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He stared, blinked. Blinked again. It was sort of hard to accept that this was something meant for him. It didn’t feel like him, but, truthfully – nothing had in… what? A decade? That sounded right.
Somewhere in his mind, Lor’themar was still a ranger, just filling in until Kael’thas returned. It left a bitter taste in his mouth to recall that – no – Kael’thas would not be returning to the throne.
“I’m not Kael…” He sighed, reaching forward and carefully running his fingers over the vibrant crimson fabric, before trailing off and tracing over the golden embroidery. It certainly looked like something the royal family would wear, but not him.
Halduron was tense, and looked cautiously between the Regent and the new garb, licking his lips and saying nothing. Rommath’s mouth was pulled into a tight line behind his veil, the muscles in his arms and shoulders tense; twitching in an irate, tight sort of way.
“I know.” The Magister finally dared to break the silence, voice flat and curt. “But we don’t need a Ranger General right now, Lor’themar. We need…” He trailed off. They needed a member of the royal family, but that just wasn’t going to happen.
Halduron spoke, finally, his deep voice soft and barely above a whisper. “We need a king.”
Lor’themar’s eyes closed, and he breathed in slowly, dropping the fabric uselessly. “I’m not a king.” It was no secret between the three that Lor’themar’s regency had been something very against the grain for the ex-ranger. He dreamed of a life that was no longer his, and everything but refused the title of “Regent Lord”. But the tension between the Alliance and Horde was rising once again, with the discovery of Azerite and the rush to mine the precious mineral.
Sylvanas was – perhaps as expected – pushing the fragile truce that had been made during the fight against the Legion. It was likely to shatter anytime. People felt shaken, afraid, and ungrounded now. It was no mystery that they needed a strong leader; Not one who was unsure or seemed to be without dedication.
The Sin’dorei were no different; Merely a facet of what the whole Horde felt. Time and time again, his people’s faith had been shaken and their roots burned. And yet they carried on. But with the Banshee Queen seeming to grow more and more unhinged with each passing day, the people wavered. They needed Kael’thas, or Anasterian. They needed someone bred and brought up to be a ruler. They needed the power, the confidence and the couth that the Sunstriders simply radiated.
What they had was Lor’themar, something of a feral country elf in comparison to the ruling family. Born rural and trained as a Farstrider was Lor’themar Theron.
It wasn’t his role – It was nothing he’d been raised to do, and yet, he seemed to come to this turning point again and again. The great shadow of a ruler he sat beneath; an impassible gap he was expected to bridge. Again and again – and though he’d admit it to no one – again and again he shied away, waiting for someone better suited to assume the position. His days as a ranger were over. It was time to bury that life and continue on.
The atmosphere in the room was heavy and electric: Surely a storm was going to pass through and destroy everything in its wake. Lor’themar opened his eyes, finally. The Ranger General – Halduron – couldn’t meet his gaze. Contrarily, the Grand Magister’s eyes seemed to pierce holes through him, stare unwavering. Without a doubt, an argument was poised on his tongue, ready to combat the Regent Lord’s protests further.
If Lor’themar had learned anything as a ranger, it was to pick his battles. And this one was a losing fight. He knew what was needed of him, and while it was not the life he had chosen, it was the fate he’d been given. All of Quel’thalas was relying on him to be the strong leader they needed; a figure to unite under. He let out a shaky breath, glad that no one was around save for his advisors.
“Alright.”
Rommath looked shocked, and Halduron’s head snapped up to attention. Whatever protests they’d been expecting to meet he had graciously spared them. “What else is needed of me?” Lor’themar asked, voice gentle and compliant.
The Grand Magister searched his face, looking for the sign that this was a joke, trying to scrutinize him to the fullest for any more hints of defiance. None were found. “You need to be cleaned up, as well.” Rommath stated, matter-of-factly. “It won’t do to simply change your wardrobe. You need to look the part, Lor’themar.”
“Less like a feral woodman, I assume?” Lor’themar laughed dryly, running a hand through some of the loose hair around his face and over his shoulders.
The Grand Magister gave him a humourless smile behind his veil and nodded. “I’ll have someone sent to take care of that.” The tension slowly dissipated, and both the Regent’s advisors were dismissed. Rommath lingered for a few moments longer than Halduron, seeming to busy himself with inspecting Lor’themar’s new wardrobe. For several minutes, he fussed over details, seams, and invisible dust. Finally, when he seemed satisfied, he made to leave.
Just before, however, he caught the Regent’s arm in his hand and squeezed it. His eyes searched Lor’themar’s, something soft behind them. Soft, but still stern as ever.
“Thank you.” Was all he said, thought Lor’themar had the feeling that Rommath was leaving a lot out.
Lor’themar nodded, solemnly, and as quickly as it had happened, the mage released his grip and breezed away, ever important things to attend to.
The Regent sighed, seating himself and staring the robes down, though with less disdain and hate than one might imagine. Rather, his gaze was that of a resigned tolerance. For now, he’d wait for whatever stylist Rommath deemed appropriate and try – again – to accept this unwanted path he’d been forced down.