The late afternoon sun beat down moderately on the port city of Ratchet that day, neither scorching nor warming the inhabitants. Business during the slow season carried on as usual, and it was one of the few times that people could actually slow down and smell the roses. Bruisers relaxed a bit, merchants stopped shouting their prices and workers were able to saunter from location to location rather than run all over the place like other times during the year.

Serene and peaceful by the standards of a neutral, cartel run city, Ratchet exuded warmth that could even be felt by the travelers and out of towners. As the noise level remained civilized and the streets remained empty by its standards, the city became almost a quiet and slightly boring place to be around. Mostly goblin architecture dominated the crowded, winding streets packed with shops, houses and even small factories, punctuated by the occasional residential house built in other architectural styles. Beautiful and busy, it signified every bit of the multiracial, non-factional society the cartel had advertised itself as building.

High on the bluffs overlooking the main portion of the coastal settlement below stood a handful of large estates. All of them walled and built on the only flat, tillable land in Ratchet, they were held by families who had contributed significantly to the local flavor of the community. The walls protected their privacy from all but airborne travelers, though all the houses had inner gardens in order to provide shade and cover from passersby. On that particular afternoon, three long-eared people stood in between the trees, watching overhead for a visitor they'd received advanced word of after he'd been sighted over the Crossroads just half a day's travel away.

Hurrying out of the courtyard and onto the main road, the three of them kept an even pace as they followed the path to one of three flight points in Ratchet, all of them developed to handle the large amount of through traffic in the city. One in particular was larger than the others, a tauren-style roost for the wind riders and even the occasional chimaera whose owner needed to remain overnight. Straddling the highest bluffs at one edge, it towered over the main road leading in to the Ratchet city limits from the Barrens, facing a bruiser watchtower on the other side. Much of the bluffs were still undeveloped, and aside from the three estates, only a few shops catering to flying mounts and their owners dotted the high, rocky land formations. By the time the trio had reached the roost, the rider they'd been watching had already landed, checked in the wyvern and signed off that he released it to their care in exchange for vouchers for free rides in the future.

Weary from days of travel through towns he rarely frequented so as to avoid conversations, Navarion had almost succeeded in repressing his boiling emotions and putting on his best casual act. As he walked down the stairs from the upper decks of the roost, his new travel bags - he'd sold his and Zhenya's old bags along the way - suddenly felt very heavy in his shoulders. For the first time in a few years, he was back home...back in Ratchet. But unlike the other times when he'd disappeared on his family for a few years, this time he was finished. Not simply because he'd promised his mother; his wanderlust was over. Not satiated; just beaten down and domesticated. When he exited the roost to face relatives he'd left in the middle of the night for the fourth time, he was so mentally drained that he didn't even worry about whether or not they'd be happy to see him.

As it turned out, he wouldn't have needed to worry anyway. Always forgiving, always happy to see him, the warm reception of his godmother, his sister and their nephew put a small dent in his protective wall as they bestowed upon him a warmth he didn't deserve.

Navarion's sister Sharimara, a giantess of a woman even taller than him, nearly knocked over the Orcish flight point attendant as she forewent the typical elven bow and pulled him into a one armed hug. "Glad to know you aren't too good for your family," she joked, not realizing how deeply her words cut him.

Hiding his true reaction, he half-smiled and hugged her back, and half resisted when she took one of his bags from him. "Come on, don't say that," he replied softly. Almost forgetting that they were blocking the walkway from a pair of gnomish engineers and their goblin colleagues, Navarion stopped to pick up his nearly seven year old nephew, a similarly mixed race child like them. "By the Goddess, you were a toddler the last time I saw you."

"You're different," Venjai remarked as he tried to resist his uncle's newfound affection. "Mom and dad told me you'd bring presents," he added in regard to Navarion's sister Anathil and her husband, Tan'jin.

"Always the privileged only child," Navarion answered while setting Venjai down, somehow finding the ability to let out a short but sincere chuckle.

"Thanil is pregnant again, actually," chimed in Irien, the godmother of Navarion and all his siblings. A pureblooded night elf, Irien stared right into the downcast but now retired mercenary; hers was a scrutinizing if empathetic stare as it always had been, but this time she withheld the usual tongue lashing he'd expect from the tough, industrious Kaldorei. She looked up at him with a mixture of anger but also relief written all over her face, betraying a bond she held with the children as strong as that of the rest of their odd family. "You have a lot to catch up on." Also forgoing a bow - this was crazy aunt Irien, after all - she took him by the arm the way his mother often did and led him down the road toward the estate.

Although the heat wasn't intense enough to rise up off the ground, it did remind him of how early it was for any of his family members to be awake. All of them, even his pureblooded jungle troll father, had adopted a nocturnal lifestyle, sleeping out the hottest hours of the day, and his sister, nephew and godmother had obviously woken up extra early (or stayed up extra late - their sleeping schedules fluctuated when they were on vacation) to receive him.

Though Venjai had always been as soft spoken as his parents, Sharimara and Irien were both considered chatty by elven as well as trollish standards. Regardless, their demeanor as the group trotted down the road toward their estate on the very end of the bluffs felt low key.

"Are you back with us for good, now?" his sister started, never losing her smile or her slightly playful tone.

"Yes, yes, don't worry," he answered a little too fast. "This was the last time on my own. I'm done." His own words rang in his ears, and a mixture of feelings threatened to rumble upward until he shoved them back down into the pit of his stomach.

Tugging on his arm to signal her approval, Irien seemed unusually subdued. "Your family will always be here for you, even when you were sneaking out and traveling the world. I know you needed to work something out of your system, but now that you're back we might not let you go again." For once, her tone lacked the firmness it usually did. For the first time, Irien almost sounded a bit sentimental in reaction to his return, and it felt awkward. Navarion began to wonder just how much had changed since he'd been gone.

"You don't have to worry about that, auntie. I'm back for good." Passing by their neighbors, he tried to get his bearings before arriving home. "Issa, Zengu, Del...are they at home right now?" he asked in regard to his three other siblings.

"No, not currently," Irien replied. "Just you, Shari and Thanil now, plus Tan'jin. Everyone else is currently out."

"Issa might come with Narrus next month, especially now that you're here," Sharimara added in regard to their sister Issinia and her husband.

So many names, most of them of family members who had struck out on their own at least part of the year and stayed at home during the winter due to the warmer weather in the Barrens. It wasn't lost on him that aside from him and Sharimara, the rest of the Hearthglen children had grown up and begun lives of their own. And in Sharimara's case as well as Irien's, she intended to remain at home with their parents until they passed on - neither of them would be alive in half a century, whereas the siblings would all live perhaps half a millennia more; she had no problem devoting a few decades of her life solely to them.

Unlike her, Navarion had little excuse for not having forged a life of his own, and the sight of her only served to increase the strength of the guilt he already bore. Even though this was technically the fourth time he'd returned home, the finality of it felt different in so many ways. Given his centuries long lifespan as a half elf, he shouldn't feel as if he'd wasted his life up to that point; many never began their adult lives until later and Irien herself had no plans on marrying any time soon or on ever leaving the Hearthglen household at all. Things should be fine. The sinking feeling in his chest was already bad enough from the events of the past few months; there was no reason for it to increase upon sight of his didn't make any sense.

When the four of them reached the high walls topped with Kaldorei style arches and the gate rimmed by Darkspear style war shields, they immediately noticed that the father of the siblings had stirred rather early as well and even gone outside. Only slouching over slightly and even wearing a shirt and shoes, Khujand looked every bit the domesticated jungle troll. The estate faced the edge of the bluffs on the other side of the road, and the senior shadow hunter stood and watched the waves crashing on the shore of the public beach below, holding his hands behind his back. As far removed as both of his parents were from their cultural roots, there were a few constants that could never be suppressed: an elf always desired to live in a forest and a troll always desired to live near a flowing water source. Navarion's mother had the tall garden in the backyard of the estate; his father could watch the ocean from the observation deck on the roof of the three story house, though sometimes he preferred to stand out near the edge of the bluff as well. But when the old man turned to get a look at his prodigal son returning, Navarion knew there was another reason that Khujand had been waiting outside.

Understanding the need for them to talk, Sharimara forcibly took his other bag. "Auntie, can you come help me make breakfast for mom? She'll be awake soon and will want to hear the good news," she asked of Irien rhetorically.

Not needing to be told twice, Irien nodded and took Navarion's belt pouches, leaving him totally unencumbered. "Good idea. Venjai, come along inside. Uncle and grandpa are going to talk for a bit."

Quiet and well behaved if demanding, the boy with hair a pale jade color followed the two women inside the gate, leaving the son and father to themselves. His scarlet mane still as fiery as a red dawn, Khujand smiled warmly, showing no resentment or anger over Navarion having left the family again. He merely waited by the edge, still facing the great ocean halfway and looking as if he had not a care in the world.

At the age of sixty three, Khujand had already outlived the average life expectancy for a male troll. True, there were long lived individuals of all races, but the locals tended to believe that it was a combination of voodoo and alchemy that kept the man relatively healthy and able bodied. Both a powerful shadow hunter and the former alchemy trainer of Ratchet, the man certainly did little to dispel those rumors, and as far as even the local shaman and medical practitioners could tell, Navarion's father showed no signs of failing health quite yet. That didn't prevent all the family from constantly worrying and visiting as often as they could; just as Navarion's mother had reached the very end of her life as one of the world's last remaining night elves from before the War of the Ancients, his father had also passed into his twilight years, regardless of how many laps the old jungle troll could run or how well he could still toss his glaive. Seeing his father there, happy and accepting as always, finally did pierce Navarion's wall via a tiny but existent hole, boring inside and reminding him of the fact that he would spent the overwhelmingly majority of his lifespan without his parents alive.

When Khujand held an arm out to draw his son in, Navarion had to look away,more tending to stare off at the underbrush that had sprouted up next to the estate due to the effects of the intense balance of nature focused on the naturally grown household. If the wily old troll noticed, he didn't give it away.

"Welcome home, son," his father drawled in his heavily accented Common, the language of the mixed household. Even after having lost weight in his old age, the senior shadow hunter was more than half a foot taller and quite a bit heavier, and pulled his son in for a hug with a surprising amount of force. "Everybody's glad ta have ya back."

Humbled and undeserving, Navarion weakly forced a smile. "It's good to be back, dad. I never understood the...value of home before." For a split second, he met his father's glowing red eyes, unmindful of the fact that as an even more powerful shadow hunter, the old man could see right through him. Self conscious and cursing his forgetfulness, Navarion quickly tried to change the subject. "How's mom?" he asked nonchalantly.

"She's fine, she's fine...she's gonna be happier now that ya're back." A quick furrowing of the old man's hairless grow signaled that he had easily figured out Navarion's act. According to their mother, Khujand had dealt with social anxiety for years back before they were born; that experience made him loathe to cause any embarrassment or discomfort to others, and he was always very subtle when it came to trying to figure things out. This time, however, his father was a bit more direct. "Son...ya've changed," the full blooded jungle troll noticed, his voice filled with concern.

"It was a long campaign, dad. We beat the silithids."

"Ya know that ain't what I'm talkin' about." Letting out a long sigh through his long nose, Khujand continued to study Navarion in a way that made the young man feel trapped. There was no use in trying to change the subject anymore. "Son...let me tell ya a few things," his father started. At no point in his life had his father ever been the type to lecture them; their twelve thousand year old mother had plenty of wisdom to pass in via lectures. Thus, when his father began to speak, he listened closely. "For a very long time, me and ya mama both struggled with a lot of things we did in our past. Things we ain't proud of. And for a very long time, we both thought tha solution was ta always feel guilty, and always remind ourselves of what bad people we were." For a moment Khujand closed his eyes and breathed in the ocean air, appearing to relive some old memory that Navarion knew he and his siblings would probably never hear about. "But people can't live like that. Ya gotta move on, and ya gotta find a way ta cope with what ya did and make it up ta tha world. Cause mopin' around and hatin' yaself ain't gonna help anybody."

Trapped without a means of escape, Navarion sighed just as heavily as his father and looked out over the ocean as well. "How can I make it up to the people I've hurt?" he asked his father after some hesitation, feeling his throat hitch toward the end.

Undisturbed by the emotional display, Khujand only shrugged. "I can't tell ya that, son. I wish I could, but nobody can. Atonement is somethin' personal, and deep. Ya mama and I are always gonna support ya, but this is one issue where nobody can find out tha answer by yaself."

"I've tried, dad, believe me I've tried...and every time I try to think about it, I come up with nothing," he said in frustration. "Maybe some things are so bad that there is no atonement."

"Hogwash, stop bein' melodramatic. Ya sound like Issa now," his father joked. "Even if ya don't feel like tellin' me what happened-"

"And I don't."

"-I can still tell ya that however bad ya might think it is, it could be much worse. And these answers, no matter how big or small ya sins are, tha answers ta them don't come overnight." Turning away from the ocean, his father looked him right in the face, not sparing him via indirect methods. "Look, ya home now. That's tha most important thing. Whatever ya got goin' on, whatever sort of soul searching' ya need to get done, we're gonna be here for ya. Ya're safe and sound, and at a place where ya can take a break ta think."

Think. To think about thinking terrified him. To even face down how he'd been hurt and then hurt someone else in turn scared his immature brain far too much to bear, and he folded inward. "Thanks dad," was the only response he could muster.

Relaxing a bit despite most assuredly sensing his son's apprehension, the old shadow hunter patted him on the back and turned to walk away. "Everybody is gonna be happy ta see ya, so get ready for tha bombardment. Thanil is pregnant, by tha way - ya gonna be an uncle for tha fourth time."

"So I've heard. Will Zengu and Thandra bring the twins down to visit any time soon?" Navarion asked, thankful to be discussing lighter topics.

"Naw, I don't think so. It's a few months till winter starts, so they're probably gonna wait till then." A short pause fell upon father and son as the two of them stood, waiting for the other to talk first. Not in the mood for saying much, Navarion looked at his father with drooped down ears, silently asking not to bear the responsibility. "Well, why donshyu take a minute ta prepare yaself. Ya know ya mama is gonna practically tie ya down ta a chair for tha first day or so, wantin' ta see ya and be sure ya here for good."

"Yes, I expect I'll be quarantined for a few days while she grills me for a bit," Navarion chuckled, temporarily relieved of his burden. His father promptly walked back through the gate of their property, heading into the house and leaving the oldest son on his own.

Standing alone, Navarion tried to steel his nerve and put on his best face in preparation for pretending everything was alright. He might not be able to fool his father, but he also knew that his father wasn't liable to tell the rest of the family anything unless he felt ready himself. They were all...so kind. Too kind for someone like him. He might call himself a fool for ever having left, but did he truly regret all that had transpired?

The waves of the ocean crashed on the shore, that old familiar sound he'd grown up next to trying its hardest so soothe his soul. Looking out across that ocean, he tried to come to terms with the fact that, at only thirty four years old, he'd already done as much adventuring as his father. Across that ocean lied the Eastern Kingdoms, where he'd cut his teeth when he was barely considered a legal adult and spent years hunting bandits, slavers, pirates and undead, scouring thieves' dens and toppling the towers of Twilight cultists who just never seemed to go away. To the south lied the more arid lands of the continent where he'd first absconded from a work contract as a teenager and gone on a wild ride through the interior, enjoying the best years of his life as he engaged in one escapade after another. By all measures, he should feel ready to settle down.

But something wasn't settled.

To the north, Navarion turned and looked in the direction of Azshara. Nothing but pain, loss and guilt lied there, and he hoped that he'd find a way to leave it all there. But even more, he hoped that a certain woman he'd cared for so much and then lost found her place among the stars with the other heroines, no matter what she believed in, and joined others who had died so the people could live. And, more than anything he'd ever wished for, he truly hoped and prayed that another certain woman, an innocent young woman he'd hurt for no good reason, would find solace in his absence. Perhaps atonement for him would be to never contact her again, just as she'd asked of him. Perhaps the best thing was for him to stay at home, retired when he still had a few hundred years left to live and isolate himself form the world he loved traveling so much. Just seal himself away from any living beings other than his family, and protect anyone else he could potentially hurt.

Every time he inhaled, he felt physical pain pounding in his chest. Within the dried out and frozen husk that used to be his heart lied numerous holes, all of them poked by his own stupid actions in one way or another. One gaping emptiness had been torn by the loss of his paladin, her darkly beautiful visage already fading in his mind but leaving a hole all the same. Another gaping emptiness had been torn by his mistreatment of his archer, her adorably cute features intentionally forgotten for fear that his ache might drive him to behave rashly once more.

And...a third.

It didn't make any sense. Only Zhenya and Astariel were in his mind, yet there was a third hole in what was left of his heart. Something else. Or someone else. As if there was another person he'd left behind.

Shaking the thoughts out of his head, Navarion held his breath as he'd done once before, letting the pain of repressing his emotions tax his cardiovascular health until it went numb. At least he could pretend he felt like a normal person for a while, and bask in the undeserved welcome his family would grant him.

Maybe, just maybe, he'd find a means one day to atone for what he'd done to a good woman. Make it up to her somehow, perhaps even find a way to rid himself of the self loathing he'd been told had once affected his parents but that he'd assumed would never affect him.

And maybe...just maybe...he'd find a way to help set the world right again.

But all of that was in the future. Depressed, defeated and done, Navarion turned and walked toward the family's estate, as ready to face them as he would ever be. Once the likely day long welcome had completed, there was nothing more he wanted than to shower and sleep. And maybe if he closed his eyes long enough, he wouldn't wake up until he somehow felt whole again.

A/N: so ends the second volume of Taming the Beast. Is it a happy ending? Not really. Should I have warned readers? I don't think so; there should be a measure of uncertainty when taking up new literature. This story was rather painful for me to write, partially because it's based on real life events as I've told some readers in private, and I hope it wasn't too painful to read.

As mentioned before, all three volumes of this series were completed about a year before the first chapter of the first volume had even been posted. Volume three takes place eight years after this chapter. Things change. People change. And when older, different versions of a certain shadow hunter and archer try to make amends, and try to pick up the pieces of lives that were once whole and now shattered, the results may not be ideal.

Will the ending of the final volume be a bad ending? No, I promise. Will it be a stereotypical good ending? No, not that either. Sometimes the best endings are the most realistically mature ones reachable. That's all I can say for now.

For those who plan to read on, the third volume will be posted soon enough; it was already edited long ago and is ready to be posted after a short interlude. For those who only planned on reading this story, thank you so, so much for your patience during an attempt to write a less ideal story. Whatever emotions this stirred up, I do hope it's moved you in some way or another. Best wishes.