Warcraft Unrelenting Wounds

**NOTE**: Contains spoilers related to the "Fall of the King" expansion, particularly the ending.

* * *

The icy chill of this place, the north lands, had cut down to the very bone of many men and women who sought out their own adventures and heroic tales of glory. Now, the tales of those brave soldiers were going to come to an end.

In the distance, the dread citadel stood. Icecrown Citadel. The twisted spires, crafted from the blood of an ancient evil, rose into the heavens, dominating the landscape. Before it, the armies of the undead guarded the home of their King. Even the skies were filled with the sight of massive dragons, held together only by bone and the small amount of sinew that remained upon their carcasses. Stone sculptures dotted the landscape, perched on overhangs and lining the steps of the grand staircase that lead to the citadel. To some, they may appear as only ghastly looking statues of disgusting winged creatures, but to those that knew - those wicked eyes always watched from beneath the stone covering.

The King had laid his claim here years ago. This was his legacy and his war. Stories were told of him throughout the world, and other worlds. Children were told ghost stories of the undead, veteran soldiers shared tales around campfires - with little humor and spirit - of what they had to fight against, and the paladins... The burdens of the past could never escape their grasps, and they all felt that chill down to the heart at the mention of the King who was once one of their own.

The time for fear had ended though. In the front of that citadel, with all of the shambling corpses, ghouls, ghosts, and abominations, an army of the living was rallied to take a stand. Battering rams bellowed against the hollow sound of the massive front doors to the bastion of evil with each strike they made. The metal would recoil, even emit a sound as though it were screaming against the attacks. Below, warriors, priests, and countless others were busy cutting a path through the undead masses beneath their blades and spells to allow others access to charging inside the citadel.

One of those in the army, a night elf warrior of Cenarius, finished hacking his blade through a ghoul, which fell to pieces on the ground. He heard shrieks in the air above, and quickly turned his attention towards it, pointing to his men, "Gargoyles overhead!"

Those malicious creatures, seemingly crafted from stone, swooped down from their perches along the citadel walls and aimed their sharpened talons towards the army. Some ran, instantly terrified of what could happen if those creatures were to get a hold of them, others fought back, and some were not so lucky. They were lifted into the air, screaming in terror - praying to the Light, Elune, the Titans, anyone who would listen, before some were dropped to the ground with a sickening crunch of bones, or were eviscerated in mid air, spilling their innards onto the others on the battlefield.

Yet, all of those soldiers who fell, dead, would rise again a few moments later. Their will was no longer their own, and the spark of life within their eyes had been snuffed out. They would attack the army, friends, loved ones, and comrades, in a blind rage while snarling and striking out at them like some rabid creature who couldn't distinguish friend from foe...

The King was winning the battle.

A night elf hunter stood out from the crowd and protection of the army. Her pet wolf, Tsume, was attacking any undead that came near her, allowing her a moment of respite amidst the madness. She aimed her bow towards the sky and nocked arrows towards the flying beasts, trying to bring them down and save anyone who was within their grasp. "Incoming," she cried out towards her teammates in warning as, one by one, gargoyles started to fall from the sky under her steady aim.

One of them fell, an arrow tearing through it's webbed wing. It screeched in pain and anger as it dropped from the skies, yet continues to kick out towards anything nearby with it's talons. Before the hideous creature could gain it's bearings and stand upright, there was a shout - something akin to a nearby battle cry, and then it's head suddenly fell from it's shoulders. Black blood spewed into the air as the gargoyle's body convulsed and then dropped onto the icy ground, it's head rolling to a stop nearby. The blade that caused the wound appeared to glow with a light aura around it, even as the black blood dripped from the cutting edge. The owner of that blade, a human, did not have that same aura about himself.

He grinned with a depraved abandon while those blue eyes of his stared at the fallen body of the gargoyle like it was a trophy. That was the only moment he spared before heading back into the fray of the battle. His swings were wild, even reckless, against the swarming undead monsters that came for him. A libram hung at his side, on a chain, and was caked in the blood and innards of the beasts, hardly looking like it had been opened and used at all to help win the battle. It took too much time, too much concentration for those incantations. This wasn't about doing the right thing, it was about vengeance. Retribution.

A loud explosion rocked the ground as the battering rams and the goblin explosives finally shook the doors to the citadel open. The alpha unit of the army, both on the Alliance and Horde sides, rushed into the dark unknown that was within the stronghold. They both had one motive: Kill the King.

The breaking of the doors to allow entry into the fortress didn't allow the army out front any rest. Instead, bellows echoed nearby as two massive pustulant giants came to defend their King. Their skin hung upon their bodies, allowing exposed bone to be seen, and there were large stitchings along their forms, looking like the giants were sewn together from different body parts.

Seeing this, the warrior broke away from the current fight and ran ahead to intercept them. He let loose a battle shout and drew the attention of the giants onto himself, allowing the team heading inside the citadel some precious time - even if it may be the end of him. A colossal foot came down, aiming to end the warrior's life right there, but he quickly moved out of the way, dodging the attack. "Concentrate on the giants," he cried out towards his team. "Bring them down fast!"

The hunter changed her aim at the command, as she pulled back on her bowstring and aimed right at those giants to take them down with her arrows. Two other night elves nodded their heads at the command. One was male, while the other female, but both shared a remarkable similarity. They were druids. He incanted a few words and gained an avatar of a treant, to help heal the wounds of his allies on the battlefield. While she uttered a different incantation and shifted into the form of a large bear. She then charged towards the other giant to help it off against crushing the warrior.

"Apolyn!" The warrior cried out as he attempted to deflect the blows from the massive stitched horror. "Apolyn, we need your help!"

The human, the last of their teammates, didn't respond. His attention was too focused on the thrill of the massive amounts of ghouls that were rushing towards him a few yards away.

"Malkyor is our leader, listen to him," the hunter, who went by the nickname of Artic, shouted towards the human.

Still, it looked as though he wasn't listening. With each zombified corpse of a human, elf, or orc, that came at him, the paladin swung his blade with all of his might, throwing himself into the reckless abandon.

These were people once, loved ones to many, fathers and mothers to others, mentors to most. And here they were, hissing and clawing their way to trying to prey and feed on living flesh to spread like an unholy plague across this world. No, he wouldn't let it happen.

Tears of rage filled Apolyn's eyes as he lashed out towards a commanding officer, who's skin had now turned black, and was rushing towards him in an undead, mindless attack, as it was under the control of it's King...

A King that Apolyn once looked up to when he was younger. A King that was once a Prince, and the very essence of what the word Paladin meant. He was just, fair, and defended the plight of the downtrodden. One who was once a Prince of his people, son to a father whom guided their people to salvation in wars. Now, he commanded ranks of undead creatures in his attempt to rid the world of the living.

The others wouldn't understand, they couldn't, they were elves. They never saw their homeland become twisted and ridden with a plague that killed thousands. They never saw the Prince of their homeland kill his own father to shake the world into a new order of death and decay. The elves never saw family, loved ones, and friends flee in horror as twisted knights of undeath slaughtered them like lambs. Worst of all, the elves never had their holy order dismantled, their names strewn in the mud, all because of their Prince's deceitful pride.

The human held a vendetta within his heart, and the others knew it. He had once been a holy paladin of a high order and trained with the greatest holy warriors. Apolyn once channeled the power of the holy Light at his command, aiding and healing his comrades in battles against dragons, fire lords, and even demons. Something about coming to the northlands, Northrend, caused that to change. He no longer seemed withdrawn and willing to help the meek, but rather threw himself head first into the fray of battle, allowing others to call the judgments and have their moral compass guide them.

It was a change in the man that happened almost a year ago.

"Fine, don't assist or anything. We'll... Handle this," the female druid, Kiyara, snarled towards the human as she swiped her bear claws at the giant she was trying to control before her.

The battle against the sewn undead giants seemed to last forever, but they eventually fell, and when they did, they took out a good portion of the waves of undead beneath their large bodies. The ending fight only allowed the exhausted team a few moments of rest while the other teams in the army continued their fight.

The rest didn't last long. Another explosion was heard, this time above the army. "By Bronzebeard's breath!" Came the cries from one of the nearby dwarven riflemen as he pointed towards the sky. The tenuous order of the army was shaken as they saw two massive gunships in the air above them, at the ramparts of the dread citadel, in the middle of a battle.

Alliance against Horde.

There was a sigh from the male druid in the tree avatar form, Tiradis, which sounded more like rustling leaves in the wind, "Do they have to do this now?! Our efforts should be concentrated on Arthas, not fighting each other!"

The army stood there, at the foothold of the citadel and gazed towards the sky, transfixed, as the leaders of their armies fought against each other in mid air. Cannons fired, screams and shouts were heard in the distance, and every so often, a body would fall to the ground with a sickening sound. The armies cheered, shouted, and cursed, as either faction - who were just united under the banner of killing a tyrannical King, became parted and were looking for their side to win the short victory, losing sight of the actual battle that needed to be won.

Tensions rose in the air. The exhaustion and stress from fighting the waves of undead beasts added to the hostility that was soon about to break within the air.

"I don't like this," Malkyor muttered as he watched the captain of another regiment within the army throwing curses towards an orc leader, who in turn, threw jeers and mocking taunts back in return. "Do not instigate anything. That is an order! We are here to fight the Lich King."

The team gathered by Malkyor's side, and watched as the other units within the army continued their jabs until finally one of the dwarves threw down his arms and lunged towards an orc. The scene quickly turned into a brawl as others of either faction jumped into the fight. Fists were being thrown, as well as axes, and spells - at each other. Old hatreds rising once again, all due to the tension in the air and the faction leaders losing sight of why they were here.

Shaking his head, Malkyor sighed, "By Elune, I knew this would happen eventua--" Before he could finish his sentence, the elf's eyes widened in surprise as he saw Apolyn run to jump into the fray. He chased after the human, trying to stop him, but was quickly halted as another explosion from above shook the ground.

"Incoming!" Someone shouted out. One of the ships was on fire, and descending quickly due to hull and engine damage. There were screams and cries amidst the collective army on the ground as they all ran to get out of the way from the falling machinery. Just as quickly as those old tensions formed, they were quickly forgotten as fighting soldiers stood and ran to try and save their own lives.

The gunship landed on the ground before the citadel with a loud crash that could be heard all the way to Dalaran City. Plumes of smoke and flames poured out from within the ship, and the remaining crew that were still alive all tried to climb their way out, badly injured.

The team, and others within the army, ran to the aid of the fallen ship. Mages and shaman summoned frost and water to help quell the flames, while healers ran to the sides of the crew, and those with the heartiest of armor and stamina searched the wreckage for any survivors.

The King was once again winning...

After the ship had fallen, the tensions of both factions subsided, and the waves of undead fought back, the army could once again compose themselves. Many looked toward the looming citadel, wondering how the alpha team's progress was going, if they were even alive in there.

The silence was so prominent amongst the army that the howling chill of the wind was all that could be heard, and it sounded like it carried the voices of the dead with it. The biting cold brought dismal thoughts, shaking the soldiers right down to the bone. The fear that they tried to push past when it came to the King, was once again rising, prickling at the back of their necks and minds as all they could do was stand there and wonder what would be of their fate - the fate of their world.

It felt like hours, but the silence lingered. There were no more undead minions being summoned to try and kill them off. Maybe it means they won? Was the King dead? Some started to converse and speculate amongst each other, quietly wondering what was going on within those unliving walls.

"I think they did it," Tiradis offered towards his team.

"It could just be the calm before the storm. The Lich King would put up more of a fight than this," Kiyara interjected.

"The alpha teams are probably keeping him busy in there. They are comprised of the best guilds formed within the Alliance and Horde, after all," Malkyor shrugged as he glanced towards those broken doors to the entrance. "Although, maybe a few of our teams should go in there and check in on them?"

There was a sound as Apolyn looked towards the citadel. "That _King_," he scoffed, "Killed thousands of my people. I doubt that a few hundred could take him down."

"But, they're extraordinarily trained and prepared. It is possible with enough devotion. We even have the blessings of Alexstrasza herself, the Dragon Queen," Tiradis tried to offer in return.

"If that dragon was so great, then why didn't she save Bolvar and the others at the Wrathgate?!" Turning to look at the druid, Apolyn sneered angrily. His hands balled into fists as he went on. "They didn't have to die, and it didn't have to be at the hands of _them_." He pointed towards one of the Forsaken members of the Horde - an undead being with a free will of his own, without the King's calling.

Before those tensions that plagued the army earlier could rise again, Malkyor moved and stood in front of Apolyn with an air of command. "Do not start this, Apolyn. Now is _not_ the time for your brash actions." The threat was offered in a low tone, yet it held every ounce of authority within those words. "Do not step out of line."

But in return, Apolyn glared at his leader and close friend. "You elves lost a tree. A giant, damned, itree/i! I lost my friends, my family, and the right of being within the Silver Hand. All because of that monster inside those walls... _You_ don't want to start this, Malk."

To that rebuke, the elf fell silent. He could combat the importance of something like the World Tree and what it means to lose your immortality to his human friend, but it would get nowhere, and he knew that. He offered an upwards glance towards anyone who was looking - wanting to seem as though he had things in order. But, in a low voice that offered friendly concern, he offered, "Think about Mareyn."

Apolyn didn't retort or offer any words in return. Instead, his eyes flared and a balled fist aimed to clock Malkyor at the side of his face. Mareyn was the woman he loved and cherished. He refused to let her even come to Northrend, despite losing loved ones of her own to the Lich King, just to spare her the pain. Apolyn was very much feeling as though he was carrying the added weight of her own burden upon his shoulders with each day he was to fight the undead masses.

She was all he had left in this world, but never realized it until he came up here. Now he feared ever being without her.

The thought was too much, and despite the friendly advice, Malkyor had hit a very big sore spot with the paladin. The human cast his elven blade onto the dirty snow beneath his feet and walked away from his friends, his teammates, and his army to help save this world.

Artic questioned something in the Darnassian elven tongue towards the others, "Should we stop him? He's going to get himself killed out there."

Malkyor shook his head as he watched the human leave the battlegrounds and head out towards the vast emptiness of Icecrown. "No," he returned in elven. "Let him go."

* * *

Amidst the snowy precipices of Icecrown, the wind roared, freezing one to their very core. The sounds of screams and chilled whispers, from both everywhere and nowhere, were the only things to greet a person. The area before the citadel was cleared of undead. Their bodies laid amongst the snow, saturating the ground with not blood, but vile liquids that was both green and black.

It was here, in this harsh empty mountain range, that the paladin was left alone to this thoughts. The memories of years past were plaguing his mind like on an endless record loop that simply would not stop. He remembered the rumors of infected granaries in the northern towns, the common folk whispering about the growing numbers of sick without a cure, and the plague that came to infect everything that he once knew within his homelands.

He had fought strange things before. Large demonic beasts who's blood was turning beings into mindless berserkers, fire lords who wanted to burn the world to the very core, and even the black dragonflight who wanted to enslave all other beings under their rule. Yet, those were fights for the greater good. Apolyn was able to separate himself from those scenarios.

This was more personal, and the more he remained out there in these northlands, the more he felt it. It wasn't the chill of the wind, but the chill of death creeping along his spine, looking to take him as well. The paladin heard the whispers within his mind. They were sweet, scintillating, and offered promises of power. All for the cost of his servitude and soul - to the King. So far, he had resisted the appealing calls, but was starting to break. Even the very metal around him whispered, but when it did, it told him of the futility it all was, the fighting and resistance. That he would eventually be killed and his mortal coil would be all for naught.

Being stoic and stubborn, he dared not to tell his friends, or his lover. This was his burden to bear, to spare her from experiencing it. Mareyn was a communer with demons, a warlock who heard their luxurious calls to her regularly. It was a good assumption that it, added in with the calls of death and death gods, would cause her to go mad, and that was something Apolyn wanted to saver her from.

As he continued the long walk, to where, he didn't know, the whispers and thoughts continued, nonstop. Eventually, it all became too much for him to deal with, and he dropped to his knees in the frozen ice and snow beneath his feet.

_Even now, they try to fight me. They will die, and will rise again as my minions. I am your King, Apolyn. The Light has left you, and you can no longer rely on it... You can rely on me though and the power I can bestow upon you..._

The whisper felt like a warm blanket surrounding his body. It pricked at his consciousness, making the paladin aware that the King was very much there and watching him at this very moment, even as the mortal armies were racing to end his own life.

"No," he whispered to himself amidst the cold dark before wincing in pain as the King pricked a bit more at the paladin's mind.

_You, paladin, aren't as notorious as the others, like Tirion and Bolvar. But if I can break them, then I can break you as well with little are mine. Your order, the Silver Hand, has no chance of recovery. Uther fell under my hand. Bolvar is mine to control. Even the might of the Mograines couldn't help them. Tirion will serve under me, as well as the Ashbringer once more. And you will join your brethren - as a powerful Deathknight._

Apolyn cried out. It felt like someone was taking a gnomish army knife and twisting it at the back of his skull. The pain bloomed suddenly and so intensely, it threatened to overtake his vision.

_Your King needs you, Apolyn. I need your strength._

What should have been a whisper sounded like a roar that reverberated within his mind. The human paladin cried out in pain. The sensation wasn't pricking anymore, nor was it prying, it started to claw at him, in a desperate manner, trying to overtake his mind and soul within this one dire attack.

"Light, give me strength," Apolyn cried out, slowly trying to reach for the libram at his side to grab it, but even moving caused his mind to explode with agony. "L-Light, lend me aid... Lend me - insight... Grant me - clarity..." It was a desperate attempt of his own to finally get the holy Light to come and return to his calling and assist him from being overwhelmed and taken by a great evil.

The noise within his mind lingered, but soon it started to subside slowly. The back of his mind no longer felt like there were flames licking at it. With a sharp inhalation, Apolyn took the time to grasp at his libram, believing that the light just returned to him and guided him away from the darkness. "Thank the Light," he uttered lowly.

It was all that he could muster before he looked around himself and recoiled as he saw the ice and snow around his knees starting to move and break. Shrill wails livened his nerves as he saw claws and hands reaching out towards him from beneath the snowy depths. The waves of undead had returned. As they climbed up from the ground, they snarled, hissed, and spared no moment to rush towards him. Zombies, crypt fiends, ghouls, and other monstrosities charged towards Apolyn with a renewed fervor that he never before seen within all of the years he spent killing them. They were out for blood...

Apolyn reached for his blade, the Quel'Danar, but it wasn't within it's sheathe. That's right, he had cast it aside in an angry fit. With only his libram to protect him, Apolyn opened it up and attempted to incant any spells to stop the undead from taking him over. He attempted to concencrate the ground below him with holy power, to protect him, but there was no response. The human then attempted to turn the undead, causing them to flee in horror - but that caused no reaction either. The Light didn't return to him...

A lump grew in the back of his throat as he watched the masses of undead coming his way. This was it. It was all over for him. The man closed his eyes, braced for impact and quietly mouthed out the words, "I'm sorry," as he waited for the King to take over his body and soul.

The impact never came. Slowly and cautiously, Apolyn opened his eyes, only to see that the undead masses were moving away from him, lumbering in a mindless state in what appeared to be circles. He was utterly confused as to what was happening. Was the King toying with him and playing with his mind?

_You are safe, Apolyn._

The voice that entered his mind in that whisper was not one that belonged to the Lich King. "Bolvar?!" Apolyn questioned the air before him in disbelief. It couldn't be. He saw Bolvar die at the Wrathgate between the plague and the flames. He received no response. There were no mental probes, and no further sign that there was any presence within his mind any longer.

With such a sudden turn of events, Apolyn felt his stomach almost give out from underneath him. The man stood there for a long time, wracked in pain and confusion.

He didn't know what to think, or what was going on, but one thing made it's way to the forefront of his thoughts: His friends and teammates. Quickly, the paladin spun around to head back towards the Citadel and help the armies with the fight, but he suddenly stopped in his tracks.

"I believe you dropped this. I don't think the Quel'dorei and Sin'dorei would be pleased to know that you did." The man was much older than Apolyn, his hair long and already grey. Yet, even as he stood tall and imposing in that impressive armor of his, there was a smile upon his face that could lift the spirits of any man. Within one hand, he held Apolyn's sword, and within the other, he held a large bag.

"Tirion?" Apolyn asked towards the other man. "I... I thought you were taken."

"Taken?" The elder man asked as he handed Apolyn back his sword. He watched the other paladin, gazing into his eyes as though looking for something. "I heard you left the battlefield when we needed you most."

"The fight was over, Tirion." There was a pause on Apolyn's end before he lowly admits, "I heard you were taken by the Lich King. That you and Bolvar were his servants."

Tirion Fordragon's gaze shifted as he watched Apolyn's face. "No, boy, the fight was just starting. We had the armies help with the assault within the citadel." The last part caused any humor to drain away from his face and tone. Solemnly, he shook his head, "No, no we were not taken. But the deed is done. He is dead."

Apolyn stood there, staring at who was once a great member of the paladins of the Silver Hand, now mentor and hero to thousands of people. "Arthas is dead then?" He asked, as though he didn't hear the words correctly. "What about Bolvar? He's still alive, right? I..." Thinking better than to ramble to Tirion about the whispers, Apolyn shook his head and instead noted, "I mean, his body wasn't at the Wrathgate when we looked."

"Yes, the King has fallen, and the undead scourge will slowly start to lose it's iron grip within the world. We can go home now, Apolyn." Again, there was a flash of something warm on Tirion's face as he smiled. "The Knights of the Silver Hand will need to be reformed. There are so few of us old paladins left. I am going to need your help to get things together."

Yet, despite the positive news, Tirion's brow lowered darkly. "Bolvar is dead. He was dragged into the Citadel, but never made it out alive." There was something to the words that didn't sit well. Reaching out towards Apolyn, Tirion placed a hand upon the other man's shoulder in a friendly matter, "Praise the Light that you saw this day. Go back to your team, they're concerned about you and your safety. When the dust settles, we can discuss things over some ale."

The news was both thrilling, and yet - there was also something solemn about it. Arthas was finally destroyed, but at what cost? Apolyn watched Tirion, seeing the expressions shifting upon his face, and noted the severity of the situation. Despite the fact that they had finally won, and the Scourge was defeated - it was a little too late, and so many had already perished at the hands of the Lich King whom could have been saved. The burden that Apolyn felt seemed lifted, albeit temporarily. Still, he couldn't dare even offer a smile towards the man he looked up to. He knew that there was much more to be done before they could actually go home, away from this never-ending nightmare.

"Thank you, Tirion," was uttered in a somber tone by Apolyn as he nodded towards the other man and then slowly turned away to head back towards where the battlefield was to return to his team. Surely, he was going to spend the next week or so just with aiding the injured and seeing the dead receive a proper burial, away from this harsh and frozen environment.

The reign of the King had finally ended.


End file.
