TW for heavy angst, dark and depressive themes


Darnassian:

Shan'do: Honored Teacher.

Sar'thera: A pejorative, meant for someone who's considered irritating or exasperating—mostly an idiot. Slang: Sart(e).

Thero'shan: Honored student.

Arane: A curse or expletive. Figurative translation for "nightmare/s".

Min'da: Mother.

(Trivia) Moon Priestess: A branch from the Sisterhood of Elune dedicated to caring for the young, serving as nursemaids, caretakers, midwives or nursing mothers.


Stormrage

Of all situations and events he'd been expecting that night, Illidan is completely sure he hasn't thought about that one happening. Like an element of the equation being sloppily forgotten, or more likely like something he never considered at all. And yet, just as the storm crashing upon them, that invisible element turned out to punch him in the gut with the grim reality of it all.

Mylenne and Malfurion. His brother and… her. Taking shelter together under a tree, him apparently bringing her some solace.

Snuggling.

How dare he? For the love of all that's holy, how dare he!? Hadn't been enough with having all the praises of their Shan'do when they were young, with being better than him in almost everything, with having Tyrande's heart—now he just had to go and… meddle around with Mylenne? With that same woman he had placed his eyes upon first and has been publicly known so far he's interested in? He just had to find him with Mylenne Stareye, of all women in Suramar?

Is there something, anything Malfurion Stormrage touches that he doesn't spoil?

His ears twitch with the sound of Mylenne crying out his name, but when that tender and so lovely voice of hers usually worked in soothing his thoughts, in that moment it just feels like a thunder—further igniting something in him he believed he'd solved before riding to the Temple.

And so, Illidan gallops away in a mere moment, overwhelmingly eager to place as much distance as he can from the only two kaldorei around and below the unrelenting tempest. How dare he? My own brother… How dare he? His head pounds with the same questioning, a hot spark growing and taking place inside his chest, threatening to swallow what's left of his rational mind.

A howl escapes him, deep from the bottom of his throat, climbing up and away as if spitting fire; the arcane barrier previously cast to shelter him from the rain flaring violently, furiously, in bluish waves.

His collared mount doesn't seem to pay mind to his rage, ever so obedient, its massive paws splashing against dirty mud as he rides without any destination at all. Yet not even its impassiveness works into calming Illidan's growing incensed state, forcing the beast to go faster and run into the woods.

As hours go by, he can't believe the irony, the very joke of it all—all those months invested into gathering some courage, into setting up his resolution of making amends with his brother, believing to be awful and useless to have grudges with his own blood relative… to being spit in the face like the biggest of fools.

"Because I really am the biggest of sarte, aren't I?" He fumes to the humid air around him, a loud thunder rolling up above as a reply. He had genuinely believed for Malfurion's actions to be oblivious and silly, more from a naïve nature rather than intentionally—yet constantly—insulting him with that oh so friendly behavior of his, but now? "Now I know he just doesn't care..."

Isn't it funny how some people consider you the beguiler? The voice of his dark thoughts resurges, nagging and pricking inside his mind. It seems that people haven't met Malfurion after all, and you're just simply his thero'shan

A deep growl follows in reply to that voice, his hands glowing and flaring angrily. "And that just fits perfectly, now isn't it? Forever fated to walk among the great Malfurion Stormrage's shadow," Illidan snarls, lips pursed in sheer disgust—repulsed with everyone he knows, with everything, with himself. "As if I don't deserve any better already…"

Any better? Ha! Now, that is funny, the inside voice laughs bitterly, tauntingly—carrying the too familiar whispers of the arcane all around. Anyone would believe you haven't learned anything in all these years in this city.

"I did learn! I did grow and worked my very ass off in being better, in getting better," He barks, shaking his head violently, uncaring of his already tousled hair, "I'm near to be a Spellcaster, and one of the most-skilled the Moon Guard ever had! I honed and improved my magic in ways my brother can't even dream of!"

The forest lit up for a mere moment as a lightning bolt strikes up above, thick gray and blackish clouds unsuccessful in hiding the inevitable coming of dawn. With his mount growing tired, Illidan hops off and paces around the empty surroundings. "I'm talented enough to put the late Conjurer Stareye to shame if that's my wish! What did he do, instead? What does he have?"

The ground trembles with the next booming thunder… or perhaps it's his own body what's trembling; his racing heart suddenly missing a beat as the answer comes down to him way too painfully, way too overwhelming.

Everything you always wanted…

The roar Illidan throws to the void comes out with the force of an exploding volcano, the entirety of his body glowing in dangerous shades of purplish-blue, his rage so palpable that the very land seems to surrender to his temper—the forest enclosing in silence, not even a single breeze daring to get near him. Arcane magic pours out of him like poison; mists of dark energy drifting in forms of twisted tendrils, the nearest old oak tree catching fire in the mere second the mists reach its branches.

The fire spreads all around him, catching everything that happens to be near him in violent flames, Syrana's saber jumping away and keening in sudden panic. Besides the cries of his only living companion, Illidan remains still, his twisted gaze fixing on the destruction his magic provokes in its wake, blazing fire leaving anything but thick ashes behind its path.

Soon, it all becomes a seeming battle of wills—him against the force of the storm, against the stillness of the forest, against everyone and everything he once held true. Dark smoke rises up to the sky, joining the tempest clouds and shading the weak and pale coming of the sun.

It's only after his mount bolts and runs away from him when Illidan snaps out, somehow; a quick motion of blinks following as he adjusts his sights, slowly gauging in the damage he had done. He really can't blame for the beast leaving him to tend for himself, his eyes blowing wide at the sight displayed before him.

"Elune have mercy on me…" He barely croaks, his throat feeling raw and damaged; just as damaged as his warped state of mind.

So—after managing to grasp a mere inch of willpower—he runs away as well, desperate to place some distance between the landscape he just destroyed, between the crime he committed, between the deep shame that now tugs at his chest for losing the control of something he always claimed to manage so masterfully.

Why do you bother? The poisoning voice follows him along as he makes a sprint to Meredil, the raging tempest also behind his tracks, menacing and growling. You can't run away from what you really are.

"No, no! Stop it!" That is not and never was what he wanted—and he may be a horrible man, but he wouldn't ever let anything bad happen to the ones he cares of, not if he had a say on the matter. "This isn't who I am! This isn't who I want to be!"

You'll either destroy or drag everyone away from you regardless if you want it or not. It's pointless to resist…

"Stop it! Leave me!" Illidan cries, speeding up until his dirty boots merely touch the ground, but still, not even his racing heart or the adrenaline coursing through him works into quiet his warped mental state, somehow.

For another hour he runs, desperate to work his brain into a shutdown, panting and with limbs aching yet still forcing himself to go faster; preferring the physical pain rather than anything else—that pain, at the very least, is probably the only thing he can claim to be his own. Malfurion's humble house comes into view as he reaches the cobblestone streets of Meredil, a small dim of candlelight casting from the nearest window revealing of people inside those walls.

Resentment comes back at him with full force, bile climbing up his throat. So, while he had been trying to deal with his sheer miserable state, battling against his volatile, toxic hatred somehow, Malfurion had been at his home all along, going around his life as usual? As if nothing out of the ordinary had happened with his twin brother?

His pacing slows drastically, a hand running through his tousled hair, nearly pulling at it. Does his hatred have an ending point? How much does he need to endure before a tragedy happens? For Illidan can't be any surer with the fact of himself growing to despise anything related to Malfurion—but with hating his own brother, the only blood relative left in his life, he knows he's bound to also hate himself more.

As if his feet had a life of its own, he comes to a full stop after he captures a glance of another kaldorei across the street, looking to be the only one around and below the never-ending storm. He blinks forcefully, at first not believing what his eyes are seeing, but the figure doesn't fade or either move from their spot.

Mylenne… Mylenne arane Stareye is at his door, her robes completely soaked, head buried between her knees and with her back resting on the side of her massive frostsaber. Nimble arms and drenched violet hair covers the delicate features of her face, the trembles of her body seen even from Illidan's position.

How did she get there? Did Malfurion lead her to my place? What sort of sick joke is this?

With nostrils flaring, he storms towards her, visibly tensing and preparing to face the woman sitting beside his front door. "You just sorted out the wrong house," Illidan says dryly, keeping an impassive face as he looks below, "I live here, he is across the street." He stabs a thumb behind his shoulder, also with evident intentions of signaling her to move.

Isn't this just great? The very least I need right now is to deal with Mylenne, for Elune's sake!

But it's in the moment when he decides to walk past her when Mylenne lifts her head, showing a flushed face drenched in tears. "I… I was looking for you, Illidan," She croaks, flinching after meeting his hard gaze. Recoiling, she then rubs her face frantically with both palms, moving to wake up her sleepy saber. "Though apparently, I haven't considered that you wouldn't want to see my pathetic face as of now,"

They don't have to look at each other for Illidan's hard façade to shatter all of a sudden, wincing at her sharp choice of words. His hand hovers over the slightly invisible rune keeping his front door locked, pondering his options for the heaviest of moments.

Elune curse you… and me as well…

"Come inside, before you catch a cold," Before I regret it, were his original words, but something seemingly prickles inside him, keeping him from being a mere insolent.

She sends a small snort in his general direction, "As if I were looking to abuse of your great hospitality," Mylenne deadpans, standing and removing some wet hair away from her face before returning to her mount, her voice still weak and wavering. "It's probably better if I get going…"

"And it'll be rude of me not to get you inside with this weather still around," He opts to insist, not taking the unconscious opportunity he'd just been given. He rolls his eyes when she keeps on her task of waking her beast, growing annoyed just as easy. "I'm definitely not in the mood for games, so just humor me, Mylenne."

She flinches again at his snapping, taking a full minute of hesitation before obliging, shoulders sagging down and nearly dragging herself into his living room. Illidan holds the door for her as patiently as he can, a cobalt brow quirking up in curiosity when, from his periphery, he takes a fleeting look at the dim lights inside Malfurion's home flickering off. He must be behind all this, he can't help but ponder about, glancing suspiciously at the soaked figure pacing frantically near his kitchen.

Sighing heavily, he internally counts to ten in an attempt to summon all the tolerance he can muster, then closing the door and disposing of his barrier with a flick of his wrist. "Give me a moment while I get you something to dry," He then strides to a linen cupboard, placed under the stairs leading to his bedroom, sorting between sheets and towels, intently focusing on the meaningless task.

However, the woman doesn't seem to be going easy on him. "Ha! Aren't you going to throw a drying spell on me or some magic like that? Just like everyone else would do?" Mylenne grumbles from the living room, looking dangerously close to making a hole on the floor if she intends to keep her frantic pacing.

"So I get to listen to your rants about sorcery for hours, then?" He remarks, not bothering to spare another fleeting glance and grabbing a pair of thick cotton towels from the top shelf. "But that's what you really wish, isn't it? Did you just come here for a fight?"

Illidan doesn't know why he asks about what's most obvious—or why he opted to let the woman into his house in the first place—yet his comment seems to be enough for Mylenne to react, stopping short and stomping her leather sandals against the wooden floor.

"I came here because I couldn't think of anywhere else to go!" She shouts, her lavender face contorting painfully, silver eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Her weeping, flushed face isn't enough to make Illidan snap out of his own distressful state. "Oh, so now I'm your last option available. How nice and sweet of you, Mylenne…" He barks back, faking a bright smile as he goes around the room, procuring more fire on the chimney with a flick of his fingers.

Mylenne gapes at him, lilac lips trembling and limbs shivering, seemingly doing her best to come up with words. "Goddess, I was so wrong in coming here," She breathes, running her hands through her dripping wet hair, glancing at the door as if considering making a run for it, "I can't believe how stupid I am… I can't believe I've been thinking—"

"Oh, you've been thinking? About what, exactly?" He wonders with a mocking tone, turning to face her, pinning her in place with a furious glare, "Because if I recall correctly, you haven't replied my last letter and you haven't shown the faintest interest in keeping seeing each other, but you oh so suddenly decide to visit after I get to see you… snuggling with my brother," He nearly spits his last words, nose wrinkled in sheer disgust.

A torrent of tears starts running down the woman's cheeks, staring at him in sheer astonishment. "So now you get to be mad at me for this one man who tried to comfort me somehow?" Her face flushes even further, looking shocked to the core, "For this one person who got to see how miserable I am?"

The sight of her near despaired state makes something inside him clench painfully, and yet, his retort comes out without him being able to stop it. "And you just adore getting everyone's attentions, don't you?" Illidan snarls, trying to figure her out as well as growing repulsed with himself and his awful assumptions. Despite his awareness of being a complete insolent, he still can't find the will to stop—his jealousy getting the better of him. "From your warrior friend, from my Officer, from me and now from my brother, am I missing someone?"

"And what's even the point of that if never in my whole life I've felt so alone!?" Mylenne shouts, her face completely distorted and flushed—but her usually tender voice also comes out deeply twisted, warped, as if a thunder has just struck inside his living room.

Illidan is left holding back a gasp, one towel on his hand dropping to the floor unceremoniously, going frozen where he stands as—all in a sudden—the foundations of his house start trembling, like a foot the size of a tree had just stomped the ground nearby. His eyes blow wide, unable to do anything but stare at Mylenne's magic aura flaring violently, bright as a beacon and nearly blinding him.

A surge of dread strikes through him, pure shock narrowing his face. What in Elune's name is happening?

"Don't you see I need—why can't you—" Mylenne cries, but she stops shortly, both her hands running to her throat, her flustered face going pale in a mere moment, "Oh, Goddess… I can't—"

"Mylenne…?" He murmurs, not finding his voice, gaping in horror at the woman before him, her display of magic so overwhelming and unlike anything he had ever seen before. It's as she falls to her knees when he snaps out, panic gripping him like the strongest of vices. "Arane… Mylenne!"

Throwing the remaining of towels he'd been holding, Illidan outright jumps and drops next to her in the flash of a second, although not being that bold to touch her just yet. Raw magic pours out of her as if being desperate to escape her body, the ground shaking and furniture floating with the sheer force of her arcane energies, all spread around the room. In an act of reflex, Illidan casts a barrier over them both, their clothes and manes swaying brusquely as Mylenne's magic seemingly struggles to get through and away.

She still grips her throat frantically, wheezing and clawing at her skin in an act of desperation. "I can't—Illidan—" Tears run down her cheeks like a river, struggling for breath like a fish out of the water.

He knows he'd be crying too—if it weren't for the overwhelming panic currently coursing through him. Yet the sheer guilt for provoking such a thing as a panic attack on her becomes even harder to bear. "Please forgive me, I never meant what I said, I…" Illidan shakes his head sharply, his voice wavering, "Please, breathe, Mylie… come on!"

"I can't—I'm—" A hot surge of magic flares out of Mylenne's skin, coming onto him like a sharp slap in the face, sending him groaning and his barrier nearly faltering. "It hurts so—"

The side of his face starts stinging, yet somehow Illidan manages to fight back the unending, violent waves pouring out of her. "Focus on me!" He pleads, leaning closer to her small, curled up figure, frantically searching for her face. Silver eyes brimming with tears finally look at him through crinkled slits, "I'm here, I'm here… now follow my lead," He starts inhaling and exhaling deeply and slowly, prompting her to imitate his breathing.

He can see her genuinely trying to imitate his movements, but all he gets is a wheezing sound coming out of Mylenne's lips, making her clutch her throat even harder, tears falling quicker. Something about her magic keeps warning Illidan to not even consider touching her, her aura flaring and pouring out of her so brightly that the mere idea of grasping something so pure can only send wide alarms to his brain.

Should I dare to do so now? Goddess, what should I do? I can't just keep watching her like this!

But… he had touched her before—a year ago, to be more precise—and while it had been dangerous and incredibly imprudent of him to dare tasting a mere inch of her magic, nothing tragic had really happened. And even without that reminder, it may be better to, at the very least, do something and then deal with the consequences later.

"You'll either destroy or drag everyone away from you regardless if you want it or not."

Illidan's breath hitches, his heart missing a beat. No, that's not who he is, that's not who he'll ever wants to be—and he wouldn't ever let anything bad happen to the ones he cares of, not if he had a say on the matter.

So he dares, not giving it a second thought, his barrier dropping as his hands travel to grasp hers, still clutching and clawing at her throat. But in the mere second his fingertips come to brush between her collarbones, a sharp jolt of electricity rushes through his hand, making him gasp loudly. Somehow, he doesn't remove his hand right away as a familiar tingle climbs up his extremities—yet this time, it comes along with an odd sense of warmth, spreading through his body like spider webs, taking place in his chest as a final destination.

The longest of moments go by… until Mylenne takes a deep intake of breath, her chest filling as if being the very first time she uses her lungs. When her bright aura recedes to her normal state, sheer relief washes over him, sighing deeply as his hands opt to settle over her shoulders, his own hunching down tiredly.

Slow and steady, her normal color returns to Mylenne's skin, her chest going up and down heavily. "How did you… Goddess, that was…" She tries for words, leaning into him and looking terribly exhausted, almost as how he is.

"Ssh, just breathe, alright? You almost gave me a heart attack, there," Illidan gets on her eye level, sitting properly and bringing her closer to his chest, struggling against the sudden need of bringing her flush against him. "Did I hurt you?" He can't help but ask, although keeping from voicing the real questions nagging at his mind.

What did just happen? He has ever seen such display of magic in his whole life; not certainly a powerful one but… different—the very core, the very source of it quite difficult to relate to his own arcane affinity. Dangerously unstable and bright, yet purer than anything he had ever seen nor grasped before; somehow still arcane in its base, but savage, unadulterated, as having a life of its own.

"That… that was the nicest thing I've felt in decades," Mylenne then whispers against his chest, not so cold and soaking wet anymore, her breathing doing a funny thing to his insides as it fans close to his sternum.

A relieved hum escapes him, allowing himself to bring her slightly closer now that he knows he hasn't harmed her, "You need me to try that again?" He prompts, not quite sure how he'd do that, but the thought of being somewhat helpful is what mostly motivates him.

"No, I don't need that. I—" Shaking her head, the woman makes a visible effort of moving, lifting her gaze to meet his, her beautiful lavender face still with remnants of tears, "I need a friend, Illidan. I need you to hold me."

Her words speak volumes about her current state, her voice carrying so many meanings behind that—as their gazes lock onto each other—Illidan's face softens drastically, instantly, his heart nearly melting at the sight.

That's what she'd been looking for all along, he realizes, deep empathy coursing through him as he moves to wrap the back of her legs and shoulders. The same thought as the one he had a year ago comes to him again, still unable to figure it out. How could someone so beautiful be in so much pain?

"Yeah… I can do that," He whispers against the crown of her violet head, clinging to the ever so soothing feeling of her presence and her familiar scent of lilies, just as thirsty for the very little comfort he can get as she is.

Carrying her as tenderly and carefully as he can, he brings her close to the chimney's fire, propping himself down to sit on the floor, placing her upon his lap. Her loneliness, her miserableness, all her dark feelings are so palpable at their close distance that—for the tiniest of moments—he fears to get overwhelmed as her buzzing aura keeps brushing his skin; exhausted and fainting, yet steady, like the beating of her heart.

Crossing his legs and with his back resting against the feet of the sofa, Mylenne gets on telling him everything that happened the last two months without seeing each other. How heartbroken she'd felt when her childhood friend left for a post among the Sentinels, how her friend's brother seems to be falling apart without his sibling, isolating himself into his work. And while Illidan may not have the best of sentiments towards the Shadowsong warrior and Priestess, he can certainly understand—and relate to—the pain of the distance from those one cares the most.

Mylenne also comments on how her uncle and lover—which Illidan knows for sure he may never get used to her and Hargo'then's state of relationship—are currently absent, immersed onto their jobs and tasks as well, apparently oblivious to her highly unstable emotional state. From Silgryn, Illidan can also relate, if unlikely; for even with this growing loathing he'd been building towards Malfurion, the sudden inability of not relying on his only blood relative can't be anything but painful.

Rebel tears escape from her eyes once more as she then explains how she'd been spending her nights either sleeping or praying, but not even the Goddess appears to listen to her pleas—and judging by the slight bitterness in her words, never quite did.

Just as Elune never listened to me either, he can't help but admit to himself, cradling her close to his chest, struggling against the painful clenching of his heart that comes with her words.

Eventually, Mylenne stops nearly vomiting her frustrations and fears to him, clinging to his vest in a seemingly unconscious search for physical warmth. "I really shouldn't… I'm sorry for bringing this to you, Illidan. I'm sorry for this mess, for your bro—" A sharp shaking of his head prevents her from recalling that particular topic, stopping short and sighing tiredly, "I'm sorry for being nothing but a nuisance to you. You don't deserve this from me."

Illidan leans away a couple of inches, "You're not a nuisance, Mylie. Not to me, not to anyone, you hear me?" He assures, lifting her chin with the back of his thumb and looking straight to her eyes to affirm how serious he is. When a hopeful little smile shows on the woman's lips, he can't help but continue, "Although I'm afraid you haven't picked the… nicest companion to help you out, I think,"

"But I can listen too, that's the least I can do," Mylenne tries to reassure him, straightening a little bit to get to his eye level. "Even more so, I want to hear you out. And you can tell me anything you want to vent out, you know? Is there something I can do for you?"

He ponders about telling her everything that has been crossing his mind for a moment, but the will to speak never comes. "No, you can't, I'm sorry. To be more honest, I can't," He confesses, his nose creasing at the mere thought of recalling the mess that is his own life. "I promise you some night I'll tell you, but I guess that's my own battle to fight as for right now…"

Mylenne nods in apparent understanding, a sympathetic look plastered on her lavender face. "Alright, then," One of her small hands travel to untie his tousled ponytail, first searching his face for permission, her features brightening as he leans his head to give her a better access. "Uhm, would you do something else for me?" She wonders, a tint of innocence in her voice, "Would you… sing to me?"

"I don't sing," Illidan nearly deadpans, tilting his head a little bit to send a half-amused glare in her direction, yet still allowing the woman to let his hair loose.

"And why don't you?" She fakes a pout, running her fingers through his cobalt mane, bringing some strands to rest over his shoulders and on his chest, "That can't be anything but a tragedy, with that lovely voice of yours…"

"Ha, as if you needed to flatter me," He smirks, leaning his head back and taking a moment to consider the idea. "Well, the only song I can recall right now is one our Moon Priestess used to sing to me and—" A small snort follows, reminding himself to not bring the topic of his brother in any way, "It's silly, though, and I wouldn't say it being particularly… cheerful,"

"Sounds fitting already," The woman shrugs, settling against his chest once more, idly toying with the tips of his mane.

Silence falls upon them for some minutes, Illidan staring at the flickering fire from the chimney, pondering over the idea. He never tried for singing, or ever considered the thought of doing it as many of his friends and acquaintances did. In his mind, singing has always been an activity more fitting to Priestesses, young noble Lords and Ladies, and local jesters or entertainers.

However, his Min'da used to sing when she was in a particularly sour mood, way back in his childhood years. A sense of nostalgia washes over him as he remembers some past nights at Val'sharah, with Min'da idly humming in their small, humble kitchen as she prepared the meals for them—her bright green mane tilting side to side as she sang, somehow oblivious of her elder son secretly listening to her, sitting at the top of the stairs leading to the bedrooms.

Min'da always sang when she was near her lowest—it couldn't hurt for him then to at least try, isn't it?

So, Illidan takes a deep breath in an attempt to find some encouragement, closing his eyes and focusing on recalling what the late Moon Priestess used to sing to him before his sleep.

"Across the sea to you, I've left myself deserted here again. Across the sea to you, my pieces are too broken now to mend,"

Mylenne smiles below, looking evidently delighted, cradling closer to his body and resting her head on his broad shoulder, soft breath fanning near his collarbones. As he goes on, she gets on idly working on making small braids with some strands of his hair, silently prompting him to continue.

"In the middle, under a cold black sky, the Moon will only shine for you and I. In the moment before I lose my mind, these hours don't mean anything this time…"

He can't help but glance at the small body in his arms, "Give me a sign, show me the light. Maybe tonight I'll tell you everything," His free hand, as if having a life of its own, goes to hold the side of her head, fingers brushing through the long curtain that is her hair, bright shades of violet showing with the reflection of the fire upon them.

"Across the world for you, my reasons have no reason to remain. I'd cross the world for you, I don't know what I'm doing wrong but I can't stay the same,"

Mylenne's silence and stillness prompt him to continue, making Illidan grow a little bolder as he keeps singing, his voice feeling steadier and more confident. Her body curled up so close also does wonders on soothing the darkest of his thoughts, the familiar scent of lilies warming him from the inside out.

"In the middle, under a clear blue sky, the sun can only burn for you and I. In the moment before I lose my mind, these hours don't mean anything this time…"

Eventually, he starts swaying back and forth, gently and soothingly, holding her as if cradling a child. Her magic feels dormant then, just as relaxed as she is, and Illidan can't help with resting his cheek on the top of her head, savoring and clinging to the comfort of her presence.

"Give me a sign, show me the light. Maybe tonight I'll tell you everything." He murmurs, voice low and gentle, gazing at the remains of the chimney's fire that slowly flickers off as the minutes go by.

Casting a glance to the nearest window, Illidan notices the usual yellowish rays announcing the coming of midday—barely peeking out from behind the storm clouds, still hovering over and around the city. From below, Mylenne sighs softly, her chest going up and down in slow movements, clearly looking asleep. A quiet hum escapes him, a tender smile crossing his lips at the sight of her undisturbed features, one of her arms still clinging to his vest.

His head lolls back to the sofa, doing his best to summon the will to move, yet it comes to be a near impossible task with the lovely warmth of that woman curled up in his arms—the bright curtain of her hair, her soft breath, her endearing scent, everything coming from her eliciting him to relax. To just… take a break from the world, and rest.

Somehow and in between, he can't help with being in awe, staring at the roof and contemplating the whole course and sudden shifting of events. Of all outcomes he'd been expecting that night, he's completely sure that having Mylenne Stareye sleeping in his arms wasn't one of them.

"I too needed this," Illidan whispers so very low, nearly mouthing the words, his eyelids feeling heavy as he's quickly lured onto sleep. Looking at her delicate, beautiful face one last time, another grateful smile clings up to him, fully relaxing in his spot before falling into slumber. "Thank you, Mylenne…"


… His eyes open in sudden shock, blinking repeatedly in an attempt to adjust his sights, trying to figure out something in the thick dark surrounding him. His head feels groggy, his senses going numb with the hard beating of his heart behind his ribs, and his head lolls back onto the floor when he feels his whole body aching, unable to find some strength or will to remove himself from where he lays.

Somehow he manages to crack his eyes open once more, only a small golden line which glances at the roof—a roof that he slowly starts to recognize as the one from his own house. A relieved sigh escapes his mouth. I must have dozed off after drinking all my reserves of wine… again, he realizes, allowing his muscles to relax for a little bit.

Yet his head starts to throb and the floor feels hard and cold under him, provoking a pained groan out of him. His fingers twitch, scrambling for some purchase, and his vision gets more clouded once he manages to gather some strength, damp strands of hair falling on his face as he sits straight.

His breath hitches when his nose captures a strong, bitter smell that doesn't belong to his own sweat, a shiver running down his back at the same time as a feeling of trepidation climbs onto him, tensing his muscles.

Something is not right.

His golden eyes open wide, once again trying to figure out something in the dim light, his fireplace only providing a little illumination—and barely so, with the remaining fire quickly evening out.

White dots dance in front of his eyes as he shakes his head, yet his senses keep dulled and his gaze clouded, the room spinning wildly in front of him. But the bitter smell grows stronger around him and a cold, chill breeze runs and strokes the back of his neck, eliciting him—tempting him—to relax once more, to stop worrying so much, to just lie down again and wait for the dizziness to pass.

But he doesn't surrender, forcing his body to respond to his demands and getting on all fours, doing his best to ignore the hard clench of his stomach and the sudden need to puke. His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring with his deep breathing and sweat gathering on his thick brows with the effort of maintaining some self-control. Yet when his head lifts, he finally discovers the reason of his clouded sight.

The fire runs out, only the dim moonlight coming through a high window providing some light to the room—a room flooded with a faint sapphire mist.

The cold breeze returns from behind him, bringing a thick smoke on its way, filling the place in thick waves of azure, joining and mixing with the sapphire mist, swaying and dancing in front of his eyes.

He feels entranced with the sight, the living room devoid of all colors except the rising mist before him. The acrid taste and smell of magic fills his nose and mouth as the mist thickens and surrounds him—yet never touching his skin, only waving before him, seducing him

Illidan…


Song: Taciturn, by Stone Sour (slightly modified)

A-N: Aaaaand with this concludes what I call the "first key point" of this book – maybe a "milestone" sounds better, though. A bond has been formed and now there are three – or four, because I'm that horrible and that dense, yup! – more key points to go before the end of Starsurge and beginning of Starfall.

I want to be a little retrospective in here and admit I can't believe there were needed like +80k words to get to this part – but all in all, so far so good, and it seems Illidan and Mylenne's story has so much to be told! And I absolutely can't wait to show you how everything gets unfold! :D

I also wanted to thank all those adorable readers who reached me lately and gave me such amazing support and encouragement to keep going – the mere fact that some people are actually enjoying this… I don't even have words to say how much that means to me, but it really means the world. Thank you so, so, so very much for your nice words and replies! And to those lurkers and ghost readers: Don't ever hesitate to leave a review or reaching me anywhere – may that be with a PM on Tumblr if you're shy, over here, and I really mean it, wherever and whenever – I can't get tired of saying how much I adore to hear from you!

By the way, the last scene belongs to Starsurge's side story, called Dreams of Azure. Hop over there if you want to check out the complete scene. Same goes for the song, also belonging to The Thirsty Magister (songfic, so Ao3 only)