#sever-heart

[Music]

Hot spots were forming where the seams chronically rested. The worst of them ran along the sides of his cheeks in angry purplish lines and inflamed the edges of his nose beneath the mask. Day after day his skin grew more irritated and sore. The grand solution for this quiet compensation was beginning to unravel, and despite every effort at denial Firiori knew it.

The crux of the issue was painfully simple. Ultimately the power source was just as impermanent as every other. Its effects on him were delicious in potency and versatility, but like the little blue moon that made Firiori ache, eventually it waned. It left him wandering about his chambers, memory in tatters, with magic that once flowed easily now barely grasped at times. A rattle in his chest came and went; the warmest of fires seemed not to touch his body when he shivered.

A labored inhale brought the spice of lotus, the iron of blood spells and the edge of refined ancient mana to his tongue; in truth he tasted it throughout his respiratory system, long used to the way it permeated the tissues. Familiar was the respite, the return of vitality. Each breath came more easily than the last. A long look in the mirror at his ember-hued eyes served only to show Firiori what he had given up. They were all that remained of the Sin Stone’s touch, of the devastating power he had wielded beautifully, and bitterly; the power that had cost him his master.

Firiori still wondered why he’d chosen then, after all this time, to again save someone he knew would fight him each step away from the veil. The first time had only cost a fraction, but mistakes had been made. He’d been younger - far more arrogant, but far more confident. The ire of his favorite weapon had meant little. This time, the price had destroyed him. In spite of the resentment he’d expected and indeed received, Firiori kept that detail to himself.

It was foggy when they took the former vessel to its final rest. Beside the hole they dug beneath a gnarled willow tree, a faded marker already lay. While a reunion in life had not been fated, Firiori found that viewing the century-old stone and the new together felt right. Before the burial was finished lilies were placed in scarred hands; an azure brow pressed to an ashen one as mulberry hair spilled into auburn. A part of Firiori insisted he should have been unsettled by the sight as he stood near, watching a man say goodbye to his mirror image, that lay as though asleep.

Upon returning to Karazhan neither blade nor wielder felt appetite. Fragments of their conversation returned to Firiori’s mind, details catching his attention; the unnatural chill beneath soft sorrow in now clear gray eyes, the unspoken disquiet in a voice now bereft of accent. Drawing his weapon into his arms, Firiori then felt the difference.

Here before him was the reason he’d given everything. Every detail was striking in sameness but reborn, recreated in entirety, painted in the muted palette of the void. The bargain he’d made had truly seemed fulfilled. What he’d done however, Firiori saw in the end, was put a dead man in an immortal prison. A prison there was no way to know the true capabilities of. Tears slipped across his temples each time he slept, when he slept at all. Before that man walked away from him again, likely for the last time, Firiori touched his arm.

“I just wanted to make things right. Give you back what I took.”

“Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone?”

“I...couldn’t let you go.”

“It was for the best.” “I had to do something. You know that.”

“This is worse. You don’t even know what you’ve done, Firiori.”

The warlock turned to her more fully. “I will be managing his oversight from now on. Make arrangements and prepare him for transport.”

A look of concern appeared on kal’dorei features. It took a moment for the woman to fortify her composure and she swallowed hard. “There’s due process to consider,” she began. “I’ll have to confirm it with my superiors, and there’s the matter of proving he is indeed yours to remove...” Her words died in her throat as he looked at her. His jacinth stare was unblinking. It made her skin crawl.

“Proof...that is something I can provide.” The words rasped, soft in murmur.  

Slender, black-nailed fingers slipped free of a claret sleeve to press against the emerald prison. Firiori’s eyes fluttered closed, air rushing raggedly into his lungs and out again as the igneous glow of a grace appeared in his palm. It grew brighter and brighter, until his touch seared the very surface. Stepping back, prints remained, smoking and flame-hued, the crystal itself groaning and shuddering. It split suddenly with several loud cracks. The soul within opened his eyes - they burned with the same sheen, wracked in agony.

“Do you now see? I am at the heart of him.” Firiori smiled, the expression rather childlike in its delight. It contrasted sharply with his pointed teeth, his unnatural gaze, the Abyssal profaning of his Sin’dorei beauty. He stepped back further, the shimmering stone before him crumbling. Raising his hands, narrow lips moved silently, casting levitation; the one freed fell unconscious upon release. Considering the circumstances of the imprisonment it would be hours before that would change.

Once integrity of the cell had deteriorated an alarm sounded throughout the Vault. The Warden that escorted him had bolted – their mismatch in strength and her abject fear winning out. They don’t make them like they used to, Firiori mused, rising to float and allowing the magic to carry both he and his charge to the entrance. Far down the hall, approaching voices could be heard; a standard quad of warriors waited for him outside. Again, he had cause to smile.

“You would keep me from what is mine?” He asked, head tilting slowly. “Are you sure you want this?”  Not one answered. Three rushed forward, glaives shining and crackling with enchantments as the fourth prepared to cast. She didn’t get the chance.

Black slithering tendrils lashed out from his body, taking hold of each opponent. Vivid purple aura pulsed through lithe curls, draining life, withering the guards to desiccated husks before retracting. With the wave of a hand that slammed the Vault doors shut, Firiori stepped gingerly over their remains. He then placed his quarry in a hovering pod that followed. For a moment, he stopped to caress the scarred ashen face, the auburn hair before him.

My beautiful weapon. The world will burn for what it has done to you.