A Fateful Choice
Dedicated to Dark-Elk, who does so much but is recognized by so few.
=--=/
Cold.
Sylvanas couldn't remember the last time she had been truly warm. The Undercity was naturally brisk, being situated beneath the earth. But the cold she felt now was so far beyond the bite one feels at their skin. This was the cold that cut through skin and bone, through sight and soul. The ranger general of Quel'Thalas had winter in her heart.
Sylvanas rolled over underneath the pile of blankets situated atop her slender frame. Each night she buried herself in cloth, hoping to bring some feeling of warmth to her flesh. This was a vain hope, however, as her undead body carried no natural heat. Her grayed skin clung to her muscles, devoid of purpose, like an uncomfortable cloak. Sometimes she wished she might just shed it, so as not to be reminded constantly of her unlife. Staring at the blank stone wall of her chamber, the Banshee Queen shivered.
"What would you do to have that warmth back, ranger?" someone intoned from the opposite side of her bed. Sylvanas didn't turn over to look and see who it was. She'd heard that voice in her head every day for almost a year.
"Get out of my fortress, you creature of filth," she whispered, but there was no force behind her words. The voice laughed softly, sinisterly.
"What's the matter, Sylvanas? Need I remind you that I saved you from death itself?"
The Banshee Queen threw the covers from herself, sitting up with her legs over the edge of the bed. One side of her black-silk nightgown slipped from her shoulder, revealing a pointed blade laden with muscles.
"Death would be a blessing compared to what you've put me through," she said, her voice still not rising above a whisper. She heard the dry clacking of bonemail as the man shrugged.
"To each their own. But you haven't answered my question yet, elf. What would you give to have that warmth back? Or perhaps to have it never taken at all?"
Sylvanas finally turned her head to look into the eyes of her longtime tormentor. Her eyes, stained blood-red by the unholy magic used to revive her, were reflected in the deep sapphire pools of the man behind her.
"What do you want from me, Arthas?"
"Ah, but I'm not Arthas any more," the figure, barely visible in the dim candlelight said, "at least, not Arthas as you knew him. No, now I am so much more." His eyes flashed.
"I fear I may have misled you, Sylvanas," he said, "the question is not what I want from you, but what you can give me that I cannot take."
"Just get to the point!" Sylvanas snapped. Her voice echoed down the halls, causing Arthas to smile cruelly.
"I can take away all your pain…all your suffering…without batting an eye, Sylvanas. I can rewrite the eternities to suit my will. I have the power to make the unreal reality and reality unreal."
"What are you hissing about, snake?" Sylvanas said viciously. Still, a hint of curiosity lurked behind her sharp expression.
"I can give you back everything you lost. I can change the past so that your life was never taken from you…so that you never received my gifts.. I can create an entirely new reality for you."
"Y-you," Sylvanas said, her shield of hatred breaking down for a moment, "you can make me…you can make me live again?"
One moment was all Arthas needed. "That would be well within my power."
"If you truly have such strength," the dark ranger snapped, recovering her anger, "why would you waste it on me? Why would you not just create a reality with the world at your feet?"
Arthas' smile remained firmly in place. "Now, where would be the fun in that?" This simple statement brought the dark ranger's hatred boiling back to the surface.
"Why should I agree to your twisted little test, Arthas? You hold no sway over me now."
Suddenly the Death Knight cupped his hands asthough clutching an invisible sword hilt. Soon enough, however, the hilt was no longer invisible. The room, already frigid to Sylvanas, suddenly became so much colder as the sword that stole her life appeared. It glowed with unholy blue light that sent the candles' luminescence skittering to the corners of the chamber. Icicles hung from it like twisted decorations and skulls were inlaid to every available inch. Blasphemous runes were scribed into the blade itself, speaking destruction.
Frostmourne.
"It hungers for you, Sylvanas,"Arthas said, "it hungers for you so badly. And when Frostmourne hungers, none can resist its call…"
Try as she might, Sylvanas couldn't bring herself to tear her eyes from it. When Arthas had remained in Lordaeron, she had seen the Runeblade constantly, but never before had it seemed so…hypnotic.
"Only I can feed its hunger, Sylvanas…only I can free you from Frostmourne's grasp. But more than that, I can give you…this..."
The sword suddenly grew white-hot, and its color changed to match. The edges turned as white as the brightest star, while the central part of the blade became transparent like water. An image began to take shape in that clear space; Sylvanas turned completely now, crawling on her hands and knees across the bed so that her face was only inches from it.
Contained within that sword was the image of Sylvanas herself, but not as she was now. Her skin was full and tanned, her eyes bright emerald green, her hair golden, sunrays made solid. Her hands held an enchanted bow, pulled taught around an arrow that pointed straight down.
At the end of that arrow was Arthas, his body battered and bleeding, ribs clearly broken. Hatred shone in his eyes with an intensity the Dark Ranger had seen only once: when she had caught sight of herself in a mirror. Frostmourne lay on the ground at the apparition's feet.
"Do you want this?" Arthas asked. Sylvanas at first gave no answer, only reached out a trembling hand. She laid two fingers upon the blade's surface, feeling it calling to her. Needing her…
"Do you want this?" the Death Knight repeated. Sylvanas' eyes remained trained on the image as her living self pulled back on the string.
"Yes," she whispered, stroking the sword's surface. "Yes, I want it…"
Somewhere in her hypnotized mind, she heard Arthas chanting an incantation, but she barely recognized the words he spoke.
"Life to death,
Death to life,
Become a wolf
To kill a wolf."
The light from the sword spread, enveloping her, filling her vision until there was nothing but an endless sea of brightness…
=--=/
"Ranger Windrunner, do you need a moment?"
The councilor'svoice echoed through the assembly hall. Sylvanas' eyes darted around in confusion, snagging on the topaz sunlight that streamed in through the large, arced windows. Still in a daze, she pushed a lock of strawberry-blond hair out of her eyes. She trained her view on the graying elf that sat before her, a look of deep concern in his violet pupils. The rest of the Council of Silvermoon sat behind him, but they were faceless to her.
"Er…" tumbled out of her mouth. "Er, yes…yes, it's…" she stared at the podium that seemed to have just now materialized in front of her. A parchment roll sat upon it, and calligraphic writing populated the scroll. She seemed to have been giving a report to the council, but just a moment ago she had been in her chambers in the Undercity…hadn't she?
Wait a minute, she thought, what in heaven's name is an Undercity?
"Very well," the Councilor said, causing Sylvanas to jump. "We will adjourn for half an hour, and then Sylvanas will complete her assessment." There were general mutters of assent as the other occupants of the hall rose from their cramped seats, stretching.
Suddenly it occurred to Sylvanas that she was standing on a platform; looking around she spotted a staircase and wobbled over to it on gelatin legs. Each step she took squeaked softly against the marble steps, and she clung desperately to the banister as though she would fly off if she let go.
Eventually the staircase opened into a lightly furnished underground room made of identical stone. Waiting at the foot of the stair was a solitary elf with ice-blue eyes and flowing blonde hair, tied back into a pony tail. He donned a loose red tunic, and his neck was adorned with a golden amulet, inscribed with a single eye, identifying him as being of royal descent.
Prince Eldin Sunstrider.
Now, strictly speaking the kingdom of Quel'Thalas had no royalty. It was an oligarchy, ruled by the most ancient families. There were the Drakesons from Caer Darrow, the Firestars from Winterhill, and so on. The Windrunners, too, sat on the council of Silvermoon, hailing from outside the pampered city life.
The oldest family by far, however, was the house of Sunstrider, which was now in its third generation, beginning with Dath'Remar, the founder of Quel'Thalas itself. Thusly, they took royal titles for themselves, although they were little more than publicity figures, and the traditional heads of the council. As her memory returned, Sylvanas realized the councilor that had excused her had in fact been a Sunstrider, Gil'Thas, if she remembered correctly. The most recent head of the council had sired two more in the Sunstrider line: Kael, the elder, and Eldin, the younger, who stood before Sylvanas now.
Without warning, the Ranger collapsed into the Prince's arms, pressing he face into the soft cloth of his tunic. Eldin, seeming quite startled ran a hand through her golden hair and planted a kiss on the top of her head.
"Sylvanas," he murmured gently, wrapping his arms around her. "Sylvanas, what's wrong?" She looked up into his eyes, emerald meeting sapphire.
"Everything's wrong, Eldin," tumbled out from between her pale lips, "something changed just now and I don't know what…I'm cold, Eldin. I'm so cold…" she buried her face in his chest once again, her frail form shaking with sobs.
=--=/
Sylvanas stepped forward, her eyes trailing across the scroll before snapping back up to the council once she realized she had memorized the speech. The members were jostling into their cramped seats once again, some of them wiping sweat from their brows. The noonday sun had risen, causing the chamber to become blisteringly hot. Councilor Sunstrider settled into his high-backed chair, the many trinkets and baubles that adorned his robes clattering together and causing a great deal of noise.
"Ranger Windrunner, are you ready to complete your report?" he intoned over the din.
"Yes, Councilor. Thank you." She bowed. "Our contacts in Lordaeron report that King Terenas has been killed. The culprit is, as of now, unknown to us. However, the Plague that began appearing in the Northlands approximately one year ago now ravages all of the kingdoms to the south. Nearly the entirety of human civilization has fallen into anarchy."
"It is no less than they deserve!" a voice rang out from the back of the hall. Sylvanas recognized it as belonging to Gilaras Drakeson, the patriarch of the house whose name he bore. Councilor Sunstrider turned in his chair to face the outspoken elf.
"Councilor, please hold your comments until the Ranger finishes her report." Despite his sharp tone, the agreement in his voice was thinly veiled. "Continue, Lady Windrunner."
"Of course, Councilor. As I said, humanity is falling in on itself. Without their governments, the citizens of the southlands are little more than playthings for the undead. It would be most prudent to seal off our border to refugees, as any of them might carry the plague and spread it here to Quel'Thalas. Also, I would recommend a full mobilization of our troops."
Councilor Sunstrider was visibly taken aback by this statement. "Why should we do such a thing, good ranger?"
Sylvanas sighed. "The Undead Scourge, from what our researchers in the north have gleaned, exists only to spread and consume. They seem to exist only to spread and consume. it would be safe to assume that they will attempt an attack on our homeland sometime in the coming months."
At this pronouncement a murmur ran its course around the chamber. The Quel'Thalassian oligarchy had greatly enjoyed the years of peace after the orcish invasion, and any suggestion that war might soon come to their doorsteps probably instilled a healthy amount of fear. Councilor Sunstrider steepled his fingers and rested his chin upon them.
"The Undead Scourge is vast, indeed," He furrowed his brow, "I personally believe that they will not attack Quel'Thalas without reason. They have shown at least a rudimentary sense of purpose. It is not my place to make decisions for the council, however, so it will be put to a vote. All in favor of Ranger Windrunner's proposal, raise your right hand and say 'yea'. All opposed, raise your left hand and say 'nay'."
Sylvanas watched silently as the council, their faces all adorned with looks of worry, raised their hands and cast their votes. She tried to count, but it was impossible from a distance. Gil'thas rose from his chair and began pointing to each member in turn, who then lowered their hands.
Something happened then that Sylvanas couldn't quite explain. It felt like her stomach had dropped a few inches, for just a moment, like when one is walking down stairs in darkness and thinks there is one more step than there is. Her heart missed a beat, but she didn't know why.
The head of the council whipped around, baubles jangling, face painted with a very disgruntled look indeed.
"Very well," he snapped, casting a glare at a council member in the back that was obscured from Sylvanas' view. "The army will be mobilized as you requested, Windrunner." The lack of her formal title showed his already apparent displeasure. Gil'Thas didn't like votes not going his way.
"This meeting is adjourned." He said with an imposing sense of finality, shooting another venomous glare towards the rear of the chamber. His eyes didn't leave it as the other councilors jostled out.
=--=/
Sylvanas spent the rest of the day in the home that she and Eldin shared. As he was a prince it was filled with every luxury and refinement, but this day Sylvanas longed for the open country which she was raised upon. Silvermoon was beautiful, undoubtedly, but the air around it was polluted, heavy with the scent of magic.
So, instead she laid in an open courtyard, twirling a lock of her hair and staring at the setting sun. The grass beneath her was hard and springy, close enough to the type that grew near her home to comfort her. It embraced her like an old friend, and the wind cooed reassurances in her ears.
There was a soft thump off to her side, but she was unperturbed by it and continued twirling the strand of hair around her finger. She didn't break her gaze from the stars that had just begun to poke their heads through the mask of daylight. An arm snaked around her waist and she felt warm breath on her neck.
"Long day, Eldin?" she asked softly as the prince nuzzled into her hair.
"You have no idea," he said, voice slightly muted. "Father nearly went into conniptions about the way things went at the meeting."
Sylvanas turned over so that she was facing the prince, propping her head up with her elbow. Eldin remained lying on the ground, his face against the grass and a small smile on his lips.
"And how did you vote?" She asked, "About the troops, I mean?"
The prince sat up, his smile suddenly metamorphosing from contented to uncomfortable. "I…Well, I voted your way."
Sylvanas stared. Suddenly an image of Gil'Thas popped into her head, his face contorted in rage as he stared at the rear of the chamber.
"Why? You always vote with your father."
Eldin shrugged. "I don't know…it was strange. Like there was a voice whispering in the back of my mind…it told me that my father was wrong." He shook his head. "I know it sounds crazy but—"
Sylvanas silenced him by sitting up and suddenly pressing her lips against his. She broke the kiss, and then whispered, "No it doesn't. It makes perfect sense to me."
=--=/
Sylvanas was jolted awake by a deep, rumbling, almost roar-like sound. It dazed her for a moment, but then she recognized it as it sounded again: war horns. Her blood ran cold.
Without realizing it she and Eldin had fallen asleep in the courtyard. The night had passed in a restless doze for her; she had been plagued by dreams of a man clad all in bone, telling her of some gift he wished to offer her. She tried to recall more, but it was like trying to hold water in cupped hands; the details seeped through cracks in her mind.
The horn sounded a third time and Eldin finally started awake. Despite the circumstances, Sylvanas couldn't help a fond chuckle; he had always been a heavy sleeper.
"What's going on?" He asked. The drowsiness in his voice was evident.
"Must be a battle," Sylvanas responded, staring at the sky, which had clouded over during the night.
"A battle!" Eldin breathed, "And we were sleeping right through it."
"I've got to get to the troops," Sylvanas said tersely, springing to her feet. She was halfway across the courtyard before Eldin called after her.
She turned around and the Prince was already there. Without thinking their lips met, their emotions coursing through one another, making words unnecessary.
After a moment the war horn sounded yet again, and their mouths broke apart. "I need to go," Sylvanas whispered. Eldin brushed a strand of hair out of her emerald eyes and wrapped his arms around her.
"Take care of yourself." He whispered back. He tried to sound strong, but it was a failed attempt. He was afraid for her.
"I will be," she said, and then was gone from his arms.
=--=/
"Ah, Ranger Windrunner. How nice of you to join us," Gilaras hissed. Sylvanas strode into the makeshift command center where the priest was hunched over a map of the hills around the Quel'Thalassian border. Silvermoon was precariously close to that line, with the majority of the country extending further to the northeast.
"We don't have time for squabbles, Gilaras," She snapped back. "What's the situation?"
The priest jabbed one of his long, stiletto-like fingers at a series of five red X's in a semicircle around the border. "These are our units. It's mostly archers at the moment, but Prince Kael'Thas is bringing in some mages from here," he tapped the parchment just west of Silvermoon, "And Aldos Firestar is gathering up the swordsmen here." He then tapped the parchment to the east of the capitol.
"These are the undead," He continued, now pointing out a group of no less than twenty purple O's.
"There's too many," Sylvanas said blankly. "We'll never be able to hold them off."
A dry smile crossed Gilaras' face. "Perhaps not. But the Undead may have outsmarted themselves. The border is narrow. Narrow enough for us to form a choke point if we bring down some of the Ironwood trees, in fact."
Sylvanas continued staring at the map. "You may be right, but that'll only slow the undead, not stop them."
"Time is the most valuable resource of all, Ranger Windrunner," He said. "Come. You and I are going to fell the Ironwoods."
"By ourselves?" Sylvanas asked incredulously.
"Ourselves are all we'll need." Gilaras said.
=--=/
The undead streamed over the Quel'Thalassian landscape like ants on carrion. Sylvanas was tempted to laugh at the irony, but it would have wasted breath better spent on continuing to move through the underbrush. Gilaras kept pace behind her, but he was breathing hard. He was far better suited to planning than running.
The ranger darted behind a massive oak and then stopped, standing stock-still. Her companion trundled up clumsily behind, panting. She cocked an eyebrow and stared at him.
"Not a word," he muttered. Despite herself, a smile cracked across Sylvanas' face.
"So how do you want to do this?" The ranger asked as the mage clutched at a stitch in his side.
"All…I need…is for you….to keep…the undead…off me…" He gasped, "I'll do…the rest..."
"Gotcha," she said, and peered around the side of the oak. The border to Lordaeron was indeed very narrow, just as Gilaras had said. It was framed by two rolling hills, each one adorned with trees even greater than the one they stood behind now. Ironwoods. There was no doubt in her mind that having even one of the gigantic plants in their path would slow the Scourge for hours. And they had two groves of them.
Sylvanas reached both hands behind her back and produced a longbow and an arrow from her pack. The bow hummed quietly as the ranger whispered to the mage.
"Ready?"
Gilaras nodded back.
Before the priest's head had returned to its original position, the ranger was out in the open, letting arrow after arrow fly faster than undead bodies could be impaled by them.
Gilaras took advantage of the ghouls' attentions being drawn to begin his perilous journey across the valley by tumbling down the down the hill. Sylvanas, catching sight of this from the corner of her eye, groaned exasperatedly.
She didn't have long to dwell on it, however. She had drawn the attentions of the Scourge, and undead abominations loped toward her with unnatural speed. She whispered a few low syllables to the bow and let a volley of arrows fly, now hanging with icicles. The cold magic struck the foremost ghoul, and the arrow shattered, sending shards of ice into its atrophying muscles. It was slowed, but far from stopped. Its fellows soon suffered similar attacks.
Gilaras had been watching in stupefied awe as he tried to recover his breath, but now finally regained his footing and sprinted across the valley. As he approached the bottleneck into the border, he noticed the ground begin to become soft, almost like mud. When he looked down, however, he saw a gray blight creeping over the land, with small jets of green smoke issuing up every few seconds. Ignoring it for the time being, his eyes shot to Sylvanas once again.
Her situation was becoming desperate. While she was an incredibly skilled marksman, there were far too many undead for her to hold off on her own, even with the aid of magic. The ghouls had finally reached her, and she got her first good look at the Scourge, up close and personal.
Its face was gaunt, white with patches of gray. Its cheek was split open, revealing rotted, unnaturally sharp teeth. Her eyes trailed down to its hands, where its fingernails had grown to an incredible five inches. They were more like talons than anything, cruel and vicious. Its upper body was laid bare, revealing broken ribs and a pulsating stomach that dominated its interior. The creature was clearly designed only to eat, to consume. It embodied the philosophy of the undead well.
While she had been taking the time to make note of the creature's features, the ghoul sprang forward on muscles like coiled springs, leaping at least ten yards to close the distance. It landed on her chest, knocking her to the ground. She flipped over into a backwards somersault, sending the creature flying. Before she was upright again, however, the ghoul was on the attack once more, drool hanging from its mouth in slippery ropes. She quickly cast her bow aside, realizing it would do her no good in close combat, and drew two daggers from her hip sheathes. As the ghoul rushed toward her, she pointed them directly forward, and the creature impaled itself through the eye sockets. A wave of rot and puss spilled onto her hands, but the creature fell backwards, dying for a second time.
She whipped back around, and found at least thirty of the creature's fellows bearing down on her.
"Uh, Gilaras?" she called nervously, "Now would be a good time."
The priest didn't need to be told twice. He finally reached the crest of the first hill, running full-on into the woods. Branches and brambles bit and struck at him, but he paid them no heed. He cast a glance up to the Ironwoods, which towered above the rest of the grove like spires from a castle. Their massive branches spread for at least twenty yards in each direction. Normally killing such majestic artworks of nature would be a matter of utmost sacrilege, but in times of war sacrifices had to be made.
Just as he approached the foot of one of the mighty trees, something strange appeared in his range of vision. It seemed to be the upper half of a skeleton, attached to flowing black robes inlaid with some strange purple stone at their tattered bottom. Its skull was adorned with a long, ornamental beard and two upturned horns. But the strangest things of all were its eyes—two glowing orbs of pure, purple mana that glittered sinisterly in its eye sockets.
"What the hell are you?" he shouted to the creature. It gave no reply, only shook its head. Obviously it couldn't grin, having no face, but Gilaras could swear he saw the corners of its mouth turn upwards in a sinister smile. The thing's robes blew upward suddenly, as though caught in an updraft, and then curled around the skeleton until it shrank into nothingness.
Gilaras stared for a moment, wondering if he had just imagined it, but then shook his head and remembered his task. He sprinted to the roots of the tree, still breathing hard, and muttered a long string of elvish syllables. The mana flowing through his veins swelled and issued from his outstretched fingers in the form of golden light.
The yellow magic coagulated into an orb, which flattened itself into a disc and spun like a buzz saw. It accelerated, quickly jumping from Ironwood to Ironwood, cutting them but not felling them. Marveling at his handiwork, Gilaras muttered again and a gust of wind blew from the east, just enough to get the trees moving…
Sylvanas, on the other hand, was in a bad situation. She had managed to kill perhaps ten or so of the ghouls, but was covered in cuts and bruises. Something scraped painfully in her stomach; one of her ribs was broken. Fortune was on her side in one way, though: the rest of the Scourge forces had ignored her, instead electing to race towards Silvermoon. She could hear their dying cries in the distance, mingling with the continued groan of the war horns.
Wait a minute. Those weren't the war horns…She spun around, despite the fact that twenty ghouls still wished to do combat with her. A sudden breeze whipped through her hair as she saw the Ironwood grove begin to lean precariously. A grin blossomed on the ranger's bloodstained face. He is good for something, she thought. Despite her situation, she chuckled.
"Sylvanas! Move!" a voice called out from the opposite direction. Without looking she tumbled off to the side—and not a moment too soon. A pillar of fire erupted where her feet had been mere seconds before. The flame's fingers stretched towards the sky, a hand grasping the flesh of the undead and pulling it from them. She whipped her head around backward to see a man standing on a hill behind her. It was Kael'thas Sunstrider, Eldin's older brother and heir to the throne of Quel'Thalas.
There was a thunderous crash behind her as the Ironwoods fell across the valley's mouth, and the cries of the undead could be heard as they were crushed. The ghouls that had already entered Quel'Thalas gazed around stupidly, as though confused. Kael raised his hands once again and scribed runes in the air with his fingers, and a blue hourglass-shaped coagulation of mana surrounded him. There was a flash, and the hourglass disappeared. In its stead was a contingent of spellcasters. They opened fire on the undead in the valley below with a volley of spells, and the seemingly dazed ghouls could do nothing. Within moments, they were all dead, hopefully for good.
Something didn't seem right to Sylvanas, however. No undead were even making an attempt to forge through the Ironwoods, and Gilaras had only brought down half of the trees they initially planned to. Could this really have been the force that single-handedly felled humanity?
Her doubts were realized as something began to happen to the Ironwoods. Holes were being carved in them all at once, like they were being devoured by invisible insects. From those openings clouds of purple magic emerged, spreading into a massive cloud above the makeshift barrier. Suddenly it descended, literally liquefying the Ironwoods in seconds. With horror, Sylvanas realized she had seen the magic before: it was a spell used by the Death Knights of the Orcish Horde. She quickly looked back at Kael, whose mouth hung open in shock. She couldn't see it, but Gilaras' face was adorned similarly.
The purple fog cleared suddenly, revealing two figures. One was the skeletal creature Gilaras had encountered earlier, still with its not-quite-grin in place, arms still raised in the motion it had used to summon the cloud of decay.
The other made Sylvanas gasp. It was the man from her dream. He had hair that tapered down over his shoulders, white with flecks of blond. This was extremely unusual, as he didn't look a day over twenty four by human standards. He wore shining silver armor, shaped to look as though he was contained within a skeleton. A man clad all in bone, she thought.
But what truly caught her eye was the sword at his side, glittering in the Quel'Thalassian sunlight. The day, just a moment ago bright and warm, became cold against her skin. The weapon glowed with unholy blue light that seemed to send sunlight skittering away from it. Icicles hung from it like twisted decorations and skulls were inlaid to every available inch. Blasphemous runes were scribed into the blade itself, speaking destruction.
Frostmourne. The word entered her mind from nowhere, but she knew that was the sword's name.
Suddenly realizing she was still in plain view, Sylvanas stumbled up the hill to where Kael and his spellcasters stood. A look of icy hatred painted the prince's face, and his eyes, blue just like his brother's, burned with incredible intensity. He knew who this man was.
"Kael," she whispered, "Kael, who is that?"
"Arthas," he muttered.
"What?" Sylvanas asked, "Who is—?"
Her question was cut short as the man called out. "People of Silvermoon! Know that this day, your race, and your entire ancient heritage will end! Death itself has come to claim the high home of the elves!"
He nodded deftly to the lich at his side, who chanted a short incantation. Magic gathered in the air around him in thick green globs, which unwound themselves into long lines. They wrote themselves upon the ground, drawing a massive pentagram. The warlock muttered again, and the points of the pentagram glowed with the same intense green light. Inside the pentagram, outlines drew themselves, wire frames of human beings.
He had brought an army to his side.
There was a flash, and the outlines were filled with men in black robes, their faces masked by animal skulls that sat atop their pates like twisted helmets.
Necromancers.
As one, the dark wizards raised their hands towards the sky, and the reverberating chant of hundreds of voices filled the air. With such a great gathering of dark energy, storm clouds gathered and stretched from the border to Silvermoon.
At once, they stopped chanting and a massive bubble of purple energy covered the entire pentagram. The dark wizards spoke a single syllable in unison, and the magic spread. Again and again they expanded the bubble until it covered the entire battlefield. The corpses of the slain ghouls moaned and uprose as it blanketed them. Arthas smirked triumphantly.
"We need to get out of here," Sylvanas whispered dryly. "Can you get Gilaras too?"
Kael nodded, and the hourglass blossomed above his head once again.
=--=/
"It is obvious to me," Sylvanas concluded grimly, "That without some way to better combat the Undead, Silvermoon—if not all of Quel'Thalas—will be nothing but a smoldering ruin in a matter of days."
"I must agree with Ranger Windrunner's assessment," Kael added solemnly. "Death itself is at our doorstep."
There was an uproar amongst the council as rain poured in through the arched windows and the muted sounds of battle echoed from just miles away. Even Gil'Thas buried his face in his hands and shook his head. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and looked up.
"What sort of 'better way' do you suggest, Ranger?" he asked, sounding extremely tired.
Sylvanas and Kael exchanged a glance across the platform, but neither said anything.
"Well?" Gil'Thas said, his tone metamorphosing to impatience slowly.
"I…er…don't know, councilor." Sylvanas admitted. "The only thing I could suggest would be…" she paused
"Yes?" the eldest Sunstrider demanded, and Sylvanas sighed.
"The only thing I could suggest would be an assassination attempt. The Undead are mindless, and if we could slay their leader they would be without direction."
Gil'thas stared blankly. "We don't even know who their leader is."
"Actually, father," Kael spoke up. "We do. Their commander is Prince Arthas."
Once again the chamber erupted into chaotic chatter. Thunder crashed outside the council hall, silencing the wild, panicked conversations. Gil'Thas regarded his son with a hard stare.
"Prince Arthas?" he asked. "Prince Arthas, of Lordaeron?"
Kael'thas' eyes were alight with hate once again. "The very same."
Gil'Thas threw his hands into the air. "See what becomes of humans!" he sighed and rubbed his temples. "Be that as it may, we have no idea where Arthas is, or if he even intends to stay. An assassination attempt would in all likelihood be fruitless."
"But father, it may be our—!"
"We will continue to fight as we always have," Gil'Thas drowned out his son's objections. "Should the situation become desperate enough, we will employ Ranger Windrunner's gamble."
He hadn't even put it to a vote, but the finality in his voice was unmistakable, and no objections were raised.
=--=/
"Thanks for all the support you gave me there, Eldin!" Sylvanas snapped. The prince's eyes hardened.
"What did you want me to do? Father made the case quite well that—"
"Don't kid yourself," the Ranger said back as they continued striding towards their home. "This is our only shot at saving Quel'Thalas. The undead will never run out of troops. We will."
"But if we can hold them off long enough for--" Eldin began.
"Long enough for what, Eldin?" Sylvanas stopped walking. "Who's going to come to our rescue this time? The Scourge destroyed Lordaeron! Lordaeron! Not even the Orcs, at their height, could do that. Who else can we beg for aid? The Dwarves? They're too caught up in their feud with our people to see the danger. Who's left? No one. Your brother understands that. Why can't you?"
Eldin opened and shut his mouth a few times, but couldn't seem to come up with anything to say. He couldn't see it, but Sylvanas had begun to cry silently, her tears mixing with the rain.
"We'll see in a few days," she whispered. The ranger turned on her heel and continued walking towards their home. Eldin stayed standing in the same place as she disappeared into the storm.
Sylvanas couldn't see it, but he was crying.
=--=/
Sylvanas shut herself up in her room for the rest of that night. She locked the doors and closed the shutters so she wouldn't have to hear the distant screams of the dying. She lit candles and hid her form beneath a pile of blankets. She cowered in her bed and shivered.
And throughout the whole time, she never stopped crying.
Just as her tear ducts were ready to run dry and she was about to fall asleep, the candles flickered. There was a low, distant rumbling, like her room was growling, and she felt an intense heat coming from the right side of her bed.
"You can't stop the Scourge by yourself, ranger."
The voice slid into her ears like oil, burning hot. It hissed around in her brain, bouncing from wall to wall, muddying her thoughts. It was evil, and yet seductive at the same time. She didn't want to look at the source of sound, but the temptation was overwhelming. She rolled over in her bed and looked upon a strange creature.
It was not particularly tall, perhaps half a foot higher than her. Its skin was red and chapped, almost scaly, reptilian. Its ears were swept back and pointed, eerily similar to her own elfin features. A yellowish fire burned behind its empty eyes.
"Who are you?" she whispered, voice raspy. The creature grinned maliciously, baring fangs that made the ranger's heart skip half a dozen beats.
"I've had many different names in the past, but I call myself Kil'Jaeden."
Sylvanas stared at the reptilian creature. She knew the name from somewhere, of that she was certain. But where? She'd never heard of anything like this in her life…
"What do you want with me?" She said, her tone fiery. Though indescribably tired, her usual explosive personality remained.
"Straight to the point, I see," Kil'Jaeden mused. "Yes, your kind never was much for conversation. Very well, impatient little elfling," He chuckled in an infuriating way. "We share a common goal, you and I. We both want that upstart dead."
"Who--?"
"That petulant child Arthas. Is it not he who threatens your beloved homeland, Sylvanas?"
The Ranger stared. "How did you kn—?"
"I know more than you can possibly imagine," Kil'Jaeden interrupted, "But it is of no consequence. I would like nothing more than to see Arthas dead, just as you would. However, I cannot do it myself." He sighed heavily, clearly broadcasting his disappointment.
"Why not?" Sylvanas asked, a suspicious edge on her voice.
"This miserable body," the demon mourned. "This is not my true form. To appear here in all my power is too costly, to strenuous... This is what your wizards would call a metaphysical representation of my true self. I needed to appear in a way that your simple mind could comprehend, and this seemed fitting." He sighed again. "Yet, in this shell, I am nearly powerless against our foe."
"And just why do you want Arthas dead?"
Kil'Jaeden's fanged smile finally slipped from its place. "It is not just Arthas, but his master, who I in turn am master of. Or was master of." The demon's face contorted with anger. "He has fallen out of my favor, and I intend to show him what happens to servants who disobey me."
"And you want me to help you do it," Sylvanas finished the thought for him, and his sinister grin returned.
"At last you've caught on. The question is, will you do it?"
Sylvanas thought for a moment. She looked up into Kil'Jaeden's burning eyes. She saw the undeniable power there…the power to save Quel'Thalas…and her people.
"Yes," she whispered, "Yes, I'll do it…"
=--=/
Sylvanas' feet hit solid ground. The air around her was damp with fresh rain, but it seemed to have subsided for the time being. She rose to her feet and studied her surroundings. She seemed to have been transported to some kind of command tent, but where the grass would be there was instead some sort of gray mold or fungus. There were only two other things inside the tent with her: a man with long, snow-white hair, kneeled before the other object, a table with what seemed to be an extremely decorated urn atop it. The man hadn't noticed her; in fact he seemed to be talking to the urn.
"But what sort of guardians should I expect when I reach the Sunwell?" the man asked, his deep baritone soft and sinister.
"Arthas…" she growled, her voice low and gravelly, quite unlike her own. The man spun around, revealing that he was still holding the sword she had seen earlier: Frostmourne. The name echoed in her mind. He gaped stupidly at her…until she spun her spear and hit him across the face with the butt. A spear? A tiny voice in the back of her mind said, Where did that come from? She found she didn't care.
Before she was done thinking to herself, Arthas was on his feet once again, charging at her, Frostmourne glowing a radiant sky-blue. With a thought she spoke to her spear, so that it became a shaft of pure flame. Her hands were unharmed by the heat. She flipped the weapon sideways and blocked the Death Knight's blow deftly. The ice and fire magic went to work fighting one another, but Sylvanas' power had a clear advantage. Frostmourne itself superheated, and Arthas dropped it with a cry of pain. He gritted his teeth.
"I don't need a sword to fight you…" he said thickly, and held out his palms face up. The air around them warped, and suddenly a blast of green energy issued forth and struck Sylvanas in the chest. The spear was knocked from her hands, and she was sent flying through canvas wall of the tent, into the starry night.
She sprung up almost instantly, but Arthas was already there, throwing a fist at her face. She caught him by the wrist and twisted, breaking it instantly. He cried out in pain. Face still contorted, he struck out with his left hand, but not towards her. He pointed a cupped hand towards the tent, and the now-cooled Frostmourne came sailing out and into his hand. Before she knew what was happening, Arthas struck her across the face with the hilt, sending her flying once again.
There was a resurgence of power in her veins, like magma was flowing through them, and she lifted off the ground, hovering above the ground. She balled her hands into fists, and they erupted into flame, revealing the dumb, shocked look on Arthas' face.
"This ends now, Arthas," she said, her voice strangely calm. She pointed a single finer at Frostmourne, and once again it became white-hot. He dropped it, but not soon enough: she could smell baking flesh as he screamed…
She descended back to earth and walking calmly over to were he had dropped the still-glowing sword. She picked it up, studied it for a moment, and then channeled her energy into it. The whole sword became so blazing hot that the tip began to melt.
"Goodbye, Arthas," she said, and beheaded him with one clean swipe of his own sword.
Just as the prince's wide-eyed, staring head hit the ground, Frostmourne turned entirely to liquid in her hand. It dribbled into the grass, now no more than a puddle of fluid steel.
There was a pull on the energy in her veins, and the Quel'Thalassian countryside disappeared…
=--=/
Sylvanas' feet once again made contact with solid ground, but this time she stumbled. The ground under her feet was not the gray mold of the undead camp which she had just been in, but instead the cobbled streets of Silvermoon. Since her altercation with Eldin, the storm clouds had cleared and true night had set in. Both moons hung pregnant in the sky, and multitudes of stars populated the backdrop of night.
Come, Kil'Jaeden's deep, sinister voice said in the back of her mind, Our work is not finished tonight.
Sylvanas turned and strode down the empty streets, carrying no weapon but knowing she wouldn't need one. She headed toward the very center of the city, where Kil'Jaeden's will guided her.
It was then that Sylvanas' consciousness returned to her; it seemed to have vacated her body during her battle with Arthas. But now it was back, and in full force. And in that moment, It saw Kil'Jaeden's true intention.
"NO!" she cried out, her mind desperately ordering her legs to walk, but they wouldn't listen. Her body served a new master now. She raged and cried and screamed at her own being but to no avail.
Yes! Kil'Jaeden cackled. Weep, Sylvanas! See the error you have made and what it will mean! Rage, elfling! Rage at your own piteous mistakes!
"NO!" Sylvanas shouted again, just as she heard someone call her name. Kil'Jaeden caused her head to snap around, then focus her eyes upon the single black silhouette.
"Sylvanas?" it called again, and this time she recognized its voice.
Eldin.
Kil'Jaeden, reading her thoughts, sent her off at a full-on run towards the city's acropolis and his ultimate goal. Eldin would try to stop her, Sylvanas was certain…and right on cue, she heard the heavy clomping of the mage's boots behind her.
Just as they reached the Sunwell gates, Kil'Jaeden called upon the unnatural strength he had given Sylvanas. In a single bound she was over the fortified walls, and standing in front of the fountain, which even at night spewed golden luminescence. He shot her hand to one of her hip sheathes and drew a dagger…
"Sylvanas!" Eldin cried after her, having just breached the Sunwell's gates, "Sylvanas, what are you doing?"
Kil'Jaeden raised the dagger to her palm and cut a broad slice into it…her blood was as red as a sunset sky with the demonic energies that coursed through her veins. Kil'Jaeden caused her to tip her hand, about to spill his burning power into the Sunwell.
"NO!" it was Eldin's turn to scream now as he tackled Sylvanas from behind, so that they both tumbled into the well itself. He made sure, however, that her sliced hand remained far from the magical water. Kil'Jaeden drew back Sylvanas' opposite hand and rammed it into the prince's face, sending him reeling, but amazingly he held on.
"You are nothing! NOTHING!" Kil'Jaeden screamed with her lips. He jerked her wrist, causing the back of Eldin's head to smash into the stone part of the fountain. His sapphire eyes went crooked. Sylvanas herself screamed inside.
Kil'Jaeden once again called on her demonic strength and spun the prince over, so that Sylvanas was atop Eldin, who was held underwater. He drew back her fist again and punched. The demon and the elf both felt his nose crack.
The demon now took control of her other arm, attached to her hand that bled unholy power…and shoved it underwater. A red cloud spread from her hand, turning the waters of the Sunwell crimson as Kil'Jaeden closed both hands around Eldin's neck. For a few moments, he thrashed and struggled, but then, all movement beneath the water ceased…
You've done well, little elfling, Kil'Jaeden said, and then he was gone, leaving Sylvanas atop her lover's corpse in a pool of demonic magic.
The high elves had studied the nature of unholy power. Eventually the Sunwell's power would fuel it enough to great a massive gateway to the twisting nether, directly in the center of Silvermoon.
And with that realization, she remembered everything…about the parallel undead invasion, and her own death…her second life…Arthas' offer…everything.
"Arthas!" she raged to the sky. "Arthas, get me out of here!"
It was not Arthas who created this timeline, Sylvanas, but I, a deep, rumbling familiar voice said to her.
"You…Ner'zhul?" she said to the empty streets.
Yes. I see beyond the planes, Sylvanas. I am the same Ner'zhul that granted you this reality, and yet, I am limited to what I can do here.
"Why does that matter?" she snapped. "Just get me out of here!"
I cannot.
"Y-you mean…?"
You are trapped, here, Sylvanas Windrunner. My powers are hindered by the Frozen Throne.
"T-trapped? F-forever?"
Yes.
And with that, Ner'zhul was gone from her mind, leaving her alone once again.
She was alone…and she was cold.