#sylthanos

[rowenwolf]

So Sylvanas had no idea that Nathanos had died. I require a rescue mission with Sylvanas finding him immediately!

[ladywindrunner]

Unconquerable | ao3

For the lovely and precious mel ( @windrunnerrs ) ❤︎

There was a sense of anxiety when someone entered uninvited into her private chambers. Even if she knew it could only one person, the only soul who earned the privilege of seeing the Banshee Queen at her most vulnerable.

           She stood unbathed from a wandering gone awry. Her figure drenched in blood, and grime. Hands coated so thoroughly that still they dripped. Every little speck of flesh and bone caught under her fingernails were so acutely felt – it felt as it did when she was alive.

           The eeriness was that of her lack of movement. No breath was drawn, muscles so perfectly still as if time itself had forgotten Sylvanas Windrunner. She faced a cold, darkened fireplace that’d not once been lit. A bath been drawn, though those who’d tended to it had long vanished. She expected they feared for their pathetic lives.

           Tonight, they were wise to flee before her.

Earlier, It’d struck her as suddenly and unexpectedly as an assassin’s blade. A horrendous over pour of emotions, violent, savage, and twisted. In the wilds of Lordaeron, in the little spare time she had, her hazy memories and near forgotten emotions of her former life overtook her.

The undead steed beneath her crumbled, bone and decaying flesh exploding as if the poor beast had been struck by a spell. The Queen of the Forsaken tumbled, rolled over and over along the dirt and grass until her body came to rest in a ditch.

There she struggled, forcing herself onto her hands and knees as tears rolled down her face. A silent gasp escaped her, mouth ajar as her abdomen ached as if Frostmourne once more was plunged into her. The terrible chill of the ancient blade gnawing into her form.

For the briefest moment her eyes saw the beautiful Silvermoon, standing proud. Her skin felt warm and alive, graced by the sun that always shined above her beloved homeland of Quel’Thalas.

           The recollection fell short. For through it all, her chest ached. Her heart longed to beat as it once had, it screamed within her.

           But it never overcame Frostmourne. It never conquered the unconquerable.

           Unholy fury turned her eyes a shade of red scarcely seen. It seeped into her face.

           Arthas was dead. Frostmourne was shattered. How dare she think that he and that infernal blade unconquerable.

           What happened next was a blur to her. She’d flown through the forest as a spectre, wailing and weeping and searching. Her mind nothing but malice, the air turning cold and heavy as she approached. The Banshee Queen lost herself to the loathing the Lich King spun into her soul.

           Scourge, or Forsaken.

           Alliance, or Horde.

           She’d kill anyone or anything before her. She cared not.

           It was by some miracle she found humans. Alliance men, and she only knew of their allegiance by the colours they’d flown. Their stench had drawn her to them, carried by the breeze. They smelt of the living. Of sweat and metal. Sylvanas had killed them with her bare hands, tore into them. Gutted them one by one.

           Each dead man had brought forth a flash of someone she’d known.

           Alleria, who she admired so, now gone. Lost to the cosmos and its infinite cruelty.

           Vereesa, who’d betrayed her. Who ran away and never came for her.

           Lor’themar, the fool who’d trusted Dar’khan. Who dared now to regard her as a stranger, even after everything she’d done for him.

           Kael’thas, the arrogant prince who’d lost himself to demons. Imbecile.

           Anestarian, it’d been her sworn duty to protect him, even if he was a xenophobic fool. She failed.

           Nathanos, he—

           Blood covered her face. She spat sinew from her mouth.

           Now back in the moment, in her chambers, she turned to face her Champion. Before him was her flesh laid bare. Moonlight bathed her lithe form. The magic that blessed her with hollow perfection struggled against whatever internal turmoil befell her. Her abdomen was marred by an ugly gash, scar tissue unnatural and blackened, veins spilling out, bleeding into pale, lilac-tinted skin.

           His militaristic precision wavered. She couldn’t blame him. The Dark Lady, his Queen, was nothing but a fiend. While she did not value the living, what she’d done, the evidence all over her body, was reminiscent of the Scourge and mindless ghouls. She’d slaughtered them and ate.She could sense the strange, ugly strength their matter gave her. How if the men had managed to wound her, she’d be healing right now.

           His gaze softened.

           Her lips curled into a snarl, almost feral.

           She abhorred pity. She didn’t want it.

           Violent wisps of smoke began to ebb out her form. That fury his memory had vanquished returned a hundred fold.

           She charged, nails growing long and cruel. The talons of a banshee, she’d rake them across his face for the insult!

           He didn’t move.

           A hair’s breadth from him, she faltered. Terrifying fangs bared still, she touched a nail to his cheek.

           Nathanos did nothing. There was no fear in his gaze, nor on his face. Only pity.

           Sylvanas hissed.

           She couldn’t think of the words to spew at him. The fool he was, he’d left her, gone to his home rather than being at her side. He’d died out there, alone. Became an hideous undead monster. She’d saved him! She’d brought him back! She’d given him a form worthy of his prowess! And he dared to regard her with—

           “You’re not what you think you are.” His voice was softer than it should have been. It spoke of something Nathanos shouldn’t feel.

           Compassion.

           Yet he spoke words that somehow struck true to what she believed. She was an abomination.

           Her expression dwindled to uncertainty.

           The hateful crimson that had engulfed her gaze diminished to nothing. Grey eyes flicked down to her hands.

           Her voice was naught but a whisper.

           “I am,” her answer pained her to admit.

           “No, Sylvanas,” He did not want her to feel as he had when she first found him. Unworthy, an abhorrent creature beyond meaning and purpose. She was a queen, hisqueen. Queen of the Forsaken. “You have undone him.”

           Him. Arthas. Bastard prince who’d brought ruin to them all. Sylvanas stared at the man before her, for he barely mentioned Menethil. It was a cursed name to all of them.

           Her gaze fell to her hands again. Her claws receded, her figure became that of an elf. Still though, the scar ran up her abdomen, its tendrils refusing to recede.

           Unconquerable.

           Her eyes narrowed. She felt shame, a biting sense of horrid failure.

           “I have not undone what he did…” she murmured, not for the Forsaken, not for Nathanos.

           “You can’t.”

           Her gaze rose as a sharp, offended glare. It was met by a strange calm in the man’s eyes.

           She recognized it moments after.

           Acceptance.

            “You think I speak of undeath?” Her words are spat with venom. She pulls her hands away. “Ha! I hadn’t thought you so foolish!”

           “I think you speak of pain.”

           She is stunned by his words. She’s silenced, the sensation of abysmal defeat returning. Sylvanas turned away from him, intent on hiding her expression.

Though he cannot see her face, he sees the gloom in her body. Her shoulders slump. She continues to stare at her blood-soaked hands instead of facing him.

He says nothing as he takes gentle hold of her arm and guides her towards the bath. Marris imagined it was once hot, with steam rising from it. Now it was hardly warm, but it didn’t matter to dead. There was nothing for Sylvanas to gain from hot nor cold.

It was a habit from life.

One of the thousand needles that jabbed at the undead constantly. That their existences were still determined by the essence of life. Habits, hardships, memories, and wants – all created and dictated by what they could no longer cherish nor appreciate.

His queen sunk down into the bath, her face unreadable save for the notion she was displeased. Crimson had returned to her gaze, but it didn’t burn so brightly.

He took a cloth and began to clean a hand.

Nathanos wouldn’t dare touch her face.

“What am I if I’m no better than the bastard who forced this fate upon us?” She poses the question quietly, though her voice wavers with frustration.

This was what troubled her. That she could not mend the wounds Arthas delivered unto their people. That she commanded them to slay the living, but not as the fallen prince had. She did it because they’d labelled the Forsaken monsters.

His reply was hard, and unwavering. He would not hear this talk from her. Not Sylvanas. Not the woman who’d saved them.

“You believe yourself as monstrous as Arthas?” Marris took her other hand, and began to wipe it clean. “He was an arrogant boy made a fool by necromancers and demons. He commanded the Scourge through sheer domination, making his people mindless thralls and ghouls. His power did not come from his own being, but from Frostmourne.”

She turned her gaze upon him, but he did not waver.

“The Forsaken choose to follow you. I do not recall a moment where the Lich King offered such freedom to the Scourge. Do you?”

She let out an irritated exhale and took the cloth from him. She began to clear the blood from her face.

“What happened?” The man’s question was decidedly softer than his former words.

Sylvanas found it hard to speak about.

“I had a moment,” she began, wondering how best to describe it. “Where I could remember clearly what I’d lost. And clearer still, I recalled how I lost it.”

She hinted at the terrible scar on her stomach.

“It was fortunate I happened across enemy soldiers encroaching on our lands, rather than our own,” she admitted as she cleaned away the last of the blood. “I don’t believe I would have been able to stop myself.”

“You didn’t harm me.” Nathanos pointed out.

“You’re different.” The words escaped her so quickly it surprised even herself. Forsaken could not feel as the living did. There was no love, no affection, nothing beyond falsities and sultry fabrications.

It was a lie they told themselves often. A lie they worshipped and adored as if it were a god. It saved them from the agonizing truth of their circumstance.

She leant towards him, not surprised when he falters. He stared at her in confusion.

It was rare she wanted to express the truth.

Something inside her chest ached.

Wet fingers grazed his cool cheek, the red in her eyes vanishing and for a moment, he swears there is a flicker of blue beneath the grey.

“Indulge me,” her whisper is quiet and vulnerable. “Just for a moment…”

He does. He kisses her, lips pressing against hers. They’re damp from the washcloth, taste nothing of blood or death. Their eyes drift shut—

Sylvanas breaks the kiss, resting her forehead aginst his.

Such affection is for the living. For the weak and feeble. For those that dally and waste their time. She is none of those things. She never will be.

She doesn’t open her eyes right away. There is pain in her chest and she’s forcing it away.

Nathanos watches as a cunning smirk grows on the Dark Lady’s lips. Her eyes open and they’re a blaze with sinister intent. His eyes faintly narrow.

“My Champion,” she speaks his title in a sultry, clever voice. “Find out why soldiers of Stormwind were in Lordaeron. The High King wouldn’t send them north without a purpose – and I want to know what that purpose is.”

He stood quickly, bowing his head.

“As you command, Your Grace.”

She watched him leave, not rising from the bath until he was gone and the door was firmly shut. When she stood, she ran vain fingers over the scar, and found she felt nothing.

The elf moved to the mirror and admired her reflection. The scar was nearly gone; the veins were fading. The spells weaved into her being were functioning properly once more.

Good.

Wallowing would not see her goals achieved. She’d already wasted precious time losing herself to despair.

Sylvanas paused as Nathanos came to her mind again.

Her lips curved into a gentle smile.

[s-dei]

still exploring my new phone and found samsung notes. So I can make some wild content while not being at home

(drawn with finger, but I ordered a stylus to have more fun)

[of-whelps-and-wizards]

I dub the ship of Sylvanas and Nathanos Sylthanos. 

[knicks-knacks]

hello my goodest of hoes i wrote some nasty sylthanos