World of Warcraft: Wolfheart

by Richard A. Knaak

  But instead of doing battle, Genn found himself standing in utter bewilderment.

  “Varian Wrynn?”

  Varian could not blame his counterpart for being so stunned. The lord of Stormwind himself felt like an absolute fool, or at least someone who certainly did not know his own mind.

  Although on the one hand the hunt had served to do as Malfurion had surely desired, it had also revealed to Varian the utter inconsistencies of many of his own beliefs and prejudices. Suddenly overwhelmed, Varian had chosen the one recourse he felt open to him at that moment: he had retreated in the face of the worgen’s honor of him—an honor he felt he did not deserve—and had plunged deeper into the forest, his destination not even known to him.

  With Anduin gone, Varian had felt no desire to return to Darnassus. His quarters, while built with the night elves’ love of nature in mind, had still been part of a city, part of his life as a king, not as a man. The vibrancy of the forest, with its abundance of life, of freedom, had given him some respite, but had not eased his confused mind as much as he had hoped. Instead, Varian had discovered too late that the quiet and calm around him only better served to bring into focus all his misjudgments and prejudices.

  He had lost all track of time, night coming and day returning without his caring. With day had come the knowledge that Varian could not simply abandon everything for the purity of the forest. For his love for his son, for his people, and for his hopes for redemption, Varian had come to a decision. It had to do much with the realization that there were others who had struggled hard with the darker side of their nature, perhaps even in a way that he never had.

  The worgen.

  And so, after returning to his quarters to quell the growing anxieties of his retinue—and finding that Malfurion had already assured them that their ruler was merely “indisposed”—he had sought out Genn Greymane once more.

  “You left,” the Gilnean monarch said with some condemnation in his tone. “We honored you and you simply left. I sought word of you from Darnassus, but the archdruid only said not to worry, that you needed time to yourself.”

  The wisdom of the night elf continued to amaze Varian. “He was right. I had much to consider . . . and when I was done considering all of it, I knew that I had to find you and your people again.”

  “You want something of us? What? We’ve nothing. No land, no gold. You have everything. Everything.”

  “Not everything. I need your help, Genn.”

  The other king stared without understanding. Considering their previous encounters, Varian could not blame him.

  “How can I possibly help you?” the worgen muttered.

  “I know something about the worgen curse and the—ferocity—of it . . . but you and yours control that urge, not give in to it.”

  “Ah!” Genn not only nodded in understanding but even showed some sympathy rather than disdain. “I always wondered how anyone could survive what you did and stay intact inside. . . .”

  “I didn’t.” Varian felt uncomfortable even speaking of it. “Tell me what you did.”

  “It’s not as simple as that, my friend. You have to be willing to look deep within yourself, find your balance. . . .”

  “I’ll fight a hundred orcs barehanded, if that’s what’s needed—”

  The worgen laughed sadly. “Trust me from experience. That might be simpler. We lost several before we were shown the correct ritual by the night elf Belysra Starbreeze. They were consumed by the curse, became beasts without hearts, without souls.” Genn looked off into his memories. “We had to put them down. The ritual is still fraught with danger. Now and then, there are those who do not survive it.”

  Varian was not dissuaded. “Better I die trying than to keep on like I am, Genn. I’ve lost my wife and now my son. Anduin may be gone forever and it’s because of me. . . .”

  “I lost a son as well,” the king of Gilneas murmured. “Although Liam is gone forever, killed saving my life from a poisoned arrow fired by the leader of the Forsaken, the Banshee Queen, Sylvanas, when we sought to retake Gilneas City.” Genn shook his head. “I don’t downplay what’s happened between you and your boy. ’Tis a terrible, terrible thing, whether by death or the separation of miles, if permanent. I know your loss there, Varian. . . . ” The worgen leader peered over his shoulder at his people, some of whom had paused at sight of the recognizable newcomer in their midst. His brow furrowed in deep thought. “We can guide you into the ritual, but how you come through it depends much upon you. To conquer yourself—your own worst foe—requires tranquility, balance, and, last and by no means easy, ultimate mastery of your fury. Three struggles, not one.”

  “Three or a hundred, I’ll face what needs to be faced. Show me, Genn.”

  The worgen nodded. “May your ability be as great as your determination.”

  Genn did not lead him among the other Gilneans, but rather skirted to the south and then east. However, as they walked, several other worgen left their tasks and began following.

  “Why are they following?”

  “The ritual needs to be overseen by more than just one.”

  The lord of Stormwind frowned. “How do they know what we’re planning? You gave no sign.”

  Genn’s lupine features showed some slight wry amusement. “None that you saw.”

  A few more worgen, both male and female, joined in the group trailing behind the pair. They moved in silence, seeming like bearers at a funeral. Varian’s hand instinctively shifted nearer to his knife but did not actually touch it.

  Genn led him to a small clearing surrounded by trees whose branches reminded Varian of grasping fingers. The Gilnean ruler guided his charge to the center of the clearing.

  “This is where we’ve made do since our arrival,” Genn explained.

  The clearing itself appeared unremarkable save for three simple wells sunk on the opposite side from where they had entered. The fact that those wells were here signified to Varian that they had some importance to what was to take place.

  That was verified a moment later by the sudden emergence from the woods behind the wells of three druids.

  At first, Varian expected Malfurion to step out as well, but only the trio—two males and a female—moved toward the wells and the worgen. He did not recognize any of them other than as night elves. They wore solemn expressions and eyed the worgen as if looking for something.

  “Who is it to be?” the middle one—his blue hair bound in two long braids trailing nearly to his waist and a smaller one thrusting upward from the back of his head—asked of Genn.

  The Gilnean ruler indicated his counterpart. “This one, Lyros Swiftwind. I give you Varian Wrynn.”

  The druids looked startled. Lyros muttered, “But he is no worgen.”

  “Yet, still he suffers as we did before attaining balance,” Genn explained. “The fury within him is no less than that of any of us, possibly even more.”

  “Please step forward,” the female requested.

  Varian obeyed. The three druids each placed a hand on the king’s shoulders, then closed their eyes. They studied the lord of Stormwind so for a moment before opening their eyes and withdrawing their hands.

  Lyros looked at his companions, who nodded to the monarchs.

  “We see it now,” he said to Varian. “Welcome, Varian Wrynn. We are honored with your presence and, as keepers of these wells, will do what we can for you . . . though I think it best that Genn Greymane be your guide for this.”

  “I’d prefer that,” Varian replied.

  “I’ll be glad to,” Genn added.

  The other male druid—his short, narrow beard and closer-cut hair both green—extended his palm. In it Varian saw a single long, silvery leaf that tapered at the point.

  “Take this. Eat it. It is a moonleaf, a symbol of both nature and the Mother Moon. It will help prepare your mind for the ritual.”

  Varian took it without question. He expected the leaf to be bitter, but instead it had a soft, soothing te
xture and proved easy to swallow once chewed.

  “Now you must drink from each of the wells.”

  With Genn beside him, Varian followed the druids to the first of the three wells. Here, the second of the two males took over once more.

  “I am Talran of the Wild and this is the Well of Tranquility,” the druid said, handing Varian a small mug filled with what simply looked like water. “What you drink now will help you rekindle the peace and joy lost so early in your life.”

  Varian took the mug and calmly swallowed the contents. When he returned the mug, the druid bowed his head.

  Lyros gestured toward the second well. Genn looked a little surprised. “He’s to drink from all three at once?”

  “For his journey, yes. We believe it must be so.”

  At the second well the female druid, her green hair flowing behind her, served Varian. “I am Vassandra Stormclaw and this is the Well of Balance. What you drink will keep your mind and body as one, thus enabling you to stand with both parts unified for the struggle you take on.”

  The contents tasted much the same to Varian, who thus far felt no different from either mug of water. As he handed back the mug, the lead druid indicated the third and final well.

  “I am Lyros Swiftwind,” the night elf said. “And this is the Well of Fury.” The druid handed Varian the last mug. “What you drink will enhance the first two mugs you took and also build within you the strength you need to confront and, hopefully, command that which most risks this ritual ending in failure.”

  Lyros did not explain further. The king of Stormwind downed the contents, then waited expectantly.

  The lead druid nodded to the worgen leader. “Genn Greymane, you know what must be done from here on.”

  “I do. Follow me, Varian.”

  As they stepped from the druids, Varian suddenly felt as if all his senses had begun to heighten. In doing so, they enabled him to notice some unsettling details he had missed concerning the area. Many of the tree trunks had scars that looked suspiciously as if some beast had madly slashed at them again and again. There were also areas where the ground had been churned up, though not so recently that there was not grass growing atop most of those places. He also smelled the scent of dried blood.

  “Back in Gilneas, where my people were the first worgen to go through the ritual, there were those who required more effort to come to grips with themselves than others,” Genn explained, as if aware of what Varian was noticing. “We learned hard from that, very hard, sometimes. When our journey brought us to Darnassus, we planned this place accordingly and it’s served us thus far.”

  The worgen leader gestured to the others. They spread around the clearing, forming a loose circle. Varian estimated how many steps it would take for one of them to close with him. Enough that he could draw his knife, but not much longer than that.

  “We shall sit here.” Genn smoothly positioned himself with legs crossed, then waited while Varian did the same.

  “Now what? I close my eyes? That simple?”

  Genn’s ears flattened. “If you try, then it’s that simple. If you give up already . . . not simple at all.”

  Frowning deeper, Varian shut his eyes. Immediately, his other trained senses heightened. He heard not only his own breathing, but Genn’s. The worgen’s musky smell wafted under his nostrils. A light wind grazed Varian’s skin and slightly tousled his hair.

  “Your senses are very acute. You could be worgen,” he heard Genn say with some astonishment. Then, more neutral, the other king began. “Focus. The water from the three wells will aid, but you are the one who must find where to begin. For that, you must look into your memories.”

  “For what?”

  When Genn answered, it was as if he spoke from much farther away. “For those points most relevant to your life . . . and the choices you made because of them for good or ill. Start with the oldest you recall and do more than just remember them. Relive them. Be aware why you did what you did and what that means to you.”

  Eyes still shut, Varian shifted uneasily. “There’s no point in going back and doing that—”

  “Then there’s no point in continuing,” Genn returned, seeming even farther away. His voice also took on a whispery quality, as if the wind carried it.

  Varian grunted. “All right. I’ll do it.”

  Gritting his teeth, the former gladiator focused on his past, trying to summon those memories that had for so long remained undesired. He looked far back, thinking of when he was the son and his father the king.

  Suddenly he was once again a small boy. A sense of peace draped over him. Varian felt such comfort that for a moment he simply dwelled in it.

  Then, the figure of his father dominated the scene. Varian held Llane’s hand as the king assisted him in learning to ride his first horse—more a pony, to be truthful. But the riding lasted only moments before the scene shifted to Llane overseeing one of Varian’s first fighting lessons. Varian realized then that he had handled a blade barely better than his own son, but Llane’s encouragement had helped Varian better learn from his instructors.

  The tranquility of those days softened Varian’s heart. Still the young boy, he looked up at his father.

  That was when the assassin struck.

  Llane fell, dead. His slayer, the female half-orc called Garona, loomed like a sinister giant over Varian, who was now suddenly some thirteen years old.

  Screaming, tears pouring down his face, young Varian lunged at the killer. Events had not played out this way—in real life, he had not entered the room until the half-orc had already murdered his father—but now they mixed with Varian’s turbulent emotions of that time.

  But Garona disappeared. Llane’s face, contorted in death, filled Varian’s thoughts. The teenage version wanted to cry out for his father, but no sound came from his straining mouth.

  Then the tragic memory became mixed with others. With Llane dead, the capital was vulnerable. The orcs, who had already invaded the kingdom four years previous, now overran the great city. The capital fell as brutal axes slew hundreds.

  Everything wonderful about his childhood vanished. No peace. No tranquility.

  But unlike in times past, Varian now realized that the good memories had always remained with him. Even though violence had taken his childhood, it could not erase what he had lived prior . . . not unless Varian allowed it to do so.

  And that was what he had always done.

  But not now. Despite what had happened to his father and Stormwind, Varian at last embraced what had been before. His father had never ceased loving him and had proven that time and again. Varian had only shoved that knowledge aside.

  And now, aware of that, he felt the peace remain within him. Whatever trials had come after the assassination and Stormwind’s fall, Varian would always have his childhood. The past could not be changed, but that meant for the good as well as the ill.

  Tranquility . . .

  Although he managed to keep his eyes shut, the voice startled him, for it sounded like his as a child mixed with that of his father.

  Yet, though Varian accepted what had happened, he no longer wished to dwell on it. Instead, his mind sought some other memory to counter what had happened to his father and kingdom . . . and Tiffin naturally occurred to him.

  Varian was no longer a child, but an insecure youth caught between the changes both within himself and the world around him. There was much that he had already learned to hide from those closest to him, such as Prince Arthas of Lordaeron and that boy’s father, King Terenas—who had also, in some ways, become a second father to Varian. Overall, to others, the young lord of Stormwind had appeared a diplomatic, intelligent, and upbeat ruler wiser than his years. However, the scars within could not always be kept hidden, and servants especially would become familiar with his occasional bouts of despair.

  That had all changed with Tiffin. He saw her again as she had been when first they met. A calm and wondrous golden spirit contrasting sharply with his w
ild, dark self. Varian loved her for the first time again as she strode toward him, even though the first thing he did when she spoke with him was to brush her off in such an arrogant manner that any other person would have rightly fled.

  But Tiffin did not. Again she danced with him, laughed with him, and brought out the good in Varian to balance the unchecked. In some ways, even more than his father, Tiffin helped Varian become the king the people loved.

  And yet . . .

  Varian struggled to keep the memory away, but could not.

  And yet . . . the people were the very ones who killed her.

  She lay dead at his feet, slain during a riot. An innocent victim of a time when everything had gone mad. Reliving it, Varian nearly slipped back into his darkness . . . but that would have been the ultimate disdain for his beloved. Tiffin had made of him a better man, a worthy leader. Varian finally saw that he had constantly insulted her memory with his later actions. Tiffin would have never acted as he had. She had always forgiven, always sought to do her best for those she loved.

  If Varian hoped to redeem himself to her memory, he would have to do the same.

  Varian steeled himself against the images of her death, doing instead what he knew she would have hoped of him. He was right to grieve, but he also had to move on . . . and learn. Most of all, he could continue to learn from her life, use it as the example of how he should confront all of the issues he continued to face as a father, man, and monarch. . . .

  Balance . . .

  Again the voice startled him, this time because he heard not only his own voice, but also that of Tiffin. Varian imagined her again, only this time with the culmination of their love held in her arms.

  Anduin . . .

  Anduin was all that he had left of family, the most precious member of all, for in the boy was his mother. For the years that they had been together before Varian’s vanishing, he had tried to be the father Llane had been. Without Tiffin it had been difficult, but Varian recalled times when he and Anduin had laughed together.