Knowledge is Power.

✘ "Saving the world is not a one man job." Indie || Selective KHADGAR World of WarcraftAsk/RP Blog Tracking tag:archmageofazeroth Est. July 13th, 2016 Check links for further information.

[wemultitudinous]

@archmageofazeroth​ asked:  A kiss on the corner of the mouth.

SPOTS TO KISS // ACCEPTING

One day, he wakes up and finds that his heavy grief is less like an open wound, and more like a well worn coat. It’s soft from wear and despite its weight it moulds to him, keeps him warm instead of bleeding him dry. He can’t say when it started happening.

There has been a withdrawal in him, these past months. 

Keep reading

[archmageofazeroth]

@cuervocanto​

From this little pain-nugget

Zevran was bent over a mess of books and papers. Diagrams, lists, maps. For two days after the rescue, he didn’t speak a word to anyone. But as soon as he did, he was swarmed by adventurers and leaders alike. Tell us everything you know. So he did his best. He would relive every moment of torture, every nerve ending of his body burning alive if it meant his notes would help the cause.

He winced as he sat up, and drew a blanket tighter around himself. He swore a city in the clouds was an awful idea. Someone would catch their death from the cold. It was certainly not the lingering chill in his bones from his recent captivity.

“I have had worse.”

He laid a hand over his belly where one of the worst was still healing. Likely to scar later.

“Besides, caro, even though I have no doubts you are exceedingly skilled, even you are just a man, yes? You cannot be everywhere at once.”

Nothing happened for free, after all. Who had to die while they diverted resources to finding one assassin, he wondered?

He had suffered worse. As if that was any consolation?

What good was power? What good was he if he could not even keep the one he cherished from enduring again what horrors he had known in his past? He had sworn an oath-- if only to himself, as he knew Zevran would never agree that he accept such responsibility-- that so long as he lived, the elf would never again battle those shades that still lived within him. That he would never again be faced with those insidious shadows that lurked always in the corners of his mind whenever he stepped from the light. 

Khadgar knew those ghosts too well to ever wish them on someone he loved, and yet. He had failed here, again, as he had so many times before. And this time, there was nothing to distract him from the certainty, from the the distinct, exquisite misery that the elf had suffered simply because their enemies were aware of their bond.

What good, indeed.

“I suppose I cannot.” His hands hovered, flexing over the assassin’s injured form before coming to rest uneasily upon the blanket between them, unable to find a home that would not cause further harm. “As has been made quite obvious by your current condition.” His eyes were drawn the hand that lay protectively across Zevran’s abdomen and his own gut twisted in sympathy, guilt and shame tangling until he could no longer tell one from the other. “Your notes were... very thorough. Any more so and you would have provided illustrations, as well. Commendable, I must say.”

[archmageofazeroth]

@cuervocanto

It was rare indeed that they had nearly an entire day to spend together in such peace, much less that they had the liberty to do so in such idyllic settings.

The ribbon of pristine white beach just north of the village on Quel’Danas was utterly silent, save for the occasional murmuring of their voices, hushed as if to respect the vibrant display of beauty all around them. Once, they might have been approached by hostiles here, but no longer, and the land had been left to return to its natural state, flourishing where it had waned, the sun glimmering on the colorful fall foliage and reflecting on the water lapping near their feet in shades of muted brilliance and light.

It was almost too perfect, and Khadgar tested his wards for perhaps the third time, aware that Zevran would have little patience with his (understandable) paranoia, but unwilling to allow anything to disrupt this time they’d carved from the rest of the world to spend together.

This was far to precious to waste. His assassin lay within the possessive curl of his arm, their legs tangled where they reclined on a thick blanket laid over sand and soil, the tree at their backs offering support and shelter from the sun that showed no signs of encroachment from the clouds that had been predicted for later that afternoon. A basket lay nearby, ignored for the moment as Khadgar leaned closer still, smiling as his lips brushed golden hair, and the arc of a delicately pointed ear.

“So when am I to discover what this surprise you’ve been hoarding might be?” His voice was only a whisper, low and amused as he nipped lightly at the skin just below. “I’ll admit, I’m curious. And nosy. Restraining myself  from investigating has been a hardship, I assure you.”

[parfym]

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

[archmageofazeroth]

invindictae:

❝ I’m not like most Mages. ❞ At least most that were not with the Circle or lone Apostates who usually resorted to Blood Magic. Anders, always had a major understanding of healing —- even more so thanks to the Spirit he had inside him, but that was another case entirely,  ❝ Though, I doubt my reputation is decent outside  of the Healing arts. ❞

    “Fortunately, I have no concern for your reputation otherwise.” Spoken matter-of-factly, the young mage straightened, determination evident in the set of his shoulders and the gleam of his dark eyes. “I seek a... tutor. In the Healing arts. And I have little time to debate the particulars if you are not willing to aid me.”

[archmageofazeroth]

@frcgment from x

    “Trapped?”

Mirth spills forth from the woman, head tipped back as her shoulders shake with a brief bark of laughter.

    “What makes you consider me trapped?            Not all things that can fly, are caged.”

    “I am well aware. But you are not the only one with wings.” It took some effort not to appear testy, but Khadgar made a valiant attempt, gaze casting around them once more in open disbelief. He’d never seen such a place, in all the worlds he’d traveled. It was like some bizarre sort of dreamscape, and yet it all felt somewhat familiar, the very air tasting of the arcane in a way that was ever so slightly off.

“Are you able to leave as easily as that, then?” Punctuating the terse reply with a snap of his fingers, he gestured at the obvious conversation piece before them, the giant pulsing tear in the sky. “Are you responsible for... this? And why in all the hells am I here?”

[archmageofazeroth]

cuervocanto:

Zevran tried to protest. Although admittedly, he did not try very hard, entirely content as he was to be at the archmage’s mercy. And as soon as Khadgar’s breath met his ear, his last shreds of will vanished, along with the strength in his legs. He took in a quick breath, warmth creeping over him and through his cheeks.

“Wise, with a horribly low opinion of yourself,” he said, tone flat in an effort to regain some of his composure. He willed himself to relax his grip on Khadgar’s robes and wondered when, exactly, he tightened his fists in the first place. 

“I was raised among whores and honed into a tool of murder. Love is forbidden. Dangerous, even. I made that mistake once before and paid the price. And yet, here I am, and I cannot help myself.” Zevran is rambling now, avoiding meeting Khadgar’s eyes. “You are wonderful to watch. Do you know that? Strong, wise, noble, selfless–I can go on, yes? It is little wonder why I am drawn to you. But that is why you deserve better. Not a broken tool, like me. Someone who is not afraid of–” 

He trailed off. He’s already said too much.

    “Ha! As if I’m not entirely aware of my own unique qualities. I would say my opinion is more pragmatic than low, exactly...” Falling silent at the lost expression on the assassin’s face-- one could not always avoid the grim the realities of trauma with humor, after all-- Khadgar sighed and surrendered to the moment, drawing away enough to look down at the elf he still held securely within him arms.

    “Love is dangerous.” It was a truth the mage had always known, seen first through the idealistic eyes of a child, and then, later, through the considerably more disenchanted eyes of a man. It always meant weakness, vulnerability-- neither attributes that a person such as Zevran would ever find comfortable. Khadgar himself had also known pain, and loss, but in his youth he had at least the fortune to possess freedom of a sort. That freedom, also, took time for him to recognize. It was already his, a gift of his nature, and he had only to reach out and grasp it to take his first steps on the path to becoming the man he was born to be. 

    “Love is also generous, and kind. Passionate and profound. It offers a power no archmage could ever hope to wield, and effortlessly holds legions more vast than any old god could gather helpless within its grip.”

This battle would not be won today, he knew. Or tomorrow. Perhaps not for years to come. The damage inflicted upon the assassin would likely never entirely heal, and even as the mage burned with grief and anger over what had passed, Khadgar knew that to move on with their lives the repetitive cycle of desperate longing and flinching away from matters of the heart must finally come to an end. 

Hand sweeping lower to tilt the assassin’s face upwards, he met Zevran’s eyes, cradling his face as gently as he might have held summoned light itself, his expression a complex blend of earnest determination and unconcealed affection. 

    “It is dangerous, but also beautiful. And inarguably worthwhile. Not unlike the one I have chosen to stand beside me. Fear is something wise men cultivate. It is a teacher whose lessons we must take to heart. But we cannot allow it to own us, or the past we have put behind us ultimately wins... and we never really live on at all.”

[invindictae]

❝ i’m a HEALER. ❞ his words came out ROUGHLY; stated with clear and precise accuracy, ❝ nothing else. ❞    

// @archmageofazeroth

[archmageofazeroth]

“Well... yes. A rare and valuable skill, and not one I would care to disparage.” Pausing as if searching for words that were proving elusive, Khadgar glanced away briefly, a faint line forming between his brows. “And I have no wish to intrude in any sense of ethics or moral code you observe. I only... well. I’ve shown almost no aptitude thus far in that art, and in my travels I’ve encountered no mage with a reputation as formidable in the healing arts as yours.”

[archmageofazeroth]

@cuervocanto​ from x

Zevran sighed, taking a seat next to the archmage. He hated seeing Khadgar in one of his moods. Khadgar was volatile, he was pained, and Zevran was at a loss. He’d never had anyone console him in his grief; he couldn’t begin to find the right words.

“Amor.” The sin’dorei took Khadgar’s hands in his, saving them from his worried hair. “I do not claim to understand what he meant to you. But I know what it is like to lose everyone.”

Zevran couldn’t meet Khadgar’s eyes as he spoke, afraid that his ill-chosen words would backfire.

“You have to let him go. But, for what it is worth,” and if he’s being honest, it’s very little, “you are not alone.”

In all the years of his life, throughout everything he’d experienced, all the other losses he’d endured, a single day each year had never failed to resonate within him.

Before consciousness would even fully take him on that day, the echo of the energy that had rebounded through him then, the essence of the one he’d held so much regard for the entirety of his short existence would return, singing in his blood, his bones, leaving behind its own very particular flavor of regret.

Back then, when those wounds had still been still fresh, he had others that had understood intimately what he felt, others that had been hurt by that loss even more deeply than he. Now, those souls had passed on, and he was left to dwell upon this loss, and theirs, alone.

Well, not alone. To say that was a disservice to the elf who stood beside him now, who cared enough to attempt to draw him from his fugue, to offer empathy from a heart that had been so sorely wounded in its own right.

The reminder of Zevran’s own pain, the entirety of it still not known to him, drew Khadgar from his almost meditative state, the furrow between his bushy brows fading somewhat as he curled his fingers around the assassin’s, drawing courage from the strength that they had always exhibited whenever he had cause to ask. Or even when he had not.

“And for that I am profoundly grateful, my dear.” He managed a half-smile, his gaze still distant with what had been, his expression wistful and tinged with regret. “Never doubt it.”

[archmageofazeroth]

conruptela:

“ The world needs a guidance that only one can really offer. ” He wonders how many tomes had been read, how many pages of the books that lay here in their silence, filled with secrets had their spines stretched by young hands that had taken ( but not, at the same time ) the mantle left to gather dust. The last guardian, truth only comes in blood and training, in a tradition and a ritual that the other had not taken yet. That there, the double edged sword; the blessing one could easily grant that comes with responsibility. Khadgar may choose, that he knows different: choice. 

He supposes that he too had a choice, that he too could have done things, could have been someone or something else. But fate lines were deceptive, would break and stretch and propagate across a space, only to do so again, and again, and again until it met with the end at which it intended. Sargeras was a clever thing, and he knows now of the uphill struggle and his inevitable end. A bitter thought, and guilt weighs heavy upon his shoulders. 

There’s hope that this second chance he’s been given — he may atone. He may help.   

“ You won’t find the answer if you continue to allow yourself to be pulled back. ” Accusation, though he knows the struggle felt. He’s forgotten the years himself, how long it took until it all became familiar ( though time was a thing that was strange, came in lapses, leaps and bounds where often the mage had slept — sometimes purposeful, sometimes unintentional; that was the struggle ). 

He listens, a soft smile as Khadgar speaks, understanding resonating with what the tower can provide, with that ever gnawing fear of a line severed and a throne without an heir ( potential perhaps in something lost once found … but again, fate and opportunity had their ways of working ). The hands finally then fall to touch, warm as thumbs brush lazy upon the top of fingers. Answers, of course as he had been when they had first met. Curiosity ran through him like magic’s own current. a need to help, to be there for Azeroth and bring calm to the chaos he spread — that was there too. Ah, his once, and always apprentice. “ — I can help you, young trust. ” 

Even his most restless dreams would not have conjured this scene, before nor after he’d finally met the man he’d so idolized in his youth, but the fantasies of a child were a fragile thing indeed. Medivh as he was here, standing before him once more, closer, and then closer still, bearing the unmistakable warmth of a smile that had never been for Khadgar whilst the Guardian had lived. 

Particularly for a mage chosen to one day be Guardian himself. Dreams were for other children, children whose fates would not hold sway over the entirety of Azeroth. Ego and selective pragmatism had been the Kirin Tor’s well-honed blade, and Khadgar had been sculpted in their righteous image.

He had not long remained there. 

His reception here at Karazhan when he’d first arrived, understandably, had been... less than positive. The motivations for that hostility had been more complex than he had guessed at the time, than anyone, including the Guardian’s closest comrades, could have ever conceived. His own despair, when he’d discovered how low the man before him had fallen had far eclipsed that of simple respect or regret, and he had retreated, lost himself gladly here amongst the shades of what once had been.

You won’t find the answer if you continue to allow yourself to be pulled back.

Dark amusement swelled again, only to fade almost immediately to melancholy. What else would he find here but history? It was what he lived, what he sought, what would save them if only he could find the hidden answer within all the secrets the Guardians before him had left behind.

“Where else should I reside but the past, here in this place?” Still frozen, uncertain, Khadgar’s gaze fell of its own volition, watching as the figure reached for him, bracing, though he knew this last concession would likely only bring him pain. “This is my duty. I exist between the years, the hours, the moments of your life. And you are not real.”

He could not be. And yet, warmth, pervasive and so very Human swept over his skin, curled over his hands, and it was all he could do not to falter, to stand firm even as he stared in disbelief at the weathered hands that lay over his own, as he listened to the familiar voice that offered aid.

“How...” Incredulous, wonder and fear, awe and disquiet contested, unconcealed on his face, and Khadgar finally shook his head in reluctant denial. “How can this be? I-- I saw you die. Saw the life leave your eyes, felt your loss along with the fel that so long held you captive.” The peace that had escaped him in life seemed to encompass the Guardian now, and Khadgar met his calm, untroubled gaze as he felt the grief of that moment swell once more, tightening in his throat, gleaming in his own eyes, ever-vivid in memory. 

“I moved you from the Tower myself, you know. Lifted you with a spell of force down to the escort that awaited you in the courtyard. I stood vigil with the others that night by your side. You were never left alone.”

[castielwho]

When your bae is a badass. 

[archmageofazeroth]

gloriaexercitus:

There has always been something about flying.

Now, more than ever. To leave behind the petty politics and stifling, gilded chains of this place he’s found himself in is a relief, to watch it shrink away beneath him until he can taste nothing but wind. He never dreams of leaving, but he dreams of this – of the freedom of flight.

Urging the beast as fast as she’ll fly, they soar towards Karazhan with a harsh wind tugging through Anduin’s hair, biting at his skin and sending his eyes streaming. He fears that if he slows, he will not be brave enough to continue.

Bad enough to face what he has lost every day, without having to stand in the places that he lost it. He hopes to find Khadgar outside the tower, or in the library, but he knows in his heart that he will not, even before his approach reveals to him the white-blue flicker of magic atop the tower. He falters for the first time at the sight of it, at the memory of being stood across the font from Medivh, inviting his friend – what had once been his friend, he corrects himself, little more than empty shell carrying some dark evil he may never understand – to kill him. I have nothing left to lose. He had thought that he had meant it. He had been wrong.

He mounts the stairs, sets punishing, steady pace that has him breathless within seconds, but which he will not abandon. When did he become this frightened thing, unwilling to stop for fear that he will freeze, all courage lost?

By the time he reaches the top, his pulse is pounding too hard beneath his skin to let him focus, and perhaps he could claim that to have been his plan all along. The tightness in his chest, the shallow hitch of his lungs may prove distraction enough from what he must inevitably confront.

Khadgar stands, feet planted and hands raised and even without seeing his face, Anduin knows that he looks more sure here than at any dinner, or sat around any negotiating table. The set of his spine is stronger, more solid. As if this is where he finds himself.

“If you’re making improvements, can I suggest fewer stairs?”

There’s still rough breathlessness hanging on the edges of his words, proof that he has dragged himself up where wings would have taken him easily enough. Eyes stay focused on his friend, unwilling to let themselves be dragged away to survey the space around them.

Spinning suddenly as the too-familiar voice sounded behind him, his heart pounding and his eyes and hands still aglow with arcane power, Khadgar stared unblinking at his unexpected visitor for a long, breathless moment before the massive stones his art held midair began to slowly orbit above, light coiling and pulsing between them, the circular pattern of his thoughts mirrored visibly in the bones of the shattered Tower.

Of course the wards would not alert me of his arrival-- not for him. The only other soul save me still living that they will yet accept. But he’s here. He’s here. 

    Why is he here? 

Mind whirling as he internally verified the time that had passed, Khadgar averted his gaze, more to conceal his reaction than anything else, silently turning back to his work. It had been only hours since he had fled, and surely there was nothing so pressing here to draw Lothar from such an... important discussion of his, and the kingdom’s, very future.

Recriminations would serve neither of them, Khadgar lectured himself sternly, but it was difficult enough to heed whatever bare counsel wisdom might gather when it came to this man. When he was here, inexplicably, and welcome beyond any measure that the Mage might dare reveal.

And yet-- he must find his tongue, even if he could not speak his mind. He could feel the pressure of the King’s regard, the weight of a gaze almost tangible as a touch, and closing his eyes against the memory of what it had taken to finally drive him here, to his duty, Khadgar purposefully kept his voice light when he finally answered, tone teasing as had been the habit that had grown between them in the months since they had both lost so very much.

    “I would think that so much time spent on your arse in the council chamber lately would leave you with a desire to be out and on your feet. Perhaps I should add a few more stairs... we wouldn’t want your royal reputation to suffer when you lose track of your breath on the way to the baths.”

[archmageofazeroth]

cuervocanto:

The sun take him if Khadgar was not stubborn! Staying lucid even with Zevran’s tongue in his mouth–either Zevran was losing his touch, or becoming archmage involved a few more lessons than making fireworks. Either way, he simply had to work harder. 

That is all you think I do, yes? Play games? That’s what he wants to ask. He has not earned that right. Instead, he can only offer little distractions, kissing the corner of Khadgar’s lips, stroking idly through his hair, stoking the fire’s warm coals, no matter how determined the mage was to put them out. 

“What you ask of me–” he said with lips pursed, “–I am no good for that. In your bed, yes, but by your side…You do not want me there.” 

It’s as expertly as he can dance around the subject, and tell no lies. 

Pale, bushy brows rose, one just slightly higher than the other as the Mage accepted the attention, briefly leaning slightly into the’s elf’s touch before drawing back just enough to regard Zevran for a few long moments. His gaze narrowed thoughtfully even as his hands remained where they were, woven gently through that long, golden hair that he could admit, at least privately, he’d always longed to touch. 

The contrast of such deliberate care from hands that could wreak such havoc was certainly not lost on him. It was a choice, as was the man before him. One which he was pleased to make of his own volition with no outside influences he cared to recognize.

That was a rare enough thing in his life in and of itself, as was the desire and loyalty of a soul that burned as brightly as the assassin’s, as scarred within as he may be. Whatever he still hid, whatever he could not offer of himself, Khadgar was no better prospect in that regard, to be sure. One did not grow to his age, or Zevran’s, without some unfortunate souvenirs of loss.

“Oh, and now you’re the resident expert on what I wish from life? A little presumptive of you, but I suppose that’s nothing new.” Leaning in again as he came to terms with his own surrender, Khadgar stole another kiss, silencing whatever immediate response might attempt escape, his mouth curving against the assassin’s before he moved on, lips brushing across a tattooed cheek until he found an elegantly pointed ear. “For your information, I’m entirely capable of determining who I wish to keep beside me.” Voice falling, breath ghosting over golden skin, he nipped at a tender lobe, slight smile lingering where it could not be seen. “You might as well take my word for it-- I’m terribly wise. Everyone says so.”

[archmageofazeroth]

conruptela:

The Guardian’s gaze falls to follow hands, lifts to measure stance and settle on shoulders that hold the invisible weight of a burden carried. There is a place apparent, void of presence meant to be at the apprentice’s side — his. He doesn’t know how many years have passed, how many winters chill the stone of the tower and carry the whisper of ghosts through the corridors to keep him awake. 

Perhaps, it is different for Khadgar. Perhaps before, the whispers and nightmares were simply just the presence of another, an unwanted, a demon carried like a taint since birth, dormant until the wake of power. Sargeras. The name echoes, resonates at a frequency that shakes the bone beneath his skin. That’s when it had all begun, after all. Perhaps…

“ Don’t you wish to be the new Guardian? “ 

He remembers then, the cruelty of suggestion - replacement of a function, loss of the title as protector, of the duty as the guardian this world had needed. Sargeras plucked at humanity’s weaknesses, of fear and abandonment, aided by the corruption that ran in his blood and poisoned his thought. He remembers the way reflection had been tinted with a green that even now haunts him, even now causes him worry. It had consumed him once before.    

Medivh moves with motions slow, senses the growth of arcane presence and the edge at which the once apprentice now teeters. Arms half extended out, hands open and touch is offered — meant to place gently above those that grip tight on the table. “ Khadgar. ” Another smile. “ It’s no home, only because you choose to refuse it. ” Voice soft. “ Why have you chosen to remain here if this is the case? ” 

There is a heavy moment of silence before Medivh speaks again, as if the Tower itself waits, mere moments of mortality too trivial to consider when the power that slowly rose between them cast everything else aside.

And those words... Khadgar would have laughed bitterly had his throat not closed with newly revived despair. Guardian-- who alive could in good faith claim that title? Who would dare to? 

His childhood dream, so long cherished, had been discarded without real regret. They had asked him, after the gate had fallen, of course. Presumed, before Llane’s body had even been interred. Of course he would take the place he had once abandoned, would he not? Despite the fact that the Council’s arrogance and apathy had driven him from the only home he’d known once he’d realized they would never change. And the loss of thousands of souls, hundreds of thousands, of a King, of a Guardian-- the last Guardian-- had done nothing to inspire that revolution.

If it were up to them, he would shut himself from the world, as had Medivh within the prison of his mind. Ignoring all beyond these walls until their enemies were quite literally at their very gates.

No. They would not have Azeroth. Not so long as he drew breath.

“You were the last.” The words hurt as they escaped him, each one leaving behind a rift, the final admission of what had been and what would never be. “The world cannot bear another.”

The figure advanced, then, and Khadgar somehow stood firm, slowly widening eyes fixed to the semblance of the man he had once known. Knuckles tightening, bleeding white, he watched as the Guardian extended a hand, pausing before they touched until the anticipation of it took every ounce of restraint the young mage had to remain in place.

“I remain because I must.” Gaze shifting up, meeting those familiar eyes, he exhaled shakily, his expression growing steadily more determined. “The answer we need is here, somewhere. Who else can be trusted to find it, when even you fell?” A complex blend of accusation and grief colored his voice until it faltered and fell to a whisper, “It accepts me, yes, but this place? It was only ever yours. It always will be.”

[archmageofazeroth]

gloriaexercitus:

Lothar’s chest is tight.

He shakes his head, catches concern on the face of his sister out of the corner of his eye. A hand on Thorald’s shoulder – rougher perhaps than necessary – stops the man’s words in their tracks. He can’t quite find the words to express his distaste for the man’s babblings.

   “I don’t think so,” is what he settles for, fierce and low. He takes a step back, on the verge of turning to leave, and catches his sister’s warning look. “If you’ll excuse me,” he adds, stiffly polite. Probably not enough to avoid offending the man, but enough to claim he’d made the effort. Yet another side of politics he can’t stand; he’s a clear and direct man, and pretending to be nice to people he does more than just ruffle his feathers.

Something seems to occur to him, and he turns from side to side, craning his neck only to catch the faint flash of Khadgar’s cloak disappearing through the door. That adds irritation to the heavy stone settled in the pit of his stomach.

Evenings spent with Khadgar, as they regularly are, are a pin-point of normality in a world that had so suddenly become something unfamiliar. Better, perhaps, if a world at war felt more like one – instead, he’s trapped in chains of royalty, unable to do anything. It’s stifling. He can’t for a second imagine how Llane had been able to bear it.  

He follows the young mage, dogged. Each step further from Thorald and his talk of marriage is a relief, each second he fails to catch up with Khadgar, a frustration.

Eventually, he’s forced to admit that the mage has outrun him. Unease curls its fingers around his bones; whether he’s unsure of the reason for Khadgar’s sudden disappearance, or merely unwilling to consider them, it’s not quite clear. Even to himself.

A cornered guard finally manages to confirm that the mage had been seen in the courtyard, but not beyond. Lothar doesn’t doubt that he’d utilised the same old trick that Medivh had so often delighted in. There’s no catching a raven in the oncoming dark of night.

He ought to return to Taria and the gathered council. He ought to have dinner. He ought to. He turns, prepared to follow through on what is expected of him, but the thought of it – of the conversation he’s only just escaped from – stalls him. 

           And four minutes, later, he’s whispering a fond greeting to his           gryphon, catching her beak in his fingers and letting her nip           and shake her head playfully.

It was unlike Khadgar to avoid what scared him, however little he would admit-- even to himself-- that returning here was indeed a thing he feared. But it was, for all the reasons he had first entered the twisted, shadow-shrouded Tower back before this mess had all occurred, mingled excitement and trepidation pooling, lingering in his very bones even now, and yet more reasons besides. That shadow he had pressed through with every determined step, that disconcerting aspect of time spiraling recklessly, of memories that could not be held accountable for their desolation, of blood spilled both ancient and fresh-- no. It had not faded in the slightest.

Instead, it had grown only more complex... layered upon the lingering essence of the last Guardian, of his countless hours spent here, of study and of familiar power that would never leave the crumbling stones, of the corruption that had finally claimed him, even now when no visible remnant of that taint could be discovered.

And upon that complex weaving of past and present, of pain and doubt, of glorious legacy and exaltation, Khadgar’s very presence added another subtle shade to the mix.

He mourned, as illogical as it was to do so. For himself, for the loss of a man he had very nearly worshiped, for what he could have learned, for what they could have accomplished together. He mourned for Llane, cut down in his prime, for his son, and for the entirety of his subjects. And finally, the Mage mourned for Lothar, perhaps most intensely of all.

They had become close enough, even before the nearly disastrous war they’d almost been forced to engage in, for him to understand how very damaged the man had been by Medivh’s betrayal. The awareness that the Guardian had no real choice in the matter was little consolation when the new King was forced to go on alone, without those he had cared for nearly the entirety of his life.

Well. Perhaps not alone. Khadgar had been a nearly constant presence at Lothar’s side over these past few months, making himself available as possible in an attempt to both to aid Lothar in whatever manner he may, and to comfort himself as well. Perhaps it had been a somewhat selfish sacrifice, but Khadgar found he could not care when it came to the man he had come to regard above all others in this world and the next.

And that regard, of course, was what had led him here. Where ultimately, his duty resided, regardless of his halfhearted attempts to evade that responsibility. Lothar, it seemed, would not remain alone for long, regardless of his own absence.

The room where Medivh had breathed his last-- witnessed only by Khadgar himself and the restless ghosts of previous victims-- was unchanged save for the removal of the man himself for proper burial. Rubble still lay strewn about the chamber, the balcony overhead partially fallen, and the remains of the golem that had once sought their demise still lay where it had fallen, reduced to its base components, any animation that it had once possessed as absent as the beating heart of his Master.

Shaking his head deprecatingly at his wool-gathering, Khadgar pushed up the sleeves of his robe and began to focus, his feet braced solidly shoulder-length apart as he raised his hands, already faintly glowing, determination obvious in the grim set of his features. He had work to do here, and he had wasted time enough ensnared in what dreams would never come. It was time. Time to move on. If he proved strong enough to do so. And so he must. 

What else was left to him, in truth?

[indielists]

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[archmageofazeroth]

conruptela:

It’s a habitual wander, a route often taken in the company of tomes; of spell books and stories and secrets inherited alongside the title of the Guardian. The company which often was all he could have, was once all he could deal with. He understood their language, felt the power and the meaning beneath fingertips as he touched ink and parchment. 

They say walls talk, but people whisper, incomprehensible at times, and others not so much. Yet still they’d once incited the same reaction like a sharp nail against sensitive skin, goosebumps, the tremble of a hand as it reached for Atiesh, for any semblance of safety, for any sense of a reality grounding. The suffering taken in silence, for none would understand the power unlocked and the clockwork that ruled his life. 

He permits himself here, in his return for a small game, a small tease. Memory hidden with a mist yet to clear —how he came here, why he came to be; those were questions asked, yet with no answer received. A book rests upon a table — out of place from how it once was, and he places it back between two others on the shelf considered it’s home. Then distance, only for a moment, to shock, to surprise, and to add a little grandeur to entrance. 

“ Khadgar, ” a pause. “ I hope your casting is better than your housekeeping. ” A smile then offered, with eyes soft and a voice gentle and curious. Words spoken are a reflection of what was once said, what the boy was once accused of, and what he was now. A gesture, as he speaks, to the library around them. “ Was it everything you envisioned it to be? ”

The silence had been his companion so long, he almost mistook the voice for a reflection, a memory given form by the path his mind had followed so often. By a specter it always found here, if he allowed it the liberty to stray long enough. The ancient walls of Karazhan warped what was real even as they accepted him, as they sheltered him and offered a strange, dark manner of consolation.

And yet... that vision had never before spoken to him, even here, where Medivh’s presence had always been strongest. Or at least, it had never before spoken aloud.

Slowly, he turned to face that possible threat, hands flexing at his sides, arcane light flaring briefly in his eyes only to flicker and fade when he saw who stood before him. It was no ghost, he knew, no dream. Khadgar’s lips parted soundlessly and closed once more, questions, recriminations, remorse and relief all tangled tightly behind his teeth. The Guardian himself was only a few feet away, his familiar garb unchanged, expression indulgent as it had so seldom been in life. His presence was a beacon, the signature of his Art unmistakable to another practitioner so familiar with his energy.

It was not the first time Khadgar had questioned his own sanity in this place. Merely his most compelling reason for doing so.

“No.” Voice cracking, uneven, the young mage swayed, his hands gripping the battered table before him, the carvings along its edge biting into his flesh, grounding him when he might have faltered. Reality was no definite thing here, nor time, but he could not help but search for the wounds that were no longer there, for the taint of corruption that had ultimately stolen the Guardian from them all.

“It is a shell, its insides gleaming, riches of knowledge hidden from the world. But it is only a shell. Nothing lives here since your loss, not truly. Even me.”