Varian
Coward.
The nasty little voice in the back of Varian's mind jeered at him as he reached for the handle of his chamber door for the sixth time, only to hesitate with the tips of his fingers barely brushing the wrought iron.
It was late morning the day after the attack on Dalaran. After Varian's return to Stormwind and subsequent breakdown – he wished there was a more charitable word to describe his behaviour, though none came to mind – he had fled his chambers in a confusing fugue of rage, shame, and grief. Not wanting to risk any further harm to those he loved (or any innocent bystanders, for that matter), he had stomped off to the arena to beat his hands bloody against a training dummy, until he had all but collapsed from exhaustion.
With his knuckles cracked and bleeding, Varian had then sequestered himself in one of the spare diplomatic quarters in the Keep. He hadn't dared return to his own chambers, having already terrorised Auriana quite enough for one day, and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening in brooding isolation. He had permitted a visit from one of the Keep's healers to tend to the worst of his wounds, but had otherwise insisted on that he remain alone. He had already made enough of a mess of things with Auriana; no need to inflict his worst self on the rest of the Keep, too.
Varian sighed, and squeezed his fists tightly closed. He was sadly no stranger to bouts of intense depression and despair, but he had never quite come undone the way he had yesterday. He had been rambling, lost; completely consumed by decades of trauma that he thought he had moved beyond… or, at the very least, pushed down deep into the darkest, yawning reaches of his soul where it might never resurface…
Worse still, Auriana had witnessed Varian at his lowest self, and borne the brunt of his misplaced ire. He was well aware that he had been unfair to her at best, and downright cruel at worst, and yet she had been nothing but empathetic in return. Even in his haze, Varian had not missed her earnest, stammered wish to restore Tiffin to life, so that he might be happy and whole, regardless of what that would mean for Auriana herself. She had meant every word, he knew, and it pained him greatly. Did she really think that she mattered so little to him? Did she really think herself that unimportant, a second choice that could be so easily discarded?
Varian grit his teeth. He had faced down hordes of demons, and orcs, and horrible eldritch things there weren't even names for. Surely he did not need more courage to face his own damn wife. He reached for the cool iron of the handle for the seventh time, and with a deep breath, at long last pushed the door open.
"Auriana…?"
Varian had imagined many scenarios whilst loitering outside his chambers – Auriana had every right to be furious with him, and he would not have blamed her had she cussed him out, or perhaps met him with a cold, stony silence. His greatest fear was that she had simply left, having at long last realised that he was a great deal more trouble than he was worth. But what he had not been prepared for was the way she gasped his name, or the look of sheer, unguarded relief on her face as he took a hesitant step into the room.
"Varian."
It seemed Varian had caught Auriana as she was dressing: her feet were bare, and her fingers hovered over the last button of her cornflower blue bodice. A few nasty bruises marred the pale skin of her arms, though she appeared otherwise unharmed by her ordeal in Dalaran. Her hair was loose, and when she moved, the flowing fabric of her skirts pulled across the growing curve of her stomach. Varian's hands began to shake with the sudden need to touch her, but he didn't dare.
He didn't deserve to.
"Good morning," he said stiffly, surprised by how raw and throaty his voice sounded. "Are you… well?"
"A little tired, but… fine."
Auriana's gaze swept over Varian from top to toe, and she frowned slightly as she took in his bloodshot eyes, the gash on his forehead, and his bruised and battered knuckles. The wound to his head may have been the work of demons, though the damage to his hands was all his own. Varian hastily folded his arms behind his back, standing to attention like the world's most awkward soldier.
"And you?" she murmured. "You… you didn't come to bed last night."
"No," Varian said shortly. "I slept in the diplomatic quarters."
'Slept' was perhaps too generous a term. He'd tossed and turned violently all night, his dreams plagued by blazing felfire and dark visions of Auriana's death. It wasn't the first time he had come close to losing her, but there was something about yesterday's debacle that had shaken him far worse than any of her previous misadventures.
"I missed you," Auriana ventured. "It's an awfully large bed for just one person..."
There was no heat or accusation in her tone, only a quiet wistfulness that tugged at Varian's heartstrings. They were standing perhaps only ten feet apart, but the distance between them felt like a hundred miles.
"I… should have sent word. But given the delicacy of your condition… I thought it might be unsafe…" Varian clenched his fists behind his back. "You saw the state I was in, I was not…"
Myself? He wasn't sure how to finish the sentence… and perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps the Varian he thought himself to be – the king, the father, the husband – was the mask, and his true self was yesterday's shattered, babbling wreck; a man far too broken to ever be whole again.
"I needed time," he finished lamely.
"I understand. Better than most people, I would imagine." Auriana hugged her arms around her waist. "But you didn't have to… you could have come back…"
"I know. Although… perhaps it isn't the worst idea if we were to sleep apart for a time."
Varian almost felt as if he were watching himself from afar, unable to control the words as they spilled from his mouth.
Auriana's eyes widened. "What?"
"It's not uncommon, particularly for royalty. And in our case…" He gestured between them, raising and lowering his hand to emphasise the considerable difference in their physicality. "I don't want to hurt you…"
I almost did.
Even the memory of it made Varian feel sick: Auriana cowering against the dresser while he advanced on her with his blades drawn and his tongue just as sharp. What kind of man – what kind of monster – would do such a thing to his pregnant wife?
"Is that really what you want? To be apart?" Auriana whispered.
The hurt and confusion in her voice was plain, and in truth even Varian didn't really know why he had made the suggestion.
"No, of course not, I…" he fumbled, raking both hands back through his hair. "I just need to know that you're safe…"
"Where would I be safer than with you?"
Varian didn't trust himself to answer. Half of him felt as if he ought to send Auriana as far away from him as possible, while the other half didn't want her out of his sight for even a second. He turned away with a noncommittal grunt, and stomped off into his robe. A poor showing on his behalf, to be sure, but far better than saying yet another thing he would regret.
While Varian had bathed in the diplomatic quarters last night, he was still wearing the same sweat- and blood-stained clothing he'd worn during the fight in Dalaran, having declined to call the servants for a change. He had not slept in them, of course, given that he preferred to sleep bare anyway, but he'd had nothing else to wear back to his own rooms in the morning. Unless, of course, he'd been willing to walk through the Keep naked as the day he was born.
At least the servants would have had a laugh…
Varian stripped off his boots and trousers first, wincing as quite a few of the hairs on his legs came away with the gore-crusted fabric. He did not pay much attention to his choice of replacements – the advantage of having a wardrobe that mostly consisted of black, blue, and brown was that one never had to worry about appearing mismatched – before turning his attention to his filthy tunic.
Varian swore under his breath as he fumbled with the laces that bound the garment from collar to waist. It was a task he had completed mindlessly a thousand times before, but today he was all thumbs, and he was just about ready to rip the damn thing straight off when the smoky lilt of Auriana's voice stayed his hand.
"Here. Let me."
It was unusual that she had been able to sneak up on him; testament to Varian's considerable distraction. He was normally very attuned to her presence, even above and beyond the awareness afforded by his preternatural sense of hearing and smell.
"A task better suited to small hands, I think…"
Without waiting for a reply, Auriana reached out and began to methodically work the snarled laces. Up close, Varian could scent the perfumed oils in her hair and the fresh, natural fragrance of her skin, and the dull ache in his heart intensified tenfold. He could not fathom why she would show him such care and gentleness after his behaviour the day before, nor his boorishness this morning. Light, he almost wished she'd scream at him, or otherwise show him the anger that he was due. If he could not be a man worthy of her love, he could at least be a man worthy of her rage…
"There."
Auriana finished untangling the last of the laces, and helped Varian to push the tunic up and over his head. In doing so, the tips of her fingers grazed the bare skin of his chest; the merest whisper of a touch, and yet all of a sudden Varian felt as if he were on fire. Seized by keen, visceral instinct, he snatched for her hand and smothered her pale, delicate fingers in the roughshod bronze of his own.
Auriana looked up at him then, properly, her eyes luminous and so remarkably blue, and her naturally rosy lips ever so slightly parted. Her expression was difficult to read – part hesitant, silent question, and part soft yearning – though she did not attempt to pull away. It would have been all too easy, Varian thought, to hold her closer against his body and seek his absolution in the sweetness of her kiss. But to do so would have been selfish, greedy even, and entirely unfair.
Instead, he released Auriana's hand as abruptly as he had grasped it, and awkwardly turned away.
"Oh, Varian…" she gasped. "Your back…"
In the chaos of the last day, he had almost forgotten about the shoulder injury he had sustained in the battle for Dalaran. It was not as bad as it could have been, considering he had been unarmoured, but it was a nasty wound nonetheless. He had called upon a healer – he was not stupid, and he knew the wound would fester and rot if left untended – though he had not tolerated the attending priest for a second longer than necessary. Quite apart from wanting to be left alone, a dark, twisted part of him felt that he was deserving of the sharp pain that lanced across his back every time he twisted or turned.
"It's nothing," he muttered.
"That is not nothing," Auriana insisted. "Have you seen a healer?"
"Briefly."
"You ought to see one again today, or perhaps Anduin could…"
"It's fine," Varian growled.
He grabbed the first fresh tunic within reach and yanked it down over his head, then spun back around on his heel with such irritable force that Auriana visibly recoiled.
What are you doing?!
"I… I'm sorry," he added, internally kicking himself. "I only meant… I'm perfectly fit, I promise you."
It was a lie, and they both knew it, though Auriana thankfully did him the kindness of pretending otherwise.
"And speaking of Anduin…"
Varian steeled himself to admit that he had told Anduin of the baby, in violation of their agreement – yet another way he had failed her, he noted – but Auriana saved him the trouble with a short shake of her head.
"I know," she said quickly. "That he knows, I mean. That I'm pregnant."
"He told you."
"He did. And I understand, given the circumstances. You thought…"
I thought I had lost you.
"Yes. Well." Varian cleared his throat. "Now that Anduin has been informed, we ought to make arrangements for a formal announcement of your pregnancy. You know I'm not one to stand on ceremony, but our child is a royal heir."
It was somewhat ridiculous to be discussing such mundane, ordinary matters when the air was rife with seething tension and far too many things unsaid, but it was the best that Varian could manage. A faint frown of confusion creased Auriana's forehead, but after a moment's hesitation, she permitted the turn of conversation and responded in kind.
"And… ah… what does that involve, exactly?"
"Nothing too onerous. I will call the Stormwind Court to session. We will also invite our friends and family… Anduin, of course, and the Greymanes. Jaina, too, if the Kirin Tor can spare her for a morning…"
Varian didn't say as much out loud, but he also hoped that by making Auriana's pregnancy public knowledge, there would be that many more people to look out for her and ensure her safety.
"Once the announcement has been made to the Court, we will publish a proclamation to the city at large. A royal baby is cause for celebration."
Varian was well aware of the irony in such a statement when he himself sounded about as joyful as a stone, though Auriana did not appear to have made note of the contradiction. In fact, she no longer seemed to be listening to him at all. A painful wince marred her porcelain features, and she pressed a hand to the right hand side of her lower abdomen.
"Auriana?!"
Varian's heart just about leapt out of his chest, and a feral shudder ran down his spine. His hands all of a sudden felt clammy, and he lunged forward to grasp her firmly by the shoulders.
"Talk to me!"
"I'm fine," she said quickly. "Really. As it turns out, pregnancy comes with quite a few aches and pains."
"It's not… you weren't wounded, were you?" The edges of Varian's vision began to blur.
If the demons had hurt her… or worse, if Varian's own actions had caused undue stress and brought her or the baby to harm…
"No, no." Auriana shook her head, and gently extricated herself from his urgent clasp. "Just the regular, everyday pain of pregnancy. Laurena called them 'growing pangs'."
She took a few deep, slow breaths, and rubbed the palm of her hand along the line where her pelvis met her thigh.
"It'll pass. No need to worry."
Auriana offered Varian a very small, tentative smile, ostensibly in an effort to reassure him, but it did little to assuage his fears.
"Shouldn't you be on bed rest after yesterday?" he asked gruffly.
"I was coming to find you," she countered, her blossoming smile fading away as if it had never been.
"Well, I'm here now. So you can return to bed."
Auriana's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, though she gave Varian no quarrel. She simply took a step backwards, and began to fiddle with the tiny buttons of her bodice once more. For his part, Varian took to pacing up and down the robe in an effort to avoid hovering over her. Pacing about wasn't all that much better, admittedly, though it allowed him time to brace himself for what was certain to be an argument.
"I don't want you attending Anguile's trial next week," he said abruptly.
"But… I'm a witness." Auriana's hands stilled, and she looked up at him askance.
"He spent the better part of the last few years trying to kill you."
Auriana let out a sardonic snort. "Yes, I know. That's rather the point of the trial…"
"Anguile still has supporters in the city. It's too public, too risky." Varian shook his head. "I've already confirmed with the Master of Laws that your written testimony will suffice."
He was prepared to argue the point further, more forcefully if necessary. Auriana tended to see his caution as coddling, or an indictment of her ability to protect herself… but much to his astonishment, she simply stared at him in silence for a good long while, before acquiesing with a short nod.
"Very well."
"And… I'll be doubling your guard. You're not to go anywhere without a proper escort. Even here in the Keep."
If Auriana were not pleased about being asked to miss the trial, Varian expected she would look upon his second request even less favourably. Indeed, her lips drew into a thin line, and she drew herself up as if preparing to unleash a tirade. She inhaled sharply… only to once again surprise Varian a moment later by conceding the point without a fight.
"As you wish."
Auriana slipped the last button free, and allowed her dress to drop freely to the floor around her ankles. Clad only in her silken slip, the changes to her body brought on by her pregnancy were more apparent – the soft rounding of her belly, the swell of her breasts, and the slight flush of her normally pale skin. Unfortunately, the bruising on her arms and across her chest was also far more pronounced when not concealed by her dress, and it made Varian sick to his stomach. Had the smallest thing been different… had she not been so quick to react to the collapse of that Light-damned tower… if she'd lost the baby…
A great, swelling pressure rose in Varian's throat, choking him from the inside out.
"Varian…? Are you alright?"
Auriana's cool, gentle fingers brushed against Varian's foream, startling him out of his miserable reverie. Her touch was as light as a feather, and yet he jerked away as if stung.
"I'm fine," he muttered, naïvely imagining that if he repeated the words over and over again, they would become true.
"You don't…"
"Come now," he said quickly, cutting off whatever Auriana had intended to say. "Let's get you to bed."
"I… if you insist…"
Varian vaguely wondered whether he ought to pick Auriana up and carry her. It was a simple feat for a man of his strength, but he quickly dismissed the thought. No, she was not safe with him. Yesterday had proven that he could not be trusted, with either her body or her soul; far better to protect her from a distance.
Instead, Varian followed a respectful three feet back as Auriana slowly made her way back into the bedchamber proper. Despite her reassurances, she was clearly in pain, and she let out a soft groan of relief as she settled herself down amongst the plush furs and pillows. Varian was somewhat mollified to see a glass of water already on her nightstand, alongside a copy of one of the fanciful romances that Khadgar was known to enjoy. Judging from the artwork on the cover, it seemed to chronicle an implausibly dramatic love story between a princess and a dragon.
As if you yourself do not play the beast to a beauty…
"Do you need anything else? Shall I call for the servants?"
"No. I ate earlier."
Auriana didn't say the word 'alone', but Varian heard it nonetheless.
"Are you warm enough?" he asked, ignoring her subtle reproach. "I could fetch more blankets?"
Auriana brushed her hair back behind her ears, and tugged her slip a little further up over her chest. "I'm comfortable, thank you."
"Are you sure? You look…"
"Varian. I am not a child."
For the first time, Auriana's tolerant exterior faltered, and a sharp spike of irritation punctured her words. It seemed she had reached the limit of her patience, and as much as Varian was almost uncontrollably compelled to fuss, he decided he ought to stop pushing his luck. That she was still here was a minor miracle in and of itself, and already far more than he was due.
"I'll let you be, then."
With a start, Auriana pushed herself back up on her elbows, and stared at him with wide eyes. "Wait, you… you're leaving? So soon?"
"I've arranged to meet with General Clay and Master Shaw," Varian explained. "Stormwind and Dalaran have now both been attacked without warning. I'll be damned if we're caught unawares a third time."
It was quite enough that he'd failed as both a husband and father over the course of the last day; he did not intend to fail as a king, too. Not to mention that keeping the city safe was the best way to protect Auriana, Anduin, and his unborn child.
"Oh."
"I'll be back later. And if you should need for anything, you can simply call for the guard…"
Any other time, Varian would have kissed her goodbye; would have stolen a few precious moments before reluctantly departing the delight of her company to tend to far less interesting duties. But today… even if he believed she would permit his affections, he could not bring himself to take anything more from her, solely for his own comfort.
Still… Varian paused upon the threshold, and glanced back over his shoulder.
"Auri…?"
"Yes?"
Auriana's voice was soft, but wary, and her gaze remained fixed straight ahead. She had sunk back into the pillows, her hands folded neatly over her stomach. Varian sighed. He wanted to talk to her, to explain himself, to offer her something more than small talk and stiff oafishness. But he was barely able to make any sense of his erratic emotions and the jumbled thoughts inside his head, let alone express those thoughts out loud. A veritable tempest raged inside him, and he hadn't the faintest idea where to start to describe what he was feeling.
"I–"
Apologise. Take her in your arms. Tell her that you love her. Anything!
Varian's inner voice was practically shouting now, but his tongue remained frozen in his mouth, as if bound by a mage's spell.
"Nevermind."
Heart heavy in his chest, Varian left his wife alone in their chambers for the second time in as many days, and pulled the door shut behind him. He closed his eyes, and rested the back of his head against the heavy wood of the door with a dull thunk.
Coward.
Both General Clay and Master Shaw were already waiting in the war room when Varian finally arrived, neither man having ever lacked for punctuality. And neither did they lack for presentation: Clay stood tall and proud in his shining blue and silver plate, while Shaw was the very picture of a lithe and deadly assassin in his immaculate leathers. In contrast, Varian assumed he looked like hell; a theory that was quickly confirmed by the swift, telling glance exchanged between his General and his Spymaster. Both men were clearly concerned for their King, though both had also served him for far too long to say a word.
"Report," Varian ordered.
He was not one for idle pleasantries at the best of times, let alone in his current state of agitation.
"Good morning, Your Majesty," Clay said smartly, unfazed by his King's brusqueness. "There has been no further unrest in Stormwind since the attack earlier this month. No increase in demonic activity, nor any further sightings of warlocks in the city."
It was ostensibly good news, though it did little to lift Varian's sour mood. After all, no further sightings of demons or warlocks could simply mean that they had become better at hiding.
"Shaw?"
"I've had my agents in Dalaran sharing intelligence with the Kirin Tor Guardians. From all accounts, their experience yesterday was much the same as ours – waves of demons, attacking seemingly at random."
Shaw thumbed the tip of his mustache; a seemingly idle gesture on anyone else, but on the Spymaster, a sign of his deep frustration.
"Unlike the attack on Stormwind, however, it appears whoever was responsible for the Dalaran summoning escaped," he continued. "The Guardians found a portal down in the old Dalaran sewers, but by the time they arrived, it was dormant, and whoever had opened it was long gone."
Varian shared Shaw's consternation. He understood war better than almost anyone else alive, but the dark subterfuge and enigmatic intrigue that surrounded warlocks and their ilk vexed him to no end. He'd take a straight fight and an honest enemy any time.
"Why would they do that?" he mused aloud, though he did not expect Shaw to have any particular insight into the minds of the damned and insane. "Go to all the trouble of staging an attack, only to simply… leave?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, sire."
Varian let out a short, peevish grunt and clenched his fists at his side, the joints of his tortured knuckles audibly cracking as they bent and flexed. Shaw was exceptionally skilled at what was often a difficult and tedious job, but sometimes it was all Varian could do to not to bite the man's head off. He wanted answers, now, before anyone else was hurt.
"What about the warlock who came seeking Auriana? Blackwood?"
"I have been… pleasantly surprised by her willingness to cooperate with SI:7's investigation. She has provided me with the names of over a dozen warlocks across Eastern Kingdoms who would have both the skill and the inclination to attempt attacks of this scale."
"Are you sure she's not simply selling out her competitors?" Varian wondered. "Warlocks aren't exactly known for their… community spirit."
Clay let out a dry chuckle at his King's turn of phrase, though Shaw, as always, remained perfectly impassive.
"I don't believe so. She's been thoroughly investigated by my agents, and I've had tails on her for weeks now. But it seems she is exactly who she appears to be – a loyal servant of the Alliance, albeit one who has chosen an unorthodox path."
"Do you think there will be more attacks, then?" Varian asked, addressing the question broadly to the room at large.
"They'd be damned fools to try, sire," Clay growled, his right hand straying to the grip of his heavy hammer. "With the guard on high alert, there is not an inch of the city in which a warlock could hope to hide. And if they do, well! They've already lost to the might of Stormwind once, they're welcome to do so again."
Shaw inclined his head. "I'd say it's possible, even likely – though I'm inclined to agree with General Clay. I don't believe they would return to Stormwind."
"How do you figure?"
"I've given the matter considerable thought, and as it stands, I see two plausible explanations for recent events: either these are random acts of terrorism, designed to sow discord and fear amongst the population, or, the warlocks responsible are acting with a specific target or objective in mind."
Varian raised an eyebrow. "Such as?"
"I have no clue," Shaw admitted. "However, if it is the former, yesterday's attack on Dalaran suggests an intent to spread fear across the length and breadth of Azeroth. If it is the latter - chances are our enemies have already obtained whatever it is that they sought. Or, if not, they may have decided to pursue their objectives elsewhere, given that the city is now on high alert. Not to mention that the two warlocks who orchestrated the Stormwind attack paid with their lives. Either way, we would no longer represent a logical target."
Varian wasn't sure there was any use in trying to apply logic to the actions of a warlock, though he saw the sense in Shaw's argument.
"Regardless, that's not a reason to lower our guard," Clay countered.
"Oh, I quite agree," Shaw continued. "Stormwind ought to remain on alert for any signs of demonic activity, and in the meantime, I will continue to pursue the names given to me by Lady Blackwood. Warlocks by nature are a small, insular community – either they're involved, or they know someone who is."
"I suppose, then…" Clay began, when he was interrupted by a series of loud, angry shouts from outside the door.
"Oh, what now?"
His lip curled in a furious snarl, Varian stormed out of the war room with Clay and Shaw close on his heels, to find his throne in a state of chaos. The guardsmen on duty were standing to full attention with weapons drawn, as two of their number attempted to drag a struggling night elf out of the room by his armpits,while a small group of citizens looked on in alarm.
"What is going on here?" Varian demanded.
"My apologies for the interruption, Majesty! This man came in with a group of sight-seers, only to start ranting and raving about the end of days," the Guard Captain explained. "He refused to leave peacefully when asked, and so I had my men intervene."
All the while the guardsman was talking, the night elf in question was muttering under his breath in a harsh, guttural language that Varian did not care to understand. He wore long, garish robes of red and purple, and the visible skin on his hands and arms was covered in hundreds of esoteric symbols wrought in smudgy ink.
"Drunk, most likely, or perhaps simply mad," the Captain continued, "Though whether he's best served by a night in the Stockades or a night in the Cathedral, we'll see to it that he gets there safely."
"Ah, ah, ah, but madness is rather a matter of perspective, wouldn't you agree?" The night elf abruptly ceased his muttering, and he switched to a purring, heavily-accented Common as he fixed his gaze on Varian. "For instance, do you think your King is mad?"
Despite his earlier composure, the Captain stumbled over the strange and unprovoked question. "Do I… what?"
"I think one would have to be quite mad to want to bear the weight of a crown," the elf laughed, his voice rising to an unnatural sing-song pitch, "But how fortunate we are to have a born ruler among us. The mighty Wolf King, stalwart defender of the Alliance; come to grace us with his magnanimity. It is an honour, my lord."
Despite being suspended between the firm grip of two guards, the elf made an attempt at a grandiose bow, as though he were a dashing courtier being presented before the Stormwind Court.
Varian pointedly ignored the display, and folded his arms across his chest. "What are you doing in my Keep?"
"I am here to speak the truth, Great Majesty. Nothing more, nothing less."
A viscous, honeyed sweetness slathered the night elf's words, but it could not hide the sickly scent of rot that lurked beneath his amiable exterior.
"And what truth is that?"
Varian had met many a wide-eyed lunatic in his lifetime, and he knew there was little point attempting to have a serious conversation with one. Given recent events, however, he would have been a fool to ignore the man's sudden appearance in the Keep not a day after Dalaran had come under demonic assault. It was worth asking the question, though he doubted the man would say anything of real use.
"A great day comes! Soon, we shall all be released from the pain of this meaningless existence, and be reborn in emerald fire!"
"Whatever dark masters you serve, they will find no such satisfaction here," Varian growled.
"Your fangs are sharp, King of Stormwind, but even you cannot escape the inevitable."
The night elf's demeanour abruptly shifted; his vague and dreamlike countenance sharpening into an expression of intense focus. He strained forward, his booted feet scrabbling against the stonework floor as the guards struggled to hold him in place, and his lambent eyes glowed even brighter as the manic fire of religious conviction overtook him.
"Do you know what happens to wolves, when the leader of the pack dies? They are left scattered. Divided. Weak." The night elf made a grotesque show of licking his lips, as if the mere possibility of such a thing was as delicious as a treat at the Darkmoon Faire. "Your pack will be ripe for devouring when the infinite shadow descends upon this world. But rejoice, for their ends will be swift, and their souls shall burn bright in glorious service of the grand crusade!"
Despite himself, Varian's heartbeat quickened, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. It was all nonsense, of course – any mad fool could string together a series of ominous phrases to make himself sound prophetic. The elf's ranting had surely only provoked such a visceral reaction because Varian was already agitated and out of sorts, not because he was afraid, or because he actually believed anything the elf had to say. Surely.
In any case, the elf clearly had no useful intelligence to offer, and Varian decided he was done wasting his time on the follies of a madman.
"Get him out of my sight!" he snapped.
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
The guardsmen did not hesitate to comply with the order, and surprisingly, the night elf did not protest. He almost appeared to relish the indignity and spectacle of being dragged from the Keep; his sharp, pointed teeth bared in a deranged grin as he repeated his claims of doomsday over and over again. Varian turned away in disgust.
"General Clay! Set a double watch, and if you find any more of these… these agitators, have them arrested immediately. I will not tolerate any further attempts to disrupt the peace and safety of this city. Am I making myself clear?"
Varian did not wait for an answer, trusting that Clay would follow his orders to the letter. He was already striding off towards the private chamber concealed behind the throne, lest he subject the innocent citizenry of Stormwind to a further display of his temper. He ground his teeth with every step, and only narrowly resisted the urge to drive his fist into the wall in an ill-conceived attempt to release the pent-up storm of rage surging inside him.
I will protect Stormwind, he swore silently. I will protect my children, and I will protect my wife. I will tear apart every demon and warlock and traitor and madman on Azeroth with my bare hands if that's what it takes, but I will not have them taken from me. Not again.
Never again.
