no rest for the wicked (World of Warcraft shortfic, Thassarian/Koltira)
Title: no rest for the wicked
Author: Renata Lord (snowlight)
Pairing: Thassarian/Koltira (can be read as slash or gen)
Note: Written for my partner in crime, hex12.
no rest for the wicked
(Thassarian/Koltira)
Death knights do not sleep. Death knights do not dream.
Yet when Koltira regains his consciousness after another particularly brutal training session, he still thinks of it as "waking up." And so it is.
In that torturous sleep he saw his little brother. Faltora's face, bright and open, shined under the warm Quel'Thalas sun. Yet in the next instant darkness fell without warning, and all he could smell was the stench of rotting meat. He heard the sickening sound of that abomination's sickle cutting through his brother's body, crushing those all-too-brittle bones. It rang an endless echo in his mind, each cry heavier than the last.
Koltira now knew that he hated those bones. He hated how they broke before the cursed metal, how they crumbled like a winter twig in the wind. Weren't they the protector of their father's flesh? Weren't they the guardian of their mother's blood? Why, then, was he haunted by the sound of Faltora's body being cleaved in two, of his own heart being pierced by a cold runeblade
He wakes and sees the very same sword.
The sounds have stopped. His heart is no longer in pain. Thassarian regards him from a corner of the room, looking strangely pensive for a servant of the Lich King.
"You had a nightmare," says his executioner. "It happens."
Koltira nods and gets himself up from the floor. He looks down and sees the blue sigil glowing on his chest, crawling into the flesh and over the bones. He picks up his weapon again.
"Does it ever stop?"
Thassarian parries his first three blows with graceful ease, and the counterattack comes with punishing speed.
"Not for me, it hasn't."
*
End
Author: Renata Lord (snowlight)
Pairing: Thassarian/Koltira (can be read as slash or gen)
Note: Written for my partner in crime, hex12.
no rest for the wicked
(Thassarian/Koltira)
Death knights do not sleep. Death knights do not dream.
Yet when Koltira regains his consciousness after another particularly brutal training session, he still thinks of it as "waking up." And so it is.
In that torturous sleep he saw his little brother. Faltora's face, bright and open, shined under the warm Quel'Thalas sun. Yet in the next instant darkness fell without warning, and all he could smell was the stench of rotting meat. He heard the sickening sound of that abomination's sickle cutting through his brother's body, crushing those all-too-brittle bones. It rang an endless echo in his mind, each cry heavier than the last.
Koltira now knew that he hated those bones. He hated how they broke before the cursed metal, how they crumbled like a winter twig in the wind. Weren't they the protector of their father's flesh? Weren't they the guardian of their mother's blood? Why, then, was he haunted by the sound of Faltora's body being cleaved in two, of his own heart being pierced by a cold runeblade
He wakes and sees the very same sword.
The sounds have stopped. His heart is no longer in pain. Thassarian regards him from a corner of the room, looking strangely pensive for a servant of the Lich King.
"You had a nightmare," says his executioner. "It happens."
Koltira nods and gets himself up from the floor. He looks down and sees the blue sigil glowing on his chest, crawling into the flesh and over the bones. He picks up his weapon again.
"Does it ever stop?"
Thassarian parries his first three blows with graceful ease, and the counterattack comes with punishing speed.
"Not for me, it hasn't."
*
End