Work Text:
It is a warm spring afternoon when the draenei procession arrives at the castle. Anduin is happy to greet them in the throne room; they are easily the highlight of his day.
"King Anduin," Prophet Velen says. "It is good to see you once again."
Anduin dips his head respectfully. "And you as well. Welcome back to Stormwind."
They have tea in the privacy of a comfortable side room. Privacy is a relative term, of course- there are castle guards, plus two of Velen's paladins, and doubtlessly at least one SI:7 agent lurking in the shadows. But it is quiet, which Anduin appreciates after the barely restrained chaos during the Legion's invasion.
Velen sets his teacup down and gives Anduin the same small, soft smile he has grown accustomed to over the years. It is not the first time they've met since the defeat of Sargeras, but Velen looks much the same as he did then. The prophet has had a curious air about him ever since Argus, frailer yet firmer at the same time. Anduin can only imagine what the ordeal was like- once again he is amazed at all the draenei have withstood.
"You have taken good care of your people in these trying days," Velen says.
Anduin feels his cheeks color at the direct praise. "Ah- thank you. I have a lot of extraordinary people at my side."
"Of course. None of us can stand alone." Velen's gaze moves; it is hard to track, and Anduin feels rather than sees his eyes alight on Shalamayne. "I expect you have been very busy as of late," Velen says.
Anduin sighs. "I think we can speak to each other plainly here, prophet."
The old draenei's shoulders relax minutely. "Of course," he says. After a beat, he continues, "You have taken up your father's sword."
"I have. It's been some years now since I did any kind of weapon training, but Genn has been remarkably patient with me."
Velen hums, as though considering King Greymane's normal capacity for patience. "I expect he is a fine teacher on the subject."
"He is."
Prophet Velen gazes at the high ceilings of Stormwind Keep for a long minute. "You already know what I'm going to say."
Anduin huffs out a quiet laugh. "I'm not the prophet in the room."
A soft chuckle. "No. But you are wise."
They are silent as Anduin searches for the words he needs. "I want to honor my father," he says at last.
"A noble idea." Velen quirks his ridged brow. "Many would say you have already achieved this."
Anduin bites down on the inside of his cheek. How does he explain his lurking fears when h barely understands them himself?
It's hard to say how much time passes there in the little sitting room. Velen has always been good at occupying silences.
"Well," the prophet says eventually. "I will suggest you consider one thing, in your own time. Ask yourself: have you taken up the blade because you wish to continue your father's legacy as a warrior, or because it is what you think he would want?"
Anduin feels like a child again, during their lessons on the Exodar; when Velen would ask him a question and let him spend hours turning it over in his mind, then listen intently to Anduin's answer, entirely without judgment. He only says, "Yes, Prophet," just as he would back then.
Velen nods once, then straightens in his seat. "Well, my King," he says. "I greatly appreciate your hospitality, but I should like to visit the cathedral while I am in the city; do you mind terribly if my guards and I go to it now, while there is still light?"
Anduin smiles. "Of course, Prophet. Please, give my regards to the clergy."
When he is alone, Anduin takes a long look at Shalamayne, and wonders.