"Empire of Death"
By Forever Jake
Prologue
The creature that had once been Arthas Terenas climbed the frozen steps one by one, passing silently over them like so many fallen foes. The stairs numbered in the hundreds, perhaps the thousands, but the challengers the Death Knight had vanquished numbered many, many more. Countless heroes of good and evil alike had sought to best him or bar his path. All had failed. Some lay still where they had collapsed, defeated, on this forgotten battlefield or that; others marched behind him, an army of lost souls, cursed to wander forever in the metaphysical wasteland that stretched between the kingdoms of life and death. Here, in this wasteland, he had carved his own kingdom – the kingdom of the Scourge.
His kingdom knew no bounds, and his subjects were without number. His will was infinite.
My child returns to me, spoke a voice through the darkness of the chamber, and through the greater darkness of Arthas' mind.
Father, Arthas responded silently. He had reached the top of the stairway, and stood staring into a block of solid ice perched atop a raised dais – Ner'zhul's prison.
Ner'zhul's presence in his mind felt eager... hungry. It was an unfriendly warmth, unwelcome in the cool recesses of the Death Knight's psyche. He lightly brushed off the touch.
Return the blade, the voice of the Lich King said, echoing from his prison. He seemed almost apologetic, regretful for the discomfort his touch caused in his favored son. Complete the circle. One more task, and that discomfort would forever fade, he promised.
Of course, Father, Arthas smiled. His hand, which had been brushing aside a lock of silver hair, now fell to his side and found his scabbard... and then a deft arm held aloft Frostmourne, the skull-visaged steel harbinger of Undeath that had been Arthas' only constant companion since his rebirth. He squinted in the filtered sunlight as it reflected off of the blade. The dazzling glow made him feel giddy... almost alive.
He grinned, his eyes locked with the empty sockets of the sword's hilt, as though they'd been not bare crevasses in cold steel, but the pupils of a dear friend with whom he was now forced to part.
Sword struck ice. The prison crumbled. Frostmourne vanished.
Ner'zhul flowed into Arthas' mind like a raging river, washing over a lifetime's worth of thoughts and memories. Visions of vast palaces and festive balls, humans dressed in royal attire... images of quests and adventures, monsters fought and princesses rescued... all went blank as the Lich King claimed his champion.
Something was not right, however. Ner'zhul could feel it, a single wry element in the blank tapestry he was weaving. He wove faster, hoping to submerge the intangible flaw in the vacuum of the blank quilt. It did not sink into the darkness, however, but flared to light, a bright beacon amidst the endless fog.
Something struck Arthas' boot, jarring his concentration. He looked down at it, interested. It appeared to be some sort of helm, ornately carved by ancient hands. It was a meaningless artifact out of antiquity, its purpose forgotten... yet as he gazed at it, he found himself drawn to gaze longer, to discern its purpose...
Ner'zhul continued to weave, to push out the wrinkles of thought that marred Arthas' otherwise blank mind. Every time he smoothed out a crease, however, another corner knotted up... and the single, bright flaw still remained, like a patch of driftwood to which a drowning man would cling.
Arthas had bent and lifted the helm from the ground. Though appeared to be of stone, it felt strangely light in his gloved hand. He held it now scant inches from his face... something deep within himself urged him to place it on his head, but he would not... not he...
His mind was blank, empty, dark and smooth, a void and a vacuum. Into this dark cavern, however, the light of a hundred suns suddenly flared. Ner'zhul's voice, distantly, cursed, and a vision sprang into Arthas' otherwise empty head...
Just as he had summoned it.
It was a familiar scene, one he had revisited a hundred times since its occurrence. He knew it by heart, like a dream one has had countless times. Yet now it flared to life anew, as though it were unfolding before him at just that moment.
He was walking along a wide corridor with no roof. It's walls were city buildings and its floor was street. The air was thick with red objects – flower petals? – a display welcoming a returning hero.
But the hero had not returned as the city had remembered him.
In the vision, Arthas was clothed in a brown cloak and black, skeletal armor, symbolic of his then-new master and cause. It was the same cloak and armor he wore now, at the top of the world, caked with dirt and ice from many months of travel and ordeal... a thousand lifetimes of conflict, death and rebirth.
He reached the end of the corridor, and swung wide a pair of doors which opened before his might, revealing a darkened chamber. Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the vanished light, he stepped into the room.
Shadows danced along the walls as he took in his father's throne, the majestically tiled floor, and the countless alcoves along the hall's perimeter. The shadows had always there danced, mimicking the flickering torchlight... now, however, they seemed alive... sinister.
King Terenas opened his mouth and spoke warmly to his son, but his words were drowned out.
My son, Ner'zhul said, his words creeping into Arthas' vision. What is going on here? The scene flickered, but remained.
The Arthas in the scene had knelt, and risen again, and now crossed quickly to his father's side. Light glinted off of his blade as he raised it above his head.
What are you doing, my son? Ner'zhul and Terenas spoke in unison.
Succeeding you, Father, the two Arthases responded.
The vision exploded into novas of blue and gray light, a symphony of frost and flame. Frostmourne found flesh as Terenas' crown slipped from his head and rolled theatrically down the steps of the throne. Pieces crumbled off of the glittering circlet as it smeared the spilt royal blood across the stone floor.
Arthas felt the muscles in his hand relax, the skull-carved helm falling from his slackened grip. The artifact shattered as its struck the ice. There was no defiant roar, no deafening blow; only a quiet hiss of warm air escaping the broken crown in a burst of steam.
The sound of falling drums remained in Arthas' ears long after the vision had faded. Presently they were joined by other sounds – the sounds of falling rock and ice, of avalanche.
Icecrown Spire was collapsing.
Arthas descended the stairs, taking them two at a time. His mind was not on reaching the bottom; he knew he would. He was focused inward, on the rush of power that flooded his chest. He breathed it into his lungs; it filled his heart, his rapid pulse funneling it back outward, circulating it through his welcoming veins like rivers of ice. He could feel it pressing all around him like a crushing wave... but he would not let it destroy him. He embraced the wave, riding it down, down, down, to the foot of the spire.
He opened his eyes. The ice had covered him – for how long, he did not know. There were others now, however, clambering atop the fallen mountain, searching for some sign of their master.
Their only master, he thought.
A pair of hands appeared under the innermost layer of ice, and then a dark, bearded face. There was a shout; sounds of bodies moving. More hands appeared, lifting off chunks of debris, digging the Lord of the Scourge from his tomb.
"Where have they run," he asked, when his mouth had been freed.
"South, my Lord," one of the diggers answered, "towards the coast. We already have forces in pursuit."
"Terminate them with the greatest prejudice. Let none escape."
"Of course, Lord. For the Lich King!"
"No!" Arthas' arm was free now, and he grabbed the speaker's shoulder. The man looked back at him, bewildered. "For King Arthas... the true King of the Scourge."
The man swallowed. "Aye, Lord... for King Arthas." He turned and raised an arm, yelling to those assembled, "For King Arthas! For the King of the Scourge!"
A cry went out among the dead as Arthas stood, finally free of his icy prison. All around him his kingdom stretched, his subjects as numerous as the flakes of snow, filling his view. The ranks of the Scourge cheered, their vile wails and hisses exalting him.
What was yours now is mine, he said silently, addressing the air and the snow. This old kingdom, your kingdom, has fallen. From it shall I carve my new order... and all the world shall be its dominion.
