Eternity and A Half: Hi guys. Yes, I wrote this. It was spawned from me being in a particularly dark mood. It may offend/upset some people, so if you keep reading, it's of your own accord. Okay? Good. This is in the "The Forgotten Ones" universe, and it takes place a few weeks before the Battle of Icecrown. Well, hope you enjoy.
ShadowedLight: Hey there! Here's a thanksgiving surprise from Eternity And A Half. I wish I could write a companion right now, as I have two planned. But unfortunately I am occupied with another project that requires my immediate attention. Anyhow, I really didn't do anything with this fic. Eternity came to me and showed me it, and though it did contain "sensitive material", it is still excellent writing. Hope you enjoy guys, and again, if you believe that this fic may put your personal health in danger DO NOT READ IT!
RAIN
Sylvanas needed to get away that night. She didn't know why, exactly, but it probably had to do with the dreams. They haunted her sleep every night, never letting her truly rest. Dreams of death and destruction and purple creatures spilling over land like wine on a white tablecloth. She needed to get away from them. Being of elven upbringing, she slipped easily past her guards who most certainly would have advised against the "trip" that she intended to make.
Though the Undead did not technically sleep, the generally consensus in the Undercity was that there should be a period of rest. As all of the Forsaken were of human origin, it was natural that they should choose the night. It was quiet, although not peaceful; it would have been, had she not known what resided within the architecture below.
The Banshee Queen's palace was built on an elevated section of the cavern. Its many spires and magnificent obsidian walls towered above the Undercity. It was originally intended for Arthas to use, but since he was driven from Lordaeron, Sylvanas thought it a fitting symbol of her victory to reside within his would-be keep. Tonight the very sight of it disgusted her, almost as much as the pale, dead skin that enveloped her light bones.
The only way out of the Undercity was through a series of baskets attached to ropes, which in turn were attached to pulleys on the surface. They were blissfully far away from the "town," so she did not risk one of her servants hearing her leave. The city disappeared into blackness as she made her way to the outskirts, passing a river that ran green.
Sylvanas reached the passage to the surface without incident. She stepped into one of the tightly woven baskets and yanked firmly on the rope, making sure it was secure. She was about to begin pulling herself up when the rope glowed a brilliant blue; she fell back a step, startled. It began to contract by itself, as though an invisible person was doing the work. Sylvanas sighed; she had forgotten that they had been magically imbued but a day before. She forgot a lot of things these days.
Soon the cavern below had disappeared into an inky shroud, and the stale air of the Undercity gave way to the fresh, sweet air of the surface world. The shaft led to a gaping hole in the center of Lordaeron's capitol square, dredged out by Arthas' servants before the Banshee Queen had taken the country as her own.
She had hoped to see the stars, to look at them and find the one she had taken as her own as a child. It was bright and vaguely bluish, and whenever she had a wish, she would ask her star for it. As she had grown into an adult, she had left her star behind, but now she wanted to see it, and wish upon it one last time.
But no, all that met her gaze as the basket finally carried her to surface were gray midnight clouds. It was brighter up here than down below in the cold recesses of the earth, but not by much. She couldn't help feeling that she had left the blackness of unlife below for the blackness of death above. Still, she was completely alone now. And being alone felt good.
The basket finally came to a stop, and Sylvanas stepped high to exit it. All around her were broken ruins of once proud buildings, and the ghost of King Terenas' palace sat mourning on the dark horizon.
The building she was looking for, however, was one of different nature. She walked slowly across the deserted streets, staring up at the largest structure in the city apart from the palace. It was a cathedral that towered up into the night sky, its broken, stained-glass windows like haunted eyes. She came to the magnificent, polished-oak doors, which were covered with the scratchings of ghoul claws. Alliance soldiers had holed themselves up within the cathedral when Arthas' forces decimated the city. They had been killed, of course. Sylvanas dug her hand into the small, open space between the twin doors and pried them fully apart.
In front of her was an eerie scene. The pews, once neatly arranged to face an elevated platform where the priests would give sermons, praising the light, were now strewn about, and some were even tipped on end. Two candelabras sat on the platform, the gold reflecting the moonlight that streamed in through the vacant windows. Stained glass littered the cold, silver stone floor, and it crunched beneath her feet as she walked to a marvelous staircase that was concealed behind the platform.
Up and up and up she walked, her undead muscles never tiring. The staircase ran in a spiral, climbing to dizzying heights. The original builders, she surmised, must have believed the higher they went, the closer they would be to the Light. Fools. The Light was worthless. The Light cared for none.
Eventually she came to a ceiling, in which there was a trapdoor. Just beyond the soft wood Sylvanas could hear a pitter-patter and a distant cracking sound. Thunder. The dark clouds had opened up and wept for the city that lay dead in its casket. She sighed and pushed open the trapdoor. It had once been a bell-tower, but both the "bell" and "tower" sections had been removed somehow, so all that remained was a floor and half-walls of shattered stone and more shards of stained glass. The rain fell heavily upon her, but she didn't feel it; the dirt and grass below was damp, but she did not smell it.
Lightning sparked above her head and soft thunder soon followed it. The rain had dampened her cloak so much that it now stuck to her gray, almost rotting skin, and her silvery hair, once strawberry blonde, hung about her haunted eyes in slippery ropes.
Without warning Sylvanas dropped to the ground, pulling her knees up to her chest and rocking back and forth. For the first time in more than a hundred years, Sylvanas Windrunner, the Banshee Queen, cried. Her tears were invisible poison amongst the rain, slow and painful. No matter how much power she attained, she would always be like this. She would always be a slave to death.
With a trembling hand, she reached over and picked up a shard of the stained glass, made slippery by the water. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked once again. By the dull light of the shrouded moon, she saw the image of a smiling angel painted on the piece of glass. Her hand still shaking, tears still streaming, she let go of her legs and brought the glass to her wrist… and sliced.
The cut was not deep; she didn't even feel the vein sever, although she knew it had. Black, inky blood bubbled up from the thin line. She took the shard in the opposite hand and with a gasp, cut her other wrist. There was no pain, not even any relief. She knew that it would not kill her. She couldn't die as long as Ner'Zhul lived. But still, it felt good to pretend.
She looked up at the sky. There would be no star there for her.
There was only the rain.