Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Below them, the united forces of Azeroth swarm the blackened wasteland surrounding the Black Temple. Weapons collide in a sound like ringing bells, rising all the way up to the crown of the temple. Anticipation prickles under Kael'thas' skin as it occurs to him that the bells toll for them.

The Illidari are preparing to move out, one last, desperate effort to strike a meaningful blow against the Legion. They chatter as they wait, low voices half-covered by the anticipatory flutter of their wings. The air hums with their combined fel energy and a wordless eagerness for battle. As soon as their master gives the word they will be gone, fighting harder and faster than they ever have to come back to him in time.

They will not make it in time. All know it; all will try anyway.

Kael’thas watches them in silence. It’s taking all of his concentration to keep the anxious thoughts at bay: he can feel himself start to fidget whenever he allows his mind to wander. His fingers twitch around flickering flames, an old habit that has long ceased to offer any real respite from the overwhelming stress. The fire flashes green just a second before a tall shadow falls over him; he snuffs it out and turns to face Illidan.

“Is it time already?” He asks, smoothing his expression into something resembling neutrality. He knows perfectly well it wouldn’t hold to a closer inspection, and it won’t fool Illidan anyway. It’s impossible to hide the feedback loop of messy feelings running through their bond.

“Not yet. I need to talk to you first.”

Illidan reaches out a hand to brush against his face. This close, the magic under Illidan’s skin takes a presence of its own. Kael’thas breathes it in and allows it to settle over him like snow or ashes, heavy and quiet. He grips Illidan’s wrist; the soulmark there flares with heat at his touch. His eyes fall half closed as he tries to focus on the comforting feeling rather than the well-worn panic of a doomed fight

This battle is not about victory, or destroying their enemies, or saving themselves. It’s about nothing more than stalling for time in the hope that the Illidari will find a way to finish the fight.

(This morning, Kael’thas prepared for a battle he would not see the end of. It’s become shockingly easy, in the past few years, to be pleasantly surprised by his survival rather than expectant of it.)

“I need you to leave.”

His eyes snap open and he glares up at Illidan. Fire curls around his fingers and he tamps down on it before it can burn either of them.

“You what,” he hisses, caught between shock and anger. He digs his nail into Illidan’s hand as if his soulmate might rip it away and leave. As if Kael’thas would let him.

(Years ago he feared he wouldn’t be enough for Illidan. Feared to be pushed away, left behind in favor of grand plans and a greater purpose. Back then he would have let himself be cast aside. Now that he’s gone through countless losses at Illidan’s side, now that he’s fought for him and is ready to die with him, he only bites down and refuses to let go. He won’t be discarded so easily.)

“You lead the sin’dorei,” Illidan says softly. His voice sounds odd, strangled by some unknown weight, some emotion Kael’thas can’t quite make out. His side of the bond is always a chaotic mess of too much and picking out one particular feeling is impossible through the haze of anger-pain-fear-joy-bitterness. And yet, this is the most intelligible — the most stable — Illidan’s projection has been in months, if not years. The manic energy of a doomed crusade has been replaced with a calm that can only precede an inevitable death. “And there are still so many of your people here trying to flee to safety. They will be lost without you to guide them.”

“The sin’dorei have been doing just fine without me all this time. They don’t need me. You do.”

“I do,” Illidan agrees, even quieter than before. “And I can’t bear to lose you.”

The anger simmering in Kael’thas is set ablaze. He straightens to his full height, pointless as it may be when Illidan still towers over him, and his voice rings louder with righteous outrage. “But I can? How do you think I will feel when—” When you die and I can’t follow you burns his lips, but he refuses to give it voice.

Illidan lets his hand fall away from Kael'thas' face and twists it in Kael'thas' grasp to tangle their fingers together instead.

“Awful, I expect. Yet, I believe you are stronger and braver than I could ever become, and of the two of us you are the one who could make it through this and come out fighting.”

“The one too spiteful not to bring them all down with me, you mean.”

Chuckling slightly, a small broken noise of a laugh, Illidan leans down until their foreheads touch, careful of his horns. His other hand cards through Kael'thas' hair in an attempt at comfort that Kael’thas can’t bear to resist. “This war won’t stop with my death and the Illidari will need a banner to rally under. I want it to be yours.”

“You idiot,” he whispers, low enough it might be to himself — about himself, for the way he feels himself giving in. “What is the point of fighting if you won’t even see us win?”

That gives Illidan pause, before a small, sad smile comes to his lips. “One of us must live for there to be a victory at all. Better you than me, who does not know what I would do with myself were I to see this war end.”

There’s so much anger boiling in Kael’thas, so much powerless rage and grief, it feels like drowning in dry air. He takes a deep breath through the knot in his throat and smells ashes and sweat, the bitterness of fel magic and the faint metallic tang of blood, with something else under it that’s entirely Illidan. The awareness that it might be the last time he smells it is like a knife between his ribs.

If he had any crying left in him, he’d probably be a bawling mess now. He’s watered too many graves with his tears, though, and his eyes burn but stay dry. Crying hasn’t gotten him anywhere since he was a child begging for sweets in-between meals.

One last steadying breath and he looks up. He buries his hand in Illidan’s long hair, pulls him forward into a searing kiss. Words tangle together behind his teeth, too many of them to voice, all too heavy with feelings to be told with so many Illidari around and death at their doors. Instead he tries to express all of it through this one last kiss, over too soon.

There will never be enough time in the universe to say farewell to his soulmate, but today they are running out of it faster than ever. Already the soldiers of the Alliance and the Horde are climbing the Black Temple, ready to put an end to the Betrayer.

Still they linger even as they pull away from each other, sharing the same air for the last time.

“I don’t want you to be alone,” Kael’thas admits. The ‘when you die’ goes unsaid but not unheard.

“I won’t be. I carry you with me, always.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I love you.” Unable to stop himself, Kael'thas' hand darts up to cradle Illidan’s face. “I will come back for you,” he swears, no matter how nonsensical the promise.

Illidan gives him a wan smile. “I know. I love you too. Now go.”

Finally, Kael’thas draws back. He turns before he can see Illidan’s grief the way he feels it through their bond. He can’t afford to doubt. Not now.

He has a duty; he’ll see it done.

He climbs down the stairs leading to the top of the Black Temple and rejoins his advisors. They were tasked with overseeing the troops defending the Temple. Then, before their enemies breach their walls, they are supposed to take all of the blood elves that are left and run: first to their outposts in Outland, then through the portal and back to Silvermoon.

They have been sending civilians and contractors back for months now, in slow, hard-to-notice groups. This will be the last exodus of their people away from this hopeless crusade.

Knowing their duty will see them away from the final battle, the advisors have already said their goodbyes to their prince. To say they’re surprised to see him would be an understatement.

Sanguinar is the first to speak. “Lord Sunstrider, what-”

“We’re moving out.”

“Sir?”

He grits his teeth. “Illidan gave me another mission, and I… cannot refuse it.”

They exchange worried looks then, as one, fall in line. All four know that Kael’thas would not leave Illidan’s side unless there was no other choice. They would not dream of doubting either his words or his motives in such a situation.

It’s no secret that the two are soulmates, and that Kael’thas would die a thousand deaths before he let himself be taken away from Illidan. The sin’dorei are a greedy bunch. Kael’thas is uniquely possessive on top of that: he would not easily relinquish the love he’s coveted for so long.

“Sanguinar, Thaladred, gather every sin’dorei left in the Temple on the—” He thinks about it for a second. “South side. We’ll take the Nagas’ way out. Capernian, Telonicus, send a message to everyone still out on assignments, tell them to meet us at the Outpost East of the portal. We’re going home. One way or another.”

They snap a salute. “Yes, my lord.”

“Rendezvous in thirty minutes. Move out.”

The four advisors disperse. Kael’thas waits for them to disappear down dark corridors before he breaks off towards his study at a run.

He gathers as much of his research as he can carry, all the notes he took of Illidan’s great plan and of his knowledge of the Legion. The rest he burns to the ground so no one else can get their hands on it. Fuck the Kirin Tor, who scorned his studies on fel until they became useful to them. They can have them if they give him back his tenure; until then the Silvermoon Academy will be well prepared. The sin’dorei will need that kind of advantage if they hope to leave behind the stigma of allying to the Betrayer—

Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t think about how the love of your life is ready to die alone so you can run home like a coward. Keep going.

Next stop is their room. Illidan has few possessions, the natural consequence of ten thousand years in prison and a life at war ever since. This time it’s a fortunate thing. Kael’thas can only take what little he can carry and the few trinkets he finds fit easily in his bag.

One of them is a message crystal set on a chain. The first Kael’thas enchanted successfully, though the magic was poorly set and worn down from use and time. He can’t help himself from activating it one more time.

Their voices still sound clear despite the deteriorating enchantment.

“What is it?”

“A new enchantment, supposed to record messages. More efficient than writing endless reports and sending them by birds, don’t you think?”

“Oh, so that’s what you’ve been working on lately. I… fail to see how you managed to set fire to so much of your laboratory with such a project.”

“Hush, you, this isn’t the point. This message is going to be saved in this thing forever. Isn’t there anything you want to say?”

“Hm… I can think of a few. I love you, for starter-”

“No, you sap— Information on the Legion, I don’t know, something useful for the future!”

“If I have my way, there will be no Legion in the future. Any other threat isn’t my problem.”

“Very confident of you. Anything of note, then?”

“Well. Kael’thas is beautiful and brilliant, and usually right about things so you should listen to what he has to say—”

“And if I’m not there either?”

“Then they’re out of luck.”

“… You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“I like to see you blush.”

“Wait— can you even see me blush?”

“I can feel it. You skin feels warmer, here—”

The message cuts then, the two of them going to fill their rare downtime with more pleasant activities than magical experiments.

Kael’thas puts the chain around his neck. The thirty minutes he gave his advisors are close to running out. Already he can hear the echoes of an army marching into the Temple and fighting against the guards that stand in its way. All those pointless deaths, only to stall for time. For the Illidari, for Illidan, and for him.

He will not see these sacrifices wasted.

It’s easy to avoid the opposing forces swarming the Black Temple when he’s lived there for the past six years and knows it inside and out. He could navigate the twisting corridors with his eyes closed, and without any of the magical echolocation demon hunters use. The real hardship is stopping himself from burning to a crisp any soldier he passes by. There’s no time for it and no point to the act. It would only put him and his people in jeopardy.

(It might help Illidan, in the end, but not enough that it would matter, and that is a pain more acute than any wound he’s suffered in the past: knowing whatever happens, he is powerless to stop it.)

Pushing forward, Kael’thas makes his way to the rendezvous point. The gathered blood elves watch him approach with worried eyes and tense shoulders. He squares his shoulders and walks through the crowd to rejoin his advisors. They part to let him pass; many bow their heads in respect and grief.

They love Illidan, too. They all do. Otherwise they wouldn’t be there, risking their life for him, staying until they have no choice but to run anymore.

“Messages have been sent,” Capernian says in a low voice once he’s in range. “They will meet us there.”

“Good. Are you ready for a portal?”

“Yes, as soon as we’re out.”

He turns to Thaladred and Sanguinar. “Everyone present and accounted for?”

The paladin nods with a grim smile. “We had to drag a few of the mages away from their warding, but yes. All here and accounted for.”

“Then we march.”

They make for a sad procession. Fate has made exiles of them once again, and the weight of it bears down heavily on the sin’dorei. It makes it more bearable that this time their destination is their ancestral home, broken as it may be, rather than some unknown wasteland that had for only saving grace the fact that it was far for the Scourge. But only just.

To Kael’thas, there will be no homecoming. There will only be more grief.

“How long until we’re clear for a portal?” Thaladred asks. “They’re getting tired, I think.”

A little more, Kael’thas means to say. They will be like sitting ducks once the portal is up since they can’t all go through it at once. It’s better if they’re far from any enemy forces. But when he opens his mouth to tell him—

What comes out is a keening sound that bypasses all conscious thought and comes to break on the barrier of his teeth into a wretched sob. A pain unlike any other tears through his chest. His legs give out under him. He’s distantly aware of Thaladred surging forward to catch him before he hits the ground; none of it is felt through the incorporeal torture. His sight goes blurry, his hazy and numb. He thinks he hears words, muffled as if heard through water, but voices overlap into a cacophony he cannot hope to make out.

It hurts, the blade through his chest, and he’s so cold as the blood leaves his body—

The soulbond alights like a fuse and it shrieks, shrill like tearing metal until it reaches a fever pitch, and then it snaps—

If Kael’thas had any breath left he thinks he’d be screaming, too.

When he comes back to himself, he’s kneeling on the ground with Thaladred hovering above him, not quite touching. His whole body shakes, wracked with sobs, shivering from pain. It’s all-encompassing, all-consuming. He can’t think through how much it hurts. It feels like dying.

Maybe he is.

(Some part of him manages, through the fog, to be glad that at least Illidan is not entirely alone in his last moments.)

Slowly, so slow it’s a torture, the pain dims until it’s no longer a pyre but embers, smoldering between his ribs. Irrationally, he tries to hold on to it, those last remnants of Illidan’s presence, but he can only watch it ebb away like a tidal wave.

By then he aches all over. His bones feel brittle like charred wood, likely to snap at the slightest application of pressure. His cheeks are wet with tears and he tastes blood from biting his tongue. He drags in a shuddering breath and closes his eyes. Without the pain all he feels is empty, a loneliness the like of which he’s never experienced, a lack so acute it takes a physical presence of its own.

It’s an absence, in the way losing his heart would be an absence; an aching void where something vital used to be. Something he would never have thought he could live without.

“My lord?”

His next breath feels a little easier. Not easy, but easier.

(He’s gotten so used to the pain.)

Sighing, he gets to his feet. No one dares to touch him to help him up.

Gathering his wits, Kael’thas pushes away the grief that threatens to overwhelm him and holds on to determination out of sheer spite. He rubs his face, draws to his full height, and grits out,

“Lord Illidan is dead.”

By the dumbfounded look Telonicus throws at him, they had guessed as much. The announcement makes it more real, though, and it sends a wave of worried whispers through the crowd at their backs.

“What do we do now?” Capernian asks.

“What we’ve always done. We survive.” He digs his nails into his wrist. His soulmark is covered, but he knows that if he were to push back his sleeve the familiar words would still be there, faded and colorless like an old scar. The wound in his heart still feels fresh. “Let’s push forward.”

He takes one stumbling step forward. Then another, more assured.

After a moment of hesitation, they follow.

Chapter Text

Kael’thas is welcomed back into Silvermoon like a hero rather than a traitor. The surviving sin’dorei trailing after him are exhausted, beaten and bruised, but their faces light up when they sight the spires of their beloved city. The portal that led them here closes with a whisper of magic and Capernian stumbles, caught at the last second by Telonicus.

Welcome home.

The shambling procession breaks apart as soon as it crosses the threshold of their capital. The wounded are taken to healers for triage; weary soldiers disperse through the streets to rejoin dearly missed family and friends. A rare few stand, unmoving, staring blindly at the familiar land they have made themselves strangers to.

Kael’thas is among them, although his numb stupefaction is short-lived. No emotion seems able to stick to his mind. They all slip into nothing on the mirror-smooth surface of overwhelming loss. He has yet to realize the enormity of what he has lost. It’s too fresh, too terrible a thought to bear, and he intends to let his momentum carry him as far as it will before he has to face the reality of—

(If he stops, if he thinks about it, he’ll collapse.)

There is still much to do. He’ll gladly take the respite while it lasts.

In the riot of sound and movement of this ramshackle army’s homecoming, it takes Kael’thas a long moment to blink himself out of a tired daze and notice the crimson-clad figure cutting through the crowd.

Rommath is on him before Kael’thas has fully marshaled his thoughts into order through the fatigue. His face is unreadable under his cowl, but his eyes betray his concern. Communication out of Outlands was difficult in the last few months and Rommath has heard little from them besides a warning of their arrival, a mere handful of hours before.

Kael’thas knows him well enough to notice the way his eyes dart down to Kael'thas' wrist and then to his eyes and read it as a silent question — how are you holding up?

(He wants to answer: I can still feel it like a phantom limb. It hangs off him as a barbed hook without a line, a severed connection that leads to nothing but mindless, incomprehensible pain.)

Rommath expects no real answer, though, and it’s easier for Kael’thas to give none, instead inviting his friend to come along with a tilt of his head as he walks past. Rommath falls into step with him while the four advisors trail after them. They could have left, the same as the rest of their forces, but habitual loyalty has them following him instead. Kael’thas appreciates their silent support more than he can say.

His feet carry him through the streets towards Sunfury Spire. They have not changed much since he last came by, a lifetime ago. Walls were rebuilt, streets were cleaned and paved anew. Irrationally, he expects some trace of blood to linger, a stigma upon every part of the city as clear and as cursed as the Dead Scar that bisects it.

Silvermoon, though wounded, is healing. It has healed while he was away, while he only comes back with more pain and more scars than he left with.

Rommath glances at him out of the corner of his eye. Silently, he rests his hand on Kael'thas' shoulders.

No one has dared to touch him since—

(As if he would break apart at the slightest touch.)

(He might.)

Kael’thas freezes, caught between wanting to lean into the touch and cringing from it. He stumbles a step and Rommath takes his hand away with a near-silent, thoughtful noise. He makes no further comment, though. Rommath is not prone to kindness, but let it never be said he cannot be merciful.

The rows of guards flanking the bridge to the palace straighten at parade rest at their approach, and the metallic echo of their shifting armor follows Kael’thas all the way into the throne room. Lor’themar and Halduron are already there — they kneel in unison. Relief is clear in the set of Lor’themar’s shoulders, like a great weight has just been lifted off of it. Part of Kael’thas echoes with sympathy.

A kingdom is such a burden to bear.

Try as he might, Kael’thas has never borne the weight of responsibility gracefully. He only accepted the tenure of a professorial seat at the Kirin Tor because it was convenient for his research, and never did more teaching than strictly required; he gratefully gave up the position for a seat on the council instead. His royal title was much the same. A fashion accessory; power to be wielded in service of his own desires, opening what few doors remained locked to an Archmage and funding his every project.

Once a distant, looming threat to his easy going life, the duty of being a king crashed over him with all the sudden violence of the Scourge. This, more than Garithos’ crazed vendetta, is what he was fleeing when he left Azeroth; what kept him in Outlands through it all.

He loves Illidan, and would have fought for him either way. Had Kael’thas been a better man and a better heir, he would have done so from Silvermoon instead of chaining himself to a years-long military campaign doomed to fail from the start. But that would have meant sacrificing what little time they had together to instead shoulder the even greater burden of leading a fractured people, and Kael’thas has never been the self-sacrificial sort.

Until now.

Six years in Outlands taking more and more responsibilities upon himself in the hope of lightening Illidan’s load changed him; who would have thought?

Absently gesturing at his lieutenants to rise, Kael’thas stares at the throne. Where he must sit.

Where his father used to sit.

As a kid he used to sneak into the room and clamber up into Anestarian’s lap while he was holding court. If the king wanted him off he’d have to sentence someone to playtime with the crown prince; usually the duty fell to a long-suffering guard who’d then have to spend the whole day carrying Kael’thas on their shoulders while he ordered them around.

Never again will he get to bother his father with his childish antics. He never thought he’d miss it. He’s been so obsessed with being respected, all these years at the Kirin Tor, so eager to leave his royal lineage behind. So sure in his knowledge that he had all the time in the world. Now he’d give anything to be allowed to be a brat just one more day.

To see his father just one more time.

So much has been taken from him — and in such a short span of time, after centuries of life. First his father, then his homeland, and now his lover and friend. It feels like too much loss for one body. It should be too much. And yet his body endures, when his mind barely can. Every time Kael’thas feels like he can take no more, his body takes another step forward, stubbornly refusing to crumble. What reason does he have to keep going? He’s lost all he had to lose —

No, not everything. Silvermoon still stands; the sin’dorei still live; and Rommath, the only family he has left, is still at his side. It must be enough.

“Kael’thas,” the man in question says, foregoing decorum for concern. “You don’t have to do this now.”

“No, no, you’re right. I should clean up first.” He willfully ignores Rommath’s true meaning and turns on his heels. He nods to his advisors. “You are free to go. Rest up. You’ve earned your break.”

“And you haven’t?” Rommath says, in a low tone meant for him alone, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes to slit.

If he takes a break, he will break. He would tell Rommath as much but voicing the thought would give it too much power. Denial and momentum are all he has to keep himself together.

The most he allows himself is a bath. Being a fire mage, he never had to give up hot water — but the spacious tub, floral soaps and infinite time to soak are luxuries he had nearly forgotten about. It makes him feel both relieved and guilty, a sick mix of feelings that even then struggle to pierce through the overwhelming numbness of grief. He washes himself, watching the water turn gray and red from dirt and blood until it clears and the sight of his own naked body has him getting out of the bath.

He dons the royal robes he’d long abandoned in favor of garments more fitting of an archmage, for teacher and battle both. Putting on the many layers of the outfit proves to be more of a challenge than he expected. The weight he’s lost in the years since he last had to put them on cannot entirely be blamed for it: they never did fit right, despite being tailored to his exact measurements.

Looking into the mirror, Kael’thas can scarcely see the sin’dorei prince in the reflection looking back at him. His eyes are too haunted, his face gaunt from hunger and stress. He looks, he thinks, a fair bit like his father.

War and loss have hollowed him out, and yet he fills the royal garments better than he ever could before.

He’s no longer Prince Kael’thas, the kind of man who would spend hours taking care of his hair to present a pristine image of himself to the court, to the Kirin Tor, to whoever he was courting or trying to impress at the time. He misses that man a little, truth be told. But he can no more go back than he can continue to be General Sunstrider, subordinate to Illidan alone, giving up food, sleep and personal grooming in favor of the war effort.

He’ll have to become someone else once again. King Kael'thas; hero of his people and savior of none.

This change will require a coronation, the appointment of a new council — Light, they need to revoke martial law, reinstate the Convocation of Silvermoon — there’s so much work to be done still. And Kael’thas hasn’t even figured out if he can sit on the throne without crying yet.

One thing after the other.

(He can, it turns out. It takes some effort, but he manages.)

Sitting on the throne feels like the end of an era without the beginning of a new one in sight. It’s like he’s hanging above a deep chasm, and gravity is only waiting for him to realize that he should be falling before it pulls him to his death. Just in case, he refuses to look down.

Forward momentum. It can’t catch up to him if he keeps moving.

“Theron,” he says, leaning his head on his hand and trying to find his bearings again. He’s been away for too long, if he can neither recognize himself nor the place of his birth. At least he won’t be going anywhere for a while; he has time to get used to it again. “I understand we left Outland before your latest reports could reach me. Would you mind repeating it?”

Lor’themar nods. “Of course, my lord. First of all, I must tell you that House Azurevale has entered a feud with House Grimane, and both have expressed a desire to see you take a side—”

He has a nice voice, Kael’thas muses. Easy to listen to. Kael’thas lets it wash over him and tries to focus on what he’s saying rather than the events that preceded his arrival to Silvermoon. It all seems so trivial, now, House disputes and political games.

It won’t stay that way for long, he’s sure.

-

Instead of his father, as is tradition, it is a high priest who places the crown over his head. They name him King Kael’thas, first of his name — long may he reign.

He refused to have the ancestral Sunsider circlet reforged. They found it in the rubble of Silvermoon, near his father’s body, and it is still dotted with empty socket where inlaid gemstones used to sit. It somehow weighs heavier for it, not lighter, and his neck bows under its gravity. For a moment he thinks he will not be able to stand with it bearing down on his head; he’ll stay here forever, kneeling on the cold tiles surrounding the dead Sunwell until the sun itself goes out, nailed to the ground by a broken crown. The dead king of a dying people, ruling over nothing but darkness.

Kael’thas wishes, desperately, for a way to ease the tremendous burden of it.

He cannot; it weighs as it should.

Kael’thas rises to his feet.

Long live the King.

-

Every day, Kael’thas wakes up with tears on his cheeks and a crushing pain bearing down on his ribcage. Usually it only takes some cold water before he can push through it and go on with his day, ignoring everything that might get in his way.

He doesn’t need to linger on it. He never will.

Today, though, he sits on the edge of his bed and stares down at the crown he holds between shaking fingers.

It’s been cleaned, polished, enchanted anew, but it still feels as if there should be dried blood sticking to the edges of it, some kind of testament that Anestarian once wore it as his. That he lived and died a king.

Kael’thas would give everything to have him back for a single day. To ask him for advice, for forgiveness, to ask if he’s ever wanted to run away the way Kael’thas did.

He’s always hated the thought of seeing himself on the throne. It seemed like too much responsibility, back when he was still a teenager hungry for knowledge. Then it meant becoming beholden to something other than himself and his research. After, it meant leaving Illidan’s side: an equally abject concept. He’s been running away from this all his life. Even now that he knows there to be no other alternative, he wishes he could leave

But on the rare occasions he thought about it, back then, he knew it would be his father who would crown him as king. The act of bestowing the crown to the heir was something reserved to family, the previous sovereign formally ushering in a new age. In a people as long-lived as they are, the untimely passing of a monarch is a dark sign of the reign to come.

In a perfect world, he would have been made king by his father. In a less cruel world, it might have been Illidan: an unorthodox choice, but he would have been entitled to the role by virtue of their bond. It would have served as coronation and wedding both.

This isn’t a perfect or uncruel world, and Kael’thas doesn’t have any family left.

(He asked Rommath to do it in their stead; he refused. The coronation would serve as a formal adoption in the eyes of the sin’dorei, and Rommath balked at the thought of inheriting the throne in the event of Kael'thas' death.)

The crown is a reminder, in that way. Of all that he’s lost, and all he’ll never get back.

Of what he has left as well: his people, his duty.

(His people; scattered, decimated, desecrated, who he has failed in every way. His duty; made into a farce by his defeats, undermined by factions who see him as a traitor to Azeroth and Illidan’s Legion both. What a hand he has been dealt!)

Kael’thas puts the last of his royal outfit on. He lays the crown on his head. He is not one to pray, not anymore, but if he had to utter a single prayer it would be this:

Let this be enough.

And then he goes on, as he must.

-

“You did what?”

Kael’thas closes his hand in a fist and the flames threatening to flare unbidden burst in a bright shower of embers through his fingers. The magic settles uneasily under his skin, and when he turns towards Lor’themar his eyes are burning gold with it.

“Are you telling me—” Lor’themar opens his mouth to explain. Kael’thas glares him into silence once more. “Are you telling me that you’ve had the very soul of the Sunwell here, in Silvermoon, for months, and didn’t think to warn me?”

The young woman — Anveena, they called her — has nothing to show of her connection to the Well from what he saw of her. She is plain, human in every possible way, but Kael’thas can’t deny the way her very presence has his magical senses going haywire.

She feels like home in a way that makes his hackles rise.

“We thought it would be wiser to hide her existence,” the blue dragon says. He lifts his hands, placating, as he continues. “We feared you might act rashly, or that the Betrayer might learn of her existence and try to—”

It’s only Kalecgos’ status as a very important political ally and being of near-unfathomable magical might that keeps Kael’thas from trying to set him on fire on the spot. The air crackles with the build-up of energy.

Kalecgos is very lucky that Kael’thas is doing his utmost to not think about Illidan and whatever ghastly nickname they’ve given him. He thinks if he were to linger on it for even a second he would combust and take the whole city with him.

“They are my people,” he grits out, “My kingdom. If something as big as the Sunwell itself manifesting in Lordaeron happens, I want to know about it. I don’t care what you think is wiser. I thought I could trust you on this, Theron.”

He catches the smug glance Rommath throws at the former Regent. It must have been a long-standing argument, then. He knew there was tension between the two about Rommath’s apparently blind loyalty and Lor’themar caution toward the runaway prince, but that it would get in the way of telling him there’s hope for the Sunwell—

It’s worse than he thought. What else has he missed while he was away? How long is he going to be trying to mend all the bridges broken by his long absence?

“This is what I meant,” the dragon sighs, infuriatingly patronizing about the whole thing. “You’re too brash, Lord Kael’thas. We still don’t know what she can or cannot do for the Well—”

“It’s King Kael'thas to you, dragon.” He starts pacing, from one end of the Well to the other. He’s glad the girl isn’t here now but under Halduron’s watch instead. He wouldn’t want her to see him rip her protector apart with his bare hands. “And you’ve had her for months, haven’t you taken a second of this time to study how she came to be, how far her powers go?”

“She’s a human being, we can’t just—”

“I’m not asking you to torture her, for Light’s sake! But leaving her without supervision, capable of doing Light knows what and completely unaware of it— she’s a well of magic given form, not a mere human woman! Do you have any idea of the destruction she could have wrought if you hadn’t found her when you did? Of what she could still do now, even under our supervision?”

Lor’themar is brave enough to step in his path and stop him with a hand on his arm. Kael’thas takes a deep breath and very carefully doesn’t give in to the urge to burn his limb off at the wrist in retaliation. His saving grace is drawing away as soon as Kael’thas has stopped moving. Any longer and he might not have resisted the urge.

“My lord,” he says, “We were wrong not to warn you of her presence. I beg your pardon for my oversight.”

Kael’thas laughs sharply, joyless. “You ought to get on your knees and properly beg for my forgiveness. Do you have any idea of the danger you put us all in? Do you have any idea the kind of plans we have been fomenting as our people wither and die around us?”

Abducting a Naaru to fuel the Well had been a throwaway idea, born of exhaustion and fear… but how long would it have stayed that way? How long until hopelessness won?

Another breath. He tries to once again become the man he was at Illidan’s side — the level head to his soulmate’s recklessness. It’s a shame that he’s only ever been level-headed in comparison. Nowadays he feels more volatile than ever; he sees the way his advisors look at him and knows they’ve noticed, too.

He’s always been quick to anger and joy both. With the latter gouged out of him, he’s become as unstable as he used to accuse Illidan of being during their last months together.

(He has so far been pretty abysmal at not thinking about it.)

”This girl— This is the hope we have been looking for. Your kin is starving out there and you near doomed them with your oversight.” He had hoped Lor’themar would not hide anything from him for the sake of their people, if not his own, and is strangely disappointed of being proven wrong. He should have known better. “Do not make that mistake again.”

The former Regent has the decency to look properly chastised as he bows his head in mute ascent. To Rommath, Kael’thas adds, “I want the girl brought to our magisters as soon as you can arrange it. If there’s even a sliver of a possibility to restore the Sunwell through her, I want to know about it yesterday.”

“I want to be there too,” Kalecgos demands, squinting down at Kael’thas.

“Halduron can keep an eye on them, if you’re so scared they’ll try to cut her open.”

“I won’t leave her alone with—”

“You will, or the Dragon Queen will get nothing of you back save for your charred skull and a small pile of ashes,” Kael’thas hisses. If this jumped-up lizard thinks he can threaten him, he’s wrong. He’s faced down more terrible things than a dragon. “Rommath can tell you everything you need to know about the tests. That is final.”

-

(The Sunwell’s restoration is felt all through the land — a great pulse of magic that rolls over Quel’thalas like a wave and washes them clean, empty cups filled once more. Dead crystals light up; crumbled buildings struggle to rise off the ground once more; clear water pour out of dead fountains. The very ground beneath their feet heaves with a silent sigh. It feels like sunshine on their soul, the gentle warmth of spring after years of winter, the end of hunger; it feels like being reborn. There will be dancing in the streets tonight

“Was it worth it?” Kaelcgos asks.

They are standing in front of the Sunwell: him and Kael’thas, along with Rommath, Lor’themar, and Halduron. Five witnesses to the dead.

“One life for all of the sin’dorei’s? Yes — a thousand times over.”

If they must pave the way to the future with the bones of the sacrificed dead, then so be it. They have lost so many already, what’s one more? What makes her different from the Farstriders cut down in the field, from the civilians gutted in their beds, from Illidan hunted like a beast? A life is a life, and hers was given freely — few get this chance.

He will drink to Anveena’s sacrifice, but he will not regret it. He doesn’t think she would want him to.)

-

With their magical hunger at long last satiated, some of their strength restored, it does not take long for foreign leaders to turn their attention to the sin’dorei. Once wretches and parasites or demon sympathizers with easily-swayed loyalties, then have suddenly come potential allies. The quick turn would be funny if only it weren’t so frustrating.

The first to take that step is Thrall: considering the orc’s history, it ought not surprise Kael’thas. Neither should Sylvanas’ presence at his side: she has always been ambitious, with the cunning to match.

She looks at Silvermoon with an air of mingled disgust and envy, a ghost returning to her killing ground. If Thrall brought her on purpose, and he must have, it’s a good bet. They were never true friends, Kael’thas and her, but he had to deal with Sylvanas before and he likes her a great deal more than any other leader of the Horde. Not that this is saying much.

Still, it’s enough that Kael’thas leads them to his private study rather than hearing them out in the throne room, in plain view of the newly-gathered court. Part of it is basic hospitality reawakened by Sylvanas’ mere presence — she is still a sin’dorei, dead as she might be. Part is also due to the fact that he does not trust her not to snap and murder any courtier who would dare whisper gossip in her vicinity. He doubts undeath has mellowed her personality.

He sits them at a table, serves them tea, and he listens to Thrall’s offer quietly, knowing that he’ll have to say no.

It’s a shame. He seems decent — for an orc.

“I’m sorry,” he says once Thrall has run through his speech. “But I cannot accept.”

Sylvanas balks. “You would join the Alliance, after what they did to us?”

His lips quirk at the venom in her voice. “Light, no, who do you take me for? I am much too proud for that.” He shakes his head, sips his tea. It is good for the heart, according to the court physician. Kael'thas' heart needs much more than soothing tea, in his own humble opinion, but he’ll take what relief he can. “I hope to keep the sin’dorei a neutral force in these troubled times. Any other choice would hinder my goal.”

“Your goal?” Thrall asks, politely curious.

He wonders how much he can say without sounding like a doomsday prophet. He is one, in a way, but those are rarely listened to. “I’m sure it won’t surprise you to hear that the Legion is coming. Stopping it is my sole desire, and a faction war would exhaust resources that the sin’dorei simply do not have to spare.”

“You intend to fight alone?”

When he looks at her, Sylvanas has her head in her hand and is watching him with cold, calculating eyes. He shrugs and feels the familiar pull of old promises and new grief, like scar tissue.

“I would love nothing more than to unite the forces of Azeroth into one great army against the Legion, but—” His smile twists, bitter. “That seems unrealistic even to me.”

Neither contradict him. Neither the Horde nor the Alliance wants peace more than they do retribution; there’s too much bad blood there.

(If Kael’thas let that stop him, he would get nowhere. It’s unfortunate: he wishes dearly for the chance to tear the throat of anyone who had even the slightest hand to play in Illidan’s demise. Pity.)

The Horde delegation leaves soon after. Thrall has a thoughtful look on his face. Sylvanas, as usual, looks as if she might summon Sargeras here herself if only to spite him. He likes that about her: she keeps him on his toes.

And she’s a sure ally even if Thrall chooses not to fight. She’s selfish: as long as she has something to lose, she’ll fight to keep it.

-

When Varian comes to Silvermoon with an offer of alliance, he comes with Tyrande and Malfurion, and it takes every single etiquette lesson Kael’thas has ever received not to throw them out the second they step into his city.

He welcomes them from his throne and doesn’t snarl openly at the two kaldorei. It’s as polite as he can manage, currently.

Varian’s spiel is not noticeably longer than Thrall’s, but it’s made all that much of a drag to go through by the fact that it’s Varian saying it. Kael’thas has lost his patience for humans long ago. He can hold a grudge, it’s true, but rarely is it quite so justified as in the case of Stormwind.

Once he’s done, Kael’thas says, “I apologize, but I must refuse your offer.”

The human king takes it better than he expected him to. The two kaldorei delegates look downright relieved, which is a little insulting.

“May I ask why?”

“I’m hoping that, by staying neutral, I will have a chance to ask for your aid once the Legion is at our door.”

Tyrande quirks an eyebrow. “They will not be back quite so soon. Not after we defeated them once.”

“Yes, by way of Sundering the world. Very efficient.” He sighs, rubs his temple to alleviate his growing headache. “They will come. Whether it’s in my lifetime or yours, once they reach our world, we will die. Unless we fight as one, that is.”

“We’ve fought them since. You would be well placed to know, since you fought for them as well very nearly until the end.”

Kael'thas' grip on the throne tightens as her words register. Illidan: that’s the Legion she claims to have fought back against. He exhales slowly. His fingers twitch and he forces himself to stay still, stay calm—

“It is fortunate,” Malfurion notes, not altogether unkindly, “That you escaped the Legion’s clutches in time to avoid meeting the same fate as—”

“Do not speak his name. Not to me.”

Silence follows his outburst. The three envoys watch him with varying degrees of wariness and pity. Kael’thas breathes in slowly and smells smoke. He resists the urge to close his eyes as he tries to calm his heart and wills the burning emotions quiet again.

The ruin of a possible alliance isn’t worth the honor of a dead man.

(This is what Illidan asked him to do; this is his only way of keeping the memory of the man he loves alive. He will not mess it up. Not like this.)

“My apologies,” he says once he has himself under control once again. “The subject is still… sensitive.”

“It is I who must apologize. I should have known.”

Kael’thas waves Malfurion’s reply off like a bothersome fly. The druid has no idea what he is referring to, and Kael’thas does not care to enlighten him. He averts his eyes from the two (assassins) kaldorei, focusing on Varian’s quietly thoughtful face.

“You’ve heard the reason for my refusal. I hope you will keep it in mind in the future.” He rises from his seat and turns away from the small delegation — as rude of a dismissal as he can afford, and a petty slight he is all too happy for. “Lord Theron will guide you back to the portal room.”

They cross paths, Kael’thas on his way out and Lor’themar moving forward, already motioning the three Alliance leaders towards their exit. There’s concern in Lor’themar’s sole eye — whether it is for or about Kael’thas is hard to decipher. He stares straight ahead and pretends he is not shaking.

Chapter Text

Nothing stresses Kael’thas out quite like the precarious peace between the Horde and the Alliance. The ceasefire, born of a common goal more than true common ground, is too fragile. It won’t bear any strain, let alone the passage of time, yet Kael’thas has to rest the weight of all his expectations upon it. Nothing short of a true coalition will hold a chance against the Legion.

All he can do is hope that things will go on as they are.

The hunt for the Lich King helps on that front. A common enemy is the best equalizer there is. It will bring them together, strengthen them, and when the Legion comes they will be ready — if they do not fall apart in the meantime.

There’s little Kael’thas can do either way. He has handicapped himself by insisting upon remaining neutral: the factions would sooner sideline the sin’dorei than bother to deal with their uncertain loyalties. And with the losses of the Scourge still so recent, the sin’dorei have little to bring to the table anyway. He sends Halduron with the best of his Farstriders to help in the assault against Ice crown, but even that is almost more than they can afford when their borders are still so vulnerable.

It’s not a real impasse. There is still time to garner political goodwill. But it means that, while they are off fighting the man who destroyed his home, killed his father and nearly took his soulmate’s life, Kael’thas is stuck in Silvermoon.

He resents every second of it.

It’s a surprise to find that the one most sympathetic to Kael'thas' plight turns out to be Lor’themar. It shouldn’t: Light knows the man has been stuck with that very same position for years now. Still, the two have never been close, and Kael’thas is taken aback more than once as the two of them share a commiserating look over the head of some boring dignitary or petulant aristocrat.

He was concerned, at first, that Lor’themar would be reluctant to relinquish the authority he had gained in Kael'thas' long absence. Who would so easily step down in favor of an absentee king who had spent his entire reign fleeing his responsibilities, to the point of remaining uncrowned six years after he should have ascended to the throne? Learning about Anveena and the whole Sunwell situation felt like a sign of Lor’themar’s dissatisfaction, in that sense, rather than a mere miscommunication born from years where Lor'themar only answered to himself as de facto head of state.

(Rommath may have been on equal footing with Lor'themar as Kael'thas' liaison in Silvermoon, but one does not need to keep Rommath updated on anything. He is the Royal Spymaster, after all – has been since the previous one perished in the Scourges assault. He only lacks an official title because he has always refused to be formally instated, claiming it would only make his job harder to be known.)

He needn’t have worried.

The incident with Anveena only seemed to convince Lor’themar that he is worthy of his title. Perhaps he found reassurance in Kael'thas' protectiveness of the sin’dorei — he has always been a man of action, hasn’t he? Kael'thas' words about saving their people must have felt like empty promises in the face of the prince’s long absence.

If Kael’thas saw his ascension to the throne as a necessary and inevitable evil, Lor’themar clearly saw it as a liberation — he all but skipped out of the palace after the ceremony. Rommath had mentioned in letters that Lor’themar was discontent with a position that kept him away from the battlefield, but Kael’thas could never have imagined the extent of his dissatisfaction.

It’s a nice surprise to find an ally where Kael’thas had expected an obstacle. Rommath takes to responsibilities like a fish to water: he would have replaced Lor’themar as Regent by now if he wasn’t so pathologically allergic to speeches and public appearances. He’s sympathetic to Kael'thas' reluctance but he doesn’t get it; not like Lor’themar does. And if the latter finds a vengeful sort of joy in seeing Kael’thas struggle through the same duties he saddled Lor’themar with over half a decade ago, he has the graciousness not to show it.

Lor’themar doesn’t even seem bothered by the fact that he technically holds no title. As an invaluable advisor to the current king, he ought to have one, but Halduron Brightwing inherited his former position and it would be a colossal hassle to shuffle the hierarchy around to fit Lor’themar back into it. The man hasn’t been eager to raise the issue, and Kael’thas is content letting the matter lie if it makes Lor’themar more comfortable with the fact that he’s currently running half the country by virtue of having the most experience doing it out of anyone else.

Thinking about it, the king of the sin’dorei is technically also the head of the army, and he is on a journey to delegate as much of his power as he can before they head into war…

Historically, the position has been mostly ceremonial while someone else was chosen to lead the Sunfury into the field, although war-time kings such as Anasterian were known to take a more hands-on approach to military leadership. Kael’thas does not have that kind of time on his hands, though, not if he must focus on diplomacy to have a chance at uniting the forces of Azeroth against the Legion. The Sunfury will need someone wholly focused on leading them. Lor’themar would surely appreciate being made the first Sunfury General…

It’s something to think about — Kael’thas adds it to the mental pile.

The point is, Lor’themar has become someone Kael’thas would not hesitate to call a friend — one of the few he has.

It takes him months before he realizes Rommath shares that feeling.

It takes, to be precise, Rommath siding with Lor’themar over him during an argument over some petty matter of state finances before he notices a change in their relationship.

Rommath had always given Kael’thas the impression of, if not outright disliking Lor’themar, at least being highly critical of the man. He never had anything truly flattering to say about the then-Regent: the nicest thing he ever told Kael’thas about him was that he was “adequate”. After decades of acquaintance with the notoriously-prickly archmage, Kael’thas should have known better than to take such middling feedbacks at face value. From Rommath, “adequate” is a rigging endorsement.

It’s been so long since they were last together that he has forgotten many of Rommath’s tells.

No, not forgotten — how could he? He knows Rommath better than anyone else in the world. Better than he knew Illidan, truth be told; a different kind of knowledge, perhaps, less instinctual, born of decades living in each other’s pockets and being each other’s only true friend. He could lose his memory and most of his senses and still be able to understand the true meaning of Rommath’s words by the way he tilts his head when he speaks. It’s like muscle memory.

And yet he missed this. Why? Because being able to read Rommath better than anyone else doesn’t mean he’s always willing to. He was so trapped in his own misery, drowning in the fog of grief, that he let himself be blinded to signs that a past Kael’thas wouldn’t have missed in a million years.

He’s paying attention now, though, and what he sees is — enlightening.

Rommath doesn’t only value Lor’themar’s input: he actively seeks it out, turning to face the former Regent with an inquisitive tilt of his head that Lor’themar answers easily, reading Rommath’s silent questions on his face as easily as Kael’thas can. It stands to reason that any two people working together for years would reach some manner of mutual understanding, but archmages have worked with Rommath for half a century and barely managed to decipher a tenth of his wide lexicon of subtle facial expressions.

Perhaps Lor’themar is simply more perceptive, or more willing to try, than most. Or perhaps there’s more to it — and Kael’thas still knows Rommath well enough to notice when something is up with his friend.

Going by his wide-eyed expression, so is Lor’themar. He wasn’t aware of this subtlety of Rommath’s character: as far as he knew, the veneer of cold professionalism the Grand Magister affects was all there was to the man, and he wisely chose not to dig any further. Faced with the proof that not only there’s more lurking beneath the surface but it might actually be positive, Lor’themar can only gape.

He recovers his wits enough to say, “Thank you, Grand Magister.”

“Why?” Rommath asks absently, a note of irritation in his voice even as he skims through the papers in his lap.

“For agreeing with my proposition.”

Rommath glances up between the two of them. “Comparison works wonder to make you seem wiser.”

Kael’thas considers throwing an inkwell at his head but decides against it in the hope of preserving what little of his dignity and decorum he has left.

He brings it up to Halduron later, once the petty disagreement has been settled as well as can be and they are all free to walk away for a while. Lor’themar offered Rommath a friendly smile and invited him to spar, and Kael’thas was not surprised when his best friend said yes. He trailed after them, briefly distracted from the overwhelming workload of his duties by the novelty of Rommath sparring with anyone, let alone Lor’themar.

Halduron followed him out to the balcony overlooking the practice yard and settled next to him with the ease of someone used to such a spectacle, and Kael’thas found no reason not to ask — in his own way. He is not one to pry openly, although he is too curious now to be as subtle as he could be.

After all, he is the king. Isn’t it his right to know what goes on between his advisors?

“The way Rommath wrote about it, I would never have guessed the two of them to be this close,” he muses aloud, the question unsaid but clear enough.

And they are close. Rommath’s spellwork and Lor’themar’s weapons clash and weave between each other with practiced grace, the spar more of a game than true martial practice. They must do this often.

Halduron sighs. “They didn’t use to be,” he says with exaggerated aggravation, rolling his eyes as he leans against the railing. He gestures animatedly at the two figures as he talks. “Lor’themar would come and micro-manage my rangers just because Rommath had insinuated he might not know all there was to know about the way I do things. You’d think the man has never heard of delegation. He was Ranger-General before me, he knows this, and he still came and bothered me about guard rotations.”

“It must have been difficult,” Kael’thas says, only half mocking.

Halduron turns away from the spar so he can face Kael’thas. “It was,” he says. The sudden seriousness is a strange change in a man usually so laid-back. “That, and the stress of trying to put the kingdom back together...” and your absence, he is kind enough not to add, “It’s been a rough few years. It’s good to have you back.”

It’s a bitter kind of reassurance, with an edge of reproach Kael’thas isn’t sure he’s not projecting into Halduron’s voice. He offers no comment in return. Instead he lets his gaze wander to the sparring match below. Rommath looks more relaxed after a few minutes of friendly violence, and Lor’themar matches his attitude easily, putting a flair to his attacks that would have no place in a real fight but give Rommath the opportunity to show off. They work well together.

Too well, Kael’thas notes, the beginning of a suspicion forming in his mind.

“Tell me, Halduron, do you know what Theron’s soulmark is?”

If Halduron is surprised by the question, he doesn’t show it. “Hm, yes. He doesn’t make a secret of it.”

“What does it say?”

“You should ask him, if you’re truly curious.”

He nods absently and lets the subject drop.

For now.

When he does ask, the next time they’re alone together, Lor’themar frowns at the non sequitur but does not immediately wave it off. He’s come to expect Kael'thas' odd questions and is more patient than most in indulging them.

Besides, it’s not the first inquiry of this kind Kael’thas has made, late at night while they’re both working on the endless paperwork that appears to breed on their desks when they look away. You can take a mage out of the Kirin Tor, but you can’t take the inappropriate curiosity out of the mage.

“It’s on my neck,” Lor’themar says eventually, shrugging lightly. “Says ‘Ranger-General’. I suppose I must have missed them by now, unless you intend to give me back my old title.”

“You’ll have to take it up to Halduron, but I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you. I think he rather enjoys his current position.”

“Ah, yes, you’re right.” Lor’themar sighs, pensive, before continuing. “I tried for a long time to greet people in a unique way, in the hope that they would recognize their soulmark where mine was so… easy to miss. Nothing ever came of it though. Maybe mine only goes one way.” He doesn’t sound disappointed, only quietly resolute.

“One-way soul links are a lie invented by people trying to uphold an arranged marriage contract despite the discovery of one of the party’s soulmate,” Kael’thas says. He’s had time to research the matter extensively. “If you have one, it must go somewhere.”

Lor’themar hums quietly, noncommittal. It’s a while before he speaks again.

“What did— does yours say?” He sounds unsure, as if Kael’thas might refuse to answer.

He could. He wants to. But it wouldn’t make the pain any less real, any less acute. He might as well satisfy Lor’themar’s curiosity.

“It is an honor and a pleasure to meet you, Prince Kael'thas,” he repeats, not needing to glance down to the old scar. He smiles and knows it to be brittle, but the memory is more sweet than bitter even now. “His said I only wish we could have met in better circumstances. I suppose the way we met helped make them recognizable.”

“It must have been nice, meeting your soulmates then. Having one bright thing in dark times—” He stops himself, realizing he overstepped. “My apologies, I-”

“You’re right. It helped greatly.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“We all are.”

They fall quiet after that. Kael’thas aches, faintly; but, he notices, less than he expected to.

-

Kael’thas isn’t there when Arthas falls.

(He pleads, he argues, and he very nearly begs, but Rommath is adamant – they both know if Kael'thas goes to Ice Crown, he might never come back.)

He hears about it from Sylvanas, which surprises him, but not as much as finding her in his palace, pacing the length of the portal room. The banshee is wild-eyed, manic in a way he’s never seen her before. She’s scared. He’s never seen her scared like that before — is this what she looked like when Frostmourne cut her down, in the seconds between her death and her forced resurrection?

It’s an animal fear, of a quarry cornered after a long chase. But he’s dead — what’s left to be scared of?

“He’s gone,” she whispers, voice hoarse, lips twisted in something like a smile, teeth bared without joy “There’s still a Lich King, but Arthas— he’s gone.” Her terrified expression morphs into something fiercer, the kind of cruel satisfaction that fits her face better. “Dead and rotting in the mud where he belongs.”

Kael'thas' whole being yearns to see Arthas’ congealed blood spilling out of his miserable, shambling corpse, a pitiful reparation for the life debt he has accrued. His fingers curl in tight fists, nails digging into the palm of his hands. He folds them behind his back and tries to find it in himself to be a responsible monarch rather than a vindictive bastard.

He considers not saying anything. Sylvans will exhaust herself eventually; she always does. Yet it slips out before he can think it through, all too sincere for it:

"What now?"

(Arthas is dead; so is Illidan; the Legion is gone, for now at least. What else is there for him to do? For all of them, hunting hounds outliving the hunt?)

She twists, facing him. Her near-feral expression has smoothed out into unnatural calm, an intense seriousness twisted by the haunted look in her eyes.

Kael’thas has never put much thought into an afterlife. Thinking about death has never been a priority of his, even after the loss of Silvermoon. Before that, high elves did not die easily; what had been a distant, unlikely fate only became a terrifying yet impermanent one as the Scourge descended on the world. A state so easily attained and so quickly disturbed by the Lich King.

Illidan changed that, of course, as with so many other things. He still finds himself only half dreading it. A part of himself will always be a little bit dead, he thinks, and it's difficult to fear something you know so well.

He would have expected Sylvanas to feel the same, but there's fear here in her eyes, isn't there? He supposes when one has been deprived of that fate for so long, there's no helping it.

"What now indeed," she muses. It sounds as if she has forgotten Kael'thas is standing in the room with her.

He watches her leave and wonders what she saw on the day she died, during these brief seconds before Arthas pulled her soul back into his thrall. He wonders what she’s seen since to make her so afraid of what awaits beyond.

(Wonders, dimly, for curiosity’s sake, if what awaits him after his death could be worse than what he’s going through now.)

The news spread through Silvermoon like wildfire. The Lich King is dead. They are free. They are safe.

Standing at his balcony, watching the streets fill with people as they celebrate the final death of their greatest enemy, Kael’thas feels—

Empty.

He'll have to consider a speech in the next few days. Memorials. Celebrations. All distant, vague responsibilities hovering at the back of his mind. For now, though, Arthas is dead. His people are avenged. The world is finally safe from the undead Scourge.

One more victory Illidan will never see, and one more battle Kael’thas wasn’t a part of.

(He tires of sitting every war out for his own safety, of outliving all his duties.)

He fishes the messaging crystal from under his robes and turns it between his fingers, watching the dim glow of the spell suspended inside shift with the movement. It catches the light just right for a moment, revealing the fine runes engraved into the surface.

It held Illidan’s voice, once. Now it’s little more than a pretty bobble. He’s used it so much the enchantment is unraveling, losing bits of sound every time he activates it. Soon the recorded conversation will be corrupted beyond use, no more than glimpses of words drowned in arcane static. He longs to hear Illidan’s voice again but he can’t bring himself to risk the integrity of the recording any more. As if, once this last proof of his existence disappears, Illidan will be dead for good. The lack of his voice hurts, but not as much as the possibility of losing it for good.

There’s a saying— you die twice, once when you stop breathing and again when you’re forgotten, right? What if without this, without the pain to make him a living monument of Illidan’s impact on the world, he’ll forget? It would be like killing him again. He can’t bear the thought.

If his life’s one goal is to fulfill Illidan’s mission and to keep his memory alive, then so be it.

Kael’thas tucks the chain safely under his clothes and goes back to watching his people celebrate. Later, there will be more battles and more loss, but for now they are alive, and the Lich King is not. Is there any greater victory than this?

Kael'thas lifts his glass to the setting sun. With a wry smile, he mutters,

"A toast, then!" He's alone: no one answers but the echoes of joy below. "So long, you miserable bastard. I hope you rot in the deepest pit of hell."

The wine sparkles in the light. He downs it in one go, tasting none of it.

Chapter Text

Life goes on, mostly unchanged. Without the ever-present threat of the Scourge looming over them, the air in Silvermoon seems lighter; for the first time in a decade, the sin'dorei find themselves willing to hope.

Lor’themar and Rommath continue to dance around each other – often literally – and the Horde and Alliance continue to flirt with open war, not daring to fall back into old rivalries just yet.

(Kael’thas wonders, not for the first time, how Illidan could keep so many different people under his rule without them starting a civil war. Sheer charisma, probably. He regrets that he lacks this power.)

Seasons turn and time passes in a blur of treaty negotiations and bickering nobles. Kael'thas writes letters, refuses invitations to social events and steadfastly pretends there is a point to any of this.

Then one day he blinks down at his desk, eyes gritty with lack of sleep – he tries, but it simply doesn't come to him anymore – and finds familiar stationary staring back at him. An invitation to an engagement ball held by Lady Stargrove for her young daughter. An engagement party, perhaps: she's a little old to be a debutante. He clearly remembers discarding that very same letter earlier today.

"Rommath," he says, rubbing his stinging eyes before looking towards his friend. He doesn't elaborate. Rommath glances at him, then down at the letter, and huffs in acknowledgement.

"It would mean a great deal to Lady Stargrove if you would attend."

"I don't have the patience for those things anymore. Or the frivolity."

"Nonsense. You're still vain as hell, you just deny yourself any possible source of joy in some misguided attempt at martyrdom." Rommath lifts a hand before Kael'thas can talk back. They've argued about this before, at length: it usually ends in shouting and no progress ever gets made. Clearly he has a point to make today that excludes this well-worn debate. "This is a soulmate ball."

A soulmate ball – an event once held at least once a year, or whenever the child of a noble family would find their match. It’s the perfect occasion to flaunt one's bondmate or try to find them among the Silvermoon socialites. Kael'thas has only ever attended those as a single; the thought of doing so again is like a fist around his heart. Anger sparks in his throat, fingers tightening around his quill. Rommath is blunt, he knows this, but asking him to go to a soulmate ball–

"You will have to offer Lady Stargrove my most heartfelt apology," he grits out.

"Kael." Rommath leans into his space, forcing Kael'thas to look him in the eyes. "I am not asking to be cruel."

"Oh, fuck you, Rommath," Kael'thas snaps. "Being cruel is your favorite hobby. Why else would you–"

"Irenia Stargrove’s soulmate was a Farstrider.," Rommath cuts him off. "They met shortly before the invasion of Silvermoon."

Was. The past tense catches Kael’thas off guard, bringing his refusal to a screeching halt. The Farstriders are Silvermoon’s first line of defense: the Scourge decimated them. If they met just before the attack, then her soulmate must have died before they could be presented to high society as a bonded pair. That would explain the ball the Stargrove are throwing now.

"It would mean a great deal to Lady Stargrove if you attended," Rommath repeats meaningfully – softer, too. Careful.

Kael’thas purses his lips and runs his thumb over the barbs of his quill, thoughtful. Elven grief counts itself in decades, not years, and he has always been given to intense feelings; he would sooner fall on his sword than witness happily bonded pairs twirling around a ballroom like courting birds. Going to a ball meant for soulmates sounds like a particularly twisted sort of torture to subject himself to.

(It is, in part, why he hardly sees anyone but his advisors these days; the professional nature of their relationship means that there is little cause to hear about their personal entanglements. Curious as he is about the subject, he’s too much of a miserable, selfish bastard about it all to bear anything even remotely resembling a soulbond in his presence.)

Yet a part of him, painstakingly nurtured over the course of his time in Silvermoon, understands why Rommath is pushing him to do it.

He met Illidan in a very public way, in full view of their forces. Their relationship was hardly a secret and soldiers are unrepentant gossip: Kael’thas is under no illusion that most, if not all of his people are at least distantly aware that their king found and subsequently lost his soulmate. To make his first major outing at this funeral wake of a soulmate ball would send… some kind of message.

A humbling reminder of his mortality, perhaps. ‘I’m just like you’ was never something the Sunstrider dynasty strived to communicate to the people of Quel’thalas: Kael'thas' forebears carefully cultivated their air of aristocratic superiority, even over their actual political power.

‘I’ve lost as much as you all’ may come a little closer to the complicated truth. He hesitates to call it a boost to morale, but— there is comfort in knowing you are not alone in your struggle. Knowing that whoever is in charge knows, and every decision, no matter how cold-hearted, is made from a place of understanding.

Grief has made the sin’dorei insular and reluctant to turn to those who do not share their traumatic past. Had he chosen to join the Horde when it was offered to him, Kael’thas thinks this very same sentiment would have been the connection necessary to acclimate his people to the orcs. The Alliance was never an option: proud as they are, the blood elves would never have agreed to bend the knee for the very same people responsible for so many tears.

Loyalty is born in shared suffering, and they need loyalty more than ever if they want to keep the sin'dorei content with their current political vulnerability. As much as he'd like to hide and lick his wounds forever, Kael'thas cannot run from his duties anymore.

Besides, if the message must be sent, the announcement of grief officially made–

There would be no more dramatic way of doing it than this one.

"Light, fine. Hand me that inkwell. And quit looking so smug about it, I swear on the Well–"

.

Kael'thas' wardrobe, as it turns out, is tragically out of date. Fashion has moved on in his absence, quite dramatically at that; there’s nothing quite like great tragedy to change popular taste. The ostentatious colors and flowing fabrics of the past decade have given way to pale cloth, as is appropriate to wear in mourning. The fashionable silhouette has gotten tighter as well, sharper lines reminiscent of Farstrider uniforms.

One could easily attend a battle, a funeral and an evening at the opera in the same garments — which Kael’thas assumes is the general inspiration. The plunging necklines coming back in fashion at the same time offset this idea somewhat, though he wouldn’t put it beyond most blood elves to ride into battle with their cleavage on full display.

Looking down at the fashion illustrations the royal tailor brought along their many fabric samples, Kael’thas feels a stirring of an old passion in his chest.

He used to love this.

His former tailor, the one who outfitted him for every state function since he knew how to walk, died during the invasion, but the process is the same as ever. It’s a balancing act between current fashion and his own taste, which is somehow both too practical for formal events yet too flamboyant for most occasions.

First they must settle on a design — something trendy enough to be stylish, yet not so much that it feels uninspired. Then they move to the many samples of textile, every single one of which Kael’thas insists on feeling and closely observing, sometimes multiple times over, before he settles on one. His heart is usually set on the most gilded of the lot by his first pass, but he loathes to pass the opportunity to feel the luxurious feel of expensive velvet and silk under his fingers.

The measuring that comes next might be considered to be the most boring part of the process, for Kael’thas has little to no input in it and must stand very still lest he is pricked by countless needles. He knows better than to consider it such. Tailors are inveterate gossips, and he learned much of the goings-on of the court from those in charge of outfitting him for it.

Not only is this a beloved experience, but it’s one Kael’thas used to excel at. Moving through aristocratic society was like a dance to him; the capricious movements of courtly fashion and the games of appearances nothing more than steps in the dazzling choreography of courtly behavior. Though he has loved the study of magic far too much for far too long to truly immerse himself in politics, he is just as much of a socialite as any other young, noble-born sin’dorei. It’s a requirement for social survival. When one likes to be looked at and admired as much as he does, it comes effortlessly, as easy as breathing…

He’s changed since, but not so much that he cannot find enjoyment in it now.

“I think I like that one best,” he says, tapping a lacquered nail on the leftmost illustration.

It depicts a higher neckline than the rest, the cut very nearly conservative compared to the other styles presented to him. It’s nothing the court wouldn’t expect of him: a prince is always conscious of his most vital organs and dresses accordingly. Besides, there’s the suggestion of a gorgeous billowing train behind the sketched silhouette that he quite enjoys.

“Perhaps with some manner of chest or shoulder piece…”

The tailor gives him a considering look, as if visualizing the outfit in her mind’s eye. “What did you have in mind?”

“Something light, but capable of withstanding the thaumaturgic charge of heavyweight enchantments. In gold, I’d say.”

She nods along with her mouth set in a firm, thoughtful line “Your armor has become well known among the people,” she muses, flipping the page of sketches to scribble on its back. “Its lines would mesh well with the current fashion… Although whatever you wear is guaranteed to be all over town in a week’s time, of course. What do you think of lattice jewelry? Or perhaps a full parade armor… I’d have to talk to the armorer… Have you considered rings as well?”

For the first time in days, Kael’thas finds himself smiling and doesn’t think of any reason to stop.

-

Kael’thas has been taught that arriving fashionably late is a matter of courtesy. One doesn’t want to steal the show from the host, after all.

It proves to be a moot point tonight. Despite showing up a good half an hour after the time specified on the invitation, the sound of his name as announced by the seneschal silences the whole ballroom. The attention pivots to him so quickly he wonders if he shouldn't have hosted the evening himself and saved them all the trouble of pretending to be here for any other reason.

He stands atop the grand staircase and considers the gathered aristocrats as one would consider a battlefield. The air is heady with incense and perfumed burning oil, and so infused with magic that the smoke they emit has taken an opalescent sheen as it rises to the ceiling and escapes through the wide-open skylights. Kael'thas' senses, better accustomed to the thick smoke of war and foggy vapors of arcane, are overwhelmed by the multitude of scents.

A tall, lean woman steps up to him before he can cut his losses and make a run for it. He recognizes Lady Stargrove by her elaborate coiffure. She has been attending those parties longer than he’s been alive, and many of his memories feature the delightful sight of all those bells, beads and feathers weaved intricately into her knee-length hair.

She lowers into a bow exactly as low as his station requires. The meticulous precision is typical of the Stargrove matriarch and, he assumes, part of why Rommath thought it wise to recommend her as his reentry into society. Her firm hand and graceful manners are crucial to organizing this event and making sure he remains an ornament rather than a centerpiece in it.

He offers her his hand. She presses her forehead to it briefly, his rings kissing her skin. The spell engraved in them — a variant of Truesight — sparks faintly, and the glamor she wears ripples to reveal a burn scar at the edge of her hairline before settling once more.

The effect ought to be visible to him only. Still, she darts a knowing look through her lashes as she rises. A little paranoia is always wise in large gatherings: she likely keeps just as close of an eye on the magic happening all around her as he does, and felt the small tug of a single spell in the ambient tapestry of arcane.

“Your majesty. You honor us by your presence.”

“It is I who should thank you for your warm welcome.”

Lady Stargrove tilts her head in acknowledgement and moves on smoothly. “Allow me to introduce my daughter, Irenia.”

The woman who immediately steps out from the crowd is beautiful. An artist attempting to depict an ideal sin’dorei aristocrat would struggle to create a work as lovely as she is. Her hair, black as volcanic glass, has been braided with fine gold thread, and the pure white of her elaborate gown only further highlights the rich glow of her ebony-dark skin.

The eye cannot help but follow a loose path along the gilt woven through her curls, down the delicate slope of a sheer sleeve speckled with sparkling stones, to finally rest on the rings adorning her folded hands or perhaps climbing as far as to the diamond-encrusted necklace at her throat. Every piece, every jewel seems deliberately placed to amaze, dazzle, and distract from the sight of her face. The effect is so striking Kael’thas has to wonder if there is magic to it beyond basic misdirection.

It’s no wonder why. Her face is an artful display of worn misery: wan, aged beyond its years, outshined by the splendor of her own fineries. Seeing it is like being shaken out of a dream. The woman beneath the luster is weary and achingly young; it occurs to him that she is dressed like a dead woman herself, in blinding white and carrying many of her earthly riches.

Still, her curtsy is nothing short of perfect and the smile she affects seems genuine enough, if distant. Lady Stargrove raises her children for society the way others would train soldiers for war; nothing short of imminent death could ruin their composure.

He offers her his arm and, with a glance at her mother, Irene accepts it. It’s blatant favoritism on his part — he hasn’t greeted anybody else yet, not that he particularly wishes to. No more than his mere presence tonight: although this gathering is ostensibly a soulmate ball for all to enjoy, it’s obvious to all that it is only a thin excuse for Lady Stargrove to throw a party for her daughter’s sake. Kael’thas is familiar with such ploys: Rommath and Lor’themar have been applying similar tactics.

They are of a kind, the two of them, holding on to enduring, irrational grief when so many have made the choice to move on despite it all. Out of all the people here, he would much rather be a miserable sod with Irene than play at socialite with the rest of the court.

“It truly is a joy to have you among us,” she murmurs demurely.

“I only hope to live up to your expectations. I’ve lived among soldiers for far too long: I fear my manners have rusted.”

“It won’t be too terrible a loss.” Sotto voce, she adds, “We could certainly use the change of pace.”

“That I am sure I can provide.”

They share a private smile. Her eyes, softened with good humor, bring a terrible loveliness to her face.

Kael'thas' knowledge of soulmate balls is, admittedly, subpar. He never did pay much attention to them growing up, more concerned with his fleeting freedom and the ever-looming threat of coronation in his future. The concept of soulmates seemed frivolous and silly, a distant possibility that he needn’t trouble himself with, his time better spent chasing the epicurean joys of youth and wealth.

Whatever intricacies unique to these balls are lost to the memories of countless similar formal events, spent in a haze of alcohol and easy company. All he gets from digging through his memory is a whirlwind of glittering lights and glimpses of beautiful, unattached heirs just as eager as he was to ignore the distant promise of a soulbond, along with a vague feeling of nausea.

Needless to say he doesn’t intend to replicate the experience tonight. His alcohol tolerance is nowhere near what it used to be.

Thankfully it doesn’t seem that he’s expected to officiate anything tonight. Irene takes him on a wide circuit around the room and keeps him entertained with pleasant, inoffensive conversation. She makes the careful avoidance of any and all company besides each other look effortless, a courtesy rather than a slight to the other guests. Though a multitude of eyes follow their idle walk, they are left unbothered for now.

“It’s nearly time,” she muses. A note of dread weighs down her voice — or is it wistfulness?

“Time for what?”

She spares him a meaningful, almost pitying glance. “For the opening dance, of course.”

The opening dance, of course. How could he forget?

When one throws a soulmate ball, it is tradition to have newly-bonded pairs open the festivities. The grim impetus of this one — more wake than celebration — does not supersede this implicit rule. Kael’thas should have expected it, and yet—

It still hurts, is the thing. Knowing that he will never have the opportunity to do this with Illidan widens the tear in his heart. Always, he is reminded that he can never go back. The Kael’thas who could easily scorn tradition is dead, and the version of him that craves this connection to his people is forever cut off from it.

But what of Irene, he wonders? For all that he cannot partake in this ceremony, by all accounts neither can she. He has grown fond of her in the little time they have had together, and he feels unbearably selfish for forgetting her, wallowing in his own grief as if he is the only man in the world to ever have known pain.

As if answering his silent question, the young woman pulls away from his side to rejoin her mother at the center of the room. Irene takes her extended hand and doesn’t cringe away from the touch.

(He remembers Rommath reaching out. Rommath, saying you deny yourself any possible source of joy in some misguided attempt at martyrdom. Kael’thas, pushing him away— he’s not strong enough to be gentle in his grief, the way Irene seems to be.)

Shaking himself, he turns his focus away from his inner pity-party and back to the Stargroves. The crowd watches in shivering anticipation as the two women close their eyes and breathe as one. A hush falls over the room.

The silence feels sacred, and the slightest disturbance of it sacrilegious, until Kael’thas realizes the faint hum isn’t from chatter but the slow build up of strong magic. The enchanted lanterns flare, specks of light detaching from their flames and flowing to Lady Stargrove. She steps back, but the light stays, holding up her daughter’s hands. It morphs into a shape able to cradle them, with arms to draw her in and a face to gaze softly at hers.

Slowly, the haze of magic turns into the silhouette of a man.

Kael’thas watches, transfixed, as the golden effusion sharpens into the suggestion of a Farstrider uniform and a roguish smile. Only a fool wouldn’t recognize Irene’s soulmate solely from her stricken look as she lays her eyes upon him.

What a marvelous spell, he thinks distantly, grasping for academic curiosity to buoy him amid the maelstrom of hope-melancholy-amazement raging in his heart. Irene’s hand alights like a whisper in the grasp of her late soulmate. What a cruel and beautiful opportunity. To hold and be held one last time, to find solace in a projection as bright and fleeting as the memories from which it is born.

Petrified, he cannot make himself move until Lady Stargrove comes to stand at his shoulder. She gazes a moment longer at her spellbound daughter and mercifully allows him a moment to compose himself before she speaks.

“You were bound during the war, yes? We have not had the privilege of your company to one such ball since.”

Her meaning is clear, and highlighted by the other pairs he can see forming. Bursts of golden light follow a handful of mages around as they go from dancer to dancer, bespelling them a partner. It seems the first dance is reserved to broken couples, perhaps by sheer happenstance. The dead still vastly outnumber the living after all.

“Will you dance, your majesty?”

He has outlived loss. Perhaps, like his people, he might still outlive grief.

“Yes,” he says slowly. “I believe I shall.”

“Allow me—”

She gestures to his hands, as if asking for his permission to take them as she did her daughter’s.

Some things he is better off doing himself. “No need. A simple mirror projection, with a mnemonic enchantment to better mimic life, right?”

“Ah, yes, but—”

His mind is already drifting, though, and he doesn’t hear her. The warm, golden glow suggests Light magic, which is not his forte, but he has fire enough to make up for it—

Lines of runes burn in his mind’s eye, drafting the shape of an enchantment even as he begins casting the spell. Hands to chest level, palms to the ceiling; he visualizes strong arms, the graceful bend of a wrist, claws resting lightly over his pulse point. Thinks of the way Illidan felt close to him, the safety and the heat suffusing throughout his limbs all the way to his fingertips.

Illusions are simple spells at their core. The complexity comes from holding them together and making them tangible enough to have them pass for reality. This one draws from Kael'thas' memories more than his magical virtuosity, though there’s some of both, which makes it notably easier to render accuracy: he has a keen eye for details, as all mages do.

Fel has a heft to it, a gravitational pull that is difficult to imitate with more earthly magical energy. He tries his best to replicate the sensation of Illidan’s presence by breathing more arcane into his construct, and thinks the tug of his own magic as it’s drawn outside of his body is a decent substitute. He can almost feel the weight of it pooling in his palms, growing heavier by the second — shaping itself from a puddle to an ocean to two hands holding his.

He opens his eyes, and sees Illidan.

Illidan not as he died, all edges and jittery exhaustion, but Illidan as he remembers him — cocky, a little wild, with a sharp smile and gentle hands. He looks, most importantly, present. Less than life, more than a dream. The only thing that keeps Kael’thas from collapsing into a sobbing wreck at this moment — besides decorum — is that the illusion has a distinct look to it, like blown glass illuminated by inner sunlight, which is nothing like the real deal.

The falseness of it doesn’t matter. Kael’thas can squeeze his fingers and almost feel flesh give under his touch; he can, for a second, believe that he can have it all.

Lady Stargrove’s soft sound of surprise is lost in the swell of music from an unseen band. Somewhere to his right, at the heart of the commotion, Irene Stargrove steps into the first dance with her ghostly partner.

Kael’thas follows suit without ever taking his eyes from Illidan. This feels so much like a dream that he fears looking away would mean waking up. He doesn’t; instead, they dance.

By all means, it should be an awkward affair. His soulmate has always been significantly taller and broader than him, which would make for a poor dance partner. But they have fought side by side countless times before, and Kael’thas knows the way Illidan moves and how to crane his head so he can look at his face without giving himself a stiff neck.

Then, unexpectedly, the conjured ghost of Illidan bows his head to bring it at Kael'thas' eye-level. It’s not something his living counterpart would have done — as a blind man, he finds little need to look or be looked in the face during discussion, and the weight of his horns would be too much of a strain besides. This is entirely a fabrication of Kael'thas' subconscious as it controls the illusion, yet it feels… natural. Like something Illidan might have done, given the chance.

They spin to the tune of slow, romantic strings. Illidan lifts one ghostly wing, gracefully avoiding another couple. It’s pointless: it most likely would have gone right through them. While the parts of him in direct contact with Kael’thas feel nearly solid, like holding warm water, the rest of the illusion frays at the edge of his focus, wavering like a heat mirage. But again there’s something so alive about the display—

Illidan’s absurd shape among sin’dorei nobility, making use of all of the courteous charm he was taught in his youth… Surely this is how it might have played out, had Kael’thas gotten to introduce his soulmate to his court.

Were the illusion any different, any less sweet in its dream-like wishfulness, he would cry. As it is the sheer intensity of his longing leaves a taste of salt on his tongue, but he finds himself smiling anyway.

But isn’t that what this is all about? One last glimpse of a possible future forever snatched away from us. He cannot grieve Illidan’s death more than he already does; faced with that impossibility, he finds himself thankful instead, buoyed by some breathless joy that at least he may have this.

He may dance with Illidan, and spin until the whole world falls away and only the two of them remain.

Lamps turn into a field of stars in the corner of Kael'thas' eyes. The ebb and flow of the music carries them like a tide. He has had enough of the ghost in his memories. Let him have this to remember instead: the heady smell of incense, the way Illidan feels against him, the thousands of sensations stolen to time. Let him have these proofs of life alongside the reminders of death.

The dance comes to an end all too soon, but it must end eventually.

Dancers all shudder to a stop as the music fades into silence. Kael’thas imagines he’s not alone in feeling light-headed after this. He blinks, the world a haze of brightness and colors in which Illidan’s smile is a beacon of clarity. Foolishly, he thinks, Light, give me one more dance—

But his fingers close around Illidan’s hands and find them dissolving into nothing, slipping through his grasp like golden smoke that quickly dissipates in the glittering air.

Kael’thas is left bereft once again. He wavers drunkenly on his feet as the massive drain of magic hits him all at once.

He understands, now, why Lady Stargrove offered to cast the spell in his stead. He might very well have fallen on his face if it weren’t for her daughter slipping her arm through his. The tightness of her grip makes him think she is not so steady herself.

They stand there, two lonely souls among many others, and watch as the remnants of the illusory dancers rise through the skylights and into the night.

-

(Later that night, so late it is morning in fact, Kael’thas will stumble home and find Rommath waiting for him.

For the first time in years, he’ll collapse in his best friend's arms — and it’s unclear to either of them which he does first, laugh or cry.)

Chapter Text

Seeing Illidan again, or at least a simulacrum of him, felt like– absolution, of sort. Whether it is delusional or a sincere message from beyond the veil matters little: Kael'thas finds himself willing to be forgiven for the first time since losing Illidan, and he holds on to that self-clemency with both hands.

It's like seeing the sun rise after believing there would never be another dawn. If it sometimes feels more like crawling towards the next day on his hands and knees, at least he's moving.

He starts imagining a future for himself again. Rommath stops looking quite so anxious. For a while, things seem to be changing for the better.

Until a dragon Sunders the world.

Silvermoon doesn’t suffer the brunt of Deathwing’s attack – small mercies. Stormwind isn’t nearly as lucky. Kael’thas allows himself a second of selfish, cruel smugness before he starts making plans for emergency aid. Master stone workers to mend their ramparts, healers for their wounded… food, as well: he remembers what it was like to face burned fields and wonder how they will feed their people come winter. Food will most definitely be appreciated.

The display of friendship isn't born from empathy alone, though it does factor into it. Kael'thas hopes to see it repaid when the time comes to face the Legion.

It's a deliberate act of entrapment. Garrosh, of course, takes it as a betrayal.

He strides into Silvermoon like a warlord through a city already flying his banner. Kael'thas has a vivid daydream about snapping one of the palace standards off its hook and shoving it down the orc's throat as he rises out of his throne. His advisors settle at his back, hands on their respective weapons. He hopes, perhaps foolishly, that this is a diplomatic visit rather than an invasion.

“Warchief,” he greets coolly. He’s never liked Garrosh much, from what little he saw of him, and feels quite comforted in his first impression.

“Sunstrider. You know why I’m here.”

“I’m afraid I do not.”

“You sent supplies to the humans,” the orc spits. He rests a hand on his axe and bares his teeth in a joyless smile. “Supplies that would have better served us, I think.”

“Stormwind was half razed on by the dragon aspect of destruction. If it had been Orgrimmar in its place, it’s you the supplies would have been sent to. Let me repeat myself, since Thrall apparently neglected to inform you: Quel'thalas owes no one their allegiance and is free to offer aid to anyone struck by disaster, no matter their faction."

“Not anymore."

“I beg your pardon?”

Garrosh lets his axe hang at his side. Kael’thas has no doubt that it would be at his throat in a second were he to mispeak. Let him come: it's been too long since Kael'thas last had the opportunity to cremate someone.

“Bend the knee to the Horde,” the Warchief says – warning and order both. “Join us, or perish like the rest.”

Kael’thas thinks of all the blood elves in Dalaran, and all the blood elves here, in Silvermoon. Some at the mercy of the Alliance and others at the mercy of Garrosh’s forces gathered just outside their walls. All dependent on the goodwill of a few tyrants because of Kael'thas' insistence on independence.

He’s learned not to trust the mercy of humans. Orcs he's still unsure about. He takes a gamble.

"At the risk of disappointing you, I must decline this… gracious offer."

"So you choose death."

Garrosh brings a hand to the war horn at his side. Kael'thas is faster. He snaps out his wrist and Felo’melorn manifests in his open hand, wreathed in flames. They expand, curl into impossible shapes. Soon the ball of fire at his side shapes out into feathers and wings–

Al’ar, king of the phoenixes, bursts out of the flames and immediately takes a dive at Garrosh. The orc narrowly dodges the blade-sharp talons by jumping aside, and the tip of red-hot feathers leave a smoldering line across his pauldron. The phoenix lets out a screech and rises above them to circle the room, keeping a watchful eye on the warlord all the while.

“I have been patient with your disrespect, but I will not suffer threats," Kael’thas hisses. He takes one step towards Garrosh and embers ignite at his feet, dancing in his wake. “This is my last warning. Leave."

“You think you scare me?”

“You think you do? I've gutted demons four times larger than you are, Hellscream. Get out of my city before I show you how much better at butchering I've gotten since then.”

Wise perhaps for the first time in his life, Garrosh admits himself outnumbered, turns around and walks out of the Spire. He barely made it through the doors before Kael’thas whirls around and points at each of his advisors in turn.

“Talk to the mages. The rangers, too: we'll need scouts around the barrier, and lookouts further out in the country. Prepare the soldiers for an attack on the city – how many war machines have the engineers finished constructing? Go find out. Check the food stores as well: how long of a siege can we withstand?"

He takes a second to catch his breath and finds that, for all the danger of the situation, he isn't afraid. They are ready for this. He's made sure of it: Silvermoon will never be taken by surprise again. Garrosh's warning only gives them more time to strengthen their defenses.

Slower, he concludes, "From now on, we must operate under the assumption that an attack is imminent. Consider us at war and plan as such."

His advisors nod as one and run off to their assigned duties. None question his orders; they've learned to trust his abilities as a general, as he has learned to rely on their own.

This isn’t the war he was preparing for, but Kael'thas welcomes it anyway. This, he knows how to do.

-

Garrosh attempts to launch a few small offensives on Silvermoon, but his forces are spread thin between this and Ashenvale and the attacks are repelled with little to no casualties. They are enough to keep Kael'thas busy, though, and he finds himself more or less ignoring the cataclysmic dragon who threatens them all. He sends the help he can – mages from the College of Silvermoon, mostly – but keeps his personal investment to a minimum.

It’s so much harder, he realizes, to focus on the bigger picture when he’s so busy with the comparatively small duties of governance. Now he understands why Illidan left so much of the actual running of their armies to him and Vashj.

Not that Kael'thas has his particular talent for saving the world. He can only just keep his kingdom standing and his alliances tenuously alive; taking down a dragon aspect is outside of his purview.

(Everything would be easier if Illidan were here, he thinks, and pushes it down again, pushes past it, keeps going.)

Deathwing dies without his help. He feels very glad for it and very useless, too, but mostly he’s relieved to have survived another disaster, hunkered down in his city like a coward. The dragon aspects fell and the world was nearly broken to pieces, and he hates himself a little for being happy he wasn’t there when it all went down. His people are safe; the Alliance welcomes their aid, and most of the factions within the Horde have yet to cut the bridges that their Warchief has proven so eager to burn. So what if he hasn't brought the sword down on Deathwing himself? He's not so selfishly in pursuit of glory to not find satisfaction in their current state of affairs.

Kael’thas has become a bit of a coward about things that do not concern the Legion. He doesn’t think that is what Illidan envisioned when he told him to keep the fight going, but it's what keeps him going. For all that he's doing better now than he used to, there's still a part of him that believes everything he does is only in service of that distance, impossible goal. He'll prepare the world to face the Legion and burn them all to the ground; then maybe he can finally get some rest.

Whether that is through long-awaited acceptance of his personal losses or a grimmer and more finite sort of rest… Well, that remains to be seen.

He cannot keep the Alliance and the Horde from their petty conflicts any more than he can stop extinction events from narrowly passing them by. He is only one man at the head of a diminished, insular kingdom. The best he can do is to place his pawns, through trade deals and quiet alliances, and work at keeping them standing throughout it all until the Legion itself comes and knocks them off the board.

He comes to regret his passivity once Theramore falls.

-

Kael’thas stares unseeingly at the report on his desk.

He considers burning it. A vain attempt at forgetting the unforgivable. The words are already burned into his memory, circling in his mind.

A mana bomb set off by the Horde. Nothing left of the city but ruins. Next to no survivors.

An act of war – a crime of war. An atrocity.

Believing the only true threat posed to Azeroth was the Legion, Kael'thas realizes he became complacent. He could have killed Garrosh back then. Could have ripped the heart out of his chest and reduced it to ashes under the eyes of his guards. He would have been in his right, and so much senseless death could have been avoided.

Maybe, if he had, they wouldn’t be falling into another faction war that they absolutely cannot afford.

As often, Jaina and him are of a mind. When she comes to him, she carries accusations heavy on her lips.

She looks like death, covered in blood and ashes and Light knows what else. Wherever she has been, she hasn't taken care to wash, or to rest. Her face is only clean where tears have washed some of the grime away. She's not crying now. Her eyes are still red from weeping, but steel has replaced sorrow in her gaze. Her grief, having threatened to swallow her, has been honed to a deadly edge by her rage. She’s a storm in the shape of a woman: easier to weather her passage than try to fight against it.

She reminds Kael'thas of himself, not so long ago. Empathy, foolish and unwanted as it is, has him hearing her petition – though it's more of a threat.

“I heard Garrosh came here to threaten you.”

“He did.”

"You could have killed him then. You would have been in your right. Yet you didn't. Why?"

Her words are clipped, cold, her tone short and raw but not yet impatient. They were friends, once, and the soft memory of it has given her more patience than she grants most nowadays. Kael'thas is grateful for the time it grants him to think about his reply, and knows he shouldn't abuse it: they were friends, once, and even then her patience wore thin and quick. Maybe they would not be here had he made more of an effort to renew and nurture this relationship. She might have come to him for comfort then, not blame. But he could not imagine seeking the same from her when he might have needed it, back when he was in much the same situation as she is now, and focusing on his own loss made it easy to neglect other bonds.

He doesn’t think he'll ever get the chance again. There’s too much loss to be processed, too many souls to be avenged, too many wars to wage. She is lost to him as a friend and, if he's not very careful in the next few minutes, as an ally as well.

“I’ve heard the news,” he says, knowing it's no answer. He needs her to know that he shares her pain, that he’s not her enemy in this. “I’m sorry.”

The sound that comes out of her is as much rage as it is sheer misery. She’s always been so proud, and so empathetic; it breaks his heart a little to hear it.

“Are you really?” She says, soft like a threat. Her voice doesn't break. It has done that already, a long time ago (barely a few days. To her, an eternity) and hasn't healed yet. She hasn't let it.

“Yes. It’s a tragedy, and a tremendous waste of lives.”

“A waste.” She scoffs, quietly scornful. Her gaze sharpens, darting to the scorch mark on the tiled floor that he didn’t bother to clean up. The steel edge returns to her voice – not a threat yet, but it will be. "Why didn't you kill him, Kael'thas? You knew what he could do. How far he was willing to go."

It is also, he notes, a little pleading. Why didn't you make this right? You could have saved us all. He recognizes this too.

"I didn't know, Jaina, I swear. If you believe nothing else, at least believe that I am not that much of a fool." He's deflecting. She knows it, and it's irritating her, which he recognizes in turn. The thread of her patience, which is only a courtesy to him, is going to snap. His answer is complicated and incomplete – but it's all he has. "I would have liked to. In hindsight, I should have. But I had hope that the old war hawk would prove half as wise as Thrall had trusted him to be. Hope enough to stay my hand." And he feared alienating the Horde when he can see war of a different kind on the horizon, which he doesn't say. She's no fool herself: she knows, anyway.

Her face darkens. The air around her crackles like a winter morning, frost gathering over her skin. For a second he tastes the winter cold of her anger more acutely than he does the distant sulfur of the Legion. “You can’t keep playing both sides,” she strains out. “You should have known the day would come where you would have to make a choice."

“And when is that day coming?” he asks, though he already knows the answer. He’s almost hoping to gain some time to think of something clever to say, something that would get him out of this mess.

There’s nothing of course. Pacifying others was never his forte.

“It's come and gone, Kael. Standing on one side or the other won't cut it anymore. It's time you put your flames where your mouth is, before they do to you what you were content letting them do to us."

She swoops out of the room, trailing hoarfrost in her wake. Her parting words echo in the Jaina-shaped absence left behind: think of who you’d rather stand by when this war ends.

He doesn’t argue back to the empty room. He pushes himself away from the throne, steps through the door behind it, makes his way through empty corridors. The ring of his short heels on the tiles is answered by the silence of a thousand ghosts. A lonely broom sweeps past him, pursued by a cat swatting at the dust it raises in its wake.

It’s funny that Kael’thas barely notices it anymore — the emptiness, the ever-present magical constructs that make up the majority of the palace’s inhabitants. Most of the building has been closed off, and what rooms remain in use can be managed by domestic enchantments alone if needed. Very few of the previous staff returned to their work when Kael’thas did. He doesn’t have to wonder why. Rommath told him they were still finding bodies a year into the rebuilding effort, dead at their own hand in fear of the Scourge at their doors. There’s still red staining the grout between the tiles of a few dark corners; the echo of inflicted evil. The cats still thrive, more skittish than they used to be but more numerous: with no one to keep them in check, they’ve multiplied across the city.

That’s what gets him. He looks at this broom, the cat chasing after it, thinks about Jaina’s red-rimmed eyes and accusations. He thinks about the dungeons of Dalaran. He thinks about the mass pyre — even with so few bodies left to bury, there were too many for single ceremonies.

The veneer of calm shatters and a scream tears itself out of his throat. Kael’thas grabs the first thing in his reach — a decorative vase, of all things to have outlived them! — and throws it at the wall with all his strength. Shards of porcelain rain down with a sound like bells. The cat startles and flees while the broom sweeps on. A twist of Kael’thas wrist sets it alight. The dry arcane-infused wood burns to ashes in a matter of seconds. With a wordless yell, he turns and tears a tapestry off the wall, ripping the rich fabric in half even as sparks dance from his fingertips and catch on the frayed threads, flames burning blue and gold and purple from the magic they devour.

He wishes he could set fire to the whole building — to the whole city, the whole world, bring it all down on their head since that’s where they’re all heading anyway.

Tears sting his eyes, but he’s not sad and he’s not afraid. Kael’thas is furious. How dare she accuse him, how dare any of them demand anything of him. What have they lost, what have they sacrificed? What do they know of—

(Light, when did he start sounding so much like Illidan?)

The thought stops him in his tracks and shocks a laugh out of him. And he thought himself immune to the man’s effect… He should have known he was the most affected of all. Kael’thas glances at the remnants of the smoldering tapestry hanging from his clenched fist, the graceful sweep of an embroidered phoenix taking flight among a field of blackened thread. At least the artist probably did not live to see their work disrespected in such a manner.

Rommath finds him cackling wildly over his small carnage, which is better than finding him bawling but not by much.

“I take it Proudmoore’s visit did not go well,” he deadpans.

Kael’thas goes to wipe away the tears prickling at his eyes and blink in confusion when he finds his hand still burdened by that damn tapestry. It turns to smoke with a woosh and a flash of heat so bright it makes his eyes water anew.

“We’re all going to die,” he replies breathily.

“Well, it had to happen some time.”

“When the Legion comes—

“Which it might not,”

“When it comes, we won’t be ready, and it’ll crush us.”

He’s embarrassed to hear his hysterical hiccups morph into a sob. How is he meant to stop Sargeras from grinding the planet to dust if he couldn’t even stop a single mana bomb? Anger rises against, quickly quashed; how dare Illidan set him up to fail again? As if it’s his fault that Kael’thas can’t even do this right.

Rommath shrugs. He plays the stoic because that’s what’s expected of him, the straight man to Kael'thas' histrionics, but there's an aching awareness between the two of them of the deep, bone-chilling terror that they share. “Do you want a plan or do you want to drink yourself stupid tonight?”

“I have a plan already,” Kael’thas replies, so incredibly glad for his best friend it chokes him up a bit. “I’m sending you and Lor’themar to Pandaria. I want Garrosh’s head on a stake.”

“Alcohol it is, then.”

“What would I do without you?”

Rommath nudges shards of pottery aside and gestures Kael’thas forward. “Luckily for you, you’ll never have to figure that out.”

Chapter Text

Jaina’s visit shifted something in him, or broke it. Kael’thas isn’t one to subscribe to ideas so trite as ‘broken things heal stronger’, but when the rage cools down — only into a simmer — he finds a new resolve left in its wake. In all fairness, it’s mostly spite, but it proves a steadier driving force than loss or love.

With his advisors gone hunting in Pandaria, Kael’thas plans as if war were already at their door. He calls every favor he’s owed preemptively. Goblin cartels, rich from royal artifacts sold to fund rebuilding efforts; Naga found through Vashj’s contacts and offered shelter in Quel’thalas’ waters; Sin’dorei spies in every major capital, Rommath’s or Sylvanas’, it doesn’t matter. The Dark Lady may inspire loyalty, but when the chips come down they’re all loyal to him.

He makes them swear, one after the other, in business contracts, oaths and blood, whichever will bind them best: when the war comes, they’ll answer the call. There will be no hiding, no fleeing blighted lands or joining the enemy. He might not be able to kill Garrosh or even guarantee there will be a planet left to protect when the Legion comes, but he can do this much.

(And if he runs himself ragged the same way he berated Illidan for doing, well. Guess they had more of an influence on each other than previously thought. It worked for Illidan; he’s hoping that with enough enthusiasm and blind faith in the cause, it might work for him as well.)

His spies bring him worrying and fascinating reports from Pandaria, and little word from anywhere else. The silence worries him more than the alternative: with tensions brewing across the continents, there’s no way things are as quiet as his network would have him believe. He doesn’t have Rommath’s innate sense for deception, his ability to see underneath the underneath. His mind, brilliant as it is, can only guess at the true meaning behind cold words in cold ink. Either he’s being lied to… Or something is going on behind the scene with them none the wiser.

The first report of it never reaches him. The second comes blood-stained.

A burglering of Dalaran by the Horde, the Sunreavers complicit— it doesn’t take seeing the stains on the page to imagine Jaina on the warpath. He would love to join her himself, find the traitors who would dare risk their precious and precarious neutrality in such a harebrained scheme, but he cannot. Jaina will have the streets run red if he doesn’t act. Already he finds the next letter coming with tales of Sunreavers facing off against the forces deployed to arrest them.

(He remembers the dungeons of Dalaran — he will not see any of his kind trapped in them again.)

Caution demands that he dispatches one of his advisors. Rommath and Lor’themar are gone but never out of reach of a portal; Halduron, busy as he is, could find time. The others, left from the campaign in Outlands, would jump at the opportunity to do something more for the kingdom.

But he trusts none of them as much as himself.

He has spent more years in the Violet Citadel than away from it, though that gap is closing quickly. Each corridor has echoed with the sound of his footsteps; each protective ward has been strengthened by his own magic at some point. He knows Dalaran and the city knows him. It’s no hardship to find the weak points that naturally appear in such intricate spellwork, the frayed edges where two enchantments overlap, and unravel just enough of it that he can teleport inside the hold without creating so much as a ripple in the wards.

The Citadel is empty, hushed to a mortuary quiet by Jaina’s grief haunting its halls. She has always been a force of nature, and time has only sharpened her influence to a deadly edge.

This once, Kael’thas is grateful for it. It’s unwise to be a blood elf in Dalaran, these days, and he would rather not have anyone get in his way. The less people see him, the more time he has before the alarm is raised.

If only he’d been so lucky as to see no one.

Rounding a corner, he finds himself coming face to face with archmage Khadgar himself. The man’s calm demeanor briefly wavers into shock at the sight of Kael’thas before he finds his bearings and smoothes into his usual placid mask.

“King Kael'thas,” he greets, pleasantly enough. “We were not expecting you.”

It’s said with the casual, barebone politeness of mages who consider themselves equals to kings. It should be an insult, but the only aggravation comes from how familiar it is. He’s missed this informality; it rankles and soothes in equal measure. Yet he cannot reply in kind.

Kael’thas draws himself to his full height, affecting the manner of a monarch who has never seen a place he was not allowed to be in before. Little makes you seem quite so much in the right place as the stubborn belief that you are exactly where you’re meant to be. “Did you not?” He asks haughtily. “The Kirin Tor has imprisoned members of the Sunreavers for crimes they have no proof of, committed in favor of a faction they are not a part of, with no trial to speak of. With such blatant disregard of the laws that bind us, how could you not expect me?”

It’s not a lie, but it is an overly generous interpretation of the facts. They do have proof, albeit in no great amount, and the seditious cell of thieves responsible were most likely to have thrown their lot with Garrosh’s horde. Kael’thas would be hard-pressed to argue for their innocence, and he would gladly have let them all rot… If only Jaina hadn’t seen fit to punish every single blood elf in the city for the acts of a small and ill-liked minority.

He doesn’t fool himself thinking Khadgar believes him at face value. He’s used to the verbal twists and turns taken by politicians and mages, and too knowledgeable to be tricked so easily. Surely he must notice. But the archmage’s eyes shine with something not unlike humor, and he makes no comment on it.

His clear, sharp gaze seems to stare into his soul. He doesn’t know whether to find it unnerving or comfortingly familiar. Khadgar cannot hope to match Illidan’s glare though, the way his blind eyes could see into the depths of magic and Kael’thas alike, and he withstands the scrutiny easily enough.

“I suppose you are here to see the situation set right,” Khadgar says eventually, tone mild.

“Quite so.”

Khadgar’s lips quirk up in a secretive smile. “Allow me to accompany you to their holding cells. We wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

Surprise has him biting down on his knee-jerk response — I walked these halls before you were born, I know more than you. Aloud, he sighs and says, “If you must,” but his internal monologue is nowhere near this collected. Does Khadgar not trust his intentions? No, of course he doesn’t. Then why allow Kael’thas to proceed unimpeded? What is the point of this escort? Having one of the Six at his side will surely ward off any suspicion, but why would Khadgar even bother?

(How long has it been since an outsider willingly offered a helping hand to Kael’thas and his kind? And what will this one demand in exchange, he wonders.)

These questions nag at him the whole way down into the dungeons, and Khadgar does not attempt to pull him out of his own mind with conversation. The smell of dust and damp is what brings him back to the present — or a more distant past that he forcefully pulls himself away from. The silence here is not quite so thick, broken by whispered conversations that fall abruptly silent as the echo of his and Khadgar’s footsteps reach them.

A flame comes to Kael'thas' hand on instinct, throwing flickering shadows on the walls. Khadgar slows to a stop, allowing Kael’thas to outpace him and leaving him alone among the cells. He stops in front of the first one whose occupant he recognizes.

“Sunreaver.”

Aethas Sunreaver glances up, once, then looks away, before his head whips back in a double take as he recognizes the man standing on the other side of the bars.

“My king,” he says, fumbling to his feet. “I—”

“Did you know?”

“Pardon?”

“Did you know of the theft before it was committed?”

Sunreaver shifts uneasily. His eyes flick towards Khadgar. Kael’thas knocks shortly on the bars, eyes narrowed.

“Out with it, Sunreaver. My time is precious.”

Finally Aethas relents. His shoulders drop; he nods. “I knew.”

“And you did nothing.”

“... No.”

Kael’thas inhales slowly and focuses on the fire cradled in the palm of his hand and the way it flares with his breath rather than the man in front of him. At least Sunreaver isn’t trying to defend himself. If he had, Kael'thas' patience might have snapped — and Aethas' neck along with it.

Mutiny. Because that’s what he needed, since his life is not hard enough already. His own people turning on him, and for what? Garrosh’s horde, that pack of bloodthirsty warhawks?

There’s no time to deal with it now. He’ll need to address it later, once they’re safe. And he will address it: he can’t let the Sunreavers get away with endangering the fragile equilibrium of their neutrality like this. But neither can he let Jaina bury every single sin’dorei in Dalaran for the sake of her blind rampage. Mutinous or stupid, he will see all of his people freed from this place, even if it means imprisoning them beneath Silvermoon instead.

Besides, this situation isn’t so volatile that it cannot wait for Silvermoon’s spymaster to return from Pandaria, he doesn’t think. Maybe he’ll just sic Rommath on the lot of them.

“You can take your case up to Rommath once we’re out of this place. You won’t find him as forgiving as I am.”

It’s satisfying to see Sunreaver’s politely deferential expression waver as he blanches at Kael'thas' words. The Grand Magister inspires fear and respect in most, but there’s never been any love lost between him and the leader of the Sunreavers in particular. He’s always considered the Dalaran-bound sin’dorei (or, in his own words, the “upstart magister and his walking, breathing security risk of a faction”) to be a thorn in his side, even back when Kael’thas was technically one of them. Too many conflicts of interest, especially since Quel’thalas retreated into insular neutrality. Dropping treacherous Sunreavers in his lap and allowing him full discretion in his judgment will make for a nice, relaxing welcome back present.

Aethas looks queasy for a moment, until Kael'thas' sentence fully registers and he perks out somewhat. “Out, my lord?”

“I’m hardly going to leave you to rot here. Khadgar?” He turns to the archmage.

The man is still wearing the same look of quiet amusement. He makes a show of opening his empty hands. “This is out of my jurisdiction.” He makes no offer to help. No mention of whether or not Kael’thas is allowed to demand their release, either. He is, it seems, truly only there as a silent observer. That suits Kael’thas just fine.

Rolling his shoulders, he reaches for the lock — as well as inward, towards his roiling magic.

The air crackles with wild arcane. He pinches his lips and tightens his grip, the way one shortens the reins of an unruly hawkstrider. This requires precision work, and his power is not nearly as stable as it used to be. Yet another effect of a broken soulbond: after having another’s magic interwoven so tightly with his, its absence leaves him reeling and grasping for a control that used to be easy as breathing.

It doesn’t stop him, only forces him to adjust and slow down when he once would have had the cell unlocked with nary a blink. He’s getting better at this: he spent his first, grief-stricken week setting fires everywhere he went. It helps that he knows the spells set in these locks intimately. He helped lay down a few layers of these enchantments — and picked his fair share of them the first time he found himself on the wrong side of the bars.

Even now they are colored slightly by his magical signature, and the mechanism hums in harmony with the counter-spell he’s weaving. His magic slips in easily, a gossamer lockpick in a well-oiled keyhole, and it opens with a soft click.

He ignores Aethas' grateful murmur and turns to the next cell, holding the fragile spell between his fingers like a key made of spun glass. It makes quick work of the other locks, opening them with a touch, and by the time he’s opened the last one Aethas has started the work of building a portal home. It opens with a crackle as Kael’thas makes his way back to them. The streets of Silvermoon waver on the other side, distorted like a heat mirage by the transportation magic.

Somewhere above their heads, shouts ring out. That took longer than he expected. Khadgar’s influence, no doubt.

The Sunreavers rush through the portals with little encouragement needed. Kael’thas goes second-to-last, once he’s sure they’ve all made it through. He stops, looks at Khadgar over his shoulders, one foot hovering over the boundary of the portal. “Thank you,” he bites out, begrudging but sincere. “I will not forget your assistance today.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Khadgar says blithely. Then, softer, more sincere, “I would never stand idly while innocents are suffering. Neither would Jaina, were she—”

Less maddened with grief, yes. He knows the feeling.

“Go before she catches you colluding,” Kael’thas replies. He steps through the portal, quickly followed by Aethas, and it closes behind them with a soft whisper of arcane.

-

Khadgar must cover their tracks, or perhaps Jaina doesn’t bother to come after them now that she’s achieved her goal of getting the Sunreavers out of her city. Either way Kael’thas doesn’t hear much from the Kirin Tor, not after the announcement that they’ve pledged their service to the Alliance.

Cowards.

Aethas is recruited (conscripted, more like) into Rommath’s service, and is put to work picking up the Grand Magister’s slack while Rommath is off gallivanting through Pandaria. Kael’thas suspects there’s more to it than punishing Aethas' decisions by way of paperwork. Although he appreciates the fact that he can keep an eye on the younger archmage — he certainly doesn’t trust him to work as unmonitored as Rommath does — he suspects Aethas reports to Rommath about more than the going-ons of the government.

Surely he wouldn’t spend so much time insisting Kael’thas eat regular meals and get more than a few hours of sleep if he didn’t answer directly to Rommath, that accursed mother hen.

Still they find a sort of routine in the midst of their work, where Kael’thas makes pointed remarks about Aethas’ Horde sympathies and Aethas snidely remarks on the dark circles under Kael'thas' eyes.

It’s not pleasant, but precious little is nowadays.

Garrosh’s warmongering is not making his doomsday prepping any easier. Few in the Horde have dared to risk his wrath by responding to Kael'thas' correspondence since he was made persona non grata. On the other hand, those in the Alliance think him an ally to the Horde by Sunreaver association, and see all his approaches as a knife in the back waiting to happen. He briefly entertained hopes of making allies of the Pandarens as fellow neutral parties, but to no one’s surprise but his own they are too taken by the conflict brought to their shore to bother with a people they see as no different to those laying waste on their lands.

At this point Kael’thas has half a mind to just leave them all to their petty squabble and abscond to Outland. If they’d rather try to kill each other before the Legion gets a chance to help them along, fine! They better not come crying to him when Sargeras crashes through their planet and Kael’thas closes the portal to Outland and leaves them to their pathetic and easily preventable fate.

He won’t do it. Of course. But he has vivid dreams of it.

Not only because of the stress making him short-tempered and pettier than usual, either. Leaving Azeroth with his own people to hole up in Outland has been a recurring daydream as of late. It has no basis in reality; it’s not as if they could hide from the Legion and weather its destructive crusade in peace, and he hardly looks back on his time on the forsaken planet as some halcyon days. But the thought of dropping everything — abandoning this exhausting, pointless work and going back to the place he’d most like to call home once again…

Back when he had no choice but to live there, he hated the Black Temple with a passion. Hated the entire demon-infested husk of a planet, as a matter of fact. But time has smoothed many of its faults, leaving only happier memories that he yearns for now that he can never go back. The flash of Vashj’s needle-sharp teeth as she laughs; the quiet camaraderie between the sin’dorei caught in this desperate campaign. Illidan. His smile, his low chuckle at Kael'thas' wit, the embrace of his arms.

Always he finds himself drawn back to those memories, chief among his past in Outland. The joy and longing ache so sweetly; a poison that never stung. He wants to hold on despite the pain, let them be dulled and polished by his cherishing them like stones worn smooth by the flow of water and time.

Yet the idea that they may fade, that one day he may find himself unable to recall the minute details of Illidan’s face, the line of his smile, the sound of his voice — it terrifies him beyond reason. He pushes the memories in the same breath in which he drew them out. Elves are long-lived; perhaps with enough care he might preserve them forever in the glass display of his mind.

It’s foolish to think he might keep these memories pristine forever, as if it would make Illidan any less dead to remember the exact tilt of his head when he was deep in thought, but Kael’thas allows himself this small weakness.

He allows himself more than his fair share of these, actually, but luckily has no one but himself to answer to.

These memories are as lost to him as Illidan or the Black Temple: it’s only a matter of time. Memory, this great flaw of long-lived people, will rob their short time together of detail after detail until all he’s left with is a kind of half-foreign melancholy. The far-flung eventuality of this all-consuming grief fading seems both a relief and a curse, the loss of memories a more final death than death itself.

At least he has one tangible thing left: the duty Illidan entrusted to him. This mission as the world’s most inefficient peace-keeper and doomsday prophet. One last attempt to make Illidan’s death worth more than the hole it left inside of Kael’thas.

Meaning he can’t drop everything and escape to Outland. Shame.

He’d hoped, at least, that bringing Garrosh down — and they would bring him down — would make his life easier.

What happens instead is this:

Garrosh is caught, Vol’jin is made Warchief, and the orc is put on trial.

On trial.

Kael’thas is ripping a portal open and stepping onto Pandaren soil before the letter has finished burning.

It’s easier for the king of the sin’dorei to find his way into the courtroom than it is for most people. It’s still a struggle, and he’s absently prodding around with his magic to find Rommath’s signature to teleport himself to when he’s pulled inside by a hand on his wrist. He wrenches out of the grip and snarls at the offender.

It’s Rommath, looking unmoved by his show of irritability, which he wouldn’t be subjected to if he didn’t hide his magical signature in the first place and let himself be tracked instead. Despite the situation, Kael’thas is happy to see that grim face again.

“How bad is it?”

“They chose Baine as his defense attorney,” Rommath sighs. “So, surprisingly poorly. He’s good — and merciful.” He says the last word with an edge of scorn, like mercy is a foreign concept that he finds a little distasteful.

“And who is he going against?”

“Tyrande.”

Kael’thas can’t help a sympathetic wince. Going toe to toe with Tyrande Whisperwind at her most vindictive isn’t a fate he’d wish on anyone. Unlike the Tauren, she is not a woman well-versed in mercy.

It has him itching for his sword. Vengeance will taste bitter when doled out by the priestess: he’d much rather make Garrosh pay with his own two hands.

But he doesn’t have much faith in his chances of survival if he were to unsheath a weapon here, between two factions on the brink of war, both of which believing he has thrown his lot with the other. The Alliance might feel vengeful enough to turn a blind eye were Kael’thas to unsheath his blade and run Garrosh through, but they would not stand between Kael’thas and Horde loyalists calling for his blood in retribution. He’s nowhere angry nor bloodthirsty enough to die on a courtroom floor like a dog.

He distantly notices the youngest Wrynn coming and going from the prison cells; Sylvanas skulking around the edges, scheming as much as he does; Rommath and Lor’themar refusing to look each other in the eyes. But even the trial fails to keep all of Kael'thas' attention — he’s too busy watching all the people who have refused his offers of alliance, wondering who would be willing to think about it again. Running calculations on who he can afford to leave out.

If I can’t be sure of both factions following me— can we still win? Who do I need to side with when worse comes to worst? Can I make it without either of them? What can I easily give up, what do I need to hold on to?

It’s the kind of doomsday gamble he was used to running back in Outland. How many must they sacrifice to get them to the next step of Illidan’s plan and survive doing it? How many can they spare for this outpost, this mission behind enemy lines, how many can they lose and still limp on?

Like war, it’s familiar. Not easy but easier to comprehend than peacetime politics.

Not to say more predictable than watching Garrosh break out of his chains and run through a portal leading Light knows where.

Kael’thas is out of his chair and halfway to the portal when it closes with a sound like a blade sliding into its sheath. He’s left standing in the tribunal as it devolves into chaos, people volleying accusations back and forth in an incomprehensible muddle of screams; Felo’melorn hasn’t even finished manifesting and hangs, half-formed, in his hand. He lets go of its summon with a defeated drop of his shoulders.

It’s an anticlimactic ending. An unsolved issue. But Kael’thas feels it like the weight of a building lightning strike, the hum of magic in a charged arcane circle: this is a beginning. The first glimpse of a stormfront.

It’s war. At last.

Chapter Text

Kael’thas knows his way around war. From Arthas to Kil’jaeden, from Quel’thalas to Outlands and back; he has been a general on campaign for nearly ten years now.

He can feel it now brewing on the horizon. It’s only Garrosh, for now, on an alternate Azeroth, the implications of which he refuses to linger on (it’s hard enough saving one universe from destruction). But he knows what comes next. He feels it in his bones, Fel gathering in the air like a coming storm. This is what they’ve been preparing for all these years: nearly as long with as without Illidan, by now. Too long. Not nearly enough.

Once again he must leave the ruling to Lor’themar: the Regent has become quite skilled at it, for all that he sighs in prevenient weariness. He keeps telling Kael’thas that his true proficiency is in leading men into battle — but true as that may be, he has nothing on Kael'thas' experience in preparing for a war that cannot be won.

Anyone else would be daunted by the enormity of the task. He used to be, when he joined Illidan in Outland: he remembers the way he gaped as his soulmate explained to him the hardship of readying oneself for years of attrition, tallying future losses like a bill to be paid in exchange for meager survival. In his mind, fed on glorious tales of ancient battles and the bitter regrets of recent wars, wars were either brilliant bursts of short-lived violence or centuries-long successions of skirmishes. This slog through all-too-short months of constant loss, fighting tooth and nail for a week more, a day, an hour, seemed absurd to him. Bleak to the point of stretching belief.

He knows better now, of course, which doesn’t make the work any easier or less impossible. Nonetheless he puts himself to it with the same single-minded focus that served him so well in the study of magic and warfare both.

Under his order, the masons and ward-weavers of Silvermoon set to digging shelters underneath the city, a protective warren that stretches for miles, stocked with food preserved by mundane and magical means. Quel’thalas is still in the process of rebuilding after the Scourge, but even Arthas could not blight his way through all the verdant fields of the back-country — with the amount of mouths to feed so drastically reduced and their initial efforts so concentrated on filling decimated food stores, they have started producing food in excess.

They had to trade much of it to make up for the blow dealt to their economy by the loss of such a large percentage of their population, and could not preserve as much as Kael’thas would have liked… but it shall be enough to feed them for some time, and perhaps some of their allies. A few more months of food could make all the difference.

He spends two whole weeks holed up in the Undercity, calling in every single one of the few favors Sylvanas owes him over her two lives to secure war engines, soldiers, resources, and her reluctant help when the Legion comes knocking. Most if not all of the money he hoarded during his Kirin Tor days — the first coins that belonged to him, not a single one of them having ever touched a royal coffer — goes to buying everything the goblins will sell him. Weapons, armors, mercenary bands; he borrows what he cannot purchase, on the promise of payment after the war. No loan is too great: if he survives this, he’ll be all too happy to mortgage his palace to repay all that he owes.

He quietly goes to Stormwind, to Ironforge, and calls in favors there too. Past help paid forward now that they have reached a ceasefire in the constant faction war. He asks will you stand with me and they agree, albeit reluctantly. Words make for thin promises, but it’s better than nothing. They think him a paranoid fool, for now; but when the time comes they will remember their oaths, he hopes.

This is what he worked for all these years. The Alliance won’t stand with him, the Horde might fracture before it gets a chance to, but he’ll gather all of the broken pieces and set them back on the board.

Weeks go by without him stepping foot in his city. He writes dozens of pages of reports for his advisors to pour over, drafts battle plans that won’t survive a second past first contact with the unpredictable Legion, exhausts himself with magic and diplomacy, speaks to Illidan in the dark.

It is enough. It has to be enough, or they are all lost.

-

When it comes, they’re not ready. How could they ever have been?

The Tomb of Sargeras is opened and the Legion floods the world once again. Through the dread, Kael’thas cannot help a sense of smug satisfaction at seeing his doomsday predictions being proven right. The fight has only begun and it already feels lost, but at least he was right. If he dies doing no one else, at will he will have achieved this: a justification for all his sacrifices, in the form of the worst possible I told you so.

Again — always — he wishes Illidan were there. No task seemed too great with his soulmate at his side, no catastrophe too great to tackle. Being the sane, level-headed one dealing with food rations and troop movements while Illidan ran around growling about the end of all things was much more relaxing. Now he’s the raving one, and he misses what little control he had over the situation back in Outland.

More than everything he misses being an independent actor, entirely removed from the Horde-Alliance conflict — up until the point where the two factions united against them as a common enemy, at least. If there was one silver lining to being against the entire world it was

“If there’s one thing I never thought you’d become,” Rommath muses during a quiet evening pouring over reports with the rest of the triumvirate, “It’s a diplomat.”

Kael’thas drags his hand down his face and sighs as he slumps on his throne. “A diplomat— a babysitter, rather! Vol’jin is level-headed, for a troll, and Varian is—” he waves his hand in a gesture meant to encompass some untold and nebulous quality of Varian’s leadership that he cannot be bothered to actually find. “But none of their envoys can be in the same room together without ending the hour at each other’s throats.”

“You’d think imminent doom would be enough to make them play nice,” Halduron notes wryly. His tone is light, but there’s a tightness around his eyes that belies his flippant tone.

Having spent nearly a decade under the weight of existential dread, Kael’thas has long gone past anxiety: all he feels is aggravation as he drops his face in his hands. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you!”

Rommath hums in mock sympathy, but his attention is once more wholly focused on his work. “At least you’re getting somewhere with them… I think. All I receive are cryptic answers from Velen about the Naaru they found, and Khadgar’s increasingly worrying returns about— whatever it is he’s talking about, I can't figure it out.”

Holding out a hand, Kael’thas opens his mouth to ask for the report — out of the two of them, he’s the best qualified in decrypting Khadgar’s rambling. He never feels the paper touch the skin of his palm.

The pain comes out of nowhere, like an assassin in the dark. He would mistake it for one if the sensation of a white-hot blade sinking into his soul was not already so familiar. I know this, he thinks hysterically, I’ve felt this before — and then agony tears through flesh and bone until it reaches his heart, and his thoughts are scattered in the storm.

He must collapse, because the floor is hard and cold against his knees and he doesn’t remember falling. Everything else snaps back into place in that one moment of clarity — fear, confusion, both rage and grief at the unfairness of it all, immediately drowned by more of this indescribable pain. It burns through him like a wildfire through dry grassland, like acid through dead flesh. He gasps and no air fills his lungs. He feels empty, empty, his body hollowed out, flesh and organs scooped out and thrown into a fire. He is nothing but smoke, tethered to skin and bones by hooks dug into his very soul. He is less than that. He is nothing. Nothing but pain, all-encompassing, all-consuming—

Through the haze, he gets another crystalline thought, an echo of horror: I know this. A gossamer thread of familiarity pulls taunt, connecting pain to memory: the fragile remains of a severed bond crumbling, becoming nothing but dust and then the memory of dust.

Then the thread snaps, and his mind goes with it. Darkness sweeps over him, drowning his last prayer:

If I am dying — please let it be the last time.

Chapter Text

Days go by and Kael’thas, feverish and half-delirious, does not see them pass. They melt together, reality impossible to distinguish from fitful dreams. He is told he wakes often, at times screaming or sobbing, but he doesn’t remember, only feels the rawness of his throat.

After, once he’s lucid again or as close as he’s likely to get, the court doctor tells him it was the backlash from a broken soulbond. Neither of them dare to say outloud what they both know — that his soulbond has been broken for half a decade, and it should not have been able to break further.

It haunts him, the possibility that Illidan might have still been — not alive, he would have known if he were alive, but tethered to life in some way. Some part of him wandering still, unable to move on, torn away from this world in the most brutal manner. Could he have done anything to preserve or soothe what was left of Illidan’s soul, if there was such a thing? He doesn’t think he can live with a yes.

He pushes it aside. All of it: the pain, the guilt, the starving emptiness stretching under his breastbone, so much worse than before. There is no time for regrets with war at their doorstep. Khadgar's frenzied updates and the Legion's machinations do not stop simply because Kael’thas just died for the second time.

“We are moving against the Legion,” Rommath says quietly from his bedside. It’s obvious he does not want to share that information, but he knows better than to hide vital intelligence from Kael’thas. No matter how reluctant, how sick with grief, he is still king.

Wearily, Kael’thas tilts his head to look at his friend’s face. “When?”

“In a week’s time. On the shore of the Broken Isles.”

“Then I shall be there.”

Kael’thas struggles to a sitting position. There’s a great weight inside of him where there should be nothing but a gaping void, and he fights its pull every inch of the way. Rommath watches him but doesn’t offer any help. He’s learned to spare what he can of Kael'thas' dignity, although he’s leaned into his space as if to catch Kael’thas if his arms were to give up under him.

Once he’s upright it becomes easier to slide his legs from under the covers, to let his feet touch the cold floor.

“You will not let Lor’themar go in your stead, I suppose.”

“And miss the opportunity to watch the end of the Legion with my own eyes?”

“What if it isn’t the end?”

No reply comes from Kael’thas, who’s already wobbled across the room. Again, forward momentum; if he keeps moving his body might not notice that it ought to be six feet under rather than walking around. His wrist, when he inadvertently glances down, is bare. Not even a scar remains of the words that used to curl over his skin. He swallows past the lump in his throat and continues to dress himself, mechanically.

This battle will not be the end of the Legion. They both know that they’ve never been so lucky. But the thought that it might be — impossible as it is — holds Kael’thas together for now. He needs that faint hope of ending the war at their doorstep, before the Legion can cleave their world in two and burn what little remains. Perhaps a little part of him hopes for something bloodier; every failed assault has its victims, after all. Either way, he needs that belief that this might all be over soon.

-

The battle is a wholesale disaster.

The sin’dorei are divided in two, offering support on both fronts. Lor’themar leads the half of their force fighting on the Alliance’s side; Kael’thas, knowing himself to be too bitter to follow the directives of humans, fights with the Horde.

Even then, with their aid as evenly distributed as they could manage, he looks upon the Legion and knows it will not be enough. The Legion has thousands of worlds’ worth of fighters to throw at their weary, bedraggled forces. It’s not an easy victory by any means — they hardly go down without a fight — but the demons certainly don’t struggle to overwhelm them. Soon they’re being pushed back, away from the Alliance soldiers they’re supposed to cover—

The war horn rings across the battlefield in the signal for retreat.

Kael’thas kicks the body of a demon away and turns, eyes casting across the field urgently: who made the call? And why? At once he finds Sylvanas, cutting a stark figure in the mayhem, and the body she carries across her mount. It takes him a second to recognize the warchief through the blood and demon ichor staining him, but the moment he does he knows they are lost.

Swearing under his breath, he blocks a blow coming at him and seeks Rommath across the battlefield. His second-in-command burns an imp to a small pile of ashes and, noticing Kael'thas' eyes on him, makes his way to his side. Kael’thas meets him halfway, at a run. Soldiers close around them, forming a living wall between leaders and enemy forces; he has to yell to be heard over the clash of weapons.

“We have to fall back!”

Spectral wind stirs his hair as the val’kyr descend on the battlefield, carrying away the wounded who cannot make their own retreat. A flash of golden fire sheds bright light over their pale forms as incandescent wings flare across the cloudy backdrop of noxious smoke: Al’ar weaves between flying allies and enemies alike to answer a silent call from his master.

“Not without you!”

Kael’thas makes an impatient gesture with his hands. “Take our people and go, Rommath! I’ll warn Lor’themar.” And, ignoring Rommath’s subsequent protest, he takes off running toward the edge of their battleground.

He leaps. For a breathless seconds wind rushes past him as gravity takes hold on his body. Then there’s Al’ar sweeping under him, breaking his fall.

Clinging to the warm feathers of his companion, Kael’thas directs him toward the Alliance forces below. A single beat of his great wings has them crossing the distance and they glide low over the heads of the many fighters, darting between the demons that tower over the fray.

There, in the distance: the unmistakable figure of Varian Wrynn fighting on the frontline, and Lor’themar, never one to shy from a fight, covering him. Al’ar swoops down with a sharp cry. He snatches a demon from the ground with his golden talons and skirts the ground for a short distance. Kael’thas jumps off just before he beats his wings and takes to the skies once more. He lands heavily next to the two commanders, ankles twinging.

“Sir?” Lor’themar asks with a start, just as Varian cries, “Where’s our air support?”

“Vol’jin is dead and the Horde is falling back. You must call for a retreat!”

Varian glances at the ridge where the Horde is fighting and swears when he sees their forces being pushed back by the Legion’s forces. “We’re going to die here.”

“Not if you retreat!”

Finally the man blows his horn. Both Kael’thas and Lor’themar wince as the dreadful sound covers the chaos of battle and leaves their sensitive ears ringing.

Now to make their way back. All three of them naturally fan out to cover the retreat, both swordsmen keeping the nearer demons off Kael’thas while he sets the ground they’re surrendering aflame. It’s a slow, messy way back to the gunships. A rope ladder is thrown their way; Kael’thas climbs last, blasting a small pack of felhounds to ashes before they can sink their teeth into retreating soldiers.

Someone grabs him by the arm, hauling him off the ladder and onto the ship. He clings to the railing, hair whipping in the wind, and the utter failure of the battle stares back at him. Here, the edge of a phoenix embossed on the armor of a dying man; there the torn remains of their standard, the golden coat of arms of his kingdom indistinguishable from the crimson fabric surrounding it because of spilled blood. So many people he was meant to protect and didn’t; so many lives wasted on a doomed effort.

Then, with mounting horror, he sees the fel reaver rising above them all, reaching for their gunship.

He steps back, hand reaching back for a weapon, a spell, a warning, anything—

Too late. The whole ship tilts like a toy in the grasp of a child as claws sink into its hull. Kael’thas clings to the railing, hand shooting out to grab a soldier as she goes careening off the side. Her weight jars his shoulder and he can feel her slipping already, both their hands slippery with blood and sweat from the unbearable heat. He grits his teeth, looking around for help, but who could help? Like sailors in a storm, they can only hold on for dear life while the ship shakes and groans.

Wild eyes meet those of Varian, clinging to a frayed rope ladder that sways in the open air. Greymane reaches for his hand and Varian turns his face before Kael’thas can read more than resignation in his steely eyes.

He gets a better look of it a moment later, when he watches the man let go.

Someone screams as the king plummets to his death, or maybe because of the jerking movement of the gunship righting itself. The soldier clinging to Kael’thas’ hand lets out a choked scream as the tremor breaks her hold, sending her down after her king who whirls in the air, blade flashing as it sinks into the demon’s skull, taking it down with him. All three are swallowed by a cloud of dust and greenish fel smoke.

A flash of red and gold burns through the haze as Al’ar, spurned by a mute command, dives after Varian, but he knows even as he disappears that it’s hopeless. Even the phoenix’s prodigious speed can’t carry him fast enough to make it in time.

Still he can’t help to hold his breath, hoping — but their connection dims soon after: the immortal bird’s life snuffed out in turn and his essence sent back to its home realm to recuperate. A burst of green fel washes over the Broken Shore, killing any lingering hope.

It’s over.

No wonder Illidan started breaking down, after months and months of feeling like this, trying to keep the world together with his bare hands. Kael’thas is already sick of hoping for a better outcome, fleeting victories that slip through his fingers before he can grasp them. He can’t even save a single life. One meager victory for every hundred crushing defeats — his hand closes around his wrist, bare of a soulmark, his brows wrinkling. To have still held on to hope after ten thousand years of this is beyond belief.

Hands reach for Kael’thas, pulling him away from the railing. He goes to shake them off, stops when he meets Lor’themar’s one-eyed stare. Just this once he leans into the touch instead of drawing away and lets the Regent support some of his weights as they limp to steadier ground.

-

Illidan was breaking down, by the end.

Exhaustion, fear and the weight of a thousand years of pain were more than any man could bear in sanity. Illidan was not any man; it’s probably the only thing that kept him together until his last days. He would have pushed through for another ten thousand years if the war effort had demanded it. But having to fight himself as much as the Legion took its toll. He became unstable, prone to paranoia and mood swings; erratic, in the manner of soldiers in long wars.

Kael’thas helped where he could. Taking on more responsibilities, offering his support when Illidan couldn’t find the words to ask for it and his company when all else failed. He tried to alleviate Illidan’s fears most of all, when the stress had him drawing back into himself and leaving them all floundering in the absence of orders. Kael’thas learned to pick up the slack when he could, dishing out orders, keeping their forces in order, relying on Vashj when he could: lessons of leadership dealt in live fire. He had held on to his own fractured pieces, fear and grief and magic starvation clawing at his bones. And when his soulmate said trust me, I have a plan, Kael’thas did, even when he wanted to grab Illidan by the horns and shake all the secrets out of him.

He thought he could afford to follow him blindly. Now he wonders if it would have helped anything, if he had fought Illidan more often — if he had said no, a single chance at victory isn’t worth your life. They had years, thankfully, to learn of each other beyond the simple connection of the soul bond; difficult and exhausting years that he wouldn’t trade them for anything else. But could they have had more?

(And there was plenty of fighting already. About dangerous plans and being kept in the dark, about the fate of the sin’dorei, many inconsequential things on top of it all — and he had been tired of it. Kael’thas would not consider himself a coward, but six years of a military campaign against an enemy that never relents taught him to pick his battles.)

It doesn’t matter, in the end: Illidan is already dead. Lingering on past errors will not change this. He has been given a quest, has picked up the battle, and now all he can do is see it to the end — but he often wonders if he would have been better served going against Illidan’s will. If there’s a point to continuing the fight even now.

Illidan, when he had asked him the very same thing, had not seemed to understand.

“What else is there to do?” He’d gestured at their surroundings, at himself: the blighted stones of the Black Temple, his demonic wings and the Fel carved into his skin. After everything that was lost, he’d seemed to mean, how could I stop? “Lay down and wait to die?”

And Kael’thas had shrugged and said nothing, because he had no answer to this, but he had never felt that absolute dedication for self-sacrifice that animated Illidan and had always struggled to understand it.

Kael’thas is a selfish man. There’s more pride to his resistance than there ever was a real desire to save the world. When Arthas gutted Silvermoon, he led their armies into battle out of grief and rage, not a desire to end the Scourge. He gladly escaped to Outlands with his soulmate rather than stay and face the reality of kingship; if he loves and cares for his people now, it’s because they are his and he takes poorly to others harming his things. Martyrdom does not come naturally to him. Given the choice, he would gladly sacrifice Azeroth to save himself and those he has sworn to protect. To have Illidan by his side again… there’s no telling what he would do.

Still, despite their differences, he feels like he can understand the man better after shouldering some of Illidan’s burdens and having to run the same ruthless calculus of sacrifices.

Not all of it: the martyrdom was certainly an Illidan special. But the descent into irrational, manic planning and absolute secrecy feels more tempting every single day.

A quill held loosely between his fingers slowly drips ink onto the parchment as he ponders — wouldn’t it be so much easier to do all of this alone? To disregard the questions of his allies and put all his hopes and efforts on a single, desperate idea? Certainly it would be simpler than this: drafting a letter to a boy king, apologizing for killing his father and dooming the world.

Kael’thas was supposed to be a vanguard, helping the world prepare for war and bringing them together from the sideline. All he’s managed to do is make himself a coward in every war fought since, and a loser in this one.

If he ever meets Illidan again, in this world or the next, he’ll apologize for ever making fun of his theatrics. He could do with a dramatic monologue himself right now.

A roll of parchment bounces off his head to the ground, rolling halfward under the furniture before a foot comes to stop its momentum. Kael'thas' eyes travel up that leg, across red robes, all the way to Rommath’s face, for once uncovered and, as such, wearing its concern and disapproval openly.

Well. As openly as Rommath ever gets, anyway.

“What was that for?” Kael’thas asks, rubbing his forehead.

Rommath bends down to pick up the parchment and places it down on a pile of books teetering precariously over the side of Kael'thas' desk. “I could hear you moping from all the way across the palace,” he says by way of explanation. Patting the parchment lightly, he adds, “This is a formal invitation to Wrynn’s funeral. In case you need any more reason to brood.”

He ignores the comment. “I will be sending Lor’themar to that one, I think. Sylvanas has taken to burning my correspondence, or so I assume from the lack of response, and I intend to go congratulate her for her… promotion in person.” Actually he intends to ask her fellow Horde leaders to keep an eye on her on his behalf, but he supposes congratulations are in order. And since Lor’themar and Sylvanas have never gotten along and Kael’thas would rather not go to Stormwind if he can help it, it all works out.

They’re lucky he was not there when Vol’jin made her his successor or he might have had some choice words for the dying troll: he thought him wiser than this. Yes, Sylvanas is a good general — but what of the Horde after the war? She holds enough grudges to fuel a small army, far more than necessary to ruin any chance of lasting peace between the Horde and the Alliance. Her decision to pull back on the Broken Shore has made her unpopular enough already, something that Kael’thas has been trying to address in the same letter he’s been struggling to put to paper for — he glances through the window at the darkening sky outside — a few hours, it seems.

He still doesn’t think of himself as much of a politician, let alone a diplomat, but who else would do it? The new king of Stormwind is far too young for the twin weight of grief and power thrusted upon him. The other leaders of the Alliance call for Sylvanas’ death like hunting hounds chained next to a rabbit’s warren: there will be no worthwhile help coming from them. Meanwhile the Horde wavers without Vol’jin’s leadership, weakened by suspicion and defeat, and the risks of the faction fracturing under any pressure put on their new rulership are too great for him to look for vocal support there.

It’s just one enormous powder keg waiting for a spark to explode, and so far the overwhelming threat of the Legion has been the only thing keeping them in a semblance of ceasefire — while being the greatest source of strain on them all. Already Rommath has reported words of skirmishes breaking out on the Broken Isles where the two factions have had to fight near each other.

Whether this fragile truce will hold past the end of the war is a bridge they’ll cross if — and only if — they ever get to it. In the event that there is such a thing as after the war, Kael’thas will be more than happy to wash his hands of the whole thing.

He’s no guardian of peace, and the sin’dorei have already weathered far worse than a faction war.

If he’s really lucky he’ll die in the final assault against the Legion and never have to hear Sylvanas and Greymane bitch at each other ever again!

(This he thinks dryly: he’s reached such a point in his life where stress has wholly overwhelmed his idle thoughts of death. If they beat the Legion, there will be a kingdom to rebuild; he is no longer the kind of man who could easily throw that responsibility aside. Unfortunately.)

Rising from his seat, he finds Rommath staring at him, though the emotion behind it is so well hidden as to be unreadable.

At Kael'thas' questioning look he visibly braces himself before speaking up. “How are you holding up?”

“Perfectly fine.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit: I have eyes. How are you, truly?”

He stops with another deflection on his lips, closes his mouth, takes a deep breath in and releases it in a weary sigh. The weight bearing down on him — of his duty, and the mask he wears everyday, that of a responsible and qualified leader rather than the frantic teenager he feels like most days — seems to weigh ten times heavier now that Rommath has called attention to it.

Despite his best effort to pretend otherwise, it’s quite easy to tell that Kael’thas isn’t ‘fine’.

What he is is stressed out, exhausted, terrified. He is worn down, like an old pair of boots, years spent fighting an uphill battle to prevent the very invasion that he now has to fight against leaving him less than the man he used to be.

He has twice the resources Illidan did with none of the opposition from those who ought to be his allies — in truth the Horde and Alliance’s reluctance to fight together is only a minor setback compared to the united front they presented against Illidan once. And yet he has not achieved half of what his soulmate managed with such diminished means. He simply doesn’t have the innate sense of war-craft that Illidan displayed, nor the experience the other man gained during the War of Ancients.

How many times has he wished he had his soulmate by his side, in this struggle and all others? Too many to count. This certainly won’t be the last. It hurts more now than it did before the unexplainable combustion of the remains of their bond. The grief, like a wound that had begun to scab over and was torn open once again, makes him as sick to his stomach as a physical illness would.

He misses Illidan like an amputated limb — always attempting to lean on the space left vacant by his loss.

Perhaps it can be blamed on the past battle, highlighting the emptiness at Kael'thas' side where Illidan used to stand when they fought. Or perhaps it’s simply that he was never meant to face the onslaught of the Legion like this. This is Illidan’s war! He’d been fighting it for ten thousand years before it was taken out of his hands. Kael’thas should never have had to fight alone.

(Rommath’s eyes bore into him as he waits for a response. He would wait a thousand years if that’s what it took for Kael’thas to organize his thoughts into an honest answer; he’d wait longer.)

“Do I have a choice?” he ends up asking. He meant for it to be rhetorical, but it ends up coming out as a genuine, desperate plea for answers. He continues before Rommath can give voice to the look on his face, which spells nothing good. “The war will happen whether I am well or not. There’s no point in lingering on the question. No, I am not fine; I have not been fine in a long time and I might never be again. I don’t think any of us have been fine in years. But I’m still going to fight, since the Legion certainly isn’t going to wait for me to be alright before trying to destroy us all. What else is there to do?” Inhaling deeply, he adds, “You don’t have to worry about me dropping dead. I know how to take care of myself.”

“Do you?” Rommath asks wryly. But he nods in silent acceptance, and turns around so he doesn’t have to watch as Kael’thas puts himself back together before leaving the room.

Chapter Text

Vol’jin’s funeral is a tense thing, moresoever with the ghost of encroaching war hanging over them all.

Not knowing the burial rites of Darkspear trolls, Kael’thas thought it prudent to attend in ceremonial armor. It suits him fine, as he struggles to leave Silvermoon with no physical protection nowadays.

There’s only so much Magic can do against an assassin he cannot see coming — a constant magical barrier would bleed him dry before they could — and the Legion is so very fond of these. He’s glad to see that wartime paranoia and the Horde’s usual martial customs have led those attending to make a similar choice of dress. He’d have hated to seem wary, though he absolutely is: Sylvanas is as likely to stab him as any demon.

He still sticks out, though it’s less due to his way of dressing than his colors. The vivid crimson and gold of Quel’thalas’ coat of arms is not a common sight among Horde vermillion.

Good: he meant to stick out. Just as Lor’themar is meant to be seen in Stormwind. Let the world see that the sin’dorei do not play favorites. He hopes it’s enough to smooth over the feathers ruffled by the debacle on the Broken Shore.

Something hangs in the air as they set a torch to Vol’jin’s body, something heavier than the smoke that billows from the pyre. Kael’thas licks his lips as if he could taste the tension in the air and pinpoint its origin. He gets notes of melting flesh, grease and char, but something else hides under the familiar acrid taste. Something dusty, with a hint of sweet rot.

Fel. He recognizes it, finally. Ubiquitous in Outland, as familiar to him as the damp and warm air of Eversong Forest, it is entirely out of place here — unless one of the attendees is secretly a warlock of Gul’dan’s caliber and actively summoning one of their thralls to the ceremony.

A warlock… or a demon.

Felo’melorn whispers into being in his hand just as a dozen of the mourners suddenly shed their skin like insects to reveal the hideous demonic shapes underneath. He throws his sword up just in time to block an attack and mentally thanks his paranoia, without which he might have been cleaved in two by the blow. The other attendees fumble for their weapons; a few cry out, less lucky than he. He shifts to cover an orc as they reach for their ax.

An arrow, crackling with necrotic energy, impales a felguard before it can bear down on them. Kael’thas looks over its collapsing body to nod in thanks at Sylvanas, but the banshee has already moved to strike elsewhere. Her departure reveals another figure standing at her side, the sight of which freezes Kael’thas in place.

Tall, head crowned with twisted horns, violet skin washed grey by the glow of fel tattoos—

But his heart, rendered frantic by battle, goes on beating un-echoed. This demon hunter is not the one he so desperately longs to see. Too small, her horns twisting one too many times… and, crucially, too feminine. The sight is impossible nonetheless: the kaldorei, with her emerald green hair forming a mane around her head, is unmistakably a demon hunter.

The Illidari jumps down from the pyre and slashes right through a felguard, heedless of the gore that splashes over her skin, leaving acid burns behind as it drips away. Wiping her blade on the demon she just slayed, she watches her companions dispatch the remaining attackers, poised to strike again. Her fingers twitch at each blow that is dealt by or to another Illidari.

It’s oddly nostalgic: Illidan had the same unconscious twitch in his wings when Kael’thas narrowly dodged a blow that he could have flown away from. The same attunement to the other no matter the space between.

Illidaris may not be soul-bonded to each other as their master was, but the connection nurtured between them was meant to serve a similar goal.

A body crashes a foot away, shocking Kael’thas out of his stupor. He pushes his way through the chaos, eyes never leaving the demon hunter. He tries to recall her name, though he has little reason to ever have had knowledge of it. He was never as familiar with the demon hunters as he was with the rest of their forces, since they tended to keep to themselves and disappear on mysterious missions.

By now the improvised battlefield has gone still — all those left standing are exchanging hurried whispers, wondering how deep the security breach goes for demons to have made their way into their midst so easily. Some unspoken communication hums in the air between the scattered Illidari. One moves towards Sylvanas; others start dragging the demon corpses away to be burned. The green haired one he’s set his sight on turns to face him, seeming to have been aware of his presence all along..

To his surprise, she greets him with a respectful bow, bending the knee slightly and crossing her blades in front of her chest in a mix of a kaldorei and sin’dorei greeting. He’s seen them do it with Illidan before, two elven cultures coming together in a show of respect to their leader, but it’s the first time he’s interacted with demon hunters on his own and has been subjected to their deference.

“Prince Kael’thas.” Her voice is surprisingly soft, with a kind of stilted quality to her words, as if each has to be carefully shaped around teeth made to inhabit the mouth of a silent predator and, as such, poorly adapted to speech. “It is good to see you again.”

The old way of address feels nearly nostalgic and he chooses not to correct her on it. “You as well,” he replies, with genuine pleasure. Despite his confusion he is glad to see the Illidari again. Their presence is familiar and, as such, a comfort; and they are dearly needed besides. “I did not expect to see you here.” Or ever again.

She acknowledges the silent question with a nod and a matters-of-fact answer. “The Warden has freed us from our prison in response to the Legion’s return.”

“And your Master—”

Apologetic, she shakes her head.

Kael’thas brushes a flyaway strand of hair out of his face and sighs harshly. It was a foolish question. Of course Illidan is still dead. He would have felt it otherwise, surely — but hope is a stubborn thing. “No matter. You alone are a blessing: your skillset has been sorely missed.”

A glance around reveals an utter lack of interest in their hushed discussion: the Horde leaders are far too busy questioning the long-suffering Illidari given the unenviable task of updating them on the situation.

He ought to leave. The Horde will not miss him and Rommath, left in charge of Silvermoon in the absence of the King and his regent, must already wish him back. The archmage gets antsy when he can’t keep an eye on the rest of the triumvirate. Lor’themar, reliant on Rommath’s portals to leave Stormwind, has probably already been swept back to the capital, bringing with him news of the attack that likely has also been staged at Varian Wrynn’s funeral.

If Kael’thas doesn’t give Rommath a sign of life soon his friend might just come get him himself to be sure he hasn’t gotten himself assassinated like a fool.

“I will not keep you,” he says briskly, preparing to take his leave. “Of course, any settlement under my banner welcomes you, if you ever come to need it. And all our resources are yours to use in the war effort — though anything more tangible than promises will have to pass by Lor’themar Theron, as I’ve had little time to go over supply lines lately.”

For a moment, she looks quite overwhelmed. “I— this is very generous of you, sir, but—”

“You won’t refuse, surely—”

“No! No, of course not. It’s simply that we’re… we’ve had a lot going on in terms of logistics?” She scratches her chin and offers him a sheepish grimace. “Everyone’s been doing their best to keep us organized, but the planning…”

Of course. After years of imprisonment, their resources scattered to the winds, officers and strategists dead or gone after Illidan’s defeat… They would still be playing catch up.

“Who is leading you now?”

“Who else is left, sir?” She asks, wry. “Lady Vashj was slain during the invasion with most of her people, and… well. You’re here. Kayn and Altruis have taken charge, but on top of everything else… we’re all spread pretty thin.”

In the past, he, Lady Vashj, and their respective advisors were the ones mainly in charge of such matters. Years in, they had such a tangled system of delegation and assistants that, had a spy tried to infiltrate them to glean information about their chain of command, they would have come out of the experience knowing even less than before. Which was, he assumes, the point. He mostly remembers it as being one massive headache, a mad construct that grew a life of its own and would outlive them all.

Or so he thought. Impenetrable, it seems, does not make for a good legacy system.

“Do you have anywhere to regroup, at least?”

She shrugs; eliciting a sigh from him. History is a flat circle. He’s hardly surprised the demon hunters have been released with no support whatsoever; it’s a miracle Maiev Shadowsong let them out at all.

“Come to Silvermoon.” Her head tilts nearly ninety degrees, truly baffled. “I said you would be welcome anywhere that bears my colors, and I meant it. It will be best for all of us if you are allowed to focus entirely on preparing for the fight ahead — and we hardly want for space.”

Being a kaldorei, he doubts she understands the magnitude of his words: how the sky turned black from all the funeral pyres in the days following Arthas’ massacre, how the bones of his people paved the way through Northrend and back again. How empty Silvermoon seems years after the tragedy — how many more decades it will take before the streets no longer feel like mausoleums.

But she hears his sincerity and she takes the offer at face values, which is the best he could hope for.

“I will tell Kayn.”

Glancing at the sun above, Kael’thas hums and reaches for the threads of a teleportation spell. “I will see you in Silvermoon, then.”

-

Rommath knows something is up the moment Kael’thas walks into the council room; that is, something besides the chaos of Vol’jin funeral. Their eyes meet and Kael’thas sees it immediately: after a brief once-over to assure himself of his health, his friend’s attention falls on his face and his eyebrows twitch, the corner of his right eye tightening slightly. An expression he’s seen many times before and which says: what have you done now?

For now he ignores it, sweeping past Lor’themar — looking a little singed but none the worse for wear — and Halduron to sit at the head of the table. He smooths the folds of his robes over his lap, clasps his hands atop the polished wood, clears his throat, and states:

“I have invited the Illidari to stay in Silvermoon for the time being.”

“You ought to have consulted us beforehand,” Rommath shoots back.

“And what would you have said?” Lor’themar nods in approval; Halduron shrugs. Even Rommath himself doesn’t raise a protest. “Precisely.”

“It’s a sound idea. Wrynn’s funeral would have gone quite differently without their swift warning,” Lor’themar says.

“Vol’jin’s, as well.”

“And they are demon hunters, so they’re useful to have around,” Halduron adds. “You attest to their trustworthiness?”

“Whole-heartedly. Each and every one of them has sworn their life to destroy the Legion, and their loyalty is to Illidan alone.”

“Even now?” Lor’themar asks.

He smiles wanly. “Is that so hard to believe, considering?”

“And housing them wins us what little loyalty they have left to spare,” Rommath notes, dry. “Alright, I see your point. Where were you thinking?”

A little wrong-footed, as he expected more of a fight from his council on this unilateral decision, he says, “Ah… Sunfury Spire?”

“Absolutely not. The Spire is meant to be your last line of defense in case of another attack; letting foreign agents in defeats the entire purpose.”

“But it’s empty; where else can we fit that many on such short notice?”

“Murder Row?”

Kael’thas quirks a skeptical eyebrow at Lor’themar’s use of the colloquial name for the dark streets that run south of the Court of the Sun; its sinister name predates the adoption of Sunfury Spire as the royal palace, back when it still lived up to its ill-repute. Little is left of its past dealings but the old smuggler’s caches and underground passages too well-known to be of use to Silvermoon’s criminals.

With a shrug, Lor’themar adds, “We could hardly put them in the Bazaar. I’d prefer to limit the amount of contact with our citizens as much as possible: we don’t need further cries of demons within the walls!”

“What of the ruins?” Rommath says slowly. “They have been sitting empty since the last of the Wretched were brought out.”

(All of the Wretched that roamed the ruins were cured of their all-consuming addiction following the rebirth of the Sunwell, though few saw their mind restored with the same miraculous immediacy. The Healing Order of the Merciful Flame took in the rest of them; with time and care, they hope to be able to heal the survivors.)

Kael’thas frowns, but it’s a thoughtful gesture: the ruins represent half of the entire city, left to decay for a lack of hands and resources to rebuild them. It makes for a lot of empty space that they could use.

“They’re not exactly what I would call secure…”

“They’re behind the walls, what’s left of them, and we can easily send arcane patrollers back on their old rounds around, say… The Commons Hall? Not having to go through the checkpoint at Sheperd’s Gate every time their duties take them in and out of the city would be more convenient, surely.”

He taps his nails on the tabletop, considering it. He doesn’t like the thought of leaving the Illidari to fend for themselves in the barely-habitable ruins of his city, but what else is there? What little of it hasn’t been rendered into rubble is already in use by the few sin’dorei that are left.

“Fine, but have the magisters set up another orb of translocation to connect the ruins to…”

“Farstriders’ Square?” Halduron offers. “Might as well: I’d like to ask for a joint training session with my people, if they can spare the time. ”

Whatever Lor’themar sees in Rommath’s face has Lor’themar interject: “I will have guards posted around it.”

A sigh, longsuffering. “Anything that makes it past the demon hunters would not need a translocation spell to get into Silvermoon anyway. Very well.”

-

The beleaguered gang of demon hunters that meets Kael’thas — along with Rommath and Halduron — in Falconwing Square looks very much like the one he last saw atop the Black Temple, ready for their last mission. They look exactly as grim and soot-stained as they did back then: if they have had a single break in the interval, it doesn’t show.

Two Illidari step forward to meet them, a faintly familiar sin’dorei followed closely by a scowling kaldorei. The former bows his head in a quick gesture of respect that isn’t matched by his counterpart.

“King Kael'thas,” he greets, “Thank you for your invitation.”

Kael’thas hand waves the gratitudes. “It was the least I could do. You must be Kayn, then?”

“Sunfury, yes. And this is… Altruis,” he says, hesitating briefly over the man’s name in a way that suggests he’s in the habit of calling him something else, probably much more rude.

“Enchanted, I’m sure. May I introduce you to my Ranger-General and Grand Magister…”

The appropriate greetings are exchanged, polite noises are made, and then Kael’thas waves them forward into the ruins of Silvermoon.

The western part of the city has changed enormously since the days following the Scourge, but not so much that one can easily overlook the barely-healed wound left behind. The mana-starved elves that used to roam its empty streets are gone and so are the patrollers, as well as any other signs of dysfunctioning arcane devices: these they dismantled for parts, when they could not be fixed.

But the gutted buildings remain; the tall grass growing between split cobblestone; the traces of old blood scorched into stone by uncontrollable arcane surges. The debris has not been cleared away yet — there simply hasn’t been the time to undertake such a frivolous endeavor.

Why bother? There is no one to move into the new empty homes that would be built over the bones of the previous tenants.

There’s no hiding that these are ruins, is the point, not even with the brand new orb of translocation that must glitter beautifully to an Illidari’s sight, hovering prettily in the middle of what was once the Commons Halls. But the antsy, weary demon hunters seem only glad to set down their meager possessions, and Kayn is nothing but cordial as he makes small talk with Kael’thas about what they can expect of Silvermoon while they stay behind her walls (anything they ask for — anything that is Kael’thas’ to give).

The sin’dorei is the one who does all the talking: Altruis still hasn’t uttered a word. He barely acknowledges Kael'thas' presence beyond a few quick glances his way. The veil on his face makes it difficult to decipher the emotion behind them, but Kael’thas doesn’t suppose it’s positive.

He breaks his silence once it’s clear they have reached their destination, snapping commands at the demon hunters milling about looking at loose ends. Despite the glare he receives in return, they all move to follow his orders: setting up camp, taking out maps and war-markers, starting campfires.

“You run a tight ship,” Halduron notes with a slight smile.

Both Illidari leaders scoff at his words, Kayn casting an irritated look his partner’s way before he responds, “Hardly. We’ve been keeping it together, kind of, but there’s a lot to be done and we seem to be short on everything. People, time, resources…”

“As you can see, we’ve been managing fine,” Altruis interjects, lowering his head as if preparing to headbutt his colleague with those impressive horns of his. “This is hardly necessary. We are—”

“Struggling.” Kayn whirls around to face Altruis, and Kael’thas gets the odd impression that they’re intruding on a private conversation. The other Illidari pay their two leaders no mind despite their rising voices. “You should be grateful for what we’ve been offered.”

“Oh, because it’s such a gift indeed — rotting ruins from a coward’s hand!”

Kael’thas feels heat flare in his chest — a quick burst of anger that Kayn clearly notices, if his side stepping away is anything to go by, but that Altruis either misses or chooses to ignore. At his back, Rommath shifts, smelling blood, and Halduron does the same, sensing the rising tension. The Illidari that were casually ignoring the argument are now studiously ignoring it, their attention set on the impending incident even as they pretend otherwise.

“Do you remember the pain, Kayn, the hunger, the blood shed for this war? The long years in stasis? Because I do, and I can guarantee you he does not— busy as he was running away from Outland while we died.”

“Altruis—”

Kael’thas raises his hand, cutting Kayn off. He will hear this to its end.

Thus unimpeded, Altruis continues. “We have no need for his help, let alone his leadership; we’ve been managing fine on our own. You,” he points his finger straight at Kael’thas then, “Do not know what it’s like to sacrifice. He would have let us all die if it served him better. ”

“You’re one to talk,” Kayn says darkly, boring holes into Altruis’ back.

Something crosses Altruis’ face then, difficult to read. “It’s not you I left to die.” His voice sounds as if it’s straining against the desire to soften. Then it dips back into bitterness: “I say we let his logistics lie, lest we end up just as dead in the ground as him.”

Magic sparks at Kael'thas' fingertips with a noise like firecrackers; it doesn’t take a genius to notice that he’s no longer the he Altruis refers to with his bitter words.

“Bold words from someone likely to join him very soon,” he warns, voice low, a warning.

Altruis returns his glare levelly, blank fabric set to Kael’thas’ rage. His lips quirk up to bare his teeth in a way Kael’thas would hesitate to call a smile. But Kayn shoves him aside before he can speak, snarling:

“Take a walk.”

“Don’t order me around like a dog—”

“Do not act like one, then, and I won’t have to—”

For a moment they stand there, locked in a blind man’s staring contest. Their horns and the way they tilt their head to show them off in intimidation makes them resemble a pair of rams readying themselves for a fight. Behind Kael’thas, Rommath has — paradoxically — relaxed; eventually Altruis proves him correct, heaving a disgusted huff before he strides off without another word.

“My apologies,” Kayn offers after a moment of awkward silence.

Kael’thas shakes the embers off his hands. “It’s nothing,” he says tersely. “I’ve heard much worse from people I like much better.”

And it’s better than having him defect to the enemy in silence, he supposes. Though he can’t say that he would mourn this particular demon hunter’s disappearance.

-

Welcoming refugees is never a straight-forward affair, least of all when the refugees in question happen to be an independent mercenary force; there’s a lot of planning to go through before the Illidari can properly settle into their new campment.

Rommath has to coordinate communication between his agents and the Illidari; Halduron whisk a few demon hunters away to discuss supplies and other necessities with Lor’themar, who is still in the Spire, holding down the fort. Kael’thas quickly loses track of both of them: he gets swept up discussing strategy with Kayn, and his first glance at their improvised war table waylays him entirely.

Maps, blood-stained reports and messy correspondence with outside agents are thrown haphazardly on a wooden plank balanced over two weapon racks. If there’s any organization system to the piles he cannot make sense of it; it seems entirely random to him. Even to someone as well-versed in menacing paperwork as he is, the resulting mountain of paper is nothing short of daunting. He can’t imagine what the Illidari, disconnected from Azeroth for years and playing catch-up even as they try to find their footing in the war, must feel.

Years of pouring over similar documents have not endeared administrative work to Kael’thas. He’s too much of a mage to truly enjoy the slow, endless grind of it. Though he’ll gladly bury himself in centuries-old tomes for hours in search of the right citation to support a theory of his, the same cannot be said of dry reports about grain yield or troop movements. If he’s to be up to his neck in scrolls, he’d like the content of them to at least be interesting.

Although he lacks natural inclination, habit and spite have proved to be excellent motivators to persevere once his admittedly short patience runs out. One may want to do things well; one may even, at times, succeed; but nothing makes one as reliably persistent as the desire to prove others wrong.

Altruis’ animosity proves to be a boon in this.

Kael’thas might have been daunted by the enormity of the task at hand had his pride not been pricked. Instead he throws his hair over his shoulder, drapes his cloak over a sword sticking out from underneath the ‘table’, and gets to work.

First he divides the mess into neater piles. One for the reports from demon hunters sent into the field; another for the intelligence acquired from other sources; then the letters from foreign powers; the requests for aid; the rare few offers of assistance, so on and so forth. Many have a need for demon hunters in this invasion but few are willing to offer help in return, it seems.

Once this is done he starts to sort through each pile, dividing them further between intel that has been confirmed, intel that’s outdated, and the rest requiring further investigation. This takes more input from Kayn, who hovers at his side and occasionally holds on to parchments Kael’thas isn’t sure where to put yet. The Illidari looks a little bewildered to have been so quickly evicted from his own desk but, crucially, doesn’t question Kael’thas’ business-like takeover.

It’s easier that he expected to fall back into the habits he built as Illidan’s lieutenant — and easier to think once he’s put some order to the chaos.

He has his own resources to add to the cause now; Rommath’s spies and Halduron’s look-outs, Lor’themar’s experience in both war and statecraft. It doesn’t make the process easier, since it leaves him with even more people to coordinate, but he feels more useful. More in control than when simply moving someone else’s chess pieces on the board the way he did when he was a refugee under Illidan’s protection.

He waves a report on Legion movements on the East Continent until Kayn takes it. The ink upon the paper shimmers faintly: magic-infused, to make it legible to the Illidari’s senses.

“When was this found?”

“A week ago, I believe.”

“Put it on the outdated pile, then, will you. No, not that one — yes, good. And get me some blank parchment. I’ll forward this to Silvermoon; we already have rangers there…”

Hours pass without Kael’thas’ notice: though part of him always unconsciously tracks the path of the sun through the day, the darkening sky and cooling air don’t register to him until a hand falls on his shoulder, shaking him out of his fixated state.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Rommath says.

Rubbing a hand over his face and feeling like he’s suddenly had a kodo dropped over his head, Kael’thas looks over the table he’s been bent over for the past— “What time is it?”

“Nearly nine.”

For the past five hours. Light, no wonder he feels terrible. He needs to drink water.

He glances to his left and finds Kayn standing at attention, exactly where Kael’thas expected to find him. “And you’ve been here the whole time?”

The demon hunter shrugs. “I’ve been around,” he says, gesturing to the still bustling camp. “You didn’t seem like you needed help.”

His tone, faintly skeptical, suggests he thought it necessary to keep an eye on Kael’thas anyway. It gets him a quick, considering look from Rommath; the recognition of an asset where he didn’t expect to find any.

Wryly, Kael’thas hopes it’s because of his well-documented tendency to forgo food and sleep and to strike out on his own on a whim; it’s what has Rommath keeping an eye on him. He’d rather not have the Illidari see him as a threat to be supervised. Nothing good ever comes out of a force that fearfully scrutinizes its leadership.

(He pointedly doesn’t allow his thoughts to linger on the Horde. That is a problem for some other time, and hopefully someone else entirely.)

“I’m nearly done with this,” he says, sweeping his hand over the small sea of parchments.

In truth he’s only about two thirds of the way done with catching up on the backlog of reports. Some of it he knew about, which makes it easier to deal with, but there’s a lot of intel either too novel or too specific to have made its way up the sin’dorei intelligence network yet — and a lot that the Illidari haven’t gotten their hands on from the other factions’ spy networks. He needs to read all of it so he knows what they are working with and can contribute his own information. They will all have to rely on incomplete knowledge a lot in the future — war is an imprecise business — so he would rather limit the blind spots they must work with when he can.

“If only you read my reports so enthusiastically!” Rommath notes wryly, pulling him away from the table. The sound his spine makes as he straightens his back for the first time in hours elicits a wince from both of them. “Come; I have no interest in repeating our Kirin Tor days.”

They make their way to the orb of translocation, through to Farstrider Square and then up towards the Spire. The walk over is quiet. The night is filled with the hum of conversations drifting through the open arches of inns and lounges, the occasional metallic clatter of City Guardians shifting in their armor; war hasn’t reached Silvermoon yet.

News of it has, but not so much that it has disrupted their lives entirely: they are a people well-accustomed to the end of the world.

“Alright,” Kael’thas sighs once they are within the inner sanctum of the Spire. “What’s on your mind?”

Silence, for a moment, as Rommath thinks it over. Finally he says: “Do not overtax yourself, Kael.”

“I won’t endanger myself on purpose, but I intend to hold my word — I told them I would help, and so I will.” He glances at Rommath through his lashes, suggesting: with or without your approval.

“I know you will,” Rommath sighs. “Good night, Kael.”

Chapter Text

In spite of Rommath’s protests, Kael’thas splits the following days between his kingly duties and the Illidari. Much of these two charges can be done as one: scouring through reports and war maps, tracking down whoever is in charge of the things currently giving him a headache, writing letters to allies and agents until his wrist aches. His triumvirate handles most of the issues specific to Quel’thalas, and Kayn and Altruis have things well in hand on their side.

The doubled amount of work does mean he must sacrifice sleep to get it all done, but it’s not as if he was sleeping all that much to begin with.

And at least he does not go hungry: the small team that keeps the palace’s kitchen running knows to keep something simple on hand for him, and there always seems to be a suspiciously sharp-eyed sin’dorei or an idle demon hunter around to bring it to him at regular intervals — whether he’s in the Spire or out in the ruins.

At this point he suspects Rommath and Kayn have set up a guard shift of sorts to make sure he’s never left alone. He finds it irritating and charming in equal measure. As he does poorly with solitude, he doesn’t comment on it.

He has other things on his mind. An ever-increasing amount of things, as a matter of fact.

Such as a letter from Khadgar that Rommath comes all the way to the Illidari camp to give him.

“It came by raven.”

Kael’thas turns the letter in his hands. It’s addressed to him directly. A frown settles between his eyebrows as he skims the content, reading aloud as he goes. “He wishes to appeal to the council of Dalaran… to let the Horde back into the city? Ah, and the sin’dorei, I see.” Only then does it hit him that Khadgar must have seen Kael'thas' rescue of his imprisoned brethren during the purge as tacit approval of their actions; a show of loyalty to the Horde. He sighs. There will be no fixing that assumption now, he’s afraid.

“Will you go?”

“Yes, I believe I will,” he replies absently. “I would see us back in Dalaran as soon as possible.”

And he could use the break; he’s in dire need of a problem he can quickly fix.

-

Dalaran has not changed overmuch since Kael’thas last walked its streets — not counting the time he sneaked into the Violet Citadel — which is perhaps even more disorienting than if it had.

His entire world has been overturned time and time again, but Dalaran remains; it’s him that has changed.

At least this time he will not have to skulk around like a thief. He’s here as a guest of the Council; still an uncomfortable step down for a man who served on that very same council once, but a definitive improvement. Dalaran was his home for decades and he does not like to find himself a stranger inside its walls.

Khadgar greets him with open arms — literally. Kael’thas briefly fears he’s going to try and embrace him, but thankfully he stops before coming in hugging range to Kael’thas.

“King Kael'thas! Welcome. I assume the journey was not too difficult?”

Since Kael’thas had taken a portal to Karazhan and then flew up to Dalaran itself on Al’ar’s back, the assumption is right — and asinine. He dismisses it with a sharp gesture of the hand.

“Please, spare me the small talk. Why am I here?”

The archmage lets his arms fall, though his smile stubbornly refuses to do the same. “The sin’dorei were hit the worst by the Purge. I thought you would appreciate being included in the debate about their return to the city.”

“I fail to see how I am meant to argue for the return of mages from the Horde as well as my own people.” Khadgar throws him a sidelong glance that he ignores. What advantage the man thinks Kael’thas gains from pretending he isn’t allied to the Horde, he doesn’t know. He wouldn’t waste that much energy arguing otherwise if he wasn’t truly neutral. No one believes him after all: both factions are suspicious of his every action, one believing him a liar and the other a coward or a traitor. “Besides, my presence is hardly a winning argument. I’m not Jaina’s favorite person at the moment.”

“No one is, I’m afraid. But you are familiar to her, and she might take your presence better than any other advocate for the Horde that I may have called upon.”

Kael’thas isn’t so sure of that, but he inclines his head in concession of the point and follows Khadgar into the Violet Citadel.

The archmages barely spar them a glance as they enter the council room, every single one embroiled in some manner of angrily-whispered debate with at least one of their neighbors. Kael’thas doesn’t take it as any kind of indicator of the Council’s feelings towards the subject at hand. That’s just how mages are: put two in a room and they’ll have found a reason to argue before you’ve closed the door. Careers-ruining arguments have sparked over pettier conflicts than this; Kael’thas himself wrote one of his most brilliant papers to date to spite Ansirem Runeweaver after the man dared to doubt his theory.

By the look in his eyes, Runeweaver remembers the incident as well as Kael’thas does and still holds a grudge over it. He wonders idly if the human has managed to contradict his claim since. From the sour expression on his face, Kael’thas concludes smugly that he hasn’t.

The only one keeping to herself is Jaina, who’s retreated to a corner of the room from which she watches his and Khadgar’s approach with narrowed eyes.

“This could be… uncomfortable,” Khadgar muses after a cursory glance at the Council. “Are you ready, King Kael'thas?”

Wordlessly, Kael’thas draws himself to his full height — and notes with some distaste that Khadgar still has a few inches over him. Nodding, the other archmage cleans his throat pointedly. He has to do it twice before the Council members all fall silent to listen.

“Thank you all for gathering on such short notice,” he begins.

“We don't have time to waste in meetings, Khadgar,” Jaina interjects before he can get anywhere. “The Legion is advancing and the Horde arms for battle.”

Khadgar eyes the room. “Then I'll get right to the point. For the Kirin Tor to fight at full strength, we need the mages of the Horde to join our ranks.”

“Never! Do you hear me, Khadgar?”

Kael’thas can’t help but jerk back slightly at the volume at which Jaina says this. He used to know her as a calm, sometimes naive — as humans are wont to be — but altogether kind woman, and he is surprised to see such a depth of hatred burning in her eyes. Instead of blunting her grief, time has sharpened it. He should have expected it: she was always steadfast in her affection, for better or for worse.

Why is he so surprised to find that, in this too, they share a similarity? They were always alike in many ways, which is why they got along so well and Kael’thas had such fondness for her when they were at the Kirin Tor. But for some reason he expected himself to be the only one turning catastrophic loss into a single-minded call to war.

“Jaina, we know the pain you've endured. But this is about—”

She speaks over Khadgar, slashing her hand in front of her. “They obliterated Theramore. They left us to die on the Broken Shore. Again and again they've proven to be monsters... cowards!”

As she speaks she turns the full force of her glare to Kael’thas. He doesn’t let his wince show: it would be as good as an open confession of guilt in her eyes, and he won’t give any of them the satisfaction of confirming an alliance with the Horde that is a complete fabrication.

Mouth twisting in a rare show of discomfort, Khadgar dismisses her — a bold move — to address the Council at large again.

“I've made my case.”

Kael’thas interjects before Khadgar can call for a vote. “You have done no such thing,” he scoffs under his breath, “But I suppose that’s what I’m here for.” And saying this, he steps forward so the eyes of the Council are on him only.

Archmage Modera leans forward slightly, watching him through her lashes. “You would argue for the Horde’s cause then, King Kael'thas?”

He waves that remark aside with no small amount of irritation.

“I would argue for my people, who have called this city home for longer than some of you have been alive and have been unfairly purged from its streets because of the crimes of a single one of them.” He spits the word like it’s poison in his mouth. In the corner of his eye he catches Jaina’s scoff. She’s too deep in her grief to be remorseful — but Kael’thas is far too deep in his to make an attempt at subtlety. “The Horde might benefit from an end to your short-sighted, cruel measures, I am sure, but no more or less than you would.”

Ignoring the general sound of doubt and discord from the assembled mages, Kael’thas looks at the Council — all too familiar with its internal workings and its petty games of politics — and decides to take a leaf out of Illidan’s book. As he so often must, these days.

There’s simply nothing quite as efficient as putting the fear of the Legion in the heart of men.

“I will not bother with matters of justice and fairness. All of us assembled here tonight know that such concerns have never factored in this Council’s decisions.”

He lets his words sink in as he stares down each and every Council member. He lingers particularly on Ansirem and Modera, who already held their position when he had to step down in the wake of the Scourge invasion. He did not forget how they stood aside as Garithos imprisoned him under this very same Citadel. They must have, as they insist on repeating the same crimes against the Sunreavers.

“Instead I will be frank with you: without the sin’dorei, you will die.”

“Nonsense.”

His raised hand alone quiets the outcry from Vargoth. This they remember well: if Kael’thas does not get silence when he speaks, he will create it. He goes on as if he had not been disturbed.

“And the sin'dorei will die without the Kirin Tor. You may have forgotten, from the safety of your flying city, the threat we face. I have not. For years I have fought the enemy that is now at our doors. An enemy that has never been defeated, that has never been survived, whose advance has only been slowed — barely! — once by the sacrifices of countless kaldorei during the War of Ancients, and the Sundering that followed.”

He resists the urge to pace that overtakes him whenever the subject is brought up. There’s nothing his body can do to alleviate the stress of the situation; his mind will have to do.

“This alliance is a matter of survival. The Kirin Tor is weakened by the loss of half the mages that used to make up its numbers — many of its most brilliant minds, unjustly exiled. Azeroth must present a united front to the Legion if it hopes to survive Sargeras, let alone put an end to his crusade. If you wish to banish us again as soon as the threat is dealt with, then so be it; we have our own universities on the other end of the bridge you wish to burn.”

It goes without saying that the sin’dorei will not let go of Dalaran quite so easily next time. This is their city as well, and this alliance is as much a necessity as it is a way for them to put their foot in the door after having it closed to their face before. The Council has no choice but to accept, just as Kael’thas has no choice but to offer.

All wars demand sacrifices. He’d leave them to rot for what they’ve done if he had a choice in the matter. And if they rescind this deal after the war, he’ll demand that all books written by sin’dorei authors be taken out of the libraries of Dalaran; he will call every sin’dorei scholar back to Silvermoon, to bolster their own academies of magic; he will make them a force to reckon with, and let the Kirin Tor wither and die without their centuries of research, their long-lived minds, their intrinsic mastery of arcane.

He is a mage like the rest of them, and as such not above pettiness.

Stepping back, Kael’thas indicates to Khadgar that he’s done with a nod. Jaina’s eyes follow him, and she looks him straight in the eyes as she addresses the room at large. “Very well. But consider your choice carefully. If you let those vermin back into this city, I will not be counted among your ranks when you welcome them.”

Khadgar only sighs lightly.

“In the matter of allowing the Horde into Dalaran and offering membership in the Kirin Tor, I vote aye.”

One after the other, the archmages give their vote. Each ‘aye’ lightens the weight bearing down on Kael’thas shoulders, so much so that even Runeweaver’s ‘nay’ and Jaina’s venomous silence can’t stifle his relief.

He’s had so few victories lately. He’s entitled to enjoying this one while it lasts.

“The vote carries. I'm sorry, Jaina, but the stakes are higher than they've ever been,” Khadgar says with sincere regret.

“Jaina, please... we are doing what's best for Azeroth,” Modera pleads. “Stand with us!”

“This Council is blind to the truth. When the Horde betrays you again, remember who warned you. Farewell.”

Before she can teleport away, Kael’thas’ hand snaps out and he grasps the threads of the spell she’s weaving around herself.

To anyone else it would only look like his gesture arrested her in place, but the two of them can feel the truth in the magic tangled around Kael’thas’ fingers, pulled taunt by their opposing wills. He learned this technique from Illidan — an old sorcerer’s trick from before the Sundering, later developed into the ability to siphon magical energy from others and, now, to hijack a spell in process. He wasn’t sure it would work in such a way; he cannot help the pleased smirk that comes to his lips when it proves to be just enough to stop Jaina’s escape, though it’s likely more due to surprise than his own proficiency. It has been a while since he last used it.

“Archmage Proudmoore — a word, if you please, before you go.”

She looks, for a moment, like she’d rather pull out her own teeth than hold any kind of conversation with him. But something — old fondness, perhaps, or mere curiosity about this magic he’s just used and that she does not know, if not about his intentions — stills her. She dispells her teleportation with a snap of her wrist and strides out of the room on her own two feet, silent.

Khadgar has to step aside hurriedly lest she runs bodily into him on her way past. Kael’thas offers him a shrug as a sort of apology, out of habitual politeness, and follows after Jaina.

Once out of the room he hastens his pace to be level with her. They walk in a heavy silence until they’ve reached a suitably isolated corridor, the kind where students discuss theory and tests in hurried whispers. The kind he once would have dreamed of kissing her in. There Jaina stops so abruptly he nearly walks into her as she whirls around to face him, her face set in a mask of cold, controlled fury.

For all that pyromancers such as himself have the reputation of a fiery temper, Jaina is no less fierce for her mastery over ice. There is an emotional component to all magic, and mages who focus on elemental magic in particular tend to thrive for a state of mind that is as close as possible to the temperament of their chosen element. Ice, despite appearances, is capable of as much destruction as fire, although it takes much more time and effort to coax a blizzard into being than to spark a blaze. Once it gets going, though…

Jaina has had time aplenty to stoke her anger. It blows through Kael’thas like the mistral when she grits out, “What do you want, Sunstrider?”

He ignores the over challenge in her tone. They were friends once. He doesn’t dare to remind her of that fact — he doubts his acquaintance inspires her much affection nowadays — but holds it in his mind as he speaks.

“Only to reiterate my regrets over the loss you’ve suffered,” he says mildly.

In truth he is not sure what he meant to tell her. It pained him to see her storm out, to part in anger. She is still dear to him despite the time that has passed since they last called each other friends. She is… was, an unblemished part of an idealized past; the embodiment of a time when he was younger, less burdened by his responsibilities. A time when she was the closest thing to love that he could name.

“What good are your regrets to me?”

Her shoulders and gaze drop, not mollified but exhausted by anger, and for a moment she looks younger than she is — weighted by a weariness different from mere age.

Surprisingly, she’s the one to break the silence next.

“You’ve lost as much as I have,” she whispers. “Surely you understand.”

“I do— of course I do. Why do you think I pursue the Legion so relentlessly?”

“But Arthas—”

“Is dead,” he says, although the fallen prince is not quite what he had in mind with his reply; he forgets his bond is not common knowledge outside of Silvermoon.

He is lucky, for some definition of the word, that all the tragedies of his life are connected. It makes it easier to push back the inevitable time when he’ll have to sit with his sorrow. There is always an enemy to pursue, this endless war justified by the hand the Legion has played in every part of his pain. “Twice over. So is Garrosh, yet here we are. It seems neither of us will ever be satisfied by anything less than the absolute destruction of those who have wronged us.”

“Yet you’d have me forgiving the Horde.”

“How could I? No, I’d have you setting your rage aside for the sake of the world.” He shakes his head, smiling slightly in grim humor. “You may burn Orgrimmar to the ground the second Sargeras is dead if that’s what you wish, as long as you wait until then.”

She smiles wryly, and it is a welcome sight despite the absolute lack of joy in the expression. “If that is how you treat your allies I fear to see what you reserve for your enemies.”

He scoffs. “You shall see soon.” Then, out of idle curiosity and because it is worth saying: “What will it take to have you all believe my claims that the sin’dorei remain neutral in your little turf war?”

“There is no place for neutrality in such a conflict, Kael’thas. Not when cruel acts of this magnitude are committed.”

“Would you have me join Sylvanas, then, for what Garithos attempted to do to my people?”

She has the decency to look uncomfortable for a moment. “It’s different.”

Because she can empathize with Garithos’ motives, who never impacted her directly, and not with Garrosh’s, who did. Or perhaps because she thinks their demise was, in some way, more justified than that of Theramore. In truth he would rather not know: he likes the kinder image of her in his memory. As easy as it would be to fall into a philosophical debate with her, as nostalgic, Kael’thas is running out of time. His job here is done and he is expected back on the Fel Hammer.

Besides, what arguments does he have? Kael’thas is a selfish man. He fights for what belongs to him; his life and his people. As long as the factions leave the sin’dorei and Illidari out of their conflict, then he cares not what else they do.

He sighs, sidesteps the subject entirely. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Then, mostly to himself, “Maybe the kaldorei had the right idea in hiding away for ten thousand years.”

The remark is wistful but holds little sincerity: he would loathe to admit the kaldorei did anything right besides the creation of Illidan himself. And perhaps a few of the demon hunters.

“I hope it won’t come to that,” Jaina says with what could nearly be a note of humor.

He manages a small smile in return; it holds as little sincerity as hers. “Help me save this accursed planet and I shall think twice before disappearing.”

They part ways more amicably than Kael’thas would have thought possible, though he is under no impression that he changed Jaina’s mind in any way concerning the Horde. Fortunately it’s not what he set out to do. He meant what he said: their war is not his problem. As long as the sin’dorei are allowed back in Dalaran where they might be the most useful, he’s content with the outcome of his visit.

Khadgar is nowhere to be found, and Kael’thas doesn’t feel like performing more than a cursory search for the man. He knows how to find Kael’thas, apparently, and will surely get in touch if he needs his assistance again.

-

And get in touch he does — physically.

Kael’thas hears about the commotion long before he’s close enough to witness it — Illidari are shameless gossips, and rumors spread through their ranks like felfire. Whispers of a mage landing directly into camp and nearly getting his head taken off by Kayn as a result wash over the camp as soon as the first eye-witness jumps through the orb to share the news with those of them training in the Square. Kael’thas, coming back from a meeting with one of their forward scouts about sightings of Legion forces worryingly close to the coast of Lordaeron, hastens his pace.

He’s sure Khadgar won’t act rashly, not even with such a hostile welcome, but he cannot say the same of the demon hunters.

The scene that greets him is less chaotic than he feared, although not by much. Khadgar holds his empty hands up in a clear show of harmlessness that no one else seems to buy, and takes the wary looks of surrounding Illidari with good humor. Kayn, meanwhile, is scowling fiercely, but it’s the fact that Altruis is standing right next to him in silence that has Kael’thas worried. Terrible things are afoot if the two are in speaking distance but not actively arguing.

Khadgar perks up when he catches sight of Kael’thas and drops his hands to his side, heedless of the tension.

“King Kael'thas!” he cries out. “Just the man I was hoping to talk to.”

Kael’thas abstains from saying that if Khadgar wanted to talk to him so badly, he might have sent a letter ahead instead of teleporting through Quel’thalas willy-nilly. He’s certainly proved to be capable of that feat of writing before.

“Khadgar,” he greets as neutrally as he can. Some of his irritation bleeds through anyway. He tires of the Kirin Tor pulling him away from his work. “You would have been better suited looking for me in Sunfury Spire — why here?”

“Oh, I was about to, but I glimpsed this camp while flying over and thought this news would interest the Illidari as well.”

Typical. With an impatient wave of his hand Kael’thas signals the demon hunters to stand down and they do so, albeit reluctantly. He’s still amazed they listen to him at all in the absence of Illidan. He supposes they see his absence at the final battle at the Black Temple as him following a direct order, just like them, which absolves him of the same crime of cowardice Altruis was accused of. Whatever the reason, he’s glad: it’s helpful.

“I suppose you did get there in the end. What is it that you need?” He could have been less short; pointedly, isn’t. Let the archmage quickly be on his way: he has a war to plan.

At least Khadgar gets right to the point. “We must move Dalaran to the Broken Isles.”

Unfortunately, this clears absolutely nothing up. Only raises more questions, in fact.

“Is there a reason as to why, or is it simply a flight of fancy that has you enterprising such a feat of magic?” Kael’thas asks idly, already picturing the worst case scenario. He doubts Jaina would actively attack the Kirin Tor, but…

“Magni Bronzebeard has come back — the ‘how’ isn’t important, I assure you — and to make a very long story short, he brought to our attention the existence of artifacts in the Broken Isles that could prove crucial to our efforts against the Legion.” Kael’thas thinks the how is rather important here, actually, if only to explain how a dwarf up until now believed dead came upon such vital information. But Khadgar moves along before he can voice his confusion. “The very same Legion which is currently laying siege to Dalaran. Hence my hurry.”

“Light, couldn’t you have started with that?”

Khadgar ignores him.

“As you well know, the moving of an entire city across the globe is not an insignificant endeavor. I would ask Jaina if I didn’t think she’d slung a spell at me before I could get a word edgewise. Kalecgos has already agreed to step in her place, but we can use all the help we can get, which is why I am here.”

Impatiently, Kael’thas says, “Yes, yes, I understand. Let’s not tarry any longer. I’ve put too much effort into this accursed city to let it go to waste so soon.”

“Wait, you can’t just go.” Kael’thas and Khadgar turn as one towards the demon hunter who just barged into the discussion. She crosses her arms over her chest. “Lord Sunstrider is our leader, you can’t requisition him like this. He could get killed!”

Being called their leader is… something: he won’t linger on it just yet. As for the concern, it is sweet but unnecessary: he’s hardly a fragile flower, though he’ll admit to not being quite as durable as a demon hunter. Still he knows it’s pointless to fight it: they are prone to separation anxiety.

“Then you have ten minutes to pick ten others to accompany us,” he says. “Since this is obviously just a ploy to come along anyway. And send a message to Rommath while you’re at it.”

She has the decency to look a little abashed, though not enough that he considers her chastised. Doesn’t matter: if there’s Legion troops in Dalaran, it’ll be good to have demon hunters there anyway.

If anything they will be glad to help Kael’thas burn the city down himself, so they might finally be rid of the accursed place altogether.

Chapter Text

For all that he is nostalgic of his days here, Kael’thas is starting to tire of hurrying after Khadgar through the corridors of the Violet Citadel.

The archmage teleported them directly to the city — no one is asking, but Kael’thas would have used a portal. It would take a little more time to set up, sure, but it would also take less energy than moving multiple people across space, especially since most of them are magical anomalies who require special care lest the magic fails to hold on to them and they get lost in the teleportation. Keeping one’s strength seems vital when one is about to perform one of the most taxing rituals known to mortals. Then again he supposes he is not the Guardian, with near-endless magic at his fingertips…

He’s getting distracted. The demon hunters scattered the second they landed, like a pack of hounds at the first sound of the hunting horn: only Riv, the one who insisted on tagging along in the first place, stayed put. She offers a shrug to his puzzled look, flipping a knife idly as she watches her brethren go. She must have been sincere then when she objected to Kael’thas’ departure on grounds of security. He truly thought it was nothing more than a convenient excuse to come along.

The inner workings of demon hunters are a mystery to him. He tries to question their thought process as little as possible; it’s easier this way.

The air hums with magic, heavy like a coming storm and making his hair stand on end — literally. He can see strands of it flying freely as if he were underwater. Fel and arcane are a poor substitute for ozone but the taste on his tongue is similar enough that he has to look through a window to check if it has started to rain. Though the sky is choked with black clouds, it’s only the heavy smoke that follows the Legion’s destructive advance.

Riv’s ears twitch with tension: the faint clamor of combat in the distance must seem much louder to her heightened senses. Instead of becoming restless as a result of her absence from the fight, she straightens her shoulders and seems to settle at a kind of parade rest.

What demons she expects to find in the Council’s chamber he doesn’t know, but he’s glad to have her come along anyway. Maybe he can sic her on Kalecgos.

The council room is uncharacteristically quiet when they enter, the constant chatter having been replaced by the sound of arcane thrumming like an engine in the air, at a frequency just a hitch past normal hearing. No one looks up at their arrival: the mages are all busy preparing for the coming ordeal. Some meditate with their eyes closed; others exchange hurried murmurs, sometimes to themselves; a few are pouring through notes even now, as if any amount of research could help with this. The undercurrent of tension flows like another strand of magic through the room, binding them together.

Khadgar wastes no time on pleasantries and immediately peels away from Kael'thas' side to begin working on the spell. Kael’thas leaves him to it: though he’s frustrated to sit by, a ritual this size, needing this much precision, with so much interference from the Legion, will require an attention to detail better achieved by a single man.

Once he would have been the one drawing the runes across the floor: he had the steadiest hands of the Council back when he sat with the Six — and, arguably, the sharpest mind. It’s a boring and frustrating process to watch when one could be doing, but as brilliant as he may be with runes, he doesn’t know the exact point in space they are teleporting to. Without this information he’s no better than a battery pack.

Grudgingly, he moves to take his place in the circle.

Modera shifts to make space for him. This puts him right next to Kalecgos, unfortunately, but it would be rude to ignore her. ‘Rudeness’ rarely comes into play when dealing with the Six, but he dislikes her less than the rest, though that’s not saying much. Riv comes to stand a step behind him: he feels her presence by the way the near-tangible ambient arcane energy twists around her, like water breaking against a ship’s hull.

“Sunstrider,” Modera greets with a nod. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe he’s an archmage of the Kirin Tor again, settling for a communal spell with his fellow members of the Six. “Thank you for joining us.”

He pauses in the process of braiding his hair back to look at her, puzzled by her tone of voice.

“You seem surprised. Did you expect me to refuse the call, Modera?”

“You could have done the same as Jaina and washed your hands of the whole thing altogether.” Ruefully, she adds: “Light knows we didn’t give you any reason not to.”

Maybe he could have, and they would have still managed the spell with little trouble. But he did not. He doesn’t have that much confidence in people who aren’t him. Tossing his braid over his shoulder, Kael’thas says, “I am not one to stand aside while others fight my battles. There is no place for grudges in a war.”

Even though he holds plenty of those.

“Your resolve does you credit.”

He’s spared from having to find an answer to that by Khadgar clapping his hands and announcing they are ready to begin.

Flying an entire city across continents without losing a part of it or pulling anything else along would be bad enough, but they intend to teleport it. It’s the safest option to avoid being shot down from the sky by the Legion on the way, but the amount of energy they must supply at once and the control required to actually channel it into displacing the whole area are… hard to conceive.

At least it will be relatively quick. Towing Dalaran to the Broken Isles would be a matter of hours, if not days, though the process would be rather hands-off once the initial spell has been cast. Teleporting it ought to take no more than an hour, as long as nothing goes catastrophically wrong.

The spell catches like a hook under Kael'thas' breastbone, physically jarring him forward as it sinks into his own magic. He twists his fingers around the weave of magic like he’s pulling on the reins of an unruly hawkstrider; he has little control over it beyond setting the pace at which magic is drawn out of him. All he can do is guide it along the line drawn by Khagar — and make sure it doesn’t go awry at the contact of multiple other magical signatures.

Like fire down a trail of tar, his magic runs through his veins all the way to the heart of the spell. He pulls slightly, willing it to be a stream rather than a downpour as the hum in the air reaches a fever pitch. The world blurs, arcane-bright, as space folds under their joined will.

The other mages are torches in his periphery, wavering with the ebb and flow of the spell. Kalecgos is a blazing star: Kael’thas can feel him straining to keep his magic tightly coiled lest he overwhelm the spell with raw power. One light dims as an archmage has to reduce their output before they pass out; he pushes more of his own magic into the ritual to make up for the change and feels the dragon at his side do the same.

Kael’thas nudges the thread of magic coming from the dragon towards the gap left in the circle by the weaker archmages. Kael’thas will have to do the same soon, but not yet; powerful as he may be, he’s no match for Khadgar and Kalecgos.

Something stutters in his chest, the spell drawing more than he’s able to give, and Kael’thas winces. He’s about to pull back a little, already dreading the headache he’ll have tomorrow, when a hand comes to rest on his bare forearm. Claws tap lightly on the inside of his wrist, saying: draw from me instead.

Illidan’s signal.

Blinded by the spell, breathless from the magic rushing through him, Kael’thas nearly throws himself clean out of the casting out of surprise. He clings to the spell instead, trying to reconnect the all too familiar feeling with the yawning absence inside. It’s only Riv, her hand smaller than Illidan’s, her presence lighter without the echo of another heartbeat next to his. But for a moment he could have sworn…

It doesn’t matter. Turning his wrist so his fingers can graze the lines of her tattoos, Kael’thas opens himself to her foreign magic. The fel squirms under her skin, pulsing: responding to the energy that’s thick in the air. It’s second nature to tap into it, weave it with his own, pushing arcane out into the spell and filling the void with borrowed magic. He never lets them mingle: like a drop of ink in clear water, fel taints the magic it touches, and he dreads what it would do to such a sensitive spell.

He can feel the way Khadgar takes this sudden input of energy and weaves it into the spell, the air going tight with magic and intent—

The city moves through space and time like an arrow sinks into a target: intense speed and then stillness. Between one blink and the next, Dalaran snaps into place hundreds of miles west above the Broken Isles.

The movement of the city itself can barely be felt, though Kael’thas fancies he can feel his stomach swoop as rapid movement abruptly comes to a stop. The true source of vertigo is the sudden loss of the tangible web of arcane they were leaning onto. Kael’thas stumbles forward when it dissipates, breaking contact with Riv.

His legs waver, threatening to give out under him; she takes another step and he leans on her before he can collapse. The world swims before his eyes, his head spinning with a nausea-inducing mix of exertion and magical whiplash. He over-extended like a novice: if not for the fel burning in his veins, he doubts he would still be conscious as of now. Faint tremors wrack his hands as he goes to pat Riv, signaling her to let go.

He immediately wavers on his feet and she shifts, her wing hovering behind his back in a slightly more subtle offer of assistance. He sniffs, miffed. This isn’t his first time going too far for a spell. He’s hardly going to keel over and die from it.

“It seems we’ve made it unscathed. Is everyone in one piece?”

Khadgar gets a few scattered noises of ascent in response and seems quite happy to receive that much.

“I am going to— sleep, yes, for a week,” Vargoth mutters to himself.

The other archmages shamble out after him, murmuring words of congratulations and a few muttered critiques of each other’s technique as they go. Soon only Khadgar, Kalecgos and Kael’thas remain, the latter still catching his breath. Leaving means tracking down the demon hunters he came with and finding a way back home before he can even rest. At the moment it seems insurmountable; he’s ready to put it off for as long as possible.

“How are you holding up, King Kael'thas?” Khadgar asks, handing him a fresh mana cookie as he speaks.

Kael’thas doesn’t understand how he can still cast without wincing. His own magic feels bruised and raw. He already dreads the portal home.

He does take the cookie though, wearily nibbling at it.

“Fine. Nothing sleep can’t fix.”

They exchange a knowing look. All mages know what it feels like to go so far past the point of mere exhaustion that sleep starts to feel like a cure-all. He’s unlikely to get as much as he needs in the coming days, but he will be grateful for what he does get.

“Your eyes are glowing,” Kalecgos remarks apropos of nothing.

Kael’thas blinks, nonplussed. “Yes…?”

“No, I mean— they’re glowing green.”

Kael’thas lifts a hand to his face as if he could confirm the change of color by touch alone. It makes sense, of course. It’s been years since he had to call on fel in a significant manner, so his eyes have lost much of their green tint. The change after drawing on Riv’s own magic must be quite noticeable.

“Yes,” he repeats, as if Kalecgos is making an inane statement. They both know what he’s asking, but Kael’thas is not about to explain the hows and whys of fel to the Aspect of Magic. He can figure it out on his own. “They do that, as it so happens.”

The way Riv bristles at Kael'thas' side discourages Kalecgos from further comments. With so much of her fel magic running in his blood, Kael’thas is acutely aware of her presence, as if a thin strand of magic were running between them, pulling slightly at him whenever she moves. It soothes something within him in the moments before it starts to fade on its own; the prickle of borrowed magic like a balm over a deep ache.

“I will leave you to your rest,” Kalecgos says, eyes darting between the two of them before he departs. The slump in his shoulders suggest he, too, will be sleeping off his magical exhaustion very soon: the dragon shouldered much of the spell’s force.

“Please.” Then, turning to Riv, “Is there a way to get all your comrades together quickly? I would rather not linger overlong.”

“You only have to call, lord Kael’thas, and they will answer.”

He rolls his eyes.

“I’m not about to go and yell from the rooftops in the hope a demon hunter will catch wind of it. You have ten minutes. Anyone not in this room by then will have to fly home on their own.”

Her lips quirk up in a smile, and she jerks a botched bow before dashing off. Khadgar watches her leave with a thoughtful look.

“They’re quite loyal to you, aren’t they?”

“They know me, and they trust that I act in their best interests,” Kael’thas corrects.

He wouldn’t call the Illidari’s willingness to listen to him loyalty: for all that they call him lord and some even their leader, they are as likely as not to ignore him or go against him if they don’t like his choice. It’s only because he has yet to make a decision they disagree with that he hasn’t had to deal with their disobedience. Their loyalty is, and has always been, to Illidan alone.

“Is that so different?”

Even if pressed, Kael’thas couldn’t explain where, exactly, the difference lies.

How could he voice the blind loyalty Illidan inspires, the near-fanatical devotion to a cause that cannot be set apart from the man that has spearheaded it for so long? Only those who have fought at Illidan’s side can understand what it feels like, to love and trust him so deeply you’d die for it and nothing else. His perspective on the subject is more than a little biased. He doesn’t want Khadgar to hear the longing in his voice.

Thankfully Khadgar doesn’t push the issue. He waits with Kael’thas in silence until Riv comes back, trailed by a handful of bloodied, singed, satisfied demon hunters. And then he waves his hand and a portal springs open, showing the golden hues of the Eversong Woods through a haze of swirling arcane.

“I could have done it,” Kael’thas says, fighting to keep a scowl off his face. He’s tired, yet, but he’s not an invalid. He’d have managed a portal, if given a little time to gather himself.

“You could have,” Khadgar agrees, “But I owe you this much, I think, after pulling you away from your work.”

It’s a feeble defense, but Kael’thas is too tired to fight it. Mages do nothing for free, lest they find themselves saddled with unwanted favors, but Khadgar is offering this as payment for service rendered; it’s enough to smooth Kael'thas' ruffled feathers, as it is. Besides, neither of them is much of a typical mage anymore, though they have all the trappings of one.

He inclines his head in thanks and walks through the portal without looking back. He would like to get as much sleep as he possibly can before the next disaster hits them.

Chapter Text

The process of replenishing one’s magical reserves is usually the matter of a good night’s sleep and a full meal at most. It takes Kael’thas a week: one day of battling nausea as his body reacts to the sudden influx of fel after so many years without, and six so far of trying to catch up to the sleep debt he’s been accruing. He isn’t done yet.

Of course, he’s not exactly helping himself recover. Maybe things would be easier if he let himself sleep a full uninterrupted twelve hours and sat down to eat a real meal, but that would be a loss of time that he can ill afford. He has more than enough to deal with as it is: with the Illidari off to capture a battleship or whatever it is they’re doing on another world, it falls on him to keep information flowing and to send the demon hunters left in Azeroth where the war calls them. And with the Horde and Alliance struggling to coordinate their efforts— Light, he has to pen an answer to Velen—

It’s not the first time he works through magical exhaustion. It brings up fond memories of studying for his finals at the Kirin Tor, and less fond memories of trudging through Outland on so little energy that he could feel each spell eating through his blood for a lack of magic to feed it properly.

(Mastering fel had been life-saving; it had been such a stark relief then that he had barely noticed how uncomfortable it feels slithering into veins habituated to arcane. Or perhaps he had been so drained then that there simply was no arcane left in him to conflict with it.)

He was needed then and he is needed now; it has to be enough to push forward. He can hardly disappear for the twenty-four hours straight needed to feel alive again.

“Enough, Kael.”

Rommath’s voice makes him jump; his flailing hand knocks into his inkwell and sends it flying off the desk. It clatters on the floorboard, not breaking but splattering ink in a wide arc as it rolls until it hits the toe of Rommath’s boot. Groaning, Kael’thas rubs his face with two hands before lifting his eyes from the stain, up Rommath’s legs and to his friend’s face.

“I could use a break,” he agrees wearily. “What do you say? Think an hour of sleep will do it? I really need to send these off tonight.”

“You need at least ten. Who are these for?”

He leans back to check. “Illidari squads in the Isles, Durotar, and… right, Ashenvale. Marching orders, you know.”

“Kael’thas… this can’t continue.” Rommath nudges the inkwell aside, sending it rolling the other way, and steps closer to the desk. “Putting yourself in charge of the demon hunters on top of your other responsibilities is madness — you’ll work yourself to death before the Legion gets to you.”

“Well, I am losing a bit on my beauty sleep, sure, but I’ve done worse before — remember Meric Azureblade’s class?”

“By the light, Kael, this is bigger than some finals!”

The irritation in his voice dissipates what little lightheartedness Kael’thas had managed to rally. He turns on his seat and crosses his legs, his unsmiling face tilted up to Rommath.

“Do you think I do not know, somehow?”

“I know you do, it’s just that I don’t think you understand the full extent of what you’re trying to achieve. You try to be a king and an archmage, a strategist for the war effort and a leader for the Illidari, you strike out on your own at the drop of a quill— Kael, there’s a limit to what even you can do on your own.”

Is there?

Illidan led an army against the Legion, setting up a decade of plans to outlive him in the process — but he never concerned himself with the finer details of his operation, and let a thousand obligations fall by the wayside as he strived for his ultimate goal. Then again he had far less time to prepare his campaign than Kael’thas did: should six years of planning not be enough? He did have more advisors, it’s true: Lady Vashj and Kael’thas, yes, but Akama and other demon hunters as well, and many more as officers proved themselves capable and were rewarded with nothing but more responsibilities and stress for their trouble. Kael’thas only has three of them, though they’ve been more competent than anyone could ever hope.

But who else is there?

“What other choice do I have? It all needs to be done, one way or another.”

“Let others carry some of the weight,” Rommath says with the sincere relief of someone whose sensible advice is finally being heard. “Not everything needs your special touch to succeed. Lor’themar, Halduron and I certainly manage well enough on our own. Focus on what absolutely needs you.”

“You’re right,” he says slowly, ignoring Rommath’s ‘of course I am’. He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “You’re right, it’s… overwhelming.” Smiling: “I’ll leave the sin’dorei in your care.”

“What.”

“The three of you don’t need me — not like I am now, running every which way. Not like the Illidari do.”

“Do they?” Rommath asks, sounding strangled.

“You saw them, coming out of years of imprisonment and directly into war — they need all the help they can get.” Like Illidan did. “It’s what I have been preparing for for the past six years,” he adds. “I suppose we both saw this was were my efforts were headed—”

“Did we?” Rommath straightens abruptly, standing still in the middle of the room. His body is tense as a bowstring, his eyes blazing with a cold fury that gives Kael’thas pause. “You may be overestimating your communicative abilities, my king, because until a month ago the Illidari were lost Light knows were and you meant to lead us—”

Kael’thas blinks, befuddled. He has no idea where this is coming from. Rommath is usually so collected — and he never hesitates to voice his opinion, brutally so when he directs his critics at Kael’thas, so it can’t be a long-repressed resentment rearing its head only now.

He wonders if he missed some previous sign of Rommath’s displeasure — something before this discussion.

“Have I given you reason to doubt my leadership?” Kael’thas asks, waspish.

“When you’re here? No.”

“And Lor’themar has been doing a perfect job of picking up my slack whenever my other duties demand that I be absent from Silvermoon. What is this about, Rom? It’s not like you not to speak plainly.”

Rommath lets out a frustrated groan and rubs his face roughly, pulling aside his cowl in the process. The innocuous gesture reveals his weary, closed-off expression. To anyone it would seem like nothing out of the ordinary for the somber archmage. Kael’thas, who’s spent decades of his life at Rommath’s side, learning to read his minute expressions and the nuances of his deadpan, sees the anxiety on Rommath’s face clear as day.

“You are our king, Kael,” Rommath says, voice once again level though it remains stilted with underlying tension. “I’d even dare to call you a good one.”

“There’s nothing I do that Lor’themar cannot manage, often better than me.”

Rommath gives him a hard look. “He’s competent,” he allows: high praises coming from him. “But— When I said you were taking on too much, I didn’t mean you should leave us.”

“I’m not abandoning you, Rommath — but you have to admit I am of far more use to the Illidari!” He continues before Rommath can protest. “I left them to die at the Black Temple. I owe them this much—”

“You owe them nothing.”

Rommath’s vehemence surprises them both. He blinks slowly, the only sign of dismay he’ll allow himself.

“They are our people. Even if they were — even if they hadn’t shed their blood for me, the sin’dorei and the kaldorei alike — we need them.”

“And your kingdom needs you to be safe!” Rommath’s eyes don’t quite soften but they thaw, somewhat, allowing Kael’thas to see the sincere concern hidden behind the anger. “The last time I left you alone with them, you came back in pieces. You nearly didn’t come back at all.” Before Kael’thas can offer any kind of rebuttal — not that he can find one to offer — Rommath continues, voice going savage with anger, “I’m tired of losing you to a war led by a dead madman — even if he was your soulmate. Especially then.”

Kael’thas goes cold — then burning hot, a flush of anger rising to his face. The palms of his hands hitch, magic pooling under the skin and licking at his skin from underneath; he’s rising out of his chair before he knows it. He forces it back through sheer force of will.

Rommath has never made a secret of his distaste for the concept of soulmates, and for Kael’thas propensity to throw himself into relationships without a second thought. As young students, it was merely a source of ribbing. After the Scourge, he got it into his head that it was his Light-given duty to keep Kael’thas safe, and Illidan became more than a poor relationship choice: he was an obstacle to this goal and, later, the reason behind Rommath’s greatest failure. He’s kept his resentment half-voiced so far, in regard to Kael’thas feelings (when he could be bothered to spare them), but it couldn’t stay silent forever.

This is your best friend, he reminds himself. This comes from a place of love.

It’s a little difficult to remember in the face of Rommath’s coldness, the frustration that strains to pierce through his cold mask.

Breathing deeply to calm the fire sparking to life inside of him, he strains out, “Go on then.”

“He should have known better than to send you on an endless crusade. He should have—” Rommath stops, frowning in frustration.

He has always struggled to voice his own feelings, in a way that betrays his usual eloquence. Not that it ever is an issue between them: on the rare occurrence when he cares to share his feelings, Kael’thas can read his meaning plain on his face. Like he does now, hearing what Rommath cannot say:

He should have protected you.

He hears but he does not listen — does not want to listen — and Rommath is left floundering in silence. He gives up, picks his train of thought up in a different place. “I just wish you hadn’t fooled yourself into thinking you owe him a lifetime of service for the honor of being his soulmate.”

Anger and disbelief spark in Kael'thas' chest, the fire of each weakened by the other. He is too confused to be cruel, and too angry to try to understand. He lets out a wordless noise of frustration and falls back in his chair. His fingers naturally find the spot on his wrist where his mark used to sit. The skin there is smooth and unblemished, but he imagines that he can still feel the script under his fingers, the slight static of old blood magic, like one would feel a phantom limb. A memory like a wound.

He doesn’t even have a scar to remember the bond by. Only himself as a living monument to what he used to be a part of.

Kael’thas didn’t embark on this crusade out of the goodness of his heart. It’s nothing but history’s most convoluted memorial service; he refuses to lay Illidan in the ground without the corpse of Sargeras himself to serve as a grave marker. But Rommath is wrong when he assumes Kael’thas thinks he owes it to Illidan. He’s made a promise, yes, to fight until the end of the Legion or his own; but he’s been an oathbreaker before.

It is, put plainly, pure spite that drives him forward. And love, of course. And regrets.

How can he explain it, though, to a man who has only seen him broken since, a shadow to the beast of his own grief? Kael’thas has been a poor advocate of Illidan’s memory.

He runs a hand through his hair and tries to piece his argument together. “It’s not a debt,” he says, and grimaces at the weakness of the argument. “You know how I get when I’m in love.”

“I do.”

Rommath is merciful enough not to voice the unkind comment they’re both thinking. Intense, obsessive, brainless and excessive are all words he’s used to describe a lovesick Kael’thas in the past. His lips twist down — it’s easy to see, without the cowl, the myriad of expressions he doesn’t bother to keep under control. “But is it really love?”

Kael’thas can’t help a small laugh as he rubs his tired eyes. They sting as if he were going to cry, but they’re entirely dry. He’s rather out of tears, he thinks. “After a decade I can tell love from simply wanting to jump his bones, yes.”

“I know how you get when you’ve convinced yourself that you’re in love, Kael. Like a dog with a bone. And you’ve thought your soulmate would be your one true love for as long as you’ve had that mark. You used to think anyone you fell for must be your soulmate, for Light’s sake.”

Ah, here’s the sharp, merciless Rommath he was expecting.

It’s tempting to cringe at the reminder of the hours he’s spent pouring over theory on the subject, trying to tell if there could be some sort of glitch leading to the words of one’s mark to be said after a first meeting, ready to doubt magic itself just because he couldn’t accept that Jaina was not his soulmate, or any of his infatuations before her.

He has grown since — but not so much that when his path crossed Illidan’s he wasn’t liable to pull the same stunt. Though he knows Rommath’s thought process is flawed, Kael’thas entertains the idea that he might have a point. Less out of doubt than because he knows it will make Rommath feel better to see him truly think about it, and because it distracts him from the urge to snap and set fire to the man’s hair, as he used to when they were fellow students in Dalaran and Kael’thas bore criticism even less gracefully than he does now.

Could he have convinced himself that he loved the man, only because of a sense of misplaced obligation? Perhaps. It definitely sounds like something he would do. But that act would not have lasted the six years of the campaign in Outland; and it certainly wouldn’t have outlived the object of his affection by quite so many years.

“I did not fall in love with Illidan because he was my match,” he says slowly, tasting the words on his tongue for the first time after having them live in his mind for so long, an absolute truth he’s never had to voice before. “Though it certainly helped in bringing us together, I will grant you that. I loved him because he was… clever, and beautiful. Principled.”

(Rommath pulls a face at that, but he ignores it.)

“I loved his determination and the way he smiled so smugly whenever one of his harebrained schemes went right, as if he had it all planned out, even though he was making it all up as he went along, every time. I loved that he never hesitated to tell me I’m right, even when it proved him wrong — that he listened to me even when I was hardly qualified to speak on the matter at hand.”

He breathes in, and it hurts, but it’s a good ache. Like a healing bruise. Rommath watches him and he holds that somber stare as he keeps going. “I loved that he was trying to save the world. Even though I wish I had asked him to give it up, just so he might have survived.” In the mood to be a little cruel, he adds, “Maybe you will understand when it happens to you.”

Rather than fan the flame of his own anger, Rommath seems to deflate a little at that. The tension drains from his body; he stops bracing for a fight. Instead he leans his hip against Kael'thas' desk, crosses his arms over his chest and looks — oddly — away. His eyes jump across the room and his lips move with no sound, in a show of deeply uncharacteristic hesitation.

“It’s Lor’themar.”

Taken aback by the non sequitur, Kael’thas blinks. “What?”

“My soulmate. It’s Lor’themar. I realize I haven’t told you yet.”

It’s… a surprise, although Kael’thas never deluded himself by thinking he’d notice the day Rommath meets his soulmate. The man is notoriously tight-lipped on these matters, even to his oldest friend.

But it makes sense, in a way. They fit together, they work as a unit even while butting heads. Rommath likes him: a privilege not afforded to most.

“Does he know?”

It takes a better affinity with arcane than a sin’dorei’s intrinsic sense of magic to feel your words change color; Lor’themar might not have noticed when it happened. He must have heard the words of his mark a thousand times as a greeting, meaning he wouldn’t think to check it often, since it’s in such an awkward place.

And there’s no chance in hell Rommath told him the moment he felt it happen.

“Yes. Since— a little before Garrosh’s trial. He saw my mark.”

Kael’thas doesn’t bother to ask how Lor’themar ended up in the position to see the well hidden mark. He can make an educated guess.

“How did he take it?”

“How do you think?

“Fair point.” A pause as he considers it. “Why are you telling me this?”

Finally Rommath quirks up a smile, though it seems more self-deprecating than anything. “Because you’re my best friend.” And when Kael’thas only answers that with a skeptical silence he exhales and adds, “I can hardly ask you to be more loyal to me than to your soulmate then share even less information than he did, now, can I?”

What Kael’thas hears is that Rommath needed to tell someone, but he’ll never admit that much. He doesn’t need to.

“Why now, and not when you found out?”

“You were in Outland then, and I… didn’t want it known. And there was never a good time after.”

That’s years spent keeping it from everyone — keeping his bond so closed off that not even his soulmate would notice it. Not even Kael’thas. It would be impressive if it wasn’t so sad. Kael’thas can’t begrudge Rommath his secrecy, though he wishes it were otherwise: he didn’t appoint him as Spymaster for nothing.

He reaches out a hand, unsure what he means to do with it, but Rommath draws away from it and starts pacing. Unconsciously — in a greater show of trust and vulnerability than he usually cares for — Rommath brings up a hand to the nape of his neck, and the mark there. His fingertips never make contact though. They twitch, briefly, like he wants to touch it, but he lets his hand drop again soon enough.

“What are you going to do?” Kael’thas asks quietly, glad to keep the focus on Rommath’s issues for now.

Rommath tears his eyes away from the wall he was blindly staring at and turns them, in all their quiet intensity, to Kael’thas.

“Nothing,” he replies. “It changes nothing. He’ll keep things professional, and I can’t let myself be distracted by that if you’re going to be off gallivanting with the Illidari for the foreseeable future. It needs not affect me.”

The implied ‘unlike you’ rings loud and clear. Kael’thas ignores the bite in favor of the concession given to him. It’s the best he’ll get out of Rommath as far as blessings go and he smiles, grateful that he won’t have to fight him on the subject. And in the same spirit of mercy that Rommath showed, he carefully doesn’t ask why the other man is so averse to the thought of his own soulbond when he’s so clearly fond of Lor’themar. He thinks he knows the answer, anyway.

Chapter Text

There’s a lot of noise about moving the Illidari from the ruins to the ship they call the Fel Hammer. Kael’thas doesn’t pay attention to it overmuch: he’s trying to get his affairs in order so Rommath remembers him fondly while he’s gone, instead of wishing him dead every time he stumbles upon yet another thing Kael’thas forgot to take into account before leaving. As a result, he is both entirely unprepared and unspeakably glad when he steps out of the portal and onto the bridge of the Fel Hammer.

It feels like walking through a thick wall of water, the magic thrumming in the air like a tangible barrier that almost has him holding his breath. There’s that smell again, the dusty, overripe sweetness of fel, tinged with the metallic note of channeled magic. It’s not a smell he associates with home any longer, but he did once; it’s almost comforting.

He hasn’t been on deck for a full minute before he’s accosted by a demon hunter handing him a stack of paper — and then it’s business as usual.

Despite the change of scenery, it’s easy to fall back into the same rhythm he found in their camp in Silvermoon. Easier, even; knowing that he can fully focus on what the Illidari put in front of his face, his other obligations only secondary thoughts in his mind, is a weight off his mind. Rommath will be glad of that at least. The war table aboard the Fel Hammer is less of a chaotic mess as well, though only slightly so: at least it’s a real piece of furniture.

One change he is less fond of is Kayn and Altruis. That first day in Silvermoon was an outlier in their co-leadership, as it turns out — but not in the way he had hoped.

Their heated, one-sided discussions and unrealized threats were as cordial as they ever get: their day-to-day interactions are just as fraught with conflict. They’ve been at each other’s throat ever since. If this is what the Illidari have had to deal with since returning, it’s no surprise everything is in such a state of barely-contained chaos — if anything it’s a miracle that nothing seems to be on fire. It’s like they go looking for each other to get into fights when it would be so easy to avoid each other on a ship the size of the Fel Hammer.

Instead they choose to bicker all day long, sometimes dissolving into yelling matches that always threaten to turn violent but never do.

It’s an annoyance, but nothing Kael’thas isn’t used to. He wouldn’t mind it overmuch if only they would fight somewhere secluded instead of in the middle of whichever corridor they were in when they saw each other. Their voices echo; it’s distracting.

He shoots a venomous glare their way as their voices rise in pitch. The demon huntress currently assigned to his side, an absurdly tall kaldorei named Leyliana, snorts in amusement.

“Kinda loud, these two, aren’t they?”

“At this point I think they’re doing it on purpose. I still haven’t found Matron Mother Malevolence, who is supposedly aboard this damn ship, and she’s a thirty foot tall woman, so I’m sure they could avoid seeing each other if they wanted to.”

“Of course they’re doing it on purpose.” At his surprised look, Leyliana adds, “They hate each other, but they’re still soulmates. I don’t think they like being apart for long.”

Taken aback, Kael’thas stares at her until she shifts in place awkwardly. Finally he looks back to the duo and blinks, trying to make sense of her words. It’s the second pair of soulmates to surprise him in very little time, but he doesn’t know either man well enough for it to make sense in hindsight the way Rommath and Lor’themar did.

“I wasn’t aware.”

“It’s not much of a secret. Everybody heard when they met, the first time. Before Altruis left.”

He knew his soulmate was at Illidan’s side and he still left? Altruis has guts, he’ll give him that much.

“It must be a… difficult relationship.”

She shrugs. “Aren’t they all?”

He has nothing to offer in response.

Still, the explanation doesn’t make them any easier to bear. Kael’thas has resolved to kick one out of the ship — and possibly into orbit — to get some peace when the sound of yelling abruptly cuts off: the tell-tale sign of some sort of compromise being reached. Moments later, Kayn appears at his side, looking preoccupied.

“Sir?”

“Are you done, then?”

The other man doesn’t react to the barb besides a slight wince. “Sensitive information just came in,” he says, with an odd air on his face. “I think it will interest you.”

There’s a lot of demon hunter business he’s been keeping out of, mostly because there’s only so much information one man can oversee before he cracks. “Well, if you believe it will be useful for me to know—”

“It’s about Master Illidan.”

His teeth click audibly together when he snaps his mouth shut. Getting words out after that is a struggle to get them past the lump in his throat.

“Lead on, Sunfury.”

-

They say that Illidan’s soul is lost in the Twisting Nether, that they have means of reaching out, that they want to talk to him. As if speaking to the dead and damned were that easy.

Kael’thas is still reeling from the news that Illidan’s soul is somewhere out there, wandering the great nothing between dimensions. He never put much thought into the afterlife; in a world where the dead walk and sometimes come to threaten you in your own home, it seemed somewhat pointless. But this knowledge that Illidan has not found rest, even in death—

It’s a cruel trick Fate is playing on them.

The part of him that has never let go of Illidan — that never will — yearns to reach out even now. The call-and-response of the bond echoes, empty; there is nothing to reach out for, only a gap greater than any mortal could ever breach. Instead he extends his hand towards the nearest Illidari, fingers brushing against glowing tattoos and drawing a sip of fel from then, strengthening himself as he’s been doing increasingly often these past few days.

“What can I do to help?” he asks. What else is there to say?

Kayn and Altruis shift in concert, a rare and worrying demonstration of the bond that connects them. He doesn’t know what he sounds like to them but it seems bad enough that they’re willing to behave themselves for his sake. The former says, apologetic, “Nothing.”

Fire sparks beneath Kael’thas’ breastbone, quickly extinguished. His anger is pointless, irrational, unable to sustain itself: not for a lack of trying but for lack of fuel. There isn’t much of him left that isn’t being poured into the war effort as they speak; even his grief is being worn down by sheer, single-minded determination and the exhaustion that dogs its steps. He still wants very badly to tear Kayn’s throat out; but then he considers the work he would have to shoulder as a result, and the impulse fades like bitter smoke.

“Then I shall do my best not to hover anxiously while you do whatever it is that needs to be done,” Kael’thas says, and then goes and fails to do just that.

He can hardly avoid hovering: that’s all he does around here. And certainly the anxiety can not be held against him, since they are preparing a blood ritual to contact his soulmate.

The Illidari understand the impulse, surely… But they do not enjoy it. More than once he hears a pointed comment about how tired he looks, and how much he needs and deserves to rest, far away from them. Each time he reluctantly nods in acquiescement and then stays anyway. Hovering. Anxiously so. Wondering if there’s really nothing he can do to help contact the man he loves from beyond the veil.

When it comes down to it, Altruis is the one to snap. He’s the only one who would dare, when every other demon hunter seems to have reached the baffling conclusion that Kael’thas is not to be impeded in his efforts, whatever they may be and no matter how much he may need to be stopped. It seems the irritation he feels at having to come crawling back to Illidan — not just the Illidari but the Betrayer himself — doesn’t make him any more patient with Kael'thas' antics.

“Will you just leave?” Altruis growls. “Go make yourself useful, then, since that’s what you’re here for. You achieve nothing by being in our way except slowing us down, and we cannot afford any delay.”

Kael’thas is baring his teeth before he’s realized it, an answering growl building low in his throat — and cutting off as soon as he notices, abashed. He must be spending too much time with the Illidari, to slip up like that. He shakes his head and his hand, extinguishing the flames that lit there. His lips quirk, wanting to curl back into a snarl, but he doesn’t let them. Has he always been this easy to rattle? Surely not — it must be the sleeplessness shortening his fuse.

Loath as he is to admit it, Altruis has a point. All this hovering isn’t going to help any. He just… can’t help himself. Not when this might be his first chance to talk to Illidan in years; and his last, most likely.

What if he misses it? What if the moment comes to see his soulmate again, if only through the veil between worlds, and he’s not there? Worse: what if he is, and it reopens the wound to know that Illidan is beyond reach and any word might be their last? He dreads the success of this endeavor as much as its failure. He cannot bear the thought of losing Illidan once more; but it would take a stronger man than he is to refuse this one glimpse, even if it means breaking his heart anew.

He wonders if Altruis would understand, were he to explain it in these words. What was going through his mind, he wonders, when he left the Illidari? And what else brought him back?

Did he see Kayn’s face in his dreams as well?

“Have some respect,” the man in question grits out. But he doesn’t refute Altruis outright; how could he? They all recognize the truth of his words.

Altruis tips his chin up, mouth twisted in scorn. “I would if he were worthy of it.”

This time Kael’thas doesn’t tamp down on the magic that crackles in his palm, for all that it aches in the depth of him — a shallow well being drawn from again and again. Kayn stiffens, his own animosity forgotten as he steps in between them.

“Sir—”

“Don’t bother.” Kael’thas takes a step back, brushing his hair out of his face, and lets the deep ache of his magic ground him. “I’m not so stubborn that I cannot see sense.”

Kayn is polite enough not to comment on his bitter tone. Altruis makes a face as if he might but, blessedly, doesn’t: Kael’thas takes it as the mercy it is and storms out of the room. That he recognizes his own irrationality doesn’t mean he will be gracious about it.

With nowhere else to be — he still has work to do but no ability to focus on it at the moment — he picks a direction at random and keeps walking. The Fel Hammer is big enough he could probably go on in circles for hours. He has in the past, reading reports while wandering the twisting corridors of the ship: one must, or risk going spare from cabin fever. Besides it’s good for a commander to be seen by the people he leads: how can they follow him if they do not know him?

The way he makes turns now is even more random than his usual, seeking not to meet with the Illidari or to find any issue that hasn’t been brought up to him yet but peace of mind, or a semblance of it.

His hands keep shaking.

The next corridor he wanders into is empty. Most of this wing of the ship is at the moment: Kayn and Altruis had been arguing for hours before Altruis turned his ire on Kael’thas and the novelty of their fights wore off an eternity ago. Nowadays they tend to clear out the space as other hunters flee towards quieter places: they are easier to ignore here than within the confines of their camp in Silvermoon.

Slowing his pace to a stop, Kael’thas closes his eyes and sinks to the ground, sitting on his heels with his fingers curling in his hair, his face in the dark of his arms. Anyone could see him like this; he cannot bring himself to care.

More than Altruis’ disrespect, more than Kayn’s silent pity, what stings most is his powerlessness. There’s nothing he can do for Illidan, nothing but hold on and keep going and fill paperwork and wait as the Legion marches ever closer. As if any of it has ever helped in the past; as if it’s helping now. They are at war and he can do nothing. He couldn’t stop the factions from going to war, or the Legion’s invasion; couldn’t save anyone; and now he can’t even help his own soulmate.

And now here he is pouting like a child sent to bed without dessert, just because things are a little difficult. He’s not about to cry, not for so little surely—

He should get up. There’s still much to do, things more in his reach than communing with the dead. He should be doing what little he can before the Legion kills them all, not sit by and wait for others to do what needs to be done in his stead—

The same thoughts circle in his head, a vertigo-inducing back and forth between feeling useless and feeling as if everything would be fine if only he could find the right thing to do, the right words to say. As if there’s a switch somewhere he could flip and suddenly become someone capable of saving the world single-handedly.

His father’s voice whispers in his mind: some things are out of our control. How many times has he heard those words before? More times than he can count, for a million different reasons: he has always been over-ambitious. The kind of child who tried to hold back the tide from sweeping away his sand castles, two hands against the waves. He can almost picture Anasterian’s face as he spoke the familiar platitude: stern, a little tired, always more patient than he ought to be. They shouldn’t be, Kael’thas remembers replying — remembers the small smile on his father’s face at his naivete, the sempiternal response: you will understand, one day.

Now he is an adult able to mold gravity itself, two hands and a flood of arcana to upheave the sea; but he is still like a child in the face of death.

“Sir…”

He nearly jumps right out of his skin at the sound of Kayn’s voice coming from behind him. Somehow, he manages to whirl around to face the man without tripping and falling all over himself: the distant memory of a governess rapping his knuckles with a sharp do not flail; ‘tis unbecoming steels his spine and he pulls himself to his feet.

In spite of their glowing tattoos, demon hunters have a frustrating way of sneaking up on him.

They stare at each other in silence for a moment before Kael’thas sighs: “Say your piece, Sunfury. I won’t bite.”

“I only meant to say that the ritual will take some hours to prepare.”

He sighs wearily. “Of course it will.”

“Since you cannot make it any faster… perhaps you should rest while you can.”

He hasn’t slept in— however long it’s been since he arrived on the Fel Hammer. The news of the ritual threw a wrench in his sleep schedule, what little of it is left. Light, how many hours has it been? Has he eaten? And he wondered why he felt so awful.

Kayn, the godsent that he is, hands him a loaf of bread as they walk — do they have a baker aboard the Fel Hammer? That seems ludicrous, but it raises the question of how the Illidari have been feeding themselves. They were prisoners until not long ago, and fugitives before then; in their camp, they got their rations out of Silvermoon’s stores. They can hardly have the funds to buy what it takes to feed them all, or the connection to be gifted those supplies. Whose kindness are they relying on? The sin’dorei’s offerings can only do so much. Or do they forage for their food? But even with the ship allowing them to cover more distance it would be impossible for them to gather enough food, every day.

Then again the majority of the races present aboard are obligate carnivores or can live on a meat-heavy diet. Hunting is a decently reliable source of food in the wilderness if one looks for beasts that a regular hunting party would only take down with great difficulty. How many here can subsist on demon flesh, he wonders? He’s known demon hunters to eat their kills in lean times. Since you can’t wave a stick without hitting a demon nowadays it could be useful to turn to such sources of sustenance.

It might not be necessary yet. He’ll have to check with whoever is currently responsible for feeding them all. But if the war goes on for any meaningful amount of time it might prove to be an effective, if unsavory, alternative to rationing.

They’ve nearly starved, once, in Outland. And that was with the whole accursed planet at their disposition, for all that prey was scarce and agriculture difficult in the doomed climate. There’s no telling how difficult it will be to feed a whole world at war now. The factions might have suffered less if repeated conflict had not emptied their stores and ruined their sources of sustenance; Garrosh was particularly fond of salting the fields of his enemies. Now though they are all as vulnerable to famine as the Illidari, though at least they have their own land to farm or forage as nomads.

If the Legion starts targeting crops and livestocks they’ll be done for. They cannot afford a war of attrition against the Legion: if they are not quick, famine will finish the job long before Sargeras can step foot upon Azeroth. But they have a little time yet, and Kael’thas will have to find a way to keep his people fed for as long as possible after.

“Eat your bread, King Kael'thas,” Kayn says.

Realizing he’s been staring off into space while clutching the loaf, Kael’thas pushes his concerns to the back of his mind and bites into the loaf. He’s surprised to find it filled with meat; a real meal, not just something Kayn grabbed off a tray on the way to him. He finishes it in a few quick bites. He hadn’t noticed how hungry he was until then.

Kayn slows to a stop in front of a door, a deadend at the end of another empty corridor.

“Private quarters,” he says as he waves to the door. “It’s not much, but it ought to be better than communal sleeping.”

It’s… thoughtful. Demon hunters usually sleep in a pile, climbing all over each other and slipping in and out of the tangle of limbs as watch shifts change. At least that’s what they did in Outland, though it might have been from the lack of space available; Kayn’s words suggest they’ve kept the habit either way. Illidan, when he had asked him, couldn’t find an explanation for it. If it was an instinct born from their demonic blood, it wasn’t one he shared, though he did not outright dislike the few times he happened to sleep with them in such a manner.

His soulmate, he knows, found physical touch overwhelming after thousands of years of isolation. He still craved it, though, in his own secretive way.

It makes them feel safe, he had said, in that way that made Kael’thas think he initially meant to say it makes me feel safe. It wasn’t hard to imagine why. There’s safety in numbers — especially when one is plagued by nightmares of loss and loneliness, as Illidan was, as most demon hunters must have been. Nothing puts the mind at ease after one such dream quite like a dozen warm bodies surrounding you, barely stirring at your frantic awakening yet ready to jump into action at the first sign of true danger.

Kael’thas understands the urge. He remembers shushing Illidan as he woke up with a start in the middle of the night; remembers his soulmate doing the same for him. It was a source of comfort, something so rarely found so far from home.

Now though he appreciates the solitude most of all. For all their familiarity he is not a demon hunter, and he would rather keep his bad dreams to himself. Let them rest without being disturbed by his nightmares; and let him stare at the ceiling when insomnia robs him of sleep, rather than at the faces of people so similar yet so distant from the man he so longs to see again.

Also — this is a later thought, as he readies himself for a short, miserable night of sleep — this is a clear sign of deference: in the cramped quarters of the Black Temple, Illidan had been one of the few afforded a single room, and Kael’thas by association.

“Thank you,” he tells Kayn mildly, though not without sincerity.

The Illidari inclines his head in acknowledgement and leaves him to his rest.

-

For some Light-forsaken reason, it is Altruis who comes to fetch him a few hours later; by then Kael’thas has given up on getting more than a few hours of sleep snatched from the jaws of nightmares and went back to the war table. His anxiety has become a low thrum at the back of his mind, easier to work through.

Altruis only looks more irritated by this professionalism. “You were not in your rooms,” he accuses.

“I thought you wanted me to make myself useful.”

“Pettiness does not suit you, sir.”

Kael’thas barks a sharp, humorless laugh. If he is anything, it is petty; and it’s rich coming from Altruis. The man ignores him, as well as his glare; though that may be put on the difficulty Illidari have in reading facial expressions through the haze of their magic sense.

“Kayn insisted you be sent for. It is time.”

Time to contact Illidan. Kael'thas' heart picks up, dissipating his irritation. So they’ve found him, finally — and they’re about to talk to him.

It’s been so long. It’ll be good to hear his voice.

He starts walking immediately, heedless of Altruis’ scoff as the Illidari guides him to the scene of the ritual. “I’m surprised you let yourself be convinced,” he says, trading anxiety for idle chatter.

“He can be convincing.” There’s a reluctant note of near-affection in his voice, perceptible only because Kael’thas is so used to reading into the minute changes in Rommath’s even drier affect. “And I—” He pauses, as if unsure of what he’s about to say. Grudgingly, he continues, “I suppose I understand the… urge. To remain close to one’s soulmate.”

Thinking about all the times Kael’thas has found him arguing with Kayn instead of acting like the adults they supposedly are and staying out of each other’s way, yes, he can imagine Altruis does understand.

But he also thinks about the fact that Altruis left of his own volition, and would have stayed away if the Legion had not come knocking back — or if Maiev hadn’t caught him and imprisoned him with his brethren. Kael’thas could not stay away if his life depended on it. He left once, on a direct order; he could never do it again.

“An urge you indulge less often than I do.” Does that make Altruis a stronger man than he is? Or a colder one?

Altruis inclines his head in acknowledgement and doesn’t make any further comment on the subject. Kael’thas suspects they’ve reached the limit of the man’s ability to open up about his emotions. If the silence afterwards is in any way awkward, he doesn’t notice: he’s nearly vibrating out of his skin with anticipation, and anticipation locks his jaws into silence.

It takes an eternity to reach the room of the ritual. Kael’thas peels away from Altruis’ side, fighting against the urge to run towards Kayn like a child on Winterveil morning. He concedes to hastening his pace: he has his dignity, but he’s made a worse fool of himself for more foolish reasons before.

Kayn’s stiffness betrays his nerves: like many demon hunters, he’s the kind to go perfectly still when nervous, like a springpaw lynx stalking its prey. His only movement is the slight twitch of his ears, and the flare of his nostrils at their approach as he checks for the smell of blood. It might be a reflex, or it might be an actual concern of his: he certainly seems to brighten when he finds nothing of the sort. As if Kael’thas would lower himself to a physical fight for so inconsequential an insult.

(He has other ways to make Altruis regret his words, starting with menial labor.)

“Are we ready, then?” Kael’thas asks, drawing up next to Kayn.

“We are. Apologies for the delay, sir.”

He dismisses the words with a wave. “I as well.” Ignoring the way both demon hunters seem taken aback by his words — admittedly Illidan was never one to believe, let alone admit, his missteps — he looks at the device at the center of the room. “What are we waiting for?”

It doesn’t take more than that to make them jump into action.

The magical energy builds up until he can feel it in his teeth, an odd ache that travels through his bones and settles like a net over his ribs. He can only guess what it would be like if he were to dip his hands in the ritual. It feels different than the spell he helped weave at the Kirin Tor; it’s sharper, heavier somehow. Like old blood sitting at the back of his throat. There’s an acidic tang to it that he attributes to the demon ichor that goes into its creation.

Then, suddenly, it snaps — no, it extends. The floor seems to drop from underneath his feet. He closes his eyes, focuses on the call that tolls just beyond his hearing range, heard only through the way his own magic trembles in response. It reminds him of the way his half-broken bond used to feel — a ringing without a sound or an echo.

When he opens back his eyes, Illidan is there.

Distantly he hears two sharp intakes of breath behind him. Kael’thas flounders for a moment, left unbalanced by the strangeness of seeing Illidan without feeling him. His presence seems hollow without the feedback from their bond to accompany it.

Still, it is him. Their bond may be broken, but Kael’thas doesn’t need a magical connection to know the shape of his soul.

The projection of his form is faint, imperfect; a poor imitation of reality. Even then Kael’thas can’t help but reach for him, knowing he’ll find neither flesh nor bone to touch. His hand stops halfway and lingers there, hovering inches from the ghostly apparition of his soulmate. The inhale he took to brace himself escapes him in a rush as he breathes out, helpless, “My love.”

Illidan’s whole body shivers, the clawed tips of his wings twitching as he turns to face them. “Kael,” he simply says. He sounds tense — when has he not? — but his voice is thick with sincere fondness, as if he’s reaching back without moving. “You’re here.”

As if he could ever be anywhere else.

Kael’thas feels as if he might fall to his knees out of sheer relief at hearing the beloved voice after so many years. He pushes magic against the barrier of his skin until he knows himself to appear clear to Illidan’s spectral sight and looks into his soulmate’s eyes, trying to express all the emotions boiling in his chest, all the words stuck in his throat.

“Where else could I be?”

Quirking up a small smile, Illidan replies, “Where else indeed.”

He looks so sweetly surprised — it hardly seems possible, such an expression on Illidan’s weary face, but it’s there nonetheless. As if there was ever a chance that Kael’thas would be anywhere else but here. As if he could ever have stayed away from even the mere shadow of the man he loves, cast by the dozens of hunters carved in his image.

Such grim expectations are hardly out of character for the ever-pessimistic Illidan. It breaks Kael'thas' heart, a little bit, to see that faint smile and know it’s born of surprise rather than simple joy. Yet he can’t help his mirroring of it. It’s easier than speaking, easier than finding the right words to convey this feeling of sheer inevitability. All I’ve ever done was so I could be in this place, at that time, to see you again.

Kael’thas says nothing for a moment, drinking in the sight of him. It’s nearly too much. This is the first time he’s seen his soulmate, spoken to his soulmate, in more than half a decade. But it might also be the last. Nothing short of a miracle will bring Illidan back now: conversing here is already a miracle in itself, unlikely to be repeated. The thought alone makes him want to kick Altruis and Kayn out of the room and keep Illidan all to himself for the short amount of time they still have together.

But he can’t, can he? Illidan isn’t here for him. And, despite his dearest wish, he’s not here for Illidan, either.

“There is little time,” Illidan says, as if to apologize. Recognizing the dilemma they both face.

“I know.”

Knowing he’s not doing either of them any favor by keeping them locked in this heart-breaking stare-off, he glances away first. Even though this will likely be the last time he sees his soulmate outside of his memories. Even though it’s like leaving him again, even as he’s still there, in the corner of his eye.

The war — everything sacrificed for this Light-forsaken war.

Nodding, Illidan draws back — Kael’thas had not noticed him leaning in, had not noticed himself doing the same, both of them drawn together like magnets. Kael’thas tilts his head to hide his face behind the curtain of his hair, breathes slowly through his nose and past the lump in his throat.

Illidan looks past him, towards the two demon hunters at his back. “Kayn, Altruis,” he greets. If he’s surprised by the latter’s presence, he doesn’t comment on it. “Kael’thas knows much about my plans for the campaign against the Legion, but there may be gaps in his knowledge that only Akama,” and he says the name like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, “can fill. His counsel could prove invaluable in this battle.”

Back then Kael’thas mostly concerned himself with the logistics of waging war with multiple factions gathered loosely under one banner, and the leading of his own. What little time he had aside from that was entirely devoted to finding a cure to the sin’dorei’s magical starvation that did not include fel energy. Anything concerning the finer points of demon hunting he gladly left to Akama, who matched Illidan’s fervor on the subject, for all that he lacked trustworthiness.

“It’s also vital that you get the Sargerite Keystone back from the Wardens: if we cannot bring the fight to the Legion’s worlds, then the war is as good as lost. Find where they have hidden it—” His head snaps up, his attention drawn to something out of their view. “We’ve attracted attention. I’ve stood still for too long.”

His image shakes as he takes flight, though the projection doesn’t move from the center of the room.

Kael’thas scowls. “We’re putting you in danger.”

“No more than my very existence here does.” Illidan’s lips quirk up, wry, then goes to speak again; his mouth moves silently as the spell crackles and wavers. He shakes his head, tries again — his voice sounds distant and hurried. “You will not be able to contact me like this again. Remember: Akama and the Keystone.” Suddenly he stops, turns his head their way. Through blindness and the great void between worlds, he finds Kael'thas' eyes and holds them. “The Illidari are yours, Kael. As they’ve always been.”

The image of Illidan winks out of existence.

If not for the ache building up in Kael'thas' chest, he could nearly believe he was never there at all.

But he was, and he gave them their marching orders. What else is there to do but follow?

“The Master has spoken,” Kayn says, staring at where Illidan’s soul stood minutes ago. “I suppose it’s time we got to tracking down Akama.”

Altruis makes a face at that, though he can hardly argue against that plan of action — not without sounding extremely petty, something he never is on purpose and that Kayn delights in bringing out of him. Kael’thas takes that moment of respite to wipe his face with the back of his hand and compose himself. His heart hammers painfully in his chest. But there will be time for that later — eventually. For now there’s a Legion to deal with, and so much yet to be done.

“Yes,” he sighs. “Loath as I am to—” he is struck, then, with the realization that he’s not sure what exactly that entails. No, that’s not true: he knows what goes into finding Akama and convincing him to return, whether he wants to or not. But Illidan said the Illidari are his — it changes things, doesn’t it?

Kayn and Altruis are looking at him, waiting. He blinks. They are still the leaders of the Illidari in every way, yet…

“To what?” Altruis asks, impatient.

He thought it was a transfer of power — that up until now he had only been a guiding hand in the affairs of Illidari, an experienced eye on their paperwork. But this is how it has been since he came to the Fel Hammer: the two leaders of the Illidari listening to him, deferring to him — albeit grudgingly for Altruis, and when they are not chasing him out of preparations he has no place in. Illidan’s declaration was news to him only: to them, it’s only a confirmation of the hierarchy they were already following.

Of course the Illidari will obey Kael’thas. Who else is there?

“Forget it. Let’s get to work.”

Chapter Text

Kael’thas does not allow himself to cry. There’s no time for it; there might never be, if he doesn’t get himself together enough to finish this war. He wants to; oh, and how much! His eyes burn with unshed tears, exhaustion and sheer misery battling for dominance at every thought of Illidan, close enough to hear but so distant, the two of them separated by a gap nothing short of death can breach. He wants to cry, or scream, or punch something.

But the Legion doesn’t care what he wants, so. He might as well get to work.

Instead of collapsing into a miserable puddle of tears, he tracks down Matron Mother Malevolence, who has been monitoring Outland. She’s happy enough to help him devise a way to get into the Black Temple despite Akama’s very strong desire to keep them out of it; perhaps a little too happy, in his opinion, to share that she had a liaison with Lan’dalock.

He had the opportunity to work alongside Lan’dalock during his tenure at the Kirin Tor. The man was wholly unremarkable then, and Kael’thas cannot imagine what made Malevolence wish to pursue him. Maybe the novelty…? That Lan’dalock went along with it is far less of a surprise: high elves have always been known for their somewhat… eclectic taste. And Kael’thas would be hardly in place to judge anyway. Light knows his own attraction to Illidan has raised a few eyebrows — namely, Rommath’s.

It’s a good plan, surprise aside, and he sends a pair of demon hunters to get in contact with the man.

After that it’s easier to keep his momentum. There are scouts to dispatch, food to stockpile, reports to file and letters to send to Rommath as a sign of life, there’s Mardum to secure lest the Legion’s forces try to shoot the Fel Hammer out of the sky. It keeps him busy, and being busy keeps the sadness at bay.

Then there’s Akama to recruit, more or less willingly. Kael’thas sends both Kayn and Altruis for that one. He doesn’t trust the former to bring Akama back alive, or the latter to care that the Broken is planning to betray them — he forgets, often, that few can resent Illidan but be as loyal to the Illidari as he has proven himself to be. Most are content hating the whole lot of them.

He doesn’t offer to accompany them. He is by far too hated by the Broken they seek to recruit and in all honesty, he doesn’t want to see the Black Temple again. A part of him died there. He’s not looking to kill the other half by returning so soon.

Instead he turns his attention, reluctantly, to the Wardens.

They need the Sargerite Keystone and this order of zealots are the only ones who know where the artifact was kept after the demon hunters’ imprisonment. But the very thought of sending words to Maiev Shadowsong…

It’s a relief as much of a surprise, then, to receive a response from Sira Moonwarden instead. He can manage polite communication with a complete stranger, probably. Certainly more easily than with Shadowsong: after what she’s done, after what she’s taken from him, he can more easily imagine himself biting her throat open than signing his name at the bottom of a letter addressed to her.

The fact that she is lost somewhere in the world is worrying, but if she hasn’t come to murder them all yet then she’s unlikely to do so anytime soon. And her replacemen is decent, if a little too eager to use her leverage to make the Illidari work for her.

“She will have us doing her dirty work for a while,” he muses to Leyliana as he hands her a dispatch to Val’sharah, where one of the creatures that escaped the Vault was last sighted.

Shrugging, she accepts the map of the area he offers to her next. “I don’t mind. Work is work.”

He minds, but he has little choice in the matter. They need the Wardens’ cooperation, and if it must be paid in sweat… fine. It’s an easier price to pay than blood. He’ll have to be content with that.

But it cannot go on forever. Not with the war already bleeding them dry. He sees exhausted demon hunters coming back from their assignments and wishes he didn’t have to send them out again so soon, knowing he must.

The Legion never rests and they’re spread thin trying to meet it head-on on every battlefield; none of them are getting even half the sleep they need. The rotating roster he establishes can only do so much — he can keep Illidari fresh off a mission on lighter duty, but eventually they must all return to the field.

Few appreciate his efforts: they are frustratingly single-minded when it comes to their mission and chomp at the bit waiting to be sent off again. But someone here needs to rest, and if Kael’thas can’t, he might as well order others to do it.

Sifting through piles of papers — his careful organization of the war table did not survive his natural propensity for disordered research — Kael’thas keeps an ear out for Kayn and Altruis’ return. They do quite a lot to help him, he realizes, if only by bullying the other Illidari into not overworking themselves to death. Once they come back he might find a few spare hours to catch up on sleep.

He’ll never judge Illidan’s declining mental health during the Outland campaign again. Sleep deprivation is a perfectly reasonable reason to descend into madness.

The sound of a portal opening in the distance makes his ear twitch, and tension bleeds out of his frame as Kayn and Altruis’ bickering drift to him through the corridors. He can’t afford to be that stressed every time one of his people — he pauses briefly on the possessive, but it rings true — is sent out on a dangerous mission, but he can hardly help it. It’s going to be hell on his nerves.

Kael’thas lifts his head from the papers scattered in front of him just as the two demon hunters enter the room, flanking the diminutive form of Akama.

The Broken shuffles in with a mullish look — it’s a miracle that he’s here at all. Kael’thas half-expected Kayn to lose patience and bring back his skewered corpse instead. It’s part of why he asked Altruis to go as well: he hoped the two would be too busy fighting each other to murder Akama.

If anyone is to do that, it shall be him.

“Elder,” he greets, schooling his face into a mask of calm.

Glowering, Akama doesn’t offer a greeting of his own.

Their relationship has never been friendly. Cordial, perhaps, out of necessity. But there is no love or respect lost between the two of them. Akama, he’s pretty sure, thought Kael’thas to be an entitled, juvenile opportunist who was blindly loyal to the Betrayer. And Kael’thas has long disliked Akama for a variety of reasons, ranging from inconsequential personal judgment — he is a deeply unpleasant creature — to profound distrust.

(There might have been a touch of jealousy there as well. Akama was privy to plans that Illidan refused to share with Kael’thas: strategies against the Legion that required utmost secrecy and a knowledge of the demons and Outland that only the Broken possessed. It is hard to hold any kind of envy towards the man after his ultimate treachery.)

The role the Broken played in Illidan’s death has not endeared him to Kael'thas' eyes.

That is to say: if it were only up to him, Akama would already be dead and mounted on a pike as a warning to others.

Unfortunately, they need him.

(For now.)

Bending his head over the pile of reports again, Kael’thas dismisses the trio with a hand. “Come find me here once you’re settled. Kayn, Altruis, I’ll need a written report of the events at the Black Temple, please.”

It’s easier to make them each write their thoughts down than try and discuss it with them directly. Kayn tends to ramble; Altruis skips details he deems unimportant to end the conversation quicker; and if he tries to talk to them both at the same time, they’ll spend more time bickering about truly inconsequential details than actually giving them the intel he needs. Getting reports from them is like pulling teeth — they have no love for writing — but at least he can come out of it without a headache.

After a second of hesitation, both demon hunters wander off, but the sound of hoofbeat doesn’t follow, and Akama’s presence lingers in the periphery of Kael'thas' awareness. He says nothing; only watches, silently judging, as the king shuffles through paper.

By the third time Kael’thas notices he’s been staring at a report without truly seeing it, he sighs, puts it down, and turns to Akama.

“Out with it. I haven’t all day for your scrutiny.”

His tone is short: he does not care to mitigate the contempt that rears up in him at the sight of the Broken. What has he done to earn Kael'thas' respect and patience? Nothing. He deserves all the scorn leveled his way, and then some; they are already offering him more mercy than he deserves by allowing him to go free, rather than dragging his Shade out the way Illidan did in the past and leaving him a broken shell of a man.

Akama’s eyes glint with a sharp-edged intelligence as he stares back. Kael’thas reminds himself that he would be a fool to underestimate him. This is a man who has survived countless catastrophes by nothing but his own mind: to let hatred blind him would be offering his back to be stabbed.

“I noted your absence from the Betrayer’s side when he was felled,” Akama says, his low, hoarse voice grating Kael'thas' ears.

Although it is said like an observation, Kael’thas can hear the implied accusation easily enough. It’s clear as day in the faint relish in Akama’s tone; the cruel triumph of believing that even Illidan’s soulmate, his most loyal advisor, turned on him in the end.

Kael’thas curls his hands into tight fists where they rest on top of the table. His nails scrape against the faintly charred wood. Some of the damage is from his own temper flaring up, as it’s doing now. This time he clamps down on the flames begging to be let out. He will not give Akama the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him.

When he speaks, his voice sounds distant, as if coming from someone other than himself: it’s by far too level to be born of his own throat, which is tight with fury.

“You were there, I take it, when they butchered Illidan? What a momentous occasion,” he says, voice straining the way one presses a finger into a bruise. “It must have been the first time you ever dared to face the results of your own actions, you who have lived like a rat for years, breaking every oath you have ever given, cowering in the darkness of your temple while countless worlds fell to the Legion—”

Breathe, Kael’thas tells himself in Illidan’s or Rommath’s voice — a beloved echo. His voice stops rising, settles back in a simile of calm.

“You stand here because he has requested it, Akama, and do not be mistaken: unlike him, I would gladly trade all our chances against the Legion for the opportunity to give you a taste of your own blood for a change.”

The man owes him a life; a debt Kael’thas expects to see paid in full. But not yet.

Out of respect for the last thing Illidan has asked of him, Kael’thas looks away from the poisonous look settling on Akama’s face and snaps, “Get out. Stay out of my sight; you’ll report to Kayn or Altruis from now on, whichever one can tolerate your presence best.”

Scornfully, Akama replies, “For your sake, I pray you prove a better leader than he was.”

All elves have sharp fangs; vestigial teeth from their distant troll ancestors, meant to tear meat off bones. Baring his, which are far less impressive than the Illidari’s demonic maws, would only look foolish; it’s still an instinct he has to fight against.

“For yours, you ought to pray that I prove as patient with your offenses as he was.” His smile, when he turns, has no humor in it: only the suggestion of a threat kept in check by a very thin thread of patience. “He was a more merciful man than I’ll ever care to be, Akama. Worry about this before you concern yourself with my leadership capabilities.”

He looks back to his work and does not look up again for a long time — not until Akama has left, the sound of his hooves fading in the depths of the ship, and his heart has crawled out of his throat and back into the cradle of his ribs.

-

“You should take a break.”

Out of all the people on this ship, Altruis is the last one Kael’thas would have expected to hear those words from.

Kayn is naturally inclined to being nice to him out of old sin’dorei fealty; Matron Mother Malevolence occasionally likes to live up to her name; those two would have made some modicum of sense. Even another demon hunter might have been bold and worried enough to raise that particular concern.

But no, it’s Altruis who stands at his shoulder, arms crossed and head tilted at an appraising angle. And although Altruis voicing criticism of the way Kael’thas does things isn’t a novelty, the carefulness with which he said it now is: he kept his voice pitched low, for Kael'thas' ears only, and despite its careful neutrality there almost seemed to be some worry there. He wouldn’t go so far as to say the Illidari cares… but it’s a nice change of pace from the usual glare burning a hole into the back of his neck.

“Did Kayn send you?” Kael’thas asks idly, not looking up as he signs a dispatch notice and hands it to an Illidari hovering anxiously at his side.

She takes off faster than her limp ought to allow for. She was wounded during a mission and relegated to a messenger role while her body heals what the healers couldn’t: like others in her situation, she is eager for anything useful to do.

The wounded are starting to outnumber the healthy; even with their faster average healing factor, it won’t be long before Kael’thas has to send them back in the field before they’re fully recovered. Even the healers brought from Silvermoon, what few of them could be spared, cannot keep up with the demand: it’s a slow process, as they are still learning the intricacies of the Illidari’s fel-infused physiognomy even as they knit back flesh split open by demonic claws and cleavers.

The decision to keep the wounded aboard the ship while they heal was already fairly unpopular. If it was only up to Kayn and Altruis, they would all be out there, fighting until either sepsis or a demon blade takes them down for good.

Quel’balor tal asha’anore Tel’Minn — death is sweet and noble to those who die for their country, as the old saying goes. But Kael’thas intends to do better than the old kaldorei poets who first came up with it. They will live to see the new dawn they’ve shed so much blood and tears for. Who else would be worthy of the world left behind, if not them?

Altruis, whose presence he almost forgot, scoffs at the suggestion that he would be anywhere doing anything on Kayn’s orders.

“No, but it’s plain to see.”

“You don’t even have eyes,” Kael’thas sighs, rubbing his own.

They sting from too many hours spent reading in dim light. Maybe Altruis has a point in saying he needs a break, but he fears what might happen while he’s gone. Business outside the Illidari’s affairs he can justify to himself; a nap is another matter entirely. It feels wrong to be doing nothing while others fight.

(He has more in common with those grounded Illidari than he likes to think about.)

“I hardly need them to notice that you have not left your post in hours, or to know that lack of sleep is not conducive to good leadership.”

Loath as he is to admit it, there’s truth to Altruis’ words, and the unexpected cordiality leaves him wrong-footed and unwilling to fight him on it. “Maybe I’ll—”

“Lord Sunstrider, sir!”

A demon hunter skids to a halt in front of them, nearly toppling over when their momentum carries them farther than expected. They straighten up and give him a quick, sloppy salute. Their face is familiar, though not enough to put a name on it. Kael’thas must have sent them on an assignment not long ago then.

“We’ve found it,” they say, just as Kael’thas connects their face with a dispatch to Stormheim for a warden named Malace Shade. “We know where the Keystone is.”

Victory flashes bright deep in Kael'thas' chest — a burst of warmth that sinks into his bones, briefly unsettling the cold emptiness that nests there. The spark of joy is short-living, only serving to set his planning mind alight. Depending on where the Keystone is they might need to send more Illidari than they have… Who is well enough to go despite their injuries? Or rather: who is most likely to survive anything out of spite and sheer determination to serve the war effort?

Still he can’t help but grin when he glances at Altruis, knowing the demon hunter will hear it in his voice.

“No rest for the righteous.”

Altruis shakes his head, disapproving, but his lips curl up anyway, baring those sharp teeth in a savage smile.

-

It only took a few minutes for the Illidari to share the important information — would probably have been even faster if they didn’t have to wait for Altruis to track down Kayn and bring him into the discussion.

He looked a little annoyed at being used like some kind of tracking device for his soulmate, but there’s no denying the most efficient way of finding anybody on the Fel Hammer is by going through their soulmate. It’s not like they go to him when they need to transcribe whatever is going inside Kayn’s head, the way they did with Kael’thas and Illidan: he’s getting off easy as far as soulmates co-leadership goes.

It was kept near the Master’s body, the Illidari says, and Kael’thas thinks it’s the perfect hiding place. Poetic, in a way; the hail mary Illidan died to secure hidden next to the proof of his sacrifice.

He also thinks they’re fools for not thinking of it earlier. Of course the Keystone would be kept in the same place as the Illidari. The Wardens always liked keeping all their wards in the same place. And what place could be more secure than the one overseen by Maiev Shadowsong herself? They should have started looking there first.

But they couldn’t. Even now, knowing for sure, the gathered Illidari hesitate to volunteer themselves for the missions. Kayn openly balks at the thought of stepping foot into what was their prison for half a decade. His hand reaches out seemingly unconsciously, finds Altruis’ forearm and settles there. Instead of flinching away as he usually would, the other man relaxes into the touch.

Kael’thas relates to the sentiment. He too wishes his soulmate were here, wishes he could touch him, that immediate and silent reassurance that, no matter the prisons of the past, they’re free now.

But he can’t. So while Kayn and Altruis hold on to each other, Kael’thas sends a team of five eager demon hunters to retrace the steps of their escape in reverse, and they all very carefully do not think about all the things they cannot change.

-

Rommath’s letter appears on the war table in a burst of heatless flames, scattering embers over Kael'thas' work. He brushes the arcane sparks away, scowling at the black spots left on the parchment. The reports are already torn, stained and, sometimes, chewed by the time they reach him; the last thing he needs is for them to be charred any more than they already are as well.

But this is Rommath’s preferred means of fast, discrete communication. The flame translocation spell is near instant and more precise than messenger birds, who are notorious poor messengers around such heavily fel-touched places as the Fel Hammer anyway. The foreign, corrosive magic seems to mess with whatever internal mechanism gives them their sense of direction. It’s a miracle when the missives get to them at all.

Knowing the kind of sensitive information his spymaster deals in, Kael’thas loses no time cutting the wax seal off the scroll. He skims the letter, stops, blinks, then starts again at the beginning and carefully reads the whole message.

“News?” Kayn asks, looking up from the notes about the Fel Hammer’s engine he’s been pouring over for the last hour.

The arcane-reactive ink glints faintly to Kael'thas' trained sight. Kayn has been sending small bursts of fel energy into the paper to illuminate the writing and make it readable; to his spectral sight, it must glow as bright as the torches around the ship.

The fact that he can read these reports doesn’t mean he understands them though. There’s a crease between his eyebrows from constantly frowning at the obscure diagrams. Kael’thas can sympathize: he too likes to be hands-on with his leadership, and that requires certain specialized knowledge. Still, he wouldn’t push it as far as getting into Legion engineering.

Waving the letter, Kael’thas says in disbelief, “The draenei have found… some manner of Light artifact.”

“Is that… bad?”

“That remains to be seen. But the very fact that it was kept this quiet…” He doesn’t like it, not one bit. The factions keep doing this, hiding information as if they’re still at war with each other instead of facing an intergalactic threat together. Worse: hiding information from Kael’thas, a neutral party in this, despite what they all seem to believe.

Kayne understands. He reaches for another pile of paper, sorting through… mission reports, Kael’thas thinks. Checking who they could send to investigate. “Should we send words ahead?” A good question: Draenei can be so touchy about demonic presence aboard their mothership.

Kael’thas considers this for a moment. “No need,” he decides. “I’ll go myself.”

They hardly have the people to spare for such a small matter — none he trusts not to turn this into a bigger diplomatic incident than it already is. Besides he’s starting to get cabin fever and this shouldn’t take long: a few hours at most, if Velen proves particularly difficult.

When he says so to Kayn, the Illidari scoffs. “Don’t jinx it, sir.”

But he offers no other opposition to Kael’thas departure — he would have gone, too, if he could. Any escape from the unbearable wait is good to take.

Chapter Text

War reached the Exodar before Kael’thas could.

The clash of weapons and the roar of spells echoes in the wide halls, unmistakable. Lights flicker at every outburst of power. This place has always reminded Kael’thas of a strange, mirror version of Silvermoon in the wake of the scourge. Too large, too quiet, hollowed out by a tragedy too great to speak of, with only magic left to fill in the gaps; a memorial more than a city.

And now a battlefield.

Hastening his pace, he blindly follows the clamor of battle through the labyrinthine corridors. He fights this war so Silvermoon can remain a mausoleum for their slow, endless grief; that it may one day become a city once more. He hates that he finds himself in this situation now: stumbling into yet another slaughterhouse. It’s all too familiar: the rush, the noise, the dread clawing up his throat.

It’s that dread that lights him up, carries him burning into the fight. Flames rise at his command to devour a demon even as Felo’melorn coalesces into being in his dominant hand. He can tell he comes at the tail-end of the fight — when he cleaves a fel guard in two, none rises to take its place. The rising tide of demon invasion has already been dealt with. All he’s helping with is clean-up: they’ve already won.

It doesn’t feel like a victory.

A weight hangs over the room even as the last of the demons collapse into ashes and shards of crystallized fel. A strange darkness, as if a great light had just gone out — and is this not the Seat of the Naaru? Where is O’ros? Flicking his hair out of his face, Kael’thas finally takes a moment to assess the situation. His gaze skims over fallen soldiers, some already picking themselves up on bloody limbs, and settles on a huddled form at the center of the room. The rich robes belong to the Prophet; the shoulders slumped with grief and the proud head hanging in defeat do not. He’s cradling a body in his arms.

Kael’thas would think it belongs to a demon if not for the tenderness with which Velen caresses his face. Kael’thas knows too little about draenei features to determine more than a gender, so he wouldn’t dare to assign him a parentage. But something tells him he is very young; or at least Velen believes that he is. It’s the way the old prophet holds him — like a child.

The look on the Velen face reminds Kael’thas, achingly, of his own father. He can hazard a guess as to who that fallen draenei may be to the man.

The fallen draenei’s eyes drift closed. So do Velen’s, for a moment. He sighs, heavy and bone-shaking, a lifetime of weariness expressed in a single breath. Then, ever so carefully, he lowers the now still body to the ground, rises to his feet, and turns a worn face towards Kael’thas, saying nothing.

“Eranu fal mush'al ana,” Kael’thas says cautiously, the well-worn words of circumstance: I grieve with you.

He’s not so sure of his intuition, or of his welcome, that he would risk himself to offer more specific condolences. It is enough that Velen has just lost another member of his dwindling species.

“What brings you here, King Kael'thas?”

Velen’s voice is dim but it does not waver, which is as heartbreaking as it is reassuring. After so much loss there’s only so much a single death can do to Velen’s composure; he has noticed the same steel in himself, in a lesser measure.

Since the other man sounds more weary than he does accusing, Kael’thas allows himself a half-truth rather than an outright lie or an accusation of his own.

“I received troubling news concerning the Exodar,” he says. He flicks his sword with a sharp little movement of his wrist to get rid of most of the blood and lets it dissipate into arcane smoke. It smells faintly of cinnamon and cloves, a welcome change from the overwhelming stench of fel and blood. “I am glad I got there in time to help.”

For what little help he could offer.

For a moment, he thinks Velen will call out his omission: news from whom, and of what? What could possibly have brought the king of the sin’dorei running like this? But the prophet only levels him with a considering look — likely already knowing the truth that lies underneath Kael’thas’ evasive answer — and accepts it with a tilt of his head.

“Indeed you did,” he sighs.

His robes are bloodied all over the front, to say nothing of the edges of his sleeves that draped over the ground, but he still makes a show of dusting himself off as if that will make any kind of difference. In so doing he composes himself, straightening stooped shoulders and wiping grief from his eyes; by the time the last fleck of imaginary dirt has been brushed off the rich fabric of his clothes he once again resembles the Prophet Velen whom Kael’thas has come to know.

Their kind are rather alike in that way. When one lives for as long as they do, it is a matter of survival to be able to set aside pain, to function through grief.

What is set aside is never set down. Instead they carry it, that long-lived grief; as much a part of themselves as bones and flesh. Illidan fondly recounted the very kaldorei-like philosophical argument that he had learned in his youth: to be strong, they must grow around loss like trees around a metal spike. Incorporating it into their being, forever living with it, in spite of it. If he did not fear to be too stereotypical a pyromancer, Kael’thas would call it a fuel; but it is true that immortals and their close mortal relatives draw a particular kind of spiteful drive from loss.

When it does not poison their very being. Trees die, eventually, from the foreign bodies engulfed into their growth.

“There is nothing left here for you, Kael’thas.”

Velen turns, his steps echoing in the empty hall. A large, angular stone lies at the center of the room, glowing faintly from some intrinsic light; Velen lifts it easily despite its size, with endless carefulness.

“This object is Light’s Heart, the sentient core of the naaru prime Xe’ra. Locked away within it is wisdom… knowledge crucial to our battle against the Burning Legion.” He lifts his eyes to Kael’thas’: they suddenly seem inconceivably old, and inconceivably tired. “Only a naaru born of Xe'ra would be capable of unlocking the core. And the last of them died today.”

He hands Kael’thas the artifact. From up close it looks unmistakingly naaru in nature: the warmth that exudes from the geometric construct can be nothing else. It’s also far heavier than the prophet’s ease let him believe: he nearly goes stumbling as its weight is shifted to his hold. He cradles it in his arms, unsure how to feel.

“Take Light’s heart and return to Khadgar. Tell him…” Velen says, his voice not dimming but fading — as if color was being leached out of it as he went. “Tell him that the Light died here this day.”

He leaves Kael’thas standing there with a whispered farewell. And Kael’thas stands there for a long time: he fears that if he were to move, he would fall into the dark chasm of dread that these words have opened under his feet.

-

Each return to Dalaran, defeated and weary, strips the magical city of its veneer of familiarity. The streets that were once home to him now seem filled with shadows: the buildings left crumbling after the destructive stride of some demon reduced them to rubble, the pavement charred by fel fire… Every step unearthes some new reminder of the war that hounds them — of their failure to prevent it, to stop it, to slow down its advance.

This isn’t Kael’thas’ city, not anymore. But there’s enough of him left here for his purpose.

Out of the thousands of interwoven spells spanning the city, some persistent remnants of past rituals and others permanent fixtures of the local wards, he plucks a fistful of thread. All vibrate with a very Khadgar-like note when he runs his magic over them: the Guardian’s arcanic trace rings loud and clear as a bell. He follows it through the streets, into the Violet Citadel, all the way to the man’s study. The thin gap of a door left ajar casts flickering lights over the stone floor: Khadgar is either still up despite the late hour or careless with open flames around precious parchment. For his sake, Kael’thas hopes it’s the former.

As he still has his arms full with Light’s Heart, he announces himself with a swift kick to the door that pushes it wide open. He’s a little disappointed to find Khadgar unruffled by the intrusion: the man barely blinks as Kael’thas places the heavy artifact over his desk, heedless of the papers strewn over it.

“I come straight from the Exodar,” he says, pushing a strand of hair out of his face with no small amount of exasperation. “It has been attacked by the Legion; the draenei are… broadly unharmed, but the same cannot be said for their naaru.”

“O’ros is…”

“Dead, yes.”

Khadgar lets out a noise, half-dismay, half-sigh. Kael’thas quickly shares the rest of the information given to him by the draenei, what little of it there was: might as well get all the bad news over with. Khadgar relates the visions they received from the artifact in return, and then both mages are left staring at Light’s Heart with a furrow in their brow and no solution easily found to this new life-or-death problem, one among many.

“Turalyon saw this as our last chance. We must discover whatever lies within,” Khadgar says darkly.

“But how? If O’ros truly was the last offspring of Xe’ra…”

“I do not know. But if there is an answer to be found, then I will find it.”

Saying this, Khadgar gestures to the room around them, the towering shelves sagging under the weight of loose-leaf manuscripts and leather-bound grimoires.

Kael’thas lets out a sigh. “I will help.”

If nothing else, this will cure him of any latent nostalgia for his Kirin Tor days he may still harbor.

-

Cosmology is admittedly not Kael’thas’ forte, but he knows the basics. All magic users do; it’s a mandatory course at the Kirin Tor, and difficult to bypass even for self-taught mages and warlocks.

Armed with this barebone knowledge, he throws himself headlong into research. The complete corpus of what is known about the naaru would struggle to fill a single modest bookshelf; the beings, near-ubiquitous in their mythos and faiths, are as mysterious as any other gods, and their sacredness have made them little-studied (he spares a thought to to M’uru; may his sacrifice be honored. What a waste of a learning opportunity.) From that scarcity of information he moves on to the Light, healing and faith-based magic; a brief turn into the technical aspects of wielding such forces lead him, through a convoluted chain of tangents, into looking more deeply into sealing magic.

His thought process is as such: if one considers Light’s Heart to be a sort of puzzle box, where the purest form of Light serves as the fabric of something like more traditional arcane bindings, then O’ros becomes a key of sorts. What has a key has a lock; and any lock can be picked by the right application of force — or broken by overwhelming amounts of it.

The delicate, graceful handwriting hammered into him as a child has devolved into difficult to read scribbles as he jots down notes on the back of Rommath’s terse report of an artifact of Light found near Suramar, the only piece of paper he had at hand. The Void is the opposite of Light; would it serve as a wedge to crack Light’s Heart open, or would its touch corrupt the Light within entirely? He is not well-versed in use of either forces; this would require time and testing which they cannot afford. Arcane can be spun into an infinity of shapes to serve any purpose, but working it into the mechanisms of what is essentially a living being could prove either entirely ineffectual or just as disastrous as his previous idea. Would a priest be able to commune with the consciousness held within? Would a druid? They are known for their connection to nature, but Light comes from beyond; shamans, then, perhaps…

“Oh, of course!”

Khadgar’s outcry snaps him out of his thoughts. A wave of his hand disperses the arcane orbs orbiting him and lighting the pages, and he turns to the other archmage.

“Anything?”

“Yes, yes, pardon — look.” Khadgar turns his tome towards Kael’thas. The distance makes it near impossible to decipher what he means, but he doesn’t let Kael’thas do so anyway as he keeps speaking. “I won’t bore you with the exact phrasing — the wording is archaic even for me — but this suggests that the naaru did not manifest fully formed from the Light but indeed were created by none other than Elune herself, in the great ordering of Light and Shadow.”

“A goddess of moonlight molding beings of pure Light; yes, it makes sense. What of it? Elune may be slightly less out of our reach than a dead naaru, but only just.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Khadgar says, almost giddily. “Because one of the Pillars of Creation that we have managed to unearth—”

“You truly need to communicate information like this to the rest of us better,” Kael’thas interjects and goes ignored.

“— happens to be the Tears of Elune. Which might be the connection to Xe’ra’s line we need to access Light’s Heart message. The theory is, I’ll admit, perhaps far-fetched…”

“But it’s all we have,” Kael’thas finishes. “Why not? If it does not work, we can always despair for a moment and then try something else.”

The Tears of Elune have been brought to Dalaran along the other Pillars of Creation; convenient, though a worrying centralization of all their eggs into a single flying basket. It’s quick work to get them and Light’s Heart laid in one of the many rooms of the Violet Citadel built with sensitive magical rituals in mind: now that he knows more about the naaru core, Kael’thas has no qualms using his magic to levitate it into place.

They stand side to side, staring at two of the most powerful, poorly-known magical artifacts lying side to side on the bare stones.

“Perhaps we should make them touch?” Khadgar hazards. “Your guess here is as good as mine.”

“No harm in trying,” Kael’thas replies, dubious, and nudges Light’s Heart until the two touch.

It is an exceedingly gentle nudge, yet they collide with a sound like hitting a great glass gong. It rings; echoes; ripples over Kael’thas’ vision like a pond disturbed by a stone; and finally pierces through him — a great spear of pure Light that cleaves him clean in two.

One part body, and one part mind; both falling into nothingness, and falling, and falling—

-

AND THEN

AN ALMOST UNBEARABLE SHINING

AND THE SHINING SAID:

BE NOT AFRAID

OR SOMETHING OF THAT ILK, FOR YOU WERE AFRAID AND DID NOT HEAR

AND THE LIGHT CONTINUED:

HEARKEN UNTO ME! THEE HATH COME IN SEARCH OF ANSWERS. LISTEN AND THOU SHALL RECEIVE

AND THE DIVINE SPOKE OF WAR FOUGHT BETWEEN THE GODS, OF THE ASHES OF BURNING WORLDS FALLING UPON THE COSMOS, OF A GOLDEN ARMY RISING FROM THE WRECKAGE

THE NEWS DID NOT GLADDEN YOU, FOR YOU HEARD THE INCOMING ‘BUT’

AND THE NAARU SPOKE OF A LAST STAND, OF DOOM AND DESPERATION, OF LIGHT AND SHADOW. SHE SPOKE OF ONE LAST HOPE

AND XE’RA SPOKE OF ILLIDAN

AND IT TAUGHT YOU TO HOPE

SO YOU HOPED

UNTIL

-

Consciousness comes back in waves. First an inkling of sense, then a feeling — weight over his chest, warmth, the impression of a presence. Then, as higher brain functions start to awaken, so does whichever blighted part of it that registers pain, dragging the rest of Kael'thas' mind along into awakening.

The piercing headache that drills into his skull could have been the mark of an excellent night of revelry, but his mouth doesn’t taste nearly as bad as it should considering the copious amount of wine he’d have needed to consume to get a hangover of this caliber — only dry. And once he notices that dryness he cannot ignore it: his throat is as if coated in dust, his tongue like parchment. The thought of water consumes him with a kind of desperation that does speak of a hangover.

His face is warm and his eyelids a translucent red from the light. Opening his eyes would be a mistake. He does it anyway, driven by thirst and pain and a persistent thought along the lines of well, what else am I to do? Sleep forever?

Bright golden sunlight pours into his eyes as soon as he cracks them open. He moans, screws them shut once more. Too late: an afterimage of the light remains printed on the back of his eyelids. Each bright spot sends renewed pain stabbing through his skull. A white-hot knife wedged between his eye and its socket would feel about the same.

“Serves you right.”

The hoarse voice elicits a whine from him. How can he deserve this? But, despite the harshness of the words, a metallic rattle precedes a dimming of the light. Someone drew curtains over the window.

Once more Kael’thas ventures into peering through his gummed eyelashes and finds the room a little less unbearable than before. A red and black figure hovers over him. He recognizes Rommath in the blotches of color: it does not occur to him to be confused — he feels sick and Rommath is there, as usual — until he is being propped up into a sitting position and a goblet of water is pressed against his lips.

He was in Dalaran but a moment before. Why is Rommath here?

And the golden fixtures on the walls — he recognizes the phoenix motif, the high lancet windows. These are the royal apartments of Sunfury Spire. He is home then, but how? And why?

The white-hot iron in his skull pulses like an answer in a language he does not know.

“Feeling better?”

He squints at the blurry outline of Rommath and lets out a hoarse sound that doesn’t communicate assent so much as his burning desire for water.

Cold metal is pressed against his lips as an answer. A trickle of water rolls down his tongue, blessedly cool, maddeningly slow. Scowling, he wrestles his arm free of the sheets and heaves himself into a sitting position to better make a grab for the goblet. Rommath lets him have it and Kael’thas tips the whole thing down his throat then thrusts it back out until the enchanted carafe obligingly pours him another serving that he drains just as quickly.

Rommath doesn’t say another word while this goes down. He leans back in his chair, his arms crossed, backlit by the halo of light seeping through the gaps in the curtains, and waits. Kael’thas sips his third goblet of water more sedately, slowly coiling his scattered thoughts back into a coherent whole. He knows he doesn’t have long before Rommath’s curiosity wins over his bedside manners, so he clears his throat and asks the question which feels most pressing at the moment.

“How long was I unconscious?”

“Three days.”

Considering the hazy recollection he has of the events leading up to that sleeping spell, he believes he got off lightly. He tells Rommath that much and is amused to see his friend rub his face wearily.

“Spoken like a man who hasn’t had to deal with frantic Illidari the whole time,” he sighs. At Kael’thas’ curious frown he explains, “Khadgar sent them a message when you did not wake up after what he deemed to be a reasonable amount of time.” Going by the icy tone of his voice, there is no amount of time spent unresponsive that Rommath would deem reasonable. “Seeing they could not wake you, they sent for me, and I had you brought here. They… tagged along.”

“I hope you’ve been playing nice.”

Rommath throws him a look that, while not overtly a glare, clearly expresses where Kael’thas may shove that comment. He grins, oddly light-hearted. Perhaps it is the warmth of the sun lingering on his skin that’s putting him in such a good mood. Sin’dorei folk wisdom claims sunlight speeds up the process of healing; while unproved, he does feel invigorated in spite of his persistent headache.

“Khadgar has explained the situation to me,” Rommath continues, leaning in. “But he was as stumped as the rest of us when it came to your fainting spell, though he swore you were in no danger. What happened?”

A sound like a golden chime rings through Kael’thas’ mind, a lightning strike searing knowledge into his memory. His fingers spasm as he curls in on himself, too sick for a moment to understand the voice that follows in the wake of the pain. But the words linger, echoing until he swallows them down, and his mouth tastes like blood as he looks up at a worried Rommath.

‘You now carry my mark, and through it I am able to see and feel as you do.’

“I need to talk to Khadgar,” he utters wearily. “And to you.”

Rommath goes to summon Khadgar, as much as the Guardian can be summoned, leaving Kael’thas to peel himself out of his sickbed and figure out how much decorum he is willing to deal with in his state.

Quite a lot, as it turns out: his pride will not have him waltzing in front of all and sundry in nothing but a robe. He bathes quickly, the unnerving feeling of the Naaru in his mind being rather unconducive to relaxation, but afterwards he sits at his vanity and wonders — how long has it been since he last did this? The smooth pass of the gilded comb through his hair, the perfumed oils he works into the strands until it falls soft and glowing as gold silk over his shoulders; the casual luxury of beauty and pride.

His reflection returns his thoughtful look, eyes heavy with the marks of many sleepless nights that not even a three day coma could erase. In the most exhausting times of his life at the Kirin Tor he used to think nothing could make him sacrifice his vain rituals, but he supposes loss has pushed him closer to breaking than his thesis ever could. Though it was a close thing.

But now— (something in him clenches like a fist around a knife, suffusing almost painful warmth through his chest)

Well, now he has hope. Who knew it would make such a difference?

-

Kael’thas was idly bemoaning the fact he would have to go through this debriefing twice, once here and another on the Felhammer, but he needn’t have worried: the first person he sees, coming out of his chambers, is Altruis. That would explain Rommath’s look at the mention of his Illidari tag-along.

“Lord Kael’thas.”

There’s an air of something akin to pleased surprise on his usually unreadable face. If Kael’thas didn’t know better, he’d think Altruis missed him.

“What did I miss?” He asks, immediately suspicious.

“Nothing is on fire, if that’s what has you worried. Kayn is waiting with a full report. What did you see?”

Kael’thas waves his hand impatiently. Altruis would hear about that at the same time as everyone else. The demon hunter settles down with only some reluctance and follows Kael’thas as he strides through the Spire, throwing open the doors of the small council room Rommath would have set aside for such a meeting. And indeed there he is, along with the rest of the triumvirate, Kayn, and Khadgar.

He says without preamble: “The Naaru intends to bring him back.”

The statement is obvious to him, with the golden weight still in his mind, but the rest of the room looks at him blankly. Kayn tilts his head to the side; his eyebrows twitch up in dawning realization, and he hazards, “Illidan? How?”

“She did not bother to share the details—” Frankly he can barely make sense of the vision even now that he is conscious, “But I got the impression it was a time-sensitive matter.”

Pain lances through his head, images of burning worlds flashing past his eyes for a second before fading into smoke. He winces as his sight pulses with bright spots heralding a coming migraine. When he blinks them away, one hand pressed to his forehead, he finds Rommath staring at him while Khadgar muses aloud:

“Some talented priests have been known to bring back their patients from death’s door, but I have always heard that anyone past the threshold is lost for good… “

“Death tends to be final, yes. Although if an exception is ever to be made, likely as not it will be made in Illidan’s case.”

Kael’thas tries to settle his rabbit-fast heartbeat, but he fails to smother the spark of hope that Xe’ra has fanned into a flame. The pain born of Illidan’s absence, the wound that sight of his soul in the Twisting Nether has reopened, has become a wholesome ache; like that of freshly applied sutures or growing pains after repairing bones through a spell. The kind of pain that comes from the effort of healing, that promises future relief. He knows that if this all proves to be a fool’s errand, it will break him; but he’s been broken before. And if this goes well—

He can scarcely think of it.

Bang. Altruis slams both his hands on the tabletop, snarling. “She will surely have you running up and down the continent, gathering four hundred useless shiny rocks or what have you.” Rommath lets out a huff in wry agreement. “Meanwhile we will be moving against Niskara soon and we need you there, leading us, not halfway across the world on some fool’s errand—”

“You’re in high demand,” Halduron notes, and Lor’themar quirks a smile.

Inhaling slowly past the intoxicating hope bubbling in his chest, Kael’thas forces himself to think. The invasion of Niskara is a plan long in the making. It’ll be a cornerstone of their efforts against the Legion if they are victorious — and a crumbling blow if they don’t.

But can Illidan survive a setback? Kael’thas can’t afford to lose him; not again, not before even getting him back.

“You have been doing this long enough you should be able to manage without me,” he says slowly, considering, though in truth he has already made up his mind about it.

The others hear it in his voice. Rommath turns on his heels with nothing more than an eyeroll, gesturing to Lor’themar and Halduron to follow. Khadgar drifts after them and soon only the Illidari are left, both commanders looking at Kael’thas in that unreadable way of theirs.

Then Kayn inclines his head, his voice warm as he says, “We’ll bring you Niskara, and you will bring Illidan back to us.”

When Altruis seems ready to argue, Kayn’s hand shoots out and wraps around one of his horns, tugging Altruis’ head down sharply. The movement is patronizing, usually used by veteran demon hunters to slow down the younger, more reckless ones. It does stop Altruis in his tracks. Distracted by outrage, he bristles like a cat and turns his anger on Kayn instead. Kayn ignores him, though he visibly fights off a grin as he shakes Altruis lightly — he still has a hand curled around Altruis’ horn.

Kael’thas gives it thirty seconds before Altruis throws Kayn over his shoulder by the force of his neck alone and then proceeds to gore him with those very horns. He hurries off before he can become the unwitting audience to one of their legendary fights.

Chapter Text

Kael’thas begins his strange pilgrimage in Val’sharah.

Save for the overbearing presence in his mind, he’s alone. It’s a rare enough reprieve that he takes a moment to take in the silence and study his surroundings. Even broken by the Sundering it’s a beautiful, lonesome land; he tries to find, in its foreign architecture and lush forests, traces of his soulmate. As if he could recognize Illidan in the shade of the foliage or the shape of the trees.

But there’s something remote in this place that is entirely unlike the man he searches for: an alienness out of time that ought to be familiar but isn’t.

There’s nothing here for Kael’thas to recognize from any story Illidan might have shared in a rare fit of nostalgia: he spoke rarely of the city he grew up in, and still less of the place of his birth. Everything Kael’thas finds familiar here would not be out of place in Darnassus; the makings of any kaldorei city, some ten thousand years in the past. Little has changed since — they are so very long-lived — and yet a veil drapes over the world, some miasma of ages past that strips any comfort from the familiar.

He is well-acquainted with lands hollowed out by destruction; the emptiness here reminds him of nothing more than his own kingdom, which in turn summons images of Quel’thalas as it lives forever in memory: unsullied, resplendent, perpetually awash in sunset.

Any homesickness he feels is for that elusive place he can never return to; those memories forever out of his reach. He wishes, suddenly, that Illidan had shared more tales of his past. Not just the ordeals but the domestic, too: the places he was taught, where he scraped his knees as a child, where he roughhoused with his brother for Tyrande’s attention.

Even Vashj proved more forthcoming when it came to sharing personal memories, though she was never specific in her retelling and never, he adds ruefully, entirely sober while doing so. It was a side of her that she only revealed on the few evenings where she, Kael’thas and sometimes — even more rarely by the end — Illidan would take a few hours to put down their respective burdens. Usually in the company of a stiff drink.

(He vividly remembers one such evening when, without the company of Illidan, Lady Vashj had spent an hour grilling Kael’thas about the saucy details of their relationship. He had been pleasantly and easily drunk on wine by then, willing to share more than could be considered wise or proper. Vashj had been delighted, obviously, and had never let him live it down. And Illidan had proved of no help whatsoever: that man always delighted in seeing him flustered.)

In the end, Kael’thas has no particular fondness for this place; not even vicariously. But he does wonder what his lost friends would have had to say about it.

(It’s too late for Vashj. But for Illidan, maybe, maybe— and isn’t that a thought?)

Xe’ra’s voice drifts to him from beyond the haze of his thoughts. “An ancient memory stirs. When you are prepared, call to me and together we will uncover a piece of Illidan's past.”

He winces. It’s unnerving to have a voice in his head that isn’t his own. But he does as he’s asked, reaching within himself and, bypassing the font of his own power, grasps the star-bright presence of the Naaru instead.

The world fades in like a heat mirage. His surroundings turn hazy and distant even as a ghostly crowd materializes before him, growing more tangible until Kael’thas feels as if he could reach out and touch one of them. A woman speaks, pulling his attention to the front of the gathering. She stands over two cribs—

“Light,” he can’t help but whisper as he realizes what he’s looking at. “They were adorable.”

Malfurion and Illidan — days old, at most, tiny and swaddled in fabric. He can see a tiny baby fist waving around and nearly swoons. He’ll bet Felo’melorn on this being Illidan’s crib: he never had any patience for ceremony. Kael’thas wishes he could get a closer look at the two. He wonders if Illidan was born with that serious crease between his eyebrows or if a life of frowning passionately at everything made it stuck that way.

Someone comments on one of the children’s golden eyes and Kael’thas draws short. From what little he’s seen of Malfurion, the man had silvery blue eyes, which means…

They could have been a matching set; two golden-eyed mages. They were, for a time, if Illidan’s ever-burning felfire could ever match any mortal eyes; but his have lost that particular fel hue by now. Though it’s a small detail, a minuscule loss, he can’t quite help but feel a pang of regret.

“Indeed the child is destined for a great and prosperous future,” the priestess intones. She looks down on the child with nearly motherly gentleness.

And maybe she is their mother — hells, what would Kael’thas know of it? He hardly knows anything of Illidan’s family beyond his fraught relationship with his twin. Who his mother was, whether she still drew breath by the time he was imprisoned under Mount Hyjal— so much he did not have time to learn. So much of their time together was tainted by the war, by the necessity to focus on what they needed to know rather than what they wanted to share.

(Where was that gentleness when they cast him out as a traitor? When did he outgrow this grand destiny they have already envisioned for him? He has a few choice words for this woman, if she does stil live.)

There will be time, he tells himself. A hope so novel, so foolhardy it leaves him briefly breathless. There will be time to learn about Illidan’s family. There will be time. Kael’thas is going to bring him back, he’s going to win this war, and he’s finally going to learn what Illidan’s mother was like, by the Light. He’ll do it or burn the world down trying.

The empty ruins swim back in sight as the vision dissipates. They are startingly empty now that he has seen them inhabited, in a way a little reminiscent of how he feels while walking deserted parts of Silvermoon.

Though the sin’dorei were the one to adopt the moniker, they were not the only people forged in blood, nor even the first: their direct ancestors lived through a similar catastrophe in the Sundering. How many settlements like this one, ruins thousands of years after the fact, the night elves in these woods too few to bother with rebuilding houses that would stand empty for decades more?

“How long before the Sundering was this?” He asks the Naaru.

“Some time, though not much — at least not by mortal standards.”

“He must have been quite young then.” Perhaps not much older than Kael’thas was when his own kingdom fell.

“An adult, but only just. You will see soon.”

He hums in ascent. “At least he was not robbed of his childhood — they looked like they loved him already.” As they should.

“Yes; an auspicious start to a life of tragedy. Perhaps one of the few joyous memories Illidan would have in his life.” Something about the way she says it feels like a burr catching on bare skin, though Kael’thas can hardly argue against it: their time together was beautiful, but short and fraught with pain. “While the years that followed tested the prophesied child, they would never break him. You must remember that, despite what you may see as our journey continues.”

“I know that. I know him, lest you forget.”

“Perhaps; but not as well as you are about to.” She goes on before he can snap back, wind chime-light in her musing: “Illidan’s life was a life full of potential. His destiny forged in the great ordering and cast to the cosmic winds, where at last it would find a home on Azeroth. Within the tiny vessel the great cycle began anew.”

It’s the word potential, he thinks. That destiny she insists on. As the crown-prince to a kingdom thousand of years old, Kael’thas is well-acquainted with the rigid path others trace for you, paving it with glorious purpose.

For all that he walks that very path today, pushed upon its stones by the backhand of fate, he balks at the image Xe’ra speaks of: a straight, golden line tugging Illidan along. He has never met someone as self-determined, as independent and dedicated to his own goals, than Illidan; not even himself, and he had decades of forging his own path under his belt when they met. He doesn’t think his soulmate would have liked to be told that it was all ordained by some higher being.

But he will not pick a fight with the Naaru. Not yet. Whether he is a messiah to her or merely a man who is loved and missed doesn’t matter as long as she succeeds in bringing him back.

And she will. She must.

-

Following half her directions and half the inexplicable draw of this place, Kael’thas lets his feet guide him deeper into the woods. The air grows cool and damp, smelling of earth and moss and — faintly — the rot of whatever corruption clings to them.

He has been lucky so far to only catch glimpses of it in passing; it’s a blessing when the memories they chase draw him so completely out of the present. Xe’ra might possibly warn him of approaching danger, but he doubts she would be able to pull him out of the vision for his mortal reflexes to save his life. He has to blink afterimages of the past out of his eyes still, like sunspots lingering at the edges of his vision.

Or perhaps it’s his magical sense giving him a glimpse of the history she has him wading through: one of these apparitions has him drawing short before Xe’ra dictates him to. He can feel it when he focuses, guided by her: a slight tug deep inside as her attention is drawn to a thread of memory he cannot hope to grasp on his own.

He falls into the past the way one falls into a deep, dark pond; the waters of time rushing over his head and dragging him down, down, into a place and a time he does not recognize. Words rush past him like the current, as unintelligible as the murmur of running water.

Illidan’s voice is the first he can make out clearly.

“You have cast me out, Cenarius!”

Anger. Hurt. Betrayal. Already his voice has taken the qualities that Kael’thas knows so well, though it’s still edged with adolescent sharpness; yet to acquire it’s characteristic hoarseness, born of fel-burnt lungs and a lifetime screaming at prison walls.

The scene before Kael’thas is hard to place. He does not recognize the centaur, who he assumes to be the Cenarius Illidan mentioned, and only recognizes a younger Malfurion by an educated guess. But Ilidan, he would know anywhere. Even younger, less scarred—

Light, not blinded.

He saw these eyes moments before, but this is when Kael’thas feels as if he sees Illidan’s eyes for the first time. Not the ever-burning, ever-seeing cursed pits of flames that Sargeras gifted him with and that Kael’thas discovered the first time Illidan let himself be laid bare. His whole, golden eyes, alight with that particular brand of fury one uses to cover anguish, shiny with unshed tears.

Kael’thas yearns to take that too-young face between his hands and comfort him. His hands lift helplessly before he remembers the centuries separating them — he can never stand to see Illidan in pain.

Cenarius tells Illidan he must learn respect, dedication, sacrifice. The first two inspire a hysterical chuckle in Kael’thas: how many times has he heard this from his own teachers through the decades? Illidan, he thinks, took the criticism to heart. Perhaps too much so. He definitely understood dedication enough to die for it, and all the Illidari know of his opinion on sacrifice.

The vision has placed Kael’thas behind their teacher’s translucent shape, and once it fades away there is nothing else to separate Kael’thas from Illidan. He is left rooted in place, left reeling by the depth of emotions roiling in Illidan’s — visible — eyes.

No surprise he seems so unreadable, Kael’thas thinks as some of that hysterical sob-laughter rises up to choke him. All his emotions were there in his eyes.

Once the misery and righteous anger here would have pierced through his heart as surely as a blade, but now he holds his stubborn hope like a shield and lets it wash over him, the well-known heat of Illidan’s anger stoking his own determination.

How many times has he argued against a phantom made of his own guilt, bearing Illidan’s face? How many nights spent answering every shame-filled where were you with paltry claims that he was right where Illidan had wanted him to be? All his rebuttals have sounded as helpless as Malfurion, whose whispered brother is the last thing Kael’thas hears as the vision unravels.

I’m coming for you, he thinks fiercely to this new ghost, burning the sight of Illidan’s betrayed look into his brain. You shall never be abandoned ever again.

His face is wet. He hopes Xe’ra cannot see it.

“Few have known such failure and rejection. Most would have given up, but Illidan would continue on, guided by the unseen hand of fate. His destiny lay elsewhere. Failure and rejection would haunt him but, ever undaunted, he would continue the search for his destiny. He would find another path.”

“It wasn’t fate,” he can’t help but say. His voice sounds choked up even to his ears. If he looks mad, then there’s no one but the satyrs around to witness it, and they’re hardly better off. “He didn’t find the path. He made it for himself; he made his own way.”

If Xe’ra hears him, she does not answer.

-

There is a part of Kael’thas that will always, unequivocally, bear Illidan’s mark. Even with a death-torn bond, even worlds apart, a thousand years down the line; even in another life. There will always be a trace of Illidan inside Kael'thas' heart.

Walking through these haunted places, digging up these memories, feels like tearing himself apart to reach that space inside. And like breaking ribs to keep a heart beating, it’s the most painful cure to the ill of Illidan being dead.

The next vision throws him into battle with no warning. One second he’s staring at the worn stone of the keep; the next he’s stumbling on them to get out of the way of a ray of light that obliterates a swarm of Fel Bats at his back. The burst of arcane magic is so bright Kael’thas has to duck his head to avoid the worst of it. The air smells of sulfur and blood; they’re finally witnessing the Legion’s first foray into Azeroth.

A soldier — a moon guard, Kael’thas assumes from the armor — collapses at Kael'thas' feet and retches. Unaware of their ghost in their midst upon whose shoes they seem about to throw up, the moon guard turns a pallid face to their leader.

“We require rest, master,” tey plead.h

Ten thousand years in the past, the Legion still wages the same war of attrition — and Illidan still pushes the people under his command to their breaking point for a single chance at victory.

Oh, my love, Kael’thas thinks, lifting his hands as if to cradle Illidan’s weary, determined face. He seemed younger mere hours ago, with heartbreak in his eyes and anger on his tongue, in a way that mere time and aging cannot explain. What has war taken from you?

(The answer is easy: what has it not?)

Illidan shares an exhausted look with the moon guard. Then, another man calls for his attention, and Kael’thas watches as his shoulders straighten, his whole demeanor changing to mask his fatigue and cover it with professional obedience. It’s jarring, not only the change but the way Illidan naturally ducks his head a little, standing soldier-straight while still making himself smaller.

Kael’thas has never known anyone capable of demanding that kind of obedience from Illidan, let alone getting it. But Xe’ra whispers a name in his mind, and he watches curiously as Lord Ravencrest tersely gives a worrying picture of their current position against the Legion.

He is pulled along as the ghost of Illidan’s past moves through long-decided tragedies. Kael’thas reaches for a weapon or a spell as demons swarm them again and again; he keeps doing it even once he’s realized the monsters see him no more than the moon guards did, passing right through him on their way to Illidan’s forces. It’s an instinct so deeply ingrained it would take the loss of both his arms to stop him.

Trying to turn his focus to the man he’s here to observe does little to settle his battle-weary nerves.

This Illidan isn’t his, isn’t the one he knows and loves. He’s too young, too reckless, carelessly cruel: a man who has learned the lesson of necessary sacrifices, but lacks the understanding that the first sacrifice ought always to come from himself. He cannot say it’s a shock. There has always been this vein of ruthlessness in him which makes for such a prodigious general — Arthas Menethil was the same, if memory serves right.

They are alike in some ways, he thinks uneasily. Driven men who would burn a village of innocents to save the world. When Illidan reaches for the moon guards and draws their magic out well past their reserves, Kael’thas can barely watch. They are already dead, and have been for ten thousand years. But he’s seen this happen before: it’s not an easy way to go.

Still; this is unmistakably Illidan. He has known that edge of cruelty for as long as he’s known the man himself, and loved both fiercely.

The look on Illidan’s face now — a haunted, dogged determination — is one he will wear forever from then on. It might as well have been carved into his skull for how familiar and omnipresent it seems to Kael’thas. This, more than the first scene Xe’ra showed him, is the birth of Illidan: the starting point of a crusade that continues to this day. Elves heal slowly, and they rarely forget injuries; this, Kael’thas thinks, is a wound Illidan knowingly inflicted upon himself, and which has never ceased bleeding.

Then the look fades, covered by grim resolution, and the battle goes on. The learning of how steep of a price one must pay to achieve victory.

Kael’thas watches Illidan learn this lesson with each new death at his own hand and each near-defeat at the Legion’s. The loss of his men only strengthens Illidan’s resolve even as it deepens the sorrow on his face and the rift between him and the other soldiers. He comes ever closer to the Illidan Kael’thas knows as time goes by, to the point that Kael’thas can well picture the kind of ruthless calculus he is running inside his head as they fight. Is there another way? If not, how many must die for this to work? Illidan himself cannot die; he has always believed that his death would have to mean something, a trump card rather than a simple casualty of war. In a way, he thought himself indispensable. Perhaps he was right. According to Xe’ra, he is fated. And they certainly haven’t been winning in his absence.

They used to balance each other in this: Illidan, cruel in his dedication to selflessness, ready to break himself and the whole world on the altar of war for a single chance at victory, and Kael’thas too selfish to give anything up, eager to burn the world for his people, his family, his future. Vashj tempered them; they were both evenly matched in intensity and recklessness, to often disastrous results.

Illidan went to his death still bearing marks from the fight they had after his latest, last, dangerous stunt.

Kael’thas sees that intensity at work here as he watches — he can do nothing but watch — Illidan struggle against an ever-growing enemy force with fewer and fewer men at his back. Even knowing Illidan has to survive this, Kael’thas nearly jumps into the arena after him, terrified at the thought of Illidan’s blood joining the rivers of red that have already turned the keep into a slaughterhouse. When the creature finally crumbles under Illidan’s onslaught he waits, silent even in his own mind, as Illidan’s allies turn away from the very weapon they forged. As they scorn the one fighting to deliver them.

People have asked Illidan to save them all so many times and every time they balk at how low he will stoop to do it. Like a dog to sic on your enemies before you put him down for having gotten the taste of blood.

If he doesn’t force himself into silence, he will scream.

What else could he have done? Why did you allow him to do this, then, if not because you approved, if not because it would save you?

Xe’ra echoes him unknowingly, droning on about difficult decisions before saying, “What would you have done differently?”

Nothing, Kael’thas thinks bitterly. He sacrificed his own people for victories against the Legion; he sacrificed them for stalemates. He would have done so much worse if Illidan had not gotten to it first.

“The line between good and evil is thin, and resides in a place where intention means little.”

“Only the ends, never the means,” he mutters, and forces himself to resume walking.

The fragmented remnants of the vision follow him. Perhaps he should be horrified by Illidan’s methods, although he was no stranger to them; at least he should be taken aback by how quickly his soulmate had resolved to sacrificing his own men for what he deemed the greater good.

Instead all he can think of is that Illidan taught him how to do this. Over long evenings and morning spars, he walked Kael’thas through the delicate process of tapping into another’s magic and, eventually, their vital energy. He encouraged Kael’thas to try it on him since their bonds made it so much easier, to use it in battle. Illidan was such a magical powerhouse, he could take it; but even when he couldn’t, when he was at the end of his rope, he would offer his arm to Kael’thas and say, take what you need. We don’t want you fainting in the middle of battle.

And his soulmate always refused to enjoy the same privilege he so freely gave Kael’thas. The bond between them made it easier to draw magic from afar, without touch, without even a line of sight; but even when it came to saving Illidan’s own life he always turned to another solution first.

Perhaps it was misplaced pride; or perhaps he had paid too dear a price before.

That’s what sticks to Kael’thas after this butchery of a battle. Because Illidan was a man who would kill an entire squadron of moon guards to win a battle, but he was also a man who taught Kael’thas how to drain him dry of magic just in case and never reciprocated the act.

Kael’thas is a selfish, selfish man. Illidan has killed thousands but he would have died rather than risking the same fate befalling Kael’thas; to him that is enough.

Chapter Text

Xe’ra directs him to Azshara next. There’s no time to waste, so Kael’thas ignores his building headache and sets about creating a portal.

He has never been to the ancient capital, of course, but it’s easy enough to weave a portal to the nearest familiar point on the map — Orgrimmar — and have Al’ar fly him the rest of the way. Child’s play, to him. Another mage might have something to say about it: portals are notoriously costly to create and difficult to maintain. They tend to destabilize quickly when breaching such a large distance.

The flight is a small respite from the onslaught of visions. He sinks his fingers in his familiar’s ember-warm feathers and closes his eyes, letting the cold wind sharpen his tired mind.

It’s a more taxing task than he had expected: he thought experiencing Illidan’s past would be… perhaps not a comfort, but a moment of connection, of learning more about his elusive soulmate. And it has been that — but in the same way one connects to strangers at the funeral of a common loved one. Besides, all the radiant magic is making him a little sick.

At least the next vision fades in quietly, with none of the clamor of the previous battle. Wherever they are is calm — a rarity during this war. Kael’thas doesn’t dare to let his guard down. Not after Xe’ra’s words.

He is proven horrifyingly right when Illidan starts screaming.

The sound rips through Kael’thas like shrapnel. He can barely breathe through it, hand coming up to his breastbone as if he could feel his heart shattering through the skin. It does not care that there is technically no bond there to communicate Illidan’s pain to Kael’thas: he feels it anyway, phantom pain shrieking through the memory of the connection.

His body is moving before his brain has fully processed the information, reaching for Illidan’s agonized form. Sargeras’ voice booms right next to his ear but he pays the demon no mind: nothing matters as much as Illidan at the moment.

Kael'thas' hand passes right through him.

The sound that tears out of his throat is beyond words. Half distress, half fury. Illidan is right there, he’s hurting, and there’s nothing Kael’thas can do to help him.

“No matter how hard this world fights, it will fall.”

Snarling in frustration, Kael’thas whirls around and hurls a fireball at the swirling fel vortex spewing Sargeras’ voice. It achieves nothing, not even making him feel better, but at least it’s something to do.

Better to be angry than to cry; better to be angry than to give up.

(They’re going to bring Illidan back and then Kael’thas will never let him be hurt ever again.)

There’s something fascinating in watching Illidan come to the same conclusion. His face is pale, tears-streaked even after felfire burnt the actual tears away. He looks struck dumb, barely aware of the tremendous loss he’s just suffered.

“Even if we defeat them here, it will mean nothing,” he whispers to himself, voice quivering. But it settles as he goes, despair morphing — slowly — into the grim resolution Kael’thas knows so well. “We are doomed… Unless we find another way to fight them.” Firmer, denying the possibility of defeat, “And I’ll find that way.”

Light, Kael’thas loves this man.

“With his eyes burned out for seeing the truth, Illidan still did not falter. Even under the gaze of the lord of the Burning Legion, Illidan remained resolute and defiant,” Xe’ra gushes in his ears. There’s a nearly fanatical edge to her words, as if she’s trying to convert him to something, similar to the sermont of one of her priests. It should be reminiscent of the Illidari’s blind faith; she is preaching to the choir; yet somehow it falls short. “ But there was one final sacrifice that he had yet to make.”

“Are we near finished?” Kael'thas bites out.

“Yes. There is only one memory left.”

Her voice is foreboding; he tries to ignore the dread that inspires.

-

When Xe’ra tells him where they must go next, Kael’thas nearly refuses.

It’s instinctive, irrational; the no already on the tip of his tongue. He knew it would come to this: of course the site of Illidan’s death would be where the essence of his being is the strongest. But a bigger part of Kael’thas had hoped it could be avoided.

Leaving Illidan to die nearly killed him the first time; he doesn’t know what he will do, witnessing it again.

Then again — he could not be there for Illidan the first time around. He cannot help but want to witness his end, the closest he will ever come to cradling Illidan in his arms as he dies.

Stepping onto Outland soil is a bittersweet homecoming. For all that he misses his time at Illidan’s side, it’s not the accursed earth and fel-blasted stones that rendered him nostalgic; he never wished to return. The memories haunting this place are not sweet enough to counterbalance the darkness that permeates it.

The past that pulls at his heart here is mostly his, unattached to Xe’ra’s efforts; the ghosts he glimpses are familiar, sin’dorei and naga alike. He tries to ignore their pull as he climbs the stairs to the top of the Black Temple. He remembers running down those same steps years ago, fleeing the very scene Xe’ra is intent on showing him. He has spent countless nights since struggling up and down endless flights of lightless stairs, dreams where he failed to outrun the sea of blood cascading down the steps after him.

At least there’s no blood today. Any that was shed during the original attack has long dried and flaked away. This is no nightmare; he’ll not get out of it by pinching himself awake.

Kael’thas steps into open air.

This is where he last saw Illidan in the flesh six years ago. He remembers his soulmate standing proud, strong, alive. Undaunted and unafraid. Although conscious of Illidan’s demise, this is the image of him Kael’thas has held in his mind all these years: he is not eager to see it proven — obsolete.

Like a convict to the gallow, he takes a bracing breath in and a step forward. “I’m ready,” he lies.

Exhaling slowly, Kael’thas lets himself be drawn into the memory.

The first thing he sees, out of the fog of dream and Shadowmoon Valley combined, is Akama’s skull-like face. A sight Kael’thas would rather avoid even on a good day. Wheeling around, he seeks Illidan instead.

The vision has placed him right next to Illidan, half a step back and to the side, where he would have rightly stood had he not been miles across the valley at the time. He’s glad for the meager, pointless relief of it.

“We’ve come to end your reign, Illidan,” Akama hisses. “My people and all of Outland shall be free!”

Free to die against the Legion, Kael’thas thinks to himself with a scowl.

He never cared much for the Broken; a blind spot they all paid dearly for. But surely a people so downtrodden, so utterly destroyed by the Legion, would know firsthand what Sargeras’ might can do — what it takes to face him. He of all people should understand Illidan’s all-consuming urge to put an end to their crusade.

Kael’thas unconsciously imitates Illidan as his soulmate adopts a fighting stance. Close enough to be in range of any enemy slipping under Illidan’s guard while keeping his distance from the deadly arcs of the warglaives — the same position he’s held in every battle fought alongside Illidan.

It’s easy to fool himself into believing it is just another battle as Illidan cuts through enemies like tall grass, implacable and inescapable. Unbeatable. But he is grossly outnumbered — for every enemy he strikes down, two take their place, holding him off while one of the healers among the raid party brings them back from the brink of death. Illidan could fight for days and still not run out of opponents; there will always be somebody to step up to him.

They only have to be lucky once.

(If one ignores the coming tragedy, there is a certain pleasure to the spectacle of his soulmate decimating their enemies, even though they refuse to stay down. Kael’thas tries to focus on that for a time.)

Kael’thas sees him flagging long before their opponents do. He reads Illidan’s weariness in the droop of his wings, the slightly manic turn of his grin. Soon the mask will drop, revealing the stony expression Illidan wears when it’s taking all of his focus to cover his weakness. He’s seen it countless times before in interminable battles, when he refused to let them end in a way that would not advantage him.

This battle can only end one way.

The realization that he is watching Illidan die is like a bucket of ice water dropped over his head. He can barely think for a moment, side-stepping out of the way of incorporeal attacks without seeing them. He starts to watch each enemy like a hawk, trying to see the killing blow before it comes, flinching at every blade that comes near Illidan. More than once he chokes on a warning, a half shouted ‘Behind you!’ that stumbles on its way out his mouth.

He tires of this helplessness. He has seen Illidan die out of his reach too many times now; not once more. Light, please, no more.

Still the mortal blow refuses to come.

Illidan will hold on to the very last second to gain his demon hunters a little more time. But it won’t be long before he falters — and he won’t run, Kael’thas knows it, has known all along, long before Illidan’s blood wet the stones of this arena.

He’s never been one to run from fate. When the universe wants Illidan dead, the only question is how many Illidan will manage to take down in his fall.

As if to hasten this fate, Illidan draws himself up and roars, “Is this is, mortals? Is this all the fury you can muster?”

The edge in his voice could be read as goading, but Kael’thas hears it for the desperation it is: is this all you have to offer against the Legion?

You foolish, foolish man, he thinks with more affection than he knows what to do with.

Warriors hoist their weapons higher, incensed by his words. One steps out of the fray, plate armor glinting in the guttering light of the Temple as the towers over her comrades.

“Their fury pales before mine, Illidan.”

If the fearsome armor had not been enough to identify her, the voice ringing from underneath strikes Kael’thas like a physical blow. He remembers her — remembers Illidan in a cage at her behest, the near-fanatical pursuit of her carry.

“My long hunt is over. Today, justice will be done.”

Rather than dread, it’s a kind of grim understanding that washes over Kael’thas as he realizes: this is it. Illidan never tires, never falters, a mountain in a storm. But if there is one hunter in the world who can match his ceaseless determination, it is Maiev Shadowsong.

Frozen in place, he watches as the two hunters throw themselves at each other’s throat. They seem evenly matched for a moment, blades ringing in a lethal dance; but Illidan is exhausted from the drawn out fight and his attention constantly pulled away from their duel, parrying another attack, diverting another blow. Many of the enemies he strikes down finally do not get back up; the respite comes too late.

Kael’thas does not catch the first of her blows that slips past Illidan’s defense. He only sees the way Illidan jerks away from it, blood spraying the stone at his feet. Time slows to a crawl. Kael’thas has drifted away from him a little, swept in the all too familiar dance of battle, and the distance that now separates them seems infinite. As in a dream, he tries to run on leaden legs as Maiev’s weapon arcs back towards Illidan, edge flashing in the light—

The blade catches Illidan in the shoulder and rips down, tearing through his chest with a sickening lurch. Kael’thas can see when it gets caught in Illidan’s collarbone and Maiev has to wrench it through, bones cracking under the strain.

The world—

(Blood sprays from the wound, splattering Maiev’s helmet as she moves back to the already-cheering group at her back—)

(The warglaives hit the ground with a dull sound—)

(Illidan wavers, lifting a hand to the wound, not to stem the blood flow but thoughtlessly, somewhere between cold assessment and numb shock—)

— fractures.

Frozen time lurches forward once more. Kael’thas stumbles, his thundering heartbeat deafening, a puppet on razor wires, as Illidan’s knees hit the ground. He runs, trips on thin air, follows Illidan down as he scrambles forwards on hands and knees. There’s nothing in his mind but an endless litany of no, no, no, not like this—

Someone is screaming. A thin, broken hearted wail. His throat stings. Could the sound be coming from him? Impossible. This is an animal sound, alive enough to hurt. Kael’thas is dead, dead, dead—

(There is no bond left to feed him Illidan’s agony, only a deep, yawning void that stretches on forever, a hungry emptiness that threatens to swallow him whole. He doesn’t need the bond. He remembers the pain well enough, as if his heart had been torn right out of his chest.)

He crawls until his fingertips touch the edge of the blood puddle growing under Illidan, and not an inch more. The blood does not stain him. He is not there. Illidan is ten years gone; yet it’s Kael’thas who has become a ghost, haunting himself.

The wail cuts off abruptly as a sob tears out of Kael'thas' chest. He chokes on it, crumbling on himself, his forehead nearly to the ground, hiding from the scene behind a curtain of hair. He can’t watch Illidan die; not like this; please, Light, not like this.

Voices drift to him, muffled through his misery. Some cheers. Others he recognizes. Echoes. The same he witnessed before, in other visions. The last flashes of Illidan’s life, shared with Kael’thas by the tenuous connection of this memory.

“I will come back for you.”

His own voice shocks him and Kael'thas' head jerks up. His heart goes still in his chest. He watches a ghost of himself cradle a kneeling Illidan’s face, watches himself walk away and fade from being. Watches, a scream building in his throat, as Illidan collapses; as the cursed light goes from his eyes; as he stills entirely, his face still turned towards the West. Where, miles away, Kael’thas has just fallen to his knees in shared agony.

Kael’thas, inches yet years and miles away, presses his forehead to the cold stone and howls.

-

Xe’ra’s voice drifts up to him, crystalline through his sobbing, heaving breath. He wishes she would knock him unconscious for another three days or months and leave him to grieve himself sick again in peace.

“The world is only as meaningful to us as the beings that inhabit it,” she intones, voice booming like a toll. “And what could give it more meaning than one’s soulmate? Even in the end, after you had abandoned him, Illidan saw you as clearly as the first time he had laid eyes on you. He never lost sight of his world. You must ask yourself—”

Coughing, voice raw from tears, Kael’thas rasps, “Abandoned?”

In his mind’s eye he can see her perfectly — resplendent with otherworldly light, exuding righteousness to an oppressive degree. Uncaring of the turmoil boiling under Kael'thas' skin — the all-consuming flames of anger fanned into a white-hot inferno by grief — that great, shining chandelier continues:

“I wept when I touched your consciousness in the Great Dark, mortal. For I saw his fall, and I saw you, the void left by your absence. To abandon one’s soulmate in their greatest time of need— your cowardice shadowed your heart and corrupted the holy connection of your bond.”

He pushes himself up in a sitting position. His tears, he notices dimly, have dried out of sheer bafflement.

“It was not Light's Heart, but you, that needed preparation. Now you know the truth. His rebirth will be the story of your redemption.”

“Redemption?” He sounds like a shrill, broken toy when he echoes her, but he cannot bring himself to care. Pushing himself to his feet, Kael’thas turns on himself, seeking the golden figure of the Naaru even though he knows he won’t find her here. “How dare you— I have done only what Illidan asked of me, for six years I fought and bled for his goal, you—” Unable to find his words in the face of her silent disdain, Kael’thas lets out a wordless shriek of frustration and rage.

Preparations— his heart is hollow, waiting for Illidan’s soul to come back to fill it. And she dares say that he needs to be prepared? To buy his redemption, as if he hasn’t lit Illidan’s path past and future with his magic and his lifeblood, every step forward paid with the lives of his people?

To the Void with her. To the Void with them all. He’s going home—Illidan awaits, and he has work to do.

Chapter Text

Rommath has a few strands of hair hanging over his face when Kael’thas walks out of a portal and into the Grand Magister’s office.

On anyone else this would barely be worth noting. On Rommath, any amount of hair out of his usual neat ponytail is a sure sign that he’s either under intense stress or was in the process of dressing himself in a hurry when the observer walked in. Seeing no sign of Lor’themar’s presence in the room — after he half-heartedly checks under the table in case the source of this dishevelment happened to be more interesting than a mere row with their Lord Regent — Kael’thas assumes he’s not interrupting anything aside from a particularly intense existential crisis.

“What happened?”

The sound of his own voice makes him wince — he sounds terribly hoarse — but it actually makes Rommath flinch, as if he hadn’t noticed Kael’thas coming in. Considering the noise of a portal opening and closing in his vicinity is usually enough to wake up his spymaster and have him armed and ready for an attack in seconds, Kael’thas finds his back straightening and magic crackling at his fingertips, preparing for the worst.

“What happened to you?” Rommath demands. He has the audacity to look sour, as if whatever he sees on Kael’thas’ face is somehow more worrying that what got those three strands of hair hanging over his eye.

“I went on a life changing field trip with an envoy from the gods and, frankly, I would rather never speak about it again,” Kael’thas replies, deadpan. “Don’t change the subject. What is going on?”

It’s more concerning, not less, to see Rommath take one good look at his face and then choose, visibly, to drop the matter.

Either the situation is dire indeed or Kael’thas has reached a new depth of pathetic. He hasn’t escaped one of Rommath’s interrogations in years—even his father’s death couldn’t save him from his closest friend’s professional curiosity.

Shaking his head, Rommath turns back to his work. “It’s nothing,” he says in a tone that suggests it is the exact opposite of nothing, but also personal to a degree that will have Rommath gnawing off his own arm before he consents to talk about it. “Only I had nearly forgotten the strain all-out war puts on all our carefully-built systems. Look at this—”

He grabs a stack of paper off the table and hands it to Kael’thas. Forcing his mind to focus through the haze of grief still clouding it, Kael’thas skims through the letters — and hits an obstacle barely two lines in.

“Suramar?”

The discovery of the lost kaldorei city was one great shock among many, and their uncommunicativeness has meant that Kael’thas broadly did not concern himself with it. It seems the situation has drastically changed since he last found the time to appraise himself of it.

“There’s a rebellion brewing in the city, with an all-out assault in the works. Every elven nation received a plea for assistance—all two of us, that is. I already sent Liadrin ahead with our forces, but I meant to go get you before joining her,” Rommath summarizes. “I sent you a full report of the situation a week ago but I suppose it would have gotten to you after you went to confront a Naaru—”

Kael’thas waves that last part aside. Rommath had his chance for a lecture already and he wasted it by feeling sympathetic of Kael'thas' emotional distress. His loss. “Why get me? Lor’themar has the regency.”

“You would have insisted on going anyway. As these reports state,” he gestures at the letters in Kael'thas' hands as he says this, “Tensions have been running high between our people and the Allied forces. Liadrin is more than adequate at her job, but…”

“You think I should go,” Kael’thas finishes, a small, smug smile quirking up the corner of his lips almost in spite of himself.

Of all of them, he is the one with the most experience working with disparate armies who can barely stand each other. Besides, he likes Lady Liadrin: he’s grown fond of her over the years working alongside each other, and he thinks the sentiment is shared. It will be no hardship to work alongside her and Rommath.

Rommath nods begrudgingly. He smooths his hand over the reports in front of him, eyes unfocused. Visualizing all the work that is left to do, Kael’thas suspects. “If you need… time…”

“Don’t,” Kael’thas sighs. He crosses the space between them and pushes Rommath’s hair out of his face, tucking the wayward strands under his tie with an ease born of habit. “Your mother henning is, as usual, unneeded—and aggravating, as no one ever believes me when I mention it. We all have our duty to do. Distraction will do me good, anyway.”

Rolling his eyes, Rommath bats Kael'thas' hand away. “Distraction? Wait until you have to deal with Tyrande and we’ll see about a distraction.”

“Has she been causing trouble?”

“Not yet, no. Don’t scowl: she is difficult to work with and we both know it. But her people have, and I have no doubt she’ll be of no help whatsoever in solving the matter.”

“You let me deal with her. And take a nap, by the Light! You look like you have an essay for Lady Delth due by midnight.” He certainly hasn’t seen Rommath looking so frazzled since their days as students. Besides, he is in the mood to go toe-to-toe with Tyrande—certain visions still linger nauseatingly close to the surface of his mind.

“I can’t possibly look this bad. At least I’ve bathed today. As a matter of fact, perhaps you ought to consider doing that before you leave, hm?”

-

Bathing among the sin’dorei is not merely about hygiene: it’s also essential to socialization. Usually done communally, bath houses welcome all manners of customers, from friends to merchants seeking an informal, relaxing setting for business negotiations, and even a workman’s quick washing up at the end of the day tends to involve gossipping with one’s neighbors or helping them with their hair. Among the nobility, which prefers private baths, it’s still rare to bathe alone: one must have the assistance of at least one servant, if not more.

If there is one thing one can rely on the sin’dorei for, even in dark times, it is indulgence. Kael’thas recalls, somewhat fondly, the pleasure garden at the heart of the Black Temple. He can still taste the temperature-control enchantments on his tongue, something between citrus and cold metal.

The practice is one of the few parts of their culture that has remained relatively unchanged after the Scourge, even for the aristocracy. Most noble houses opened their doors to survivors in these first few months, housing whole families in servants’ quarters that stood nearly empty in the wake of the tragedy; those who could not work on their desperate rebuilding efforts often earned their keep working for their hosts, allowing them to maintain a semblance of their past standards of living in apocalyptic times.

But Sunfury Spire is not any noble home.

It was broken open like a crab’s shell by the teeming hordes of the undead, nearly every single living soul within struck down and raised back to serve the Lich King, not a stone gone untouched by his malice.

The blood of servants and courtiers and bureaucrats had run thick as a river down the halls.

Kael’thas remembers the squelching under his boots as he stepped through the palace, the cloying smell of copper and rot, the eerie absence of bodies as they had shambled after Arthas on lines of putrid magic.

The water had still been flowing maroon from the faucets months after the slaughter. No one had wanted to seek shelter in the charnel house: it was all they could do to keep the workers around to rebuild shattered walls and collapsed roofs.

There would have been no one to welcome them in if they had. Kael’thas had fled as far as magic and fate would take him, taking Rommath along with him, and Lor’themar had had the authority but neither the aristocratic instinct nor willingness to do so: the regent continued to sleep in a tent alongside his soldiers until Rommath forced him to accept apartments in the hollowed-out Spire.

And so Sunfury Spire stood empty in the wake of the Scourge, and has changed little since. It houses the scarce few servants required to keep it running; and Kael’thas, changed more deeply by war than he will readily admit, bathes alone.

He could, and has in the past, ask any of his advisors for company. He hasn’t become a monk all of a sudden. But he still finds himself scrubbing his skin like a soldier, with his mind more on the many plans set in motion than the task at hand. He will have to go to Suramar; even if they did not need a mediator, a city this spellbound will have need of a mage of his ilk to be cracked open. As for the search for Illidan’s soul—

Kael’thas stops with his fingers deep in soapy hair, mind stalling to a halt.

Time-sensitive matters both, and sensitive enough he does not dare entrust them to another; both crucial to the war effort. It did not occur to him before that he could not pursue both. At least not alone.

Letting the suds drip from his hair, Kael’thas blindly waves his hand back at the taps lining the massive bathing pool. They obligingly spin open, spewing steaming water that he lowers himself into without quite noticing himself doing it. His eyes are still staring at the elaborate tiles of the wall; his mind still spins in a circle around the stinging thought caught like a burr in his mind. He tilts his head back until it hits the edge of the bath and stares at the ceiling instead.

There is a long moment of blankness in his mind. He can already make out the shape of the decision he is about to take in his mind’s eye, but he is not willing to behold it yet. It goes against a deeper part of him, the all-consuming devotion that led to many a heartbroken hangover in his youth. Illidan is his beloved responsibility; he would kill a man for the privilege to go and wrestle his soul out of Death’s grasp.

But they have a war to win, and the part of his heart that is Illidan’s clings to this sense of duty and pulls him away.

Closing his eyes, Kael’thas breathes slowly in the steam and does not think about anything. And then he washes the soap from his hair and the tears from his face and leaves to do what must be done.

-

He pens a letter with all relevant information to Kayn and Altruis before he’s even finished drying himself, and sends it off in a burst of magic. He dares not tempt himself with the opportunity to be involved in the proceedings of hunting Illidan’s soul down.

The team assigned to this mission, led by Kayn, is already gone when he steps through the portal to the Felhammer. He tries to be glad for their expediency as Altruis steps up to him.

Finding a squad of Illidari eager to accompany Kael’thas to Suramar is a matter of minutes, at most. He only has to say “fighting Legion sympathizers” before he’s surrounded by demon hunters eager for action. He has to pick names at random before they start a scuffle over who will be left behind to hold the fort.

Altruis watches the process appraisingly, his face unreadable as ever behind the mask. He does not speak up and does not leave in disgust, which is as close to approval as Kael’thas could hope to get from him.

“Any comment?” He asks nonetheless.

“None. Good luck out there, Lord Kael’thas.”

On that rather mystifying note, Altruis bids him farewell and disappears into the depths of the ship. Kael’thas blinks at his retreating back, wondering whether he should be warmed or worried by the rebellious demon hunter’s strange respectfulness.

-

Knowing the tense atmosphere they are about to step into, Kael’thas goes through the portal to Suramar first. He needn’t have bothered: when he sets foot in Suramar and finds Vereesa Windrunner pointing an arrow at Rommath, he’s the one that needs holding back, not his demon hunters.

Unfortunately it would never occur to them to do so, and none of them make a move to stop him when he strides towards the pair with a hiss like a boiling kettle. He grabs Vereesa’s forearm with a smoldering hand, forcing her to lower her weapon or burn herself on the flames writhing between the gaps of his fingers.

“You better be careful where you point this. We would not want to have a diplomatic incident on our hands.”

The high elf narrows her eyes dangerously. “King Kael’thas,” she says, her voice tight with icy civility threaded with menace. “How kind of you to join us. I had lost all hopes of seeing you take a stand.”

The silence that follows is tense and undercut by a persistent, rumbling growl at Kael'thas' back. He doesn’t need to turn around to picture the way the Illidari have bristled like angry lynxes at her words; indeed it takes him a moment of wrestling with himself to rationalize why he shouldn’t sic them on the damn woman. They will follow his lead; he cannot be the one to antagonize the Alliance already, not when he came here with the express purpose of smoothing things over.

Calling upon decades of etiquette lessons to regain his cool, Kael’thas slowly lets go of Vereesa’s forearm and takes a step back. Wisps of smoke rise from her vambrace.

“We are allies here,” he utters around a thin, bland smile. “Please refrain from attacking my Grand Magister.”

The only insult he allows himself is to turn his back to her and make a show of waving the Illidari down. They settle quickly, the more hotheaded ones encouraged by some pointed jostling from the more politically-inclined of the lot. Showing an united front is crucial; demonstrating that the most devastating demon hunting force here is under Kael'thas' command even more so. A spark of magic jitters over his knuckles, not an accident but a signal; an adaptation of traditional sign language for their modified senses, and the equivalent of a smile. When he brings his attention back to Rommath, he is composed once more.

His friend is as unflappable as ever, although something smug in his expression suggests he wasn’t entirely blameless in the incident.

“I apologize for my tardiness.”

“No matter, as long as you’re there. Would you like me to put up to speed?”

“Please. Walk with me?”

Their departure is more about putting distance between Vereesa and him than it is about updating Kael’thas on the situation, and they part ways once he no longer feels like separating Vereesa from her spine with his bare hands. Little has changed in the two days it took him to come and Rommath was quite thorough in his original reports, which Kael’thas did end up reading.

His plans to go and make sure the Illidari do not settle too close to the kaldorei forces are quickly foiled by Khadgar, who steps out of thin air to fall into step with him.

“King Kael’thas. Thank you for your restraint, earlier,” he says with a weary sort of humor. “This isn’t the first time we’ve had to separate these two, but maybe your presence will help smooth some feathers.”

Doubtful, but he did come here to try. “Have there been many incidents like this?”

“Not as many as I feared, but… a few, yes, and more as tensions run higher. Although I must commend Lady Liadrin on her discipline: she has been very cooperative with us this far.”

“I will award her a gold star for this shining example of doing her job. If that is all, Archmage—”

“Kael’thas.” Startled by the drop of his title, Kael’thas draws to a stop. Khadgar continues in a lower tone. “We have reasons to believe there are impostors among our ranks, using illusions to pass as our own. They might be behind some of these conflicts, encouraging discord to keep us divided.”

“I’ll have my people keep an eye out.”

Under the scrutiny of their spectral sight, anyone using such a strong glamor magic ought to light up like the Sunwell.

Khadgar smiles — a sincere, though small, smile. “I ask for nothing more.”

“Wait until you’ve had to deal with conflicts started by and over demon hunters before thanking us,” Kael’thas replies, though there’s no edge to it.

-

The Illidari are all too happy to have something to do beyond waiting for battle and they scatter through the two armies’ camps as soon as Kael’thas has told them what they are looking for. It won’t be long before they start to hear screaming; he expects this problem to be over and dealt with before the end of the week.

Only two Illidari remain at his side: a kaldorei woman built like a bear and a sin’dorei with curled, ram-like horns. They look at him expectantly.

“Ah. I assume you’re to be my security detail?”

The kaldorei nods. “You can’t see the impostors coming, sir.”

“And I need two of you to do this… why?”

“I’m not here for the impostors,” the sin’dorei says. Their voice is lower than their small figure suggests. “I’m here in case the Alliance tries anything.”

Of course. How foolish of him to expect they would forget Vereesa’s little display so quickly.

“Well, let us go test your anti-Alliance abilities, then. I believe I should go pay my respects to Lady Whisperwind.”

Tyrande Whisperwind is — striking. That’s the word. Kael’thas is not feeling charitable enough to give her more than that, but he can imagine what another might see in her. She’s beautiful the way a sharp sword is beautiful; a cold, dangerous sort of charm that highlights rather than undermines her natural charisma.

In spite of himself, he finds that he does not want to hold on to his stormy mood. Memories of her have burrowed themselves within his soul, and that remnant of fondness that is not his makes him more willing to foster a cordial relationship with her than with Vereesa Windrunner.

(There’s too much bad blood between the high and blood elves, a gap between them the width of the Dead Scar. They have made themselves strangers and traitors to their own people by denying the blood shed by their brethren and siding with those who would have seen the sin’dorei dead twice over; Kael’thas will hand Silvermoon to Sylvanas’ Forsaken before he lets a single quel’dorei walk its streets again. They’ve made their bed; let them die as exiles in it.)

Not that he is much more positively inclined towards the kaldorei, but though their crimes are more personal they have wounded his heart more than his pride, and that is an injury he is better used to dismissing for the sake of diplomacy.

The night elves are Illidan’s people, his to love and forgive for ten thousand years of suffering. Kael’thas can make an effort for the sake of victory.

“King Kael’thas, welcome!” Tyrande smiles at his approach. “Come, sit. I’ve just had tea served.”

It takes some conscious effort to keep his reluctance off his face. Living among people either preternaturally able to read every minute expression of his (Rommath) or unable to see any of his face without active effort on both of their part (the Illidari) has made him somewhat lax in that department.

Folding his legs over one of the pillows scattered around the tent, Kael’thas accepts the cup handed to him by a servant. Their mere presence — unless this is a shockingly under-dressed guard, which he doesn’t put beyond the kaldorei — is an oddity to him, though it has no right to be. By all accounts Kael’thas was born into significantly more privilege than Tyrande; he’s had servants all his life. But he’s spent the last decade and a half on and off battlefields, waging desperate guerrilla warfare, and the decimation of his people has made the presence of servants in the royal palace a luxury that he hasn’t cared to afford. He’s… lost the habit.

The night elves have gone through a similar cataclysm, but they’ve had ten thousand years to rebuild. By comparison, the sin’dorei have only just finished burying their dead.

“I do not see your husband anywhere. Is something the matter?”

“The Legion’s arrival leaves no part of the world untouched.”

Druid business must be keeping him away, then. Kael’thas doesn’t believe he’s ever seen Malfurion willingly step away from his soulmate for more than a few hours at a time for any other reason. He hums in muted agreement and takes a sip of his tea. He finds it filled with a bitter, flowery brew which he struggles to swallow without flinching.

Smiling slightly, Tyrande gestures to a clay teapot still gently fuming at her side. “Swiftthistle bloom tea. Somewhat of an acquired taste, but I must admit I appreciate its edge in difficult times.”

“Should I worry about the nation-wide swiftthistle supply before the end of the war?”

“Nothing has threatened my stock yet as much as this campaign does. As if the sin’dorei’s animosity towards the Alliance was not trouble enough—”

Inhaling slowly under the guise of breathing in the aroma of the tea, Kael’thas lets the thoughtless comment go. Of course the Alliance has nothing to do with these conflicts; it’s his people who are in the wrong. What else did he expect?

“I have heard of this matter, yes. Have there been many problems besides?”

“Frankly, nothing has been as much of an issue as the Nightbornes themselves.” Tyrande’s grip tightens around her cup slightly, eyes narrowing: a glimpse of her usually tightly-leashed temper, like the shadow of a saber cat moving through the grass. “I knew Suramar before it was sealed from the world, and I am chagrined to say they’ve changed little in the ten thousand years since. They’re still vain, petty creatures — without their precious mana, they are nothing. And now we must teach them to fight when most have not touched a weapon since they could last see the sky… Victoire and Silgryn have been doing their best, but it is an exercise in patience.”

It sounds to Kael’thas that if the shal’dorei are anything like what Tyrande makes them out to be, they will get along splendidly with his people. Exiles of the kaldorei and children of magic first and foremost; doesn’t that make them the same? Cousins, perhaps, if not closer kin.

That latter part, on the other hand, worries him.

“They have no army?”

“Only city guards — most of which are loyal to the Grand Magistrix. Victoire and Silgryn are among the few defectors to Thalyssra’s side. What need for an army has a city sealed from the world?”

How easy it is to forget there exist people out there who have not lived quite so much of their lives at war. How easy to forget Kael’thas was the same less than twenty years ago.

Twelve years is nothing to an elven lifespan, yet he knows not a single sin’dorei who hasn’t been changed intrinsically by the slaughter of their people. They were forged in war; perhaps that is what makes others persist in believing they are loyal to the Horde.

“It must be a comfortable existence.”

“It has made them soft.”

Kael’thas fights for his right to become soft once more. He wants nothing more for his people than the chance to become vain again, and complacent in their safety. He is unsure he’ll ever have it in him to be that relaxed, but others deserve that right — hells, he deserves the right to make the attempt. He wishes they had the foresight to seal Quel’thalas away before the Scourge could lay waste to it.

In the meantime he’ll admit it is inconvenient when one is mounting a rebellion to find the rebels woefully unprepared for armed conflict.

Crooking his finger, Kael’thas beckons Bear — his kaldorei guard — closer. She kneels and bows her head to his level. “Who among your comrades would be most capable of training others in fighting demons?”

“I am used to training rookie demon hunters, but the impostors—”

“Are hardly going to strike openly here.” When she hesitates, he adds, “And Ram here is perfectly capable of dealing with them if they do come.”

After a second of silent discussion with her companion that most likely reduces to keep him safe or else, Bear nods a quick salute and departs swiftly.

Tyrande watches her go. “They are quite loyal to you.”

“I have never given them reason not to be.”

“I thought they were only loyal to—” She visibly hesitates over which title to give Illidan before settling on, “their master.”

“They are. So am I.”

“I am… surprised Illidan could inspire such deep loyalty in a man like you, King Kael’thas,” she says mildly. What she means by a man like you, he doesn’t dare question.

He takes another sip of his tea to buy time for himself to think, and finds that it’s not any better lukewarm, and that there’s no explanation he cares to give besides the truth. “Loyalty is nothing but love and faith, and Illidan inspired both in equal measure. I believe it is the case for all the Illidari, perhaps to a lesser extent.” Although he’s sure quite a few of them were just as in love with Illidan as him, albeit less lucky in their affection.

He can see it in her eyes then — the pity.

Worse, the question: why. Why Illidan, why go so far for a dead man.

Part of him wants to tell her. Wants to grab her by the collar and shake her, tell her Illidan is the most brilliant man he’s ever met, the most passionate, that it was an honor to fight by his side, to love him and be loved in return. He wants to return the question.

Why couldn’t she do the same, when Illidan is so very easy to love?

But Kael’thas doesn’t owe her an answer, and she is not entitled to the effort it would take him to refrain from any rash decision inspired by the pain he remembers seeing burning in Illidan’s face when all the people he loved most turned away from him.

So, quietly, quickly, he finishes his cup, puts it down with infinite care, and politely excuses himself. Duty calls. Tyrande chuckles, says she understands. Kael’thas leaves her to her tea and her servants and her polite incomprehension, Ram a comforting shadow at his heels.

“Still no impostors in sight?” Ram shakes their head. “Shame. I could have used the distraction.”

No matter. He’s sure Rommath and Liadrin will have something for him.

-

Cementing their place as his absolute favorites once again, Liadrin and Rommath have put up their tents about two inches from each other, cutting the time Kael’thas has to spend looking for them by half.

He finds them both nursing a goblet of wine in Rommath’s tent. Their alcohol resistance is too good for him to worry about any undue drunkenness; still it feels a little early for day drinking even by sin’dorei standards. Rommath clearly doesn’t share his reticence: he’s still bent over some kind of map as if the alcohol is nothing but a helpful tool in its perusal. Knowing him, he’s probably wishing for something stronger.

Liadrin waves to Kael’thas lazily from where she’s reclining on a small hoard of sitting pillows heaped on the floor. Looking at her, it’s hard to tell if she’s sharing this tent with Rommath or simply decided to invade it and he hasn’t bothered to stop her from making herself at home.

“Welcome, my king,” she greets. “May I interest you in a drink?”

“Depends. What are we drinking?”

She takes a closer look at the bottle. “Nightshade Starlight Arcwine,” she reads off the label. “A fine vintage, I’ve heard, and a very generous gift from First Arcanist Thalyssra. Her way of thanking me for not having attempted to murder anybody on the Alliance’s side yet, I assume.”

“What a shame. Had I known of such reward, I’d have shown some restraint,” Kael’thas quips.

It earns him a derisive snort from Rommath. “You wouldn’t know restraint if it came down from the heavens and set your hair on fire,” he notes wryly, which is rude but fair. “Anyway, I doubt it would do you much good here. Any fondness for our Blood Matriarch that Thalyssra may harbor cannot be blamed on Lady Liadrin’s patience only.”

“I know what you think of her fondness,” Liadrin says breezily, “But a beautiful, powerful woman trying to seduce me into a formal alliance by means of expensive wines is not what I would call a hardship.”

“I’ll pass on the wine, but please convey my approval to the First Arcanist. If she can stand you, she’s welcome to keep you.”

She’s too respectful to roll her eyes, but he can read the urge in her face.

“Abstinent, are you now?” Rommath asks idly, still not looking up from his work.

“My alcohol resistance is shot, as you very well know—” Rommath had been sitting front row to the last few episodes of Kael’thas’ alcohol-induced embarrassment “— and nobody here wants to have to carry me back to my own bed.”

“I would, sir,” Ram quips from the spot they’ve taken at the tent’s entrance.

“That’s kind of you, but the people in this warcamp respect me little enough as it is. Let’s not encourage them.”

Having flicked his eyes to Ram at their interjection — and immediately dismissed them, having grown used to Kael'thas' constant security details through centuries of friendship — Rommath finally draws back from his desk to join the conversation properly.

“I have other things to drink if you like. Well, actually I only have water and a handful of mana potions, but that’s certainly a choice you could make.”

Mana potions? Rommath doesn’t drink those. He says his student years at the Kirin Tor made him sick to death of the taste, and he hasn’t been able to stomach them since surviving off such potions in the early months following the loss of the Sunwell. It’s one of Rommath’s few overt weaknesses. He’s been heard more than once saying that he’d rather go back to fel, which had a tendency to make its user sick over long periods of intense use, than drink a single more mana potion.

If his wry smirk is to be believed, Rommath knows exactly what’s going on inside of Kael'thas' head. He probably counted on that exact train of thoughts to segue into the subject of conversation he wanted.

“A gift from our friends on the Alliance side. Along with a helpful note that said— if I recall correctly— that they didn’t want us to get the shakes.”

Kael’thas doesn’t doubt his recollection for one second. Rommath’s memory has never been anything short of perfect. Especially when he’s feeling particularly petty.

“I’m going to set Vereesa on fire,” he says, very calm.

“Don’t. It’s not worth it, and it won’t help us in any way.”

Rommath’s earlier smug look falls away in favor of grim determination. They are no longer students able to get away with bespelling their classmates’ hair vomit-green anymore. Their position requires a responsibility that Rommath has never been eager to display, although he takes to the role — as he does to anything — with admirable competency.

Revenge won’t help their people win this battle, Kael’thas knows. But what will? He’s so tired of being helpless, of depending on time, luck, the efforts and goodwill of others. He’s tired of waiting. He wants to win this war single handedly and bring Illidan back to life and go home, and every new obstacle in his way makes him want to tear his hair out.

“You know what would help?” Liadrin interjects. “Food. Weapons as well, but food most of all.”

Kael’thas frowns. “Are our people going hungry?”

Agriculture and animal husbandry are not the most attractive part of ruling, but dealing with the minutiae of it was a matter of life and death in the direct aftermath of the Scourge. They lost more than half of their people to the slaughter; that many fewer mouths to feed. But they lost nearly as much in terms of arable fields to the Scourge’s corruption, without even speaking of the crops lost to fire and rot, and there weren’t enough capable hands left to work what fields they had left.

It was only thanks to Quel’thalas’ exceptionally mild climate that they could avoid losing even more of their people to starvation the following winter. The human kingdoms, although not struck as hard by the Scourge, did not have food to spare in enough quantity to save them. And Kael'thas' escape to Outland, seen as a betrayal by those unaware of or sympathetic to Garithos’ actions, did not endear the blood elves to them in any way. Not when they had their own crisis to deal with — with their harsher winters and the Lordaeron refugees crowding at their gates.

That particular bridge burnt both ways. The sin’dorei did not take the second attempt at obliterating them kindly, and balked at the thought of groveling for the humans’ assistance.

The matter of food stores was one that Kael’thas oversaw only from afar; the campaign in Outland and the search for a long term alternative to the Sunwell took most of his time. Rommath, on the other hand, spent years working along with Halduron and the Quel’thalas Magisterium on rebuilding their entire food infrastructure from the ground up. It was a constant battle, and Light knows they did not have the resources for another of those. They sought total independence; but even without the matter of buying stocks from outsiders, their cophers were still draining faster than the struggling kingdom could possibly replenish them.

Kael’thas will be the first to admit that the Outland campaign nearly ruined them. Had Illidan not been his soulmate — and himself such a blind romantic — he would likely have given up and gone back to his people much earlier. Rommath certainly asked him to often enough.

For months the sin’dorei had balanced precariously over starvation and complete bankruptcy both.

The solutions they had come up with are still the backbone of Quel’thalas food supply to this day. Rommath elected to put their mages to work in the fields, shielding crops and constructing hectares-wide micro-climate spells to coax the crops to grow faster. Of the elven mages in Dalaran at the time, only so-called high elves remained; any who would bear the name of sin’dorei left the mages city-state to come home and break their backs in the fields for months, if they had not done so before.

They could have used assistance from true druids then; when none came out of the proverbial woodwork to offer such help, the Magisterium stepped up to the task. No mages ever came as close to reproducing druidic magic through purely arcanic means as they did then. That field of research, once a fledgling idea inspired by half-mythological reports ten thousand years old, became a priority overnight, second only to research on purifying the Sunwell.

(They have always been too proud a people, refusing to beg for help that ought to have been freely offered. It was nearly their undoing. Looking at Suramar, Kael’thas thinks it might be something intrinsic to elvenkind. A blood-borne tendency to isolate themselves rather than bend the knee.)

Halduron, on the other hand, made a revolutionary offer. Crawling back to the Alliance for assistance was out of the question. Even if it did not break their spirit, it would give the humans too much power over the sin’dorei. Power they could no longer bear to give to others. But there was one newborn kingdom in equal need of help as them; one led by one of theirs.

True to himself, the newly-minted Ranger-General went and drafted a treaty with the Forsaken.

The logic behind it was sound. Although a lot of the land around Lordaeron had suffered the same fate as the Dead Scar in Silvermoon, even more of it was simply… deserted, as Lordaeron citizens had fled to neighboring kingdoms. The Undead had no use for fertile land; they could not eat food, and most would not buy it from them if they tried. But the sin’dorei would, and although they lacked gold they could offer something much more interesting in exchange. Resources to build the Undercity, veteran engineers and architects to assist in the construction, surgeons to treat wounded that could not be healed by traditional means and to teach others to do the same.

Sylvanas has never been a charitable soul, but she’s always had a sin’dorei’s soul. Death had shifted her priorities but not so much that she could not be swayed by old loyalties and a good deal. Her people — both of them — needed her and, when it comes down to it, Sylvanas can be counted on to do what’s right for those she considers hers.

To this day that treaty Halduron helped broker is the most solid and longest-lasting diplomatic agreement the sin’dorei have — and the man himself remains Sylvanas’ favorite of the sin’dorei’s leadership to do business with. Although Kael’thas will put that down to Halduron’s easy personality and willingness to listen to her unsolicited advice on how he ought to act as Ranger-General, rather than any gratitude for his work on the aforementioned treaty.

What this comes down to is that they have all made a tremendous amount of effort so that the sin’dorei would never have to go hungry or depend on outsiders ever again. The Legion can’t possibly have moved far enough in-land yet for their system to be failing already.

War is a strain but not that much of a strain, as the Outland campaign has shown before.

Liadrin is quick to dismiss his concerns. “Not our people, no, not quite. But the Nightbornes — they’re exiles, with few ways to get food beyond what we can bring them. Worse, they’re cut off from their Well, and their miracle cure to the addiction is too damn slow.”

A miracle cure? Before Kael’thas can ask, Rommath adds:

“And Elisande is making the export of arcwine more difficult each and every day. We’re already struggling to keep them sustained, everything we have is going to them, but we’ll start running into a shortage before the end of the month.”

If only there was a way to connect them to the Sunwell—

“We’ll just have to get this war over and done with before then,” Kael’thas says blithely.

Liadrin huffs a laugh. “This is why we need you around,” she says with a smile that crinkles her eyes. She really is quite pretty, he thinks. Thalyssra has good taste. “Who else is going to offer us such an elegant solution?”

Sniffing the bottle of wine, Kael’thas risks a sip and finds it much sweeter than expected. “What can I say? I’m a problem solver.”

Chapter Text

War, Kael’thas has come to learn, is made mostly of waiting. You wait for people, intel, food and weapon shipments. You wait for the enemy to make its move and then you wait for when the time is right to make yours. You wait for battle to start and you wait for them to end.

War when it comes down to it, is one long waiting room at the end of which you either die or half-wish you had.

It is, in short, incredibly boring.

In the past, Kael’thas would have dealt with this issue by finding side projects to keep himself occupied. Solving the sin’dorei’s magical addiction is hardly what he would call a side project but it did take so much of his time that, between it and his duties as Illidan’s second in command, he rarely ever felt bored in Outland. Burnt out? Yes. But never bored.

Unfortunately for him, the Nightbornes have been sleeping on a miracle solution for this problem for thousands of years, and the cure requires little upkeep — nothing but more waiting.

Staring up at the mana tree, Kael’thas can’t help but feel resentful of such an elegant solution. Why must druids always have exactly what he needs to solve his problems, and never offer it to him? He wonders if the fruits of this tree would have a similar effect on the sin’dorei, or indeed if a similar tree could be grown in Quel’thalas.

At the rate at which he’s been told the fruits are produced, it would take decades, if not centuries, to rid every blood elf of their dependency to the Sunwell — and that’s with their current numbers so greatly reduced. How wonderful would it be, though, to be empowered by the Well but not so greatly beholden to it? It is their greatest strength and weakness; Kael’thas would like nothing more than to see his people free of the threat that its loss poses.

It happened once. Nothing terrifies them more than it happening again.

“It is quite a sight, is it not?”

Kael’thas shifts to face the woman who just spoke and smiles thinly, politely. “It’s a marvel of magical bioengineering,” he says sincerely. “Did you assist in its cultivation?”

“In a way.” She offers him her hand palm down to kiss, and he obliges. “Arcanist Valtrois. Ley lines are my life’s work. I helped divert the energy necessary to bring the arcan’dor to maturity.”

He thought as much. She has a briskness to her that he’s learned to associate with mage-researchers. It has him feeling, comfortingly enough, as if he’s back at the Kirin Tor, chatting amiably with a conference speaker.

“Kael’thas Sunstrider. It’s a pleasure to meet a specialist in a matter I know so little about. Please, can I trouble you with an explanation on how you managed to tap into the ley network without breaking its closed circuit and rendering the opened line inert?”

It’s an incredibly self-indulgent question. Although the inner workings of ley lines could prove to be the key to recreating the arcan’dor in Silvermoon, Kael’thas knows he has more pressing matters to attend to and he doesn’t doubt for one second that Valtrois is an equally busy woman. But the subject seems fascinating, and Kael’thas cannot help but wish, selfishly, for one moment to indulge his curiosity. Perhaps it will lead to him having something to work on that doesn’t involve any waiting.

Valtrois, for her part, flushes pleasantly at his interest. “Let it not be said that I would ever pass the opportunity for a lecture to an enthusiastic audience,” she says with a poor attempt at flippancy. She’s clearly as excited as he is. “You seem to have a grasp on the basics at least, but it would be more practical to show you. Tell me, are you familiar with the process of visualizing ley lines?”

It’s with unmitigated delight that Kael’thas informs her he is not.

-

The tour of the Nightbornes’ ley lines exploitation system that Valtrois gives him is nothing short of impressive. She is an efficient lecturer, although Kael’thas suspects that a less knowledgeable student than him might struggle with following her when she gets truly excited. Fortunately Kael’thas had developed an interest in the subject during the years without the Sunwell; although he ended up discarding them as an immediate solution for a lack of documentation, the idea had stuck to the back of his mind ever since. That prior knowledge allows him to follow along with only occasional confusion.

Valtrois takes his questions as a proof of his interest rather than stupidity, as he admittedly would in her place, and what her answers may lack in clarity they greatly make up for with enthusiasm. Kael’thas has a feeling she has been separated from her research — and other arcanists — for much too long.

She chuckles when he alludes to this. “It has been a while, yes. I was exiled for my rebel sympathies,” she admits with a kind of acidic sarcasm that reminds him of Rommath, “And as you can imagine, it is rather difficult to find intelligent conversation out there in the outskirts of Suramar.”

“I imagine there’s little time for professional inquiries when one must fend for oneself outside civilization.”

“You have no idea.” She sighs, unease settling heavily over her shoulders. “Especially when so much of one’s time is spent fighting against arcane withdrawal.”

To be cut off from the magical heart of your people — to feel yourself literally withering away, slowly losing your mind to that ceaseless hunger… Kael’thas remembers it all too well. He was never at risk to become a Wretched himself: even if he hadn’t had the means to buy all the clean mana he might need, Illidan would never have let him succumb to such a fate. Demon hunters are magical batteries; one can never waste away in their presence. Fel magic filtered through their bodies by their own innate magic is easier to stomach as well, lacking most of the secondary effects that befell the Wretched.

He’s seen too many of his people fall to this gruesome fate not to feel sympathetic to Valtrois’ struggle. It must show on his face: her expression turns thoughtful, then understanding.

“Or maybe you do have an idea,” she muses. “Sin’dorei and shal’dorei— We are rather alike in this, are we not?”

“Aside from the fact that you’ve apparently found a solution to the problem that is so much more definitive than ours,” he notes, not without some bitterness.

“As far as the matter of the Withered is concerned, we are still on equal footing.” Valtrois shakes her head, mournful in the distant manner of someone as of yet unaffected by the situation she decries. “I do wish we had a way to ease their suffering, the poor things. They avoid this place, but out there they all but throw themselves on our blades in aimless hunger.”

That — is something Kael’thas struggles to come to terms with still. The Nightbornes cast away from inside the walls of the city live in constant risk of joining the ranks of the Withered — a state of magical withdrawal so destructive its victims cannot be restored to sanity by the fruit of the arcan’dor. If their arcwine shipments were to be lost, or if some other untold catastrophe were to throw their fragile system of survival into disarray, then they could immediately start counting their days.

Yet they treat the Withered like creatures alien to themselves — wild, rabid animals only worthy of pity and caution, rather than a very likely fate if they were to fail. This detachment from their admittedly feral brethren makes Kael’thas uncomfortable in a way he cannot truly defend. After all, the sin’dorei hardly have the moral high ground here.

Their own Wretched were only slightly less animalistic than the Withered and that had granted them the status of elves rather than beast, but nothing more. They were seen as beyond hope of a cure, mockeries of the people they once were in much the same way as the blood elves who died facing the Scourge and then rose to bolster its ranks. And, just like the mindless undead, the Wretched were put down like so much vermin.

Still, the condition had been discussed like a curse among as-of-yet unaffected sin’dorei. A constant, looming threat were their precarious mana stores to empty for good. All were aware that they were only a few bad weeks from such a fate. And they did try to bring the bodies back to be identified and their ashes buried in family crypts.

Was this truly a more humane way to treat what some had uncharitably taken to calling an infestation? So often there had been no family left to bring back the bodies to; parents and children slain by the same guard’s blade, thrown on the same anonymous pyre with no-one to take care of their last rites, ashes scattered to the wind when they started to run out of space and willing hands to bury all their dead.

Kael’thas remembers the pyres. They had still been losing many of their kind to magical starvation in the early months of his return. Not every day, not anymore, but often enough that the oily smoke of the funeral pyres still blackened the skies above Silvermoon on a regular basis. Fel had not been a perfect solution, prone as it is to push users to over-indulgence and to corrupt them in turn. It was only ever meant as a way to slow down the massacre.

More than anything he remembers it as a haunting. People loved and mourned, long accepted as gone and yet still walking the ruins of their old homes.

These were dark days. He hopes they can spare the Nightbornes some of it.

“This is why we fight,” Valtrois adds from the depths of her own musing. She gazes at the mechanisms responsible for their harnessing of the ley lines — a marvel of engineering that predates Kael’thas by thousands of years and that he only distantly understands — with a heaviness that deceives her unaffected, standoffish affect. “So that no one else has to suffer this fate.”

Slightly taken aback to find his exact thoughts reflected back at him out loud, Kael’thas inclines his head in agreement but says nothing.

Only once they are walking back to Shal’Aran does he find his thoughts in a clear enough order to put them into words.

“Quel’thalas is only one kingdom among many,” he says slowly, “And a diminished one at that. We can hardly offer you the support that a faction such as the one the kaldorei represent could. And perhaps you would be more at ease among people more closely resembling yours, but… I hope you know that you will always find a friend and ally in the sin’dorei.”

“This is something you ought to tell Thalyssra, not me.”

“And I will.”

“In that case…” She pauses, as if considering her words. “You may find that our cousins, although less physically disparate from us than you are, may not be as similar to us as you think. At least not in the way that matters.”

“They too have lived in isolation for ten thousand years,” Kael’thas finds necessary to point out.

She smirks. “Yes, they did seem rather… withdrawn. But it’s hardly the same, is it?”

Indeed it’s not. The kaldorei were not separated from the world by anything but their own desire for remoteness. Any of them could simply have walked off and into the world. The shal'dorei lacked that choice.

“If all else fails, we will always have petty disdain to tie us together.”

“If we do not have this, then we have less than nothing,” Valtrois agrees with a dainty snort.

Yes, Tyrande was right. They are strikingly similar and will get along quite brilliantly.

-

As much as Kael’thas told Valtrois he would bring up the offer of an alliance to Thalyssra, he doubts it will happen before they have taken the city.

Thalyssra is a busy woman. Leading a rebellion leaves little time for chit-chat, as Kael’thas has learned firsthand. As such, Kael’thas has barely seen her besides her initial greeting a few days after he came to Suramar.

Instead, he spends a great deal of his time alongside the Nightborne arcanists. Not only Valtrois, who enthusiastically drafts him into helping her with maintenance of the ley lines system, but also the Chief Telemancer, Oculeth, and more. It is downright refreshing to be helping with magical research rather than the usual slog of bureaucracy and war logistics. Rommath does not thank him for it, of course, but he knew what he was getting into when he accepted Kael'thas' offer to take on the title of Grand Magister.

That position has been nothing but a glorified secretary to the ruling head for centuries, although Rommath’s insistence that he could also coordinate their spy network gave him an edge his predecessors lacked.

The Illidari are quickly put to work, to their unending delight. Their spectral sight proves just as good for following ley lines as it is for tracking demons. It gives Kael’thas the occasional excuse to avoid his other duties and the Alliance forces both: surely these… lawless demon hunters need some manner of supervision. So far no one has called him out on it.

It’s not a perfect solution, obviously. Firstly the Illidari are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves and don’t need him to watch them like children, although they take the attention with good cheer. Secondly, it’s not actually that efficient a way to avoid the Alliance.

Kael’thas could go to the end of the earth and still stumble on a high elf. He suspects a curse.

At this instant he can hear the two Alliance leaders going over battle tactics with Liadrin and Thalyssra. Shal’Aran is not a good place for intimate conversations; Kael’thas, from where he’s leaning against the arcan’dor, can easily catch snatches of the conversation.

(He finds himself drawn to the tree despite himself. The strong arcane it diffuses is comforting, and the process by which it does that fascinating. He wishes Illidan could see it. For all his talks of leaving druidism far behind, his soulmate always enjoyed ranting about the subject. Perhaps he would understand the workings of the arcan’dor better than Kael’thas, who has always been spitefully disinterested in the druidic arts whenever they had no practical use to him. He could never master the magic; what’s the point of studying it?

Soon, he thinks fiercely, soon I can show him.)

The strategy summit is obviously tense. Figuring out how to turn such an unbalanced offensive to their advantage would be grim enough on its own, but the poorly concealed hostility between the sin’dorei and the other outsiders makes things even more difficult.

“This will never work,” Tyrande is saying. “We’re outnumbered four to one on that front — we should go around it entirely.”

“And leave our rear unprotected? They’ll pick us out one by one. No, better to go in, use surprise to our advantage,” Liadrin argues.

“With Ranger-General Vereesa’s forces on the lookout, we’ll hardly be unprotected. Such precautions are unnecessary.”

“Excuse me if I’m not entirely trusting of their ability to keep us safe. Everyone here knows that each arrow in my people’s back is more likely to bear high elven fletching than—”

“Just because the Horde would stoop to such height doesn’t mean we—”

“I don’t see what the Horde has to do with this.”

“Of course you don’t,” Vereesa hisses back, “Just as you don’t know why Sylvanas and Garrosh Hellscream could waltz into Silvermoon freely but the Alliance has been barred entry for years.”

“The Alliance has not been barred entry. You have, you and your traitorous people—”

Kael’thas winces as the volume of their voice rises, abandoning all pretense of working to continue eaves-dropping. The Illidari closest to him turns her face towards the sound as well, and her eyes flare in the tell-tale sign of a demon hunter using her spectral sight to spy through solid obstacles.

Thankfully, Thalyssra intervenes before it can devolve into a full-blown shouting match.

“Ladies, please. You both have a point — we’ll be vulnerable, but we do not have the people to spare on protecting this front. Perhaps if we drew back some of the sentinels on our western side—”

Their discussion grows quieter after that. Reassured that it will not yet come to blows between them, Kael’thas ceases to pretend to be busy and goes to check on some intel Rommath wanted his opinion on instead.

The dispute lingers in his mind though. He won’t decry Liadrin’s words — she hasn’t said anything that he disagrees with. Perhaps she could have bitten her tongue for the sake of peace but Kael’thas is hardly the man to lecture her on that. If anything he is one of the biggest detractor of the Alliance among his people: things between their people would surely be more peaceful if not for his open hostility fanning the flames.

It’s nothing but petty resentment and he knows it. Perhaps a better king would set aside the crimes of the past to present a unified front against the Legion: it’s what he’s asked of the Alliance and the Horde, after all, and it’s the height of hypocrisy on his part to expect from them something he refuses to do himself.

Unfortunately Kael’thas is an adequate king at best. Just as he still struggles to deal with trolls without a weapon at hand, the very sight of the high elves makes him itch for a pyroblast.

Their only saving grace is that they did not send humans. He can compartmentalize well enough to be able to look Tyrande in the eyes without tearing her throat out when she alludes to the sin’dorei’s moral failings; he can find it in himself to feel sympathetic to Vereesa’s grief. He cannot promise he could show the same restraint if Anduin Wrynn were to lecture him on peace.

“Spit it out.”

Kael’thas glances up, quirking an inquisitive eyebrow at Rommath who doesn’t even lift his head from the letter he’s writing to see it.

“I can tell you have something on your mind. Spit it out,” Rommath repeats.

No one would be as understanding of Kael'thas' resentment towards the Alliance as Rommath. Between Garithos’ murder attempt and the Purge of Dalaran, his second home, he has more than enough reasons to despise the Alliance. No one holds a grudge like Rommath.

And if Kael’thas sought to have someone absolve him for his diplomatic shortcomings, he would go to Rommath. Now though, he asks, “Do you remember Lireesa Windrunner?”

“Sylvanas’ mother?” At Kael'thas' affirmative hum, Rommath puts down his quill and takes a second to think about it. “A little, yes. I didn’t get to interact with her much, but I remember her as a good woman. She was— kind.”

It’s no surprise that he remembers Lireesa so favorably. Kindness was something rare in Rommath’s childhood; even as a foster to the royal family, many of the rich aristocrats of the Silvermoon court had been nothing short of abject with him, treating him like a servant when they didn’t treat him like a rat. It had taken years for them to forget Rommath’s destitute origins. Had he not been a magical prodigy, they might never have, no matter how fervently Kael’thas vouched for him.

He outgrew the desire for their respect quickly, but Kael’thas remembers these early years with little fondness. He probably doesn’t know the half of it: Rommath has always been very private with his struggles, and Kael’thas self-absorbed enough to let him get away with it.

“She was very practical. You would have liked her. Lor’themar served under her — perhaps you could ask him about it.”

Rommath levels him with an unimpressed glare. I see what you’re doing, it says, and you won’t trick me that easily. It’s a glare Kael’thas is intimately familiar with. Mostly from years trying and failing to trick Rommath into doing things his way.

“Why are you asking?” he says instead of playing along.

Sighing, Kael’thas scratches at a dried blot of ink on the reports he’s pouring over. “I liked her as well,” he says, “And I guess I was wondering what she would think of… all of this. My choice to remain neutral. Having one of her two surviving daughters banned from her city of birth.”

“For a given definition of surviving.”

“If Sylvanas can still yell at me about import tax then she’s alive enough by all metrics.”

Rommath crinkles his eyes slightly — his own concession to facial expressions, when he wishes for Kael’thas to know he’s smiling. It fades quickly as his face returns to its usual neutrality.

“Do you regret it?”

“Banning the high elves from the city? No. I second guess the decision at times, but I don’t regret it. They made their choice.”

“Then stop thinking about what she would think of it. Perhaps she would disapprove, perhaps not. The dead have no say in what we do,” Rommath says with an air of finality.

It’s not just about Lireesa, and Kael’thas knows it, but he’s not arguing about Illidan with Rommath today, and his friend is kind enough not to push the subject.

“Sir?”

Irritation sparks in Rommath’s eyes at being interrupted again, but he stops in his tracks when he sees who the interruption comes from.

Kael'thas' rotating Illidari guard detail rarely speak out loud. They’re an insular, cautious sort, preferring to talk between themselves in sign for secrecy’s sake — although Rommath has been picking up the language with impressive speed. Some have taken to making idle chit-chat with some of the sin’dorei guards posted outside the tent with them, but Menyae has never been caught doing it before. She is notoriously quiet: Kael’thas has only heard her speak a handful of times before, and never with such a somber tone.

He briefly wonders who died, but no Illidari would sound that choked up at the mere announcement of a death. The lack of urgency disgards the possibility of an attack as well.

“What is it?”

“I think we better come in.”

Sharing a concerned look with Rommath at the plural, Kael’thas waits as Menyae pushes the flaps of the tent aside. In comes Allari and another Illidari, carrying between them—

Kael’thas stumbles two steps closer before he’s even fully registered the presence of Light’s Heart.

It snags on his ribs like a fishhook and a tight line. An echo. The glimpse of his own reflection in a mirror at night. Recognition without cognate comprehension, and the weightless feeling of finding yourself where you should not have.

His own soul calling out.

“Is this—” he breathes out, unable to make himself speak louder than the wardrum of his own heartbeat. The end of his sentence loses itself in the rush of blood in his ears.

Allari nods. “We found his soul in Helheim and successfully retrieved it. Void knows how it ended up there, but—”

Without him having to ask, she shifts the weight of Light’s Heart fully into her arms and then hands it to Kael’thas. In the corner of his eye he can see Rommath moving as if to help him with it. It’s unnecessary. This is a burden that Kael’thas will always have the strength to carry, no matter how heavy.

It ought to feel heavier, he thinks as he cradles the artifact in his arms. Weighted down by the soul inside, by the sheer wonder it represents.

One wrong step and it could all come crashing down. How can he think of that, though, when Illidan’s soul feels so warm in his arms?

Rommath, in a rare demonstration of sentimentality, lays his hand on Kael'thas' shoulder. “We’ll get you there,” he says, squeezing lightly before he draws back. “However far you need to go. We’ll get you there.”

Chapter Text

A soul is a heavy burden to carry — especially when it resides outside of your body. Kael’thas finds his mind constantly drifting back to Light’s Heart, obsessing over its safety, its very presence. Even though it is under constant Illidari supervision and they are nearly as fanatically attached to it as he is, he can’t help but worry. Illidan has not been so close at hand in so many years — and never so fragile, so likely to be taken from him.

Kael’thas would carry the artifact everywhere with him if he could get away with it. As it is he’s glad they will soon be moving against Elisande: any longer spent waiting with that sword hanging over his neck and he might go insane.

He is not a patient man.

The word of the coming battle spreads like wildfire. Soldiers run through their camp in franzied preparation, alight with weeks worth of nervous energy; sharpening their weapons, putting on their armor and saying their goodbyes to friends fighting in different battalions that they might never see again. The familiar, controlled chaos of war.

Kael’thas makes his rounds through the sin’dorei warcamp, offering encouragement and last-minutes runic engravings to the soldiers suiting up. Even one soldier coming home alive thanks to his enchantments will be worth it.

A decade ago Kael’thas would not have bothered. To an inexperienced general, the only thing that matters is the big picture; the squadron rather than the soldiers forming it, the war rather than the battle. The greater good. He’s learned better since. An army is only as strong as its weakest link. Besides, he appreciates these opportunities to watch over his people. Perhaps loss has made him soft.

His people. His kin. Perhaps loss has made him possessive, most of all.

“Will you be marching with us, my lord?” A paladin asks while Kael’thas carefully scratches runes for surefooting on the inner layer of his greaves. The man was wounded at the knee in a previous battle; his balance can use all the help it can get.

“Of course. Lady Liadrin and I will be at the front, and Grand Magister Rommath will bring up the rear. We fight together or not at all.”

The paladin waits for Kael’thas to be done and his greaves safely attached in place before getting to his feet and snapping a salute.

“My king,” Liadrin calls, “Are you ready?”

He surveys the ants’ nest of the camp, the captains calling for their companies, and him standing still at the center of it like a swaying tree in a storm. He hoists Light’s Heart higher on his back. He carries it now, in a harness improvised by one of their leather workers. He fancies he can feel its warmth through his armor. He will not be walking out of the Nighthold with it — but, Light willing, he will not walk out alone.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, Liadrin. Let’s go.”

-

Kael’thas is not a general by vocation but there is something about an army on the march that speaks to him. The drumbeat of hundreds of feet advancing in unison, the clanging of armor, the sharp directives of colonels to their battalions. His blood sings in return, this is where you are meant to be.

If there is no other home to be found anywhere, he will always find one in war.

They stand before the Nighthold now, waiting with bated breath. The anticipation runs through Kael’thas like lightning, buzzing in his fingertips, burning away anything that will not serve him in battle.

“Anxious?” Liadrin asks.

Kael’thas smiles as he puts on his faceguard. “Only to begin.”

As if his words had cast a spell, the air ripples, colors shifting as Elisande appears before them, larger than life.

“Behold this motley throng in which the rebels put their faith,” her voice booms. “The kaldorei, disgracing a glorious past as they skulk about their forests like trolls. The quel’dorei, peasants playing at nobility, unworthy of the name high elves.”

Kael’thas can’t help but smirk at the way the other elves bristle at the insult. He has no doubt she reserves nothing better for his kind, but he takes a cruel kind of satisfaction at seeing them brought down from their pedestals for once.

“And the sin’dorei — of all the elves, I thought you might understand the choice I made to save my people. Instead, you stand against us, condemning us for making the same sacrifice as you did.” She draws herself to her full, considerable height, glaring down on them. “Each of you has debased your proud lineage. Each of you has forgotten the ancient power that is our birthright. Let this failed rebellion be a lesson to any that would stand against the shal'dorei!”

Kael’thas sees the signs too late. The way the projection crackles around her hand, the taste of ozone and burnt sugar on his tongue as thick as if he had dipped his head in the Nightwell itself. Magic on that scale—

The blue-gold of his shield has barely started to glimmer into being when Elisande’s spell crashes into their force.

It’s heavy, a metaphysical weight that pushes Kael’thas down and nearly off his feet. He tries to right himself but his mind feels sluggish, miles away from his body. As if each order to move has to cross an infinite desert, never to reach his limbs. Stuck.

Like the tide, the spell washes over them, drowning them in sheer arcanic might, and as it recedes it takes everything with it. Thoughts and senses run through Kael'thas' fingers like sand until he knows nothing else but darkness.

-

Who’s to say how long he remains like this, suspended in place and halfway past consciousness? That is the nature of time magic, he thinks, to lose yourself into the moments between moments. The thought itself is cut in half: it sparks in his mind in the second before losing his grasp on reality, and crosses it in the second before freedom.

He falls back to himself from some great distance after what could have been years or seconds. He coughs, tasting only sand and rust, and blinks dazed eyes up towards Khadgar.

“Take Liadrin too,” he gasps out. It’s pure instinct; he cannot see her or tell what’s going on, but he knows they cannot leave her.

“There’s no time!” Khadgar stumbles back, dragging Kael’thas along with one hand and raising the other to the sky. Arcane pools in his palm, his skin buzzing with energy where he’s touching Kael’thas, who has a second to realize the archmage intends on brute-forcing a teleportation spell before they’re—

— gone.

Kael’thas stumbles dizzily and nearly falls to his knees on arrival. A hand curls around his arm and holds him up, steady as steel. The claws tickling his skin tells him this is an Illidari, and the very thought settles him somewhat. It means not everyone has been left behind. Thank the Light.

Nearly everyone, he thinks, lifting his head to find Shal’Aran eerily empty.

His first thought is to Light’s Heart. What if the spell— but no, his fleeting hands find it as warm as before, still securely attached to his back and alight with its own semi-life. He breathes a sigh of pathetic relief and turns to the second most pressing matter.

“How did you get me out?” Kael’thas asks, to no one in particular.

Khadgar is leaning against a wall, breathing slowly through the vertigo of keeping up spells in such a hostile, arcane-infused environment. At Kael'thas' words he waves his hand in a vague gesture. “A great deal of brute force,” he admits. “I doubt we’ll be able to do that with every single soldier — I couldn’t even free Tyrande.”

That means Kael’thas is, what, the only one they could save? Surely Rommath, at the back of the formation, would have been easier to reach—

“How did you escape?” he asks, puzzled.

“Your Illidari started running immediately,” Khadgar says, adding ruefully, “One of them remembered to throw me over their shoulder as they went.”

“Did everyone make it out then?”

The Illidari at his side — Sylareon, he thinks — shakes his head. “Only the fastest of us.”

Kael’thas pushes back against the irrational disappointment rising in him. He expected nothing else. There were no casualties. They’re safe, just — stuck. No point thinking about what the spell entails; how long they have before the stasis fails and they start choking to death; if there’s even any kind of stasis built into the spell matrix.

So many of his people — of the world’s forces against the Legion — are there at Elisande’s mercy. They’re already outnumbered. And maybe Azeroth could survive the crippling loss; maybe Kael’thas could survive the catastrophic decimation of what little remains of the sin’dorei…

But he won’t survive losing Rommath on top of everything else. The last of his family still alive today—

It’s not going to happen. He won’t let it happen.

-

In the end there’s little he can do but wait — this endless, grueling waiting. He starts going through the records of past strategy meetings, going through them obsessively in the hope of miraculously finding Elisande’s true weakness between the lines. He’s not even a third of the way through when Valtrois finds him.

“We’re going to Kel’balor,” she says with a blessed lack of preambles. “Elisande is tapping directly into ley lines we control to fuel her seal and I want to know how.”

Desperate as he is for something to keep himself occupied, Kael’thas doesn’t question it for a second. She can explain on the way, or not; he’ll go to Northrend if that’s what they need, as long as it’s something to do.

Oculeth opens them a portal and they make their way through in silence. Kael’thas is too antsy and worried for idle conversation and Valtrois seems to have just as much on her mind. They hardly need to talk to do their work anyway, not after doing similar surveys during the slow periods leading up to the siege.

Valtrois moves quickly, efficiently, following the ley line like a scent hound. “I cannot see what… No, wait, I have an idea,” she mutters to herself. To Kael’thas she adds, “Be ready. I expect resistance.”

His hand falls to Felo’melorn pommel without a thought. He has kept the runeblade at the ready ever since the botched first assault, as if they were likely to be attacked at any moment, and he is eager for a reason to put it to use.

He follows Valtrois to the leech in the ley line. Even he can see it, inexperienced as he is, if he pushes his arcane sight. Like an open wound, the line bleeds raw magic into some kind of — funnel, perhaps. It’s so bright he can hardly tell what’s happening underneath their feet. Valtrois doesn’t seem to share his struggle. She focuses on the transmission tower with a diagnostic spell dancing at her fingertips.

She doesn’t need to tell Kael’thas to watch out for an attack. He’s so highly strung that, when an unknown Nightborne jumps out of the shadows, she is immediately met with a blade to the stomach. Kael’thas snarls, draws his sword out and slices the channeler’s throat in the same movement that has him spin around to face the second attacker.

Fire jumps to his call faster than even Felo’melorn and golden flames swallow them before they can do more than yell a battle cry. It morphs into a scream of pain that Kael’thas silences with a slash of his sword that nearly takes their head clean off their body.

The fight — if it can even be called that — didn’t take more than a few seconds. He’s not even out of breath and still itches for something to truly sink his teeth into. Give him Elisande and he will eat her heart out of her chest.

No such luck.

“A portion of this ley lines’ power is directed directly to the Sanctum of Power,” Valtrois says, briefly illuminated by her spell before she steps away and the glow fades to nothing. If she’s disturbed by the remains of the two Nightbornes at her feet, she doesn’t show it.

“Can we destroy it?”

Even he is not sure which he means by it: the tower, the connection or the line itself. Doesn’t matter. Either way he’d do it, no matter the possible consequences. Valtrois only shakes her head, thoughtful.

“Let’s not be hasty. Who knows what that might do. Let’s return to Shal’Aran: I’ll draw you a diagram and we can talk through potential bypasses.”

-

The trouble with ley lines is that they’re structurally weak, but difficult to tamper with. It’s easy to dig into one; less so to harness its energy without it blowing up in your face. The web of ley lines fueling the world is no different from a mortal body’s vascular system: like a vein, a line can be punctured easily, but it’s equally likely to clot up immediately and dry up as it is to hemorrhage raw arcane, which is volatile and prone to catastrophes of lethal proportions.

It takes a skilled, steady hand to tap into a leyline and see useful results. Even more so to dig out someone else’s tap without destabilizing the whole line.

It’s a slow, methodical process, made even slower by Valtrois’ insistence they do not make any tests before they are sure of their success. “I won’t have Andaris sniffing around just because she noticed something amiss in their leech’s yield.”

Kael’thas has to bow to her argument. They’re already tempting fate enough by sacrificing safety for speed. No reason to go and be more stupid than strictly necessary. It still rankles to be limited by caution to hypotheticals. For the first time of his life, Kael’thas resents being kept to magical research. He itches for action and immediate results. Especially when he sees Illidari and independant adventurers going in and out of Shal’Aran, battered and singed by active battle.

In time, though, they come up with a… frankly dangerous but efficient solution.

The use of energy disruptors near ley lines is not usually encouraged. It’s a good way to ruin a fragile system at best and have the whole mechanism blow up in your face at worst. Thankfully that’s exactly what they intend to do at the moment. If they did their job right, it will only explode once they’re far away from ground zero.

They’ll already be at the Sanctum, tearing it wide open.

It falls to Kael’thas to install the disruptors. They require a trained eye to make sure they’re operational: they cannot risk a single one failing. It would go quicker if he could share the task with Valtrois, but there will undoubtedly be fighting and she is, despite her best efforts, very much a scholar and not a fighter.

She watches him gear up, holding the disruptors while he straps his light armor on. He left Light’s Heart with Khadgar, reluctantly. The archmage knows to keep it safe in a way Kael’thas, in the center of the coming battle, might not be able to. The proximity of Illidan’s inert soul has been a balm on his frayed nerves while they worked to free their forces; with Illidan’s resurrection even closer at hand than before, it’s time for Kael’thas to entrust his soul’s safety to those best placed to protect it. No matter how much he hates it.

Soon he won’t need this placebo cure for the phantom bond haunting him. They’ll be reunited, one way or another.

“Chin up,” Valtrois says, handing him the disruptors. “When you come back, the battle begins.”

It had better. Any longer and he’ll go take the damn city himself.

-

Kael’thas falls out of his second to last teleportation singed and bloodied but victorious. He miscalculated his trajectory slightly: he almost nearly runs into Valtrois. She doesn’t even blink, simply sidesteps him and starts channeling the spell to activate the disruptors.

It’s somewhat anticlimactic. There isn’t even a little bit of sparks as Valtrois finishes to cast the spell.

“It is done. The barrier should be down.”

Oculeth’s portal tears the air wide open, revealing the hazy image of the city beyond. Kael’thas rolls his shoulders, feels his soldiers at his back do the same, and steps right through.

The hook-in-the-navel feeling of teleportation jars him sideways unexpectedly, and he grits his teeth as his feet hit the pavement — far from where they meant to arrive. Andari’s victorious cackling is only static to his ears. He grips Felo’melorn tighter. They may slow him down; they will not stop him.

Their advance towards the Nighthold is a fight every step of the way. Yet Kael’thas can’t help but notice, through the haze of battle, that Suramar is beautiful.

In any other circumstance he would want to stop and stare at the alien sights. It’s a marvel of architecture, of magic — a jewel from the height of the kaldorei’s power before the Sundering and a magnificent city in its own right, despite the years of isolation and the damage caused by the Legion.

For so long Kael’thas has wished to see the places Illidan speaks of in his retellings of his past. Perhaps now he will get his wish. Perhaps he’ll get to admire those sights at his soulmate’s side, watch Illidan rediscover the city, the bittersweet process of returning to a world that has moved on in his absence. Whether he admires or resents the change, Kael’thas wants to be there to see it. He wants to be there to help, to hold Illidan’s hand, to be the one constant in an ever-changing world.

Even in the grim brutality of battle, he can’t help the buoyant hope carrying him forward. Each blow dealt, each barrier struck down is one step closer to this pipe dream.

I’ll come back for you.

He barely sees the Withered they summon at their side in battle; he’s far past caring about the discomfort of seeing them used like attack dogs or cannon fodder. He’s right there with them, draining Andaris’ flimsy barrier and laughing as pure arcane and fel both wash over him, sinking into his veins. Thinking a magical shield would protect her was her first mistake, but believing she could win a mages’ duel against Kael’thas will be her last.

He is a creature of war; for a chance to bring Illidan’s back, he’s willing to bring it right to her doorstep.

Hot blood splatters his face. He doesn’t even watch Andaris fall. She is not truly his enemy here; not even Elisande is. Gul’dan is barely an obstacle, a means to an end for Sargeras and Kael’thas both. He comes for death itself and will tear Illidan from her grasp if it’s the last thing he does.

Finally — Light, finally — after a long, slow crawl through what felt like half the city of Suramar, their forward group meets up with Khadar and Thalyssra. Kael’thas wipes his cheek on his forearm; he fears he does nothing more than spread the blood further. No matter. They’ll see much worse than a little blood in the next hours.

“I can sense the Nightwell from here,” Thalyssra says, jubilant. She’s nearly vibrating with anticipation, so close to the font of magic she has been cut off from for so long, although she thirsts more after the victory than the magic. Kael’thas is right there with her. Anxious for other reasons, perhaps, but just as much as she is. “Elisande must truly be desperate to overload it like this!”

He can feel it as well — the infinite energy of a Well, tasting like acid-sweet berries and starlight, colder than the Sunwell and all-encompassing in its power.

“Once we break the timelock holding our forces, Gul'dan will fall,” Khadgar says, warning and promise all at once.

Kael’thas smiles, all teeth. “Let’s go then. No point in waiting for it to happen on its own.”

Chapter Text

After all the planning, all the waiting, all the anxiety and setbacks, Kael’thas relishes marching on the Nighthold.

He pushes aside his fears and doubts until he is left only with the persistent buzz of adrenaline, his focus sharpening to a knife’s edge. With an army at his back and Illidan waiting for him there isn’t a foe he doesn’t feel capable of striking down. He would fight Sargeras himself if the Legion’s master stood in his way. Now that they are in motion, nothing will stop them; the certainty of it settles the wild thing in him.

This strange sort of calm carries him through the offensive, but Kael’thas feels it wane as they near the heart of the Nighthold. More likely than not he is picking up on the army’s own restlessness — particularly Thalyssra’s.

Soldiers were taught to disregard their fatigue in favor of battle fever, but the First Arcanist had nothing of the sort and her disquiet is obvious even to Kael'thas' eyes. He’s gravitated to her side during the fight — with Liadrin and Rommath remaining near the bulk of the sin’dorei forces, and him so unused to fighting alone, it seemed the natural thing to do. This puts him in the front row seat to watch Thalyssra’s assurance flake off at the edges, revealing some of the worry underneath.

Her face harbors the same resolute, savage pleasure of a leader fighting a battle they are sure to win, but the tension in her stance betrays her doubts. Something beyond the mere fear of failure, the look of which Kael’thas knows better than his own face. Something new, or that Kael’thas had not noticed prior to this.

What could possibly worry the woman more than defeat, at a time like this?

He does not get the occasion to question her on it until they reach the doors of the Nightspire, at which point a brief, necessary respite takes precedence on his curiosity. There will be time after.

If there is an after.

He can only hope that it will not prove to be an issue at an inopportune time. From the look on her face as they prepare to storm the Nightspire, it won’t.

Whatever it is haunting Thalyssra, she will not let it come between her and victory.

-

This is Kael'thas' first time seeing the Grand Magistrix — disregarding that first disastrous attempt at an attack. He wishes it was in any other circumstance.

So many times he’s fought monsters. Demons, the undead, cowards and tyrants corrupted beyond recognition by fel and power. Creatures he could easily dismiss as different, alien to his own circumstances. It was easier this way.

Elisande is different in that he can see himself in her; a comparison he’s kept at bay in the privacy of his own mind for as long as he’s been in Suramar, and that now rears its head as he sets his sight on the woman and finds himself feeling a bone-deep recognition. What is it that differentiates them, in the end? Two isolated elven monarchs arrogant enough to believe they can single-handedly save their people and who, faced with the threat of obliteration at the Legend’s hand, chose the wrong way out.

That Kael’thas did not make a pact with the Legion directly means littles. He has no doubt that it was only a matter of time, had he not endeared himself to Illidan so quickly through their bond: other allies of theirs did not meet a fate half as merciful as his, nor find their help returned in the same way. Akama is the first to come to mind, but far from the only one. Illidan sacrificed many things in his quest for victory; even some that were not his to sacrifice.

Perhaps his age could be considered an extenuating circumstance whereas hers only aggravates her case. In truth, there is no amount of years lived that can prepare one to a threat as sudden and absolute as the Legion.

Elisande would do everything for her people, and if history will depict her decision as the coward’s way out, it is only down to the luck of the draw. Kael’thas cannot help but be sympathetic to her fate. She would have made for a magnificent ally.

She makes for a formidable adversary instead. Elisande does not give them a second to breathe, and she does not relinquish an inch of ground without making them fight for it tooth and nail. As boastful as she might be, she’s right: she is in control of the battlefield and it’s all they can do to endure and hope to outlast her.

Kael’thas flinches as his pyroblast collides with the invisible wall of one of her spells and explodes across its surface harmlessly. Magic glitters at the contact, revealing the rapidly-approaching barrier for a moment before the last of the flames winks out. He can feel the power of it as it rushes their way, and can barely steel himself for the impact before it washes over them all. The entire battlefield is pulled through the fabric of time; he watches Elisande’s flesh and clothes repair themselves, helpless to stop the way she rewinds the world to her preference once more.

He lets out a strangled yell of frustration as his feet find purchase on newly-whole ground. His fingers are already moving into another spell. Who knows if he’ll get to cast it this time before he is thrown ass-over-kettle through the space-time continuum, again.

He tires of defending himself from spells he can’t hope to block, of dealing damage that will not stick. His reserves are not infinite, and Elisande is far from the last enemy they’ll face today. If they don’t finish this soon— It does not bear thinking about.

Kael’thas wipes his face with a scowl, though it does little besides smearing blood and sweat over his vambrace. A projectile grazed his face, and he can feel the pull of the cut across his forehead every expression he makes. As far as injuries go, it’s minor, but the blood dripping into his eyes is yet another annoyance in the slog of battle.

Elisande tosses a spell in his general direction and flames erupt from his hands, eating at the spell matrix and then, using the unraveling arcane as fuel, climbing up the thread of her magic to reach her. She’s flagging. He can tell by the way she struggles to jump out of the way, the weariness on her face when she finds herself with yet another burn even as she moves to block another attack.

Here’s hoping she runs out of energy before they do.

Elisande dies choking on her fated victory.

She does not fall alone.

Kael’thas sees Thalyssra go down at the same time as Elisande. If she’s bleeding, it’s not from any wound he can see — but he doubts it’s what brought her down. He can see her clutch at her chest, mouth working soundlessly, eyes dimming with the ebbing of her magic.

Would Elisande use her last breath to curse the leader of the rebellion that rose against her? Perhaps. Who knows how petty a dying woman can be.

Fearing the worst, Kael’thas hurries to Thalyssra’s side. His fingers clench uselessly at his side as his mind cycles through every healing spell he knows. They’re few, and far in-between: healing is the one field he could never master no matter how much he applied himself to it. He is more prone to destroying threats than fixing the damage caused by them.

He reaches Thalyssra just as the ambient magic is pulled towards Elisande once again. He stops, afraid she might have yet another trick in her sleeve—

And finds himself faced with an echo of her instead. The energy it emits is intense — a feat of magic the like of which is rarely seen from dead mages. Then again, she was not Grand Magistrix for nothing. Thalyssra struggles to drag in a breath, as if her apparition took all the air out of the room, her eyes wide and agitated by some silent emotion.

At least she’s breathing, Kael’thas thinks, swallowing hard. If only she could get up, show him that she doesn’t need help he cannot give—

“In all the possible futures I scryed, I did not foresee one in which you were victorious,” Elisande’s echo muses. Her tone is that of a curious intellectual, turning this strange conundrum every which way like a curious new puzzle. “But have I not always been so shortsighted when it comes to you, Thalyssra?”

Thalyssra tilts her face towards the light cast by Elisande’s death knell magic. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, but her mouth is set in a stubborn line, refusing to cry.

Elisande’s voice softens minutely, losing some of the detachment she had adopted to address them all. “My first arcanist, my most trusted advisor, my dearest friend. I never thought you could betray me, and when you did I refused to imagine you might stand against me and win. How little credit I have given you, ta’alor, when you have proven time and time again that you are the better of the two of us.”

The term of endearment catches Kael’thas off guard. He recognizes part of it thanks to his knowledge of the older dialect of Darnassian that Illidan spoke — recalls a deeper voice murmuring something similar against his neck in the dark.

Perhaps Shalassian has drifted from its root language in the last ten thousand years, but it cannot possibly have gone farther than Thalassian — and if there is one word that has remained nearly the same across all three languages, it’s that for love.

In the end, Thalyssra is the one to clue him in. Not on purpose: the way her eyes linger on Elisande’s timelost ghost, the rest of them might as well not exist.

“I could no more wound you than wound my own soul,” she rasps out. The sentence has a rehearsed quality to it. A saying, perhaps, rather than her own words.

And then it hits him — the protective hand Thalyssra keeps over her heart, and the unbearable tenderness with which the two recent enemies look at one another, making all of them feel like inconsequential intruders.

Soulmates. Light — Thalyssra has been fighting her soulmate this whole time, striking against her own soul. No wonder she seemed to struggle earlier. Kael’thas shudders at the very thought.

“And yet, faced with the most difficult of choices, you did— for the good of our people, which I failed to protect,” Elisande admits. “Perhaps… Perhaps you have a chance, then. I suspect you will surprise me once again. I cannot interpret the patterns time draws around you; but I will assist you however I can.”

She fades away. Thalyssra does not cry.

There are no words that Kael’thas would have wanted to hear when he lost Illidan, and so he says nothing, only offers her a hand up from where she’s still kneeling on the ground. She gladly takes it, only stumbling a little bit as he helps her to her feet. He admires the way she draws to her full height nearly immediately.

Next to her, Tyrande watches with pity and, to Kael'thas' great amusement, no small amount of awkwardness. “You have my sympathies,” she murmurs.

Thalyssra smiles sadly at this. “She was not the most important part of my world,” she says, “Not like the Nightbornes are, as a whole. But she was the one I loved most, and my life will never be the same in her absence.”

She says it matter-of-factly, in the manner of a hard-learned lesson that she had already internalized long before they met her. She must have, to survive not only exile but rejection from her soulmate as well. He supposes this outcome was only a surprise to them.

Casting a resolute glance to the silent forces at her side, she adds, “If this is what it takes to save the Nightbornes, then it will have been worth it. Let’s not let this chance go to waste by allowing Gul’dan to complete this scheme.”

And Kael’thas may not be able to give her back her soulmate the way they are about to give him back his—

But he can make sure her sacrifice is not in vain.

-

Having never met Gul’dan in the flesh — something he would consider a blessing — Kael’thas does not know what to expect as they reach the very top of the Nighthold. This is the warlock responsible for countless deaths and misery in their world, the Legion’s third invasion only the latest of his crimes. A figure to hate, yes, but what kind of man is he besides?

Kael’thas has had one existential crisis over Elisande already. He’d rather not suffer a second facing an orc.

It’s nothing but idle curiosity, and all made irrelevant the second Kael’thas steps foot atop the Nightspire and sees the crystal.

The sickly glow of Illidan’s prison draws his attention like a moth to a flame and burns the air from his lungs. They have tried to make a prisoner out of his soulmate so many times, and Kael’thas has failed, time and time again, to save him from this fate. And now Gul’dan would disturb Illidan’s afterlife, all to hasten the coming of the very threat Illidan died to protect Azeroth from?

This cannot stand. If anybody is to disturb Illidan’s eternal unrest, it shall be him.

“Ah, here come the heroes.” Gul’dan’s voice, grating as nails on chalkboard, drips with scorn and a kind of smug condescension that Kael’thas cannot wait to knock out of him. “Have you already forgotten your humiliation on the Broken Shore, that you would crawl back to receive the same lesson directly from me? How easily I have crushed your leadership under my heel—” an unpleasant smile curls his lips upward, and malevolent energy gathers in his outreached hands. “Your death today will be only a taste of what awaits this world. The husk of Illidan will prove an ideal vessel for my master’s glory. Sargeras will rise, and together, we will watch your world burn!”

In any other situation maybe Kael’thas would have kept a cool enough head to criticize Gul’dan motives, or make a quip about his speech.

In this time, in this place, all he can think about is how wonderful it would feel to tear the warlock apart and set fire to each and every single one of his internal organs for the crime of bringing life to the miserable shell of his body. He is not seeing red with rage; he is seeing bright, poisonous green, and the crystal serving as Illidan’s casket hangs over his mind like a sword held by the thinnest strand of his dwindling sanity.

He has gone far past sadness. Now his grief burns.

His explosive spell crashes harmlessly against the dome of the eye of Aman’Thul, and he curses Gul’dan’s cowardice as the warlock’s hideous lieutenants surge forward in his stead.

They have a fraction of their forces left, with so many left behind to guard the rear, but each and every one of them meets the new threat head-on. Not one fighter buckles under the demons’ assault despite the brutal battle they have just waged against Elisande: weariness melts out of their bodies, leaving nothing but determination behind.

The fatigue Kael’thas felt moments ago is washed away by the adrenaline flooding his veins. He forgets about the aches and pains of battle, the blood matting his hair and the burns littering his hands from when he got careless with a spell. His vision narrows to a pinprick, a target with Gul’dan as the bull’s eye.

This is it; the end, one way or another.

A fel lord’s gigantic ax passes an inch away from his shoulder, his body moving out of the path of the attack before he consciously noticed it. Kael’thas twists around and throws his sword towards the demon in retaliation; it misses by a hair’s breadth.

His hand snaps out, fingers closing around the thin line of magic connecting him to Felo’melorn. It snags on his outreached focus and a snap of his wrist has it go taunt, the sword stopping in mid-air. It spins on itself and flies back to Kael'thas' like a hunting bird called back to its falconer.

The fel lord’s cackle cuts off abruptly when the blade plunges itself up to the hilt into the meat of its unprotected back. The tip thrusts out of its stomach with a hiss of burning flesh.

It angers it more than anything. Turning to find the source of the attack, it does not see the arrow that an archer lets loose before it lodges itself into one of its eyes. The bellow of rage it lets out as a result shakes the ground they stand on, and the erratic swings of its ax send more than a few soldiers flying. Ichor pours from the wound in its stomach and down its hideous face, smoking when it splatters on the ground.

Jumping out of the deadly trajectory of its weapon, Kael’thas momentarily loses his footing when the fel lord stomps the ground with stone-breaking force. He notices the veins of green energy coursing in the cracks, but too late. One of the jagged pillars of crystallized fel that erupt from the ground catches him wrongfooted, and he barely manages to avoid impalement by twisting around in a way that nearly has him falling flat on his face. The wicked edge tears through Kael'thas' side instead, grating against his ribs with enough momentum to break bones.

One rib snaps, followed by a full-body tremor, both disgust and pain as poisonous fel floods his wound and is near-instantly burned away by his own magic, like sickness by a fever. Kael’thas jerks away with a bitten off curse. One hand comes to press against the wound, clumsy fingers prodding into the torn flesh in his hurry to assess the damage. The world flashes bright with white-hot pain for a moment.

Breathless, eyes watering, Kael’thas closes his fist with a spasm. Felo’melorn bursts into flames, burning itself out of the fel lord and back into Kael'thas' grasp. His other hand alights at the same time. Heat and pain flare up in equal measure as he scorches his wound closed to staunch the bleeding.

If there’s any internal bleeding it shall have to sort itself out or wait for the end of the fight: this is the extent of his healing capabilities.

The air smells overwhelmingly like burnt flesh, copper and sulfur. Kael’thas chokes down the instinctual desire to retch at the stench and tries to push aside the pain that sets his nerves alight. It leaves him light-headed and near feverish, blood loss and fel intoxication only making the matter worse.

It shall pass, and he cannot afford to wait for it to do so.

“Fight all you want, heroes! You have failed: the ritual has already been put into motion…” Gul’dan gloats as he leaps out of his protective dome. “All you are good for now is amusing me while we wait for my master to step into this world!”

An incandescent orb appears above Gul’dan’s palm and he chucks it their way, his dry lips twisted in a cruel smirk of enjoyment. Green flames erupt as it shatters and spread like wildfire over oil, and soldiers scramble to take cover behind the magical barriers hastily drawn up by their mage allies.

Kael’thas breathes shallowly through clenched teeth and lets the fire wash over him. He does not move, does not step back, only watches green embers dance across the hems of his sleeves before going out. He can feel the unnatural heat radiating through the thin protection of his magic, stinging a little. His skin-tight shield crackles but holds.

He is a Sunstrider, for fuck’s sake, the phoenix prince chosen by Al’ar himself. The Sunwell is his birthright: no mortal fire shall ever burn him out.

And for all his taunting, Gul’dan is so very, very mortal.

He died once.Kael’thas intends to do a repeat performance. Slashing his sword through the air to clear the smoke and remaining flames in his path, he stretches out his magical senses through the battlefield. Gul’dan is already preparing another spell: he feels the fel gathering around the rotten core of his magic.

Kael’thas does not give him the occasion to cast it. Pushing magic into every discarded weapon he can feel around him, he wills them to rise.

A whirlwind of blades flies at the warlock’s face. Gul’dan scowls, batting them aside easily. It gets Kael’thas what he wanted though: an opening that his soldiers take full advantage of. Slinging spells and weapons indiscriminately, Kael’thas makes his way through the chaos until he reaches Khadgar’s side.

The Archmage wears a frown of deep concentration, cradling Light’s Heart with one hand even as he maintains a shield over Vereesa’s archers with the other. Kael’thas brute forces his way into the spell, wrenching it out of Khadgar’s grasp and into his own control. The magical load has his knees buckling for a second. It’s like holding a storm in the cup of his hands. To think Khadgar could do this with one hand and half his attention drawn elsewhere...

“King Kael’thas—”

“Let me. You must focus on Illidan: we cannot afford for your attention to be divided!”

Khadgar nods once. His frown deepens and his eyes close as he rests both his hands over Light’s Heart. “Let’s return this demon hunter’s soul to his body,” he says with relish. “And deny the Legion’s master a host!”

And even as Gul’dan collapses with a pitiable snarl and Khadgar opens the connection between body and vessel—

Kael’thas knows that something has gone terribly wrong.

A shadow in the shape of Illidan falls to the ground and Kael'thas' heart stops, not in recognition but in horror.

Darkness clings to Illidan, obscuring his features, and the glow of his markings has gone the deep purple of shadow magic. Whatever this is, escaping from Illidan’s body—

It is not Illidan.

“You topple a pawn and presume to challenge its master?” It cries — the beloved voice corrupted near beyond recognition, with an echo like a dying star.

For the first time in this long battle, Kael'thas' hand slackens its hold on Felo’melorn. He feels it slide out of his hand, his palm slick with blood, and only belatedly stop it from slipping out of his grasp altogether. His lips work soundlessly, mouthing a prayer or a curse; he cannot tell which, his mind has gone blank. He watches it all happen as if from a great distance; as if instead of bringing Illidan back from the Nether they have banished Kael’thas to it, leaving him an horrified witness.

“Hells,” Khadgar whispers.

Kael’thas swallows past rising panic and replies numbly, “What— what shall we do?”

“If we strike him down, the shard of Sargeras’ soul that resides in him will release its grasp on him.”

He says it with admirable assurance for a man in so unfamiliar a situation.

To kill Illidan — or a shade of him — not only to let him die, but to be the one to put the blade to his neck—

“I…”

“This is not Illidan, Kael’thas. It only looks like him,” Khadgar says impatiently, but not ungently.

Shaking his head with a grim twist of his mouth, Kael’thas tightens his grip on his sword and feels as if the floor might open up under his feet.

Two hands grab his shoulders and jostle him roughly: Khadgar, an intense look of frustration on his face. “You must,” he urges. His eyes burn with the same urgency as his voice. “Don’t you understand? This is bigger than you. Bigger than all of us. This is the only way you can save him.”

Pressing his hand to his mouth as if to forcefully keep his heart from crawling up his throat and right out of his body, Kael’thas squeezes his eyes shut. To save him, you must kill him, he hears, echoed by a deeper voice whispering, one of us must live—

Muttering a broken curse against bloody fingers, Kael’thas opens his eyes once again.

“Fine.”

It’s just like a spar, he tells himself. A blood-filled spar with live steel. Just the kind of thing the demon hunters enjoy.

Khadgar breathes out deeply and lets go of him with another nod. Kael’thas shoves the strands of his magical shield back in his grasp and shrugs his mantle off, letting it pool at his feet. He will need a better range of movement for this fight.

Their forces have not waited around for Kael’thas to work through his personal crisis. They could not afford to. This may be Sargeras in disguise, but it is a very good disguise: he looks, sounds and fights exactly like Illidan, and Illidan is a menace on the battlefield that few could claim to fight on their own. He is made to face overwhelming odds, all predatory grace and easy violence, dodging and weaving through the opposition, trading blow for blow with the countless soldiers facing him. Sargeras’ spirit is only making him more dangerous: unlike Illidan, he has no other goal but to kill.

A warglaive swipes past his face and Kael’thas throws himself three steps back rather than attempt to deflect the blow. He remembers how Illidan fights. Just like a spar.

Facing Illidan is a matter of dexterity: he knows from past experience that his arms will buckle if he tries to face him head-on, and a single hit from the twin blades can cleave a man in two. Instead Kael’thas dodges and weaves through attacks, trusting his muscle memory as he tries to get close enough to land more than a glancing blow.

Trusting muscle memory too much, perhaps. Felfire sweeps past him and he reaches for it, aiming to divert it from its course. But instead of finding purchase in Illidan’s spell, the prodding strands of his arcane are pulled into Sargeras’ magic like blood into the hungry mouth of a whirlpool. He lets out a sharp gasp and tries to wrestle back control fruitlessly, feeling his enchantments falter at the sudden drain. He has to cut the connection entirely before they give out entirely, lifting his arms in front of his face as the flames crash against him.

Fel burns strangely, more pain than heat. He grits his teeth and ducks blindly out of the way of an attack heralded by the faintest flapping of torn wings.

Pain, visions of burning worlds, fatigue may destabilize him, but it will take more than that to break his spirit.

What nightmare could rivalize raising a sword against his own soul?

Thalyssra is a much, much braver woman than he is. Although he thinks he understands what spurred her on, now: faced with the desecration of the one he loves so dearly, he feels almost more anger than he does grief. He will burn Sargeras out of Illidan if he has to chase him across the cosmos to do it.

He cannot tell what the final blow is or who inflicts it. Illidan’s backhand caught him in his wounded side and, powered by Sargeras’ unnatural strength, it sent him flying clean across the arena. (He recalls a similar hit in another battle, Illidan carrying him away, and has to stop to breathe through the blood pooling in his throat). He’s still trying to gather himself up when something in the atmosphere snaps, like the first strike of lightning in a storm: a great intangible weight disappearing.

There’s too much smoke in the air and blood in his eyes to see it when Gul’dan meets his demise, but Kael’thas lifts his head and tries to see anyway. The portal shakes apart with a roar, but it closes with a whisper. Somehow, the silence left in its wake is louder.

Loudest of all comes the sound of wings snapping open.

Kael’thas could not look away if he tried; his hope is stronger than his fear. The fire in his chest refuses to go out. The persistent burning in his wrist returns with a vengeance. The smoke clears, a little. Backlit by fel fire, the wings are more shadows than form. But Kael’thas recognizes them.

How could he not?

Before the hand has reached out to grasp Gul’dan by the throat; before the overpowering fel energy has reduced his body to the hateful pile of dust it should have remained as and left the line of sight unobstructed; before he speaks—

Kael’thas recognizes him. By the singing in his blood and the echo to his heartbeat, he knows that Illidan has come back to them — come back to him..

He finds himself on hands and knees, slowly picking himself up until he is standing on air, body lighter than its aches and bruises and weeping wounds.

And For the first time in six years, he lays eyes on Illidan. Not an apparition, or a ghost, or a memory. Illidan in the flesh, whole and alive, so beautiful it seems impossible. For a moment Kael’thas cannot breathe or move. He’s rooted on the spot by something too large to be reduced to the word ‘joy’. It fills every gap in him, light as smoke and sweet as honey, climbing up his throat and stinging his eyes. If he wavers on his feet now it is no longer from exhaustion but pure, disbelieving happiness leaving him unsteady as a newborn fawn. He staggers forward.

“You have seen what I’ve seen,” Illidan says, grave and ever-so-slightly smug. His voice is clear from the echo of death or the corruption of Sargeras’ spirit; hoarse with disuse, the way Kael’thas has always known him to sound like.

He takes another step.

“You know what we face.”

One more.

Each step brings Kael’thas closer, brings strength to his weary soul, and his steps grow steadier as a result. Faster, too, until he’s almost jogging across the platform.

“Will you follow me, now that you understand the threat? Will you follow me into the abyss?”

“Wherever you go,” Kael’thas rasps out, his voice wrecked by smoke, and breaks into a run.

No matter the rubble, the bodies and spilled blood. He might as well be flying for all they do to slow him down. He would crawl over mountains of corpses to reach Illidan; he would jump into fire.

He does not have to.

Illidan turns at the first note of his voice with the same battle-wary speed as ever. Kael’thas lets magic spark over his skin, tracing the edges of his body, and watches as Illidan’s face slackens, guarded intensity softening into shock before turning into the same delight bubbling up in his own chest. A face that says it cannot be true— but gods, I hope, I wish.

Kael’thas loves that expression. He was put on this earth to make it happen.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kael’thas sees a demon hunter pull somebody out of their way. None of it matters; nothing but Illidan’s face, and what little space there still is between them. The closer he gets, the more unbearable that distance becomes, until it gets too much and Kael’thas can do nothing but leap the few feet left between them to cross it as quickly as he can.

Wings open wide as Illidan steps forward to catch him — as he knew he would.

Of course he does.

Large, warm arms sweep him into an embrace, crushing him into a firm chest as Illidan gathers him close and closes his wings around them both. For one delirious second, Kael’thas could believe nothing else exists besides this soft, quiet darkness. He digs his nails into Illidan’s flesh to anchor himself and wishes he could claw his way into the other.

He’s here. He’s alive. If the Nether wants him back, it will have to take them both now.

They breathe together, forehead to forehead, the largeness of their feelings taking what little space is left between their two bodies. Kael’thas feels like he’s choking on it, a tidal wave of joy so intense it becomes painful, like standing too close to too hot a fire. His next exhale becomes a chuckle, a faint hitch of air spilling helplessly from his lips.

This time, he wants it to be him who breaks the silence. There are no words; he finds some anyway, to be said half in laughter and half sobbing.

“You’re here,” he whispers inanely.

There are no words for his true meaning: I tried, I fought, I did my best, I couldn’t live without you, you’re back, I missed you, I’m glad you’re here, never make me go through this again.

But Illidan understands. Of course he does. He presses a smile against Kael’thas’ forehead and whispers: “Death could not keep me from you.”

And Kael’thas hears what he meant to say: you did it, you came back, I know you, I will always return to you, I will never leave again.

-

It may be a minute, or a year, or an eternity, before they move again. Kael’thas does not care to know. He would stay here forever if he could, grateful just to exist near the man he’s missed so dearly for so long.

But eventually, the hand that Illidan has taken to rubbing idly up and down Kael'thas' back brushes over the spot where he has bled through his robes, before he cauterized the wound. Feeling the wetness of the fabric, Illidan draws back slightly, to Kael'thas' vocal discontentment.

“You’re injured.”

As it stands, it would be foolish to deny it. The dim light that filters through the gaps between his curled wings and the glow of his markings are reflected slightly on the blood smeared on his face, deposited there by Kael’thas himself. He forgot the cut on his forehead. Illidan is bound to notice the coppery smell of it soon enough, close as it is.

So Kael’thas only hums low in ascent, shoving his face against Illidan’s shoulder as he mourns this small, private moment already coming to an end as reality catches up to them. He’s been injured more gravely in the past; it’s unpleasant, but not enough that he wouldn’t be able to ignore the earthly pain for longer in favor of basking in the comfort of Illidan’s presence.

“We need to get you to a healer.”

Sighing, Kael’thas nods wearily against Illidan’s shoulder. “I think we’ve given these people enough of a show as it is, anyway.”

Illidan lets out a small, rumbling laugh — unlike Kael’thas, he would not have forgotten their audience: he just doesn’t care who sees him being embarrassingly affectionate. It warms Kael’thas to the core to know. Illidan has never been free with his displays of affection, not for lack of wanting: a lifetime of isolation and countless rejections have made him wary of taking such risks. He’s always accepted Kael'thas' own demands for physical contact readily enough in Outland but Kael’thas wasn’t sure if the presence of strangers not under his command would change that.

Clearly it has no bearing on Illidan’s demeanor. Kael’thas doesn’t know why he expected anything different. He, on the other hand, does not share this utter lack of self-consciousness. He kicks Illidan’s leg lightly as a signal for the other man to put him down.

Finally lifting his wings out of the way, Illidan gently lowers Kael’thas until he is once again touching the ground, though he doesn’t let go just yet. Kael’thas immediately finds himself wavering on his feet as gravity takes a hold of him, blood loss and months — years — of exhaustion crashing back into him as a reminder that he is only a mortal, and not the unstoppable spirit of vengeance he’s apparently been trying to embody for some times.

“I will get you home,” Illidan murmurs against his hair.

And, just like that, Kael’thas decides he is safe enough; and he promptly collapses like a toy against his soulmate, never hitting the ground.

He trusts Illidan to do as promised; but, more importantly, he is already home.