Note: This is told from the perspective of my Death Knight, Kyravanth; it's just covering some events in an RP my friend and I discussed (she plays Tirysse, who gets mentioned in this one).
If there is justice in this existence, it must reside in a realm other than that of Azeroth.
I bore a name once; a name I've chosen to bury as I should have been when I died fighting the Scourge in the Plaugelands. Yet even so, I cannot fully give up those who had given me that name...a new one I had born off of my family's names, though I have little doubt they would turn away from me. With that name I had once had other things as well; things I know I will never have again.
A home. A younger sister who thought the world of me; a mother who saw me off to what was to be my end with tears of pride after presenting me with my father's sword. Honor. Perhaps even some small handful of fame among my peers and those I sought to protect while they fled the lands taken by the Scourge.
I returned with my new brethren to the city of Stormwind; I endured the screams and jeers of the people, dubbing me a monster. I do not deny I had been; even now, true remorse for those slain in New Avalon remains beyond my reach. It is no longer in me to regret such things. Perhaps one day, I will recover that side of myself as I have my identity, my own will...but the hate and jeers of those who once greeted me with smiles and a friendly welcome, when I had met this fate attempting to aid them and their distant kin besieged by the Scourge make it a thought less appealing.
Have they no idea what they are courting? I keep my eyes affixed to the cloak of the Death Knight before me, my helm firmly in place as offal thrown by these citizens I died to protect splatters our armor, rank with rotten fruit and spittle. It would be easy to silence them for good; one muttered spell, one slash of my blade and they would be just as dead as those Scarlet fools who kept trying to live in the Plaguelands. It is not mercy or compassion that stays my hand from them, however. I have not yet found that within me, no more than I have remorse.
It is the desire for a justice of some kind; for what I had died for not to be so futile. Every breath these ungrateful fools breathe is a small victory for all of us who fought the Scourge; every beat of their cowardly hearts an insult to the Lich King who slew us, raised us up and took away our identities...then betrayed that loyalty he forced upon us and sent us to die yet again.
And so, my hands remain at my side as the lot of us walk with what dignity we can lay claim to as people scream at us, insult us. We who died for them and now endure a personal hell: recalling what we once were and knowing we can never truly be that way again.
Men once our peers howl in terror as we enter the Keep of Stormwind, traversing the long hall upward and toward the king's throne. Some are hardly better than boys or girls; they must have been hardly better than children when the Third War ended. Others, however, I know. Though I was never of the actual soldiery of the Alliance, the Paladins of the Holy Light had fought side by side with them; preferred, one should note, above the average soldier when the Scourge drew near.
I have learned that like the Light, your fellows care little what's become of you once you were slain. Had even one of these survivors taken my body from the field, I would be resting in peace.
I listen in silence as King Varian Wrynn snaps at us...until reading the letter we were asked to escort on behalf of the Ebon Blade. Quiet holds the room for a time, the guards silent and waiting...though what they thought they could do against a force they could barely stand to look upon without screaming, I haven't the faintest idea. At last the king speaks again, voice thundering out over the rooms and halls of the Keep; surely carrying down to even the entrance through some trick of design in this place.
I barely hold any attention for his words; I watch instead the reactions of those around us. Though their weapons are drawn back, shoulders remain tense, eyes wild and wary. The king can order as he likes, but all he can enforce is a facade. They will not magically forget what we are in favor of what we once were. Even so, I bow with my fellows as one; turning to go with all of the united precision of the Knights we now are.
It was little better than officious posing, but the games of politics must be played. Our duty done, we depart the Keep once more...and here, our own goals now hold to each of us. I part from them to do as they will; I have a place I must go. Stormwind may be the capital of the country I had been born to; but it was not my home. I could simply take a griffon out to Redridge; instead, I summon forth my charger from that shadowed realm.
I needed time to think; and to steel myself against what may await. My sister and mother should still reside in Lakeshire; I wanted to see them, just once... I would not tell them who I had been; this helm will never be removed where I know one of them may see. Yet if I could see them one last time and know they are doing well? Then this hell has become a bit more bearable. I will know I did not fail in what I had set out to do that day I bid them farewell.
It is a long ride out to Lakeshire, even on such a swift and unnatural steed. By the time I am riding across the bridge, seeming to ignore the wary, frightened eyes of the guards, I know what I will say should I need to speak to them. I would lie. I would given them the closure they lacked; all my mother had received of my father after his death was his sword. It was an incomplete closure; one that had kept her standing at the door or window when she thought my sister and I were not watching.
One that kept her a single woman struggling to raise one daughter alone while the elder one followed in her father's footsteps.
I could close at least this chapter of their lives. I had salvaged the sword I had brought to the field that day, though it was little more than a rusted hilt with rotted wrappings. I would present that, naming myself as one of their daughter's former comrades, honoring her wish the sword, such as it was, be returned. As with her father's remains, they were beyond reach...but the sword they had both borne could at last come home in their stead.
The sun is hanging low as I continue on to the place I once called home; a small enough dwelling, easily overlooked. Before I have even gotten near enough to see through the windows, however, I know something is wrong.
No warm glow lights the windows; no bit of smoke wafts from the chimney, nor does the scent of food cooking fill the air. I send my charger away as I approach the door only to find it locked. I look to it a moment, then feel the now alien tug of a smile at my lips as a memory emerges: the same old lock. I had learned the trick of this thing long ago, and then shown it to my sister in turn. Place a bit of wood in the door proper like so...shift it up while shaking the door; ah, there it goes.
The rickety deadbolt slides out under the shaking and the door swings open, the hinges shrieking with disuse. The smile fades from my lips as I take in the sight that awaits...nothing remains within. The furniture, the draperies; the somewhat ragged rug my sister had loved to sit on before the hearth, for all of our mother's warnings that a spark may set the aged thing ablaze....
All of it is gone. Only spiders live here now, clinging to their corners heavy with a few years' worth of cobwebs, perhaps...while the dust is thick enough to leave my tracks in plain sight as I wander through. They left? Of their own accord at least...each room I peer in lacks any sign of damage; it simply does not have what my memory supplies should reside within.
They're gone; they plainly have been for some time now. Perhaps even before I had met my end on the front lines. I continue out to the back of the house, to find even there something has changed. Two stones now sit where one had sat alone; I kneel by the one and dust away the name from the grave stone of Tiravan Langford. I look down at it for a time, then reach to the other stone, brushing away the dirt and dust that covers far fresher words carved into it.
"Here lies the memory of Careyn Langford; loving daughter and noble Paladin as her father was before her. May the Light take her to his side." The words echo oddly through the now darkened yard as I read them aloud; I clamp my mouth closed over that unnatural voice and kneel between the graves, taking the remains of that sword and resting it there.
"You there! What do you think you're doing?!" A patrolman's voice suddenly rings out as he emerges from the house behind me; though there's a certain grim amusement that tugs a smile to my lips once again as his eyes visibly widen just beyond the glow of his lantern as I rise to face him. "Oh...b..by the Light....S..stand down! Scour-"
"Complete that word only if you wish it to be the one you die saying." The man falls silent once again at that, the lantern shaking in his hand as he starts to step back. "I am of the Ebon Blade; if the king's decree is so slow to travel, I wonder at the health of his griffons." While I wouldn't say that relaxed the man; he at least didn't seem so inclined to continue his screaming.
"W..what would o-one of you want here..?" He keeps his eyes fixed firmly on me; as if that alone may save him if I should choose to cut him down. I turn my back to him instead, bowing to the two graves, though no benediction will be forthcoming. I know full well the paladin once known as Careyn is not at rest; she stands here in the armor of a Death Knight and nameless.
"I only came to pay my respects and return that which belongs here." At last, the man looks to something other than myself as I turn to go. On sighting the sword, he starts slightly; ruined though it is, the pommel at least still holds its decoration. Tiravan Langford may not have been a great hero, but he was not so unknown in his own home town either. "Where have the Langfords departed to?"
"Why would you want to know?!" The sudden surge of anger's no more surprising than the fear had been; so it always goes for this sort. Afraid when they think I will strike, brave bordering on folly when they think I will not. "What business is it of yours?! I can't see a respectable family like that wanting anything to do with a monster like you!"
"If you will not tell me, then forward this missive to them: The sword of Tiravan Langford has been returned as Careyn Langford wished." If they were gone, pressing too hard for information would only do us all harm. He was right, of course...they would want nothing to do with a Death Knight; and better for them to think Careyn gone and at peace with her father. The man blinks somewhat, taken aback by my ready change of tactics, perhaps...though he nods after a moment, plainly finding little harm in passing that message on.
I start to walk away then, leaving the patrolman standing in the little graveyard. I doubt the people of Lakeshire have changed much; word will surely reach them just as I asked.
"Hey..." The man's voice comes again, hesitantly...even more so when I turn back to look at him. "...Around these parts, we at least like to know who's sending a message...even if we don't like them or what it says. If...they want to ask about it..I got to have someone to ask after..."
Yes, they haven't changed at all. I stand in silence myself now as he shifts uneasily from foot to foot; perhaps wondering if he'd gone too far to ask for something I hadn't offered up on my own. My sister had been named in favor of our father first, then our mother...the names of Tiravan and Carissa joined to create Tirysse as their union had been. My own name had been born of a similar play upon the names, favoring my mother first.
And some part of me is loathe to give that final tie up, for all the names of Careyn and Langford are no longer mine to rightfully claim.
"L-look, I don't like asking but it's just-"
"Kyravanth." His words choke off as I snap that out, then he's scrambling back as my charger coalesces from the shadows. I had not come to deal with such as him or any other of Lakeshire...those I had sought had plainly left. With that, I turn my charger and depart the yard, the man wisely holding his silence - or perhaps merely having no chance to speak - as I leave the house behind.
Mother, father...I'm sorry. You have a third daughter now, bastard born from the Scourge's unholy magic worked upon your eldest daughter's corpse. Kyravanth, born of the names of Tiravan, Carissa and Careyn; the daughter that never should have been.
If there is justice in this existence, it does not reside in Azeroth; all this world contains is an empty house and a mockery of life to welcome one home. May it show a kinder face to you, Tirysse. Make your own way, little sister, for all of our sakes. Live well with mother, far away from the hell the rest of the world is becoming; you are all she has left.