As the darkness swelled around him, he couldn't help but smile. Finally, finally, he was free. It was no longer his responsibility to slaughter thousands. His career wasn't based on how many blood stains he painted fields with each day. His reward now was rest. Freedom. Choice. Honor.
Death.
As his body shredded, his blue skin ripping off and disintegrating as it peeled, he felt anger. The green glow streaming out from his chest embarrassed him. As his own death wail pierced his ears, he cringed in sorrow.
How many thousands had he done this to? How many millions?
Archimonde! Archi'mna!
He didn't answer. As his mind drifted away from his body, he remembered the shrieks of children as his blades slid through their families. He was a defiler. The Defiler. His job was to ravage the worlds the Legion conquered. Any resistance was his playground—his sandbox.
And when he finished playing the sand was red. It clumped under his hooves. Sometimes it even stuck to them as he ordered his troops back. Every once in a while, it crunched. Those who decided to strike him directly got an honorable death. Those who did not were dispatched of however he saw fit. Every once in a while, he found the leftovers of their corpse.
Archimonde, answer me!
He still refused. The Nether called him. The memories of his life called him. His rise to power, his training, his decision to join Sargeras, the death of Argus—it all beckoned. Now, as his body broke and crumbled, ashes dancing across the charred remains of the lake and trees below, he wanted to go home.
Archimonde'nidar, I order you to speak, a different voice growled. If you won't answer your wife, you will at least answer me. What happened?
The smile began to fade. Death called him evermore, but suddenly the things he wanted to leave called back. Louder. With more promise than death. More promise than home.
I…am dying, Kil'jaeden, he thought. He wasn't sure he was dying. In fact, he was convinced when no pain entered his chest that he was already dead.
No! Archimonde, don't you dare!
He was lost. He wanted to cry, but dead people shed no tears. He wanted to scream, but his lips had burnt with the rest of his body. All he felt was cold. Cold and lost.
Archi'mna, I will find you! Don't leave the worlds, Archi'mna. Please.
Che… he thought back, agony greeting him as he denied the call of death. His wife. His mate. He would die for her a thousand times, and now, he would live for her a thousand times more. She needed him. She called for him. And he would answer her, reach for her, embrace her. Somehow.
Ancestors, please guide him to me. Please. Archimonde, don't leave me. I love you. Please don't leave me now. Archi?
Archi'mna? Can you hear me? Archimonde? Archimonde!
As he reached for her mind to comfort her, it all fell into darkness. Eternal darkness.