This chapter warrants an "M" rating due to the mature content . Read at your discretion


Chapter 8 – Illidan, Lord of the Demon Hunters


The Felhammer, in Mardum.

The runecloth band flickered with green fel. Fluorescent flashes periodically shot out from the fabric almost in synch with the brainwave activity behind it. Its wearer was deep in thought. He sat on the high backed throne within the large room in the base of the demon hunter's guildhall.

He had adapted the space as his own living area. Furnishings were sparse, four armchairs, a couple of well-upholstered longues. A desk, its surface covered in maps of Azeroth, sat with an ornate chair tucked under it near the wide fissure in the rock face which served as a panoramic window. A few rugs scattered on the floor, banished some of the ominous feel of the cold stone fortress. It was nothing compared to his more lavish surroundings in Suramar.

Having rid the city of demons, it had been returned to its former residents, the elves. But none were as they used to be. Few in fact had remained as their origins had preordained, nonetheless, they were welcomed and aided by the Illidari and those desperate to return to their long forgotten home. Nightborne, highborne , kal'dorei, quel'dorei, all clinging to names of days gone by, worked with the demon hunters to restore the city to something resembling the grandeur of ancient times.

Here in Mardum however, Illidan Stormrage pondered many things, from the trivial to the truly fantastical. But of late, he mostly revisited the past.

Imbued with the power of the celestial beings, the naaru, and combined with his felblood, the great demonised night elf had abilities which no other demon hunter possessed. Other than one. But she was now dormant, retired so-to-speak, tending to the daily duties of parenthood.

The past few months had been relatively uneventful. Truth be told, even he felt a little... redundant. There had been the occasional stray demon still roaming around Azeroth, but they were easily despatched now. His army, still loyal and activated by the slightest sniff of a Burning Legion minion, policed all continents, rooting out the offensive creatures and sending them to the Twisting Nether. And once there, demon hunters who had passed from their time in Azeroth, also remained loyal to him, carrying out their duty in the astral dimension of the Nether, killing the demons once and for all. It was the only place a demon could be truly extinguished.

One day, he mused, one day there will no more demons to hunt or kill. Other than ourselves. His heart sank at that last realisation. What purpose had he then? What purpose had his army? Or his wife?

He knew there was another enemy out there. The enemy. Somewhere. But, how long would it be before it dared show itself? How much longer before his legion could rise to glory again and engage in true battle once more?

For the first time in thousands of years, Illidan thought he would have been better off as a simple elf, practicing the art of druidism perhaps as those closest to him had once thought he would excel. Back when he had amber eyes.

He huffed. Druidism was not for him, never had been. He'd favoured the lure of arcane, seduced by its awesome properties and potential he had indeed become a powerful sorcerer in his day. His day! He scoffed. What manner of thought was this? He was immortal. Every day was his day! Every day...

It was nonetheless a predetermined conclusion that he was becoming surplus to requirement and therein lay the bittersweet penance of immortality. A hundred lifetimes and more once spent planning ahead, building a new future, visualising a wondrous, Legion free life, but now, having defeated them, he found himself sitting wallowing in reminiscence.

He sighed as recollections of his past washed over him. He leaned heavily on the arm of his throne, fist supporting his chin as his mind swam within the past, stirring memories he had pushed to the farthest reaches of his mind.

Because of his mystical eyes, the elven nation had believed in a prophecy. That an amber-eyed child would be capable of great achievement. As he grew, he started out on the same path as his twin, Malfurion, learning the art of druidism. Malfurion was a natural, and quickly grew in skill, spending most of his time training under the guidance of Cenarius, Lord of The Forest.

Illidan envied his brother and the attention awarded him by the patron of druids. Cenarius warned Illidan if he was not willing to apply himself wholeheartedly then he would never succeed. In order to bring Illidan in line, he told him he would no longer teach him and that instead, Malfurion, his own flesh and blood would take on his tutelage. This infuriated Illidan and he was insulted to the core.

As a result, his focus turned to other things. His growing curiosity in magic was fuelled by his insatiable need for arcane power. In this, his ability surpassed that of many others in the field of sorcery. His power grew at an alarming rate.

But Illidan had also known elves as a whole needed this form of sustenance. During the War of The Ancients, he'd saw the Well was waning, its power being drained to fuel the portal which delivered the Burning Legion to Azeroth. His brother's immense druidic power worked to close the portal but this would destroy the Well itself. Illidan had been glad he'd had the foresight to rescue some of the magical waters. He stole seven vials of the precious waters. His people needed this source of magic. His all powerful brother had not thought of that!

Back then, his heart had also beat for a certain huntress/priestess. Tyrande Whisperwind. He'd grown up with her, as had Malfurion of course, but Illidan had felt the stirrings of attraction to the priestess of Elune in their early years. He had tried often to impress her and capture her heart. It had seemed however, his ways were not to her liking. He was the brasher of the two boys, and she'd seemed to prefer the quieter nature of his druid brother. Still, Illidan was determined to win her over.

But, no matter what he'd tried, her eyes remained only for Malfurion. Illidan had never felt such pain as he did when he'd stumbled upon the lovers enjoying an intimate moment. He was left without any doubt that Tyrande's love burned for the druid. And in that heartbeat, he knew she would never be his.

Rejected in favour of his brother, Illidan had not taken defeat of his heart well. He had become consumed by a need to prove himself better than his brother, in a vain attempt to show Tyrande she had chosen wrongly. Unfortunately for Illidan, all his attempts had only distanced her more and stirred doubt and suspicion amongst his people as to his true intentions for the elven nation.

As seemed Illidan's luck, others had not agreed with his ideas nor believed he'd had the best interests of his people at heart. They'd saw darkness in his deeds. His dealings with the Legion had come to light, although it had been greatly misinterpreted by his peers. Now his people saw only the runecloth bandage over his ruined eyes and the demonic markings on his body coupled with the heinous acts committed against his own kind. He was imprisoned.

A glimmer of hope came when none other than Tyrande had been instrumental in his release from imprisonment. She had informed him that his help was needed in fighting the Legion and as it was, no-one knew the demon psyche better than him. Yet, in his attempt to defeat the demons, this time by consuming the power of the Skull of Gul'dan, she'd rejected him again. As did Malfurion, who exiled him.

Her rejection this time had cut deep. In a bid to erase her from his mind and heart, he took to bedding sometimes two, three women a night. But, with each new lover he took, Tyrande's face was always the one he envisioned as he pounded into the woman beneath or on top of him. He'd had plenty concubines over the years, all more than willing to be taken to his bed. But still, all he saw was Tyrande. He'd seemed destined to be haunted by her.

Until the day a particular young night elf female arrived in Hellfire Peninsula.

Illidan had engineered the capture of the then Lord of Outland, Magtheridon, a monstrous half man, half reptilian pit lord and servant of the Burning Legion. Illidan had him incarcerated within Hellfire Citadel. There, he steadily drained the creature for its felblood. The idea was to create fel orcs that would submit under the new Lord of Outland, Illidan himself, becoming part of his increasing army.

It had been when Illidan was leaving the underground pit of Magtheridon's prison, that he came across Arcaena. Or rather, she came across him. At the sight of him emerging from the secreted entrance she had dared to confront him. Her intention had been to end the one called Betrayer, the one who had deceived her people and turned his back on them to serve the Burning Legion.

She had grown up hearing the stories of his despicable treachery, the way he stole vials of the sacred Well of Eternity and fed them into the pool on top of Mount Hyjal at Nordrassil. She was going to be the one who went down in history as the Slayer of the Betrayer.

He grinned as he recalled how indignant she was when he'd laughed at her. There she'd stood, poised, ready to thrust the killing blade into his gut. She'd came at him but he'd simply stepped aside and she'd disappeared into the secret entrance of the pit, having built up momentum from her lunge. Illidan's laughter taunted her and she'd tried again, hoping the shadows at the entrance permitted an advantage as he'd poked his head round the edge looking for her. Alas, he'd merely raised his arm and her blade was spinning in the air. He'd wrapped one of his wings around her, pulling her close, her back hard up against his chest.

As she'd struggled against his hold, he'd signalled to his lieutenants to restrain her and take her back to the Black Temple. He had kept her locked in a cage. Oh how she'd cursed him every time he'd walked within shouting distance.

He'd replied to her one day, "I am as cursed as I am going to get, so you should save your breath for more constructive criticism." He'd stood, arms crossed over his chest, glancing down at her. "And to save my ears from your screeching," he'd added, with mirth. At that remark she had went off on a tangent again.

Gradually, over weeks, she'd quietened, and eventually, although flanked by his guards, he'd allowed her out of the cage. It was under the clear understanding nevertheless, that she was to remain near him at all times. He'd promised no harm would come to her. It had been a mystery even to him as to why he treated her so.

Here was a woman who had grown up thinking she would end him, erase him from Azeroth completely. She had the temper of a cornered hyena and about as bad a bite too. He'd bit her back however, although not as hard as she'd bitten him. Nonetheless, the shock in her eyes and, if he was not mistaken a little hurt, made him apologise immediately. He'd warned her not to bite him again. She dutifully kept her teeth away from him.

More time passed, and Arcaena, as he'd finally got her to reveal her name, readily followed Illidan around the Temple. He'd took a huge leap of faith when he'd had to depart for Northrend and decided to allow her free reign in his chambers while he was gone.

He had returned badly injured, having been wounded deeply by none other than Arthas Menethil wielding his cursed blade, Frostmourne. He'd been surprised to find Arcaena still there, having assumed she would have tried to escape. His advisors had told him she had remained within his chambers all the time he was gone.

When she'd seen his injury she'd insisted on looking after him, shooing away all others, with the exception of the shamanistic healers.

In his delirium, he'd spoken of his determination to bring down the Burning Legion and all its servants. He'd mumbled about regrets at having taken good lives while in the service of Lord Ravencrest, but it had all been to deplete the forces of the Legion. He'd exacted a high cost using his willing aides but he'd believed he was doing what was right.

He'd even murmured Tyrande's name and how he'd wasted his affections all these years. His vain attempts at besting his brother were meaningless, pointless. He'd wanted to save his people, that's all he'd wanted to do.

This she'd relayed to him once he'd sufficiently recovered. She'd stayed by his side for days, checking his wound, changing bandages, administering medicines brought by the shamans, mopping his brow and wiping down his chest to keep the fever at bay.

When he had fully recovered, she'd told him that she realised her people had been narrow minded in their teaching of the elven history and had done Illidan a grave injustice. She'd wept as she'd apologised for being so blind.

He'd gently wiped away her tears and told her that her change of heart meant much to him and that he'd wished more of his people could see the truth. It had been a remarkably poignant moment, one which led to their first kiss. She had seen him at his worst and still she wanted him.

She'd then surprised him by asking to become like him, a demon hunter. He'd actually heard himself protesting, explaining that not all survived the ritual and he did not want to lose her. But she'd pleaded, saying she had seen what the Legion had been capable of in neighbouring villages to hers. She had also heard numerous horror stories of the Legion's relentless destructive force from his followers residing within the walls of the Black Temple. She'd wanted to see what he did through sightless eyes and demonic infusion. She'd wanted to be part of him.

That night he'd lay with her, her warm and loving embrace removing any residue of Tyrande Whisperwind from his mind, heart and soul.

She'd survived the demonic ritual; admirably too. And since then, she'd fought fiercely by his side in many battles and had loved him wholeheartedly during the nights.

He was inexorably drawn back to the present. His heart clenched. What if, after all they'd been through, their end was nigh? The day of the demon hunter was coming to an end. Perhaps he should have stood his ground and refused to let her become like him. She would have still loved him, but she would have had a chance to carry on as a normal elf. Unless something happened soon for his armies to rally against, their existence would be invalidated. He thumped his fists on the armrests. He needed something to do.

His spectral sight caught motion to his left. At first it was just a shadow, the light from the floor above causing it to elongate as its owner progressed down the ramp. Between the gap separating the upper floor and the ramp's descent, a pair of slender ankles appeared. Their appearance was subtly demonised by the small hocks just above the heels. They bled into long athletic, well-toned legs, topped by rounded hips. The figure disappeared momentarily in the shadows at the base of the ramp. Seconds later, those hips and legs reappeared, topped by a taut, muscular abdomen with pert, full breasts. Runic tattoos rippled on the dusky blue skin.

Illidan groaned with desire as the figure sashayed her way towards his throne.

With one hand behind her back, the other at the base of her neck she loosened the ties of the top which covered her breasts. As her hands dropped back into view, the top fell away and fluttered towards the floor. It flipped and folded until it made contact with the plush blue, purple and gold rug, then stilled in a small, soft heap.

He was instantly aroused by the sultry fluid gait of the approaching woman, his gaze falling to her breasts, free, bouncing softly as she walked. His runeband flared again as his vision drank in the figure of his wife, and first lieutenant Arcaena. His mouth curled at the corners, fangs catching the sliver of light from the window that looked out over the fel green, mountainous landscape.

She reached the base of his throne and seductively, knelt in front of him. Her breasts pressed against his knees and her hands on his thighs, slid upwards, slowly, teasingly. Her head tilted up to look at her husband, lover and master.

He traced a single taloned finger round her jaw, allowing the tip of a talon to rest on her succulent lips. "Arcaena." His voice was deep, husky and warm, filled with longing.

"Husband." She replied, her voice equally full of yearning. Her long fingers travelled up under the broad sash that belted his trousers and covered his arousal.

His mouth quivered as her hand worked its way under the fabric and encircled him, holding him firmly within her sanguine hibiscus scented fingers. He moaned, shifting slightly to allow her better access. Slowly she worked him, caressing his length, teasing with her thumb. He watched her face, the melting smile of a succubus playing at the corners of her mouth. His vision dropped to her hand movement beneath the sash. It was intoxicating!

"Have you ensured we will not be disturbed," he breathed.

"Of course, my Lord," Arcaena replied. Her fingers flexed upon him causing him to moan. The trademark lop-sided smile was moistened by her tongue, her intention clear.

Illidan undid the sash and pushed down the waist of his trousers, freeing himself completely. His large taloned hand cupped the back of her head and he steered her to him. Her mouth enveloped him completely. His head thumped back against the throne and he moaned as his wife pleasured him. What a beautifully wicked tongue she had. Her fingers kneaded his inner thighs, her thumbs brushing against his sac causing him to shudder beneath her touch, and deliver more of himself to her warm, eager mouth.

His demon tattoos flared as his seed stirred deep within preparing for its blissful journey. He turned his spectral gaze once more to Arcaena as her mouth rhythmically took him, heightening his desire with every downward motion and lap of her tongue. He leaned forward, his enormous hands sliding under her arms pulling her up, releasing himself from her oral embrace. He stood, lifting her with him. Stepping out of his trousers as they crumpled to the base of the throne he carried her towards a longue. Her legs wrapped around his waist, as his mouth crashed over hers. He was ravenous for her.

Laying her down on the cushioned longue, he undid the fastenings of her leggings and peeled them off in one fluid movement. He knelt and pushing her thighs apart, he draped her left leg over his shoulder as he clasped her right ankle, holding her in place. Slowly, his tongue traced down her thigh, his fangs just grazing her skin and no more, as he journeyed towards her moist, glistening sex.

She gasped, her back arching from the cushions as he probed within, kissing and sucking the soft flesh noisily. She clutched his horns as his tongue urgently lapped and teased, inserting deeper. Her sighs turned into moans of undeniable pleasure as her husband drew her climax steadily to fruition. But before she was allowed release he heaved his body up over hers and entered her powerfully, fully, his length and girth causing her to cry out.

Her hands fell to his broad tattooed pectorals which flexed beneath her touch as his body drove into her. He was magnificent, all muscle and power yet attentive amidst his fierce passion for the woman he loved deeply. Her wings trembled as her release approached the point of no return.

Skins became coated in a thin film of perspiration making the demonic markings glow even more luminous. With a bestial roar and his demon-hide membranes snapping out to their full wingspan, Illidan's seed flowed, pouring into her, her own release escaping with an anguished cry.

The mighty demon hunter trembled as his thrusting slowed, his breathing hot and heavy, wings encompassing the woman beneath his muscular frame. Illidan's face levelled with Arcaena's. "Wife," he said softly. "I can never get enough of you."

Arcaena's lop-sided smile graced her lips. "Nor I you, my Lord." She tugged his ponytail playfully.

His mouth twitched. She used his title in moments of passion. She loved the connotation of his masterful presence owning her, possessing her. But in truth, it was she who owned him.

His mouth hovered over hers, the anticipation of a quick recovery with the promise of more wet and slippery passion was rudely drawn to a halt by a very loud cough from the top of the ramp. At first Illidan considered ignoring the untimely interruption as he inhaled his wife's intoxicating scent, sanguine hibiscus mixed with the smell of her sex, hot, musky and incredibly erotic. A second, louder cough however, made it clear his desire had to wait.

He grunted his displeasure. Folding the immense wings back, he sat up and gently swung his wife's legs round so her feet graced the floor. She stood, and as he placed a playful slap on her buttocks, she picked up her leggings before slinking off to the left of the enormous chamber, to the Darnassian screen, behind which a pitcher and bowl stood on an ornate dresser. There she washed and pulled on her leggings.

Illidan strode over to the carved throne with its plush cushion and backing. He stooped and collected his trousers, then pulled them on over his powerful legs. Closing the ties he secured the sash in its place before he ordered the cougher entry. He had settled in his throne once more as he watched Kayn Sunfury descending the curved ramp.

Illidan smirked. Kayn had always been uncomfortable when Illidan and Arcaena were in close proximity of each other. His embarrassment at the slightest show of affection was noticeable in his awkward stance and lowered head. If he had heard them in the throes of passion as he was about to announce his arrival, then Illidan doubted very much that he would have been able to enter the chamber at all.

The blood elf demon hunter obviously knew what his Lord and Lady had been doing. His forced posture and chin jutting towards the far wall indicated his discomfiture as he came to a halt in front of Illidan. It was then that the leader of the demon hunters noticed his wife's top still lying in soft folds on the floor, mere inches from where Kayn stood.

He had to suppress the laughter bubbling in his chest. Not only had Kayn been subjected to witnessing the piece of cloth which had once covered Arcaena's breasts as it lay on the floor shouting the obvious, but Arcaena herself, being topless, would not be able to come out from behind the screen until the second lieutenant had left the chamber. He was sorely tempted to pick it up and toy with it while Kayn gave his report, but decided that was perhaps a bit cruel and also a tad immature. It would have amused him though.

"So, Kayn, what is the report?"

Kayn cleared his throat before proceeding. His head still rigidly looking towards the far wall he spoke almost regimentally. "Northrend has had several sightings near Icecrown, mainly felhounds. They have been routed and destroyed. Infernals, abyssal and imps were terrorising Star's Rest in Dragonblight and Satyrs roamed Sholazar Basin. All have been despatched, my Lord. In Kalimdor a small number of darkhounds have been spotted amongst the hyenas of Uldum, but they too have..."

Illidan leaned on his fist as he listened to the all too familiar list of different continents' clusters' of demon strays and their indubitable demise. His demon hunters were diligent in their work and he had no doubt that they made every effort and even went beyond their call of duty to ensure that Azeroth was protected against any deluded demonic masses. As such, his mind started to drift off as his spectral sight once more came to rest on the piece of fabric on the floor which belonged Arcaena. She would be seething behind that screen now. It would be an immense pleasure in cooling her irritation after Kayn left the chamber.

"...but it is the portal that gives us great concern."

Illidan remained motionless.

"My Lord?" Kayn finally turned his bound eye sockets towards his leader.

The demon hunter shifted, suddenly aware he was actually being spoken to instead of listening to the lengthy report. "Portal?" he asked.

"Yes, Lord. There is definitely a disturbance behind the Dark Portal. One which we think is not of the Legion's making. The orcs who passed through seem to think that anyhow."

Illidan's long tapered ears pricked. He sat straight in his throne. "Orcs? What orcs?"

Kayn's posture relaxed slightly. "They were not Iron Horde, they were Frostwolf and they did not so much see anything, my Lord as...sensed something. Although it was faint, there was an ominous presence through the portal. Enough to cause the orcs to come through and attempt to warn us."

"Where are these orcs now?"

"We took them to Dalaran."

Most opportune, Illidan thought. The leader of the Kirin Tor would be very interested in this development.

Archmage Khadgar had been attempting to neutralise the floating metropolis again, following the defeat of the Burning Legion. This had received a mixed reaction from many who heavily protested the inclusion of the Horde again to the city following the debatable fusion of the factions at the Broken Shore. The King of Stormwind had almost lost his life there when the Horde decided to flee. Granted, their own Warchief had been mortally wounded at the time, but a large portion of Alliance loyalists still saw the Horde's hasty retreat from the Broken Shore as nothing short of a betrayal. A sure sign they were not to be trusted. As such, Khadgar's determination to unite the factions still, was not welcomed by everyone.

This recent development however, required the Archmage's attention. "Have you sent word to Khadgar?" Illidan asked his second lieutenant.

"No, my Lord. I thought it best to confer with you first."

"Then you have an order. Go, tell him we must meet in Dalaran and speak with these orcs."

"Yes, my Lord." Kayn bowed, then turned and climbed back up the ramp.

Glancing over his shoulder Illidan spoke to Arcaena who still waited behind the screen, topless. "I will have you later, my love." He picked up the skimpy fabric and placed it on his throne. "Make yourself decent wife, we have business."

Finally, his interest was piqued. He almost smelled it in the air.

The Void.