Chapter Text
The warmth spread through his body like lava. Quickly becoming unbearable. His mouth couldn’t scream—it seemed to be locked with another. Who?
The pain worsened—then shifted. The invading heat softened, no longer attacking but flowing through him, almost like it was consuming him from within. He squeezed his eyes shut, enduring the strange sensation as it traveled downward. His legs trembled as he fought to remain standing. The weight pressing against him slowly lifted, leaving him light—almost weightless.
Then it was gone.
He doubled over, one hand clutching his stomach as the other caught his fall. His knees slammed against the unforgiving stone, pain flaring on impact.
“W-what…” he coughed, trying to lift his head. It looked familiar. His fingers spread against the pale stone beneath him. Quel’Thalas. Silvermoon.
He was back. He was finally home. Did it work?!
The warmth still burned—pain shooting through him, gathering at his back. His spine tingled, vibrating beneath his skin. Was death finally claiming him? What happened?
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“Oompf!” He landed on his feet—though he wasn’t entirely sure how. His right foot had slipped, sending him tumbling down a small hill, only to somehow land upright at the bottom. Like a kitty cat.
“Well… that was interesting.” Arator Windrunner—Arator the Redeemer, as most knew him—looked around with mild surprise. No one had seen him fumble. Good. Embarrassment averted.
“Where is that damn artifact? I’ve been wandering around for hours!” Arator felt annoyed. He really should have brought the champion along. They had been spending a lot of time together lately, but he had thought this would be easy enough to handle on his own.
Walk into the forest.
Find the artifact.
Take said artifact.
Walk back.
Easy.
How wrong he had been. For some odd reason, the champion always knew exactly where to go when he was questing with them. Like they had a map with perfect little pinpoints marking exactly where to go, right in front of them. Crazy! It always amazed Arator how fast and accurate the champion was. Well… they were the champion of Azeroth for a reason. And he really missed them right about now.
“Maybe it was false intel…” he muttered, turning right where he had previously gone left. His informant was… questionable. But the man had proven useful before. Why lie now? Arator paid well. His pockets were deeper than most—and he knew when not to ask certain questions.
Still, the paladin sighed, shoulders sagging as he continued on. He had brought no supplies. Because, of course, he had assumed this would take like three minutes. His stomach growled. Perfect. Then… suddenly.
“What—?” His ear twitched. Arator froze, eyes scanning his surroundings.
There—again. A faint tingle in the air. He turned slowly, stepping forward with care… and then he saw it. A tiny glimmer at the base of a nearby tree. He crept closer, glancing over his shoulder every few steps.
Another soft ping—followed by a strange, almost whispering whoosh.
His ear twitched again. When he looked back, it was too late. Something burst from the small crystal on the ground. Arator dropped into a defensive stance, snatching a dagger from his belt and striking as hard as he could. A blinding flash erupted on impact and the ground vanished beneath him. The black crystal he had hit shot away like a bullet, disappearing from sight.
For a moment, he felt weightless—and then he crashed. Hard. The air was forced from his lungs as he hit the ground. He coughed, shaking his head as he tried to recover.
“B-by the Light… what…?” The world had changed. Fear struck him. The bright reds and oranges of the forest were gone—replaced by deep greens and darker trees. Even the air felt different. His head pounded like crazy. Nausea twisted in his stomach as he staggered forward. One hand checked for his weapon. The other tried to steady him. It didn’t work and he sank to his knees, slumping against a tree as his vision blurred—he fought against the sensation.
“Ugh…” Arator groaned. He had fully collapsed to the ground, unsure how long he had been out. His head slowly cleared, memories of being sucked through the portal in the back of his mind. This wasn’t Quel’Thalas anymore. Carefully, he pushed himself upright and looked around. The air was colder, much crisper. This entire place carried a heavier, more ominous and mysterious weight. There was also a disturbing lack of forest sounds.
“Where…” Arator murmured. His neck cracked sharply as he turned it, his hand absently massaging the stiffness. He took a step and then froze. Not in confusion or sickness this time, but something else.
He felt a presence. To his side? Or behind him? Wherever it was, it was close. Way too close. The Holy Light was summoned to his hand as his other reached for the sword at his back—but he never made it. A large hand clamped down over his own, locking it in place over the hilt of his own blade. Another seized his braid, yanking his head back with painful force—and in the next instant, he was slammed face-first against the nearest tree.
“What the hell—let me go!” Arator snarled, struggling against the iron grip holding him.
“Who are you? Where am I?” His voice came out strained, breath being crushed from his lungs.
“You tell me,” a deep, raspy voice answered. It sounded older and authoritarian. “You’re the one trespassing.” The grip was unyielding—overwhelming, even. And yet…there was something in the tone. A familiar mixture of control and care.
“I-I don’t know where I am,” Arator forced out, coughing as the pressure held him securely in place. “I didn’t mean to trespass…” He sucked in a shallow breath. “Can you let me go? I can hardly breathe.” He felt the hesitation at his words, but then the hold loosened. Arator bent forward, coughing, rubbing his face—and tensed again as the stranger pulled his sword from his back.
“I’ll hold onto this. For now.” Arator turned with a frown. He wasn’t defenseless by any means. But without his beloved sword—it felt wrong.
“That’s fine craftsmanship,” the man continued, weighing the weapon in his hand. “Hefty. Well balanced. Not something you’d expect from a comm—” He stopped. Bright blue eyes widened. His head tilted slightly, disbelief flickering across his face as he muttered something under his breath. The human was inspecting him.
Arator adjusted his armor, brushing dirt from the front and shifting everything back into place.
“Thanks,” he said, a hint of pride slipping into his voice. “I reforged it a few times. I’m a decent blacksmith, if I do say so myself.” Slowly, Arator looked up—and took in the man before him.
“By the Light…” the stranger breathed. “Is it really you?” He stepped forward. “Arator?” At the mention of his name, Arator frowned. He stepped back instinctively, his defenses going up. The man drove the sword point-first into the ground, letting it stand there between them. He still stood tall. Imposing. But something had shifted. His presence was softer now. And again, familiar.
“That is my name,” Arator said carefully, one hand raised to keep distance. “Where am I? Answer me.” The longer he was staring at him, the more he saw it. That face. That presence. It couldn’t be. Could it? Maybe he hit his head too hard.
“You look older,” the human said, crossing his arms. Arator let out a short snort.
“So do you.” He countered. A flicker of amusement passed between them. “You look a lot like someone I know. A man named Anduin Wrynn.” He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Only… he’s much younger than I am. And you—are not.” Arator added rather playfully.
“Right, that is nothing to go on. Never judge an elf’s age by appearance.” The human chuckled and leaned against a nearby tree. “The Arator I knew died at fifteen. He also looked fifteen. You do not look fifteen.” His gaze swept over Arator’s body, lingering on the tattoos along his arms. His eyes narrowed slightly—then a smirk followed. When he looked back up, his blue eyes were steady. Assessing.
“Judging by your behavior, I’d place you somewhere between thirty and… a hundred or two.” A faint grin tugged at his lips. “That’s still very young for an elf. I’m fifty-three—and human. Not young anymore, but not old either. Still a King though.” There was something sharp behind the humor.
“I would advise you not to test me. Immortal elf or not. You will lose.” His voice dropped, pleasantries gone. “Now—tell me what you are doing here.” Arator blinked, momentarily thrown off by the bluntness. Then he straightened, forcing composure. He hoped with all his might that this Anduin would be similar to his own.
“Ah… my apologies. I meant no disrespect.” A faint blush crept onto his cheeks. “You don’t look old. Just… older than how I’m used to seeing you.” He hesitated, then met the man’s gaze. This was so much harder than he thought it would be.
“So—you are Anduin Wrynn. If I had to run into anyone… I’m glad it’s you.” He tried to convey his relief, but only silence followed. It lingered and Arator swallowed nervously.
“King.” Anduin corrected. He pushed himself off the tree and stepped forward. Something in his expression shifted—colder now. Harder.
“And yes. I am.” His hand curled around the hilt of Arator’s sword, pulling it free from the ground. Arator’s breath hitched as he instinctively stepped back. He had hoped for a friendlier encounter after establishing names, but the atmosphere had turned.
“What are you?” Anduin asked quietly. “I know some elves who returned from death. So—what are you? Undead? Illusion? Simulacrum?” He kept advancing. Arator retreated until his back hit a thick tree. Roots tangled beneath his boots. He had nowhere left to go.
“Well?” The word came low as Anduin looked down on him.
“I—I don’t…” Arator lifted his hands slightly, shaking his head. “I don’t know.” His thoughts scrambled, he had no idea himself. Ten minutes ago, he had been near Silvermoon. The artifact—the portal—the trap. He felt like such an idiot.
“Or…” Anduin flared his nostrils, his gaze sharpening. “An alternate timeline. A different dimension.” His head tilted. “Stranger things have happened, it could be a valid option.” Arator swallowed hard. That idea didn’t sound like a good one or a particularly easy one to fix.
“It would be wise to start talking now, Arator the Young.” His voice remained calm—but the warning was unmistakable. “I am known for my patience. But even that has limits.” Anduin slowly placed his free hand against the tree trunk beside Arator’s head, while his sword rose on the other side, boxing him in. Perhaps his judgment had been wrong—this wasn’t like Anduin at all.
“This place is not open to the public, no one is supposed to be here.” Arator’s breath hitched at the strong tone. He had to do something. Anything!
“Please—wait!” The elf blurted. “An informant gave me information about a Legion artifact saying it was bound to the Sin’dorei. I was close by and decided to investigate. I didn’t bring anyone with me, like a fool and when I finally found the artifact, it became a tiny weird looking portal. I didn’t step into it—it pulled me in. I tried to destroy it, but… I couldn’t. And then I was here.” Arator’s chest was heaving in anxiousness. Again there was silence. Anduin studied him for a moment—then exhaled sharply through his nose.
“We have known troubles of the Legion as well. A crafty foe that one.” He said, almost to himself. Anduin stepped back, giving Arator back his personal space. Thank the Light!
“So.” The human continued, idly rolling the sword in his hand as he paced. “You walked into a trap and paid the price. That is… unfortunate.” A faint shrug. But his tone softened—slightly. Was this progress? Arator thought.
“I sympathize. But I do not trust you.” The sword tilted westward. “Now, move.” Arator obeyed solemnly.
His previous thoughts of hope, shattered. Anduin fell into step beside him and led him away from the trees toward a small grassy plain with a gazebo. While they were walking, the young paladin looked around to take in his surroundings but also his host. Anduin Wrynn was apparently fifty-three years old, almost double the age from his own timeline Anduin.
Still the same golden-blond hair—though now streaked with grey, the sides shaven, the top long and slicked back. His tail was gone. Arator had always liked that bobby, little tail. Heavy stubble framed his jaw, but there was no mustache. Deep, dark circles hung beneath his eyes, set under bushy, greying brows and stern lines etched into his forehead. Scars marked his face and neck, while the rest of him was clad in armor. Broad shoulders, heavy gauntlets, and reinforced shin guards gave him a kingly presence, though the armor itself was built for battle rather than the throne. Black was the dominating color, accented with dark blue and gold.
His demeanor had changed as well—less friendly, more warrior than peacemaker, rough around the edges. And yet… there was something in those blue eyes. Something that said the core of him remained the same. Even if he had not shown it.
“Do you approve?” Anduin suddenly said, snapping Arator from his thoughts.
“Excuse me?” The half-elf choked a little. Anduin glanced at him, eyes narrowing slightly.
“You’ve been watching me rather intently. Are you looking for a fight—or simply assessing?” He came to a halt and turned, and just like that, his expression shifted—playful, almost youthful. “Well?” he pressed, smiling, one hand resting on his hip while his thumb idly brushed the hilt of Arator’s sword.
“Assessing. I’m curious to see if you match my Anduin when he reaches your age.” Arator folded his arms. “If I ever make it back home in one piece,” he added quietly.
“Your Anduin…” The King murmured, eyebrow lifting as he stepped closer. “Do not worry. If your story is true, I will do everything in my power to return you home. We have encountered travelers from other worlds before—we know how to deal with them.” His expression darkened slightly. “Our Azeroth is a rather unique—and vicious—one. Had you arrived here while already existing… you might have died on the spot.” He placed a large hand against Arator’s chest, and warmth spread through him, calm and steady.
“Both the Light and my heart tell me we will find you a way home.” And just like that, Arator trusted him. This Anduin was not the one he knew—rougher, more intimidating—but those eyes betrayed him. Kind. Caring. Still worthy of the Light. He was Anduin. Arator nodded with a smile.
“Your assistance will be invaluable. Thank you.” He bowed his head, slowly processing the King’s words. If their Arator had lived in this timeline… would he have died? Or worse—would the other Arator have died instead? He swallowed and moved to follow Anduin once more.
“Do you like tea? Or anything else?” Anduin asked without turning.
“I love tea, but I think I need something stronger than that.” Arator replied sheepishly. Anduin let out a sharp whistle through his fingers. Two people came running from a large door set into the high walls. He spoke briefly to one of them—a human, who cast Arator a distasteful look—before they hurried off again. Anduin settled onto a long wooden seat, lined with soft fabric and richly decorated with pillows. A large round table stood before it, strewn with books and scrolls.
“This is the royal garden, in the innermost part of the castle. It’s meant only for me and my family. There’s a small cluster of trees, a little lake, and a stretch of grass leading to the only two doors that access it. Guards are always patrolling, and we have magical wards to catch anything attempting to sneak in. We are well protected—that’s why I was so surprised to hear you stumbling around.” Anduin explained as he set Arator’s sword aside and draped both arms over the back of the seat.
“Stumbling? I—I suppose. I remember falling, feeling the grass beneath me, and then… nothing. I think I blacked out. That would explain the headache. It feels like I drowned myself in a barrel of dwarven ale.” Arator rubbed the side of his head. Anduin chuckled.
“When I came to, I tried to get my bearings and suddenly felt your presence. I didn’t know what to expect—that’s why I reached for my sword. I know that must have seemed hostile. I was as baffled as you.” Arator sighed as he searched Anduin’s eyes. The King simply shrugged.
“Hmm. I suspected my sneaking might have provoked that. Though I wasn’t the one who got hurt.” He raised an eyebrow. “Can’t you use the Light? You are a paladin, no?”
Arator glanced down at his hands. “Oh… I haven’t tried.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. As always, he focused and reached for the Light. It answered, and he exhaled in relief. His head began to clear, his body feeling more revitalized than before.
“That’s better. Truth be told, I’m more of a fighter than a healer, but as always, the Light grants me what I need.” Arator smiled.
“Yeah, same here.” Anduin said.
Arator tilted his head. “Huh? You—” Then he remembered this was not his own timeline’s Anduin. “Ah… right. So… what does your life look like here?” He shifted into a more comfortable position.
“Hmm. Why don’t you go first?” Anduin said. Arator nodded and began to explain—about Azeroth and its wars, the factions and their leaders, his parents, his own life… and finally, Anduin himself. He spoke for over an hour. At some point, a servant arrived with drinks and food, casting Arator a disdainful glance before leaving again.
“You are one of the strongest priests in all of Azeroth. You always put peace and your people first. Your intelligence goes hand in hand with bravery, patience… and a willingness to take risks. The Light favors you in many ways. I truly respect and admire you.” Arator smiled as he finished. Anduin returned it, genuine, as he took a sip of his drink—but there was something else in his eyes.
“To be young and wild again.” The King said with a soft laugh. “Though, from the sound of it, I’m not quite as wild in your timeline.” Arator couldn’t help but laugh with him.
“No wonder,” Anduin continued. “He lost Varian when he was a teenager. My father died in battle when I was in my late twenties. I became King and immediately set everything aside to take on that duty. I married my lovely wife—we had three beautiful children—and ruled as I saw fit.” A hint of sadness crept into his voice at the mention of his wife. Arator only nodded, unsure whether to interrupt.
“We aren’t as fortunate here with our alliances. The elves are not loved among the Alliance. We have the Night Elves, ruled by Illidan Stormrage. The dwarves, draenei, worgen, tauren, and gnomes are our allies. I count myself lucky befriending the Bloodhoof’s and Velen. The Dragonflights have pretty much destroyed themselves; the ones that were left are scattered among us mortals. One of my advisors and dearest friends is a bronze dragon, although I doubt anyone knows that. And I have no idea what a dracthyr is.”
Anduin took another sip, and Arator reached for a block of salted cheese. The sky was growing darker.
“The pandaren and undead are completely wiped out—hardly any are seen anymore. Orcs, trolls, and vulpera form nomadic groups. Goblins are on their own. And the blood elves and nightborne have joined together; they live in solitude. We aren’t in an active war, but we avoid each other as if we’re infected with the plague.” Anduin shrugged and stood up. He began tossing wooden blocks onto the nearby firepit. He lit it with ease and warmed his hands.
“Now, you,” Anduin said as he sat back down. Arator raised a curious eyebrow.
“You died in a war at the age of fifteen. Not an easy thing for a parent to bear. Alleria Windrunner went completely off the rails, destroying everything in her path.” Anduin’s visage darkened, his piercing blue eyes taking on an ominous edge. Arator swallowed and waited patiently for him to continue.
“We stopped her. The Human Kingdom stopped her.” The firelight deepened the shadows in Anduin’s eyes, made stranger by the slight tilt of his head. Arator balled his fist.
“What happened?” he almost whispered.
Again, Anduin let the silence linger before continuing.
“The Night Elves and Blood Elves got into a fight—we helped. You died because of a rogue boulder catapulted over the city walls. It was never meant to land inside the city. It was aimed at an artillery tower, but it overshot. Over fifty elves were killed by the impact and the collapse of a tower.” Anduin shifted in his seat and lowered his gaze.
“When your mother found out, she lost it. As did your father. She disappeared for years, and your father presumably followed her. The next time we saw her, we were fighting a completely different war—and she ambushed my people. When we were gathering our dead at night, Alleria broke the unwritten rule and attacked.”
Arator’s mouth felt dry as bone as he listened to the story.
“I can’t believe she did that…” he murmured. Anduin raised his head and scoffed.
“Really? I can.” His voice was laced with something akin to hatred. “I couldn’t sleep and decided to help recover the fallen, to give them proper rites. Blood elves, night elves, humans—every race was on that battlefield, retrieving their dead. No one even looked at each other… until the first arrow hit us.”
The human paused. A shiver ran up Arator’s spine, dread creeping in.
“It killed my second-in-command instantly. The arrow was hers—a coward’s strike.” Anduin clenched his fist, the leather creaking under the strain.
“I–I’m sorry to hear that,” Arator said softly.
“Everyone dropped who they were carrying and took defensive positions. I ordered a retreat, but stayed behind myself. I fought your mother—and while we fought, your father joined her. At first, he pleaded for us to stop. I agreed. Your mother did not.” Anduin’s voice lowered.
“I was ready to show her mercy, even after everything she had done. But she was relentless in her grief and vengeance. When I was about to strike the killing blow, your father intervened.” Anduin tilted his head and pointed to a long, jagged scar running across his face and down into his neck.
“Turalyon gave me this little gift.” The words sounded annoyed mixed with hurt. Arator opened his mouth to speak, then stopped under Anduin’s intense gaze.
“During that fight, I gave them both multiple chances. They didn’t listen. When I killed your father, my reinforcements arrived, and your mother fled. She was heavily wounded and died a few hours later at the hands of Commander Greymane, who was chasing her.” His eyes seemed to burn, the blue glimmering like ice. Arator’s heart raced; for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
“Do you still want my assistance? Or will you take revenge for your parents? They died by my sword—on my order.” Anduin’s hand came to rest on Arator’s sword beside him. The young paladin didn’t dare move. His hands trembled slightly.
These weren’t his parents—not really. They were still alive in his own timeline. Still, a deep sadness settled in his chest. Anduin moved. His hand curled around the blade instead of the hilt as he held it out.
“What do you desire?” The low tone sent a shiver down Arator’s spine as he slowly reached out to take the sword. It felt heavier than before, hanging between them.
His mind raced—but then the Light calmed him. Clarity came like a cool wave.
This wasn’t his timeline. These weren’t his parents. This wasn’t the Anduin he knew.
And, as cruel as it sounded… this wasn’t his problem.
He needed to get home. He needed to defend Quel’Thalas. That was what mattered.
“Your assistance. I need it—but I also want it,” Arator said steadily. Anduin relaxed slightly and leaned back, his arms resting once more on the wooden support.
“Then you will have it,” the King said with a grin. Arator felt his face heat up. There was something about this Anduin—something that made him feel intimidated and uncomfortable…but also, somehow, a little giddy. Strange.
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Thank you for reading chapter 1, I really hope you enjoyed it :)
And maybe I will see you in chapter 2! Have a nice day <3