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They were fools to stand against the Dark Lady.
Anger, perpetual state of his undeath, old companion in this existence, arose renewed within his chest, interwoven in contempt as crimson gaze looked down on the combined forces of enemies and traitors standing at the gates of Orgrimmar. The unrelenting sun and arid land of Durotar had never been to his tastes (would not be to most of the Forsaken, he wagered, used to the dark coldness of the Undercity as they had been). Not without reason, either; to those whose bodies continued to decay, dead flesh left exposed to sunlight was only a means to decompose faster. Yet they stood, unfaltering in their loyalty to their Queen, as it should be.
Few of the other Horde races showed similar loyalty to the Warchief. Some more than others. Repugnant goblins stood on both sides, trolls as well. The tauren had all departed alongside Baine.Most of the orcs other than the Mag’har had followed Saurfang, mindless beasts that they all were, barking about senseless things such as honor (Nathanos had known honor, once; it meant nothing when he faced the scourge). A considerable number of the elves, however, had remembered their loyalties to one who had sacrificed everything to save them, even when their esteemed leader did not; they, perhaps second only to the Forsaken, ought to acknowledge her for her leadership.
He knew it was expected. And he trusted her, faithfully (blindly); Sylvanas had never failed him, in life or in undeath. It had been by her will that he had joined the Farstriders, becoming something more than his simple life in Marris Stead would have allowed for. Most importantly, it had been by her will that his had been made his own again, freed from the Lich King’s grasp when she called him to her service once more. The Dark Lady had gone to great lengths to give him his current former, spared from decay, stronger (worthy of her). There was no path too dark, no task too horrific that she could command him and he would not obey.
And if his queen (his love) found damnation, then he follow her into it and be satisfied, so long he was allowed staying by her side.
Trusting her plan did not prevent him of resenting those who would oppose her, who failed to see her for what she was: worthier a leader than any of them. The Alliance he could understand, despicable little beings clinging to righteousness as they shunned those who had sacrificed most for them to keep their perfectly polished castles and other such petty things; they were enemies, after all. The Horde, however... instead of valuing their Warchief as they ought to, they scurried to hide behind that old fool’s skirts and pretended to be friends of those who would have had them killed. They were undeserving of her. But the living, much like life itself, were a thankless sort.
And then all train of thought is interrupted by the resounding challenge Saurfang cries outside the gates.
Momentarily, anger subdues. Nathanos would have preferred to be beside her than atop the walls of Orgrimmar, even if he knew well she needed not his protection. The old orc was nothing; at last he would find the death he so longed for, and they would all be better for it. The Champion of the Banshee Queen doubted not her capacity to win, worried not so much for her immediate safety as he did for what this meant.
Sylvanas had planned for several outcomes, this included. Less than ideal that they would end the war so soon (pity that he would not get the chance to slay the traitors in her name, nor even to watch her defeat the old orc), regardless of how well prepared they were to put in motion next steps. No matter; this would be inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Their work was not yet done. If anything, this was but the beginning of its most crucial step.
One last glance (she wields the pair of daggers, as confident as if she held her trusted bow) and he turns his back to the scene, silent looks exchanged with Dark Ranger Lenara before Nathanos takes his leave --- simple enough to read that she knows what to do, as well. His own mission awaits not here but a world away, in dreadful Quel’thalas; and he would see to preparations before the orc’s dead body hit the barren ground of Durotar and his queen set foot in her ancestral home once more (she would, as they had planned, for no ill would befall her here; there was no need for goodbyes if they would see each other again).
I shall meet you there, my lady.
