Sympathy for the Damned Chapter 2, a warcraft fanfic

-Sympathy for the Damned: The Lich Kel'Thuzad's story-

-Chapter 1: The day after-

The day after Moria died was no other different from the ones when she lived. The sun

still rose from the horizon, and the sky was still notoriously blue and beautiful. People

still died in medical sanctums and wards, while others simply lived on.

One thing most people misunderstand, hence place prejudice on, is that a plague ridden

city is a dead city, and that the people inside just lie on the grounds, waiting to be killed

by the dreaded epidemic. However, this is not true. Though placed on quarantine by

the government, and nobody in is allowed to go out (some who wistfully tried were killed

without warning by the sentinels that guarded the city gates.), people who still breathe

must, well, breathe. They eat, they work, and they mingle with others and communicate.

Dalaran might have become a wretched city, and a damned city, but it surely wasn't dead.

Due to the blockade around the city by the government, goods can no longer be sent in the

city through carts and wagons. Anything that goes in Dalaran, doesn't come out. So,

meager supplies were sent via sky, by Dwarfen Griffins or Goblin-hired zeppelins. Due to this, the

residents of Dalaran didn't actually starve, but instead they felt a greater feeling of emptiness

inside. Every time when they see the zeppelin or flocks of Griffins over their heads to drop down

supplies, they felt the utter feeling that they were indeed forsaken, and that they really were

'trapped' inside this wretched city. They felt that the whole world was simply waiting for the

epidemic to gradually go away, or the whole population of Dalaran die out due to the plague.

Either way, it seemed that Lorderon didn't give a damn.

This was foolish, if not ungrateful, for the food and clothing most needed for survival was in fact

being sent by the care of Lorderon, and after the news of Dalaran under the influence of the

plague, people all over the kingdom sent the city letters and notes of encouragement.

Then again, people tend to become quite irrational under certain circumstances. Especially

when you are doomed to die in your own home, sometimes you get the feeling that help is

not help at all, but instead a means of mockery and teasing.

Dalaranians also felt a great amount of betrayal and contempt, if not the simple feeling of longing

and grief when the epidemic was first announced 'official'.

As though people inside the city were not permitted to exit Dalaran by any means, people outside

were allowed to enter the city gates. This was intended so that loved ones outside the city can

join the ones inside, and therefore see each other and... die together. This might sound very

unethical and even inhumane, but the important fact was that the government didn't force anyone

anything. Besides, some people were in fact very grateful for the flexibility and open-mindedness

of the government, for some actually did volunteer to enter the damned city to meet their loves.

Most of them were mothers of young children. Others were the other halfs of young and/or old couples

that decided that life without the other really didn't have any sense. Some came back to see dear

old friends, and some came to nurse and tend care for the ones who have already fallen to the

disease. Untill here, most people might sigh with a touched heart to see such acts of friendship,

love, and selflessness. But to be honest, this was only a grain of the whole sack in terms.

It 'was' a fact that some decided to risk their lives just so that they could be with their loved ones, but

in majority, people usually didn't. Young loves were torn apart by the seregation. Old loves, husbands

and wives that were together for over three to four decades were torn apart too. In most cases,

people found it just a event or happening of 'misfortune' for the ones inside (while a great fortune to

the ones that are not), and eventually abandoned them all together. Even the sacred bondings of

parent and child were broke on this cruel test, and due to this many children lost their parents, or

at least the care and love of their parents, in one day. Due to the epidemic, mothers and/or fathers

who were planning to go away from the city just for a few days suddenly became beings so much

further. The same went for the others; most Dalaranians who avoided the dreaded quarintine thanks

to a most timely vacation or a trip outside the city soon became one of the 'others', the group who

simply sent sympathetic glances, gave out food, and sent get-well cards in a safe distance.

Maybe that was why Dalaranians hated the zepplins and the Griffins so much. They reminded them

of their loved ones who have let them down in their times of greatest fear and need. The distant skies

the flying things flew reminded them of the distance that seperated them from the outside world. Maybe

that is why. Then again, it might not. But in truth, no one knows. For all anyone knows, it just might be

because Dalaranians became merly grumpy.

That morning, I woke up with a tear soaked pillow, a blanket torn to shreads, and a room with destroyed

furniture and walls with burn marks, let alone holes in them. When I stared out the window, I realized that

it was already past noon and that I have awaken simply because I felt hungry. I synically laughed at myself,

chastising that after the death of your love, I still have time to be hungry. But I was. So, I raised myself

from the bed, shuffled through the torn-down apartment and finally found a intact robe that wasn't shredded

or burned from my frenzy I had yesterday. I slipped it on, and headed out to the city to get something to eat.

On the streets, several 'meat wagons' were passing, carring loads of corpses from medical santums, houses,

streets, and so on. After the epidemic lasted for more than 3 months, most Dalaranians stopped going around

long distances. Hell, they were banned from going out from the city, so there wasn't places to go anyway.

Therefore, most of the transportation systems in the city; from the wagons and carts, carriages to Dalaran's

prided, magic-powered trolly, were all now being used to carry the dead to the 'grave yard's. Just now, the

trolly passed by me, carrying far more load than it intentionally was built for. Arms and legs of the dead were

sticking out of the doors, and the trolly driver was obviously disgusted, if not freaked out of his poor mind in the

fact that he was on a car filled with dead bodies, all that were killed by an highly infectious plague. Then again,

Dalaran was under plague for slightly more than six months, and nobody in the city was afraid of getting the damn

disease anymore. Sure, they were afraid of getting the plague itself, but they also knew that the whole city was

a steaming pot of the defiled thing, and that all the 'caution' in the world wouldn't protect them from infection.

For all one knew, priests and healers who dealed with the sick and exposed themselves in the wrath of the plague

everyday had the same chances of getting it as a person who seregated him or herself in their houses, washed twelve

times a day, and surrounded themselves with so-called 'magical protection and amulets'. The reality was cruel,

if not most ironically equal to all Dalaranians; if you lived in Dalaran, you get the plague or you don't. It's all up to pure

luck, and nothing you could do could possibly prevent it from coming when it 'comes'.

From that sense, I felt that the trolly driver wasn't spooked because he thought he was getting exposed more to the

sickness by being surrounded by dead bodies that were killed by it; rather I think he simply does not fancy the

fact that he is surrounded by, well, dead people all together. The strained look on him almost made me giggle,

only when I realized that Moria was on one of those meat wagons yesterday too, and that was all that made me

to become more than pietistic. I moved on to the cafe' where I always had my breakfast. After giving the sun a glimpse;

which was on its zenith and hinted me that it was way past anywhere near time for 'breakfast', I entered anyway to get some

food to swallow.

"Hey, Mr. Thuzad. You're quite late today, aren't you?"

The owner gave me a playful smile as he got me a cup of tea.

"So, what would you be having?"

"Do you still serve my usual breakfast menu?"

"Hm? Oh, the eggs? Hell, why not? It's not like I ran out of eggs today or something!"

The... feeling of this place, which was highly resposible for the jolly cafe' owner, was one of the main reasons I kept on

coming. I remember the first day Moria and I came to this place, while having a casual date. The owner was as bright

as he was now, and I recall that Moria liked him and his place too for the atmosphere. To be frank, it was almost amazing

that this man, a chubby, balding man around his forties, with a brown mustache who always is humming or whistling a merry

tune, is still this... happy.

The majority, including even the most strong in the mind, usually debacles when they are exposed to near half a year in

a city that is rotting in a plague. But this man, just as he was when Moria and I first saw him, was still so jolly and upbeat.

In times like these, that is a trait that someone starts to admire, even respect, and eventually looks up to.

After a while, he came back with a plate filled with food. On it was the yellow scrambled eggs that I ordered, but there was

something more; it was a small cosmos flower. The owner patted my back and looked at me with a concerned glance.

"Um, I know I don't have any right or stuff like that to say this... but I just wanted to tell you, cheer up. And, I'm really, really

sorry to what happened to the Mrs."

Suddenly, I felt a mixed feeling of sorrow, longing, and... a queer sense of rancor as I heard the cafe' owner mention my

wife. If this was yesterday, I might have burst up from my chair and beat the man right in the face. But it wasn't yesterday.

It was the day after, and I believed that I had enough time to placate my frustration, sorrow, and anger. I wasn't going to

make tantrums to this good man who was simply trying his best to make one of his customers; a miserable one at that,

feel a bit better. I weakly smiled back to him and thanked him for the flower. Then, I ate like a madman, as if something

dear depended on it. I tried my very best, not to cry. I tried my very best, not to remember the horrible day my Moria died.

This was quite difficult, for this day was yesterday; not that long ago, and as soon as I finished my eggs, I started to cry

like a fool, and then I started to remember the events that took place yesterday as if they were happening right in front of

my very eyes.

Since I am a priest and therefore deal with many patients that end up dying, many would think that I, along with many other priests,

get over deaths of people very easily. It is as casual as if asking a soldier: "Hey, I bet you are immune to emotional breakdowns

due to deaths since you see them everyday."

Well, it isn't. Priests are healers and magic users. We use all of our skills that we are capable of using,

try our best to heal the patient. If we fail, we put a piece of cloth over the dead and, well, forget about it.

When we let our patients go, they are usually still warm, and, most of them look as they are sleeping.

We leave them to the undertakers. Therefore, we really do not have the interaction with the 'dead' as much

as people think we do. It is not as if we cut open our patient's bodies, and see the blood and gore. (1)

That was probably why I almost gone mad, with fear and anger, along with sorrow when I saw Moria

getting buried with my own eyes.

I must explain something before I continue. In times of mass casualties, it is not possible for people to

properly give their dead a funeral. In short, after the plague showed its form in full blast, all the burials

were conducted by digging huge pits, and piling up corpses in them. Limestone was poured in, then another

stack was piled above the former stack. When the pit was almost filled to the brim, officials of Kirin Tor casted

flame magic inside the pit to incinerate the corpses. Quite a casual, everyday sight in Dalaran these days.

It was quite barbaric, but had to be done. There were too many dead, and not enough room for seperate graves.

If they really wanted to, most of the buildings of Dalaran had to be razed down to make room for more cemeteries.

The Kirin Tor's explanation for the 'unhumane acts' were queerly acceptable at the time, when I was still capable

of being callous and rational on these sort of matters.

I even remeber making a funny remark about it as Moria and I passed one of the pits on our daily walk, and that

Moria didn't like it; the joke, one bit. She said it was sacrilege to the dead especially for a priest. She was right.

I only realized that deep inside my skin yesterday when I saw her go inside the pit myself, toppled over straight from

the wagon as if she was nothing but a piece of cheap meat, or a sack of flour.

It took Antonidas and a few more people to stop me from rushing to the pit, killing all the undertakers who disgraced

my wife's dead body which also bore our child within, and then mutilate the mage who would soon after burn her to ashes

with his spells.

"No! Let me go, god damn it! I won't allow it, I won't!"

"Come back to your senses, Kel! Kel, get a grip!"

"NO! GIVE, HER, A PROPER FUNERAL!"

All the people around me: bypassers, watchers, and some who were there for the same reason as I was; to bid their dead

their final goodbyes, were all staring at me. Some with simple curiousity; others with a faint hint of contempt.

Then, one of the two undertakers who were piling up the bodies inside the pit stopped his work, strided towards

me, and without any warning, slapped me. I stopped screamming. Antony and the others who were trying to restrain

me stared at the old, heavily bearded undertaker with dumbfound looks.

"I know that you feel great grief for the loss of your loved one, sir. And I'm not saying this with empty words, 'cause when

I say that I know how you feel, I mean it. I had to, dump my daughter along with my grandson into one of these hell-holes

with my own hands, sir. I dumped a hell lot more dear ones of other people inside these damn holes, too. I know not one

of them really deserves this kinda treatment, not this kinda trash. Every one of 'em deserve, what you call a decent, proper funeral.

But we can't, sir. We just can't. Nowadays, all that stuff with the coffins and the tombstones and the black dresses are,

well, bull-shitted hypocricy, if not simply a god damned luxuary. No one wants to see their loved ones get piled like trash,

but that is what we have ta deal with these days. So if you understand the situation, sir, would you be kind enough to shut your

lid and stop acting like a spoild little wretch? You're making everyone else feel a hell a lot worse then they should be with

your damn wailing and bablin'."

I felt rage. I felt the deep, uncontrollable lust to kill this man right now. But above that, I felt great shame, shame so greater

than all the rage and bloodlust I felt inside me that moment. I looked around, and saw one of the people; a young, beautiful

women dressed full in black and a matching veil, crying. But she wasn't crying simply because she was sad for the death

of her loved one. She was glaring at me. She was staring at me with almost equal rage, equal rancor I currently had.

'My husband/brother/lover/child, (or whom so ever she lost), also deserved your so-called 'proper funeral' as much as your wife did,

you ignortant bastard', she seemed to say with eyes wet with tears, brows quivering with anger. Others, most of the people

who were there to attend their dead's departure, or some who weren't but still had experience in seeing their dead go down the

pit, seemed to give him the same look. I soon went limp and fell to the grounds on my knees.

"...m sorry..."

I soon got back up to my feet, ran to the old undertaker who had slapped me moments before. Before him, I knelt once more,

and cryed, asking him to forgive the things I have utterly spat out to him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

The undertaker grabbed my arm and forced me to stand up. Then, he gave me the most, sad smile I have ever seen.

"It's not me you should apologize to, sir. It's to them, all of the folks at your back," he said as he pointed to the people

that were there at the pit to tend their dead good bye, then pointed to the pit which was filled with corpses. "and to these

folks, that you really should be sorry to."

I did. I politey, sincerly bowed to the people, then to the pile, which had my beloved Moria inside there somewhere.

The undertaker then bowed his head to me.

"I know it's hard times, sir, and I know that you mean only good. I'm sorry too for calling you foul things back there.

I see you are a priest of the Kirin Tor... and I bet you are a good priest. So please, work hard, and try to make good. Please,

turn Dalaran back to life, sir. 'Cause... I really, really would like to stop doing this to all these poor dead folks. I would really

like to do it the nice, old way again and give 'em the respect they deserve."

He showed a glitter of tears too; I bet he missed his daughter and grandson very very much.

Later that day, frustrated, angry, sad, and now so much sorry for all the things I did till now that was not right, I destroyed the

apartment I used to live with Moria. From the rage that I would never be able to see her at the kitchen, cooking dinner again.

From the rage that I would never be able to embrace her softly at our bed, and touch her hair. From the rage that I will never

see her wear these dresses in these closets anymore. Everything was just, unbearable. So, in pure frenzy, I tried my very best

to destroy it all. To destroy everything that reminded me of the happy times I had with my wife. The things that smelled like her

that reminded me of her smile. After hours of carnage and violence, I eventually put myself into sleep from the lethargy due to

my own rancor, crying once again.

"..r? Sir? Mr. Thuzad!"

"Huh...!"

I was brought back to reality, at one of the tables in the Cafe Märchen.

"Are you OK, Mr. Thuzad? You went blank out there for almost 10 minutes or so, dripping tears like mad! I thought something

went wrong..."

"I'm OK... Thank you for your concern."

After that, I left the money for my meal, and hurried out of the Cafe as fast as I could.