Dying for Divinity

Light knows how many trolls I've killed. From the Sandfury in the hot southern deserts to the green-mouldered forest trolls of Zul'Aman; from the scattered tribes in the Vale to the little villages of the Revantusk. They are everywhere on this world, this relic of a savage old race. They walk among the Horde but defy the need to stand upright. They fish, they fight, they hunt, they grow their tusks long and they die within a blink of years.

There seems little reason to their existence, save for some reminder to the races here of their humble roots. But then, then paths lead to Zul'Drak, and you look upon a city – a temple – no, no, a city of temples, which rivals any I have seen.

It is cold here and snows often, the white flakes clinging in clumps to the rooty pines, skimming pools of water with crystal ice and giving the aqueducts and cobbled pathways a glistening glaze. There is a strange, odd beauty, one born of fires set to touch spirits and the physical proof of faith in the hands that build these obelisks, these ziggurats, these pleas to their gods.

But the snow covers everything, eventually, and what it does not blanket the Scourge grasps, creeping ever forward into the realm of the Drakkari.

In the snow I find a body, nearly covered by a humped white drift. There are trees nearby, but the body lies where it fell, or was left. All tracks have been erased by the white snow. I see a hint of blue skin, of purplish hair frozen in crisp strands, of yellow tusks polished and cold. I kneel down beside the troll. His chest still rises and falls in shallow breaths.

The cold seeps up through my robes quickly; I am not hunting here, neither Meep nor my rifle at my side. I came to walk, to meditate, to speak with those who understand this place and see it with clean eyes. Now I sweep my gaze over the curled body of the troll. His toes are blackened with frostbite, cradled in the snow and nearly covered. I curl my fingers around the thick, frigid digits and let the Light flow into him.

A little gasp escapes him and his body quivers as the healing moves through him. The show shivers from his shoulder and hip and one violet-red eye opens wide and locks upon me. “Ayeh, ayeh!” he croaks weakly, a voice strangled with the cold. “Healah, priestess, speak the word of death an' let me go, speak the word an' send me to mah ancestahs -”

It is a desperate plea from a convulsing body, coming conscious to the cold once more. I move the hand from his foot to his heaving ribs and my other to the top of his head, folding back his crisp ridge of hair. As the snow falls away I see hints of an Argent Crusade tabard folded against his chest. Ah, so that is how he speaks Common so well. I gently shake my head. “I will not speak the word of death for you, troll. You are wounded, but not beyond help. Lie still. I will heal you.” There is a break in his upper arm and bruised ribs beneath him. He does not seem willing to reveal them to me, so I continue channeling the Light steadily, letting it do what work it will.

“No! No!” he exclaims, and if he can he curls farther from me, away from my hands. “If you willnah kill me let me die! Stop, let me die heah, let me die.”

My brow furrowing, I lift my hands from him, little trails of Light still pouring forth towards his broken form. It is enough, I can perceive, though he will feel the cold worse now. I do not understand. I did not become a healer to let others die, even trolls.

“You are healed now, troll. You can walk to that shelter of trees, or back to Zim'Torga. I will walk with you.”

He shuts his eyes tight now, clenching his teeth. “I canneh go back. I am to die. I must die foah what I did.”

Ah, a confession. A duty of the priesthood that I am not accustom to bearing. I can try. I gently move my hand over his head again, but this time, not with healing. “What did you do?”

He shivers, his arms clutched around his chest, his tabard gathered in folds over his heart. His eyes do not open. “The Scourge be comin', dey comin' up from the West. I fought. I come up from Reventusk lands to fight dem, to keep 'em from meh lands an' meh people. I fight dem ev'ry day. Dey keep comin'. See dese Drakkari, dey been up here long time, been fightin' even longer. Drakkari go killin' the gods for strength to fight back the Scourge, ayeh? I say, dey know what's doin'! I go join 'em, say, I want to fight wit' joo, have the power to fight the Scourge, keep 'em from goin' South, from me muttah an' old papa in deh Hinterlands, ayeh. I help 'em killin' the gods, I tell 'em... dey leave me heah. I canneh go back. Let me die. Speak the word, healah, let me die -”

With a wet choke he curls his head towards his chest, defying the world. I do not move my hand. “If you are to die, troll, you should die in your strengths, not your weaknesses. Walk with me back to Zim'Torga. Rest then rise to fight again. The Light will guide you.”

“The Light? Phah!” He snarls now, exposing sharpened teeth beyond his tusks. His eye opens to blaze at me. “Easy to talk to a troll of the Light, draenei? Joo be coddled in it like babehs. Take your talk away and let me die.”

Now my own eyes narrow to him, but they are no less brilliant. “Coddled? You think I have not known your pain now? Where was the Light when my people were slaughtered by your allies the orcs? Where was the Light when Shattrath fell, when my parents were murdered? Where was the Light when I was torn from my heart-sister, when we were broken? Phah! But we do not wallow in our weakness. No -”

I force myself to stand from him, and the wind blows chill between us, carrying far too many reminders of my own days of self-pity, those which return to me every time I don these robes and leave my mail and rifle behind. I walk again only because I chose to. He has his own choice to make.

“You are healed, troll. You expect comfort but I will give you none. There is food and a warm fire, though, with your people.” I point in the direction of Zim'Torga, not far across the broken city. “The Light is no different. It may not spare you but it has healed you. Spare yourself and fight another day. The bears will find you here. Or the Drakkari will bring you death for certain.”

His eye turns from me to stare at the snow, his legs making some small unwilled movement. But he is bound in his mind. Bound to stare at the snow until he freezes or is set upon by the wild beasts of this land. I know this, but I will not speak the word of death. Not this troll, not this time.

Closing my eyes I say a quick prayer of peace in Draenic; the words flow quickly and smoothly from my lips. They require no comprehension. Their very sound paints a picture of another time: for me, it is a misty seascape where the air is warm, scented with herbs and carrying her voice. For him, perhaps it is a stand of dense green pines, meat cooking on the fire, the laughter of his young kin. It is all I can give him. I turn and walk away, leaving him lying in the snow as I found him.

My steps are slow, but I hold a thought of solace close to my heart. I have done everything I could. But the Light, I know well, is not yet done with him .