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Summer in Blackrock is damned miserable, Varian decides as he sets his head down on his desk, whimpering to himself as the throbbing in his skull refuses to abate. He’s been sweating all day despite his draconic heritage, his only relief in the form of his newly short-cropped hair--in his book, the only good thing to come of the damned incident not two months prior. He feels a tickle in his nose and sneezes thrice in a row. He groans and reaches for his cane. He wanted desperately to lie down in bed, world be damned.
Walking still hurts like hell, however, and his headache isn’t helping matters any. Varian growls low in his throat and keeps moving towards the hallway. It feels like getting hit in the face by a wall of pure heat, but the air is moving through the corridor rather than still. It steadies him enough for the upward climb to his rooms seem less devilish by nature. With his left hand on his cane and his right guiding him up the mountain, he starts the hike.
Unfortunately, he only makes it two spirals up before his lungs start screaming and he’s knocked over by a coughing fit. A Blacktalon nearby is at his side in a matter of seconds, helping him to move from all fours into a seated position against the wall. It is a sadly familiar occurrence that drives Varian a little mad.
“Your Highness, should I fetch your father?” The agent--Rulona, Varian thinks--asks, worried look in her glowing green eyes.
He nods, unable to ask her to clarify which father. Even that much movement makes his vision go blurry and he simply leans back against the wall and tries not to faint. He can hear the agent take off running at an impressive pace and manages a smile. They were all used to sprinting the whole height of the fortress, from entrance to spire, between the orders from his papa and the casual races the Dark Iron servants held every weekend.
When he feels a hand against his forehead, he opens his eyes. His vision swims and he blinks blearily. He can make out his papa’s basic shape and coloration, but everything else is a blur. “Papa, I don’t feel so good…”
“You’re burning up, my darling. We’ll get you into bed and get that temperature down, then go from there, okay?” The older dragon’s voice is level, soothing Varian.
“Okay.”
Wrathion wraps one of the younger dragon’s arms around his shoulders and scoops him up in his arms in a smooth motion, though he grunts as he stands. “This was easier when you were a whelp…”
Varian can’t really respond, brain too fuzzy to interpret the words, so he just rests limply in his papa’s arms, head tucked safely against his chest. He takes no small amount of comfort in the steady heartbeat in his ear as they climb towards his rooms. As soon as the doors open, he can hear his papa ordering the servants nearby.
“I’ll need cool water and clean cloths, please. Bring some fruit from the stores, preferably some that’s been cut and cooled. I don’t care if it was going to be used for our dinners, I’d like it here, sooner rather than later. Can you open the windows? We need as much of a cool breeze as we can get. Ah, Aldarion, hello darling, could you get your father?”
Varian’s younger brother speaks in a light voice. “Father’s on Argus with Turalia. They’re supposed to be working with Velen on the temple there.”
“Hmm…your cousin Kalecgos, then, if you please. He ought to be in Dalaran harassing someone about something today. If he’s not there, go to Wyrmrest and request the aid of one of the blue dragons.”
“Andagos…” Varian says before he’s hit by another coughing fit.
“Andagos is indisposed this week, remember? His siblings are due to hatch soon.” Varian had forgotten and feels awful about it. He whimpers as his papa sits him on the bed. “It’s alright, my darling, all you need to do is let me take care of you. I know you’re rather sick of it at this point, but it’s especially important right now.”
The older dragon waits for his nod and the next coughing fit before stripping him of his clothes and placing him on his bed. Varian feels only the lightest bedsheet pulled up around him, and rests against the pillows. He falls into a sort of semi-sleep as servants arrive and deliver what Wrathion had asked for. A downright frigid cloth is placed on his forehead, and he starts to shiver.
“I know, Varian, I hate this bit too. Can you try to eat this? You need to stay hydrated and this will help.” His papa holds something cold against his lips until Varian opens his mouth to eat it.
The blueberry is the coldest thing Varian’s experienced in his life, but it also feels good. The juice from it also makes him feel better, though it aggravates what’s turning into a truly disastrous sore throat. He shakes his head when another is offered, but gladly drinks from a goblet of cool water. It also hurts to swallow, but slakes his thirst better than the berry had. He finishes that goblet and is halfway through another when another presence enters the room.
“Oh, Wrathion, I’m no healer…” A deep voice states hesitantly.
“No shit, but you’re good with cold stuff. I need you to keep the room cool until his fever breaks.”
“It’s summer.”
“Yes.”
“In Blackrock.”
“Can you help me or not, Kalecgos? If not, you can see yourself out and send someone who can.” Wrathion says firmly.
Kalecgos sighs and moves closer to the windows. There’s a pulse of arcane energy that makes Varian wince when it screams along his frayed nerves, but it’s tempered quickly by the skilled blue Aspect.
“Thank you, Kalec…” Varian says as he rolls over onto his side and curls up into a ball. Whatever he’d done had caused the wind coming through the windows to turn cool and humid, rather than the hot, dry winds that were typical of the Steppes.
“Of course, little one. I’ll send Andagos as soon as Stellagosa will allow.” To Wrathion, Kalecgos states, “Those will hold for a few days. I isolated the energy so it won’t hurt him when it dissipates. Excuse me.”
The door opens and closes again, and Varian hears the clatter of dishes being set aside before the bed dips. His papa stays far enough away that Varian can’t feel his body heat, but a hand sweeps sweat-soaked hair way from his face. He whimpers and shivers, cold despite how heavily he’s sweating. It’s not the first time he’s been sick, but it’s always a miserable process, especially with the fevers they’re not susceptible to.
“Your father’s been sent for, Varian, so you should feel better when he gets here. I’d send for another healer, but…”
The younger dragon makes a disgusted sound. He’d seen other healers for his injuries from Grim Batol, but they’d only mucked the process up. His father had had to go back and fix everything. As a result, Varian only trusted Anduin, Turalia, and maybe Velen, if the Draenei wasn’t intent on lecturing him for whatever foolish thing he’d done at the time. Granted, the time he’d gotten the lecture had been deserved, despite not meaning to get struck by lightning. He’d shudder if his body weren’t shivering already.
“I know, I kn--oh, Master Shaw! We weren’t expecting you at all.”
Varian rolls over to see the cursed spymaster, looking the same as he had all these years. “Hi.”
“Relia came through the portal in the Keep. I assumed you might need some remedies.” The gruff voice and expression soften when he turns to Varian. “Hello, lad. You look like you’re dying.”
“Feel like I’m dying, too…” He whispers, making a face.
His papa sighs and shifts on the bed. “Word’s been sent to Anduin, but I’m not sure he’ll be back until late. He’s in MacAree at the moment. It’s just a cold, but they always seem to hit harder in the summer.”
Shaw comes over and passes a satchel to the dragon. “Summer colds are abysmal. The yellow potion should settle the issue of the fever, though. I’ve been keeping a stock on-hand since Atraxia was sick several months ago.”
“Thank you, Mathias. It’s appreciated.” A cork is popped, and the older dragon shifts again. “Varian, darling, you need to drink this. Can you sit up a little?”
He grunts but lifts his head enough to make sure he doesn’t spill the potion over his face, going limp again after downing it. He’s hit by the completely vile taste of the potion and can’t help the shudder that time. “Bleeergh.”
“Khadgar’s whisker. Always a disgusting but helpful addition to cold remedies.” Shaw says from his place next to the bed. “Wrathion, do you want me to stay until Anduin gets back?”
“No, but you’re welcome to return when Varian’s feeling better, especially if you have new unclassified stories to tell…for instance, any new witches you’ve encountered.” Wrathion says with amusement, and Varian smiles into the mattress. The ‘curse’ that affects both the spymaster and Captain Fairwind is a fun story to share, the whelps loving it told before bedtime.
The spymaster is silent for a long while. “Pilgrim’s Bounty, 631.”
Varian snorts. He knows the story of his papa’s drunken escapades at the festival in Stormwind, but he was sworn to secrecy lest any of his younger siblings find out. He’s not surprised when the older dragon replies, “Point taken. Right. Thank you again, Mathias.”
The door opens and closes again, and Varian opens his eyes to smile up at his papa. “Turkeys.”
“Not a word, whelp.” Wrathion snarls jokingly. “Not a single word.”
“What’s in it for me?” Varian asks before making up his mind to stop talking before he had no more voice--or no more throat, which was seeming likely with how much it hurt.
The older dragon taps a finger against his chin before turning to grin at his firstborn. “Did I ever tell you about that time your father blew up your great-uncle Tandred’s favorite ship during our post-wedding celebration in Kul Tiras?”
Varian shakes his head and closes his eyes to listen. He falls asleep like that, after the story about azerite fireworks versus the pride of the Kul Tiran navy.