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redisaid · 9 months ago

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Strangers - Part 1 of ??

A very special shoutout to @jujoobedoodling for their amazing art, and for sharing this neat little idea with me when I asked if there's any sort of fics they'd like to see.

So, fellas, is it gay to make Sylvaina fall in love over prison letters, in a nutshell? I dunno. Let's find out.

5146 Words

Read it on Ao3!

“I wasn’t expecting company.”

Jaina wants to assure her she didn't come to stare at her like she's some sabercat in a cage—teeth dulled on the bars, roar hoarse and failing. Only she realizes now that this is exactly why she's come. A wave of shame threatens to crash over her, but she dismisses it. She came to deliver Veressa’s letter, and to banish the notion that Sylvanas Windrunner truly was a stranger to her.

Staring at Sylvanas, waiting for her to rattle the bars of her would be cage, would do neither of those things for her.

“Certainly not you,” Sylvanas continues, drawling out the last word with her high, nasally elven accent, still chiming in a banshee double-tone.

They stand now in the Maw, where Jaina had been asked by her friend to draw an interdimensional portal to deliver a letter to her sister as only she and a handful of other mages on Azeroth could. Jaina had been reluctant to agree. She had refused at first, of course.

But here she was, all the same.

You, with that drawl and sneer and the arrow still aimed between her eyes, was about all that Jaina deserved from this woman. After all, Vereesa was right—at best, they were strangers.

“What is it you’ve come for? To deliver more demands from Tyrande? To report to her? To make sure I am completing my penance? Or did you come to gloat?”

The accusations pile up. Jaina lets them. She scans the tangle of strange and unnatural rocks jutting from the charcoal earth of this literal hell. It doesn’t take her long to realize she’s stumbled upon Sylvanas’ camp. Her home here in the Maw, simple, but well lived-in. The undead have no need for food or sleep and suffer minimally from lack of shelter, and while Jaina knows this, she still observes a makeshift bedroll, the embers of a dying fire, clustered close to a lean-to made mostly of chunks of dull grey metal, once the armor of some great beast or terrible construct long since vanished after its master’s defeat.

It has been a year on Azeroth. Jaina knows time stretches in the Shadowlands, but not by a factor of how much. She wonders how long it has been since Sylvanas has seen another person. Two years? A decade? A century?

The woman herself is little better than her camp. Her armor sits beside the fire, mostly shrugged off in rest, and while it looks well-kept, it is still worn. The dark leathers she wears beneath it, and now exclusively, are much the same. At first glance, they do not look so different as when she lay in Oribos after her own defeat, as Uther bade them to wait for her to wake and explain her actions. However, Jaina’s keen eyes find the rips and the tears, the mending that has been executed with scraps of grey cloth and grey metal and grey leather fashioned from the skin of a grey, doubly dead beast. Everything here is grey. Hell is devoid of color, but Sylvanas’ eyes burn into her, bright and blue, demanding an answer.

So she gives it, “None of those are my reason. Your sister, my friend…Vereesa asked me to come.”

Truly, Vereesa’s choices were limited. Only those who had walked the Maw, of their volition or Sylvanas’, could safely find it again. Only fewer of the great mages of Azeroth were capable of entering it without going through Oribos, or asking permission from the entities that ruled there. Jaina, Khadgar, and a few heroic Mawwalkers perhaps were the only ones who could have delivered this letter. And while Jaina had been reluctant, she was not about to offer Khadgar the excuse to use this place as another of his many distractions if Vereesa were to ask him instead.

At least, that was another one of her reasons for accepting.

Only now does the arrow lower, and the bow with it. At the mention of her sister’s name, Sylvanas gives up her fight.

“How can I trust her not to tear me apart, if we’re to be alone there?” Jaina had asked the youngest Windrunner sister, back in her office in Boralus, days ago.

“I suppose you can’t,” had been Vereesa’s answer. “You don’t know her.”

Jaina holds out the letter. It is folded neatly and sealed and she has done her best to resist the temptation to read it or even scry upon it with magic. Such is her trust for Vereesa. Her sister, not so much.

Perhaps this will be the end of it, then. She’ll deliver her letter. She’ll make arrangements for a response. She’ll leave. Sylvanas will go back to gathering souls, living even though she does not live, in this ramshackle camp—this prison of her own making. Jaina will have done something good and satisfied her curiosity. The sabercat will wither in her cage, having gained only further shame from her observation.

Jaina isn’t sure why she expects anything more than that, but she does.

“She wrote you a letter,” she explains. “I’m not able to bring her here like this for her to deliver it herself. Perhaps something can be arranged for her to visit by other means, if you’re interested.”

Sylvanas hesitates. Jaina watches her think.

She watches her closely, waiting for the muscles in her broad shoulders to twitch and aid in pointing her bow upward again. She finds more rends in her leathers, more attempts at mending. She watches, and finds a woman determined, though for what she isn’t certain.

Sylvanas Windrunner as she is now is a stranger to her. Once, her eyes burned red with rage and hatred and it was easy enough to say that Jaina had known her as an enemy. She and her Forsaken whispered, “Death to the living,” though they were of the same people Jaina had once led in Theramore—survivors of Lordaeron, as it were. Scarred in different ways by the same man.

Yet as before, even when Uther, dead and scarred by the same hand, bid Jaina to see reason and work with Sylvanas to defeat the Jailer, she cannot help but to fall into old habits. Magic pulses at her fingertips, waiting. She is ready for Sylvanas to attack her. She is ready to know her as an enemy once again.

This woman burned Teldrassil. She’d resurrected Derek to use against her. She’d blighted her own city in a rage rather than give it to the Alliance, to Jaina specifically, who had turned that battle in their favor.

Jaina is certain that this is still what she is—a burner and blighter, a screaming banshee that knows only hatred—and she’s ready for her.

She is not ready for Sylvanas to put down her bow and the arrow knocked within it, and begin to walk over to meet her.

She’s not ready for the soft muttering that follows, and the wry chuckle that comes with it, “I doubt Tyrande would allow me such a luxury as a visit from my sister.”

This is no banshee, no formless enemy. No, Sylvanas is an elf, still undead and still much unchanged from the last time Jaina saw her, but now walking toward her with purpose. She moves like Alleria, proud and powerful. She smirks a little, the same way as Vereesa does when she thinks no one is looking. Her hair, though dull and ashen in death, is a shade between Alleria’s honey gold and Vereesa’s cool silver.

“You’re so certain she’s changed?” Jaina had asked Vereesa before she’d left. “You were only allowed to speak with her for a few minutes.”

“I know my sister, Jaina,” Vereesa had replied, head tilted upward, smiling. “I know that I have her back, or I will, should she ever be allowed to return home.”

Where is home, Jaina wonders, holding out the letter, to a woman who died for her country, and razed the one she built out of the ashes of a nation everyone else abandoned?

If and when she completes her penance, who will want Sylvanas Windrunner, burner of trees, blighter of cities? Manipulated or not, she did these things. No amount of souls ferried to better places can change that. And while Vereesa claims much, she cannot move the inevitable mountains that will stand in her way if she chooses to defend her sister, to make a home for her in Azeroth again one day.

The dip of Sylvanas’ head upon her graceful neck seems to say to Jaina that she knows this. The way she holds up her hands, bare and long-fingered without any gloves or gauntlets to cover them, tells Jaina she knows what she is to her—an enemy still. A problem unwanted, surely.

But still, Jaina had agreed to come here. She is determined to make sure that the reason for it all was not as simple as gawking at a toothless beast, though Sylvanas doesn’t seem as though she will bite.

She takes the letter from her. She looks to her. She waits.

“I can’t speak for Tyrande, or any authority Oribos and its contingent might have on the matter,” Jaina tells her. “But I can deliver a reply, if you want.”

Now this close to her, Jaina can tell Sylvanas is taller than her sisters. More broad-shouldered like Alleria than slight as Vereesa is, bordering between both of them with the elder’s wildness and Vereesa’s well-manicured elven beauty. She is neither and both, but seems to have maintained some semblance of grooming, despite having no one to look nice for. Her hair is combed and neat. She is clean, with only the barest hint of the grey dust and ash that swirls in the air of this place clinging to her skin.

That grey, at least, is warm in nature, and Sylvanas’ is cold, more toward purple. Their meeting is an interesting contrast of hues.

“Very well,” she answers, one long finger tracing the seal on the letter as she eyes it. “I would offer you tea while you wait, but I have no such thing.”

While she waits. Jaina hadn’t assumed she’d be allowed to, asked to, or really anything but run off with sneers and insults at best, arrows at worst.

She supposes that if she hadn’t seen another person in a year, she too would want them to stay a while, no matter who they were. But has it been longer? The state of Sylvanas’ clothes says yes.

Jaina endeavors to break any falling of awkward silence to seek the answer, “It has been a year or so, on Azeroth, since I returned from the Shadowlands. Has it been the same for you?”

She stiffens, recalling who it was who brought her here the first time, though she saw little of Sylvanas then. Only the Mawsworn that were meant to hold her captive, and keep her from escaping Torghast, though she managed to do so several times. Jaina knows now that her purpose in doing so was just to keep her out of the way—to keep her from interfering with what was to be done with Anduin.

Anduin, another reason for her to come here. Yet she did not find him. The Maw is but one of many possible places the boy could have gone, though he’s hardly a boy anymore. Jaina knows what he did and was made to do weighs heavily on him. She’d thought that maybe he too would seek penance, and wouldn’t care if it was his own to seek, yet there is no sign of him here. This camp is meant only for one.

“There is no day or night here for me to know,” Sylvanas tells her as she slides a sharp-looking fingernail beneath the wax seal and opens the letter. “One could keep track by counting the hours, I suppose, but trust me, it is a dull pastime. It has been a long time. A very long time.”

A long time, Jaina thinks, to wear the same clothes and see no one but lost souls.

A spectral fluttering of wings catches her eye and reminds her that Sylvanas does have one other companion besides the souls she ferries. Dori’thur’s wide eyes catch Jaina’s as she looks up into the canopy formed by this tangle of rock, ironically almost nest-like. The owl spirit makes no motion to acknowledge her, so carefully does she watch her charge instead. Doomed or honored to be her warden, Jaina can’t decide. The owl, it seems, does not care either way. She just watches.

Sylvanas follows her gaze, and a little smile creaks its way into lips that seem to forget how to bend that way. “Don’t mind the owl. It loves to stare.”

“She. Dori’thur,” Jaina corrects.

Sylvanas’ blue eyes are wide for a moment, drinking in the information in a way that shows it is clearly new to her. No one bothered to tell her the name of her warden, really?

“I didn’t know,” Sylvanas confesses. “And here I’ve just been calling you owl this whole time,” she calls up at the spire of twisted stone that Dori’thur perches on.

The spirit cocks her head just slightly at Sylvanas, the first and only acknowledgement she gives.

Jaina stands for a moment, maybe two. She looks around at the humble camp, the spectral owl, the once fearsome undead elf in her ragged leathers, reading her letter with blue eyes that look strange on her.

Sylvanas looks up once Jaina’s gaze comes to rest on her. Her long brows furrow briefly, simmering in the awkwardness, the wrongness of this.

They have never met, despite all the things they both share and do not share, in a way that allowed them the luxury of quiet conversation. And despite the nagging curiosity that dragged her here, the continued insistence by Vereesa that she did not know her, or least as anything but an enemy, Jaina does not know what to say to her.

So instead, she offers, “I can go, and return after a time to allow you your privacy.”

Sylvanas nearly drops the letter. She takes a step toward her. She catches herself and does not take a second. She reaches out a bare and empty hand to Jaina, then drops it to her side immediately upon realizing what she’s done.

“No. No,” she says, trying to make the words come out not as a plea, but anything else. “A while for you is longer for me. I would—I would rather be as prompt as possible, you understand. I have my penance to work on, still more souls to guide. I don’t have time to wait around for you to return here.”

It is a poor excuse, and they both know it. They know it in the silence between the ask Sylvanas isn’t actually asking and the reply Jaina struggles to give. They know it in the way Sylvanas reaches for her, a woman she does not know in any other way but an enemy, and apparent friend to her younger sister and her owl warden, because she and her letter and her excuses for delivering it are the only reason she’s had any contact with something remotely like herself in a long, long time.

Jaina is living and breathing and human and annoyed, but curious. She is not undead and newly made whole of soul again, though she supposes that’s not so new anymore. She knows, though, that she cannot possibly understand what it is Sylvanas is thinking as she reaches for her. But still, she reaches.

Jaina does not leave. “I will wait then.”

Where she will wait is the question, really, and she sees Sylvanas ask it of herself too as she looks back toward her camp. Still, she gestures for Jaina to follow her.

It is a strange time she lives in, Jaina thinks, as she does.

And this is how she ends up seated on a stool of chipped rock, across the dying fire from where Sylvanas sits on her bed roll, reading her letter.

Sylvanas is undead and does not need a bed or a stool or a fire. Her owl warden is a spirit of nature and needs no comforts as well. Yet Sylvanas has made them, and taken the time to make them. She reads and sits cross-legged like a child. Jaina’s eyes pick at her leathers still, finding more wear and tear as she reads, counting the patches and stitches. It irks her. For some reason, of all the things, the state of her clothes bothers Jaina the most.

She’s never seen Sylvanas in anything other than fine armor, meant to intimidate as much as it was to impress. And while she still has fine armor, stacked neatly by the fire in her rest, Jaina can see that too is worn.

“Do you want new things?” Jaina eventually asks. She can’t stand the silence any longer, though from the rustling of the second of four pages, she knows Sylvanas isn’t done reading.

Sylvanas looks up. Her blue eyes dart from Jaina to her armor and herself. To the contrast of warm grey dust and cool grey skin. The mended rips and tears of her leathers match the similar state of her skin. Scars abound as little pale points and lines, streaking across her like stars in the night sky. Just barely visible at the tip of her sternum, beneath the dark leather, a gnarled and twisting point belies the deep scar where Frostmourne rent her and stole her soul, for the first time.

Sylvanas seems disturbed by the question, or perhaps by her own appearance. Maybe both. “I have done the best I could to maintain what I was given.”

“I didn’t mean to criticize,” Jaina tells her immediately, because this is the line she must draw and draw right away, regardless of how many cities this woman may have burned, or under whose influence she burned them. “It’s just—well, with Vereesa’s help, I’m sure, we could get you new things.”

“She has not mentioned this in her letter thus far,” Sylvanas says, holding up the paper as if it were the armor she so desperately seems to want to hide within now.

“She has not seen you,” Jaina tells her.

And I do not know you, she tells herself.

Jaina does not know her, but she knows the scars that form the map of the stars that make up her skin. She knows which is Frostmourne, which is the line under her eye from Saurfang’s ax at the Mak’gora. She knows there’s another from an ice lance she’s thrown, yes there, near her left elbow where there was a gap in her old skull armor.

She can feel that Sylvanas wants to shrink under her gaze, to disappear. But she does not. She sits up a little, chest out, daring Jaina to say something else.

“Then I’ll draft a list in my reply, and trust that you’ll explain the reasoning behind it,” Sylvanas offers in challenge.

“I will.”

Dori’thur, thankfully, chooses this time to swoop down and alight herself onto the top of Sylvanas’ lean-to, rather than leave them to simmer in silence again.

The owl looks between them, then at the paper in Sylvanas’ hands. Sylvanas, having gone back to reading, simply says, “Not for you, owl.”

“Dori’thur,” Jaina reminds.

“Not for you, Dori’thur. What an odd name,” Sylvanas notes, but says nothing else.

“Does she leave you to report to Tyrande?” Jaina wonders, watching both the owl and her charge now.

“That would require her to stop watching me, so no. I do not know how or if Tyrande knows what she sees. Frankly, it matters little to me. I have said that I will do what was asked of me. I do not need a babysitter to ensure that I do,” Sylvanas tells her.

Though Jaina catches something in the middle of her words. A brief dashing of blue eyes. Another little smirk, elven and wry and lopsided in such a way that’s distinctly Windrunner. She wonders who was the first to hold it. Alleria? Their mother or father? Or a Windrunner before them? An elf so ancient Jaina struggles with the numbers.

All she knows is that Sylvanas seems to enjoy the company of her warden, in a way. And that her little secret smile is something Jaina never thought she’d see on that face.

Objectively, dead and haunted and guilty as she is, she’s beautiful still. All the Windrunners are, after all.

Sylvanas is looking up at her again, expecting Jaina to challenge that notion. She’s probably expecting her to question this camp, this fire, these small comforts. The time she takes to mend her ragged clothes. The rest she dares to seek from time to time, though there are no days or nights here in the Maw to track it by.

Jaina clears her throat. “How goes it then, your work?” she asks, and nearly immediately regrets it for how silly that sounds.

How goes it, rounding up the souls you doomed to an eternity of torture? How goes it, making up for decisions that were not entirely yours, but still part and parcel wishes of your own? How goes it, living in the prison of your own failures, alone save for an owl that does nothing but stare at you?

There is a justice in this, yes. Jaina wants to sink into that and never leave. It is easier to feel like this is justice in action she’s seeing. The tedium and wear of it all are things Sylvanas deserves to endure. She deserves worse, depending on who is asking.

But the woman in front of her looks tired. She is as worn as her clothing, body as stiff and rigid as her defensive words.

Jaina will not deny her the comfort a fire and a rest might bring, now and then, though she doesn’t understand why Sylvanas seeks them. Either way, demanding she go without is a cruelty beyond necessity.

“It goes,” Sylvanas answers. “There are still many more for me to find. Torghast alone will take countless more visits to empty. The Beast Warrens are a maze I’ve still yet to properly map and account for, among other such haunts in this hellish place.”

She does not say more. She reads. Jaina watches. Dori’thur too. Sylvanas sneaks a glance at her every now and then, blue eyes flitting fast over the edge of the parchment, then back below it.

Jaina waits, as she said she would.

Sylvanas Windrunner is a stranger to her, but invited her to what home she had here all the same.

“I miss her,” Vereesa had told her, before she left. “I thought the sister I knew was gone, but I know now that she’s still herself, or is now, at least. I had mourned her, Jaina. I had mourned her for years, but now I can say that I miss her. She’s not gone, she’s just not here. And I don’t know when she’ll be back. You can’t blame me for trying.”

Jaina didn’t blame her.

Flipping to page three of Vereesa’s loopy handwriting, Sylvanas says, “I must look a sight to you, for you to say something about the state of my gear.”

Jaina corrects herself. She does not know Sylvanas, but she knew one thing about her, well, about who she once was. She was notoriously vain, and though Vereesa claimed this was exaggerated, she was known to repeatedly tell a story about how Sylvanas had screamed at her once for getting mud on her dress right as she was headed out the door for a Ranger ball, like she thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

And Jaina has just come here to her prison, the first other person she’s seen in gods know how long, handed her a letter, and told she looked a mess.

“It just seems to have been some time, that’s all,” Jaina assures her.

Sylvanas huffs a laugh she hides behind parchment, just like the odd blue of her eyes. Jaina struggles to replace it with the red of her memories.

“If there’s anything else you want, such that I could carry with me through a portal, then ask it,” Jaina offers, perhaps out of guilt.

Perhaps out of curiosity again, for what this woman might ask for. What comforts she might crave.

Sylvanas eyes her at this statement. It seems this is the first time she really takes Jaina in, perhaps to assess her intentions, or perhaps to assess how much she can carry. Jaina isn’t sure. But she knows she now feels like that sabercat in the cage. She wonders if Sylvanas still thinks she has her teeth.

She thinks, perhaps, that she doesn’t want the judgment of a virtually immortal and beautiful elf. Undead though she is, scarred and worn, she thinks Sylvanas might have plenty of criticisms to offer over her messy braid, the prudish nature and drab colors of her Kul Tiran garb, or the crows feat that have begun to claw in earnest at the dull blue of Jaina’s eyes, which only glow when she shows her real teeth.

Instead of worrying about that, Jaina wonders what she might ask for, if she were to spend potential centuries in hell doing penance. Something to pass the time. Playing cards, perhaps? Though Solitaire would get old quickly, and Dori’thur doesn’t look like she’d be much competition at Hearthstone. An instrument to play? Surely those nimble fingers of Sylvanas’ would be clever on a lute or lyre or something elven and haughty and old. Jaina had never learned to play anything with proficiency in all of her thirty-eight years of life, but might come out of such a situation fairly talented at the fiddle or flute. Her brothers would be impressed, surely.

But what would Sylvanas do, to pass the time, in her idle moments? Would she fletch arrows for game that didn’t exist, and flesh she didn’t need to eat, enemies already defeated? Would she sharpen the shortsword Jaina could see resting in its scabbard beside the fire on a whetstone until it was honed and wicked, only to have nothing to plunge it into?

Would Jaina ever be able to consider anything but war-like interests for her, even as she saw Sylvanas considering her from her bedroll, shoulders bare, hair loose, clearly not ready for any sort of battle?

“Paper,” she answers. “Ink and a few quills too, if you’d be so generous.”

Paper was not anywhere close to the answer Jaina thought she’d give.

Sylvanas holds the letter up again as her armor, her shield, her weapon. “Vereesa has asked me to reply, for us to continue to correspond. I wish to write her back.”

“Right, that’s easy enough,” Jaina agrees.

“What was that hesitation? Afraid I’ll draw up plans for world domination upon my eventual return? I’m not interested, truly. Believe me, Proudmoore, it’s not worth it,” Sylvanas assures her.

There is mischief in those secret smiles. A spark in glowing blue eyes that dares Jaina to challenge it, but in the way a child challenges her friend to a foot race. A craving for competition, maybe, in any form, or companionship on the barest of levels.

“Jaina,” she corrects her. “If I am to continue to deliver said letters, as it were, you might as well call me Jaina. And I didn’t think you had your sights set so lofty, but thanks for clarifying.”

Sylvanas nods to this. “So many names have I earned today. Though I’ll still call Dori’thur ‘owl’. Osa is the Thalassian word. It has more punch, right, osa?”

Dori’thur cocks her head just slightly at the term, then slowly blinks her large eyes.

“Very astute, thank you for adding so much to the conversation, as always,” Sylvanas sighs.

Jaina supposes that she too, would talk to a silent owl, if she were left alone for so long. She would probably go insane long before her clothes began to wear out, if it were her.

“Either way, I’ll continue to deliver your letters,” Jaina assures her. “I hadn’t realized this was a more than once sort of favor I’m doing, but I suppose I should have.”

“I’d say Vereesa is lucky to befriend such a powerful mage and be able to make such inane requests of her, but she always did like mages,” Sylvanas notes, going back to reading and flipping to the final page of Vereesa’s letter.

This time, though, the smile stays on her face too long to be a secret. Long enough for Jaina to watch her get lost in a memory, maybe two, and still come out smiling.

Smiling at her sister, a fondness beyond ages and time and dimensions and death—and the reason, perhaps, why Vereesa felt compelled to write to her, and send her friend to check on her.

“Tea,” Sylvanas mutters, eyes still glued to the parchment.

“Padron?”

“Bring tea when you come back,” Sylvanas tells her.

“What kind do you like?” Jaina asks, uncertain. She didn’t think undead drank.

Even if they did, she wouldn’t know the answer. Vereesa likes chamomile, sometimes. She doesn’t really drink tea. Alleria, well, Jaina has never seen Alleria drink anything but alcohol and would be afraid to ask if had any other preferences for more sober sorts of beverages.

“Whatever kind you like. It’s not for me,” Sylvanas says.

“Are you telling me that you’d like me to bring tea for myself when I come back?” Jaina asks, needing desperately for something about this request to be clear to her.

Sylvanas laughs her little laugh. It sounds like it’s been sanded down, worn like the caged sabercat’s teeth, like tattered leathers.

“I suppose I am. I don’t want to be a bad host, but I’m afraid all I have to offer here are rocks and broken war machines and wandering souls. None of these are fit to drink, or to give to company.”

Company. Jaina hadn’t expected to be company to her. She hadn’t expected the hidden smiles and weary laughs and how Sylvanas had tried to cover the desperation in the way she reached out after her. She hadn’t expected to find her nestled in a little camp, forging a mockery of a life that had long been stolen from her and the comforts of living she no longer needed, but clearly still craved.

Jaina isn’t sure. She doesn’t know anymore. She didn’t, even as she first cast the portal spell this morning that would take her to the Maw. She was curious. She still is.

But company, she supposes, is a thing she can try to be.

#sylvaina #sylvanas windrunner #jaina proudmoore #fanfic #count me surprised to be this intrigued by a post-shadowlands premise but ok here we go

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echoedcrosshairs · 2 years ago

Text

Those Who Fight Together - part 3

Summary: Undescribed Jedi female continued story with The Bad Batch in 3rd person 🖤Smut with a Plot series🖤

Warning: NSFW, Crude language, Violence, PiV, Self pleasuring, Oral (m receiving), losing v card

Word Count: 6.5k

18+ NSFW NO MINORS

Part 2 Part 4

Story Master List

Echo had been sitting at the automatic pilots seat to long he started to doze out, continuous having to rub his eyes to stay awake. He took his feet off the dash and decided to get up and stretch. Pacing back and forth, trying to think of every possibility what could go wrong when they got back. Crosshair did always have a way of getting into everyone's heads, but he had to be right. Regs are one thing but one of us? Everyone already looks down their nose at us and it was probably going to get worse.

Echo missed that Tech was talking to him, "Can you repeat that?"

"Great, everyone one this ship is distracted. Although I don't get the appeal of the act. I said can you realign the map and the thrusters but .02, we seem to be slightly off course and slower then usual."

"Oh yes," Echo said hunching over the dataport and doing the readjustments, "There's a secure message from Commander Cody to Reaper, priority yellow."

"I'll wake her," Tech said turning towards the Generals room, content to have an excuse to see how she was doing.

He knocked but there was no reply, he opened to the door to find her back in her pajamas and in her blanket. Recalling the sounds she made with Hunter, he blinked a few time doing his best to mentally block it out. Why is suddenly bothering him was unknown. He put his hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. Her eyes fluttered and she sat up. She looked up at him with his very rigid posture fiddling with his googles.

"You have a secure message from Cody, priority Yellow," Tech said handing her a holo, wanting nothing more then to dismiss himself.

"Hey Reaper, I overheard General Kenobi talking about the artifact you're after. I reached out to a couple contacts to see what I could find, I know you have coordinates but the planet doesn't exists in our star maps but I was able to find a name 'Oribos'. Don't know if that helps, good luck. Cody out."

"Oribos? Doesn't sound familiar, I'm not seeing any record of it anywhere," Tech said typing into his datapad.

"I have," you took the pillow from behind you, screamed into it and put it back down, "According to legend is a moving Sith Temple on tiny planet that relocates itself every ten orbital periods."

Wrecker heard the scream from the General's room, preparing to beat up any of his brothers that cause her the discomfort "What did he say?" Wrecker said staring down at Tech.

"Wrecker, it wasn't me but Commander Cody's information rely," staring with the Holo of Cody.

"He's our favorite Reg."

"Gather the squad, and meet in the pit in five."

"Alright," Wrecker said backing his large frame out of the only way out, he relaxed knowing that it wasn't anything that they did. He liked having her on board, she was nice and all of his brothers seemed obsessed with her too.

Once they left you found the book you snuck out of the forbidden section of library and looked over the passages on Oribos to make sure you had your fact straight. You took the book with you to the awaiting squad.

"I guess I'm the late one," you said closing the book, "The place we're going is most definitely a suicide mission, you have follow my orders when we get there whether you like it or not," you paused to stare at Hunter for an extra second, "We're going to one of the mobile Sith Temples, it is going to be crawling with traps, spirits of the dead and we must get the artifact and implode the planet. We can't afford for them to continue using it."

"Wasn't this suppose to be a Jedi artifact?" Wrecker said looking around.

"That's what we originally thought, yes. It could still be possible, but it's in Sith territory we have to assume the worse."

"What did you mean you weren't a Jedi," Crosshair said, his eyes doing there best to cut through you.

"I am neither Jedi nor Sith, I am simply the collector. I retrieve artifacts of old to keep them from being destroyed or used, they are studied and hidden not even where the force could find them."

"But you take orders from the council?" Echo said rising an eyebrow.

"I take suggestions from the council, I am part of completely independent group of Force Users."

"That explains... a lot actually. Could you have actually court marshaled me?" Hunter said with a grin while Crosshair groaned.

"And executed without a trial if I felt you were a safety hazard to this mission but both are a lot paperwork and I have better things to do."

"See you got nothing to worry about," Wrecked said smacking Crosshair with his fist causing his chair to wobble, "my bad."

"How perceptive," he said pulling his lip back.

Crosshair brought his eyes to you, letting their dark depths peer into her. He didn't know quiet to feel about her but it put a knot in chest and he didn't like. He especially didn't like the fact that Hunter touched her or was in her. Anger boiled up, he curled his finger into balls making his knuckles turn white. He did his best to relax his hand but it didn't relax his anger.

"How about we make a small detour, to blow off some steam?" You said feeling the tension roll off of Crosshair and Hunter.

"Excellent idea, I'll look at the next inhabitant planet and take us down," Tech said thankful for an excuse not to be the buffer between his brothers this time.

"I'd love some target practice or a non slime ball canteen where I could actually enjoy a drink."

"We'll be landing in a moment," Tech said over their com links.

"Can I get one of those" your eyes widened.

"I think I have a spare in the parts drawer," Echo said getting up.

You followed him to a small crate in the corner, you watched him dig through to the bottom and pull out an arm attachment out of the bottom. Echo's dataport arm put went under hers and used his good hand to tie it. You had an urge to reach out to grab his implant and tell him that he's still a man and that his mechanics didn't effect that but you kept yourself silent... but that didn't last.

"Don't forgot that your implants are just enhancements you're still a man, not a machine."

"Thank you?" He said with a puzzled expression.

"I feel that it bugs you, it's just a reminder."

Echo walked through showing you how to use it. It was pretty simple process, there wasn't much to it. He kept glancing at you but you couldn't place the look.

"Did I upset you?" You asked.

"No," he didn't want to have his conversation with his brothers around, they accepted him right away although they did make the occasional poke at his alterations.

"You can talk to me later," you whispered.

Echo gave a little nod before sitting down as the Marauder made its descent towards the planet. He watched her as she stared at the floor, quiet. He wondered how much she could sense of feel, whether she could turn it off or was it constant, how tiring that could be. He's fought along side a lot of Jedi but never thought to ask. He caught her eyes looking at him before they went back to the floor. The ship landed and his brothers got off but she seemed to want to get off last, he started to follow the others but she put a hand on his shoulder.

"You went with them because you didn't want to face your brothers on Kamino. You shouldn't feel like it makes you less than, you lived to fight another day. You are without flaw Corporal," you said letting his shoulder go.

"Thank you, General. I needed that."

"I know" you smiled feeling his mind quiet a little, you turned down the reception of feeling so you didn't have to feel how loud each of their minds were.

You followed him out and the ship's ramp closed behind you. You looked around at the port you landed in when a ship catch your eye, a white GAR ship with a grey stripe. What we're they doing all the way out here? You noticed the squad noticing it too.

"I guess we start with that," Hunter said heading towards the ship, but quickly realized it was empty.

"Probably at the local canteen," Tech said pulling up a map on his pad, "this way."

You followed him to a building to semi blacked out windows but the lights flashing. They were must definitely inside. You pushed between the boys and walked in first to find Wolffe and the pack sitting at a table.

"Go first us a table, I'll catch up," you said practically sprinting towards them.

Wolffe grabbed his face and shook his head, "Trouble showed up boys."

"What are you boys doing out here?" You ask folding your arms.

"Trying to hide from you, but that seems impossible at thing point."

"Awe I know you loved me one eye," you said while he groaned, "is he-"

"Didn't make it..." Wolffe started looking down the rim of his glass.

You quickly walked over to the counter, got a drink and returned, "To those who fought," you said raising your glass.

"To those who fought," they said in return and all of you slamming back the bitter drink, "I got to get back to the rag tag team, you boys be careful."

You sent down your glass and some credits on the table, and pointed at your squad and ordered them drinks. Walking over to their table you let your knuckles tap on it doing your best to hold back tears.

"I need some air, drinks are coming."

Doing your best to hold your dignity together you got outside and let your back slide down the side of the building, your butt hitting the ground with a soft thud. You leaned your head back against the building. Tears started flowing out, you kept wiping them away but they didn't want to see to stop. You barely knew the trooper but it was tearing you up, you could picture his smile, the feel of his lips on yours and how he looked at you, as just another person not a Jedi. You put your head between your legs, your head slightly spinning. So many troopers dead and so many more would be gone before this war was over, anger started rising up. The pretentious Jedi council, they could have ended this but relied to make on politics and didn't see anything wrong with all of the death. You took a deep breath trying to pull yourself together. You felt a head on your shoulder to look up to find Echo standing there.

"I may have overheard, do you mind?" He said.

"Be my guest, don't think I'm the greatest company right this second."

"I've served with many Jedi in my time, I've not once seen any of them cry over the loss of one of us. We're just clones, expendable" Echo said taking a seat, his voice threatening to stumble over the last word.

"The clones are anything but expendable," pure rage slipping out, "You all are flesh and blood individuals, you may look the the same but are anything but."

"The Galaxy doesn't seems to think so."

"But do you really hold yourself in such low regard?" You snapped at him.

"No..." He bought his hand to your face and wiped more tears before returning his hands to his lap, "You don't need to beat yourself so hard, we're bred for this and he went out like any soldier dreams too."

That made you cry harder, they were bred for this and battle drilled into their heads basically since they could walk. Couldn't anyone see them as more? He rested his mechanic hand under your face and took his good hand to wipe away the tears.

"If more people saw what you see in us, I think things would be different. Come on, we should probably try to get inside," he said standing up offer his hand.

You take it, wiping more tears from your face to notice one single rolling down face and the distant look on his face. The pain rolled off of him, remembering all of his fallen brothers. This time you wiped his tear.

"I think if more people fought along side them they would. Let's head back in."

Wrecker was on the verge on heading out the door when he saw them walk back in, her eyes were pink and her face was kind of puffy, "Was she crying over the dead reg?"

"Perceptive as always"

Wrecker got up and walked over to her with an ear to ear grin, "Come here," he leaned down and picked her up around the waist swinging her around in a circle, "No need to cry, you got us General. Wwon't die on you."

"That perhaps wasn't the best choice of words," Tech said looking up from his informative bodily article, trying to understand the connection that happened between people and if there was something wrong with him.

"She might just kill us instead," Crosshair wrinkled his nose at his empty glass.

"Just you Crosshair," you said with Wrecker squishing you still spinning like it's nothing.

You wiggled your arms up how of hold and put them around his neck, "This is fun and all but the boy are staring," you said noticing the eyes looking you, "Can you put me down?"

"Finee," he said setting you down, "Did it at least cheer you up a bit?"

"Yeah Wrecker it did."

"Good, It was kind of fun. I wanna do it again, come here grumpy," Wrecker said reaching out for Echo before he had time to jump out of here.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhh"

"General, I think you should at least see this," Wolffe said, causing you spin on your heel and look at the helmet in his hands.

The helmet was flipped bottom up to see where you see the inside, a picture of you in it. You took the helmet and spun it to see the two grey stripes on the helmet. You let out a deep breath trying to control yourself before handing it back.

"If you know where his body is and it's safe, bury him with it. Please."

Wolffe's eyes widen because he's never heard you say please "Oh I'll make it safe, come on boys we're going to do some target practice on some clankers."

"Thank you Commander."

"What are friends for?"

You smiled as he walked out, friends. It felt good, the Jedi didn't have attachments... but you could and would protect them until your last. You steadied Echo when Wrecker finally put him down, laughing at his very wobbly legs... you underestimated how wobbly and you both went down, you falling directly head first on his chest.

"Ow," Echo mumbled, "Really Wrecker? Really?"

"It was fun" he defended.

"You okay?" Echo said looking at you, making you realize you were still on his chest.

"Yeah," you said standing up and pulling him up, "Never better."

You took the seat between Hunter and Crosshair as another round of drinks were being bought over. Everyone needed to blow off steam and try to have some fun... but hopefully not to much fun that no one could fly the ship.

Hunter eyed Echo who wasn't making eye contact with any of them, "See what I meant?" Hunter said whispering in your ear.

"Keep whispering and I'll think your hiding something," Crosshairs voice was still cranky even after three drinks, unaware if they were helping his internal dilemma or not.

"Just trying to settle who's the better shot, me or you," doing your best to deflect the attention away as Hunter slipped his hand on top of your thigh.

"Is that even a question?" His eyes widening in disbelief.

"I guess we're just going to have to test that."

"This will be interesting," Tech said looking up.

"Or really stupid," Echo said squeeze the bridge of his nose.

"Awe you worried?"

"Maybe for someone's ego."

Hunter squeezed her thigh harder which made her back straighten to perfect posture, he made little circles with his index finger. Taking a drink he side eyed looked at her to measure her response before removing his hand and leaving it on table. He looked at Crosshair and Echo, both of them trying to give their best poker faces but falling miserably. He knew Crosshair had lashed the out in attempts to hide what he was truly thinking or feeling, but he was always a mystery. Echo however wore all of his emotions on his face no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Hunter eyed Tech, out of all of his brothers he doubted he had any interest in her. Maybe having a woman on board was a bad idea, especially one they all were interested in. A pit formed in his stomach, an uncomfortable realization came and he wasn't sure if he could give her that.

"Let's test that," Crosshair said finishing his drink, setting the cup down harshly.

"Maybe you aren't so boring after all," he watched her stand up, following her out.

They walked in silence to a near by rocky cliff with a brush of trees in the distance, "That tree, the one with the branch that jolts straight down."

You laid down in the rocks pulling your short rifle off your side. Your eyes trialed the sight lining it up the shot when you felt Crosshairs rifle lay on your shoulder, the barrel of it catching the side of your eye. Crosshair parted your legs with his body and put his elbow right against your ass, purposely wiggling it slightly to get closer to it.

"Now let's see who the better shot is," he said pulling the trigger.

The blast soared passed your ears but you were to distracted with how close he was to you. To even notice anything else. The accuracy with his shot and how just slightly he was leaning into your ass was enough to get a little water works flowing.

"Easy," you could hear the grin in his voice.

You took the shot the mark hitting slightly lower then his, "Farther?"

"The old one split in middle," Crosshair said looking at the tree several clicks further, blasting just one shot hitting the middle.

"Give me a challenge," you said blasting it, your shot this time a couple inches lower.

"The rock," Crosshair said looking far out at the single rock, it was even a little bit farther then his normal range for accuracy but it would at least make it interesting.

Your shot went even further down but still hitting it barely, Crosshair snickered his shot a little lower then the center but way better then yours.

"Not so Cocky now?" He laughed examining the where the two shots, "All talk no bite."

You adjusted your rifle and blasted five quick shots making a smiley face in the rock, "What we're you saying sniper?"

"I think she beat ya," Wrecker laughed somewhere behind us.

"You little..." he said firing further off, "There beat that."

You shoot, completely missed; without using the force you knew you couldn't hit that far, "Fine you win."

"I was always going to win," he said taking the rifle off your shoulder, standing himself up with his rifle it on his shoulder, "it was just a matter of time."

"What is your problem with me?" You rolled and flipped yourself up staring up at him.

"I don't think your fit to lead this squad for this mission."

"Why?"

Crosshair glared at Hunter, scowling at his brother,

"I think you're just mad it wasn't you," you pushed him backwards.

"You've probably been with every reg on Coruscant. I consider myself lucky," teeth bared at you.

"Say that again, I dare you."

"You'd like that wouldn't you to be called a wh-."

You shoved him as far with the force as you could of the rock zone, jumping to catch up bring your foot down on his chest. He grabbed your anklet and knocked you off balance. You tucked and rolled out of the way of his next punch.

"ENOUGH," Hunter shouted shoving himself in between you too, "That was way to far. Even for you Crosshair," Hunter said pulling the freshly gnawed on tooth pick out, "Given what I heard in your bunk the other night I don't think you care," Hunter attempted to whisper.

"Whatever," Crosshair said knocking his arm out of the way and walking off.

"Crosshair has always been severe, don't take it personally. It's his nature" Tech said following after him.

"That jump was awesome," Wrecker added trying to defuse the tension.

"Thanks big guy."

He still pissed you off but at least knowing who was toying with themselves while you were in the shower gave you some satisfaction. He was maddening but there was something about the perfect short smokey hair and the darkness of his eyes that were alluring. Getting back into the Maraunder you bee lined for your room. You took off for your room and face down flopped on your bed. Could you just get one simple day with out any complications?

Your door opened and someone walked through, "This better be important," you said propping your self up on your elbows so you could turn your head and see who was behind you.

He had an empty expression and a tooth pick in his mouth, leaning up again the wall staring at you.

"Wow, so statue worthy. What are you doing in here?" You ask twisting yourself around.

"Did you think of me while touching yourself in the shower?" He smirked.

"I have no idea what you're taking about. Now get out."

"I could hear you getting something out."

You got off the bed and stood infront of him returning his harsh gaze, "So were you. How about you just say what you want too instead of toying around it."

"I didn't like you screwing Hunter."

"You have been nothing but rude and disrespectful to me, why does that even matter to you-"

He shoved his mouth on yours, hot, heavy and demanding. He wasn't kind about the action. She infuriated him from the moment he saw her. He knew he was a disagreeable person with an abrasive attitude but she brought out feeling in him he didn't understand. She didn't push him away which surprised him, he put his hands to her hips and pushed her off much to her confusion.

"You deserve better," he said wiping his mouth and retreating out of the room.

"What in the Sith's hell just happened" you mumbled feeling the warmth in your lips to where his teeth had grazed.

You shook your head stripping yourself of your armor returning to a set of comfy pajamas.

Tech came walking in messing with his googles, "This seems to be an inconvenient time-" when he noticed the scene before him

"No come in, what's on your mind?" You asked, kicking the armor out of the way.

"What was the feeling like with Hunter?"

You let out a laugh louder then you wanted too, "I was not expecting that, I'm sorry. Can you be a little more specific?"

"Physically intimacy and it seems to be the only thing on their mind. I don't quite understand the appeal;"

"It's a tight feeling in your lower abdomen-"

"I am aware of the physical effects, I was referring to during the actual act."

"I can't really describe it, it's an adrenaline rush when your instincts just kind of take over."

"Hmm, thank you. Not very helpful."

"Come here," you patted next to you on the bed.

Uncomfortably Tech shifted weight the pro's and con's but decided on sitting. Tech wasn't going to pretend the prospect didn't interest him in the slightest, but he wanted to know what made it so mind consuming. You traced a finger from his knee towards his crotch, then from his lips to collar bone and finally down down his spine.

"I don't know if you experience things the same way we do, but it's kind of like that. The anticipation of what's next but in a pleasuring way."

"Fascinating, people find that arousing?"

"You've never...?"

"I haven't seen the point, it's not essential information to preform my task."

"How about a partial demonstration for... scientific purposes?"

"I suppose it would help me better understand."

You walked over the door looking at him while throwing the latch to keep the door shut, he stood and up started taking off his armor pieces just leaving him in his blacks. You dropped your pants and upclipping your bra just leaving your panties on and lose shirt on and pulling the black shirt over his head. You gently pushed him towards the beds and he got the hint to lay down.

You let your tongue trace from his abs up to his neck, "You are going to have to tell me what you like," you murmured in his ear.

"The center of my chest made my heart rate spike a little bit."

"I need you tell me which three of these sensations feel better" you said alternating between kissing, licking, sucking and biting down his chest until where his blacks met his hips.

"The licking and sucking definitely did the most."

You dropped your eyes to notice a very slightly bulge starting, "Good."

You let your tongue trace his pecs and each muscle covered rib sucking a tiny trail down, letting your tongue trace the protruding muscle ridge around his hips.

"That feels good" Techs voice started shaking, it was quiet a pleasurable experience just being touch.

You hovered over him, letting your tongue trail from up grazing his Adam's apple and eventually kissing him letting one hand wander down to his blacks. You slipped your hand under the waist band running your fingerings along the little blood veins that stuck out. He inhaled sharply, a small amount of haziness beginning to cloud his vision. Your fingers find the tip and his hips buck out a little.

"Do you want more or do you think that's enough data for today?" Letting your fingers gently stroke one side.

"I am quiet over stimulated that my cognitive ability has declined a small amount. Will that wear off by its self within a reasonable amount of time or does this need to be completed?" His voice hitched every couple words.

"Sometimes it can take an hour or two. It's your call."

"Then let's proceed, it'll be my shift in an hour and I have to be-" you cut him off wrapping your whole hand around his cock, giving it a few pumps.

You removed your hand and pulled his blacks down to ankles, not quiet sure if you wanted to spend the time taking his boots off. You nuzzled yourself between his legs looking down at his arisen cock, letting your hand guide along the length of it. Keeping one hand on his pulsing dick you brought your other hand over his shoulder so you could stare down at him watching the complete haze take over his eyes with him trying to control his breathing.

"Hand, mouth or my soft bits."

"What do you recommended ?"

Tech was in over his head, but had to return to a state of normalcy so he be proficient, the racing heartbeat or the pound pulse between his legs had to subside. He tried to keep his hands still at his sides not knowing what to do with them, she interlaced one hand with his. Her touch was soft and warm, her mouth was even warmer against his. He may have thought he was above such behavior but biologically he did have a deep urge to finish.

Her other fingers racked against Google band, "I want to be able to see this," he didn't know why that came out so suddenly but he was happy when she smiled at him.

He thought she was tender even with him, from what little he knew about the act it was always anything but and this was definitely unlike the noises he heard when she was with Hunter, this was something else.

Keeping one of your hand interlaced, you trailed back down him bringing your tongue to the bottom side of his cock and licking up to the tip. Your tongue played with tiny split before taking him into your mouth. Instinctively he bucked his hips shoving him further into your mouth. You smiled around his cock looking up to see him staring down at you and his lips parted. Your tongue stroked the bottom of him while the small ridges the top of your mouth rubbed against the tip. You watched as his other hand went to his hair, taking a fistful of it. A tiny bit of pre cum escaped, a little moan escaped him. Your mouth retracted to the tip, sucking your cheeks in to add more suction as you took all of him into your mouth and even the beginning of your throat which moan him moan even more. You sucked harder when you felt his legs under you start shaking.

Your free hand trialed to the soaking parts, there was something so beautiful about someone's first especially someone who deserved it to be someone who actually cared. Your fingers found your clit, circling around your head causing little jerks in your hips and your breathing to stop and start. You moan reverberated on his cock causing it squirm in your mouth. Your hole started pulsating without anything in it, yearning for it to be filled but you didn't want to put him in this time; you just wanted him to enjoy it.

You stuck your fingers inside yourself, "Tech.." you moaned feeling what was was coming from your core to your toes trying to curl.

More salt escaped him, you took him back as far as your throat would allow. You kept bobbing your head, just barely and swallowing trying to coax his orgasm. It didn't take that long after moaning name. A lot came pouring from him down your throat, probably the most you've swallowed at one time. You opened your mouth but letting your tongue trail up getting any thing you missed and flicked it over the tip.

You were still on the verge of orgasming when he took your chin, "Look at me until you cum, I want to know if the response is the same" he said panting, sweating glistening down his chest and forehead.

Your whole body started shaking, your eyelids fell to have slits and you could barely keep your mouth closed. It was an intense almost painful release as you covered your hand with your own cum. Your hips and toes hurt from how hard you had them curled. His face was hard to read but he pulled you up and laid you next to him, both your legs still twitching.

"That was... unique," his voice trembled, looking at where he was finally beginning to soft and then at you.

You placed your hand on his chest and it shook slightly to the touch, "I don't know what was... I don't even think I could describe it," you said in disbelief.

"It's not always like that?" He asked trying to relaxing himself

"It's stronger depending on you're connection to the person."

"What was it like with Hunter?" He asked trying to distract himself from what just happened.

"Felt like I was going to be sick.. but in a good way and then really tired."

"That's how I feel," Tech said feeling his heart pound all over.

Putting yourself under his arm you put your leg on top of his, and listened to his uneven breathing. His face was unreadable besides the small tremble of his lips. You down to see a little more fluid had spilled out of him. You wiped it off of him and stuck it in your mouth lapping it up, another soft moan escaped him.

"You held back a lot of noises didn't you?" You asked him.

"Indeed. It was... a lot of stimulus at one time."

"Sorry, I probably should have used my hand."

"It was still quite pleasant. I'm not sure if my legs could support me right now."

"I don't mind if you stay until your shift."

You grabbed his hand laid it with yours on his chest, his breathing finally starting to steady. It was peaceful. You looked at him, taking his form in. A single tear escaped your eye.

"Did I inadvertently do something?" Tech asked puzzled.

"No. You didn't do any thing, handsome," the compliment slipping out.

"Then what is it?" He flustered shifting his googles.

"Worried you all will die too"

"While it is bound to happen, that is not something you need to concern at this moment."

"Do you know that you smell nice?" You asked changing the subject.

"Given how much I was sweating, I doubt that."

"No you do," you said licking the semi dried sweat on him.

He shuddered a little bit, "I feel obligated to let you win this."

"Thought so," you said letting out a laugh, "Does this complicate things?"

"If you're meaning between us then no."

"Good."

"You're still thinking about it aren't you?"

"Yeah..."

Tech rolled himself over you, pinning you under him, "I also feel obligated to try to distract you," leaning down and kissing you.

Tech scolded himself, he wasn't versed in ways to comfort someone but hoped this enough to take her mind off of it. He didn't want to talk about how he was very aware she was going to outlive all of them whether they died in battle or the accelerated aging. However he could make her happy in the now.

He kissed down your neck, you could tell he was trying to imitate what you did trying to figure how what he liked... he was very good at figuring things out. He slide his hand under your shirt gently scooping your breast up and running his thumb over your nipple. It harden to his touch, he slide the baggie shirt over your head leaving your chest exposed for him to look down at. His fingers traced were he had put the patches when you were done with Hunter, conflict read across his face.

"Your turn, what is it?"

"If leaving the marks hurt why people do them, I understand it’s a territorial mark but besides that what is the appeal?"

You pulled the side of his throat to your mouth, sucking each kiss down until you finally the perfect spot, "Kriff" the moan escaped him almost like a plea which caused you to suck harder on the spot.

"Because of that feeling," you said letting go.

"That... elicited a reaction."

"Do you want me to help you with that again?"

Tech’s leg involuntarily started lightly shaking, he finished kicking off his shoes and his blacks. "I rather this time be more pleasurable for the both of us. Because this time it feels... more painful."

Your hand fluttered to his cock, it was definitely harder then before with warm droplets of precum falling on on your stomach. A very light red glow spread across his face, who pulled a hand up to fix his googles. You put it together he does it when he's nervous and found it seriously cute.

You pulled your underwear to the side, "Do you want to be on top? Or do you want me riding you?"

He inserted himself slowly into your soaking hole, gliding in without any resistance. He pulled himself almost all the way out slowly pushing it back in. He was gently scooping his arm under your armpit so he could hold the back of your neck. Your core tightened pulsating your vagina around him. A string of moans escaped him each louder then the last.

"Quiet, the other are going to hear."

"They already have," Tech said quickening his strokes, "I'll let them hear you instead," he added being a little rougher with his pounding making your vocals louder then his.

With his grip on the back of your neck he tilted your head towards his, “Say my name again,” he deliberately slowed his pace nearly pulling out each time before gliding back in.

Your eyes were barely staying open, “Tech… please.”

“Krifff—“ he said pounding himself into you full force, trying to control how loud you both were forgotten.

Tech didn’t understand where the sudden feeling came from, sex was a basic human desire but one that had alluded him until now. He wanted nothing more then to cum in you, he was starving and wanted nothing more then to feast upon you to get this urge out of his body so he could go back to normal. He watched as your eyes kept threatening to shut but would jolt back open with every thrust back in.

“Tech- I’m going to—” you felt your hips start tilting forward, toes curl and your cum coat his cock.

“If you can do one more time,” he panted, his abs visibly tensing and relaxing.

You quickly moved two fingers down to your clit and went to town on it, causing your complete lower half tremble. It wasn’t long until you came again completely squishing his cock with your orgasm causing him to paint your insides white and he kept going until he was sure everything was out.

“I could do that all day…” Tech said trailing off.

“If it’s like that every time, I’d let you” you panted, barely being able to hear anything over your raging heartbeat.

"Tech. You're never late," you both heard Echo's voice from Techs com-link.

You giggled as he got up and nearly failed visually watching his thigh muscles twitch, "I'll be there in a couple moments," quickly retrieving a small towel from his tactical belt pouch so he could dry off his soaked dick to put his clothes back on and tossed you the mink towel.

You folded in up and put your underwear back correctly so it could hold the towel in place, "I'm gonna to shower, I'll leave after you."

"There isn't much on this ship that happens without each other knowing and given how loud we both were more then likely everyone knows.”

“Yeah everyone knows, and we’re going to talk about it as soon as reaper gets out of shower,” you both heard Hunter say through the coms.

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blue-eyed-banshee · 11 months ago

Text

Sylvanas memories (Sylvaina edition)

There she was, laying on a bench in Oribos. Around her were members of the horde, including Uther and Bolvar Fordragon

"Sylvanas' soul... has been fractured. From the moment of her death... until now." A calm yet sorrowful voice spoke, and Jaina could only focus on the woman in front of her with worry etched on her face.

His hand hovered over the scar on her chest before he began to see what had happened.

Banshee queen and ranger general having an argument of what had happened to them and... Teldrassil.

"Uther, can you do anything?"

"I will see what I can do, Jaina. But I'm not sure if it will work." Uther stated with a frown to which Jaina nodded slowly.

"I understand, Uther. But please... try to bring her back. She means a lot to me more than you know."

Uther was told about her prior relationship with Sylvanas when she was alive, and he loved how she grinned when she spoke about her.

"You have my word, Jaina. I will try everything in my power."

Uther glanced back at the still form of the now former banshee queen, examining her wound she had gotten from Arthas.

"Her wound... runs so much deeper.. than mine." He stated. His eyes widened before he slowly took off his chest peice and slowly took hold of Sylvanas arm and brought it towards his own wound from Frostmourne.

A flash, and he was in his armor from when he was a paladin of the light. He knew he was in Westfall, a location he knew well. He headed in the direction of Goldshire, where he was an elf with armor from what he had seen in her mind prior.

The Ranger-General's ear twitched slightly as Uther made his way over to her, his armor clanking.

"Well met... Ranger-General."

Sylvanas turned, and her brow furrowed in confusion. Who was this human? She recognized the location around her, Goldshire.

"Wh- what is this? Who are you?"

"Someone who shared your fate... felled by the blade of the very same prince."

The ranger-general's blue eyes closed before opening,

"Arthas..." She whispered before paving back and forth.

"I died trying to stop that monster, only to wake up haunted by one with my face!" She raised her voice as she gestured to her own face.

Uther's brow furrowed as he tried to think of how to tell her.

"That banshee... is you."

The ranger-general's blue eyes widened before she slowly shook her head.

"No.. I can not accept that."

Uther transported her to a burning tree and decayed land.

"Her path began where yours ended, and you've seen the decisions she made."

The ranger-general's armor clanked as she moved.

"Never... in a thousand life times, would I betray everything I stood for!" She slowly waved her hand and scoffed.

"You couldn't possibly understand..."

The paladin sighed deeply and closed his eyes as a second half stepped out before standing at his side. This one was blue with white wings and different armor.

"The jailer is deceptively cunning. When I realized I had become his pawn... it nearly destroyed me. He had no doubts it would destroy you as well, was he right?"

Uther waved his hand, and they were standing in front of a burning tree.. Teldrassil.

"Or will you accept her shattered legacy and tell us how to stop him?"

The ranger-general slowly turned to look at him, once again her armor making a slight clanking noise.

"Her crimes... are unforgivable.." She had such sorrow in her tone and her eyes were opened to what she was told.

"Yes..."

"And she... I must accept the consequences." Her brows rose in disbelief, and her blue eyes softened with shock. The ranger-general was indeed overwhelmed by everything that was put in her face in such a short amount of time, but She had felt this before; when she was informed, Ronin had died to the mana bomb.

Uther felt conflicted. If she can even handle everything she had done.. but it was necessary to show her.

The banshee half of Sylvanas walked over to them and glanced at the ranger general.

"What he says is true.. we were manipulated by the Jailer. Azeroth is in danger... again." Her voice sounded tired. Tired from the never-ending battles, tired of arguing over something that the ranger general could never see and come to terms with.

"We sought to protect Lirath from the dangers of Azeroth.. but even we couldn't do that.. and we have always fought for our world and what's the right path."

Banshee and Ranger-General had solemn glances at one another when Lirath was mentioned, but now wasn't the time for mourning. No, now was the time for action.

"We faced darkness once before. And we can both find the right path if we accept his offer..."

Both women turned to Uther.

"Time is short. Make your choice. Know that Jaina Proudmoore still carries love in her heart for you despite what happened to her. I can be sure she will be happy to see you two finally whole."

With that, Uther placed Sylvanas' arm down onto the bench, and immediately he felt all that energy he had fade.

"I've done all I can." He turned to everyone still standing where they were.

"I do not know how long it will take, but we should give her time to decide." Uther's eyes landed on Jaina, who tightened her grip on her staff, and she was in thought.

It wasn't hard to know what the lord admiral was thinking about; Sylvanas.

One by one, everyone left to give Sylvanas some space. All except Jaina, who was sitting on the ground with her back against the wall to be near Sylvanas. She wanted to be there for her when she woke.

"You're getting your robes dirty.."

Jaina's head shot up, and she released a breath she didn't know she was holding onto. Her sea blue eyes began to water at the sight of Sylvanas sitting upright and was making her way to her.

Jaina's breath was stolen just like all those years ago at Kael'thas' welcoming banquet for her; where she met Sylvanas. Her eyes were no longer burning embers.. but blue? It almost pulled her in, hypnotizing her.

She hadn't realized she was sitting sitting on the floor until Sylvanas mentioned it, and she quickly got to her feet. She desperately wanted to grab her by the straps of her now tunic she wore. She was stripped of her armor, bow, and quiver, yet she still looked elegant as always.

She reached out but curled her fingers back and recoiled her hand and back down to the side. She had to be sure, she needed be sure her heart wasn't playing tricks on her.

"I-.."

Sylvanas smirked and it wasn't just any smirk. It was that smirk where her Elven fangs showed. The same smirk she made at the gathering all those years ago when Jaina's words died in her throat when she asked for a dance.

"I thought we were past being shy, Jaina. Or do you want me to ask for a dance with Uther and the others around?"

That was all it took, and she curled her fingers around the leather strap and pulled her in for a passionate kiss. She didn't worry about anyone else seeing them, not anymore.

Tears wet her eyes, and she reluctantly pulled back, much to Sylvanas' yearning for it to never end.

"I... thought you'd be angry with me, Jaina." She spoke in thalassian softly before gently wiping the other woman's tears from her eyes with such care.

"I was. But it doesn't matter. You're back with me." She replied before she hugged her again, and this time, she began to sob

She had endured so much, and this was the one time she was able to remember how happy she felt before everything happened.

Sylvanas rubbed her back in gently circles, gently reassuring her she's here and never leaving. More eyes were gazing in their direction from the Horde and alliance leaders, and she saw some angry faces while others were in disbelief she was truly back.

The undead elf felt Jaina take her hand. "I missed you."

Elven ears twitched slightly at the whisper, which made her smile even more.

"I missed you too, but we have all the time in the world once we save Anduin." She said before Bolvar walked up to them with Thrall.

"Sylvanas."

"Bolvar."

Bolvar's body language was difficult for anyone to understand, but she suspected he wanted the same thing she did.

Revenge and save Anduin.

#sylvanas windrunner #sylvanas musings » i deserved a clean death #have some angst #jaina proudmoore #sylvanas x jaina #sylvaina

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azerothtravel · 5 months ago

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Where We Goin?, Oribos, February 22, 2022.

#wow #world of warcraft #oribos #shadowlands #the primus

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late-to-the-fandom · 8 months ago

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In a different, not-so-distant time in his history, Renathal might have enjoyed, perhaps even instigated, such a rebellion; the challenge of outright revolt against the creator of the realm did hold a certain contumacious appeal. Read on Ao3 here.

“Sire Denathrius must be stopped.”

The Accuser’s grim pronouncement clattered off the dank stone walls of the Halls of Atonement’s inner sanctum, silencing the uneasy murmurs of the room’s other occupants and recalling their attention to its Harvester.

Until Renathal snorted.

A highly undignified sound, it undercut the Accuser’s echoes; and all the heads in the room, both venthyr and stoneborn, turned quickly to regard their Dark Prince. Regaled in full armor and formal coat, leaning noncommittally against a side wall of the nave, shoulder-to-shoulder with his expressionless mortal companion, he stared back at them in turn, appraising the nervously defiant faces of the rebellion he now knew beyond doubt existed: the Accuser, watching him askance; the Curator beside her, vacantly inspecting his mortal consort; their handful of trusted disciples, none of whom Renathal knew by name, interspersed with Venthyr from other districts - including Tenaval and Dehavia - and what Stoneborn could be persuaded to entertain sedition. General Draven and Chelra the Princeguard stood foremost among this small number, invited by the prince himself once he and his consort had determined to come.

No light decision, that. It had taken Renathal a week to work himself up to this meeting, and another for Elisewin to persuade him she ought to be allowed to attend as well. Every one of them stood to be punished, quite possibly destroyed, if Denathrius caught them here, and Renathal no longer harboured any vain hopes his Master considered him, or his mortal, special enough to spare.

“And how,” he asked, returning his gaze to the Accuser, bitter scepticism oozing from his words like anima from an open wound, “does one even begin developing a plan to stop the machinations of the creator of the realm?”

The Accuser tried a sardonic smile. It fit her pinched face oddly.

“That is why you are here, Prince Renathal.” She gave a little jerk of her head and torso; Renathal supposed this constituted her most deferential bow. “You are our resident expert on the Master. You have existed longest and know him best, and are our most likely avenue for discovering his weaknesses.”

“The Master has no weaknesses,” Renathal replied automatically.

But even as he said it, he thought of Denathrius’ new penchant for podal ambulation, his odd reluctance to use magic for even the smallest conveniences, and the continued absence of Remornia from her Master’s side. Could the Lord of Revendreth himself be feeling the realm’s current anima dearth?

As if reading his thoughts...

“Even the Master requires anima,” the Accuser declared triumphantly. “Regardless of how much he might be hoarding in Nathria, he does not have an endless supply. He will have to ration it carefully, even to himself, if he wishes it to last. We can use that against him. With enough of us together, we should be able to hold him at least, until we can contact Oribos for aid.”

“All ways to the Eternal City are closed,” Draven’s gravelly voice inserted. “To open one would take more anima than all of us have combined, even without the Master and his forces to contend with.”

“We do not need to open a way,” the Accuser insisted. “We only need to get a message across the In-Between. And the Master has methods of communicating with the Arbiter without ever leaving the realm. Does he not?”

She threw this last at Renathal, who thought he saw where she was going.

“A worthy idea,” he conceded, “but impossible to execute without the Master knowing.”

“Even for you?”

One of the Accuser’s thin, white eyebrows disappeared under her fringe. Which delicate aspersion on his abilities Renathal accepted with good grace.

“Even for me,” he admitted, dipping his head in acknowledged defeat. “Denathrius can sense anyone who enters his castle. Even I cannot hope to hide my presence from him there. To reach the room in question and remain there for enough time to make any sort of coherent explanation to the attendants in Oribos, let alone formulate a plan for their aid, without the Master interfering, would require -”

“A distraction.”

Again, the heads in the room turned as one, this time to stare at the prince’s lavender shadow. And Renathal, having already related her conversation with the Sire in its every humiliating detail, knew what they were thinking. He tucked an errant fold of one cuff more securely into its corresponding bracer.

“What if we went to Nathria? " Elisewin continued. "Just Renathal - the Prince, I mean - and I? That shouldn't arouse too much suspicion. Denathrius has probably been expecting it ever since the Countess’ court. I can seek him out in the castle, demand to know more, or - or something like that. And if I can distract him for long enough, Renathal can -"

“Absolutely not.”

The words were a reflex, and out of Renathal's mouth before he had time to prepare the rational supporting argument such a forceful objection would require. Aware of Elisewin’s startled blink and the narrowing of the Accuser’s flinty eyes, he cleared his throat and concluded:

"That is unlikely to work. And perhaps," - on a desperate whim, he voiced the hope that had tortured and teased him since Denathrius’ cryptic confession - "unnecessary, after all. Perhaps, the Master's behaviour is not as nefarious as we think. Perhaps, he is keeping anima for... some other purpose."

It sounded unconvincing even to Renathal's own ears, and he was unsurprised by the susurrating sea of dissent that followed. The Accuser alone of the would-be rebels, however, was willing to challenge the prince outright.

“Even if his scheme were only to hoard anima for himself and a few hand-chosen nobles, it is still corruption and a smirch on Revendreth’s purpose.” She took a step towards Renathal, arms rigid and fingers twitching against her skirts. “But you know it is deeper than that, Renathal. You know something is happening. You can blind yourself to it no longer. The time has come for the Harvester of Dominion to decide whose side he is on.”

Apart from the echo of the Accuser’s brazen ultimatum, the shrouded nave was still and silent for the first time since the seditious rabble had arrived. A stark contrast to Renathal’s mind, in which a clamorous battle raged: conviction versus caution; the demands of his eternal duties against his new instincts and, admittedly, selfish desires.

At last, glaring down his nose at the other Harvester, he declared, “I am on Revendreth’s side. As ever." And, even without his medallion, the words rang with a surety to subdue all doubt.

“Very well, then.” The Accuser’s shoulders relaxed the merest degree as she nodded the group’s collective approval. “We shall hear no more fruitless arguments over the Master’s motives and return to developing a plan. The mortal’s idea is a good one.” Her eyes swept over Elisewin, as if assessing whether her fragile-looking flesh were up to the task, then gave another curt nod. “And if she is willing to help us, I believe she should be given the chance.”

“I am willing,” said Elisewin at once. “I want to help, if I can.”

Renathal’s claw-like nails gouged furious crescents into the skin of his palms.

The next hour was devoted to details – the specifics of Elisewin’s subterfuge, the plea the prince was to make to Oribos should it succeed, where the rest of the rebellion’s forces should wait, and for how long, before attempting a rescue. The Accuser and Elisewin seemed to take it in inadvertent turns to throw respectively shrewd and furtive glances at Renathal throughout. He ignored them. He knew he ought to be contributing, but he stayed conspicuously silent; and remained so even after the assembly dispersed and he and his consort clambered back into his carriage. As far as he was concerned, the meeting could not have gone worse had the Master himself arrived and sentenced them all to an epoch in the Ember Ward.

In a different, not-so-distant time in his history, Renathal mused as his carriage trundled across Penance Bridge, he might have enjoyed, even instigated, such a rebellion; the challenge of outright revolt against the creator of the realm did hold a certain contumacious appeal. Now, however, the thought of pitting himself against his Master inspired a wary dread. And not only because of the beating his effortless deception had inflicted on Renathal’s self-confidence...

His eyes flicked to Elisewin, her smooth, lavender face watching him placidly from the bench opposite, and his stomach clenched. He had never had so much to lose.

"Chin up, your Highness," she said, a teasing lilt to her words. "It really is a decent plan."

Renathal drummed his fingers restlessly against his armored leg.

"It is hardly a plan at all,” he scoffed. “It is a risky gamble, at best."

“No more risk than sitting back and doing nothing while we wait for Denathrius to finally act, or the last of the anima to dry up. Besides…” Elisewin smiled – a sideways smile, all sparkling blue-white eyes and blunt mortal teeth. "Since when is the Dark Prince of Revendreth afraid of a little risk?”

“It is not the risk to myself that concerns me, but to you,” he retorted, claw-like fingernails catching harshly on his tasset’s gold edge. “Should this plan, such as it is, go sour, you will be alone and unprotected. And you can barely hold a rapier. Your chances of defending yourself against even one of the castle’s guards are slim to none, not to speak of the Sire.”

If any of this bitter criticism affected her, Elisewin hid it deftly. She did not blink, or move at all except to sway in time with the carriage, now careening through the Chalice district’s deadly curves.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “There’s no need for it to come to a fight. Apparently,” - she pulled a wry face - “I make a very good distraction.”

“Elisewin.”

There was a note of pain, almost anguish, in the warning way Renathal said her name. Unintentional; and he would have been mortified at the raw vulnerability of it had Elisewin not immediately dropped all attempts at humour, slid to the edge of her seat, reached across the aisle and taken his face in both her hands.

“Renathal,” she said, and infused his own name with a warmth as tangible as the heat from her mortal skin. “Something has to be done about Denathrius. You know it does. And I know you. No matter what you might wish, you will never be able to let this go. Worrying about it will eat you alive. Figuratively speaking.” She wrinkled her nose at the careless metaphor, then hurried on. “You are right to be cautious, but our best chance of success against someone as powerful as he is lies in strategy, and proper use of available resources. Myself included.”

“You are not a resource to be used,” Renathal growled into Elisewin’s face, turning her cheekbones that pretty, heated violet. But she still managed to hold his eyes as she replied, “Am I a friend to be trusted?” and when he could offer no argument to that, continued, “Let me help you, then. Let’s do this together.”

There was something in her voice… a supreme, unbroachable confidence… familiar, though Renathal could not remember hearing it from Elisewin before. And the mélange of feeling it ignited in his chest was familiar as well. Hope. Determination. That electric thrill he associated with battle. Anima effervesced in his veins, vibrating his limbs, urging him to action.

“Well… I suppose,” he admitted, “despite the inarguable danger, executing such a deception under the Master’s nose does sound like a good bit of fun.”

And Elisewin's laugh, her exultant, "That's the spirit, your Highness," and the awkward kiss she planted on his lips despite a sudden jolt of the carriage, drowned out the worries still whispering at the back of Renathal's mind.

"You are to be careful, however," he ordered sternly as she pulled away and resettled herself more safely in her seat. "Assiduously so."

"Of course," Elisewin agreed.

"Very well, then." Renathal indulged in one final dramatic sigh, then peered through the carriage’s narrow slit of a window at the rapidly approaching castle. "Shall we review the plan one last time?"

Its beginning was flawless.

They entered Nathria by the side door from the Bridge of Paramountcy – obvious and unsuspicious, but not so ostentatious as the formal front gate – and set off through the candle-lit labyrinth of staircases and halls, Renathal leading the way. He was aware of the eyes of servants and stoneborn guards on them as they passed; observing their movements, then slipping off through hidden doors to report them to the Sire. All according to plan.

He and Elisewin exchanged only innocuous pleasantries – commentary on various paintings, complaints about the steepness of the stairs – until they reached their destination: the Master’s private library; where Renathal began at once perusing the shelves, pulling down a curated selection of dusty volumes, then arranging himself at a desk with them before requesting, in a casual but carrying voice, his mortal charge visit the kitchens and fetch him tea.

Elisewin’s eye contact was fractionally longer than necessary, her answering, “Of course, your Highness,” a breath too polite. Allowing himself only the briefest parting glance at the back of her scarlet tunic as she disappeared around a corner, Renathal offered a silent prayer to the Purpose that she proved better at distraction than she did at subterfuge, and settled in to wait.

Ten minutes. That was how long they agreed he was to give her before slipping from the library and making his way to Denathrius’ chambers above. Hardly enough time for Elisewin to actually find the Master in the cavernous castle, as would be her story to him or any who challenged her, but plenty long enough for him to find her - the lynchpin on which their whole plan hinged.

And where it collapsed.

Having no timepiece, and the Sire being far less whimsical than his Firstborn when it came to décor, Renathal was relying on instinct alone to judge when ten minutes had passed. He stared sightlessly at the open tome in front of him on the desk and set up a careful count in his head. But he had not made it to sixty even once before -

“Renathal.”

- a rich, resonant, and unexpected baritone almost toppled him from the chair.

“What are you doing?”

Denathrius' voice echoed from somewhere behind him; neither curious nor accusing, but unusually flat, as though reciting lines. Alarm bells clanged in Renathal’s head. Wresting control of his suddenly leaden limbs, he slid from the wooden chair and pushed it under the desk, then turned slowly to face his Master - looming in the library's arched entryway, every regal inch of him preternaturally still.

“My humblest apologies, Sire, I did not hear you arrive,” Renathal began, buying himself time with a bow and a few meticulous adjustments of his coat. He, too, had a story prepared should his presence in the library be questioned, but it would require some ad-libbed additions; the Sire should not have been his audience. “I - that is, we; Elisewin and I - stopped by on a bit of a lark. She has expressed an interest in discovering more about her people - the Shal’Dorei, I believe you once called them? - and I thought such information might indeed prove useful in furthering her atonement. I would have asked your thoughts on the matter, of course, but as you are so busy of late, I preferred not to bother you. It is, after all, of little real importance.”

Renathal paused, wondering if he ought to add more, but a glance at Denathrius convinced him there was no point prattling on. The Master’s face was stern; that carved-in-stone expression Renathal knew only too well hid a brewing storm of anger, and out from which no one, not even the Dark Prince, could talk their way.

But, “Come,” was all the Master said before he turned on his booted hoof and strode away; out of the library and down the adjoining passage, his long pale hair and slashed cape catching the wind of his demanding pace. Not once did he look back to check if Renathal followed – though of course he did, tripping quickly in his Master’s brisk wake. Thoughts of escape, of wending himself into the shadows and summoning the rebellion’s waiting reinforcements, drifted feebly through his mind, but he dismissed them. Elisewin was still somewhere in the castle; mercifully not on the receiving end of the Master’s ire, but one misstep on his part and he knew how quickly that could change. Besides, it was no mean feat extricating his will from the Master’s command. The very fabric of his being tugged at Renathal to obey.

Neither spoke again until they had walked - walked; something Renathal noted significantly and which heartened him even through his writhing nerves - seven flights of stairs and countless halls, finally emerging onto the Master’s rooftop garden. Denathrius crossed this as swiftly, and manually, as he had the rest of the way. His gold and scarlet boots stopped at the very edge of the terrace, and he bent his head to stare through the wisps of blue-grey mist separating the roof from the ground many hundreds of miles below.

Renathal approached more cautiously, wondering if it was the Master’s intention to throw him off. The twilight air around him was thick and foreboding; and sickly-sweet, courtesy of the garden’s indigo flowers whipping about as if caught in some invisible breeze. Revendreth, it seemed, was as uneasy as its prince at their creator’s ominous mood.

“Renathal,” Denathrius said at last, in the same flat voice as before, "you occupy a precarious position.”

He let the words settle between them. Renathal glanced around the terrace.

“I suppose it is rather high,” he said, reckless in his confusion.

But the Master was in no mood for humour. He rotated his neck to stare down at his Firstborn, cowing him with his mere expression, then returned his severe gaze to the courtyard before commanding, "Observe.”

Renathal took another step, stopping at the shallow iron lip that served the roof as balustrade, and, heart pounding superfluously, peered over Nathria’s side. Far, far below, just discernible through the thin mist, three figures emerged from the front gate: two winged stoneborn enforcers half-leading, half-dragging one smaller, slighter being. The sheen of her lavender skin was recognisable even from this height, as were the bared blades the stoneborn clutched in their free hands, and Renathal's heart stopped affecting any beat at all.

“Sire,” he began, voice unexpectedly hoarse, “what are they-”

But Denathrius interrupted him.

“You have a choice before you, Renathal.” And he held out both elegant hands as if to illustrate; lifting one and regarding the upturned palm with solemn reproach. “You may persist in this ridiculous notion that I am somehow capable of corruption and continue down the inevitable path to which such heresy leads..."- the hand clenched into a fist - “...destruction. For you, and all you consider your own. Or…”

Denathrius turned, facing Renathal directly for the first time, and extended his other, open hand.

“You may choose eternity as I have given it to you - complete with every gift and privilege. Because make no mistake, Renathal: every good thing you imagine you possess comes directly from me.”

He paused, allowing the words to hang meaningfully in the heavy, perfumed air, before continuing, his voice more customarily orotund,“There is nothing in this world that is truly your own. Nor have you earned any of it by your own merit. And if you continue to make these poor, poor decisions - prove yourself unworthy of my gifts…” Denathrius glanced pointedly down at the minuscule figures in the courtyard, “I would find myself in the regrettable but necessary position of... taking them away.” He met Renathal’s gaze again and held it; and whatever pretty words he chose, there was no mistaking the glitter of glee behind the sanguine threat.

And with a sudden icy pain in his gut, like the stab of an unseen blade, the Dark Prince of Revendreth believed.

Denathrius was playing with him - with all of Revendreth - and always had been. Every soul in the realm was merely a toy for their Sire’s eternal amusement. All Renathal's half-harboured hopes that this was a mistake, a test perhaps, that his Master had some hidden but justifiable plan, that he might even be impressed by his firstborn's dedication to duty, disintegrated in an instant. He opened his mouth to speak, but could think of no words. He was utterly frozen, from his hair to his boots; impaled to the spot by horror and impotent rage.

Red eyes still lingering on Renathal, Denathrius stretched a hand over the edge of the terrace and gave a careless wave. Renathal's stomach dropped - but the stoneborn below only released Elisewin's arms and sheathed their weapons, granite faces upturned to their Master.

"She is waiting for you, Renathal," said Denathrius, voice silky with condescension. "Go to her. Enjoy her. Enjoy the world I have remade."

An odd choice of words, Renathal noted distantly, but he did not question it. Or any other of his Master’s now-indisputably treacherous deeds. Acting on instinct, or their creator's orders, his legs sprinted him back across the rustling rooftop garden without waiting for input from his shambolic brain. He took the stairs - and the hall beyond, and every floor between him and his unprotected lover - at the same frenzied pace, and did not stop even after he had crossed the castle’s threshold and saw her waiting for him, lavender silhouette standing out starkly against the shrouded twilight.

At the sound of frantic bootsteps, Elisewin turned, and her almost comically enormous blink would have amused Renathal any other time. Now, he felt only relief; and even that, muted - there was little room left in the maelstrom of his mind to register additional feeling. Elisewin opened her mouth to speak as Renathal reached her. A minute shake of his head, like the cocking of a crossbow, killed the words on her tongue. In similarly stiff, silent fashion, he gripped her arm and urged her forward, away from the leering spectre of Nathria and, he was certain, the distantly watching Sire.

They sped through the vast courtyard, Renathal ignoring the curious looks of perambulating nobles and the confusion wafting off his companion in waves; the protests of his legs as he forced them up yet another massive staircase and the familiar shadows of Draven and Chelra swooping low in search of the prince’s signal or report. He gave them neither. His amber eyes were fixed on the growing promise of Darkwall Tower, and he did not speak, did not breathe, did not think again until he had reached it, wrenched the doors open, threw himself and Elisewin inside, and slammed them shut - safe, at last, behind his home's protective wards.

Only… they were not safe, were they?

Renathal dropped abrupt anchor in the middle of his torchlit foyer as he realised, with another eviscerating pain, there was nowhere safe to go. First, his affair with Elisewin; now, his meeting with the rebellion - Denathrius knew everything, and almost as soon as it happened. There truly were no secrets from the Sire.

All the purposeful energy that had carried Renathal from the castle dissipated, leaving a dull, indecisive fog in its wake. Breakfist and his dredger underlings clustered at their master's knees, awaiting commands. But the Dark Prince could only stand, arms limp at his sides, for once, entirely lost for what to do.

It was Elisewin who saved him.

“Breakfist, take your Master’s coat,” said her voice near his ear. Renathal felt the garment in question slipped from his shoulders and firm hands usher him forward. “And have a tray of tea prepared and brought up to his bedchamber,” she continued, moving with him, “then, go and find Chelra and … no, don’t send someone else. You won’t have to go far. I expect she and the General are waiting just outside. Tell them … do not argue. Tell them it didn’t work and we will regroup at a later time. Quick as you like, now.”

The ghost of a joyless smile flitted past Renathal’s lips as Elisewin led him up the tower's winding staircase. She really had become quite free with orders; was surprisingly well suited to them. Her voice brimmed with the same, supreme self-confidence he remembered from their earlier carriage ride - could it really be mere hours ago? - that made unpalatable, even impossible tasks feel effortless. Her hands could do it, too. They coaxed his aching legs up the final steps, down the hall, and into the flickering red candlelight of his bedroom, stopped him by his valet stand and guided his limbs through the removal of his armor, all without uttering a word.

Renathal consented readily. His brain was numb; his body ached as badly as if Denathrius had thrown him from Nathria’s roof. For once, he was grateful to follow someone else’s lead; until, clad in his shirtsleeves and trousers, Elisewin eased him onto the crisply made bed. For one uncomfortable moment, he worried his lover would expect more of him than he could currently give. But she merely piled the silk satin pillows behind him and propped him against them, then toed off her shoes and sat opposite him, legs curled underneath her, hands clasped in her lap.

"What happened?" she finally asked.

The question was gentle; Elisewin's lavender face as she studied him appropriately bland. Nearly a foot of undisturbed coverlet lay between them and no part of their bodies touched, and yet… this felt more intimate to Renathal than many other more adventurous positions they had tried. It drew words from him without thinking.

"We had a ... conversation," he said, voice hoarse after his extended silence.

"You and the Arbiter?"

"Denathrius and I."

Elisewin blinked.

"Oh.”

A knock at the door broke the spell - a dredger servant with the ordered tea. Elisewin shot up, retrieved the laden tea tray, dismissed the dredger, then deposited the tray on the floor by the bed with a careless rattle. Less than a minute’s interruption, but enough time for Renathal to blink away some of his mind's dense fog. He had a choice before him, and only seconds to make it. Any hint of indecision, and Elisewin, resuming her seat, would undoubtedly see.

“What happened?” she repeated, more earnestly this time, her blue-white eyes wide and glowing with a tender concern that made up Renathal's mind.

“Nothing,” he decided. “I'm afraid we were�� mistaken.” He paused, pushing back his windswept hair and inhaling superfluously as he cobbled together passable lines. “Denathrius has nothing to do with the drought, after all; beyond doing his best to meliorate the situation. He has deceived us, yes – a regrettable, but necessary position for rooting out where the corruption truly lies. There is nothing we can do. Nothing we need do – except… enjoy ourselves,” - his lips fumbled the Master’s words - “and await the Sire’s next command."

He lifted his gaze as he finished, gauging Elisewin’s reaction. She blinked - as was to be expected - but did not speak. Yet. Renathal braced what brittle mental fortitude the Master had left him for the interrogation that was surely seconds away.

After a minute of laden silence, however, Elisewin only edged closer, knees knocking against Renathal's as she reached for his hands. And it was another full minute of her fingers gliding softly across his tensed knuckles before she finally said, with a hint of wry humour, "You are remarkable at many things, your Highness, but you're a rotten liar."

Another time, Renathal would have taken mild offense - he considered himself quite a dab-hand at duplicity and deception when the situation called for such skills. But he was too exhausted to summon any indignance and too worn for more prevarications. He could only squeeze his eyes shut against Elisewin's watchful gaze and let her fingers work their magic on his hands. Her every touch imbued his cold skin with warm, tangible comfort, the sensation singing its now-familiar song through his anima-starved veins. And, with the third vicious stab of the day, this one leaving him light-headed and nauseous, Renathal realised just how close he had come to losing this - losing her - forever.

Something crumpled in his chest. Quite literally; though he was only aware he had actually collapsed into Elisewin’s lap when his forehead struck her hipbone. Rather hard, if the dull pain in his temple was any indication, but she neither flinched nor pulled away. Her arms closed around him; somehow, everywhere at once - stroking the cramped curve of his spine, his unruly hair, his own arms wound round her waist as if seeking to entangle himself inextricably with her.

“Renathal.” His name quivered on Elisewin’s lips, her rib-cage contracting erratically beneath his clinging hands. “Renathal, tell me what happened. Tell me what he said.”

It was more plea than command, with nothing behind it except what Renathal thought with absent curiousity might be the threat of tears, but he had no strength left to resist it anyway.

“He said…” He struggled for words to sum up everything the Master had said - and not said; the threat in his silence, the warning in his gaze - without having to relive the whole ignominious encounter. “He said ... if we continue to press this … if I continue to press him … he will take you from me...”

A short silence stretched. Renathal wondered if Elisewin had heard him, his voice muffled as it was against her thigh. Then - "Denathrius cannot take me from you," she declared with all her newly adopted self-confidence; both of which Renathal found so offensively ridiculous in this moment, he unwrapped his arms from her torso and pushed off her legs to stare up at her.

"Of course he can!" He struggled to a seat, a sudden renewed spark of anger lending him vigor and vehemence. "He is Denathrius! The Sire! The fangs of the Shadowlands, the Master of this realm! He can do anything here - whatever he pleases, wrong or right. He has powers mortals cannot fathom - powers even I have never dreamed.”

“Why doesn’t he use them, then?” Elisewin asked, infuriatingly calm even inches from the Dark Prince's red-eyed glower. “Why is his realm a disaster? And if he knows about the rebellion, why hasn’t he punished us all already? Thrown us in cages, or the Ember Ward? Or just ended us entirely?”

All excellent questions, and they pulled the rug out from under Renathal’s vitalising surge of rage. Without it to animate him, he sagged again, shoulders slumping against the buttress of pillows Elisewin had erected. She, herself, was there a heartbeat later, hands on his face and forehead pressed to his until her lavender skin and carefully even breaths were all Renathal could see or feel.

“Renathal, listen to me. I love you," she said. It was no lover’s soft reassurance, but a statement of inexorable fact. “I love... everything about you: your beliefs ... your - your dedication ... the way you see reality and your place in it. You are perfect, to me. Probably, you do have flaws, but I can't see them. My love blinds me to them. The same way it blinds you."

She leaned fractionally back on her heels, just enough to meet Renathal’s unblinking eyes. Her hands still held his face, but beneath the gentle comfort was a certain pragmatism; she was not going to let him look away.

"You see Denathrius," she went on, stark and forthright, "through the same lens I see you. You worship him. He is everything to you - good and bad. Even as you hate him, you adore him. But I - I am unburdened by either. I can see him for what he is: a master of lies and manipulation, yes, and certainly not on our side, but… not all powerful. At least, not anymore. Something has weakened him - the drought I suppose. And we can use that against him.”

Renathal shook his head, but threaded his fingers through Elisewin's so as not to dislodge her hands.

"He is merely biding his time," he argued hopelessly. "He does not consider us any real threat. Even at his weakest, he still has more power than all our rebellion combined. If we attempt an open revolt, we will lose. We will lose this." He squeezed her fingers for strength through the selfish admission. "I will lose you.”

“No. You won't," said Elisewin, and there was a surety in her words to give even the Dark Prince pause. “I am not a true penitent soul, am I? And I'm not Denathrius’ creation, to be offered up and snatched back at his whim. He cannot take me from you without force. And if it comes to that sort of fight... well...” she smiled - really, a wistful twist of her lips - and stroked Renathal’s sharp cheek, “that’s why we’re doing this together, remember? Whatever happens, happens to both of us. Destruction or victory.” She leaned into him again, as she finished, “Wherever I go, you are coming, too."

Her mouth, like the rest of her face, was pressed to Renathal's, but neither of them had the stamina to pursue any sort of kiss now. Elisewin's breath was ragged after her uncharacteristically impassioned speech, the harsh inhalations and exhalations fluttering his unruly goatee. And Renathal, drained by the truth in her words and what he desperately hoped would prove true, had no energy left for further fights or more expressive acts of affections. He simply sat, entwined with his lover, savouring each second as they slipped inexorably past, and wishing for a magic that would freeze them in this moment, bind them together forever...

Renathal straightened so suddenly his sharp cheekbone cracked against Elisewin's. This time she did wince, but he barely noticed. A thought had occurred to him that could not wait another of those fleeting seconds to be voiced.

“Soulbind with me.”

“What?” Elisewin asked, prodding gingerly at her face.

“Soulbind with me,” Renathal repeated, the words spilling fast and urgent. “There is a power in that ritual as ancient and timeless as the eternal ones themselves. A magic even Denathrius cannot undo, which is why he does not often permit it. With our souls bound together, he cannot separate us by any means, apart from ultimate destruction. And even that would be much harder to accomplish once you share my power.”

It took Elisewin, still rubbing her cheek, several heartbeats to process this information - her own, mortal heartbeats; Renathal’s redundant muscle dared not move. After what felt to his keyed nerves like an age, she dropped her hand from the new little violet bruise and sighed.

“I keep telling you he can’t, but… if it will make you feel better...”

“Is that a yes?” Renathal asked. "You are... saying yes?" and the hushed, vibrant awe in his voice seemed to alert Elisewin at last to the importance of the question. And the momentous significance of her answer.

Her blue-white eyes met his, their amber fiery with anticipation, and there was no hesitation in them as she repeated, “Yes, Renathal. I’m saying yes.”

Read Chapter 12: Rebels on the Road | Visit the Masterpost

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