Memories of Never, an Unofficial Warcraft Story
Chapter One: A King's Reign Begins Anew
-LK-
The greatsword Frostmourne glowed a brilliant blue along its plethora of runes, and Arthas smiled his evil smile, as the lives of twenty-five of Azeroth's greatest champions were snuffed all at once. Behind a mask of black plate, below eyes that glowed with death, the Lich King smiled, and spoke.
"No questions remain unanswered," he spoke to a paladin of the Holy Light and a prisoner of the Alliance, for no others lived to hear his words. "No doubts linger, in this world that awaits its King. You are Azeroth's greatest champions, and I am its greatest King! You overcame all to meet me here this day, every challenge, and all of my mightiest servants have fallen before your immutable might, your unbridled fury!"
The smile faded some, but none save the Lich King himself could determine this. "It is truly righteousness that drove you, though, or simply the need to take what could not be held from you? Is it for the edicts of justice that you joined Fordring, or do you instead hold the rage of Mograine closer to your hearts? I wonder." A hand shot up, a hand coated in the remnants of a worn plate glove, and bits of metal fell to the icy stage that was Azeroth's final chance, but the glove's basic form held together. "You trained them well, Fordring, whatever the reason that they fought. And you delivered to me the greatest fighting force the world has ever known, as I'd intended. It would not do to let you die without your just reward, paladin of the Light."
Arthas' hand glowed a brilliant golden, but only for a second. As if his spirit had forgotten that he had forsaken the Light in favor of the Void, a deep purplish-black crawled up his hand to eat away the glow, emitting a dull resonance in sound and dim light. "Watch now as I raise them from the dead to become Lords of the Scourge! They will shroud this world in chaos and destruction, and you will be the first to test their might!" He began to laugh, high and maniacally, and as his soldiers pushed themselves weakly off of the ground, his laughter intensified. They tried to stand, but one by one, they were thrust into the air and held as if bound by rope at the neck. They roared with animals' vigor, clawing at their binds despite being unable to touch the Void's energy, and brilliant blue eyes glowed within them and seared far brighter in the skull of their new King.
"The greatest warriors, fighting for the Light, will defend the King of the Dead and be the tool of your downfall. I delight in the irony, Fordring. If only you'd-"
"LIGHT, GRANT ME ONE FINAL BLESSING!" Fordring's roar transcended his body's inability to move, to draw breath, to wonder at anything but the show Arthas intended for him, and this drove the smile from the King's face.
"Fordring," he spoke lowly, with a growl, and drew forth Frostmourne. He did not advance, but Arthas knew that his enemy would succeed. He'd never quite learned what catalyzed the force known to the zealous Silver Hand as 'The Light', but he knew its power. Even Frostmourne would not stand against it without a fight.
No. It wouldn't stand against the Light at all. Arthas could see the icy prison cracking, and through each crack sprung a well of light. His teeth grit, and he knew; something was stirring within his very being, gathering a feeling he thought he'd lost, a beast waking another beast. His spirit was reacting to the Light, and it was judging him, and he was going to face whatever it was in its full, glorious form. Fordring was going to kill him with it, and his breaths came in sharp and ragged, and the blade slacked in his palm.
"No!" he bellowed, raising Frostmourne proudly and pouring the last of the Light, the last of the Void, everything he had into its form. "Your King calls on you!" he bellowed, and he could feel the blade wavering with his will, with his power. If Frostmourne had a consciousness, it would have been screaming in pain. "Now kill him!"
"GIVE ME THE STRENGTH TO SHATTER THESE BONDS!" And shatter them he did, and Arthas met him with a bellow, drawing Frostmourne down upon the thrusting punch of a swiftly-coming Ashbringer.
"DIE, FORDRING!" he roared, but he knew even then that there was no way his blade would survive if the two met. Time almost seemed to stop as he brought the runed blade down toward the beacon of light that was Fordring's Ashbringer, and the ground trembled with the might of even moving the blades. Arthas, on some animal level, realized though that it was not his blade that shook the world, but the paladin's. His resolve snapped then, and he wanted to draw back; everything was so slow, as if he swung through air thick as molasses, but he couldn't think to retreat. He would meet Fordring's challenge, and together they would write some history, for good or for ill.
He, the Lich King, would not shy.
They met, and an explosive blast ensued, but neither blade rang true against the other. Instead, a body stood between both of them, or perhaps more accurately erupted in a mass of gore between them. Fleshy red-and-pink globs tore through the air toward either competitor, glares meeting as blades washed light over one another. Ashbringer glowed with the Holy Light, and Frostmourne dimmed in equal measure with the expended energy of Arthas' fight and his inner turmoil. He smiled awkwardly, and then let out another laugh even crazier than the last. He'd lost an invaluable servant, but as the Ashbringer dimmed in the presence of the King, he knew he had won.
Others rose from the ground, though when they'd fallen Arthas had no idea or recollection. He'd not felt their impact, not seen them collapse, but he'd certainly been meeting with a more pressing matter at the time. Now, he took several steps backward, and his free left hand shot outward for his minions to see. "Perform your duty to your new King," he told the blue-eyed, bloodied, ragged adventurers who'd fought alongside him. "It is for me you will kill, and it is for me that you will cleanse this world of his kind of filth. You tried, Fordring. Now die, and witness the might of my champions as you do."
Fordring's face was a mess of emotion, but above all of them was a seething rage that he could not contain. "Arthas!" he bellowed, encircled by two dozen warriors of the Scourge. He took a step toward the King, and a flash of light beget a mighty wolf's violent rumbling growl, as it stood between the paladin and the death knight.
"A druid, feral as they come," the Lich King mused. "They don't really practice the Light, and may have nothing to fear from you." The gentle hissing of a bow drawing behind Fordring showed a master archer readying his arrow, Blood Elven ears drooping as if bowing reverently to his new servitude. "And the point of your demise eyes you down. I believe this one will be Dra'danas Phoenixshadow." Dra'danas' arrow held for ten, then fifteen, then thirty impossible seconds at full draw. The Lich King delighted in his soldiers' inability to tire or waver, in the victory he couldn't not receive. The King believed his Elf could have stood there for an hour or more, and still not release to even a nocked arrow. Its muscles didn't burn like a mortal's, and its eyes showed no strain.
Fordring's rage turned, just a bit. It was enough. The Lich King saw fear in his adversary's eyes, the snap of deepest conviction; even Fordring could see a challenge yet as great as the Lich King himself, and it terrified the wizened paladin to wonder what Arthas could now do to the world soon to fall under his grasp.
Two burly warriors edged to one side of Fordring; Arthas didn't even know their names, and wasn't sure he truly cared. They would be renamed in his forces anyway. Both were massive-chested Tauren, one bearing a large, black, spiky shield and a vicious-looking morningstar ("Defender Spiritbreath," a King thought with a smile), while the other beheld twin flaming greataxes that looked apiece too large for a single man to hold ("This one will be Nosh the Inferno"), but both looked quite similar. They both wore crested headplates brandishing the same colors of blue, red and deep amber in a flourishing artwork, customized as if they were brothers, and they both bore stars grafted into their shoulder-plates, indicating a rank apiece of no less than an Alliance brigadier-general. "They will prove useful," he mused, his voice echoing through the throne.
"There are others coming here to see you off, Arthas!" Fordring sputtered, turning here and there to meet the blue-eyed gazes of every one of the remaining twenty-four heroes. "They will bring judgment upon you!"
"Let them come and bolster my armies," the Lich King spoke, and in the deathly quiet that followed, his words reverberated endlessly.
Fordring growled his rage, the Ashbringer alighting again, and within a second a green dagger flew into his back. It connected true, driving into his side, just as an arrow was loosed and caught the righteous man in the right of his chest. From the crowd strode a roguely sneak-thieving Orc, who stopped just shy of the invisible circle drawn in the ice that held back the advance of Arthas' champions. "You will be Shayika Saurseeker. Humanity may have forsaken your kind, but all are welcome in the embrace of death." Saurseeker turned to eye her master, and a prideful grin decorated her features. So you did all retain your minds, the Lich King thought. Terrible, but perfect.
Fordring looked up, and from the glowing orange veins of a wizard standing beside Dra'danas came a wave of flame that slammed into his right cheek. The defender of the Argent Crusade screamed then, but it was a sound of fury less than pain. Fordring stood, and in a flash he was moving, and the Lich King's hand drove down with his bellowing cry: "KILL HIM!"
The wizard snapped a finger and thumb, and in a moment a massive fireball rushed out to meet Tirion Fordring head-on. The force of connection sent a shockwave through the ice, but it melted very little; here on the Crown, the ice was permanent, and would remain as such.
Fordring was not slowed, however, and rushed through the ensuing blast with a roar. The Ashbringer glowed fiercely again, and the wizard was rend in a moment. Fordring raised his blade to deflect the incoming blow from a mighty warmaul held by a female Blood Elf, who grunted and staggered with the meet of steel, before bringing it down mightily upon the body of the downed wizard. It hit with a sickening sound, a crunching of bone, and a spat of blood from a crushed skull matted the icy field. He then turned to meet the hammer again, batting it aside with such might that even the most skilled fighter could not have still held his armament.
The Elf bowed low, a dagger drawn to jab deep into Fordring's gut where the armor split, rolling with adept ease away from the falling blade. This didn't slow the paladin at all, but it did draw her a moment to regain her footing, and expertly the two fought footwork and ballet, dancing and swinging skillfully around and at one another, before she managed to gain advantage and lashed out in a martial kick at Fordring's left knee, buckling it. He immediately swung out a forearm, and in the same move took her from her feet to land with a metallic clank against the ice. Now prone, the Elf's neck was gripped, and she was slammed into the ice with enough force to daze. Ashbringer lifted, and . . .
. . . A massive wolf tore through the air to grip the grand paladin's plate glove, in the same move leaping overhead to tear him from his feet and toss him across the icy field. The Elven girl, for she could have been no more than seventeen years, shakily rose to her feet, damage done but not enough. "So you remember how to unite," Arthas mused, wondering why his healers stayed their magics, his robust defenders held their ground. "Fight as one, my champions. How do you believe you gave Fordring such hope?"
The Lich King vied to compete with this godly force Fordring had become, but he was spent of all the energy of the Void. He couldn't, and perhaps that was for the best; it did not do to have the King fight with his men, as that placed him equal. Even to heroes of this caliber, he was superior, and he knew it.
So he watched as two dozen became twenty-three, and very nearly twenty-two, and the fury lasted in the eye of the righteous. He couldn't risk summoning anything else to fight alongside his champions, if only he hoped to be able to stand against them after. "Twenty-three is a finer number anyway, isn't it?" he asked, and the paladin shrieked out his burning hate. "It needn't be twenty-two, if you unite. That is how we will bring judgment to the world."
"You are nothing but a monster, Arthas! I will free them, and every life you've taken from this world! I WILL DO IT ALONE!"
"You'll die trying," Arthas spoke as a portal crackled far away, and his grin should have been visible even through the plate helm. Your heroes have come too late to save you, Tirion Fordring, last of the Silver Hand. The Lich King raised Frostmourne again, and his champions closed. Fordring roared, but Arthas' grin did not let his struggling sounds drown out the perverted feeling of absolution he felt. The Light itself had come to judge him, and it had failed to administer.
And soon, he would have fresh champions to replace those he'd lost, and a bringer of ash to head them all.