#dinaer

He cannot seem to get away from Dinaer, and stops trying. The elder death knight seems to now take vested interest in the blood elf whose death he is responsible for. Perhaps he feels obligated. After all, the younger of the pair would not be there now if Dinaer had not intervened. Now he must bear the indignity of seeing the shadow of the high elf wherever he goes, watching all with dispassionate blue eyes. As the weeks or months- or years, Hell- go by, he eventually wrestles his hate under control, does not attempt to rip the taller Knight limb from limb when he is within sight, and after a time no longer does so when the other gets within reach. HE settles himself for a sneer of derision, a sharp hiss or snap when the other ventures too close.

And that, he certainly does not understand. It is not as though there is a concept of ‘alone’ among the Scourge. They are all of them interconnected, a hivemind and consciousness. But they are physicaly solitary, do not seek out companionship save in rare cases- those are looked upon with suspicion and derision, and only the eldest and strongest of Knights risk showing any form of attachment or favoritism. Attachments are a weakness to be exploited. Dependency is tabboo. At least, unlike Thassarian, Dinaer seems to understand this. While he and Alistair seem to remain always within sight of each other when not at their tasks, there is no fuss, nor disobedience when orders separate them.

Except one time, he got caught by a few more of the Crusaders than he had bargained on. After awhile, even the most dense of the living can figure out where armor has gaps, and while he certainly made an example of his attackers in a most gruesome way, his trip back to Acherus was nothing short of agonizing, blood dripping through chain and from under plate where their weapons had sunk deep. Dinaer had been loitering near the gateway, and the younger made a good attempt to just stroll through as though nothing were wrong and he weren’t dripping with blood.

Obviously, that was not ideal. Despite his snarling and protests, he was swiftly escorted back to be literally stitched back together. He is pushed back to sit, a growl still rumbling up his throat, on the edge of the rough wooden table. He is intensely unhappy. His hatred of this place, of these people is well-known, somewhere in the same category Dinaer is placed in-- with none of the conditioning to ease his fury over time. These were the peopl who made him suffer, his first waking moment in agony, with the faces of these cultists above him, and he has never forgotten that. Arthas does not care enough to push these memories out of his mind-- what are a few slaughtered cultists, from time to time? His armor is removed-- by force when the blood elf realized what was going on when the engraved chestplate dropped away and immediately had gone to murder the foolish attendent who moved around him and interacted with him like he was an object- explained nothing and asked no permission.

Dinaer’s hand clasped around the back of his neck like he was scruffing a cat, not holding an undead weapon in place, and the sin’dorei was forced to remain still by the force of it, still baring his teeth, blue eyes wild as the armor was peeled away from blood-slick skin,and in some places outright removed from wounds where the plate had bent and warped inwards to create its own wounds. When the pauldrons were distangled, Din’s hand moved from his companion’s neck to his shoulder, forcing him to lay down, and still, as the ‘healers’ began their work, repairing the damage done. Rather than jsut rely on Dinaer, as they neared the worst of the wounds, they managed to shackle the uncooperative elf down to the table. Dinaer then went to release his grip, withdrawing his hand- at least until suddenly the injured Death Knight’s ire was once more focused on him, letting out an angry hiss.

Dinaer actually stopped, narrowing his eyes back at the other- no words were spoken for a moment, the elf strapped to the table straining upwards to glare, balefully, at his senior... and slowly, Dinaer moved back, cold fingers curling back around the other’s shoulder. Only then did the younger stop causing a fuss, though he turned his face resolutely away from the other.

-----

It was not bitterly cold- not to him- but they had been standing on the balcony of the citadel all night- Dinaer from the instant he had arrived back from his tasks, and the taller elf’s shoulders were hunched, practically glowering out at hte sickly pines and ever-growing fungi.

Very casually, and without comment, the elder of the two slowly leaned into the red-head, resting his weight against the younger’s shoulder. This earned him a cold stare... but as the younger looked away... he leaned back.

----

They stood side by side, awaiting armor, their armor just barely not touching, the backs of their gloved and plated hands occasionally touching-- neither seemed to notice.

----

This time the younger seeks him out after something his gone wrong- though he refuses to say what, as always, nearly silent unless it is a hiss of displeasure or a snap of offense- but he bleeds from a dozen wounds that tells Dinaer training did not go well, or else he had done something to anger his superiors- neither is surprising. The younger death knight is willful and stubborn, though he does not seek to defy the Lich King himself (nobody is stupid enough to try that anymore), he does not respect very many within the citadel, and is not afraid to display this.

But he is injured, and goes to Dinaer like he knows what to do, and digs his heels in when the High Elf tries to pull him towards the necromancer’s ward... and he realizes it could also be their doing. It isn’t too uncommon for them to subject those who come to their quarter to various experiments, asked for by those in charge-- after all, Death Knights are all a little bit different, each unique in their own way, and that is a curious thing for the curious-minded.

He sighs, and pulls the younger into a side room. He fully expects a fight when he starts undoing straps and clasps to once again remove armor. He gets one, and finally just resorts to knocking the smaller out cold- which takes a great deal more effort than he likes, and he swears up and down his armor stays frigid for weeks thereafter.

Still, when the other comes to, it is not alone, not left to the mercy of others who wander, Dinaer standing, back turned, in the doorway, leaving the younger to examine the uneven stitches and bandages... no complaint is offered, the young knight sits up, and when he is ready, Dinaer helps him put the armor back on (it is not a one person job by any stretch), feeling the wary, wild eyes of his companion on him the whole time.

----

It is Dinaer who calls in a favor a few weeks later. He ran afoul of a kal’dorei patrol in a part of the Plaguelands, and one of the arrows has lodged itself deep into the middle of his back, punchign through even the thick metal of his armor. He does not trust the necromancers for something so small-- if he is already in six seperate pieces, he will not know any better if they take him apart a little more before putting him back together, but he has no desire to  be aware and awake enough for that.

The other Death Knight is looking over the bannister at hte new recruits-- there have been more than usual. His expression is not a kind one in the slightest-- more like a hawk observing the foraging of the birds and mice below- and they are stupidly unaware of his presence.

He says nothing- he doesn’t actually know, now that he thinks of it, if they have actually spoken to each other yet- but merely brushes by the other as he passes, on his way down some silent hallway. The shorter of the pair follows after a heartbeat, no doubt spotting the injury and understanding without words, what is needed. Dinaer stops in a room, and pulls off his helmet, and starts undoing his bracers and gauntlets as the frost knight peers at the long, violet feathered arrow.

“Don’t think too hard about it,” Dinaer cautions- the first time he has spoken to his counterpart- and the other blood-elf actually jumped, letting out a bit of a snarl at the other. And not actually replying back, giving him another wary glance before creeping forwards again to continue his study of the injury. Dinaer wonders if he has lost his ability of speech- he doesn’t remember if he hurt the mage’s throat or neck or not... but he’d hardly be the first or last made incapable by whatever he went through to become a Knight.

As such, there is no real surprise when he is given no warning- the other Death Knight wraps his hand around the arrow where it meets his armor, and promptly snapped it off, drawing a long hiss of pain from Dinaer. He hears the hitch of breath behind him- and he turns to catch sight of the other Knight’s face- can he handle this without losing it? Would he torment Dinaer worse than the apothecaries and necromancers? The expression on the blood elf’s face is not at all comforting- hungry, intense. Maybe it was foolish of him to ignore the first actions the other Knight had taken upon being reanimated.

But the moment drags on only a few heartbeats more before he reaches- and starts undoing the clasp that connects Din’s chestplate to the backpiece. When it falls off, he realizes the arrow was snapped for this reason, so as to avoid any more greivous injury. He hopes though, there is enough there to get ahold of and pull out... which he gets his answer after a moment, when the younger lets out a sigh, and pulls out a damned knife- Dinaer twisted around a bit to glare at the red-head- he was not digging an arrowhead out of his muscle with a knife- but the eyes he met were bright and hard and angry- a gloved hand, with no gentleness to speak of tangled fingers into Din’s hair at the scalp, and forced him to turn away and hold still. Now it was the darker-skinned elf’s turn to snarl rather badly, gritting his teeth angrily as the knife dug in. He would struggle more, but he knew it would only make thigns worse... and he could guess the frost knight would only relish a chance to beat him into submission after all the times he’d been wrestled to the ground.

The younger though, is surprisingly efficient, and things don’t quite go the way he thought they might- he feels the knife push in, and resists the urge to grind his teeth. But then the elf angles it just so, the tip catching on something- and with a swift jerk the arrow has mostly worked itself out, and then been pulled free. The fingers tangled in his hair take a moment longer to let go, and Dinaer slowly turns to look at the blood elf, rubbing the back of his head. The death knight has both the arrow and the knife in one hand, slick with black blood, and is digging in a bag for something with the other- a tangle of bandages are pulled free.

Din slowly lowers himself to sit, realizing that despite his own wishes, this is not going to be something done and over with quickly. The sin’dorei, at his sour look, practically threw the broken arrow in Din’s face, earning a sputter, the death knight fumbling and then getting a solid grip on the projectile- looking down at his hands. The arrow tip is barbed, hollow at the center- what he had caught the knife on, apparently. The younger one had practice at some point, Dinaer peering curiously at his companion, as he settled himself behind Din on his knees, unravelling the roll of bandages and getting to work. Din could heal himself at this point... but says nothing. The sin’dorei’s hands are cool and steady, his bright eyes lowered, face a picture of focus and control, the first time his expression has not been predatory or threatening in some way.

The bandage is at last tied off, the frost knight fiddling with the bandages a bit... he smooths his hand over the plane of Dinaer’s back briefly, the air strange and heady- pain and memories swirling beneath the surface. But then he pulls his hand away, and the air clears. Din leans back, rolling his shoulders, and the younger Knight shoves his head away roughly when the high elf ‘accidentally’ bumps into him with an arm- but there is a snort, more amused than pissed off, when the blonde gets to his feet and steps away, resheathing his knife. He helps Dinaer get the chestplate back on, then swiftly leaves rather than be caught helping someone.

----

Something is happening, Arthas becomes restless-- and now new death knights positively pour into Acherus. Gone are the days when the elders are known and respected- even more experienced knights find themselves on the edge of losing their minds to bloodlust- the infighting is constant, and uncurbed in total. Dinaer gets seperated from the frost knight during a raid, and the next time he sees him, the fallen sin’dorei looks haggard and exhausted, unkempt rather than neat and oddly polished as he always is.

When they lock eyes, the blonde immediately, unabashedly, makes a beeline for the dark-skinned knight, immediately settling at his side in the camp. At least together, they seem more imposing- and they are far from the only ones to realize that, most of the established knights beginning to clump together rather than be caught unawares. The young ones are too new, too volatile to form lasting alliances at the very least... but hte danger of bloodlust is very real, and once one knight is wounded, it is only a matter of time before they are fallen upon by those waiting in the wings for any sign of weakness.

It takes a toll on everyone, but they must wait it out- Arthas is testing everyone’s strength. A battle is coming soon, a battle to end their enemies for all time. But at the end of one day, the frost knight taps his finger on the side of Din’s bracer discretely ‘follow me’. They make their way down the twisting passageways until they’ve come to some barely used room, musty and cobwebbed.

Din leans against the doorframe, waiting. If the sin’dorei is going to speak, it will be now. The frost knight paces back and forth a few times, occasionally glaring suspiciously at Dinaer. the blood elf’s changed quite a bit since he arrived- his once fiery red hair has faded and bleached, more a platinum hue. Any color he had has long since left his skin, leaving him overall pale and ghostly. He stops, tapping his foot and glaring at Dinaer again before he finally speaks.

His voice is the whisper of snow in the dead of night, whispery and soft with unuse. There’s crackling snippets of hte rich timbre it must’ve held in life, overlayed, and beneath it the inevitable crack and groan of ancient glaciers. It is nothing unusual, in and of itself, but suddenly when spoken by the thin warrior... the words and tone seemed important. “My armor is... damaged. It is uncomfortable.”

Dinaer makes a noise in the back of his throat. He is not surprised. The best way to defeat one of them is to take to their dense armor with a warhammer or by wedging a blade underneath the plates and yanking and prying- it has been done a few times to him, and doubtlessly to the blonde before they were able to band together.

“So... let’s fix some armor,” Said Din, nonchalant- but he understands what this is, an expression of trust. In magic, they are all evenly matched, but even suplemented with the might of hte Lich King, some will simply be stronger than others. Their armor is their means of survival against foes far stronger, and more numerous than they. To take it off was great risk-- to take it off with the bloodlust raging through the entire camp? It was damn near suicide.

Unless there was someone you trusted... in which case, two were more formidable than one, armor or not. One did not have to struggle with bindings on their own, things could be quickly and quietly removed. “I’ll go first,” Dinaer said, taking the extended olive branch- and offering his own. There is relief in the other’s eyes. Din knows he is being somewhat selfish, and definitely foolish. He liked the feeling of the other death knight’s fingers against the wounds on his back last time, and in retrospect the tug at his scalp was not too bad either. Contact was unheard of, here. There was too much risk involved with it, when the desire not just to kill but to torture lurked under every action.

The sin’dorei let Din remove his first bracer, starting on the second. He was quick, efficient. They could’t afford to be noticed absent, and the blood elf was not wasting any time. Once both of them had removed glove and bracers, they settled behind the crates at the back of the room. Dinaer let him then pull the larger pieces of armor off. Unlike most Death Knights- particularly the new ones- there were no black scars on his skin from whatever had kileld him. He’d been claimed by Plague some decades past, and so it had stained his skin entirely to charcoal. Otherwise, he was unmarred, unscarred.

As he had hoped, the other knight’s hands wandered more than strictly necessary, brushing over the tops of his shoulders, tracing down his spine almost curiously- the shirt he had on under the armor was barely more than a second skin, there to keep the metal from wearing his own flesh bare. It was frayed in places, stitched in others- still had a hole in it where he’d gotten shot. After a moment of examining the garment, the sin’dorei seemed to deem it too damaged to remain as well- and so Din was left in his loose pants, wriggling his toes and stretching back somewhat, flopping uselessly onto a crate for a chair.

The frost knight glared, baleful, at him, and with a stretch Din stood back up, and began the process for the other as well. He was not so lucky as Dinaer was. He had been greivously injured from a dozen wounds by the time Dinaer had gotten to him, and they’d all scarred over quite badly, long black stripes that veined outwards over his skin like the brazen patterning of a big cat. He didn’t even pretend to look at the other’s shirt- which was admittedly in better shape than his own- and had him pull it off anyways. There was a heated flash in the eyes of his companion, something fearful and angry. He still tensed when Dinaer got close, or when he pulled the remainder of the armor over his hips and legs away. But at the same time, he’d started to lean into any contact.

Din’s bare fingers finally brushed over the nape of the frost knight’s neck. The other shivered, his head turned, watching Dinaer closely from the corner of his eye, wary as a wild animal. Unbidden, there was the memory of red-coated lynxes in golden woods- a shard of a memory. Dinaer paused- but there was no retribution, the memory neither complete nor impacting enough to garner attention. But it still remained, that thought- this sin’dorei reminded him of home- and here the pain struck, swift, merciless. HE doubled over, fingers going to his head.

The blood elf fully turned then. Dinaer was frightened- to show such weakness, right now... but the other just half-held him up as the taller man struggled to regain his senses, the memory seared away, lost to the haze of white. He was aware of the sin’dorei’s calloused thumb rubbing circles onto the top of his shoulder... finally Dinaer straightened, not meeting the curious gaze of the other Knight at all.

There is delicious pain in the fact that the Death Knights will never be able to escape those that caused their deaths, a tribute to the strength of the Lich King that he can make mortal enemy fight shoulder-to-shoulder in the throes of battle, to turn those who spent lifetimes at each other’s throats into a singular force. His iron will is not to be denied, all hatreds twisted back upon themselves to serve Him alone. It is a fine line to walk-- a fighter without passion is no fighter at all, no better than the puppet-like ghouls that shamble through the plaguelands. But an army that turns upon itself is no army at all either. Old anger remains, honed, sharpened, made into the Lich King’s weapon more as the reason for it fades.

For the Death Knights to prosper, they must suffer, and they must mete it out in kind. And so, when not in the pitch of battle, Acherus becomes a cradle of agony, a place rich in strife for those beginning their lives anew, a feeding ground of easy prey-- those cultists and alcolytes who will never know the power of unholy strength, other Death Knights deemed unworthy, destroyed rather than reforged by their brokenness. It is why they encouraged to slake their first hunger pangs upon each other. Only the strongest can survive in this hellish landscape, or become the strength of their betters. One way or another. This is too much, for many. To slay their own kind in some respects. To slay those who may wear the faces of loved ones. For others, the breaking point is catching sight of their murderers, reliving the pain of their defeat once more, to briefly taste the tang of ever-reaching death and once more remember their mortality. It is a pain twofold, thoughts of a previous life are taboo, punished swiftly by the King. “You can’t do this to me,” Is a common phrase among the broken, too far gone to recover, minds made brittle and fragile in undeath. The desired outcome is a lack of response, the bottling of emotions to serve for later, a reflection of Arthas’s iron will. But still, there are a third group-- these are tolerated only, and secretly feared, half-admired for their flagrant display of fury.

The former Dinaer Sunbreath has dragged many prospective Death Knights back to his King, and if some still fight somewhere, he remembers not their faces nor their names, nor have any seemed to remember him if they have crossed paths. At least until now. The latest batch in those destined to eradicate the Scarlet Crusaders have been turned loose upon the camp. The sounds of infighting, cheering, and new victories soon settles over things, familiar, comforting, giving all around more strength. More youthful death knights might be made half-drunk by the excess, but Dinaer has seen this since he can remember, and his hunger is no longer so sharp. But still- he is senior here, no acolyte, no fresh face, and he does not even fathom that he would be attacked in the middle of the camp until the Runeblade has sank deep into his shoulder accompanied by a feral, animalistic snarl.

(Send me a 😍 and i’ll find a picture of your muse’s faceclaim that I really like)

“Those eyes….”