#an au that's somewhere post mop and definitely before the broken shores but kael never joined illidan

[youngster-monster]

In which Kael’thas is small — that’s it, that’s the joke

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Sin’dorei aren’t really on the small side of the height spectrum. They’re not on the tall side either: they stay on a nice, comfortable medium, somewhere around six feet high. Their average is average. If nothing else, it’s a nice change from their usual eccentricity.

Bus Kael’thas just can’t be like everyone else, now, can he? Royalty, member of the Kirin Tor, blood mage, savior of the sin’dorei. 5′5′‘ tall.

It’s been something of an issue in the past.

(“Chieftain Bloodhoof,” He greets, and the Tauren looks around in puzzlement. “No— Urgh. Down there, Chieftain.”)

But there’s a difference between off-hands comment on your height by members of allied nations — which he has come to see as an annoying but apparently necessary part of life — and deliberate offense from some half-demon, hero-wannabe asshole with a savior complexe.

(Demon hunters, as a rule, are unpleasant to work with. A consequence, he supposes, of the gruesome ritual responsible for their powers and demonic appendages. Or maybe their difficult personnality is a requirement for the role? Both are equally likely.)

“Come again?” Kael’thas says, too shocked to come up with anything smarter at the sheer audacity of it.

“What, do I need to speak up to be heard from down there?” The seven-foot-tall purple dick says and smile.

Anger simmers just under Kael’thas’s skin and his cold, polite smile freezes and twists into something sharper, crueller. And then he kicks his leg up as hard as he can in the stranger’s crotch.

The man is surprised enough by the attack that he bends forward with a pained grunt. Kael’thas uses the distraction to close his hand around one of his horn and pull him down to eye level, a whopping two feet lower than he usually stands. Kael’thas, because of his apparently natural inability to be average, is stronger than most mages, and the demon hunter is in too awkward a position to break his grip.

Kael’thas narrows his eyes and hisses, low enough that nobody else would hear his rather un-kingly manners, “Call me small one more time and I’ll shove my flaming, magical sword up your ass, are we clear?”

His magic answers to his irritation with small, golden flames that curl around his fingers and lick at the horn in their grip. The demon hunter flinches.

“Are we clear?” Kael’thas repeats, tightening his hold.

“Y-Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

Kael’thas lets him go. Footsteps echoes in the corridors, an odd hooves-life sound on the dark stones. Another Illidari, he suspects.

He could probably take on two of those nuisances if he had to: he’s one of the most powerful mage on the continent, if not the world, and even without that his status as the king of the kingdom of Quel’thalas gives him absolute diplomatic immunity. That doesn’t mean he want to test his chance; he turns around and walk away before it comes to that.

Kael’thas is stopped by a voice.

“What have you done this time, Eltarel,” The voice says, perfectly deadpan, like it’s a common occurence.

The demon hunter — Eltarel, apparently — must think Kael’thas far enough not to overhear, or maybe he doesn’t care, because he immediately starts to rant. “I was just talking to this elf and he freaked out on me, my lord! Threatened me, even!”

“And that cowed you into submission?”

“Well, no, but he seemed important and I wouldn’t want to risk our alliance by maiming a diplomat or something.”

“And yet, knowing this, you still decided to insult him?” The voice sounds profoundly unimpressed now.

“I—”

There’s a sound like someone getting hit in the head hard enough to stumble and the voice grumbles something Kael’thas doesn’t catch before saying, louder, “I knew most of you went a bit mad with the transformation but I didn’t expect you to get stupid as well."

Satisfied — and a bit curious now—, he walks away as quietly as he can, toward the council chambers, in which Kael’thas was supposed to be ten minutes ago. Well, nothing like being fashionably late.

An hour later Kael’thas is tired, irritated, and feeling like stabbing someone in the throat. The truce between the Horde and the Alliance is fragile on a good day and if it’ll be a miracle in itself if it’s still holding by the end of the day, given how this meeting is going.

As what appears to be the most rational one of the lot, Kael’thas wishes for the good old days of the all-out war between the two factions. At least then he didn’t have to listen to Sylvanas and Anduin bicker (or, as it is, throw threats of death on each others’ loved ones).

Lorewalker Cho — wonderful, impartial, calm Cho — has called for a break in the negotiations. Most leader have basically fled the room but Kael’thas doesn’t have the energy for it. He kind of just— slumps on his uncomfortable chair and lets his head fall on the table in front of him. Maybe he could just pretend to be deathly sick and go back home — maybe magical addiction is making its comeback in the blood elves’ ranks, what would they know about it.

He wishes he had delegated this particular duty to Lor’themar instead. Last time he saw him, his second-in-command seemed awfully happy to be alive and eager to help: he ought to change that. Misery loves company and diplomatic misery most of all.

A steaming cup is put next to his elbow. He lifts his head wearily, sees it’s green tea, and offers a grateful and rather pathetic smile to the lovely pandaren who brought it. She rolls her eyes and pats his shoulder in silent support.

It’s nice to know no one’s happy to be there.

Sipping the beverage like it’s not approximatively around the temperature of the sun, Kael’thas looks around the emptied room. Thrall and Vol’jin are talking in low tones at the other side of the room; Sylvanas is leaning back in her chair and appears to be napping — curious, he thought evil never rests.

(She became somewhat of a reluctant friend in the past decades, and on most days he greatly enjoys her company, but by the Light he will strangle her with his two bare hands if she opens her mouth just one other time in this damned meeting.)

He notices movement in the corner of his eyes. He turns around and sees— Malfurion Stormrage, who has the annoying habit to go unnoticed until he decides to come out of the shadows and scare a century off Kael’thas’s lifespan with his sudden apparition. The druid is discussing with a demon hunter; the dark, freakishly tall figure is easily recognisable as Illidan Stormrage, the fabled twin. Kael’thas thinks the can see some kind of family ressemblance in there— the horns-wings combo, maybe? They’re both purple, that’s something.

The room is mostly silent and the brothers aren’t making any effort to be particularily secretive. Really, no one could say it was Kael’thas’s fault for overhearing the discussion.

“You’re late, as always.”

“Well, if ten thousand years of imprisonment didn’t teach me the value of punctuality, those boring meetings sure won’t.” An unintelligible reply from Malfurion to which he replies, “What, too soon?”

A sigh, a lull in the discussion. Illidan breaks the silence by asking, “How’s it going, anyway? Anybody’s killed anyone yet?”

“Fortunately not, thanks Elune.”

“As I said: boring.” He has an oddly charming smile, a mischevious, kind-of cocky grin. “I kind of miss the times when they resolved their issues by throwing punches.”

“trust me, you don’t.”

“Well, at least there weren’t as many peace meetings. What is it the goblins say? ‘if it ain’t broke don’t fix it’?”

Malfurion huffs a laugh.  “There is so much wrong about what you just said I don’t know where to start.”

That’s when it hits Kael’thas; the voice in the corridor was Illidan’s. He’s surprised he didn’t recognize it, but then again, the last time Kael’thas saw the Betrayer (or whatever they call him now), Illidan was offering a solution to all of his problems in exchange for his help against the Legion. A nice, straightforward job offer that Kael’thas refused on the spot, because he’s nothing if not a great judge of character and fresh-out-of-immortal-prison Illidan was shady.

Death apparently had a good effect on that, at least. Illidan seems a bit less hellbent on the destruction of all living things now. Not by much, mind you, but a little.

(Kael’thas also remembers why he had to think about it before making the wise choice of saying ‘hell no’ and hightailing it: Illidan is everything a good night elf should be, with a dangerous twist that takes him from ‘handsome’ to ‘mind-numbingly hot’. Apparently, Kael’thas’s type is ‘dreadlord chic’: he has mixed feelings about the knowledge.) 

The Stormrage brothers have stopped talking and there’s a distinct feeling of awkwardness lingering between them. Kael’thas decides to put them both out of their misery and, after mustering up the effort for it, drags himself out of his chair and walks to them.

He circles through the druid’s titles before he settles on, “Archdruid Malfurion. Thank you for resisting the urge to join the screaming match,” He dips his head and lets out a weary sigh. “These meetings are hard enough to begin with without us— ‘stuck-up immortal dickheads’ joining in on the verbal violence.”

Malfurion smiles lightly. “You are quite welcome, King Sunstrider.”

Kael’thas then turns toward Illidan. The man, unlike his brother, is standing and he actually has to crane his neck to hold his eyes, or what passes as eyes in a demon hunter. “Lord Illidan,” He greets neutrally, and resists the urge to tell him that all his subordinates are assholes. He probably already knows. “Good of you to join us.”

He’s not sure himself if it’s a barb at Illidan’s lateness of his infamous habit of doing everything alone and mostly against everyone else. Illidan looks down, the tall bastard, and replies, “King Sunstrider. You are— smaller than I expected you to be.”

“I've been made aware of it, yes.” He crosses his arms over his chest and, deciding to abandon all semblance of polite, careful communication, adds, “Multiple times, in fact. Your demon hunters are a bunch of pricks.”

Welp. His mother would be ashamed of him if she knew.

“So I’ve been told,” Illidan agrees.

There’s a beat, and then—

They both smile, amused and sincere in a way that makes Kael’thas’s face relax after an hour straight of politely not tearing out anyone’s throat with his teeth.

“Oh dear,” Malfurion says. “I have the feeling you two should never have met.”

They get along like a house on fire.