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Months have gone since Khadgar last saw Stormwind. Six, seven months have taken him to many places, never allowing him to fully catch his breath before another village or another situation needed his help. Azeroth is under attack, and as the new Guardian it is his duty to try and contain what is happening. But the decay that rots the plants and poisons the soil seems to be spreading everywhere around him, and doing his job has become a lot harder for entirely other reasons over the last month.
The people have begun to look first at the state of his body, before they turn their pitying eyes on him.
And finally, his company too insists that Khadgar thinks of himself first for a change.
But to be back in Stormwind comes with other troubles that he'd rather not face. It isn't like he can shy away from the many eyes in the city; in a day, everyone will know he is here. The people will talk. The Queen Regent will find out about his condition and, eventually, so will the man he owes some serious explaining. For Khadgar may have been gone for six months; he could still have easily teleported in for a day; could have replied one of the many letters—which have grown sparse over the last month, he has found to his dislike—and he certainly could have decided not to hide away that one time when, at the edge of a burning village, Lothar's regiment had run into his own small travelling company.
So Lothar is whom he really needs to see, and whom he is equally terrified of showing himself to.
He sends his apprentice—and isn't that weird, to already have one at his age?—when night falls and the streets grow silent in favour of time spent indoors. Khadgar would not be Khadgar if he doesn't follow the young lad, covered in a concealing-enough cloak that tricks the light just so that it renders him almost invisible.
And so he beholds Lothar opening the door to his chambers. The man regards the poor boy with hope, but then a bitter edge, and eventually throws the door shut. It stops inches before his face.
“My apologies,” the apprentice whispers, because he isn't stupid. He knows his master is there. Khadgar has picked him for his quick grasp of things, among others, after all.
“It's alright,” he says softly. “I am a coward. He deserves more than a messenger. You are free for the night. Go, seek out your friends.”
Not long after that, he is alone in the hallway of the great keep. A guard patrols every corner, but they would not see him here, unless he wanted to be. Khadgar takes a deep breath. A faintness spreads in his chest. When it travels lower, he fears that he might be sick. And boy, he has had his share of being sick. So he knocks the door, purses his lips, and braces himself for Lothar's reaction.
It has been months. Months since, that last night when Khadgar's belongings had already been packed and a knock on the door had roused him from the chance of early slumber or easy farewells. When Lothar had found him. When one thing had, inexplicably, led to another. A beautiful night, he thinks, and one that he doesn't regret. Even if he might have avoided Lothar for it for six months afterwards.
“Hi,” he whispers when a reaction stays out.
“Khadgar?” Lothar asks.
Oh. Right, the cloak. Khadgar takes off the hood. Uncertainty rings in his voice. “Hello Lothar. I am back.”
Lothar stares at him for a long time. A range of emotions crosses his features. There is anger. Frustration. But helplessness, too. What wins out is distrust. “Give me one reason why I should not close the door,” Lothar grits out. And Khadgar thinks he has earned that.
It doesn't make it easier.
The rest of the cloak falls open to reveal what can no longer be hidden. The fabric parts around a protruding belly, a shape that should not be possible on men. A shape, Khadgar thinks, that has gotten him a lot of trouble in the rural areas, but one he hopes Lothar might be able to accept. He winces. “I believe I told you once that my biology doesn't always do what I want it to do.”
The surprise is obvious. What Khadgar doesn't expect, after what feels like minutes of having his belly on display, is the wonder. “Is that—?”
Khadgar nods. “Yes.”
Lothar's.
“…How long?”
Khadgar feels put on the spot. He deserves that, he supposes. “A month before I stopped writing you.”
“Almost seven months now?”
“Hm.”
Like everyone else, Lothar's eyes keep returning to his belly. Half of Khadgar's travelling company had argued for him to stop his tasks as the Guardian for a few months, to take time for himself and make sure that the baby is safe; others have been either intrigued or horrified. He hasn't been much more than a baby carrier on display ever since it became obvious.
Except Lothar pays attention to him, too. Admitted, he is still glancing down every few seconds, and sometimes downright stares as if it isn't a rude thing to do so. Eventually though, when Khadgar scrapes his throat, does he step aside to let him in. And after the usual care—grab a chair, make sure that the pregnant man does not move more than he has to; Khadgar is the Guardian, and not made of porcelain, so he would appreciate people not mother henning him for a change—Lothar crouches down in front of him. His hands on Khadgar's knees, his eyes are level once again with his tummy. But this time, he regards it as something sacred. “Boy or a girl?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“It is mine,” says Lothar, almost proudly. “How could you hide this from me for so long, Khad?”
“It was one time.” And should that not explain everything?
Should it really make Khadgar as insecure as it does?
“Because you were leaving,” Lothar says.
“Because I was leaving.” Khadgar's lip trembles. He blames his hormones for how difficult it is to keep himself from bursting into tears. One night, because he was leaving, has amounted to a child in his belly and a father who seems accepting enough of that, but gives no clue as to whether the sentiment extends to the carrying father. “I am sorry.” The tears do come, at last. “I didn't know this was going to happen. It's such a far stretch from ideal. Azeroth is stuck with a pregnant, useless Guardian, and I'm sure it wasn't your plan to end up with a kid from a one-night thing.” He hiccoughs; he hates how weak he feels.
The hand on his cheek is unanticipated. Khadgar jolts, sniffs, and wide eyes look back at the man who is leaning forward now. “You are so wrong,” Lothar whispers. “Azeroth is blessed. Its Guardian is having a child. Finally, there is some good news among the bad. And how did you ever get it into your head that it was a one-night thing?”
The mage blinks. “It was one night.”
“Because you were gone the next.” Lothar smiles softly. “I counted on you coming back.”
“…Oh.”
Lothar snorts. “Yes, ‘oh'. Why do you think I kept trying to run into you? I thought you regretted it. Instead you've been running around with my child all along. How?” he asks. “How does it work? How are you going to give birth? How is it all—?” He gestures at his stomach.
“Healers,” Khadgar says. Healers know a lot more than he does. “They say they can make it happen. They said a lot of things, and they have been right so far.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes.” He chuckles now. “Be very glad you missed me the first three months. I thought I ate something bad. For weeks. When I started to get concerned, I met with a healer for counselling. She told me. She offered to remove it,” he says. “But I couldn't. Not when I could bring it to term. I think that's when I stopped knowing what to write to you. I mean,” his breath is shaky, “I was counting on coming back too.”
A weak light and warmth emanates from the hearth in the corner. Every inch the way Khadgar remembers it from the night they made memories in Lothar's bed, it is a place that sooths him. “So,” he starts, his hands tugging at his cloak. “We're having a boy. A restless thing. I think he loves the arcane.”
Lothar lets out a laugh. “A boy?” He ignores any boundaries when he moves to press a kiss on his fingers and then rests them against Khadgar's belly. “I thought you—” He looks up at Khadgar. His eyes are alive. Then cloud over. “So for three months, I don't get to—”
Khadgar stills on the seat. His hands dig into ornate wood carvings of lions and grape leaves, before he wills himself to relax. It is not all that easy, when his body is shaking. “I'm pretty sure you can for at least one more month, if you want to,” he whispers.
Somewhere in the hallway, a clock ticks. Guards talk, unintelligible words that would not reach them if Lothar had closed the door properly. Khadgar counts his breaths. Four. Five. Seven.
And Lothar moves to kiss him.
It won't be easy, Khadgar thinks much later when he lies on his back on comfortable sheets and admits for once that his body needed the rest. The only thing that has gone is his cloak, and then his tunic has been pushed up for Lothar to run a hand across the stretched skin.
They share soft words; sometimes he brushes fingertips through Lothar's hair. Khadgar is scared; as scared as Lothar tries to cover up being. This is a human life. So much responsibility.
It will not be easy, he thinks. But as long as they have each other, it might just work.