A/N: I'd like to thank Buglet and Nimtheriel. Without you guys, this never would have happened. Also, congratulations to SapphireIceheartt for the continued popularity of her Frozen series and the publication of her original novel, Extract of Dolphin. I'm waiting to see it at the top of the New York Bestseller's List.
And, finally, thanks to all of you guys. Thanks for giving this fic a try, and thanks for dealing with my terrible uploading times. You guys rock.
Now... without further ado... Blood in the Ice. Terrorism.
"Poison them, drown them, bash them on the head. Got any chloroform? I don't care how you kill the little beasts. Just do it, and do it NOW!"
Cruella de Vil, The Hundred and One Dalmations
Dark water rippled beneath him, the surface pitch black but for where the light of his bright eyes reflected. The heavy rains last night (or day, or week - time meant little to the dead) had flooded some fields and turned more than a few roads into muddy slurries. The wells that dotted in and around Havenshire and New Avalon had been greatly replenished. Had he a mind to, he could easily reach down and brush the top of the water.
He didn't. Salric brought one hand to his mouth and used his teeth to rip off the stopper of the flask in his grasp. The sickly-sweet stench of Plague hit his nose; in a moment of curiosity and irreverence to the victims, he let a few drops fall on his tongue. It was not a taste easily explained. Rotten honey, he thought. If honey could rot.
He supposed it didn't matter. He tipped the flask over the well. The disease bloomed through the water like blood spilled in milk. Slowly, the orange Plague began to dissolve into the water, becoming translucent and undetectable. For such a deadly trap, it was almost criminally simple. A few thirsty fools would take a sip and then walk back behind the guarded enemy lines. Mobile time bombs. The only possible hitch in the plan would be if the Crusaders were actually half-intelligent - but even that, Salric addressed.
The sound of a duo of approaching guardsmen hit his ears. Salric said, "You know your orders, I take it."
"Yes, sir," said one. "We are to pretend that we are guarding the well and to portray the water in it as safe to consume, sir." Salric eyed him critically. He had a healthy look to him that few other Acherus cultists sported, and not a single tattoo colored his face. The Scarlet Crusade armor looked natural on him, and not like it had been stolen from a corpse as was the truth. He could pass for a guardsman, at least well enough to serve Salric's needs. The other cultist was also well-disguised, though he thought she was a little pale. No matter. They were not trying to integrate into the enemy forces, merely to allay any (well-deserved) suspicions or paranoia the living Scarlets might have. Little details could be forgiven.
Still, though. He wasn't about to let this scheme of his die due to incompetence. "If you're asked to drink the water yourself?"
"Drink it," said the woman calmly. "Our bodies may decay, but our souls shall live on as immortal shades."
"Or kill them and hide their bodies, if possible," added the man.
Salric nodded. They would do. "Try not to fail. Torturing you both would take time away from this conquest that I'm loath to give up." They saluted, unaffected by the threat. They were cultists of the Damned. They knew the price of failure.
Pride bubbled within him as he returned home. This was not, perhaps, his most ambitious plan, but he contented himself with the knowledge that he had set up a gift that kept giving. Besides, a larger, grander scheme would begin in just a few short hours. The destruction of Light's Point would cement his place and the place of many of his brethren in the nightmares of those who yet lived.
It was good that he let his mind fill with fantasies of the future, because otherwise the walk back to the Breach was painfully dull. No significant Scarlet opposition still remained this side of Havenshire. Most civilians had fled to New Avalon while the soldiers and guards covered their retreat. There were still some vermin hiding in the ruins, of course, if one felt like going on a hunt. At some point, he came across an animal gnawing on part of what appeared to be a soldier; before he could kill it, just for something to do, the beast looked up and licked its bloodsoaked muzzle.
"Ah." Recognition flared and Salric relaxed. "You're here. But where's your owner?"
The beast - the wolf - offered no verbal reply. Salric hadn't really expected one. Undeath had not gifted Tiris with the ability to talk, nor with telepathy. Tiris reached down and grasped an exposed rib bone before shaking his head violently, ripping the bone out with a sick cracking noise. He padded happily over to Salric and pressed the rib against the back of his hand, tail wagging madly.
"Stupid animal." Even so, Salric sheathed his runeblades and wrested the bone away from the wolf to fling it as far away as possible. Tiris sped off after it, barking, his black coat allowing him to disappear into the night within moments. The world settled back down into quiet stillness; Salric heard nothing but for his own breathing and distant screams.
Minutes passed before the knight accepted that the wolf would not return. Perhaps he had gotten himself killed. Salric hoped he hadn't - Zoen would sulk for days if that were the case, and he really didn't want to have to deal with that. Of course, the wolf could have been alone because Zoen was dead. That was always a possibility. An unexpected and less than pleasing possibility, but not an unusual one. Only the very best of Acherus survived being thrown against the Scarlet dogs.
It was almost anti-climactic, how little time it took to discover the wolf's true fate. Near a few tents on Death's Breach, Tiris laid next to a large figure, gnawing contentedly on the rib. He paid no attention to Salric's approach, deeming his bone far more important than some death knight. The figure was not quite so haughty. It inclined its head. "Salric."
"Markus." He gave a passing glance to the older man's armor. It was different then the last time he'd seen him, more intricate and darker. Was it made with an alloy containing saronite? The metal was endemic to Northrend; few knights outside of the frozen continent were gifted with armor that contained so much as a drop of it. It wouldn't surprise Salric if Markus was outfitted with such regalia. The man was an easy favorite for the bloodthirsty Scourge. "Nice armor. Saronite alloy?"
He grunted in reply. A crack split the air as Tiris snapped the rib in half. Salric spoke again. "I heard they're thinking of making you a Scourgelord."
Markus turned to him and Salric bit back a smirk. Mentioning power to someone - especially power that they may yet acquire - was a surefire way to get their attention. "How do you know this?"
Salric shrugged. "I listen." And watch... and speak. Salric disliked not knowing things, especially where his brethren were concerned. It was a trait that had the potential to lead him down the dangerous path of impertinence, but Salric was careful. He never pried too far, never asked too blatantly.
Markus shook his head, though the emotion behind the action escaped Salric. He thought he might have been able to tell, long ago - a lifetime ago. Or maybe he couldn't. Did it matter?
Settling next to Markus, the younger knight was surprised to see the man's attention focused on the open area of the camp unofficially claimed by the Horseman. Besides providing the means by which for them to acquire their deathchargers, Salanar rarely interacted with the knights of Acherus, preferring to lead his Dark Riders from within the Realm of Shadows. Besides, Markus already had a deathcharger. Why -
Oh.
Took her long enough. Salric and Markus had had chargers for weeks.
"There," said Markus. Sure enough, Zoen was shimmering back into Reality atop a deathcharger he knew she hadn't had before. Immediately, Tiris loped towards her, his long legs eating up the distance between them. She did not look at him - the Horseman was obviously speaking and held her attention - but she did stretch out a leg to scratch the wolf's back.
A couple of meat wagons rolled between them and Zoen, and by the time they passed the Horseman was gone, likely having returned to the Realm, and Zoen and her little pets were nowhere to be seen. Salric gave a quick, cursory glance around the area. Nothing. Either they had all returned to the Realm, or -
Wait, what was that sound -
A rock collided with the back of his head. Instincts flared; his blades were out of their sheaths and in his hands in a split second. The rock had come from behind; whoever had attacked was close, but didn't know too much about death knight resiliency if they thought a rock, and not even a large one, could down him. A few spells of frost magic would slow them down enough that he or Markus could close in to disarm the invader and hit them with a blood boil. They needed to keep them alive to find out how they'd infiltrated the camp -
Harsh, echoing laughter cut through his thoughts as he twisted on his heel. It wasn't an infiltrator. Rather, he watched, numbly, as Zoen leaned heavily against a tent's support beam, apparently laughing too hard to support herself. The wolf looked out from behind the tent. A few small rocks fell from Zoen's hand to clatter against the lifeless ground.
She stopped laughing very quickly after Salric threw a death coil at her. It collided with her chest, knocking her on her back. Salric took advantage and quickly closed the distance, but was intercepted by Markus' own runeblade barring the way.
"Children," the man said in disgust. The children ignored him.
"You think you're funny, don't you?" demanded Salric. Zoen snorted from her position on the floor.
"It's not my fault you failed a spot check, Twinblade," she retorted. "I just went around a few tents and walked up behind you. In plate armor." At last she got to her feet, shaking her head all the way. "Zoen the Wraith, Zoen the Wraith. I'm only a wraith because you're all blind and deaf!"
"If you're finished!" roared Markus. Both Salric and Zoen's jaws shut with audible clicks. Tiris' ears flattened on his skull as he backed away, whining. His voice was lower, but no less intimidating as he hissed, "Your games can wait. We are needed by the Blood-Prince, if you'll recall, though we are probably late due to your childishness." Without another word he stalked away from them, heading for the Blood-Prince's tent and the small crowd of death knights that surrounded it.
Zoen watched him silently for a second before she turned to Salric. "Missed you too, buddy."
He didn't reply in kind, but his tone was softer as he said, "You're going to end up pissing off the wrong person."
She shrugged and took his proffered hand to help her to her feet. "And you aren't?"
"I'm more careful than you are."
"I dunno, I think you could have gotten something pretty scathing off if Markus hadn't interrupted."
Undoubtedly. "You're not the wrong person."
"With that attitude, I could be."
They walked in companionable silence to join Markus at the tent. At a point Zoen slowed, a strange look of concentration on her face. Salric didn't say anything at first, chalking it up to her being... Zoen.
It was when she fell to her knees that he spoke, but even then it was only, "Zoen?" The expression of pain on her face was alarming - to his knowledge, they hadn't been spontaneously attacked by wielders of the Light - but it left quickly enough and was replaced instead by a weary strain of one recovering from a heavy wound.
He tried her name again. "Zoen?"
"'M fine," she muttered, shoving him away when he approached. "Just slipped."
"Of course," he replied coolly. "Nothing bruised but your pride?"
"Go to hell, Twinblade."
"Only if you go with me."
She chuckled lightly before motioning forward. "We should join them before they begin to miss our sparkling personalities."
He rolled his eyes and shook his head at her words, careful not to show the disquiet that roiled within.
She could not say when the Realm was replaced by Reality. She merely knew that silence was replaced by the cacophonous sounds of the Scourge war machine; the drab, gray colors of the world sharpened into vibrant, dark hues of blood and death and bone. The emptiness in her mind was suddenly refilled with the quiet murmur of the other soldiers' presences. The fire-bright connection between herself and Tiris reignited. Salric and Markus existed once more and it was just as entertaining to annoy them as ever. The corner that housed the Voice had never changed.
She could not say when Realm became Reality, but she could say that it had not left entirely. Or perhaps it had always been there, and she just hadn't noticed. Because she could notice now; she could notice the strings. Thin as spider silk, they wrapped around her mind and a ragged, empty part of her, drab white and gray like the Realm they led to. If she looked from the corner of her eyes, she could just see them wrapped around her body as well, blindingly bright against the dark of her armor.
They were strong, too. They didn't so much as budge when she'd tried to brush them away like the spider silk they resembled. A shiver of some foreign emotion passed, lightning quick, through her as she did.
Determined to (remember) know what that emotion was, Zoen grabbed tightly at the strings. She tensed in preparation and then pulled -
- and let go in shock as a lance of freezing cold pain was jammed through her skull.
Her legs collapsed beneath her; distantly, she heard Salric call her name, heard Tiris snarl, but they were drowned out by the pain and the Voice as it hissed, infuriated, Never touch those again!
Yes, I promise, I won't, I promise! she swore swiftly as the agony pulsed through her brain.
"Zoen?" she heard Salric say as he neared her.
"'M fine." She bared her teeth and pushed him away when he came near; she could stand up on her own. "Just slipped."
"Of course." He didn't believe her. She knew that, he knew that, and she honestly did not care. "Nothing bruised but your pride?"
"Go to hell, Twinblade."
"Only if you go with me."
Mindless banter made her feel better; she even managed a grin as she answered back. The strings still glowed just beyond her sight, and the urge to pluck at them like guitar strings was still there. Zoen wasn't quite masochistic enough to give in to the temptation.
The Blood Prince was already speaking by the time the two reached the briefing. Salric quietly slipped up front, tugging on Zoen's wrist when she hesitated to follow. They were just in time to see Prince Valanar scrape a claw across a map set on a rough-hewn table. "My minions have planted mine cars near the outhouse and the upper entrance to the mine," he ordered, his voice different from the rotting-honey tone she was used to hearing from the San'layn. It was harder, colder - bloodthirstier? "Climb inside a mine car and a miner will unwittingly see to it that you are placed safely behind enemy lines. Once aboard their ships, a few of you should keep a guard at the gangplanks, that the others need not concern themselves with the rats that attempt to assault you. The rest, man the cannons. Turn their own weapons against them."
His clawed hand banged against the table as the Prince snarled, "Slaughter them all!"
A chorus of "Yes, sir!" "For the Lich King!" "Slaughter them all!" rang at Valanar's words, one Zoen was happy to join in on. Dead blood pulsed with power as she imagined the carnage ahead of her. She began to follow after the other knights to hide in a car, but Salric's tug at her wrist stopped her short. He was still looking at the Blood Prince.
"You have something to say, knight?" demanded Valanar impatiently. Zoen quietly echoed him in her mind.
"Sir," he started slowly, "shouldn't we deal with the ships?"
The irritation on Valanar's face drained away, replaced with wary interest. "How so?"
"We should destroy them, sir. So they can't use them to try to escape."
The wariness left, leaving only a sinister sort of amusement in its place. "Do you have any suggestions on how to go about this destruction..."
"Salric Voltra, sir." Oh, wasn't he clever, thought Zoen, getting in the Prince's good graces like this. She had to admit to being a tiny bit impressed by him. "A goblin in the Cult knows how to make timed explosives. He has some, last I checked. Maybe enough to sink a few ships." Salric's eyes flicked towards Zoen. He said, "I think Zoen Mith would serve well at planting the explosives."
Impression left. She almost gaped. "What?"
"I believe she would be able to place the bombs and move from each ship far more efficiently than I."
Oh, wasn't he clever. The pretty little compliment disintegrated before her, revealed the maggot-riddled truth underneath. The son of a bitch was trying to keep her from the massacre. While everyone else would be blasting the beach into oblivion, she would be slinking inside of the ships, setting up bombs and listening to the fun being had above her head. Outrage choked her, left her unable to do much but stare at Salric as something like betrayal wormed its way into her heart.
She heard Valanar say a few more things - praise for Salric, orders for Zoen to go get the explosives before getting in a mine car. She felt Salric grab her wrist and tug her away from the Blood Prince's tent. She sent a command down the fire-bright link between her and Tiris for him to stay at the camp. She knew all of this, logically. She also knew that the moment they were out of earshot of Valanar, she wrenched her wrist away from Salric and socked him in the jaw.
"What the hell?!" she shrieked. "You get to murder a navy while I plant bombs?"
Salric regarded her coolly once he recovered from the hit. "You shouldn't have thrown the rock at me."
Her rage trickled away, replaced by shock. "You're kidding."
Unrepentant eyes stared back at her. She wanted to rage at him, to shout and scream and maybe throw even more rocks, or just bash in his head with a rock because was he serious? He just robbed her of a massacre because of a damned joke! How spiteful could you get?!
Incredibly spiteful, as it turned out. She'd have to remember that. "I hate you."
"No, you don't."
No, she didn't, but he didn't have to be such an ass about it. Maybe she would have hated someone else for it, but this was stupid, haughty Salric
(laughing over lunch and joking about the robes and the paintings and his neck snapped like a twig while she watched)
who she was pretty sure she was going to end up throwing into the sea if he kept smirking like that. She didn't speak to him again, instead stalking away to find the goblin with her explosives.
It could be worse, she supposed. She could not participate at all. Perhaps, if she planted the bombs quickly enough, she'd be able to snag a cannon of her own and shoot some Scarlet rats. And wouldn't that be something to lord over Sal? She'd plant his stupid bombs and still get a spot in the action. Let his clever ass deal with that.
"So we load up the ore onto the ships, then we... what, exactly?" Brianna scratched her head in confusion. "Stand around and wait for the ghouls to get us?"
Jason rolled his eyes as he snagged a car. "No. Once we're done, we're escaping on the ships."
"To where? Kalimdor?" Brianna grabbed a car of her own and started the trek towards the Light's Point docks. She was surprised by how light it was - it certainly looked plenty full - but didn't question her good fortune. Her shoulders were aching and her back was killing her after leaning so long over a node. A light car wasn't a stroke of luck she would question.
Jason, on the over hand, was happy to complain loudly about his car. "Light's mercy, could this get any heavier? I understand that we're evacuating, but does that mean we have to dump a mountain into each car? The ships aren't going to stay afloat!"
"All the way to Kalimdor?"
"We're not going to Kalimdor!" Brianna knew Jason was having an idea. It was very similar to the face she made when she gave birth, and she was certain it was just as taxing for him as it had been for her. "Brianna, let me put some of my ore in your car."
Brianna jumped at a sudden, harsh sound that came from her car. She stopped, ignoring the curious look she got from Jason. When the sound didn't repeat, she shrugged it off as a creak from the wheels or a shifting of ore. She continued on. "No."
"I'll pay you."
"You haven't yet."
"I promise I'll pay you... back..." Jason's voice trailed to an end as they passed by the first set of armored guards. Brianna understood the unspoken sentiment. They were grateful for the protection. Everyone was, especially with Havenshire more ruin than town these days. But... pious was too soft a word to describe the Crusaders. Their allegiance to the Light was something else entirely. Zealous. Fanatical. Manic.
With the necropolis looming in the sky and Havenshire in ruins - and the rumors that the Lich King himself was at the helm - perhaps mania was the new normal.
Their cars wheeled on by the defenders, each creaky squeak playing havoc on Brianna's nerves. She told herself that she was safe. That it was the Scourge who should fear them, not her. They could not fail, not with the Light on their side. That the fate of Havenshire meant nothing in the long run. They could rebuild.
In silence, she and Jason passed by the nigh endless rows of naval defenders. The rifles the soldiers sported seemed to lean a little in their direction, the suspicious eyes of the defenders never once leaving her or Jason. Wordlessly they sent a prayer to the Light that none of the soldiers had a particularly twitchy finger.
The hold was quiet after Brianna and Jason left. Nothing breathed; nothing lived. Only the rocking of the ship breached the silence.
Ore fell to the ground as a dark figure arose from a car. Glowing eyes pierced the darkness as twin lichlights.
Nothing lived. Nothing breathed. But that did not mean nothing moved.
He noted the darkness first as he rose from the car. It was not so deep as it had been while he was buried, but it was dark enough to hamper his sight. Enemies would not be able to see well, either, but they would be able to follow his general direction by looking at the glowing lichfire of his eyes. They needed to move quickly.
The other knights were rising from their grave-like disguises, sending pounds and pounds of rock tumbling onto the wooden floor of the hold. A chastisement hung at the end of his tongue for their lack of subtlety before he swallowed it down, acknowledging it as unnecessary. Valanar had assured that the ships were empty. They need only worry for the soldiers on the beach.
Lambent eyes lit up the dark hold as so many lanterns, though their glow was too weak to do much beyond give away the position of each knight as they filed out of the hold and to the cannons above. Markus observed their departure, listening to the quiet humming that thrummed from within them.
There was a quiet, understated music to blood. Few could hear it, and none without a great deal of effort and study. The result was, in Markus' opinion, worth the expense.
A dozen orchestras strode up to the deck and the cannons. Their music was low, predatory, coiled in anticipation for the kill. High notes skittered through the music like spiders - excitement for the blood and the glory to be had. He heard all of this, understood all of this. The deaf, limited to seeing and hearing only the surface - the movements of flesh guided by muscles and bone, the vibrations that hummed in throats and spilled out of mouths - would never know so well as he what lurked beneath, in the shadowy corners where played musicians who never could lie. How could people understand one another without hearing the music to know the truth?
One song had not left. It varied from the others - muted, twinged by a bitter note, untouched by the anticipation of carnage, but run through with a frantic skitter of what sounded like a spider on a piano.
"Turn to a statue, Juggernaut?"
Ah. One of the children. He wondered at where her excitement had gone. "Go get a cannon."
The bitter note grew more prominent. He could just see her hold up something in the darkness. "I got a different job. It's too important for the rest of you. Too delicate, really, for an old man like you. Your fingers might freeze up at the wrong time or... you might have a heart attack and die." Her voice grew higher, as if to mask the bitter note. "Anyways, you go up and shoot things or... guard the shooters or whatever it is you do. " A pause; the blue eyes turned to her upheld hand as she added, "You might want to be off this ship within the next two or three hours, I suggest. Or one hour."
His mind clicked. "You are blowing up the ship?"
"Ships." Pride thrummed through her blood. "All of them. You blow up the beach, I blow up the ships. Nice and tidy, don't you think?"
Then why was she so bitter? "Where is Salric?"
The bitter note grew again. "In hell? I don't know. It's showtime, Juggernaut." The blue lanterns turned away, already heading deeper into the innards of the ship. "See you after the performance."
As she disappeared, he turned and made his way upward, joining the other knights already readying their cannons. They looked to him, waiting for his signal. He made his way to the gangplank and planted himself at the top of it, blade out. Below, the Scarlet defenders had noticed nothing out of the ordinary.
Salric would take this moment to savor the calm he would kill. Zoen would call for attention to enjoy the terror. Markus...
Markus was not a child.
"Fire."
Inside of the hold, Zoen swore. The report of the cannons had surprised her; she had almost broken the bomb. A little rearrangement fixed the problem (she hoped; explosives were hardly her forte) and with luck it would still detonate relatively on time. Or at least it wouldn't detonate until she was out of the blast range. Either suited her.
Leaning back to rest on her heels, the death knight gave the explosive one last look-over as she contemplated how she would get on to the next ship. She still had to plant a few more, but it was better to start thinking about this now than it was to start later. Could she cut a rope and swing over to the next like the pirates did in books? (What books?) Perhaps she could jump over the side of this ship, swim over to the other, climb up the anchor - except she didn't think the hawsepipe was large enough for her to fit through. Maybe she could climb up to the deck? Were there handholds on a ship's hull?
A sea breeze came in from a nearby porthole. Unconsciously, Zoen tilted her face up so that she could feel it. It was a balm after spending so long in the smothering hold, cool and clean in a way that she had never experienced. She could smell salt on the air, felt memories stir in response, memories of
(Pale light in the morning spent walking along the new harbour. Stale coffee to keep her awake. Filched pastries chewed on at the end of the docks. Sunrise over an endless sea.
Home.)
the rust of spilled blood and the salt sown on razed fields. Death and metal. War.
Above her head the cannons roared and the soldiers screamed. It occurred to her that on this dark and bloody night, a figure in black would not be noticed going from ship to ship. Everone was focused on killing and being killed. She could likely just stroll up the gangplank to the next ship untouched.
More cannon blasts. More screams. Zoen smiled. They'd never notice her.
The music of the Scarlets' blood was beautiful. Vibrant, frantic, energetic- even as their lives bled away and they turned to muted corpses, they were so alive about it all. Electric currents arced through their music like jolts of lightning, never slowing, never stopping. The cannons blared around him as the desperate survivors of the blasts rushed forward in a frenzy of suicidal intent. They were going to die. Didn't they know they were going to die? Their music was too fast-paced for him to be certain, but they had to know they couldn't defeat the soldiers of a death god.
An exertion of will sent the blood in mortal veins boiling. His assailants screamed in agony. As he rent flesh and released blood, Markus could see the red steam that curled upwards from their wounds. It impaired vision somewhat, but the reaction from the music was glorious. Their pain added a whole new dimension to the music, unlocked an entirely new class of instruments unnameable by a mere knight as he.
All around him roared cannons. They spat fire and metal upon the beach, pelting the frantic, leaderless masses. Those who tried to escape through the bluffs were blasted to shreds. Those who assaulted the ships were hacked to pieces by the guardian knights. Those who stood, or ran, maddened by the destruction and the death and the futility that surrounded them were destroyed by shrapnel and cannonballs. All of their blood's music was beautiful in his mind.
Once, he felt a quiet flow of song - smug and bitter and trying so hard not to be noticed - pass by him, but it was quickly swallowed up by the blaring tones of much grander orchestras. Another exertion of will sapped energy from his wounded foes, reconstructing the injuries they left on him. Again, he boiled the blood in their veins, again he enjoyed the instruments their pain brought to life. They should have been honored to be accomplice to the creation of such beautiful music.
Slowly, gradually, the songs began to quiet. The electricity burnt out. The conductors took their last bows, the orchestras packed up their instruments. One by one, the lights in the theatre were snuffed out. Only a quiet hum remained.
As the other knights left their cannons, Markus took a moment to observe the ground below. The beach of Light's Point had become a wasteland. Ravaged bodies lay scattered across the sands. Not a single corpse was whole - all had been torn apart, shredded and broken by the cannon fire. Carrion birds were already swooping down from the skies to partake in the feast.
Lights flashed in the sky. Wind whipped at his hair and his hood as skeletal gryphons landed on the decks, fleshless claws already tapping impatiently against the wood. No time was wasted as the knights each mounted a beast, each of whom took off the second their rider was secured. Markus was among the last to take off, a strange instinct holding him back until most everyone on his ship was secured and flying. Their own musics were muted also, though only a deaf fool would be able to miss the victory that thrummed through their blood. And just below that, as though buried beneath the ground, he thought he could hear a frantic skitter - a plea that went ignored. He assumed one of the Crusaders was still bleeding out in the ocean. It was only when he looked back and saw lichfire eyes race onto the deck of the ship farthest from his that he realized what he'd forgotten.
"Damn it!"
She watched, seething, as the gryphons winged away, black against the night sky but for the blue light that emanated from their empty ribcages. They'd left her. They'd left her.
It wasn't unusual. She wasn't the first knight to be abandoned by the rest. Such a practice was encouraged within their ranks. Let the weak die out in the field. Only the strongest survived.
But she had been right there. She had heard the click of the gryphons' claws as they landed. She couldn't go up after them just then; she was still in the middle of activating the last bomb. Had she left right then, it might have detonated then and there, and where would they be? Scraps of bloody flesh, shards of bones to litter the sea and the beach with the dead Crusaders. Couldn't they have waited five more seconds?!
Eventually, Zoen calmed down enough to for rationality to win out. Ranting like a child would gain her nothing. If she must walk, she would walk. It didn't occur to her that she could summon her deathcharger from the Realm to carry her. Little things like that sometimes escaped her mind.
The beach was silent. No, wait, that wasn't true. There were many sounds on the beach: the cries of carrion birds as they descended upon their feast, the crash of the waves behind her back, the clink of her own armor as she walked. The beach was not silent, but it had the same suffocating stillness to it. Bodies, twisted and mangled and very, very still, littered the beach. Her boots stuck in sand wet with blood; it was an effort to escape from each sucking step.
And still the bodies lay silent.
They should be animate, she thought suddenly. The necromancers need to come down here. All of this dead, motionless flesh was a waste. Even if the bodies were too broken to become creatures on their own, the flesh could be sewn into abominations. The bones could be made into constructs. Was the blood of old corpses still sweet on San'layn tongues?
The beach was not silent or still, but it was not animate enough for her. It was not loud enough. The machinery of war, the motion of battle - these were comfortable to her. The aftermath was not her place.
The bombs would go off soon. The knight assumed she was a safe distance away, but she wasn't certain. She hadn't been told much about the explosives, only how to arm them, and to not be nearby when the timer reached zero.
She couldn't say when she noticed them. One moment, she was contemplating the distance one needed to be at when a detonation went off. The next, she was staring forward in time to see a band of living, breathing mortals come down from a path cut into the bluffs. The icon of the Scarlet Crusade was emblazoned proudly on their tabards.
There was no chance of avoiding them; they'd already seen her. Putting on her biggest grin, Zoen called out, "Well, hi there!"
Silence. She took the moment to assess their equipment, noting that, while they weren't particularly well-armed, they were numerous enough that she did not want to deal with them right then. The ships were about to explode.
"You kind of missed it. Party's over, cleanup crew is on its way - unless you want to hang around and catch them. They might be able to help you." The burned remains of half of a woman's torso lay near her. The knight nudged at it with her boot. "Course, I'm told your kind isn't exactly partial to the parties my kind holds..."
There they were. Her irreverent words seemed the catalyst needed to galvanize the soldiers into motion. They cried out in horror and fury as they bared their weapons, advancing on her in a grief-maddened craze. Zoen grinned a little and waited. And waited...
Boom.
The unholy shriek of a thousand tortured banshees heralded the blast. The mortals staggered back, mouths agape as their righteous anger bled away (like the soldiers on the sand) in the face of a new round of destruction. The knight turned her head just slightly to see what she had wrought.
She'd been lied to. The ships didn't explode. They caught on fire.
Glass from the windows shattered and tongues of flame shot out of the new openings. Immediately, smoke began to pour out as well. In a few places, the hulls had twisted and broke open, allowing the fire within yet another place to escape from. Already, flames were traveling up the The flames were devouring the ships unnaturally fast. Were they aided by magic?
The knight wasted no time in pondering. As the mortals reeled from the blast, Zoen acted. A twist of her hand and a surge of power blighted the ground beneath their feet and sent them scrambling to safer ground. She sprinted past them, tugging on the fire-bright wire in her mind. Shouts from behind her reached her ears as she hit the path cut up the bluffs; the distractions had worn off. The soldiers were coming for her.
Logically, she knew she could outrun them. Fatigue would claim them eventually, whereas she could run for eternity. Going uphill at such a steep incline, in armor as heavy as their had to be, they wouldn't last long. If she had a mind to, she could let them chase her until they collapsed, then double back to slit their gasping throats or just walk back to the Breach, unfollowed. A sour edge tinted the idea, though. Was that how a knight of the Scourge got rid of her enemies? By exhausting them, outrunning them, coming back to slit their throats when they were too tired to escape?
... Yes, actually, it was, along with every other cowardly, dishonorable way she could dispatch of them. Those who died in the name of honor didn't deserve their lives to begin with. With that in mind, Zoen raced up the path.
When she reached flat ground, she stopped just long enough to listen behind her. Strangely, she could hear nothing - no metal crashing against metal, no panting gasps of breathless mortals, no shouted insults. Just... nothing. Had they died already?
A burst of bright, searing Light cut through her and Zoen screamed. Fire - she was on fire! Burning white light left her blinded and burned as she fell to her knees in agony, her arms rising in a futile attempt to ward off the flame. Blindly, she lashed out with freezing cold darkness, hitting nothing. She could almost hear their jeering laugh, but it was quickly swallowed away by the pain. The stupid, wretched vermin had set her on fire!
"Bitch," she heard someone spit above her ear. A boot caught her in the ribcage and sent her tumbling onto the back. They threw more fire on her. "Where's your master now?"
There was a growl and another scream, and suddenly the fire was doused, the pain gone. Something soft brushed against her cheek, something animalistic roared in her mind. No - not in her mind. In Tiris' mind.
Her sight came back slowly. Turning her head, Zoen stared at the legs of her assailants and the legs of her wolf. His tail brushed against her face again. Another growl burst from his chest. Wild, bestial hatred rushed along the wire between them to spill into her mind. Unconsciously, Zoen's own face twisted into a snarl as she raised herself from the ground.
These weren't the soldiers from before. Their arms and armor was of much higher quality, and they carried themselves with a confidence that a stupider knight would mistake as arrogance. The way they looked at her, though - the way they angled their shields, held their swords, planted their feet - they weren't conscripts hastily grabbed and given little instruction on how to fight. They weren't the cannon fodder the Crusaders had started throwing at the Scourge in the hopes of choking their cannons.
Dangerous, she thought. Too dangerous. They had surprised her. At least one among them was a paladin strong in the Light. Maybe all of them were. The odds were stacked heavily in their favor: they had numbers and skill, had been prepared for a confrontation where the death knight had not expected any. In a fight, they would rip Zoen and Tiris apart effortlessly. Judging from the smirks and the leering, bloodthirsty way they eyed her, they knew so, too.
To stay and fight was suicidal, but honorable. To flee might save her life at the cost of being a coward.
She could live with that.
It took her barely a second to convey her intentions to Tiris. The soldiers must have thought she would stay and fight; as she disappeared in the woods, they stood still for a few precious moments before one of them shouted for the rest to go after the death knight - no, the coward. Any distaste for the insult was quickly tamped down. She had a lead on her pursuers. She would not lose it.
She traversed the forest better than they, but not so much better that she could shake them off. They didn't lose her, no matter how much she twisted and weaved. Once, she tried to double back, but had almost ran straight in to one of the soldiers. Only his surprise had allowed her to escape again. Zoen gained a little distance when she and Tiris ran through a briar patch.
The orange glow of firelight caught Zoen's eye as she exited the briar patch, enough so that she made her way to it with Tiris at her heels. It was a house - a small house, one made for those people who liked their solitude but still wished to be near enough to town should they encounter some sort of emergency. Many times these sort of houses went unnoticed by the Scourge unless they were literally stumbled upon. The creeping touch of the Plague destroyed the homes; the inhabitants were killed when they ran away, dying from starvation, disease, or running into a roaming pack of undead. This one had yet to suffer any such fates.
Unless a fleeing death knight and undead wolf were a roaming pack of undead, that was. Then... well, you get the point.
It was the sounds of pursuit behind her that sent her lurching to that little house to knock on the door. Oh, please be stupid, she thought. Be the stupid people who open their doors at night...
The door creaked open; she heard a female's voice say, "Hello? It's a bit late for a social call."
"Good thing this isn't social." She kicked the door open and reached forward to grab the throat of whoever had answered the door. With her other hand, she unsheathed her blade. Wide eyes stared down at her. Zoen smiled. "Hello."
There were sounds behind the woman; Zoen could just see a man reaching for a miner's pick. Her voice still pleasant, Zoen called, "I would stop whatever you're doing, mate. I'm in a stabby mood and," she checked the lady's left hand, "your wife is right here with a sword pointed at her chest." Her voice dropped low, scraping at the wooden floor. "I am not in the mood to deal with stupid peasants who think they can threaten a fully armed and armored death knight. Drop the damn pick. Now."
She heard the clatter of metal as he did as she said. Zoen released the woman's throat to close the door, never taking her eyes off of the wife. To Tiris, she sent orders to remain outside and hide close by.
"Why are you here?" It was the woman who asked, her voice laced with steel and... somehow familiar to Zoen. Had she tried to kill her before?
She'd deal with it later; Tiris could hear the pursuers getting closer. "First things first. Hubby, close the drapes. Wifey... go sit on the sofa."
The man complied instantly. The wife didn't move an inch. "Why are you here?"
Irritation itched at Zoen's throat. She resisted the urge to tear off the woman's arm. "Sit down and I'll tell you."
The woman's eyes bored into her own lichfire gaze before she stiffly did as ordered. Zoen followed and sat beside her, laying her runeblade on her lap. "People are likely going to come to your door," she said to the husband. "They're going to ask about a death knight and maybe a wolf. They're going to ask if you've seen either one. Lie."
"Or?" grated out. the woman The knight smiled at her.
"Or I'll kill you. And your husband. Isn't it obvious?"
"You'll do that anyway."
She laughed, really laughed. "Please. You're worthless to me. Killing you does nothing but deny the ghouls a meal. Don't lie, and I'll let you live." A sound scratched at her ears; turning her head, Zoen saw a door left ajar, and beyond the door -
Her smile took a sinister edge. "Lie, or I'm killing the kid in there, too."
The wife stilled. The husband paled as white as snow. "You wouldn't."
"Try me." She settled back comfortably in the sofa and glared at him. "Tell them the truth. Do it. See what I'll do. I dare you."
"Lie," said the woman quietly. The husband's agonized eyes turned to her. "Do what it says. Lie."
The man didn't have time to answer. For the second time, someone knocked on the door. Zoen shifted a little, uncomfortable. The sofa was set on the wall towards which the door opened, adjacent to a fireplace that took up a great deal of one wall. They pursuers would not be able to see her on accident. They would only notice her if the husband told them. For now, her fate rested in the mortal's hands.
... She was going to die.
The man spoke up, his voice bloated with so much false cheer Zoen almost gagged. "Sanders! This is unexpected."
"Hubby isn't much of a liar, is he?" murmured Zoen, swallowing back the bad taste in her mouth. The wife - really, she needed to learn their names - said nothing. She stared into the flames of the fireplace, ramrod straight and as still as a painting. The death knight sighed. "Just trying to make conversation."
Nothing.
The husband was speaking again. "The navy? Are you seri- the whole navy? I don't - wasn't someone watching? What did they do, hide in the mine cars?!"
"Yes," whispered the knight. The wife twitched, but kept her eyes on the wall. Something clicked in her head; a smile cracked along her face. "Are you a miner? I think I remember your voice. Brianna? You were hauling my car. Don't worry, I didn't kill any of the soldiers on the beach. I just blew up the ships. Your friend - Jason, I think - he was hauling my friend, Markus. He was in charge of the beach massacre. The blood is on Jason's hands, not yours."
"Murderer." The wife's - Brianna's - voice came out as a hiss so low Zoen had to lean closer to hear. "Defiler. Monster."
"Soldier, darling. That's the word you're looking for. This is war. I intend to win it."
Brianna's jaw locked. Her husband continued to speak. "Of course, of course. We'll be careful. We've avoided the Scourge thus far, thank the Light... Yes, I understand. Good night. Stay safe." With the slow certainty of a death sentence, the husband shut the door. His hands were shaking.
"I hope your friends really did leave," drawled Zoen. "It'd be a shame for me to have to kill them. It'd be all your fault."
"You said you would leave." The husband's voice shook. Hushed. In the other room, the child snored on softly. "Go. Just - just go, please, we will never say anything..."
"Of course you won't. That'd be ridiculous." Zoen lurched to her feet and tugged at that fire-bright connection between herself and Tiris. Her wolf was nearby; he stalked the guards, but did not engage. Once they were reasonably far away, Zoen continued. "I mean, to say something, you'd have to, you know. Be alive."
Silence. Then: "You said you'd let us live."
Zoen clicked her tongue. "And you believed me?"
The husband went down fast. Zoen lunged at him and grabbed his throat in one hand, squeezing it tightly as she poured frost magic into her hand. His skin blackened as frostbite spread supernaturally quickly from where her fingers and palm touched him. Though the tissue and nerve destruction was likely more than enough to kill him, she unsheathed her blade and pushed it in his chest cavity, just in case.
Brianna was not a fool. She took advantage of Zoen's preoccupation with murdering her husband to grab the pickax the knight had noticed before.
Zoen couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, somebody save me! She's going to mine me!" She stalked towards her, dodging the sloppy downward stab Brianna aimed at her head. The death knight chuckled darkly. Peasant. She had no chance against an armed and armored solider of the Lich King. "First, I'm going to kill you, then I'm going to take that pick of yours and stab out your little boy's eyes. In fact, I'll let you live long enough to watch."
A wordless scream of pure animalistic fury answered her as, wildly, Brianna began swinging the pickax at Zoen. Her ferocity caught her by surprise; Zoen barely managed to raise her sword in time to block a stab that would have gone straight through her head. The attacks were formless and sloppy, but frenzied enough that the miner managed to drive the death knight back a few steps while she was still ruled by her surprise.
A small, sharp blade slipped through a chink in her armor to sink into the back of her right knee. Zoen snarled in rage as her leg collapsed beneath her. Furious, she grabbed at her magic and sent it slithering along her blade, imbibing it with unholy power.. Brianna swung again, but this time Zoen was faster. She slipped her forearm under the pick's ax and wrenched, bringing Brianna staggering forward. With her other arm, she swung her blade and sliced through the miner's stomach.
A high scream from behind her nearly burst her ears; she heard a child cry, "Mother, no!"
"Felix... run," gasped Brianna as she fell, her arms wrapped around her abdomen as she struggled to hold in her entrails. Infection spread from the wound at a supernatural rate, blackening her veins in a gruesome mark of its progress. The blood plague slowed the blood loss of her wound, but heightened the agony. Zoen watched coldly.
"Think of this as repayment," she suggested. "Next time, accept death with a little more grace."
Little feet pitter-pattered away. The boy only had time enough to wrench open the door before purple and black magic curled around him and yanked him back to the knight. Zoen twisted her fingers into his hair tightly and rose, careful to put no weight on her injured leg. It didn't hurt much - far less than it would a living creature, she knew - but the tendons were a wreck, and she didn't plan on falling anytime soon.
"Keep an eye on Mommy for me, won't you?" She reached back and pulled out the knife, noting grimly that the boy had also stabbed through her cloak and left a sizable tear in the fabric. Brat.
The sound of flesh hitting metal drew her attention back and she watched in amusement as the boy slammed his fists against her armor.
"Really now," she chastised. "I'm armored. Are you hoping to jack up my repair bill or something? I'm Scourge. I don't have a bill." Come to think of it, she also didn't get paid, but money meant little to one with nothing to spend it on.
"You killed my mom!" he shrieked. Damn, that was loud. She reached for the fire in her mind and sent orders down its length. Tiris complied quickly, searching for any who might have heard the child's cries.
Flesh collided against metal. He was still hitting her. "I killed your dad, too," she mentioned. "He's the fleshy thing over there by the door. I think you stepped on him when you tried to run."
The boy shrieked again. He stopped uselessly pounding on her gauntlet and lunged forward, his hands curling as he tried to claw at her face. He couldn't reach her, of course, but the effort was commendable. Pride bloomed in her chest like a flower laden with poison. "I hate you!"
The flower crumpled, wilted, turned to ash that was swept away by a frigid wind. What a shame. It was always such a tragedy when they resorted to old cliches. "Next I suppose you're going to say you're going to kill me." She couldn't keep the disappointment out of her voice as she tightened her grip on his hair. With her other hand, she planted her runeblade deep into the wooden floor until it stuck up on its own. She'd promised to stab out his eyes, and it was easier to do that with a small blade than a sword.
She reached for a dagger, but instead felt a thin chain under her gauntlet. Looking down, she stared at a pocket watch that had been fastened to her belt. The watch was nothing special, just an old brass thing on a slightly newer chain. It still ticked, though, like a tiny mechanical heartbeat.
It wasn't hers. She knew that instantly, instinctively. It wasn't hers, or hadn't been before. It was hers now, because she had it, but it wasn't hers the... the last time she had it.
Wait. That didn't make any sense.
"Your name." She spoke, but she didn't recall deciding to speak. "It's Felix, right?"
He didn't answer, just clawed at her gauntlet when he realized he couldn't reach her face.
It was a nice name, if pushing the bounds of Scourge decency. Less likely than Harmony to get one struck down by the King, perhaps, but still not exactly bristling with menace. Of course, neither was "Zoen," but her name had been pretty morally ambiguous to begin with. "Felix" was just... light. Very light.
No. It was a terrible name for a death knight.
The watch kept ticking. Its heart kept beating.
The knife was forgotten. Twisting her hand tighter through his hair, she dragged him towards the door and shoved him out of it before slamming it shut and locking it. White noise filled her ears; the boy might have been pounding on the door, might not have. She touched the fire-bright connection between herself and Tiris, unsure of what exactly she sent down that wire but knowing she had sent something. Thoughts of that were quickly drowned out by the white noise as she moved to the fireplace and grabbed a thin log that yet burned.
The draperies were the first things she set on fire. Next came the chairs, the table. The clothing on the bodies - yes, Brianna had finally died. Took her long enough. Zoen tossed the log onto the bed in the other room before wrenching her sword out of the floor. Smoke had filled the house at an alarming rate. Undeath and the white noise allowed her to ignore the discomfort of inhaling the acrid air; she might have stopped breathing altogether a few minutes ago, really. She wasn't too certain.
The white noise died when her cloak caught on fire. Annoyed, Zoen swiftly tore the thing off and watched it burn. She had liked that cloak - or at least, she had liked having a cloak. She might have killed the boy just for damaging it.
Something caught her eye - a coat rack? Bemused, she reached forward and felt some sort of fabric beneath her fingers. A coat?
A coat wasn't a cloak, but it would work well enough for her. It could replace the cloak that she'd lost. Slinging it over her shoulder, she unlocked the door and left the burning house.
A few yards away, Tiris had pinned the boy - Felix, his name was Felix - to the ground. To his credit, the child was fearless in the face of dripping fangs and baleful eyes, kicking and writhing in an attempt to escape, to injure. Zoen couldn't help but feel impressed by the boy. He fought where grown soldiers cowered.
"Tir," she clicked. "Come here." The wolf abided her instantly, though not without letting one last growl rattle through his chest at the boy. Zoen gave Felix no respite; striding quickly, she knelt down to rest her knee on his chest and wrap her hand around his throat. Fearless or not, the boy was fragile. Were she to rest her weight on her knee, she would shatter his ribcage. Perhaps that made his courage all the more impressive. Or maybe it simply made him stupid.
He spat and snarled at her in hate. Zoen smiled unkindly. "Nice meeting you, Felix."
"I'll... kill... you," he wheezed. The knight tightened her grip on his throat until he could not breathe.
"Kiddo, you couldn't even save your mommy and your daddy. What makes you think you can kill me?" She didn't give him a chance to answer; mercilessly, she blasted his mind with biting frost, leaving him stunned by the cold. She released his throat and ignored the delightful way he tried to drag in a breath, already abandoning him to lay before the burning remains of his parents and his home.
The rest of her flight to Death's Breach was uneventful, beyond summoning her deathcharger from the Realm to carry her back. It became a game for the wolf, who was happy to race against the charger all the way back to home base. Through Zoen's commands, the charger took part in the race, but the knight was surprised when the charger struggled to keep the lead against the wolf. It was a close call once they got there, what with the actual finish line being undefined and the contestants neck-and-neck the entire way. In the end, Zoen sent feelings akin to victory down the fire trail, which seemed to greatly please Tiris. He huffed at the charger as Zoen dismissed it back to the Realm, then immediately demanded the ear scratchings afforded to him as victor.
Only once he was satisfied did Zoen don her new coat. It was just a bit too big on her, falling all the way down to her ankles with the sleeves stopping just short of her knuckles. Likely, it had been meant for someone stockier than she. Brianna's husband, perhaps? Still, it wasn't tight enough to restrict movement and, excluding her spaulder and one remaining couter, all of her armor could comfortably be worn inside of it. The two exemptions had to be refastened outside the coat, but all in all it was an excellent substitution. She heartily approved of it.
She was still busy admiring her coat when she heard her name called. Tearing her gaze away from herself, she was pleased to see Markus crossing the camp to where she stood. Maybe he'd seen the fire, or heard the explosions of the ships
"Markus," she grinned when he was close enough, "so lovely to see -"
"Be respectful," he interrupted.
Zoen scoffed. "I thought you'd given up that pipe dream."
"What? I - no, no, not to me, you idiot, to him."
She blinked. "Him. How very descriptive. Yes, I now know everything I need to succeed. Thank you for your help."
"Don't be obtuse," he snapped. "You know who I mean -"
"Knight Mith!" Zoen turned at the distinctive voice of Prince Valanar. The darkfallen smiled at both her and Markus, chuckling, "You certainly took your time. You missed the meeting."
"Meeting?" No one told her to come back in time for a meeting. Meeting with who?
"With the Lich King, girl. He desired to see all knights who had a hand in this great victory of ours. You were the only one absent, I am told."
"Oh." The bottom fell out of her stomach. She glanced at Markus. That him. It was with a pathetic desperation that she said, "I guess I'll just... go back out into the field..."
The Prince laughed, and Zoen realized desperation didn't work well with her. "Our Master still wishes to see all of the involved knights, you included. You merely shall have to go alone."
"Ah." If the ground opened up and swallowed her right now, she would be most appreciative. "I should go then. I shouldn't... make him wait any longer."
"No, of course not. It'd be a waste if you were destroyed over this." The Prince's smile widened as he regarded Markus and Zoen. "You wonderful monsters. I foresee greatness in your futures." He took his leave then, calling out to a gaggle of acolytes to snarl orders at them.
"He's in a good mood," noted the younger knight. "Lots happen in my absence?"
"We earned him a commendation," explained Markus. "I will tell you more later." One large hand wrapped around her arm and he dragged her to the undead gryphons, swiftly giving her directions to the King and instructions on how to act. "Be respectful, be apologetic, do not try to be clever, do not lie. Do not try to be clever."
"You said that twice."
"To drive it through your thick skull!"
He lingered even after she'd mounted a gryphon, oozing nervous energy that, in turn, made Zoen nervous. Markus was not supposed to be nervous, not supposed to be hurried. He grew short, he grew angry, but this... this concern of his, it (frightened) disconcerted her. Not to mention the uncomfortable warm feeling that spread through her at how invested he seemed to be in her continued survival. She didn't like it.
"Thank you," she said, surprising herself at how genuine it was. Blurry memories and half-gone lessons from another time (another life) instructed her that that was the appropriate reaction to being given help. You said thank you. Which she probably should do the next time she tortured someone for information, come to think of it.
The sharpness of his face softened. Markus sighed. "Thank me when you return. If you return."
At the corner of her mind, the Voice twitched, impatient.
Right. If. Survive the navy, die by the King. Such was the unlife of a death knight.
The whole journey to the Lich King was a blur in Zoen's mind; after discovering that he was not looking upon the world below from a balcony, she was told by a passing val'kyr that the Master was in the heart of the necropolis. Zoen had thanked her and... and that was as much as she remembered. The walk here had been on autopilot; the death knight was too busy stewing in her own mind to worry about such menial trivialities as walking.
Strangely, she did not think much of her upcoming meeting. Many of her thoughts were instead of unrelated or nonsensical things. She thought of Tiris, whom she'd left with Markus for the wolf's own good. Of Salric, whom she hadn't seen since her return. Of warlocks with brown hair and seas that stretched on forever. The last two gave her a headache, though, so she tried not to think much of them. Once or twice she wondered if the boy - if Felix - had escaped from his burning home. It was unlikely; he was just a child, and trauma had likely left his mind a panicked, gibbering mess. On the chance that he did escape, he wouldn't make it far. Scourge were everywhere, and traumatized little children were easy prey for the ghouls and geists.
And even if he managed to escape all of that -
Her thoughts ground to a halt as she realized she was standing right in front of the door that led to the innermost chamber of the necropolis. And she still had no idea how she'd gotten here.
At least I got here, I suppose... she admitted even as she examined the door. Her fingers twitched. She could just enter - no, wait, she should knock. She should knock? He could see in her head, he must know she was at the door. It didn't make any sense to knock. Unless... unless it was just the principle of the thing. It might be what a knight was expected to do when summoned before her king, she was supposed to knock. But what about a king who could just read the knight's mind?
The Voice cut her mental argument off. Enter, fool.
Oh. Well. That certainly solved that. Zoen pushed the door open and tried not to think too hard about being called a fool. It might mean nothing. It might just be because she genuinely wasted time worrying about the etiquette of opening a door. If he was in a good enough mood, it might even be affectionate.
Affectionate.
Affectionate.
Ha. Ha ha ha. She was so funny. So. Freaking. Funny.
For the Dark's sake. Just strike her down now.
Zoen took a deep, unnecessary breath, and stepped through. The door slammed behind her with a very final sound.
The central chamber of Acherus was barren compared to the rest of the necropolis. The floors and walls were made of the same dark, opaque material as the rest of the architecture. Long banners bearing the insignia of the Scourge hung from the high ceiling. A plain throne had been installed near the back wall. Frost covered the walls and slicked the floor. and small icicles hung from the banners. There were a few other details - a crack in the ground near the throne, a body slowly bleeding out and gasping for breath - that she glossed over, but even with them, the room was practically empty. Storage rooms were more remarkable.
The Lich King however, was not so unremarkable. He stood at the feet of the body, Frostmourne held in one hand and dripping blood. With his back to her, she could only see his tattered cloak and his dark pauldrons, and yet he still commanded attention. Cold radiated from him. Not the paltry chill of a blizzard, which could no longer touch her anyways, but deep, blood-chilling, marrow-freezing cold. It knocked her off her feet, which she could only clumsily disguise as a kneel. She felt amusement bleed out from where the Voice, now so much more immediate, and knew he was not so easily fooled.
"My lord," she forced out, pleased at how clear the words were. Her throat and lungs felt so cold, she was sure they were frozen.
"You are late." She winced. Alright then. 'Fool' was definitely not a term of endearment. "Your brethren returned hours ago." The dying creature at his feet moaned.
Be apologetic. "I - I apologize. I was unaware I was to return within a certain timeframe." No, no, was that clever? What wasn't clever? She added, "I was not afforded a gryphon to use for my escape, nor was I told when the others left. I was still deep inside a ship when they left." Her voice was slow and pitched lower than usual, but it was clear enough and steadier than before.
A silent compulsion ordered to rise, and thus she did. The body gurgled once more and Zoen heard the crack of bone. The Lich King had crushed its hand under his heel. "Which is understandable. However... you still did not return, long after the ships exploded." Heavy steps neared her. At the edge of her sight, she could just see the king's boots. "Do you not have a charger? Did you forget the way home?" he mocked.
"No." She remembered the charger eventually. "However, I was unexpectedly pursued and forced to take temporary refuge."
"Which you ended up setting on fire." She thought he was grinning as he said dryly, "Your idea of gratitude is unusual, if amusing, child."
She was pretty sure that was a compliment, which must have been a good sign. "They shouldn't have let me in in the first place. They should have known I was lying." Zoen swallowed, hoping to wet the dry ice that coated her throat. "Death knights are dishonorable."
(When did dishonor become a virtue and honor a vice?
When were they not?)
"Yet you let the child live."
Beat. She thought of thin ice cracking under her feet. "... Yes."
The King laughed unpleasantly. The sound scraped on Zoen's nerves like sandpaper. Don't look up, don't look up...
"'Yes,' she said. 'Yes, I let an enemy flee. Yes, I actually aided in that escape.'"
A cold flame burned in Zoen's chest. Her jaw locked and she clamped her teeth on her tongue. A quiet mantra began to run in her mind. Be quiet, be apologetic, don't do something stupid. Be quiet, be apologetic, don't do something stupid. Be quiet, be apologetic...
"Was it too soulless for you, child? Is there still some shred of humanity in you that holds you back, compels you to such idiotic acts of mercy?"
... be apologetic, don't do something stupid. Be quiet...
"Perhaps he reminded you of something from before you ascension. What was that? His youth, his fury, his pain..."
... don't do something stupid...
"... his name?"
The mantra skidded to a stop. Her jaw unlocked. Zoen glared up at the King and snapped, "He was just a child!"
There was an earsplitting crack and then Zoen heard herself crash to the floor. A dull pain burned the left side of her face; reaching up, she touched the mangled flesh of her cheek and her fingers came back bloody.
Bloody like the spikes on the King's gauntlet, she noted with a touch of panic as he advanced on her. Her foolish anger fled, leaving her nothing but cold horror as she reaped its consequences.
The Lich King snarled at her, his face twisted into something nightmarish. Zoen tried to move as dead instincts fired to life - you're prey, you're prey, he's going to eat you - but the ice had frozen her muscles and the darkness was suffocating as he reached down to snag her by the throat with one hand and slam her against a wall. Her vision exploded in a burst of white starlight as her skull cracked against the wall and when it cleared she was face-to-face with a demon.
Zoen gasped - to speak, to breathe, she didn't know, and the Lich King slammed her head against the wall again. "Just a child," he hissed. "He was just a child. Tell me, Zoen - what do children do?"
"I'm sorr-"
"They grow up,'" he spat. "They become stronger and cleverer and they multiply, then there are yet more children that we must exterminate before they start to age and multiply."
Zoen's jaw clicked as she rasped, "I'll find him."
The Lich King barked out another nerve-grating laugh. "On what information? You have nothing to go by. Vermin look like vermin, especially the young ones."
No, no, he looked like - he had... he had hair - I think -
The child, the boy (Felix), what did he look like? How hadn't she seen what he looked like?
Vermin look like vermin...
"This one, though..." The King's voice dropped lower, though the fury had not abated. "You slaughtered his parents right in front of him. You burnt his home to the ground. Do you think he will ever forget that? Forget you? He'll grow with that hatred festering inside him like an untreated wound. He'll think of you - he will never not think of you. All of that pain and anger and hatred will be focused on the single quest of destroying you."
Disgusted, Arthas released Zoen and let her fall back to her feet. "That could have been your intention, I suppose. Is that it? You disobey me, fail me, you forge your own enemies. Is it a final death your desire?" His fingers twitched towards where Frostmourne hung at his hip.
Fear (she remembered fear now!) flooded her veins and Zoen croaked out, "No! No, I don't want to die, I -"
"Then what?" he snapped. "Are you truly so incomprehensibly stupid that you can't even kill a child?"
"No, no, I -"
"Then what. Is. It?"
A choked, desperate noise escaped her throat. Her mind raced, but came up blank. Near the back of her skull, she could feel impatience radiating off the Voice. Defeated, she admitted, "I don't know."
(In her pocket beats a mechanical heart.)
"You're pathetic," said Arthas as quietly as his voice allowed. The words dropped like hammer blows upon her, cracking her shoulders and shattering her ribcage. Shards of bone lodged in her useless heart and her frozen lungs to stick thornlike through the fleshy muscle and organs. She couldn't breathe - her breath had been knocked out and giggled as it held her speech just out of reach.
And still the Lich King spoke. "I ask so little of you. So very little, in return for the gifts I have granted unto you. Power, immortality, freedom from the shackles of memory and emotion -"
(but dad there's a warlock in my head and I don't know her and I do know her and please, dad, you left the warlock)
"- and I ask only for your obedience. Is that truly too much for you?" He leaned back, eyes narrowing as he examined her. His eyes flicked to the lacerations on her face. "Must I really say what you should already know?"
She wanted to try to grab her stolen words and swallow them back down, wanted to be able to plead and make her case because this was just one time, one time, and she promised she'd do better, she promised. She'd hunt the boy down herself and tear out his eyes liked she had threatened and present then to the King if he so wished. She promised. Just let her breathe, let her speak, and she would say these things.
But she couldn't speak, and the Voice was silent when she tried to plead with it.
Arthas sighed. "You could be so very great, child. But you waste your own potential."
It was the disappointment that did it; the disappointment that reached through the shattered barrier of her ribcage, that ignored the bone that bristled around her heart as it wrapped around it and pulled it out with a wet snap. A hollow, aching pain spread from her chest, so much worse than (a blade cutting through her back and spine) anything she'd ever felt before. Zoen fell back against the wall slackly like a marionette whose strings were cut.
From far away she heard the King turn his back away from her. The frost that coated her throat cracked and thinned until the smallest wisps of air could pass through, but Zoen did not speak. There was nothing to say.
With distance the oppressive darkness and cold receded enough for Zoen to claw her way back into a standing position. Congealed blood cracked and chipped and she absently scrubbed at her jaw and neck.
"Wait." She heard the movement of metal as he neared her. Leather-bound finger grabbed her chin and forced her gaze back up to look at him. His eyes narrowed as he considered the ragged flesh of her cheek. He tapped it, and dull pangs of pain flared in response. "This is a mistake you must never make again," he said. Something glinted, changed; he grinned like a wolf. "However... I've noticed you have a rather short memory. Let this serve forever as a reminder, my foolish girl. Mercy is a weakness."
Her eyes widened and she began to struggle against the suddenly iron grip he had on her chin. Dark magic swathed his other hand as he raised it (you're prey you're prey YOU'RE PREY, RUN YOU IDIOT) to cover her cheek.
Pain. Mind-shattering, blood-curdling pain lanced through her cheek. Zoen couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't scream as the agony ripped at her from the inside out.
Far away and above her head she heard the King snarl, "Never fail me again."
Time blurred into a white blank. The autopilot that had led her to the chamber now led her out. She could recall brief scraps of empty hallways and dark corridors, but even these memories were murky. Too much of her conscious was focused on the absolutely, unbelievable agony of her face. She walked and walked and walked and she had no idea where she was going, but the pain, all she could think about was the pain -
Fingers wrapped around her upper arms, jerking her into reality that she may recognize the familiar, hulking behemoth before her. "You survived. Good. I - Zoen?" Markus' brow furrowed, one hand rising to tilt her face up. "Your face -"
"You were right," she gasped. By the Dark, it hurt to talk. She felt like she was ripping her face open. Her face was so cold it burned - or did it just burn? She didn't know, and really, did it even matter?
"I - I made a mistake, like you told me not to, so he - he - I, I haven't seen it yet, but I can feel it, and it - it hurts, Mark, it really hurts, it hurts so much -" She was babbling now, shamefully breaking down right in front of someone else. She was pathetic - he'd said she was pathetic, and he was right, because look at her now, whining like some child who skinned their knee. "It hurts -"
"Shh," he hushed, tightening the grip he still had on one arm as he dragged her away. "Be silent, little Wraith, before someone hears you. Pull up your hood - no, this wretched coat doesn't have a hood on it, does it?"
"I like the coat," she sniffed. She did. Maybe it was another failure, taking up a coat instead of a cloak like everyone else, but it was her coat, and he hadn't even said anything against it. It was only - it was only a coat. Just a coat.
But he had just been a child, and look at what he cost her.
She was aware of a warm, furry thing brush against her leg, of a nose pressing against her palm. Zoen ran her fingers over Tiris' head, slightly comforted by the wolf's presence. At least he didn't think she was a failure.
No. Not think. Knew. At least he didn't know she was a failure.
She paid no mind the the twists and turns Markus took her through. She was too busy wallowing in misery - and wasn't that just further proof of her weakness? A death knight, wallowing. Pathetic. Shameful. She disgusted herself.
"The Frost Hall," Markus muttered to himself. "Perhaps Salric has a hood to spare..." Zoen froze in the middle of the hall. Markus yanked on her arm, but she refused to move. "No, don't stop, we need to keep going." He followed her gaze and, with a defeated sigh, dropped her arm.
Due to the magics studied within it, ice coated the walls of the Frost Hall. The ice was thick enough that, despite the opaque material, even the walls were rendered greatly reflective.
A pale, thin girl stared back at Zoen, eyes glowing blue beneath bone-white hair. The jagged armor of a death knight clothed her and a runeblade hung from a dark sheath at her hip. A black longcoat hung from her shoulders to her ankles. An enormous wolf stood at her side, and a massive man stood just before her. To a living mortal, she was unsettling. Too sharp, too long, too armed. Too young. Monsters weren't supposed to be so young.
Zoen saw none of this. Her eyes were fastened to her left cheek, on the location of the burning pain. The spikes on the King's gauntlet had shredded through her cheek. Four long lacerations cut diagonally from her cheekbone to her jaw, the very longest reaching her chin. They were ugly; deep and uneven, like someone had taken a rusty, broken knife and carved up her cheek. The King's magic had healed them, but now she was left with deep, ugly, uneven scars.
Vanity was unbecoming on a death knight. Her appearance meant nothing, so long as she could do her job. The scars might actually even be beneficial. Seeing a teenager murdering soldiers while sporting such brutal scars might demoralize the enemy.
And yet... and yet, the Lich King had given them to her for her failure. Healed them until they scarred as an eternal reminder of her weakness, her disobedience, her disrespect. And Markus - smart, successful Markus, whotold her what not to do - who was here now, having to help her. Who said nothing as she cried over the pain that still hadn't gone away.
Her expression frosted over. She locked her jaw, despite the screaming agony that shot up straight to her brain. Beside her, Tiris began to growl low in his throat. "What next?" she asked.
"What?"
"Targets." Could death knights pass out from pain? No, no she was certain they couldn't. Good. "Missions. Schemes, strategies. Whatever. People to kill."
"Your pain..."
"Will pass," she finished for him. "It's just pain, Juggernaut. We have Crusaders to kill."
Markus was quiet. Then: "Havenshire is being put to the torch. There are still Crusaders to hunt down in the ruins."
"Good." Hunting. She was good at hunting. With Tiris and Markus, no Crusader would escape. "Let's do that. I need to kill something."
She was weak, and pathetic, and wretched. But she could change that. She would change that. And the scars, they would remind her. Just in case she ever forgot the lesson. Weakness would cost her dearly. She was fortunate to be punished as lightly as she was. Next time, she might find herself thrown onto a pyre.
She'd do better. She had to. No more mistakes, no more hesitation. She had been raised to kill, and damn it, she would kill. Men. Women. Children. Who cared. She just had to kill them.
The pain in her cheek receded, just slightly. From its corner, the Voice hummed its approval.
(In a glade of thorns sleeps a bleeding child.)
A/N: Words cannot describe how difficult this chapter was to write. Seriously. I've been tearing my hair out over it.
I think this is the last chapter set with the Scourge only. Formation of the Knights of the Ebon Blade may be next. Also: Sparks. You didn't think I'd forgotten her, did you?
Review, please. It would be nice.