Born of Ice, a warcraft fanfic

Born of Ice

The burning human corpses should have smelled terrible. Instead, they made Sirrus's mouth water.

This realization horrified him, but not for very long. It was just one more twisted aspect of life as a prisoner of the Scourge.

He could see little of the world below, usually, as Xaxxran floated high above the tundras and mountains. Today, however, the General had brought the citadel to the ground so his death knights and abominations could more easily carry the loot of the slain into the holds. Through the windows, even from his not-so-advantageous position on the floor, Sirrus could see rocky hills stretching off into the horizon. Once, the sight might have filled him with hope. On the ground he could escape the citadel without plummeting to his death (which was itself was a reasonably enticing prospect, as it would leave the Scourge with nothing much to animate), but the chains on either wrist had never given any intimation of being escapable. He was sitting in a practically wall-less cell and he was just as trapped as one entombed within Icecrown Citadel's dungeons. The word bitter held no applicable meaning for him.

Beneath Sirrus, the fortress shuddered and the ever-present hum increased in pitch and volume. The small outpost of the Argent Dawn had been invaded, sacked, and burnt. It was time to move on.

Sirrus flinched as a small horde of ghouls raced past, their wide, fanged mouths dripping fresh blood. He chided himself mentally, of course they wouldn't be hungry right now. At least the destruction of his brothers' outpost had done some good.

The day wore on. Xaxxran's walls were little more than strategically placed pillars that offered wide, sweeping views of the sky to those who were in a state to appreciate them, but also let in the piercing winds of Northrend. The undead never seemed bothered by the cold, but Sirrus, dressed in rags and thin from malnourishment, had already lost a finger and three toes. Not that the General or any of his subordinates cared, or seemed inclined to remove the blackened remains.

The cold.

He'd forgotten what warmth was.

The only good thing about the icy temperatures: they numbed the rest of his injuries. The shredded skin and muscle on his right side- a ghoul's snack. The claw marks down his back- an abomination with talons for feet kicking him out of the way. And the countless half-healed bruises, burns, and cuts that scarred his body- the death knights or the General amusing themselves. Sometimes they asked questions about the Argent Dawn, about Sirrus's place in it. He hadn't yet answered, though he could feel himself weakening. Most of his hurts were beginning to fester.

At least after the second day he'd ceased to notice the smell.

A pair of boots entered his field of view, and the General's cold laugh washed over him.

Sirrus raised his head, which required an alarming amount of strength. The General towered over him, a figure in twisting armor wrought to look like the bones and spikes of a dragon. The material of this armor was a mystery to Sirrus; it gleamed dully like tarnished metal but was gray as ash, gray as the space between right and wrong. A bloodred cape was draped over his shoulders and a horned helm obscured his face, all but his glowing, ice-blue eyes. Something was held in his right hand. "How was it, to be earthbound again?"

Sirrus hated his voice, a sound like cold metal scraped across ceramic. He didn't answer. For a week now, the only kind of defiance he'd been able to muster was silence.

The General opened his hand. The thing he was carrying dropped to the ground with a wet thud. It was a head. Smeared with blood and gore, facial features twisted into a howl of agony. Almost unrecognizable. Almost.

Heart sinking, Sirrus looked away. He'd liked Captain Donnel. The man had welcomed him into the Argent Dawn, shown him the ropes, made him feel like he was worth something. They hadn't spoken since Sirrus had been reassigned to his permanent position, and Sirrus had never thought he'd see the man again, certainly not like this.

"Ahh, you knew him. Most interesting. Were you stationed here once?"

Sirrus glared at the General with all the hatred and fury he could find. The man (being would be the more accurate term) laughed again, then turned and strode away. Sirrus clenched his frozen hands into fists, thought murderous thoughts, and tried not to look at the severed head.

He was tired, so, so tired. His limbs felt weighed down with rocks. His mind moved as if through syrup. He was a fly trapped in amber; his struggles to free himself, to live, were becoming more and more lethargic.

Something important was happening, or had happened. He could tell that much by the agitation among the death knights. Some bore wounds, others bore runeblades, and all bore grim expressions. The General barked orders from a central location. Sirrus watched one hulk of a death knight, missing half his left arm, stride briskly to where the cloaked figure stood. The knight's stump was freshly severed but didn't appear to be bleeding, nor did it seem to cause the knight much pain. He was, however, angry about it. His runeblade was sheathed at his right hip, meaning the injury was to his sword arm. The General said something stiffly. The knight shook his head, then asked a question. The General nodded, then gestured to Sirrus.

Sirrus didn't understand what was happening as the knight strode over and unsheathed his runeblade. He still didn't understand when the knight pointed and the manacle on his left wrist shattered, didn't understand when the knight roughly jerked his arm straight and raised the sword.

He understood just fine when suddenly his arm was missing at the elbow.

The hoarse scream ended abruptly when the irritated death knight kicked him viciously in the stomach. Sirrus was only faintly aware of the knight returning to the General, who attached the (my) arm for him. All of Sirrus's attention was centered around the weeping red stump and the pain that radiated up from it. The cut had been at an angle, exposing muscle and white, jagged bone. Blood fell in a steady patter, a thick crimson rain that the stones of Xaxxran drank in greedily.

That's one way to get the chains off, he thought, and laughed and sobbed hysterically until darkness claimed him.

He woke.

Light curse the day he was born, but he woke.

Was he dead? Was he Scourge? The thought filled him with such terror and revulsion that he decided no, he couldn't be undead.

He did not live, but day by day he survived.

Xaxxran had landed.

It was one of his more lucid days. He vaguely recalled someone (or something) forcing scalding liquid down his throat at some point. Or had that been a fever dream? He did not know, but he felt closer to life than death at the moment, which marked an improvement.

He lifted his head and gazed dully at his hell. Death knights ran to and fro, screaming in their harsh, metallic voices. Pillars of stone around the edges of the necropolis were tumbled and dust rose from their shattered bases. As he watched, a huge boulder flickering with white runes tore through a portion of the floor and a half dozen abominations.

Xaxxran hadn't landed. It had crashed.

A voice that could only be the General's bellowed a command, and all of his knights, ghouls, and constructed monstrosities raced out of the necropolis and onto the frozen tundra. All save one.

The sounds of battle reached Sirrus. He did not notice. With the calm fascination of one who sees and welcomes inevitable death, he watched the knight approach him. Sirrus's arm gripped a runeblade smeared with gore. The body it attached to was a hulking mountain of reanimated muscle. Bone-white hair framed eyes that no longer glowed ice blue.

"I know you're there," growled the blinded knight. "I can hear your breath." He stumbled as an explosion rocked the fallen necropolis. "You...you living thing...you are betrayed by that which gives you life."

Sirrus immediately stopped breathing. He held perfectly still, for he guessed why this being with ruined pits for eyes had come.

The knight laughed. "I smell the fear on you. You have always been rank with it. Your life, your precious life is nothing but pain. Is it not better to be dead and in service of the King? Oh, but I am not here to give you that gift, not yet. You are useful just as you are. Do yourself a favor and hold still. I cannot see, and this will go better for the both of us if I do not miss my mark." The knight advanced, slow over the uneven ground, but unshakeable and unstoppable as Fate.

There was no point in screaming. What was one more horror to Sirrus? What was one more drop of water in an ocean?

The runeblade was a massive two-handed thing with jagged edges, wrought of dull gray metal and inscribed with flickering symbols that spelled doom, doom, doom over and over. It was an instrument made for hacking through armor and bone. It was never intended as a surgical tool. It would be the last thing Sirrus saw.

For what seemed like an eternity now, he had counted on nothing but pain and his own inevitable death. Never, in all his imprisonment, had he ever expected luck. The boulder smashed into the blinded knight at an angle, finishing its arc by demolishing the pillar behind Sirrus. Sharp pieces of stone thrown up by the collision tore at his back. He ducked his head and closed his eyes to spare them until some of the dust had settled.

And then he saw the chain that attached his right (only) wrist to...nothing. Its fixture to the pillar had been demolished. Sirrus stared, unbelieving. By all rights, he should be either free or alive, not both. He touched his hand to his chest and felt his heart pounding with adrenaline. He stood, somehow, on thin, abused legs that barely took his weight. The chain dragged on the ground.

There was a space inside of him where there should have been some strong emotion. Ecstacity, maybe, or at least fierce determination. Instead there was calmness that told him what to do. He wound the loose chain around his arm to get it out of the way. He took a step towards open ground and sky, then turned to where the blinded knight had fallen. Half of the monster was buried beneath rubble, but his head, shoulders, arms, and runeblade were mostly undamaged.

A weapon, need a weapon.

Sirrus knelt and touched his own dead arm. He could almost feel it, somehow, a phantom touch in the place where a limb used to be. His fingers were clenched tight around the sword's hilt. Sirrus attempted to pry them open, shuddering at the sight of the scars and creases of his own hand. It was a strong hand, however, and would not open.

The ruined pits of the knight's eyes stared accusingly at him as he picked up a rock.

Crack. It felt profoundly wrong to break his own fingers, even if they were no longer part of his body.

Crack. The noise was too soft and too loud in all the worst ways.

Crack. Seeing the way the (his) skin split and the bones splintered made Sirrus retch. There was nothing in his stomach, which he was grateful for. Throwing up on his own shattered hand would have felt disrespectful, after all that hand had seen him through. At last, the sword slid free of limp, crushed fingers. Sirrus hefted it. Maybe it was the adrenaline still coursing through him, or maybe it was simply lighter than it looked.

He coughed some dust from his lungs and stumbled out of Xaxxran.

The Argent Dawn was in trouble. Many of their number lay slain, and those who survived fought desperately against the General's forces...and the General himself. The man (being, undead, monster) stood alone on a hill with arms raised, casting frost and disease into the Argent Dawn's ranks. His bloodred cloak snapped in the wind and his armor gleamed gray as ash, gray as the space between right and wrong. Fear took hold of Sirrus, and the tip of the runeblade clunked against ice. If he was seen, if the General saw him, all today's luck would be for naught. The force opposing the Scourge was dwindling, and soon they would be overwhelmed. There was no one who could help him.

He might have turned and ran then, but for one thing.

The General laughed.

He threw back his helmed head and let out a frigid sound of mirth, as he slaughtered men and women who he would later raise from the dead as thralls. Perhaps he would leave some alive, to torture and provide spare parts.

Sirrus was running, and the runeblade was alive in his hand. It should have been too heavy, too awkward, but it felt exactly right. He screamed as he swung it, because feeling all that hatred and power coursing through his body was terrifying, agonizing, and exhilarating.

The sword met ash gray armor.

Black shadow leaked from the decapitated corpse like blood as it crumpled onto the snow. The horned helm spun away down the hill, ice blue eyes extinguished.

All around the stunned Argent Dawn, abominations and ghouls fell to foul-smelling pieces. The death knights had just enough time to look at each other in disbelief before the remaining crusaders cut them apart.

A woman with a hard mouth and stringy brown hair aimed a crossbow at Sirrus. He let her. He felt too hollow and too raw to try and change his fate. A man in a steel halfhelm intervened. "No, Ren, he's one of us. Did you see him take the head off their leader?"

"I see one of the undead holding a runeblade," the woman snarled. "I'll gladly put a few bolts through his unbeating heart if it means he won't threaten the living again."

Sirrus understood that well enough. He looked down at himself, bloody and ragged and missing pieces, and had to agree he looked undead. He planted the runeblade deep into the snow and ice so it stuck up in the air like a standard. As the hilt left his hand, the manic energy that had been fueling him fled, and he fell to his knees. Darkness fingered the edges of his vision. He stared down at bloodstained snow and tried to say something in his own defense. I'm not your enemy. I'm not undead. Please help me. A croak was all that escaped him.

Someone, maybe the man in the halfhelm, approached and pressed two fingers to his throat. Sirrus leaned away, not wanting to be touched, but the pressure soon vanished. "He has a pulse," the man announced. "He's not Scourge."

Thank the Light for that, Sirrus thought, and surrendered to the darkness.

This time when he woke, something felt different.

He was lying on his back as he opened his eyes and saw canvas stretched above him. A tent. It took him a moment to absorb the rest of his situation, and only then did he notice the strange, intangible sense of something lacking. The pain was gone.

Someone had patched him up. The stump of his left arm, which had been bound with ragged brown cloth, was now wrapped in white linen. His remaining hand was also bandaged, and he seemed to be missing his little finger. The cuts, burns, and bruises were all beginning to fade.

"You're going to have some nasty scars, but the healers said you were going to live." The speaker was seated on a stool near the cot where Sirrus lay. His voice identified him as the man with the halfhelm who'd saved him from the crossbow woman.

Sirrus opened and closed his mouth before speaking, listening to his jaw pop. "How long was I out?" His throat felt coated in sand. His voice rasped.

"Three days," the man answered him. "This is the fourth. Now that you're awake, there are questions that need answering, but that can wait. You're a hero."

Sirrus felt like nothing of the sort. "I killed a single minion of the Lich King in a fit of fevered rage. Hardly the stuff of legend."

"Not to hear the men tell it. They're saying you sprang from the rubble of the necropolis, fought bare-handed against a death knight to gain his sword, and struck the head off Arthas's general Vyas with a single mighty blow, winning us victory."

"Do they also say I looted a sword off a dead man, almost fled at the sight of the battle, and collapsed unconscious after I struck my mighty blow?"

The man shifted closer on his stool. "No, but whatever the true story, three dozen of us saw you single-handedly-" He glanced down at Sirrus's stump and swallowed. "Well, you turned the tide of the battle. None of ours could get past the abominations to reach Vyas, and he was slaughtering us with ease until you removed his head."

Sirrus had to admit that he'd probably saved this man's company, but couldn't forget that he'd almost ran first. Still, he was tired and didn't feel like arguing the point. "How many did you lose?"

This served to sober the man. "Thirty-eight remain," he said softly, "out of a battalion of sixty. Of those, twenty or so are injured in some way and seven are ghoul-bit."

Sirrus didn't know what to say to that and wished he hadn't asked. "I am sorry."

"If the stories can be believed, we got off lucky. Xaxxran has been preying on these parts for years and has been known to destroy hosts with three times our number. The difference was, we had runestones and catapults. And you." The man rose. "Once we get your story, you'll be free to go. I can send an escort with you to Valiance Keep and get you on a ship bound for Stormwind. Unless, of course," he added with a slight smile, "you want to stay on with the Dawn."

Sirrus looked down at his battered body and missing arm. For the first time since being captured, he allowed himself to think of home. Cobbled streets, white stone buildings, chatter and bustle, brisk sea breezes. That was where he belonged.

His absent fingers twitched.

He thought of his imprisonment and the hatred that had flowed through his veins like fire as he swung the runeblade. He thought of trying to fit in among the denizens of Stormwind City, he who lacked most of his left arm and was covered in scars.

He gave the man his answer. He hoped he'd chosen well.

It was another week before he could make the walk. By that time, the bandage had come off his hand to reveal four stiff, puffy fingers. They still worked, and would continue to heal, he was assured. They would be sufficient for his purposes. He refashioned a winter glove to cover his hand, as it was a half mile to where the ruins of Xaxxran lay. The corpses were gone, the Argent Dawn had buried their dead and burned the rest, but the snow was still littered with signs of the battle. Broken weapons and armor were strewn about and blood still stained the ground in places. The whole field stank of death and rot.

Sirrus saw it immediately. One of the men noticed where he was looking. "We left it just as it was," he said, somewhat nervously. "No one wanted to touch it."

Sirrus's footsteps crunched in the snow as he made his way over. Half of the blade was still sunk into the earth, but the part that was visible showed no signs of wear after ten days exposed to Northrend's harsh skies. The symbols down its length still glowed pale blue in the dusky light of early morning. They seemed to whisper as he approached. Doom, doom, doom.

Yes, thought Sirrus, but not mine. Not then, not now. He reached out with all four of his remaining fingers and grasped the runeblade's hilt. Even through the thick glove he could feel the cold of it.

Someone gasped out loud as he tore the sword free. He lifted it, arm only shaking a little, and held it out. The gray metal drank in the rising sun's light instead of reflecting it. Sirrus admired the blade for a moment. It would serve.

"Icebane," he said aloud, tasting the name. "May you find a sheath in the Lich King's frozen heart." I stole it from my own hand. In a way, it's already mine.

He rested the flat of the runeblade on his shoulder as he turned his back on both Xaxxran and the rising sun. He walked away. He did not look back.

Hooray for experimentation! This was a bit outside my usual zone, please review and tell me how it turned out. Thanks for reading!

- -Nim