She-Wolf

He may be her lord and husband, but Genn Greymane has never been Queen Mia's master. One-shot, drabble, Genn/Mia.

Warning: For implied, bashfully-written sex. It's not graphic, but it's there.

Of all the things Mia Greymane had suffered by her husband's side, she had to admit that the worgen curse was close to the worst.

People would have looked at her oddly if she'd said that aloud. Close to the worst. A visitation of plagues, horror made flesh—the innards of a nightmare. She'd seen what it did to men, grinding away all their thin human niceness like so much plaster. And then they became nothing more than mere blood-hunger: salivating, sightless, hideous. And yet human still. That was the curse of it, to be the man within the monster, screaming, screaming, wild, lost. Being spared that fate was pure mercy. The brush of Genn's fingers, the touch of his mouth on the back of her hand, all this might have brought with it a thousand tiny deaths. His kiss was a calculated risk she took.

Mia had had her share of nightmares. A mother always does. And then they came true. My son is dead, she would think, and even the cool beauty of Teldrassil, the silence of Darnassus that seemed so much like tenderness, could not cool the heat on her cheeks. She knew that to see her would be to think her feverish, her eyes shining not with tears but brutal light. No: she'd take a million half-wolf husbands, a thousand shatterings, maybe even another Banshee Queen. But carrying the empty sheets that should have borne Liam's body to a pyre, burning bright under an alien sky—that was not darkness but brilliance, the bolt of sunlight that normally marked the boundaries of a dream but was a reality she could not wake from. It left her open, barren. She saw too much. He should not have died. Or, having died, he should have had a proper service. A Gilnean service.

Genn did not weep for their son, and so she did not, either. He would never have done that, considered tears a womanly affectation, unworthy of a warrior and a king—but she saw him standing outside on their private balcony, his back to her, his shoulders hunched as they had never been before, and when he came in his face was ashen. He grieved in his own way, felt his pain ten-thousand meters down, and perhaps it was all the more bitter because it was completely within.

"It is a cold day," she said. He took his fur-lined cloak from her hands without a word, but he stroked her cheek before he left.

When he returned to her that night he was himself again. "I think I will take Tess to docks to look for a ship tomorrow," he said. "She could use a bit of direction. Mooning over flowers and shadows doesn't suit a Greymane."

It was a reminder that half their brood still lived, still relied upon them, and so they had needs must be strong. Mia pressed her face into his chest, smelling the warm familiar smell of him, leather and sweat and steel, the soap he shaved with and the blood of the animals he hunted. She never liked to see him as less than a man, though the idea of it appealed to her in a way she'd never admit. He had always been untameable. The truth of that had finally been revealed, flowed out of itself like a flower unfolding. He's like the kings in fairy-tales, she thought, cursed to become what he is. It made her feel as foolish as a girl, but the idea never left her. Not a punishment, not misfortune. Just a truth.

"Gives a whole new meaning to the word 'husbandry', doesn't it?" Genn said one night. She raised her head from her pillow to look at him. His hard face had softened into a smile, the edges of his lips gilded with moonlight, and Mia laughed and touched his arm. Seventy years old, and he still had a frame built to envy.

She had never feared Genn, though perhaps she had resented him—once upon a time, as they say in the stories. He was twenty years her senior, and she was fifteen to his thirty-five when they first met at the late Lord Robbark Aderic's Royal Banquet, held in honour of the king's birthday. Genn had been serious and unsmiling, broad of shoulder and stern of eye, and Mia had giggled and worn pink silk. He'd stared at her from across the table, his gaze finding her over a field of flowery cups and sugar cubes and dainty sweets, and she'd smiled at him, then blushed under her summer hat as Mother had told her nice girls ought to. He asked her father's leave to take her for a walk around the lake (with an escort, of course), and so Genn and Mia and Mia's eagle-eyed maiden aunt had enjoyed a brief afternoon of sunlight and awkward conversation. Awkward, because an adult king can have so little to say to a child-subject, even if she smiles and wears her awe plain on her face.

He asked her father for her hand a month later. Mia knew even then that her family's lands and connections were more enticement than her natural charms. But she did not hate him for that, either.

Her life would have many surprises.

Her lord, her Genn Greymane, becoming a ravening beast—that was a bit of a surprise. As was his sudden bout of isolationist paranoia, though Mia chided herself that she should have seen that coming, should have anticipated it as he grew colder and colder.

But it was all less surprising than the fact that she had fallen in love with him in the first place. Love: a noblewoman does not concern herself with such things. Mia trained in the arts of feminine niceties, of the proper way to curtsy, of how to pour tea, how to show your décolletage while making it look accidental. All this was expected of her, and she excelled at it. Her sentiments were not bad; her intellect was sound; her intentions good. She knew that her entire aim in life was to marry, marry well, and bear her high-born husband children to carry forth his high-born achievements into perpetuity. It was not a great affair, perhaps not even admirable, but Mia was pragmatic. There were no alternatives, and becoming a lady in her own right, having servants and houses and children, that was the little plot of freedom allotted her.

Even now she ached to think of Gilneas. She had buried her parents there, made her home there, birthed her children there. Leaving the manor behind had wrenched her from within; she had sat in her carriage, shoulders stiff from the strain of being strong, and had not glanced back. They were her people, they were fleeing, and she must be their courage when they could find none in themselves.

Still. That was the home into which she'd moved at sixteen when she left her parents behind, when she married Genn; she'd given him her maidenhood in the Royal Bedchambers, dined with him in the long, drafty hall, danced with him at the Winter Veil feasts, laughed at his jokes and bore his stony silences and sat at his side when he was sick, as he so rarely was.

And perhaps she would miss Liam less if she could draw her strength from the land on which he'd learned to walk, see the halls in which he'd grown up: the cracked gargoyle he'd chipped a tooth on, the library where she'd read him ghost stories, the rookery in which he and his father had fed the crows. The well-wishers with their sad faces and their curious eyes were the worst—the ones who pretended to grieve for her son without having known him. Mia's pain was unmistakable, perfect, complete, and it did not need tears or clasped hands or stuttered apologies, meant to convey a depth of sympathy but revealing only a depth of discomfort. Like Genn, she had learned to turn within.

She didn't mind the curiosity over her husband.

Genn could take care of himself and her and have energy enough for most of the human kingdoms. She still got letters from her friends who'd already gone to Stormwind, noblemen's wives more interested in her wardrobe than her husband's war efforts. Not that she blamed them: she would have taken refuge from her responsibilities in gossip and idleness too, if she had the opportunity. They had lost everything. What was a bit of frivolity now?

One letter from Shira, Lady Cromford, always cheered her. Shira was good-hearted and matronly; she had never been subtle. And how is he, your King? Mia, at her desk, smiled into her handkerchief. She knew what the woman was asking: How is he, your half-feral wolf lord? Insatiably hungry for raw flesh? The same old temper, with a keener edge? A ferocious lover, in the second spring of his now-devastated life?

And it had given her the utmost pleasure to reply in her immaculate queen's handwriting: You will find my King Greymane much unchanged. Still, I suspect it shall be all the rage in Stormwind this coming spring—the taking of a wolf for one's bedmate.

Actually, this was not just a joke. Genn hadn't really changed—that was how she'd missed it at first, when it had happened in the beginning and he had kept it from everyone. Oh, he was unruly and he ate like a boor, but the Curse wasn't to blame for that. He'd always had a temper minute too short, and his table manners had been less than kingly since the day they met. She laughed to remember the way she'd flushed with embarrassment at their nuptial feast. He'd set into his roast boar at the wedding dinner with more enthusiasm than he'd set into his bride on their wedding night. The only difference now was that, in addition to drooling over blood puddings and steak-and-kidney pies, she also caught him drooling at the wild doe he spied throughout the wilds of Teldrassil.

"You are slavering," she said, and placed a fond hand on his arm.

He jerked his head away from the window. "No, I am not. It was the wind."

"The wind."

"You heard me. The wind got into my eyes. And my mouth. The natural magic in it irritates—" He saw the mirth in her serious face—she could never fool him—and his expression darkened. "Damn it, Mia, I've not eaten in hours."

"Two, my heart. It's been two."

"I could eat a bloody horse," he said, and left, probably to do just that.

And there were also the fleas, but fleas? After nearly forty years together she chose her battles. He was a warrior. He'd come into her arms stinking of barn-straw and sweat and the blood of other men many a night when their marriage—and he—was young. Fleas were the least of the Royal Bedchamber's worries. That particular honour went to his nails, which he used to shred the drapery. Mia had drawn the line at this after a particularly grave incident left clouds of feathers floating through the air around their now-ruined mattress.

"Genn," she said when he joined her outside on her terrace, "my king you may be, but you are also my husband, and in my bed you will behave."

He had stalked off, growling—growling!— about 'my damnable wife' and 'thinks she's a kennel-master and I'm but her mangy lapdog' but he'd come back only a few hours later and his manners had mysteriously become impeccable. At least for that evening.

He was always careful to make sure he showed her his human face.

That was the last bit of mistrust he had left, a single corner of his life Mia knew she would never see into. It was not that he found her weak or unworthy, of course it was not that, but she understood what it was to want to seem whole, complete, unbroken to someone. But I am his mate, she thought, curled around him in bed, in my own right a she-wolf. A bitch. She let the word curve her lips silently, feeling the weight of it. If she wore it it would be an honour, the highest compliment. If I were a wolf I would tear out the throat of the Banshee Queen and flay the rotting skin from her body. My teeth would be all the shield my children needed. Then men would only spit on me to hide their fear.

But Liam was already gone. House Greymane was half a house, now, and broken, and she was only a woman, and her strength was small and not enough.

"Take me hunting," she said to Genn. Her mouth moved against his neck. "I would see the forest as you see it."

He grunted. "A lot of frilly trees and elves."

"I can't imagine the elves taste very good."

She was rewarded with a grudging smile. "I wouldn't know, but I suspect you're right."

"Do you not think I'm competent to survive a few spiders?"

He was silent for a moment, and the only sound was the scrape of branches against the roof. "Mia, no. Enough."

She did not press the issue, but the rattle in his chest filled her ears and made her catch her breath. One day you will not be able to protect me, my king. What then?

"We leave for Stormwind before the week is out," he said, with unmistakeable kindness.

Mia did not relish the thought of travelling by sea again; her nights were filled with the crush of water, splintering planks and the roar of rain, of the ocean. "I see. Who will tell Tess?"

"Her mother, I hope."

Mia watched the trees make patterns across the ceiling. When she had been a child she'd entertained herself by seeing faces and animals in the shadows. Look, a crow. Look, a cat. Look, a ship. Now she saw nothing but nets and leashes and chains, interlocking threads that wound them all into its weft. Look, a wolf.

"As my king commands."

Genn shifted to glare at her. "Stop that," he said.

Stop what? she might have asked if she'd been in the mood for an argument, but she was not. Once she'd thrived on their disagreements. Genn could exert himself as an individual and a man on the battlefield, but Mia was confined to the minor wars of domesticity, and she threw herself into them with all the strength and force of a general preparing for battle. Genn would not yield, Mia would not relent, and their conflicts were loud and bloody. And for all his cunning and ruthlessness, she often won.

But now she had seen war, wars, more than she'd ever wanted, and she'd proved herself, and she was tired. She planted an apologetic kiss on his cheek and nuzzled deeper into his arms. Forgive me. I am not often the woman you think I am. Just as you—you are not often the man I thought you were.

He let out a little rumble deep in his throat, a noise halfway between a growl and a purr. His fingers went to the lacings on the back of her nightgown. She felt the sting of his nails on her back but did not wince.

"You," she said, pretending to be stern. "Is this really the time?"

"Isn't it?"

Mia chose not to answer that, just held still as he pulled the now-loosened silk from her shoulders and hips, leaving her exposed beneath him. The night air was cool, verging on cold, and she shivered until his arms and his legs went around her, his hands covering her face from chin to temple. His skin was a maze of scars, some thin and fine as if carved with needles, others long, deep gashes. Behind each was a story, and she touched the ones she remembered best—the arcing silver burn right across his back from where he'd risked his life to save his dog from a fire in the Royal Kennel as a boy; the deep sickle-shaped rut that ran from his flank to his navel, a good-bye gift from a treacherous nobleman; the angry raised line on his upper thigh, sharp as thread, from where he'd been tossed from his horse onto wire; the teeth marks like a half moon across his collarbone. And others, so many others she could not count them, and together perhaps they would tell the story of the totality that was Genn Greymane.

She would never know them all. Just as would never know all of her, even as she pushed him onto his back and slipped her legs around his waist. Her lower back was stiff and she did not move with the ease she remembered, all limbs and fluid grace. He watched her with impassive eyes, but his eyes were impassive when he was most moved. The stillness above belied currents below.

"I love you, my king."

His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling until her scalp ached, and she looked down into his face, at his eyes as pale as sea ice, eyes that could make grown men cower, and then at the lines that spread from their corners and around his mouth and across his forehead. He has gotten old. As have I. As have I. And even as she smiled she felt more than a little sad, a tightness in her chest, an old, familiar ache. They had spent most of their lives like coin beyond value, and now their lives were entering their winter and they had nothing left to spend.

"I know," he said. His thumb was gentle as he brushed it across her jaw. "Yes. I know."

Afterwards, when he was done, he gave her a polite kiss and shifted her off him, back onto her side of the bed. The sheets were warm where he'd been, and she wriggled deeper into them, enjoying her sudden solitude and weariness. Sleep would come easily now, as it so seldom did these days.

She fell asleep with her hand in his, and as she drifted off she did not revisit Liam's corpse but the mountains of her home, the forests in the hills above Gilneas, firs bristling wet against a sky as smooth and grey as mother-of-pearl. At the edge of the woods the ground broke and rose in crags and cliffs, a sheer drop to the valley below. The air was dark and heavy and smelled of rain. The trees whispered in leaves and branches, and the wind picked up their smells and carried them to her: green, grey, grassy.

Gilneas. She had been born there, and whatever happened her ashes would be brought back there and scattered across the sea. There was comfort in such things. To her there could have been no fate worse than dying an exile and being buried in foreign soil. Even death becomes another anteroom. Mia had borne much, but she could not have borne that.

She did not know he had left her bed until she woke, hours later, in the dark, and for a minute she was alone and afraid. And then she saw that his bathrobe was neatly folded over the chair, and his sword and armour were gone, and she knew he had left of his own accord. Still naked, she moved to the window and lifted the sash, letting the wind run across her forehead and cheeks and lift her hair. The night was still and brilliant, and the moon on the water was an unmarred disk of light.

And then, in the distance, she heard him call to her, a high note that hung on the air and chilled her skin and made the hairs on her neck rise. But there was no grief in his voice. Only greeting, and recognition, and memory. And when she answered her own howl was low and human and tremulous, but there was joy in it, and her heart gave a long, plaintive cry, recollection and promise both.

Author's Note: Yeah, I know, wolves are twee, and really lame. I work with what they give me—being twee and really lame myself!

I apologise if this is not totally lore-compliant—I'm not familiar with the details of the 'Curse of the Worgen' comics and had to take most of my information on Mia from the game and Genn's leader short story. I will say that I love the idea of Blizzard actually paying attention to a long-term and devoted relationship between an older couple, and giving Queen Mia the face time she deserves. Anyone who can stay married to Genn Greymane without going murderously crazy or turning into a doormat must have her own great stores of strength.