Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde

29

Vol’jin felt his father’s presence and dared not open his eyes. The shadow hunter had gone to his cell in the monastery and isolated himself despite the frenzy of activity going on in preparation for the coming assault. He firmly believed everything he’d said to Taran Zhu, about belonging there, about the monastery being a new home and the bond of his likeness having been carved into the mountain’s bones.

So strong had been his conviction that he felt the need to immediately communicate with the loa. Though what he was doing was right—of that he had no doubt—he could imagine the loa turning their backs on him. They might view what the Zandalari were doing as harmful, but his commitment to the pandaren cause might also be seen as hurtful to trolls.

The sense of his father reassured him, at least in that he felt no hostility. Vol’jin forced himself to breathe in and out evenly. He combined what he had learned in the monastery with older practices. He came to the loa as a shadow hunter should—certain and resolute. And yet, as an adult who had revered and treasured his father and his father’s dreams, he took youthful joy in Sen’jin having come first.

Vol’jin looked, seeing without opening his eyes. His father stood there, a bit more bent with age than Vol’jin liked to remember him but still bright of eye. His father wore a heavy, hooded cloak of blue wool, but the hood lay back against his shoulders. He appeared to be smiling.

The shadow hunter made no attempt at hiding his own smile, though it lasted for mere moments. Be this what you expected of me?

Opposing the Zandalari here, in a place where you must fall? Committing yourself to a battle that you cannot win, for the sake of a people who do not understand you and do not care to? Sen’jin, his shoulders slumping, shook his head. No, my son.

Vol’jin looked down, his heart aching. It felt as if a rusty chain, festooned with spikes, had been wrapped around his heart and pulled tight. If he had only one goal in life, it was to make his father proud. And yet, if I must be disappointing him, so be it.

His father’s voice came softly, with a hint of mirth beneath its gravity. This be not what I expected of you, Vol’jin, but what the loa be expecting of shadow hunters. While I did not expect it of you, I always knew you would be rising to this height when the time came.

Vol’jin looked up, the pressure in his chest easing. I don’t think I be wholly understanding, Father.

You, Vol’jin, be my son. I be enormously proud of you and all you have accomplished. His father’s spirit raised a finger. But when you became a shadow hunter, you transcended being my son. You became a father for all trolls. You bear responsibility for all of us, for what we gonna become. Our future be in your hands—and there be no one I can think of who can be more trusted with it.

The world shifted around Vol’jin. Without moving, he found himself standing beside his father. He watched stars explode in a night sky rich with explosions. He watched Azeroth coalesce from nothing. The loa came and granted trolls their very nature, bargaining in return for eternal supplication and worship. Wars and calamities, good and joyful times, all flashed past, shining satin moments on the ribbon of history.

No matter what he saw, no matter how brief the glimpse, Vol’jin picked out a shadow hunter or two or five. Sometimes they had moved to the fore. Often they stood beside or behind a dynamic leader. Occasionally they huddled together as a council. Always was their endorsement sought and the wisdom of their decisions respected.

Until the Zandalari began to pull away. It made sense, really, as trolls became more sophisticated and built cities. They ceased wandering, acquired wealth, and began building. They created temples and shrines, and a class of surrogates arose to offer sacrifices and interpretations of the loa’s messages. Vast populations meant that trolls were removed from occupations that brought them close to nature and the loa, and old precepts had to be revised and interpreted for a new time and civilization. The Zandalari found their full employment in this pursuit, which meant they had to reinforce the necessity of their role, else their caste would have no reason to exist.

This required, however, a redefining of the shadow hunter. Yes, to complete the training and testing was a great thing. A blessing everyone would celebrate. Shadow hunters were raised to be heroes of mythic proportion—respected but also feared, since they walked with the loa and, therefore, could not completely understand the needs of mortals.

Vol’jin shivered. The same innate desire for the approval of the Zandalari was not a failing that the other troll tribes enjoyed alone. Khal’ak was a victim of it too, but in another sense. She sought an alliance with a shadow hunter because of his status. Their working together gave her more legitimacy.

Until I went and ruined that.

History’s parade slowed here and there, at key points. The displays had become more grand, the throngs larger, and the rhetoric more volcanic and vitriolic. Frenzy swept over vast hordes carpeting the landscape.

Yet, in these scenes, Vol’jin saw no shadow hunters. Or, if he did catch a glimpse, it was of a shadow hunter turning away. As I did when asked to join Zul. As I did when breaking with Garrosh.

All of a sudden the last piece slid into place. The Zandalari had set themselves up to be speakers for the loa. Perhaps they came to believe they were the equal of the loa themselves. Certainly they thought themselves a people apart from other trolls. They were better. They were more. And the Gurubashi and Amani, in attempting to emulate the Zandalari and revive their glories, suffered from that same vanity. That sense of self-importance bred hubris, which doomed their efforts.

In each case, a shadow hunter had turned away. The trolls interpreted that as a remnant of the past disapproving of the future. From their point of view, they had no other definition of that action. But their interpretation divorced them from their true nature.

A shadow hunter might counsel, might lead, but that was not his true purpose. This was not the reason the loa came to him and depended upon him. A shadow hunter was the true measure of what it was to be a troll. All trolls, and all of their actions, were measured against the shadow hunter. It was important to see the distinction of actions versus abilities or potential. Shadow hunters certainly were more able than most trolls, but there were no trolls who could not emulate shadow hunters, contributing their efforts to the community. That would be what confirmed them as being trolls.

Vol’jin visualized himself standing on a simple merchant’s scale. Khal’ak and Vilnak’dor stepped on the opposite plate. The scale tipped in Vol’jin’s favor, elevating the Zandalari. He could see how his adversaries, from their vantage point, justified believing he was less of a troll than they.

They vanished, and Chen replaced them. Then Taran Zhu and Brother Cuo stepped up. His old friend Rexxar appeared, and then even Tyrathan took to the scale. With each of them, the scale came to rest at even. Garrosh rose like a goblin rocket when his turn came.

Vol’jin puzzled over what he felt was the true nature of his companions in the monastery or Horde. Certainly the pandaren and the human were not his equal at being a troll, though their efforts on behalf of Pandaria would undoubtedly be equal to his. Their desire for freedom, their selflessness, and their willingness to sacrifice themselves matched those things in him without question. Measured on this scale, their character and heart were every bit as troll as his.

Rexxar, who loved the Horde as much as Vol’jin, likewise embraced those virtues. Vol’jin wished that his mok’nathal friend could be there with them. Not so he could die, but so he could help them destroy the Zandalari. Rexxar would have done so happily, no matter how sad the pre-ordained outcome.

And so would many others in the Horde. The majority, I be thinking.

The Horde, the Shado-pan, even Tyrathan were truer to the fundamental essence of being a troll than were the Zandalari. The Zandalari and their ilk were curl-tailed curs whining to the wolf that because they had once been like the wolves, but were now different, that they were better. True, their coats might be brighter; they might perform tasks better; they might live longer; but they had forgotten that none of those things meant anything to a wolf. A wolf’s purpose was to be a wolf. Once that truth was forgotten, new truths had to be forged. No matter how clever the work, however, they would be but a shadow of the one truth.

Vol’jin cocked his head and looked at his father. Being a troll has nothing to do with shape or bloodlines.

Those things cannot be wholly discounted, my son, but the spirit which be making us trolls, which be making us worthy of gaining the notice of the loa, predates the forms we now wear. His father smiled more broadly. And, as you have seen, the shadow hunter turns away from paths that shear us from that spirit. Since spirit be defining us, discovering that same spirit in others be a cause for celebration.

Vol’jin laughed. You would be allowing me to believe that the Horde be more troll than the Zandalari.

There may be truth in that. Do you be knowing what we called ourselves before we called ourselves trolls?

I never… Vol’jin frowned. I don’t know, Father. What?

Neither do I, my son. The troll spirit bobbed his head. It be certain we were something before we became trolls, and likely gonna be something after. The Zandalari have always tried to shape what we be, and others have used circumstance to be reinforcing those ideas. However, I be not doubting that twenty millennia from now the question will be asked, “Do you know what they called us before we called ourselves Horde?”

Be that your vision for trolls, Father?

Sen’jin slowly shook his head. My vision for trolls was a simple one: for us to return to being a people following a shadow hunter. That required something special, however—a shadow hunter who could lead. Many shadow hunters be content to refuse a journey which leads to disaster. You, my son, be a shadow hunter who can lead away from disaster. If this means that you be leading us to a place where race matters less than the content of the heart, where deeds matter more than intent, then this be where we gonna thrive.

But will the loa believe that?

Bwonsamdi’s cold chuckle rippled through Vol’jin’s chest as the troll spun to face the loa. Have you not listened to your father, Shadow Hunter? The loa came before the troll. Your father be asking what trolls were called before they were called trolls. I be asking what they were called before that, or before that. What you are be a river. Some will say that means you be water. They would have you stagnate. You be more, as a river be more than water.

And the Horde?

The loa spread his hands. River be river. Wide and shallow, narrow, deep, and fast—it does not matter. We be spirits. Our concern be for your spirit. Abide by our compact, be true to your spirit and obligations, and you gonna prosper.

You gonna have your fill of Zandalari souls soon.

The loa’s laughter rang mirthlessly. You never gonna sate my appetite.

I gonna soon follow.

And I gonna welcome you. I be welcoming all trolls.

Vol’jin found that comment oddly comforting. Not because he had any desire to be dead, but because it meant he would not be separated from his friends. It didn’t seem like much with death looming so large, but for the shadow hunter, it was, at the moment, enough.