He had seen her. Curled against her knight in shining armor; the beautiful blush (don't think of her like that) dying her face pink. She looked ever so slightly guilty, Sunwell's sake.
He should have fired off a spell at Arthas back then. But he couldn't. Not if she was looking on, because she was his friend. Friend… that word felt like poison now. He tried using words, but was aware that he had lost her now. Too proud to take second place, he stalked off.
As soon as he was out of ear-shot of the pair, he laughed. It was strained, and he felt that he laughed to avoid the tears and hitting the ground. But it was better than watching her be so close to someone else, intertwined in another person's life… don't think of it, don't think of it.
In the end, he lets his heartbreak's sorrow fade out. She was… happy (that hurt still, hurt too much…). And anyways… the mirror can't really lie. The deep green eyes that glare at him from his reflection have deceived so many, but not him. They are far away from the sky blue they once were. He is partly thankful for it – he can't remember her blue eyes that well without the visual cue.
She watches the storm-tossed gray sea from her tower. Armor gray, rain cloud gray, deathly gray. She wonders if the skin from both of her once-friends is of that color. A tear – pale silver, not-gray – makes its way down from her blue eyes. A mirror is on the table near her, and her reflection is blonde (they were blond too) and aged. Not enough to truly tell her age, but war leaves its trail.
What a trail it is. First, she had lost Kael – but that was partly her fault. She had been blind to him, hadn't she? And then, when all took a turn for the worse… she had not helped him heal. No solace from her, the best friend and love. She had watched him take his bows from her life; give her a token that had been lost among the trinkets and texts of her study (like the man that had given it to her). The reports from Outlands had not been heartening. But… she still remembered a bit about him. Not the power-crazed mage he had become, but the warm companion. Not ever like the demonic prince – but she did remember that anger, and the person it was directed at.
The other blond. Her knight in radiant armor. She had been with him, loved him, right up until the moment when all shadows went crashing down. And by then, it was too late. These memories hurt the most – the paladin's memories. His small gifts were lost along with Kael's – but she knew which ones she was going to hunt down first. It hurt knowing that she had seen his darkness for far longer, and that she had failed to keep them at bay. But she could not forgive him – too many lives, too many atrocities. Would she have been the same, had she faithfully remained by his side? Would she…? Would-? No, too many 'would's capering around her and swirling like the rain drops outside.
In the end, she missed them both. And the worse was that she couldn't, in good faith, shed a tear over their deaths. They had all changed too much.
There was a storm here as well, but Jaina's tower was far from here. Some remnants of the forces she had sent to this frozen continent still struggled against his domain, but it was futile. It all was.
The citadel was pure ice and metal, the bones of his subjects lurching and snapping with a graceless melody. He had once been fiercely proud of their mindless devotion (she had been similar once). But, as many things, that was no longer. One betrayal too many, and all had melted away as the snowflakes that dared flutter too close to the spare lighted sconce. She had been one of the betrayers - the light-hearted mage. And he was now here, killing off with a bored face the soldiers that she had sent here. She did not even deserve his anger, much less a satisfied smirk or a fleeting thought.
The ice reflects him twisted and much darker than his armor makes him out to be. He is grinning, which is odd for him. But he is dreaming of pleasant bloodshed and fruitful schemes and the defeat of a fiery mage. That had been enjoyable, and was one of the only memories that he kept from his long-abandoned past. Someone else's defeat, the crackle of avenging flame and the cold efficience of ice. The coward trick of a teleportation spell - though he did admit that it had some merit (cultists could do much better with such travel). It had brought him here, after all.
A necklace hangs around his neck that is not of military background. Once, he would have trailed chilled fingers over the skin-warmed metal. Remembered with fondness a blonde sorceress. Enjoyed the agony of a certain elf prince over losing her (and all, do not forget the all). But now, the locket was as dead as he – for a token of love is dead if no-one uses it to stir memories from; and he has not taken it off because it is too dangerous (someone might find it, reveal his once-weakness). And for him, it doesn't matter. Right until the end, where a "true" paladin came to slay him with a powerful troop of adventurers and mercenaries at his back (useful, very useful).
Only when his ghost had floated away, he remembered the locket around his neck. And the girl and the elder mage and the afternoons in Dalaran. By then, it was futile to care.
One of them, an adventurer, picked the lost locket up. Saw a faded, frost-gnawed name.
The lady got the forgotten necklace back – with misplaced glee and forlorn sorrows. What the warrior did not know was, that in a way, she had gotten her wayward friends back. If only in death and dust and texts and snow-kissed metal.
He does not know that, by rights, she would not have outlived them both. Or she would have either ways. Mages were skillful with their spells after all.
And he does not care about the freshly-ended story about a certain blond trio that once thrived and wilted in Dalaran.