Chapter 10: To pity the living

The Royal Palace of Lordaeron was a massive shape of gray stone set against the red tinged evening sky of the Tirisfal Glades. Blackened walls and unhinged doors made the place very much a ruin, yet it was the eerie silence that truly disturbed him, Eireannan thought.

He had seen it in better days, when the court of Lordaeron could rival, at least partially, the splendours of Silvermoon. There he had danced in one of the ball rooms to the right – and here used to be a small fountain where princess Callia’s maids of honor stood to chat when their service was not required.

Daria walked alongside him, her lips pursed and her right hand on the sword hilt. She had insisted to come and Eireannan felt just too exhausted to go through the tiring process of changing her mind. She was stubborn and knew all too well how to exploit his weaknesses, for all the years they had spent together.

Her village had been one of the first affected by the plague. A girl of thirteen or fourteen at that time, she had managed to run and hide until the ensuing massacre was over. Arthas and his men had found her laying besides the body of her dead mother. At first Eireannan had feared her mind was damaged – the girl would not speak and would barely react to whatever happened around her. With all the turmoil in Lordaeron, he had somehow remained stuck with the girl and finally took her with him back to Quel’Thalas. Then the hospital in which he had put her was razed by the scourge together with half of Silvermoon. Miraculously, Daria had survived. Yet that was another story…

He looked at her from the corner of the eye. She did not seem troubled – only deep in thought. And slighty uneasy, as they crossed the empty throne room. The royal seat still stood – if covered in dust and spider webs – and so did the blood stains on the polished floor tiles. No one had ever cared to wipe it away. The city had fallen into anarchy after King Terenas’ death and then swarmed by endless hordes of scourge. – not the King’s death – his murder at the very hands of his son, Eireannan corrected himself. His mind had a strange habit of smoothing out unpleasant details. There were ghosts there, he thought. He almost had a feeling that- if he turned his head around fast enough – he would be able to see them.

They went along a narrow corridor, then through the crypt that had been the burial place of all the kings of Lordaeron – save for the last one. Technically Arthas was the king. And Arthas was dead. Or not really dead…Things got blurry after a while spent around the Forsaken and the Scourge. Sometimes he felt the thin line he already treaded become even thinner. Good and evil had long lost their meaning, but it was difficult even to retain a reasonable amount of sanity while dealing on a regular basis with the deceased.

A steep flight of stairs led directly into the bowels of the Capital City sewer system.
The air was foul and unpleasant and the dim light made them walk almost blindly until their vision adjusted to it. Eireannan heard Daria struggle to breathe normally while she tried to keep up with him.

Hideous growls filled their ears as they started along the canal filled with dirty water. Eireannan didn’t even spare a glance towards the abominations guarding the entrance. There were towering masses of flesh leaking yellow fluids – each one armed with chains and blood stained cleavers. Poorly sewn entrails did not make for a pleasant sight. Gripping Daria’s arm so tightly she almost bit back a moan, he led her to their right, into the winding corridors reeking with the deep stench of death.
The Royal Quarters were buried on the lowest level of the city so they took yet another winding corridor. Whoever had imagined the sewers of Lordaeron definitely hated straight lines. Armed Dreadguards watched them with a scowl as they passed. Even on those half-bare skulls, covered in black hoods it was easy to guess that they held no respect whatsoever for the living. Daria looked as if she already felt cold fingers creeping along her spine, while she tried to maintain an equal stride and a straight back. Eireannan held her arm firmly. He should have never allowed her to come with him after all.

The corridor ended abruptly into a narrow entrance, barely enough for two people abreast. Despite the show of fearlesness she had made so far, Daria dropped into an awkward curtsy as soon as they were in. Eireannan on the other hand, straightened quite obviously before the Dark Lady of the Forsaken and former Ranger General of Quel'Thalas, Sylvanas Windrunner, turned on them.

She was alone this time – the sight of Varimathras the dreadlord made Eireannan seethe even worse than the rest of the Undercity. It was the Legion who had been behind the Lich King’s actions, at least in the beginning. Sylvanas was a fool to pretend he had forgotten that. The very Legion that was even now preparing to launch an assault over Azeroth, if the rumors from Silvermoon could be given any credit. And there could be no such thing as a tame demon. Varimathras had betrayed his brothers – if family connections held any relevance with the demons – and would gladly betray his new queen should the opportunity arise. If he hadn’t already. There was a strong undercurrent in the Undercity in his favour – and the Royal Apothecary Society obeyed him blindly.

“Past time”, the Dark Lady observed taking a few steps over to them. She wore a Ranger’s garb – only in black and grey, complete with a curved dagger tucked in her belt. Bow and quiver rested somewhere on a gilded table – that looked as rotten and decaying as everything else around. Her red glazed eyes focused on Eireannan maliciously before she started pacing away.

“News came from Silvermoon” she said quite excitedly. For a dead woman that was. Her voice sounded deep and disturbing – it made blood try to coagulate in your veins. “Kael’thas had made a pact with the Legion. Lor’themar does not yet want the story to spread – but they will have to strike him down, wherever he resides now…”
Eireannan grimaced. Technically, Lor’Themar Theron had assumed the leadership of Silvermoon. In practice he had no more power than a new recruit had to order around the Ranger General. Kael’thas had sent his own loyal servant, Grand Magister Rommath to keep an eye on his Regent and spread tales of the promised land. Which, had transpired was nothing more than a collection of rocks floating into the nether – suffused with the very magic that had ripped Draenor apart. According to the very same rumors, some of Kael’s men had come to dislike his methods and ran over to the Light devoted Naaru.

He wondered what else Sylvanas knew. Lor’themar Theron had been her second in command for so long he would still take her advice.

“So all you wanted was to talk rumours?” Eireannan asked quietly. Regardless of that his voice held so much contempt that the Dark Lady gave him a murderous stare. “I have something else to tell you.” Pressing against the wall behind as hard as she could, Daria cringed. Ironically, that level tone was the one that proved Eireannan was truly angry. He never yelled – almost never raised his tone for that matter. But when he spoke as controlled as he did now, one could be sure the storm was not too far away.

“And that would be?”

“I’ve passed through Hillsbrad on my way here.” Eireannan breathed sharply. “People have been murdered in their beds by Forsaken attacks. And not only Forsaken.Now Darthalia’s sending every new recruit into the town, be it forsaken or sin’dorei, to kill some innocents as their first proof of devotion to the Dark Lady! And bring their heads back in a bag as token…!”

“I’ve told you times before this…we will slaughter anyone that stands in our way!"

"Including peasants - women and children? You are doing nothing but to bring more pain upon those people – more hatred on the heads of your …subjects…and our people! Should I wonder why the Scarlets would want every last Forsaken dead?” They were fanatics, true – and some he had gladly dispatched himself – but the cruelty of the Banshee Queen seemed to have no limits of late.

"What are we all if not slaves to this torment?" Her voice was now a shrieking sound, burrowing into Daria’s skull like a drill. “ How could I forget, Eireannan? And what do those alive know about our suffering? About being trapped in this horrible nightmare, in your own, rotting flesh with nothing but your will left to set the world into movement?"

She still paced around the room in a flurry of motion.
“Revenge is the only thing that drives us forth! We must embrace it and let it lead us into victory. It is the right of all the Forsaken to… ”

Anger brimmed inside Eireannan until he could held onto it no longer. He had found it difficult during the last two days to keep his emotions under control. That night in Arathi – he didn’t want to remember, but somehow there was no chance to avoid it either – Lainne was beautiful, smart, deliciously soft and caring...A woman he could grow to love. Only he would not love anymore – he could not…would not…In a sense he was dead inside as surely as Sylvanas and her minions, doomed to live remembering every little scrap of what he had lost. What he had become. All that frustration finally burst out and he stood to face her, hands clenched into fists, while Daria tried very hard not to be noticed behind him.

“You do not care about the Forsaken… ” He had seen some of them making plans how to slaughter relatives still alive. He had met others who only longed for peace and tried to live by the virtues of Light. Hell, he had seen Forsaken get married in undeath and attempt once more to just be themselves…whatever that was. “You care about nothing else but your own revenge! You will use them - and anyone else for this purpose and the rest of the world be damned!”

“Why do I have to care?” the Dark Lady said bitterly. She stopped and glared at Eireannan as if unable to understand why he would challenge her. “Our kin -- a handful of pathetic survivors, barely able to scramble a mana potion to quench their addiction! Serving Kael'Thas plans and now… the Legion! The very Legion that created the monster back in Northrend. Me…that I have fought to my last breath... turned into this...this monstrosity! And you…just look at yourself!…You’ve been corrupted…! Don't you see what we have all become?"

Daria forgot to breathe. The Dreadguards on the other side of the entrance clearly wished to be somewhere else.

“Oh, but I see”, Eireannan answered too softly. His voice was cold where hers had been heated. “How could I not see that you’ve turned all those that come too close to you into blood thirsty murderers?”

The words fell heavy in the silence of the hall. For a second, Daria could only hear her own erratic heartbeats. Sylvanas Windrunner looked frozen, yet the expression etched into that dead face was gut-twisting. Eireannan on the other hand was a bundle of tensed muscles, bracing himself for the hit that never came.

The Dark Lady’s attention suddenly shifted to Daria, as if she had just then noticed her presence. The young woman stood with her back pressed against the wall, obviously uneasy and avoiding to look at the Dark Lady. Instead, her eyes were fixed upon Erieannan with what seemed to be, at the same time, a mixture of worry and confidence.

Weird enough, the Banshee smiled.

"You have no idea it meant to be a slave to the Lich King! Maybe you need a taste of that..."

Pain. Eireannan wanted to scream out and he couldn't. A thousand little needles burrowing themselves into his brain like probing fingers.With terrifying clarity, he knew what she was trying to do. Possession.

His sight blurred as Sylvanas’ body, emptied of spirit sagged and fell backwards in slow motion. At the same time her pressure against his mind increased, like a crushing vice until, despite his efforts to resist, Eireannan opened to her will. She took control over his body while he was still aware of everything, his consciousness a screaming presence inside. He watched in terror as his hand went to the dagger in his belt, unsheathing it in one single move. Then he turned facing Daria, who still leaned against the door, her eyes now wide with fear. His lips spelled the words of agony and she gave out a cry as she doubled in pain, then hit the floor writhing uncontrollably.

His hand raised the dagger.

“What about this? How does it feel to have no control at all? To watch impotently as someone you care for dies...at your own hand...?"

Sylvanas' words were a whisper beyond awarness. His mind tried to close down on her, to somehow keep himself from seeing what he was about to do. Panic took over. He pushed against her consciousness, clawed at it uselessly. It was as if he were trying to take down a wall with his bare hands.

“You cannot stop me. Do you have any idea how sweet this feels?”

The gleaming blade angled downwards – a very precise blow, straight through the heart. Daria watched it mesmerized as he held her down effortlessly, with one hand only. Normally she should have been able to push him back – Eireannan was not that strong physically. Tears filled her eyes as she failed to free herself from his grip. The dagger arched back, poised to hit.

“Nooooooooooo!”

With the frantic energy of despair, Eireannan lashed out one more time.
The blade tore the air, Daria’s sleeve and hit the stone tiles – the steel shattered as if it were brittle glass. The shock made Eireannan collapse over Daria’s limp body – and suddenly realized he could feel again. Air seemed to flood his lungs all at once. For long moments he could do nothing else than breathe, like a man just fished from the bottom of a well where he had been drowning. Daria sobbed quietly and shuddered every now and then, yet her arms had been around his shoulders as soon as the blade fell. Holding him. Holding onto him.

The Dark Lady frowned as she glided back into the field of his vision. She seemed phased – and Eireannan wondered dimly why. She had been in control all the time and all his strength of will and mind had barely sufficed to alter – if only a little – the trajectory of the blade.

Yet the Banshee didn’t look at all pleased. She bit her lower lip, still frowning as Eireannan struggled to move. It was an effort, pushing himself up on hand and knees. Knotted muscles refused to obey his commands, but when he finally managed to stand the Dark Lady’s gaze was – almost – appreciative.

“Don’t you ever challenge me, Eireannan. I can crush you under my boot – and I will do so if you make me. I feel no pity for the living. Keep that in mind.”

“My point exactly…” Eireannan muttered. He pulled Daria up tottering under her weight – she was clearly shocked enough not to be able to stand by herself. For a second it looked as if they might both crumble again – but Eireannan’s grim determination left no room for that. He almost dragged her into the corridor and stormed through the Dreadguards, all the way up to the inner ring. Nobody bothered to stop them.

Strength lasted enough to make it out of the Undercity. Not sufficiently to be able to summon his felsteed. He just walked blindly on the King’s road , once Lordaeron’s most travelled route, now broken and covered in patches of grass. Daria followed him closely, shambling and pale.

It actually lasted sufficiently to get out of sight from the ruins of the city before he collapsed to the ground and emptied his stomach. He couldn't remember feeling so sick ever – didn’t even have any idea for how long he remained there, retching and shuddering as if wanting to throw out every meal he had ever eaten. It certainly seemed an eternity until he was able to pull himself back up on wobbling legs. Daria stood frozen just a few steps away. She was pale as white bleached linen and so obviously shocked that for a second Eireannan forgot how drained he felt. He put a trembling hand on her shoulder, then pulled her closer, into something awkwardly resembling an embrace.

Only then did she start to cry.

"Shhhh..." Erieannan whispered. "It's fine. We're both fine..."

However, she kept crying, her hands now tightly wrapped around his neck.
“I should have done something..." she droned in between sobs that made her chest heave. "I'm no coward...Ei'an...you know that...I shoud've at least tried to fight you...but I was scared, so scared...never been so scared...and I couldn’t…couldn’t do nothing…I…”

There were no reassuring words Eireannan could think of. He just held her tighter against himself.