He managed another step. The pain lessened ever so slightly.
Through the struggle, Malfurion heard an angry voice. So in pain was he that even had it been someone with whom he was familiar, he could not have identified it. The archdruid only knew that the speaker was very near.
Then, for just a brief moment, the voice became very clear . . . and even closer.
“Why do you not just die already?”
Something struck Malfurion on the head.
22
Ritual
Genn watched his people continue their preparations to depart. It was with a heavy heart that he had decided to take this course of action, but there was no more reason to stay near Darnassus, and doing so only deepened the shame of the worgen’s rejection, at least in his eyes.
Varian’s disappearance after the hunt had come as a great blow to the Gilnean king. After the obvious bond that had developed, the other monarch’s abrupt behavior had eradicated Genn’s last hope that the worgen would be accepted by the Alliance. With that hope gone, Genn’s choice had been clear.
Eadrik was nowhere to be found, but otherwise the rest of his aides had the situation well in hand. Another day or two and there would be nothing left to mark the encampment’s former occupants.
The hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end. Someone was behind him.
As with many worgen, Genn more often than not remained in his lupine form. He felt stronger, younger that way. When human, the king felt the aches of age.
But being worgen now meant that the one behind him had failed if his attempt had been to sneak up on Genn. Moving with the swiftness and grace of the worgen shape, he turned to meet the potential threat with claws and teeth.
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.