No Peace

Tirmanel’s skin crawled as the death gate collapsed behind him. It always felt like something tried clinging to him as he passed through, damned souls trying to gain passage back to the world of the living.

With the war in full swing in Northrend, the necropolis hanging in the skies over the Plaguelands was deserted. Faintly, he could make out the sounds of shambling corpses on the upper level tending to the rune forges. The only beating heart in the entirety of the structure was Tirmanel’s own.

It was for this reason he had chosen to return to the Acherus Hold, to be alone with his thoughts. He stalked the halls where his training had hardened him into the killing machine he had become, stopping when he reached the Hall of Blood.

Eternal candles flickered in response to ethereal winds, their shifting light making the walls appear to drip with blood. In this room, Tirmanel felt closest to home, closest to something that might have been comfort if his soul could know such a thing.

His side ached, courtesy of his altercation with Arioch back in Tranquillen. His chestplate had withstood the brunt of the arcane attack, but not without becoming misshapen at the points of impact. The warped metal was now pulling against the buckles binding it to Tirmanel’s body, it would have to be repaired upstairs.

But for now, Tirmanel was not concerned with the condition of his armor. Pulling off his gloves, he fumbled with the straps, allowing the freed pieces of armor to fall to the floor with a clatter. Free from the damaged plate, Tirmanel could once again breathe fully.

Standing bare-chested in the Hall of Blood, the memories of the past hour came crashing down on him.

Her face, her hair, her scent.

She was his salvation.

She was his destruction.

She spoke of love between them.

She spoke lies.

Exhausted, Tirmanel sank to his knees, forcing the thoughts of her from his mind. He had come here for clarity of purpose, not torment.

His keen ears picked up a hint of sound not present a moment before.

A heart beat?

Too slow and loud for a wayward bat or mouse.

Footsteps, slow and deliberate, the clank of metal against the stone floor unmistakable.

Tirmanel felt no apprehension, only the Knights of the Ebon Blade had access to this stronghold, but he was irritated that one of his brothers would appear now to disturb his attempt at finding peace.

The footsteps grew louder behind him, then stopped.

“You chase shadows.”

Without turning, Tirmanel identified the intruder by voice, it was Inítrí. They had served in the same unit for quite some time but Tirmanel knew little about him. Inítrí was cold and distant, even by death knight standards. He spoke seldom and only smiled or laughed in combat, delighting in doling out death to anything in his path. Why would he be here of all places? Why would he trouble himself with the problems of another?

“It is none of your concern.”

“Suffering is my concern. And you suffer well, brother.” Inítrí’s cold chuckle reverberated in the room. The sound of buckles being undone and metal crashing to the floor was an echo of Tirmanel’s actions only moments before.

“Leave me be. I have no desire to play games with you, Inítrí. I wish to be alone.”

“In a crowd of a thousand souls, our kind will always be alone,” the words were whispered in Tirmanel’s ear. How did Initri cross the room so quickly and without a sound?

Before Tirmanel could react, Inítrí grabbed Tirmanel’s ponytail, arching Tirmanel’s head back. His left arm slipped under Tirmanel’s shoulder and lifted him to his feet.

Tirmanel’s breath was caught in his throat. Inítrí’s bare chest pressed against his back, cold like granite as the essence of frost was in Inítrí’s veins. Tirmanel could feel a trickle of blood sliding down his own chest where Inítrí had dug in with his nails.

“We are always alone.”