#ithaerin

A voice brings him from his reverie, quiet but harsh, demanding but hushed.

His gaze turns on a swivel to the door. A slender woman stands there, dark auburn hair framing hawkish and sharp features. She’s so recognizable, even in the dim light, with her bow still strapped to her back… but even Ithanar knows it’s at the ready. His arms folded across his chest, lines of his crimson-and-black tunic creasing.

“Ildrielen,” he rasps in his gravelly tone, gesturing to the murder scene behind him with a wave of an unfurled hand.

“You look exhausted… and unhappy.” His sister quips, stepping into the parlor with a slow and cautious gait. Her gaze, fel-green, is like his: on a swivel, taking in the sights, the sounds, even the grisly and awful smells.

“Well, I just love being woken up in the middle of the fucking-” Ithanar begins to drawl.

“Ithanar…” Ildrielen interjects, shaking her head. Her steps have taken her around the room, looking over the bodies with a look that can best be called analytical. “No, just…”

“What?” The old elf asks, broad shoulders rising and falling in a shrug. He hasn’t moved and doesn’t plan to, at least for a few more beats, a few more moments.

“What did you expect? That they would come knocking for evening fucking tea?” Ildrielen asks, her tone incredulous but still quiet. She’s crouching over one of the many corpses in this front room now, looking it over.

Ithanar considers this.

He still wasn’t sure what to expect.

No, that’s a lie.

A few things came to mind.

He sighs and turns before pacing over to his sister, the same body she’s looking at coming into view: a man with beach blonde hair and broad features, perhaps not much older than a century or so. His chest has been crushed and pierced; flesh, blood, and bone torn, shredded, sundered. Grisly as it gets.

Such a sight might’ve bothered the Islesun twins once upon a time.

It doesn’t anymore, and Ithanar doesn’t know whether that’s good… or bad.

“Is it crazy to suggest that I might’ve?” He asks almost rhetorically after a few passing moments, standing and watching as the other elf continues her inspection.

“We just got to five-hundred and ninety, Ithanar. Don’t get senile yet.” She quips rather quickly, gaze shifting over her shoulder as she stands. Not once did she touch the corpse, and probably for her own good reasons.

“Not showing a lot of-” Ithanar begins to say, but stops short for he realizes his own folly in even going there.

“A lot of what? No, why don’t you go ahead and say it…” Ildrielen snaps, brows furrowing, lips quirking and curling into a snarl. She leans in to look at him, tone dangerous.

“Listen, this isn’t-” The old elf tries to backpedal on the road he’s gone down, but…

Old thoughts, old memories, old wounds.

“It’s MINE, Ithanar.”

“No… no, it isn’t”

“Then do not even bring that up here!” Ildrielen says, jabbing a finger right into his chest with force enough to actually make him stagger. “You don’t get to play the fucking sympathy card with me. I’m not Highdawn or Silverbrooke or Light-”

Self-inflicted.

Mistakes were made.

“Trust me. I know you’re not, so can we please move on?” Ithanar asks. His hands rise slowly up in caution, palms facing Ildrielen, who is seething.

Mistakes will be made.

“This won’t fix it… This won’t solve what you’ve lost.”

“Yes… yes, it will.”

It didn’t.

But now isn’t the time.

“Ahem!”

A cough, a voice from the other end of the parlor ends the standoff between the twins; their gazes travel to a pair of figures who step into dim lights. These newcomers wear formal robes in shades of red and gold, their hair cut short; if not for their differing faces - one broad, and the other narrow - they might even be twins.

“Ithanar and Ildrielen Islesun, yes?” The more narrow-faced man inquires in a stately tone.

Ithanar looks at Ildrielen again, and she returns his gaze with a steely one of her own. There’s a few beats of silence, tension thick, and then she stands down, shaking her head before letting it rest on the newcomer who had spoken earlier.

“Yes, that would be us,” she responds, arms folding under her chest again. “Conclave, right?”

“Indeed…” The more broad-faced inquisitor says with a curt nod. “We appreciate your cooperation in our investigation. Did you… want to see your brother?”

The twins look at each other again, giving each other the same look.

It’s not dread or fear, no, just… it’s hard to read.

“That would be why we’re here…” Ithanar says after a few beats, looking to the pair at the door. “So yes.”

The inquisitors both offer a nod at the same time, an eerie thing that makes the hairs on the old elf’s neck stand on their head, and then sweep the room before heading into a long hallway that leads to what can only be assumed to be someone’s private chambers.

“We’ll talk later.”

Ildrielen doesn’t even look at her brother as she follows them, her tone quiet and dangerous.

The old elf watches her go, letting silence descend for a few beats. His hands rest on his hips before he shakes his head and lets out a sigh.

This is where their relationship is now, even after the effort to save Inthius nearly a year ago.

Big.

Bad.

But not so boisterous.

The tension may soon boil over.

Or perhaps it will continue to simmer... until it fades. 

The room where it happened is smaller than Ildrielen Islesun expects.

But it’s a perfect place for carnage on a micro scale.

Bodies are strewn about, torn, blood still scattered or pooled across not-so-clean floors. There’s all sorts, all shapes, all sizes, and all ages. It doesn’t matter who you are. There was no getting off a ride like this, a feeling the Farstrider knows all too well.

Her gaze ghosts over them, not much of a care coming to mind for those who don’t have the name Islesun, but their wounds, the structure of this siege, is still important. It might paint a picture or nothing at all, but the investigation is worth it.

Is it to Ithan-

No, probably not. He seems more annoyed with this over anything else, but…

No, put that out of mind.

Store it away.

Now isn’t the time.

Ildrielen lets out a snort, shaking her head before peering at the doorway through which they entered. The pair of inquisitors, eerie as can be, are out of sight and therefore out of mind. They apparently had not yet gone through a more thorough observation of the main room, which leaves the woman alone with her twin brother.

And her younger brother.

Ithaerin’s body is motionless, lifeless, near the middle of the room. His limbs are splayed theatrically, long off-white hair stretched, his-

“Weird.”

The word catches the auburn-haired elf, slamming into her and ending the trance of curiosity. Her gaze flickers to Ithanar, who now stands next to her; his eyes are on his brother, lips sundering into a small scowl.

“What?” She almost demands.

“He’s not… like the others,” Ithanar observes, getting into a crouch and then gesturing with a wave of his hand. “The bodies in this room, much like the ones in the parlor… run through, torn, shredded, ripped apart by… something.”

He’s right.

The woman gets in a crouch next to him and then leans over, hands tentatively reaching out to take stock of her younger brother’s limbs.

Chest.

Not caved in.

Hands.

Not bloody.

Feet.

Seemingly fine.

It’s a few moments of investigation, of searching, of hands seeking folds and creases; perhaps their- well, it wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility, especially not with Ithaerin.

“No wounds…” Ildrielen breathes, eyes still transfixed on her brother. “What the fuck were these inquisitors-”

“Did they even look?” Her brother suggests with a shrug of his shoulders, arms resting on his knees. He’s still crouching, lips softening from a scowl into a slight frown.

A moment.

Two.

Three.

“Wait…”

She reaches up for Ithaerin’s face, moving his hair with a tender touch, to reveal his ears.

Long, defined, almost royal and-

A keen green-eyed gaze catches a revelation.

“He never wears an earring on his left ear.”

Is that humor in Ithanar’s tone?

For the first time, Ildrielen doesn’t chide him for it. He has a point for there is an earring dangling from his left ear, which is something her younger brother would indeed never do. She lets her gaze hang for a few beats, and then it floats to Ithanar.

“Not him?” He half-inquires, but also half-knows the answer.

“Not him,” she confirms with a little nod. “Body double?”

More searching, a flurry of four hands which find it.

A small disk of gold inlaid with enchanted jewels, purples and greens, which glow but not so brightly. When touched, the thing makes a small sound… and then the “body” of Ithaerin disappears entirely, fading beneath the outstretched fingers of the Islesun twins.

A body double indeed.

Questions float through Ildrielen’s mind, a flurry of them, as she looks over the small relic… but there’s relief too. She looks at Ithanar, whose face matches her: curious, full of questions, but… full of relief too. More than she ever would’ve thought.

Not now.

Does he...

Not here.

I…

It isn’t the time.

But for a moment, she feels slightly bad for her earlier outburst. That same sympathy she wouldn’t even give a moment? The feeling springs with Ildrielen’s chest, and then fades. Nonetheless she looks away for a few moments, not daring to look at her brother.

Again, it isn’t the time.

“So… he’s not dead,” Ithanar breathes, relief still resting on his tongue. “I… shit.”

“Fucking foiled the inquisitors again, it seems…” Ildrielen says quietly, still looking away. “And whatever was hunting-”

Feelings of relief fade in a flash.

Something grips at her from the shadows, and her head turns to face them. Where is- there! In the corner. Ildrielen stands slowly but surely and begins to pace, hands outstretched, caught in a trance that she knows exactly what it is.

But Ithanar doesn’t. No, he just watches her go; his features scrunch up in confusion.

“Ildrielen.”

Once.

Voices from the deep.

“Ildrielen… what are you-”

Voices from below your feet.

Twice.

Creep.

“ILDRIELEN!”

Creep.

“ILDRIELEN!”

CREEP.

It’s gone.

She stops, feeling something tugging on her wrist, and turns to see Ithanar’s hand on her wrist, fingers tight. The woman looks down and then up, jerking her arm away from him, and snarling, shaking her head. Bangs of auburn turn and twist with the motion.

“Are… you…” He begins to ask.

“I don’t think… these people were killed by... other people…” Ildrielen breathes, looking around. She massages her right wrist with her left hand. “No, this was…”

“The Legion?” Ithanar suggests, looking around in an attempt to follow his sister’s gaze.

“No.. no…” She disagrees, eyes wide, attention almost unfocused. “This…”

No demon gives this feeling.

Would ever give this feeling.

“Ildrielen?”

“Ithanar. We don’t have time.”

“What the fuck-?”

“I need… can you find Ithaerin?”

It’s a simple question...

“I-”

But there’s complications abound.

“Ithanar. Don’t.”

A pause.

“Fine. I’ll check his safehouses.”

Relief.

“Thank you.”

“And what did those voices tell you?”

“I…”

“Ildrielen.”

“They…”

“Spit it out, child. You test my patience.”

“Grab.”

“...”

“Pull.”

“...”

“Release.”

“...”

“What does it mean?”

“We need to go.”

“To…?”

“To find my fool of a son, child.”

“Wait-”

Even more interesting is the color of blade, a raven-haired black, dark as night. I have not seen a steel that color before, or at least not on a blade of any sort. The grip is leather, inlaid with gold and other materials, nothing too out of the ordinary but it is old and weathered, scratched in some places. 

I have spoken with a few mages from the Reliquary - off the record, of course - and asked them to perform a few tests here and there, seeing how it reacts to magical effects. Each has proved some interesting results in that the blade seems to take on the magical properties of whatever magic is infused with it, but only temporarily or as long as the spell lasts.

It isn’t just the blade which interests me, but the history around it? 

Where it is from?

No one had dared venture into the ancient tower of Talah’Diel, that place our parents spoke of, told us bedtime stories to scare us or perhaps warn us. Something about ancient parables and so on and so forth.

I was never one to fear a little bit of spelunking, never one to be scared of the deep and dark places of the world. Fel, it’s part of my job and recovering this turned out to be worth it. As for what else may lay within that ancient tower? 

That is a story for another time, I believe.

Anyway, I think I have a good idea of who might best benefit from using the weapon. Do I think he deserves the opportunity?

No, but what the fel am I going to do with a weapon like this?

It isn’t much my speed anyway.

Ithanar’s interruption draws a glance from Ildrielen and Ithaerin, who just stare at him with inquisitive glances.

“You… you will?” The youngest Islesun sibling asks, an eyebrow arched.

“Yes. You two will deal with getting-” Ithanar begins to relay the orders he’s thought out in his mind a dozen times already.

“Why don’t we just take him on all together?” Ildrielen stops him short with her statement, shrugging. “Would be easier.”

“She’s not wrong, you know!”

Silence again, but it’s a sharp and twisting thing.

“The whoooooooole family comes together! Finally!”

All three heads turn, almost in unison, as one of those platforms sinks down to their floor from high above. There’s a slight hiss that sounds throughout the lower chamber as it lands and fits neatly into place, revealing that sallow faced figure with his cropped silver hair and a frown that stretches across his face to reveal teeth.

Hantheron.

Celinth,

I’m going to be out for a week or two.

Ran a personal op. Had a bad run-in with some demons in Suramar.

Tell whoever the newest acting Ranger-Captain is. If he hasn’t kicked the proverbial goblin trash can, then great, that works too.

Ildrielen

Ildrielen doesn’t wait too long, drawing an arrow from her quiver with blinding speed, aiming, and firing a shot off that nears the mark, but doesn’t hit. No, instead of striking Hantheron, a glaive comes down out of nowhere and cuts it right at the shaft, stopping the momentum.

Something, or someone, rises from the ground, from a puddle of dark liquid. Ithanar knows what it is immediately, or at least has a clue as he watches a figure coalesce from the stuff.

It’s…

It’s ink.

“What the-!” Ildrielen barks, drawing another arrow and getting ready to unleash it. She doesn’t get the chance however as something streaks toward her, drawing cries from her siblings, but she steps back, keeping her bow raised.

The figure finally comes into being, a not-so-tall elf with a mane of off-white hair and a blindfold wrapped around his eyes, or where they would be. Tattoos shift up and down ruddy-red colored skin, obviously the trademarks of an Illidari.

The one they’ve been searching for.

Inthius.

“What a save, my apprentice!” The older magister responds with a gleeful laugh, almost manic. He claps his hands together slowly, smiling wide enough to not hide a fact that runs under the skin of the Islesun siblings who’ve come to oppose him. “Is that any way to greet an old friend, Ildrielen? Ithanar? Ithaerin?”

They know it. He knows it.

This is a trap.

All of this has been.

But what kind of a trap is it? 

“Go fuck yourself, Highwing!” Ildrielen shouts at the magister who just sways from side to side, hands clasping behind his back.

“Now, now, why don’t we use more proper language here? I set the damn rules!” Hantheron replies with a cheeky smile, head tilted, waving a finger. “No, no, I’m the master now… finally, as your brother-”

“What did you do to him?” Ithanar growls, fingers tightening around his sword and shield.

“The thing I probably should have done years ago, to be quite honest! He would not learn from me then, not listen, but now… well, now he follows his orders rather well…” The magister replies, turning his gaze to the Illidari at his side.

Vynthius hasn’t said a word yet, instead staring at something… the floor perhaps?

He hasn’t moved much either, almost lifeless in his neutral stance, his skin still ruddy and red, veins showing almost with some of that Fel green energy.

“We won’t ask again, Hantheron… what did you do to him?” Ithaerin asks the question now, his own tone tinged with annoyance and some sense of anger.

“I mean, I could have him kill you but…” Hantheron states, ignoring the question, trailing off for a few moments. He reaches up to tap the side of his chin with a hand, gaze no longer set on the Islesun siblings but on what is around them…

Demons lurking in the darkness, moving in now.

This is the trip they had been waiting for, one they’ve walked right into.

“Well, I’d much rather watch than be involved in the fray. We don’t want to forget what happened the last two times you manhandled me, Ithanar!” The magister chirps up with a wink. “Perhaps I’ll come down to finish the job, or send Vynthius to grab the scraps of you, mementos he can keep.”

“You wouldn’t even give us the-” Ildrielen tries to argue, turning her gaze in a half-circle to see what threats near them.

“Last I checked none of our houses have much honor, so no, I won’t!” Hantheron almost laughs in reply, peering over at Vynthius, who stands still in the back-and-forth of this argument.

“Ithanar…” Ithaerin murmurs, gaze shifting to his brother. He doesn’t need to say anymore.

This is the trap, and they’ve walked right into it.

The demons around them begin to close the gap, or already have, coming closer…

And closer…

“I won’t go down without a fight, Hantheron! None of us will, and you know that!” Ildrielen retorts again, raising her bow and trying to aim as best she can.

“Then you’ll enjoy that gauntlet of demons then!” Hantheron almost sings in a victorious tone, turning on a heel with Vynthius in tow. They move toward the platform and as they do, the space they occupied is filled by demons, a whole host of them now surrounding Ithanar, Ildrielen, and Ithaerin…

Closer…

And closer…

A felstalker snaps its jaws at Ildrielen, and a doomguard brandishes its axe in Ithaerin’s direction.

Ithanar is the first to make his move, somethin almost out of character, but he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t have the damn time, so he takes his blade and plants it right in the head of the nearest demon, a felguard, swinging wildly and moving rapidly. His gaze centers on the platform, which slowly rises, barely catching the glance of Hantheron waving goodbye.

Fury builds.

“Kill them, and then we move!”

His words and actions are enough to break the standoff.

Chaos erupts.

Overseer,

I do apologize for my absence as of late. A personal issue took up my attention and I had to be away, some of it not exactly by own my choice.

I will return to the Doom Glaive as soon as I can, and with some interesting information I’ve gleaned from the enemy.

Vynthius

This is no cave. 

The lift rises, and Vynthius Vilesun watches the chaos below.

His siblings are putting up one fel of a fight, and it all makes sense. There’s over a thousand years of combat experience between them, a dozen human lifetimes’ worth. 

It all tugs at him, shifts with him, does not settle with his mood... 

“Well, Vynthius, what do you think of this whole affair?” 

Hantheron’s words break the Illidari from his reverie, and his body almost sways a bit with mad glee. His gaze is directed at Vynthius, but not for long as he surveys what he hopes is a victory below. 

“Shall we head back up? Our Master does await us.”

Vynthius’s gaze, or lack thereof, sweeps across his three siblings and then the demons, watching the fray with teeth bared in a feral snarl that doesn’t seem his own… almost.

Almost is indeed the operative word, because the words that leave his mouth are shocking, at least to Hantheron.

“No.”

The ruse is up, his charade comes to an end. 

No cave ever swallowed Vynthius Vilesun whole. 

“E-e-excuse me?!” Hantheron stammers, and then stops, shaking his head. His eyes go wide as he watches the Illidari turn his gaze on him, and he takes a step back… and then another… but he doesn’t get too far as a tendril of ink wraps around his right ankle and holds on.

“I said… no…” Vynthius repeats in a deadly tone, brows furrowing. He raises one of his hands and squeezes it, making a fist; the tendril of ink seems to react accordingly.

Even as the platform shifts, Ithanar hears his brother’s words, turning his gaze up as he takes down a felstalker. He isn’t the only one as Ithaerin and Ildrielen both shoot glances up at the scene above, surprise and shock in their eyes.

“You… no, no, this isn’t supposed to-” The magister stumbles over his own words, and then looks down at the ink around his leg, and then back up at Vynthius.

“Perhaps you have gone deaf in your old age, Magister…” The Illidari repeats, reaching out to grab Hantheron by the wrist and succeeding, chuckling in a manner that could be best described as delightful and devious.

His hold only lasts for a few moments as Hantheron wrenches himself away, but stumbles and falls the floor, his face seized with a shock he had never anticipated.

“I… I…” Hantheron stammers or tries to, walking backwards and getting his robes in a mess. He’s stopped short though by the inky hold around his ankle.

“Broke me? You deal with an Illidari, magister, need I remind you? I BARELY cracked, as I warned you!” Vynthius almost roars, one of his hands tightening into a fist. He takes a few steps forward, summoning one of his glaives to a hand and brandishing it.

“I… I… no, no, no…”

“INTHIUS!”

Who said-

It’s Ithaerin who calls that name from below, which almost distracts the Illidari as he begins to take on the kill. Vynthius’s head snaps to his brother below, almost reacting in a way that someone might when a whip is snapped close enough to them.

Hantheron, still stammer, takes advantage of the opportunity. The old magister’s stammering turns into something fearful, and then he stops, unleashing a fury of fel-green fire which rushes for Vynthius in conjunction with his screams of rage.

“KILL THEM! KILL ALL OF THEM!”

Vynthius is blasted off of the platform, fel fire engulfing him and chaos erupts further as he falls.

No cave ever swallowed Vynthius Vilesun, ever kept him, ever stopped him.

The cave only contained him. 

No cave constructed by a mortal man, a dwarf, or a traitorous elf could stop eons of destruction captured within a century’s worth of fury. 

“Hylaen!”

“Ithaerin. What’s your status?”

“We... it’s not good exactly. We made it out but...”

“What the fel does that- where are you?”

“Do you have supplies on hand? Medical supplies?”

“Yes, yes, but who’s hurt?”

“...”

“Ithaerin, who the bloody-”

“It’s-”

Up goes Hantheron on the lift, floating away to the upper level, which draws a cry from below.

But Ithanar is on it, moving through the fray of demons and Islesuns as best he can, to the edge of the platform or lack thereof. His gaze shifts left and then right, and then right and left.

Where? Where is a-

A console.

There!

He surveys his surroundings. Ildrielen continues to provide cover for Vynthius, who did not meet his death by falling to the fel iron floor below and instead reformed using his Illidari powers, or what he assumes to be. He’s injured, Fel flame having assaulted his skin, but he’s awake and conscious.

Meanwhile Ithaerin deals with a pair of felstalkers intent on ripping his head off, but he seems capable enough.

Always has, always will be.

“Ithanar! Where are you-”

He hears Ildrielen’s yells, watching her taking aim and firing at an incoming Felstalker. Her arrow strikes true, killing the demon, as she cranes her gaze to him.

“Take care of Vynthius! I will take care of-” The oldest Islesun sibling replies, slamming the console with a hand once, and then twice, and then a third time before something hums and there’s a grinding sound. He peers up, watching as the same platform Hantheron occupied returns and quickly.

“Ithanar! Vynthius is-!” Ithaerin protests, still dealing with a pair of felstalkers while keeping an eye on his back, more importantly Ildrielen and the downed Illidari.

“Watch him then! I’ll be back! Someone needs to get Hantheron!” He barks back at them, letting out a sigh as the platform hisses as it fits into place.

Ithanar steps aboard and then watches as the thing rises. His siblings continue to take care of the carnage below, enough so that he trusts them to join him, but there’s just no time.

So many choices run through the old elf’s mind, a hundred directions, a dozen ways this could all go, but in all of them one truth remains constant. 

They need to get Hantheron now.

He knows it.

Ildrielen knows it.

Ithaerin knows it.

As the lift goes higher, and higher, Ithanar catches a glimpse of Inthius, who just watches from his nearly prone position. The look on his face is one of contemplative fury, an ironic thing if there ever was one. 

The… whatever his brother has become, Illidari, monster, demon, whatever he is… well, Vynthius just merely nods.

He knows it too, knows that Hantheron needs to taken down. 

That’s enough for Ithanar.

That’s worth it, even if it’s the last time he ever sees Inthius.

Or Ithaerin.

Or Ildrielen.

“You’re... you’re an idiot.” 

“We’ve both been awful to each other, haven’t we? After all these years?”

“We have.”

“I’m... I’m sorry, Ildrielen.”

“I’m... I’m sorry, Ithanar. I’m sorry we couldn’t figure this all out earlier.”

“Well, we still have time, don’t we? To some damn degree...”

“We’ll figure this out someday, won’t we?”

“One day. One damn day.” 

Here you are.

At a precipice once again.

Couldn’t just wait until I was asleep again?

No, no, I wanted to… to… hrm, what are the words again?

Go on a whole rambling explanation about power yet again, and how I’ve failed to grasp at it?

How did you knooooow?

I keep hearing it over and over.

So will you do it?

No.

But you are going to kill him?

Yes.

You won’t be able to do it.

Then you don’t know me very well.

You do know well how well I know you.

I don’t have time for this.

This lift is moving rather slowly… you may not have time for me…

But here I am anyway.

Lurking in the front, the back, the side, the around of your skull.

You.

Won’t.

Kill.

Him.

You.

Can’t.

I’ll try then.

Then you will fail.

You think I’m afraid of that?

You should be.

I’m not.

You.

Could’ve.

Avoided.

This.

You.

Still.

Can.

No.

ALL YOU NEED-

I do not need power.

You just will not listen, will you?

Stubborn until the very end.

“Inthius!” 

“Do not call me that!’

“Fine then, IDIOT.”

“Not now, you two. We need to catch up with Ithanar.”

“Hantheron is not to be toyed with.”

“I thought you called him an ‘old fool’...”

“Some old fools still have tricks at their disposal, don’t they... Ildrielen?”

“I am going to let that one go. I am so going to let that one-”

“Enough. I cannot believe I am telling my- ah, there we are!” 

“Let’s go.”

“We do have a lift to catch, don’t we?” 

“My lord, my lord… please…”

“Highwing. You bother me now?”

“A-a-a situation… has…”

“You would bother me with yet another failure?”

“My lord… I did not… I d-d-d-d did not foresee-”

“The last time we spoke you delivered failures unto me. I gave you ONE LAST CHANCE, worm.”

“I DID NOT THINK THIS WOULD HAPPEN. I D-D-D-D-” “SILENCE.”

“My lord… Vel’domis… please… p-p-p-please…”

“I ask again… did I say you could say that name?”

A sigh.

The hunger is somber.

“My lord… I need… I need your help with these intruders…”

“Intruders.”

“They would threaten your work… OUR WORK!”

The hunger finds humor in this.

“OUR work? You would supplement my work, fool. Nothing more than just an additional piece of the puzzle for which I have no need any further given your utter uselessness.”

“E-e-excuse me?”

“Our contract is finished.”

“No… please… no Vel’domis… don’t YOU DARE! YOU PROMISED-”

“I promised a reward for successes, not for… failures.”

“I HAVE SERVED YOU WELL! I… I…”

“YOU WOULD GROVEL AT MY FEET AND ASK FOR REWARDS?”

The sobs, the begging… they mean nothing to Vel’domis.

“We are finished, Highwing. Die… well, if you even have the fortitude to do so.”

“My lord… my looooooooord… please… PLEASE! PLEASE!”

The hunger is gone.

The elf reaches down with a hand for the magister’s long mane of silver hair, fingers grabbing and then wrenching to try and pull him up to his feet, to get a better look at his face. Hantheron lets out a cry of pain, howling, eyes wrenched shut and holding back tears, or at least attempting to as he struggles to his knees.

“I-I-I-I-Ithanar… p-p-p-puh-please!” The magister finally gets out a stutter, barely able to talk through the flow of blood.

“Shut up… just shut the fuck up...” Ithanar growls in return, wrenching that gauntlet in Hantheron’s hair even more tightly, enough that he draws another cry of pain and then sobbing. “You’re pathetic, you know that? Fucking pathetic, Hantheron.”

“KILL ME THEN! FOR I AM ALREADY DEAD” Hantheron screams, blood trickling from between his lips, gaze lifted and glaring daggers at the armored elf. “My… my… fate was SEALED! MUCH LIKE YOUR BROTHER-”

What is he talking about?

No, wait…

Ithanar doesn’t care, doesn’t give a damn.

“Inthius owed you NOTHING!” The oldest Islesun roars, wrenching the magister by the hair still and then tossing him to the floor. “I OWE YOU NO PROMISES! HE ESCAPED FROM YOU!”

The magister laughs and sobs, an unusual mix as he continues to wallow in his misery, knees and hands resting on the floor. His face is a damn bloody mess, nose still askew, mouth agape, and breathing shallow.

“I… you should’ve have tried to find him… you left him on his own…” Hantheron murmurs through blood and spit, gaze lifting. Laughter has begun to replace the sobs in full albeit uncontrollably, almost unhinged in a way. “You left him to suffer, worse than any fate I would’ve given HIM!”

As soon as he says the word, the magister flicks his hand and lets of a roaring fireball in Ithanar’s direction but the warrior sidesteps it and charges, drawing his blade. Hantheron scrambles up to his feet, hands slinging and swinging wildly as he unleashes more fire upon his foe.

Something screams in the back of Ithanar’s skull, familiar senses and instructions but he bashes them away for he does not have the tools at his disposal. No, instead, he ducks and then dodges as best he can, narrowly evading the spells and closing the gap before swinging his blade down upon the magister’s head.

Hantheron however has other plans in mind, raising a hand and conjuring a shield of fel green to parry the strike away. It’s a successful attempt, but it doesn't deter Ithanar who immediately raises his shield and bashes the mage in his already vulnerable ribs, connecting and sending him skidding then rolling across the fel iron floor.

“I’m going to kill you, Hantheron, I’m going to fucking-” He growls dangerously, angrily, as he continues stomping forward.

“IF I’M GOING TO TO DIE, THEN I WILL TAKE YOU ALL WITH ME!” The magister roars in response, dragging himself to his feet and moving his hands wildly, rapidly, fingers dangling as though attempting to conjure something yet again. “YOU HAD THE CHANCE YEARS AGO, ITHANAR!”

He isn’t wrong, no, not at all…

But Ithanar plans to make up for it here and now, damn it.

The magister finishes his conjurations, hands still swirling and moving, as he twists another raging fire into existence… but it’s fel green, dangerous and dark, a twisting cloud of brimstone that he launches at Ithanar with great force. As the thing moves, the matter unravels to create a twisting cloud that threatens to engulf the area the armored elf occupies.

But what part of the area? Above? Below? All of the spaces in between?

Ithanar tries to calculate, but finds that he doesn’t have the time and decides to make that split decision, twisting under the twisting felfire and brimstone. He sees Hantheron’s expression from the periphery of his gaze, a twisted and bloody smile that widens as his spell takes effect and then explodes.

Above then. If he had been standing during that…

No, now isn’t the time.

That bloody smile on Hantheron’s lips changes to something of fear and then he shouts incomprehensibly.

Whatever words he has do not matter to Ithanar. No, only actions do in this moment.

The off-white haired elf reaches the mage and is able to deliver a swift kick, boot connecting with Hantheron’s gut and then sending him backward but not before Ithanar brings his blade up and around, aimed at his foe’s right arm and connecting to bloody effect.   

Hantheron collides with the wall behind, but he’s already unleashing a bloodcurdling scream of pain and terror, his remaining hand shaking to try and reach the bloody stump that was once his right arm. He screams and screams, huddled against the wall, teeth gritted… but that doesn’t stop Ithanar who continues to charge.

No, what stops Ithanar instead is another sound… laughter, chilling to the bone, the smokiness of brimstone…

It’s Hantheron.

<“I… I won’t die… no, no, not like this… NO, I WILL LIVE… I WILL…”>

His form shifts and shakes, rumbling forth as he begins to escape the bond of his robes. Bulk and brawn are drawn forth under the skin, and his features begin to take on something brutish, large, hulking…

None of it is good, no, no, not for Ithanar.

The oldest Islesun backs away with a growl, grip tightening on blade and then shield as he watches Hantheron become something monstrous, horns growing from his head, skin wrecked and ravaged by cracks of Fel energy… a monster, power only the Legion could ever give.

He’s seen it before in some of the Illidari, but this…

<“You should’ve killed me… when you had the chance, Ithanar…”> This new version of Hantheron growls, peering at a regrown arm, twisted and demonic, nails sharp like claws.

<“You had the chance, but no, no, I know you wanted… you wanted me to suffer.”>

Again, the magister-turned-traitor isn’t wrong.

Ithanar still wants to make him suffer, but in this moment such a task doesn’t seem entirely feasible.

<“I will make YOU suffer… I will make your FAMILY suffer… I will make ALL OF YOU SUFFER!”> The demon roars, gaze now upon the elf.

Hantheron lunges forward and grabs Ithanar, who fails at rolling out of the way. He feels himself picked up and then thrown into the air, tumbling and crashing toward a nearby wall. There’s a thud as armor meets fel iron, and then he collapses but isn’t out of it, no, not just yet.

But soon.

In this moment, Ithanar realizes his mistake. He had all the time in the world to put Hantheron in the ground.

Now he has none of it.

Perhaps his other self was right.

THEN YOU WILL FAIL.

So be it.

“Can this go faster?”

“I’m afraid it’s set at a-”

“Fuck your certain speed!”

“Ildrielen…”

“We’re here. Let us make some haste.”

“We need to-”

“Where is it? Where is-”

“Oh.”

“What the fuck? Is that-!”

“Hantheron.”

“What happened to him?”

“His master must’ve given him one last gasp of energy, one last thing to fight with.”

“We will need to take this-”

“No time, Ithaerin. We need to do this fast. Get Ithan-”

“No more talking. I’m going.”

“Inth- wait, no!”

“INTHIUS!”

“After him, Ildrielen! Move!”

“We need to get him! We need to-”

“SHIT, HE SEES US!”

“ILDRIELEN! MOVE!”

“ITHAERIN!”

Ithanar sees it all in slow motion, the world coming to a near stop before his eyes.

He can barely move to stop it, but it’s close enough, a great sphere of fel fire streaks toward him, toward Vynthius, towards Ithaerin and Ildrielen. They’ve arrived at both the right and wrong time.

A great and terrible thing, the green of fel fire glowing with each passing millisecond, moves toward Vynthius, Ithaerin, and Ildrielen. Summoning as much energy as he can muster, the old elf moves as fast as he can in plate, sprinting toward them and then staggering as he is able to gain some sort of better vantage point.

He feels his bruises, his cracks, his joints, his aches, feels all of it and then feels none of it. The battle with the mutated and fel-infused Hantheron has left him battered and nearly broken, but now in this moment it feels like nothing.

Because he knows what it’s like to break, both as the recipient and the one doing the breaking.

He still sees it all in slow motion, a moment in time standing as still as he has to, as strong as he does, spreading his feet shoulder-width apart and raises a hand.

He hears a shout behind him, a voice that can only belong to Ildrielen. She already knows what he plans to do, already understands what he’s going to attempt… and how it is probably going to kill him.

Probably being the operative word. He’s willing to take a chance for family, yes, even her. Forget their rivalry, forget their hatred, forget… all of it.

In this moment, he forgets. He casts himself into a void he only knows so well.

But it isn’t just him who’s here.

No, he feels a voice from beyond, the feeling of scorched grass and twigs on his toes, a crackling fire. 

You really are stubborn, you know that?

The other Ithanar.

He’s here.

It’s here.

Not now.

You could take all of this, couldn’t you? All of this energy? This…

Power. I’m sure I could.

The void is a hell of a place to have a conversation like this.

Ithanar focuses as best he can, trying to keep out distractions, trying to keep it all out… but the Nightmare wriggles and worms its way into his mind, whispering as it always does.

You can have it all.

I’m well aware. How many more times will you tell me this?

I will continue to do so until you see my point.

Which is?

You have nothing.

That is true.

Yet you grasp at nothing.

That isn’t true.

Then what do you have?

Ildrielen.

She hates you.

Ithaerin.

He has no care for you.

Inthius.

They ALL despise you.

So be it.

SO BE IT?

I am going to give my family one last thing to cling to. I don’t care if they hate me or love me.

My mistakes have been my own.

THEN CORRECT THE COURSE.

THIS PATHETIC ELF FASHIONS HIMSELF A MONSTROSITY…

… WHEN HE IS NOTHING MORE THAN A MESS.

TAKE.

IT.

TAKE.

IT.

ALL.

No.

WHY NOT?

Because I don’t need it.

YOU LIE.

You want to believe that, don’t you? But if you know me so damn well then why don’t you tell me how we both truly feel?

YOU.

ARE.

PATHETIC.

A PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A WARRIOR.

A PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A SPELLBREAKER.

A PATHETIC EXCUSE AS YOU ARE NOW.

And I told you…

I accept who I am now.

Besides… I am no spellbreaker.

Ithanar isn’t wrong. He isn’t a spellbreaker, no, not anymore.

He hasn’t been one for a long time.

He may be able to speak of the methods, of the ways in which one does what they need to put the fear of death into a mage but…

He does not carry the powers of a spellbreaker. He doesn’t need to. 

However, he is something else, isn’t he?

He’s a warrior, a fighter, a protector of something greater than himself.

Ithanar realizes that he’s forgotten that to some degree.

For a moment, even with his eyes closed, he swears he can see Inthius’s bright shining face, remembers the last words he had told his younger brother before he had left…

You break.

We all break.

But Inthius is here, isn’t he? He’s back in their arms yet again.

There is no more breaking to be done.  

Only protecting.

“ITHANAR! WHAT THE FUCK-”

Ildrielen isn’t able to finish her shouting, watching her twin brother step in front of that gout of green fel-fire and reach out with a hand. She attempts to step out of the way and barely makes it, diving down across the fel-iron platform and coming up to a knee, gaze wheeling around to see what fate has befallen Ithanar.

He lowers his hand and reaches for his shield to bring it up, shouting something hard to hear amongst the din of fire and rage. The rune on the front of the shield glows crimson, and then unleashes a concussive blast just as the gout of flame reaches the old elf. It’s a mix of Fel and Arcane, each clashing against one another before combining into the only possible form of energy Ildrielen truly knows.

An explosion.

She’s thrown off her feet and farther down the ramp, eventually coming to rest on her belly. Quiet settles in the next few moments and Ildrielen is back on her feet shortly after that, reaching for her bow from the ground and sprinting as fast as she can in her leathers, tenacious as always.

“Where the-?” The Farstrider begins to ask, waving aside the aftermath of dark smoke and fel embers to try and get a better picture.

Her answer lies before her in the form of Ithanar’s body slumped against the wall, seemingly lifeless, limbs askew and shield nowhere near his person.

“No, no, no, no-” She begins to stammer, hurrying as best she can, leaping over displaced rubble to get to her brother. Her gaze turns and twists, disoriented and sick, but she swears she can see Inthius and Ithaerin from her the corner of periphery.

But they don’t matter at the moment. No, Ithanar does… for the first time in a long time.

She crouches as soon as she can, coming to rest beside him and dropping her bow to place her hands around his face, trying to see. He seems limp in her grasp, lifeless, eyes closed, obviously having impacted the wall given how he lays there.

“Ithanar! Ithanar! Don’t you fucking dare, I swear!” Ildrielen nearly screams in his face. “Please… ITHANAAAAR!”

He doesn’t respond, at least in the moment, but something else does… an insidious growl of a laugh that shifts from across the room.

The Farstrider’s gaze twists and turns, and she can feel color drain from her face as she watches Hantheron rise from rubble caused by the impact of his large demonic form across the room, which he seems to have brushed off for the most part. 

His chest appears caved in and there’s an arm missing, but other than that… 

The magister-turned-traitor seems terrifyingly ready for another confrontation.

<“Shame, isn’t it?”> The half-elf, half-demon states with a wide smirk. <“He gave so much… for so little. Seems a rather solid summary of his life, doesn’t it?”>

Ildrielen reaches for her bow almost immediately and nocks an arrow as quickly as she can, drawing and firing, tears streaming down her eyes. Her aim is off, for the first time she can remember, so her shot moves high and wide right. She’s reaching again for an arrow, but Hantheron begins his slow but lumbering march toward her.

It’s obvious he’s injured more than he lets on, but she doesn’t have a lot of time. Where the fel are Inthius and Ithaerin? Where-

<“I guess you’ll meet the same fate as he did, my dear Ildrielen...”> Hantheron gloats as he rumbles toward her, picking up speed. <“So much for so-”>

He doesn’t finish whatever taunt he has in mind.

The lumbering monstrosity doesn’t even make it across the room as something inky black and dark wraps around its neck, and then its remaining arm, and then its legs, tying him down to the floor. He goes completely immobile, eyes wide in shock as something begins to materialize on that broad shoulder, the form of an elf…  

Vynthius. 

He may have no eyes to see behind that blindfold, but the fury is palpable through the red cloth, an appropriate color.

“What was that you were saying… Magister?” The young Illidari sneers and taunts now, having stopped the mutated elf in his tracks.

Whatever Hantheron tries to say… doesn’t come out. 

No, he’s caught at a loss for words given the tightening band of ink around his neck.

“So much…” Vynthius repeats, raising a hand and making a fist, ink forming around it. “... for so little.”

The ink moves and shifts, forming a some sort of blade or spike, and then the Illidari punches it through the side of Hantheron’s head, right through his brain, clean as can be.

There’s no roar, no yell, no screeching, no, none of that.

Just a gasp.

Hantheron Highwing dies as he never wanted.

(The hunger doesn’t mourn its losses. No, it moves onto bigger things.)

“I… Inth!”

“I’m coming… I’m here… move now.”

“He’s not dead, he can’t-”

“He isn’t. His pulse is week. Perhaps cracked ribs, a broken arm… but…”

“But what?”

“His body is out of alignment. There’s a deadly concentration of arcane energies…”

“Hantheron’s doing?”

“No, no, it’s-”

“An old wound. From long ago.”

“What?”

“When he tried to save Tandrae and Iltheria. He failed… burnt himself out…”

“And took on a large amount of arcane energy in the process. He’s been internalizing it for-”

“Ithaerin, why the fuck didn’t you say anything? Why DIDN’T YOU-”

“It wasn’t my place, Ildre.”

“FUCK YOU.”

“Enough. The both of you.”

“This may be-”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Inth?”

“I can save him.”

“No… I have to save him.”

“Even after everything?”

“Even after everything, after all the things I’ve seen… if he hadn’t cared, if you all didn’t care…”

“We wouldn’t be here.”

“There’s some humanity-”

“It’s a balancing act, Ildrielen.” 

“Ith, call Hylaen. Let him know we’re on our way. Inth… can-”