Archive of Our Own

The Sinfall Depths were private, which was probably for the best. Renathal stood back, with Theotar, hoping on the Arbiter's good name he did not need to tell Kyrestia one of her aspirants died of lich fire.

"It's all right, my prince." Theotar leaned closer, watching the Maw Walker, Gwennit. "She's stronger than she looks."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"All right." Pelagos rubbed his hands together. "Imagine we're at Hero's Rest--not that hard!"

The Maw Walker's eyes dimmed from blue to dun. Behind Pelagos, Kleia shook her head. Draven adjusted his stance.

"I don't think this is a good idea," the Maw Walker said, her gaze flickering to Theotar.

"You can do this." Theotar put his hand to his chest and bowed. "I have complete faith in you, my dowsabel."

Dowsabel. Of course Theotar used the name every chance he got. Renathal should have kept a good thing when he had it.

No. That was long in the past. The present needed his attention more, especially if he did not want Sinfall to crumble under a burning glacier.

Not a good idea at all.

"All right." Pelagos adjusted his grip on his javelin. Frost tinged the stone walls. Renathal's breath formed clouds. "Focus on hitting me with fire. Regular fire."

The Maw Walker huffed. She glanced at Theotar, who nodded, and she drew back one hand and thrust the other forward. Her lips moved. A prayer, perhaps, or a mantra. She reared back and---

Green fire rained from the sky. Renathal ran for cover. Theotar, the lunatic, ran for his Maw Walker. She stood firm, staring at Pelagos, who deflected flames with his javelin. The flames turned blue--and back to green.

Theotar whooped and picked up the Maw Walker. "I said you could do it!"

The Maw Walker went limp, her arms around his neck. Theotar kissed her. She squeaked. Renathal rolled his eyes.

"Good work!" Pelagos thrust his javelin in the air. "That's my girl!"

"My girl, my dear friend!"

Pelagos bowed. "I stand corrected! Your girl, Your Grace."

"You don't have to call him that," the Maw Walker said, her voice muffled against Theotar's shoulder.

"Dowsabel is correct, as she so often is. I am simply Theotar."

The Maw Walker snorted, and Theotar laughed. He set her down and kissed the top of her veiled head. "Shall we again, my dear?"

"Is that wise?" Renathal said. Kleia looked him up and down, her head cocked. "We don't want to bring the walls crashing down, do we?"

Draven cracked his knuckles. "The walls are safe. They are under my command."

The Maw Walker gave him a funny look. Draven laughed and clapped her on the shoulder hard enough to make her stumble. "They'll listen if I'm loud enough."

"All right," Renathal said. "One more time. Theotar, to me."

"Are you sure? Mage fire might come in---"

"To me, please."

"Are you well, Renathal?" Kleia said.

"Fine." Still, he folded his arms as Theotar kissed his Maw Walker and murmured something. The Maw Walker nodded, and watched him all the way to Renathal's side.

"So suspicious, my prince," Theotar said in Renathal's ear. "I am not made of porcelain, and even a teapot may be repaired."

"You're more important than a teapot."

Theotar paused. He laid his hand on Renathal's arm a moment. The Maw Walker turned her gaze to the floor. Good. She needed to remember she was not the only one who held a place in Theotar's heart. If she even remained there.

He sighed. It did not befit a prince, even a fallen one, to begrudge someone so empty. It certainly did not befit him to begrudge Theotar.

"Try to not make it rain this time." There was a smile in Pelagos's voice. "This is a new chiton."

The Maw Walker smiled, but it fell. She did not lift her head, and kept her gaze averted from everyone. She drew her hands into casting position, her black shroud, ragged at the hem to bare her toes, following her motions like a ghost.

Like the ghost of the Lich King.

Renathal tensed as she loosed a screeching ball of chaos. Pelagos blocked it, and the Maw Walker followed with a dozen more strikes, enormous and tiny. The frost on the walls thickened, but her flames remained green. She drew back for a cast---

Her feet slipped on the ice on the floor. She yelped as she landed, and blue flame made a haze of the air around her. She looked up, and her eyes had gone blue.

"Maw Walker!" Renathal called as Theotar said, "Dowsabel! Gwennit! Stop!"

She froze, gripping the stone floor. Pelagos crept towards her. Only when the air around her returned to normal did he help her to her feet.

"You'll get there," he said. "We all have things about us we want to change."

The Maw Walker nodded, but huddled into herself. "I think I want some tea."

Pelagos patted her arm. "Same time overmorrow?"

The Maw Walker nodded and crept towards the mirror to the Reaches. Theotar touched Renathal's hand and followed.

Kleia came to stand next to Renathal. "You and Theotar?" she said under her breath.

Renathal made a flippant gesture. "A very long time ago."

"For both of you, or only for him?"

Renathal looked at her. She followed Pelagos to the Heights. Renathal waited until he was alone, and went to kick the ice lingering on the floor.

Whatever she was, whatever her position, she was dangerous. Too dangerous. To all of them, never mind Theotar.

But given the threatening silence from Denathrius's camp, such a weapon was too valuable to send away.

#

"Tea," as it turned out, was code for, "Cling to a Theotar. This Theotar, for preference."

"So I should not bother with the kettle," Theotar said as soon as Gwennit grabbed him in his drawing room. He kissed her head. Poor little thing. So very dear, but her eyes held terror.

She shook her head. The top of her head barely came to the middle of his chest, and when he picked her up, she might have been nothing but bone in her black robes. Theotar took her to the couch and sat with his back against the arm, cuddling her.

"Oi, guv," Tubbins said. "We got dance class to go to. You need anything?"

"No, my dear. Enjoy yourselves!"

"Have fun," Gwennit said, though her voice hardly carried.

"You all right?" Tubbins said.

Gubbins looked in. "Sad lady sad?"

"We'll be all right, thank you." Theotar put his chin on Gwennit's head. "You are good friends."

Gubbins came over and climbed up to hug Gwennit. She smiled and kissed his forehead, then Tubbins's when he sidled to the couch. Theotar grinned. She might have difficulties with kyrian, but dredgers loved her like a mother.

"Bye, Teetar! Bye, sad lady! Dance class!"

Once they were alone, Gwennit settled against Theotar's chest. "They make me happy."

"Of course they do. Tubbins and Gubbins are very special." Theotar straightened her veil and poked her nose. "Does nothing else make you happy?"

She looked up at him. Theotar lifted his eyebrows as she shifted to straddle his thighs.

"My dear," he said.

Gwennit kissed him. Theotar closed his eyes and returned it. She put her arms around his neck and eased her tongue into his mouth, something she had never done. Theotar pulled her flush against him and squeezed her hips until she whimpered against his mouth. Gwennit pushed back her veil and gripped his hair with both hands.

And then she moved her hips.

Theotar whined as she ground against him. Not since the Countess, before his time in the Ember Ward, had anyone done such a thing, and only Renathal, hungry Renathal, had ever done so with such desperation. He wrapped his arms around Gwennit and pressed against her. She rutted on his rising cock, whimpering, panting, squeezing his hair until she pulled, only to thrust her hand between his back and the couch and rake his skin.

"Dowsabel," he whispered.

"Please." It came out a whine against his lips. "Theotar, please."

"Please what, my dear? Show me."

She drew her nails up the back of his neck, and reached down to squeeze him through his trousers, her cool body heating as she rutted against him. The frost on her soul melted, and the ash began to flake away. When she looked up, her hazy, faded eyes had gone dark, and saliva shone on her parted lips.

"My ferocious little dowsabel." Theotar rolled against her fingers. "I've thought about this, you know."

"What have you thought?"

He pulled her hair back and held it in a tail to see her face, and the bared triangle of her throat where her veil fell slack. With his other hand, he drew his fingertips down her chest and pressed his palm to her small, soft breast. She whimpered and kissed him, grinding her hips as though it might save her life.

Theotar took her arse in both his hands and moved to stand. Take her to his bedroom, rid her of her robes, see what lay beneath her funereal black. Gwennit wrapped her legs around his waist and moved her lips and blunt teeth to his neck. She bit him, and he closed his eyes to keep from dropping her on the couch and ruining the velvet---

Gwennit went still. Her arms tightened around his neck, and she whined in a very different sort of way. "Put me down. Please. Please, Theotar, put me down."

He did. She stood frozen, bent, her fingers spread as though to cast lich fire. Her soul had gone icy. Theotar touched her under the chin, and she looked up.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"What is it, my little dowsabel?"

She shook her head. Frost feathers gathered on the walls.

Arthas.

Damn him. Damn him to the Maw, to burn and scream and suffer forever, never to know the touch of another soul.

"It's all right, my Gwennit. My delicious little pastry."

She pulled her veil over her head and closed it at her throat. "I'm so sorry. I don't know--I should go."

Theotar took her hand. "Please don't. Let me read to you? Or tell me of the Undercity before it was blighted."

She shook her head and kissed him, her lips closed. "I'm so sorry."

Before he could stop her, she slipped out the door. He followed, but she had already vanished into the shadows.

Theotar sat on the drawing room floor with a groan. He felt his hair, and took it down from its ruin. He could not even look for her in his state. Not with his hair, and certainly not with his cock straining against his trousers.

He went to draw a bath, and slid into the scalding water before the bathtub even filled. Before he could stop himself, he closed his hand around his cock and shut his eyes, picturing Gwennit, her small, narrow body nude, in his bed, whispering what she wanted. His lips moved with each thing he imagined she wanted: "touch me," "lick me there," "use your teeth," "put your fingers in me."

"Oh, yes, my dear," he whispered. Pictured her cupping her breasts and spreading her legs, white hair on her quim and beneath her arms. Pulling him down to nuzzle her inner thigh, only to arch when he spread her with his thumbs and found her gem with his tongue. "Ah, my dowsabel!"

Theotar squeezed himself, and had an odd flash of Renathal, white hair and all, writhing under his mouth. He shook it off and focused on the thought of tonguing Gwennit until she gripped his ears and wrapped her legs around his head. A finger pressed inside would make her cry out, push for more, beg him to fuck her. Such a crude word, but ever so effective, especially when it made his cock jump in his grasp. Still, it was rude to have one's way with a lady without seeing she found her pleasure first--thrice for preference. The Countess always appreciated such attention, and Gwennit could be little different.

Besides, if Mona gave carnal advice, it had to be good.

Another finger. A press of his tongue. Gwennit arching for more, wet and warm and slippery. The sheets would be damp and fragrant by that point, his beard a soggy mess from rubbing against her. He would close his lips around her gem and suck. His cock leaked at her cry in his head and the gush of fluid as she came, twitching and jerking around his fingers.

"My dearest Gwennit." He rolled his head on the edge of the bathtub, and turned off the tap with his toes before the room could flood. (There could be little ruder than having dredgers come running, only to find him abusing himself.) She would have the sweetest cry, like her singing, high and soft and urgent. She would grind against his face for more, to the point he had to remove his fingers, only for her to whimper to have them back.

Low in his pelvis, pressure began to build. Perhaps he ought to spend more time in his mind, if only to avoid a sudden disappointment should she come to him and stay. Not that he went many days without. Especially of late.

Theotar poked his tongue out and swiped it at the air. He could slip it inside her and let her come down from her peak until her breathing settled enough for her to speak. Her grip on his ears would ease, shame, and she would go limp.

"Please, Theotar," she would say. "I need you."

"No, my dear," he whispered. "I am still enjoying my delicious little pastry."

"Can't I be a filled pastry?"

He chuckled at the thought and stretched his toes. "Such a pastry would be delightful!"

But Mona's word was law when it came to matters of the flesh, at least according to a good portion of Revendreth (and, so she said, at least two other realms and Oribos). He would return his mouth, wet and hungry, to her quim, and lick--lick---

"Mmm, Gwennit!" He gave up and fucked his fist until his body tensed and he came hard enough to break the surface of his bath.

His cock was soft by the time he came to his senses enough to flick his spend to the far side of the water. Still, he dunked his head before he got out and went to find where Tubbins had put the towels.

Still, as he dried his hair, he could not help but wonder if Gwennit would ever come to him as he hoped, or if Arthas's stain on her soul was ingrained too deep to budge.

#

The Hennery's door said closed. Gwennit pounded on it anyway. From behind the building came Mona's voice.

"It says closed, and it means closed! Have I got to start collecting heads, you lot?"

Gwennit scurried around the side to find Mona tending a blanket of silver roses that climbed the building. Mona's sneer dropped, and she came to hug Gwennit.

"What's wrong, me dear heart?"

Gwennit shook her head. She hid her face against Mona's enormous bosom and clung. Still, she squirmed against the lingering sensation of Theotar against her, beneath her, pressing and firming and--and another flash of the ice that formed under her feet as she duelled Pelagos washed it away.

Mona pushed her out to arm's length. "Theotar didn't do nothing, did he?"

"I can't trust myself. Why did I have to come here?"

Mona sighed and took her in through the back. She sat her next to the kitchen hearth and checked the kettle. "What happened? Start from the beginning, dearie."

Gwennit hardly heard herself as she told Mona about Pelagos and Kleia's offer to help her with her hatred for Bastion. About the duel, and the ice beneath her feet, and what happened in Theotar's room. Every detail poured out, right down to her heart beating as she ground against him. No-one like her deserved happiness, least of all with someone so kind as to let her stop, then beg her to stay so he could read to her.

Mona put a cup of tea in her hands. Gwennit took a sip, trembling all over.

"Sounds to me," Mona said, standing back and looking her over, "you need to learn better from someone who can give as good as she gets. Someone you en't afraid of hurting. That sound about right, me sweetheart?"

"There isn't anyone."

Mona snapped her fingers. A succubus appeared next to her and snapped its whip. "Gwennit, dearie, meet Azya. Azya, say hello to me little dowsabel."

"You're a warlock?"

"Demons were me bread and butter in life. Hanax the Corrupter. Orc. Maybe you heard of me."

"... I think I fought you once."

"Against Arthas? Aye, sounds about right. The Warchief kept me nice and happy, so long as I didn't turn against him."

"Weren't you a man?"

"Only on the outside, dearie."

Gwennit nodded. She took a gulp of tea. "I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't think I ever did."

"You think I planned to wipe out whole towns with an army of demons? Life en't pretty, me lovely. S'what Revendreth's for."

"But Bastion's wrong. They're---"

"I know. I know. I've heard all about them, and you en't the only one what thinks so. Only, you're the only one what could turn the whole place into an ice cube 'cause you think you en't able to stop yourself."

"I can't!"

"Show me what you do, then."

Gwennit hesitated. Mona watched her. Gwennit set down her teacup and flicked her fingers. Her skin chilled under a ball of blue lich fire. She drew it back before the chill could sear her joints to the elbow.

Mona lifted her eyebrows. "Looks to me like you can control it well enough. Right nice weapon, that."

"I can make it. I can't stop it."

"You just did."

"I can't stop it when I'm fighting!"

Mona pulled her to her feet. "Come downstairs with me. I'm going to teach you a few--closed means fucking well closed, you bloody arseholes! Away from me fucking shop!"

The pounding on the front door stopped. Gwennit squeaked. Mona laughed.

"You get used to it, dearie. Worst case, I sic me demons on them."

She led Gwennit to an empty cellar more like a cavernous crypt. "I do my distilling next level down. S'a bit more dangerous than ripping holes in the Void," she said as she lit the lanterns hung around the scorched stone walls. "Secret to never losing yourself is getting it all out where it don't hurt no-one."

"I don't want to hurt you!"

"Believe me, me darling, you en't going to get that close. No-one ever did. Know how I died? Bloody food poisoning. Bloody food poisoning!"

"Erm."

"I know. Most terrifying thing to come out of Orgrimmar since Hellscream, and I cark it to a fucking goblin ice cream van."

Gwennit huffed, and broke down laughing. She had to sit on the floor, giggling into her hands. Mona laughed with her.

"That's it, me little love. It's ridiculous, en't it?"

"So ridiculous! I hope I don't go that way."

"No, you? You'll do something terrible and heroic and go down in legend. Gwennit the Valorous! Devoured the Sire whole and spat out his bones, summit like that. Choked on his hair."

Gwennit snorted. "You know I don't need to breathe."

"Really." Mona leered. "Theotar'll appreciate that."

Gwennit went warm all over and hid her face with her hands. "Mona!"

Mona chuckled. "Come on, up. I'm teaching you a few things about self control. Ironic as that may be."

Gwennit stood. A chill washed over her. She drew her veil over her face. "Could I...?"

"Don't matter to me what you wear. If it helps, it helps."

Gwennit nodded. She cracked her neck and shook out her limbs. No demon. No help. If she died in a cellar, so be it. She steadied herself and drew her hands into casting position. Mona did the same---

Azya opened her shirt.

Gwennit stared. Mona cackled. "Sorry, I had to! You have no idea how many fights that one's ended."

"Erm. They are very nice."

"You're telling me. Go on, Azya, love, put 'em back."

Azya pouted but did as she was told.

Gwennit watched Azya a moment before she went back into casting position. Mona nodded, and Gwennit loosed a burst of chaos---

Mona flicked it aside. "No, sweetheart, try to hurt me. Let everything out."

"But---"

"Do it."

"I'm sorry." Gwennit adjusted her veil and wrenched the life from Mona's body.

"Ow!" Mona fell to her hands and knees. Gwennit pulled, drawing more and more. Mona gave her a weak thumbs up. "Blimey, that stings!"

Gwennit broke the draw and began a rain of flame, green and echoing, crashing upon the floor. It flickered blue at the edges, fel and lich together. Mona whimpered. Gwennit wrenched her hands to her chest.

Mona knelt, panting. She shook her head. "Bloody freezing, that was, me girl!"

"I'm so sorry."

"No. It's all right." Mona winced as she got to her feet. She rubbed her chest. "Might be shut a couple days. Teach me to do that again."

"I'm so sorry, Mona---"

"Don't be. I ought to know better. Took enough pain from Arthas's fellows, I ought to remember what it's like. Oogh!" She gripped the small of her back. "You mind taking on a demon instead? I'm getting old. Blimey, you got a pull on you."

"Are you going to be all right?"

"Nothing a cuppa won't fix." Mona sat on the floor. "Azya, me darling, go and let Gwennit beat your backside a while."

"Ooh!" Azya wriggled her shoulders and slapped her arse.

"Bloody succubus." Mona looked at Gwennit and winked. "They're impossible, en't they?"

Gwennit nodded. She had not called upon her succubus in longer than she could remember, but they were indeed impossible.

Azya stepped in front of Mona. She wriggled so her breasts shook. Gwennit imagined Theotar doing the same, and snorted. He would do it, if only to make her laugh. But she sobered. Took her stance.

And sent Azya to the floor with one good burst.

Azya squealed and got to her knees. She pouted, shaking her finger. Gwennit knocked her down again, again, her flame burning bluer and bluer at the edges until the air turned bitter---

"Bring it back," Mona said.

"I can't." Another blast, so blue it glowed.

"You can. Bring. It. Back."

Gwennit cast once more---

"Gwennit, girl, you bring it back this instant, or I will put you over my fucking knee!"

Gwennit dragged at the lich. Dragged at everything inside her. She screamed, and cast---

--Green flames sprayed across the wall.

She landed on her knees. The frosty floor burned through her robe. Mona caught her before she could land on her face and kissed her full on the mouth.

"Ha-ha! I told you! You got it in you!"

"... I think I need some tea."

"You need a nap. Come on, I'll get you upstairs. Let Theotar have you."

Gwennit shook her head. "I don't want to hurt---"

"Lovey, I'm sending Marn. You look worn ragged. 'Sides, Theotar can get you home."

Gwennit sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea, her veil hanging over her eyes, until Theotar barged through the door. His hair hung down his back in a single braid. He knelt before her. "Are you all right, my dear?"

Gwennit shrugged. Mona said, "She's stronger than she lets herself think. Dragged the lich right back inside."

Theotar kissed her hand. "Thank you, my friend." He drew Gwennit's veil from her face. "Could we have a moment, Mona?"

Mona kissed the top of his head and went to the bar. Gwennit let Theotar pull her into a hug. She held on with all the strength she had left.

"I thought you had gone back to the Undercity. I couldn't find you," Theotar said in her ear. "At least tell me goodbye if you do that again. Don't frighten me."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know what to do. I can't---"

"Mona said. In her note. My dearest dowsabel, I have survived Revendreth twice. It would be an honour to survive you."

Gwennit pressed her face to his neck. "But what if you don't survive?"

Theotar sighed and kissed her ear. "Then you would succeed where Denathrius failed. Are you greater than Denathrius?"

Gwennit shook her head.

"Hmph. Still looking down on yourself. You need sleep." Theotar drew back and adjusted her veil. "May I at least put you in my bed? That barracks cot of yours is unspeakable, and I shan't have you sleeping on the couch in this state."

"I'm not hungover."

"At least you earned that one." Theotar chuckled. "As much as I enjoy our time on my couch, I would rather you be comfortable, my dear."

Gwennit huddled into herself. "I'm sorry."

"Why?" Theotar tucked a piece of loose hair behind her ear and straightened her veil. "Because you stopped? Gwennit, I am happy with only your company, though if you change your mind, I won't tell you no."

"What if I never do?"

"I have two hands and vivid imagination. I put them to regular use."

Gwennit stared. She shifted in her seat at an image of Theotar, well. "Is that what you meant when you said you've thought about...?"

"Oh, yes." Theotar grinned. "So far, I have yet to be disappointed."

Gwennit nodded. She could not quite look him in the eye. "I might like to, erm, see that. Sometime."

"And I might like to show you. When you are ready, my dear." He smiled. "I've had two entire lovers since I arrived in Revendreth. I have patience. And my hands."

"His Highness and the Countess."

"Yes."

"But they're--I'm only---"

"You are my dowsabel. Worth no less than either of them. Kind." He kissed her cheek. "Gentle." He kissed her other cheek. "And greater than you think."

#

Renathal looked up when Theotar led the Maw Walker through the mirror from Darkhaven. "You found her."

"Safe and well. And, according to Mona, more in control of herself than you thought."

"Hmm." Renathal glanced at their clasped hands. Theotar cocked his head. "Maw Walker, are you well?"

"Tired, Your Highness."

Renathal nodded and folded his arms. "Ought we bring Mona to your sessions? I had planned to speak with her tomorrow---"

"Only speak?" Theotar grinned.

"Quiet, you." Damned Theotar, able to see into his very heart. "If it would help, I'd be happy to---"

"I don't know. Your Highness."

"Let her rest, my dear."

"Later, then. Maw Walker?"

"Her name is Gwennit!"

"Yes, Your Highness?" the Maw Walker said.

"Give some thought to my suggestion. You are a, ah, powerful asset. It would be a shame to lose you."

Theotar put his arm around the Maw Walker and lifted his chin. Before he could argue, Renathal left them to see to his duties.

#

Gubbins run to Theotar's room! "Teetar! Gubbins get principal dancer! Bird Bog!"

"Oi, quiet!" Tubbins mad. Tubbins get chorus. Royal Dredger Ballet Company knew it had good thing in Gubbins!

Theotar not on couch. Sad lady not on couch. They not in bathroom. They not make tea.

"Teetar!"

Bedroom door open. Theotar look out. Hair funny! Down back! "Forgive me, Gubbins, but Gwennit needs her rest. Could you be a bit quieter?"

"Sad lady tired?"

"Ohh." Tubbins grin. Tubbins wink. "I got you, guv."

"I see sad lady? Give hug?"

Tubbins grab Gubbins. Pull him to hall. "Come on, brother of mine. I got a few things to explain to you."

#

The Curator looked up from her paperwork at a dredger's cry.

"NO! THAT TERRIBLE! WHY TUBBINS SAY THAT?"

"Gubbins?" she said.

She shrugged and went back to work.

#

Gwennit rubbed her eyes. "Hmm?"

"Go back to sleep, my dear. Tubbins and Gubbins returned. I told them you need your rest."

Gwennit looked up to find Theotar in an armchair, putting his reading glasses back on. His hair hung over his shoulders, wavy from being braided. He picked up a book.

"I've never seen you with your hair down," Gwennit said.

"It was a bit unruly."

"Sorry."

"My dear, it goes back. Only, by the time I was in any state to look for you, well, I assumed you had gone to your room. I didn't want to waste any more time than necessary."

Gwennit nodded. She stretched under the blankets. Compared to her cot, Theotar's bed was a massive, soft thing made for wallowing all day. She bit her lip. "What do you mean by any state to look?"

Theotar set his book aside. He watched her. Gwennit went warm all over.

"Two hands and an imagination," she said.

"Precisely, my dear!" Theotar winked. "I hope you're not insulted. Or uncomfortable."

She shook her head. "I wish I'd been there."

Theotar sighed. "As do I. But I will never force you. Or expect more than you wish to offer."

"I don't want to hurt you."

Theotar moved to sit on the corner of the bed. "Do you really think I would care for you as I do if I feared you?"

"The Countess is pretty scary."

Theotar laughed. "It's all a--it's mostly a show. Really, she's a pussy cat. Once one gets her out of her clothes."

Gwennit shifted under the covers. She turned her head to watch him. "What about His Highness?"

Theotar's brow furrowed. "Renathal is--he is difficult to describe. Eager, I suppose. Rather like you were earlier."

"He doesn't like me."

"You are a difficult subject for him, my dowsabel."

Gwennit drew into herself. "Why hasn't he sent me away?"

"Because you are a weapon we need, my dear." Theotar watched her. "He's frightened of his position, and of you. I've told him any number of times that you are only Gwennit. You want stories and tea and to sit together and talk. And there's not a dredger in Sinfall that doesn't adore you. But Renathal's position is weaker than he wants, and will remain so as long as Denathrius lives. He sees anything of the lich as a threat. The Maldraxxus situation doesn't help."

"And he still loves you."

"Yes." Theotar bowed his head. "Too many times, he asked more than I wished to give. But he loves, and loves fully. He tries so hard not to, and he swears he's moved on, but he can't change his heart. I know better than anyone. He remains the dearest friend I have ever known."

"Do I need to---"

Theotar caught her foot through the blankets. "Please don't go. He and I have spoken many times. We both know better."

"You deserve better---"

"You deserve better than what you've been given, dowsabel. You deserve your memories, and your life, and happiness. You deserve to enjoy yourself. You deserve a home that will never drive you away, and will never fall to those who think they deserve it more than you."

Gwennit sat up. Her heart gave a sluggish thump. "Come here, please?"

Theotar looked at her. He inched across the bed and lay next to her. She cuddled against him, and got cuddled in return.

"Do you want to hear about Undercity? After Arthas fell?"

Theotar kissed her forehead. "Always."

So she told him: about the innumerable stars in the sky, the delicate stone ruins from which the Forsaken first rose, the people, the war against Gilneas, and the care her people carried for each other. She told him of the books she had read, the ones only published in Undercity before the blight, the strange, sweet tales her people told. Tales of loss, and forgiveness, and home, and one peculiar one about the Worgen and the Frog, which made Theotar laugh and laugh, only to kiss her head when she admitted she was the one who made it up, though someone else wrote it down.

She looked up and, her eyes open, kissed him on the mouth. He returned it, and continued for a long time.

It was not everything she wanted, but for the moment, it would do.

#

"Denathrius is moving." The Accuser paced before Prince Renathal's desk. "We have word from our Stoneborn agents that he's planning a raid on Sinfall. A devastating one."

Renathal nodded. The Accuser watched as he leaned on his elbows, his scowl deep and pained.

"So," he said, "we need to strike first. The Maw Walkers aren't ready."

"They have to be."

"We're damned either way." Renathal looked up. The Accuser squeezed his hand. "When?"

"As soon as possible. We have days at most, according to General Draven."

"All right." Renathal scrubbed his face with the heel of his hand. "Gather the Maw Walkers. All of them."

"Even---"

"Especially her. We need every advantage we can get." Renathal looked up, desperation in his gaze. "If she dies, Theotar will never speak to me again."

The Accuser leaned over to kiss his head. "He knew the risks, brother mine."

"Do any of us really know the risks? Denathrius won't simply send us to the Maw or into exile if we fail. He'll flay us alive. The Maw would be a mercy."

"We can do this." The Accuser gripped his chin to make him look at her. "The Maw Walkers are a force to be reckoned with. Especially one tainted by the Lich King."

Renathal nodded. Still, he fidgeted, shifting in his chair and tapping his nails upon his desk. "I should be the one to tell Theotar. He deserves to hear it from me."

"I'm perfectly capable---"

But Renathal stood, stubborn thing. Even with the weight of Revendreth pressing upon him, he did his duty. The Maw had taken its toll on him, just as ages of running and hiding left the Accuser looking over her shoulder, even in the safety of Sinfall. But still they stood. Still they rebelled.

She hugged him. He held her until she ached.

"We can do this," she said.

"I know. We will."

"He's not the Sire we once knew."

"I know."

"You can do this."

Renathal pulled away. "I want to speak with Theotar before we do anything else. He'll be in charge here. He may not be a Harvester, but he's the most experienced in military and administrative matters."

"He's not stable enough---"

"He holds the highest rank. A duke is a duke. You'll be second in command in my absence. If he wavers, it falls to you."

The Accuser curtsied. "It will be an honour, my prince."

Renathal squeezed her shoulder and set for the noble quarter. The Accuser sat against his desk with a sigh. So much for paperwork and seeing to souls.

#

Renathal knocked at Theotar's door. With luck, the Maw Walker was in her cell in the barracks. As soon as Theotar opened the door, though, his lips swollen, Renathal slumped.

Theotar pulled him inside. "What's wrong, my prince?"

"I need to speak with you. It involves your Maw Walker."

Theotar went still. "Gwennit?"

From Theotar's bedroom came her voice. "What's wrong?"

"I can't come back later, else I would." Renathal looked to the door. "We have to move on Nathria. No later than morning."

Theotar nodded and sat on his ridiculous green couch. He rested his chin on his clasped hands. "My role?"

"Command. Sinfall. The Accuser is your second."

"I am in no state---"

"You are. Whatever may have happened in the Ember Ward, I have full trust in you. You are a duke---"

"Of what am I the duke? No matter who holds the manor, Thornhill has been given to another."

"Sinfall, I suppose."

"You will make it official before the attack, I trust. There is a great deal of difference between a fallen prince, and a mad duke without a duchy."

Renathal nodded. The Maw Walker crept into the drawing room, her feet bare and silent. She looked between them.

"What's wrong?"

"You're going to Nathria," Theotar said, his gaze fixed on the rug in the middle of the room. "Tomorrow."

"I can't---"

"You can," Renathal said. "And you will not hold back."

"I can't do that!"

"Yes, you can!" Renathal crouched to look her in the eye. "You are incredibly dangerous, and I am terrified of even a glance of you. After what happened with Pelagos, within my own stronghold, I have even more reason to be frightened. But you are our greatest weapon, Soldier of the Lich King. You will do this, and by doing so, you will secure your place within my realm. Do you understand?"

The Maw Walker stared. "You don't know what you're asking."

"I know enough of Arthas."

"Renathal," Theotar said. "Please."

The Maw Walker's eyes gained the faintest hint of blue. "You don't know what you're asking, Your Highness."

"I am asking you, Gwennit of Undercity, to use your full capabilities to end Sire Denathrius, the king of this realm, regardless of collateral damage. I am asking you, if necessary, to destroy Revendreth to save the Shadowlands."

"No."

"Gwennit." Theotar held out his hand. "Come here, my little dowsabel."

She glanced at him, then at Renathal, but went. Theotar drew her onto the couch next to him. She kissed his hand.

"You must," Theotar said. "This is so much greater than Revendreth."

"I already said I won't hurt you."

"Please. I am not worth the end of reality as we know it."

She kissed him. Renathal turned away, his hands clasped behind his back. They murmured to each other, too low to understand. Nearly, anyway.

"You're more than strong enough, my dear. You can do this."

"I've already destroyed enough!"

"I know. We would never ask this of you if it was anything less than dire. Please, my dear. Perhaps this is why you became what you are, to save both our worlds."

"This is my world."

"... Yes, it is. My twice-steeped pastry."

"Are you finished?" Renathal refused to look at them. "There is a great deal to be done, and little time."

"Yes, my prince," Theotar said. Renathal glanced back to see him kiss the Maw Walker. "I'm coming."

"What do you need me to do?" the Maw Walker said.

"I'll address all of you in the Depths." Renathal rubbed his hands together. "Go and wait there."

"Yes, Your Highness."

While Temel summoned the Maw Walkers, Renathal gathered his closest allies: Theotar, the Accuser, the Curator, General Draven, Nadjia, Kassir, Tenaval, Devahia, Vorpalia. Told them, as he paced his office, the plan and the risks. Hashed out details. Took their advice. Hoped they did not see the quiver in his hands, or the hunch of his shoulders.

Too soon, he led them to the Depths.

The Maw Walkers, dozens of them, stood in formation, speaking in low voices. Gwennit stood by the wall, leaning on her staff, lost in thought. One of the others tugged her sleeve, and she looked up, first to Theotar, then Renathal. A piece of hair as white as Renathal's hung from beneath her veil.

In the silence that fell, Renathal spoke.

"Our plans against Denathrius have been accelerated. Tomorrow, we will invade Castle Nathria. I cannot promise your safety. If you wish to stay behind, I will judge, but not blame."

He paused. Gwennit lifted her weight from her staff. Something about her had hardened at his words.

"In my absence, I leave Duke Theotar in command. He has extensive military and government experience, and I can only describe him as my closest ally. My good hand. Theotar?"

Theotar stepped forward, his head lifted, gazing above the Maw Walkers' heads.

"Kneel, my friend."

Theotar knelt. Renathal took Vorpalia's hilt in his hands and touched her blade to one of Theotar's shoulders, then the other, the sword's weight more comfortable than it ought to have been.

"I name you Theotar, Duke of Sinfall. Should I die, you will take my place as leader of this rebellion, and perhaps all of Revendreth herself. Do you accept?"

"Always, my prince."

Renathal smiled. Theotar looked up at him and stood. He wore little expression, though their soulbind tensed. Renathal took Theotar's hand between both of his own for an instant, and turned to the Maw Walkers.

"Those of you who fight and survive will be assured a place in Revendreth for the rest of your mortal lives. Those who fall will be buried here with royal honours. Those who stay behind will be expected to aid the function of Sinfall, or leave this realm forever. Step forward if I have your allegiance."

Several Maw Walkers looked at each other. Gwennit, the only one outside formation, outside military precision, walked to where Renathal stood before the anima font, her staff thudding the floor. She knelt and kissed his hand.

"My Dark Prince. I will die for Revendreth."

She stood and took her place next to Theotar. Cold. Hard. Stern. But gripping Theotar's elbow like a duchess.

"My brave little dowsabel," Theotar murmured, hardly loud enough for Renathal to hear.

"My sweet duke."

One by one, other Maw Walkers came forward. Two hung back, a worgen little more than a youth, and a blood elf with a lame leg. Still, when Renathal asked, they swore they would aid Sinfall in his absence.

Just before he dismissed his people, Renathal looked to Theotar, who smiled.

"My prince," he mouthed.

Renathal bowed his head.

It was not what he wanted, but it would have to do.

#

Gwennit's shoulders twitched, but she held firm before her fellow soldiers. A soldier. Again. But to a Dark Prince rather than a Lich King.

"You should rest," Theotar said when everyone else had left the depths, and Gwennit shook her head.

"I'm staying with you tonight."

"But---"

She kissed him. Hard, with tongue and teeth, and drew him down to press her forehead to his. "I'm going to die tomorrow, and I'll go to the Maw." She put her finger over his lips. "Don't say it."

Theotar drew her into his arms, his lips against her head. "I will not ask more than you wish to offer."

She took his hand and drew him through the shadows to his rooms and into his bedroom, where the bedclothes lay mussed and piled from earlier.

"Are you sure, my dear?" Theotar clutched her hand to his cheek. "If you wish to stop, simply say the word."

"I will die for Revendreth, and I will go to the Maw, but not without knowing you in every way I can."

"Why the Maw, dowsabel? You don't deserve that."

"You said it yourself: Arthas stained my soul. Where else is there to go?"

Theotar looked as though he wanted to say something, but he kissed her. Soft, careful, as though she was fragile, not a hardened soldier, not a warlock capable of taming demons and ripping away life itself. As though she was something other than a weapon. She could hurt herself to draw back the shadow of the lich, or she could free it, let it burn and rage and devour, and with it turn both her body and the Sire to ice and ash.

There was freedom in the thought, and peace. Peace she could not remember ever knowing.

She stroked Theotar's cheekbone with her thumb and stepped back. From her head she drew her veil and let it fall to the ground. She watched him as she opened her robe's clasp at the back of her neck and slipped it from her shoulders, her arms, baring her skin, her breasts, her belly. It hit the floor with a whisper. Theotar's throat bobbed as he swallowed. Gwennit untied the cord that held her trousers and let them follow. She kicked aside the fabric and her slippers, and stood naked before another for the first time in her second mortal life.

"Oh, my dear." Theotar went to his knees and kissed her belly, just above her navel. He traced the silvery scars outlining the droop of her breasts, and the ones on her soft, small belly. "You nursed children."

"Does it matter? I don't remember them. The dredgers are my children now."

He looked up and kissed the softest part of her belly, where the skin gathered like crêpe. Gwennit had long suspected she gave birth days before Arthas claimed her, but the only evidence lay in her skin, in the play of fat and flesh just above her quim. She ran her fingers through Theotar's hair as he drew his lips over her marks and the texture of her belly. His lips moved, words she could not make out and might never hear. The press of his fingers on her hips, the weak bite of his fingernails, said enough.

"Theotar," she said, and he looked up. She drew him to his feet, and looked into his emberlike eyes as she opened the leather of his belt and the cloth of his trousers. He gasped when she stroked him, and went hard in her grasp. "Please, Theotar."

Theotar stepped out of his trousers and his shoes and let her pull him to the bed. Gwennit sat on the edge, her legs parted, leaning on her hands. Theotar looked her over with something like wonder. As though she was beautiful, not twice steeped and hollow. He knelt beside the bed and rubbed his face against the inside of her thigh.

Gwennit stroked his hair. "You don't need to---"

"It's terribly rude to have a lady before she finds her pleasure. Would you rather I forget my manners?"

Gwennit smiled. "No. You wouldn't be Theotar."

"Precisely!" Still, he watched her. "Tell me if I hurt you."

"You won't."

"Then tell me if---"

She kissed him. "Please."

"So polite, even in bed. I wish you could have seen the Ember Court, my dear. You have the manners of a duchess, and they would have loved your stories."

"A duchess." Gwennit lifted her eyebrows. "Really."

Theotar shrugged. "What else would you be?"

"Yours."

"As I said."

She was a pale shadow to a countess and a prince, but she smiled, a lopsided thing, and kissed Theotar once more. It lingered, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He opened his mouth, and she sucked his tongue. He whined, his fingers digging into her back. She let go and spoke in his ear.

"You know I don't need to breathe."

"What has that--oh. Ohhh. Oh, my dear. I may not let you out of bed in time for the attack."

Gwennit chuckled and nipped his ear. He gasped. She nipped him again, and he pressed for more. With her canines, she bit a careful line along the shell of his ear, all the way to the pointed tip, which she drew into her mouth. By the time she got there, Theotar's breathing had gone coarse and harsh, and he rubbed small circles where he gripped her hips.

"Dowsabel, let me do something. I will explode!"

"Isn't that the idea?"

Theotar made a strangled noise and pressed her to the bed, where he kissed her until she dragged her nails down his back. He went still, panting into her shoulder. She kissed his head.

"Are you all right?"

"A bit, erm. A bit excited."

Indeed, when Gwennit pressed her shin between his legs, he ground against her, once, hard, before pulling away. He blinked a number of times, pulling his loose hair back over his shoulders.

"Please, my dear, may I taste you?"

"You didn't need to ask."

"But I do." Theotar took her hand and kissed it, the embers in his eyes bright and flickering. "How can I be certain you will enjoy yourself if I don't?"

"Maybe I want you to take control."

Theotar looked her over, her hand between both of his. "My little Gwennit, I think you are the one who needs control. You've been denied it so long. Let me give you that much."

Even as he spoke, the hollow in Gwennit's soul filled. For as long as she could remember, she had been a pawn of Arthas, of Sylvanas and the Blightcaller, of the stain upon her soul. Of the terror she might become what she really was, an uncontrollable relic of a fallen kingdom. Once, only once before her body died for good and her soul suffered for eternity, she needed to take her life in her own hands.

She sat up and kissed Theotar, and hugged him. He returned it, and held on as long as she did. She breathed the scent of his hair, that of his skin, a lingering fragrance of blight-like tea, and the growing want between them.

And she leaned back on her hand and drew him to her quim.

It took a moment. There was a rush of cool when he spread her with his thumbs and breathed her in. A wet, wriggling sensation on her nub that turned to a slippery tickle. She gasped. Gripped his ear and lay back, holding him with one hand and her breast with the other.

"Theotar," she whispered.

Theotar moaned and wiggled his tongue. "I have dreamed of this, my dowsabel. I have peaked in my hand at the thought."

Gwennit lifted her head to stare. "Really?"

Theotar wiggled his tongue once more. She whimpered and pressed against his mouth, digging her fingertips into his ear, which only spurred him to go faster.

"I've never--never come that I---"

Theotar glanced at her, his eyebrow cocked, and closed his lips around her nub. She whined and wrapped her legs around his head to keep him close as he sucked. Gripped his other ear. Ground against him of her body's accord. Her heart beat once, twice, and burst to life as she rutted, something huge growing within her faster than she could ever hope to stop it---

The world glowed.

She glowed, or so it felt.

The cry echoing in Gwennit's ears came from her throat, she realised. The huge thing within her washed over her again, left her tensed, and blind at the edges of the world. Theotar replaced his lips with his tongue, then pushed it inside her, a gentle pressure that let her settle from the mist in her brain.

"Sire's mercy," she whispered.

Theotar chuckled and crawled onto the bed to hold her. She snuggled against him, the beard on his chin wet against her scalp. The bed beneath her was just as wet. No matter. She clung to him, her heart slowing but never quite stopping. As soon as she regained her senses, she lifted her head and kissed him.

"Let me do that to you."

"It's terribly impolite to allow such a thing before a lady has finished thrice."

"Who said that?"

"Mona. Of course. She knows ladies and their pleasure better than anyone in Revendreth."

"I thought desire was a sin."

"Only when taken too far. Besides, there is a great difference between desire for power, and the desire to bring a beautiful creature such as yourself to peak again and again."

Gwennit snorted. "I'm not---"

"You are to me. We're soulbound, remember? I see you in ways nobody else can."

Gwennit hid beneath his chin. Theotar chuckled and hugged her.

"My delicious little pastry is as delicious as I hoped. You make a wonderful tea."

Gwennit squirmed, pressing her damp thighs together. "I don't think that's supposed to be tea."

"Of course it is! Anything can be tea."

"Can you be tea?"

"Yes, but not until I've had at least another cup." Theotar chuckled. "I'm quite thirsty."

"But I want to." Gwennit bit her lip. "Only a minute?"

"My dear. Are you---"

"Yes. Yes."

He kissed her. His wet beard had gone cool, and it left a damp spot on her chin. Gwennit returned the kiss as many times as she could, and kissed her way down his chin and throat to scrape her nails across his chest. Theotar groaned and arched against her fingers, even as she drew them further down his body.

Before she got too far, Theotar moved up the bed. He lay with his head on one of the pillows, the white sheets smooth beside the grey of his skin and the burn scars like freckles on his shoulders. Gwennit sat up to look at him, his hair a mess over the pillow and his shoulders, a few strands clinging to his beard. It was the same colour as that on his legs and chest and under his arms, and running in a spreading line from his navel (why did venthyr have navels?) to his hard cock resting on his belly. It was darker than the rest of him, reddened, anima swirling beneath his skin. Large in her hand. Theotar moaned and pressed into her touch, and again when she drew her fingers up and down, the loose skin moving with her.

"My dearest dowsabel." Theotar watched her, and stroked her hair. "My brave, kind, clever little dowsabel. I want to hear all the stories you have ever told, and spend each night with you in my arms."

"I want that, too."

Theotar smiled, though it did not hide the pain in his eyes. She would die, and she would go to the Maw, and that would be the end. Gwennit settled between his legs and kissed his cock before she could lose herself to thought.

It twitched. Gwennit took the tip between her lips. It was an awkward thing, thicker than it looked, and she focused on keeping her teeth well away from his skin. Still, as she lay her cheek on Theotar's hip and sucked, her hand on what she did not take into her mouth, he sighed and stroked the nape of her neck.

Gwennit worked her free hand beneath him. She would hold on in any way she could, for as long as she could, even with his cock on her tongue. As minutes trickled past, she shifted to take in a little more of him, a little more, until he pressed into her throat. He groaned when she swallowed, and gripped her shoulder and her hair.

"My dear, you are far too good at this."

Gwennit snorted, or would have if there was a breath in her body. She lifted her head to take him in until his red hair tickled her nose and lips. She swallowed once more, and he yelped and lifted her from his cock.

"Stop! Stop, dowsabel. Do not make me be rude."

Gwennit flexed her jaw and tongue. "I don't mind."

"But I do!"

A thought came to her. She squirmed against the tingle it sent to her quim. Theotar took her hand.

"What is it, my dear?"

"You don't need a hard cock to use your mouth."

"Are you suggesting--Gwennit! How filthy!" He grinned. "I like it when you're filthy. But, no. Please, let me taste you one more time first. You word is law, but I will beg."

"You really enjoy it that much?"

"I would forego tea. Even from a cup that reminds me of you."

Gwennit blinked. Theotar motioned her closer. She began to settle against him.

"No, my dear. Would you kneel for me?"

"Kneel--wait, what? You can't mean---"

Theotar nodded and pulled his hair out of the way. "The headboard should give you something to grip."

"I...."

"If you don't wish to kneel, there are other positions."

"I'll suffocate you."

Theotar smirked. "You say that as if it's a bad thing."

"But I don't want you to die."

Theotar drew her close, atop him, his arms wrapped around her. She rested her cheek on his chest.

"I don't want you to die either, my dear, but we both know better than to let ourselves be blind, don't we?"

Gwennit held him. Let him hold her. Listened to his heart and his breaths, so much quicker and more vibrant than her own. His skin so much warmer. Even dead, Theotar was more alive than she had ever been.

"I love you," she said.

He tightened his grip. Kissed her head. His heart thundered within him, and anima glowed beneath his skin.

"I love you, my dowsabel."

"Please have me. I don't care about rules or manners. I just want you."

"But it's terribly rude---"

"Please." Gwennit looked up to find him watching her. "Please, Theotar."

He licked his lips and nodded. "How?"

She rolled off him and lay with her head on the other pillow. "Cover me. Protect me while you can."

Theotar kissed her and drew his fingers over her breast. "Anything, my dowsabel."

He knelt between her legs and stroked his cock a slow handful of times. Gwennit squirmed at the sight, and the tingle in her quim swelled. Still, Theotar bent down and licked her, the flat of his finger pressing just inside her body, the pointed nail held away. He sucked his finger clean and, gazing down at her, took his cock in his hand and pushed it against her.

Gwennit quivered as he eased inside, as did Theotar, restraint tensing his muscles and his jaw. She wrapped her legs around his hips and drew him to her, and lifted her hips against him until he leaned over her, propped on his elbows. He breathed, hard and slow, until the flames in his eyes returned to embers, and lay atop her with his full warm weight, her face pressed to the side of his neck, her arms around him, fingers digging into his back.

"Are you all right, dowsabel?"

"Yes. Yes."

Theotar kissed her head and moved his hips. Gwennit pressed into it, into each slow, quiet motion. The steady beat of her heart filled her ears just as Theotar filled her body. Her senses. Even the scent of his skin thickened, dusty and sharp and like light on the crumbling ruins of the Ember Ward. He smelled of home. The only home she would ever truly know. The only one worth knowing.

A strange hunger built within Gwennit. It rose through her, forced her heart to beat, made her draw breath she did not need. She pushed her hips for more, ground in circles for more. Theotar breathed against her hair, hard and heavy. Gwennit nipped his neck, and he whimpered and scrabbled his knees on the bed, pushed into her, thrust so the muscles of his arse tightened beneath her heels. She bit him again, and he whined as he fucked her. It was the only word. Nothing else was starved enough, needy enough; nothing else held the desperation tensed in his bones, or the urgent twitch within her quim.

"Don't stop," she said against his skin. "Please don't--mm, don't ever---"

"My love," he whispered. "My love, my love, my love."

The want in his words filled her soul, her heart. Something pulled between them, and she felt everything within him: love, and lust, and anguish, and the need to hold her and make her cry his name. It spread through her, warm and sweet, like summer honey from the tree, bees milling in confusion. The honey pooled between her legs, pushed her against him, lifted her in his arms, lifted her voice in a whimper, a whine, a plea---

"Theotar," she whispered, and cried out as the whole of him, body and heart and mind and soul, crashed upon her, a wave, a tidal wave, and lifted her to something like grace.

Theotar groaned and pushed into her again, again. His hips stuttered, and he whimpered against her hair as his cock jerked inside her, his whole body taut. Gwennit held him with all her strength, urging him with her hips. She breathed against his neck, only for the joy of doing so, and shivered when he drew back and out and kissed her with his entire soul.

"My little Gwennit," he said between pants. "My dearest--dearest dowsabel."

"My Theotar."

She pressed her legs together to slow the loss of him, the drip of his spend, and clung. He returned it, his face pressed against her hair, kissing her head as his heart slowed and hers eased to a near stop. But it did not stop, not while he held her. Not while she lay in his arms.

Not for the rest of the night.

#

Theotar woke early, but not early enough.

The bed smelled of Gwennit. Of both of them. Her pillow lay cool, and the wet spots had long since dried. All of them, one for each time they came together. He pressed his face to her pillow to breathe in the sweet, grey scent of her hair.

She had not woken him. Had not said goodbye.

If she had, he would not have let her go.

But there was no time to lie abed. Sinfall needed him--Renathal needed him--and he would do his duty.

Theotar was about to slide from beneath the sheets when he saw a piece of paper on his bedside table. He picked it up. On each corner was a middling sketch: a rose; a strange, striped thing with wings, the triangle on its backside touching the tip of a nose; a plump fish; a bottle of wine. In the middle, in Gwennit's small hand, the page read:

My love gave me a silver rose
I told him of the bee
And how it stung upon the nose
Its nature knew not he.
My love gave me his very soul
And I to him gave mine
Within the Maw he I will hold
And love him for all time.

A lump grew in Theotar's throat. He clutched the page to his chest, the paper crumpling and creasing under his fingertips. She could not die. Not when they had just found each other. Not when the Maw loomed above, red with anima and the Jailer's rage. Not when Denathrius still walked.

He stood, the note pressed to his chest. He washed. Dressed. Arranged his hair. Folded the paper to keep in his pocket, where he could take it out and read it.

In the drawing room, Tubbins and Gubbins sat on the couch. Gubbins leaned against Tubbins, and looked up at Theotar.

"Why sad lady tell Gubbins be good?"

"Aye, what's going on, guv?"

Theotar shook his head. "I would rather not speak of it. Perhaps later."

"Sad lady go 'way?"

"Yes, my dear. Gwennit has gone to war."

"She back soon?"

Theotar tried to speak. Tried to say yes. "I need to go. There is a great deal to be done today."

"Sad lady back soon." Gubbins stared, as did Tubbins.

Theotar turned away. "Please, my dear friends. I have a great deal to do."

His strength broke when Gubbins started to cry.

#

The Maw Walkers stood in marching formation at the base of the steps to the Sinfall surface. Renathal watched them from the landing at the top of the stairs. Tension hung in the air above them, and they whispered amongst themselves.

Gwennit stood silent, at attention, her veil drawn over her face. She gripped her staff. Theotar was nowhere to be seen.

"We should go," Draven said. "Denathrius will no doubt receive word as soon as we move. If he hasn't already."

Renathal nodded. He turned to the Maw Walkers. "My friends, we march. Whatever may happen, this day is ours!"

They cheered. All save Gwennit, who bowed her head.

Poor, damned thing.

Poor, poor damned thing.

#

The coward hid behind his minions. Gwennit should have known better than to expect anything else.

After all, it was what Arthas did.

#

"Theotar." The Curator laid her hand on his shaking wrist and took the pink-and-white teacup from his grasp. "I'm sorry."

He looked at her. The note in his other hand crumpled between his fingers.

"Please," he said, and his voice quivered. "Tell the Accuser I need her to take command. Only for today. Please, my sister."

The Curator hugged him and went to do as he asked.

#

As Denathrius taught him, an army marched on its thirst. At the time, Renathal thought he only meant anima. But rage? Hatred? Sin great and small?

Oh, such thirst. No wonder kings and generals fomented it within their people's ranks.

The Maw Walkers annihilated all in their path. Stoneborn fell to dust under their weapons. Blood poured. And with every death, with every small victory, one of their number grew colder and colder until frost shrouded the very walls.

Renathal dared not assume her rage was directed anywhere but him.

The Maw Walkers carried their dead, few in number, with them as they went. A massive tauren lugged a body on each shoulder, one wearing the Horde banner, the other a member of the Alliance. In death, after all, they were equal. The Shadowlands knew no difference between the souls of one and the souls of the other. Renathal could only hope the fallen made their way to safety before the Maw claimed them.

Within the hour, Denathrius stood before them, his only ally Remornia. He scowled at the snow sifting from the stone ceiling, but met Renathal's stare, Remornia pleading behind him for blood. Denathrius's arrogance only grew in the presence of an army, as ever, even one aligned against him.

"Father," Renathal said under his breath.

Near the back of the mortal army, a blue light began to glow. At the very edge of Renathal's hearing came two words:

"My king."

#

Allonii remembered all too well the sound of marching. Screams. The sight of lich fire boiling the Sunwell to ash. Knew the smell of blood and ice and frigid cold, and the dangers of Icecrown. She had been there when the Lich King fell. When his mindless servants roused each other from their torment. It was part of why she went to the Shadowlands, to burn Arthas's damage from her soul.

She did not expect to find the lich there. Burning. Glowing. Hovering metres above the floor, blue and terrible, freezing the sword in Allonii's hands, its robes and demons roiling with rage.

She did not expect to find it on her side.

The quiet one. The woman in black. The only one whose name she never learned, who clung to the Mad Duke as though nothing else existed. Who no doubt clung to him in the night, and to whom rumour clung, entertainment for those who chose to venture into the Shadowlands.

The Forsaken. The Servant of the Lich.

Allonii kept her head down, even when the floor fell away beneath her. Kept fighting. She had seen the power of the lich before, and knew better than to draw its attention.

#

There was no Gwennit.

There was no dowsabel.

There was only the lich, and the lich screamed for vengeance.

The lich screamed for vengeance.

#

"Bad idea," Draven said, even as Remornia charged him. "Bad, bad idea."

Snow hung thick in the air. Poor visibility. Very bad in battle. He stopped just before he could behead Renathal, damn his hair. Above it all, the Maw Walker, Theotar's one, hung, frozen in the frigid air, her screams raging above all else, blue flames pouring from her twisted hands, her clothes, even her hair as the icy wind whipped it into a tempest.

"I'm sorry!" Renathal ran with Draven across the room to catch Denathrius. "It seemed like a good idea at the time!" He slipped on the layers of ice, and Draven caught him.

"Apologise later! Fight now!"

Denathrius laughed. "Your own army betrays you, Renathal! What were you ever thinking? You cannot destroy Revendreth! I am Revendreth!"

The lich fire stopped. The snow paused.

The thing that had been a Maw Walker looked to the Sire.

"I am Revendreth," it said, and its voice echoed on itself. "I am Revendreth."

"Foolish creature! You think you are powerful? All power comes from the Jailer! Even your precious master!"

The lich-thing settled to the floor. It walked to him, heedless of the terror around it, its robes grey with frost.

"We should retreat," Draven said. Renathal shook his head.

"Master," the lich-thing said.

Denathrius grinned. "Yes, little thing. I am your master!"

"Master. My king."

"My child. Kneel before your king."

"My master."

Denathrius pushed the lich-thing to the floor at his feet. It rose. He pushed it down again. "Stay down, foolish girl."

"My master."

The lich-thing looked at him. Rose on a bed of blue flame. Thrust its hand to his chest.

Wrenched the very life from his flesh.

"My master. My master. My master! My king! My master! My king! My king! The king is dead! I am Revendreth!"

"Oh, fuck me running," Renathal said, and charged Denathrius.

Only when the Maw Walkers saw their prince did they follow. Denathrius screamed, falling to his knees. Remornia cut through the air. Cut through the lich-thing. Blue flame bloomed from its wounds, a fountain of ice, a crown of ice hanging above its torn body. One of the priests dragged it away, even as the rest of the army descended upon Denathrius. Draven drove his sword through the Sire's spine and twisted. Its crunch echoed as the last of the snow settled to the ground.

Remornia shrieked.

#

Theotar paced the Reaches. There had been no word, not a single one. Come morning, he could take command, but not yet. Not without word. Not without---

Footsteps. Heavy. Stone.

Silence fell.

He looked up to see Gwennit's body crumpled in Draven's arms. Her soul lay locked within ash and ice. The Curator crept closer and laid her hand on Theotar's arm.

"Is she dead?" she said as Theotar went cold.

Draven shook his head. "I don't know. I don't even know what this thing is any more."

#

Mikanikos tutted and stood from the broken body lying on a stone floor deep within Sinfall. Two separate venthyr had confirmed the soul still inhabited his patient's body, as did Kleia and Pelagos, but something had gone terribly wrong.

Nothing a little tinkering couldn't fix.

"No heartbeat, no respiration, no bodily functions I can see." He dusted his hands together. "Pelagos, the contraption."

"Are you sure it will work on a mortal?"

"If it doesn't, I'll think of something else."

"She hasn't got a heartbeat," the mad venthyr with the strange hair said. Ridiculous things, venthyr. Give Mikanikos good, honest kyrian any day. "She's been steeped too many times."

"I'm sure that makes sense in your head. Pelagos, the contraption, please."

"Yes, Forgelight Prime." Pelagos pulled the healing device from his bag and handed it over. He crouched next to the mortal's body. "What happened?"

"She did what I asked of her." Prince Renathal stood with the mad venthyr, his arms folded. He needed a good nap and a big bowl of purian, if Mikanikos was any judge. "It worked, I suppose."

The mad one took Prince Renathal's arm. Prince Renathal drew him closer. Well, something was up between them. Not that it was any of Mikanikos's business.

"Be careful," Prince Renathal said. "We don't know what will happen if we wake her."

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" the Stoneborn said, Draven or some such. "You saw what---"

"There is a soul in her body. We need to either wake it or release it. Would you want to be trapped in such a state?"

"May I help?" the mad venthyr whispered. He did not even wear a shirt. Terrible manners. Simply terrible.

"This is a job for a professional," Mikanikos said even as Prince Renathal said, "Yes."

Mikanikos looked up. Prince Renathal nodded to the mortal's body. "If anyone can control what she became, it's Theotar."

"You still haven't explained what you mean by that---"

"She was a servant of the Lich King. Mistakes were made."

Mikanikos huffed. "Leave it to a venthyr to think lich powers are anything to play with. Venthyr, you, mad one. Hold her down. Pelagos, you, too."

The mad venthyr did as he was told. After a moment, Pelagos did, too. They leaned on the body's shoulders. Mikanikos cleared his throat until the venthyr put his weight into it. It was a mortal body, not a tea set. It wasn't going to shatter!

Once he made sure everything was as in-hand as lich magic could be, Mikanikos set the contraption on the mortal's chest. It glowed, as expected. The body twitched.

"Gwennit!" the mad venthyr said. Mikanikos batted his hands as he tried to lift her her before the contraption finished its work. Something was most definitely going on between the two of them, too.

Still none of Mikanikos's business.

Pelagos tensed as the mortal opened her eyes. He breathed a sigh of relief when she looked around and lunged into the mad venthyr's arms. She pressed her face to his chest and sobbed.

"Shh, my dowsabel." The mad venthyr kissed her head. "It's all right. You're here. You lived!"

The mortal shook her head. "I remember. I remember."

"I have you, my dear."

She wiped her face with her fingers and pulled free. She ran. The mad venthyr followed. Prince Renathal slumped.

"That could have gone better."

"It could have also gone a lot worse," the Stoneborn said.

Prince Renathal nodded. "Thank you, Mikanikos. You have done Revendreth a great service today." He paused. "I hope."

Mikanikos shook his finger at Prince Renathal. "That will teach you to play with liches, Your Highness! I suggest you go home and have a good, ripe purian!"

Prince Renathal snorted. "I think I may need something a bit stronger, but yes. It's, ah, it's been a day."

"Hmph! It's not even time for lunch. A day, he calls it." Mikanikos turned to Kleia. "Are my services still required, Mistress Kleia?"

"No. Thank you, Mikanikos. We owe you for this."

"Indeed you do. If you'll excuse me, duty calls."

Mikanikos gathered up his tools and his contraption. Ridiculous things, venthyr. Give him good, honest kyrian any day.

#

"Are you sure about this, my dowsabel?"

Gwennit nodded. She gazed out the window. Thornhill Manor. In the heart of enemy territory. The last place for a soldier of the Dark Prince, but Sinfall was too important to risk.

Theotar was too important to risk.

He kissed her head. She flinched and pulled away. Theotar sighed and sat next to her.

"Tubbins and Gubbins will miss you, my dear. I will miss you."

"You weren't there."

"That wasn't you. It was Arthas. His stain on your soul."

Gwennit shook her head. It was no more a stain than she was alive. It was part of her, and always would be. She was a weapon. Nothing more.

"Please go." She dared not look at Theotar. If she did, she would break. Would ask him to stay. Would hurt him. "Please go, my love."

Theotar kissed her head. She closed her eyes until he was gone. Forever, if he knew what was good for him.

With that, she went to the small desk in the room that used to be Theotar's. She took out a pen and ink and paper, and thought only a moment before she wrote.

My Dark Prince,

Look after him. He deserves someone who will never hurt him.

Yours,
The Lich of Thornhill

She sealed the letter and called for Bogdan, who took it before she could change her mind.