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That was the moment he knew he fucked up. The moment when he felt a flare of power coming through his connection to the Scourge, only for it to disappear just moments later. The moment when – just minutes later – he learnt ‘the mission was successful’. But it was only several weeks afterwards when he came to know just how badly he fucked up. When the power of the Helm began to slowly but surely wane, as if something punctured a hole in its magic and it began to drain away.
***
Jaina Proudmoore half-sat half-lay in a small cavern hidden from the frost plains outside by ice and rock, barely two or three metres of space safe from the relentless wind. She was trying to sleep, even when she knew it would never come. Still, she didn’t want to stop trying, stubborn as she was. It would be the last bit of comfort she had kept from before. Before the ambush. Before her death.
Coming back as part of the Scourge was to be expected. And she did, indeed, wake soon after the death knight’s blade almost cut her in half. Except she was still Jaina, her mind not yet subsumed by the will of the Helm of Domination somewhere far away. Maybe if Arthas even deigned to come himself, she would not be so lucky – if it could be called that way. Instead, she recalled another woman, one who managed to throw off the shackles. She had never met Sylvanas Windrunner, even with both of them present in Northrend right now. But her story turned out to be sufficient for Jaina’s imagination; her determination. Even in death, she had remained a mage – a lich, now, she supposed – and so she tore into the necromantic bindings, into the connection to the Scourge. She poured all her magic into it, only to realize it was not enough. So she acted on instinct. Located the closest source of magic and cannibalized it as well. With an unearthly wail, the connection broke, and with it, the remaining Scourge that killed her and her entourage. Soon after, when her mind and eyes cleared, she was standing alone amidst corpses, maybe free, but undead still.
That had been weeks ago. Ever since then, she had not slept, had not eaten, and her mind never stopped working. She could not go back to the Alliance – and not the Horde either, that much was obvious to her. So she trudged off into the frozen wasteland. Her magic thrummed under her now sallow skin, more powerful than in life, and significantly more angry. And hungry as well. Any Scourge she came across, the cannon fodder that Arthas threw by hundreds at the living, she used to sate that hunger. She tore out the magic animating them, leaving behind corpses with strings cut. It was a mercy to them, she reasoned. Staying in service to the Lich King – enslaved – was not an existence she would wish on anyone. Maybe one day, she’d figure out how she could cut the strings without killing them, effectively freeing them. But for now, she needed to feed her magic, the one thing moving her forward. And honestly, she did not really care. Some things would never come back after her death, or weakly at best, she knew. Apparently, a sense of connection with the world, its people, was one of those.
So instead, she focused on the thing she felt strongly about. The same thing she came to Northrend for. Stopping Arthas.
Maybe it had been out of guilt, at first. Or duty, stopping the greatest threat to Azeroth since the end of the Second War. But now, it was revenge that drove her. He had to know when he ordered the attack on her. And he felt too high and mighty to even come kill his once-fiancée himself. Coward, arrogant and altogether too conceited, too sure in his might, in his righteousness – running to Frostmourne, to don the Helm, to doom himself and the world. Now, Jaina would make sure he would meet his end. She would tear all his power from him, deliver the final judgement on the man she came to loathe with all her now unbeating heart.
Her stay in this tiny, almost invisible, cave had a reason, other than still trying to find some semblance of living in the never coming sleep. Here, she could quietly plan, read through the frankly insufficient number of books she had stowed away for this journey. (To most people, her collection would seem excessive. Jaina disagreed.) It was also one of the places she wove her magic from.
It took many tries and several rewritings of her theories, mixing her knowledge of arcane with her intuitive grasp on the magic of death that now coursed through her. But in the end, it was a different source that brought her to her goal. Her homeland was home to two forms of magic – the one of the Tidesages, harnessing the power of the Tides, and then the magic of the Drust, a dichotomy of life and death, a cycle not of the sea but of a seemingly decaying forest. Jaina had absconded to Dalaran too soon to learn much about these, but she knew enough. Her family had in the past intermarried with both. And what else was the Scourge than magic borrowed from a higher power? Even if it was not as infinite as the Tides, and certainly not natural. And death? Death was to be a part of a cycle, not static, locked in a terrible moment with sorcery. And so Jaina dove back into the severed connection to the undead hordes, studied it, unravelled it.
Not long ago, she had reached her goal. Found the locus of power, the anchor tying it all together. But for all its bloat, all the magic fed into it, it was weak. Unstructured, wielded by someone with no knowledge of its inner workings. So, with a scoff and not an ounce of hesitation, she reached out and tore a part of it away. And unseen or unfelt by anyone except the two souls most closely tied to the Helm, its power began to wane.
***
Sylvanas Windrunner was probably the only one who would complain about the killing of the Scourge being easy. As it was, it felt too easy to her. And that seemed suspicious. She had kept an eye out for any other signs, but she had to admit, she never expected to be able to liberate an entire throng of Scourge soldiers from the Helm of Domination. Never expected to see the ranks of her Forsaken swell in this way.
The next weeks after the – admittedly fortunate – event were spent easing the hundreds of undead men and women into their new free unlife. Like those she freed before, they knew little of what to expect, what to ask for in this strange existence. But one thing burned brightly inside of them – their hatred of the Lich King, of their enslavement. And as to each and every one of the Forsaken, Sylvanas promised them the same. Shelter, and vengeance.
But now, she had another issue in front of her – why had she been able to do that? They were much closer to Icecrown now, the hold of the Helm had to be much stronger. Yet…
She thought back to the battles she fought recently. To the weakness she noticed, though most others would not. There was something happening to the power of the Lich King, she was sure. Something going on behind the scenes that neither the Horde nor the Alliance noticed, or were responsible for.
Her investigation led her far out of the regions currently controlled by the living. She had a vague idea where to go, based on the knowledge of the few magic-capable Forsaken and her own connection to the Scourge. After all, even when she broke it with her will, it was still there, still allowing her to connect to the undead, and in some cases, wrench them out of the Lich King’s control. This time, her senses led her into the middle of nowhere – or so it seemed at first glance.
Sylvanas was still an elf, even if not alive anymore. And as such, she was very well attuned to sources of magic. And this particular one, even over the still large distance, felt immense. It blended well into the surroundings – reminiscent of icy winds carrying death – but there was another tone to it, of sea in the middle of a storm, just as dangerous as the first impression. Whatever was out there was a possible threat, and one they could ill afford. But scurrying back was not on Sylvanas’ mind. Instead, she pressed onward, hoping to find out more.
This was nowhere near the top of her list of suspicions. She knew the figure standing in the middle of a storm of arcane and death magic, as well as something else, even more ancient. Well, she knew her from descriptions and a few glances over quite large distances. Even with her hair now translucent white, instead of the colour of spun gold, she could not mistake Jaina Proudmoore for anyone else.
Honestly, why had they never interacted? From the little she knew, Jaina had been Vereesa’s – her sister’s, in the easier times – closest friend. And both Proudmoore and Sylvanas had arrived to Northrend to take part in eliminating the Lich King. So why…? Did she still on some level resent the mage for her role at the beginning of Arthas Menethil’s fall? Possibly.
But the Jaina Proudmoore she was thinking about had been alive. The woman in front of her was certainly dead – or undead, really. When did that happen? And why no one knew about it? Or why had the woman’s disappearance never been reported? And – more pressingly – what was she doing here? With an incredible amount of magic under her command on top of that? Enough so Sylvanas could feel her from several miles away?
The elf would have agonized over the questions cropping up in her mind for a while more, were it not for Jaina’s eyes, luminescent from the channelled power, which suddenly turned her way.
Sylvanas froze. The only sound was the wind’s unrelenting whistling and the quiet crackling of magic. Seconds, or minutes later, it was the mage who spoke first: “Lady Windrunner. I should’ve guessed it would be you who would find me.”
***
Jaina supposed it had been only a matter of time before someone found her. Still, it surprised her to see the undead elf, bow in her hand, standing just a dozen metres away from her as she crested the slope.
“What are you doing here, Lady Proudmoore? …Last I heard, you were very much alive.”
“Well, not anymore,” snapped Jaina back, “Courtesy of that coward on his frozen throne, letting others do his dirty work.”
“Yet you seem very much not part of the Scourge…?”
“I got that idea from you, actually,” admitted Jaina, as she slowly stopped her syphoning spell, letting it dissipate, “That one can be freed from the Helm’s control. It turns out, the man underneath it is quite incompetent.”
Sylvanas raised an eyebrow: “Most people would deem him quite dangerous, though?”
The mage waved her free hand: “Ill-gotten power does not signal competency. Plus, Ner’zhul is still there, in the Helm. He would be the greater threat, were he to go free.”
“And you know that why?” eyed her the elf suspiciously.
“What do you think I was doing just now? And the past months?” cocked Jaina her head to the side, “Breaking the core of the Lich King’s power. The helm is… an inspired piece of work. But its use has made it quite unstable, and easy to exploit.”
Sylvanas paled, then her eyes flared into brighter red and a drawn bow was suddenly aimed at Jaina: “What are your plans with the Helm? If you think you can control it…”
She interrupted the obviously angry elf with a laugh: “That’s the exact opposite of what I want to do. I want to see it destroyed. And both the necromancer and the death knight dead. Permanently. …And, they’ve conveniently given me the means to do so,” she added with a bloodthirsty smile, so incongruent with what Sylvanas knew of the woman. But that was before. Before she died. And desire for revenge was something the undead elf understood all too well.
“Fine,” grit Sylvanas out, “But I want to see what you’re actually doing here.”
“The bonds tying the Scourge to the Helm, they are broken for the Forsaken, right? Is that completely, or is there some sort of remnant? Or at least for you, since you can ‘free’ some of the undead. That wouldn’t be possible without some sort of connection still being present, after all. Otherwise, anyone could do it,” mused Jaina, partly eyeing her current companion, partly her notes, scribbling furiously the details of her last experiment – not that there was much she changed since the last time.
Sylvanas glared at her from the other side of the small cave. Or really, from a place right next to her, the space within too small to allow for much more than the two of them sitting together.
“What are you insinuating? That the Lich King could once again bind us? Is this supposed to be a threat?”
“Not at all,” shook the mage her head, “…Though the possibility is still there, for me as well, since I can quite obviously reach the Helm with a channel that was certainly not present before I… died.”
“You seem quite adjusted, for someone so recently made undead,” pointed out the elf, “Generally, it takes weeks, months, for someone to come to terms with it… Or to a reasonably ‘fine’ state,” she added bitterly.
“I probably had enough of a drive to not care,” shrugged Jaina, “It will probably catch up to me at some point, even with the emotions as muted as they are – except the anger. Hating Arthas and what he’s become is certainly a good motivator.”
“It certainly helps,” allowed Sylvanas herself a small smirk, “And it will catch up, I can tell you that much.”
“Well, before that happens, I want this done. That’s why I was asking, you know? If you have any experience with the tethers, certainly more than I do, if so. I’m running on instinct here, and that would be fine, generally, if I wasn’t putting my head into a noose every single time. …There are no books I can read on this topic.”
“Unless you find the bastard Kel’thuzad’s stash,” quipped Sylvanas, before growing more solemn: “The bindings remain, to some extent. Except they are not tied to the Scourge anymore, but stay between the Forsaken only. I can feel the presence of others, my rangers especially. And some others have said the same thing.”
“…Could they be tied to you instead?”
“What?!”
“You were the one who freed them, snapped the bindings. If they remain to some extent, and quite obviously latch onto other undead – but just the Forsaken… What do they all have in common? You. You were the one who freed them, the one constant in their continuous existence. If they are only binding to the one who took them away from the Scourge, and not onto any other random undead… Can you feel me?” asked Jaina suddenly.
“I can feel your magic,” scowled Sylvanas, “…But no, not at all,” she added after a moment of hesitation.
“I broke the ties myself, without anyone’s help, remember? So there is nothing tying the two of us together.”
“Are you telling me,” spoke Sylvanas quietly, “That I’ve become the new Lich King for them? Set them free only to become the next tyrant?”
“But are you? Do you impose your will upon them? Don’t allow them any thoughts? Send them to indiscriminately kill every single living thing around?”
“…no.”
“Then you’re not a tyrant. Just a nexus of your people’s magic. …You’re a new thing, never seen before. Who knows what you will become, you and the Forsaken. I can theorize… probably the only one with any semblance of an idea about it, outside of any magic users you’ve saved,” weakly chuckled Jaina, “But really, only time will tell. For now, the one thing that seems sure – unless you truly die, the Forsaken are safe. Unless you become part of the Scourge again, they are safe. They cannot be bound to anyone else, unless you are bound. You continue to protect them.”
“…thank you. They are the one thing I still care about. They had no one else to fight for them. I want them safe, after all this is done.”
“…We’re not so dissimilar, you and I. Hadn’t we done the same thing? Except you’ve been saving the free undead, and I the last remaining living.”
“Theramore.”
Jaina nodded: “Exactly. …Though I’ll probably never see the place again.”
“Never say never. This world likes to surprise us in the worst ways. And…,” Sylvanas pinched the bridge of her nose, “Let’s make a deal, shall we?” she finally said, raising her head, her red eyes staring right into the pale blue of Jaina’s: “We kill the Lich King. No ifs, no buts. But if anything happens to either of us, the other will look out for the survivors. Undercity, and Theramore.”
“You would be willing to promise that?” Jaina’s eyebrows rose in astonishment.
“You said so yourself – we’re similar in this. Both want the people under our care safe. A promise like this seems… prudent.”
“Then, we help each other, kill the bastard on the throne, and keep an eye out for the ones under our protection. I’ll certainly say yes to that,” declared the mage and extended a hand. Sylvanas took it, squeezing it firmly: “And yes from me as well. … Now, you were going somewhere about those damn strings. Tell me your idea, and I’ll try to fill in what I know.”
***
This entire posturing felt pointless. Even without it, the entire military operation felt slow, but the petty squabbles, duels that at least didn’t lead to deaths, the distrustful glares, all of it was grating at Sylvanas’ patience. By this time, their plan to assault the Wrathgate was certainly known to the enemy. No subtlety, nor forethought. …Not that anyone would listen to her. All those men down in the camps thought of themselves too powerful, too important, too righteous, to think anything of her words. It didn’t matter she had probably the greatest amount of military experience in a commanding position among all the people present. She was undead, and so no one would trust her.
A bitter understanding snuck up on her. She and Proudmoore had really walked in the same shoes wretchedly often. Had anyone listened to the woman, maybe this campaign would be already over. The mage had a knack of understanding the politics of all the disparate factions, as well as willingness to treat everyone equally. Plus, she knew enough about military matters to be able to weigh in on those discussions as well. Probably had something to do with her naval upbringing. Her frustration had to be immense after being ignored again and again. That she decided not to even try to come back was… quite understandable.
And they worked together quite well, those times they met up far into the wasteland, eliminating Scourge or syphoning from the accursed Helm. And Sylvanas had to admit to herself, this was no longer just an alliance of convenience.
The undead elf had just registered the magical signature next to her, when Proudmoore spoke: “Was it your idea to send some Forsaken with the Blight up to the Wrathgate?”
Sylvanas whirled at her: “What are you talking about?!”
“I’ve been tracking a group of Forsaken climbing up the slopes to the side of that fortress, carrying something that looks suspiciously like barrels with Blight. …Turns out that while I cannot touch the connections between the Forsaken, I can find them, seek them out. Even recognize them from the Scourge – that’s what I mean by tracking, before you scoff at my inability to do so.”
“We’ll get back to that later,” interrupted Sylvanas the woman’s tangent, “I want to know exactly what you saw. Because I’m certain I gave no orders for such a thing.”
Proudmoore shrugged: “Thought so, but I wanted to hear your words. There’s an apothecary with them, I think. I haven’t seen enough of them to be sure. But if they’re acting alone…”
The elf scowled: “I’ll see what this is about. Right now,” she growled, turning to stride away, only to be interrupted by the mage, her eyes alight with power: “Do you want me to take you there? It’ll be faster.”
Sylvanas’ ears canted up in surprise, but in the next heartbeat and with a grim nod, she took the offered hand.
Sylvanas knew the mage was powerful. She sensed it, she saw it every time Jaina Proudmoore weaved her rituals. Theoretically, she knew as well – after all, not anyone could be called an archmage. But it was something entirely different seeing the woman on the battlefield.
The moment the pair arrived right in front of the column of Forsaken soldiers, she knew this was a sign of treason. Not on the soldiers, but the one who led them. Grand Apothecary Putress died with an arrow through his treasonous head just a few words in. There had been no point in listening to him.
In the ensuing carnage, Sylvanas had the perfect view of Jaina Proudmoore in action. The amount of outpouring magic was staggering. She froze anyone trying to close in on her, and manipulated the icy terrain to her advantage. Sylvanas realized, for all her preparedness for battle, that she was not even needed. A good part of the Forsaken turned out to be still loyal to her, probably misled by Putress, and the battlefield quickly turned to a chaotic melee. One which was almost immediately broken up by the mage.
She stood there, her eyes still blazing, her white hair free in the wind, a terrible, glorious, spirit of war. Sylvanas caught herself staring. Wrenching her eyes away, she looked at the surviving Forsaken: “Head to our camp. Tell Captain Areiel what happened here.”
One of the soldiers, the armour rent in his flank, showing broken yawning ribs, stumbled forward: “We’re sorry, Dark Lady, didn’t know they weren’t your orders.”
“I’m not blaming you,” shook Sylvanas her head: “But others need to know of Putress’ treachery. I have other business to attend to,” she added with a scowl.
“What about the Blight, madam?”
“I can manage that,” spoke up the mage, the crackling of her magic growing in intensity. Even undead, the soldier jolted in surprise.
“Dark Lady, who is…?”
“Lady Proudmoore is an ally. …And please do. Afterwards, would you mind coming with me to the Undercity? There’s a rat there, and I would hate terribly to leave him waiting.”
Soon afterwards, the pair was leaving through a portal to what was once the capital of Lordaeron, a city Jaina had spent several years in. Behind them, the ridge was spiked with jagged ice, and somewhere deep below it lay the broken, exploded barrels, their contents neutralized by the mage’s magic.
Sylvanas was certain Varimathras had planned for his treachery being discovered. The dreadlord would have many contingencies in place. Maybe he even planned to be exposed, it wouldn’t surprise her. But for all his plans, there were things he simply couldn’t account for. Because Sylvanas knew, without a shred of doubt, that he never planned for one Jaina Proudmoore.
***
“They’ve finally realized you’re gone,” said Sylvanas instead of a greeting as she entered the only surviving room of the little outpost that Jaina had cleared some days ago.
She raised her gaze from her book: “Nice to meet you to, Sylvanas.”
“We see each other often enough, little mage, I think pleasantries are behind us by now.”
“I suppose this is not a royal court of any sort,” replied Jaina, vaguely gesturing towards the barren walls.
“No, it certainly isn’t,” concurred Sylvanas as she sat down on one of the fallen beams.
“…So they found out, then?”
“They’ve stumbled upon your entourage, actually. You know, slaughtered, Scourge around, and you missing. It doesn’t seem they know much more. But expect some people to start digging.”
“Varian and Thrall both will, I’d say. But considering they have enough trouble wrangling the entire coalition up onto the glacier, I doubt they’ll find much time.”
“It doesn’t sound like you want them to find you.”
“You know exactly why, Sylvanas,” glared at her Jaina.
“All too well. …Just be prepared, I guess. And – all the dark rangers stationed in Northrend know about you by now. So you might get a visit at some point. Just, please don’t freeze them?” she added with a put-upon sigh.
Jaina huffed: “I suppose I should’ve expected this. You told them?”
“No, but the survivors reported to Areiel, remember? And while she’s not as bad as some of the others, she’s still a gossip.”
The mage nodded, accepting said fact, and turned to the other mentioned topic: “…So they are finally past the Wrathgate?”
“In parts. It’s frustrating, how slow it’s going, but I understand the logistics must be a nightmare. I’m keeping the Forsaken back, for now. No need to add to the chaos.”
“Plus, someone might mistake them for Scourge, especially this close.”
Sylvanas grit her teeth in annoyance: “Exactly. …Are we still on with your plan?”
“You doubt me?” asked Jaina with a smirk.
“Just making sure,” glowered the elf back.
“We’ll sneak in when they finally start their assault. I’ll be syphoning from the Helm until then, but the final spell must be cast directly with it in hand.”
“Which means we have to kill Him anyways,” added Sylvanas grimly, “Which is exactly what I want.”
“But what of after?” queried Jaina, eyeing the woman across her.
“What, after?”
“After this is done. We’ve made plans for the case one of us is not around, not for both of us surviving. And it is possible we will.”
Sylvanas was silent for a long while, before she finally squeezed out: “I didn’t… I suppose I’ll have to amend whatever plans I had before. But as to what they’ll be…”
“There is still time to think about it, isn’t there? …But I will make you show me the Undercity. My last visit has been quite… hurried,” added Jaina with a hint of a smile.
“Then visit to the Undercity it is. …You’ll fit right in,” grinned Sylvanas back, her spunk returning. And Jaina found she was glad for that. The maudlin woman from before was not something she wanted to see Sylvanas as, hopefully ever again. Though, considering her history, it would probably be unavoidable. Well, Jaina could at least try.
***
“I’ve brought you something,” spoke Sylvanas in her dual-toned voice, almost barren of all intonation. Almost. Jaina, after the months they’ve already spent together, could hear the slight, carefully disguised, tightness in her speech. …Has it really been months already? Months since she came into this sleepless joyless existence? Well, not entirely joyless, Jaina had to admit. She now had almost all the time for research. At least one thing the lack of sleep was useful for. And then there was Sylvanas. The woman turned out to be quite good company, once they realized they truly did want to help each other. The fact that they shared the same fate was definitely also helping, Jaina figured. From what she knew of the Banshee Queen, she was supposed to be cold and abrasive – a suffered ally, always looked on with suspicion. But that was the view of the living. For the dead, she was their hero. For Jaina, she was the only one who showed up.
The mage raised a whitened eyebrow: “What would be so important you would announce your arrival this way? You found the old necromancer’s library?” It was meant as a joke, but some part of her still longed to get at least a glimpse of that particular trove of knowledge. It might’ve been abhorrent, but there were things in there she needed to learn, no way around it, and Jaina was simply too curious to tamp that desire down completely. The new perspective also helped.
Sylvanas shook her head: “Fortunately, no. But I’ve thought of another thing we should’ve tried long ago. You’ve already grumbled to me about sleep too many times to count. But what about eating?”
“The undead don’t need to eat.”
“Most of us don’t, true. But don’t need and cannot are two different things. Or don’t want. …So I brought what you might actually stomach. It might be pointless, and you won’t ever enjoy eating again, but it’s worth a shot.”
“…I’ve not thought about food in any way since the days right after I died,” commented Jaina, “The magic I’ve been gaining seems to sate whatever needs I have, so the thought just never even came… What did you even bring? I remember hearing about everything having no taste.”
“Not entirely no taste. We do retain some taste buds, dulled as they are. It changes person to person… and type of undead. So what would be edible for me doesn’t have to be for you and vice versa. After all, I’m possessing my… mostly intact… body,” said Sylvanas with a shade of distaste colouring her face, “Whereas you’re a lich. Your body is you, and it probably isn’t preserved the same way mine was.”
The archmage grinned at that: “It’s not. I don’t have to stay in this body. I could disentangle myself from it and just… leave.”
“What?! Do you even hear yourself?! That’s incredibly dangerous, you could definitively kill yourself, or simply go mad! How did it even occur to you? Wait… have you tried it?!”
Seeing the panicked state of the elf, Jaina grabbed the closer of her hands. The sudden contact startled Sylvanas into stopping her rant, her red eyes wide, staring at the other woman.
“I wouldn’t do something I thought for sure would… kill me. No, I never went so far with the idea. I know I can do it, and that’s enough. …And it was you, you know? Who gave me the idea. Who said your case was unique to the power of the Frostmourne? Figuring out the mechanics was an interesting exercise. …I’m not planning on doing anything with this anytime soon, if ever. You can stop worrying,” Jaina let out a sigh, the sound strange with the way her vocal tract operated now, “I thought it would be something you would be interested in, not…this. I…I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to… I just… I don’t want you to die. You’re too important, you hear? So don’t you dare do anything to yourself.”
The mage stared at her for a moment, before she nodded: “I won’t. Now, this was supposed to be about testing food. Which you have brought. Why don’t we busy ourselves with that?”
“That… I’d be glad,” nodded Sylvanas with slight apprehension, still visible to Jaina. And once again, with only a mental note, the mage let it pass.
***
There weren’t many kaldorei in Northrend, basically just a small expeditionary force with the Alliance. But this one came alone, scarred and grim-faced, a massive two-handed sword on her back. She could’ve passed off as just a mercenary, or a champion of the Alliance, but that was before she started asking about Jaina Proudmoore.
Sylvanas found out about her from one of her rangers a few days after the sentinel’s arrival. It wasn’t hard to track her down – the woman stood out like a sore thumb.
“You’re the one going around looking for Proudmoore.”
The night elf turned, her hand already on the handle of her weapon. She narrowed her eyes: “You’re the queen of the Forsaken.”
“Astute observation,” replied Sylvanas, not giving away how much she disliked this particular title. She’s been a general, not a monarch. Now, a protector, maybe a leader – but not a queen.
“Do you know something?” asked the sentinel.
“Depends. Who are you, and why do you search for the mage?”
“I’m Pained, and I’m a bodyguard to Lady Jaina.”
Sylvanas’ ears canted up in surprise: “And if you’re her bodyguard, why weren’t you here before?”
“Because she asked me to guard Theramore. …I had been reluctant. And it seems for a good reason.”
“Guarding something precious to her. You were trusted with something she would not ask of most people.”
“How do you know that?” asked Pained, agitation creeping into her voice.
“It wouldn’t be so hard to guess. But – she actually told me herself. Not about you, but about Theramore.”
“Really, now?” queried the night elf, suspicious.
“Come with me, I’ll bring you to her. Though, mind, Northrend has… changed her.”
Sylvanas expected the attack from the sentinel the moment the night elf saw in what way Jaina has ‘changed’. And so she danced away from the sword, raising her arms in a show of peace.
“Pained! Step down! Sylvanas has nothing to do with this!”
“Then why does she know where you are?! Especially since you are... like this?! What has she done to you, my lady?”
“She has nothing to do with my death. And she’s been keeping me company,” replied Jaina primly.
“Really? Then what happened?” asked Pained, as she stepped closer to the mage, hesitantly, as if not knowing how to approach Jaina’s obvious undeath, but still willing to be there for her friend – because none other than a true friend, or family, would be willing to go to such lengths to search for someone, Sylvanas was sure. Even if in her case, family had not been part of that list.
As Jaina recounted the story, the sentinel sitting right next to her, Sylvanas realized she was annoyed. When a growl escaped her, and Pained’s ear flicked to then immediately turn her eyes to her, she realized in horror what that annoyance was. Worse, Pained knew as well. The night elf’s face betrayed almost nothing, but then her ears moved again and the woman stood up to step away from Jaina, adjusting the heavy clothing she was bundled in, unlike the other two people present.
“What word should I bring back to Theramore?” she asked.
“You won’t be staying?” asked Jaina, curious.
Shaking her head, Pained replied: “I would only be slowing you down, or worse, attracting attention. I’ll trust that Lady Windrunner here will protect you.”
Sylvanas ground her teeth in annoyance. The insufferable night elf understood too much. But also… she seemed willing to trust her, such a rarity in her undeath.
“I don’t know what to tell them, Pained. Wouldn’t it be better to tell them I died? Rather than bring the news of me being Raised?”
“It wouldn’t,” spoke up Sylvanas, making the other two women look at her in surprise, “You’re their leader, the one they trusted to bring them out of the hellscape that was Lordaeron back then. They would want you back, I’m sure. …And don’t you dare disparage yourself, or any other free undead.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, Sylvanas, I didn’t realize… I didn’t want to speak ill of the Forsaken.”
That was certainly not what she wanted to say, thought Sylvanas, why did her little mage have to twist everything to… She shook her head: “They know – we know – how the living view the dead. But what I meant by this, was that despite your undeath, Theramore would want you back.”
“She’s right, Lady,” spoke Pained with a nod, “When you’re done, don’t hide forever. Come back home.”
“I promised you a tour of the Undercity. Would you do me the honour of seeing Theramore with you?” asked Sylvanas with a surprisingly soft smile.
“I will,” replied Jaina quietly, “And thank you, Pained, for coming, and for not condemning me.”
“I wouldn’t,” shook the sentinel her head, “Give the bastard a kick for me as well, will you?”
Jaina chuckled at that: “As many kicks as you want.”
Pained left soon after, but right before leaving, just out of Jaina’s earshot, she stopped to speak to Sylvanas: “I won’t say anything to her, but you should. And soon, because after the Lich King’s dead, there won’t be anything binding you two together. … And if you hurt her, I’ll hunt you down.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from her bodyguard.”
“Good. …Just a warning, before I go. Lady Jaina lived in Dalaran for a long time. She knows high elves quite well – and you’re not really subtle.”
“She’s buried in magical research the entire time.”
“That she is. Your only saving grace.”
***
There was an army in front of his gates, but he was not afraid of them – they would be trying for a long time to breach Icecrown, valiantly and pointlessly dying, only to become a part of his own army. They were just walking to their deaths.
But there was a feeling in his bones, a warning. That there was something coming, something he should fear. Maybe more than anything ever before. A quiet dark voice at the back of his mind was trembling, as it spoke of great danger approaching the Frozen Throne.
Arthas thought back to the moment this had begun, when he felt that flare of power. The subsequent weakening of the power of the Helm of Domination. Somehow, he knew what was coming – no, who was coming. But maybe, he could spin it to his advantage. To remind her she still loved him. They would finally finish this war, together.
It was anticipation, not fear, he decided, as he sat up straighter on his throne. Waiting for her.
***
It took one look at the man’s smarmy face, mostly hidden by the abominable helmet, for Jaina to stop caring. The former paladin in front of her was behind some of the worst atrocities in recent history. His actions during the siege of Quel’Thalas – what he did to Sylvanas – she could never condone. He disgusted her, and she regretted not finishing the job right there at Stratholme. Trying to talk to him. Such a laughable act. Not this time. She would not allow his narcissism to poison the air again.
Jaina twitched her hand, reaching out for the nexus of death magic right in front of her. A savage grin took over her face when she felt a response. A blast of power tore through the top of the Icecrown, staggering the Lich King and then flowed into her. By then, she was already casting again. Spears of ice grew out of their surroundings, crashing against the man’s armour. She felt more than heard Sylvanas’ bow sing next to her. Arrows wreathed in darkness burrowed into Arthas’ limbs, forcing him to drop Frostmourne.
The next time Jaina cast, ice began covering the man, forcing him down to his knees. She warded the icy prison, making sure he would not be able to escape. Finally, she looked at her companion: “He’s all yours.”
With a bloodthirsty grin in response, the former Ranger-General drew a wicked looking dagger, approaching the Lich King: “Last time we met, you were as helpless as now. But you got lucky. Don’t worry, it won’t happen again. Jaina won’t allow it. Now, remember that day in front of the gates? … Suffer like you forced me to! Like you tortured every single dead elf, every woman, every child!” screamed she, as she buried the blade under his armour.
“Don’t worry, you’ll stay conscious for a long time…,” she whispered as she withdrew the dagger to plunge it in again.
“That… was surprisingly satisfying,” commented Jaina, looking at the disfigured body in front of them.
“I got carried away, I planned to leave some for you,” replied Sylvanas with a contrite expression.
“Don’t worry. He’s dead. For good this time. I only owe Pained that kick,” the mage added as she crossed the distance to stomp on the corpse. Then she extended her arm, willing the Helm to rise: “Now, last act of this story. The architect, as well as the victim, not to be pitied but exorcised. Ner’zhul. Let’s see what your prison is made of.”
She knew the Helm’s structure by now, even after it lost most of the gathered death magic. And her research had definitely led to fruition. One hand grasping the Helm, the other lifting her staff, she began chanting. The Icecrown itself groaned as she slowly began to unlock the magic that made it, that was bound into the artefact. And the soul inside knew, she would not free it from its prison, no, she would crush him alongside it. The struggling was futile.
Last words fell from her lips. The Helm of Domination looked the same for a moment – and then collapsed onto itself, the metal bending at impossible speed, the enchantments inside breaking, turning against themselves. With a terrible cry, the item that made the Scourge turned to just a bit of dust and dissolved.
With a crazed look, arcane and death blazing around her, Jaina looked at Sylvanas: “There be a Lich King no more.”
***
Down below the fortress, the forces of Alliance and Horde watched in astonishment as the droves of undead stopped and fell all at once, as if they had their strings cut.
“What happened?”
“Are they really… dead?”
“Did we win?”
Whispers rose, nervousness and agitation spreading across the now calm battlefield.
A chosen group entered the – empty! – fortress, climbing to the summit. What awaited them had been… shocking. There, in the centre of the platform lay the mangled corpse of Arthas Menethil, his face uncovered, so they could easily see the terror in his eyes. Nearby, the shards of Frostmourne lay, its magic as drained as from the entire place.
“Where is the Helm of Domination?” asked Bolvar Fordragon hesitantly.
“It’s gone! Someone took it!” cried out the one of the champions checking the area.
“Wait, look,” pointed Tirion to a small scrap of paper floating above the body. The text on it, penned by a hand the Highlord vaguely recognized, was quite short.
The Lich King lies dead, and no other will ever arise. The Helm is broken, and the cursed soul within alongside it. Your crusade is over; you can return home in peace.
“Can we trust it?”
“I think I should know the one who wrote this. It seems familiar. So for now, yes. We can send word to Dalaran, to examine this place. But this writer is right, time to send everyone home,” released Tirion a bone-weary sigh, the long campaign finally catching up to him.
“Send a word, when you remember, will you?”
“Of course. But truly, I hope for peace.”
***
“I know this writing. Hard to forget it, really. You asked me to send a team to scour Icecrown… If you found this, there doesn’t seem to be a point,” commented archmage Modera with an inscrutable expression.
“Then who is it?” pressed Tirion.
“Jaina Proudmoore.”
The Highlord blinked: “But she was not in Northrend? At least not for Wrathgate and beyond.”
The mage shrugged: “Well, apparently she was. And did all the dirty work for you. Though, breaking the Helm of Domination… I would love to hear how she did it.”
Tirion rose with a groan. There would be no point in talking to Modera anymore. Not when she got that manic gleam in her eye at the thought of research.
At least he had some of the answers.
***
“Have you finally thought of a plan? It is ‘after’, after all.”
Sylvanas turned to the mage with a mock glare. They were walking away from the citadel, just two lone figures in the snow.
In the end, the elf relented: “I have, actually. …We’ve already made plans to see each other’s home – but it feels insufficient to me.”
“Insufficient? What are you implying, Sylvanas?”
“I’m sure you know, little mage.”
Jaina crossed her arms: “I would of course have no idea. You’ll have to tell me. Properly.”
She was not playing dumb – she couldn’t, really – Sylvanas knew that. No, she was asking for something else. Properly. Did she really…? Well, challenge accepted.
She turned to Jaina fully, staring right into her eyes: “I want more time with you. I want your company in the days and years to come. And even that is not enough. I want you. In whichever way. I can’t gift you a necklace here, since none yet exists. But I will, the moment you ask. I want to court you, properly, if that is what you ask, Jaina Proudmoore.”
A smile settled on the mage’s face: “You’ve given me a courting gift already, bloodied and mangled as it was. But I shall await the necklace. For now…,” Jaina reached behind her neck, unclasping her anchor pendant and made to fit it onto Sylvanas: “I shall give you my gift.”
The elf grabbed the anchor, her blood-red eyes blown wide: “…Thank you. I shall cherish it. And I can only hope the one I gift you in return will hold up.”
“I’m sure it will. …Shall we leave this barren land? Lordaeron or Theramore, just say the word.”
Instead of answering, Sylvanas hugged Jaina, curling her head into the crook of the other woman’s neck. Jaina hugged her back and the two stayed silent, drawing comfort from each other.
“… I never thought I would ever find someone, not after…”
“But you did. And brought me out of self-imposed solitude. Even without me, you’d have found someone. You care, Sylvanas.”
“I don’t think I’d have found anyone else. Just you, if in other circumstances. Maybe we’d have met in Theramore, you still alive, but we would.”
“Maybe. But at least this way, we’ll stay together for a very long time, if this truly works.”
“It will, I’m sure. …Bring us to the Undercity first. To introduce you back to society. I won’t have you bury yourself in research, abusing the fact that you don’t need to sleep.”
Jaina began to protest, before deflating: “I kind of did that already, didn’t I? And probably would again…”
“I’ve met other mages as well, dear,” smirked Sylvanas.
“And now you’ll have to put up with one for all eternity.”
“Worth it,” declared the elf.
“…Thank you, Sylvanas,” mumbled Jaina as she stretched her once again expanded magic to weave a portal. The woman, silent, squeezed her even more in understanding.
Together, they stepped through, leaving the frozen land behind. There was nothing keeping them there anymore.