Burning Walls and Bridges (Pt. 1)
[Thanks in advance for reading, and a big thanks to my rp partners, who are kind enough to put up with role-playing with Hunter and I. @rhylian-jests and @roanathos-niluthiad are both amazing and I’m so glad I met you both– Hunter’s story would be a lot different without the two of you.
Story Notes: Shalyssira is Hunter’s succubus. Ezalar is his doomguard. He has both these demon souls in him. You can read a little more about them here. Rask is another character of mine, and you can follow him at @rask-the-rogue .]
Hunter put off sleep for as long as he could, listening to Roan’s breathing and focusing on not rolling over and pulling the elf closer to him as he wanted so badly to do, especially with every restless shift the warlock made. He’d given into the impulse, earlier, when he’d pressed his forehead into Roan’s chest, not at all minding the heat of the scar that sliced across him, wanting in fact to drown in it. He was reasonably sure Roan had mistaken that lapse as a moment where he’d been fighting off his demons, and he was in no hurry to correct him.
“We can figure it out later,” Hunter had told him, once he could breathe without choking again. After I kill the demon that’s plaguing you. He hoped the fight would be a good one. And after that–
“After that,” Shalyssira’s voice slices through his mind, “You’ll get over your little hiccup and tell him–“ Hunter turns his head, squashing his nose against the mattress and letting out a huff, silencing her, cutting her off to background noise. He feels her frustration, and ignores it.
A deeper voice cuts in, a smile in the words. “After that, you’ll break,” Ezalar promised. “After that, you’ll be mine, again.” Hunter shoves him away, too, locking them both for the moment behind bars of red and hiding his thoughts behind false mirrors and twisting labyrinth walls that sometimes even he got lost in.
He was burning. How many times over the last fortnight had he said those words? No one seemed to pay them any mind. He was no longer sure if he was like a wildfire or like air-deprived lungs; all he knew was that of whatever sort, burning was dangerous to others.
He’d so wanted Rhylian to be fine, after he’d shattered him, betrayed him. But he’d found him covered in grime, senseless, smelling like acrid herbs and fungus. He’d brought him back to Silvermoon, cleaned him, even pushed some of his fel magic through his skin. Rhylian had kissed him, and it was the same sort of kiss he’d shared with Roan, in secret, in selfish betrayal– they had both leaned up toward him, both put their hands on his waist, then his hips, begging soundlessly that he give in, stop straining back, lean down and meet their lips…
He had relented, both times.
“Losing you has made everything unbearable,” Rhylian whimpered as Hunter dragged himself away from the embrace, and Hunter finally understood that to Rhylian, he was a wall, the latest and only remaining bulwark between him and wretched destruction. If not him, then Rhylian had his drugs, he had abusers, and he had his death.
He’d thought he’d told him. Maybe he should have made it more plain that while he was a wall, he was a wall on fire, riddled with holes and sharp edges, barely holding himself up. He was no safer to hide behind than the drugs or the abuse.
Rask had caught Hunter’s arm after they’d said their good-bye’s on the Vindicaar, pushing a few rough pieces of parchment into his hand. “Oi,” he’d said in that unflappable drawl as Hunter reflexively growled at him, “These’re communication runes. Activate ‘em if ya ever need ta get in touch, y’dig? Oh,” he pushes another parchment in Hunter’s rough palm before he can react. “An’ this is a portal rune. It’ll bring ya right to me– jus’ in case. Y’never know.”
He pushes the memory away, finally sitting up. He’d given Rhylian the portal rune, had pleaded with him to go to Rask, the diminutive rogue who seemed unflappably cheerful, who had always managed to smell faintly of apples, whose voice was unfailingly kind even when it was firm. Rhylian had run off with it. He might be with Rask, or he might be dead.
He swings his legs over the bed, trying to be unobtrusive as he stands. If Roan notices the difference in weight on the bed, he does nothing more than roll over, and Hunter doesn’t disturb him as he crosses to a bookshelf. The rooms in Dalaran came already stocked with books, no doubt basic tomes that the average mage might find useful. It didn’t matter what they were, for his purpose.
Padding over the smudged sigil on the floor from their earlier ritual, Hunter exits and closes the door behind him before callously ripping out a page from the book. He tries not to think too deeply on what he was about to attempt as he pricked his finger with a sharp tooth, feeling the blood drip down his claw, drawn to a fine point like a fountain pen.
He draws carefully on the page, his blindness leaving no room for error. First, a series of triangles, point down, one larger than the others. Then a half-circle inside the bottom point of the large triangle, and four lines that create rays attaching the semi circle to the edges. Two more triangles, like arrows, on either side pointing inward, and a rune inside the semi-circle. Hunter knows what the rune means, now, thanks to Roan who had taken it upon himself to tutor Hunter, after a fashion, on reading. Home. It feels like Rask, partly, and the other parts are things Hunter doesn’t recognize.
He speaks the word in Demonic, and felfire ignites the blood, flaring the design into a visible spectrum to his eyes. All he could do in the split second as the light consumed him was assess that he hadn’t done half-bad, for a blind elf who didn’t know anything about magic.
tangentwithtanner
yousharknotpass
stormborns
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
titsay
origamiaround
snowghoul
