ABSOLUTION

"... they're gone."

The death knight stares out where the Banshee Queen and those who escaped with her had once been. Where their twin had just been. For a moment, they're blissfully numb, as they ahave been since being raised.

Slowly, the horror seeps into their bones and shakes them to their core. "... she's gone..." they al but whisper, the clawed hand resting on their shoulder hardly a comfort in wake of the reality that, for the first time since birth, death, and rebirth...

They shouldn't be doing this.

They shouldn't be augmenting themself like this for a simple assassination. An assassination to harvest the very resource they're using to empower themself further.

They've already regained strength, using actual runeblades instead of solely relying on poisons. Why do they need more?

Their reason is obvious, to them. Big, monochromatic, time-associated, winged lizards. Ones that they despise more than they hated their former master.

No matter what, they will not be taken by them again.

Ever since starting their work with their anguish-obsessed boss, their skills with blood magic have leapt to places they could not have ever imagined. Being what they are, they were already heavily aware of people. Of their heartbeats. Of the scent of blood when somebody was hurt.

If that had been maddening, then this was pure torture. In ways, they're grateful for the training and work with anguish. The more they learn from his work, the more they can do it on their own.

He watches as his companion sleeps alongside his mate, gold eyes glowing in the darkness. He watches the elf's chest rise and fall in an even rhythm, and he's suddenly quite aware that his own breathing has slowed to match his. Not his silver-feathered love, who sleeps in the stables outside because his friend doesn't quite trust her in the bedroom. Not Saphir, whom he has slept beside for years.

This one, singular elf who has his heart and soul in a vicegrip. This one elf that he risked his ability to fly for when Dalaran fell. This one elf that he dragged from away from certain death when Loamm was torched. This one elf that he carried back to camp when his throat was torn open by diseased animals.

This one elf, and no other.

A part of him has to wonder when he went from being a solitary, self-sustaining leyfeather to... this. Much more than a pet, more than a servant. When did he start worrying about this man the same way he worries over himself? When did he start getting excited to have leather put on his back, to feel the weight of the elf in that saddle? When, just when, did flying alone become so much more unbearable than flying with him?

E'rath lightly presses his beak to Novrec's temple, and he feels his heart get lighter at hearing the man's happy, sleepy sigh. This is fine. This is more than fine.

If one to ask me, "What makes you who you are?", I would only need but a moment's reflection.

Others may answer for me, thinking they know my answer. "It is that you are Huojin." No; my experience as Huojin,  from my time in Master Shang Xi's academy until the day Warlord Garrosh committed great sins against my mainland kin, is not what defines me.

"It is your time as Tushui, then!" No; though I am grateful for Master Aysa for accepting me within the ranks of the Tushui, it is not such a spiritual life which makes me who I am.

"Surely it is that you are Shado-Pan!" Serving under Lord Taran Zhu is a great honor; to have been chosen and deemed worthy is a feat near-no Isle-borne pandaren can lay claim to. But it, too, is not what defines me.

Looking inward, it is simple to me what makes me who I am. The mark I bear on my throat, the spearhead denoting my fallen tribe and order that I swore loyalty to now stands as a symbol of what makes me who I am.

It is a mark of loyalty. Of love. Of a desire to stand by my brethren, no matter who they are.

I do not need to reflect deeply to know that.

"Death Knight."

It raises its head at the sound of its superior's voice, looking its commander right in the eyes. "... yes, sir?"

"Reports tell of a disturbance near the southern wall of the citadel. An attempted escape. You are to deal with it."

It raises an eyebrow. "Me, sir? What am I to--"

The thought is instantly cut off by the back of its better's gauntlet connecting with its cheek. It can feel where its skin has split from the metal cutting. "Do not talk back to me, Knight." He hisses. "We do as we are told. There is no room for disobedience in my company. Do you understand?"

"... yes, sir."

"Good." The way he speaks makes it think, briefly, that it is hardly 'good'. But the moment of personalized thought is soon drowned out by His voice in their head.

Go, my Knight. Dispose of the useless.

A part of it wonders why it was chosen to deal with this attempted escape by itself. If it isn't fast enough-- and it never is, for its superiors' likings-- then the attempt will be successful. And it will be punished.

But how is the question. Maybe it would be thrown into the ghoul pits, to become feed for those deemed marginally more useful. Maybe it would be deemed simply unworthy, chained and stripped of armor and runeblade to be used as a training dummy for its betters. Maybe, just maybe, it would be sent to the Plagueworks, either to be used for parts by Professor Putricide, or amalgamated into an abomination, or--

It shudders, shaking away the personal thoughts. It does not have those. It has to focus on the mission at hand.

At disposing of the disturbance.

Actually approaching the southern wall leads it to... a banshee. A rather familiar banshee.

"... what are you doing here?"

She turns to look at it, and it effectively sees its own face staring back at it. She smiles at it, though it does not reach her eyes. "I thought this would be a good way to get your attention... even if it was a bit of a gamble, to hope your commander would send you."

It does not answer her. It simply draws its runeblade, pointing it at her.

"... Ma'theas."

The name stuns it, momentarily.

"... there is going to be an uprising, soon. Windrunner has been plotting. I don't plan on staying here." She looks out over the icy expanse ahead. "... you should come with us."

A tempting thought... It does not consider, though, instead simply going to swing its sword as though it could hit something incorporeal.

"Please. You don't want to stay here."

It has no wants. "I have no wants."

"Ma'theas--"

"Stop calling me that!" It swings again, and she looks hurt. "... forget your uprising. Stay. It is all we have, to serve Him."

She just looks sad, shaking her head. "... please think about it, brother..."

As she fades, likely to hide somewhere it cannot reach, its grip on its runeblade tightens.

The longer Astaroth spends actively aware of themself, the more they come to recognize what everybody else sees about them.

For the longest time, the amount of attention they paid to themself was zero. Perhaps less than zero. After their untimely death, all sense of self was scattered to the winds. Who they were before remained dead, and they became somebody... something... much lesser than other Death Knights. Chosen by not just the Lich King, but by a ancient blood-moon priestess with a desire to create a descendent.

They were far from desirable, then. Decay staved off solely to keep their body healthy according to their sire's whims, to the professor's assistant's specifications. Not because they wanted to be healthy, or remain a rather attractive elf. Attraction means nothing to the dead, after all.

It took them decades after their freedom to even think of taking care of themself beyond a vague non-attempt to keep their body from falling apart.

And then they'd met him. A worgenn so foolish that he told a raging vampyr to back off and ask for a rather bitey drink.

That started it all.

Now, as they stand before the bathroom mirror, damp and shivering and clean, they run their hands over the decaying patches on their ribcage. Once, long ago, they'd have considered it to be rather ugly.

Now, they just find it alluring. They see what everybody else sees.

It was too much to bear. The stresses of everyday life, of their past weighing on them-- sure, Maxxi had claimed they weren't "like other undead", but that didn't make them feel any better. If anything, it made them feel so, so much worse.

Other undead suffered loudly. It reflected in their mannerisms and personalities, in how they carried themselves. Other undead wore their decay on their sleeves and kept their hearts hidden. Other undead allowed being hurt to be a loud part of who they were.

But them? They learned in the citadel that suffering loudly didn't matter. That screaming, crying, begging got you ignored. That being a maniac made you blend in, made you invisible because you were like everybody else. Either you were ignored because nobody wanted to deal with you, or couldn't deal with you lest they be punished themselves, or you were ignored because you were insane like everyone else.

Which… unfortunately led to some less than favorable habits, for the san'layn.

As they pace their workspace, they keep glancing to the door nervously. He can't come in here. He can't see me, he'll just have those visions again, I'll just hurt him again, I'm hurting him and I can't say anything because I'm different than other undead-- With a couple long strides they cross the room and, for the first time in ages, actually lock the lab door. Then they cross again and lock the other one. Sure, Sebrak probably has keys-- this is his ship after all.

But they don't need him seeing them have a mental breakdown.

Their usual methods of self-soothing aren't working. Running their fingers through their hair just triggers the memory of a condescending Balthin, cooing over them and praising them for their transition. Talking to themself just brings them back to when they were their sole company, when Pestilence would treat them as nothing more than an object for his study.

They're gasping for air they don't need and it hurts it hurts it hurts it HURTS--

The little knife often kept in their boot is swiftly drawn, and Astaroth doesn't hesitate in jamming the blade through their right hand, gasping in relief as physical pain overtakes the emotional. He can never see them like this. It's been so long since they've felt the need to hurt themself this way, just to get their mind off the other pains they have. Just to make themself pay for something they literally did not do, have not done, maybe will never do. It doesn't matter if you haven't done it. The sheer memory of other san'layn mocking them, tormenting them, haunts their thoughts now that they've allowed them to race. The fact that you're capable of it is worthy of punishment enough.

The blade is once again brought down, this time on their arm. Cold steel digs into tender flesh, muscle parting under the knife's edge. They gasp in pain again, and they cannot help the utterance of "thank you" under their breath, like being punished for doing nothing at all was something they had to be grateful for. They are, in a way, grateful. If their boss, if their boyfriend, if their sire, if the man who made them this way, if their brother, if nobody else would raise a hand to strike them for this slight, then they'd do it themself. A part of them of course feels bad for relapsing like this; Sebrak isn't bound to happy, once he sees these self-inflicted injuries.

Which is why he isn't going to see them.

With difficulty thanks to their hand and arm being utterly destroyed, Astaroth searches their varying pockets for their canteen of blood. His blood. If I just wash my hands when I'm done, he'll just smell soap, is the hopeful thought they have as they use their teeth to unscrew the cap. The canteen is set sideways so blood drips out into the sink, and with a shaky hand they manipulate it.

The ichor oozes along their wounds, seeping into them and reconstructing them. Astaroth cannot help but wince; no sort of healing is painless. But they still deserve the pain, it's fine if it hurts, it's fine. Hemomantic healing meant they could keep at it, keep rejuvenating and repairing the sinew and skin until it's good as new. Until there's absolutely no mark of their self-inflicted torment left. Once they're done, the canteen is picked up, capped, and tossed away to slide under one of the planters. Astaroth's focus is on scrubbing their hands raw now, to erase all traces of blood from their person.

They don't deserve this. They deserve to suffer. They deserve the pain they'd received years ago. His visions proved it. And if they came to pass then the whole of the Evernight would see just how much of a monster a san'layn could be.

And that?

If one really thinks about it, dragons aren't too far removed from their smaller reptilian cousins. A scalehide is just a smaller, wingless dragon. A lizard is just a tiny, wingless dragon. Thinking about it like that, of course it's not a stretch at all to figure that dragons would enjoy sunbathing, to enjoy warming their scales the same way a much smaller reptile would.

The same holds true for Arcilgos. The dragonhawks and hawkstriders of the Fal'oren estate certainly don't seem to mind his large, noodly form, and he lays on his back with his wings sprawled out, watching the dragonhawks flutter overhead. Jealousy of their ability to fly in Quel'Thalas hits the blue's heart immediately, and he rolls over onto his belly, craning his neck and outstretching his wings so he can see them.

And that's when he spots it.

The way the crystals jutting out of his wings, coating scale and exposing bone through their translucency, shine in the sunlight. It's not nearly as vibrant as it was when Kyreshen showed him, when they were up above the clouds. But it is there.

Slowly, he beats his wings. Not fast enough to generate any sort of lift. Not hard enough to make his body rise off the ground. Any sort of flapping that ended up taking his body off the ground could be constituted as flying. And sure. Kyre said Aeslin was trying to get an amendment to his own flying license in the realm, for the sake of Arcilgos. Arc still isn't sure how much he actually believes that.

But that's not what his focus is on.

As he moves his wings, the crystals shimmer and practically glow, and the dragon cannot help but pick up a purr which makes those same scales all but vibrate. That, too, catches his attention, and the abrupt stop of his rumbling makes them stop singing. Oh. That's probably what Kyre heard the other day--

A little golden, glowing dragonhawk-- Serakiel, Arc thought he heard one of the house visitors call it-- stares up at him and chirps softly, curiously. Unlike the others, it doesn't seem to be the least bit afraid of this large, winged beast that could very, very easily turn its entire body into a drumstick.

Slowly, Arcilgos lowers his head and lightly nudges his nose against the creature's body. Back to your mother, little one, he thinks despite it not being able to read his mind. No need to worry over me.

Every single time the mask breaks, or falls apart, or has some manner of coming off happen to it, it isn't long before Pesilence-- no, Caiden, Valerius had explicitly stated that Caiden was much more fitting a name than that insult-- spirals and falls apart.

The weight of reality is too much for Caiden to bear. The lives he's stolen, tortured, killed, used in experiments that would make any living person look at him and go what the blithering fuck is wrong with you? (A lot. A lot is wrong with him.)

And every time that spiral occurs, his thoughts and memories and actions become skewed. He cannot quite tell what is reality and what is fiction, what is because of his coping mechanisms and what isn't. What parts of him are still Caiden, and which parts are wholly Pestilence.

Does he really even like alchemy? (No, no he doesn't, because alchemy is what ruined him.) Does he actually not care about what he does to people? (He cares so fucking much.)

The onslaught of emotions and thoughts is too much for him to bear, the guilt being so, so damn heavy that the undead tries to make the weight less by any means possible. (Tear the skin off, tear the muscle out, tear the organs out. None of it is yours, none of it has been yours since He got his hands on you.)

Nails scratch flesh, dig into it, and blood slowly oozes to the surface, trapped in a body ravaged by necrosis and decay. The smell always nauseates him. (How does he stand it? It has to be the mask filtering the stentch.) The texture makes him sick. (Does he just not care when there's work to be done, people to study?) He can practically taste the rot on the back of his tongue. (How long has he been this way?)

And truthfully, Caiden can't even blame himself for it all. All undead have to have some kind of coping mechanism for the pain and the rot and the eternal-ish lifespan. His just happens to be severe compartmentalization and masking turned literal. Because when that mask comes off, he can't stop the tremors, can't stop the terror, can't stop the guilt from eating him alive.

When he really puts his mind to it, when he really, really thinks about his life-- or rather the lack thereof-- that he's had since becoming undead in the first place, Pestilence has to admit one thing to himself.

The days all blend together. Every single one. From his death until now, with the dragon at his side… every single day feels much like the last. Every single one has no notable differences. Get up. Check his reagents. Collect more. Experiments. More data collection. Rest if necessary-- and it hardly ever was. Repeat. Day in. Day out. Every hour of every day, since the day he died.

And he hated to admit that it all blurred together. Even in Azj-Kahet, where things could not be more different than how they were in the Citadel. No, even trapped down in spider-hell, it wasn't that hard to instantly find a routine. Get up. Check his satchel for reagents. Collect more. Sneak into the City. Get arrested, probably. Attempt to sstudy the Ascension process. Escape from prison. Flee the City. Repeat. There was no reason to change a cycle that didn't need changing. He may be working toward making the undead better, stronger than what they currently are… but that doesn't mean he has to fix what isn't broken.

Over and over, they've insisted that those spots of theirs that are solely theirs are unnecessary around the ship. The space under the stairs that has been decorated by stolen scrap fabric and pillows. The blanket fort full of bats that Astaroth had initially said was for them both, because it was comfortable. The crow's nest, which their partner had so, so lovingly modified to protect them from the glaring sun; they hadn't asked him to, they hadn't expected him to, yet he still did it. Their entire alchemy lab with the doors only they have a key to, the sole room of the Timelost that they're allowed to lock its captain out of.

All of these spaces, Astaroth has insisted time and time again that they don't need these spaces. That they're happy with the shared spaces alone. And they are, in a way! The san'layn is more than happy to share all of their space with the worgen, spend all the time in his warm, loving presence. He makes them feel safe in ways that no person has in ages.

But they cannot deny that, in truth, all of these spaces Sebrak has allowed them to build or even explicitly curated for them, they need. Because no matter how much they try to deny it, they need these spaces.

Unfortunately, they have been a solitary creature for far, far too long. They have been alone for so long that being in anybody's presence for too long makes their skin crawl. And they hate that it does; the fact that being around their beloved makes them feel so, so bad after awhile, and then they have to skitter away from him and sit away in their little hiding spots to decompress.

The text lit up the console of their communicator like a beacon in the dark. Guys! Guys! I'm a dad now! That image of Leon holding his little daughter, that goofy grin on his face, the sheer pride practically emanating from the picture alone--

Astaroth's happy for him. They truly are. They can't be anything but happy for the man; he's been so excited about this since last year's World's Faire. If anybody deserved to be prideful and excited, it's him.

But their fingers linger over the keyboard while they try to think of a reply. A simple congratulations doesn't feel like enough. Happy for you feels like a lie; because as much as they don't want to admit it, not to themself and certainly not to their partner or their friends… they aren't the happiest about this. Not because they think he doesn't deserve to be a father.

But because that? Holding the child one has wanted and loved since before they were even a concept? That's something they're sure they'll never have, not in their state, not in their undeath, not within this lifetime or even the next.

Their communicator is set aside and the san'layn goes over to the nest of bat plushes… so they can pick one of those up instead and throw it, hard, at the bay window. It bonks against the glass and bounces off the seat, landing on the floor with a sad little thump that surely reflects their own emotional state. How can they be jealous of a man being a father? That's just-- cruel, stupid, unusual.

Yet they cannot deny themself the simple fact that they are, indeed, jealous of Leon. Because this? This, they are certain they will never have. Not when Sebrak is already a father of children he never gets to see. Not when they have no "proper" home nor desire to stay somewhere solid for even a child's sake. A ship is, apparently, no place to raise a child, and they are very, very aware of that thanks to their own mother's views.

Astaroth picks up the little bat and climbs up into the window seat, staring out it and cradling the plush like it's a child. Supporting its head, wrapping it up in its own wings like one would swaddle a baby. It's a crude, cruel mockery… and gods, would they be ashamed if they were caught doing this.

But they long for more than this. For a real child to hold as their own. For a little one to look at them and cry out "An'da!" just the way they used to when they were alive, and a child, and looking for Erinien.

It will never happen, is the thought that goes through their mind as they let their arms fall away from the little bat, and let their head rest against the window. Out of everything that's in the cards for me, I've gotten a lucky hand just having a loving partner and a home I can call mine. Parenthood just… isn't for creatures like me.

The fairgrounds were always so quiet, in the weeks between the Darkmoon Faire residing at Darkmoon Isle and them being away traveling. Only those with specific privileges got to stay on the isle while Silas led the others away. Usually the warlocks.

Pretty much only the warlocks, actually.

Some would abuse this fact, would use the fairgrounds as their playground; others would use it to stage their own events and gatherings, and Jashke could remember one such warlock who was trying to spread certain ideals.. He was no exception to using it as his own, while there were no others there to stop him. His own uses were just… much less nefarious and much more playful.

One such occasion was tonight. The waves lap over the goblin’s shoeless feet and wet the sand and stone around him, and he cannot help but crack a grin. This was his favorite of all performances, even more than what he does with Maadom and the demonic animal shows, or the Imperious Circus, or even the strongman acts with Arax’gorath.

Because this? More than any other act, this one was solely his own. Something that he only did for himself, something he’s seen neither mage, nor shaman, nor even fellow warlock be able to do. Shamans would never attempt this, liable to find it some level of blasphemous. Warlocks would not either, seeing one half of the two  as near-solely an instrument of destruction. And magi could get close, what with their frostfire, but next to none could pull off the feats of hydromancy and pyromancy required to make this trick work. Why he, a warlock with no training with manipulating water in the slightest, could pull it off would probably be considered an enigma.

And that, truly, is why Jashke considers it to be a performance trick and not a skill made for combat or study. Certainly nothing he could record in a scientific journal like his demonology studies. That leans way too far into territories befitting the Kirin Tor, and he’s not too keen on becoming like them. They don’t exactly need him anymore with the threat of the Burning Legion largely neutralized.

No. Better to keep this to himself and let none save for those he trusts to see this. And thus far in his life? He trusts nobody with this secret, not even the demons contracted to him.

(Especially not the demons contracted to him; people he may believe them to be, but he isn’t daft. He knows demons are dangerous sorts.)

Maybe someday he’ll trust Ni’ji enough to show him. But for now? This dance is between only three players: The surf, the flames, and himself.

A flame licks up between the wet pebbles around Jashke’s feet, and he crouches down to greet it. He coaxes the flame into the palm of his hand, not too unlike how a druid may whisper to a baby bird to gain its trust. He whispers his wishes and promises of a moonlit game unlike any other the fire has seen before, and it crackles its enthusiasm.

It burns brighter, hotter, hotter than before and certainly hot enough to begin to burn Jashke’s hands. That makes the goblin grin, and with that excitement he finally stands with it still cupped in his hands. “<Ready…?>” He knows the flames cannot answer in Common, and knows they can hardly understand it. That’s why he speaks its tongue, speaks to it specifically in Ignan. The fire roars, almost as loudly as the surf, and he takes that as its approval.

With it crackling and licking against his hands, Jashke pulls his arm back and throws the flame into the foam, fingers splayed  out as though he’s keeping the fire on puppet strings. The sea snaps at it, as if trying to extinguish the flame. But Jashke doesn’t allow it, and directs it to skip along the seafoam. Left and right, the fire twirls and dances along with the warlock, crackling and roaring with the waves while Jashke laughs and hollers.

The sight of the fire mingling with the seafoam always makes Jashke’s heart soar. The way it glows and flows, it’s something special that Jashke is happy to do for the fire whenever it lets him. He knows that fire and water aren’t enemies; they just need a little help in getting to friendly interaction. And if Jashke can make that happen with his little tricks, then he’s certainly not one to complain.

Each movement Jashke makes, the fire mimics him; when he twirls, it does. When he leaps, it does. When he backs away from the water, it jumps forward as if to chase him and coax him back into the dance. And every time, he falls back into step with it, a grin on his face. He cannot deny his first love anything; if it wants power, he’ll fuel it. If it wants to be left alone, he’ll give it space. And if it wants to dance, to consume the sea with its warm embrace, then he shall lead it and turn the foam red and orange with heat.

He knows the performance must end eventually though. He knows it, and he’s sure it knows it too. The fire has all but consumed the surf, ebbing and flowing with the rolling tide, and the sight of it encompassing the beach makes that wicked grin on Jashke’s face soften. He’s made it happy. Time to let this end.

With one last spin, one that he allows to last for a longer moment than any other twirl he’s done with the flaming surf, Jashke lets himself collapse into the sand. The fiery sea seems to know what to do and rolls over him, bathing him in fire and water alike, never once burning him but absolutely licking him in appreciation.

He lays there, eyes open wide, staring up at the sky as the fire finally allows the sea to consume and extinguish it. Jashke’s chest rises and falls in small pants, and that smile returns to his face.