Author's note: This is a sequel to "At Least He's A Civilized Brute", taking place about two months later. All characters property of Blizzard Entertainment.

The elaborate parchment nearly slips from my fingers before my hands curl into fists, threatening to tear the sheet. Behind me, Thrall rises from his throne to loom menacingly - and to read over my shoulder, although the pale, trembling man bearing Stormwind's colors doesn't need to know that.

"He actually expects me to.." I stumble to a verbal halt. Once the words are out of my mouth, I realize that what I was afraid was going to be panic is, in fact, rage.

"Lady Proudmoore's personal vessel is waiting to transport you to Theramore, where his Majesty's ship is docked." The liveried flunky seems pretty unhappy to be delivering the message, but being glared at by an eight-foot orc puts a damper on even the most cheerful news.

"Tari?"

"Does he actually think he can just...just..."

Thrall takes the sheet from my hands while I'm distracted and scans it quickly. "What brought this on?" he asks in orcish.

My fingers flick dismissively. "I told him once that I wasn't actually a lady. He seemed unhappy about that." The flunky looks lost at our exchange; he must not speak any orcish.

"Could that have something to do with the way you said it?"

"I used the old saying 'good enough to bed, not good enough to wed'."

"Well, that would explain this."

I stare at him, aghast. "You can't mean..."

"I don't think that's what this is, but I would take it as a sign that he is still dedicated to changing your mind." He hands the sheet back to me. "At the least, this can be seen as an attempt to make amends."

"You think I should accept."

"Whether you should accept or refuse is not something I can decide for you. But whichever you choose, I think you should give him the courtesy of doing so in person."

I turn back to Varian's messenger and return to my native tongue. "Did he pick you specifically to deliver this message?"

He looks startled to be addressed so sharply. "Yes, my lady."

"What did he tell you?"

Scared eyes flicker to Thrall and back to me. He licks his lips. "That you wouldn't be happy about this. That you might refuse. And that if you did refuse, to say 'Truth is never flattery, but flattery can become truth'. And that..." The messenger swallows, hard. "He says...please."

In that one hesitant word, I hear the echo of his master's voice and see the memory of surprisingly vulnerable eyes. Curse him for being able to placate me like that, even when he's not actually present.

"Golthak. Ten men. We leave in two hours." The messenger looks confused at my harsh orcish, but my faithful shadow bangs his chest in salute. "You may tell Jaina's men that we will depart in two hours' time," I tell him shortly in common, then sweep out of the room to pack.

The zeppelin ride is relatively calm and peaceful for everyone except Varian's mouthpiece, whose name is Joric. It could be that Joric simply doesn't fly well, but his discomfort is more likely caused by the collectively stony faces of eleven big, burly orcs who all know how I feel about human men. The men and women of Theramore simply go about their business with brisk efficiency and ignore the lot of us.

Jaina is waiting at the parapet on top of the tower when the zeppelin rocks to a halt, straining against its ropes, and beside her is a blond boy of about twelve or thirteen. Whether it is still youth or an indication of his future stature, he is slender and almost willowy with a serious expression and eyes older than his years. He is also draped in an elaborate surcoat with the lion of Stormwind worked on it in gold thread.

"Taretha," Jaina says cautiously as I pick my way down the gangplank, "This is Anduin Wrynn, prince of Stormwind. He will be your host during the trip."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Foxton," he says in a voice that hasn't broken yet. The bow he sketches is very precise.

"The pleasure is mine, your Highness," I say with an equally precise curtsy, eyes asking Jaina a silent question. She shrugs slightly.

"We have time for dinner before the tide turns," she says. "If would both follow me...?"

Dinner is a pleasant enough affair; just the three of us, and polite small talk regarding the state of world affairs. Anduin is surprisingly knowledgeable for one so young, and it's clear that while his father was missing, he was more than a figurehead. He doesn't seem to have inherited any of Varian, save perhaps the cunning mind. I can't help but wonder what kind of woman his mother was, or what kind of king he will be when he is older.

It doesn't take long for everyone to settle on the ship after dinner. Her name is Mercy's Vengeance, a coincidence that does not escape me. Rooms have been prepared for myself and my shadow in the royal suite; Varian has planned this well, to have accounted for Golthak's near-constant presence. As we get underway, I drift out into the sitting room and find Anduin, in a simple tunic and leggings, curled up in one of the chairs reading. He smiles as I enter, proving that he has inherited his father's charm as well as his cunning.

"I was hoping you would join me, Miss Foxton," he says as he straightens in the chair. "My father speaks very highly of you."

I can't prevent my eyebrows from rising in mild surprise as I take a seat of my own. "Does he now?"

Anduin nods. "Oh yes. He says you're a force to be reckoned with, and that if you were as deft with a sword and dagger as you are with your tongue and wit, you would probably be more deadly in a fight than him." The boy grins mischievously. "He also says if he had blades as sharp as your tongue and wit, he could slice a hole in the air straight through to the Twisting Nether, and that you can flay a man in less time than it takes to peel an apple, and leave him just as naked."

My eyebrows climb higher. "And that is speaking highly of me?"

"My father greatly admires the strength of your spirit. He says no one's dared to speak to him like that since my mother died, and once, he admitted that you were right and he wished more people would have the courage to tell him when he's getting carried away."

I turn to watch Theramore recede in the gathering dusk. "Why is he doing this?"

"Which part?"

"All of it."

The impish smile has returned when I face the prince again. "He said you might ask that."

"Oh? And what is the answer, then?"

"I'm not supposed to tell you, for the same reason that you wouldn't play Hawks and Hares with him."

"Let me ask this, then. What do you think about what he's doing?"

The smile this time is more mysterious. "I play Hawks and Hares, too, Miss Foxton."

"Well played, your Highness," I laugh. "Well played indeed."

"If I call you Taretha, will you call me Anduin?"

"Yes, but I won't play with you, either."

Now it's his turn to laugh. He slips a ribbon into his book and sets it aside. "Taretha, will you tell me what it's like living with orcs? Father refuses to talk about it, but..." For a moment, he looks his age. "Understanding is the key to peace, and fighting between Horde and Alliance doesn't help anyone but our mutual enemies. I wish I could get Father to see that."

"What would you like to know, Anduin?"

"What was it like, turning away from everything you'd known?"

His eager expression reminds me of the Frostwolf younglings begging for a story, and I smile. This may have been a gambit to lure me off-guard, but the boy is right. I'll take a short-term defeat in exchange for a long-term victory.