Anduin gazed at the towering shape of the Sword of Sargeras, the gargantuan weapon still plunged deep into the shattered and broken crust of Azeroth even after all the years that had past. The visions, the voice, had led him here, to Silithus, and he had no doubt that he was not the only one to experience them. Anduin had no doubt that sooner, rather than later, he would once again be in the company of those who had once called him an ally, had once called him a friend.
The rough and coarse sand that the swirling winds of Silithus picked up and brushed against him irritated his scraped and bruised skin, his cheeks and nose burning as the bright sun shone down upon his reddened and sun-burnt skin. The sun warmed his armor, which was dented and scraped, covered in dirt and grime that had clearly been gathering over months. His lips were dry and chapped, his eyes reddened from both the harsh environment and the emotions that had been tormenting him ever since he had been rescued from the cruelty of the Jailer and his domination.
His time away from the throne, away from those he called family and friends, had given him time to think. He had thought about many things, about himself, about what he had done.
His hair - along with the rest of his battered and abused body - had been left neglected ever since he had been dominated, ever since he had been used like a marionette by the Jailer. He had once been growing it out, wishing to style it in a way that would resemble the rather iconic look of his father. The Jailer, soon after he had taken Anduin under his control, had commanded his hair to be severed, having it be crudely chopped into an awkward fringe that was uneven and jagged, the once blond strands turning an unnatural white. Anduin was still unsure of the purpose of the haircut, whether it was the Jailer wanting to display his control over everything that Anduin was or to take away something that couldn't easily be replaced. It didn't matter, in the end. It was gone either way.
Now, cut by Anduin's own - shaking, so much so that it had taken him hours to finish - hand, he was left with a close cut that resembled nothing of the hairstyles he had worn in the past years. It was shorter than he had ever remembered wearing his hair and along with the uneven and closely shorn beard that he now sported, Anduin felt like he resembled very little of the man that he had been before his experience in the Maw. His hair had once closely tied his silhouette and appearance to his father - a purposeful choice, as his father was a man that Anduin could only hope to be like. But now, the son of the Wolf only worked to seperate himself from that appearance, from being associated with the heroic man that had been Varian Wrynn.
His father was better than him, and Anduin had committed atrocities that would prevent him from ever being the man his father was.
His body was bruised, littered with cuts and scrapes that stung and ached as he shifted. While the Light remained silent when he called to it, he could have applied many salves to his wounds, he could have drunk a healing potion to lessen his pain.
He didn't, and he would continue to leave them untreated.
For he didn't deserve to be whole, to be without pain. For he had brought such pain and agony to so many, for he had brought death to so many that were innocent and helpless against his might. He did not deserve to heal himself of the wounds he carried, when those he had brought his blade against would never feel anything again. He now had control over what he was feeling, over the pain that his body was enduring. And he would not let himself lose control, ever again.
His skin, where it wasn't cut or scraped, was covered in a layer of dirt, a coating of grime and dust that had been apart of him so long that it was almost a comforting feeling at this point. He couldn't bear to clean himself, for that would require him to see his reflection in whatever water source he used. To see the features of a killer reflected back at him, to use the hands of a monster to wash himself of his filth. He couldn't continue to pretend to be the King of the Alliance, to be the Light-bearing son of the valiant and brave Varian Wrynn.
He had once been that man, that son. But not anymore.
The Light had left him. Many years ago, he would have said that the Light which had forsaken him. But now, perhaps it was he who had forsaken the Light. As before Sylvanas had him and his friends and allies dragged down to the Shadowlands, to the darkness and depravity of the Maw, he had been a good man. He hadn't been perfect, but he had been leading the Alliance to the best of his ability, trying to remain on top in the war against Sylvanas and her Horde, trying to keep pointless casualties to a low. He had tried to be a bringer of life, not a bringer of death.
The Jailer had changed that.
In the Maw, in the halls of the tower where the Jailer kept him, Anduin had resisted. He hadn't given in to Sylvanas's words, her attempts to convince him that her way was the right one. Although, in the end, his resistance hadn't mattered. A piece of him, a small dark piece of him that whispered to him in moments of silence, wondered if it would have been better if he had just given in. If, perhaps, he had been under his own control, he could have prevented the many deaths that the denizens of the Shadowlands had endured under his hand. For the Jailer, with his domination magic and the use of Kingsmourne, - not even Shalamayne, his father's sword and one of the last pieces of Varian that Anduin had, was safe from the dark power of his once-Master - had turned him into a helpless vessel to carry out his commands. Anduin had been helpless, locked inside his body and forced to watch as he committed atrocities. He had nearly slaughtered Kyrestia, the leader of the Kyrian. He had stolen the sigils of Bastion, Ardenweald, killing many Innocents along the way. He had watched, helplessly and hopelessly, as he fought those he called friends, those he called family. He had heard Jaina call out to him, desperate for any sign that he wasn't just a husk, an empty weapon of the Jailer - but he did not have the strength to respond. And despite how he pretended to forget, how he pretended that he hadn't felt it, a small part of him had felt the rush of power that slaughtering everything in his path at the command of the Jailer had brought - and Anduin couldn't say for sure if it was the Jailer who was influencing those emotions or if it was himself, a boy who had struggled to lift a sword for most of his life, relishing in the pure strength that the Jailer's command had gifted him.
He had been too weak to resist what the Jailer and Sylvanas had forced upon him, too weak to prevent the atrocities that his hands had committed.
He had failed those who had trusted him.
As the familiar sound - although one he hadn't heard in months - of a portal came from behind him, accompanied by the heavy footfall of boots in the sand, Anduin slid his gaze to the side.
He had an idea of who it was, and why they were there.
Anduin grimaced, baring his teeth to the air - splitting his chapped lips as he did so.
He wasn't the man they would want him to be. He couldn't be the Anduin that they had once known, not anymore.