Chapter 27
The Mad
X Jihad X
Jayce's body jolted with his return to life. Wide eyes swept the room for a desperate few moments, then settled into a bitter and solemn look more suited to those with resurrection sickness. The heavy gaze fell upon Malthon. Numb lips tried speaking, managing barely, "I saw... Abbendis."
Malthon, the one chiefly responsible for the redemption of Jayce, allowed a fleeting smile. "And?"
"She was... happy," Jayce murmured. His dark eyes closed with weakness. "They were... all of them happy. We won't find such happiness here."
Malthon's heavy gauntlet fell upon the paladin's shoulder, squeezing once. "There is joy in knowing it was only the acid which took you, not their blades. Sometimes that is enough."
Jayce made a deep sound, like a groan. He rumbled, "Couldn't shield. Forbearance was upon my soul. Who was lost?"
"This is not the time for such things. Rest. A priest will be with you shortly to ease your return."
"No," Jayce argued, his eyes snapping open again. "I will spend my time alone. Save the priests for those who need them."
After only a short hesitation, Malthon conceded the point. "As you will, brother."
Jayce nodded his thanks. Before his eyes could close again, he finally noticed Sin. His eyes squinted. "You a demon, boy?"
Sin followed his gaze to his right arm, which had been taken over by the sentience within Shed'lahk. The limb was hulking and monstrous, flesh molded of daemonic fleshstuffs and split with veins as if magma or molten steel. The yellow-red light flashed with each pulse of his burning blood. Shed'lahk itself was dwarfed in the grip of that sinister claw.
"Not yet, friend," Sin answered him, shrugging both shoulders. "The beast I hold captive has merely been given free reign over the arm at present. I just don't have the attention to combat it in full right now. Fear not, though, for its victory is merely... cosmetic."
"Hnn," was the paladin's reply. He let himself be settled back into his cot. "Malthon. King Malthon. When you give the order to move, I will be ready then. Until that time, keep that bloody elf out of my tent. I don't speak her gobbledygook anyhow."
The bark from Malthon could have been a laugh in a better mood. "So she visits you too? I'll keep a lookout for interlopers. Rest well."
The severe, dark-haired man nodded at him and closed his eyes once more. Malthon waved his cohort out of the tent, following them as he did. Outside, the human king turned straight to Sin, whose condition was yet to improve. "I'm going to our scryers to get a feel of the land. In the meanwhile, I need you to tell me everything you know about the Singing Blades, their weapons, and Ghat's hold over the ley lines."
"Of course, my liege," Sin mumbled, making sure to bow his head as he did. He felt consumed by a strange stoicism; he could not voice his thoughts freely.
"Balinda," Malthon continued, "I want your opinion-"
The stocky woman stopped the king short, already shaking her head. "You know better, Malthon. Get your feet on the ground, then I will follow where you lead. I have matters I must see to before then."
Her words managed to pierce Sin's haze. How nice it must be, to be expected of no more than to only take orders. He understood why Balinda Crowngarde would choose that route. Not for the first time, he wondered if it would be for the better if he did the same. Light knew he made mistakes when he was at the helm.
But those weren't the only thoughts to cross his mind then. When Malthon dismissed the dame, Sin cleared his throat and asked, quite politely, "My king, if I may, I too have some matters that require my presence. My warden, she was wounded..." He left it hanging.
Malthon's powerful gaze fell upon Sin, whom bore it patiently. "This is important, Sin. The healers have her now. There is little a warlock can do that the val'kyr of Ymirjar cannot."
The choice was to bite his tongue or to argue. Sin knew which road he'd take. "I will obey if you order me, King Malthon, but on the contrary, there are many things that healers have no hope of fixing. And she is my warden."
The human noble passed a deliberate look at Sin's consumed arm, then back to his eyes. "I will give you one hour then. When I see you next, I expect to see you better composed."
"This is composure, my king," Sin announced, tucking his human left arm against his stomach to bow. He let his gratefulness be known in his face. "And my deepest thanks. In fact, perhaps you will be satisfied if I leave with you my succubus in my stead? She knows all that can be said of the dilemma and the plot to usurp Ghat's hold over the ley lines."
Malthon hummed. It said something that he did not look around him, to the others present, for guidance. King Malthon possessed wisdom and righteousness; his decisions would always be his own. His answer came: "If your time is so precious and her word as good as yours, I will relieve you the day, under the promise that it will be for our better."
"A promise I can make with clearer eyes than ever before," Sin told him, the purple light of summoning already beginning in his hands. I have enough regrets on my shoulders already. His chant and the beckoned Name were done in quiet whisper, concluded shortly in an explosion of runes.
Lynona took no time to appreciate her return to the mortal world. The moment her body was conjured, the succubus dove at Sin with a cry, babbling, "Oh, darkness, Master! You're alright! You are alright!" He caught her lithe body with his good arm, a fact which she quickly noticed. "No, you're not alright! Why does the Beast growl within your mind? Cast back its ugly mark, or Shadow help me, I will- I will-!"
She interrupted herself, covering her lips with his with all the desperate passion of her kind. Sin accepted her gladly, her hot emotions touching him. Genuine fear, panic, worry, and shining love raged in her soul, though he did not feel all of those were warranted for their brief separation after her bodily death. Soon, her wild temper shifted gears, her relief palpable, and the dark, turbulent emotions gave way for gratitude and desire.
"Make it real for me," she begged, husky. "Do me right here, with all of them watching. Let them see my living master and envy the lovemaking of a god."
"By the Light," Sin heard one paladin gasp. Lynona's eyes shined with her toothy grin. Sin was more inclined to agree with the holy man – Lynona's request was genuine.
"None of that now, dear," he chastised lightly. He hoped the paladins wouldn't see his light blush. Utterly embarrassing sometimes. "I have need of you – elsewhere, love!" She pouted when he stopped her hands from pulling on her corset ties.
"Beloved," she whined. But his thoughts were loud and directed at their bond, enough that she listened. Soon, he relayed enough of her task for him, and her mood sobered. "Quid pro quo, Master. I'm getting something later." Idly, he tacked a concluding thought to the list. Lynona's full lips spread in another beautiful smile, and her tongue wet them. "Done."
She added two quick pecks on his lips, then released him. She gave her attention to King Malthon. "If you want to know about the Singing Blades, summon forth that Merridan bloke from the elves. The ley lines, though, are an easy topic. You're aware already of their function?"
"I am, but I would hear it in your words, as grounds to build up from," the man rumbled back. He waved his cohorts forward, towards the command and the scryers, and his heavy blue gaze paused deliberately upon Sin de Rath. A short nod affirmed his dismissal, and then they were departing, present still only in his head over the bond. In his own leave, Sin kept himself ready to consult Lynona where needed over the bond.
The qiraji did not allow Sin to walk alone for long, dropping around him in a sudden escort. Beyond their thundering ring, madness still seized their entire stronghold grounds, throwing out living spaces for hospitals, voices screaming over the identities of the dead and the damned. Even veterans could not ignore the bonds made with their comrades, and this day a terrible loss had been struck among them.
Most haunting were the vrykul songs of mourning being sung above them all. Lamentations of the val'kyr for the lost champions, condemned to never reach the hallowed halls of Valhal. The song was a perpetual reminder of the cost, sending even the boisterous Ymirjar into dark moods.
An unpleasant numbness had taken Sin. He felt separated from the mourning and defeat, his empathy for his fellows absent from his turning thoughts. It was as though he had wrapped his mind in shadows – the old warlock trick – though nothing of the sort was evident within him.
He spoke finally: "Sekara, why didn't Ressact listen?"
There was hesitation from the closest buzz. Her eventual reply was, "Ressact feared for Sin de Rath's life."
Sin exhaled through his nose. There was much hidden behind that one phrase. His former mouthpiece was a white-dressed qiraji, one of seven, which in prior days meant that she was among the highest echelon of Battleguards under C'Thun. Sartura, the chosen guardian Sin had battled in the Temple of Ahn'Qiraj, was an example of what white-dressed Battleguards represented in strength and function. Loyalty and total obedience were also a given.
Shortly into last night's battle, Ressact had disobeyed his explicit command for the qiraji to remain away and dove headfirst against the Singing Blade that personally pursued Sin. In seconds, she had been ripped apart by the nothonium scythe, while the creature's arms she had severed reattached with no effect. A useless death, the exact sort Sin had wished away from his Battleguards.
"And Sekara?" he pressed, still turning the Ressact dilemma over in his mind.
"Sekara trusts Sin de Rath," was the quick reply.
"So Ressact defied the Sister All-Mind?" Silence answered him, which was an answer in itself. He stopped walking and faced the gold-dressed qiraji.
Gold. In the current state of the sisterhood, Sekara had higher authority than even the whites. According to her – and told quite proudly – Sekara had adapted into the position already. Whether she was absorbing the excess darkness of Shed'lahk or mooching strength from the qiraji All-Mind, Sin knew that if Sekara was truly the strongest of the qiraji now, it was not an organic growth.
To Sekara, he accused, "You allowed her to go."
Glittering teal eyes returned his attention with alien emotion. She repeated in her monotonous rasp, "Ressact feared for Sin de Rath's life."
"What does that matter?" he demanded. "If you trusted me, why defy an absolute order?"
The following pause was not hesitation. Sin could see on her face the anxiousness to respond, but it was the Common words she struggled to find. Finally, the same rasp said, "Lynona trusts Sin de Rath absolute, yet she has died many deaths for you, because Lynona feared for Sin de Rath."
She was recounting his memories, transcribed in that not-quite-a-dream. Rather than focus on her words, he found her meaning. "Worry. You worried about me."
"Worry," she repeated. Her face glowed with enlightenment, and a word she had questioned before now had a meaning to her. "Sekara trusted Sin de Rath. I worried for Sin de Rath."
"Light and Shadow," he groaned. "Worry is antithesis of trust, you bug-brained fool. Ressact is dead because you didn't trust me." He turned from her, continuing his way forward. He did not forget the turns of phrase, however. He roughly grasped the concept as "Sekara" being that physical body of the All-Mind while "I" was her individuality, but he growled, "Fascinating as this qiraji development is, the last thing I need is the defect of human emotion in you. Extensions of my will, remember?"
He expected the matter to be settled there, yet Sekara argued to his back, "Sin de Rath's order was to protect the sisters. The sisters are here to protect Sin de Rath. Heterogeneity is unacceptable."
Sin turned, ready for a row, only to be stopped short by a familiar voice, "Specter!"
"We will speak later," he settled in undertone, before facing the reed-thin human whom shouted. Clucking his tongue, he greeted neutrally, "It seems you really can't be killed, Darnin."
"On merit of wits, not immortality," the cloaked man acknowledged. His desert garb showed signs of bulk, as preparation against the harsh cold of the land. "A full score of my men cannot say the same, however. I'd like words with you about that."
"Then words we shall have. Walk with me; there is some time before I reach my destination." Sin gestured him closer and resumed his walk.
Darnin skeptically peered at the ring of qiraji defenders, hesitating enough that Sin told him, "They will leave you be." So the bandit leader walked forward through the line. He even did so without leaving his hands on his two shanks.
Once he was at Sin's side, Darnin said, "We've had this talk too many times before. What differences would have been made had you spoken to my men about this foe?"
It was a practiced skill that allowed Sin's mind to shift gears from Sekara fully to his nag. "This time," Sin admitted evenly, "I will not slate the matter with excuses. There must be changes between us, Darnin. We cannot function as I have led us."
His human companion hummed deeply to himself, a sound that reminded Sin of that wrinkled hag Grandmother Shuzlo. The two husks of flesh looked about the same, anyways. Darnin muttered, "I am more worried than I am relieved, Specter."
"Than a fool are you to bring either emotion into this." The world is driven on worry, innit? "This is analytical. Frankly, it is high time I put to use the weapons in my arsenal. You are a leader, Storm of the South – you along with Handon and Jern. This is about trusting you to lead, not to follow. And that cannot happen under my patronage."
"What are saying?"
"Beginning tomorrow, you will look to the Exilee for guidance and command for the coming war, should you choose to remain in it. The elves can better synergize with your guerrilla-style methods, utilize and educate you as you have wished of me. All this, while a commander shows you the dignity and respect deserving of men, not the detachment of a puppet-master with an excess of strings to tug."
A broody silence followed his words. Sin was glad to hear no immediate complaint over his decision, that Darnin was a man who considered things thoroughly before reacting. He eventually asked, "You think we will fight in this war as soldiers do?"
"No. Never. You have fought and died for a cause before, and you won't allow yourself to do so again. Honestly, that is not your forte. My commission to the Ranger-General will entail primarily an education on command, communication, and discipline. Your weathered mind is cunning enough for its own strategy, to terrorize in ambush and murder. But no longer can it be with me."
They were nearly to Narelle's tent now. Sin slowed their pace as Darnin asked neutrally, "Why is that, Specter? We are desert bred."
Monster fingers curled over Shed'lahk, waffling smoke and sparky soot. Sin looked to the limb, then to Darnin. "Human error has obstructed me. I must shed that weakness and cast myself wholly to the qiraji, on a path only for the damned and mad. It is the way of a warlock, to make an exchange for power."
The desert bandit stopped following as Sin approached the tent entrance, but he murmured to Sin's back, "Then it has been a pleasure to watch the ascension of a new god, Specter. I will discuss this with the others. Farewell."
A short, nasal exhale was Sin's only sign of bitter amusement. I'm sure it stirs your cultist heart so, he drawled internally. In truth, the Twilight's Hammer had been built around such beings, hadn't it? Tangible, living gods, rather than sky-beings that hadn't shown a hair in millennia. Built around ignorance, that was.
He stopped right at the threshold, remembering all at once his reasons for being here. Once more his mind needed to change gears, yet the change did not come easily. Of all his concerns, this one was perhaps the closest to his heart.
Sin de Rath entered the hospital tent with dragging feet. Its only inhabitant looked up with wide silver eyes. Narelle Blackmoon, beaten but not totally broken. Worry was in her voice as she cried softly, "Sin, your arm."
Her concern was justified, the lost arm a testimate of his mind's current state, yet he only gestured back at Narelle with his staff and said, "I fear more for your own."
Narelle was without her cloak presently, which made obvious the way a pale, white-tinted left hand contrasted her dark purple skin. Sutures lined the division, making clear that the limb had been severed completely. The night elf couldn't muster even an irritated look for the hand, though it remained stiff and unmoving.
Instead, her expression fell. "The blade took more than flesh with that cut. They have said it cannot be recovered."
Sin threw the bundle of his robes on the tent floor beside her cot, then collapsed at her right, so that she wouldn't be rubbing against his corrupted shoulder. Shed'lahk was laid flat beside him, still buried in his grip. The elf did not shy from the companionable proximity.
"Where is Lynona?" she asked.
"Only you right now," he admitted.
Sin felt she understood his meaning, for she didn't pursue the point. After a time in silence together, her right hand made a fist, and she murmured, "I am useless, Sin. My bolts, my toxins, my skills – they did nothing but cost me my hand." The dead limb was draped across her thighs, forever motionless.
And that was why he was here. Sin didn't know if he could comfort the warden-dressed Sentinel; he didn't know if he could help her at all. However, he knew he needed to be here, with her, at this point in time. Love him or hate him, he had an influence over the woman, and she trusted his confidence. Could he muster that bravado now?
He heard a click, saw her holding between clawed fingertips the runed disk he had made for her only a short while ago. "There is no armor against this foe. One of me or a thousand, we'd all have perished to the last against it. Had it been my sisters and I on the hunt..."
With his good hand, Sin seized the disk from her. He turned it over his knuckles, studying the carefully and deliberately etched runes, knowing the intent behind each and remembering his thoughts behind its crafting. "I was wrong," he admitted softly. "More than usual, this time."
Narelle shook her head. "I don't want to hear you take blame for this. I was with you every step, and its revelation only proved how right you were."
Sin grunted and snapped the disk before her eyes. "No. You were deluded by my words and pretty toys. Don't begrudge that fact, for I was too – a fool who believed his own wagging tongue. I said we prepared for this confrontation, and we only prepared to watch it happen. Foresight with nothing gained."
"And hindsight will only devour your spirit with regret," she chided, as if it were he who needed a steady voice.
"I will not shy from my mistakes, Narelle, only learn from them. My sin was in my time spent, lost entirely in studying the future and none in managing the present. All that effort spent looking for ways to best this foe in single combat, when all I needed to do was wipe clean Ghat's magic. It is high time that I stopped looking at myself as our sole salvation. My King Malthon taught me that when he ordered me back. It is time I lean against your steady shoulders as well, you whom has spent centuries exterminating demons stronger than yourself."
Narelle's eyes were narrowed upon him, clearly unmoved. She said, "Then you are in luck, for you have learned from another mistake before it could even happen!" Her deadened hand was shown before him. "To lean upon me is to watch me crumple like paper wa'shun walls before a tempest. My years were as a fox hunting frogs in a stream, without realizing the grishnu'do wasting the land beyond the glade."
"But you were a fox who hunted, which is more than could be said of me, Watcher Blackmoon. When I made that descent to combat C'Thun, I had no teeth and no claws, and I had my throat ripped out by some run-of-the-mill silithid that got the jump on me. I may not remember you, but you were there too, with me. I saw it in your files during our escape with the qiraji. So fox you may be, but you killed your first "grishnu'do" before I ever did."
He expected, even hoped, for some temper from her. But defeat still lined her face as she argued, "Whatever experience you think I have doesn't matter any longer. I can learn to fight with one hand, in time, but until then, I can't load my bow or utilized half of my weapons. I barely trust my moon crescent right now."
Sin made a frustrated sound. Despite all his mental warnings, he began to gather his magic. The Shed'lahk consumed arm began to smoke, but his fury triumphed over its, forcing the blight to retreat off his skin, back into the staff. "Rise up, Daughter of Elune," he commanded. "The time for hopelessness has passed. It is my understanding that you are too damn old for this shit, and I need you now back beside me. More than ever, I need you. We two are going to leave this damned tent, and we are going to the forge to find you real armor."
Her silver eyes sparked with her old defiance. "Sin, my hand-"
"Your hand is fine!" he countered. Instinct magic was like holding a torch by the burning end, like learning to swim a thousand leagues beneath the crushing waves. It was a finely written letter making a formal request to fuck up. Sin knew better than to ever trust it, but the moment had taken him along with his frustrations, and instinct magic had the potential to do wondrous things without due process and incantation.
So as he said those words, he snatched her left hand at the suture-lined wrist, and the magic worked without his control in a swirl of soul-teal and natural greens. When it was finished, however, Narelle turned shocked eyes unto a healthy purple hand, and there was a twitch of motion along her fingers.
"Sin, how...?" The question hung.
A gift not without its cost. Sin exhaled slowly, understanding immediately exactly what the magic had done. But this wasn't about him; it was about her, about getting Narelle back to her iron-eating self because he felt some guilt over dragging the elf through the mud and trenches around the world and watching her crack at the pressure. Because she was his, and he was a master whom looked after his own.
"Soul magic is within the realm of a warlock," he told her. The words tasted funny in his mouth. "Those blades eat souls, and it can be said that intangible spark is why the medic couldn't give your hand life once more. I siphoned a bit from the rest of you, just a smidgen, to replace what was lost. That means you will be weak for awhile as you recover that siphoned bit – not a physical weakness, keep in mind."
He coughed and hid it behind clearing his throat. Narelle's exotic silver eyes remained wide and amazed as she tested her hand with clumsy clenches. She hadn't caught his lie. "Now," he told her, "'Soul' is often thought to be composed of your experiences. So in the interest of recovery, let's go make some. To the forge."
When Narelle's attention returned to him, it was with the eyes of a child, like she was beholden to her hero. Then both hands made fists, even her left – colored with life but held to only by a thick suture line – and with a resolute nod, Narelle Blackmoon found her feet once more.
XxX
On this day of defeat and victory, something grand was happening. This was perhaps the standard for when Sin de Rath chose to act, but at the present even his egotistical mind was beyond the scene he had created.
The forges spat back against the black sky this day, burning furiously in the wake of the battle. Armor and weapons were lost, acid blood damaged others, so the smithies were left working overtime to keep them in fighting shape. Ymirjar and blood elves, masters of the craft, proved their merits against blades of legend and armor pulled from fantasy, protecting the integrity of enchantments and runes alike.
Sin's arrival shook an already volatile cauldron. By his authority and the presence of the val'kyr Hilda beside him, a blood elf was made to work with a Ymirjar, for only one knew the ways of elven steel yet the other knew an art more ancient and far more bloody. Whether amused by the request or made amiable by Hilda, the Ymirjar agreed to the partnership and demanded a challenge worthy of his name.
Sin obliged. A time was spent studying Narelle – thick vrykul fingers measuring her dimensions, how her elf flesh compressed along the muscles or softer regions, the exact maximum her body could contort in motion; the arcane tensility of her body, the height of her spirit in passion tested by strange val'kyr magicks; and from Sin, the endurance of her soul under fel and shadow. The ceiling of the forge was painted with a vertical plane of vrykul runes, recording each detail for their reference.
Mithril was chosen at her request: supernaturally light, yet unyielding and innately resistant to magic. Traditional elven steel. Sin treated it with potent fel and Void energies, denaturing the arcane properties until he deemed it ready. The blacksmiths began, using Ymirjar design shaped by sin'dorei hands. Intermittently, the metal would be removed, kept glowing hot by magic while Hilda began to weave in vrykul enchantments.
"What do you want it to do?" she would ask, and Sin would show her a small region of free space and tell her what he wanted written there. "The metal will break," she would say, and Sin demanded she not stop.
The spectacle of their work wasn't solely in the partnership between those particular four. It wasn't in Sin himself, stripped even of his linen shirt as he labored against the heat and dirtied from coal and sweat. It wasn't even in the armor being forged, glowing fey colors each time it was taken from the flames, with shining white runes glowing across its face and back.
Around their forge was a rising tide of qiraji Battleguards, circling the workspace at increasingly frantic speeds. The dark light of Shed'lahk danced between the flashes of forge and magic, sending black shadows outward where there was light enough to say otherwise. The black smoke above them was no longer black, tinging green and sometimes purple, until the region was like a scene out of Scholomance. And still they labored on.
Five soul shards were used in the process. Sin allowed no argument from Narelle as he crushed each one and sent its energies into the armor. For each piece, once the shape was found, the Scourge runeforge was used more often than the traditional smithy, until finally titanium loops and mail were used to assemble the entire suit.
Narelle Blackmoon was dressed in her armor even as they fixed the links, her eyes seemingly detached from emotion yet her face vibrate with wonder. Hardly was the last armament bound when Sin cursed and ranted, demanding the mismatched smiths undo the fixtures and reset them in new ways. Narelle's silver eyes reflected the flashes of unnatural colors as bindings were reworked by three sets of hands, dressed and undressed until Sin roared his satisfaction for all to hear.
The end marked a triumph. While the armored kal'dorei tested her new uniform, the smiths appraised the final result with their eyes. The sin'dorei murmured his distaste with Sin de Rath's decision over the bindings, criticizing added risks and an aesthetic that hurt his very soul. In contrast, the proud Ymirjar had compliments for such changes, recognizing the purpose and use.
Such matters, however, were only the finest details among a grand work, and all were satisfied – even quiet Hilda, whom retreated when Sin acknowledged her work was through. Narelle moved through weapon forms, the solid plates gliding silently over each other without resistance. Her steps were light, unhindered, and she finished by running her new gauntlet over the marvelous etchings of the pale metal. Its final color was as a pearl, dusky white but iridescent with greens and purple in the shining light.
The heavy warden cloak fit nicely to the familiarly wide shoulders. Narelle's eyes were still upon her dress when the air around them began to shimmer and quake, an instant before a roiling wave of green and orange magic thrust into her torso. The elf stumbled backwards, eyes wide and surprised, while Sin casually lifted away Shed'lahk and faced the smiths.
"And thus even potent chaos magicks can sink no teeth on this armor. Be proud, for there is no other blacksmith on this planet that can boast of such a masterpiece." Sin's last word was still in the air when a rounding clang strickened their ears, and Narelle stumbled forward now, caught by the Ymirjar's strong arms, while Hilda remained kneeling with a spear in the snow and her white wings spread wide.
The wings folded back as strong arms ripped the weapon from the ice. Blindfolded eyes turned up to them with a proud smile just beneath. "My finest blow, enhanced with magic, and not a scratch to be found."
"By Elune, at least give me warning!" Narelle complained in a tight voice. The Ymirjar set her back on her feet, his own smile broad.
"Such an armor needs a name," he announced, "for its forging will be found in ours sagas, with the deeds of she who wears it. I will let another take that honor, for I alone am not responsible for it."
The shirtless Sin de Rath finally faltered, the wooziness after his spell not leaving him. Lynona began to wonder in his mind, sounding worried, but he tiredly deflected her concerns. Leaning hard on his staff, he finally addressed Narelle with a dirty hand on her shoulder plate. "Your armor, Lady Blackmoon," he said. "Your shield against this foe and all others. Even me. So take heart and stand proud, for the day is soon that I must rely on this very shoulder to keep me upright."
"Sin," Narelle breathed, her fae eyes almost sparkling. Her teeth showed in her sudden laughter, and she said, "You are a magnificent bastard, you know that?"
"I try," he chuckled softly. The weariness was heavy in his bones now. "I will leave the small details for you. Take the day for yourself, Narelle. And master smiths, again you have my deepest gratitude for your work today. Even you, Lady Hilda; I will not forget your help in this. Now farewell. Other matters press upon me."
Excited though she was, Narelle noticed his weakness. Concern showed as she asked, "Will you be alright alone?"
"I must be," he answered simply. Her metal-encased hands touched his, her thanks on her face, and then Sin was shuffling out from the forge, into the cyclone of qiraji. They descended upon him swiftly, forming a thick buffer between him and the many onlookers. He needed rest, but it was not yet time for that either.
Sekara's talons touched the snow beside him as Sin walked. Argument aside, Sin was glad for her, and he let the qiraji woman be his support as the Battleguards led him away.
XxX
"The elves, hmm?" Jern muttered, standing with Darnin at the edge of their portion of camp. Not far from them was the Exilee Ranger-General and all his pomp, huddled and somber with whatever elf dealings they concerned themselves with. "It makes sense. I hate it, but it does make sense."
"It should make sense," Darnin murmured back. "However, I am not alone in realizing there is something wrong with these elves, am I? There is something in their faces, in their shadows, that bodes ill for everyone. I began to wonder if they even notice it themselves. The Specter has been too busy to, I've realized."
"He still doesn't know that woman came to us," Jern realized. "Darkness, that was Twilight's Hammer recruitment, obvious as it comes. It was like she was reading straight out of our enlistment books."
"I'm still of half a mind that the Specter sent her himself. To test us, to tempt us. There is a craftiness to him that suggests the possibility."
Jern huffed, inclined to agree but also doubting. "I don't know if it's because I'm getting old, but I don't like a bit of it. Not the tricks, not the bitch, not the Specter, and not an inch of this elder god business. I'd sooner take a step into hell with the Specter than take one step towards safety now. Everything feels clearer his way."
"He spins a nice web," Darnin agreed. "Nothing like dying with a smile on your face, eh? Fah."
Jern hummed again, turning his attention back to their soon-to-be comrades. "I wonder who died. The body is nowhere near the rampage of those Singing Blades."
"One of those Grey Blades," Darnin answered, also watching. "Name was Jon'ah. You can see it on their faces: he was assassinated by someone in their camp. I'm thinking it was her. That's our way, is it not?"
A sigh was his reply. Jern settled, "And we're to be bonded to that. Well fuck me, I'll outright say it: I'm glad your stuck in it with me. I expect to see a lot blood spilled as they try to infiltrate us, and there's none so perfectly ruthless as you and yours. We'll make a new legend of the Specter of the Sands." His eyes slide over to Darnin. "That is... if someone isn't swayed by eager voices."
Darnin didn't even meet the look. "You think so little of me?"
"I don't know what to think, Storm. I think you go where the wind takes you sometimes. I can also see you thanking the Specter in one breath, then ripping out his throat in the next, bitter that he has "tossed us aside." You are a wild card now. You have no loyalty, no clear goal. I think highly of you, as one who so blatantly outfoxed me those years ago, but I do not trust you."
"That worry will keep you alive one day, Wind of the North," was Darnin's only response on the matter. They continued watching the Exilee procession. It was a time before Darnin said, "We've been noticed."
"Well, it was never a secret," Jern dismissed. He too saw the elf peering back with heavy eyes. Intense eyes. Such a look was telling, reminding Jern of a time not soon lost. "It's the snoop, the one pestering over desert survival."
"Yes. His name is Jerath. With Reuben's death, I'm sure his hounding will become especially desperate."
Reuben. Jern still found it hard to believe that stubborn bastard of a dwarf had actually been killed this morning. That fellow had a talent like Jern had never encountered before, whether in the game of arms or in watching what couldn't be seen. Apparently, Reuben had gone for the Singing Blade in the scuffle and was sliced up like fresh boar. Perhaps the dwarf hadn't died easy, but what difference did it make? Dead was dead.
Jern stroked his rough beard with a hand, considering their future, his place in it. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was on the right side of history this time, or if yet again he fought for the losing half. That elf bitch that tempted them back to cold, old god clutches returned to mind. It would be there in Darnin's too, lurking omnipresently, always an option to be taken at his whim's choosing.
A damned bunch of shifty bastards, the whole lot of them. That went for the elves too.
XxX
By nightfall, the siege of Ghat'Nothos had returned in full fury. The Skinless mantid were a significant presence among them, splitting from the hordes to swoop over their defenses and into their stronghold. At least, so it would be, had they not stationed hundreds of mages and similar rabble along the walls to obliterate the attempt. Val'kyr and the scant few loosed qiraji, those not with Sin, cleaned up whatever fiend escaped the arcane meat grinder.
For Narelle, the siege had provided the perfect opportunity to test her new armor – the name of which she knew in her heart, but one touch more was needed to complete it. The harness to which all her blades were clipped fit over the armor easily, needing only minor adjustment along the straps, and then she was in the thick of the fight once more.
Despite the handicap of her wounded left hand, Narelle's efforts were still frustrated by the enemy's inability to touch her. She wanted to taste a real attack against her armor, to feel Sin's labors actively protect her from what before would have been a evisceration or laceration, yet, as before, Narelle remained a step ahead of her foes, swift and untouchable.
However, the frustration of her efforts was not a frustration in her heart. Narelle had felt near laughing deep in the pocket of her foes, surrounded on all sides while she spun out a fan of knives. To claim she had the freedom of her usual attire would be a lie, but her movements were slick, unobstructed, and the weight had a comfort to it that was not at all burdensome, like a back against hers in a pitch.
Narelle finally entered her shared tent feeling satisfied. Despite the standing darkness, she found the living space empty. Just as well, it gave her time to begin the laborious process of removing a full suit of armor and perhaps even wash herself of combat with a cold, soaked rag.
In the center of the tent, her hand touched the etched metal fondly. Narelle had finally achieved her wish at behest of a cultist, who had attempted to stricken her with some shadowy spell. Like Sin's before, it parted harmlessly over her pearly plate, leaving her free to Blink and cut out his throat. This was armor, true armor.
After her cloak and harness were off, Narelle paused to appreciate the slenderness of herself in the metal shell. It reminded her of ancient Sentinel days, before her experiences with the Shadow Wardens. Shaking her head of the faint memories, she began to unlatch and unbuckle the plates.
In a scant thirty seconds, Narelle stood bare but for her small clothes, looking at the full suit of her armor laid upon her bed. That time frame did not fit her memories. She sat beside the assemblage, picked up the gauntlet and fit it back over her hand. It fit snugly without chaffing, letting her fingers bend and curl easily. With her left hand, she touched the clips Sin had insisted upon at the end, remembering the ease in which these yielded their bondmates at the right pressure.
She snapped the bracer back to it, then yanked, as if an enemy trying to expose her. The attachment was strong. She pinched the clip and turned, and they separated soundlessly. Truly, what mind did that warlock possess? To have such attention down to even the convenience of equipping and unequipping... She laughed beneath her breath, her amazement continued.
Leaving the suit, Narelle filled a pot with clean water and dropped a cloth in it. She wrung it out, then brought the cold rag to her forehead, wiping away the day's sweat. Another reminder: Sin had insisted they recreate her old hawk helmet exactly, rather than try for a new mold like they had for her shoulders. Her appreciation for that was only in hindsight; an unfamiliar helmet was as bothersome as new boots. Though still unpainted and plain (as plain as that shimmering, pearled white can be), the only unfamiliar thing about that helmet upon her head was the smell – crisp and sharp, like iron shavings, rather than, well... she preferred not to think of the smell of that two-hundred year old hawk-shaped bucket.
Narelle washed out her face, cleaned her long ears. She was just replacing a fresh top after finishing her torso when she heard the tent flap move. For a second, excitement began to blossom, but she heard the click of a cloven foot and it waned to a more mundane emotion. "Lynona," she greeted without looking.
"There you are," the succubus addressed. It sounded stressed and angry, which turned Narelle's head her way. "What in the name of Darkness did my master do today?"
Narelle's first response was to say 'Something fantastic,' but Lynona's expression was worrisome. The frustration said that she couldn't reach Sin de Rath, which meant he was still deep in the clutches of the qiraji. What they were doing there, Narelle was anxious to find out, and Lynona's response boded nothing good.
Narelle dropped the rag back in the pot. "What's wrong?"
"What's wrong? What's wrong?" Lynona ranted, beginning to pace through the tent. "A chunk of my Master's soul is missing, for starters! Darkness and Shadows, I thought one of those Singing Blades had got him, and he just pushed me out of his head, saying "Worry not, I'm fine." I swear if that qiraji whore has hurt him again...!" Her mimicry of Sin was low and boorish, sounding nothing like him but was comical nevertheless.
The implications, however, were not. "His soul?" Narelle repeated, confused. "But he used my soul to... That is, he said that he- and I..." Truthfully, Narelle hadn't felt weakened at all by her hand's restoration. Not physically, not mentally, and her soul felt as bright with Elune's light as every other day.
"He said?" Lynona pressed, eyes gleaming brightly in the dark tent.
Narelle clenched her left fist, beginning to realize the extent of Sin's work. Horror began to creep from her stomach to her throat. If Sin felt he had to lie about it, just how awful was the cost of his gift? "My hand was lost to a Singing Blade, sucked even of its soul. Sin came to me and fixed it. He said he siphoned a portion of soul from the rest of me to replace what was lost. I... by the Goddess, I had believed him, but-"
"He might as well have said he used your magic for it too, you dolt!" Lynona cried out. "The cost is always paid by the caster. His magic, his blood, his soul. It takes linking rituals to do anything else! Damn it, damn it. I can feel it in my head, my Master is so weary, so hurt, so worn down. He needs to rest and I can't even get near! If this keeps up, he'll fall comatose, whether he wants to or not."
I should have realized, Narelle thought, cursing herself. By Elune's name, Sin had paid that price for her sake, then he threw himself into the forging of that beautiful armor for her. How could she miss this? She had thought him exhausted because it was insurmountable work, but to think that was piled atop of missing a piece- no, a chunk of his soul? He had been dead on his feet at the forging's finish, only for the qiraji to take him for their purposes at his weakest.
Lynona's horned head whipped towards the entrance. "He's left them," she announced. "Darkness, finally!" Her cloven feet began to take her back to her master, back to Sin. Narelle was right behind, jumping to her feet to follow the succubus out. They had just left the tent when Lynona realized her presence and snapped, "Get dressed first! Even I'm not that brazen."
Narelle halted, realizing she still wore no more than her small clothes. Lynona continued running, leaving her behind. After a moment's hesitation longer, Narelle ignored the indecency and sprinted after her, slipping into the shadows natural to her race to distort her view.
By the time Narelle caught up, Lynona had already found Sin and dove against him. The great warlock looked like loose bones in the girl's arms, wavering and somehow small, like his robes were all there was to him. Retreating into the deeper shadows of a nearby tent, Narelle watched and waited as Lynona berated her master for his foolishness, using all the words Narelle might have said herself and more.
He endured it with a strained smile, seeming amused by the worrying succubus, and the arm flaps of his robes pat her back in a gesture of comfort. When Lynona's assault finally abated, his eyes turned up straight to Narelle, unhindered by her shadowmelding. As he did, Narelle abruptly realized just how cold it was out in the snow like this. Perhaps running out so bare hadn't been the best idea.
"Well, so long as you are both here," Sin said to them, "I can tell you together that I'll be away tonight, so you don't need to wait up for me."
"Like hell you'll be," Lynona cried out. "You need sleep, Master. You need rest. Fight us at your own peril; you're too weak to stop the both of us from wresting you back in our tent."
His laugh wasn't the same rich chuckle Narelle was used to, but it was genuine. "I will rest soon enough, beloved." His eyes dragged back to Narelle. "Miss Blackmoon, was the armor not to your satisfaction?"
"She's satisfied enough to run at you in her knickers for a real thank you," Lynona growled. "So let's head back and we'll make a night of it."
Sin looked back at her, then kissed her lips, too briefly for the succubus to respond. "I'm sleeping with the qiraji tonight," he admitted.
Lynona's head tilted, still wrapped up in him. "Like... all of them? Master, I know what I said earlier, but isn't that a little... excessive?" Narelle's brows rose, unsure of she was reading into it right.
Laughing again, Sin only said, "I wish I could be so lucky... No, this is not a night of pleasantries, certainly not between myself and them. Our exchange will be far more terrible, far more necessary."
Hands tugging at his robes, Lynona shook her head hard enough for her hair to fly. "Not tonight. Not like this. I worry for you with your soul so weakened. I don't trust those harpies with that which is most precious; once before, they have trampled and tarnished it. They cannot understand, Master. So whatever you think you must do, let it be tomorrow."
In the dark and cold, Narelle watched with a warden's eye. A decision was going to need to be made here.
"I dare not take that chance," he refused gently. "This must be tonight, before my forces fracture."
"Let them fracture, Master. Let them burn. They do not matter. Only you matter, so tonight you will come with me, and tomorrow you will finish whatever it is you have begun. I won't allow anything else."
"Sekara fights me," Sin admitted in the same soft tones. "She is arguing and struggling against my wishes. Beloved, I am afraid of what might become if I let this matter rest. And right now, when my human soul is at its weakest, this is when the qiraji taint over my mind is at its strongest. Like this I must face down the All-Mind."
"Or fall prey to!" Lynona cried. "You are a human playing a creature's game, Master. You are learning Otherspeak. This is not right; I cannot permit this – I cannot allow this to happen right before me. Not again."
"It's a risk I must take. This is the path I chose when I followed my mother's footsteps. It was no different when I first decided to contract you to my service."
Finally, Narelle entered the conversation: "I hear the fears of both of you, and I have decided to align myself with Lynona, Sin. Tonight you will rest properly, in your tent with us. You will recover, and in the morning, you will finally fulfill your promise to me of showing me inside your mind. Only then, when you are wholesome and strong, will you face the qiraji with all your human wit and settle this dispute as we know you will.
"If this course is not to your liking," Narelle continued, changing tone from resolute to floaty, "then you should not have given me the authority that you have. It may be a sign that you have compromised too much of yourself for your advantages, warlock." She stepped from the shadows towards the duo, heedless of attention or cold.
"Miss Blackmoon," Sin sighed out. He drew breath, filling his outline in the robes with what strength he could, but Narelle would have none of it. With balled fists at her sides, she said, "Fight us at your own peril, Sin de Rath. You are weak."
"I am worn, but I am far from weak, Narelle," Sin refuted softly. He lifted and thumped Shed'lahk against the snowy ground in reminder. No dark tremor touched her core, however. That was indication enough. Sin's eyes switched between them two, and he sighed once more, shoulders sagging with defeat. "Light, I am only human. That's what you want to hear, isn't it? I can be more though, and I need to be... But tonight, I will concede to you both. One last time, I'll step down."
Lynona's smile was so radiant as to be enviable. She slid and turned in a sensuous motion, ending with Sin's arm trapped against her chest and her glued at his side, already tugging him towards their tent. The succubus turned her head towards Narelle. "Will you join us, Narelle? This normally isn't my thing, but tonight..."
It surprised Narelle to find herself actually consider the question. She knew what Lynona was suggesting, what would proceed actual sleeping for them, but the thought lingered long enough for her to blush. Not even in her youth would she have...! But this wasn't her youth, nor was she the same Sentinel once assigned Watch upon Sin de Rath the Mad.
Her head shook slightly. "No. That isn't my place."
The saucy grin of the succubus only worsened it. "But you want to, don't you?"
Rather than respond impulsively, Narelle paused a second, then answered, "Nobody wants to be alone at night, Lynona. Not even me. Now more than ever, as the moon sets for our world, nobody wants to be alone." Her hands rubbed along the goosebumps over her arms. "Take your time and enjoy your respite. I will be along later."
"Narelle," Lynona said, sounding sympathetic. She looked up to Sin, who also watched Narelle with considerate eyes. The succubus seemed to find something in her look, turning back suddenly to say, "What if I asked you to come?"
Narelle smiled softly. That was quite a concession from the jealous succubus. "My answer would remain. It isn't my place."
Lynona sighed. "Then you are a stronger woman than I." She looked back up to Sin, mischievous, and rubbed his chest. "Because I want him all over me tonight, and to be over him, and all sorts of other things too. I need the feel of it, the heat of it. Otherwise, this cold is just unbearable." Sin pulled her from his side to his front, and he kissed her ready lips in response. After, Lynona turned back around, wrapping Sin's arms over her so that they could both look her way, and concluded, "I know you're a kaldorei and all, but don't endure the night too long, alright? You have a place in that tent too."
"I will keep your words in mind," she settled, giving them a parting wave. Before the duo could shuffle away though, Sin released Lynona enough to lift his robes over his head, left standing in his undershirt and pants, and he offered the robes and warden cloak to her.
Narelle accepted the thick article readily, throwing it over herself and then the cloak. She had a little smile for the dress-like clothes on herself, and while admiring it and its warmth, she asked finally, "How do you say The Moon's Grace in Demonic?"
"Unbelkhat ax Mel'Parn," Sin answered at the same time as Lynona, who said, "Mel'Parnax Rekkishaten."
The two looked at each other, until Lynona shrugged her shoulders. "Well, rekkish literally means "weak gift." That's just our nature showing though, as it translates to grace or kindness in your tongue. You "give a weak gift" to family, friends, loyal servants. Unbelkhat is a forgiven sin. Unbel, "claimed sin" or "answered crime," and khat, a negative. The un-khat sandwich adds like an absolution, letting go, released, forgiven, stuff like that."
"A forgive sin," Narelle repeated, testing it. She nodded. "Yes, I rather like it. It seems a mouthful, but Mel... prex Unbelkhrat ("Mel'Parnax Unbelkhat," they supplied) Mel'Parnax Unbelkhat, that will be the name of my armor. Only that tongue fits its nature, no matter my choice in name."
"I feel a jibe is being made towards me," Sin commented idly.
Lynona patted his bare arm. "She means the best. Now, Master Bel, since you are still unBel to me, let's get out of this cold and xaxadare mikhal x ent ri Paratir."
"Only you," Sin drawled, shaking his head. He let himself be pulled along though. "And I don't believe that is a real word."
"It will be when we're through," Lynona promised in husky whisper.
Another sigh marked Sin's answer. Still, he turned to give one final look to the shrouded Narelle. Seeing the searching element to it, she nodded once to let him know not to worry.
Then Narelle was alone in the cold night. The parting stirred memories of days long past, of young elf couples in love – herself in love – and she wallowed in reminiscence. The time was soon when such memories would be burned out of her and every surviving kaldorei. Once Elune fell, all light, not just memories, would be lost within them.
Eventually, Narelle gathered herself in the present again, registering the many sounds of their wounded encampment. Sin's robes were collected around her, warm with his warmth and rich the scent of him and the earlier forge, and she began to patrol outward. She didn't want to be near when they began. Not just as privacy for their sake, but also her own. With her current thoughts, her current impressions throughout the day, she was afraid of what response she might have at hearing Sin and Lynona coupling.
It had been an exciting day, from the early hours to the present. She could use some dull and drab to distract herself with.
XxX
Mellow, brown eyes met those of collected, polished silver. A heartbeat, steady and strong, measured time for them. Thump. Thump. Thump. The drumming sound defined their breathing – two beats in, two beats out – and set the standard for her own heartbeat. They knelt across from each other, on soft cushions from the desert, in the well-crafted tent of Sin de Rath.
In silence and a heartbeat, they held their stare unchanging. Long minutes passed until there was a clear unison between them, matching breath and pulse. When the moment came, Sin nodded slowly. "Good." He did not break their rhythm. His audible heartbeat was steady. "You are sure you're ready for this?"
Narelle Blackmoon, her palms covering her knees like his, returned a similar nod. He could see it in those wide silver eyes, knew the answer without asking. Unshakable determination, resolve, commitment to her cause. His lips made a faint smile. She wasn't ready.
"Then welcome in." As the words left his lips, the magic he had slowly mustered sprang forth violently, a psychic assault that clawed around her mind like a bear trap. The elf had some sort of defense there, surely built through her years of various enemies, but Sin yanked the whole shell inwards, towards his open mind, and he plunged both of them inside him. There was a twitch of defiance, as her psyche insisted on its independence, but their matching pattern tricked her mind enough to wash away her resistance.
Blackness enveloped them as the physical world was lost. Sin opened his mind's eye, finding himself returned to the spiritual and mental world he had taken Lynona to, not so long ago. He was not alone; with intangible arms, he cradled a slender elf with purple skin. Her eyes squeezed shut, Narelle appeared especially vulnerable and so very small to him.
Within himself, Sin could not perceive his appearance, not as he saw her or as she would see him. But those psychic claws still held the warden with gentle pressure, carefully, like a man with a stranger's baby. It gave him presence while Narelle struggled with this unfamiliar world. She had yet to open her eyes. It gave Sin time to study the image of her soul.
Like Lynona before her, Narelle Blackmoon was naked. He did not avert his gaze from it. What Narelle was seeing of him now was far more intimate, far more penetrating than what he could see in her image. As a warrior of her race, Narelle was not skinny. Willowy and tall, but her frame had a solid lining to demonstrate her fitness. Compared to his voluptuous succubus, Narelle's athletic breasts and cut waist were a far cry from womanly.
Yet she was. From the two bumps on her chest to the closely trimmed silver mound, to the matured face and short shoulders. Even just her lips and neck and the length of her legs. All of her, undeniably a woman. Under the steel and cloak and personality, it was something Sin found easy to forget.
"I can feel your eyes on me," she whispered. "Sin, I can feel..." Her voice hitched.
Everything, he supplied, his own thoughts shaking the reality they existed in. All that I am. All that I was. This is Sin de Rath, son of Margaret de Rath and Feanix de Rath. Let there be no secret and no mistake in what you witness.
Sin rotated his perspective of her, sliding around to study her back. Though the image was a pale revelation, it betrayed things. Lynona's had a collar, a symbol represented down to her very soul. Narelle... had a scar. Only one, which opposed what he knew of her outside this foreign world. And in this image, the scar was bigger, darker, oozing fiery red lines of what could blood or tears of molten metal.
His study of Narelle stopped there, on that misshapen and ugly wound that assailed her otherwise flawless back like a parasite. Now that was interesting.
"There are so many sensations," she passed on. "Your memories start to smother me-! ...and then just stop. You've barely lived a fraction of my life, yet so much has been done. And your power, it wells and wells, yet it fights itself, like a firestorm and hurricane. And still it is in the back of your attention, hardly a concern like a burden carried so long you've forgotten it..."
Sin waited patiently. His non-existent spine crawled as clumsy fingers threaded through his memories, at the voyeur that studied his life through his eyes, his mind, his body. Standing passively by proved far more challenging than when he had opened himself to Lynona. This was not a gesture of love. This was the fulfillment of a contract.
Narelle cast her first shadowbolt, shaking and retching but successfully throwing back the corruptive touch. Narelle joined the Bruisers as a contracted peacekeeper. Narelle found her father's killers and sent them to hell in whip of hellfire and chaos. Narelle found the Void. Narelle discovered her own mortality in a hail of fire and arrows, succumbing to its volley. Narelle watched herself die again in Ahn'Qiraj. Narelle met Sekara for the first time – and lost her mind to that mischievous creature. Narelle was raped by Lynona. Narelle met Narelle Blackmoon.
It continued. The things Sin had kept secret from her, Narelle now lived through him. Entering his mother's soulstone, visiting the Gardens, meeting Freya and Har'koa. She lost control of Shed'lahk and Named the Beast, felt herself raise a facade of strength to comfort the distraught warden in the aftermath. The return of his succubus, fought for in this very realm. Narelle made love to Lae'Parnona in a frightful but passionate contract. Her mind spun theory with the portal masters, completed only by her death at Alissa's hands.
Even yesterday: Narelle battled the Singing Blade with magicks old as the night elf race, and those darker still. Obligations spurred her to the wounded Narelle Blackmoon, giving up a part of herself to see that faithful warden alright again. She submitted herself to the All-Mind, wrested it to its own submission. At the crux of their battle, she was strong-armed by her two dearest cohorts into resting, thinking thoughts at the offers of Lynona, and afterwhich she gave herself to the Loa gift for an unforgettable night with that succubus she certainly loved.
Finally, Narelle bit down her unease and let Narelle Blackmoon inside her head. And Narelle stood aside, letting Narelle peel apart her entire being with a measure of patience.
The warden's image trembled, her prying hands suddenly reeling from his memories and stumbling into places she shouldn't. The loa gift reacted, coloring the whole realm with lusty purrs. Narelle panted heavy breaths when she called out, "Sin, help!"
Proverbially shaking his head at the floundering warden, Sin pulled her back towards his conscious and quelled the smoldering lust. "I've seen enough," she declared, still panting.
I dare say you have, he returned with a soft laugh. He guided them outwards, to the physical world. Her image vanished, leaving him with a nearly fragile mind in his hands. Gently, he returned that mind to her body, then recalled himself to himself. Sin was no mind-mage, which left the process slow and overly careful, but there were no issues.
Sin's eyes opened to a world of color and tangible things. The bright tent and cushions were as fine of a reintroduction as it got. And there was Narelle, kneeling across from him in their shared tent, dressed in thin leathers. The proud warden had her head bowed, even with her silver eyes already open and conscious.
"I thought I knew what I was asking for," was her soft whisper. "I didn't realize..." She didn't finish.
"It's quite alright. I knew, and I realized," Sin told her, patting the back of her clenched hand. "Truthfully, you did better than I expected, for someone green to the spirit state. Better than I could before Sekara."
Before he could pull his hand back, hers snapped out to grab it. Her eyes were wide. "Sin, I..." Her head gave a little shake. "I don't think I am fit for duty today. Not right now."
"The side effects you're feeling will wear off shortly, I assure you," he promised with a smile. "Normally you would have only "looked" at my memories, but you submerged yourself in them, lived them as I had. It will take some time to sort yourself out again."
Her grip tightened. He noticed her eyes were fixed on him with a strange intensity, but the look was not totally unfamiliar. "Sin," she repeated. It was a look Lynona was oft to give him.
It sent him into another soft laugh, his eyes twinkling in response. "And that," he mentioned. "The most powerful romances in the world were built between people who knew less of their other than you know of me right now. But again, it will pass in short order."
Narelle's free hand came to her forehead, cradling it while her eyes shut again. "How can I learn what I just have and have that simply pass? It feels like you are apart of me or that I am part of you. I have this ridiculous urge insisting that we can never be separated again. And... And..."
Sin pulled on her hand. "Come here. Sit with me a moment." After only a short hesitation, she jumped at the chance, going so far as to sit between his legs much like Lynona would. She kept his arm around her middle as she leaned back against him.
How had Sin phrased it, before his last death? "We aren't ready for that sort of bond." That's what he had said to her then. Hell of a time to make that happen.
He was sure Narelle's eyes were still squeezed shut when she asked, "Why does this, sitting with you, feel more right than it had with Norwin?"
A slip on her part, to give up a detail of her carefully suppressed past. Sin only wrinkled his nose and said, "What kind of name is Norwin?"
The sudden bark of laughter from her was equally uncharacteristic of Narelle. It sounded helpless and relieved both. "An old mate. Before I met the Shadow Wardens." Then she was shaking her head. "No, I shouldn't say this. You taught me the meaning of a contract today, Sin de Rath. You did your part. Now go in my head and see it yourself; it's only fair."
"I won't," he told her simply.
"I know what I'm asking. I know it from your own memories. I want this done both ways."
"I still won't." Narelle turned her head upward to stare at him upside-down, saw his smirk at her confusion. "Narelle, I know you are at least 800 years old. I am twenty-something or other and very mediocre at psychic magicks. If I go in you and make the same mistake in submerging myself in your experiences, I am lost; Incapacitated for an age, guaranteed, and it will be uncertain that I ever recover my real self as Sin de Rath. I am content to have you know me entirely for now, because maybe that means I can stop fearing a poisoned bolt at the slightest stumble."
That upside-down look held as she considered him – and likely his memories. Then the silver orbs bulged. "You actually thought I'd try to murder you each time you lowered your guard around me."
"Well, not recently, but it was a possibility."
Shaking her head, Narelle righted herself and resumed her careening against his chest. His arms were kept wrapped around her. There was silence between them, just a moment of thought and physical company. Sin waited, suspecting of the inevitable questions that were to come.
But when Narelle finally spoke again, it wasn't with questions. Perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised; what questions could she have, as all his answers were already at her fingertips?
"Light and Shadow, I am an image of stagnation," Narelle sighed out. Realizing her expression, there was a sound dangerously close to a giggle from her. It sobered quickly. "I see how much you accomplished in two decades at Tanaris, the arts learned at behest of your mother. That wonderful, extraordinary woman, what a shadow she has cast, and how boldly you fill it. So young, Sin. You are so young. What could you have done with the ten centuries I have lived? And what have I done that compares?
"Humans have an expression, "If I could do it all again..." Elves don't, because time was never an obstacle. Now the moon sets upon our world, and I..."
Sin hummed at her trailing off. "You would regret your time with the Shadow Wardens, the Sentinels, and the Watchers? You would wish a warlock's life instead?"
Her silver-wreathed head shook slightly. "No, I... I suppose it is your memories speaking. But I do wish for aspects of that life, the never ending strive for greater power and greater skill. I am instead like a blade that was crafted then put to its use for the rest of its years. I have combated the Burning Legion longer and more successfully than you, and I hold three laurels for defending the Gates of Ahn'Qiraj from mad cultist plots, years before our final conflict. I cut the Horn of Azaxel from his very head and plunged it into the heart of the Gildersix."
"No small triumphs," Sin remarked, almost breathlessly. Names he knew within the Twisting Nether.
"A simple blade, Sin. What use is it compared to the grimoires of unmaking, which you used to compose the unsummoning of the Banelord Claxius? A book I have burned a dozen times was used to save a thousand lives. You grew more in your two years spent as a contracted bodyguard than I did in two centuries of touring as a Sentinel, scraping knowledge from books in the wee hours and exploring possibilities in the physical, magical, and astronomical realms, while I... Nothing but a blade."
A note itching at the edges of Sin's mind finally had a chance to manifest. What was a warlock but an opportunist?
One hand slipped from hers, sliding around her strong hip to her back. Carefully, deliberately, his fingertips brushed over the bumpy scar tissue at her small just as he softly pressed, "A blade which broke on your forty-sixth hunt, against an eredar spellweaver." This scar burned and seared on the manifest of her soul, a weight heavy as memory and time.
Narelle stiffened at the first touch, and her reply was barely a whisper: "How did you-? You saw! Night and Darkness, down to my very soul, it shows. How could it not?" Without even looking at him, Narelle knew when he opened his mouth to pursuit it. She spoke over him, stilled his hand with hers, "No. Don't ask. The memory of that wound is not so easily explained as a close one dying, or a mistake in ability, or another tragedy.
"You, Sin, have every right to know, you who took that curse from my back. But I have no method capable of explaining it. It was pain, plain and simple. It was the promise of eternal life, forever lived under that shadowflame brand. It could not be soothed. It could not be muted... I broke under that pain, Sin. I tried to kill myself three times. Three times I tried to use death to escape it, but I was so weak, so helpless, that I could not even move to accomplish my own end.
"Satheen Thistlechill was my priestess, and I cursed her and Elune both for keeping me alive. Satheen fed me between screaming breaths, watered me while I spat in her face. Fifty years she cared for me. I spent the first three crippled in a bed, rendered immobile, and she did everything for me. I loved her as much as I hated her, for that unyielding compassion. When I tried resuming to my duties, I would often return on my back, helpless and screaming, and Satheen Thistlechill would be there, ready to help. And when I performed a mission without antagonizing the brand, she would be there to celebrate with me."
Narelle recounted this softly, detached from strong emotions. "I have never known another of her like. But while she eased my transition back to life, the wound never truly left me. The fear was the true curse. I was so afraid that any motion I made might pull too hard on my back, sending me back to the months of fire and screaming. I was so very afraid, Sin, that another demon might burn me the same way. I jumped at shadows, hid from lesser spawn, and had nightmares that only aggravated it all. Fear and pain had made a child of me.
"I cannot explain in words how much I hate... hated warlocks. You who throw around that accursed magic without knowing its touch, without considering the years of damage and trauma inflicted upon its victims. When Linsai Scarleaf said there was a warlock carousing with the qiraji, I volunteered to bring you down. I coated my bow in the most painful poison I had found in my years of combat. Time has lessened my fury, but there was a period when I hunted nothing but warlocks and demons, to condemn them to a fraction of the agony they submitted me to."
Sin scoffed, hoping to lighten her grave mood. "You have found the wrong warlock to regret the demons in that closet. Consult my memories, and you'll see I too take pleasure in burning alive warlock and demon, for much the same reasons. Pompous, insolent, nihilistic bastards, the lot of them. I challenge you to check who has been more creative in it."
The elf managed a mirthful sound. "Goddess, you're right. Sin, the warlock against warlocks. Perhaps that is why I..."
He knew better. Light and Shadow, he knew better, knew that she was in a very delicate state presently. He knew the effect of his words, the impressions he could leave. He knew, yet he wanted to hear her say it. He was a man who wanted, and last night's talk wasn't enough. "Why you what?" he pressed softly, knowing already the answer.
Was it selfish of him? Could he blame it on the loa gift? That trailing sentence was a clear bait, from a volatile girl trusting him to make the right decisions. Was it wrong, to want to take that nibble, on what might be his last day as a human?
Narelle responded by taking the hand still on her side and lowering it to her hip, and her back rested more flush against him. "You've done so much for me. You took from me that cursed wound, you returned my hand, you armored me from even my deepest insecurities. I know it from two perspectives now, what you have given for my sake. The strong facade you erect when I stumble, determined to keep me from breaking.
"I can feel it all, Sin. It's still so strong in my head. The trust you granted over our travels, from losing control in the Twisting Nether to now. I can feel every annoyed and begrudging thought you've had for me. Your regard for me as a tool, our agreements like common maintenance for one. That possessiveness, that I belong to you and no one else. And I can feel the lust, Sin. Those dark, savage thoughts you withheld when I stepped into your shower. The way you looked at the nakedness of my soul. I can hear the thoughts you had last night, when Lynona invited me to your bed. These thoughts and feelings are real enough in my head to be my own.
"I'm not stupid, Sin, and I know control as well as you. I know what threshold I stand on right now. So give me a reason. Tell me again it will pass, and I will let it all go. Tell me not to turn around. Tell me not to give in. Tell me it's not my place. Tell me, Sin de Rath, or Goddess help me, I... I..."
Her hand over his had grown tighter and tighter in its hold, and by the end of her whispered rant, Narelle began to turn over. Sin was struck still by her intense silver eyes when they found his. He still had not mustered the will to refuse her, not yet, not now. The loa beat strong in his head, in his heart, and lower still, and he could see the same pulse rippling through her too.
Narelle got one hand on his clothes, twisting it in fistfuls, and the tent flap whipped open in their peripheral. They paused, eyes locked, the elf breathing audibly in soft pants, while the sweet voice of Lynona called, "Master, you are finished?"
Something about her voice also seemed to register with Narelle. She turned towards the entrance as he did. Well, this was a predicament. His succubus switched her illuminated gaze between the two of them, recognizing the position, and her lips were set with a thoughtful little purse, likely considering his thoughts and feelings over the bond.
In her presence, Sin found it easier to escape the allure of his desires. He managed a smile, opening his mouth to greet- "Beloved."
His mouth closed, having not made a sound. Lynona raised an eyebrow at Narelle, then frowned at her. "What's with the look? ...Okay, that look worries me. Sin, why does she have that look?"
"Beloved," Narelle repeated, this time considering.
"And why is she calling me that?" Lynona continued, sounding worried. "Master!"
Unable to help himself, and still covered in kaldorei warden, Sin began to laugh. His succubus remained lost, confused by Narelle's suddenly affectionate gaze and words, while the elf herself was torn between horrified at the revelation and moved by her own emotions.
Trying to sober his amusement, Sin managed, "Until Miss Blackmoon finishes sorting herself out, several of my emotions and mannerisms will be lived out through her. Including, of course, my feelings for you, beloved."
"Shad- Goddess, Sin, I know what it's like to make love to her as you," Narelle whined. "And she's amazing."
"Beautiful, sexy, doting-" Sin started, merry.
"-eager, passionate, sensuous-" Narelle continued with a blush.
"-and that squeeze near the end."
"Moons, yes, that. You stoic bastard, you can't even appreciate how much focus she has to perform like that." Finally, Narelle recoiled off him, covering her eyes with a hand while her cheeks burned new shades of color. "Moons and bloody Shadows, this is so wrong. I shouldn't know this from a woman's and a man's perspective."
And the proud, usually haughty succubus received it all coquettishly. Inspecting her fingernails, she purred, "Not how I expected to start my morning, but I can listen to this a bit longer."
"No, I'm not going to think of this any further. Not your dreamlike massages, not those searing, toe-curling kisses, and most certainly not your sex!"
Silence followed the elf's uncharacteristic outburst for a full three, loud seconds, then Lynona's gaze shifted up from her nails to Narelle with a little grin. "You're thinking about it, aren't you?"
"Yes!" A groan followed, and Narelle continued in softer tones, "Elune help me, yes. My body remembers every burning second of it. That damned Loa song is still echoing in my head."
"Well, I don't want to brag, but making two worlds rock? Yeah, I'm that good. I'd like to see another try and keep up with the Loa lust."
Although Sin was about the little pleasures in life, including the embarrassment of his warden, more pressing matters had come to mind. Giving up his amusement, he held up his hand to still Lynona's jests, saying, "In the same vein, Miss Blackmoon, what else does your body remember?" Silver eyes peaked between her fingers, from Lynona to him. He let his first speak for him, was glad to see the realization dawn in hers. Verbally, he repeated, "Does it also remember the qiraji speak?"
"Yes," Narelle whispered. "Yes, I know it. Goddess, Sin, do you realize what this means? Of course you do. The skills of your life, the experiences, I can draw upon them. And we use that."
"You're thinking like me now," Sin praised. He realized the ambiguity of the comment with a smirk. "Compromised too much of myself, Miss Blackmoon? I think I have given just enough. Take some time for yourself, then find me again when you are ready. We will face down the All-Mind together."
Nodding, Narelle said, "Time would be appreciated. Enough to kick aside these... urges."
"You can try," Lynona teased arrogantly.
Narelle's attempt at a withering gaze melted into what must have been Sin's bemused smile for her, and Narelle shook the look off. "I need weapons to match my armor, and there are smithies anxious to prove themselves against yesterday's feat. I will test your memories at the forge, and hopefully I shall return to you as the asset you hoped me to be, Sin de Rath. One worthy of standing steadfast against the Singing Blades.
"And love?" Narelle looked to the succubus.
"Yes?" Lynona asked, amused.
With a stern look, Narelle demanded, "You keep your distance from me."
"You'll be back."
Narelle ignored her barbs, rising to find her armor. Mel'Parnax Unbelkhat. The Unbelkhat, Sin felt he'd abbreviate it to. The Forgiven Sin. He wondered idly if Narelle would also be fluent in Demonic now, if she would know the dangers of speaking in it. "Do you need warlock hands to assist you?"
"No, only some hapless fool quick to agree to a contract. My word can guide the process." She stopped once the thigh plates were on, head tilting. "It seems another prophesy of yours was fulfilled, Sin. You have fashioned me a warlock without once touching your accursed magics."
Sin smiled politely. While the elf continued armoring herself, Lynona let herself be pulled down to Sin, where his arms encircled her like they had Narelle before. His mind remained in consideration over the memories now apart of Narelle and their effects. Though Narelle could now think like him, she was not him. Until they both understood exactly how far apart the difference was, he felt nervous about her behavior. It was simply a matter of knowing himself: how much deeper trouble would Sin be in, had his assumptions of ability been well beyond his limits?
Finally, Narelle stood in her full regalia, including the harness for her many weapons. Sin appraised it with his eyes, studying the look of the pearled white on her – contrasting the memory of her old (lack of) armor, and especially contrasting her dark skin. "Be careful, Miss Blackmoon. You have all my stupid, impulsive flaws as well."
"Two decades of rashness does not eliminate centuries of temperance."
"You know what I mean."
"I do," she conceded. The helmet was last, fitting neatly and the hawk's wings covering even her elf ears. "But I'm a blade that won't break again, Sin. You've made sure of that." She made to set out, only to stumble when a wall of light-eating black blocked the tent exit.
Sin no longer looked at her, resting his chin atop Lynona's silken hair and staring at the far wall. Distracted, he muttered, "The armor I forged for you is modeled after Mannoroth's indestructible aegis. Hellscream broke that armor." The shadow wall vanished, dissolving into black motes. Be careful.
For several long seconds, Narelle stood in silence. Then, she said, "I am not Mannoroth," and finished her exit.
At her leave, Sin's arms tightened his hold over Lynona. He could feel her churning thoughts, echoing his own. However, the succubus collected herself before him, tapping his knee with her palm and asking, "But seriously, Master, when did this little love-triangle of yours switch to me at the center?"
He laughed and let the matter go.
XxX
Though the sun remained low in the arctic sky, Sin knew it to be well beyond noon when Narelle found him again. He had spent his time dodging King Malthon and the king's messengers, knowing the time was nigh when they would begin their counter-attack. Already, Thomas and his bandits were outside the walls, practicing their coordination against the Skinless directly. Mostly, Sin's actions involved ducking into nooks and crannies with Lynona, acting like children in an elaborate game of hide and seek.
Sin told himself that if the Light truly needed him, he would have been discovered immediately. So he just went back to kissing his succubus.
Now, it was only Sin and Narelle, walking alone into the qiraji parts of camp – southeast, isolated against the mountain wall. As he suspected, Narelle's emotional haze had already been shaken off, returning to her regular stoicism. Her appearance had changed as well.
The pearl white armor had been painted, or perhaps powered, to an ashen grey, yet it still shined its iridescent greens and purples when reflecting light. Slotted to her leather harness were new blades, colored similarly to the armor he made. There were at least a dozen of them with finely carved runes along them, written punctually and without any flare. The work of some drab, by-the-book 'lock worrying to just barely imitate Sin's masterpiece. He politely covered his disdain over that neat script; those runes he drew into the armor were art in comparison.
To make conversation, he acknowledged, "I see you're doing better already," regarding her earlier dismissal of the succubus. Lynona's departure had comprised a wink and a blown kiss for both of them, but the stone-eyed warden did not swoon as she hoped.
"It is as you said," Narelle replied smoothly, keeping her watchful eyes forward and not on him. "With time, the memories and emotions begin to fade, like water into sand." She took a breath; to Sin, it sounded weightier than normal. "Yet you were also wrong, for also like how water slips into sand, the memories still remain – no longer on the surface but just as present. This does not agree with what your memories say should happen."
"I am just an amateur in that field, after all." Considering the radical pressures that moved her earlier, he asked, "So what does that mean for you?"
"I don't know yet, Sin. But there is a seed inside me that one day has to sprout, and I'm not sure what's going to happen when it does."
"Are you sure you want to be here then? The qiraji might not be the best choice for you."
Her sharp silver eyes met his. "I am a better ways off than you were last night," she drawled. Sin made a noncommittal sound. As the meeting grounds for the qiraji came into sight, Narelle had one last thing to say. "Going through your memories earlier, I realized something. You have already done so much for me, Sin, but there is one last thing I want to ask you for. I want you to save Elune."
His brows rose. "You know I've been considering the issue, but unless you have a plan to jump into the sky and wrestle the spirit and magic of an old god, I don't see... how... y..." He saw a smile on the elf's face, a smile that he knew down to his soul. He saw his smile. "Capture it in a single sentence, burn you."
Still smiling, Narelle said, "I only need a single word." And she spoke that word to him.
Sin started to shake his head. "That's imposs..." And he stopped – stopped walking even. Narelle turned back, watching his reaction. Slowly, Sin started to smile. "Miss Blackmoon, I dare say you might be onto something after all. Yes, just maybe. Difficult, to be sure, but... yes, why wouldn't it? Something is going to have to die in her place, though. Something equitable."
"My concern is the power of a medium," Narelle started, but Sin was already shaking his head. Looking upwards, into the stormy skies, Sin looked to where the Blue Lady would be hovering innocently. He muttered, "Narelle, I'm going to buy you a rock, big as the moon. How does that sound to you? Would you wear it on your finger for me?"
"Save Elune, Sin, and I will do more than that."
Sin looked down to her and saw his confidence reflected back. Narelle practically glowed with it. He thought it was a good look on her. "We'll hammer those details out later. For now, we'll face one titanic battle at a time. Are you ready to see the All-Mind that you have battled all these years?"
"I know it already from you, but yes, I am ready."
The qiraji were waiting for them in a cloud of bodies – a wedge under a hundred Battleguards, all that remained after their war trials. With Narelle at his side, Sin began the descent into madness. Every eye was on them, but not a show was to be had, not on this day.
Sin felt no fear upon approaching. Narelle was with him, a solid presence, and he had to wonder at it. How far that warden had come in just a day, he realized. Armored and armed against the physical foe, and now mentally equipped with his own memory, he trusted her even in the mad depths of the qiraji and the All-Mind. Was it not, perhaps, a mistake taking her so far so quickly? He trusted the elf with his own life and his mind, but if there was even just a seed of doubt, one fleck of disloyalty... how devastating would such a betrayal be?
I fear Narelle Blackmoon, he said over the bond to Lynona. She knew the true Name of his succubus too, didn't she? She'd said as much.
Out patrolling the perimeter around the qiraji camp, to ensure them privacy enough to win out against the All-Mind, Lynona's mind tightened with new tensions. What's happened, Master? Do you need me back there?
What could Lynona do, even if he did? No, beloved. But I am growing wiser to a trail of mistakes behind me as long as my trail of victories.
"Sin," Narelle called, and his attention snapped back to the present world around him. The drone of buzzing from the qiraji was loud, he discovered. It was a maddening sound. Looking to the warden-dressed Sentinel, he saw her gauntlet-encased hand reaching out for his, a small smile on her purple lips.
And her silver eyes were excited. Sin felt himself smile back despite himself, and he accepted her hand. With a squeeze, Narelle said, "We'll face them together. Come on."
"Yes," he agreed, as they walked hand-in-hand into the storm of qiraji. But I cannot do this alone, can I? It will take all of us.
"Together."
AN: A lot of rewriting here, but I only have one complaint this whole chapter. No matter how hard I friggin' tried, I couldn't fit in the line: "I am Narelle Blackmoon, daughter of Epinell Blackmoon of the Ashenvale Farstriders, born in the small population boom that followed the end of the Qiraji War, one thousand years ago." Seriously, I had it planned for post-mind talk ("If you will not see my life, then I will tell you."), for when they met up again before the qiraji (sort of an "I know who I am; I am..." thing), and it just never fit. All I wanted to get across was that she's a qiraji baby boomer, and the prose wouldn't let me.
If you ever see that line creep up somewhere later in the story, you can know that the author was just ecstatic to finally throw it in somewhere.
On a final note, despite the months it took me to hammer this chapter out, I finished up the next chapter in about 3 days and it is also ready. Seriously, that time difference, it makes no sense. Once most of my 50 readers have gotten ahold of this chapter, I'll put that one up too.
