Please note that this story does follow my other stories, Treason and Ann'da. I will do my best to explain the background but this story DOES have spoilers for those two stories. It is highly recommended that you read those two first.
As always, Blizzard owns everything (including months of my life devoted to game play), save for my original characters. Thanks and happy reading!
Being sick was horrible. Probably more so than the generous stack of untouched school books that required his attention.
Doubled over as a coughing fit racked his body, Deimos didn't fight the callous ailments; he hadn't the energy nor will to try even if he wanted to. His lungs ached miserably, his throat raw and sore - the onslaught of coughs took a harsh toll on his body. Though in truth, he couldn't recall the last time he was plagued with such a debilitating sickness. It would just be his luck he'd contract some enigmatic illness from Panderia just as his battalion was preparing for perhaps the most pivotal, ground-shattering battle in their history.
But he wouldn't be among his ranks in the throngs of battle, adorned in his majestic plate gear and armed with his sharpened blade and sturdy shield. No... quite contrary, he was damned to sitting in the irking comforts of his plush bed in Silvermoon, dressed in a pair of comfortable pajamas.
Leaning back against the overstuffed pillows behind him, relishing in the paltry comforts he got from the exquisite, plush linens, the adolescent elf struggled not to groan at the memory of being sent back to Silvermoon. No one else in his company had fallen as ill as him - the others eagerly responded to the healing and cleansing spells from the healers, their maladies lingering away to nothing - but not him. Despite his affinity with the natural Light - such a feat nothing short of a rare gem amongst the blood elves - and his rank as a holy paladin, he wasn't able to rid himself of the annoying disease that ran rampant through his body. At first it was just an inching throat and chills... but after a mere few days, those ailments only grew bleaker, his body consumed in a dangerously spiky fever and his lungs frequently consumed in coughing fits. When the day came that he was called into a meeting with the elite ranks in his batallion - his father, the commander of the regime, and his cabinet of officers - the young elf already knew the order before it was given.
Breathing deeply, his chest feeling constricted, Deimos silently swore at himself fervently. It was his tender age, the seasoned healers said a week ago when they gave him the forced medical leave. A century younger than his fellow soldiers in arms, his age a mere two and a half decades, he was still considered nothing more than an adolescent in the Sin'dorei culture. And while the reality of his age had been trumped with his notorious reputation on the battlefield and his budding career as a military strategist, he wasn't able to dodge the truth of his tender years in this situation. The healers claimed his immune system simply wasn't developed enough to properly fight off the illness, at least not to the extent of the other soldiers.
His fel-green eyes slowly migrated to the large, cloth map that was pinned to the side of his bedroom wall. A dark chocolate brush stroke painted the outline of a crudely drafted blueprint, the craftsmanship no doubt shoddy due to the repetitive need for the artist's mastery. The map was sheer evidence to the pinnacle of his battalion's involvement in Pandaria - the palace that housed the Thunder King. After countless sleepless nights and hours of grueling discussions over strategies, the battalion had not only managed to infiltrate the ancient palace but also triumphed against dozidens of enemies, including a couple of the infamous King's most loyal followers. The ambitious Zandalari troll, Jin-Rokh, proved only a small difficult for their incredible numbers. The War-God Jalak and his ghastly creature Horridon had managed to claim a couple lives from their ranks, though those soldiers were receptive to later resurrections by the healers, a blessing in its own right. The true challenge came with the council of troll leaders led by the manipulating spirit of Gara'jal - and it was in the midst of determining failsafe strategies to either elude or defeat the council did Deimos succumb to the disease that likely came from his brush with the beast, Horridon.
He eyed the sketched chambers to the ancient citadel, trying to guess where his battalion may be. Was it likely they managed to find a way around the troll council? The bridge that they needed to cross lay on the other side of the meeting chambers where the trolls convened; unless they completely backtracked and re-routed the entire battalion to take the underground tunnels, there was no way they'd sneak past the trolls. Distinctly recalling the fervent discussions regarding the possibility of storming the citadel through the tunnels, Deimos doubted they'd resort to that. Shifting his eyes to the side, he stared at the graphs that marked the seismic activity for the crust around the tomb, particularly the probe the gnomish engineers had managed to airdrop onto the bridge that led to the Thunder King's chambers from the council of trolls. Something of great mass was perturbing the depths below the palace.
Another round of coughs took hold of Deimos. It was as though the illness mocked him when he tried to think about the cruel battles and endless nights that lay ahead for his battalion, though he'd be robbed of the glory to experience any of it. His father and cousin still remained on the battlefield front while he was under strict watch from the healers in the Spire, forced to choke down their bitter concoctions that they claimed would help the disease. At least he got small solace in being granted a restful sleep, the medicine inducing a forceful slumber.
Dismal and heart-wrenching, Deimos knew that even if he did magically become healthy in seconds, he wouldn't be allowed to rendezvous with his regime. The electromagnetic forces around the palace disrupted the mage portals, and any other correspondence was on an as-needed basis. His bitter retreat from the citadel was carefully maneuvered; a small band of soldiers escorted him through the ancient corridors should any assailants made attempts at attacking.
Stuck in a large empty house, Deimos was forced to wait out his disease, as well as the unknown for his battalion and family.