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A Pact of Earth and Life	By : wanderingaddict Category: +S through Z > World of Warcraft Views: 2220 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own WoW and I don't make any money off of this.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
Chapter 4: Ending and Beginning
Summary:
Antelarion tries out something new.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
-------- Epilogue ------------

The sky had deepened from orange to umber by the time Antelarion was free of both fatherly duties and his role as Wildlord of the Weald. The return to the village was uneventful. Natasha had bounced back from the venom readily enough - after a bit of spellwork from the keeper - and was out the door, bag stuffed with a blanket and food and hurriedly yelling something about needing to meet Samia before she ducked out of sight. Shade was a little bit more of a handful, the fawn kicking up his hooves and bouncing around, absolutely thrilled at both his first foray into the Wood and his first encounter with a dragon. “A real dragon, Papa! A BIG one! Rawr!” he roared, pouncing from his bed to the floor and breathing more imaginary flames.
A change of their wrappings - this time to thin, purple, Darnassian mooncloth - and depositing Shade with Fhyn, the kal’dorei flightmaster, saw his son occupied long enough for Antelarion to meet with Mosswood one last time before the ancient left for the deeper environs of the Raven’s Wood. A harrowing journey, even for the Draenorei ancient. The deep Wood was contested land few druids ventured into.
“There is a war going on,” Antelarion warned him. “The ogres, the wyrmcult - they’re always fighting. There is something bigger than that, this time. Be careful.”
The great treant creaked, limbs groaning as he shifted. “Do not worry, Wildlord. I have survived the Horde. I have fought the Legion. I have passed even the Sundering and the death of the Primals.” He shook his long mossy beard. “Grull-kin had never scared me.”
The Wildlord smirked, but said nothing, a pensive look crossing his face. What hints he had gleaned from Hemathion… the Black Flight was after something. Whether roused to anger or if there were greater plans afoot, he could not say, but he knew that the dragons had not been so aggressive in years. “What did Treebole have to say?”
Mosswood combed his huge wooden fingers through his beard. “The Raven’s Wood entmoot is beginning. That most of the ancients left would attend it.” His wooden eyes rolled to Antelarion. “He did mention that the arakkoa fought the grull-kin for something. He did not say who won.” He waved a hand. “Such things are not of much concern to us ancients.”
That statement did bring a wry smile to Antelarion’s lips. Just as with the ancients of Azeroth, the ancients of Draenor could not be troubled with the quick, frenetic lives of the mortal races.
Still, if left to their own devices, they tended to get into a lot of trouble. The shattered world they lived in now was proof enough of that. The other, very likely scenario was that whatever they fought over had drawn the attention of the Black Flight. If that were the case… Antelarion cocked his head in thought.
Sabellion would not allow a threat to his brood. Hemathion, the keeper trusted, wouldn’t either - and he would certainly have the sense to approach Antelarion for help prior to disaster. He pursed his lips, shifted his attention back to the ancient. “Just be careful, Mosswood. You have a forest full of seedlings to return to.”
“Ho ho, I do.” The ancient stirred, rising to his full height. “I will return, Wildlord, do not fear. There is purpose in my life again. I have no need to fall in battle anymore.” Then the ancient gave Antelarion perhaps the closest thing he had seen to a true smile from the treant. “Change is on the breeze, Antelarion. Good change. For you, and for me. For this world.”
With that he made to leave - though, of course, not before needing to say his goodbyes to the Evergrove villagers and the energetic young fawn shyly hovering at the edge of the crowd.
Struck, Antelarion was content to cross his arms over his chest and reflect on the ancient’s words. His eyes flicked to the darkening sky, with its dizzying array of reddish hues. Good changes…
Almost as if the thought alone summoned it, a stir - and the pull of his Ruuan sisters excitement - drew his attention to the far side of the village where, sure enough, the arrival he’d been expecting approached. A cadre of the green-skinned, red-headed dryad outrunners surrounded him, some spying Antelarion and waving him over.
“Wildlord!” Deseriae, blessed with great beauty but unfortunately little else, opened her mouth to introduced the stranger, but floundered immediately. “Um, this is…” she gestured, flushing, as the most exotic cenarion Antelarion had ever seen stepped forward.
“Warder Hematite,” he announced, his voice surprisingly rich. Deep. The earth-toned ‘keeper’ flicked his eyes to Antelarion. “I’m a friend of the Wildlord’s.”
Tindra, a fierce, fiery-haired dryad from Windshear Crag scowled. “Where’d you come from?” Before Hematite could answer, however, one of the younger sisters bowled her over. “Was it far?” she chirped, eyes alight. “Was it dangerous? Did you have to fight any demons?” Another dryad appeared on his left, crowding close, her nose crinkling primly. “You’re not a Keeper? A ‘warder’? What’s that?”
His face tightened. “Ah, I…”
Seeing him falter, Antelarion stepped in. “Was paired with the earthcaller, Franzahl, for a time. Warder Hematite is a geomancer.”
A lie, but a reasonable one. Antelarion knew enough of the elf and his geological studies to pass that a cenarion had been paired with him at some point, along with knowledge of the more… licentious interests the earthcaller had pursued among the pretty frost nymphs of Winterspring.
Many of the gathered dryads recognized that name, nodding sagely. Surprisingly many. “Franzahl?” one of the few who didn’t asked. The tall dryad beside her smirked. “He’s that cute little quel’dorei who came to Hyjal just after Archimonde. You know, always making those little noises whenever we would….” she trailed off suggestively. The first dryad thought back, before her face suddenly lit up and she turned with a conspiratorial grin. “Oh the one who did that thing with his-,”
“Sisters, please.” Faradrella, her Ashenvale coloring strikingly at odds with the Weald dryads, cut off whatever salacious tidbit the Ruuan sister had been about to share. She gestured at Hemation, her eyes raking him. “Our brother must have much to say about his travels.”
Hemathion, startled by how quickly all eyes focused back on him, smoothed his hands down his breast with his most winning smile. “It’s been a long journey.”
“Oh, by Cenarius, sorry!” one woman clucked, hands going to her mouth. “Did you come all this way from Azeroth then?” a second questioned, eager for news of their homeworld. “Why here?” the battle-scarred Tindra demanded. Her Ruuan companions poured past her, however, gushing about their new brother’s geomancy. “Earth magic, how rare!” one cooed, while another gripped his taloned hands for examination. “Oh are you going to help with the Dream?” she gasped. “Duh, of course!” another Weald dryad, Deseriae, exclaimed, slapping her forehead.
“Sisters.” This time it was Antelarion who reigned in the gaggle of excited cenarions. “There are many mysteries in these lands. I asked Warder Hematite here that he might shed light on a few of them.”
“You could have told us a brother was coming!” Deseriae chided, a complaint echoed by their sisters. They gathered about the warder, almost possessively.
Seeing that they would not be dissuaded - and certainly not blaming their excitement over seeing another cenarion in the flesh - Antelarion conceded the point, tilting his antlered head. They pulled Warder Hematite over to the open pavilion near the center of the village, the dozen of them peppering the newcomer with questions he barely had time to answer.
He was left alone. The keeper closed his eyes, pulling at the life energy around him, just long enough to get a sense for where Natasha - edge of the Weald, legs dangling over the cliff, beside a suspiciously dark-skinned, red-eyed young woman - and his son - bounding excitedly about Mosswood’s legs as the treant slowly strode out of town - were at for the moment. Satisfied that neither had managed to wander into danger, Antelarion returned his thoughts to the village square, where Faradrella stood nearby. Similarly separate, and watching the group of cenarions under the pavilion with a critical eye.
The dryad undoubtedly knew. He did not know whether it was the lack of Dream energy about the drakenoid cenarion or if it was just her intuition, but Antelarion had learned from the past decade that Faradrella was great at ferreting out truths nobody wanted found.
He watched Hemathion charm his Ruuan Weald sisters, the dragon’s dark hair and dusky skin matching well with the russet colors they bore. They took quickly to his story of having spent time far from Kalimdor, deep in the unexplored mountains of the strange and exotic human lands in Redridge, and the kingdom of Azeroth. The more the draconic cenarion talked, the less… alien his appearance seemed. Perhaps it was a part of a dragon’s magic, perhaps it was simply due to Hemathion’s charisma, but after some time his most obvious tells weren’t quite so out-of-place.
The horns were still jarring to the keeper, though he supposed it made sense his sisters did not question them - after all, they had none of their own to compare with - and while Hemathion’s eyes did not glow, they seemed to light from within whenever daylight caught them. Even the distinctness of his features - inexplicably sin’dorei, kal’dorei, and human - seemed more a slight curiosity, and not the mark of the outsider that Antelarion had initially marked them to be.
Perhaps there was more to a dragon’s mortal disguise than he’d believed. He tapped his chin in thought, content to stand apart and let Hemathion field his sisters’ attentions alone, before eyeing his Ashenvale sister.
“A convincing disguise.”
Faradrella snorted, confirming his suspicions. “If any of them had an ounce of sense, they would realize they can’t feel him through the Dream.” She watched Hemathion for a moment longer, one hand idly playing with the leafy strand of hair hanging over her shoulder. “Still,” she murmured, “he does make a handsome cenarion, doesn’t he?” Her eyes roamed over the taut haunches of Warder Hematite’s stag-like posterior. “Though, in fairness, I’ve never heard of a dragon assuming cenarion form before.”
“From what I gather, shifting alone is a difficult process, and dragons are lazy creatures.”
“A shame. He’s almost as handsome as you.” She wet her lips. “Almost as big, too.”
Although aware of her interest, Antelarion still heated a little at her comment. “Hematite has good taste,” he demurred.
The dryad bit her lip, eyes lidded, thoughts clearly elsewhere. “You… don’t suppose any of the drakes could learn to do that, do you?” Her fingers drifted to the violet-colored flesh of her shoulder. “I wouldn’t mind having another ‘brother’ or two about the Weald.” Eyes half-lidded at the idea, she seemed content to fantasize - but then her eyes went wide. The dryad clasped his forearm in sudden realization. “I am not sharing any drakes with my sisters,” she hissed.
Antelarion huffed. “Don’t give them any reason to come to Evergrove and you won’t have to.”
Having the grace to look contrite, Faradrella pulled back, even going so far as to mutter an apology - a far cry from the pent-up frustration of the day before. Silteon had been good for her. The keeper shared his observation. “It seems that some of the edge has been taken off you.”
“Wildlord, I feel like a new woman.” She lingered a moment, in that feeling, eyes bright, a secret little grin shaping her mouth. Then Faradrella shook her head free of those thoughts, dislodging several of the blue butterflies hovering about it. “Why is he here?”
It took a long time to answer her. “Curiosity,.” he said finally. His own or the dragon’s, Antelarion could not say, but it seemed a good-enough answer.
For now.
He mused on that, before joining the cenarions under the pavilion. Once there he got to hear his sisters regale their new brother with tales of their own adventures, some the Wildlord had heard a thousand times before and some that were actually new. At least, to him. Tindra even shared how she and Deseriae first met while traveling through the Eastern Kingdoms, a surprisingly sweet story of the battle-scarred dryad being convinced by her fetching sister to detour all the way through Westfall before travelling to Outlands.
It was also a chance to study Hematite further… try to see him from an outsider’s perspective. After watching the drakenoid cenarion ply his sisters with his dusky, dark good looks and deep voice, the Wildlord felt better about his invitation to the village.
Antelarion left briefly, fetching his son from play at the edge of the village and putting him to bed early. The fawn was already nodding by the time the elder cenarion carried him to bed, exhausted by a very big, very exciting day.
“Is there something happening with the aunties?” Shade asked, yawning as his father tucked a light blanket about him. “I could feel all the excitement. Is it about the dragon?”
His clever boy. Antelarion smoothed out the mess of leafy red hair on the fawn’s head. “Yes, Shade. It’s about the dragon. It’s nothing to worry about though, I’ll tell you more in the morning.”
Shade yawned again, bigger this time, the Dream pulling at him with a force that would fade, one day, perhaps a few centuries hence. For now, however, it was a call as strong as that of any mortal; demanding, inexorable.
Knowing that the boy chilled at night, Antelarion cast about for the heavy comforter Shade usually preferred but could not find it. He settled for an additional light blanket, tucking it about his son’s form before he left the living-wood home at the forested edge of the village.
The orange sky had faded entirely by the time he returned to the rest of his sisters, the strange energies of the Twisting Nether providing a dim light instead any stars.
Hemathion sat alone in the pavilion, his eyes glowing red in the dark, apparently having begged off the Ruuan sisters. Antelarion was half-surprised to see him still seated on the divan where he had left him, though not displeased.
The drakenoid cenarion gestured a black-taloned hand for the keeper to join him. Antelarion did so, tucking his hoofs beneath him. A cool night breeze blew over them.
“A far cry from the haughtiness of the Black Flight,” Antelarion murmured, watching Warder Hematite from the corner of his eye.
“They are all older than I, and yet have the energy of youth.” Hematite smirked, shifting his body to press against the Wildlord’s side. “A relief, in some ways. Curious, in others. I marvel that such a soft people could survive for so long.”
Where my hard-bitten kind did not, was left unspoken. Antelarion shrugged, leaning into the drakenoid’s warm body. “None of us have ever achieved the reach or power of any Flight. Perhaps that is the difference,” he offered.
Hematite snorted. “You came to Blade’s Edge, settled a stone’s throw from Gruul’s lair, and then used mortals to drive the Legion, the gronn, and the arakkoa from the mountains.” The following chuckle was wry. “Perhaps it is just the wisdom in picking your battles - or at least, to have others fight them - that makes the difference.”
Antelarion’s mouth twisted. “I wouldn’t say it quite like that, but I won’t disagree. Hasn’t Sabellion’s use of mortal adventurers seen to the deaths of all Gruul’s sons?” He wrapped an arm about the warder’s trim waist, still amazed at the dragon’s new form. “But mortals aside… I suppose you’ve just met most every cenarion in Outlands.” The keeper’s hand found its way down to stroke Hematite’s onyx-furred flank. “Still interested in continuing… this?”
“I take the form of a cenarion and you change from reticent to protective.” Hematite clasped a black-taloned hand to the Wildlord’s chin and planted a forceful kiss on his lips. He pulled back, his tongue far too long for a natural cenarion’s mouth. A wicked light gleamed in his eyes. “I am the same great, Black Flight male that has been taking you in the woods these last ten years, Wildlord. That much has never changed.”
It was that dark glint in his eyes that had Antelarion seeking the dragon’s mouth once more, the oversized tongue at once both completely foreign in size and intimately familiar in technique. The keeper found himself craving more, burying his fingers in Hematite’s glossy black hair, biting, sucking at his jaw, at his neck. They pulled at each other, the dragon chuckling, that same giddy little laugh from the morning, Antelarion hungry for all the flesh he could reach.
When he pushed away, it was partly in delight, partly in relief that the spark he’d felt kindled last night, felt that morning, could still be stoked to a blaze. The keeper rested his head against Hematite’s, brushing their noses together, their breath hot against each other’s chests. “My home is yours, if you wish to stay the night,” he murmured, seeking another kiss.
“First I’ve your permission to enter Evergrove, and now an invitation to stay.” Hematite’s mouth quirked. “You are spoiling me, Wildlord.”
“I’ve never known a dragon to refuse a chance to be indulged.”
His arms were warm, strong. “And I doubt you ever will. We are greedy by nature,” the dragon chortled, finally pressing their lips together again.
Some time passed while they explored each other, explored what Hemathion’s change in form offered them. Were it not for the pavilion's place near the center of the village, the keeper would have found his hands - his mouth - occupied otherwise. Reminded suddenly of their position, part of him could hardly believe he was being so careless in the first place. Antelarion pulled free, panting, but couldn’t bring himself to part his arms from the warder’s narrow waist.
He wet his lips, his sense of responsibility rearing its ugly head. “I stand by the original accord, however. No obvious dragonkin, only those in disguise.”
“In disguise?” Hematite snorted. “As what? Humans? Or perhaps you’d prefer they come dressed…” he trailed off, pulling back. His eyes flicked suggestively from his body to Antelarion. “More like me?”
He knew. The dragon knew the effect his taut haunches, the perky tail had on the true-born cenarion. Antelarion panicked, his thoughts scattering too quickly for a witty rejoinder.
Hematite laughed.“Wildlord.” His rich, earthy voice was practically syrup. “I do believe that’s the first time I’ve seen you blush.”
Even more conscious of the heat in his cheeks, hot as if it was his first millennia, the keeper cast his gaze to the side. “Evergrove has always maintained neutrality, and black dragons have made many enemies. I am just being careful,” he maintained, desperate for a change of subject.
“Our battles are our own.” The drakenoid nudged Antelarion’s gaze to his with a scaled knuckle. His lips parted in a sly grin. “Besides, no dragon wishes to attract attention to their hoard.”
The hand slid down across Antelarion’s muscular chest. Rallying, the keeper feigned surprise. “Oh? Am I part of your hoard now?”
Hematite pressed against him. “I thought you’d made it clear you’ve claimed me for yours,” he murmured, breath hot and close.
Antelarion was happy to tease, brushing their lips together, just shy of a kiss. “Cenarions don’t have hoards.”
The dragon chuckled, a rumbling noise that was low and warm. “A weakness common to many lesser species. I am glad you’ve grown beyond it.”
The keeper’s laughter was cut off by Hematite’s kiss, complete with forceful, plying tongue that sought the back of his throat. Antelarion was happy to respond in kind, burying a hand in the warder’s leafy red hair and gripping, clutching him tight to his breast, until Hematite snuck a hand up to thumb the Wildlord’s pecs.
Grabbing the hand, Antelarion broke away. “I’ve never known you to be this flirtatious.”
“Hmm,” the black-furred cenarion purred, lounging in Antelarion’s arms. “Perhaps you just weren’t paying attention.”
The Wildlord huffed, hiding his smile. “Perhaps you just aren’t very good at it?”
Hematite’s eyes danced as he shrugged, feigning nonchalant. “This morning you were going to leave, as if there were nothing between us, yet this evening I have a son, welcome in Evergrove, and a place in your bed.” He cocked his horned head. “What more do I need to show my success?”
Not having a response - and far more pleased with the black dragon’s words than he’d ever care to admit - Antelarion demurred. “I didn’t say you could stay in my bed.”
“Touche, Wildlord.” Having reached his limit for kissing and banter, Hematite hooked his legs over Antelarion’s lower body and pressed the full length of his maleness into his furry back. “But where else might you explore this form?” he breathed, mouth flush with the cenarion’s ear.
The thought of being able to explore the drakenoid cenarion’s nethersides - both behind and below - had Antelarion on his hoofs in a flash. It wasn’t far to his darkened home at the forest’s edge, the journey made faster by the eager clasp of their hands, their bodies.
Sensing his son still asleep, Antelarion led them to the opposite wing of the living-wood house, past pale windows, past kal’dorei weaves, to the double-doored bedroom at the far end. It was as dark as the rest of the house, save for moonlight streaming through the sheer violet drapes over the balcony exit.
A wave at the wisplights had the room alight with their soft blue glow. Hematite tugged, insistently, towards the wide, low bed grown from the far wall. They fell upon it together, limbs tangling, each hungrier than the other. The dragon wrestled himself behind Antelarion first, hands spread wide across the keeper’s bare, muscular back.
“I am going to breed you until this world ends.” Still mouthing at the light-purple skin of Antelarion’s neck, Hematite continued. “For the next ten thousand years,” he breathed, sliding his length underneath the Wildlord’s heavy sac and grinding between his legs. The dragon gripped his upper body close, needy, insistent, yet somehow still conveying dark intent regardless. “If you escape to the Dream, I will follow you there and breed you again. Your mouth, your belly, your ass - all will forever carry the taste of my seed.”
The feel of the powerful male thrusting against him was a heady elixir, awakening an urge the keeper hadn’t felt since entering the Dark Portal. “You forget, dragon,” the Wildlord growled, eyes glowing green. “You’re in my Weald.”
Vines shot out of the living wood around them, wrapping about Hemathion from the walls, from the bedframe, locking him in place. Antelarion rolled free and climbed atop him, planting his hooves firmly to either side of the dragon’s waist. “Big talk,” he taunted, thrusting meaningfully into the soft fur that covered Hematite’s heart-shaped rear. “And if the tables are turned?”
“Fuck me, then.”
Antelarion fumbled. He looked to Hemathion’s face, finding no sport or humor the dragon’s hungry glare. “Do it. Spill your cenarion seed inside me,” Hematite insisted, pushing the rim of his hole against the Wildlord’s thick, cenarion cock. “Maybe I’ll give you a whelp this time.”
The keeper could feel the heat, could feel the give of Hematite’s asshole. He was serious. He wanted Antelarion to fuck him, to leave his ass split and aching. The keeper trembled, biting back the urge to plunge into the hilt, just to hear the drakenoid scream. He gnawed at Hematite’s dusky-tan neck instead, stifling his groan. “You’re just as much of a whore as Silteon is,” Antelarion growled, dropping his weight onto the dragon.
Hemathion responded by arching his back, his mouth seeking the keeper’s while his hole tried to swallow the head of Antelarion’s manhood.
Releasing the vines, Antelarion drew the autumn-colored cenarion close, pressing every inch of bare flesh together that he could find, his cock stiff and ready, the body beneath him pliant, hungry, his partner… perfect.
In that moment, it really was a testament to Antelarion’s considerable will that he didn’t just slam home in the dragon’s inviting asshole, mount the black-flight male with the full intention of breaking him just as his sisters would break a captured drake.
He couldn’t do that though. Not with the drakenoid cenarion’s mouth on his, kissing so sweetly. Not with… responsibilities at hand...
His Dream-sense pinged and the keeper had them separated in a flash, rolling onto his belly to hide his erection just as Shade burst through the door, little hoofs clacking on the stone floor as he bounded over.
“Papa! I’m -,” he broke off, staring at the creature in bed beside his father.
Exhaling sharply through his nose, Antelarion sent a silent prayer of thanks to Elune for giving him the wisdom to catch things before they’d gone further. He’d… forgotten… the perils of having both fawn and lover under one roof.
He shifted, forcefully schooling his face into a gentle smile for the fawnling. “Hey sprout.” He threw out an arm for Shade to walk into, get the hesitant boy from out of the doorway. Antelarion gathered his son in his arms and lifted him to the space between himself and the dragon. To his credit, Shade did not shy away - though he did stay warily close to the Wildlord’s breast. “Do you know who this is?”
Shade stared hard at the dragon. “Hmm,” he hummed, his mind visibly churning. Hemathion said nothing, merely holding the child’s stare. “It’s the dragon from earlier.”
The black-flight male’s eyes glinted. “You can tell by my scent, can’t you,” he said, with a grin that was all fang.
Shade wrinkled his nose, but finally relaxed, settling his legs more comfortably beneath his belly. “It’s what Papa always smells like whenever he comes back from his walks in the Wood.”
Blessedly, the fawn was far too young to understand the flush that heated Antelarion’s face. Praise Elune he is not yet old enough to understand that meaning, the keeper thought to himself. Then he grimaced at that day in the future when his son would realize exactly what happened during his Raven’s Wood jaunts.
Hemathion had none of that shame, however, flashing Antelarion a triumphant grin before poking at the boy with talon-like hands. “You still don’t think I’m going to gobble you up?” he teased, having an unusual knack for finding each of Shade’s ticklish spots.
“Haha no!” Shade laughed, wriggling wildly. He tried to fight back, his little arms no match for Hemathion’s reach. “No!” He sprang to all fours, planting his forehoofs firmly on the coal-black fur of the dragon’s lower body. “I’ll gobble you up first!”
“We’ll see about that! Rawr!” Hemathion growled playfully, though the noise could never have come from anything truly cenarion. He muscled the fawnling down, continuing to snarl and growl and make other threatening noises until Shade stopped laughing long enough to let out a mighty “ROAR!” of his own.
Antelarion stayed out of it, content to simply be the buffer at the edge of the bed that kept the boy from falling off. He was doubly thankful for Hemathion’s turn at the roughhousing when the fawn launched a counterattack, pretending to breathe fire while kicking wildly at the dragon’s stag-like belly.
If he was truly honest with himself, the part of him that felt mollified by the sight of the black-flight male wincing at the blows was not small.
“Hey now,” Antelarion chided, scooping his son up and settling him down. He pretended he didn’t see Hemathion surreptitiously rubbing his bruised ribs. “Shade, his name is Hemathion.” The Wildlord paused. The second time he’d introduced them this day, though this time it carried far greater weight. “He’s… your other Papa.”
He held his breath as the fawn’s purple-gray brow furrowed, the boy’s soft, golden eyes looking intently at Hemathion’s face. After a moment, he simply asked, “Like how Noko and Aelerya have a daughter?”
“I -,” Antelarion began, but cut himself off. While not quite like the daughter Evergrove’s innkeeper shared with her wife, the reasoning was more or less the same. The keeper examined his son’s guileless face, amazed that such insight already came from one so young. “Yes. Exactly like that.”
Shade just nodded, remarkably sagely for a seven year-old. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Antelarion asked. “Don’t you have any questions?”
“No.” Shade, after seeing his father’s incredulous stare, added, “You already told me that if two people care about each other they make a baby!”
Ah. Yes. Some color crept back into his face. “Do you have any questions for Hemathion?” he said, his throat a little tight.
“No,” Shade stated again. But then he turned to the black-flight male and asked, “Am I going to be a dragon too?”
Hemathion’s blaze-red eyes flicked to Antelarion, who shook his head slightly. “No, Shade, not a big one. Not like me!” he growled, tickling the boy again. “But maybe you’ll get my roar, or be able to breathe some fire. We’ll have to practice it!”
“I can practice it! Look!” Shade inhaled and again breathed a bunch of very serious and very powerful, very deadly flames across both of them.
“So good, you’ll be a very dangerous dragon someday,” Hemathion praised, his deep, chthonic voice full of genuine warmth.
“Well then.” Antelarion shifted on the bed. He clasped his arms about the little fawn. “Did you come in here to sleep with me tonight?”
“Yes.”
“‘Cause you missed me?” he teased, squeezing.
“‘Cause ‘Tasha took the good blanket with the feathers in it.” Shade squirmed free, pulling the light mooncloth sheet over their lower bodies and burrowing deep against Hemathion’s belly. “This is better though, you’re really warm.” He looked to the dragon as he said it.
Covering a rueful grin, Antelarion rolled his stag-like hindquarter to face them. “He’s going to be with us for a while.”
“Really?” Shade looked to Hemathion for confirmation. The draconic cenarion hesitated, his red eyes flicking to Antelarion before he responded.
“Until you or your Papa get sick of me.”
Shade frowned, the expression revealing just a hint of the exact same fangs that peeked from Hemathion’s faux-elf mouth. “It’ll be confusing to call you both Papa.”
Stroking his son’s back, Antelarion’s golden eyes glinted. “We could call him Pappy.”
“No.” Hemathion pointedly refused to acknowledge the doofy grin on the keeper’s face, addressing Nightshade instead. “Don’t humans have a cutesy nickname for their fathers? Daddy?” He flashed Shade a toothy grin. “How about that?”
“Hmm,” Shade considered, relishing his chance to be the decision-maker. “Okay.” Before he flopped down against the pillows, he had a follow-up question; “Are you going to be ‘Tasha’s daddy too then?”
Hemathion looked questioningly to the keeper, who shrugged. “She’s practically an adult. She’s the human always hanging about Samia.”
“Oh, Natasha? I know her! I see your sister all the time! Yeah, I’ll be her daddy too.” Hemathion’s enthusiasm dimmed once he caught sight of the surprise - and obvious irritation - on Antelarion’s face. “But it’s really late for all of us. Why don’t we get some sleep!” he exclaimed, tugging the blanket up over the three of them and snuggling down against the pillows.
The keeper, however, was not so easily swayed. “‘All the time’?” he hissed.
Shade’s father was the picture of innocence, nestled close to the red-and-black colored fawnling, deep amongst Antelarion’s imported mageweave pillows. “Can’t talk now, we’re sleeping. Right, sprout?” he asked, keeping his eyes shut.
“Right. Papa go to sleep.” Shade, treacherous, guileless little fawn that he was, giggled when Hemathion nuzzled his pointed, elf-like ear, but quickly feel asleep. Volatile as it was, youth was always potent catalyst for the Dream.
Antelarion sat in silence, for a time, watching his son’s breast rise and fall, the black dragon’s brown, reasonably cenarion-seeming arm draped over it. A cursory extension of his lifesense found that Natasha had snuck back into her room, wrapped in a warm blanket and her dreams filled with excitement. When he checked the house-tree, its roots were deep, its lifeforce healthy. Evergrove, beyond its walls, thrummed just as cheerfully - bringing a deep sense of peace to the keeper’s breast. Antelarion came back to himself, glanced one last time at the two beside him, and waved a hand to extinguish the soft azure glow of the wisplights.
In the dark, it was suddenly obvious that the red slits peeking out from beneath Hemathion’s lashes were trained on him. Antelarion stared back, then - gently, so as not to jostle Nightshade - leaned over to plant a soft kiss on the dragon’s lips. “Tomorrow,” he promised. It was both threat and… hope for the future.
Notes:
You guys have no idea how much I wanted to add another sex scene there. I'm thinking about continuing with another series with these two, a sequel some years later. Let me know if there's any interest in that.

Lore bits!
- mageweave is a level 30ish tailoring material, reasonably fancy but not as special as mooncloth
- ogres and many of their ilk are descended from the Gronn, primal avatars of the earth
- for whatever reason, not many cenarions seem to have traveled to the Eastern Kingdoms. their knowledge of human and dwarven lands is limited to what their kal'dorei brethren return with.
- Darnassus is the night elf capital city
- 3
- 4
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A Pact of Earth and Life