--- CHAPTER 35: (R18) Eternal Flames Entwined ---
The cliffside chamber in Grim Batol's outskirts hummed with the distant echoes of dwarven hammers and the faint roar of mountain winds. Alleria Windrunner, the renowned ranger-general of Silvermoon City, stood frozen for a moment, her emerald eyes wide with a mixture of shock, gratitude, and something deeper—something that stirred in her core like a long-dormant flame. Arthas Menethil, the young prince of Lordaeron, had just revealed the truth about her brother Lirath's resurrection. He claimed it had cost him ten years of his own life, a sacrifice made not for glory, but for her family's sake. In the aftermath of the day's brutal interrogations and battles against the Dragonmaw orcs, this revelation pierced through Alleria's hardened defenses. She was no naive maiden; centuries of warfare had forged her into a warrior of unyielding resolve. Yet, here, in this secluded dwarven refuge, the weight of his gesture made her rationalize the pull between them. It was not mere lust, she told herself—it was repayment, a balancing of debts in the chaotic ledger of affection and desire.
"What! Are you okay?" Alleria exclaimed, her voice trembling slightly as she processed the information. Her lithe elven form, clad in the remnants of her ranger's attire, seemed to soften under his gaze. Arthas, his paladin's armor discarded earlier, stood tall and commanding, his blue eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. The air between them thickened, charged with unspoken tensions from the violence they had endured together. Blood still lingered on his hands metaphorically, the frenzy of combat churning negative emotions within him like dark storm clouds threatening to unleash their fury. He needed release, a primal outlet to banish those shadows and reclaim control over his mind and body.
Without a word, Arthas stepped forward, his strong arms—honed from years of rigorous paladin training—scooping her up effortlessly as if she weighed nothing more than a feather. Alleria's breath caught in her throat, her emerald eyes flickering with surprise, but she did not protest. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck instinctively, her body pressing against his broad chest. He carried her to the simple dwarven bed, a sturdy frame of oak draped with thick furs that promised warmth and comfort in this cold, stone-hewn chamber. The room was dimly lit by a single lantern, casting flickering shadows that danced across the walls like silent witnesses to their unfolding intimacy.
Gently, he laid her down on the furs, his hands moving with a deliberate slowness that built an agonizing tension. Arthas's fingers traced the edges of her silken undergarments, his touch light at first, teasing the sensitive skin of her thighs. Alleria's heart raced, her centuries-old composure cracking as she felt the heat pooling between her legs. She lifted her hips without hesitation, allowing him to slide the fabric away, exposing her bare skin to the cool air. There was no resistance—only a shared urgency, a mutual understanding that this was inevitable, necessary even, after the horrors they had faced. Arthas's eyes darkened with desire as he gazed upon her, her elven beauty timeless and alluring, her body a perfect blend of grace and strength.
He leaned in, his breath hot against her inner thighs, building the anticipation further. His tongue flicked out tentatively at first, tasting her sweetness, preparing her with tender, exploratory licks that made her arch her back slightly. "Ah..." Alleria gasped softly, her voice a breathy whisper that echoed in the chamber. The sensation was electric, sending waves of warmth radiating through her core. She felt herself growing slick under his ministrations, her body responding eagerly to his touch. Arthas took his time, his lips and tongue working in slow, deliberate circles, heightening the tension until she was trembling with need. Her fingers threaded through his golden hair, urging him on without words, her emerald eyes half-lidded in growing ecstasy.
But Arthas's patience had limits; the day's pent-up aggression surged within him, demanding outlet. He positioned himself above her, his hardened cock pressing insistently against her entrance. With a low growl, he thrust forward impatiently, burying himself inside her in one swift motion. The sudden fullness elicited a sharp moan from Alleria, one she did not bother to suppress this time. "Oh... Arthas..." she breathed, her lithe legs wrapping around his waist voluntarily, drawing him deeper into her warmth. Their bodies synced in rhythm almost immediately, moving together in a dance fueled by emotion as much as raw lust. This was not the frantic, impulsive encounter of their first night; it was deliberate, passionate, a connection that went beyond the physical.
"Ah!" Arthas echoed her cry, pleasure surging through him like a burst of holy light from his paladin days. Re-entering her was addictive—her elven form so elastic, her skin eternally youthful and smooth. High elves aged with unparalleled grace; at over a thousand years old, Alleria was the equivalent of a human in her prime twenties, her vitality unmatched by any mortal lover he had known. The thrill of it all surpassed anything he had experienced, her body's responsiveness a testament to the enduring allure of elven physiology. He began with exploratory thrusts, each one delving deeper, testing her limits and his own control.
Pah, pah, pah! After a dozen such movements, her core adapted fully, enveloping him in a tight, welcoming heat. Arthas unleashed his passion then, no longer holding back. No refined technique—just raw, piston-like motion, in and out with wild abandon. Alleria climaxed swiftly under the onslaught, overwhelmed by the intensity. Her essence gushed forth like a bubbling spring, soaking them both in her release. But Arthas persisted, undeterred, his cock stirring her into a frenzy of fluids and gasps, each thrust sending jolts of pleasure-pain through her body.
"Hmm!" With a swift motion, he flipped her onto her hands and knees, her palms bracing against the rough stone wall for support. Arthas entered her from behind, his tongue tracing the delicate curve of her pointed earlobe as he whispered heated endearments. "You're mine, Alleria... forever." He maintained the relentless pace, each powerful impact reddening her firm buttocks, the slaps echoing loudly in the confined chamber like rhythmic thunder.
"Um... oh... um... ah... don't... say... anymore... oh... no... ah... elf... ah... ah... Silvermoon City... will not... agree... ah... Arthas..." Alleria's eyes rolled back in her head, saliva trailing from her parted lips in thin, silvery strands. Her body quivered like a taut bowstring on the verge of release, convulsions rippling through her as another wave of ecstasy crashed over her. Fluids cascaded from her depths, soaking them both and pooling on the floor in sticky, glistening evidence of her complete surrender to the moment.
"I will find a way... Silvermoon City... will agree to let you... be my wife... Alleria... be my... wife... I will treat you well!" Arthas promised, his voice rough with desire. He slowed his movements to gentle, teasing strokes—like a soft rain following a violent tempest. It left her wanting more, her hips bucking subtly against him, seeking greater friction, greater fulfillment. The buildup was torturous, each shallow thrust stoking the fire within her anew.
"Well... ah... ok... ok, ah... hurry up... ah... as long as... you... can... Silvermoon City... ah... agree... I will... ah... marry you... and be your wife..." Alleria's words tumbled out in a rush, unfiltered and raw. She did not fully grasp the depth of her own capitulation in that heated instant. Elf-human unions were fraught with peril; the vast disparities in lifespan alone doomed most to inevitable heartbreak. Watching a beloved age and wither while remaining eternally youthful was a form of exquisite torture. As ranger-general, her duties to Quel'Thalas forbade such casual dalliances, especially with a human prince whose ambitions burned as brightly as his passion. Yet, in this moment, logic yielded entirely to longing, her heart overriding her mind.
Emboldened by her assent, Arthas thrust with renewed vigor, slamming into her hips with a force that made her gasp. Her pale, flawless skin flushed crimson under the relentless assault, her expression twisting into a mask of pure ecstasy—a conquered beauty, utterly prey to his conquest. Pride swelled within him; this legendary elf, slayer of countless trolls and defender of her people, yielded completely to him, her body and soul laid bare.
"Alleria... your pussy is so fucking tight... so eager... sucking my cock in like it never wants to let go... do you like it... being fucked by me like this?" he growled, his voice husky and laced with vulgar command, the raw words heightening the carnal energy between them.
"Well... ah... I like it... please hurry up... ah... fuck me... well... don't let anyone... find out..." She begged, uncertainty lacing her plea even as her body betrayed her desires. Was it fear of discovery by the dwarves outside or her fellow elves? Or the deeper dread of truly falling for this ambitious nineteen-year-old—a shrewd prince whose eyes held shadows of greater, darker designs?
"Call me husband!" Arthas commanded, dominance surging through him like a tidal wave. His hands ascended her graceful curves, cupping her ample breasts and kneading the soft, sensitive peaks with rough urgency. His lips claimed her neck, sucking possessive marks into the flawless skin, while his hips drove forward mercilessly, demanding her total submission.
"Well... husband... hurry up... ah... fuck me harder..." Alleria complied without protest, any lingering shame dissolving in the thick haze of lust that enveloped them. Women immersed in such passion often bent thus—anything to chase that pinnacle of ecstasy, resistance crumbling like dry autumn leaves underfoot.
"As you wish, my wife!" Arthas declared, his morale soaring to new heights. He gripped her firm buttocks tightly, lifting her entire lithe form off the bed—like cradling a child, yet far from any innocence. Alleria yelped in surprise, her body suspended in his strong arms, wrapping around him octopus-like for stability. Her arms encircled his neck, her legs clamped vise-like around his waist, her weight impaling her even deeper onto his throbbing cock. Their union tightened impossibly, every inch of him buried within her slick heat.
Their kiss deepened then, a fierce melding of lips and tongues; Alleria parted her lips first, her tongue darting out to entwine with his in a passionate duel. It was like long-lost lovers reuniting after ages apart—sucking, exploring, devouring each other with unrestrained hunger. Her body convulsed with each upward thrust from Arthas, her entrance flipping outward slightly with the forceful motion. Her womb endured the ravaging, the pleasure bordering on exquisite pain that only amplified her arousal. She twisted her waist instinctively, her long silver hair whipping wildly around them, her breasts heaving in erratic waves against his chest. Her nipples hardened to stiff peaks, rubbing against his skin with friction that sent sparks of heat shooting through her—like a she-beast in full estrus, primal and utterly unashamed.
Arthas reveled in the conquest, his senses overwhelmed by the feel of her, the scent of her arousal mingling with the musky air. But even in this haze, logic threaded through his mind. This was not mere indulgence; it was a strategic binding, weaving Alleria closer into the web of his ambitions. Resurrecting Lirath had been a calculated gift, fostering a sense of debt and affection that lowered her guards. His so-called "sacrifice" of lifespan? A clever fabrication, designed to erode her resistances and draw her in. True power lay in forging alliances—elves for their arcane might, dragons for their raw, elemental force. Marrying Alleria would bridge Quel'Thalas to Lordaeron, strengthening his bid for something greater: demigodhood, transcending the frail bonds of mortality and defying the grim fate that loomed in his timeline.
Yet, darker shadows lurked at the edges of his consciousness. The madness from the battle earlier hinted at corruption—perhaps Ner'zhul's insidious influence seeping through, or his own burgeoning darkness rising unbidden. This intimacy purged it temporarily, flooding his mind with clarity and pleasure, but he sensed it coiling deeper within, waiting for vulnerability to strike. Alleria, oblivious to these internal storms, moaned his name repeatedly, her climax building anew like a gathering thunderstorm. He matched her pace, accelerating toward his own release, their bodies slick with sweat and fluids.
Outside the chamber, the dwarven village hummed on obliviously—hammers clanging on anvils, mugs of mead clinking in merry toasts. Onyxia, disguised as Katrana Prestor, sensed the shift in energy from afar, a smirk curling her lips; humans and their fleeting, mortal passions amused her draconic sensibilities. Muradin Bronzebeard bantered with Rom, the dwarven scout, plotting their next moves, entirely unaware of the prince's heated dalliance unfolding mere walls away.
As they peaked together, their bodies shuddering in perfect unison, Arthas whispered vows of eternity into her ear, his voice raw with emotion. Alleria clung to him tightly, spent yet profoundly sated, her heart now entangled in ways she could not easily unravel. Logic dictated caution—elves and humans rarely forged lasting bonds without tragedy—but desire whispered seductive possibilities, urging her to embrace the unknown. In the shadowed embrace of Grim Batol, their bond forged a new path, one ignited by fire and fueled by unbridled ambition.
Post-climax, they lay entwined on the furs, their breaths gradually syncing into a rhythmic calm. Arthas's hand stroked her silken hair gently, tracing the pointed tip of her ear. "We'll make it work," he assured her softly, his tone laced with conviction. Alleria nodded against his chest, doubts still lingering in the recesses of her mind but a nascent resolve forming nonetheless. The mission ahead loomed large: infiltrate the orcish stronghold, free the captive Dragon Queen Alexstrasza, and seize the Demon Soul artifact that could tip the scales of power. With Alleria by his side, victory felt not just possible, but tangible—a stepping stone to greater glories.
Yet, as sleep began to claim her, Arthas stared up at the rough-hewn ceiling, his mind racing. The price of power was escalating—lies, manipulations, the careful orchestration of emotions. Was this the path of a hero, or the first insidious steps toward tyranny? The whispers returned then, faint but insistent, urging him toward bolder, darker actions. He pushed them down firmly; tomorrow demanded unwavering focus, strategy over impulse.
The chapter closed on their intimacy, a logical interlude amid the ceaseless march of war—reaffirming fragile alliances, venting the accumulated trauma of battle, and planting the seeds for future conflicts that would test their bond. In the vast, intricate tapestry of Azeroth's history, such moments wove the threads of destiny, binding individuals to causes greater than themselves.
--- END OF CHAPTER 35 ---