#atherus

“Lucan! Just let it go, will ya? I’m fine!”

Laures was in no mood for gentle talk. Of all of them, she had come closest in their trials to achieving affinity beyond the flora with which they worked; as such, she was as spirited as the nightsaber whose tattooed paw prints marked each side of her neck, and just as difficult. A heavy silence fell over them, drowning out the crackle and quiet laughter at neighbouring campfires and the distant--constant--clash of stone and steel. Every so often they could feel the swell of the Source at work, their magic welling up from the deep secrets of the earth and its Emerald counterpart in tandem. It was the nature of their work, that connection that spoke its inimitable truth and bound them all to the knowledge. Julrien felt it in that silent moment, listened to its whispers as he’d been trained to do. 

It came as it always did, like sunlight flowing to the tips of his fingers, shot through with ivy tendrils sown in his veins. It used to leave him giddy, intoxicated at the sensation and long after it had passed. It still did, to an extent, though he’d grown used to the vitality of it all in his time with the others. But there was something else to it this time, some subtle difference he couldn’t quite place. A voice, like Laures’, echoing her words… Let it go… let...go… let-... Sylvan ears perked, Julrien kept his focus inside himself, listening hard in hopes of determining what exactly he heard. It was Laures, until it wasn’t. He recognized it changing, felt his chest tighten as aching familiarity crept into its timbre. There was the ghost of grinning teeth in it- their tender pull at the dip of his hip bone, the inside of his wrist; he was sure he saw a smattering of freckles along an upturned nose… felt it pressed into his neck as he strained to listen, still... 

He was scarcely able to breathe by the time Ather’s sudden movement drew him to the present. Behind them, he could at last hear the strangled cry wrenched from Laures’ throat. It took him a moment to recognize the subtle change within had somehow found its way without, falling like great shadows over the open space of their encampment. It couldn’t be… here?

But it was everywhere. Behind him, screams raised the fine hairs at his nape, his bare forearms icy in spite of the desert air. There was no wind. It was the absence of it all that moved on them. The Void. They were under attack, and yet as he and Ather tore back the leafy canopy draped over their tent, it was only Lucan they saw inside. Lucan, with his fist clamped tight about his sister’s windpipe, squeezing with an untold rage, even as he stood calmly in the act. 

Laures’ eyes flew open, glassy and wide, pleading with them not to hurt him, as she made another valiant attempt to find her footing and gain some leverage. The hunting knife at her belt was well within her reach, and yet she hadn’t taken it, couldn’t, Julrien knew, bring herself to end this sudden horror at the expense of her brother’s safety. They were well past that though. Ather had already taken it upon himself to intercept, heavy-handed as ever as he grasped Lucan’s arm with a force to rival that around Laures’ neck. 

“Leave off, Lucan… this is not what you want,” he growled at their comrade, seeming in that moment to tower over them all. Julrien was quick to take advantage of the diversion, only a second or two wherein Lucan--but it wasn’t him, not really--glanced up at the demand. Laures gave a half-hearted shake of her head, hindered at once by even more pressure at her throat, until she all but hung from Lucan’s grip. “Let her go,” Julrien hissed, face turned towards Lucan’s pointed ear as he pressed the serrated edge of his soil knife to the underside of the half-elf’s chin. Lucan, for his part, remained impassive, unblinking at the dark clouds flooding his gaze. He glanced from Ather to the Blood Elf tucked in behind him, unmoved. “Why do you resist us?” he--they--asked, making a mockery of Lucan’s gentleness. Lucan was undoubtedly viewed by many in their group, as well as the larger body of Druids, as soft, even simple. His all-too-Human appearance, and downright cherubic features aside, set him apart along with his sister, who communicated her value through clenched fists and a wicked tongue. Lucan used neither, preferring to defer to louder personalities in most matters. But those in their unit knew him to be the very best of friends: loyal, unassuming, and gifted when it came to soothing both ire and injury. Julrien’s racing heart seized, the chill wrapped around it like a fist as he watched Laures’ red face turn ashen. Lucan’s voice went on: “We are already here, as we always have been. You need only let us in…” From there, it all happened so fast. First came the sickening crack of bone, silencing the strange sibilance spilling from Lucan’s tongue and wrenching from him an anguished, all-too-familiar cry. Next came the rush of stricken air that flooded Laures’ lungs. She spun, gasping and sputtering, away from her brother’s limply hanging limb, which Ather released as soon as she was free. From there, it was easy for Julrien to draw upon the entangling vines of their ken. The soil knife fell to the earth, shifting along with their meager bedding and few, small comforts from home as the thick verdancy split the ground beneath their feet, slithering between them to wrap Lucan in a stranglehold of their own. 

Julrien’s fingers still curled into his palms, still trembled with the effort of keeping this… version of Lucan… in restraint, for long seconds afterward. He exhaled for what felt like the first time since rushing into their modest tent, slumping against the wall with a kick of a heavy, straw pillow. Ather’s steely silence in the wake of his violence had him gritting his teeth, especially set against the twins’ pained wheezes and whimpers. But one look at Laures, and he knew better than to get into it then. 

“Laur…what happened-” he began instead, seeking backstory for the unlikely scene. A toss of his head swept sweat-dampened locks over his shoulder as Julrien started towards their friend. Laures, for her part, uttered a cracked, “M’fine,” alternating between gasping and gaping at the face of her twin held fast by coiled greenery- and something else entirely. It was hideous, this likeness of their half-elven comrade. His saucer eyes no longer held the golden fields of Westfall in their depths; amber irises were eclipsed by darkness as they darted from the towering Ather to the rustling door of the tent. His mouth...at first it was contorted in agony, only for a slow, seething smile to split his lips, exposing too many teeth to the dim light of their oil lamp. Everything flickered, the lamp, that grin… 

The wind had returned, carrying the sounds of pitched cries and clashing weapons, and with it the unmistakable stench of… charred hides? There was only a second when Julrien could swear he heard it, a voice of warning, as familiar as the vacant spot in his mattress. It rang in his ears, urgent under the cackling of Lucan’s stolen voice:

RUN.

But he was too slow to react; they all were. An explosion sounded mere yards away, rocking the encampment as it fed on nearby azerite and blew through the neighbouring tent. The trio were flung to the far wall as the flames roared to life, flashing gold and sizzling into slick blackness beneath. Julrien choked on the scream that ripped through his chest as his hold on Lucan, his magic, burned through his tendons. The strong vines he’d summoned, brimming with Light and Life, languished in his grasp and, and in their stead, the deep well of nothing threatened to swallow them all.  Such a heavy burden… Soon you will see…

Ather’s fingers felt like claws dug into his shoulder as he shook him from his daze, but Julrien could no longer make out his words. He gagged, bitter ash in his mouth as he registered the colours bleeding around him. Thick, dark tendrils burst through the flames, spreading like oil over everything they’d worked for, slowly devouring the Life at his fingertips until he couldn’t hold it any more. He could no longer hear Ather, just as he could no longer see where Laures went, but Lucan--their gentle Lucan--was everywhere at once. His head tipped back...his flailing limbs, grasping and wrenching and filling Julrien’s sight. His laughter... dripping madness like ichor, down Julrien’s spine--

Our time has come… Let go and be free… His world shook, swirling around him in fire and shadow. He couldn’t tell whose hands were on him anymore, couldn’t breathe a word of what he felt as the cackles and crackling faded into his own unsteady pulse. Run, the voice had warned. And he should have- they all should have run from this place. It was a festering wound, a sickness they were not equipped to deal with. His world shook and he shook with it, writhing as it threatened to feed on him like every one of his tangling vines…

...until the very moment his mentor’s palm struck his cheek. A moment passed, and another, and eventually he could sense the solid ground once more. Ather held him from behind, and he felt the desperate press of Laures’ nails in his forearm. Thoridath…their leader stood over him, taut brows belying the stern line of his lips. “We are out of time,” he confirmed, taking just one step aside and jutting a calloused digit in the direction of the portal. Ahead of them, the camp was ablaze with chaos. The Earthen Ring scattered, with enraged elementals bearing down upon their numbers, and the Cenarion crew were scrambling to aid. But Thoridath could not risk their little group; what remained of them had to make it through to the other side, if they ever stood a chance at curbing the assault. “I have Lucan,” the Kaldorei added hastily, and Julrien swayed a little beneath that fervent gaze. He finally nodded, pulling free of Ather’s grasp. 

One arm hooked around Laures’, dragging her forward as they all darted after the Arcane rift. As they neared its shimmering borders, and the promise of safety on the other side, he couldn’t help but pause and chance a look back. Behind them, in the charred remnants of their tent and pieces of their belongings, Julrien could still make out the slender figure of Laures’ twin. The half-elf faced the great Sword of Sargeras, his mutated body trembling with horror… with glee… or some terrible blend of the two. Ather saw quickly towards pulling a struggling and shrieking Laures through, as it suddenly became all too clear that this was the last they would see of her twin.