Entering the training ground, Varrus witnessed a powerful, shirtless Lor'Themar twist in midair, dodging three arrows, and then jump over a contraption blasting a jet of flames.

Twirling his twin swords, Lor'Themar flung one into an approaching golem, piercing through its armor, and into the core.

Wielding his remaining sword in both hands, he fought off a man-sized arcane elemental, clashing again and again with its claws of pure energy.

A claw raked a heavy gash across Lor'Themar's shoulder, but his sword cleaved into the elemental, diminishing its size by half.

“Return, An'zoth, we shall train another day.” Lor'Themar said between heavy breaths.

The pale-white elemental bowed, then was sucked into an amulet, like a ghost from Luigi’s Mansion was sucked into a vacuum cleaner.

“Is now a bad time?” Varrus asked, slightly shocked at Lor'Themar's wounded state.

“Yes, it is, and yes, you can stay. I can see the distress in your eyes, ha! I have you to thank for this.” Lor'Themar casually pointed his thumb at the claw-like gashes on his shoulder.

“My apologies for interrupting your training, if I knew it would lead to injury, I could’ve waited a few more minutes-” Varrus got out, but was waved off by the older Elf.

“You need not worry yourself over that. What I’m talking about, is this.” Lor'Themar pointed at his eye. “Adjusting to the balance has been…an experience.” Lor'Themar chuckled to himself as he looked at the blood dripping onto the floor.

“Well, I still feel guilty for your wound, let me get that for you.” Varrus raised his arms, Healing Hands ready to be unleashed, but he was waved off.

“Nonsense, I earned this fair and square. Besides, I never cared to be healed by magic. I could've had this eye replaced at any time. I chose not to, to remind myself of my failure. A failure that almost cost us everything yesterday.” Lor'Themar intoned seriously.

“Now if you'll excuse me for a moment, I have some salve lying around here, I shall return in but a moment.” Lor'Themar said, then went into a side cabinet, and rummaged for a shimmering bottle of liquid.

Varrus nodded his head in ascent, then got to thinking about the other day. The battle with the Trolls had been wild. Varrus was thankful they were seriously lacking in powerful Heroes. But that didn't mean the fight was easy. Varrus had his shields broken, and Lor'Themar almost died.

The belief that his enchantments put him on a tier just below the Aspects had led him to believe in his own hype.

Swallowing a thick glob of saliva, Varrus chuckled at the Ranger General.

Here he was, training his heart out to be the very best. 5 days ago, the entire kingdom of Quel'Thalas suffered like never before. Then yesterday, they fought off the largest Amani assault in a thousand years. It was a battle in which Lor'Themar was willing to take himself out to ensure the Troll defeat.

Lor'Themar’s dedication towards mastering himself was admirable.

Returning with a salve coated towel pressed to his shoulder, Lor'Themar took a seat on a stool, and gestured towards another stool resting by the wall.

Varrus’ attention was drawn towards the floor while he retrieved the stool. On it, he noticed deep rivulets of dried blood all over the place, hinting at years, possibly centuries of brutal training.

He wondered about Lor'Themar’s gripe about healing magic. The elder was still shirtless, and his skin was smooth as a babies. Had Varrus’ intense healing done away with Lor'Themar’s reminders of failure? And, in fact, were those scars something he used to define his own character? It would be risky, but perhaps he could spin this in his favor.

“Scars are a harsh lesson, that I can agree upon. However, there comes a time when the weight of those scars can burden those who care about us. Many people-such as yourself-stand stronger for these defining traits. I apologize for taking part in erasing your hard fought lessons, but I am not sorry for giving you a clean slate.” Varrus said as he roughly sat down in his stool.

“You are young, Highlord. I have great hopes for your future success, but I do not expect you to understand my woes. They are mine alone to bear.” Lor'Themar tiredly replied.

“Your commitment to bettering yourself is commendable. I never knew much about you, Lor'Themar, but I am beginning to understand why you are so well respected. Right now, the entire city of Silvermoon relies upon you for security, you do not have to carry this weight on your own.” Varrus said gently.

“Ah, I'm simply doing my part for my country, same as any Elf, same as you, Highlord Vandercross. The way you held the left flank by yourself, I thought you were mad, dead for certain. That took guts, young Vandercross. I think you have growing to do, but I look forward to working with you as Ranger General.” Lor'Themar said, bowing his head.

Varrus wanted to frown at that response. That was not what he had wanted at all!

All this prancing around was going nowhere.

Varrus thought about what Faedra said, about Lor'Themar being the old Windrunner matriarch's boy toy. Was her info even accurate, or a ruse?

Was Lor'Themar secretly the Windrunner girls father? Could Varrus utilize this connection between them to communicate with Lor'Themar that his children were still alive, and tell him where they are at?

But when he remembered cutscenes from WoW, it seemed that Lor'Themar was quite cold with the girls, and had Alleria Windrunner exiled for dabbling in Void magic and endangering the Sunwell.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

He especially had an antagonistic relationship with Sylvannas. She had threatened him along with all of Quel'Thalas, that if they did not aid her in attacking Northrend, and the Scourge, she would sack Silvermoon with the Forsaken.

Even if they were his daughters or not, his canonical actions told Varrus one thing. Lor'Themar valued Quel'Thalas. He was a patriot who loved his country more than anything else, even his family.

The fact he was willing to immolate himself, and experience one of the most painful deaths ever to take out the Amani chieftain spoke volumes of his character and resolve.

No, veiled threats or mentions of rescuing Lor’Themar’s "possible" loved ones wouldn't work with this one.

If Varrus wanted Lor'Themar on his side, he would have to be direct.

Varrus took a deep breath, firmed his resolve and looked the Ranger General in the eyes.

“Lor'Themar Theron, you read my letter, you know I want you on the Convocation of Silvermoon, but you remain insistent on maintaining your position as Ranger General, why?”

Lor'Themar looked off into the distance with a thousand yard stare, and remained silent for more than a minute. He then picked up one of his swords, and began to sharpen it with a nearby sharpening stone.

The steady scrape, scrape scrape of the coarse stone on his sword grated Varrus’ keen sense of hearing, yet he awaited Lor'Themar’s reply with bated breath.

‘Alright old man, you want to sit here and do nothing, wasting my time?! Then two can play at that game!’

The silence grew so annoying, that Varrus retrieved a sword of his own, and began to slowly mimic Lor'Themar’s actions.

He was a little worried he might cut himself, that an injury due to sharpening his own blade wouldn't count as an attack, and Ebony Flesh would not trigger-like his wife's nails-but he convinced himself that the vitality enchantments on his robes would keep him safe.

Eventually, Lor'Themar spoke after what felt like an aeon.

“I have served in the Rangers for over 3,000 years. Every decade, I would hone my blade on the flesh of our enemies so it would never dull. So I would always be prepared. Then the day came when we lost everything, and I found that despite all my efforts, I was nothing. I was meant to die that day, by my King's side, but he had commanded me to hold the city, whatever the cost. I followed his command to the letter.” Lor’Themar spoke wistfully, pausing in his sharpening to hold the blade up, and feel its balance before resuming in his craft.

“That day, I bore a scar, not one of the flesh, but to the heart. As I said, young Vandercross, they are my woes to bear. I would serve as Ranger General to right my wrong. To atone for my failure, and secure our shared future. That. Highlord, is why I insist upon staying with the Rangers.”

Varrus closed his eyes for a moment in frustration. Fine, the direct way was out then! Time for some hail mary improvised bullshit.

“Do you know why I am so insistent that you join the Convocation?” Varrus said, leaning forward.

“Isn't it that you want to capitalize on my fame? I may be a political novice, Highlord, but I am not so young that I cannot see that.” Lor'Themar chided with a small smirk.

“Admittedly, that is one reason, but I know something you do not. I know that my best friend, Prince Kael’Thas intends to name you, Lor'Themar, as Regent Lord of Quel'Thalas!” Varrus smiled savagely as he saw the Ranger General pause in his sharpening.

“I am inclined to call you out on that as a lie, but something in that vicious smirk of yours tells me otherwise.” Lor'Themar sighed, and placed a hand against his forehead.

“Oh, it's true alright. The Prince intends to take the most revenge obsessed of our kind-around 15% of the remaining population-and launch a crusade on the Undead stationed in Lordaeron, ignoring the Dead Scar, and the thousands of zombies roaming our land. He then intends to scour all of Azeroth for a cure towards our magical addiction.” Varrus spread his hands as if Kael’s course of actions were already set in stone, and there was nothing to be done.

“He intends to leave me acting in his stead? This is madness, I am not fit for the role!” Lor'Themar stood up from his stool, and began to pace with his sword in hand.

“Which is why I need your help to convince him otherwise. By joining the Convocation, you will act as a stabilizing force for all of Quel'Thalas. In our official capacity as councilors, we can help the Prince see reason.” Varrus smiled at Lor'Themar's back.

Varrus was close, Lor'Themar was teetering on the ropes.

“I am half convinced. What you say. It is unthinkable of Prince Kael’Thas to abandon his country when it has need of him most.” Lor'Themar said, and began to furiously swipe his blade in a series of fluid, and beautiful arcs.

His sword whistled through the air as it chopped into, and stabbed at a magically reinforced training post.

“Believe me, Ranger General, I was shocked when I learned of the news myself. No offense, but I would rather have him at the helm than you.” Varrus said tentatively, as he watched the older Elf work up a sweat.

“Ha! Bold words, Highlord. Should we work together as equals, I would hope such candid thoughts do not remain hidden behind a glib tongue!” Lor'Themar barked between heavy breaths as he exerted himself.

“Join the Convocation, Lor'Themar. Not only for Prince Kael’s sake, but for the stability and sake of the country.” Varrus entreated.

“I trusted you to hold the left flank yesterday, I trusted you when you dismissed the army to fight that creature. I want to trust you once more, but this meeting has refreshed my opinion of you once again. No mere playboy could accomplish what you have. You fooled us all, and saved countless lives. I truly do not know what to make of you.” Lor'Themar chuckled as he stopped what he was doing, and approached Varrus.

Muscular for an Elf, Lor'Themar stood a head taller than Varrus, and stood within three feet of him, looking him in the eye.

“I see that the blood of Vandercross flows freely through your veins, you may not act like your father, but you are certainly his son. If you want me to join the Convocation, you are going to have to prove to me your resolve one final time. Tested in battle, you were exemplary. Rescuing the people, you were compassionate. Debating the wise, you were confident. All qualities a councilor should possess.

But you made a choice today, Varrus Vandercross. You dared draw a sword in my training ground, and I intend to test your mettle. Here, replace those training robes with a set of trainees garb. Fancy gear will not win you this match.” Lor'Themar said, opening a cabinet, then tossing a pair of pants at Varrus.

Hesitating for a moment, Varrus figured he almost had the old man convinced. He fought zombies and Trolls, what was one more trial?

“Alright old man, you want to test my resolve? Let's do this!” Varrus said, throwing his robes into his inventory, and pulling on the pair of trainees pants.

Lor'Themar twirled his sword around his body, seemingly excited for the first time in this meeting.

Varrus felt nervous, but he didn't show it on his face. He was going to win!

However, the grin slowly spreading across Lor'Themar's face oddly reminded Varrus of his guards as they beat Zul’Jin repeatedly into a bloody pulp.

“Wait a minute, I need to check something with-” Varrus pointed over his shoulder toward the window at Rho'dan, only to be interrupted by a swish of air, and the sharp sound of a singing blade near his ear.

“Begin!”