Heresy

((A long story jointly written with Maxus of the Twilight Guard, an Alliance-side guild on Defias Brotherhood. Heresy is in first person, Maxus is in third. We each wrote our own sections but any dialogue spoken, even if in the other player's section, was also written by the player themselves, so that our reactions were as accurate as possible.

Maxus as a character turned out an utterly perfect one for Heresy's evolution; it was a surprisingly strange and emotional experience to open her up to feel as much I think she would for a character as complex and as...dual-natured as she once was. Even as the 'living' Commander Max and Heresy shared some basic understanding, neither could have imagined the impact of Max's 'undead self' encountering Heresy as the beastheart in a late-night hunt.

At first glance perhaps its a visceral tale of violence, cannibalism, control, and eroticism; and in some ways, it maybe is. But in truth its about a lot more; about the things that separate and connect us, about balance and surrender, etc.))

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"All, all is theft, all is unceasing and rigorous competition in nature; the desire to make off with the substance of others is the foremost - the most legitimate - passion nature has bred into us and, without doubt, the most agreeable one." - Marquis de Sade

It was evening, in the south of Nagrand. As twilight settled in, the winds that normally swirled relentlessly around the ragged edge of the Outlands died down, leaving instead the persistent rumbling of the elementals, as they wandered aimlessly among the boulders and crevasses of the ridge that fell off into oblivion.

It is this time that is perfect for me; this quiet pause as night reclaims the landscape. Sight is not important, but sounds and scents are critical. The wind no longer confuses my senses, and instead I am rewarded with the most unintentional and delicious symphony...a rabbit scuttling nervously through the grass, or the heady, sickly-sweet scent of the voidwalkers as they wait, ever patiently, for their next victim.

The sky here is richly textured, beautiful, and endless; a sea of violet and gold swirling overhead, where massive planets observe us in stony, remote silence as they make their way across this unpredictable landscape.

I love this place.

And unhooded, alone and at peace, it is even more beautiful.. for what blindness takes away, other senses reward me tenfold. Every earthy, oily beast that trod the grasses is unique to me in this moment, the pregnant females, calves, bulls, distinct as they graze in peace. Finally, I feel alive again, as myself, in a way I have not for many months.

I am a rogue, in service to the Horde. I should hope I am loyal and protective, patient and for the most part...honest. But the ma'lanth hraat is a female, an inherently selfish and instinctual predator, a part of the world of the land, and not the world of men. Here I do not need, or want, the names of man. Here, do not call me Heresy. I do not know who that is.

I just am.

Alive again.

Yes.

I am what I am.

Now?

I am hunger.

I felt the smile creep unto my features as I made my way into the diamond to feed. Chilled, cool gemstone walls glittered like ice in the flicking torchlight. And not far ahead..

Demon...I smell you. Like the felguard, sinew and platemail...you shall fall first, with your vile, corrupt flesh, yet no less filling on this strange night.

I paused in a small crevice and uncapped one vial, my favourite vial, the slow, sinister poison that does its damage as I will it...slowly....or at once, in a burst of sick pain. I tilted it gently onto one blade, then the other. The third, strapped to my back, I left as it was; dipped in the other special slowing poison, which I hoped I would not need - the one meant for the pink, blood-filled backs of human men, and not these corrupted nether creatures.

In silence I crept forward and threw a single pebble at the opposite wall. The felguard, predictably spun to face it; for as powerful as demons may be...one thing they are not, is particularly clever.

As I felt his powerful body turn slightly, grunting as he did so, I let the first blow fall, the satisfyingly dull squelch as the dagger meets his sculpted, burgundy flesh; and he was stunned, wobbling before me, his delightful scent filling my mind as he struggled weakly under the growing effect of the poisoned blades as they swung out, then back again into his torso.

He turned at one point to face me, and swung a meaty fist at my head. As he did, I brought one dagger up in the centre of his ribcage, momentarily gouging him, lifting him slightly from the intense pressure. He wobbled, dazed, now deeply affected by the poisons. In seconds, he would be dead....I slipped behind his unsteady form and with one final blow, thrust both blades through his body a final time.

He grunted; I heard the delicate gurgle of fluids as they were expelled with his last breath.

With a resounding thump, his massive body struck the ground at my feet, and I knelt down, running a hand along his stomach to the pouch at his waist, A few coins, and a distinguishing seal - the mark of Kil'Jaeden.

Demons don't carry much, really.

I stood, realising I would not want to eat this creature, now filled with the venom I'd crafted so carefully. I'd need a clean blade for the Legion orc that stood ahead, if I was to eat anything tonight.

She was an orc. Yes.

But time, and reality, has changed my perception of things from those more naive, early days in Thunder Bluff.

There are gnomes - there is one, anyway - I would not ever harm. Jess is my friend. This, months have taught me, is truth.

And equally, there are orcs I would harm. Every Legion orc before me is an abomination not only to the Mag'har, and to Thrall...but to life, to everything we know, that they lust to see defeated.

This one hadn't noticed me yet; how she didn't hear these sounds was beyond my comprehension. To me they were as loud as screams in my head.

But she had not moved. She stood, fiercely, proudly facing into the room before her, vigilant to the point of being, perhaps, as mindless as the felguard who lay bleeding below me.

I pulled my cloak around and slowly wiped both blades clean of the poison, and the now-drying fel blood.

Now.

Creeping forward, I concentrated on the feeling of ice, pure and blue upon my hand. The perfect shot, landing deep into her organs, an immediate death that just did not know it yet.

As I moved she spun, suddenly and without any reason that I could fathom, swinging her own small blade wildly into the air. I was invisble; but it struck me across the forearm above my glove all the same.

With a howl, I leapt into her then, towards her, crushing her against the slick clear walls of the chamber and striking at her madly until she was less woman than meat; until a breast was virtually indistinguishable from an elbow. I did not stop until she finally died, slumping to the floor, leaving the sluggish rivers of blood to follow behind her as they worked their way to the ground.

I pulled off one glove and swiped the blood, and sniffed it before tasting it.

Corrupted orc. Musky, greasy, oddly mineral. Perhaps the diamond had something to do with that. It didn't matter. It was meat.

I sighed and nodded.

"........and then there is feeding", I repeated softly, remembering my words to Zik.

My forearm was still bleeding; but hungry and frustrated I ignored it for the moment and tore a slice of flesh from her now-mutliated right arm, then turned her torso and pulled a strip from her back, sucking at it, pulling the tough and sinewy flesh from the unpleasant skin with my teeth. I ate the meal, listening to the sounds of my own eating softly echo off the diamond walls. I wondered if other guards were near; if they had heard my snarls or our fight. Perhaps for the moment..it was better that I step back outside.

I walked back out into to the still air for a moment and hunched down in the soft grasses.

The wind blew slightly, and felt delicious on my face; so rarely did I allow myself time without the hood now; it was ecstasy to feel this way again.

But my forearm ached, bleeding the strange, thick undead blood that should not be there at all. I had but one bandage; I was not going to waste it on this when I might need it in a more critical moment.

Animals lick their own wounds. It is the best way they know. And they are right, I know this. But it was not something I had chosen to do before.

Why I did this time, I'm not entirely sure, necessity perhaps, this is what a beast would do, because it just does.

I raised my arm to my face and licked at it slowly, feeling my own tounge rasp across the strange, smooth, hide of my arm, long cured from hundreds of baths in steaming Thousand Needles waters, cleaning it slowly. It felt so very strange, even horrible at first; but as I cleared it away, the salt gradually sealed the cut, and the syrupy flow stopped.

I made a face, gasping slightly at the flavour of my own blood. It had been a long time.

Too long perhaps...

I remember that one bloodied kiss in the Undercity, Horzt. I cursed you, as I cursed myself. But whilst you went mad, I am now quite sane.

I wonder which one is more frightening.


For a moment, I just sat there....lost in the private wild reverie of this slice of time that was mine and mine alone; the secret world where I didn't have to prove myself to Snub, or deal with Sardon...or answer for Fireflower's latest escapade. I didn't have to miss the warlocks, both the wicked and kind ones......I just existed now.

Myself and this wild place.

Alone. Or so I assumed, for it was then that I heard the slightest sound.

Sssht

A foot moving slightly across the surface of grass?

A finger hushing lips?

I froze, head tilted slightly, sniffing the air.

[i]I know this scent. It is a living man.

And I know it have smelled it before.

But I do not remember why.

**"Atra dubh.."

He is something..I could not.....name.

Human man, but ....strange..tinge...a memory I cannot recall except for scent floats into my mind.

Rogue man? Yes. I smell the leather. Even now in this wind, he stands out against the natural smell of the ground and sky, and animals, even against the felguard's blood.

I did not know what he was, but I knew he was not Horde. I smelled the blood of life on him, and death. I was confused by it.

I stood then...sniffing, feeling the skin on the back of my neck tighten, feeling the memory of pulse race again, the sting of adrenaline as my limbs contracted.

I vanished, and moved swiftly away from where I sat, still sniffing, turning....

The wind blew again.

I know you. I know this smell....damn this breeze...

There was nothing.

Perhaps I had imagined it, but my scent had so rarely failed me...

I gritted my teeth and headed back into the diamond; I was not full yet.

I was ready to eat again.

**(another..unknown...she senses something is there but not what it is.)

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The Nagrand sky was such that Maxus couldn’t tell by looking at it whether it was night or day. Logic told him it was night, of course… his living self had fallen asleep in the safety of the Aldor inn, something he wasn’t prone to doing in the middle of the day. But here, beneath the swirling vortex that made up the strange atmosphere carrying Outland like a newborn, night and day were debatable things, ever changing and uncertain. There was a twilight to it, a certain aspect of darkness which you only found in the late evening… but in Nagrand, that was as likely to descend mid afternoon as any other time.

Maxus left the rear Shattrath entrance and wandered down the path, sniffing at the air. There were a thousand new scents here, the different animals, the races of Horde and Alliance, the soldiers of the Aldor… but something, familiar, despite the mixed smells he could detect. Something he hadn’t spent a lot of time around, but something he recognised all the same.

Draenei… corrupted… He thought to himself.

The Lost Ones, as they’d been termed, they were near, living and working. They were close, close enough to smell. He licked his lips idly as he peered about, there was a river, a waterfall, a small island with a tree he felt he should remember, but was unsure why. Then… there, the strange looking tents of the Lost Ones, a few hundred yards away to his right. He ran down the path quickly, ducking behind a tent and slowly moving around it towards the pier there. A fisherman stood, looking about for any sign of activity.

As Maxus left the shadows of the tent, creeping towards the pier, a movement caught his eye, to the left. Glancing over, another of the corrupted Draenei left the tent interior, moving out at an agonisingly slow pace. Maxus froze, a flicker of indecision and panic shooting through his mind before regaining his cool. In the eyes of the Hood, the Draenei flared brightly, tainted, mutant blood as potent as any other.

The Draenei turned his head towards the slight blur of darkness, a few scattered pieces of dust wafting away on the wind. Before he could make a noise to signal his confusion at the movement, something was around his neck, a band of white pain that sliced into him. He reached up, pawing at the leather clad gloves of his attacker as they tightened their hold on the thin noose, choking and bleeding them. He gurgled and spluttered, blood issuing from his mouth as he was ruptured deeply, then was kicked in the back of the legs, pitched backwards as the wire was released.

Maxus swept aside as the Draenei fell, raising his clawed fist high in the air, the blades reflecting the light for a moment before swinging it down, punctuating the impact of the Draenei on the ground with a deep drive into the gut of the fallen soldier, twisting the claws into his innards and then retracting them with a spray of gore. He flailed in the dirt wildly, gripped by panic and agony as Maxus made another stroke, driving his fist into the chest of the creature, shattering ribs and puncturing the heart, arresting and terminating the Draenei’s life at once. Flicking his fingers free of shreds of skin and tissue, he charged the fisherman, launching across the grass and the pier in a flicker of dark leather, bringing his arms high into the air, gripping the garrotte wire at either end and then hooking it around the fisherman’s neck as he had with his last victim. He locked the noose in tight again and leaned close to the Lost One’s ear.

“ You’re going to make me a pretty feast, mongrel.” He hissed, before violently dragging the creature backwards, releasing the noose so he was thrown across the grass into the other corpse. With a cackle of glee and manic relief, Maxus launched at the fallen beast as he lay clutching at his haemorrhaging neck, twirling in a blur of leather and steel as he slashed a thousand deep and varied cuts with his talons, rendering the creature unidentifiable, just a mass of flesh and bone.

Then all was still. Birds sang, tree leaves swayed gently and brushed against each other in the breeze. Overhead, a gryphon crowed as it flew out from Shattrath City. Maxus dropped to his knees beside the bodies and began to carefully carve flesh from bone, using his fingers and claws as culinary utensils, picking at the corpses to separate strips of meat, weighing them briefly before lowering them delicately into his mouth, wiping his lips with his blood-coated fingers and licking them.

“ Truly Outland is home to a variety of unique cuisine.” He purred, before deciding this careful process was too slow, and moving to the corpse, lowering his head to the gaping wounds and tearing at the body with his teeth, stripping it like an animal, blood spraying over his face, stinging in his eyes, filling his mouth with the unmistakable metallic tinge. He growled softly.

Once there was little tender meat left on the corpses, unwilling to spend time gnawing at the bones or crunching the gristly muscle, Maxus dragged the bodies into the water and left them there, a trail of dark blood mixing with the dirt and grass, crimson mist slowly creeping through the crystal waters of the river.

He moved on, heading west. He avoided Telaar, he was in no mood – or condition of appearance, now – to see people who would recognise him as something other than an animal now, perhaps even people who would recognise him for his living self. Tonight he wasn’t going to be judged or accused, tonight he was going to exist as he should have been existing, had it not been for his return, no, conscription into rebirth and resurrection. His destination was the shelf of the world, the torn and scattered precipice at the border of the Outland, that fragmented area of land found in every territory, marking it as little more than an island floating through the Great Dark.

He moved with the animals here, running with the packs of Clefthoof, jostling for space with the Talbuk and fighting fiercely with the Windroc, slicing at their wings and then pinning them to the ground, pounding them into oblivion as they tried to snap at his face and claw at his eyes. Eventually he reached the Spirit Fields, rising to one of the mounds and looking out over the patterned landscape.

There were demons here, void energies coalescing into sentient life, stalking the plateau. Clefthoof packs grazed here and there, Elementals patrolled the mountains and the Ethereals focussed on the fragments of the Osho’gun diamond.

The diamond. What a structure it was. Perched like a gargoyle on the edge of his piece of rock, Maxus studied the landmark with his Bloodfang sight. So much of the appearance and hue lost on him as he followed each line, each gradient and imperfection in the rock. Then, there was something else, a haze of red on the Northern side, life, blood, something not animal, not demon.

He moved quickly, sprinting through the grass recklessly, masking his approach by weaving through packs of grazing Clefthoof, startling them with his speed and appearance, but long gone before they broke and scattered in panic. He glanced up as the imprint of life got closer, larger in his vision, ensuring he hadn’t been seen. He wanted to investigate, study… being spotted in his approach would lead only to combat and death, which wasn’t why he was trying to lower himself on this creature, whatever it was.

At least, not yet.

He found another rising spire of rock and dirt and followed it up, lowering himself to the ground and peering over the edge. The thing was undead, yes… the faint signature of unlife was clear even from this distance. There was more, though… a patch of her arm where the heat was more visible, a wound and yet… something on top of that. He narrowed his eyes, trying to separate the mess of blood into their different components, until, there, it hit him.

She was carrying the blood of another. She’d fed, feasted on the fallen recently.

“ A hunter, here to steal my supper.” He hissed, scowling at the distant shape. He watched her carefully as she lifted her wounded arm, studying it for a second before lowering her face to it and then licking at it as a cat would lick at its fur to clean it. He raised an eyebrow at the movement, the way it was done… it was slow, hesitant, she was unused to the action and yet, it was natural, as though she’d been doing it forever. He shifted sideways to try and get a better look, sliding his body across the grass.

She looked up, abruptly, her face tilted to raise her nose as she sniffed at the air. He froze, resting on his forearms, suspended a few centimetres above the grass, exertion creeping through his muscles. He wasn’t scared, or angry at himself for giving his position away, only tense, as an athlete would be before a tournament. She peered this way and that then paused a moment as though thinking, before ducking back into the diamond interior and disappearing into the shadows.

Maxus waited a few heartbeats before rising to his feet. A hunter as he was, feeding here, living as part of the natural order… but wounded, perhaps an amateur. She was here and she was feeding in the interior, therefore challenging his authority over the food here.

“ This cannot continue.” He growled. He had to put an end to it, and he would. Now it was about survival of the fittest, predator against predator, one winner and one survivor. He would feed again tonight, he was sure of it.

He launched forward, jumping with so much force that he landed in the grass awkwardly and off-balance. He pitched forward, ducking into the fall and landing into a roll, coming to his feet and jumping again, sailing out across the grass and turning in the air, slamming his side against the diamond surface and sliding down it, the leather scraping against the rock. He then moved forward to the cave mouth, sniffing enthusiastically, his lungs vibrating with the rapid intake and release of breath. Nothing, the faint trace of death on the air, orc blood perhaps, tainted. He couldn’t be sure… dried Draenei blood still covered his maw and nose, hampering his senses. He could have cleaned himself, of course, but the ever-present scent of blood spurred him on, baiting that hunger in his gut which was now clawing at him, screaming for more.

He dropped to a crouch and moved, crablike, across the cave mouth, brushing up against the opposite wall and then rising again, moving forward and turning, ensuring nothing was behind him as he took a few steps into the shadows, turning again to face down the tunnel. There was a corpse here, growing cold, only recently passed. Demonic. He moved forward cautiously, lifting himself into a crevice in the rock, letting himself dangle close to the body, sniffing at it before pulling – his biceps screaming their complaints – himself up to the crevice and wedging himself there, looking down the passage. The demon had been poisoned as part of its death, that much was in the smell. He was dealing with a rogue, then, one who knew their art.

The corridor was empty. He scowled. Where had she gone?

He didn’t like this. It had been a long time since he’d had to hunt truly elusive prey. He’d gotten used to selecting his targets and moving on them slowly, before they were aware of his presence, then descending quickly, extinguishing their life in a moment and then turning to the feeding. But this, no, this was different entirely.

Could she be here now, waiting in the dark, aware of his presence, sitting like the patient spider on its web.

You think me a stupid, fat fly? Something was stirring in his mind, itching at his memory, something his living self was aware of that he was not. It was annoying, teasing.

Such a chase would have to be concluded fittingly, he decided. It wouldn’t be enough to simply murder her as he found her, no… he had to stay silent, creep up on her like a wraith, then take hold of her and squeeze her, pumping adrenalin into her, filling her with fear and vigor for those precious moments before demise, enriching the blood and giving her that clarity one can never find in normal life. Then, when she was most aware of everything about her, he would drill her failure into her, let her know she was found to be weak in the eyes of the Queen and her hand. He would slay her then and delight in the feeding.

He moved further into the corridor, lowering himself to the floor and almost crawling on his belly to continue. There was a smell here, the smell of blood, of a corpse left open and unspent. He was getting closer, he knew it. Then there was movement, by his face. A boot.

He sniffed at it briefly before retreating, carefully finding his feet and raising himself to full height. He unhooked the wire from his belt… he’d bleed her, let her spill what little life she had left out into this cavern, but not enough to cut her silent, that wouldn’t be right. He wanted to hear her beg. He took hold of either end of the wire and raised it, ready to swing it down and pull it back around her throat. She wasn’t moving, staring straight ahead down the cavern. His lips curled into a snarl and he swung forward.

She glanced back at the noise, looking straight at him for the briefest of moments before sweeping aside. His arms fell through the air clumsily, he let go of the wire and moved forward, swinging his claws up with momentum, but swinging them again through nothingness. Regaining control, he spun to follow the blur of dark leather and then, darkness, stinging pain in his eyes, powder grating against his eyeballs. He hissed in pain and frantically scrubbed at his impaired eyes, staggering in the corridor, cursing his own stupidity.

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The acrid tinge of blindpowder filled my nose, lingering with his own scent. I could hear his footsteps in front of me, disoriented, stumbling slightly. So deeply familiar...

Why?

As he stumbled, I slipped forward and struck him against his skull with the flat edge of the dagger, a particular angle that rogues know all too well, and leaving him dazed and trembling, unable to move, but essentially unharmed. He slumped backwards against the wall - I heard the soft grind of leather meeting the diamond surface - and then there was nothing but the sound of his breathing, and my own.

I stepped forward cautiously and sniffed him.

So..familiar...and yet so alien, human rogue...alive and close to me.

With him incapacitated, I could stand against him and inhale each nuance. I ran one hand along his cheek, feeling unkempt stubble, a living man's jawline, a living man's pulse beneath my finger.

"I was alive once", I told him in my native tongue. "I am more alive now. Do you know why?"

I nuzzled his neck, and then his cheek, grazing it with my nose. I could feel him breathing beneath my face, rising and falling slightly, the pulse in his neck, fast but even.

He is thinking. It is too even for him to be panicking...life flows warm, and steady through you, human man.

I stood, my hand idly grazing his chest. I felt his armour, well-worn and soft leathers that had easily seen as much battle as my own, carved to him like thick skin, across human shoulders and human limbs. I felt my mouth water slightly. I wanted to sink my teeth into his warm flesh.....but it confused me somewhat, that I had hesitated at all.

I let my mouth rest a moment on the throbbing vein at the base of his throat, and felt it hammer against my lips for a moment.

He was mine, if I wanted him; if I acted right now, before he regained his senses.

He should be food. He smells good, good enough that I am slightly drunk on the strangeness of it.

And yet...I hesitated.

I know you....

His was not the normal acidic, sweaty human smell...it was somehow tempered, and colder. Softer, like something between undeath and life, touched by blood and booze, by the smells of any rogue, and finally...

I tilted my head.

The smell of elf-woman lingered on him too, faintly.

I smiled at this, at the intimate story revealed to me quite unintentionally.

Eyes and words can lie.

Scent cannot.

I knew that sapping him would not last forever; my time was short before he would come out, either enraged or frightened. I reached out and took one of his hands, encountering the cold, and purposeful steel of claws; weapons of the fist, brutal, simple and direct. This was a rogue that was close when he struck; whose very weapon was an extension of his own body. It is an utterly different kind of rogue...I believed in quick, clean kills, as fast as I could, get in, get out. Not this one. He would be the type who relished a ticking, agonised encounter, sprays of blood and the seemingly endless torture of being haemorrhaged slowly to death, while all along being so close as to feel the blood his victims relinquish splatter his flesh.

Well then.

That answered that question - he would not be frightened.

I stepped back from him slightly.

There was silence between us for a moment.

And then, spoken in the round, warm tones of the living, but with an unnaturally sinister, cool edge, I heard two words, uttered dark and low, echoing in the air around us.

"You're dead."

At first the words seemed normal, until I realised the living man was speaking...gutterspeak.

I heard the pop of flashpowder.

He had dissapeared.

I vanished immediately, leaping sideways, hiding in the shadows of an archway, but reeling from the shock of his words.

Gutterspeak? How could he know it? And how I hated this language! No doubt he assumed the opposite, seeing my undead form. I rarely speak it...it is their language, the loyalists, the Lordaeronites. I have spoken only Orcish and Ma'lanth as long as I can remember.

I stepped back uncertainly, into the glittering hallway, weakly illuminated, sniffing the air and trying to detect his direction. I had misjudged the sap by fraction of time..but in truth I do not know how long he had been free. It was my error; in letting my senses get the better of me, savouring him with such abandon.

This is the price I paid, for not letting this part of me free more often; that when I did, it was too undisciplined.

In the narrow corridor...there was not far for him to go.

The catch was there wasn't far for me to go, either.

Dead....he called me dead..

I detest that word...how wrong it is. As if my blood, however unnatural, did not flow...as if I felt nothing, did nothing. Lay in cold silence in a tomb to waste to dust!

The arrogance of the living never fails to anger me! I spoke back, in my own awkward gutterspeak, accented with Orcish. It felt a betrayal to me, even for a moment.

"Dead? You would think that, living-man. But if I am...then you cannot kill me. And you want to kill me, don't you....?" I snarled quietly, half-sniffing, half-purring still from the fragrance in my head. I wanted to consume that scent, somehow, get into it, be a part of it, to crawl into his body and be surrounded by it.

It was some blind, animal insanity I had not yet deciphered, surely; but now was not the time to do so.

What is he? We wish to have this.

I am..curious..this is a strange human.

I want to devour him.

Kill?

Yes.

No.

Feed.

I do not know.

Now? What am I now?

I am curiosity.

I moved along the corridor softly, into the room where my orc dinner still lay prone on the ground, eviscerated and partially consumed. Her scent slammed into my mind; obliterating almost everything else. My ears would have to aid me now.

And so I strained for the slightest sound, reaching out into the silence for the whisper of his breath, a single footfall, anything.

He was as quiet and as subtle as I prided myself on being, and his scent filled the halls now. Outside would be better..outside...this place was now my disadvantage, over-laden with the scent of my kills and his presence and filled with distracting echoes.

I could out-wait him. Perhaps he would just leave.

No.

He would follow me, of course. This was the type that would. And as I thought it, a strange thrill raced through me.

Good. Follow me, human man, let us dance.

I knew then where his scent had lingered before. But it could not be!

It had been some weeks past, an evening in Shattrath...the Tavern. I had followed a human warlock there, out of curiosity, observing her, listening to her. The human man had stealthed and chased me there that same night; I remembered even then his scent was strange.

And as he had attempted to find me in the inn, the sensation delighted me, turning and watching him descend on me, missing by inches as I hopped lightly, invisibly, just out of the reach of the razored talons that extended from his fists. In a momentary flash of madness, I had realised that as much as I relished taunting him, I also wanted to be caught..trapped, beneath vicious hands and his glaring eyes, feel the hot breath of the living strike my skin...confusing images, that made no sense to me.

I shook my head, thinking myself mad in that moment, carried away with the fun of the chase...and had simply pushed it away. In the weeks to follow, I had run into him more than once..

[i]Now, it all came back to me....

He was the man in Telaar, watching me from the hill who leapt out over the chasm, nearly drowning us all.

He was the man who showed me the Naaru in Silvermoon, and who flew with me to the mountaintop.

He was human man, whom had never raised one finger against me, who smiled wearily, whom I could not kill in Garadar.

He was speaking Gutterspeak...

...and he was hunting me.

I am betrayed...

What is this that he is so changed? I smell it! Death and adrenaline, and the blood upon his hands...

Well then, what prey do you hope to find, human man? Because it will not be me; you had your opening move. Now its my turn.

I reached for my hood, moving as quietly as possible, and slipped it upon my head.

Sight restored....clarity returned.

I grinned hungrily and made my way deeper into the glittering caverns, every sense attuned to his memory.

************************************************** ******************

Maxus had moved quickly down the corridor, leaping over rocks, ducking through narrow openings and keeping close to cover and shelter. He’d been stupid, letting himself be dazed like that… had the chase really been underway it was likely he’d be dead now.

His eyes still burned from remnants of the blind powder. The back of his skull throbbed painfully from where he’d been struck. He reached a point of rock and circled it, looking back through the shadows he’d moved through to see if she was following. Seeing nothing, he sank behind the rock and lowered his hood for a moment, adjusting his gloves and carefully rubbing his eyes with his fingers, feeling clumps of wet powder fall away beneath his touch. He shivered, blinking away uncomfortable tears before rubbing his head gently, soothing it.

He wouldn’t be snared so easily again, that much was certain.

The smell of her kill was more noticeable here, he was getting closer to the corpse. Up ahead the rocky corridor met something different, polished, gleaming metal lit by torches, an opening leading further on, something technological and wholly out of place in this cavern wrapped up in the essence of primitive life, rock, stone and earth with blood and death.

The air shifted. The smell of the kill was mixed with something else, the same essence but slightly different… the blood that stained her armour. He quickly replaced his hood and moved further on down the corridor, keeping low, half walking and half crawling towards this new entrance. He reached the opening and paused, peering around. The open corpse of an orc lay just inside, murdered and partly eaten.

She was coming to him, coming this way, not knowing whether he was ahead or behind her, but she was moving either way.

Max looked up into the alcoves of this entrance and reached for it, finding handhold and lifting himself painfully into the opening, planting his feet on the opposite wall and walking upwards, eventually tucking his entire body into a cramped space, suspended in the air, upside down, a shadow among shadows.

Then he waited, patiently. His arms started to burn, his head pounded as blood flowed into it, aided by gravity. He inhaled slowly and exhaled awkwardly, doing his best to control his breathing as he waited, staring at the open corpse which taunted him with fresh blood and meat, unspoiled, not poisoned. She’d killed it after killing the demon, and she’d killed it without poisons… this was her meal, she’d made sure of that.

It’s mine now. He thought, his arms trembling with the strain. He closed his eyes to concentrate, pushing the pain out of his mind, erasing the discomfort, before opening them again and then, there she was, creeping forward towards him, scanning the area, looking left and right but not up. She passed below him, hesitating briefly by the corpse of the orc and then, again, directly beneath him. He felt beads of sweat forming on his brow, his fingers were turning into feelers of burning pain and for what felt like the longest time, she didn’t move.

He could drop on her now, landing straight onto her, but he would suffer as much as she did. He could already feel the impact on his spine, the possibility of cracking his skull on the ground… he’d be dazed, sickened. She’d be up before he would and then be on him with those daggers she was holding so confidently.

Then she moved forward again, to the doorway.

Maxus relaxed his legs, swinging down and letting himself come to rest for a moment before releasing his grip, dropping to the floor straight into a crouch. He readied his claws as she stiffened, he saw her grip the hilts of her blades, saw her feet adjusting slightly, ready to spin. She was trying to catch him unprepared, let him believe he hadn’t been spotted, but no, he was ready now, he wasn’t playing games anymore. For too long he’d been testing himself against weak prey, too long he’d forgotten how to truly hunt and feed on something worthy.

He launched forward in a dive, crossing the space between them as she spun, bringing her daggers through the air in a horizontal motion, above his head. He collided with her at waist height, pushing her through the opening as he straightened out, slamming them both against the opposite wall. Taking a step back, he tensed his arms, ready to swing, as she found her footing and came at him instantly, swirling her daggers in a graceful display, the dim light reflecting off the metal and forming trace lines in front of his face.

Unable to combat the speed of the swirling blades, he started moving backwards, arching, twisting and bending to avoid being hit, feeling the air move by his face, feeling the occasional impact of her hands against his shoulders or hood as he narrowly missed the blades. He found a decent foothold and dropped low, head butting her in the stomach before swinging upwards in an uppercut, his claws narrowly missing her face. He turned with the movement, arching an elbow towards her – which she stepped away from – and then straightening out in a punch with his other hand. She twisted aside, letting his talon-gripping hand fly through the air. He followed it, running with the punch past her and turning, sweeping round with his other claw outstretched, attempting to catch her with a lethal, blade-wrapped backhand. She continued moving though, heading back to the doorway and out of reach. They faced each other for a moment, both panting, ready to fight, adrenalin coursing through them both. She was no longer a hazy patch of barely beating heart and veins, but an adrenalin fuelled, blood red star in the space before him.

An involuntary giggle of joy escaped him and he jumped at her, spinning in the air, his arms out like rotor blades, a swirling windmill of shining silver metal bearing down on her. She ducked and then pushed forward, bracing her arms against each other, her daggers in front, coming at him like the beak of some giant bird. He barely registered her movement before needing to sweep aside, slamming himself against the wall as the daggers moved past. He pushed back like an Olympic swimmer, spurring himself against the wall, gliding behind her and elbowing her in the base of the spine. She crumpled slightly with the movement, arching her back, turning and slashing with one dagger through the air just past his face. The side of his hood rippled against the pressure.

Turning he backhanded again, sweeping his claw towards her waist. She struck his forearm, deflecting the blow, swinging up with her right dagger, blade braced against her wrist, tracing a line of invisible, razor sharp death through the air against the faint outline of his body, reaching towards his face at the same time. He hissed with mild alarm, realising he wouldn’t be able to avoid the shot, quickly and awkwardly bending at the hip to swing up with a hand, slapping her dagger arm aside and then bearing down on her, claw raised. He saw her approach, large in his vision, then was stopped. His claw slammed into the wall hard, rooting there. Maxus flicked his eyes to the claw and saw her dagger hand buried between the two sharp prongs, neatly embracing her wrist. She pulled, struggled against it, but was held.

Maxus leaned close, inhaling the scent of dried leather, blood long since spilt, powders and poisons of a thousand different kinds. He grinned, the anticipation of the kill large in both his mind and in his mouth.

************************************************** ******************************

" They say rogues do it from behind... while I'm generally inclined to agree, I've started to find I can be perfectly effective from any angle."

He leaned into me; I could see the shadowed outline of his face beneath his hood. His voice echoed softly in the corridor, deliciously low, and slightly ragged. And again, the ambiguity of his words inflamed me, I did not know whether to be furious at his confidence, or drawn to it.

He lingered close, directly before me... I could feel the words rumbling in his chest as he spoke them, vibrating faintly in my ears. My arm strained against the force of his own, his talons cutting through the leather of my glove and pinning one arm against the wall. I heard his heartbeat, I felt the warmth of him radiate through his armour. I felt his breath on my neck as he moved closer, alive and sweet and mingled with the aroma of blood, alcohol, and the metallic smell of those talons, those nasty little blades that extended from his fingertips.

As he breathed out, I inhaled, stealing it from his lips before the air could sweep it aside, consuming his breath as if I fed upon him already.

Perhaps I was, in some sense, as something in me was being created, some wild, black thing with a thousand sides, all razor sharp, all my senses tuned relentlessly to him. Instead of feeling mindless or overwhelmed or intimidated, I felt intensely focused, alive, honed somehow.

I lifted my chin to meet his shrouded gaze, and smiled; the leather of my hood crumpling slightly against my skin as I did so.

"How very versatile of you, human man. No doubt your "targets" appreciate your ability to find multiple points of contact...tell me, can you strike one place if you wished to? Or do you just flail wildly and hope you hit the..... right...spot...eventually?"

I smirked darkly as I responded, speaking the last three words slowly, mocking, throwing his double meaning back at him.

He leaned in slightly, closing the space between us until little more than inches remained; his arm extended as a parallel of my own, reaching above my head, so close that nothing could be seen or felt save his presence. This had become the taunt; not his mocking words, or his veiled and ambiguous sentences. It was his presence, his closeness.

And then...I kicked him as hard as I could right between the legs. He grunted hoarsely, stepping backwards, freeing my arm enough to duck underneath his own, and restealth.

"Two can play that game," I thought. Months of dealing with warlocks - particularly those consumed by their own power - does something to your mind, in their world where nothing is as it seems, where every room is filled with mirrors.

It was as if walking inside of this man was stepping inside such a room, speaking in riddles and innuendo, the truth could be any one of the reflections.

I had guessed it was as much for his own pleasure as the confusion of a victim; some part of him needed to engage this way, as if it were not enough to defeat his enemy with violence; he wished first to subdue it with fear, and confusion, a subtle psychological victory already inhand, before a single blow was dealt.

But in truth, I could not be afraid, no more than he could have been. I had seen - as I guessed he had - too much. Lived too much. Survived too much.

We were both predators, both prey, caught in a maddening cycle of taunts and deadly relativity, where the slightest thing shifted the balance; a sudden move, a false step, a momentary whim, and one of us would die.

Perhaps both.

Fate did not exist here, not when every card in the deck was identical.

Perhaps that is what drove me to do what I did next; I will never be sure. The thought flew across me unconsciously.

I have to taste you.

Without thinking, I grabbed his shoulders and turned him, still shocked from the force of my kick, and impulsively pushed against him, feeling my body contact his own. I licked his mouth, darting like a snake to first one corner, then the other before taking his lower lip and sucking it lightly. I could have bitten him, ripped it away. I didn't.

He did not move. I pulled my head back once again, the flavour of him still on my own lips, head tilted, mind racing.

Salty, alive, whisky man, elf-lover, with the strange air of undeath. Adrenaline. I know this taste too, bright and sour. And.... raw flesh? Blood?

Not human..but it was similar, I knew that musky flavour, and the metallic tinge of it.

.....yet it certainly wasn't the blood of animals.

He feeds.

It was as if I had been shot by a cannon, so great was the impact of this realisation.

I spoke softly and my fingers moved to touch his mouth, half-disbelieving.

"You.......human man, you hunger, you are driven to this end...? This is the food of the undead....not the...living...."

I turned my head to the scent of the dead orc, now growing slightly ripe in the enclosed space, then back to him.

Her scent had affected him too; the rich, sick, meaty fragrance of her remains. His breath had become slightly shallow; I could feel his pulse quicken, and the heat from his skin rise slightly. It was unmistakeable.

He might as well have screamed "yes" into my ear.

"What are you...?" I whispered.

************************************************** ************

Maxus licked his lips briefly, a hundred different thoughts and reactions flooding his mind, the question becoming a physical thing, tearing his consciousness apart. He flicked his eyes back to her, leaning close to him, the dull ache in his crotch fading away with the rush of adrenalin. Beneath her hood he could see nothing past the glowing, impersonal red eyes. His lips curled into a snarl.

“ I am -Forsaken-!” He roared, hooking his arms beneath hers and lifting, pushing her from him, launching her into the air with such ferocity that she was pitched a yard or two backwards, landing awkwardly on her feet and dropping to one knee. He came howling from his corner, fists clenched by his sides, charging at her like a mad rhino. They collided as she rose to her feet, too taken aback to ready her weapons. She staggered with the force of him rushing into her as he swung a fist, failing to hold his claw properly and so punching her in the gut, the blades sliding against her armour as she crumpled around his fist with a grunt. “ I am eternal!” He screamed, retracting his fist and pushing her sideways with his other hand, making her stumble into the wall.

He spun to face her as she flattened against the wall, readying her blades. The taste of her was still on his lips, mingled with the blood of his last meal. She came at him first, her arms coiling like serpents as she prepared to strike. The movement was practised, calculated, disciplined… and the movement was one Maxus had seen and used a hundred thousand times before. He stepped to the side, swinging one claw out to deflect her first dagger strike and turning, angling himself to sweep past her second blade. Grinning smugly, he failed to detect the change in momentum as she turned on her heel.

A blade pressed at his shoulder pads, too weak to puncture the tough leather, but then something else, a searing band of pain along his bicep as she sliced effortlessly through cover, skin and muscle. He hissed in pain, spinning away from the impact and arching himself, swinging an elbow up awkwardly and striking her beneath the chin, staggering her backwards. Keeping the momentum, he spun, descending to his knees and reaching out, slamming both his fists hard into her gut, quickly recoiling one arm, spinning it and swinging it down in an arc, cleaving through the soft padding of her armour and drawing two faint lines of dark crimson across her tender skin, a blow that could have disembowelled her if he’d have been closer.

Annoyed and agonised, Maxus came to his feet, moving backwards as fast as he could while she staggered still from the force of his double punch, clutching at her cut stomach. He glanced to his arm with a sneer, his armour stained a darker tint as his blood slowly seeped from the wound.

“ Eternity doesn’t bleed!” She hissed out of the shadows. He roared in response – loud enough that all the occupants of both the cave and the craft must have heard them – and launched towards her, hopping up onto one of the raised sections of floor around the doorway and then jumping high into the air, spreading his arms wide ready to drive both hands inwards and slice her in two.

Her response was immediate, she charged him, slamming into him in midair and locking her arms around his waist, her face against his chest, his heartbeat pounding like a war drum by her ear. She pushed forward, slamming him against the wall and knocking the breath out of him. His legs then locked, feet crossed behind her back, crushing her between his thighs. With a triumphant cackle, he struck her across the temple with his forearm. She released her grip with the blow and he kicked free, landing on his feet before locking his arms around her waist and lifting, pitching her around and slamming her up against the same wall she’d just held him hostage against. He let go instantly as she crumpled with the impact, dropping onto her feet shakily.

Then he was against her, elbow across her throat, hand on the wall, rib against opposing rib, breathing into the shadows of her hood. Beneath her jaw, blood curled into the weave and creases of his tunic and formed a droplet at his elbow, hanging for a moment before dropping, thick and dark, to the floor.

“ I’m going to use your face to clean my boots.” He hissed, licking his lips to punctuate the sentence. “ I’ll dine like a king on your rotted insides, undead wretch.” His free arm snaked between them, dragging blades lazily over her body, rocking with each bump and ripple of the leather. “ Tonight’s main course… a fine selection of choice cuts… breast… thighs… garnished with…” He closed his eyes to inhale her. “ Why, I do believe it’s Sunfruit.”

He lowered the arm around her throat, bringing it back and clenching his fist, his claws straight and primed, two lines of dark metal pointing directly at her belly. He grinned, tensed his arm and then, she was gone, with a slight pop of a capsule and the hiss of burning flash powder.

He blinked, dazed and dazzled… the trace of her against the wall still showed large in his imbued sight, fading away with the last specks of powder as it burned against the air. He glanced about him, feeling suddenly naked and stupid.

“ You forgot dessert.” A voice soothed in his ear. He stiffened, realising she was right behind him, then snarled with rage, spinning quickly with his arm raised, swinging down in an arc and slashing deep across her thigh. She cried out in pain and he saw the quick flash of silver by her side and then… then there was cold, icy numbness above his waist… and all movement halted for a second.

************************************************** **********

I felt it. I saw it in his face, and heard it in his breath; the catch, the shock as he realised it too. This time, the dagger - my dagger - had hit home, penetrating his leather chest piece and landing a deep painful shot in his abdomen, not far from his stomach. He staggered slightly, nearly stepping into the corpse of the dead orc. It was a fraction of time where he was again vulnerable, and it was all I needed. I stepped behind him and brought my right arm hard in front of his throat and knocked him backwards neatly over my knee; he fell to the ground then, partially catching himself on one elbow before fully encountering the floor.

As I had pushed him, I cried out slightly; my own leg was screaming in pain; I felt the mouth of the wounds gaping open and shut as I moved - long gashes, two of them, where the talon fingers of his claw had swiped my thigh so deeply.

Before he could rise again, I leapt astride him, straddling his torso with my thighs and pinning him to the ground. I pinned his left arm down with my knee; his right arm was still free and I put my boot on his forearm, preventing him from moving. He winced painfully as my inner thigh ground against the gash near his abdomen. I could feel the warmth of him through the armour; smelled the blood of him seeping out and mingling with the scent of leather.

I hoped the glancing blow of my main dagger hadn't poisoned him too deeply; it bore the crippling poison that I was so devoted to using against the living.... one shot was not enough to kill him, but merely subdue him.

Human man..

A part of me wanted to break. A part of me knew I must not.

I already knew deep inside that I didn't want to kill him; I couldn't. I knew his face. I remembered his kindness, and his devotion to the Naaru. His weary smile as he gazed out over oblivion. Even now, as he laid beneath me bleeding and furious, a white griffon feather was tucked in my belt; his griffon... now stained in blood; his or mine, it was impossible to tell.



But this....creature he was now was not that man...this creature, claiming to be Forsaken, speaking Gutterspeak, I was not sure how it related to him, but it did explain why his scent seemed faintly undead; as if a memory of undeath lingered so deeply upon his soul that it permeated his body; convinced his flesh of the truth, and not just his mind.

I also knew that he would not relinquish it through means other than force; of that I was quite sure. He was fighting more than me. He glared up at me, the red eyes of his own hood burning up at me, his chest rising and falling against my legs. An animal with a man's face. A hunter. A feeder.

Then I will feed you, human man, and see what is wrought.

His breath came in short, but even waves...snarling in pain, or anger, I was not sure which. But for the moment he was held fast; and as he was, I reached out and harshly stabbed at the orc's corpse with my second dagger, crudely ripping away a swathe of it, dripping and wet, and with a cold smile held it above his head and let one, sluggish drop of blood fall through the mask and land on his lips.

"Hungry?" I taunted. I heard him gnash his teeth in response, snapping at the air, as the droplets fell down, down to the shadowed gaze that could not be read; but I felt his body stiffen beneath me, taut and tense with the promise of the flesh so near his face.

************************************************** *************

He writhed suddenly, pulling his arm free and swinging, slapping the dagger out of his face. She fell backwards, the cut of meat spinning away into the darkness as he pulled himself to his feet, poison dragging at his gut and the wound drilling him with shocks of feverish chill. He staggered backwards, colliding with the wall as he readied himself. She rolled, getting to her feet quickly and watching him for a moment.

He wasn’t going to drop here like this, not brought down by a wound and poisoning. If it was to be death it was to be merciless, she would have to slay him or render him completely incapable of escape… until that moment, he was going to fight.

Perhaps he wouldn’t win. He’d never considered being the loser before, it wasn’t an option… losing was weakness, after all, and he wasn’t weak, wasn’t prone to the same failings as the living, as his own self to some degree. He realised his vision was hazing and blinked, shaking his head. Rising again, he drew himself to full height and stared straight at her, flexing his fingers around the grips of his weapons. Calmly, as though the fight had only just begun, he inhaled.

" Starving."

He charged her, swinging his claws erratically and clumsily. She stepped aside quickly, sweeping her dagger around and grazing his hip, another icy sliver of pain shooting through him. He stumbled, slamming into the opposite wall and turning. She was favouring her left leg now, her wound taking a similar toll on her as his own.

He charged again, with more enthusiasm, catching her off guard and punching her hard, lifting her off her feet slightly and using the force to hook his hands into her belt and throw her against the wall. She folded with the impact, landing on her leg which buckled slightly and fell beneath her. He continued on but she was faster, scooting on her shins to the side, punching him in the side of the knee and getting to her feet again as he turned, swinging a claw at head height. She ducked it and swung a dagger up, slicing across the palm of his hand, forcing him to cry out in pain and relax the grip on his weapon. She kicked him in the gut and then again in the head, staggering him backwards. A weight lifted from him and the clattering of metal told him he’d lost his weapon. He slammed into the wall and doubled over as a powerful ache drove deep into his stomach.

He landed in a foetal position and remained there for a moment.

So this is defeat. He thought. He’d become consumed by his drive… tonight more than ever… perhaps that was why he was the weaker half, the half forced to live in secret and hide their face. Perhaps… though he couldn’t fathom the idea fully… perhaps it wasn’t just Max who needed to see they were stronger as two parts of the same whole, not vying for control.

Maxus lifted himself lazily and saw she was sliding slowly down the opposite wall, her daggers still in her hands, his claw closer to her than him. He nodded blankly, knowing she couldn’t se the gesture and rolled back, against the wall, letting his head fall against the wall with a low groan.

************************************************** ***********

He slumped, exhausted as I was. I could hear his breathing, laboured slightly, punctuated by winces from the wounds I had inflicted. My own - twice deeply raked by his claws, raged with pain. I reached down across my right thigh, where his claw had slashed through the bloodfang leathers, right through the armour padding that Gharb had so beautifully crafted, to my own undead flesh, shredded where he had damaged it. Thick, deep purple blood had seeped into the edges, penetrating and staining the leather around it. I ran my finger along it thoughtfully. Pain and blood; undead. Not dead. There was a difference.

"I just patched these." I murmured quietly into the torch-lit space before me, in Orcish. "I've had them a long time."

I heard him grunt angrily, and in soft sarcastic tones I heard him utter, "I do speak Gutterspeak, you know." I heard him shift, and moan slightly. I could smell his blood now; I supposed my attack had struck him well, but not fatally, no more than his claws had done to me, however ravaged my shoulder and leg seemed now, I would heal in time.

I smoothed the ripped trousers and sighed softly, tugging at the crimson leather, before it dried against the skin. They would need a great deal of repair. And yet, I did not mind the wound, or the damage done. It belonged there somehow.

"Why do you speak that language, and deny your own, better tongue?" His tone was scornful; I wondered if he was waiting for me to kill him. I imagined he had rarely been such a position as he was now; as such, I took no offence.

At his question, a thousand memories returned, of being called "Forsaken" of the assumptions made again, and again, of "my people" and "who I was", when I had never asked to be any of it, I had never been from Lordaeron, I didn't even care about the place, though I had to admit a grudging fondness for some of its more loyal inhabitants. Axarath crossed my mind for a moment, as did Jenah, Muirna, Timrashal and Zik. Without speaking I retorted in Ma'lanth.

"Net mah Forsaken, lantha para'on!" I hissed, before remembering he would not understand. "I am not Forsaken...living man." I corrected myself and spoke, in Gutterspeak, the irony striking every nerve in my body.

"I am the same as you." I added, finally. "I am....what I am. But I do not have to hide it. I would suspect you do."

Hunger gnawed at my mind; his blood mingled with the orc's body throbbed in my head. I had not forgotten the taste of his mouth. But in some way, perhaps, it was through that touch that I realised I could not murder him; to do so would have denied me the opportunity to do so again.

Of course, I could not have let him known that. I would be dead now if I had.

I wondered what he was thinking..... if he fought the desire to kill and eat me, even now, as we both sat wounded, and exhausted.

Cringing in pain, I crawled over to the dead body of the woman, wary of the human still, listening to his breathing and movement, I stripped another piece of flesh from the orc and sucked on it thoughtfully, the sound of it echoing softly in the darkness.

I heard his breathing stop for a moment. He was listening to me.

I ripped another piece away and approached him. He was sitting against the wall; now, I could feel his breath not far from my face, still sweet with life and yet tinged with the flavour of flesh. It made me smile, the torment it must have given him to live this way was somehow perfectly beautiful.

That total isolation was something I understood, however different my own might have been.

Living rogue. Such a brutal, violent, and yet utterly vulnerable creature...all must go your way, mustn't it?

There could be no halfway with him. He was not a beastheart, but he was, in some strange way, a beast. If he could not win, then he had to lose. Someone had to lose.

I do not think you deserve to lose, human man. You deserve to understand.

Clasping the piece of flesh, I crawled close to him, and held it up to his mouth. This time it was not a question.

"Eat it." I said, bloodied fingers poised before his lips.

There was no response. My fingertips were so close to his mouth that they were chilled by his breath.

I leaned in and hissed sharply, demanding him. I was somehow filled with disappointment in him for resisting, for hesitating. He was stronger than this. I would show him he was.

"You fight yourself and me, human man? You gain nothing! Eat it!!"

This time he responded. I felt him move, leaning forward slightly to meet my hand.

His lips grazed my fingers, carefully plucking the meat from them with his teeth, in silent obedience.

I nodded, but frowned slightly. "You needn't be so careful. Do you always eat that way?"

I let my fingers linger against his lips, bloodied still. He lifted his head slightly, hooded, as mine so often was, his face was a mere shadow beneath it, his red burning eyes gazing back at me, expressionless.

I want to see the truth of you.

"Take off the hood, human man."

"Why?"

"I want to see your real face."

"That would be pointless. This is not my body anymore."

"Yes...it is...." I said it firmly, but gently, softening towards him slightly, but unrelenting. Something in this human pulled at me in a strange way; a hunger, and a compassion. I cradled the side of his head, feeling the soft leather beneath it.

I gripped his hood slightly, feeling it crumple in my hand.

I could have ripped it off myself in that moment. But somehow, it was wrong to do so. I wanted to make him do it, of his own volition.

"You just have not accepted it. Whatever you are, it is the body you are given, as this one is now mine. So take off the hood. NOW!"

I'm was not sure what was happening to me. Why I felt this need to push him, demand this of him, how I felt I had the right. But somehow I did, somehow he had given that to me.

That knowledge compelled me and I knew then - I would not let him refuse.

I let my hand fall, and repeated it softly, firmly.

"Remove it, human."
************************************************** *****

Perhaps it was the effects of the poison that was keeping him here. He could understand that… that excuse made sense to him, a reason to remain slumped there against the wall despite this feeling of burning adrenalin coursing through his veins. She wanted to see him unmasked, his living face.

It wasn’t right… behind the hood, behind the shadows and wrappings provided by his dark armour, he was merely Max, human Commander of the Guard… here, here in the darkness he was Maxus, he didn’t want to relinquish his freedom so quickly.

But what had she said, he’d not ‘accepted it’?

Forced to live by the hand of the dead.

It made sense, in the same sort of ironic way his own state of mind continued to exist. Was it possible to be dead and living at once… more than just the undead state, but truly living while being past? Perhaps it was… perhaps, then, there was hope for things afterwards, perhaps Maxus wouldn’t be gone at the moment of dark harmony between the souls.

But that entailed surviving this encounter… whatever this woman wanted for him, he was at her mercy now. He dropped his head slightly and nodded faintly in subservience.

************************************************** *******

He no longer protested.

His hands lifted to his hood, and slowly, he pulled it away, his hair ruffling slightly as he did so, and let it fall into his lap, gazing down at it a moment before lifting his eyes to meet mine.

It had been a long time, so very long, since I had looked at the eyes of a true living human so intimately. I had forgotten how much could be said through such eyes.

His stare was filled with such sorrow, such torment, that it cut into me like his claws, but deeper still; in that I knew those wounds he bore never ceased to bleed.

I gasped slightly, as a lifetime's internal battle was shown to me in a glance, without anything between us.

He looked away, then, gazing at the floor.

As he broke the spell, a wave of disappointed anger flowed through me.

"Human man...do not do that! Look at me. What is your name?" His head bent, I could see his hair was long, barely tied behind his head, thickly textured, and pale in colour. A few loose strands had fallen free, partially covering his face and neck. I cursed my own red sight, that so much nuance was lost, unlike my other senses, a perpetual incomplete picture. I saw the wound I had inflicted upon him, the deep gash along his side. I noted his finely repaired armour, worn soft as my own was from constant use, thickly built arms tapering to the claws, now motionless at his side, unresisting.

He did not respond. I reached out and grasped his jaw gently and turned his head back to me, but his eyes remained downcast.

"Human!" I snapped, in stronger tones. "You WILL do this! You will look at me, and tell me your name!!" I let my hand linger upon him, but did not force him to move further.

Tell me. I must know who you are.

His eyes lifted slowly once again, radiating with the same sorrow and haunted intensity that I had seen in that first glance. His face was weary, but he was not old; like so many in this troubled world, he bore the story of his life upon his features.

"Your name." I repeated softly, my own hooded gaze staring back at him.

"Maxus."

"Maxus..." I smiled, and nodded slightly, feeling a rush of tenderness for him as he relented, and gave in to my demand. I let my hand wander to the side of his face, my thumb gliding across his cheek, wanting to soothe him, to reward his trust.

"Good...good..." I broke off as I saw him look down, and my voice grew short and impatient again. "No!"

"Do not look down, Maxus! It tells me you are ashamed of one of us. Neither is acceptable!" I frowned at him, displeased, and pulled away, my hands falling to my lap, my voice cold.

"Then what do you want?" he spoke, his voice was harsh, aggressive.

He glared at me for a moment, his shining, human eyes burning through me. I swallowed quietly.

He was like a living flame, burning without restraint, all torment and emotion, violent and unfocused. He was perfect.

"Right now?" I sat back thoughtfully on my haunches, observing him, even as my wound raged in protest at the movement. "Right now, Maxus, I'm going to watch you eat."

I slipped backwards along the floor, reaching back to the dead orc, never letting my gaze leave him. I knew in my demands, in knowing his name, I was adding something to the raw fire I saw burning inside of him.

I wasn't quite sure, however, what it was I was creating.

Another chunk of flesh in my hand, I returned to his side, and in my ungloved hand I held the flesh before him again, before the real man, and not the shrouded one, living and breathing before me.

"Eat more, Maxus. And this time, eat it the RIGHT way, not like some wincing, desperate hound. I won't have it."

I finished the words and for a moment we just glared at each other; I felt his pulse quicken again, the faintest change to his breath. A part of me was half-convinced we would again raise weapons and fight...but he did not attempt it.

What he did do surprised me slightly, and exhilarated me.

Ignoring the bit of meat in my hands, he moved past me swiftly on all fours and knelt over the corpse of the orc, tearing into her now-cold flesh as if he had been grossly starved, not ripping delicate meaty strips as I so often did, but literally annihilating it, sinew and skin, muscle and gristle and organ equally consumed; his arms coated with blood, as he sliced into the body with his talons, bringing lumps of it to his face, in a pure and unabashed orgy of consumption.

I have never seen anyone eat with such abandon, living or dead. Noisy and ravenous, he was utterly oblivious to anything else, given totally over to this moment.

I sighed quietly, watching him, feeling only a heady mixture of excitement and deep contentment. If only for now, he had stopped fighting me, and himself.

So this is what denying your own soul does to you.

Yes. You already know this.

He cannot continue this way...

No.

And he has no beastheart to guide him.

No.

He will come apart....

You cannot deny what you are and avoid this, you learned that yourself.

I suppose not. He is beautiful.

He is what he is.

That is exactly what I mean.

************************************************** *****

He could feel the burning awareness at the back of his head of being watched, monitored closely as he fed hungrily. Feeding, of course, was to be done like this… it wasn’t the food of the living, wasn’t restricted to the same manners and formalities as a Sunday dinner… this was the meal of animals at it’s purest… the fallen corpse of prey, victim and loser in the hunt.

It wasn’t his hunt, or his food, though… until now. She’d let him take it from her, something he’d never have done… the kill was sacred, special, like a lover, not meant to be shared or handed out at random. He heard her shift slightly behind him and hesitated, a flayed stretch of meat hanging from his mouth.

No… this was part of their lives. Cursed lives they may be… but it was a part of them, and new rules had to be made. He was starved… physically, but mentally too, and emotionally… that part of him he’d been trying to pull away from, deny for so long, was released now, charging wild and rampant through his mind. He’d been living a lie, as much as his living side had… and now it was time to wake up and face the truth.

************************************************** *******

I crawled forward, pleased, and began to kneel beside him to take another of my preferred strips when I felt him lunge for me, and push me away violently.

My kill!

I went mindless with rage and shock, scolding him angrily in my own tongue as I fell backwards onto one elbow. My voice was nothing more than a jagged, raw howl, barely coherent.

"De'sere dhearg soostan atra, Max-us!!"

He shoved one of his taloned hands in my face and said only one word; despite his pushing me, the tone was not threatening, or violent.

"Taste."

I blinked; false red eyes flickering under my hood, and sat up slightly to meet his claw. The weapon was as large as my head; as sharp as any dagger, short and utterly deadly.

Coated as it was with the orc's remains, it appeared only more dangerous. My daggers were still at my sides; I felt their comforting weight, the slight "ssssht" as they grated against the stone floor.

I spoke low, and evenly. "If you try to cut me now, I will kill you."

Even as I said it, I knew doing it would hurt infinitely more than the wound he'd inflicted. Something had been born in front of me; I did not want to destroy it now.

But he merely laughed, blood coated features cracking a feral grin, his hair partially covered in blood as it hung, half-untied, around his face. He looked utterly wild, and mad, free of self-awareness, as pure as anything I had ever witnessed.

"Taste." he repeated it, simply.

I detected no menace in his voice; no raising of pulse or adrenaline. He did not seem poised to attack...

I lifted my face to the claw, sniffing it before sticking my tongue out of the hood and gingerly licking one of the talons, feeling its odd metallic grate against my teeth, and the blood, now slightly fetid and aged,
tinged with the flavour of the weapon.

The flavour was strange, and shocking. The mouth, to the blade, to the blood..more than the flavour of the meat..it was the entire story, exploding on the tongue. It was the flavour of the fight.

"Tal pal'aat adon!", I nodded, exclaiming with pleasure.

He began to pull away; but I stopped him; instead grabbing his wrist to taste it again in the way I knew best, blind and fully given to the sense of it.

I ripped off my hood with my free hand, and licked the claw again. It was now that I began to understand his abandon; now truly open to the flavour and scent of it, the smell of his skin, the sensation of the weapon against my tongue, the taste of meat, the fragrance of leather and poisons and wounds, of the corpse nearby, the sound of his breath, even the smoke of the flickering torches...my mouth watered again.

I finally managed to nod and whisper, "It's good."

I did not tell him I meant all of it, to see him freed, the taste of the flesh, fed from a living hand, the moment of forcing him to face me, of staring into his eyes, that moment of possession of him, of command.

Even his aggression in pushing me backwards was good, for it was was no longer tainted by arrogance or cruelty, or other flaws of humanity.

He retreated back to the corpse then, and I sat up to return to it. As I did, I heard him stab at something within it. I sniffed; unsure as to what it was in the mishmash of sensations, but I felt the talon near my face again; the warmth of his hand, and the scent of what perhaps was kidney; it was not the muscular strips, he had gone well past that, I knew.

Maxus was bringing the concept of consuming things to an entirely new level.

"Taste."

I reached out and guided his hand to my mouth, sniffing at it, and smiling slightly, but still wary of the weapon's sharpness as he held it near my unshrouded head. The sensation of being fed with it was exhilarating; utterly connected to not only the meat itself, but even the means by which it was gained. I could understand why he wore them now, and how it bound him so intimately; however brutally, to his prey.

I knew what it tasted like, of course; but as he fed me with his weapon, I also realised that in a profound way the nature of things between us had changed.

He expected me to trust him.

So I did.

I opened my mouth carefully and grasping the flesh with my lips, tugged at it until it glided off his claw. Snapping at it as it fell free, I chewed it hungrily, sitting half-crosslegged, leaning back on my hands, savouring it in silence.

There was a pause, and then I felt him move once more towards me.

Half-expecting another piece to be presented I swallowed the prior one quickly, but was shocked as I felt his face suddenly close to mine, warm with life and wet from his feeding, punctuated by scraps of flesh and gore from the body he had ravaged.

He had leaned forward, his arms on either side of my shoulders. I felt wisps of his hair softly graze my cheek as he had moved towards me, and his blood-soaked breath against my face. I froze, feeling a shiver in the pit of my stomach at the sensation of his body inches from my own.

I felt his lips touching mine, not reaching but lingering against them softly. Whatever pulse I had was now pounding in my ears, screaming at me, in words I did not understand.

One word, spoken again.

"Taste." I felt the word, as much as I heard it, felt its shape form against my mouth, the soft gust of air as it was spoken, and the lingering touch as it completed.

For the smallest moment in time, the type that seems in fact an eternity...I could not respond, or move, I could only feel him. I felt like I was being blown apart, and yet sharpened, the entire world down to one thing, that mouth, his mouth, offered to me now without hesitation.

"With pleasure." I whispered back against his bloodied lips, hungry to taste him again.

Unresisting, he remained pressed against me, and I slowly licked one corner of his mouth, pausing against his face, smiling at the flavour of it, and of him. Dragging my mouth across his, licking at his lips, drawing the blood off of him, and into me, feeling the strange and delicious sensation of his rough chin scratch mine slightly, I felt as if I would rip his very skin off of him, and yet..no...I knew somehow, I would not.

He is not food.

Oh yes, he is.


I clasped his face in my hands and drew him closer to me, and sunk my teeth into his jaw before pausing for a moment, barely reminding myself not to harm him. I nuzzled him apologetically instead, and pulled a scrap of the orc's flesh away as I did so. I swallowed it before nudging his cheek and licking at it as if I had been starved.

Starved. Perhaps that is a good word for it...

He could not face his hunger.

You could not name your own.

Stop thinking now.


And so I did. Even if was undead, and he was not. Even if he was Alliance, and I was Horde. And by all these things - by everything we both knew to be true, we should not have been here. And yet we were two of a kind, mad, wild creatures conscripted to a life of self-awareness and reflection, rooted to traditions and boundaries that neither of us could have anticipated, starving some core part of us because of it. Now, it was as if everything conscious ceased to matter, we were nothing then, except what we felt and tasted, what we could smell, and hear.

For one moment, there was nothing else, no world, no war, nothing. There was only us, and a rare moment of freedom.

I paused and released one lingering, ragged breath before descending upon his mouth again, with desire that was violent, and undefined, licking him, kissing him, half-purring, feeling his skin beneath my palms, and his unbound hair now entwined in my fingertips.

His mouth moved to my neck; I felt one of his arms wrap around me, pulling me towards him as he did so. Instinctually I put my head back as I felt him kiss my throat, softly at first, then more fiercely, nipping at my chilled white skin as his face travelled downwards to the top of my chestpiece.

*************************

Maxus gripped the neck of the leather tunic with his teeth, pulling at it briefly before sliding a hand across her leg, hip, up along her side and across her chest to the divide between skin and protection. He hooked his fingers into it and pulled fiercely, the leather bending and twisting against his grip, unrelenting. He growled slightly with frustration and kissed her again, holding there for a moment, before gripping the tunic around the waistline with both hands and beginning to pull it upwards.

*************************

It was only here that I grabbed his hands, holding them against me, preventing him from moving farther. Consciousness had crept in again, aware of my undead state, of exposed knees and elbows, bones glowing faintly in the torchlight, the partially-living thing that I was; pale as snow, and half complete. Much of me was intact, but there was no mistaking the fact I was not alive. How was it possible that he was not horrified?

"Maxus...." To stop him felt utterly wrong; how it hurt to feel some sort of self-consciousness flow into my mind in that moment, a cold river of reason washing away every fledgling emotion which had been borne in that kiss. And yet..

Did he not see?

"I am undead! I am not your elf-woman......"

I paused. I had not forgotten what this was..

"I can't. I mean I..can...not. Do you understand? There is..a..way, though it is an illusion, it would grant both of us some..."

Don't be a fool. You have no right. An illusion? Dhearg rogue! Filled with blood, a living man! He belongs to their world. What are you doing?

I felt like I was shattering inside; reason crashing into some ancient drive to connect to him were at war inside of me.

I pushed away, scuttling backwards on my hands and feet to the comfort of the wall behind me, my mind still reeling from his touch, and the feeling of it. I could hear my own breath in the chamber, feel my own chest rising and falling. I heard him move towards me, smelled his hand nearby.

I could only bare my teeth and hiss at him; little more than an animal in a strange and confusing environment. Unquenched desire raged without release, and I was left anxious, and suddenly wary again.

****************************************

Maxus moved towards her, shuffling along on his shins, reaching to her. She pulled away from his hand, flattened against the wall. Maxus smiled, that cracked, feral grin borne of the beast inside him, the pyre at the funeral of his Forsaken soul.

" Listen." He hissed. In the silence that followed, their ragged, shallow breathing echoed back and forth. " Do you hear it?"

She shook her head.

" The sound of us living. We're alive... both of us."

*******************************************

His words struck me like a slap. Of course a part of me felt alive inside. It always had; it was what I fought so vehemently to prove, that the soul was everything, the body was a carcass. It was just that never for a moment could I imagine that a human would be the one to speak them to me.

It was not the mindless ranting of a madman; this beast that some part of him was, that co-existed within him, whatever it may be, he still spoke to me now with all the reason and coherence of a man.

His words kept echoing in my head.

The sound of us living. We're alive..both of us.

Alive.

Alive.


As he asked, I did listen; At first, I heard the pounding of his heartbeat, his breath as it left his partially-open mouth. And then I reached out, finding his face, and held my palm in front of it, to feel his breath strike it.

I felt his hand grasp my own and gently turn the palm to face my own lips, feeling the air gust out of me as it always had; albeit somewhat colder, chilled and slower-paced than his own.

Both breathing. Both living, feeling, bleeding, thinking creatures.

He is the other one.

The same, and yet separated by one cruel irony; one sacred passage into death, that no process, natural or otherwise can ever fully bridge.

The other one.

Something had turned in the world, forever, and would not turn back now.

The other one.

He was right; this forsaken, isolated creature - whatever he had been before tonight; however he had coped with being a Commander, a human....and yet..this..., he was now just like me, forged of light and darkness, destined to walk the razor's edge between them forever. The cannibal, the animal, the survivor, the protector, the killer, the human.

The other one.

I sat there, motionless for a moment, my hands still resting against the now-sticky warmth of his bloodied cheeks, and merely whispered. "Lantha."

Alive.

"Maxus." I spoke it slowly and evenly; unafraid, and slowly drew my face to his once again.

I knew this time I would not pull away; I wanted him. I wanted the touch of him, I wanted to find the very core of him, tear it out, and let it strike me deeply; whatever happened after this, whatever havoc this might wreak, simply did not matter to me now. I could think only of devouring him; and being lost to it, surrendering to something utterly and completely.

If not now - nothing ever again.

It is my free will - and his - that we come to be here.

I will have this, come what may..I will have this moment.

With a wanton snarl, I reached out to him, one hand coiling around his neck like a snake, pulling at him, the other hand scratching at his leather-clad shoulders hungrily clawing at the leather, wanting to feel every inch of him living and breathing against me.

His pulse quickened in response as his arms wrapped around me, drawing me back against him; warm and firm. It was not just his breath that changed now; it was his body, the length of him growing ever-warmer, and hardening against my thigh as he pressed against me. The kiss grew more intense; I felt his teeth tease my lips, at my face, at my neck, each abandoned spot on my flesh crying for his mouth's return.

...it is intoxicating.

"I'm going to tear you apart," I laughed darkly, throwing my head back as he bit one breast through the leather.

************************************************** ************
“ You already have.” He whispered, mouth against her tunic, damp where he’d kissed and breathed against her. He pushed against her thigh, slowly lowering his hands to her waist once more, hooking his fingers beneath the fold of leather, warm, smooth, tough surface against the undersides of his fingers, chilled, pale skin against his knuckles. With a hesitant intake of breath, he strengthened his grip and then lifted, feeling her relent quickly and arch as the tunic slipped away, shoulderpads attached. He tossed it to the floor beside his crumpled hood and quickly glanced over the moon-white body glowing slightly in the dim light of the cave.

************************************************** ***********

His response made me shiver slightly; or perhaps it was the feel of air on my skin as I felt his gloved hands pull the leather away….leaving thin trails of fiery warmth in their wake.

I have learned with time that in undeath, perhaps due to how we died, or how long we were in such a state before we were recovered, that each undead experiences a unique level of sensory perception; some little, some not at all, some extraordinarily so. Or perhaps its what we allow ourselves to feel…

In either case, let me assure you..I feel everything. Whether it is because I can, or because I merely desire it, is of no consequence.

I arched slightly and lifted my arms and felt the armour glide away.

I heard the chestpiece – mine - crumple to the stone floor with a soft “flump”.

And now I could feel more; the faintest breeze as it moved through the cavern and across the tender and un-tested skin of my torso; the new-found agony of the wounds on my arm as they were re-opened when the leather grazed them.

I smiled slightly at them, how perfect and focused these sensations could be.

It occurred to me then that he had stopped moving; I knew he was poised just above me, I could hear the rise and fall of his breath.

I rose slightly to rest against him, my flesh against his armour, and for a reason I will never completely understand, pressed my lips against the raw, jagged wound in his abdomen I had only just inflicted earlier, and kissed it reverently before pulling away.

Wordlessly, I began lifting the ripped leather away from the drying wound, before sitting up and beginning to pull it off and over his head, deliberately letting it rake against my own flesh, each buckle and stitch grating against my chest and abdomen. With a slight resistance, the damaged armour completely came away from the wound; and as I slid it farther over his torso the burst of living warmth and scent shocked me; the imprint of the man, every aspect of who he was, how he lived.

I tossed it aside as he had done for me, and removed my second glove; and with bare, pale hands ran my fingertips across his chest and shoulders; a symphony of wounds old and new; scars and gashes.

Fascinated, I sat up slightly and traced them all with my hands and lips, inhaling his skin as I discovered each new feature; gasping at the sensation of his skin raking against my own.

His heart was louder now; I delighted in the sound, fingertips scratching impatiently at the wall of his chest.

“Then perhaps its your turn…” I smiled, and bit one of his ribs gently, purring against his skin, before letting my mouth move lazily upwards, tugging on one nipple, and higher still, lapping at the delicate construction of his collarbone like a hungry cat.

I let one hand fall to rest along his thigh, sweeping across the leather of his waist to feel the most intimate part of him him pulse against my hand, straining against the leather. As my fingers touched him, I felt it move beneath them. I raked at it with my fingernails, through his trousers.

I lifted my head to his and whispered against his lips, feeling myself move against him hungrily.

“…..to rip me apart.”

Nobody ever could.

All I had known was meant to be survived or overcome, defeated or destroyed or reconciled.

Nothing had been worth surrender.

Until now.

**************************************************

He could feel his pulse pounding in his skull, the rhythmic and rapid drumming of his heart as it pushed adrenalin through his veins. The ugly wound in his gut stung from her touch, from the armour that had been dragged across it and now from both the cool caress of the air and the blood sweeping past the tender flesh.

He pushed absently against her hand, instinctively, as he leaned to kiss her, icy, enchanted lips against his own, the touch of mysterious undeath against life, each of them desiring the other.

Was that was this was?

He opened his eyes for a moment as they kissed, staring at the dark hair vaguely visible in the light. Was it his yearning for undeath that had led to this now, this act of possession and closure with this undead woman? Was she, too, searching for life in such a way that she would let herself take this living man to get closer to things?

No… no, it didn’t seem that way.

There was nothing to be gained from death, temporary or otherwise… for so long Maxus had seen undeath as the solution to all his problems, surrendering himself to Sylvanas in that definite manner… but it wasn’t… the solution was the thing he was working towards, unification, making his living side realize the two of them had to co-operate… but similarly, he now understood that he had to unify with his living side at the same time, not welcome his living self to this new perspective, but step forward alongside him.

He ran a hand through her hair and broke the kiss, bending to lean and suck gently at her neck as the pressure around his waist lessened and his belt came away at the insistence of her delicate yet rushed fingers. He reached beneath her and lifted, hoisting her into the air and making her arch almost involuntarily, exposing her belly to his searching face for him to kiss, lick and nibble. He kicked away his boots as he brought a hand to her front, his fingerless gloves tracing leather and skin across her chest and stomach to reach her waist, nimbly releasing the buckle and pulling it free, tugging at her pants and working them past her hips before smoothly pulling them free, her white body shimmering in the light.

He lay her on the ground again, leaning up to kiss her, gently dragging his lips across the leather straps on her face as she slid her chilled hands along his hips past the waistline of his pants and his open belt, dragging claw-like, hooked fingers back up and along his spine before pulling his garments away and letting himself lower onto her, pressing himself against her, heat against the cold, warming her skin with his body.


It had been some time.

Once in life, once in death.
Vishas, by force, and under so much duress.
Linton, by consent, and under so many illusions.

And yet this was not either of those things.

I knew what this was. It is not as if I had forgotten; I think I just stopped wanting to remember things that I never thought I would find. I would not have even looked for them, because I did not understand.

And now, I understand.

There is the reality of what we do. Beneath this, the understanding of what we must be, and beneath that..the truth of what we are.

And this truth defined some strange, enveloping calm as I felt him enter me. This truth guided my hands to his back, and felt living warmth smoulder into heat; tasted the salt of his sweat on my mouth and knew exactly how to move, in some primal need to feel as much of him as possible.

Not two, but one being now, connected, writhing, and selfless. A part of everything.

I felt his teeth sink into my shoulder, and as his pace quickened, I matched it briefly before suddenly pushing him backwards until he lay against the ground. And leaping upon him as I might a windrider, I leaned forwards, my face against his and listened to him, his breath hot and ragged in my ear, delighting in every nuance, every gasp, as he slipped deeper into some perfect mindlessness…..he would linger on the edge and I would freeze, delighting in the tortured response as he was denied release. I forgot how many times I did this, so delighted was I with the effect of it….of his living mouth trembling, of the soft sounds he made, of the shocking warmth of his hands on my chest.

Finally I could bear it no more and let myself go with him in one faint, whimpering cry. It was then that he shuddered, and lay still beneath me, his hand resting at my waist.

I collapsed on top of him, speechless, as I realised - I was almost as warm as he was.

************************************************** **********************************************

Outside the sky had melted into a swirl of fiery red. Morning and night didn’t apply out here, not this close to the edge of the world, and not in whatever star system Outland currently floated through… but Maxus let his head drift lazily to gaze beyond the cave entrance. She lay on top of him, the two of them breathing raggedly… his wound didn’t sting anymore, ached dimly, a dull warning that he was walking the fine line of having the evening remembered by his living self.

Remembered…

He turned his head, gazing down at the mess of hair covering the head of the woman resting on him. She didn’t know, didn’t understand… how could she…

“ Lady…” He croaked, his voice tired and strained. He didn’t even know her name. She smiled slightly.
“ Not a lady…I was never that. Call me Heresy.” She whispered.
“ Heresy… I… I’m not sure how to… tell you this…” He frowned. Guilt was something new, also. She shifted slightly, tilting her head towards him. “ You… know me. Or, you seem to… you think you do, you know him, I suppose. Us… but… when he… when he’s in control again, after tonight… he won’t… I mean, I will, but he won’t… remember, this. He won’t know what’s happened… for now.”

She listened in silence to his words but did not seem to immediately respond. He felt one finger move across his chest and rest over his heart briefly before moving in a small pattern.

She turned her head against his skin and spoke softly against his shoulder.

“Yes, I know the Commander. Him, whom I presume you battled for control…”

She sat up with a start and whispered…”the feather”…an alarmed expression crossed her features and she sniffed the air, head turned to the pile of discarded leathers, before she slumped back against him, her face turned to the roof, her knees bent.

“Will..will he be reconciled now?”

“ Reconciled… hmm… yes, I suppose so. I intended to… educate him, to show him what we are, what we can be, can accomplish… the… specifics aren’t important, I suppose. He’ll remember, then, remember many things he doesn’t know now… as will I, I suspect. Things I… didn’t… people I didn’t…” He reached up and ran a finger along the outline of her shoulders and collarbone, the smooth surface of her skin still warm to the touch. She leaned back into his hand slightly. “ Yes… he’ll remember… soon, it’ll be soon… just… not in the… not until my task is complete.”


“Reconciled, he will survive..” I smiled faintly at his touch, remembering the tired man on the edge of the world that had stolen some small part of me weeks ago.

“This is what matters the most, Maxus.”

Would he remember? Only time would tell.

I knew only that I would not forget.

I pushed up onto my worn and scarred elbows then and bent over to kiss him a final time before pulling away. Silently gathering my things up once again, I began to get dressed.

My hands found the feather tucked within the pile of armour and I held it aloft before me, towards him, and smiled. It was stained now, its pristine whiteness marred with blood, his..and mine.

I tucked it into the belt as carefully as I had before, and restored my hood and my sight and looked back at him one last time, laying on the stone before me, alive and naked and real, grey hair flowing in waves at his shoulders and the wounds I had given him in clear view against pale skin.

“How strong things can be even as they are utterly vunerable…” I thought, before pulling my gaze away from him.

It is strange how life can superimpose versions of itself upon others…and memories occur of that which never happened…

“Goodbye, Maxus.” I whispered, shrouded and faceless once again, I turned and walked out of the cavern, my footsteps echoing faintly against the stones.

__________________
"I wrote the story myself. It's about a girl who lost her reputation and never missed it." - Mae West
Fireflower's Words of Wisdom: http://i200.photobucket.com/albums/a...ompilation.jpg