AN - This is going to be a short story, only three chapters or so. The world and characters are slightly AU but still belong to Blizzard. Please enjoy.
He was starved for pain, parched for blood. It hadn't been so bad at first, just a minor annoyance and distraction, but as the days wore on Koltira was beginning to feel more than slightly unhinged. He could see nothing in the darkness of his cell, even with his near-perfect vision. The glow from his eyes had dimmed so far as to be almost nonexistent. He could see nothing, but he heard too much.
Blood, Byfrost whispered. We are famished.
Shut up, Koltira told the runeblade. The sword had never been a good conversationalist even in the best of times, and now it was trying his patience with its incessant demands for death and suffering. Koltira felt the needs himself, but in this case shared misery only meant twice as much pain. There was nothing that could be done, as far as Koltira could see, besides wait.
He'd only ever had a hunger this bad once before, when he'd displeased the Lich King and had been forbidden from sating his desires. But then he'd had Thassarian to talk to, work to distract him. Here in the bowels of the Undercity, there was only crushing darkness and a whinging runeblade to keep his mind off the hunger.
Around the second or third day (it was difficult to keep track of time), Koltira had rediscovered sleep. It had been forbidden in the Scourge, as even death knights could have dreams, but the Horde had no such restrictions. It had helped some at first. By now, though, sleep and waking were blurring together, until he was both dreaming and hungering at the same time. He never had the sorts of dreams one of the living might have. His were memories, clear and sharp enough to cut bone. Most days he remembered the death and destruction he had blindly wrought as a servant of the Lich King, lived it again and again without the pleasure that had come from each kill. Koltira had once been told that it was impossible for a death knight to feel remorse, but Thassarian always did call him a rule-breaker.
He would know. It had been an unspoken law among the Scourge: Those who fall behind are left behind. When the Scarlet Crusade had captured Koltira, Thassarian hadn't given up. Now the blood elf half-wished his friend's impulsiveness would bring him once more to Koltira's rescue. The other half was silently begging Thassarian to stay away from the Undercity, for Sylvanas had made it abundantly clear what she thought of the Alliance-bound death knight, and what she thought should happen to him.
Thinking about the Banshee Queen made Koltira's insides clench with rage. She had no right to his life. He was not one of her mindless playthings to be rearranged and reassembled at her whim.
The hatred calmed his mind somewhat, though Byfrost hummed irritatingly at his shift in mood. Body and mind still wracked with hunger, he drifted off.
It had been a perfect day until Sylvanas came for him. The sky above Andorhal was lightly overcast. A gray day, tasting faintly of metallic rain and even more faintly of the cloying Plague. He'd been with Thassarian that morning, on the vague pretext of exchanging intelligence.
The human looked up from honing the edges of his runeblades, pale hair shifting around his face in a manner that was most distracting. "Koltira," he rumbled. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Our scouts say the Scourge will attack this afternoon. They've been mobilizing their forces since dawn." He slid casually into a chair across from Thassarian, tossing formality out the window as he did.
To Koltira's mild surprise, Thassarian scowled. "You know our betters don't approve of this...relationship. You're asking for trouble just by showing yourself here."
Koltira laughed scornfully. "Since when have you ever given a damn about what our 'betters' did and did not approve of? I always knew you were the feminine energy of the two of us."
"Says the blood elf," Thassarian grunted.
At this, Koltira grinned. "Ouch. Feisty today, are we?"
"That's only a part of it." He shot a furtive glance around the room and lowered his voice. "Doesn't this seem...wrong to you? The Scourge aren't usually so obvious."
Koltira waited for him to say something else, but nothing was forthcoming. That was Thassarian's way, brief and to the point. "It's a little odd, but since we cut off their supply lines they must be desperate. Scared, are you?"
Thassarian glowered at his recently sharpened runeblades. "No. Yes. I'm uneasy. It's simply not like them."
"Blunt, quick, and with no overabundance of intelligence? Seems exactly like the Scourge." Thassarian's worry put Koltira on edge. It was unlike a death knight to express much emotion, and fear was considered downright shameful.
Thassarian seemed to sense Koltira's misgivings. He offered a wry smile. "I'm not going to let it get to me. I will focus solely on the coming slaughter, and keeping you alive."
Koltira grinned. "Why, Thassarian, how touching! You mean you'd be willing to take your mind off killing long enough to help me?"
"You are not going to die the second death on my watch," the knight rumbled. "I am the only one allowed to kill you." He stroked the flat of one of his runeblades with as much fondness as a death knight could possess, apparently lost in happy memories.
"So it's less a question of sentiment and more of jealousy?" That, Koltira could understand. Sentiment was another emotion unworthy of a death knight... His insides gave a guilty squirm. What, then, was his own desire to see Thassarian so often? What then was the uncomfortable...lack of cold in his dead chest when he watched Thassarian fight?
Across the table, icy blue eyes swept back to meet his gaze. For a moment, Koltira thought he saw something in them, some flash of red hunger. "Your blood," Thassarian said quietly, "was the most succulent thing ever spilled across Ilfang's length. Your fleeing lifeforce was the sweetest thing I have ever known in life or undeath."
Koltira stared. An icy flush crept over his face. Suddenly he was the unbalanced one, he who had always been so certain and rooted. Dimly, his mind became aware that Thassarian had shown him up. Amidst the turmoil of Koltira's thoughts (emotions), there suddenly emerged a fierce determination to be the most reckless one. He lunged across the table.
Koltira's long, slender fingers, empowered by the gift of undeath, dug into Thassarian's unarmored shoulders. Their cold lips met, hard enough to bruise a mortal mouth. It was harsh and unyielding. It was nothing like a kiss. Koltira bit down hard, exulting in the taste of Thassarian's corrupted ichor.
The human growled like a wild thing, roughly seizing Koltira's hair with one hand and slamming the other into the table, sending out a pulse of rot to collapse the wood. Koltira fell on him, sending them both sprawling. The chair shattered, someone was cut by a runeblade. It did not matter who, for their pain ran together, pleasuring both.
They had never talked of these feelings. They never needed to. Until now, both had done their best to ignore them. Koltira suspected that it had made this eventual outburst so much wilder.
Thassarian tore Koltira's tunic in his haste to remove it. It wasn't until the elf saw his own tattooed chest heaving with breaths it did not need that he realized the full extent of the lack of control between them. It did not frighten him as it might one of the living, but rather envigorated him. He bit ferociously at the smooth expanse of Thassarian's throat, like a wolf with a stag. His hands worked furiously at the fastens of shirt, belt, breeches, determined that there should be nothing separating them.
Beneath his clothing, Thassarian's body was pale and cold, hard with muscle. Koltira slid a hand downwards, then paused. "Are you sure your superiors would approve of this?" he asked innocently.
"Bite me, elf," Thassarian growled, eyes glinting. Koltira obliged.
Their undead flesh required more force to pleasure than a living man's, but Koltira (now flat on his back, eyes closed, a groan of pain and ecstasy on his lips) found this suited him just fine. The elf felt sure neither of them would have survived the tryst for long had they not been already dead.
Thassarian had him pinned. Koltira couldn't have breathed even if he felt so inclined. The larger death knight's fingers traced the thick scar that rent Koltira's abdomen, pressing hard on the sensitive part that had never fully healed. "Do you remember when I killed you?" His voice was husky, and about as emotional as it ever got.
Koltira bared his teeth at the lance of pain. "Vividly."
"Your blood, slick and hot, pouring over my hands and runeblades. Ilfang and Mjormr begged me for another taste after I withdrew them from your lifeless corpse." He was close enough for Koltira to smell the cold metallic scent of snow about his hair. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I remember watching your eyes as I stabbed you, watched the light in them flicker and die. No death ever caused me as much pain, nor has any since been so intoxicating."
Koltira shuddered, caught somewhere between horror and arousal at the words, the memory. The elf's frozen, long-dormant heart gave a sudden twitch, as if straining to pick up a beat once more.
Thassarian's hand slid between his legs again-
"Oh, I'm sorry," crooned a voice. "Were you sleeping? How cute."
Koltira jerked awake, snapping out of the memory. Red eyes glinted in the gloom above him. "Sylvanas," he spat by way of greeting.
She grinned, showing off teeth filed to points. Koltira became aware of a faint light in his cell, although its source was indiscernible. "Have you been enjoying your accommodations?" she purred, every bit the genteel host.
Koltira dragged himself to his feet. "Oh yes. Spacious quarters, fine dining, room service-a five-star establishment you're running here. Although your doorman seems to have misplaced my baggage..."
"You'll get Byfrost back when you are fit to serve. I'm afraid I don't trust your judgment when it comes to slaughter. Death knights make poor soldiers, I am finding. Arthas, that soul-stealing bastard, had the right of it when it came to servants. Free will means mistakes, especially if the servant in question has shown a disappointing propensity for mercy." She sighed in mock distress. "What am I to do with you, Koltira?"
"Well," he offered, "you could return my runeblade and set me on my merry murderous way."
"Could I? Last time I let you loose, you sought out your old flame from the Scourge, and didn't kill him, despite the fact that he is now a knight of the Alliance." She pouted. "You see my problem?"
Koltira eyed the chain around his left wrist. "Truly, I weep for you, my lady."
"Don't poke fun now, I know death knights can't physically cry." Her expression brightened. "I know! Why don't we arrange a little visit between the two of you? Maybe in a week, when you're blind and mad with desire for blood?"
Ice formed on the damp floor around Koltira's feet. "You would not. You could not."
"That's for me to know and you to find out!" Sylvanas crowed. "Oh, I can't wait. It will be simply delectable to watch. Perhaps I'll throw a party! Yes, I'll invite all the notables. And there's a catering service that does birthdays, anniversaries, and executions; they have the best hors d'oeuvres and tortilla chips..."
Koltira felt sick, which was an achievement for an undead construct. He glared at Sylvanas defiantly. "You'll never cure me that way. You'll never change who I am."
"Oh, I don't expect to. You will change who you are." She took a prim little step forwards and placed a hand on his bare chest, sending a needle of pain through Koltira's body. "We are going to have such fun," she purred.
Varian Wrynn, King of Stormwind, leader of the Valiance Expedition, Champion of Goldrinn, and beloved Lo'Gosh of Dire Maul paced furiously in his throne room. "How many times do I have to tell you? My answer remains the same: No. I won't send out searchers, I won't tell Mathias to ready SI:7. I will do nothing unless you give me concrete information and a reason why this would in any way hurt the Horde."
"I have concrete information, and it will hurt the Horde," Thassarian growled. "He's definitely in the Undercity. And that's where Sylvanas wants him in order to craft him into a weapon. I know Koltira Deathweaver. He's a deadly fighter, but a good elf. If that witch succeeds in removing his empathy..."
"What does one more champion of the Horde matter? I will not risk the lives of my people to rescue a blood elf from Sylvanas's kingdom."
What does it matter? What did it matter when your wife died, o wise king? What did it matter when your best friend killed your father figure? Thassarian clenched a fist and struggled to contain his temper. However much this man frustrated him, he was a king and Thassarian had need of him.
Unless...
Foolish, he told himself. You've nowhere near enough money.
Perhaps he could use some spoil from the Undercity as payment...
The idea had taken root. After the king's guards threw him out, Thassarian spent a few minutes in quiet contemplation of this plan that could not possibly work. He was being a fool, he suspected. Koltira always said-
Thassarian's jaw creaked as he clenched it. Koltira wasn't here. Koltira was in the Undercity, probably being tortured or otherwise mutilated by the Banshee Queen's servants.
This won't be as easy as the Scarlet Crusade, he thought grimly.
He needed a tavern. There was no shortage of these in Stormwind, but to find the right one...
The Gilded Rose was out. Plenty of people hung around the Trade District, but the wrong sorts of people. Too clean, too legitimate. The Slaughtered Lamb and Blue Recluse wouldn't give him what he sought either. He didn't need a warlock or mage. That left the seedy Pig and Whistle in Old Town. Yes, that would do just fine.
It was a smoky, dimly lit establishment and none too clean. As Thassarian entered, he drew suspicious eyes from the smattering of patrons, which he ignored. Death knights got used to dark glances and darker mutterings. The living didn't like them because they were dead, the dead didn't like them because they were former Scourge, and the Scourge didn't like them because, again, they were former Scourge. Even the Worgen had it better than those of the Ebon Blade.
Still, Thassarian reflected as he ordered a drink, at least they didn't attract the amount of skin-crawling loathing and animosity as that most depraved of races, the gnomes.
Thassarian glanced around, then approached the bar tender, who looked none too happy to see him. "I need a word passed around."
"Yeh ain't the first," the man muttered, not meeting the death knight's glowing eyes. "Yeh got coin?"
Wordlessly, Thassarian slid a handful of money across the counter. The bar tender's expression became significantly lighter. "Alright, whaddya need spread round?"
The death knight explained the conditions. Across the counter, the man went almost as pale as him.
"Yer crazy," he whispered. "Ain't no one gonna sign up for that. 'Specially if there's no pay."
"I am a knight of the Ebon Blade," Thassarian said, undeterred. "I am not mad. And there will be someone willing to take the job." He flipped another coin into a startled hand. "Spread the word. I'll be back."
He left the tavern, trying not to feel disappointed. What had he expected, for the man to say he already knew someone?
Every day, every hour, every second he was forced to wait grated against him. Koltira was on his own, having Light knows what done to him, while he, Thassarian, visited pubs.
He yearned to rush off on his own, caution be damned. But he knew Koltira would never forgive him for getting captured or killed.
For now, he could only grind his teeth and wait.
Koltira stood on a deserted road.
He'd no idea how he'd come to be there. It felt more real than a dream, more real even than reality.
He was slightly suspicious.
The forest that pressed against either side of the lonely dirt track was coniferous and blanketed with snow. It seemed like a place one would come across in Northrend.
Even in this strangely real otherworld, he was hungry.
Figures.
His senses tingled. Life was approaching. His sword arm twitched in ravenous anticipation. He could hear hurried footsteps coming down the road, could smell the scent of warm flesh wafting closer. Automatically, the elf stepped into the shadows and tensed his muscles in preparation. Cold fingers curled around the hilt of a frantically whispering runeblade. Whatever it was came closer...
The whispering reached an almost unbearable intensity as he leapt into the open, about to finally sate this terrible hunger-
A child. A small, dark human child in a little blue coat.
Koltira's few remaining shreds of humanity rebelled. The resulting spasm knocked the sword from his hands.
The child jumped back, startled. But not fearful. She wasn't old enough to be fearful of an undead warrior met alone on an abandoned byway in the dead of night... But just old enough to think she was in control. Her face broke into a wide smile and she burbled with laughter. What a fun game, to have this man surprise her. Perhaps they were playing hiders-searchers.
A tendon jumped in Koltira's neck as he remained frozen. If he moved at all, he would lose his grip on himself.
Blood, Byfrost whispered seductively. Sweet pain.
"Run," Koltira choked out. "Get away."
The child only looked at him, curious. Apparently this man wasn't playing the game, as he was neither counting nor seeking a place to hide.
His whole body was shaking. He stumbled back a step, fell, and the hunger gave a great leap inside of him. A howl tore free of him, and he sunk his teeth into his own arm in a desperate attempt to ease the pain.
You wouldn't need to kill her, the runeblade reasoned. Just make a few cuts, listen to her screams.
The child, seemingly oblivious to the gargantuan struggle taking place before her, took a small step closer.
"No," Koltira groaned from the ground. "Run."
Instead, the child knelt by his head (where he could hear her beating heart, smell her breath and blood). She touched a small hand to one of Koltira's pointed ears, evidently delighted. "Kitty!"
"KILL!" Koltira shrieked, partly because that was what Byfrost was screaming inside his head, partly because someone, somewhere, had just called him a kitty.
At this, the child's eyes finally were touched with fear. She seemed sufficiently unnerved to decide there were better places to be than right next to this twitching, wild-eyed stranger. She fled down the road.
It was this that sent him over the edge.
He could resist no longer, not when she was running like the little prey animal she was. Byfrost chattered excitedly at the prospect of a chase, a hunt. Koltira's hand found its hilt, and he was up and running.
Few things move faster than a starving death knight. Little blue-coated girls are not among them.
And he'd caught her-
And she was knocked down into the snow, Byfrost descending on her heart-
And she was crying now, because she was scared and this game was no longer fun-
And he couldn't do it, he couldn't do it, even with every fiber of his being screaming for him to plunge the sword downwards and end this terrible pain.
He pushed himself away, flinging Byfrost into the trees. The little girl scrambled to her feet at once and scampered off into the darkness.
At first, Koltira thought he was panting from exertion. It was something of a habit he had, albeit an annoying one. But no, he realized, measuring the ragged quality of the breaths he drew and the strange urge he had to blink rapidly, his body was attempting to do something physically impossible for a death knight.
"You disappoint me, Koltira."
He knew that voice. He spat a glob of black ichor in its general direction. "Go to hell," he growled.
"What, no flippant remarks or cocky banter? Where else am I supposed to get my entertainment?"
"What do you want, Sylvanas?" He sat up and reached for Byfrost, then remembered he had thrown the sword away.
"I want you to behave yourself. Really, Koltira? A child? A disrespectful human brat stirred your empathy?" The voice made disappointed tchhing noises. Koltira scanned the surrounding forest but couldn't see the Banshee Queen. Her voice was echoing and somehow distant.
"No matter... We can take this slowly, if it makes things easier. We'll try again tomorrow."
It began to snow. Koltira retrieved Byfrost, then started in the direction he'd last heard Sylvanas's voice.
"What are you doing? Where do you think you're going?" Her tone was still amused, but now contained a note of strained calm.
Koltira said nothing, altering his course slightly.
"You think you can kill me?" He could hear the sneer in her voice. "This is my world, death knight."
An arrow hissed out of the darkness and embedded itself in Koltira's chest. He grunted in pain and paused briefly in his stride. A cursory inspection revealed that the shaft was protruding directly from his unbeating heart. Even though he was undead, it hurt like hell. "It'll take more than that to stop me," he called into the growing snowstorm. He grit his teeth and trudged onwards, bowing his head against the biting wind.
"I'm glad," Sylvanas purred. "Perhaps you're not a complete weakling after all."
The next arrow struck Koltira between the shoulderblades and drove itself deep into his flesh. He cried out, stumbled, and started to run. If he found the origin of the voice, if he could satisfy this hunger by beheading Sylvanas, it would all be worth it.
Both his kneecaps shattered at the same time, shredded by twin arrows from two different directions. Several tendons in his legs tore free. He fell, striking the ground hard, blinded by pain. Soft footsteps approached as the wind died down. A boot kicked him roughly onto his back. Sylvanas stood over him, two arrows nocked in her monstrous bow. Her features twisted into a smirk. "Are you ready to give up and become the perfect instrument you were meant to be?"
"I will give up," Koltira managed through his pain, "when I can satisfy my hunger by sheathing Byfrost in your bitch's heart."
"I thought that might be your answer." She didn't look terribly disappointed; to the contrary she seemed delighted by his response. "Night-night, now." She raised the bow, drew back the string, and released.
Searing slivers of fire drove themselves into Koltira's eyes.
There was darkness, and there was silence.
He was in his cell. Had he passed out and been brought back? Had he ever been in that forest at all? With his free hand, he felt his face, feeling some pathetic scrap of relief when he found his eyes whole and sound. No pain gnawed at him but that of the terrible, ever-present hunger.
He tried to sleep, and failed.
"Find anyone?"
"It's been a single day."
"So no?"
"No."
He stood before a small town. Byfrost was slung over his shoulder. Something was odd about the scene...
Well, the village was in flames. Maybe that was it.
The terrified screams of its residents were a cool drink to the raw, dry hunger inside of him. He watched the people fleeing their homes and had a vague feeling he was being tested. He knew he did not want to kill fleeing villagers, but it was difficult to remain certain of this fact as Byfrost goaded him on. As he hesitated, a figure emerged from behind a burning house. He seemed wreathed in flames, which danced around his horned helm and threw ghastly shadows across the ground. He was laughing, not screaming. A torch was held in one hand, a sword on the other. Even from this distance Koltira could see the blood staining the blade. He set his jaw. He made a choice.
Yes, Byfrost agreed. It hummed with eagerness as it was unsheathed.
The man barely saw Koltira coming. After a brief, unsatisfying duel, the man slipped up and Byfrost howled with glee as it tasted blood for the first time in weeks. Koltira gasped at the shock of sudden relief. He twisted the sword in the man's chest, provoking a scream. It was delicious. He tore the runeblade free and ran the brigand through again, exulting at the sweetness of the man's pain. Finally, he wrenched Byfrost from the corpse and turned away. The sword's graven runes were black with blood in the flickering light of the fire.
Less than half a day later, his hunger had returned stronger than ever. He didn't understand. It should have taken weeks more for it to get this bad again. Now he felt crippled by terrible agony as if the shadowy tormentors had returned to stalk him once more. Upon seeing any living thing, he couldn't think, he could only act. Over the next few days, he was presented with several targets, each one more of a grey area than the last. A murderer, an enemy scout, a highway man trying to rob him. More and more, he could not resist the temptation. Every kill gave him increasing relief, increasing pleasure. And yet even as he sought frantically to ease the clawing hunger, with each kill he became more insatiable. He no longer thought, or looked, or cared.
"Good," purred the voice, the voice that brought him prey.
AN - The first chapter of the story is always the most fun to write. Please review, I will respond to each comment.
- - Rose