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Wrathion realized that being around mortals had made him soft. This revelation occurred to him as he was tearing down the steep cliffside path that led away from the Veiled Stairs, urging his ram along at an alarming clip. His most pressing thought was a worry, that of pitching clear over the ram’s horned head with his passenger tumbling behind. Said passenger, though, was the one spurning him on, just as he was spurning the ram. Crown Prince Anduin Wrynn’s wiry arms were wrapped around his waist, holding tight as he shouted “faster!” over and over again into his sensitive draconic ear. The Black Prince felt a competing scream build in his own throat: I have to slow down, you fool, before we fall and break your damned neck again. At the same time, he smirked at the sound of the prince’s undignified shouts of unfiltered joy and the loud vibrations of his rapidly beating mortal heart. So Wrathion swallowed the words, clicked his forked tongue and pushed his heels once again into the flanks of the nervous ram. The creature bleated in protest but increased its speed, if for nothing else but the promise of getting the dragon whelp and his yelling companion off his back sooner.
It was a beautiful autumn day and the first of many harvest festivals to be hosted in Halfhill that autumn. As the incline lessened, the crisp green hills of the Valley of the Four Winds rolled before the two princes in rippling waves, the fields of wheat yielding their white-gold bounty alongside rows of pumpkins and squash ripening under the cold blue sky. The tension that had built in Wrathion’s shoulders during the descent began to relax at the sight of it all. The warmth of the prince’s body against his back was not unwelcome, either, despite the fact that as a dragon he was rarely ever cold. He was loath to admit that it had not been his idea to chaperone Prince Anduin’s first excursion beyond the Veiled Stair since his dramatic arrival earlier that year. Tong had suggested it, no doubt noticing the explosion of energy in the recovering young man which needed an outlet other than pestering the Mender for some kind of chore to keep himself active and occupied. The crown prince could not seem to sit still even in the ram’s saddle, twisting and turning behind Wrathion as he strained to get a better look at the variety of decorative scarecrows lining the road up to Halfhill. Each bore the face of some kind of unique pandaren demon, some holding talismans of thanks for the plentiful season’s bounty or prayers for a kind winter ahead.
Wrathion eased the ram into a slow walk upside the fence of a stable, where an elder pandaren eyed them with skepticism as she puffed on the end of a long, thin pipe. Before the ram came to full rest, Anduin slid off with a clumsy, jerking motion and pitched forward as soon as his feet hit the ground. Both of Wrathion’s hearts stopped, but before he could react any more than uselessly shooting the claws of his gloved hand forward to grasp at empty air, the Alliance prince steadied himself with his cane and started forward, craning his neck to try and see the activity on the other side of the building. Wrathion rushed to pay for the ram’s housing for the rest of the day and took off after Anduin, who had already begun to limp towards the gate at a faster clip than Wrathion had ever seen him move before.
“Do you have an important appointment, Anduin Wrynn?” the dragon huffed as he finished his jog.
“No, why? Are you having trouble keeping up, Prince Wrathion?” Anduin shot back, his cheeks red and glowing as he grinned.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no,” Wrathion replied, the heat rising to his own face beneath his faint freckles of scales. “You have not yet gained the ability to outrun a dragon. I am merely allowing you to feel some small measure of accomplishment for a short time.”
“Oh, well, then, I suppose I should express gratitude.”
“Indeed, perhaps you should, young prince.”
Their attention was quickly diverted by the commotion of the festival once they passed through the gate. Halfhill was bustling with farmers and villagers from all over the Valley who had come to enjoy the spoils of the season. A long table was stacked with golden-brown pies for a competition. A weaver had set up a wheel next to her sheep and was teaching others how to card wool and prepare it for spinning. Another farmer was keeping a group of young children occupied by having them take turns churning butter in a large wooden barrel. Anduin was lured by the pandaren vendors using canvas tents and rickety wooden booths to display their wares. Wrathion trailed him like a shadow, keeping an eye out for potential bad actors in the crowd who might recognize Alliance royalty and find him an easy target. The atmosphere was easy, though, and the relatively few members of the Horde drawn to the celebration were far more interested in enjoying their frothy amber beers than the gangly blond human who was limping from table to table, striking up a conversation with every single merchant. Anduin’s appetite for social contact seemed insatiable and he was able to find something of merit in every humble, homespun display that he came across.
“Wrathion, look at this!” Anduin beckoned, waving his free hand across a display of children’s toys. “I’ve never seen such woodwork, incredible!”
Wrathion had, in fact, seen better, but he merely exchanged a respectful nod with the elderly pandaren merchant. His own eyes were drawn to the most particular wares, enchanted objects and the occasional mineral or stone, and he trailed off on his own to search for a chance rare artifact.
When he returned, he found that Anduin’s posture had changed. He now stood quite still with his shoulders hunched forward, leaning so heavily on his cane it seemed to be the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes were partially hidden behind his overgrown blond bangs, just barely held back by his garish white and copper headband. The color had drained from his face, the vivacious flush replaced with an ashen color. He was also trembling, as if the chill were cutting right through the wool coat he wore. Whatever adrenaline Anduin had gained from the ride down had expended and then some, but he was far from his comfortable bed in the Tavern to rest and recover. Wrathion approached with soft footsteps, red eyes darting to and fro, searching for some kind of solution to this new problem.
“I fear I’ve grown hungry,” the dragon announced, snapping Anduin out of his despondent expression. “I could snatch up one of those sheep over there, but I think I shall see what that man has to offer instead. Would you care to join me?”
Wrathion felt somewhat dissatisfied with his thinly-veiled suggestion that Anduin sit down for a bit, but the crown prince seemed willing to play along for the sake of his dignity and managed to cross the short distance to the small noodle stall. Wrathion hopped right up onto one of the stools and immediately ordered a small pot of hot green tea to share while Anduin slowly eased himself into the neighboring seat with a short exhale. The tea came quickly and Anduin sat with his bare hands wrapped around the small ceramic cup, blowing gently on the steaming, herbal-scented surface. He only paused to point at the soup he wanted on the menu when asked. He also accepted the small, glistening violet potion vial Wrathion slipped out of his own tunic’s pocket and drained it in two gulps.
Two bowls of pho were set out before the princes, Wrathion’s laden with thick ribbons of beef and Anduin’s with golden fried kimchi dumplings floating on top of heaps of soft, coiled noodles. Anduin began to load his with crisp bean sprouts and fresh green basil leaves from the small white plate placed between them while Wrathion stirred red hot paste into his. The color soon returned to Anduin’s pale face, this time splotched from the heat of the spices, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes as he awkwardly slurped up the rich broth. Wrathion’s practiced claws were more used to the chopsticks and he took care to add an extra dab of chili sauce to each bite before it went into his mouth. The strips of reddish beef were tender and fell apart on his forked tongue without much help from his fangs. He hadn’t realized that he was, in fact, truly hungry until he found the bowl suddenly half-empty, a pleasant warmth now blooming in his mortal stomach.
“Ugh,” Anduin groaned, taking a break to suck down a large gulp of his tea. “The food is so good here, it’s ruining me. I’m never going to be able to go back to Stormwind’s bland meats and breads.”
A pang tugged at Wrathion’s chest at the thought of Anduin in the cold, musty halls of a human castle, far away in the Eastern Kingdoms.
“Perhaps you could bring some of your newfound knowledge of Pandaria’s superior cuisine back to the royal staff.”
Anduin laughed. “I don’t think it would be the same. I can get by, but I’m clumsy in the kitchen, although your Right has been trying to teach me how to be a bit more useful.”
Wrathion paid for the food while keeping one eye on Anduin as the human eased off the stool and found his feet. The prince seemed better for having eaten and the potion was having its desired effect. The hand that gripped the handle of the wooden cane was no longer shaking and his posture was improved. The crown prince met the dragon’s curious glance with a sheepish, crooked grin.
“I’m sorry to say I’m, ah, still a little hungry.”
A while later, the two princes made their way up the side of a hill, leather boot soles crunching in the crisp grass, carrying little white boxes with skewers of dango coated in glistening caramel sweet soy sauce. Wrathion bore an additional package: a bottle of sake and two clay cups tucked under his arm. They found a spot overlooking a sprawling pumpkin field, where families of pandaren were picking through the dry brown vines to find a pumpkin that met some unknown criteria. Anduin let the small box he carried fall to the ground first so he could use both hands to ease himself down, bracing himself with his cane and using his other hand to push his wooden leg out as he descended. Wrathion settled in next to him, pouring out two cups of hot sake. He tucked the bottle between his legs to shield it from the cold afternoon air and to keep the contents warm with his excessive body heat. The dango was still warm from the grill and Wrathion savored the sticky texture as he sank his fangs into the first dumpling.
“They do something like this back home,” Anduin said, gesturing with his empty skewer towards a long table, where pandaren were scooping out glistening piles of yellow pulp and seeds to repurpose in other dishes. “I suppose the idea of hollowing out a gourd and carving a face in it isn’t exactly a unique idea.”
“Don’t your people have some trifling fable to accompany this tradition?” Wrathion asked, crinkling his nose. “Something about a man with no head?”
“Oh, yes,” Anduin reached for a second skewer. “He supposedly flies around and sets fire to things, especially family houses if children misbehave and sneak too many treats before dinner. Or so parents like to say.”
Thoughts of royal table manners seemed worlds away to Anduin as he licked stray trails of sweet soy sauce from his fingers. Wrathion ate his slowly and had barely consumed his first set while Anduin started a third.
“I move like an old man now,” the crown prince said, suddenly, his voice thickened by the remnants of sweet rice dough coating his tongue.
Wrathion tilted his head, the decorative trail of his turban falling over one shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous. You move like a very young human who is recovering from a not insignificant amount of bone damage.”
This observation, for some reason, made Anduin smile, which in turn caused Wrathion’s hearts to stutter. He quickly turned to occupy himself with chewing the last dumpling, washing it down with a quick toss of sake. The hot rice wine burned on its way down. He couldn’t decide if it went against the food he had consumed or if there was another reason why his stomach seemed to be churning.
Anduin shifted to sit closer, tucking a stray bit of blond hair behind his ear, bit red by the autumn air.
“Are you cold, Prince Wrynn?” Wrathion heard himself ask, his mind racing.
“Yes.”
Wrathion tilted his face and was careful with his teeth as he tipped his chin to accept Anduin’s kiss, goosebumps pricking up his arms as he felt how cold the prince’s lips were. He grunted slightly and cupped his warm palm around Anduin’s ear, hearing him sigh and shiver. The intimacy always took the dragon by surprise, even though he and the prince had traded several kisses before. He wondered if there would be enough of them in the future to give him the opportunity to get used to them. How many kisses did mortals need, on average? They were not necessary to live, Wrathion had never noticed a wanting for them in his mortal form before he had begun kissing Anduin, although there was now a strange, persistent fluttering in his gut that tended to crop up now whenever the prince was within sight. Such a simple, unnecessary thing, but it brought so much pleasure. Anduin moved his head so that it pressed into the dragon’s hand, nuzzling closer to Wrathion's shoulder as he pulled back, looking up with a shy, blue-grey gaze.
“Come here before you freeze to death,” Wrathion said as he lifted an arm, which Anduin slipped beneath, turning to rest on his better side with his legs sprawled out over the grass before them.
Together, they lay on the side of the hill, taking cups of hot sake, watching as the paths were lined with rows of carved jack o’ lanterns, the hollow grins brightening with candlelight as the sun sank in the autumn sky.