Live

He found it easily; all he had to do was ask, and he was pointed in the direction of the smoldering ruins of the Chapel of the Crimson Flame. Outside, the bodies of those who had fallen to the Ebon Blade were piled high: Argent Dawn, Scarlet Crusade, innocent peasants, all heaped together in a mound, waiting for either the torch of the cremator or the hand of the necromancer. He began to rummage through the corpses, tossing aside the bodies of those he and his brethren had slain, that he had murdered heartlessly, willingly, gladly. He recognized none of the faces he saw, but he imagined each one of them falling to his blade; he relived each kill in his mind, once for every face, the thrill of cold steel slicing through warm flesh and bone pulsating through his body again and again.

He felt no guilt. Maybe a twinge of pity, but nothing more, even for those he had personally cut down, for if it hadn't been his hand holding the blade, it would've been another's. Fate had cast these poor souls into the abyss, not him. He had no soul left with which to care for the multitude. But one of them…one body…one life lost within the pile…

After five minutes of digging, he found her. She had been deep enough to have been disfigured by the weight of the corpses on top of her, but Lev still recognized her face, and would remember it for the rest of his life.

"Caitlyn…" he whispered under his breath, the only words he could bring forth to lament the woman who he had loved and slain. Gently, he removed her from the pile, pushing aside the other bodies. One of the lifeless arms pinned her down, holding her firmly in its rigor, preventing her from leaving her fellow dead. Lev drew his sword and hacked at the objecting limb, severing it and freeing Caitlyn from the grasp of the dead. He held her body in his arms for a few seconds, the press of its cold skin against his arms and chest seeming to drain away what little warmth was in him. Tenderly, he laid her down at the foot of the mountain of the dead, placing her limbs so that, if he blotted out the hole in her heart that he had driven his blade, he could pretend that she was just sleeping, that she would wake up, that everything would be okay.

As he looked at Caitlyn's still form, John's eyes and mind glazed over. Every memory he had of her, every memory of them together, poured into his mind; he remembered them running along the coast, slinging pebbles at murlocs; riding horses through the fields; sitting together beside a warm fire in the winter, watching the land outside their window turn white; standing in the town square as survivors recalled how their families had been slain and then risen up against them; standing side by side as they fought the Scourge; watching her ride away as he stayed to face certain death; driving his sword into her heart as tears ran down her face.

"If I am to be damned," John decreed, his voice shaking with determination. "Then let my damnation save others." The dark magic of death, which he had so recently served as an instrument of, poured into him. It surged in and around his being, threatening to engulf him, to draw his mind back into its sway. Darkness swirled around him, clouding his mind, trying to blot out the dim flicker of hope that Commander Mograine had kindled from the ashes of a lost soul.

He thought of Caitlyn's face, and the light burst forth, driving back the darkness. He would not longer be a servant to death; he would bend it to his will. The magic submitted, cowering before the onslaught of his reignited will. Lev focused it into his blade, then directed it into Caitlyn. Black and purple light wrapped around her, pulsed through her, granting motion to her dormant body.

John lowered his sword and watched as picked herself off the ground, rising onto her feet, standing on her own. She lifted her head, and her eyes were open, their brilliant blue depths gazing at him. A tear formed in the corner of his eye and rolled down his check. His lips quivered as he soundlessly formed her name, too overcome to bring forth sound. He had done it. For a few moments they watched each other silently, and Lev savored the moment, his heart fluttering, his soul redeemed, his love returned. He shook with unrestrained joy as her lips began to move, and he waited with bated breath for her to whisper his name, to forgive him for killing her, to thank him for bringing her back, to tell him that she loved him.

The jaw fell open and hissed, "Yeessssss masssssster?"

John's world shattered. His heart felt like it had stopped beating. A horrible cold swept through the cavern where his soul once was.

It was just a ghoul. He hadn't brought her back. He fell to one knee, the blow knocking the strength out of him. She was gone. Gone forever. And he had sent her there. The sole tear of joy was washed away by the flood of misery that poured down his face. He stared at the ground, wishing he was dead and buried beneath it instead of living in the hell his actions had created.

Slowly, he lifted his head, forcing his gaze upon that which he had wrought, seeking some faint trace of hope in her face. But as he looked, he realized that there was nothing left of Caitlyn in the body that stood before him. Her soul was gone, cast into the abyss, and there was nothing he could do to bring it back.

The ghoul stared back at him, loyally watching its master, awaiting his every command. He looked into its soulless eyes and tasted bile in his throat: not only had he slain her, but now he had desecrated her body, turned her into one of the monsters she had fought to destroy. Disgust and hatred welled up inside him, tearing apart the hope he had so recently been filled with. As he looked at the aberration, it became the focus for his anger. He poured every ounce of rage and revulsion he had for himself into the walking corpse. As he looked at it, he thought he could see its lifeless mouth twist into a frown, as if it could sense his displeasure with it. It seemed to swell before his eyes, as though filled with all of his pain and sorrow, bulging like a bloated balloon.

And then it exploded.

Hunks of flesh flew threw the air, and the force of the blast knocked Lev sprawling on his back. Jagged fragments of bone drove themselves into his body, and he screamed as the pain shot through him. In the aftermath, he laid still on the ground, listening to the ringing in his ears and feeling every piece of bloody shrapnel lodged in his body. He waited to feel the twinge of death from something vital that had been wounded, but it never came.

Carefully, he lifted himself into a seated position, gritting his teeth at the pain the movement caused. He looked down and saw half a femur protruding from his side, and he yanked it out forcefully, hoping for the rush of blood that would pour from the wound and drain him of his sins. But the blood failed to gush; it froze as it touched the air, clotting itself with ice.

Even by its absence, Death held him in its sway.

He turned his gaze now towards the pile of bodies, to where Caitlyn—no, not Caitlyn, it had only been a ghoul; a mindless, soulless ghoul—had only a minute ago been standing. All that was left of it were its feet tossed about a small crater, jagged stumps of its legs protruding from torn boots. The mound of bodies had been toppled by the blast, and what was once a neat pile was now strewn across the ground.

There was no evidence left that a person named Caitlyn had ever lived, save for the memories in John's mind. These now raced through his consciousness again, until he stuck on one: her face right before he killed her.

John's sword had fallen from his hands, and he picked it up now. He gazed at it, remembering how it looked when it had been covered in Caitlyn's blood. Then he returned his blade to its sheath.

She had died with one wish, one final hope.

He took one last look at the countless dead strewed out before him, composed of those he had killed. They had fought and died for the same hope as Caitlyn, the same dream that all of them shared

He had not taken her life: she had given it to him.

He turned away from the dead, but did not turn his back on them. He would remember them forever. Their dream would be his mission. His hand would be guided by the will of the dead. He walked away from the grisly scene not as the broken man he had been when he had arrived, but a new man, a whole man, one with a purpose.

Her last word echoed through his mind:

"Live."