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Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider had always assumed that his father had been exaggerating when he'd said that Felo’melorn spoke.
When he'd still resided in Silvermoon the king had told him often of the sword’s temperament. How it apparently preferred certain stances, flowed more smoothly in concert with its favorite spells. How it'd sing in combat with its wielder.
It all seemed like such hyperbole then, the tendency of an overattached man to ascribe personality to a relic passed down to him through family.
Now that the prince – not king, never king – was holding the weeping shards of the sword he finally understood.
Her grief was sharp, the broken blade dug into his palm and he could feel her sorrow stabbing into the back of his mind.
She was grieving her master, her friend, the man she'd danced alongside for ages. He couldn't tell where his own feelings of guilt and failure ended and hers began. She blamed him for not being there, he blamed her for snapping under the strain. He clutched the broken pieces ever tighter, and as his blood ran down in rivulets from his palm he knew they were one. He wanted his father, and she wanted her king.
-
Felo'melorn did not welcome him, she spoke no kind words and cut at his psyche with every accusation that rang out in his mind. She saw no worthy successor before her - only a petulant child reaping what he'd sown.
Despite all this, when the time came she had let him reforge her, she would not forsake her duty even in grief.
They were both reborn in that fire, and their first words were an oath of vengeance upon the lich who took everything from them. It was the first thing they'd truly agreed on.
She felt heavy in the prince's hands.
Now in the midst of battle against the undead, she sang again. Not the symphonies of victory that Anasterian had spoken of, but a mournful and sharp funerary dirge. Not only for the mindless dead she was laying back to rest but for all those they'd lost, all those they were losing now.
She guided his movements with no gentleness, she spoke only in quick warnings and commands. He'd not earned her respect yet, though a Sunstrider he may be.
The battles raged on, forward and onwards in a neverending cycle of bloodshed, recuperation, and mounting losses.
-
The dungeons of Dalaran were cold. Siphoning enchantments dug into Kael’thas’ very bones, and he felt drained in every sense of the word, like an empty wineglass or a dead hearthfire.
The guard's sneering felt more real than he could ever bear to admit out loud, this was the end, wasn't it? There was no recourse - they were beaten, corralled into pens, and awaiting their final hour. How cruel fate was that they'd be ended upon sunrise in such dark halls.
Felo'melorn’s voice lacked her usual clarity. She'd been taken away and hastily thrown in a pile in some nearby storageroom along with his lieutenants’ weapons, a fact towards which she felt such strong offense it bled into his own muddled mess of emotions. And yet, despite the enchantments of the cell muffling almost every whisper of magic within, her words felt as cutting as ever.
“Have you given up the chase then, Kim’belore? Abandoned your oath? You would let the children of Dath’remar be slaughtered like cattle because your will is too weak? Get up, you are a Sunstrider, you are of the blood of he who forged me. I refuse to believe any true son of his would be cowed by a challenge such as a few puny humans and their cantrips”
The blade's fury burned at his mind, and he could feel her flames reigniting his own - this would not be the end. They had a lich to slay, and a kingdom to avenge.
He slowly stood up on shaking legs, and when he was freed he swore to lead his people out of these crypts, even if it meant slaying every soul that would stand in their way.
Felo'melorn chimed with something akin to satisfaction, she would gladly cut their necks and bathe in their blood.
-
Their assault on the black temple had concluded not long ago, and the prince now sat on one of many old and cracked benches scattered about the upper reaches of the fortress. Felo'melorn laid in his hands as he idly dragged a soft grey cloth back and forth over her surface, doing his best to clean off the crimson dust and dried blood that had accumulated on the blade during their journey in Outland.
She was quiet, her presence in his mind not so overbearing for once.
He startled a bit when someone suddenly sat down on the empty space next to him - surprising given the bright crimson and gold of his robes. Though, Rommath had always been a master of going unnoticed when he'd wanted to, so perhaps it was to be expected that even such vibrant colors would not impede him.
The newly minted grand magister said nothing, but gave him a look somewhere between concern and curiosity. Kael’thas shook his head in response, not exactly in the mood for talking but appreciative of the company nevertheless.
His friend gave a small shrug in response, as if to say; “very well your majesty, keep your secrets” then settled back against the blackened wall with eyes closed. While he'd said nothing, Kael could imagine Rommath's signature slightly mocking tone as clear as day.
As he resumed his scrubbing he could feel Felo'melorn resonate under his hands, humming softly with interest directed towards his friend's magestaff. She seemed to regard it as young, which came off as a bit ridiculous in Kael's opinion given that Rommath's staff had been passed down between the Grand magisters for generations - But of course almost everything was young to the Sunstriders’ blade, sometimes the prince forgot she'd been forged before even the sundering tore the world apart. The sword had seen many things in her long existence, their great cities and ancient weapons must all seem as if they'd been created but a week ago to her in comparison to the highborne.
He closed his eyes as well and sunk into his reverie, an old song his father had passed down came to his mind – whether he'd remembered it or she had the prince wasn't sure – and he began to sing softly under his breath. Of golden forests and rushing rivers rather than battle and bloodshed.
He knew he'd have to send Rommath away soon, to deliver word of their success back home and to make sure everything ran smoothly. But for now he let go of those worries and let his mind go as empty as it could.
The grief felt duller, for a moment.
-
She felt alive. “Finally!” Felo'melorn rejoiced as she spun in the hands of her prince, cutting through the air with a soft whistle as the snowstorms of Northrend raged around them.
The sword clashed loudly against the runeblade the dead prince wielded. Frostmourne hissed softly as it murmured threats and curses at her and her Kael, but she did not listen. Here in the heat of battle she cared little for the ravings of some frozen dagger. Only for the neck of its wielder splitting against her edge.
The death knight had barked something at her prince, and he responded with her chiming voice resonating behind his words.
“Unlike reforged human blades, elven weapons come out stronger for the experience, not weakened by it!”
Arthas did not respond to that, only growling some other unrelated threat. It mattered not, soon she knew he'd be silenced forevermore. And his black blood would dye the snow of this wretched corner of Azeroth as dark as the night sky.
But the battle raged on, and she had no chance yet to dig into his flesh and end his undeath. In between deflecting his blows and defending her prince she'd been quite occupied.
Her boy had seemingly gotten out some cutting remark or other, she would have been proud though she knew not the context for it, However the enraged state this pushed the lich into spurned it not only to recklessness but a wholly new murderous drive that threw her prince onto his back foot.
Kael'thas landed harshly on his back, and she felt his hold weaken as her edge was pushed ever closer to his vulnerable neck by the runeblade bearing down on her.
No- no no no never again, she'd not lose another, not so soon!, she begged.
The boy's mind flashed with sorrow for a moment, but before she could ask why he felt so apologetic towards her, Felo'melorn felt his supportive hands disappear from under her. All of a sudden Arthas came crashing down as well.
The way Frostmourne had ricocheted across her had caused her to go spinning wildly in the air before landing in some cold ditch some few meters away.
She cared not for all the scratches and scuffs that now surely adorned her surface - all she could feel was boiling, blinding, fury. Their bond has been severed the moment the prince teleported away, she felt it snap with his unsaid apology, and yet still her first instinct was to scream into the aether
How dare he, how dare another abandon her so? Without the death of her Anasterian avenged, without the spilled blood of their people repaid tenfold. How could her prince just throw her away, how could she protect him like this?
She wished dearly to thrash, to burn and cut and whirl in the air, but she could do naught as the slowly accumulating snow muffled her flames. Naught but vow that whichever sunstrider came to claim her next she would not allow to leave, never again.
The blade grew cold.
Someday she'd burn once more.