**Author's Note: Just in case it's not clear who's writing what at the end of the chapter: Khadgar's writing is in bold italics, and Ashen's is in bold.
My apologies for the delay in updating. I hope everyone is safe and well, and that the coming holidays are filled with joy for you and yours. Thank you, as always, for taking the time to read this nonsense. =) Thank you also for the reviews, follows, and faves. It means a lot to know that you liked the story!
Khadgar was having the sort of morning that would have been hysterically, tear-jerkingly funny if it had been happening to someone else. He figured he would laugh about it later—if he lived through the utter mortification. The force of his embarrassment had his face hot enough that he suspected he could melt most of the snow in Frostfire Ridge. On the bright side, he was in no danger of losing his nose to the cold.
Either Ashen's insane, or she hates me. Perhaps both.
The arcane servant Khadgar had dispatched to Lunarfall with a letter for Ashen had been blessedly unable to speak. Now, however, his construct was circling the lower level of Bladespire Citadel and bellowing a song at the top of the lungs it didn't have. Khadgar had heard the ditty before, though never in creatively mis-translated Orcish. Ashen's touch was evident, for the original song lacked the violent, sarcastic absurdity that ran through her translation.
He could remember Turalyon's discouraged description of Alleria's perspective on humans—their lives were but a blink in the eyes of such a long-lived people. That attitude had been prevalent among the high elves when they had started teaching humanity the secrets of the arcane. Among the detritus of the mingling of humans and elves through the centuries was a more than slightly offensive song about the disparity in the lifespans of the two races. Humans didn't just die more quickly than elves…they were more prolific breeders.
And so, as the bawdy tavern song went, that meant there were several interesting ways to take advantage of the only thing humans were good for. Khadgar couldn't remember how many verses of thinly veiled innuendo there were in the song, but he kept hoping the arcane construct would stop before it got to the more specific verses—thus far, Khadgar's attempts to silence the damn thing had only made it louder. The suggestions for how to use humans of either sex in bed were bad enough, but the verses about the uses of a human mage were worse. The song was considered offensive, so of course all the Kirin Tor apprentices learned it—
And got ideas from it. The elves had pretty much written the book on that subject. What teenage mage with runaway hormones wouldn't be curious? Not that teenage hormonal mages had exclusive rights to curiosity inspired by dirty limericks or the sight of a certain elf with a dimpled smile…
Not that he was curious—because he wasn't! Khadgar hadn't heard the beginnings of the song, recognized it, and wandered into momentary musings about that wretched, infuriating woman and off-color applications of magic. He wasn't twelve. Or seventeen…or a particularly convincing liar, for that matter.
Light have mercy, what if she knew?
Khadgar felt another wave of heat rushing up his neck to his face. At this rate, I'm going to be the first mage to spontaneously combust from sheer embarrassment.
The servant's arrival and sudden outpouring of noise had roused the Horde and Frostwolves from hungover slumber in a furious clamor of shouted, pained cursing and rattling armor and weapons. Khadgar had fared only slightly better than his inebriated allies—he had been asleep in a hammock strung up in the corner of the room he had been using as a temporary study. He had managed not to fall out of the stupid thing, though he now knew panicked flailing and hammocks didn't mix well. He'd pushed his way into the inner ring as the jostling crowd of soldiers had slowly lowered weapons, mouths agape and eyes wide while the servant continued to assault their ears with its warbling.
Then Len'thalar had started laughing—damn his pointy-eared hide. A few seconds after that, the elven hunter was on the stone floor of the citadel, braying like the ass Khadgar believed him to be. Now, several verses into the debacle that was Khadgar's morning, everyone present was clapping along and snickering at the worst bits of imaginative innuendo. The blood elves kept having to mop tears of hilarity from their faces.
Since Khadgar was the only human present, the song was clearly meant to be about him—
She's ruthless, Khadgar groaned inwardly as the song reached the first verse about the…features…of human mages. There are more merciful ways she could have told me to fuck off. Light, I wish she would have just stabbed me—at least it would have been quicker. She could have even written me a note, like a sane person.
Khadgar wasn't certain where his life had taken a wrong turn, but there had to have been one somewhere.
When the torture finally ended, Khadgar was left holding a letter gingerly between the forefinger and thumb of his left hand some distance away from his body as if it might bite him. At this point, he wasn't willing to put anything past Ashen. The beleaguered mage also found himself explaining to Thrall, Durotan, and Len'thalar that no, it wasn't a malfunction of his magic, the construct had been sabotaged—and yes, he knew exactly who did it.
"This Ashen of yours is unmated, then?" Durotan asked in amusement. "Your ways may be different than ours, but it seems like she's challenging you, Archmage."
Khadgar's only answer to that was a slack-jawed expression of incredulity that made the other three men laugh. Thrall thumped his shoulder with a grin. "Durotan's not wrong. If she were an orc, you could take that as an invitation to prove your prowess."
"That's not…She isn't mi—"
"You should present her with a trophy of some sort. Prove your superiority over your enemies," Durotan told the flummoxed human, eyes twinkling with mirth.
"Gul'dan's head, for example," Len'thalar agreed, grinning at Khadgar.
"Oh, good. I had been so concerned that ugly mug of his would clash with my décor," Khadgar said witheringly, eyes narrowing at the Horde commander.
"She'd probably like it more than the dead plants you humans are so fond of using as gifts," Len'thalar retorted, chuckling.
The day was pretty much a loss after that. Khadgar accompanied Len'thalar and the Horde back to Wor'gol later that morning, only to find the song went with them—sung enthusiastically by both Horde and Frostwolves. Draka and Drek'Thar were highly entertained by the whole thing…and they agreed with Durotan's assessment.
"A warrior of her skill would respect a suitable demonstration of strength." Khadgar dragged a hand over his face in exasperation as he glowered at a smirking Drek'Thar.
"Challenge her to combat," Draka suggested. "Every woman values proof of a man's respect for her strength."
That mental picture rabbit-trailed back into inappropriate uses of magic. Perverted old codger, Khadgar thought at himself irritably.
Yet as the day wore on and evening fell, the archmage became slowly, reluctantly amused by the situation. He had learned to laugh at himself—and everything else—out of necessity, and Ashen's translation got funnier each time he heard parts of it. She had a startling talent for rephrasing the original innuendo so that it contained references to various weapons—the result was as alarming as it was improbable, and somehow more humorous for it.
There was also an odd side-effect of Ashen's stunt, in that the Horde and Frostwolves warmed to Khadgar. He continued to receive bizarre, unsought advice on how to court Ashen, even after the return to Frostwall. It seemed they had decided to adopt him, and were trying to help him as if he were a well-meaning, somewhat bumbling cousin. It was, perhaps, the opposite of help for something that would never happen…but the advice seemed well-meant.
Most of it seemed well-meant, anyway. The bit he ended up listening to, though, was probably the bit he should have ignored.
Khadgar settled on a crate inside the hot spring grotto at Frostwall as darkness fell, and plunked Atiesh nearby so the staff could provide some illumination. He was absently watching the Horde bed down for the night, tapping the unopened letter from Ashen against his palm with his brow creased in thought. He figured he should open and read the missive, but wasn't sure he wanted to know what was in it. It was safe to say that he was completely out of his depth where the death knight was concerned.
The whole thing was puzzling, really. Khadgar wasn't just baffled over why she'd done it—he didn't understand how she'd managed it in the first place. Ashen could obviously sense magic, and had admitted she'd been a mage. From what he could tell, she couldn't actively use her natural magic—aside from the fluke one-off that had resulted in Luuka's bird. Khadgar also suspected she had a limited ability to unravel or resist magic in various forms, but none of that explained the fact that his favorite arcane elemental could now talk and sing. Sporadic, unpredictable bursts of suppressed power were one thing. Hijacking one of his spells was a completely different matter—
Or was it spelljacking? Light have mercy on fools and archmages, because that went there again—
The worst part, in Khadgar's opinion, was that the mystery just made Ashen more fascinating. He should have been at least mildly peeved at her—and maybe he was, to an extent. The truth was that he was more disappointed at the thought the death knight possibly loathed him than miffed over the public performance of the low-brow ballad. The itch to unravel the conundrum she represented was winning over everything, though. Mostly. Maybe.
And that brought him back to the letter. Khadgar glanced down at it, scowling. He could read it, or he could summon the servant and ask it what the hell had happened. He should probably do both. Later, Khadgar decided with a grimace, still not entirely ready to face potential confirmation that Ashen despised him, mystery or no. It was going to be a long, awkward campaign against the Iron Horde if she did.
"Rough day, pal?" Khadgar looked up to find the green-skinned goblin engineer, Gazlowe, studying him curiously. "You got the look of a guy that's run into trouble with a woman."
"Strange might be a better way to describe it." Khadgar tucked the letter back into his belt pouch, then lifted a brow at the goblin. "There's a 'look' for that, is there?"
"Well, sure," Gazlowe replied with a grin, baring his pointy teeth. It heightened the engineer's resemblance to an imp, though he looked decidedly more friendly. "That, and I heard an interestin' song today. Not sure what you're lookin' so glum for, though."
Khadgar lifted his brows wryly. "I thought you said you'd heard the song?"
"Maybe not all of it, but enough. I mean, it's not like she hates ya," Gazlowe commented as he clambered onto a crate across from Khadgar. The mage's brows crept further upward in disbelief, which didn't escape the goblin's notice. Gazlowe's golden eyes glittered with amusement. "So that's what the long face is for. I'm gonna help ya out, and I won't even charge ya, 'cause I'm a standup guy like that. Look, pal, the thing with the song? It's not what you're thinkin'. Be flattered."
"Flattered?" Khadgar echoed dubiously, eyeing the goblin with a deepening frown.
Gazlowe stared back at him for a long moment before folding his arms over his chest. "Geez. Alright, lemme put it this way. Ever heard the term 'frenemy'? Don't answer that, it's rhetorical," the engineer said as he pointed a stubby green finger at Khadgar for emphasis. "So, a frenemy is a friend, see? But with more…antagonism, I guess. Tends to happen when there's tension, if you catch my drift," Gazlowe explained, expression shifting into a comical leer that left Khadgar no room to doubt what the goblin meant by 'tension'. "Look, just trust me on this: antagonize her back and enjoy it, for crying out loud."
"That's your advice?" Khadgar asked flatly after a prolonged beat of silence. It was ridiculous, in his opinion. Especially the bit about…tension. Khadgar was certain that was entirely one-sided—his, to be specific.
"Yep! Oh, and one more thing," Gazlowe began as he hopped off the crate. Khadgar quirked his brows upward questioningly. "If it blows up in your face—"
"At least the advice was free?" The archmage guessed drolly.
"Hah! Exactly!" Gazlowe crowed, slapping his knee as he guffawed. "Know what? You're not so bad for a clueless human mook."
"Thanks…I think." Khadgar watched the goblin swagger away, and shook his head to himself.
Left to his own devices once again in the circle of light emitted by Atiesh, Khadgar pulled the letter from his belt pouch before opening it with a sigh. There was only one way to know what was in it, and he supposed it was just best to get it over with. When he carefully smoothed the pages flat on his knee, Khadgar was presented with the diagrams he'd sent to Ashen. A knot that he hadn't realized was in his gut loosened as his gaze swept her notes. Flipping through the pages revealed she'd not only left him notes, but had added some sketches with questions for him. There were also a couple of pages that contained nothing but Ashen's graceful, flowing script. Khadgar shuffled the diagrams behind the letter and started reading.
The tone of the letter was wry—not angry. As he read her response to his letter, the corners of Khadgar's mouth slowly curled upward. Though Ashen never told him exactly why he'd gotten a singing servant back, there was enough in the letter that he could piece together what likely happened. It seemed he'd inadvertently sent the Alliance outpost into a panic after they'd had something of a rough day, so she'd returned the favor—only with a hefty side of snide. Upon reaching the end of the letter, he found a postscript under her signature that made his brows shoot toward his hairline and his face heat.
Though I was aware this type of servitor drew on the attributes of the caster as a template, I was quite surprised at how much it sounds like you. (A snobbier you with an even larger ego, but you nonetheless.) What a lovely baritone you have, Archmage…perfect for singing obscenities in Orcish. Perhaps you'll serenade Lunarfall? Would you need to have…oh, what was it—a couple more than several too many drinks beforehand?
Cheeky woman, Khadgar thought as he smothered a sheepish grin. Ashen had used his arcane servant to make a colorfully vocal point, teased him about that evening in Lunarfall, and still refused to address him by name rather than title. The archmage shuffled the letter to the bottom of the small stack of pages, still smiling despite his efforts to school his expression. He spent the next couple of minutes trying to focus on the annotated diagrams, but his mind was darting all over the place. Khadgar felt relief that Ashen didn't loathe him mingling with a tinge of irritation that he found her somewhat maddening…
Antagonize her back, temptation whispered in the corner of his mind. I could, Khadgar thought as a slow smirk tugged at his mouth. In his mind's eye, Ashen was standing with him at the prow of a stolen warship, marked face flushed with embarrassment over not being able to breathe in her broken armor. The battle-hardened, blushing death knight, he mused, smirk stretching into a grin, who requested a serenade for Lunarfall and sent me a singing servant…This is a terrible idea.
Knowing it was a terrible idea wasn't enough to keep Khadgar from doing it. Turnaround was fair play, after all. Ashen had started it—
But he was going to win.
The next morning, the misty, night-dark air in Lunarfall was filled with the clacking of wooden practice blades. Ashen pivoted sharply as Lieutenant Thorn thrust a wooden sword at her ribs. The action was more reflex than necessity; the strike was closer to accurate than in their previous sparring sessions, but still would have missed. "Better," Ashen encouraged as the lieutenant grimaced in frustration.
Thorn scoffed, but didn't argue as they shifted back into ready stances and started through the drills again. The women moved through the first exchange of blows, with Ashen adjusting where necessary to meet strikes that were off target. "It's not better enough," Lieutenant Thorn groused after a few moments.
Ashen couldn't help the smile that flickered across her face at her second-in-command's impatience. "Getting there, Thorn. You couldn't hit me when I was standing still last week."
"Don't remind me," the other woman sighed.
Lieutenant Thorn's acceptance of a position as second-in-command of Lunarfall had been contingent upon not being permanently stuck on desk duty. As far as Ashen was concerned, they were too short-handed to consign anyone to a desk. However, Thorn had lost an eye during their mad flight from the Iron Horde in Tanaan, and was still adjusting to her suddenly unreliable depth perception. Ashen was more than willing for her lieutenant to command field missions—once she could consistently strike and parry. And so, morning sparring sessions had become routine.
There was a comforting rhythm to the exchange, despite Thorn's struggles to correctly judge distances. Ashen was lost in the flow of strikes and parries when a burst of power lit her senses. The death knight reflexively whipped her wooden blades toward the flare of magic, turning straight into the path of Lieutenant Thorn's practice sword. A solid hit to her side made Ashen exhale in a sharp 'oof' as Khadgar's servant materialized before the dull points of her weapons. For a moment, Ashen was a bit tempted to swat the translucent elemental with one of the blades. It wouldn't do anything to the creature, most likely, but it would give her an outlet for her sudden spike of irritation.
"Apologies, Commander," Thorn offered, lowering her sword.
Ashen waved the apology away as she straightened, then lifted a brow at the arcane servitor. It was shaped like an inverted teardrop, with a lumpy protrusion near the top that mimicked a face. Two glowing, golden points served as eyes, and there were no other discernable features—yet it still managed to silently communicate how utterly unimpressive it found her. She was about to ask what the thing wanted when it spoke.
"Good morning, Commander," the servant said in a voice oddly like Khadgar's. It would have sounded exactly like Khadgar—if the mage had been a snobby nobleman from Lordaeron. "Archmage Khadgar accepts your challenge, and instructed me to inform you that you have the option to surrender at any time."
Challenge? What challenge? Ashen shifted both practice blades to her right hand, then tucked them between her left arm and her side as she stared at the servant in puzzlement.
"What's it going on about?" Lieutenant Thorn asked her curiously.
"I haven't the faintest," Ashen admitted, glancing over at her second-in-command briefly.
"I am not an 'it.' I am Arkamaedes," the servant informed them, pink-gold form bristling with injured dignity.
"Right," Thorn said slowly, cutting her eye over at Ashen and lifting a brow.
"Do you have any other messages for me, Arkamaedes?" The death knight asked in an attempt at patience.
"Yes," it—he—answered before making a sound like he was clearing his throat. To Ashen's bemusement, it—Arkamaedes-the-not-it—seemed to straighten before lifting one taloned, translucent hand aloft and extending the other toward her. She only had to wonder at the dramatic pose for a moment before the morning went from mildly unusual to bizarre.
"Roses are red," Khadgar's servant began portentously. "Violets are blue. Ashen is violent, this much is true. Oh, maiden fair, with hair silver in hue—quite capable of spouting a dirty limerick or two. Have you no idea what you put me through? I'd ask for mercy, if I thought it in you. Instead I'll accept this challenge you threw, and torment you well with a bad verse or few."
Ashen's brows had lifted steadily throughout the recitation, and she stared speechlessly at the servant as it fell silent. I'm having a very strange morning, she thought. "That's the message? From Khadgar?"
"Yes, Commander," Arkamaedes answered in a tone that indicated he thought she was a bit slow. "I certainly have no reason to send you poetry."
Lieutenant Thorn made a faint, but clearly rude noise. "That's not poetry. If bad was his goal I'd say he got it in one."
That earned a huff of amusement from Ashen.
"Perhaps you wish to surrender now, Commander?" Arkamaedes asked with what Ashen suspected might have been glee.
She eyed the creature suspiciously, still uncertain why the word 'surrender' was being tossed about in conjunction with deliberately shoddy verse. It was petty, but the only thing Ashen was sure of was that she hated that word. Surrender. She felt ridiculous, but she couldn't halt the flicker of annoyance or the bristling of her pride in response.
"No," Ashen told the servant shortly.
"Archmage Khadgar was hoping you'd refuse," the servant informed her before vanishing with a faint, whispering crackle of sound.
After staring at the space the servant had occupied for a couple of moments, Ashen glanced over at Lieutenant Thorn, shrugged, and decided to get on with her morning. Despite not really paying close attention to the rumors she tended to hear in settings filled with off-duty soldiers, Ashen remembered that Khadgar was usually described as eccentric when his name surfaced. She didn't disagree with the assessment, and figured it just made him more interesting. Whatever that was with the servant and the blathering about challenge and surrender was probably just Khadgar being…Khadgar.
A handful of hours later, Ashen was walking through the abandoned Draenei fishing village near Lunarfall's natural harbor when the servant appeared again. Though the nest of pale orcs had been eradicated, Ashen wanted the village dismantled so her salvage crew could return to work without fear of being ambushed. When the servant appeared in her path, Ashen stopped walking and folded her arms, frowning. As Baros and a handful of her soldiers watched, Arkamaedes again offered her the option to surrender. When she shook her head, it launched into another selection of verse.
Ashen was almost certain this one was from the apprentice dorms in Dalaran, judging by the juvenile, off-color flavor of the thing. The original version was, at least. Khadgar had selectively edited some of it, changing descriptions so that it sounded like it had been written about her. In the process, he'd thoroughly ruined the meter. That man has no sense of rhythm, Ashen thought in mounting dismay. The first 'poem' hadn't been a shining literary achievement, but at least it had rhymed in an attempt to make up for its deficiencies. Ashen's ears flattened against her skull in irritation, even as her face heated at the colorful verse. Her soldiers were trying not to laugh outright, but Baros had no such compunctions. The architect was bent double, red-faced, and gasping for air even as he shouted with laughter.
"Do you concede, Command—"
"Go away," Ashen told the servant firmly as her soldiers snickered.
It wasn't until the servant appeared a third time that it dawned on Ashen that Khadgar was responding to what she'd done to the servitor—or the song she'd sent it back with, rather. It was the only explanation that made sense. When the realization struck, she suddenly felt as slow as Khadgar's servant seemed to think she was. It had never occurred to her that the mage might retaliate—which seemed like a glaring miscalculation, in hindsight. It had been an impulse born of her temper that prompted her to bend the spell forming Arkamaedes and send him back with a dirty song. As far as she had been concerned, the matter had been closed. She hadn't even expected an apology for the uproar Khadgar had caused two days ago.
When the third appearance of the thorn in Ashen's side occurred, she was looking at maps and discussing the outpost's progress with Lieutenant Thorn, Baros Alexston, and Maraad, bowl of stew in one hand and wooden spoon in the other. The creature didn't bother asking if she wished to surrender, and launched straight into a selection from an epic about the rise of the Arathi bloodline. She had always been fond of that piece, and perked up in spite of herself as the servant recited the introduction. From there, Arkamaedes moved straight into the stanzas that signaled the poem's romance, proving that her initial reaction was premature.
The offer of surrender suddenly made sense.
Ashen could see Thorn and Baros alternating between eyeing the elemental and exchanging glances with raised brows. The suggestive humor of the prior poem and its broken cadences had been bad enough, but this was worse. Most of it was intact, save where descriptions had been altered. She was blushing hard enough that even her fingers were blue. It wasn't that the poem was indecent—quite the opposite. The portion the servant was reciting was a beautiful tribute to passion—emotional as well as physical.
Khadgar was teasing her. She knew it. The servant only popped up when she was surrounded by other people, which was clearly intended to increase the awkwardness of it. Ashen had also noticed Khadgar had a tendency to wield his quirky humor with the precision of a blade when it suited him—usually as a defense. Trying to needle her into submission was exactly the kind of thing he would pull.
What made it irritating was knowing that she had inadvertently started this…whatever this ridiculousness was. What made it absolutely infuriating was that, despite knowing Khadgar was teasing her, her heart had skipped a beat at the first line he had changed to make the poem describe her.
Khadgar is a menace. All he has to do to get away with being a menace is flash that crooked grin of his. Maddening man!
When asked again if she wished to surrender, Ashen's response was very diplomatic.
"Sod off!"
Enough time passed between that incident and the fourth visit from Arkamaedes that Ashen had started to hope Khadgar had run out of poetry. Lunarfall was settling in for the night when the servant popped into existence in front of her. Ashen sighed in defeat, and dropped the rag she'd been using to clean her sword.
"How many more of these are there?" The death knight demanded before the servitor could say a word.
"This is the last one," Arkamaedes answered.
Ashen's ears pricked up as she straightened. At least the end was in sight.
"For today," he added.
Ashen had made seasoned veterans and decorated heroes wilt with her narrow-eyed, scowling expression of displeasure. It just went with the general tone of the day for the servant to be completely immune to her glowering. The camp had also noticed the elemental's presence; Maraad settled nearby on a heavy crate, giving her a smirk that earned him a flat stare. Ashen's teeth ground together as she decided not to dignify the proceedings by taking further stock of the growing audience.
Arkamaedes launched into Khadgar's final selection as Ashen braced herself. This one—
Was in Thalassian?
Ashen felt her expression go slack with surprise. It didn't take long for her to figure out why Khadgar hadn't translated the poem or subjected the verse to his butchery. Arkamaedes's recital was rife with mispronunciations, which must have been deliberate. Thalassian was a difficult language for non-elves to grasp, largely because getting an inflection wrong changed the meaning of nearly every word.
For the first time that day, Ashen's irritation was undercut by mirth. She recognized the poem, and from what she remembered it was not supposed to be a ballad of devotion to a set of cooking utensils. When recited correctly, it was much like the prior selection from the Arathi epic…just considerably more risqué. With the imagery disrupted by random ladles, cauldrons, and so on, it was just funny. The fact that no one understood why she was laughing made it even funnier. Ashen laughed until something caught in her side and she couldn't breathe without a spike of pain on each inhalation, then snorted and kept laughing.
She much preferred this version of what was supposed to be one of the most sensual and romantic poems to ever come out of Quel'Thalas to the real thing, she decided. The poem had rather lost its shine decades ago, when a would-be suitor who had refused to take no for an answer had started drunkenly shouting it up at her window. Ashen paused, amusement fading as she suddenly remembered why she'd left Silvermoon City. An exile partly by choice from night elven holdings, she'd made something of a home with the high elves—when her restless nature wasn't luring her across Azeroth. Ashen had always made herself scarce when faced with pressure to accept a suitor, and the last departure had been laden with consequences. She had stayed away for years, sworn fealty to a young human king, and returned to Quel'Thalas only to lose herself on the business end of Frostmourne. The death knight swallowed against a sudden surge of grief. She had wanted a family…but not with someone that hoped her 'unfortunate' coloring wouldn't pass to her children. Ashen had waited…and now the chance was gone.
She forced the memories away and focused on the servant's recital once more. As Arkamaedes wrapped up the final stanza in his almost-Khadgar-voice, she was struck by a thought that made her face flame. Her traitorous mind's eye conjured a smirking Khadgar with gleaming eyes, rich voice rolling through the lyrical flow of that poem, without the alterations from poor pronunciation—
Stop, Ashen scolded herself. Arthas's atrophied ass, where did he get that poem? We're stuck a universe away from a library containing elven poetry. Is he carrying a book of it? Her brows lifted on a sudden surge of curiosity. Does he have it memorized?
There was something about the thought that Khadgar—whose affable demeanor and fondness for puns doubled as a shield—having a poem like that memorized that tugged at Ashen's carefully contained emotions and desires. Wondering what else he was hiding behind a smirk and a ready joke was asking for trouble of a sort she had no business having. Then again, it was probably a little late to ask for trouble when she already seemed to have it in spades. It was entirely unfortunate that the trouble she had was not the sort of trouble she secretly wanted.
"Commander, will you surrender?" Arkamaedes asked again, producing a folded letter from thin air and offering it to her.
Ashen studied the glowing form of Arkamaedes in irritable silence for a few moments after accepting the missive, and sighed inwardly. She really, really hated the word 'surrender.' Damn it all, it would probably be wise to call some sort of halt to this absurdity—for the sake of poetry everywhere, if nothing else. Still…
She didn't have it in her to surrender, and since Khadgar had taken a swing at her—
Ashen decided to do what she did best.
She swung back.
Khadgar's morning was marked by the reluctant return of Cordana and the considerably more enthusiastic return of his arcane servant. The creature was carrying a letter from the death knight, as well as her answer to the onslaught of verse. The mage hadn't truly expected Ashen to surrender to his shenanigans, and she didn't disappoint him.
Ashen's response was doled out in episodes over the course of the day by the servant that now insisted his name was Arkamaedes. The death knight had spun a quixotic tale about a disaster prone, clueless mage that just so happened to resemble Khadgar. The mage in the story blundered from one debacle to another, trailed by a faithful arcane servant that somehow managed to pull his arse from the figurative fire—
Khadgar thought his servant could have looked a bit less pleased about that part. Although, rude insinuations about incompetence aside…it was rather amusing.
Somehow the fictional mage managed to fall into the Well of Eternity and rip a hole in reality, unwittingly consort with the Legion, and sacrifice a continent to the Void. Woven through all of that was Ashen's acerbic humor…and her pointed rebuttal of his poetic sensibilities. The last installment of the tale ended with the mage being skewered after accidentally ensorcelling himself so that he could only speak in poorly constructed verse. After the poor fellow's demise, the rest of the characters in the story felt the need to throw a party in celebration.
Khadgar laughed until he couldn't breathe. When he finally managed to drag air into his lungs, he wiped his eyes and glanced over at the rippling form of his construct. "So, tell me how she really felt about it," the archmage told Arkamaedes wryly.
Despite the fact the comment had been made in jest, the construct was quick to supply Ashen's reactions in an entertaining level of detail. Khadgar's only regret was that he hadn't been there to see her blushing. Though on second thought, she might have perforated him with something sharp if he had been there. He had expected the death knight to be rather displeased, but had never imagined it would be inferior literature that triggered her—or inferior alterations to superior literature. Either way, it was unexpected.
It was also gratifying to know that he had been able to get under her skin about something. Now that Khadgar knew about that little quirk of hers, he also had an idea of what to send her next—provided the Horde could supply what he needed.
When Khadgar put his request to Len'thalar, the blood elf commander looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "Do I want to know?" The red-haired elf asked finally.
"Probably not," Khadgar answered cheerfully.
After the request was passed through the Horde survivors, Khadgar was presented with a surprising number of books. He was vaguely aware of Len'thalar hovering nearby—attempting to look uninterested—as he sorted through the volumes, occasionally picking one and flipping through the pages. So far none of the offerings had struck the note Khadgar was hoping for. He was nearly to the bottom of the pile when he hit pay dirt.
Brows climbing, Khadgar picked up a worn volume and opened it, then started scanning the pages. This one was even in Common, oddly enough. A slow grin crept over his face as he perused the text. This might be the worst thing I've ever read, Khadgar thought delightedly. Ashen will hate it.
And that made it perfect, of course.
"This is ridiculous," Ashen muttered for what must have been the twentieth time since Arkamaedes had appeared that morning. If the past few days were any indication, it was going to become her new mantra. She could see her future very clearly—running headlong into battle with runes blazing on her swords while shouting 'This is ridiculous!' at the top of her lungs.
Welcome to ludicrous Lunarfall, Ashen thought with a sigh.
Arkamaedes was regaling everyone in earshot with a selection from one of those horrid steamy romance novel things. This one featured a night elf and dwarf…where she was the night elf and apparently Hansel was the dwarf. There were also plenty of vehicle and riding metaphors. It boggled the mind how something could be so non-explicit and such filthy trash all at the same time.
It was ridiculous.
The only consolation was that Hansel was highly offended by his insertion into that travesty. He'd also told her not to get any ideas, because she was much too tall for him.
That was ridiculous, but at least it made Ashen laugh.
Maraad was sitting in the remnants of a crate he had broken, laughing until tears ran down his face. The paladin was wheezing, shoulders shaking so hard his plate armor rattled. Every time Ashen thought he was finally going to catch his breath, he erupted into bellowing hysterics again.
It was, in keeping with the rest of it, utterly ridiculous. But unlike the rest of it, the sight of Maraad laughing rather than under the cloud of grief and simmering rage that had been slowly eating him since the Dark Portal reopened made it worth it.
Mostly. That finger pointed at her while he howled was making her reconsider.
Ashen snatched a biscuit off her plate and lobbed it at the draenei vindicator's head. "Shut it, you. If you told Khadgar about Northrend then this is your fault."
Maraad ducked the improvised missile, and made a valiant effort to curb his mirth. "I didn't, I swear it," the paladin guffawed.
Ashen sighed, and propped her chin on the heel of her left hand. She lifted a brow at Lieutenant Thorn, who was watching her expectantly. "You might as well ask."
"What about Northrend?"
"We were in Zul'Drak, waiting out a blizzard," Maraad snickered. "One of the soldiers had this steamy romance novel and started reading aloud to pass the time—"
"And it was that novel," Ashen said darkly, wagging the index finger of her right hand at Arkamaedes. The wretched servant was listening with interest.
"So Ashen snatched it and threw it in the fire, much to the dismay of everyone who wanted to see how it, ah. How it ended," Maraad continued, starting to laugh again.
"By the time we assaulted Naxxramas, it was a tradition. A steamy romance novel and a ritual burning every time we made camp," Ashen told Thorn, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Whoever wrote those damn things must have made a killing during that campaign."
The taciturn worgen lieutenant grinned. "A book burner? You've got hidden depths, Commander."
"I try," Ashen answered wryly.
Arkamaedes made her amusement vanish like magic. "On that note, would you care to surrender, Commander?"
"Not even a little, no. I do have a reply, though."
Damn it if Khadgar's blasted servant didn't beam at her in response.
Khadgar was puzzled by Ashen's return salvo, at first.
Arkamaedes would announce Khadgar's presence—as if he were appearing at court—whenever someone came to speak to him or vice versa. Other than seeming pointless and somewhat irritating, it was fairly innocuous. The servant would give his name and either a title or an accomplishment and then scarper off.
After it happened a handful of times, the game changed. His name was followed by Ashen's sarcasm. She joyously stuck pins in his pride with every phrase the servant uttered. It was highly entertaining, for the most part.
Khadgar, Bearer of the Bird Stick.
Khadgar, Practitioner of the Scrawny Blue Chicken Transformation.
Khadgar, Malicious Maligner of Meter, Rhythm, and Rhyme.
It was highly entertaining—except for when it wasn't.
Dadgar, Never Ending Source of Poorly Timed Puns.
"Infuriating woman," Khadgar muttered under his breath. He hadn't said it quietly enough, though, because Cordana visibly bristled at him. "Not you," he told her in exasperation.
Ashen was quite clearly a heretic. He'd told her once already that there was no such thing as a poorly timed pun. Apparently she still needed to be persuaded to return to the path of the Light—which everyone knew was really paved with puns.
Or was it good intentions?
Puns. Definitely puns.
Khadgar grinned.
I'm going to throttle him.
Khadgar was supposed to return to Lunarfall the next day, and Ashen was more than mildly tempted to make it memorable. She knew where the beacon was, after all.
Maybe Lunarfall could use a new latrine.
When Arkamaedes had appeared, Ashen had rather expected either more poetry or more off-color, horribly written prose. Instead, she got something that was both more mundane and more embarrassing.
"Are you certain your name isn't Elune? That's quite the heavenly body you've got there," Arkamaedes rattled off happily.
Ashen's brows had lifted and her jaw had dropped for a moment before she scowled fiercely. Maraad was seized with a sudden, very suspicious fit of coughing as she made a shooing motion at the servant with both hands. "Out! Get out of my command post!"
If only the creature had stayed gone.
If only there hadn't been more of those…those…pickup puns? Ashen wasn't even sure what to call them.
Tell me, Commander, does your frost…bite? Perhaps if I ask nicely?
You must be exhausted, haunting me the way you do. Are you going to ghost me now? In the spirit of honesty, I'd be quite disappointed if you did.
Ebon Hold sounds like it's a technique of some sort—an unholy one.
Has anyone ever told you that you're wraith in motion?
Ashen had to give Khadgar points for creativity—albeit reluctantly. She'd never heard terrible tavern pickup lines done to the theme of death knight abilities before. He ran the full range from corny to blush-inducingly awful. Judging from Arkamaedes's delight every time her face flamed, the latter sort had been the goal.
Instead of sending a letter along with the torment, as he had previously, Khadgar sent a short note with the servant late that afternoon.
Ashen, I'll be returning to Lunarfall in the morning, at which time I'll gladly accept your surrender.
Ashen scrawled a reply below Khadgar's script and had Arkamaedes take it back.
It's a poor commander who surrenders to heckling. You're enjoying this entirely too much, aren't you?
She should never have answered him.
Oh, absolutely. I understand you blush rather violently?
Arse.
Come now, Ashen. You can do better than that.
Far be it from me to disappoint the master conjurer of twatwafflerous asshattery and maintainer of the endless buffet of buffoonery with lack luster one-word insults. Bastard.
Has anyone told you lately that you have the soul of a particularly angry, foul-mouthed poet? Also: stop trying to kill me, woman! I'm laughing so hard I can't breathe.
The assertion of amusement was underscored by the shakiness of his handwriting and the splatters of ink around his reply. Ashen wadded the parchment with the written exchange and threw it in Arkamaedes's face, telling him that was her reply. The servant vanished with a faint pop.
The death knight exited the small command post a few moments later, needing movement and work to distract her from the tangled knot of amusement and ire that seemed to accompany dealings with Khadgar. She hadn't gotten far through the outpost when her gaze snagged on a familiar rogue in SI:7 leathers, and her steps slowed.
Well, there's something that should have occurred to me sooner, Ashen thought on a sudden surge of laughter. It looked like Khadgar wouldn't be teleporting into a latrine after all.
Khadgar rematerialized on the path leading from Lunarfall's beach to the Alliance outpost with Cordana in tow the following morning. As the magic faded, the mage closed his eyes and took a deep breath, enjoying the warmth of Shadowmoon Valley after nearly two weeks in the icy wasteland the Frostwolves called home. When his eyes opened a moment later, he found Ashen waiting a few feet away, arms folded, fingertips slowly drumming against one elbow.
Ashen was wearing that politely impassive expression she had hidden behind after the bonfire. It made Khadgar want to needle her until she revealed the wry, sarcastic spitfire he'd caught glimpses of. He'd rather hoped that teasing her would get it out of his system, but if the way his heart kicked against his ribs at the sight of her was any indication, he'd only made it worse for himself.
Typical, Khadgar thought with an inner sigh. Leave it to me to play with fire and wonder why it burns.
"I need to speak with Commander Ashen for a moment, Cordana," he told the Warden, tilting his head toward the outpost to indicate she should enter.
Archmage and death knight waited in silence, gazes locked, as Cordana reluctantly withdrew. Khadgar finally folded his arms across his chest and lifted a brow once the Warden was out of earshot. "Isn't there something you'd like to say to me?" He challenged with a smirk.
Ashen unfolded her arms and slowly propped her hands on her hips as one brow flicked upward. "As a matter of fact, there is. I'm prepared to offer you a very generous cease fire, Archmage."
Khadgar blinked as she followed that statement with a slow, dimpled grin. "A cease fire?" He repeated dubiously. "No. I won, and this is the part where you admit it and we move on."
Ashen shook her head at him, grin still firmly in place, glowing eyes flaring with mischief. "If you don't like my first offer, I could always demand that you surrender," she retorted, velvety voice filled with laughter. "Varian's going to get some very interesting reports from SI:7, which means you're likely going to have an even more interesting conversation with him at some point."
Khadgar stared at her in a mixture of awe and consternation. He'd gotten too accustomed to doing as he pleased; even as a member of the Council of Six the worst he'd typically face for something considered outrageous was a leading role in the rumor mill. If it had occurred to him that his poetic badgering of Ashen would end up in the field reports, then he might have refrained. (Or not, but it was a nice thought.) He generally didn't care what other people thought, but Varian was an old friend who would likely realize…things—things Khadgar did not want realized, and was not prepared to admit even to himself.
"So will you, then," he rallied after a moment. "You started it, as I recall."
And now I'm a five-year-old. Bloody fantastic.
Ashen's grin only widened. "I have a great deal of faith in and respect for the Spymaster, but even he's not going to have eyes in the Horde outpost yet. A truce, then?"
Khadgar rubbed a hand over his mouth, staring at her for several long moments. "Just answer one question for me, first. Were you planning to ambush me with this the whole time?"
Ashen blinked at him in surprise, then sputtered into the laugh Khadgar had been wanting to hear since the night they'd danced around a bonfire. He was powerless to stop the slow, upward curl of his mouth in response. "I truly wish I was half as devious as you seem to think I am," Ashen told him, still laughing. She took a breath as she shook her head, smiling. "No, I only realized that last night…after nearly walking face first into one of Shaw's rogues."
That made Khadgar grin. "Distracted by a witty, charming mage, were you?"
"By how much I wanted to strangle said mage? Absolutely," Ashen answered sweetly.
"Alright, a truce then," Khadgar chuckled, holding his hands up in surrender. He studied Ashen as he let his hands fall back to his sides and his mirth subsided. After a moment, he held a hand out to her, unable to keep the hope from his expression. "Still friends, Commander?"
Ashen lifted a brow at him, tapping her chin with a forefinger thoughtfully. She made Khadgar wait just long enough that he was staring to worry she would say no. As she clapped her hand into his, she grinned at him like she knew exactly what had gone through his mind. "Friends," she agreed warmly.
Khadgar smiled down at her as they shook on it, trying to ignore the contradictory tangle that lodged in his gut at the declaration of friendship. Ashen tugged him forward before pulling her hand from his, and they started walking up the path to the outpost in silence.
Ashen glanced over at him as they neared the palisade. "I have to say, though: we may have inadvertently stumbled on to something brilliant."
Brows jumping upward, Khadgar shot her a questioning look.
"You should send that arcane instigator of yours after Gul'dan and badger him into surrendering. We could be home this time next week."
When they walked into Lunarfall, Khadgar was shouting with laughter.