Varian Wrynn was not a very religious man, which was a surprise to no one.
The Church of the Holy Light was the primary organized religion and belief system for humans and Varian did visit the chapel on (rare) occasions, but he personally believed that religion was often used as a crutch, something to depend on to get yourself out of tough situations instead of taking the time to build the skills to get yourself out of those situations yourself. It wasn't something to be depended on to save yourself, rather something to be used in tandem with learned skills and intellect. Varian believed in the Light of course - how could he not with his son, Anduin, being such a skilled wielder of it - but he wasn't a man who visited the chapel or prayed often.
He hadn't needed to, really.
That all changed when he heard the news of Anduin, of his barely teenage child, facing off against Garrosh and being crushed under the horrific weight of the shattered hundred-ton Divine Bell.
That all changed when he heard of his son being rescued, from the very brink of death, and being brought to Lion's Landing - his injuries too much to transport him any further to the safety within the walls and patrols of Stormwind.
That all changed when Varian rushed into the room where his son was in, Jaina right on his heels. When he saw the limp form on the floor and saw the condition that his son was in.
When Varian first saw him, his little boy, for a brief (and horrifying) moment he thought that he had been too late, that Anduin had died in the time it had taken Varian to hear the news of his injury. Anduin was sprawled on his front like a doll abandoned on the floor by a disinterested child, his eyelids closed loosely in unconsciousness and his features marred by streaks of blood and dust that Mishka and her team of SI:7 healers had not had the chance to wipe away. Anduin's limbs were visibly wrong, broken and shattered and crushed. Bandages were wrapped around his form, clearly Mishka's careful handiwork - the SI:7 agent was efficient and a good healer, but it was clear to anyone with working eyes that Anduin needed much, much more than simple salves and bandages.
Varian had known Garrosh had attacked his son, he had expected him to be injured, but he hadn't expected... this. It was clear that Anduin should not have survived facing that beast and being crushed by that damned bell, Varian knew that fact in his heart - and it still wasn't a certainty that the young prince would survive it either. There were many hours left in the day, and the chances of Anduin surviving the night were...
Varian couldn't bring himself to finish his horrible thought.
He had been a fool to allow Anduin, to allow a child, to remain in Pandaria. Varian knew he should have sent the young prince back to Stormwind, willingly or not, the second he had had him back in his arms.
The only thing he could do, Varian called for Velen, the draenei prophet the most capable person that he could think of - and could trust - to put the broken pieces of Anduin back together with his mastery and control over the Holy Light. Jaina, almost sparking with rage at the state of her pseudo-nephew, declared that the Kirin-Tor would bring down their might on Garrosh and promptly teleported away, sparks of magic flying through the air in her wake. The silence in the room after Jaina left was deafening, Anduin's breathes almost non-existent as his ravaged body fought to remain with the living, with Varian. The High King dismissed the Champion, who had been standing silently in the background since they had entered the room, and knelt - collapsed, more like - to his armored knees. He reached out to pick up Anduin's limp hand with as gentle a touch as he dared, as light as a feather drifting through the sky, and found that his son's pale and blood-spotted appendage was as cold as stone.
It didn't feel like he had long.
"Please, Anduin," Varian held his son's still hand loosely, "just hold on. Just for a little longer."
Anduin shifted minutely, pulling at shattered bones and bloodied scrapes, and a whimper of pain escaped his parted and chapped lips, his eyebrows screwing together in pain as his eyes darted back and forth beneath pale lids.
"Rest, Anduin," Varian brushed a gentle hand - uncharacteristic, for who he was - across Anduin's feverish forehead, his heart breaking at the agony his son was experiencing, "rest."
Anduin settled, but the expression of pain on his face did not fade.
Varian prayed. As he knelt beside his son's shattered and destroyed body, he prayed for his son's heart to keep beating, for his weak breathes to keep his chest rising and falling.
He prayed for him to heal.
He prayed for him to live.
In the next few hours, as he waited for Velen to arrive, Varian had prayed more than he had ever done so previously. He pleaded and begged to the Light, crying out for them to not take his boy. Anduin was too young, he was just a boy. He couldn't loose him too, not after he had lost Tiffin so soon after Anduin's death.
Anduin was all Varian had left, all the king loved and all he fought for.
Looking at Anduin, at how ruined his young body was and knowing that he would never be the same boisterous and adventurous boy he was before, for a moment Varian wondered if it would be...
Varian returned to his pleas, lowering his head and returning to his praying, clasping his hands hard enough for it to hurt and ache as he prayed to the power his son treasured so much, as he prayed for the power Anduin preached so much about to save him - for Varian could not save him himself.
"Just hold on."