Chapter Text
Anduin attempts to read the parchment before him for what feels like the dozenth time. He rubs at his eyes, but it's no use. His exhaustion is causing the words to bleed together, each sentence blurring into the next until the parchment appears to be more of a blob of ink than a status report.
It’s been six months since he’s been back. Six months since he returned to Stormwind and took back the crown and all the responsibilites that came with it. It certainly hadn't been easy after being on his own for so long, just living off the land, helping out when he could. Learning how to be a person again. He’s done his best to slip back into his role as King. Yet every morning, Anduin stares back at his reflection in the mirror, still unused to it. He looks less unkempt than when he’d first returned. Clean-shaven, his sun bleached hair trimmed short and tidy. He’s even gained back most of the weight he’d lost, replaced with lean muscle from training with Shaw and Bolvar twice a week. He assumes that to most he looks every part the leader he once was. But no matter how hard Anduin tries, it just doesn’t feel…right.
The terrible, shameful truth is all he’d wanted to do after the Jailer’s defeat was run and never look back. And for a time, that was exactly what he did. He took to the roads and skies. He never stayed anywhere for long, too afraid to put down roots. Too afraid of what he might do to the innocent people he met and aided on his travels if he did. No, it was safer for everyone if he just kept to himself. And now that he's back in the city he grew up in, surrounded by people who know and love him, Anduin cannot help but feel much like a stranger in a strange land.
No one here has any idea what he has gone through. The things he’d had to endure. The sacrifices he made to keep his people---to keep everyone---safe. Yet, some still treat him as if the choice to stay, to protect those he cared for, made him a deserter. A coward even, depending on who you ask. It was as if they had completely forgotten that he was the reason many of them were still alive at all.
When Bolvar had opened the portal to the Maw, Anduin saw how much the desolation and despair of the Maw was affecting the heroes that had come through. Even the most stalwart of the Ebon Blade, actual beings of death and suffering, were so affected by the never-ending torment of the place that they feared they would never escape. At that point, Anduin had been able to hold onto his light. It was extremely difficult to call to him in such a place, of course, but he could still feel it deep within whenever the darkness got too much. The heroes that came through didn’t have his strong connection to the Light though. As he watched paladins and death knights alike fall to the Jailer's forced, Anduin knew that even if a spark was all that remained within him, he had to use his Light. He had to be their hope.
And so, in that dire, desperate moment, when the hordes of Mawsworn continued to swarm them and all seemed lost, Anduin called the Light to him. And even in such a cursed and forsaken place, it had come. Golden, radiant warmth had surrounded them, bolstered their allies, and renewed their spirits and hope. And knowing that someone would have to stay behind or none of them would make it out, it was Anduin who had held the Jailer’s forces off until the very last spark of light within him began to dim.
Yet still, even with his light on the brink of flickering out completely, Anduin had not lost hope. The Mawsworn had captured him and imprisoned him in one of the secret chambers in Torghast, but Anduin knew his friends would come for him. They would not just abandon to a place of such torment, at the mercy of an enemy they had never faced before. But that was exactly what they had done. After everything he had sacrificed, after everything he’d gone through, they still expected him to be able to return to Stormwind and sit on his father’s throne as if nothing had occured.
The throne where warriors had sat. Leaders. Heroes.
But he was no hero. Not anymore. Perhaps he never had been. Perhaps his fate had simply been to fail so that others may learn. He wasn't sure anymore, but to say that it had taken him a while to adjust would be an understatement. He had tried to fight it, at first. Had gone through phases of rebellion and at times, outright denial. But at a certain point, he had to accept that he was only fighting the inevitable. He was Anduin Wrynn, King of Stormwind and High King of the Alliance. Terrible things had been done to him and in turn, he had done terrible things. But he still had a duty. A legacy that only he could fulfill. There was no point in dwelling on the past anymore. There was no way for him to take back what he’d done, so all he could do now was focus on moving forward.
Unfortunately, those same allies and loved ones he'd sacrificed so much for back then didn't seem to agree with the way he chose to handle things now. After his return they had kept trying to get him to talk about what happened, about his feelings, about anything at all. But from Anduin's perspective, there was nothing left to say.
What did they expect him to tell them?
That he had done unspeakable things? That there was some shameful part of him that hadn’t hated all of it? That sometimes he still hears a voice in the back of his mind, whispering that the person he was under Zovaal’s control is who he truly is?
It was understandable that they had questions. But Anduin had no idea how he was supposed to look any of them in the eye after what they witnessed, much less explain anything to them. They wanted answers, some kind of reassurance that the things he had done, and the things that had been done to him, hadn’t changed him irrevocably.
But that was exactly the problem.
The worst part of being under Zovaal's domination hadn't been losing his free will, or being forced to fight against his friends and loved ones.
No.
The worst part was that, in some twisted way, a part of him hadn’t cared.
They were all so desperate to believe that he was still the same Anduin they knew before Zovaal had made him into a soulless husk. But that's not who he was anymore. He had come back to them a broken, ruined man and they all knew it. He could see it in their eyes.
They didn’t actually want the truth.
They just wanted to feel better about what happened.
And Anduin couldn't give them that.
⚔
As Anduin's thoughts drift, his grip tightens around the scroll in his hands, leaving creases and wrinkles on the parchment, making it even more difficult to read.
He knows what they think of him.
The first time Shaw’s agents tracked him down, it was Genn who came looking for him. He had stormed into Anduin’s hut in the Barrens, demanding he return to Stormwind, but Anduin hadn’t even looked at him. He simply turned back to the stream, scrubbing at his laundry as if Genn wasn't even there.
You are behaving like a child, Genn had snarled at him, chest heaving as if he were on the verge of shifting right in front of him. Abandoning your kingdom, doing whatever you please, wherever you please. You have a duty, Anduin. You cannot just run away when things don't go the way you would've liked. Your father would be—
It was so long ago that Anduin can’t recall every detail of what happened. What he does remember is the untethered rage he’d felt at Genn’s words, as if he thought Anduin had simply been pouting over a minor inconvenience instead of recovering from having his humanity stripped away by one of the most powerful beings in the Cosmos. The fury he felt that day had come so fast that before he knew it, shadows had curled around his fingers, and Genn’s expression had shifted, his eyes going from anger to fear as soon as he saw it
Anduin hadn’t attacked him, of course. The magic had dissipated as quickly as it had come, but the damage was already done. The last thing Anduin saw before Genn turned and left was the mix of fear and disappointment in his eyes.
It was two years before anyone tried to find him again.
⚔
Sylvanas Windrunner had always had an uncanny ability to see right through him, and when Anduin had shared his troubles about returning to Azeroth with her it had been no different.
She was right. The reason he was afraid to return to his normal life wasn’t truly because he feared any lingering influence from Zovaal.
He was afraid of himself.
Of what he wanted.
What he had enjoyed.
He vividly remembers the night Genn had showed up announced and tried to force him into something he wasn’t ready for. Calling the shadows to him hadn’t been a conscious decision by any means, but once he had? The feeling had been exhilarating. And the look in Genn’s eyes had made him feel strong, truly strong, for the first time since he’d left the realms of death. Maybe the first time ever.
It had felt disturbingly similar to the first time he drove Shalamayne through the chest of a Kyrian, the soft gasp that had escaped their blue lips when the blade pierced their core. How it had felt to watch the light leave their eyes. Anduin knows he should have felt horrified by it, that he should flinch or recoil when those memories surface. But in truth, even when he relives those moments now, all he can feel is power.
Losing his connection to the light had been devastating to him, but after a time, Anduin had found that if he just focused on the blind, unrelenting fury coursing through him, everything else faded away. It may not have been his own anger fueling him, but it had been intoxicating regardless. Not just that, but it helped his mind feel sharper than it had ever been before, unclouded by things like compassion and empathy. .
His father had struggled deeply with tempering his emotions in the years following his return, and although too many years late, Anduin can finally relate. Though that rage was responsible for many of his more unhappy childhood memories, Anduin now understands it was likely the only thing that kept his father going. What made him such a fearless warrior and great leader.
It was almost funny. As a child, Anduin had always viewed his father as being out of control when he was angry. But in that moment, when he’d finally allowed himself to feel the anger and rage he’d pushed down for so long and the shadows had effortlessly began to form around him like a second skin, Anduin hadn’t felt out of control at all. He’d felt focused. Sharp.
Like he could finally see things clearly.
Anger made him stronger.
And he wasn't eager to feel weak again anytime soon.
⚔
Anduin had found the prospect of returning to Azeroth unthinkable at first. So instead, he went back to where it all began and joined Sylvanas in her penance, sometimes going weeks without even speaking to one another as they scoured every corner of the Maw for lost souls. As if it would change anything for either of them.
Whether they wanted to acknowledge it or not, the things they had both gone through had forged a disturbingly intimate bond between them. Sylvanas had been his captor and tormentor, yet she herself had also been a victim of the same magic that had dominated his mind and stripped him of his will. She was the only one who truly understood him now. The only one who knew how it felt to be forced to watch yourself do horrible things, unable to stop it.
In a way, walking alongside her in silence, surrounded by despair and darkness, had been a strange comfort to Anduin. Like he wasn’t quite ready to step back into the light.
But nothing lasts forever.
I know what running does, little lion, Sylvanas said to him one day, a pile of dismembered mawsworn at their feet. This is not who you are. This is not what you want.
And if I don’t know what I want?
Then you must find out what that is, she had told him matter-of-factly, though her eyes had softened slightly once she turned to him. I am no role model, Anduin, and this is no place to heal your wounds.
This place is all I know anymore, Anduin's voice began to rise as he felt a sudden spike of anger that was entirely his own this time, but still felt foreign and wrong. It frightened him, how easily it came now. This place—you—are the only one who knows who I truly am. This is your doing, Sylvanas. I don't think you get to tell me how to cope with it.
Listen to me, Anduin. Sylvanas's voice took on a stern and familiar tone then, every bit the Ranger General Anduin remembered, but there was something else in it too. Concern. Like an older sister who was eternally trying to save the baby brother she had lost. You must be true to yourself or one day you will watch the false version of yourself you fought so hard to maintain be ground to dust beneath the boots of those you hold most dear. I cannot say it is an experience I would recommend.
Anduin had wanted to laugh.
He might have appreciated her concern any other time, but the truth was, he wasn't Lirath. Lirath was an innocent. Even Sylvanas herself had died a brave, noble death, fighting for her people until Arthas had slain her and torn the soul from her body. But Anduin had been denied the mercy of death altogether. Anduin had been forced to watch helplessly as all of his deepest, darkest secrets and desires were pulled to the surface and dangled right before him.
Be true to yourself.
As if that wasn’t exactly why he was there in the first place.
⚔
After that, Anduin had to accept that even a war criminal condemned to an eternity in hell didn’t want his company. So, at last, he left the Maw.
But in all her wisdom, Sylvanas had failed to consider just how unprepared he was to return to the world of the living, and his first attempt resulted in three straight days of panic-induced catatonia.
“Your people need you, Anduin,” Bolvar had said to him once he left the Maw. But what did Bolvar know about serving the people?
He hadn’t even told his own daughter he was alive. He had once been the closest thing Anduin had to a father figure, but when the time came, he hadn’t even said goodbye before sacrificing himself to the Helm. No warning, no explanations. Just another person making a choice for the supposed greater good who expected Anduin to understand and be able to carry on without them.
The bitterness that came so easily to him now was new and unsettling. And it wasn't just Bolvar. He had felt it when trying to speak with Genn and Jaina as well, people he considered family, who he had once trusted implicitly. It felt as though Zovaal had poisoned his mind. Like the compassion and empathy he used to have an abundance of had been replaced with rage and resentment. Sometimes he worried that he'd never be able to get it back.
A darker part of him wondered if he even wanted to.
⚔
After his first attempt to leave failed, Anduin decided to stay in the Shadowlands a little longer, using the excuse that he hadn’t actually seen much of it firsthand. He visited Maldraxxus first, wishing to pay his respects to the Alliance hero, Alexandros Mograine, but it was Draka he spent most of his time with. While they patrolled together, he would tell her stories about Thrall and the Horde, and when she offered to train him, he felt he couldn’t pass up the opportunity.
At first, he was terrible at it.
Being under Zovaal's control for so long had caused the muscle he'd built up over the years to atrophy, and his fighting skills along with it. As he trained, Draka took note of all of this—all of his shortcomings, his weaknesses, his failures. His lack of dexterity with a broadsword, his clumsy movements and minimal stamina. The way he constantly second-guessed himself and misread his opponents, leaving himself open to attacks. Anduin was used to people sugar coating their feedback in a way appropriate for a King, but he was no longer a king and no longer deserved the same respect as one. For a moment, he’d considered just walking away, finding somewhere else to spend his time where he wasn't humiliating himself constantly. Draka, of course, had picked up on it.
"Running is the coward’s way," she said, a knowing look in her eye as she watched him return a runeblade to the weapon rack, arms crossed over her chest. "But you don’t seem like a coward to me. You seem like a boy who needs to prove himself."
Anduin’s chest tightened. He didn't like having his insecurities laid bare like that. It made him feel too exposed, too raw and vulnerable. “I was never a warrior, Draka,” he said quietly, full of self-loathing. “Sure, I put on the armor, I carried my father's sword, but ...I was only ever pretending."
"No one is forcing you to stay, young king," she replied matter-of-factly. "But you are more than what they see. More than even you can see. I only wonder how content will you be, never knowing what you’re truly capable of? Never knowing if that strength was truly yours, or only Zovaal’s?"
Her words chilled Anduin to the bone. The longer he sat with it, the more the idea nauseated him. Is that what they all thought? That without Zovaal's influence he was weak and cowardly? Was he truly useless without the control and guidance of someone else?
No. He wouldn’t accept that. He couldn’t.
But it wasn’t just Zovaal. His father had pushed him to take up a sword, uninterested in how he felt about the matter. The Light had used him as a vessel to achieve it's own ends, then abandoned him when he needed it most. Even his so-called friends and allies had only ever looked at him and saw what he should be, not who he truly was.
Fine. If that's all they thought of him, then he would just have to show them. He would make them see that that he has strengths and abilities of his own. And so, Anduin forced himself to push through every failure, every mistake, until slowly, the movements felt less foreign. Until all the hesitation was gone, and for the first time in what felt like years, he actually felt like he had control over something.
He wasn’t the best, not by a long shot. He doubted he could even be considered a warrior by Maldraxxi standards. But when Draka finally gave him a nod of approval, when Lady Vashj murmured that he might be of use after all, it helped.
Maybe he had never been the king his people needed. Maybe he never would be. But there, at least, he wasn’t a failure. He wasn’t anything. He was simply Anduin.
And that was enough to keep him going.
⚔
He hadn't planned on venturing to Revendreth, but after hearing a familiar name spoken in one of Lady Vashj's briefings, Anduin bid the Necrolords farewell and sought out another prince who had fallen to corruption and failed his people.
He wasn’t sure what he had expected. A kindred spirit, perhaps. Someone who would understand the guilt that gnawed at him, who would have some kind of advice for how he was supposed to deal with it all.
Instead, he found Kael’thas Sunstrider sprawled across a velvet divan, lazily sipping a glass of something thick and burgundy. The very image of hedonism.
"Oh, I do not regret what I did," Kael’thas drawled matter-of-factly, swirling his drink before taking another sip, staining his pale lips dark red briefly before licking the drops of anima from them. “Indeed, were the situation to arise again, I may just make the same choice. Desperate times, desperate measures, as they say.”
Anduin swallowed hard. “Then… how do you bear it?” He didn’t mean to sound so pathetic, but the words slipped out anyway. "The guilt, it's..."
For a moment, Kael’thas just looked at him. Then he threw his head back and laughed, a mocking sound that made Anduin's face flush with heat, a sick feeling twisting in his gut.
"You truly think we are the same don't you? That what happened to you is the same as what happened to me?" Kael’thas smirked, shaking his head. "Tell me, little boy, did you slaughter your own people? Ally with the very demons who destroyed your home? Sell your soul for power? No? Then spare me the poor, tortured boy-king act."
Anduin stiffened. He didn't feel that was fair. It was true that he hadn’t done exactly what Kael’thas or Sylvanas had, but that didn't mean he hadn't suffered just as much from what had been done to him. That he didn't have regrets.
He had been used. Forced to do horrible things. Maybe he hadn't made the choices himself, but did they really think that made it better?
Anduin left Revendreth feeling frustrated and alone, like there would never be anyone who could truly understand him and what he'd gone through. But the more he thought about it, the more he thought that maybe Kael’thas had been right. What was the point of agonizing over the past if the choices weren't his to begin with?
Eventually, Anduin realized that what he'd been searching for all this time was absolution. For someone to tell him that he wasn’t the monster Zovaal had turned him into. But Kael’thas, a man who had done undeniably worse things by his own will, had not willingly sought forgiveness for his deeds. He had simply accepted who he was and dared anyone to judge him for it.
Anduin was suddenly very angry.
Not at Kael’thas Sunstrider, but at himself. At the pathetic, groveling mess he'd become, the one he’d always been. What had it ever gotten him? Nothing. Nothing but the constant, soul-crushing shame of sins he could never undo. Perhaps Kael'thas had been right.
Perhaps Anduin didn’t need to be forgiven.
Perhaps, like Kael'thas, Anduin had nothing to atone for at all.
⚔
When Malfurion took Ysera's place, Anduin hadn't yet made it to Ardenweald, and for that, he was grateful. He couldn't have faced Malfurion, one of the most honorable men he'd ever known, in the state he was in. And the same went for Tyrande. He'd known both of them his entire life. They had watched him grow from infancy into the crown his father once wore, but he was no longer the innocent, optimistic boy they remembered. He wasn’t sure they would recognize the person he had become—or even care to.
His temper was out of control now, his patience hanging on by a thread, and if he saw them, Anduin wasn't confident enough that he'd be able to hold back the sharp words that seemed to sit so eagerly on the tip of his tongue these days.
He had no idea how to tell them they needed to grieve the boy they had known and move on.
He already had.
⚔
He did not return to Bastion.
⚔
Anduin had been scarred. Tainted. His free will had been taken from him, his mind invaded. His consciousness replaced with nothing but a gaping emptiness.
In the months after leaving the Shadowlands, he would often wake in a cold sweat, shivering so hard his teeth chattered, swearing he could still feel Zovaal inside his mind, his icy touch clawing at the edges of his thoughts. Years later, he continued to be haunted by flashbacks and nightmares of death and darkness, of an endless, bone-chilling cold.
But he is home now.
Surrounded by people who loved him. By friends and family. By those who are bound by duty and honor to protect him.
He is safe.
And yet, there are still so many secrets. So many things he still has to hide.
It had taken him months to stop lying to himself. But once everything had settled, once he'd been on his own again, Anduin had come to a disquieting realization.
He hated the Jailer for what he'd done to him. Hated the feel of the mourneblade in his hand, leeching away his soul. Hated the look on Kyrestia's face face before—
But shamefully, there were parts of it he didn’t hate. Some parts he even missed.
No, the horrifying truth was that Anduin didn’t just miss the loss of control that came with being the Jailer's pawn.
He longed for it
Not Zovaal, not the Maw. But the power. The certainty. The release from expectations and duty. The lack of choice.
It wasn’t about submission, not truly. There was just an ironic freedom in having his free will stripped from him and handed to another. When you're just a tool for someone else to wield, there’s no pressure. No expectations to make the right decisions, to carry on your family’s noble legacy, to live up to ideals you don't even believe in anymore. When he had been bound to Zovaal's will, he was no longer Anduin Wrynn, High King of the Alliance, beacon of hope and light. He wasn't even Anduin anymore.
He was nothing.
And it had been liberating.
All of the burdens of running a kingdom, the difficult choices that had to be made, the countless lives depending on him, just—gone. Swallowed up by shadows and pulled into the dark places until he couldn't even remember how much they had been weighing him down. Until he couldn't remember them at all. There was no longer anything to decide, no need to worry about the consequences of his actions. No shame or guilt to drag him down. Because his mind was no longer his own. In the absence of choice, there was only one singular focus: the mission.
And it was simple. Easier.
Anduin had killed without hesitation. Fought without doubt. Every strike was flawless, precise, and cold, every command unflinchingly obeyed. For the first time in years, he hadn’t had to wonder if he was doing the right thing. Because someone else had already decided for him. But when it was over, when he had been freed from Zovaal’s grip, the silence in his mind that followed had been deafening. He knew the should’ve been glad for the freedom, but in the days, weeks, and months following his release, Anduin didn't feel free. He felt…lost.
It was strange and too difficult and twisted to put into words. It was as if he had become addicted to the cool prickle of Zovaal’s touch. Or perhaps the better word would be conditioned. He had begun to associated that empty, icy feeling with being sent on a mission, and the lack of it sent Anduin into a tailspin. Even when he'd left the Shadowlands and began to travel around on his own, he would often unintentionally just sit and wait for hours, forgetting that Zovaal had been defeated and he was free. That there were no orders, no mission, any longer. No one voice in his mind telling him what to do.
Free, Anduin scoffs. Right.
Now that he is back in Stormwind, struggling to keep his people safe from yet another threat, Anduin finds himself yearning for the way he’d felt under Zovaal’s command more often than not. He'd thought on more than one occasion how ironic it was that he was a king, yet hadn't truly tasted freedom until Zovaal had removed the option entirely. Because the truth was the Anduin they knew had never really existed. That humble, sensitive, compassionate persona he’d crafted had only ever been just that: a carefully constructed facade. One he'd built to survive.
For over twenty years, Anduin had been hiding any part of himself that didn’t align with the image he presented. But all the emotions he’d swallowed down, the things he’d never allowed himself to feel for fear of being exposed, had to go somewhere. And when the illusion of his carefully constructed image shattered, those emotions—dark and twisted from years of being locked away—flooded into Anduin with such force that it left him reeling.
Rage.
Bitterness.
Resentment.
Vengeance.
All at once, he had felt the full weight of everything he’d denied himself. And the most surprising part was he liked it.
For the first time in his life, he no longer had to pretend to be something he wasn’t.
It had felt good.
But now, it only terrifies him. The mask that had once brought him comfort and safety feels suffocating now. Heavy. Keeps slipping at the edges like it no longer fits.
And every day, it takes more and more effort to keep it in place. Sometimes he wonders what would happen if he didn't, if he just let it fall completely.
But ultimately, it doesn't matter. The one thing Anduin knows for certain is that no one can ever know.
⚔
Thankfully, a knock at the door pulls him out of his melancholic thoughts.
“Yes, come in,” he calls out distractedly, assuming it’s Genn or Shaw with more paperwork. But when the door opens and his new advisor steps inside, Anduin groans.
“Light,” he mutters under his breath like a curse, dragging a hand down his face as he realizes how long Nero must have been waiting for him. Anduin had agreed to join him in the library at nine to go over some recently discovered texts that may provide information on Xal’atath, and it's now…half past eleven. No wonder the words had all been running together. “My apologies, Nero. It must've slipped my mind. Again.”
Despite not recognizing the unfamiliar face on the council upon his return, Anduin had quickly hit it off with Stormwind’s new historian, a void elf by the name of Nero Brightflame. After being thoroughly vetted by both Mathias and Wrathion, and their special agents, Nero had been appointed to the court during Anduin’s absence as a diplomatic gesture. A decision that had proven invaluable with Void activity now on the rise. Considering that Nero was a mage with a connection to the void, he and Anduin had much in common, but it wasn’t just that.
There was just something so relieving about the fact that Nero had not known him before everything. He hadn’t watched Anduin grow up in his father’s shadow or known the foolishly optimistic child he had once been. Which meant he hadn’t been there to witness all of Anduin’s failures either, all of his poor judgment, his selfishness that got people hurt, or worse. While Anduin's friends sometimes coddled him and treated him like something fragile and broken that might cut them if they didn't handle him properly, Nero never did. When his allies and mentors expressed their disappointment in his choices, Nero stayed silent. He had not known Anduin long enough to have the same expectations of him. He was the only one who never walked on eggshells around him, never reminded him of his secrets and failures. He was the only one Anduin never felt like he was disappointing. Nero was like a blank slate. Almost like an opportunity to start over.
Still, he's not irrational. Anduin is aware that as long as he is wearing the crown, he has to keep the mask up, but at least around Nero he doesn't have to worry about it slipping so much.
“I swear, I fully intended to go over those texts with you this evening, but I guess I lost track of time. I’ve been so—" Anduin pauses mid-sentence, the headache he’s been ignoring for the past few hours suddenly spiking into a sharp, throbbing pain behind his eyes. He tries not to let it show, but he can't help but wince slightly, brows furrowing as he presses a hand to his forehead.
A look of concern crosses Nero's face as he steps forward. "Your Grace?”
"I’m fine,” Anduin holds his hand up as he gives a strained smile. "I’ve just had a lot on my mind, and I suppose it’s starting to catch up with me."
"You’ve been working too hard," Nero says, then steps behind him, looking over Anduin’s shoulder at the parchments scattered on the desk before him. “How long have you been staring at these? And how long have you been in pain because of it?”
Anduin sighs and rubs at his temples. "I appreciate the concern, Nero, but truly, it’s nothing. Was there something else that you needed to see me about?"
The corners of Nero's mouth twitch slightly and without warning, he conjures a glowing, golden orb in his palm. The bright light shines directly into Anduin's face and he throws his arm up to block it out instinctively, a groan escaping his mouth.
“Hmm. It doesn't seem like nothing,” Nero says as he allows the orb to dissipate, then gently bats Anduin's hands away from his temples and replaces them with his own. “If I may speak freely, my king, your willingness to suffer needlessly is not heroic. It is foolish.”
Nero’s words make Anduin bristle slightly, but the strange coolness of his fingertips as he begins to gently rub Anduin’s temples is so soothing that he forgets to protest. Slowly, the throbbing ache in his head begins to ease and Anduin closes his eyes, trying to focus on the relief from the pain rather than the nervous fluttering in his chest, but his thoughts begin to drift anyway. At this hour it isn't likely, but Anduin can’t help the paranoid thought that bubbles up that someone could walk in at any moment and see them like this. It's ridiculous, Anduin knows that. A reflex, born from years of being under constant scrutiny, a habit ingrained in him from a young age. They aren't even doing anything inappropriate. Nero is just trying to help. But that doesn't make the nervous feeling in Anduin’s stomach settle.
Never forget, Anduin, Varian had said. When you are king, every decision, every moment, every mistake will be under constant scrutiny. Privacy is a luxury reserved for those who do not wear the crown.
Anduin shifts slightly in his seat, suddenly acutely aware of how close Nero is standing. There's a slight chill that radiates off his body as opposed to a human's usual body heat that Anduin finds intriguing. It's not the same type of chill he feels standing next to Darion or Bolvar though. It's not cold, exactly, more like a complete absence of warmth.
Anduin thinks about how close they've become over the past few months. As he’d worked to get his bearings back, Nero had become one of his closest friends, and eventually became part of the small circle of people Anduin feels he can truly trust. He's tried desperately to ignore the chemistry between them, because even if Nero were to return his feelings in some way, it wouldn't be a good idea. There are far more important things for him to think about anyway. He just needs to put it out of his mind and put a stop to it before—
Well, he just needs to put a stop to it.
“Nero," Anduin says just as Nero’s thumbs slide down from his temples to the base of his neck. "I’m truly fine. I'll send a runner to the apothecary in the morning for some healing elixirs if it would make you feel better, but it's nothing I can't handle.”
Nero hums in the back of his throat in acknowledgment, but doesn't stop what he's doing. As he gently pushes his fingers into Anduin’s tense shoulders, the pressure eases a knot of tightness in his neck, and Anduin can’t help but let out a pleased sigh of relief.
"You work too hard.” Nero’s voice is soothing in a way that makes Anduin feel less like pushing back. "It isn’t weak to accept help now and again.”
Anduin nods, the corners of his eyes stinging with emotion. He doesn't hear much of that kind of sentiment lately. Sure, Jaina has been fussing over him, and even Genn has been in his own way, but Anduin knows what they truly want, and it's not for him to rest. What they want Anduin cannot give.
As Nero continues to slowly and gently work out the rest of the tension, Anduin realizes just how exhausted he is. He can’t remember the last time he managed to get more than four or five hours of uninterrupted sleep. It isn't long before the pain fades into a barely noticeable buzz and Anduin's eyelids begin to grow heavy, the worries of someone walking in on them forgotten entirely.
“Feels nice,” he murmurs softly as he shoulders instinctively relax into the touch. Since the reports of Xal'atath working with a new faction of Nerubians began coming in, Anduin hasn't had the luxury of taking the time to relax. But tonight, a voice in the back of his mind insists that he deserves this, and this time, Anduin doesn't have the energy to disagree.
"Mm," Nero hums behind him. "And here I thought you had no need of my talents.”
Anduin shifts slightly, cheeks warming. “I suppose I have been quite stressed," he murmurs, lowering his head to give Nero better access. It's almost like the more he relaxes, the harder it is to tune out the whisper in the back of his mind urging him to give in, let go. Just as he does, Nero's thumbs suddenly dig into a large knot, and the spike of pain is followed by an intense wave of pleasure that follows, one that has Anduin gasping sharply, fingers curling tightly around the edge of his desk as his vision blurs out of focus. "Light-"
"You've been carrying too much weight on these shoulders, my King." Nero’s breath is cool as it brushes against the back of Anduin's neck. "You should not have to carry it all alone.”
“Mm, yes, if only there were someone else to do it," Anduin replies, his voice trailing off as the whispers grow louder, almost eager. He can feel all of his stress and worries, insecurities and anxieties, beginning to fade into the back of his mind. The whispers are right. He should just give in. He's ready. He just wants to let it all go, he—
Suddenly, the doors to Anduin's chambers swing open and Wrathion strides into the room, a mixture of concern and exasperation written across his face as he throws his hands up.
“There you are. I’ve been looking for you all over this bloody Keep.” He stops short, squinting at Nero. “What is he doing here?”
⚔
Nero tenses at Wrathion's sudden entrance, but doesn’t remove his hands from Anduin’s shoulders. “I am assisting the king,” he replies bluntly, offering no further explanation.
Wrathion’s presence snaps Anduin out of his fugue, and still blushing slightly, quickly puts an appropriate distance between himself and Nero.
“It’s the middle of the night, Wrathion,” he says, feigning a yawn as he straightens up the dossiers on his desk. “Where else would I be?”
"Ah," Wrathion waves a hand dismissively. "I forget how you humans and your quaint customs revolve around the sun's position in the sky. But on a more serious note, why is that elf in your quarters this late?" He leans in, lowering his voice to a sultry murmur, “And here I thought I was special."
Nero’s expression remains neutral, though the muscle in his jaw tenses briefly. “As I said, the king needed assistance, and as his advisor, I offered my services. “I fail to see how any of this concerns you.”
Wrathion turns to glare at Nero. “Oh, I’m sure you offered him plenty," he replies dryly.
“Wrathion,” Anduin hisses, pulling him aside with a quick, apologetic glance at Nero. “What in the world is your problem? Nero was just helping me with some new information on Xal’atath. Which if you recall, we don't have a whole lot of. What did you need?”
Nero’s lips press into a thin line as Anduin tugs Wrathion a few steps away.
“Actually, I had something of great importance to discuss with you,” Wrathion replies, his tone dripping with smugness as he looks over at Nero. "But it seems you're... indisposed."
"Your Grace," Nero interrupts with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "I believe today has been difficult enough for you. Perhaps it would be better to hear what your friend has to say in the morning after you've had some rest.”
Coincidentally, just as Nero speaks, Anduin feels an inexplicable wave of exhaustion wash over him, as if the day's events hit him all at once, making it hard to think clearly.
"I'm sorry, but I think Nero's right," Anduin finally says, rubbing his forehead. "I'm sure whatever you have to share can wait until morning, Wrathion."
“But—” Wrathion roughly pulls Anduin aside again, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone with him.”
Nero crosses his arms, a trace of amusement in his eyes as he casually leans against the wall.
“Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” Anduin’s voice carries just enough for Nero to overhear. “If I remember correctly, Wrathion, you were the one who ended our casual fling. Or have you forgotten? You don’t get to have opinions on how I live my life anymore.”
Wrathion’s expression darkens. “That may be so, but just because I ended it, doesn’t mean I want you running into the arms of some random elf off the street. Gods only know where he’s been.”
At that, Nero looks up from examining his cuticles to find Wrathion glaring at him. Arching a brow, he lazily pushes off the wall and strides toward them.
"I believe the king is more than capable of making his own decisions without a spawn of Deathwing providing its input.”
At Nero's insult, Wrathion steps forward, radiating with indignation. Anduin tries to step in and break them up before it escalates any further, but neither pays him any mind.
“Watch your tongue, elf," Wrathion snarls. "Or I will rip it out of your pretty throat."
“Careful, Wrathion," Nero says, an uncharacteristic smirk playing at his lips. "You’d do well to remember where you are, lest you wake the entire keep with your tantrum. Now, if you’re done, why don’t you go slither back to wherever it is dragons go to brood. I don't think the king needs any more of your theatrics tonight.”
After having known Wrathion for over a decade and having fought alongside him many times over the years, Anduin sees it the moment he reaches for his dagger. It’s not unlike him to be impulsive or confrontational, but Anduin never would have expected Wrathion to go so far as to actually draw a weapon on one of his friends. Thankfully, just as Wrathion moves to attack, Anduin's instincts kick in and with barely any effort, he pins Wrathion to the wall with a mass of writhing shadows.
“You do not threaten my council.”
There is an eerie reverberation in Anduin's voice as he holds Wrathion there, his eyes—usually a soft gray-blue—an inky, seemingly endless black. It only lasts a moment though, then the shadows dissipate, and Wrathion slumps to the ground, Anduin’s eyes and voice the same as they have always been.
"Now get out.”
For the first time that Anduin can remember, Wrathion is speechless. He watches as the black dragon clenches his jaw, then dusts his robe and pants off, and levels one last glare at Nero.
"I was only trying to protect you," he hisses, turning back to Anduin, “from him."
Suddenly, an unexpected warmth settles on the small of Anduin's back as Nero steps behind him again and Anduin startles, the casual possessiveness in the touch making his breath hitch.
“That is interesting," Nero says, wholly unbothered. "Because it seems your king just had to step in to protect me from you."
Wrathion stares at the hand on Anduin's back in disdain for a moment before looking back up at Nero. "You've poisoned his mind," he says, narrowing his eyes. "You’re manipulating him. I don’t know how you’ve done it, but -”
"Enough," Anduin snaps. His exhaustion has finally settled in and he's losing the will to listen to any more of their barbs and bickering. "Wrathion, Nero is my advisor and my friend, and regardless, I don't need protecting. I appreciate your concern, but right now, I would like you to leave."
Wrathion's eyes flash with hurt. Anduin can tell he wants to say more, but thankfully, he only shoots one last glare in Nero's direction before turning on his heels and stalking out of the room.
A beat passes, then Anduin lets out a heavy sigh.
"I’m sorry you had to see that," he says. “Wrathion's accusations were unacceptable. I don't know what that was about. It's really not like him.”
“It seems the two of you have history,” Nero muses. Anduin’s chest goes tight, but he was expecting this. Wrathion wasn't exactly being discreet.
"Yes, well. Wrathion and I,” Anduin sighs again, running a hand through his hair, still not used to how short it is now. “It's…complicated. We were young and it started out as a friendship that grew over the years, but I. Well, I developed deeper feelings for him that he didn’t return."
The last part comes out in a rush, as if he’s afraid someone might overhear. Even he doesn't want to hear most of that out loud.
“Light,” he breathes out as he leans against the wall, eyes falling shut. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”
“You owe me no apologies, Your Grace,” Nero murmurs as he lays a hand on Anduin’s shoulder. “Your friend’s protectiveness is… admirable.”
Anduin’s not sure if it's from exhaustion, Wrathion’s interruption, or something more, but with his defenses weakened, he lets out a quiet confession that feels too large to hold within himself any longer.
I never wanted this.
Nero’s grip on his shoulder suddenly tightens, his gaze turning so intense so abruptly that it steals the breath from his lungs. He swallows dryly as Nero takes a step closer to him, heart pounding as he looks up, their faces mere inches apart.
For a fleeting moment, Anduin feels a wave of inexplicable fear and dread come over him, but before he can question it, Nero’s expression shifts again. He reaches out and cups Anduin’s cheek, the gentle touch a stark contrast to the coldness Anduin had just seen in his eyes, and Anduin’s chest goes tight as a familiar ache rises inside him.
It’s shameful to want this so badly. Pathetic, that something as simple as physical touch could stir that familiar heat in his core, make him feel so desperate. But even as he fights it, the hunger only grows. He’s denied himself the comfort of another for so long, out of fear of seeming weak, or worse—being rejected. It’s always felt too risky to let himself want things, to admit that he has needs. What happens when he accepts it, only to have it ripped away? What happens if he dares to reach out and ask for what he needs only to be let down or humiliated? But another voice, one that has grown increasingly louder since returning to Stormwind, says after everything he’s endured, why should he keep denying himself? Doesn’t he deserve this? Just one moment of warmth, of being wanted. Not for his leadership or his legacy, but for who he is?
When Anduin looks up again, Nero’s gaze is so intense Anduin doesn't think he could look away even if he tried. His heart pounds against his ribs, and for a moment, time seems to stop. Nero’s thumb brushes over his cheekbone, so light it makes him shiver. He lets out a soft, surprised gasp, and Nero’s gaze flicks down to his mouth and lingers. Anduin's breath catches in his throat. When his eyes fall shut, he feels the light drag of Nero’s thumb across his bottom lip, and something hot twists in his gut.
And then—just when he’s certain Nero is going to lean in and close the space between them—Nero pulls away.
“I should go,” he says, clipped and uneasy, then turns without waiting for a response. His steps are brisk as they echo down the hallway, as if putting distance between them is the only way to keep himself from turning back.
Anduin watches his new friend leave in stunned silence, fingers curling into fists at his sides. The rejection brings hot tears to his eyes, and he quickly blinks them away, fighting to breathe through the tightness in his chest. He was stupid. How could he let himself believe, even for a second, that he was worth wanting? A son, a priest, a king, a weapon. He had never been anything but a tool for others to use. Even Wrathion could attest to that, having once done the same. It seemed to be all he was good for.
After putting everything away and undressing, Anduin attempts to sleep in his warm bed full of furs and silks, but like most nights since his return, it's no use. After an hour of tossing and turning, he finally get to sleep the same way he did during all those years away, curled up on the cold stone floor with only the darkness to cover him. A reminder that the shadows are the only thing that would never leave him.