Disclaimer: Warcraft and World of Warcraft are the intellectual property of Blizzard Entertainment, Inc. and are being used in this fanfiction for fan purposes only. No infringement or disrespect of the copyright holders of Warcraft, World of Warcraft, or their derivative works is intended by this fanfiction.
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Post-Andorhal darkfic; uninformed consent, slash.
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Comfort
by Silverr
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The gentle hands and soft voice return often, cleaning what is left of his eyes with a damp cloth and applying a soothing compress. Then there is the scrape of chair legs on the floor, and a rustle of clothing, and then the voice.
Do you remember, Koltira?
"No."
You have to remember, Koltira. It's the only way you'll ever get better. It's the only way you'll become strong enough to handle your sword again.
"I don't remember anything." He wants so badly to sleep, but the voice won't let him.
Yes, you do, Koltira. We've talked about it before, how Thassarian came and took you from your prison in Undercity. You must remember that. How his friends slipped into Undercity and carried you away? Don't you remember? How dark it was, but not entirely dark, because ...
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... the mold on the floor phosphoresced dimly, and from time to time a bulb of glowing green acid oozed through a crack in the slippery round wall
Based on how direly she had glowered at him in Andorhal, Koltira had steeled himself to face torment in Undercity, but all Sylvanas had done was drop him in a deep dry well without Byfrost. If his captor had been anyone other than the Dark Lady Koltira would have assumed that he was simply being left to starve, but he was certain that there was more to it. She had said, after all, that she wanted to reclaim him for the Horde and the Forsaken, not merely punish him. Punishment would have been public execution or torture, as an edifying example to others.
The only possibility he could think of was that he was meant as bait in some plan to trap Thassarian. This possibility worried him at first, as the human was impulsive and idiotic enough to charge in alone if he couldn't get anyone to help him, but as time went on without any sign of foolhardy rescue attempts Koltira relaxed. For a while he alternated between mild resentment that he had been so quickly forgotten and impatience for his trial to begin, but in the end both emotions faded until he was left with only a dull, mindless complacency. There was no reason to move or to think, and so he did neither.
Finally, one – day? night? – the crushing silence was disturbed by a faint clamor, as of an approaching battle. He stood at the bottom of his well while the echoing sounds became louder and louder, and then there was a tiny chip of light blazing high above, and then something large landed next to him.
The light had temporarily blinded him, but as he raised his fists to defend himself he heard a high elf female shout up toward the light, "His sword's not down here."
"Who are you? Why are you here?" he asked, his voice hoarse from disuse.
"Who we are isn't important," she said. "We're here because of Thassarian, and while I don't care a rat's tail about you, or understand why people would risk death to free you, I have a mission to carry out. So be quiet and do as you're told."
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See? the voice says. I knew with a little help you'd remember what happened.
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He woke in a bed, in a simple whitewashed room lit by candles. The linen sheets - faintly redolent of silverleaf and silversage – reminded him of Highvale and happier days.
There was a discreet cough, and he sat up. Several robed figures, faces completely hidden by deep hoods, stood next to him. Near the door was a blonde high elf ranger, an arrow casually nocked in her shortbow. It wasn't until she smirked at him that Koltira realized that he was bare-chested – naked, in fact.
"Who are you?" he asked. "Is this really Quel'Danil?"
"I am an Acolyte of the Light," one of the robed figures said softly. "You are in a safe place."
"Where is Thassarian? I want to see him. And where's Byfrost?"
"Your runeblade? Alas, I am told it is still somewhere in the Undercity. As for Thassarian … " The Acolyte glanced at the ranger, who nodded. "Thassarian," the Acolyte said, "I'm sorry Koltira, but Thassarian died the second death while fighting his way into Undercity to rescue you."
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How did you feel, the voice asks him, when you heard that Thassarian had died?
Koltira turns his face away. His eye sockets burn.
You don't have to say it. I can guess, the voice says, placing a fresh cloth over his eyes. What happened next?
"A miracle," Koltira whispers.
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" … and so, because of his heroism and the many covert missions that he performed for the King, priests and paladins of the Light worked with druids of the Cenarion Circle to resurrect him," the Acolyte said.
"Resurrect?" Koltira shook his head; he couldn't have heard correctly.
"Yes." The Acolyte paused. "But he's still adjusting to being alive again, and I think you could help with that."
"He's … alive?" He was stunned. "He's no longer undead?"
"That's right," the Acolyte said.
Emotions he hadn't felt in years welled up. "Of course I'll help."
"Thank you." The Acolyte said to the others, "Please bring him in now," then turned back to Koltira. "Be prepared: his body will look strange to you, as it is temporarily distorted by the life magic used to resurrect him."
The man they brought in a few minutes later did shock Koltira: he could hardly believe that it was Thassarian. Barefoot and wearing a long sleeveless robe open to the waist, his body was grotesquely swollen, the skin green and covered with glowing sigils. A heavy mist, so thick around his face that his features weren't even visible, draped cowl-like over his head and partially down his chest.
"What's wrong, Koltira?" the Acolyte asked.
"He looks strange." Koltira shook his head. "Why is he bent over – is he in pain? And what is that mist?"
"The mist has not lifted because he can't yet remember who he is." The Acolyte urged, "Go ahead. Talk to him."
"Thassarian, it's me. Your brother, Koltira." He felt awkward with the ranger and the acolytes listening. "Why doesn't he respond?" he asked the Acolyte.
"He won't be able to talk until he regains himself," the Acolyte replied, gesturing to the other robed figures to leave. "Don't be discouraged. Keep trying to help him remember who he is, who you are, and he'll come back. Touching him might be very effective," the Acolyte said. "He will feel it and will know it's something familiar. It will help to bring him back."
"I'm not sure I – "
"Help him remember your bond," the Acolyte said, and left.
Koltira glanced at the ranger as he hesitantly slipped out of the bed. She flicked her eyes over him then shrugged and turned her back.
"You're ... alive again," Koltira said, and brushed his fingers over Thassarian's forearm. The skin felt odd, slippery and leathery. "It's good to see you."
And it was, it was exhilarating to know that under all the oddness was Thassarian, living and breathing again. His living skin was warm, so warm ... Koltira had come to terms with his attraction to human males not long before he died, when the low flame that had flickered in the shadows at the very edges of his awareness for years began to blaze up during meetings with humans of the Alliance discussing the happenings in Lordaeron. He'd had no opportunity to explore these feeling before he'd died, of course, not with the arrival of the Scourge and the destruction of the Sunwell and the defense of Silvermoon, but – as much as it worried and shamed him – from their very first encounter as mortal enemies there had been a physical component to his thoughts about Thassarian. Undeath had complicated the matter, as had servitude to Arthas, as had conflicting faction loyalties … and yet Thassarian had kept their bond intact, even when Koltira retreated, so he'd continued to hope.
Thassarian made a small noise, as if he was lost and confused. Koltira slid his hand up to a bicep and squeezed; the muscle was like rock. "Can you hear me, Thassarian? It's Koltira."
Touch him, the Acolyte of the Light had said, talk to him.
Thassarian made a sound again, a little louder, and so Koltira traced his fingers up and across the massive shoulder, until the greenish mist – which looked insubstantial, but was as unyielding as stone - stopped him. He moved his hand down then, palm flat against Thassarian's bare chest, to where the powerful heartbeat thudded like a wardrum. "I'm done with the Horde, Thassarian," Koltira said. "I want to stay here with you, take an oath of loyalty to the Alliance. Perhaps ... perhaps someday they'll be willing to resurrect me too, and then we … " He could hardly bring himself to think it, let alone say it.
Thassarian lifted his arm then, and put a hand on Koltira's shoulder.
Remind him of your bond. He'll come back to you, the Acolyte had said.
Koltira leaned forward, pressing his cold lips against the life-magic tinted skin. He had no idea what a human would find pleasurable, but as they didn't seem so different than elves he opened Thassarian's robe enough to lick tentatively at a nipple. When it tightened under his tongue he bit gently, and heard a panting exhale. A moment later Thassarian's hand was pushing down firmly on his shoulder, signaling to him to kneel.
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And you did, didn't you? The voice asks.You knelt and you pleasured the man you loved, then let him possess you. It's a strong memory, isn't it Koltira?
He isn't going to admit it to her, but yes, he can vividly recall the intense tastes and smells that overwhelmed even his blunted senses – the hot, musky smell of the groin, the salty taste of unwashed skin, the weight of the sac in his hand – and the way that the thick fingers twisted in his hair had suddenly pulled him up and bent him over the bed, spreading his legs then gripping his hips, and after that the sound of living flesh slapping against dead ...
Did it hurt, the voice asks with a touch of eagerness, that he left so quickly after he was spent?
"Yes," Koltira says, almost inaudibly. He remembers, remembers too well, and as always the memories make him wish that the voice would leave him alone so that he could sleep and try to have the good dream again, the dream where he wakes inside the embrace of strong, loving arms. The dream where a bearded chin scrapes his shoulder and warm, unhurried kisses make their way to the side of his neck. I've got you now, the deep rumbling dream-voice might say as a hand slides across his waist and then down, boldly caressing ... he wants to sleep and dream such a dream, that both he and Thassarian are alive, that they are together, but the voice won't let him dream. The voice wants him to remember everything.
Every day, the voice comes in and forces him to remember everything.
Do you remember the road, Koltira? the voice asks. Do you remember what happened on the road?
"No," Koltira says fretfully. "I don't want to." His numb fingers clutch the sheets. "I don't want to remember that part."
He expects the voice to be angry with him, but then there are unexpected noises – a knock, the creak of a door opening, and then heavy, scratchy footsteps. A raspy voice says He is talking too freely in the barracks, complaining that it shamed his pride as a warrior. A cold voice entirely without mercy replies, You dare interrupt my work for this? You task me, orc: my abominations have more intelligence! Kill him if he will no longer obey, and have Father Lazarus be ready to prepare the next smallest one in case it's needed.
There is the sound of a door closing.
A hand strokes the side of his face. You must remember all of it, Koltira ... and now the hand and the voice are not so soft, not so gentle. Never forget what he did to you.
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"I have to tell you something," Thassarian said. They were alone, on a road that led out of Undercity and into the shelter of dark trees.
"I might know what it is," Koltira replied with a smile.
"They gave me a choice," Thassarian said coldly, walking away to stand behind a barricade.
This was not what Koltira was expecting, but just then Alliance troops crested the hill. Within moments pike-men had formed close ranks around the barricade, protecting Thassarian with a circle of stakes.
"What is this?" Koltira asked. "What are they doing?"
"I had to chose," Thassarian said. "Life, or you."
"Choose?"
"I chose life."
"What are you saying? There's no need for choice! Didn't you tell them," Koltira asked, bewildered, "didn't you tell them I'd leave the Horde? Follow you into the Alliance, as I should have done in the first place?"
"Why would they believe you," Thassarian replied, "when I don't? You're fickle, Koltira. I can't afford that. I won't accept undeath again. I won't give up my life for someone I can't trust to stay loyal."
"But – "
"Your rotting undead flesh disgusts me," Thassarian said.
"Don't do this!" Koltira shouted. "I am not going to watch you walk away from me!"
"Then you'd better not watch."
That was the crux. Watching Thassarian had been his downfall from the first. He had seen the human death knight's hesitation over killing Faltora, which led him to believe the man still had a conscience and a soul. He had seen Thassarian hesitate again, after defeating him at Silvermoon, and thought it bespoke the seed of mutual feeling. Since his undeath, wherever he was — in Acherus, on the deck of a gunship, in Andorhal — his eyes had constantly sought out Thassarian.
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Yes, they were the true traitors, weren't they, Koltira? the voice asks. Your eyes. Whenever you saw Thassarian it made you weak. That's why you did what you did.
"What did I do?" he asks, even though he knows what the voice will tell him.
With your own hands, the voice says, replacing the compress on his eyes, you blinded yourself. The cloth is icy cold.
"No."
Never forget what happened then, Koltira, the voice tells him. Always remember how he laughed and rode away, how he left you bleeding and blinded on the road.
He doesn't want to listen any more.
Do you hear me, Koltira?
But he must listen, and he must answer, for the voice is all he has left. "I won't forget," he says, balling his hands into fists. "I won't."
The gentle hand smooths his brow, comforting him. It was fortunate, was it not, that we heard so quickly of your plight? Even though you had transgressed, rejected us, I could not bear to see you so cruelly abandoned, the voice says. I had my priests bind your wounds and put up magical wards to protect you from the shadows, and sent my best deathguards out to punish the human for what he did to you.
"Thank you," Koltira whispers. "Thank you, my Lady."
There will always be a place for you here, among your people, she says. Among the Forsaken, you are always welcome. You are always home.
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~ The End ~
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Author's notes at my Dreamwidth and LiveJournal (URLs in my profile).
The story "Distress" is set in the same AR as this one, and can be considered a sequel.
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(13) 1 May 2014