-This is an RPG-related work of fiction based on World of Warcraft, an MMORPG created by Blizzard Entertainment. It is drama/angst with a slice of lemon. Rated T for sexual situations. He is the property of Jasen Allen, and is used with permission. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-
The darkness was acute. She could see nothing; nothing at all. For a long moment, there was silence; a heavy, molten silence, pressing down on her.
Then, light. Had her eyes been open all this time? She looked around the small bedroom, cozily furnished, the warm, ivory stone draped with colourful gauze. Outside, she could hear the echoing clang of a hammer on an anvil.
He was working in the smithy. She stood in the doorway, swathed in red and gold, her feet bare, and watched him. She didn't know what he was crafting - a sword, perhaps? it looked rather like a sword - but she watched him anyway, studying him as he lifted the hammer and brought it down again, pounding steel into submission. His long, auburn hair was tied back; he'd taken off his shirt, and the muscles under his skin rippled.
He crafted the way he fought - smoothly, with fluid motions that were almost like a dance. His hands held the hammer and tongs firmly, with a sureness that came only from mastery of the craft. She knew those hands; knew that in spite of the power in them, they could be gentle. She knew the feel of them against her skin.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she gasped softly. He must have heard her, even through the hiss of the coals and the ringing of the hammer. When he turned to her and smiled, she blushed and touched a hand to the laces at her throat.
"I'm not bothering you, am I?" she asked, and he shook his head, still smiling at her.
"Never." He set aside the tongs, placed the hammer on the anvil, and walked over to her, wiping his hands on his leather breeches. She looked at him in surprise.
"Your blade -" She gestured over his shoulder, but he caught her hand in his and shook his head again.
"It's nothing," he murmured, pulling her into the circle of his arms and smiling down at her. He leaned in and kissed her lightly. "I was just waiting for you to wake up."
"But you've done so much work," she said, blinking up at him. "Have I been asleep for so long?"
He touched his calloused fingers to her cheek, his gaze travelling over her features. He nodded slightly, looking deep into her eyes. "A very long time, my love." He smiled again, a gentle, tender smile.
She seemed to realise something - something she couldn't put into words. Her voice was soft, filled with a quiet awe: "I don't have to sleep anymore, do I, Knight?"
He nodded once more. Lowering his head, he brushed aside her hair and whispered in her ear, "Never again."
She closed her eyes and moaned softly as he kissed her throat. His arms were strong around her, holding her to him as he murmured her name into her skin. He lowered her to the floor, and she looked up at him.
"This is it, isn't it?" she said, laughing lightly. "Finally." She reached up and brushed her fingers against his cheek, down the side of his face, along his jawline. "You're not a Knight anymore. You're just a blacksmith." There were tears in her eyes, but her expression was one of joy, not sorrow.
He smiled down at her and slid his rough palm against her cheek. "Just a blacksmith," he echoed, his voice low. He chuckled softly and brushed away her tears. "Do you still need me?"
She bit her lip, trembling slightly in his arms. "More than ever, my love," she whispered, reaching for him, sliding her hands into his hair and pulling him down to her. The kiss was slow, passionate, and lingering. It was clear to them both that neither wanted to let go.
He unlaced her robe with firm, calloused hands - a warrior's hands. No; a blacksmith's hands, brushing against her skin, exploring every inch of her. With her eyes closed and her head tilted back, she could almost believe that there had never been a time when they'd had to fight for this existence.
His body fit against hers the way it always had, but there was something different about it. Perhaps it was the heat of the smithy; perhaps it was the sound of the crackling coals. Perhaps it was the knowledge that tomorrow, they would not have to leave this quiet life, would not have to gird themselves for battle.
Perhaps it was the fear that this was nothing more than a dream.
She pulled at his leathers with a desperation that came from need, desire, and the fear that it might all be a lie - that things could ever be this way, that they could ever defeat the Scourge. She pressed herself against him, moaning his name, begging softly for his touch.
Two hearts beat out of synch - his, calm and soothing; hers, nearly wild with terror. She moaned into his mouth as he kissed her again; lifted her hips to meet his gentle thrusts; opened herself to him, praying silently for this life to continue. Her fingers twined in his long hair, pulling out the clasp and letting it cascade over his shoulders. The softness of it against her skin, the feel of him moving against her, and the taste and scent of him surrounded her.
Her heart beat even faster now, pounding against her chest as though it were trying to escape. She clutched at his shoulders as he buried his face in her hair, brushing his teeth and tongue against her throat. She could feel herself drowning in his touch, and she knew: with his final movements, it would end. It would all end. But she also knew that neither of them could stop.
They met together: he, gasping softly into her hair, her name on his lips; she, crying out - though whether in pleasure or despair, she did not know.
She held him tightly, afraid to let go. He lifted himself slightly and looked down at her. His expression had changed; it was no longer one of serenity and peace, but of worry and concern. He was fading; she could almost see through him, to the other side of the smithy.
"No," she whispered. Again, there were tears in her eyes, but she ignored them. "No. Don't go." She stretched out her arms, her vision clouding. Dark tendrils of nothing began to spread, pulling him away from her. Panic was rising in her, now: "No; please!"
She could hear his voice, though he did not seem to speak. "Priestess? Shadow and fel - priestess, come back to me!"
The darkness was acute. She could see nothing; nothing at all. For a long moment, there was silence; a heavy, molten silence, pressing down on her.
Then, light. She blinked up at the circle of faces around her. Mage, warlock, hunter - and Knight. She lifted her hand, weakly, and he caught it in his own, squeezing gently.
"We thought you were gone for good, that time," the hunter said with a chuckle. He tucked a pair of cables into his pack, while his wolf howled softly in sympathy. "Both of you."
She sat up slowly. The warlock looked apologetic; the mage, coldly impersonal. Her gaze flitted from one to the next as they stood in the streets of old Stratholme. Finally, her eyes came to rest on the paladin. They looked into each others' eyes as the mage spoke.
"The wonders of Goblin technology," he said drily, his eyes hooded and blank.
The warlock twisted his hands together. "I'm so sorry, priestess," he mumbled. "I should have stored your soul in -"
She looked sharply at him. "No." The warlock blinked, and tried to continue. "No," she repeated, interrupting his attempt. "My soul had .. somewhere to be..." She looked back at the Knight, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
Knight and hunter helped her to her feet, and she looked around again. "Is he dead?" she asked. "Is the Baron dead?"
The mage nodded. "For now," he said, in a voice like brittle leaves. "But he'll be back. He always comes back."
She knew it was true - had always known it - but still, her stomach twisted, and she felt ill. "It never ends," she whispered to herself as the five of them walked down the street to the heavy, rusted iron gate.
The Knight dropped to the back of the group, to walk with her. "It never ends," he echoed, nodding slowly. Glancing at her from out of the corner of his eye, he murmured, "Do you still need me?"
She stopped dead in her tracks, and stared at him. The others were almost to the gate; Knight and priestess stood in the lonely, dying street and gazed at each other.
"More than ever, my love," she whispered, and stepped into the circle of his arms.