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Diederick Kastner steps towards his destiny. Steps towards purging himself of the last, cruel reminders of his former self. Of his frailty, and failures, and humanity. Towards completing the process that began when he declared himself Archaon, when he became Everchosen.
The bloodthirster falls, strangled with its own whip. Whimpered, guttural screams dying as it topples onto its side. Blood flows freely from a dozen wounds across Archaon’s body, The Armor of Morkar, immune to all but the deadliest of blows, is split in nine places across his body. One of his eyes is a swollen ruin, and his ears ring constantly with metallic horror.
But he is triumphant.
The Flames of Khorne, last barrier between Archaon and his prize, fall away. Guttering to nothing and leaving the Lord of the End Times in an austere, simple shrine to his gods. Alone with his thoughts, and his prize. The culmination of centuries of determination and simple, endless will.
The hall is small, rows of stone benches before a simple altar and unadorned throne. Dark scones line the walls, and a corpse sits atop the throne. A skeleton, rotted to nothing, wearing a crown of unadorned brass with an empty socket above its brow.
Diederick Kastner, the man who wanted nothing more than to die a beloved, faithful champion of Sigmar, steps forth.
Archaon the Three-Eyed King. Furious wanderer, who hated his Gods even as he served them, even as he sought his prize, steps forth.
Archaon the Everchosen, who had nearly burned the realms of Men and Dwarf short years earlier, who had sought to end this world and create a new one. A perfect one, free of its imperfections and absent progenitors and hateful, laughing gods, steps forth.
A single, gauntleted hand reaches towards his long-dead predecessor. Wounds knitting as he prepares to grasp his destiny.
And a massive fist closes around it first, pulling it just out of his grasp.
Archaon turns, daemon-blade drawn, to gaze upon the face of the fool who dare steal his prize.
And he looks upon the sly, beaming grin of Grimgor Ironhide, and trembles.
“Why are you here, Greenskin,” uttered Archaon. He held his sword before him, an uncharacteristically defensive guard from the dark gods’ champion. His voice did not quaver, his posture did not tremble, but the black orc seemed to feed on his fear regardless.
The smile grew wider, stretching from scarred ear to scarred ear. Turning the hulking orc’s entire face into a sneering canvas of contempt. Beady, soulless eyes fixed upon Archaon’s own, and as Grimgor donned the Crown of Domination, he spoke. “I’m Da Best there is, Archie,” he said amiably, his grip on his axe the only thing betraying the violence behind his broken reikspiel, “So when I heard you was looking to make yourself better. After I was so nice to you in humie country. Well, it left me feeling like you wuz ungrateful, you git me?”
“The crown is mine, Orc,” said Archaon, “By right, by conquest, by the trials of the Gods. You know not what forces you reckon with. Hand it to me, and leave.” He took another step forward, putting him almost nose to nose with the massive Orc.
And then Grimgor headbutt him with such ferocity that his helmet, unmarred for a century, split.
Their battle was legendary. The best, toughest, and meanest of the Orc against the man fated, destined to end the world. The cunning and brutality of Gork and Mork against the combined will of the Dark Gods. Archaon was nigh-undefeatable, blessed with the Mark of Chaos, invulnerable armor, demonic weaponry, and five of the six artifacts that would make him the herald of the apocalypse. Grimgor Ironhide was not the mountain-father of the Dragon Ogres, was not a Bloodthirster or the twisted sorceries of Tzeentch. Was not any of a thousand foes that had come against Archaon and fallen.
But he had something none of those foes had. Archaon hated his gods. Pitied the forces of Order. Viewed greater demons and fell sorceries as rebellious subordinates who must be reminded of their place. Saw each and every one of his foes, over his entire lifespan, as something lesser that must be overcome to make a perfect world in his image. In his three hundred years of life, as a child, as a mortal man, as a champion of chaos, he had been utterly inured to terror. He had never faced a foe he truly, properly, feared.
Middenheim had changed that.
Be’lakor would claim that it was the ordeals of the trial that failed him, that he was wounded and exhausted and therefore stood no chance. He was wrong. His followers would claim that he was betrayed, that the Gods feared what their greatest servant might do, and abandoned him in his hour of need. They were wrong. His daemonsword, once wrested from the rubble, would claim that Grimgor was an avatar of the Orcish gods. That he was Gork on earth, and none could fight him and win. He was wrong. Archaon and Grimgor knew the truth, that he was betrayed by two simple facts.
The first, that he feared Grimgor Ironhide, well and truly. And in his fear his skill and strength abandoned him, and he stood no more chance than the sheep against the wolf.
The second, that Grimgor Ironhide was Da Best. That everything he saw was his. And if Archaon had not been terrified. Had had full control of his faculties, he would still have lost. He simply would have acquitted himself better, and been granted an honorable death for it.
So Archaon fell insensate. The Armor of Morkan torn beyond repair, his steed Dorghar slain, and the Eye of Sheerian shattered. A man, broken and wretched, in the ruin of his victory. And in this defeat, vision blurring but hearing woefully intact, he saw the titanic shape of Grimgor Ironhide kneel, and whisper into his ear.
“It wuz me, Archaon,” he says, “It wuz all me.”
Archaon could do nothing but gaze in confusion.
“Ev’ry failya, ev’ry setback, ev’ry loss and mistake that made you you, that led youz here, to this loss,” whispered Grimgor, his voice slowly rising to a bellow, “Was caused by I, Grimgor Ironhide, Gork’s Chosen fer a sinful WAAAAAGH!”
“No,” whispered Archaon, “No, that’s impossible.”
“Iz true, and youz know it is,” said Grimgor, “When yer men deserted you lookin for da Armor, it was me! When Morkar got his armor back on fer one last scrap! When da Chimera stood against you! When you spent six days hiding in the reeking shit of a beetle-mammoth! All of it was me!”
Archaon’s eyes went wide, his vision yet blurrier, as the fell revelation fell upon him. “Ograx’s death-”
“I wuz da one screaming so loud it’d wake Kraknorak! And I was Kraknorak’s talon, too!” bellowed Grimgor, “I was why Sigmar showed ya no favorz! I was why yer faith deserted you! I was the bugs that ate yer horse! Everything, Archie, everything, Deedee, that made you, you, was me!”
“My mother,” gasped Archaon with horrible clarity, “You were the Varg-”
“That’s right, boy! I made your mother fake her death, and gave her a retirement in Araby so rich, and so lovely, that she never thought about her worthless son! I was the nun you got caught kissing and then got beat so hard ya couldn’t sit for a week! When you got the shits after eating mutton? I cooked that Mutton, Archie! It wuz me! It wuz all me!”
“It's not true! You're lying! It can't be true!” screamed Diederick Kastner as all semblance of glory left him. As his fall into blissful unconsciousness instead turned into an endless, twisted descent into nightmares beyond his wildest imagining.
In truth, mere seconds had passed since Archaon had fallen. Grimgor had not knelt down to speak, but watched in vague bemusement as his foe muttered himself through a nervous breakdown. Then, bored with the fight, he shrugged his axe over one shoulder, adjusted his fetching new crown, and left.
Neither of them would ever realize that Grimgor Ironhide had just saved the world.