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It’s been twelve months.
Twelve months of searching back alleys, cobweb-ridden cottages, and nearly all the backwater hideouts on every continent for Stormwind’s wayward king. Mathias has run himself ragged, chasing leads that never actually lead anywhere. Like a hound doomed to chase its own tail for all of eternity.
At this point, he’s heard it all. Witnesses continued to insist Anduin Wrynn was sighted in the Mage Quarter, or in the swamp, or in their backyard vegetable garden. They always said they just knew it was him—at the market or fountain or whatever landmark they traveled to that day. The most infuriating so far was a priest who swore on the Light that Anduin was in Silithus, camping on a cliff on the border of Un’Goro. Which, in the end, had turned out to be a very startled researcher with long blonde hair tied in a neat little ponytail. The woman had apparently been smuggling Azerite out of Silithus, so at least the venture hadn’t been a total waste of time. Still a failed mission, however.
So, here he is. At his desk, head in his hands, reports scattered everywhere. And no closer to finding Stormwind’s rightful king than he was a year ago.
But with any luck, that will change today.
In his desk drawer, tucked away under piles of unsigned documents and various trinkets, there is a compartment. A hidden one. He’d installed an indented pressure plate, handmade and nearly indistinguishable from the rest of the light chestnut wood. Most of his agents are out on missions, so SI:7 isn’t as crowded as usual. Less curious eyes to watch as he slowly pulls the drawer open. He pushes down on the plate, and he hears a soft mechanical click. Ever cautious, he listens for any impending footsteps outside his office door, and upon hearing none, he gingerly takes the Gnomish receiver out of its case.
Mathias holds the little copper box in his hand, gloved thumb idly hovering over the button as he hopes. Hopes that this will be the last time. And afterwards, he can finally get this little thorn in his side squared away. He takes a deep breath and presses his thumb down.
There’s a crackling noise, static, then a burst of sound as the connection sets.
“Hello?” a voice asks through the static.
“Hello. It’s me,” Mathias says. “I need a favor.”
“Ah. Gruff voice. Melancholy tone and a straight to the point attitude with no room for pleasantries,” the voice says. “It must be my dear, darling husband.”
Mathias feels an unbidden smile twitch on his lips. “Correct. Your skills of deduction are improving.”
“Learned from the best,” Flynn quips back. “Say, are you free for lunch today? I’m starving. And the scullery’s all out of their usual scraps. Unforgivable, Letting poor old me starve to death. Downright shameful!”
“Shameful indeed,” he says. “Regretfully, I can’t today.”
“Oh, I see. Well, in that case, could you pick a good epitaph for my gravestone when they find me all shriveled up from hunger?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Mathias answers, and he’s smiling again. “Listen, there’s something I need your help with.”
“Something that’s not lunch?”
“No, not lunch.”
“Are you sure?”
“Flynn.”
There’s a deep chuckle on the other end. “Alright, alright. Don’t get your corset in a bind. So how can I help you this fine day, Spymaster?”
Mathias eyes his report. “I’d like for you to check out a lead for me. On the Blue Rook.”
There’s a pause on the other end, and Mathias feels an uneasy ache start to form in his gut.
After a brief moment’s hesitation, Flynn finally speaks, saying, “Mattie, I dunno, love. It’s—“
“I know. But it’s a good lead this time.”
He hears a sigh. “It’s been nearly a year, love. Maybe the lad just doesn’t want to be found? I don’t want to see you stressing over this. I’m sure he’s fine. He’ll come back when he’s ready—just like said, right?”
Mathias pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know. And you’re right,” he says. “But this is a solid lead this time.”
“The last five were solid leads,” Flynn complains. “And I really don’t want to hike the Waning Glacier a second time.”
“I’m—“ Mathias takes another quick breath. “I’m sorry about that. I really am, Flynn. But there can’t be any harm in trying once more. Could you at least check?”
There’s the sound feet tapping and another beat of silence. He can practically hear the gears turning in Flynn’s head through the receiver. After another agonizingly slow moment, Mathias hears the drawn-out sigh that Flynn always makes when he knows he’s lost a bet. “Well, Tides. Alright. You’ve bested me, I concede. Where am I going, love?”
Mathias feels his shoulder sag in relief. “Thank you,” he says. “I owe you.”
“You owe me lunch,” Flynn clarifies. He can hear the hefty footfalls of his boots crunching on snow, signaling he’s already on the move. “Got a location for me?”
Mathias fumbles to grab the letter, as if it, too, will slip away if he doesn’t hurry. “The tip says he was spotted in Mariner’s Row. Place called the Curious Octopus, a tavern. Said they might’ve seen him out back by the deliveries.”
There’s the sound of seagulls shrieking overhead. “Mariner’s. An Inquisitive Mollusk—Got it. I’ll go and have a sniff.”
“Alright,” Mathias says. “Be careful. I love you.”
“Right back at ya, Mattie,” he says. “If the food’s any good, maybe I won’t starve to death after all. What a waste of a handsome face that would‘be been, huh?”
“Indeed it would have,” Mathias smiles. “Signing out.”
~🐚~
The fireplace is as hot and crackly as ever, and Flynn has to dodge a pair of hanging feet attached to a drunken sailor sitting a little too sideward-leaning on the mantle. The Curious Octopus has always been on the shady side, with its borderline-criminal patrons and underhand dealings that the tavern owner turns a blind eye to. Not his favorite spot in Boralus, but at least the shrimp is good. Flynn pulls his tattered coat tighter about himself as he approaches the bar and sits on a rickety stool. Too rickety for his likes, so he moves over one.
From this angle he can see the back door, open ajar to let the sounds of the street in. And the chilly winds of winter, he thinks sourly. There’s the clop of hooves as a mounted Proudmoore’s guard passes on the street outside under the gentle snowfall, unaware of the undoubtedly shady business deals going on inside here. Or perhaps the guard is aware, already paid off by the owner. Hard to know.
With naught much else to do, he decides to settle in and waits for any sign of the Alliance’s wayward King.
So, he waits.
And waits.
And after two hours of waiting, he’s about ready to give up and leave. Another waste of time, just like the last ten sightings. He’s ready to call Mathias back, maybe convince him to buy them both lunch as penance for making him spend the afternoon alone in a tavern. It wasn’t a good look for him, creeping about alone at the bar. Those types that came to taverns alone just had a look about them. Creeped out the ladies. And the lads.
Speaking of lads—he spots one walking through the door. A very out-of-place one, at that. Flynn doesn’t make it obvious that he’s watching now, but the way he’s walking hunched over like he’s hiding a goblet of rubies under his coat is hard not to notice. The lad is young, thin—not without muscle though—and the parts of his skin not obscured by dark brown leathers are a pinkish white. Flecks of snowflakes are sprinkled along his coat and scarf, undoubtedly from the gentle fall outside.
Flynn watches curiously as he draws the scarf tighter around his neck, the fabric obscuring his chin and nose a little more. He’s got black hair—not the golden yellow he’s looking for. Most likely another mistaken witness, Flynn muses. But the lad does look around Anduin’s age. Seems to have a quiet demeanor, too. A proper match for a young conversationalist like Anduin, perhaps. Maybe they’d spoken once or twice?
Flynn goes with his gut, and not just because he’s starving after a two-hour stakeout. As the young man takes a seat at the other end of the bar and orders something from the barkeep, Flynn thinks this is a good chance to dig at least something up, so he takes it.
“You look like you could use some company there, mate,” Flynn calls out to him, and it’s not a question.
The lad seems startled, whirling in his seat and blinking his big green eyes up at him. His cheeks are spotted with freckles, brows untidy and colored the same raven black as his long, tangled hair. Before he can say anything, Flynn gestures to the empty seat beside him, questioningly.
“By all means,” the lad mutters in reply. There’s very little enthusiasm behind it, but Flynn will take care of that soon enough. He plops himself down onto the stool
“So,” Flynn says. “What’s got you here all alone, lad? Loners at the bar aren’t so popular with the ladies. No no, don’t give me that look, it’s true! Believe me, if you want a woman, you’ve gotta get out there, mate. Mingle a little. Ladies love a man with charisma. You need a wingman? I can be your wingman. What do you say?”
“I’d say I would like to finish my drink in peace,” he answers curtly.
“Aw, don’t be that way,” Flynn laughs. “Just making conversation. Didn’t think that was a crime, unless they’ve changed the laws again. What’s your name, anyway?”
“It’s proper etiquette to offer your own name before asking someone else’s,” the lad says in an annoyed huff.
“Ah. Rather long name, yeah? Must be difficult to fit in a signature.”
The lad finally manages to hold eye contact for more than a few seconds, and it’s in the form of an angry glower. He’s irritated, but he hasn’t gotten up and left yet. So far so good.
Suddenly, a dark-skinned woman in a creamy white apron appears from behind the counter, carrying a plate of food and two tankards. “Platter an’ ale for Jerek, and another whiskey for Fairwind,” she says as she sets down the orders on the counter. “And don’t expect me to scrape you off the floor if you can’t hold it down, Captain.”
“Aye aye, Miss Billman,” Flynn says, giving the woman an impeccably mannered salute.
The barkeep rolls her eyes to the heavens, and as she turns around the lad hurriedly starts devouring his platter of crab legs like a starved crocolisk.
“So. Jerek. How long you in town for?”
The lad’s eyes flit momentarily to Flynn, then to the barkeep, catching her inconvenient little name slip. He frowns. “Not sure,” he says quietly.
“Mm. Drifter type. I get that,” Flynn says, casually fidgeting with the ring on his left hand. “I used to drift, you know. Years back. Stayed the night with anyone willing to give me a spot on their floor, especially in winter. This coat’s acted as a blanket many times. You ever do that? Drift around?”
“A few times,” he mutters.
“Got plans for the rest of winter?” Flynn asks. “The Sages expect it’ll be a cold one.”
“Not yet,” he answers. “Perhaps I will venture to Kalimdor. Tanaris, maybe. It’s warm there and— hey, those aren’t yours.”
Flynn holds his hands up, a shrimp bobbing between his fingers. “What? You’ve got enough for two there, mate. Three, even. Care to share, eh?”
Jerek grimaces. “Could have asked first,” he grumbles, and breaks off a crab leg and hands it to him. He continues his meal with a more careful eye over his plate.
They eat quietly for the next few minutes, and when the plate is empty and both their tankards are dry, Flynn decides it’s time to make his move.
“You hear what that mainlander got up to last week? The one with the pointy green hat?” he asks casually, miming the form of a wizard’s hat with his fingers. The lad shakes his head.
“Ran his horse right down the middle of the market stalls by the docks,” Flynn drawls. “Total mayhem. The poor thing spooked and bucked his mainlander off waterside.”
The lad gives him the side eye. His frown suggests he’s still irritated, but the curious glint in his green eyes suggests otherwise. “Was the rider injured?”
Got him.
Flynn swivels on his barstool so he can lean his elbows back against the counter. It creaks ominously under his weight, but he continues on. “Just a broken wrist, I think. Went right over the side, the fool. No one else was hurt, thank the Tides, but the mainlander sure got a stern talking-to from the harbor guards. The man was shaking like a leaf when they pulled him out of the drink. Kept apologizing like he was born for it. You should’ve seen it, mate, hilarious stuff!”
When Jerek looks at him with a strange intensity, bordering on interest yet still subdued, Flynn continues on. “Never seen anything like it. Those mainlanders are a hoot and a half, I’ll tell you. Ever met one? Those blokes from Stormwind? A bunch of uptight mannequins if you ask me.”
The lad shrugs, face suspiciously void of emotion. He digs into the pocket of his leather coat, and pushes three gold pieces onto the counter to pay for his meal. “I’d be inclined to agree, in some cases.”
“Now that’s an interesting answer. You know some then? Stormwinders or whatever they call themselves?”
“Yes.”
“Like who?”
The lad hesistates before answering, and he’s starting to shift in his seat. “Some friends.”
“Friends, eh? That’s good. Friends are good,” Flynn nods. “What sorts of friends? Adventurous types, maybe? About your own age?”
The lad’s looking away now, fingers tapping on the counter as he waits for the bartender to take his gold. Seems he’s in a hurry now.
“Got somewhere to be?” Flynn asks, and Jerek tenses as if caught out. “Thought you were just drifting along. Not many drifters around here with appointments.”
“No appointment, just… getting late.”
“Not even half past three bells,” Flynn says, tilting his head. “Almost seems like you’re avoiding me. Now why would that be?”
There’s the sound of glass shattering, and Flynn whirls to see the tavernkeep cursing and scooping up a fallen plate. She blinks her eyes, stunned and mouth agape like a fish out of water. In the time it takes for him to realize it’s not a brawl, swivel back around on his stool, and turn himself forward—the lad is gone. He catches the sight of the front door swinging on its hinges.
Flynn curses and jumps to his feet. His legs are a little numb from the long stakeout but he’ll be damned if he’s going to miss this lead. He ignores the shouts of Ms. Billman, quite furious from the sound of it, but this wouldn’t be the first time he’s skipped out on paying for her service. She’ll forgive him. Eventually. Hopefully.
The wintry wind blasts across his body as Flynn dashes out onto the street. Foot traffic has picked up, but he soon spies the quickly retreating form of Jerek in his dark brown leathers as he dashes down the pavement. Luckily, Boralus is still enjoying daylight, which is far more convenient than running through the streets in the dark. Flynn’s not going to let him get away, especially if he’s got some connection to Anduin. Mathias would never let him hear the end of it, after all. So he takes off after him.
They dart and dash around the crowds down the Row, Flynn watching like a hawk as the lad dodges passerby and carts and horses alike. Surprisingly nimble, which Flynn wasn’t expecting from someone so seemingly timid in nature. They’re nearly to the water, and Flynn calls out to him, “Must be pretty desperate for a swim, aren’t you, Jerek?”
Jerek whips his head back at the sound, causing him to not-so-gracefully slip over a patch of ice, and Flynn watches his skinny arms flail as he catches himself before he falls flat on his face. The slip-up is all Flynn needs to close the distance, now finding himself in a very advantageous position.
The wind picks up around them as Flynn darts forward. Jerek sees him coming, flinching as he moves to get away. Flynn herds the lad to the left-hand side of the street, and as expected, Jerek steals into the closest alley. Just the alley Flynn wants. He gives chase, having to squeeze slightly to avoid brushing his shoulders against the scratchy brickwork. It’s a fisherman’s galley, really only used to set thin fishing boats out into the harbor quickly and discreetly. It’s quite precarious, however, since there’s a steep drop-off at the end, leading straight…
Splash!
…into the drink.
Flynn follows the sound of churning water and startled gasps, slowing to a jog now that his prey’s been caught. He approaches the tight corner at the end, taking care not to go any further lest he trip over the ledge as well. There’s just enough room to lean on the brick wall and look down at the completely soaked lad treading water in the narrow—and slightly grimy—canal.
“Desperate for a swim, indeed, Jerek,” Flynn says smugly.
Before he can react, something fizzles and pops, and suddenly sparks of arcane fly in all directions from under the murky water. Like a mage’s spell gone awry, there’s a brilliant flash of light as the lad’s appearance starts to shift and distort. Flynn almost bolts right then and there, half-expecting it’s one of those K’thir cultists about to leap out of the water and suck out his brains. But instead, the violet magics swirl around the lad’s body and shift him into something different. Not as drastically different as a squid person, but something more normal and human-looking. The freckles disappear, the nose and chin twitch and shift, and sooty black hair fades into blonde. By the time the light dims completely, Flynn realizes he’s looking at a very familiar face.
“Anduin?” Flynn balks.
The king of the Alliance glares up at him, eyes indignant through the mop of wet hair plastered on his forehead and cheeks. “Captain Fairwind,” he acknowledges back dryly.
Flynn’s on his haunches now, extending his gloved hand out off the ledge. “Tides’ sake, lad! It was you the whole time? Here, take my hand. Easy now, there’s a good lad. Watch the sides.”
It’s a slow process, but Flynn helps the king back up onto the ledge and out of the water. Flynn’s boots and trousers stain with grime as he kneels, and the familiar smell of salt drifts through his senses. Anduin’s leathers are completely soaked through, and his limbs shiver as he shakily rises to his feet. It’s strange seeing him like this. Pale, eyes a bit sunken in—and not entirely from the freezing dip in the drink. During the War, he always seemed so put-together. For the most part, at least.
“You were chasing me,” Anduin accuses, arms folded over his chest as he shudders again.
“Aye,” Flynn agrees. “And you were running. Pretty quickly, too.”
The king shuffles a little further into the alley, wringing the cold water from his coat tails. A small puddle steadily grows beneath him as he does. “I didn’t wish to be discovered,” he says hoarsely. “And I paid a hefty amount for that enchantment, by the way. I’ll need to get it redone now.”
“Ah, sorry, mate,” Flynn mumbles, “Wait, I’ll rescind that statement— I’m not sorry. You know how long we’ve been looking for you? How long everyone has been looking for you?”
Anduin doesn’t answer. He only avoids eye contact and keeps shivering. Flynn sighs, looking up as he watches the snowflakes get denser as they fall from the darkened sky. “Listen. My apartment’s not far from here,” Flynn offers. “Should really get you out of those wet clothes.”
Anduin frowns, then Flynn holds up a hand before the king can disagree. “You don’t want to risk hypothermia, trust me, lad. Especially not while that fancy enchantment of yours is broken. Who knows what scoundrels would take advantage?”
He looks at him, blonde brows knitting together as he seemingly considers his alternatives. It doesn’t take long, seeing as there aren’t many other alternatives in the first place. He’s hesitating, still shivering but refusing to move from his spot. “Are you…” Anduin starts, “going to tell him about this?”
Flynn doesn’t take more than a second to consider before he answers, “Mate, I think he’d have my head if I didn’t.”
~🐚~
“Unbelievable,” Mathias says.
“It is, isn’t it? What kind of name is Jerek, anyway?” Flynn asks. “ Jerek. Sounds like some bloke’s mother couldn’t pick between Derek and James. If I got to pick a new name, it sure wouldn’t be Jerek. I’d pick a fine name, like Theodore. Or Larry Seven-Bellies.”
“Not helping, Captain,” Anduin growls out.
Before him is a sight Mathias was not expecting to see today. His husband on the doorstep of their shared flat, next to the long-lost king of Stormwind—wearing frayed roguish leathers and completely soaked from head to toe as the snow falls all around them.
“I’d describe how infinitely irresponsible you’ve been, had you not already disappeared twice before,” Mathias says dryly as he eyes the wayward king up and down. “I’d say you should make a profession out of it.”
“I think you’ve already beat me to it,” Anduin counters dryly, “But this time, it’s not like the others. This time is different, Shaw. It really is. It’s… more personal.”
Mathias lofts a brow at him, wondering just what he means by that, when Flynn takes a step forward. His long, auburn hair rustles as the wind picks up again. “Maybe we can take this inside, yeah? It’s cold as a yeti’s backside out here.”
“Inside?” Mathias questions, slowly turning his gaze to Flynn. He doesn’t like how soft his eyes are looking.
“I could…” Anduin leans forward a little, like he wants to ask something but can’t quite get his mouth to move. He takes a moment then says, “I think… I could use a place to stay the night. A safe one.”
Flynn looks to Mathias, and Mathias stares blankly back. Flynn’s brows go up. Mathias’ shoot down.
“No,” Mathias growls.
“Mattie, come on, look at him,” Flynn insists.
“We’re taking him back to Stormwind.”
“He'll freeze to death before he even gets to the portal!” Flynn complains, throwing a hand up at Anduin, gesturing to all of him in general. As if on cue, another full-body shiver quakes through the king’s body, and Mathias swears his lips are getting bluer each passing second.
“Just tonight, yeah?” Flynn says, a little quieter this time. “I think he needs a good rest.”
Mathias can’t believe what he’s hearing, but when he sees the king’s hands start to shake fervently, he thinks it best to concede. For now, at least.
They end up moving their things out of the living room, creating space amidst their usual clutter for the king to lay down on their settee. They let Anduin change out of his wet clothes, and hang them to dry over the fire. Once he’s got a quilt around his shoulders and a warm mug of Cinderbloom tea in his hands, Flynn sets him down on a seat in front of the fireplace. Mathias watches with a frown as the king sinks further into the cushions, eyelids drooping like he could fall asleep sitting up. He takes a seat across from him, steam rising from his own porcelain mug that Flynn put in his hands at some point. The Spymaster’s gaze rests intently on the young king as he says, “You are serious about not going back.”
Anduin doesn’t look away from the fire as he nods slowly.
“You’re certain?” Mathias prompts. Flynn pulls up a seat next to them both, his coat and scarf discarded to reveal his scraggly undershirt.
“Yes,” Anduin answers.
“Is there something stopping you from returning?” he asks carefully. It’s a genuine question, one he’s pondered himself quite a few times over the past year.
The king warms his hands on the sides of his mug, fidgeting a bit as he struggles to form his thoughts. After a while, he says, “I don’t think it’ll go well. Returning, I mean.”
Mathias looks at him questioningly—letting the silence demand an explanation. Anduin shifts in his seat a bit before continuing.
“It’s too soon,” Anduin explains, finally looking up from the flames to address him. The light dances off his features, the shadows making his slightly sunken eyes look even more-so. “I still don’t sleep well at night. Tight spaces make me nervous and sometimes I… see things. And when I’m in a crowd, it’s just… it’s just too much. That’s all I’d like to share… I hope that’s enough.”
When he finishes, he’s visibly more distressed. Arguably not befitting of a level-headed king at all. It’s not as descriptive of an explanation as he would like, but pushing the issue and making him relive his traumas will only make things worse. “You need more time,” he decides.
Anduin nods again.
From his own seat beside him, Flynn gives Mathias a neutral look, his seafoam-colored eyes somewhat expectant. Your call, they seem to say.
A strong, confident king is what Stormwind needs, ideally. And the person sitting before him is… He hates to admit it, but he just isn’t. Those weary eyes, hunched shoulders and nervous glances - it’s like he hasn’t fully grown into his former self. At least, not right now. It would be disastrous to push him back onto the throne in this state, no matter how desperately he was needed back at home.
“Fine,” he concedes. “Alright. But I’d prefer you stay to Alliance territories.”
Anduin blinks slowly, gaze still suspicious. “You’ll… let me?”
“You’re the King,” Mathias says. “I am sworn to follow your orders. No matter how absurd they may be.”
It doesn’t seem to be the answer Anduin was expecting, but his shoulders sag a bit in relief from where they’re confined under the quilt. The king’s acknowledgment comes in the form of a firm nod, reminiscent of his days in the Keep. A patient gaze—calm, yet still commanding attention. And as always, signaling an order that His Majesty trusts will be followed.
And Mathias does not intend to let his Majesty down anytime soon.
By the time the moon rises outside the rickety window and the fire starts to flicker out, Anduin’s already fast asleep. It seems the bitter cold was getting to him after all, and he’s made quite the comfortable cocoon of quilted blankets and comforters to wrap around himself as he dozes. The color’s returned to his cheeks and the tips of his ears, chasing away the sickly blue from a few hours ago. Anduin doesn’t stir at all when Mathias puts the fire out and locks the front door and windows. Dead to the world, Mathias thinks, perhaps in more ways than one.
“He asleep?” Flynn asks when he enters their bedroom, his voice is a quiet whisper.
“Yes,” he answers. The door closes behind him with a barely audible click.
“Good,” Flynn says. “I’ll be honest, love, he was looking awfully ghastly back there. Can’t believe he’s been living like that for so long.”
“He’s tougher than one would think,” Mathias says.
Flynn hums, gathering up a few fleece blankets and dropping them on their bed. “Think he’ll be alright?”
“Hard to say,” Mathias answers honestly, sitting himself down on the mattress. “He may be better suited to discuss details in the morning. Once he’s had his rest.”
~🐚~
The next morning, the king is gone. The general area Anduin inhabited is significantly cleaner than the way it was before he arrived—perhaps cleaner than it ever was, given Flynn’s track record of tidiness. The blankets have all been neatly folded and stacked back in their wicker basket near the fireplace, and the used dishes have been cleaned and set back in the cupboard as if by magic. The only trace he was ever there comes in the form of a note, written in beautiful, swooping handwriting:
I thank you sincerely for offering up your home to me. I must selfishly ask you for another kindness, now, in that I implore you to not reveal my recent whereabouts or aliases. As promised, I will not aim to venture beyond Alliance territories unless strictly necessary for my own safety. I will return once I am ready to do so.
Mathias folds the note and tosses it into the fireplace. As the flames consume it, he hears footsteps on the wooden floor behind him. “So what do we do, then?” Flynn asks.
What do they do, indeed? Mathias pulls out a chair and sits down at his desk, scanning over his various reports like they have the answers to this ethical dilemma. It isn’t as if he could go running back to Stormwind and spill everything, causing a public panic. The nobles would be in an uproar, and citizens would be left feeling betrayed and angry. The fallout of such a thing isn’t something he has the capacity to deal with. Or be held responsible for.
“It’s an order from the king,” Mathias states, bringing a hand to his chin thoughtfully. “We follow it. Although…it wouldn’t hurt to keep tabs on him. Just on our own, without the Alliance’s involvement. Now that we know he’s using fake names and illusions, theoretically it’ll be easier to track him down again.”
“I suppose it could.” Flynn side-eyes him. “After you fulfill your promise.”
Mathias blinks. “What promise?”
“Lunch.”
“Flynn—“
His husband jabs his finger at him before he can get another word out. “Ah ah! Come on, don’t act like you don’t know! You asked me to follow a lead and I found the king. Don’t give me that look—I did all the footwork, love. And besides, Anduin still has plenty of time to be missing. Not like he hasn’t done it before. So. Lunch?”
“Fine, fine,” Mathias relents, waving him off with a hand. “Get your filthy coat on.”
Flynn flashes him a wicked grin and turns on his heel. As he hears Flynn shrugging on his coat and hunting for his boots, Mathias reaches for a sheet of paper and quill. He dabs the tip in ink, and addresses it to Turalyon.
Nothing to report, he writes.