REFERENCE TEXT;
Excerpt from World of Warcraft: Arthas - Rise of the Lich King by Christie Golden;
→ Part Three, The Dark Lady, Chapter Twenty-One.
* * *
She was nothing of the living. Nor did she have the power to resist the commands of the one who had brought her screaming into this new existence.
But Sylvanas Windrunner had will. Somehow, Arthas had not broken that. He had done so with others; why was she, seemingly, the only one who had not caved utterly to him? Was it her own strength, or was it because he enjoyed tormenting her? The banshee that she was now would likely never know. But if her will was her own because Arthas found it amusing, she would have the last laugh.
So she had vowed to herself, and Sylvanas always kept her promises.
Time had passed in the world of the living since Arthas Menethil and the Scourge had swept through her beloved homeland. And much had occurred.
Her so-called “master” had objected to being used as a pawn. Together with that arrogant, floating sack of bones, Kel’Thuzad-the one responsible for corrupting the glorious Sunwell-Arthas had conspired against both the dreadlord Tichondrius and the demon lord Archimonde, whom Kel’Thuzad himself had helped usher into Azeroth. Sylvanas had paid keen attention; anything Arthas had to reveal about the way he thought and the way he battled was useful to her.
He had not attempted to slay Tichondrius himself, as he had Mal’Ganis. Oh no, the wily once-human prince had tricked another into doing his dirty work for him. Illidan, the luckless being had been named. Arthas had been able to smell Illidan’s hunger for power and used that against him, goading him into stealing the Skull of Gul’dan, a legendary orcish warlock. To do so, Illidan would have to kill Tichondrius. Arthas would be rid of the demon lord, and Illidan would be rewarded with an artifact to sate his lust for power. Presumably all had gone according to plan. Arthas-and therefore Sylvanas-had heard nothing of Illidan since.
As for Archimonde...so mighty that he had been able to destroy Dalaran, the great mage city, with a single spell, he had fallen to the power of the life he had come here to consume. Sylvanas now hated the living with the same passion the Legion had had, and thus it was with mixed feelings that she learned of his fall. The night elves had sacrificed their immortality to defeat him. The pure, focused power of nature had destroyed the demon from inside, and then the World Tree had surrendered its vast power in a cataclysm that sent out a massive shock wave. And when Archimonde had fallen, his skeleton all that was left, so too had the Legion’s attempt to gain a foothold in this world been defeated.
Sylvanas returned her attention from her reverie to the present, as the name of the late unlamented demon lord caught her ear.
“It’s been months since we last heard from Lord Archimonde,” their leader, Detheroc, said. He stamped his hoof impatiently. “I grow tired of watching over these rotting undead! What are we still doing here?”
They were in what had once been the gardens of the palace, where Arthas had strode so long and so short a time ago to murder his own father and unleash doom on his own people. The gardens, too, were rotting as well as their populace.
“We were charged with overseeing this land, Detheroc,” chided the one named Balnazzar. “It is our duty to remain here and ensure that the Scourge is ready for action.”
“True,” rumbled the third, Varimathras. “Although we should have received some kind of orders by now.”
Sylvanas could hardly believe what she had just heard. She turned to Kel’Thuzad. She despised him as much as she despised the death knight he appeared to serve so willingly, but she hid her dislike well. “The Legion was defeated months ago,” she said quietly. “How could they not know?”
“Impossible to say,” the lich replied. “But the longer they remain in command, the more they run the Scourge into the ground. If something is not-”
He was interrupted by a sound Sylvanas had never expected to hear in this place-the distinctive sound of a gate being battered and broken. Both undead turned at the noise, and the demons growled angrily, instantly alert, black webbed wings flexing.
Sylvanas’s glowing, spectral eyes widened slightly as none other than Arthas himself emerged through the gate. His familiar undead steed all but pranced beneath him. He wore no helm, letting his white hair fall freely about his pale face, and he wore that self-satisfied smirk that Sylvanas so despised. Her insubstantial hands attempted to clench into fists, but such was his control over her that all her fingers could manage was a brief twitch.
Arthas’s voice was resonant and cheerful. “Greetings, dreadlords,” he said. They stared at him, visibly bridling at his insolence. “I should thank you for looking after my kingdom during my absence. However, I won’t be requiring your services any longer.”
For a second, they simply gaped at him. Finally, Balnazzar recovered enough to retort, “This land is ours. The Scourge belongs to the Legion!”
Ah, thought Sylvanas, here it comes.
Arthas’s smirk widened. His voice was positively gleeful. “Not anymore, demon. Your masters have been defeated. The Legion is undone. Your deaths will complete the circle.”
Still grinning, he lifted Frostmourne. The runes along its blade danced and glowed. He tightened the reins and the skeletal horse bore down on the cluster of three demons.
“This isn’t over, human!” Detheroc cried defiantly. The dreadlords were faster than Arthas’s skeletal horse-Frostmourne sang only of frustration as it sliced through empty air. The demons had created a portal and vanished to safety. Arthas scowled, but his good humor returned quickly. Sylvanas realized it was because he had them on the run and their deaths would likely be only a matter of time.
He looked up and caught Sylvanas’s eye, beckoning her to him. She was forced to obey. Kel’Thuzad needed no coercion, floating happily to his master’s side like an obedient cur.
“We knew you would return to us, Prince Arthas!” the lich enthused.
Arthas barely spared his loyal servant a glance. His gaze was fixed on Sylvanas. “My heart is moved,” he said sarcastically. “Did you, too, know I would return, little banshee?”
“I did,” Sylvanas said coldly. It was true; he had to, or else she would never have her chance for revenge. He twitched a finger, demanding more from her, and she gasped as pain shuddered through her. “Prince Arthas,” she added.
“Ah, but you will now address me as king. This is, after all, my land. I was born to rule and I shall. Once the-”
He broke off, inhaling sharply. His eyes widened and then his face contorted in pain. He hunched over the bony neck of his horse, his gauntleted hands clenching hard on the reins. A sharp cry of agony was wrenched from him.
Sylvanas watched, experiencing the most pleasure she had known since that dreadful day when Quel’Thalas had fallen. She drank in his pain like nectar. She had no idea why he was suffering so, but she savored every second of it.
Grunting, he lifted his head. His eyes stared at something she couldn’t see, and he extended an imploring hand toward it. “The pain...is unbearable,” Arthas growled through gritted teeth. “What is happening to me?” He appeared to listen, as if an unheard voice was replying.
“King Arthas!” Kel’Thuzad cried. “Do you need assistance?”
Arthas didn’t reply at once. He gasped for breath, then slowly sat up, visibly composing himself. “No...no, the pain has passed but...my powers...are diminished.” His voice was full of puzzlement. Had Sylvanas still possessed a beating heart, it would have leaped at the words. “Something is terribly wrong here. I-”
The pain took him again. His body spasmed, his head falling back as his mouth opened in a soundless cry of pain, the veins on his neck standing out like cords. Kel’Thuzad fluttered around his adored master like a fussy nursemaid. Sylvanas simply watched coldly until the spasm had passed. Slowly, carefully, he slid off Invincible. His booted feet hit the flagstones, slipped out from under him and he fell, hard. The lich reached out a skeletal hand to help the prince-no, self-styled king-to his feet.
“My old quarters,” gasped Arthas. “I need rest-and then I have a long journey to prepare for.”
Sylvanas watched him go, staggering weakly in the direction of the rooms he had grown up in. She let her lips curve into a smile....
...and the spectral fingers on her hands twitched for a moment, then curled up into angry fists.
It was oddly peaceful in Silverpine. Soft mists swirled gently near the moist, pine-needle-covered earth. Sylvanas knew that if she had possessed physical feet, she would have felt it soft and springy beneath them; would have inhaled a rich evergreen scent from the moist air. But she felt nothing, smelled nothing. She floated, insubstantial, toward the meeting site. And such was her eagerness for the meeting that at this moment she did not regret her lack of senses.
Arthas had enjoyed turning beautiful, proud, strong-willed quel’dorei women into banshees, after his “success” with her. He had given them to she who had been their ranger-general in life, to control and command, tossing her a bone like she was a faithful hound. He would shortly see how faithful a pet she was. After overhearing the dreadlords’ conversation earlier, she had sent one of her banshees after them to speak with them and gather information.
The demons had accepted her emissary with pleasure, and had asked for her mistress to join them tonight to discuss something of “mutual benefit regarding the Banshee Queen’s current status.”
In the depths of the forest, she could see a faint green glow, and floated toward it. Sure enough, they awaited her as they had said they would-three great demons turning to her, their wings flapping and betraying their agitation.
Balnazzar spoke first. “Lady Sylvanas, we are pleased that you came.”
“How could I not?” she responded. “For some reason I no longer hear the Lich King’s voice in my head. My will is my own once again.” It was indeed; and it was purely by that will that she kept the elation from her voice. She did not wish them to know more than she chose. “You dreadlords seem to know why.”
They exchanged glances, their faces curving into smiles. “We’ve discovered that the Lich King is losing his power,” Varimathras said, hellish glee in his voice. “As it wanes, so too does his ability to command undead such as you.”
That was good news indeed, if it were actually true. But it was not specific enough for Sylvanas. “And what of King Arthas?” she pressed, unable to keep a sneer out of her voice as she used the death knight’s title. “What about his powers?”
Balnazzar waved a black-clawed hand dismissively. “He will cease to annoy us, like a summerfly whose time has come and gone. Though his runeblade, Frostmourne, carries powerful enchantments, Arthas’s own powers will fade in time. It is inevitable.”
Sylvanas was not so certain. She, too, had once underestimated Arthas, and along with the cold hatred in her heart, she also bore guilt for her part in his blood-soaked victory. “You seek to overthrow him, and want my help to do it,” she said bluntly.
Detheroc, the one who appeared to be in charge, had stood quietly by while his brothers spoke to Sylvanas. They had been angry and impassioned, but his expression had remained neutral. Now, at last he spoke, in cold tones of utter loathing.
“The Legion may be defeated, but we are the nathrezim. We’ll not let some upstart human get the best of us.” He paused, looking at them each in turn. “Arthas must fall!”
The glowing green gaze settled upon Sylvanas. “As you have been watching us, little ghost, so have we been observing as well. It is obvious that the lich, Kel’Thuzad, is far too loyal to betray his master. There appears to be...affection between the two.” His gray lips curved in a dangerous smile. “But you, on the other hand...”
“Hate him.” She did not think she could hide that truth even if she wanted to, so fiercely did it burn inside her. “We are united in that much, dreadlord. I have my own reasons for seeking vengeance. Arthas murdered my people and turned me into this...monstrosity.” She paused for a moment, the loathing-of both Arthas and what he had done to her-so intense it took away her ability to speak. They waited, patiently, smugly.
They thought they could use her. They would be wrong.
“I may take part in your bloody coup, but I will do so in my own way.” She wanted them as allies, but they needed to know that she would be no toy. “I will not exchange one master for another. If you wish my aid, then you must accept that.”
Detheroc smiled. “We will slay the death knight together, then.”
Sylvanas nodded, and a slow smile crept across her ghostly face.
Your days have numbers, King Arthas Menethil. And I...I am the hourglass.
→ Part Three, The Dark Lady, Chapter Twenty-One.
* * *
She was nothing of the living. Nor did she have the power to resist the commands of the one who had brought her screaming into this new existence.
But Sylvanas Windrunner had will. Somehow, Arthas had not broken that. He had done so with others; why was she, seemingly, the only one who had not caved utterly to him? Was it her own strength, or was it because he enjoyed tormenting her? The banshee that she was now would likely never know. But if her will was her own because Arthas found it amusing, she would have the last laugh.
So she had vowed to herself, and Sylvanas always kept her promises.
Time had passed in the world of the living since Arthas Menethil and the Scourge had swept through her beloved homeland. And much had occurred.
Her so-called “master” had objected to being used as a pawn. Together with that arrogant, floating sack of bones, Kel’Thuzad-the one responsible for corrupting the glorious Sunwell-Arthas had conspired against both the dreadlord Tichondrius and the demon lord Archimonde, whom Kel’Thuzad himself had helped usher into Azeroth. Sylvanas had paid keen attention; anything Arthas had to reveal about the way he thought and the way he battled was useful to her.
He had not attempted to slay Tichondrius himself, as he had Mal’Ganis. Oh no, the wily once-human prince had tricked another into doing his dirty work for him. Illidan, the luckless being had been named. Arthas had been able to smell Illidan’s hunger for power and used that against him, goading him into stealing the Skull of Gul’dan, a legendary orcish warlock. To do so, Illidan would have to kill Tichondrius. Arthas would be rid of the demon lord, and Illidan would be rewarded with an artifact to sate his lust for power. Presumably all had gone according to plan. Arthas-and therefore Sylvanas-had heard nothing of Illidan since.
As for Archimonde...so mighty that he had been able to destroy Dalaran, the great mage city, with a single spell, he had fallen to the power of the life he had come here to consume. Sylvanas now hated the living with the same passion the Legion had had, and thus it was with mixed feelings that she learned of his fall. The night elves had sacrificed their immortality to defeat him. The pure, focused power of nature had destroyed the demon from inside, and then the World Tree had surrendered its vast power in a cataclysm that sent out a massive shock wave. And when Archimonde had fallen, his skeleton all that was left, so too had the Legion’s attempt to gain a foothold in this world been defeated.
Sylvanas returned her attention from her reverie to the present, as the name of the late unlamented demon lord caught her ear.
“It’s been months since we last heard from Lord Archimonde,” their leader, Detheroc, said. He stamped his hoof impatiently. “I grow tired of watching over these rotting undead! What are we still doing here?”
They were in what had once been the gardens of the palace, where Arthas had strode so long and so short a time ago to murder his own father and unleash doom on his own people. The gardens, too, were rotting as well as their populace.
“We were charged with overseeing this land, Detheroc,” chided the one named Balnazzar. “It is our duty to remain here and ensure that the Scourge is ready for action.”
“True,” rumbled the third, Varimathras. “Although we should have received some kind of orders by now.”
Sylvanas could hardly believe what she had just heard. She turned to Kel’Thuzad. She despised him as much as she despised the death knight he appeared to serve so willingly, but she hid her dislike well. “The Legion was defeated months ago,” she said quietly. “How could they not know?”
“Impossible to say,” the lich replied. “But the longer they remain in command, the more they run the Scourge into the ground. If something is not-”
He was interrupted by a sound Sylvanas had never expected to hear in this place-the distinctive sound of a gate being battered and broken. Both undead turned at the noise, and the demons growled angrily, instantly alert, black webbed wings flexing.
Sylvanas’s glowing, spectral eyes widened slightly as none other than Arthas himself emerged through the gate. His familiar undead steed all but pranced beneath him. He wore no helm, letting his white hair fall freely about his pale face, and he wore that self-satisfied smirk that Sylvanas so despised. Her insubstantial hands attempted to clench into fists, but such was his control over her that all her fingers could manage was a brief twitch.
Arthas’s voice was resonant and cheerful. “Greetings, dreadlords,” he said. They stared at him, visibly bridling at his insolence. “I should thank you for looking after my kingdom during my absence. However, I won’t be requiring your services any longer.”
For a second, they simply gaped at him. Finally, Balnazzar recovered enough to retort, “This land is ours. The Scourge belongs to the Legion!”
Ah, thought Sylvanas, here it comes.
Arthas’s smirk widened. His voice was positively gleeful. “Not anymore, demon. Your masters have been defeated. The Legion is undone. Your deaths will complete the circle.”
Still grinning, he lifted Frostmourne. The runes along its blade danced and glowed. He tightened the reins and the skeletal horse bore down on the cluster of three demons.
“This isn’t over, human!” Detheroc cried defiantly. The dreadlords were faster than Arthas’s skeletal horse-Frostmourne sang only of frustration as it sliced through empty air. The demons had created a portal and vanished to safety. Arthas scowled, but his good humor returned quickly. Sylvanas realized it was because he had them on the run and their deaths would likely be only a matter of time.
He looked up and caught Sylvanas’s eye, beckoning her to him. She was forced to obey. Kel’Thuzad needed no coercion, floating happily to his master’s side like an obedient cur.
“We knew you would return to us, Prince Arthas!” the lich enthused.
Arthas barely spared his loyal servant a glance. His gaze was fixed on Sylvanas. “My heart is moved,” he said sarcastically. “Did you, too, know I would return, little banshee?”
“I did,” Sylvanas said coldly. It was true; he had to, or else she would never have her chance for revenge. He twitched a finger, demanding more from her, and she gasped as pain shuddered through her. “Prince Arthas,” she added.
“Ah, but you will now address me as king. This is, after all, my land. I was born to rule and I shall. Once the-”
He broke off, inhaling sharply. His eyes widened and then his face contorted in pain. He hunched over the bony neck of his horse, his gauntleted hands clenching hard on the reins. A sharp cry of agony was wrenched from him.
Sylvanas watched, experiencing the most pleasure she had known since that dreadful day when Quel’Thalas had fallen. She drank in his pain like nectar. She had no idea why he was suffering so, but she savored every second of it.
Grunting, he lifted his head. His eyes stared at something she couldn’t see, and he extended an imploring hand toward it. “The pain...is unbearable,” Arthas growled through gritted teeth. “What is happening to me?” He appeared to listen, as if an unheard voice was replying.
“King Arthas!” Kel’Thuzad cried. “Do you need assistance?”
Arthas didn’t reply at once. He gasped for breath, then slowly sat up, visibly composing himself. “No...no, the pain has passed but...my powers...are diminished.” His voice was full of puzzlement. Had Sylvanas still possessed a beating heart, it would have leaped at the words. “Something is terribly wrong here. I-”
The pain took him again. His body spasmed, his head falling back as his mouth opened in a soundless cry of pain, the veins on his neck standing out like cords. Kel’Thuzad fluttered around his adored master like a fussy nursemaid. Sylvanas simply watched coldly until the spasm had passed. Slowly, carefully, he slid off Invincible. His booted feet hit the flagstones, slipped out from under him and he fell, hard. The lich reached out a skeletal hand to help the prince-no, self-styled king-to his feet.
“My old quarters,” gasped Arthas. “I need rest-and then I have a long journey to prepare for.”
Sylvanas watched him go, staggering weakly in the direction of the rooms he had grown up in. She let her lips curve into a smile....
...and the spectral fingers on her hands twitched for a moment, then curled up into angry fists.
It was oddly peaceful in Silverpine. Soft mists swirled gently near the moist, pine-needle-covered earth. Sylvanas knew that if she had possessed physical feet, she would have felt it soft and springy beneath them; would have inhaled a rich evergreen scent from the moist air. But she felt nothing, smelled nothing. She floated, insubstantial, toward the meeting site. And such was her eagerness for the meeting that at this moment she did not regret her lack of senses.
Arthas had enjoyed turning beautiful, proud, strong-willed quel’dorei women into banshees, after his “success” with her. He had given them to she who had been their ranger-general in life, to control and command, tossing her a bone like she was a faithful hound. He would shortly see how faithful a pet she was. After overhearing the dreadlords’ conversation earlier, she had sent one of her banshees after them to speak with them and gather information.
The demons had accepted her emissary with pleasure, and had asked for her mistress to join them tonight to discuss something of “mutual benefit regarding the Banshee Queen’s current status.”
In the depths of the forest, she could see a faint green glow, and floated toward it. Sure enough, they awaited her as they had said they would-three great demons turning to her, their wings flapping and betraying their agitation.
Balnazzar spoke first. “Lady Sylvanas, we are pleased that you came.”
“How could I not?” she responded. “For some reason I no longer hear the Lich King’s voice in my head. My will is my own once again.” It was indeed; and it was purely by that will that she kept the elation from her voice. She did not wish them to know more than she chose. “You dreadlords seem to know why.”
They exchanged glances, their faces curving into smiles. “We’ve discovered that the Lich King is losing his power,” Varimathras said, hellish glee in his voice. “As it wanes, so too does his ability to command undead such as you.”
That was good news indeed, if it were actually true. But it was not specific enough for Sylvanas. “And what of King Arthas?” she pressed, unable to keep a sneer out of her voice as she used the death knight’s title. “What about his powers?”
Balnazzar waved a black-clawed hand dismissively. “He will cease to annoy us, like a summerfly whose time has come and gone. Though his runeblade, Frostmourne, carries powerful enchantments, Arthas’s own powers will fade in time. It is inevitable.”
Sylvanas was not so certain. She, too, had once underestimated Arthas, and along with the cold hatred in her heart, she also bore guilt for her part in his blood-soaked victory. “You seek to overthrow him, and want my help to do it,” she said bluntly.
Detheroc, the one who appeared to be in charge, had stood quietly by while his brothers spoke to Sylvanas. They had been angry and impassioned, but his expression had remained neutral. Now, at last he spoke, in cold tones of utter loathing.
“The Legion may be defeated, but we are the nathrezim. We’ll not let some upstart human get the best of us.” He paused, looking at them each in turn. “Arthas must fall!”
The glowing green gaze settled upon Sylvanas. “As you have been watching us, little ghost, so have we been observing as well. It is obvious that the lich, Kel’Thuzad, is far too loyal to betray his master. There appears to be...affection between the two.” His gray lips curved in a dangerous smile. “But you, on the other hand...”
“Hate him.” She did not think she could hide that truth even if she wanted to, so fiercely did it burn inside her. “We are united in that much, dreadlord. I have my own reasons for seeking vengeance. Arthas murdered my people and turned me into this...monstrosity.” She paused for a moment, the loathing-of both Arthas and what he had done to her-so intense it took away her ability to speak. They waited, patiently, smugly.
They thought they could use her. They would be wrong.
“I may take part in your bloody coup, but I will do so in my own way.” She wanted them as allies, but they needed to know that she would be no toy. “I will not exchange one master for another. If you wish my aid, then you must accept that.”
Detheroc smiled. “We will slay the death knight together, then.”
Sylvanas nodded, and a slow smile crept across her ghostly face.
Your days have numbers, King Arthas Menethil. And I...I am the hourglass.