“Father . . .”
“I said not now, Anduin—”
“Yes. Now.”
For a boy barely in his teens, Anduin’s tone was measured and strong . . . and full of disappointment. Putting down the bottle, Varian faced him.
“I did what needed to be done. You’ll understand that when you’re king.”
“I understand that you’re still living in the past, Father. That you can’t ever seem to escape it. People change. People can redeem themselves. You’ve not given Genn Greymane any chance, and in doing that, you’ve also condemned the rest of his kingdom—”
“They’re fools enough to follow his lead despite the bloodshed and horror his choices have caused; they can follow him through this.”
“You don’t mean that. Don’t you see—”
“Enough!” The outburst surprised Varian as much as it did his son. Anduin deflated. Varian read the immense sadness filling his son.
The prince headed toward his room.
“Anduin—”
“Good night, Father. I pray you’ll understand some day.”
Not quite certain as to what his son meant by that, Varian returned to the wine. Then, thinking better of it, he stepped back outside. There he found his guards anxiously awaiting.
“Safe to go in,” he jested. “I’ll stay out here for a moment.”
They did not argue. Varian felt some sympathy for the men, who wanted to do their duty but were constantly being dismissed by their charges. He would reward them when the party returned to Stormwind.
“Varian.”
“Oh, by all that’s holy, am I allowed no peace?” The king turned to face Malfurion. “I said my lot back at the induction! There’s nothing left to discuss!”
The night elf’s brow rose at this unexpected outburst. “There is much left to discuss, if I may be so bold. I am aware of why you said what you did and the right you had to say it. The summit, though, must continue, and I—”
“Your summit’s failed. You should know that. Failed like so much . . . ” Varian looked off as he spoke, his thoughts turning to distant memory, not the evening’s events.
The shift did not go unnoticed by the archdruid. In a calm, quiet tone, he replied, “Failure is not always the end of things. It can be a method of learning to better succeed in other ways. Cenarius knows I have met with failure enough myself, if I may use my brother—and perhaps the worgen themselves—as examples. I can also appreciate the troubles you have struggled with, and I know the blame you still lay upon yourself for them. You still think that you could have saved Tiffin from the riot or somehow prevented Deathwing’s own daughter, Onyxia, from stealing your kingdom while in the guise of Lady Prestor! Neither of those events could have been prevented by you—”
“Couldn’t they? Easy to talk so, after the fact and so far removed, Archdruid, but you weren’t involved in those troubles! My wife was killed by a brickbat! A good man, Reginald Windsor, was burned alive by the damned dragon’s breath! I let agents of the Defias capture me, and in my absence, my son, my only son, was left defenseless and abandoned! I will not let that happen again! Ever!”
“You were not—”
Varian thrust a condemning finger in the night elf’s face. “You’ve no right to speak of any of this, anyway! What do you even understand of the kind of horrors I’ve seen and suffered? Two wars came and passed while you cheerfully meditated and wandered that accursed Emerald Dream! Two wars in which countless lives were lost! You never saw the sacrifices Stormwind had to face, much less the rest of Azeroth, while Greymane sat back and did absolutely nothing! Nothing! You druids preach of the harmony of the world and the creatures on it, but harmony is easy to ask for when you don’t have to struggle to survive like the rest of us!”
“I understand more than you think,” the archdruid started. “I have faced war and strife too. When the Burning Legion first invaded—”
“You must reach back ten thousand years for your example?” Varian interrupted. “And what about something a bit more recent . . . or relevant?”
The pair stood in silence, their unblinking gazes fixed upon one another. Malfurion radiated calmness, which only served to increase Varian’s frustration.
The night elf considered, then tried a different tack. “Much of what you say is true; I will not deny that. I have made many mistakes, but I have sought to learn from them, learned to accept my shortcomings, and strived to do better for those around me. That is something a druid, gladiator, or ruler should always do.”
It was not by accident that the night elf mentioned Varian’s past role. Without saying anything direct, he reminded the king that, while Malfurion had been elsewhere during the most recent troubles, so had Varian. Stormwind had suffered for many years without its rightful monarch to guide it, first for a decade when Onyxia had used her magic to influence Varian following Tiffin’s death, and then after his kidnapping. While Varian had not had any choice in either incident, the fact that the king often yearned for a return to the days when he only had to deal with his own immediate future was something that the night elf would not let be forgotten at the moment.
“Has Genn done anything so terrible other than seek to do what he thought best for his people?” the archdruid went on. “Gilneas has suffered deeply and more than once because of those choices. Genn regrets that and has offered to do everything he can to make amends. Do not judge him as you judge yourself, Varian. He will never stand a chance of redeeming himself, if that is the case.”
Varian grunted. “If that’s all you can say to try to convince me to change my vote, you’ve wasted your breath, Archdruid! Stormwind leaves tomorrow. Whatever the rest of you want to do after that is your own choice.”
“Varian . . .”
“For a place surrounded by forest, it’s damned hard for a man to even get a breath of air! I’ve said all I intend! If you will excuse me . . . ” The king all but shoved past the archdruid and headed toward the edge of Darnassus. He had not gone far when he heard footsteps behind him. The sound served to agitate him further.
“Are you so desperate, night elf?” he snapped as he turned. “The great archdruid—”
Yet, it was not Malfurion but rather Anduin who had followed his father.
“Anduin . . . I thought you’d gone to bed—”
“No . . . I was up. . . . ” There was something secretive in the prince’s voice. “I heard voices . . . I heard everything.”
“With the archdruid? You heard nothing that matters. We still leave tomorrow—”
“I’m not going with you.”
The statement sounded so fantastic, so ridiculous, that at first Varian had to think whether he had actually heard his son speak it. Incredulous, he said, “Go get some sleep. We leave early.”
Anduin gave him a look that Varian usually reserved for himself when dealing with fool-headed courtiers. “You never listen to me. Please listen now, Father. I am not going with you.”
“You’re tired! You—”
Anduin looked exasperated. “I should’ve done what I had planned, but I started to have second thoughts until I heard you and Archdruid Stormrage arguing! He couldn’t make you see sense any more than I ever could, and he’s lived more than ten thousand years!”
“Age doesn’t mean wisdom,” Varian retorted, annoyed that the night elf should have more of his son’s respect than he.
“I’m afraid I know that, Father.” The moment Anduin said it, he looked as if he regretted it. “I’ve not come to renew our argument. I went to my quarters and started to write you a letter explaining everything.”
“Son . . . what—”
The prince held up a hand for silence, again very much mimicking his father’s stance. “I’m no warrior. We both know that. I’ve said it more than once. I’ll never be you. My path lies elsewhere. . . .”