Stirrings in Lordaeron

A/N: Apologies for the delay, but I hope everyone enjoys this chapter. Immense thank yous as always for those that reviewed, they keep me writing.


For Arthas, Silvermoon's razing was fairly straightforward: March up to the city gates, shout something ominous to the frantic denizens as they began to contemplate their own mortality for perhaps the first time in their pitiful lives, administer his ranks of undead to said city while he rode in with Frostmourne and cut down any of the 'heroes' that foolishly thought to stand in his way.

Straightforward indeed, and despite such it should have been one of his finest moments. But something was a bit off.

He was off; something was nagging at the edge of his consciousness. His encounter with Sylvanas had not gone how he had wanted in the least. The loss of control in any form was not a feeling he appreciated regardless of what shape it took and he was certain she had witnessed it. She had known from that self-satisfied grin she'd flashed him before he had cruelly stabbed it away that she had usurped the upper hand... even for just a moment.

It was odd though, her words had been petty and desperate. Ordinarily such things would have delighted Arthas as he was torturing his victim, further fueling his glee as he watched the lengths one might reach for as doom set upon them.

He hadn't been quite himself... revenge needed to be exacted of course, but it hadn't just been his own.

Was his Master using him? Manipulating his champion into being a physical vessel for his own needs? The Prince wasn't certain how he should feel about that, or even if he should be having such thoughts at all. By all appearances, the Lich King had done nothing but give Arthas everything he could want: nigh unlimited power, an ever-growing army that heeded his every call, the means with which to carry out whatever vengeance he so desired and practically delivering Terenas, Uther and Jaina all into his waiting hands...

Surely he was merely shaken by his temporary lapse in judgment and letting the elf-bitch's words affect him in ways he'd hoped had been left behind in Frostmourne Cavern. Weakness was not acceptable, but at least he was aware of it and could act accordingly to ensure that it never happened again.

The Prince looked to his side where the banshee hovered, tied to him by an invisible string. He would make her undeath unbearable, far beyond the normal nightmare one might experience to repay the ills she had caused him - every moment excruciating agony, painful memories and endless reminders that his whim was her will.

Hatred gleamed in those milky eyes and he smiled as he pondered on the many ways to make her suffer.

But he had things to attend to presently; with a near-apathetic sigh, Arthas unleashed his minions into Silvermoon City.

Predictably, the elven civilians scattered in all directions, the ostentatiously-dressed guards proved no match for his army as they were swiftly overrun, and the leader of the quel'dorei soon made his final, ill-fated appearance in a hopeless last attempt to thwart the Scourge in their infallible quest.

Arthas faced off with the elf, King– ...what was his name again? He couldn't remember... and to say faced off would be a tad forgiving. The quel'dorei was positively ancient and the Prince felt a pang in his gut as he shattered the elf's 'prized' weapon and callously murdered him in the light of the Sunwell. For all their talk of magic and power that emanated from the thing, Arthas had expected a bit more of a challenge, and felt besmirched by their very inability to mount a worthy defense against him.

Pleasantly though, there was a high point in the day. Forced to watch the devastation occurring all around her, Sylvanas was overcome with grief and let forth a desolate wail, a shriek so mournful and piercing that it brought her own people to their knees, writhing in agony.

The Prince had been tempted to clap boyishly at the impressive display.

And even more enjoyable was the incredulity painted on her warped features as she witnessed the defilement of her beloved Sunwell and the subsequent resurrection of Kel'thuzad as Arthas poured his liquefied remains into the shining waters.

The banshee watched the grinning lich that emerged draped in chains and strange finery, reborn per his Master's instruction in the swirling magic that was the source of the quel'dorei's power. Her ghostly lip quivered with indignation, all the fruits of the Scourge's labors completing with the revival of one mere individual at the expense of fouling the Sunwell and the senseless massacre of hundreds of elves.

Arthas was behind her, hissing in her pointed, spectral ear. “You did this, Sylvanas. All these unnecessary deaths are on your hands. You cross me and the consequences multiply. I'll make you participate until you come to love it. To love me for saving you.”

She tried to snarl and shred his flesh to ribbons but his hold on her form was so strong that she couldn't even manage a turn of her head.

He snickered. “That's what I thought. And there's plenty more to come, let me assure you...” His voice rose to an unnaturally robust level, calling out so that the Cultists that had swarmed the city could hear him.

“Prisoners! I want live prisoners! Women and children!”

“You bastard...” the former Ranger-General was barely able to whisper, the wispy voice emanating from somewhere deep inside her insubstantial throat despite her sealed lips.

Leaving her to dwell on the horrors in store, Arthas approached the skeletal necromancer that was once again luxuriating in a corporeal body. His face was fleshless and only the curious fire burning within the eye sockets of his skull indicated a spark of consciousness.

“Live specimens?” The lich queried innocently.

The death knight simply smiled and held out a hand in welcome to the creature that floated calmly down the marble steps.

“Surely you must be pleased that we've gone to all this trouble at the Master's command, nay, insistence to have you risen, one entity in a sea of undead.”

Kel'thuzad bowed his head reverently. “I am deeply humbled by the generosity demonstrated by both him and yourself, my lord. Without you, this day wouldn't have been possible.”

Arthas gave a half-smirk and tossed his head dismissively at the undeserved compliment.

“...but I also know that I possess the vital knowledge that is necessary for the next step in the dreadlords' plan. The intricacies of summoning are vast and only-”

“Wait,” the Prince interjected, drawing the lich away from prying ears by his bony elbow. “...what do you mean 'the dreadlords' plan'? Why does out Master continuously entertain these demons? Did he not tell me to slay Mal'Ganis and grant me the power to carry out his will?”

“Ah, my King...” the lich tutted. “It is not our Master that instructs them but rather the other way around. The dreadlords are the agents of the demon that created and imprisoned the Lich King and he is carrying out THEIR will. I have been brought back to assist in the summoning ritual needed to bring the Burning Legion into this world. The invasion will be soon.”

The man's face was cold; his voice like ice. “Invasion... so all this time...”

Kel'thuzad nodded. “Indeed. The Lich King and the Scourge were created to wipe out any of the heavy opposition in Azeroth first before the demons came, to scour the land of meddlesome life. That is our purpose.”

Arthas' hands clenched into fists at his side, the material of his gloves straining as his agitation from earlier was fervently renewed. He had been manipulated, used... controlled. And there was nothing he hated more.

Sensing the violent intent coiling in the human before him, the necromancer spoke calmly. “There is a demon gate nearby held by orcs. We are to go there so that I might communicate with the demon and receive further instruction.” He looked at the death knight pointedly. “We shall continue as we have been, my lord...”

Though the words were hardly reassuring in of themselves, the last of the lich's statements held a hint of prediction in it, as though there was much more that hadn't yet been let on that he couldn't reveal. Or at least that was what the Prince interpreted. But he could feel the unswerving loyalty this one held for his Master and the uncanny, near-religious adoration he kept for the Scourge and decided that acting rashly now might undo a possible gain later.

Pressing his lips together, Arthas nodded curtly and moved away to collect his troops.

Gathering the undead and the sordid group of rabble that his Cultists had managed to herd together, the Prince and his Scourge departed the hollow husk of Silvermoon.

-

He could bleed... he could still feel things... he was still human.

Despite the horrors she had experienced, Sylvanas was delighted with this discovery. Arthas was a monster that commanded thousands of undead but remained a living, breathing man himself. Why?

Why not the dreadlords she had seen lurking about or the more sentient type of undead like Kel'thuzad that she witnessed the very resurrection of not hours ago? Surely there was more to the Prince's betrayal than met the eye.

Not quite sure yet what she would do with this information though, the ghostly Ranger-General drifted along submissively, wrapped in her own contemplations. She had been granted another chance of sorts by retaining her own thoughts and somehow eluding the hold of the Lich King on her mind... and she didn't intend to squander it.

The man had become formidable indeed, but the small sign he had shown when her words had cut through his icy exterior was a weakness to be exploited. Anything that could help her take the revenge that she so desperately wanted and that he so fittingly deserved.

Her reverie was interrupted, however, when Arthas called the army to a halt – much to Kel'thuzad's chagrin – and he sauntered over to the ghostly figure.

“Sylvanas...” he murmured, flicking his wrist and snapping her to attention. He poised his hand in such a way to look like he was holding a leash and proceeded to 'lead' her through the ranks.

“I thought it was near time we allowed the Cult of the Damned to have their much-earned rest after the prolific bounty they gathered in Silvermoon, don't you think?”

The banshee attempted to scowl at the back of Arthas' head when he suddenly spun around and clenched his fist. Sylvanas' spectral form trembled as pain shot through her, fire licking her intangible nerves.

When it finally subsided she gave him a defiant glare before mumbling, “Of course.”

He examined her for a brief moment before re-clenching his hand and sending more waves of agony through. Sounding pleased he asked, “Of course... what?”

She would have wailed if she could have but her unearthly body was locked in place, helpless but to hang there as tendrils of evil coursed through it. His power over her ran so deep that he could manipulate even an apparition, making her feel as though she would fall apart and dissipate into nothingness before long.

Resigned to the fact that he was going to make every moment into torment, Sylvanas sputtered, “Of course... Master.”

Arthas let his grip linger before allowing it to finally wane and resuming his stroll through the Cult of the Damned ranks of his army.

She could hear them, long before they were even close: their cries, their screams, desperate pleas for mercy as the humans loyal to the Lich King had their way in every conceivable manner with the captured quel'dorei prisoners.

Attempting to look impassive and unaffected, Sylvanas was forced to watch the torture and rape occurring all around her.

The Prince grinned, sensing her facade and stopping before a man frantically fucking a pretty elven female. He still wore his dark robe, open down the middle as he lay on top of her, covering her mouth with his hand. His eyes were wild and he muttered incoherent things as he thrusted, showing no signs of slowing. Glancing around, the elf's gaze settled briefly on the banshee before darting elsewhere, desperately seeking someone – anyone – to help her.

Sylvanas nearly cried out, but couldn't. The poor elf had no way of knowing who she was, or rather who she had been and there was simply nothing she could do anyway if the girl had. And what was worse, was the utter delight pasted on Arthas' face as he looked on, too obviously enjoying the sight and growing aroused.

He stood with his arms crossed, eyes glued to the quel'dorei's distressed face. “Silvermoon will be the perfect example...” he said quietly to himself. Suddenly roused from his thoughts, “Come.” They continued on.

An adolescent male, his body already riddled with cuts and bruises, lay stretched out helplessly as two Cultists cruelly abused him. The woman sat on his face, rocking her hips against his mouth and threatening to dismember him if he didn't comply while the other was busy lifting his legs and prodding around his anus.

They passed a younger female trying her best to suck off two men, but was receiving more beatings for her ineptitude than was being productive at the task.

A small group of acolytes were discussing the rules of necrophilia over the body of a recently dead elf.

“If they are only recently dead, the body is still warm and it is merely as though they are sleeping...”

“I'm afraid I must disagree, the vessel is soulless. What's left is merely a shell no matter how soon after death it might be.”

“What about undead? They are animated, move, walk, sometimes speak... who is to say that they are dead completely when they can perform all the basic functions of someone living?”

Even Arthas seemed mildly disturbed by the conversation and they moved on.

There was much more, all manner of defilement, experiments performed while the elves were still alive, butchering... Sylvanas struggled through it all, channeling all the hatred and disgust she felt towards her captor, hoping one day to make him suffer as much as she had.

“Would you like to know something?” The death knight asked without breaking his stride. Hardly waiting for answer he went on, “Once my Cultists are done with them, these simpering, weak, sad excuse for living creatures... they shall be used to create more minions for me.”

The banshee's fury flared further.

“Oh yes, I know you've already seen how I can merely wave my hand and have them rise to my will, but it will be something more... glorious. It's a fine art you see, the Cultists will have their fun, then the elves will be hacked apart into various pieces, mangled, and sewn back together into a single fantastic creature, a collection of all their bodies and suffering as one. An abomination!” He smiled and threw his head back. “Isn't it lovely?”

Sylvanas fought the bond with every ounce of her being. He was polluting and corrupting everything she'd ever loved and rubbing it all in her face. But she couldn't approach, couldn't budge from her stationary place at his side.

He smiled wider. Could he feel her struggle? Did he smell how badly she was fighting it right now? She didn't know, and painfully kept her venomous words to herself.

The pair approached the Prince's gruesome vehicle; he stepped partway inside before looking over his shoulder. “While we wait for them to finish up, won't you join me in my carriage, Ranger-General?”

Coupled with that sickening smirk, the use of her title stung and the specter ignored the open door and passed through the coach's side instead.

It was petty, but she'd take her victories where she could.

Arthas unfastened his heavy, black cloak and swung it off his broad shoulders, watching the banshee all the while. Systematically each piece of armor was removed, staring at each other intently. The skulls seemed to grin at her, mocking and terrible, the blackness of their eyes infinite. The space seemed smaller by the moment, and that cerulean gaze was fixed on her.

At last, the final plate was removed and carefully set aside before the man fell back into his seat. He let out a deep sign as he relaxed into his chair and placed his hands on his knees.

When he was relaxed, and the lines in his face had eased and the tension in his body was lessened, Sylvanas thought he looked almost normal. Of course he still had that abnormally pale skin, white hair and ridiculously blue eyes that were colder than ice but yet somehow passable as human. She no longer had that luxury, regardless of whether her revenge could be fulfilled or not and it only made her hate him that much more.

He placed a languid hand between his legs and began stroking, barely touching. Sylvanas immediately recoiled and snarled, reminded of the horrific manner of her death.

“What's the matter?” He mocked. “Do I frighten you?”

“You disgust me.” She hurled back without thinking.

Arthas chuckled, determined to not let her gain even a semblance of control this time. Rolling his head back, he started to tug more insistently until the flesh began to harden beneath his cloth pants.

“Did you see them?” He spoke quietly, running his fingers across his length. “All those elves slain then raised, being used for whatever whim I so desire? It was not so different from Lordaeron, though I do regret not being able to... take my time. I would have gladly spent weeks there, reveling in the King's death and slowly turning his subjects but instead I had to settle for mere days.”

He drew a ragged breath. “But I shall take my victories where I can.”

His words so eerily similar to her own thoughts just a few moments before were quite troubling.

“For example,” he went on, “I consider it a victory that you will continue to serve me in whatever manner I please.” His member was now fully erect.

“So why don't you come over here and service me?”

The words flew from Sylvanas' lips before she even recognized them. “Are you moronic? Did you not just see me pass through that barrier a moment ago?”

“Don't be obtuse,” he chastised firmly, still stroking himself. “My undead are brilliant things. Even a banshee like yourself can still interact with the physical world. I daresay that your new form has made you more powerful then you were before, now that you are free of your feeble, mortal coil.”

He relished in the scowl on her ghostly face. “Now use that which I have gifted you and attend to me. Be creative.”

She wanted to disappear, to cease existing so that she didn't have to look upon his damnable smirk anymore or have him rip out her emotions carelessly. He was forcing her to participate in his perversions, help him to relive those moments, and for what? So he could get off? To cause her more pain?

Hatred surged through her, but there was nothing that could be done except to obey. His eyes were no longer focused on her, and Sylvanas realized with a start that she had faded from view. Fine, better to not give him the satisfaction of watching her disgust.

Arthas drew in a startled breath as the laces of his pants began to come undone, seemingly of their own accord. He watched, intrigued, as the fabric loosened around him and his cock was pulled free.

Transfixed on his own white flesh that sprung buoyantly from between his thighs, he gasped as something cool and smooth ran across his skin, as though someone had just run a silky fabric down his length. It tingled and elicited a feeling, the likes of which he had never experienced.

A chill ran through him as the flesh was tugged and manipulated, but he laid his head back and sighed as the familiar spirals of warmth shot through him, regardless of how strange the method might have been.

The velvety touch increased, squeezing and stroking fast and hard with no warning and Arthas felt quite helpless at his inability to control his own pleasure. It was foreign to feel that way, not having his hands on the reins of his own destiny. Or was it? Was he a pawn in all of this?

“Sylvanas...” he gasped, trying to order her to slow the pace. The remaining words choked off, the indescribable sensation exciting him on an incomprehensible level.

“Fuck...” came the whispered plea as his fingertips dug into his knees, the skin of his cock twitching and rolling beneath unseen ministrations. Labored breathing filled the air as Arthas once again lost his grip on total control.

“Oh yes!”

The cry was sudden and forceful, and before he could regain his hold, he came, groaning and twitching like a madman, his cum spilling onto his clothes. White, sticky liquid shot from his dick, splattering onto the fabric of the Prince's shirt, the tingling touch nearly uncomfortable in its insistence.

After a moment, Sylvanas reappeared on the other side of the carriage, her expression neutral.

Arthas quickly smiled and stood. Beginning to strip off his clothes he spoke, “Why thank you, Ranger-General. And here I was thinking you were a prude, but with skills like that...”

Naked and with glossy white hair draped around his face, the death knight stretched and waved the banshee away. “Don't fret, my dear. I will call for you again later.”

Without a word, Sylvanas departed, only letting a wispy smile grace her lips when she was far out of sight. She had seen through the Prince's thin facade after the encounter. He had lost control yet again, and he was livid.

Inside the coach, Arthas wadded up the soiled clothing and hurled it to the floor. He tore at his hair and snarled, his eyes blazing a cold fire.

He had only gained and gained in power and strength, so why now did it feel like he was losing?