Warcraft 1. Durnholde

Eonthane felt a pang of sharp regret seconds before he fell. That perhaps he was wrong in what he did… but there was no time for regret, really. The human's face was set and without emotion, barely inches from his own, and Eonthane finally closed his eyes as sickening pain overtook his frail body. A hand closed around his neck, the elf gasped, and the short sword was pulled free and the last thing Eonthane felt was being shoved hard backwards, and then the sensation of falling…

There had been another time of despair. Sitting on the bank, the walls of Silvermoon City so far in the distance he only knew they were there because that was his home. It was as if he could see them through the trees and through the cold in his veins. On one side of the bank lay the dead. The Wretched, curled up in agonized positions with not a mark on them. That was his doing. He'd torn them apart, one by one, the arcane magic pulsing in his veins like a beat he could hear, roaring in his ears as he summoned up the magical energies he needed to work his destructive intent. It was so seductive. It set his nerves afire and beckoned him to give in and listen to it forever. He hated it and so he slaughtered the Wretched, hating _them._ They were every weakness his race had… they were the weakness _he _had. And so he hated them as he hated himself and the addiction that all Sin'dorei had to fight.

Realization had come slowly. Only once they lay dead scattered around him and he was utterly exhausted and pushed to his limits. He'd swam the river then, curling down to the very bottom and hugging the sandy floor until he was nearly out of breath. As if the water could wash everything away. He regretted that now. Symbolism couldn't erase the bodies on the opposite shore; it couldn't erase his own addiction or the cold fact that he had enjoyed killing those creatures that had once been his kin.

He wondered what his brother and sisters would think of him now. Wondered if they would have done the same – or if they already had.

So he shivered and felt deep within his heart despair settle in. In that act, killing the Wretched who had been causing so much trouble for the rangers, he had also erased his last bit of hope and compassion for those who had succumbed. The shivering was only partly due to the water. As much as he despised the cold the weather in the forest was fair and he could not blame this entire affliction on his physical weakness. Mostly, it was because he had passed some sort of a line… stepped over some boundary and watched the last of what he had hoped for and wanted die with those Wretched.

Already the ones he had left alone were starting to pick over the bodies. The fact their fellow Wretched had died in agony did not seem to bother them. They had died suffering, sure enough – Eonthane had seen to it. Part of him had died in suffering as well.

He despaired the fact he did not want that part back.

There was always one last spell Eonthane kept in reserve. A last resort, for when things went bad. He had long ago realized his own physical weakness. He was scrawny, unable to hold his own in a fight, and his prolonged use of shadow magic led him to bouts of extreme weariness. The cold also bothered him, constantly. As did direct exposure to the sun. He knew he could die easily, that he had to rely on his cunning and what magic he had learned as a priest to preserve himself. So there was one last spell, something that bound his soul to his body no matter what injury was inflicted.

A death-like trance that would hopefully fool whatever creature bested him. Apparently it had worked with the humans. Eonthane came to slowly, fighting the nether off and forcing himself to feel what damage had been done to his body. The pain helped. He clung to it. The ache in his ribs, the sharp throbbing in his left shoulder, and the sickening wave from his abdomen that said something was horribly wrong and the body had no idea how to tell his mind just how badly injured he was. Eonthane rolled his head to the side and coughed up blood, tasted copper and dirt on his lips.

The healing spells came easy to him. Warmth flooded through his form, he shivered at its sudden effect and sucked his breath in to keep from crying out at the sudden release from the pain. He ached though. Badly. But at least he would live. He moved, slowly, opening his eyes and looking around him. There was brush – broken and crushed by his fall – and trees. The crumbling wall of Durnholde Keep to his right. He peered upwards and saw the shape of a human, standing watch along the wall. Might even be the one that had stabbed him and thrown him off. He didn't know. Time had passed but he was unsure of how much.

Carefully, Eonthane rose to a crouch. He felt dizzy and after a moment summoned up more strength to send another wave of healing through his battered frame. The warmth was soothing and for a moment he relaxed into it, breathing slowly. He'd lived. The humans thought him dead but he was not.

Still. So… weak… Eonthane closed his eyes tight and his hands closed in on themselves in frustration born of despair. He had always been frail. There was so much he wanted to do – and it always seemed out of his grasp!

He had seen Silvermoon when he fell from the wall. Before he blacked out he saw Silvermoon. Not as it was before – he was too young. Not as it was now. But as it _should _be. And he had not the strength of will or dedication to do anything.

He had killed two of those humans before their numbers overcame him. Magic alone had held them off but as soon as that failed and he felt his resources growing thin they overcame him within minutes. A few sharp blows and one sword…

The elf shuddered and put his hand to his stomach. The fabric of his robe was torn and soaked with his own blood. The skin underneath was smooth to the touch, healed by his own magic. He was very cold though. It must be growing close to evening.

He'd need to find a place to hole up in for the night. Tarren Mill was too far away as of right now. He wanted to find a place to rest before nightfall. He'd have to get away from the Keep. Grimly, he shoved his own doubt aside and stood. Picked up his staff from where it had fallen. The thing had served him well for quite some time.

The guard appeared to be alone on the wall. Apparently they thought the threat was eliminated. Not yet though. Eonthane pulled his lips back in a snarl and felt that familiar hatred swell inside him. It was an old friend, made back on that bank in Eversong Woods. Confined as he was to this path of a priest, it was this hatred that allowed him some freedom within it.

He wanted to make them hurt as he did.

It was a single word, hissed, and the magic surged through his veins and beat in his ears like the tempo of his own heart. The human let out a strangled gasp and doubled over. Eonthane could only imagine what he was feeling. The nerves dancing with fire along them… like poison in the veins. Dulling the senses with the constant demand, a sourceless agony ripping through flesh and muscle and mind. This was far more terrifying than a sword. A sword could be held and understood. Its violence was real, hard and fast. Eonthane's magic was something else entirely and the human was helpless before it.

He unleashed the power of his mind against the guard, backing away from the wall and concentrating, shadow energy growing about him, and then he released it against the human's mind. Images danced in his thoughts. The pain at finding an empty home. The years of confusion and uncertainty. The last vestiges of hope drifting away on the tide of a river. Giving up. The sick feeling he had at the very pleasure he took in making others hurt. All these things wrapped into one single blast and slammed into the mind of his victim. He'd make them suffer as well.

The human reeled. He had finally realized where the attack was coming from and had drawn his bow but the sudden mental assault sent his arrow wild. Eonthane chuckled darkly and readied his fire. Holy light lanced through the human – such a pure substance turned into something else entirely by his will. The beast fell with a cry, weapon clattering from his hand. Eonthane squinted up at the wall, no longer able to see his quarry. He was uncertain if he were dead or not. Part of him hoped that no, he was merely knocked helpless. The shadow word he'd laid on him would last then, inflicting injury upon small injury as the human shuddered and cried for help.

Of course, he couldn't linger any longer now. That would attract attention and they'd search for whoever had done it. They'd discover that they hadn't managed to kill the elf. He had to be gone, quickly.

Laughing under his breath, Eonthane turned and ran from the keep, slipping along the embankment. He'd find a place to spend the night and in the morning he'd try again. They'd be licking their wounds, carrying off their dead, and he'd hit them again tomorrow. Slink in through the gap in the wall and kill them off, one by one, until his task was accomplished.

He didn't even really care about the reason he'd been sent there. All he knew now was that he wanted to make them suffer tenfold in turn.

There was no remorse. It was washed away, like on the tides of the river.


	2. The Cold of Shadow

There was a cold wind in the Felwood, blowing rain into his face that felt far too much like ice instead of water. Eonthane shuddered and pulled his cloak tighter around him, once again quietly thanking the person who had made it for him. It offered no defensive value as the leatherworker had not poured her usual arcane talent into the crafting of it. He had asked her a favor and Warraven, being the gentle tauren soul she was, obliged. She hunted the beasts in Winterspring for their furs and created a long and thick cloak that went down to Eonthane's ankles and was plenty deep for him to wrap around himself and hide his face in its lined hood. It went over all his imbued robes that served as what pitiful armor he could wear on his frail frame. Even then, in this wind and rain, it still didn't feel like enough.

He was far too north. The trees hid the sun from his delicate skin and that was a relief from the harshness of the Barrens but it was still too far north. And the season was growing late into autumn. It would be winter soon and Eonthane wondered if perhaps he should retire to Silvermoon for a time, before the snows started.

"Jaedenar is to the north," the tauren was saying and Eonthane forced himself to focus. He did not know this area and any instructions would be appreciated. "You'll see pillars off to the side of the road – those lead to the area. As corrupted as this area is I cannot imagine it being any different there. It will be dangerous. Are you certain you will do this?"

The Emerald Circle's cause meant little to him. There were other reasons he would do as they needed – an excuse to be away. Promise of reward. And reasons he would barely admit to himself, much less a stranger. So he nodded, briefly, and she told him in further detail what she needed of a scout to that area and warnings to be on his guard. He promised to return with what information he could and turned away from the outpost, once again facing the rain. He raised a gloved hand to hold the hood of his cloak down and walked to where his hawkstrider waited. The beast hardly acknowledged him, used to disinterest from its master, only serving to bear him from one location to another and nothing more. There was no bond there and there never would be. Eonthane knew the beast had a purpose and did not assign it any other emotion or attachment other than its role in his life.

He mounted, letting go of his cloak briefly and letting the cold in. Shivers wracked his frame and he grabbed the reins and dug his heels into the bird's side. It squawked and broke into a trot, turning northwards up the road at his command.

The corruption around him bothered him not at all. He was not like his tauren friend Warraven who could feel it intensely and wished to restore this place with a passion. He felt power here, yes, but he dared not touch it further as the evidence of what it had done was written across the very landscape. There was also the temptation, that constant gnawing that beckoned him. So sweet, so raw, so seductive.

He dismounted at the broken pillars that marked the pathway to Jaedenar. He left the reins loose, as the bird was obedient enough to stay where it was until he returned for it. The forest was quiet around him save for the patter of rain on the leaves and the creak of branches above. His footsteps sounded unnaturally loud and another gust of wind whipped up inside his cloak and tore back his hood, exposing his cheeks to the sting of the rain and ice. He snarled.

There was a way to be rid of the cold. He knew it. He hated it. But if Jaedenar was dangerous… he would need it. Still, it was not a pleasant option. It would remove the physical cold in favor of something else entirely, a different sort of cold that would stay in his bones for hours to come. Eonthane paused and grimly smiled, finding the ironic humor in that he would resort to something he feared to survive.

The shadow power came easily to him – too easily – and he let it fill his veins like so much ice, coursing through his body, into his bones and lungs until his very form was altered, the patterns of dark power swirling just under his skin like an obscene tide. Shadowform, they called it, the priests that chose to forsake the holy path and walk the one he had chosen as well. The rain and the wind were distant now, as they had been replaced by the chill of shadow within his body, a numb sort of cold that he felt remote and detached from. It pulsed in his ears and he forced it away, knowing that it had done its purpose and would stay there until he dismissed it. Any more would be risking disaster.

The magic always pulled at him. Always. Sometimes he had trouble discerning if it was the magic itself that was so greedily hungry for him to succumb or his own tainted weakness that longed to just give in to the base instincts and become one of the Wretched.

He continued on, the thick fur cloak hanging loose about his shoulders, no longer needed. Tendrils of shadow trailed from his boots, unable to be contained solely within his slender body. He felt stronger like this, a welcome change from his usual physical frailty. Up ahead there was the entrance to a shrine of sorts and Eonthane paused, seeing movement. Not much, but it was there. He dropped into a crouch and edged along the ground, trying to get a better angle. Yes. Two figures, orcs by their build, huddled near a small fire. Another creature, a demon hound of some sort, not too far away and keeping watch. There was corruption in this place.

He'd have to silence the watch if he were to get any further into the place. Thankfully for him, this was not a problem.

There were ways of fighting the cold and the addiction. Eonthane had found his long ago, when he had first killed the Wretched and found no remorse in the act, despite what it meant for him and his kind. Turn suffering into suffering and find the release there that he craved.

He rose to his feet and broke into a run, hoping to be on them before they noticed. The hound had just turned its deformed head in his direction when he dropped the first spell, unleashing a bolt of shadow into the mind of the first orc. He put no finesse to it, just released his frustration and hatred and gave it a physical feeling, throwing the agony of his struggles with the arcane addiction into the mind of another. The orc reeled from it. He cast quickly then, invoking the word of pain on one, then the other, then the hound. On the first orc he put another spell, a connection to the body of the creature that linked the two together. He could taste its pain now, as the curse sent spasms of feeling coursing through its nervous system, like some delicious brew that renewed him even as the creature suffered and felt its life being drained away.

It caused no physical damage. But it was pain, pure and simple, running along the body and confusing the mind with its signals. Enough of it and the creature would die, the mind unable to take the agony and finally succumbing as the brain shut down and the tortured creature's death-cry broke off. He'd seen it countless times before and he drank it in, feeling it soothe his soul and take the bite of the addiction away.

It was the one relief he'd found and he would use it. It was a razor-fine line he walked, controlling the addiction with the pain of others, striving to retain what little compassion and mercy he had left so that he did not become a monster in the doing so.

The three had closed in on him and he raised his hand, invoking his shield, and their blows struck the magical barrier instead of his own body. He'd have to finish at least one fast, else they would break the shield and he could not stand up for long if their weapons touched his own skin. He concentrated on the one with the connection, a bolt of bluish light lancing out and striking it in the chest, pouring forth Eonthane's power into the orc, ripping at the mind with sounds and thoughts that were not its own. For a brief moment Eonthane felt the terror, felt the vision going dark around the edges as the mind reeled under such an attack, stumbled, and fought away the nether. He shuddered and smiled, giving in to the satisfaction this gave him. Then the orc gasped and fell, the connection broke, and Eonthane was left with a lingering taste of despair, that last moment when realization of death came.

Teeth clamped into his leg and a wooden stave was slammed into his shoulder. He cried out in pain and staggered back, jabbing at the hound with the butt of his staff. The word for a shield was on his lips again and he felt the weakness in his body force it away, unable to dredge up the strength to cast such a spell.

"You will suffer tenfold," Eonthane hissed, his green eyes focusing on the orc, for that was a sentient mind and could understand fear and hate.

He summoned the shadow magic to him, ignoring the blows from the orc and the hound that tore his skin, bruised his body, until the blast was gathered to the forefront of his mind and ready to be unleashed against his attacker.

Blood vessels burst in the orc's brain, collapsing the support system to the mind, and it fell with blood streaming out of its ears and nose, sightless eyes rolled up to the sky so that almost no pupil showed.

Now he could cast the shield spell. And the hound, nearly mindless, tore at the magical barrier while Eonthane calmly took control of himself. He'd kill this one quickly. He'd had his sport, now it was time to do what he had been asked to.

The tauren watched the elf approach. He rode slowly, no longer bothering to hold the cloak so tight around him as he had before. She watched in curiosity as he dismounted and walked up to her. His eyes seemed emptier than they had before and she peered at him for a moment, unable to see if he was injured or not underneath his cloak. His cheeks seemed more wan now and when he spoke it was cold and carried a trace of disgust in it.

"There is corruption there," he said, "It runs deep. There are demons there, and followers of demons. I saw a moonwell as well, tainted like the waters in this place are tainted. Is that what you wished to know?"

"Yes, thank you," she replied softly, still searching his face for a sign of what she heard in his voice, "We are grateful for your aid."

He merely shrugged. She paused, wanting to say something more.

"The taint in this place," she began, "is difficult to bear…"

"I care nothing about that." He cut her off and looked aside as he did. Why such disgust in his voice? "The demon-followers will be burying their dead. I slew those I came across."

And he turned to go. That was all. She watched him as he left, mounting his hawkstrider and turning it north again, no doubt to find where Bloodvenom Post resided. Silently, she sent a prayer to the Earthmother. There had been anguish in his eyes – she had seen it. If not for the forest, if not for those he'd killed, than for whom?


	3. The Lightbringer

The symbol stank of fel magic, so badly that Eonthane could barely touch it. Most times, he was loathe to embrace the Shadowform because of the raw arcane power it brought with it… a sweet seduction… but this time he gathered it to himself willingly, relief coursing through his veins alongside the ice of shadow as the burn of the mark was numbed. He could still feel, but it was somewhere outside his body and he could listen to the thrum of shadow in his heart instead of its foul whisperings in his hand. He wondered what had driven the elf, Mehlar, to such hatred. Yes, he had heard the tale. He knew what had destroyed his precious city and brought so much suffering to his people. But he had been a bit too young to fully comprehend it, not until much later when he came of age and the pain of the addiction started gnawing at his bones. Then he began to hate but it was directed elsewhere.

Still. It was a simple enough task and he needed something to take his mind off of recent events. Defiling a simple tomb… who would care? The place was dead and rotten anyway and what use did anyone have for a simple symbol, even for one as revered as the paladin Uther Lightbringer? Doubtless Eonthane would find it already defiled by the walking dead that roamed the place.

The path leading up to the tomb was surprisingly clear. Eonthane reined his hawkstrider in, a sudden curiosity warning him to approach carefully. There had been plenty of ghouls outside. He walked up the path, his staff in one hand, the tainted mark in the other, and saw light streaming down upon the statue of a human, hammer raised in the air. The place felt holy and Eonthane stopped in mid-step, suddenly disquieted.

He'd turned his back on holy. He had. The priest felt his shadowform waver and he steeled himself. There was someone up ahead, another priest by the looks of it. Female. Very well, she stood in his way. She'd suffer and die and he'd accomplish his task. Stain the ground of this holy place with unholy death and then defile it with the mark he carried and be gone.

Neither spoke as the fight began. There was really no need to. Her light was as loathsome to him as his innate shadow was… and each sensed the other's intent, unspoken in the air between them. Eonthane let his hatred loose, all that hatred he'd bottled up since learning to use his talents, since tasting the first hints of madness that would come if he ever gave up his inner fight, and unleashed it upon the woman. He saw her eyes go wide in pain as the blast struck, as her nerves coursed pain through to her mind, sourceless agony that had no reason or explanation. She'd die without a mark on her.

And in turn, holy light lanced through Eonthane and each time it did it felt like a searing upon his soul, opening up old wounds he'd tried to hide.

His remaining family in Silvermoon.

The girl Dalaran apprentice he'd tortured and left on their doorstep for revenge and his own enjoyment…

The things he said to his guildmates.

The few times he'd helped them.

All the bitter failures and broken promises and that pendant that lay hidden under the thick cloth of his tunic.

And all this he gathered to the forefront of his mind, reeling under the assault of the holy magic, and slammed it into the woman's mind. Forced her to experience what he had, wrapped in a packet of shadow. The blood vessels of her mind burst before she had time to comprehend the images she saw before her eyes, of the lean elf with the drawn face and haunted eyes, and then she fell before him, staff clattering to the cobblestones and the thinnest trickle of blood escaping her lips. She exhaled once but that was only the body letting go of the soul, for her mind was destroyed. Eonthane stood there for a moment, heart pounding and the delicious taste of shadow in his mouth. He'd hurt her… she felt what he did before she died… and taken it to the grave with her. It was relief enough for his own holy-torn body.

He gathered himself up and stepped over her body, walking up to where radiant light spilled out over the statue. Hesitated. Then he stepped inside and felt and overwhelming aura come across him. The Shadowform slipped away, almost unnoticed, and the taint of the defiled mark he held in his hand returned to him, reminding him of the task he had come to do. But for a long moment he gazed up at the stature, wondering what kind of fool this Uther had been. Followed a path of Light and now look. A forgotten tomb in a land corrupted beyond hope. Eonthane raised the symbol and released the magic contained within it.

The light dimmed and was replaced with a dark veil of fel shadow. Eonthane smiled thinly to himself. There. The task was accomplished. Everything failed in the end. Promises would be broken, vows neglected, and even that which was revered and holy would fail and be no more. He could go now and leave this no-longer holy place and it would trouble his mind no more.

But there was another source of holy still… and in horror, the blood elf backed away as a spirit manifested, a hammer in one hand, a book in the other. He hovered over the ground, as substantial as he'd need to be surely, to strike down the one who had dared to defile the tomb. A stern face, lined with the cares of duty and eyes sharp and bright and very, very dangerous that gazed down into the elf's own.

"Why do you do this?" Uther spoke, his voice seeming to resound in Eonthane's mind, "Did I somehow wrong you in life?"

And Eonthane, frozen to the spot, could only sink to his knees before the spirit. Uther Lightbringer. He could feel the spirit's gaze piercing even the sanctity of his own mind… searching. For reasons. There were many of them and Eonthane could only tremble as Uther gently shoved each aside. He could have torn Eonthane's mind apart. The elf had done as much to many, many others. But the touch was gentle and Eonthane shivered, each reason being examined and reminding him of what he was and why he did what he did. Uther knew then. And he would surely kill Eonthane for what he was. The elf shut his eyes.

"Ah, I see it now in your mind." He'd reached the heart of the reason. "This is the work of one of my former students… It is sad to know that his heart has turned so dark."

The presence withdrew. There was a quiet sadness in Uther's eyes, weariness, and a complete lack of hatred for either the one that had sent Eonthane there or the elf that had dared such a vile act. For an elf that had nothing but contempt for all that the Light and Uther stood for.

The next words were almost lost in Eonthane's numbed mind. Forgive him, Uther said. That he forgave his old student. Then the spirit vanished and the unholy magic was purged, washing the tomb once more in blinding holiness. Eonthane crept forwards; the spent token discarded, and carefully put one hand against the cold stone of the tomb itself. Drew a deep, unsteady breath. He'd faced death many times before, been beaten and left for dead at the laughter of the Alliance races, and had willingly thrown himself into reckless situations, not caring of the results. He'd expended all his hate and pain at the addiction that plagued him and never, not once, had anyone seen into Eonthane's mind like this one had. And each time Eonthane killed to appease that gnawing hunger, to expend his own burning soul, he'd felt that bitter aftertaste of an empty victory.

When had it last been since he'd seen only forgiveness in return? Had he ever?

Eonthane did one last thing before he left. Although his arms were weak and his body frail, he gathered up the slain priestess and carried her to the base of the tomb. Her soul had fled too far for him to call it back… but it felt fitting like this. And at least here, bathed in holy radiance, the ghouls of the Scourge could not touch her lifeless form. Then the elf returned to where his hawkstrider waited and mounted up, kicking his heels into it with a vengeance, and did not look back.

Mehlar's words were harsh at Eonthane's report. He left much out; save for that Uther forgave him. And when the elf yelled for the priest to be gone from his sight, Eonthane obligingly turned and did so, feeling disgust well up inside him. Forgiveness. Not many got a second chance like that. He didn't understand how such hatred could be forgiven so easily. And how someone would not accept that opportunity. But Eonthane knew all too well what stubbornness a person could have and so he only turned the reins of his hawkstrider away and left the Bulwark behind.

It would be much harder to leave behind what had happened at the tomb itself.


	4. Traitors

((our guild had a short skirmish with a rival guild, during which Eonthane was captured. This is from that time. A bit of explanation: Nastin is the guild leader, paladin, who constantly tries to keep Eonthane from doing something evil. Uja was a traitor to the guild.))

When the first of what would doubtless be many more blows landed Eonthane reminded himself that in some way, he deserved it. He'd chosen this path. He'd purposely antagonized Uja and when he saw the troll's allies closing in he'd chosen not to run through sheer stubborn pride. And the knowledge that there was very little they could do that would actually hurt him. All his fears and pains had been locked away, kept in a dark recess of his mind where he held sway and it would take a very powerful priest to unlock those secrets. Physical pain was nothing. Besides, in some way, he deserved it.

Still. He rolled onto his side, trying to shield the more vulnerable parts of his body from their blows. They'd come at him as a group and although he had dropped spell after spell on them they only retreated, healed, and come at him again. His power was not limitless… and in his haste to see them suffer – damn them all, he would see them suffer! – he had overdrew on his shadow power and leeched off his own life in the process. This was his doing. He heard their laughter dimly, like the baying of the jackals they were, and then Uja's voice. Something.

Agony flooded his body in a sudden burst and he screamed, unwilling, and jerked against the pain that held him captive. It only grew worse and he felt blackness taint the edges of his vision. He fell silent, forced himself to focus on his breathing. In. Out. Slowly. Sweat trickled down his forehead, cold sweat from exhaustion and suffering. Even here, in the hot sun, feeling his own blood slide along his garments, he was cold.

"Dere," the troll leered, "Not talkin' now, 'thane?"

Uja ripped the sword free and Eonthane convulsed again, no longer pinioned like an animal by the weapon. The movement brought a fresh wave of dizziness and he clung to consciousness by sheer will alone. He'd survived worse than this. He knew this could be endured… he'd done worse to others. Closing his eyes he saw their faces, contorted in agony as he stood over them and debated on the best moment to release them from their suffering, that sick feeling in his stomach fighting against the sense of relief it gave him to transfer his own addiction to another in the form of his shadow-tainted magic. He deserved this, surely.

They were talking about taking him somewhere. Eonthane forced himself to focus, trying to clear his vision. An island. They had the mage open a portal and someone grabbed the hem of his robe – that Forsaken wench. The grip was firm but there was a tenderness to it, as if she didn't want to break a favorite toy. He recognized the gesture and silently swore to himself that when he was free – when the situation was different – she'd receive no gentleness in how he exacted his revenge. There was cruelty on so many levels and when this one died by his hand it would be by brutality alone.

The place they brought him was a roughly furnished room with a number of bunks. They drug him along on the ground and he cursed at them. The pain meant nothing. He could heal it. What mattered was that they suffered in some way. That they remembered he had hurt them and would do so again the instant they let their guard down. He'd repay them.

"Do what you will, traitor," Eonthane hissed between his labored breathing, "I'll repay this. Word for word."

And then the Forsaken whore cracked the back of his skull and the blackness that threatened at the edge of his vision consumed him.

The banks of the river again. The forest. Somewhere in the distance the city he loved and hated, the city he had grown up in. And across the bank the twisted bodies of the Wretched. Dead without a mark on them. The dream was always in the same place, the same scenario, but it had slowly changed as time went on. At first it had just been replaying the events… then it shifted. He had sat on the bank and listened to their screams as shadow lanced through their nerves, an unending agony that brought wonderment to his mind as he realized that this could be a way of fighting the addiction… by forcing others to feel it. By making it go away. Then it had shifted again, replaying the events, forcing him to watch and remember.

That these Wretched were so indistinguishable from what they were before they fell that the bodies of his own family could be over on that side of the bank, dead by his own hand. And he'd felt something like a watchful gaze over him but each time he'd turned around it had been gone, just evading his eyesight, and for the first time in many years he had felt sickened by what lay on the other side of the bank. This had been after encountering the spirit of Uther Lightbringer and the Naaru and the betrayal of the Scryers… when everything had started to crumble around him.

Then there was the dream after he'd delved into Nastin's mind and held the demonic fire at bay long enough to allow the paladin to heal himself. Some part of Nastin's holy magic had bled off into him as well and Eonthane had dreamed he had not made it to the other side of the bank, that he was in the river, drowning, and the only thing that kept him from being swept away in the tide was someone's grip on his arm. Calloused, strong hands, that refused to let go even as the cold of his shadowform sent tendrils of ice around their fingers. He did not know whom it was that held on.

Now he dreamed of a landscape soaked with blood and as he looked he realized it was his own. The Wretched were not dead. The stalked the bank, hissing. No. That wasn't how it had happened. He tried to stand and found he was unable to, too weak. Far too weak. His magic deserted him and here he was, standing in a pool of his own blood. And as he watched, the Wretched paused in their stalking and he saw their faces flicker and become familiar. Father. Mother. And somewhere in this blood-soaked forest, a place he had once called home, something beckoned him. Begged him. And it burned like fire and he hid his face from the presence, just as he had fallen in fear of the Lightbringer's radiance…

He woke. His robes were gone, along with every scrap of enchanted armor he owned. His rings. His bags. Only his rough vest and pants were left to him. The bed he lay on stank of dried blood and he was afraid to move, lest the wounds reopen and bleed. There was magic in his veins again, just a little bit, and he considered using it. But the voices were too close and he didn't have enough to heal and protect himself. They'd notice and just redo the damage already there.

Besides, wasn't this repayment in some form? Did the forces of Light really have mercy for something like him, or just saw that justice was done in the end?

"-why isn't he tied?"

He recognized the voice. The brute Irogrim. Then a hand roughly wrapped in his hair and pulled him down to the ground. Eonthane stared up at the orc, measuring him. Brutal. Intimidating. He knew this type well.

"Orc," Eonthane hissed, "Doesn't shamanism require some wits of some kind? Or have the spirits made an exception for your charming personality?"

There. The orc roared for him to be silent, spitting his race at him like a curse, and struck him across the jaw. Eonthane spat up blood while Irogrim yelled at his followers for not having the smarts to tie him up. There was a hand in his hair again. That Forsaken bitch again.

They drug him to a chair and bound his hands behind him. And Irogrim, true to his brutal fashion, marked him. Punctured his ear like one would a prized cattle and left a brand on his foot. The pain was little compared to what he'd already suffered but it was the meaning of the act – the symbolism – that mattered. And he swore he'd repay them for it.

After that Eonthane swam from consciousness to darkness, that small strand of fear that had always accompanied him weaving in and out of his thoughts. That delicate balance was going to be destroyed. They'd break him eventually, get him to talk and betray his friends. That one anchor he had that kept him from slipping into depravity would be gone.

Mentally, the priest started calculating up what pieces of information he could give them to buy time before he had to betray the entirety of the Remnants. What games he could use to turn their methods against them. For he had to buy time as he knew without a doubt that if it came to it he would rather see the Remnants betrayed then himself broken and useless.

Whatever hand it was that held him against the river's tide would just have to let go. Eonthane didn't have the strength to fight the pull anymore.

The memories came and went. They used cold against him and he finally admitted defeat, whispered that he could just let go of his ties to life if he cared to… and the Forsaken girl untied him long enough for him to heal himself. He called up the holy magic and for the first time it seared his veins. In the past he had always felt it burn, the holy radiance of it fighting with his contested soul. Now, it felt like liquid fire and the sudden impact of it took his breath away. He was easy to tie up again, even though his wounds had been closed.

Time passed. No one bothered to question him. And then he heard Uja.

"Come to hit me some more?" he asked, staring at the wall, "Traitorous dog. Your new friends suit you well."

But there was no reply from the troll. Instead, a voice said his name, and Eonthane twisted in surprised. Nastin stood there, a strange expression on his face and behind him was the pompous Lokyate, holding Uja in a deathgrip around the neck. Someone else he didn't recognize. The troll reeked of fear. And Eonthane had never seen Nastin so dangerously quiet.

'No' was what he wanted to say. 'No, you're not the one that's supposed to do this to others. That's me.' But somewhere along the way a line had been crossed.

Eonthane requested that Nastin leave for a few moments and let him face Uja. There was a debt to be repaid. His wounded leg and his wounded pride. And so Nastin turned and left without a word and Eonthane's anger turned to the troll. He wasn't supposed to leave! He was supposed to stay, to tell the priest to control his violent streak and let the troll be! But no. So Eonthane released his anger onto the troll's mind, wrapping tendrils of shadow into the nerves that wracked them with agony. And though Uja screamed Eonthane's actions were almost automatic, his procedure like a puppet rather than himself performing it. Shadow pain. Healing to keep him conscious. Shadow again. Until he grew tired and the sickness in his stomach grew too much. He wanted to go outside and vomit, then lie there and sleep until the world around him changed and all this had been wiped away by time…

Instead Nastin reappeared and Eonthane tore the nail that had been used to puncture his ear out and threw it on the ground. Summoned the holy magic to heal the wound and felt fire ripple through him again. The last thing he did was to destroy the corner they had kept him bound in, more to hide his own disquiet than anything else.

Everything seemed to be slipping out of his grasp. He could barely stand to look at Uja and the reception from the Remnants was as cold as he had expected. How could it be otherwise? Eonthane knew in his heart he would have betrayed them and so their mistrust and hatred was only justified.

All this, he deserved.

Something had to change. The wire had been broken at some point and that careful balance he'd established was gone. He could help destroy the Jackals, rip Uja's mind apart for what he wanted to know, and pay back each and every one of them for what they'd done. He could become something monstrous then, reveling in the pain of those he despised and that sick feeling in his stomach would be gone. The holy magic would burn even worse than it did now. Or…

He wondered whose hand it was that gripped his wrist in his dreams. The water was so dark and the current so fast. He feared it. So he went without sleep, laying awake until exhaustion finally carried him away into dreamless oblivion. He turned in his bed, reaching for a pendant that wasn't there and that he had not yet gathered up the strength to ask for. Molinu had it.

Thalassian words. Heal. Give. Renew. Protect.

A mockery that he carried just to remind himself of how he had failed that path. The balance was quickly dying. The Remnants no longer anchored him against himself. Something would have to change, quickly, before Eonthane lost himself to his addiction and the way he had chosen to combat it.

But what sort of Light could save him from his own doings?

((I never wrote a follow-up to this: perhaps I should. But what finally happened after Eonthane's rescue is that Uja was captured and tried for what he'd done and the only reason he was not killed was because Eonthane refused to speak against Uja for his treachery and torture. Which surprised everyone. It was great. But Eonthane didn't want to see Nastin or anyone else in the guild be like him so he threw away the grudge. Eventually Irogrim is killed and I'm not sure who is in control of the guild now.))


	5. Turning Point 1

((At this point of our guild roleplay I was getting sick of Eonthane being so cruel all the time and decided to force a turning point. Unfortunately, things didn't turn out like I planned and things only got worse for Eonthane... we're hoping to remedy that. Because a lot of our guild members were unaware of what was happening behind the scenes I wrote this up to give some insight into Eonthane. The prep for this is that Eonthane is arrested by the Silvermoon authorities.))

The man was his mirror image in many ways. The reddish-brown hair, the angular face that lent a feminine appearance to his expression. In figure, they were very alike. It was easy to tell they were brothers. Eonthane was the slighter of the two, shorter and scrawnier, as if worn thin as paper by too much exposure to a harsh wind. But standing opposite each other, both flanked by Silvermoon guards, there was not much resemblance beyond the physical.

"Akedas," Eonthane said softly, inclining his head in respect. He said nothing else. It didn't need to be said.

Why have you done this? Why send the guards you are allowed to order to come for me? Why betray your own brother into this situation?

Eonthane knew the answers. They were there, written on his brother's familiar features.

Akedas's eyes were harder than last Eonthane had remembered. He knew the look. In the past his older brother had always seemed worried, the cares of bearing the broken household of sa'Lara putting his face into grim lines of concern. He remembered that same concern when Eonthane knelt before the priests of Silvermoon and swore the oaths, when Akedas presented him with a token to remind him, always, of his new calling.

The pendant was under his robes. Renew, Protect, Give, Heal. And he had made a mockery of it. Perhaps that was why his brother regarded him as he did now, with a caged, dangerous look. Haunted. Akedas knew what it was he was going to do and how much suffering it would cause. It was tearing him apart and so he had grown cold, distant, and was mentally reminding himself of his loyalties, that this was the black sheep of his family, that Eonthane had brought it upon himself. That Eonthane DESERVED it. And Eonthane only looked up, tilting his head up just enough so that their eyes met, and smiled.

Let them do what they must. He was no stranger to pain and he knew that any suffering inflicted on him would only wound his brother that much more. Let Akedas suffer under guilt… and when he was damaged enough, then… then Eonthane would give them what they wanted.

"Your loyalty is to the Remnants of Honor, is it not?" Akedas asked, his tone detached and impartial. There was another Magister in the room, presumably overseeing the interrogation in case Akedas could not bring himself to harm his own brother.

"My loyalty is to myself," Eonthane replied, "Apparently yours is to Silvermoon. Did you suggest that I be brought in, blood of mine?"

"You only answer what we ask," Akedas said and gestured.

It was a signal to the guards that stood over Eonthane. One drove the hilt of his sword into Eonthane's sternum and the priest collapsed, unable to breath. He knelt there, trembling, trying to hold onto the pain for all it was worth. It focused his mind. Let Akedas see him suffering. For a brief instant his eyes flickered upwards to his brother's face. Yes. There it was… that cold, impartial look. He knew it very well.

"There are many reasons we have brought you in," Akedas said, "Your disloyalty to the family is not one of them for Silvermoon does not concern itself with internal affairs of blood. Turning your back on the priesthood is not one either, for they only teach and it is up to others as to what you do with those powers."

He paused for a moment.

"And what you have done is the reason you are here."

A half-truth. Eonthane stood, slowly, watching the guards warily to see if they were going to knock him to his knees again but they remained put, waiting for orders. So Eonthane pushed back his hair and again looked his brother in the face. Oh, it did matter that he had turned his back on his family and the priesthood. Perhaps if he were an obedient and loyal sa'Lara he wouldn't have been suggested for this. They would have taken another.

They did not consider his murders a crime. Not the ones against the Alliance… those were acts of war. But Eonthane knew what was in his heart when he killed them. It was murder. And only he knew about the one in the Ghostlands, when he'd first tasted what wild intoxication it was to take another life, to listen to the breath shudder out of someone in their last agonizing moments. He suspected they might overlook that one as well, for this went beyond just whom he had killed and why.

"No," Eonthane whispered, "You voiced my name because I gave up on redeeming the family name. Nevermind that our sisters have done little to help, with our dear youngest hiding with the rangers and pretending our parents will return home… nevermind you, I, and anyone else could have killed them as the Wretched are indistinguishable from each other… you voiced my name because you have finally realized there is no hope and wish to redeem us in another way. So you give me up for sacrifice."

"Enough." The other Magister stepped forwards. "Your insolence will not be tolerated here, Eonthane sa'Lara, even if it is kin that you address. You stand before the Magisters of Silvermoon for your association with the Scryers and the knowledge you hold about the Outlands and the activities of the Remnants of Honor. We give you one chance to cooperate – after that we will take what we wish to know by force."

And for a moment Eonthane saw a pleading look in his brother's eyes, as if he were on the verge of speaking. Silently begging him to cooperate. Sacrifice himself for his family. And Eonthane closed his eyes and remembered that time on the bank… with the Wretched dead on the other side and the realization that there was no hope, that his parents were truly lost, and that this was a foolish game he played. That the priesthood offered no hope.

He remembered how the holy light burned in his veins like fire now, so lost to the shadow he was. Nastin could not save him. Silently, he let go of whatever it was that was holding him so close to the surface of the river and let the tide carry him away into the depths.

"No," Eonthane said, "You'll only have what you want by force. I do not doubt I will tell you everything you wish to know but it will take some effort."

The Magister glanced between the two brothers, a bemused look on his face. He smiled softly.

"You subject yourself to this to spite Magister Akedas?"

And Eonthane laughed softly and finally Akedas had to look away. The overseeing Magister only shrugged.

"Have it your way. Guards, remove him of his robes and any other magically imbued armor he may have on him. I shall summon the priests…"

The elf walked past him as the guards seized his shoulders and yanked the ornate cloth off to hang loose at the belt around his waist.

"You aren't the only one to study shadow, Eonthane," he said, "There is no reason to subject yourself to this."

"Reason enough," the elf replied quietly, his gaze still fixed on his brother, who still could not meet his eyes.

If he had not been given to them by Akedas he would have nothing to hold him back. Let them know everything he did about the Remnants, about the Scryers, about their leader Nastin's own loyalties and weaknesses. They were trying to protect their precious city and their precious illusion and Eonthane knew he would be a fool to fight against that. The Remnants could be betrayed.

But this was a matter of blood now, and Eonthane would see that his brother's hands were sullied before it was over. So as the guards threw his robes aside like trash and bound his arms behind him, forcing him to kneel in the middle of a runic circle that dominated the room; Eonthane smiled.


	6. Turning Point 2

They gave him a reprieve from the pain simply to keep him conscious. As much as Eonthane prided himself on his resolution he had reached his limit and was sliding into the embrace of darkness. He knew, dimly, that he had screamed from the sheer agony of the spells, but had not broken to them. He knew them all. When it became apparent that the fear of mental assaults was not going to affect him they used physical violence, and this too, Eonthane was used to.

He would last long enough to make his brother suffer.

But he was drawing too close to the brink. He felt cold inside, his body numb to the tiles of the floor, heated only by the small tendrils of blood that laced his torso where the guards had beaten him. He knew his limits and apparently, so did his brother, for he could hear Akedas talking quietly with the other Magister off to the side, even over the voice of the man that was in charge of interrogating him. He had no name and no title – at least – none that would be given to Eonthane. But he knelt above the priest, quietly asking something that Eonthane would not focus on. He wanted to hear what his brother was saying.

"You're treading the line of treason already, priest!" the man hissed, suddenly grabbing hold of Eonthane's long hair and forcing his head up.

His head swam at the movement. The room went dim around the edges and he struggled, weakly, but the man's hand held him fast and his attention on his brother was broken and brought right back to where his interrogator wanted it. Those questions.

"We'll not hold back much longer," he said in a whisper so that only Eonthane would hear, "Your brother's name won't protect you. Since you care nothing for your own self-preservation I'll gladly order the priests under my command to rip open your mind even if it kills you."

"Not the best way to get answers," Eonthane replied. He knew the method. Taking control of one's body was one thing – taking control of their thoughts was another thing. Risky and unstable.

"I'll have something for my efforts." The man smiled. "And you'll die. Isn't that what you want?"

Eonthane was silent for a moment and the man let go and let the priest's head slump back on the tiles. Eonthane exhaled slowly and waited for the spinning on his head to stop. He was too weak to allow them to continue with their torture. Perhaps he was ready to die. It hadn't been much of a life anyway, and Akedas's hands would be forever stained because of it.

But there was a quiet nagging in his soul… wondering… what would happen if he chose to live? If that fine line was broken and he succumbed to the shadow he had embraced long ago? What then? He weakly turned to regard his brother and Akedas glanced over, met his gaze for a moment, and then quickly turned away.

Eonthane rolled onto his side, gasping with pain at the effort, and struggled to kneel. His interrogator noticed the movement and returned to his side, waiting for Eonthane to bring himself to one knee on his own, making no move to help or hinder. For a moment the priest knelt there, panting, cursing his own physical frailties that had reduced him to such a pathetic state.

"The Scryers have yet to trust me much," he said and coughed, finding it hard to breath. The man gave orders for water to be brought and Eonthane accepted it before continuing. "I can't speak much on their activities for I remain an outsider. They are engaged with petty squabbling against the Aldor-"

"We know this already," the man interrupted, "The Remnants. Any of them have close ties?"

"I-I think Raineigh… Camia… many of the others have chosen the Aldor, even Nastin, our leader."

"We know of Nastin. Tell us of their actions, then."

"There is one… Molinu, an orc of Durotar, loyal to Thrall, who has mentioned missions against the mana forges in Netherstorm. A joint operation between the Aldor and the Scryers, although a reluctant alliance as I understand."

"Is Molinu high up among the ranks of the Remnants?"

"An officer, yes."

"How loyal to Thrall?"

And it clicked. They weren't really investigating the actions of the Scryers but rather of the Remnants. Trying to decide if they were a danger or not. Of course they would be concerned about anyone who had been to Outlands. Someone with the right knowledge and the right voice with the right people could be devastating to the alliance between the Blood Elves and the rest of the Horde. That the elves still followed a hostile leader? It was a delicate illusion they were holding and Eonthane was certain that it was not for the benefit of the other faction leaders. Thrall was not stupid, nor were the others. They had to know by now. It was Silvermoon they were trying to protect… Silvermoon they were trying to hide what had become of their Prince from…

His beloved city.

"Just Thrall. Very much so. An absolute idiot when it comes to the Sin'dorei. He is a close friend of the shaman Warraven from Mulgore, who seems to hold little in the way of traditional loyalties and remains silent at most things…"

The man turned and nodded at the two Magisters.

"You aren't needed, Magister Akedas. I think your brother understands what it is we desire to know."

And Eonthane watched his brother leave, the cold in his heart only deepening. Akedas had been there when he had taken the oaths to the priesthood. He had not been there when he'd turned his back on them. He didn't understand, just as he hadn't understood as their parents fell deeper and deeper into madness, finally being driven from the city to join the ranks of the Wretched. His youngest sister had never been the same since that day…

There was a soft prodding at the corner of his consciousness. A priestly spell. Eonthane ducked his head and focused on it, recognizing it as the same he used against others. He quietly accepted it, allowing the spell to simply bypass his normal defenses and take hold on his mind. He felt the priest's intrusion into his mind keenly, a remote puppeteer that held all the strings and was completely obscured from his own senses. It was hard to keep the screaming panic at feeling so vulnerable down and his interrogator must have sense Eonthane's fear for he started speaking again, drawing his attention away from the spell.

"He'll do nothing more than-"

"Ensure I am telling you everything, yes, I know this," Eonthane interrupted. He too had learned much from the priesthood. "Then let's make it fast because I don't like his presence in my head."

"Fair enough. The other officers then… if you will."

And with as much detail as he could muster Eonthane betrayed the Remnants, one by one, listing their allegiance, their weaknesses, and any possible threats they might pose to the security of the illusion that lay over Silvermoon.

Somehow, it failed to bother him. This information was very valuable and could be used to tear the guild apart, piece by piece, but there was nothing that compelled him to refrain and keep it to himself. He would accept death, yes, and take these secrets with him and he had indeed considered it.

But there were things he wanted to see. He remembered the moment at Uther's tomb and quietly and willingly betrayed those that had done nothing against him and wondered if there would be forgiveness.

The torture he had endured simply to punish Akedas for his actions. His betrayal he would endure to see if he was right and there were depths from which a person could never be redeemed.


	7. Turning Point 3

They let him rest, cold and alone, guarded by impassive Silvermoon guards who knew their orders and did not care anything about what happened to a lone priest. And Eonthane slept, exhausted, and was troubled by his dreams once again. The river again, as always, only it was dark and he drifted near the bottom of it, feeling like he was being washed out to sea in a murky tide of thick liquid that wasn't fluid enough to be water… he saw the faces of those he'd killed, of the paladin he'd murdered in Tranquillien, and woke with a scream.

It dissolved into a hacking cough, for his interrogator had woken him by a sharp kick to the ribs. The priest doubled over, feeling some of his wounds open again and swam on the edge of consciousness, wondering how long he could keep this up. But did he have a choice? Would they give him one? Of course not.

"Raineigh and Natalyia," he said simply, "Go over everything you know about them again."

What was this? Eonthane struggled to stand but was quickly knocked back to his knees by a well-aimed blow.

"Stay where you are, dog," the man snapped, "Two of our guards are dead. Tell us about the Forsaken beast."

"De-dead?"

The interrogator's lips twisted into a thin smile.

"They were sent by your leader to find you, apparently. Magister Akedas did not appreciate their harassment, especially at so late an hour, and so called for the guards to have them removed. Apparently your… Remnants of Honor… cannot handle diplomatic releations without the use of violence. And if that's how your guild works then that's how they shall be treated."

No. No. They didn't do this. Eonthane groaned and clutched at his head, his long hair a tangled mess. He had to think but it was difficult – he had to think. For their sakes. What did he know of the two? Rain, he knew much, but Natalyia, not as much. He could use that to his advantage perhaps.

He focused on what he had been given. The hurt, the misery… and used it hone his mind. It was a trick he had learned, drawing from the suffering of others, and now he would use it to focus his own. Give him a chance to think and possibly feed this man some lies.

"Natalyia… is unstable," he finally said, "A Forsaken warlock… what do you expect? I'm amazed Nastin sent her, but he has never been known for his good judgment, only for his overwhelming sense of trust for others."

The man wouldn't give him anything. He'd have to guess. Raineigh knew better. She had a sharp tongue on her and so did Akedas but she would not be the one start a fight. Not at all.

"Raineigh can be controlled – easily," Eonthane finally said, "I've done much the same."

The interrogator's expression changed from hostility to curiosity and allowed Eonthane to continue with a slight nod.

"She is prone to the arcane addiction – I have mentioned this before. I have threatened her with it, used it to control her as I wished… keep her silent about some things… and I could easily do the same again. Just give her to me as a spy and I'll be able to get her to do anything you want."

"She will be our spy," the interrogator corrected, "We do not trust you either, Eonthane."

The priest's lips narrowed. Well, it was something. He could still work with this.

"And the Forsaken?"

"Unstable. But Raineigh wishes to protect everyone and that too can be used. If you kill her, Raineigh and I have far too much to answer to. Better to silence her, keep her magic – which she cannot control – bound and under control. Raineigh holds the same delusions as Nastin and will do anything to protect her friend, even one that hast lost her sanity beyond the point of redemption."

The interrogator studied Eonthane for a moment. It was hard not to tremble. That was a lie. He knew little of Natalyia… but the Sin'dorei knew of Eonthane's past. They would use that.

"And she wishes to protect you."

Eonthane nodded slightly. The man stood and smiled broadly, looking down at Eonthane like one would a favored dog. Eonthane felt the hate twist in his gut and he breathed slowly. He could not touch the shadow magic here – the room was warded – but he longed for it keenly. It burned for him.

Then he was left alone again, to wait, to wonder, and to know that there were two more lives he'd destroyed. Willingly, yes, but what unnerved him the most was that this time he had done it out of desperation, in an attempt to save him. He had lied about Natalyia. And he felt very cold, knowing that some line had been crossed and that there would be consequences beyond just what he had done.

The priests were methodical in their ways. The guards bound Natalyia so that she could not fight back. They traced the rune in blood against her skin, cold-eyed and uncaring, and invoked the arcane arts. It wrapped around her voice, around her magic, binding her to silence. It was a simple shadow spell, one that Eonthane knew well. He had cast it many times, a crude burst meant only to interrupt for a few seconds. This was more elaborate, more permanent, and fueled by Silvermoon's elite.

They did not question. What must be done must be done and the integrity of the city was first and foremost.

They were just as cold and uncaring with Raineigh. Again, the guards held her and the rune was drawn in blood. There was a small hesitation from those performing the spell, a quiet sense of unease, for all felt keenly what it was they were about to. Another priestly spell, meant to drain the victim of their mana until none was left… only prolonged over the space of a month. It was a cruel spell and briefly they wondered what this girl had done to deserve such a thing. But again, they did not question.

"Natalyia has been silenced," Akedas told Eonthane, who sat up against the wall, feeling keenly his injuries. He had not been allowed to heal himself, nor had anyone given him any relief, "She will not speak of what has happened. In turn she will be used as a means of keeping Raineigh silent – if the girl speaks of any of this the Forsaken will die. I'm sure you know we have our methods."

"I do," Eonthane replied, "Our dear sister employs them."

Akedas's lip's tightened. Here it was again.

"You were supposed to be better than this."

"Oh, I know," the priest replied, "I was going to redeem our name. A pity it didn't work out that way. I suppose you're still bitter that your own magic is only half-rate and the only person with true talent among our household rejected carrying on the family line… our elder sister will not marry… our younger will marry into someone else's household because everyone abandoned us when our parent's left… whose fault was that? I recall the eldest being the head-"

His brother struck him then. For a moment Eonthane could only gasp, his fingers up against the split lip and feeling the blood that trickled forth.

"You're a disgrace," Akedas said tightly, "Yes, I had hoped that you would somehow redeem our family line. Restore it to what it once was. Instead, you leave Silvermoon and squander your talents on the Remnants. You're nothing but a traitor and a murderer."

Eonthane found the strength to stand. He faced his brother, his eyes burning.

"The Remnants was more of a home than you ever provided, dear brother," he hissed, "You have driven us all away, one by one. I'm not surprised you resort to force, when you know everything is slipping away and no one – not even your own kin – will help you. May the sa'Lara name rot."

Akedas took a step back. Glanced at the guards and then back at Eonthane.

"I do not wish to listen to him any longer," he said casually, "See to it the priest learns proper respect when addressing a Magister. That is all."

And he turned to leave as the guards closed in, Eonthane pressed against the wall, feeling the cold stone against his back and the tightening of his lungs in anticipation.

Nothing would ever be the same.


	8. Turning Point 4

In some ways, he should not have been surprised. Wasn't this what he deserved, after all? Wasn't this what he was, all along? He knew Nastin was avoiding him. Prolonging the decision. That only affirmed what it would be and so Eonthane quietly made his preparations to leave. There were things he had to be done… and this time there was little that would hold him back.

Just the holy magic in his veins. He hissed as there mere thought of it sent agony coursing through his blood. He wasn't sure if it was the remnants of what had been done to him by the Silvermoon priests or if it was his own doing, drawing off of shadow for so long, but either way, it felt like the last line he had. Keeping him from drowning. Well, whatever had been holding him back was gone.

His hands trembled slightly as he packed his things. He'd leave his notes behind and hope Raineigh took his advice and submitted to the Silvermoon authorities. She had little choice and he knew he'd revel in killing her. That was what he'd been trying to avoid all this time, that feeling of exultation. He'd managed it, somewhat, but deep down Eonthane knew that he'd finally succumbed.

Before the Remnants… he swallowed hard. There had been a paladin, injured, in Tranquillien. No one had been around. And he'd asked for help and Eonthane had instead felt his pain, felt it so keenly, and felt the pain of his own addiction. And quietly, without a sound, he'd ripped the elf's mind apart where there was no one to hear him scream.

The first of many deaths by his hand. And he reveled in their suffering. That was before the Remnants.

Eonthane took a deep breath to steady himself. He had the holy magic now, burning in him like fire, and that might be a reminder to keep that part of his personality under check. He was vulnerable to the addiction as well and vulnerable to his own addiction that he used to supplant the arcane one. And part of him keenly remembered how it had felt, picking at the nerves and fibers of Raineigh's mind, feeling the power that came from forcing her to reveal to him the location of her notes.

She was a traitor as well. Eonthane frowned and shut his backpack. Worse yet, he wasn't sure if she was a watchdog or a victim like himself. He knew they wouldn't trust him. It was only his brother… and his sisters that was keeping him in check. And the threat of what they had done to Raineigh.

He didn't know what threat had been given to Raineigh. But no doubt they were watching each other. He certainly was, but for entirely different reasons. He smiled, remembering the notes he'd burned. He'd be their watchdog. But he'd betray them in the end.

Eonthane could not help but think of Uther's Tomb as Nastin asked for him to leave. It was a place he had visited often, a place he had gone when he had finally forsaken the shadow. That had been painful, made even more so by the knowledge that there were no heroes left int his world. That even Nastin would not forgive… and now he was right. Nastin would not forgive this. Part of Eonthane wanted to beg forgiveness, tell him he had no choice, that they had won out… but no. He wanted to see if there was someone – anyone – in this world capable of such a thing. Apparently not. So he picked up his staff and left the hall, a quiet resolve on his soul. Let Raineigh do as she will. He would kill her, quickly if he could, when she succumbed. The others were no longer his concern.

Two days passed. It was time for him to report to his brother, as had been the agreement. He would watch Raineigh and some of the more 'dangerous' members of the Remnants. It wasn't so much as they were a threat but Silvermoon wanted to know his loyalties. Well, he would show them. Eonthane took a deep breath and paused outside the door of his brother's house in Silvermoon.

It was warded. Eonthane smiled softly, knocked, and his older brother answered and silently let him in. There were refreshments laid out and Eonthane settled himself, putting his staff by the door and arranging his robes.

"I'm glad we can sort this mess out," Akedas said, sitting opposite his brother, "This will go a long way towards redeeming the sa'Lara name."

"That's what this is all about, isn't it?" Eonthane asked softly. Beneath the table, he gently caressed a knife.

"Partly. You understand our situation… but Silvermoon is concerned. I only did what I could to help. I wish you had been more understanding."

His brother frowned severely. Eonthane returned the glance with a faint smile.

"I see you have your house warded," Eonthane said mildly, "You're getting paranoid. But of course, you always were only a second-rate mage, shamed by your brother who has squandered his power."

Akedas turned aside quickly at the jab, his frown deepening. Eonthane laughed and stood, the knife hidden in the folds of his robe.

He had much to settle and nothing holding him back anymore.

"It's a shame, really," Eonthane continued, "Our sister has devised her own methods of surviving and they will not benefit our family. Our younger sister is hiding with the rangers and will someday marry outside of our household. That leaves you and I to continue the family heritage, no? A pity."

"You've taken steps," Akedas said stiffly, "Although reluctant you finally did acquiesce. I hope you continue to cooperate. Now, do you have the report I asked?"

His heart fluttered. This was the line. He remembered the pendant his brother had given him, when he'd first taken the oaths as a rpiest. Things had been different then… they'd hoped they could save their parents. Keep them from descending into madness. And he'd failed. Eonthane had failed and realized as his household crumbled around him that no one kept promises, even if they had the best of intentions.

The broken house of sa'Lara.

"It was wise of you to ward your house," Eonthane whispered, "I burned Raineigh's report and I have none to give you myself."

Akedas took a step backwards, surprised, and then a grim mask settled across his face.

"I'll have no choice but to-"

"Hand me over to the authorities to be tortured again? Because that went so well last time."

And Akedas stumbled, at a loss. There. He'd been hit where it hurt the most, because despite his grab for power, Akedas did want to see his household prosper. Even Eonthane.

The priest took two steps, holding up the pendant that was given to him. Renew, Protect, Heal, Give. Akedas's eyes flickered to it, dim recognition in his eyes. He did not see the knife until it was too late.

The Magister gasped and doubled over and Eonthane gasped too, the weight of his dying brother suddenly falling on his arms. He was not very strong. He quickly slipped the dagger free of the lungs and stabbed again, aiming for the other one so that they'd quickly fill with blood and Akedas would drown in it within seconds. Then his brother slumped at his feet, trying to speak, to say anything, but his mouth was filled with his own blood. Eonthane dropped the knife, breathing hard, and held his brother up by the back of his robe. There was blood on his pendant.

"You may have warded this house against magic," Eonthane panted, "But I've been practicing. Just for you, dear brother. Let our house remain broken… it's better this way."

And he let go of his brother, who died as he hit the floor, and became what he feared and hated the most. No one meant anything to him anymore, not even his own family.


End file.
