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 texture 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.