Ha! This has been rotting on my HDD for a very long time... and it's still not finished, though most of it is already somehow done :)
Anyways, this is kind of a tribute to Arthas Menethil, taking place after the Battle of Light's Hope (Death Knight origin) and the Wrathgate and going throught the whole time between these events and the final Fall of the Lich King :) There seemed to be nobody mourning for him (I cried a lot actually :)) and since there is no way to get rid of that pathetic golden statue of Asbringer in the middle of Dalaran, I decided to pay homage to my beloved blondie this way... :)
And also it's rated M for the next chapter... you'll see why *winks*
Hope you will enjoy it and leave some reviews! :) Criticism and suggestions welcomed as well :)
P.S. I'm not a native speaker, so please bear with me! :)
Old Friend
It began to snow. She watched the pure-white snowflakes falling down from a clouded, stormy-grey sky, settling upon a mass of structures scattered all over the valley below her. The snow thickened, wind began blowing around her, carying the stinging, chilly flakes along as if attepting to hide those horrid monstrosities from sight.
In her oppinion the attempt failed miserably.
A huge, half-build skeleton of a Necropolis moved slightly under the continuing pressure of the wind. A pair of thick, metal chains held it in place, hovering above one of three Ziggurats, placed strategicaly on the edge of a plane overseeing the entire first part of the valley. The sound of the wind now matched the howling of thousands of mortal souls being consumed by a large, dark-violet crystals atop of each Ziggurat - a power source for its defences.
A mild blizzard now sat upon the frozen wasteland of Icecrown, however it might have as well been just a breeze for all the attention it recieved from the vast armies marching across the valley. They could not hear it, they could not see it and they could not feel it, ror they were the army of the Scourge. Blight upon the lands of Northrend, hordes of undead, rotting remains of once noble dragons, gryphons, warriors, mages, barbarians as well as kings. All who had fallen in all the battles fought with this arch enemy of all living things were raised again to serve in the enemy's front lines in undeath. Thousands of hundreds of minions, driven by single thought and single will, led by a single master, once serving the whims of the demon lords of the Burning Legion – The Lich King.
He was once known as Ner'zhul, an orc warlock and shaman who did not meet the expectations of his demonic masters and his punishment was to be torn out of his body and cursed into an enchanted armour as well as a runeblade Frostmourne and trapped within a block of ice from the Twisting Nether. Given the powers over the death itself, the new entity was to serve forever as a puppet for those it had failed as a mortal being.
Aware of his getting stronger with each reanimated corpse, the Lich King suspected, that once he had served his purpose, he will be destroyed. To prevent that, he needed a champion. Someone willing to do what was necessary. Someone willing to choose a lesser evil for the greater good. Someone with great skill and training in the ways of body and mind.
And he found such an individual - a human prince, rash, passionate and hot-headed but strong and able to be the one to free Ner'zhul from his frozen prison.
The Lich King tore off a part of the ice encasing him and threw the frozen runeblade away so that the human prince could find and use it. It should have been a promise of all he ever wanted... and it was. The blade's curse corrupted the young prince, turning him against everyone and everything he ever knew and making him a traitor, an outcast, a shell of humanity – the first of the death knights- going mad by the voice of his enslaver, whispering all he wanted to hear.
And as the Lich King foretold, not so long after the Battle of Mount Hyjal, where the Burning Legion suffered yet again -just like ten thousand years ago- a crushing defeat, Illidan Stormrage have been sent by Kil'Jaeden to shatter his icy prison and undo the Scourge once and for all.
Knowing obout this treachery, the Lich King prepared to stand against his creators. But there was one thing he had not forseen. Illidan, with the knowledge of Gul'dan, whose skull gave him the power almost equal to that of a demon lord, used an ancient artifact – the Eye of Sargeras- to raze the whole continent of Northrend to the ground. Before he could be stopped, his spell managed to fracture the already damaged Frozen Throne and the Lich King's energy began leaking out at an alarming rate. He recalled his death knight champion to ensure the survival of both of them.
With the last act of defeating Illidan Stormrage at the foot of the Icecrown Glacier, Arthas Menethil completed the cirlce, prepared for him by the Lich King. He used Frostmourne to shatter the ice encasing his master and put on the armour, thus merging their two spirits into a new powerful being.
For five long years he dreamed inside the glacier, having his minions build the Icecrown Citadel around him. Slowly Arthas' will destroyed the last remnants of Nerz'hul in the process, taking his place as a dominant personality of the Lich King, however not without the loss of his own being. He became as much of a slave to the Lich King as the Lich King was to him –compromises being the only thing keeping them from falling apart. And now he finally awakened, prepared to wreak havoc among the mortal races of Azeroth once again.
She closed her eyes, trying to get the image of a smiling, golden-haired youth with see-green eyes out of her mind and looked once more upon the hordes of the Scourge. They were walking tirelessly back and forth to obey their master's wishes, blind to the storm rampaging around them, soulless reanimated corpses...
She could not take to watch any longer. As her eyes turned about the Crusader's Pinnacle a man came forward and stood beside her. The heat of life emiting out of him was overwhelming. She looked into his bright green eyes and was not surprised to see disgust and revoltion -though well masked- reflecting upon his gaze. He gripped tightly the handle of a massive, dwarven made, two-handed sword, said to be the bane of any undead creature unfortunate enough to get in its way. Its core made from an enchanted stone, used by an orc warlock during the Second War and found by a human general by the name of Alexandros Mograine.
The Ashbringer glittered at her maliciously. The history of this sword was at least as interesting and bloody as that of the Frostmourne. These two swords were enemies since the day they stood against each other - light and darkness; good and evil; paladins and death knights... yet they were the two sides of the same coin, as were their wielders.
She grinned at the man provocatively and his grip around the Ashbringer's handle tightened. Not even the coming of another man could disrupt the tension building up between them as they watched each other's every move, untill he coughed loudly and that odd sound made her look over her shoulder.
This man was different from the one wielding the Ashbringer, even though he too was familiar with its blade for he was its previous master. His aura felt cold and somehow painful. Despite his young age, he reminded her of an old man much more then the other one, who actually already passed the zenit of his life. Both of them had experienced much pain and suffering throughout their lives, however as one was driven by righteousness and Light guided his path, only hatred and desire for revenge have been the other man's companions.
In his gaze there was nothing that could tell her what he was thinking. He did not look at her, his eyes were fixed upon the moving hordes below them and she could swear in that moment, she saw a dark shadow move across his still handsome face. He looked quickly away as if frightened of what he was seeing and handed her the reins of a beautiful, golden gryphon with pearl-white wings.
The beast did not seem to like her touch even a bit more that it did his, but it had been trained well enough to believe his masters would not let it come to harm. She mounted it with a sigh, casted protective barrier against the storm and nodded at the two men standing infront of her, before soaring high into the air.
She intended to take her time, circling the Broken Front, where necromancers of the Lich King used their magic to rise more and more corpses of soldiers of the Horde and Alliance alike, left behind after the last battle, to fight for the Scourge.
Her commands made the gryphon rise high into the sky where a frostwyrm was about to cross their path. The undead dragon did not seem to see them maneuvering infront of its boney head as they followed it over the top of Mor'drethar. However it soon changed its course, heading somewhere towards Sindragosa's Fall. She turned her gryphon around and finally pointed it in the direction of Malykryss, where -hiden in the shadows- stood the Icecrown Citadel, towering over every other Scourge structure like a beacon, daring anyone bold enought to think about entering it, to try.
They began loosing altitude as she directed the gryphon to land on the cold steps of the Court of Bones, leading inside the Citadel. She then released the beast and continued on foot up the stairs, towards an Argent Crusade's outpost, right infront of a broken gate to the Icecrown Citadel. The crusaders have been informed of her arrival, yet they could not apparently help themself not to look at her with loathing and even the death knights among them seemed uncomfortable by her presence. However, she could not care less. She had her mission and there was nothing they could do about it. She laughed derisively from within the cape of her blood-red cloak and proceeded inside the Lich King's palace.
o.O.o
The tip of Frostmourne's blade sunk deep into the cold, stone floor covered in ice. It cracked slightly under the pressure. The Lich King dropped to one knee, brathing heavily, cluthing his chest in pain. Had he any blood left in him, he would now be coughing it out, he was sure of it. What he did not understad was why he was feeling this way –why he could feel anything at all. He, who was to be the most powerful being of all, who had taken every precaution to ensure his immortality -and with Frostmourne in his hands even invincibility- has now found himself in so much pain, like the last living human peasant.
„Master!" he heard a voice, trembling with fear as the Val'kyr battle maiden flew towards him.
She stopped abruptly as he looked up at her, eyes searing with rage. Not towards her but towards himself for showing such weakness infront of her.
„Get... out..." he whispered dangerously, propping himself up again with difficulty. „NOW!"
The Val'kyr obeyed immediately, knowing better than to oppose his orders. Her etherial, black wings dissapeared behind the corner as she descended the spiral starcase, leading to a pinnacle at the very top of Icecrown Glacier.
The Lich King sat heavily onto the frozen throne and put his arms on his knees, head bowed. What the hell was wrong with him? It was not like what had happened five years ago, when his life was leaking out of the crack in the ice, no... this felt more intense and much more excruciating.
His thoughts wandered to the moment, when he felt similar weakness for the first time– the rebellion of Darion Mograine and his death knights. He had thought he predicted all the possible outcomes of the attack on Light's Hope Chapel but he did not intend it to end up like this. The Ashbringer should have remained corrupted in the hands of the last of Mograines, in service of the Scourge and Fordring should have died by its blade. But something went wrong. Terribly wrong.
The only blade as powerful as Frotmourne itself was now in the hands of his enemy and one of his best lieutenants left along with it, betraying his master. Since then, everything the Lich King did went as wrong as it actually could.
Gloved hands clenched in angry fists. Now the very enemy he thought he had destroyed long ago was knocking at the very gates to his domain. Strenghtened by his own forces.
Deep within his own thoughts, the Lich King noticed the Val'kyr coming back just a few seconds before she was thrown to his feet, screaching with pain.
„What-?" he looked up, eyes narrowing.
A dark figure loomed from the shadows, walking towards him, slowly, with elegance known only to one race of Azeroth.
„Hello, Arthas. Or should I say ‚Your Majesty' now?" her voice carried to him like the most beautiful of songs and he found himself familiar with it, though he was not able to remember the face, however hard he tried.
„How did you get here?" he asked sharply, pulling the Frostmourne out of the floor and pointing it at the uninvited guest.
„Walked throught the front door, of course. Or what is left of it." she responded calmly as if it was the most logical thing in the world. „Would it be better, had I entered through the balcony? Or a window perhaps?" She looked about, an eyebrow raised.
There were no windows or balcony... in fact there was no anything. Just four icy spikes along the edge of the pinnacle, pointing up into the clear, stellar sky. True, had she wanted to, she could simply fly up here and land infront of his very nose.
She smiled jingly at him. Arthas felt his temper rising.
„A sharp tongue, but that will not save you. I would think Tiron smarter than this. You will become a fine asset to my army."
As he spoke, delight tinting his somehow distorted voice, Arthas raised Frostmourne, prepared to strike this little cocroach for mocking him and she lifted her hood... and the Lich King froze on the spot.
Her face was that of a high-elf, beautiful yet somehow sad. Her skin the color of a seashell, freshly washed onto a sun-litted shore, dominated by jet-black hair tied to a bun on the back of her head and dark, full lips. Eyes like sparkling blue diamonds - just like his own.
He felt as if he was looking into a mirror. Not the face but the eyes and an aura of immense power surrounding her, gave him the impression of standing before his equal.
„I am afraid 'tis a little late for that as you can see." she said and there was a tiny bit of sandess in her soft, singing voice.
„Keri'el ..." Frostmourne's blade shook imperceptibly and lowered slowly.
She did not let him speak. „And you are correct, I have been sent here by two of our... mutual friends to find a way to destroy you."
The Lich King scowled, stepped back and pointed the runeblade at her once more.
„Although," she continued impatiently. „I have no wish to do so."
Keri'el removed the sword from his hand with a single, quick movement and took off his helmet. Arthas' face looked like a sculpture of surprise, shock and disbelief. However, there was also something else beyond all that. Something she had not seen in a very long time. Something she had hoped to find there. Relief washed over her, putting her mind at piece at least for a short while.
Her palm gently touched his cheek, it was cold like death itself.
„Come. There is much we need to talk about. But first get off the armour, I am most uncomfortable with it looking at me."