Of all the horrors unleashed upon Azeroth throughout innumerable ages, the most insidious was the Lich King's torture inflicted upon the minds of the Scourge. Calen was aware. From the moment he died and the whispers compelled him to stand again, through the endless rampaging and sleepless nightmares, Calen was aware of every single atrocity he was forced to commit.
Whatever part of him that still called itself Calen was relegated to a presence at the back of the mind of a shambling monstrosity. Countless times he tried to tell himself that it was not he who did these things. He was not in control. He was not to blame. Such wishful denial was impossible to maintain when all he could see was his hands tearing flesh from bones, all he could taste was the blood in his mouth, all he could hear were the satisfied grunts and howls of his voice. In his mind, locked away, he screamed, he raged, he sobbed, he bargained and begged with the voice that manipulated his rotting prison. It laughed and said it already had all it could need from him.
How long had it been? Calen could not remember. There was no rest to break the bonds of consciousness. Nights were as clear as days in this form. If only darkness could have obscured his vision and hidden some of the faces from his eyes. If only. But no, his eyes would not shut and the whispers in his head told him they never would. Worse, Calen was no longer certain those whispers were not his own. Were they always his? He was Calen. Calen … something. There had been a city, or a town, perhaps a woman? If only he could have a moment to think, but the whispers made it difficult, and they grew more compelling every day.
Years passed, each melding into an unending cycle of death and destruction. Then one day, while trudging through the wreckage that had recently been a village, the whispers stopped. Just stopped. For the first time since his death, Calen heard nothing but blissful silence. He blinked, and the sensation startled him. A groaning wail rose behind him. Calen turned to look and the action left him stumbling with vertigo. How long had it been since he turned his head at will? When he recovered he saw the sound had come from the other Scourge.
It was anarchy. A few, like Calen, were looking about them, trying to make sense of things. Most, however, seemed to be in a state of madness. They attacked whatever was in reach; tearing at fallen corpses, walls of houses, trunks of trees, each other. Many ran in whatever direction they happened to be facing without regard to destination or obstacles. Nothing guided them other than their own frenzy.
Calen wondered if anything guided him. He set his eyes on a barn that still had two of its walls standing. Thinking his own thoughts, he decided he wanted to go toward the barn and sit by it. Amazingly, his body complied without resistance; no voice in his head contradicted him; and Calen nearly wept at the sensation of rest when he leaned his back against the wooden boards. At long last, he was himself.
But for how long? The thought gripped him like an icy hand on his spine. He was not sure what had freed his mind, and whatever did might not last for long. At any moment he could be returned to a mindless thrall in service of the Lich King. Even if he was truly liberated, what then? Was he free to spend the remainder of his days recalling the death and enslavement he brought to countless lives?
It seemed a few of the other recently cognizant Scourge were coming to the same realization. A nearly skeletal man wearing the tattered robes of a priest was doubled over on his knees and screaming at his hands. A man with half his face missing had picked up a dagger and attempted to run it through his heart. After several tries, he beat his fists on the ground in frustration. A woman, he guessed it was a woman by the tattered linens that clung to it, walked slowly into a house that still burned and sat calmly on the floor while flames enveloped the structure. Through the doorway, he could see her, and she him. She lifted a boney arm in a gesture of farewell and a memory, distant and indistinct, skimmed across Calen's mind. Before he could fix on what it was, the roof collapsed on top of her.
Perhaps they had the right idea. There was no telling how long he had before losing his will again. He would never return to that. Oblivion was preferable. Calen walked slowly to a nearby catapult that had been used in the siege, some burning pitch still simmered in the bowl, ready to ignite his worn out flesh. His hand wavered over top of it and began to sear at the heat. Yes, this would be for the best.
"It would be a shame to make it this far," said a dark voice behind him, "Only to throw away what had been so dearly paid for." Calen spun around in terror. Had the voice returned already? When he saw who spoke, his mind eased, slightly. The words came from another Scourge, though this one seemed different. She was an elf, judging by the lithe stature and long ears. The skin on her arms and face bore no blemishes nor gaping wounds, though it did contain a necrotic bluish-purple from the absence of blood. She was clothed in a dark grey ranger's garb with a bow at her hip and a hood shading most of her face. Two red eyes blazed from the dusk.
"I … will not go back," Calen croaked. His words felt like gravel in his throat. "I won't be one of them again!"
"You won't," she replied, standing casually by the siege engine, "The Lich King's hold on you is broken and that is no small gift. Yet you seem ready to throw it away. Why?"
"Why?" said Calen, incredulous, "Look at me! What reason do I have to remain like this for one more second?" The lamenting cries of the awakened Scourge began to die down around them. Some cautiously gathered around, listening.
"You have a strong will," said the elf, "I asked myself much the same when I discovered I had regained the ability to question. Look to them." She pointed at some of the mindless wretches wandering the distant fields, attacking each other. "They were subject to the same treatment as you, and yet their minds are shattered while yours remains intact. That shows considerable strength, and we will need strength such as yours for what's to come." She gestured to the small crowd of undead that had gathered around them. "We will need all your strength."
Something kindled near Calen's unbeating heart when he listened to her speak and it grew to a flame as she continued. "You cannot return to the Scourge. Even if that was possible I would not allow it. Neither can you return to your former lives. The ones you cared for have forsaken you and given you up for dead." She looked down at a ring on her finger and her voice went momentarily soft, "Better that way anyhow."
Her eyes returned to the present and she addressed the group that continued to grow larger. "Alone, there is only despair, and then madness. But together, we are stronger for our shared suffering. Never before has a creature survived such a punishment as the one inflicted upon us. I see it only fitting that we shall see that suffering visited ten-fold upon he who is responsible. Yes, though he has been weakened he is still out there. He calls his champion Arthas to his side even as we speak. Should he succeed, he will cover the world in a second darkness. Join with me. Fight for the Forsaken and I promise you will see justice done!"
A fire burned within Calen, a cold fire that gave no warmth. Vengeance. It was a purpose, a reason for going on. It wasn't hope, but it would do. She turned back to him. "What do you remember?" she asked.
He paused, sifting through memories of endless slaughter and death, trying to find something of his own. "Calen," he said, "My name was … is Calen. I held on to that much at least. The rest is a blur. I … I think I know something of herbs."
"Calen," she said, resting a hand on his shoulder, "I am Sylvanas. It is good to have you with us. We can use you."