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Lor’themar didn’t quite know how he’d ended up here.
Here he was, drunk off his ass from wine that supposedly contained no alcohol at all, with a woman who wasn’t Liadrin practically in his lap. He felt almost like there were a gap in his memory but that couldn’t be right. Nothing had changed in the past few minutes.
He was never drinking arcwine again.
Lor’themar Theron had kissed Lady Liadrin when he was fourteen years old. He was nearing fourteen hundred and forty-seven, and he had never kissed anyone else. He’d never wanted anyone else. No one else had her kindness, her compassion, her determination and intelligence. No one had ever even come close.
That wasn’t to say they hadn’t had their fair share of problems. Lor’themar’s career in the Farstriders often took him far away for long periods of time, and Liadrin’s studies as a priest did the same, particularly because she was under the guardianship and tutelage of High Priest Vandellor himself. They’d fought when they were younger, and once or twice it had seriously looked as though they were finished, but he supposed the one good thing that had come from his nearly dying at the hands of the Amani chieftain Zul’jin was that it made their problems seem petty, and trivial, in the face of death. Liadrin had returned to him, sobbing, cradling his head against her chest and running her Light-touched hands over his infected, feverish skin, and when faced with the Shadowlands themselves, nothing else had really mattered. She loved him, and he loved her, and when she’d returned with Halduron, dirty and exhausted but vindicated, they had pledged themselves to each other for eternity over broken tusks and troll blood.
And really, there was no more fitting way to do it.
Loyalty had never been the question. Loyalty had always been the answer. He complimented other women, of course, when it was warranted. He noticed other women. He’d told Halduron that Velonara was out of his league, and he thought Kelantir Bloodblade very pretty. An honest compliment could often soften the attitude of Rommath’s assistant Erindae, who was often as irritated with him as Rommath was. It didn’t really mean anything. And he knew that Liadrin noticed other men, and they noticed her back. Knew she found Astalor Bloodsworn quite charming, and knew that her assistant Solanar was smitten with her. None of it had ever bothered them before. At the end of the day, Lor’themar and Liadrin came together, and no one else in the world mattered. They didn’t have to tell people.
Halduron thought it was weird. It wasn’t like people didn’t know. Half of their career in the Farstriders had been spent gossiping over whom was fucking whom, and even if most of their friends had been lost to the Scourge, many of them hadn’t. They didn’t live in the city but Lor’themar knew, should he visit any Farstrider camp occupied by anyone from the old days, they would ask him about Liadrin, and tell him to tell her hello. There had always been few secrets within the Farstriders.
But Silvermoon… Silvermoon was filled with judgmental gossip and haughty rich assholes and so, so much nepotism. When Liadrin had been named High Priestess upon the death of Vandellor, and he the Regent Lord by Kael’thas, she had sat him down. Had explained to him how the nobles thought, what they would say if they were to learn of their relationship.
“Remember Nathanos?” she’d said, when he’d tried to protest, and he’d blanched. Of course he remembered Nathanos. Nathanos Marris was the only human to ever have been inducted into the Farstriders, and the only questionable decision Sylvanas had ever made. She’d nearly lost her position as Ranger General, and while she believed in Nathanos’s abilities, the man had become something of a running joke amongst his peers. Lor’themar and Halduron, especially, had been known to ask What Would Nathanos Do in jest, often to hilarious ﹣ and highly inappropriate ﹣ results.
“I don’t want that to happen to either of us. I don’t want anyone to call our integrity into question.” She’d fixed him with a very stern stare. “I don’t want any accusations of nepotism when we should be focused on rebuilding.”
He’d wanted to protest. Liadrin had attained her position because Vandellor had been her father figure, and Kael’thas had given him his solely because they were cousins. But Lor’themar understood what she was saying. In this new ravaged Quel’Thalas, Vandellor’s daughter and the prince’s kin could not afford any more strikes against them. If Lor’themar succeeded in his position, it would be said he did so because of Liadrin, and vice versa. He understood that. He’d poked fun at Nathanos Marris for it often enough.
And now, with so much at stake ﹣ Liadrin’s entire order had for a long time not been looked upon favorably, and could collapse if any of the old nobles, guild heads, or government workers decided that Lor’themar’d had a hand in it. He’d done his best to distance himself from his connection to Kael’thas, but he could not do the same with Liadrin.
All the same, there were days, when he lay in bed in the soft morning light, Liadrin warm in his arms, that he didn’t give a damn. When all he wanted to do was stand in the Court of the Sun and swear on broken tusks and troll blood again, in front of all of Quel’Thalas, that he was hers and she was his. Maybe someday…
Lor’themar sighed, and nuzzled Lia’s hair. It was chilly in the cool morning air, and he really did need to get up, but he wanted to savor this for as many moments as he could. Before the servants pounded on the door. Before Salandria woke. Before he was forced to pull on his heavy brocade and endure agonizing political talks and sign orders and make decisions. The only decision he wanted to make, in this quiet moment, was one where he pulled Lia tight against his chest, fitting himself around her as he always had, two halves of one unshakeable whole.
* * *
He’d had dinner, he remembered, with Halduron and Rommath and Thalyssra. They’d talked about some… old Shalassian magicks Rommath had found in Suramar’s library, and Halduron had been bored and back to his old antics, flapping his hand open and closed whenever he felt Rommath was talking too much. He’d returned from Highmountain in a better mood than Lor’themar had seen him in years, and he thought they really needed to talk about that…
But Halduron wasn’t sitting next to him. Halduron wasn’t pressed against him, arm to arm and thigh to thigh, and Halduron didn’t have his hand on Lor’themar’s arm. Lor’themar blinked slowly. The arcwine was making his head swim.
What had Thalyssra said?
“It’s getting late.”
Thalyssra was stroking his arm now.
“Mm.”
“We should turn in.” It sounded as though his voice were coming from somewhere else, and he had to concentrate very hard to form the words. Perhaps he shouldn’t have shotgunned the arcwine.
Liadrin had told him Thalyssra had asked about him. She’d said it very calmly, steady in her own Liadrin way, but Lor’themar had seen that it had bothered her. Neither of them were jealous people, but Lor’themar thought, if Lia saw them right now, she’d be more than a little angry.
“I’ll have someone escort you to your rooms,” he said abruptly. “The Spire is rather… and the guest rooms are very…”
“You could escort me.”
“Lia,” he’d chuckled. “You worry for nothing. Thalyssra has no interest. She was only being friendly.”
He’d been very wrong.
Very slowly ﹣ and he felt like he was swimming through honey ﹣ he pulled away from the First Arcanist. He was not quite in possession of his faculties and the last thing he wanted was to cause offense. Thalyssra was watching him, her pale eyes bright.
“I don’t think I’m in a position to escort anyone anywhere.” He chose his words with care, and gestured to the mostly empty glass of arcwine. “I’m a little addled… I don’t think arcwine agrees with me.”
For all their similarities, shal’dorei were different from sin’dorei. Lor’themar would have expected Thalyssra’s words from a ranger in their cups, not a cityborne noblewoman.
“Perhaps we should go together,” she offered. “We’ll become lost if we separate.”
Lor’themar stood. Belatedly, he realized that this could be considered very rude. “I don’t live in the Spire,” he announced, and suddenly his voice sounded very loud. “It’s getting late. And I feel… I’ll have someone escort you…”
“Lor’themar, are you alright?”
No. No, he was not alright. The room spun and he felt floaty and if he didn’t leave, he didn’t know what would happen.
“I’m sorry. I’ll… I don’t…”
He was still stammering as he passed ﹣ alone ﹣ through the double doors.
* * *
Going home never crossed his mind. He fumbled with the door to Liadrin’s apartments, pulling fruitlessly for several moments before it occurred to him to push, and didn’t remember if he shut it behind himself. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten to Lia’s apartments at all. The walk was a blank in his mind.
Arcwine was a hazard, he decided, as he stumbled through the rooms. He was never drinking it again. Was this what mages felt, when they cast their spells? How did any of them function?
The door to Liadrin’s bedroom proved to be similarly difficult, and Lor’themar thought seriously about kicking it down. He decided against it because Salandria was likely sleeping. It was very late.
Light, he’d been drunk and alone with an extremely interested woman so late… Shame curled in his gut.
Liadrin was not surprised to see him ﹣ very little surprised her ﹣ and she was not asleep, as he’d thought she’d be. He didn’t know if that made it better or worse. She was propped up in bed reading by magelight, and looked up only briefly upon his entrance.
“Lia.”
It wasn’t as if Lia hadn’t seen him drunk before. It wasn’t as if her scolding him for his drinking wasn’t a regular occurrence. Rangers drank, as Halduron often said, and Lor’themar was first and foremost a ranger. Still, he wished he were a little more sober. A little more in control of himself.
“I didn’t think you’d be coming over,” Liadrin murmured.
“Missed you,” he breathed, crawling into bed and diving into her, settling in her lap and wrapping his arms around her middle. Light, that felt good. When had touching her felt so good?
“Lor’the ﹣ what are you doing? Take your shoes off, at least!”
But Lor’themar didn’t want to take his shoes off. He didn’t want to do anything that wasn’t touching Liadrin. The thrum of Light under her skin and the buzz of the mana in his veins had combined pleasantly in his ravaged body, set off sparks along his face and arms. The book she’d been reading pressed uncomfortably into his chin but he ignored it.
Arcwine was amazing.
“Are you drunk?”
“Only a lot.”
Sigh. “I suppose the dinner went well then.”
Oh. Oh, no.
Lor’themar felt the shame in his gut again, felt the squeeze of his heart. He buried his face in Liadrin’s stomach and breathed hard, and shuddered when he felt a hand in his hair.
“Come on,” she said, only a little annoyed but still with affection. “You can’t sleep in that.”
His brain was at war with itself, and his body too. On the one hand, he wanted to divest himself of his awful, constraining court clothes and press as much of his bare skin to Lia as he could, wanted to touch her and kiss her and love her as the arcwine’s mana sang in his veins. It was heavenly, laying here with her.
On the other hand, he had just sat with Thalyssra, pressed against her body, as the mage stroked his arm and raised goosebumps along his skin. He had never, ever been in a position like that before. He wanted the stiffness of his brocade and the sturdiness of his boots, because without them he would surely fall apart.
Liadrin was patient, waiting for him to sit up. Her deft fingers easily found the buttons holding his brocade pauldrons, began to unsnap them. He didn’t deserve her.
“Lia.”
There was the rustle of pages as he turned his head, the paper scraping the wrong way against his beard. “Lia, I have to tell you something.”
She was trying to be irritated with him but she’d only come home from Suramar recently and they’d be apart for so long that she wasn’t doing a very good job. “Can you do that while you undress?”
“No. Lia.” Lor’themar didn’t want to get up. He didn’t want to admit what he’d done. He felt terrible.
He sat up, mourning the loss of contact against his skin.
“Lia.” He reached for her hands, one pauldron flopping uselessly along his bicep, held by one remaining button. “Lia Lia Lia.”
“Use your words, Lor’themar.”
“Arcwine is awful.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I don’t like it. It’s too much… it’s very… I’m not drinking it again.”
Liadrin didn’t understand. “Okay…?”
“Lia, you were right. About.” His voice was grating to his own ears. “I told you she wasn’t… And you said… Fuck.”
“Lor’themar, what are you talking about?”
Arcwine was more potent than any alcohol, any bloodthistle or odd tauren smoking herbs. He’d never been rendered unable to string together a sentence. He wondered how long it would last.
“Thalyssra,” he said slowly. “She wanted… she said… me.”
The mention of Thalyssra sparked understanding, and Liadrin went very still. “Oh.”
Lor’themar scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to think clearly. Shotgunning arcwine had been a very, very bad idea.
“I didn’t… I would never… But she… and we sat…” Nothing was coming out right. Lor’themar recalled long ago what Rommath had said about his travels in the Netherstorm, how the very air was so saturated with mana it broke concentration and made it difficult to think. No wonder Kael’thas had lost his shit.
“She. Touched my arm,” he finished lamely. “Like…” He didn’t think he was coordinated enough to demonstrate at this moment, and settled for placing his hand on her forearm, stroking as Thalyssra had to him. He didn’t know what that meant to shal’dorei, but in his drunken state it made him feel dirty.
“Oh.”
He needed Lia to say more than oh. He didn’t know what he needed her to say, but he needed more than that.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?”
Lor’themar nodded vigorously. “So, so sorry.” He squeezed her arm, his free hand coming up to cup her cheek.
“Why are you sorry?” She looked like she didn’t understand, and he didn’t know how to explain it to her. Not until the arcwine left his system and he was in control of his own tongue again.
“I love you,” he blurted. “I love you so much.” He kissed her, the steadiness of her highlighting the wobbling of his own lips. “I would never﹣”
“I know.” Liadrin cupped the back of his head, rested their foreheads together. “I know, Lor’themar. You didn’t do anything wrong.” She bit her lip, and even in his affected state Lor’themar could tell that she thought this was her fault. “I should have…” She sighed.
“Let’s get you into bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”
She helped him out of his brocade robes and stiff trousers, as she’d done many times before. His boots she placed on the floor at the foot of the bed, and when they were done, Lor’themar burrowed against her side, head spinning from all the movement.
“You okay?” Lia’s voice came from somewhere above him as she petted through his hair. It was a delicious feeling, her fingers carding through the strands, scratching lightly against his scalp.
“No.” His voice sounded very small. He didn’t feel okay. He felt bad and drunk and tired and so in love with her, and the last one wasn’t bad but after the dinner and with the arcwine in his blood it might as well have been.
Liadrin tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. With her free hand she fumbled for the book she’d been reading before he’d stomped in, the one whose pages he was pretty sure had given a shallow cut through his beard. “Do you want me to read to you?”
Reading sounded lovely. Lia had been reading to him for as long as he could remember, even before he’d lost his eye. Reading often gave him headaches now, and he cherished the moments Lia gave it back to him.
“Please.” Lor’themar relaxed against her as Liadrin found her page. He didn’t think she was angry at him, but he was angry at himself. He could drink even Halduron under the table, but a glass of arcwine had almost…
“The clocksmith was called Degren, and though there were rumors that he was not Highborne, but lowborn kal’dorei ﹣ an exiled noble’s son, or possibly a disgraced spellblade, banished from Teldrassil for reasons unknown,” Liadrin read, her voice soft and soothing. She had brought back several books from her time in Suramar, devouring their old, famous stories as quickly as she could. “His shop was on the Night Lane, where the canal crooked like a finger beckoning you closer, and he was known the world over for his fantastical timepieces, for the little silver birds that sang different songs at every hour, and for the tiny metal men and women who played out amusing scenes at midnight, then again at noon.”
Lor’themar listened, as she ran her free hand through his hair, as the character Degren seemingly caused a series of odd, prophetic events, and soon fell asleep.
* * *
The good thing about arcwine, Lor’themar decided, as he rolled over and stretched, was that it left him with no hangover the next day. Only a vague sense of loss deep in his muscles, but he’d dealt with worse. Liadrin lay with her back to him, and upon propping himself up on one elbow, Lor’themar saw that she was also awake, the book from last night laid flat on the bed before her. She hadn’t wanted him to wake up alone, and Lor’themar’s heart swelled.
“Good morning,” he murmured, draping himself gently over her side. “Good morning, my sun.”
“Morning.” Her voice was gentle, and at seeing he was awake, Liadrin carefully marked her place and set the book aside. “Feel any better?”
“Much.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, and then leaned over her to kiss her properly, loving and unhurried, which she reciprocated in kind. “I’m never drinking arcwine again.”
A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “So you said last night.” And then she grew very serious. “Do you… remember?”
Unfortunately, the arcwine had not addled his memory. He could recall every excruciating, embarrassing detail clear as day. “Yes.” He sat back for a moment, so Lia could turn to face him, and they lay so close together their noses nearly touched. “Lia, I’m so sorry﹣”
“Stop.” Her voice was not hard but she was firm all the same. “Lor’themar, stop apologizing. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He didn’t feel that way.
“You drank too much ﹣ like you always do,” and here a hint of amusement bled through, “and a woman was interested in you. That’s not your fault.”
“I should have been﹣”
“Better, I know.” It was an argument she had heard often, when he felt a woman was too comfortable with him. I led her on, he would say, I must have done something to make her think I was interested. She threaded her fingers through his. “Does Solanar bother you?”
“What?” Where had that come from?
“Solanar,” she repeated. “Does my behavior with Solanar bother you?”
Solanar Bloodwrath and Lia were close. He had been among the first to join the blood knights, and along with Astalor Bloodsworn had helped shape the order into what it was today. He was also in love with Liadrin, which Lor’themar had known for some time.
“No,” he said honestly. “Why would﹣?”
“And did it bother you when he indicated he had feelings for me?”
Liadrin had told him of an afternoon several years ago, when she and Solanar had been alone in the Hall of Blood, and the man had called her beautiful and then immediately flushed scarlet. Liadrin had been taken aback but it hadn’t surprised Lor’themar. He’d always thought Solanar rather obvious.
“No,” he said again. “I trust you.”
“And I trust you,” Lia said gently. “You did nothing wrong and I’m not angry at you.”
“I still feel guilty,” he murmured, tracing the line of her cheek.
“For sitting with a woman? Lor, you’ve sat with a lot of women. You can’t feel guilty every time.”
“I was also drunk.”
She regarded him shrewdly. “Are you saying you were never once drunk with your unit when you were a Farstrider? Because I seem to recall a lot of stories with you and Halduron and Velona﹣”
“Okay, okay!” he laughed. “I get it. I will try not to feel guilty about the inebriated things I do.”
She rolled her eyes. “That isn’t what I meant, silly.”
He grinned. Leaned forward and kissed her. “That’s what I’m choosing to believe,” he teased. “Which means I can come barge in here any time I want, completely smashed.”
“I will throw you out.”
He laughed. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“I mean it.” He kissed her again. “I love you.” Kissed along her jaw. “I’ve always loved you.” Her cheek. “It’s only ever been you.” Nibbled her earlobe.
Beneath him Lor’themar heard her breath catch.
“Lia,” he murmured along the shell of her ear. “I know we’ve talked about it. I know your reasons.” Her reasons were also his reasons, but he found, as time wore on, that he cared less about them. He didn’t care anymore who knew. Kael’thas was dead and gone, and the nobility who’d ruled Silvermoon in their nepotism had been largely replaced. “Hasn’t enough time passed?” He pulled away to look at her, squeezing her hand.
But Liadrin shook her head. “Look what happened to Tyrande and Malfurion in Val’sharah.”
“Neither of us would ever be targeted for the reasons they﹣”
“Remember what happened to Sylvanas and Nathanos?”
Lor’themar snorted. “Nathanos.”
“You see? You still don’t respect the man. It’s been years.”
Lor’themar wanted to say he didn’t see what Nathanos Marris or Tyrande Whisperwind and Malfurion Stormrage had to do with this conversation, but he couldn’t. He knew very well why they’d been brought up ﹣ it was the same argument they’d both used for years.
“Fourteen hundred and thirty-four years, Lia. I’ve loved you for fourteen hundred and thirty-four years.”
The idea of people ﹣ people who weren’t Halduron and Salandria and probably also Rommath ﹣ knowing about their relationship, people that he didn’t personally know, who would gossip and scoff and criticize, terrified him. But at the same time, he was tired. All he wanted, all he’d ever wanted, was Liadrin, and he didn’t care anymore who knew.
“I’ve loved you just as long.”
“Then why does it matter﹣”
“You know why, Lor’themar.”
He did. He really did. The last time they’d spoken of this, it was he who gave the excuses and Liadrin who questioned them. Perhaps their own small, private life together was not something either of them truly wanted to give up. Not yet. Elves lived for a very long time, and he and Liadrin still had centuries to decide anything.
He kissed her. Soft and gentle and with all the love he could give from his lips to hers, and Lia yielded under him, melted beneath him and his touch as his fingers skittered over her skin. He slipped them beneath her sleeping shirt, which she had stolen from him long ago, ran them up her sides. Her breath hitched and he grinned, trailing his nails back down gently. He would never get tired of that, of the noises she made and the way she leaned into him, the way she craved him as he did her.
Their entire relationship had forsaken what other people thought, and this sort of thinking was not easy to stop. Halduron had told him more than once that they should marry already, that you have a child but you don’t even live together, and Lor’themar knew others would find that strange as well, no matter how progressive Silvermoon had become in the wake of the Scourge. He and Liadrin liked their lives and the way they lived them.
Salandria had asked them more than once why they weren’t married. Why they didn’t announce themselves. And perhaps, one day, they would. One day, they would stand together in the Court of the Sun and Lor’themar would declare to Silvermoon and the world that for all his life, from the time he was fourteen years old and until the day he died, all there was and would ever be was Liadrin.
But that day didn’t have to be today. Today, as Lor’themar shifted on top and kissed softly down her chest, there was only making sure that Liadrin knew. Liadrin was the only one who mattered.