#the celestials did not dismiss Wrathion

[duskdog]

You know, fandom seems to talk about Wrathion's past mistakes a lot, but I don't often see anyone discuss his visits to the August Celestials during his legendary questline. Like, sure, people occasionally bring up his attitude towards Tong, but how many current players were there to experience (and still remember) the rest of that quest? When I think of Wrathion, I think first of the whelp who literally dropped to his knees before the Red Crane of Hope, who poured out his heart about the visions he'd had -- how terrified he was that the Legion was coming, about the "rivers of blood and cities in ruin" that would result if he wasn't able to somehow, some way, stop this from happening, and about how the only thing sustaining him was the tiny sliver of hope that he might actually succeed. This is a young dragon who foresaw something that absolutely shook him to his core, something he would do anything to try to prevent... and who felt he had almost no support, because it seemed he was the only one taking the threat seriously while everyone around him was busy fighting one another. His fear, his burden, was so great that the Red Crane himself even admitted that Wrathion needed his blessing of Hope "more than any I have ever met".

We can, of course, debate Wrathion's methods. It's fairly obvious that he didn't fully understand the lessons the Celestials were trying to teach him -- at least not at the time. It's also undeniable that he made some pretty terrible mistakes along the way. And I can certainly understand the argument that his attitude in Dragonflight is just too annoying for some people to stomach. But the thing that always brings me back to Wrathion as Aspect is the knowledge that he actually cares about Azeroth. From the moment he was hatched -- even before -- he carried the burden of Earth-Warder, and he took it absolutely seriously. Neltharion took an oath, and he broke it -- broke beneath it, I would argue -- and Wrathion clearly believes that it's his own responsibility to bear the immense, crushing weight that his Aspect father/grandfather, and his entire flight, proved unable to bear. All those black dragons betrayed Azeroth, tried to destroy what they were sworn to protect, and here's Wrathion -- first a whelp and now a drake, all alone, without Neltharion's colossal size, strength, and power, without the support of a dragonflight behind him, without the support and trust of the other flights, without any true home or safe harbor, without the regard of the mortal races that he's trying to protect -- doing his best to fulfill an oath that he personally never actually took, only inherited.

Given that knowledge, I actually think Wrathion has behaved with remarkable restraint in regard to Sabellian's sudden appearance as a rival. Has Sabellian even given us the slightest indication that he actually cares about the sacred charge of the black dragonflight? He's certainly older, wiser, and steadier, and maybe he's done a good job of raising his kin and keeping them safe in Outland... but does he care about Azeroth? Because he certainly hasn't been there when it needed him... and yet he was perfectly willing to risk reappearing just in time to claim the Obsidian Throne.

[yulon]

The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 36)

Wrathion deals with the fallout of his loss in the Trial of Will.

Sabellian pulled the hood closer over his head.

The dry heat was welcome after so much time at sea, but the dragon couldn’t focus enough to enjoy it. He stared up at the mountain with a grimness that felt stark even on his face.

If the newest reports were correct, Samia and the others were in there.

Crunched footsteps came from his right. He didn’t look over. Only one person would dare intrude.

“So?” he prompted.

“Agents were right,” Rexxar said. “I managed to track the trail to the Spire’s pass.”

Sabellian sniffed.

“And you’re sure it was him?”

Rexxar grunted. He came up to stand at his side. Misha wasn’t with him. “I saw him in Pandaria with the Dragonmaw. He lacked their markings and saddles, but I remember his visage. Yes. It was him.”

Sabellian glanced at the half-orc. Only yesterday the hunter had taken off the bandages from his scuffle with the Dragonmaw two weeks ago. What was left were scars, ripping all across Rexxar’s bare chest.

“Alone?”

“Alone.” Rexxar looked at the mountain. It reached so high the jagged top touched the clouds of ash that misted along the gorge’s sky; the clouds themselves cast a red and black hue on an even redder and blacker landscape. It almost looked like home. “No other tracks.”

He frowned, thoughtful as he was aggravated. No Samia, no Vaxian.

But that didn’t mean they weren’t here.

He knew they were.

“I suppose those Agents are good for something,” Sabellian said. “Send word to that orc and have her ready some of his little underlings for the trap.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now.” Sabellian looked skyward. It was late afternoon, but the sun lay obscured under the ash-clouds. Unlike Blade’s Edge, the Searing Gorge had a perpetual darkness to it. “The longer we linger, the longer Serinar has to realize we’re here, or for them to relocate. Or both.” He curled his lip. “Especially after the idiot insisted we bring so many of his Agents.”

“Necessary,” Rexxar pointed out.

“And cumbersome. Mortals smell to dragons. The more there are, the more scents Serinar and the others will find.”

Rexxar shrugged one large shoulder.

They stood in silence. Sabellian ran his fingers down the collar affixed to his neck. It was becoming a habit of his since he’d put it on right before arriving to the Gorge two days ago. Though it inhibited his draconic form, the smooth feel of the metal had a calming quality.

Rexxar looked at the collar. His expression didn’t change. “Anything?”

Sabellian dropped his hand. Irritation bubbled in his chest. Every glance that his travelling companions had given him, every slight wince they’d done when he moved too fast or snapped, he’d caught as quickly as only the self-conscious did. It’d gotten somewhat better the longer he hadn’t snapped and killed them all, at least.

“Nothing,” he said dismissively. He’d told no one of his dreams, either.

It’d stay that way.

“I’ll have Misha send for Left, then.”

Sabellian stared at at the mountain known as Blackrock for a moment longer, then shook his head. “No. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll go to speak with her. I know she’s at camp - and no doubt the boy is there as well. Come.”

He moved past the Beastmaster. “We hunt the fool down,” Sabellian continued as he made his way down the rocky slope of the smaller mountain, back down to their camp at ground level. “If he’s alone, it’s our only chance before he skulks back into the mountain - and who knows when we shall have another chance to corner him.”

Corner him, torture him, force him to tell them where his children were. No matter what it took.

---

Two weeks earlier.

“Sabellian wins the Trial of Will.”

Silence – a silence of victory so sweet Sabellian savored it like a fresh heart.

He looked Wrathion. The Black Prince stood frozen, face ashen and his eyes red with shock. Stupid boy. He'd fallen into Sabellian's game far easier than the alchemist had expected.

Such was ego.

Xuen padded over to the orb, where it glowed orange and bright in the center of the Celestial Court. Each footfall scuffed loud against the quiet, so hushed was the entirety of the arena. He raised one massive paw over the ball.

“And to the victor goes the spoils,” he said, voice booming out along the Court. “The Black Prince must renounce his title, cease the suffering of Sabellian's brood, and return with him to Blade's Edge to face the judgment of his remaining family.” As he spoke, the orb began to spin, quick and then quicker, until it began to dissolve into ribbons of light which swirled around one another like a swarm of butterflies.

The White Tiger looked at Sabellian.

“Do you accept?”

“I accept.”

Xuen nodded. He swept his claws through the ribbons.

They shot away, quick as a firework – right toward Wrathion. The prince only had time to widen his eyes and take one step back before the ribbons of energy surrounded him. They locked together, cocoon-like, shielding the dragon from view.

The orc bodyguard cried out in anger and alarm. She smashed the butt of her rifle against the energy – and only succeeded in being thrown back. Snaps of light popped inside the shield.

All at once, the ribbons slowed in their mad dance. As quick as they had come, they dissolved into pieces of starlight.

Kneeling on the ground was Wrathion. He curled into himself and groaned.

No longer did he wear the illustrious garb of desert royalty. Instead, his clothes were plain: a white tunic and baggy deep-purple pants similar to the old, without all of the gold decoration.

The orc rushed over and knelt down to him. She managed to help him to his feet. Wrathion had a gaunt look on his face, and his eyes were distant and searching. He swayed once. Then he looked at Sabellian.

Little fool.

He didn’t hesitate: he walked over. The crowd murmured from beyond; he ignored them. Let them talk. The theatrics, the dramatics, were over. He wanted his prize.

Left looked up and snarled, tusks flashing.

“You'll be coming with me then, boy,” Sabellian said.

“So you can kill him without all of these people seeing, lizard?” Left spat. “I won't let -”

Wrathion put up a hand. Slowly - slowly - he looked up. His eyes were glassy, pained; he never took his eyes off of Sabellian. Exhaustion and something like resolution settled on the young dragon's face.

“It's fine, Left,” he said. “We'll go with him.”

“My Prince -”

“I'm not supposed to be called that anymore, remember?” Wrathion smiled a terse smile, and there, at last, was the bitterness on his expression. “If he wanted to kill me, he already would have.”

Sabellian raised an eyebrow.

“So I would have,” he repeated. He glanced at the orc, frowned, and looked back at Wrathion. Odd. Where was the tantrum that he'd been expecting Wrathion to unleash? “Only this one is allowed to follow. No others. And certainly not the mortal prince. He'll talk us all in circles.” Even from afar he could feel Anduin's need to preach at them both; the boy stood at the very edge of the arena, watching. Titans help them all if he was allowed to get close.

Wrathion grit his teeth.

“Fine.”

Sabellian looked up and nodded at Rexxar. The half-orc grunted. He moved forward to stand behind Wrathion and Left. Misha skulked off to the side. The once-prince glanced at them nervously.

“Good,” Sabellian said. “Now follow. Don't mind the bears. They're just there to keep you on the right path.”

He turned and started out of the Court. Footsteps followed.

A hundred eyes watched them go – but their gazes and hushed conversation, and not even Xuen's watching look, could come close to unnerving the dragon. For Sabellian had finished what he'd come here to do – in a way that let himself feel right. Feel good. Feel vindicated.

The only thing that itched him was the visions Wrathion had summoned. Things he hadn’t wanted to see again. Things and people he hadn’t wanted to bring up.

His Father.

Anger rumbled at his chest, and he redirected it at the ex-Prince.

Yes - he'd brought Wrathion to his knees. Shown him his brood's suffering. Stripped him of his title and reputation in front of champions who would spread the word, as mortals tended to do.

Yes – death would have been an easy strike. Too easy, for someone who had taken even more children away from him.

Too easy indeed.

---

The walk back to the cave was as grim and quiet as a funeral procession.

The more they walked, the more Sabellian grew a bizarre mix of angry and smug. Angry at the visions; smug because he’d won.

By the time the cave came into view, Misha had taken up the rear and Rexxar the side. The Beastmaster kept casting glances at Sabellian – enough that it began to grate on him.

“What?” he snapped.

Rexxar paused, then looked away and shook his head.

Sabellian shot him a glare.

He stopped in front of the cave entrance.

“Wrathion and I will be speaking alone,” he said.

Left went to protest, but Wrathion beat her to speaking.

“Fine.”

Sabellian gave a curt nod. Rexxar was staring at him again. The dragon bared his teeth, turned, and swept into the cave.

The lanterns they'd lit before leaving had gone out. With a wave of his hand, he set them to blazing, and fire burst hot and bright, sending shadows scattering and bobbing.

He waited until he heard footsteps behind him: footsteps wary and silent. Sabellian crossed his arms over his chest and glanced back, but did not turn.

“I confess,” Sabellian said, “I expected your reaction to the loss more... volatile.” He turned to face the boy and frowned.

Wrathion glared.

“Now, boy: listen to me. You’re going to do me a favor with your new oath.”

----

Sabellian and Rexxar made their way down the slope. Their encampment was nestled at the base, hidden underneath an outcrop of rock from aerial view.

Glimpses of shadows skulked at the corner of his eyes. Wrathion, despite his initial reluctance, had smoothed into his role with a vehemence that bordered on vengeful. The boy couldn't do anything about his situation, so apparently he was going about it aggressively, summoning all the power his Agents provided – and that included summoning a lot of Agents. A lot of them; a flashy amount. Wrathion was either trying to show he still had some semblance of control with the flourish of power, or was just trying to get this over with as quickly as possible by pushing all of his resources into it.

It was probably both.

They reached the camp. Two Agents stood at attention, but moved out of the way without so much as a glance or a word in their direction. Sabellian and Rexxar swept by them.

It was a small camp, hastily erected underneath the outcrop. A fire popped in the center and some bedrolls and a portable table surrounded it.

At the table stood Left. She looked up as they approached. Her face gave nothing away.

“Rexxar filled you in,” she said. It was not a question.

“We won't have long to corner him.” Sabellian moved to the other end of the table. A map and a scattering of documents, all scrawled in different hand, littered the surface. At the far end were some vials filled with reagents and herbs he'd laid out earlier; within one lay what looked to be a clump of dead grass, blackened by heat. He eyed it. “Where is the boy?”

“Checking on the scouts on the northern edge of the mountain,” Left said. She hadn't warmed up to him at all; her tone remained a growly sort of snap that he ignored. He wasn't here to make friends. “Nevermind.”

He looked up at her and followed her eyes to the sky, where a blur of black swept down from the clouds. Wrathion slowed as he approached. He'd grown a little, some of his limbs a little longer and his face a little more angular. He alighted at the edge of the camp and in a rush of smoke, transformed into his human guise.

“So?” Sabellian said.

Wrathion stared at him with a bored expression. “So what?”

“Your scouts?”

The ex-prince smoothed back his hair. He'd – somewhere – found a brown leather coat that covered the slightness of his body. Most likely one of the Agents he'd called in had fetched it for him.

“They've flanked the pass,” he said. “Are you certain that that little bit will work?”

“If I wasn't, I wouldn't have suggested it.” Sabellian reached over and flicked his fingernail on the vial of the dead-grass. It gave off a delicate ping. “It's more than enough. As long as your Agents are set correctly in place.”

Wrathion frowned. He eyed the vial. “They'll do just fine.” He slid his eyes over to Rexxar. “But a tool is only as good as the directions it's given.”

Rexxar grunted. “I won't fail.”

“Of course he won't,” Sabellian grumbled, glaring at Wrathion. He'd grown a little more confident since the beach and he wasn't sure if he liked it better or not. At least it made him seem more clear-headed and not a mopey child. “We go now.”

Left and Wrathion stared at him. “Now?” the orc said. “We have to arm the -”

Sabellian put up his hand to silence her. Slowly, he straightened then grabbed the vial. He tipped it up and down; the grass inside plunked back and forth with the motion. He watched it. “As I said: we won't have long. The Searing Gorge has enough prey here for him to hunt and hunt quickly, then feed quickly. He'll skulk back to wherever he's been hiding within the hour.” He put the vial in his robe. His hand brushed against the warmth of his charm.

No one still knew about that.

“We go now.”

---

“You want me to find your children for you?”

Sabellian had explained what he wanted Wrathion to do, and he liked the boy’s bewildered expression very much.

He smiled tersely.

“You were able to find the dragons hiding from your assassins well enough,” he drawled. “This should be easy for you.”

Wrathion ran a hand through his hair. The boy looked ragged around the edges; to Sabellian, he looked like a sheep whose wool had been sheared for the first time. He had that sort of shocked look about him and the lack of his elaborate clothing only solidified the image.

“You… you did all of that… just to force me to be your bloodhound?” Wrathion drew himself up and bared his teeth. “That wasn’t even part of the bet! You took my title away from me, you forced me to stop killing them, but -”

“Wrong.” Sabellian put up a hand to stop the boy from speaking any more. “I said you had to face my children for their own judgement. But how are you supposed to meet them if they’re not all there?”

“But that’s not -”

“You can ask Xuen, if you’d like,” Sabellian cut in smoothly. “You needn’t worry; I asked him all the details before I started the Trial. The Tiger said it was up to the oath-taker to do anything possible to bring about his duties.” He smiled stiffly. “Which means you have to find my children, first. Understand, now?”

Wrathion grew more and more pale. His little burst of anger vanished like a flame blown out on a candle wick; all that was left was that remaining shock and disbelief again.

“You have a network of spies around the globe,” Sabellian continued when the boy didn’t speak. “You have access to your earth powers so you can sense the dragons. Yes. I cornered you in front of mortals and humiliated you. I’m forcing you to help those you’ve wanted to kill. And I am taking much pleasure in it.”

How good it felt to have his plans come to fruition so smoothly.

Wrathion chewed on his bottom lip. He seemed to look through Sabellian, and the dragon saw the dozens of ideas flash desperately behind the boy’s eyes as he thought of ways to get out of this and fail. The whelp stood there long enough, frozen, that Sabellian’s satisfaction felt all the sweeter.

Finally, Wrathion’s shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes and grit his teeth.

Defeat.

“And you’re going to kill me afterward?” he asked, but didn’t look up.

“No.” Sabellian shrugged. “I don’t want to kill you anymore. I realized just how little I cared about you to sink to your level of killing without thought.” He glanced Wrathion up and down. “And leaving you alive with your guilt and psychological damage is much more rewarding to me.”

Wrathion looked at him.

“I hate you.”

“I don’t care. Now go.” He waved a hand, dismissing his new tool. “Get all of the Agents to look for Samia, Vaxian, and Pyria. Find them fast, and you won’t have to deal with me ever again - and that, I promise you.”

---

“You want me to go home?”

Sabellian sighed. He hadn’t thought this was going to be as difficult as it was turning out.

“Nasandria. I know all you’ve wanted to do since we arrived is to leave for Blade’s -”

“I’m not going to leave when we’re about to go look for my siblings,” she said. She flushed at her interruption, then shook herself out and crossed her arms over her chest. “I want to go home, but not when -”

“Listen, girl.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Nasandria went still. They were outside of the cave, and alone; Rexxar had gone to guard (or, in his words, “keep an eye on”) Wrathion while the boy went to collect some last-minute details from his Agents. “You’ve been through enough. What you are going to do is listen to me and go home. You’re going to let the brood know that the Prince is taken care of. You’re going to let them know what we’re still doing here. And then you’re going to tell them they shouldn’t be fretting over me.”

Sabellian stared down at her until she looked away. She was his child; she would obey. The leader of a brood had that sort of respect. It wasn’t like some flimsy human family.

“As you say,” she murmured.Though she had averted her eyes, he saw a softening of relief in her gaze. He appreciated her attempt to hide it.

He hesitated, then let go of her.

“We are lucky the Agents tracked Serinar to the Searing Gorge,” he said. “Familiar territory. I know most crevices and caves there, and Blackrock was your Uncle’s lair.” Something he didn’t fancy himself going into, but if he had to - for his children - he would. “It shall be easy to corner them.”

A day ago, Wrathion’s Agent, Left, had come to him explaining they had found traces of black dragon there. Black dragons. And one had seen Serinar.

Samia and Vaxian had last been seen with Serinar. If he was there… then they were too.

Pyria, however, remained a mystery.

“That Bronze has the portal schedule,” he said stiffly, feeling, at once, somewhat awkward. “She’ll accompany you to make sure you take the right one. Don’t shift out of your human guise until you take the path from Shattrah into the Terrokar Forest. The northern route, not the eastern. Arakkoa have too many encampments in the latter. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Father… you’re sure about this Wrathion business, too?” She looked up at him, bangs hanging over her eyes.

“Very. Trust me, girl.”

She stared at him. Then she frowned, and the snap of her voice took him off guard. “And the Old Gods?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“How are you going to do that?”

He scowled. “Nasandria -”

“Just - wait. I have something.”

She turned and rushed into the cave - not without tripping and stumbling to catch herself on a clump of roots.

She disappeared inside. Sabellian heaved a sigh.

What could she possibly -

Nasandria reappeared within the next moment. She clutched her satchel in her arm. Sabellian watched her approach, one eyebrow perked.

“Kalecgos, he -... he gave me this before we left the Temple,” she explained. She undid the clasp and reached in. When she pulled out the silver collar, Sabellian narrowed his eyes.

“And why would he give you that?”

She looked at him. They both knew why, but she said it anyway. “For you. Just in case.”

He eyed the collar. He’d loathed the thing at the Temple: the feeling of constriction, of confinement. A confinement needed just in case he went mad again. In case he tried to shift into his true form and slaughter everyone in his path. He sighed quietly.

“Give it to me.”

Nasandria nodded and handed it over. Her eyes never left the collar; she did not raise them to watch him.

Sabellian spun the thing over in his hands. The light didn’t catch the slick metal, as if it absorbed it, not reflected it. Power tingled at his fingers where they touched it.

“I suppose it will be of use,” he muttered. “In case something goes wrong.”

She shrugged. “It’s better than nothing.”

He said a quick word of power, and the collar disappeared in a whisk of arcane. He brushed his hands off and looked at her. “Thank you.”

She smiled warily.

“There is one other thing, Nasandria,” he said. “Before you leave.”

The drake straightened. “Yes?”

“I want you to go find where Talsian’s remains are: the cave in Kun’lai.” He put her hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Those bones don’t deserve to be in the cold. Bring them home.”

Nasandria’s face fell, and she nodded.

“I’ll make sure of it, Father.” And she bowed her head.

Sabellian nodded. “Good. Now, go find Chromie. With any luck, I shall see you soon, with Samia and the others in tow.”

The drake hesitated. Then she threw herself forward and embraced him.

Sabellian startled and stiffened up. A hug was such a human gesture...

But he returned it all the same.

“No, go on, then, girl. Go.” Sabellian let go and waved her off.

She looked a little flustered, but, on seeing Sabellian wasn’t angry, smiled one last time and nodded.

“Good luck, Father. And be careful.”

---

The day before they were set to leave, Sabellian received a visitor.

He had begun going through supplies for the journey when Misha began rumbling at the cave entrance. Rexxar had only just left to buy water flasks at the Market courts, so he could not be back so early.

Sabellian glanced over. His mood dropped.

“Prince Wrynn,” the dragon greeted. “Why are you here?”

Anduin stood at the opening, eyeing Misha. The bear sat to the side. She made no move to bar him from entering, but she didn’t make him welcome, either.

“Ah…” Anduin looked at him. “I was hoping to speak with you.”

Sabellian raised an eyebrow. He didn’t seek Wrathion, then. Interesting. And suspicious.

“Leave him be, Misha,” Sabellian said. “Let the boy in.”

The bear flicked an ear, grunted, and rose. She thumped away and sat at the other end of the cave.

Anduin entered, and only then did Sabellian see that the boy held a small pouch.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. He looked around. “You’re alone?”

“Would you like me to be?”

Anduin frowned and glanced at him; for a moment he looked startled. Then he smiled. “Not necessarily.”

Sabellian grunted. He turned back to his supplies, cast all over the slab etched into the wall. He picked through dried rations, health potions, and gauze. “What is it, then? If you’ve come to ask me to let go of Wrathion’s debt, I’m afraid you’ll just be wasting your words.”

“It’s not that.” Anduin sat on one of the only chairs in the cave. It was big enough to hold Rexxar, so it engulfed the Prince.

Anduin began looking around again. Sabellian watched him from the corner of his eye. It felt as if the boy was having trouble focusing on him for very long. To be fair, the last time the two had spoken alone was when he had Anduin captive under Sik’vess. He glanced at where he had scoured the fel dagger across the boy’s eye, though any scar that might have been there was hidden by the long sleeves he wore.

“Then what is it?” Sabellian pressed impatiently.

“You’re leaving.”

“Yes. Who told you that?”

Anduin shifted in his seat. “I overheard your daughter. Nasandria?”

The suspicion came back at once. Sabellian rumbled, set down a handful of rations he’d been sifting through for packing, and turned to face Anduin.

“Go on, boy. Say what you’re here for.”

Anduin smiled again. It seemed tired, and reached his eyes in the vaguest sense.

“I was at the Celestial Court last night, speaking with Chi-ji. Nasandria came to speak with the rest of the Celestials.” He tilted his head. “It’s when I learned you were leaving.”

And what could she have wanted from the Celestials? He stared at Anduin in silence, bidding him to continue with the intent of his stare.

“I don’t mean to… ‘tell’ on her,” he said, and watched Sabellian’s face carefully. “But she was asking them to help you. Because you’re leaving the island.”

The unsaid lay like a thin ice between them. Sabellian frowned.

“I saved Chi-ji, once,” Anduin continued when Sabellian remained silent. “The Celestials… they have a strange concept of debt. They don’t expect anyone to repay them, but if they owe you something, they will give you any favor you ask for.”

“How generous,” Sabellian drawled.

“I asked him for something that would help.” The boy undid the strings on the pouch and upended its contents into his palm.

It was a necklace. Its gold chain spilled over Anduin’s hand, and shining in his palm lay a charm. It was in the shape of a crane’s arching head and neck. A glow emanated from it.

“Chi-ji is the Celestial of Hope,” Anduin said. “He blessed it with some of his essence. It’ll act as barrier against the Old Gods.” He looked up at Sabellian, his eyes careful, calculating. “But the stronger your will is, the stronger the charm will be. So Chi-ji said, at least.”

Sabellian stared at it.

Then he laughed.

“Very thoughtful of you, little prince,” he said. “But some little good-luck charm isn’t going to scare Them away.”

The boy frowned. It scrunched up his face. “Chi-ji isn’t a regular being,” he said, intent, this time. “He’s a Wild God. He’s connected to Azeroth like all the others. Maybe it won’t completely stop it - but it will help. I promise you.”

“You seem awfully confident.”

“That’s because I am.”

Sabellian raised an eyebrow. Having confidence didn’t mean he was right.

Anduin sighed and closed his fingers over the charm. He collected the chain up from where it hung down. “I know why you might not believe me. If it helps… he told me he also infused some of this island’s magic in its blessing.”

That got his attention. “Oh?” Again he looked down at the charm, even though it was now hidden beneath Anduin’s fingers. For a moment, an almost weary sort of hope warmed at him. He grunted and brushed it away.

“Yes,” Anduin said. “And, think about it: you bet whatever you planned on Xuen forcing Wrathion to keep his bet. And it looks like it worked. If Xuen has such power, don’t you think Chi-ji does, too?” Anduin scooted forward on his chair a little. Such intensity in such a young thing. “Please trust me. I’ve seen what Chi-ji can do. Azeroth isn’t only the Old Gods. It’s him, too. And Xuen and Niuzao and Yu’lon. Goldrinn… Cenarius… even Elune.”

So intent and so hopeful. It was so hard not to feel hope when this boy spoke. Sabellian frowned at him.

“Why did Chi-ji do this for you? What did you do for him?”

“I saved him during a Sha attack on his Temple.”

“You used a debt… to try to help me?” Sabellian squinted, suspicious. “What do you want from me?”

Anduin blinked, then shook his head. “The only thing I want to do is to help.”

He extended his hand, opening his fingers and offering the pendant. “Please. Take it.”

Should he even be surprised, even suspicious, about this strange human? No one really did anything for free.

This was Anduin Wrynn, though.

He crossed his arms over his chest.

“You just want to help,” he repeated. “Even after all I did to you and the whelp. How well did that gash heal, boy?”

Anduin’s eyes hardened. “I try not to hold grudges,” he said. “But I do have a good memory. I saw how much Nasandria cared when she asked the Celestials for help. And how scared she looked for you.” He withdrew his arm and averted his eyes. He stared at the floor, thoughtful, intent even still. “Someone needed help and I knew I could give it to them. And… I grew up with Onyxia. I don’t want anyone to become like her if I can help it. Without choice or the will to be good instead.”

The more Anduin spoke the more reliable he became. The more truthful.

“Very noble of you,” Sabellian muttered. “Even if the enchantment doesn’t work.” And it would be nice to have something to cling to beside the collar. He heaved a sigh and beckoned with his hand. Anduin smiled and handed the charm over.

It was warm against even his gloves. Sabellian studied it and turn it over. The same profile winked up at him; both sides of the crane had watching eyes which glinted at him in the dull light of the cave.

But holding it… something about it felt… precious. Real. Something otherworldly, and yet, something familiar. He frowned.

Perhaps this was something: something more than a good-luck charm.

“I wonder what she would have been like if she had a choice, too,” he said, almost to himself. He eyed Anduin. “She was truly despicable. And yet… so was I. As you surely saw at the Trial.”

Andun smiled, the gesture forced. “It’s… hard to think about.”

“So it is.” Sabellian looked down at the charm again. He wrapped his fingers around it, sighed, then set it down near his other supplies.

He turned to Anduin.

“Does that leg still bother you?”

Anduin blinked.

“Why do you ask?” the prince said. Now it was his turn to look suspicious.

“I can’t accept this without giving something in return,” Sabellian explained. “I don’t like having debts over my head.”

“You really don’t have to -”

“Yes, actually. I do.” Sabellian turned and rummaged around in his pile of supplies until he’d found a roll of parchment he’d bought yesterday to take notes on during the journey. He tore off a small piece and found a stick of charcoal near the fire. “You’re still in pain. You were limping when you came in.” He began jotting down ingredients.

“I… yes. I’m still injured.”

He wasn’t saying everything, but Sabellian could work with the admission, at least.

“And you’ll be in pain for a long time with that sort of injury,” Sabellian said. Soon, nearly a dozen ingredients listed down the parchment. “This is a pain-eater elixir of my own make. It’s very strong. Very adaptable.” He continued to write, but this time, steps to make it. “Give this to your alchemists - someone who really knows what they’re doing, understood? No amateur. This is an advanced potion.”

After a quick glance, he nodded, rolled up the parchment, and handed it to Anduin.

The prince stared at it. He took gingerly.

“It’s not poison,” Sabellian said gruffly.

Anduin laughed. “No, no. I didn’t think of that.” He tilted his head and looked at the scroll for a moment longer before glancing up at the dragon. “I’ll get this to someone in Stormshield. Thank you.”

Sabellian shrugged. “As I said: I don’t like owing debts.”

“Well… and like I said, it wasn’t a debt.” He smiled quietly. “But you’re just going to keep ignoring that.”

“Clearly.” It was near duty-bound for a dragon to repay a favor, and if he did a favor on someone else’s behalf, well, he expected them to pay up later. Dragons didn’t give anything away for free.

And yet… what an odd boy. To give something so precious and expect nothing in return - truly. Not a ploy, not a scheme to get a debt from a powerful dragon. He realized, staring at the boy, that Anduin truly meant what he said: he’d just done it to be kind.

An odd boy indeed.

Anduin stood and slipped the roll in his satchel. “I should go,” he said.

“Slip past your babysitters again?”

Anduin shot him a look, but he flushed a little. “They’re not happy with me, no,” he explained, then relaxed. He studied Sabellian’s face. “I do hope the charm works. And that you find what you’re looking for.”

“As do I, Prince Anduin,” the dragon replied. He paused, and before he could think better of it, said: “Do take my apologies for Sik’vess. I did what I had to.”

Anduin raised an eyebrow, but it only took him a moment to smile slightly and nod. “Right. I won’t say it didn’t hurt, but… thank you for apologizing.”

Sabellian wrinkled his nose. He shooed the boy again. “Alright. Go on then.”

Anduin sighed and moved toward the cave entrance. Misha watched him. Before he left, he paused and looked back.

“And don’t be too hard on Wrathion. He’s just… misguided.”

“We’ll see.”

Anduin watched him. He nodded.

“Good luck.”

Then he was gone.

---

In the middle of the journey, they spent the night on a small isle in the middle of the Great Sea.

Sabellian had a difficult time sleeping. The others had nodded off hours ago - save for the lookout who hid in the thicket of the trees bunched tight around them.

It was deep night when he finally gave up on sleep. Perhaps a walk around would dull his anxious mind. Or maybe all the sea-salt would - or just do the opposite. He could feel the damned stuff crusting around his hair.

He stood and stretched. No one stirred around the fire, which had begun to die down. Once he’d brushed off most of the sand from his robe, he waved a hand and rekindled the embers. The charcoal popped and hissed. He watched the flames before moving away.

He walked.

It was a small island; if it weren’t for all the copse of trees, he’d be able to see the end of the isle.

The journey had been uneventful. They had left early in the morning to skirt the mortal crowd of the day’s market and adventures. One unforseen plus was they avoided the air traffic of those arriving to the Isle. Stretching his wings to a free sky was, for that moment, better than any feeling, even if his body still ached from his injuries.

They’d pushed hard the first three days until they reached the more expansive stretches of the Great Sea. By then, both Rexxar and one of Wrathion’s senior Agents had recommended they hop from island to island to help replenish supplies and keep the party rested. It was better than making the mistake many others had: pushing over the Great Sea until exhaustion hit, and finding nowhere to land below.

It made things slower, but it would have to do. That, and if he got too weak…

As he walked, he touched the pendant hanging from his neck. When around the others, he tucked it underneath his turtleneck; no one yet knew of it. They didn’t need to - though he wasn’t an unobservant fool, and saw the glances the Agents in particular through him whenever he snapped or lost his temper for a moment. They feared the moment he would lose it.

So did he. And yet, nothing.

Ever since leaving the island: nothing. Not even a hint of a whisper had yet to reach him. Was it dumb luck? Did he still have residual magic from the island hindering them? Or was it the charm? It was warm under his fingertips, even when he was wearing gloves. It seemed too easy. Too good to pass.

And yet…

He frowned and shook his head, then let go of the charm. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down, now more than ever. If he grew too complacent, his guard would go down, and then things would go downhill fast. Perhaps it was the warding of the charm mixed with his own stubborn will that kept them at bay. Hadn’t Anduin mentioned something like that?

He exited the copse of trees and found himself on a wide stretch of beach.

Sitting there at the shore was Wrathion.

Sabellian raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t noticed the boy had been absent from the fire. Then again, he hadn’t paid much attention to the ex-Prince since they’d left the Isle. Wrathion gave him little reason to, anyway. The boy had been deathly quiet most of the time.

For a moment he toyed with the idea of finding somewhere else to go. Then he shrugged that off and approached.

Wrathion tilted his head, but didn’t look back.

“Sleep couldn’t find you?”

“No.”

Wrathion sounded tired. He didn’t look at Sabellian, even when the elder dragon stood right beside him.

He glanced down. The boy stared out at the ocean with a distant expression, his face unreadable. It was the same expression he’d worn throughout most of the trip: an expression of thoughtfulness and glassiness, a mix of intentness and self-preservation that seemed oddly familiar to him in a way he couldn’t place.

Sabellian looked away and stared out at the sea: a dark expanse as black as both their scales. The moon was waxing, a sliver in the sky. Among those thousands of stars was his home. Somewhere. He sighed to himself, a sound so quiet that he hardly heard it on his own. He wondered if the whelps had grown any.

“Can’t you go stand somewhere else?” Wrathion said.

“What happened to your silence?”

Wrathion screwed his face up and let out a slow sigh. He relaxed when the last of his breath left him. He shuffled his shoulders.

“I hardly see why you brought me in the first place,” he said, “if you loathe me so much.”

“I don’t trust you alone, boy.”

“The Celestial bound me to this,” the dragon said. His words came out flat, lacking the punch of his usual attitude. “It’s not like I can do anything else.”

“Even bound by an oath, I don’t trust you.” He looked out to the sea again: the great expanse of black glass. “The last time I was foolish enough to, you stabbed me in the gut and left me to die.”

A flash of paleness spread over Wrathion’s face.

Silence spread between them.

“You never mentioned how you managed to survive that,” Wrathion said at last in a low voice.

“Because I never offered the explanation.”

Wrathion finally looked at him, though only sidelong; a glance, nothing more. He didn’t even move his head.

“I wanted to kill you so badly my hatred let me live through it until I could be healed.” Sabellian looked down at the boy.

“Oh.” Wrathion stared at him, nodded slowly, then looked away, as if it made perfect sense. “All of it for me? How flattering.”

“And all of this is because of you,” Sabellian snapped. “You stupid whelp.”

Wrathion wrinkled his nose but, to Sabellian’s surprise, didn’t rise up to argue. He picked at his sleeves and continued staring out at sea.

When the ex-Prince didn’t speak again, Sabellian again looked up to the night sky. They would make it to the shore of the Eastern Kingdoms in a day and a half. From the Westfall coast, they’d make their way northeast until they reached the Searing Gorge: the place where Wrathion’s Agents had tracked down traces of black dragons.

The Searing Gorge. He’d grown up there, though then, it had been a nameless place. His hatching cave was nestled somewhere in those rocks - and just beyond the range was Blackrock Mountain, the lair of his dead brother. Did Nefarian’s bones still rot underneath the ground?

“I did panic.”

“What?”

The suddenness of it had Sabellian instinctually glaring down at Wrathion. The whelp busied himself by picking at some dirt caught in his shirt.

“That first drake,” Wrathion said. “I saw her and I panicked. So I forced that Blood Elf to kill her.” He raised his eyes to Sabellian. “One of your children had mangled it, but I made him do it anyway. I felt his agony. I didn’t care.”

They stared at one another for a moment before Wrathion looked back at the water.

“So. You were right. With what you said at the Trial. I panicked.” He sighed. “Usually I’m much smarter than that. I’m supposed to be a dragon of tact and cunning! What a bad first impression…”

Was this his way of… apologizing? The boy had a tone which held a sense of drag to it, as if he was close to saying something just beyond his range of voice.

“I should have thought,” he continued with the same tone. “I felt her die.” He didn’t look at him. “I should have thought.”

If it was an apology it was a bad one, but - perhaps, for their kind, it was still an apology. The pride of a Black Dragon was one of their greatest downfalls.

So perhaps it was enough. An apology, however vague, was still one all the same.

Sabellian rumbled in response. Wrathion frowned.

When Sabellian finally left, he left the boy alone, still staring at the sea. Watching.

----

“Did Deathwing treat all his children like that?”

“Excuse me?”

They were camped on the hills of Westfall. Sabellian was sitting against a tree, picking at the remains of cow ribs. A yard away, Wrathion looked through some various reports his Agents had given him before they’d landed to eat. Rexxar and Left were hunting for some more game.

“The vision.” Wrathion tilted his head but didn’t look up. He flipped through another report. “You were afraid of him.”

Sabellian grit his teeth. He had the sudden urge to kick the boy down the hill, but withheld it.

“He liked Nefarian and Onyxia much more than me.”

“Mm.”

Sabellian snorted smoke. He’d reburied that memory again, and the boy just had to bring it up?

“Is there a reason you asked, or are you just trying to annoy me?”

Wrathion shrugged. He wrote something down on one of the reports and set it aside.

“Curiousity.”

The boy had grown a trite more talkative since they’d spoken on the beach, but not much. He only seemed to speak to Sabellian. It bothered him. Why did the whelp want to talk to him more?

Sabellian grunted and peeled off a strip of fatty meat from the ribs. “He was not someone you wanted to be your father, boy,” he rumbled. “Which is why you’re lucky not to truly be his child.”

Wrathion eyed him.

He looked back down and didn’t speak up again. They took flight an hour later.

---

He was in a place of darkness.

No ground, no sky, no horizon. And yet he still had the feeling of standing, of something beneath his feet.

He couldn’t feel the sensation of his body. Like he was made of air. Spectre.

feel you

your fear

accept the gift

take it

take it

Take it

TAKE IT

TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKEITTAKEITTAKETTAKEITTAKEIT

Then silence. Nothing.

A sensation of touch. A familiar feeling. Soft. Unsure. Something reaching toward him. It was the touch of a friend that hadn’t seen another in a long time. It was shy. And something about it scared him on a primal level. He jerked away.

The touch fell back. It was nervous. It? It. It. No. She. It was a she. He knew her. Remembered her from when he was young. A gentle, strong voice. Not his mother. Something deeper. Something below, but not Them. Near them. But not Them. Something that had tried to help him. To soothe when he was small. Something that had failed to ward against the others that had claimed him.

The presence lingered out of his field of vision. She remained, ready to approach again but not yet doing so.

He woke with hard breathing and the crane charm burning against his chest.

---

They found Serinar right where Rexxar had seen him: the Spire’s Pass, leading from the Searing Gorge to Redridge.

Sabellian had positioned himself at the top of the cliffs bordering the Pass. The wind flickered hot against his face.

A little below him, one of Wrathion’s agents crouched in the crags. Others like her dotted the Pass, hidden from view. This included Wrathion himself and Rexxar, though he could not see either from here.

He lacked the surprise he’dt thought he’d have when he first took position and had seen Serinar below. But with how much he’d seen and had been through since leaving Outland, it was beginning to feel as if nothing could surprise him.

But there Serinar was. The dragon had indeed been hunting, and now gorged himself on the carcass. It was silent - so silent that even from so high the sounds of Serinar chewing and snapping bone were audible.

He’d only just begun to feed when they’d arrived; the timing could not have been more perfect. The smell and taste of blood would mask most scents to the dragon. It’d leave him vulnerable in his hunting-frenzy.

He may not have the surprise, but he did find it strange, almost bizarre, to see Serinar below. The dragon had briefly been under his command, and he knew that if anyone could survive the purge after the Cataclysm, it was him. The wyrm was overly cruel but cunning, with a knack for surviving when others did not.

And yet he’d been enslaved by the Dragonmaw. How had they gotten away? That was a question that still gnawed at them all.

But he didn’t have much time to think that over: Serinar jerked his head up from the carcass. A flap of muscle hung from his jaw.

He went still. His nostrils flared.

He’d sensed one of them. A shift in the wind.

Sabellian’s suspicions were realized when Serinar snapped open his wings and beat up into the sky. Dust and rock went flying, so frenzied was his sudden lift.

If he escaped, they might not find him again.

Sabellian didn’t hesitate: he undid the latch on the collar, threw it off to the side, and calmly off the side of the cliff. He transformed mid-fall.

The swath of his shadow fell over Serinar.

The other dragon glanced up. Fear flinched across his eyes before Sabellian smashed right into him, and the two went crashing toward the ground.