CHAPTER 18
Idira woke to the smell of coffee. A mug stood on the table beside the bed, a platter of still-warm pastries tucked up tight against the mug. She sat up, the faint leathery, earthy, cedar-infused scent of Khadgar still lingered in the room. By the fireplace, the residue of a teleport shimmered, leading into his office. The space beyond stood silent and empty. She lay back again and stared up at the inside of the bed's silken canopy, enduring a wash of disappointment. Why couldn't she have woken up in time to catch a glimpse of him as he departed? It would have been nice to have the chance to look at him again.
Khadgar's raven left its perch atop one of the chairs and landed on top of the bed's footboard. It tilted its head, eyeing her, its yellow eyes glowing. She sat up again, slow, wary. She hadn't noticed the raven's eyes glowing before. Perhaps Khadgar was using it now, to look at her. She pulled the sheet up, gripping it tight against her sides, holding it in place under her arms. She hadn't found anything to sleep in, so had stripped down to her knickers.
"If you are looking at me now," she murmured, feeling a little foolish to be talking to a bird, "make your raven jump down onto the bed." The bird shuffled along the top of the footboard, turning its head to look down at the mattress, getting its bearings. It jumped down and looked up at her, using its other eye this time. She pulled the sheet tighter against her chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable, although she supposed it was fair. She had watched him through his teleport.
"Thank you for the coffee and the pastries," she said, examining the mouth-watering contents covering the narrow table. "You are spoiling me." She smiled as she lifted the coffee mug and breathed in its rich resinous aroma. She sipped. "Oh Light," she sighed, "that's coffee."
The bird hopped back up onto the footboard. Its steady gaze unnerved her a little. She wondered where Khadgar was as he watched her. She glanced back at the teleport, the space within remained empty, although she couldn't see the balcony. Maybe he was there, drinking his own coffee as the sun came up over Dalaran, she wished she could be there with him.
"When will I see you again?" she asked, reaching over to pick up the platter of pastries. The sheet slid free from her grip, giving the bird a sudden view of the curve of her breasts. She scrabbled to pull the sheet back up, catching it just before it reached her nipples. She glanced at the raven, it stood utterly still, watching her, its eyes glowing brighter than before. Her cheeks burned, as first embarrassment, then arousal sheeted through her. "Maybe you could give me some time, wait until I am dressed?" she whispered, tugging the sheet so tight around her, she realised too late it left almost nothing to the imagination anyway.
The light faded from the raven's eyes. The bird blinked and shook itself, turning to the work of preening its wing feathers. She let go of the sheet and watched it fall down to her hips, exposing her full breasts, her nipples tightening as the cool air of the room touched them. She took a pastry and ate, a naughty part of her wishing the Kirin Tor's Leader might cheat and look at her again. But of course, he didn't. She dallied as long as she could over her breakfast, dragging things out even longer by taking her time getting dressed, but the bird's eyes remained dull. She sighed, giving up. He had probably left to join the Council. After the horrifying things she had read yesterday she expected she wouldn't see him again for a long time. She decided she'd better learn how to conjure food, just in case.
The library made Idira happy in ways she couldn't begin to explain. The books welcomed her into their aisles and corridors like a long-lost friend, and no matter what she wanted to know, the books responded to her every request with alacrity, bringing her everything she needed, cross-references, glossaries, notes. Yet despite the wonder surrounding her, she sensed Khadgar's magic-laden library awakening in her a deeper sense of purpose, of pieces falling together; her first impression of having finally found the place where she belonged solidifying. The raw power within the once-Guardian's fortress seeped into her, energising her, empowering her. Before the morning passed, she learned all the spells for conjuring food, some of the dishes masterpieces of culinary art. She looked down at the buffet laid out before her, thinking if Khadgar didn't come back, at least she wouldn't starve.
She wondered what she should learn next. She asked the books. They fluttered up to the tower's heights, returning a few minutes later with several new companions. The new books lay down on the table, their silver clasps unlocking. She glanced across the row of open books. All of the magic in them contained spells from the path of frost and ice.
"Am I to be a frost mage then?" she asked, a smile tugging at her lips. The idea pleased her. The books rustled a little, as though affirming her query. She bent over the first book, sensing her Light kindling, igniting within her. Running her finger over the lines and columns, her eyes roamed over the sigils and formulas, drinking in the arcane text. She turned the pages, quickly moving through the first book, her Light flaring, her learning progressing at a rapid pace. She felt as though she was remembering things long forgotten, finding missing pieces of a puzzle she had never realised were lost. She didn't question the strangeness of it. Instead she let the tower's magic flow through her, granting her the potential to learn more and faster. She moved to the second book, devouring it, then the third, the fourth, and the fifth, each book increasing in complexity and depth, though the more she learned, the more she realised how much knowledge she still lacked. The books departed and a new set arrived. It didn't seem to matter that she had never seen the language before, written in archaic runes, it seemed to be enough just to see the runes, the magic in the tower and her Light working together for her to be able to manifest the knowledge held within the books.
Cut adrift from the circuit of day and night, Idira followed the rhythm of her body. She slept when she drooped with fatigue and dined when hunger called to her. Though she hoped he would, Khadgar did not return, not even to leave her food or drink. Every now and again his raven would land close to her, its eyes flaring, glowing bright yellow, the colour of the sun, usually in the late evening. She would talk to him, telling him of her progress, her Light circling her, infusing her with power. Pleased to have his company, she would conjure some wine and sip it while she talked to the yellow-eyed raven, perched close by watching her, unmoving, silent, intense. Khadgar had never again looked at her in the morning, though she often wondered if he ever watched her while she slept.
On her fifth night in the fortress, she had her answer. She woke, abrupt, her flesh tingling, sensing another's presence. She sat up. Khadgar's warm, earthy, cedar and leather scent washed over her. She shivered, tingling with delicious anticipation as she looked around the large room, her gaze raking over the chairs and sofas cloaked in shadow, all of them empty. Out in the corridor, the residue of a teleport glowed, its light faint. She slipped from the bed, clad only in her knickers and went to the door. Her heart aching with hope, she peeked around the doorframe.
Khadgar stood in his bedroom, just on the other side of the teleport, his back to her, rigid, his hands clenched into fist at his sides. She approached the portal, slow, resisting a wild urge to follow after him. He turned suddenly and looked back at her, unseeing, standing so close to her only the thin slice of the teleport separated them.
"Idira," he said, hoarse, ragged, the tautness of the muscles in his jaw betraying his torment. "How I want to share that bed with you . . . " He looked down at his hands still clenched into fists and cursed, low. He looked back up, right at her, though she knew he couldn't see her. He stepped back and began to cast a teleport, she watched, holding her breath, edging back to the bedroom door, watching him, her heart pounding. In moments he would be there, she glanced at the bed, giddy, thinking of what might soon follow. He stopped the spell, the light dying in his hands.
"No," he said, his hands once more curling into fists.
"Yes," Idira whispered, her body crying out for him, aching for him. "Please, come to me."
"No," he said again, anguished, and turned away. He went to his bed and lay down, fully clothed. He crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling, morose.
Choking back a shudder of disappointment, Idira sank down onto the rug and watched him, tears burning her eyes. He would never come to her. He belonged to Azeroth. There could never be anyone else for the Leader of the Kirin Tor. Not even her. She heard him say her name again, his voice thick with longing and regret. He dragged a cushion against his chest, clutching tight it against him, his thumb stroking the material, as though it was she he held and not a pillow. He turned onto his side and put his back to her. Her throat tight, she watched him, willing him to turn back towards her. He didn't. After a long while his body relaxed, finding release in sleep.
Though she knew she shouldn't, she stepped through the teleport's residue and crept across the thick carpet to his bed. She stood over him, drinking in the scent of him, the size of him, the steady movement of his tunic as he breathed, deep in the realm of dreams. She longed to touch him, but she dare not. Holding her breath, she bent over to look at him. He still held the cushion in a lover's embrace, possessive, protective. His eyelids moved as he dreamed, flickering back and forth as though reading something on the inside of his eyes. He moaned deep within his chest, the sound a primal, visceral thing, soaked with longing. Idira's heart clenched. A single tear slipped out the corner of his eye and slid over the bridge of his nose, processing, slow across his scarred cheek toward his pillow. Idira backed away, stricken, and fled through the teleport back to her empty bed. The Leader of the Kirin Tor had made his decision. Though he wished it otherwise, she would never be his. Her heart aching, she succumbed to her grief, and wept.
The next morning, depressed and listless, Idira wandered around the fortress, exploring. A part of her had been afraid to explore any sooner, despite Khadgar's reassurances. What if she opened a door and found something terrifying? She had decided to wait until she could better protect herself should she need to. Since she had learned almost all the spells from the path of frost, she was certain she could manage most things.
She followed the corridor to the opposite end of the library, where it terminated at a towering stained-glass window, black-dark from the non-existence of light outside it. She worked her way back along the lengthy corridor, opening each door, apart from one. That door stood halfway down the corridor and was warded and locked so well, even she couldn't open it. Curious, she pressed her hand against the solid wood of the door, sending out tendrils of frost to sense what might be behind. Something dark and dangerous stirred within, calling to her, hungry, beckoning, its magic so powerful, ancient and corrupt, Idira shuddered in revulsion. She drew back, uneasy, eyeing the door, realising more than ever that Khadgar was not a man to be trifled with; a man of dark secrets.
She backed away from the door, regretting having let whatever lay within know of her existence. She threw up an additional ward, just for good measure and pressed on, determined to put the locked room out of her mind. Several more bedrooms presented themselves to her, all similarly furnished. Then, a comfortably appointed office, filled with bookshelves stacked with scrolls, paperwork, maps, decrees and documents from the life of the Guardian Medivh. She went in, curious, spending most of the morning absorbed in reading through the private correspondence of Azeroth's once-Guardian. She had just begun to think about leaving when she spied a recessed drawer in one of the side tables beside the fireplace. Within, she found a plain leather-bound tome tied closed with small leather straps. She unlaced the ties, discovering the private journal of Medivh during the time he struggled to move on after his forbidden affair with the Horde emissary Garona. Feeling a little ripple of pleasure to find such a rare treasure, Idira sank down onto one of the upholstered armchairs, and pulled her legs up underneath her to read.
It was a long time before she finished. She got up and tucked the book back into the drawer where she'd found it, trailing her fingers over the smooth surface of the top of the table, her thoughts replaying Medivh's words, some of them terribly romantic. Medivh might have been corrupted by the Legion, but by the Light he loved that woman, perhaps beyond reason.
Idira's thoughts crashed to a halt. Khadgar had been under Medivh's tutelage when Garona had had her affair with the Guardian, and by the look of the notes in his journal, Medivh hadn't handled her departure well. Perhaps Khadgar didn't want to go down the same tortuous path he had seen his mentor travel. She thought of Medivh's final entry where he vowed never to love again. He had signed it in blood. She shivered. Karazhan might have been a place of great magic, but it was also furrowed with sadness, loss and loneliness.
Back in the library, she drifted along the stacks, lonely and despondent, thinking of Khadgar, and of Medivh's journal. She sensed the Kirin Tor's Leader would not be coming back again, at least not until she had learned all she could; at which point she suspected he would only stay long enough to portal her back to Dalaran. Once there, she expected he wouldn't waste any time returning to his rarefied, privileged, protected world, and she would be sent back to her life living on the periphery of his.
Morose, she leaned back against one of the stacks and stared up into the tower's heights, watching the flickers of arcane energy spark and extinguish continuously, an endless dance. She conjured wine, hoping it might ease her pain. It didn't. It only made her miss Khadgar more. As she sipped the ruby liquid, an uncomfortable thought took root: her whole life had been focused on finding and meeting Khadgar, the unfolding circumstances of her life's journey seeming to validate her belief that her life and her Light would make more sense once she did. Granted, her evidence for her belief had been limited to the events which led her to him, including their bizarre connection through her Light, even while he was stranded on another planet. But now, six days after she had stood on his balcony with him, nothing was any clearer, rather, she found herself cut adrift.
She had hoped, had dreamed of being his, believing he need only see her and their destinies would entwine, closing the long loop that had stretched between them for almost her entire life. But it seemed she had been wrong. She had misread the signs, had fabricated an ending to suit her purposes, assuming far too much. Instead she had ended up shut away in his sanctuary, alone and lost, left to her own devices.
She looked down at the wine still in her cup, swirling it as she had seen Khadgar do. It was her own fault. She had read a lot of fairy tales growing up and had become fanciful, imbuing her life story with the same formulaic arc as her favourite fairy tales, subconsciously expecting a happy ending to the sad story of her life. Perhaps in real life there were no happy endings, only brief moments of joy bubbling up within the brutal grind of living, surviving, enduring. Perhaps her shared meal with Khadgar, dining on Bagel Brothers' sandwiches was all she was ever meant to have with him. She should be grateful, her Light had never shown her anything other than her time with him on his balcony. It had promised her nothing. She had created all the rest from that one look she had seen in his eyes. She shook her head, embarrassed by her childish fancies, all of them so lovingly tended and nurtured. Yet never once in all her years of waiting had she taken into consideration Khadgar was a person in his own right, with his own past, hopes, fears, demands, duties and constraints. Apart from the dry facts she had read in her books about Khadgar the Archmage, she knew almost nothing about the man Khadgar. She had fallen in love with the idea of him before she had ever even met him. But how would she ever know him—the man—if he avoided her?
She sighed and let go of the wine cup, watching its fall until the last moment, when she waved her hand. The cup vanished, returning back to the particles of energy it had manifested from. She eyed the books waiting for her on the table, ones she still had yet to finish reading. A wave of despair washed over her. What was the point?
The raven ruffled its feathers, shifting its position as it roosted nearby, distracting her. She glanced up at it, deciding she needed to do something to cheer herself up. Perhaps it was time to try to conjure some new clothes, she certainly could use something fresh after wearing the same thing for nine days. The books aided her as best they could, but understandably there wasn't much about conjuring dresses in Khadgar's library. She decided to try anyway. It would at least distract her from the abyss she felt she was staring into.
After a little experimenting and several ridiculous failures—a stone teacup, a pair of seven-legged stools, a bronze chamber pot?—she created her first gown. Very plain. A simple black affair, quite boring and austere. She tried again and managed to craft a yellow dress with a whisper of lace at the neck and around the cuffs. A little better but not terribly interesting or exciting either. She kept at it, manipulating existing spells, taking parts away, weaving in pieces from other spells, reminding her of adding spices to a dish cooking on the stove. Dress after dress manifested, none of them particularly enticing, merely a variation on the same theme. Something was missing. She stepped back and surveyed her efforts, tapping her finger against her lips, wondering what she was doing wrong.
A thought struck her, as unexpected and abrupt as a lightning bolt in the middle of a scorching Westfall summer afternoon. A shudder of pleasure coursed through her as a locked door within her mind unlatched itself and swung open. She waved her hand and the pile of nondescript dresses dematerialised. The books fluttered closer, curious, waiting.
She stripped down and lay her dress over the back of the chair, trailing her fingers over the faded material. It might be old and worn, but the dress was Logan's gift and she couldn't bear the thought of accidentally sending it to the Nether, severing one of her last remaining ties to him. She cast a quick spell to freshen up, the same one Margot used before they'd portalled to Khadgar's office. Shivering a little, she called to her Light, revelling in the thought that her newfound knowledge had granted her the ability to access her power at will. Her Light burst free, circling around her torso, tendrils of violet light darting round her like a school of fish. Drawing no more than a trickle, she visualised the gown she wanted, similar to the one she had seen held up by the attendant in the dress shop when she first arrived to Dalaran. She held her arms out, spread-eagled, and closed her eyes, feeling the soft shimmer of material whispering up her legs and over her torso, across her breasts and down her arms to her wrists.
The Light was still working, but she couldn't wait, she opened one eye and peeked. She caught her breath. The blue glow of arcane light caught the brilliant cut of thousands of tiny diamonds glinting off the pure silver-white silken material of her dress, so thin in places along her arms it was nearly transparent. Too impatient to walk all the way back to the bedroom to see her reflection, she conjured a mirror. Her reflected eyes widened. She hadn't used the mirror in the bedroom since she'd arrived, uninterested in reminding herself of the plainness of her garb. She should have. In the last six days spent living in his magic-drenched sanctuary outside of time and space she had changed. A thrill shimmered through her as she leaned closer, inspecting her reflection. No longer did she bear the youthful, unfinished look of a girl of twenty-six, instead she bore the regal look of an ageless woman, her cheeks had thinned, allowing her cheekbones to show, accentuating her eyes to even greater effect. Her brow and skin remained smooth and unblemished, though the shape of her face had changed slightly, its contours defined, elegant, alluring.
She leaned back, tilting her face from side to side, examining it from several angles. So this was who Khadgar had looked at when he came to her room last night. She had wondered at his sudden tumult, his deep conflict. Idira couldn't help but gaze at herself, fascinated by the subtle, yet astonishing changes, thinking once more of Khadgar's tormented expression as he turned away. Yes. It explained much. He must have been watching her transformation through his raven, while she remained oblivious of herself. She smiled, seeing herself—her old self—in the shadow of her younger face. She smiled again, this time with pleasure. She far preferred the woman before her now, perhaps aged ten years older, but still bearing the verdant flush of youth. She glanced up at the raven, aware now of her changed appearance and how well she looked in her glittering gown. Khadgar would be undone if he saw her this way. But he had seen her, who knows how long he had stood over her watching her sleep, feeling the same things she had felt as she stood over him. She bit her lower lip, watching herself in the mirror, trying to see herself with his eyes. She examined herself, critical, unable to understand how biting her lip could affect him so. Myra had once said men could find the strangest things arousing, admitting VanCleef had liked to watch her mouth when she talked, and once he started doing that, he didn't last long before he was taking her into his arms and carrying her up to his bed. Idira sighed. It didn't matter how much she bit her lip, Khadgar wasn't going to be carrying her anywhere. Khadgar was another type of man entirely. A man of honour, restraint and responsibility, irrevocably bound to his duties. Nothing like VanCleef at all.
A fresh spear of longing slammed into her heart. She waved her hand. The mirror and her dress disappeared. She went back to the chair and put her old dress on, not yet ready to let him see her in all her finery. At least now she knew how to make the clothes she wanted. Tonight she would conjure herself a shift to sleep in. Something pretty. No. She arched an eyebrow, a naughty thought slicing through her, enticing her. Something transparent and sensual, just in case Khadgar came back in the night to look at her while she slept. She couldn't be blamed for what she did while she slept, could she? And if he was looking at her when she slept, he was cheating, too. She would have to stop sleeping under a blanket as well. Very well. It didn't matter to her if she shivered all night long, if he came to her, he would get to see her. All of her. And then maybe, just maybe, he would stay.
Much later that evening, Idira closed the last book on the path of frost. It lifted up and fluttered away, settling back into its place. Resting her head against the chair's high back, she gazed up into the tower's soaring centre, where bursts of arcane power rippled and shimmered, accompanied by nascent darting tendrils of her Light. She watched the interplay of his power with hers thinking if she couldn't be with Khadgar, at least the imprint of her power would remain here, forever reminding him of her. It counted for something. Perhaps one day, far in the future when Azeroth was safe and she was of the right age, he would send for her. She laughed, hollow, chiding herself for once more indulging in fanciful thoughts. She needed to accept his decision and move on. She had been wrong. Khadgar had never been meant for her.
The raven swept down and settled onto the table. She caught her breath, watching its eyes, hoping they would light up and grant her a brief moment of contact with the Leader of the Kirin Tor. But the raven remained its usual self, hopping over the books, ruffling its feathers, its eyes dull, denying her the presence of her unseen watcher.
She regarded the raven a little longer, her chest tight with hope, but the bird moved on, flying up to perch on top of one of the stacks nearby. Disappointment sheared through her. Khadgar wasn't going to contact her tonight. She sensed it was very late, certainly well past midnight in Dalaran. She got up and paced, agitated, sleepless. Light she was lonely. What she wouldn't do to have the chance to sit down with Wynn and just talk. For a heartbeat she considered teleporting into Wynn's room, thinking of the things she could tell her friend about Khadgar's fortress; of his planned demotion for Margot; of the quiet meal she had shared with him; how handsome he looked when he ran his hand through his hair, distracted. She caught herself smiling, thinking of him. She stopped, scoffing at her thoughts. No. It was too dangerous. Wynn would tell everyone, discretion was definitely not one of her strong points.
Filled with ennui, Idira looked around, despondent. What else could she possibly do besides studying to alleviate her sense of alienation, isolation and loneliness? A slim book fluttered down, shy, and bobbed in the air before her. Idira almost rolled her eyes. Would these books of Khadgar's not even allow her a moment's respite? The book fluttered its pages at her, settling down to an open page part way into the book. It wiggled a little, like a naughty child, desperate to share a secret.
Idira raised her brow, intrigued. She leaned closer.
"By the Light," she breathed as she read, incredulous. She tore her eyes from the delicious, handwritten words and poked the book, a smile tugging at her lips. "Oh you are a bad book!"
It wiggled again, utterly pleased with itself. She turned and headed for the bedroom.
"Follow me," she said, her heart pounding, reprimanding her for what she was about to do. She pushed aside her guilt. If Khadgar hadn't wanted her to find that book, he would have removed it. Maybe he did want her to find it. With him, who could tell? The book dutifully made its way after her, its pages rustling. She glanced back, sensing it was smirking at the other books. Well, why not. It might not be about magic, but there could be no doubt it was the best book in the whole place.
She went to the bed and conjured her transparent nightgown, gesturing for the book to rest on her lap. A moment's hesitation as she touched the cover. A deep surge of inner remonstration washed over her. She hesitated until her curiosity overwhelmed her. Just a peek. No more. She opened the cover and turned to the first page, her eyes raking over his handwriting, neat and precise; devouring his words, hungry. The first entries were written long ago, a few years before she was even born. She hesitated again. This was his true past; these were his true thoughts. This was the man Khadgar. She dithered. No. She closed the book, her fingers lingering on the cover. Unable to stop herself she opened it again. She couldn't bear it. She had to know. She bent over the book, her heart pounding at the thought he might teleport in at any moment and catch her red-handed. His first words pulled at her, his voice filling her mind, resonant. She trembled, consumed with anticipation as she submerged herself into his private, secret thoughts.
Year 593. This is my first entry. I am eighteen years old. I cannot believe what my hands have done. I had no choice. To save Azeroth I drove a sword into my mentor's heart, the corrupted Guardian of Azeroth. Now I must carry this terrible memory with me to my death, the responsibility, the burden, the guilt . . . it is crushing, I almost cannot bear it. As my master died and the taint of Sargeras left him, Medivh looked at me and whispered 'I forgive you' and then, with his last breath, he said 'Garona.' Now the Last Guardian is gone, slain by my own hands. Gone to the Light. I find myself lost, and alone, faced with a hostile, dangerous and rapidly changing world. May the Light protect me.
She turned the page, shaken by his stark, bleak words, so unlike the archmage she knew. She had no idea Khadgar had killed his mentor. None of the books she had read had said Medivh had been slain by him, just that the Guardian had fallen in the final confrontation. She continued:
I woke this morning to find my youth has fled, taken from me in the blink of an eye. If I had ever hoped to have an affair of the heart, those hopes have now been taken from me. I am caught out of time. I belong nowhere, to no one and no time. If this is the price I must pay for what I had to do, so be it. Now, there is only the arcane left, my sole purpose to protect Azeroth, no matter what the cost, even if it costs my life . . . and even though my heart aches for it, I accept my fate. Love is not meant for me.
Idira sat up until deep in the night, reading his entire journal without stopping. When she finally finished, she set the book aside and stared at it, her emotions tumbling. He had been through so much. Much, much more than she. And always alone, he had never had anyone to stand by his side, like she'd had in Logan and Unambi, or even little Margle. She shivered, sensing her power beginning to take hold of her, chilling her, lowering her temperature. The price she learned she would have to pay to go beyond the usual limits of the power of frost. She watched as a sheen of ice crept across her breasts and coated her arms. She cast a spell, and the ice melted away, though she remained chilled to the bone. She glanced down at her thin silken shift and scoffed. What had she been thinking? Once she fell asleep, she would freeze to death in this thing. And yet . . . he might still come. She didn't want him to find her wrapped up in layers of wool and fur, buried under a heap of blankets. She would just have to learn to live with the burning pain of her cold. For him, anything.
She trailed her fingers over the journal's cover, recalling some of his most personal entries. Soon after his transformation, while internally he was still a youth and full-blooded, there had been a young woman he had admired from afar, a girl of his own true age, though he had done nothing more than write about her; poetic, romantic things which made Idira's heart beat faster. Over the years there had been more than a dozen such affairs locked deep in his heart, the women's ages ascending to match his real age, hidden under his transformed exterior.
One note had deeply interested her: as his powers grew, his outward age began to reverse, his own magic mitigating the damage of the curse bestowed on him so long ago. From what she could gather, at the beginning he had aged from eighteen to seventy in one night, but as his natural age progressed into his thirties his appearance had begun to renew and he became younger and younger looking over the years. She calculated. By now, he would be about forty-six in real years, yet he looked younger, in his early forties. She sensed he had no idea the effect he was able to have on a woman, having lived so long looking like an old man, a prisoner to his curse. She skimmed through his journal, stopping at certain portions to double check his words. No, she had intuited correctly. Khadgar had never slept with a woman, though he clearly thought about it, given the poetic eroticism of some of his later entries. She wondered what it would be like to share a bed with a man like Khadgar who had lived all his life committed to fighting for Azeroth, often against insurmountable odds. A man who had given up his need for love to fulfill a greater purpose. She closed the book and tucked it under the pillow beside her. She had wanted to know the man, now she did. What she'd read made her heart ache. He had suffered much, yet never once had he been turned aside from his path to protect Azeroth from the mortal threats the world had faced time and again.
She lay down facing the pillow with Khadgar's journal underneath, thinking of some of his most poetic entries. There was no doubt, underneath the Leader of the Kirin Tor's tunic, beat a heart capable of poignant longing and breathtaking romance. She lay her hand over the pillow, wishing with all her heart she might be the one to break the last of his curse and walk his path with him; neither of them needing to be alone any more.
The next morning, Idira woke with a start, a blanket over her. A mug of coffee stood on the bedside table along with a platter of fresh fruit. Tucked up beside it, an assortment of sweet biscuits. Only the faintest trace of Khadgar's singular scent remained. She eased up and touched the coffee. Cold. She shivered, not from her inner cold, but from pleasure. Her plan had worked, he had seen her in her shift. Wait. She looked down at the blanket, frowning. Had he conjured a blanket for her or had she done it and not remembered? She had been cold. No. She remembered now, half asleep she had conjured the thing, sometime after she had fallen asleep. She bit back a curse. Typical.
She cast a small spell and warmed the coffee again. She sipped, enjoying a fresh ripple of pleasure despite her annoyance over the blanket. Khadgar had been here, looking at her again, a small part of her found his private surveyal of her delicious, erotic. She slid her hand under the pillow to pull out his journal, thinking to read her favourite parts again. She reached further in. The pillow tumbled onto the floor, she scrambled under the sheet, frantic, searching. His journal was gone. He must have used the raven while she was absorbed in his journal. She bit her lip, her cheeks burning with shame. How could she ever face him now? He knew she knew his secrets, had read his most private, intimate thoughts, forcing him to return to his sanctuary to remove the book while she slept.
There could be no turning back from this. Whatever slim chance she had had with him was now gone forever. She eyed the raven, despondent.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to it, though its eyes were dull. "I only wanted to know who you really are, and now that I do, I want to be yours more than ever. Khadgar, there is only you. I could never love anyone else."
The raven flew closer and landed on the bed's footboard as though drawn by her words. It eyed her. She sat up, uncertain. Could Khadgar hear her without her knowing? The raven edged along the footboard, flapping its way, awkward, over to the bedside table. It stole a biscuit and returned to its perch on the back of one of the chairs. She sighed, relieved. Khadgar hadn't heard her after all. The bird just wanted to eat. She took one of the biscuits. It was delicious. She scoffed. The bird had good taste. She tossed it another one, grateful for its companionship at least. If only it wasn't a bird, if only it was a human, someone she could talk to, someone who would make her feel less alone.
She watched the raven work its way through the biscuit, a wild idea coming to her. She scoffed again, at the very notion. It came back, stubborn, insistent, taking shape. She toyed with her coffee cup, considering. There had been an obscure text in one of the arcane tomes relating to what she was thinking, but the spells it referred to were another thing entirely. It would never work. Wait. She sat up straighter, her skin tingling. If she could conjure the gowns she wanted with her Light why could she not do this as well? Why stop at gowns? There might not be any limitations to what she could accomplish now. A rush of pleasure surged through her. All the time she had spent in Khadgar's sanctuary she believed herself inferior to him, but what if her awakened and empowered Light had granted her power as great as his? Something such as she was thinking of would take powerful magic. The magic of an archmage, at least. She jumped up and pulled on her dress, her thoughts racing ahead, thinking of the hurdles she would need to overcome. It didn't matter, now she had thought of it, she couldn't think of anything else. She grabbed another biscuit and ran down the hall to the library. It was time to see just how powerful she had become.
It took almost the whole day to prepare, time spent checking and rechecking vague texts, puzzling over interpretations, desperate to reassure herself no harm would come to the poor raven, who watched her, curious, as though intuiting the part he would soon play in her experiment.
Long past the dinner hour, Idira stood back, scarcely daring to breathe. She had done all she could, had cast several wards, laid down seven runes, and encircled both her and the raven in the centre of the library behind a seamless, unbreachable boundary.
She called to her Light. It awakened, responding to her request, stirring. Dozens of thin tendrils shot out, her violet Light spiralling around Khadgar's raven perched on the back of the chair. Caught within its grip, the raven eyed the darting lights, uneasy. Idira held her focus, visualising the end result, drawing more of her Light to her. It hummed, pulsating, surging to life. A bolt of energy rose up within her, shooting through her, filling the enclosed space with her Light, another bolt, then another bloomed from her, the enclosed space vibrating, shuddering from her Light's growing intensity. She kept her eye on the raven for as long as she could, shielding her vision from the glare. The Light thrummed, rotating along the edges of the boundary, spinning faster and faster, until there was only a blur of her Light, crackling with energy. It stopped, abrupt and collapsed inwards, a silent rush of sapient energy, falling straight into the raven, surrounding it in a brilliant explosion of violet light, its force throwing Idira backwards, staggering against the glassy surface of the boundary. White light sheared through her vision, blinding her. She cried out, realising the profound depth of the Light's power, as it moved far beyond what she had asked of it. Waves of the Light's energy pulsed over her, ancient, primal, deep, so vast it lay beyond even her newfound abilities to comprehend. She juddered as another shock bored its way through her, bizarre symbols impaling themselves into the structure of her mind, telling her the Light was not her power. The symbols progressed, inexorable, pitiless. Idira Northshire is a vessel. She has one purpose: to carry the Light of Azeroth to Sargeras.
Idira sank to her knees, stunned. A vessel. How simple. How elegant. It explained much. Finally she understood why none could comprehend her power; why she had been shunned and ridiculed, the Light within her so terrifying, so intimidating, so foreign, only those with the greatest fortitude could bear her presence; why she had been protected, even to the cost of lives; why she had never been able to love Logan, and why she had been directed to Khadgar, not for him, but for this, his energy-laden sanctuary locked outside of space and time, brimming with the books her Light needed her to access.
Her thoughts lurched to a halt. And what would happen to her once she carried Azeroth's Light to Sargeras? Would it leave her and she would become Lightless, an ordinary woman? Or would she . . . No. She wouldn't think it. Azeroth would not be that cruel, that heartless, just to use her and cast her aside, making her whole existence apart from completing her task meaningless. The white light faded and by degrees her vision returned. The boundary melted away, the runes vanished. On the chair, movement. Idira crept closer, her heart in her throat.
She caught her breath. The raven was gone. Khadgar looked down at her and smiled. He held out his hand to her. She took it. It was warm.
"Can you speak?" she asked as he brought her to her feet, her eyes raking over him, taking in the silver scars on his face, the stubble on his jaw, his steel-grey eyes. It was him. No. It was almost him.
The echo shook its head, slow. Not yet. She wondered if she had missed something. Tomorrow she could think about it, for now, she was relieved not to have to hear his voice as well as see him. It was easier this way.
"But you hold his thoughts, his wishes, his dreams, you are Khadgar's true echo?" Idira continued, hesitant, amazed by how real, how solid the echo was.
The echo nodded. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips. Idira felt her heart clench. The echo looked no different than Khadgar, though she knew the truth, the echo contained no sexual organs. She had purposely chosen this restriction, since she feared what might happen should he be able to function the same as the real Khadgar. He stood and pulled her towards him. She caught her breath. He even smelled the same, leather, cedar wood, warm earth. His arms came around her, his hand coming up to cradle her head against his shoulder, his broad, solid chest rising and falling as he breathed.
Her emotions tumbled, confused, cutting her adrift. She shook her head and pulled free. It wasn't real. He wasn't real. He was nothing more than a construct of powerful magic, a fantasy made into flesh. What had she done? Disappointment and exhaustion swept over her, sharpened by the raw agony of her epiphany. She turned away, tears blurring her eyes. The echo came after her, taking hold of her arm, holding her back. He brushed the hair away from her brow, tender, his eyes saying what he could not.
I understand. I am not him. But I can still comfort you. Please. Let me. He tugged her, gentle, back into his embrace; stroking her hair, reminding her of Logan's affection, given without expecting anything in return.
In the echo's reassuring embrace, she sagged, stricken. He picked her up and carried her, effortless, to the bedroom. He lay her down and waited. Idira looked up at him, her heart aching for the real Khadgar. A spear of cold slicked through her as her latent magic turned against her. She shivered. The echo didn't wait for an invitation, he pulled off his shoulder collar and tunic and lay down beside her, pulling her against the battle-scarred torso of the man she had been waiting for her entire life. Despite herself, she huddled closer to Khadgar's echo, seeking his warmth, though she found none, his magic sustaining only his own heat. She sighed and closed her eyes, her head tucked against his shoulder, his fingers trailing through her hair, caressing her, consoling her.
As she relaxed under his gentle ministrations, she thought of Khadgar's journal, of his desire for love, and his deepest longing to find the one who could match him, understand him, support him. She could have been that woman, given enough time, but she didn't have time. The echo's arms tightened briefly, the gesture filled with reassurance. She wondered if he could hear her thoughts. Fresh tears gathered in her eyes as she thought of the words of Azeroth. Her one secret, unshakeable hope had always been her belief that her connection to Khadgar through her Light meant she was destined to be with him. Rather, the bitter truth was her life had never been her own, and her long-awaited meeting with Khadgar had only been to serve one purpose, to bring her to his sanctuary to prepare for her confrontation with Sargeras. A tear slipped free and slid down her cheek as the layers of her life peeled away, showing her path in a new light: its through-line suddenly clear, her destiny driven inescapably to this place and time; her path, the one she had thought had always been her own had instead been determined by a power so great, so distant, so unfeeling, she felt she was nothing more than a pawn on a vast chessboard. Hollowness clawed at her. The echo reached up and wiped the tear from her cheek, his actions heartbreakingly gentle. She looked up at him, and saw the sadness in his. He kissed her brow, his arm tightening around her, protective.
Guilt slammed into her for what she had done. How was she any different than Azeroth? She had created a sentient being for her own selfish purposes, taking away from him any chance of knowing what it would mean to fully love her. She felt the echo's lips brush against her brow again, soft, forgiving. Despite her roiling thoughts, exhaustion pulled on her, offering her an escape. She fought it, but the tug of sleep dragged on her, relentless. Within the sheltering arms of Khadgar's echo, she let go. Khadgar, her heart called out as she tumbled, plummeting into the realm of her broken dreams, please, just once, love me, before it is too late.
When Idira woke, still in the arms of her echo, she had a moment of blissful forgetfulness before the memories returned. She pulled herself free and sat up, pushing her hair back from her face. Her echo rolled onto his back, still lost to sleep. She turned, surveying him, her heart aching. How like Khadgar he was, his hair had become messy, and lay tousled over his brow, which bore creases of worry even as he dreamed. She wondered what it was like to be him, to be Khadgar in every way, yet not be him. Guilt sliced through her again. She had done a terrible thing, and what would Khadgar say when he learned his raven had been made into an echo of him? She groaned and rubbed her hand against her forehead. It seemed being left to her own devices had driven her straight into mischief. Perhaps she should return to studying. There were still hundreds of books she hadn't yet read. At least studying was safe.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, deciding to conjure herself a new dress. If she was going to have to face off against a Titan, she might as well spoil herself first. She took off her dress and cast the bathing spell. Freshened, she considered what she would wear. She closed her eyes and called to her Light. It spiralled around her, weaving a silken gown from her shoulders to her feet. She went to the mirror and caught her breath. A violet gown, precisely the same colour as her eyes glittered with tiny points of her Light all across the bodice and skirt, reminding her of the stars she had seen in the night skies of Westfall.
"The constellations of the heavens," a warm, familiar voice murmured from the bed. She turned, her skin prickling. He could talk after all. The echo sat up, eyeing her with approval. "An appropriate choice for the Daughter of Azeroth."
"How could you—?" she breathed, though she suspected she already knew the answer.
He crossed the room and took her hands in his. "Because I am him, yet I am not him. In many ways I am more than him, having been imbued with so much of your Light." He glanced at himself in the mirror, curious. "It is intriguing to be carrying his memories, his thoughts, his feelings . . . his yearning. He aches for you, Idira, I can feel it,"—he pressed his hand against his chest, over his heart—"here."
She pulled herself free and backed away in an agony of torment. "I should not have done this. I don't know what I was thinking."
"There is no need to regret your actions, I for one am very pleased with this arrangement." He bent to retrieve his tunic, pulling it over his head, his muscles rippling. It was unbearable. Idira looked away. "But I do think," he said as he straightened the material, "you ought to be prepared to make me invisible should the need arise."
She glanced back at him as he ran his hand through his hair, combing it back with his fingers, his movements achingly familiar to Khadgar's.
"Don't you care that I made you for my own selfish ends?" she blurted out, trying to distance herself from her confused feelings.
He turned to her, relaxed, a half-smile playing on his lips. "Although I might function as you do, able to breathe and feel, I know I am not truly real. For me to become real, a soul from the Nether would have to join with me, and in this form there could only be one soul which could do so. Khadgar's."
Idira started. "Wait. Are you saying—?"
"You didn't know?" The echo's brow quirked, intrigued. "Long ago, the Faceless Ones learned how to create an echo of themselves so that when they died, they could be reborn once more and live again, their version of immortality, though not without cost. I thought among other things I was practice for you."
"Practice?" Idira gaped, flummoxed. "For what?"
The echo settled his shoulder collar in place, his fingers working, deft as they fastened the leather straps. "Well, obviously not," he smiled at her, his eyes gentle. "It seems you just wanted me for me. That doesn't happen very often. In fact, this would be the first time."
Idira considered him, the man who looked and behaved just like Khadgar apart from the bizarre things he said. He raised his eyebrow at his reflection in the mirror, admiring himself, vain. A bolt of relief shot through her. Khadgar wouldn't have done that. It helped.
"Doesn't happen very often?" she repeated back his words back to him, hoping he would enlighten her.
The echo pulled his gaze from his reflection and went to her, his eyes moving over her, taking his fill of her, his appreciation obvious. "I am made of the stuff of the Nether, held together in material form by the deepest magic of all, the Light of creation; of life. I have lived a long time, an eternity actually, but every now and again I am brought into some form or another. Usually for nefarious means." He looked down at himself, pleased. "This manifestation makes a refreshing change, although I would have preferred to have had my testicles."
Idira felt her face begin to flame. She turned away. "I couldn't be sure . . . "
He touched her arm. "I understand. I was only teasing. What would I do with them anyway, your heart belongs to another, and quite right." He gestured to the door. "I heard you thinking about reading some more books. Shall we?"
Idira nodded, trying to get used to the idea that her thoughts were no longer her own. She stopped and turned back to him, a tremor of embarrassment filling her. She had thought about studying the books before she had cast the bathing spell. "You didn't—"
The echo shrugged, unrepentant, a playful smile tugging on his lips. "Of course I did. You made me a full-blooded man after all."
Despite her apprehension for having manifested him, Khadgar's echo proved to be an amiable, kind and patient companion, filled with a wealth of esoteric knowledge. He spoke with the books, sending them scurrying off to awaken some of the most ancient tomes, locked away in secret compartments, instructing the younger books to carry the elder ones back to her. In one day, she learned much. Far more than she had learned in all the other days combined. Under his tutelage, her abilities expanded, deepened, perfected.
Late in the evening, she conjured food and wine, and they ate, companionable, discussing some of the deeper aspects of the arcane texts she had studied. He told her that he had been manifested in other universes, that the energy which comprised him existed outside of the material realms bound by time. She listened, fascinated as he told of her of other worlds and other beings, some strange, some familiar, some which had even heard of Azeroth despite existing in altogether different universes.
She drank the last of her wine and looked down into her empty cup, fatigue stealing over her. "I need to sleep," she murmured, stifling a yawn. "It has been a long day."
"Of course," the echo slid off the table and held out the crook of his arm, escorting her from the library. Just outside the bedroom, she held back, hesitating, uncertain.
"Would you prefer to change in private?" he asked, soft. "If you'd like to wear that transparent nightgown you are thinking of, don't refrain for my sake. I can only look, after all."
Idira dithered. "What if Khadgar comes in the night and sees you?"
A twitch of his brow as the echo suppressed a smile. "I rather think it might go in your favour if he does. Nothing triggers a man more than the threat of competition."
"True, but he could hardly be threatened by himself," Idira answered, wondering at the echo's mild attitude toward her predicament. She had thought to send him away, to sleep in one of the other bedrooms, just to be safe.
"Put your nightgown on," the echo said, tilting his head toward the bed, "I will wait here until you decide if you'd rather my company tonight or not."
She went in and slipped behind a folding screen, sending her gown back into the Nether, wavering, indecisive for several shivering moments before giving in and replacing it with the shift she had hoped Khadgar would see. She glanced down at herself and sighed. What was she doing? Of course he would not come. It was already very late. He had not even used the echo's eyes to check on her over the last two days. Maybe the Leader of the Kirin Tor would never check on her again, so deep had been her betrayal of his trust. Perhaps he would just create a portal for her when he wanted her to leave his sanctuary, ensuring he wasn't on the other side when she arrived. Her heart clenched, filled with recrimination. Why hadn't she resisted reading his journal. Why?
Her heart heavy, she left the privacy of the screen. The echo stood waiting outside the door, he looked at her as she approached, his gaze lingering on the curve of her breasts.
"By the Light, you are extraordinary," he said, reverent. "I can see why Khadgar does not come to you. I find it hard to believe any mortal man could withstand such a vision without losing their senses."
Idira scoffed, though she felt a glimmer of warmth at his appreciative look, wishing it was Khadgar who looked at her that way. She turned away from the echo, to avoid his look. "Right now I am glad for your 'discrepancy'," she said, shy, "because when you look at me like that . . ."
She listened to his footfalls as he moved across the stone-flagged floor, coming to standstill behind her. She turned.
"Ah but I am not the man you desire," he said, despite looking exactly like the one she wanted. The scent of him seemed stronger all of a sudden. She didn't question it. She leaned closer, drinking in the masculine bouquet of the man she loved.
"Hold me," she said, soft.
The echo took her into his arms, folding her against his chest. He stroked her hair, tender, protective. She leaned against him, suddenly exhausted. She was tired of it all. Tired of waiting, tired of longing for a man she would never have. As though sensing her despondency, the echo picked her up and carried her to the bed. He knelt and lowered her onto the cover. He waited, watching her.
She reached up and touched his jaw, resisting the urge to trace her fingers over the scars on his cheek. She shivered, icicles of cold scouring through her. "Stay with me, and keep me warm," she murmured, suppressing another quavering shudder.
The echo caught her hand. He kissed her fingertips, slow. Keeping his eyes on hers, he undressed down to his leather breeches. He slipped down beside her and pulled her into his embrace, pillowing her head on his shoulder. She nestled up against him, shivering, longing to feel warmth.
He kissed her brow. "Sleep, sweet Idira," he whispered. "Dream of the one you love."
She sank, willing, into the welcoming arms of oblivion, dreaming of Khadgar's hidden life; reliving in rapid succession his sorrows, his battles, his fears, his longings, the brutal burden of his loneliness. The dream slowed. He stood over her, watching her sleep, his gaze raking over her, burning with longing. His look swept over his echo, holding her close, his expression changing, darkening. He turned away, riven with anguish, his eyes bleak, and blunted raw with jealousy.
Idira woke. The scent of leather, earth and cedar wood filling her senses. A shadow moved across the room. She caught her breath. It had been no dream. Khadgar had come to her after all. Numb with cold she waved her hand, sending the sleeping echo to another bedroom.
"Archmage?" she called. He stopped, his back to her, his shoulders stiff, his hands curling into fists. She suppressed a tremor of fear, recalling his hard, jealous look.
He turned and glanced at the bed, where his echo had just been, his expression unreadable. "I am sorry," he said, low. "I have intruded on your privacy." His words held no anger, only resignation. He turned to leave.
"Please," she blurted out, biting back a tremor of cold. "Don't go."
He stopped. She slid off the bed and went to him, sharp blades of cold slicing into her feet. "Stay with me," she whispered.
He took a step back, his gaze falling to her shift for a beat. His lips parted as he took in the fullness of her breasts; her nipples pressing against the sheer material, taut from her inner cold. "Idira, it isn't right," he said, hoarse. He looked back up at her, his chest rising and falling, agitated. "You are my apprentice, under my care."
"Look at me," she scoffed. "I stopped being your apprentice days ago."
"As you say," he said, ragged, his gaze straying down to her breasts once more. "But still, I will not stay."
Deep spikes of burning cold shot through her torso and legs. She caught her breath, staggering to keep upright. His arm came around her, pressing against him as he led her back to the bed. "You must sleep," he said, tight, "you have worked so hard. Rest. I will come back to you tomorrow."
She caught his sleeve as he turned to go, holding him back. He turned, abrupt, his eyes dark, smouldering.
"Please, just sleep beside me," she breathed, willing him to stay. She watched him as he waged his inner battle, his gaze straying to her breasts, continuing down to her hips, his lips parting as he reached her lace knickers. He exhaled, soft.
"It's all I ask," she said, sensing his resolve wavering as her eyelids drifted down, trapped in the numbing shock of cold, "you don't have to undress if you'd rather not." A harsh bolt of ice slammed into her. She shuddered, her eyes snapping open from the jolt of it. He was still looking at her, his gaze lingering on the lace edge of her knickers. "I'm cold," she shivered. "The echo cannot warm me, but you can. Please." She patted the bed beside her hip, enticing him.
He stood over her for several beats more, his chest rising and falling, his eyes almost black. He turned away, abrupt. Idira watched him, her heart pounding. He was going to leave after all. She bit her lip, her heart cracking. He hesitated beside a chair, his hand resting on its upholstered wing rail. He glanced back at her, rent by indecision. She waited, silently begging him to relent.
Several more heartbeats passed, slow. He scoffed, resigned and reached over his shoulder, pulling his staff from its holster, hesitating yet another heartbeat before setting it against the chair. His back to her, he removed his shoulder collar, boots and belt, dropping them onto the floor, a reckless heap.
Still wearing his tunic, he turned back to the bed, his expression veiled. She closed her eyes, her heart soaring as she heard the bed frame creak under his solid weight, drinking in his blazing warmth as he stretched out beside her. A heartbeat's hestitation, then his arms slid around her, pulling her against him, enclosing her in his scented warmth. She clung him, drinking in his heat, quaking as the deepest aches of cold eased from her body. Her fingertips grazed the base of his neck. He started, shocked by her icy touch.
"How can you stand it," he said, his voice soft, suddenly protective. He took her hand into his, chafing it, trying to warm her. When she remained cold, he murmured a spell. A fire blazed to life in the fireplace. He murmured another spell and a thick woollen blanket settled over them. She sighed, her sudden cocoon of warmth soothing her, bringing her back to life. His hand strayed to her face, his fingertips brushing her hair from her face, gentle. She glanced up at him and met his eyes, he answered her look, enigmatic, though his grip tightened on her, possessive.
"Thank you," she whispered, sliding her leg up to rest her inner thigh against his groin. She felt his member awakening, responding to her. Despite longing to see where things could go, the sudden release from her relentless cold had sent her tumbling into exhaustion. She fought it, but in the warmth of his embrace, she slid, helpless toward the realm of dreams, hoping and praying he would still be there when she woke.
Deep in the night, Idira opened her eyes, no longer cold. The room hung heavy in shadow, the walls glowing a dull orange, lit by the fading embers of the fire. She felt Khadgar moving, stealthy, away from her, edging to the side of the bed. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side. He reached down to pick up his things.
"Khadgar?" she asked, soft, her heart aching. He was going to leave after all.
He froze. She moved across the bed and knelt behind him, sliding her arms around him, embracing him, her breasts pressed against his back.
"I didn't think you were the type to leave a woman in the night," she said, quiet.
In her embrace, she felt the muscles in his arms tensing. She looked over his shoulder and saw his hands clenching, tight, into fists.
"Why me?" he asked, low, ragged. "I am almost twice your age. You could have anyone—"
"Age is nothing," she interrupted, a wave of relief tumbling through her; finally he had admitted the truth, acknowledged the forbidden attraction between them. He turned, his enigmatic steel-grey gaze filling with renewed turmoil as it drifted, helpless, down to her breasts, then back to her eyes. She licked her lips. His gaze fell, hungry, to her mouth, his pupils dilating, aroused. She leaned closer to him, allowing the outer curve of her breast to brush against his arm. "Since I have discovered my true power," she said, low, "I feel as though I am thousands of years old. And this place—it is saturated with your essence. I have learned much about you, of your past, the trials you have overcome, and of your suffering." His eyes left her mouth and met her eyes, the heat in his blistering, intense. Her heart began to pound, the way he was looking at her, made her feel as though he was making love to her already. She struggled to concentrate, to finish what she had begun. "You have suffered much, and always alone. Yet you have always remained good—despite terrible ordeals—your strength, your courage, and your honour have never wavered. You are everything I could ever want." She stopped, slain by the raw need churning in his eyes. He lifted his hand and traced his fingers over her lips. Trembling, she plunged on, whispering through his fingertips, "I have fallen in love with you. Your secrets are written in my heart, and I cherish them. If only you could—"
He didn't let her finish. He turned, moving so fast he startled her, his arms coming around her, possessive, lowering her onto the bed, his mouth covering hers, hungry, hot, fierce. She answered him, leaving him in no doubt what she wished of him, her fingers tangling with his, helping him as he pulled off his tunic. He shed the thing and knelt over her, clad only in his leather breeches, panting.
"I haven't . . ." he muttered, raking his hand through his hair, his eyes moving down the length of her, lingering on her lace knickers.
She gazed at him, drinking in the sight of him, his powerful body poised over hers, primed to make her his, her body caught in an agony of yearning, trapped between wanting to take her time and needing to feel him inside her, his body covering hers, moving together as one. She caught his hand and entwined her fingers in his. "You are also my first," she said, her throat tight with desire. "Let us find our way together my love."
His eyes darkened, possessiveness hardening the line of his jaw, enhancing the hungry slant of his lips. He leaned over her, his hand dropping to her hip, catching the filmy material of her gown in his grip. He pushed it up, rough, stopping just under the curve of her breast and traced the outline of her nipple with his thumb, slow, sending delicious tremors rippling through her torso. He groaned as her body responded, her nipple hardening. She arched her back, begging for him to continue. He bent and took her taut nipple in his mouth through the slippery material of her nightgown. Her hands went to his head, her fingers catching in his hair as he favoured first one, then her other nipple. He pulled back, his hands moving up to the neck of her gown.
"I want . . ." he said, his breathing ragged, his eyes raking over her. "I want this thing off you. Now." He pulled on the material, rending it in half. He shoved it aside, his hands sliding around her back, lifting her up against him, his arms tightening their hold, supporting her as his fingers tangled in her hair, holding her steady, his mouth moving over her neck and up to her ear, nipping her lobe. She shuddered, letting him control the pace, despite the ache between her legs rising to a blinding intensity, the hollow inside her throbbing, crying out for his girth to fill her. His mouth moved back to hers. He kissed her, fierce, ravenous. He pulled back, breathing hard.
"Bite your lip," he whispered, his eyes hard and hot on her mouth. She bit it, slow. He moaned, his fingers tightening in her hair. Before she finished, his mouth was back on hers, nipping her lips, his hands moving to her face, holding her still as he deepened his kiss. She opened her mouth under his gentle prodding, letting him taste her, caught in the strength of his arms, she sagged in his grip, her arousal overcoming her.
"Please," she gasped, as he drew back, his fingers tugging at the ties of his breeches. "Please. I need to feel you inside me."
"You will," he answered, as he peeled his breeches off, inside out. Kicking them onto the floor, he reached down and grasped the waistband of her knickers. He pulled them away, his eyes raking over the shape of her mound as he tossed the lace material onto the bed. He dragged her back up into his arms, devouring her mouth as he carried her down onto the bed and lowered himself over her, resting his weight on his elbows.
"If we do this, there will be no going back," he breathed, ragged, against her mouth. "I will be yours, and to the Void with the consequences."
She felt her nipples harden at his reckless words. He moved against her. His member, swollen with need, pressed against her thigh. She groaned, a spike of intense longing spearing deep into her, her need for him sudden, primal, urgent. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, her back arching, making her breasts, taut with arousal, press against his pectorals. "I never want to go back," she panted, breathless, starving for the feel of him. "I beg you. Love me, Khadgar."
He groaned and kissed her deep as he reached down between their legs and positioned himself against her. She opened her legs to him, feeling her sex sliding against his member, making it slick with her arousal. He pressed against her, gentle, careful, giving her time to accept him. She tilted her hips, easing his entry, letting him rock her as he made his way inside her, slow, her hips moving instinctively, kissing against his tenuous thrusts. She caught her breath as she felt the size of him as he invaded her, filling her, both frightening her and arousing her.
He took his time, easing his way in, watching her, his gaze smouldering with the heat of his restraint. He reached her barrier. A deep ache, harsh and filled with warning rived into her as he probed against her resistance. She caught her breath, her fingers biting deep into his shoulders. He held still, waiting, letting her decide the pace, his thumbs caressing her cheeks as he held her face in his hands, kissing her, tender, possessive, his breath tasting of wine. She bit her lip and bore down on him, wanting the pain to end, crying out as he breached her barrier and filled her completely. He stilled, his arms tightening around her.
He brushed his lips against her, tasting her trembling mouth as she lost her innocence to him. "I love you, Idira," he said against her parted lips. "Light help me, but I love you. Now. I am going to make you mine."
She clung to him as he moved against her, loving her until her pain melted away, transforming the rawness of her ache into rippling, then cascading waves of pleasure. She followed him, willing, as he lifted her up, holding her against him as he knelt beneath her, one with her, his powerful body surrounding her, sheltering her, possessing her, expressing his deepest love to her. He found a place inside her that sent her spiralling up to the stars. She writhed against him, her back arching as he steered her to heights of pleasure that left her breathless. When it was over, he held her as she sagged, shuddering in his embrace, kissing her gently as she returned to him from that nascent plateau, longing to climb up to it again.
Still cradling her against him, he leaned back against the headboard and stroked her hair. He gave her wine, sharing a single cup with her, drinking from the same place her lips touched, his eyes never leaving hers, intimate, intense, dark. Catching her hand in his, he tasted her fingertips, sending shivers of pleasure shimmying through her. He caught her chin and lifted her face to his, kissing her, deep, his thumbs straying once more to her nipples, arousing her, the rawness of his need awakening her anew. She bit her lip, shy, and asked him to take her again. His eyes hot, he pulled her onto his lap, his hands and mouth moving over her, bruising and rough, his dominance overwhelming her, his brutal hunger driving her to an altogether different place of pleasure. He entered her, his thrusts deep and powerful, no longer holding back, his hands tightening around her torso, supporting her as she moved against him, finding her rhythm, his teeth sliding against her neck, nipping, biting the tender flesh under her ear, his passion awakening an ache she could only satisfy with him deep inside her. He carried her again to the plateau of her greatest pleasure, holding her as she shuddered against him, panting with her release.
They fell back against the pillows, drinking more wine, once more sharing the same cup. He eyed her as he took the empty cup from her and set it aside.
"You read my journal," he said against her brow, twining his fingers together with hers. "I watched you."
"I'm sorry," Idira whispered, feeling her cheeks darken, ashamed. He caught her chin, tilting her head up so he could look at her.
"And did you like what you read?" he asked, a glimmer of heat flickering in his eyes.
"Very much," she breathed, caught by the intensity of his look.
"I could have teleported it from you while you read," he said, his lips touching hers.
"But you didn't," she sighed, opening her mouth a little as he traced his the tip of his tongue along the inside of her lips.
"I couldn't," he groaned, letting their kiss deepen. He pulled back, continuing, "Watching you read my journal, clad in that impossible thing. I wanted it to last all night." His fingers drifted over the contours of her body, caressing the curve of breasts, the crest of her mound, the hollow of her hips, the inside of her thighs, worshipping her. Aroused once more, he carried her to the sumptuous sofa and stood behind her, taking her from behind, gentle at first, then harder, owning her, his hand wrapping in her hair, catching it in his fist, sending her quivering, sobbing, into her release as he slammed into her, the fingers of his other hand biting, harsh, into her hip as he buried himself deep inside her, staggering as he rode out the intensity of his orgasm.
He lowered her onto the sofa, gentle once more, holding her as they returned, panting from their euphoria. He conjured food—apologising it wasn't her favourite, whitescale salmon, promising she would have it the next day—feeding her fruit and cheese, his eyes darkening as she licked his fingertips. She drank the wine he offered her, heaviness dragging on her as he kissed her brow, full of affection, telling her to rest. She slept for a time, content, suffused in his warmth, her body pleasantly aching where he had taken his fill of her. She woke, hearing her name whispered against her ear. She turned to him, lost in his arms, her hair tangling in his fingers as he kissed her awake, murmuring his request to let him love her just one more time.
At her soft smile, he carried her back to the bed and for the fourth time that night, made her his, his movements slow and tender, his lips gentle against her bruised and swollen ones, loving her until she gasped, caught by the sudden intensity of her release, her eyes locked on his. He followed her, his arms tight around her, holding her against him, shuddering with the strength of his own release, his fingers wrapped around her head, his lips lingering on hers. He rolled onto his back, pulling her on top of him, keeping himself inside her, holding her fast against him, protected, cherished, cradled, safe within his arms.
He murmured a spell and a new fire burst to life in the fireplace, slowing the inexorable creep of cold stealing back into her body. He reached out, gifting her with a lingering kiss on her brow as he leaned over and pulled the blanket around her. She sighed, savouring the solidness of him; the heat of him. She dozed, exhaustion sliding over her, tugging at her, insistent, dragging her toward oblivion. She clung to him as long as she could, not wanting the tender quiet of their intimacy to end.
She lasted several heartbeats more before her body betrayed her, sinking into the softness of sleep. Just as she succumbed, she heard him whisper, anguished, against her hair, "To finally feel what it means to love at Azeroth's darkest hour . . . how shall I lead now I know true fear? To lose you is unthinkable. Light help me . . . Light help me."