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As anyone present at the hour will tell you, Prince Ian Wrynn began speaking in the month of Winterest, the seventeenth month he’d seen since his birth, and not, as his parents had first feared, shortly after it. His first proclamation was to speak the moniker that his personal closest friend had chosen for himself. Ada was the shortened form of a much longer elvish word that would have been much more laborious, albeit impressive, for the young baby to use, and it was also not the name of either of his parents. There had been no confusion, thankfully, for the one to whom it belonged was there to sweep the child up into his arms and praise every repetition that followed. That had been the way it had started, and obviously the habits that followed him into childhood could therefore be handily blamed on his doting uncle Kalecgos.
What Ian had done with that ability since was perhaps more so the fault of his parents, whose shortened names he was eventually coaxed into using. With as many far-traveled people as were brought in front of his father’s court daily, the frequent absences of his more worldly papa, and regular regaling of their combined exploits spanning the entirety of Azeroth, that Ian hadn’t set one foot beyond the gates of their city in all his seven years did little to hamper his vision of the lands outside Elwynn forest. The boy was just as eager to fill any unprotected ear that he could bend with fanciful descriptions of gilded elven cities which once hosted the very essence of the gods themselves, great worlds shattered by incalculably massive creatures made of stardust, holy cities pierced by the swords of titans, and even dwarves made entirely of stone, dwelling so deeply beneath the earth that long cavernous hoses of wax and canvas, headed by large bellows at the surface, had to be constructed to fill the hollows with air to allow anyone not made of stone to visit. That story was a particular favorite, especially when his father included him among the swathes of brave adventurers, although he’d not yet even been conceived.
Even the far-flung epics of his parents had eventually grown dull with retellings, though, and when conjured yarns failed to excite him and fictitious and historical tales alike couldn’t capture his attention, Prince Ian resolved to simply make them up himself. This he did eagerly and often, and most especially when there was something or somewhere he wanted to be badly.
“Did you know that I’m not actually going to be King? Not of Stormwind, anyway. Or even the Alliance.”
“Oh, no?” The voice of his papa was slow and hesitant, not because of the subject, but rather because responding with more focus might demand he remove the pins held carefully between his lips.
“Oh yes, actually papa- there’s a different sort of princess I’m going to marry, and do you want to know where she lives?”
The small boy fidgets on the dais, itself not sufficient enough to hoist him to eye-level with Wrathion, and so supplemented by three large and sturdy tomes. When he doesn’t have a response quickly enough, he leans down and opens his mouth to speak, resulting in their heads colliding as Wrathion straightens up to remind him to, “Hold still-”
“Ah- ow!” Ian exclaims, more out of surprise than pain. “You stabbed me.” Instinctively he holds his hand to the spot where his father has been pinning, expecting the pain to come from there. When none follows, from either place, he furrows his brow and looks to Wrathion for an explanation. What he finds unsettles him enough to shrink back slightly, a response the elder dragon does not seem to notice.
Wrathion sighs; a raspy, exasperated sound that rattles out of his throat. It causes Anduin to look up, already wary of having to prevent yet another sour quip from dissolving into further bickering. Wrathion always seemed to be under the apprehension that he was quarreling with his equal, and how could he be blamed, really, as he sprang fully formed from his egg like some creation myth trying desperately to avoid the implication of natural procreation. The black prince had never before been a child nor met a human one, though some argument could be made that Ian was both everything and nothing like a human or a dragon.
Pursuant to his nature Ian did not seem the sort of person, despite his age, to get impatient or voice spiteful thoughts, although around his father he was far more permeable. Anduin had noticed from the early dawn of his life how they seemed uniquely prone to imitating each other. It reminded him very much of a parrot, observing simply to copy a behavior with no deeper understanding of the motive. The very first time they met face to face, a then minutes old Ian, red and purple and ugly and shriveled looking for all the world like a raisin blistering on the surface of a fresh loaf of bread, wrinkled his brow and curled his nose. Without the time that would be necessary for him to do so purposefully, Wrathion did the same, and the stark, cosmic similarity between them caused Anduin to laugh so loudly he frightened them both. He’s been wary ever since that he might have driven his own son into choosing favorites early.
Ever the eloquent and fluent articulator, Wrathion would fumble constantly around his own son. He had always held a rather inflated self-admiration, bolstered by the sort of scrupulousness he seemed to just naturally have for gliding through most interactions, being right in his assumptions just often enough to convince him with little evidence to the contrary that he was always right. That attitude, naturally, introduces quite a bit of conflict into every conversation with someone who rarely, if ever, responds in the way Wrathion has been conditioned to expect. Of course, the dragon himself is to blame for most of it.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Wrathion scoffs. “You are a dragon- I couldn’t hurt you even if I tried.” The look in his eyes was not far enough from the implication of the sentence for Anduin’s comfort.
“Now hold still, you will have plenty of time to finish your tale after I’m finished here.”
“I’m only some dragon ..” Ian shifts his weight from hip to hip, glancing from one father to the other with some flicker of wisdom that would be well beyond his years. His feet ache, and now so does his head. He rubs at the ring of scales around his left horn, rumpling unevenly with the flex of the skin underneath. He’s about to smother that wisdom when the gentle cadence of Anduin’s voice ripples through the gathering tension.
“You know, it has been a while since dinner. Perhaps we could pause for a moment, and I’ll request some tea?”
Ian immediately brightens, the tip of his nubby tail lifting slightly upwards. “Oh yes! That sounds wonderful! Let’s have it, love!” He hops the small distance from the raised dais, small wings wiggling in an instinctual attempt to cushion his fall. His boots squeak slightly on the polished floor, a darkened, greenish, mineral-flecked tile cut specially from the southern west corner of the Waking Shore to adorn the more opulent floors of the Enclave. It could have added to Wrathion’s present ire that instead of housing his young family in the halls of the Citadel they were forced, by the necessity of safety, to instead fashion his ambassadorial office in Valdrakken into their living quarters. It had continually been Anduin’s experience that the frustrations Wrathion scraped off of his tongue were only the bubbling up of what simmered underneath.
Anduin chuckles, softly, standing with a small grunt of effort, shifting the dull, persistent ache from his hip to his shoulder as it swung to place his weight on the cane at his side. Wrathion’s focus darts from his outstretched hand, just shy of swiping a handful of the pinned coat, to his husband. He fixes him with a laser-eyed stare as if just by watching he can prevent the tip of his cane from slipping or the chair from scooting back too quickly. With the king safely to his feet, Wrathion’s posture loosens with a scoff as he rejoins the moment.
“Solarian!” He calls, harshly. Ian pauses mid-stride, sheepishly turning with a wince as if the word abraded his ears.
“Oh- right- yes, papa- I’m sorry!” He shrugs off the coat, leaving it in a heap where he stands with a small smile as he hurries to his father’s side.
Anduin furrows his brow, but before he can open his mouth to speak, Wrathion has already crossed the short distance to lift the rumpled garment. Before he turns, Anduin can see that his hands gnarl and shake as he makes an intentional step in the opposite direction. The king opens his mouth again, and silences himself when his husband’s pointed ear swivels slightly, and he sharply raises one hand. He sighs, once, and then seems to collect himself as if pulled upright by a set of strings.
“Ian..” He turns his head. “Do be careful with this. I dare say it has been through quite enough, already.” His tone is thin and bitterly laced.
Anduin feels a penetrating twinge in his shoulder, weakening his grip enough to allow the wooden lion-headed quilen to drop from his fingers. His chest tightens and forces his lips open to make a rudimentary noise. Blessedly, that seems to break the stagnation returning to the room like a blanket of smog in a goblin drill port. The next thing Anduin notices is the firmness of yellow pearwood once more in his palm, and when he looks down puzzled, he’s met with Ian’s worried face. His little voice is difficult to hear at first, bouncing through the canyons between his ears and echoing back in the slightly slurred roar of his father,
“YOU KNOW BETTER!”
“What ..?” Anduin’s brows twist while Ian’s fingers close more determinately around his hand.
“You know better, I said!” The boy insists, looking concerned and exasperated all at once. They’ve never looked more alike. “You are going to fall without this, father.”
Anduin swallows, then gently shakes his head, bringing the heel of his hand to his brow and scoffing. “Oh, yes, of course- You’re right, little love. I’m sorry.” He nudges Ian’s chest with the knuckles curled around the head of his cane. “Shall we go and have our tea, then?”
Before Ian can follow the response of his body with words, Wrathion pipes back up. Anduin had almost forgotten he was lingering broodingly over his workstation.
“You may as well take the day. I must venture into the city proper.” That caught both of their attentions. Almost at the same time, they asked, “Oh, what for?”
Even that seemed to earn a mild ire from Wrathion as he turned with his left brow quirked high. He seemed to be struggling beyond his usual ability to measure himself. The most that managed to escape, to his credit, was just a soft and frustrated sigh.
“I” And he put an unhealthy emphasis on this. “Have run clean out of my specially ordered fabric. There is not enough to fix the garment.”
Ian’s bottom lip tucked in behind his teeth slightly, although he said nothing. Anduin’s hand curved reassuringly over his shoulder, and squeezed. That seemed to give him just enough courage to speak up, albeit a little more tentatively.
“Why don’t you go get some more?”
Wrathion scowled. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear-”
Anduin leapt in, “Do you remember when papa told us he wanted to make us new clothes for the big party? And-”
Wrathion cleared his throat loudly, rounding on the two of them and halting so abruptly the tails of his coat flared about his hips before falling behind them. “It is not a ‘big party’. It is a most important diplomatic summit, at the end of which the Dragon Isles will either join the world at large or remain forever isolated from the benefits of trade, tourism, and flourishing industry, and all of this sits squarely on my shoulders. It is up to me to assure that discussions are fruitful, everyone adheres strictly to schedule, negotiations are carried out immaculately, that the union of Stormwind and the Black Dragonflight are exemplified and you, my darling-” Despite the barely suppressed rancor of his tirade, his voice did soften considerably upon addressing his son, putting his other hand to Ian’s empty shoulder.
The boy did not flinch, although he did make a half-hearted attempt to shrug off his papa’s uncomfortably firm grip, his glance practically sprinting to the floor to avoid eye contact.
“Must be on your very best behavior. For my sake, at least.” Wrathion stood once again, the corner of his lip burrowing into his cheek as he made to fend off addressing the discomfort he had just created. He drew in a long, terse breath through tight lips, pointedly avoiding the dais on which the rumpled jacket still sat.
Before the moment could stretch on any longer, Wrathion crossed the room to pick up his bag. “I’ll be back very shortly,” He stressed. “When I do I shall require you both. Please to be avoiding getting too distracted.”
It was only then that Anduin seemed to find his footing again, calling upon the tone he typically reserved for calling order at the council table. “Why don’t we all go?”
“And what, pray tell, would be the use in that?” Wrathion rebuttled.
“Well, what about the evenings’ celebrations? That is the reason for when the summit was set, isn’t it?”
The dragon scoffs. “Coinciding with the festival was .. An oversight. It will only make navigating the market more difficult, in any case..”
“There’s a festival?” Ian perks up, a hopeful anticipation rising in his voice. “Well now we have to all go! I’ve never been to a festival before!”
Anduin chuckles, smoothing back his hair. “Oh, no? I suppose all the others were faires, then. Or- galas, or carnivals, or jubilees..?”
Ian squealed, grabbing onto his father’s arm with both hands and tugging insistently. “I’ve never been to a dragon festival before!”
“Oooh-!” Anduin leaned his head back and to the side before returning his gaze to the boy. “Well, why didn’t you just say that? I thought my memory was starting to fail me.. I can’t afford that, not yet.” He was already beginning to make for the door, and Ian was following behind him, eagerly bubbling question after question leaving absolutely no room for interjection. Anduin paused, holding up his hand to indicate that Ian should wait for him before closing the distance to Wrathion. He gently lifted the dragon’s hand, pressing a soft kiss to the knuckles and then to his cheek.
“We won’t be long. I promise, the market will be top priority.”
Wrathion felt like screaming.
If one had not the presence of mind to look at a clock before descending to the street, it would be impossible to tell the time by the color of the sky. The clouds were alight with the red and orange hue of colored powder, the streets dusted in sunny yellows and greens and blues, ribbons and flags of all designs and craftsmanship draped over fenceposts and hung from lightpoles and windows. Shreds of brilliant paper fluttered where it had stuck between the cobbles or gathered where the breeze of many wings had pushed it.
Whoops, cheers and hollers filled the space between the pop and crackle of fireworks as dragons of various sizes soared amongst the bursts, dodging and weaving through a thousand tiny stars that glittered into nothing after the racers. Wrathion strained himself to be heard above the din, capturing his enraptured family’s attention with a sharp click of his tongue.
“Come along, we haven’t much time to spare. I have other preparations I must make before the week’s conclusion, and in order to do that this errand must be fruitful.”
Anduin and Ian exchanged a glance behind Wrathion’s turned back, reigniting each others’ smiles. The idea of thoughtfully attending to his papa’s wishes flitted briefly between his ears before it was thoroughly caught by the outstretched palm of a boisterous salesman, extending the young boy a balloon. Ian wrapped both hands around the braided string, following it to the vague approximation of a black swoglet that bobbed along above his head. He immediately began to rummage in his pocket, but halted at the voice of the vendor.
“Oh, no need! Happy Visage Day, little prince!”
For the first time, the boy looked at her, sharp-taloned fingers curled tightly around a handful of strings, each leading to another likeness of the creatures he assumed must live on the Isles, because they had each appeared in one of his books. His papa had seemed so proud of his interest in the dragons’ ancestral homeland.. Had something changed? Had he done something to change it?
“Thank you, happy Visage Day!” His father thankfully caught him before his thoughts could unravel any further, ushering him along through the crowd.
“Father- she gave me the balloon for free! She said I didn’t have to pay for it- wasn’t that nice of her?”
Anduin chuckled. “It was, did you say thank you?”
Ian furrowed his brow. “Oh- no- I didn’t. I should-” He turned, but his view of the vendor was already obscured by the swarm of attendees. “Oh well. I’ll just.. Tell her when we leave, okay?”
“Sure.”
“.. Father..?”
“Yes, Ian?”
“What’s Visage Day?”
Anduin’s brow lifted. “Oh- erh- that wasn’t in your books..?”
“No- You only say that if you don’t know the answer. Does papa know?”
Anduin snorts. “You’ll have to ask him. Go on- we haven’t lost sight of him yet.” He indicated ahead with a gesture of his cane.
“Papa- papa- wait!”
Putting his arm back down, the king grunts as his shoulder shifts. He spares a little healing for himself, warming the joint until it no longer sticks. The sounds of celebration continue to rattle and sizzle in his ears, carrying his mind off and leaving his body to the simple task of weaving through the crowd on its own.
The shape in the doorway doesn’t look like his father. It’s hunched, awkwardly misshapen, lumbering on limbs that don’t seem to belong to it.
“Boy..” When it growls, it does sound like his father. When it grabs his arm, it uses the strength of his father. The shriek that tears out of his throat amidst a stream of apologetic explanations is lost completely in the stench of his breath and the roar from his throat. The foamy crackle soaking into the scattered pages exploded in his ears.
“YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER!”
But he hadn’t. He had only been trying to help, to finish the work that had served as an excuse any time he had ever asked to ride horses together, or visit the faire, or practice his archery. He’d known it was late, and he should have been in bed, but Wrathion’s study had never been off-limits to him.. No, not Wrathion. Varian. Wrathion had never looked like that, never smelled so foul, had never set a hand to their son-
Then why did he always hurry to put himself before their conflicts? Despite his confidence, did he secretly worry that if he hadn’t gotten there first, if he hadn’t been between them, would Wrathion have seen all of his ruined work and, Light forbid, given Ian a reminder of his rage that would haunt him long after the feelings had ceased to sting?
Anduin clenched his jaw until he felt it pop below his ear, tightening his fingers around the smooth, swirling fur of the wooden quilen, and hurried to catch up.
The first thing he notices is Ian’s rumpled face, and his husband’s exasperation that manages to carry even through the noise of the crowd.
“Ah, there you are.” Wrathion grunts, sounding relieved.
“You sound surprised. Were you trying to lose me?” Anduin smirks. Wrathion’s expression sours more, somehow.
“Father- they have ottuks here! They’re doing tricks over here- come see!” Without waiting to be acknowledged, Ian pushes ahead. Without thinking, Anduin maneuvers to follow him, leaving Wrathion standing there looking very much like a pouting child.
“Oh, alright, and I’ll just wait here, shall I? Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but we are quite strapped for time!!” As much as he had learned to enjoy his own conversation, he had never favored speaking to an empty room. Something he might as well be doing, as not even the throng of festival-goers could rend their eyes from any one of the doubtlessly captivating displays to notice that their own Aspect stood amongst them. Well, auxiliary aspect. Ambassador was no less crucial a position, but it did not quite hold the same preeminence.
He had once thought King might bring with it a certain maturity, although he was beginning to think better of it now. So juvenile..
Not even when he had actually been an adolescent had Anduin acted so puerile. Ian seemed to have that effect on most people. Wrathion remembered when they had been concerned their child might be aware in the womb, born fully cognizant and speaking in full sentences. Anduin had been most annoying in curbing any potentially ‘inappropriate’ speech in his presence- instead opting to speak as if Ian were capable of all but offering a reply. At least until he had at last emerged, without even a single tooth or claw, and besides a handful of more whelp-like behaviors only ever grew as much as a human infant could be expected to. Ian could not and did not learn to hunt, or to cling to his parents independently, or to fly, or fight, and even when he had finally grown teeth he still could not use them to chew meat. Indeed the only traits that spoke to his other parent’s blood at all were a pair of shriveled wings and a squat, nub-like tail. Hardly an impressive set of features compared to his brothers’ broods.
At first it had mattered little, especially considering how extraordinary it was that they were compatible at all. Anduin had whole-heartedly rejected any suggestions to alter their son in any way; and in point of fact it was Wrathion who more often had to speak in defense of the clerics to his livid husband. It most certainly was not practical to ignore the reality that Ian’s body would become more fragile with age, and the weight of his wings and tail would stunt his growth and strain his muscles and make his daily living far more arduous than it would be if Anduin had only been sensible-
Wrathion had, for most of his life, considered himself something of a peregrine, after a fashion. Although he disliked most labels typically used for him because they lacked the implication of purpose. He did not wander, he did not meander, he did not even roam- and yet he hadn’t meant to find himself here, blinking the lingering malaise from his mind as he stood slightly hunched over the back wall of an admittedly impressive, hastily constructed theater.
His lips were parted but produced no sound, and even if they had they would have been easily overpowered by the expectant hum of the crowd, the air laced thickly with anticipation as the performance they encircled seemed to come to its climax.
Several rows down, elevated off the ground by sturdy wooden supports, was a tall screen framed with painted golden filigree, rippling gently in the evening breeze. Wrathion startled as a cacophonous voice boomed underneath the stands, silencing the previously boisterous crowd.
“Your tenacity is admirable, but pointless. You ride into the jaws of the apocalypse!”
The voice of his father. Or, at least, an actor’s best guess at what he might have sounded like at .. Well. Approaching his end. No- not him- the Destroyer. Nothing of Neltharian himself remained long before his reanimated corpse bisected Azeroth’s young flesh to enact what had been wrought on his mind upon her people. It had called itself Deathwing, although of course few had lived long enough to remember they had been, and still were, separate dragons.
It seemed the only memory anyone was ever interested in preserving was this one. Behind the screen, articulated puppets given a rather impressive range of animation through artful use of smoke and shadow and the talented manipulation of string depicted the tale already told to exhaustion. The words ground to a mild, irritating buzz in his ears as he bent over the railing with a truly impressive scowl carved into his face.
“What is the use in building a legacy at all if the stories will only be told in half-measures..?” Wrathion grumbles. “And why am I standing here participating in it-??” He scoffs.
No sooner does he release the railing with a hefty, compressed creaking sound than his attention is sharply drawn to the feeling of pressure returning to his palm. He looks down, expecting to find the proud, beaming smile of his son, both hands clasped around his, pleased with himself for navigating such an arduous environment to find-
“Ah, there you are, love. Where have you been? Did you get lost?” It’s only Anduin, slightly out of breath and red in the cheeks.
Wrathion opens his mouth to ask, but Anduin answers before he needs to. “With me, don’t worry.”
The dragon straightens up, with a scoff. “That- .. Nevermind. Did you two enjoy yourselves, then?” He can’t help but glance frantically about until he can finally place his eyes on Ian, tucked against Anduin’s side between the leg of his trousers and his coat, fussing with a bit of string trailing from a button on his sleeve.
“Ah, we haven’t had the chance. He insisted we come to find you, first.” Anduin smiled, gently, cupping the side of Ian’s head with his hand.
“I .. See.” The words felt tied to fishing weights.
“It’s getting late. The bazaar is this way- I’m sure you’ll find something there.”
—————
Returning to the study, the bundle of new fabric secure in his arms, it seemed far longer than a mere few hours. Scraps, supplies, patterns and all manner of things were scattered around the place. The room was as disarrayed as Wrathion felt. There was still so much to be done, and he hadn’t even bothered to properly drape the coat before they’d left. It would be terribly wrinkled, now..
“Papa..?” A small, timid voice that could not possibly belong to his son, who was never quiet, not even when he was doing his very best to whisper.
Wrathion did not look up. “Yes, Ian?”
“..Shall I.. put the coat on now…?”
Saliva gathers around his tongue and his throat strains as he swallows. “Ah.. No. I don’t need you. It is well past the time when you should be in bed, as it is. Anduin, would you-”
Anduin answers him by kissing him gently on the cheek, and smoothing a hand over the arch of his shoulder. He sighs at length as he beckons for Ian to follow and, after a lingering moment, he does.
“Come to bed. Soon.” Perhaps Wrathion imagines it, but he can’t help feeling that he has finally managed to exhaust his husband’s inexhaustible patience.
That’s fine, Wrathion assures himself. He can be disappointed all he likes, I have work to do.
—————————————-
All things considered, for his first summit, young Ian had behaved himself to an exceptional standard. Anduin had once more proved himself an excellent mate and a capable diplomat, roaming with the little prince at his hip charming attendees Horde and Alliance alike, striking up conversation when the mood began to dull and making introductions so fluidly that the room was lively with the voices of Drakonid, Tuskaar, Centaur, Orcs and Tauren- just to name a few. The first day of talks were dwindling to an abundant close, and Wrathion was already prepared to consider the whole engagement a success as he stood at the head of the table. He tapped his glass and prepared his voice to carry across the room- the only flaw in planning had been the sheer number of interested parties, mercifully enough tables and chairs had been found before the feast to suit everyone.
“Friends!” Wrathion gestured with a wide sweep of his arm. “Family! Acquaintances! .. Cohorts..” His chest rose as he leveled his gaze at the seated groups, a self-satisfied smirk curling the corner of his lip as he captured each seat’s attention. Assured of the commitment of his audience he spoke again.
“Each of you has come to our ancestral shores in the spirit of creating a thriving, fructuous union between your lands, and the Dragon Isles. For too long have these ancient places slept apart, their peoples isolated from one another, even when the only separation came in the form of factions.. And borders.”
There was very little shifting between those gathered, the only tension that of the very old with a limited span of attention and those whom had worked up quite the appetite in spirited exchange.
“Well. No more!” Wrathion chuckled, vibrantly. “It is my pleasure as well as my duty to welcome you whole-heartedly to invite you and your family to partake in the bounty provided by our most gracious hosts- and to do so alongside my own.” With a fanciful flourish, he indicates the man seated at his side, who immediately begins scooting his chair back to rise for a polite bow.
“Oh- oh no, my love, that’s quite alright.” Wrathion laughs, taking him by the hand with both of his. “You’ve been on your feet quite enough today, I think.” He lifts Anduin’s hand to place a courteous kiss to the golden lion sigil bound to his finger. “My mate, King Anduin of Stormwind, of the Noble House of Wrynn.”
Anduin, slightly pink in the cheeks, gives a gracious nod of his head, and places his arm around Ian’s shoulders. The boy looks even smaller hunched in his gilded chair than he does sitting his father’s throne.
“And our son, the pride of the burgeoning Black Dragonflight, Prince Sol-” But he isn’t given the opportunity to finish, as in one swift motion, Ian flings his father’s arm aside, pushing back the heavy chair and fleeing from the hall still echoing with his name.
Anduin grips the arms of his seat again, and again Wrathion stops him. In a more reserved tone, he submits, “No, darling. I .. Think it must be me.” He sighs, softly, rising to his full height again to address the tittering amongst the tables.
“If you will all forgive me I .. Do believe there is a rather crucial aspect I have neglected to tend.. Sabellian-” Wrathion turns his palm up and lightly flicks two of his fingers to gesture at the other wing of the table. Wordlessly, the older man stands and respectfully takes his brother’s position.
Anduin reaches for Wrathion’s hand, giving his arm a firm squeeze and an imploring look.
“It’s alright.” Wrathion reassures him in a hushed voice, taking his hands to his chest as he hastens from the hall.
——————————————
Wrathion is relieved to find Ian sitting on his knees in front of the grand fountain, having used all the time he could have been putting distance between himself and the gathering to instead relieve himself of his coat, boots, and trousers. Wrathion doesn’t have to walk far to see where they’ve ended up; the small opalescent stones and iridescent crewelwork glittering in the moonlight reflected off the surface of the water.
He finds he can hardly muster much care for the lousy treatment of all his effort.
“It wasn’t my best work, I’ll grant you that. I don’t believe the fish will like it much better, though.”
Ian draws up his knees, pushing his head between them and clasping both arms firmly around himself.
Feeling far too awkward and pitiable on his feet, Wrathion strides to Ian and sits beside him, content to allow him the silence. Sabellian will no doubt have hurried through the best parts of his speech and gotten the delegates to the meal as soon as possible, so his absence is not particularly important to remedy.
“No- it’s ugly- and I hate it.” Ian grunts into his bare knees. “And you hate it- everyone thinks it’s ugly- and it’s all my fault!”
“I don’t think any of those things.”
“Yes- you do. You’re lying- like you’ve been doing all day- about how everything is all fine- and about how you’re happy- and proud of me!”
“Solarian. I am always proud of you-”
“You aren’t!” Ian lifts his head, his little face is puffy and red and his eyes are as sodden as his evening-wear. “You don’t act like you’re proud of me!”
“You’re right.”
Ian grimaces, turning his head to the side and raising his shoulders to his ears. His wings droop slightly as his tail tucks itself more firmly against his hip.
“I asked you to be on your very best behavior.. I should have listened to my own advice.”
“..Did I ruin your big party?”
Wrathion chuckled, dryly. “No. I dare say not.” He stretches his legs out to cross in front of him, leaning back on his hands and glancing up to the sky. “Every one of those people, if they haven’t had their own children, they have at least been one at some point in their lives. These moments are .. Expected.”
“.. Not from me, though. I’m the prince.”
“That’s true. It’s a terribly unfair expectation to put on you. I .. Know what that’s like.”
Ian rubs at his cheek with the heel of his hand.
“I know you do. You told me already, you remember?
“All the more reason I ought to remember myself. .. I never wanted you to feel the pressure I did. That was the one thing your father and I could agree on- after your name.” Wrathion offered him a small, impish smirk. “When you were born, we both vowed to grant you the childhood we did not get to enjoy ourselves. .. And here I am, squandering it.”
Ian’s brow furrowed, and he tentatively swung his head around to glance at him from the corner of his eye.
“What does squander mean?”
“It means,” Wrathion filled his lungs to force out a rough sigh. “That I have wasted so much time languishing in wishing for what I do not have. Time that I cannot get back. .. Take yesterday, for instance. No one enjoyed themselves at the festival, I hurt your feelings, and I wounded your father’s trust in me. All so I could hurry to make an ugly outfit that we both hate. Now the festival is over, the fish have eaten my work, and no matter how much I wish for it I cannot ever have yesterday again.”
Ian seemed to hardly need any time at all to consider what Wrathion had said, slowly lifting his head and fully turning it to face him. “You don’t need yesterday, when there’s gonna be tomorrow.”
Wrathion barked out a laugh. “That’s good advice. Perhaps you and I might make a deal.”
Ian quirked his head, the delicate tips of his ears lifting as he followed Wrathion’s gesturing hands.
“If I promise to always try to keep that in mind, will you promise to tell me if you ever feel I have forgotten it?”
Wrathion extends his hand for Ian to shake, and is almost fully thrown onto his back when the boy instead leaps onto him, wrapping both arms and legs around him. With his face nestled between Wrathion’s neck and ruffled collar, he mumbles,
“I promise.”
“Oh dear- you are freezing, aren’t you. Shall we go back inside..?”
Ian vehemently shakes his head, tightening his embrace.
“Alright..” Wrathion adjusts himself into a more secure sitting position, crossing his legs and wrestling off his coat to wrap it snugly around the boy. Ian lets out a long, world-weary sigh, curling his fingers around a handful of the fabric and rubbing it thoughtfully between them.
“Papa..? Can I tell you an idea I have?”
—————————
“Hmm.. I like the stripes on my legs, papa- do we have any gold stitching left-?”
Wrathion chuckles. “You have thoroughly exhausted my supply, my darling. No matter- a small effort to procure more.”
Ian shuffles in front of the mirror, twisting to see himself from every angle. “It’s just a little loose on the shoulders, papa-” He mumbles, as if dictating to a personal scribe.
“That will see to itself- once we put in the closures for your wings.” Wrathion briefly fusses with the fabric at his back, adjusting the slack with ample room around the extra joints at his shoulder-blades. “Shall I pin it in place to finish the test fit?”
“Yes, please!” Ian chirps. He can barely hold himself still long enough for Wrathion to finish, admiring every glimmering detail.
“There, how’s that?” Wrathion steps back to do his own appraisal, finding to his own surprise very little he would actually change.
Ian squints, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, scrutinizing his reflection as if he expects it to flinch. “Could it have more red?”
“You know..” Wrathion muses, crossing the room to one of many previously tidy fabric stashes, rummaging through it until he produces a long, glinting satin sash. He holds it loosely stretched across his hands, studying the intricate pattern as if he might reach through to the brash, boastful youth who used to wear it. It was ridiculous to assume, even were such a thing possible, that he could realistically impart all the hard-fought wisdom and understanding he’d gained in all the most convoluted ways, and change that youth in any meaningful way. Although, perhaps that was rather complicating the issue. He’d had so little time to grow up, no time that he couldn’t remember the weight of his father’s atrocities, the impossible task of alleviating the burden of his own name before the whole world.
He pulled his gaze from the article to Ian, standing with chest out and hands on his hips. Shoulders free of the crushing yoke of his family’s wicked legacy, chin to the sky, feet firmly planted on solid ground with eyes fixed on the future. Wrathion gently affixed the sash around his waist, tucking the extra fabric at his back.
“Well? What do you think, Ian ..?”
“It’s perfect!”
Wrathion chuckled, pressing a kiss to his brow. “Yes, you are.”