This piece works as a side story of Starsurge, so it's quite spoiler-free. However, some scenes from here may appear on the main story in the future.
His eyes open in sudden shock, blinking repeatedly in an attempt to adjust his sights, trying to figure out something in the thick dark surrounding him. His head feels groggy, his senses going numb with the hard beating of his heart behind his ribs, and his head lolls back onto the floor when he feels his whole body aching, unable to find some strength or will to remove himself from where he lays.
Somehow he manages to crack his eyes open once more, only a small golden line which glances at the roof—a roof that he slowly starts to recognize as the one from his own house. A relieved sigh escapes his mouth. I must have dozed off after drinking all my reserves of wine… again, he realizes, allowing his muscles to relax for a little bit.
Yet his head starts to throb and the floor feels hard and cold under him, provoking a pained groan out of him. His fingers twitch, scrambling for some purchase, and his vision gets more clouded once he manages to gather some strength, damp strands of hair falling on his face as he sits straight.
His breath hitches when his nose captures a strong, bitter smell that doesn't belong to his own sweat, a shiver running down his back at the same time as a feeling of trepidation climbs onto him, tensing his muscles.
Something is not right.
His golden eyes open wide, once again trying to figure out something in the dim light, his fireplace only providing a little illumination—and barely so, with the remaining fire quickly evening out.
White dots dance in front of his eyes as he shakes his head, yet his senses keep dulled and his gaze clouded, the room spinning wildly in front of him. But the bitter smell grows stronger around him and a cold, chill breeze runs and strokes the back of his neck, eliciting him—tempting him—to relax once more, to stop worrying so much, to just lie down again and wait for the dizziness to pass.
But he doesn't surrender, forcing his body to respond to his demands and getting on all fours, doing his best to ignore the hard clench of his stomach and the sudden need to puke. His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring with his deep breathing and sweat gathering on his thick brows with the effort of maintaining some self-control. Yet when his head lifts, he finally discovers the reason of his clouded sight.
The fire runs out, only the dim moonlight coming through a high window providing some light to the room—a room flooded with a faint sapphire mist.
The cold breeze returns from behind him, bringing a thick smoke on its way, filling the place in thick waves of azure, joining and mixing with the sapphire mist, swaying and dancing in front of his eyes.
He feels entranced with the sight, the living room devoid of all colors except the rising mist before him. The acrid taste and smell of magic fills his nose and mouth as the mist thickens and surrounds him—yet never touching his skin, only waving before him, seducing him…
Illidan.
His neck cranes violently to the side, ears twitching in recognition. Illidan… His heart leaps before clenching in pain, but he can't figure out if her voice comes from inside or outside of his head.
Illidan!
The thickest of fogs comes from the first floor of his house, falling down the stairs in waves of purple and violet, clouding the living room and leaving him unable to see something further ahead than his own hands, trembling and barely holding his body.
The woman cries his name again and again, her voice rising in despair, and his breathing quickens, his insides clenching in fear as he tries once more to get control of his own body, forcing his limbs to respond somehow.
His tongue fumbles and struggles with some words of reassurance, mouth opening and attempting to yell something, anything. "Myl—!" He tries to speak, but his voice comes out thin and rasped, like sand running down his throat. "Myl—Mylie…"
Her sobs fill the entire room and his ears, even blocking the noise of the wild hammering of his heart inside his chest. The throbbing of his head is long gone, the pain being replaced with only sheer dread.
What is happening? Where am I? What is this place?
Slowly, carefully, the thick violet fog moves forward to where he lies, long claws made of smoke attempting to reach him in the sea of azure and sapphire that fills the room. Like the warm caress of a lover, the fog swallows him in its embrace, blocking his sight from everything except the path ahead—the small hallway and the wooden stairs leading to the first floor.
The scent of her fills his nose when the fog touches him—the smell of lilies, the refreshing air of the moonlight mixed with the feminine scent of her skin—invigorating him, keeping his limbs from trembling. With another deep inhale, he starts to crawl.
His vision gets blurry around the corners, covering his sights in shades of azure, yet he keeps moving forward. Somehow it feels like only the violet fog is encouraging him to move along, embracing his limbs and soothing his mind—a feeling he only gets with her presence.
A surge of adrenaline runs through his veins at the thought, muscles flexing and gathering the strength he needs to climb the stair. The azure still clouds his vision, but he's quick into forgetting the reasons of their presence, just as quick as he forgets where he stands and what he leaves behind as he gets to the end of the hallway.
Climbing up the stair gets to be a hard task—one step at the time, elbows and knees pushing his way up—yet it's when her voice starts to even out that he gathers all the energy he can muster to hurry up.
A dark wooden door materializes in front of him when he reaches the first floor, a door he doesn't remember to be there in the first place. To be where? Behind the newfound obstacle, bright purple lights are shown through the gaps, and the violet fog which once surrounded him easily makes its way in—thin tendrils of smoke slipping in through the keyhole.
After the thick fog fades away, his hand goes to grab the handle. But then, as his fingers ghost over the marbled surface, a symbol displays over the dark wood and before him—slowly, in very small strokes, as if a magic rune is being engraved in front of his eyes.
Like painted with invisible fingers, first comes a violet circle. Then, two curved lines, from left to right, together creating the symbol of an eye. His hand stays still, hovering in the air, getting an odd feeling creeping down the back of his neck—he doesn't dare to touch the door until the rune is finished.
And it's just as the eye starts to glow when a bright four-pointed silver star is shown in the middle of the circle, burning the dark wood and shining as the very Moon before his face. The light glimmers over his skin as if moonlight reflecting over water—caressing his cheek, his neck, his arms, all the places it can reach.
Violet and silver. An eye and a four-pointed star...
The sigil of House Stareye.
As if guided by pure instinct, his palm travels to the silver star, fingertips ghosting over the burned texture at the same time as his tongue wets his bottom lip. His mouth whispers a spell he doesn't recognize nor remembers, his voice low yet steady—as if someone is reciting the correct words for him.
Cascading waves of smoke appear from under his palm, the bright symbol shifting and glowing in shades of gold and white. And just like that, the rune disappears; fading and flying away like a leaf with the soft gust of wind.
The door opens before him but, somehow, he's suddenly afraid to enter. He can't help with being wary as a big, opulent hall is displayed in front of his eyes. The luxury of the room slowly unveils beyond the violet mist which had been following him, spreading and inviting him in.
A barefoot takes a tentative step into the hall, stepping onto a soft, expensive carpet. "I know you would come, Illidan..." Her voice is soft, drifting through and caressing him like pale moonlight on a warm night.
She's dressed like the very embodiment of the Goddess; a golden, very elaborate diadem with a silver half-moon—pointing upwards, the symbol of femininity—adorning her head, wearing a long, oh so long alabaster-colored dress which she fits in like a second skin. Her legs are bare just as her feet, rushing to where he stands with her bright aura following her every step.
Her face is just as bright when she sees him, leftovers of translucent tears fleeing from her violet-striped cheeks as she gets closer, pinning him in place with the warmest of arms aiming for his neck.
What remains of the air in his lungs is coaxed out as the Godlike woman crushes him in a deep embrace; her silky form—as silky as her clothes—melding, wrapping around and leaving him cocooned in her warmth, in her soothing scent, sheltering his mind and body from any outside threat.
Mylenne—no, the Goddess—clings to him tightly, as if she always belonged there, into the crook of his arms; as if she's the very piece that always was missing in him, making him whole again.
"Mylie…" He sighs with what's left of the remaining air on him, her name like a prayer.
One of her hands brush over the back of his neck and he surrenders to her embrace, burying his face in the Goddess' hair. Before his eyes flutter close, eyelids heavy as a rock, the last he can see are the mists—an ocean of sapphire and azure swallowing them whole.
He feels how his feet no longer touch the ground, his own hair brushing his ears in waves as they float, the room empty of air, gravity, empty of everything and anything at all—and the woman in his arms, the single solid thing he had ever needed.
He feels so light that it takes a while to realize they have already landed somewhere, yet his senses return full force when wet, smooth lips trail over his neck, his chest, and his shoulders. He can't do as much as sigh in pleasure, dizzy and lightheaded, all the nerves in his body reacting to her every touch.
"I am yours, Illidan," He hears her whispering to the crook of his neck, the sound of his name like the most soothing melody, sending shivers down his spine. "I have been yours since we met. Always yours, forever yours…"
Always mine, forever mine, he can only think, his voice abandoning him in the next heavy breathing, hoping she can at least hear his agreement with the wild hammering of his heart. He feels so dazed, so intoxicated with her touch that opening his eyes gets to be the hardest task he had ever done.
Yet when his efforts are successful—attempting to cradle her face in his hands in the process—he's left barely stunned and breathless at the sight displayed before his eyes.
Straddling his waist, Mylenne appears before him completely naked, only covered with her cascading hair and bright, glowing aura…
And she's the most beautiful creature his eyes ever had the pleasure to see.
He realizes they are on a bed when she turns them over, her back to the mattress, and he can only do as much as brace himself with his elbows—wobbly and weak—holding the weight of his body, just as naked and bare as hers. Her long, impossibly long legs encircle his waist, bringing him an anchor he never thought possible.
Her bright violet hair is a wild cascade behind her head, displayed as if only made for his eyes to see. One of her hands gets between their brushing and bare chests, the softest of fingers encircling his length and eliciting the most high-pitched moan out of him as she gently guides him to her entrance.
Mylenne doesn't speak until he's buried to the hilt and he doesn't dare to move—his legs, his arms, his whole body is shaking too much for him to think straight, alarms running loud and wide inside his head.
It's all too much, too much, too much!
Her breath brush over his face and his nostrils flare as he breathes it all, feeling like coming up for air after being underwater for centuries. But then, she speaks: "Kene'thil surfas." She whispers the words that are only said to a life mate. Only to one's other half.
And the words which mark his undoing.
His body moves in its own accord, hips twisting, muscles rippling, arms encircling her as his mouth finds its place in the crook of her neck. He'd never made love before—he doesn't even remember half of the faces that once spent a day in his bed—yet, somehow, his limbs make the dance for him, gently, lovingly.
However, she's the one to set the pace, a hand holding the back of his thigh and the other scratching his lower back as her hips move to meet his. The perfect column of her throat bobs within each of his movements, her nails leaving passionate marks on its way up his wide back.
Every inch of her feels like pure fire, her magic flaring out and embracing him—mystic violet tendrils thin as smoke caressing his skin—the scent of lilies and moonlight filling his nose and going straight to his brain; utterly destroying every possibility for him to step back, to stop and break whenever hallucination or dream he's having.
It can't possibly be real when all he wants is to crawl out of his skin and take shelter inside of her for the rest of his miserable life.
His heart pounds so hard, lungs burning with overwhelming need of her, and he can't grasp or understand anything beyond her voice moaning his name with each of his thrusts, or the small voice inside his head, screaming more, please more. His hands travel to stroke all the places they can reach; her legs, her hips, her breasts, her spine, arched and tight as a bowstring.
His tongue darts out to lick that spot right under her ear, and it's when he tastes her magic that something snaps inside of him, pupils blowing wide and breath hitching.
This is it… Yes, oh Goddess, yes!
He stops hearing her pleas, licking and nipping all the places he can reach, a deep growl making its way out from the bottom of his throat; demanding, predatory, making her whole body tremble beneath him.
Finally, his mouth finds hers, taking all of her in, not even bothering to breathe.
Mylenne screams inside his mouth, her entire body clenching around him before they both explode, white hot stars dancing before his eyes. In that perfect moment, his heart stops pumping blood for a bare moment before encompassing its heartbeat with the woman underneath him.
I need more, there has to be more...
He forces her lips to open wider, burying himself to the hilt and locking themselves in their joining as her very essence mingles and intertwines with his—azure and gold with violet and silver, the only colors he can see, he can feel, he can breathe.
She keeps screaming inside his mouth and he swallows all that she is like the thirstiest man in the world. He looms over her, covering all her body with his own, muscles swelling and growing as pure, unadulterated magic strikes through his very core.
Yet he wants more, he needs more; his body, his very soul craves for every inch he can taste, take and claim.
This can't be all. It's not enough, not enough, not enough!
To take her, to hear his name coming from her lips, to kiss her, to make love to her—this is all he had ever wanted, the reason of his despicable existence, the very principle of his life... what he was born and called on this world to do.
All that she is, from the intangible essence of her soul to her impossibly silky body; all is made and created for him to take and claim as his. And her inner magic… dear Goddess and deities above, her magic. He had never felt something like that before, something so pure and so whole that enlightens all the dark, webbed corners of his being.
He feels more powerful than ever, transformed, altered—as if all his cells had been pulled out, twisted, rearranged, and then put back together.
For the first time in more than two thousand years, he feels complete.
After having the impression that eons have passed before his lungs clench with the need for air, he finally parts. The most pleased smile is plastered on his mouth, wet and stained with magic, the tip of his tongue tingling with the remains of its taste as it slowly cleans his lower lip, savoring all he can.
But then, the soft hands that once were clinging to his neck fall like heavy rocks to the sides, the heartbeat that once encompassed his own fading in her next exhale of breath—just as the bright glowing of her eyes when he opens his and looks at her.
He blinks once, twice, thrice, but Mylenne is not there anymore and he only can stare at her big eyes, looking without seeing; tendrils of azure spreading like spider webs over the silver of her gaze.
No, no… What have I done?
Sheer desperation grips him like a vice and he returns his lips to her mouth, trying to fill her lungs with air, trying to do something, anything that somehow may fix what he had just done. But her body runs cold, oh so cold, icy veins showing beneath an equally cold skin.
Beyond his powerful, violet aura—flaring like a beacon over his skin—now he only sees azure… and it's everywhere. In the air, in the bed, in her body, corrupting and tainting everything it can reach.
What have I done?
And he's on fire, melting all that she is with his touch, a wild, uncontrollable violet mist enveloping his hands. Her name comes out of his lips in a roar, desperate hands attempting to hold what's left of her, clawing and shredding a long cold body, a long gone soul.
What have I done?