Hey guys.
Well the story comes to a final close, a bittersweet feeling for a writer, but a satisfying one as well.
Thank you to all who've followed the story from beginning to end, I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. If I could make a last, selfish request, I'd love to hear from any of you who want to give a final critique now that it's done. What you liked, what you wanted to see more of, parts that seemed awkward or need refining. And most of all what parts of the story struck you most powerfully.
I'd originally intended to put this epilogue second, but the one I put up first seems like a better way to end the story, so this one will go first.
Farewell,
NT
Epilogue
New Life
The Pig and Whistle tavern in Oldtown was the haunt of veterans and city guards. As such, it boasted patrons even during the early hours of the morning. Men who started their drinking in defiance to the tenets of decency, men who were still drinking from the night before, and men who slept by day and were drinking themselves to bed.
At one table near the corner sat a burned man in a soiled, stained tunic and breeches meant to go beneath heavy plate armor. A mug of ale rested on the table in front of him, but he barely seemed to notice it. The serving girl, who went to every patron regularly to see if she could serve them anything else, shunned the burned man as if he carried the plague.
The mood in the tavern was always dour, its patrons businesslike in their pursuit of ale-soaked oblivion, but even so it was more quiet than usual. When the silence was broken by the door to the inn being thrown open the others turned to the distraction with near relief.
A big man stepped into the room, so tall that he had to duck through the door. He, too, wore the quilted undertunic that went beneath heavy plate, and his, too, was heavily stained and soiled. So it was with little surprise that the patrons watched the big man stomp over to join the burned man.
The burned man didn't look up as the giant newcomer sagged into the seat across from him. The entire bench groaned at his weight, and a few of the sodden drinkers murmured in various stages of alarm. The big man waited a few moments for some greeting, then grunted and motioned to the serving girl. Not until he'd downed a full pint in several deep gulps and waved for another did he finally speak.
"Found him." No response. "Squirmy little sneak gave up as soon as I let on I knew, although he talked a convincing game up to that point. I didn't even need to voice an accusation before he was good-naturedly pressing a few sacks of gold into my hands. Completely unapologetic, the little bastard."
The burned man nodded once. The ale in front of him was topped off to the brim, all the foam collapsed and not so much as a sud to be seen. It had sat there like that for almost three hours now, untouched since he'd ordered it. At first the patrons around him had looked at it longingly, then in distaste at the thought of drinking such a warm, flat brew. Now they were glancing furtively at him, uneasy at the sight of a troubled man come to drink but not so much as taking a sip, only staring at his mug hour after hour.
"A call's come from Perival at the Magetower. The Kirin Tor have announced that with the Scourge cleared from Dalaran's streets the rebuilding will commence. They call for all laborers skilled and unskilled to come and earn an honest wage with the surety of peace and protection."
The big man took a long, slow sip, digesting that news, before he finally grunted. "I signed up as a soldier to avoid backbreaking work, and that was when I was a boy. We're too old to get into that business now."
"Better for me if I'd stayed on as a farmhand," the burned man said quietly. "Rella, the farmer's daughter. She let me into her bed once. We talked of marriage before the war broke out and I went in search of excitement." His eyes studied the turgid liquid before him with hopeless intensity. "She was a little slip of a thing, tiny as a child but with a woman's shape. Hair like liquid ink, eyes even darker and deeper that filled up half her face. Gods, what did I leave?"
"You think it might be a bit too late to go back to a life we abandoned thirty years ago? You can set your shoulder to the plow again, but it won't put your girl back in her bed giggling as you slip through the door."
The burned man's jaw clenched. "I've no taste for women anyway." He backhanded his mug with sudden violence, sending ale spraying across the table. "Nor for drink. Light blinding, he should've let me die!"
The big man had half-risen to escape the torrent of ale, in doing so dislodging two of the other men on the bench. A third was cursing bitterly as he dabbed a tunic now soaked in stale brew. But at seeing his friend's shoulders sag, the brief flame of his rage dying as swift as it was kindled, he sat again. "Ah, Dare. If it's a retirement of hauling stone you want I'll be by your side same as always. I daresay I've still the strength for it."
The burned man was staring down at his hands, flat and perfectly still on the tabletop. "You've Castaway's gold."
A dour laugh from his friend. "Aye. All we'll ever see, although more than we would've gotten for our cut, eh? A pity the bank's got two more guards at the door now, with that pasty shit Burnside peeking through the door. I'll wager he doesn't see much with his eye swollen half shut, and he should thank the Light I'm a civilized man or I would've got him with a closed fist and smashed his face in."
The scarred hands on the table clenched. "Don't speak to me of his lies, or the men his broken oaths would've shorted had they not died to his cause. He refused me death, so all that remains is life. Too late to go back, you say? I say it couldn't happen soon enough. Let me live out the rest of my days building rather than tearing down, and I'll be content."
The big man's frustration finally showed through. "But why this path, Dare? You could buy a farm still, or work at one locally if you so desire. Or you could still have more. You're a knight of the Order of Lothar. King Varian has welcomed you with open arms and a kiss on your cheek. You could have a position of command."
"Varian." The scarred man gave a hollow laugh. "He welcomes me with open arms, while his banker refuses to honor a contract won in blood. He kisses me, while the men who rebuilt his city rise in open rebellion after he refused to pay them the very reasonable wages they worked for. The very men who worked long hours without compensation on the Cathedral of Light now swear to drag this king from his throne."
The big man looked around warily. "Careful, friend."
The scarred man shoved to his feet. "I go to Dalaran, Blackfinger. I do not ask you to join me, nor expect you to. I could never have asked for a finer friend or brother in arms."
. . . . .
In the necropolis of Kaznar there were few dungeons. The dead had chains of a different sort, and the Lich known as Darkstone had little interest in holding the living. They were of more use dead.
Yet the dungeons were not empty at this time. The battle of Icecrown Glacier had resulted in many foes captured, foes powerful enough that they had more use than to simply be slaughtered and have their bodies raised as puppets. And the process of tearing the life from an elf, and his freedoms as well, while preventing his soul from escaping was not a short one, nor easy. The numbers in the dungeons dwindled but slowly. The captured Lady Lana'thel had been the first, but not the last, to enter the ranks of the San'layn.
But in the deepest reaches of the floating necropolis's dungeons one prisoner huddled alone in his cell, cold and starving and sick and none of those things. His eyes burned a cold blue in the darkness, and like many traitors who suffer for their treachery he blamed his suffering on those he betrayed.
Even in a bastion of death such as this one living things dwelt. Tiny spiders, rodents with thick fur pelts and long fangs, beetles. He could hear them skittering in the cell, scratching behind the walls. Their blood wasn't enough for his thirst, though he'd perfected the technique of singling out their essence and closing the iron fist of his will about it from afar, dragging them to him in an eyeblink.
Days passed, perhaps, or weeks, though how he could live so long was a mystery to him. And eventually one of the scratching sounds he heard beyond the wall struck him as far too deliberate and regular to be the skitterings of a pest.
Frowning, he followed the sound, long ears perked as he dragged himself around his cell. Until finally he found again the tiny grate meant to carry away offal, the grate he hadn't yet used. The sounds drifted up from it, faint and persistent. "Who's there?" he hissed.
The scraping stopped. "Same to you," a cracked voice hissed back. Whoever that prisoner was, he must be in even worse shape than he.
"Ilinar Montfere."
A long pause. "Oh, you."
The casual dismissal in the other voice infuriated him. His was a blighted history, a shameful affair with a human his mother tried to hide, resulting in his birth, at which time she tried to hide him as well. Her death at the hands of the Scourge and his life after as an orphan and beggar, one among hundreds of refugees. Still, he was a Montfere, the Mountain of Fire that had once loomed over Corona's Blaze as the most powerful family, ancient before ever the Firedges or Darkstars had wormed their way into influence.
"Yes, me," he snapped back. "Now answer my question, or I'll seek your soul out and grip it to me, whether your body follows or not."
A low laugh echoed through the grate. "You've lost none of your charm, I see. One wonders why you left Nex, when you two could be father and son by your demeanor."
"Who the hell are you?" he snarled, gripping the bars of the grate and ignoring the filth crusted on them.
"In Silvermoon, in life, I was called Keleseth. Now most know me as Doran Havel."
Ilinar's breath hissed out. "You."
"Yes, it seems our former companions left me a choice of returning to Stormwind and certain death or being left alone to fend in the heart of Northrend. You can see which path I chose, and its eventual result."
"Why the hell are you scratching?"
Another jarring laugh. "I still have one arm, boy. Even stone must eventually fail, and there are plenty of frozen bones in my cell to use as tools. Also, being dead, time isn't really a factor. I'll win my freedom some day."
Ilinar's lip curled up in contempt. "Far better to join the Scourge and win true power."
Havel's snigger raised his hackles. "Like you did, Montfere? How's that working out for you?"
With a snarl he forced his power through the grate, seeking. After a few moments he heard Havel's grunt of surprise, and then silence. Eventually the scratching started up again.
Ilinar moved away from the grate and huddled against an icy wall, furious. The Lich who'd come out to save him from Nex had proved bereft of mercy. Within moments he'd found himself gripped by cruel geist claws and dragged into the necropolis and to this dungeon. All the way he'd shouted at the skeletal creature of frost and darkness, trying to explain his circumstance and what he had to offer. His cries had landed upon deaf ears.
More time passed, interminably, and he started to feel a bit of despair. He'd already died once, was he doomed to die again? With his power could death even take him, or would he slip into some form of undeath as Havel had done?
The opening of the door was so abrupt that it slammed into him before he could move, and he yelped and scampered back until he was pressed against the rear wall of the cell.
He'd been expecting undead servants, but instead a lean figure in heavy plate strode into the room, the fineness of his clothes suggesting someone of importance. Although if was difficult to see his features thanks to the scarf wrapped around his lower face the human was certainly undead, judging by the gray pallor around his eyes and the cold dark light glowing in them.
"So you're the elf boy who fancies himself a death knight?" the armored man asked softly, voice echoing oddly in the cell. His tone was cultured, his words clipped and precise.
Ilinar forced himself to his feet and stood tall. "Ilinar Montfere, of the Montferes of Corona's Blaze."
"A lofty title. You appear more a half-elf bastard, a wastrel tagalong of Kael'thas's pitiful band."
Ilinar scowled. "And your claim is a better one, human?"
Before the last word was half out of his mouth he found his throat seizing shut, ending his bold statement with a strangled grunt. He clawed desperately at his neck, but there was nothing there to pry loose. The pressure on his throat increased, and when he looked down he saw that he was almost a foot off the ground, pinned to the wall with casual strength.
"You miserable wretch. You address the Baron of Stratholme, Matthias Rivendare, friend of Kel'thuzad and personal servant of the Lich King. At Darkstone's behest I've come to assess your worth, but in all honesty you seem barely fit to be slain and reanimated as the least of undead."
Trying to snarl through a closed throat, Ilinar snatched at his power. His time in the dungeons had weakened him physically, but his power seemed to have grown in the intervening period. Although he'd never tried to grip anything larger than a rodent, he sought out this Rivendare's essence and closed about it. It was like trying to crush a diamond in his fist, and by the amusement dancing in Rivendare's eyes the man knew just how overmatched this confrontation was. Still he heaved on that iron will with all his strength, even as dark spots danced before his eyes.
A loud grating sound filled his ears, and Rivendare's lean, armored figure slid forward half a foot. The man grunted, whether in surprise, satisfaction, or disappointment, Ilinar couldn't tell. All he knew was that the viselike grip on his throat vanished and he fell heavily to the ground, gasping in strangled breaths.
"So, you're not completely useless after all. You're young and weak still . . . but death is patient, is it not?" His voice hardened. "Show me."
Ilinar looked up, blinking away tears of pain, and saw that the man had drawn his sword and was pointing at the blade, where powerful runes had been etched. After a few more shuddering breaths Ilinar bit his finger, then stretched it out and began painting runes on the wall.
"Good, boy. Not mere imitation of the ones you see upon my blade. If you've not learned it by now, you should know that all runes are a reflection of their wielder, and even among those that share the same purpose no two are the same. These ones are unique to you, to your power, and they speak of blood and vengeance. I am pleased." Rivendare abruptly turned. "Come."
Ilinar staggered to his feet and stumbled forward. "When will I have a runeblade of my own?"
Rivendare didn't turn, nor did he pause in his swift pace down the corridor. In his weakened state it was all Ilinar could do to keep the man in sight. But his voice drifted back, taunting.
"Runeblades are the highest form of weaponry, to rival even those wielded by demon lords. They're not some toy for a child. If you prove yourself worthy, when you're grown and have made the sacrifice you will be taught how to forge your own blade."
"What sacrifice?"
Now, finally, the Baron paused. "Why, taking the final step to finding true power. Death."
