25. Damn him

[moonshadows]

“Taretha, may I come in?”

I look up from my quiet chair in the study, one finger marking my place as I close my book. My lord husband is not normally this formal regarding any room not in the Queen’s wing, and the use of my proper name has long indicated that he is speaking sincerely. Whatever he’s come to discuss, it deserves my full attention. “Of course, Varian.”

Hesitantly, he takes a seat across from me, hands nervously kneading his thighs. “Next month is the first day of spring. It will have been one year since our wedding,” he clarifies at my blank look. “Publically, of course, we will be celebrating your first year as queen. But privately…it’s tradition to give gifts. What can I give you, Taretha? A day without me in it?”

Our wedding. The words sit in my throat, heavy, bringing back all the terror and uncertainty I’d felt a year ago. Although Varian has proven himself a hundred times better than Blackmoore, and my dislike for him has faded significantly, his first reaction is to give me space and mine is to take it. The twin whispers of guilt and guilty longing chide me; I know his love hasn’t dimmed, and it would be punishing him to make him spend our anniversary alone. I remember his wordless delight as he lifted my veil just as clearly as my panic as I huddled beneath my covers that night.

“Shouldn’t I also be giving you a gift?”

If Varian hears the stilted tone of my words, he makes no outward reaction of concern. “Are you glad you married me?” he asks instead. “Not that you became queen of Stormwind – are you glad you married me?”

I want-

The thought is aborted by a sharp spike of fear at surrendering even that much before a man with as much power – physical, political, emotional – as he has. As Blackmoore had. I fight it back, but Varian does not miss the struggle. After a moment, he gives a grim nod.

“That’s what I thought. Your continued tolerance of my presence is my gift; every day I see you, my heart fills with joy. Is there anything I can give you that would make you even a tiny bit as happy?”

“Can you erase the scars Blackmoore left on me?” Somehow, the words emerge from my lips without my being aware that I even intended to say them.

Varian’s eyes are filled with molten devotion I haven’t seen in months, and for the first time an answering heat sparks somewhere inside me. His voice is low, urgent and husky as he says, “There’s nothing I’d rather do, but I can’t unless you let me.”

Suddenly, my mind is filled with thoughts of my husband erasing the memories of my abuse by overwriting them.

-rough hands on my hips, gentle-

-lips hot against my throat, searing-

But then the feel of Blackmoore’s beard on my skin intrudes, jarring, and my throat closes on a scream. Across from me, Varian looks alarmed.

“I’m sorry, Taretha. I shouldn’t have said anything. Please, just forget I asked. I’ll arrange to be out of the city on the first day of spring, and you can do whatever you like.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me to my tangled desire and terror.

 

The next few weeks are a flashback to the first few weeks after the wedding – unspoken tension sings between us. I snap at him, and then swallow guilt when he gamely bears my displeasure, either with stoic calm or by courteously removing himself from my presence. Unlike those first few weeks, however, it is not hatred that makes my tongue sharp. Would that it were so simple. No, it is fear, because a growing part of me wishes for that which – out of respect for me – he is not offering, and the very notion of welcoming him safely into the harbor of my heart sends me nearly into a panic. Ancestors know I try unfairly to twist my fear into hatred for my husband, but the memory of his pleading eyes sabotages my attempts.

True to his word, Varian is out of Stormwind City on the first day of spring, taking a tour of Redridge to see how the border troops stationed there have weathered the winter. I sequester myself in the privacy of the Queen’s Garden where no one will hear me fret to Golthak. My faithful shadow endures three of my panic attacks as I try to reconcile my treacherous impulses with my overzealous fear before finally suggesting that I broach the subject with my husband rather than continuing to make him suffer for my indecision. That results in a fourth bout of him rumbling reassurance at me until I am numb and worn out enough to agree, Broll’s words echoing in my mind.

When you’re ready to let him help you…

…don’t think he doesn’t know.

“Do it after the ball,” Golthak suggests with his habitual shortness. “Nothing scheduled. He’ll expect you to avoid him.”

It’s true, I know. Particularly with how unjustly hostile I’ve been towards him. Since the event commemorating my coronation is only two days away, I won’t have much time to fret about it.

“Take that day off,” I command Golthak. “I trust him. You trust him. Whatever happens – even if I can’t bring myself to tell him anything – I want him to know that much.”

He pulls me into a hug, and for just a moment I pretend that the broad, firm chest and thick, strong arms belong to my brother.

As if he were reading my mind, he asks, “You going to tell the Warchief?”

“Not yet.” My cheeks heat with shame. “Not until I can tell him something that won’t worry him.”

 

Although he must have been worried about how my temper would fare, being in such close proximity during the ball held in honor of Stormwind’s second queen surviving her first year on the job, Varian and I fall easily into our social fighting stances. United, two warriors defending each other’s flank, we establish and hold dominance over the assorted nobles and dignitaries. At midnight, Varian thanks our guests and leads me from the hall, still as sober as he entered.

“Thank you for a lovely night, Taretha,” he says softly once we have reached my sitting room. “And thank you for the last year.” Smiling wryly, he lifts my hand but does not kiss it. “To many more years serving king and country with honor and ferocity. Good night, my lady wolf.”

My throat closes around all the things I want to say, but am too scared to. “Good night, Varian,” I reply quietly, eyes averted.

I do not watch as he leaves. Tomorrow, I must find a way to tell my husband that I want-

My hand closes around the pendant, but I do not thumb the crystal. I am not trapped. He is not Blackmoore. He loves me, and I…

I want him to.

 

Late the next morning, while Anduin is busy with his lessons, I go seeking my husband and find him in the study, so deep in his book that he doesn’t hear me approach. I try to find something to say, some collection of words that will magically communicate all the things I can’t even think to myself, but my mind is blank and I find myself watching my husband as though I’d never seen him before. He looks so different when he’s reading. Kinder. More gentle. The scars seem to fade into nothing and without them, he looks…handsome. Noble. Like a king. I watch him from the doorway for several minutes before he looks up and sees me, his face filling with elation at my presence that drains swiftly at my expression. Even without it, however, there is still a measurable amount of fondness in his expression.

“Uh-oh, I did something wrong. What was it this time?”

The resignation is cradled by warmth and affection. Part of me yearns towards that even as the rest of me wants to hate him for it, but I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t! My façade is slipping and I am terrified of what lies beneath; the most I can muster is a closed expression and a hissed "damn you", and I turn away before he can see that fade.

“Taretha?”

I hear him put the book down and stand up as I walk away. No, don’t follow me!

“Taretha, don’t go. Tell me what I did.”

My steps quicken, and his quicken in response. Not enough to be chasing me, but his longer legs close the distance and then he just…follows. There’s nothing I could say that would make him leave me alone without causing him pain, and I don’t want to hurt him but I can’t tell him...I don’t know how to say...

“Talk to me. What did I do wrong? Taretha?”

I break into a half-run now, because I can feel the tears welling up. He loves me. He loves me, and I’m hurting him. The door to my sitting room opens at my touch and I hurry through towards my bedroom door. He pauses at the threshold, unwilling to intrude in my domain, and blindly I push the door open, but then the first sob escapes and it galvanizes him. He pauses at the door again when he sees that I have half-tripped, half-flung myself onto my bed and am crying.

“Taretha, please don’t cry.” He takes one step into the bedroom. Two. “It makes me want to find your brother and let him kill me.” Three. Four. Five. “Taretha?”

I can feel the bed sink under his weight as he sits down next to me.

“Please tell me what I did. I’ve never seen you this upset.”

He places one large, rough hand gently on my shoulder and, hating myself for my weakness, I turn and fling myself at his chest. I do not hug him; my hands are on his chest to either side of where I am now crying into his tunic. Cautiously, he puts his arms around me.

“Taretha?” He sounds sad, now. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

That gives me the strength to scrape together a small measure of steadiness for my voice. “No, you’re not.”

One hand strokes my hair now. “That’s the spirit. I’m a horrible, unrepentant brute. Just tell me what I did and I’ll-”

“Damn you! No, you won’t! Don’t make promises you’ll wind up breaking later. You’ll never change, not on this!”

One hand balls into a fist and I punch him just below the ribcage. It’s not much of a punch, but it’s enough to knock him into a less gentle mindset. I can feel him tense and know that his expression will be stony. I don’t need his finger beneath my chin to lift my face and meet his eyes with a defiant glare.

“Tell me what I did wrong,” he says sternly, “and then I’ll let you hit me as much as you want.”

“No. That would make me like him.”

That brings back the vulnerable expression, the tenderness that melts my anger. "Taretha, please. What did I do?"

Damn him for being so chivalrous. How can I possibly explain my dilemma? This has become an absolute mess, but suddenly I want to get at least one thing out of it – even if it’s not how I would have ever chosen for it to happen. "Kiss me," I snap.

His face clouds in confusion. "But I never...when did - was I drunk? You should have told me, the morning after, at least..."

"No, you never did."

"But then how could-" his eyes widen.

"Kiss me," I say again, cold and demanding, before the realization can spout words.

The hand that was beneath my chin goes to my shoulder and he searches my eyes with his, silently pleading for a sign that he's not misunderstanding, and my forgiveness if he is. I force my eyes closed so that I can't see his expression and wait, hands clenched in my lap. A few seconds pass, and then I feel his breath warm against my cheek. Another hesitation, and his lips brush mine and retreat. When I do not move, they return - still amazingly gentle, but not so fearful, and mine move slightly in response. Almost, I part my lips for him, but the memory of Blackmoore's tongue intrudes roughly and I have to swallow a whimper. Varian's lips depart, and they do not return. His hand moves from my shoulder back to my hair, stroking it gently as tears slip silently down my cheeks. 

"I'm sorry," he says, and he means it.

"For what?" I ask. He did nothing wrong; the fault is all mine, but those words will not squeeze past the tears blocking my throat.

"For not killing Blackmoore before he could do this-" His thumb brushes away a tear. "-to you."

"You understand, then." My voice is already steadying as I move from fear to numbness, my body remembering the lessons beaten into it.

"I understand. Taretha...Tari..." he pauses, but I don't bite his head off for using that nickname and I don’t even have enough left in my heart to feel gratitude that he figured it out without being told. "I'm so sorry. Please keep telling me off if I mess up. And if there's anything..." he swallows thickly. "...anything you need or want me to do, I'll do it."

I open my eyes and the anguish in his makes my heart twitch beneath the numbness. "Varian..." I force one hand to unclench and touch his cheek lightly. "Thank you."

That heartbreaking smile comes back; the smile that says he is worshiping me from afar because I will not let him get any closer. "Hey," he says lightly, "no more tears, okay? Now that I understand."

"I make no promises," I say dryly.

He gives me a cocky smile. "Well, for the moment, you'd probably like it if I got out of your bed."

Well, actually, I– but no, that's moving too fast, and he must see it on my face because the smile is buried beneath concern and he takes my hands in his.

"No, none of that. My lady, may I have the delight of your company in some other location? Say, the stables? It's a lovely day for a ride." He must have seen the ghost of Blackmoore in my eyes, because he backpedals quickly. "The study. Quiet reading together. In separate chairs."

"I think I need to be alone for a bit, my lord," I say shakily.

He nods briskly and stands up, bowing deeply to me before retreating to the door of the bedroom where he pauses and throws one last concerned look over his shoulder. He closes the door behind him, although not all the way as though sensing that such an act might smack of entrapment. When he is gone I hike my skirts up and sit cross-legged on the floor, seeking refuge in the breathing techniques the shamans use to place themselves in a trance.

 

It is with some trepidation that I finally venture forth from my bedchamber, but Golthak grins at me from one couch. Without his armor and demeanor of responsibility he looks nearly twenty years younger – closer to his actual age than his apparent one.

“I thought I gave you the day off,” I chide him, my smile softening any insult that could be perceived in my words.

“Not on duty,” he retorts. “Just came to tell you that your husband won’t be at lunch. Urgent business, he said.” My protector grins even wider. “Whatever you told him, it worked. He came asking me for advice.”

I rub my face briefly. “I didn’t, but he figured it out anyway. What did you tell him?”

The smile fades. “To give you space. He said he already knew that much.”

…don’t think he doesn’t know.

“I said then he should act like nothing had changed until you said otherwise.”

Like nothing had changed. Respectful distance and impersonal friendship. He wouldn’t be crowding me, wouldn’t be trying to claim what was implicitly his. I still had control over this new development.

I exhaled, feeling a knot of tension in my belly loosen. “Did he say what urgent business had called him away?”

“Nope.”

“Did he mention this urgent business before, or after, he asked your advice?”

Golthak grinned again. “Before. Like I said, whatever happened…it worked.”

With short, sure motions I smooth my skirts. “I had better go have lunch with Anduin, then, and see if I have any more success discussing this with him than I had with his sire.”