Varian stared out the window of Stormwind Keep and scowled as he watched the snow fall. He hated winter. It was in winter that Stormwind had fallen, when he was still a child. And now the endless winter in Northrend had taken Arthas, one of his oldest friends.
That friendship had begun during winter as well. Perhaps he should have known that was an ill omen. Newly orphaned and homeless, he'd been forced to rely on the charity of King Terenas. But Arthas, who could so easily have been jealous and resentful, had managed to make him feel almost at home. For two years, Arthas had been the younger brother he'd never had.
They became brothers in winter, but it was summer when they became something more. They were older then, old enough to make their own decisions. Their own mistakes, if it came to that, but when Varian remembered the way Arthas had looked in his bed – flushed cheeks and sweaty golden hair spread across his pillow – and more, the way he'd felt under him, he couldn't call it that. Not even now. Maybe the mistake had been that they'd been too discreet, let everyone think that all Arthas' interest had been directed toward Jaina.
Varian knew the truth of that as well. Jaina had merely been the one Arthas had had to pursue. The King of Stormwind, flush with youth and victory, had been all too willing.
Willing, but he hadn't held him too tightly. How could he? They both knew what their responsibilities were. When the time came, he'd let him go. There would be other occasions for royal visits.
And now? Now the time for those visits was long past, wiped away by the Scourge just as Lordaeron itself had been. Arthas was gone – not dead, but replaced by a monster. Sometimes he thought he should have seen it coming, but even with the clarity of hindsight, he can't see how. The Arthas he'd known was young and stubborn, but he was neither cruel nor reckless. Or if he were, no more so than Varian himself. Varian had tried to understand, but it always eluded him.
He turned away from the window and started down the hall, heavy booted footsteps echoing ominously on the stone. Even here, in the privacy of the royal chambers, his eyes were dry. Varian had ceased allowing himself the luxury of tears years ago.
If he hadn't foreseen it, he should have at least been able to stop it. His hands clenched into fists, but there was no one to strike, no one to take out his anger on. Why should there be? It was himself he blamed. And now, having failed Arthas so many times in the past, Varian couldn't even grant him the mercy of delivering the death blow himself.
Varian chose champions and sent them to do what he could not. He allowed Jaina to mourn openly, weeping for Arthas when he could not. For himself? He kept the memory of a few summer days close, especially on snowy days like this one. Memories, he told himself, of someone else, not the man who'd picked up Frostmourne and chosen the mantle of the Lich King.
He didn't grieve and only rarely allowed himself regret. No, when it came to the Lich King, Varian had only one emotion: rage.