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No. Not the keep. That is one vision I would rather not see. That’s what he had said, and his champions had turned away. Wrathion stood at the gates, trying to convince himself that he should do the same.
There might be nothing for him here but misery. These visions did not show true things, only lies and madness; the worst fears of people and the highest hopes of N’zoth. And yet, knowledge of those fears and hopes was what he sought. Intel was intel, even that gained from the shared dreams of a wicked god, and it was of great importance to his mission that he got it. It was for Azeroth’s sake.
Wrathion stepped through the gate and into the curtains of darkness beyond.
The same chill that permeated the whole city gnawed at Wrathion’s bones as he ascended the steps to the keep’s courtyard. He tried not to be too bothered. He was a dragon, after all; he could keep himself warm.
Like many things in the vision, the courtyard was not quite as Wrathion remembered. The statue of the late King Varian Wrynn was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a gaping void, not a hole in the ground but a hollow emptiness in the fabric of reality. Underneath it, where there used to be a fountain, dark ichor poured out, pooling around collapsed forms clad in royal guard armor, strewn across the yard like puppets with cut strings.
It was all standard fare for this version of Stormwind. Wrathion had seen worse, but it still disturbed him. Perhaps that was a good thing; perhaps the day he grew wholly numb to the horrors of the visions would be the day that N’zoth was winning.
Nevertheless, Wrathion couldn’t help but feel glad that the only people around were dead already. He’d not been looking forward to fighting his way into the keep. Getting through the streets he'd had quite enough of the maddened citizens and unrelenting abominations. Dealing with them was hardly a productive undertaking when none of them were real, only figments of an old god’s twisted imagination.
Steering clear of the corpses Wrathion pressed on, under the withered trees, up the stairs of cold, sun-forgotten stone. To his dismay, the doors to the keep were closed shut. Large red symbols glowed across it, in the language of the abyss often carved into places where N’zoth held control. Despite seeing it all over these days, Wrathion could not read the cursed script. He was fairly sure trying to do so would drive any conscious creature mad on the spot. What an infuriating insult to his attempts to study and quantify his enemy.
But he did not need to understand everything. Sometimes, what he had already worked. Undeterred, he raised a hand against the door. Draconic magic, bolstered by titanic research, pressed against that of the old god. Wrathion grinned as the latter yielded, the doors opening enough for him to slip through, into the passageway leading to the throne room.
That, too, was devoid of life. Wrathion walked cautiously up the corridor, unsure of what he’d been expecting. More unrelenting chaos like that in the city, troops upon troops of hostile soldiers and civilians fallen to the threats of torture and promises of power, eldritch tendrils ripping through their homes, ceaseless screams and violence? There were as many ways to break a spirit as there were people, Wrathion knew, and the visions had been a veritable gallery of such things. It was all highly illuminating, Wrathion thought sourly.
This place, however, was empty, much emptier than its counterpart in the real world. Only shadows without a source fell upon the stonework, twisting languidly across the walls, but doing nothing as Wrathion stepped past them. Or was it nothing? He felt a creeping sense of loneliness, but that could have just been from the disconcerting silence that surrounded the echo of his footsteps.
Wait. He could hear something. A voice from the throne room, distantly familiar.
Right then, Wrathion hesitated. He didn’t know what he was going to find; all he knew was that he wasn’t going to like it. But the voice spoke again, and his curiosity took over. Making sure to quiet down his steps, he sneaked towards the end of the hallway, the darkness thickening around him as he approached.
“—cannot believe what has become of my city.”
Just as he peeked from behind a pillar flanking the entrance to the throne room, he recognized who the voice belonged to. Varian Wrynn stood in the middle of the room, his back towards Wrathion, looking a lot like he had the last time Wrathion had seen him: tall, decked in armor, and very much alive. And there, before him, was Anduin.
“Neither can I,” Wrathion heard him say, words thick with barely contained sorrow.
From Wrathion’s vantage point it was difficult to get a good view, but Anduin also looked much the same as when they’d last met. Serious and tired. Not dead, nor insane or bursting with shadowy energies, as Wrathion might have guessed from how the rest of this world fared.
Wrathion had no idea what the vision was playing at. Of course, that wasn’t the real Varian Wrynn; not even in the context of the vision’s alternate reality. Varian was long dead. But why would N’zoth conjure up his image? Anduin wasn’t like Wrathion, his father would not be the cause of his corruption.
So what did N’zoth think was going to be his downfall? That question was the reason why Wrathion was here. It had grown increasingly clear to his discerning eyes that N’zoth’s emergence had been placing a mental strain on the young king. This bothered Wrathion, who had deemed it sensible to determine the exact nature of the visions that N’zoth had been showing him; to identify whatever weak point the old god was exploiting to impair one of the leaders of his opposition. When the vision of Varian spoke again, Wrathion listened closely.
“Why did you not stop this from happening?”
“I couldn’t…” Anduin started, struggling to find the words. “I couldn’t fight them. The Light wouldn’t answer me anymore.” He hesitated. “People lost hope. I tried to tell them we could do it, together, but they… they left. Nobody would listen.”
“Why would they?” Wrathion was taken aback by the biting cold in Varian’s tone. “When have you ever done anything to give people a reason to believe in you?
Anduin paled. “I tried. I really did.”
“You failed. Take a look around you. Stormwind’s gone.”
“I know I failed.”
Varian paced around Anduin, who appeared smaller by the moment, his head hung low. “Then you understand why nobody would follow you. They realized you could not protect them. You never could.”
“I… I may not have your strength, but I can still—”
“You’re right,” Varian interrupted. “You always lacked the strength your position demanded. Why are you trying to defend yourself?”
Anduin turned quiet. It may have just been the chill emanating from the stone pillar he was pressed up against, but Wrathion had to fight the urge to shiver. This conversation was making him steadily more uncomfortable. He felt like he was intruding on something, which was a ridiculous thought considering neither of the people he was eavesdropping on were real.
“The truth is,” the vision of Varian sighed, “we all saw this coming. We tried to weed out your weakness before it got too late. I tried to make you worthy of my legacy, but you continued to throw it away. You can’t claim people didn’t try to help you.”
“I know you were trying to help. I just… I believed I could make it work. My way of doing things.”
“You thought you knew better than those much older, much more experienced than you? I always knew you were stubborn but I hardly expected arrogance.”
“That’s not what—“
“You were warned so many times. By Genn, by Jaina, by me—”
“But you…” Anduin glanced up, his expression softened. “You did change your mind, in the end.”
“And now I’m dead.”
Silence filled the throne room. Real or not, the awkwardly personal nature of this vision was beginning to make Wrathion understand why his attempt at asking Anduin about it directly had been so thoroughly deflected.
“Do you see what you’ve caused?” Varian pushed on. “Everyone around you either dies or betrays you, and they’re right to do so.”
“They didn’t… They didn’t betray me.”
“So you understand it was only reasonable for them to leave. Why is that, do you think?”
Anduin did not respond.
“Everyone knew you could never lead the Alliance to a victory. Not against the Horde, even less so against Void itself. They only wanted to save their lives and homes. You don’t begrudge them for wanting to live, do you?”
“I don’t.”
“Your people made their decision, and yet you would not join them. You’re right. They didn’t betray you, you abandoned them. Now they’re divided, fighting between each other. Suffering.”
Anduin let out a pained breath. Varian stepped closer and examined him with eyes that gave away no emotion.
“You could still fix things.” Suddenly, he sounded almost gentle. “You could still help them.”
The shadows that infested the corners of the room and the domed ceiling had started inching closer. Wrathion bit his lip. He could see where this was going. The old god was revealing his strategy.
Finally. Wrathion wanted nothing more than to leave.
“Step up as a leader once more. Return the outliers into the fold, bring back unity. At last gain the strength you lacked. For all your failings, I know you can fulfill this one last duty.” He smiled. ”For Stormwind. For the Alliance.”
The softly spoken declaration echoed unnaturally across the walls before dissolving into the thickening shadows.
The silence was broken by a quiet word. “No.”
“No?” Varian repeated, and the way he loomed over Anduin made it sound like a threat.
“I know what you’re asking. My answer is no. I’m not joining N’zoth.”
This confused Wrathion. Surely it wasn’t part of the script. But Varian’s face darkened, as did the whole room. “Quite callous of you,” he said, gentleness gone. “I thought you wanted what’s best for your people.”
“I do. This is not it.” For once, Anduin’s voice was almost steady. “I’m not giving them up to a monster.”
“A monster? Horde and Alliance, all under the same banner. Isn’t that what you always dreamed of?”
“Not like this.”
“By the Light, what a hypocrite you are. Peace and unity are offered to you on a silver platter and you refuse to take it.”
“Subjugation isn’t peace. Fear isn’t unity.”
“It’s the only peace that exists. Believing otherwise is a delusion.” Wrathion found that strangely familiar; it sounded like his own arguments with the then-prince back in Pandaria. Was N’zoth pulling material from Anduin’s memories?
“You can’t know that.”
“So you would rather have a philosophical debate than give your people the safety they deserve?” Varian said, words now full of poison. “See, this selfishness has always been your problem. You hold onto your impossible standards, refusing to deviate from a path that is leading your people to their doom.”
“I… I have compromised,” Anduin argued, but the momentary confidence in his posture was rapidly fading away.
“Your war against Sylvanas? In which you let her take advantage of your limitations at every turn? People died and burned and you failed yet again.” As he spoke, Varian moved closer and closer towards Anduin, making him retreat to the wall where the empty throne stood. “In the end, there was no point to your morals. You’ve already lost.” Varian gestured at the shadow-filled room and the swirling dark sky beyond the windows. “You could never fight alone, and there’s nobody left to stand with you.”
Backed against the wall, Anduin stood still for a long time, his bangs hiding his face.
“I know,” he whispered, so faintly Wrathion could barely hear.
This was it, Wrathion realised. N’zoth’s promise to Anduin, should he not bend. Not a terrible death, nor a fall from grace—nothing quite so fanciful. Just a limbo in the ruins of a city he’d failed to protect, his only company a disturbingly familiar voice condemning him for his choices.
“So you admit it. You admit it’s your fault.”
Varian grabbed him by the collar, forcing him to look up. That’s when Wrathion decided he’d had enough. He stepped out from behind the pillar.
“All right, we’re done with this,” he exclaimed, less casually than he’d meant to.
Varian turned to face him. Anduin was pulled along with the motion like a ragdoll, his eyes widening at the sight of the new arrival.
Wrathion’s logical side caught up with his actions a heartbeat later. What was he doing? This wasn’t the real Anduin, it was just a vision. There was nothing for him to gain from stepping in. What a stupid instinct. Ah well, he thought, nothing to lose either. Putting on his best swagger, Wrathion approached the two fabricated Wrynns.
“The Black Prince,” the vision of Varian greeted. “Enjoying your tour of Stormwind?”
“Put him down, will you,” said Wrathion. “I’m aware senseless violence is a treasured motif here, but I’m sure we can be a little more civilised.”
He did. With inhuman strength, he flung Anduin across the room. Wrathion winced as the body connected with the floor with an unpleasant crack.
“Then again,” he muttered, unsheathing his scimitar, “I’m not opposed to partaking in some violence myself.”
At that, Varian’s form bursted into a mass of squirming dark tendrils. With a terrible screeching roar that sounded like no person or animal, it grew larger and larger, reaching nearly half the height of the room before unfurling into the monstrous shape of a faceless one. It lashed at Wrathion with one of its tentacles, striking like a thick fleshy flail, but he dodged out of the way.
“You think turning into something bigger will give you an advantage?” Wrathion laughed. “Two can play at that game.”
He vanished into a cloud of smoke and embers. From it a pair of wings spread out and where he had stood was a fierce black drake, smirking down at the faceless one. Before it had a chance to react, Wrathion lunged, burying his teeth into its meaty neck. With a twist of his jaws, he ripped its head off, splattering dark goopy blood across the creature’s body as it collapsed on the floor. Despite being headless it still writhed, so Wrathion dived into it with his claws, tearing it apart. With an earsplitting moan, it finally stopped twitching.
Wrathion spat out the gunk from his mouth—the taste was not great. Satisfied that the faceless one was no longer moving, he transformed back into human form and sauntered to where Anduin was struggling to get upright. Wrathion offered a hand.
“It was simply a vision,” he assured, flashing a victorious smile. “A shapeshifting nightmare, nothing more.”
Anduin did not take the hand. He pushed himself up, swaying a bit. “I know.”
“You knew?”
“My father’s dead.”
Wrathion’s smile wavered. “Then why did you let that thing do as it pleased?”
Anduin contemplated the pieces of the faceless one scattered across the white marble floor. He looked visibly drained; his eyes might have been wet but it was hard to tell, as he would not meet Wrathion’s gaze. “How much did you hear?” he asked, finally.
Again, Wrathion felt uncomfortable. He thought of how resolutely the real Anduin had refused to tell him about the visions. “Quite enough.”
“Then you know that what he said was true.”
“You don’t really believe that,” Wrathion said, trying to sound certain. “Besides, it’s gone now.” He brushed some of the blood off his jacket for emphasis.
“Shooting a messenger doesn’t prove their words untrue.” A hint of desperation crept into Anduin’s voice.
Wrathion could no longer pretend not to be disconcerted. He was all too familiar with the concept of self-doubt, but seeing it in Anduin in such a flagrant display gave him the most unpleasant feeling down his gut. Coming into the vision, he had entertained an assumption that Anduin, in all his relentless, infuriating optimism, would ultimately prove so difficult for N’zoth to corrupt that the visions would have to be something quite fantastical; illogical, easy to disprove and disassemble. Instead, he had found… this. He had no idea how to deal with it.
It offended him. Out of the two of them, Anduin was not supposed to be the one with carefully hidden issues of self-hatred. Then again, what did Wrathion know, anymore. It had been a long few years since Pandaria.
“That,” Wrathion tried, channeling his most composed self, “was a mouthpiece of N’zoth. Of course he will make any claims he thinks will rattle you. You can’t do him the favor of listening to him.”
“He’s not the source of the problem!”
“Not the source of the problem?” Wrathion repeated. “He’s the problem in its entirety. Anduin, you’re not—Listen, you’re fine. You’ve been doing a fine job.”
Anduin let out a humorless laugh. “Don’t lie to me. Look around. I failed. Stormwind’s gone.”
“Ah, but it is not! We haven’t failed! None of this is real, this is all just a—” Midway through the sentence, Wrathion remembered that he was arguing with an illusion. What was he doing?
Anduin stepped back, his expression closed off. Of course this was real for him; he was a part of the vision and would always be. Why was Wrathion trying to convince him otherwise? How did that further his mission? Surely, it accomplished nothing. And yet, the thought of leaving this sad facsimile of his friend in such a state filled Wrathion with anguish.
His friend. Wrathion tasted the word. He just wanted to help his friend. Was he really that terrified to admit that he cared, that he needed to pretend this was ever only about his duty to fight N’zoth? He thought of Anduin’s anger at their reunion; of the way Wrathion had parted ways with him at the Temple of the White Tiger; of the distress with which the vision of Anduin had talked about people leaving him.
Maybe Wrathion was a little terrified.
“I don’t think you understand,” Anduin spoke, startling Wrathion out of his thoughts.
“I do!” Wrathion insisted. “Honestly, I think I do. It’s just that,” he floundered, ”this is not where I should be, right now.”
At last, Anduin looked up at Wrathion, studying him, as if searching for something. Then he sighed. “It’s fine. I don’t… It doesn’t matter.” His voice trembled, just slightly, before he gathered himself with half-hearted success. “Where is it that you should be? I don’t know what you’ve been doing during all of this, but if you have any cards up your sleeve, now would be a good time to play them. Please… This can’t be the end.”
One more time, Wrathion was taken aback. There was the smallest glimmer of hope in Anduin’s eyes as he looked at Wrathion, and Wrathion hated it. This was N’zoth’s nightmare world; by definition, any hope was futile. What could he do that wouldn’t be undone the moment he left and the vision unraveled?
“Wrathion?”
He needed to leave. As much as Wrathion would feel better for helping this likeness of his old friend, it would not actually help anyone at all. Staying any longer was nothing but self-indulgence. He had learned all he could; he had to stop making indefinite preparations and face Anduin for real, before it got too late.
Wrathion furrowed his brow in concentration and started the process to exit the vision.
“Anduin,” he said, taking in one last glance as the golden glow of the evacuation protocol started to engulf him. He felt the need to say something. “You’re right. This is not the end. There are a great many people out there, tirelessly working to save our world. Together, we are going to succeed. That I promise you.”
The vision of Anduin stared at the lights in bewilderment. Without planning, Wrathion pulled him into a hug. He knew it was pointless, but he wasn’t sure if the real Anduin would accept such a thing. He’d been mistaken before.
“I’ll see you soon,” he whispered.
“You’re leaving?” There was a note of poorly suppressed panic in Anduin’s voice. “Wrathion, please—”
Light filled Wrathion’s vision. The next moment, he was back at the anteroom of the Chamber of Heart, arms wrapped around nothing.
———
It was the middle of the night when Wrathion arrived in Stormwind. He flew a few rounds above the city, taking in its greenery and colourful roofs, watching the night guards and the occasional late tavern-goer on their peaceful rounds. Seeing it illuminated in the warm glow of street lamps and the serene white of the moon made him feel better after spending so long in its dark counterpart.
He headed towards the keep, where lights still shone from a few of the windows. With a flutter of dark wings, he descended into the courtyard. The royal guards shuffled nervously; they weren’t thrilled with the comings and goings of a black dragon advisor, but they were going to have to get used to it. The statue of Varian Wrynn stood silent, the fountain water reflecting calming patterns of moonlight at his feet.
Without further tarrying, Wrathion marched through the entrance and up the corridor. The throne room was empty, to his silent relief. He wasn’t keen on any further conversations there, not with his track record. He figured Anduin was still up, though. There had been a light in the window of his study.
The door to the study was closed. Wrathion held a hand against its wooden surface and hesitated. For all his experience in planning and schemes, this was one confrontation he wasn’t sure how to approach. The Anduin in the vision had been highly distressed; would the real one be more forthcoming? Less? Before Wrathion had a chance to deliberate any longer, he quickly knocked. There was a moment of silence before he heard an answer.
“Yes?”
Wrathion put on a self-assured smile, and opened the door.
The study was well-lit by candlelight. Anduin sat at his desk, surrounded by letters and documents, guarded over by the portrait of Varian Wrynn on the wall behind him. Wrathion found himself wishing it wasn’t there—was it too much to ask to have a chat in which neither of their fathers were present in some form?
“Good evening,” Wrathion greeted, quite charitably considering the night was well into the small hours.
“Wrathion?” Anduin said, surprised and far more alert than in the defeated one of vision. “What brings you here? Has something happened?”
“No, I simply wished to discuss some, ah, minor concerns.” Wrathion was pleased to speak with an Anduin who would meet his gaze. However, he couldn’t help but notice how exhausted his friend looked with his thinning face and the dark circles under his eyes.
“Very well.” Anduin rolled up the document he’d been writing and gestured for Wrathion to come in. “Please, have a seat.”
Wrathion sat down on the chair opposite the desk and crossed his legs. “First things first, how are you faring?”
Anduin shrugged. “Plenty to do. We have found more people to enlist in the effort against N’zoth—the response to the call has been encouraging. They should be joining you in Silithus shortly. How is it there?”
“Sandy as ever. But please, don’t dodge my question.”
“Did I do such a thing?”
“I wish to know of your well-being, old friend, not of your work.”
“I’m fine.” Anduin tensed. “Are you?”
“Remember when I asked you whether you’ve seen any troubling visions or heard voices since N’zoth’s emergence?”
“You also said that it’s normal for priests to tune into those sorts of things.”
“To a degree, perhaps. I know you weren’t keen to discuss them, but—”
“I’m not.” He sounded so tired Wrathion felt vaguely bad for pressing on. Unfortunately for Anduin, pestering people was quite a talent of his.
“—but if they’re affecting you, it might be important to do so.”
“Have I given cause for concern?”
“You have seemed… distracted, on occasion.”
“Then I apologize. It was not my intent to make you worry. I assure you, I’m striving to give my full attention to what matters.”
“So nothing’s bothering you?”
“I’m dealing fine.” Anduin smiled, a little too politely.
“Is there a reason you haven’t gone to sleep yet?”
“I have work to do. I’m sure you’ve picked up on that.” He motioned towards the papers on his desk.
Wrathion leaned across and pulled out a letter from the pile. “Lord Lescovar issues his criticisms regarding the proposed peace treaty…” He snorted. ”You’re spending your night answering to this nonsense?”
“Nonsense or not, it’s my correspondence. I’m supposed to be answering it, and nosy dragons—“ Anduin plucked the parchment back from Wrathion’s hands, ”—are not supposed to be reading it.”
“My point being, surely this can wait till morning.”
“All right, you’ve got me,” Anduin glanced away. “I have trouble sleeping. But that’s hardly noteworthy.”
“Nightmares?”
“Some.”
“If it’s N’zoth, you need to tell me. I’m your advisor.”
“Yes, of course it’s N’zoth.” Anduin snapped. Immediately regretting it, he took a deep breath and continued, calmer. “By the Light, your needling is driving me insane much faster than N’zoth is.”
He let out a dry laugh, but Wrathion couldn’t find the heart to join in.
“Perhaps not the most tasteful joke,” he admitted to salvage the silence.
“A little on the nose.”
“What I mean to say is that it’s all fine. Sure, N’zoth may be pushing at me a bit, but I won’t let it affect my ability to help you and Azeroth. I’m not about to become… corrupted, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It isn’t,” assured Wrathion. “Of that I’ve become sure.”
“Again, I apologize if I’ve caused concern. I’ll try to manage this better.” Anduin ran his fingers through his hair, a hint of frustration bubbling to the surface. “Honestly,” he muttered under his breath, “N’zoth is hardly the source of the problem.”
“N’zoth isn’t the source of the problem?” Wrathion repeated, his stomach sinking at the familiarity. “He most certainly is. Anduin, are you really all right?”
“Forget about it. I didn’t mean anything by that.”
“I know about the visions,” Wrathion blurted. He was done with the constant dodging. Not getting an immediate reaction, he continued: “As you know, I’ve been studying N’zoth’s visions for a while. This time, I went to see you, in this very keep.” He paused, then decided to just get it over with. “Anduin, I know what he’s been saying to you in those dreams.”
Anduin stared at him, expression unreadable, processing. “How much did you see?”
“Enough.” Wrathion winced. “I heard your… conversation. I saw how upset you were.”
“You had no right—” Anduin started, but any indignation he could muster quickly ran dry. He let out a defeated sigh. “I suppose I’m the fool for not expecting it. So now you know.”
“I needed to know.” Words felt clumsy in Wrathion’s mouth. He hated it. “Is that what you’re experiencing every time?”
Anduin gave a noncommittal nod. “Do we need to talk about this? You have your reassurance. I’m not going to fall to N’zoth.” He stated, deprecation in his tone. “Even in his victory, he doesn’t need me to.”
“Yes, we do need to talk!” Irritation building, Wrathion leaped up from his chair and circled around the desk. “Listen to yourself. You’re clearly not fine, and you can’t hide it forever.”
“I have to,” Anduin grimaced, pushing back his chair to interrupt Wrathion’s advance. “People can’t know. Look, I hate to be this calculating, but it’s difficult enough getting my allies to believe that we should stop fighting the Horde to make a stand against N’zoth. If they knew… if they knew what goes on in my head, they would trust my judgment even less.”
“Oh, I understand the facades of politics very well. But can we forget about that for just one moment?”
“Wrathion.” Anduin looked up as Wrathion hovered above him, hand gripping the back of his seat. “Why are you so riled up about this?”
“Because!” Why was he? He wished he could find some pragmatic explanation, something in line with his obligations to Azeroth. But he couldn’t, and he had an inkling that would not help his case, anyways. It was time for him to face the truth. “Because you’re my friend,” he said, finally, turning away. “Would it be impossible to believe that I care?”
It took a while for Anduin to hesitantly break the silence. “I thought you had chosen not to.”
“I did put what I thought was my duty over our friendship before, it’s true. I believed I could choose not to care.” Wrathion wringed his hands, aware that he may have started an outpouring he could no longer stop. “But I can’t, and it’s maddening. Right now, the only thing I’m supposed to care about is whatever aid you can bring into the fight against N’zoth, but in all honesty, I find it difficult to care about that at all. When I saw you in that vision, the thought in my mind that eclipsed everything else was how badly I wanted to make sure that you’re all right. But that’s hardly what my duty to Azeroth requires of me! I’m not supposed to—”
Wrathion stopped when he realised Anduin had started laughing; a quiet little laugh, the first genuine one he’d heard from him since Pandaria.
“What?” He asked indignantly and turned back around.
Anduin was looking at him with a strange fondness. “I’m sorry, but are you having a moral crisis over wanting to value friendship and compassion, of all things?”
“What’s so funny about that?” Wrathion sputtered. “That value is not a given, for someone in my position.”
Anduin’s smile turned a little sad. “I didn’t mean to tease.”
“You did, though, didn’t you.”
“Only because you are still so easily teased.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Wrathion huffed. He felt strange. The tension in the room had all but evaporated.
Anduin rose up from his chair and, with a gentleness that made Wrathion feel even stranger, put a hand on Wrathion’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said, firm and sincere, “for telling me this. But I must say, you’re far too harsh on yourself for having emotions beyond your responsibilities.”
“So,” Wrathion said, trying to ignore the awkwardness. The hand felt warm, even through his jacket. “Does that mean you’ll accept my help?”
“I…” Letting down his hand, Anduin walked past Wrathion, towards the window. “I appreciate the sentiment.” Against the dark sky, Wrathion could still see the unsure expression on his candlelit reflection upon the glass. “However I’m not sure how you could help. It’s true that I’m afraid, but… What I fear is my own failure, and that if I fail, it’s going to be because of what I believe in. You understand, don’t you? You always loved telling me how wrong I am.”
“Well.” Wrathion shifted uncomfortably. “We’ve had our differences. Our similarities, too.”
“Whether my failings truly are tied to my—” Anduin seemed to debate which word to use, ”—naivety, like everyone says, or to my self-doubt over it, that hardly matters. Either way, the reason N’zoth is targeting me is because he knows I’m the weak link. There’s no changing that.”
“That isn’t it, though,” Wrathion insisted. ”N’zoth is attempting to eliminate threats. He went after Ebyssian and me because he deduced we would be the first to try and stop him. And you…” He considered. “He’s going after you because what you stand for is dangerous to him.”
Wrathion wasn’t sure how he felt about admitting it. He had always been unconvinced by Anduin’s more unrealistic philosophies. Yet he had to concede that in this time where N’zoth’s shadow was growing across the world, sowing doubt and whispering into people’s ears with temptations of power, a stubborn refusal to abandon idealistic principles was a valuable attitude. Wrathion himself had been more inclined to tread the pragmatic line of finding that power and pointing it against his enemies; but he was just as scared of his approach failing, wasn’t he. Of losing everything, like Deathwing had.
Perhaps the world needed a bit of both.
“That’s all we can do, I suppose,” he heard Anduin mutter. “Make a stand.”
There was an unprecedented clarity to Anduin’s tone that made Wrathion realize something about what he’d said had gotten through. Beyond the window, the silhouette of Stormwind stood stark against the night sky.
“What I want you to know,” Wrathion said, “is that you don’t have to do so alone.”
“Neither do you.” Anduin looked at him. “You said N’zoth went after you?”
“Oh, just a few assassins here and there. He has to try a lot harder than that.” Wrathion leaned against the desk, grinning.
“No visions?”
“Well…” It took him a moment too long to answer.
“You’re right,” said Anduin. “We should talk. About a lot of things.”
Wrathion mulled for a moment over what that meant. “Well, yes. That is what I’ve been saying.”
“Perhaps not tonight, though.” Anduin let out a yawn so drawn-out he must've been holding it in for a while. “It’s been a long day for us both.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“That’s a promise.”
“Good.”
An unexpected relief washed over Wrathion, like a coil hidden in his gut had finally unwound. He suddenly noticed how tired he was. Making his way towards the soft mattress of his guest bedroom did sound appealing.
He observed from the doorway as Anduin went around the room snuffing out the candles. The warm glow of the flames was replaced by the tranquility of moonlight pooling from the window.
“For now, can I ask you one question?” Wrathion said before he had a chance to stop himself.
“I suppose.”
“Why does the voice in your vision take the form of your father?”
Anduin put out the last of the candles before shrugging. If he knew, he wasn’t going to answer.
“Mine often does. But my father is… you know. An expected face for my fears.”
Wrathion was surprised by his own candidness. So was Anduin, apparently, as he admitted: “Fears often turn people into symbols, it seems.”
All of a sudden, Anduin was in the doorway and Wrathion found himself pulled into an embrace. He wasn’t even quite sure which one of them had initiated it, but he took the opportunity to hold on tight. They stayed there for a long while, huddled together in this one precious moment of closeness, until Wrathion noticed Anduin trembling, just a little. Reluctantly he pulled away.
“Looks like it’s time for you to go to bed,” he murmured. “Will you be able to sleep?”
“I think it should go better, this time.”
“Good night, then.”
“To you as well.”
Wrathion watched after Anduin as he disappeared up the stairs to his chambers. It took him a while to remember he too should head to his room. Get ready for tomorrow, and everything that came with it.
He had put his duty over friendship before, that's what he'd said. But perhaps, this time, he could have both.