The Undead abominations looked down on Sylvanas Windrunner as though they couldn't bear to look at her. Maybe they saw what she saw; a freak of nature, a disgusting piece of art that made them sick to their stomachs. Maybe the mingling stench of sweat, blood and the raspberry-smelling perfume she always spritzed herself with were sickening to them. The very sight of them disgusted her. It could easily be the same in their eyes…if they could see, that was. Or maybe they viewed her as a weak little kitten, particularly one with a disease, or one that got in a fight with another, resulting in swollen, scratched eyes and torn flesh. She didn't know.
The paralysis she'd experienced earlier was beginning to wear off, leaving behind painful, stiff muscles. She recalled her younger sister, Vereesa, falling asleep in the grass two or three miles away from her home, Windrunner Spire. She had to carry her heavy, unconscious form all the way back from Tranqullien to their home then carry her up the spire to get her settled into bed. It didn't help that her older sister, Alleria, had her heart set on giving her archery lessons not an hour later. When she awoke the next day, her muscles felt as though they were on fire. Just turning over in the bed was painful, let alone getting up and taking care of Vereesa while Alleria poached and hunted. She remembered screaming in rage at her sister that day as she was roasting the meat Alleria shot not many days before, how she should learn to cook her own damn food and how this was all her fault because she had to fall asleep and have Sylvanas carry her home. They made up, obviously. Sylvanas could never stay angry with Vereesa, though it didn't do much to ease the pain.
She felt the exact same way now, only she wasn't being forced to take archery lessons or cook food for her sister. She was being forced to stand and walk, more than likely to her death. Oh, what would Arthas put her through in the hours to come?
The abominations were tall, wide things, with entrails hanging out of their ripped, broken flesh. She had no idea what form they took in life; ettins, maybe? Their hands literally just reached the top of her head. They were idiots, true, but when under the rule of Arthas…well, as much as she detested the Death Knights, that one in particular, she had to admit Arthas was no fool.
She'd underestimated him. The poison in the blade he'd stabbed her with was no coincidence. It caused a mild, short-lasting paralysis that hurt way less than she was expecting, but it was powerful and must have caused some sedation to her mind, because, while she managed to hide herself near Stillwhisper Pond (not too far away from the gates of Silvermoon where she was stabbed), she fell into a deep, strangely peaceful sleep and hours could have slipped by before the abominations finally caught her scent. How much planning did this take? Was he expecting her to still have the strength to run? Was he so desperate to kill her himself? How far would his cruelty go?
The abominations had long chains wrapped around their wrists. Unwinding them, one grabbed Sylvanas's wrist and began wrapping the chains around her, binding it with might. It cut into the bloody wounds on her wrist painfully and she cried out.
"Master said you run fast," the Scourge monster said, glaring at her, as though it was her fault she had the speed of a true huntress.
The other grabbed her left wrist, which was a little more bruised than the other. She yelled in pain as the cold, cruel chains were tied with force around her wounds, trying not to scream. The monster then knelt down and cuffed her ankles.
"You no run now," it said to her.
Rewrapping her bonds around their own wrists, Sylvanas was helpless. Even if she was full of strength and energy, she was in chains and under the watchful eyes of unnaturally powerful Scourge, maybe even eyes that could see nothing but hatred and envy of the living, of her. They were right; she wasn't going to run. Instead, she let the Undead drag the chains that bound her wrists, hardly walking herself. Her fragile, thin arms were all that supported the body below them. If they weren't there, she'd be crashing to the ground. Not that she appreciated this, of course. She wanted to crash to the ground and never get up again, to die quickly and peacefully. Once or twice, she found herself trying to shake free from her bonds, only to feel them grip her wrists and ankles tighter, with more force, as though they were intent on causing her pain.
"Master kill you," the abomination holding the chains on her left wrist murmured.
"Yes, he slaughter you," the one of the right mused.
"Will you please just shut up?" Sylvanas said weakly.
Surprisingly, they did.
The sweat that was drying on her face when the Scourge earlier invaded was starting to flake. Her lips were dry yet she was still sweating. She didn't notice how much her Ranger-General's clothing was torn. She could feel the lightly blowing wind sting her fresh, sticky wounds, which were already seeping with infection. She was becoming so thirsty she'd suck her own blood if only her hands were free. She was desperate to look up at the moon and stars one last time, but she was too weak to lift her head. Her arms were barely able to bear the weight of her body; she even found herself trying to hold her full body weight up at points, only to fall back into helplessness, her arms seemingly miles above her head. And meanwhile, miles away in Quel'Thalas, her dear allies in the Scourge invasion were suffering under the wrath of the Lich King…
Sylvanas willed herself not to cry. There was little moisture in her body as it was and it wasn't going to surface in the form of tears. She felt that sense of longing she got when she was lying under the astonishing sunset near Stillwhisper Pond, making her want to be in the arms of Halduron Brightwing, the elf she may have fallen in love with if she was given the chance to know what love felt like, making her want to be with her sisters, Alleria and Vereesa, back in Windrunner spire, chatting to Alleria about poaching and hunting, singing Vereesa to sleep, making her want to be with her fellow rangers in the Farstrider's section of Silvermoon City…
She could have been limping along for years. She tried to lose herself in a world where ghosts were no enemy, reality was no friend and pain was but a tragedy in a fairytale. So much had happened before the invasion of Quel'Thalas, so much she could've been concerned about. I mean, the Betrayer was freed from his prison and she'd forgotten! She could've assisted the Watchers into returning him to justice! Easily she was one of the best rangers in Azeroth, Gods curse it! And here she was, held prisoner by pathetic Undead who could hardly speak, most likely approaching a slow, torturous death.
She swore she'd never get down on her knees and beg the man for mercy, but at the moment, there appeared to be no choice. Would this vastly cruel knight of the Lich King succumb to her pleads? He, who could endure the screams of the tortured Kal'dorei banshees of Darnassus? He who slaughtered the innocent with a simple swipe of the cursed blade, Frostmourne?
The sweat was rolling onto her lips, salt filling her mouth. She was tired, oh so tired. She longed to be lying in silky sheets at Windrunner Spire, even if she was sleeping in a room of her own. She'd gotten so used to sharing a room with Alleria or curling up with Vereesa when she panicked or had nightmares. Both her sisters had moved on and she still longed for her old home.
As though the beds at Sunfury Spire were something to complain about. She had her own room and her own bed, soft, silky quilts, thick, velvet pillows, a curtain to draw back if she felt claustrophobic. She enjoyed the tranquillity of Silvermoon City while it lasted, chatting to Halduron Brightwing and Lor'themar Theron, walking around the wondrous city, purchasing the bread she could now afford to buy, stepping outside the gates of her dear home and breathing in the lily-scented wind, her soft, blonde hair flowing back in the wind, an arrow clicked into place on Dath'Remar's bow…
Sylvanas's drowsiness caused her to fall, costing her a painful tug of the chains that bound her, which hurt more than they should have due to the wounds on her wrists.
"Master no want lady to sleep," the abomination on her right said.
"He want lady awake and alive," the other said.
"Yeah, whatever," Sylvanas muttered, trying to put more weight onto her legs, only to drop to one knee. The cuffs on her ankles were looser than she'd expected. The abominations actually staggered as she fell. How damn tall could those things be?
"STAND UP!" the one on her left yelled in a fierce voice.
She gasped in pain. "I…I can't…"
"Master will kill you quickly," it said.
Sylvanas looked up at the sickening creature, not ready to believe this but ready to hope.
"I hope you're not lying to me," she said. "What's to be gained from lying?"
The thing looked almost embarrassed. Maybe she was talking to it too softly. It was probably used to being whipped viciously as punishment. What gender even was it?
"Master have orders for us. We no talk to pretty lady,"
Male. Definitely male. And whatever hope she had was gone. There was no escaping her fate.
Sighing, Sylvanas hauled herself up, wincing, relying on her chained arms to hold her. They'd taken too much weight and soon Sylvanas had no choice but to put weight onto her legs.
"You're doing an awful job, you know," she said.
"We know. Master say we have brains that no work," the abomination said.
"Yeah, he's right," Sylvanas mumbled. "You're sentencing alone is awful,"
"Why am I talking to pretty lady? Orders say no talk to-"
"Shut it," Sylvanas growled, getting impatient.
They were under the control of the Lich King, that she knew, but some part of her wondered if there was even the slightest bit of sanity inside them. They appeared to be fighting for their own free will just by speaking to her. Those looks of disgust when they saw her laying by Stillwhisper pond…was that a command from the Lich King, or was it envy and jealousy? Maybe it was just their facial expressions. Sylvanas didn't understand the Undead. She didn't want to.
Darkness was descending. They appeared to be approaching a dark tomb. Sylvanas's bare feet were blistered and bloody. Every part of her body ached, every muscle, every tendril, even the smallest bruises she'd got probably weeks before on the inside of her arm (more than likely the kind she got when she and the Farstriders had too much to drink and messed carelessly with the bow strings) throbbed lightly. How much blood had she lost? What was she about to endure now?
The abominations dragged her into the entrance of the tomb, into a dark, dimly lit hallway and Sylvanas was hit first by the chill. The solid, icy hair hit her like a hammer. She gasped, initially breath taken. The sweat dried up immediately on her skin. Her thirst almost felt quenched. Was this possible?
She'd almost forgotten Dath'Remar's bow was still hanging on her back. The sheath of arrows was still clasped to her shoulders. If only her hands were free from those wretched chains…
The corridor only got colder, yet Sylvanas didn't feel any weaker. If anything, the dryness in her throat had vanished. She didn't understand this and definitely didn't want to.
Finally, the abominations shoved their way through a large door with a skull mosaic patterned on.
Gods of Azeroth, he has way too much time to himself, Sylvanas thought.
Arthas was sitting on some throne at the top of the dimly lit tomb. His Death Knight helmet was resting on his knee. He looked down at Sylvanas, somewhat amused by the sight of her bruised, battered body. The only light came from the few candles lit around the tomb and the faint glow of Frostmourne, which leant against the throne. A few of Arthas's servants, Undead humans, stood around the tomb, looking directly ahead with their icy blue eyes. The time she took to observe all this, the abominations were tying her chains to some rails hanging on the walls. Now she was completely helpless. The last of her strength finally leaving her, she dropped down to one knee, shaking. Fear began to take over, a fear she'd never felt before; fear of her own good. Being Ranger-General was always about watching out for and protecting others. This time was different.
As Arthas stood up, casually tossing his helmet into the arms of one of his servants and picking up Frostmourne with that all too familiar heir of boredom, Sylvanas began to pray silently to anybody who'd hear her.
Please just let me die, just let me die before he comes to me, she screamed in her head. The chains binding me to the walls can't be binding me to life. I'm sure I can die like this, just please let me die…please let me die right here, right now…
Tears began to surface at last. So there was enough moisture left in her body to cry. And she swore to herself she wouldn't. But she'd never felt so afraid, so in despair.
Sylvanas allowed herself to meet Arthas's eyes for a moment. She let the tears pool in her eyes, let one slide down her face. Arthas rose Frostmourne, then Sylvanas crashed face-first into the ground and lay there, gasping and shivering. She heard the chains clink as they hit the walls. It didn't make any difference whether she was in chains or not. She was too weak to battle him anyway. Arthas turned her roughly onto her back, the cuffs on her ankles banging against the cold, hard ground.
Head spinning, she knew if she was going to stand any chance at all of escaping the wrath of Arthas, now was the time to at least ask for it.
Swallowing, she forced herself to meet those striking blue eyes and speak.
"Arthas…please, make it quick…" she said, her throat throbbing.
Arthas chuckled. "Why would I grant you that?"
She hated that voice. It was so quiet, so clear, not in any way fierce or loud but so deadly. The kind of voice she used to coax prey when she was hunting.
"I have family…two sisters. They…they need me," Sylvanas gasped, tears welling in her eyes again. "Vereesa…she's mine…"
She broke off, forcing herself to stay conscious. The ice cold feeling began to take over her body again. Frostmourne was at the very tip of her throat.
"After all you've put me through, woman, the last thing I'll give you is the peace of death," Arthas growled, pressing Frostmourne into Sylvanas's throat.
Sylvanas stared at the cursed blade, trying to decipher what he meant; the peace of death. Surely he didn't mean…
All thoughts stopped as images began to appear in the blade, the first being two of her fellow Farstriders, whose death she witnessed. The brother and sister were practically hand in hand when they died. She remembered the poor girl's final words; "I want my brother," Pain filled her heart and she wished she had a chance to hold that young girl in her arms and promise her it would all be okay. Their deaths were too quick. But surely that was a good thing. They didn't suffer.
Nothing prepared her for what she'd see next; the image of the High Elven King whose bow she now wielded. Dath'Remar Sunstrider.
"NO!" she yelled before she could stop herself as Frostmourne pierced into the skin on her face.
The pain was almost impossible to describe. Sylvanas felt as though every part of her body was submerged in boiling oil after being coated in ice. She was struggling to breathe through the pain, screaming louder than she had ever done in her life. All the time, as the blade slashing slowly went from her face to her chest to her stomach, her vision was fuzzy and she saw nothing but the most agonizing moments of her entire life. The day the messenger came to inform her and her sisters that their parents had been killed. The day she lost one of her fellow rangers, a young, vigilant man, to the Amani trolls. The times after their parent's death where Alleria sank into sudden sadness, blocking out the world and leaving Sylvanas and Vereesa on their own. Every time Vereesa was in any kind of pain, waking up in the night screaming for her parents, screaming for Alleria, screaming for somebody to save her. The days where Alleria and Vereesa decided to move on from Quel'Thalas, leaving Sylvanas behind. Earlier that day, having no choice but to witness the death of her people in a hopeless attempt to save them from the Scourge, the death of the siblings, the death of the children, the sounds of tortured banshees in Scourge invasions, the rasping of mindless Scourge, the realization that there were nothing else she could do for her people.
The blood that fell from her wounds stung like acid, sizzling into her battered skin. She suddenly longed to be falling from that tree and landing flat on her ankle again, she longed to hear that agonizing crack, she longed to feel that breathless pain, because compared to the torture Arthas was causing her now, that was a paper cut.
Her throat was drying out, yet she continued to scream in agony. The pain was unbearable and she hoped that any second she'd black out from the agony and never wake up again. It could have gone on for hours, days, weeks, months, years…how much longer could Arthas stand to torture her? How could he even endure those screams? How long even had he been torturing her?
The slashing stopped, and blood drenched Sylvanas's entire body. She felt her eyes rolling up into her head, felt her body writhing and twitching on the ground, the room becoming dimmer and dimmer. The pain was too much…it surely had to kill her. Nobody could survive it. She wondered how she'd managed to hang on so long herself.
She caught sight, suddenly, of Dath'Remar's longbow laying just in touch of her right hand. If she was to die, she wanted to die at least with the bow in her hand. Dath'Remar was dead, she knew it. How else could his face have showed up in that blade? The Undead were servants of Arthas, and the siblings she'd seen die were his victims, even if not the victims of Frostmourne. Maybe that was why she saw them too. But Dath'Remar was definitely dead. He surely hadn't gone down quietly. She knew Dath'Remar Sunstrider, a brave, honourable King, a hero, a fighter. His bow was the only comfort to her in the tomb; a part of him was still close to her. If she could just reach it…
Arthas's foot pressed onto her right hand, pinning it to the ground.
"I don't think so, little elf," he taunted.
"I…" Sylvanas started, struggling even to talk. "I…I can't even…"
She felt glad that she savoured her last glance at the sunset and moonlit sky because she was indeed right she'd probably never see one again. Arthas had Frostmourne raised over her head and she knew he was about to deliver the final blow. She was going to die a prisoner of Arthas, but not in vain. Never ever in vain.
"Finish it," she gasped. "I deserve…a clean death,"
Arthas's blue eyes met hers yet again, and he whispered softly "I don't think so, Sylvanas. You shall know…endless torment,"
It finally struck Sylvanas what Arthas meant when he said he'd never grant her the peace of death. She was going to die…and live again. As a banshee of the Lich King.
Fear drowned out pain momentarily as Sylvanas stammered, still writhing, on the stone tiles.
"No! You wouldn't dare!" she gasped. "Please! Please, no!"
Then pain returned more than ever as Frostmourne was finally brought down. It pierced her heart with an agonizing thrust, but it was over as soon as it had begun. The pain was gone.
Momentarily, Sylvanas Windrunner felt at peace, then, just seconds later, she felt a pain unlike any other she'd ever felt in her life, like red hot claws were tearing their way through her skin, through her body…only from the inside. Like her body was being pulled from searing hot tar. Only worse. Much, much worse. The worst pain she'd ever felt in the years she'd lived. And she heard herself scream, but her voice was distorted, louder…
The last thing she remembered before dwindling into mindless slavery was the sight of her bloodstained, mangled body lying motionless on the ground, her right hand just inches away from Dath'remar's bow.