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The four of them stumble wearily through the mountain pass, lucky to be alive and so, so tired from the days of walking, hurting, and fighting. Spoons and Quincy take point, Quincy still leaning heavily on Rob due to his broken and poorly splinted leg. Then himself, eyes on the mountainside around them, and Declan brings up the rear. Through the night they hardly speak, too exhausted, and when they finally collapse it’s a grunted negotiation of who’s taking first watch.
Thassarian rubs his chest absently, gazing at the stars. Emptiness crawls in to fill the ache, a void that numbs him from the inside. It's enough to focus on moving forward, but he dreads sleep now not for nightmares, but for the face that will no doubt meet him there.
He thinks of Koltira on the hill as they fled. His flat mouth, pinched eyes, golden hair whipping around in the wind. Gripping his bow at the ready in case someone noticed them.
There was no sadness, or pain, only resignation. Your fool heart , Thassarian tells himself. There was nothing there to lose .
Uneven cobblestones stretch out before them as they exit the mountain pass. It takes them most of the following day before they make it to the first farm in the heartlands - tucked away in a copse, they meander down the rutted dirt path towards the house.
“You think they got horses?” Rob asks, dropping Quincy again for a rest against one of the trees lining the drive.
“They’d better, all the way out here,” Declan grumbles.
Thassarian nods. “I’ll see who's home, I suppose,” Please, let someone be home .
The farmhouse is modest, the farm barely tended, some beds overgrown with weeds or shriveled produce. When he asks, the young farmer that answers the door frowns, shakes his head.
“None to spare,” he says, regretfully, ages younger than Thassarian but clearly taxed by life's stresses. Thassarian can imagine why, a small farm on poor land with a wife and child. “But I was about to head to market - I can give you all a ride.”
He loads up his horse and cart with supplies, and enough room for four men. They all pile in.
“I'll go as far as Corin’s Crossing,” he says, and that’s good enough for now, especially for a ride that's all but free. “Where you boys coming from?” He asks, eyes raking over their beaten and bloody states.
“North,” Rob bites out, hoisting Quincy into the cart.
The man raises his eyebrows. Thassarian is sure he knows what North means, but the man decides not to press. Good country folk.
He hoists himself into the cart and leans back into the hay bed, thankful to be off his feet. When they're all in the cart jolts roughly - the road is poor as the farmer. It's clear the ride won't be smooth, but it's all they've got.
Once, Quincy yelps about his leg, and Rob almost jumps over to help, too eager.
Thassarian peers at them.
Rob's examining the bandage and splint, new red blooming there. Quincy's face is black and blue on the left side, some blood still caked on his neck where it had been bleeding. He and Spoons whisper quietly to each other, and Quincy cracks a smile at whatever is said. The look they share is too intimate, and –
Understanding crashes through him. Rob’s anger -- that he took as prejudice -- is now clearly not that at all. He can't believe he missed it before. It's been staring them in the face since they marched north, the way he'd always find a marching spot within talking range, or get the same bunking arrangement or watch rotation.
Declan catches his stare, and together, they both roll their eyes.
At some point, the road evens out, and the rocking of the cart is gentle enough that Thassarian finds himself nodding off. Arms crossed over his chest, his chin finds his collarbone, shoulders shifting gently.
He dreams of soft hair against his cheek, firm hands on his waist, and a razor sharp smirk.
Koltira doesn't feel anything as they run back through the forest. He doesn't feel as if his heart is a gaping hole, his breath never catches on the nothing that’s left. He thinks of only the path in front of them - certainly not the anguish painted clearly over Thassarian’s crumpled face, the way he lingered in Koltira’s company like a flower does the sun.
Their timeless elvish constitutions work to their advantage. They return to Silvermoon by sunset, no need for sneaking anymore, and no injured humans to mind.
In the city, he bids a brief farewell to Faltora and ignores his brother's pitying look. Opening the door to his small, empty home he’s faced with the absence, the absurd emptiness of a human who only stumbled into his life weeks ago.
He is a fool.
He heaves the table over, thrashing the pipes and empty wine bottles. He breaks as much as he can, shatters them until they resemble himself. He kicks and thrashes and breaks and breaks.
And breaks.
He slumps against the wall, slides down it. Covers his damp cheeks with his hands.
In all his hundred and fifty years, he'd never meshed so well with another living being.
And for another hundred and fifty, he will still be alone, and that man will be dead.
In Corin’s Crossing, they camp outside of town under the stars. It's a cool and balmy night, and none of them had much coin for an inn anyway. They’d left anything not in their pockets behind them. No one in the town seems to mind a cadre of soldiers camping out,too busy with their own lives, and the four of them keep to themselves well enough. Declan makes a small expedition to the town hall to secure them transport on a carriage to Andorhal tomorrow, at a discounted rate.
“I’ll walk,” Rob says, picking at his teeth after a dinner of game and jerky.
Declan, in the middle of a swig from his water flask, spits it out. “Walk?!” he balks.
“Yeah, I live down there,” he points to a small side road. “A few miles, but that’s all.”
Thassarian shakes his head. “Course you do. Blasted eastlanders,”
Spoons just grins at him, toothy and lethal. Thassarian can’t say they’re on good terms after all the shit he pulled in Silvermoon, but he thinks maybe they have a sort of understanding now. He eyes the burns on Rob’s wrists from the ropes where they tied his hands. Quincy sleeps softly by his side, chest rising and falling. It’s a foregone conclusion that when Rob makes his way, Quincy will go with him.
In the morning, once they set off without them, Declan breaks the silence, burying his face in his hands.
"Oh thank God they're gone. I couldn't bear another minute of them."
Thassarian is struck dumb. And then throws his head back and laughs.
"Oh lad. It was awful," He wipes a fake tear from his eye. “I haven’t seen mooning like that since my teenage midsummers,”
"Wasn't it! They were worse than you and that elf. Light save us,"
Thassarian snorts but gets quiet. He tries to take the punch on the chin, but averts his eyes to the trees. He's been trying not to think about that elf.
Declan, perceptive as he is, picks it up.
“Aw, don’t be sore about it, Thorne. I don’t judge you for it,”
He’s not sure what he means - judging him for an elf, or judging him for a man. He decides he doesn't care.
“It was something, lad,” he sighs, rubbing his chest. “That’s why I’m sore.”
“Oh,” Declan blinks at him. “Well, I'm sorry then. He did save our skins, at least.”
He smiles grimly. “That’s true,” he says. “Wasn’t all for naught.”
Declan parts at Andorhal, and Thassarian travels on.
He walks for a long while, sore and tired but thankful for the solitude. His thoughts never stray from strong cheekbones and sharp teeth. Without his comrades to keep him present, the world in front of him may as well be a dream. He plays the memories over and over – sleep-soft, hard lines, bright laughter, and tries to understand where he went wrong. What he could have said or done, why it wasn’t enough.
He thinks too about Max, his bald head in a puddle of blood on the pavers. Landers, holding in his own intestines in some Silvermoon alley. The other fifteen men, doomed as they all were.
Barely makes camp, preferring to just sleep under a tree. A passing Lordaeron regiment gives him an off look once - he's still in his armor and rather filthy - but he pays them no mind. They continue on the road east, and leave him be.
The Thorne family plots are west of the city walls in Tirisfal, given to his father before the troll wars, and willed to his mother after his death.
He rounds the familiar trail up into the hills. Once the house comes into view, he almost drops his pack.
Home. Finally home.
The Ranger-General’s office is cluttered, but orderly. Large, wood-paneled walls like a hunting lodge, crammed with all sorts of important gadgets and papers and souvenirs of hunts from ages past. He thinks of pulling down the large bookcase behind her desk, laden with fragile materials, and the important papers inside, and the cascading havoc it would cause.
"You are slipping," Sylvanas tells him roughly, painted face creasing, inches from his own. "It has cost us credibility with the houses, clearly fraternizing with the enemy."
Koltira boils. Grasps his fingers tighter around his back. She has the nerve to say such a thing, when the rumors of her own human lover are so pervasive.
“The enemy ?” He bites out of turn. “They were our allies ,” Thassarian’s sly smile appears in his mind - harmless, too kind, but clever .
She scoffs, incredulous.
“They were never our allies. I suggest you correct your priorities, Ranger. Or I’ll correct them for you.”
Instead of pulling over the bookcase, he considers setting it alight, with her inside. His jaw creaks with effort.
"Yes, Ranger-General," he says through gritted teeth.
Thassarian works his hands into the dough, kneading the loaf they’ll bake for supper. The repetitive motion soothes him, lets his mind wander, as it has done so often since he arrived home.
Unsurprisingly, it wanders to the elf. His elf, with long, golden hair, and white-blue eyes, and shoulders that could crush a melon. Has Koltira ever made bread? Would he scoff at it, call it beneath him, or smirk and make lewd hand motions?
He pictures the man sitting behind him at the table, plucking stems off a basket of flowers. Would he be happy here, or find it too boring?
Stop this foolishness , Not-Koltira scolds, in a perfect Thalassian lilt.
Probably too boring , he tells himself. A man like that needs trouble.
“Alright?” Leryssa asks him – startles him as she touches his back. His hands clench in the dough, almost ruining it.
“Ah- yes, I-I suppose. Just – getting lost,” he says, using a phrase he knows will stop her questioning.
She looks pointedly at the sad thing on the counter, brushing dark hair from her face. “I think the bread’s had enough,” she says, eyeing him. “Mum’s got the oven ready,”
He nods, getting the loaf in its basket, eager to be free of her. But before he can make it out the door she places a gentle hand on his arm.
“Where were you, Thass?” she asks softly.
He shakes his head. Don't ask me that .
“Doesn't matter,” he says. “Far away.” He tries not to look at her face.
“You're still there,” she tuts at him, “Come home, yeah?” she pats his arm twice, before exiting the door in front of him.
Koltira gazes over the city from an unfamiliar balcony. The apartment is worth more than his year’s salary, and the silk robe over his bare chest worth more than a month’s.
A slender woman with a dark bob runs a hand over his shoulder. Her fingers tickle with arcane power, dulled by the wine in his blood and smoke in his lungs.
“Come back to bed,” she purrs at him.
“In a minute,” he snaps.
She scoffs. “No need to fuss,” she flaps her hand at him, wandering back towards the bed. Two other bodies await her there, drinking greedily as she crawls to them on her knees. He turns away, bored with the noises they make.
Why he came here, he’s not sure. These elves aren’t his crowd - full of themselves, high in the houses, of good repute. He’s enjoyed himself, yes. But he’s not here , instead just watching his body from afar, his mind always somewhere else. He looks at his hands in the magelight and flexes them, eyes stuck on a faint scar on his finger.
Snapped by a bowstring, aimed at a troll.
He’s seized with a memory – a human man standing in front of a lake, bare assed and covered in troll blood. Dark hair thatched over his strong legs. A fond look in his eye, glancing over his shoulder to where Koltira sits under a nearby tree.
That is what feels real.
He crashes back into himself. He wants to retch. He wants to scream. He could run all the way to Lordaeron right now and find that man again. Shake him, fuck him, kill him . Who knows.
A coward, he drinks several times from the manawine bottle in his hand.
“I’m going,” he says, and leaves before they can stop him.
There’s a crowd one day around the market board in Brill. Thassarian came down for some vegetables, but he’s easily distracted by the commotion.
In the jostling crowd, he spots a face. Sandy hair tied back in a bun, a fair complexion, sharp nose and chin. It's been months since he’s seen it - last time was in the shadow of Silvermoon’s spires.
“Jerod!” He claps the man on the shoulder, who seems equally startled to see Thassarian, his hazel eyes open wide. “You made it. Glad to see it,” he says with a grin.
“Thassarian!” Jerod greets him, grinning now, hands on Thassarian’s other shoulder. “Bennet made it too,” he says, elbowing the shorter man to his right, thicker with a boxer’s build.
Bennet startles, and turns around. “Hey!” He throws his hands out wide.
“How did you?” Thassarian asks after they embrace.
The shorter man leans in conspiratorially. “We stowed away on a ship. It was bonkers, mate,”
“Tell me over some ale,” he says, gesturing towards The Lazy Mare. “Did any others?”
“Elias, over in Stratholme,” he says. “But we haven't heard from him since we parted.”
“Did you see the board?” Jerod asks him as they settle into the tavern. Cold tankards land on their table, and Thassarian is happy for a deep drink.
He shakes his head, foam gathering on his beard.
“Prince Arthas is putting together an expedition,” Bennet rubs his chin. “To Northrend,”
“Northrend?” He only knows it's some frigid, light-forsaken place.
“Aye. They’ve a call for all willing and able,”
Thassarian feels the familiar pang in his chest - it's too good of an opportunity. He’ll be leaving again. He’d been feeling the itch for weeks now, desperate to focus on something that's not the past, and the timing is right.
“You’ll take it?” Jerod reads him well.
He rubs a hand across his face, feeling the coarse hairs in his beard.
“Yes, I think so.”
Lor’themar Theron walks primly before the gathered senior Farstriders, hands clasped behind his back. Lady Windrunner sits against the wall behind him, idly tuning her bow.
“Arthas Menethil is gathering troops for a campaign in Northrend. It is troubling news from the south - in addition to the rumors of plague, we also have an eyewitness account of an entire settlement destroyed,” He takes a breath, and looks at them. “Stratholme has been razed to the ground, no survivors.”
“Settlement?” Sylvanas sits up straighter. “That's a city,” she spits. “How?”
At Theron’s nod, a Farstrider steps forward from the far bookcase.
“It was my scout, ma’am. He observed citizens taken by the plague in the city.” He takes a pause, and continues, haltingly. “Lordaeron forces also discovered this. They -” he stops, takes a breath. “They razed it themselves.”
Themselves . Blood drains from Koltira’s chest, the room collectively shudders. A burning thought strikes him - was Thassarian there? He doesn't know what region the man hails from. Was he plagued, or was he a killer? He tries to picture him striking down his countrymen and can't finish the image. Thassarian would fight for them - not kill them.
“What?” Sylvanas stands. “Their own people!”
Lor’themar turns to her. “Apparently an effort to stem the plague,” he clarifies. “So far as we can tell, it didn't work,”
“Barbarians,” she spits, and sits back down. “What do they hope to learn in Northrend?”
“We don't know, ma’am,” another speaks, this time near the desks. “My scouts think Lordaeron themselves don't know. It's the Prince’s affair,”
“How grim,” she muses, and Theron nods. “We must find out what they're planning. If they are still bitter about the fractured Alliance, we must be prepared for any retaliation, even from the sea,”
“We can put a man on their ships,” Theron agrees.
“Not a word to anyone,” The Lady Windrunner urges them. “I will confer with Anasterian.”
“Dismissed,” she says.
Afterwards, Koltira finds Faltora in the bowels on the Farstrider compound, mending a broken leather gauntlet. He looks up from his work to greet his brother.
“How was the meeting?” he asks, threading leather cord with ease.
Koltira shakes his head, slapping an arm around his brother's shoulder and jostling his work.
“Where is that darling Merriel of yours,” he says, feeling accomplished at Faltora’s sharp look away, his furious blush. “I think we all need a drink.”
Salty, sea air cards through Thassarian’s hair as he peers over the starboard side. Lordaeron’s coast still winks at him from the horizon. He was sad to leave, and Leryssa had cried, but his mother only regarded him with gentle understanding.
He thinks of her hand on his cheek, and her tired eyes.
For the first time in a year, he feels relief.