A/N: As promised (although, in all honestly, a bit later than I had hoped), here is the Jaina and Arthas story. For those who don't know, this was offered up as a pairing giveaway in one of my chapters of Atonement.
PS: It's six thirty in the morning and I've been up for so long I'm not sure what day it is and so I'm sorry if this reads like a bad acid trip. I'm probably going to regret posting this later. But anyway, here goes.
-Skye xx
…
past
The dress was perfect. It was pristine white, made of the finest silks, edged with lace and embroidered with golden beads that formed intricate swirls and patterns. Standing before the full length mirror, Jaina Proudmoore smoothed out each crease in the skirts and tried to choke back the tears that threatened to spill forth. Everything was supposed to be perfect. Everything has been planned down to the last detail, every ribbon and flower and person that would travel from all corners of the kingdoms. The preparations were all in place for this to be the most spectacular wedding Azeroth had ever seen.
And it would have been, too. It would have been everything Jaina had ever wanted, maybe even more.
But instead, Arthas was gone, and she was alone in her chambers, the only place she would ever be allowed to wear this dress. Everything was supposed to be perfect, but instead it was all just ruined, and now everything she owned, everything she touched, every damn breath that passed through her lungs, seemed to be tainted by him. His memory lingered all around her, a ghost that wouldn't seem to take the hint that its presence was no longer wanted here.
But then again, perhaps her tears said otherwise. She wouldn't have cried for him if some part of her, at least a small sliver of her heart, did not still long for him. She wouldn't have dared to touch this dress, the most corrupt of all her belongings, to feel the way it seemed to tighten and constrict around her until it threatened to push all the air from her lungs, if she hadn't still wished things had gone differently.
Tomorrow, Varian had said, they would depart for Northrend. They would take the fight directly to the Scourge, and they would drive them back into the frozen wasteland from which they had risen. They would break down the doors to the impenetrable fortress that was Icecrown Citadel, and they would march straight into the Lich King's lair. They would drag him out by his platinum hair and force him to face every single atrocity that he had committed.
Wishful thinking, nothing more. Something along the lines of wearing a wedding dress and crying for a day that would never come.
Arthas was gone. Arthas was dead. Whatever monster they sought out in Northrend, it was not Arthas. But then, he had sought a great foe in Northrend once too, and so the cycle would continue, she supposed, and more would fall to this mighty and unstoppable evil, and some other little girl would be forced to live the rest of her life knowing that the only person she had ever loved was nothing more than a ghost that wouldn't seem to take the hint that its presence was no longer wanted.
Jaina lifted her chin one last time to glance at her reflection, smoothed her hands over each pleat and fold of the silky skirts. Her fingers stalled as they brushed up against a snag, a loose strand that seemed to have suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Surely it had not been there before. Surely everything had been perfect. With a slight frown tugging at her brow, she caught the thread between her thumb and forefinger, and began to tug.
She watched will lifeless eyes as it began to unravel, the intricate strands all coming unwoven, the silver beads falling away and scattering against the floor.
Not so perfect after all, she supposed.
...
present
The most surprising part, Jaina thought, was not the way that the Lich King seemed to shift his tone with such ease from that bellowing howl that echoed off the icy walls, to this softer, lower- though still undeniably threatening- murmur that sent chills up her spine, or at least more than had been there previously. No, the most surprising part, Jaina thought, was that for a single moment, just a single fraction of a second, she actually listened to him.
For the record, Jaina hadn't even wanted to go to Northrend. Quite frankly, she didn't think anyone else had wanted her to come either. Because she was a liability. She was a weakness. She was a pathetic little girl chasing a pathetic little fantasy that she should have known better than to chase, because now she found herself alone and trapped before him, and she just kept telling herself over and over again that it wasn't Arthas, it wasn't Arthas, it wasn't Ar- but light, that voice was almost familiar enough to be his.
And besides, Jaina thought, hadn't Uther told her that there was still some part, some small shred left under the casing of his black shell of armor, that was still undeniably Arthas? She had come all this way just to see for herself that he was really gone, to see for herself that there was no chance of redemption for him now.
Because, dammit, it had been six years of her life, and still his face haunted her dreams, a ghost that wouldn't seem to take the hint that its presence was no longer wanted. Still his touch lingered on her bare skin, still his smell seemed to linger in dresses she'd refused to wear even once since the day he had left. Still she allowed herself to cry for him, for them, for whatever future they could have shared that now lay dead at his feet, just like everything else. And so she had come for closure, for answers, for something, and all she seemed to get was nothing. Another careful glance, another muffled whisper, another confusing message.
But here in this moment, there was nothing but her and him, and she was doing her best to stay perfectly still, and he was twirling Frostmourne around absently in way that probably should have made her more uncomfortable, probably would have if her cerulean eyes hadn't been focused so intently on his own blaring blue stare.
"Jaina," he said, and even though his voice still shook with that undeniably unnatural undertone, the kind that seemed to echo in her head long after he had stopped speaking, there was still a sort of gentleness to it, a softness that seemed out of place in the frozen halls of his palace, the helm concealing his face and that cursed sword seeming to hum as it moved idly through the air at his side.
"Jaina, love. I can give you the whole world, you know. I can make you my eternal queen."
She shook her head, and yet she took a step closer. It seemed twice as loud as she thought it should, and something about it all seemed so unnatural, so wrong, but then he was speaking again, and she was listening, even though every fiber of her being was screaming for her to turn and run- nowhere to go- because this wasn't Arthas, this wasn't Arthas, this wasn't Ar-
"Don't you remember, Jaina? You promised. You said you would be my queen, didn't you?"
She squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could, trying to block him out, but it didn't matter. There was no escaping him here in his own domain, where the very snow itself seemed to whisper to her, singing little lullabies of death and decay, and his words were resounding in her head, a ghost that wouldn't seem to take the hint that its presence was no longer wanted.
"Jaina, my beautiful queen. Remember, love? We were going to be wed, we were going to be together forever."
"No," she whispered, or at least thought she might have, but she wasn't sure if any sound actually came out. She shook her head too, for good measure. Her eyes snapped open then, aglow with all of the pain, all of the hurt that she had carried for so many years. "No," she repeated, the word coming out low and shaky and uncertain. "You are not Arthas, and I am not your queen. I am nothing to you now." Just another dream that he had destroyed, just another life that he had stolen.
But he only had as much power over her as she allowed him to have. She could resist, she could shut him out, she could ignore him. His words could not sway her now, could not captivate her as they had in the days of her youth. Here in the bitter cold realm of Northrend, the Lich King had control of many things, but Jaina would not allow herself to be one of them.
Arthas replied only with an icy laugh, as frozen as the air around him, as the vacant hole where his heart might have been, if only he had not cast it away. Tightening his hold on the demon blade Frostmourne, he took a menacing step closer. "If you will not submit to me by choice, then I shall take your soul by force," he snarled.
Of course, he had already taken her soul, and her heart, and her body, long ago. It seemed pointless to point this out, Jaina thought, because this wasn't Arthas, this wasn't Arthas, this wasn't Arthas, and so all of the things that she had thought to say to Arthas would have been little more than wasted breath.
Arthas was gone. Arthas was dead.
This figure, this creature that looked almost looked like Arthas, except his hair was far too pale, that almost sounded like Arthas, except his voice was far too haunting, was moving closer now, step by step, his precious blade guiding his way. Jaina decided her breath would be far better wasted now on running, and so that was what she did, turning on her heel, just barely managing to prevent herself from losing her balance, and fleeing from the chamber.
She never looked back.
…
future
The tombstone was this great, massive thing. A monument raised on a pedestal, simple marble engraved only with the crest of the once proud kingdom of Lordaeron. It was the kind of grave that demanded attention, and in spite of the whole thing Jaina couldn't help but feel a small smile tug at the corners of her mouth.
How fitting, she thought. Something so extravagant for a ghost that wouldn't seem to take the hint that its presence was no longer wanted.
Aloud, all she said was, "He would have loved it, you know."
From where he stood off to her side, Varian gave a short laugh, but it was as hollow and humorless as everything else he did these days. "He loved anything that reminded him how important he was," the dark haired king pointed out, and as he said this his gaze lingered a bit too long on Jaina. She chose to ignore the implications of his words.
Instead, she took a few slow steps forward, closing the distance between herself and the grave. Lifting her hand, she placed a single red rose atop the surface of the tomb. She had accepted so long ago the fact that Arthas was gone, Arthas was dead, but somehow this just made it all feel so final. Even the king of the dead could not control death, not really, and suddenly Jaina was left with this great gaping emptiness where his ghost had once been.