moonshadows

“You look beautiful, Tari.” Thrall is unfazed at the unhappy look I shoot at him. “I know why you never wear your hair down,” he continues in a soothing rumble, “but it only proves that Blackmoore was occasionally civilized enough to know true beauty when he saw it.”

Molilfied, if still tense enough to sing like a bowstring if plucked, I turn back to the full mirror Jaina provided and take in my reflection. My hands automatically smooth imaginary wrinkles out of the wide satin front panel of my gown, the unadorned fabric serving to draw the eye to the chiffon silk side panels sewn with tiny crystals and seed pearls. They angle together towards my waist, leading the eye to the elegant embroidery there, and at my bust. I was able to negotiate the opals and diamonds off of my bosom, but at the cost of bearing them set in white gold. My throat glitters; my fingers gleam; my wrists sparkle. Two handmaids cover my unbound hair with a fine net that makes my head shimmer. The veil – silk as pale and soft as moonlight, imported from the finest looms on Teldrassil – barely obscures my face when they have fastened the delicate clasps holding it to the web of white gold that lays like a portent of doom upon my head.

I am marrying King Varian Wrynn today.

As if to underscore the severity of my situation, the handmaids on loan from the Stormwind tailor commissioned to make my wedding dress fasten the train to the rest of my gown, the flowing silk lavishly embroidered and studded with more tiny crystals and pearls, feeling three times as heavy as it should under the weight of my apprehension.

The sturdy leather half-boots on my feet are a comfort, even if they are bleached white and trimmed with white gold that no one will see beneath the bell-like petticoats and skirts. Varian was wise enough to not press for something daintier; it may be the first day of spring, and sunny, but it was cold and rainy not three days before, and Theramore is largely paved with stone. My toes grip the soft fleece in a nervous gesture.

“You’re ready now, my lady,” one of the handmaids says with a curtsy, and they both retreat at my nod and murmur of thanks.

“There’s a few minutes yet before we need to move into position,” Thrall says, his voice steadying me. “You are stronger than steel, braver than most warriors, and the pride of the Frostwolf Clan – and the Horde.” He grins, tusks gleaming pale against Doomhammer’s black plate armor. “Today, you conquer the Alliance in the name of the Horde. Today, Tari, you bring Stormwind’s king to heel.”

The anxiety transmutes itself into defiance. I am not chattel to be casually handed off to the highest bidder, I am the one who holds the reins wrapped around Varian’s throat. “Thank you,” I say, my voice calm and strong.

Thrall holds out one arm as though offering me a sword; I lay my hand on it as though it were one of the great white wolves of our clan, quiescent beneath my touch. The halls of Theramore’s cathedral are nearly empty as he leads me to the antechamber in which we will wait for our cue, although the muted roar nearby hints that the main room is full to bursting. Briefly, my lips curve in a fierce smile. The allies of my husband-to-be will be sailing to Stormwind to meet me upon our arrival, just before my coronation. The hubbub today is being made by dignitaries of the Horde. Varian will be standing by the altar in his finery, waiting for his bride to grace him with her presence, with nothing to calm his thoughts. The eyes of the Horde will be upon him, weighing, judging, reminding him just how vulnerable he is here. Even Jaina is more my ally than his.

The ocean of conversation rises and falls, then quiets to nothing, making the silence ring. In the absence of sound, the first strains of music can be clearly heard, and with measured steps Thrall leads me to the doors that open before us. Head high, I pace at his side as we walk up the aisle, and Jaina and Anduin beam at me from Varian’s side. The Lady of Theramore is wearing a gown similar to mine, albeit with lilac panels that evoke the image of her wearing a giant flower, while the prince is wearing a minute suit of shining gold-washed chainmail covered by a grand surcoat of blue bearing the Stormwind lion. My future husband, I am glad to see, looks suddenly terrified despite his gleaming armor as Thrall stops before him, looming, and presents my hand. Varian takes it, fingers just slightly clammy, and Thrall steps back to stand beside Golthak.

The archbishop begins speaking, but I’m not paying attention. I have read the agreed-upon words enough that their sounds are a familiar pattern that can be ignored, and Varian’s expression is much more interesting. No doubt we seem to be staring raptly at each other while flowery phrases and blessings swirl around us; only our attendants are close enough to see that my expression is stonily superior while his can only be described as pleading. When our vows come, I swear to honor and defend my husband, and he represses a flinch at the sharp edge in my voice. Then it is his turn, and suddenly I am struggling to keep my stony mask in place because his expression has gone vulnerable, contrite and devoted at the same time, as though he is apologizing for inflicting his affections on me as he swears to love and protect me. The archbishop announces us as bride and groom, and my husband sinks to one knee. As defined by the marriage treaty, he holds my hand in his and bows over it, lips brushing ever so gently against my skin before he stands and looks at me as if his heart’s desire were before him but forever out of his reach. Then, with trembling hands, Varian lifts my veil and the crowd cheers.

The music swells again as we walk down the aisle together, Varian holding my hand as if it were a delicate treasure, both of us struggling to keep our composure for very different reasons. Golthak follows, my faithful shadow, with Anduin beside him, and behind them Jaina and Thrall mirror us. I manage a small, tight smile at the thought that they will be holding a ceremony of their own eventually, and wonder how long it will take word to reach Stormwind – and how my lord husband will react to it. We emerge at last into the thin sunlight, and practically the entire population of Theramore bursts into raucous cheering. The mild weather reminds me that the shamans were able to promise clear skies for the following day, when Mercy’s Vengeance and her robust escort sail for Stormwind’s harbor. The reminder than everything I own has already been packed and placed aboard the ship kills the last of my confidence, and I want so very badly to rip off my finery and run away from my husband.

Varian looks at me out of the corner of his eye, and his smile falters. “I hope,” he says for my ears alone, “that someday you’ll look back on this day and be glad it happened.”

There is no suitable reply I can make to that; I can hardly admit that my hope only extends so far as not regretting this on my dying day. My mask firms once again, shored up by my displeasure, and we lead the cheering masses to the enormous banquet set out in Theramore’s central plaza. Thankfully, all that remains of our duty today is to sit at the lavishly-decorated table set up for us and nibble on food that other people bring for our pleasure. I didn’t even have to insist that no wine, mead, or ale of any kind be presented at the wedding table; surprisingly, it was Varian who voiced that condition first.

When we arrive, Varian waits until I am comfortable before seating himself, and the first beaming servant hurries forward with a tray of food and drink. The Horde dignitaries and the citizens of Theramore pour into the plaza, filling it with sound and motion and joy that I do not feel, although my lord husband seems to regain his good mood. For my part, I sit and nibble and try not to think of how tomorrow, I will begin my life as the wife of an Alliance king rather than a Warchief’s sister. Even Golthak’s familiar presence behind me can’t reassure me. At least I don’t seem to be putting a damper on Varian’s enjoyment, although I can’t help but notice that he is doing his best to pretend I am not sitting next to him. Occasionally, someone will come up to us to wish us well, either out of genuine goodwill or just to be able to say they did so.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs as one well-wisher wanders off.

“For what?” I snap, my hands gripping each other tightly in my lap.

“For being so happy when you’re obviously not.”

“You’ve gotten what you wanted, haven’t you?” I direct my glare at the sun, creeping now towards the horizon. “Why shouldn’t you be happy?”

I can practically feel the look he gives me, those damned vulnerable eyes. “Because it comes close to taking joy in your misery, and I don’t want to do that.”

“What are you taking joy in, then, my lord?”

“Anduin will have a mother,” he answers softly.

I need that, Taretha.

“You may hate me all you like, but I know you care for him and you’ll be the best mother to him you can. That by itself is worth everything, isn’t it? You’ll be helping to shape the next king of Stormwind. The next leader of the Alliance. It may take years, it may take all of the orcs and men who remember the First War growing old and dying, but peace will come – and it will come partially because you agreed to marry a stubborn, thickheaded jerk who needs to be put in his place when he gets carried away.”

It’s a good argument, but the bars of my invisible prison are too close for me to be comforted by that right now.

“Blackmoore wanted a son,” I say quietly, emotionlessly. “He told me repeatedly that if I ever bore his child, he’d marry me so his son could inherit. Being his mistress was bad enough, but maids can be dismissed and mistresses put aside. I held hope that someday, I’d be able to escape when my doing so wouldn’t open my father and mother to his wrath. To be his wife…” I shudder, my skin crawling in horror. “I grew to fear the threat of marriage almost as much as the look in his eyes when he wanted me.”

“And I made you cry,” my husband murmurs sadly. “Light, I feel like a jerk, enjoying myself while you…Taretha, I’m sorry. Do you want to leave? It’s late enough that no one will mind.”

He loves me. I can hurt him at any time. I am not powerless, I am a conqueror.

But I don’t feel like a conqueror. I feel like a weak, vulnerable girl who has just turned eighteen and learned that the world is a cruel place indeed.

My voice is hardly a whisper when I say, “Yes.”

Quiet, serious and worried, Varian leads me from the plaza to the inn where our separate rooms for the night are. The two girls who had prepared me for my wedding are waiting, and my lord husband leaves me to their care with a bow and a murmured, “Good night.” With reverent efficiency they strip me of my finery and pack it for safekeeping on the voyage to Stormwind, and I am free to crawl into my bed and hide beneath the covers and try not to think about what the morning will bring.

===================================

When I wake at dawn, there is a glowing pendant on a chain sitting on my bedside table. I recognize the design from the talk Jaina and I had in Dalaran and brush my finger over the glowing crystal.

“When I walked Thrall to his room,” Jaina’s recorded voice says, “your husband was sitting outside your door like an abandoned hound. I had to walk out and teleport back in,” she continues mischievously. “Anyway, here’s the pendant. It’s attuned as a portal-anchor. You’re not alone, Tari.”

Message complete, the crystal’s light fades. Just to test it, I place my finger on the other crystal, which lights obediently up. “Thank you,” I murmur, and release it.

I take some of my frustrations out on my hair, brushing it past smooth and gleaming and braiding it tightly, the familiar tug on my scalp a reassurance that I am in control. The pendant is cool beneath my simple dress, further reassuring me that I have not been abandoned to my husband’s tender mercies.

The fear that simmers beneath my skin cools somewhat as I remember Varian escorting me away from the celebration. Perhaps his mercy is more tender than I’ve been giving him credit for, but that redoubles the fear and when I leave in search of breakfast, my scowl is a weapon held ready against the sight of my lord husband in the yard outside, fighting invisible foes. I ignore him when he passes through the common room, eyes closed against whatever expression he might be wearing, hands firmly wrapped around a mug of hot tea. Behind me, I can almost feel Golthak tense until Varian’s footsteps lead up the stairs and out of sight.

“He looks like a boy being denied sweets,” my protector murmurs to me, amused.

I open my eyes so that I can roll them, groaning. “Why did I do this, Golthak?”

“You needed a challenge,” he answers simply.

Sipping tea, I think about that. Getting the disparate factions within the Horde to work together was enough to drive any one man to distraction, and for a few years it had consumed my days nicely – but I hadn’t been needed in that capacity for a while when the assault on Northrend had been announced. Jaina had assured me, in Dalaran, that I wasn’t crazy, that I’d seen something that needed fixing and stepped up to fix it. Perhaps she’d been right; certainly there was more wrong with the kingdom of Stormwind than just its king.

Light, rapid footsteps on the stairs catch my attention, and my brooding is neatly dissipated by Anduin’s incandescent smile. “Taretha!”

“Anduin!” I set my mug down to hug him tightly.

“You’re coming home with us,” he says into my shoulder. “You’re really coming home with us. You understand, and you make Father remember who he is, and you’re coming home with us!”

“I still don’t know if I can stand being around him this much,” I warn.

He grins at me as he takes a seat at the table. “You’ll be Queen Taretha. You can go anywhere you want.” A maid brings out fresh bread and hot sausage, and Anduin helps himself to some. “If you want Father to leave you alone for a while, all you have to do is tell him.”

Somehow, that had never occurred to me.

“Tell me what?” Varian says from the top of the stairs, rattling down them easily.

The bars of my cage close in suddenly, my blood turning to ice. Varian freezes where he is, then turns around. When the ice thaws into unnatural calm, Golthak says, “It’s clear.”

Slowly, my lord husband turns and looks at me for a long moment before warily approaching the table. “Good morning, my lady,” he says stiffly.

“Good morning, my lord.”

“Captain says the weather’s fine for sailing. We’ll cast off in three hours, but there’s books in your room if you want to get settled in before that.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Varian shoots a look at me, irritated by my lack of reaction, then scowls at the sausage on the end of his fork and takes a vicious bite. Anduin looks back and forth between us for a minute, then stands up from the table.

“I’m going to get my things and settle on board,” he announces. “Taretha, do you want to come with me?”

I glance at my lord husband just as he looks up at me, but whatever he sees on my face seems to discourage him and he looks away. “Yes,” I say, and we leave the king of Stormwind to his breakfast.

===================================

The room is the same one I’d stayed in previously, a semi-familiar den in which to hide, and I do just that. I ignore the sounds of the crew preparing to cast off, ignore Varian striding boldly into the royal suite, ignore everything but the book in which I am drowning my terror. Some hours later, I realize that Golthak has left a lunch tray on my table, and I eat before again losing myself in worlds of printed words. When the light from my small windows fades, I eat the dinner that has been left for me and venture out into the quiet common room in search of better light. Although suitable for ensuring a lack of stubbed toes, the enclosed lamps in my room are horrible to read by. Varian is standing in front of the bay windows, hands clasped behind his back as he stares in Theramore’s direction. Briefly, I consider retreating to my room and attempting to sleep, but I seat myself instead and angle my book to catch the light.

“I’m sorry, Taretha,” my husband says quietly, still facing away. “I know yesterday was hard on you. I should have remembered that today would be equally rough. I’ll understand if you want to stay in your room tomorrow.” He sighs, one hand resting against the glass, his forehead making a muted sound as he leans forward. “The common room’s all yours; I’m going to bed, I just wanted to make sure I apologized for this morning.”

Despite myself, his apology and resignation warm a tiny corner of my heart – or perhaps it is the reminder that I can punish him just by withholding my presence. “Thank you, Varian,” I say softly.

Slowly, he pushes himself away from the window and begins walking towards his door like a man on the way to his execution, and guilt snaps at me. Nearly a full day is too long a punishment for a moment’s accidental thoughtlessness, and merely accepting his apology isn’t enough reward for him having made one.

“Varian?” Fearful of what I might see on his face, I keep my eyes on the book. “You don’t have to leave, my lord.”

After a moment, he moves carefully over to a chair well away from mine and sits. “Thank you, my lady.”

I read until the dying light makes the words impossible to discern and Varian sits quietly, watching me. When I finally lower my book, he stands and bows with a flourish.

“Good night, my lady. May your dreams be sweet enough that you grace us with your presence in the morning.” A small smile plays on his lips. “The chairs out here are more comfortable, at any rate.”

“We’ll see,” I reply sternly, although I am fighting back a smile of my own. “Good night, my lord.”

===================================

Varian looks up as I leave my room the next morning to join him and Anduin in the sitting room. He must have just come from doing what passes for bathing aboard the ship; his hair is nearly black from being soaked and lies flat on his head. He smiles at me, but the stubble on his chin transforms his face into Blackmoore’s.

“Ah, my lovely bride! How good of you to join...us?”

The smile flickers out to be replaced with puzzlement as my expression drops past icy and into loathing. I turn right back around and shut my door behind me before leaning against it, fighting to keep the panic at bay and failing.

“Golthak?” Varian’s voice is muffled by the door, but still audible. “Help me out. What did I do?”

“Not what you did. What you didn’t.”

“Then tell me what I didn’t, since apparently she’s not speaking to me. Wait…”

Silence. I almost wonder what’s going on.

“At the Argent Tournament. In the first hour past dawn. She was beyond unhappy to see me then, too.”

More silence.

“…my hair?” A pause. Footsteps. “Taretha?”

His voice comes from right behind me; he must be just on the other side of the door.

“Did Blackmoore have dark hair?”

“Yes.” The one word is all I can force through my tight throat.

“Was he clean-shaven?”

“No.”

Another pause.

“Why are you only bothered by my hair being dark, and my face being unshaven?”

The panic gives way to broken calm. “You are the only one who looks at me as he did, with the confidence that comes from power and the charm that comes from a history of having gotten what you want.”

“How did he wear his hair? Should I cut-“

“No!”

Silence.

“Careful, my lady,” he says teasingly. “You’re coming dangerously close to admitting that you like something about me.”

“Shave, my lord.” There is no humor in my voice. “We can trade barbs when you look like a properly civilized brute again.”

“For you, Taretha,” he says, so quietly that I almost don’t hear it.