Foreword: Not much to tell beforehand, I just hope you'll enjoy, and that the Frostmourne and Ner'zhul mindscrewing isn't too confusing (it's meat to be, at least for Arthas.)

The full moon cast its pale light upon the snowy plains undeterred by neither squall nor cloud surely helping the lone sentry before him in his duty, it was bright enough that he could see the ethereal white breath of the footman from below his heavy helmet. Kill him... Let me taste him...Of course, though he'd have liked to take the unexpected beauty of those Light-forsaken lands the blasted sword at his hip would not let his mind wander from its appetites. It was tiresome, really. The accursed blade obviously took some form of sustenance from whoever fell by it and what little sentience it possessed was solely devoted to make it known. Quite the insufferable companion if he had to say... Shaking these thoughts aside the prince of Lordaeron made his way forward, the loud crunching of the snow under his heavy boots drawing the soldier's attention.

"My prince?" Began the startled footman.

"At ease soldier." Arthas began hand raised to ward off the questions that were bound to follow. "Sleep eludes me." That much was true. "And I didn't quite feel like staring at the walls of my quarters all night."

"I understand, your highness."

"I knew my men were of sound wit." Responded the prince with a lopsided grin. It didn't feel fully right to him, though nothing really did anymore. His every emotions were dulled and getting a hold on even one of them was getting harder as the hours went by. As if his very being was getting sucked off to parts unknown. 'What could be the cause of such an ailment, I wonder?' He thought with a dark humor. Sarcasm, at least, was still coming naturally.

Obviously ill at ease with the silence that followed the soldier took it upon himself to make light conversation. "It was something else this battle..." Well more like took it upon himself to prove his utter lack of understanding other what constitute an appropriate topic of light conversation. You don't say, the guts and rots were truly a spectacle for sore eye! Truly the tumult of a fight to the death on such a grand scale was music to the ears. And the loss of his soul to an artifact of his very enemy? An endeavor worthy of songs that will surely be the talk for years to come in high society! Anger was coming easily too it seemed, a bit too easily considering the man could not possibly know of his torment. They do not understand you. They cannot for they are fools. The voice of his new 'master' was different than the constant Feed me! from his sword in that it was more articulate to the point of being pompous at times but no less similar in its single-mindedness: where Frostmourne was endlessly demanding murder the Lich King had no cease in convincing him that his fellow humans were ungrateful bastards and that he really ought to exact pre-emptive revenge on every single one of them for they will inevitably betray him. "... and the way you single-handledly tore through their bases was out of this world." Yes he did that, though he had the advantage of wielding a weapon that fell the mightiest of the undead with but a graze But the skill by which you wield my blade is all yours my servant and being under the cover of his divine shield tapping into the last embers of his connection to the Light; now that he thought of it the blade's and its master's murmurs where somewhat quieter while he still held the holy powers- At this his head exploded into white noise. When the searing pain finally abated he cataloged the thought as one not to explore too much as someone clearly didn't want him to dwell on it. Now to calm the now alarmed soldier... "My prince, should I call for a priest?"

It appeared he had fallen to his knees. Rising up he brushed off the footman's concerns. "I am well enough. It was naught but a bout a dizziness I assure you. Nothing to worry about." It was an opportunity, really. "You seem far worse than I am. "Go rest, you deserve it after yesterday's events. I shall stand guard in your place."

"I cannot your highness that would be-"

"Ignoring you duties? Well I suppose it could be seen that way: you are defying the commander of this army after all..." At the man's gobsmacked expression he took of his left gauntlet and took off the magical ring at his finger. "If you are given trouble just show this one and tell you are where you are on my order. "Now go forth my champion and may my token guard you from harm." Hopefully the man would be caught sufficiently off guard that he would comply.

"I can't possibly let you take my post..." Well, that was obviously not meant to be this simple. Was the man being difficult on purpose? The living are such disobedient creature, never able to recognize the judgment of their betters. Kill him! Let me feast!

"Your concern is appreciated, yet I am more than capable of taking the last shift." It was supposed to be simple: relieve some lone guard from his duty and take off into the night with none the wiser. Either Marwyn or Falric would search for him into his quarters when he wouldn't show up for the army's departure at dawn and find the letter he left there, from there he expected them to follow the orders within and take the men home. That would let him free to wander Northrend until death took him and he took the place he won himself in the fieriest pit of hell. A low gravely chuckling echoed inside his head. Maybe a deep icy crevasse would prove more useful in protecting his people from his reanimated corpse? Again he saw white, though he managed to stay on his feet this time. Well, if the Lich King didn't want him to have somewhat hostile thoughts he shouldn't have made his grand plan revolve around him feeling an irrational hatred against all things undead... He was surprised at the absence of pain, perhaps he just gave the Lich something to mull over? A low buzzing came as a warning. He let out ac wry smile: it was good to know the creature still cared. Now on the matter of isolating his future shambling corpse from his loyal retainers... "Tell me soldier, where are you from." An appeal to home was sure to convince the man to take the offered rest so that he didn't slow the army's march in the morrow. Quite insidious if he were to tell but it was far from his worst transgression to the paladins' ideal.

"St-Stratholme, your highness." Of course, what would he expect it to be? Fate wouldn't pass the opportunity to remind him of his sins, necessary or not the culling still plagued his mind. Sensing his liege's somber mood the man spoke. "I don't... that is... I was there myself. When we cut down the people I mean. I understand why we did it... Hated every single moment of it. But we had no other choice, did we?" He wished he could say without the shadow of a doubt that they didn't but some foolish, naive, and dare he say better, part of himself still clung to the hope some other way could have been found, could still be found. And still the other man eluded his attempts at sending him away. It was becoming more and more clear that nothing would work short of cutting him down Do it! Well that much was out of question.

"We can only do the most out of what we have." And there he was, reduced to stating the obvious in the most generic of ways. Utterly defeated in this venture he put back both the ring and gauntlet and bid the soldier's his goodbyes. With some luck he could try elsewhere, he still had a few hours until sunrise. His earlier uninspired word came back to him. What did he have? Two thousand able bodied men and half that number of wounded, a somewhat safe road back to their landing point, countless undead surely making way toward them to pursue them on their retreat and most importantly a cursed blade and no Light to rely upon. What could he do? Send his men on their way and wander this unforgiving land until he either died or lost his mind. Well at least his mind was still his own he realized. Just give in. You can only delay the inevitable. Join me and I will grant you power beyond what you can conceive. To his dulled shame he noted that argument stirred some semblance of longing from him. He reminded himself that his supposed master had a bad record in upholding deals: giving him power in order to save his people Liar you only cared for your vengeance in exchange of eradicating the very same people. Why would he care if some entity that resembled him gained supreme power? He wouldn't allow himself to be misguided in his egotism, that simply wouldn't do. So Arthas Menethil, prince of Lordaeron and Paladin of the Silver Hand was lost, that much was acted: he would die and some twisted facsimile of himself would take upon itself to destroy what little legacy he could claim of his actions. Suffice to say it was utterly unacceptable. Not that he had any choice on the matter, evidently. At least you see the truth.

Or maybe he did? He had anticipated the nearly blinding pain this time so it was minutely easier to bear and therefore keeping his current train of thought. Really, whatever displeased the one bent to use him for their own dark purposes was bound to be good for him. KILL! CRUSH! DESTROY! Frostmourne's sudden lashing almost made him lose consciousness, it was much worse than the usual demands for blood: as if his entire body was held into a vice and torn from the inside out. But he managed to hold on by some miracle. From then, the obvious panic Watch your words, insect! in both the Lich King and the blade I will crush you! fueled him forward. If he stayed here in Northrend he would die or go mad That you will miserable human, all in all an assured victory for the scourge I will tear you apart, all that you are to the very last thought. Yes he was lost but dammed as he was he would see that it was on his terms and none other. Your little bouts of rebellion were distracting, I'll admit, but you will rue the day you thought you could deny me.

In a way the cursed blade was the perfect trap: he knew he had sinned, that he deserved nothing more than damnation and it promised just that. By taking the sword he obtained the means to destroy his enemies and at the same time the punishment he earned. He would have suspected foul play if it claimed to be free of charge. As it was he had been seduced by the prospect of self-sacrifice: he would have dropped dead the moment his enemies had been vanquished and wouldn't have to face the judgment of those he loved, neither their scorn nor their forgiveness. Of both of those he didn't know which he dreaded the most... Of course they'll scorn you. And he would have earned every bit of it. They will drag you through the mud, demean you. And then, they'll annihilate you. 'Just as you will do if I give you the chance' He thought defiantly. I am your only hope. It is only by my side that you will persist. Given the way the Lich intended him to uphold their previous 'deal' Arthas very much doubted that. The way he saw it both path would lead him to his death yet only one promised him he'd become the very thing that he loathed. "You made it too easy." He chuckled through the pain. The mental assault grew tenfold in its intensity, clearly someone was pissed off. So it is death that you seek? Fool If you so desire it I will give it to you. His body grew weaker by the second. You think you can resist me? Then I will break you. The later the better! Then your corpse will do my will. I will make you watch as your hand snuff out the life of your father, your sister, your wench. Everything you hold dear down I will destroy, to the very last child, to the last blade of grass in the plains! "I will not let you." He rasped You thing yourself able to stop me? You insolent whelp! as nausea hit him. He didn't know when he fell on all four four, all he knew was the pain. "I won't let you use me... Whatever it takes, I will not die by your hand. I will live and die so that you cannot lay a hand on my people." That was the only way: he now wasn't so foolish to think the scourge power has been broken on this day, at most he set it back, and so would he continue! He would get to Lordaeron, he would tell of all that he knew and then he would face his rightful execution. He didn't know how but he wouldn't let that, or anything, stop him.

He barely noticed it at first, his senses numbed as they were to anything else than the excruciating pain that was inflicted upon him, and even so the cold didn't seem to affect him while he held Frostmourne. So there wasn't much of a difference to take notice of at all. But a difference there was: whereas he didn't feel the cold before now there was a warmth, a tiny, almost insignificant warmth somewhere in the deepest reaches of his being. He recognized it as it was despite his disbelief: the Holy Light. As a fire taking to kindling it spread quickly the more he focused on it, its very reappearance sparking the hope that fueled it ever onward. Had he really partly redeemed himself? Would it really support him as he walked to his fate? He embraced it fully. It was weak, weaker that it had once been but still more that it was since the last few weeks of this campaign. This reassured him that the path he just choose was the right one.

The dawn had just broken and he had spent the last few hours before sunrise in quiet meditation. The voices in his mind were still there but a veil had risen, shielding him from the worst of their assaults. He now felt confident he could stand on his own two feet. He felt more tired that he had any reason to be but that much was expected: the Lich King had made sure he knew it intended for him to drop dead so that it could raise him through the necromantic powers held within Frostmourne. He knew the worst was still to come so he had to make the most of what respite he had.

Raising up Arthas made his way toward the barracks on shaky legs. Soon enough he arrived before the massive structure which was bustling with activity. Squaring his shoulders he passed the stone archway. Everywhere men in armor were making the final preparations for the imminent departure. He had to hold the image of strength before them for fear of seeing morale crumble. So it is for such pathetic beings that you wish to suffer so much. Ignoring the voice he climbed the wooden stairway leading to the command room and his chambers. There he found his second in command slumped into a chair. "We're not leaving anymore," Declared captain Falric. This got Arthas wondering, before he saw the piece of paper lying upon the desk by which his officer was seated. It appeared none of his plans had encountered success the previous night. As if he should have expected any better...

"Oh? I was under the impression that this letter was telling you the exact opposite. Or perhaps my penmanship is just that awful?" That got the man on his feet in a blink.

"Prince Arthas?! But-"

"It occurred to me that my project was ill-thought, as you just demonstrated. Now I am wondering whether I should scold or thank you." Arthas barely had to force the lightness of his tone. The light was truly keeping some of Frostmourne's effects from him...

"What of what you said in your letter?" Falric had finally found his voice back. "About this curse?"

"All of it is true, I'm afraid. Our enemy is trying to assert control over my mind as we speak and my death would only guarantee its success."

"Is there something we can do?"

"Very little beyond reaching Lordaeron as soon as possible." He doubted there was anything anyone from the expedition could do about his curse. Or was there? "Actually there may be something, though I don't think you will like it... "

Realization dawned into the captain's eyes "You can't possibly mean-"

"I do. As much as I will resist it there is no guarantee I won't fall before the sword's and its master's will. That's why I need you to keep watch over me, to kill me at the first hint of me drawing the blade against the men. Burning my body may prove a necessity in the event of my death, by your hand or by our enemies'..."

"My Prince!" Falric's gasp did his shock justice, as did the frantic rambling that followed "I can't... There's no way I could... That's simply impo-"

"Impossible? Well I can see why you would believe that." He didn't know which of his words or the roguish smile he put on silenced the captain and left him with his mouth hanging slightly open, but the results were there. "Well, let me put it that way then: the likeliness of me falling prey to the darkness of the enemy I despise so is roughly equals to that of you and a few trusted men of vanquishing such a formidable opponent as my humble self." Falric blinked owlishly, his lips hesitating in between forming a smile or giving up the fight and let the jaws they sat upon hang in mid-air. "So, all in all, if one is possible then so is the other. And if one isn't why worry about the other?" A chortle escaped the captain, a dignified reaction if there was any...

"I doubt that argument would old before a scholar." Chuckled Falric.

"Then it is a good thing there is none here."

"Aye, your highness."

There was something in his captain's eyes, beyond the twinkle of amusement and the cold determination that lied behind it. A look of recognition and a healthy touch of joy, as if the man remembered something dear. And Arthas realized that it was him who was the object of that gaze. He just did as he always did, before this thrice-cursed campaign, an eternity ago... He had never realized his inner turmoil was so visible to his men that they'd react so to a glimpse of the 'old' Arthas. 'Of course, how could I forget? My actions shape those around me just as those around me shape me...' It was the basics tenets of the faith in the Holy Light: the interconnections of actions and consequences and the belief that virtue called to virtue in return. Such naivete befits fools. 'Mind your own businesses, creature.' How much did he fail his men by failing into despair? Did his lack of belief in the possibility of victory hinder his ability to lead? Did his quest for Frostmourne draw him away from better issues? 'Well not anymore!'

Silence reigned for a time before the Prince let out an exaggerated sigh. "And now I will have to convince Marwyn likewise when he return. I dare hope he won't make a pain of himself as my men are wont to do today."

"I wouldn't bet on that." Laughed Falric.

"Are you getting smart on me captain? A lesser man would take offense..."

How things could derail so far out of plan he's never know, though experience should have taught him otherwise long ago (and he thought it had). Marwyn and his escort had returned safe and sound yet failed in their mission. It was a simple mission: go to Frostmourne's cave and retrieve the corpse of Muradin Bronzebeard. But there was no body... What the group found instead was congealed blood and the trail of something, someone really, getting dragged through the snow surrounded by paw-prints. As much as he loathed to think of it, what happened was obvious: wolves had fond themselves a lunch... One he provided. The men had followed the tracks for a time before it disappeared into the mountains. Muradin didn't deserve any of it...

How he wished things were not as they seemed. That the dwarf somehow wasn't dead, that the beast didn't devour him. For the briefest moment he had entertained the thought of the dwarf waking up after the wolves banging his head against the cliffside one time too many, of an indignant Muradin grabbing his trusty axe and putting down the vile beasts. But he knew the truth, he had seen the wounds he didn't mean to inflict upon the dwarf: the shard of ice stabbing through his old friend trachea didn't leave much room for doubt. All he had to bring back to the dwarf's family was his hammer Mithrios.

And so Marwyn had profusely apologized despite his reassurances he did no fault and presented him his former weapon. The one he had forsaken and thus didn't deserve anymore. After all that, breaching the subject of his curse and what was to be done about it wasn't the most easy task. With less than an hour before the army was set to depart, easing his second captain into it would have taken too much time so he had to be blunt. Thankfully Marwyn didn't make much fuss and so he and Falric were left with some time to assemble those that could be trusted to help them maintain watch over him.

And as luck would have, at the assigned time, the carts were loaded, the scout sent, the column organized and so they departed in an orderly fashion. Arthas didn't know what the future held in store for him but he was sure it wasn't the Lich King envisioned when it set his sights on the Prince of Lordaeron.

He would have to inquire about who was manning the second to last quarter by the north gate. He ought to thank the man for his stubbornness.

An armored figure walked into the snowy field toward small, barely noticeable cave. Pacing under its arch they made their way on the icy floor until their boots settled upon sand. Taking a deep breath they took off their helmet revealing a human male whose most striking feature were his amber eyes. Holding his helmet under his arm he made his way into the labyrinthine corridors. All had gone perfectly, he hasn't been noticed, nor was his interference...

"What are you doing here?" The man stiffened, he spoke too soon. "Kairozdormu? Why are you wearing that armor? Don't tell me..." Said a chipper voice.

"Guilty as charged I'm afraid." Deadpanned the man as his features shifted to an elvish appearance, his most favored guise. "Feel free to embarrass me if you wish, Chromie..."

"Which one is it this time?"

"Hyjal. What better way is there to see how the heroes can deal with the Legion than against Archimonde himself?"

"You still shouldn't be here." Declared the dragon posing as a gnome.

"Watching a little raid once in a while won't do any harm, you know?" At the glare he received he rose up his hands. "Well, I guess it's back to the timeless isle for me..." Now he knew that he could change a timeline fate without the entire flight cracking down on it. Hopefully by the time the keepers noticed the altered fate would be deemed favorable. It was time to kickstart his little project, perhaps young Hellscream would appreciate an opportunity at redemption?

Afterword: Whew... I didn't originally plan to end it here... T'was supposed to be longer, well shorter... This part was meant to be a third of the whole chapter but while the word count started slowly it quickly grew out of control and I think a 15k monster would have had a deterring effect. Don't worry about Kairoz, he's just a one-off plot device.

Now I'm guessing there are people screaming 'you moron, Arthas has taken FM, he's got like no free will now!' and I guess those people won't read that far and hear about my reasoning: Arthas hated the Scourge's guts, in fact Ner'zhul entire scheme is based on Arthas hating so much on the Scourge he'd be blind to anything else. So while in canon he just left into the blizzard (pun intended, and they also killed his horse; it's like they're doing it on purpose, next you'll be telling me it's also the name of one of the most useful spell in WIII... You blew it! You egomaniacs!) to skulk until... I think I already developed that in the chapter, right? So yeah, canon has Arthas brooding alone propably looking for a pit to throw himself into (or twirling his non-existent mustache if you're into evil-all-along!Arthas) while at least part of his army follow his trail until he lose it in icecrown glacier, get a makeover and turn around to slaughter the pursuit (the Mathias questline). Well this time he wants to screw the scourge over to his last breath and isn't being emo about it. And if the soul-sucking occured immediatly we couldn't have cheesed the undead bases with bubbled killbot Arthas. That's my argument, for what its worth... (first one to get what I'm talking about right now get my... I'll think of .)