Work Text:
As Ralathor's sight returned after the blinding flash of light and the wretchedly painful screams of the vaporizing Deathknights subsided, the submarine commander sat up from where he was on the floor of the control room -- or at least, what remained of it. What the deathknights hadn't ransacked after the submarine crashed from the skies had been destroyed in the explosion of the missiles of nuclear justice, leaving little more than rubble in place of the D.S.S. Hootsforce's main command center. Above, the roof had been completely blown to shreds, allowing in rays of sunlight that were perverted by the ash and filth hanging in the air.
Had Ralathor not been very familiar with the layout of the room before, he would have never been able to guess what had been where now. He himself had not gotten through unaffected, either; he was simply far less affected by comparison. His hat had gotten blown off of his head at some point, and the odor that hung in the still air told him that at least some of his hair had been singed. His uniform was a bit frayed and charred as well, and his arms were completely devoid of any little hairs. On the other hand, at least he was mostly unharmed and certainly not vaporized.
As he shifted to turn and look around, a sharp pain in his side made itself known. He took a sharp breath before looking down and noticing a tear in his uniform, the fabric stained and sticky.
Right, he almost forgot about that one minor inconvenience. It hadn't exactly been at the forefront of his mind with everything else that had happened, and thankfully it hadn't seemed to hit any vitals given that he was still alive. He looked to his surroundings, pressing one hand against the wound. Seeing nothing else that was suitable, he grabbed a shawl off the corpse of a partially vaporized deathknight, leaving only a crumbling skeleton. He shook off the ashes from it and then proceeded to address his wound as best as he could in his current conditions.
He was just finishing up his very shoddy attempts at personal first aid when a noise, a groan, broke the eerie silence. He tensed up, scanning his surroundings with narrowed eyes. When he heard it again, he frowned. It was not a good sign, if someone else were left alive other than him.
He gritted his teeth and pulled himself to his feet carefully, almost stumbling but managing to maintain his balance. Once he was upright and stable, he checked the band of magical sigils around his wrist, making sure all of the magical barriers protecting him from the nuclear waste and radiation were working properly. Satisfied, he pulled his sleeve back over his wrist.
When a third groan broke the veil of unnatural silence, Ralathor decided it was better to be armed as a precaution. He picked a blade from the ground, wiping glowing gunk and smears of blood (that may have been his own, he wasn't sure) off of it before flipping it in his hand and giving it a swing, testing the balance. He was no swordsmaster, but it was better than not having a weapon at all.
Sword in hand, he set off to find the source of the groans.
Not that it took long -- he only took about seven steps before he found it. In the corner of the wreckage of the submarine control room was a half-decayed body, undoubtedly in excruciating pain yet somehow still alive. Ralathor tightened his grip on the sword's handle as he approached, knowing better than to allow himself to be lulled into a false sense of security. His steps were certain, even if he himself was not.
The half-decayed figure shifted, as if registering the sound of his footsteps. The person -- if you could call such a horrible existence by that name -- coughed violently once, twice. Each cough shook the entire withered form, and for a moment it looked as if the movement would cause the figure to collapse to ash. Such would have been a kinder fate. On the third cough, some blood was spat out, landing on the toes of Ralathor's boots.
When the coughing finally subsided, the figure went still, and Ralathor almost thought they had been claimed by the mercy of death. Alas, such was not the case, for a moment later, the figure shifted, partially destroyed face looking up to the hermit. Dark blue eyes, almost dark purple, stared directly into Ralathor's wise grey ones, clouded with approaching death and yet clearer than they had been in a long time.
"Ralathor..." the figure rasped out, not looking away.
"Proletius," Ralathor said in acknowledgement, his voice not betraying any potential emotion.
"He..." The knight began, but his next words were cut off by another coughing fit that resulted in more blood, which Ralathor sidestepped this time.
"I know what he did." Ralathor stepped closer once the coughing subsided. He attached the sword he held to his belt by the handle and, against his better judgement, crouched down next to what remained of the knight's body.
"No one... they won't forgive me..." the knight rasped out.
Ralathor kept silent. He knew better than to offer false hope, even at one's deathbed, and especially if the person in question would not have appreciated the false hope anyway.
"Thank you," the knight continued raspily, not seeming to care about Ralathor's lack of response, "for stopping me..."
"I did what I saw was necessary," the hermit muttered. He did not want to speak loudly -- to do so felt wrong, surrounded by death.
The knight's emaciated face pulled into what may have once been a smile but more resembled a terrible grimace. "Stop him... you must... before..."
"He will not make another suffer again," Ralathor said simply.
The knight did not speak in response. Ralathor would have believed him dead had it not been for the pained breaths and the shockingly clear gaze that refused to leave Ralathor's. The submarine commander wished he could have saved his old friend; alas, to do so would require far better circumstances and risked a far worse fate.
Perhaps in another dimension, things would have gone differently.
Ralathor leaned forward, leaning one hand on the ground to stabilize himself while he reached out with the other. "Farewell, old friend," he whispered, resting his palm against Proletius's blistered forehead.
Proletius closed his eyes, and a wisp of magical energy from Ralathor's hand ensured that it was for the last time.
The submarine commander lingered for a moment before standing up. If he had his hat still, he would have taken it off as a sign of respect. Instead, he settled for doing a Crailan knightly salute, along with a bow. Afterwards, he lingered only a second longer before turning away and leaving.
In the distance, the ancient volcano rumbled. The battle was not yet won; the quest was not yet complete.