WARCRAFT - UTHER LIGHTBRINGER
A Fragment of Light
Uther studied his fingers, tracing as they did his words upon the parchments. Words that others would read. For now, as the battles became more plenty, he found that his experience gave him time for thought, and for recording what he learned.
"They used to speak of visions. The monks. They saw they saw a being of Light, who they would converse with, studying the aspects of the Holy Light, and its applications. And wrote this wisdom and discovery in their tomes.
And they described him. A creature, not quite like a man, but with blue skin, and something like a beard, but was merely part of its face."
He had walked these halls for days, feeling something like a haze surrounding him. It was a holy place. A church, but not a human one. But one filled with familiar works.
He was in his room now, a large bed against the window. For some reason, one of the paintings was hanging over his short writing table, whilst he creaked in the oaken stool. It was a study as was common in churches and temples, usual priestly sturdiness and spartan design.
He looked at the painting. "This is their likeness of him," he said aloud to himself. "The one who gave us much knowledge of the workings of the Light, fighting in the war against demons. I did not think of it much, then, just a powerful mystery of our order, a matter for priests rather than warriors to truly understand. But after seeing the great portals, the demon-lords, what was spinning out in the black between worlds. I now wonder, and I am now curious. Who was this being? Are there others like him? Who truly gave the Light to this world, or was it always here?"
As he spoke, he also wrote the words down, letting every trace of his thoughts become committed.
Strange, for one so inhuman to be the messenger for us from the Light. Or perhaps so fitting. As between Men and the Light there may be many forms it takes, just as there are many shapes to its shadows. He found it interesting, not at all strange, as if he had not been raised on those teachings since a boy, since before he ever took up the calling, the blessing of monks, to be neither a priest nor a knight, but one that wielded both as a single weapon – much as the maul symbolised, requiring two hands to swing, and the might to swing it.
Many had, as they grew older, wiser, more able to feel satisfied in their decision, had eschewed the maul in favour of other weapons perhaps they still longed for, the blade and spear and axe, those of knights. But not Uther, and not many who followed him. They were proud of the burden it represented, the strength it taught, the symbol it represented. He knew, that when he died, it would be with that very weapon in his hand.
When I die?
He frowned suddenly, realising something was wrong.
Someone walked in, then, as if sensing his thoughts, and he clattered to his feet, thrusting the wooden stool from him.
"Where am I?!" he demanded. "I remember Arthas slaying me – how am I here, writing these words!"
The figure did not waste time, but pulled back his hood, revealing Elven ears.
"Because you are beloved, Uther, we Elves have worked a little magic for a time."
Uther looked around, realising suddenly how strange his surroundings were. Elven architecture, to be sure. And outside, there was sunlight. Birds. Trees untouched by blight. Clearly trees common to Lordaeron.
"I thought there were no such settlements left in the land."
"Maybe there are not. Not in your time."
He looked at the Elf sharply.
"When Arthas slew you, your soul was split in twain. But your spirit cried out, so loudly, that it was heard even here in Quel'thalas. This is… before."
"Your spirit got… caught… as it were, in a little spell I had created. Fortunately, it seems. Your spirit was plucked out of your time, and put into your body here."
"My…"
He walked to a window, glass, and peered at it. He saw that it was true. His face was younger, firmer, less grey.
He recognised it now. The abbey of Selenor. And the Elf was familiar to him as well, but the sudden jar, even though the man hadn't visibly aged, had given him leave of his senses.
The Elf, and this abbey, had been lost during the war. They shouldn't have been here – any of them.
"It is said that those who walk the Light often have visions, spells of other places, visitations from powerful beings. It is odd, however, to think you are visiting yourself. But not so strange to us Elves, perhaps, who often speak with spirits of the dead. When I sensed your presence, how strongly you lingered, sending your past self into a coma, I and several others worked the spells to stabilise your presence, and then you woke as you are now – writing busily, with materials you requested from us, as if we had merely interrupted some work."
The Elf seemed calm about it, but a shadow passed over his face. "I suppose that knowledge will grieve me – but even I dare not tamper with Fate, not if there is hope in your time, and that hope brought you here to my home. Even I am not daring enough to break the laws of hospitality."
"I think time weaved a little trick for you, Lightbringer. You should feel honoured, that occurs to very few. I think… despite your death, there are somehow yet trials for your soul ahead. I do not think it needed to, but somehow, I feel, it wanted to."
He paused in the doorway. "Therefore, I think, you should take your time to rest."
"How long have I been here?"
"Weeks, I should think. I do not know how you did not notice, but I did not wish to interrupt your trance."
(*)
"They called me Lightbringer, because I was honoured to bring those teachings and knowledge, and yet there is more I would learn."
And so he wrote the final words, that finally made sense of his work to himself.
So that even in the deepest darkness, there will still remain a memory of light. And the Light will never truly die even when the Enemy has snuffed out all mention.
Truly a dire and dim way to view it, but he chose those words as a warning, both for paladins and any enemy that read those words. For it was not paladins that were filled with the glory of Light's salvation that needed words to rescue them, as he had once heard it said, it was those who had fallen that needed the light to reach them. Or they would never escape the darkness.
Like Arthas. Whom he had once loved like a son and then watched destroy all that they had accomplished in Lordaeron. Toppled its towers, slaughtered its men and women. Even thinking of it now brought grief to his chest, so that the mighty man was unable to continue for a moment. But then he did.
May these words be such a candle, when you have no other.
Those who would read it, he knew, when they felt that Darkness take hold of them – they would understand what it meant.
(*)
After Uther's death, they brought one of these books to Anduin, who had loved Uther, although was only a boy when he knew him. It was an enigma, he was told, it spoke of things that had to be prophecy, for the words were written well prior to the event. The Elf who brought it smiled at him, as if he knew a secret, but could not speak it.
Anduins' hands traced the cover. "Memories of the Light". He said out loud, softly. An apt name for it, he thought.
And then he opened the book, wondering what he would find within from the paladin master.
THE END