16. Chop wood

[moonshadows]

After how civilly my husband dealt with the emissary from Silvermoon and welcomed the subsequent ambassador, I'd thought it would be safe to let him begin the first diplomatic motions without me. One glance inside the room, however, tells me how wrong I was. Ambassador Firehawk looks ready to declare war, and Varian is leaning forward, insufferably smug, gripped in the talons of battle-lust.

"Varian!" My voice cracks like a whip and the tension breaks so sharply that for a moment, he is blank of any emotion. I step into the room and smile charmingly at the sin'dorei, who looks quite startled. "Ambassador, what was my husband being an idiot about?"

He eyes Varian warily as I take my seat. "Perhaps 'idiot' is not quite the word, your Majesty..."

"No, no, I was being an idiot." Varian waves away any hint of offense, looking oddly relieved and apologetic at the same time. "Your people were right to refuse to aid me against the Horde, and if you can put aside the Alliance's betrayal of you enough to talk to us again, then the Alliance should be able to put the past behind us similarly. Ambassador, have you met my lady wife? She keeps me in check."

The sin'dorei looks at me again, as though seeing me for the first time. "Queen Taretha, forgive me. I almost didn't recognize you. We met briefly in Silvermoon..."

"...at the prince's funeral. Yes, I remember you now. I'm sorry for your peoples' loss."

"You are too kind, your Majesty. May I say that Silvermoon is pleased to see that you have settled to well into your new role, and that we look forward to these negotiations?"

I smile charmingly again. "As long as you understand that you will be negotiating with my lord husband, and not with me."

"Of course. Your Majesty, shall we begin again?"

"Of course, Ambassador."

Varian and Firehawk launch into the murky waters of negotiation again, and I let my mind drift. The details they are discussing are not my concern, only the subtle language of inflection and pose. If I try to focus on what they are actually discussing, I'll get too caught up in the language to see the balance shift. Twice, the negotiations go past 'spirited' and into 'combative' and I call my husband's name sharply to pull him out of his battle-lust. When the two reach a conclusion for the day - something relating to trade routes or shipping rights - the sin'dorei looks at me with glowing respect.

"The rumors were true, it seems," he murmurs under his breath.

I raise one eyebrow. "What rumors?"

He colors delicately. "Just as his Majesty said. You keep him in check." Absently, he glances at the resolution he's just signed, and grimaces. "It seems I under-estimated you, your Majesty. I confess, I thought Queen Taretha's presence would ensure that negotiations favored the Horde."

"I am here to make sure my lord husband does not go out of control and take unfair advantage of you," I say dryly while Varian chuckles. "I am not here to do your job for you, Ambassador."

"I will remember that, your Majesty." He grimaces at the agreement again. "I will not make the same mistake twice. However, I feel that today went well enough to deliver this." Firehawk rummages in his papers for a moment before handing over a very formal sealed letter. The vellum is thick and creamy, although slightly ashen, and the black wax is impregnated with gold dust. Three ribbons, midnight-blue, ebony, and bone-white, wrap around the thick packet and descend from the elaborate seal. "With your permission, Majesties...?"

"Of course, Ambassador," Varian says absently, all his attention on the strange letter, and the sin'dorei quietly leaves the room.

There is silence for a minute. My husband gazes at the seal as though reading omens in a fire, but I barely give it a second glance. It's not the first time I have seen the seal of the Banshee Queen. Finally, he takes a dagger and breaks the wax. The vellum unfolds, revealing elegant, spidery script in an ink just a shade brighter than dried blood.

 

To his Majesty King Varian Wrynn, and his wife Queen Taretha Foxton, greetings from the hand of Sylvanas Windrunner, former Ranger-General of Silvermoon and Banshee Queen of the Undercity.

Your Majesties, I will be blunt. I trust such words will not offend you. The Lich King is dead, damn his eyes, and having enacted my vengeance only leaves me hollow. My subjects, however, are not so afflicted and I am attempting to find purpose in the void of my un-life by seeing to their needs. The greatest of those is the pain caused by the gulf between living and dead. In short, my people are aptly named. We are Forsaken by our living kin, shunned for what we had no say in. I am well aware that your visit to the ruins of our fair city was under unfortunate circumstances, Varian, and that you were not favorably impressed by what you saw. You have no reason to love us, and in truth I share your loathing - but each of us has responsibilities to those we lead. For the sake of our peoples, I ask you to consider allowing an ambassador from the Undercity in your court. Normally, I would expect that such a statement would be met with yelling, the destruction of this letter, and perhaps a military retaliation. However, I have asked my old acquaintance Firehawk to present this only when you seem amenable to at least the discussion of the idea, a state that I hope Taretha's influence has expedited. Send your reply, as harshly-worded as you like, back with Firehawk. Just keep your troops at home.

I remain,

Sylvanas

 

"Did you want to do some yelling, my lord?" I ask archly.

Varian frowns. "Well, I did, but now I'd feel like an uncivilized brute for doing so after being called on it by not one, but two ladies. One of whom isn't even here." Pensively, he folds the letter back up. "I need to think about this. Does she really hate her kind that much?"

"Think back to the Crimson Ring, my lord. Imagine how you would feel if your other half had been killed and buried, leaving Varian Wrynn dead and Lo'gosh forever barred from the life you had known."

He stares at the folded vellum, jaw clenched only slightly less tightly than his fists. "Thank you, my lady. You have just overturned everything I thought I felt towards the undead. I beg you, let me take my leave. I am trying very hard not to punch something until either it, or I, bleed."

"Chop wood, my lord." At his curious look, I shrug. "It's violence channeled into something productive. Thrall used it more than once to keep the hotheads of the Warsong clan from rushing off to start a fight just to have something to do."

Varian's lips peel back in something that is closer to a snarl than a smile. "So I am a hothead, am I?"

"Are you?"

This time, he does snarl. "If this works, my lady, I beg you to not rub it in." He stands and stalks towards the door.

"I won't have to, my lord."

He stops dead at my cool retort.

"Just knowing that I was right will grate on you enough."

He says nothing, but the way his shoulders are tensed speaks quite eloquently. After a moment, he storms out the door and down the hall.