Sound: an Illidan x Kael'thas Story

Chapter 2

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.