Xynrael the Frostbane turned his head to face the woman who lay beside him, sleeping, he assumed, quite soundly. He took her arm from around his waist, gently lifted it away, and slowly peeled the sheets back. The Death Knight slid out of bed, dressed carefully in the dark, and ducked from the master bedroom of the Duskryder Estate, into the hallway where his armor and runemace had been discarded.
It took him ten minutes, with the help of ghoul attendants, to strap his armor on and sling the enormous mace onto his back. First came heavily plated boots, then legguards and gauntlets. Finally, his breastplate, tabard, and over these, his belt, were lifted into place, held as firmly as one could expect rotting hands to hold them. He tied the leather straps himself, and with a metallic shuffle and heavy thump of titansteel on marble floors preceeding him, headed off down the hallway.
The skyward-reaching arches and elegant domes of the Duskryder Estate were bathed in a sea of twisting shadow as Xynrael stalked from room to room, the combination of torches and the home's remaining lightspheres creating an almost eerie ambiance. He passed through the grand ballroom, which had seen a thousand parties in better times, and now collected dust, remaining as a tomb and tribute to memories of a more joyous an era. A number of guest rooms in various states of disrepair arose to greet him out of the next hallway, among them the room Daeryan Duskryder had claimed. From this, the Death Knight recalled that he was nearing the home's exit. A cold breeze greeted him as he thumped past; the breeze from the recently-destroyed outer wall, something he had yet to completely fix. As he exited the estate, Xynrael turned, his eyes taking the foreboding enormity of the building in.
It looked like a giant mausoleum, in the twilight darkness that always seized Eversong Wood this time of night. He deluded that he could hear the ghosts of generations past chatting on the lawn, the music from the ballroom in full swing. He could smell the food cooking from the tremendous kitchen, hear the idle back-and-forth of servants as they darted about, each one simultaneously at the whim of every man and woman in the place.
And he felt them turn to him, glare at him, each one making it clear he was unwelcome there. Their faces were no longer indistinct and forgettable, however- Xynrael recognized every single one of them.
The Death Knight called up his charger and fled down the Dawning Lane, disappearing into the darkness.
* * *
The shaman awoke with a start, his hand already curling around his staff. Zujibaba of the Darkspear reached out, flicking his wrist at the totem of fire that sat in the center of his cave. The shaman walked foreward along the path created by the piles of tools his trade demanded, and stood at the mouth of the mountain's hollow, eyes watching warily. There the shaman knelt, his eyes falling half closed as he raised his staff. A green aura surrounded the skulls and fetishes at the staff's head, guiding Zuji's spiritual eyes to places his physical could not see.
There, in the distance, amid the whirling snow, and lit only by the swirling dance of the sky-lights, was a single Death Knight. Zuji's eyes popped open, then widened slightly, and a smile crept up between his tusks. The Death Knight's face was shrouded, his armor already covered to the point of being unrecognizeable from the still-forming ice that hung heavily upon it, but from the purposefulness of his stride and the determination with which e plodded on, Zuji was sure he knew its name. Only a handful had ever seen past the wards that guarded Zujibaba's cave, and this one knew the illusion only because he knew every dip and curve of Icecrown Glacier like one knows an old lover.
The shaman retreated inside to make preparations.
* * *
Xynrael stopped as he approached a large hill near the mountains that surrounded Icecrown Glacier. In the hill, he knew, waited an old friend, upon whom there was no sneaking up. The Troll was simply waiting, watching to see what would happen next. From his right side rose the Death Knight's hand, fingers nearly frozen together from the ice and his own lack of body heat. After a brief invocation, runic energy shot out in a bubble around Xynrael's body and the immediate area, for several yards in every direction, destroying the illusion that covered Zujibaba's cave.
Deeper in, amongst the shadows cast by his totems, the shaman waited, grinning from tusk to tusk.
"Neva' moa' one for da' suddahlty, wer' ya mon? Ya be lucky da' Scourge no longah be bodderin' Zuji, oddahwise ah have ta make ya put up a new glamah fa' mah cave." The troll commented, shaking out his carefully slicked, spiked blue hair and letting it fluff out slightly, for warmth. He looked thoroughly nonplussed by the Death Knight's presence, but Xynrael could see better. In his left hand, Zujibaba held some sort of mystical reagant bag, the contents of which had been poured out in circles around the single, large, clear space at the back of the cave. Small sticks had been arrayed in strange patterns both inside and outside the circles, and still-swinging fetishes hung from bits of string and rope and staves that had been meticulously laid out.
"You were expecting me," The more ice-worn of the two observed, as he righted himself from having crouched to enter the cave. He walked the length of the path and sat down where Zuji's outstretched hand indicated he should sit. Little but a nod came from the troll by way of reaction, the two waiting in a sort of content silence, regarding eachother.
Just as the contentness of the silence would have descended into awkwardness, Zuji asked, "Ya rememba' wat a told ya da dey we met, mon? A tell ya dat d'eh be no angah wit'out lohv. Zuji be seein' intah dat cold, dead 'art a yahs. Lohv be makin' ya angreh, mon. Angreh at da people who not be deservin' ya wrat', an' makin' ya blind tah dose dat do. Da ones ya lohv can make ya weak an' foolish wit dey words." The troll explained, not-so-subtly dodging the pretense of small talk. Xynrael shifted as if a dip had suddenly formed in the ground beneath him- hearing all of this said out loud made him uneasy, but even as he opened his mouth to object, the troll went on.
"Dat love fah ya people also make ya strong, mon. By yahself, ya die. Yah have no purpose in dis world, mon. No-tin' tah do wit a, dis be all of us. We cannat exist wit'out dah oddahs. An lovh fah oddahs make ya strong, too. Ya can do fah dah oddahs ya lohv what ya cannat do fah yahself. But ya mind be distant, mon. Ya not be a 'ole mon. Ya not even be a 'ole ded mon."
The Sin'dorei listened on in silence as Zujibaba spoke, his mouth clamping shut after the second or third attempt at interrupting. Xynrael had already resigned himself to the fact that Zuji would get to the point when he was damn good and ready. Presently, the troll began to speak again, clearly delving deeper in his reading.
"Ya feel dat ya lohv two women, mon. Zuji be tinkin' ya cannat make dat work, but Zuji also be tinkin'... Dis show who ya ah. Ya cannat help ya lohv fah dese people. Ya most not let dat go, mon. Ya most not let it make ya bittah, an' angreh, no mattah what dey do. Dey not be deservin' ya angah- ya not belong in dis world, even doh ya heah. And dey love yah anyway." Zuji fell silent, leaving Xynrael to sit, frozen as if by the cold of the Glacier itself, in startled silence. He had not expected the shaman to read that far into him.
For a long, long time, nothing more was said between the two. Then, slowly, Zuji's visitor reached over his shoulder, taking from behind his back a sort of cloth that rolled like a sleeping bag, typically used by travelling merchants to carry weapons. Xynrael unrolled it on the floor, and from it took a number of runeblades. Each one was different, from axes to broadswords and polearms, but each one held, just above the hilt or at the tip of the shaft, a single, slightly discolored shard, clearly from a piece of metal unlike the rest of the weapon. He laid them out, blades and heads pointing towards the centerpoint of one of the circles the shaman had drawn on the ground. Then, he himself walked to another circle, and sat down in it. Zujibaba rose without comment and sat in a third.
Each circle formed the endpoint of a perfect triangle, the whole shape contained inside of a larger circle, at the direct center of which was a single, unlit totem.
As Xynrael settled into position, Zujibaba cautioned, "Dis be no simpal task, Fros'bane. Ya gunna face a trial wit'in. Zuji can guide ya, but ya most figh' da beast dat hold ya strengkt and ya cunning. Wat else ya face inside, ah do not know. But if yah fail... Ya be lost fahevah mon, and ya bodeh be empteh, and dah darkness take ya insted."
There was again a moment of silence as Xynrael lay down within the circle, his eyes locking on a point on the ceiling. A thousand things passed through his mind all at once. Last thoughts. Things he wished he'd said and done, and very few of them things he expected he'd care about. He thought of Iliae, of Eriene and Wyleth, of the Vanguard, of Jaen Peaceroot, of the hulking Gilomesh, and Melathanore, of the late mother of the Kierr sisters, and, to his surprise, of Nikkitah, Treue, and Tydris...And of Aerather. He thought of his comrades from the Eventide, people he hadn't seen in years, some he knew were gone forever.
Then, with finality: "Make me whole again, Zuji."
"Only ya can do dat, mon."
At first, Xynrael only heard the soft sound of Zujibaba's quiet chanting and the shaking of the troll's staff as he hopped back and forth. A tiny spark began to grow atop the totem, this particular flame an icy sort of blue. It grew, almost unnoticeably but quite steadily, for several moments, though nothing else happened. Then, just as the Death Knight was about to ask how much longer it was going to take, the weapons in the last circle started to quiver, metal rattling against metal as the points of blades and sharpened edges of axeheads clashed. In the center of all of them, he had laid his mace, which now lifted pommel-first into the air, the sharp, pointed tip of the shaft sticking deep into the ground.
Smoke rose from the flame on the totem, the smoke the same dark color as the clouds that seemed to endlessly block the sun just outside. Xyn noticed the flame on the totem growing more rapidly, and saw, as he turned his head to stare directly at it, that it was the same corrupted blue as his eyes.
Louder grew the shaman's chanting, and deeper came his voice and invications to the Loa. Xynrael reached up to grab his head, a sudden sensation of falling passing over him. Rather than feel the pressure directly where he thought it would be, however, the Death Knight's conciousness seemed to be coming from another part of his body. He still saw with his eyes, but it was as if he were thinking from his chest, rather than his head.
The center of his focus jerked again, then a second time, shortly after. By the eighth movement, he was feeling dizzy and clutching his stomach, his body wracked with coughs as if he were attempting to hold back vomit.
After the fourteenth (or was it fifteenth?) move, Xyn started losing count...and conciousness. Plagued blood and bile lay in a coagulated pool on the floor beside him, and he began feeling a sensation he had only felt once before. The Death Knight's eyes went wide, and Zujibaba's chanting seemed to come from everywhere, each word joined by a thousand different voices, all molded into one. The shadows on the walls cast by the flame of totem and torch melded into indistinct faces and forms, ghosts and demons that jeered and taunted him in the midst of his torment.
In a vague attempt to steady the rapidly dissolving world, Xynrael pushed himself up slightly. He was immediatly smashed back into the ground by a shear of wind, the pure force of the action causing him to vomit again, adding more to the pool that lay to his right. The world around him vanished into darkness, though he was aware that Zuji was still chanting.
"Ya not be movin', mon. We not close ya done yet." Was the last thing the Death Knight heard.
From the edge of the darkness that was his vision, Xynrael saw a bright light erupt and shoot towards him. He jerked backwards, held in the circle by another shear of wind as the source of the light passed through the totem, then out again and impacted him.
"Zuji, what...w.....AH. AHHHHHHH!" The Death Knight screamed at the top of his lungs as a burning sensation enveloped him. He writhed and screamed and thrashed against the shield that held him in place, hands slapping his body as if the very air against his skin was catching fire. "GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT! ZUJI, GET IT OUT, IT BURNS!" He begged, still screaming at the top of his lungs, the tiny sliver of rational thought remaining his brain attempting to reconcile the furious burning in the midst of Icecrown's unholy chill. Unbidden tears poured from Xynrael's eyes, streaming down his cheeks from the sheer pain of his entire body lighting aflame, inside and out, though ice still hung on him. Despite the weight his armor, he continued the mad pounding and thrashing against Zuji's elemental restraints .
"We can acommahdate ya soon enough, mon! Ya be holdin' on now!"
"AAAAAGGGHHHHH!!!! GET IT OUT!" Despite the cries, Zuji continued chanting, a feeling of sinking and swirling cutting through the pit of his friend's stomach, as if the firestorm pervading him had met with a dark whirlwind. Then, blessed numbness overtook him, and his last concious thought was the belief that death had finally taken him back, and the feeling of his mind being taken from his body to join his father in whatever way proceeded it.
* * *
Xynrael reached out to catch himself as he stumbled, only to realize that he was kneeling. The world around him was dark, but this dark was... Natural. His face was covered by his hood, his cloak spread out slightly behind him. One leather-covered hand was wrapped tightly around his runemace, which stood point-down in the thick permafrost beneath him. Looking up, he saw that he was kneeling before a set of stairs made from the same frost upon which he had found himself. And up the steps was a terrifying sight.
The Frozen Throne. Upon the Throne sat Arthas Menethil, the Lich King. Frostmourne was not in his hand, but the Lich King's hand hung in the air, outstretched towards a place behind Xynrael's shoulder. The Death Knight turned, and behind him, on the dias leading up to the throne, was gathered a small army. Some names he had forgotten, but every face he remembered. Many of them had been caved into or cleaved from their shoulders by the weight or scythes of Skyshatter, and each one's blood had, at one point, decorated the mighty runemace.
They charged.
By the tens and hundreds they swarmed around him, each one grabbing any hold their hands could find. Xynrael fought back weakly, but against this mad charge, there was no defense. One or two fell to Skyshatter before the weapon was torn from his hands. A spray of surrging blood magic struck down another fifteen or so, but eventually, the Death Knight was completely overwhelmed, his body dragged into the crushing press. As they clawed at his armor and flesh, he heard amid the madness a single, distinct voice.
This is your just reward, Xynrael the Dawnbreaker. You turned against your people, and you turned against the King you betrayed them for. This world has no place for traitors. You belong to me. You are -sworn- to me.
As he was dragged down, he began to feel the truth of it. The inevitability of it. Maybe, just maybe, if he gave in, joined the press that tore at him...
"Quiet be ya, ya damn fool! Ya not be givin' in, mon! Dese people ya killed, dat be true, but ya be doin' it undah HIS sway! Da dead and da livin' cannaht hold ya fa' his sins! Dey be HIS tah bea'. YA RELEASE DEM UN'TAH HEEM." Zuji's voice echoed like a thunderstorm amidst the chaos, seeming to come from all directions at once.
The Death Knight set his gaze upon his mace, which sat, unmoved by the crowd, not three feet away. He managed to wrench his right arm free and extend it, calling the weapon to him with tendrils of unholy power. The mace slid between the legs of several who held them, knocking over and unbalancing the legs that it did not rend off. Taking hold of the mace's shaft, Xynrael let loose a mighty swing, beating from his left side those who held him. Another torrent of blood flew outwards as he swung the weapon, sending the immediate mob as far back as it could go. With a sweep of his left hand, he took hold of the blood in the chests of those around him and sent it bubbling outwards, causing them to grasp their chests in agony as their hearts exploded. Many died instantly and disappeared, and Xynrael finally had some breathing room.
"BACK TO THE PIT WITH YOU." He roared, slamming his mace into the floor. A discharge of unholy power spread through the permafrost, rapidly bubbling outwards and consuming the flesh of many who were too close to him, and thus too far from the edge to escape before their flesh and bone were worn away to rot.
As he lifted his head, the hood of Xynrael's cloak fell away, revealing his face to the stinging cold, and finally allowing him to see the sky. The flurries of snow outside the dias of the Frozen Throne were too thick to see even a foot outside of the edge. A test, then. This was the test Zuji had spoken of. The Death Knight slid one leg back, ears twitching slightly, listening for any sound indicating that the mob was about to rush him again.
"Know ya well, mon... Dis be no alluzhon. If ya die hea', da last t'ing keepin' dese souls from ya body be gone. It be vacant wit'out da rule of ya mace an' ya mind." Zuji's voice cautioned. As if on cue, the remaining souls rushed at Xynrael, screaming incoherently.
The last of these he barely saw as he struck them down. He whirled in and out of their ranks, Skyshatter punching holes in the awkward circle they formed, and crushing even more holes and cavities into their flesh. Each time Skyshatter swung, five or six fell, caught in the mace's sweeping arc or the spray of freshly-plagued blood that followed each strike. Soon, they had all been dispatched, but the last thirty or so did not disappear as the rest did. Xynrael knelt among them as they reanimated, then rose again for battle as they turned to face him, though he knew strength was spent.
The faces he saw were not those he had expected.
Instead of the bodies of the fallen, the faces of those he considered (or had once considered) friends greeted him. Thaelis Kael'dorin and Eriene Riverwalker stood side-by-side, their Blood Knight uniforms looking freshly polished, the shield in Thaelis' hand gleaming so beautifully that Xynrael could swear the Phoenix upon it was about to take flight. From behind Eriene, Wyleth Riverwalker appeared. He stood in a sort of contented silence behind his wife, a smile on his face, arms hanging loosely at his sides. For a moment, Xynrael saw some of the stress Eriene had secured for herself as captain of the Academy's Red Brigade disappear, though she quickly grew stern again, her hands folding behind her back as her eyes turned from her husband.
Through the howling gale outside the dias came Ruscion Vas'nir and Hylaudius Dorennen, beside whom the Death Knight had fought in Northrend. Ruscion looked impassive, and Hylaudius was clearly unhappy to be there, though he seemed approving of the remaining carnage, even though some of the corpses continued to reanimate, bearing clothing and faces they hadn't borne a moment ago. Two figures slid in next to Ruscion and Hylaudius, both women Xynrael recognized from the Order of the Eventide, before it had dissolved. Xynrael's self-appointed bodyguard, the Death Knight Irelynn, a tall, lanky woman with flame-red hair and a temper to match settled herself in beside Ruscion and was herself flanked by Saori, their resident expert on temporal magic and representative to the Bronze Flight.
At his left, the Death Knight felt a familiar pair of hands wrap around the gauntlet covering his own. Iliae Duskryder smirked up at him as he turned, her former mate, Dinendal Amandil falling into step behind her. She moved away from Xynrael as a third figure appeared- his cousin, Jaericho, whose flesh Iliae had carved off, piece by peice, and let to bleed to death in the laboratory beneath the Duskryder Estate. Dinendal faded into the crowd, and as she fell in beside Iliae, Jaericho, too, disappeared.
From out of the snowstorm stumbled an enormous Undead. He held a flask in one hand, an axe in the other, and a look of general boredom pasted all over the rest of him. Melathanore Malarius grinned as he spotted Iliae, and rather violently shoved his way through the gathering to stand beside her. Adalvaldr Von Harmonn appeared beside Mel, his saronite jaw clenched tightly, both clawed hands folded over the head of his swagger cane, and behind him rose Riethe Kierr, flanked by her two daughters. The three Kierrs immediately moved left to join those Xynrael had met in the Academy, each one looking mildly uncomfortable at the sight of the Forsaken.
The sound of shuffling plate announced the rising of Treue Frostblade and his 'family,' such as Xynrael had known them; Nikkitah Blightheart stood behind his 'father' and adopted a look of irritation. He seemed about to say something, but cut it off, instead moving with Treue and Tydris Dawnfury to stand off to one side. The three were followed immediately by some of the most misguided men Xynrael Frostbane had ever met. Aerather Sunrender, Annexious Bloodfury, and Surion Draxus pushed themselves to their feet and, in unison, brushed past Xyn to stand beside Treue's family. For several moments, Xynrael allowed himself to wonder if Aerather, Annexious, and Surion were all so alike... And how far beyond redemption they had really been when he turned on each of them.
Jaen Peaceroot appeared and scampered quickly out of sight, behind those from the Vanguard. He was dragged back into veiw by Calthos Sunkeeper, the Ebonhawk Vanguard's artificer, at one shoulder. On his other shoulder, gripping just as tightly, was Lyzander Bloodthorne, whom Xyn now knew to be a master spy and tactician. The two men were grinning slightly down at the Vanguard's newest recruit- they'd make something of him, yet. Lyzander's companion Taleal slipped from the shadows at his side, lifting one arm onto his shoulder and leaning on him as if he were a fencepost. Lieutenant Vladimaer Lightsworn appeared from behind the Ebonhawks' ranks, grinning like a drunken fool.
The appearance of the Springsun Sisters, Kavei, Maexin, and Tyaene, completed the picture- these were perhaps the only three Xynrael had truly known before becoming a member of the Scourge. Kavei was the oldest of the three, and had died with Xynrael on the grounds of his family's estate during the Invasion. Even in this dreamlike state, the Death Knight fought back tears at seeing her whole, unmarred, and alive again. But the dreams of her living form had stopped years ago, and he forced thoughts of her from his mind even as she turned to smile at him. Maexin and Tyaene were twins and much younger than Kavei. The two women stood side-by-side, staring up at him as they had when he had first been introduced to them nearly a hundred years before.
Xynrael forced himself to stop breathing in order to keep from sobbing as Kavei and Maexin disappeared like ghosts carried in a mist, the last traces of their existance wiped clean by the whirling snow outside the Throne. Tyaene gave him a small, understanding smile, and turned away to join all of the others.
There were many more, but the last to arrive was a single, black-and-red clad Rogue that Xyn knew only as Sunsworn. Her face was masked and hooded even more heavily than his own had been. As he looked her over, the Death Knight noticed with some curiosity that she held in the fingers of her left hand an ornate, black rook from the human game of chess. Rather than ending in the usual battlements, however, the head of a wolf extended from the playing piece's top, its eyes following Xynrael even as she drew it out of his sight, shooting him a rather exaggerated glare.
Others came in by the dozens. Eventually, he lost track of how many people there were, and gave up. They stood at a sort of grim attention where they had gathered, like gladiators about to die for his entertainment.
The irony was not lost on him. Once, he had done the same. Once...
Why do you bother?
The voices came from among the crowd, and all in unison. He recognized them- all of the people who had caused him to question his motives, speaking in unison. They sounded as the Scourge once sounded, encompassed by the vast conciousness of the Lich King. Orderly. Assured.
The sound was too familiar.
You cannot protect them all.
Xynrael moved in and out of the crowd, his hand on his mace's pommel, corrupted blue eyes darting from face to face. Those who were now voicing his doubts were gone. Jaericho, Nikkitah, Aerather, had all disappeared. Though all the crowd were facing foreward, he heard another pair of boots thumping steadily on the ice as he moved, the deep sound accompanied by a light swish.
You cannot even protect them from yourself.
The meaning of the words was clear. Perhaps not to anyone else, should they have heard, but Xynrael understood them. If his bloodlust ever flared because of the Light...
His throught were interrupted. The Death Knight looked heavenward as a howl of wind brought into sharp relief the rapid shift of the falling snow. Rather than fall outside the dias upon which the Frozen Throne rested, the flurry of white was now beginning to swirl over it. Though he felt the wind sting his face, the feeling of the snow was unexpected. Rather than simply come to rest or turn to water, it shattered into dust.
It is fitting. You are a broken man, protecting a world already so broken that it cannot be saved.
The 'snow' felt thin and silty on his skin, and as Xyn dusted some of it off with his left gauntlet, he saw it was dark and dirty looking.
Ash.
For a brief moment, he could see through the blizzard, outside of the Throne's dias. All he could glimpse before the curtain closed again was mountains of bodies, piled a thousand high, their flesh searing away in great pillars of flame that seemed to burn hot enough to ignite the air around them.
Who is fit to replace you as protector, Xynrael the Frostbane? Who can keep these people safe? You have the trust of death itself. Neither time nor will of nature can remove you from his grasp. But you are one man. How many of them can you protect? The voice of doubt had echoed in Xynrael's mind for nearly a year, but never had he heard it so clearly as he did now, the image of friends and strangers alike still burning in his mind.
Thaelis Kael'dorin is a good man. A strong man. He can replace you. But what if death claims him first?
The Death Knight's eyes narrowed to slits as he turned, attempting to push his way through a crowd that was suddenly too thick to move past.
"Kael'dorin, RUN!" He forced his way through with a broad swing of the arm, throwing others out of his way by shoving with the shaft of his mace and by slamming into them with a lowered shoulderplate. Kael'dorin turned just fast enough to see the hooded face of his attacker. Two long, serrated, rune-covered blades protruded from Thaelis' lower and upper back.
"THAELIS!"
Xynrael arrived just in time to catch his friend in his arms as the Blood Knight fell, already dead. The rest of those gathered looked around stupidly- the whole thing had taken not more than a few seconds, and the attacker was gone. Eriene was screaming something, but Xyn's ears were deafened by a voice that seemed to whisper from everywhere at once. Zujibaba was either gone, or unable to communicate with him.
What of Hylaudius Dorennen? He is a fine soldier, but he cares only for the larger picture. What must be done to save the people as a whole, which sacrifices are acceptable...
He arrived too late to find out how Hylaudius had died.
As he turned to head back into the crowd, Xynrael saw a pair of silvery-blue flashes out of the corner of his eye. Skyshatter's shaft was brought up just in time to deflect the blows, which were aimed downwards for the shoulder joints of his armor. The necessity of deflecting the strike obscured his vision, and the attacker was gone not a moment later, disappearing amidst the confusion that had been the crowd of the Death Knight's friends.
Xynrael followed the phantom by sprays of blood and the gleam of silver and blue that struck out at him when he neared too close to its next target, but somehow, he was always a step behind the man who was slowly, poetically killing everyone gathered, staining the ice of the Throne's dias with their blood.
He finally saw the attacker as it went for Sunsworn, one of the last few still alive. It came from the blizzard surrounding the dias, like a monster from a child's nightmares gliding from the shadows. Sunsworn reacted faster than any of the others- she had been ready. She had been -waiting.- For the wrong thing.
Her blades came up, impaling the ghoul as it flew through the storm, and was herself impaled in turn, from the direction she had just been facing. What rent her flesh apart was a Death Knight by his blades, and judging by the warm, sound-muffling robe he wore under his armor, one of Xynrael's own Tundra Stalkers. As it spoke, a chill ran down his spine.
Spend too much time watching your back... It mocked in those same voices. It drew the two, serrated runeblades out of the woman's shoulders, letting its arms hang loosely at its sides. The crowd was cleared now. Only Eriene Riverwalker and Iliae Duskryder remained- one the most difficult but fulfilling friend Xynrael had ever had, the other the first woman he had truly -loved- since Kavei's death.
Iliae wasted no time. She raised her bow and aimed the notched arrow between the eyes of the Death Knight who stood across the dias from her, her head cocking slightly as she drew bowstring back.
She hesitated as he pulled down his hood. The gaunt cheeks, raven-black hair, and slightly arrogant smirk were unmistakable. Iliae looked behind her, as if to make certain. That instant's hesitation sealed her fate.
With a twist of his arm, Xynrael the Dawnbreaker yanked Iliae towards him, one slash of his blades laying her open in the same fashion his free counterpart had found her two years ago. She had enough in her to roll over and stare at the first Xynrael, her eyes screaming betrayal at him.
In the moment it had taken Iliae to be cleaved open by the doppleganger, Eriene Riverwalker had lifted her sword and thrown herself at him. Three or four blows landed solidly, but the Tundra Stalker's blood magic overcame her control of the Light. As she lowered her blade to land a fiery final swing, the Death Knight dropped his blades, grabbing her by the wrist, and she clutched her chest in pain, her own sword falling to the ground.
The Blood Knight panted and gasped for air as if her lungs were collapsing. Xynrael's doppleganger swung her around in one arm to face the original, his other hand holding her chin, as if he were about to snap her neck.
You see, now? You can never strike first. They cannot protect themselves from what is to come. YOU cannot protect them. You love them all too much to protect them. From eachother, from themselves... Most importantly, from you. Your love is your greatest weakness, a weakness I do not share.
In that moment, Xynrael came to understand what was happening, and what his trial was. He was literally wrestling with his own soul- a battle he could not win. A battle neither side of him could win, because each one needed the other to survive.
"Ya can do fah da ones ya lohv, wat ya cannat do fah yaself, mon." Zuji's words echoed.
Xynrael Frostbane looked at Iliae, bleeding to death on the dias of the Throne, and at Eriene, who stared at him with wide eyes, her mouth held firmly shut by the doppleganger.
Frostbane drew his runemace back, and slammed it into the nearest crack in the ice. Tendrils of runic energy shot through the ice just beneath the surface as he began to run towards his counterpart. The Dawnbreaker stared down at the rapidly advancing cracks in the Throne's structure, then to the blood that he had spilled not moments before, which had seeped down through the cracks in the ice and was now speeding towards him. The blood was being drawn along by the runic energy like metal to a magnet, forcing the cracks wider as it coagulated. With a turn of his head, he realized what was happening.
He held Eriene on the edge of the Throne's dias.
The section of the dias upon which the Dawnbreaker stood began to fall away, and his grip loosened. In that moment, Xynrael closed distance and yanked Eriene out of the doppleganger's arms, throwing her back onto the dias. The Dawnbreaker reached out, his hand charged with unholy energy, but Xynrael grabbed the other by the wrist, throwing his weight foreward, propelling them both over the edge of the throne and through the veil of ash.
Congratulations. You have protected the image of a friend, an idea, from death, by sacrificing yourself. Your love has been your undoing.
As Xynrael raised his mace over his head, he could feel the heat from the pyres of corpses below beginning to rise. They were falling fast, and as they fell it grew still hotter within his armor, enough that even the primordial Saronite couldn't cast off the heat. They would likely incinerate before ever hitting the ground.
"My love," he explained, as he brought his mace down, one of the scythes cleaving into his doppleganger's skull, "is my vengeance for all you've ever made me do. Now burn in hell where you belong." He growled, pushing himself off from the other's body, its blood turning to a misty gas as it fell to the fires below.
Xynrael the Dawnbreaker knew no more.
* * *
His eyes opened slowly, the light from the real world burning his eyes. Well, this world, anyway. As he opened his eyes fully, Xynrael realized that world had been just as real, and just as deadly as this. Zujibaba loomed over him, a grin spreading from tusk to tusk, causing the shaman's eyes to squint slightly, and his lips to draw bak even beyond the tusks. He looked almost... Silly.
"Ya did it, mon. De'h be a problem, tho'. One ah dah shads ah Skayshattah be missin'...When yah ovahcame him, ah couldn't restore ya soul completely. Ya always gannah be a bit... What ya Elfies say in yah fancy words... 'Ahgressahve' towards da Light. But nevahmind dat, mon... Ya be whole again, near as Zuji can tell... An' someone be hea' tah see ya."
As Xynrael followed the direction indicated by the troll's elongaed finger, a devilish smirk passed over his features.
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