The Lich Knight Chapter 4: Revenge

A freezing wind blows across Icecrown Citadel. A giant tower made of saronite, a type of metal that is a dusky like black in color and is incredibly strong, the menacing construct looms ominously over Northrend. The Scourge have limitless access to this material, and so that is what makes of the towering structure that is the Citadel. It casts a cold shadow across the land, and undead Scourge monsters swarm the outside, with the most powerful of the leaders residing inside the towering fortress. It looks to be a simple tower at first glance. Then one would notice the ice that seems to make up parts of it, and the sharp jutting of metal from the side in ways that can only be described as sinister.

But the highest concentration of ice is at the top, where the Frozen Throne is. The top looks to be made out of only ice, four pillars of it rising up out of the center of the platform, where a big blue Rune glows eerily. The edge of the platform is circular and flat, the only exception being the the giant clump of ice at the top. The side facing the Rune is hewn into the shape of steps, at least fifty of them, leading up to a throne, also hewn out of the ice. From the back of the throne, the mound continues to rise up high into the sky. This is Icecrown Citadel, headquarters of the Scourge, center of Northrend, location of the Frozen Throne, and home to the Lich King, who now sits upon his throne, his saronite armor dull,  his eyes seeming to be nothing but cold, blue flames.

Frostmourne, his sword, rests with the tip to the ground, easily within reach. Blue Runes glow along the blade, one of its sides serrated. The hand guard looks like a skull, and is seeming to be made out of the same metal as the armor Arthas wears. His armor has the shape of skulls on his pauldrons, the knees of his leg guards, and the backs of his boots. The Crown of Domination sits upon his head, part helm, part crown, with wicked spikes sticking up from the top. It, too, is made of the dark saronite metal.

The big blue Rune begins to glow brighter, a shining blue light seeming to seep out of it and rise into a human form. A moment later the light fades away and the Rune goes back to just existing, giving off a faint amount of light. Now two figures stand on the platform, facing Arthas. One is wearing the blue colors of the Alliance, as well as golden armor that glows from the imbued Light within it. The other figure wears armor not unlike that which Arthas  wears, except heavier, lined with furs, and the helm has tusk like protrusions, with blue glowing eyes peer out from beneath it. The rectangular sword that is the Ashbringer is sheathed across the former’s back, while a dark sword with blue, green, red, and purple Runes running along the blade is sheathed across the darker one’s back. A blue aura surrounds the Runed weapon, the blade’s tip bearing two sharp points on either edge.

They both draw their weapons and approach the Throne. As they do, Arthas picks up Frostmourne and descends to meet them. “Are you sure you’re ready for this, Nicolus?” the man in blue and gold asks.

The second one laughs softly, his voice betraying the echo, as if a second voice speaks with him, that is present with all Death Knights. “Nick, Tirion. I prefer Nick.” he says. “I’ve been ready since you freed me.”

“The Light freed you, Nick.” Tirion admonishes him. “Not I. I was, to be quite honest, trying to kill you.”

Nick nods and replies, “True, I’ll give you that. Whatever the case though, it’s a bit late to be asking such a question, is it not?”

This time it is Tirion who chuckles. “Yes, I suppose so.” They cease their talking as their enemy gets to the bottom of the ice steps, standing only paces from them both. Tirion raises his head defiantly and says, his voice firm and clear, “We will grant you a swift death, Arthas. Which is more than can be said for those you have so brutally tortured and slain.” The King laughs, his voice echoing just like Nick’s, but deeper.

“So, these are the great warriors sent to confront me? The High Paladin, Tirion Fordring, and my former Lich Knight, Nicolus Ryder?” he asks, his voice oozing condescension. “Shall I cast aside Frostmourne, and kneel before you for mercy, Fordring?” He laughs again, shaking his head. “As for those atrocities, you will learn of them first hand. Your anguished cries will ring throughout the land, as testament to my unbridled power, and when you beg and cry for mercy, I shall deny you!”

There is silence, then Tirion says with remorse, “So be it. Champion,” he shouts, “attack!” Tirion leaps forward as one of the Runes on Arthas’ sword blazes. The King raises a hand and blue energy shoots from his hand, smiting into the Paladin. He stops, frozen solid inside a block of ice.

“NO!” Nick shouts, and he is encased in a cloud of shadows. Arthas walks forward slowly, and suddenly, out of the dark cloud emerges Nick in his Worgen Form. What fur is visible is a soft brown, he has grown two feet taller, and his hands now have claws, with a tail poking out from behind him. He draws his sword and he and Arthas meet. Their fight is furious, their swords clashing and singing through the air as they battle. The Runes along their blades blaze and flash and dim as they unleash havoc upon each other. A monstrosity of what looks like multiple different body parts appears as an army of Ghouls, undead bodies, wraps around their hands and feet and missing a good portion of their stomach, appear as well and the army clashes with the monstrous minion.

A freezing wind surrounds the two combatants as they battle back and forth across the platform. “Val’kyr, come!” Arthas shouts as the minion falls under the onslaught. Suddenly a ghostly woman in opaque armor flies toward the two, her white wings beating her effortlessly through the skies, her blonde hair flying in the wind. She grabs Nick and begins to fly him toward the edge of the platform. At the same moment, the army of ghouls are on the Lich King, even as he hacks and cuts them to pieces. Nick snarls and stabs viciously into the Val’kyr. She shrieks and lets him go, allowing him to land just on the edge. He breathes heavily, and as she swoops in again, he decapitates her, and she vanishes in a burst of energy. His head is bowed, weary and tired now. He draws a red Rune onto his forearm and it blazes before fading away. He takes a deep breath and stands tall again to see the last of his army fall beneath Frostmourne. The Lich King turns to Nick and says, “Watch as the world collapses around you.” The edge of the platform shifts as it breaks off into floating chunks. Nick looks between them and Arthas, and then they drop, taking Nick with them.

Arthas laughs softly, turning away. Then Nick comes flying up, his dark, black feathered wings shooting him into the sky, before he comes in swooping at him. “You’ll have to do better than that, Arthas!” he roars.

Arthas turns just in time to stop his blade and they battle fiercely before they break away to catch their breath. Arthas gasps out, “Come, then; Frostmourne hungers!” And they meet again, but this time something is different. Nick’s fur is now black, his eyes glow blood red, and he is faster and stronger, roaring and snarling as he whirls around his former master. His fury is unmatched as he begins to slowly drive Arthas back across the platform. Finally, Nick knocks the sword from the King’s grasp and tackles him down. He raises the sword as Arthas bellows, “ENOUGH!!!” Unholy tendrils of black and purple energy appear between the King’s grasping hand and Nicolus’ throat. He gasps as he is lifted into the air and tossed easily to the center of the platform. Arthas stands, holding out his other hand as similar tendrils grab Frostmourne and bring it to his hand. Nick gets up and as he does Arthas stabs his sword into Nick. He gasps, and Arthas pulls his weapon out and brings Nick down with one strike.

He laughs, looking down at the unmoving body. “Foolish Knight. You were meant to come fight me. I needed Azeroth’s best warrior to become my vassal. Turns out, after all this time, it was you.” He walks toward the frozen figure of Tirion, twirling his sword’s tip in the air. The block turns so the Paladin is facing him and the body. “Now, watch, Fordring, as I transform your champion into my own, personal weapon, to spread terror and destruction across Azeroth.” He turns back to Nick’s body and begins speaking a strange language, the words sounding vile and sinister, the Runes along his blade flickering as a ring of blue, green, red, and purple Runes appears around Nick’s body.

Then, from seemingly everywhere, Tirion’s voice whispers, “Light, grant me this final blessing, and release me from these bonds.” A bright light flashes from the ice and Arthas turns in time to see Tirion emerge from the chunks of ice.

“Impossible!” he shouts, and Tirion charges forward, swinging the Ashbringer. The King raises Frostmourne to parry, but as the two meet there is a golden spark from their blades and a crack forms on Frostmourne. Another clash, a spark, and the crack grows. One more blow and Frostmourne shatters. There is silence, then an explosion as spirits pour out of the broken blade, spirits of those the evil weapon had slain. One spirit walks toward them, a man garbed in regal robes, a crown, a short beard and mustache; King Menethil.

He says softly, “At last, my son, your rule has come to an end.” He looks towards Nick’s body and it is encased in Light. Then it fades as Nick rises to his feet. The captured spirits whirl around the platform, angry, vengeful, full of ire. Arthas is lifted into the air suddenly as the souls swirl around him like a whirlwind.

Nick reaches toward his sword and Unholy tendrils, like the Lich King, arc out, seize the handle, and bring it into his waiting palm. He takes one look at Arthas, suspended helpless in the air and says quietly, “Arthas, your reign has ended.” He stalks forward and in one swift motion stabs him. Arthas screams, and as suddenly as he was lifted, he is dropped to the ground as blood pools out beneath him, his helm falling from his head. Nick sheaths his sword and turns away as the spirit of King Menethil walks to the fallen King. He kneels down before him as the blue fire fades from Arthas’ eyes. His hair is long and blonde, and his true eye color is a silvery grey. He reaches out, grasping his deceased father. “Father ...” he gasps out. “Is it ... over?” Menethil lays a hand over his son’s.

“At long last.” he replies, his voice soothing. “No king rules forever, my son.” Arthas looks in the distance, a point far away as he says.

“I see ... only ... darkness ... before ... me.” And with that, his arm falls, limp, and the Lich King breathes his last.

Menethil passes his hand over his son’s eyes, closing them as he says, “Without their master, the restless Scourge will become an even greater threat.” He slowly rises to his feet. “Control must be maintained.” He turns to Tirion as he says gravely, “There must always be a Lich King.” His spirit flares brightly, and it, too, joins the whirlwind of souls as they depart, free at last.

Nick goes over and scoops up the Crown of Command, the Lich King’s terrible crown and helm both. He looks down at it, then turns to the High Paladin, who also gazes at the crown. “Such a heavy burden ...” he says, “It must be mine, for there is no other-”

“TIRION!” A voice echoes across the spire’s platform. Both men turn toward the sound, coming from the Frozen Throne. Upon it sits what used to be a man. He no longer has any hair, his skin is as gray as ashes, and cracks in his skin glow, burning, as if it were fire rather than blood that now pumped through his veins. His eyes are glowing orange orbs as he gazes down at them, the only armor he is wearing being a charred pair of leg guards. “You hold a grim destiny in your hands, brother. But it is not your own ...”

“Bolvar!” Tirion says, hurrying up the steps. “By all that is holy ...”

“The Dragon’s fire ... sealed my fate. The world of the living can no longer comfort me.” He raises his head slowly. “Place the crown upon my head, Tirion. For now on, I will be the jailor of the damned.”

But the Paladin, having reached the top steps, turns away. “I can not-”

“You and your champion have your destinies!” he interrupts him. “This last act of service ... is mine.” Tirion sighs heavily, then holds out his hand. Nick places the crown to him, and he slowly turns to Bolvar.

“You will not be forgotten, brother.” he says sadly.

“I must be forgotten, Tirion!” he scolds harshly. “If the world is to live free of the tyranny of fear, no one must know what happened here today.” The Paladin does not speak but nods slowly. With somber gravity, he slowly places the crown upon his head.

The citadel trembles and quakes. The head slowly raises, and then orange fire flares to life, right where the eyes would be. He sits back in the chair as ice begins to form around him, from his legs up. He says with finality, “Tell them only that the Lich King is dead, and that Bolvar Fordragon died with him.” With that, the ice encases him completely, as Tirion and Nicolus back away to the bottom of the stairs. As they reach it, a deep voice rings out; the voice of the Lich King, thundering through the air, as he gives his last command. “Now, go, leave this place, and never return!”

Nick and Tirion both run to the edge and jump off onto the skeletal gryphon waiting below, and fly off. They glance back at the Citadel as it recedes behind a cloud.

“What will you do now?” Tirion asks Nick as they fly along.

“I... I don’t know,” he says after a moment. “I wish to continue serving the Alliance, I can tell you that.”

“Then perhaps you should speak with King Varian? Surely he will have warmed up to you, what with all the times you have aided the Alliance.”

“Maybe... but I have a feeling the King of Stormwind and the Alliance is not one to forgive and forget easily.”

“Easily, no,” Tirion replies, “But at the very least, you have earned his trust.” Nick doesn’t reply, instead just looking out at the snowy landscape as he heads to Dalaran.