The Unstable Affliction

"I am Forsaken."

Author's Note: Ring of Fire was intended to be a one-shot ultimately, but now it has developed into being not only a two-shot, but now a four-shot (subject to becoming longer)! This is starting to become one caffeinated cup of coffee, I would say! This piece can be read as a STAND ALONE. You do not need to read Ring of Fire for this piece, but it would help.

This has developed out of my recent interest in Forsaken roleplay on my warlock's new home, Wyrmrest Accord. Prior to writing Ring of Fire, I knew only basics about the Forsaken in general, lore-wise. Now, after truly getting into the midst of things, I have really begun to analyze and understand the Forsaken as a people. Roleplaying a Forsaken warlock has been quite interesting, as well as a challenge. I am now writing this new piece, another one-shot-esque companion piece to Ring of Fire, in order to reconcile whatever fluffiness and discontinuity that existed with my previous Forsaken character, Theodore.

This will not be as fluffy and charming as perhaps my other two shots, so I apologize if it disappoints you in that sense. This will be continuing after my Ulduar arc, and a primary portion of this chapter starts in the time before the Argent Tournament. The next chapter will be more towards Cataclysm. The only difference is my characters will be more... changed.

And it is in Theodore's point of view, this time. To clarify some confusion, it starts in the present, the period between Wrath and Cataclysm, and then shifts to the past, then to the present again.

Please, review if you can. Especially if you have any foresight on the Forsaken in general. I did a lot of research about the Forsaken when I was beginning to develop my warlock as a character, but any advice would be more than appreciated. Even a comment or two would be loved!

Work. The daily grind. Get up, and continue what needs to be done. Shoo the maggots and flies away, brush the dust off of the body, and get going. No time to waste. No time to spend thinking about anything else. The only thing that matters is work. Work gives results. Work will accomplish what needs to be done. There is no time for rest otherwise. The rest can wait. Time is not a factor, but a servant that bends to our will. Time cannot control us. Time is a thing of the living. Time slips away from the living, though perhaps it does slip from us as well, through our boney talons on occasion. We are rotting, afterall. Perhaps. It is not likely that we will pass on as quickly as the fragile lives of the living. Work comes first, now. No time for rest.

It is not easy being an engineer (or an evil mastermind), not with the bills and what not that accompany the expenses of being a loyal and eager servant of her majesty, the Dark Lady. There are cogs, there are wheels, there are whizzing whirlywigs, there are widgets, there is wiring, there are igniters, there are fuses, there are screws, there are bolts, there are washers, there are drivers, there are programs, there are schematics, there are plans, there are goggles, there are gloves, there is ore, there are bars, and finally, there is a mind that must always be attuned to what is going on, in order for success to come from such a complex practice. It takes years for the living to master bits and pieces of the science. And time is simply not on their side.

Not to mention, more importantly, the lack of attention and care that the living possess. With their lives hanging by a mere thread, with the many tasks that they value that spread so thin across their allotted time slots. When one only has so long to be alive, or perhaps less as a matter of fact, one attempts to accomplish everything that one desires for their own pathetic existence. The living are an abomination in themselves, sewn together by flimsy tubes, slabs of muscle, strings of bones, neurotic nerves, arteries - all of which can singularly collapse and cause a chain reaction of death and demise upon their fleshly bags of worthless filth. And their brains! To be ruled by futile desires, wishes, and aspirations.

I thought I had developed such...pitiful human qualities, a few years ago. From my own research in librams, tomes, and other resourceful books of knowledge in the libraries within the Undercity, I discovered what had happened to me. The holy Light possesses a quality, a petulant quality at that, that our priests realized quickly during their beginning years, and were still continuing their practice in the Light's disciplines. Although the use of the holy Light upon Forsaken is extremely dangerous, and ultimately self-destructive, it has been recorded that the sole use of the Light does have some redeeming effects. Forsaken who have indeed used or have been touched by the Light's healing, both psychologically and physically, have experienced a more humanly change. These Forsaken report that the emptiness that at one time consisted of everything they ever understood or knew, was beginning to be refilled by emotion and feeling. These Forsaken reported, according to many books I have looked upon, that they were able to experience emotions such as faint bursts of "happiness." For awhile, I denoted by humanly behavior as to being exposed to those around me. After all, the Cult of Forgotten Shadow did exalt the notion of "divine humanism: that by using your power, you can change those around you and change the universe." But power. The definition of power varies amongst individuals, but perhaps this kind of power, and it's connotative definition are determined by the individual with such power.

Perhaps over the years serving my guild, and ultimately the Dark Lady, and throughout my years being tended to by priests of all races of the Horde, I was touched and repeatedly scorned by the Light. Perhaps I was poisoned by it, both literally and metaphorically. Not only did the Light burn so poignantly, it also managed to curse me with feelings that are more suited for that of the living. Perhaps it was this poison that ruined me for a long time. Perhaps I not only hurt myself, but also those I somehow managed to have miniscule sensations for, of what is known as happiness or frivolousness. Perhaps I lived in a distorted, false reality. Ultimately, whatever the cause, when I was detached from the source of this sensation, the priests who tended to my wounds (or rather, created new ones), I resorted back to my old ways, as if I had been freshly raised from the grave, with little to motivate my ravaged and despicable bones and flesh besides my unrelenting and unshakeable faith in my people, as well as our leader.

ζ

We were never married, Tessandra and I.

Perhaps it was for the best.

She simply would never be able to understand.

ζ

Perhaps I had noticed it from the very beginning of our relationship, unfortunately. The idea had shown itself inside my mind for a very long time, and like a plentiful weed, it produced seeds, and they spread across my mind like a plague. It was only a matter of time before the weeds overcame the garden. One such evening in particular repeatedly came to my mind as I reviewed our relationship.

"Tess, please, listen to me," I asked of her softly, as I held her close to me in our room on the boat from Tanaris to Orgrimmar. "You have to understand it, if you wish to ultimately understand me."

"But I don't like hearing about it. You aren't one of them. You aren't like that at all. You're so different. A good different. We're different. We both are, and that's why you cannot compare yourself to them. It isn't healthy. It isn't right. You aren't like them at all."

I let out a low exhale, though I do not ultimately need to breath. Breathing was habitual for some Forsaken, while for others it was not. It was the same with food and drink, which I did not partake in either, however. "But I am," I stated simply, "whether you deny it or not. We, the entire Forsaken, will always stand together. We are all the same. We have all suffered the same fate."

"But you... you aren't..." I could tell she was searching for right words to describe her feelings. "You aren't like them at all! Well, maybe some of them are like you. Some of them behave more -"

"Like the living."

She was frowning. I could tell, despite not seeing her face since she was laying on her side, with her back against my chest, from the way her body shifted. I did not pay as much attention to my body as I did to hers. Her body was alive, moving, shifting, awake, full of feelings, and indescribably fascinating. It was especially obvious since her body tensed up. "Tess, I am not a living man." I hated these kinds of conversations, I knew she hated them as well. But they were important, and they needed to be addressed.

"I know," she whispered. "But you are still a man."

"But a dead man."

"You make it sound like it's such a vile combination."

"Because it is a vile combination."

Silence. She did not reply immediately. After several moments of dense silence, she finally whimpered her rebuttal.

"Are... are we a vile combination?"

I was taken aback, and surprised, whether or not the question was ultimately coming our way. I shook my head and I kissed her neck pleadingly, though the doubt managed to spoil my faint burst of compassion in my mind. I squeezed her tighter, and I searched for her hand underneath the sheets. When our hands met, it was almost like being shocked. As if I had touched a lit fuse to my skin. We were so different, primarily in the physical sense. Her hand in itself was plump and fleshly, smooth and free of callous patches. My boney, claw like fingers were beyond a stark contrast to her. It was simple discoveries such as this that made the doubt stronger. I worried then if it had managed to infect her own mind. I would not have been surprised, sadly.

As I held her in the darkness of our room, with only the faint moonlight to pour into our room from the small porthole to the left of the bed, I immediately realized how empty I felt. I recalled my years as a human man, and how in a situation as wretched as this, I knew my heart would be clenching and tight in my chest. But I felt nothing. This startled me extremely, to the point where I thought I would cry out in confusion. I felt absolutely nothing, beyond the sensation of having a person next to me, and the movements she was making. But nothing stirred in me. Nothing but alarm.

It only got worse that evening.

"Theodore, I love you," she stated in the darkness, and her body shifted and turned so that she was now facing me. If I had saliva, I would have swallowed hard. "You love me too, don't you?"

I had to reassure her, despite the strange ideas floating in my head. "Of course I do."

"Say it," she demanded a little firmly, for she reached over and grabbed at my shirt and tugged on it, gripping me tightly in her arms.

I tried not to falter. It wasn't that I did not mean the words I stated, but I feared her mind. I began to develop a notion that despite her well expressed love, that I soon would not be able to express the same amount of devotion back. Something in my mind told me that. I was changing, slowly but gradually. I was frightened. That was the first sensation I had felt that evening in a large amount. Panic and fear that something was wrong. I worried about it, but I needed to reply. She was beginning to falter herself, and I did not want to lose her.

I leaned in a little closer, and I placed my cold, smooth forehead against hers. I mildly felt the sensation of heat, but perhaps that was normal, or I was confusing the sensation for something else. "I do love you, Tess," I stated as softly as I could, despite the raspiness in my voice. But now that the words had already slipped from my lips, I felt a sudden rush of other ideas and worries. I started frantically saying words of endearment to her, and I kissed her face many times. I felt so empty as I did this, and although it can be argued that emptiness is a hard sensation to feel, it is entirely easy to describe. It is the sensation of feeling hollow. As if there is nothing there. Of course, there were my dead organs and remaining muscles inside what areas of flesh still covered my body. It was more of a metaphorical description of what I felt. I could not even say that I was feeling empty. I just was empty, for I did not feel it.

In the darkness of our room, on the ship to Orgrimmar, I knew that something was happening between us both. I knew that whatever we had had in Dalaran would remain a memory for her. I knew that whatever we had developed in Tanaris would also remain as a memory to her. But what would they be to me? Of course I found them pleasurable at the time, but had it been right? Had I done the right thing ultimately, but behaving that way? If any other Forsaken, besides the ones who were aware of what had occurred for having been in either her guild or my own, would they be disgusted and ashamed of me? Perhaps it depended on the person. Yet I certainly could count several people that I knew prior to joining my guild, who would be horrified by my relations with the living. And perhaps there were people who were silently disgusted by her behaviors.

It certainly could not be considered necrophilia, could it, in her culture? In the culture of the living? Would it be that taboo of an act?

I trembled, and I had to repeatedly remind myself to not think about that. But if I was thinking about it, she was most certainly thinking about it. Although she appeared to not be perturbed by the idea, for we had made love as best as we could. She could never have children, but I could still adore her, worship her, and love her for what she was: a living being who was different than me. She was the closest and most intimate connection I had to my humanity, for she purposefully made sure she brought it out of me. Perhaps ultimately I did not see what she saw in me. She gained nothing out of our relationship. Weren't the living always looking for something out of the relationship? What in fel could she be getting out of this, that was a positive reason for staying with me?

Her love did not falter on the outside, it seemed. It did not reassure me, however.

She fell asleep with her back against my chest again, for she turned and wanted to be held. I held her very different hand in mine, and I listened to her breathing slow down and become gently relaxed. I did not require sleep, but the entire situation exhausted me. The chilling emptiness made my bones ache. I wished beyond anything to have had a sleeping draught that night.

Because I could not stand to listen to my thoughts rage on in my head any longer.

ζ

"What are you talking about, Tess?"

"Targus wants to have us all enlist in the Argent Tournament, even you. The grounds have just finished. He says that we have to do this. He feels it is what we have to do in order to help the Argent Crusade. Many of our guild's members are a part of the Crusade. Many of them helped retake areas of Dragonblight, many are friends with our death-knight comrades who serve the Ebon Blade. Many believe that this is their calling, especially members of the Forsaken. Do you not want revenge against the Lich King? For what he did to you?"

"Of course," I quickly and harshly stated. "Is it not obvious, Tess?"

"But you are putting up so much resistance of me going there, of us going there."

"But we already settled everything. We are each putting down our blades, and we are going to wade through this thing together. We said we were not going to be separated anymore. You said that we were going to take some time for ourselves." I felt partially betrayed, and I could not help but become angered by her decision to go off to Northrend again. How could she do this?

"But Thee, I simply can't. You are making excuses. You know that I want all of that, as well. But you never specified when we were going to do what we agreed upon. I assumed after the Lich King was dead. Everyone's thinking it. He will die. Please, try and understand what I'm saying."

"Tell me again, then. Explain it to me."

"Because, it... it is just something I have to do." She stated solemnly. Her eyes held a mournful look, and I regretted being so harsh with her suddenly. She looked at me dead set, her eyes meeting my glowing yellow sockets, and she shook her head as if she herself were conflicted over the decision. "When Quel'Thalas was raided and ruined by the Scourge, and well, is still being ravaged by the Scourge in both Eversong and the Ghostlands, we lost so many. The Quel'dorei were scrambling to recover their numbers after being decimated. You know this story. It is why we were renamed, as a people, the Blood Elves. In honor of the fallen. Look at your leader, Sylvanas. She is a High Elf. She is fighting for her fallen comrades, those she fought alongside with at the Sunwell as a ranger."

After several moments of silence, she continued. "I have to do this. The Sin'dorei, the Argent Crusade, my companions... they are all so willing to lay down their lives for the fallen. For the people who were slain and slaughtered, risen and destroyed again and again. The death-knights, the Quel'dorei. The humans of Lordaeron. Do you not wish to stand against the Scourge with me? Why are you being so hesitant of going again to Northrend? Do you not wish to stand with your brethren, the Forsaken?"

"Of course I do! Do not even start with that. Of course I want to stand and obliterate the Scourge. Of course the Lich King deserves everything that is going to be coming at him like a tidal wave sent from the depths of the soldiers anger. Of course I want to stand and fight. But I," I looked to Tess with a faint, stirring sense of desperation. "Tess, I do not want to lose you. I know you and Targus think that this is the right thing to do, joining the Tournament, but you have to think about the bigger picture. It is dangerous. We may have saved Azeroth for a short period in Ulduar, but I do not think you understand why Arthas Menethil is so deathly feared. I cannot lose you. You know why? Because you will be raised into becoming a mindless pawn of the Scourge. You realize this, right? And if not that, you will be taken prisoner. Professor Putridcide... he is a feared member of the Scourge, by all people. The living and the dead. Do you realize that if you are taken prisoner, you will be experimented upon, you will be tortured, but you will not be given freedom through death. They can reanimate you. They can make you live a dreadful few days again and again, just for their own research. Please, think about this. I know you and Targus believe that you are strong, and yes, to a degree you all are, but this is beyond getting revenge, this is the Scourge we are talking about. Revenge means nothing if you will be raised into undeath as a mindless pawn, only to further prolong the plight!"

"But someone has to stand and fight!"

"And there are plenty who will. You have already honored your people, Tess! Please, think this through more."

"I have thought it through! And I'm going! Why are you being so cowardly all of a sudden? When you and I fought in Ulduar, you were so willing to fight." She was furious. "You cannot keep me contained, hidden away in the mountains. I cannot do that, not when I know my loved ones are out there, possibly dying! I can save them, I can help them. And you want me to stand aside! I can't do it! Please, Thee, don't make me choose," she cried out with a sob. And the sob shook me horridly. I narrowed my boney-brows, and I shook my head multiple times out of conflicted feelings.

"Well then fine!" I shouted at her in a fit of anger and bitterness after several moments of awkward silence again. I did not realize I was clenching my withered jaw as well as my boney fingers into a fist until I saw her eyes widen slightly. I let out a cough, a horrid cough in which I spewed up dust into the palm of my hand, out of stress. Tess looked at me with concern, but I brushed it off callously. "Just leave," I stated coldly and I pointed to the door of our small room in Orgrimmar's inn. It seemed that a majority of our conversation was spent with silence as we each stared at each other. Ultimately, however, she lowered her gaze when she saw that I could not meet her eyes anymore. I did not look at her even, and I held my sight to the dusty ground before me. "Just go. You never wanted to be with me anyways," I added as a final jab, and I heard a sharp gasp escape from her lips.

"What! What are you saying now! How dare you say something like that! How could you even think of something like that! I love you, Thee." She whispered inbetween heavy sobs. I trembled when I heard her sobs, and I still could not look at her any longer. She came close to me, and decided to wrap her arms around my chest from behind, and in multiple bursts of crying and sobs, she told me repeatedly that she was sorry.

I do not know for how long I had been pondering it, or how long it simply was stewing in my body like a vile vermin, or a plague that finally had spread to my brain. But now it was alive, this virus. This idea that was churning in my body, in my rotten brain, in my thoughts. I knew it was so. It was noticeable all along, but now it was here. In front of our faces, and she was in denial. Everyone could ultimately see it. It was dark, it was potent, and it was pathetic to keep going on like this. We could not be this way anymore. Reaching for something that simply could not exist in this world. Not with the way things were. We could not keep going like this anymore. It was not fair to her, especially. She was the one who was alive. Not me. I was the corpse. She was the living being.

I pushed her away, with one forceful shove. I yelled at her to leave. She had to go. She would simply have to understand now, or then. It was better that she learn it now, when it would not be as hard as it would be then. But it had to be done.

She did not say anything to me after I pushed her away. She let out a sigh of exasperation and then finally stated, with an empty, helpless tone. "Alright. If that is what you wish, Theodore Rozenheart."

I grimaced briefly when she said my name, but I could not look up, else I would find myself calling for her to come back to my forsaken arms. But it was more than just our own splitting of ways. We had always been destined for different paths. I was finally beginning to realize it. We simply could not be moving together any longer. Our momentum was not strong enough to overcome the resistance, the force that was eager to pull us apart. It was wrong. What we were attempting or even thinking of doing was wrong. Nature simply denoted that we, the living and the dead, be separated beyond all reach. It had to end this way. Before it destroyed us both. Before we were crushed by fate. She was tempting my resolve, as she walked away. She did not look back. I did not look up.

It was better this way.

Or at least I convinced myself that it was.

Yet when she was out of the room, I found myself looking up, almost expecting either myself, or her, to be running back into each other's arms.

It did not happen.

ζ

What slaves are we to this torment.

To this aching thirst for resolving the faults of death, and to be a stain upon history. To be nothing more than a filthy and fiendish memory. What torture lies in the waking moment that we are alive in a paradox. Perhaps this is what I used to believe at one point in my life.

Perhaps my vengeance will finally be fulfilled. I can no longer wait with anger, impatience, and disgust for our victory to come with full force, without delving into everything at my grasps with high momentum. I had become cowardly in the past, but that was no longer. It was time. No longer could we be slaves to this torment any longer. No longer could we stew in this rot any longer. Not without justice. Not without a reason. No longer could the call of the Forsaken go unheard of. No longer could we be the vermin of the Horde. Not any longer.

For everyone could see it.

The Horde and the Alliance will be the ones begging for our mercy, soon enough.

Starting with our home, Lordaeron.

It was ours.

The living possessed none of it. They were simply squatting upon land that was not theirs. They wanted to push us out, to shoo us away as if we were rats who carried the plague.

But they did not realize it.

They were the ones who carried a plague.

The plague of the living.