On the road, as the horses whickered, and his companions bantered, he occupied himself with his present work. A powerful one, but an unusual one – the light of it was blinding, as if it were a holy tome, but it was no such thing, except of course - that it was.
He was attempting something he wasn't sure if anyone had truly attempted before, even his master. He was attempting to write a book of himself. Not an autobiography. But a reflection. A mean by which to study his own essence, what made him what he was, so that he might find the demons that had hidden so well within Medivh, so that he might prevent the fate that had befallen his master.
Medivh had purchased much knowledge at too great a price. Perhaps that was why he took an apprentice, so those lessons would never have to be purchased such a way again. For Medivh's scars, the world benefited. And Khadgar felt tears in his eyes. He had always loved Medivh, as his student, and even as his friend. Few had endured what he had endured alone.
What would he see reflected in these pages, he wondered, opening the book to the shimmering portals within, a whiteness too bright to be contained by the material world.
Diagrams and patterns flickering, trying to find a hold, a place, and disappearing. He sighed and shut it again. Patience.
Khadgar had fought in the first and second wars against the Orcs – their invasion from Draenor, bringing their Daemon masters and slavers holding their whips. And during that time, Medivh's madness had reached its height, and he had been forced to confront and slay his former teacher.
But death had not been the end for Medivh, not then, and Khadgar believed maybe it never truly would be.
None had spoken of Medivh, seen where he had gone, after the end of the third and greatest war – when the Legion itself invaded the world of Azeroth, presaged by the vile all-consuming Scourge that transformed the living into their undead army, defeated at the last desperate hour by the power of the Night Elves in a mortal alliance with both human and Orcs. Strange twist of fate. But Medivh had come to him, and Khadgar knew that wherever the prophet was, and how he attempted to fade from the world, somewhere, he was following some secret path, watching the worlds he had once passed his guiding hand through to draw out victory as an apple from a trough.
(*)
No. He clasped her hand, feeling the life leaving that stony but feminine strength. His spell had not been enough, he could not protect them all.
I miscalculated. They are maddened. They were fools to trust in me. This last he spoke of his companions.
As if scenting the mage, they had appeared like a storm, a frenzy that tore and whipped like their masters.
He whistled and summoned his gryphons. Khar, and Reddolf. Gifts from dwarves with the Kul Tiras navy, who hampered the beasts so that they might not be stuck aboard a ship if they needed to return to the lands of Azeroth. Which is why they gave Khadgar a pair of them, after rescuing them from a watery doom by sea monsters.
The adventurers took Magda upon Khar, practically scooping them from the earth;whilst Khadgar was quickly upon the brother, leading the demons away. The doomguard would not ignore a mage – the demons hated wizards the most. Mortal ones, at least, whatever games he played with age.
They took to the skies, while the mage brooded over his failure. Although he cast a brilliant sphere bright enough to blind the army and draw them, Khadgar barely escaped himself, with fuming demons on his heels.
Slain. Or almost. If Khadgar hadn't drawn them off, blasting them with all the magic at his command. A desperate move, but a wise one, if he could out-distance them. After all, he had flight and the fierceness of his sky-mount at his command. And his skills, of course, for whatever they were worth against such ancient evil.
They had been buried beneath the snow, shaking it off as if sloughing off old skin, they rose tall as a mountain together to bar the way. They had been hidden there who knows how long, perhaps knowing even since long ago that men would return to the place of the Last Guardian, the tower of Medivh, their unwitting agent who betrayed the world and brought their kind across. Even in death, his spells had fuelled Archimonde's transportation, even though he had met a fitting end. It was one that had required a great cost from new allies.
Just as these. It haunted him as he fled. He had protected them as much he could, and now he could only hope. Hope that Fate was kind to him, even though he could not see it.
They had brought down the two mighty Doomguard together, Magda had cracked one at the thigh and levelled it whilst he overpowered the other; but they were not all. And they pursued as Khadgar used his remaining strength and drained spells to lead them away, although he imperilled his mission to do so.
Once he had reached the tower… once he had gotten there…
(*)
His companions had been helpful, but they could only bring him so far. He could only hope for them as he did for himself – he did what he could. And now he was alone. He must be calm. Search for answers.
He had been here before, and he must see it now, and likely would again.
He saw it as he approached. No. he said again. The tower was ruined. It cannot be! And incensed with his need, he cast another spell. And had he looked, he would have seen the tome of his inner bright, flare into its own incandescence. The spell-work he had laid aided him now, and he could feel its magic even though he did not look upon it.
And there it was. Flaring into existence. It was not drawn through time, more, the phantoms of its existence were drawn together, to exist once more, one plane overlapping the other, as he had seen only once before in his direst tests, and reawoken now.
Now he understood why at first he thought the tower was still whole, when he espied it far away. Some magic in it was conspiring to preserve it, some ancient spell of Medivh's to protect his work, even after it had been rocked with destruction. As well for him that it were so, although the work had been incomplete until he arrived. Perhaps there was some sign in that.
He entered Medivh's tower. It only existed here, in a dream. Both untouched, and scorched and burned to the ground, it existed in all states, unless he concentrated on what he wanted. When he touched the glassy orb adorning an old table, it felt real. The books, the tomes – they were real, because they were always memories, and the magic remembered them.
He saw again, his master burning at the fiery touch of the demon that possessed him. He saw his ghost, less present than the person who was haunting, confronting Medivh as his master, to begin their final duel, master against apprentice.
He didn't expect his magic to open this doorway, but it did. Now all he needed to do was find out where it led, and find out what it was that evil truly feared.
For you, my old teacher.
For one night, perhaps. He only needed the magic to last that long.
THE END