Author's Note: This story is more or less a continuation of characters that first appeared in "Redemption: Warlock of the Light", also published here on . However, I tried to write this episode so that you don't need to have read the previous to get the gist of what's going on. I urge you to check out the previous one though, if you'd like an alternate take on the battle in Icecrown Citadel! Please read and review…reviews make the starving writer write faster!
Alexander Lightbane slammed against the putrid stone walls of the dueling ring, relishing the shock and frissons of pain radiating out across his back. He coughed and spat eagerly, shoving himself forward. "Again!"
The massive abomination in the center of the ring gave a grotesque mewl of acknowledgment; its three meaty hands already whirling their instruments of destruction. The stitched horror towered over the death knight, its zipper-like face drawn in a riotous grin. Lightbane swung hard, slamming his fist into the whirling hook. The brief pain fired his eyes. It was a taste of the sweet oblivion, the endless echoing rage that he craved tantalizing his soul. He was unaware of the speed of his movements, or the blood that flew from every encounter with the monstrosity's weapons. There was nothing but the whiff of a close kill drifting in his nostrils.
I don't understand why you subject yourself to this.
As if a spotlight had been switched on, Lightbane felt his concentration wavering. The sweet rage drained off, leaving him exposed. His eyes flickered to the side, to the ghostly presence that dogged his steps. The abomination took quick advantage, slamming Lightbane back against the stones. He coughed deeply, black fluids spraying from his mouth. The shadowy figure clapped its hands.
Bravo, death knight!
"If you would just shut up for once," Lightbane growled. The abomination scratched its face with a hooked hand, managing to tear several new holes in its stitched face.
"Corpulous done?" it growled. Lightbane wiped his face and nodded brusquely. The abomination picked up its worn sack of molded food and drinks and ponderously waddled out of the ring. Lightbane picked up a wadded piece of torn muslin, slowly wiping the ichor off his bruised frame. Now that the ring was clear, other death knights were coming forward to make use of the sparring facilities.
Day after day you torture yourself, death knight. What are you avoiding?
Lightbane ignored the taunting words as he left the arena. There was no torture in what he was doing; no injury that could be inflicted that was somehow more then his mere existence could speak to.
"Blasted paladin," he growled.
The ghost had been a paladin once, as he himself had been. Whereas Lightbane had been chosen to become one of the Lich King's true champions, the other had been left a wandering corpse on Icecrown glacier. If it hadn't been for his tampering with demonic magic, his annoying soul would have been part of Frostmourne and not here in Acherus. If it hadn't been for that damned white-haired woman…if he hadn't been assigned to guard her as she died…
Lightbane shook his head angrily. Dwelling on exactly how he'd come to be here was no help. In the end, he'd chosen to assist the Argent fools, and this was his reward.
He paused briefly on one of the terraces, gazing out over the putrid landscape far below. Acherus, home to the Ebon Blade, was his only respite now. It hovered over what once were the lush plains of Lordaeron; now host only to diseased creatures and rotting vegetation. The noxious stench would have sent the living into spasms. To him, it was the familiar iron-tinged scent of the plague labs of the Citadel.
Two guards mounted on skeletal chargers passed by, nodding briefly in his direction. If he had been living, Lightbane would have sighed. He was well-known here, for all the wrong reasons.
"They whisper about how I am a traitor," he growled. "That's your fault, paladin!"
You could have stayed with the Argent Crusade in Northrend, the ghost replied, briefly floating into view, then disappearing through the pocked stone floor.
"The Argents were more then eager to have me move on. Traitors are traitors, no matter what the cause." At least Morgraine had given him sanction to come to the Ebon Blade's fortress. Yet even here, among his peers, there were whispers of how he had betrayed their maker. The Lich King remained their god and their devil. While they decried their curse, the death knights secretly clung to the old views of their supremacy in the world. They all mouthed the platitudes that had gotten them re-accepted into their various factions, but beneath the veneer still lurked the monsters unleashed by the fallen Prince.
Lightbane navigated the dark corridors with ease, finally reaching the torn bit of cloth screening his cubby from the rest of the ziggurat. He dropped down on the low stone bench inside, letting the drape fall back into place. Aside from his well-polished armor and sword, the cell was as bleak and lifeless as the fortress itself. He leaned back against the aged walls and ran a fingertip down the pulsing runes of his hooked sword. The hours would stretch away endlessly now, until tomorrow and his next sparring match.
"What a way to spend eternity," he grumbled, folding his arms.
You could always go to the Hinterlands like you told her you would.
Lightbane resisted the urge to glance up at his armor, and the small braided lock of hair tucked just inside the breastplate. He tried to ignore any thoughts that sprung up during the endless hours about her, or the events that led to his disgrace. He'd even tried to burn the silly lock of hair numerous times, but each time would end up tucking it back inside his armor. It was the thorn in his mind, not allowing him to sink into the oblivion of day to day.
And here I thought you death knights were all about retribution. The ghostly form slithered up from the floor, coalescing into the figure of an older man. Still dressed in his heavy armor, paladin Christof Holemhein glimmered brighter amid the shadows of Acherus then any ghost should have a right. Lightbane shifted his eyes to the black stone above the door, refusing to acknowledge the specter. Christof shook his head. It's cowardly how you hide here.
"Your insults mean nothing to me," Lightbane muttered. "I've heard them too many times in the last few months. Besides, why aren't you in Hearthglen, or Stormwind, or where ever the hell your woman is?"
I would if I could, but it seems I'm stuck to you. And you know you can't hide behind Morgraine's skirts forever. One of these days you'll have to get back into the world.
"How many times do you have to keep reminding me?" Lightbane hissed. "I have nowhere to go. I'm only here on sufferance. You and your damn woman screwed me out of the only home I had."
When the citizens of Stormwind lost their home, they didn't hide in Lordaeron for eternity, just because they were suffered to be there. They returned and reclaimed their home. They did amazing deeds throughout the world. You can be more then what the Lich King made you in to.
"Rah, rah, rah," Lightbane said bitterly.
You must have been a worthless excuse for a paladin, the ghost muttered. His form winked out. Lightbane closed his eyes and frowned. As much as he hated to admit it, the damned ghost was right. Every day he punished himself in the training arena; fighting with little armor and no weapons, always seeking more and more difficult opponents to provoke a response. The pain helped drown out the feeling of inertia that had gripped him since the Lich King's fall. From the day he'd been left in that silly tent with a small lock of hair as a reward, he'd been mired in doubt. He couldn't move forward. He was simply a weapon left to rust.
