#rensom

@thedovahcat did a comparison of Lutherun from one of her earlier pieces of him and I figured I should do one too for his other half, Rensom. So here he is lmao. Pic on the left is from like... 2015 I think. 

the face he makes when he sees liam errtime

“meow”

It had been five years since Luther had been killed. one thousand, eight hundred and twenty five days since Rensom had last seen him breathe, and one thousand, eight hundred and twenty five days since he’d begun this terrible, horrific journey. They’d hunted him. They didn’t understand. He didn’t blame them for it, not in the least, but he would not stop.

He could not stop.

Perhaps, he mused as he locked himself into the crypt, he’d become the next conjoining force for the Horde and Alliance. A monster on both ends. But not to Luther. Never to Luther. He’d always treated Rensom as a human. The forsaken’s breath puffed hastily in the cold air as he began to set his things out on the table. The body, rigid but preserved by inhuman amounts of embalming fluid and unmentionable liquors, lay in state before him, and Rensom smiled shakily as he ran his knuckles tenderly over a pale, cold cheek. Luther had suffered from his constant running. Parts of him had rotted a bit, like his fingers and toes; blackened by exposure, but to the forsaken, he was as perfect as ever. "Soon, Luther. Just hold on a bit longer." He murmured. 

He’d come so far for this. Dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of experiments lay in the wake of this night. Innocent lives sacrificed for this, torn from their mortal shells, repositioned, torn apart again. To think, he had once made a living saving people from death. Now he wrought it upon them as easily as taking candy from a baby. But it didn’t bother him. None of it did. Their sacrifices were for the greater good. 

It was common knowledge that val’kyr could raise anyone from the dead. Anyone but worgen. And that was the unfortunate fact of it; Lutherun had died a worgen, immune to the scourged magic they produced. But there was one thing stronger than the magic of a val’kyr, and that was the blood of one. A catalyst.

And a sacrifice. 

His hands shook as he filled the syringe with the glowing blue fluid, injecting it into the cold, rigid skin of the man who had once cared for him more than anyone else in the world. He could feel the flesh livening under his fingers. Expanding, stretching, cracking. A choked sound like something between a sob and a laugh emitted from his throat. “There- there we go, there it is- it’s almost… almost done, almost-” Hurrying to the other side of the room (and carefully avoiding the ominously drawn rune that now spanned almost half of it), he grabbed what appeared to be a sobbing thing covered in a burlap sack. Setting it near the edge of the unholy symbol, he grabbed his knife and pulled off the cover.

An adult woman sat underneath; hair as red as Luther’s had been, and dark green eyes shimmering with tears in the low light. She looked at Rensom desperately, her sobs becoming wild, but she could not free herself of the bonds that kept her arms and legs tied. Gently, the forsaken soothed her. 

Peter Hollens- The Parting Glass