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Last Breath	By : kalla Category: +S through Z > World of Warcraft Views: 5528 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: World of Warcraft, Azeroth and the concept of Blood Elves and Trolls within the universe are not mine. No money is made from this story.

Chapter List
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Full Disclaimer:

World of Warcraft is not mine, nor are the concepts of Trolls and Blood Elves within the World of Warcraft setting. The Setting of Azeroth is not mine.
Tshion, my Blood Elf Paladin, IS mine.

Jelah, the Troll Mage, belongs to my boyfriend and is used with permission.

Part of this story is/has been Role-Played in game and out.
The title is inspired by Evanescence, "My Last Breath".

The chapter titles are inspired by The Last Dance, "Once Beautiful".

I claim neither song to be my own.
This work is purely for archival/entertainment, and no money is being made from it.
Thank you for reading!

I. Felt Like Poison
“It's complicated.”
That's all I can ever really say.
I could say that I was betrothed. I could say I was promised. I could say that there was no ring, but the contracts were signed. I could say any number of things, and they would all be true.
I won't lie. I loved her. I loved her like any man loves the woman of his dreams. From the moment her house was under attack, the moment I pulled her into my arms and took the assassin's blades. From the moment I looked down and asked her if she was all right.
Right. I saw someone break in, and like a fool, I dove through the same window the assassin had just broken, rolled, and threw myself across a screaming girl before feeling the bite of steel in my back and shoulder, berating myself for being a fool all the while.
I did look down, though. I did ask if she was all right. She turned brilliant aquamarine-blue eyes to me and opened her mouth to thank me, but I never heard it. Her father stormed in, took care of the would-be assassin, and started shouting at me... I think.
Those blue eyes were depthless, and drew me into an abyss that only filled as I gazed. I presented her to her father, unscathed, before I collapsed.
When I woke, she was there, telling me the Healers put me back together, that her father was grateful, and that he agreed we should be married when I finished my training.
Married? Training?
I remember the confusion as I was suddenly training with elite warriors.

I remember not understanding when she came to me at night.

I remember falling hopelessly into those icy blue eyes, and forgetting the world.
We traveled together. We laughed together. We cried together. We fought together. I was her protector and guard from that moment, and was never far from her.
And then... THEY came. THEY came, and wiped out her family, her home, and though I thought I could save them all... I could only save HER. I held her back as she hurled magic unchecked at the.. things.. that tore her parents and sister apart. I pulled her away as they followed. I did things that night that I had no idea I was even capable of, destroying those things with pure force of will, even without my blade.
We fled to the inner city and were there when it all came crashing down. The pain was unfathomable. She clung to me, begged me to make it stop, and I could do nothing, staring into the sky to the north where flames rose high, where debris still fell.
It was all over, but the pain was horrific. I found an outlet for my rage, training as a Blood Knight. She fought to control her hunger, and finally, with encouragement, began to win. Our love for each other sustained us through the hardest nights, where the hunger was so intense that she begged shamelessly for me to take her somewhere other than “home”, somewhere she could find a being of magic and consume it whole. I soothed her out of these times, somehow.
One night, I woke alone; awakened by the absence of warmth beside me. She was gone.
“Aurelian?” I called to the still house, and there was no answer.
“Aurelian!” I shouted to the still city, and a few looked my way, pity in their eyes. They knew the anguish in my tone. One of them, a Farstrider, mutely pointed toward the gates, while another said the gold-haired, arcane-robed mage had left.
My heart sank, my face flushed. I knew she couldn't go far. I ran for the stables, and geared my charger, and it seemed even she understood the pain, for she bolted in the direction of the gates the moment I had balanced over her back in one stirrup.
I called her name through the woods, through the Ghostlands, and looked south, my heart aching as I approached the ruined gates, the Plaguelands stretching beyond them.
I asked anyone if they'd seen anyone matching her description. None could tell me where she had gone. It was as though she stepped through the Shepherd's Gate... and ceased to be.
For the second time in my life, my world crashed down around me. This time, though, it was ONLY my world. As I returned home, I remember the looks of empathy, sympathy, and even a few touches to my shoulders and arms, words of comfort, even from strangers.
It wasn't uncommon in those days. Many went mad. Some suicided. Others went Wretched. There was no shortage of us, returning from a hunt, looking as I did – broken. Defeated. Heart-sick.
I remember the soft words of only one passerby – a young priestess, with hair of red-gold. She paused just long enough to speak the blessing of the Light to me, her eyes full of pain. She told me that I couldn't wallow. I had to keep going. We all had to be strong or there would be none of us left. She turned and fled, but not before I saw the tears. She, too, had lost someone dear to her, then.
I remember so little about the next years that the only thing I can even say is that things changed. Our numbers, though few we were, were welcomed by Warchief Thrall into the Horde. The Blood Knights were treated to revelations. The Sunwell was restored. I had a hand in it all, but Sun be damned if I can remember any of it. I hardly even remember Outland – the remains of Draenor, if I recall – other than facing off against our Prince – who was so different that hardly any of us even knew him. I vaguely remember his master, Illidan, and seeing him fall at the top of Karabor, the Black Temple.
I do remember, however, the battle of the Plateau. I remember the Draenei Prophet breathing into each and every one of us new life, new hope, and stopping the constant pain, a pain that no others of my comrades in arms who were not Sin'dorei could never understand. Though they could all feel the warmth and welcome of the Well, they had never been stripped of it's warmth and constant pressure from the time of their birth. It was as though we were all born once again, the warmth and welcome, its power and constant hum in our veins was back. Different, yes, but it was THERE again, and for some of us, the revelation was deeper still – the Blood Knights, the Priest's orders, felt more of the Light's presence, and it gave us all the strength to heal others who were unused to it.
I vaguely remember the celebrations lasting long into the night.
It didn't matter.
None of it mattered to me. Aurelian never came back.
I was sure she would, now that the Sunwell was restored. I was sure she'd only been in hiding, waiting until it was safe to come home.
And then... shattering our fragile peace... THEY came again, in more numbers and stronger than when they destroyed the Sunwell – but they weren't after the Sunwell this time.
They wanted it all. It wasn't as though Azeroth herself was never in danger before – Hellfires, if Kael'thas and Illidan were successful, our very Sunwell would have served to allow the Burning Legion to pass unhindered from their wretched realm to our own, and nothing would be left... Azeroth would have ended up like Draenor.
This time, it was the Lich King. For me, it was personal. If it hadn't been for that bastard, Arthas Menethil, Aurelian would never have left, for the Sunwell would never have been destroyed, and her parents would never have died.
There was no question.
I volunteered at once to be sent to Northrend.
~~
Tshion Sunblade dropped his Hawkstrider quill back into its holder, and sighed, leaning back in his chair. He blinked as a hot mug of tea appeared next to his hand. The smile that spread across his face warmed him even as he picked up the mug, and looked up at the mage who put it there. “Thank you,” he called softly, across the room.
The grinning troll nodded as he opened another portal and a plate of cookies, and another cup of tea appeared beside Tshion. The mage crossed the room on foot, and settled himself in the chair beside the paladin.
Before now, he had not had the courage to write about his experiences, but considering the things that had begun happening, he had to think, and think hard, about the one question he had been asked over, and over, and over again here in Pandaria: “Why do you fight?”
Finally, he had his answer, and with that answer, came the courage to tell his own story. He knew he was not the only one this night, steadily dictating or writing their own memoirs, spending time with their loved ones.
Tshion picked up the mug and sipped it. “Taking no chances, Squishy?” He looked at the troll as he reached for a cookie.
To his credit, the mage made wide eyes and held up a three-fingered hand to his chest, saying nothing.
“I'll believe that the day you stop portaling things around.” Tshion took a bite of the cookie, ignoring the indignant snort that was the reply. He took a moment to finish the cookie before he spoke again. “It's all right. I know how you feel. It may be a long time before we get a chance to be alone again.”
The mage sighed and picked up his own mug. He watched Tshion over the rim of his mug. There was no fear in his eyes, and unlike the paladin, he was not concerned with writing his thoughts down. He knew the paladin would tell all that was needed. He smiled, warmly before reaching for a cookie.
Tshion looked up, returned the smile, set his mug down, dusted crumbs from his hands, picked up his quill, inked it, and resumed writing.
~~
I was assigned to Vengeance Landing in the Howling Fjord. It wasn't the worst place to be assigned, considering I'd heard a few stories that came across from Borean Tundra before I boarded the zeppelin in Tirisfal Glades.
“Boring Tundra” some had called it, though the name only worked if they had not attempted to go through the quarry that surrounded Warsong Hold. Apparently we lost more than we expected to that quarry. Some say the count was even higher than we lost to frostbite in Icecrown...
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
My only companion for the journey, other than the flight crew, was a troll mage, who seemed quite happy dressed in light clothing. I started to wonder if he really knew where he was going, considering I had an extra pair of socks on already, not to mention the two layers of extra padding under my armor, and the extra cloak within easy reach. The journey would only take hours, according to the goblins running the transport, but warned that the cold could come on much faster than we'd believe.
The troll shrugged. I tugged the cloak I was wearing a little closer.
It was very odd – this troll did not seem to speak much, if at all. It's the only reason I remember him so well, at that point in time anyway. I've never known a troll to be silent, especially around blood elves. Polite? Yes, he was polite, just... silent.
He did, however, dress more warmly as the temperature dropped over the ocean. This proved, to me at least, that he was not brain-dead, or just completely insane, as many trolls I know personally to be.
I could go into sordid detail about the tasks I was assigned while I was at Vengeance Landing, but there's really no point. “Kill so and so”, “Gather these things”, “Courier this message”, “Go rescue someone's butt” … they all blurred together after a while.
I was set loose to travel the frozen wastelands after a few weeks, however, and found myself honing my skills against more than just the Scourge I expected.
I'll be one of the first to admit it: Northrend, as cold and frozen wasteland it seemed to be, was beautiful. Mountains and valleys, rivers and fields, forests and caverns, there was always something new to see, or some new threat to deal with, or even just something else that took my breath away, filled with history of days long forgotten.
Nothing noteworthy really happened to me for much of the journey. Oh certainly I ventured into Naxxramas, and I distinctly remember hearing about the rather embarrassing altercation between Hellscream and Wrynn shortly before we delved into Ulduar.
No, nothing really noteworthy happened to me until the Argent Crusade began the construction of the Tournament Grounds.
Perhaps I was drawn there because I'm a paladin. Perhaps it looked like something less gloomy than slaughtering undead all day, every day, every night. Perhaps it was because it forced both the Horde and the Alliance to stop bickering and work together for a change.
Not long after I arrived and had cleared many of the jousting challenges, I saw him again – the silent troll. He recognized me and waved, but headed off before I could do more than wave back.
So, he was also taken in by the lure of the tournament, was he? Good. As I mentioned before, he didn't seem brain-dead or insane, and that was all to the good, to my mind. Most of those of us who worked with the Argent Crusade were insane, and we needed more who actually had brains.
Days passed, slower than I liked, but probably much faster than it seemed. Jousting gets boring after a while, and wanting to feel the sting of the wind in your face while NOT riding a mount you are unused to gets kind of to be a priority. Don't get me wrong. Kodos are cute, but my legs are not meant for them.
The monotony broke at last. I could stop jousting quite so much and go do OTHER things for the Crusade. Joy.
Of course, this fell back into the “Kill these things”, “Save someone's butt” and “Go gather this” categories again. Well, perhaps “Someone” should stop needing their butt saved, and actually grow a brain and stop diving into trouble!
I didn't mind the others. The Cult of the Damned and all things undead were never going to stop multiplying if we didn't slaughter them, even though when we died... No. I would rather not think about it too much in detail. It was hard enough wondering if I had cut down Aurelian in this frozen waste. I didn't want to know or think about whether or not I was putting down fallen comrades.
The Wrath Gate was hard enough to stomach, and that, to this day, gives me nightmares, especially considering the other things that followed that horror. May Dranosh Saurfang and Bolvar Fordragon rest in as much peace as they may after that debacle, and their comrades in arms with them.
The cultists were the worst. The more we all cut down, the more replaced them. Where did they FIND these lunatics anyway? It wasn't as though they were all human, either, or all undead, or … whatever. No, they came from a lovely large selection of every humanoid on Azeroth. Then again, I did always amuse myself by slaughtering the gnomes... Kicking them off the cliff into the ocean was always satisfying, and I wasn't offending anyone.
Well, other than perhaps the Lich King.
Besides killing cultists and their undead minions – or dragons, in one case – it was usually necessary, at least once a week to save a very stupid, but very brave paladin named Kul. The urge to punt that dwarf off a cliff was high, but even I had to admire his brass hangers sometimes. He never let anything keep him down, even as he threw himself at the cult. Often. Recklessly. Like an idiot.
It was actually Kul that made me find Mr. Silent again, cheerfully setting things on fire around the camp, and giggling (yes, trolls can apparently giggle) as they ran off the edge of the cliff into the freezing cold waters below.
There was a mutual glance – first at Kul, then at each other. We were tasked with the same thing. All right. That just meant the job would go more quickly. Slaughter cultists, rescue Kul, get power orbs from the magicking maniacs and of course get our people out of there.
As a team, we razed the camp, left no one behind, and professed ourselves quite satisfied when the camp was deserted. We turned to head back to the tournament grounds, but I had a very bad feeling about something. Before I could turn, my silent companion was casting something at someone or something behind us.
The only thing I remember thinking was “where the bloody hell did THAT come from?” I turned, drawing my blade once again, and re-balancing my shield on my arm. This thing wasn't going to go down easily, whatever, or whoever it was, and it was pissed. Moreso now that its head was on fire.
Another one appeared out of nowhere, effectively splitting us. Mr. Silent split to finish the first one, and I turned to face this new one. Ugly, rotting, skeletal – All I remember about it could be summed up in those three words. Well, other than it being a decent fighter. It could dodge faster than I could swing, and the hammer in its hands, on a stray swing that I barely got out of the way of, smashed an iron cage.
I wear plate stronger than iron, but my bones are NOT made of iron. That hammer, and the force behind it, would reduce me to a Titanium box of blood and mush. No, thank you.
Unfortunately for me, I was already tired. I was slower than I should have been. Sloppy. I let this thing corner me. By the time I was wondering when my shield would split in two, I had forgotten that a mage was out there, somewhere. I rolled as it swung the hammer down, landing where I had been seconds before.
Did I mention I was tired, sloppy, and by then, stupid? I tripped and fell face-first into blood-stained snow.
The next few moments happened in slow motion. I remember turning and seeing the hammer in the air, falling, slowly. I turned further, raising my shield, and doing the calculation that I would never get it up and in position in time. I closed my eyes and waited for Death to come.
It didn't. Instead I heard the crackle of freezing material. I cringed, still waiting, thinking to myself that it was a horrible way to die – not only was that thing going to crush me, but freeze me as well?
When several seconds passed, and I didn't feel the crushing pain, and my heart was still beating, loudly in my chest, and my breath still puffed out in tiny clouds as I shivered on the frozen ground, surrounded by bloody snow, I opened an eye and looked up.
There was a hammer inches from me, encased entirely in ice, as though someone had dumped a bucked of water on it and it had flash-frozen. No... the thing that was holding it was encased in ice, entirely. I shifted, slightly, rolling out from under it, just in case.
There was a clinking sound, and the entire being shattered, hammer and all. I winced away again, not knowing if I was next.
I found a hand extended to me, attached to a very silent troll, grinning at me cheerfully as though he had found me in a bar fight, and not here of all places. His other hand gripped a staff, which he had used to shatter my attacker.
I reached up and took the proffered hand and gathered myself to rise to my feet. Before I could do more than balance myself, I was hauled to my feet. This troll didn't LOOK Zandalari, nor did he look Zul'drak, or one of those hulking brute-types that were more bulk than brain. I overbalanced, and fell forward.
I have to pause here for a moment. This moment in time was one that would change everything – and I do mean, everything.
I fell forward against Mr. Silent. Instead of simply steadying me, I felt a pair of warm arms wrap around my back and hold me steady. I remember wondering if he was actually hugging me, or trying to keep me from going into shock. I remember that he was wearing only that robe and a light cloak, but he radiated warmth that sank through my armor, through the padding, and touched my skin.
For a single moment, I didn't feel awkward, I felt safe in a place where there was none to be had. I remember lifting my arms to hug him back. For that moment, the world fell away.
It took me a few moments to realize what was happening, and I looked up. Our eyes met. We broke apart, hastily.
The damage was done.
We returned to camp with our proof that our tasks had been completed. Mutually, we found baths, dinner, and space to sleep.
And this went on for several weeks. We never said much to each other, never even exchanged our names, but we fought, back to back, against whatever Icecrown could throw at us.
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Last Breath