Kittidan Part 1

[moonshadows]

Arthas stared. Whatever he’d been expecting of the great Illidan Stormrage, this was not it.

“Remember,” the bronzed high elf said coldly.

“I know, I know.” He almost reached out with one toe, but thought better of it. “And you swear that my kingdom, my father and my people, will be unharmed?”

“You have my word. So long as you uphold your end of the agreement, I will uphold mine.”

The prince of Lordaeron stared wordlessly down at the pile of matted and bedraggled fur lying limp on his bedroom floor. “What do I tell my father?”

“Whatever you like,” the high elf replied with a slight smirk.

When Arthas turned to look at him, he was gone.

“Well,” he sighed, sitting down next to the unconscious and confusing demon hunter, “welcome to Lordaeron, Illidan. I guess you’re going to be living with me from now on.”

 ==================================

The first thing Illidan knew when the blackness receded was pain. The second was that he was not alone. With effort, because by the stars he hurt, he kept his breathing even and tried to sniff out the nature of his surroundings. Wood, stone, faint plant and animal scents. Something warm and vaguely musky. Male, he would guess. So, he was in someone’s…keep? Lair? Den? And unharmed. Well, no more harmed than he’d been when he passed out. The blood had mostly dried now, and his skin twitched at the matting in his fur. The demon…what had become of the demon he was fighting? Had he won? He remembered only a red haze, his fangs sunk into Tichondrius’s hairless throat, and the spurt of blood that nearly burned as it flooded his mouth. His claws….

Reflexively, he flexed them and yowled at the pain of broken bones grinding against each other.

“Shhh, don’t try to move,” a voice said. Young, male, vibrant. Noble.

Trustworthy.

Naturally, Illidan didn’t trust it.

“I’m still training, but…here, let me see what I can do to heal you.”

Heal him? This…this…whelp was going to heal him?

Before he could do more than lift his lip in disdain, a pure light washed over him, through him, around him, surrounding him. The bones in his forepaws knitted together, the slashes on his flanks closed up, even the ancient scars in his empty eye sockets stopped aching.

“There,” the voice said in satisfaction as the light faded. “How does that feel, hmm?”

“Who are you?” he growled, coughing slightly at the dry, seared feeling in his throat.

“My name is Arthas Menethil. I’m the crown prince of the kingdom of Lordaeron…but you probably don’t know anything about that.”

“Impossible.” Illidan tensed his forelegs, felt the muscles tremble with exhaustion, and settled for turning his head towards his…host. It was harder than he expected, and his eyelids felt like lead as he pried them open. Habit, even after ten thousand years, to try to look with eyes that were no longer there. “I killed Arthas.”

Faint…through the confused grey blankness that was his sight, the canvas upon which scents painted themselves, there was a faint shape limned in golden light. The thought came to him that this whelp had restored his eyes, but a cry of alarm shattered that notion.

“Your eyes! What happened to them?”

Paws on his face. He snarled, trying weakly to pull away from them, but the long, slender shapes – more like a bird’s talons than the pads his people had – held him firmly.

“There’s scars,” the one claiming to be Arthas breathed in horror. “Who did this?”

“I did,” Illidan spat.

Those soft talons stroked his cheeks, his forehead, in a distressingly reassuring way. “But…why?”

“I’m a demon hunter. We hunt by scent. To see the world of light and color only blinds us to the scent of our prey.”

The golden light returned, washing the grey away in a golden flood. “It’s…it’s not working. I can’t heal them.” The soft talons dropped, only to return and work gently through the thick fur protecting his neck, flakes of demon blood pulling free and making him wish he had the strength to scratch at it himself. “I’m sorry,” the whelp said quietly.

“Don’t be. I’ve long since forgotten was it was like to see,” Illidan lied.

Those not-talons continued scratching gently, lulling him into a sort of contentment marred only by hunger, thirst, and his own weakness. Still, it was more pleasant than most of the last several eons had been, and the demon hunter found himself on the verge of sleep.

“I…I guess I’m responsible for you for the time being,” the whelp said hesitantly. “Is there anything you need? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“Both,” he hissed, hoping that answer wouldn’t cause the whelp to stop grooming him and hating himself for that weakness.

“What should I get you?” The fingers, blessedly, did not stop.

“A haunch of something big, or an entire something small, skinned. I don’t care which. And water, fresh if you can find it.”

“Find it?” The whelp giggled. “This is the castle, we don’t need to haul our water. Will…will you be okay here for a few minutes?”

“Yes,” he grated. Not that it made a difference; he was too weak to move and more than likely too heavy for the whelp to drag him to safety. If this was his den, however, it should be safe and secure enough, and Mother Moon knew he didn’t die that easily. As the scars attested.

“Alright.”

Illidan swallowed a mewl as the talons left his ruff.

“Just hang in there. I’ll be right back.”

Footsteps receding; scent fading. The whelp who claimed to be Arthas padded out of his den, leaving Illidan to chew on the gristle of his situation. The idea that this was Arthas Menethil was inane; he’d ripped the throat out of that youngling shortly before facing Tichondrius, doing the poor thing a favor. He’d been infected with something that reeked of death, but behind that rotten scent…

Illidan’s tattered ears went flat against his skull. The whelp’s scent was brighter, hints of sunshine under sweat and strange musk, but he had smelled it before. But if this furless whelp was Arthas, then what had happened?

As the thought passed through his mind, the scent of dry sand suddenly invaded his nostrils and the only reason he did not cringe was that he lacked the strength.

“Timeless One,” he whimpered reverently.

“I’ll make this quick,” the dry voice rumbled. “Your timeline was doomed. You would not have survived Tichondrius. However, this timeline was doomed because in this one, you did not survive your imprisonment; Tyrande found only your withered corpse when she assaulted your cell. You are its only hope, and so I brought you here and put you in young prince Arthas’s care. He will protect you with his life because I have promised him that so long as you thrive, the plague of undeath will not touch his people. Any questions?”

“No, Timeless One,” Illidan answered meekly.

The sudden absence of scent was all the answer he got.

Several breaths later, Arthas returned to sit beside him and scratch at his ruff. “The servants will bring it here shortly,” he said reassuringly. “Will you need…ah…something to go in after?”

“Assuming I have the strength?” Illidan snapped.

“…Yes?”

The demon hunter sighed. “Clean sand, or dry soil.”

“Alright. I’ll tell the servants when they bring your dinner.”

Dinner. The word made his mouth water. He held his silence, letting the prince work blood out of his fur for several minutes. Then the scents of metal, oil, fresh meat, and fear approached and those gentle talons withdrew again while Arthas directed terrified servants to place a basin of fresh water vaguely by his head and a quarter side of beef as close as he could wheedle them. He gave the orders for a quantity of soil in some kind of shallow container to be brought, and with painfully evident relief they left. Scraping sounds and the scent of meat coming closer hinted that his host was dragging the beef to him and he stretched one paw out to pull it closer – or tried, anyway. The limb twitched, and he barely managed to raise it.

“Here,” Arthas said softly. “Let me.”

A wet sound, and then suddenly there was a paw-sized bite of meat right before his muzzle. He’d snapped it up in a flash, sweet-salt blood making it slide down his scorched throat. A breath later another one was offered; that one, too, vanished nearly instantly. Bite by bite Arthas fed him until the hunger no longer gnawed at his guts and he could taste the unfamiliar meat as he chewed it rather than just bolting it whole.

“Water,” he croaked as his stomach warned him that more would be unwise.

More scraping and some sloshing, and then the scents of metal and clear water were close enough that he could stretch his neck out and lap at the blissfully cool liquid. He drank until his belly groaned, then laid his head down and tried to scrape together enough energy to lick his muzzle clean.

“Let me,” the prince murmured as he licked halfheartedly at his bloody jaws, and then there was something soft and wet and not quite a tongue lapping at his fur.

Too full and exhausted to fuel his pride, Illidan allowed the attention. The tongue-thing cleaned the fresh blood from his face, then moved on to whatever dried gore matted his ruff. From there, it moved down his shoulder to his flanks. Head to tail, Arthas groomed him while he felt vaguely like he should object, but he was gorged and bone-tired. When the servants came back bearing freshly-dug soil for him, he didn’t even twitch an ear. The soft, gentle talons returned once the servants left, and under their urgings Illidan slid into slumber.

 ==================================

When the darkness receded again, gentle snoring from somewhere nearby indicated that Arthas was sleeping, and Illidan’s bladder was becoming increasingly adamant that it needed to be emptied. With a groan, he heaved himself up onto his paws and followed the scent of dirt to some kind of basin that seemed quite large enough to suit his needs. It was the work of a few moments to scoop out a depression and position himself over it, and he couldn’t bite back a deep groan as he relieved himself. A few expert swipes covered the now-wet soil, and a tiny bit of strength flowed into him. Endorphins, probably, but he decided to take advantage of them. It was simplicity itself to find the strange, soft pile of…something…that Arthas was sleeping on. His nest, Illidan supposed. Whatever it was, it was more than large enough to share and he felt that he quite deserved the comfort of sleeping on something soft. It took nearly more energy than he had to heave himself up onto the spongy surface, and his sigh this time was contentment as he flopped gracelessly down next to the prince.

Sleep claimed him almost instantly.

 ==================================

 Arthas woke up to sunshine, birdsong, and a giant purple cat in his bed. He’d had plenty of time to examine Illidan the evening before, but checking matted fur for dried blood to wash gently out was very different from admiring the amethyst hue of that still-bedraggled fur and the exotic black stripes that curled and jagged their way through it. He could see the lines of old scars under the fur of Illidan’s face, and his ears – much bigger than a normal cat’s would be, or even a mountain lion’s – were tattered and torn around the edges. The demon hunter’s eyes were closed…or at least, his empty eye sockets were covered. Remembering the scarred hollows made the prince shudder. What would it take for a man – or a cat? – to put his own eyes out? How much did he hate demons that he would have blinded himself to hunt them better? Absently, his fingers traced the scars on Illidan’s forehead and dipped behind those tattered ears to scratch the thick, soft fur there. What kind of horrors had Illidan experienced before the Aspect of Time had dropped him on Arthas’s bedroom floor?

A low rumble made him pause, and as his fingers stilled Illidan opened one empty eye. Somehow, despite his feline features, the demon hunter managed to convey an expression of hey, why did you stop? and guiltily, Arthas resumed his scratching. The eyelid slid shut again, and the rumble resumed. The prince found himself grinning when he realized that the big cat was purring. All the little worries that had plagued him lately fell away under those improbable vibrations. Was he a good son? A good prince? Would he be a good king? Could he live up to Uther’s expectations and become a paladin of the Light? Would he have to marry a boring, silly woman for the good of the kingdom? Would he be able to protect his people? None of it seemed so ominous with Illidan purring in his bed like an overgrown tabby. Even the guilt over Invincible’s death faded. Maybe he’d made mistakes, maybe he wasn’t perfect, but he’d brought comfort to someone who’d suffered unimaginable torments and if he could do that…he couldn’t be entirely bad, could he?

“How do you feel this morning?” he asked softly, working his fingers under the big cat’s jaw.

“Don’t stop,” was all the response he got.

Arthas didn’t stop. “Your fur is still a mess. I got most of the blood out, but…”

“I’ll worry about it later,” Illidan snapped, ears going back.

The prince took a deep breath. “You’re my responsibility,” he said steadily. “I would be a poor host if I left my guest to fend for himself. Will you let me brush you?”

The purring stopped. Illidan’s eyes opened, empty sockets somehow staring down into Arthas’s soul, those tattered ears swiveled towards him as though they could hear his thoughts.

“What,” he said menacingly, “is brush, if not bushes? Because I fail to see how shrubs could help the state of my fur.”

Arthas struggled not to laugh. “It’s, uh, a device – a flat piece of wood with many stiff bristles embedded in it. We have many kinds of them for different uses. I was thinking of one of ones we uses for horses. It has short bristles and we use it to work dirt and shed hairs loose. The horses seem to enjoy it, at least. I could get a new one so that it doesn’t smell like horse and reserve it for you so your scent doesn’t scare them…”

The ears swiveled back, although they did not flatten. “We shall see.”

“In the meantime, do you feel up to a tour? Or maybe just a stroll around outside?”

Illidan shifted on the bed, paws flexing as though testing the material, then sat up suddenly and flowed over the side where he tested the sheepskin rug. Finding it loose, he prowled stiffly to a bare stretch of floor and extended extremely evil-looking claws, gigantic things that glowed green and could not possibly have fit inside his paws. Finding purchase in the hard wooden floor, the demon hunter stretched. Forelegs first, then the back, and then he shook himself and sat contemplatively for a moment before padding to the basin of clean water and lapping it up like a giant stable cat with a saucer of cream.

“I want to go outside,” Illidan announced somewhat stiffly. “I need to test myself, see what the limits of my endurance are after…the battle. Ensure that I can still fight.”

Arthas sat up. “Of course. You’re a warrior, you need to practice. Let me throw on some sturdy clothes, it will just be a minute.”

Again that feline head turned all of its attention to him. “What is clothes?”

“Oh. Uh…we humans – that’s what I am, a human – don’t have fur like yours, so we have to cover our skin with things woven from plant material or made from the skins of other animals.”

Illidan padded to the bed and put both paws on the mattress, leaning in remarkably close. “I cannot see you, obviously,” he said dryly, “but allow me to feel the shape of your body. If you are to be my host, I would understand your race and what you are capable of.”

“Oh. Sure. Um…how should…?”

“Lie down.”

Arthas kicked the blankets to the side and stretched out. Big paws patted his legs, whickers tickled his feet. Illidan prowled up his side, nuzzling and sniffing and occasionally licking, paws feeling out the shape of muscle and bone. Thankfully, the demon hunter did not seem remotely interested in his groin. His hands got thorough examinations, each finger prodded with nose and tongue, as did his ears and the top of his head. Finally, those unnerving eyes peered directly into his face and Illidan’s hot breath filled his nostrils as the demon hunter nosed at him.

“Your talons,” Illidan began, but Arthas cut him off.

“You mean my fingers?”

“The things on the ends of your paws.”

“Hands. We have hands on the ends of our arms, and feet at the ends of our legs.”

Illidan’s tail lashed. “I fail to comprehend the difference,” he snapped.

“We only walk on our legs. We use our arms and hands to carry things, and hold things, and manipulate them. We don’t have claws like yours for weapons, so we use our hands to make weapons and tools to cover our lack.”

The lashing stopped. “ I see. Clever. Stand, that I may take your measure that way.”

Arthas climbed out of bed, feeling just a little foolish for the urge to be self-conscious about being mostly naked in front of a blind cat. The examination this time was much quicker; Illidan prowled around him, brushed against his thighs, and carefully went on hind legs to feel out where Arthas’s shoulders were. One huge paw braced on a shoulder, the other felt out how Arthas’s other arm worked, and finally he dropped back down to all fours.

“Throw on your clothes,” he said stiffly. “Your den is clean and comfortable, but I wish to feel the wind in my fur.”

“You got it, Illidan.”

Minutes later, Arthas opened the door and led the way down the hall. Only when they’d already gone down a flight of stairs did he stop to wonder how the blind cat was keeping up with him, much less identifying where the stairs began and ended. However, the servants were unnerved enough seeing him lead a giant purple cat around; he had no intention of letting the cat out of the bag (so to speak) about Illidan being capable of speech until he’d at least had a chance to talk to his father about this. He led Illidan to a small door opening into a courtyard near the stables and watched as the purple shape flowed through the door and stopped, claws digging into the grass, head and tail raised as though about to dash off after prey. The cat’s amethyst flanks heaved as he took in the numerous scents, and Arthas quietly closed the door and settled in to wait for his guest to finish his silent investigation.

“It is morning,” Illidan said almost accusingly, still stock-still and intent on nothing Arthas could see. “Do your people not sleep during the day?”

“No,” he replied warily. “We sleep at night. Our eyes aren’t that great at seeing in the darkness.”

Illidan’s tail dropped to a low, relaxed position, and his whiskers tilted forward. “They’re better than mine,” he said dryly.

Well, that was as good an opening as any. “Hey, how were you able to follow me so easily?”

“You’re loud.”

“I’m…excuse me?”

One ear flicked towards him. “A demon hunter would be at a great disadvantage without being able to tell what surrounds him. There are certain spells we use to…enhance our hearing. Although you think yourself quiet, the very act of you walking sends out silent waves that tell me what the area around you is like. By breathing, you tell me how you are holding yourself. Your right hand is in your hair.”

Arthas froze, then slowly lowered his hand from where he had, indeed, been running it absently through his hair. “If you can use magic like that, why did you need to feel the shape of my body?”

“The spell only gives me shapes.” Illidan paced over to a tree and reared up, planting both forepaws securely against its bark and stretching. “To sense temperature, resilience, even texture – that requires touch.” Methodically, he sharpened his claws although the horrific green things did not reappear. “Furthermore, the spells require a certain amount of concentration to sustain. Better to know you by feel and be able to identify you as a friend should I be wounded beyond my capability to maintain any form of magic.”

Well, he couldn’t argue with that. The idea of having those wicked claws coming at his face as he tried to heal Illidan… “Your claws,” he blurted out.

Illidan dropped back to all fours and turned to face him. “What about them?”

“I saw…earlier, they were big and green and…” He swallowed as the demon hunter raised one paw and extended them. “Yes, those,” he finished weakly, staring at the glowing things that looked to be nearly a foot long.

“The Warclaws of Azzinoth,” Illidan purred. “Stolen from a mighty demon I defeated a very long time ago.” He snapped his fangs, ears flicking momentarily back. “They can slice through bone, metal, even stone with enough effort.” A flicking gesture, and they vanished.

Arthas swallowed, suddenly aware that he was sweating. The thought of a demon that could hurt Illidan as badly as he was, if he had a weapon like that… Illidan was jumping around now, crazily, like a stable cat trying to catch a fly. This apparently was a feline demon hunter’s equivalent of running drills, and for several minutes the prince lost himself in watching the foreign, elegant motions.

Finally he stopped, stretched a final time, and said, “I require water.”

“This way,” Arthas said, pushing himself away from the wall and heading towards the stable. “I’ll see if I can find an unused currycomb while you drink.”

The horses started whickering uneasily as they approached, and Illidan abruptly sat on his haunches. “I presume you have some way of carrying water to me,” he said shortly. “Do so, so that I do not panic your herd.”

“Right. I’ll be right back with a bucket.”

It took a handful of minutes to find a new currycomb, a bucket, and to fill said bucket from the well. Illidan crouched down to lap up the cool water as soon as he set it down, and Arthas marveled at the similarity to every cat he’d ever seen.

“You found a brush?” Illidan asked when he finished drinking.

“I did.” He held it out for the demon hunter to see. Or hear, as the case might be.

The big cat nosed at it for a moment before brushing it with his cheek. Then he paused. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “You may use that on me.”

Arthas moved the water bucket out of the way before kneeling on the packed dirt by Illidan. He tentatively started at the shoulder, rubbing in circles and trying not to flinch as the muscles twitched beneath his hand.

“I am unaccustomed to the sensations,” he growled when Arthas hesitated. “That does not mean they are unpleasant.”

Heartened, the human prince resumed brushing the short, purple fur. His hands knew the motions from currying Invincible and other horses, although the panther’s body was an unfamiliar shape, and soon he was grinning fit to break his face at Illidan purring thunderously under his ministrations. Nose to tail he worked the big cat, then neck to tail when Illidan rolled onto his back and exposed his lavender belly for more attention. Once that had been brushed enough, he rolled back over – and Arthas brushed the dirt out of his coat a second time. The shed fur did not fly in clouds as it would with a horse, being softer and more fine. Instead, it formed soft clumps that Arthas had to pull off the brush and set aside. They drifted in the breeze, little lilac clouds, and Illidan signaled that he was done being brushed by pouncing one suddenly.

“That was quite acceptable,” he said, still purring, whiskers tilted as far forward as they would go. His tail lashed with barely-restrained energy. “How do I look?”

Black lines swirled and jagged over purple fur that faded from deep amethyst around the spine to lavender on the belly, face, and paws. Empty eye sockets and tattered ears lent a gruesome sort of manliness to what would otherwise be a beautiful creature, scars accenting that this beast was a fighter.

“You look beautiful and terrifying,” Arthas said at last, and Illidan broke into a raspy laugh.

“Better than I expected. Bring me to your sire.”

“My father?” The prince swallowed. “Yes, of course. I expect he’ll have heard something by now.”

“You are afraid,” Illidan said calmly. “Do not be; it is my responsibility to explain myself, not yours.”

That made Arthas frown. “No. You’re my guest, my responsibility.”

“And as my host, you healed my wounds, fed me, and groomed me. In return, allow me to explain myself to your sire. I am in your debt, Arthas. Allow me to do this, at least.”

Hearing his name uttered so seriously, he subsided. “Alright. But only because you asked. Come on, this way.”

 ==================================

“King Terenas Menethil, wise and gentle, the heart of glorious Lordaeron.” Illidan kept his head respectfully lowered and his tail nearly between his legs.

Wind swirled through the throne room, strangely open to the elements, painting shimmering outlines of the balconies above on the grey field of his vision. Beside him, Arthas was bowed on one knee while his father the king sat on the throne and weighed his words.

After what seemed like forever, the king said mildly, “Greetings, stranger. Rise, and be welcome.”

Illidan lifted his head and let his tail return to its usual position. “Thank you, your Majesty. I am Illidan Stormrage, a demon hunter from another land and…” He braced himself. “…a refugee from another timeline, delivered to your son so that I might avenge my fallen timeline by protecting yours.”

Terenas shifted, the sound of his heart and breath indicating surprise and an aborted reflex of violence. So…this king, although past his maturity, still had the heart of a warrior.

“I trust that my son has welcomed you appropriately,” the king said, his tone mild. “Pray, tell us more about why you are here. What threat is there that I have not been made aware of?”

“Ten thousand years ago,” Illidan said somberly, “a horde of demons known as the Burning Legion invaded Azeroth. They were fought back, although it was not without…sacrifice.” Briefly, he closed his eyes and flattened his ears. “They will return, and soon, but it will not be open war as it was in the past. They will come in secret, seeking revenge on my people – or their equivalent in this timeline, as my timeline was peopled with beings more like myself.”

Arthas lifted his head in surprise, but it was Terenas who said, “Really? How interesting.” He waved one hand. “But do not let me distract you – that is a topic we may discuss over dinner. How will we know when the time has come to fight the demons, if they will arrive in secret and wage war elsewhere?”

Illidan’s tail lashed. “I do not know. There will be a sign, but what it will be – that, I cannot say. I only know that when it comes, we will know…and when the time comes, your Majesty, you must send me to Kalimdor. There will be a great demon called Tichondrius, and I must slay it.” He thought of Tyrande, freeing him from his cage, and how her heartbeat revealed her anxiety; the lash of her tail, apology; and her breath, relief when he agreed to fight the demons. He thought of this world’s Tyrande, finding only his dead body, and imagined her grief and despair. “I must slay it, because I am the only one who can.”

“What of your counterpart?” Terenas asked.

“He is dead.” Illidan closed his mouth on anything else he might have said, ears flat, his tail betraying his unhappiness.

King and prince both jerked in shock. The father shook it off first. “When the time comes, must you go alone? It does not sit well with me to send an ally off without aid.”

His ears came forward in surprise. This human king, who knew nothing of what he may have done, would aid him? Ah, but of course – if he failed, the demons would ravage Lordaeron as well as his homeland. “I know of nothing that says I must be unaccompanied,” he answered cautiously. “But I suspect we will know more when the time comes.”

“You are probably correct,” Terenas admitted. “Still, welcome to Lordaeron, Illidan Stormrage. I trust you will join me and my family for dinner tonight.”

It was a command, not a request, and Illidan bowed his head. “Of course.”

 ==================================

“So,” Arthas started after several minutes of absently scratching the thick, soft fur of Illidan’s head while they lounged on cool grass in the late-morning sun. “You said you killed m-my alternate self in your timeline? But you didn’t know what a human is. So…”

“In my timeline,” Illidan replied lazily, “all peoples are as I am. The…version of you that I encountered was of a race somewhat smaller in stature than my people; shorter tails, smaller ears, frames not as large or as long.”

Arthas tried to imagine himself as a giant cat. Would he have fur the same golden color of his hair? Would his father have had fur silvered with age?

“But how would Lordaeron even be a kingdom if we were all big cats?” He flushed slightly. “That is…the castle…architecture, you know…without hands…?”

Illidan yawned hugely. “I don’t know how his people did it,” he said loftily, “but mine used magic.”

“We have magic, too. Well, some of us,” he amended. “The high elves taught our people hundreds of years ago. There’s a whole city of mages a bit to the south.”

The head he had been petting lifted and turned to him with interest. “Really? I would be very interested in visiting sometime.”

“You would?”

“I was a student of the arcane before…” He trailed off, but Arthas could guess what might have followed. ‘Before the demons came’, or ‘before I clawed out my eyes’.

“I haven’t the knack,” he confessed cheerfully. “I’m better at hitting things with a sword or war-hammer.”

Illidan lowered his head again and tucked his paws up beneath his chest. “But you were able to heal my wounds.”

“That’s different. That’s the Light. Lord Uther says that I have all the makings of a paladin, and in two years I’ll be eligible to join the Silver Hand.”

“Tell me,” Illidan half-asked, his voice low. “My youth was so very long ago, and undoubtedly much different from yours. Tell me of yourself, and your people.”

Arthas could almost hear the words he hadn’t said: give me hope. He’d been ripped from his own timeline and stranded in a strange place, where anyone who could possibly have known him wouldn’t recognize him as a giant cat – or possibly even believe he was alive. He didn’t think he’d be able to deal with that nearly as calmly as Illidan was, if he’d been in the demon hunter’s shoes. Er, paw prints. Well, if he could ease that pain by telling stories of his childhood and his family, even the history of his kingdom, then by the Light, that’s what he would do. For the sake of his people who would suffer death and undeath if Illidan died, yes; for the sake of his father who would otherwise be brutally murdered by some heartless bastard, absolutely; but mostly, for the sake of a big cat who’d been dumped, unconscious and bleeding, onto his floor and who purred when scratched behind the ears.

Stirring the hearts of your people was the greatest victory, his father always said. If he could bring comfort to this battered warrior’s heart, give him hope where he’d had nothing but loneliness and pain, then that by itself was reward enough.

“When I was nine,” he began softly, “I saw a horse being born…”

 ==================================

“I thought Mother was going to throw a fit,” Arthas laughed as they sprawled on his bed after dinner. “When the game hens came out, and you just crunched yours up, bones and all…”

Illidan licked his claws to hide his amusement, although the angle of his whiskers gave it away. “Such are the perils of inviting a nightsaber to dinner.”

“And then the soup course, with you lapping at it…”

“I could have used magic to manipulate that tiny scoop you humans use, but I somehow doubt it would have been any more efficient – or less messy. I am quite accustomed to lapping up liquids; I see no reason to lick drops off of a scoop.”

“Oh, I’m not arguing.” Arthas grinned at the demon hunter, then scratched at the fur under his chin. “I thought it was the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time. Imagine expecting you to use a spoon at all, much less be able to tell a soup spoon from a dessert spoon! Calia thought it was a bit barbaric, but she doesn’t like anything that might be the slightest bit messy.”

“She should be grateful she is not from my timeline, then. No doubt she would throw a fit every time her paws touched earth, to say nothing of grooming herself.” His empty eyes narrowed in what was unmistakably malicious amusement. “Then again, she would have servants to groom her, wouldn’t she?”

“Is that a big thing with your people?” Arthas asked curiously. “Grooming someone, I mean.”

The empty eyes closed and Illidan lowered his head, resting it on the bed’s surface. “It is an act that implies a great deal of devotion, either servant to master or mate to mate or even kin to kin.”

Arthas thought about that for a minute. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

It has been an eternity, brother. An eternity spent in darkness.

Would Malfurion mourn his death, Illidan wondered? Or would he be relieved that his wayward twin was forever out of the picture, no more a temptation for his mate to resist? His ears flattened unhappily.

“I have you.”

“I did groom you, didn’t I?” The prince seemed unaware of his guest’s solemn mood. “I always wanted a big brother. Prince Varian of Stormwind was almost like a brother to me while he was here, but he left to rebuild his kingdom and it’s been absolutely dull around here since then.” He rolled onto his side to face the feline. “I’m glad you’re here, Illidan. And not just because of the demons or whatever. You’re already the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to me, and I can’t tell you how excited I am at the idea of all the things we’ll do and learn and teach and share, and…” Awkwardly, he flung himself at the big cat’s shoulder in a draping hug. “Thank you,” he whispered into the amethyst fur of Illidan’s neck.

This whelp, this half-grown kitten who he had murdered in his own timeline, was thanking him? He, who had been shunned by his own people for the things he’d done, locked in a cage and forgotten by his own littermate, reviled and decried at every turn? He swallowed a whimper. Alone and adrift in a strange mockery of the world he’d known, at the mercy of a prince who in other circumstances would have sought his blood, and he was not only tolerated, but welcomed as kin? No, it was too much, he could not bear the terrible pleasure of the emotional intimacy being offered. It burned the cracked places in his heart, seared the unseen wounds where once he had felt the love of his twin. And yet…he wanted this, wanted it so very badly.

Almost before he was aware of the urge to do so, he’d twisted around to gather the human prince to his chest and ducked his head to lick at the only patch of fur the whelp had, a deep purr resonating through his chest. He heard Arthas’s breath catch, felt the change in his heartbeat as Illidan wordlessly accepted him as kin, sealing the bond between them.

For many minutes they lay there, reveling in the closeness of littermates until the incandescent euphoria faded into a comfortable glow.

“Hey,” Arthas said softly. “Tomorrow, would you show me some of the magic you can do?”

He was not being shunned for his affinity for the arcane; he would not be looked down upon for the skill that had been his greatest joy outside of Malfurion and Tyrande’s company.

“Of course,” Illidan purred. “…Brother.”

 ==================================

(Time skip – several months)

 ==================================

“I don’t like him,” Illidan said in Kal’dorei.

Arthas stopped himself from looking away from his host and muttered in the same tongue, “Why not?”

“He smells of old wine and older fear – fear that is not his – and when he says he is pleased to see you, his heartbeat says he is lying.”

“Suggestions, brother?”

“Play to his ego. If he thinks of you as young and easily impressed by martial prowess, he may let something slip.”

“Sorry about that, Lieutenant-General,” the prince said in his own language. “Got to keep the beast satisfied. You know how that is, right?” He flashed a grin at the older man. “Juicy steak and a tight leash aren’t always enough.”

Aedelas Blackmoore returned Arthas’s charming smile with one of his own. “All too well, your Highness. I’ve got one of my own, you know.”

“I’d heard! To be honest,” Arthas lied, “I’m more interested in him than some musty old ledgers.” He waved one hand as if dismissing the very notion of checking tax and spending records. “Do you think I could see him fight?”

Blackmoore chuckled. “A private showing, just for you! I’ll arrange it for tomorrow, if that pleases your Highness?”

“Oh, it very much does, Lieutentant-General!”

“Excellent! Only the best for our beloved prince.” Greatly daring, Blackmoore clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “Shall I show you around, in the meantime?”

“I would be delighted,” he replied through clenched teeth disguised as a smile. “I’ll still have to look, just to have something to tell my father, but I’ll tell you what. There’s no need for both of us to be bored stiff, right? Just leave me with the ledgers for a few hours while you go about your business, and no one will be there to see that I was ignoring them most of that time.”

“A splendid plan, Prince Arthas.” Blackmoore’s expression was a shade to smug to be true joy. “Now then, what does my prince – and his esteemed pet – like to eat?”

“Careful.”

“I know.” Arthas scratched Illidan behind the ears for a moment as if doting on a favored animal. “Oh, I’ll have whatever you’re having. I’m sure you have impeccable taste. For this spoiled little pussy, do you think your men could scare up a deer?” He grinned apologetically. “He insists on killing it himself, though he doesn’t object to someone else butchering it. It’s a small enough thing to keep him happy.”

A brief look of disappointment flashed across Blackmoore’s face. “Of course. Which cuts does he prefer?”

“Oh, just slice off a haunch for him and he’ll be good for days; your men can have the rest.”

“Most generous of you,” the older man murmured.

 ==================================

“I am so very glad we only have to spend another day here,” Arthas said, rubbing his eyes as Illidan prowled around the luxurious room their host had provided. “I don’t like him either, and I don’t trust him one bit.”

“How did the records look?”

“He’s aboveboard there, for the most part, although there seems to be some skimming on the parts of the people he has in charge of the camps.”

Illidan’s ears flattened. “I still don’t like that you keep them in camps.”

“What else can we do with them, though?”

“I don’t have an answer; you know that.” He paced around the room again, tail lashing. “I just know that no good will come of it.”

A knock on the door prevented Arthas from having to find a response, and he went to see who it was.

“My lord has sent me with these to tempt you,” a girl – woman – with honey-blonde hair said, holding a covered tray.”

“I’m not hungry,” he replied automatically.

Further into the room, Illidan stiffened. “Brother, invite her in.”

“…but perhaps I will become so,” Arthas continued quickly. “Please, come in. Sit down. And don’t mind Illidan, he won’t hurt you.”

The woman obediently entered, setting her tray on a table before nervously seating herself. Illidan prowled around her, sniffing the air, then closed his eyes and nudged her hand with his head. With the disturbingly empty sockets covered, it was hard to tell that he had no eyes, and the woman quickly relaxed as he reacted to her petting like a common housecat would.

“He likes you,” Arthas said after a moment, at a loss for what he was supposed to do.

“Is he yours, my lord?”

He sat in a chair across the small table from her. “You might say I’m his, really.” His eyebrows drew together as the woman’s fingers traced out the scars on Illidan’s head, her brief smile slipping.

“I didn’t cause those,” he blurted, something in her expression stinging his pride. “He’s a hunter, a warrior. They were long-healed by the time our paths crossed.”

The woman relaxed again, and only then did he realize she’d been afraid of him.

“He beats you.”

Both humans started at Illidan’s sudden statement.

“He beats you,” the big cat repeated. “It is your fear that I smelled on him.”

The woman raised her eyes to Arthas’s and quailed. “Beats me, and…worse,” she admitted, her gaze dropping once again.

“I’ll take you back with me,” the prince said. “Find you a place in the capitol.  The palace, perhaps. I’m sure my sister or my mother could-”

“She doesn’t want to go,” interjected Illidan. “What’s keeping you here?” he asked her gently.

“M-My parents.”

The demon hunter pulled his head away from her hand and opened his eyes. “Your heartbeat says otherwise. Parents could be hired away. Who else do you not wish to leave behind?”

“No, I can’t say!” She covered her face in her hands, clearly distraught.

Arthas and Illidan exchanged a glance out of social habit.

“Miss,” the prince said gently, “whoever it is, you can trust us.”

“No,” she moaned. “If he finds out…I’m not supposed to have any contact with him…”

“Alright. We won’t pry. But please, miss, if he ever gets free of this place…you get free, too.”

Uncertainly, she nodded.

“I know his type,” Illidan said softly, nosing at her hand again until she resumed petting him. “If he is denied something, he takes his rage out on those around him, does he not?”

Again, she nodded.

“He cares for none but himself. If his rage is great enough, he will kill you.”

With a muffled wail, she slipped off her chair and buried her face in his shoulder, both arms around his neck.

“She’s crying,” Illidan said to Arthas. “Terrified. I’ll handle it.”

“Miss? I’m going into the other room. I’ll be there if you need me, but my brother will be here with you.” He stood, bowed, and practically fled to the bedroom.

The woman sniffled as she heard the door shut. “Brother?”

“Not by birth, obviously,” Illidan replied dryly.

“I have a brother like that,” she whispered into his fur.

“Tell me about him. In fact…why don’t you help yourself to whatever dainties your master sent down with you? You deserve to get something out of everything you endure, don’t you?”

Shakily, she laughed. “I guess so. Thank you.”

Illidan nudged her shoulder with his nose, then stood and walked over to the small hearth. “Come, bring them and sit with me.” He flopped down, looking for all the world like a contented housecat.

“My name is Taretha,” she offered as she set the tray on the floor and settled herself next to him. “My brother…they found him on a hunt. He was just a baby, couldn’t have been more than a few months old. He was too little to eat meat, and he would have died but my Ma nursed him. The master was so pleased with us for that…he gave us all sorts of things, even let me learn to read.”

He pawed lightly at the covered tray and asked, “What do you like to read most?”

Taretha obediently removed the cover and picked up a stuffed date before saying, “History. I love to read about heroes of old, and all the exciting things they did.” Almost guiltily, she took a bite of her prize.

“Oh? Lean against me, then, and help yourself to your master’s treats while I tell you a story you won’t have heard before, a story from very long ago about a hero of my people.”

Quickened breathing told him that she’d been distracted from her fear, and he purred softly, pleased with his success. She listened raptly as he told the tale, one about a mage that he’d admired in his youth, and by the end of it half of the dainties were inside her, curled up against his flank. They discussed the story for the better part of an hour, laughing and debating while she demolished the treats that were left, until her heartbeat signaled her contentment and joy.

“Would you die for your brother?” he asked softly.

“Yes.” There was no hesitation, no fear. “I live every day in fear and shame, so that our master doesn’t take his rage out on Thrall. Dying would be no harder.”

“Dying is easier than living.”

She traced the scars on his face, fingers circling his empty sockets. “I guess you know that, too, don’t you?”

“Living is easier with ones who understand what you’ve endured and stand by you anyway.”

Taretha said nothing, just glanced at the bedroom door.

“Yes.”

“Would you die for him?” she asked, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

Like her, there was no hesitation or fear when he said, “Yes.”

For a minute, she scratched his ruff and said nothing. Then she asked, “Why?”

“Because he cares. Not about what I can do for him, but about me as a person. Taretha, do you trust me?”

She hesitated a long moment before nodding.

“I want to put a spell on you. It will only work once, and all it will do is transport you to a predetermined location. But if ever you are in mortal danger, you can use it to escape.” His empty eyes held hers, and he heard her swallow. “You would die for him, but would he want you to die? If he were safe, would your death gain anyone anything but pain?”

The tears really weren’t a surprise, and he purred comfortingly while she cried.

“Do it,” she said brokenly.

“It will take some time,” he warned. “Will you be in trouble for staying so long?”

Bitterly, Taretha laughed. “He will assume the prince was tempted by more than just food, and be pleased.”

“Lie down, then.” Illidan climbed to his feet. “There’s no need for you to be uncomfortable during this.

Curious now, she lay down and watched eagerly. It was the first time she’d seen magic being worked, and the swirls of color fascinated her. Some of it tingled, but none of it hurt and when he was finally done, she felt the magic as a fine mesh just beneath her skin.

“Suramar,” he murmured as she sat up. “If you are in mortal danger, that word will take you to safety.

“Thank you.” She hugged his neck, and he nosed her hair. “Where…?”

“A room at the palace. I’ll have Arthas write a letter with explanations and orders so that if we are not present, you will not suffer until we return.”

Taretha leaned back and peered into his feline face. “Why would you do this for me?”

“I know what it’s like to suffer every day for someone else’s benefit,” he said softly. “To live without hope of your situation getting better. Arthas gave me hope; now I’m giving it to you.”

“Thank you,” she said again. “I know it’s not enough, but I have nothing else to give.”

He nudged her shoulder, purring. “Give me the promise of your friendship, then. On the day that you have to use the spell, the debt will be repaid.”

She hugged him for a long minute, thinking.

“If Thrall escapes, what will the king do?”

“That depends on what Thrall does,” he replied. “For what it’s worth, I dislike that the orcs are kept in camps. Such treatment only breeds resentment, no matter what may have happened to put them there.” Illidan sighed. “But short of transporting them one and all to another land, I don’t know what else could be done for them.”

Taretha’s pulse beat a tattoo of curiosity on his blank sight. “Is there another land for them to go to?”

“There is an entire continent to the west that your people have no contact with, but I do not know which parts might be empty.”

“It’s better than staying here, surely.” Absently, she stroked his head. “Illidan, a part of me hopes that Thrall does escape, and soon, so that I can escape as well and start my life as your friend. I’m just so tired of my place here, and now that I know there’s something else waiting for me…”

“Be strong,” he said gently. “I know you can, because you have. You can do this. For Thrall.”

“For Thrall,” she repeated, squaring her shoulders. “Might…might I spend the night here? If I go back and he wakes, he’s likely to want…”

“Arthas?”

A moment later, the door opened and the prince blinked sleepily. “Illidan? What is it?”

“We’re giving Taretha refuge for the night. How big is that bed?”

He rubbed his eyes. “Big. More than big enough. Refuge?”

Illidan turned to a wide-eyed Taretha. “If he stays clothed, and I lie between you…?”

Slowly, she nodded.

“And that way,” he said, whiskers tilting forward, “you can tell your master that you shared the prince’s bed, and not be lying.”

Taretha laughed; Arthas blushed.