Seven
An hour later, the service was over. She'd not really wanted to continue to attend. But as the ceremony continued, she realized that she needed to be here for at least two people. One of them was herself. Halfway through the sermon, she found herself with her head bowed, tears slipping down her cheeks as she mourned those who had given all to stand against evil; mourned the young, earnest man Arthas Menethil had once been. And through the tears, she found a sense of peace she had not known until that moment.
As for the other…
She returned to the small room where Varian had received the Sentinels. The elves were gone, but the king of Stormwind was still there. He sat at a small table, his head in his hands. He looked up at her approach, even though she had been quiet, and gave her a weary smile.
"I am sorry I so lost control earlier."
"You should be."
He nodded, acknowledging the truth of her comment. "I am. What I said was inappropriate and untrue."
She softened a little. "Apology accepted. And I'm not the only person who deserves one."
He grimaced at that, but nodded. "I would rather he not have seen that, but what's done is done."
She slipped into the chair opposite him, ready to listen. "Tell me what happened."
He did. He had agreed to send several alchemists to Ashenvale to assist the night elves in looking over the site of the slaughter and examining the blood and clothing. An emissary, unarmed and no doubt sweating bullets, would be sent to Thrall to conduct an inquiry.
"That's very… restrained of you," Jaina commented.
"My actions should depend on what I know, not what I suspect. If it turns out that Thrall is behind this atrocity, rest assured I will march on Orgrimmar and have his head. I don't care if I'm authorized to do that or not, I will."
"If he is, I'll be marching beside you," Jaina said. She was certain Thrall would be as shocked and horrified by the attack as Varian and Jaina had been. Even if he was not Varian's friend, he would always be an honorable foe. He would never have authorized a violation of the treaty, let alone so gruesome an attack.
"I wanted to talk about Anduin," she said, changing the subject.
Varian nodded. "Anduin is a born diplomat. He understood the necessity to go to war in Northrend, but he yearned — still yearns — for peace. And I seem to be unable to cease yearning for war. Things were good when I came back, but…"
"Well, he is a teenager," Jaina said lightly.
"He took Bolvar's death hard. Very hard."
At the name, Jaina shifted uncomfortably.
"I realized how close they had become while I was gone. Bolvar was like a father to Anduin."
"Does… he know?" Jaina asked quietly.
Varian shook his head. "And I hope he never does." When the Lich King was finally slain, dreadful news came with the victory — the revelation that there must always be a Lich King, or else the Scourge would run rampant across the world. Someone needed to don the helm, become the next Lich King, or else everything they had all fought for would be for nothing.
It was Bolvar — his life saved by the red dragons' flames but his body hideously deformed, seeming a living ember shaped vaguely like a man — who had insisted on undertaking the dreadful task. And it was Bolvar who now wore the Lich King's crown, sitting atop the roof of the world, forever destined to be the jailor of the undead. Even now, Jaina's blue eyes filled with quick tears at the thought.
"Anduin has had a difficult time of it," Jaina said, her voice thick. She cleared it and resumed. "But Bolvar was not his father. You are, and I know he's glad to have you back. But — "
"But he wants his father back, not Lo'Gosh. Completely understandable. But Jaina… sometimes I'm not sure where one ends and the other begins. I… do not like having the boy around, living with me, while I try to determine this."
"I've been thinking the same thing. And I have an idea…."
Jaina slipped her hood over her head as she exited the cathedral. It was still raining, and in fact had picked up. It did not distress her unduly; living in Theramore, she was well accustomed to such damp weather.
Having teleported to Stormwind, she had no palfrey, so she strode quickly through the wet streets toward Stormwind Keep. It was not a long walk, but her feet found a few puddles, and when she did arrive, she was quite thoroughly soaked and shivering.
The guards knew her and nodded politely as she entered. Sen - ants stepped up to her quickly, offering to take her cloak and get her something hot to drink. She waved aside the offers, smiling kindly, and thanked them for their attentiveness. As she was a well - known visitor, they did not question where she wished to go in the keep when she asked directions.
Jaina made her way past the formal rooms and the throne room into the private areas of the castle. She reached her destination, smoothed her soggy hair, and knocked on the door to Anduin's quarters.
There was no immediate response. She tried again, this time saving quietly, "Anduin? It's me, Jaina."
She heard the quiet tread of feet approaching the door, and then it opened a crack. Solemn blue eyes peered up at her and then flickered past "It's just me," she assured him. He nodded his fair head and then stepped back to admit her.
Stormwind Keep was lavish enough, she supposed, though it did not hold a candle to Lordaeron's once - magnificent palace. She remembered what Prince Arthas's chambers had been like as she took in Anduin's rather sparse room. He had been prince all his life, and king for a time, during Varian's absence, and yet this room was simple and spare. The bed was small, better suited to the child he had been rather than the youth he was. He'd need a larger one soon, she thought; he was growing like a weed. The bed frame lacked ornate hangings, the walls paintings, save for one — a portrait of Anduin and his mother, Queen Tiffin, when the boy was still an infant. Jaina guessed she had died not long after that portrait had been painted, slain by a rock thrown during a Defias riot. It was this incident that she had referred to earlier with Varian, in an attempt to get him to understand the position Thrall was in. Tiffin's son had never known her.
There was a simple nightstand with a pitcher of water and a basin next to the bed on one side. An unlit brazier stood a few feet away, to take the chill off the room in winter. A door opened presumably to another room where Anduin's clothing and other regalia were stored, as Jaina saw nothing here, not even a wardrobe. In the center of the room there was a single chair next to a small table upon which sat books, parchment, ink, and a quill. Politely Anduin eased the chair out for her, reaching to take off her cloak and hang it up, then stood next to the chair, his arms folded. He was obviously still upset from his earlier conversation with his father.
'You're drenched," he said flatly. "Let me order you some hot tea."
"Thank you. That would be most welcome." She gave him a smile.
He returned it, but it was forced and did not reach his eyes. He tugged on a braided rope beside the door.
"I swear, you'll be as big as your father the next time I see you," Jaina teased, hoping to ease him out of his mood. She settled into the chair.
He grimaced slightly. "Which version of my father?" His voice was evenly pitched, carefully modulated as befit a prince, but the words had a bite to them that Jaina, who knew him so well, winced at.
"Your father is chagrined that you witnessed that," she said gently.
"I'm certain he is," Anduin said in that same voice. "But there are many things I have witnessed at my age."