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Despite their proximity to the frigid climes of Northrend, the Waking Shores stood as warm, winding lands of roiling active volcanoes and lush mountain forests. These northern regions of the newly awakened Dragon Isles were a far cry from the frigid snows and evergreen forests of the southern Azure Span, where the precious few remaining members of the blue dragonflight had come to rest after the long journey from the scattered corners of Azeroth that they had tried to make their own isolated homes.
Out on a spontaneous errand, Kalecgos the Spell-Weaver found that he needn’t have worried that he would be unable to spot the Obsidian Citadel from afar. It was not difficult to find. The citadel, with its formidable onyx spires, built into the breathlessly tall, dark northern mountains, could be seen all the way from the verdant-adorned marbled towers of the Ruby Lifepools. As Kalecgos began to make his descent from the cloudline, the soft membrane along his wings were warmed with the thermals wafting off the winding magma flows below. Heat blasted both his soft-scaled belly and dangling blue claws as he glided across the war zone that the Djaradin and the black dragonflight had made of the area. As a precaution, the azure dragon had woven a thin, shimmering arcane shield across his underside and kept a sharp eye out for any stray arrows or throwing spears. But the air remained both warm and clear of projectiles, glistening mirages shimmering on the horizon where the heat was most intense and the slow moving molten rock burned in bright oranges and golden yellows.
As he descended through the hazy clouds, Kalecgos wondered, fretfully, if perhaps an invisibility spell might be merited. But he did not want to approach as a thief in the night, doing insult to the black dragonflight’s opportunity to offer him hospitality. Nor did he want his insecurity to rub salt in the wound that was the Citadel’s current state of contestment under the Djaradin. It had been so long since there had been any formal communication between the two flights, at least any that had not occurred while one of them had been under the duress of an Old God’s thrall.
And, up until now, there had been so few of either flight to converse with.
Kalecgos’ musings over draconic manners were interrupted by the sudden realization that he was headed directly for a kind of force field. A strong conical one, flared at the base, tight like a sharp corner of glass at the top, rippling with energy and pressure drawn up from the earth itself. It was, by his standards, amateurly woven but massive in scale, maintained by anchor points of large, human-sized crystals that were acting as resonant wards placed around the citadel grounds. The shield enclosed the entire front half of the citadel, as far as he could see, the part that was exposed and not built into the mountains. It would not last forever against one with such arcane power as he himself had. But it spelled a message loud and clear:Visitors Beware
Kalecgos tilted his wings and eased into slow spiraling circles, descending upon the steps. He was met by one of the many dragonspawn who stood guard at the entrance, which had been outfitted with tents and armaments like a war camp. He landed lightly with his claws upon the dark stone floor before the row of guards, feeling the full brunt of heat from the twin lava flows that poured from the mouths of twin dragon carvings on either side of the door.
“Hail, visitor of the blue flight,“ the dragonspawn who had greeted him said. “What brings you to the Obsidian Citadel?”
Kalecgos gave a bow, lowering his great, spined head as he spread his enormous wings. “I am Kalecgos, Aspect of the Blue Dragonflight. I seek an audience with the Black Prince.”
The dragonspawn all exchanged glances. One asked with uncomfortable uncertainty: “Have you come to declare an alliance with him?”
“No,” Kalecgos said, shaking out his head then body down to the tip of his tail, disrupting any remaining traces of the spell he had woven into a protective shield. Arcane residue fell from his scales like dust. “This is merely an informal visit.”
The dragonspawn all stared at him as if he had uttered a string of nonsense.
“Then there is no other stated reason behind your arrival?” one of the dragonspawn repeated.
“Well, er.” Unprepared to face an inquisition, Kalecgos tried his best to address the question. “It's just a social calling. From one dragon to another.”
With more furtive exchange of glances, one of the dragonspawn cleared their throat. “I will announce your arrival. Be warned that I cannot guarantee that the ‘Prince’ will have time to receive you. He is…particular with how he spends his time.”
“Of course,” Kalecgos couldn’t help but have the creeping feeling that this little excursion of his wasn’t as good of an idea as it had been hours ago, when he had taken off from Iskaara. “Thank you.”
One of the dragonspawn bowed, then adjusted their grip on their spear so that it was held parallel to the length of their long body. They turned and galloped up the wide steps, disappearing through the massive doors into the citadel. Kalecgos lowered his haunches and sat, trying to keep his tail still as he waited.
A shadow passed over both Kalecgos and the dragonspawn. Kalecgos looked up to see a large black-scaled dragon glide overhead, trailed by two smaller ones that were probably drakes. The elder dragon gave an instruction in deep, velvety draconic, gesturing with his head towards the citadel as he tilted his wings and headed for Kalecgos’ direction. The two smaller dragons broke formation and flew right through the magical earthen barrier to land on a high balcony overhead. The larger dragon settled on the ground between the dragonspawn and the door with an impact that shook the stone at Kalecgos’ feet.
“Aspect,” the black dragon rumbled as he looked up from his bow, slitted yellow eyes turning upon the blue dragon. “It is a pleasure to see you on my doorstep.”
“Sabellian of Outland, I presume?” Kalecgos asked.
The other dragon gave a nod of his massive, horned head in affirmation. “You presume correctly, although ‘Sabellian of Azeroth’ would be a more appropriate title now.”
“Indeed,” Kalecgos nodded in return, taking note of the delicate emphasis the other dragon had placed on the word Azeroth. “Allow then for me to give both you and your brood a warm welcome home.”
“Thank you, Aspect. Your welcome is most appreciated.” Sabellian bowed again. “And allow me, in turn, to give you an equally warm welcome to my home. It will not do to keep you out here in the cold, in a manner of speaking.” Sabellian lifted a massive front talon and lifted it in the direction of the tall stone doors. “Would you join me inside?”
Kalecgos hesitated. “That would be most ideal. Thank you.”
The line of dragonspawn parted to allow Kalecgos to walk through them and make his climb up the steps. Keeping an eye out for the dragonspawn who had run to alert Wrathion to his arrival, Kalecgos followed Sabellian through the great doors, tall enough for fully grown dragons such as themselves to travel through with ease. It was a wonder to be around such architecture that had been built exactly for their kind.
Kalecgos had wondered how the citadel would look inside, cut off from the light of the sun, and found that the answer was it looked as dark as he had assumed it would be. The great stone corridors, sparsely populated with slitted windows and reinforced with gargantuan supports of cast iron, were illuminated by torchlight and ornate troughs of glowing lava. The fiery molten rock flowed in hot, sluggish streams from more carved dragon mouths and fountainheads in the stonework, a kind of ancient aqueduct that the old architects of the black dragonflight had intended to warm and illuminate. Kalecgos felt out of his element. The warmth of the citadel was almost a shock after spending many cold weeks in the Azure Span and its archives, where arcane magefire, artificial and violet, was the common way to warm one’s scales or hands.
“I do not recall hearing news of any of the blue dragonflight visiting our shores since the Great Return,” Sabellian commented, his voice both confident and curious.
“I cannot speak for any of the others, but this is my first time,” Kalecgos admitted, unable to keep his own curiosity contained as he tilted his head from one side to the other in order to gaze upon the proud stone dragon statues and fountains they passed. “How have you been settling in?”
“We’ve had our challenges, to be sure,” Sabellian let out a cold, deep chuckle in his throat. “But my flight is no stranger to adversity. We will persevere, not just survive, but thrive, as we have always done.”
“Kalecgos.”
Kalecgos turned to find Wrathion, wearing his mortal visage, stalking down the hall, the dragonspawn who had been sent to fetch him trailing close behind. He wore a white muslin tunic with a low slit down the front and elaborate golden embroidery on the high collar and sleeves. At his waist sat a red sash with even more elaborate gold floral patterns and his pants were made from a dark olive green fabric that hung loose from the knees down. His black, curled-toed boots, adorned with gilded accents and ruby gemstones at the hems, barely made any noise as they briskly clicked down the hall. Wrathion’s long, dark brown curls were lightly tousled around his shoulders and his thick goatee and mustache were neatly trimmed, half-hidden in the tall collar of his shirt. Wrathion’s visage was decorated as it usually was with golden jewelry that Kalecgos himself found cumbersome and an annoyance to wear: a pair of large hoop earrings, one in each pierced ear, a thick cuff bracelet around his left wrist, rings adorning his long fingers, and a ruby gemstone set in a gold pendant which hung from a delicate chain around his neck.
“The Black Prince awaits to see you,” the dragonspawn called over the self-proclaimed prince’s shoulder. “He sends his apologies for making you wait.”
“Yes, that he does,” Wrathion waved his hand dismissively. “Thank you. That will be all.”
The dragonspawn looked between the three dragons, relief etched in the corners of his stern face, and he rushed to exit the citadel.
“Ah, little sibling,” Sabellian’s voice had an edge of condensation to it. “Is this any way to receive the Aspect of the Blue Dragonflight? I found him seated outside like a stray house cat.”
“I did not warn Wrathion of my arrival,” Kalecgos interrupted quickly. He could have taken a bite out of the tension which lay thick in the air. “Forgive me. I should have perhaps sent a letter, or at least one of my images to request permission to visit.”
“Nonsense,” Wrathion interrupted, his voice echoing off the stone as Sabillian’s lips had parted in reply. “Warning or not, you are most welcome here, Aspect.”
Kalecgos paused, then in a swirl of violet light he assumed his own visage: a pale-skinned half-elf with dark blue hair that hung like a curtain on one side of his face. He was dressed practically and as was befitting for a member of the Kirin Tor, in a violet waistcoat with swirls of silver embroidery over a crisp plain white linen dress tunic. To his own sense of mortal style, over the getup he had a silver-studded leather harness fastened with a sapphire stone in the front. A pair of matching leather sleeve garters around his upper arms kept the billowing fabric tucked back and he had a pair of practical, fingerless leather gloves on his callus-less hands. His legs were cloaked in simple brown linen breeches and beneath them he wore a pair of stockings tucked into sturdy brown boots. At his side hung a brown leather satchel. He gave a demure smile to Wrathion with his now mortal mouth, the corners of his minty blue eyes crinkling just enough to show traces of crow’s feet.
“Thank you, I appreciate such a warm welcome,” he said diplomatically with a small nod of his head. “Is there a place where we may speak privately?”
Sabellian did not need to be given more of a hint. He graciously excused himself with a deep rumble, turning to head back up the same corridor from which they came. Kalecgos could not help but notice the irate glance Wrathion gave the older dragon’s tail as he lumbered on heavy footsteps down the hall.
“Yes, of course,” the Black Prince said, beckoning Kalecgos to follow in the opposite direction. “If you would follow me.”
The distance that they walked through the halls of the Obsidian Citadel would have been far easier to traverse on longer draconic legs, but Kalecgos did not complain. He was led up a flight of stairs and into a chamber of a tower that had clearly been designed for dragons but adorned for the comfort of mortals. A series of tall, connecting canvas tents had been erected around the room with lanterns strung across the support polls. Fine woven rugs adorned the stone floor and low tables with pillow cushions for seating. There were high tables as well, piled with rolls of parchment, books, wooden boxes, and pieces of treasure such as goblets, gemstones, and other trinkets. And weapons. There were many, many swords, daggers, and crossbows hanging from wooden racks and even more blades waiting next to blacksmiths’ sharpening stations. A small alchemist setup sat in the corner with baskets of herbs and what were surely potent poisons brewing in the glass beakers. Hazy afternoon sunlight, golden with the blue of the sky, shone in through the wide windows and illuminated the pale, milky canvas of the tents.
The only occupants in the room were an orc and a human. The orc was reading from a book and taking notes on a piece of parchment, her waist-length jet black hair pulled back from her serious green face in a high ponytail. The human, though seated opposite, had the heel of her booted foot braced casually against the seat of the orc’s chair as she busied herself with making arrows, humming a folk tune. They both looked up as Wrathion and Kalecgos approached.
“Would you please give us some privacy?” Wrathion asked. Both women nodded and rose, the orc taking her book and the human taking her unstrung bow, and soon Kalecgos and Wrathion were alone, the doors to the great chamber closed behind them.
Wrathion held open a hanging tapestry which served as the entrance flap to a more remote portion of the larger tent. Kalecgos ducked inside, struck by the pleasant scent of sandalwood and frankincense. Here, there were chaise lounges surrounding a tea table and in the corner sat a small bed piled with satin trimmed blankets, silk sheets, and pillows. One wall of the tent was left open, overlooking a portion of stone floor and a pair of windows that themselves opened to a balcony where someone had set up a fire pit and a tea set. There were more books here beneath the tent, stacked in a lightweight and portable looking shelf and strewn amongst the many floor pillows. Kalecgos couldn’t help but curiously look towards them, resisting the urge to rifle through the titles. He wondered what kind of reading would keep Wrathion’s calculating mind occupied.
“Is this where you’ve been staying?” Kalecgos asked instead.
Wrathion nodded and took a turn about the small living space. He did not seem to know what to do with his hands. He played with his rings and twisted them to sit just so on his fingers. He tucked his curls behind the shell of one ear before raking them out again with a toss of his head, running a hand across his beard. He paused to look out through the gap in the tent towards the open window while adjusting the knot of his sash, the warm breeze bringing in the scent of charcoal.
“Yes, mostly. Welcome to my most humble abode,” he announced, sweeping one arm across the space and reaching with the other for a bottle of wine in a crate of many and topping off the glass which stood on a small table.
He held up the dark green bottle and gave an inquisitive look to Kalecgos, who nodded. Wrathion took a second glass from a small box on the floor, used a small tool tucked into his belt sash to wrench out the cork, and poured out a generous amount. Kalecgos removed his leather satchel and set it down with care on top of the tea table.
“Should I remove my boots?” he asked, glancing down at the large ornate, tasseled rug underfoot.
“Only if it would serve to make you more comfortable,” Wrathion replied. He had left his own at the entrance to the tent.
After a moment, Kalecgos followed his example, propping his boots up as best he could next to Wrathion’s. There was something strange and domestic about seeing the pair of them next to each other and he was struck by the sudden memory of doing the same thing at Jaina’s small apartment in Dalaran. Though Jaina was tall for a human, her slender boots and her flat slipper-like shoes especially looked so small when compared to his. Sometimes he had adjusted his visage to see if she would take notice of the size of his boots changing, of his feet entwined together with hers on the soft plush sofa or under the sheets in her bed, but she never did.
Kalecgos took the offered wine glass and stood awkwardly near the entrance to the little pocket of the tent. It was difficult to know where he should sit while Wrathion was still on his feet, pacing, taking long sips of wine as if it were a prescription tonic.
“That was Sabellian?” Breaking the ice had never been Kalecgos’ forte. “I’ve heard much about him from Alexstrasza. It was nice to finally meet him.”
Wrathion let out a disgruntled humph before taking yet another sip of wine. “Not as excited as he was to finally make your acquaintance, Aspect.”
The resentful, tantalizing way Wrathion’s tongue curled around the word Aspect sent a chill down Kalecgos’ spine. A slight flush ran across his pale cheeks and the tips of his elven ears, warm beneath his curtain of his dark blue hair. He did not want to be reminded of his title. He did not want to remind Wrathion of the title he did not yet have.
He tried to steer the subject away. “How does it feel, to be reunited with family once more?”
“Were that my family was here,” Wrathion bemoaned, studying his wine glass. “Ebyssian will not come.”
“Did he not feel the Call?” Kalecgos asked.
Wrathion nodded, a look of misery creeping into the edges of his stony features. “He will not heed it. After aiding the Dracthyr and introducing them to the Horde, he returned to Silithus. He insists that the Speaker of Azeroth’s matters are more urgent, that Magni Bronzebeard still requires the black dragonflight’s aid at the Wound.”
Wrathion curled and uncurled the fingers of his free hand, as if he were trying to grasp at the hilt of an invisible sword by his side.
“I do not know how to persuade him.”
“I take it things have not been going well, then,” Kalecgos said, slowly, his own glass remaining untouched by his lips in his hand.
Wrathion gave a quiet laugh, a bitter, humorless sound. “Which part? That an ancient enemy still has some control over my flight’s ancestral home and intends to see us back on the verge of extinction? Or that my claim as Neltharion’s heir is now contested by the honorable Baron Sablemane, former lieutenant and right-hand man to Deathwing? Hm, or perhaps it is that every single aspect of my life and upbringing is now the primary subject of contested gossip amongst my fellow dragons, devoted drakonids, and even Blacktalon?”
Kalecgos winced. “All of it, then.”
Wrathion exhaled through his nostrils, shaking his head slightly before taking another long drink of wine.
“I keep returning to that cursed wedding night,” Wrathion sounded rancorous as he turned his glass around in his hand, examining the way the sun reflected off the curved surface and was absorbed by the dark red liquid. “I felt so certain, then. Everything seemed so clear to me: what my purpose was, what I needed to do. But now that I am here…”
“It is…overwhelming,” Kalecgos offered in admission. “The history. The responsibility. The memories of what was lost.”
Wrathion made a quiet noise of contemplation in the back of his throat as he looked up. “You must forgive my introspection. The blue dragonflight has seen more than enough of its share of troubles. Here I am prattling on about hardship. You and your flight, of all dragons, do not need to be lectured about tragedy.”
Kalecgos decided to have a drink of wine, as well. He felt he should say something reassuring, but the image of Sindragosa rose unbidden in his memory. He thought of the precious few eggs with azure shells sitting in a pool and the hopeful dragons who tended to them.
“Tragedy, yes, but also perhaps the consequences of our own hubris,” Kalecgos admitted. “My flight has had to learn many difficult lessons about control.”
He took another long, deep drink, his mortal chest burning from the alcohol’s effect, and then took a step closer to Wrathion.
“I hope you know,” Kalecgos said measuredly, hesitating. “That you may confide in me. Whenever you have need for a sympathetic ear.”
Wrathion startled as if the words had slapped him. He stared at Kalecgos, mouth pressed into a thin line.
“I may not be able to offer the best council, I am not familiar with all of the intricacies of your flight,” Kalecgos admitted, his eyes glancing to Wrathion’s wrist, where his skin bore the old mechanical tear of what he could only assume was the Red Dragonflight’s experiments or your scars. “And I realize that things are…tumultuous. But, I would hope you could at least consider me to be an ally.”
Wrathion stared at him for what seemed to be a long time, his face a stone mask and his eyes masked and blazing with an indecipherable crimson glow. Kalecgos’ mortal heart fluttered in his breast. Then, Wrathion seemed to let out a breath, his shoulders lowering just a fraction, his expression relaxing.
“Where are my manners?” he said, giving a wide smile that Kalecgos swore was a touch nervous. It didn't quite reach his eyes. “Please, have a seat.”
Wrathion himself did so on the chaise lounge in the center of the small corner of the tent. After a moment of hesitation, Kalecgos took a bold step forward and sat himself at the other end. To his small delight, the other dragon betrayed a hint of surprise at his chosen proximity.
“You seem well situated here,” Kalecgos said. “I think this would meet even the Kirin Tor’s unreasonably high standards for a comfortable base camp.”
A thought suddenly occurred to Kalecgos. He raised his free hand and uttered a spell. A small, floating iridescent table covered with a fine lace cloth manifested before them. It was piled with what appeared to be plates of pastries including plump vanilla cupcakes with towering swirls of pink cream cheese frosting, frilled paper cups holding slices of spiced, nutty baklava, a small mountain of fried donut holes dusted with sugar, and small stacks of shortbread cookies sandwiched with tart raspberry jelly.
“There. Now it can be given the Kirin Tor seal of approval.”
Wrathion gave his own approving smirk, partially lifting his wine glass in a mock toast. “Well done, Archmage.”
“Thank you,” Kalecgos said with a small laugh. “I’ve been working to marginally improve my magical baking skills over the years.”
Wrathion took another heavy sip of wine. He was already almost halfway through the glass. After a moment, he reached for a donut hole and popped it unceremoniously into his mouth. He closed his eyes for a moment as he savored the sweet cinnamon flavor.
“They’re not as rich nor as filling as real pastries, of course,” Kalecgos tried to explain, feeling suddenly self conscious. “But they do wonders to replenish a mana-hungry mage.”
Wrathion nodded, giving a hum of approval. “I always find it interesting how different foods may taste to the mortal tongue. It is often well worth the trouble of finding someone who has learned how to cook their meals.”
“I agree,” Kalecgos said. “Oh, and that reminds me. My reason for coming here.”
Wrathion gave him a curious glance, raising a heavy brow. Kalecgos crossed the room to where his leather satchel still sat on the floor. He reached inside and pulled out a glass container, the top sealed with a violet blue arcane ward.
“I wanted to bring you something,” he said, bringing the container over to the chaise lounge.
Wrathion set his glass of wine down and accepted the offered container.
“What is it?” he asked, turning it around in his hand with a suspicious look as if it might contain some kind of explosive instead of food.
“It’s stew,” Kalecgos explained. “From Iskaara, a Tuskarr village in the southwestern corner of the Azure Span.”
“Stew,” Wrathion repeated, looking no less suspicious, as if stew was a thing he knew of only from negative connotations.
“Yes,” Kalecgos said with a minute smile, as if he was sharing a private joke.
The dragon mage conjured two spoons and a pair of white ceramic bowls, each printed with delicate and magically shifting blue patterns of dragons in flight over snowy mountains. He reached for the container, which Wrathion passed back to him. With a small flourish, Kalecgos undid the arcane seal on the top of the container. Steam wafted from within and with it came a rich, savory scent, accented by a hint of charcoal. He poured out a generous portion into each bowl and handed one back to Wrathion.
“It’s a community tradition for the Iskaara Tuskarr to cook and share meals amongst the entire village,” Kalecgos explained as Wrathion gave the contents of his bowl a small sniff before tasting. “It is offered as a way to welcome visitors.”
Magic had kept the stew just as fresh as it had been when the Tuskarr elder had spooned it from the giant kettle. Large hunks of tender venison sat in the rich, bloody reddish brown broth alongside colorful chunks of diced potatoes, chewy green cuts of celery, silvery, transparent buds of soft and crunchy whole pearl onions, and round hunks of bright orange earthy carrots. Kalecgos, spending his long days and late nights cleaning up and organizing the cold Azure Archives, had come to crave it. At first, he had worried that he had been imposing upon their hospitality, but the Iskaar Tuskar were always more than happy to see him. The presence of an azure dragon had become something of a cherished novelty at their feasts. He had even begun to share tales of his flight with the local storytellers over the food.
“I wanted to share it with you,” Kalecgos said, heat rising to his cheeks. He found himself suddenly, of all things, self conscious…shy. “As it was shared with me.”
Wrathion took a small sip of broth, gazing thoughtfully into the distance.
“Hmm,” he said with a low rumble in the back of his throat.
“Do you like it?” Kalecgos asked, finding himself more invested in the answer than he expected to be.
Wrathion lowered his eyelids for a moment as he considered his words. He took another spoonful of broth, the tip of his beard moving up and down as he chewed on a piece of venison and thought some more. Kalecgos felt a strange anxiety churning in the pit of his gut, as it did whenever he needed to stand in front of the other members of the Council of Six.
Finally, Wrathion said. “It is a bit…mild for my tastes. But I cannot deny its quality.”
Kalecgos laughed, his nervousness fluttering like there were literal butterflies in his stomach. “I’ll take that compliment.”
Wrathion gave him a small smirk that made Kalecgos’ heart skip a beat. “I ought to invite you to one of our meals, with the Blacktalon, to expose you to some different flavors.”
“I would love to attend.”
The word love had slipped out somehow. It was not a term Kalecgos used lightly, at least not anymore. There had been a time when it had peppered his speech as easily as anything, but that time had passed. It took Wrathion by surprise. His red eyes flickered at the word, as if it were something he did not hear very often.
They sat in silence, eating the stew, Kalecgos enjoying the familiar warmth now pooling in his mortal belly. The food truly was nourishing and thankfully no worse for wear having traveled over the long, partially cold miles between Iskaara and the Obsidian Citadel. The container and the arcane ward he had designed, to contain both the liquid and its fire-stoked heat, had held up well.
Wrathion, too, looked content by the food. His shoulders, which had been rigid with tension, now sloped into a gracefully relaxed posture and his eyelids flickered as he savored the taste of the roasted meat and vegetables. Kalecgos realized, not for the first time, that he wanted nothing more in that moment than to kiss Wrathion. He’d shared many kisses with mortals, and wasn’t new to that experience. But would it be any different kissing another dragon in their visage?
“Kalecgos.”
The thought broken, Kalecgos looked up. He found Wrathion had set his bowl down upon the table of mana desserts and now cradled his wine glass once again in his long brown mortal hands, his knees and bare feet now tucked up on the chaise cushion in front of him. He was examining Kalecgos as he might have one of his books.
“May I ask a question about your visage?”
Kalecgos nodded. “Of course.”
Wrathion raised a finger to trace the edge of one of his own red eyes, decorated with smudged lines of dark kohl that make them appear all the more brighter. “Why is it that you’ve given yourself…wrinkles?”
“Wrinkles?” Kalecgos nearly laughed, feigning an injury to his heart. “I didn’t think I made the crow’s feet so pronounced as that.”
It was Wrathion’s turn to chuckle hesitantly, as if he were playing along with a joke he didn’t quite understand, and was now looking slightly embarrassed by his question. “Is that what they’re called?”
Kalecgos stared down at his shadow over his bowl of soup as he considered this. There were good reasons and then there was the truth. He took a deep breath in through his nose and let it out as a sigh.
“She liked them,” he admitted, for the first time, to anyone.
Wrathion stirred slightly, almost as if he were about to get up and begin pacing around the tent again. “Ah.”
The silence stretched out between them. Kalecgos took another sip of his stew’s oily warm broth. He was beginning to scrape the bottom and could see the beginnings of the blue-lined trees nestled on the ceramic there.
“Was she the only one?” Wrathion asked.
“No.” Kalecgos did his best to keep his voice light and casual, as if he were commenting on something as impersonal as the weather. “Gossip tends to travel in Dalaran. I’ve heard certain mages think it makes me look dignified. Like Khadgar…”
His voice trailed off. He did not know if he wanted to begin to explain the complicated and socially awkward dating circles of Dalaran’s most elite mages. There had been many lonely nights spent exchanging mana-wine tinged kisses over a shared hookah pipe in the private curtained rooms of Dalaran’s night spots, politely forgotten in the morning light when business had to be conducted as usual. He’d even experimented with allowing some silver or gray into his blue mortal hair.
“Do you like them?”
Wrathion looked up again, surprised by the question. He gave Kalecgos a long, even stare, his face once again cloaked by that unreadable, well-practiced mask. Kalecgos wished he had so much control over his own mortal expressions. He had almost abandoned hope of expecting an answer and begun to think that he had overstepped his bounds, when Wrathion finally answered.
“Yes,” Wrathion said, stirring the wine in his glass with a gesture of his hand. “I believe that I do.”
“I would change them,” Kalecgos offered, fear-struck by how bold his own thought was. “If you didn’t.”
Again, there was a long pause, as if each word required its own calculation.
“Your visage should be for you and you alone,” Wrathion uttered, finally, his voice low. “But I would be lying if I said that I did not like the appearance of the mortal that I see before me.”
Kalecgos took a deep breath. He put down his bowl besides Wrathion’s on the magical table, then turned sideways, lifting one crossed leg up onto the chaise lounge, their legs the only things that separated them.
“What about yourself?” Kalecgos asked. “Is there anyone you’ve considered altering your visage for?”
“No,” Wrathion’s face was still a mask but he could not hide the mournful look in his eyes. “There has been only him.”
Wrathion did not flinch away when Kalecgos moved closer, so that their bodies were side-by-side in the chaise lounge, balancing their wine glasses precariously. With a gesture Kalecgos set his glass down in the open air, a sparking purple mana rune cupping the bottom, and with a small brush of his fingers sent it hovering above their heads. He reached out with the same hand, still tinged with arcane fire, to stroke Wrathion’s left cheek. The gossip in Stormwind’s court traveled far.
“He does not appreciate what he could have,” Kalecgos said, his voice softer than it had been in years.
Wrathion’s eyes widened with surprise. He studied the other dragon for a moment, then leaned into the offered hand, hesitantly. His cheek felt warm against Kalecgos’ cold fingers.
“And what is it that the King of Stormwind could have?” Wrathion asked, a rhetorical taunt.
Kalecgos leaned forward and crossed the distance between them. He pressed his lips to Wrathion’s. The other dragon’s breath caught in his throat. Kalecgos could tell that he was unused to such a gesture, uncertain, but he did not pull away. Instead, he set his wine glass aside and leaned in to taste more. Kalecgos gently guided him through the kiss, wrapping a long arm around Wrathion’s shoulders, pulling his mortal form into a comfortable embrace. Wrathion’s hands came to settle, tentatively, on the seams of his waistcoat for balance, and he finally allowed his lean, warm body to relax into the other dragon’s mortal arms. Kalecgos found himself warmed inside and out by both their shared body heat and the wine.
When they pulled back to look into each other’s faces, it was as if the world had shifted, as if some kind of curtain had been dispelled. The afternoon sunlight made the canvas of the tent seem like glowing clouds.
Kalecgos smiled at Wrathion’s handsome face, his guard finally lowered. There was a kind of softness to his features that hadn’t been there before, but not one caused by any magical change. “You mean what could the King of Stormwind have if he wasn't being such a self-absorbed fool?”
Kalecgos took time to consider this as he reached out to brush the soft, sweeping dark brown hair back behind the shell of the other dragon’s ear, letting the ends curl around his fingers.
“He could have a warm welcome home.”