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acquisitive-adventurers · 4 years ago

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Sylvanas’s Choice

The Choice that the Jailer asked her to fulfill was never going to be an easy one; but, it was something that would have fallen on her shoulders, and hers alone.

There is no version of this that Sylvanas would've come out of this situation without doing as he asked, and still find a way to break the wheel of the Shadowlands.

He should've just said yes.

Often, the Banshee Queen remembered a field of tulips, the death that saturated the once-yellow plain, and the cold stench of steel as it drove through her chest.

The one thing she doesn’t remember is the initial pain from being stabbed by Frostmourne, or even the uncomfortable contortion of her body as she collapsed before the damned Menethil boy; she did, however, remember the wrenching of her soul as it was plucked from her body, twisting inside the screaming vortex of the Lich King’s runeblade.

Quite often, she remembered the pain of losing herself, and only getting back drips of it as the Lich King consumed more souls into his Azerothian-made Maw; she could recall the anger she felt at how long it had been since she knew who she was, and not the puppet Arthas wanted her to be.

When she drove the sword through the little lion’s chest, she wondered what he was feeling in this moment.

Staring down at the connection she held to the boy-king, the banshee’s exposed fingers were grasping the hilt of Shala’mourne in a white-knuckled hold, the veins in her wrist bulging as she barely managed to hold on as a surge of strength exploded from the weapon.

She’d only taken one step forward – had only thrust the sword like any other that she would have – and it slid far too easily past his armor and crushed his ribs. Crackling energies poured out from around the runeblade like a newly lit fire, forming an arc along the blade and up towards her hands as if it knew it was being drawn into it; if she tried looking at the amalgamation of twisted energy for too long, Sylvanas could feel herself becoming lightheaded as the call of both the Void and Light burned her.

Ember eyes flitted from the hole in his chest to his face, but the banshee couldn’t immediately register what his expression was; although she could see his pain and surprise, a single tear fell from his impossibly blue eyes that stared up at her like the glassy pools of the Well of Eternity with a depth she feared to delve into. Realization was the last thing to bloom across the boy-king’s face, and as it hit him, he swallowed the witty remark he had been saying as he desperately tried to cling to his last breath.

Anger flooded through Sylvanas momentarily as she told herself, watching as the little lion wobbled in his place, This ordeal would have been so much easier had he simply said yes.

She knew of Garrosh’s attempt at crushing the boy, of the multiple assassination attempts made at the little lion’s life over the last decade before he became king, and of the unfortunate event that took his mother and nearly him as well; each of these incidents about the young Wrynn king had been well documented, and although she gave him credit for the level of determination held onto in spite of facing his own mortality at such a young age, that same determination left her frustrated from their talks over the last few weeks.

Had he simply said yes, the situation the two leaders found themselves in wouldn’t have become so messy – and his inability to concede to the Jailer’s side wouldn’t have forced her hand.

She wouldn’t have had to do this to him, and wouldn’t be left to wonder what he would remember once this ordeal was all over.

Sylvanas knew this young one had seen more death in the priest ward he grew up in than on any battlefield he may have led over the last year, and yet he had been so bold as to challenge her on every facet of the proposition she had spent weeks trying to sell to him. If the banshee offered examples on the broken wheel of the Shadowlands, the boy-king laughed and dismissed the issue with the possibility of changing the Eternal Ones’ hearts rather than breaking them; when she pointed out the imbalance of power in each region of the known Shadowlands, he would chirp a Pandaren proverb at her instead of a critical reply.

To say his speeches about hope and life were getting old would be an understatement; the Banshee Queen could recite exactly what the Alliance king would say, as his behavior was oh-so-very predictable at this point in their relationship. Even if they were still technically enemies – and that Sylvanas’s agitation for the human knew no bounds – she had enjoyed the challenge of breaking this Light-bound, hopeful child to bring him into the Jailer’s court.

With his help, she knew that he would wholeheartedly help reshape the very fabric of space and time to make it fair for everyone, and not just those that the afterlife deemed “worthy” enough.

So, as the young boy fell to his knees with Shala’mourne still embedded in his chest, Sylvanas couldn’t stave off the need to look over his form – even as the extreme mix of both Light and Void magicks threatened to nauseate her further as the energies intertwined with the Maw’s harbinger that she held in her shaking grasp.

He had to have known what this game they were playing was going to boil down to; why didn’t he simply tell her yes to avoid this fate?

The Alliance king tried to say something, but it was drowned out as the magicks imbued in the runeblade consumed his soul, pulling it right from his chest as his final breath was taken along with it; the Banshee Queen had become so accustomed to speaking with him, she was already asking him to repeat whatever witty quip he had started, but the question died in her throat as the body of Anduin slipped from the blade, unceremoniously collapsing in a heap of metal and flesh.

She took one step back from the rune circle that was – had been – keeping Anduin relatively in check, and then took another. Her chest felt tight as she watched the last remaining wisps of his soul – as twisted with energies as it was – slowly drifted from his still-warm form and embedded itself into the hungering blade. His power thrummed uncomfortably hot against her icy grasp, a raging storm of pure force that made Sylvanas question whether or not this was what they should have done with him.

A small part of her wanted to scream at the unfairness of the situation – about how she had been so close to convincing him to join them willingly – but the boy-king just had to dismiss her again.

And now... they were in this mess.

The Alliance held – had once held – two powerful leaders on their side in the forms of the Lord Admiral and the boy-king Wrynn. And now, one of them was in the palm of her hand, while the other remained in Torghast as a prisoner of war. Perhaps, if she could convince Proudmore to join them as well – preferably not as she had converted the little lion, but a conversion all the same – to continue this journey with her.

They had to understand that the system was broken; they would want to break it, too, if they were facing the same abyss as she was.

Taking measure of the runeblade in her hand, the banshee could recall a brief memory of the two sniping comments to one another in their daily ritual of conversation, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Offhandedly, the Banshee Queen wondered if that was what Arthas had felt when he did the same to her – if in the earlier days of wielding Frostmourne, he too could recall faint memories from the souls of those he had consumed.

But, inevitably, Sylvanas didn’t dwell on that question for too long; she had one more step to complete, and then the Jailer’s will would be done.

Stepping even further away from the circle, she ignored the cold feeling in her chest as she once again lifted the sword towards the middle of the chamber, away from his corpse, and called out, “Come to me, little lion.”

She could hear Anduin’s voice a little more clearly, now, but it still sounded like he was calling to her from the other end of a large, empty colosseum. However, he still did not come to her.

One of her ears flicked in agitation, but she tried once more, pouring more of her own will into the blade as she commanded, her form becoming misty as she did so, “Answer my call, boy.”

There was a strange tug somewhere, but rather from her chest it came from her own runeblade-inflicted wound – a thing no longer fresh, but still as raw and aching as the day it had happened. It sizzled for a moment as white-hot pain shot up her side, tearing through her with enough force to make the banshee collapse in on herself, Shala’mourne falling to the ground just as unceremoniously.

Her hands flew to claw at her armor, attempting to find the source of the pain. Although the initial flare-up dissipated, as she pulled her hand away, she could see the heavy flow of ichor dripping through her armor onto her hand. A black mist wafted from the ichor as it hit the cold air, the smell of it reminding Sylvanas of the deepest forges in Icecrown.

Whatever Sylvanas had done, it had agitated her past the point of simply being able to sleep off this wound – not to mention, this had never happened to her before, so she had no idea what she had done to herself. There were very few options here that would allow her to heal under normal circumstances, and she didn’t want to bring this to the attention of the Jailer.

Ember eyes flitted to the discarded bastard blade, and a heavy, soul-crushing weight pressed onto the queen’s shoulders as her failure began to dawn on her. With a sigh, she tried once more to call the soul of the Alliance’s now-dead king, this time without the runeblade, but not even a memory of the boy came to her.

“Damn this,” she snarled, wiping her hand along the length of her cloak as she stood up, a deep-set frown etching itself onto her face as the pain reignited in her side. “This was such a disappointment.” With Shala’mourne in one hand and the other around her side in an attempt to stem some of the ichor’s flow, Sylvanas made a move to leave the holding chamber, her mind racing as she tried to think of a way to explain this current set back to the Jailer.

Then, a voice called out to her: “Do I mean so little to you that you would leave my body here to rot?”

Whipping around, the banshee turned to see the ghostly form of Anduin Wrynn standing just outside the rune circle, his ethereal hand pointing to the corpse that remained within, his unnaturally dark eyes searing into her even at this distance. He looked both indifferent and critical, and it made Sylvanas hesitate in her gait for just a moment.

Taking a few steps closer to the boy, she asked, “What does it matter to you? You are in no need of it anymore.” She made a gesture to the boy with her ichor-stained hand, then added, “Look at what a body does to you, little lion. Think of how much more you can achieve without it holding you back.”

Frowning, Anduin replied, “Surely, but even Arthas kept your body safe. Did he not?”

A snarl formed as quickly as she shot back, her grasp on the sword tightening as she dragged it along with her, “He kept mine as a trophy! You are nothing more than an instrument –”

“For the Jailer’s needs, yes, you’ve told me.” He didn’t even sound angry as he spoke; he was simply... matter of fact about the situation.

It put the Banshee Queen off balance for a moment, long enough so that the anger began to ebb away.

Was this what happened to her when her soul was ripped from her body? Was this the fate that awaited all those that had their souls consumed by a hungering runeblade?

The two leaders stared at one another for a long moment before she managed to say, her words coming out slowly, “I will have someone come in and prepare your body, then. We can determine what to do with it once our plan is set in motion.” She turned on her heel and didn’t wait for him to follow, too many thoughts swarming her head for her to care what he did now.

The boy could follow, or he could stare at his decaying corpse for all that it mattered; Sylvanas had done what she was asked to do, and now she had to follow through with the rest of the plan.

She couldn’t falter now, not even under the boy-king's judging gaze.

The weight of her sins would be addressed when this whole ordeal was over, and the universe was just once more.

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acquisitive-adventurers · 5 years ago

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Undertaking

She stood before the Helm of Domination, its ethereal whisps erratically pulsing from its broken form much like a pond would ripple when a handful of stones were thrown at its pristine surface. Dozens of death knights stood behind her, their ghostly, hazy eyes all watching as the Honored Voice waited. It was overwhelming to be in Oribos – to know she shouldn’t even be in this realm in the first place – but despite it having been hours since she put the helm back together, she could still feel the energies from it tingling throughout her body, and that kept her grounded despite all that had taken place.

The Honored Voice questioned her, but all the draenei could do was reply with honesty.

The Maw? She managed to handle it without a single problem arising; she was no stranger to death and its inner machinations, so for her to maneuver one of the realms of death was not as difficult as she had thought it would be.

Handling the literal plug (and all of its little pieces) that kept the Veil in place for so many years? Although it left her feeling entirely underqualified for this mission, she knew it would be harder to live with whatever she did on the other side than the act of passing through the Veil that separated the realm of the living from that of the dead.

Witnessing the literal device that had caused so much suffering, leading to the uncovering of a living Old God underneath a rotted Titan prison and a campaign that lasted far longer than it should have in a frozen wasteland? The last time the draenei was this close to this damned helm was at Arthas’s downfall, and in Bolvar’s rise to power; it did nothing to quell the churning of her stomach, and all she wanted to do was flee. Though it had been years since Yogg-Saron had been defeated, the emotions she’d felt during that campaign washed over K’ure like a tidal wave as the Honored Voice uttered that last question, leaving the warrior raw and aching. She still had nightmares from the Northrend campaign, and did not wish to make any new memories to haunt her.

Not to mention, she could remember the countless times she (and so many others) had returned to the Spire to speak to the jailer of the damned, and the overwhelming feeling Bolvar would impress upon those that came too close during those little check-ins; even more, she remembered feeling so dejected at the way he would respond to their approach, despite just wanting to make sure he wouldn’t be forgotten.

However, now she could now understand why he kept the champions of Azeroth – especially the ones still living – at such distance. They’d once called him the “jailer of the damned,” but having faced the one that truly held that horrific title and the ease in which he committed atrocities, the champions of Azeroth finally knew how hollow (if not downright insulting) their sentiments had been. Back then, it’d felt like she was perpetuating another turn to the endless cycle of violence leaving a man to a fate worse than death; now, she understood that this was the price that needed to be paid to ensure the world’s survival, and to regulate the souls that had no place in neither the Shadowlands nor the mortal realm.

The Lich King had been an essential piece to a complex puzzle far beyond the understanding of any living mortal, and Sylvanas had torn through the Veil as severely as the sword that still wounded Azeroth.

But, this feeling that she was overwhelmed with was unlike what she’d felt in Northrend on the Spire: while she only heard whispers if she came too close to the sitting Lich King or kept too much saronite on her person, here she could feel it pressing into her mind like a thick, wet blanket.

It did not make her feel like a champion who had survived at all costs, even if that was what everyone told her she was.

It just all felt so... wrong. And she hated that.

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