Warcraft Warmth

**A/N: this fic was written in 2003. I'm putting a bunch of my old fanfic up in case anyone wants to read it. A lot has changed since 2003, obviously, so I'm not sure it still reflects my writing style, but what the heck.**

**This was written as something of an experimental piece, with the tone and voice shifting between the two characters. The reason there are so many religious references in this fiction is the idea that Uther and Arthas, being paladins, would not enter into a relationship without fear of religious consequences, particularly Uther. This is a one-shot only, no pun intended.**

**Big thank you to khandy for encouraging me when I thought I was crazy, and to Yui for her detailed editing, and to Mornmeril for delightful artwork based off of this.**

**IMPORTANT: Do not read ahead if the idea of mentor & disciple bothers you, or you just plain don't want to see Arthas and Uther get it on. You have been warned.**

**Warmth**

Uther dropped to his knees. Arthas stood behind the man; his jaw quivered. He had never seen his mentor so panicked. The prince's wrist was sore from where the man had gripped it as he rushed Arthas to the temple.

The paladin bowed his head. "Holy Light, I implore You, forgive Prince Arthas for this grave sin. He is young and impulsive and knows not what he does."

Arthas folded his arms over his chest and let out a low sigh. "Look, Uther," he began. "This isn't necessary." The words were tinged with some guilt.

His mentor turned his head; his eyes flashed and his jaw was set. He reached out to grip the prince's wrist and jerked him downwards. Arthas let out a soft yelp as he managed to land on his knees on the hard stone. Uther's hand clawed into the man's shoulder as he pushed the prince's upper body to the floor.

"Pray," he commanded, holding the prince down with the weight of his arm.

Arthas hestitated. "Uther..."

"Pray!" barked the paladin.

Arthas sighed again, this time with acquiescence. He pressed his forehead and palms to the cold floor.

"Holy Light, I ask that You forgive me for the sins I have committed." He began to lift his head; Uther forced it back down.

"Like you mean it!" he snapped.

Arthas grunted; the man's hand was crushing his nose into the floor. "Holy Light," he said, with passion undercut somewhat by the forced nasal tone affected by his position. "I have given into temptation and strayed from the path of virtue. I place myself in Your hands so that You can lead me unto salvation. Please show me the way to redemption." He hesitated. "Show me, Light, what is wrong and what is right, for I humbly recognize that I am unable to judge for myself."

Uther released the young man's head and sat back on his haunches with a slow breath. He pressed his hand to his forehead. Arthas sat up, too, and rubbed at his nose.

His mentor sighed and dropped his hand from his face. "We must make sure that no-one hears of it."

"Criston won't tell anyone," said Arthas quickly. "He can be trusted."

Uther's lip curled into a slight sneer at the mention of the other man's name. He pressed shaky hands to his knees and pushed himself to a stand.

"You are not to see him again," he said - unnecessarily, he thought.

"What?" cried Arthas. "Uther, it was just...stupid. It's not going to happen again."

"You are not to see him again," repeated Uther. He looked as if he wanted to add more, but instead he turned and stormed from the room. Arthas stared after him, his stomach tied in knots. He had never thought that his rash decision would cause his mentor such grief.

***.*.*Uther*.*.***

That day, that horrid day, was the day this cursed vexation began, three long years ago. I suppose, in retrospect, it was because that was the first day in a long time that I saw young Arthas smile.

The image is still vivid in my mind: his naked body sprawled in the chair, his head lolling backwards, a wide grin on his face below closed eyes and a pinched brow. There was something beautiful in that face, something raw and erotic: perhaps it reminded me of myself, so long ago. Back when lust and pleasure were all that mattered.

That night I dreamed that it was I, not the boy Criston, who sat on the floor between the prince's thighs. The dream was vivid and long: I tasted salt and hot flesh; I smelled the oniony scent of sweat. His smile was true, and it was my doing.

I awoke drenched in nervous perspiration with my hand beneath my robes. Yes, that was it, the true beginning. That moment when, somewhere between sleep and wake, I decided that the dream was not as crazy as it first seemed.

It is wrong for a man to love another man; the Holy Book decries it. The Light forbids it. Some of us are cursed with an attraction to both sexes, but it is our duty to fight our urges and uphold the Light's will. It is especially wrong to love another man when the man is your disciple, and you are nearly three times his elder. Above all, it is wrong when his father is your closest friend and you have helped raise the boy since his infancy.

For three long years I have denied the emotions, pinned them down to other things. I never had a son; perhaps I am confusing paternal love with lust. Or perhaps I'm too lonely, and my heart is grasping at the closest person to me out of desperation. Indeed, I have been spending most of the latter years of my life training Arthas; I haven't had the chance to socialize normally in many years. Perhaps this is my body's way of telling me that it's time to move on from this self-imposed duty.

I pray every night for this curse, this misplaced lust, to leave me, but it only seems to be building. A new emotion is growing with it, a vine twisted around a tree: hope. Even a lingering pat on the shoulder or a cheery "hello" is enough to send this rusty old heart into zealous, racing flutters. I would laugh at myself were I not so concerned with my sanity.

It is autumn. I sit beside him on a smooth rock a short distance from the camp; we are a week in, scouting for trolls in south Lordaeron with a group of twenty men. A routine mission. There is little to do so, as always, we have found a quiet place to set up our supper in a makeshift picnic: stale bread, a block of cheese with the mould cut out of it, and flat beer. We are tired and our robes are soiled with grime and dust, but we are in good spirits.

Arthas tilts the flask to drain the amber liquid; he winces.

"A bit bitter," he says, and he coughs. I accept the flask from him and take a draught myself, then slip it back into the pocket of my robes.

The prince rests his forearms on his knees, which loll apart slightly as he stares across the camp. Dusk has fallen, and the men have started a fire for warmth: it is colder here than back home. They pile branches they have gathered into an enormous heap and argue over how they will light it. Many men are drunk or sleeping; we head home tomorrow.

"Uther," says Arthas suddenly, and now he slides his gaze to stare at his feet. I wait for him to continue; he chews the inside of his lip.

Eventually I decide he doesn't have anything to say after all, so watch the men pour kerosene on the branches. I can feel Arthas' gaze, but I don't turn my head.

"Uther," tries the prince again, "I wanted to ask you something."

A strand of desperation in his voice makes my hand tremble; I curl it into a fist and rest it on my thigh. Now my lips twitch; thankfully my untrimmed beard should hide them. I watch the men attempt to stoke the fire in the middle of the camp.

"I'm in love with a man," blurts Arthas.

Every muscle in my body tenses. On instinct I reach for the Holy Book that never leaves my side. I know he expects fury, like last time, but instead I only feel hope.

The prince has shifted to face me, one knee hugged to his chest. He watches with wide eyes as I set the Book on my lap and open it to a particular dog-eared page I have consulted myself many times these past three years. I clear my throat.

_"'And take ye not the hand of another man. Whosoever seeks the company of his fellow man shall never know my Eternal Kingdom, but shall burn forever in the fires of Hell-'"_

Arthas closes the distance between us and slams the cover shut overtop of my hand. His hand still rests on the Book; his face is inches from mine as he stares at me with wide eyes. His breath smells of beer and salty bread.

"How can it be sinful, Uther?" he whispers. "The Light gave me the will to love; why would it give me love for another man if that love could only hurt it? It makes no sense."

I slide my hand from between the pages of the Book and pull it from beneath Arthas' hand, then set the holy tome carefully aside. He stares, his eyebrows peaked. I clear my throat.

"The Light's ways are mysterious, lad," I say, my voice faltering. That vine of hope - cursed, vexing vine - has begun to grow anew, and I fear it is binding my lungs so tightly that I cannot breathe.

The prince is silent; he pulls back and gathers the other knee to his chest, then gives a small sigh and rests his cheek against it. I pull out the flask of ale again and take a long swallow. I offer it to Arthas, but he declines with an ashamed shake of his head.

"There are plenty of beautiful women in Lordaeron," I say finally. "Perhaps I can help you find one to spend some time with."

The prince hasn't had many lovers, a rarity for royalty in these lands. Indeed, so far as I know, he hasn't known a woman since dear Daelin's daughter, so long ago. King Terenas has implored me to help him find a suitable bride for his son, and I have tried, albeit with a heavy, guilty envy. But Arthas has shown interest in none of the fine women he has been coerced to escort. I fear his problem may be even worse than mine.

"The women of this land are boring," says Arthas. He adds, more softly, "And the ones who aren't will only lead to heartbreak."

He sounds so old and jaded that I cannot hide a chuckle. My hand reaches out to pat him on the shoulder; it rests there perhaps longer than it should.

Now he looks at me, his turquoise eyes wide and sparkling with a glossy sheen that makes him seem younger than his twenty-three years.

"Don't you agree that if two men love each other, it's the Light's will that they should be together?" he whispers. My stomach twists as a vine wraps around it, too, lashing it to my lungs.

"Don't be ridiculous," I bark, and my hand drops. I turn to watch the men again. "Our path is not an easy one, Arthas, but we must uphold what is right, no matter how contrary to our nature it might seem. We are paladins."

The prince leans towards me, so close that his wiry flaxen hair dusts my shoulder plate. "I have so much to learn from you," he says with an innocence that belies the undertones. I rock slightly away from him.

"Believe me, lad," I say nervously, "I have a lot to learn myself. The Light is something of a slow teacher."

"But you are so wise." His voice is thin now, and when I look at him his face is filled with awe. "If only you knew how much I would give to please you, Uther, to make you proud, to make you see me the way that I see you."

My voice cracks as I force a chuckle. "I am proud of you, lad."

Arthas bows his chin; I can feel his breath faintly on my collarbone. "I want nothing more than to please you, Uther," he reiterates.

My fist unclenches, then clenches again, so tightly that my knuckles ache. I shift so that I face him.

"Arthas, training you is the greatest joy in my life," I say softly, hoping to console him. "You do please me greatly." I hesitate, then cup a shaky hand to the back of his head and press my lips to his forehead. I should pull away right away - I know I should - but his skin is musky with sweat and its smell begins to awaken parts of my soul I thought had died long ago. The vine lashes the last of my organs together; I know I must stop this now, as this is dangerous territory, but I am frozen, bound from the inside out.

The prince's hand presses to my neck and he trails it down to my chest, then back up, then slowly slides to tangle into the hair at my nape. His eyes are locked with mine the entire time; they are wide, as if he cannot believe what his body is doing. My hand jerks from his shoulder and I pull away, but his hand stays in my hair. Now the thumb moves, just a fraction, and my eyes threaten to flutter closed.

"Don't do this, lad," I whisper, speaking as much to myself as to him. "Don't risk everything you have learned from the Light by giving in to one moment of lust."

"This isn't one moment!" protests Arthas, so loudly that I jump. My eyes flicker to the men; we are a good thirty feet away from the nearest tent, but the prince's voice tends to rise to ridiculous levels when he's enraged or nervous. He must catch my worry; his next words are softer.

"I only want to please you, Uther."

Now his other hand cups my jaw, its palm gently stroking the side of my beard, and he leans forward. His lips press to mine. They are badly chapped, and bitter with ale, but full and warm. His hands tighten their grip and he presses closer, his lips parting.

I pull quickly away.

Arthas drops his hands and stares down at me with hurt eyes; his breath comes in gasps, then his tongue darts out to moisten the swollen, cracked lips. I cannot bear to watch his crestfallen form, so I look away.

"It's late," I whisper. "We should get some rest before our travels tomorrow." I stand and pick up the Holy Book, then turn and press it into his hands.

"Read until you understand exactly what door you are trying to open, lad," I say wearily, avoiding his gaze; if I see it, his expression will break my heart. "There is no going back from such things."

"Uther," says Arthas.

"Read it," I repeat in a whisper. I turn, dazed, and begin to walk back to the camp. My temples throb with headache and I feel the urge to vomit. I take a deep breath and offer a prayer of forgiveness to the Light as I attempt to control my racing heart.

***.*.*Arthas*.*.***

I had only hoped to please him, and now everything is ruined.

It isn't easy for me to admit these emotions to myself; I don't deal with this type of thing well. The day I realized what was happening to me, I curled up in the corner of my room and wept like an infant. Then I went down to the training room and crushed the training dummy into tiny pieces with my mallet. I couldn't look Uther in the eye for a full week afterwards; I was afraid my feelings would show on my face. I've never been good at disguising such things.

I suppose I always figured that my feelings were somewhat reciprocated - or at the very least, that he'd appreciate my actions on a physical level. Now I'm naked and exposed; the Holy Book is heavy in my hands.

Jaina thinks I'm confused. The day I broke down and confessed everything to her, she launched into some psychobabble about the fact that I feel I never knew my father, and now that Uther is a father figure in my life I don't know the difference between paternal admiration and love. This coming from a woman who is so emotionally stunted that she can't love anything except her spell book.

Uther slips into his tent; I watch the door-flap fall closed behind him. I'm not sure what to do. I'm not sure what I want. I look down at the Holy Book; its stained leather cover suddenly seems menacing. I flip through the rice-paper pages as I search vainly for a decision. This copy of the book is odd; all the passages about homosexuality are carefully marked, their corners folded in a perfect triangle. Somehow, I can't believe he was reading these passages for my benefit only.

He didn't pull away until partway through the kiss.

Eventually, I decide. When you're given everything you demand from the time you're a small child, you don't learn to let go of something you want, even when it can never be yours. I set my jaw and slam the book shut, then stride for Uther's tent.

I know just the passage I will read.

He is sitting in the corner, his legs folded beneath him, and his hands press to his temples. Is he meditating, or in pain? I slide onto the bedding to sit beside him. He doesn't open his eyes.

"Did you read the passages?" he asks softly.

"They're all clearly marked," I observe.

My mentor bows his head. I watch him for a moment, my heart beating wildly. At last he lifts his head, drops his hands and opens his eyes. His blue gaze focuses on me.

"We are paladins, lad," he says, unknowingly repeating himself. "Our first duty is to uphold the edicts of the Holy Light."

"I have prayed to the Light to show me my path," I argue stubbornly. "Many times. Each time, it has led me back to you." I bow my head, an uncomfortable wave of humility washing over me. When I have steadied myself, I add, "I would do anything for you, Master, and that is exactly what the Light desires."

***.*.*Uther*.*.***

Master.

He hasn't called me that since before he hit puberty; I urged him to discontinue the awkward title from an early age, but it took a few years for him to gain the confidence to call me by my given name. Everyone is equal in the eyes of the light: we are explorers on the path of righteousness. There are no Masters; we are all fallible.

Now Arthas sits cross-legged, shifting until he's comfortable, and tucks his golden hair behind his ears. He opens the Book and begins to read: his voice is crisp, clear and smooth.

_"Fear thee not, for 'I hath created for thee a partner, a perfect complement to thy soul. With this partner thou shalt walk the path of redemption, for it is through this holy love that thy salvation can be found.'"_

"That is about a man and a woman, lad," I protest, but he continues.

_"'When thine eyes meet, thou shalt recognize in one another the majesty of My Creation. When thy hands bind, the warmth of My Eternal Love shall flow between them. Thy heart shall sing and thy body shall tremble and thou shalt be light, for thou hast been blessed eternally by My hand.'"_

Now he turns to me and reaches out a hand to cup my fist, which is clenched and rests on my leg. He stubbornly uncurls the fingers, one at a time, and presses his palm to mine. His fingers are massive, gnarled and thick, and my hand seems almost womanly in relation. My cheeks grow warm.

His fingers curl between mine, one at a time, their heat singing my clammy flesh. I hesitate, then curl mine as well. We stare at our hands, locked in their tight embrace, and I close my eyes against the sudden rush of warmth that builds between them. It tingles up my forearm and snakes through my body. I recognize its path; it's following the vines that have ensnared every fiber of my being.

"You feel that?" whispers Arthas, his voice hushed with awe.

The situation is so odd that I cannot reply. I turn my head to look at him; he regards me with a placid look I have never seen before. It is overwhelming, so my eyes drop to trace the features of his face: the youthful jaw; the jutting chin; the broad, full lips; the nose, that noble nose, sharp and angled, the sort that sculptors reference for their monuments. I finally have the courage to look into his eyes: the irises sparkle and crackle, a wreath of green and blue flames.

The door is open; there can be no return. The vines merge with my body until every cell of my being is warm and light.

My fingertip traces follows the path my eyes have just laid out; the calloused pad grates against his flesh, and I fear the sensation cannot be comfortable, but his mouth quivers and his eyelids grow heavy.

This time it is I who initiates the kiss. His hands claw into my back and my neck as he presses closer to me. He is too rough and eager, his hands far too large and clumsy, to be compared to any lovers I've had before, yet I have never known such desire. His virile body is far more responsive than mine, and he clambers onto my lap and presses tightly against my body. His head tilts to give me permission to deepen the kiss; I keep it chaste. His hips rock and his swelling rubs against my abdomen, noticeable even through layers of clothes and armour. His pelvis grinds into my lap. My old, neglected body is finally beginning to catch up to my soul's arousal; blood rushes to my groin.

Now he pulls away and I see his eager face. His eyes are pinched as if pained and his eyes are frightened and wide. His mouth still twitches; his chapped lips glow red with the moisture of our kisses. I press my palm to his ear and run my thumb along his high cheekbone. His eyes search mine, then he slides off of my lap and his hand grips the clasp of my pants.

"Uther," he whispers, "I want to please you."

His mouth is warm, so warm; a curse flees from my lips before I can stop it. My head lolls on my shoulders and I pray that I won't die from the pleasure, for a death this sinful would tarnish the Light's name forever.

***.*.*Arthas*.*.***

I have never done this before. To be honest, the thought of performing this sort of thing has always disgusted me. I figured the smell, the taste and the general idea of going down on another man were far beneath me. But I am pleased to find that the smell is agreeable, the taste is almost non-existent, and the general idea is incredibly arousing. My pants are damp and tight.

I watch Uther carefully as I move my mouth. His skin is so relaxed that his looks years younger; his lips are curved in a small smile, and tiny groans sound in his throat. I decide to experiment; I suck harder. My teeth dig into the accidentally flesh. He winces a bit; I pull away, ashamed.

"Sorry," I whisper.

"Don't be," he says, his voice strained.

There is no condescension in the statement, but my cheeks burn with shame nonetheless. I think Uther can sense that I'm nervous; his hand reaches down to cup my jaw and his fingers begin to instruct me. He grips my jaw and gently pushes away, or tugs me closer; sometimes he moans and his thumb lightly caresses my cheek. His tutelage is as patient and kind as it is in training or in the classroom, and my confidence returns as I begin to correctly anticipate what will please him. My hand wraps around him and I squeeze; now his head drops forward and he whispers my name.

I am pleasing him greatly.

I decide to experiment again. My tongue travels down, then around; I pull back to gently lap at the tip. I can taste him now. It isn't so bad; a bit salty, oddly sweet. I take him as deep into my throat as I can, but my gag reflex kicks in and I pull away coughing.

Uther's eyes spring open and he leans forward to smooth the hair from my forehead.

"Are you alright?" he asks gently.

I nod, embarrassed again, and bend down to return to my work. His groan is low and rumbles in his chest.

Now I begin to debate if I should bring him right to climax. It's possible that once this arousal has left him, he'll look back on these activities with regret. Perhaps I should offer my body to him; the transition would take some, delaying the potential rejection. The idea does frighten me a bit, mostly because the thought of Uther's face hovering over my naked body as he empties into me is more arousing than it should be. I feel a brief moment of shame. Though I feel the Light approves of our union, it's hard to fight twenty-three years of conditioning.

He is very hard now, very large, and his tense muscles and loud gasps suggest that he is nearing release. I still haven't decided how it should end, so I slow my movements and pull back.

His eyelids part slowly, then he smiles and rakes a gentle hand into my hair.

"You don't have to continue if you'd prefer not to, lad," he says, and I'm surprised to note a hint of shyness in his voice.

"I want to please you, Uther," I whisper, and I suddenly know what should happen next.

***.*.*Uther*.*.***

Arthas half-stands, half-crouches - this tent isn't tall enough for his large frame - and begins to unbuckle his armour. My first instinct is to stop him before another threshold is crossed. Already, I'm sure, the Light will never forgive me; I have been entrusted with an innocent young soul, and I have led him astray... But my body is so aroused and my heart pounding so quickly that I can no longer recall the reasons to stop.

The prince slides off his shoulder plates and sets them neatly on the floor. The royal blue cape falls from his shoulders and lands in a puddle around his feet. His sashes and chain mail are next; there are brown stains on his skin from the joints of the armour, where dust and dirt have accumulated over the course of the mission. He stops here, naked to the waist, and gazes solemnly down at me.

It is with a certain shyness that I trace his bare torso with my eyes. His chest is broad and sprinkled about the nipples with faint, golden-brown hair; his abdomen is sturdy and muscled. His shoulders and arms are disproportionately large, breathtakingly so, and I suddenly feel weak and dwarfed in his presence. His ribcage heaves with jagged breaths as his eyes search mine.

My cheeks are hot and, I'm certain, flushed. I notice he is shy, and I wonder if I should begin to undress so that he doesn't feel alone and exposed. My hand reaches for the buckles of my armour; Arthas sends me a disapproving look and continues to disrobe. He rolls the heavy chain mail down his torso; it clinks and falls to the floor. His boots take a moment to pull off as the laces are damp, muddy and knotted. The leather pants are the last item of clothing, and he slides them off without dropping his gaze from me.

I suck in a sharp breath as I behold his nude form. His bare skin gleams with sweat; he is half-erect and beautiful.

Now Arthas crouches before me and his hands grip the clasps of my plate mail; I grasp his wrists, then pull him close for a long kiss. As my hands roam the length of his damp, muscled back, any remaining guilt is engulfed by a longing stronger than any I have ever experienced.

We work together to doff my armour. Soon I am nude, too, and I worry what he must think. My chest is furry and graying; my stomach, as with most men my age, has begun to lose its formerly toned shape. He doesn't seem to mind; indeed his palms caress my shoulders and he looks at me with wonder-filled eyes. Then he leans in to seek another kiss from my lips.

When the kiss is done, I crouch down, then slide between the sheets. Arthas follows and cocoons gently against me; he is warm and his skin is surprisingly soft in my arms. I could be quite content simply holding his body for the rest of the night. It seems he is equally comfortable; though he is several inches taller than me, he snuggles beneath my chin. His stubble, long after a week's travels, scrapes pleasantly against my chest. I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in the top of his head. His hair is wiry, like a horse's mane, and smells vaguely of moss.

It would be blissful to lie like this for awhile, but the sensation of flesh on flesh proves to be too much for either of us; he slides along my body so that his face is level with mine, and our mouths meet once more. I vaguely rationalize that we have come too far to turn back as I reach between our bodies to grip him in my fist. He pulses once, and I hear a hiss of air leave his lips. His hand darts between us, too, as he wraps his fingers around me.

I am still aroused from before, and my coordination quickly fades until I can no longer suitably pleasure him. I press my fingertips into his back instead and urge his warm chest flat against mine. Our kisses, which have been chaste until now, grow deeper, and I rub my tongue against his. The bitter beer, which was nearly intolerable from the flask, is suddenly the most delicious thing I have ever tasted.

I am nearing release; his relentless strokes are delicious, and my body begins to twitch.

***.*.*Arthas*.*.***

His tongue is still gentle in my mouth; it belies the urgency with which he has begun to thrust into my hand. Suddenly he jerks away from the kiss. His brilliant blue eyes are open, locked with mine.

A look of panic crosses his features, then something between a gasp and a sob flows from his parted lips. He crushes me against his body and hooks his chin over my shoulder. A series of shuddering cries, and his hot seed spills between us.

As the last pulses fade he untangles his limbs from my body and clutches either side of my face. His kiss to my forehead is light and chaste. That kiss is the approval I have always sought from him, the decisive admission that I please him on every level, and my body is flooded with joy.

When he pulls away, a smile spreads across his lips. His cheeks are damp.

"Uther?" I whisper.

"You have no idea how long I've wished to see that smile upon your lips," he says, and he bends forward to kiss me again.

***.*.*Denouement*.*.***

Uther slowly sat up, the blankets around his waist, and looked down at his lover's slumbering form. Arthas' left brow furrowed slightly and a muscle in his cheek jumped with a dream, then his face relaxed. His breaths were soft and fluttering.

The paladin reached over to pull the covers higher up the man's shoulder, then brushed a strand of golden hair from the high forehead.

The reality of the situation already threatened to destroy the bliss he had found. What was he to tell King Terenas? How was he to remain Arthas' mentor? How could he continue to preach the merits of the Holy Book when he had so blatantly disregarded its teachings?

Arthas' hand lay palm up on the blanket. Uther looked at it for a moment, then wove his fingers with the prince's and squeezed tightly. The flesh glowed against his.

_The warmth of My Eternal Love..._

The prince stirred and his eyelids parted. He stared blankly at Uther for a moment, then a smile tugged at one corner of his lips. His mentor smiled back, then slid under the covers and spooned against the prince's back. His lips pressed into the nape of his disciple's neck.

"Goodnight, Uther," whispered Arthas.

"Goodnight, lad," replied Uther. He smiled, inhaling a deep breath, then closed his eyes to drift to sleep.


End file.

Warcraft, Angst, Romance