The Orb was gone, and with it the stability of the gateway's opening. The portal yawned, half-closed, the binds of reality that held it ajar already nearly dissipated. In a few mere minutes, it would seal again entirely, and the last of the doorways to the Nether would be once again shut. The forces of Kil'jaeden and the greater Legion would be powerless to enter the world, and the demons already in Kalimdor would be stranded.
Araj the Summoner hovered about fifteen meters in front of the demonic gate, watching it die. He had been watching quite a long time - watching the clumsy Pit Lord handle the Orb, watching him gasp as it floated into the air and began to swell, watching as he quickly gave in to greed and power-hunger and dared to haphazardly tap into the Orb's energies with his finger – all as Arthas had said he would.
The Orb, disrupted by Azgalor's touch and the concurrent demise of the mighty Archimonde, had been thrown afar into the teeming jungle, and Azgalor, predictably, had gone after it. Araj had played a minor role in its direction, as per his master's instructions, of course, but the reality of the spell's turmoil needed no exaggeration. The process which had reopened the gate had been shattered, the power that fueled the opening removed, and the rift was winding back down.
Since the oaf's disappearing act, Araj had come out from the forest to wait in the open clearing. He could see that the stonework of the gate structure itself was also coming undone to match the metaphysical gateway it housed. Fearless of its death throes, the lich had time to note its beauty as it crumbled. The purple-veined, red-glowing rift was fluctuating and pulsing in to a slower and slower rhythm as its chord to the Nether came unraveled, and Araj could not help but think the image quite exquisite.
It's time, Araj, came Arthas' voice in the undead spellcaster's head. Araj did not reply; his master could sense his acknowledgement.
Moving his skeletal limbs in a wide arc, Araj began to chant his spell, drawing upon the sluggish, churning movement of gate. He allowed the gate, in turn, to tap his own power, but rather than accelerate the rift's oscillations as the Orb had done, Araj was careful instead to use his magic to slow the portal to a gentle stop. The rift did not implode, as it should have without motion for Araj's guiding hand had assured that the connection to the Nether remained intact, yet dormant. The surface of the rift was calm, like a tranquil pond.
Slowly, gently, the lich reversed the motion of his arms. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, almost imperceptibly, the movement of the rift began again. The pulsing was different, now, however; its direction had been inverted. Whereas the doorway had previously seemed to twist like a funnel towards the clearing where the lich hovered, chanting, it now appeared to swirl inward, away from the forest.
Araj smiled, satisfied with his work. Like a cook who has stirred his soup to perfection, he removed his guiding hand from the rift and ended his spell. The gate would continue to swirl for the time required without his perpetuated aid, just as the pot continues to churn peacefully after the cook has removed his stirring spoon. Araj's cooking was done, and all that was left was to let the pot boil down.
The nature of the demonic gateway, like all of its kind, had never been to provide an exit to the Nether; it had been an entrance from thence, a one-way door from the hellish realms of the Great Dark Beyond into mortal Kalimdor. Now, however, its direction had been inverted; it churned like a funneling toilet, flushing out those who had previously rode its currents into the world.
It is done, master, he called to Arthas.
You'll want to be leaving, then, the Death Knight replied quickly. It's about to get rather crowded there.
Kil'jaeden fumed as he watched the portal swirl, but he could do nothing to upset its shift. Angrily, he hefted his mirror and launched it into the abyss of the gateway; immediately it shot back out at him, nearly striking his fiery face.
The demon screamed; all the demons screamed. Many of the Legion's commanders had long known that every soul in the demonic army, from the mightiest Pit Lord down to the lowest felbeast, was tied inexorably to their master and lord, Archimonde. It was by his vast might and power that the servants of Sargeras had been able to enter the world this time, without their imprisoned Titan god, and it was Archimonde's strict control that the spellwork which brought the demons hither allowed them to remain. With the Eredar dead, and that connection instantly and violently severed, the currents of magic which bound and controlled the Legion had frayed, leaving the hordes of demonic warriors and beasts to chaos and panic.
Those who did not know of these ties to Archimonde experienced the results of his death no differently, of course. Within moments of the great demon's annihilation atop the Mountain, the Legion as an organized force ceased to exist. They remained in existence, however, assaulting friend and foe alike with desperation and fear. No leash bound or directed them, and no cause moved them; only pure, instinctual talents for destruction and carnage.
Then, suddenly, they felt the currents of their power moving again. The currents churned, funneling, circling, spiraling away… homeward. Wearied, defeated, and terrified, the myriad agents of the Legion one by one turned their faces towards the gateway, and began to move.
Save one.
Azgalor stampeded blindly through the burning forest, not knowing where he was going, or caring, only sure that he followed the path of the Orb. He had to find it, had to claim its powers as his own. He consciously felt the tug of the gate behind him, urging him homeward, but he pushed its heavy hand from his shoulders. After a time, its influence died away completely, its soft words lost among the cacophonous orders of his new master – the Orb of Kil'jaeden. Assuming the gate could even bear him home to the Nether, to face the Legion's commanders without this prize would be folly. Even that excuse, however, was a distant priority in his mind below the sheer power that he knew resided within the Orb.
He could sense it suddenly, very near to him. It had stopped nearby. Its path had been ended by some tree, or perhaps the earth itself had ended its plummeting motion. Sensing that he was indeed on top of it, he pushed aside one last charred fern and stepped into another clearing. Then he gasped at what he saw.
There, in the center of the clearing, stood Illidan Stormrage. Lightning crackled all around the elf, and it was clear that his features had been altered; no longer was he the meager night elf that his master had spoken of. A pair of jagged horns extended haphazardly from Illidan's forehead, laughable compared to the Pit Lord's massive tusks but a dramatic deviation from the elf's smooth face. Similar pieces of bone had also begun to emerge from Illidan's shoulders, although whether these were to be more horns or perhaps wings or tentacled claws was not clear. A feeling of half-formed power reverberated from the fighter, a feeling of a metamorphosis not yet complete, yet already irreversible.
And in the elf's right hand, open for Azgalor to clearly view, sat the Orb of Kil'jaeden. It had shrunken back to nearly its original size, but it was far from dormant as before; it glowed the same bright red as when it had hovered, humongous, above the demon gate, only now it seemed girded in orange flames. It had not become dormant, it had been tapped.
In despair, Azgalor slumped to the ground, his arms spreading in futility towards the Orb the elf clutched. A deflated cry escaped his lips. The power that he had held in his own palm, the power that had been so close to him, the power he had thirsted for more than he had ever thirsted for water amid the hellfire of the Nether, was gone… tapped by this elf, this mortal.
As the wailing demon collapsed, he noted the bodies of his reluctant companions, the dreadlords Anetheron and Mephistroth. The winged figures lay, unmoving, at Illidan's feet, their features contorted in pain. The night elf had obviously given them rather painful deaths.
"You won't even be a challenge," Illidan said. The sword was long gone from his hands. So was the wood staff he had wielded. He possessed no weapon, yet he needed none. Clasped in his palm was the only tool he would need to dispose of the spent demon. He raised his empty left and hand and focused on the Orb burning in his right.
Azgalor was engulfed by the inferno that exploded from Illidan's palm. He never spoke a word.
It was well into the night. The moon and stars that had labored over the world of their mortal children for eons floated high in the sky, observing the carnage that had befallen their children this day.
The gate's power was nearly spent; its mad swirling, briefly revitalized, was now once more winding down. Now the steady hand of Araj was absent, unable to guide it to a smooth halt. Instead, the rocky debris which made up the ruined portal structure had once more begun to collapse as its metaphysical counterpart likewise died.
Many souls had been swept through the portal, many demons flushed out of the world they had assaulted and back into the Nether that spawned them. The portal would have seemed almost tired then. As the night elven druids know, every object, however mundane, has a spirit attached to it, and the spirit of the portal now was weary. It had grown old, feeble, and the sudden and heavy activity had strained it to the breaking point.
The gate spied one last soul nearby, one final demon near enough to seize. Others remained, distantly, beyond the portal's reach, but these were few. One last lingered within the rift's power, and, with finality, the spirit of the gate longed to devour this last and be done with its work.
The soul shivered; its mortal body, as well, was weary of the battle. It had lost its goal, and, like the rift itself, was ready to retire. Slowly, lazily, a tentacle of weak power extended out of the portal into the decimated forest, plucking the spirit of Azgalor from his body as he died, carrying him home to the Nether.
Then, as the tentacle and the spirit it bore retreated through the rift and vanished, the portal shuddered and at long last blinked closed. Its mad pulse stopped. The girders of stone which bound its form collapsed into piles of rubble as the gateway that had joined two worlds sighed peacefully and ceased to live.