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In a different, not-so-distant time in his history, Renathal might have enjoyed, perhaps even instigated, such a rebellion; the challenge of outright revolt against the creator of the realm did hold a certain contumacious appeal. Read on Ao3 here.

“Sire Denathrius must be stopped.”

The Accuser’s grim pronouncement clattered off the dank stone walls of the Halls of Atonement’s inner sanctum, silencing the uneasy murmurs of the room’s other occupants and recalling their attention to its Harvester.

Until Renathal snorted.

A highly undignified sound, it undercut the Accuser’s echoes; and all the heads in the room, both venthyr and stoneborn, turned quickly to regard their Dark Prince. Regaled in full armor and formal coat, leaning noncommittally against a side wall of the nave, shoulder-to-shoulder with his expressionless mortal companion, he stared back at them in turn, appraising the nervously defiant faces of the rebellion he now knew beyond doubt existed: the Accuser, watching him askance; the Curator beside her, vacantly inspecting his mortal consort; their handful of trusted disciples, none of whom Renathal knew by name, interspersed with Venthyr from other districts - including Tenaval and Dehavia - and what Stoneborn could be persuaded to entertain sedition. General Draven and Chelra the Princeguard stood foremost among this small number, invited by the prince himself once he and his consort had determined to come.

No light decision, that. It had taken Renathal a week to work himself up to this meeting, and another for Elisewin to persuade him she ought to be allowed to attend as well. Every one of them stood to be punished, quite possibly destroyed, if Denathrius caught them here, and Renathal no longer harboured any vain hopes his Master considered him, or his mortal, special enough to spare.

“And how,” he asked, returning his gaze to the Accuser, bitter scepticism oozing from his words like anima from an open wound, “does one even begin developing a plan to stop the machinations of the creator of the realm?”

The Accuser tried a sardonic smile. It fit her pinched face oddly.

“That is why you are here, Prince Renathal.” She gave a little jerk of her head and torso; Renathal supposed this constituted her most deferential bow. “You are our resident expert on the Master. You have existed longest and know him best, and are our most likely avenue for discovering his weaknesses.”

“The Master has no weaknesses,” Renathal replied automatically.

But even as he said it, he thought of Denathrius’ new penchant for podal ambulation, his odd reluctance to use magic for even the smallest conveniences, and the continued absence of Remornia from her Master’s side. Could the Lord of Revendreth himself be feeling the realm’s current anima dearth?

As if reading his thoughts...

“Even the Master requires anima,” the Accuser declared triumphantly. “Regardless of how much he might be hoarding in Nathria, he does not have an endless supply. He will have to ration it carefully, even to himself, if he wishes it to last. We can use that against him. With enough of us together, we should be able to hold him at least, until we can contact Oribos for aid.”

“All ways to the Eternal City are closed,” Draven’s gravelly voice inserted. “To open one would take more anima than all of us have combined, even without the Master and his forces to contend with.”

“We do not need to open a way,” the Accuser insisted. “We only need to get a message across the In-Between. And the Master has methods of communicating with the Arbiter without ever leaving the realm. Does he not?”

She threw this last at Renathal, who thought he saw where she was going.

“A worthy idea,” he conceded, “but impossible to execute without the Master knowing.”

“Even for you?”

One of the Accuser’s thin, white eyebrows disappeared under her fringe. Which delicate aspersion on his abilities Renathal accepted with good grace.

“Even for me,” he admitted, dipping his head in acknowledged defeat. “Denathrius can sense anyone who enters his castle. Even I cannot hope to hide my presence from him there. To reach the room in question and remain there for enough time to make any sort of coherent explanation to the attendants in Oribos, let alone formulate a plan for their aid, without the Master interfering, would require -”

“A distraction.”

Again, the heads in the room turned as one, this time to stare at the prince’s lavender shadow. And Renathal, having already related her conversation with the Sire in its every humiliating detail, knew what they were thinking. He tucked an errant fold of one cuff more securely into its corresponding bracer.

“What if we went to Nathria? " Elisewin continued. "Just Renathal - the Prince, I mean - and I? That shouldn't arouse too much suspicion. Denathrius has probably been expecting it ever since the Countess’ court. I can seek him out in the castle, demand to know more, or - or something like that. And if I can distract him for long enough, Renathal can -"

“Absolutely not.”

The words were a reflex, and out of Renathal's mouth before he had time to prepare the rational supporting argument such a forceful objection would require. Aware of Elisewin’s startled blink and the narrowing of the Accuser’s flinty eyes, he cleared his throat and concluded:

"That is unlikely to work. And perhaps," - on a desperate whim, he voiced the hope that had tortured and teased him since Denathrius’ cryptic confession - "unnecessary, after all. Perhaps, the Master's behaviour is not as nefarious as we think. Perhaps, he is keeping anima for... some other purpose."

It sounded unconvincing even to Renathal's own ears, and he was unsurprised by the susurrating sea of dissent that followed. The Accuser alone of the would-be rebels, however, was willing to challenge the prince outright.

“Even if his scheme were only to hoard anima for himself and a few hand-chosen nobles, it is still corruption and a smirch on Revendreth’s purpose.” She took a step towards Renathal, arms rigid and fingers twitching against her skirts. “But you know it is deeper than that, Renathal. You know something is happening. You can blind yourself to it no longer. The time has come for the Harvester of Dominion to decide whose side he is on.”

Apart from the echo of the Accuser’s brazen ultimatum, the shrouded nave was still and silent for the first time since the seditious rabble had arrived. A stark contrast to Renathal’s mind, in which a clamorous battle raged: conviction versus caution; the demands of his eternal duties against his new instincts and, admittedly, selfish desires.

At last, glaring down his nose at the other Harvester, he declared, “I am on Revendreth’s side. As ever." And, even without his medallion, the words rang with a surety to subdue all doubt.

“Very well, then.” The Accuser’s shoulders relaxed the merest degree as she nodded the group’s collective approval. “We shall hear no more fruitless arguments over the Master’s motives and return to developing a plan. The mortal’s idea is a good one.” Her eyes swept over Elisewin, as if assessing whether her fragile-looking flesh were up to the task, then gave another curt nod. “And if she is willing to help us, I believe she should be given the chance.”

“I am willing,” said Elisewin at once. “I want to help, if I can.”

Renathal’s claw-like nails gouged furious crescents into the skin of his palms.

The next hour was devoted to details – the specifics of Elisewin’s subterfuge, the plea the prince was to make to Oribos should it succeed, where the rest of the rebellion’s forces should wait, and for how long, before attempting a rescue. The Accuser and Elisewin seemed to take it in inadvertent turns to throw respectively shrewd and furtive glances at Renathal throughout. He ignored them. He knew he ought to be contributing, but he stayed conspicuously silent; and remained so even after the assembly dispersed and he and his consort clambered back into his carriage. As far as he was concerned, the meeting could not have gone worse had the Master himself arrived and sentenced them all to an epoch in the Ember Ward.

In a different, not-so-distant time in his history, Renathal mused as his carriage trundled across Penance Bridge, he might have enjoyed, even instigated, such a rebellion; the challenge of outright revolt against the creator of the realm did hold a certain contumacious appeal. Now, however, the thought of pitting himself against his Master inspired a wary dread. And not only because of the beating his effortless deception had inflicted on Renathal’s self-confidence...

His eyes flicked to Elisewin, her smooth, lavender face watching him placidly from the bench opposite, and his stomach clenched. He had never had so much to lose.

"Chin up, your Highness," she said, a teasing lilt to her words. "It really is a decent plan."

Renathal drummed his fingers restlessly against his armored leg.

"It is hardly a plan at all,” he scoffed. “It is a risky gamble, at best."

“No more risk than sitting back and doing nothing while we wait for Denathrius to finally act, or the last of the anima to dry up. Besides…” Elisewin smiled – a sideways smile, all sparkling blue-white eyes and blunt mortal teeth. "Since when is the Dark Prince of Revendreth afraid of a little risk?”

“It is not the risk to myself that concerns me, but to you,” he retorted, claw-like fingernails catching harshly on his tasset’s gold edge. “Should this plan, such as it is, go sour, you will be alone and unprotected. And you can barely hold a rapier. Your chances of defending yourself against even one of the castle’s guards are slim to none, not to speak of the Sire.”

If any of this bitter criticism affected her, Elisewin hid it deftly. She did not blink, or move at all except to sway in time with the carriage, now careening through the Chalice district’s deadly curves.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “There’s no need for it to come to a fight. Apparently,” - she pulled a wry face - “I make a very good distraction.”

“Elisewin.”

There was a note of pain, almost anguish, in the warning way Renathal said her name. Unintentional; and he would have been mortified at the raw vulnerability of it had Elisewin not immediately dropped all attempts at humour, slid to the edge of her seat, reached across the aisle and taken his face in both her hands.

“Renathal,” she said, and infused his own name with a warmth as tangible as the heat from her mortal skin. “Something has to be done about Denathrius. You know it does. And I know you. No matter what you might wish, you will never be able to let this go. Worrying about it will eat you alive. Figuratively speaking.” She wrinkled her nose at the careless metaphor, then hurried on. “You are right to be cautious, but our best chance of success against someone as powerful as he is lies in strategy, and proper use of available resources. Myself included.”

“You are not a resource to be used,” Renathal growled into Elisewin’s face, turning her cheekbones that pretty, heated violet. But she still managed to hold his eyes as she replied, “Am I a friend to be trusted?” and when he could offer no argument to that, continued, “Let me help you, then. Let’s do this together.”

There was something in her voice… a supreme, unbroachable confidence… familiar, though Renathal could not remember hearing it from Elisewin before. And the mélange of feeling it ignited in his chest was familiar as well. Hope. Determination. That electric thrill he associated with battle. Anima effervesced in his veins, vibrating his limbs, urging him to action.

“Well… I suppose,” he admitted, “despite the inarguable danger, executing such a deception under the Master’s nose does sound like a good bit of fun.”

And Elisewin's laugh, her exultant, "That's the spirit, your Highness," and the awkward kiss she planted on his lips despite a sudden jolt of the carriage, drowned out the worries still whispering at the back of Renathal's mind.

"You are to be careful, however," he ordered sternly as she pulled away and resettled herself more safely in her seat. "Assiduously so."

"Of course," Elisewin agreed.

"Very well, then." Renathal indulged in one final dramatic sigh, then peered through the carriage’s narrow slit of a window at the rapidly approaching castle. "Shall we review the plan one last time?"

Its beginning was flawless.

They entered Nathria by the side door from the Bridge of Paramountcy – obvious and unsuspicious, but not so ostentatious as the formal front gate – and set off through the candle-lit labyrinth of staircases and halls, Renathal leading the way. He was aware of the eyes of servants and stoneborn guards on them as they passed; observing their movements, then slipping off through hidden doors to report them to the Sire. All according to plan.

He and Elisewin exchanged only innocuous pleasantries – commentary on various paintings, complaints about the steepness of the stairs – until they reached their destination: the Master’s private library; where Renathal began at once perusing the shelves, pulling down a curated selection of dusty volumes, then arranging himself at a desk with them before requesting, in a casual but carrying voice, his mortal charge visit the kitchens and fetch him tea.

Elisewin’s eye contact was fractionally longer than necessary, her answering, “Of course, your Highness,” a breath too polite. Allowing himself only the briefest parting glance at the back of her scarlet tunic as she disappeared around a corner, Renathal offered a silent prayer to the Purpose that she proved better at distraction than she did at subterfuge, and settled in to wait.

Ten minutes. That was how long they agreed he was to give her before slipping from the library and making his way to Denathrius’ chambers above. Hardly enough time for Elisewin to actually find the Master in the cavernous castle, as would be her story to him or any who challenged her, but plenty long enough for him to find her - the lynchpin on which their whole plan hinged.

And where it collapsed.

Having no timepiece, and the Sire being far less whimsical than his Firstborn when it came to décor, Renathal was relying on instinct alone to judge when ten minutes had passed. He stared sightlessly at the open tome in front of him on the desk and set up a careful count in his head. But he had not made it to sixty even once before -

“Renathal.”

- a rich, resonant, and unexpected baritone almost toppled him from the chair.

“What are you doing?”

Denathrius' voice echoed from somewhere behind him; neither curious nor accusing, but unusually flat, as though reciting lines. Alarm bells clanged in Renathal’s head. Wresting control of his suddenly leaden limbs, he slid from the wooden chair and pushed it under the desk, then turned slowly to face his Master - looming in the library's arched entryway, every regal inch of him preternaturally still.

“My humblest apologies, Sire, I did not hear you arrive,” Renathal began, buying himself time with a bow and a few meticulous adjustments of his coat. He, too, had a story prepared should his presence in the library be questioned, but it would require some ad-libbed additions; the Sire should not have been his audience. “I - that is, we; Elisewin and I - stopped by on a bit of a lark. She has expressed an interest in discovering more about her people - the Shal’Dorei, I believe you once called them? - and I thought such information might indeed prove useful in furthering her atonement. I would have asked your thoughts on the matter, of course, but as you are so busy of late, I preferred not to bother you. It is, after all, of little real importance.”

Renathal paused, wondering if he ought to add more, but a glance at Denathrius convinced him there was no point prattling on. The Master’s face was stern; that carved-in-stone expression Renathal knew only too well hid a brewing storm of anger, and out from which no one, not even the Dark Prince, could talk their way.

But, “Come,” was all the Master said before he turned on his booted hoof and strode away; out of the library and down the adjoining passage, his long pale hair and slashed cape catching the wind of his demanding pace. Not once did he look back to check if Renathal followed – though of course he did, tripping quickly in his Master’s brisk wake. Thoughts of escape, of wending himself into the shadows and summoning the rebellion’s waiting reinforcements, drifted feebly through his mind, but he dismissed them. Elisewin was still somewhere in the castle; mercifully not on the receiving end of the Master’s ire, but one misstep on his part and he knew how quickly that could change. Besides, it was no mean feat extricating his will from the Master’s command. The very fabric of his being tugged at Renathal to obey.

Neither spoke again until they had walked - walked; something Renathal noted significantly and which heartened him even through his writhing nerves - seven flights of stairs and countless halls, finally emerging onto the Master’s rooftop garden. Denathrius crossed this as swiftly, and manually, as he had the rest of the way. His gold and scarlet boots stopped at the very edge of the terrace, and he bent his head to stare through the wisps of blue-grey mist separating the roof from the ground many hundreds of miles below.

Renathal approached more cautiously, wondering if it was the Master’s intention to throw him off. The twilight air around him was thick and foreboding; and sickly-sweet, courtesy of the garden’s indigo flowers whipping about as if caught in some invisible breeze. Revendreth, it seemed, was as uneasy as its prince at their creator’s ominous mood.

“Renathal,” Denathrius said at last, in the same flat voice as before, "you occupy a precarious position.”

He let the words settle between them. Renathal glanced around the terrace.

“I suppose it is rather high,” he said, reckless in his confusion.

But the Master was in no mood for humour. He rotated his neck to stare down at his Firstborn, cowing him with his mere expression, then returned his severe gaze to the courtyard before commanding, "Observe.”

Renathal took another step, stopping at the shallow iron lip that served the roof as balustrade, and, heart pounding superfluously, peered over Nathria’s side. Far, far below, just discernible through the thin mist, three figures emerged from the front gate: two winged stoneborn enforcers half-leading, half-dragging one smaller, slighter being. The sheen of her lavender skin was recognisable even from this height, as were the bared blades the stoneborn clutched in their free hands, and Renathal's heart stopped affecting any beat at all.

“Sire,” he began, voice unexpectedly hoarse, “what are they-”

But Denathrius interrupted him.

“You have a choice before you, Renathal.” And he held out both elegant hands as if to illustrate; lifting one and regarding the upturned palm with solemn reproach. “You may persist in this ridiculous notion that I am somehow capable of corruption and continue down the inevitable path to which such heresy leads..."- the hand clenched into a fist - “...destruction. For you, and all you consider your own. Or…”

Denathrius turned, facing Renathal directly for the first time, and extended his other, open hand.

“You may choose eternity as I have given it to you - complete with every gift and privilege. Because make no mistake, Renathal: every good thing you imagine you possess comes directly from me.”

He paused, allowing the words to hang meaningfully in the heavy, perfumed air, before continuing, his voice more customarily orotund,“There is nothing in this world that is truly your own. Nor have you earned any of it by your own merit. And if you continue to make these poor, poor decisions - prove yourself unworthy of my gifts…” Denathrius glanced pointedly down at the minuscule figures in the courtyard, “I would find myself in the regrettable but necessary position of... taking them away.” He met Renathal’s gaze again and held it; and whatever pretty words he chose, there was no mistaking the glitter of glee behind the sanguine threat.

And with a sudden icy pain in his gut, like the stab of an unseen blade, the Dark Prince of Revendreth believed.

Denathrius was playing with him - with all of Revendreth - and always had been. Every soul in the realm was merely a toy for their Sire’s eternal amusement. All Renathal's half-harboured hopes that this was a mistake, a test perhaps, that his Master had some hidden but justifiable plan, that he might even be impressed by his firstborn's dedication to duty, disintegrated in an instant. He opened his mouth to speak, but could think of no words. He was utterly frozen, from his hair to his boots; impaled to the spot by horror and impotent rage.

Red eyes still lingering on Renathal, Denathrius stretched a hand over the edge of the terrace and gave a careless wave. Renathal's stomach dropped - but the stoneborn below only released Elisewin's arms and sheathed their weapons, granite faces upturned to their Master.

"She is waiting for you, Renathal," said Denathrius, voice silky with condescension. "Go to her. Enjoy her. Enjoy the world I have remade."

An odd choice of words, Renathal noted distantly, but he did not question it. Or any other of his Master’s now-indisputably treacherous deeds. Acting on instinct, or their creator's orders, his legs sprinted him back across the rustling rooftop garden without waiting for input from his shambolic brain. He took the stairs - and the hall beyond, and every floor between him and his unprotected lover - at the same frenzied pace, and did not stop even after he had crossed the castle’s threshold and saw her waiting for him, lavender silhouette standing out starkly against the shrouded twilight.

At the sound of frantic bootsteps, Elisewin turned, and her almost comically enormous blink would have amused Renathal any other time. Now, he felt only relief; and even that, muted - there was little room left in the maelstrom of his mind to register additional feeling. Elisewin opened her mouth to speak as Renathal reached her. A minute shake of his head, like the cocking of a crossbow, killed the words on her tongue. In similarly stiff, silent fashion, he gripped her arm and urged her forward, away from the leering spectre of Nathria and, he was certain, the distantly watching Sire.

They sped through the vast courtyard, Renathal ignoring the curious looks of perambulating nobles and the confusion wafting off his companion in waves; the protests of his legs as he forced them up yet another massive staircase and the familiar shadows of Draven and Chelra swooping low in search of the prince’s signal or report. He gave them neither. His amber eyes were fixed on the growing promise of Darkwall Tower, and he did not speak, did not breathe, did not think again until he had reached it, wrenched the doors open, threw himself and Elisewin inside, and slammed them shut - safe, at last, behind his home's protective wards.

Only… they were not safe, were they?

Renathal dropped abrupt anchor in the middle of his torchlit foyer as he realised, with another eviscerating pain, there was nowhere safe to go. First, his affair with Elisewin; now, his meeting with the rebellion - Denathrius knew everything, and almost as soon as it happened. There truly were no secrets from the Sire.

All the purposeful energy that had carried Renathal from the castle dissipated, leaving a dull, indecisive fog in its wake. Breakfist and his dredger underlings clustered at their master's knees, awaiting commands. But the Dark Prince could only stand, arms limp at his sides, for once, entirely lost for what to do.

It was Elisewin who saved him.

“Breakfist, take your Master’s coat,” said her voice near his ear. Renathal felt the garment in question slipped from his shoulders and firm hands usher him forward. “And have a tray of tea prepared and brought up to his bedchamber,” she continued, moving with him, “then, go and find Chelra and … no, don’t send someone else. You won’t have to go far. I expect she and the General are waiting just outside. Tell them … do not argue. Tell them it didn’t work and we will regroup at a later time. Quick as you like, now.”

The ghost of a joyless smile flitted past Renathal’s lips as Elisewin led him up the tower's winding staircase. She really had become quite free with orders; was surprisingly well suited to them. Her voice brimmed with the same, supreme self-confidence he remembered from their earlier carriage ride - could it really be mere hours ago? - that made unpalatable, even impossible tasks feel effortless. Her hands could do it, too. They coaxed his aching legs up the final steps, down the hall, and into the flickering red candlelight of his bedroom, stopped him by his valet stand and guided his limbs through the removal of his armor, all without uttering a word.

Renathal consented readily. His brain was numb; his body ached as badly as if Denathrius had thrown him from Nathria’s roof. For once, he was grateful to follow someone else’s lead; until, clad in his shirtsleeves and trousers, Elisewin eased him onto the crisply made bed. For one uncomfortable moment, he worried his lover would expect more of him than he could currently give. But she merely piled the silk satin pillows behind him and propped him against them, then toed off her shoes and sat opposite him, legs curled underneath her, hands clasped in her lap.

"What happened?" she finally asked.

The question was gentle; Elisewin's lavender face as she studied him appropriately bland. Nearly a foot of undisturbed coverlet lay between them and no part of their bodies touched, and yet… this felt more intimate to Renathal than many other more adventurous positions they had tried. It drew words from him without thinking.

"We had a ... conversation," he said, voice hoarse after his extended silence.

"You and the Arbiter?"

"Denathrius and I."

Elisewin blinked.

"Oh.”

A knock at the door broke the spell - a dredger servant with the ordered tea. Elisewin shot up, retrieved the laden tea tray, dismissed the dredger, then deposited the tray on the floor by the bed with a careless rattle. Less than a minute’s interruption, but enough time for Renathal to blink away some of his mind's dense fog. He had a choice before him, and only seconds to make it. Any hint of indecision, and Elisewin, resuming her seat, would undoubtedly see.

“What happened?” she repeated, more earnestly this time, her blue-white eyes wide and glowing with a tender concern that made up Renathal's mind.

“Nothing,” he decided. “I'm afraid we were… mistaken.” He paused, pushing back his windswept hair and inhaling superfluously as he cobbled together passable lines. “Denathrius has nothing to do with the drought, after all; beyond doing his best to meliorate the situation. He has deceived us, yes – a regrettable, but necessary position for rooting out where the corruption truly lies. There is nothing we can do. Nothing we need do – except… enjoy ourselves,” - his lips fumbled the Master’s words - “and await the Sire’s next command."

He lifted his gaze as he finished, gauging Elisewin’s reaction. She blinked - as was to be expected - but did not speak. Yet. Renathal braced what brittle mental fortitude the Master had left him for the interrogation that was surely seconds away.

After a minute of laden silence, however, Elisewin only edged closer, knees knocking against Renathal's as she reached for his hands. And it was another full minute of her fingers gliding softly across his tensed knuckles before she finally said, with a hint of wry humour, "You are remarkable at many things, your Highness, but you're a rotten liar."

Another time, Renathal would have taken mild offense - he considered himself quite a dab-hand at duplicity and deception when the situation called for such skills. But he was too exhausted to summon any indignance and too worn for more prevarications. He could only squeeze his eyes shut against Elisewin's watchful gaze and let her fingers work their magic on his hands. Her every touch imbued his cold skin with warm, tangible comfort, the sensation singing its now-familiar song through his anima-starved veins. And, with the third vicious stab of the day, this one leaving him light-headed and nauseous, Renathal realised just how close he had come to losing this - losing her - forever.

Something crumpled in his chest. Quite literally; though he was only aware he had actually collapsed into Elisewin’s lap when his forehead struck her hipbone. Rather hard, if the dull pain in his temple was any indication, but she neither flinched nor pulled away. Her arms closed around him; somehow, everywhere at once - stroking the cramped curve of his spine, his unruly hair, his own arms wound round her waist as if seeking to entangle himself inextricably with her.

“Renathal.” His name quivered on Elisewin’s lips, her rib-cage contracting erratically beneath his clinging hands. “Renathal, tell me what happened. Tell me what he said.”

It was more plea than command, with nothing behind it except what Renathal thought with absent curiousity might be the threat of tears, but he had no strength left to resist it anyway.

“He said…” He struggled for words to sum up everything the Master had said - and not said; the threat in his silence, the warning in his gaze - without having to relive the whole ignominious encounter. “He said ... if we continue to press this … if I continue to press him … he will take you from me...”

A short silence stretched. Renathal wondered if Elisewin had heard him, his voice muffled as it was against her thigh. Then - "Denathrius cannot take me from you," she declared with all her newly adopted self-confidence; both of which Renathal found so offensively ridiculous in this moment, he unwrapped his arms from her torso and pushed off her legs to stare up at her.

"Of course he can!" He struggled to a seat, a sudden renewed spark of anger lending him vigor and vehemence. "He is Denathrius! The Sire! The fangs of the Shadowlands, the Master of this realm! He can do anything here - whatever he pleases, wrong or right. He has powers mortals cannot fathom - powers even I have never dreamed.”

“Why doesn’t he use them, then?” Elisewin asked, infuriatingly calm even inches from the Dark Prince's red-eyed glower. “Why is his realm a disaster? And if he knows about the rebellion, why hasn’t he punished us all already? Thrown us in cages, or the Ember Ward? Or just ended us entirely?”

All excellent questions, and they pulled the rug out from under Renathal’s vitalising surge of rage. Without it to animate him, he sagged again, shoulders slumping against the buttress of pillows Elisewin had erected. She, herself, was there a heartbeat later, hands on his face and forehead pressed to his until her lavender skin and carefully even breaths were all Renathal could see or feel.

“Renathal, listen to me. I love you," she said. It was no lover’s soft reassurance, but a statement of inexorable fact. “I love... everything about you: your beliefs ... your - your dedication ... the way you see reality and your place in it. You are perfect, to me. Probably, you do have flaws, but I can't see them. My love blinds me to them. The same way it blinds you."

She leaned fractionally back on her heels, just enough to meet Renathal’s unblinking eyes. Her hands still held his face, but beneath the gentle comfort was a certain pragmatism; she was not going to let him look away.

"You see Denathrius," she went on, stark and forthright, "through the same lens I see you. You worship him. He is everything to you - good and bad. Even as you hate him, you adore him. But I - I am unburdened by either. I can see him for what he is: a master of lies and manipulation, yes, and certainly not on our side, but… not all powerful. At least, not anymore. Something has weakened him - the drought I suppose. And we can use that against him.”

Renathal shook his head, but threaded his fingers through Elisewin's so as not to dislodge her hands.

"He is merely biding his time," he argued hopelessly. "He does not consider us any real threat. Even at his weakest, he still has more power than all our rebellion combined. If we attempt an open revolt, we will lose. We will lose this." He squeezed her fingers for strength through the selfish admission. "I will lose you.”

“No. You won't," said Elisewin, and there was a surety in her words to give even the Dark Prince pause. “I am not a true penitent soul, am I? And I'm not Denathrius’ creation, to be offered up and snatched back at his whim. He cannot take me from you without force. And if it comes to that sort of fight... well...” she smiled - really, a wistful twist of her lips - and stroked Renathal’s sharp cheek, “that’s why we’re doing this together, remember? Whatever happens, happens to both of us. Destruction or victory.” She leaned into him again, as she finished, “Wherever I go, you are coming, too."

Her mouth, like the rest of her face, was pressed to Renathal's, but neither of them had the stamina to pursue any sort of kiss now. Elisewin's breath was ragged after her uncharacteristically impassioned speech, the harsh inhalations and exhalations fluttering his unruly goatee. And Renathal, drained by the truth in her words and what he desperately hoped would prove true, had no energy left for further fights or more expressive acts of affections. He simply sat, entwined with his lover, savouring each second as they slipped inexorably past, and wishing for a magic that would freeze them in this moment, bind them together forever...

Renathal straightened so suddenly his sharp cheekbone cracked against Elisewin's. This time she did wince, but he barely noticed. A thought had occurred to him that could not wait another of those fleeting seconds to be voiced.

“Soulbind with me.”

“What?” Elisewin asked, prodding gingerly at her face.

“Soulbind with me,” Renathal repeated, the words spilling fast and urgent. “There is a power in that ritual as ancient and timeless as the eternal ones themselves. A magic even Denathrius cannot undo, which is why he does not often permit it. With our souls bound together, he cannot separate us by any means, apart from ultimate destruction. And even that would be much harder to accomplish once you share my power.”

It took Elisewin, still rubbing her cheek, several heartbeats to process this information - her own, mortal heartbeats; Renathal’s redundant muscle dared not move. After what felt to his keyed nerves like an age, she dropped her hand from the new little violet bruise and sighed.

“I keep telling you he can’t, but… if it will make you feel better...”

“Is that a yes?” Renathal asked. "You are... saying yes?" and the hushed, vibrant awe in his voice seemed to alert Elisewin at last to the importance of the question. And the momentous significance of her answer.

Her blue-white eyes met his, their amber fiery with anticipation, and there was no hesitation in them as she repeated, “Yes, Renathal. I’m saying yes.”

Read Chapter 12: Rebels on the Road | Visit the Masterpost

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late-to-the-fandom · 7 months

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Elisewin was singular, but she did not - could not - understand. That Renathal had waited steadfastly for eternity and finally had everything he wanted. Read on Ao3 here.

“Ah! Renathal, there you are. Come in, come in.”

Renathal obeyed. Crossing the empty, echoing space of Nathria’s almost spartan gallery, his Stoneborn escort keeping step beside him, the defiant nerves that had prickled under his skin throughout his journey to the castle were temporarily swallowed by surprise at the sight of the Sire holding court behind one of the room’s writing desks. Intended for Venthyr servants and scribes, the carved chair creaked piteously under Denathrius’ larger frame. He leaned back against it, regardless, stretching his unguligrade legs around the side, and, clearing his throat, recalled the attention of the room’s two additional guests.

The Tithelord and the Fearstalker.

They stood shoulder to shoulder before the desk like two dark-eyed, pale-haired twins, displaying all the same unlikely camaraderie they had at Renathal’s ill-fated court. At the Sire’s delicate reproof, their faces flicked from the Prince back to their Master, and even with everything else he had on his mind at the moment, Renathal could not help noting the unnerving uniformity of the motion.

“You have been given your instructions,” Denathrius was saying to the two Harvesters, a note of finality in his voice. “I will hear no more complaints. Sacrifices must be made for the greater good. Isn’t that right?”

He addressed the last to Renathal who stopped a few paces from the desk. Renathal’s eyes flicked from the two silent harvesters to their mutual Master, who lifted a sparkling, oversized wineglass to his lips as he waited for the Prince’s dutiful agreement. Several drops of liquid anima, crimson and precious, sloshed over the side, and Renathal’s indignance resurfaced in an uncontrollable wave.

“Of course, Sire,” he said, the nod he offered as trenchant as his tone. “Although, it does appear the onus of sacrifice has been placed on some more than others.”

Renathal allowed his gaze to linger on the overfilled glass. An arched eyebrow was the Master of the Realm’s only acknowledgement of his Firstborn’s gall.

“True,” Denathrius conceded, around another unrepentant sip. “Some may spare more, some may make do with less - that is equity. It is often mistaken for unfairness to those of an untrained eye.”

The subtle critique tipped Renathal’s unsteady distemper into righteous fury.

“Is that why you have called us here, then?” He flung an arm out to invoke his fellow Harvesters. “Have we more anima to spare for you? The Accuser’s stock of penitent souls dwindles. The Tithelord’s estate approaches starvation. Our medallions, our courts, our realm itself, are all shells of their former glory. But you,” and there was nothing in his furious gesticulation at Denathrius that could be misinterpreted as respect, “call us here to watch you sip from your own private stockpile and tell us we are to tighten our belts?”

The walls of the circular stone chamber seemed to vibrate with outrage and shock. Both the Tithelord and the Fearstalkers’ mouths hung open. The Stoneborn Enforcer’s tensed wings had gone slack. Renathal himself was taken aback at his own reckless daring. Any chance he had at persuading his Master to let him keep Elisewin hinged on the former’s good humour and mercy, unlikely to be engendered by public accusations. But Renathal’s better sense had fled with his fear. He did not feel disposed to grovel at Denathrius’ feet today. He wanted answers, no matter the cost.

Denathrius did not give them. Setting his glass down on the desktop with slow, excessive care, he turned his crimson gaze on the other uncharacteristically silent Harvesters instead.

“You are dismissed,” he said. “All of you,” he added, waving a hand at the Stoneborn, who gave Renathal a last grave look before turning on his heel and marching from the chamber, the Fearstalker and the Tithelord following submissively in his wake.

For a long, strained minute, there was nothing but the echo of footsteps as the three walked out of the gallery. Walked. Another anomaly. The Tithelord’s ornate robes trailed the ground behind him as he placed one foot in front of the other, considerably more manual labour than to which he could usually be convinced to stoop. And he had uttered not a word in his own defense or rebuttal of the Prince's diatribe. Most unlike him. But Renathal had no time to do more than note this mysterious humility before-

“Sit down, Renathal,” Denathrius commanded, gesturing to the chair on the other side of the desk.

And Renathal, instinctively, sat.

Anima thumped an unliving heartbeat in his ears as he fixed his eyes and thoughts back on his Master; anticipating likely responses, calculating potential next moves. But Denathrius continued to surprise him. His burdened chair creaked loudly as he sat up straighter in it, interlacing his fingers on the desktop and facing his Firstborn squarely, as if reporting to an equal.

“Despite what you may think, I have been working diligently towards a solution to Revendreth’s many problems,” said Denathrius, adopting his most brisk and business-like tone. “I have been speaking with the Harvesters in turn - you arrived at the end of one such meeting - making enquiries into the anima situation. Allotments, conservation, and so forth. And you were correct -” He gave his Firstborn a nod; likely intended as conciliatory, though the unexpected motion made Renathal flinch. “Not everyone has been doing their part. I have discovered much to be concerned about, many of my plans hindered and my rules flouted. But I assure you…”

Denathrius leaned across the desk, the hunch of his massive armoured shoulders blotting out the red torch light.

“Reprimands will be issued and the necessary adjustments, enforced.”

The fear fury had held at bay abruptly returned, sharp and cold as ice as it slid down Renathal’s spine. He swallowed, trying to summon up another good head of anger, but all he could manage was a terse resignation as he asked, “Am I here to be reprimanded, then?”

Denathrius laughed. A short, loud bark of affected mirth that made Renathal jump gracelessly in his chair.

“No, Renathal! You are doing a marvellousjob already. I heard all about your little party from the Countess-” Renathal’s heart stopped beating, “ -so sorry I could not attend. Work before pleasure, you understand. But I was told it was the very picture of conservation. No, anima was not what I called you here to discuss.”

He paused, took another lazy sip of wine and wiped his lips fastidiously before posing the question of Renathal’s proverbial nightmares:

“How is my mortal guest getting on?”

But it was not really a question. Denathrius knew. It was in the gleam of his eyes, the quirk of his lips, the tap of his fingernails against the wine glass like another jarring, staccato laugh. The only uncertainty was how Renathal should answer. Elisewin’s atonement - the reason she was in Revendreth in the first place - was something he had given almost no thought to since her arrival at Darkwall Tower; and, as far as Renathal could tell - and notwithstanding certain advancements in her interactions with him - she remained exactly the same as when she arrived. Quietly proud and overconfident, surprisingly accommodating and uncommonly thoughtful, openly critical and inquisitive, insatiable and demanding, attentive and beautiful, and-

Tugging the rein of his thoughts hastily away from anything his Master would smell as sin, Renathal rallied as much of his former reproachful dignity as he could and cleared his throat.

“We have made… significant progress,” he began, which was certainly not a lie. “On the whole, I have found her to be industrious, compliant, and responsive to commands. Usually,” he added, an idea suddenly occurring to him. “However, there remains room for a great deal more improvement. I believe I could accomplish much with her, given additional time.”

Denathrius’ chuckle was deeper, now, less choreographed, and underpinned with genuine amusement. But - “Well done, Renathal,” was all he said. “I am glad to see your methods are working. I thought they might. The Countess told me how… attached to you the mortal appeared. Would you agree with that assessment?”

“Well, I… that is to say - she…”

Renathal’s tongue stuck like a wheel in a dredger pool. His brain raced furiously, but could form no vague non-answer, no ready misdirect. And the seconds of silence that crept by were far too long to fool the Sire.

“Renathal,” he said simply, leaning forward again and trapping his Firstborn in his all-seeing gaze. “I created you. You cannot hide your thoughts - or your deeds - from me.”

There were no other cards to play. Renathal’s only recourse was to throw himself on his Master's volatile mercy. He swallowed hard, but his voice still sounded hoarse when he finally managed to speak.

“You… you did instruct that I should… trust my instinct.”

Denathrius leaned back again in his protesting chair, apparently satisfied. There was a triumph in the curl of his lips, the flick of his tongue across his exposed fangs.

“I did, indeed,” he replied, still genial; no hint of disappointment or disapproval or cold, punitive rage. “And by all accounts, it has had the desired effect. You have bent the mortal to your will by the methods she best responds to, just as I expected. No mean feat. And I certainly did not summon you here to claim your prize.”

Every one of Renathal’s inner workings, necessary or otherwise, ceased.

“Master?”

The word was a prayer. That he had not misheard. That he had not misunderstood.

And Denathrius answered.

“Renathal,” he said, all pragmaticism once more, heaving himself to his hooves and pushing back his exhausted chair. “I fear in times past I have underestimated and, yes, underappreciated you. I will do so no longer. From now on, whatever you need to complete your eternal duties - be it anima, power, or… private companionship - you shall have.”

The smile the Sire flashed Renathal had more in common with a sneer, but he hid it quickly behind his lifted glass. Tossing back his head, pale hair fluttering over his horns and diadem, he downed the last of his wine and replaced the glass with a clatter, then skirted the desk to where Renathal sat, pale and motionless as a caged soul.

“You are my Firstborn, Renathal. The best of the Venthyr. You have fought hard against sin and mastered it, and you deserve something of your own. The mortal is yours, for however long you want her.” He extended both clawed hands in a gesture of gracious concession. “Consider it your reward for a… job well done. My gift to you, in recognition of my eternal appreciation.”

In his countless eventful eons, the Dark Prince had experienced many varied states of being; both pleasant and unpleasant, some dormant, some wholly forgotten. But he was certain he had never been so dumbstruck in the whole of his long existence. He stared at Denathrius, mouth agape, but could think of nothing to say. There was nothing to say. Renathal knew no words to express his rising tide of rapturous worship.

On reverent instinct, he slid from his chair, knees hitting the cold stone hard, but he did not feel it. The only thing his mind could register was joy. It swelled to an impossible crescendo as he reached for his Master’s hand, pressing his lips to the blessed fingers, infusing the cold, shining metal of Denathrius’ rings with every ounce of gratitude and devotion his created being possessed.

What happened next - after reality as he had always known it was irrevocably altered - Renathal remembered only snatches. He had a vague memory of clambering to his feet, offering his Master some inadequate and, likely, inarticulate thanks. Then presumably he was dismissed. Since the next thing he knew he was flying from Nathria as fast as his body would take him. Whether his boots hit ground or he glided, Renathal did not know even then, he felt so light. Uncountable years of thwarted desire, of desperate, unmet need, had been shed in the gallery. The Dark Prince who emerged onto the Bridge of Paramountcy felt reborn.

What he was sure he would never forget no matter how long he existed, however, was the moment that waited for him on the bridge’s far side.

Every denizen of Darkwall Tower huddled together on the terrace. Speculating, positing, arguing, pointing up at the looming castle - their collective susurrations carried across the bridge by the twilit air. Venthyr, dredger, and Stoneborn alike, all waiting to hear the fate of their Master, and, at their front and slightly apart from the rest, one lone, lavender mortal.

She was the first to spot the Prince as he sprinted onto his own estate. Renathal could see her blink, her two automatic steps towards him, and the moment when she thought better of it and hung back, allowing the other servants to push around her and greet him instead. Then he was engulfed in an eddying wave of cries and comments and questions; offers to remove his coat, or to send for his allies, or to bring him anima, food, or tea. He ignored them all. Wading through the crowd until he found Elisewin, fingers clasped so tightly together her knuckles paled a fearful pink, Renathal took immeasurable, indescribable pleasure in grabbing them and pulling her to him, catching her chin, and, in full view of every tenant of Darkwall Tower, kissing his mortal soundly.

His mortal. The words reverberated in his head as he claimed her mouth; eager and willing as ever, but his Sire-sanctioned possession for the very first time. And when Elisewin finally tugged her face away, eyes wide and chest heaving, to ask, “What’s happened?” it was the only thing Renathal could say.

“You are mine,” he murmured, the incredible words almost choked in his throat by a sudden wet lump of relief.

Elisewin wrinkled her nose.

“I was always yours,” she reminded him wryly, and Renathal did not argue. Or attempt any other response beyond the recapture of her lips and the melding of her body against him. More detailed explanations would wait.

Elisewin was singular, but she did not - could not - understand. That Renathal had waited steadfastly for eternity and finally, finally had everything he wanted.

Read Chapter 10: Mix, Mingle, and Meddle | Visit the Masterpost

If you enjoyed this story, I would love to hear it 💜

#renathal x maw walker #renathal fan fiction #prince renathal #fanfiction #wow fanfiction #world of warcraft #shadowlands #elisewin #the maw walker #nightborne #wend in the shadows #slow burn romance #amnesia #revendreth #venthyr #Sire Denathrius #Castle Nathria

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