#i cant wait for specter 6 to meet specter 7

[galleywinter]

A Prayer You Can Borrow

I've determined I need to quit saying things like "The next chapter shouldn't take so long!" or "The next chapter will be out a lot faster!" or anything at all even vaguely in that vein. I will, again, apologize for the (serious) delay and thank all of you for your patience and enthusiasm. I adore every single one of you.

This chapter wouldn't have been possible without the amazing editing and continued encouragement of Eleneri Penneth, the cheerleading of Cassie Gemini, ShadowPhoenixRider, Callane and all of my wonderful anons here, and the patience of my poor, beleaguered husband who was always willing to at least listen while I ranted about how difficult Camdyn and Varian were being.

Also, as a further aside, it's a lot harder than I thought to remove the player from the center of the universe in WoW's story. It's really a great testament to their quest design when you don't realize how many of the things you do are simply to keep the player involved until you're stepping back and trying to figure out what's really necessary.

Previously: [Chapter 1][Chapter 2][Chapter 3][Chapter 4][Chapter 5] [Chapter 6][Chapter 7]

Chapter 8 on AO3 Chapter 8 on FFN

Chapter 8 ____

Teleporting from Dalaran to Stormwind was never going to be commonplace for Camdyn, but she had certainly done it often enough to know what to expect: after one or two heartbeats, when everything is a claustrophobic tangle of impressions, the grand marble pillars of the Silver Enclave would give way to the dark paneled walls and stained gloss mottling of the room at the top of Stormwind’s mage tower; the gleaming tile would shimmer away to be replaced by darker, sturdier tile that more easily hid scorch marks, and the sunlight streaming in from the open ceiling would be replaced with muted lamplight in the fully enclosed room.

Which is why she stands dumbly for a moment once she’s passed through the portal, disoriented and confused, blinking at the room around her.

Everything’s wrong. The ceiling isn’t open, but is certainly high; the tile floor is marble and white, and long, low wooden tables are placed at strategic locations around the edges of the room. Lamps burn brightly on every table, and sconces are placed every few feet on the walls.

Knots of people are congregated in the corners of the room, and she thinks she recognizes several prominent house sigils emblazoned on their robes. That combined with the rich blue barding trimmed in gold along the edge of the ceiling is what finally clicks everything into place.

They’re in the Petitioner’s Chamber of Stormwind Keep.

“Your Majesty!” a female voice calls from one of the groups crowded around a table, and a young woman in purple robes with dark hair begins to shoulder her way through the throng. Standing just ahead of her, Varian’s hand raises slightly in the woman’s direction.

“Lady Vanyst,” he says, his tone both abrupt and final, “I’m afraid this will have to wait until later. I have pressing military matters to deal with at present.”

It gives Camdyn the few moments she needs to fully regain her bearings, and then Varian turns to her with a raised eyebrow and a particular cant of his head she’s come to learn well over the years of her military service. It’s the look of a comrade asking if their partner is ready for the next move. Fighting down a flush of pride, she nods briefly in return - a perfunctory dip of her chin - and falls in next to him as he strides for the door.

She tries to keep a fraction of a step behind, giving him the deference owed to both a king and a general, but he keeps pace with her despite her efforts, and she can feel the gazes of the nobles burning against the nape of her neck as the two of them make their way across the Petitioner’s Chamber. Her cheeks burn, but she squares her shoulders, keeping her chin level with the floor the way her brother and Gaibrial had taught her, and keeps walking.

The feeling eases as they exit the Chamber and turn into the main entrance hall.

At the sight of the familiar blue and white floor tiles and the lines of saluting guards flanking the hall, a riot of emotions swirls behind her ribs, swelling in her chest.

Stormwind Keep has always been a touchstone in Camdyn’s memory.

She vividly recalls how she felt seeing it for the first time at eight years old - how its gleaming stone and sweeping entrance stairs and soaring turrets seemed straight out of a fairy tale and how it marked where home was.

How she felt at twenty-three the first time she’d been chosen to report directly to King Varian - in that instance it had been about the Defias entrenchment in Westfall - and how nerves had made her practically vibrate in her boots every step up the hallway toward the throne room.

How she felt at twenty-five the first time she had been summoned specifically to the throne room in the aftermath of the Wrathgate, how the anger had still been clawing through her fresh and hot and how grateful and appreciative she was that her king felt as she did.

Now, at thirty-one, she walks shoulder-to-shoulder with the man who has been her king her whole life long out of the Petitioner’s Chamber and up the hallway toward the throne room.

This isn’t ever how she’d imagined a moment such as this. Some things are expected: the pride that she’s come so far in her career and her service to both the Light and the crown. The girlish giddiness that she has spent so long in Varian’s presence more intimately than she’d ever dared to hope once she was old enough to understand things such as class and status.

But all of it is tainted and overshadowed by the specters of sorrow and grief, heavy in her gut and weighing her steps. She doesn’t need to work to recall the numbers Highlord Tirion had taken with him before she herself had been deployed to the Shore. Or to subtract the scant handful who had escaped with her on the Skyfire. So many lost, and she has to deliver the casualty report.

She’s still struggling to put words to it all as the throne room slides into view at the top of the hall. Camdyn recognizes King Greymane and Lady Tyrande near the Lion’s Seat as they talk to Prince Anduin, while a female blood elf in red leathers leans a shoulder nonchalantly against the edge of the Lion’s Seat, listening. Archdruid Malfurion and another male night elf druid who seems vaguely familiar stand nearby, deep in conversation, both of their shoulders tense and brows knit. Queen Moira, the Prophet Velen, and King Mekkatorque are all close to hand, sometimes talking with each other, sometimes seeming to direct their insight toward Prince Anduin.

As Camdyn and Varian reach the end of the mosaic demarking where the hallway spills into the vast openness of the massive throne room, everything hangs thick and heavy and still for the briefest of moments, and then the perfect stillness breaks.

“Father!” Anduin calls, his voice cutting across the muted, insistent conversation that had been a steady undercurrent of sound in the throne room. He’s already moving from the dais of the Lion’s Seat and coming straight for them. Every head turns in their direction as Varian moves to meet Anduin, arms reaching out and folding his son carefully against his chest.

Anduin is taller than Camdyn by a good several inches but shorter than his father by just as much, and Varian seems to be taking care that none of Anduin’s hair catches in the exposed scale of his armor as he presses a rough kiss to the top of his son’s head.

“We took the liberty of briefing him on the basics of the situation on the Shore,” King Greymane says from where he stands next to the Lion’s Seat.

Varian’s arms tighten around Anduin for the briefest of moments, and then they carefully step back from each other. They still stand within arms’ reach of each other, but their faces are harder. Shuttered.

They’re no longer men; they are kings.

“Good,” Varian says with a brief nod. “That saves some time.” He casts a searching look around the room before approaching the dais. The familiar druid nods at him as he passes, and Camdyn notices the barest of grins tugging at the corner of Varian’s mouth as he turns his head and nods back. The blood elf, too, dips her chin in acknowledgment at Varian as he steps up before the Seat.

“We’ve lost much today,” he says to both no one and everyone as he looks at the Lion’s Seat. His voice is low, deep with emotion. And then he turns, and his eyes find hers for the briefest of instants, and her chest clenches. The same weariness and exhaustion she’d seen on the Skyfire dims the blue of his eyes but doesn’t bow the massive breadth of his shoulders. It makes her heart ache for him all over again.

It fans the flames of her guilt all over again, too.

“The Broken Shore has claimed many of our best warriors,” he continues, louder and more certain. “But perhaps the hardest blow for us to bear is the number of paladins lost. In a war with demons, they were some of the best suited to help defend our world.” He shifts, settling his stance more firmly. “I’m not as familiar with the Argent Crusade as I’d like to be, but my understanding is that your order suffered devastating losses today.”

The tightness in Camdyn’s chest is only rivaled by the pitting of her stomach at the sudden realization that he’s addressing her. He’s addressing her in front of a room full of royalty and expecting her to answer as easily as if he’d passed her on the street and asked her how she was finding the weather. This isn’t at all what she’d prepared for, and her heart hammers in her throat as she takes a breath and licks her lips.

“Yes, General.” She offers a quick prayer of thanks to the Light that her voice sounds steadier than the rest of her feels. She shifts briefly in her boots, her armor clanking quietly as she tries to order her thoughts. “I’m not privy to the actual number of members of the Argent Crusade,” she finally says. “But I do know Highlord Tirion took almost sixty of our best with him to the Shore.” Camdyn forces a swallow past the tightness of her throat. “Only eight returned home. It is with deepest regret that I say Highlord Tirion,” her voice finally cracks at the edges, but she can’t be bothered to care, “was not among them.”

Prince Anduin’s jaw goes slack, and the pain is plain on his face as he looks at her. Varian puts a careful hand on his shoulder, steadying him. “I’m so sorry, Camdyn,” Anduin finally says, his own voice rough.

Tears sting at her eyes and her throat aches. “Thank you, your Highness,” she manages with a nod of deference.

“Are there enough of you left to take action?” Queen Moira asks, her rich brogue rolling through the small group.

Visions of maps flash across Camdyn’s mind, places where she’s heard of paladins reclaiming territory and holding ground. “There should be, your Majesty,” she says, shoving down the pain of loss. “There was a small group still stationed at Light’s Hope, and more at Hearthglen. Others are stationed throughout the Plaguelands, though as I said, I’m not sure exactly how many.”

“Who now leads your order in Tirion’s absence?” It’s Lady Tyrande this time.

Camdyn scrambles. She’s never been so elevated in rank to be privy to the inner workings of the Argent Crusade. She knows Tirion is - was, her mind sharply and bitterly corrects - her Highlord. But the organizational structure apart from that has always been indirect and unclear.

They had never needed leadership apart from Highlord Tirion.

“I don’t know, my lady,” she finally says, mentally cursing the meekness of the answer.

Varian’s mouth twists into a slight frown. “Do you know of anyone who would?”

“I know of some who might, General,” she answers.

“Do you know where to find them?”

“Without knowing their orders, I can’t be certain, but Light’s Hope is a likely place to start.”

He gives a terse nod. “When our business here is concluded, I’ll ensure you’re sent via portal to Light’s Hope.” He turns to King Greymane. “Have you updated the war map?”

“Not yet. We were waiting for you and Jaina.”

The line of Varian’s mouth thins, and the deep breath he takes markedly lifts his chest before he releases it in a rush. “Jaina won’t be joining us,” he says flatly. He steps down from the dais and heads in the direction of the war room.

Camdyn still stands at the back of the throne room, watching as the other leaders of the Alliance follow behind him. She hasn’t been dismissed, but she isn’t sure if she should follow, either.

The choice is taken out of her hands as Varian rounds the framed edge of the map table. She can see him scanning the room, his frown deepening for a moment before his eyes find her. “Camdyn,” he calls, and her stomach flips. It shouldn’t be so thrilling to hear him say her name. Especially not now. Not when so much is still at stake. “Your input would be most helpful and appreciated.”

She nods sharply in response. “Of course, General,” she calls back. It’s only a few yards to the war room, but she uses every one of them to clamp down on her girlish fantasies. She isn’t here to fawn over her king – her General. She’s here to help him fight a war.

The map table isn’t so much a table as it is a tall, oaken box with a map inlaid in its top. The leaders of the Alliance stand shoulder-to-shoulder around its borders, but the familiar druid and the Prophet make room for her to slide between them.

The map itself is a light brown leather with continents burned into it. The kingdom of Stormwind is elaborately detailed and painted a rich blue, and the other capitals are marked simply with a colored dot and an embellished inscription of their name.  Small grey metal figurines sit on the map: small ship markers scattered around the Shore, and the lions head figurines Camdyn assumes are the King’s Army in various positions throughout Elwynn Forest, Duskwood, and Deadwind Pass. There are markers that look like gears, dwarven hammers, and night elven glaives littered across the map. There’s one figurine it takes her a moment to recognize: it’s curled and curved, with sharp lines reaching upward to frame a small dot suspended between them. Eventually she realizes it’s the symbol of the naaru.

Varian bends over the map and reaches to the figurines, removing a handful of the gunships and, after a fraction of a moment’s hesitation, several of the lions heads, and then slides some of the others around the map to new locations.

“These are our forces as they stand,” he says. He straightens and turns two lions’ heads over in his fingers. “Anduin, go fetch me the yellow ink and some blotting papers off the table in the corner.”

Anduin steps away and within moments is back, holding out a small inkpot and a stack of blotters. “Here, Father.”

“Thank you,” Varian murmurs as he takes them. He sets the blotting papers down on the map and then puts the two lions head markers on top of them. He unscrews the lid from the inkpot and then carefully tips the pot over the bases of the markers, rolling them in the golden ink that spills from it. When they’re coated enough to be visibly distinct from their brethren, he lifts them and gently blows the ink dry.

And then he’s holding them out to Camdyn, and all she can do is blink at him. “Sire?”

If she hadn’t been watching his face so intently, she would have missed the minute rise of his eyebrow and the barest twitch of the corner of his mouth. “General,” he corrects, not unkindly. “Take them.”

She holds out her palm, and he lays them carefully in it. They’re heavier than she expected. Solid.

“You said you knew where the paladins might be found. Consider those the markers of the Argent Crusade.”

She refuses to let nerves make her hand tremble as she sets one of the lions heads in the area of Light’s Hope and the other on top of Hearthglen.

Varian takes in the map again before raising his eyes to the group of them still pressed around the map table. “These are our forces. The Broken Shore is overrun, but all is not yet lost. We managed to retrieve information on items that can supposedly help us stop the Legion in its tracks. The Pillars of Creation are somewhere throughout the Broken Isles. We only have to find them.”

“I can start researching technology to help our gunships more easily and accurately navigate the storm wall surrounding Stormheim,” King Mekkatorque says, squinting at the map. “It should just be a matter of simple extrapolation from data we obtained from the Storm Peaks, but I may need to run a few experiments, just to be sure.”

“Ironforge can dispatch Wildhammers to Highmountain,” Queen Moira says. “I’ve heard tell of some tauren there who are a wee bit of a special breed. Might get on well with our lads.”

Varian moves a dwarven hammer from Ironforge and places it on an area of the Broken Isles.

“I know Val’Sharah well,” Archdruid Malfurion says, touching a part of the islands on the map. “I will travel there and try to make inroads with the druids who are its caretakers. Surely they will know more.”

Varian sets a night elven glaive on the position Archdruid Malfurion had indicated.

“I shall go with you,” Lady Tyrande says, frowning slightly. “I have much to ask of the Priestesses of Elune that they have never made mention of such an artifact to me.” Her eyes rove the map, and the silence stretches momentarily. “I have not ventured into Azsuna in many centuries,” she finally continues, “but I do know that a flight of blue dragons has made it their home. Perhaps Kalecgos would know more.”

“Kalecgos has joined the Council of Six in Dalaran,” Varian says. “And the Council’s full might and concentration is currently required to move Dalaran over the Broken Isles to provide a more centralized location from which to coordinate our offensive. I’ll be sure to bring them up to speed once Khadgar contacts me.”

Lady Tyrande nods once slowly. She brings a hand up to the edge of the map table, and her long fingers lay gracefully against the wood in the barest of touches. “Suramar,” there’s a slight roughness and catch in her voice as she speaks the word, and it makes Camdyn’s heart clench to hear it, “will present its own set of challenges. Ones we are not yet equipped to confront. It is currently beyond our reach.”

Varian raises an eyebrow and his mouth thins. “What kind of challenges, Tyrande?”

Her hand falls away from the map table, and Camdyn sees her already straight spine tense. “Political challenges.” Lady Tyrande’s eyes flick in her direction, and Camdyn very resolutely refuses to meet her gaze or to shrink away from it. “I shall discuss them with you at a later time.”

“I’ll have my people get a lead on Sylvanas,” King Greymane says from where he stands next to Varian, his own eyes still fixed on the map. “We’ll discover what the traitorous banshee is planning and run her to ground.”

“We need to get a full grasp of the Horde’s losses.” Varian’s fingers trace over to Kalimdor and he taps absently on the mark labeled “Orgrimmar”. “All we know is they retreated. We need to find out if Sylvanas is even alive, let alone Vol’jin. He was up on that ridge, too.”

“I can reach Baine fairly quickly, Father,” Anduin says from Varian’s other side.

“Do that, Anduin. Let me know immediately when he responds. Velen, is there any information your people can give us we don’t already know about the Legion?”

The Prophet hesitates for a moment, his fingers turning against the haft of his staff, and then he dips his chin fractionally. “I do not believe so. I can, however, return to the Exodar and ensure that my people are fully equipped to aid you.”

Varian glances over the map one last time before standing straight. “Right. We have a plan. The sooner it’s enacted, the sooner we can be ready to move on the Broken Isles.”

Queen Moira and King Mekkatorque leave first, not even stopping to bid anyone farewell. King Greymane stalks off not long after, with the Prophet making his way from the room not far behind him. Malfurion and the familiar druid peel off into a corner of the room again, their voices hushed, while Lady Tyrande still looks over the map. Camdyn doesn’t recall seeing the blood elf leave, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

Before Camdyn has the time to feel out of place, as the crowd around the table disperses, Varian looks up from the map. Her heart stops as his eyes find hers. She forces a swallow around the giggle trying to bubble up in her throat. “Camdyn, you and I have one more mission to complete before your trip to Light’s Hope.”

Her mind spins; she can’t think of anything else left unaccounted for, but she nods sharply anyway. “Of course, General.”

Varian reaches over and gently squeezes Anduin’s shoulder. “You and I need to have a discussion later,” he murmurs.

Camdyn can see Anduin’s mouth twist in a frown strikingly like his father’s. “Of course, Father. I’ll be in my rooms writing that letter to Baine.”

It’s Varian’s turn to nod, and then he’s stalking around the edge of the map table in her direction. When he reaches her, he doesn’t stop, but he does shorten his stride enough that she can easily keep up. She expects him to lead the way back down the main hallway and out the front of the Keep.

Instead, he exits the War Room and turns right.

Toward the areas of the Keep meant for the royal family.

Her heart hammers behind her ribs, and she can feel heat crawling up her neck. She’s absolutely certain her cheeks are the color of bloodthistle, and she prays her breathing is more even than it feels.

He leads her through the large wooden doors and down a gently sloping, winding hallway. The ceiling is of a normal height as opposed to the sweeping grandeur of the rooms at the front of the Keep; the rooms meant to impress visitors and nobility alike. The tile floor is white with the same blue designs from the front hall, and while there are no windows, there are brightly lit sconces every few feet.

They pass several closed wooden doors of a completely nondescript nature before the hallway finally opens into a larder.

It’s all she can do to stand there and gape.

It’s more food than she’s seen in one place in her whole life. There are shelves upon shelves of preserved and dry goods and a large box-like item she doesn’t recognize crammed in a corner. In the middle of the room sits a large, standing-height, rough-hewn wooden table, and on the far wall is a swinging tavern-style door marking the entrance to what looks like the kitchen.

Varian strips off his gloves and lays them on the table and then turns to the shelves. Cautiously, Camdyn steps into the larder after him.

“You and I,” he says as he pulls down a loaf of bread from a shelf full of them, “haven’t eaten since this morning, if you even ate at all then. We’re approaching dinner.” He crosses to the box-like object and opens its front. As he reaches in, Camdyn can feel cold air creep its way across the floor. When he closes the box again, he’s holding a plate laden with some sort of sliced meat while a wheel of cheese balances precariously on the edge. “I know the Light sustains you to a degree,” he continues as he carefully sets the items on the table, “but you’re still only human.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before he walks through the tavern doors. He’s only gone a few moments before he’s back with a cheese knife and pitcher in one hand and two cups in the other. He sets those on the table, too, and then takes a moment to fill the cups before holding one out to her.

“Thank you,” she says as she takes it, sounding far more demure than she knows she has any right to, trying desperately to quell the blush she knows is still bright on her cheeks. She waits until he’s lifted his own cup and then raises hers to her lips for a quick drink.

She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was until the water crosses her tongue, and she downs almost half the cup in one go. When she lowers it again, Varian is already refilling his cup. He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head, offering the pitcher in her direction. “Another?”

“Not yet,” she answers, “but thank you.”

He chugs his own cup and then reaches for the loaf of bread and meat. He tears off a chunk of the bread and then slides the loaf towards her. She carefully unstraps her gauntlets and sets them down before reaching for the loaf.

The bread is pillowy and soft and tears easily under her fingers. The crust is slightly sweet on her tongue, and she takes her time chewing it. She’s never had any bread as fine as this, and she focuses on that because she is alone, very starkly alone, in the intimate part of the castle with Varian Wrynn.

Her stomach is in absolute knots, and it takes more effort than it should to swallow down the bite of bread. Camdyn takes another drink of water to help steady her stomach and her nerves, and then she very pointedly looks up at him, making sure to catch his gaze.

“I owe you a proper apology for last night, General,” she says. She curses internally at the slight quaver in her voice and prays he writes it off as mere exhaustion. “I am so sorry for my actions. I shouldn’t have-” Her lips are dry, her mouth is a desert, and she very well may throw up, but she owes him this. She licks her lips and forces herself to continue. “I was inappropriate in my behavior toward you on the Skyfire. Please accept my apology.”

Varian, with bread still stuffed in his mouth, simply blinks at her. Slowly, his brows knit into a straight dark line and the corners of his mouth twist downward. His chewing, too, slows, but eventually he does swallow. Still frowning, he slowly shakes his head once.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” It isn’t a reprisal. It isn’t absolution. It’s simply a statement of fact. And she doesn’t know how to feel about that. Her throat tightens and her chest loosens, and she can’t quite tell if she’s blushing or if it’s just a surge of relief.

She wants to thank him. She wants to act like it never happened.

A weak “oh” is all she manages before picking up her cup again so she can hide behind it as she takes a drink.

When she sets her cup back down, Varian is still eating, this time picking bits off of the meat. “With any luck,” he says around a mouthful of what she knows now to be ham, “Khadgar will have Dalaran situated soon.”

“I,” she says, and then pauses, her brain racing to try to keep up with his sudden shift, “I don’t know how long it normally takes to transport a whole city, much less one of that size and across that distance. Do you?”

Varian reaches for the knife and slices two thin pieces of cheese off the wheel. “No,” he answers mildly, holding a slice of cheese out to her. “Magical arts aren’t exactly my area of expertise.”

The cheese is salty as she bites into it, and she reaches for the pitcher to finally refill her cup.

Camdyn’s skin shivers as she feels Varian’s gaze on her. She sets the pitcher back down and cuts a look back in his direction. There’s an intensity in his eyes that she hasn’t seen before, and her heart hammers against her ribs at the sight of it. Before she can pinpoint what exactly it is, he blinks and it’s gone.

“Take your time,” Varian says as he reaches for his own cup. “Eat and drink your fill. You’ve certainly earned it.”

Pride flashes through her, and she dips her chin in acknowledgement, hoping it hides her blush. “Thank you, Sire. But I think it’s fair to say we both have.”

He makes a general noise of agreement as he picks at the meat on the plate again. “Fair enough.”

The rest of their impromptu meal passes in relative silence until she finally reaches for her cup, draining the last of it, and then picks her gauntlets back up.

Varian puts the plate back in the strange box and the remains of the loaf back on the shelf. “Do you have everything you need?” he asks as she slides her left gauntlet on and begins to tighten the straps.

She can’t help the small chuckle that snorts out. “Everything but a bath,” she says before she can stop herself. As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she wishes she could melt into the floor. Her fingers freeze on her gauntlets and her eyes fly to his face.

He’s scratching at the growth of beard under his chin, and a sheepish smile is breaking across his face. “I think that makes us both of one mind,” he says. “It’s certainly the first thing I intend to do once I get back in my own rooms.”

She tries not to let her imagination fill those gaps and busies herself with the last straps of her gauntlets. “I’m ready, Sire.”

He nods and then gestures toward the openness of the hallway. “Let’s get you to Light’s Hope.” ____

Next: [Chapter 9]