I am shocked that no one did any Arthas/Sylvanas drabbles. I mean seriously folks, this pairing definitely deserves exploring. To encourage others, here are 100 word drabbles! Please read/review.
Reflection
Arthas' eyes are fixed on the woman standing before him. The face of the resistance. An Elven Ranger. So proud, noble and resilient. Goodness shining from every pore of her body. Feeding the self-righteous wave that threatens to drown him. Unbidden, something stirs inside him. He can feel the ice shift on a slight breeze. Memories. Strong hatred rushes through his veins, bubbling slow and poisonous.
The sun's rays set her golden hair aflame. Eyes pierce his shadowy soul with iron determination and her stanch is one that projects a wall for the innocent and unprotected.
Mirrors reflect. Sometimes people can imitate mirrors. If he looks hard enough-pushing past the icy contempt-there are fragments of his own soul staring back. Distorted and disturbed.
The fractured remains of the man he once was- they are imbedded in his body, carving him slowly and deeply from the inside. It is ignored. What need would he have for regret?
Only the need to consume- posses- thrums through his body. In tune to the portentous whisper leaden with the arid rasp of death. It guides his ominous path.
They gaze at each other, unwavering-a myriad of intense emotions simmer on their faces.
Arthas' arrogance directs his thoughts, gives them more value than they are worth. The woman is nothing more than a petty annoyance. But she does provoke a reaction, small, a flicker of the old Arthur. Rising as if by her command. 'Was the future written in stone? Is my nature irreversible? A step in the opposite direction, a decision against.. the future king. I have already spurned one beloved King.'
Shuts down his thoughts. The idea is unthinkable.
He loathes her for it. It shows. The perpetual sourness curdles on his face like milk in the sun. The twisted malevolence tightening his desiccated countenance grows hollowed and sunken. The coldness wrapping his body emanates a bitter chill.
Pretty Elven ranger sworn to protect without questioning. She hasn't reached out into the abyss and returned with a taint on her clean armor. Something black or gruesome that can burrow under her skin. A terrible act besmirching the proud gold, blue and silver. Even if possible-she would simply cast the act aside as-necessary. He could behave in such a manner- once. His lies have eaten away at his cloak. The color drained to lifeless grey.
He raises Frostmourne. The sword catches a prism of light; it winks fleetingly at him before being sucked into the black metal. Wicked thoughts dance in his head; Destroy. Power. Control. Contaminate. AnIncessant pounding against his skull and his body has shrivelled to enclose the sounds more fully.
His Hunger cannot be satiated by the mere devouring of souls and the puppetering of bodies. His thirst not to be satisfied not even by the spilling of copious amounts of blood.
Sylvanas had heard stories about the prince. Very conflicting stories. The Elven warrior can discern which of the two stories ring true. However, whispers of the other - stories that paint him as human, still cling to him. Like brown leaves cling to a naked tree branch in the last days of encroaching winter. The words of glory, now meaningless, are brown, arid things slowly incinerated to grey ash in the wake of the burning fires of his greed, lust and wrath.
To Sylvanas, he means nothing to her. Prince or butcher. Living or Dead. Sylvanas will defeat him. An enemy of her people. A threat to her lands. She spares his "condition" very little thought
Only one thought throbs through her veins, saturates her blood made thick with adrenalin in preparation for battle. Protect . The word in her heart hammers a beat against her chest. It is not simply a word. It embodies honor, love, trust and home. Gifts she received from birth. Bequeathed unconditionally. She would not surrender willing these most precious, valuable treasures.
Sylvanas and Arthas. Two distinct entities. Both driven by an internal force that emerges from the very heart of light and dark respectively. One warped and twisted to lead the darkness in a bloody onslaught. The other bright and radiant, the very essence of beauty derived from the golden disc in the sky that cares for the world. Light glows, opaque and hot, to ward off the blackness. Darkness, in all its inky, deadly glory, crawls in frigid glee to tear her world apart. However, neither of the two participants are aware-when darkness attempts to devour wilful sparkles of light-all one gets is shadows.