Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Petitioners Hall, situated near the entrance to the castle, was where the Crown Prince traditionally held court. Ren had sat there with Anduin on occasion, more often of late as he set to learning the feel and flow of the politics of the human capitol of Stormwind.

An audience with the Crown Prince was reserved for senior guild representative, merchants and craftsmen of high standing, and the lesser titled families of Knights and Barons. It was, Anduin had remarked dryly, for anyone who thought they were too good for the open public hours of audience with the King, but who weren’t important enough to arrange a private moment of Varian’s time. The issues brought before him were, Ren had found, only an echo of those that were endlessly paraded before his father - Guild disputes, land disputes, charges of wrong doing where one or both parties were too highly ranked to be brought before the public courts, and so on. Anduin, Ren thought with a private bit of bias, was better at listening than his father was, and his subsequent judgements were sometimes better thought out; the petitioners that left his presence might not be happy, but they knew they had been dealt with fairly.

In the absence of the King, Anduin had elected to hold both the petitioners hours and the open court together, from the larger venue of the throne room. The throne and dais sat empty, bereft of both men usually found on it as Greymane had accompanied Varian Wrynn into battle, his weathered countenance held tight and sour at the prospect of the coming joint offensive that put Alliance troops shoulder to shoulder with their Horde counterparts.

Alliance, Horde… it was all the same to Ren, foreign politics and foreign blood feud that had stretched on beyond all reason. He had served a brief stint with the Alliance forces when he had been fresh off the back of Shen-zin Su, but Varian’s greeting - such as it was, thinly veiled threats and stringent rules - had left a sour taste in his mouth and made him question that path before he had even shaken off his awe and wonder at the greater world.

Since then, he had found a home in the ancestral lands of his own people. He had walked the ruins of the Jade Temple, watched as Pandaria’s southern beaches were overrun with foreigners that brought bad blood and worse spirits with them. Watched, as that bad blood created nightmares spawned from hate that tortured a land that wasn’t even theirs. No… Ren had no love for either side and had wished, more than once, that he didn’t love the thoughtful, eloquent, golden furred son of the human Alliance leader.

But he had, and he did, and one person could not change the course of the river, as one of his masters had been fond of saying. He couldn’t change the course of the Alliance or the Horde, but maybe this threat greater than both of them, this Legion, could. Ren thought he might almost be thankful to the demons if they did.

Anduin had set his own heavy chair below and slightly to the side of the dais of the throne. Human chairs were too narrow and awkwardly shaped as far as Ren was concerned; he had found a low stool that let him press his feet together properly, knees pointed outwards. His formal robes stretched across his knees, making a neat hammock of space that his youngest cub was resting in, sound asleep, the other two cradled in a sling across his chest. He didn’t always bring the cubs to audience, which could be loud at times, but the crowd today was much thinner than usual, quiet and subdued in deference to the gravity of the day. Most of the city had turned out in the early morning hours to watch the army leave, gunships ascending between regimented flights of gryphon, a breathtaking show of might spread across the clear sky. Down at the docks the sailing ships were still leaving, their ranks supplemented with mercenaries from far and wide.

The petitioners were fewer and quieter, as though even the most self important of them realized that their grievances, in the face of the threat looming over Azeroth, sounded like petty nonsense. Anduin had taken advantage of the quiet to abscond with the eldest of the litter of cubs; Li Hua - named, after much debate, for Ren’s own mother - was a small bundle of swaddling cloths and a tiny furred head against the Prince’s shoulder where he expertly supported her, one hand curled protectively over her back.

Ren had had misgivings at first - never about Anduin, but about the responses of those around him. Anduin had just smiled, one of those shining expressions that still made Ren’s heart beat a little faster but did nothing to hide the mischief hidden in it, and told Ren to watch. He had, and Anduin’s instinct, as always, had been right - xenophobic to the less similar races humans might be, but a cub was still a cub, apparently. The female petitioners and even most of the males softened a little when they looked at the sleeping bundle draped limply over Anduin’s shoulder, and the deft way Anduin handled the infant, rubbing her back and rocking her slightly, seemed to bring him favor in the people’s eyes. Humans had many faults but Ren had to admit that their treatment of cubs, by and large, wasn’t usually one of them.

There was a slight lull in the proceedings after the last group - dwarven merchants from the north asking for a license that granted them permission to operate their business within Stormwind lands, easily given - bowed their way out. Anduin glanced back at Ren, as somber as Ren himself felt, but the Prince reached out with the hand not occupied balancing a cub and pressed Ren’s wrist briefly. “It will be fine,” he said softly. “Have faith.”

Ren wasn’t certain who Anduin was trying to convince, himself or Ren. Azeroth had faced threat after threat, even within their lifetimes, but not often of a magnitude that drew the King of Stormwind himself out onto the battlefield. Rumor had it that the Warchief, as well, was joining his forces, and Ren’s own stake in the matter - a cousin who had accompanied Varian’s flagship, the only blood relative to have come with him off of the turtle - seemed small in comparison.

Something - the tilt of his ears maybe - must have given him away because Anduin squeezed his wrist. “Hardwire will be fine,” he assured Ren. “He’s better with those swords than he ever let on - even if my father is never going to let him live it down.”

That made Ren snort softly. His cousin, ‘Hardwire’ by preference when his given name was longer and more difficult for the humans to pronounce than Ren’s was, had spent far longer with the Alliance and in Stormwind than Ren had. In that time, he had perfected a role that suited him perfectly, that of the harmless hard-drinking fisherman. Scruffy, disreputable, one of the low end commoners the King had a lamentable habit of associating with in the taverns around Stormwind. Ren had no doubt that all of the councilors and nobles who grumbled about Varian’s tavern crawls and the filthy commoners he kept company with hadn’t recognized the smartly armored Pandaren monk master who had bowed and fallen into step behind Varian that morning as the same Pandaren who occasionally came stumbling back to the palace in the early hours of the morning, supporting an equally stumbling drunk King, the both of them covered in beer and bruises from whatever tavern they had torn apart the night before.

It was wrong, though, for Anduin to be trying to reassure him about his cousin - Hardwire had completed his monk training well before Ren himself had, and was in vastly better shape and practice - when Anduin’s own father and King was out there. Ren forced his ears upright and turned his hand over, letting the Prince’s palm slide against his own and squeezing back gently. “I’m more worried about Greymane ripping Sylvannas’ throat out the minute the King’s back is turned,” he said in soft jest, which had the desired effect; a weak smile tugged at Anduin’s mouth and he gave Ren’s hand one last squeeze before turning back to the next petitioners.

It was near the end of the combined audience hours when the first messengers reached them. Ren had turned away earlier to loosen the front of his robes and let two of the cubs quietly nurse; the human reaction to public nursing, much less from a male, was somewhere between offensive and hilarious, but Ren wasn’t inclined to either test which it would be that day or to leave Anduin’s side. Turning so that those before the throne could see little but his shoulder and back was the best alternative, and one of the guards near the dais stepped forward with a small, sympathetic smile beneath her helm to hold one of the cubs while Ren briskly changed the smallest of the boys. He rewrapped him after, then handed the newly fed and swaddled cub to Anduin while taking Li Hua back.

He had just tucked her into the the front of his robe, her little claws hooked in his fur as she latched on to nurse, when the first commotion started out in the antechamber. A door guard moved quickly to Anduin’s side, bending down to speak to the Prince in a low voice. Anduin looked startled for a moment, then nodded firmly. “Yes, of course,” Ren heard him say, and then he was turning back to the petitioners before him, firmly telling them that their case would need to wait, he would return to them as soon as he could.

Ren cinched his belt a little tighter - shamefully tight, his belly still more flat than properly fleshed out even months after the cubs had been born, Ancestors bless but he had never thought feeding four of them would take so much out of him - tucked his daughter deeper into his robes, and scooped the other two cubs back into the carry sling. Anduin’s voice was steady but there was a tightness to his spine all of a sudden, and Ren’s ears had heard what those around them couldn’t, the messenger’s whisper of a courier returned from the front. If prayers were worth anything, either to the Light or the Celestials or his own Ancestors, let it be good news, Ren thought fiercely. Let it be good news, a decisive battle, victory in the making, for all their sakes.

The Wildhammer rider who stumbled into the throne room was not the carrier of anyone’s fervent prayers. The dwarf’s courier livery was bloodied and torn, a makeshift bandage wrapped around his leg, blood already seeping through the layers. Something had ripped huge chunks out of the male’s thick beard, along with a not insubstantial swath of skin, more blood running down what was left of a braid into a half charred and filthy tunic. Ren felt his own breath lock in his lungs, something cold and ugly settling into the depth of his stomach. He saw it, aching, as Anduin came to the same conclusion, the Prince rising to his feet, expression sliding away entirely to leave a mask that could have been carven from stone.

“Yer Highness,” the courier gasped, stumbling to an unsteady halt. “Yer…” he broke off sharply, coughing, the sound wet and rough. Anduin, lips pressed thin, gestured sharply; one of the guards stepped forward with a water flask, which the dwarf downed gratefully in great gulps.

Hesitant, Ren reached out, pressing his palm to the Prince’s back. Anduin didn’t acknowledge him but Ren felt him lean into the pressure for a single moment before he stepped forward, breaking the connection. “What news?” he asked briskly, but his free hand was sure and steady as he reached for the dwarf’s shoulder, and even from where he was sitting Ren could feel the subtle burst of pressure against his ears as the Light answered Anduin’s call. The dwarf straightened, breathing a little easier, but his expression as he looked up at Anduin was utterly lost.

“Yer Highness,” he said again, his voice breaking on the words. He drew in a shuddering breath. “Yer father… I’m sorry… King Varian… he….”

A gasp, low and horrified, swept the throne room. Anduin stepped back, one small involuntary movement, rocking back on his heels. The courier slid slowly to his knees and for one moment Ren thought the dwarf might pass out, but he steadied himself with a hand and then deliberately saluted, his breath coming hard and rough around suppressed sobs. “Y-yer orders, yer Majesty?”

There was something pained in Ren’s chest, a sharp, ugly hurt that ached all through him as he gathered his cubs close and rose to his feet. He watched as Anduin drew in one breath, then another, all color leached from his face until he was nearly the same shade as the pale furred cub tucked against his shoulder. He watched, heart heavy, as Anduin straightened, his gaze sweeping around the room in a slow, unseeing wave.

“The gunships,” Anduin said at last, his voice low but steady. “How many are left?”

“Only a handful,” the courier gulped. “We lost so many, on th’ beach, an’ then… th’ fel reaver… Lord Greymane called th’ retreat…"

Something hard and utterly unlike his normal expression slid over Anduin’s face, and Ren felt his heart fall. Anduin drew in one more breath, then raised his voice, sharp orders barked out that sent the Alliance soldiers of the room scrambling. “Clear the cathedral! I want every priest down on the docks to receive the wounded. Captain Malagan, rally the mages, get a location triangulation on those ships if at all possible, start bringing the worst wounded through!” He reached down to catch the hand of the courier, dragging the smaller male to his feet, and the burst of Light that bled out from the clasp of their hands was anything but gentle but did let the dwarf stand firm, eyes clearing.

“I’m sorry to ask this,” Anduin was saying quickly, the words nothing more than a hollow shade of his normal politeness, “but I need you to rally the rest of the gryphon riders we have left. Get word out to the ships that have already sailed, tell them to fall back. Get the long range riders in the air, we need to know if the Legion is pressing the attack off the isles. Go!”

“Yer Majesty,” the dwarf said, more heartfelt this time, his salute crisp as he headed out.

Ren watched, cradling the cubs close, as Anduin turned. Their eyes met for a moment and Ren could feel his heart break, something deep and wounded crumpling inside of him as the grief welled up. Anduin turned away, his gaze falling on the dais behind him and the heavy lion throne of Stormwind that his father had held court from only the day before.

Anduin hesitated for a moment, barely perceptible, then stepped forward. One step, then another, ascending the dais, his steps slow but steady. Ren watched, muffling the hitch in his own breath as the Prince - now King - turned towards the room. Watched in silence, the ache knifing through him, as Anduin pitched his voice to carry but not to disturb the small cub tucked against his shoulder, his hands gentle on the infant even as he snapped out orders to make preparations for wounded, broken bodies and broken ships, to guard against attack, a million details that Ren couldn’t even wrap his numb mind around and which Anduin rattled off as easily and naturally as breathing, every inch his father’s son.

Behind him, untouched, the lion throne sat empty.

Chapter Text

It was late. Somewhere, in the distance, Ren had heard the peal of the cathedral bells, but he hadn't counted them. Too many bells, when he couldn't remember choking down any food since... Had it been breakfast that morning? Pancakes and grilled sausages imported from Ironforge, a pot of tea, but if there had been lunch he didn't remember it and dinner had been something he fed to the older cubs before tucking them into bed but hadn't been able to stomach himself.

His stomach clenched unhappily and Ren swallowed, hard, blinking away the sudden wetness in his eyes as he methodically changed another set of wrapping clothes. On the bed his second youngest cub blinked up at him with eyes paler than any Pandaren natural color and hiccuped slightly, shoving his tiny fist into his mouth.

Their eyes had opened a month before, one with a warm brown passed down from Ren's father's family and one with mossy green that matched Ren's own. Li Hua and her middle brother, Tir, however, had been blessed with a startlingly clear sky blue shade to match the golden toned fur that all four cubs had inherited from their other parent.

Ren smiled, though it was rather more of a grimace, gently touching one of his son's tiny ears where the golden color was starting to come in stronger. So much fuss, his cousin had said more than once, just for gold furred cubs, and "honestly, cousin, there are other blondes in the world. I know some perfectly friendly dwarves. Or what about a nice blood elf? They're very... flexible, you know."

Ren's breath caught on a sob that he barely swallowed back. He could hear his cousin's voice still, see the laughing grin and rakish troublemaking leer. His devil-may-care cousin, who had marched off to war at Varian's side because Hardwire, whether the human reciprocated or not, was Varian's friend and would not leave him to fight alone.

Hardwire, who had not been on the last gunship to limp into port, the one that had carried the imprint of giant demonic fingers ripped into her deck plating, and an inconsolable Genn Greymane who was busying himself at the docks rather than face the son of his king.

Ren finished fastening the diaper cloths with shaking hands, scooping his cub into his arms to cuddle close. He breathed in the scent of infant and milk and the small unique notes that meant this cub and no other, trying to let the scent loosen the knot in his throat. Tir's small claws scrabbled against Ren's muzzle when he nuzzled the pink, white fuzzed down of the boy's stomach, and the cub burbled softly. On the bed the other three were already snoring softly, their tiny breaths hushing in and out where they were piled together in an overlap of identical pale limbs and round bodies, only Li Hua's little furred ears, with the delicate gold studs in them, setting her apart.

Tiny studs with equally tiny lion heads worked on them, made by royal commissioned craftsmen. Because human noses were small, flat, ridiculous things that couldn't tell one cub from another, and the studs had been a simple way - not at all unusual for girl cubs - to let Varian Wrynn know at a glance which cub was his second granddaughter. Three identical males, all named for the Wrynn family and friends, a silent peace offering between the elder Wrynn and Ren. Landen, the eldest, and Lothar, the youngest, and Tirion, named for Fordring, who would never grow to know the man he had been named for, now listed among the honorable dead who would not be coming back from the Broken Shore.

The sob caught Ren by surprise, slipping out before he could stop it, and once started he couldn't stop. Tir fussed softly as tears wet his fur; Ren hastily wiped the cub down, wrapping him in a fold of his robe, but couldn't make himself put the cub with the others.

"Ridiculous," he scolded himself, but the tears had a mind of their own and wouldn't stop, no matter how he blotted them against his sleeve. He hadn't even known Tirion, only met the man barely in passing once. Varian and Ren had, at best, managed a frigid politeness at each other for Anduin's sake, always with the unspoken promise that Ren was probably owed a good beating or ten on the training yard just as soon as he was back up to anything like fighting fit. It was a tragedy, yes, far too many men and women of all races lost in a bloody battle and all for naught, but it wasn't...

It was his cousin, laughing and teasing and sometimes fighting with him as he steadfastly stood by Ren through the years of Ren pining like some lovesick tween cub in denial over their first crush. It was a human man he hadn't even liked, but who had been, nonetheless, the larger than life lynchpin of the Alliance, and the father of Ren's mate. It was a loss he was only starting to feel, so overwhelming he didn't know where to start, the whole world he had woken up to that morning yanked out from under him and the loss leaving him stumbling on unsteady feet.

It was grief, regret, and loss, until he was drowning in it, the fur of his cheeks dripping with tears, and Ren buried his face in his hand and let them come.

The cubs were all asleep and Ren had heard the cathedral bells chime twice in the dark hours before dawn when the guards came to get him. That had been a surprise, and his heart was still hammering from it, the unexpected pounding on the door and two of the night duty guards clamoring for him. Ren, who had only barely managed an uneasy, twitchy sort of doze, had been at the door with claws out before he had even really registered being woken.

The human guards had shied back from the threat of an adult Pandaren in a rage and Ren had forcibly checked himself, straightening the rumpled robe he had fallen asleep in while waiting for news. "Quiet," he told them rather sharply. "There's cubs sleeping."

One of the guards - his name was Tomas and he had a cub of his own if Ren remembered correctly - grimaced, but doggedly continued on. "Your Highness..."

"Anduin isn't here," Ren had said automatically. The look the guard had given him had been full of grief.

"His Majesty," Tomas said, stressing the title softly, "is in his study. The captain of the guard is asking for you, your Highness."

Ren hadn't known how to reply to that - had realized, as he followed the guards, that though the council had bandied the word "consort" around for months that he had no idea of what the proper address for a Royal Consort was. Nor what was driving the guards to use it for him, when he was, at best, still only the potential consort, and just the day before it had still seemed as though half of the palace was holding their breath waiting for the King to banish him and his inconvenient family back to Pandaria.

Except Varian hadn't, and wouldn't, and Varian was no longer the King. Ren took several deep breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth, letting the feel of it provide at least the illusion of steadiness.

The night guard captain met them not at the door to Anduin's study, but at the heavy carven doors that lead to the King's office. Ren, whose ears were already twitching with the sounds coming from behind the closed doors, turned an incredulous look on the woman.

"For the last fifteen minutes," she admitted unhappily, her mouth drawn down at the corners. Something on the other side of the doors crashed, hard, against the wall with the sound of shattering glass. Ren and the guards all flinched. "He's alone. We checked."

Ren opened his mouth to exclaim that he certainly hoped they had checked, it sounded like there was murder happening on the other side of the door - and wasn't that an idea to make his heart beat out of rhythm - but a thunderous crash, this time wooden, made him shut it again.

"Think that was the desk," Tomas muttered faintly. He flinched at another crash and the sound of wood cracking, then nodded. "And the chair."

Ren nodded, short and jerkily, his ears flat against his head. "I'll take care of it," he assured them faintly. The guard captain saluted sharply, her men a beat behind her, relief in all their eyes. Ren bowed back on reflex and tried not to wince as something else met a loud and messy end against the closed doors.

It wasn't, he supposed, really their fault. Ancestors knew it wasn't the first time that room had been torn apart even in the half year he had been in Stormwind, but Varian Wrynn's temper had been legendary and, to some extent, predictable. Familiar. This... This was not familiar. This was nothing they were used to seeing, not from their even tempered, quietly polite Crown Prince.

They forgot, sometimes, that Anduin was his father's son and not just a pale copy of the memory of his beloved mother. Ren pressed his palm to the door, ears cocked, listening. Anduin's temper ran as hot as his father's once it was started, but it burnt itself out quicker, and the regret he would feel afterwards didn't need to be compounded by damage done to anyone in addition to inanimate things. Wait, look, listen, his earliest Masters had taught, so Ren waited, listening, through another handful of minutes until the worst seemed to have passed and the room beyond the doors was still.

He tested the handle gingerly, pressing one shoulder against the door as it opened, only to come up short against an obstruction on the floor. Ren peered inside, taking in the room and its occupant, then swiftly shoved the resisting door open far enough to allow him to slip inside, closing it firmly behind him. "Anduin?"

Anduin didn't look up from where he was sitting, slumped, on the floor in the center of the proverbial hurricane. The heavy carven oak desk had been overturned, papers scattered, crystal ink well intact but the ink spreading in a black stain across scrolls and floor alike. Furniture and books were scattered, hangings ripped down, the debris flung far and wide. Anduin, in the same clothes he had attended audience in that morning, his expression haggard, was sitting with his back to the overturned desk, methodically ripping a scroll into small pieces that he let flutter to the floor before him.

The material destruction wasn't so bad, all things considered - the desk already had one new leg from where his cousin's last argument with Varian had resulted in the heavy wood breaking cleanly in half along with several bones of both parties. The scent of the room, though... Ren shivered, forcing himself not to take a defensive stance but unable to stop glancing around the darkened edges of the room for any hint of movement or blacker shadow, the fur all along the back of his neck prickling. He knew too well what Sha smelled like, and it wasn't the same, not precisely, but the heavy, unspoken layers of Shadow in the room smelled too similar for his peace of mind.

It made his steps more hesitant as he crossed the room slowly, sinking down on his heels just beyond the prickly edge of Anduin's personal space. "Better?" he asked gently.

"No." The word was flat, cracking at the edges with fatigue, dryness, and an all-consuming grief that had yet to find an outlet. Anduin's eyes were dry, over bright and too painful for Ren to look at for long. He began to rip another chunk off of the scroll in his hands, then reconsidered and flipped the crumpled length of it around to offer to Ren instead. "Report," he said, the word cut off short and sharp as though Anduin still didn't entirely trust himself to speak.

Ren took the parchment gingerly. It was the thicker rag pulp the humans used, the kind that he tried to avoid because of the way it discolored and faded the ink far too quickly, but it was cheap and readily available. Half of the message was already torn away, shredded into the pile on the floor, and the handwriting wasn't one he knew.

Several words leapt out from what remained, however, and Ren hissed softly. "A fel reaver?"

Anduin crooked the fingers of one hand into mimicry of claws, gesturing as though to snatch at something before him. "The last ship."

Ren shuddered, trying to match the size of the claw marks on the side of the gunship that he had seen that afternoon to what must have made them. He pressed the rest of the parchment smooth between his palms. It took him a minute to decipher the foreign word shapes, but when he did it shocked the breath from his lungs. "Your father..."

"Jumped," Anduin said flatly, and there, there was the root of the anger that still layered every breath of air Ren drew in from the room, a shadow that clung to Anduin's tongue and twisted the word in his mouth. The hackles across Ren's neck tightened, fur raising in a primitive response, and for a moment he was speechless.

Anduin's hands tightened, curling into fists against his knees. "Jumped," he repeated, as though the innocuous word might contain Shadow, hissed out on a low, bitter breath. "To save the ship. Took out the reaver while Greymane called the retreat."

And now Greymane haunted the docks, unwilling to set foot in the palace, while Anduin was left with written reports of his father's last act. Ren hissed softly between his teeth, the heavy feeling in his stomach solidifying into a horrified outrage on Anduin's behalf.

The Prince - now King - wasn't looking at him, though. Anduin's head hung low, the tension across his shoulders like a bow string ready to snap. He fumbled in his coat, drawing out another scroll, this one crumpled and stained but intact. "He wrote me," he said, his voice still that same low, numb flatness that made Ren's ears lay flat across his skull. "Before the battle. Like he knew he was going to die, but rushed headlong into it anyways..."

A tremor went through Anduin's arm, flickers of holy flame flaring over wrist and hand to lick at the rolled parchment. Ren reached forward without thought, a cub exercise ingrained from so long ago that it seemed another lifetime when he had first snatched a flame from his Master's hand. The scroll was fragile and brittle between his claws; he held it carefully, and just as carefully pressed his free hand to Anduin's shoulder, feeling the thrum of tension and barely contained emotion beneath his palm. "Don't make more regrets," he cautioned gently.

Anduin jerked a little at the touch and, for the first time, seemed to really focus on Ren's presence. He drew in a shaking breath and Ren watched as he pulled some semblance of a facade into place, the same face he had worn in the throne room where exterior matters took precedence over everything else, especially over Anduin as his own person. "Ren," he said, and he never quite managed the inflection on the vowel right, his Stormwind accent coloring Ren's name in much the way his scent was sunk into Ren's clothing and fur, an undercurrent that Ren carried with him everywhere now. "Varia? The cubs..."

"Asleep," Ren assured him softly. "The head of SI:7 - Mathias? He took the older ones with him as soon as the news came in. Kept them in his office playing games." He hesitated, his own voice gruff, the grief welling up once more. "They haven't heard anything, Mathias made sure of it. Varia... Varia wants to know when her grandfather is coming home. Ling and Den want to know how many demons he's killed."

It broke Anduin, the way Ren had known it would. Like an unerring shot it broke through the facade, shattering it, and for one moment Ren saw the young prince he had first met in Kun-Lai, putting a brave face on near mortal wounds while the truth of his fear and newly realized fragility shone out through his eyes. Anduin dropped his gaze, swallowing dryly, his expression stricken. "Light... We need to tell them." He broke off, his voice catching on a bark that could almost have been a laugh if it didn't sound harsh and shattered. "We... I need to explain death to a four year old."

Anduin's breath shuddered and he raised his hand on reflex, whether to cover his eyes or the betrayal of the sob on his breath Ren wasn't sure and didn't wait to find out. Setting the scroll aside, Ren reached out. Anduin was rigid, the tension locked all through him, but one of the facts of their disparate races was that Ren outmassed any human by easily twice and Anduin had never quite reached his father's build or height. It made scooping him up simple enough in theory, no worse than scooping up a half grown cub, but Anduin was no simple cub. Had not been, even years before, and had only grown more so.

Ren braced himself and didn't flinch, not at the choked sound Anduin bit back, or at the thick scent of Sha that lingered, like a cold perfume of despair, just under his skin. It was akin to holding a wounded wolf, he thought; pain might make him lash out, even at a mate, but it was a risk Ren couldn't calculate because to not risk it was unthinkable.

Three heart beats, a four, a fifth, counted out in time between them, and the dam broke. The sob wrenched through Anduin, harsh and wretched, an ugly sound of loss and despair and hopeless rage. Ren folded him close the way he had wanted to since the throne room, tucking Anduin's head against his shoulder as his human mate gasped, choking on the sobs ripping free. Anduin's hands clenched on fistfuls of robe and fur alike, but the stinging pain was the last thing on Ren's mind as he drew in his own shuddering breath, tears clogging his voice as he whispered soft, meaningless reassurances - Anduin wasn't alone, he didn't need to face anything alone, not with Ren and their cubs beside him.

He closed his eyes, burying his nose against Anduin's hair to breath him in, Shadow and all, as he rubbed slow, soothing circles against the man's back and held him tight. It would be alright. Somehow, impossibly, it would be alright, even if Ren couldn't actually imagine how. They would make it alright. There was no other choice.