The silence wasn't necessary, but it helped. In the minimally furnished study, the only thing Kelovas Dawnthief could hear was his own heaving breath and his own racing heart. Not a single sound of Shattrath bustling outside penetrated his walls. For the moment he was drawing his attention away from his tray of surgical tools, from the pair of prosthetic legs leaned up against the bed, from the spent syringe pumped clean with only thin streaks of red left behind, crawling down the edges of the glass. He clutched his forearm tightly and paid close attention to the way his veins jumped and jerked and perhaps the grip was more for fear that his very blood might jump out of the angry pinprick and he would lose control.
It would be time very soon.Â
Slowly, afraid to lose the moment with himself and his electrified blood, Kelovas rose to a sitting position. From there he could see every step and somehow in that moment, the rush of magic surging through him wasn't enough to push back the fear quickly enough. It tossed in his gut, rocketing this way and that. The bolt could wait, but his anger would not. Rydrein Redmender ran away. Every ounce of him that was in Kelovas' home was left as it stood, for a while. Then it was thrown out into the streets, then collected into a little box with no name scribbled on and pushed into a dark cupboard where he hoped he could forget it, some day. All that was left was the leg. In some foolish display of crippling adoration he allowed the mechanic to burn the thing. Maybe the letters carved into his side would heal but his leg would never come back. The bolt had to go. It had to go and there was no one that could do it, no one that he trusted but himself.
The doctor scrubbed his face in his hands quickly, growling out his frustration with himself just once before grabbing at his supplies. The nub was cleaned and propped up, old thick bolt exposed to the room. All he needed to do was cut and unscrew. It was his mistake. Rydrein Redmender was his mistake and now he had to fix it, and it wasn't sad or happy - it was just the truth.
The cutting wasn't the worst part. He'd cut into his own skin more than enough, out of necessity almost as often as for the satisfaction of doing so, so the sensation - while sharp - was nothing he couldn't handle with all of that delectable, intoxicating magic coursing through his veins. The bolt was something else entirely. Drilled into the bone from one end to the other, he hadn't exactly intended it to be removed out of anger and all alone.
It seemed fitting, though, in some bitter corner of his agonized mind. Throughout the harrowing process of peeling back his own flesh and gripping the blood-slicked bolt to slowly unwind it, the irony of it all - the sick, unpleasant irony - managed to flicker in and out with his consciousness. It was blood-drenched, solitary and sick with pain that he first learned who he was and what would be his purpose. By the time he fell back from his clumsily-sutured nub, heaving and delirious, he remembered again.Â
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