I am Clarimonde, the firstborn of my father, Aaron De Nemesio. That would have been tolerable enough, I suppose, had the second born of my father been male. But there was no other, no male heir for the line that had served Lordaeron for generations, only me. And I was hardly a fitting holder for such a name, born small, pale, easily overlooked. Obviously the only answer was that I make as prestigious a match as possible, bring my father a son in law to rival the spirit of a son never born. So it was, when I hit fourteen, that my would be suitors started showing up, and I learned a harsh lesson. Nobility of blood did not necessarily guarantee nobility of a man. So many grand names…it was heartening on some level, that the men that bore them were as poor in quality as I was. But I wanted more. Why settle for these, when I felt I could have better? There had to be better out there.
"Another gone?" My father questioned when I saw one away, and I dropped my eyes to the floor. This had gone on a year, and his patience grew thin. "Clarimonde." He breathed, and I steeled myself for the coming confrontation, running through my options like fingerlings ran through a net. There had to be someone else, someone… better.
"He is scrawny. Weedy." I noted slowly. "I am scrawny, weedy. Bad for the line."
My father shifted uneasily in his chair. He had problems rebutting arguments so obviously true. "We are running out of options, Clarimonde. Who else is there?"
A name leapt into my mind, and I considered it cautiously. It could bring trouble, but it could bring salvation, or at least a stay… "Arthas." I stated, amazed at the level calm of my own voice.
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and I was surprised he didn't laugh immediately. "Arthas?" He questioned slowly. "Arthas….Menethil?"
"I know of no other." I agreed, passing to the window and staring out of it. Night spread from the shadows of the trees outside, an eerie and disturbing sight, but my mind was on my father not such childish fancies.
"Prince Arthas Menethil?" His voice was still steady, and it still lacked derision. Maybe I was on to something here? I did not bother to reply…obviously there was only one Arthas Menethil. The prince. "The boy is promised." He mused, and I tilted my head. My mother ate rumors like a pig slopped at a trough. She told me he was promised… but not committed.
"As a wiser soul than myself noted once, such promises mean little to a young man." Those were my father's own words, the words his warning to not let those young men who courted me to become too friendly without a priest and a ring. "She is merely an admiral's daughter, fine for now…"
He moved to the window beside me, but his gaze was not trained outside, but on my face. "You'd go so far?" He asked, leaning against the casement. "You'd push for Arthas?" Me, Queen of Lordaeron…. It was a laughable idea, except that he wasn't laughing. For the first time, he was listening to me. Considering me. I wasn't a joke.
"It would be worth the try." Rumors told me Arthas was fair to the eye. Told me he was close to my age, not some decrepit specimen hoping to stave off death by getting children on me.
My father rested a hand on my shoulder, silent. "Arthas Menethil." He finally breathed, and I knew I had him then. All the others would go away. I had fixed the idea in his mind, and now, only the king's son would be good enough. I only prayed that I would agree.
"Proudmoore's daughter has gone to training." He mused thoughtfully, "In Dalaran."
I raised a brow. Dalaran was far, and trained only one thing…mages. Such training was intensive, great in depth and scope, if she had any talent for it. She could be gone for years… "And the prince?"
