Acherontia saw him exit the bank and make for A'dal's chamber - in her shadow-sight, as always, she saw his aura overlaid with her hatred for him, almost enough to drown the shades and tones that marked him amongst the others who hurried to and fro in the streets of Shattrath. She had intended to head directly back to her chambers after the Grim's assault on the Cavern, but she remembered Nymare's words and set after him, Phuukun at her heels.
The tiny Forsaken caught up to him just inside the door - there was a tiny flare in the rogue as he felt her not-eyes on him. He turned - a swirl of shadow, a spark here and there as he recognized her. Acherontia's face darkened and she swallowed down a growl as she extended her hand to him, wait.
The feet between them disappeared as she stepped close and looked up into his face - she blinked fel-fire into her eyes and saw him for the first time, a breath that she didn't really need catching in her throat as she was shocked to see how much like Simon he looked. She let the fire dissipate and reached into her robe, withdrawing a folded and stitched square of creamy-white silk overlaid with a bluish sheen.
Her hands, remarkably whole and preserved given the condition of the rest of her delicate features - her face bitten and torn, her mouth all but gone, the flesh at the edges of her eye sockets cracked and charred - ran over the raised stitching of the silken envelope and she groped within her mind for the words she wanted. Her voice, when she tried to speak, was a mere thread of sound.
"Th-" Her throat closed in protest and she turned her head to one side, collecting herself. Tiny fingers unfolded the cloth, folded it, unfolded it again. She never thought she would feel anything but hatred for the rogue.
"Tha-nk. Fynne, thank."
The Forsaken's accent made the words sound swallowed and clipped - she could no longer remember all of her old tongue, but she retained a few words. Her hands trembled as she folded the cloth a final time.
"Thank yo-ou."
Acherontia tucked the fabric inside her robe once again and turned away from him, her robes billowing behind her as the crowds parted to let the tiny warlock pass. The felhunter snarled at Fynne, then turned to follow his mistress as she swept through the streets of Shattrath, her eyes pricking with tears she could never again shed.
He will still be my enemy in the morning.
He is still your enemy tonight.