Heart of the Phoenix

Perhaps it was the wind that made the bitter cold that much more unbearable. Kael's fingers clung to the hem of his massive Sin'dorei cloak, seeking some manner of protection against that terrible arctic wind as he trudged with singular purpose through the freshly fallen snow. The biting nature of that cold was not simple a consequence of walking on the roof of the world, either; perhaps those naive and untouched by such sensations would know no better, but Kael'thas Sunstrider knew all too well the meaning of this wind. This was no mere winter's chill, not in this icy, desolate wasteland. This was the chill of the grave, tempered by the decrepit scent of ancient, malevolent decay. It was the same ill wind that swept across his beloved Quel'Thalas, and it sunk into the Sin'dorei Prince's very bones. Even the hellfires of broken Draenor were preferable to this. Still, Kael soldiered on, despite the growing palsy of his hands proving increasingly unable to hold onto his cape. It was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment, however.

They'd all thought it was suicide, those few that remained. No one, not even the Master, could have survived such an onslaught. The fear and doubt in their eyes was apparent; they did not want to lose their Prince, not now, not when they had lost everything, and certainly not to a fool's mission. Kael, however, was steadfast: the survivors were to return to Quel'Thalas, and he would send word of his safe return to Draenor. They obeyed his command, returning to the Naga vessels, even as their hearts trembled with dread.

Only one remained with him: the woman who'd been at his side every step of the way, to whom he and all his people owed so much. She was not about to abandon him, either one of them, to this terrible wasteland. And Kael could think of no one else he'd rather have at his side in this, than the Lady Vashj.

"We will find him," she'd said simply, cunning serpentine eyes narrowed and filled with determination to rival his own. And so they walked, searching through the still-smoking battlefield for any sign, any faint trail or indication that Illidan Stormrage yet lived. They picked their way through through the wreckage, two small, insignificant figures against a backdrop of unspeakable horror: corpses both fresh and twice-formed, burned and rotting, molding bones, blood and viscera as far as the eye could see: Naga, Elf, Scourge. The stench was as unbearable as the cold; the air reeked of smoking flesh and decay. All around them, there was that disgusting taint, seeping out of the frozen earth like a festering wound. And always, ever present and oppressive as the shadows that hung above them shrouding the midnight sun, was that cold.

Kael paid none of it any heed. He was a soldier, after all. And nothing here, even in this frozen realm of nightmare, could compare to the horrors he witnessed within the ancient and storied walls of glorious Silvermoon. Fallen, broken Silvermoon, whose gleaming streets ran red with the blood of men, women, and children. They were the fortunate ones, those. How many of these rotting bags of flesh strewn about the snowbank like discarded rag dolls were once Sin'dorei, he wondered? Did they finally know peace?

He followed Vashj as she slithered past the northernmost of the obelisks that marked the theatre of their ultimate defeat, where the bulk of the Illidari forces had fallen. Towering into the sky, the runes carved into the stones still glowed with that eerie, pale blue light. Kael ran a hand along the cold stone of one, his jaw clenched in bitterness, frustration at his own failure. Illidan's hands had traced these runes, it was by his magic that they had been activated, the Gate to the Frozen Throne itself flung wide open. Illidan had accomplished it by his own power, and all they'd had to do was walk through it to destroy the Throne and Ner'zhul with it. But they had failed. They had failed to hold these obelisks, and it was that failure that, ultimately allowed Arthas to claim the very artifact they'd sought to destroy in the name of his accursed master.

It was that failure that led Kael's master, his lover and savior, to fall stricken in the snow.

For a moment--a long, agonizing moment--Kael contemplated it. He stared at the gate, still active, seductive in its siren's call. And Vashj stared at him curiously, her forked tongue flickering as if to ask what on earth he was about. With a final caress of the glowing stone, of the claw marks from Illidan's own hand, Kael clenched his fist and pounded it once in a futile gesture of grief and frustration, his jaw locked into silence. Even through the rage he felt, anger at his own failure and the renewed fires of burning hatred he felt for Arthas, reason prevailed within Kael. Nothing would be gained by going through that portal. Absolutely nothing. Only death lay at the foot of that throne, now that it was likely no longer empty.

No. Kael would not challenge Arthas, not now. Vengeance would be his another day. There was a far more important task at hand, more important to him even than cutting down the traitorous human cur that had taken everything from him that he held dear. For one thing that he cherished still remained--one person. That was something Kael believed steadfastly in the deepest recesses of his heart. And he had to find him. He would not let him die in this wretched place. He could not.

There, some yards away, one of the massive Warglaives of Azzinoth was strewn half-buried in the glacial drift. "Vashj!" Kael hissed urgently, and the Naga commander's reptilian eyes grew wide.

"He is near," she concurred with his unspoken thought. Without hesitation, the cold suddenly meaningless to him, Kael ran through the snow to the discarded weapon's resting place, his eyes alert and darting to and fro for any sign--

His blindfold. Tattered and caught upon a broken Naga myrmidon's spear, it fluttered in the breeze. Kael's heart soared as he snatched it up and turned. Surely, he must be--

There, still and silent as the dead that surrounded them, the unconscious, battered form of Illidan Stormrage lay in a pool of already congealing blood. His long, raven hair fanned out about him, loosed from the high Kaldorei tail he customarily wore it in.

"Illidan!" Kael screamed, oblivious to the way his stricken voice echoed and carried across the glacier. He cared not if Scourge remnants were alerted to their presence; in fact, he dared it. Racing to Illidan's side, Kael collapsed to his knees in the drift and immediately took the stricken half-demon into his arms, cradling his lifeless body, straining with all the keenness of his Elven ears for any sign of life within him.

A heartbeat. Torturously slow and faint, but it was there. And there--his breath visible in the cold. He was alive. By the Light and Shadow, Illidan was alive!

"Is he..." Vashj whispered in almost a reverent tone.

"Alive," Kael replied, and immediately his fingers went for the heavy gold clasp at his throat. He unfastened it and shrugged off the heavy cape he always wore, shifting in the snow so that Vashj could take it. Together, they carefully bundled up Illidan tightly, trying to bring some measure of warmth back to his limbs while taking great care not to further injure him. Kael cradled the massive demon hunter in his arms, holding him as tightly as he could to share his body warmth. "Illidan," he whispered urgently, pleading with more than a hint of desperation in his voice, "my love. Wake up. Please, wake up."

Losing him was not an option. It was that simple for Kael.

"We need to get him back to the Temple," Vashj said.

"Of course we do," he snapped a bit more sharply than he truly intended. "But we also need to make sure he's well enough to survive travel across such a great distance--not to mention finding a way back in the first place."

Vashj turned to stare at the obelisks, and gestured toward them. "They've already been attuned with his energy, and the ley lines here are still active and overflowing with power. Perhaps you could re-route the portal, as we did in the Violet Hold."

It was a reckless plan to be certain; such an outpouring of arcane power might well alert Arthas to their presence. Still, Kael could see no other alternative. They absolutely had to get back to the Black Temple as soon as possible if Illidan had any chance of survival, and this was the only shot they had.

With unbelievable gentleness, Kael brushed his fingers across Illidan's chest and muttered a brief incantation, lightening his massive weight. He then rose with Illidan's tightly bundled body cradled in his arms, carried him to the platform and gently lay him down. He then set to work on the Gate, with Vashj hovering protectively over their fallen master. Redirecting a Gate was a difficult matter even under the best of circumstances, but with Kael's prodigious arcane talent and the sheer flow of energy in this place, he held little doubt he could accomplish it. One by one, he tapped into the power of the runes, drawing from the ley lines, and bent the Gate to his indomitable will. The tricky part would be the failsafe enchantment he would need to weave into the spell, that would collapse the Gate behind them and revert it to its previous state. It would not do, after all, to escape only to leave an open door for the Scourge to pursue them right into Outland.

Chanting to a powerful crescendo, Kael raised his arms, the trio of ever-present verdant spheres floating about him like ioun stones shimmering that much brighter, and the deep cobalt nimbus surrounding the portal faded to a deep, emerald hue.

He rushed to the platform, to Illidan's side. The demon hunter's head lay upon Vashj's lap, resting against her glistening scales, a clawed hand grasped in her own. Her angular face had softened, an expression of deepest concern upon it, and she was whispering something in the Nazja tongue. When she looked up at Kael, her eyes were brimming, and he thought his heart might break inside his chest.

He was never alone in his concern for Illidan. Not ever.

Reaching down, he knelt beside them, grasping Illidan's other hand as the obelisks activated one by one, the sigils on the platform glowing as the spell did its work. To Kael's amazement, he felt the hand move, ever so slightly, the gesture faint enough that at first he thought he'd only imagined it. However, he looked down at Illidan, and his lashes fluttered, opening slowly to reveal the unnatural eyes he'd been gifted with. Eyes Kael had never seen until now, obscured as they were behind the ever-present blindfold that now rested in the folds of the cape that kept Illidan warm.

Spheres of pure fel metal stared back at him, some sort of alloy he could not fathom, etched with demonic sigils so ancient even the warlocks of old would not have recognized them. They were unlike anything Kael had ever seen in his life, either with his own eyes, or in the vast libraries of lost Dalaran. Their emerald light was dimmed but nonetheless present. Kael found them remarkably beautiful.

Illidan was weakly reaching out to him, then, trying in vain to lift his hand. Kael did it for him, lifting Illidan's hand to his cheek. When a talon weakly caressed it, Kael closed his eyes with a hitched breath. Even now, even in such a state, Illidan's touch was like nothing else.

"Dalah'surfal," he murmured, his voice rasping and quiet. Kael opened his eyes, his smile radiant and reassuring.

"Yes, my love," Kael answered. "I am here." However, almost soon as he'd said it, Illidan's eyes closed once more as he slipped back into unconsciousness. Sighing, Kael squeezed his hand one last time before shifting his weight, to bear Illidan through the portal. He looked questioningly at Vashj, as if to ask for her help, but she looked as though she'd been hit with a sledgehammer.

Stunned into silence by the display she'd just witnessed, Vashj stared at Kael for a long moment. Surely she had remembered the meaning of that Kaldorei endearment, and there was no misconstruing how he'd said it. There was no mistaking the look in his fel eyes, the caress of Kael's cheek.

Illidan had called him "beloved".

"Quickly, we must go." Her voice was broken, it was filled with venom, grief, and a thousand emotions Kael had not the words to describe. It was what he had dreaded perhaps as much as Illidan's demise. He couldn't lose Vashj's friendship, not now, and not over this.

There was no time for that, though. Together, they retrieved the fallen warglaives and lifted Illidan, each shouldering the burden in equal measure, and stepped through the portal to Outland, to return once more to the Black Temple.

Equals in service to its Lord and Master, perhaps for the last time.