Kittidan Part 2

[moonshadows]

“It will happen,” Illidan repeated insistently. “No warrior that skilled got that way by not being intelligent. Thrall will realize that he doesn’t have to remain a slave, and he will escape. What he does after that is up to him, but if it were me…” The demon hunter stopped to shake his head as though dislodging something from his fur. “Having won my freedom, I would want to free my people. Perhaps not immediately, because if he is wise he will understand the value of planning and preparation, but eventually…”

Arthas picked up the thread. “It’s going to be messy. Humanity hasn’t forgotten the war, of course, but I can’t argue that the orcs will be justified in being upset about being kept in camps for so long.”

“Then we are facing a second war,” Terenas said sadly.

Illidan began pacing back and forth across the mosaic before the throne. “Remember the demons. Perhaps, if we are very lucky, we can arrange some way of directing everyone’s hostility towards a mutual threat.”

“And if we are not? We must plan for such an occurrence. You said the demons will go to the land you called Kalimdor. Could we use ships to transport the orcs there before anything happens?”

“If nothing else, the other kingdoms would be glad to end the tax burden of keeping them,” offered Arthas.

Terenas rubbed his temples. “I will bring it up to my brother kings. I believe that you are correct, Illidan. It will happen, and it is better to be prepared for such a thing. Thank you, both of you, for your assistance in this matter.”

“One more thing, your Majesty,” Illidan interjected respectfully. “Lieutenant-General Blackmoore has a…” He paused, mouth working as if trying to find the right word, then shook his head. “There is a woman he takes his temper out on. I have promised her sanctuary if her life is ever in danger, and laid a spell on her that will transport her to my chambers when she invokes it.”

The old king smiled. “You are quite kind, Illidan. When she takes you up on your promise, I will ensure that she has a place here.”

The demon hunter crouched low over his front paws, head down in his unique bow. “Thank you, your Majesty.”

  ==================================

(Time skip – several months)

  ==================================

“Congratulations!” Varian gave Arthas’s shoulder a hearty slap, only to wince and shake his hand as it impacted against the younger man’s new armor. “A paladin, by the Light! Your father must be bursting with pride.”

Grinning fit to break his face, Arthas countered, “And what about you? Married, and with a son?”

King Varian Wrynn blushed. “I guess we’ve both got plenty to be proud of. We’ll need to catch up tonight, maybe – what is that?”

The newly-minted paladin looked where his friend was pointing and saw only Illidan, the set of his ears and tail screaming his uneasiness. “That’s Illidan, my…well, adopted brother. Illidan! Come over here and meet Varian!”

The crowd parted willingly for the big purple cat, and Varian visibly started upon seeing his empty eye sockets. “Uh…hello?”

“Greetings, your Majesty.” Illidan crouched low over his front paws, nose nearly touching the stone floor in an unmistakable bow. “Arthas has told me much about you, all of it good.”

“Then he wasn’t telling the right stories,” the young king joked.

Arthas dropped to one knee, hand on Illidan’s shoulder. “Brother, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing.” The demon hunter’s ears flattened. “Let it be, brother. I do not wish to ruin your day with my issues. Later, I will tell you. I promise.” In common, he said, “I am proud of you,” and rubbed his cheek against the prince’s.

“Alright,” murmured Arthas. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.” He hugged the big cat’s neck, scratched behind his ears, and stood up.

Varian watched Illidan vanish into the crowd before asking quietly, “Was it something I said?”

“No, something’s bothering him. He said he’d tell me later, so whatever it is, it isn’t life-or-death. You were saying about tonight?”

They made plans, and while Arthas was looking forward to catching up with his friend…part of his mind was worried about the big purple feline he called brother.

  ==================================

The throbbing behind Arthas’s eyes told him that he’d drunk too much mead with Varian the previous night, and getting out of bed was an unattractive prospect. Illidan was curled protectively around him, as usual, so he reached up and scratched at the demon hunter’s ruff until thrumming indicated that he wasn’t the only one awake.

“Enjoy your night out?” Illidan asked softly, nosing at the prince’s hair.

“I did. It was good to catch up with Varian again. But…”

“But?”

“I was worried about you. I know you said to let it be, but you’re my brother, and you were hurting.”

“Thank you for that, Arthas. That…that helps a lot.”

Rashly, the prince jerked his head up to look at Illidan, then lowered it again with a groan.

“Shhh, rest. I will tell you.” He licked at Arthas’s hair for a moment. “When you asked if I had any brothers or sisters, I did not give you an answer. I was born with a twin brother. He was the student of a nature god, and lauded for it. When I became a demon hunter…there were no cheers of congratulations, no one to express pride. Reluctant tolerance was the best I encountered; disgust was more common. I know that what I did was important; that without me, this world would have been awash in demons. But still…to see him be praised and stand forever outside the spotlight…”

“It would hurt. And then to see me yesterday…” Carefully, Arthas rolled over and buried his face in Illidan’s shoulder.

“As I said. Yesterday was your day of triumph and glory; I did not want to tarnish it with old scars.”

“Tichondrius is still coming, right?”

Illidan closed his eyes. “I would assume so.”

“And you’re the only one who can defeat him?”

“To the best of my knowledge.”

“Then once you are victorious, I’ll make sure your return to Lordaeron is a hero’s welcome. Everyone will know that you saved us from the demons. Parade, feast, I’ll see if we can work out some kind of medal or something…the whole kit and caboodle. Everything you deserve for being the hero that saved the world.” Weakly, through the throbbing of his head, he grinned. “So don’t die, or the parade will be missing its guest of honor. Alright?”

The big cat trembled. “I wish that I could cry as you do,” he whispered, “because I have no appropriate way to express how I feel. You…you have expressed more acceptance and consideration in one morning than Malfurion ever did, and I don’t…” Overcome, he buried his muzzle in Arthas’s hair and whined.

“Malfurion? Was that your twin? I’m sorry, Illidan, but he doesn’t sound like he was a very good brother.”

Bitterly, Illidan laughed. “You haven’t heard the worst of it. Malfurion was the one who ordered me imprisoned until such time as the demons returned.”

“That’s horrible! How could he just…I mean, even if you were unstable, I know you told me that horrible things happened to you, but how could anyone think that was the right thing to do?”

“The alternative was death.”

“No. Don’t tell me any more,” Arthas said through clenched jaws. “If we ever come face to face with this timeline’s Malfurion, I don’t want ‘punching him in the face’ to be the first thing I do.” Breath whistled in and out of his nose for several moments. “It would be ill-behooved of me as prince of Lordaeron, it would be rude, and it would hurt any chance of reconciliation between the two of you.”

Ears flat, Illidan said, “What makes you think I want a reconciliation?”

“You weren’t angry,” the prince replied, stroking his forehead and cheeks. “You were sad. You’re my brother, and I don’t want you to be sad, so I don’t want to punch a different Malfurion if there’s any chance of you getting some kind of closure with him.”

“But…” The demon hunter sighed. “No, you win. I will not deny that I would like to be reconciled with Furion, even if he is not my twin. But we will have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Good enough.” Arthas scratched behind Illidan’s ears for another minute. “Alright, I think I need to find a bath and soak in it for a while before I can handle food.”

“I’ll leave that to you,” Illidan teased, disentangling himself gently and flowing off the bed. “I’ll never understand you humans and your soaking in pools of water. I’m going to see if I can find a servant brave enough to bring me a leg of mutton.” He licked his lips, whiskers tilted forward. “I’ll make sure to be done with it by the time you get out. Perhaps King Varian will have a nice courtyard or garden I can dine in.”

“Ugh.” Arthas buried his face in the mattress. “I don’t know how you can eat mutton raw. I can’t even stand the stuff cooked.”

Whiskers even further forward, Illidan licked the prince’s mussed hair. “That’s because you have no sense of taste, dearest brother.”

  ==================================

(Time skip – several months)

  ==================================

Illidan came awake suddenly to the feel of magic surging somewhere close by, the peculiar ringing echo indicating that it was a spell he himself had cast, coming to fruition at last.

Taretha.

In a flash he was out of Arthas’s bed, claws out for traction on the wooden floor as he dashed for the room he had been given but rarely used, not caring in the slightest if he’d disturbed the prince’s sleep or not. Just outside his door, he paused. Weeping.

“Taretha?” he called through the wood. “It’s Illidan. I’m coming in.”

The door opened with a faint creak, and closed behind him with a practiced kick. On the bed he barely ever slept in, a woman lay crying. There was no scent of blood, which was reassuring. She reached out blindly as he approached, and he stuck his nose into her hand insistently. It didn’t take much encouragement before he was sprawled on the mattress beside her, purring reassurance while she cried into his fur.

“My parents,” she sobbed after a minute or two. “They’re still there…”

“What happened?”

“Thrall…you heard he’d escaped, I presume? He found…I don’t even know, but he…”

He nuzzled her hair. “I know. He’s been freeing the orcs in the camps, and Blackmoore’s requests for troops have been snarled or ignored.”

“He…he came to tell me that he would confront Blackmoore in the morning, try to end things without further bloodshed. Asked me to leave with him, but my parents…I couldn’t, he’d know and…but…when I went back…he wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t drunk at all! He knew, he knew and he said…” She choked, gasping for breath while Illidan whined deep in his throat and licked at her hair. “He was going to have my head cut off. So I said the word, and…oh, Illidan, my parents are still there and Thrall is going to attack in the morning and I don’t know who I’m more worried about.”

Illidan said somberly, “I won’t say it will all be okay, because I cannot see the future. But you are safe, and in the morning we will ride for Durnholde with the king’s men to see what has happened.”

Taretha trembled. “And if Thrall’s orcs are victorious? What then?”

“Then we shall see if he is amenable to peace. There are preparations that have been made…King Terenas has not been blind to the orcs’ plight.” Again he nosed at her hair. “Nor to yours.”

“What…exactly are you saying?”

“I have no eyes,” he answered dryly, “yet I enjoy perusing the content of new books, and finding someone willing to read to me is not always possible. Should you choose to accept the position of being my hands and eyes, you will find that I am a much easier taskmaster than Blackmoore.”

Despite her earlier distress, Taretha laughed. “You’re saying I could live in the lap of luxury for doing nothing more strenuous than reading aloud?”

“And brushing me,” Illidan countered lightly. “I have grown spoiled in that regard, but Arthas is the only one comfortable doing so and it is not fitting that the prince take time out of his day to groom me as much as my ego demands. Can you write?” he asked suddenly, looking very interested indeed in the answer.

“I…yes?”

“You could be my scribe,” he breathed in wonder. “So many things – you don’t understand, my people did not use writing such as yours do, but without my eyes…I have had no way of recording anything in ten thousand years.”

Slowly, Taretha sat up. “You’re serious. I could – I would be fed and clothed and live in comfort…”

“And Blackmoore – or any other man – would not be able to touch you without you willing it,” he added solemnly.

“But I’m just a woman. I wouldn’t even have been taught how to read and write if not for my mother breastfeeding Thrall.”

“The females of my people are equal, or superior, to the males. I have seen nothing that says your people should be any different, except for cultural habit. Besides,” he continued, clearly amused, “who’s going to argue with a magic-wielding cat?”

Taretha laughed again. “Not I, that’s for certain. If you want me to, then I will be your eyes and hands.” She yawned.

“Sleep.” Illidan nudged her shoulder with his nose until she lay back down, one hand on his flank. “I will protect you. No one will harm you. You are safe.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, eyes sliding shut with exhaustion now that the excitement had passed.

Illidan just purred.

  ==================================

“There,” Arthas reined in his charger. Behind him, the troop of knights came to a halt, and Taretha walked her mare up to the prince’s mount. “Give me the flag.”

Taretha handed over the pole she’d been carrying; he untied the thongs around the wadded cloth and unfurled it. The white cloth snapped in the wind.

“Ready?” the prince asked.

Illidan, riding pillion on the charger, leaped to the ground. “Ready.”

“I’m ready,” Taretha confirmed.

“Right. Let’s go, then.”

At a walk, the three of them approached the green carpet that was the orcish army. It had taken three days to ride to Durnholde, and another to follow the road made by thousands of feet. Now, a few hours before noon, they’d caught up. The orcs in back raised a cry which rippled to the front, and soon a small group of orcs emerged to meet them. The one in the middle could be no other than Thrall, although the black plate armor he wore made Arthas suck in his breath. To his right paced a lanky orc with a tangled black topknot and glowing red eyes. To his left, an elderly orc with cloth tied over his eyes rode a white wolf. When they were in shouting distance, they stopped.

“Thrall!”

“Taretha?” The big orc took a few steps forward.

Taretha slid off her mare and ran fearlessly towards him. Slowly, trying not to look threatening, Illidan followed while Arthas struggled to dismount without dropping the flag of truce.

“Blackmoore said you were dead,” Thrall rumbled, embracing her gently. “But I could not find your body. Your parents – they are safe. They left with the other civilians.”

“I knew you would not harm them,” Taretha replied serenely.

“But how did you escape?”

“That,” Illidan said calmly, “was my doing.” He bowed over his front paws. “I do not believe we were introduced when last I visited Durnholde Keep; Illidan Stormrage, demon hunter and mage.”

“Thrall, Warchief of the Horde and shaman of the Frostwolf clan.” He knelt by the big cat, not flinching at the empty eye sockets regarding him. “I do not doubt that you saved Taretha. You have my deepest thanks for that. I only ask: why?”

“Because I smelled her fear on Blackmoore,” he answered softly. “Yet when Arthas offered her sanctuary, she refused to go. She willingly suffered pain and humiliation to protect those she cared about: her parents, yes, but mostly you. You, who she sees as her brother.” He closed his eyes and turned his head briefly. “I know all too well what it is to suffer pain and humiliation for the sake of one’s brother. That is why, Warchief. Because in her, I saw a fragment of my past and I could not avert my eyes.” Illidan met Thrall’s astonished gaze with his empty one. “…even if I still had them,” he added dryly. “There was no one to rescue me from my hell until Arthas gave me hope; I refused to deny Taretha that balm.”

“Noble,” the wild-eyed orc said shortly, “but why have you come with troops? To return her? To lure Thrall into captivity once again?”

“Grom raises a good question,” Thrall said slowly. His eyes traveled over Illidan. “Your highness?”

“We have not come seeking hostilities,” Arthas said, still holding the flag of truce, “nor do we have any intent of imprisoning you, Warchief. You dealt honorably with the civilians at Durnholde Keep, as Taretha was sure you would. The question now is: once the remainder of the orcs have been freed from the camps, what will you do? Will you war against us?”

“No,” Thrall said, standing to face the prince. “We have no desire to make war with humanity. I seek a place where my people can live in peace, and rebuild themselves. We have endured much, as a race, and there are quite enough wounds to heal without adding more.”

“You, Grom,” Illidan said, staring at the wild-eyed orc. “The scent of a demon lord hangs around you, but you are not controlled by it.”

“What of it?” asked Grom warily.

“Should the demons cross your path again, would you fight them…or for them?”

Grom chuckled darkly. “A valid question. Once, I embraced the demon’s blood curse for the power it gave me, but I fight every day to keep my mind, my honor. I understand that makes me seem untrustworthy, but-”

“I trust you,” Illidan interrupted calmly. “I, too, know what it is like to be haunted by a past association with demons that will not let go. How many others of your kind drank the blood and would welcome the chance to fight against the demons?”

Grom stepped closer, bending down to read the big cat’s face while Thrall watched with worried eyes. “What are you not saying?”

“There is another continent to the west, the lands once held by my people. It is there that the demons will return, and soon.”

“We don’t know what the land is like,” interjected Arthas, “or who may or may not live there, but my father the king has spoken with his brother monarchs and a quantity of ships and supplies have been gathered for the purpose of transporting your people there.”

“You knew, then,” Thrall said quietly.

“That the demons would come? Yes. That you would win your freedom and free your people? Not exactly, but it did not come as a surprise. We have no desire to slaughter you one and all, but neither do we want another war. The best solution seemed to be allowing you to reclaim your freedom, then hoping you would prefer to leave Lordaeron entirely. To that end, my father has been deliberately ensuring that Blackmoore does not have the forces needed to crush your justified rebellion.”

“Had,” the Warchief corrected with a small smile. “Lieutenant-General Blackmoore is no longer among the living.”

“Well done!” The genuine approval in Arthas’s tone startled all three orcs. “So, are you interested in seeing what Kalimdor has to offer your people, aside from demons to fight?”

“Hold up a moment, your highness. I murdered your Lieutenant-General, and you are congratulating me for it?” Thrall exchanged an unreadable glance with Grom.

“He beat Taretha,” Arthas said grimly. “I had him pinned as an untrustworthy snake almost from the first moment I saw him. Our laws prevented me from just slaying him without due process, but I would be lying if I said I am not glad indeed to see that he got what he deserved at your hand.”

“His poison ran deeper than that,” rumbled Thrall. “He planned to use me to rouse my people into rebellion and overthrow your father with our blood, setting himself up as king. His lackey, Langston, should have all the details.”

“We’ll take Langston in for questioning, then. Thank you, Warchief.”

Thrall relaxed slightly. “Now then, your highness…where might we find these ships?”

  ==================================

“A mysterious visitor arrived while you were out,” King Terenas said mildly as Arthas and Illidan kneeled before the throne. “He warned us that the ‘tides of darkness’ were upon us, and that our only hope lay in travelling west, to the forgotten lands of Kalimdor.”

Although Illidan remained crouched in a bow, the lashing of his tail spoke louder than any words.

“The time has come at last,” he continued sadly. “I had hoped that you were wrong, Illidan, and that the demons would have forgotten us, but alas. Now I must do what no father ever wishes to, and send my only son into the teeth of war. Yes,” he said with gentle amusement as Arthas’s head jerked up, “I am sending you with Illidan. I suspect you would not obey an order to remain behind anyway. Take whatever troops you feel necessary, and come back safely to me.” As an afterthought, he added, “How did your mission go?”

“Warchief Thrall is amenable to the plan,” the prince answered crisply. “He will free the rest of the camps in short order and make for the ships as soon as possible.”

The old king smiled. “Excellent. I will circulate the story that you are going after the orcs; no one need know about the demons until they must. Will you be taking Miss Foxton, Illidan?”

He shook his head slowly. “She is not suited for battle. It would be a great unkindness to bring her along.”

“Indeed. There is a young lady the two of you might wish to bring, however. Archmage Antonidas’s student, Miss Jaina Proudmoore, has obtained her mentor’s permission to investigate the mysterious stranger’s recommendation. Apparently, he visited Dalaran first and was rebuffed there. I believe she is currently in the library.”

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“I know you like having someone to talk magic with,” Arthas said to Illidan as they strode down the hall, “but is there any chance of me getting some time alone with Jaina?”

“No.” The big cat pawed at Arthas’s leg, bringing both of them to a stop. “Listen to me, brother. I know you are attracted to her, but she’s not interested yet. She likes you as a friend, but there is a time and a place for romance in her world, and now is not yet the time. I am,” he said with dry understatement, “familiar with strong-willed females. Her mind is focused on her studies, her duties. If you push her before she is ready, you ruin your chances and perhaps drive her into the arms of a rival who is not pressuring her.”

Arthas scowled. “I have a rival?”

Briefly, Illidan considered explaining that it was a hypothetical situation. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I have scented a strange male on her clothes, one who uses exotic unguents on his skin. She holds herself stiffly when the scents are present, as if still keeping her guard up. I have not asked about him. Yes, you have a rival, and one who is likely pressuring her. Be the safe one, brother. Be her refuge, and when she feels that the time is right to choose a mate, you will have the edge. I have been chaperoning you, keeping you from courting her, because right now you are as a stallion scenting a mare in heat. When she’s ready, I promise, I will let the two of you be.”

The prince dropped to one knee and hugged Illidan for a long moment before scratching behind his ears. “Thank you, brother,” he whispered. “You’re so much wiser than I in these things, I don’t know what blunders I would commit without you. I’m sorry I got snippy with you.”

“Forgiven,” Illidan purred. “Now let’s go meet with Miss Proudmoore and see if she would like to come to Kalimdor with us.”

“Good idea.” As they continued down the hall, Arthas said, “She would make a fabulous queen though, wouldn’t she?”

“She would indeed, brother.” He leaned briefly against the prince’s leg. “Assuming you both live through this, of course.”

That brought Arthas up short. “Wait…‘you both’?  Why not ‘we’? Illidan, what aren’t you telling me?”

The demon hunter’s ears flattened and he looked away. “I would not have survived my fight with Tichondrius,” he said reluctantly. “I do not hold out much hope that I will succeed here where I failed once before. Defeating him, yes, that I am confident in. Surviving to have that parade you once promised…” His tail lashed unhappily.

“You will survive.” The resolute note in Arthas’s voice shocked Illidan into looking at him, his tail’s motion arrested. “You will survive because you are my brother, and I am a paladin of the Light, and I refuse to let you die before you’ve been sufficiently praised and rewarded for your actions.”

Illidan lowered his head and tail in a gesture the prince recognized as a rare show of submission, and he dropped to one knee again to hug the big cat’s neck and scratch his ruff until he purred.

“Let’s go, brother,” he murmured finally into Illidan’s fur. “The sooner we get to Kalimdor and kick Tichondrius out, the sooner we can get you that parade. And maybe,” he continued lightly, trying to hide that he was remembering his desire to punch Malfurion in the face should they ever meet, “get Jaina thinking about me instead of her books.”

“Books,” Illidan sighed contentedly. “Oh, I am looking forward to lazy days of having Taretha’s eyes and hands at my disposal.”

  ==================================

“How will you find Tichondrius?” Arthas asked curiously as they led the Lordaeron troops deeper into the forest.

Illidan replied, “I know where he will be. I just need to figure out where we are in relation to that.”

“The question remains, then,” the prince teased. “I wish Jaina were still with us, but I can’t deny that we’re all better with her leading Kul Tiras’s troops. Her father…” Arthas trailed off. “His eldest son died in the Second War. He’s never forgiven the orcs for that. Father all but begged him to not send the navy after Thrall and the ‘stolen’ ships, but Admiral Proudmore didn’t care.”

“She is a strong woman with a clear mind,” the demon hunter replied distractedly, head swinging this way and that as he scented the wind. “I have confidence in her ability to keep them under control should they cross paths with the Horde. This way,” he said abruptly, turning down a side-path Arthas hadn’t even seen until that moment, every line of his body tense and alert.

They were silent as they marched single-file down what seemed to be a game trail, Illidan’s somber mood infecting the rest of the men like a slow poison. After what seemed like miles, the trail opened up into a large clearing – one full of demonic structures and hordes of demons, making the prince weak-kneed in relief when he remembered the shielding charm Illidan had insisted on casting over each soldier that had come with them. It would not keep them safe from the demons’ blades, he’d warned, merely blur them in the demons’ sight and make them harder to detect. Now it allowed Arthas and his men to emerge from the game trail and collect themselves before attacking the demon camp. They were doing quite well, Arthas thought after a few minutes, and turned to say as much to Illidan as he crushed the skull of something that looked like a dog with snakes for eyes, only to realize that his adopted brother was nowhere to be seen.

Then he heard the bellow.

He was running before the echoes faded, no thought in his mind but the memory of what Illidan had looked like that first night, hardly more than a pile of bloody and matted fur on his floor, his heart in his throat with the fear of seeing the big cat fall. The demons paid him no heed as he ran past them, too busy fighting the soldiers of Lordaeron, and he ignored them in turn. Nothing mattered but Illidan.

  ==================================

As soon as Illidan stepped out into the clearing, he could see the demons.

That terrified him.

He could not see the forest or the ruins they’d built their base in; those were painted as whispers of sound upon his blank field of vision, but the demons…they stood out clearly, not just as scents, but as sooty shapes of fel-green. This was nothing like the faint golden blur he sometimes saw when Arthas used the power of the Light humans worshipped, nothing like the currents of arcane magic that painted themselves across his empty world when they visited Dalaran. He could clearly see each demon, differentiating imp from satyr, fellhound from doomguard, something he’d never been able to do before. Even with Tichondrius’s blood hot in his mouth, he hadn’t been able to see-

Tichondrius’s blood. His stomach heaved at the realization that whatever amount of blood he’d swallowed had changed him somehow. But no sooner had that nauseating thought occurred to him than he saw a beacon of power somewhere beyond the far side of the camp, demonic magic more potent than anything he’d ever had the misfortune to be near, short of Sargeras himself. Suddenly, as if the pieces had just connected, he knew that the reason he’d failed his timeline was that he hadn’t used that power. Just keeping Tichondrius from it would not be enough to ensure victory; he would need to use the power himself to take the demon lord down.

But that would mean hastening whatever alteration the mere taste of demon’s blood had afflicted him with.

Grimly, Illidan began slinking through the growing battle, avoiding demon and human alike. There was no sign yet of Tichondrius, but he had no doubts that the dreadlord would show up soon enough…and he had to have taken in enough of that fel magic by that time, or all was lost.

As he neared the beacon, a skull encased in crystal, a corner of his heart whispered that it didn’t matter if he lived or died; he was already lost.

  ==================================

When Arthas finally found Illidan, the big cat was a blur of purple and blazing green, leaping madly around a twelve-foot demon that did not look like any of the others. It was big and burly without being animalistic, with wings and horns and alien-looking armor that somehow emphasized its demonic nobility. Illidan’s Warclaws had slashed it in many places, but as the prince watched, the demon backhanded the big cat and sent him flying into a large red crystal nearby. Just looking at the thing made Arthas’s skin crawl. The demon began casting…something; the young paladin didn’t wait to see what it was. He just leaped into the fray with a cry of “For Lordaeron!” and landed a solid Light-enhanced blow to the demon’s shoulder.

“What – who are you?”

“You don’t deserve my name,” Arthas spat. “Let’s go, demon.”

“Whelp! You’ll regret this!”

The prince dodged one darkly-glowing strike from the demon’s taloned hands, caught another on his armor. Then there was a wild cry, a sound full of feral fury, and blades of green light tore through one of the demon’s wings from behind while Illidan clung to the demon’s back, the other Warclaw digging into his shoulder.

“Did you forget about me, Tichondrius?” Illidan snarled. His eye sockets glowed an unholy green.

Arthas chose not to think about the light where there should have been nothing; instead, he took the opportunity to smash his warhammer into the distracted demon’s face.

The fight was brutal. They quite nearly had to dismember the demon lord, sustaining serious wounds of their own in the process. Arthas’s solid plate was dented and even pierced in places, mangled in others and held on by the sheer force of the metal bent around his body rather than the cut straps that dangled forlornly. Illidan bore gashes and punctures nearly identical to what he’d had that first night, save for the sick green light that clung to them like magical bandages, keeping the big cat from bleeding to death. Finally, Arthas caved the demon lord’s chest in with great, shattering overhand blows, and with a final scream Tichondrius went limp.

“No!” Illidan leaped for something the prince could not see, all his power bent on destroying that invisible object. The green light that had been covering his wounds was sacrificed to that incomprehensible effort, and when he landed – badly, falling over and landing on one of his wings – his fur was drenched in blood.

Arthas did not spare even a moment to wonder when the demon hunter had grown wings.

“Illidan!” He rushed to the big cat’s side. “Hold on, Illidan.” The warhammer dropped unceremoniously from his hands and he spread one over Illidan’s chest, the other nearly shoved into his face.

“Arthas,” he breathed as those hands lit up with healing energy. “He’s dead. Tichondrius. We…we did it. I…did not…fail.”

“It’s not over yet.” There was too much blood. Arthas’s heart sank.

“Brother…save…yourself.”

“No! You can’t die, Illidan! I won’t let you! Illidan!”

“Illidan?” asked a new voice, a female voice that was startled and somehow sharp.

“Illidan’s dying,” cried Arthas, not looking up from his healing efforts. “You have to help him, please!”

“How can this be?” A second new voice, this one deep and male and comforting – and speaking in kaldorei.

The mysterious woman knelt beside Arthas, and a silver glow spread from her hands to close the wounds he hadn’t been able to get to yet. “It does not matter for the moment,” she replied in the same language. “First, we must save him. If we do not, we will never get the answers to our questions.”

“Tyrande?” Illidan’s voice was a thin thread, his empty eyes closed as he panted for breath.

The female started, but the healing energy that flowed from her did not falter. “I am here.”

“I am glad…I got to see…you one…last time. You are…still…as beautiful…as the White Lady.”

“Illidan Stormrage,” she snapped coldly, “if you die, I will petition Mother Moon to deny your soul and have you returned to life as a fish. I will keep you in the Temple fountain and you will never be able to do magic again.”

To Arthas’s surprise, guilt flashed over the big cat’s face. He almost chuckled, but there were still wounds that needed closing, and he poured Light into them until he and the female – Tyrande? – leaned back in satisfaction.

“He will live,” she said to the other voice, “but he is very weak.”

Arthas turned to look at her finally, took in the exotic colors of her hair and skin, the long ears and undeniably formal clothing. The other one, the male, was big and burly with a bush of mossy green beard that matched his mane of hair, golden eyes where Tyrande had silver, and a rack of antlers. “Thank you,” he said in kaldorei. “I am Prince Arthas, of Lordaeron.”

“Elune be with you,” Tyrande said politely. “Tyrande Whisperwind, High Priestess of Elune.”

“Well met,” the male said, eyeing Illidan’s limp form warily. “Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage. Now that the immediate danger has passed-”

“My men!” Arthas interrupted. “They were fighting demons, I have to see-”

“The demons are dead,” Malfurion soothed. “Our forces aided yours; the survivors are being tended.”

“Thank you, Archdruid.”

Malfurion knelt by Illidan’s head, one hand hovering over the curved horns that now jutted from it. “As I was saying…now that the immediate danger has passed, perhaps you could explain how it is that my brother is here, as a nightsaber, when I clearly saw his corpse in the cell I personally locked him inside, ten thousand years ago.”

Arthas’s fist was in motion almost before the last words were out of the druid’s mouth, and they stared at each other in shock as he pulled it away from the druid’s now-bleeding nose.

“I’m so sorry!” the prince babbled. “I didn’t mean – that was incredibly rude of me, please forgive-”

The druid waved one hand in a forgiving gesture, the other pinching his nose. “Tyrande?”

She reached over, one hand glowing silver. “You had that coming, Furion.”

“Yes,” he sighed, sniffing experimentally. “I suppose I did.”

“You suppose?” Arthas raged. “You locked him up for ten thousand years! I’ve been a better brother to him than that, and I haven’t even known him for ten! In the interests of diplomacy and reconciliation, I shouldn’t have punched you, but by the Light the only part about it that I regret was that Illidan doesn’t have hands to do it for himself!”

Weakly, Illidan chuckled. “The only part I regret is that I can’t see the look on his face.”

Tyrande’s breath hissed in. “Illidan,” she said carefully, “could you explain to me how you came to be here? I was…” she took a breath. “It distressed me to see the withered husk that had once been my old friend.”

The big cat’s ears went flat. “I…am not your timeline’s Illidan. I was brought here because my counterpart had died and without me, there would be no one able to defeat Tichondrius and keep the world from drowning under a demonic tide again.”

“But…”

“No, brother,” Illidan interrupted the druid. “It had to be me. It had to be a demon hunter, someone able to use the demonic power of that skull to destroy the dreadlord’s soul before it could escape to the Twisting Nether and re-form.”

“At the cost of your soul? Look at you! You’re practically a demon yourself!”

Horns, wings, and now Arthas noticed the resemblance. “So what? He was willing to sacrifice himself to save the world. He was ready to die, Archdruid. He knew this was coming, and he was ready to die because then he wouldn’t have to face disgust from those he sacrificed himself to save, or be afraid that instead of being thanked, he’d be shunned again. Well, you can take your disapproval and stuff it,” he snapped, reaching out to scratch at Illidan’s ruff until the big cat’s ears came back up in surprise, “because he’s a hero, and he’s going to be recognized as such by my people even if you’re too stuck-up to thank him for everything he’s suffered.”

“He’s right, Furion. He was a great hero, and the thanks he got was imprisonment.”

“Did you forget the other things he did, Tyrande? The Well…”

“Which is not a danger since the Aspects planted Nordrassil atop it. The World Tree which grants us immortality. Mother Moon, we have been unforgivably ungrateful, basking in the fruits of his labors while he languished, forgotten, in his prison. Illidan, I am so sorry.” Her hand stretched out to scratch behind one startled ear. Then, slowly, her fingers caressed the fur around his closed eyes. “Illidan…do you…”

Reluctantly, he opened them. The sockets were once again empty.

“I cannot undo the centuries you suffered alone,” she said softly. “But the demon lord is dead. Surely, there is no need for you to continue to live in darkness…?”

The big cat whined.

Tyrande lifted his head gently in both hands, and Arthas could see how badly he wanted whatever she was offering. Then there was an explosion of silver light that nearly blinded him, and when he finally blinked the last spots away, his brother was blinking golden eyes with vertical slits for pupils. A motion to his right caught his attention, and the prince turned to see that Malfurion was crying silently into his beard.

“Punch me again,” he said softly when he noticed Arthas looking. “Tyrande was right. You were right. I…we owe Illidan a great deal, and I have nothing else to offer.”

Arthas turned to the demon hunter. “Illidan?”

“No.” Slowly, he climbed to his feet, clearly weak and still in pain. “Furion, look at me.”

The druid obeyed, and for a long minute no one moved as the two stared at one another. Then Illidan took a trembling, limping step. Two. Raised one paw, braced it on the kneeling druid’s shoulder, did the same with his other paw. Nose to nose now, Malfurion closed his eyes in a gesture of defeat. Awkwardly, Illidan shifted until he was hugging the druid as best he could with a feline body, and Arthas could hear the rumbling purr. Crying openly now, Malfurion hugged the demon hunter’s torso.

“I forgive you, Furion,” Illidan purred.

“I don’t deserve it. I forgot about you. I left you to die.”

“Praise me to your people. Make me a hero. I would rather repair the bonds between us than see you suffer for my sake. Although,” he chuckled, “it was very satisfying to have one brother punch the other for me.”

“Wait…” Malfurion struggled free of Illidan, then melted into the form of a giant saber-toothed cat.

Illidan sat back, astonished. “Furion?”

When the other cat nodded, the purring resumed and he lunged, knocking the unresisting druid-cat over and licking his head and ears insistently. After a minute he stopped, panting, and flopped down. Malfurion resumed his own shape and cautiously petted Illidan.

“I’m so sorry, brother,” he murmured again and again while Arthas and Tyrande looked on, smiling.

“I have eyes, brother,” Illidan said to Arthas.

“Yes, you do,” the prince laughed. “And little horns, and wings. Which honestly makes me even more glad that you have eyes again, because Light help me if you tried flying around with that sound-sight spell.”

The ears went back. “I don’t want horns. Wings…I can deal with. Horns…”

The other three exchanged glances.

“I don’t know if the Light can-”

“-Elune-”

“-purge him of the fel energy.” Malfurion looked at the other two. “All together?”

Arthas and Tyrande nodded. Three pairs of hands covered Illidan’s forehead, three colors of light flowed and mingled while Illidan closed his eyes and moaned. When they sat back, the horns were gone.

“He needs to eat,” Arthas blurted suddenly. “He lost a lot of blood.”

“I will hunt for him,” the druid offered, vanishing into the woods before anyone could protest.

“Thank you,” Tyrande said softly as she petted the big cat’s head. “You cared for him when he had no one else, and I am in your debt. As High Priestess, I lead our people and I promise you this: we shall be your allies.”

“Thank you, High Priestess,” the prince replied. “I have but one favor to ask you.”

“Name it.”

“Should Illidan ever decide he wants to live with you…”

Distressed, the big cat raised his head. “Brother, I would ne-”

“I won’t live forever,” Arthas interrupted. “And I don’t want you moping around Lordaeron being reminded of me in everything you see. When I die, I want you to have a home to go to where you can be happy again.”

“You will always be welcome with me, Illidan. Furion’s duties as Archdruid keep him away from my side for long centuries at a time. It is a lonely thing to lead one’s people. It is lonelier still to have no one to talk to at the end of the night.”

Illidan whined again and nudged her hand until she resumed petting him. “For you, Tyrande.”

  ==================================

The parades and feasts, the special golden pectoral that was the first piece of finery he’d ever had, all paled before the glory that was being able to see with eyes. The diplomatic coups of bringing fabled night elves to Lordaeron as allies, reuniting them with their long-lost quel’dorei kin, even Jaina and Thrall forging a battlefield truce between the forces of the Horde and Kul Tiras that led to the orcs settling near kaldorei lands and establishing alliances with night elves and a new race called tauren, none of that was a greater honor than the clear respect and affection Malfurion directed at him. And when Jaina accepted Arthas’s proposal of marriage, the pride and joy Illidan felt was nothing compared to the incandescent elation of having Tyrande smile at him. Taretha wept openly when he showed her his eyes, overjoyed for him, and they spent countless happy hours reading side by side, her fingers turning the pages or pointing out letters as he learned to read the script humans used. In turn he taught her the language of magic, and the papers that blossomed beneath her hands caught the attention of Archmage Antonidas in Dalaran. With Taretha as his hands, Illidan was invited to join the Kirin Tor and share the knowledge of a forgotten age with the city of mages.

Years passed in peace and prosperity. Terenas passed the crown to his son and spent his last years in comfort, holding Arthas and Jaina’s children as babies and watching them grow up. Calia married Liam and became queen of Gilneas; Jaina’s brother Tandred inherited the throne from his father and tentatively opened trade routes with the Horde on Kalimdor. Illidan grew to become one of the wisest and well-respected mages of Dalaran, with Taretha his constant companion developing a good mind for the intricacies of the arcane. They traveled often to Kalimdor, both to visit Thrall in the Horde, and to visit the tree-city of Darnassus. When she passed, the dragon-mage Krasus took pity on the heartbroken cat and taught him the spell dragons use to change their forms. After much discussion with Malfurion and many illusions, Illidan crafted a “mortal form” for himself that reflected the way his native counterpart would have looked if not for the unfortunate events of the War of the Ancients. Arthas and Jaina welcomed his move back to the palace with open arms and children eager to hear stories from their Uncle Illidan, and for many more years he was content. When they passed the way of all mortals, he hugged his nieces and nephews – one of whom was now king – and teleported across the world.

Tyrande held him as he wept, both in feline and in elven form, and when Malfurion returned from his latest sojourn in the Emerald Dream, he did as well. It took months before Illidan’s grief ran its course, and in the end, he found himself sharing Tyrande’s bed as a man rather than a cat. Malfurion, to Illidan’s surprise, approved. However, the greater surprise was that decades of contact with magic-using races had softened the night elf abhorrence of the arcane, and when word got out that the might Illidan Stormrage was living in Darnassus, he found himself with would-be students throwing themselves at his feet.

More years passed as Illidan, now respected by the people that had shunned his counterpart, forged a place for himself in the world. Friend of dragons (for Krasus was not the only one hiding behind a mortal face), venerated mage, world-renowned diplomat and savior, the equal to his twin brother in every way, Illidan was content.

But the greatest happiness he experienced was watching lazily the sun rise, Tyrande’ fingers moving slowly through his fur as she drifted to sleep beside him, belly swollen with Furion’s child, with his brother snoring lightly into her hair. In that moment, he thought, it had all been worth it. Every second of pain, every lonely breath, every agonized moment.

Affectionately, he leaned over and licked Tyrande’s hair.

Worth it, and he would do it all over again in a heartbeat.