World of Warcraft: Keep Your Enemies Closer
Varian’s first reaction to any threat was anger.
While most mortal men would be reeling from the knowledge that they are, in part, something that they loathe and have been fighting against, it left Varian with the very strong desire to hit something.
Hard.
Repeatedly.
Preferably the creature who was formerly Prince Arthas Menethil of Lordaeron.
However, even Varian recognized that storming his way through Icecrown Citadel to go punch the Arthas in the face was a Bad Idea, if only because he might die, and dying meant it would be easier for him to fall victim to the bastard’s control, and he didn’t want that to happen.
We need to tell someone.
No, he thought as he paced. We cannot tell anyone.
Why? They’ll be prepared for the worst if we tell them.
Varian shook his head sharply. They’ll panic, and that’s the last thing anyone wants.
Still, they can’t be completely unaware.
Who would we tell? Varian thought with a dark scowl. Jaina? I can’t trust her. Anduin? There is no way our son is learning about this-he’d make himself sick with worry. There’s no-one we implicitly trust in court, we refuse to stay here in Northrend any longer, there’s no-one at the Cathedral, especially with that Scarlet Crusade fanatic…
Varian took a deep breath and let it out in an angry sigh. We are the King of Stormwind. We cannot, will not, succumb to this. We have a duty to our people, to our son, and we will not fail in that. This thing in us will never mature. We will not allow it.
Varian looked over at the desk where a trinket that was full to bursting with the Light was lying.
“It will help keep the Scourge at bay,” she said.
We will never need it.
Take it anyway.
He walked over to the desk and picked it up carefully. It was hot in his hands, so he put it in a hidden pocket in his cloak.
What will we do now?
Varian began pacing again as he thought, brow furrowing in concentration. We’ll go back to Stormwind.
Won’t that be dangerous?
We will be away from Northrend and near the Cathedral-distance and the Light may help.
His plan wasn’t water-tight, but it was the best he could come up with, and as he refused to discuss his…situation...with anyone else, well, it would have to suffice.
It had been quite the quiet argument to get the paladin to keep her peace. However, as she was a citizen of Stormwind, and after he had submitted himself to a cleansing and her leaving a little bit of Light energy within him to fight the Scourge back, along with giving him the trinket, she had acquiesced to his command.
Varian couldn’t help but muse: We wonder if Garrosh has this as well. The Horde doesn’t trust paladin as the Alliance does-who would, considering what the “Blood Elves” did to get their power? He might not even know he has it…
The thought made him oddly uneasy.
The king was restless and ready to be rid of Northrend, of his enforced closeness to the Horde and the presence of Scourge. It had been far too long since he had even spent a few consecutive days in the Keep, let alone time enough to actually get anything done.
He looked at the door and sighed. All we have to do is make it to the portals and then we’ll be back in Stormwind and away from everything that has been making our life miserable.
Unfortunately, luck had never really warmed to him.
He was walking to where the portals were when he had the misfortune of running into Garrosh, and Varian’s already fragile hold on his temper thinned to nearly nothing. It was only distantly alarming, how quickly the Mag’har affected his mood, but since he was already on-edge and he hated the orc, it made sense that a confrontation would push him to just before the breaking point. That the awkward thing that lived within him asserted its presence didn’t help matters.
There was a tense silence before Varian drawled venomously, “Pity you survived.”
The orc sneered. “Even the spirits must hate you, to have you still among the living.”
The mention of ‘living’ reminded Varian-again-that he wasn’t entirely alive, which made him growl, the sound low, dark, and dangerous.
The reaction obviously made Garrosh wary. It appeared that even the orc could tell when Varian was one wrong word away from violence, regardless of being in a neutral Sanctuary like Dalaran.
“I don’t need to waste my time talking to scum like you,” the king snarled and moved towards the portals once more.
“Running away?”
Varian’s delicate hold on his temper snapped, and he forwent the use of his sword and simply lunged at the creature, itching to get his hands on him, to feel the orc hurt.
It obviously wasn’t the reaction Garrosh had entirely anticipated, as the Mag’har was surprised enough to allow Varian to get a solid hit that sent the male staggering backwards. Varian pressed the attack, and ignored the shouts of surprise and demands for him to stop.
Garrosh gathered himself quickly, however, and Varian took glee in the fight, in getting the opportunity to hurt the orc without steel or magic or people getting in the way.
Varian didn’t notice when both he and Garrosh shrugged off ice magic, their steps not even slowed by the freezing energy-all he cared about was the fight he was engaged in with the Mag’har. It was obvious that Garrosh was ignoring the command of his Warchief in favor of their confrontation, since Varian could distantly hear a very annoyed voice yelling at Garrosh in Orcish.
It was painfully apparent that the orc had little experience fighting a human hand-to-hand, which was unsurprising to Varian-it was only recently that the creature had even been introduced to humanity, afterall. It was glorious, to be putting the orc in his place in front of witnesses.
The armor they were both wearing would prevent them from sustaining anything more than bruises or sprains, but it was still satisfying to see the orc go skidding across the pavement, people obviously having given up getting between the two of them until an opportunity presented itself.
It had been quite some time since he had fought with his fists. It satisfied something primal within him, perhaps brought out the Ghost Wolf he was partly named for.
It also felt obscene, how much he enjoyed having his hands on Garrosh. It made him smile fiercely, brought heat and power flooding through his veins, and every blow-given or received-was somehow cathartic. It was a release of all the tension he had from the news he had been given, from the strain he felt for his ever-endangered Kingdom, and from the awkward emotion that lived within him.
Varian met a strike from Garrosh with an open palm, his arm giving enough that Garrosh fell forward on Varian's offered punch. The orc grunted as air was forced out of him, but swept Varian's legs out from under him, throwing the king off-balance. Varian went scrambling for a hold, and ended up hooking his fingers on Garrosh's belt, pulling him down with him with him, turning in the process, slamming the orc down beside him.
While it hurt him, from the grunt that the orc voiced, it hadn't felt much better for the Mag’har-it might have been worse, considering Varian had put some force behind it.
It also put him very close to the orc, something that he was briefly hyper-aware of before rolling away and into a crouch. Having been so close to the orc, to feel his body, really feel it, right next to him, had thrilled Varian in a way he had never felt before.
The king was about to press his advantage as the orc recovered when the king noticed that the Mag’har’s eyes were glowing ever so slightly. It wasn’t the demonic red of when the orcish people were tainted, but something…warped. It was the smallest of lights, a deep red, the color of blood on old wounds that still oozed.
It was wrong.
That snapped him out of his rage and made him put substantial distance between the orc and himself. Varian would agree that he wasn’t the most intelligent man on Azeroth, nor the most observant, but what stared him in the face-figuratively and literally-was something even he understood.
Oh, Light, he thought as he watched the orc warily get to his feet. He has it, too.
Their eyes met and Varian was oddly relieved to see that the monster’s gaze was back to its normal disgusting amber hue.
The pause gave people enough time to come in between them. Varian heard all kinds of worried reprimands, but his eyes hadn’t left the orc’s. The king knew that if someone of higher station told Garrosh to stop, he would have to, but Varian had no-one above him in station-people could try to intervene, but no-one could technically tell him what to do.
“Father!”
Well, almost no-one.
Varian turned his attention away from the Mag’har to the boy who was squirming his way through the Kirin Tor to get to him. “Yes?” Varian asked as the child came to a huffy stop before him.
“How do you always get into trouble?!” Anduin half-accused.
“It wasn’t intentional-trouble has a way of finding me,” Varian muttered.
The look Anduin gave him was pure incredulity.
“I’m serious!” Varian protested. “I had honestly meant to find my way to the portals and go home. I’m sick of the stench of the Horde.”
Anduin heaved a long-suffering sigh and grabbed one of his father’s hands. “Well, I’m gonna make sure you get back to Stormwind now.”
Varian spared one last glance for Garrosh, who was getting told off by Thrall, but the Mag’har was looking more troubled that abashed, obviously not listening.
He feels something. He didn’t before, but now he can tell that there is something…else…in him.
Anduin tugged on his father’s hand in a silent plea to move on, which the king listened to, and turned away from the male he despised.
We don’t want to see him Scourge, he admitted inwardly as he allowed himself to be dragged along by his son.
Why? It would give us reason to kill the piece of refuse.
Because…it would be a mercy, killing him. We want a challenge. We want him whole.
We want him in general.
Varian winced inwardly at that, and was almost surprised to find himself in front of the portal to Stormwind, as his son looked at him expectantly.
Varian gave the boy a small smile and ran the fingers of his free hand through his son’s hair. “I’m sick of Northrend,” he muttered.
Anduin smiled. “Me too.”
“Well, then. Shall we?”
-
Stormwind burned.
It was a sight to behold as he stood in the entryway from the harbor and observed the wanton destruction. The rooftops of shops burned fierce and hot as the fire leapt nimbly from one building to another. He watched as a structure caved in, as wood creaked and popped and came down in a heap of embers and splinters that shattered out onto the stone pavement and left tiny trails of flame in their wake. The scents of tarnished livelihoods wafted through the air, and the sweet smell of food clashed with the ghastly odor of a tanner's shop. The woods burned different colors from the different materials chosen, treatments, and age, and painted the city a smoldering orange. In the dwarven district, something detonated, which sent a plume of black and green high into the air above the city that curled into and around the smoke and tinged the hazy sky a sickly green. The destruction would have been beautiful, in a twisted kind of way, had it not been for its cause.
Instead, it was more of a desecration, a mockery, a sin.
Undead abominations pulled apart homes with hooks and blunt fingers as they searched for any hidden living as they drooled putrid slime that stained the streets, and the green ichor congealed in the cracks in the cobblestones. Geists scampered across the bridges and walkways, past packs of ghouls that feasted on groups of fallen mortals, their endless hunger barely satisfied by the crunch of bones and the wet tear of cooling flesh. A pair of necromancers raised the bodies of Stormwind guards to become their own in undeath as a newly-minted banshee cried in rage and sorrow.
He looked over to the usually pristine waters of the canals to see bodies floating face-down in the water, unmoving and obviously dead, waiting to be fished out by skeletal minions under the command of cultists.
There was fighting throughout the city, Scourge engaged in heated battles with desperate survivors, any fallen resurrected and enslaved. Beneath the crackling fire were sounds of pain and panic, of mortals struggling to cling to life while protecting both the city and themselves.
He finally moved forward, his steps slow, deliberate, and languid, he in no hurry. The fastest path to where he was commanded to be was through Cathedral Square, but it was the one place in the city that still stood strong under the destruction wrought around it.
So, he decided to take the scenic route.
He meandered into the Park, the flames that climbed high around him of little consequence. He was immune to the scorching heat, and untouched by the sight of most of the foliage and critters that made their homes in the district blackened and dead. He turned around a building and saw a group of druids still fighting off the flames and for their lives as the forces of the Lich King surrounded them. A bear roared in pain and rage as it swiped at the undead that crowded it, the druid doing their best to keep the minions away from the tree that stood as far away as possible from the reaching fire. He felt healing energy surge from beneath him, and the ground was briefly covered by sparkles, which crawled up his body and mended all the cuts and bruises that he had picked up through daily existence. He was sure that the druid hadn’t meant to heal an enemy, but it seemed as if the energy wasn’t picky. Other druids shifted into the odd moonkin form and called down nature and arcane spells and obliterated dozens of undead.
Dozens meant nothing.
He could already feel the dead being called from inside the shops, and any druid that fell was immediately turned into a member of the Scourge. He winced inwardly as a risen druid shifted into the panther-like form they possessed, the coloration of the fur warped as they turned against their former colleagues.
It was a vivid reminder of what he had been made to do to Broll to achieve the addition of druids to the ranks of the Scourge.
He turned away from the battle and found the way out of the Park and towards the Mage quarter, ignoring the keening, warped victory cries of the Scourge as they pressed ever inward-the living tired, but the dead did not.
The Mage quarter sparkled and popped underneath the heat of the flames and too-inquisitive Scourge, and fumes clashed and mingled and left him a little light-headed. Shops full of books and magical ingredients ignited, only adding fuel to the starving fire that fluttered between buildings.
He felt the percussion of magic hitting the ground, and stopped as he turned a curve to look up at the central tower. A group of mages and warlocks were making their stand in the structure, fending off the Scourge that were slowly, inexorably, progressing up the ramp. Demonic fire entwined with an icy blizzard that was called from the aether, and rained destruction down upon the forces of the Lich King. Demons clashed with undead, but the nether-beings slowly turned against their masters as the creeping illness of the Scourge seeped into their wounds.
He knew that seeing that would tear his partner apart-the male really had been unable to escape the taint of his history.
He knew the magic-wielders would fall in time, and his steps moved him ever onward.
He left the magical nexus and crossed over the canals, the water the murky color of the sky, drenched in blood, littered with bodies as a pond with lily-pads.
He moved into the trade district, and saw the marks of intense fighting. The streets were coated in the red blood of gnomes, humans, and dwarves, with splashes of purple Kaldorei and blue draenei mingled in. He saw Scourge creatures splattered across storefronts, shattered windows with shredded mortal remains, and a severed plate-armored arm lay limply across a threshold, the rest of the body nowhere in sight. While it was entirely possible that the person had walked away from losing a limb, it was equally probable that they were now part of an abomination, or perhaps the ghoul that lumbered through the alleyway was the remnant of whoever they had been.
He stepped over the body of a fallen draenei male, the scorch-marks of a magma totem evident beside him. The power that curled within him begged to be used to raise the benign Eredar as his own-what was the power gifted to him good for, if not to be used?
He shuddered and spat a curse before he continued towards where there were still sounds of confrontation. When he rounded the corner he found Scourge and mortals locked in a heated battle, the central square a slaughterhouse. The people of Stormwind and the Alliance were obviously trying to keep the undead out of Elwynn Forest, fighting with the strength of desperation, as the Scourge kept pushing them back through sheer numbers and unflagging energy.
He stood and watched the battle for a moment before he turned and gestured, and invoked some of the disgusting power that lay at his core. The undead and Scourge-beings fell back as they hissed and snarled, and took up a barricade that blocked any exit from the Trade District to anywhere else in Stormwind, but left the entrance to Elwynn Forest alone. He knew that the defenders were wary of the respite, but he had done what he was able to do.
He felt that the Lich King let him retain most of his volition so that when it was taken away it was all the more humiliating.
He moved out of the Trade district and meandered his way towards Old Town, but decided to stick to the street running along the canals. He didn't feel like seeing the devastation wrought on the most historic part of the city, but the cries of pain and rage wafting over the crackling of the flames told him that fighting continued in that district as well.
He turned the corner and looked up the walkway that lead to the Keep.
Besides the Trade district, the most heated fighting was occurring there.
Arcane energy seared through the air as the elements themselves rose to do battle at the behest of the shaman. He watched the confrontation as his hand rested lightly on his hip, which was purposefully devoid of a sword. He didn't need one to kill droves of mortals, anyway.
Each mortal death replaced a Scourge, and there was a nearly endless supply of Scourge that could be thrown at the defenders of Stormwind-the Stockades were no longer full of living and a charred corpse meant nothing to necromancy.
His sources had told him that the Prince was no longer in the Keep-which was understandable, since that would be where the Lich King would throw most of his forces, thinking that everyone was as much of an idiot as he. He was in no mood to contradict those orders, as they served his purpose, so he had directed the majority of the forces towards the Keep. Doing that had helped give evacuations in other parts of the city a slightly greater degree of success, since it meant fewer undead elsewhere.
He stood perfectly still and thought, ‘I am here-you see what is happening. Your forces are winning. Now, leave me be.’
There was the briefest flicker of recognition that made him shudder and bare his teeth in snarl. He hated how close he was held, how tight of a leash he wore-he fought it every second, but it wasn’t enough-it was never enough. Not if he was here, doing what he was.
He growled in displeasure, then turned away. He wanted to stop the destruction of the city before it entirely burned, but he had needed to let the destruction proceeded a little, let him see what was happening. Thankfully, a lot of the city was stone anymore, so rebuilding it would not take quite so much effort, and would hopefully result in fewer political riots.
He turned away from the Keep and walked around the sidewalk outside the Dwarven District-it smelled strange, and he couldn’t feel any Scourge or mortal presence from inside the area, so he figured that whatever toxic material had been released inside would be equally bad for him.
He finally came to the wall of Scourge that ringed Cathedral Square, the various creatures hissing and snarling at the consecrated ground whose power had been magnified by the Light-wielders that huddled within for protection.
The Light meant little to him.
He took a step onto the holy ground and shuddered as the energy raced through him before it settled in him, burning away a little of the Scourge within him, at least for a little while. He let out a long, shivering sigh before he took another step. He felt better with each footfall, the blight within him tamed and the Lich King no longer omnipresent. He knew that as the Light that rattled through him it changed his appearance and reverted it to that of someone who vaguely resembled the man he had been before Arthas had sunk his claws into him.
So, when he finally turned the corner that would lead him into the square proper, he looked-and probably felt-like nothing more than a Death Knight, and not one controlled by the Scourge.
He assumed such was indeed the case when no-one tried to attack him, and instead looked mildly relieved.
“Another survivor,” a priest breathed in relief.
He wanted to laugh. He really, truly did. He was very much a survivor-but not in the way that the priest probably meant.
He looked around until he found the person who seemed to be in charge.
“Are things as bad as I hear they are out there?” the paladin asked warily.
He looked out at the burning city. “The Scourge outnumber the living, and with each new death their numbers are bolstered.” He shook his head. “The city is lost. This is the only district to not see blood coating the stones.”
“Will Stormwind never see peace?” an older priest lamented. “First orcs, now Scourge! If only King Varian were here…”
He smiled bitterly, the statement leaving a sour taste in his mouth.
“I would suggest taking the catacombs out of the city,” he said. “While Cathedral Square may stand strong, it will be cut off from all other supplies and help. It is best to leave.”
“We cannot give up!”
His breath hitched at the familiar voice and he turned to see a resolute-looking boy standing not too far away. “The king would defend Stormwind until his last breath.”
“My prince, you are Stormwind-not the city.”
Prince Anduin shifted in obvious discomfort, both at having been recognized and the statement.
“Please,” he begged, “leave this place.”
“We can’t-survivors…”
“By now, there are no survivors. They have either escaped to Elwynn, are dead…or undead.”
“How do you know that?” the paladin asked carefully.
He paused, then sighed in frustration. “I don’t have time…” he muttered. He carefully knelt down, every movement slow and deliberate, and pressed his hands against the hallowed stones. A surge of unholy energy akin to a Death Knight’s ability spread out beneath him before an overlay of desecration extended the radius by ten yards, then a wave of dark black draining energy swept out and added another twenty, filling the square with unholy power that soaked up the Light in the stones and obliterated it, leaving a lingering energy that crawled with blight and darkness.
He knew that his appearance had changed back to that of what he had been before stepping onto sanctified ground, and he knew that everyone in the courtyard-for he had spared all present, as he was proving a point more than trying to kill-recognized him for who and what he was.
He stood and his eyes swept the courtyard, and he idly noted the various degrees of terror and horror reflected on the faces of all present.
It was the fear in Anduin’s eyes that hurt, though. The terror and accusation made his soul cry out in pain and beg for absolution from the sins he had committed-and would continue to commit, as long as the Lich King had a chokehold on his mind and body.
“This city belongs to the Scourge,” he said flatly, his voice distant, hollow, and echoing. “There is an entrance to the catacombs in the Argent Dawn shop-use that to escape. Unless you want me to escort you through Stormwind to the main gate…?”
The very idea was obviously abhorrent, so those present sneered and spit at him as they used ire to hide their fear. He watched until they were all gone before he sighed, turned, and walked out of the Square as his heart twisted within his chest.
Well done, Commander.
It was the horror of that voice that woke Varian up.
He stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment before the meaning of everything crashed down on him.
“Never,” he snarled before he quickly stood as tension and anger buzzed through him. He threw on some decent clothing before stalking out of his room, taking the hidden passageways that had been built in case of another attack on Stormwind, the near-absolute darkness swinging between comforting and terrifying.
He came out near the harbor, slightly calmer-but not by much.
“Never!” He whispered vehemently. “To even think that...that...” he growled in incoherence as he paced the exit of the passageway, the sea breeze chasing away some of the memories of putrid smoke. The recollection of the streets littered with bodies of the defenders of Stormwind, of his home city brought to her knees was...disgusting. Horrifying.
And that it was implied that it was his doing made it even worse.
He shook his head sharply and glared in the general direction of Northrend.
“I would rather die than betray my people like that,” he snarled quietly. “I am not like you.”
We would never do that to Anduin. Ever. We couldn't have him live with the knowledge that his father is Scourge.
Varian shook his head sharply. Never.
He forced himself still and watched the pale light of dawn reflect off the surprisingly tranquil waters of Stormwind harbor, and comforted himself in the quiet stillness, in that the only smoke came from the forges of the dwarven district and the only cries that he heard were from the seagulls that circled in the sky. He still felt a little queasy, but thought he could return to the Keep and be civil.
He turned and started to walk back towards the Keep, and knew that the nightmare would haunt him all day. He shuddered and his step hitched as the image of a mangled corpse flashed through his mind. His stride became more resolute after that, his hands clenched lightly at his sides.
It was nothing more than a dream. We will protect our people. We will never let Stormwind fall while we are king-especially not to that monster.
He exited the catacombs, slightly chilled, but, otherwise, he felt better. The promise to himself regarding his people had assuaged his uneasiness a little bit, and he knew that seeing Anduin would only reinforce that oath.
He also knew that it would be easier for him to be tolerant of fools since, idiots or not, they were still citizens of Stormwind, and therefore someone he had sworn to protect.
He ran his hand through hair he had forgotten to pull back and growled, “You will never win, Arthas. Stormwind will not fall to the likes of you.”