Hello readers! I realize I haven't posted since November, but I was seized tonight with a bit of inspiration. I really appreciate anyone who is still following this story. Thanks for hanging in there. As always, reviews are appreciated :)
Varian swallowed and grasped the hilt of his sword tightly. It had been his father's weapon, and in the first frantic hours after Llane Wrynn's untimely death, the Stormwind council had believed it lost on the battlefield.
The following morning, as the grey dawn seeped in between the castle's heavy drawn curtains, a ten-year old Varian had been roused to the grand chamber. There in the shadow of his father's throne, the gleaming blade was placed in his trembling hands. The boy had stared at it numbly, silently counting the tiny flecks of red which stained the sword's surface. It was his father's blood, Varian had realized, although it didn't matter much now. Llane Wrynn was dead, and Stormwind required a new leader. Kings were born into legacies, and they left legacies behind. And it fell to Llane's son to take up the blade.
In the years which followed that unforgettable morning, Varian had always wielded his weapon courageously, and gained a fine reputation in combat. But after more than a few turns on the battlefield, he'd learned that the greatest wounds weren't caused by the sword. The scars which Varian bore were from that terrifying moment in the throne room when he was proclaimed king. When he'd scanned the crowd for his mother and been told she was locked in her bedroom, sick with grief.
Varian knew the pain and suffering that true loss could bring. As he marched Arthas down the long stone hallway towards the war room, he wondered what impact these last few weeks would have on his health. After he silently recalled the emotional torture of Arthas's return, Varian considered for one desperate moment giving up altogether. He could simply hand Arthas over to his inner council, and let duty take its course.
But to his genuine surprise, his advisors had insisted that the King take matters into his own hands and meet with Arthas alone. The palace guards had even nudged Varian encouragingly, no doubt assuming he would exercise a special brand of justice behind closed doors.
As the two men trudged towards the war room, Arthas kept his head low. But with the door closed behind him, he grabbed the other man's arms. "Where is Jaina?" he rasped.
Varian pulled his arms free and motioned towards the table in the centre of the room.
"She's safe," he assured Arthas gruffly. With the adrenaline from the capture waning, Varian suddenly felt drained and irritable. He had been up half the night, and his feet ached from the tight pinch of his boots. Slumping into the tall wooden chair at the head of the table, he pressed a hand over his eyes, as though he was shielding them from a bright light.
Through the cracks between his fingers, he noted that Arthas had struck a similar pose, his exhaustion evident in the heavy slump of his shoulders. "She was only supposed to be gone for a few moments," Arthas spoke unevenly, although there was no malice in his voice.
Another moment of tense silence passed. "I know what I need to do," Arthas whispered. "And I can't implicate you any further. But Jaina…" He paused and ran a hand through his hair. "Damnit, Varian, she's just so stubborn. She won't accept the fact that I'm guilty and deserve to be tried for my crimes."
Varian nodded. This much he understood. He had no reason to doubt Jaina's faith in Arthas. Varian knew what Arthas meant to her, although he had been reluctant to accept it. Failing to exonerate Arthas would be letting Jaina down.
"I promised her I would help," Varian admitted, "but I'm not sure how."
Their shoulders slumped, both men considered the impossibility of the situation. In the silence that followed, Varian's eyes traveled slowly to the line of banners hanging along the chamber wall. They were running out of time. Soon, there would be a knock at the door, and Arthas would be escorted to the Stockade, the city's cold and unforgiving prison. Varian would be forced to return to Jaina, who was no doubt on her way, and explain how he had failed to protect Arthas, although he had promised her he would.
His eyes traced the shape of Stormwind's banner before landing on the Lordaeron colors stretched across the far wall. Not for the first time, Varian silently acknowledged that the careful calligraphy of the Lordaeron emblem was as familiar to him as Stormwind's own. After all, Loredaeron was the place where he had sought refuge during the First War. It was the place where he and Arthas had first become sworn brothers, and later rivals for Jaina's affection. It was a place he often thought fondly about, especially in those moments when the dark fissures of his past threatened to swallow him whole.
Lo'Gosh. He resented how naturally the word formed on his tongue. It felt like something more than a word, but not quite his name. No, he was still Varian Wrynn, despite the hell he'd endured years ago, and the time spent abroad as he pieced himself back together.
He didn't remember much about the day he arrived in Darnassus all those years ago. Starved and half-beaten to death, he had taken full advantage of Tyrande Whisperwind's hospitality. But food and a warm bed failed to provide the peace he was seeking.
On the day he came to Theramore, Varian flew into a desperate rage. Locked in a tower chamber with a gale howling at the windows, he had broken almost everything in his room. Aegwynn visited once, but the old woman's eyes frightened him, so he sent her away. On the night that the storm finally ceased, Jaina Proudmoore unlocked the chamber door. It was the first time Varian had seen her since he arrived, and immediately he felt his heart stir.
Even now, the events of those months played out like a dream. Bits of his former life flashed tauntingly in his sleep. Like the colors of a sunset, they were bright and vivid one moment, then dull and muted the next. In daylight, he was raw and distracted. While Jaina recounted all she knew about Varian Wrynn, he studied the dust motes floating weightlessly above her head. After hours of conversation, it was all he could do not to scream. But he hadn't wanted to scare Jaina, not this mysterious, beautiful woman who seemed so intent on helping him come back to life. Somehow he knew, even then, that she would be the one to pick up all the pieces.
Many months later, he asked Jaina when she knew he was better. She had laughed teasingly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.
"The evening I offered you tea and you demanded ale instead." But when her laughter had subsided, her smile turned soft. "The first time I mentioned Anduin," she whispered, "I saw the clouds begin to clear."
Despite his recovery, Varian had accepted it would be a life-long struggle. Even now, it was still difficult to parse out certain memories from his time as Lo'Gosh.
Weeks after his return to Stormwind, he had spent one afternoon wandering the palace grounds. It was part of his recuperation: he liked to study the things he had done in the past, and try to figure out his motivation for doing them. Simple things bothered him most, like why he chose to plant red tulips instead of white, or preferred jam over butter.
After a long hour spent studying the cabinetry in the pantry, Varian found himself in the blacksmith adjacent to the palace kitchen. He remembered instinctively that he had come here as a child. On the wall, there was a battered shield, split clear down the middle. Even after being soldered together, a line of ugly reside ran down its centre. The shield was still two halves, fused roughly together. In the months that followed, this was how Varian eventually came to think of himself.
Now as he gazed at the banners of their fathers, Varian wondered what the last few years were like for Arthas. During his time as the Lich King, had Arthas also felt trapped inside his own body? Had he known the same paralyzing loneliness of living worlds from home, wondering if his loved ones had moved on without him?
There was no sense denying it—Varian had made his decision. He was committed to helping Arthas in his quest for redemption. Not just for Jaina, but also for himself. For the young boy who had spent years wondering whether he would ever live up to the legacy of his father. For the king who knew first-hand what it was like to be shattered and rebuilt from the ground up, piece by agonizing piece.
During his years spent as Lo'Gosh, Varian had been through hell. And for what? The least he could do was help someone else stumble out of the darkness in the way he'd only just managed to do.
Varian knew they needed to act quickly. The inner council would meet that afternoon to discuss Arthas's fate, and it was customary for the King to make a speech. It would have to be a public proclamation, spoken in front of his people. Varian could picture them now, huddled in small groups outside the palace gates, their torches burning and fists raised high as they cried for vengeance.
Varian envisioned himself again as a young boy, clutching his father's blade as though his life depended on it. On that distant morning so long ago, his subjects had huddled around him, their faces grey and ashen. Guarding him, he supposed, since they failed to guard his father. Back then, Varian had appreciated their steady strength. If the people of Stormwind had been frightened by the prospect of such a young King, they showed no outward signs.
Desperately, Varian craved that steadiness now. With his father's sword in hand, he had always excelled in armed combat. But in the battle of wits and words, he lacked a silver tongue.
He would need to convince his people that justice had been served. That the torture of Arthas's captivity was enough to drive any man mad. That the real threat to the kingdom lay in Northrend, where Ner'zhul's dark magic still undoubtedly stirred.
More importantly, Varian would need allies. People who understood what it was like to be seized by a terrible darkness, before being hurtled back into the realm of the living. Varian leaned forward in his chair as a string of possibilities surged through his mind. Finally, he placed his palms flat on the wooden table before looking Arthas squarely in the eye.
"I have a plan."