#they are really bound for a fucking millenia DO NOT FUCKING TOUCH ME

[payidaresque]

J.R.R Tolkien, "The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring" (1954, p. 476) The Lord of the Rings: the Rings of Power (2022—)

[insp].

[theothersideofhim]

Secret, Mistake, Midnight

from [here]

Under the cut since it's A LOT and also a SECRET lmao

secret: What’s one secret your OC never wants anyone to know about them?

Easy enough: he's lonely. He's intensely, earth-shatteringly, irreparably lonely and it's directly because he's part of a duality where each part is designed to function alone. Me and Asche's personal lore for Stan is that he's "the other side" of God but that doesn't mean they're meant to get along. They're meant to be locked in a tidal orbit of never ending conflict, bound to each other but light years away. Stan is meant to be The Adversary and my personal lore is that he's just a little fucking sad about that.

Like he remembers helping to create the universe, hurling matter and heat in every direction, breaking down everything so Eli could pull it back together and form it into more and more complex elements, smashing atoms and meteors and whole planets into each other in a chaotic Mario Party Smash that lasted billions of eons and also just one flashbang

... so Eli could come in and create life on what was left.

And he knows that the only way to ever experience that sense of belonging and purpose again--at least on that "Mantle of the Adversary", cosmic level anyway--is to create a new universe. And he knows that in order for that to really happen the one they'd already made would have to be destroyed.

So there's that.

All this to say, I don't think Stan understands that's what he's feeling anyway. I think it translates to him as Angry and Sad. He'll show the angry part but he doesn't want people to ever know about the sad part.

Oh also he likes head touches and neck kisses shhhSHSHHHHHHH.

mistake: What’s the worst mistake your OC ever made? What led to them making it? Have they been able to fix it? How have they moved on?

Designing the platypus.

No but seriously, this one is really hard. I wanna say almost killing Lucifer, but is that really the worst? In all the millenia that Stan has been alive, his WORST MISTAKE was making Lucifer believe he was going to die at Stan's hands? Because in all honesty, the two of them will eventually find their way back into the toxic, symbiotic relationship they've had since Lucifer fell and everything will fall back into place again.

But will it??? Will it really????????? He effectively put Doubt in Lucifer's head for... basically as long as it's going to sit there. They'd gotten so close as for Stan to actually tell Lucifer "I love you", even if it was just a whisper, even if it was after just sticking a knife in the former angel's stomach, and they were both reminded that it could have been thrown away in a heartbeat over the pull of the Mantles needing to fill Roles.

Whether or not Lucifer moves on from it, Stan is always going to remember being slightly out of control... but not entirely. He was somewhere in the vicinity of the driver's seat and that is fucking chilling in its implications for Lucifer's place in his heart and Stan's capacity to have one in the first place.

So yeah I guess I'll keep it at that for now.

midnight: What keeps your OC up at night? Do they have nightmares? Fears? Anxieties? What do they do in the small hours of the morning when they should be sleeping?

He has a fear of intimacy that is in direct conflict with his aforementioned loneliness, and yeah that actually keeps him up at night sometimes lmao. If you wanted to get deeper into that it's a fear of rejection. If you wanted to go even further it's a fear of abandonment.

That's too far woah woahhhh bring it on back now.

His nightmares are always full of songs sung by angels made by Him but Not Him, sounds he can't make that spin molecules together into planets and cities and people, beautiful and terrible but muffled and far away like it was a record playing in another room.

He never speaks in his dreams. His mouth wasn't meant to make sound it was meant to devour, and he never yells or screams or throws any kinds of fits in his dreams.

[the-gilbird]

so i haven’t really posted anything like this before. but fuck it, because good omens is amazing, and i just shared this with the discord server, and they encouraged me to share it here, so. let’s-a-go, i guess

anyway. so. here it is.

so, we all know crowley is capable of massive feats, in terms of miracles. he can stop time on a whim. he can make a car make it through a ring of whatever the fuck kind of flame surrounded london via the m25, and then have it continue to function for several hours after that. he can pull two other entities (including the fucking antichrist) into what i can only assume to be a pocket dimension or something similar outside of time when one of the most powerful entities in the goddamn universe was approaching their location. and we also know why he is capable of the things he does: his imagination. crowley's creativity and imagination are one of the most powerful forces in the goddamn universe and that's not even an exaggeration. now, the other thing. aziraphale. he's smart, and cunning, and the biggest thing working against him is his lack of confidence in his abilities. he deciphered a large portion of agnes nutter's notoriously fucky riddles in one night. he figured out how to possess someone, despite no angel having done it before. and the reason he isn't higher in the pecking order in heaven is because he's kind, and loves the way angels should; and he is told for six millenia that he is not a good angel, which feeds into the lack of self confidence. but after ain'tmaggedon, he's free of heaven's influence. in fact, the only influence he really has now is crowley. and crowley's loved him for that six millenia, and probably sings his praises as often as he can now that crowley is likewise free of hell's influence, because he is a dumbstruck loveass. so aziraphale is more confident in his own abilities and traits, now. and aziraphale is intelligent. agnes nutter's final prophecy got them out of heaven and hell's line of view, and gave them time. but they won't stay away forever; crowley acknowledged that, right after the switch back in the garden. and aziraphale knows that it's only a matter of time before someone notices some discrepency, and they get caught (there's ten million angels and ten million demons, after all. someone's going to notice). so aziraphale begins to plan.

the first thing he does is plant the seeds, if you'll pardon the pun. after things have been settled for some time, he starts researching. pulling out the oldest ethereal (and occult) texts he owns (which are very old, and very numerous), and researching everything he can about the nature of angels and demons, and the nature of holy water and hellfire. and this takes up some time (seeds need to take root, after all. crowley needs to see him doing the research, after all). and occasionally, exactly as aziraphale knows he will, crowley will ask aziraphale what he's looking into, and aziraphale will say he's looking into protections against hellfire and holy water, for if heaven and hell ever figure out their little misdirection. (and crowley will hem and haw at him for referring to deceiving the entireties of heaven and hell, one of the greatest wiles ever pulled off in all of time, with the same language used to talk about magic tricks. and aziraphale will smile, because he loves every part of crowley.) and this will continue. and eventually, aziraphale will tell crowley that he's made a breakthrough. of course, aziraphale won't actually have made that big of a breakthrough. he has everything he needs by day three. but crowley needs to believe it. crowley needs to believe that aziraphale spent that entire time researching and plotting and planning and reading, because aziraphale is the smartest person that crowley knows, and if anyone can figure it out, his angel can. but what aziraphale tells him is that there wasn't any need of a plan at all, really. all this research has essentially been for moot. well, not for moot, because now they both know, but they didn't actually need to do anything with the information, aziraphale explains, because they're already safe, and have been for some time.

because, aziraphale says, holy water and hellfire can't affect them anymore. because crowley loves him with all of his heart, aziraphale explains, and he loves crowley with all of his. (don't technically have a heart, crowley says, still a bit blown away, what on account of them having corporations and not bodies, and all. oh hush, you know what i mean, aziraphale says back, and gives crowley a kiss on the forehead for his trouble.) and if a demon loves an angel, really loves them, hellfire won't burn them, because hellfire is the creation of demons, beings of destruction, generally, fueled by the hatred of their opposition, and so if a demon doesn't hate angels, it won't burn as strongly. and if a demon loves an angel, just one, then the angel won't be destroyed. and it works the same the other way 'round with holy water, aziraphale says, more excitedly, as crowley watches him enraptured, because holy water is blessed by angels, used to wipe out the opposition which they hate. and so if an angel loves a demon, that demon will be protected from the blessing, even blessings created by other angels. because love is a powerful force, it is the basis of the creation of humanity, when god first whispered the idea of them into being. when you love someone and have that love returned, you are giving yourself, wholely and completely, to another, and everything you are protects them with everything you have. it just so happens, aziraphale finishes by saying, that the respective weaknesses and strengths of angels and demons balance out rather nicely. humans put this phenomenon into very nice words, once; you must be subjected to the mortifying ordeal of being known, in order to get the rewards of being loved. and so they are ready. when they come (and they do come, they were always going to come, eventually), they take aziraphale first, just like last time. but unlike last time, aziraphale and crowley are together when their respective former head offices come to deal the killing blows. holy water said to be blessed by the almighty herself, and hellfire harvested from the deepest pits of hell, fueled by satan's everlasting rage. the strongest stuff there is, just so there is every guarentee. (the water fizzles gabriel's skin lightly, even, as a drop falls out as he carries it over, and the fire roars with a heat that even beelzebub inches away from.) it is volatile, it is deadly, and there is absolutely no hope for the traitors now. (or there wouldn't be, if aziraphale weren't so smart.) and crowley is shackled to the ground, his shoulders restrained by... demons? angels? he doesn't know, and he doesn't rightly care at this point, they're all the same to him, forcing him to face aziraphale, shackled and bound just as he is, being led into a roaring inferno of the hottest hellfire crowley has ever seen. and he knows, he knows they're safe, aziraphale looked into every possibility and he trusts aziraphale, trusts him with everything, trusts him with the name he had before the Fall and even with that he can't help struggling, and snarling, and doing everything he can to get out and run to his angel, trying every trick in the book but it's not working because there are too many enemies abound, too many hands holding him down and restraining him as his head is pulled back by his hair and he is forced to watch as aziraphale is shoved into the flames.

(aziraphale knew this, too. crowley is the heart, out of the two of them, he always was, and heaven and hell want every bit of revenge they can get, they want it to hurt. they know it will hurt worst if crowley is forced to watch the love of his life die in front of him, unable to do anything, and for aziraphale to die knowing that he can't protect crowley from what is coming next.) (really, it's no wonder aziraphale figured out agnes nutter's prophecies so quickly; for being two completely different entities, they think with remarkable similarity.) but aziraphale has already protected crowley. he has already protected both of them, because he is the smartest being crowley has ever known, and because he knows crowley, just as crowley knows him. and he knows crowley is, hands down, one of the most powerful beings in all of creation, and crowley's imagination is a force never to be reckoned with. all that stuff aziraphale spouted, about how a love from a demon can protect an angel, and vice versa? bullshit. complete and utter bullshit. aziraphale found what he needed to in those books he researched, and what he needed was just enough solid evidence for him to convince CROWLEY that it was true. it is the biggest, boldest, most daring lie aziraphale has ever told, and he will never tell crowley the truth because he can't. (he has practice, with this whole lying thing. he's lied to humans, he's lied to heaven, hell, he's even lied to crowley before. and he promised crowley he would never tell him another lie again but this one, this one he really can't help, not if it means keeping them both safe, and aziraphale will keep this close to his chest until the end of time. and he will only regret it for a single instance, and that is when he hears crowley's scream as he is thrown into hellfire.) the hellfire doesn't touch him. it can't touch him, because crowley believes it won't. despite being made of the purest anger the universe has ever known, it wraps around aziraphale like a warm embrace, like a gentle smile, like a 'welcome home.' and as crowley sees aziraphale's figure unwavering in the fire, his cry cuts out, and he smiles even as he is drenched, because it worked, just like aziraphale said it would. (and it worked. just like crowley thought it would, aziraphale thinks, as he smiles and sighs a breath of relief that they are finally (finally) safe.)

[k0saji]

Caffeine Challenge #25

I went a little over time and the ending is a bit abrupt but hey, its done! @caffeinewitchcraft

This is for the Caffeine Challenge # 25 using the prompt “When Man Discovered Magic, The World Stood Still With Wonder”

 “When Man Discovered Magic, The World Stood Still With Wonder.”

Life blinks up at Magic, who busy giggling over a history tome.

“I remember that much differently,” she says, walking over to the kitchen island. Magic is wearing a male form today, with rich brown hair slicked to the side and narrow blue eyes. It doesn’t take away from the feeling of power and otherness emanating from him, even among their own kind.

“I think Death had a conniption,” Magic says, reading down the page. “Oh look, remember that time they made me a god?”

Life taps her finger on the island, thinking back. “No,” she decides, “I think I was busy in the bottom of the ocean.” Life reaches past Magic to the bowl of fruit at the table. She grabs an apple, rubbing her thumb against waxy skin before turning to the sink to wash it.

“What’s at the bottom of the ocean?”

“Me.” Life laughs as Magic groans and swats at her.

“That’s a lame joke, your lame,” Magic says, knocking his head down on the book. Life just smiles and pulls up a seat across from him, biting into the apple with a smug crunch. Magic keeps his head down for moment or two before lifting it and pointing a finger at her. “I refuse to acknowledge you as my teacher if you keep making puns.”

“I haven’t been your mentor in a long time,” Life points out. “Not since you decided that filling a desert with wildflowers in front of a human city was a good idea.”

Magic whines and covers his head, blushing at the reminder. “I was young and stupid, you can’t hold that against me.”

“Did I hear someone call Magic stupid?” Magic groans again as a woman with dark skin and honey blond hair appears in the kitchen.

“Knock first, Love,” Life chides, ignoring her pout as she hugs her daughter.

“Sorry,” Love says before dropping into an empty stool, stealing Magic’s book from under them. “Ohh, I remember this! Didn’t you also try and –“

“Oh my God, stop!” Magic wails, hands reaching for the book as Love leans back in her seat, keeping the book away from Magic.

Life just takes another bite of her apple, letting noise wash over her as she thinks back to that unfortunate day.

-

(Millenia ago, Egypt)

“Life, Life you need to help me.”

Life blinks up at Magic, the young Aspect looking at her with wide brown eyes. She sets aside her basket, and barely steps out of the river when Magic grabs a hold of her and teleports them to outside the city. The sun beats down on her, and the sand quickly soaks up the water dripping down her legs, but those are the only familiar things she can see.

In front of her was a fantastical sight, flowers, the kind that are not native to the region, fill the desert as far as the eye can see. She kneels down to touch one, and its alive, petals fresh and soft as if it was growing in the glades in regions farther north. The sun should have shriveled them up, the ground drain them of the precious water in their leaves but they remain defiant, releasing a sweet scent that carries in the hot breeze.

“Magic, these are beautiful,” Life breathes out, a smile breaking over her face. Oh its not natural at all, but the magic sustaining the life will fade in time, taking the flowers with it. She isn’t concerned about any repercussions to her domain.

Life looks up at Magic, who’s fidgeting, hands clenching and releasing the braid his long black hair is bound in. She’s reminded of just how young he is, reflected in the awkward adolescent form he wears, long limbs and chubby cheeks that hide what would end up a sharp jawline.

“Yeah, that’s not the problem,” Magic mutters, walking through the flowers. He leads her to the other end of the meadow, getting there faster than if they were both human to see a group of youths gathered around in a tight circle.

Magic grimaces as power pulses out from the circle, and Life can feel the drain from the land as the meadow starts growing, grass pushing up between flowers, and seedlings sprouting from nothing taking root.

The children are all young, just on the cusp of adulthood, barely a few years older than Magic appears and every one of them were human.

“Magic…”

“I only showed one of them how to make flowers! I didn’t mean for this!” Magic whispers thrusting his hand out at the growing meadow. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, I don’t even know how they managed to do this!”

“They managed because you showed them,” Life cuts him off, not wanting to catch the attention of the group just yet. “Just like I show them how to harvest, or Justice brings forth order, once you show them something it’s theirs. You can’t take it back.”

Magic rocks on his heels. “But they’re doing it wrong!” bursts out of him, and Life tries to get him to quiet down as the humans start noticing them. “There’s no balance, no price paid! They need to stop or-“ Magic cuts himself off as darkness falls, sending a cold wind sweeping through the meadow.

Life smiles as Magic grows pale and the humans scream as the shadows come together in front of them, writhing until it turns into a tall figure with a jackal growling by its side.

“Death!” Life calls out, “Hello, Anubis,” she says to the jackal, who huffs but keeps his attention on the humans, growling when one of them tries to run.

“What did you do?” Death, garbed in a dark robe is a spot of black in the bright meadow, drawing all light in and letting none escape. Life is smiling widely, which earns her a suspicious look from Death.

“Oh my God, I fucked up, I fucked up,” Magic chants under his breath, inching behind her. Life raises her eyebrows and Magic shuffles out from behind her.

“The Balance is being shifted, what do you have to say for yourself?” Death looms over them, wearing the form of a man this time, tall with dark skin that highlights the golden glow from his eyes.

Life sighs appreciatively as a patch of brown forms under his feet and grows with every whimper as Magic tries to explain himself. The debt demanded by magic slowly being paid, the Balance being righted, soothing the growing itch between her shoulder blades that has been growing since Magic came to her.

“Death, it’s been so long! Have you seen my letters?” Life asks. Death ignores her, but she tries again. “Do you want to see the death chambers? These people have such a strange way to honor their fallen,” she continues cheerfully, ignoring Magic’s pleading eyes.

They got themselves into this mess, they can take the punishment.

“I take offense to that,” Anubis calls out, and Life heart soars when she spots a smile, barely a quirk of full lips but still there on Death’s face.

“-and have you seen how big the crocodiles have gotten? I think you’ll like them, they are so very elegant when they swim,” Life steps closer, still a respectful distance away from Death, but closer than he’s allowed her near before.

Death pauses, looking intrigued for a second before turning back to Magic, who gulps. “I’ll think about it,” Death says, and Life bites her tongue before she can scream with joy. It must register on her face because Death looks away from her and tempers it with “It will only be for a short while, I will be busy trying to untangle just what he did.” Death turns a dark glare to Magic, shivering in place.

Life never really understands why people are so afraid of Death, honestly Magic, he’s not going to eat you.

“Magic.”

“Yes Mr. Death Sir! Ma’am? Your Eminence?” Life stifles a giggle as Death glares first at her and then at the alarmingly pale Magic.

“Deal with your students, the next time this happens I will hold you fully responsible,” Death says, bearing his weight down on Magic to make the threat stick before turning to Life.

“You mentioned crocodiles?”

Behind him Magic slumps to his knees while Anubis corrals the humans over to him. Life just smiles and holds out her hand, smiling brighter when Death takes hold.

“Only for a little while,” Death warns her again and Life just squeezes his hand in hers.

“Whatever you give me is perfect.”

-

(Modern times, Life’s House)

Life blinks out of her reverie as Magic and Love get into another argument at her dinner table, and sighs. She better stop them now before they destroy her kitchen again.

“Children-!”

[istrys]

Memories of a Requiem Pt 5

Whitstan, now trapped in his mind, awoke to a land bathed in fire and blood. The blackened landscape would shift every few seconds or so to the familiar golden woods of Quel’thalas, only to revert back to charred wastes. A thousand undead soldiers of every denizen of Azeroth marched forward in unison, holding their ragged banners and ironclad in their blackened armor. Their war cries reverberated across the burning countryside, filling the former Spell-Breaker with contentment. Azeroth was an army of one. There were no more feuds, no more grief, no more rich, no more poor; only the grief and agony of their pain united them, answering to no one but their King.

An Old God writhed and seethed in the distance, large enough to cover all of Mulgore with its bulbous and shapeless body. The Faceless Ones swarmed out from its festering sores, tainting and corrupting anything they touched with absolute madness. Yet, they could not manipulate their enemies this time. With the corpse of the Dark Titan floating aimlessly in the stars above, only the Undead stood in the Old God’s way. Black ichor and boiling blood flooded the desecrated valleys, but the defenders of Azeroth did not waver. High above in clouds their leader commanded them, riding atop an undead Dragon Aspect.

 High King Wilhelm rained pestilence and decay upon the Old God and it’s minions, turning the Faceless into blistering piles of entrails and blood. His army rallied beneath his dragon’s wings, empowered by his very presence- by his very shadow. The nameless aberration breathed in its last dying breath, lashing out at their commander in a desperate gamble to kill him.

 It was an easy victory. With the Curse of Undeath blanketing the world the influence of the Void Lords proved trivial. The promises of power from the Burning Legion proved fruitless. Azeroth was finally a united front, free of endless turmoil and useless strife.  No longer were they bound to or divided by racial tensions and petty differences. Now they all stood as one to defend their world under one banner, as one people. And they would welcome, embrace and enjoy the onslaught.

But time was not on their side. The spilled blood of the Faceless and the Old Gods themselves forever tainted the land. The burning blood of demons warped and twisted the earth. Years turned into decades. Decades turned into centuries, which turned into millenia, which turned into eons. Eventually the tales of glorious battles faded. Reluctantly their differences resurfaced. High King Wilhelm’s influence began to wane, and after a time his subjects turned on each other.

 Immortality was a heavy price to pay, but once the sun stopped drifting through the sky, once the moon stopped chasing the sun, and when eternal darkness covered the land, insanity gripped the Undead. Without the fear of death their minds shattered, and one by one their panic and confusion reached its boiling point. In the end there was only chaos, with a few hundred Undead left above ground; they wandered the icy wastes alone, driven mad by their loneliness and separation from their brothers and sisters. For the Undead were designed to be undying, not immortal; they were never meant to last this long. Out of all the Undead that wasted away, High King Wilhelm was one of the last.

 He wandered across the ice that was once called the Northern Sea. His body grew frail, for his bones were ancient. He whispered his mantra over and over again, for years, for eons; his ebony crown had sunk into his soft skull, his face hung from his bones like rotting leather. High King Wilhelm had been blind for seven millennia, but with a stroke of luck, his ears still worked.

 “Kaevia. Kaevia. Kaevia. Kaevia.” He chanted over and over, limping aimlessly through the icy mist. He couldn’t recall her face, the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand; he couldn’t remember anything about anyone, save for that simple name. His memory had become stale and fragmented while he struggled with every ounce of his will to keep her with him forever.

 “Kae. Kae. Kae.” Was this the same name he chanted countless times before? The Undead reached out into the darkness every time but only the dead wind answered his call. Eventually his bony legs crumbled, forcing the once powerful High King to crawl. Eventually his voice gave out, worn down from a trillion lifetimes worth of speaking. In the end there was nothing, for Time did not show mercy to anyone. In raising everyone to Undeath, he doomed them to a Hell no one could have foreseen. The last Undead was the one to blame for their suffering, but in the end… there was only silence.

Peace had come to Azeroth at last.

 His consciousness lingered as his broken mind shifted pieces into place in a desperate attempt to survive. If he was still living, it was possible his heart would have given out from the strain of darkness that assaulted every cell in his body. The shadow magic had worked through his veins and infected the very essence of his being. He began to shake violently as unholy magic was tapped into instinctively while the runes etched onto his arms shifted a malevolent green hue. Flashes of green lightning began to spark along the walls as Ijiro and Rethandus kept his arms pinned along the cold stone wall. His eyes shot open as the soul bound to his runeblade drew him back to reality by invading his mind to counter the Priestess. The soul spoke, ‘Whitstan… stop this. As much as I would delight in the blood you would feed our blade…” Ellyria spoke softly, “You number your days if you do this. And without my connection to your soul to sustain my own to this blade I would cease to exist. Don’t damn us both.”

 Filled with rage and contempt, his stare found Rethandus who was severely weakened by Istrys’ last ditch effort to disable Whitstan and his undead minions. His monstrous Scourge strength heaved against the Harbinger’s grasp on his arm as he forced forward with all his might. Ijiro attempted to root him in place but his injuries began to get the best of him. Whitstan met Ijiro’s head with his own with ease as his eyeless side was closest to him, limiting his vision. As the Hunter staggered back, his arm freed to give Rethandus a forceful shot to the ribs before continuing with the motion of pushing him off, tossing him back against the stone ground.

 He watched as the Priestess directly in front of him began to ground her consciousness and open her eyes after the costly invasion she inflicted upon him. For the slightest moment his eyes flickered and she could have sworn a hint of sadness wore at his features before he let out a sharply pained sigh. He attempted to keep balance with a slight step back while his greaves clanked against the wall before he crashed into the cold and slid down the dark foundation. He remained seated and silent for a long moment as the others slowly regained their senses. The undead nightmares summoned along the walls had long since stopped their wailing and returned to dust. Only Whitstan remained, quiet and unresponsive. His eyes peering to the Priestess.

 Syrahn was out of breath. She stood as tall and as straight as she could, but she could not hide her exhaustion. Ijiro lay on the floor, cradling his head, while Rethandus slowly crawled over to the motionless Necromancer. Yet despite their injuries Syrahn kept her gaze locked onto Whitstan, letting whatever horrors she forced into his mind simmer a bit before speaking.

“What did you see?” she asked between labored breaths, while her burnt hands trembled at her sides.

 “My ambitions... a reality. That is what I saw. Syrahn.” he said plainly, his voice flat and his volume low, speaking her given name for the first time since his memories returned. His voice echoed gently.

 “You don’t look pleased.” The Priestess finally broke her stare with him, turning to glance over at Ijiro; the Hunter was sitting up at this point, too weak and injured to stand. Rethandus on the other side of the cell, cradled Istrys while he checked to make sure she hadn’t suffered her true death. Heavy footsteps and shouting could be heard approaching from the hallway. “Rethandus, can you summon a Death Gate to escape out of here?”

 “No.” he quickly answered, shooting his scowl up at the Priestess. “I’m spent.” Syrahn bit her lip while her mind raced, but eventually she just gave the Harbinger a light shrug.

 “I suppose it is what it is, then.” she whispered, returning her frown to Whitstan. “You’re going to answer for what you did this day.”

 He remained stoic and expressionless as Syrahn threatened justice upon him. His eyes met the floor a moment and glanced back up. “Do you wish for them to go to Acherus? They won’t survive long in this state of disrepair. Well. Rethandus is stubborn enough. But Istrys… she seems a bit weathered.” a light huff came from him, almost a laugh.

 “You expect us to trust you?” Rethandus weakly sneered, furrowing his brow. “Do you take us for fools?”

 “No.” he answered quickly. “And frankly, I don’t care if you don’t trust me. A thousand goblins working a thousand years to build a device that calculated the amount of fucks I give could not calculate in a millennia how many fucks I don’t give right now. I couldn’t care less if you trust me or not. Frankly, I don’t trust any of you. Rethandus, whose vengeance always bled in everything he touched, everything you kill. Istrys, who lies to those closest to her in their faces because of her lust for power. Ijiro, who would betray anyone for his one true love. And you Syrahn, whose deluded sense of loyalty or obligation, I’m not sure which, goes beyond sense or reason. I wanted you all to die and serve my cause, because you were worthy, or suffer true death. Now my cause… it seems just a little bit more lost than I would have liked. So thanks for opening up to me about how your trust works but I really, really, don’t give a fuck.” he lamented dryly.

 “Gods what an earful.” Ijiro continued to cradle his head, clearly suffering from a raging headache. “Look, these rich reclusive bastards aren’t the same as those you find in the capital. It’ll get complicated… maybe deadly if you’re seen down here… so just… just go.” Rethandus refrained from speaking, but he didn’t want to die down in this dungeon; his bitter rivalry had been renewed, and he had some planning to do. Reluctantly he stood up with Istrys in his arms.

 “Make the gate.” Rethandus hissed, staring hatefully down at Whitstan. “If you cross me again… I won’t be so eager to play their stupid games.”

 “Don’t lie to yourself. You were never eager to in the first place. Save your idle threats as I save your life. I don’t care.” he responded as dark energies crackled from an extended arm; a Death Gate to Acherus sparking into existence with a sinister glow nearby the other two Death Knights. Rethandus stared at Whitstan for several moments in silence, heavily implying he wanted to murder the former Breaker and be done with it. Eventually he began walking, refusing to look neither Syrahn nor Ijiro in the eyes.

 “You should go too.” Syrahn suggested, though it was more of a command than a request. “My guards won’t take you as my prisoner. Not after you disturbed the rest of so many of my ancestors.”

 He began with an echoed chuckle before it turned into a confusing laugh to those around him. “This… this is exactly what I was talking about. You should kill me yet you still offer me an escape. You say I will answer for what I’ve done this day but want to let me go. This is nonsensical. I’d rather simply face my true death here than knowing, or even simply imagining such a desolate end to my goal to unite Azeroth is met with such suffering. Did you even see the vision you rooted out of me? A countless lifetimes of memories with nothing but ash in my mouth to sustain me… it was more than enough for me. You won. My will was resolute. Now… I waver in my cause. Hope is lost. If not the demons now, someone else will come to destroy us and I will not be able to save this world. Nothing can.”

 “Then stay here and die.” Syrahn turned around to pull herself up onto the stone slab in the center of the cell. “My guards will be here in a matter of moments and they will promptly remove your head from your shoulders. You threatened to slaughter my family. You wanted Rethandus and Jiro to murder each other for your amusement. I could have overloaded your mind with Shadow magic, but I chose not to.”

 He raised a hand. “In my defense, I was trying to get Ijiro to kill Rethandus. He kind of deserved it. Not that I care to justify my actions. Either way, I would have let it happen. Kind of.”

 “Say what you will about his attitude, his skill with a blade, and his temperament. But Rethandus is thrice the elf you’ll ever be.” Syrahn dryly spoke, shortly before taking in a deep breath.

 His blood boiled. His temper flared as he heard the guards close in on their location. “Rethandus attempted to kill me over his dead girlfriend. I understand that. It’s justifiable. I killed her. But I had no memory of it. I could have had a fresh start. My mind was free of the conviction I held for so long that I must bear the burden of death to save everyone else. He would have killed an innocent to satisfy his urges. He’s no better than I. Let’s not fool ourselves just because he fights for you and your ilk.”

 “He fights for himself.” Syrahn lazily rubbed one of her eyes as her heart slowed down to normal. “He proved that when he worked for Zerethel. When he disobeyed Zerethel for revenge too.”

“And how long did he follow him?” the footsteps fell even closer, “How long did he follow his corrupted orders? MY. OWN. BROTHER’S. Twisted orders. And that wretch Istrys. Even though she’s grown on me for the last few months… she is the one who drug me to that damned Necroplis to be incinerated by Alucieus Sun’rael’s right hand, Zerethel. The only man I trusted for a century.”

 Syrahn shrugged half-heartedly, taking a page out of Ijiro’s handbook. “Who knows? Maybe your kind are just compelled to do terrible things for your own gain. Maybe that’s why you keep getting betrayed by other Death Knights.” She paused to stare deep into his eyes, with all of her compassion rightfully abandoned. “Maybe I’ll tell my guards to spare your life. Maybe, I like watching you struggle against the one single truth, that everything you have done and ever will do, will end up being for nothing. Your chance to survive is quickly leaving you, Whitstan. But I guess it doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

 “Please… listen to her. I only exist as long as you do. I understand you are suffering. But there will be ample time to sift through and understand those… thoughts. Right now, you need to go.”

 “... it really doesn’t.” he commented in a soft and somber tone. Ever since his memories were shattered something even more horrific had occurred that very moment his past life was sealed to him. And he began to feel. Artemisia had triggered something in his mind to repair his emotions. But why? Perhaps it was due to this that he was drawn to defeat. His relentless will to fight had subsided and was replaced by a grim reality. His extreme ambitions were brought to a close. Even if the vision she revealed to him was a lie… it was going to be a reality even in the best case scenario. Undead continued to unravel, however slowly. Over time, the Val’kyr could sacrifice their essence to sustain them but even that was a finite resource. Countless years of peace meant nothing if there was nothing to fight for, to care for. In the end, he had been nothing but a foolish cog trapped in the machine, ticking to its intended purpose. The force of guards stomping in a rush neared the door. “Last chance, Syrahn. Kill me now, or regret it forever. ”

 “I already regret sparing your life when I found you chained to the wall and bleeding out in the Plaguelands. I can live with a little more.” The Priestess slid off the table to kneel beside her lover, beginning to busy herself with tending his wounds. “If you don’t leave now, you’ll regret that too.”

 He struggled to remember that word he uttered so often until his body gave way over eons. His brows furrowed as he fought against the pain behind his newly unlocked memories hidden away in corners of his mind which were left unaccessed for the longest time. “... Kaevia…” he uttered softly, barely a whisper. The sanity that was restored to him by Artemisia remained in tact. It was hard to tell in the last few moments, but his personality had not swapped from one extreme to the other. Both sides of Whitstan, before and after, still remained. Now a part of him felt even more broken than he had been before. He looked to Syrahn then to the Death Gate that still crackled black energies. It began to shimmer out of existence as the guards rounded near the door and stacked for a tactical breach.

 “I… wish… your compassion won’t be your downfall.” he stated as he rose to his feet to pass through the gate. A spark from his hands shifted the color of the gate ever-so-slightly. His eyes glanced to Ijiro, “Maybe… you should listen to him a little bit more. The world isn’t full of kindness and-” he stopped speaking, realizing he ran out of time. With but another step, he shifted through, not knowing what to expect on the other side.

 “Lady Bloodfeather!” Guard-Captain Sorlu was the first to step through the hole that used to hold the door. “Are you injured?! What happened here?!”

 “A monster attacked us.” Syrahn weakly answered, keeping her gaze on the Hunter. “But Ijiro saved me.”

 “Where did this creature go?” The old elf sneered at the sight of all the bones that littered the floor; most of these belonged to House Sunlust, centuries before the Scourge Invasion. “Search the dungeon! I want every inch of every cell cleared, NOW!”

 “That was fucking brave, girly.” Ijiro winced away at her touch, but she held his head firmly. “A little darker than I’m used to, but…-”

 “Quiet.” Syrahn stared into his eye for a few moments. “Be still… I need you to survive this day… and many days to come.”

“Heh…” The Hunter gave her the most convincing smile he could muster; but it wasn’t much. “I can only promise to try.”