This story contains spoilers for the following Warcraft novels - War of the Ancients trilogy, Day of the Dragon, Night of the Dragon, Thrall : Twilight of the Aspects. It is not strictly necessary to have read them, but it might help make sense of things I reference.
I hope you enjoy, and DISCLAIMER, I of course do not own the Warcraft universe. *sob*
Rhonin all but collapses into the chair. His mind seems to shut off, leaving him with only the raw emotion that sears his heart. Everything suddenly aches, as though he has been torn limb from limb and left to rot alone and in the dark.
Thirteen days. Krasus, his friend, his once mentor, his lover, has been dead for almost two weeks. And he must learn of this from some passerby. The word sours even as he thinks it. A mere gnome.
"Don't…don't be true," he whispers, heartbroken, to the empty walls. "Please don't be true."
Korialstrasz, his human form wrapped carefully around the dragon within, ducks Rhonin's punch with ease. It's almost as though the human mage had been moving in slow motion. But this does nothing to cool the seething rage inside Rhonin. He continues his attempts, trying with every ounce of might he has to beat the dragon mage to death. But every punch, every swing, is carefully avoided and never returned.
After a long moment, Krasus simply sighs and lets himself take the hit. It doesn't hurt anywhere near as much as Rhonin wants it to, feeble as his human punches are against a mighty dragon (whether in human form or not), but Krasus puts up a good show.
Something cracks as Rhonin's second punch finds Krasus' skull, and it certainly isn't the dragon mage's skull.
Swearing crudely, Rhonin tugs his broken hand away and glares at the red as though it's Krasus' fault. Grudgingly, though, he doesn't pull away when Krasus snatches up his hand. With a few murmured words, the pain fades almost completely.
"You sent me in there to die," he snaps, tugging his hand away and glaring at Krasus. "You knew I was never going to make it out of Grim Batol but you sent me in there anyway."
"I cannot condone what I chose to do, Rhonin. I had but a fleeting window of opportunity to free my queen, and I took it. I cannot, I will not, condone my choices, but do not think I never cared who died so that she could live."
"I'm not a body count, Krasus," the redhead seethes. "You don't get to use me and toss me away like a broken tool when you're finished."
Reaching out, Krasus places a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder. There was a time it would've taken less than this to calm his former apprentice. Now, Rhonin merely turns his head away. "Just get out, Krasus."
"I hope that one day you can forgive me for this, my friend," he implores, knowing it is futile.
"I said get out!" Rhonin shouts. But it still hurts that Krasus obeys. It still feels like a knife in the heart to watch the dragon's receding back, and listen to his footsteps draw away.
Rhonin shakes his head, resting his head in his hands. That pain had, at the time, been crippling. He remembers it so well. That day, confronting Krasus as an equal, not as an apprentice. Destroying the Demon Soul had ended the conflict with the orcs and with Deathwing, but it had done nothing but create a war between Rhonin and his former patron.
There was a time Rhonin had thought the pain of it would never heal. That he would never again look at Krasus as anything but an enemy. But time had come and gone, and the wound had certainly healed. Krasus had become more than just his once teacher, he had become his friend.
But this pain…Rhonin wonders if there is time enough left in his life to heal.
They're stranded. Lost in a world that will one day be their own. Rhonin stands on solid ground that one day lies at the bottom of the ocean. Krasus is at his side. Together they stand, waiting in silence for the world to end.
And when they kiss, it doesn't feel wrong. It feels like hope - hope that they may make it out of this war alive. That they may just make it home after all. And to hell with the consequences, to hell with anything but this.
Rhonin is the first to pull away, his hands dropping from the dragon mage's hair to his shoulders, thoroughly out of breath. With an intense expression clouding his eyes, he repositions himself over Krasus and finds the dragon's lips once more.
And if the world may end around them, neither feels the need to care.
Vereesa brings him a drink. Almost as soon as it's in his hand, she is gone again, her elven footsteps inaudible. He downs the mead in one breath then slams the tankard down. The crash echoes through the empty room, and tiny splatters of liquid seep into the wooden table.
Anger bursts through the cracks in his composure, and with a furious shout he throws the empty flagon at the wall with all his strength.
"Damnit, Krasus!" he shouts, though none can hear.
Least of all the red dragon.
"You called Sintharia his prime bitch," Krasus announces, laughing heartily into his drink. The dwarven tavern is alive, bustling with activity. Both mages allow the sound of celebration to fill their ears, Krasus letting it sink into his bones. Revitalise his dulled senses. Let them sing. Let them celebrate. Grim Batol is emptied once again, celebration had been earned with blood and life. Good lives. Rom, Iridi; even the enigmatic Zzeraku had played his part in the battle. Krasus knows that without even a single one of them, the battle for Grim Batol would certainly have been lost.
"Someone had to say it," Rhonin replies jovially, snapping Krasus back from his thoughts. The redhead shares a greeting with a dwarf, slamming their drinks together and shouting in Dwarvish. When he looks back at his friend and lover, Krasus has a strange look upon his face. Rhonin frowns. "What is it?"
"We made it out. But I…I cheated death yet again. More than once."
"Then you deserve another round," the human cheerfully announces.
He moves away, weaving artfully through the crowds of dwarves towards the bar. But Krasus merely leans back in his seat, eyes vacant as he loses himself in thought. In fear. "I cannot cheat death forever, friend. I cannot toe the line to oblivion a thousand times."
Halfway across the room, a sudden feeling of desolation overwhelms Rhonin. Sparing a glance back at Krasus, he feels his heart clench. But he convinces himself to smile, forces the fake emotion over his face. Both of them put on brave expressions.
Tonight is a night for celebration. Death has not found them yet.
The memory fades into an echo at the back of Rhonin's mind. Closing his eyes against the desperation, he shakes his head. How could I have been so blind? You told me you could not run forever, and I smiled and ignored you.
"Please, don't go."
Korialstrasz's eyes flutter closed. The light surrounds him, filling his soul. So bright he sees it even through his scaled eyelids. Sadness pangs at his heart. Followed by joy, and anger. Emotions he cannot explain tangle together into a furious knot, choking him.
And then, as quickly as it has all begun, it is over. The red dragon welcomes the darkness. Welcomes the ancestors that surround him, beckon him to the world of the dead. The Mother Tree blurs into his vision, so full of life yet containing no life at all. Wings of every shape and every size form a drumbeat, thundering around him.
"Rhonin," he murmurs. "Rhonin. I will never leave you, Dragonheart."
Closing his eyes once more, the red dragon relinquishes himself to G'hanir.
Rhonin thinks he hears the dragon's great voice, maybe once or twice in the years that follow. He thinks he feels the red standing watch over him, surveying his life as it passes him by.
And though he knows that he is, he never feels alone.
So there you have it. If Alexstrasza is allowed multiple consorts, why should Korial not get some on the side too, I ask? Hope you enjoyed.