1.
There are days where Daimd captivates him with something languid and half natural and quite beyond their physical shells. It's gradual and insidious, creeping in and growing within him in the guise of something whole and true and better than he should know he could ever truly be – a sharp emotional feint that leaves him unguarded and reeling each and every time.

It starts a slow build of heat and longing and desire, pulling him first into a private admiration slowly evolving into some more pressing urge. A need to be closer, to be against-- but no, no, that's not enough, it's a desire to move through, now, to be encompassed, to be completely eclipsed, to drown in depthless presence. It's a want for something greater than himself, than anything else, and he doesn't want it for himself. He wants-- oh, he wants, he wants, and--

And by then, oh, of course he knows it isn't fucking Daimd he's reaching for at all. By then, it's long too late to resist that endless call.


2.
For Daliquinn, those will always have been the final days. The final days of Silvermoon and the glorious reign of the Quel'dorei, the final days of the High Elves. They have a new city now, a new capital and a new name for themselves, but the scar remains upon their land and the past remains irretrievable. There can be no going back.

Yes, he had survived beyond the end of days. And in those final hours, Daliquinn had finally seen himself for a coward. Disgust at that simple, rotten truth had kept him running since.

He left himself first on the docks of their ruined home, a quaking hollow wretch of a thing. He fled, but against all better judgement his gaze trailed endlessly back. No matter how frantic his efforts to push away, that same quavering figure seemed always at the faintest edge of his formless shadow.

He doesn't know how much time passed then, only that next he'd been forced to flee the waste he had become. His hands had moved as though burnt, as though the skin had blackened and cracked such that each clawing grasp left him depleted and spent. His legs held no worth, serving only as thick empty weight to drag him back and keep him worthless and low. Yet somehow each day saw him just that inch closer to the surface, until finally he'd grasped steel in hand and walked through the pristine arches of his once-city looking something like the creature he might once have been.

The shadow behind him is crisp now, the trail he carves out echoed not by his own footfalls but two distant followers. Still he catches, stumbles, finds himself looking back, and still it is that he must keep moving. He now lives his borrowed days with another at his side, and Daliquinn no longer knows if he is wretch or waste or something new. Only that he is still and always a coward, and can dare to look no deeper.


3.
Daimd must never know.

When he's deep in it, grasping and heady with wants he can not ever name, he turns the vitriol outwards and forces his orc away. Daimd can't see him like this. His fool would endure any amount of undue venom, any amount of abuse and violence and vicious bladed scorn. Daimd endures and returns, never stronger or wiser for the cruelty inflicted, and Daliquinn bites back his endless shuddering gratitudes time and time again.

Daimd will endure all that. But if the orc were to see him like this...

Daliquinn knows his beast would never come back. For truly, truly, who would?


4.
Believe this, beast. The day I do not want you I will spill your blood myself. When this thing between us is done, I will kill you. Until then, you will always do as I say. Until then, you belong to me.

(So turn from me, Daimd. Turn from me, but always... so long as you breathe, you must always turn back.)


5.
He wounds himself in the faltering and never once recognises the great length of their shared strides. Some days, scant and rare as they are, he yearns for the magic that weaves unbound within Daimd's being. But oh, through insult and silence and private, loathing despair, there is no single day where he does not yearn simply for his Daimd.

He keeps his fingernails long and takes great pleasure in running them down the orc's neck. Even the skin of his beasts throat seems thick and coiled with strength, and Daliquinn knows it will ever remain a mere fantasy of his to dig merciless through that corded flesh and tear Daimd's life from him. Instead he settles for this, the slow teasing of delicate nails and the way his orc's breath catches and shudders beneath his touch, the way Daimd groans at that different sort of pain. This is almost as good.

They will take you from me.

Oh, don't be so excitable. Shush, listen. They will want to take you, is that better? They'll want to keep you, Daimd. You must understand why. You can't possibly be so oblivious.

It's obscured just now, but from this close... you can feel it, can't you? That is Dalaran. The magics within put even Quel'thalas to shame. It's the bastion of the Kirin Tor, if that isn't obvious; everything they touch has that same foul presence. You do feel it, don't you? If I can, then you surely do. See, Daimd, I am... tch. I am no... great master of their art. But even I know there's something different in you. Some great arcane gift, something that goes beyond anything else. I have watched you improve, but there's still something there. Something further, something...

Tsh. It's hardly my place to try and classify you. This isn't anything to do with something like me.

But know this, Daimd – walk before them, and they will want you for their order. They will try to convince you, and failing that they will try to seize however much they can before you pass beyond their reach.

My advice is to respond in kind. Take all you can, and leave, and let the poor bastards dream of you. Let them wonder at all your wasted potential. Take your fill of their pawing attentions and then come here, to me. We'll walk from them together, hm? How glorious that will be. My brilliant obedient beast...

He can't recall why they had been in Orgrimmar that day. Some purpose of Daimd's, though, he's sure of that much, and the knowledge leaves a hollowness in him. It's as though a piece of his history is being gutted away, and no amount of retracing his own distant steps is letting him bind the wound left behind.

They'd been passing through Orgrimmar, and then Daimd had been surprised, spoken of a tradition among his people, made his strange amusing suggestion. Was it a surprise, or had he intended the whole business to occur just as it did? Had that matron accosted them, or was it Daimd who'd hailed her? It was Daimd, Daliquinn thinks – it had all been Daimd's idea, in Daimd's city, on Daimd's errand. Did he select the little girl as well? Or was the child assigned to them? Had Daimd looked at those ragged orphans and picked out that particular one – that particular face?

Krag, she'd been called. Daliquinn remembers well, and it's true that he doesn't see anything of Daimd reflected in her features. But what does he know of orcs? What does he know of fathers and daughters, and how shared blood might show? Perhaps Krag had been the very image of this child Daimd had left behind, and that whole day had been one long nostalgic wish. Daliquinn wonders, and scoffs through clenched teeth.

The sound proves enough to startle his observers into a moment of tense stillness. Daliquinn, seated in shade, watches the orc children as they do their best to watch him in return. They think themselves subtle, the poor simple things, and even when he catches their collective gaze and smiles at them, they only dash back a few paces before regrouping and stalking forward once more. Perhaps they're not merely watching him, in their own proud view – perhaps they intend this as a hunt. No doubt they've heard the louder complaints, even if their parents softer murmurings have slipped below their young attention. He is the enemy in their midst, and they all so desperately want to cut their teeth.

Or he is only guessing, and they are simply curious of something unknown. Either is fine with him. Daliquinn stands slowly, all too aware of himself. His heart, his pulse, the ache in his jaw and the way his fingers twitch as he reaches for the sword secured at his side. Daimd is nowhere in sight, but Daliquinn supposes he'll show up soon enough. The noise will draw him. The blood. Not too soon, though, he hopes, and he strides forward.

He has recollections that touch him, even as he marvels at the growing distance between then and now.

It has been close to eight years since he was last aboard a ship, bundled on deck with all those others too young or weak or enfeebled to aid in the doomed defensive of their home. He had been too afraid to resist, and recalling the wretch he'd been brings all those tastes and sensations back to his daunted present – a trembling to his clenched hands, sharp bile at the back of his throat.

He had stood together with Daimd, bearing witness to the great wound that split his orc's land asunder... the recollections had touched him then, too. He'd thought of the Dead Scar, the corrupted soil over which the undead still scrabbled and surged even now. He'd considered that the land would never heal.

And now, here, standing with gaze trained sightlessly on the endless blue horizon, he wonders which of his own fool responses he should hold with the greater disdain – that fleeting sense of kinship he had felt with the beast at his side, or the way he'd pulled back from the notion so utterly and so soon. He wonders if, next time, he'll be able to stop himself.

The air is rich with salt and grit and a world that isn't like any he's known, and Daliquinn moves without decision. His orc is waiting for him, and somewhere beneath today and a thousand yesterdays, he finds himself needing to hold to that.

“But why him?” She asked, and Daliquinn could hear the alcohol in her voice, the way it was making her plaintive and teasing her lips to smile where usually she would scowl. “Even among orcs, he is...” She gestured vaguely, “He's dirty, Daliquinn.”

( Read more... )

They use the word addiction because they say we can live without it. They pass us off with such ease because they can not possibly understand. You can't possibly understand. No comparison I can make would show you what we lost that day.

We were born into it, Daimd. We were raised on it, weaned on its power and left to grasp for it in times of desperation. From birth to death, from dawn to dusk, we gave ourselves over to it. Perhaps this is some simple addiction, some passing desire that we should shed. Perhaps we don't need the arcane, hm? And perhaps you do not need those limbs.

... The metaphor fails, of course. All words must when it comes to this. I can't... I can not possibly explain, Daimd.

But we've come this far, haven't we? Let's imagine. We'll take those hands of yours – do try not to bleed too much, now. You'll survive, I suppose, but you will never be the same. They have always been there, your skills are defined through the work they do. You reach with them, and perceive so much of your world. Ohh, I'll take your eyes, Daimd. I'll leave you yearning in darkness. I'll take your words, I'll twist your thoughts, and when you stumble I will be there to remind you. 'So troubled by mere longing, orc? You can live without this. Didn't you know?'

... Oh, and how I try. Are you blind, Daimd, or simply stupid? Do you hold to me despite the pathetic struggle, or do you just not see my weakness? Do you realise what a fool you are?

Because I do. I do, and yet. Yet... I struggle and I claw and I try to find my way to you. I want to leave this behind me. I want my days to begin with you. Do you understand that? I want you to be mine, my very first thought, the first thing I feel. I want to wake and clutch for you, to desire you before all else. I want you, fool. But... it's not you, Daimd. You are not what stirs me into wakefulness, you're not... you're not the need that seizes me when I'm weak and dull and tangled in sleep. Your touch on my cheek, the sweet words you give me-- oh, my disgusting fool. How can you waste your magnificent self on something so broken as this?

There are things he wants of Daimd.

He wants to force foul promises from his lips. Would you kill for me? He asks, knowing Daimd has done so before and will do so however many times the command is given. Anyone? Everyone? Kill them all, Daimd. He imagines pressing close, whispered words crossing that thin chasm he keeps forever between them. He is old, she is young. A crone, Daimd. A babe in arms. Would you still? He imagines his own smile, the hunger in his own eyes. Would you die for me, Daimd? Would you do it now?

The last, the greatest, he can never ascribe words. He imagines demanding, imagines begging, he pleads and he screams and he wants and he wants. The orc of his mind holds no answer for him, and Daliquinn stalks away a wreck of limitless directionless fury.

He wants to make Daimd angry. It's a constant battle that leaves him forever testing to find the turn of phrase, the unwelcome action, the one thing that might penetrate Daimd's eternal implacable reserves. He wants to unsettle Daimd, wants to taunt him and turn him, make him into some unrecognisable shell of himself. He'll make Daimd strike him, make Daimd hate him, and he'll stand brilliant and bright that day and let everything crumble before him. That is the day, he knows, that Daimd will finally see him.

He wants, oh...

He wants to hurt Daimd. He wants to leave Daimd's skin purple and raw, to trace those bruises and know his hand behind them. He wants to cut right to Daimd's heart and test the wound with wicked prying fingers. He wants his orc staggered and bleeding beneath him, wants to torment Daimd with teeth and blade until pain and distraction mingle into one needful entity - he wants to make Daimd growl and twist with muddied desire, wants him biting back until he can silence the hurt no more.

This is my price, Daliquinn murmurs softly against the broken skin, here in his own imaginings. This is what it means to be with me. Say it now, dear Daimd. Tell me how you feel.


(He wants to stop pressing. He wants to believe. 'I love you', he is told, and Daliquinn wants to tear himself open if it lets Daimd see all that goes unsaid. He chokes even within his own thoughts, desperately grasping at words that twist from his useless grip.

He wants to believe. He wants more than anything, more than he knows how to begin to say, to trust everything that Daimd has to give. It's only when they're pressed together that he knows, with skin flush on skin and his own need ghosting between them with every gasping breath. If he could only keep this moment, he'd sacrifice every morning – every returning doubt that accompanied.

But each day begins anew, and each beginning brings question, hesitation, needling disbelief. It festers inside him and he turns on himself, delving back into private harrowed relief.

There are things he wants of Daimd.)

"You've improved, Daliquinn."

"Have I?"

He pleased himself with the simple reply, maintaining tense momentum and yet broadcasting bland disinterest. It took all his concentration to keep the smirk from his lips. There was a long moment of silence between them punctuated only by the clatter of steel on wood, the perpetual din of fellow trainees. But he was no trainee now, was he? A traveller of the world, far removed from these dregs surrounding them. Then Sarithra stepped plainly forward, her own weapons in hand, and Daliquinn knew full well that eyes would be upon him. The newcomers would wonder at his presence – perhaps they would seek to mimic him, or naively aspire to take his place. Others would recall the sight from younger days – Instructor Sarithra and the novice who rose late from her bed. They had sneered at him back then, and likely did so now. Luck keeps you this time, fools. Today is not your day.

( Read more... )

Their first encounter was a flurry of magic and blade and smirking first impressions. Those memories had their rightful place, seated in the private unspoken recesses of his heart - he recalled them in moments of doubt, a reminder of what he'd attained and how, validating and terrifying in equal measure. How close he had come to walking by. Did Daimd realise, truly, how fragile the decision had been? How arbitrary, how without meaning or reason?

In the hour of their meeting, Daliquinn had let himself fill with resolute pride. By his own power and skill he had saved a life – a grateful hulking beast of an orc, some wandering careless fool tied to him always by action and deed. You're mine, he'd drawled with feigned rancour, all youth and arrogance and thinking he knew what such simple words could mean.

But perhaps. Perhaps that truly had been the start of it.

They had found themselves walking in the same direction, parallel but apart. Just the feel of it, footfalls sounding in something like unison, had left him with a strange hollow sense of more to come. He had felt the orc's eyes on him, knew all too well how he must look from outside – overly thin and ill-equipped, sallow and exhausted beyond any fair measure – and yet he'd found the attention acceptable. The orc should admire his saviour, should he not? Let him look.

He had paused once, feigned some pretence, and the orc had halted with him. That thrilled Daliquinn in a way he didn't quite know how to explain, and gave him time to make a few observations of his own. Broad shoulders and a sword better maintained than his own, brilliant intelligent eyes that met his gaze with a humble confidence that Daliquinn found himself itching to unsettle. He hadn't been able to keep from pressing on, falling back into step with intoxicating ease.

Are you always this loud? He remembered asking, and the orc had laughed with such good grace that the mockery had shifted on his lips. He let himself tease instead, and consumed each reaction with ravenous appetite. He wanted to see it all, he had realised. He wanted everything this uncommon stranger had to offer.

By the time they had reached sanctuary, Daliquinn ached.

See them all! They can't help themselves, can they? They can't stop looking at you! What are they expecting from you, dear Daimd? What do you offer them, hm? They can't possibly depend on you. How long has it been, now? You've been walking away from them for years, and still they look to you! What simple beasts they are!

You haven't answered, Daimd. What are they expecting? Do they want you to stay? Hah! Of course they do. Is that what they're expecting? These poor fools! How do you stand it?

... Daimd. Daimd, come here.

-

Oh, this? I took it.

How should I know? Everything looks the same here. Should I put it back? Do you think she'll miss it?

My Daimd, are you mad?

-

Do they expect you to stay? Do you want to? What is there, hm? There's nothing here. Filthy hovels and thoughtless lives. It's disgusting. No wonder you left! How did you manage for so long? It must have been maddening.

It makes you glad, doesn't it? That you found your way to me.

Tell me.

-

I would never have guessed such a place.

You don't belong here. You mustn't, you must never stay here. Never settle. This squalid little hole can't contain you. I couldn't stand it.

-

I've learned so much today! Oh, let me tell you all, dear Daimd.

Ah--! I'm sorry, is that wrong? Damned, is it? Hah, but of course! Of course you're Damned. How did I not name you so myself? I wonder, oh... who else is there? Daimd the Traveller? Oh no, no, only Sometimes, isn't it? Do you always come back, Daimd? Come and go and come again, Daimd the Damned, Daimd the Traveller, Daimd, Daimd...

Daimd, ahh... there is so much here, Daimd. What else have you secreted away? Have you not been in my sight, Daimd? All this time?

Where are you, Daimd? When do I meet you?

-

Daimd, hold. Listen.

They love me.

-

I am no one's 'mate'. What-- tell them! Tell them, and I'll tell them myself! I am no one's! Never, never say such things. Go-- Get away from me! Go!

-

They look to you. Daimd, it all comes back to you. Their words, their deeds, their eyes. They can't keep themselves from you.

It compliments you, Daimd.

I said I would find it, did I not? But you! You always knew! You have always known this...! How long would you have let me search? Cruel Daimd, Foul Daimd, Daimd the Stranger, Daimd the Weak, Daimd the Unwise. Daimd, Daimd...

Go, Daimd. And damn you. Damn you always.

The blade turned as it struck, his wrist twisting unnaturally with the ill-timed motion. Daliquinn swore sharply at the feel of it, sword dropping from his frustrated grip as he yanked his arm back. The world carried on, unmoved and unconcerned with his latest failed attempt.

Wonderful. The novelty has worn off.

( Read more... )

When he finally opened his eyes, there was nothing to see. Daliquinn let himself fall back limply against the grass – Wet? Did it rain? - and stared upwards, stretching his limbs out with slow precise deliberation. He'd been sitting for hours, with legs crossed and fingertips pushing against closed eyelids, and he was accustomed to this period of waiting for his body to readjust.

It had rained. He could smell it on the air, not to mention feel it seeping through the shirt he wore. Silvermoon City lay beyond his dimmed vision, but he could still hear the faint sounds of city life. He could feel it, too, if he tried, a faint familiar arcane presence beneath his skin. Hours before, that same sensation would have left him ragged and taut.

He'd needed this.

Daliquinn eased himself to a sitting position, the world slowly swimming back into definition. It was cool evening air that surrounded him now. Just how long had he been here? No wonder he was so damnably tired...

It had been early afternoon when he'd finally turned, bristling with hysteric unacceptable need. Daimd had taken the brunt of his fury, all the barbs and abuse that Daliquinn could conjure - sitting here now in the gloom and the silence, it was almost a struggle to stave off regret.

Instead he sat forward, moving his lips in experimental silence around the familiar name. He'd be somewhere close, his orc. He always was. Daimd never strayed far, no matter what was thrown at him. Daliquinn climbed to his feet, close to steady. Some day, he forced himself to consider, you will drive him away. He won't return to you.

Today, though? No, not today.

“Daimd?” He didn't waste energy on a smile, letting his face settle into tired neutrality as he started back through the trees. He called again, voice betraying nothing Daimd did not already know.

It doesn't catch him for days. Nothing does.

He doesn't sleep, he doesn't eat, he doesn't speak - only snarls at those few who try to console him. Most pass by without thought or comment. They ignore him, he doesn't see them.

He stays below deck or lingers above, settling himself by rails or beneath stairs. He must move often, though he doesn't recall it, only a vague awareness that it's raining now, or else that someone wants the crates by which he's settled, or that the dust shifts as someone passes overhead. A stranger kicks at him one hour, one day, somewhere in the haze, and he remembers kicking back savagely, venom on his lips. He doesn't remember who. He doesn't remember why.

On the fourth day, they finally force him to a cabin. There's no sympathy in their actions, what little they may have still held for him quickly dashed against his struggles. They lock the door, demand that he sleeps, that he pulls himself together. His protests go ignored, jumbled senseless words held together only by his fury.

Alone, spare an empty bed and silence, it finally seizes him. Daliquinn wonders that he'll ever breathe again.

It's a clean death, the torrents of magic cutting them down far faster than they can react. The best of them manage a feeble few steps before they crash to the ground, and Daimd will already be picking out his next target as they fall. Perhaps it's some nonsense part of being an orc - even this manner of hunting seems natural to them.

Or no, Daliquinn has to muse. It's Daimd who looks so natural here, nothing more or less. It's a ridiculous notion, and Daliquinn doesn't bother to mask his smile because oh, how it appeals to think that way.

It's glorious to watch, and all too distracting - for this, he'll even let Daimd dictate their path. Occasionally some beast will set eyes on him, or he'll set sword on them, and how he savours those few delicious seconds, counting toward intervention. From anyone else, he'd find the interference insulting. From Daimd, it's everything.

They'll return to town, and some fool will reward them for the day's work, and he'll be the only one standing witness to the casual heroisms of the day. His orc is a masterpiece.

At first he'd taken it for granted. It was so much a constant presence, a thankless necessity of his people. They were all defined by it, and all so oblivious to the hold it had over them until they found themselves so suddenly bereft. The high elves lost their Sunwell. He lost his self.

But then, he wasn't the only one. Some of them recovered, some of them didn't - he took longer than most, but he survived. The days he clawed through then and the days he walked through now, he was supposed to have gained something from that, some new definition to live by. He was of the Sin'dorei - he was a blood elf. They had suffered and overcome, risen stronger and greater than before, and he was to count himself among that.

It always felt such a dubious honour. Daliquinn found he resented it.

He'd taken it all for granted back then, failing to recognise the shift from idle desire to craving need. Somewhere, it had all changed. It's not something he'll ever allow to happen again. There's nothing he can't live without.


(The day he dismisses Daimd will be the day he needs him most.)