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Dem Bones

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"Sometimes... I wish someone would come along and just give me a big, long hug."

Kel'Thuzad's wish at the fountain in Dalaran.

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"You want to do what?"

"Just a little something for all our friends," Kel'Thuzad said.

"Our friends..." the Lich King mused. "That would be the tortured minions with no will of their own, yes?"

The archlich floated closer to the Frozen Throne where the Master of the Scourge was taking his ease. Indulging in the one activity that truly relaxed him, Arthas was gently caressing a purring Frostmourne with an oily square of soft suede.

"Whatever their station, my King, everyone enjoys having a good time," Kel'Thuzad urged. "And just imagine how pleasant it would be to spend a fun, undead-only evening among our own, without all the fuss of screaming mortals."

While that suggestion did have its merits, Arthas shook his head. "Until some slighted, uninvited Forsaken crashes your party with a plague bomb."

Kel'Thuzad folded his hands patiently; his beloved king was a bit of a pessimist at times. "A celebratory event would be very good for morale," he murmured. "In fact, Lana'thel recently told me..."

"Yes, well... she told me she wished you would stop dragging the rest of us into your plot to romance Lady Deathwhisper."

The lich was silent for a long moment, musing and rearranging his chains fastidiously. "Perhaps you... misunderstood?" he offered with as pleading a look as his inflexible skeletal features could express.

"I'm a telepath, Kel. I did not misunderstand. Her silent disgruntlement has been quite deafening for some time now."

Kel'Thuzad pondered the floor, downcast. "Apologies, my King. I simply thought she might be willing to offer some... helpful advice..."

"Apparently not."

"Might I request your counsel on the matter, my Lord?" Kel'Thuzad murmured. "You have quite a bit of experience in the area with Lady Jaina. Perhaps others."

"There were no others, Kel," Arthas said; and giving Frostmourne one last caress, he lowered the blade, resting it upright against his left knee. "But alright, what sort of counsel?"

"Why, insights into the sublime mystery of Woman, my Lord."

"Oh. That. Hm."

"And yes, it is true," Kel'Thuzad added, glancing at Arthas tentatively, uncertain of his response. "I would like very much to do something... nice, for Lady Deathwhisper."

"She has proven herself most diligent," Arthas said agreeably.

"She is wonderfully intuitive, so very dedicated..."

The Lich King frowned, suddenly assailed by telepathic imagery unrelated to the innocuous discussion, and of a subject he deemed best left unexplored. Delighted his master had not exploded with outrage over such a lapse into sentiment, Kel'Thuzad moved to expand upon the issue; but Arthas quickly raised his hand. "I get the picture," he assured his second in command. "The frighteningly-vivid picture."

Kel'Thuzad nodded expectantly, fervently clasping his bony fists to his even bonier chest in anxious anticipation. "I would be so very pleased to share her company."

"Then so you shall," Arthas proclaimed with certainty. "Why not invite her to join you on Naxxramas for an evening? The Carrion Fields are lovely in the moonlight."

"Thank you, my Lord," Kel'Thuzad replied with earnest appreciation, thrilled by such an allowance. "Yet, I find myself hesitant to approach her romantically," he admitted. "I dare not hope she feels the same." The archlich wheezed something like a sigh, murmuring wistfully: "It would be so… so comforting... to know someone cared. Someone with whom I might perhaps share a nice long hug occasionally."

Arthas studied the clearly despondent lich for an extended moment. "Well, I suppose I could give you a hug now and again," he offered. "If you really need one…"

Kel'Thuzad gazed at him with fond regard. "You are very kind, my King; but I was rather thinking of the feminine touch."

"Hm… yes. Of course you were." Arthas mused, his fingertips roaming his stubbly jaw as he considered the matter. "Perhaps a nice wilted bouquet of roses would turn Deathwhisper's head," he offered after a thoughtful moment, "or a tasteful spray of brambles. Definitely something with thorns, I think. Or perhaps a box of rotten delicacies would be more to your taste... so to speak. It depends upon the mood you wish to set, Kel; such is a statement of intent, you see." Arthas leaned an elbow on the arm of his throne, cradling his chin in his palm. "I'm sure if I asked her, Maexxna would be happy to spin you a silk scarf to gift Deathwhisper."

"Oh, my liege..." Kel'Thuzad whispered gratefully.

"Just how serious is this relationship, Kel? Hm? Have you leveled up to jewelry yet? If so, you need to know that's a whole other ballgame of expectation."

"We are just friends, my King..." Kel'Thuzad replied shyly. "Although I would welcome more with the dear lady."

If the lich had possessed cheeks, Arthas guessed they would be quite rosy at this point.

"Friends..." the Lich King echoed. "The most loaded word in anybody's vocabulary. Careful how you use it, lest it circle back to bite you in the ass." He paused to gesture, adding: "Not that you have an ass, of course, but I'm confident you get my meaning."

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Two days later:

"Well, we absolutely must do something," Lady Blaumeux said, approaching the Frozen Throne where Arthas sat, herding the dead. "It's becoming unbearable."

Arthas peered at the death knight, drawing his thoughts away from a group of hapless ghouls he was trying to salvage. An amused ice troll had lured them to the beach and they were presently rolling about in the rough surf, clueless as to what to do about it. Apparently, his telepathic suggestion that they simply stand up and walk out of the water was too esoteric for their rotting brains to process, and so they were just tumbling up and down the sandy incline, hooting forlornly.

Arthas shook his head wearily; he wondered if he shouldn't just let the tide carry them away - out of sight, out of mind, as it were - and as his mind was already full enough, Arthas made a mental note to remind himself that brainlessness did not always best serve his purposes.

"Be specific, my Horseman," he urged the death knight, hoping for - but doubtful of - a speedy resolution to whatever had brought her to him with such an indomitable mien. "This is Northrend, many things are unbearable here. As they should be."

"Lady Deathwhisper," Blaumeux stated pointedly, clearly judging him unreasonably forgetful.

Arthas sighed, struggling to apply himself. "I am awaiting any hint whatsoever as to the direction of this conversation," he said.

Aside, in reevaluation, he decided to send a wyrm to fish out the floundering ghouls and then to deposit them in the sand above the high tide line where they might drain awhile in the meager sunlight, rather than returning immediately to the Citadel and tracking salty water all over his ice...

"Kel'Thuzad," Blaumeux added with loud, frustrated emphasis. "The Love Interest..."

"Ah. Yes. That. What of it?"

She snorted softly, giving him a disappointed look.

"I have a great deal on my mind, Blaumeux. Don't judge."

"We need to help them get together," the death knight informed him.

Arthas waggled a long forefinger negatively. "I'm not finding that "we" working for me," he confided. "Did you not tell me just yesterday, and with wildly-inappropriate cheer that their feelings for one another are mutual? Will they not... gravitate naturally? I was rather hoping they could rattle each other's bones without my interference, as I do not wish to be involved in the matter, Blaumeux. At all."

Blaumeux assumed a stance of patent affront. "Kel'Thuzad considers you to be his best friend," she informed him, clearly expecting some sign of remorse for his callousness. Arthas did not feel contrite, but he tilted his head in acknowledgement, optimistically hoping if he feigned interest, it would result in a quick closure. "Actually, you're his only friend. And that's just sad."

"You are going to hurt yourself on all those italics, Blaumeux," Arthas said, leaning forward on his throne to study her. "What happened to that lovely lack of feeling I so carefully instilled in you, hm?" She gave him a look that was just bursting with melodrama. "And I am not his only friend," Arthas added. "Kel has his cat; and I assure you, when it is Mr. Bigglesworth's playtime, my friendship is the last fucking thing on Kel's mind. He is as dismissive of my summons as his feline is."

Blaumeux cast him a cold, disapproving glance that required no words for interpretation – even if her mind had not been a big red balloon of indignation over his insensitivity.

Which it was.

"I am the Lich King. Where does it say I have to be nice?"

The look persisted, a thunderous, nigh meteorological event.

"Oh fuck," Arthas relented. "What would you have me to do?"

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"I told you Blaumeux was the best one to approach him," Koltira said to Thassarian. "And you actually thought Rivendare? Gods, how clueless are you, Thass? Titus would've just amused Arthas with bone jokes and nothing at all would've been accomplished."

Thassarian sighed, wondering yet again, how the hell he had gotten himself involved in this absurdity. He grunted. Well, the answer to that question was standing before him, looking unendurably right.

"I didn't suggest Orbaz," Thassarian reminded him. "I think I should get credit for that."

Koltira rolled his eyes theatrically. "In matters of love, Thass," he instructed wisely, "one must always send a purposeful woman. Especially when dealing with Arthas. Reminds him of Proudmoore, whether he admits it or not."

Thassarian pondered the look of certainty that had set the elf's delicate features into immovable conviction. When that expression was in place, argument was pointless; this wisdom he had gleaned from past, painful experience. It was so much easier to just let Koltira have his way; and so, it was almost against his will, when he asked: "And you know this for certain, how exactly?" Koltira's eyes narrowed, his long ears twitching to peaked alertness as he prepared to bludgeon Thassarian with words.

"So Arthas confides in you now, does he?" Thassarian asked further, and a bit sarcastically – the words whooshing forth with reckless abandon, as if to lay verbal claim before the elf's tsunami of pique could make its figurative landfall.

"Well," Koltira said, folding his arms. "Aren't we feeling like an asshole today."

"We are feeling like not getting involved," Thassarian corrected with a sneer. "We are feeling like minding our own fucking business." He frowned at Koltira's silent, but clearly contemptuous appraisal of his stated opinion. "And when the hell did you and Kel'Thuzad suddenly become such bosom buddies? I don't recall you ever even mentioning the lich, except to occasionally disparage his wardrobe."

Koltira shrugged. "You say that as if the headdress is not pushing the envelope of good taste to the very precipice," he replied with the snide certainty only an elf could flaunt to such perfection. "But that's beside the point, in this matter."

"Well, since I have no idea where or what the freaking point even is," Thassarian countered bitingly, "I guess I'll just have to trust your flawless judgment on that one, Tira."

"You'd do well to always trust my judgment, idiot human," the elf snapped, "as you clearly have none of your own."

"No, I'm with Darion on this... let's just stay out of it. That way we're less likely to end up crucified on the battlements for testing Arthas's nonexistent patience."

Koltira spread his arms with a peevish snort. "And that's the reason I suggested Blaumeux..."

"True, Arthas won't do much more than frown at her - because he likes her. The rest of us, however, he might just decide to use as grisly Winter Veil decorations, when he gets wind of this blighted, mad shit. And it's not even close to December."

"Kel'Thuzad is his friend, you twit."

"So was I, before he railed me with Frostmourne."

Koltira sighed, glancing around at the sound of footsteps in the corridor beyond.

"Fal-ric…" the elf trilled.

"No."

"You don't even know what I'm going to ask!" Koltira huffed, leaning out the door, to shout after him; the other death knight hadn't even slowed in passing. He continued on, without losing stride.

"No."

"You know Arthas better than anyone–"

"That's why I'm saying no…" The faintly echoing proclamation bounced back to him from the shadowy end of the corridor, as Falric turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

"Smart man," Thassarian opined.

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"Who else is in on this plot with you, Blaumeux?" Arthas asked with a cranky squint, not happy to find the death knight before him yet again, with her burden of suggestions that were (as always) just shy of being demands. "You don't even like Kel'Thuzad. What are you up to? And who is up to it with you? I want names."

"Will you consider my proposal?"

"I do not bargain, I do not concede. And under no circumstances, will I be coerced."

The death knight folded her arms stubbornly.

"I sense... elf..." Arthas muttered, staring at her, and peering into her thoughts. "No... I smell elf. What is that? Jasmine and honeysuckle? Ye gods! Deathweaver. Of course." Arthas shook his head. "I have counseled him repeatedly – and clearly without success – on his refusal to smell appropriate." Arthas mused thoughtfully. "Perhaps he is incapable of fathoming the wonderful subtlety of stench."

"Bathing is a hard habit to break for an elf, Arthas."

"I would smite him for that If he wasn't so cooperatively homicidal. But he is, and I allow him to get away with far too much because of it. Seems I'm much too lenient all around," he added grimly, eyeing the death knight, his displeasure now obvious and intensifying.

Blaumeux watched him warily. She had been chosen for this dangerous duty because Arthas approved of her; but she wasn't about to jeopardize that position of esteem for anyone. If his anger deepened, she would abort her plan, grovel shamelessly, and abjectly beg his forgiveness. At this point, still grouchily amused, he would likely forgive her without reprisal – but if she continued to push him, that could change in a dead heartbeat.

"I'm only thinking of what's best for you, my King," she soothed, a comment which earned her a knowing scowl.

"No, now you're trying to placate me, Blaumeux. You're not presently certain just how thin the ice really is..." he shrugged, waving an idle hand, "and I commend you for your caution." He leaned forward abruptly, glaring down at her, "Because, no, it is not wise to piss me off." He leaned back on his throne, relaxing again. "Alright," he said, put upon, but willing – for the moment – to endure it.

"Tell me about your proposal."

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"You are being plotted against, Kel'Thuzad," Arthas said, "and you have a right to know it."

Enjoying the Lich King's gift of unimpeachable power, Kel'Thuzad was not terribly concerned by the prospect.

"Blaumeux and her not-so-merry band of idiot psychopaths are absolutely bound and determined to arrange for you some sort of... tryst... with Lady Deathwhisper."

Kel'Thuzad actually pinkened slightly; and Arthas's brows leapt at the sight – only to climb even higher when Kel'Thuzad said in a curiously-choked whisper, "How very kind of them."

"You are disturbingly unoffended, Kel," Arthas muttered grimly, wondering if this recent odd behavior amongst his minions wasn't a sure and prophetic sign of his imminent downfall.

"I had no idea they cared, my liege," was the lich's even more unexpected response.

"Well, they aren't supposed to care, Kel; but seems they do. And as this apparently cannot be remedied by threat or force, let us proceed to an expedient conclusion as painlessly as possible."

"Your will is mine, my King..." Kel'Thuzad murmured fervently, twisting his skeletal hands together.

Arthas eyed him, judging his eager response suspiciously uncharacteristic. "Yes well..." he glanced up with a sigh to the shadowy ceiling before returning his attention to Kel'Thuzad. "I charge you to woo Deathwhisper– " the Lich King commanded gravely. "I care not how, but by whatever means remain... available to you... I would see you do so thoroughly, Kel'Thuzad, and with a bold intention. This matter will be satisfactorily resolved." He paused to frown irascibly. "I weary of Blaumeux's sad little face peeping up at me as she laments your lonely plight. Am I clear?"

"Oh yes, my King," Kel'Thuzad enthused.

He was going to break those bony fingers if he didn't stop wringing them so, Arthas decided. "You're fluttering again Kel. Please stop." He leaned forward, fixing the lich with his most forbidding frown. "And see to it that the Argent Dawn does not get wind of this," he growled intolerantly, "or bones will roll... and not in any way that might suit your agenda." Kel'Thuzad nodded, meekly obedient by all appearances; but Arthas could still hear his chains rattling with excitement.

The Lich King sighed, his ire fading at the sight of his friend's desperate anticipation. And yes, Arthas reminded himself, Kel'Thuzad was his friend – loyal, trustworthy, a valued confidant, his deliverer even, on more than one occasion. Arthas often thought there was actually something rather like affection between them.

He leaned forward again, of a more benevolent attitude, and Kel'Thuzad floated nearer attentively. "I can trust you to be discreet, yes?" Arthas asked. "For my sake."

"Of course, my King," Kel'Thuzad whispered, nodding in devoted assurance. "I would do anything for you."

Arthas leaned back, content with that promise. "I do not wish to hear of Naxx yawing and pitching for your good efforts in this endeavor..." he added wryly, and Kel'Thuzad chortled softly, literally glowing all over with pleasure. "If this gets out," Arthas said, shaking his head, "it will ruin my reputation. And Dark knows, it's suffered enough as it is, of late."

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"Kel'Thuzad wants a dance? We're having a dance," Blaumeux said, in a tone utterly intolerant of dissent. "Hopefully a dignified affair, but no promises. The empty plague hall will be perfect. Patchwerk is busy festooning it with his idea of party decorations, even as we speak."

"Wonderful," Arthas said sourly. "So good of you to ask my permission first. It's not like this is my Citadel."

"You just weren't taking this matter seriously, Arthas."

"Untrue. I talked to Kel, I instructed him to..."

"Something has to be done!" Blaumeux well-nigh shouted; and with a wild, encompassing gesture, she added frantically: "I'm not going to go into one more hopeless battle with a lovesick lich! Not even Kel'Thuzad. Not even for you. You can't make me."

"Well, actually I can..." Arthas reminded her; he spread his hands. "Fine. Do what you must. Have your festivities, wrangle your liches, and bend them to your unbelievably-implacable will... I will not be attending."

"Of course you will," Blaumeux stated unequivocally, fixing him with a cold stare that just dared him to foil her plans. "You are to give the toast."

"Old Gods and Darkness blast it, woman!" Arthas bellowed. "You task me dangerously."

"Lady Deathwhisper is deeply devoted to you, Arthas, she wishes to have your blessing."

"Oh, this is escalating past reason!"

"It's one evening, Arthas," Blaumeux said patiently, a bit of skillful wheedling winding its way into her tone. "You might even enjoy yourself..."

Arthas saw in her thoughts that she was fully committed to manipulating him for the sake of the mission, and because it was actually his mission as well, and he admired her tenacity, he felt compelled to concede.

"Alright, damn you, but I will not enjoy myself."

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Ah, and there was the prize herself – Lady Deathwhisper. Tall, and willowy – a lovely sack of bones, to be sure – she was the very definition of graciousness made unflesh. And she was precisely where the Lich King deemed she should be – in Kel'Thuzad's gentlemanly embrace, as they enjoyed a slow waltz together.

When Deathwhisper's eyes had first alighted upon him, and with some uncertainty as to his approval, Arthas had given her a nod and a winning smile, pleasantly surprised to find that at least one of his intelligent minions gave weight to his authority.

World domination should be so cooperative, he thought, satisfied by the outcome of this matter.

"They're so graceful..." Blaumeux burbled from her seat beside him, gazing with moist eyes at the happy couple as they floated around the floor, heads together, desiccated digits entwined, a dainty flurry of misty snowdust following in their wake.

Having made his obligatory appearance, the Lich King had intended an early departure for a quiet evening with Frostmourne on the Spire; but now the Vrykul mead was flowing, and Arthas had the Why Not? moment he would later unlive to regret.

Five tankards later, and the Master of the Scourge was leaning on the table, brew in hand, blankly fascinated by Baron Rivendare's drunken, but nonetheless elegant attempt to seduce a Val'kyr.

Koltira was dragging a complaining Thassarian onto the dance floor for the third time, as the desperately-untalented quartet of cultist musicians began sawing out one more tortured round of chamber music.

"Oh punch him in the face, Thass..." Arthas grumbled under his breath, as the lithe, prancing elf drew his lumbering companion into yet another horrific parody of rhythm. Over at the refreshment table (such as it was), Patchwerk was slowly spinning on one tiptoe in an oddly graceful pirouette. The reason for this action was decidedly unknown, as was the purpose for the severed ear balanced carefully upon his lumpy nose.

Arthas blinked, his eyes wandering to be enthralled for a moment by the astonishing sight of Anub'arak and Maexxna slithering around the dance floor together, formally embraced, their many legs scrabbling, tracing whorled patterns upon the snow swept floor. The Lich King sighed, pondering the lively hall, its gooey adornments, and its boisterous throng, slightly nauseated by so much good cheer.

Condemned to endure, by his own allowance, Arthas jiggled his stein at the nearest designated server and the young cultist surged with fanatical obedience to his side.

"My beloved high King, how may I serve you..." the youth breathed, his eyes shining with the sort of lustful devotion that almost (but not quite) made Arthas yearn for Tirion Fordring's righteous glower of antipathy.

"That... to me, now..." the Lich King commanded, indicating one of the several barrels of Loch Modan whiskey that Blaumeux had dredged forth from the forgotten dungeon cellars below. "I would disremember this event," Arthas declared. The lad panted, nodding and gazing at Arthas eagerly. "And when you have meted out the liquid lobotomy, run along to the Crimson Hall and see that the Blood-Queen is informed of the festivities."

"My King, your will is my joy to fulfill..." the server squeaked happily.

"Yes, I'm sure," Arthas said, favoring the unsuspecting cultist with an indulgent smile that made the boy's knees quiver. Arthas rather doubted the San'layn would make an appearance, but Lana'thel would appreciate the tender, juicy appeasement he was about to gift her.

Again, Arthas's eyes wandered as he drained his goblet. Far too massive in her dragon form to even enter the hall, Sindragosa had assumed her lovely, cool-blue human shape for the evening; she was at the buffet, idly stroking the huge bicep of a rapturous Razuvious, while daintily gobbling pickled eyeballs from a strange, woven basket of decorative kelp.

And there was Orbaz, trying his damnedest to grope a giggling wisp.

Falric and Marwyn had found themselves a table in the corner and were downing prodigious draughts with twin-like precision. Oblivion was clearly their objective. Arthas nodded, deciding to join them.

The arrival of the whiskey brought a whole new glamour to the celebration for Arthas, as a red haze of 'don't-give-a-fuck' slowly settled to free his mind of all concern.

It was only when Blaumeux jostled him from his stupor that Arthas recalled his surroundings – now with a reeling sense of maudlin wonderment.

"Say something nice..." she instructed in his ear, recovering his tumbled goblet, shoving it into his hand, and then refilling it.

Arthas pondered thoughtfully for a bleary moment, and as he did so an unexpected image of Jaina's sweet face swept through his mind, along with its inevitable, hollow twinge of unsettling pain. Slowly, his fingers found their halting way to the chain around his neck, and frowning, he toyed with it absently, sniffling in his remembered sorrow. It was when one lone, braying sob escaped him that Falric and Marwyn exchanged grim, knowing looks, resuming their drinking with a vengeance.

Arthas stood abruptly, waiting a careful moment for the swaying room to settle, and then lifting his mug to… yes, to his dearest friend, and his lovely lady, the Lich King proclaimed: "Suffer well… hic… for you surely shall!"

This statement was received as one might expect from a roomful of bloodthirsty monsters, heeding the words of their heartless liege. They cheered him with deafening devotion, joining him in a toast to the appreciative pair as he drained what proved to be his final cup of the evening.

It was then that Arthas was seemingly jerked off his feet, as his knees buckled; and the bench he had previously sat upon, just barely caught his butt, before the floor could claim it. The Lich King slumped over his goblet, his fingers still tangled in the now-forgotten chain as his forehead met the tabletop with a thump.

Out on the floor, the two dancers swirled through the snowy dust, ecstatically enamored.

"Oh my dear Lady..." Kel'Thuzad whispered, nuzzling her cowl, "your aura intoxicates me..."

Deathwhisper quivered in his fleshless arms, reaching out her own to draw him closer still. "You have such a beautiful mind," she purred in response.

Delicately lifting her veil, Kel'Thuzad ducked his head, and when she gave demure allowance, they shared a poignant press of essence that was as sweetly intimate and indeed as thrilling as any collision of soft flesh; and the two liches snuggled together, clasped close in their blissful moment.

Vindicated, Blaumeux glanced toward the table where Arthas had ensconced himself, only to be greeted by the ridiculous sight of the Lich King face down in a puddle of whiskey, still gripping his artifact of lost love in one possessive hand.

As devoted in undeath as they had been in life, Falric and Marwyn sprawled in faithful solidarity beside their insensible king, all three revelers oblivious to the fact that the long-sought moment had found its fruition at last.

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The following morning, when Blaumeux appeared at the peak of the Spire, she found her king slumped and snoring on his Frozen Throne. Frostmourne sagged between his knees, suffering an equality of misery for their shared bond. The Helm of Domination lay upended, hurled halfway across the platform's icy floor.

Sensing her presence, the Lich King woke with a start and a snort, opening one eye to peer at her; and seeing where her gaze lay, he said: "Too fucking loud. Why is everybody screaming today?"

"You drank four kegs of Dwarven whiskey last night," Blaumeux offered in droll explanation. "That's why."

"Had I not done so already," Arthas vowed, "I would kill Ner'zhul!" Wincing from the volume of his own resonant voice, the Lich King lowered his aching head into his hands.

"Ner'zhul didn't make you drink yourself stupid," Blaumeux remarked.

"He made me this. If I were still living, I would... well, I'd be dead. And better for it. And watch your tongue with me, you brazen wench, I can just as easily blame you for this debacle - and rightly so - so don't push your luck." Arthas made an effort to sneer at her. "And you think I somehow don't recall my own indiscretion?"

Blaumeux twittered softly. "I'd wager there's quite a bit you don't recall about last night, my Lord." She tilted her head, as if to muse, "Like the dancing…"

"The… the what?"

"You're quite the talented dancer, my King. Very light on your feet."

"No…" Arthas whispered, aghast. With this information, the hammering pain in his head suddenly acquired an entirely new dimension of malicious intent.

"Oh yes. You danced with Deathwhisper… until Koltira cut in and whisked you away. You kept calling him Sylvanas, and playing with his ears; and he especially liked it when you dipped him, told him he smelled nice, and then kissed his cheek."

"I did not…" Arthas gasped in horror.

"Thass was so jealous," she added, grinning wickedly when Arthas groaned and covered his ears. "Falric said you apparently still can't hold your liquor."

Arthas glowered. "Now I know you're lying. Falric would never betray me."

Blaumeux laughed merrily. "Granted. But you did dance with Deathwhisper, and even when totally wasted, you are very light on your feet, Your Majesty."

"You are a menace, Lady Blaumeux."

"As you made me, my King."

Arthas grimaced at her meaningfully. "And you look entirely too happy to suit me, death knight," he additionally informed her.

"I only sought audience," she said, "so as to inform you that your plan was a great success."

Realizing her smile was actually bright enough to be painful to him, Arthas shielded his bloodshot eyes with an unsteady hand. "So Kel got his hug?" he ventured.

"And then some…" was the jubilant reply.

With all the strength of purpose he could summon, Arthas leaned forward with a ferocious frown that made his head thud with dull agony; but as it also made Blaumeux cringe slightly in fear, he deemed it well worth the painful effort.

"Know this," he said fiercely, "and heed me well, death knight. I put my foot down on any further celebrations..."

Blaumeux's sweet, approving smile was rather unexpectedly warming.

"Stop that–" Arthas grumbled; and then he sighed, relenting. "Well, alright... but see to it that I am not invited."

"Well done, my King," she murmured, giving him her most gracious bow. "Well done, indeed."

Blearily did Arthas watch Blaumeux stroll triumphantly away; and when her footstep faded into silence, the Lich King collapsed back on his throne with an exasperated grunt.

"Light..." he hissed softly; and Frostmourne flared in pain, even as Arthas clamped a horrified hand over his mouth for the unspeakable utterance. The aching sword vibrated with internal trauma, and there issued forth from the blade a familiar, ghostly snicker.

Arthas scowled bitterly. "Oh shut up, Uther..." he muttered.

Drooping wearily, the Lich King heaved a defeated sigh. "Now I need a hug," he whispered.

.