"I did not know humans could have such stubborn minds." Westwind remarked, his sinister tone ringing in Archerus' ears.
His thralls drug the paladin by his wrists. His tabard, that which proudly bore the colors of Stormwind, was sullied with dirt and grime. Archerus himself hung his head in disgrace. He couldn't feel a thing in his body. His skin was cold, muscles weak. He was disarmed and helpless. In a perhaps foolish effort to save the lives of his allies, Archerus ordered them to flee. He bade himself to die alone.
"I could see the fires of retribution burning in you, boy. You cut those pitiful vessels down like they were nothing to you. You did not even kill them with grace... you struck with anger and hatred. Such a thing could consume a man!"
Barean turned back as they entered the profaned hall of New Hearthglen's cathedral. He reached down and grabbed a handful of Archerus' hair, jerking the man's head back to look into his eyes. Barean's were empty, just like the thralls who had drug him this far.
"But... I do suppose in the wake of your anger and hatred towards all those who wear our colors, you deserve clarity. It has been many, many years... hasn't it?"
Defiantly, Archerus summoned the will to pool the saliva in his mouth and spit at Admiral Westwind—defiant to the very end. The thralls released Archerus' wrists and forced him onto his knees before Barean. He was positioned on a crimson carpet with golden trimming, just before a dais placed on a platform. Barean remained in front of him.
Archerus could feel the eyes of more than just a few mindless creatures upon him. He could hear whispers – maddening whispers. They were mocking him. The paladin breathed through clenched teeth, eyes dodging to the corners of his eyes. The pews were empty – or so that he could see.
Without warning, Westwind placed his palm on Archerus' head. His gauntleted fingers curled around the sides and he held tight. A new pain invaded his mind. Archerus let out a howl, a painful, almost electrifying sensation being introduced to his already lethargic mind. His eyes rolled back into his head and his muscles finally gave way. When his eyes opened, he was treated to a very different sight – and a different body.
Archerus could smell smoke. His vision was blurred, slowly clearing. When he did manage to regain his bearings, he was laid up against the familiar brick of his father's forge. He looked down, only to see that he was in his father's workshop apron. Blood stained its front, and he could see a deep gash in his midsection. It was most certainly a mortal wound.
Without control over his own movements, Archerus clutched the weeping wound. When he turned his eyes up, managing the strength, a body loomed over him. It bore the tabard of the Scarlet Crusade, and familiar blue eyes stared down at him.
Archerus spoke – but his words were not his own. They were of his father, Talis.
"Is this it then? Is this what the world has come to?" Talis remarked, "A bunch of crazed zealots going from place to place, killing without regard because they believe there is heresy afoot? You're pitiful. The Light does not usher such impure souls into the afterlife..."
Talis lurched forward and spit blood on the tabard of the looming Scarlet. Her boot raised and pressed against his chest, beginning to violently and mercilessly crush the rib cage of the veteran paladin beneath her boot. The crunching of bone made his stomach wretch and he could feel the sharp fragments of bone rend his innards.
"Silence, heretic. The Inquisition has sentenced your family to be put to the sword. It should come as no surprise that I am an instrument of their divine will – I am the very hand of the Light," she said, her tone bitter and laden with resentment. "I am Grand Crusader Astraeah Renn of the Scarlet Crusade. In the name of the Holy Light, the Scarlet Crusade and all of Lordaeron, I damn you."
Talis moved a hand to her plated boot, gripping his thick, worked fingers around her ankle and doing his best to push her off. "You damn ME?! I fought and bled for humanity before you could hold a sword, child! I damn YOU, Grand Crusader! I damn you to the fiery Hell that birthed your cretinous order!"
Astraeah leveled her blade against Talis' chest. Slowly its deft point pressed into his skin, past his leather apron. He could feel it piercing his skin, but still he spoke.
"There well be a reckoning. There is no redemption for you, child! You will burn! Just as all of your ilk shall!" his chest rose and fell rapidly, but she just pressed further and further. He never looked down. He kept his eyes on her. Inevitably, his eyes closed. Blood flooded his lungs. The good paladin's life passed from Azeroth. A good man.
Archerus, who experienced all this vicariously, could feel every ounce of his father's pain. The crushing of bone, the piercing of steel. When it ended, Archerus resumed consciousness, and he bawled. He balled there before the cretin that had bested him.
Tears streamed down his cheeks as he turned his eyes to the large window beyond the dais. He wondered how this could ever happen to him. How life could lead him down this road – this path to destruction. Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn't he have just stayed in Hearthglen with his father and mother?
Westwind put his boot to Archerus side, knocking the broken hero over onto his side. The man simply passed him by, leaving the paladin to wallow in this penetrating feeling of betrayal.