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The Deceiver lay motionless among the rubble, not making a sound even as Velen knelt beside his twisted body. His wings had folded inward of their own accord, concealing his face and most of his form; after a moment of hesitation, Velen moved them aside with a careful touch. He held his breath, expecting retaliation. But the figure didn’t respond, save for an almost imperceptible whimper. By the Naaru, that face… once beautiful, soothing, it had undergone transformation and then torment until it was unrecognizable; cruel, sharp, scarred, scorched, and streaked with sickly-green blood from the battle that would be his last. It was jarring, seeing this once mighty being so small, so broken and vulnerable...
Suddenly, Kil’jaeden’s eyes shot open. The fel glow had dimmed within them, but the glint of panic in their pale depths was unmistakable as the demon’s chest heaved, drawing a breath for who-knew-what foul incantation—
He angled his face to the left, and his gaze locked with Velen’s. The Prophet steeled himself to endure the curses that would surely come his way, for his nemesis must be enraged by such a defeat, and he’d never been one to let grievances die...
“Is it over, then?”
Startled by the simplicity of the question, how entirely devoid of malevolence the voice was, Velen stared at the fallen demon, at a complete loss for words. But Kil’jaeden’s gaze didn’t waver, and the Prophet forced himself to speak.
“Yes, Kil’jaeden. The Burning Legion has fallen. Your armies have been dismantled by the servants of the Light. You were warned of this all those years ago. You ignored the signs, and so this fate has come to pass. Justice has prevailed. You... you have lost.”
“So I have.” The Deceiver’s cold eyes never left his enemy’s face, and Velen struggled to remain equally stoic.
Eventually, Kil’jaeden turned his head away, his expression inscrutable. He muttered something under his breath, too quietly for Velen to hear. Frowning, the Prophet leaned forward, to which the demon merely barked out a short, harsh laugh.
“It doesn’t matter, Velen. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does. N...nothing...” His tattered wings shuddered like snapped branches in a gale, and his voice gave way to a hacking cough as he struggled for air. Velen sat silently through it all, his face expressionless even as his heart ached with nearly every emotion it could feel.
~~~
Kil’jaeden could only hope that oblivion would claim him soon. The agony in his body and soul was incomparable. His fall had been a scene straight out of a nightmare, but no ill dream (of which he’d had plenty, courtesy of his master) could compare. In those, he’d never reached the ground. Nor did he have to face Velen in such a way. That face, so familiar, so close, and yet so distant, so beyond reach...
Gloating? That he could deal with, infuriating and horrifying though it was in dreams. But this quiet disappointment rattled his composure, as, he realized with a pang, it always had. One way or another, whether he’d reacted in anger, fear, or... or...
Finally, his pained coughs subsided. For a long moment, he lay in silence, allowing his thoughts to settle into relative coherency and calm before he spoke, hoarse and whispery.
“How long did you rehearse that speech?”
Velen blinked, tilting his head to the side. “I... didn’t. I knew the words would come as I needed them.”
Dear Velen, so full of hope… and to think Kil’jaeden had decried *him* for lack of faith?
He chuckled bitterly, more to himself than anything. “So willing to trust fate, the very thing that tore us apart.”
“Fate?” Velen’s blue eyes hardened. “Fate never did a thing. We forged our own paths, yours in the blood of innocents. *Millions* of them, Deceiver. Was that fate? Was your insane crusade against your former people, those you swore to protect, mere *fate*?” His voice lost its edge, and he sighed. “We each made our choices, and here are the consequences.”
His voice was firm, resolute, but even now, Velen didn’t gloat; it suddenly struck Kil’jaeden that his once-friend’s pain ran as deep as, if not deeper than, his own. He would have made an exceptional father, Kil’jaeden thought sardonically, but his heart grew heavy at the notion.
The demon stared into those wise, stubborn, beautiful eyes, and he shattered.
“Fate didn’t tear us apart...” he murmured. As Velen raised an eyebrow in inquiry, he went on. “The one time I put my faith in something greater than my own wit, it tore us apart, and the cosmos with us. I let Sargeras into my head, and now, he’s torn *me* apart.”
Velen opened his mouth as if to speak, but Kil’jaeden hadn’t finished.
“Do you know what the fel does to a person, Velen?” His voice grew softer. “It’s seductive, alluring, at first... but it’s a chaotic, cruel force. That much you likely know. But... to experience such power firsthand is an entirely different thing. It amplifies the evil and inverts the good in your soul, twists whatever it can to create havoc within you. Ambition becomes power-lust, doubt becomes paranoia, justice becomes rage, idealism becomes blindness, and love...” He caught himself, his throat constricting. Should he...? Now, now or never again, he thought. But it doesn’t matter.
“Love becomes obsession.”
Velen sighed and leaned back, gazing at some point in the distance. “So a part of you still cared, then.”
“More than anything.”
“Hm.” He sighed, his solemn eyes resting once more on Kil’jaeden’s face. “Decei—Kil’jaeden, I loved you too, you know. It broke my heart, knowing that I had to leave you, knowing what you would become. You were as a brother to me, but—“
“Velen, do you still not understand?” Kil’jaeden’s vision began to fade, and terror and grief welled in his failing heart. “You were EVERYTHING to me. Not by blood, nor by shared office or alliance, but something deeper. You were always there, always faithful, always striving for the truth no matter the cost. You were my light when there was none to be found, my universal constant, the truest joy I’d ever known.
“I hid what I felt out of fear of losing you, but... I lost you anyway. Lost my very soul. And not a day went by, not a second of sanity unconsumed by fel-hatred where I didn’t wonder, where did I go wrong, what could have been different, what if I’d only listened and been listened to, wh-what if...”
There was so much to say, and so little time... and oblivion was approaching swifter than he could have imagined.
~~~
Velen sat silent as the being once known as the Deceiver spoke his heart for the first time. But the moment soon ended, his voice giving way to a low, unintelligible rasp. His chest heaved as green-tinged blood trickled from his lips. As the Prophet looked on, his face stiff and shocked, Kil’jaeden slowly lifted a clawed, trembling hand.
“Please...”
The word was barely audible, and Velen shivered, for it echoed in both his ears and his thoughts. How... it had been eons since their minds had last touched. But this close to each other, in such a weighty and desperate time... somehow.
Somehow, their bond had swept back into place, and with it every bit of fear and hate, every memory, all the burning love that Kil’jaeden had quelled for so long flooded Velen’s heart and mind, leaving tears on his face and a tremor in his limbs. Stunned by the sheer force, the sheer passion, he watched the demon’s life replay itself, from their times on Argus together, the things they’d discovered, the enemies and backstabbers they’d exposed, the dark and light times they’d faced side by side, and the moment he’d realized the depth of his affections, caught within the grip of a plague, watching his beloved walk among the ill without fear.
And then... it all fell apart. He felt the turmoil as the Dark Titan appeared in the memory, claiming him as a servant, and for the first time, there was apprehension. Indecision. And then complete and utter devastation as he realized it was too late to go back on his doubts, and that his only hope for sanity was to destroy all that remained of his fatal desire. Years and years of memories, hellfire and destruction, countless worlds, countless lives obliterated. All rushing through Velen at once, along with all the guilt the Deceiver had pushed aside in service of the power that fueled and dominated him. And through it all, a repeated mantra, filled with desperation, growing weaker as the seconds dragged on... I’m sorry, so, so sorry, this was all my fault, and how can anyone, even you, the kindest soul I’ve ever known, forgive this? I’m sorry…
Sorry... sorry...
The Prophet took the hand of his oldest enemy, his oldest friend, and found it cold.