Love Letters
“My rose,” Lor’themar’s silken, molten-chocolate voice rumbles from the aether to fill the room entire, and Rommath’s back stiffens, eyes wide with a deep flush blossoming swiftly across his cheeks and ears, which press back close to his head.
He has miscalculated. Badly.[Rommath/Lor'themar Theron, NSFW, AO3, Ko-fi]
When that midnight fugue hits and you write a whole fic on a whim on your phone and then have to face your deeds and actions the next day but actually it’s not that bad? Yeah.
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The message appears on Rommath’s desk sometime around noon, while he is doing his due diligence stretching his legs briefly before returning to his office and his paperwork. A tray carrying a light luncheon has been placed on the small table beside his massive mahogany desk – a piece inherited from his predecessor, Belo’vir, that has room for a truly despair-inducing amount of papers – and tucked between the bowl of cut up fruits and the glass of white wine rests a scroll carrying the seal of the Regent Lord’s office.
Rommath pops half a grape in his mouth with an eye roll. It can’t be urgent if he hasn’t been summoned back to the Spire, and it hasn’t arrived through the normal, official means: that is, dragonhawk courier to Sun’s Reach by the docks, delivered by someone ready to take a reply back. An official correspondence between the Grand Magister’s office in the rebuilt Magister’s Terrace on Quel’danas and that of the Regent Lord in Sunfury Spire, back in Silvermoon.
This scroll almost certainly is little more than Lor’themar attempting to alleviate his boredom while Thalyssra is in Suramar, and Liadrin and Halduron both are gone on their own different assignments, thus leaving him all on his lonesome. Child of a man that he can be, he seems to have decided to bother Rommath instead of working.
thunder in our hearts
Dark and stormy nights on the Isle of Thunder then, and in Dalaran now. Aethas seeks refuge.
A brief trip to the past, then back to the now, because I miss the boys.
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The weather on the Isle of Thunder is, surprise surprise, absolute shit.
It’s never not raining, and if it comes down vertically, Aethas counts that as a decent day. It more often than not persists in coming down at an angle that on the really bad days borders on horizontal, and if he could, he would leave this Light forsaken rock behind and never look back.
“You are not expected to join us for this part, Archmage.”
Aethas hasn’t been able to figure out yet if it had been intended as a door closed in his face, or as a kind sentiment borne of pity, but either way he had bulled his way past it, insisting on coming. Just as he insists on staying.
I would have lost my life, were it not for Halduron