Snow was rare in Stormwind City, so close to the jungles of Stranglethorn Vale and home to a temperate climate year-round; still, at the end of every year, as the Feast of Winter Veil drew closer, people suspected any chill in the air, any bit of cold breeze, was a sign of an impending blizzard. This year, it may very well have been true: the temperatures in Stormwind were colder than they'd ever been, and though the city was typically bright and sunny, grey clouds now scuttled across the sky in a frigid wind.
Not, of course, that Anduin could enjoy or even endure any of these changes in the weather. Ever since the incident with the Divine Bell, he'd been kept under lock and key, which would have been more of a problem if he could actually move. Both of his legs and one arm were in heavy casts, his neck and back in braces, and everything kept entirely immobile by various traction devices intended to ensure that he could walk properly when it all healed. And thankfully, it was a "when" now and not an "if." Velen worked with him every day, stretching his wounded limbs and filling them with the Light. He was making remarkable progress, the prophet said; in one less blessed by the Light, the injuries would've been fatal.
Anduin knew he should have been grateful.
He knew he should be glad to even be awake at all.
He knew he should be glad to even be alive at all.
But here it was, Winter's Veil Eve, and the world was going on without him. Candlelight services were being sung, feasts were being prepared and eaten, and ceremonies were being conducted throughout Azeroth. And he was missing it.
He should have been grateful.
But in that moment, he was anything but. He felt every part the sulky, petulent prince; and after his nurses had left for the evening and locked his doors to allow him rest, he found his eyes stinging with tears that he tried to force back. He was the prince of Stormwind, Lightdamnit! He wasn't some young child having been denied a Winter Veil gift of a plaything that would break a few days later. He'd just saved the lives of thousands of people, nearly lost his own life in the process, and been brought back from the brink of death. He let out a growl of frustration at himself for being so ridiculous.
"Crying yourself to sleep on Winter's Veil Eve? Tut tut, O prince."
Anduin blinked a few times; the scent of spice and smoke was suddenly quite strong, and though he couldn't turn his head, Wrathion's form soon filled his vision, the black prince smirking and folding his arms across his chest. "As I hear it," Wrathion continued, "you're the hero of the Alliance, and possibly the whole world. Stuck in bed on Winter's Veil Eve. Crying yourself to sleep."
"Wrathion-" Anduin started, straining against his braces to try and sit up better, but Wrathion was already by his side, one hand resting on his forehead and the other on his unbandaged arm.
"Is this the only part of you that wasn't crushed by that stupid bell?" he asked, brushing a strand of hair out of Anduin's face with his thumb. Despite the sardonic tone in his words, he wore an almost fond smile. "I suppose what they say about you being thickheaded is true, then."
"How did you get in here? The door-"
"I'm the prince of the Black Dragonflight, Anduin," Wrathion pointed out. "I can do whatever I want."
Anduin knew he should have argued this point, or at the very least turned his head towards Wrathion's hand, but all he could do was close his eyes to try and force more tears back at his inability to even perform these simple tasks. Wrathion chuckled and brushed his thumb against Anduin's cheek.
"Being helpless is agonizing, I know," he said softly and leaned down, brushing his lips against Anduin's ever-so-lightly. "But it never lasts as long as you fear. You'll be right as rain and causing mayhem in Pandaria again before you know it."
"I don't cause mayhem," Anduin protested in a murmur. "Mayhem finds me."
"You go searching for it, and you know it," Wrathion corrected with a laugh and another kiss. "You're entirely too headstrong. But perhaps this world needs more people like that. More foolish risk-takers to balance out the clever calculators like me." He smiled and kissed Anduin a third time before pulling away. "You need to rest now, though."
"Don't go," Anduin found himself protesting. "Please... I don't want to be alone."
Wrathion hummed, considering, and took a few steps back. There came a puff of smoke and a strange snarling sound, and Wrathion soon hovered before Anduin in his whelp form, doing a drunken pirouette in the air before settling down gingerly on the bed beside Anduin. "I'll stay right here until someone comes," he hissed.
Anduin rested his unbandaged hand on Wrathion's flank. "Thank you," he murmured, already feeling sleepier. Somewhere, a familiar woman's voice began to sing a soft hymn, and Anduin felt an odd warmth on his forehead. Comforted, he closed his eyes and finally fell asleep.
Varian Wrynn rested his hand on his son's forehead as the Prophet Velen stepped away, taking up his nightly seat beside the young prince's bed in hopes that he would finally wake up. It had been nearly two weeks, and of course, these things took time, but...
Velen inclined his head and wished Varian a happy Winter's Veil before bending low to step out into the hall, and Anduin's nurses followed suit, leaving Varian alone with Anduin, still unconscious after nearly three weeks. In the deafening silence of the room, the proud king of the Alliance bent his head low and wept over his son's bed, and outside of the prince's window, snow began to fall.