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princeofathousandswords:

She wants to think that he thinks of her, feels her absence like the gnawing hunger he has for violence, for death, for suffering. She wants to think that without her, he’ll be lost. What do you live for when you have nothing, no one to define your existence? Feiyn had felt that. ‘Feiyn live for herself,’ she told herself. But she hadn’t. She’d drifted, she’d fought in the trenches, fought hunkered down in the snow, safe— all the warmth she’d known was the heat put off from her gun, the last dregs of body heat being wicked away by the snow, by the howling wind that gnawed at her ears, her fingers, her toes—

She knows that he will not do any of that. The realization hurts, hurts more than she’d thought it would. He does not look at her in her weakness, in the tears racing down her visage. He is looking out towards the cave’s entrance, towards the grim sky, towards the outline of the Lich King’s citadel. It pierces the sky with spikes, bleeds grey and ice and mist and death into the sky. Turns it grey, perpetual grey— grey like the frosty sea here. Grey like dead flesh. Not so grey like the death knight next to her— she can see the hints of blue under his flesh, his blood, the magic that kept him alive in a sense.

She shivers and shudders, teeth clicking. Her face is cold. The tears betray her, make her face hurt as the moisture only serves to be something for the cold to latch onto. She stares out at this desolate place with Tevruden, her attention on the heavy snowfall which had stopped their progress. Retribution stamps his hooves in the snow, tosses his head. He waits, like they do. Something cold and metal brushes against her face and immediately Feiyn gives a start, frightened but she remains frozen, stock still as a gloved hand wipes at her face. The blood elf’s eyes study her face, his grim visage simply devoid of any real emotion. “Are you trying to freeze to death?” He asks her, but she’s not sure if he’s trying to joke or if he’s being serious. Cold metal scrapes away the moisture of her tears.

“Sorry Tev,” Feiyn croaks quietly. Congealed blood stains his armor, some on his face— they are both dotted with gore and blood from the undead they’d cleared out of this cave. He shrugs, a finger gliding down her cheek, sliding across her bottom lip.

He exhales hard, breath rolling out of his nose in an icy puff. Feiyn is unsure of what to do, unsure of his intentions. She eyes him warily, goggles settled around her neck. The elf leans towards her, hands cupping her face as he presses his lips against her own. He can feel her heartbeat through her flesh, can feel the warmth in her veins, the rushing of her blood— he presses his lips more insistently against her, growling softly and finally she responds in kind.

The snow storm only continues to rage outside, the wind wailing like the lost souls that had found their end here.

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