The journey of a lifetime

Pulsation.

The blood painfully starting up again, heating the numb flesh in its path. The skin feeling every pore quiver on the crest of the heat wave.

Pulsation.

The fingers vibrating. The nerves retuning one by one, picking up the music of sensations where they had left off.

A time of waiting. The heart daring not to believe in this rebirth.

Pulsation!

Connections being made in the mind, slowly, one after the other, like still-green vine shoots grasping other shoots already looking for the next link. Consciousness awakens. First you feel your heart, then your fingers trembling. You take a deep breath and it reminds you of something. You remember having breathed before.

Pulsation.

And from this one memory all come flooding back, images, sounds, blurred. And again the great picture of the self is painted, with a sure hand that works quickly and well, without retouching. First a big bucket of white sweeps over the black. Then an enormous dark line emerges from below, branching out and adorning itself with the full range of colors, becoming more refined as it divides; then the foliage is chiseled into infinite arabesques; swift arborescence; the wobbly edifice of identity springs up, hesitating, dazed, staggering... but the pillar of will suddenly comes to support it from its unmovable foundation, that first, stubborn, obstinate will, which asks no one's opinion: the will to live.

Pulsation. The heart sets off again, confident, for the restless race of existence.

And you open your eyes.

That's resurrection.

Stropovitch sat up slowly, his hand raised before his eyes, dazzled by the light that bathed the place.

His consciousness lulled by a crystalline chant.

O'ros...

Apart from the song, all was silent. Gradually, his vision became clearer.

He had been dressed in an immaculate white robe, and was lying on a slab of the same white, mineral, a few centimetres thick, perfectly rectangular and smooth, and floating a meter above the ground.

In front of him, in the center of the round room, O'ros the divine Naaru shimmered.

A Naaru is not a tangible living being. It's like a mystical symbol, a rune from the Book of Truth to which a god has given reality and consciousness. Each member, or rather line, of the symbol follows the others without being materially linked to them, and the whole remains suspended in space, an entity made of inexhaustible magic and age-old wisdom.

Behind the Naaru, in a semicircle and in three rows, stood an assembly of venerable draenei in white robes, looking grave. There were Velen, the Elders and the Council, and all the Masters. Stropovitch recognized only a few of them, for they were all shrouded in the Naaru's light - an unreal, magical tableau that resembled a sacred ceremony.

Then the Naaru spoke. Or rather, a voice echoed in the minds of all present.

"Stropovitch child of the martyred people, I have searched your entrails I have searched your memory I have searched your very soul. Stropovitch child of the blessed people, unless this evil can escape a Naaru, but no evil can escape me, the demon died with you. Stropovitch child of loneliness and suffering, we beg your forgiveness."

The warrior opened wide astonished eyes - and was moved to tears.

"Stropovitch child of stolen childhood, the Prophet, the Council and the Masters ask your forgiveness for ten years of mistaken belief that you alone could control your curse. Stropovitch child of the absent Light, I beg your forgiveness for never taking your case personally. Stropovitch child of rejected love, Velen asks your forgiveness for having wanted you to die without knowing that you would be brought back from the dead; he wanted to force the demon to manifest itself in order to exorcise you, but it didn't happen, it wasn't necessary. May your heart now rid itself of all resentment towards those who were wrong but only wanted you to be happy, may your spirit now find the path to a new life."

A blissful tear rolled down Stropovitch's cheek, reflecting the light like a fleeting diamond.

A new life... The body purified, the past exorcised, his existence finally recognized and considered by the leaders of his people, everything was open, possible, renewed.

Suddenly, clamors could be heard higher up. Thiwwina burst down the staircase into the hall, laughing out loud, the whole of Velen's elite guard at her heels. She turned with a big smile - she was gloating - and with a slight movement of her hand froze the legs of all her pursuers, welding their feet to the floor. Then she turned to Stropovitch, then to the Naaru, opened her eyes wide, put her hands on her hips and declaimed - while the guards struggled whimpering and the faces of the venerable assembly below showed a picturesque range of expressions of astonishment and indignation:

"Well, I was angry with you for not waiting for me at the inn, but apparently I'd forgotten to visit something really damned exotic!"

For a few days, Stropovitch remained pensive, even blissful. The gnome pulled him by the hand to visit all the nooks and crannies of the islands of Azuremyst and Bloodmyst. Sometimes she'd laugh at his goofy smiles, sometimes she'd grumble at his slow writing and ignorance of the place. And she managed to do all this while remaining so endearing that Stropovitch wanted no other company than her own. As he interacted with her, he gradually came down from that kind of elevation he'd known, and a creeping bitterness resurfaced in his heart: Certainly, to be recognized at last by the leaders of his people, and above all to be freed from the demon, these two events, as wonderful as they were unexpected, truly marked a new stage in his existence, and for the child who had never stopped crying inside him, it was like a second chance to become a more or less fulfilled adult, as much as one can be when one is a war orphan and has known violence and suffering in extreme degrees ; but the past had not been erased, the crimes had not been punished, and two beings were still alive who deserved to be the victims of slow, cold, painful, even sadistic vengeance - the warlock and Darotan.

In fact, his resurrection had given him a kind of peace, but this peace, far from making him renounce his vengeance, would help him to carry it out serenely, methodically, patiently. Far from erasing the grief of having lost loved ones, it would, on the contrary, enable him to stop being distracted from it. His mourning, to be completed, called for blood and screams.

"Well," Thiwwina dropped sarcastically on the evening of the third day, "our deal isn't very fair after all: I'll be a much better guide for Outland than you were for this archipelago!"

The gnome's sentence had the effect of a revelation for Stropovitch: he had asked her if she would accompany him to Draenor at a time when uncertainty still reigned in his mind; she had just reminded him of this forthcoming journey now that he felt sure of himself and his strength; every chapter of his life paved a predetermined path; Darotan and the warlock, he would kill them on their native soil.

The next morning, after a night shaken by nightmares, Stropovitch decided to announce his departure to Velen.

The warrior felt a certain guilt at not having such noble plans as the Prophet would have wished, even though the latter had always bathed him in his love and wisdom, whenever he'd had the chance.

"Death, whether followed by resurrection or not, has never had the power to erase the past. The rumor of my purification has spread throughout the ship, but the attitude of my fellow citizens towards me has not changed. If anything, it got worse. Previously, no one would have been able to confirm that I was really possessed by a demon, apart from Londan, Ondraïev, the Council and you, who kept the secret. It had remained a diffuse fear, a hypothesis that often served as an excuse not to make the effort to socialize with me - for who has the patience to include a mute in a conversation in which he can only participate by writing on his papers? Now it's been confirmed that the demon existed; strangely enough, having just been freed from that very demon, this confirmation has horrified many. And superstition, as well as the very history of the Draenei people, can only lead most of the survivors to reject me outright. For a long time, indifference prevailed over hostility; now it's the other way round, and will remain so. As I walked through Exodar these past few days, smiling in spite of myself under the effect of euphoria, I realized the obvious: my resurrection has only consolidated my status as an outcast, unwanted among my own kind.

As for the oath I swore two years ago to take revenge, nothing can break it. The memories and nightmares have already come flooding back. No, when all is said and done, the demon's departure doesn't mean the end of suffering. This death and resurrection, again, only confirmed what I had already sensed before: this suffering is part of me, it's my constant companion, so deeply rooted that I can identify with it; if it's taken away, I'll become someone else. Once lived a loved, happy, fulfilled child; that child is gone forever. Only he would have deserved to be resurrected. I am and will remain, whatever the Naarus or you, Prophet, do, a heart flayed alive, a bruised soul claiming as its only consolation the bloody corpses of its torturers."

Velen was deeply moved as he read these lines. He looked up at the warrior, who this time remained standing, did not lower his head, did not cry. Stropovitch was free of his demon, of his feeling of inferiority, of his permanent shame at still being alive: the warrior was now much stronger than before, but he was going to put this strength to use in the service of death. The Prophet knew well the feeling that assailed him at this moment: that of failure. He sat still for a few seconds, contemplating the long and winding road the Light was taking to establish itself in the Universe. But sooner or later, it would encompass all reality in the sacred blaze of its shimmering flames.

He rose to his feet: "You've finally confessed your intentions to me, Stropovitch," he said with a knowing look. "You're no longer ashamed of them. I'd have preferred you to be reborn without them, but I'm not withdrawing my affection or my trust. I have faith in your future. I'm certain that one day you'll put your strength at the service of the Light. Until that day comes, I'm going to support you as best I can. I'll write you letters of recommendation. I'll make sure you have the necessary equipment and resources. I wish you a safe journey, my child - one where, as you walk towards your goal, you turn away from it. Like all draenei, you owe your luminous eyes to the blessing of the Naarus. A traveling draenei is always a pilgrim, Stropovitch."

All draenei... except Arcân. And it was Arcân, even more than you, who forged who I am today.

Traveling with Thiwwina was an unforgettable experience, one you couldn't get enough of. First, she was always talking, recounting her thousand and one exploits and, above all, her thousand and one pranks. Far from boring him, this incessant babbling enchanted Stropovitch, who was under the spell of her little voice, and couldn't help smiling at all her incredible adventures. Secondly, she was careful not to relegate her jokes, provocations and other blunders and acrobatics to the past.

At Auberdine, she had declaimed in the middle of an inn - as if only the draenei could hear her: "I say it's great that the night elves are no longer immortal, they feel less superior to the others all of a sudden, they're less prideful, it fucked up their egos." Stropovitch had suddenly felt himself surrounded by hostile glances. He had heard the imperceptible screeching of daggers emerging from their scabbards. He had put down his tankard, lifted the gnome by the back of her dress and walked out - to a chorus of protests and shouts from the silly girl. They'd had to continue their journey immediately - never mind a night in a comfortable room.

In Menethil, she had launched into a grand speech on the beneficial effects of plants for the local gryphon master - a human suffering from advanced overweight. Just as she was getting to the point of herbs to combat water retention, fat storage and cellulite, Stropovitch released the poor interlocutor from her ordeal by placing his hand over the gnome's mouth and handing the master a paper ordering air travel to the dwarves' capital.

In Ironforge, she had come across a dwarf paladin whose team had lost to hers in the finals of the last arena championship. They had glared at each other, then Thiwwina had said loudly to Stropovitch: "What I find funny when I freeze a dwarf is that when it thaws it makes a yellow puddle on the floor because the beard is soaked in beer and it never washes off." The dwarf's complexion had turned peony red and he'd challenged her to a duel to wash away the outrage. Stropovitch must have spent the afternoon watching them fight at the city gates. After a dozen defeats, the paladin, his skin blue with cold, long stalactites hanging from his beard and hair, his hands numb and trembling, had finally given in - not without a final burst of pride, after the two combatants had taken a few moments' rest: "So," he had said victoriously, pointing to the small puddle stretching out beneath him, "it's yellow?"

While they waited in the station for the underground tram that linked Ironforge to Stormwind, she'd summoned her water elemental - a kind of big swirling ball of water from which emerged two arms of water adorned with bracelets that magically contained the whole thing. "Meet Zarkis. He has no legs, he levitates by propelling water on the ground. I wondered if in the Tram he'd be able to stay on a platform!" The elemental had struggled so hard to stay close to the gnome on the catwalk despite the speed of the railtram, that the icy water thrown out at full force splashed and froze all the other passengers. Once they'd arrived in Stormwind, the two companions ran to the gryphon master before the thawed victims got them into trouble.

Finally, Thiwwina wasn't just talkative and goofy. She was also extremely curious and intelligent. Stropovitch couldn't get enough of watching her big hazel eyes sparkle as she devoured every element of the environment. She observed everything, asked everyone lots of questions, without embarrassment, and marveled at nothing. When she was thinking, she would bite her lower lip, her gaze lost. When she applied herself to something, she stuck out her tongue with a squint. When she'd just shown great insolence or provoked someone, she'd smile, showing all her teeth, which increased her target's rage tenfold. In short, she was absolutely adorable.

Occasionally, on certain evenings, when the dim glow of a lantern with blackened glass didn't prevent Thiwwina from sleeping soundly with the light snoring of a squirrel with a cold, Stropovitch would take out his diary, reread a few pages already written, and pick up the thread of his tale, finding one by one the invisible threads that wove his destiny.