat on the bed, because there was only one. It seemed they were in inns often together, in this kind of setting; she found this odd for a few seconds, but when she looked at him, she thought that she knew him in a room, and hardly anywhere else. The way she had come to like him was in a room, and by no fault of his own she had come to dislike him outside of it. As they sat there all cramped together, she liked him more than ever before, and so she had to restrain herself and sit very still.

After a while Lo'jar looked at her and she was forced to return his gaze. "What happened?"

Morla sighed deeply. She took the stone out of her pocket and turned it over in her hand, and rubbed her throat; then she tucked it away and leaned forward so she rested her head in her palms, elbows propped on her thighs.

"I can remember only a little, but some of his words created more. When I was very little, just when I was born—I can remember this part—my parents told me that I would no longer be theirs; Bellem was taking me to be his assistant, or something. He took me for a while and then gave me back, and said he would be watching me, for he wouldn't need me for some years yet.

"I know Alrash; when I was young, I began to bring him up and we would play because none of the other children liked me. This frightened everyone, and one time when a dog attacked me, it lit on fire and exploded.

"The village began to grow wary of me. We lived with my aunt, uncle, cousin, and grandparents. They were afraid of what I was becoming and what the other villagers would do should they let me stay, so they exiled myself and my parents. My parents were bitter and decided they would take me far away, and leave me.

"The plan backfired when the lion came." She sighed and pulled her knees up onto the bed, and held them with one arm. "That man was him, Bellem, Agram, whatever. I can only imagine that he's been looking for me."

"What did you mean, when you said you knew what he was doing? What did he say about the orcs?"

Morla laughed silently. "Zamah and I have been tracking for some time the Dreadfall herb—the poison in that spider, all that time ago. Remember?" Lo'jar only nodded and the girl took on a wistful look. "There is wild Dreadherb, and then there is the Dreadfall, which the forsaken were farming to try to poison the humans with; they gave up, though, but it was still being farmed. We found out that the herb had been changed and engineered to target orcs, and someone was taking the herb and hoarding it somewhere. They were planning mass genocide."

"And now you know who was planning it?"

Morla nodded and signed, "And so does everyone else now, too."

He looked puzzled at this. "I'll never be able to go back, now. I've let all the cats out of the bag, and it doesn't matter anymore. Everyone will know who I am—rather, who I was. They'll all be vaccinated, or something like that, or an antidote will be made... it doesn't really matter." Very slowly, her eyes grew wet and before Lo'jar could do anything tears streamed from her eyes. "Now I'll never belong, not anywhere. I could disguise myself and go back, but that's all I would be—in disguise." Her signs were becoming harder to understand because she had begun to shake. She hunched over and soundless sobs began to escape, and it was the only time he had ever seen her cry in the time he knew her, and he had a vague feeling it would be the only time again for the rest of her born life.

Calmly the half-troll stood up and went over so he was kneeling on the bed behind her. He put his arms over her shoulders and carefully, he pulled her back against him so she was flush against his chest. "I'll never be able to go back," she told him with her hands, before she clapped them together and, with another heaving sob, crushed them between her knees and fell apart.

Lo'jar tightened his grip and began to rock the girl back and forth, waiting for her to wear herself out. She did so after some minutes and with tears still dripping down her face, she fell asleep and hiccuped in her unconsciousness.

He lifted her up and placed her at the top of the bed; he realized she was wearing pajamas and so he left her in her clothes, and tucked her into the blankets. Then he left to explore.

--

Lo'jar came back in about mid-afternoon, and wasn't surprised to find Morla was still asleep.

It pained him to see her, remembering that pathetic human's words—"She's my wife." He couldn't imagine it was true, but somehow he knew it was; that hurt even more.

Moonglade was a beautiful place. Even when the sun was up there was a darkness about it—though it wasn't a gloomy one, like Duskwood, but a mysterious glow that reminded him of Ashenvale, and the other lands of the night elves. There were both tauren and elven kind there, all living and going about amongst one another like they were of the same kin. It was a peculiar kind of habitation, but it had a strange pleasing quality, and walking amongst the soft buildings, he felt more comfortable than he had ever been.

He came over and sat down on the bed, and slowly shook Morla awake. She batted his hand away at first and then seemed to realize where she was, so she quickly sat up and looked at him.

"Are you going to stay?" he asked, after a moment. Her eyes went wide and her mouth opened and closed, as if she wanted to speak, but knew she couldn't. She sat back against the headboard and ran a hand through her hair.

"I want to go back," she signed, not looking up at him. "I left Henry there—something horrible will have happened to him." Lo'jar could only nod in acquiescence. "But I have to send a message first."

--

Lo'jar didn't want to stay, really, with her. He went out of the room when she sent off her messenger. He didn't deny that she would have to face the man—otherwise, he would chase her all over the world until she fell to pieces. Now that she was strong, and Agram had seen her strength, he would want her more than ever.

The half-troll wanted to follow her all over the world, but he couldn't. He felt a feeling of defeat that was long-coming; it crippled him and he sat down outside the door, where he thought and thought. Eventually he stood and went back in.

"I've sent for Clef," she signed to him. "He'll arrive soon."

They went about the rest of the day in silence, and Lo'jar found himself avoiding looking at her directly. The time was approaching and though he felt horribly irresponsible, he couldn't avoid his conclusion.

That evening they ate at the small restaurant-type corner of the main building. When they finished, he sat forward in his small chair and spoke. "I can't go with you from here. I have to leave you, and that's all I can do. I do regret meeting you, and I still do. I love you, and there is very little I can do about that. I'm stuck, you see, because this strange sad human claims you are his wife; you have told me off and I keep those words, and I don't know if I can ever turn back on them. I don't need you and you don't need me, so I'm going to leave, and I hope you don't ever need me again." Morla was plain-faced through it and offered no response when he was done talking. They stared at each other, neither making a move, until she lifted one hand to the tabletop and signed, "Good bye."

Lo'jar got to his feet and pushed the chair in, and left some silver on the table for the food. He went over to the wall where he had put his things and tucked his sword into his belt, slung his shield over his back, and put on his helmet. Without looking at her once he turned and left the building. Morla couldn't comprehend the fact that she might never see his strange, handsome face ever again.

--

When Clef received the little messenger, who came in through his window as he worked on his small, improvisational worktable, he was pleased and surprised. He set down the small necklace he had been crafting for nearly a month, and looking over it, thought it was quite the coincidence.

He gathered his things together and hastily told his boss he was going; the old orc didn't mind, for Clef did his job well and soundly. "Take all the time you need," he said.

He carried only one bag full of things and spent the next two days traveling from city to city by wyvern, until he found himself in the dark glades of the druids.

There were many of his kind there and Clef didn't for a moment think it odd, like Lo'jar had, that the tauren and elves lived in harmony here.

Morla was waiting outside the building on a bench, and she looked like she had been sitting there for some time, as it was mid-afternoon. She looked at him but didn't move to sign or anything, so he sat down beside her and carefully hugged the fragile thing. She looked downtrodden and beaten, and her face was paler than he remembered; her hair was also longer and hung freely, not tied back like it often had been. He took her loose locks with one great hand and lifted it; it fell away softly, like water, to her neck and shoulders.

Then, she turned to him and told him with her hands everything that had happened, up to that very moment, when she ground her teeth and showed more emotion at that moment than any other time he had seen her. Clef had the vague feeling that her life was coming to a head, and she was living now as she would never live, and had never lived before. There was a sense of inevitability though, that worried him.

"I w-will go," he told her then, "a-a-anywhere you g-go. Forget a-a-about him, that t-troll." Morla gave a swift nod. "We'll go r-r-rescue this man, then?"

She laughed then and took the stone from her pocket, turning it over in her hands. "Did you hear anything in Orgrimmar?" she signed.

The tauren thought for a moment and then shook his head, and she left the conversation at that. They decided to wait some more days and think of a plan; Morla didn't know where they had taken Henry, though she concluded that the best place to look would be the mansion on the hill. This would fulfill a number of purposes: the first being to free Henry, a rather sad casualty of the whole affair; the second to be rid of Agram, who was following her in her dreams; and three, to get some well-needed revenge on the family that had abandoned her.

--

The night before they were to leave, Clef went into the bath and took off the three enormous buckets of water he had boiled before. "D-do you want?" Morla looked up from where she was working on the table, making out of wood the same pieces they played games with before. He couldn't help but pity her as she tenderly put the finished pieces away into a box, and then got to her feet and nodded her head. She followed him into the bath.

They hadn't bathed together in a long time, longer than Morla knew. It wasn't the same fun event as it had been, tossing water at one another and playing with the little duck toys they made. Now Morla sat behind the big ox and scrubbed his fur, lathering it and watching all the dust from his trip come off into the water. When she was finished she leaned forward so her elbows were resting on his shoulder blades and began to braid his hair, washing it and then starting at the very top. When she finished he shook his head and all the loose water came off, splashing Morla and the whole small bathroom.

Clef took one of the water containers off the edge of the tub and set it down, dipping in both his great hands and rubbing the little soft girl all over. He washed her with soap and was mesmerized by how she had changed; her skin was as smooth as ever, but she had marks of character all over: there were red lines on her back from when the trainer had pushed her against the wood fence; she had light scrape scars all over from a number of incidents, all surrounding the horse farm. The tauren sighed and ran his hand from her head down her back, lightly massaging the tense muscles there as he did so.

They crawled out of the tub when they were done and, not bothering with anything but drying off, they made sure their things were ready to go the next day and climbed into bed. Clef had an odd feeling in his belly that things would change, even more than they had; she would never return to Orgrimmar, and he would most probably never leave it. He felt that he should have been sad about losing the most important being in his life, but she was going to go on, if she made it, to better things.

--

Sharp had been alarmed when he didn't hear from Morla, and his private concern only increased when a little monster popped up out of the floor first thing one morning and began hastily talking.

"Sharp, it's me, Morla," it told him. "I don't know where you are in your research, but I've found the man who was tending the herbs, and his intent is fairly clear. I'm going to try to get rid of him, but should I fail, this is where you can find him. I tell you this first because I trust you; any information you feel would be useful to share, do so." The demon climbed up onto the table and took paper and pen, drawing out a map; it finished quickly and handed it over to the undead man. "You can find him here. He's a mighty foe, and should I fail, I will leave it up to you to handle the situation."

"How will I know if you fail?"

The demon bubbled and rolled over, and them straightened its horns. Its two-pronged tongue flicked out when it replied, "I will inform you."

The creature said nothing more. "What, then, of your mission?"

"There may be hope," it replied, "but I have sent this same messenger to Undercity, where I have informed Lady Sylvanas of the important things that have occurred, violating the privacy of Zamah, Cairne, Thrall and myself, all together; but I feel that not only is this the best choice to protect the orcs, but for the Horde, as well. My wish is that this farm might be destroyed and should I fail, a force might succeed where I didn't.

"This is your opportunity to be a hero," the demon went on, "for should my house of cards all fall down, you will be the one to tell the story and show Thrall where this man might be found, and who he is."

"Well, then—who is he?"

The demon smiled. "Thank you for everything. His name is Timothy Bellem—but he may be known by Agram. Should I learn more about him, I will inform you."

Then the creature blew up, flaming and then spitting a few sparks, before it crumbled into small coal bits on the table that were still hot.

The door opened and Gothor came in. "I heard voices. Everything all right?"

"Oh, yes," Sharp replied, quickly brushing the ashes off the table, "I just had a little mishap." The shaman gave him a suspicious look, but left anyway.

--

Matheas, however, was a different story. The messenger that arrived was swift about his message, and it asked only that the warlock come as close as he might to Duskwood, and wait for her call; she trusted him, above all others, and should he want to aid her, he ought to respond to her messenger immediately.

Matheas, privately, couldn't imagine what his prize pupil had found, or how she thought he could aid her in any way should he want to. With his infiltrating personality he had first found about the message to Sylvanas, who tucked it away and wished at first not to consider it, until Thrall called on she and Varimathras to act. Then everything broke up and most everyone in the upper circles of authority knew of Morla, and what had been accomplished—but always with infamy comes celebrity, and as the few short days passed, the story of the traitorous human had spread amongst both Alliance and Horde.

This defeated her ultimate purpose, and Matheas felt a sense of betrayal by her exposition. He had trained her to be the greatest weapon the Horde could have, and she went on a vigilante mission; what else could she need? The herb farm was destroyed and antidotes made, should anyone attempt to poison the orcs. It was a cry, "Wolf!" and the warlock felt a deep disappointment.

However, Morla was still one of the only creatures he had come to care for in both his life and death, and despite his little budding resentment, he couldn't leave her to some crisis. With a sigh he told the little demon still waiting on the desk for him to say something, "Tell her I will come. I will find her."

The devil spun excitedly and disappeared.

--

Had Morla known what she would encounter in the village of Blandoak, she probably wouldn't have gone—but she couldn't remember its name, not to mention the people who lived there.

The plan was simple. She would go into town, dressed only as she was, and offer herself up to the man in the mansion at the top of the hill. She imagined that first, they should take her to wherever they were keeping Henry, so that they might keep her, or torture her, or whatever Agram planned to do. Then she would give the signal, a little bauble, and Clef and Matheas would come in like knights on horses with armor and lances. At least, this was all hoping.

Morla had gotten word of Matheas's arrival, and so she and Clef sat at the edge of the woods away from the village to wait. Here she pondered her future and a number of other large things, all grandiose ideas that had never entered her mind before her life began to change so drastically. Not that the death of her parents hadn't been an event of epic proportions to her, but it was low on the food chain.

They didn't speak for most of the morning, but when the sun began to rise higher in the sky, Morla asked about any food. Luckily, Clef had packed up some bread and butter, which when they pulled out saw was melted; instead, they covered the soft loaf with a seasonings spread that had been given to them by a vendor in Moonglade as a promotional item.

"Is he r-r-really going to be here?"

Morla nodded. "Matheas would never go back on his word." Sure enough, half an hour later they saw the undead man walking through the trees, making absolutely no noise but still looking quite unsure. "These are pretty dangerous lands for us," he commented dryly as he approached them. It was the first time Morla had seen his minion, and the growling felstalker looked quite perilous. It hissed at Clef when they approached the group; however, when Morla came out from behind the tauren and looked at it, the creature became quite deadly silent and they exchanged looks.

"Now, it's not an animal, Morla. Demons aren't to be..." but he was too late. "...Demons aren't to be petted," he finished.

She was kneeling down and stroking the terrifying little monster's writhing back, which was alive with the dozens of black worms coming out of it like a diseased corpse. Both Clef and Matheas gaped as the creature snapped its jaws and happily sat. Even this made the undead man shudder, but Morla eventually recovered her senses and stood up once more.

Quickly she relayed her plan, and though Matheas didn't much like it, he couldn't see any better idea. Morla signed, "I really don't care what happens to me here. There isn't much they can do to me. If I lose, which I may just, then I'll offer up my powers freely. Once I haven't got what he wants anymore, he'll let me go."

"You can never be sure of things like these," Matheas told her with an irritated tone. "You can't be sure of what any evil person tells you, don't you know?" He shook his head. "Anyway, don't think of it this way. Have faith in your powers, honestly—if you can't, nobody can." This made Morla give a bit of a silent laugh and she made the motion of wiping her forehead from sweat that wasn't there.

Matheas didn't ask any more questions and so, giving Clef a great hug in case things went wrong—which they were bound to do—Morla got up and stuffed her hands into her pockets. Her friends exchanged a worried look as she went off into the tired old village to look for her captured husband.