He had failed.
In the beginning, it had started small; so small that the overseers of The Underworld had barely taken notice. A newly arrived soul mysteriously disappearing here or a small squadron of skeletons appearing to wreak havoc there. Occurrences that had posed mild concern, but other larger matters had taken priority. Maintaining the judgment of souls had become increasingly difficult when Grenth's retreat from his domain left a portion of his faithful shaken. Paralyzed without the guiding frigid hand of the Lord of Death they had known for centuries.
They were weak.
Not him.
The necromancer stood, still as stone, solitary on an icy ridge overlooking the Ice Wastes. Far below him, the River of Souls flowed, weaving around mountainous pillars of ice and earth that impaled the vast sea of mist around him. His eyes, unblinking, followed inky white trails of the myriad of souls as they traveled. The cacophony of newly dead's cries and screams rang in his ears, a grim reminder of the magnitude of his mistake.
Grenth's faithful knew that Dhuum would attempt to free himself. The Emperor of Oblivion's defiance of his confinement was eternal, possessing a wrath so all-consuming that even the Seven Reapers would have no hope of stopping him with their combined might if he were to fully break free. He had seen it first-hand in a shadowy memory from a time long lost, left frozen deep in the black abyss of his consciousness.
"Your presence is requested by the Council of Seven."
He said nothing to the wraith that had approached from behind, its sickly green luminescence spreading across the ice like a plague, his eyes still fixed on the stream of souls as they twisted further into the dark horizon that cradled no sun. Their ghostly forms pushed and pulled at each other as if in a desperate frenzy to escape their destination. It was a useless struggle. The Hall of Judgement awaited them all.
"Your presence is requested by-"
"No one in this realm commands me."
At his command, nothing remained but the dirge of the damned after the whispered words left his lips. It was here he would linger, a monument to his most grievous sin until oblivion: alone.
No one would command him.
Not Dhuum. Not the Seven. Not even Desmina.
Only Grenth... and Grenth was gone.
"This self-imposed exile does not suit you."
Desmina raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at his silence. The necromancer made no acknowledgment of her presence either and an inkling of ire rose in her chest.
Child, she cursed inwardly. After all her centuries of existence, patience was the first virtue that she discarded. She did not have the time to deal with mortals and their emotions. It was exhausting.
Well, she couldn't call him a mortal... not anymore.
"You cannot ignore the summons of the Seven for all eternity," Desmina said, her eyebrow descending from underneath dark red bangs, irritation now thick on her tongue. "We do not have an eternity for you to waste away." She circled around his back as she spoke, amber eyes observing the ice that had crystalized the man's body as her prey was as still and silent as a corpse. Her gaze narrowed; a century's worth of isolation and for what? This? What a waste.
She was in front of him now, blocking his view but he could still hear the screams echoing between his ears. His gaze slowly met hers, a courtesy he could not deny Desmina of Orr; first follower and priestess to Grenth. The man's eyes were two clean cuts of jade, still flickering with dormant magics, but remained lifeless and barren in her presence and it drove her frozen blood to boil. She did not have time for this. Every moment away from her duties more souls were lost to Dhuum that could have been protected.
"Look at you." Desmina hissed, her pale face showing just a hint of the veiled fury that lay beneath. She took one step closer to him and away from the drop into the River of Souls below. Dark ancient magic flared around her form garbed in Orrian finery, the red tassels that held her stygian dress tight danced wildly as the still mists of the Ice Wastes near them started to swirl and spiral at Desmina's will. Her long blood-red horned crown crackled with power as the ice beneath her heels began to break apart.
He knew she could obliterate the very fabric of his being if she desired. He had witnessed her raw power before, tearing apart Dhuum's forces with ease, evaporating their forms as black streaks of dark magic arced from foe to foe. Instead, she spoke with measured vehemence.
"You come into His sacred realm before your time. You pledge yourself in eternal service to Grenth upon the stones of his holiest of sites." She took another step forward and now they were face to face, eyes alight in an orange glow. "He accepts you into the folds of his embrace for your deeds and how do you repay the Prince of Winter when you fail at your station?"
They stood in the eye of her storm, mist and black magic swirling wildly as the pressure began to crack the ice that had accumulated around his form. He wished the ice would come to cover his ears or her mouth.
"You give up. You abandon your post. You fail him."
Yes, he had failed. When Grenth had put his faith in him. Him! How could he have betrayed such a gift? In his shame his eyes tore away, unable to bear the truth in hers. Desmina's scowl remained but with a flick of her wrist reigned in the magical storm around them, swirling mist slowing in intensity. Finally, she was getting somewhere.
"I remember when the souls of the newly dead whispered your name in reverence." Her voice was low, just above a whisper but with each word Desmina's power chipped away more and more ice, ripping away what was left of his defenses. "When His most faithful of the Ice Wastes, ancient and new alike, had recognized you as a champion of the Dark Prince."
"Stop. Enough." He breathed out, ice-caked lips barely moving. They held no life in them. No meaning, ringing hollow over the screams of the damned destined to feed Dhuum unto freedom.
Desmina did not relent, masterfully driving and twisting her silver-tongued dagger into every scar as she began circling him again. A skilled predator playing with its food. "They called you 'Savior', 'Protector'... 'Hero'." Each title spoke of a life forgotten: discarded. "Do you know what they would call you now?" Desmina leaned in from behind, hovering close enough for her whispers to lash at his frozen exposed soul.
"Pathetic."
Somewhere deep within himself, he felt ice crack. He shut his eyes and grimaced, brow digging into his nose, and the world shifted when he opened them again.
He found himself as a child. Nothing but skin, bones, and dried tear stains underneath filthy, stinking rags. A scrawny, dirty thing full of cold bitterness fighting for scraps in the squalor of alleys and slums of Ascalon's capital. The cold filled his empty, growling stomach like a ball of unmelting ice. He rubbed the wetness from his eyes and the priestess's sultry voice whispered out from the black void beyond his eyelids.
"Weak."
Another crack. He opened his eyes and the world had changed again.
The necromancer was now in his mid-twenties. The ice in his stomach was still there but without the bitter chill of a scorned orphan. It was hard and cold and powerful; nestled deep within the clutches of Grenth's unholy embrace. The stench of his rags was gone, replaced with an awful mix of burning wood and charred flesh. He took in his surroundings, the sting of long-lost terror taking hold in his heart upon finding the burnt and crushed bodies of his countrymen. Men, women, and children littered the streets of Ascalon City as it lay in ruin, destroyed by ancient crystallized fire. The man quickly looked to the skies in horror as another bombardment born from Charr hands rained down from the heavens, ending a little girl's innocence forever.
Just before a chunk of the Searing that was hurtling down on him could obliterate both the necromancer and the earth he stood on, Desmina's voice shot him back to the present with a word that twisted her knife, threatening to shatter the icy core of his soul.
"Unfaithful."
A great sundering erupted from the depths of his being, a soul-shattering shriek upon his lips as a million different cracks (memories) all occurred at once. His eyes were alight with green fire as dark necrotic energies coursed through his body, flying wildly out in every direction. The force scattered what was left of Desmina's magical storm and destroyed the remaining ice that had been encasing him. Desmina's lips turned up into a satisfied smirk from where she had retreated to.
He then collapsed upon the cracked icy ledge as the magics dissipated, staring down at his fractured reflection. Each of the ghostly pale faces staring back seemed to be that of an utter stranger. Who was he? A savior? A failure? Hero? Coward?
I truly am pathetic... Was my resolve so weak as to be broken by mere words? The thought made him sick. "Finished?" Desmina called out after some time, rolling her eyes when he did not respond. She did not provoke him further however, she was no fool. The once-heralded 'Savior of Tyria' was not one to make an enemy out of lightly.
"I... I have been a fool." He spoke, finally finding his voice after some time. It was hoarse and he was shaken but nonetheless rose to his full height, adorned in ornate robes that were dyed emerald and onyx. Desmina simply shook her head, maroon hair swaying as the mists of the Ice Wastes settled around them once again. "The Seven await. I suggest you do not keep them any longer."
"I have been a fool," He repeated as if he did not hear her. By the Gods, I have... A fool who believed his journey was over. He thought, staring out from the ridge across Grenth's once grand bastion; mountainous pillars of ice and rock filled with damned souls swimming on an ocean of mist. He turned away from his broken vigil to meet her gaze, a spark of resolve in his eyes not seen in a long long while. "but I will never be unfaithful."
For the first time in over one hundred years, the Savior of Tyria moved with purpose.