Nether and Necrosis - Liberator

--Two Years Prior--

He awoke to darkness.

His first instinct was to gasp for breath, and as he did, he cried out as he felt pain lancing through his broken body. The cold, hard, damp stone floor under his back made it clear he was naked, stripped of any and all possessions he had had in life. He groaned as his stiff muscles tensed and reacted to a dark ritual that kept feeding the dark energy coursing through his coagulated veins. His consciousness started to clear ever so slightly, and with an excruciating heave, he managed to roll over and pick himself up on his hands and knees.

The first thought that came into his weakened mind was simply thus: “Why can’t I see?”

He raised a trembling hand to his face in the hopes he could make out his hand, but there was only blackness. As he laid his fingers on his face, he felt the rough linen bandages that literally held his head together. For a moment, he recoiled in horror internally, but he did not have the foggiest idea just why. Part of him screamed that this entire situation was wrong, but there was a small voice – a small, terrifying, but oddly soothing voice – that was stating otherwise.

Other voices were then heard, this time from beyond the confines of his mind. Whispers. Some were concerned, others giddy. Most were chanting something eldritch over and over and over … still, above it all, that small but terrifying voice held sway over his disordered attentions.

“Where am I?” his fragmented mind asked the deep, dark, and comforting voice that had made itself known to him.

“Where you have been reborn …” the voice hissed and echoed in return. “Where you will serve me …”

“This one,” an authoritative voice beyond his mind barked. “Dispose of it. It is taking far too long in the raising circle to get to its feet.”

“Patience, Lord Razzuvius-ssss,” a meeker voice spoke in pleading. “This one was once very potent in the infernal ways of the holy Light …” – there was no small amount of acid at that word – “… and it is taking all our effort to purge its power from the husk. He should be able to hear the Master’s voice right about now.”

“If it does, then maybe it will be of some use … but if it cannot prove its strength in the immediate future, then I am consigning the weakling to the Liches for experimentation.”

“Of course, Lord Razzuvius-ssss …”

As if responding to the threat Razzuvius had made, the small voice in the raised corpse’s mind turned from a whisper into a roaring bellow. “RISE UP, YOU WORTHLESS SCUM. YOUR MASTER HAS NEED OF YOUR POWER.”

With the bellow, a bright-feeling, burning fire flared up in his veins, its intensity flaring through every stitch and gaping wound his cold body bore. This burning was followed by an even darker, icily cold fire trying to chase the cleansing, flesh-welding flame out from inside of him.

Reacting to the shock of both the mental bellow and the sudden surge of dark energy being shunted into him, the dead man clapped his hands over his ears, arched his spine backwards and let out an inhuman scream that shook and changed the colour of the very stones around him. Shouts of shock and awe were heard beyond the confines of his mind in that long moment, all sounds falling silent save for this one pained shout.

Finally, totally spent from the ritual, the man slumped down into a strange kneeling position on the altered floor, letting his arms hang limp at his sides. After a moment in silence, he raised up his face as if his bandaged eyes were trying to see the dark presence standing before him, commanding him to rise.

“Speak, Master …” The dead man’s coarse whispers were audibly heard at last. Whatever holy will that was trying to fight off the dark voice that was commanding him was finally gone and dispelled. “… your servant hears.”

“Good … gooooooood.” The voice sounded genuinely pleased, almost praising its new servant. “Now, rise up and stand, my servant. Listen and obey all that you are told. That is my command.”

As he got to his feet, the voice that was Razzuvius commanded: “This one, necromancer! Mark him and give him his collar. Send him to the Forgemaster straight away so he may be fitted with trappings apt for an Acolyte of Acherus! He will make a fine Death Knight in the ranks of our Master, the Lich King!”

“Right away, Lord Razzuvius-ssss,” the meek voice of the necromancer replied eagerly, as the new-born Death Knight felt a ring of cold steel get fitted and welded around his neck. He could hear the light jingle of what sounded like metal dog tags from the front of the collar, while at the same time, he felt four pairs of strong hands encased in steel immobilize his arms and grip his shoulders, forcing the dead man to hold still. Before he had time to figure out what was going on, he felt the searing heat of six brands being burned into his skin – two large ones, one on his back and one over his heart, and four smaller brands, two on his upper arms and two on his forearms. For a moment, the new Death Knight bit back the urge to cry out, and then he felt the wiry palm of a necromancer being placed on his chest.

“Wh—what are you … doing to me?” he gasped, struggling against the metal hands that were now folding his freshly-branded arms behind his back.

The necromancer said nothing, but the voice that was now ever present in the Death Knight’s mind spoke instead.

“SCREAM, WORM. SCREAM AND KNOW PAIN.”

The brands flared to life as the necromancer shunted power into them, transforming the branded scars into powerful runes. The pain of the process was immense, and for some reason, in the brief moment while he was still fighting for consciousness, the screaming nascent Death Knight enjoyed it.

~||~

“A new one,” the Forgemaster mused in monotone, as he examined the dog-tags on the acolyte’s collar. “Number … 475 …”

“We’ve taken to calling him ‘Manshee’,” one of the hulking Tauren Death Knights that had dragged #475 into the Forgemaster’s smithy bellowed, prodding the prone body laying sprawled at the Forgemaster’s feet.

“He screams like a banshee,” the second Tauren remarked.

“Hah!” squealed a Forsaken Death Knight. “You mean he screams like a little girl!”

A groan was heard from the floor as the new Death Knight slowly tried to rise to his feet. “That scream will be the last thing you hear, maggots,” he threatened, the ice-blue glow of the Scourge starting to shine through the bandages that were wrapped around his head.

“Aww … look who’s awake! Did Sleeping Beauty enjoy his nap?!” an Orc Death Knight mocked, kneeing the freshly-risen knight in the gut before throwing him towards the smithy’s rearmost wall, where the two Tauren Knights quickly shackled the new one’s arms and legs to two pillars in a standing spread eagle. “Time to get outfitted, pup,” the Orc announced in a sneering, sinister voice.

The Forgemaster took the handle of his hammer and prodded the new knight in various spots, much to the knight’s annoyance. He growled at the first poke in a particularly tender spot, and tried to tear loose from the pillars he was shackled to at the second poke in an attempt to beat down whoever was accosting him – but he only succeeded in spitting out a string of invectives and bared his teeth in threat like some wild animal.

“Number Three Twenty-one?” the Forgemaster commanded.

The Orc saluted. “Yes, Forgemaster.”

“Get the muzzle. This one still has quite a bit of bite left in him.”

“Hehehe … yes, Forgemaster.”

It was less of a muzzle and more of a gag; Orc 321 simply forced a leather half-mask into Four Seventy-Five’s face and clasped it shut, inhibiting any speech, biting, or movement of the mouth whatsoever.

“It would behoove you to hold still and behave, Number Four Seventy-Five,” the Forgemaster reprimanded the new knight, as he selected a greenish black bar of writhing steel and chucked the ingot into his forge. “Our Master has asked me to give you our ‘special’ treatment … and I intend to follow his command to the letter.”

Four Seventy-Five just growled, struggled against the restraints one more time, and then finally relented, becoming eerily quiet and brooding while the Forgemaster drew out the writhing steel and began to pound it into shape with hammer and anvil, stopping every now and then to see how it fit on his captive audience. While the Forgemaster was kept busy fashioning the armour, under the dark of the linen bandages that wrapped his head and blindfolded his eyes, Four Seventy-Five winced as the uncomfortably hot proto-armour (although flash-cooled in a quench that smelled of blood, vomit, other bodily fluids, and water) contacted his skin every now and then out of the Forgemaster’s measured carelessness.

Throughout the ordeal, however, Four Seventy-Five maintained his near trance-like silence. The other Death Knights guarding the smithy, despite having literal ice water in their veins, found even themselves slightly unnerved at how stoic Four Seventy-Five was. They had been expecting him to struggle and scream like all the others they dragged here to get outfitted, but now they could see just why the Lich King had asked for special treatment for this one.

After what felt like an eternity to the blind new knight, the seams of the dark armour were finally welded shut, encasing the acolyte in steel that whispered and writhed as if though it were alive, turning as it cooled into a sort of second skin that made Four Seventy-Five all the more imposing. The Forgemaster took another hammer and smote the shackles loose from the pillars, leaving the manacles on Four Seventy-Five’s wrists and ankles as part of his boots and gauntlets – a permanent reminder of what he really was: a slave to the Lich King.

Exhausted from standing on his own power to keep from showing weakness while being sealed into his new armour, Four Seventy-Five dropped to one knee once he was freed, and then took a moment to undo his muzzle, tossing the restrictive device aside. The other four Death Knights turned slowly to watch as Four Seventy-Five rose off of the floor one more time; then with inhuman speed, he grabbed the Forgemaster by the throat and turned his face toward him. The glow emanating from where Four Seventy-Five’s eyes should have been was intense and vengeful. “I should tear you limb from limb for forcing me to suffer that indignity …” the newly armoured monster growled. The Forgemaster didn’t even blink. “But the Master says you are still of use to us.” With that, he dropped the Forgemaster to the floor and began to stride out of the smithy.

The other four Death Knights stopped him.

“You didn’t get your helm, Four Seventy-Five,” Orc 321 barked.

Silence was Four Seventy-Five’s first response. Then, he turned and clocked the Orc hard enough to not only floor him, but the punch also smashed up and knocked off Three Twenty-One’s helm.

“I don’t need one.”

The remaining three Death Knights wisely stepped aside and let the newcomer walk past. They could feel the presence of the Lich King so strongly within Four Seventy-Five … perhaps it was the voice of their Master that was keeping what they knew was a blind man from walking into the walls of Acherus or falling out of the Ziggurat altogether. Few Death Knights were that close to the Lich King right off the bat. It would be only a matter of time before the other, fully trained Knights would realize this.

Just how violently that realization would come was anyone’s guess.

~||~

Razzuvius eyed the new acolyte as he walked into the training grounds. It was outrageous that his Master, the Lich King himself, would insist on lavishing ‘special’ treatment on such a pathetic specimen. This one was blind because the Death Knight that had slain him had obviously thought it would be a laugh to skewer his blade through his victim’s face. So much potential wasted because of another’s selfish need to prove dominance … but he was commanded to work with this scarface, and Razzuvius was never in a position to protest his Master. First things first, though.

As soon as the new acolyte approached him and saluted, Razzuvius thrust a simple blade into the new knight’s hands and directed him to one of Acherus’ runeforges. He watched with guarded interest as the blind knight managed to set a rune of power onto the blade, then immediately threw him into the battle pit and turned him on one of the failed initiates to gauge his thirst for blood. Impressed by the focus and gusto for killing Four Seventy-five displayed that would have unnerved moral men, Razzuvius assigned the scarface to Lord Thorval in the hopes the Blood Lord would be able to further focus Four Seventy-five’s potential.

Weeks passed, and number Four Seventy-Five was living up to the promise the Lich King had pointed out to Razzuvius. For Four Seventy-Five, though, the training was a torturous marathon married to a living hell. The worst part was the blindfighting training, a class of only five acolytes led by a former Blood Elf demon hunter that the Lich King had slain and raised as one of his primary Death Knights. This arrangement alone pretty much singled him out to the rest of the growing army of Death Knights that were stationed within the confines of Acherus, and he was often challenged in the pit. He was forced to rely less and less on outside direction in combat, and he suffered a number of beatings before it became clear that the Lich King saw his dependence on others to serve as his eyes as a weakness that needed to be purged. Once Four Seventy-Five realized this, few other acolytes could touch him in the pit. His inhuman reflexes were augmented further by his growing spatial awareness, allowing him to block and parry even the most oblique strikes. In time, his adeptness in the art of blindfighting was so clear, he boasted that he could hear his opponent’s thoughts and feel their fear through the ground they stood upon. Whether or not his peers believed this boast, they found themselves set against an opponent that was turning more and more into a bloodthirsty, nigh-invincible juggernaut with each passing day.

… but at night, when Acherus was still and all the agents of the Scourge slipped into the dull hibernating state that was as close to sleep as undead could get, Four Seventy-Five was haunted by fragmented memories and the loss of will to fight himself out of his servitude to the Lich King. Every time he tried to summon the nerve to break free, he instantly began to question why he would want to. What was there for him beyond the confines of Acherus? This unlife, as terrible as it was, was the only life he has known … wasn’t it?

The broken fragments of a life he had been kidnapped from kept surfacing in his dreams and insisted otherwise.

~||~

Acherus shook.

All activity within the necropolis’ halls halted for a moment as the residents within tried to make heads or tails of what was going on. One of the ghouls got sufficiently unbalanced to pitch over the edge of the massive ziggurat’s lowermost level with a shriek, and the small platoon of Death Knights who leaned over the railing to watch the ghoul plummet to the frozen earth of Northrend in sick glee came to a shared, silent shock when they realized their ziggurat was flying over water. Once it became publicly known that Acherus had been mobilized, a Death Gate opened wide with an aura of intense cold and deep hatred blustering forth, heralding the arrival of the Master of the Scourge.

The Lich King was in the house.

Highlord Darion Mograine greeted his master with eagerness, and announced to the whole of the residents of Acherus their mission: they had been dispatched to the Scarlet Enclave to finish what the dread necropolis of Naxxramas had started years before. The fledgling Death Knights cheered in a joint, bloodthirsty roar. At last, they would see battle and carry out the will of their King – to sow the seeds of Terror, Domination, and Apocalypse upon all who would oppose their glorious Master. The first to fall would be the fanatical Scarlet Crusade, and they would turn as many of them as they could into soldiers for their next target – Light’s Hope Chapel, and the members of the Argent Dawn.

~||~

“This is Baccus.” The Forgemaster, monotone as ever, handed the huge, two-handed runesword over to Four Seventy-Five. “He is one of the Souleater runeblades we forged specifically for the fully-fledged warriors here on Acherus. If only you could see just how iconic he is … once your enemies see you wield this, they will know you are a Knight of the Ebon Blade.”

Four Seventy-Five simply ran a gauntleted hand over the blade. “I can see without eyes, Forgemaster. This blade will serve me well.”

“Hey. Blindfighter.” It was the voice of Orc Three Twenty-One. “The Lich King has called for you, and he wishes to speak with you to your face.”

“Thank you, Loosejaw.” Four Seventy-Five nodded as he slung Baccus over his shoulder and into the holder on his back. “I will see you at the front.”

“Yeah, yeah …” was the half-hearted reply. “Suffer well and all that.”

The Death Knight made his way up to the balcony where the Lich King had been standing, watching the chaos below as the Scarlet Enclave was slowly being consumed by flames.

“Glorious. Glorious Domination … and yet we hunger for more, do we not?” the Lich King spoke, more to Frostmourne’s accursed blade than anyone else as Four Seventy-Five approached. There was an acknowledging pause before the Lich King spoke again, this time to the now fully-realized Death Knight. “You haven’t failed to impress me. A shame you are unable to look upon the Domination you have contributed so much to.”

“I don’t need eyes to know what I am capable of, Master.”

The Lich King only chuckled coldly. “Of course … but if you wanted to see, I could allow you a chance to gaze through the Eye of Acherus so that you may marvel upon the delicious agony of the Scarlet Crusade.”

“If you will it so, Master.”

Gesturing with Frostmourne in hand, the Lich King directed Four Seventy-Five to the control orb for the Eye, and for a few brief moments, the blind knight could see the horrific fruits of his labour. A raped land defiled by plague and grotesquely disfigured corpses littered what had once been fertile fields. A town razed to ashes, shambling ghouls dragging their feet through what remained of its streets.

“Turn the Eye’s gaze yonder, Death Knight,” the Lich King urged. “To that infernal Scarlet capital of New Avalon.”

Beyond the dying lands within Acherus’ immediate vicinity, the pristine walls of New Avalon came into view. At the city’s gates, the forces of the Scarlet Crusade were making a valiant effort to repel the growing armies of ghouls and Death Knights swarming at their doorstep.

“I have shown this to others, Death Knight,” the Lich King spoke. “It should be clear now that I will be sending you there with those others to turn the tide.”

Four Seventy-Five had to pry himself away from the control orb and settle back into the comforting darkness he had known ever since his dark rebirth. “Yes, Master,” he replied, doing his best not to long for the ability to see. Right away, he could sense the Lich King’s displeasure at his moment of weakness.

“You have served my ends well thus far, Knight!” the Lich King bellowed. “I expect nothing less from you, as you know full well what I do to those who disappoint me.”

All Four Seventy-Five could do was kneel in submission. “I will not disappoint you, Master.”

“Then GO.” This bellow was accentuated with a surge of dark power that Four Seventy-Five immediately recoiled from. “You are my hand and the bringer of my wrath! Waste no more of my time. BEGONE.”

Without another moment’s hesitation, the Knight stood and made haste to Death’s Breach where a platoon of twenty Death Knights were waiting on horseback. He could hear the unearthly whinnies and nickerings of the freshly-raised corpse-horses as his transport descended from Acherus.

“Does Dionysus have his tack on?” Four Seventy-Five barked as soon as he got off of the transport scourge gryphon.

“Horsey … has saddle … yesssss …” the ghoulish stablehand burbled, handing Four Seventy-Five’s personal Deathcharger’s reins over to the blind knight.

Four Seventy-Five swung himself into the Deathcharger’s saddle, causing the undead horse to rear up and paw at the air menacingly. “Whoa, Dionysus! Down! NOW.” The horse snorted, and came back down to all fours meekly, nickering. Once his surprisingly temperamental steed had settled down some, Four Seventy-Five motioned for the platoon to follow, and together they thundered through the tormented land and barrelled into the Scarlet frontlines, forcing an opening for the Knights of Acherus to enter the city proper.

~||~

It had hardly been more than a few hours. He was sitting in the tavern where a number of the Ebon Blade’s more notable warriors had holed up and converted the premises into a makeshift base. A few of the more discreet Knights he had led into the city were sent off on intelligence missions, while others were dispatched to break out prisoners that the Scarlet Crusade had captured during the defence of the Scarlet Enclave. One came back and mentioned something about a group of prisoners at the Chapel of Crimson Flame.

Curious, Four Seventy-Five walked out of the Tavern and made his way toward the chapel. It wasn’t hard to find, even for a blind man, as he had heard from the messenger that another platoon of Death Knights was burning the chapel to the ground. All he had to do was follow the heat.

“Well. If it isn’t number Four Seventy-Five, the infamous Blindfighter.”

Four Seventy-Five recognized the voice, as it belonged to one of the higher ranking Knights. “Howdy, Commander Plaguefist,” he greeted curtly.

Plaguefist laughed coldly. “I thought you were supposed to stay out of sight until further notice, Blindfighter.”

“Heard there was a barbeque. Came to join the party,” Blindfighter replied, somewhat flippantly.

A cruel smile was heard in Plaguefist’s voice. “A sense of humour. That’s new. Well …” Plaguefist’s voice hardened a little. “If you’re here for a party, you’re in for a bit of a treat, Blindfighter. Our men were looking for some our own in the chapel’s prison, but we found a load of Argent Dawn flunkies instead. Most of them are dead now, of course, but there are a few in there that will need a hand getting put down … I’m pretty sure you’d like to do the honours.”

Blindfighter reached for Baccus and drew the massive blade from his back-mounted holster. “Baccus has been waiting for his next taste of blood … just point me in their direction.”

“Right behind me and walk straight, Blindfighter.” The next statement was purposefully mocking. “Try not to get lost.”

Ignoring the persistent teasing, Blindfighter walked into the barracks, expecting to get jumped by the surviving members of the Dawn. Instead, he walked into a group of twelve voices praying one last prayer before they died. One was leading the prayer, a soft female voice with a distinctly twangy accent that was obviously belonging to a human. Then they began to take turns reciting lines from a meditation poem that sounded eerily familiar to the Death Knight.

In this quiet, I bask in Your rays.
In the cold and cloudy dark,
You are my Sun, always.
My heart, my soul, my body, and mind,
I have dedicated to thee,
Be the solace in no other source will I find.

“… be the solace in no other source will I find …” Blindfighter whispered, lowering his guard and his blade.

First, he could hear frightened shuffling. Then, the soft voice spoke. “You’re here to kill us, aren’t you?”

Blindfighter remained silent.

“Then what’re you waiting for?” The voice hardened. “Finish the job.”

Blindfighter obeyed and walked closer to the group of twelve, Baccus trembling in his hands, the massive blade eager to bite into living flesh.

“Make it quick, Death Knight,” the woman spoke, being as brave as she could for the whimpering and weakened brothers and sisters she led. Blindfighter could tell she was looking directly at him as he approached. “Make it quick, and may the Light have mercy on whatever is left of your soul, you mon—” She cut herself off mid-word as she took a moment to get a closer look at the hesitating Death Knight. “By the Light … it’s … it’s you! Mercy, Preacher … what did those beasts do to you?”

This caused Blindfighter to stop and lower his blade again, eliciting Baccus to shiver and rattle in protest and impatient outrage.

“You … you know me?” he whispered hoarsely.

He could hear the woman sob. It was hard to tell if it was one of relief, one of hope, or one of sorrow. Perhaps it was a little of each. “Dearest Light … they took so much from you. I couldn’t recognize your face under that bandage. I saw you die, Preacher. I saw him cut you down and drive his sword into your head. If only we had mustered the courage to drag you away from that place … you wouldn’t be like this, Preacher. Oh … mercy …”

Before he could ask the woman any other questions, he felt her hands, soft but slightly calloused, land on his face and undo the bandage. As Blindfighter felt the linen bandage fall away from his face, the woman gasped and sobbed, pulling away from him slowly. “Light’s mercy … I was hopin’ that what I felt wasn’t true … the monsters. They took your memories … they took your sight …”

Blindfighter only blinked as the blackness he had learned to live in gradually brightened into a field of gray mottled with blotches of different shades of darkness. He could make out twelve shadows in front of him now; eleven huddled together in a heap, and one shivering in his face from all the sobbing he heard.

“If only you told us not to retreat … oh Light … you weren’t like this … you aren’t like this, Preacher! You have to remember that you were once one of us, fighting against the Lich King!” She started to compose herself. “Try to remember who you were before you sacrificed yourself for our safety, Preacher. Remember all those people you ministered to and protected with your life! You have to break free of the Lich King, for their sakes at least!!”

The Death Knight stood frozen in indecision for a moment at the prospect he had happened upon; these people knew him! These people could explain these haunting and fragmented memories! He couldn’t kill them … not now … not when they had so much to tell him!

“BLINDFIGHTER! What the fel is taking so long in there!?”

Blindfighter grunted and sighed at Plaguefist’s impatience. Gripping Baccus’ handle tightly, he took a moment to think fast in the hopes of helping these people escape. “They’re tryin’ to talk me down. Don’t worry. I’ll finish the job,” he yelled back.

“Well make ‘em shut up or I’ll come in there and kill ‘em for ya!”

“Preacher,” the woman said, fortitude entering her voice. “You should pro’ly just do what you came in here to do. If you don’t, they’ll kill you and any hope of redeeming you to the Light will be lost. I wish there was another way, but we’re sick and dying … we’re doomed anyway.”

“At least tell me your name …” he mumbled, feeling a painful but familiar and comforting fire welling up in his dead heart.

“Teresa Ravenhill, Preacher …” she whispered, hugging him with a warm, hopeful embrace that he could feel right through his armour. “Don’t forget me or the rest of us. Light be with you.”

“… Light … be with you,” Blindfighter stammered out, the phrase familiar and comforting, yet at the same time foreign and painful to say as he gingerly returned the woman’s hug.

After a moment, Teresa pulled away from Blindfighter and he felt her put his head bandage in his hand, then he could see her silhouette kneel to the floor of the barracks. The other eleven prisoners did the same, knowing what had to be done.

“Goodbye, Preacher,” he heard her say.

“… goodbye,” Blindfighter replied morosely, admiring the bravery in Teresa’s voice for one last moment.

His blade, however, ignored its master’s disappointed sadness. It trembled in his hands with sick delight as Blindfighter gathered the gumption to strike down what the Death Knight had become convinced was his only chance to remember who he was …

~||~

“Wow.” Plaguefist whistled as Blindfighter strode out of the prison barracks, dark armour covered in blood. “That must have been some fun in there, and you’re still stone-faced.” He noticed that Blindfighter wasn’t wearing his head bandage. “Must have put up a decent fight, too, if they managed to rip off your blindfold.”

Blindfighter, still silent, wrapped his right gauntlet with the blood-soaked bandages and nodded slowly.

“The Lich King has been looking for you, by the way, Blindfighter. He said something about you falling out of his sight while you were in there butchering those Dawn flunkies.”

There was a slightly confounded expression on Blindfighter’s stitched-together face. “You don’t say?”

“Yeah … well.” Plaguefist motioned for a Scourge Gryphon. “Anyways, he wants to see you at Death’s Breach right away. The other Knights are gathering and gearing up for an assault on Light’s Hope Chapel now that the Scarlet Crusade is just about dealt with. Fastest way to get back to the Breach is by gryphonback. … don’t keep him waiting.”

“I won’t, and I don’t,” Blindfighter growled, doing his best to drown out the memory of what had to be done in those prison barracks as he mounted the Scourge gryphon and flew off.

~||~

The Lich King stood upon a dais that had been constructed for him alone, watching the Frostwyrms he dispatched lay waste to whatever life was left in the Scarlet enclave. Behind him, a lone Death Knight kneeled, listening to the Lich King boast and revel in the devastation.

“Bask in this moment, Death Knight!” bellowed the Master of the Scourge. “You have served as my fist, meting out due judgement upon my enemies. With your steed and blade, I have watched you dole out death and destruction. You did not hesitate to dominate the weak while my eyes were upon you. And you, along with your brothers, have brought apocalypse upon the Scarlet Enclave, and led the last of those fanatics right into my hands. May their fate be a testament to what becomes of anyone who would dare challenge the will of the Lich King!”

Blindfighter remained silent as he continued to kneel, but he made it known that he agreed with his Master … though in the back of his mind, he began to think about the plea to turn and break away from the Lich King’s thrall that the dying Argent Dawn prisoners had given him not more than an hour before.

Once again, the Lich King spoke, breaking the Death Knight’s train of thought. “I called you here to privately reward you for your service to me.” With a flourish of his heavy cloak, the Lich King turned to face Blindfighter, and motioned for one of the ghouls waiting silently at the base of the dais to approach. “The Forgemaster has told me time and time again that you have never been fitted for a helm, and you have proven to be one of my most prized agents. I know you have insisted on never wearing one, but we will march upon Light’s Hope before day’s end and you will need a vicious new visage, and a name for all to know you by, when we become victorious.”

The ghoul trudged up the dais and presented the Lich King a helm made of the writhing, greenish-black steel that Blindfighter now knew was called saronite, and the ghoul burbled something that the helm resembled the head and maw of a sabertoothed lion. Driving Frostmourne into the dais for a moment to free his hands, the Lich King grasped the helm and held it above Blindfighter’s head.

“Death Knight, do you have a name?” the Lich King spoke in a tone of interrogation.

“I have many names,” was the Death Knight’s initial reply. “But I do not know my true name.”

“Excellent.” The Lich King had a pleased tone in his voice. “Then from this day on, you will be called ‘Eleutherios’ – ‘Liberator’ – for you have liberated many souls from the Curse of Flesh in my name, and you will continue to liberate more for Frostmourne to feast upon. The blood of the innocent releases you from your inhibitions, and in combat you are free.”

Blindfighter, now Eleutherios, felt the helm slide onto his head, and noted that the way the helm was fashioned had set the jewelled eyes of the helm’s lion-head motif over his own blinded eyes. He could hear the metal whispering its disgust in his ears, but he had been trained to ignore the quiet ravings of the saronite he wore. Part of him wished he could see in full light and colour what his completed armour looked like now, but at the same time, he felt a tug at his heart and a call in the back of his mind that something was wrong. Very wrong.

The Lich King pulled Frostmourne from where he had planted the blade in the dais and inspected the edge’s sharpness before turning his attention back to Eleutherios. “At last, you are complete. You are now a champion of the Ebon Blade.” With another flourish gesture, Frostmourne firmly in hand, the Lich King pointed the newly christened Death Knight champion towards the tunnel that connected Death’s Breach to the Noxious Glade. “The Knights of the Ebon Blade rally now at the battle cry of the Highlord, Eleutherios. Make haste and join them, champion, and you will witness the culmination of all we have done. Do not fail me.”

Eleutherios slowly rose to his feet and saluted the Lich King before walking down the dais where his horse, Dionysus, was waiting for him. The charger had been waiting back in Death’s Breach since his encounter with the dying Argent Dawn agents, and the undead horse impatiently nickered as his rider took his time climbing into the saddle. Once secure, Eleutherios gripped the reins tightly and shouted a sharp ‘giddyap’, spurring Dionysus into a full gallop almost immediately.

“Liberator,” Eleutherios muttered to himself as Dionysus thundered through the tunnel and past the lurid collections of experiments the Scourge’s necromancers kept in the Noxious Glade. “Liberator, and yet a slave …”

If only he knew that it would not be long before his freedom would be in reach.

~||~

“Hear the call of the Highlord!”
“Azeroth’s futile tears will rain down upon us!”
“The skies turn red with the blood of the fallen!”
“Leave only ashes and misery in your destructive wake!”
“Spare no one!”

The streets of Stormwind were up in hostility as a small group of Death Knights led by Thassarian made their way to Stormwind Keep. The citizens did not hesitate to make known their hatred of these former agents of the Scourge by any means necessary. Some threw rotten produce, others spat upon them as they passed, while others still got even more ‘creative’ in expressing their distaste. (Such as the rather drunk fellow who thought it would be a laugh to urinate on them from the rooftops as they passed. The drunkard, however, quickly found himself a eunuch.)

“… Ashbringer defies me …”
“… I cannot strike …”
“You cannot win …”
“… do not forget …”

With the events of the Battle of Light’s Hope Chapel still fresh in his mind, Eleutherios stood silently in the Keep at full attention. He was among the members of the Ebon Blade delegation, and witnessed with blind eyes and listening ears as Thassarian confronted the King, Varian Wrynn, in an effort to convince the stubborn leader to accept the Knights of the Ebon Blade into the Alliance. After much deliberation, it eventually took a letter of written word from Highlord Tirion Fordring himself to finally sway the King’s favour toward the Knights. Satisfied that their mission was accomplished, the delegation of rebel Death Knights left Stormwind for Acherus … save for one – Eleutherios – and it seemed that this Death Knight was quite intent on becoming a simple citizen and not a soldier.

For weeks, Eleutherios’ odd behaviour puzzled the people of the city quite a bit, but they cautiously allowed him to live alongside them as an equal. As weeks stretched into months, the Death Knight was taken in by a small mercenary guild at the behest of a strange old Night Elf Druid among their ranks, and with the backing of this guild and the Druid’s good word, the man found work as a simple courier. It was a while before anyone finally decided to ask Eleutherios why he had not left Stormwind City with the other Death Knight delegates. His reply to that question was simple:

“My brothers believe there is no place for them among the living. I believe there is. If I can’t find that place … I’ll just have to make one.”

But few knew his real reason for staying: He wanted to honour the pleas of the twelve dying soldiers of the Argent Dawn he had killed out of mercy, and he was still being haunted by memories that he was now convinced were once his own, torn from a life he lived before he was raised as a champion of the Scourge. A place to belong was only one step. Being accepted into society was another. What he wanted and needed now were answers.

Who was he? And more importantly, why did he strive so hard to stay among the living and make things right? Was there anyone else still out there who knew who he was?

… for those answers, he could only wait. And hope.