The End of Ancestry

Hector Durham was in a brooding mood. Being a walking undead corpse, this was a near constant state for many of his kind, but this was a particularly melancholy occasion for him.

All around him in the courtyard of what once was the royal palace of Lordaeron, revellers from all factions of the Horde were dancing and singing, while high above the night sky exploded with the light of multi-coloured fireworks, joining the light of the White Lady and the Blue Child. Music filled the air and red banners fluttered in the cool breeze, the brisk air unnoticed in the gaiety of the celebration of the Lunar Festival.

Hector snorted to himself, leaning uninterestedly against cold stone in the gateway of the palace. Let them celebrate, he thought. They don't understand the gravity of our situation. The living could never understand, and these other rotting bastards just don't want to admit how pointless this all is.

A tall blood elf dressed in an exotic black holiday suit staggered his way over to where Hector stood, clearly half-exhausted from dancing for hours on end. One hand was wrapped around a nearly empty bottle and the other was wrapped around the waist of a slim elven girl who seemed unable to stop giggling.

'Hector!' gasped the elf. 'Why the wall hugging? There are much more interesting things you could hug,' he added pointedly, prompting another bout of giggling from his companion.

The Forsaken warrior rolled his eyes. 'You know that wouldn't mean much to me, Varas,' Hector said, absently scratching at an exposed bone on his forearm.

'Oh, come on,' said Varas, 'the least you could do is dance a little; no point in just standing watching while everyone else has a good time.' As he said this, the girl on his arm stopped giggling, swooned and dropped to grass at his feet.

'Ha, looks like someone had a bit too much of the good time,' Varas grinned. 'The way this one jumps around, she should have hit the floor hours ago.'

Hector sighed. Varas was a good friend, and had been since the blood elves had joined the Horde, but at times he could be more irritating than a dancing murloc. Not because he was particularly unintelligent, but because he often forgot people were not all the same as him, in race or personality. He had once commented to a shaman that putting a bone through his nose looked painful and unnecessary. It turned out the bone had been part of his master's remains and was a ceremonial heirloom. The troll would have ripped Varas in half if Hector had not intervened.

'Seriously, Hector,' said Varas, catching his breath a little, 'the festival has been going on for three days already and you haven't even shown a hint of interest. What's gotten into you?'

Hector stared silently at his feet.

'Please, I'm asking as a friend. If something is troubling you, perhaps I can help?'

Hector looked up at Varas, his face blank. 'Can you free me from the curse of undeath and restore me to true life once again?'

Varas was put out by the question. 'Of course not. No-one can. Is that really what's bothering you? You've never made an issue of it before in the years I've known you.'

Hector's gaze dropped back to the ground. 'Do you know what the Lunar Festival is truly about, Varas?'

'Yes. A celebration of the renewal of life,' said the elf.

'Exactly, a celebration of life and the remembrance of our ancestors,' Hector said. 'What do you know of your ancestors, Varas?'

'I know my father and grandfather both fought against the Gurubashi Empire when the high elves first came to the Eastern Kingdoms,' said Varas. 'The thing to remember is that we elves live a very long time. My father is still alive and well living in Silvermoon, a bit worse for wear but he's happy.'

'Ah yes, immortality,' Hector mused. 'Or a near semblance of it at any rate. As such you don't have that many ancestors to dwell back on, do you?'

'No, I suppose not,' admitted Varas.

'And if you were to ever raise children of your own, would you not want them to remember you in the centuries to come, after you have passed on and your life is preserved only in tale and lore?' asked Hector.

'Not sure I've done anything to be put in a tale, but being remembered would be nice, yes,' said Varas. 'Why are you asking me this?'

Hector straightened himself. 'Come with me. There's something you should see if you're going to understand.'

Down in the depths of the Undercity, Hector led Varas to the War Quarter, the training grounds and barracks for the troops of the Forsaken. It was also here that the risen soldiers were allowed to keep their most prized possessions, heirlooms of their former lives.

Hector knelt down and unlocked his chest, the room faintly illuminated by a tiny window in the ceiling, letting the moonlight stream in. He opened the chest and rummaged around for a minute or so before standing again. Turning to Varas, he held out his hand. Clasped in his fingers was an intricately sculpted golden rod. A family crest glinted on the end, and the length was inscribed with many different names.

'This is the symbol of my family, the House Durham,' Hector explained. 'We were a noble class family with lesser prestige. We had a small estate not far from Hillsbrad, and my bloodline served as knights of the realm. Whenever there was a marriage, or a new heir was born, the name of our new family member would be engraved upon this sceptre.' He handed it to Varas, who turned it over in his hands and inspected the list of names.

'Yours is the last name on this,' he said.

'Yes,' Hector said with a nod. 'I was the only child born to my parents, no brothers or sisters. I wasn't married, my betrothed was not of age yet, and as such I had no heirs. It wasn't an issue to me; I was quite content with simply passing my days hunting and training, not a care in the world. But then...'

'The plague came,' Varas said quietly.

'And the Scourge with it. I can still see my family being torn apart by ghouls while I watched. The last thing I remember was my insides being ripped out and devoured. The next time my thoughts were my own was when Lady Sylvanas released me from the Lich King's control and I became a member of the Forsaken.

'My whole family died that day, and I was twisted into this. My bloodline is decimated, Varas. I have no descendants, no-one to remember me when I die. If I ever die,' Hector added. 'That's why this festival holds no meaning to me. I will never be anyone's ancestor, and with what I have become...' his voice trailed off.

'You think your family would be embarrassed of you?' Varas said. 'Because of what you were turned into against your will? Hector, can't you see what you have, everything that is surrounding you?'

Hector looked at Varas astounded. 'What are you trying to say?'

'You are still a warrior, Hector. Perhaps not of the same people, but a champion of your cause. You have fought in the name of the Forsaken with as much courage as you would have for your family. You stayed to true to them and your ideals, and you still carry this symbol of them.' Varas smiled at his friend. 'You may not realise it, but you're celebrating the spirit of the Lunar Festival just by being who you are.' The elf pressed the inscribed sceptre back into Hector's hand. 'And it is because of that spirit that you will be remembered, if not by your descendants, then by the new family you have now: your comrades-in-arms.'

Hector stood speechless, unable to compose the proper words for the emotions running through him, but Varas could read them on his face. His smile widened and he patted the undead warrior's shoulder. His speech spoken, Varas turned and left for the festivities above without another word.

Hector looked down at the golden rod in his hands, his fingers tracing the list of names. The list would grow no longer, but Hector realised that as long as he still walked the world, not a single name upon it would be forgotten.

He looked up to the small window above. Already the night seemed that little bit brighter.