Chapter Text
The sky above Mount Neverest was a bright, clear blue. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen, and birds were a rare sight so high in the mountains to begin with. It was the very picture of serenity, and Tyrathan was steadily growing sick of the sight of it.
Laid as he was in his pandaren-made cot, too badly injured to even sit up under his own power, he had little to do besides stare out the window. Unfortunately, at such a low angle, all he could see was the empty sky, and after just one morning of it, he would have welcomed a storm if it meant having something new to look at.
From the moment he’d woken up here after his latest brush with death - if indeed a spear through the belly could be called a “brush” - he had known the path to recovery would be long and difficult, and he had accepted it. He’d gone through it before, after all. Or so he’d thought; it had taken a couple of hours of monotony for the grim reality of his circumstances to sink in. When Chen had brought him in after the Serpent’s Heart, he’d been up and moving around on crutches after a day or two of rest, but a wound clear through his middle made being even remotely upright an impossibility, and likely would for a good while.
And yet, in his boredom Tyrathan was also a tiny bit grateful for the severity of his injury - and at least as ashamed for feeling that way. The reason being that it allowed him to put off something he now knew he couldn’t keep avoiding: returning home. He owed his family the truth, or at least certain parts of the truth, but that didn’t make the prospect of coming back from the dead pleasant. The most selfish parts of him still wished he could avoid it, stay a ghost forever, but the part of him that knew right from wrong wouldn’t allow it.
The sound of the door creaking open jolted Tyrathan back to the present. He turned his head to see Vol’jin enter the room, carrying a woven basket under one arm.
The troll made a low sound of surprise. “I didn’t know you’d be awake,” Vol’jin said. “How you be feeling?”
Tyrathan tried to push himself up to his elbows, but succeeded only in sending a sharp stab of pain radiating outward from his wound. He fell back on his pillows and gestured at his middle with a weak smile. “Like I’ve been trampled by a wild boar,” he said. “Could be worse, all things considered.”
Vol’jin closed the door and crossed the room, setting his basket down at the foot of the bed. He worked an arm under Tyrathan’s shoulders and lifted his upper body off the bed, supporting the human’s weight on one arm while the other arranged pillows under him to prop him up.
“Thanks,” said Tyrathan as he relaxed against them, glad to be a little closer to eye level with the troll.
Vol’jin picked up his basket again, and now that he wasn’t quite so horizontal, Tyrathan could see it contained a set of clean robes folded neatly atop fresh bedding.
“Don’t tell me Lord Taran Zhu has you on laundry duty after everything.”
Vol’jin shrugged. “Everybody be pulling their weight,” he said. “Besides, it be my turn, eh?”
Tyrathan gave a short laugh. “I suppose that’s true.”
Vol’jin flashed him a grin and turned to put the clean laundry away, and it occurred to Tyrathan that although it hadn’t been all that long since their roles had been reversed, it felt like a lifetime for how much their relationship had changed. When Tyrathan had been assigned to care for Vol’jin, he had gritted his teeth through all of it, and it had been clear to see that the troll hadn’t liked the arrangement any better than he had. Now, though, on the other side of everything, Vol’jin performed the duty almost cheerfully, and Tyrathan suspected he might even have volunteered for it - although it was equally plausible that Taran Zhu had ordered it for the sake of balance.
And speaking of things Vol’jin was willing to do, something was nagging at Tyrathan. “Vol’jin,” he said carefully.
The troll made a small sound of acknowledgement.
“About what happened after the battle… What did you do? How is it that I still live?”
Vol’jin paused in his task, but did not answer. He didn’t even turn around.
“I felt death upon me,” Tyrathan pressed. “And I don’t mean like when I chose to let the man I used to be die. The actual chill of death, Vol’jin, deep in my bones. I should have been beyond saving.”
“You live because Bwonsamdi wills it,” Vol’jin finally said. He drew in a long breath, straightening up a little with it. “What you felt be his grip. Now you been released.”
“Bwonsamdi,” Tyrathan repeated. “One of your troll gods?”
“Loa,” Vol’jin corrected sharply, turning around at last. He regarded Tyrathan for a moment, then sighed and walked over to crouch by the bed, eyes level with Tyrathan’s. “I told you before: secrets be secrets. But this one, you earned the right to know. The loa of death marked you for his own.”
“Am I in danger?”
Vol’jin shook his head. “It ain’t like that. Bwonsamdi be a powerful and dangerous loa, but he don’t kill by his own hand.” He paused. “Not often, leastways. He be the one who collects our dead, and now he be meaning to collect you, too.” He gave Tyrathan a pointed look. “When it be your time, and no sooner.”
Tyrathan nodded. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Vol'jin nodded in turn, and went to collect his basket once more, making to leave. “I got more chores need doing, but I’ll be back after.”
“I look forward to it,” said Tyrathan. He watched the door close behind Vol’jin, and kept studying it for a good while after the sound of the troll’s footsteps had faded into the distance.
That was the other reason why he was almost glad to be bedridden; he did not at all like the idea of parting ways with Vol’jin, and in a perfect world, he imagined he wouldn’t have to. He hadn’t felt so well understood by another person in years, or possibly ever, and had long since accepted that he never would be. But now that he had had a taste of how well he could work with someone, he wasn’t sure he could just go back to not having it.
But they each had their obligations that needed seeing to, and Vol’jin’s were weightier than his. What was there to be done?
-
Vol’jin kept his word. Over the next several days, he visited often. Sometimes in the course of his chores, and sometimes just to kill some time, but always it was a welcome break from the monotony. Not that Vol’jin was the only one; Chen was a frequent caller as well, and had even managed to procure a couple of books written in Common to help Tyrathan while away the time. Lord Taran Zhu visited less often, but even he occasionally found the time to look in on him in person. And so, though he still found being stuck inside the four walls of his cell extremely dull, at least he had the best company he could ask for.
But as all things, it had to come to an end. It seemed to Tyrathan that no sooner had he managed to stand up for the first time than Vol’jin announced he would be returning to his people, as if he'd been waiting for this particular milestone in Tyrathan's recovery. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, the leaving; Tyrathan knew well enough that Vol’jin had always meant to go back to deal with Garrosh, but he had hoped - well, he wasn’t sure what he had been hoping for. A miracle, perhaps. For Garrosh to drop dead of his own accord. Anything to stall the inevitable.
The last time Tyrathan saw Vol’jin, the troll entered his cell not with a laundry basket or a jihui board, but carrying all his weapons and a small travel pack. He stood there silently for a moment, as if to allow the sight of him to sink in.
“So,” said Tyrathan, sitting up with some effort. “This is goodbye.”
Vol’jin nodded. “I ain’t gonna ask you for the arrow for Garrosh now, but I can’t be leaving my tribe waiting any longer.”
“Take one of the ones I made for our last battle,” Tyrathan said, jerking his head towards his quiver, propped against the wall and still holding a few red-shafted arrows. “It’s not exactly what I promised, but I don’t want to hear you were one arrow short because I failed to deliver."
Vol’jin eyed the quiver, but made no move toward it. Instead, he approached the bed.
“There never be enough time,” he said, bending down to pull Tyrathan into an embrace. The troll’s hand found the back of Tyrathan's head, and held him in place as Vol'jin's temple brushed against his. The contact was feather-light, but deliberate. Stray strands of Vol'jin's wild mane tickled at Tyrathan's cheek - and in the blink of an eye, it was over.
Vol’jin took a step back. “You take care of yourself, Tyrathan Khort. Don’t be too eager to meet with Bwonsamdi.”
“You too,” said Tyrathan.
Vol’jin grinned, cocking his head. “I can’t be avoiding it. A shadow hunter walks with the loa.”
Tyrathan huffed a laugh, then gestured at his quiver again. “Really, though: take an arrow. Hell, take all of them! They were made to kill Zandalari; they should more than suffice for an orc. And I’ll sleep better knowing they won’t be going to waste.”
Finally relenting, Vol’jin took the remaining arrows from Tyrathan’s quiver and added them to his. Having done that, he opened the door, nodded one last time, and then he was gone.
Tyrathan lifted a hand to his temple, fingertips just brushing over where the point of contact had been. He was knowledgeable about the way trolls hunted and fought, and even had an inkling about the way they practiced religion, but what Vol'jin had just done, he had never before seen a troll do.
It stood to reason; outside of the battlefield, he had only ever encountered individual trolls that hadn't been outright hostile to him, and even then there had been a healthy amount of mutual suspicion. He'd never been privy to how trolls behaved amongst themselves, and Vol'jin was the first troll he could say he was actually close with, so he didn't know if what had just happened was a standard goodbye between friends, or something else. It had felt intimate, but that was by his human sensibilities. Who knew what it was for a troll.
Tyrathan laid back down with a sigh.
-
At last, Tyrathan too returned home. He spent the entire journey to Stormwind trying to figure out just what he would say when he saw his family again, and managed to compose a passable explanation for why he'd disappeared. The fresh scarring on his belly and back were undeniable proof of the grievous injuries he could claim had kept him away since the Battle of Serpent’s Heart.
He ended up needing none of it, because when he knocked on the door of his home, it was Morelan Vanyst that answered.
If it hadn’t already been his intention to release his wife - and if he was honest, himself - from their ill-fated marriage, the look on her face when he spotted her behind Morelan would have done it. She looked terrified. Almost certainly some of it was just the simple shock of seeing him alive, but there was no doubt in Tyrathan’s mind that first and foremost she was afraid of Tyrathan, and what he might do. Morelan, too, looked spooked. Tyrathan could hardly blame either of them.
One good thing did come from that fear: Morelan was eager to help talk his uncle into allowing Tyrathan leave the family’s service with minimal fuss. Tyrathan did try to make it as clear as he could that this was not a condition for the divorce, and that he would go through with that even if Bolten refused, but wasn’t sure if Morelan believed it. Either way, by the time King Varian called for able bodies to help lay siege to Orgrimmar, Tyrathan was a man with no attachments.
In the end, Tyrathan was not there to witness the final fight against Garrosh. He ended up in a group of Horde and Alliance soldiers left behind above ground as the bulk of the assault force delved into the city’s bowels. Their role was to watch the main forces’ flank and protect their escape route, should it be needed. As it turned out, Garrosh had had no such foresight, and no additional kor’kron materialized. The guard group ended up milling about the city, occasionally exchanging glares over faction lines, but doing little else.
Tyrathan found himself in the Valley of Strength, leaning against the notice board in front of Grommash Hold, idly twirling an arrow between his fingers and growing more bored by the minute as he watched the city gates. He’d been paired up with an orc who, while she did periodically give him a pointed look to remind him he was in her city and she wasn’t happy about it, seemed content to leave him alone otherwise.
The news of Garrosh’s defeat and the appointment of the new Warchief made it above ground before the involved parties did. Horde and Alliance alike received the news with cheers, though Tyrathan noted his side was markedly less elated to hear about Warchief Vol’jin than the Horde and particularly the trolls were. Tyrathan himself was torn. He was sure there was no better choice for the Horde, and he was happy for his friend, but a part of him had hoped to catch Vol'jin alone after it was all done. It would have been difficult enough with the troll leading the rebellion, but Warchief? There was no way Vol’jin would be left alone for even a second, now, not until the last of the Alliance had gone. In fact, Tyrathan realized, with this turn of events, he might never be able to speak with his friend again.
After a quick glance in the direction of his orcish companion to make sure she wasn't paying attention to him, he surreptitiously pushed the arrowhead into one of the wooden posts supporting the noticeboard, as deep as he could force it, and carved the Pandaren symbol of the fireship into it. Vol’jin would be passing this post daily, and would notice it sooner or later. He’d know who had left the mark, and why, but no one else would, even if they recognized the symbol.
He left Orgrimmar with the Alliance forces, having failed to even catch a glimpse of Vol’jin. Had someone asked him what he hoped to gain by leaving a mark of his presence in the city, he wouldn’t have had an answer.
-
Tyrathan went on with his life, such as it was. On the rare occasion that he saw his ex-wife, he found it harder and harder to think of anything to say. His children had never quite forgiven him for letting them believe he had died, and so they gradually drifted away from him, too, and soon enough Morelan Vanyst fully occupied the role of their father. But then, hadn’t that been the point? To allow his family to have the life he could never have provided for them?
So, Tyrathan went on with his life. Until Broken Shore.
Broken Shore was a nightmare. The battle had been going so well until the Banshee withdrew her forces; after that, the Alliance had been forced to retreat as well, and then the King of Stormwind was dead.
Tyrathan couldn’t understand what had happened, why Vol’jin would have allowed the Horde to back out at such a crucial moment. As he arranged passage to Kalimdor, Tyrathan recognized the same doubt gnawing at his insides that had plagued him after Serpent’s Heart, and quashed it. Doubt never did him any good: the thing to do was to keep his heading, find a way inside Orgrimmar if he had to, and get answers, find out why.
He arrived just in time to see the funeral pyre assembled. All the leaders of the Horde in attendance, save for one. The body atop the pile of wood was wrapped in shroud, but a single tusk jutted out, painfully familiar in shape, and Tyrathan knew. After that, he could no longer find it in his heart to blame the Horde for retreating. It was a tragedy on both sides, and only the Burning Legion was to blame.
Later, after the ashes had gone cold and the crowd dispersed, Tyrathan thought, traitorously, that he should have been up on that ledge with the Horde. If he’d been there, then perhaps one death could have been avoided, or at least traded for his own. He didn’t know how to pray to troll gods, but just on the off chance he’d be heard, he whispered a request for Bwonsamdi to guide the spirit of his fallen friend to rest.