A/N and warnings: This story contains incomplete male-to-female bodyswap tropes. I'm effectively ignoring dysphoria to keep the storyline from getting bogged down in later chapters. Please exercise caution if you suspect that may negatively effect you as a reader. Additionally, there will be (hopefully subtle) on-screen depictions of the effects of sustained emotional abuse as a result of cult programming tactics. Violence level: slightly more realistic and gory than canon. It won't all be doom and gloom; I think this piece contains some of the funniest bits I've ever written, sprinkled across the upcoming chapters. Oh, and watch for copious references to Christie Golden's Arthas: Rise of the Lich King. I would especially love to hear what your favorite lines and/or details are!
A deathly stillness shrouded the Plaguelands. Arthas beheld the spore-choked, ruined countryside with a sneer of dissatisfaction as he stewed over his lot in the post-plague world. Between his legs, Invincible danced through intermittent bursts reflecting his master's volatile shifts in internal landscape: impatience above all, yes, but also swirling disgust, and dribbles of jealousy, and suffocating fury all intermixed so that Arthas as the one in control spent equal time and energy on soothing his faithful steed as on working towards improving his standing.
His faithful steed and last friend.
Of course, as virtues went, patience had never heeded him when it counted — and now virtues counted for nothing. Consequently, with the Lich King reportedly in some mystical form of "hibernation," Arthas found little enough outlet even for his vices. It came down to endless days of Kel'Thuzad ordering him to bide his time or exhorting him to practice the impossible necromantic exercises the lich had developed to, in his equally tedious explanatory style, "expand on gaps in Arthas's magical education."
His temporary elevation to the role of Scourge Champion had failed to erase his doubts, whatever Kel'Thuzad's lofty promises. At least the armies opposing them had found more inviting targets on which to expend their wrath, as the Scourge's business of bringing the rest of the world into undeath had stalled what seemed like forever ago. Had it been three years now, or four? It had thus fallen to the self-styled archlich to consolidate their holdings and shortly thereafter continue the campaign; to come up with and carry out contingency plans — although without the Lich King's direct blessing, he refused to take any chances. Rationally speaking, Arthas couldn't blame him for his caution; particularly not after the excruciating made of him without a hint of favoritism when he himself had run afoul of the master's expectations, but he still wished with all his being for an end to the incessant waiting game. He possessed a birthright to rule these lands; renegades and detractors hadn't succeeded in stopping him when he returned home in power and glory to take the throne, and their petty machinations wouldn't stop him in the future.
Movement caught his eye: ghouls, cavorting across the ruined countryside. Among the most useless in Kel'Thuzad's meticulously planned hierarchy of undead were these rapacious, stupid husks. His sneer deepened with the reminder that he controlled nothing, not even himself, under this new world order.
Worse luck, they were making a beeline straight to him. Perfect. Arthas cursed under his breath. Fortunately he needn't act charming around them, nor would their rushing gallop scare Invincible into rearing. Whatever news or orders they sought to bring, though, he regarded with prescient annoyance.
When he judged them to have come into earshot, he barked, "What?"
True to their natures as the Scourge's resident lackwits, they continued onward at top speed and, too late, dug up furrows of musty earth to halt their headlong forward motion, ultimately tumbling into a disorganized pile of squirming limbs at Invincible's feet. From there they incautiously disentangled themselves and subsequently made the obeisance due to a member of royalty; listening to the screams from a cohort raised prior to them undergoing correction had ensured that much. Learning by example had proven a hit-or-miss skill for many types of Scourge.
"Messenger for you," hissed one of the pack.
A messenger? Out here?
"Living?" he snapped.
"Living," confirmed the head ghoul.
Who would show themselves foolhardy enough to brave the Plaguelands, with its roving bands of nightmares given flesh and the choking miasma that kept plant life from obtaining a foothold anew? Paladins canny enough to escape the death squads designed to hunt them down? One of the so-called Forsaken hoping to rejoin the Scourge?
"Where?" Best to keep questions asked of ghouls simple or risk imploding their brains.
"Th-… Th-…" By all rights, Arthas should notify Kel'Thuzad that tongue rot had struck more of his precious ghouls, except he gained nothing useful from such reports in return. Ghouls would continue to act in tiresome ways, he would suffer the crushing eternity of forcible inaction, and the Scourge would languish uselessly while clinging to their shrunken territory with the tenacity of cornered beasts..
"Thondroril River?" he guessed.
"Yesss," said the head ghoul. Its purpose served, it turned back the way the pack had come and loped off. Moments later, the rest followed.
Alone again on the hillock, Arthas absently caressed Frostmourne. He could exploit this opportunity. So far, Kel'Thuzad had proven himself adept at removing any such opportunities as if they were instead obstacles, but he could hardly spend every minute of the day and night monitoring Arthas. With his attention generally consumed by experimentation and showing off the results to a less than appreciative audience, Arthas doubted he would choose to leave the laboratories of Naxxramas if not for standing orders preventing that. Would an opponent intent on harming Arthas choose to wait at the river that split the relatively recently christened Plaguelands in two?
Arthas turned both his gaze and his thoughts in the same metaphorical direction: across the landscape to where the appointed meeting place lay — even squinting, he could make out nothing remotely close to it, however — and analyzing the purported opportunity.
He would unearth no answers here. Wheeling Invincible around to face the path the ghouls had used, he bent over his steed's neck to urge all speed. The countryside flashed past at a breakneck pace but Arthas paid his surroundings almost no mind. Even if a worm tried to challenge him, Frostmourne would make quick work of it. Virtually nothing in this world could withstand his blade.
A trip that should have taken hours he accomplished with a steed that never tired in a matter of minutes. The red, haze-obscured sun spilled bloody light across what was once accounted good farmland as it all gave way to night's triumph. With all the topsoil blown into the stifling air and the angry wind's gusting, the identity of the figure in the road ahead was obscured.
Now Arthas pulled up short, willing his eyes to pierce the veil. He wouldn't put it past those who hunted him to hide a hundred soldiers behind a cloak of invisibility, springing them on him under a flag of truce. They valued their precious honor over their lives and victory itself, though, so it would only fall to a truly underhanded sort to make such an audacious plan reality. Here within territory easily held by the Scourge, he had little to fear.
A dust devil touched the cracked cobblestones between them. The figure moved its arm lazily and the dust dispersed as if by magic.
Something in the region of his heart stuttered.
He knew that figure.
Jaina Proudmoore looked haggard, if not on the edge of collapse. Truly, did she not fear him sufficiently now that she would attempt to treat with him alone rather than with a contingent of angry soldiers at her back? Her eyes sought his and a tingle of foreboding went down his spine, as if that contact were enough to let her speak into his mind, exactly as the Dark Lord of the Damned once had, and bare her naked emotions to him. Sometimes he felt the same electric tingle around Kel'Thuzad, though.
Soon enough, she broke eye contact to look him up and down. Invincible, too. "I had heard the worst of the stories and yet I didn't believe them. Why would you punish your favorite horse with unending servitude?" Her voice issued forth shakily; cracking with a pervasive exhaustion that he could exploit using one of Kel'Thuzad's cunningly crafted spells.
"Is that any way to greet an old friend?" he called back mockingly.
"If only you were still my friend…" she commented. A bitterness pursed her lips momentarily; a slip of the tongue due to her exhaustion, he assumed. "Arthas, listen: if you still care about anything beyond your conquests, we've tracked down the demonic mastermind behind it all: the plague, the war… He's on Kalimdor, preparing to attack the World Tree. We need help or we'll be overrun and Azeroth will be cracked in two!" At the end, her voice rose and turned into an echoing cry. The stillness returned with a sullen vengeance as soon as the echoes died away.
Mal'Ganis he had sent screaming back into the void which had spawned his filth. But — could it be she didn't know about the ever-shifting cabal of Dreadlords who had jerked and toyed with the Scourge's strings? That Kel'Thuzad had, at their urging, toiled to summon the Lich King's own master, a demonic entity calling himself Archimonde, and very nearly loosed him upon the world? She would never ask for his assistance if she knew, therefore she could never find out. Not while she lived….
"You're coming to me for help?" he asked, incredulous. This chance meeting required due caution. Her mere proximity reopened old wounds, resurrected old leanings.
"You… and the Scourge."
Well, call him floored and reinstate him as a paladin. Having already steeled himself due to her untoward opening to the conversation, he didn't sway on Invincible's back. His fingers clenched around the reins, leather gloves squeaking in protest against the leather lead.
"I don't speak for the Scourge," he blurted.
His admission took her aback as well; she visibly floundered, then replied, "You… don't?"
Seizing on her confusion, he walked Invincible forward. She had to crane her neck up at him, and he didn't miss the nearly hidden flinch when he drew close enough to have slain her effortlessly.
But like he needed her judgment of his choices since Stratholme. And now, disgraced, spurned by the entity he had sworn to aid….
"I just said that, didn't I?" Arthas retorted. "And what do I care if some demon shatters this misbegotten mudball into a thousand pieces? I'm immortal now."
Her lips thinned at that. "You mean you're a complete and utter fool. Are you truly so blind that you think—"
She never got to finish voicing her series of insults for Arthas had, without thought, brought Frostmourne to bear on her and swung for all he was worth.
A fist of magic punched him out of the saddle and, in his shock, he released his grip on Frostmourne even as he landed on his feet. That, naturally, led him to scrabble for control, reaching out with his replacement powers, arresting its momentum mid-arc and bringing it back to him.
Only as it slid back into his grasp with a thrill of recognition, of rightness, did he see the damage done. Jaina raised a shaking hand to her cheek, smeared blood across the rapidly paling flesh, and crumpled to the ground without seeing the blood now highlighting her hand.
Is she dead? Arthas wondered. But no, her chest rose and fell — if irregularly. Somehow bringing about his former lover's death seemed a great tragedy, greater than that of his own father.
What now? Arthas looked around furtively but no Scourge agents lurked nearby. Kel'Thuzad would doubtless want her for a lich—
Well, what had that pompous lecturing windbag done for Arthas lately? Forever consumed with research and stitching together ever more grotesque forms of cannon fodder and infiltration units, he trifled with Arthas only to dress him down over his unfair assessment of how he perceived Arthas's shortcomings; or, albeit more infrequently, with the harping for Arthas to test out every minor tweak to any spell he dreamed up. That particular pretense at playing the pupil to the archlich's reenactment of Kirin Tor pedagogical methods also bored Arthas stiff; once, laying his hands on some unfortunate fool hadn't required more than a brief plea to the Light — why should it be any different for the Lich King's most decorated death knight? Kel'Thuzad's watchfulness trod entirely too close on the experience of growing up under the disapproving eyes of his father's parade of minders.
As if the previous minutes hadn't gone and landed enough trouble at his feet, a single-throated but surprisingly dramatic hue and cry was raised across the river.
Frostmourne whispered to him of the sweet taste of the blood on its blade. Carefully ingrained new habits took over as Arthas raised up the runeblade and peered across the stone bridge. There: a figure in full formal Kirin Tor dress strode this way, yelling imprecations at him, but whoever it was hadn't made an overtly threatening motion in his direction. Thus it fell to Arthas to make the first move. Arthas gestured in his direction and the mage came hurtling through the air to him.
He kept an eye on Jaina's chest, on the red and angry line cutting across her cheek, while he crushed the life out of her second. Unfortunately, he didn't dare reach out through Frostmourne and the Lich King to pull the answers from the corpse's head. Using rather one of the most simple but potentially most fruitful of the reanimation spells Kel'Thuzad had unmercifully drilled into his memory, Arthas very shortly had a devoted zombie awaiting his whim.
Without preamble, he addressed it. "What was her aim in coming here? Was it a trap?"
"A trap, Master, no-o-o," it whined. "A deal, assistance. Danger to the world, grave danger."
He hadn't expected Jaina to lie to him, not really. Not unless years of war had instilled in her the hardest lessons of statecraft. Funny to think of how much he had changed in that time but almost he wished, or — did he dare call it hope? — that she hadn't.
"Will she die, Master?" asked the zombie. Back to full sentences already. His new servitor's intellect would continue to rise in increments until it rivaled its original levels in life, a worthwhile innovation that didn't exhaust the spellcaster or require a dozen cultists working in concert.
"No," he said curtly, without thinking.
Replacing old habits, old instincts was one thing. Fundamentally changing himself, now: that made for a different prospect altogether. His martial talents had brought him acclaim and his subjects' pride. With dwindling targets for his rage, Arthas had found it increasingly difficult to stave off boredom. And in that ever-whirling storm of thoughts plaguing him, he'd discovered he could not rid himself of his regrets. Even so, going back to the way things had once been was unthinkable; and yet — he could choose another path, couldn't he?
Uncountable paths remained closed to him regardless.
Unthinking, he bent to summon the Light to heal Jaina and instead found himself staring at an orb of sickly green light seething against his palm. Foolish sentimentality had done him no favors. Arthas let the coiled, concentrated death conjuring dissipate unused.
There had to be another way. His father — Terenas had drilled it into him that, when presented with two choices, more options certainly lay obscured behind a false dichotomy. He couldn't let the Lich King's broken promises allow him to be lulled him into complacency any longer. He must forge a path forward which none of them expected: not Kel'Thuzad, not Jaina, and certainly not those who had vowed to stop him from obtaining what he wanted.
With that, a plan formed in his mind as if out of the pall hovering over the hills like innocuous fog. Stasis spells. Kel'Thuzad sometimes required the process of decay arrested for whatever nefariousness he was cooking up. In all likelihood, such spells had gone untested on living flesh since acquiring the proper specimens went beyond expense or opportunity and into mincing around the Lich King's direct orders. As poor options went, it beat the alternatives he didn't want to see come to pass.
Did he have the words, the gestures right? The Light would not help him if he got it wrong—
He couldn't even make himself give up on calling on or cursing at the Light. What made him think he could do this?
Arthas shook off his doubts like a mutt shaking away fleas. He had already damned himself, and willingly, and even bragged about it upon beginning to serve as more than the master's tenderly forged weapon; what more would it matter if he failed here? Mastering his will and directing it at Jaina's limp form took the work of a moment and then the unexpected rush of foreign magic tingled down his arm and blanketed her with a pulsing cocoon. He attributed to his imagination the fleeting impression that she frowned in discomfort as the spell took.
And now what to do with her? The Scourge's revolution had removed the need for one's subjects to huddle in shelters from the elements and marauding wildlife; while on the march, Arthas himself had only rated a shoddy tent as the master's shiny new toy. Larger strongholds such as Naxxramas were out of the question, for some gargoyle would sense the magic holding in her life force or a plaguehound would sniff out the scent of living blood and then hellfire would burn through the plausible deniability Arthas used to obscure his lack of faith in an army run by a highly distractable former archmage.
Only the particles of reddish spores on the wind moved as he thought back to the days of pre-conquest Lordaeron. Of course: the old Marris stead had claimed a hilltop relatively close to here and, last Arthas knew, only plaguehounds roamed its grounds anymore. What once meant a half-day's leisurely ride along a greenery-lined country road would today prove a bit more arduous, as he had to settle Jaina on Invincible's withers and switch between leading the horse — his ignorance of the higher order of spells of resurrection at the time hadn't made his steed appreciably smarter — and not even Kel'Thuzad had dared to suggest that he sever the connection stemming from that first attempt — then rushed to his mid-back to ensure she didn't topple to the uneven road. He refused to entrust any aspect of this to Jaina's former assistant, who faithfully trotted behind Arthas with Frostmourne at the ready as if serving as squire at a joust.
Around them, the preternatural quiet persisted throughout the Plaguelands. The more mindless creations like worms might try to challenge a lone champion of the Scourge, but even a small group of Scourge-aligned soldiers frequently had some success at showing those sorts their error. Today's exertions had left Arthas in a state of such extensive annoyance over his current lot to admit, privately, that he rather missed the sound of birdsong. Of crickets chirping and frogs croaking; cicadas humming in the trees on hot summer evenings—
His heart sped up involuntarily when a flock of mismatched birds flashed overhead, their calls so choked with plague they barely qualified as croaks. Feathers and less identifiable things sifted down in his vicinity; probably only stubbornness kept the foul things aloft.
At any moment, Kel'Thuzad might choose to call for him and discovery would ruin any hope Arthas might have of dealing with this discreetly. If only he had some twine or sinew to lash her wrists to the saddle horn, he could increase their pace. He could hardly recall the last time he had needed to account for provisions in his logistical planning.
Remembering which end of the slope leading up to the former homestead had the gentlest grade took some wracking his brains and the ascent itself slowed their pace to a crawl as he continued to spend more time fussing with Jaina's positioning than directing Invincible.
Night fell as he labored on. The enhancements granted to him by the Lich King prevented any unfortunate incidents with night blindness but invited the lack of other matters to consider to continue arguing in the back of his head over the wisdom of this move. Even when they surmounted the final bit of hill and came out on a bumpy headland to inspect the too-quiet property, Arthas still hadn't fully committed himself to his course. Fanciful imaginings in which he and Jaina joined forces to wrest control away from the Lich King and ruled over the obedient, content undead tried to coalesce; these he dashed with extreme prejudice. She had made her choice, and it involved abandoning Arthas in his greatest hour of need.
The pendulum swung the other way. Why should he stick his neck out to keep her alive? She hadn't cared whether he died. She had denied him after promising never to do so. Arthas ought to strike off her head and make the rest of her dance to his tune instead! He didn't allow himself to miss her. But a single stolen glance at Jaina sprawled bonelessly across his horse's now very bony withers dispersed the anger. Curiosity underlaid his desire to change her circumstances, nothing more.
Scouting in the cloudy half-light revealed that the pack of plaguehounds he remembered denning here had moved on. The Marris homestead itself looked as much the worse for wear as the rest of the countryside, its glass windows — symbols of higher class living in the old regime — now broken and the front door half ripped off its hinges to lean drunkenly in its frame. Questions of priorities reared their ugly heads: did he dare leave Invincible outside, or should he remove the door from what remained of its hinges and bring him inside? Did he need to set wards that would keep out all but the most intelligent of the Scourge? How would he travel back and forth to keep suspicion off him in the name of pretending to undertake whatever pointless duties Kel'Thuzad thought up for him? When he had to go, should he leave her in the care of her second, whose reformed loyalties involved pleasing Arthas and nothing more?
He realized he was waiting for a sign from the Light. No such portent would be forthcoming. Arthas growled at these impossible to break habits plaguing him.
Instead he sprang into action, knocking the door away with savage satisfaction that deepened slightly as he heard it hit the floor further inside the front room. Let Invincible bide out here; should anything accost him, the horse would notify him and he could take care of it. He gathered Jaina in his arms, bridal style, and brought her over the threshold while memories of defunct wishes for the real thing played out behind his eyes. From behind Arthas in truth came the scraping sound as his new follower let Frostmourne drag across the wooden stoop and threshold.
For the first time in memory, one of Kel'Thuzad's vaunted spells came in handy when cast. The scourgeflame lit the humbled living space with a cold glow, sending dancing shadows to the walls, and awakening a vague homesickness for the warmth of normal flame. That would truly bring it all down on his head; woodsmoke attracted the Scourge's attention like blood aroused traditional predators.
With a gesture, he indicated that the fellow bearing his sword should remain in the current room while Arthas bore his pitiful burden upstairs. The scourgeflame followed him and he thought on boarding up the windows to keep its light from acting as a beacon. There was certainly enough wood lying at his feet, if smashed beyond repair. That, and he should set up one of the wards he'd considered earlier.
Unfortunately, with the furniture in this state, he had nowhere appropriate to set Jaina down. Comfort didn't truly help in recovering from illness, did it? Certain aspects of his former life grew hazier day by day. Not that he had graduated to the ability to make objects levitate.
Well, didn't he have a brand new minion for that sort of menial job?
"Hey!" he called down the staircase.
"Yes, Master?" Its diction had improved.
"Can you make things levitate?"
It answered in the affirmative. He heard Frostmourne scraping and thumping up the stairs and then it took only heartbeats for his new lapdog of a former mage to set Jaina levitating above the scattered detritus. No matter his feelings on the subject, she would be subsumed into the Scourge sooner or later, with or without his intervention. Nor had he truly meant his hasty words when he had wished for the Burning Legion to destroy his home; he still desired land and subjects to rule over once the Scourge retook Capital City. Ousting those renegades would improve his outlook.
He might have to overthrow the Lich King to accomplish his goals; were it possible to move against such an entity. Arthas needed time to develop a foolproof plan. A pity Kel'Thuzad had dived wholeheartedly into the Scourge mentality or he'd consider including the architect of Lordaeron's downfall in his mutiny.
The problem in front of him, though. He gestured peremptorily for Frostmourne. It seemed to awaken at his touch, whispering the same sibilant promises that had led here. His blade's possessiveness filled him as it stretched its limited sapience through him, though he brushed the latter aside from long practice. More central to his current needs was what lay trapped within. This legendary runeblade never gave up its prizes without a fight.