Rauthien Brightblade did not know what happened, could not have known what was going on. All he knew was that his sword arm ached to numbness, that he could not free the massive blade from the unholy mess of flesh and ichor that lay twitching at his feet on the parlor floor.
"...Rauthien?"
It was a faint whisper from somewhere behind him. The clear, beautiful contralto he'd known for so long was a shadow of its former clarity; it rasped with pain. For not the first time that day, Rauthien's heart was gripped by a terrible fear. However, the particular fear he felt at that very moment eclipsed any mundane terror at the horrors Prince Arthas had unleashed against his people that terrible day. Monsters and eldritch creatures were one thing; knowledge of the sight that likely awaited him should he turn toward the voice of the young smith that beckoned him was something else entirely.
"Yes, my love?"
"That was a fine blow."
Rauthien let his hand fall away from his stuck broadsword, steeled himself, and turned. Teraeis sat some feet away in a pool of Light-knew-what, propping himself upright with one curved blade, the other discarded to the side. He clutched at his abdomen, calloused hand covered in blood. His bronze skin, once the color of a golden sunrise, was pale and fallow. Loose strands of auburn hair were plastered against his brow, with sweat, blood, and ichor.
"For Light's sake," Rauthien gasped, and half ran, half dove to his side. Teraeis' arm gave out and he dropped his sword, collapsing against Rauthien.
"...that was sort of unexpected," he said with a weak, sardonic smile.
"Unexpected, my foot," Rauthien scoffed in playful nervousness. "It's just not wine causing you to fall into my arms this time."
Teraeis laughed weakly at that, bringing a relieved sigh to Rauthien's lips. "I've never needed wine, belov--iAH!/I" Teraeis cried out in pain, and clawed at his wound.
"Ter?"
"Ye gods, it burns. It burns."
Rauthien carefully, but urgently lifted his lithe, muscular form up, suddenly finding his strength again. If only he could find a priest--a priest could soothe his wounds, and then--
"Rauth." The whisper was harsher, softer.
"What is it, Teraeis?"
"I'm sorry."
"Be still," Rauthien hissed, a little more harshly than he intended. "Please, hush. We'll be fine, we just need to find you a priest, and then--"
"I love you, Rauthien. With all my soul. I hope I've shown you that."
"And I you, Teraeis, of course you--don't speak that way, I implore you. It will be fine," Rauthien insisted.
His body shuddered in Rauthien's arms, and fell disturbingly limp.
"Don't you dare leave me, Teraeis Fairdawn!" Rauthien snapped with a startled cry. "Don't you dare--"
"...sorry..."
"...priest, just get you a priest," Rauthien muttered, hot tears forming in his eyes as he brought all his will to bear on staving off the inevitable.
"...love..."
"is there a...oh gods. No. No."
Rauthien gazed down at the limp body in his arms. The shimmering light in Teraeis' eyes had faded to nothing, and Rauthien could only stare in horror and abject disbelief. This could not be happening, not here, not now.
"...Ter?"
A gentle nudge, but no response.
"Teraeis?"
Silence descended on a small corner of Silvermoon, in a townhouse on Dawning Lane. The eternal springtime of Quel'Thalas turned to bitter, frigid winter, in one swipe of a monstrous claw, one disgusting gutting of the purest, most beautiful of them all.
And all around Rauthien, the good, the beautiful, the strong, crumbled as leaves in the autumn wind. A thousand upon thousand scenes such as that played out at that very moment, across their cherished city. A mother and child, brother and sister, husband and wife. The blight which was dividing the land itself in two as it made its grim march toward the very soul of Rauthien's people was marring more than soil and stone. Hearts were breaking all around him. Countless lives were being destroyed. And all Rauthien could do was weep. He walked, numb, clutching Teraeis' body as if it were more precious than gold, and stepped outside the house into the street.
Right then, outside that house, amidst flames and shadow, and the rubble of the massive enchanted golems that once protected the cities, amidst bodies...so many bodies...Quel'dorei bodies...Quel'dorei blood...none of that mattered to Rauthien. Nothing at all mattered to him but the man that lay dead in his arms.
He stood there, in the ruins, blithely unaware of the extent of the death and destruction around him. He sank to his knees, and cradled Teraeis against him. Rauthien didn't even realize that he was screaming then, bitter Thalassian curses as old as his people. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks, his brain was on fire, and he was rocking back and forth clinging to Teraeis, almost as if he unconsciously believed that if he caused enough of a scene, his lover would come back to gently chide him for his melodramatic tendencies.
He would have gladly stayed there, lost in his own indescribable torment, were it not for the woman in scarlet plate mail that walked by him, in a daze of her own, covered in blood, clutching a small bundle of blankets in her arms.
"Anar'alah belore!", she cried out, screaming her unbearable grief to the smoking skies, snapping Rauthien out of his crazed state. "Anar'alah!"
By the Light, indeed. It would not cease, none of this, not until the last High Elf was committed to earth or marching his rotting husk at Arthas' command. So be it then, Rauthien thought grimly. He carefully set his beloved's body down among the trampled flowers in the yard, and brushed his lips against lifeless ones. He went back inside the house, and emerged with Teraeis' blood-stained blades, the weapons forged of thorium in the very workshop where they'd first met.
Let accursed Arthas come with his damned, let the very heart of darkness come. Silvermoon would not fall without Her son standing by Her. The Sunwell would not perish without one knight left to defend it.
Rauthien would surely join Her, and it, and Teraeis and all that fell before in glorious eternity.