Run, beloved. Run, run...
Darkness enveloped him. He was freezing, shivvering and naked in hip-deep snow that seemed to go on and on into the darkness all around. He wanted to cry, or scream, or laugh. He wasn't sure which. Perhaps all three at once, over and over. Sometimes he'd think there was a light in the dark, but it was always just at the edge of his vision. When he'd turn, it would always be too slow, and the light was gone. Maybe it hadn't been there at all. Maybe he was just mad.
What is your name? A voice from the darkness asks.
"I don't think I can remember," he replies, wishing he could answer, knowing that he can't, not truthfully. The voice leaves him alone, then, for an eternity. Alone in the cold snow.
He never moves from the spot he's in. There is nothing else there, no shelter, no other people. Just him, and the snow. And, occasionally, the voice from the dark.
What do you remember? It asks.
"Blood. Lots of blood. And dead flesh. And a bad smell, like all the world had died except for me, and I was drowning in the corpses." An accurate statement. It laughed then, the voice, and dissappears again for immeasurable time.
It suddenly asks, What else? What else do you remember?
"A wall. There was a wall as tall as a mountain. And a wooden gate."
Images rushed into his mind, then, all at once, overwhelming. Soldiers screamed and shouted orders, abominations and ghouls crowded in around him, but fell, as a sword cut through them. His sword, his perfect dance of death and destruction. He wanted to scream, to cry out to make the images stop. They brought back the smell and the death and the pain. Lots of pain.
Then, he saw her. She stood, a beacon in the cold and in the onslaught of nightmarish memories. Silea.
The voice laughed again, cold, unfeeling. It was a false laugh, he realized. Not a real one, not one that mattered. It had never loved something, someone, like Silea. Her name he could remember, even if he couldn't remember his own. It gave him strength.
The voice seemed to realize that he wasn't listening anymore, wasn't paying attention, and it got angry.
You'll never see her again! Never again! She's not for you, not now! It yelled, railed against this surge of warmth he seemed to feel, blocking out the freezing snow. He could almost see her standing there before him, reaching out. He wanted to reach out, too. To touch her hand, but...
What's wrong? Why don't you reach out? Go on then! DO IT! It was almost screeching, like a harpy or a gargoyle. A gargoyle...
More memories rushed to him now, memories of a battle. They were swooping down from above as they ran through the streets, he and his love, his Silea. They had to get out. That's when they ran to the gate, the northern gate in Silvermoon city. It had fallen to the Scourge. They were everywhere, even here, and they ran through the scattered lines of the enemy to the gate. Guardsmen were holding it off, and he helped, his shining blade in hand, until she had called out to him.
"Purah! Purah, over here..." and he had run to her, run to see the hole in the wall where she slipped through... and he fell. Down, down, down into the dark cold. This dark, where the voice was his only company, and the memories were all he had left.
"My name is Purah Lightsword, a Quel'dorei of Silvermoon and Quel'thalas, and you killed me you sick, twisted bastard."
The voice just laughed and laughed and laughed, unending, turning into a howling wind that bit deep into his body. But it wasn't his body, not really. It couldn't be, because he had been hit from behind by a Death Coil spell just as he had reached the hole, just as he had been so close to freedom. He turned his mind away from the memories, away from the pain. He wanted to turn numb from the cold and forget.
But something wouldn't let him. The light was back, stronger now, and the cold voice in the wind sputtered and died. You promised... you promised you'd wait for me, my love...
I did, he thought. I did promise, but it's hard to stay awake, here. It's hard to fight the cold.
Wait for me, beloved. Wait for me on the other side. One day, I'll join you.
I'll wait. I'll wait for you. Just run, run like the wind...
.: * :.
"Run."
Cold, blue eyes snapped open. They sat in a pale, numb face, surrounded by long, white hair that fell over his shoulder and back. He wore nothing, and knew this, yet didn't care. Finding it very difficult to move, he tried to sit, wondering for a brief moment why he wasn't still standing in the snow in the darkness. He tried to look around, to take in his surroundings.
The ground beneath him was stone, and the wall nearby was as well, though this had carvings of skulls and bones. Eerie green, glowing light allowed him to see, though not well. He had never seen anything like it before. A soft moaning came from beyond his range of vision, and he heard wails in the distance. He noticed, then, a robed man leaning over him, chanting quietly. Slowly, his neck cracking, he turned his head to look around. A mountain of corpses stood nearby, all of the bodies in decent condition, some covered in dirt, others embalmed.
He tried to speak, but it just came out as a mumble. The acolyte grimaced. "Welcome back to the waking world, unworthy initiate. You could have been great. You could have served, but you turned from the Master and will now pay with your life."
Purah was confused. Master? Who- You're not for her anymore, Purah Lightsword. Not now. Not now that you are this, one of my creatures, unworthy though you are. The voice from the dark. It was still here, now in his head.
Get up. Get up so that my Acolytes can continue their work. Get up, Purah Lightsword. He obeyed, complusively. It didn't hurt to stand, not really, though it seemed uncomfortable. He realized he wasn't breathing at one point and tried to make himself do so, conciously taking deep breaths. It was too much effort, after a while, so he accepted that breathing wasn't all that important anymore. He finally worked out the kinks and the stiffness. When he seemed to be moving well, he looked around him. Arching walls reached up into darkness. The architects of this fortress had used actual bones in its construction, instead of carvings as he first thought. His musings were interupted, then, by another robed figure.
"This way, Unworthy Initiate. Even though you were chosen out of many for this opportunity, you failed and must be dealt with." He led him down into a pit where other undead were chained around the circular wall. He stood, forced to obey, and caring less and less about his fate. If the Lich King wants me to be destroyed, I'll so so. I'm dead, Silea may or may not live. What difference does it make now? A feeling deep in his mind tried to stir, the only warm place left, and his still heart remembered what a fluttering beat was once like. Silea, I'm so sorry.
The Acolyte chained him to the wall, and he sat. To his left was a human woman, her face sunken and green. Whatever spell they had used to preserve him had worked far better than whatever they had done for her, though she didn't seem to care. To his right was a troll. For a brief moment, he felt fear, apprehension, and anger swell from that lingering warmth, but it all subsided quickly. Though in life the trolls had been his bitter enemies, he found he didn't actually care now. There were whispers in the back of his mind, but he ignored them, instead waiting to see what would happen now.
Other undead came and went, all of them in plate armor. Death Knights, he realized. This is a training fortress for Death Knights. And I'm fodder for the new recruits. Indeed, they would come, fully armored and armed with swords that glowed with strange light, down into the pit. They would choose one of the chained unworthy initiates from the wall and release them. Then, the initate would be allowed to put on ancient, rusted armor and pick up a rusted weapon. They would duel, and the one left standing would be rewarded with further training and continued existance. It seemed that, nearly always, the Initiates chained in the pit would lose to the better-armored knights.
Strangely, this fact didn't bother Purah in the least. If he was destroyed, fine. Apathy had set in and he couldn't shake it. A small part of him, though, that warm part that still seemed to cling to a shadow of life, wanted to fight, wanted to try to run. Run. No, not run, where would I go.
His train of thought was halted, though, as a stooped Undead, his body rotting and falling apart but still standing quite well, stopped in front of him. He was in full armor, and was marked as a new Death Knight and Purah knew his time had come to fight. To be destroyed. It grunted a bit and walked past him to the wall, unlocking his chains. The cold whispers in his mind grew strong again, then, saying he should put on armor, pick up a blade, prepare for battle. He did as he was told by the voices in his head, finally facing off against the rotting, former Human. He was ready to be tossed into oblivion, ready for destruction and peace. But that warmth inside actually faltered.
I wonder who he was, once. His build suggests a blacksmith. He'll hit hard, but not fast, even with his undead speed and strength. I wonder if I faced him before, in Quel'thalas. He bears a mark of Lordaeron. It is a pity, this existance. He seems almost... sad. The thoughts coming from that warm part of his mind tumbled out, distracting him, making him think instead of concentrating. The battle started quickly and he reacted, parrying the undead's attacks and he pushed the warm voice down, down into the dark. It made room for the other whispers in his head. Don't lose. Don't take an easy road. Fight. Do what you couldn't do in life. Let's see if in death, you can still fight with grace and beauty and strength as you did at the gate. You are dead, Purah Lightsword. Can you fight?
The answer was a resounding 'yes.' He could still fight as he used to, and he was as beautiful, graceful, and deadly as ever. His blue eyes, now faintly glowing in the dark pit took in the destroyed corpse as the whispers deep in the dark of his mind solidified and spoke.
Well done, Purah Lightsword. Come here. Come to me. There is much to discuss, now. A great deal of work needs to be done. Yes, lets speak together now, you and I.
"Yes, Master. I shall be right there." His voice echoed strangely, as though it came from beyond the waking world. It was unusual, frightening...
He decided he liked it.
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