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“Good morning, Mother,” Arthas said. He knew his mother had died many years ago, but then, neither was he precisely living any longer. He chose to call the frosty elemental column whatever pleased him.
“No one is there,” said Ner’zhul. A voice Arthas chose to ignore, which also pleased him. He didn’t exactly mind the mad avalanche of power the orc shaman had visited upon him, as it was so reminiscent of the adrenaline rush of the headlong charge into battle; but he still did not much appreciate having his body so handily commandeered, possessed, and pressed into the service of the dark, twisted, vicious thing he had found locked away in the ice.
Arthas grunted softly. And without so much as a ‘by your leave‘, he mused.
“Good morning, my son,” the column of sleet intoned. A regal, dispassionate voice. Not much like his mother’s, as he recalled, but that was all right, his too had greatly changed.
“You are not his mother!” Ner’zhul shouted. “You are incapable! You are but an elemental… one gone insane from overexposure to our presence!”
The column of ice tightened into a spiral of dislike, shunning the wizard and his words. Ner’zhul cringed, as he always did when the elementals did not heed him; and this one had never deigned to acknowledge his mastery. Arthas smiled, as the old orc subsided in his mind. In all its many aspects, the entity that was Northrend knew where the real power resided.
“How are you today, Mother?” the Lich King inquired, leaning forward slightly on his icy throne.
“Cold. And you?”
“The same. Father sends his regards.”
“How fares the King, my son?”
“He is still plotting with Uther in the war room.”
“Those two…” the icy billow said with fabricated fondness, shaking its insubstantial head; and a fall of dainty snowflakes quite nicely mimicked a cascade of silvery hair.
“Seems they are always up to something, yes?“ Arthas said with a smile, turning to ponder the ice pack far below the spire’s lofty summit. So much chaotic action was always manifesting itself there, thrashing madly to whatever conclusion fate deemed necessary. It was so serene here, in the booming wind--suspended in the perfect equilibrium of undeath--removed from such frantic matters as living and dying.
A snowshoe hare--a dot of life upon his ice--had paused in its foraging to eye him curiously. It’s velvety ears stiffened alertly, its furry jaws still cranking briskly, grinding away at its breakfast of lichens. Arthas smiled a little as its bright button eyes fixed upon his ominous, watching form. Shortly, an aimlessly wandering ghoul also spied the hare, gurgled happily, and slouched in a new trajectory towards the promising heat signature, a mindless puppet, jittering along on the wires of instinct.
As the Lord of the Dead watched, a delicate veil of drifting ice draped both figures, sweeping them into obscurity. The ever-present wind keened its bitter undertone.
The ghoul would likely get lost in the blizzard Arthas was idly shaping (it was his welcoming gift for the opening ceremony of the Argent Tournament), and so he sent a thin lifeline of thought to the dead, mindless thing, redirecting its shambling path back into the fold.
There was a hollow glimmer in its nigh-empty head--a surge of devotion, like a primal imprint, fixed into what fragment of consciousness it still possessed--and the hapless creature lurched around, blindly responsive to his magnetic presence.
“Come along,” Arthas urged gently, “you mustn’t get lost. The ice in this storm is sharp and fierce; do not be deceived by its dainty beauty. It is a vicious thing, and will whittle you down to bone in a matter of moments. Come back now. I must insist. In fact, you may have the honor of attending my mother, the Queen.”
The wisp that Arthas had designated as his mother only eyed the minion with cold, indifferent eyes. She’d found someone to keep her company, besides.
“Who is the boy, Mother?” he inquired, eyeing the shy waif half-hidden by her sleet skirts.
“He is my son.”
“I am your son, you will recall,” Arthas reminded her mildly.
“Yes.”
“Well, where did you come by this one, then?”
“I found him in a cave. He was weeping. Lonely.”
“Yes, I too have heard him yowling. Down there under the Citadel.”
“Do not be cruel, Arthas,” the ice queen admonished.
“Yes, Mother. But it is a fact.”
“You were always a lonely child.”
“I was. Especially after you died.”
“I am so sorry, my son. For leaving you.”
“It’s quite all right, Mother. It’s not as if you had a choice.”
“No. No one asked. No one ever does. Nor do you, I have noticed.”
“No time to be polite, Mother. Herding death is tedious work, indeed.”
“And you command it masterfully, my son.”
Arthas inclined his head. “Thank you, Mother.” Yes, she was always one to compliment him over a success. Unlike his critical father, who had always found some fault, no matter the undertaking.
Still, he suspected even Terenas could find no lapse in the unhesitating, brutal thrust that had ended his life. Arthas smiled at the thought, his eyes drifting as he mused, to survey his icy kingdom.
Grousing irritably--Frostmourne’s permanent guest--King Terenas II would always find something to be disgruntled about. Having both his father and his old mentor lodged inside the glutton was a source of great satisfaction, to be sure. It was good to have them close, though he suspected they were constantly devising some coup to overthrow him. Well, whatever kept them busy. He still loved them, of course, in his now rather detached way, and he wouldn’t want them bored.
The ghoul had fallen down and broken into pieces, Arthas saw, to his dismay. Having reacquired its interest in the hare, as his own mind had wandered from the minion’s dilemma, it had resumed its pursuit, tumbled down a rocky slope, and had been thoroughly disassembled by the impact. Arthas sighed, a bit saddened by its helpless plight; it looked at him entreatingly, floundering and waving its bony arms, as if in supplication. The poor thing had grown too fragile to fully restore, the light of reanimation had nearly faded from the battered, brittle flesh.
“I am sorry,“ Arthas whispered, reaching out, and as gently as it could be done, he gave a swift, severing tug, reclaiming that thread of himself that had given the creature its purpose, and it collapsed in an eager instant to nothingness. “Time to rest now…” the Lich King murmured, his smoking eyes sliding slowly to ponder the indifferent hare. It had observed this conclusion with little interest and no solemnity.
“Begone, Life…” Arthas whispered, sending a puff of snowy flakes to swirl about the small creature. “I do not want you here… with your thrilling pulse and the promise of a hot, juicy meal. So cruel, you are, seducing my poor followers to their destruction, you tease. Observe--“ he pointed to the obliterated minion, little more now than a pitiful stain in the deepening snow, “you own that. Your handiwork, Hare--in its entirety. Now go commit to your over-heated business outside my presence… I do not wish to look at you any longer, creature.”
“You talk to rabbits, now?” a voice inquired and Arthas tilted his head, recognizing its gruff cadence.
“If I so desire, yes. How are you, Uther? Comfortable, I do hope.”
There was an irritable snort, so familiar, and Arthas could close his eyes and recall without difficulty, the expression that had always accompanied that sound.
“You’ve lost your mind, Arthas. Seriously.”
“And you are repeating yourself, old friend.”
“No friend of yours, boy. You should kill yourself, you know. Perched up here at the top of the world, on your ice throne, atop your ice castle, brooding over your ice kingdom, talking to rabbits, wisps, ghouls and ghosts. How pathetic.”
“Actually, the creature is a hare.”
Another angry, thwarted snort echoed from inside the mirrored blade of the hungry sword. Frostmourne smiled conspiratorially; Arthas returned it with equal craft.
“You are the one who always insisted upon clarity, Uther,” Arthas reminded him.
“And just look what you’ve done with those teachings…”
“Yes, quite well, I think.”
“You’re an abomination, Arthas… end yourself. You’d feel so much better for it.”
“But poor Tirion, what would he do without my death to lust after?”
“Fordring can count his blessings. Fall on your sword, Arthas… I’m sure Frostmourne would accommodate you…”
“Surely this is not the best you and Father could devise to end me. If so, I must admit, I’m a bit disappointed.” A ghostly face appeared upon Frostmourne’s rapacious surface, lingering there just long enough to grimace meaningfully. Arthas chuckled softly.
“It’s always so good to see you, Uther,” he said fondly. The image faded then, and the Lich King turned his attentions elsewhere, ferocious, smoldering eyes scanning his domain. “Oh look, Mother… guests,” he pointed. “I believe that’s Darion down at Mord’rethar. And he‘s brought a friend.”
“He’s up to no good, my son,” the wisp counseled.
“Well, he has free-will now, Mother. He can do as he likes.”
“That attitude will be your undoing. An offensive posture would benefit you best, my son. Your enemies are not interesting enough to entertain you, not even their games will be amusing. They flounder about in the steam of their feverish, empty lives, too stupid to realize they are all slowly freezing into permafrost.”
Arthas smiled, “And they will make a lovely addition to the landscape, yes? Do not be impatient, Mother. These things take time.”
“I fear you will have no time, my son, if you allow this to continue. You should kill them all. Let Northrend have them, like a dog with a bone.”
Arthas cast a favorable glance. “So vicious…” he whispered, amused, and the icy drift shimmered with satisfaction.
“I am only thinking of you, my son,” the hollow, frozen voice intoned.
“Yes, I know. A rare sentiment, and appreciated.”
“The ice is whispering that Proudmoore woman has returned…”
“Ah, Jaina. Yes. She simply cannot stay away.” Arthas sighed, fingertips idly tapping the edge of his breastplate before reaching to touch the icy chain encircling his neck. It rested there, against unfeeling skin, forgotten for the most part; but when he recalled its presence, and all the attending memories, he felt compelled to touch it. And with that contact, he could see her face as clearly as the day she had gifted him the chain and its locket. He drew it forth to briefly ponder its contents. The image within was not nearly as distinct as his own vivid memories of her.
“You should have forgotten her…” the elemental hissed softly. “Why else did you cast your heart away, and assign this poor waif as its sentinel in the caverns below?”
“I did no such thing, Mother. The foolish boy assumed that mantle of his own volition. Matters not at all to me. I ridded myself of the thunderous thing as it imposed upon my solitude with its noisy clamoring. That is all. I thought perhaps some beast would have devoured the useless thing by now…”
“He says you could no long bear to carry your heart within your breast, for the pain it caused you--yet equally, you could not bear to destroy it.”
“Well, the little lad is making up stories for your amusement; for I assure you, I am unconcerned.”
“I worry for the state of your malice, my son. I fear sometimes it wavers.”
“Now, Mother…” Arthas soothed, as the column of ice swept itself into an agitated cyclone, rattling the frozen stalagmites growing from the platform’s ice-laced floor; and they chimed for her efforts, an unearthly music in the luminous, perpetual gloom.
Appeased by their devotion, she settled herself; ice draped back into its chosen, graceful form. She drew the ghostly child close in a chill embrace. He whined softly, casting an entreating glance to the watching king.
“It doesn’t have to be like this…” he whispered, a small but fearless voice that the cold wind sought to shred into silence.
“Perhaps not,” Arthas replied. “But it is this, nonetheless.”
“They will come for you,” the boy persisted, “when their champions are chosen and prepared. They will.”
“As I recall, that is the plan.”
“They will kill you.”
“They will try. Come to think of it, did I not kill you? Why are you here? Hmm? Do you recall? I certainly cannot imagine your reasoning.”
“I want to save you…”
Arthas sighed; he waved an idle hand, feeding magic into his growing storm. “Mother, the boy is becoming tiresome. This does not amuse me, and so it must stop.”
The wisp drew her squirming ghost closer, “He needs a lesson in your wrath, my son. It will improve him.”
“I have no wrath to waste, Mother. I will shortly need it all. Take him back to his cave and his worthless artifact. I am now quite weary of his presence.”
“Let me help you! Let me remind you!” the little wraith cried, struggling in his icy bonds.
“I neither want, nor do I need your aid, child. Run along now and play. Or whatever it is children do.” Another gesture--one of finality, suggestive of looming intolerance. “I have a storm to shape. Mustn’t disappoint my detractors with a lack of attentiveness.”
“The monster taunts us…” Tirion Fordring hissed, bracing himself against the rising wind.
“Actually,” replied the Ebon Watcher at his side, “it’s just his way of saying ‘Welcome’.”