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Sound: an Illidan/Kael'thas Story	By : flagfish Category: +S through Z > World of Warcraft Views: 3237 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Warcraft nor any of the characters, nor do I make any money or profit from writing this story.

Chapter List
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You might forget a guy who’d endured his eyes being burned had been human, in the sense that human implied a creature of emotion and reason, who felt pain and had erred and had cried. You might forget, or you might say no creature was human when he was half-demon, given the sort of powers Illidan had; and you would be right, except that Illidan still was a creature of reason and pain, and driven to the end of his days by unrequited love.

Now after his defeat at Arthas’ hand, some might say reason was next to go, but the same would be said about Kael’thas, when one day he would submit to the Legion at last. He really had been too trusting. He really had been too naïve, too easily seduced, but, really, he wanted nothing more than to save his people.

They would be called the Illidari. Somewhere inside, it did Kael’thas good to lay his trust in Illidan.

There was beneath all a childlike innocence to him that was almost uncomfortable, like he should have known better. He shouldn’t have been so obedient, to trust the likes of Garithos and the Alliance; perhaps he consented to Illidan too readily, as well, when he’d offered help. He’d have been imprisoned in Dalaran to this day if not for help on part of Lady Vashj, he’d been so desperate for rescue.

He really was good with his hands. For all that was said of the Sin’Dorei’s transgression owing to magic, here was an art at which they’d become quite adept. Illidan would almost anticipate his handiwork, there would be no words exchanged, each would regard it a task of necessity, and not a desire for friendship they could do without.

Times Illidan would find Kael’thas quietly reading alone, colored flames dancing green and gold in his hand, something of which he was almost ashamed. His lips moved with soft incantation, words inaudible, visibly guilty against an irresistible urge that couldn’t be stopped. It was heart-wrenching somehow, there was nothing to be done for the blood elves’ addiction, but Illidan had kept his promise to provide them with magical energies.

Kael’thas played music too, all manner of aristocratic habits that wouldn’t wear off, something ridiculous for a race of refugees. Illidan would hear him late into the night, quietly singing in Thalassian, once he had followed down a stairwell to find him dancing with the ghost of fragmented memories in his mind. Eyes serenely closed, hands delicately resting midair, feet moving with immaculate rhythm. Voice gentle and low, the Song of Elune.

It had Illidan shiver. Something ancient trembled inside him, lost and buried with time. The gold shimmer of the prince’s hair, the vivid red of his robes, radiant even in the dark room, graceful and meticulous; there was an old music box now rusted and decaying at the gears, which Tyrande had given Illidan long ago…

He could imagine her dancing, barefoot in the ivy and twisted roots of trees, flowers and leaves in her hair.

The ominous fel glow of lights in the Temple, demonic through and through even without the pit lord to govern it; despite all this, Kael’thas’ footsteps left thermal impressions of silver and gold on the tiles, ridiculous pride that tormented him and of which he could not rid himself.

I did not know, Illidan thought, that anyone here still praised Elune.

Illidan felt himself a cumbersome presence when faced with the elegance of such things, the betrayer, shunned by the Moon Goddess, herself. Only Kael’thas had looked after his wounds, and Illidan didn’t like having his wounds inspected and the dressing picked apart, but he didn’t really remember what it was to be looked after.

There were things he remembered, terrible things, humiliations he’d suffered under Maiev’s watch, Kael hadn’t said a word when he unraveled the bandages and saw the old scars; to be bound, helpless, for so many thousands of years, did Malfurion know what he had been made to endure?

There were rooms in the Temple which Illidan seldom visited, containing wide arrays of musical instruments from cultures he’d never known; Kael’s clever hands had found their way to them with proficient skill. It’s like a harp, you see, he said with a subtle note of melancholy, as though ashamed of how he longed to play it, juvenile in attempting to preserve the past.

It made Illidan angry, he felt graceless and grotesque, but very long ago, he had in him latent druid power, as well.

“What use would a pit lord have for such things,” he muttered with irritation, “other than as prizes and trophies of war—”

Kael’thas looked up from the harp, fingers gliding already midair over the untouched strings, he worked at tuning them with something like nurturing fondness. “Come here, give me your hand,” he quietly said, he took Illidan’s fingers in his.

It was an insolent gesture, and vastly annoying, but he was aware of this, as well. Illidan’s fingers were long and clawed, still elven somehow beneath the part-demon he had become. No words were exchanged as Kael’thas directed his hand to the strings, his fingers curled outside Illidan’s, careful and steady.

Illidan felt infinitely daft, but the first notes of music had stopped him; there was forlorn, delicate melancholy, it became evident the room was built with proper acoustics for instruments like these. What would a pit lord…

“Stop this,” his voice came sober and quiet, he looked away in defeat, “the days of celebration and song are far behind us.” However, it had been such a sad song.

The notes slowly diminished to a halt, the reverberating echo haunting through the expanse of the room. “Sorry,” Kael’thas said, it had been childish to dream of such things. He felt Illidan’s hand slip out from his, as though he were afraid to taint a thing of material beauty like that.

Late some nights, Illidan still would see Kael'thas dance.

Like a dark matter of guilt, Illidan would look upon what had been left of Tyrande's music box, the gears rusted and broken, far beyond the point of repair. Trying to restore it with magic would be too obscene, an unnatural treatment for something so fragile; the ruined contraption appeared too delicate in his large hand.

When Kael'thas had come to clean Illidan's wounds in the morning, he found him asleep at his study, a rusted bundle of scraps in his grasp.

Illidan held onto it possessively, the parts twisted and tarnished with time, a hideous collection of miniature gears; he gripped them so tightly there were imprints of the metal in the flesh of his palm. It occurred to Kael'thas that, for some, the days of celebration and song never came to begin with.

There was no time now for things such as these. Preparations had to be made, soon Kil’Jaeden would seek out the Lord of Outland; Kael’thas leaned forth very gently and kissed Illidan’s forehead, just where the blindfold gave way.
(On to Chapter 3)
A/N: I would love to find someone interested in roleplaying Warcraft lore, especially Illidan/Kael'thas, Wrathion/Anduin, or Varian/Arthas (if this is still on here then I'm still looking, haha!) I've had a very difficult time finding anyone interested in this, as WoW fangirls usually like RPing their OCs (which I'm not interested in doing). I don't mind at all if you don't know much lore, if English isn't your first language, if you're a little shy, or if you're new to Warcraft or to RPing; I just like writing with someone else who's passionate about the same stuff =) If you feel like giving it a go, then please reach me through the contact info on my profile. Thank you! ^^
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Sound: an Illidan/Kael'thas Story