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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!

II. Dream and Still Remember
Tshion reached for his mug again, not knowing how much time had passed, engrossed in his writing. His quiet companion was lost in a book beside him. Tshion looked up at the clock, and winced.
Time was running out.
The troll looked up. There was not fear, exactly, in his eyes, but a kind of resigned understanding. Tshion hated that look. There was something his companion wasn't telling him, something he'd seen, something he knew. Usually this didn't mean much, but on the eve of a battle like this...
Tshion opened his mouth to speak, but his companion shook his head, then smiled, and his eyes dropped back to the journal in front of him. Keep writing, he was saying, without speaking. Tshion shifted, and put his quill down. Before he could do more than that, his hand was seized and skillful fingers were massaging the tension from them.
There was something wrong. There was a desperation in that touch that had nothing to do with the dose of mageroyal in the tea. Those quiet eyes were speaking without speaking, saying he foresaw something and wasn't telling.
“Jel-” A finger was pressed to the paladins lips, and the troll shook his head, then returned to the massage.
Tshion picked up his mug with the other hand, surprised to find it still warm. He drained the rest of the tea just as the mage released his hand with a soft squeeze. By the time the paladin looked up, the troll was immersed in his book once more.
Sighing, Tshion patted the mage's knee in thanks, and picked up his quill once more.
~~
The eve of the initial assault on Icecrown Citadel was cold. Not that Northrend wasn't always cold, but the bitter wind that shook the enclosures was a prelude to the knowledge that it would soon be over, and the Lich King knew it.
All of us were silent that night, sharing drinks and general comraderie. That night, it didn't matter who we were – Horde, Alliance, none of it mattered. All of us knew the dawn would bring the end.
We all knew we should sleep, and none of us did, waiting in the hours before dawn with a last mug of liquid courage to keep us warm.
My comrade was fidgeting, something he usually never did. He was not a part of that first assault, but would be a part of another wave. We had not been separated for weeks, and it felt odd to not have him at my back.
The command came. The first wave rose as the grey of pre-dawn touched the sky.
I don't need to tell the tale of the failure. It is recorded in history books already. We were rebuffed, again and again.
Many were sent home – returned to their families, or to their faction leaders, silenced forever, but we left no one behind. None of us were willing to let the Lich King have another of us to turn against us.
The operation was aborted after five waves. Casualties were high; morale was low.
Many of us were told to go, collect ourselves, and then return when we felt … “ready” was the word used, but all of us knew that we had to go find the reasons and the resolve to take the monster down, once and for all.
For a long time, I didn't know if my troll mage had survived his wave. We were scattered, our hearts heavy, and for a few months, the only news was that someone had managed to find a side-door, and Jaina Proudmoore and Lady Sylvanas were leading the assault there. Many went in. Few returned. I was called to the task, of course, but all we discovered was that the Lich King was much stronger than we thought, and the only reason we survived was luck. Pure. Luck.
I went to Dalaran, and found myself lodging at the Ledgerdemain – one of the more prominent inns in the city.
There, the nightmares began. Always hunting something elusive, I chased wisps of smoke and light, trying to catch up to something that was always just out of my reach. The nightmares were silent, always, even if I tried to speak. I woke from these with the feeling that I had to DO something. I had to be somewhere, to find something, or Something Horrible would happen.
There was another dream, though, that was more puzzling. I never could figure much of it out, even to this day, penning this. It had something to do with my troll companion. What it was, I don't know. I still don't know. This dream stopped … well. I'll get to it.
I thought perhaps I would find something there that could help us. I spent time in the libraries, looking for anything that could possibly help us all find an edge. I was not the only one with this thought.
One of the nicer things about Dalaran was a similar atmosphere to the tournament grounds – Alliance and Horde could work together without caring who was who.
I found a human mage who had studied paladin lore, and pointed me in the direction of some very old tomes from Uther's time.
I remember fondly a dwarf paladin who helped me decipher the language it was in, and we both learned much over those days in one of the many libraries, where we were joined by others. Blood Knight, Silver Hand, Argent Dawn – it mattered not what discipline we were from, we studied together, learned from each other, sparred without venom, and honed ourselves carefully into stiletto-sharp blades of justice.
Ugh. That was too poetic even for me. I'm getting sentimental.
Anyway.
I spent my evening hours surrounded by ink and parchment, scrolling runes into complicated glyphs, trying to find something that might give us an edge in battle. One afternoon, I found myself out of ink, parchment, and my last quill point had snapped.
I had no idea how much time I had spent until then, poring over journals, herb-lore, my hands stained with ink and pure pigments.
I looked at the time, and winced. I was supposed to witness a new paladin joining the ranks of the elite.
I should probably explain.
While all of us, the paladins, had trained, we cast aside our own differences, and began attending the others' ceremonies. At first there was a little resentment, and it turned to welcome. We were all warriors of the Light after all, whether that Light came from the Sun or from wherever it is the Silver Hand discipline found it.
Silver, black, red and gold are colors I never thought would go so well together. The ceremonial armor I had was silver and gold, trimmed with red and black. Silver for the Silver Hand and Argent Dawn and Crusade, red, black and gold for my own Blood Knight order. All of us had done something to our plain ceremonial plate to honor the others – all of us. It was touching, and it actually sparked more of the same among other orders; the mages, priests, and shaman all were doing similar things, and it was heartwarming to see.
Back in that time, it seemed that a common foe may finally have dissolved the animosity the Horde and Alliance had against each other, at least at times. It may have only been that we all knew that if we killed each other, it was one more weapon handed over to the Lich King.
The ceremonies were only ever held once a week, never more, sometimes less. A tauren female was to be inducted into the Crusade that night, and it was warming to see that instead of just the traditional dwarven, human, draenei and sin'dorei paladins, others were going against their own traditions to become wielders of the Light.
Her oath was strong and clear, and all of us could feel the tangible pride from the others, and though many lingered after, I had things to do. Spending more than an hour or two in that armor was chafing, besides. I longed to be rid of it.
On my way back to my lodging above the Ledgerdemain Inn, I paused to pick up the supplies I needed in the scribe's library across from the inn.
Call me sentimental, but ever since I left the tournament grounds, I had begun using journals of a gently-faded sky blue. It reminded me of my silent companion, the one that haunted my dreams and left me shaking when I woke.
I had no idea what THAT particular dream meant either, at the time. Two dreams and a nightmare of Something Horrible. No wonder I slept so little.
If it wasn't Something Horrible waking me in a cold sweat, it was one of the others, waking me in a warm sweat and in a very embarrassing position.
Nevermind sentimental. It was perverse, that I fed this with those journals. The color was soothing, though, as though just by seeing that color, something in me was calmer.
It was about to come to closure, at last, though, and two of the dreams were going to stop, that night.
As I stepped out of the library and paused, thinking of getting a drink (and having my stomach protest that I wasn't thirsty, I was hungry), I heard a voice that I had only ever heard once before – a shout of “Behind you!”.
“Greetings!” it said.
I looked up from the journal I was admiring the silk binding of, and my heart stopped. The color of a softly-faded sky just before twilight takes it met my eyes. Cheerful eyes and a mop of ocean-blue hair. A grin that went beyond a greeting.
I never thought I would see that face again. Especially not so clean, well-groomed, and my knees felt weak, my heart was pounding and I could feel my face splitting into the first heart-felt smile I'd displayed in months, a smile that I could feel in my ears.
I managed to stop myself from blurting out “I thought I'd never see you again!” I'm not entirely certain how, though. Instead, I kept it simple as I pulled off one of the ceremonial plate gloves and offered him my hand, greeting him with a simple “Well-met, my friend.”
I saw his eyes dart to the journal still held against my chest with my other arm, even as he took my hand and asked me how my travels had been.
His voice was liquid gold, but his speech was so... odd. It was stunted. Not stuttering, but clipped and slow, as though he had trouble finding words in the right language. Perhaps it was just that, I remember thinking, since I think he was actually talking to me in Thalassian, and not in Orcish.
I babbled. I couldn't stop the flow of words as I told him that things were boring, that it seemed to be calming, as indeed, the attacks were at a standstill, but it was the calm before the storm. And that storm was building to a head rapidly. I blurted out that I was lonely without a traveling companion.
I covered it by inviting him to have a drink with me... only to have my traitorous stomach put in its two copper, and amended that to dinner.
I never expected the acceptance to come so fast or so exuberantly.
When I asked him if he was staying in Dalaran, he opened a small portal, the size of my hand, to show me his home – which I thought odd for two reasons. One, I'd never seen such a tiny portal before, and two, he wasn't afraid to show me his home.
I kept forgetting that mages never had to “stay” anywhere they didn't want or need to, able to portal, or teleport, themselves home with a word.
Either way, before I could settle comfortably to dinner, I had to change. We met back up in the Ledgerdemain's common room, where I found him waiting.
When I asked him if he had been waiting long, he said no, but once again it was clipped. He frowned and started pulling things from his small bag, and asked me to wait as he did something with a bit of what looked to me like alchemy, but what did I know from alchemy and magery? I'd spent a lot of time with mages in my life, considering Aurelian had been one, and all of them did some very Odd Things.
He drank the result of his alchemic or magery thing.
And then he spoke, explaining why he talked the way he did. His mind moved faster than his mouth could follow. The concoction was Essence of Agony, or, the primary ingredient to mind-numbing poison, and a steeping of Mageroyal.
Guilt flooded me; I never meant to make him uncomfortable. Then again, we had been fighting back to back for weeks with never a word, other than instruction or confirmation. We shared a mind then, and could anticipate each other like we were trained together to counter each other.
Perhaps it was he who did it all, and could see through me, and count three steps ahead of what I would do, and he conformed to my style the whole time.
He said he didn't like using the whatever-it-was because it slowed his mind, and made him slower in combat. I understood. No one wants to go into a combat zone less than the best they can possibly be.
Dinner passed quietly, other than a scuffle over the bill, which he took care of before I could move. That was the first of MANY encounters of this crazy mage's “tiny portals”, which haunt me to this day. He expressed wanting to see my room, since I'd mentioned that it was full of books, but we decided to go for a walk in the twilight air first.
And then... another life-changing moment took us both as we adjourned to the purple parlor for our dose of evening air. As we gazed out over the mountains of the Storm Peaks, he turned, and told me his name.
It was a break in whatever barriers we had with each other. I greeted Jelah Fira'tusk, and the longing in his eyes with my own name. Before we left, he had pulled me into another hug, even less expected than the one in Icecrown.
I didn't even pretend, this time. I hugged him back. I felt that warmth I had before, and reveled in it. My body, traitorous it was, started doing things of its own accord. I found myself nuzzling him as we talked. I told him I thought I would never see him again, and would never have known the name of the mage who saved my life. He assured me I would have lived either way.
I found my lips against the corner of his mouth before I could even so much as register the thought. It was just a brush, but I think that was the spark that doomed us both.
It was awkward, getting back to my room, where he explained the tea I had been drinking that I had thought was a relaxant was a mild aphrodisiac. It was more awkward, the things that happened afterward.
Both of us were tensed more than harp-strings about to snap under the strain.
I will never forget the awkward touches, the need, the want, the desperation we shared, nor will I ever forget the long talk after.
The dreams of the troll stopped. I surmise now it was because he was there. And we were never to be parted again, even now.
We traveled through Northrend once again, this time determined to fine-tune the way we fought together. When we set foot in Icecrown Citadel, we were ready, far more than we were before the Argent Crusade managed to breach the gates.
We had some near-misses. The Healers who were with us cursed us for being careless as they put us back together, but all-in-all, it was a success. One by one, the Lich King's minions, his generals, and his halls fell. Tirion was unable to save either Dranosh Saurfang or Bolvar Fordragon, but.. then again, we couldn't either.
When the Lich King fell, it was over. We left, and sounds of rejoicing echoed across Azeroth. Celebrations and memorials were scheduled and conducted, and for a time, we were at peace.
Peace does not last, ever, on Azeroth, however. It just doesn't.
The Cataclysm tried us next. Deathwing's return was not expected, nor was it an event that we could take lightly. It was... not an easy thing for any of us to deal with. We never let it get to us, and though our world turned upside down for quite a bit of it, we simply dealt with it as it progressed.
Well, until Hellscream made the mistake of saying things to Vol'jin, Sylvanas and Lor'themar that he probably should have kept behind his teeth.
Unwelcome in Orgrimmar? Members of the Horde? It was an outrage that instead of being welcomed, we were... tolerated. Jelah was over the moon about the Darkspear reclaiming the Echo Isles, but was less so when Hellscream all but threw Vol'jin and the rest of his people out – or banished them to the slums.
Orgrimmar had changed, drastically, after the Elements went berserk. I, for one, felt safer, more secure in the primitive city it was before. The clink of iron under my boots, the gleam of spikes on all of the buildings, even the simplest living quarters, turned my stomach. Oh sure, Orgrimmar was never Silvermoon City, but it was never cold, unfeeling, unwelcome.
For many of the Horde, I think the real Cataclysm was the sudden rupture of the bonds we shared. For some, losing Thrall and gaining Hellscream was more than they could handle. The cities turned quieter, as many simply vanished into the shadows, or returned home, ignoring the calls to arms, and blatantly refusing to lift a finger to help the new Warchief at all.
Some of us heeded the call, but we didn't do it for HIM. Some of his orders actually fell in line with, you know, saving Azeroth instead of slaughtering Night Elves or punishing our allies because they didn't suck up enough, or in one case, killing people because they didn't celebrate the slaughter of innocents – but I'm ahead of myself again.
Deathwing's rampage was a race against time, and took more than just a few adventurers and a few champions to stop.
It seemed as though Azeroth herself was the only thing that could stop him, and so Azeroth herself rose up in the Aspects and our World Shaman. It's a good thing that Thrall found his calling and heeded it. Sure, he may have left an ignoramus in his place, but he was the missing link in it all. From the short time we traveled with the orc, I know I felt kind of sorry for him. It seemed that some of the very Elements were afraid to allow him to come to be. Talk about Tempered Steel.
~~
Tshion looked up as he felt warmth by his hand. A fresh mug was beside him, and filled with – “Chocolate? Are you bribing me to work faster?”
The troll shook his head and smiled, pointing at Tshion's hands. Frowning, the paladin looked down. His nails were blue. “What the...?” He looked back up. “How long have I been...?”
The mage frowned for a moment, then shrugged, holding out his hands.
Tshion set down his quill again, then offered his right hand, while his left wrapped around the mug. “I'm sorry this is taking so long.”
The mage leaned down as he took the paladin's hand and began to massage it again, working circulation back to normal, and kissed the paladin's cheek. “Important.”
“But I've kept you waiting, and now I'm probably keeping you up.” Tshion frowned. “I'm sorry, Squishy... I honestly didn't think that-” he was silenced by another soft kiss. “All right, I'll stop fussing over it. I promise I'll be done soon.” He leveled a look at the mage that was filled with heat. “Whether or not I actually finish this.”
This startled a soft chuckle out of the troll as he worked his thumbs into the web of Tshion's hand, and the blood elf sighed in pleasure. At least until the mage found a knot, which drew a sharp intake of breath until it had been worked free.
“I wish I'd started this a long time ago. I wouldn't have spent all day on this. We should have been spending this day together.”
A snort. “We are.” A kiss was pressed to the paladin's palm, then the hand was released.
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Last Breath