Tears and dirt, bitter ash, all of it stung Jaina's eyes as she looked at Arthas through the veil of smoke. He looked back at her, no flaxen-haired paladin clad in shining armor, no longer her gallant prince - a man so close to breaking it was writ in every line of his face.
Jaina Proudmoore- the admiral's daughter - had seen war, had seen what men rent apart by terror and tragedy could do. She had seen what broken men were capable of.
"There has to be another way, Arthas - " her voice cracked when she said his name. She dug her nails into her hands to keep from reaching for him and dragging him back with her. "You're talking about slaughtering innocents."
Neither spoke as they stood facing each other amongst the crates of plagued grain, their silence drowned out by the clatter of men preparing for battle or decrying the slaughter that was to come. The muscles in Arthas' jaw flexed visibly as he grit his teeth. At last, Jaina extended her hand (trembling only faintly) toward Arthas.
"Come home, Arthas."
So much love in her eyes. So much sadness. Come home. His pale gaze drifted down to her outstretched palm - soft, inviting, the only clean thing left in this poisoned land. How simple it would be to take her hand in hers - there were other ways, surely - these were old men and women, children barely weaned from their mother's breast, these were his own people - surely Jaina was right, there could be another way to stop this.
Could be. The word stuck thick and sour in Arthas' gullet. Could be could be could be.
"I can't," he said, his voice soft as her own.
Jaina looked away and withdrew her hand back into her cloak. She would not be joining him. She would not ever be joining him - Arthas knew the inner workings of her mind all too well to fool himself into thinking otherwise.
"I won't." This time his tone was angrier, loud enough for his men to hear. "I won't hide behind castle walls while the rest of my subjects are overrun by this Light-forsaken plague!"
Jaina searched the prince's face for something - some clue into why such madness had taken hold in him. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "I can't watch you do this."
"Jaina, no – Jaina"
She did not see the desperation in his wan face as he called out to her, did not see him lurch forward, because she had already turned to join the waiting Sir Uther before she could change her mind.
—
Arthas watched Jaina and Uther ride off into the fog, back to the safety (cowards) of Capital City. Cowards, cowards, cowards. Traitors.
Jaina.
The prince breathed in, bracing himself - closed his eyes and asked the Light for strength, only to be met with cold silence save the persistent, nagging voice in his head wondering if Jaina and Uther hadn't been right. But nothing, nothing from the Light. No holy grace flowed through his veins. It surprised him just how palpably he felt its absence.
Beside him, several boxes of grain burst into flame, lit by one of his soldiers. A boy, no older than ten or eleven, peered down at them from the window of a nearby house, watching the fire with youth's typical curiosity. Had his mother baked him muffins that morning? One of the simplest, purest gestures of love - and one that would doom the whole town.
The whole nation, if he did not act. One town for a whole nation. For a whole world. It unsettled Arthas to look at the child any longer; instead, he turned his gaze toward his hammer, once a holy weapon, but now one forged of mere steel. Forged by the strength of the men of Lordaeron all the same, and the strength of man was all he had to rely on now. If the Light would not help his kingdom in its time of need, then he would forsake it as it had forsaken him.
He took a moment to compose himself, fashioning himself once more into the leader his men expected their prince to be. Turning to the loyal men that remained behind with him, he raised his war hammer in the air.
"Burn it."
A guttural scream burst from deep within his core, full of rage and confusion (and fear, came the voice in his head again.)
"Burn it."