Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s when they’re standing together on the roof of the Black Temple that Lor’themar truly understands how far they have come. Magtheridon is fallen and Outland is theirs. As a true victory it rings hollow, though, he had been sent by his Prince to discover a cure for their addiction, to discover what knowledge Illidan Stormrage truly had, and all he has sent back to Quel’Thalas is a method to ease their suffering and reports of possible findings. He looks out over the fel-tinged waste of Shadowmoon Valley, and turns so he can see his allies out of the corner of his good eye, Lady Vashj’s scales gleaming in the greenish light and Illidan himself, great and terrible, Lord of this broken world.

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"And what do you think, Lor’themar? You’ve held your peace so far this meeting."

"My Prince, I don’t know what might be found in Outland, but I do know that your leading this expedition personally would be unwise and dangerous both to yourself and our people. You are needed most greatly here."

"Yes, y ou counseled me against going to Dalaran as well, and there I nearly met my death. Perhaps I should listen to your advice more often. Very well, I will remain here, and you will go in my stead."

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He wakes shuddering and feverish, hearing a dreadful noise and distantly aware of a commotion in the room around him, there’s pain in his shoulder-blades and he doesn’t even need to look to know Illidan has entered the room, he can feel him. The shock of awareness is enough for him to realize the noise is his own screaming.

Later, when the pain has stopped, Illidan explains what happened. "Overexposure to fel energy" he says, "The battle with Magtheridon released huge amounts of it and your continued exposure while in Shadowmoon hasn’t helped."

Lor’themar has wings of his own now, although he’s not sure they can be called wings, really, dark juts of bone with delicate skin and nerves, dark uneven feathers. They stand out from his back at an odd angle, edges curving toward his shoulders, he can feel them move with the muscle in is back and they twitch when a stray draft of air hits them.

Illidan hasn’t moved since he finished speaking and Lor’themar realizes that the other is waiting for him to reply.

"I suppose I’ll have to have my armour altered," is all he can think to say.

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"Lor’themar, I’m not leaving you here by yourself!"

"I need someone I can trust to escort M’uru back to Silvermoon, Halduron, I spoke to it when we entered the Keep, it knows how to cleanse the Sunwell."

"I don’t like leaving you in Outland…"

"You aren’t leaving me, but this can be an order if it’s what you need to make you stop thinking of me and start thinking of what this means for our people."

"….Fine….I’ll go."

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The first time Illidan touched him it felt like there was an extra weight beneath his movements, holding him to the touch.

The first time Illidan kissed him it was like a fire being lit, a burning in his blood he’d never known was there until the sparks started.

When they make love it’s gentle, in Illidan’s private rooms in the Temple or Lor’themar’s suite in the Keep, undressing each other while minding delicate wings and the disadvantages of hooves.

They end up at the edge of the bed, Illidan’s hooves braced against the floor while he bends toward Lor’themar, spread across his lap and writhing as he slowly takes Illidan in. Like this their height difference is negligible, and their kisses are slow and drugging, making Lor’themar scratch at Illidan’s shoulders while his wings shudder like delicate swaths of shadow in changing light and Illidan’s wings mantle over them almost protectively.

Afterwards they lay face to face—Illidan’s arm curled around Lor’themar’s waist and holding him near, Illidan’s wings spread out behind him on the bed—sometimes basking silently in each other, sometimes talking quietly about what their lives had been before.

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"Lor’themar Theron, your exploits are great, your strength well known, why are you content then to be a mere General? A servant to Illidan? I can give you so much more, I can give you power beyond your wildest dreams, your heart’s desire lies in the palm of my hand. All you need do in return is destroy Shattrath. All you need do in return is serve the will of Kil’jaeden."

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They reached the walls of Shattrath at mid-morning, Lor’themar had brought a reasonable force with him, enough to make a statement but not to threaten. As he waited for his messenger to return he admired the stonework and brushed absently at the dense trees with the edge of his Ranger’s senses, old and proud and wise was this forest, and it was both a comfort to visit it and a painful reminder of Eversong.

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"I am Khadgar"

"I know, I am Ranger-General Lor’themar Theron, the Illidari Compact wishes to make an alliance with your city against the threat of the Burning Legion."

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When he arrives at the Black Temple he does not expect Illidan to take him in his arms.

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

"I had a dream I’d lost you," is Illidan’s murmured reply, "I had a dream you’d been stolen away from me in fire and smoke."

Lor’themar rests his forehead against Illidan’s chest and inhales the earthy scent of his hair and says, "Never."

Chapter Text

The greenish eternal twilight of Shadowmoon Valley was not easy to wake up to, or more precisely, was not easy to stay woken up to. Especially when one was warm, and being held securely by another person who happened to be expertly massaging the kinks out of one’s back.

Lor’themar groaned and shifted closer to Illidan, enjoying the feel of tense muscle being gently relaxed.

"How much longer do you think this will last?" he grumbled, his question breaking off into a breathy moan as a particularly sore spot was worked on.

"I can’t say for sure," Illidan replied, absentmindedly tracing his claws over the now very sensitive stretch of skin between Lor’themar’s wings. Absently Lor’themar noticed Illidan had stopped talking, but the sensation of delicate claw tips sent his eyes rolling back in his head as he mouthed at Illidan’s collarbones to keep from keening.

His attempt seemed to have failed, however, because Illidan flipped them, gently supporting him and keeping his delicate wings from being crushed by their combined weight, but still looming over Lor’themar.

"As I was saying," Illidan began again, the playful tone of his voice belying his supposed offense at being interrupted, and Lor’themar couldn’t resist kissing him, “when your wings came in…" Lor’themar kissed him again, but Illidan valiantly carried on, “it takes time for the muscles of your back to…" another kiss, and finally Illidan seemed to get the idea.