Chapter Text
Hallethian had come a long way over the past few months.
It was November when Viktorn had rescued him from his self imposed imprisonment, and now, in March of the next year, the time had finally come.
Viktorn appraised him one last time before they had to head out-
His figure had filled back out, the fel glow in his eyes had slowly started to fade, and he had spent these past months modifying several of both his own, and of Viktorn’s garments in prepartion for this journey. Crafting and enchanting new clothing.
Viktorn’s robes within the palace had been… small on him. Ones left from his youth, where the majority of his belongings had been in the embassy, or in Dalaran, what was left here was primarily the remnants of a much younger mage, at a much kinder time.
Now, his garb was refitted, replaced, and remade. Resplendent robes,
Hallethian had modified his own garments in such a way that he would be less recognizable to those who might know of him, that he would stand out less amongst the throngs of battle. Just another Sindorei mage amidst the throng, robes lined with furs to combat the frigid winds, and torrential flames slung from his blazing hands.
He was not fully recovered, that would take a few years at best, just for the damage of malnutrition.
That does not even touch upon his internal anguish.
The loss that all Sin'dorei are faced with, the knowledge of his own failure and cowardice, that in spite of this, his devotion, his loyalty to their own royal family- to Kael’thas- had tainted him in the eyes of their people. The scorn of his kin, of his living friends… the anguish of his isolation, of his months subsisting on nothing but stale wine…
Viktorn knew Hallethian would take decades to fully recover, if he ever did.
For now, however, that did not matter.
What mattered was that he was alive. That Viktorn had found him before he truly had wasted away, found him while there was something left to save.
Viktorn was not above raising Hallethian as one of the undead, had it come to that, but… he was thankful it did not. That he did not have to stoop that low for one who was best left untouched by the corrupting force of undeath.
(Though… he had thought, however briefly, that the idea of Hallethian having to drink his blood was… enticing. If only Viktorn’s blood was suitable for such practice. Alas, it was little more than a frozen sludge of dark vitriol, unsuited for anything of the sort.)
What mattered most, was that he was fit enough for deployment.
For the purposes Viktorn had demanded of him.
He knew, of how he knew it was unfair to ask this much of someone he claimed to love.
That he did love. At least, he had.
Within these past months, his grip on his ‘humanity’ had failed. Slowly enough that everyone adjusted to the changes, but…
That did not mean he was off of the hook for any unwarranted cruelty.
He was, if nothing else, lucky that he was largely a logical and conscientious person. His understanding of what the elongated lack of access to his own heart had truly done, beyond the inability to feel any form of remorse, compassion, or empathy, was lacking.
He could see this through, to the extent that his aid was necessary.
He could, perhaps, even do so with greater efficiency than he would otherwise- so long as he could mind his tongue.
The reputation the Ebon Blade, and truthfully, death knights in general, had for being…
Cold. Aloof.
Often abrasive.
That alone was his greatest asset in continuing to rub elbows with the living.
Those who knew the full truth of his condition, at the least, understood what had happened.
Trusting Malethiir with the condition of his missing heart had been a wise move on his part. It meant the younger death knight understood the reason why he was so much pricklier.
That he understood why Viktorn would not be landing on the same point as Tarungolin and Ravniel. The landing point that Malethiir himself would be staring at.
No, Viktorn would be accompanied by Hallethian, a contingent of magisters, and a number of the Kirin Tor- the Sunreavers, following Archmage Aethas, who had agreed to work alongside him.
Varian had offered him a battalion of marines, but…
Viktorn did not want to risk causing conflict between the Horde and Alliance before they had even left for Northrend. Nor, did he want to risk conflict within the fleets before they reached the shoreline.
He kept the offer in mind, just, for a later time. He intended, as he had before, with Illidan and his own father in Outland, to work with both factions towards the end goal.
He held more loyalty, in the end, to the Alliance than to the Horde. If it came to it, he would choose his friends over his mentor, and his people.
(If it came to it, his people could be easily convinced to leave the Horde. They held no loyalty to it, in truth. The Horde was a means to an end- if the Orcs and Trolls proved too difficult to work with, if Sylvanus considered their aid in the fight too little, and withdrew the Forsaken from Tranquillien… They would be glad to rejoin their former allegiances, regardless of the rocky past.)
How much, or for how long, he would continue to mitigate violence between the two… that was something he did not know.
Hallethian had been made aware, that one of the first signs of Viktorn’s fall would be callousness about the Horde and Alliance turning upon one another.
That it would likely build up to worse- him aggravating both sides into causing more death. Into doing the Scourge’s job for them. Culling their own numbers, and supplying their real enemies with further reinforcements.
He knew, he could not stay behind and sit idle.
He could not hide from this, any more than he could truly see it through.
If he stayed, the temptations would still call to him. His newfound callousness, his biting words, would get him into trouble. The nearness of his father’s unmarked grave would call to him like a beacon- whispering temptations into his mind worse than any Arthas or his cursed blade could ever have thought of.
(Or, perhaps this was a plot Arthas had- that is, to leave Viktorn in Silvermoon with the knowledge of Kael’thas' gravesite driving him to maddening loneliness, until he brings about the dawn of the “Blood King” himself.
A reign of fire and blood as they wreak havoc upon their own people, not for revenge, but in the name of reconquering their sullied kingdom for the Scourge.)
If he went, he could at least hold off the temptations that came from the proximity of his father’s remains. It may only buy the world a scant few months of time, and yet, it was what he could do.
Either way, Viktorn knew he would falter, and fall. He always did.
(And, based on the odd phantom pains in his chest, steps were being taken to ensure that it was permanent this time. Or, at the very least, someone was carving his name into the stolen organ every so often. Viktorn did not know. Did not need to know. All he knew was that, whatever Arthas was doing to his missing organ, it hurt. Even from such a distance. It was something sharp, metallic. Like needles or scalpels. But it burned.)
He briefly remembers being shown his heart, before it was hidden away. A puffy, large, pink thing.
Healthy, all things considered.
Which included the hardened ice forcibly holding the two halves of it together, and the large swath of flesh blackened by frostbite that ran through the full length of the organ, from where it had been cloven in two all those years ago.
(He knew it was only six years. It just… it felt longer to him than that, is all.)
He sighs to himself, burying his face into the crook of Hallethian’s neck, thankful for the warm hands that never seem to tire of cradling him.
While he knows now that Hallethian doesn’t feel exactly as he does, he is glad to have told him.
At least this is a different case than with Tarungol and Malethiir. Hallethian is open to a wide variety of potential partners.
Hallthian, in fact, rather enjoys sharing Viktorn’s bed.
Its moreso that Hallethian doesn’t want to be tied down like that. Not out of a fear of commitment, so much as his wild heart, and a fear of his own recklessness. His percieved status as an outlaw (even if no one is truly hunting him) does not do him any favors in this regard.
It is still nice, however, whatever this is that they do have.
Relaxed.
Passionate.
Hallethian had made it very clear what he expected of him in return for agreeing to all of this, as he led Viktorn to the bed that first night.
Even as the cold, furious, jealousy of someone else sat in the back of his mind, coiling and undulating, Hallethian’s hands had guided him into a steady rhythym. Had ignited him.
Such a gentle thing at first, like the flicker of a candle, before the roaring flames of it had engulfed him. Consumed him.
(Whether the dark, pulsing of cold jealousy disappearing was a good or a bad thing was hard to say. Was Hallethian distracting enough to keep him occupied? Or had Arthas simply just…
No, he had gotten the answer shortly after.
“Hmm. It seems this little phoenix has some new tricks to teach you.”
Honestly, that response should have terrified him.)
…
They are otherwise committed to one another in a way- Hallethian as the oathsworn vassal to house Sunstrider, and Viktorn as the son of their disinherited (by the will of his people) monarch. As the man who, whether forced or not, was responsible for killing Hallethian’s parents.
He had much to atone for.
And he could not. Not with the time he had left before he fell once more to the whispers in the darkness. Not with so much blood still on his frigid hands.
But he could, for what time he had, make himself useful to the other mage.
As his grip on his metaphysical heart had waned, after these months away from the physical thing itself, so too, had much of who he had been.
Yet, he found that Hallethian brought back something of the old him.
Vyc’torn Sunstrider, with his oddly bubbly melancholy and youthful whimsy.
He was that elf no longer, but something of him still evidently remained, beneath the hardened shell of his pallid flesh. Some speck of his former whimsy, of his inquisitive mind, of his penchant for waxing hopeful in his own despair.
And that speck, however small, was brought out by Hallethian’s presence.
Whatever this relationship was- friendship, brotherly love, primal, carnal lust, some set of ties forged by oaths and loyalties empowered by their shared youth, their longstanding closeness…
Whatever this was, it tethered him.
Anchored him.
And that, Viktorn knew, was what he needed more than anything for the task ahead.
For the shores that awaited them, come the next morning and the rising of the sun.
The stars were… beautiful, tonight. Even with the light pollution of the purified Sunwell, the inky dark skies with their thousands of glittering, glimmering lights overlooking the piers that led to Quel’danas, to the world beyond this sea before them…
It was breathtaking.
Perhaps, some small part of Viktorn realized, it was not just having grown up together, not just the passion, but the simple fact that Hallethian reminded him of simpler days. Happier days.
That Hallethian, to him, brought back fond memories of the Kael’thas he had known. The one who saved him, nurtured him, and raised him as his own. The flamboyant and extravagant mage who above all desired to learn. Who was the embodiment of raw passion, the avatar of flame, the chosen of Al’ar.
Not the fel-addled, maddened corpse that Malethiir had spoken of.
Not the desperate monarch, thrown gracelessly upon a throne he did not want, in a war he could not fight, with allies ready to stab him in the back, no.
The prince of Quel’thalas at its prime, the Dalaran Archmage, the scholar.
His father.
Was it Hallethian’s connections, and similarities, to Kael’thas that cause Viktorn to feel this way? Safe, rejuvenated, and so much like his old, living self? Or was it the way he felt for him in and of itself?
He did not know. Not for sure.
Yet, it did not matter, so long as whatever it was allowed him to maintain some semblance of normalcy. Some grip on his own senses, his own will.
If nothing else, having Hallethian within his quarters meant he could not give in to the call to drink his draught of sleep, to shift his concious self from his walking carcass, to the fragmented shards of his soul that resided inside that accursed sword. The call to go and speak with the one whose will threatened to bend his once more, overtake it, and consume him whole.
Not only because Hallethian was still mortal, and thereby still slept, leaving Viktorn without his own bed to rest in… (Unless, of course, he lay directly ontop of Hallethian’s slumbering form, as was often the case.)
But because he apparently spoke in those dreams, and Hallethian had caught on to what Viktorn’s ‘sleep’ truly was- a means for Arthas to assert his domination, his control. And Hallethian, true to his word thus far, would notice, and would snap him out of the dream in much the same way as Rommath had learned to do for any lapse of of Viktorn’s will- an open palmed strike against his cheek, with the mildest infusion of flame to the striking hand.
Slapping him with small sparks of fire was not just a quick means to get his attention, but a trigger to his subconcious. Even before his rather untimely ascention to undeath, Viktorn had a notable weakness to, well, fire. Light, heat, the element of flame itself.
Whether it was the intensity of his attunement to the ‘element’ of frost, or the shadow of corruption that was placed upon him before birth, he did not know.
Based on how his reaction to flame was stronger than his reaction to light, he supposed it must be, at least in part, the frost attunement.
Heat, in small doses, was comforting. A warm pad on a sore muscle, the overly warm hands of a fire mage against his back, a crackling campfire or a hearth. But, even the rather temperate weather of Quel’thalas was often sweltering to Viktorn.
At least, it had been in life.
Light at least, while it had stung in life, and while it burned now, was more of a discomfort. Usage of it was usually far more specific, more honed, than that of elemental fire. As for regular light, such as the sun, or the light that radiated from a flame, well… They made creams and lotions for that, at least. Specialized eye and headwear to prevent damage to vision.
The flame infused blow, as it was currently, had proven the most effective in triggering some primal instinct within him to flinch.
It pulled his attention far better than simple applied kinetic force ever could.
(And, it was notably safer than a bolt of flame launched in his direction.)
He stands up fully, lifting his head and shaking loose of his thoughts, looking at Hallethian with a guarded expression.
“Ready?”
Hallethian’s face is grim, but determined. The freckles on his pale face have started to return, and in the dim light of evening, the verdant, fel glow of his eyes is almost beautiful. He slips the hood of his robe on, covering his brilliant coppery hair, and steels himself.
He nods, then. A resigned, yet dignified motion. Crushing a glyph in his hands, Hallethian makes his final prepartion for the meeting at hand.
Viktorn watches in awe as the illusion takes effect, Hallethian’s face shifting away from the familiar form before him. The canthal tilt of his proud, aqilline nose rotates until it is straight. The slender bridge broadens ever so slightly. His high, prominent cheek bones soften, the flesh below them filling out and rounding just the smallest bit. Well defined, full lips thinned, his chin thinning, lengthening. HIs red hair dulled to a soft, mousey brown, pallid skin gaining a sunkissed glow. His eyes, still touched by the acrid engery of fel, softened to familiar blue glow of the arcane. He stood slightly taller, slightly less slender, and overall, unrecognizable as a member of the Gilva’tor family, let alone their errant, missing son.
A figure that had arisen in the magisters fairly recently, and only Viktorn, Hallethian, and The Regent Lord himself, and his two councilors knew the truth.
Rommath had been… difficult at first. Hallethian had more than proven his worth in short order.
Proven to Rommath that he could be entrusted with Viktorn’s care.
They nod to one another, heading down from the palace balcony to the pier proper, and their destination.