The Eastern Plaguelands were aptly named, Kallyne thought.
He also thought that the Scourge was pretty spot-on, too, especially as he drove his longsword into the skull of the nearest skeleton.
The Ebon Hold had been drifting over the area for weeks, and Kallyne's platoon was just trying to hold the line against the ever-growing numbers of the Lich King's army. Koltira had apparently made some truce with the Alliance forces, because Kallyne had seen him speaking with the human, Thassarian, hours before both forces pulled back.
He wondered when they'd just kiss and be done with it. Then he remembered that that wasn't entirely how it worked between the Alliance and the Horde.
Their makeshift camp was restless. At least, the elves were. Battle wasn't fun, by any means, especially not when they were fighting such a gruesome enemy - but the threat hung over them like a veil, and the tension was palpable.
Kallyne and Orrian had managed to find a partially secluded corner, though, and the solid warmth pressed against his right side was always reassuring. Orrian's fingers brushed lightly through Kallyne's hair for a few minutes, and then he pulled it up into a high tail at the back of his head. Orrian always told him he had the softest hair he'd ever seen. Kallyne teased that you can't feel with your eyes. For the moment, it was peaceful.
At least, until it wasn't.
The ambush came unexpectedly, as any good ambush does. This new wave of Scourge was thicker and heavier than the previous ones, though, and they slaughtered quickly and mercilessly. Kallyne was on his feet and fighting in seconds. Part of the reason he had become such a successful soldier so quickly was because he was so fast - and that lent him strength of body and will, as well. He was attractive and tall and strong, and he knew it. He also knew that that couldn't always save you on the battlefield.
He broke the first line, and used the moment's reprieve to search his surroundings. Orrian - where was he? They had been right next to each other, where was he? Cursing softly, Kallyne spun on the spot, sharp eyes flitting around the battlefield. Their numbers were dwindling, and the Scourge armies were pushing forward.
And then he saw him - there was no mistaking that shade of red in his hair and armor. "Or -" he started to call, and then stopped. The last thing Orrian needed was to be distracted in a fight. Huffing, Kallyne started toward him.
And then he saw it. No, him - it - the Lich King. He stood behind his roaring forces, watching the slaughter behind that iron helm, eyes glowing an icy, soulless blue.
This was an opportunity, and Kallyne was not going to pass it up. Hefting his blade in his left hand, he felt the gathering of magic in his right, warm and golden. It trickled over all his senses, and he could feel the power in himself growing with it. He leaned back, took a little crow-hop, and hurled the hammer from his hand. The light grew blinding as soon as it left contact with him, and it tore a horizontal arc through the hordes of undead - cutting a path straight through to the Lich King.
Shaking out his hand and immediately gathering more magic, Kallyne started at a sprint toward his enemy.
The leader of the Scourge didn't even flinch. He just stood there, staring Kallyne down as he charged. Kallyne didn't falter. It was not in his nature.
He was closer, closer, closer, Sunwell grant me strength -
A single smite was all he needed. He could feel it in his arms and chest, but as he raised his blade, a heavy, lingering cold crept into him. Not just cold - the icy fingers of death, he thought senselessly. He had reached the Lich King. He swung his arm down. Runeforged steel forced its way between his ribs.
…
Cold air filled his nose and throat and grated his lungs. It was nothing and everything all at once, in those moments before his eyes opened.
He was in Acherus. He knew that, but he didn't know how. He didn't much care about what he did and didn't know. He thought he felt… fear? Awe? It was something, but it was muted, like it was only the memory of the actual feeling. He couldn't miss it.
There were other Knights around him, and the mindless skeletons that made up the most of the Scourge army. They shambled past him, and the death aura around them was just gone. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was him, too. Maybe he was dead.
He was dead.
He was dead.
He was dead.
For just a moment, it felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest. And then, no, his heart was still. He looked at his hands. They were his hands, but they weren't. His armor definitely wasn't his. It fit, though, and it felt right. Like it was meant for him.
He knew the Lich King. Arthas, something whispered. It was forgotten immediately. His King was radiant. He was an unstoppable force of pure evil, and he was going to cleanse Azeroth. Cold, glowing eyes, piercing his undead soul. A gauntleted hand clenched around Frostmourne, clutching his cloak, pushing his chin up, straightening his shoulders, setting him into his new role. And a voice. A voice in his head. Not just his head, but his entire being, speaking through him and to him and all around him.
Anger, cruelty, vengeance -
They were not his -
My chosen knight -
Not chosen, stolen -
My force of retribution-
Destruction -
Where you tread, doom will follow -
Claim your destiny, my champion, my Death Knight.
The deepest sense of assurance spread through him, and he would do anything for this, for his King. He couldn't even bother to try to remember his own name.
…
If the Scarlet Crusade were an annoyance, this was a true challenge.
The living of Azeroth had rallied, but he believed in the Lich King. They all did. Because surely, they would be protected. Their King would not let them die, not again, not for eternity this time. They would raze Azeroth for their King. They would herald in a new, dark age, and they would be praised - they would feel again.
A wide, bloodthirsty grin stretched his face. His blade clashed with another, and his hand found a throat, which froze under his touch. He twisted, drove his blade into the ribs of another Crusader. He rolled his shoulders, took a breath - a habit, from when he was living - and then there was the sickly familiar feeling of steel driving through his torso.
He writhed sharply, snarling, and backhanded his assailant with a gauntleted hand. The soldier stumbled back, and he tore the blade from his body, tossing it away. He bled, but he knew he wouldn't fall, not yet.
The elf was glaring at him, wiping his face with the back of his hand. And then he blinked, and again, and looked as if he were going to lose his balance.
He hesitated.
…
Orrian stared, incredulous, at the Death Knight. He was lean and gaunt, and his hair was an icy shade of unnatural blue, and his lips were twisted in an animalistic snarl - but it was, it was him.
"Lyne?" he breathed, and the Knight tensed, raising its - his - sword. Orrian didn't flinch. "Kallyne?"
He took a step closer, and when he didn't bolt - or attack - he approached him. "By the Sunwell, what have they done to you?"
Kallyne didn't move. He was staring at Orrian in some mixture of uncertainty and anger and disbelief. He was always so open. Orrian could cry where he stood. He settled for resting his palm on his love's jawline.
"Kallyne," Orrian said, more firmly this time. "What's wrong with you? What have they done?" He could feel his anger rising.
Finally, agonizingly, Kallyne moved. Death-cold hands found his face, and now, he did cry. The tears blurred his vision, but he'd never seen so clearly since -
"Or-rian?" Kallyne forced out. He sounded like he hadn't spoken in years. His voice was the same deep tone, underlied with the infernal vibrations that all the Scourge possessed.
And that was the worst of it - his love, Scourged.
…
The face in his hands was hot. Hot - like blood, like the sun, like fresh bread, like the sand under his bare feet -
He is nothing.
The tears were wet, like rain -
Destroy him. He is nothing.
He had missed this. His throat was tight. His eyes were stinging. He knew his name.
And then it was gone. The elf didn't even flinch as he dragged his hands to his throat. It collapsed under his hands easily.
Your will is not your own.