Green is the New Green

It was summer, and Lordaeron was still too cold for his liking.

It was without any entourage that Erik Noone rode down the dirt track that had branched off the King's Road. Such luxuries had been left behind in Stromgarde. His servants had been dismissed months ago. He'd pawned off the last of his estate weeks ago. With heavy heart, he'd left the family home days ago. Hours ago, he'd branched off the King's Road down this track of dirt that had led him through half a dozen villages that he'd never even heard of. Years ago, Lordaeron had been a battleground, and now, over a decade later, those signs remained. Not as overt as they'd once been, but there. Burnt houses. Scorched fields. The overall lack of people, especially men in those towns. And all in all, the 'feel' of the land. The feeling of the old growing up in a world that had been forever changed by the opening of the Dark Portal. The feeling of the young, growing up in a world that to them would be the new normal.

Normal for him had been waking up in cold sweats every night. His heart running faster than a horse, and his ears ringing with the sounds of horns and drums. Chaser, his old warhorse, didn't do much chasing, charging, or anything like that, but the sound of her hoof beats was a more pleasant rhythm than the ones he'd gotten used to all those years ago. Hoof beats that came to a stop outside the estate before him. The road led on, but for him, this was where the journey ended.

"Hmm," he said.

Chaser snorted.

"Could turn back."

Chaser remained silent.

"Light help me I'm talking to a horse."

Chaser, apparently not having any problem with that, carried him forward. There was an iron fence surrounding the estate, but the gate was open. Which suggested that either Lordaeron knew greater peace than he did, or that the estate's owner was extremely trusting, careless, or naive.

Knowing his brother, perhaps some combination.

He rode up to the door and dismounted Chaser. She just stood there, flicking her ears to get rid of the flies. Walking up to the oak, he raised a fist and paused – two lions were engraved on either side. It was a silly point, but the fist, the lion…his brother had never returned to Strom. He'd never even set foot in Stormwind, having remained in the continent's centre while Erik had marched all the way to the Dark Portal. It probably meant nothing, but still…

He knocked on the door. Angel or demon, he'd knocked on the doors that would take him from one world to another. Luckily, it was neither that opened it.

"Yes, good sir?"

It was a maid. A very short, very well dressed maid that probably earnt more in a week than he had left in his pockets.

"Yes," he said. "I'm Erik. I'm here to see my-"

"Brother!"

It wasn't the maid who said that, who stood aside and lowered her head to the man coming down the stairs. A man dressed in the type of clothes Erik had once been able to wear before selling them off. A man with a glass of wine in his right hand, and a gold band on the finger of his left.

"Christopher," he said, taking a step forward. The two brothers embraced. For a moment, all felt right in the world. For a moment, Erik could forget…everything.

"Wearing armour brother?"

But only for a moment as Erik drew back and looked down, like he had as a child when he'd spilt jam upon his tunic and upset mother. Armour. Full plate armour. The type of armour he'd worn over a decade ago in circumstances less pleasant than the ones he found himself in now.

"What can I say?" Erik said. "The roads are dangerous."

"I don't think they are. Bandits, gnolls, orcs, they're hardly an issue."

Erik shrugged.

"But anyway, enough of that." Christopher put a hand on Erik's shoulder. "Come." He looked to the maid. "Delia, wine for two please."

"Just tea, actually," Erik said, even as he was led into the adjacent room. "And I'll need someone to see to my horse."

He didn't know if "Delia" got that. If he ever got the chance to go outside again, first order of business was to check on his horse, to make sure she was groomed and fed. Christopher was family. But Chaser was the one that had kept him alive as much as his sword and shield had. Not that Christopher Noone, second-born son of Oberon and Zania Noone, hadn't done his part, but…

"Here we are."

Some people had performed a bigger part than others, Erik reflected. And that was all he had to say on the matter. Least for now.

The room Christopher had led him into was the drawing room. Around its edges were all kinds of trophies – mostly deer, but for two exceptions. One was a gnoll head. The other was a pair of axes mounted against a wooden shield. Trophies that Erik recognised as being much older, and from a different kind of hunt. The type of hunt that one of the paintings represented, as it showed a group of knights charging into the ranks of the Horde at the base of Blackrock Spire. He found himself walking over to it.

"Turalyon's Charge," Christopher said. He walked over as well and gave his brother a playful shove. "Tell me – does it do it justice?"

No. He looked at Christopher. "Perfectly."

"Perfectly?"

He gestured up to Turalyon. "His hair is wrong though."

Christopher laughed. Erik didn't. He didn't even have it in him to force a smile as the two were seated down. Not that Christopher seemed to notice. He thanked Delia as she walked in, carrying a tray with a glass of wine (Christopher put his now empty first glass on the tray and took the other one), and tea for Erik. She bowed, and headed back out.

"Find John, will you?" Christopher called out.

"Yes milord."

Erik watched as his brother took a sip. "How is it?"

"Good. Not as good as down south, but good." He smirked as Erik took a sip of the tea. "Course, that probably isn't the best line of conversation is it?"

Erik said nothing and continued to drink. It was bitter – the type of taste he was used to right now.

"As much as I hate to say I told you so…" Christopher began.

"You did tell me so. Many times."

"I'm just saying, you don't have a wine bone in your body. And since the family home is now lost to us-"

"I stayed in Stromgarde while you gallivanted up north," Erik snapped. "I…" He trailed off. "Sorry. I didn't come here to fight."

"No. You didn't." Christopher took another sip. "Which is pretty good, because if it did come to a fight, I'd have as much a chance of a gnome against an ogre."

Erik winced – he'd seen something like that happen. By the time the ogre was slain, there was very little gnome left to pick through.

"How's life treating you then?" Erik asked. He looked around the drawing room. "Where's Gemma?"

"In the capital actually. She won't be back for about a month."

Erik could tell by the sound in Christopher's voice that he wasn't happy about that. If that was the be all and end all of his discontent though, he couldn't say.

"Shame. I'd have liked to see her again."

He could say that though – even if he'd only met Gemma Wells once, at around the time that Christopher said they were getting married. At the time, he'd thought it would end in disaster. He'd headed back south to take over the family estate. And now?

Now he was sitting in the drawing room, drinking tea from a glass worth more than all the silver in his pockets, talking to his brother who'd taken his half of his inheritance, and built an estate for himself and his family. Family that included his son, John, who just walked in.

"Ah, John," Christopher said.

Erik looked at the cherub, walking around in clothes and shoes that looked a bit too tight, while holding a pair of figures in one hand. Delia led him over and Erik stuck out a hand.

"Hello," he said. "I'm your uncle Erik."

John hid behind Delia's leg.

"He's a bit shy," Christopher said. He got up and knelt down. "John, your uncle's travelled a long way. He'd going to be staying us for a bit."

A bit?

"Wouldn't you like to say hello?"

Erik saw John shake his head. He felt something slide through him – a strange feeling of affection and annoyance. Affection in the knowledge that this was his nephew. Annoyance in the knowledge that his parents would have never let him or Christopher get away with such rudeness. It was hardly a slight to his honour (what little of that remained), but-

New kingdom. New world.

"Well, anyway, why don't you play while your father and uncle discuss things?"

John nodded and waddled over to the corner. Erik watched, raising an eyebrow as he finally made out the two figures he was holding. One, a human footman, equipped with sword and shield. The other, an orcish grunt, carrying nothing but an axe large enough to cut the figure in half. Both of them looked fairly heavy, made of some kind of resin. When he and Christopher had played with toys, they'd had to make do with wood and their imaginations. He looked up at his brother.

"Toys from the Second War?"

Christopher nodded, smiling like an idiot. "Beautiful, aren't they? Did you see the craftsmanship? I had them custom made in Gilneas."

Erik frowned.

"Something wrong?" Christopher asked.

"No," he said, as he saw the toy footman be smashed against the orc in some macabre representation of what he'd seen over a decade ago. "Nothing's wrong."

Christopher snorted. "Lots of stuff is wrong these days."

Does that include making orc toys?

Erik didn't think so. He hadn't talked to his brother in years. He'd only heard that he'd had a child through mail. The last time he'd seen Christopher was when he'd told him he was marrying Gemma, who, at the time, appeared quite happy to be engaged to "a man of the south." At the time, he'd given them his blessings, moved south, and then dealt with the present, and the chains of memory.

In some way they'd have been lucky. The Second War had involved all of the Seven Kingdoms. That meant men travelling up and down the continent, lodging wherever they needed. A lot of the time, that meant spending time with girls, which meant spending time what soldiers and maids did, which meant that nature took its course. Some of those men had returned. Some of their future wives travelled home with them. Some, either by choice or fate, never returned. "War orphans" was the name, and it gave the Church of the Light plenty of mouths to feed and minds to train.

Christopher and Gemma had survived all that. Their firstborn daughter, thanks to fever, hadn't. When he'd read that they'd had a son…

"So," Christopher said. "I'd ask how life's been, but your last letter made it quite clear."

"That I'm not cut out for viticulture?"

"That, and other things."

Erik frowned – he kept a lot of things to himself. He turned his gaze to John, who was now banging the orc on top of the footman. Involuntarily, his hand clenched.

"But I wouldn't worry," Christopher continued. "We can-"

"What?" he snapped.

Christopher looked taken aback.

"Why worry?" he asked. "The Alliance is falling apart – I was reminded of that just crossing over from Stromgarde. And that's not even touching on the plague in the northlands, or the revolts in the internment camps-"

"Exaggerations and rumours aren't-"

"And that your damn son is playing with a greenskin toy!"

A silence fell over the room. Christopher was silent. His son was silent. Erik, despite his heavy breathing, and his ever tightening fist, was still silent. Even as the screams filled his mind, echoing in his ears.

He stayed silent as he watched Christopher walk over to his son, bending down and whispering something in his ear before leading him out of the room, taking his toys with him. Erik couldn't help but scowl – he bore no ill will towards the child, but at his age he'd been playing with swords, hitting other boys and getting hit in turn. Not playing imaginary war after one that was quite real, and with another looming on the horizon.

And what role will I play in it? he wondered as he watched his brother sit back down at the table. What roll will you?

He watched as Christopher took a sip of the wine, before slowly putting it back down on the table. "Talk to my son like that again," he said, "and you won't be seeing the inside of this house for a very long time."

Erik snorted.

"Do you think I'm joking?"

"Oh, no, of course not. Except…"

"Except?"

"Except I find it hard to believe that it's so easy for you to watch your son play at war with an orc toy."

"Easy for me is it?"

Erik remained silent.

"You think I don't remember the war as well?"

"You tell me, you remained in the north while I marched on Blackrock Spire." He nodded towards the painting. "You think that drawing does any of that battle justice?"

"I didn't choose to remain in the north Erik."

"But you did. You let me lead, while you stayed behind, so you could retire all nice and cozy in a kingdom ruled by a king more interested in keeping those monsters alive rather than helping the people they sought to slaughter." He took a sip of his tea – not bitter enough. "Tell me, what are your tithes like to that dullard, Christopher?"

His brother said nothing.

"Fine. Be like that."

"Erik, you don't want to see me not 'be like that.'"

"I might. Least that way I'd know you had a backbone."

He watched Christopher rise to his feet. He could tell that his brother was trying to be intimidating, but it didn't work. He'd fought ogres, orcs, trolls, even got into a fistfight with an elf once. Friends and foes being taller than him didn't make much difference.

"You're my brother, Erik, and for that, I'm going to forget the events of the past few minutes. I'm also going to take the time to ensure you get back on your feet. Light willing, I'll even let you use the same sleeping draught I do to keep the nightmares away."

Erik said nothing.

"And after that…well, who knows? Orcs. Some mystical plague in the northlands. Hell, you might get a new war to fight."

Erik, despite himself, laughed.

Though a few years later, it didn't seem so funny.

A/N

The idea for this came from comments made on the development of Warcraft III: Reforged, specifically the design of orcs. How on one hand there's orcs in the Cute but Deadly figurine range, and on the other, Warcraft movie orcs. Somehow it translated to...this?

I'll be honest, I don't feel I could get this to work that well. Usually oneshots of mine are done in a single setting where it's impractical or impossible to work on multi-chapters, but this was split between two sessions, and...yeah. This isn't special pleading, but it's simply a statement of how any suckitude came about (to an extent).