Hope
Hope is a naïve emotion. Not only naïve, but irrational. To put faith in a good outcome against insurmountable odds was something Draes never did. Yet as he made his way through the crowded mess tent, he couldn't help but hope that his mealtime would be absent of the two faces he dreaded the most. Yes, hope was irrational, but it was better than utter hopelessness. It could be possible that Arana contracted food poisoning, or that Nyvene accidentally fell on her sword. It was too bad the paladin wielded a mace. Even still, he struggled to retain the last shred of optimism he had.
There was no need to look up when a ladleful of stew sloshed over the side of the bowl onto his lap. Arana's feral green eyes would, no doubt, be glaring back at him. Were it any other day, he wouldn't hesitate in dragging the little wench to the detainment cell in punishment. Unfortunately, their latest prisoner was chained up in there, leaving with no other choice than to overlook the hostility. Draes lifted his spoon, ready to sample the stew when a shadow slid into the space next to him, a feather-light breeze accompanying it moments later.
"Vice-summoner?" Alexion panted.
Draes raised an eyebrow, "Yes?"
It was always slightly amusing to see his corpulent co-interrogator bustle around the camp like an old hen. Beads of sweat rolled slowly down his young face as he ungracefully situated himself on the narrow bench.
"The warrior your group captured earlier. He's, well..dying. The guards were transporting him to the cell when he regained consciousness. He took down two guards before they were finally able to knock him out with their clubs."
"And?" Draes fixed his eyes on Alexion's mouth. It was a trick he picked up years ago that gave the illusion that he was listening intently to the other party. That way, he could think about more important things while the elf prattled on.
"And they roughed him up a little too much. It's a relief those idiots are only given blunt weapons. They'd have hacked him to bits if they carried anything sharp. Anyway, the general is ordering us to conduct the interrogation before he dies. Which'll be soon, by the looks of him."
A shrill laugh cut through the tent, causing the low rumble of conversation to pause momentarily as two dozen pairs of eyes turned toward its source. Draes turned his head as well, wholly unsurprised to see that the obnoxious sound had come from none other than Nyvene. She towered over a group of the younger paladins, their faces lifted up to her in awe. Catching his eye, she leaned over to one of the males and spoke softly. Their gazes flicked toward Draes, then quickly away as both erupted in laughter at their private joke. But it wasn't so private. Nyvene's triumphant smirk was evidence enough that they had been laughing at him.
"Let's go," he said abruptly, rising from the bench.
As usual, he would go without dinner.
The detainment cell was the only wooden structure on base. No more than a squat two-room building, it played host to the interrogation of over three dozen Draenei captives thus far. Draes always disliked the building. It lacked the ornate beauty that was ever-present in Sin'dorei architecture, down to the dome-topped tents that dotted their encampment. It was the type of building that gave no evidence to skill and accomplishment of his people, instead looking like it was built by a band of nomadic Kobolds.
In the gloom of the evening, Draes could barely see the warrior in the cage. He approached the Draenei slowly, setting his lantern on the hook outside the iron bars before entering. The creature's body laid flat on the floor, cushioned by nothing but the cold touch of stone underneath. Kneeling beside him, Draes paused to assess his condition before speaking. Even in the twilight, he could see the myriad of bruises and gashes along his face, arms, and chest. Dark blue blood streaked across the crown of his forehead all the way down to his neck.
"Draenei," Draes spoke in Common.
The creature's eyelids slid open slowly, revealing a set of dim, vacant eyes. They met his own blazing emeralds with indifference, or perhaps some other emotion. Facial expressions of their species mystified Draes. He could only confidently gauge their more passionate emotions, like fear or anger by looking at their mouth or the creases of their forehead. The mask of calm that stared at him with empty eyes told him nothing.
"Who are you in the employ of?" he asked formally. The list of introductory questions rushed to his mind automatically as he readied his staff for the volley of spells about to be cast.
No answer.
Alexion, who had been quietly observing, barked the question in Draenei, only to receive the same blank stare. Draes motioned the younger elf to him.
"Break his legs," he said curtly. Then turning back to the warrior, he spoke, "If you tell us what we need to know, we will let you die in peace. Your obstinacy is achieving nothing."
Alexion started toward the warrior, hesitating as the alien's faded lips parted, preparing to speak.
"You don't promise peaceful deaths to the women and children you murder," he rasped, his chest heaving with effort as he pronounced each word. "You cut them down like they are no more than cattle. I would never dishonor their memory for fear of pain."
His voice broke at the last word as a fit of coughs overwhelmed him.
Grabbing a fistful of the warrior's chestnut hair, Alexion wrenched his head upward to face Draes. The warlock stood, arms outstretched as he summoned a bolt of shadow magic directly onto the prone figure before him. The creature writhed, his teeth chattering as the pain ripped its way mercilessly throughout his damaged body, igniting each nerve in his body with unceasing fire.
"I call that Spell #2," Draes said calmly, "It's one of the lightweight preliminary spells we start with. Now, let's begin again. Tell me your name."
Still in thrall from the convulsions of pain, he spat, "Why don't you show me Spell #1?"
Draes smirked. Wit wasn't something common among the Draenei, though he'd never exactly been on joking terms with their kind. Coming from a warrior, it was even more rare. The creature cried out as Draes brought down a curse of agony onto him. He watched as Eredar shuddered from the unbearable force of the spell, his eyes clenched shut as it assaulted him relentlessly. It was a nasty curse that did more than cause physical pain. Every bad memory, emotion, and thought filled the head of the victim. It was a method of torture in itself, leaving the tormented to believe that the only way to end such suffering was through the release of death.
With a wave of his hand, he diminished the spells' effects. "Are we ready to cooperate?"
But the Draenei merely stared back, his face fixed with the same unreadable expression as before. Alexion retrieved a clamp from the belt at his waist and stepped to the creature's side, suspending the tool over its head. In a single fluid motion, he ripped the warrior's right horn from its head. It separated from his flesh with a sickening squelch that made Draes' stomach shrink as he watched the blood spurt upward. The wound overflowed with the sticky blue liquid, traveling slowly over the ridges of his forehead into his eyes.
"No," he whispered in between gasps, "I will not relinquish my dignity to you parasites."
Draes snorted, "Relinquish? I'm surprised you're still capable of multi-syllabic words. Most people cower and weep at your stage. For your family's sake, I urge you to reconsider your defiance. They'll want to be able to identify your carcass when we toss it back into the woods."
It was a lie. They burned the bodies, actually. Of course, he wouldn't tell the alien that. The warrior's eyes closed as he laid there silently for a long moment. When Draes was about to order Alexion to fetch the bucket of water to revive him, the creature finally spoke.
"You have already stolen my love away," he said slowly, "When the Light embraces me too, I will return to her."
He could feel Alexion's gaze upon him then, awaiting his next orders. Draes closed his eyes briefly against a chill of remembrance that bore into his stomach like an icicle. The brave woman in the clearing was the Draenei's wife. As they neared the end of the battle, his last act was to place himself in front of her as a shield before he was brought down by Caziel and Pen. Steadying his breath, he forced the realization away to the coldest recesses of his heart, preparing himself for the damning words he was about to speak. For the first time, he took no satisfaction for the pain he was about to cause the broken thing that lay before him.
"The Light never embraced your wife," he began, talking more quickly so that his voice would not falter,"She died like a dog, her body ravaged by magic so dark that not even your precious Naaru could expel it. The curse I set upon her laid waste to everything, even the little brat in her stomach. When you see her again, it will be in the shadows. It's what you deserve for not protecting her. You will never be a hero, no matter how much you endure."
A choked cry escaped the Draenei's throat as a bolt of grief shattered him into nothingness. His fingers dug into the stone floor as violent sobs wracked the tortured body, leaving him no mercy in its wake. Draes' fists balled reflexively at his sides, nails pressing deep into the flesh of his palm until he could feel the warm flow of blood drip down his fingers. Despite the desperate pleas in his mind that told him that the words were necessary to break the alien's resolve, utter self-loathing seared his very soul. He had utterly destroyed the being in a way that was unforgivable, no matter what race he was.
In his agony, the Draenei could only mouth the last word that would ever pass his lips again.
"Monster."
He nodded. Such a description wasn't far from the truth. At that moment, it was all too clear to Draes that he didn't simply mock hope, he destroyed it. Hope was something he never had, yet he knew that ripping it away from another being took a part of himself along with it. Time would pass, more interrogations would be held, and he would dminish into a husk of who he once was--who he could have been. For once in a while, he was glad of that. Maybe like Illidan Stormrage, he could sacrifice the weaker half of himself and gain fathomless power in return. Nonetheless, there had to be some way to stop the traitorous regret he felt for the nameless creature.