Prologue
"For many years has the corpse of Arthas Menethil sat encased upon the frozen throne. I say corpse because Arthas Menethil died the moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt of that awe-inspiring blade Frostmourne. Unfortunate then that his would be the face of the Scourge, and should you speak to any commoner in any region of Azeroth they would curse Arthas for the crimes he committed. Yet few would curse the name Ner'zhul, that was passed in secretive whispers among members of the Scholomance in the years leading up to the Third War. All who got close enough to a member of the Cult of the Dammed to hear their battle cry would soon find themselves among the ranks of the Scourge, and those Forsaken souls are too bound by hatred and the sting of betrayal to consider that their once beloved prince wrought horrors under the same bondage that he bestowed upon them. None more so than the Banshee queen herself. A surprisingly foolish woman, it was not her wisdom that let he slip from the grasp of Ner'zhul it was only her blind incontinent rage against Arthas that let her break free. A pity Arthas had so grand a role to play in Ner'zhul's plans or he may have done the same. Yet that was not Arthas's fate, and as the days pass, I feel the presence of my master Ner'zhul wax and wane along with that of my lord Arthas. I do not know what goes on atop that precarious frozen spire only that is building to a culmination, and afterwards the world will surely feel the wrath of the Lich King, whosoever might hold that title."
Jaina sitting at her desk, in her chambers, in her city, had read this excerpt over and over again for months on end following its recovery from the quarters of the frost lich Kel'Thuzad. Her closest confidants thought she was mad for keeping it, but it instilled within her a sense of morbid hope. It seemed to confirm a belief she had always had sitting at the back of her mind. That Arthas, her Arthas, would never have done the things he had willingly, that when he had murdered Terenas in cold blood he had as much of a choice in the matter as one of the Scourges slobbering abominations. In her brief encounters with members of the Forsaken while visiting Orgrimmar she had learned that few who served the Lich King had done so willingly. Jaina turned her eyes away from the scrap of paper she had copied from the tome now stored in the library of Dalaran. Whether her secret beliefs are justified, or the Lich Kings wrath really will once again beset the realms of mortals there is much she needs to prepare. After all, as a member of the Alliance she still has to stay up to date on what's occurring in Outland.
XXX
The face of the Icecrown region has changed greatly since a rift was torn open and a strange icy meteor was thrown unto it's face. First the ground was rent asunder by a ritual conducted by the hated Betrayer Illidan, then the glacier was shattered beyond recognition when the Deathknight Arthas Menethil sat upon the Frozen Throne, and finally years after that event the Scourge stationed in Icecrown began to stir, they dug, labored, and built unconcerned with how long that had toiled. Over the course of just a few months a mighty citadel was erected over the last remnants of the Icecrown glacier. Compelled as they were the work of the scourge did not stop there, all throughout Azeroth cultists and ghouls worked at a fever pitch, for they could already feel the steady hand of a master upon their mind. The Lich King may have slept but as he dreamed his wishes were carried out by his faithful servants. Members of the Cult of the dammed slowly worked their way into positions of small power, and freshly buried bodies would often be dug up once more. Travel was more dangerous than ever because merchants and couriers would regularly go missing on the long roads between towns, their bodies never recovered. Naturally this concerned the authorities of both the Horde, and the Alliance, but much of their attention was consumed by the events going on beyond the Dark Portal. Sadly, no action was taken after all the Scourge had made no real coordinated movements since the battle of Naxrammus. So, it was in this way that the forces of death marshalled themselves in preparation for the coronation of The Lich King. Slowly the numbers of the dead became swollen.
Yes, for many years the corpse of Arthas Menethil sat unmoving upon the highest point, in the highest spire of the Icecrown Citadel. Until today when with the sound of cracking ice, that echoed like ball lightning, the corpse of Arthas Menethil stood up. The Lich King walked once more among living.
XXX
I awoke in confusion, before the flood of memories came. Two lifetimes of horror and suffering, memories of manipulation, betrayal, and corruption. It was too much to process and the more aware I became the worse off I was. It felt as though my mind was stretched out impossibly, I was seeing through a million eyes. Hunger the likes of which I had never experienced before filled me, naturally I recoiled mind and soul from this, the uncountable mindless ravenous horrors clawing at me. They begged for me to release them like a plague upon the world. Luckily in my shock, they were rooted in place as much as I.
The memories were so vivid. I could clearly remember, life on another world, a connection to the elements and the tragic end that would come. Yet that body is long gone burnt away in the foulest fel flames of the Legion. I was once a prince, of a kingdom now dead, adored and then abhorred. Yet that person is gone. Now I am a King, and as I descend the spiraling steps from the throne, I heard a whisper in my mind.
"My son. The day you were born, the very forests of Lordaeron whispered the name, Arthas. My child. I watched you with pride, as you grew into a weapon. Of righteousness. Remember, our line has always ruled with wisdom, and strength. And I know that you will show restraint, when exercising your great power. But the truest victory, my son, is stirring the hearts of your people. I tell you this, for when my days come to an end. You, shall be king." My human father was right, but all I rule is a broken kingdom. I know without asking, my birthright, the kingdom of Lordaeron is ruled by a pretender. Not even this far flung frozen continent is wholly under my control. It matters little, in due time all shall kneel.
AN: Hey, thanks for reading my little prologue. I'm mostly doing this to just work on writing so any comments or criticisms are appreciated. I want to add about 500 or so words to each chapter as the plot gets going until I reach about 3 times the length of this one. I figure 9-12 pages is a good length for a chapter, but I'm open to suggestions. As for the inspiration for this, it's just a what if kind of story, what if instead of becoming a Saturday morning cartoon villain we got a Lich King who was the best of both Arthas (someone who canonically was one of the most accomplished military commanders in Warcrafts setting) and Ner'zhul (I mean the dude was able to outplay Arthas, the Kirin Tor, and the Burning Legion to get his way). So hopefully you guys will enjoy.