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The blizzard had lasted days, grounding all air operations, and essentially putting all their efforts on hold. The Scourge would not be stopped by the weather, though, and the Ebon Blade did their best to keep up where their living allies could not. Thassarian stood at the entrance to the tent, staring out at what was little more than a wall of white as far as the eye could see, praying for it to give way. The Light would not heed one such as him, but perhaps it would find pity for its followers that dared brave the colds of Icecrown to face the greatest abomination and affront to its sanctity; the fallen prince, the embodiment of everything Arthas once stood against.
Thassarian briefly glanced down at his own hands, as pale as the snow beneath his feet. He was little better than Arthas, his body a literal shell of its former self, twisted by forces he didn’t understand. But at least he made the choice to stand for what is right.
He was blessed to have had that choice.
A faint outline began emerging through the unrelenting snowstorm, slowly solidifying into the form of an elf. The armour might have hidden his exact shape, but there was no mistaking those ears.
“Koltira,” Thassarian would’ve sighed, had he had any breath in his lungs.
“Missed me?” the elf gave him a toothy grin.
“You’ve been gone a while.”
They stepped into the tent, barely big enough for the two of them, but sufficient. They needed no sleep, or sustenance, at least not in the same sense their living allies did. With no bedroll or blankets there, the two of them just sat on the ground, a bit of fabric the only barrier between them and the elements.
“Got caught in the blizzard,” Koltira said matter-of-factly. “Took a while to trudge through the snow.” He then smirked. “You weren’t worried about me, were you?”
Thassarian rolled his eyes. “You’re an idiot, and you know it.”
“I do,” the elf laughed. “And I also know you were worried.”
A hand was laid on the man’s, heavy in its gauntlet. But that made no difference. Thassarian wouldn’t feel much of anything even if they touched. Death takes away everything one holds dear, in every sense of the word, including sensation. The cold of Icecrown didn’t bother the Ebon Blade because they could barely feel a thing, pain or pleasure. The only way for him to know that Koltira held his hand was to look at their fingers laced together.
There were so many comforts of his former life that Thassarian missed so very much. Food and drink, the warmth of a soft bed, and a person in it beside him.
“One of these days you’ll walk away and never come back,” he said, his voice breaking just a little. There was someone there beside him. A man he could hold and cuddle, with whom he could talk the long nights away. But a man he could never love fully; properly, like he’d want to.
Death took that from them, too.
“Or you’ll walk out and not come back,” Koltira said, leaning in a bit closer to the other man. “That scares me, too. I try not to think of it, you know? We need to focus on today and enjoy what we have while we have it.”
He looked so beautiful, darkened eyes shining with that one tiny spark of hope left in him. His words were absolutely correct. They both lost everything once already, with Koltira’s demise being brought on by Thassarian’s own hand. Perhaps that was the moment their fates got bound together.
It didn’t matter. Thassarian couldn’t care why it was; only that it was. He let the elf close the distance between them and press their lips together. The contact was barely noticeable, like the ghost of someone’s touch long after they’ve left, or a memory of a kiss from years ago. There would never be more between them, not of sensation, not of intimacy. Undeath simply didn’t allow for it.
Thassarian wrapped his arms around his partner, what little skin he could reach feeling rough and cold. There was no warmth after death, and – luckily – no tears.