Hey guys! Sorry for the long update, but you're reallllyyy gonna like this art comming up. I'm done with it, but here's the problem: Its too big to scan! I'm going to have to scan it in peices and then put it together. I'll try and get that done by the next update.

Also, there /was/ some jumping around in time in the last update! I forgot to let you know+blushes+

Listed by section
Outland - Past
Icecrown - Present
Outland - Past
Northrend till the end -Present

If I can ever get off my lazy butt, I'll lable them, and also fix the italics in the section titled "Flashbacks" The letter starts a paragraph earlier, but when I italicized the letter, I missed that paragraph! Its not italicized! CURSES!

Trust and Dependance

Argent Dawn Boat

To Ron, Ketala was death. She was the specter of Charon himself- the grim reaper. Her scimitars appeared as two arcing scythes in the boy's eyes. He was not frightened of her in the traditional sense of the word. Instead, he was morbidly terrified. Any time Ketala approached, he went still, just gazing at her with grave fascination. The boy had watched Ketala slaughter an entire tower of people, and had probably seen her kill his parents. To him, there was nothing in the world that represented death in a purer sense then Ketala. He couldn't even hate her, because he did not see her as a person, but instead as a concept. Instead, he gave her the quiet, helpless respect that all beings gave death.

Such was the case when Ketala came over to the Argent Dawn ship. She found Leonid finishing up the carving of a small wooden griffon, showing the little Scarlet Crusader boy the details on the feathers. When Ketala came up, the boy immediately went quiet, turning to stare at her. Inwardly, Ketala flinched. She did not like killing, as Lenoid well knew, and it was extremely hard on her to be viewed as a murderer or a manifestation of death. To make matters worse, the specter of Arthas was currently showing her the Scarlet Crusaders she had killed, their body parts strewn about the boy's feet.

The half-elemental breathed in deeply, gathering the strength to ignore the specter. Then she moved into the room, smiling as Leonid looked up at her. "Good morning Leonid. The boy is well?"

Leonid smiled and nodded, setting down the wooden griffon and standing up. "Lady Ketala, it's good to see you. To what do I owe this visit?"

"I must be brief, but could you please bring Ron up to the deck?" The male undead paladin blinked, but nodded.

"Of course. I shall be there in a moment." Ketala smiled and turned, heading back up from the bowls of the ship.

Ron breathed out in a weak sigh when Ketala left, but his mood immediately brightened when Leonid picked him up and tickled him. He laughed, fighting against the undead playfully, and the paladin laughed back, bearing the small child out of his room and up the stairs. When at last they reached the deck, the undead chuckled, setting the small boy down. The boy laughed, running a few steps away and then turning back towards his undead caretaker, smiling with childish delight. Leonid merely shook his head and looked around. He spotted Ketala, but blinked upon realizing that she was talking with three Scarlet Crusaders. Two of them were most certainly officials, but the third seemed to be a low-ranking priest…

"Ron?"

The little boy blinked, looking around to see who had called his name. The speaker was behind him, a few yards away. She was a low-ranking Scarlet Crusader- a priest- draped in reds and golds, and she was looking down at the boy with an expression between hope and amazement. "Randald Meruwin?" The boy blinked, and then his eyes widened."

"Aunt Lisa?"

Immediately, the woman's face lit up. "Ron! Oh Ron-" she said, dashing forward. The little boy only got to take a few steps toward her, and then he was swept up in a hug. "Oh Ron, we thought we lost you with your- oh it doesn't matter- you're alright!" The boy said nothing, clinging to her mutely and unable to resist the tidal wave of emotions that assaulted him. "Oh, you poor thing; are you okay?" she inquired in a softer tone, pulling the boy back an inch and stroking hair out of his face, trying to get a good look at him.

"I'm okay…"

"We'll get you back to our boat and clan you up then, alright? You can stay in my room, and I have some lemon pudding in the onboard icebox just for you, and when we get back home, you can have the guest room with the big bed and the toy box. Does that sound good?" The boy nodded mutely, still trying to dam the flow of tears, and she smiled. "There you are dear, it will be alright," she said, using her sleeve to gently pat tears from his cheeks, and she began to walk back towards the other official- an official who was smiling approvingly. "We'll get you some new toys when we get back to Tyr's Hand. Grandpa has been carving, but he hasn't had any children to give the toys he's made and-"

It was the mention of toys that finally gave Ron some mastership over his voice, for he had suddenly remembered that there was something important he should be considering.

"I have some toys here Aunt Lisa. May I get them?"

"Well, I don't want to stay on this boat for much longer, but certainly, you may get them!" Ron smiled.

"And I'm going to come live with you?"

"Of course," she said tenderly, smiling back."

"But… …can… I come to visit Leonid, too?" The woman blinked, frowning a bit as her eyebrows came together in thought.

"Leonid?"

As if Aunt Lisa saying the name had triggered more important memories, Ron twisted around to look behind him. His undead caretaker was not there. The boy blinked in confusion, but Ketala explained Leonid away as the Argent Dawn paladin who had taken care of the boy. Ron asked to be set down, and when Lisa obliged he ran off to find his toys. Leonid was not in their room… so the boy decided to look for the paladin. He checked the kitchen, but he did not find the undead. He found and asked Carlin, but he did not find the undead, and Carlin had no information. He ran the hallways, calling, but he did not find the undead. Finally, even he had to admit that he could not hold up Aunt Lisa any longer. He slowly headed up to the deck, dragging his feet and looking around forlornly, unable to understand why his undead caretaker had vanished. He kept expecting him to show up, to smile and hug him and to come with him… He could not understand. To him, the thought that Leonid would not come, and that he would leave with his aunt and never see the undead again, was too horrible for him to even comprehend. It wasn't possible. Couldn't happen.

Yet it did. The boy was up on the deck, and his aunt was herding him towards the side of the ship. There was a rope ladder there, and, before he knew it, he was climbing down the ladder, horrified and yet helpless to stop. He had to climb down. He had to- Aunt Lisa screamed above him, and Ron froze, staring upwards.

"Madame!" a familiar voice said indignantly. "Do I look Scourge to you?"

To her credit, Aunt Lisa did manage a halting apology. However, it was buried under Ron's delighted cry of "Leonid!" There was a moment of nothing, and then the undead leaned over the rail, smiling.

"You forgot something," he said, and he stretched over, reaching the newly carved griffon down to the boy. Ron blinked, smiling, and took the offered toy in one hand, but he immediately looked from it back to the undead paladin.

"You're coming, too, right?" he questioned. Leonid hesitated, breathing out in a silent sigh. "Leonid?"

"Go with your aunt, alright? She will take good care of you."

"But Leonid…"

"You don't want to hold your aunt up, now do you?"

"But…"

"Go on. Hurry up." Dismayed and abandoned, the little boy lifted his hand to clutch the paladin's. His undead caretaker returned the grip for a moment and then released, pulling his hand back. "Hurry up, Ron." The little boy looked up at him so miserably for a moment, and for that moment it looked like the undead would pick up the boy, drag him back over the rail, and fight off any Scarlet Crusader who attempted to take him.

The inevitable pull of fate, however, started the boy downward again, pulling him farther and father down a road that couldn't happen- shouldn't happen- mustn't happen. And then he was in the boat, and his aunt was settled next to him, with waves tossing up and down between him and the Argent Dawn ship. His undead caretaker stood and watched the boat depart, waving with all the feel of final and irrevocable departure.

Months after leaving Northrend...

Undercity

Nathanos shuddered, body arching. He clutched at his chest, snarling in denial at what he found there. The movement- the convulsion- the twisting. Like before. Slam after wrenching slam. He screamed, clawing his way out of his makeshift bed- where he had been resting- and tore at his chest, ripping into his own flesh and damaging his delicate, healed finger tips. He grit his teeth and convulsed, shrieking furiously, and then curled up and vomited, spitting blood vehemently over the ground.

"Lord Nathanos, are you al-?"

"GET OUT!" the Ranger screamed, hurling an axe brutally towards the voice. The axe struck stone, burying deep into it, and the voice immediately backed off, its owner already used to its new master's temperaments. Nathanos snarled, holding his chest, feeling it- the betrayer, the fault, the wracking distortions.

The night visions had brought it on. The dreams…

Nathanos hadn't dreamed in ages- had barely slept in ages- but he had done so now! And the dreams- the memories! That moment: The moment Ketala went over the cliff- the moment the wracking convulsions began-

"Nathanos, how long did you hold me from falling over that cliff?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because you were soaked with blood. Undead bleed very sluggishly, due to the fact that blood is either still in their veins, or very slow and moved only by traces of the magic that animates them." He merely shrugged.

Undead do not bleed quickly, because undead do not have a pulse to move the blood out of their bodies. But Nathanos had not held her all that long. He had been bloody because of it. Because of the twisting in his chest. It had begun then, when Ketala had gone over, and the memories- the dreams- had restarted it…

Nathanos had been bloody because when Ketala had gone over the cliff, the whole world had almost ended. Nathanos had panicked. His blood had raced as he had dived to catch the angel. His blood had raced.

His heart had beaten. That is why he had bled so badly. It was beating now, restarted by the dreams, but, like last time, it was rapidly slowing. Still, he could feel the wrenching slamming of his heart as it beat, denying its own death. Denying his hatred.

He clutched his chest tightly, blood oozing from where he had wounded himself with his own fingers, feeling his own heartbeat slowly subside, and relaxing as it did so. "I worry," the heart shouted. "I'm scared." His eyes closed, his mind overflowing with the hate that his beating heart still strove to deny. "I don't want to lose you," the beating whispered. "I'm frightened. I don't want you to die. I need you." Nathanos screamed. His finger tips ripped into his chest, wrenching and pulling. Then it was in his hands. He had it and he yanked, hot blood flowing over his fingers, oozing out over his chest, spurting upon the ground. He ripped it out and hurled it into a wall, and savored the silence, the pain, and the blood. But then- he heard it! The sound!

He stared at the heart as it beat futilely on, tossing on the ground where it lay, his eyes wide in amazement. After a moment, it stopped, lying silently in a grotesque heap. Nathanos stared at it a long moment, and then looked down at the gaping hole in his chest, ribs cracked aside, and blood leaking out. He merely gazed at it for a long moment, feeling the pain and the damage. Then he determined a troll's blood potion was in order, and he pushed himself to his feet, blood dripping down his leather clothing, his chest ripped open, and strode off to retrieve one, his eyes flaming with utter hatred for his hellish savior.

One way or another, Nathanos was reliant on Ketala. Without her, he had nothing left in life. Without her to hate, without her to rend apart mentally, he had no focus but to fight and to die. Ketala had successfully given him a point in living.

Ironically, Nathanos had never before- in life of death- been so frustrated, angry, and out of sorts as during the brief few years he had known Ketala Truae.

He had felt her call- her subconscious need, and he had answered it with his own; his starvation for causing pain. He felt her mind near his, starved and lonely, and he latched onto it, feeding off its pain... and its joy at his presence. He starved forher attention and for battle, for the cleave of his blade against undead flesh. He was so bored, so irrtable. He was a tactitian, true, but a general, not a politician. The Ranger Lord was built to be on the field of battle, commanding troops or minions. He utterly loathed his position in the undercity- loathed it as a trapped animal would loathe its cage. The power over and entire race held no value to him. He trusted only in his own strength and power, and in the strength of an army. A city was useless to him- a liability and an irritation.

But there were no others to take his place...

It didn't take Nathanos very long to remember he didn't give a damn about the Undercity. He didn't give a damn about it, could care less whether it fell or stood, and owed it no debts whatsoever. His only allegiance was to the Dark Lady. The Undercity itself meant nothing to him.

His blade yearned for the taste of Scourge flesh and Crusade blood.

His mind hungered for a victim.

Tyr's Hand

Ron played happily with his toys- at least, he played as happily as Ron could play. Happiness was not something that seemed to come easily to the small child. Ever since Lisa had brought him back from the Argent Dawn ships, he had been a changed boy. His family naturally attributed it to the death of his step father at Ketala's hands. The boy had already lost both of his parents to the Scourge and it was assumed that the child's depression stemmed from the loss of his stepfather, his caretaker.

Ronald's grandfather was watching over him, smiling and whittling small toys for the child. He was an old man, mercifully spared from the scourge and taken in by the Scarlet Crusade. Although Lisa and her family were related to Ron's mother and the grandfather was related to Ron through the boy's father, the family had taken the old man in and given him a permanent place in their humble abode.

And now, with Ron back, the little family was content indeed. The grandfather had his precious grandson back, and the boy's presence was a litany against sorrow for those who had been lost to the Scourge. Lisa was cheery again. Her husband was on the mend from the conflict in Northrend. All was right in the world.

Except Ron was unhappy. While it was easy to attribute his sadness to the death of his step-father, it was not so easy to comfort the small child. Since the grandfather was the only one who had no pressing duties, it therefore fell upon him to baby-sit the young boy, and it was also he who truly noticed how sad the little boy was.

Ron's grandfather was blind now. His eyesight had left him many years ago, and he had developed a very acute sense of touch to make up for his lack. Wood transformed into beautiful scenes and mysterious creatures beneath his skilled hands. Even before his blindness, his particular skill with carving had been well-renown- a skill passed down from father to son through the generations. The old man's name was Evron, and he sat in his hide-covered chair, relaxing and smiling down at where he knew is grandson to be. He listened to the boy play for a long while, smiling at the words and personalities that the small boy gave his characters. Ron made a whizzing sound and a small carving flew up and landed on the arm rest of Grandfather Evron's chair. The old man smiled, reaching over and examining the child as the little boy went back to the figures on the ground. The toy on the armrest was a griffon- some great guardian watching over one of the figures below.

Evron frowned suddenly, his fingers rubbing along the surface of the griffon. The craftsmanship of the small toy was amazing. The tiny ridges of the feathers- so perfect!- seemed so familiar…

"I don't remember this one," the old man reflected, and he endured a brief scolding by Ron as to why that griffon needed to remain where it was, watching over the little carved figures below it. The grandfather chuckled and look to the boy's voice, tilting his head to the side. "I'm sorry little one. But I don't remember this one. Is this one of the toys the blacksmith made you?" Ron blinked, squinted at the figure, and then shook his head. Then, apparently realizing his grandfather could not see him shaking his head, he answered,

"No, I got that one when I was with the Ar… argent Dawn, grandpa…" The old man blinked and frowned lightly, giving a small sigh.

"You don't know who made it then? You just bought it?" his face brightened. "Who did you buy it from little one?"

"I didn't buy it, though." The grandfather blinked his glazed eyes, trying to divine who had possibly bought the toy for the little child. He hadn't asked the little boy about his time with the Argent Dawn as he figured that the small child would be traumatized by his step-father's death. However, the little boy eliminated the need for further questioning.

"Leonid made it for me." Evron dropped the griffon and it clattered to the ground. The little boy looked quickly at him and the old man apologized and bent over to pick it up, his fingers shaking.

"Leonid you say? Who was he?" he asked quietly.

"He took care of me. He was in the Argent Dawn." The old man let out a silent breath, relaxing.

"He sounds like a good man." The little boy smiled and was just about to nod when he frowned.

"… But he didn't come with me…" Evron blinked, looking blindly, quizzically at the boy.

"What do you mean?"

"He didn't come with me. When Aunt Lisa came. I looked all over for him but I couldn't find him and…" the little boy's eyes welled up with tears. "And Aunt Lisa was in a hurry and I was already half-half way do-down to the rowboat when I heard him a-and he leaned over and g-gave me the toy and he- he didn't come with me!" The small boy's hands clenched his toys. "He didn't c-come with me, and then we were rowing away!" The grandfather's blind eyes widened and he pushed himself off his chair, kneeling down and gathering the boy in his arms, murmuring reassurances and pulling the boy into his lap, stroking the child's hair as the boy clung to him in return.

It seemed Ron's lot in life to lose every person who ever became dear to him.

"There, there child," the old one murmured, picking the boy up into his arms and rocking him gently. "It's alright. It's alright." The little boy just sniffled as the man sat down in his chair, and the two were quite for quite some time. "Now," the grandfather said, when he was sure the little boy was calm again, "what was this great Leonid person like?" The little boy shivered, but talking seemed to have had a calming effect on him, and he managed to murmur out,

"He was a paladin… The other people in the Argent Dawn said he was special, because few of his kind could become paladins."

"Oh?"

"Yes. When I was first brought there I was scared of him. After everyone died and he was so ugly and… but…" the boy calmed down, leaving the old man to wonder if the boy had been raised by an orc for the short time he was with the dawn. "I tried to run away but he always brought me back. I thought I hated him, but then one time I ran away and there was a monster-" the boy's face paled. "Horrible ugly, horrible but… Lenoid came and found me, and he killed it and brought me back and hugged me and tucked me into bed and gave me a toy to play with and…" the little boy looked up sadly at his grandfather. "He took care of me. He looked scary, but he wasn't. But he didn't come with me!" the little boy whispered, and he buried his face into his grandfather's chest.

"Well," the old man said after a moment, "sometimes humans and other people don't get along very well. Maybe he was a creature that humans fight with, and coming here would not be safe. What was Leonid?" He didn't mean to pry, but the talk looked to be relieving the boy of stress, and his curiosity as to the expert wood craftsman only grew with every word.

"… Undead…" the boy said softly.

For the second time that day, Evron Bartholomew nearly had a heart attack. Trembling, he reached over and picked up the griffon, feeling the familiar craftsmanship, and tears came down the blind man's face. He had been right. Only one other being left in the world had such craftsmanship with wood- a being that Evron had passed the secrets onto himself…

His son…

Andorhal

She was curled up in a ball in the second room of the inn, shivering, helpless. Her eyes were wide, gasps of air issuing from her lips every few moments, and her hands were at her ears, trying to block out sounds found only within her own mind. He watched her a moment, hating her, marveling at how such a pathetic, pitiful being could have ever manipulated or controlled him. Then, silently, he walked into the room, coming up to her bed. He looked down at her, silent, observing. After a moment he sat down beside her, his weight making a temporary depression on the mattress.

From within her twisted, unhappy world, Ketala felt the shifting of her bed. She jerked around to see who sat beside her, but she was stopped from moving by the cool axe blade that rested against her prone neck. After a shivering moment, she discerned the shape of the axe blade- its brilliant serrated edge and yet jagged shape… Polished black-green wood formed the handle…

Nathanos. Nathanos. Her hand moved, slowly, slowly reaching up to touch the axe- to move along its soft surface. Her fingertips felt his gloved ones and moved over them, surrounding them and holding on to them. She held his hand and weapon closer and tighter to her, rather then pushing them away. He turned it slightly and subconsciously to ensure that the serrated edge was not pressing too hard against her exposed throat. And she held him there, her fingers examining his gloved ones and relaying that many of his fingers had again been worn to the bone.

"What do you hear?" he whispered after a long moment, his voice close. Her fingers tightened on his, and he felt her mind seeking his out. His eyes flamed with rage and in a swift motion he hooked her neck with the bottom of his axe, wrenching her closer to him, and grabbed her chin forcefully with her other hand. "Don't you dare touch my mind," he snarled with evil venom, his fingers crushing her throat and jaw like a vice. Her eyes closed quickly and she shuddered under his hold. "Now, what do you hear?"

"… Him. Day and night I hear him. Endless are his accusations. Endless are the screams of the dead," she whispered. "And it hurts. I cannot block him out. I feel every word, and every scream."

"How long did it take for them to elevate to this level of torment?" he inquired, watching her face.

"As soon as I had landed on Quel'Thalas, to help the Argent Dawn sanctify a new chapel, and the Undercity ships were out of sight." Nathanos lifted a brow and chuckled.

"As soon as I was gone? You love the cliché, Ketala. You have thousands that love you and that curl beside you every last second of your day."

"They can do nothing against a ghost."

"No less than I can."

"They don't have such an unfailing grip on reality." He chuckled, shaking his head. "I shielded your mind. You told me you'd protect mine in return," she murmured. Only then did Nathanos realized that Ketala had shut her eyes- not out of fear, shame, trauma, or any such negative emotion- but in order that he might not be effected by them.

"Reality? Do you know what reality is? You did slaughter them. You killed each and every last one, as cold-bloodedly as I would have- as he would have. You killed them in the most effective way- not the most merciful or least painful. You slit one man's stomach open and actually helped claw his bowls out," he said sweetly. Her eyes flashed open, glowing brilliant, sad blue, and she grabbed him, shoving herself up and hurling him backwards with a strength that belied all her apparent weakness.

"… Get… away from me," she says slowly, darkly. "Get out, and never, ever come back." There was no hint of unbridled fury in her tone. No ill restrained anger showed itself in her face. She did not even grit her teeth. "You came here unwelcome, uninvited, and unwanted. Now get out. I don't need you; I don't want you. You are no more then a leech."

"I'm the leech?" he said with cruel, incredulous laughter.

"You've been wanting to part ways with me since we first met. You told me I wasted my attentions on you. Well I've finally faced the truth that you are right. Now leave- like you want. I will bother you no longer." No anger. Only calm realization. Nathanos's face twisted at this out of character response from Ketala, but he merely chuckled.

"You are the needy one Ketala. What will you do without me?"

"I will go northeast to live with the Argent Dawn." Nathanos's eyes narrowed.

"Leonid."

"Yes. Leonid and Carlin have both ever been my friends. I am sure they will be able to help me where my followers cannot. As soon as everything is ready here, I will go to Quel'Thalas."

"Leonid lives in a fairy world where all is bright and hopeful! He is no different from yourself!"

"Then I will double my efforts to get there, as I am sure to find welcome among them. You told me to seek an undead who could already appreciate the merit of salvation. I have done so. Now leave." He snarled, but suddenly found he had no retort, as he had no idea what to feel. Relief? Hatred? He had never expected this from Ketala!

Which means he'd come to expect she'd always be there, with her annoying compassion. He had already accepted her as an immutable part of his existence. He'd never even contemplated the idea that one day she would be gone. Which meant he'd never contemplated the existence he could live if he ever killed her.

He'd never truly believed he'd ever kill Ketala Truae. He imagined it, fantasized it, but never really believed it. She would always be there, and there was nothing he could do to stop her. Yet now she set him free. She agreed never to bother him again.

But she had already done her insidious work. She had left her mark on him and changed him, transformed him somewhat. He could not go back to what he used to be, and now he was trapped, half feeling. Now she left him half whole, replacing him… He snarled darkly at her.

"You will regret this when your blade cuts down Lachdan."

"Lachdan? I'd never-"

"We shall see. Perhaps in your delirium you shall strike out at the specter of Arthas, only to find your scimitar buried in Lachdan's chest, burning away his undead flesh."

"I would never."

"He can't keep you sane. He can barely remember his own name. His mind is encased in yours, and he sees everything you see. He can't tell reality from mind-images." She looked about to retort, and then her eyes narrowed.

"Why do you care?"

"I merely point out your foolishness."

"Why do you care?" she repeated. "You're free."

'I AM NOT FREE!' His mind screamed silently. 'You have poisoned me from the moment you first encountered me! You owe me now!' but this indicated a need for her. He had already risked that enough by just coming to Andorhal. Instead he just snarled. "You will regret this, and I will relish your torment," he said with deep, sadistic passion, and then he turned, striding off, back out into the night.

Outside Andorhal

Ketala sighed, walking quietly up to Uther's tomb, her head down and her eyes watching the ground. When Thel'danis spotted her, he almost didn't recognize her. Without her thick plate, she looked small and fragile. Sensing that something was wrong with the poor creature, Thel'danis actually left the steps of the shrine to greet her, gently placing a hand on her shoulder and guiding her inside. Though he asked no questions, the tall elf looked at her with concern, and sat her down once inside the small, open shrine. She complied and then sighed weakly, lowering her head and closing her eyes.

"… What is wrong, Ketala?" he inquired after sitting down beside her.

"… I drove away someone very precious to me. One of Sylvanis's Forsaken." He frowned, regarding her a long moment.

"… On accident?"

"No. I did it because, sadly enough, it is what's best. Because if I didn't, it would either tear me or him apart." She looked over at Thel'danis. "He has coped with death by slipping slightly into insanity. He's filled with rage and hate, and he is too proud to lay either aside. And to him I cause great pain by pushing him to feel joy and sadness again." She sighed, looking off at nothing.

"… Why is he so precious to you?"

"…Because not all of him is lost. Undead are unholy, and thus cannot be paladins. Undead are unnatural, and thus cannot be rangers."

"And he is a ranger?"

"Yes, although he more often then not chooses his companions from undead stock, mixed in with his skill in necromancy is also pure ranger gift."

"Is that the only reason?"

"I care about him. He is… my friend…"

"… Yet both of you suffer from the friendship."

"He and I were not meant to be together. Zul'vii was right. Trying to help him is like trying to help a leech. There is nothing I can do if he is not willing to change. I just expend all my strength- all my soul heart and mind, and his small changes and developments only serve to leech more and more life from me, without ever really achieving anything. If I don't give up now it will devour me, because I will never again be able to give up on him."

The elf was quiet, watching her as she knelt, her face grayed with solemn sadness, and he knew not what to say. "I have never known you to give up permanently before- on anything. He has never shown and signs of care in return?" She chuckled and then sighed.

"… He has. Just coming to Andorhal proves that. That he might have missed me- might have needed me, or realized he needed me. Twice I've awakened, after being wounded, to him holding me and stroking my hair. I think it upsets him because he feels vulnerable whenever he shows emotion."

"Then…?"

"We can reach no happy medium," she said, smiling weakly at Thel'danis. "For months- years now I have stayed by his side, unwilling to leave him, trying with everything in me to help him. Even though he rejects me, I know he only does so out of pain, and not out of any happiness for his current life. And during the whole course of that time he has hated me." She looked down again. "Now he comes to me, only after I am already fed up with him. We can never agree, because we never both want to be near each other at the same time. Nathanos is only overwhelmed by the desire to be near me when he doesn't have me- which is when I am fed up with him…" She shook her head. "So now we are trapped. I have poured my life into helping him- sacrificed half my existence in order that half of him might live. If I give any more, I'd destroy myself.

"So nothing can change. I gave half of what I am, and so now we are both broken- both only partially whole. Because we can never reach any semblance of cooperation, we shall remain this way, torn and half empty, for the rest of our days. He will hate and blame me for giving him the ability to feel again, and yet he will take grim satisfaction in that, because of this, I will never be able to be truly happy."

"Yet you give up?"

"I can't do any more."

"Is there nothing that would make you fight again?"

"…" Ketala looked weakly up at Thel'danis. "If he sacrificed his pride. If he gave in." She shook her head again. "He would never do that. He is too filled with vain anger. All the hatred he has for me… It is because he thinks I take away his free will. He can think of nothing less appealing then giving in and accepting me. It is a violation of all pride he clings to. For him, there is very little left but pride." A small smile again touched her lips. "In the end, that is what the competition is. What is more important to him? Pride or me? Well, out of pride, he would pick pride, no matter which is actually more important. So we will both live out the rest of our days as only half of what we truly should be."

"So you say the fault is his?"

"No. It's just that he's the only one left with the power to set things right. There's nothing more I can do. He knows I care about him- that I would help him if he ever asked. That is all that is left to be done. I have done my part. Now there is nothing more I can do. The next move is his."

Thel'danis regarded her silently a long moment. Never before has he seen Ketala in any mood short of cheery. Indeed, she did seem half herself. She continuously glanced at the spirit haunting her, she was small and slight of frame without her protective armor, her face was drawn and sorrowful and her shoulders drooped. Her eyes-

Thel'danis stared at her eyes, his expression moved with dismay. Those brilliant, ever changing orbs of color and light were gray. Pure, dull gray. All color, luster, and warmth had left her face. To all appearances, Ketala Truae looked as wretched as if she were dying.

On second thought, perhaps she was. Then she suddenly began to cry, silent tears dripping down her cheeks, and then she began to sniffle and shudder. All he could manage to do for this young female was to stand near her and place a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently as she lowered her face to her hands and weakly began to sob.

"… You love him… That's why you stayed. Even as the angel of compassion, you would have long ago given up on him. But you can't give up… because you love him…" She did not deny it, just covered her face further.

Then there was the smell of something burning- a soft grunt. Thel'danis turned quickly, his eyes flaming as he spotted an undead infringing on the edge of Uther's burial grounds. However, it was Ketala who moved first, getting up and passing the elfin guardian of the tomb. She left the marble edge of the shrine and pause there, one foot on the ground, regarding the undead quietly.

Nathanos.

He regarded her quietly, no expression on his face. Even his eyes were dulled, like some sort of shield had been erected to hide every last emotion within him. He took one slow, small step forward, his body hissing in protest of the holy energy in the vicinity, burns lancing along his armor. Still, he did not move back, watching her.

Slowly, slowly, Ketala moved forward, stepping nearer to him… Closer… closer… her booted feet making slight depressions in the soft grass that surrounded the tomb. Closer, till she was at the very edge of the powerful circle of holy energy that guarded the tomb, and so that she was only a foot away from the ranger. He said nothing- face still blank. Slowly, slowly, she lifted a hand, moving it forward until she felt the holy energy around it lessen. He was silent a moment, watching her, and then his gloved and burnt hand had reached hers, palm to palm, the fingers slowly entwining. The two were of the same height, build, and mold. Both fierce, both perfect combatants, and at the moment both with bland, quiet eyes. Particularly nasty burns lanced the ranger's fingers, and his body was not free from their searing flames.

Both regarded one another, silent words passing between them, their eyes meeting and holding one another. Then, slowly, Ketala stepped forward, and Nathanos stepped back, and the two left the scalding light. Slowly, slowly, Ketala's eyes began to whirl and glow, colors slowly merging into their gray pools. She moved further from the light and he stepped back to move with her, their eyes but a half foot away from one another. Her eyes whirled faster, yellow and pink spiraling around in their depths, blending to white and then cyan, and then orange. He shuddered, the quiet look leaving his eyes, replaced with something like horror, and he gripped her arm with his other hand. She reached forward as well, putting an arm behind his back and holding him up and against her, her eyes boring into his, pulling him out, and swallowing him up. His fingers tightened on her shoulder, his skeletal fingers digging into her skin, and a guttural snarl escaped his lips, his expression twisting with pain and unreserved hatred.

Ketala ignored the painful grip- ignored the blood dripping out of her arm and down Nathanos's hand, and ignored the gloves he was currently ruining. She just gazed into his eyes, releasing this other hand from her own and then moving that freed limb up to his face, cupping his cheek, holding his gaze steady on hers…

He screamed, slashing through her shoulder, biting her hand so hard she heard the cracking nose of teeth upon bone, and then he released, ripping backwards, his face contorted with demonic rage. In turn, Ketala's eyes widened, but she made not a sound, looking quietly at her wounded shoulder and mauled hand. Slowly, she lifted her eyes to his again, but he immediately looked away, gripping the handle of one of his axes. After a moment, she moved forward, coming up to him. She made no move to look into his eyes, or even to touch him- just merely stood very close, very near. He shuddered a moment, hesitating, and then shrieked, whipping his axe out and aiming at her neck.

Despite all her independence, all her skill in fighting, and all her knowledge of how volatile Nathanos was, Ketala didn't move. The blade stopped a hair's breath short of her throat, quivering in midair, again proving that Ketala and Nathanos knew each other to the finest detail. Like Ketala could never kill Nathanos, Nathanos could never kill her. Each of them knew this. They knew each other so well that they could trust in one another's personalities indefinitely.

Trust. They could trust one another. And they had been doing so for a very long time.

The two were a strange and yet poetically ironic match. Moments before they had looked so similar. Both duel-wielded, both of equal height and build and strength of character. Both with dull eyes. Now the two looked so surprisingly different. Nathanos's hair and eyes were bladelike, natural, and brown. Ketala's hair was soft and raven-black, her eyes a whirling mess of color and life. The ranger had given in to death, and yet the paladin had risen above it, her face once again radiating warmth and light. So different and yet so similar; two halves of one whole; perfect compliments to one another in so many ways- pragmatic to dogmatic, angry to forgiving, death to life. In whatever shape or manner, the two were kindred spirits; two sides of the same coin. They belonged together, in hatred or love, in suffering or joy, whatever path they walked down. Even if the two turned on each other, they belonged together, in an endless cosmic battle, neither one ever tiring.

Thel'danis watched them silently from within Uther's tomb, regarding how they lingered near one another to savor each other's presence. The undead ranger came closer, so the two were almost brushing- they were so close, and the two stood there quietly, lost in their own thoughts, half between the light and the darkness.

Undercity

Ketala approached the creature, watching how it sagged hopelessly in its chains, its broad and powerful shoulders collapsed with the knowledge of its inevitable fate. She tilted her head to the side, watching it breathe, its body twitching occasionally with pain. She came near quietly, and though she was dressed in her hybrid plate armor, she made not a sound as her feet touched the ground. She watched the creature shiver in its agony, and she marveled at the fact that it had given up crying out. Carefully, she knelt and gripped its one broken horn, pulling its head up. It looked at her groggily, its face and lips even paler then usual. It barely recognized her, completely starved and weak- having given into its fate with uncharacteristic acceptance. Demons were not known for accepting their own deaths.

Ketala regarded it quietly, peering into its cyan eyes. "You betrayed her. You deserve this." It said nothing, breathing erratically. She regarded it a long moment, looking it over. Then, slowly, she touched a finger to its bloodless lips, opening its mouth slightly. It did not resist, and she tilted her head, confirming her suspicions that its fangs had been ripped out. "You need help now, but now she is not here to save you. Do you regret it now? Do you regret your temper got the better of you- that you trusted Arthas? Does the sweet revenge you felt at her downfall match up to what is happening to you now?"

Varimathras, the pathetic creature in question, didn't respond. He did not have the strength to nod or shake his head. He just gazed at her silently, weakly. She was silent a moment more, just watching him, and then she moved one arm, reaching into her belt and pulling out a thick vial. She uncorked it and brought it near his face. Immediately he twitched, stiffening slightly at the smell of the potion.

"I can save you, but in return you must repay your debt to Sylvanis and reestablish your loyalty to her. You must help us save her, and kill him. And then you must take whatever punishment she exacts on you, and remain her servant." The dread lord shuddered, but he was beaten beyond any strength of will. He opened his mouth a bit, gazing weakly, hungrily at the vial. "If you drink this, you as good as sign the deal," she murmured, and she moved the vial to his lips. He resisted only a moment, weakly pulling back from vial. But then, as she started to pull the vial away, he gave in, opening his mouth, and let her pour its contents down his throat.

Rich, thick blood, its freshness preserved by Apothecary Lydon's magic, poured down the Dreadlord's throat, and he made a weak sound of relief and pleasure, guzzling it down, head raised, like a newborn babe.

Thrall had given Varimiathras to the undead, as Sylvanis would not have fallen if the dread lord had not betrayed them all. Nathanos was quite willing to hand the Dreadlord over to the most skilled torturers of the Undercity. He'd always hated Varimathras anyway. The dread lord's hooves had been pried off, leaving blood-encrusted stumps where his leg bones ended. His demonic fur had also been burnt off, probably by a holy flame priest spell, and grease was smeared over the burns. His finger bones had been pulled out, leaving his hands as nothing more then palms and withered flesh around it. The Dreadlord's wings had been pulled clean out of his back He was utterly revolting and entirely helpless, and, of course, Ketala took pity on him. She fiddled with the chain locks until they came undone, and caught the demon as he slipped free. He was very heavy, but Ketala, as always, had Thrash with her, and she draped him over the lynx's back. The Demon swooned from pain, giving in to the fatigue without a second thought. His eyes closed and he fainted dead away.

When he woke up again, he was laying down in some room, a fire blazing warmly. His body ached, but it was a dull and minor pain compared to the Twisting Nether and to the things he had endured at Sylvanis's or Nathanos's hands. The Dreadlord looked at his limbs weakly. He was heavily bandaged, and there was a Nightelf beside the bed, slowly and skillfully changing the bandages around one of his arms. She was female, dressed in unrevealing gray robes, and her eyes had a glazed look to them, like she was thinking back to some distant time or place. As she pulled the bandages from his arms, he could see his pale flesh grossly mutilated from the holy energies, and he could see were his fingers should have been. When she was done applying the bandages she looked at him.

Immediately her eyes seemed to focus, to gain clarity and thought.

"Are you strong enough to speak?" The Demon regarded her silently a long moment.

"Yesss." Along with his normal lisp, he had now adopted a slur, a byproduct of the loss of his fangs.

"Good. Do you remember when we came to you in the torture chambers of the Undercity?"

The Dreadlord frowned, his mind churning as it weakly backtracked into time. He remembered the torture chambers… the pain… He remembered Ketala's face vaguely, of her making him promise… something in return for life.

"… Ket…"

"Yes," the Nightelf said, and she lifted a hand to tap her temple. "Ketala is with me. So now we are both us." Though the Demon was weak and tired, he retained enough of his mental prowess to realize Ketala was speaking through this Nightelf, and that the pale color of the elf's skin indicated that it was one of Ketala's undead minions. "We came to you, and we offered you blood in exchange for promises." The Nightelf turned to the bandages on his legs, and began working on removing them. "You have been burnt by powerful holy energy. You will not regenerate. So now you are helpless. Now you need us. Without fangs you cannot feed yourself. You cannot walk, your hands are useless, and you can no longer fly. Now you need us to survive. We gave you blood, and we took you here, and we nursed you back to life. Now you will fulfill your promises, no matter how long it takes." She turned her head, looking at him. "Do you remember what you promised?"

The Dreadlord said nothing, his memories too jumbled to make sense of.

"You will help us free Sylvanis. You will help us kill Arthas. And then you will be her servant again, and she will do what she wishes with you."

The Dreadlord snorted. "She'd kill me."

"Maybe she will not. If you do not follow through with your promises, I will take you back to the Undercity. Tell me- which is better? Entrusting your fate to Sylvanis Windrunner, or entrusting your fate to Nathanos?"

"… Neither."

"But…" she female elf said, leaning over him and looking down at him with piercing, near-white eyes. "If you save Sylvanis, perhaps she will have mercy on you. Nathanos will not. Only saving Sylvanis gives you any hope of survival. You made the mistake of betraying her and trusting Arthas. You will pay for it, one way or another. But Sylvanis has a reason to keep you alive." She looked back down to his leg, pulling the bandage free of his ruined flesh. "And your life is all you have left to lose, Varimathras." The demon was silent, watching the elf tend him. "Think over your answer carefully," she said after she had finished with his last limb.