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Darion often found himself sick of the lavishness of Stormwind Keep. Historically, the southernmost human kingdom was the least luxurious, but now it was the only one still technically standing, and ‘by default on a technicality’ still made them heads and shoulders above what Darion was used to. Sure, he had grown up the son of a lord, but his childhood home was modest, and it was simply his father, his brother, and him. Meanwhile, Anduin’s study was larger than every bedroom smashed together in that stead in Brill, with people constantly walking the halls just outside, one impulsive decision away from finding out Darion was here, and it irritated Darion on some level that he couldn’t quite identify. He chalked it up to his undeath.
Anduin poured a cup of tea for Darion, as he always did during his visits. Darion never drank it and had tried multiple times to convey to Anduin that he would not drink it. Anduin remarked that he felt awkward if he didn’t, and instead imposed that awkwardness on Darion as he never touched his cup. While Anduin faltered at that societal burden, Darion was unmoved, and thus the full cup of tea sat on the small side table by where Darion sat, as always. “How have things been?” Anduin said.
“Constant,” Darion replied. Right now, the rest of the four horsemen were graverobbing, and that wasn’t the type of news he’d like known to anyone among the living. He glanced down at the cup of tea. If he focused, he could feel the simmering annoyance of Whitemane halfway across the world as she was forced to dig up graves. If she was smart, she would’ve been employing ghouls to do it, but her stubborn pride refused to let her. It was the one thing she maintained her refusal to do, and Darion would be lying if he said he didn’t admire her commitment to her principles. “How has the war been?”
“It's war,” Anduin said with a mournful sigh. “I rather not speak of it, if it's all the same to you.”
Darion nodded. At the very least, any reports about a surplus of missing bodies or dug up graves would not have the finger pointed at Darion this time. Trollbane and Whitemane had their orders—if they were following them carefully, Darion had no idea. At least there was the plausible excuse of Sylvanas Windrunners bolstering her own ranks, rather than the much more tenuous idea that the Ebon Blade were taking them in the night. Nazgrim's task was more difficult, but the orc, while more temperamental, also had more patience than the other two, as only an orc that served under Hellscream could. “What do you wish to speak on, then?”
How deep do orcs dig graves again? Trollbane’s voice came through the shared connection between the horsemen, impressed into Darion’s thoughts.
“I have been struggling to get my thoughts untangled about things—” Anduin started.
We burn our dead when at war, Nazgrim responded.
“—and I’ve been in search of methods to do so.”
“Are you asking me for methods?” Darion asked.
…What the hell am I digging up?
A flash of amusement came from Whitemane.
“No, I’m… fairly certain I can guess the methods you’d suggest.” Anduin had walked over to his desk, riddled with papers and sealed scrolls and letters and a couple books. Darion traced his movements carefully. “I’ve taken up poetry.”
Darion narrowed his eyes slightly. He took a moment to think if he somehow missed something in the dualling conversations, but he was certain he had completely followed Anduin up until this point. “Okay?” he said. This was not the unsteady ground he thought he would be treading today.
“Have you ever written poetry before?”
Darion almost wanted to cross the room and slap the young king for such an inane question. That want did not manifest in any meaningful way, other than a sharp look of annoyance that he shot Anduin’s direction. “What about me strikes you as a poet, your majesty?”
“You drew breath at one point,” Anduin said, keeping his voice level. “Do not say that as if it is an outrageous question.”
“You and I had very different childhoods, your majesty,” Darion said.
Well? Whitemane asked expectantly.
Anduin ran his fingers along the edge of the table. “We both grew up in times of war. You’re still of noble birth, as am I. Our circumstances, while drastically different, rhyme.”
Well what? Nazgrim parroted back.
Oh good, a poetry analogy. Darion rolled his eyes. Anduin was unbearably pretentious sometimes.
What was it, Trollbane? Whitemane pressed.
“I was the son of a veteran, granted a title and some land for his service,” Darion started.
Oh, uh, I’m not entirely sure? Trollbane said.
“—not the son of a king and inheritor of a nation.”
“Are you telling me you didn’t have hobbies as a child?”
“Not poetry,” Darion spat.
I believe it’s a trogg burial ground.
Anduin sighed, and silence grew at length. Well, almost.
Or it might be what they use as a latrine. I’m not sure.
Get to work, Darion scowled internally.
We can work and speak at the same time, Highlord, Whitemane sneered. Try it sometime.
I am in the middle of something important, Darion hissed. I could do without conversations of trogg shit in my head as I do it.
Maybe next time you’ll reconsider raising the dead, then.
Darion’s only response to Whitemane for that remark was immense irritation, and the older woman seemed to have enough sense to not push any farther. The psychic link was useful, Darion couldn’t deny that; it had been difficult getting used to everyone’s presence, now bound together with Kel’thuzad’s magnum opus on the death knights, but it had quickened their reaction times incredibly. That said, he dearly missed the silence of having his own mind. It was one of the only things he truly longed for in undeath.
“This is neither here nor there,” Anduin eventually said, and Darion’s attention was brough back to his nice study, lavishly furnished to a disgusting degree. In a brief moment of lucidity, Darion wondered if he’s always been this easily irritated. “Have you ever thought about writing poetry? I find it rather meditative.”
Darion raised an eyebrow but fought for civility within himself. “No. I have no care for the self-flagellation involved.”
Anduin looked back over, his natural blue eyes finding Darion’s unnaturally blue ones. He seemed distraught over Darion’s words. “Self-flagellation?”
With a half-hearted and useless gesture that conveyed little, Darion said, “I find poetry to be one of two things: either the romanticizing of the unromantic or self-flagellation.” During the Northrend expedition, Darion had heard in passing from Tirion about there being poems about his sacrifice at Light’s Hope. The man intended it to be a light, humorous anecdote. Darion was only aggressively annoyed from it. His death, the sacrifice of his own soul, was reduced to nothing more than fodder for drunken bards.
“Is there something wrong with making something romantic?” Anduin asked.
“You know how war is. Is anything romantic in it?” Darion asked. “The mangled bodies, the gore and viscera everywhere, the disease that soon breeds and the rats that feast on the carrion—”
“Enough,” Anduin sharply cut off, turning away from the man once again. Darion belatedly realized that there was a smile across his face at the mere thought. Had Anduin noticed, or had he simply thought that Darion was laying on the horrors of war far too thick? Did it matter? Darion licked his lips before he could consciously stop himself, then forced himself calm as Anduin continued. “There’s other topics to write about other than war, and I still don’t know what self-flagellation is supposed to mean.”
“Oh please,” Darion remarked. “You’re a priest. You know exactly what I mean.”
Anduin looked incredibly annoyed with Darion for the briefest moment before he gained control of his expression once more. It was good to know they held mutual feelings for this conversation.
Don’t be a dick, the errant thought came. It took him a moment to realize that it was his own.
“I may have my ideas about what that means, but I don’t know what it means coming from you,” Anduin said, only the faintest edge to his words as he took up his cup of tea. “Especially in regard to rhyming words on paper.”
“If it’s not romanticizing war, or other gruesome events, it’s often just a self-flagellation disguised as self-reflection. Picking apart your perceived flaws, listing all your vices and fears, and writing them all down and presenting it as art is the epitome of pride, just disguised as humility. In my opinion.” He tacked that on belatedly; it would soften whatever Anduin’s response was. Not that he needed it softened, really, but there were only so many times Darion could leave after them being at each other’s throats all night before he simply would stop being invited. He liked arguing, he liked the healthy anger it brought, and he knew that the pious king liked it too, if simply because he needed to be right about everything, but the moment Darion threatened that a bit too much, and he suddenly lost his convenient excuse out of graverobbing.
“Sometimes it’s simply nice to get the thoughts out,” Anduin said. “It’s not a conscious effort to simply make something self-aggrandizing of one’s humility. Not all of them, at any rate.”
“I don’t think that my thoughts are ones that particularly should be gotten out, your majesty.” Anduin would think that it was in reference to the dark thoughts and cravings that made the death knights what they are, and it was, in some part. But right now, Darion was still fairly annoyed that the peace of his own mind was used to converse about trogg shit.
“Actually,” Anduin said, “I think the insight of a death knights’ thoughts is sorely needed. With that, I think sympathy would come much easier to the living.”
“Do you think any death knight wants the sympathies of the living?” Darion snapped before he could stop himself.
“I think that they need it if they want to not be reviled by the living,” Anduin pointed out, his tone sharp like shattered glass.
What’s the ruling on pressed soldiers? Trollbane asked.
Darion tried not to physically frown as he was pulled from the conversation in front of him. What do you mean?
There’s a lot of pressed soldiers in Stormsong Valley. As in, most of the dead.
“Your people may not want sympathy, but sympathy requires understanding—”
Find that in the trogg shit, did you? Whitemane snarked.
“—and understanding is the only way anything will be accomplished.”
They’ll be no good to us, Darion said. Disregard them.
Aren’t we doing the same? Nazgrim piped up. Pressing them, I mean?
“I feel like you’re not even listening to me, sometimes.”
Darion’s eyes flicked to Anduin’s, who was searching his face openly. It was times like these that he was glad he didn’t have the entire Ebon Blade in his head. Moral inquiries later. “I have a lot on my mind, I suppose.” Anduin’s eyes brightened at that, and before he could open his mouth, Darion said, “No, I will not be writing poetry about it.”
Anduin gave Darion his winning smile and laughed. “You know, you can confide in me at any time.”
“I don’t think you want to know what is in my mind,” Darion said.
“Of course I do.” Anduin appraised Darion with a sad smile. “I want to know how best to support the undead within the Alliance, and I want to know how best to support a good friend of mine.”
Darion, perhaps, should not have responded with an incredulous stare. “You need to remember that understanding can also lead to well-grounded hatred as well. Sometimes, it is better to simply not understand, especially in regard to the depths of what the Ebon Blade has gone through and done.”
“Is that so?” Anduin asked.
“I have done things that you would despise me for, if you simply knew of them. Things I did with my own will.”
“I’m sure you had your reasons,” Anduin murmured.
“And you’d be willing to award me such blind trust, over actions and motives that you don’t know?”
“Yes, because you’re a good person,” he said, words quiet, but firm. He looked to Darion, his eyes holding both childlike innocence and ruthless cunning. He said those words because he believed them, only somewhat in naivety. “And I know this, because a lesser man would’ve either been ousted from leadership or would’ve driven the Ebon Blade to the ground altogether.”
Darion had long stopped being concerned with the idea of being a good person, though, in the wake of Tirion’s death, it had been harder to grapple with. Anduin’s notions were childish, but so was the notion that Darion could convince him to see sense. From what he knew of the man, Anduin was only capable of learning lessons firsthand, and painfully. It simply wasn’t worth it to show him just how wrong he really was. Besides, it wasn’t long before a report crossed his desk about empty graves from one of his commanders.
For now, Anduin left from his desk and crossed towards Darion. Darion watched his every step, as if waiting for an opponent to make the first move, waiting on that twitch of their arm or pull of their leg that gave them away to meet them with a counterstrike. There was no sweep of his runeblade to meet Anduin as he stood in front of Darion, and Anduin took the opportunity to climb into Darion’s lap instead. Darion grumbled, off put and only having a moment to readjust himself as Anduin heaved himself into a kneeling position on top of Darion, a leg on either side of Darion’s.
“I know you don’t believe me,” Anduin said, his voice as soft as the hands he cupped Darion’s face with. Darion’s hands found Anduin’s hips out of necessity. “But it’s true, and I’m right.”
Darion rolled his eyes and scoffed. Unbelievable—
With a laugh, Anduin kissed him. He tasted like that lightawful tea he insisted on having, the wine he must have had with his dinner, and the truly addicting taste of life. It was indulgent, a small taste of something forbidden. There were many Darion could taste, to sate his hunger on, but this was one of the few that there’d be dire ramifications about. No one missed a hermit, only a few missed a farmer or a hunter roaming the forests, but a king? The idea that Darion could so quickly tear his teeth into the young man’s throat and start a worldwide disaster in an instant made some ancient part of him ache, one borne from his time in Scourge, the need to cause chaos setting his nerves alight. It would be so quick. All he had to do—
Your “something important” is killing someone?
Like a sudden blast of freezing water, Sally Whitemane’s voice killed the mood. It was fortuitous that she did, but Darion was still immensely frustrated from it. I’m not— he stopped himself. There would be no good explanation for this. He pulled from Anduin, who parted easily, but fixed Darion with an inquisitive look after a moment.
“A copper for your thoughts?” Anduin asked.
“Not for all the coins in your coffers.”
Anduin smiled wide before he could swallow it down, feigning annoyance. “Well then, if you’re not going to tell me, I suppose I’ll just have to share my poetry with you.”
“You were going to do that regardless.”
Are you… Trollbane hesitated.
“Maybe,” Anduin conceded with a sly grin he didn't bother to hide, getting up from Darion’s lap.
Are you seeing someone?
Light strike him down, this was going to be impossible.