Wisping clouds hung like awestruck ghosts above the jagged majesty of Icecrown, ancient champions assembled from eons of history to salute the victorious Arthas as he approached the entryway into the glacial spire. He was their lord, their master, back from the hunt and awaiting their proud greetings.
Yet it was not enough. He longed to be master not of a few old clouds, forgotten at the top of the world, but of all creation, all existence. This world and its arrogant peoples would one day lick his boots as he trampled them into submission and worship.
Taking a deep breath of this, his first victory, he pulled wide the great doors of the tower and stepped inside.
The air within was almost colder than that without, chilled not by the unceasing winds but by the sheer evil of the place. Arthas silently rejoiced in that evil as he climbed the spiral steps; it was his lifeblood, his power. It was him.
My son, came suddenly the voice of Ner'zhul, you have returned.
"Yes," Arthas spoke aloud. He had reached the top of the tall stairway. "Archimonde is dead, and the Legion banished back into the Nether. We are victorious."
Yes, you have done well, little Arthas… both at my task, and at your own.
"My own?" Arthas felt warmth suddenly behind his ears, unwelcome, untrusting warmth. "Why, my Lord, surely I have no purpose but that which you give me!"
Was it I who told you to push Illidan over the edge? To 'weed out' the others? To begin setting the board for your great game?
Arthas choked back a denial; it would be fruitless to lie to the Lich King, his empowerer. "No, master," he admitted. "Do my efforts displease you? I shall go and dispose of Illidan at once if you wish it."
No. Though I did not sanction your actions, I approve. You are preparing for something, and though you sought to hide that from me, you needn't have bothered.
"I needn't have, master?"
No, little Arthas. You see, I have been preparing for the same thing, and far longer than you.
Outside the glacier, Morte and Araj waited patiently. Their master could take his time; the battle was won, and there was now no rush. The Death Knight yawned, sliding down along the icy wall of the tower to sit in the snow. Araj hovered nearby, the jewels that glittered in his new headdress humming softly with arcane energy. Morte, as well, wore new, shining armor, a gift from the Lich King to reward their victory.
Morte felt the blade coming at him and instant before it would have sliced through his neck. He rolled to one side, dodging the falling sword and unsheathing his own blade, Icehowl, in one motion. He turned to face his attacked, but was knocked back off of his feet by what felt like a block of solid air. Shaking his head to clear his vision, the Death Knight gasped as he saw his opponent for the first time.
Kokoro was now embattled fiercely with Araj, but it was not the same Kokoro that had died in Felwood. The orc's fiery skin was now a dull gray, in some places tinted a dim red like blood, in others a pale blue, like ice. Blue and red flames danced around his empty left hand, while his right bore his familiar orcish blade.
Araj muttered some spell, causing the jewels in his headdress to glow brightly. The ground beneath the orc's feet shook slightly, and small pieces of rock and snow fell off of the mountainside toward him. Kokoro sneered, and raised his left hand. Muttering a phrase of his own, he extended his arm towards the lich. Tendrils of fire and ice shot from his palm, latching onto the skeletal mage and enveloping him in a cloud of wind and flames. Horrified, Morte watched as the frozen inferno devoured the lich, stripping him of his robes and then burning away layer upon layer of bone until nothing remained.
Then Kokoro turned to face the Death Knight.
Setting his jaw in defiance, Morte grasped Icehowl and launched himself up from the snowy ground, towards this mysterious orc who defied death itself, and commanded the flames of the Nether in tandem with Morte's own frozen powers.
"Master…" Arthas said uneasily, glancing over the edge of the staircase's top.
Yes, my son?
"Something is wrong here, my Lord. Very wrong…"
So you've noticed at last. I knew you would be worthy.
"Master?" Arthas turned back to face the awesome sight of the Frozen Throne. He fought to ignore the sound he was sure he had heard – the closing of the great doors far below, and the subsequent piter-pat of footsteps up the frozen staircase.
You seemed rather quick to be testing your competitors, so I thought it fit to present you with a test of my own.
"You are not satisfied with my abilities, Master? Was not this whole adventure a test of my will?"
One last test, my son. Then I shall be satisfied.
The soft light which glowed from the Frozen Throne suddenly darkened, leaving Arthas with only the distant sunlight, so far above, by which to see. The footsteps had ceased or become silent, for he heard them no more. As his eyes began to adjust, he took a step towards the top of the staircase, his hand on his sword hilt.
The snow of the floor exploded as a shape surged through it. Leaning backwards to avoid striking the figure, Arthas saw that his assailant was of vaguely human shape – no, orc shape, he corrected himself. It was Kokoro, the orc that he had sensed dying at Illidan's hands.
"You –" he began, but the beast swung at him with a flaming, curved sword. Arthas took a large step back, unsheathing his own weapon. It was then that he saw the blade which hung from his opponent's second hand – Morte's Runeblade, Icehowl. "You've killed Morte," Arthas gasped. "And Araj," he realized.
The orc said nothing, instead electing to speak through his actions by assaulting the Death Knight with both swords. Overpowered, Arthas resorted to dodging rather than parrying, evading the creature's blows rather than attempting to block them. The fallen prince had always been gifted with a sword, but the orc outnumbered him with his weapons, and moved too quickly to disarm.
As he slipped, the red-hot orcish blade cutting into his arm, Arthas' vision blacked out for a moment.
He was not the warrior. He was the sword. Frostmourne. He saw the orc from the sword's point of view, hulking, pulsing with magic, dangerous.
Kokoro stood over the boy's fallen body, red blade held over him, poised to strike. He blinked. Slowly, as though he was little more than some golem moved my magic and not a conscious creature that moved of will, he lowered the curved, red blade and lifted up Icehowl.
He saw the familiar blade aimed towards him, glowing cheerily, a kindred spirit, a brother. He saw his brother descending upon him as in slow motion… and he awoke.
The orc lowered the Runeblade swiftly on the Death Knight, but as he began the motion, Arthas suddenly recovered, lunging upwards with his own weapon.
Steel met flesh. Runes sang.
And Ner'zhul, the Lich King, felt one of his servants die.
"I say, master," Arthas whispered, out of breath, "was that entirely necessary?"
Do not worry about Morte or Araj. They can easily be replaced.
"How long has he been your pawn, master?"
When Illidan cut him with Frostmourne, my touch was forever embedded in him, too weak to take control of him outright, but too strong for him to resist completely.
"And then?"
And then, three days ago, he set foot on my continent, my land, just after you yourself made landing. I claimed him the moment his flesh touched the cold surface of my domain.
"Oh. Good, then."
What?
"I was afraid he might have been yours all along… I might have felt guilty getting Illidan to kill him."
I very much doubt that, my son.
Far away, to the south, a monster walked through the forests of Ashenvale. Kil'jaeden stood few meager yards in height, a tiny fraction of his true stature; with the various gates around the world closed by Arthas' forces in quick succession after Archimonde fell, it was only by an exhausting a direct passage that he could come. He was too drained from the journey to assume his full height, and besides, he had business to attend to here, business that would be severely hindered by his being seen. He remained, therefore, at his reduced size as he wandered the forest in search of Illidan.
"I see you, demon. I would not approach… I have slain many of your kind, and the time when I shall hunt you again draws near. Test not my powers, for I am no mortal any longer. I am more, and I shall destroy you if you tempt me."
Kil'jaeden turned to face the sound of the voice, barely stifling a laugh as he took in the image of the former night elf. Illidan was crouched on a low branch of a burnt oak, his dead eyes obscured, as before, with a stretch of dirtied violet cloth. His hands clutched no weapon. A pair of modest horns protruded from his scalp.
"Oh," he said, as the Deceiver turned to face him fully. "It is you… master."
"I have brought you a gift, my young champion," Kil'jaeden said. He knelt, and laid on the ground before the elf a pair of ancient blades, shimmering in the light of the setting sun. "Your old weapons, from the last War. They shall serve you better in my service."
The demon stood, and Illidan dropped from the tree to lift the pair from the ground. He put his fingers over the familiar handles, remembering a time when he was innocent… remembering battles past, and a future he had fought for.
Kil'jaeden moved his arms widely, and a reddish glow enveloped the warrior. When it subsided, a pair of horrid, demonic wings had sprouted fully from Illidan's back, and his horns had grown into huge, curved protrusions that bent towards the heavens.
"Now, go," the Deceiver whispered. "We, too, have games to play."
THE END