MLFMP4: Fall of Quel'thalas
(Disclaimer: This story is based upon a game called World of Warcraft. Therefore, I do not claim any rights to their story, or game.)
A Note: The truth is, I've struggled so much with this last installment that I decided to go at it from a new angle I've completely fallen in love with (this is the third re-write and counting! Yeehaw, join me on the crazy train!). Hopefully, the non-linear plot will contribute to the tension in the story and help to bewitch you. It should also contribute to the sense of the empire struggling, and General Blaize's distress at being banished.
Premise: When General Blaize finds a little golden book that seems to tell a different version of the fall of Quel'thalas, it becomes clear that only one person, all along, has been responsible for the murder of Queen Anthene'alas, the disappearance of Belorim Sunstrider and his mother's memories, Malfurion and Lady Vashj's poorly attended wedding, and the current-day agenda of the United Elven Alliance Social Club. But who would pursue world peace so ruthlessly? Blaize must make sense of it all before his horrifying present circumstances and those of his acquaintances get any worse. Because, screw world peace! Who wants to stay banished and married to Kael'thas' vicious step mother forever?!
This story is going to twist like crazy and then it's going to completely turn. But those who've been exposed to the entire series will love all the in-jokes.
(Prologues? We don't need no stinkin' Prologues!)
Chapter One: Black Blood
King Anasterian Banu do li'Sangr Sunstrider, called the Black-Blooded by those relations who'd been allowed to live, knelt as his wife fell, then removed his hand from the knife. Anthene'alas always had such soft hands. Her fingers, Anasterian found, to always be succulent. He imagined that the sweet-wild taste of her fair skin was what milk had been intended to taste like. Life-giving substance, cream. She was so pristine and warm. True love.
He gently lifted Anthene's fingers from the silver handle. There were wilted leaves carved in a happy mess together, autumn.
Now, the guards finally came. Anasterian sensed their shock when the crash of greaves-to-marble silenced.
"The Queen has killed herself."
The others could breathe, and nothing more.
"She had a dream... in her state, can you believe it, she had a dream. And some crone from a far away land, a land of mists and impossible tall trees, this wrinkled old bitch told my wife that Sun itself would perish if there wasn't a proper sacrifice. She mourned, for days she mourned her own death. That is why she was so sick." Anasterian lay against her and hugged Anethe close. "Who would take such an innocent, delicate person, when I wanted her for myself!"
The King's advisor, named Sorn entered. He fixed his gold-rimmed glasses on quickly, then grabbed the wall. "Oh my King..." then, with heart. "No, my King. She was murdered."
"By me, then! Let it be me, not some unseen hand across the ocean, beneath the maelstrom, or above the heavens with dragons, oh--Sorn, let me be the one. They can try me for murder. She was my wife and I was supposed to be watching. And then I can escape this life too."
"You are called Banu do il'Sangr. Anasterian, remember why you were christened. Right now. The kingdom depends on your example."
"Oh, what a fine example for sycophants, users, and hangers-on!"
Sorn swiped off his glasses, and dabbed his eye with a handkerchief. If not for the incredible tragedy, anyone present would have remarked at his very unflattering pajama-shirt. And the knobbly knees with their wiry white hairs could only be called unsexy.
But they did not tremble like the King's. Anasterian raised to his feet. He tore gaze from his dead wife and made a fist. They all watched the veins go black.
"I feel no more sadness."
"Good. Now, tell them the right story. It must come from the King's lips, not his Advisor, a petty sycophant."
"The Queen Anthene'alas has been assassinated. The murderer is across the sea--has fled, across the sea. But if it takes another thousand years, the Sunstriders will find the murderess."
Then, Anasterian left. The light had gone from his eyes. Black demon magic obscured all he could see.
Finally, Sorn invited the Palace Guard to mourn with him. They covered their eyes and tried to remember the fine lady as she had been, once upon a time.
One terrible year later...
The time had come to christen Kael'thas. It was still not clear what the boy would remember of the event. All his male relations drank, threw their arms around oiled dancers and laughed that he was far too pensive, like his mother. Anasterian was known to have nothing but black veins at celebrations. It was left to the over-aspiring to copy it and charm their King with it. But in the company of other Sunstriders, the sad ability only encouraged silence.
A trio of laughing dancers came arm in arm and lifted Anasterian up from near the steaming coals then. More water was tossed on, and it went smoking high. The men whistled hard and clapped for him, and the ladies forced his blackened hands together, started up a cheerful beat. In time, he exploded laughter and lifted one up around his waist, endeavored to have her as he went along. Some family reunion.
To the blare of twin-flutes and tossed mageroyal petals, all through the splashing of golden enchanted water, and pungent spiced wine, above the crying of one terrified child, the men of the Sunstrider clan indulged blindfolded slave-girls. They tore pheasant from full roasted birds, and shared lamb among themselves. Anyone with the sacred name or born of someone who'd touched it had been invited there. Their wives or daughters weren't exactly absent; they were the ones who'd insisted the prostitutes be blinded so as not to encourage any claim to specific Sunstrider fortunes or thrones, through whatever bastards would be born that night.
Kael'thas had been seated at the center of the largest table. The Mistress of Ceremonies was one of the Sun-Cult, a tamed succubus with black pitch painted all over her skin. She held the boy in her mostly naked lap and sang to him, with fangs and in the ancient language. An uncle it must have been, came close, and she snatched the coiled whip behind her, snapped it in the air.
"Vakka tu Raxka! Wait, 'till he is christened." and she went back to teaching poor Kael'thas the song.
Anasterian passed by, and they both reached for each other. Father laughed, and son felt sure he was going to die. The women on either side of him rang bells, slapped the King's backside with a shepardess' crook and forced him onward. A tent set up at the head of the room was done in sheer blue cloth. The King was tossed with perfume and garlands then left inside.
The Crone was a woman with few teeth left. She set down her pipe, and beckoned with a crooked finger. Anasterian took his striped hands and reached for the crystal orb.
"Before we begin," he laughed, and pinched his nose together, for it'd started to bleed, black-dark. "Whyever did you murder my wife?"
"It was not I," she crowed, "but another."
"I may be very amused right now, because of the drink, or the smoke, or what this disgusting birth-power is doing to my veins and my better sense... but I can still kill you with two-halves of a thought!"
"And then the youngest Sunstrider will go through life with no useful name. Would you like for the Prince to be ignorant of his greatest power?"
"Perhaps he would be better without a damned name. Kael'thas already got one from his mother. The other one from me... what else does he need in this pointless life?"
"He will find a greater love than even you're due and it depends on the name. Yes, the Cult of the Sun knows."
Anasterian watched the orb beneath her hands glow.
"I am to fall in love again?"
"Of course. One as capable and charming as you... who can walk so very well with a woman between his thighs. I do look forward to the christen-price, if you intend to fake with me--"
Anasterian itched a now furrowed brow. "Please, go on."
"Kael'thas will fuck wives and castrate their husbands."
"Good Old Gods! Are you crazy?"
"I see... only what the future holds. You may call it a curse of you wish," she cackled, "but think of what he will do to his enemies?"
"And also to his friends. Or, to mine."
"No, you both will have the same enemies."
"Enough. Was the murder of Anthene'alas from the other cult? The Cult of the Moon?"
"There are but two of those priestesses left."
"You know them?"
"I don't know you. Not well enough, yet. Come."
Anasterian pressed heels of his hands into his eyes, crouched over the old woman, grabbed the failing muscles in her thighs, and did as much as he could manage without vomiting or killing her.
When Anasterian was again sitting on his heels and doing a decided meditation with ever-darkening veins and an immense effort at composure, the scrying orb washed clear.
"That is Darnassus."
Anasterian nodded.
"But it is not Tyrande."
"Of course not. It would never be Tyrande. So then, it is some other Priestess of Elune?"
"Not Elune. Of the Moon-Cult. The Demon-minders, the water-putrifiers, the friends of Illidan Stormrage."
Anasterian tried very hard to recognize the face, but it was monstruous and reptilian. Or, so he thought... no creature looked like this. He sensed it had been a beautiful woman, once. Intelligent. But now, evil and desperate...
"Olvi'athon is the name."
"Thank you, Crone. Finally, my heart can be at peace, and we can start the search for this witch..."
"No, that is the true name of your son. As for your wife's murderer... only time can tell." she laughed.
Anasterian didn't. He put fingers into his mouth and lifted a razor blade from beneath his tongue. The old woman screamed. The whole tent came down as the cult's eunuchs wrestled the raging Sunstrider away from the last Sun Priestess. Their straining biceps sparked with gold threads of magic.
"Oh this is at an end!" Anasterian spat blood, as eunuchs lifted him from his kicking feet. "This whole insanity is at an end do you hear me? The Sun had better break, now. I'll smash it to pieces myself!"
A black-painted succubus followed the King and the struggling eunuchs on their way out of the noisy hall. Little Kael'thas had fallen asleep in her arms, the whole half of him smeared with pitch.
The next morning...
Anasterian rubbed his thumbs over his son's cheeks. The boy was but four years old, yesterday. Already, there were so many striking features left from his mother Anthene'alas. Kael'thas had been allowed to sleep in, and the finally King arrived after so many of the boy's favorite foods and friends had been invited to cheer him.
"What do you remember, of last night?"
Kael'thas screwed up his face, then looked down. "A… succubus."
Anasterian began to groan. "Well, forget about her, Kael'thas. This is all you need: Your true name is Olvi'athon."
Kael'thas was watching the inside of his father's wrist. Two strong veins there had bruised black.
"Does that mean I can change colors now too?"
"Absolutely not. What it means is... when you are older I can give you the exact language. But for now, you must be conscious of women. Be kind to them, Kael'thas."
"But I am going to marry mommy when I grow up. Like you did."
Anasterian pulled away. No, it was all too difficult.
"Yes... you should do that. Marry someone like your mother."
"Father, where are you going?"
Anasterian stopped in the open doorway. "I am going to punish all those foul people we met last night."
"But I liked the succubus though…" Kael'thas saw his father's stern look and became quiet again.
"That is never going to happen again, not to another Sunstrider. Don't you ever take your son to a christening by the Sun-Cult, do you hear me?"
"Yes, Sir."
Anasterian smiled painfully, kissed the razor-blade wounds of his mouth to a hand, and waved good-bye.
Little Kael'thas wriggled his toes and watched how that upset the blanket. Tomorrow, Olvi'athon would become the first word that he yelled, screamed at the top of his lungs, a word which gave him unholy confidence, an edge, a black streak. Advisor Sorn would do his best with the boy, of course, when Anasterian was again lost in grief. And the King also mourned that all his wayward family left him with was a talent for suppressing varieties of excellent pain. Black Blood.