Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at /works/277993.
Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Category: M/M Fandom: World of Warcraft Relationship: Thassarian/Koltira Deathweaver Additional Tags: Gore, Guro, Necrophilia, Community: bloodyvalentine, Questionable Sexual Metaphors, Undead, Death References, Death Knight Stats: Published: 2011-11-15 Words: 1171 Embracing Death
by JackOfNone
Summary
In the ranks of the Scourge, murder might be the closest thing you get to love.
Notes
Written (for one of my own prompts - less than classy, I know) for Bloody Valentine's Halloween fest.
"You're a fool, Thassarian." Koltira could tell he needed the attentions of a necrosurgeon, but he doubted any could be spared for a death knight who had already been written off as a loss. "Sending a callow creature like that to fetch me? It'll be a wonder if we aren't all disposed of before dawn."
Thassarian kept his arm wrapped around Koltira, edging him gently forwards. He was stripped to the waist — neither of them had any care for the cold, not any more — and he could practically feel Thassarian's gaze upon marks that the Scarlet Crusade had left upon his body. Enough shallow wounds to bleed a living man to death, and more painfully, the marks of Light sorcery that had scorched him from the inside out. "I hope not. She not only brought you back, but she returned with your armor, your sword, and the head of the bishop who took you prisoner. Not a terrible haul, all things considered." There was an edge of desperation in Thassarian's voice when he spoke — a hunger for vengeance on his behalf, Koltira hoped, and not fear for his safety. Worry, compassion — these were dangerous things in a Scourge knight. He'd been skirting that danger for far too long, and Koltira had hoped Thassarian would be level-headed enough to turn his back on him and that tangled, unsightly knot of emotion that had existed between them since Koltira had been torn from the darkness of death to find his own murderer extending a hand to help him to his feet.
"The head, perhaps, will save her from being thrown back into her grave. I'm afraid we might not be so lucky." Koltira looked out at Acherus Hold, sitting on the horizon like a storm cloud. "They'll know you sent—" Koltira began, but his words were cut short by a violent fit of coughing that sent him to his knees. The corrupted, rotted-honey taste of his own blood filled his mouth. Thassarian kneeled with him and held him by the shoulders until he caught his breath.
"Damn it all," Thassarian said, his voice a low growl. "I'll find you a necromancer if I have to conjure one from the dirt. I won't let a mortal crusader—"
"Won't let him what, Thassarian?" Koltira laughed humorously, then choked back more bile. Thassarian wasn't listening to him. "Why are you doing this? What purpose could it possibly serve? In the eyes of the Scourge—"
"To hell with the Scourge," Thassarian growled.
"Let me go," Koltira snapped, and he was disgusted to hear desperation creeping into his voice. "You're going to get us both killed." Koltira brushed the back of his hand across his lips roughly, and it came away smeared with black ichor. "Please," he said, but Thassarian did not relent. Instead, he seized Koltira's chin and pulled him until their lips met in a harsh, bruising kiss. Apprehension became fear that clutched at Koltira's heart. This was acknowledging the tangled knot between them — something deeply forbidden.
And yet, even though he had often wondered what it would be like to press his lips to Thassarian's, he felt nothing but the certainty that they were betraying their cause. Cold, hard, and dead.
"You're a fool," Koltira said again, trying to pull away. Thassarian licked Koltira's blood from his own lips. "You can still—" Thassarian slid his hands down Koltira's chest, across shallow gashes and flesh pulped by maces, to find an old wound, its stitches come undone. Koltira hissed as Thassarian's fingers explored the edge of the wound — not the superficial marks of battle, but a real killing stroke, clean through his breast and out the other side.
"A fool? Me?" The tips of Thassarian's fingers hovering at the edge of the unhealed wound stung just ever so slightly — a real, immediate pain so temptingly different from the dull ache left by the Scarlet Crusade's tortures. Koltira's whole body shuddered. "You could have had this repaired." Thassarian probed deeper into Koltira's flesh, and Koltira groaned in agony, leaning hard against Thassarian, who held him pinned with a hand wound into his silver hair. "But it seems like I'm not the only one how doesn't want to forget."
"I serve the Scourge," Koltira said, without conviction, his breath coming in short gasps like a living man in torment or ecstasy. "We have no—" Koltira's objections were cut off by Thassarian roughly digging two of his fingers into the old sword-wound, making him choke and sputter in pain, more blood and ichor welling to his lips.
"But you remember," Thassarian said. Koltira looked up at him, and for the briefest moment saw a kind of cruel longing in Thassarian's eyes. "You remember that moment."
"It's not as though I could forget," Koltira said.
"My sword in your lungs up to the hilt, catching on your ribs. You bled like a fountain," Thassarian growled in Koltira's ear. The elf arched his back, pressing Thassarian's hand into the gash, his fingers sliding roughly through the slick mess until Koltira felt Thassarian's last knuckle strike his chest. Up to the hilt. "Close enough to feel your last breath." The kiss had been nothing — a cold re-enactment of living passion, a pantomime of a life long left behind. This, now…this was dangerous. He could already feel his self control slipping. Damn it all, Thassarian wanted to hurt him so badly Koltira could almost taste it; part of him ached to feel living and breathing agony again, and another part wanted desperately to sheathe Byfrost in Thassarian's heart. He half-suspected Thassarian might welcome his blade.
Thassarian's fingers twisted, tearing into him, and Koltira collapsed against Thassarian's shoulder with a strangled cry of pain, all rational thought momentarily seared away. Koltira didn't even know he was capable of feeling this strongly. "I killed you with my own hands, Koltira, and I'd spit in the Lich King's face before I let anyone else do that to you. Especially a pack of damned Crusaders."
"I hate you," Koltira hissed, but it was partway a lie and he could tell Thassarian knew. "You're going to destroy us both."
"We'll suffer regardless," Thassarian said, pulling his gore-stained hand from Koltira's flesh slowly enough that Koltira felt each minuscule curve and callus scraping away at his insides. "Let's do it on our own terms. Together."
Koltira wouldn't have objected even if he had the strength. Koltira leaned heavily into Thassarian as he helped him to his feet. He was surprised to find he could stand, and even walk. The damage done by the Scarlet Crusaders felt more like a distant ache compared to the searing fire where Thassarian had torn open his mortal wound and the giddy sense of vigor that was starting to creep into his frozen heart. A tryst in the snow is good for the soul, Koltira thought bitterly, but found the thought too close to the truth to entertain for long.
One way or the other, Thassarian would always be the death of him.