Notes: if I'm not mistaken, this is the first time Morathi, meets Prince Tyrion. I know, she wasn't on the battlefield. But of course in my version she was. This is just a small piece that I was inspired to write for those desperately in search of Morathi/Tyrion stories as there aren't any. I believe this one would be the first and so I hope that this will inspire others to start filling this category and hopefully we can go to make it on fanfiction too.
P.S I only played Total War: Warhammer 2 so I had to do a little research in order to start my fic so be cool if I made a lore mistake in this story. Oh yes and the name of the hydra was of my creation.
enjoy.
The first light of dawn barely pierced the thick, ominous clouds that hung low over the battlefield. It was a scene of chaos and devastation. The once vibrant fields were now littered with the bodies of fallen warriors from both sides, High Elves and Dark Elves alike. Steel clashed against steel, brother against brother, and the cries of the wounded filled the air.
The Battle of Finuval Plains was not a random clash but a premeditated onslaught orchestrated by the invading forces of Chaos and the Druchii, the Dark Elves. The High Elves, or Asur, had stood valiantly against the tide of darkness, trying to protect their homeland, Ulthuan, from utter desecration. The Druchii, led by the malevolent sorceress Morathi and her cruel son Malekith, sought nothing less than the complete annihilation of their kin and to retake what was rightfully theirs. The forces of Chaos, seeking to spread entropy and corruption, joined the fray, creating an unholy alliance that brought unparalleled destruction to the peaceful lands of the Asur.
Finuval Plains, situated in Saphery ,once a place of serene beauty and lush greenery, was chosen as the battlefield due to its strategic importance. It served as a vital junction between the inner kingdoms of Ulthuan and the outer regions, a key defense point that the High Elves could not afford to lose. As the battle raged on, the pristine land was tainted with blood and fire, transforming it into a nightmarish wasteland.
Warriors in gleaming armor moved like shadows through the smoke, their blades flashing with lethal intent. High Elf archers, positioned on the remaining hills, rained arrows upon the enemy, their aim unerring even as their hearts wavered at the sight of their fallen comrades. On the ground, the elite infantry of the White Lions, clad in their lion pelts, fought with ferocious strength, determined to hold their ground against the relentless Druchii onslaught.
Among the Dark Elves, the Black Guard of Naggarond moved with a discipline and precision that spoke of their brutal training. Their halberds cut through flesh and bone with chilling efficiency, their dark armor absorbing the light and hope of those they fought against. Above them, the sky was thick with the forms of dragon riders and mages, casting spells that crackled with raw power, adding to the chaos below.
From her war tent, Morathi, the Hag Sorceress, watched the great battle that had unfolded. Through the eyes of her pet hydra, Lyandra, she delighted in the carnage, each Asur life snuffed out bringing a cruel smile to her lips. Lyandra, with its multiple heads snapping and roaring, cut a path of destruction through the High Elf lines, leaving a trail of blood and broken bodies in its wake. There was a certain joy in watching her beast work, a sense of fulfillment in seeing her enemies crushed beneath its mighty claws.
Suddenly, something caught her attention amidst the melee. A warrior, resplendent in golden armor, fighting with a ferocity and skill that seemed almost otherworldly. For a moment, her heart skipped a beat. The figure reminded her of Aenarion, the legendary first Phoenix King, whose memory still haunted her after millennia. She felt a strange, long-forgotten emotion stir within her – excitement, perhaps even desire. But she quickly regained her composure, recognizing that this warrior was not Aenarion, but another who bore his likeness.
"So this is famous prince, I've been hearing about." she murmured to herself, her eyes narrowing with calculating intent. " A proper introduction is in order."
Tyrion, the young prince and champion of the High Elves, knelt beside the body of his fallen teacher, Korhien Ironglaive of the White Lions. The great warrior had met his end in single combat against Urian Poisonblade, the feared champion of Malekith, not even a moment ago. Korhien's lifeless eyes stared up at the sky, his body still and cold. A storm of emotions raged within Tyrion – grief, rage, and a burning desire for vengeance.
With trembling hands, Tyrion closed Korhien's eyes and rose to his feet, his gaze locking onto Urian. "I challenge you," he shouted, his voice carrying over the din of battle. Urian turned, a sinister grin spreading across his face as he accepted the challenge. The two warriors clashed with a fury that seemed to shake the very ground beneath them, their blades ringing out as they met again and again.
From her vantage point, Morathi watched the duel with great interest. Tyrion fought with the skill and grace of a master, his movements a blur of deadly precision. But Urian was a formidable opponent, his strikes swift and merciless. The battle between them was a dance of death, each seeking the other's end with every move.
As the duel wore on, it became clear that Urian was gaining the upper hand. Tyrion stumbled, his strength waning under the relentless assault. For the first time in millennia, Morathi felt a pang of panic. She could not afford to lose such a promising warrior, one who could be so useful to her plans. Desperation drove her to act. Through her bond with Lyandra, she commanded the hydra to intervene.
Lyandra, with a sudden, savage lunge, devoured Korhien's body whole. Tyrion, still reeling from his fall, watched in horror as his teacher's remains disappeared into the beast's maw. For a moment, time seemed to freeze as he locked eyes with the hydra, its purple gaze boring into him. Then, just as abruptly, the beast lost interest and moved away, leaving Tyrion stunned and helpless.
As Tyrion gathered himself, the sounds of approaching footsteps reached his ears. Dark Elf soldiers surrounded him, their eyes cold and merciless. Weakened and disarmed, he was quickly overpowered, his hands and feet bound with cruel efficiency. Sunfang, his revered sword, was torn from his grasp, leaving him defenseless.
The Dark Elves dragged him through the battlefield, the chaos and carnage all around him a grim reminder of his people's plight. Tyrion's heart ached with the loss and the bitter sting of defeat, but even in captivity, a flicker of defiance remained in his eyes. He knew this was not the end, and as long as he drew breath, he would find a way to fight back against the darkness that threatened to consume Ulthuan.
Tyrion was brought into Morathi's tent, a luxurious and darkly opulent structure that stood in stark contrast to the battlefield outside. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, and the air was thick with the scent of incense. Tyrion, though battered and bloodied, held his head high, his eyes blazing with defiance.
The tent was draped in luxurious silks and dimly lit by flickering candles, casting eerie shadows on the walls. The exotic incense that hung heavy in the air, was designed to lull and entice. There in the center, Morathi awaited him, reclining on a lavish divan, her presence commanding and undeniably alluring.
Her appearance was both ethereal and dangerous. Her raven hair cascaded down her shoulders, contrasting with her pale skin. She wore a flowing gown of deep purple, intricately woven with symbols of dark magic, which clung to her form and accentuated her allure. Her eyes, like pools of darkness, locked onto his as he was brought before her.
She watched as her guards deposited Tyrion at her feet, her lips curling into a smile.
"Prince Tyrion" she purred, rising gracefully." You fought valiantly, as always."
Tyrion glared at her, his jaw clenched. "Spare me your false flattery, witch."
Her smile never faded as she approached the Asur prince.
"I'm sorry, I can barely see your face behind that hideous helmet."
She gestured to the guards. "Remove this infernal thing," she commanded and then a smirk played across her lips." And his armor."
The guards moved to obey, stripping Tyrion of his helmet and gleaming armor, leaving him in his tunic and breeches. Tyrion's grip tightened on his bindings, but he forced himself to remain calm.
"By the end of this day, You and your son's heads will be on pikes." he said, his voice steady.
She laughed and Tyrion's heart skipped a beat at the melodic sound.
"Leave us," Morathi commanded, her voice brooking no argument. The guards hesitated only for a moment before obeying, leaving them alone.
She moved closer, her every step a calculated seduction. Her fingers, delicate and cool, traced the edges of his now-exposed clothing. "Must we always be at odds, Tyrion?" Her voice was but a whisper, each word a caress. Her one hand moved down the front of his shoulder towards his stomach. She was pleased to feel how his muscles tensed under her touch but her hand abruptly stopped when it felt wetness. her smile disappeared completely.
It was his blood.
She returned to meet his gaze and knelt beside him, her hands glowing with a soft, healing light. "You're injured," she murmured, reaching out to touch his wound. "Let me tend to you."
Tyrion recoiled from her touch, his eyes narrowing. "I don't need your help," he spat.
"Still as stubborn as I remember" Morathi sighed.
"What are you talking about?" Tyrion voiced out. Desperately trying to sound calm amidst the growing heat from their close proximity to one another.
"You." Tyrion's breath hitched as she leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. "You remind me so much of Aenarion," she murmured, her words dripping with longing. "His stubbornness, his courage, his strength... his passion."
"Who... Who are you?"
"I am Morathi. The true Phoenix Queen of Ulthuan and pride of Aenerion."
"Impossible!"
Her smile returned. Her touch grew more insistent, her proximity overwhelming. "It is true and you are Aenarion's heir," she insisted, her voice both pleading and commanding. "His blood runs in your veins. You cannot deny the bond we share."
Tyrion struggled against his bonds, his heart pounding. "The only bond we share is one of enmity, Morathi. You seek to corrupt what Aenarion stood for, to twist it to your own ends."
Morathi's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint in their depths. "You think you are so righteous, so above the rest. Yet here you are, a captive in my tent, at my mercy. What has your honor brought you, Tyrion?"
He met her gaze unflinchingly. "Honor, Morathi, is something you will never understand. It is what binds me to Alarielle, to Ulthuan. It is why I fight, and why I will never yield to you."
Her eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and desire. "We shall see about that," she said softly.
With a flick of her wrist, dark tendrils of magic surged from her fingertips, wrapping around Tyrion's limbs. He fought against them, muscles straining, but the bonds tightened inexorably, pulling him towards the bed.
"What are you doing!" Tyrion growled, struggling fiercely. But she was relentless, the tendrils lifting him and binding him to the ornate bed. His arms were stretched above his head, wrists secured to the headboard, his legs similarly restrained.
She leaned over him, her face inches from his, a triumphant smile playing on her lips. "Your time with that harlot is through." She paused, her eyes locking with his. "You are mine now."
Before he could respond, she pressed her lips to his, the kiss deep and lingering. It was a kiss of both passion and domination, meant to conquer and claim. Despite himself, Tyrion felt a surge of conflicting emotions, his resistance momentarily faltering. Her kiss was intoxicating, a potent blend of allure and danger that left him breathless.
When she finally pulled away, she left him gasping for air, his mind a whirlwind of fury and unwanted desire. Her eyes sparkled with satisfaction as she straightened, her expression one of triumphant conquest.
"You will remain here," she said, her voice filled with a mix of satisfaction and menace. "Perhaps some time alone will help you see reason."
"This isn't over, Witch!"
"You right my dear." As she turned to leave, she looked at him once more." This is just the beginning."