Chapter Text
Koltira had always found a way of undoing Thassarian’s certainty in things. It was his words that made him hesitate when they met for the second time, Koltira’s ethereal features dirtied and gnarled into a desperate scowl.
Asking him questions he could never answer, demanding things he couldn’t deny.
Coupled with his memories of freezing bones, flashes of a woman on her knees pleading for her son, he couldn’t take the final strike. Koltira’s sword pressed against his throat felt like a plea. And so he spared him, leaving Koltira with an open warning.
Koltira did not heed it. When they met again, and he pierced his blade through Koltira’s chest and saw the life drain from his face, he couldn’t help but watch.
Koltira hated him for some time, after being risen. And he was right for it. Thassarian took everything from him with the scourge, cruel and brutish like a sledgehammer as the Lich King swung upon Quel’thalas in one blow. Death knights arose in different ways, some furious, some elated, some empty.
He could recall Koltira’s gnashing fury in the training pits, coming away from each session bloodied and howling. Thassarian had taken it upon himself to reach him there, to spare him being fed to the ghouls for having a flawed mind full of memories.
It was pitiful, the hand that he held out for Koltira, but it was all that he could do. Even in the throes of domination fog, Thassarian burned with the need to help him. Not to befriend him, but to build him up and focus his hate, to turn his bloodlust to their enemies. To save him from the madness that crept at the edges of their psyche, he justified to himself.
“Again, Koltira.” He spit through a mouth of blood, teeth coated in red as he bore another strike from Koltira’s longsword, his armour taking the brunt of it. “You are not fast enough.”
The vicious glare Koltira squared him told him what was to come, and multiple swings at twice their pace came at him. They were sloppy, and Thassarian parried them. “Useless. Again.”
“To what end?!” Koltira growled, their clashing swords between them, Koltira was close enough that Thassarian felt his rotten, cold breath. “Fight me like an equal, to the death!”
Thassarian dropped the tension in their swords, and instead of swinging again, he brought round a fist to punch Koltira across the face. It sent Koltira reeling, dark blood gushing from his nose and splattering down his bare chest, but the stagger was short-lived. Like a hound animal, he screamed and charged Thassarian, knocking him to the floor where he pinned him to the stone.
“You son of a bitch,” Koltira choked out, trying to push his blade sideways into Thassarian’s neck, a weak spot in his armour. Thassarian was holding the blade back with his hands, gripping it so tight it began to cut through his gauntlets. “This is all your fault.”
“It is.” Thassarian rasped out, “You fight well. You’ll survive what’s to come.”
“Surviving doesn’t matter in this wretched existence,” Koltira said, anger now laced with despair.
“Yes, it does.” Thassarian pushed back harder, “There is no stopping the Lich King. Even now, you feel his call. You are far more worthy a servant than you are dead. Frostmourne would have consumed your soul.”
Koltira met his push with his own, the blade starting to press against Thassarian’s neck. He hissed, “Am I supposed to believe that was your act of mercy?”
Thassarian let out a desperate, “Yes.”
Koltira’s face warped, as if Thassarian had driven a dagger into him and twisted it. He bared his teeth, putting all his weight onto his sword that it began to inch into Thassarian’s neck. Thassarian prepared himself to counter with a bout of frost, when suddenly Koltira wrenched himself away and stood.
Thassarian stayed and watched him, feeling the trickle of his tepid blood oozing from his neck. Koltira was breathing heavily, trembling and wide-eyed, as he stared down at Thassarian, and at his neck. The moment felt like an eternity as Thassarian came to rest on his elbows, Koltira’s haunted expression set aglow by the overhead necrotic energies.
He couldn’t fathom what Koltira was thinking, feeling, or why he had stopped. He knew his pain tolerance was much higher than that, and such a sudden change of mind was unlikely. But he hoped Koltira understood what Thassarian could not say. What had yet to be said.
The pause in combat wasn’t ignored for long. “Thassarian,” Thoval called out, the blood adept approaching the edge of the ring. “Is he ready?”
Thassarian was the first to break their stare, and began to get to his feet. “Yes. Dismissed.”
Koltira turned away, ghouls beginning to close in on him to assure he went to the trainee quarters without a fuss. Thassarian kept glancing at Koltira as he went to leave, ignoring Thoval’s furrowed brow of confusion at his behaviour.
He thought he saw Koltira trace his fingers along his sword, picking up Thassarian’s blood on his fingertips and smearing it between them, before he was disarmed and pulled out of sight.
Not long after that, Thassarian heard word of Koltira taking his oath, and swearing himself to the service of the Lich King. Thassarian had been concerned that they would have deem Koltira unfit to be a knight, but it would be a lie to say he was relieved.
It was no celebration to be under the control of the Lich King, only suffering. But with it came power and brotherhood, at the beginning of their king’s reign. Surviving it all would yield the highest rewards.
It was an awkward dance between them in the following days. Koltira had been bestowed a suit of armour and a notable greatsword. Thassarian thought it best to give him space to adjust to his new position, as Koltira’s haunted countenance had imprinted itself behind his eyelids and had sewn its way into the fabric of his conscience, sodden with guilt.
So it was suprising that on one slow, cold morning, Koltira approached him in the barracks.
Thassarian heard him approach before he saw him, while he was threading new leather in his armour, correcting a shoddy job done by a ghoul.
Koltira’s greaves came into his view. Thassarian spoke, “Is your armour wearing well?”
“It’s adequate.” Koltira said, tone unreadable. “I’ve never seen you without yours. I was beginning to think you were stuck in it. Hoping nobody would notice.”
The jab made Thassarian pause. He glanced up at Koltira, finding himself appreciating how becoming Koltira looked as a bringer of death. “And nobody ever would.”
Koltira raised an eyebrow. “I see.”
He set down his greatsword, and sat down across from Thassarian on a stone chair. The silence stretched between them, before Koltira muttered, “I understand, now.”
Thassarian didn’t say anything, so Koltira continued, as if reciting a script. “Nothing matters except what the Lich King wills to be done. My past life is to be left behind. And I’m grateful to have been risen with my skin and brains intact."
Thassarian inclined his head, “As am I.” He turned the leather straps between his fingers, “With an exception. You were right to remind me of my humanity, Koltira. It has its place. And it serves me well in my suffering. Though I’m sure Bloodbane told you differently.”
Koltira furrowed his brow. Thassarian could understand the conflict, as he was the same when he first learned that the rules for operating as a death knight were scarce and often arbitrary, yet ruthlessly enforced.
It was subtle, but Koltira settled back into the chair slightly, as though a knot in his shoulders had come undone.
Koltira huffed, “The psychology of this life is far more complex than I ever imagined. Yet, it makes sense when you’re a part of it.” He gave Thassarian a dry look, “I do find it funny. The irony reminding me of your humanity, given our circumstances.”
“Am I to expect this behaviour for the rest of our service together?”
“I’m just getting started.”
“Death preserve me.”
Koltira’s mouth curled into a cruel smile, his teeth a stark white against his bruise-darkened lips, and something deep in the pits of Thassarian hollowed chest lurched.
-
In his lifetime, Thassarian had brief passings of romance. His first was the daughter of his mother’s friend, freckled and brown-haired, and they shared a summer together before circumstances separated them.
Another was a crush he developed while training to enlist, a young woman with a soft voice and unmatched strength who he spent late evenings sparring with, and exchanged touches amongst the blows.
After that, he ran out of time for exploring relationships. Personal attachments were put to the wayside for camaraderie and the wars ahead.
So when he found his gaze lingering on Koltira more than it needed, it fell within the realm of fascination. Surrounded by rotting minions and decrepit structures, it could easily be explained that the elf was more appealing to look at than everything else, or the knowledge it had been by his hand that Koltira was amongst their ranks. Or perhaps that only in his occasional trips to the city of Lordaeron had he seen elves, sheltered from the world in his pocket of the north; still a novelty, when they weren’t laying dead by his sword.
Undeath’s sullen qualities suited him well. The horrors of serving under Arthas were often balmed by the sight of Koltira cutting through swathes of bodies, coming through blood-drenched, platinum hair dyed crimson at the tips and droplets scattered across his cheeks.
Thassarian never had an interest in such morbid aesthetics, as far as he was aware, yet on Koltira they were maddening to the point of being distracting.
He wagered that it drew from an unspoken aspect of becoming a death knight – a seething hunger deep in the gauges of their reanimated souls that was fed by the presence of death or bloodshed. Most knights simply acted on the Lich King’s will, but there were others that worshipped this call and let themselves sink into depravity.
Thassarian thought himself different, at least in regards to his self-control, but he was not immune. The endless hunger was making itself an unwelcome pest in the pit of his stomach, so he went to sate it before the Acherus made its move.
He couldn’t recall what or who he had slain, just that a slurry of blood was left in his wake. It made him feel like an animal rather than a soldier, unbecoming of a chosen of the Lich King. It was senseless slaughter, yet the distracting ache was relieved by it. But he wondered, at this point, if it was any different than a master and his unruly dog, gnawing at its leash till it was taught otherwise.
And Thassarian was well trained.
His mind began to wander in the endless nights of sentry across Northrend to the Eastern Kingdoms. The fog of the Lich King’s dominion made the days blend into each other, but at the times when it lifted, he recalled his conversations with Koltira the most. Whenever they found each other, they would talk.
The night before their deployment to the shores of the Scarlet Enclave, Thassarian stood with Koltira on the stone balcony of the Acherus, watching the water below it as the necropolis moved to its destination.
“Have you sailed before, Thassarian?”
Koltira was looking out to the distant shores, his silver tresses catching the wind, and Thassarian considered his question.
“I have. Twice as a boy, and another when I joined Prince Arthas’ regiment. It was difficult to appreciate, as I suffered from seasickness.” A moment of silence passed before he continued, “Have you?”
Koltira nodded. “My brother and I would take a boat around the Isle’s shoals, to pass the time. We’d often find things to take home on the sand.”
“Like what?” Thassarian asked.
“Washed up cargo, or occcasionally weapons. Though most of the time it was too damaged to be of any use, I had a knack for always finding something good in the mess.” He huffs, eyes distant, “Faltora always tried to stop me from looking in things he thought were worthless or dangerous, but I proved him wrong everytime.”
Thassarian glanced out at the night, recalling how easily Faltora had been beaten. He wondered if his bravery was a surprise to Koltira, finally mustering the strength to protect his loved ones. Little as it mattered, in the end.
“I wish he had survived.” Koltira said.
Thassarian felt the weight of his words like an anvil on his chest. Perhaps it would have been better for him to have slain him there and then, to be risen as a death knight, so that him and Koltira could have served together. “He protected you, till the end.”
“He did.” Koltira looked at Thassarian, studying him. “Though even in death, he still could not stop me from finding something useful in the wreck.”
Thassarian furrowed his eyebrows, “What do you mean?”
Koltira’s had an air of something bemused about him, and shrugged.
It felt like something had passed him by, leaving him blind and grasping at random threads to decipher whether or not Koltira was mocking him, or something else entirely. He bristled slightly, giving Koltira a frown.
It made Koltira laugh, cold and empty, and it made Thassarian forget what he was thinking about in the first place.
That interaction played on his mind between waves of dominion-fueled slaughter. He’d picture Koltira’s smile, the rough scratch of his laugh unused to it in genuine capacity, how soft his hair looked in the breeze.
A feeling stirred in his ribcage. It was muffled, like it was trying to cry out behind a thick pane of warped glass. As the mind and body was reformed to fit its new purpose of being the perfect undead soldier, the emotions of the living quickly became inconvenient and subsequently rewritten with apathy.
Some had it worse than others, but Thassarian clung to the remnants of his humanity for his own purposes. The memories of his mother’s blood on his hands was like a beacon, to remain true to who he was, and who he will become.
During their assault on Light’s Hope Chapel, Koltira was captured. Thassarian knew Koltira was capable of taking care of himself, but as the time passed and he still hadn’t shown, a dread settled in his gut. It felt foolish for him to care when so much was at stake, and their ranks could hardly spare the efforts or time to find a knight that was likely dead.
But the muffled ache of worry was distracting, and there was nothing he hated more than a man left behind, so he sent a low-ranking soldier to search for him. He was aware he was violating protocol, so he knew that he could not risk doing it himself till he was certain of his whereabouts.
Against all odds, the soldier he sent came back with welcome news. Koltira was not only alive, but had been broken free. All at once, the dread was washed away by relief.
When Bloodbane had asked him why he cared, the answer had been simple. It was always good to hear when a brother in arms had survived, though he didn’t mention how much of a grip his worry had taken of him, laced with pre-emptive grief.
Death followed everywhere they went, and a soldier he would speak to one day could be gone the next. Thassarian was grateful to know that Koltira was due to stay for some while longer, till their mission was done.
Everything changed that day. Their defeat at Light’s Hope Chapel marked the end, and a new beginning. The Knights of the Ebon Blade was forged and Thassarian’s world opened up before him, his brothers, Mograine, and Koltira at his side.
-
The air upon the Acherus had changed. There was a clarity in the halls, like a crisp breeze from the valley had swept away the smog of unthinking servitude, and the echo of the Lich King’s voice was like an unwelcome caw of a crow at their window.
Their ranks had been diminished, through death or otherwise, but there were those who remained. With little place else to go in the interlude as they awaited orders, they had congregated upon the Acherus for the time being.
As the days passed, it seemed Thassarian wasn’t the only one who felt restless with his thoughts eerily quiet. Everything felt different. The fact he could feel at all was still a marvel. He skulked through the Acherus after a long briefing, searching for something but not knowing what.
Koltira was standing at the same place had been all those nights before, leaning on the railings, waiting. He turned when he heard Thassarian coming, the smallest tug at the corner of lips for a smile as he greeted him, the moonlight casting a white glow along his frame up to the tips of his ears.
“There you are.”
That feeling Koltira gave him had become a thrum in his chest that was hard to ignore. He thought he knew what it was, but it wasn’t right. The warmth that should have been there was replaced by a blossoming cold, turning his fingers numb and joints stiff.
His heart had long since stopped beating, thus instead the energy that fuelled his body replaced the sensation of a rhythm. It was like his body was responding with muscle memory with what was at its disposal. And underneath it all, a hunger.
Thassarian was familiar with the hunger. It laid dormant in the pit of his stomach and flared a scorching cold when he felt the call to kill for his duty, so it confused him to feel it mix with what he could only describe as a warped sense of familiarity.
He walked over to him and took his place where had stood before. Koltira wasn’t wearing his chestpiece or pauldrons, a dark grey tunic that hung low on his collar taking its place.
“You’ve been busy,” said Koltira.
Thassarian had been, as Mograine and the others had been delegating responsibilities to ensure there was little friction in the hierarchy of command. Bloodbane had taken some of their best with him, and there were some power squabbles amongst reluctant loyalists, but they had been quickly snuffed out by Thassarian’s persuasive conviction.
“There was much to prepare. More remains to be done, disappointingly.” said Thassarian.
Koltira hummed, and looked out over the water, the moonlight catching his alabaster skin. “Is this it, then? What you want to do?”
“Of course,” replied Thassarian, “The scourge is an evil that will never stop. This world doesn’t stand a chance unless we fight alongside it to see it through.”
Koltira nodded. A question was forming, and he spoke, “In a world where the scourge has been defeated and the Lich King lay dead, what then?” He looked at Thassarian, thoughtfully.
Thassarian stopped to wonder where Koltira was going with this. To plan into the future paved the way for disappointment, so Thassarian tended to keep his focus on the here and now, and the task ahead. “Wherever the Ebon Blade will go, I shall follow.”
Koltira gave him an incredulous look, and glanced out over the balcony once more. Koltira had a habit of making Thassarian feel like he had missed something unsaid, that he had read between the lines and said the words backwards. It made him want to chase.
“What would you do?” He asked, spurred by the lack of response.
Koltira was quiet for a moment before he spoke. “My answer is still the same. I don’t know. There’s little left for me beyond what we have.”
Thassarian’s guilt for the destruction he had wrought on Koltira’s life rears its horrific ugly head once in a while, when he’s reminded of the atrocities done in the name of the Lich King. It has a new sharpness to it now, and if Thassarian didn’t have a mission to uphold, he would have let it consume him into his end.
But amongst knights, death and destruction are but a component of duty, and thus the guilt has become a distant ache in his bones. And becomes, on occasion, a rich source of gallows humour.
Thassarian felt an undertone of softness in Koltira’s words. He pressed, “What of Quel’thalas? Will you return there?”
“I will, some day.” Koltira mused, “Though I doubt I’d make it past Eversong, let alone the gates of Silvermoon. You and your ilk left a bad impression.”
“An unavoidable consequence.” Thassarian said curtly.
“For now, it seems like we’re going to be stuck together for some time longer. You may come to regret raising me.” Koltira said.
“Never.” Thassarian said, with more conviction than he meant to. He covered it up with, “You’ve always been a welcome addition.”
It did not go unnoticed. “Is that so?” Koltira preened. “That’s good. I enjoy fighting alongside you, Thassarian.” He turned to look at him, eyes unnervingly warm.
Thassarian caught his gaze, the thrumming rampaging its way up his ribcage. “We fight well together.”
“We do. I wonder if there’s something to that.” said Koltira
“Such as?”
“A connection between the resurrector and the risen.” There was playfulness on the edge of Koltira’s tone. “But that’s just speculation.”
“And what sort of connection do we have, Koltira?” Thassarian asked, knowing full well the multitude of answers that could invoke, but he couldn’t help return the back-and-forth prodding they so often did.
“A lousy one,” said Koltira. “It took you ten minutes of mindless wandering before you made your way here.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” asked Thassarian.
“I assumed you had a way of finding me.” Koltira’s eyes were sharp with knowing, “Somehow, I’m always brought back to your side.”
It felt strange being addressed so directly about his defiance, though Thassarian had nothing to be ashamed of. He stuck to his principles, and that was the extent of it. “The Ebon Blade would have suffered a needless loss were you not found.”
“Indeed,” Koltira parroted. “The Ebon Blade.”
Thassarian gave Koltira a deadpan stare, once more feeling like an unsmart cat waiting for a bird to come down from its tree for lunch. Koltira returned it with a slowly growing smile, his head tilting slightly as if he was letting Thassarian take his time to understand his meaning.
This did not help, as Thassarian’s eyes caught the expanse of Koltira’s neck in the light of the moon, then to his collarbone, stark against his skin. The thrumming was deafening. He distantly thought of what it would feel like under his fingers.
Koltira’s expression had softened to something curious when Thassarian met his gaze again, realising he had been distracted. An energy lingered in the air, tense and electric, the hunger beneath his dead heart roiled. “Why do you stare at me like that?”
Thassarian raised an eyebrow, “Like what, exactly?”
Koltira gestured to him, “Like that. There’s a concentration to it, like you’re waiting to ambush me.”
Thassarian shifted. “I wasn’t aware.”
“Well now you are.” Koltira retorted, “Care to elaborate why?”
“No.”
Koltira was unimpressed. “Keep me wondering, then.”
Heavy footfalls from a pair of greaves began to approach them, and an armoured knight appeared from the corner, and came to a still. “Lieutenants. Highlord Mograine wishes to see you both.”
“Understood. We’ll be there shortly.” Thassarian replied, and they received a nod before the knight turned and left, their footfalls fading into the distance.
Koltira took a deep breath and exhaled, seemingly composing himself. They had no true need to breathe, but the habits of the body remained. Thassarian would’ve copied him, were he not busy scrambling for an explanation of what was, the blossoming ice in his blood giving way to a dull chill.
“Well. Shall we?” Koltira prompted. Thassarian stood up straighter and nodded, putting his feeling aside for the calling of duty. He followed behind Koltira, watching how his platinum tresses flowed easier without his pauldrons, and his hand subconsciously flexed at his side.
-
As fate would have it, that night Mograine gave Thassarian his orders. He was to take two Ebon Knights and set up a foothold with the Argent Crusade, so that they could organise their voyage to Northrend as one. Koltira was to take his own set of knights and purge the nearby ziggurat in the Plaguelands to establish goodwill amongst their new hesitant allies.
When he came into his undeath, the frivolities of life seemed insignificant to him compared to his duty. He had surrendered them willingly, with only flashes of memory stirring up a sense of melancholic nostaglia for what he would never experience again. Perhaps it was their liberation that stirred up the desire to indulge in it, to revisit it like an aged wine, knowing full well it was likely to taste like vinegar.
Something had shifted within him when Koltira was captured. The thought that he would never see him again disturbed him more than it should. The immortality part of undeath means for most that passage of time becomes a tool of organisation and they carry on unbothered by its current, their bodies and minds stagnant in their form.
As with death, it was an inevitable embrace that walked alongside them with waiting arms. These are the facts that Thassarian had long since come to terms with, and laid many brothers to rest by them. So why was it different for Koltira?
Over the coming weeks, he saw little of Koltira. It didn’t feel like it, as their conversations played over and over in his mind. He had considered his attraction to the death knight to be an aesthetic one, like one would have for a painting or a sculpture; no-one had caught his eye in the same way he had, let alone a man, and he had doubted there would ever be another at all.
To call it an interest sold it short. To call it infatuation would be a joke.
Mograine’s orders never ended up being as simple as they were said. One thing lead to another, and weeks later, Thassarian found himself travelling West to assist in clearing abandoned watchpoints to expand their footing in the Plaguelands. The scourge in the north was growing bolder, and it was vital to keep an eye on their activity.
It was there that they came across Koltira’s party, having been assisted by members of the Argent Crusade. Thassarian saw him on a ridge, Byfrost’s green hue casting a glow when it cleaved its way through a pair of ghouls and sent their bones rocketing over the side. Koltira steadied himself, and looked down at Thassarian, their eyes meeting.
Koltira was the same as ever, the ageless expanse of undeath preserving him. His hair caught the wind and it blew across his face, and the bleak sun cast a faded white on his form. His dark heavy armour cut his silhouette finely, shoulders broadened by the pauldrons and slim waist hugged with plate. Thassarian was stilled by the sight, and how Koltira’s gaze pierced right through him.
Koltira gestured for Thassarian to follow, and disappeared behind the rocky edge of the ridge. It didn’t take long for Thassarian to find his way to where Koltira was stationed with a few members of the Argent Crusade.
It was a decrepit stone fort, but being put into use with various wagons and sacks strewn about to construct an active outpost. There were four of them, and Thassarian didn’t need to look to know a watchful eye was being kept on both him and Koltira.
“I didn’t realise your mission would take you this far West.” Koltira said as Thassarian began to approach.
“Neither did I. Things are never simple.”
Koltira huffed, “They are not.” He scanned the members of Crusade, “We suffered a casualty two posts back. If they seem uneasy, that’ll be why.”
“I see.” Thassarian looked Koltira up and down, “How are you faring?”
“Suffering well.” Koltira gestured behind Thassarian. “Where is your squadron?”
“They’ve since summoned a Death Gate and returned to the Acherus with the report for Highlord Mograine.”
“Oh? You didn’t go with them?” Koltira raised an eyebrow.
“No,” said Thassarian. “There was little else to be done, so I sent them back.”
“You wont be staying long then?”
“That depends. Do you have room for another knight in your ranks, Koltira?”
Koltira gave him a smirk, “I may be able to fit you in.”
“Good.”
With a wave, Koltira ushered him to inside the fort. There, Thassarian introduced himself to the wary cleric that was posted inside, where he received a terse response from her and a hard stare. With the knowledge of their recent loss, Thassarian took no offense to the behaviour.
He knew what it was to lose someone in battle, whether they were a close friend or just a comrade, it never got any easier, and worst still if it was the first. As a death knight, their allyship between the faction was frigid at best, so there was nothing to be done to bridge that gap as it was.
Thassarian left with Koltira, where they began to patrol the perimeter as the sun set, the rotten orange of the corrupted flora brightening in hue in the last rays of the day, before they were snuffed out upon the horizon, leaving the land in a dull brown darkness.
Koltira had done a thorough job, coming across nothing but diseased fauna and floating motes of blue that drifted through the woods and abandoned houses. He and Koltira weren’t much different to the spirits, phantoms of the dead that traversed a world that they should have long since departed.
“Do you ever think of a life outside the Ebon Blade?”
“Pardon?” Koltira asked, the question breaking their concentrated silence.
“I have thought about your question, from before. What is there for us in the world of the living?” Thassarian kept watch of the horizon as he walked, as if waiting for a sign that held the answers.
Koltira considered it. “Did I not answer this last time?”
“You did, mostly. But I wanted to rephrase something.” Thassarian began with uncertainty, “Would you re-enter the world of the living? Or stay in the world of undeath?”
Koltira shrugged, “I’d wager we already walk between the two. What is so different about them?”
Thassarian didn’t know exactly what he was trying to ask Koltira, and he furrowed his brow, picking out the words to try and piece together something coherent. “There are things the living do that we cannot. Grow old, bare children, integrate into society.”
“And you’re wondering if I would attempt to do any of those things?”
Thassarian simply stared at Koltira, waiting for him to elaborate. The elf sighed, glancing at the ground he walked on. “It has crossed my mind. I feel things, at times, that are reminiscent to what I felt when I was alive. But they aren’t the same, and never will be.”
Koltira’s words struck an unnerving chord in Thassarian, a sense of understanding. It felt taboo, to mention the way their emotions had changed beyond being smothered and warped. A helpful thing perhaps, as it didn’t do well for most to think too deeply on it.
Koltira continued, “So to say I could take part in any of those things as I once did would be foolish. Though,” He gave Thassarian a haughty look, “the technicalities of trying to bare children lead me into arguments with Scourgebane and Siouxsie I’m not entirely sure you want to hear.”
Thassarian turned to look at Koltira with an unspoken concern.
“There are areas many of undeath that remain unexplored. And I am an open-minded frontier.”
Thassarian’s stomach curled with the images that came into his mind uninvited, and did his best to squash them. He covered up his bewilderment with a scoff, “You never fail to surprise me, Koltira.” He pointedly looked ahead, “Let’s hope your frontier leads you others with open-minds like yours.”
Thassarian felt Koltira’s eyes on him. “Indeed.” Koltira cleared his throat, “Truthfully, I’ve no desire for such a family. The Ebon Blade is a worthy successor to fill that role for me.”
“Myself included?”
Koltira huffed a mocking laugh, “Yes, Thassarian.”
A dark rumble of satisfaction let itself be heard in the pits of Thassarian’s soul when he heard that, so he turned to look at him, up and down. “Likewise, Koltira.”
That familiar blizzard started to stir in his chest, an air between them like a storm about to break.
Koltira spoke, “You’re doing it again.”
Thassarian blinked. “Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
Thassarian averted his gaze, feeling suddenly all too self-aware. “I’m starting to think you say that to fool with me.”
“Do I?”
“Now I’m certain of it.”
Amusement wafted from behind him, no doubt Koltira taking small joys in his nonsense. Taking no notice of it, he continued onwards to complete their patrol, due to reconvene on the Ebon Hold for further orders come the morning.
The gods of fate must have been listening, as upon their return Mograine announced to them that they would be approaching Stormwind and Orgrimmar to offer their allegiance.
Word had arrived that the Alliance and the Horde were mobilising their armies and preparing for Northrend to put an end to the Lich King, and it was time for the Ebon Blade to join the fight.
During his time as a puppet of the Lich King, Thassarian hadn’t needed to think about the wars between the factions. It was irrelevant, as there were to be no other ruling power than the Lich King himself under the scourge conquest.
But Thassarian had never forgotten his roots in Lordaeron. The Alliance was still growing back then, and its foundations were being built upon everyday as the ripples of the Second War were felt throughout their neighbouring provinces.
As he grew up, he had little exposure to the Horde aside from knowing them as the enemy. He would be lying if there was not still a thorn of contempt in his heart for the Horde, and the ruin they had brought to his people while he lived.
But he knew it was a pointless grudge, as the knights he walked alongside had come from all walks of life, only to serve in the same death.
It came as no surprise as Koltira was assigned to the Horde encampments, Thassarian knowing his loyalty to Quel’thalas. He and Thassarian had talked before about their loyalties, one of their many conversations on long, still nights.
Their roots were like anchors that held them down to Azeroth, a reliable reminder of who they were and where they began. Undeath made it easy to detach oneself from reality, and they had seen it happen to several knights that had lost their tether.
Thassarian felt like their friendship had become another root for him, and wondered if Koltira knew how much strength he held in the thread of Thassarian’s sanity.
There was sense of finality upon the Ebon Hold in the coming days as the halls began to empty. Squadrons were being deployed across Northrend, some with the factions and rest with the Argent Crusade. On the fifth day, Thassarian was called to Mograine.
“You’re to assist at Valiance Keep, the Alliance’s first outpost. It looks promising.” Mograine said, looming over an annotated map of Northrend.
“It’ll be done, Highlord.”
“Good.” Mograine stood up straighter, “You should expect hostility. Don’t let it sway you, be mindful about your duty and what you represent.”
“I’ll be on my best behaviour, then.”
“You will.” Mograine said. “And – Thassarian.”
Thassarian was about to turn on his heel, before he glanced back. “Yes?”
“Koltira will be stationed nearby, in Dragonblight, should you need reinforcements. Or perhaps, someone to talk to.”
Thassarian squinted at Mograine, who’s expression was difficult to read under the shadowed helmet. “Is that so?”
“It is,” said Mograine, looking down at his map again, placing two chess pieces in the Tundra. “On your way. Suffer well.”
Thassarian left the chambers, puzzled by that addition by Mograine. Generally, the Highlord spoke plainly about what he meant, not having time for riddles or metaphors. Yet, something about the way he brought up Koltira felt pointed. Dragonblight was some distance away from Valiance Keep, with Warsong Hold being closer.
Perhaps there wasn’t another death knight being posted there? Or was Mograine trying to insinuate something?
There was no time to dwell on it. He made quick headway to Northrend. As predicted he was met with wary civility with an undercurrent of distrust, when he arrived at the Keep. It was clear that his first set of orders were meant to be impossible, so when he was assigned troops to take with him, he knew this was not going to be simple, as it never was.
Not trusting in the strength of feeble soldiers, and reluctant to call upon Koltira for small matters, he rose a soldier of his own: a formidable and somewhat endearing ghoul which he called Lurid to watch his back.
With countless wounds and fatalities, he carved his way through to the ziggurats and unpicked the web of the hidden cult that had infiltrated their ranks. That part was on par for what Thassarian expected.
But then. Leryssa.
For some time now, he knew she was alive. However, in the core of his soul, a wretched guilt kept him from searching for her. It was easier, to believe that there was no family for him to return to. To not have to face the brunt of rejection he knew would make it all that much harder to cling to his humanity.
So to come face to face with her in such horrible circumstances felt like a betrayal to her, and to himself.
It didn’t matter though. Leryssa recognised him, called out to him, and Prince Valanar was torn asunder by his hand. Afterwards, they spoke for a long, long time. Leryssa, exhausted as she was, was reluctant to let him leave as feared that she would never see him again.
The thought of that was almost enough to tear him apart, so he relented.
“I wish I had found you sooner, Thass. It seems like a lonely existence. With only the undead for company.” She had said, in the early cracks of the morning after within Valiance Keep.
“Not entirely.” Thassarian traced the wood lines of the tavern table they sat at. They had picked a quiet balcony to avoid prying eyes.
“If you mean the Ebon Blades, I don’t think they count.” said Leryssa, “Being someone’s comrade doesn’t mean they know you. You were bound to each other against your will.”
Thassarian almost bristled, always quick to defend the Ebon Blade, but he stopped to consider what she was trying to say. He raised an eyebrow, glancing up at Leryssa, “The brotherhood we share is enough.”
Leryssa gave him a sad look, one of many she had already given him in the hour alone, “So there is nobody you can call a friend?”
That gave Thassarian pause, frowning. “There is… someone.”
Leryssa leaned closer. Thassarian relented.
“There is an elf.” Leryssa remained silent, as if waiting for Thassarian to continue, so he did. “He’s a formidable soldier, and smart-minded. Most of the time.”
Leryssa smiled at that, giving Thassarian all the encouragement he needed. “We… met in Quel’thalas. After what befell his homeland, his candour surprised me. His adaptability is remarkable.”
“You’re well acquainted then,” said Leryssa, “It’s good to hear. I’d like to meet him some time.”
“I neglected to mention – he can be strange.”
“Well, nobody’s normal these days.” Leryssa sat back, giving Thassarian a soft look, before it morphed into something melancholic. Thassarian felt a phantom wave of guilt that tried to bubble to the surface.
He found it hard to look Leryssa in the eyes, having the same colour as their mother’s. He hadn’t told her of how she had met her fate, and likely never would.
“Things will never be the same again, Thass.” Leryssa said, and put her hand on Thassarian’s gloved one. Those words felt like they should have been a rejection, but somehow, it sounded like acceptance to him. “We’ll find a way forward. Together.”
Something in him rearranged itself into something new, fractured pieces of glass coming together to make something jagged, ugly, but whole.