For as long as Quel'Thalas has existed, there has always been a Sunstrider on the throne.
There's a breeze rolling in off the Great Sea, and from where he stands at the shore with his arms crossed over his chest, Lor'themar Theron can taste the salt, can feel the stinging winds tugging at his hair and stinging at his face. The entirety of the kingdom rests behind him, shattered beyond repair and half in ruins. Half of Quel'Danas is a grave now; half the forest has been burned to the ground. Half the people are dead and the other half have lost so much that they wish they were.
Seven thousand years of uncontested reign, and the last heir has just burned to ash.
The sun has begun its descent, the brilliant display of pink and orange giving way to the first tendrils of darkness, and it's taking all of his willpower to keep himself from finding some significance in this- an impressive feat, considering he has very little will left to spare. The last of the fires from the pyre have burned out, leaving little more than soot and smoke in their wake.
Quel'Thalas has no king now; the throne remains empty.
"You're quiet."
The voice comes from somewhere behind him, and it's quiet too, but it's familiar and unmistakable, and so by some miracle he manages to muster up a small smile by the time he turns to see Liadrin standing a few paces away. The last traces of day are dancing in her hair and glistening off her armor; bathed in light she looks ethereal, and for a moment he wonders if all that strength to which she's been clinging might be strong enough for the both of them. Lor'themar has never been particularly religious, but he's always had faith in her, whether he was bruised and battered and begging for salvation from a father that beat him relentlessly, or lost and terrified and wondering how he could possibly carry the weight of an entire nation when he could barely manage to keep himself from crumbling.
"Nothing to say," he says, just to say something- his voice is hollow, drowned out by the sound of the waves as they roll and crash and break against the shoreline.
The priestess- paladin now, he reminds himself, though it still catches him off guard to see her donning armor and brandishing a blade when he recalls how she would fret about the mud staining the hems of her skirts whenever she'd accompany him on his walks in the wood- looks about as convinced by his words as he feels. "That seems to be a trend," she replies. "Most people aren't sure whether they should be mourning or celebrating."
Lor'themar doesn't know either. Could they praise the murder of a madman and mourn the death of a prince if they happen to be the same person? "They're afraid," he murmurs, and his voice trembles a little- he's afraid too. For as long as Quel'thalas has existed, there has always been a Sunstrider on the throne. Kael'thas had promised salvation to the helplessly frightened remains of his kingdom, and now all they have are a few dying embers and the scent of smoke on the saltwater air.
Liadrin closes the distance between them in a few easy steps; she doesn't bother to return the smile, but she lifts a hand to rest against his chest, her slender fingers pressing against the place where his heartbeat echoes- it's been in overdrive for so long now he's astounded it hasn't beaten its way out from under his breastbone. "It's going to be fine," she says, and he wants to believe her because he's always had faith in her, but it's hard when he isn't even sure he can remember what 'fine' looks like anymore. "There is no one else more suited to lead Quel'Thalas."
He wants to disagree, but when he tries the words feel trapped in his throat, so he swallows them back and says nothing. Instead, he pulls his brows together into a frown, watches the sun slip closer to the horizon, watches the impending night settle across the vast expanse of sky. She's right, of course- she usually is, a lesson he's learned more times than he cares to admit. Six years have passed since he was named the Regent Lord; six years have passed since his homeland fell into disarray.
Six years felt like an eternity, but the uncertainty of the future now laid before him feels infinitely longer.
With a shaky sigh passing through his lips, he turns and glances over his shoulder like he's trying to make sure Silvermoon hasn't collapsed in the time he's been gone. "The scars will never fully heal," he says, more to himself than to Liadrin. "Not from the land or from the people." Certainly not from himself- six years felt like an eternity, but have done nothing to lessen the jagged gash along his left cheekbone.
"Perhaps not," she says reluctantly. "But they don't have to be a bad thing, either. Let them serve as a reminder for all that we have overcome. Let Quel'Thalas grow stronger from its own defeat."
Like a phoenix, he thinks, but he doesn't say so- the last of the Sunstriders have burned to ash, and this time there is no resurrection.
Liadrin shifts again, this time to stand beside him, and almost without thinking he fumbles to find her hand and link it with his own. "What am I supposed to say?" He asks softly, and he softly trails his thumb over each of her knuckles. Her hands aren't soft like when she was younger, but they've always felt right in his.
Her frown speaks for her; he swallows hard before he clarifies. "About the prince."
"I think the bodies in the street say plenty," she points out, earning herself a pointed glare. She ignores it, her own emerald eyes fixated on the fading light. "Whatever you say, the people will support you." After a moment of silence, she presses on. "You've held the kingdom together this long- they trust in you to keep them safe."
"I've made my fair share of mistakes," he replies; in the span of a single blink he can play them all back one after the other, a lifetime of missteps and misdirections. "Politically and...and otherwise."
Liadrin's laugh is light, soft, carried on the steady breeze. "I think you're doing fine," she says. A smirk rises up as she adds, "politically and otherwise."
Her words prompt a small smile of his own to tug at the corners of his lips. "Do you?"
"Wouldn't say so if I didn't," Liadrin scoffs. "You of all people know that I never say anything I don't mean."
"That so?" He retorts; for the first time in days his tone sounds lighter, and the invisible weight that's been settled on his shoulders feels lighter too. "Because I have a rather vivid memory of you telling me that you never wanted to speak to me again-"
Liadrin rolls her eyes and waves him off with a quick flick of her wrist. "Maybe once or twice, then," she amends, and she's grinning as she says it, and it's the first time anything has felt easy in as long as he can remember.
But then she grows quiet, pulling her brows together, chewing idly at her bottom lip while she considers her next words like she isn't actually sure if she wants to speak them aloud or not. This, at least, has not changed; for the slightest of seconds he catches a glimpse of the priestess she'd encased in armor. "I mean it this time, though," she tells him. "Quel'Thalas has looked to you before, and they will continue to do so, regardless of-"
"I'm not going to crown myself king, if that's what you're implying." The words are quick and defensive, but he needs to say them aloud. There has always been a Sunstrider on the throne, and now there are no Sunstriders left, and so there will be no one on the throne. The monarchy had burned up with the pyre; its smoke had stung his eyes and filled his lungs until he'd choked.
Liadrin nods slowly, understanding in her eyes. "The people don't need a king," she tells him. "They just need someone to look out for their best interests. You've more than proven you can do that."
He's silent, but his gaze speaks for him, straying over her- intimately familiar and yet someone else entirely. Still undeniably the girl he once loved, sixteen and shy, but someone different too, someone fierce and fearless.
It doesn't matter, though, how much she's changed or he's changed or the whole damn world around them has changed. He loves her all the same.
He opens his mouth to tell her so, but before he gets the chance, she breaks the silence for him. "Don't worry," she says, angling her body in closer so that she's practically pressing herself against his chest. "I'll make sure to look out for yours, while you're busy taking care of everyone else."
A slight laugh passes through his lips, more like relief than humor. "Much appreciated." With a brief pause, he adds, "Though...if you're interested, I don't suppose I'll be too busy taking care of everyone else that I wont be able to take care of you too. If you're interested."
Now it's Liadrin's turn to laugh. "I am a citizen of Quel'thalas," she reminds him.
"That isn't what I meant-"
"Hush, Lor'themar," she interrupts. The redhead gives his hand a gentle squeeze, and he realizes all at once that he was right- he can draw strength from her, and somehow he thinks maybe that could be enough, at least for now. "I know what you meant. What I don't know is why you think I need to be taken care of."
The blonde arches a brow at her, hesitates for less than the span of a breath before releasing his hold on her hand to slip an arm around her waist instead. It's different now, with her armor, but she's always felt right against him. "I didn't assume it was a necessity," he says slowly. "Was hoping it was more a want."
Liadrin's lips curve up at the edges; the light that her smile gives off is enough to fend off any darkness he could possibly imagine. "I'll think about it," she concludes, and he decides that after all that's led them to this moment, that could be enough, at least for now.