Looking up from the Junk Drawer. Turns out I found one of my old fics I made at 2021 but never got to publish it. And pretty much forgot about it to focus on my Star Wars and Gundam fanfics. I forgot how I was into Warcraft back then, which was the original RTS game but couldn't play the WOW game due to subscriptions. But I'm keeping tabs of the recent lore and gameplay, in spite of Blizzard's dodgy calls.
It was over.
The reign of the Lich King is at an end. His helmet, or rather the Helmet of Domination used to imprison Ner'Zhul, lay dormant a few feet away from him. Frostmourne, the very weapon that slew countless foes, and the blade that determined the current fate of Azeroth as it is today, lay shattered in pieces.
It was a useless effort to try and escape death after bringing it to so many people. His eyes widened, beaming with relief and of fear when he grasped the spectral hand of a man who came to him. The man whom he slayed and brought everything he had worked for in ruin.
"Father!", he cried out. "Is it...over?"
The spectre, or the spirit, smiled warmly at him as he squeezed his hand onto his child whom he loved so dearly. "At long last my son...no king rules forever"
"I see...only darkness before me..."
The light grew brighter, piercing the veil of shadows that had consumed Arthas' soul for so long. He felt a warmth that had been absent since he first picked up Frostmourne, the runeblade that had led him down his tragic path. His eyes, once cold and lifeless, began to glisten with a flicker of hope. "Father," he murmured, his voice weak but earnest, "Could I...atone?"
Terenas, his ethereal gaze filled with both sorrow and love, replied, "Only the most profound of atonements can balance the scales of your deeds, Arthas. The path ahead is fraught with peril, but if your heart truly yearns for redemption, then perhaps there is a spark of goodness within you yet to be kindled."
The light grew more intense, and Arthas' spirit felt as if it was being torn from the cold embrace of the Lich King's dominion. "What must I do?" he asked, desperation tingeing his words.
The ghostly king's voice grew solemn. "Ensure that...you would not make the same mistake twice"
The room around them began to distort, the very fabric of the afterlife bending to the will of the divine intervention. The light grew blinding, and Arthas felt a surge of power coursing through him, a power that was not his own, but rather a gift from the cosmos itself. The spirit of Terenas faded, his final words echoing in Arthas' mind, "Consider the choices that you have made, and perhaps, in doing so, you can find a different conclusion."
A pair of green eyes suddenly opened, and he breathed in heavily after feeling the air within him disappear for a few moments. Arthas Menethil found himself laying on a bed, rather than the cold concrete of Icecrown Citadel as he knew he should've been. And something was amiss: he wasn't at Northrend. Rather he was at his own personal chambers. At Lordaeron's Capital City.
As Arthas' eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness of his surroundings, his hand trembled as it reached for the silver-framed mirror that once reflected his youthful visage before the weight of destiny had transformed him into a monster on a table beside his bed. The polished surface gleamed with the soft glow of candlelight, casting a warm and welcoming ambiance across the room that seemed eerily unchanged. He felt his heart stop when his reflection stared back at him, a stark contrast to the one he'd grown accustomed to in his darker days.
Gone was the frostbitten skin, the icy blue tint that had claimed his flesh, and the tattered, corroded armor of the Lich King. Instead, he beheld the image of a man in the prime of his life, clad in a simple tunic and trousers that were his sleepwear. His hair cascaded over his shoulders, and his eyes, though weary, held the spark of hope and innocence that had long been buried beneath the frost.
"What...what sorcery is this?" he whispered to himself, the sound of his own voice, untainted by the cold whispers of the Lich King, resonating in his ears as if it were a sweet melody he hadn't heard in an eternity. His heart raced as he touched his face, feeling the warmth and vitality that had been stripped from him when he claimed Frostmourne. He felt the warmth of his palm into his cheek, a stark reminder that this was not a mere dream or illusion. The room remained silent, the only sounds being the distant murmur of the castle's daily activities and the rhythmic thumping of his own pulse in his ears.
"Could...it be?" he mused, his thoughts racing faster than the winds of Northrend. "This... shouldn't be possible" He knew he could not trust his own mind, not after the torment he had endured within the Lich King's grasp. Yet, the scene before him was so vivid, so real, that doubt began to waver.
The mirror's surface rippled like water disturbed by a stone, and within it, he saw images of his past life flicker and dance before him. The murder of his mentor, Uther, the fall of his beloved Kingdom, the burning of Stratholme, and the countless souls he had claimed in the name of the Lich King and of himself. Each memory brought with it a fresh wave of pain and regret, a stark contrast to the unblemished reflection he now beheld.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to reconcile the two versions of himself that now existed in the same space. "If this is real...then what am I to do?" he asked the empty room, the echo of his words bouncing off the cold stone walls. The only answer was the silent vigil of his own reflection, a silent sentinel to the tumult of his thoughts.
The gentle rapping at the door of his quarters brought Arthas back to the present with a jolt. His hand hovered over the hilt of a sword at his side, instinctively at the events that transpired. The door creaked open, and a young servant, noticing his lord's reflection in the mirror, cautiously stepped inside.
"My Prince," the servant began with a slight bow, "His Royal Highness, King Terenas, requests your presence at the banquet hall for the morning meal."
Arthas, still grappling with the surreal nature of his situation, took a moment to compose himself. He felt a strange tug at his heart, a feeling of both dread and longing. The warmth of his father's company was something he hadn't felt in what seemed like an eternity. "Very well," he replied, his voice steady, yet tinged with the slightest hint of uncertainty. "Please inform His Highness that I shall join him shortly."
The servant, seemingly unfazed by the gravity of the conversation, nodded and retreated, closing the door softly behind him. Arthas turned his gaze from the mirror, the images of his past receding like shadows at dawn. He chose an appropriate attire with care, each movement deliberate and calculated. The boots felt surprisingly light upon his feet, a stark contrast to the heavy, clanking armor of the Lich King.
As he descended the grand staircase, the castle of Lordaeron came alive around him. The scent of baking bread wafted from the kitchens, mingling with the faint aroma of polished metal from the nearby barracks. The murmur of guards and servants, human ones rather than the Undead minions of the Scourge, went about their duties, and the clank of armor and the rustle of silk from the nobility filled the air. It was a symphony of life, one that he had not heard in so long, and it was comforting as it was overwhelming.
As Arthas entered the banquet hall, the grandeur of the room took him aback, a stark contrast to the bleak landscapes of Icecrown he had come to know. The vaulted ceilings were adorned with intricate tapestries depicting the triumphs of the Alliance, and the walls gleamed with the polished gleam of ancient armor and weapons that spoke of a time when heroes were not corrupted by the whispers of the dead. The long, ornate table was laden with a feast that could rival the bounty of Azeroth itself, a testament to the prosperity of the kingdom before it had been ravaged by the Scourge.
The weight of his past bore down on Arthas as he approached the table where Terenas, his father, sat with a smile that seemed to have never faded. The king looked up, his eyes lighting up at the sight of his son, and beckoned for him to come closer. The air grew thick with anticipation, and every step Arthas took echoed through the cavernous room like the toll of a funeral bell. He could feel the eyes of the court upon him, a mix of curiosity and wariness that was as palpable as the smell of the feast. As he reached the high-backed chair next to his father, he paused for a moment, his hand hovering over the ornate wood, feeling the warmth of the sunlit room against his cold metal gauntlet.
"Ah, Arthas," Terenas said, his voice filled with genuine warmth and affection, "You're just in time. I was beginning to worry that you'd overslept."
Arthas' chest tightened, his heart pounding in his chest. "Forgive me, father," he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. "I...I had much to contemplate."
Terenas studied him for a moment, his gaze piercing through the armor and into the very core of his soul. "Indeed," he replied, his tone gentle yet probing. "The burdens of a knight can be heavy. But remember, my son, the path of valor is also the path of wisdom. Now, take your seat. We have a long day ahead of us."
Arthas complied, his movements stiff with tension. As he sat, the chair creaked, and he felt the fabric of time stretch and pull around him. The memories of his reign as the Lich King, the countless lives he had snuffed out, and the world he had brought to the brink of ruin were almost too much to bear. Yet, as he took his place beside his father, a strange feeling of comfort began to seep into him, like a warm embrace from a long-lost loved one.
The same warmth when the spectral figure of Terenas comforted him, when he had every reason not to.
Terenas, noticing that Arthas had not touched a morsel of the bountiful feast laid out before them, placed his silverware down with a gentle clink and regarded his son with a furrowed brow. "Is everything all right, Arthas?" he inquired, his eyes filled with genuine concern. "You seem...distant this morning. Is there something you wish to discuss?"
Arthas, caught in the throes of his tumultuous thoughts, took a moment to compose himself before speaking. He looked at his father, the man who had once guided him, the man whose trust he had shattered beyond repair. His stomach growled, a sensation he had not felt in an age, a stark reminder of the humanity he had once cherished and had lost. "It is...nothing, Father," he began, his voice tight. "I merely had a restless night and find myself a bit out of sorts."
The king's gaze searched Arthas' eyes, seeking the truth that lay behind his son's words. The weight of his own curiosity was evident, but he knew better than to press further. "Very well," he said with a nod, though his concern did not waver. "If you wish to speak of it, my doors are always open."
Arthas took a deep breath, the scent of roasting meats and freshly baked breads finally reaching his nose, and he picked up his own fork. The food looked so tantalizing, so...real. It had been an eternity since he had tasted anything other than the bitterness of the Lich King's power. He took a tentative bite, the flavors exploding on his tongue as if he had forgotten the very concept of taste. It was a strange and alien sensation, yet it brought with it a wave of comfort and nostalgia. The warmth of the food spread through his body, a sensation he had not felt in countless years.
"And how fares your training as a Paladin, my son?" Terenas inquired, breaking the silence that had settled between them like a comforting blanket. His eyes held a glint of pride, a testament to the unyielding hope he had always had for Arthas.
Arthas paused, the bite of food halfway to his mouth. Training as a Paladin—a concept that seemed so distant, yet so present in this moment. He swallowed hard, pushing down the bile that threatened to rise as the memories of his betrayal crashed upon him like waves against the shores of his conscience. "It...it goes well, Father," he lied, the words sticking in his throat like bones in a starved beast's maw. "Uther...has taught me well."
Terenas nodded, a smile playing on his lips. "I am pleased to hear it. He is quite eager for your next lesson, you know. He believes you have the potential to become one of, if not the, best among us."
The mention of Uther's name sent a shiver down Arthas' spine. The image of his mentor, his face twisted in anger and disappointment as Arthas brought Frostmourne down upon him, was burned into his memory. Yet here, in this unblemished reflection of the past, Uther was still alive, still a bastion of hope and righteousness. He took a sip of his watered wine, the cool liquid doing little to quench the fire of his inner turmoil.
"Father," Arthas began, his voice a mere whisper, "I have...seen things that I cannot unsee, felt powers that I cannot untouch." He paused, the weight of his confession heavy in the air. "I fear that I am not the knight you believe me to be."
Terenas' expression grew solemn, the warmth in his eyes never wavering. "The path you chose is not an easy one, Arthas. It is fraught with temptation and shadow. But remember, it is not our actions that define us, but our intentions. If you strive for good, even in the face of the darkest of foes, then you will never stray far from the right that dwells within your heart."
Arthas nodded, the words a balm to his troubled soul. Yet, as he sat in his father's company, the images of the Silver Hand, their holy light extinguished by his own hand, still tormented him. The cold embrace of Frostmourne whispered in his mind, a constant reminder of his ultimate fate. He pushed the thought aside and focused on the warmth of the room, the clinking of silverware, and the low murmur of the court.
Once the meal concluded, Arthas pushed back his plate, his stomach filled with more than just the nourishment of food. "I shall retire to my chambers to prepare for the day, Father," he announced, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his soul.
Terenas, his gaze still holding that unspoken concern, gave a nod of understanding. "Take your time, my son," he said, his hand resting briefly on Arthas' shoulder. "Remember, the battles we fight are not only upon the battlefield, but within ourselves."
With those words lingering in the air, Arthas stood, his booted steps echoing through the grand hall as he made his way back to his quarters. The door closed behind him with a thud that seemed to seal in the weight of his thoughts. He approached his wardrobe once more, his eyes lingering on the gleaming silver plate of the Silver Hand's armor. The emblem of the order he had once held so dear now stared back at him, a silent accusation of his betrayal. He reached out, his gauntleted hand brushing against the cool metal, feeling the weight of his past and the question of his future pressing down upon him.
"Is this truly a second chance?" he murmured to his reflection, the armor standing as a silent sentinel to of his past. "Or is it a cruel jest of fate, taunting me with what might have been?"
With a sigh that seemed to carry the burden of his entire existence, Arthas began to don the familiar pieces of his old life. The clinking of metal on metal was a symphony of his former self, a life before the whispers of the Lich King had claimed him. Each piece felt like a piece of him was being reclaimed from the icy prison of his memories. He grasped Light's Vengeance, the warhammer that had once brought justice to the unjust, feeling its power resonate within him. Yet, the cold metal was a stark reminder of the frosty grip of Frostmourne, the weapon that had stolen his soul.
As he fastened the last buckle of his armor, he looked into the mirror, the reflection showing a man torn between two worlds. "What am I to do?" he whispered to the silent room. "Could I stop it from happening again?"
The mirror offered no reply, only his own reflection stared back, a blend of the noble prince and the monstrous Lich King. He knew the path before him was fraught with danger and temptation, but he also knew that the love and guidance of his father was a beacon he could cling to in the darkest of times.
"If this is indeed another chance," he murmured, "I shall not squander it, but I have to be careful."
The weight of his armor and the heaviness in his heart, Arthas left his chamber, ready to face the day and the trials it might bring. His booted steps resonated through the corridors, each echo a promise to the man he once was and the king he could still become. As he walked, he couldn't help but feel the eyes of his former comrades and subjects upon him, their judgments unspoken but palpable. Yet, it was the memory of Terenas' words that gave him the strength to continue.
"Ensure that...you would not make the same mistake twice"
And so, with each step, Arthas sought to find that spark of goodness within, to navigate the treacherous waters of his destiny anew. The halls of Lordaeron Castle held both the warmth of home and the chill of his dark past, but it was here, in this unblemished version of his former life, that he would begin again.
