“How so?”
“All these brews and concoctions I made were my attempt to capture a place or a time. A bard might do that with a song, or a painter with a picture. They play to ear and eye, whereas I play to nose and palate and, perhaps, touch too. I always sought the perfect brew, hoping to find that one which would describe the emptiness in my life. It could fill it. But here, now, I know I am whole. And while I can capture a place and time in what I do, now I possess joy and happiness—both of which are compounded by your presence in my life.”
Yalia moved to him, circling his neck with her arms. “Perhaps, then, I am the selfish one. I wish for more, Chen. I want eternity.”
“We will have that, Yalia Sagewhisper.” Chen pulled her close, holding her firmly. “We’re already eternal. Our images may drop from the mountain’s bones, but the mountain itself will fall before we are forgotten. Bards will sing of us. Painters will splash our images from here to Orgrimmar and back. Brewmasters will claim for eons that they have my secret recipe for the brew that sustained the Thirty-three. They’ll probably just call it that: ‘Thirty-three.’ ”
“And we will be united forever in their memories?”
“There won’t be a boy in Pandaria who doesn’t seek his Yalia, and count himself lucky when he’s found her. Girls will be happy when they tame their wandering Chen.”
Yalia pulled back, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what you think I think?”
Chen kissed the tip of her nose. “No. You have shared your peace with me. You are the anchor and the ocean. And any cub who finds his Yalia and is given the benefit of those things will be the most fortunate pandaren alive.”
She kissed him full on the mouth, passionately, desperately. It took his breath away. He crushed her to him, hugging her fiercely, stroking the back of her head as they kissed. It was a moment he never wanted to end, and he hoped the artists and bards would do it true justice.
When they pulled back, Yalia laid her head on his shoulder. “I could only wish it would be our cubs doing that looking.”
“I know.” He stroked her fur. “I know. I take solace in knowing that many other cubs will do the searching.”
She nodded wordlessly and kept her head there for just a bit longer. Then they parted and began the trek back up the mountain, laying more traps, adding more verses to the songs that would be sung of them, and preparing lessons for the Zandalari that they should have long since learned.
“The mogu could be searching forever, and they would still never be finding all the arrows you’ve hidden.” Vol’jin folded his arms as the human straightened up. “You’ve got one for every soldier on the isle.”
“And two each for the officers.” Tyrathan shrugged. “And it’s not just quivers I’ve been hiding. There are knives and swords and sticks and bows. Outside I have heavier bows, perfect for use with long arrows to hit targets at range. In here, compact bows, shorter arrows, easier to employ in close quarters.”
Vol’jin looked around the White Tiger shrine. “If fighting ever gets in here…”
“You mean when. . . .” The man slapped the stone shoulder of a sitting tiger statue. “You’ll be glad to know his tail’s curled around a half dozen throwing knives.”
“Or that there be a sword up there, where I could be reaching it but you could not.”
“Remember, you promised to get the one that gets me. I just want to make sure you have the tools.”
“I do.” Vol’jin reached behind him and pulled around the new glaive, which had been strapped across his back. “Brother Cuo worked the forge hard. Chen described the weapon I normally be carrying. Cuo put together something suitable for fighting Zandalari.”
“That’s the way he said it, yes, as if fighting wasn’t the same as killing?”
Vol’jin nodded. “It be giving him peace to make the distinction.”
Tyrathan studied the weapon and smiled. “He’s made the blades longer, with a nastier hook to them. They’ll slash well, either end, and stab. But the center, the grip is a bit more stout, it seems.”
“Yes. A single tang be running all the way through.” Vol’jin freed it from the scabbard and spun it around so quickly it whistled. “Perfectly balanced. He says he sized it for my forearm. It suits me better than the one I lost.”
“A pandaren monk creating a traditional troll weapon.” The man gave a grin. “The world as we knew it has changed.”
“His work be as remarkable as a man and a troll joining together to keep other people free.”
“We’re dead. Rules don’t apply.”
“I be thinking I appreciate human glibness now.” Vol’jin slid the glaive back into the scabbard. “Being of a different temperament, trolls do not speak as quickly. We be giving things more time.”
Tyrathan gave him a look. “So, your telling Garrosh you’d kill him, that wasn’t glib?”
“Rash, no doubting. Thinking on it, though, be not changing what I said or meant.” The troll opened his arms. “No changing, even if I’d been knowing the future. I won’t be dying here without regrets, but they won’t be consuming me.”
The man smiled wryly. “I’m sorry I won’t keep my oath to see my home one more time, but this is now my home. I’ll happily haunt it forever.”
Vol’jin looked around. “Not much of a tomb, really. Though the Zandalari won’t bury us.”
“Nor will the mogu allow this place to stand. They’ll hurl all the stones into the ocean, let the vultures eat their fill, then grind our bones into dust and let the winds scatter us.” Tyrathan shrugged. “Good enough gust, and I might make it back to my home mountains after all.”
“I gonna hope for good winds, then.” Vol’jin squatted, pulling a fingernail along a seam between stones in the floor. “Tyrathan Khort, I be wanting to say…”
“No.” The man shook his head. “No good-byes. No fond farewells. I don’t want things settled. I don’t want to think I’ve said all there is to say. If I do that, I’ll give up a little bit sooner. That desire to tell you one more thing, to laugh when you find one of my swords, or to see your face when one of my arrows kills someone fixing to slit your throat—those things will keep me going. We know we have no future. But, we can have one more minute, one more heartbeat, and that’s enough time to kill one more of the enemy. They steal my future; I steal theirs. Fair trade, though I’ll be buying in bulk.”
“I understand. I concur.” The troll nodded. “Did you do as others did? Chen wrote his niece… .”
The man looked down at his empty hands. “Write my family? No. Not directly. I did send a short note to Li Li. I asked her to befriend my children if their paths ever cross. She wouldn’t need to say why or even tell them about me. Did you write anyone?”
“A few notes went out.”
“Nothing for Garrosh?”
“A note in my hand might scare him, but he would be taking credit for my death. I gonna be denying him that pleasure.”
Tyrathan frowned. “Did you set into motion a plan to avenge yourself?”
“I told no one what he’d done. He’d be claiming the notes be forged anyway, or coerced by the Zandalari.” Vol’jin shook his head. “I just told people I be proud of their commitment to the Horde and the dream it represents. They gonna come to understand what I meant.”
“Not as satisfying as killing Garrosh directly, but you’ll rest well in the grave.” Tyrathan smiled. “Though I did like the image of you shooting him. I always saw the arrow as being one I made for that purpose.”
“It would have flown true, I have no doubt.”
“If you survive, rescue a few of my arrows from dead Zandalari. They’ll sting at least twice.” The man clapped his hands. “If we were saying good-byes, I’d shake your hand and tell you that we need to get back to work.”
“But no good-byes, so it be just back to work.” The shadow hunter smiled and took one last look around. “We gonna haunt the mogu, shifting stones, and then the fish. And the fish gonna turn to poison and be killing all those we couldn’t get ourselves. Not much of a plan, but it gonna make eternity interesting.”