Notes1: So...a bit of context: I don't do these kinds of stories, not because it's triggering but because, as far as I've never felt the need to write one, I have never been a fan of more mature, explicit stories that feature molestation, rape, and NTR (netorare). Granted that I've usually seen those themes present in hentai and drama/romance adult fiction, but on top of not feeling compelled to go out of my way and write such a story, I've never been drawn to read one where they were the main focus. Usually, nine out of ten times, they're only used to bash someone or go over-the-top and make certain characters ridiculously OOC. So it's both jarring - and, at the same time, a different change of pace (not really, since one part of its selected genre is angst, and there have been plenty of that in my Warcraft fics lately) - to have come up with the idea one day while I was toiling away at work.
The idea being "write a story in which Artyem, the draenei shadow priest featured in this little light of mine, goes through a traumatic experience Xal'atath puts him through by using Alleria as a central piece". I'll admit that in the process of this I found approaching the scene daunting and for a couple days - between work and college - I was hesitant and overly cautious to even write the closer I got to it. Originally it was going to be more graphically descriptive, but I wondered (waffled, if you want to put it that way) how effective it would have been if I had gone down that route. Would it be seen as too over-the-top and melodramatic? Would it be too juvenile in its portrayal? Would it even instill the terror I was looking to instill in my readers? On the other hand, I had always been more affected by psychological drama/horror and the implications of an event (the mere idea of both psychological and graphic horror makes me shiver) than the more usual norm of splatter/gore fiction, which, though it can be effective if applied properly and piecemeal, is utilized more for shock value that loses that incentive over time.
In the end, I went with the latter decision. In all honesty, I'm very much on the fence in regards to trigger warnings. One part of me would rather not spoil the indications of a story through these so as to have the reader go in blind and with little to no expectations that may or may not be influenced by "hype". However, another part would rather not have a reader have an episode that I would be inadvertently responsible for and, on my part, feel guilty for it. I'm still not sure how I feel about warnings, but I think this time I will put it up, just to be on the safe side.
Notes2: I had always thought Blizzard could have taken advantage of Xal'atath and giver her more interactions other than her whispers in regards to Alleria. Alleria herself can talk to a hunter that uses Thas'dorah, and with her learning shadow magic and being an elf!Velvet Crowe eating naaru left and right (just one, that is :P), I wondered what it would have been like if Blizzard gave shadow priests the option to talk to her and get her opinion on not just dabbling in dark powers that are looked down upon (justifiably so, but at the same time, as Umbric of the Ren'dorei puts it, preceded by small-mindedness that ignores how, no matter how dangerous it is, can be used for good with training and willpower) but Xal'atath herself. I've read that people wanted Xal to comment on a Void Elf that wields her, but I like to think the inclusion of the allied races occurs after Antorus and thus they never make contact her because she is already in someone else's hands.
Sometimes, when Artyem goes to sleep, he dreams of Xal'atath. Or rather, somewhere down the line, he has come to the conclusion that he dreams of what he thinks Xal'athath would be…or, also, what Xal'atath wants him to see.
She's not always present in them, but when she is she lets him know. Sometimes she's the disembodied voice who clucks and commentates—veering from bored, clinical interest to subtle and not-so subtle disparagement (both of which are thinly veiled)—of what goes on. They are, he'd admit quite shamelessly, mostly nonsense, whimsical fantasies. He's dreamed, more than once, of riding the eels on the coast of the Townlong Steppes; of trying to climb to the highest parapets of the bridge in the Timeless Isle where the black cloud serpent, Huolin, was said to fly over just so he could be the first to bring it down and tame it as his own (people somehow managed get on top of them and set up camp as early as humanely possible); of having supper with the ghosts of goats that most certainly weren't draenei and hooded, horned guardian kings in gold cloth that, on more than one occasion, he could recall Xal'atath scoff in disgust and ask him why he even bothered letting his mind drift to silly things when there were more amusing subjects to ruminate over. She would bother to repeat it again when he wakens and is more alert, and the answer is always the same: he can't help it. The mind has a habit of conjuring images from the reservoir of memories to keep a person entertained.
These were the first dreams Xal'atath experienced when the war against the Burning Legion was in full swing and she had yet to find much succor in the spilling of bloodshed. She had grown weary of them, and after a while left him be.
Artyem missed that. It's always nice to have company, no matter how sour they may be.
Later on, when the Armies of Legionfall edged closer and closer to breaching the Tomb of Sargeras, he dreamed of home. Argus, with its crystalline rivers and rolling, purple hills where the talbuk grazed and the elekk grouped together to drink at watering holes. Had it really been twenty-five thousand years since the Triumvirate fractured? Why, yes, Artyem had thought, when he first set on Mac'Aree and took it in. Really took it in—the Legion had not only decimated it, but, as he and his pretty high elf companion (what was her name again? Ah, Mishka. Mishka, what a lovely name) with the stone lion-dog pushed deeper, some ethereals had claimed a portion of it and were tampering with the Void. The Seat of the Triumvirate was practically oozing with the stuff, and Xal'atath was just adding onto it by salivating at how marvelous it looked.
For once in his life, Artyem bit his tongue and allowed himself to think something other than shadow magic and what engineering project he should experiment on and perfect next. Managed to let go of those two anchors of stability and let his mind, his feet, wander.
Twenty-five thousand years is a very long time, even for a draenei. He used to walk these roads lined with precious minerals to and from Oronaar every day of the week to attend his classes at the Conservatory of the Arcane. He used to practice with his classmates, some whom he called friend and some whom he called rival, their arcane spells in the courtyards. He used to commune with the Light, sit among his peers at church and listen to the anchorites, to Velen (before he had become prophet), hold their sermons. All of that is gone now, ruined and abandoned, with the ghosts of lingering draenei (some of whom he recognized, and he had surprised himself he was even able to get through Mac'Aree at all) and echoes of the past the sole inhabitants of what had been left behind.
It was a wonder he slept soundly at night, dreaming of his friends and family he had lost: his mother and father, his aunts and uncles, his older brothers and younger sisters. A few of them had been arcanists, but for the most part were members of the laity of the Light, hanging on to every word Velen said; they had even believed Kil'jaeden, strong and shrouded in the aura that demanded attention, when he spoke of the beautiful creature named Sargeras, who had come to him one day and offered to show them the way to universal unity and prosperity more bountiful and fulfilling unlike anything they had ever known.
It was the last time he had ever seen his family alive, once the Legion descended on Argus. And so he dreams of them, dreams of what could have been had their lives not been upended by chaos. Dreams of what he could have become had he pursued his career with the Light and gone to the Grand Anchorite sooner to give his decision on joining the priesthood as an initiate. Maybe, he thought foolishly (and he really did think it was foolish, he wasn't being obfuscating stupidity that time), he could even have become Velen's apprentice, if he had performed more than well enough to warrant his consideration.
It's around this time when Xal'atath decides to appear as a person. More specifically, a draenei of androgynous proportions and tone of voice. Always her skin color is different, and always the placement of her hair, horns, and tentacles are different. But her words are all the same: They ignore what they don't want to see, what they refuse to acknowledge. They are misguided in their teachings.
They don't understand, she insinuates with sadistic joy, how much worse they could have had things. You are, for the most part, lucky to even still be alive.
Yes, he thinks. Yes, it could have been so much worse.
She stops coming to him when he heard tell that Alleria Windrunner was gathering a small group of adventurers to assault the Seat of the Triumvirate and put down the darkened naaru that had been drawing in spirits—and the Shadowguard—with her despairing song.
Alleria is a pretty elf, and though Artyem is very easily moved by the beauty of nature and different cultural aesthetics Azeroth has to offer (except for orcs—they had too many spikes—and gnomes and goblins—they were just plain dirty), he believes she's a gem among elvenkind. Light, he would say she's the prettiest woman he's ever seen, and he's seen some very lovely ladies from all walks of life, regardless of their elegant finery and bohemian garb. Her hair is as bright as the gold crystals that line the walls of the Vindicaar's bridge, with soft, peach skin to reflect that, seeming almost radiant. She has tattoos (blue ones, like his skin!) over one eye and down an arm that make him think of the skyfin hatchlings he used to chase after (and give his poor mother conniption fits over trying to catch him from making a beeline right into their nests) in his youth.
But most of all, on top of being nice and showing respect to everyone (even the orcs and the trolls!), she wasn't off her rocker like he was. He liked that she was confident in her ability to use shadow magic and was more impressed when he found out she could resist the call of the whispers in her head, blow them off and keep on keeping on as though they were never there. He had wondered, now and then, if the ethereal with the very fancy hat—what was his name? oh! Locus-Walker, like the sacred lotus flowers he's seen floating in the pools at Darnassus—if Locus-Walker could teach him how to better hone his craft and concentration.
So when she made one final call to anyone willing and bodily able to join her and her teacher to put a dent in the Shadowguards' plans and grant L'ura eternal respite, he forewent tinkering with which relic he should empower at the Netherlight Crucible (You can wait just a little, he told Xal'atath, What's the rush? and Xal'atath hissed like an angry cat when he pulled away) and told her that yes, he'd be more than happy to back her up. He knows a little bit about healing with the Light—oh, she's already found someone? That's okay, he can pack together a quick field kit from the stuff he's purchased from Dalaran and whatever he's picked up here and there from Krokuul and the Antoran Wastes. Anything helps.
Yes, it does, she had said, and…maybe he imagined it, but Alleria had taken one look at Xal'atath and the tome Twilight Deacon Farthing had on him strapped to his hips, before she left to go find anyone else who would join her.
They had stormed the Seat and cut a swath through the Shadowguard and their twisted experiments like a wildfire in dry grassland. Blood and bandages littered the walkways by the time they had entered L'ura's compound, pulsing with anguish and a restless, angry hunger (at the ethereals? At them? At herself?) simmering just beneath the surface that, if she were in a better state of mind, would have been coming off her in waves. Even then, when Locus-Walker insisted on Alleria striking the first blow, the darkness that shone brilliantly, wrongly, was thick enough to make his stomach roil and his heart heavy with hopelessness.
Then, when L'ura was weakened and just as her core began to grow dim, Locus-Walker told Alleria to, in his words, 'take her shadow' as her own.
So she did, siphoning the last of the naaru's essence.
The font of power surging from her, changing her into a shadowform darker than what Artyem usually put himself into at the height of battle, was so sudden and powerful he could almost swear his mind nearly drowned from it. So many whispers, so many voices, ringing, ringing loudly in his ears and bouncing so fiercely in his skull he feared it would break!
Xal'atath had laughed—a high, clear, girlish laughter full of pure joy. It was unlike anything he had heard from her before, for whenever she laughed it was a harsh, cruel sound like sail clothes being torn. Usually she laughed at someone's expense just as he was about to tear the last shred of strength and sanity from their mind. That time, though, she laughed because she was happy. She laughed when the naaru's power seeped into Alleria's bones and dropped her unconscious on the floor, and she had continued to laugh when the high elf woman picked herself up and deactivated the shadowform as though it was a light switch she could simply toggle off and on.
They didn't come back after that. Not right away; Locus-Walker ushered him and Mishka and the others that had accompanied them out of the Seat—preferably back to the Vindicaar where they could recuperate-before he beckoned Alleria to come with him. To test her newfound powers, he had said, and while most people would think (and he wouldn't blame them) Artyem had lost one too many marbles for thinking delving into shadow magic was a great idea, he's not too stupid to read between the lines and not try his patience.
When they did return and he awoke several hours later (somewhere around the afternoon; he started using Azeroth's rotation and the position the sun was in shortly after making contact with Argus), Alleria was back no different than she was before. Except for the sensation of magnetism that surrounded her, like L'ura's when she was still alive, but the emotions that had been exuding from the naaru weren't present anymore. They were completely absent, as though they no longer existed…but he's seen the way the Light's Chosen look at her. It's not hatred he sees (and anyone who says otherwise would be a liar), nor are there any discreet, suspicious glances sent her way. What he does see is a bridled wariness, a matter of keeping their distance from her even though they maintain their watch on the bridge where Velen oversees—and cannot look away from—the destruction of their homeworld regardless of how much ground they've been gaining toward Antorus. Their words are kind if neutral, short and to the point but guarded, and their weapons are, to his relief, are not pointed at her or the light-glowing—no, lightforged dreadlord general who's drawn a lot more than his share of bewildered stares and hesitant backpedaling whenever he moved.
But they don't bother her, and if they tried to Velen would have certainly given them a stern word about letting prejudices clouding their judgments. He's changed a lot, lately, Artyem thinks, as he wakens to the quarters he shares with a number of adventurers (mostly Alliance) that is still seeped in darkness—a sign that it's still nighttime. So has High Exarch Turalyon, from what little he's known of him. He's gotten older; his face is weathered and bears the scars of combat, his hair bleached white but kissed as if by the Light itself. He's been out there fighting in the Nether for a thousand years (and ain't that a doozy to keep track of, while on Azeroth, in the physical plane of reality, it has been barely thirty years?), fighting with his…well, Artyem doesn't think they're married, but they're certainly close as any couple he's seen—and perceived—so he has no right to judge or make assumptions.
The fact of the matter is, they've been together for a long time, and so when Alleria rejoined them on the Vindicaar, without Locus-Walker and with a spring in her step, Turalyon was all too eager to welcome her back. Almost rushing, but he had stopped short, just shy of touching her, instead exchanging pleasantries and then inquiring about what had occurred at the Seat of the Triumvirate. Yes, the Shadowguard had been broken for the time being. Yes, their operations had been ceased and scattered to the winds. Yes, L'ura had been quelled; she was without suffering now.
For a brief second, Artyem had seen concern cloud over his face. Worry…and then it was gone, replaced with a smile and look of relief that, at the very least, one hard part out of many had been taken care of, though it had come at the cost of L'ura's life. With that done, the Army of the Light and the Armies of Legionfall were one step closer to assailing the Burning Throne. One step closer, the High Exarch declared, to end the Legion once and for all.
Artyem remembers the thread of childish anticipation and dark glee at the thought of them being annihilated from the cosmos, as he pads down the hallway. It…frightens him, just a little bit, at how much he's been looking forward to this day; even if he doesn't show it outwardly nor anywhere near as passionately as some of the other draenei, it's still there. He should be happy it's all come down to this, though the Armies' resources have been strapped tight for months on end ever since the Tomb of Sargeras had been raided and Illidan Stormrage used the Sargerite Keystone to open a portal between Azeroth and Argus. Archmage Khadar wasn't too happy about that; he was terrified, in fact, of how easily the Legion could cross into their world as easily as the Armies could theirs…but wasn't it better this way? Isn't it better to get it over with now instead of sealing the Tomb off, as he had intended, and waiting another few years before they tried again, more powerful and unending than before? If Artyem was anything but a shadow priest, he would've said Illidan was reckless—foolish, even, to go that far...but someone had to do something about them, and maybe Illidan was the right person to be mad in the head (or, perhaps, he was born mad) to do it. Maybe it has to take one mad person to understand another.
He lets his hooves carry him down the flight of stairs, where the lights are on but set very dimly so as to provide minimum illumination. At first he doesn't recognize where he's at, but once he rubs the sleep from his eyes and clears his vision he sees a placard on the wall written in draenic: the cargo hold. Ah, so that's where he's at. What a peculiar place for him to be at. There isn't much anything of interest to look at other than weapon racks on the walls and crates of argunite crystals whose light could be discerned from lids someone didn't close all the way. That couldn't be good; there are rogues upstairs. One of them might get in their head to sneak down here and nick a few to grind into powder for…oh, Artyem didn't know. Potions? Oils? Maybe snort them? Would snorting them even be safe? Well, people have done dumber things than snort crushed crystals before.
What am I even doing here? He asks himself, and, try as he might, he can't think of a reason as to what he could do here. He's been doing more than enough to supply Xal'athath with harvested souls he's carved from corpses, and from them he's used the Altar of Light and Shadow and the knowledge he had translated from the Secrets of the Void to temper all that power into a honing point that would put any bladed, blunted weapon to shame.
Maybe he needed a bit of fresh air, sterilized and plastic it may be. He had only taken the conjured portal back to Dalaran once since the assault on the Seat to restock his netherweave pack with healing supplies and replace his battered pick and arclight spanner with new ones. There was also all the obliterum he'd been lugging around for…goodness, he couldn't remember, but he had them smelted down at the forge and gave them to Brassbolt Mechawrench to put on the auction block for, hopefully, some gold, even if they were being phased out for the more illustrious primal obliterum. Then he had stayed for a few days, gathering his wits and making sure he was in tip-top shape before he took the lightforged beacon back to the Vindicaar.
"Maybe I didn't get enough," he says aloud, and yes, that made sense, didn't it? He slept a lot while he was away. His body simply decided it was time he had enough and prompted him to get up and move about.
Should I go back upstairs and let someone know I'm going down to the surface? Would that even be a good idea right now? What time is it, anyway? Somebody, someone from Light's Chosen, perhaps, had to be watching over the beacon while Romuul was predisposed. Surely there have to be people down below that were working tirelessly through the night, keeping watch and refurbishing their diminishing supplies?
"Wouldn't hurt to try," he says, and on a whim he makes sure he has Xal'atath on him.
She isn't. Neither is the tome.
"Huh." Could he have left them upstairs? He always put her under his pillow when he went to sleep, as he'd been told several of the troops were feeling uncomfortable seeing her out in the open. His fellow shadow priests had grumbled, but some of them also cast surreptitious glances at it and the book he carried, so without complaint he decided that the most he could do was tuck her away safe and close at hand. Sure there were several hundred people aboard the Vindicaar and thousands more on the surface…but there's bound to be a demon or ethereal raging at their plans being foiled over and over again. It didn't hurt to play it safe. "Guess I'll go back up," he mumbles. If there's no fighting, the least I can do is help take inventory. It's something.
He turns around.
"Good morning, Arty!" says the elf woman jovially, and Artyem damn near jumps out of his skin. He backs away from her and stops himself from going any further, heart jackhammering harshly against his ribcage, and it's only then he gets a good look at her.
A very…good look at her. He swallows so thickly he can hear his Adam's apple click in his throat. "X-Xal'atath?" he ventures. Could it be her? He's seen blood elf death knights with skin white as snow and black as a bruise, but they were decked head to toe in plate armor. This one here has blue skin, like the sky at high noon…and showing plenty of skin that the black dress should be covering. Bare shoulders, plunging neckline showing off a well-endowed chest, bare stomach, bare hips, twin slits up the sides revealing plenty of leg—
Artyem swallows again, throat dry. Suddenly, more than ever, he wants a drink of water. Now, preferably, but the lady is blocking his way, and Xal'atath or not he knows better than to forego manners and push past her. "You…You are Xal'atath, right?"
She laughs. "Who else would it be?" She runs a hand underneath her hair and flips it up. It's black and wavy with a hint of curls. The tips are a bright blue, and glowing, and that's all he sees before they fall over her shoulders. "What do you think? How do I look?" She does a little twirl on the spot…not that that would accomplish much, seeing as the bottom of the dress clings to the rest of her body and doesn't billow about.
Artyem tries not to linger on her too long, tells himself that he's an adult and that a proper gentleman always maintains eye contact with another person…especially if that person's a woman. "You look…beautiful. You stand out." It takes every ounce of restraint not to spill it all out in a rush.
"Why, thank you. That was the intention," says Xal'atath, smiling. Her lips are a little darker than her skin, a dusky purple like plums for the picking. "Alleria likes it, too."
It takes a moment for that to catch up. When it does, he can't stop himself from eliciting a tight, squeaky "What?" Then, a little more steadily, "What are you doing? Why am I dreaming of Alleria?"
"Honey, who says you're dreaming?"
"I am. A-And it's a dream!" he reiterates, stammering. "Y-You don't have that kind of influence. Not like the druids."
A slow, languid smile, with an edge of teeth, touches her lips. "Why don't we find out? Alleria!" She brushes past him before he can stop her, the sound of stilettos clicking loudly like gunshots. He whirls around and raises a hand as if to stop her, but she's moving fast and already several feet ahead of him.
He freezes, his blood turning to ice.
Alleria is here. Artyem's pretty sure he was the only soul who's come down here. He's also sure there wasn't a tree, gnarled and black and full of knots, like something that got yanked out of the Nightmare-touched Darkheart Thicket in Val'sharah while Xavius's shade wasn't looking, in the cargo hold a few minutes ago.
Alleria is there and strung up like an ornament, a prisoner of war, each arm on an outstretched branch with wrists bound in thin roots that remind him too much of manacles. Or hands; yes, hands would be a more…proper term. She looks, for lack of a better word, tired, limp, and doesn't respond when Xal'atath puts a hand under her chin and tips her head up. "Look at her!" Xal'atath says, staring deeply back at her, all teeth and dimpled cheeks. "Isn't she just ravishing?"
Artyem's jaw drops. "What—" He stops, dry-swallows, starts over. "Let her go!"
"Why would I want to?" Xal'atath asks him, and looks his way. She traces her hand up Alleria's jawline, cups one cheek, and turns her head toward him. "Don't be silly, boy. You can feel it, too, can't you? All that power coursing inside her, eating her from the inside out. Waiting to be unleashed. This is someone who appreciates the true beauty in darkness. Isn't that right, dear?" She coos in the elf's ear and nuzzles her face in her hair. "You could afford to learn a thing or two from her, Artyem."
"This is wrong! You can't just—"
"Arty," she says, drawing the word out. "You've been ripping out souls and feeding them to me since the day you pried me from Farthing's cold, dead hands. Right and wrong is merely subjective. What people say is wrong," and Xal'atath circles around Alleria, dragging long, black fingernails across her bare abdomen, "is merely a result of a lack of knowledge. A rejection of bettering one self, if you want to call it that." She comes up behind and all but drapes herself on top of her, as if she's spent every drop of energy in moving a few steps: one arm is loosely wrapped across Alleria's shoulders, one hand going to cradle the soft meat of her chin again.
The other goes round her hips, her hand dipping low between her thighs. Alleria doesn't react.
But Artyem does; on top of the startled flush that's surely staining his face red, he starts to run toward them. "No—" he tries to get out, but he slips and falls to the floor. His chin cracks against it, starbursts erupting red and white behind his eyelids. Grunting and groaning, Artyem makes to push back onto his feet…only his wrists are bound to sinewy, pulsing black-purple tentacles, and if the weight on his back and hooves are any indication, they are as well. By the Light, the weight on his back…he can't imagine big, how many, there must be; this must be what it feels like to be trapped beneath a part of a building that's collapsed and all the might in one's body cannot hope to throw it off.
When he cranes his head back (because there has to be a tentacle on his neck, he can just feel it, taste the gangrenous miasma exuding from it, thin and slimy but filled with the eldritch power to conquer worlds), Xal'atath is grinning, eyes wide with delight and foliate ears standing fully erect. She's practically leaning across Alleria, breasts flesh against her back. "I'll let you join if you behave," she says.
"She's not yours," he grunts.
"Oh, but she is. She's taken to learning the Void where everyone else is basked in Light. She's devoured the core of a fellow sister who turned astray to…ha, gain control. She knows what she's doing. She has the right idea." Xal'atah buries one part of her face against the side of Alleria's head. "Ah, she has no idea how happy that makes me."
"She's Turalyon's mate. He won't stand for it."
Xal'atah barks surprised laughter. "And what do you suppose he's going to do about it? They can't even touch each other without causing extreme pain! What kind of love is that?"
"Would you even know what love is?"
She flashes her fangs at him, a terrible smile that's both cruel and sardonic and full of ugliness. "Says the man that can't even find himself a mate!" Xal'atah cries, and for the first time Artyem really, truly, looks at her eyes. He's never noticed until now they're slits, dark and narrow like a feline's, but staring at them, even just for a moment, is like looking right into the sun on a high, cloudless day; and it burns, hot and cold up and down his spine, and in a surge of fright and insurmountable uncertainty he looks away. He has to, because he can't imagine what'll happen if he should dare defy her and linger.
Xal'atah nods, satisfied with his submission, and regards Alleria with a fondness Artyem usually sees reserved for patients lying on their deathbeds. She runs a finger along the woman's lower lip, slides her other hand even lower until it's gripping her by the core. There's a very subtle shift of expression right then and there, of stirring wakefulness, but it is threadbare, ephemeral. Alleria, for all he knows, may as well not have reacted at all. "People fear you for what you harbor. They don't understand what it is you have to offer, for as widespread as the Light is it cannot cover everything. That is why it casts shadows, Artyem; we are but remnants of the truths they dispose without a second thought.
"Don't you get it? You don't need them. Going toward the Light will blind you and burn away everything you know until the only truth that's in your mind is the one they will drill into you. With us, you will never be found wanting…and then some." She smiles knowingly, predatorily, at Alleria. "She's all but ours now." She parts her lips and slides a long, serpentine tongue across them, topping it with a grin. "Mine now."
"She's not yours," Artyem says again, growls it, and, uselessly, tries to get up and push the tentacles off his back. He can't even budge. "Alleria's had a thousand years to tame the Void. She…She won't fall like me."
Xal'atah laughs again. "Do you honestly think that's going to stop us? One thousand years, one million, an eternity—none of that matters! The ethereal may have taught her, but he is not the best teacher. Nay, Arty; the greatest teacher of all is time. What it gives to its students in exchange for tutelage it will also take in the end. He cannot outrun it…and neither will she." The woman rakes her nails down Alleria's neck and down one armored breast. "Why should you care so much? You are not so much my partner as you are a tool for my convenience. You don't have the balls to go all the way. No, Arty, not like her."
"She'll find a way. She'll show me. She's better than that."
She nods slowly, soberly, and in spite of the tranquility that graces her features a dread chill wracks Artyem from head to tail. Xal'atath lightly knocks her head against Alleria's. "Yes," she croons. "Yes, she does. Now," she adds, right as he opens his mouth to speak, "where was I…? Ah, yes." She places both hands on Alleria's hips, unbuckles her belt, and slides the chainmail skirt down.
"There we go," she rumbles, deep and husky, eyes sparkling. "Come here." She cleaves through the undergarment in two and plunges her hands south: one to spread her legs, one to sink her fingers inside the elf's crevice—sharp and fast.
Alleria startles awake, and pitches a high, painful whimper.
"Stop!" Artyem cries, and scrapes his nails raw against the metal floor. "Stop, Xal'atath!"
"And miss out on all the fun?" Xal'atath dips her head to the slope between Alleria's neck and shoulder and curls back her upper lip, exposing fangs too long to for an elf's mouth to hold. "This is my prize, Artyem. I am going to claim her—not sooner, not later. Now. She is mine, and no one, not even the Light in the sky and the stars and the moon and in the cosmos, will take her from me. But by all means, try! Your efforts will compel me to want her all the more."
She sinks her teeth into the meat of her flesh, and in between Artyem screaming himself hoarse and Alleria crying, all he can see is that rapid in-out in-out motion of Xal'atath's fingers, back and forth, back and forth—
"—wake up! Hey! Wake up!"
Someone is shaking his shoulder.
The first thing Artyem does when he wakens is move. He sits up, lunges, hands reaching to tear the elf's throat out.
Mishka yells and falls back on her rear end, barely missing the swipe of his claws. The red and black lion-dog, Banchou, barks and gets between them and catches the blow with his (is it a he? Why, yes, Mishka told him, Banchou is a he) stone hide. Then he hops up, slams both front paws against Artyem's chest and pushes him down on his back, face pressed to his, growling angrily. For the second—first?—time today, galaxies explode behind his eyes as his head smashes to the floor.
"Down, Banchou!" she calls, sitting up. "Get down right now!"
The quilen chuffs, and for a second Artyem thinks he's going to ignore her and continue applying his weight on top of him (because by the Light, he is heavy). But he relents, reluctantly, and gets off to pads over to his master's side—stands more or less in front of her, Artyem notes, glaring at him.
He doesn't blame him, but not placing the blame on a quilen is the furthest thing from his mind; it's barely an echo. "Tell me I'm not in the cargo hold," he stammers.
She blinks at him. "What? No. You've been in bed all night." Mishka puts a hand on Banchou's flank, lets him know that she's alright as much as she doesn't want him doing anything without her command, and, to Artyem's relief, the quilen stays put. "I was wondering if you were okay, because you didn't get up early like the rest of us, so I went to go check on you." Her face turns commiserative. "You were having a nightmare. I didn't mean to startle you."
A nightmare….
Which means…that…didn't happen. It was just—
Artyem sits up and tosses the pillow aside.
From atop the Secrets of the Void, Xal'atath's eyes stare back at him—unblinking and lifeless. They are as mere ornaments. She does not greet him, as is her wont.
Cold anger grows heated in the pit of his belly. For one brief instance, Artyem considers taking the dagger and the tome, march to the nearest airlock, and throw them out into the Nether where it can float among her precious stars for all eternity. At least, the rational part of him blares, until someone—or something—catches them and use her for their own purposes.
The thought doesn't quite make him deflate. There's one more thing he needs to know: "Where's Lady Alleria?"
"Last I checked she's on the bridge with Velen and the High Exarch." Her brows knit worryingly. "Artyem, what's wrong—"
"This," and Artyem flashes Xal'atath before he clasps her and the book to his belt. He gets up and brushes past the elf and her quilen, who turns to him and makes to follow.
He tries not to dwell on the dawning horror that came to Mishka's face when he showed her the blade.
When he arrives on deck and climbs the stairs to the bridge, he has to refrain from pounding up the steps and forcibly turn her around. But she already knows there's someone behind her; the twitching of her ears give it away, and she looks upon him when he stops before her, trying to catch his breath. "Hello, High Priest Artyem," she says. "Huntmaster," she adds, giving a small smile to Mishka as she and Banchou come up behind him.
"L-Lady Alleria," he pants, and, as discreet as he can manage, looks her up and down. It unnerves him, just a little, at how calm she is. How unbothered she is by him. How at ease she carries herself. Under normal circumstances, he would think things are going well on Argus and he would be glad for it as she is. Perhaps that's indeed the case; and seeing Alleria appearing perfectly well and dandy and relaxed is a sign that he's one step away from blowing this out of proportion and walking away feeling like a goddamned clown. It doesn't help that he's already starting to, although he stays in place and braces himself for the wave of shame that's about to overwhelm him. "You're…you're okay," he finishes lamely.
She nods. "I am. Although that probably won't stay that way for long; I hear we'll be calling down the thunder on Antorus soon. I hope by then we'll have everything prepared for when we march. 'The sooner the better', Illidan told me. I think he's had enough waiting around." She gives him a long, curious look. "What about you, Artyem? It's been a long time coming."
He swallows around a parched throat. "I just want it to end and move on with my life." It's an answer he's certain every draenei, Velen included, has thought of or has been thinking of for millennia, and probably more so since the portal to Argus was forced open. After all, despite all the constant fighting and so-called faction pride people liked to flaunt and throw about, Azeroth is a good enough home. A permanent home, for what is there left to salvage from Argus? There might be something to glean on Mac'Aree with the Shadowguard broken, but no matter how much Hatuun goes blue in the face about preserving what little there is to be saved the damage has already been done.
"Yes. You and me both." Alleria continues to look at him, wearing the same expression. Artyem wonders, is pretty certain, Mishka is looking at him, too, with Banchou keeping a steady eye on his back. "Tell me, Artyem, is that thing giving you trouble?" She nods at Xal'atath.
Never has he felt his heart fly from his chest to the roof of his mouth that quickly in all his years of living. "Th-Thing?!" he squeaks. Then, more quickly, her eyes now, "N-No! No she's not! She hasn't done anything! What makes you think she's—"
"Artyem," Alleria says gently. "I just saw you run upstairs as if the Legion itself was behind you and ask me if I was okay. You're out of breath and sweating profusely."
"Th-That doesn't Xal'atath has anything to do with that!" He fights the urge to tug furiously at his goatee, a nervous habit he's had as a young adult and was never able to get out of. "It was just a dream!"
"What kind of dream, if you don't mind my asking?"
The whole sequence comes back clear and full force as if he's experiencing it all over again. He clams up and stares at her, eyes wide and white and shining, face drained of all color and curdled like spoiled cheese.
Alleria hums. "You don't have to tell me. I understand. I, too, have endured the madness the shadows of the Void attempt to spring on me. But always remember this, Artyem: so long as you remember your mind is your own and you have faith in yourself, it won't have any sway over you. Use it as you would use any other weapon that's to be mastered. You are in control."
Artyem shifts his weight from one hoof to the other, part of him wishing the floor would open up beneath him and another part feeling as though he's spilling his spleen out to a counselor who's actually bothering to take the time of day to hear him out, little though it may be. "I know…but it's hard to come back out. The deeper into the shadows I go…." In a way, going into his shadowform is like swimming underwater and seeing how far one can go before it becomes unbearable to breathe and the time comes to return to the surface. It wasn't always so difficult; when Deathwing rocked the world, he could switch back and forth with ease, but ever since coming into contact with Xal'atath it has become more and more…enticing to stay in the shadows for longer periods of time. To let loose the power coursing through his veins like molten lava spewing from a volcanic eruption. To let Xal'atath come up from the back seat, open all the floodgates, and wipe the field clean of people, beasts, and demons.
To see what heights he could reach, and see the faces of all those whom doubted him and mocked him and jeered his bouts of lunacy curdle into fear.
He can't bring himself to go any further, but it's more the fact that he can see Alleria get the gist of it than the discomfort sowed in his words. Still, he prefers not to look at her and rather stare at the floor between his hooves, stewing between shame, relief, and humiliation.
"Artyem," Mishka says, lowly. What a mess this must be, Artyem thinks, to have dragged his friend into this. How much more fearful would she be if he explained to her the contents which Xal'atath bestowed upon him?
It's for the best he doesn't say.
All of that is forgotten when Alleria asks, "Can she hear us?"
"Eh?" he says, picking his head up. Then, remembering, "Yes, she does. But—"
"Xal'atath," Alleria forges on. She leans down, tucks a few strands of hair away as she peers at the dagger. The eyes along her hilt are inert and unmoving, the light from the Vindicaar giving them the appearance of plastic; even the skin—or metal; even after reading the texts, Artyem still isn't sure what to make of her—would make one think he's wielding a toy and not an Old God weapon of destruction. For all intents and purposes, Xal'atath may as well be just another tool. "I know you're listening, so hear me well."
Xal'atath doesn't move, says nothing.
"You should already have an idea what's going on, so I won't bother giving you the rundown. But here's the thing: we're this close to launching the assault on Antorus. It could be another week, a few days; it could even be tomorrow. I don't know, but what I do know is that it's going to happen very soon. Help Artyem cut through the masses so that we may reach the Seat of the Pantheon. Do me this one favor and you'll have as many souls as your little heart desires. Then," and Alleria gives Xal'atath the sweetest smile he's seen, the kind of smile that reaches the lips as well as the eyes, "when all's said and done, leave him alone and kindly go fuck yourself."
Xal'atath says nothing…although Artyem is pretty sure he just heard Mishka smother a chicken-like squawk.
"That's all," Alleria finishes blithely, as if she didn't just tell an aberration of the Void to go take a hike. "Make sure she gets all that, Artyem. It'd be well in her favor to do it. And," she smiles once more, but it's much softer, more kindly and bereft of fire, "if you need to talk to someone…I'm here."
He can't fight back the blush that colors his cheeks—and probably the rest of him, since the air has gotten suddenly, a bit, uncomfortably warmer. "Th-Thank, Lady Alleria," he says, and bows at the waist. "I'm…sorry to have troubled you."
"Not at all."
Those three words may as well have removed the weight from his heart, and his steps are much lighter when he and Mishka go back downstairs to begin the day. When he apologizes to her for his waking outburst, she shrugs. "It's okay. Banchou was trying to protect me. He didn't know any better, did you, boy?" She puts a hand between the quilen's ears, and he licks his lips and turns his head up to appraise her, tail wagging. "I…used to do the same, you know. When my parents died in the Fall. I couldn't really…bring myself to talk about it for a few years, until I renounced the Horde and met Armi."
"Did it get any better?"
She frowns. "After a while. Still hurts, though. Even after coming to terms with everything and…seeing my mother again, that night in the Fields of the Eternal Hunt…I still remember."
"But they weren't nightmares," says Artyem. "Not," he searched for the right word, "not machinations from…you know."
"No. Not all of them." Mishka gives him a curious look. "Was it…that bad? I mean," she quickly adds, "you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I…understand that talking about them sometimes isn't always…cathartic. But it's like Lady Alleria said; if you want to talk, about anything, I'm right here."
A ghost of a small smile touches his lips. "Yes, I'd like that. Talking, that is. And if we get out of this whole thing alive."
"Hey, my mother said on the Night of the Wilds I'm not allowed to die until I've done everything I can in my life, and dying young isn't one of them. We have the largest fighting force Azeroth's ever seen since the Cataclysm right here. On a world full of demons, the only thing we really have to worry about is the Unmaker."
"And Sargeras."
There's a tiny click in her throat that's barely audible. "And Sargeras. I'm sure we'll think of something. Right?"
"Right." There's no telling what will happen if—no, when they come across the Dark Titan. What would even happen and how one-sided is the fight going to be? Would it even be a fight, with their numbers and his colossal form made manifest with all the powers of the cosmos at his disposal?
He perishes the thought. "Are you going to the surface today?"
"I'll have to take stock of inventory and see if the leatherworkers need me to go hunting. I think it's going to be another couple days or so before the lightforged can force one of those portals open onto another invasion point. What about you?"
"I'm thinking of doing the same, what with all the lightweave cloth that's been absconded from the strongholds. We might be able to purify some of it and put it to use once we make sure we got all the taint out of it. After that," he shrugs. "I don't know. I've been away a while, but I'm really in no hurry to go back down there."
"We're all gonna be down there eventually. I'll see you around?"
"Yes."
"Alright. I'll catch you later." She gives him a couple good smacks on his arm and, clicking her tongue, calls for Banchou to follow her to their destination. The quilen huffs and goes with her, attached to her side.
Artyem watches them go, and when they're out of sight he releases a huge, quiet sigh he hadn't realized he'd been withholding. He hasn't been up for more than fifteen minutes and already he feels tired. Alert, wide awake, and still a little on the edge, he can sense that the day has only just begun. It will be a long, slow march to nightfall, and sleep—even just a catnap—is the last thing he wants to do.
I suppose I had better do something then. Anything to get my mind off things, Artyem concludes.
It's as he's about to move into motion that he senses her, a shift in atmosphere more subtle than clouds sliding across the sun…but even with all the thousands of years of training in the Light and Shadow he could never quite shake the utter wrongness in the way the shadows seep into the mind. It is a tentacle, a hand, fingers caressing the walls of thought; and then all along her hilt do Xal'atath's eyes open, one by one by one, and it is her touch that makes his crawl break out in gooseflesh and the blood in his veins run hot and cold in flashes.
Though he can't see it, Xal'atath's largest eye peers up at him. If he focuses a little more inwardly, he can almost see the elf-shape beaming at him. "Go fuck myself, she said?" She laughs, voice high and gay. "She doesn't realize I've been doing that the moment I laid eyes on her."
"Xal'atath—"
"She will be mine," she declares. There is neither mirth nor humor in her eyes, only the slow, seductive of a predator who is about to have the mouse trapped right between its claws. "Oh, yes, Artyem. Sooner or later, she will be mine, a caterpillar made a butterfly free from her cocoon, and when that happens I will savor every second of it." She smiles wistfully. "I look forward to it."
As he clenches his fists and draws blood from his nails, hatred and rage and helplessness coursing like a vile poison, Artyem hopes it never will.