Archive of Our Own

“I’ve never been to Ironforge,” Umbric had told her, and indeed he acted like it. Carved right into the wintry peaks of Dun Morogh, the city of Ironforge was a marvel of dwarven engineering and craftsmanship. Every building had been lovingly chiseled from the stone, and far below their feet the heart of the mountain raged, heating what should have been a series of freezing caverns into a comfortable and even at times too hot subterranean city. Valeera didn’t spend much time in Ironforge but she did always enjoy when she was here. 

She’d known once he’d started talking that the books he needed were nowhere to be found in Stormwind’s great library, or even in the recesses of the Great Cathedral. The Void was a forbidden area of study, and even research into the Shadow aspect of it was strictly regulated. But given that the ren’dorei’s very survival depended on an intimate understanding of the Void, Valeera couldn’t really fault the magister for his curiosity. She also happened to know a man whose specialty was rare and contraband materials. That the man lived in Ironforge was no detriment at all, save the long and uneventful tram ride which ended up being not so uneventful at all, Umbric's face lighting up in almost childish delight as they zoomed through the meticulously constructed earthen tunnels. 

"We're under the sea?"

This was unlike her. Valeera had never been known to stick her neck out for the sake of others, not of her own accord. The last time she had done so was… when she had paid a visit to Kalec in Dalaran, and asked him to inspect a suspicious golden bangle that turned out not to be suspicious at all. That had been a long time ago. 

Just the freedom of being with another person was unlike her, of walking with packages tucked under their arms and pointing out this or that like some sort of tourist. Her trips to Ironforge had always been brief, had always served to fill a quick and specific purpose, too sensitive to entrust to parchment and ink. But as they’d left the bookshop, Valeera found herself asking, “Have you ever had a dwarvish supper?” and Umbric had replied, “I have not,” and somehow they’d ended up in the Applecross, a snug little pub situated to one end of the Commons, and not at all out of the way from the tram that would take them home. 

“What is this?” Umbric asked, eyeing the food warily. He’d been annoyed at the menu, which only listed the names of dishes and not their ingredients, and Valeera had ordered for the both of them. The beer, at least, Umbric knew, and at the recommendation of their waitress had ordered an Ironforge IPA. 

Valeera had had a decision to make. She could have been cruel and pushed the haggis, and the idea of Umbric ﹣ a man who’d been raised in the finery of Silvermoon, who probably didn’t know that offal was a thing most people ate ﹣ learning firsthand the delicate intricacies of the earthy savory pudding almost had the words out of her mouth before she could stop them. Varian had done that to her once, and while she hadn’t hated it, she hadn’t been fond of his tickled reaction. 

A full dwarvish supper was properly had at a long table, with freeflowing ale and shared amongst the entire table. There were several pubs that served it, but Valeera had not the energy for dwarven drunkenness, which was inevitable, in addition to Umbric’s endless questions. The man was a sponge, soaking up every piece of information he was given, a seemingly unending reservoir of knowledge tucked within the recesses of his mind. The Applecross was a good compromise ﹣ all of the proper dwarvish foods (minus the haggis), served right at their own private table. 

“This is blood sausage,” she said, deciding to get the worst out of the way first. “It’s very good with spice bread.” 

“Blood sausage,” Umbric repeated. He stared warily at the meat, which simmered innocently under the harsh lights.

“Don’t think about it. It doesn’t make it better.” She pushed a plate of steaming meat towards him. “This is boar, and there’s also crayfish and arctic char, and cock-a-leekie soup.”

“Cock-a-what now?”

“Cock-a-leekie soup. It has leeks in it.” 

Umbric looked doubtful. “Just try it,” Valeera urged. The table was loaded with food, despite her request for small portions. By herself, she could have finished it all, but Umbric ate so little. She’d inferred, during their time together, that food often did not agree with him. A side effect of being ren’dorei, he’d mentioned once. Between the nightmares, the decreased appetite, and the constant threat of insanity, Valeera did not see much good in being ren’dorei, if she were honest. She thought, much like the fel, that the Void encouraged dependency on its energies by creating a revulsion of food. An elf could live for years on nothing more than a few fel crystals, and she didn’t see much of a difference with the Void.

Umbric ate better, he’d told her, since she’d started eating with him. Fewer conjured foodstuffs, which tasted good but lacked any real nutrition, and more real food. When she’d met him, he would often take a single bite from a mana bun and not eat for the rest of the day.

“If you say so…” He did not touch the blood sausage, and Valeera hadn’t expected him to. But he did take an entire fish for himself, as well as several beer-basted boar ribs, and a cup of soup. He picked at them, as was his tendency, but he did eat. Satisfied, Valeera returned to her own plate. She’d eaten a lot of dwarvish food, when Varian… when Anduin was younger, and still had the occasional craving for it. 

She didn’t remember the last time she’d sat in a restaurant with someone for a proper meal, and not as a pretense for exchanging information. Probably not since Pandaria… 

“What did Shaw give you?” the magister asked after several minutes, interrupting her reverie. 

“What? Oh.” She popped a piece of sausage in her mouth and chewed for a moment. They’d placed their shopping on an empty chair, and the two books wrapped in brown paper she’d kept separate from Umbric’s. They were large books, easily five or six hundred pages each, and bore sturdy, hand-painted dust jackets stamped in gold leaf. A name she hadn’t heard in years grazed each spine: Gregor L. L. Moltenbottom. 

Anduin had been smitten with the series when he was younger. When Varian was alive. 

“Just the conclusion of a popular series,” Valeera said dismissively. “A Melody of Earth and Wind.”

“Never heard of it.”

“You wouldn’t have, seeing as you were in exile when they came out,” she teased. 

“What’s it about?” And Umbric reminded her of Anduin in that way. He read everything he could get his hands on, no matter how trivial. She’d once caught him reading the ingredients on the back of a box of gnomish candy. 

“It’s fantasy. A story about civil war after a coup. And there are dragons, but they’re not like our dragons.”

"Shouldn't you be better at condensing information?”

Valeera rolled her eyes. “I haven’t read them. They’re…” A Melody of Earth and Wind had always been Varian’s thing, the one tenuous bond he’d managed to forge with Anduin. She hadn’t wanted to intrude, or take it away from them. “Anduin used to like them.”

Umbric chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed. “He doesn’t anymore?”

The images came without warning, unbidden and unwanted in their intensity. Varian, A Melody of Earth and Wind in his lap, frowning as he turned the page. Slamming the book down on the table and declaring he’d finished, and Anduin, can you… I’d like to talk to you. About this. Anduin’s hesitant look, wary and guarded, only for his eyebrows to shoot up and his face to brighten when it was clear that Varian was not going to scold him for his taste in reading material but in fact wanted his opinion on it. 

I don’t understand either, Anduin confessed, why they want the mad prince on the throne. Isn’t that why they killed his father?

The king’s death created a power vacuum, Varian explained, and the next king was not up to the job of filling it. That’s why, when he died, the kingdom was thrown into chaos. They want to use the mad prince to create a puppet state.

The dragons are important! Anduin argued, cheeks reddening as his voice rose. They show that magic has started to ﹣

They add nothing! Varian shouted. There’s no magic in this world! They aren’t useful and they don’t even talk!

Anduin, prodding her gently. Did he finish the next book, Val? Herself laughing. He still doesn’t see the point of that captain or the islands subplot. Anduin’s eyes going wide. How can he not see it?! Varian, pissed off and opening the book so fiercely its spine cracked, looking for answers to his son’s behavior in the characters Anduin so admired. It’s this stupid book, Val. The black dragon in this ridiculous book is good ﹣ whoever heard of such a thing?

Varian, laid out on the couch with his head in her lap, head pounding and still so insistent. Just one chapter, Val. Just read one chapter to me.

Anduin, curled up in his bed after the news from the Broken Shore, hugging a book to his chest. He said he’d read it, Val! he sobbed. We were… we were supposed to talk about it! I was… I was so proud… of how hard he tried.

“Valeera? Valeera, are you okay?”

Valeera started. Anduin and Varian vanished, leaving behind a dull ache in her chest. She wasn’t in the Keep. She wasn’t watching the discussion between father and son, the way Varian leaned in and drew in his thick, broad pen strokes the complicated balance of power Anduin had stumbled over, the look in Anduin’s eyes as he insisted on the necessity of the “three-eyed raven” and the journey to which it was crucial. She was sitting in a tavern in Ironforge, half empty plates of steaming dwarvish food laid out on the table before, and Umbric was looking at her with something akin to concern in his eyes. 

“Valeera?”

“I’m fine.” How could she explain what those books meant to someone like Umbric? How could she explain the pride she’d felt for Varian, the happiness she’d felt at seeing them huddled together with the book between them? The sheer unbridled delight in Anduin, that his father had reached out to him using Anduin’s own hobby? How could she explain that the little king had packed them away after Varian’s death, unable to even look at them anymore?

“Are you s﹣”

“Yes.” She didn’t want to talk about it. She couldn’t talk about Varian with Umbric. “How do you like the food?”

* * *

Umbric had walked with her throughout the dwarven city, and returned her to the Keep. He wasn’t a man prone to gregarious displays of affection, did not take her hand or insist they walk arm in arm as some couples did, but he did stray into Valeera’s personal space quite often, and the feeling of his hand at the small of her back made her stomach flip. He’d placed a loose arm about her waist in the bookshop, when she was speaking to Shaw, a blatant display of affection and… possession. Directly before Shaw, his superior. 

The old Shaw would reassign him. The spymaster did not believe in personal relationships between operatives, and Valeera knew for a fact that he’d both reassigned operatives before and had a dossier on Umbric, didn’t quite trust the man for his connection to the Void. The old Shaw would have taken one look at Umbric and, even if the magister hadn’t stood so close, inferred the relationship and transferred him, probably back to Vol’dun, given Umbric’s immense dislike of the place. 

But this new Shaw? This man who allowed ship captains to poke at his chest, who drank in bars named the Curious Octopus and blushed around certain pirates, who did not protest as the man in question quite literally pushed Anduin aside to pull him into a hug in front of the entire harbor and the Light itself? Valeera didn’t think this new Shaw would reassign Umbric. Might watch him a bit more closely, because after all he was still the spymaster. But would probably leave Umbric to his own devices. 

Umbric had been concerned when they’d parted. She’d seen it in the set of his jaw, in the slight bulging vein in his neck. Valeera hadn’t had anyone worry about her in a long time, not anyone who wasn’t Anduin, or even Shaw. It rankled her, and she didn’t understand why. But Umbric hadn’t said anything and she hadn’t given him a reason, and in the end they’d parted for the night with the smallest squeeze to her hand. She’d almost pulled him back, almost kissed him goodbye. 

She didn’t think she was ready for that sort of intimacy. Not yet. 

Once, Valeera had entered the king’s chambers without ceremony. Had let herself in without knocking. A long time ago, there was no time she could not slip in unchallenged by the guards, under the king’s order.

She supposed she still had that privilege now, but it felt wrong, when it was Anduin behind the doors. She’d always let him know she was coming when he was still a prince. Rarely surprised him, and never popped up late. 

The guards let her in without protest all the same, and Anduin was waiting for her in his sitting room. He made to stand, and Valeera held up her hand. 

“Don’t,” she said gently. “You’re fine as you are.” His old injuries were bothering him today, she knew, and while she didn’t see his cane she couldn’t fail to note that his leg was propped up on a pillow and he was dressed in the most comfortable clothes he owned, despite the fact that it hadn’t yet even chimed nineteen bells.

“Sorry,” Anduin said sheepishly. 

“For what?” There was a tea set on the table and Valeera busied herself with it, placing the bundle from Ironforge to one side and pouring a cup for herself. It was good ginseng tea from Pandaria, and Valeera refilled Anduin’s own cup and added a bit of honey before passing it to him.

“Thanks.” He cradled the cup in both hands, close to his chest, just letting the warmth seep into his tired bones. Valeera sat to one side, avoiding the cushion on which his leg sat so as not to jostle it and cause him pain. “Sorry for…” He gestured to the offending appendage.

“Stop letting Greymane get in your head,” Valeera snipped, though not unkindly. “When he breaks every bone in his body, then he can advise you on how to act when you’re in pain.”

Anduin made a face into his tea. “I just feel… weak,” he told the cup. “Father wouldn’t have skipped dinner and gone to bed over a little ache.”

Those were Greymane’s words, and Valeera stiffened. A little ache. Greymane hadn’t been there when the Bell crushed Anduin, hadn’t suffered night after night as Anduin sobbed in pain under Velen’s gentle hands. Hadn’t given a damn at all. 

“Your father,” she said tightly, “was the biggest baby when he was in pain.”

Anduin laughed. “He was not.”

“Oh, believe me, he was.” Valeera had far too many memories of Varian, curled in on himself with a headache and bemoaning his very existence, claiming he was dying from small colds, shrieking like a child when she tried unsuccessfully to massage a pulled muscle. She’d seen better behavior from children ﹣ from Anduin, even. “He dislocated his shoulder once and cried for twenty minutes. Wouldn’t let anyone near him.”

A laugh. “He did not.”

“I had to set it myself.” Valeera sipped her tea. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to wrestle a screaming adult man to the floor, and with no medical knowledge jam a shoulder back in its socket?”

Anduin was doubled over in giggles, tea sloshing dangerously in its cup. “He didn’t!”

She grinned. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you your father was made of stone. I have plenty of stories that prove otherwise.” 

Valeera didn’t know if Anduin really knew the extent of her relationship with his father. She didn’t know if anyone did, with the exception of Shaw and Greymane ﹣ and Greymane only because of his enhanced worgen senses. Valeera had been in Anduin’s life since he was a small boy, but she and Varian had never… Well. She and Varian had never done anything around anyone but themselves. He didn’t send her flowers, as her own father had to her mother. Did not attend parties or balls with her, or even eat most meals together. She slept in his bed, and he in hers, but that was not the norm. They did not travel together, had never even said…

She doubted Anduin knew. Varian was hardly one to confide his feelings to his son, Shaw was a professional, and Greymane would never let it slip. Anduin knew they had been gladiators together in the Crimson Ring, and he knew that they were friends. He’d been too young when she’d walked into his life to think any different, and he was not prone to suspicion.

Anduin had wrapped an arm around his midsection and his cheeks were wet. “No more, Val,” he panted, trying to calm himself. “I can’t… It hurts….”

Varian had been grumpy with her afterward, flexing his shoulder and claiming she’d damaged him. Valeera’d had no sympathy. You’re perfectly fine, Varian. Shut up.

Her gaze fell back to the books Shaw had given her. She had to look somewhere ﹣ every glance at Anduin made the little king crack back up. The tea was starting to cool as she waited for Anduin to calm, and her mood sobered considerably. 

I thought maybe these would spark his interest again, Shaw had said. 

Why now? Anduin had given no indication he wished to continue the series. The books no longer graced his shelves, having been packed and stored away since Varian’s death. Did Shaw know something she didn’t?

“Val?”

She started, turning back to the little king, who indicated the package.

“You have something for me?” Anduin stretched to place the teacup on the table before settling himself again.

“Yes.” Valeera reached for the books before faltering, hand flat against the paper wrapping. They weren’t really a present ﹣ not from Shaw or her. And she honestly didn’t think he would read them. She sat back.

“That author you like has new books out,” she said vaguely.

“Oh?” And Anduin perked up, leaving Valeera with a sinking feeling in her gut. She should have brought him another book, one he wanted and would actually read. He always wanted for something to do when he was bedbound, and here she was, dangling that something in front of him before the big, unwanted reveal. “Which one? Is it Token? Or Collans?”

Why hadn’t she gotten one of those books?

“The last Earth and Wind books are out,” she said quietly. “I thought you’d like to see how it ends.”

The resulting silence was so loud it rang in her ears. 

“Oh,” Anduin said finally. “Er. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to read them,” Valeera said quickly. “I just… they’re there though. In case you do.”

“Right.” Anduin looked very much like he did not. “Thank you, Val.”

Valeera left not long after, offering an unexplicit “I have some business in the mage quarter” in parting. Anduin sat with his tea, now very cold with a film of honey sludge along the edge, and stared. Valeera hadn’t unwrapped the parcel, hadn’t handed it to him. He didn’t know what he would have done if she had. 

Three years ago he had boxed up the Moltenbottom books. Staring at them on his shelf, the memories of his father and the talks they’d had… it had been too painful to bear any longer. Varian had finally, finally gotten through the fifth book ﹣ “the worst book,” he’d grumbled, upon seeing the dragons on the cover ﹣ and had promised him, upon his return from the Broken Shore, that they would talk about it. Anduin had been so excited ﹣ he couldn’t wait to hear his father’s reaction to the characters finally preparing for the undead onslaught (which Varian had complained about since book one), and Anduin had been vindicated in his insistence that the three-eyed raven had been important, that its subplot with one of the main characters was instrumental to the story. Their favorite character had joined the dragon princess, which Varian had said would happen ages ago, and he could just picture his father’s face, could imagine his father jabbing at the book and crowing victoriously I told you! after Anduin had expressed his doubts on the matter only one book previous. 

There’s no way, he had said. Well. Moltenbottom had created the way, and Anduin had been thrilled. 

And then the news had come. The airship had been struck down in an ambush. Genn had barely made it out alive, and his father… 

There hadn’t been enough of him to bring back. 

Moltenbottom’s books, once the only thing that brought them together ﹣ the one safe topic of discussion, a time-tested tool after the death of Bolvar, after the Cataclysm and Wrathion and his near death by the Bell ﹣ was suddenly the source of great and terrible pain. He’d tried to reread them, to relive the good memories with his father given to him by the series, but eventually his thoughts would drift to the undeniable fact that Varian was gone. That unlike the characters in the book, he couldn’t come back. 

He hadn’t thought about those books in years. 

Anduin stared at the package. He appreciated the gesture, really. He did. Valeera had only ever wanted what was best for him, and he understood that she knew how much Moltenbottom’s books had meant to him. Perhaps she just wanted him to have the full series, knew how ﹣ before his father’s death ﹣ the slow writing of the author had tested his patience. A Melody of Earth and Wind had been written long before he’d been born, and he’d only learned of it upon the release of the fourth book. He’d been so eager to get his hands on the fifth…

Scowling, Anduin set his tea down. It was cold, and he didn’t want it anymore. Gingerly, he removed his aching leg from the pillow he’d propped it on ﹣ the lucky leg, he’d been told, because the bone had not been shattered but instead neatly broken in three places, but at the end of the day with pain radiating up to his hip, he felt anything but lucky ﹣ and swung it over the side of the couch. Tested his weight on it and heaved himself up. Limped to his bedchambers. 

He wasn’t going to read them, he decided. They would go into storage with the others, and he could take some comfort in the fact that the series was finally finished. It had always bothered him in the past. 

That’s what he told himself as he climbed into bed, and as he cocooned himself in his covers, and as he shut his eyes and tried to think of something, anything, except the innocuous parcel wrapped in brown paper in the other room.

* * *

Anduin didn’t look at them the next day, as he trudged out of his chambers. He didn’t think about them, as he leaned heavily on his cane and ignored the judgement from Genn. His mind was focused on petitioners and the reports from Silithus and the coded intel about Sylvanas. He wrote to Baine who, he recalled, had also lost a father some years ago, and he did not mention their unfortunate shared connection. Baine had written him after his father’s death, and his words had brought him great comfort. 

Winter was coming, and while Stormwind was caught in the great crosswinds of Stranglethorn Vale and the Burning Steppes and was too warm to experience snow, it did rain quite often in the winter, and the damp seeped into his bones. He kept a fire going at all times these days to try and chase away the chill but the pain was relentless, and Anduin had quite a lot of early nights. 

I once heard a tale of your father, slashed in the face and blinded by blood, carrying on as if he’d suffered nothing more than a headache, Genn said. He could split stone with his fists and pay no mind to the broken bones.

Your father was the biggest baby when he was in pain, Valeera told him. He once fell off his horse and complained for three days. He wasn’t even hurt.

“Your father,” said Shaw, and Anduin blinked. What were they talking about?

“The anniversary of his death draws near.” It sounded like Shaw had explained this before. “I’ve increased security around Lion’s Rest, and amped up patrols around the city.” 

The shops closed, on the anniversary of the Burning Legion’s invasion, to mourn those who had given and lost their lives. Many citizens were spending more in the days beforehand, so that they would not be left wanting before the shops closed. 

“Will you be spending the day at the Cathedral again this year, your majesty?” 

Last year Anduin had led the service of remembrance, and the year before that. And the year before that, he’d sat up all night, drafting a speech in his own words to comfort those who worried for their loved ones, who were unsure as to their fates. He’d delivered the words to his city choking back tears, unable to confide in or let anyone know that his father was dead. He’d stood tall and strong and proud, as his father always had, and let no one know that inside he was broken. 

“Yes.” His voice seemed to come from very far away. “I’ve already written my speech. We have much to celebrate this year.” 

He saw Genn nod out of the corner of his eye, and Shaw jotted something down. Across from him, Wrathion was frowning, his crimson eyes troubled, but he said nothing and Anduin did not ask. The dragon had always been too perceptive for his own good, and Anduin couldn’t handle him right now. 

“Your father would be proud,” Genn told him, as he stepped off the dais and took his seat among the congregation. He knew the old worgen’s words were meant to praise and comfort, and he appreciated it, but as he listened to the sermon of Archbishop Benedictus, straightbacked and chest tight, all Anduin could think was how much he missed his father.

Valeera’s books had sat on his table for six days. Anduin had not been able to bring himself to move them. That night, he sat before them, and with trembling fingers unwrapped the paper. There were two books, perhaps five hundred pages each. An Era of Worgen bore a dove grey cover and a darkened battlefield, illuminated by the barest sliver of the waning moon. Beneath it A Vision of Springtide had a dust jacket of green and bronze, a lone dryad off center and to the left, staring into the distance. “Gregor L. L. Moltenbottom” adorned the bottom of both books, rendered in delicate gold leaf. 

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious. Dances with Dragons had ended on a cliffhanger, he remembered, an assassination plot and attempted coup and the hint of rescue for the tortured and mutilated character Reek. His father had predicted the coup ﹣ The dragon princess will never be able to hold power if she carries on like that, not in that sort of society ﹣ but not the rest. Anduin remembered flying through the pages as a man possessed, as though devouring the book at breakneck speed would somehow impart the story directly into his father’s mind. He’d wanted to hear Varian’s thoughts on Reek and his captor ﹣ hadn’t they seemed similar to the rumored atrocities committed in the Undercity under Putress? ﹣ and knew his father would have words about the Faith Militant, a fanatical religious organization that Anduin had once been prepared to defend until halfway through. He’d wanted to ask his father about the subplot with the fighting pits, had wondered if Varian would bring it up himself. He knew so little about Varian, from when he was Lo’Gosh...

Anduin crushed the paper back down over the books and buried his face in his hands. Breathed in noisily. Held it. Breathed out. 

And then he got to his feet and stormed from the room. 

* * *

He couldn’t sleep. He supposed he had at some point, because in the distance he could hear the clock tower chime the second hour. He hadn’t heard the other bells. 

Anduin lay awake in bed, on his stomach to soothe the ache in his back. He must have slept on it oddly, because it hurt when he moved and it hadn’t when he’d laid down. He wished in that moment that he was back in Pandaria, with the mistweavers to temper the hurt in his bones and Wrathion to talk to when he couldn’t sleep. Wrathion had always known when he wasn’t sleeping, would just materialize in the room and read to him ﹣ all sorts of books, Wrathion had read ﹣ or play jihui, if he was up to it. Sometimes he would doze, and upon waking find a small black whelp curled up in the unoccupied space, taking up as little room as he could so as not to hurt him, but not wanting to leave. 

Wrathion was in the Keep, but he had not spent the night in Anduin’s chambers in a long time, and Anduin wouldn’t have let him if he’d asked. He’d been thinking lately, about Wrathion. When he wasn’t thinking about Stormwind, or Sylvanas, or his father, he thought quite a lot about Wrathion. 

Varian had hated Wrathion. The morning Anduin had told him of his interest in the dragon, Varian had exploded. The breakfast dishes had cascaded to the floor. He’d never seen his father so angry, and for the first time in a long time, Anduin had felt genuinely afraid. 

But that night his father had let himself into his room. He hadn’t talked about Wrathion. Varian had apologized for his outburst, for the broken plates. You should apologize to the servants who had to clean it, Anduin snapped, and Varian had nodded, not to make him complacent but actually really hearing him. His father had sat on the edge of his bed, had rubbed a large hand over his cracked shoulder, carefully. So carefully. Like he had when Anduin had first been injured, and everything hurt all the time. 

I saw this morning that it was bothering you, his father offered. I could bring you a hot water bottle?

That would be nice. Anduin was still angry. His father had been trying so hard to control his temper, and the mere mention of one black dragon had dashed all his progress. But it was hard to stay angry, when Varian got to his feet, mindful of the shift in the mattress from his weight, and returned a short while later with the hot water bottle and a towel. He’d wrapped the bottle carefully and sat back down, positioning it without being told at the site of the worst hurt, at the very edge of his shoulder blade. 

Are you sleeping at night?

Not always, Anduin admitted. Some nights are better than others. I slept last night.

That’s good. His father’s voice had been soft. Tender. That’s very good. Sleep is the best medicine.

They hadn’t talked about Wrathion. Varian had asked him short, pointed questions that were easily answered, not wanting to risk angering him, or stoking his own temper, and Anduin wanted to keep being angry. He was angry, at the man who’d shouted at him that morning, but not at the man at his bedside, the one who’d brought him the hot water bottle and stroked at his hair, the one who kept his voice down in case Anduin grew drowsy and who helped him roll onto his back when laying on his stomach became uncomfortable. 

Sometimes, Anduin thought almost dying was the best thing to ever happen to him. As a child, in his weaker moments, and especially under the influence of Katrana Prestor, Anduin had more than once doubted his father’s affections for him. Varian had always been a distant, imposing figure, unfeeling for much of his childhood and angry, after Katrana Prestor split him in two. Even reuniting with his other self hadn’t done much, and Anduin’s every attempt to reach out had been met with disappointment. But after the Bell, there had been no doubt. The fear in his father’s eyes, the whiteness of his face as Velen and the healers worked, the tenderness and care with which he treated him… Sometimes, Anduin didn’t understand how he’d ever doubted that his father loved him. 

I could read to you, his father said, placing the hot water bottle behind his back, between his skin and the mattress. Sometimes V… I like being read to, when I don’t feel well.

I only have Banquet for Vultures, Anduin said apologetically. His father hadn’t read that one, was still stuck somewhere in the first third of the previous book. You’ll spoil the story for yourself.

That’s alright. Where is it?

And Anduin had told him and Varian retrieved the book, had carefully opened the cover and removed the silken bookmark. It had been a gift from Wrathion, but if his father noticed, he didn’t say. He’d waited until Anduin was comfortable, until he gave the word, before placing one finger on the text and beginning to read. 

Anduin would give anything to have his father at his bedside right now. He’d give anything even to hear Varian yell at him. 

He’d wait at the edge of death itself again, if it meant Varian could wait with him, eyes following the movement of his finger as he read out loud the first chapter in Moltenbottom’s stupid book. 

He almost got up then. Anduin rolled on his side, clenching a handful of blankets. But the books were too far, all the way in the other room, and it wouldn’t be the same without Varian’s deep, gravelly voice speaking the words. 

* * *

He could always put it down, if it got to be too much. That was the advantage of books. When you didn’t like the story, you simply closed the cover and it stopped. 

Anduin didn’t remember how long the books sat there. Two weeks? Three? He poked the wrapping sometimes, almost tempted to extract the books that lay beneath, but in the end he always chickened out. The pressure was too great. 

He picked up An Era for Worgen once. A hand drawn map of the story’s setting lay on the inside cover, one Anduin hadn’t seen before in the other books in the series. His curiosity peaked ﹣ what was this place? It bordered an area he was familiar with, the vast northern territories of the fictional kingdom, had been hinted at and briefly visited in previous installments. Anduin found himself flipping pages ﹣ through the maps and illustrations ﹣ his eyes taking in the chapter title and the first few words, and then sentences, of the first page, before he realized what he was doing. What was he doing? He and his father had never talked about the book that came before it. He couldn’t read this. 

He wanted to put them in storage, with the others. He wanted to, but he didn’t. Every time he tried, he’d get as far as removing them from his table before a terrible feeling of wrongness would overcome him. He couldn’t put them away, not without at least seeing what was inside. 

But not tonight. 

And not the night after that. 

Or the night after that.

It wasn’t until one lazy grey day, rain pitter pattering at the windows, that Anduin reached for the book. He’d begged off his engagements, ignoring the stern look from Genn, and limped back to his rooms. He wrapped himself in a thick blanket and settled in front of the fire, chilled and achey and sore. His head pounded dully. 

He hated winter. 

Sometimes V… I like being read to, when I don’t feel well.

Anduin didn’t feel well. He didn’t see how he could possibly feel any worse. He didn’t want to think about Genn, who would most definitely have words with him later about his absence. He didn’t want to think about Wrathion, who he hadn’t properly spoken to since the latter’s return from Silithus ﹣ and he knew he had to talk to Wrathion, had to clear the air between them, but he just… couldn’t. Not right now. 

If his father were here, he’d bring him a hot water bottle and bother him to eat. He’d make tea and fidget and ask questions. And maybe, just maybe, he’d read to him. 

Varian wasn’t here, but the remaining two books in the Earth and Wind series were. Varian was gone, but the books they had loved were not. 

Anduin pulled An Era for Worgen from the table and returned to his spot by the hearth. He took a little longer to get settled, cocooning himself in the blanket just so, laying out on the carpet and feeling his spine straighten. And when he couldn’t put it off any longer, he turned to the first page. 

That was how Valeera found him, later that day. Curled up on the couch, book open in his lap, cheeks streaked with tear tracks and letting out the occasional snort. 

“Anduin?”

He laughed at her. 

“Anduin?” She padded forward on silent feet, dropping down beside him. “Are you…” At his salt-stained face she raised an eyebrow, her voice pitched a little higher with concern. “Are you alright?”

Anduin didn’t answer, shoulders shaking softly.

“Anduin?” She placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Why are you upset?”

“I’m not ﹣ Val,” Anduin gasped. “It’s just ﹣ have you ever ﹣ he was right.”

Valeera was confused. “What?”

“Father.” He laid a hand on the volume. “He said ﹣ I forget when ﹣ he said the dragon princess would go mad.” He turned his watery blue eyes on her. “And she did, Val. She’s just… completely unhinged in this one… He didn’t even read ﹣” And here his chuckling became breathier, until he was gasping for air. “He hadn’t even read the ﹣ when he said it and he still ﹣ just knew what would happen﹣” His chest heaved, his eyes burning and vision blurring, and suddenly it was three years ago, and Anduin was standing in the harbor waiting for the ships and the army to depart, and his father was pulling him into a tender embrace, his large hand petting through his hair as he whispered Don’t get too far ahead. We’ll talk about that stupid Dragons book when I get back.

The next one’s not even out yet, Anduin had laughed.

Good. Then you won’t forget what happened in this one. His father pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Take care of yourself, Anduin. I’ll see you soon.

I will, Anduin promised. You too.

There were arms around him, but they weren’t his father’s. Valeera held him now, tucked under her chin like when he was small, and Anduin buried his face in the soft fabric of her shirt and sobbed like he had three years ago, as though no time had passed at all. 

“I miss him, Val! I miss him so much!”

“Shhh,” Valeera soothed, rubbing circles gently along his spine. “I know. I know, Anduin.” 

“I just want him back! I can’t do this by myself!”

“Hey…” He felt a hand in his hair, scritching lightly. “Don’t say that. Anduin, you can. You have done the best you possibly can, and no one can take that away from you.”

“I can’t… I can’t.”

He felt Valeera inhale. “Anduin,” she said gently. “I want to tell you something, and I want you to listen to me very carefully. Alright?”

He gulped another mouthful of air. Bit his lip.

“You are a better king than your father.”

Anduin went still, the only sound the occasional involuntary sniffle. 

“I knew your father a long time,” Valeera continued solemnly. “And you and he approach the world differently. I know you know that. But different doesn’t mean worse, and as someone who’s dealt with more than her fair share of the fallout of your father’s decisions, I need you to understand that.” She smoothed the damp strands from his face. “We all want peace, but you are the only one who’s taken the steps to lay the groundwork.”

Anduin scowled. “It’s all blown up in my face,” he hiccuped.

“No. Varian was impatient. He wanted results, and he wanted them now. But you, you understand people better than Varian ever did. You understand that you have to take small steps, extend the olive branch, and not become offended if it’s not accepted. And the people remember that. They remember that you tried. They remember that you cared.” She took a deep breath. “Your father was many things, but caring he was not. Not to those who meant little and less to him. You love everyone, whether or not they deserve it, and that is something your father could never do.”

“Genn says﹣”

“Fuck Genn.” The hand rubbing his back stopped, flattened. Pushed him closer. “Genn Greymane is an old autocratic dictator who knows nothing about what the people want, or even his own allies. You are so much better than Genn Greymane.”

Anduin sniffled. “Val, don’t say﹣”

“You see? You want to defend him because I insulted him. Your father would have joined in.” She fell silent and for a moment Anduin thought she was done speaking, until it was clear that she wasn’t. 

“You’ve been through so much, Anduin,” she murmured. “A lesser man would have broken. Varian would have broken. But you still look at the world with so much compassion and love and hope… That’s what makes a good king, not whether or not you walk with a cane, or how many parties you throw, or how many wars you wage. You are a good king, Anduin.”

* * *

Valeera had thought something like this would happen. 

It wasn’t about Greymane or the residual ache in his bones, or that insufferable dragon or even N’Zoth. What it all came down to was that Anduin felt inadequate compared to his father. 

She supposed Varian predicting the madness of a fictional character, when Anduin had argued vehemently against it, had just been the catalyst. Even among people who weren’t real, Varian had always been an remarkable judge of character, while Anduin believed the best in people.

She held Anduin as he cried. Whatever nonsense Greymane had been filling his head with had to stop. Greymane wasn’t his father, and his ideals of kingliness were those of an old man. Outdated, toxic, and dangerous. Greymane had admired Varian, even at his ugliest, and thought Anduin too soft. But Varian’s softness, in Valeera’s opinion, had been his defining feature. It was the reason for all his anger, all his insecurities, the reason behind every decision he’d ever made. 

“I just…” Anduin sniffled. “I wish he was here…”

Her arms tightened around him. “I know,” she whispered. “I do too. I miss him every day.” She resumed the slow, steady circles along his spine, hoping it would, as it always had with Varian, keep him grounded, bring him back from wherever he’d gone. “But Varian…" She sighed. "Anduin, no matter what anyone says. Or what anyone remembers or what anyone wants, Anduin, Varian is no reason to doubt yourself. You’re doing fine.”

Anduin sat up after a long moment, swiped at his watery eyes with the back of his hand. “Genn says he’s worried about Father’s legacy.”

“He shouldn’t be.” At his confusion, Valeera reached over and squeezed his arm. “You are his legacy. Your existence. But everything you do, it’s not in your father’s name. It’s in yours.”

She could see him pondering her words, and she rubbed his arm soothingly. “You’re allowed to miss him,” she said gently. “We all miss him.” And if Anduin noticed how her voice caught, he said nothing. “But just because he’s gone doesn’t mean you have to be him. This﹣” she jabbed at the discarded book “﹣means nothing. A lucky guess? Do you know how often your father was wrong?”

He’d said Anduin would never be a priest, and that Greymane and Gilneas would never join the Alliance. He’d sworn up and down that Garrosh was a dangerous idiot, but an idiot nonetheless, and before the end, he’d sworn that “that troll” couldn’t die, and together they could push back the Legion. 

Varian had been wrong so many times.  

Anduin was quiet for a long time, and Valeera feared that he’d turned inward on himself. Varian had always been like that. But after a moment, he heaved a great sigh, and looked back at her. 

“Do you… do you want to read with me?”

Out of all the things Anduin could have said, Valeera hadn’t expected that.

“What?”

“My father said… You used to read to him, didn’t you?”

How did he know that?

“It’s the sixth book, but I can explain the story.” And now his words tumbled out of him in a rush. “I’m sure you know some of it anyway, from Father? It’s not as confusing as he made it out to be.” 

When he was a little boy, Anduin had devoured books. He’d read everything he could get his hands on, wheedled his way into the difficult and age-inappropriate books from the Stormwind library. And Valeera had delighted hearing about all the stories, all the serious subterfuge and silly antics of make believe people. It wasn’t… unusual, for Anduin to talk to her about books. He’d even talked to her about these. 

She wondered how long it had been since he’d talked with anyone about books. Lately, Valeera hardly saw him reading at all.

She wondered how long it had been since anyone had indulged him in the things he liked, since anyone had treated him as an actual person and not just Varian’s son, King Anduin. 

“Sure.” She grinned. “Tell me everything.”

* * *

There were wards around the little flat, but that didn’t bother Valeera. She’d taken to smacking a gnomish magic dampening device to the door to announce her arrival but she didn’t do that tonight, instead wedging it quietly against the doorframe. When she heard the click of the lock, she let herself in and scooped the device back up before closing the door, the lock magically clicking back into place. 

Umbric lived on the fourth floor of the Wizard’s Sanctum, and Valeera would never know how he’d managed to acquire it. Stormwind’s oldest magically-inclined families lived in the Wizard’s Sanctum, and admittance to its residential floors was rigid and strict. Not even many Highborne after their readmittance to the Alliance and flight from Teldrassil had managed to obtain such premium real estate, with all their power and gold. But Umbric had, and when asked he would shrug his shoulders and quip, “But where else would they put me?”

The little flat was posh by Stormwind’s standards and would not look out of place in the Keep. But it was just a flat, and certainly nothing as ostentatious as what he would have had in Silvermoon, not for a man of his station. Umbric didn’t seem to mind. He’d decorated in indigo and gold, and Thalassian books and old research journals stood at perfect attention along the many bookshelves that lined the rooms. The room off the kitchenette held his office, with a grand desk boasting locked drawers and a large workspace, currently scattered with strange crystals and sheafs of parchment. The Common primer he’d carried in Zandalar was there, its spine flat against the wood; she wondered what sort of report he’d been writing. He wasn’t on assignment. 

“One day I’m going to break that gnomish device of yours,” came a voice, and Valeera stopped her snooping, stepped back into the main room to see Umbric descending the spiral staircase that led to his bedchamber and bath. His hair was damp, and he was dressed in a silk undershirt and soft pants. “I like my privacy.”

“Then why are you involved with me?” she teased. “I can pick even the spymaster’s locks.”

“Mm, and I’m sure that thrills him.” He eyed her, as he stepped onto the luxurious carpet of the ground floor, one eyebrow raised. “Alright? You’re awfully late. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming at all.”

“Did you worry?” And this was a game they played, dancing around their feelings. 

“Of course not.” He would not give in before she did. He was standing very close now, and his fingers caught a strand of her hair. Gold on violet. “I might have saved the bath, if I’d known you were on your way.”

In elf culture, touching one’s hair was a tender, intimate gesture, one that humans took for granted. Perhaps it harked back to their vanity and the elaborate hairstyles they preferred, the delicate braids and carefully coiffed tails. Valeera wasn’t sure, didn’t spend much time thinking about it. Varian had never understood the meaning behind the caressing of hair, had never understood why Valeera allowed it at one time and not at another. Had never put two and two together, that she stroked his hair when she was emotional over him, when being near him was enough to make her heart burst. 

To be fair, she hadn’t understood it herself until after his death. 

But Umbric was an elf. He understood the significance behind the action, knew exactly what he was saying in this moment. He ran his thumb along the silken lock of hair, eyes fixed on the motion before dragging them up, raking them along the naked skin of her neck and the faint blush coloring her cheeks. He looked at her hungrily, as if he wanted to devour her.

No one had ever looked at her the way Umbric did. 

“Alright?” he asked again, his voice a little lower. Sultry. Smirking. 

Was it alright? 

Valeera had only ever had strong feelings for one other man, and Varian was nothing like Umbric. Umbric had none of Varian’s care, none of his control. Umbric had none of Varian’s soft heart. Where Varian had laid himself bare before her, Umbric was an enigma, his inner feelings precious and not lightly given. 

But Valeera could read him. The look on his face, the spark in his eyes was almost predatory, and the hand in her hair could easily clench and yank. But he was very still otherwise, still half an arm’s length away. The set of his jaw and the smoothness of the skin about his eyes told her his “Alright?” wasn’t so much the seduction his tone made it out to be. Something about her in this moment was holding him back, was creating an atmosphere in which he felt he needed to ask permission, and even with the vast lexicon of the Thalassian language at his disposal, the only word he could manage to ask was “Alright?”

“I’m tired,” she said evasively. “Let’s go to bed.” The hours she’d spent with Anduin, the grief punched into her as if no time at all had passed, had ruined her appetite. She couldn’t fuck Umbric with Varian on her mind. She just wanted to sleep. 

“Yeah?” Umbric released his hold on her hair. Swept the remainder off her shoulder. 

“Yeah.” 

Valeera felt the hand on her back as she ascended his spiral staircase, was transported back several weeks ago to Fell’s Tomes and Antiquities in Ironforge. He’d kept a hand on her back then as well, as they climbed the three steps to the shop, and again when they’d left. When had such a gesture become so familiar, so… comforting?

When had it begun to feel less possessive and more… reassuring?

He placed a hand on her waist as she climbed into his ridiculous feather bed, an unspoken question. What do you want?  

“Long day?”

Valeera smacked at the pillow a few times before laying down.

“Well don’t ruin it. That’s dragonhawk down. It’s imported.”  

She laughed. “Fuck your imports,” she told him, settling against him. He was warm and stable against her back. Hold me.

“We could fuck on the imports.” She heard the grin in his voice, and briefly contemplated shoving him off his bed. But then she felt his arm slide along hers, wrap around her middle. He pressed his palm flat against her stomach and pulled her to him, and the movement was grounding. A solid tether to the here and now, a firm reminder that whatever was going on in her head, she was here with him. I’ve got you.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

She rolled her eyes. “Go to sleep.” 

He made a small, amused noise in the back of his throat, and a moment later she felt the gentle pressure of his lips along her jaw. An attempt to mollify her for the offense he might have caused. 

Happiness is fleeting, she’d told Shaw. Find it where you can. She had never expected to look twice at someone like Umbric. She’d never expected to find herself in his bed. Never thought she'd still be here ﹣ still want to be here ﹣ after the conclusion of the war. 

She’d never thought she’d love anyone again. 

Was she happy with Umbric? He wasn’t Varian, but the time spent with him didn’t feel empty. He wasn’t just stress relief, as she’d once so foolishly told herself. He was irritating and controlling and calculating and secretive, all things that should have pushed her away but which somehow only endeared him to her. The naked want on his face when she’d emerged from her cabin in red and gold, the intensity with which he’d watched her apply the makeup that let her pass inconspicuously through Dazar’alor… the frenzied way in which he touched her, as if he couldn’t get enough, as if she would disappear. She didn’t know when she’d started meaning something to him. 

She didn’t know when he’d snuck up on her. 

Umbric wasn’t Varian, and that was okay. It wasn’t a point against him, not like it would have been had they met sooner, when she was a little more raw. 

Everyone deserves happiness, Broll had told her. How long will you keep pushing yours away?

Valeera pulled the blankets over them and burrowed further down, and Umbric tightened his hold in response. She felt safe in his arms, a feeling she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. 

As the drowsiness took her, she thought back to Anduin. When she’d left him he’d been calm, not quite composed but at least held together. How long had he been unhappy? Why hadn’t she noticed?

Her last conscious thought was that, with the war finally over, perhaps Anduin could finally move forward. He had always been much so stronger than anyone had ever given him credit for.