Wrath of the Light

Epilogue: Arthas' Betrayal

The ringing of bells could be heard throughout the land of Lordaeron. The triumphant choirs echoed through the streets of the capital. Great cheer and goodwill poured forth. Bread and circuses had been abounding in the days since news of Arthas' great victory came forth. Dancers and fire tasters and acrobats and jugglers plied their trade. Throughout many villages as feasts were set out to celebrate. Victory belonged to Lordaeron! Once more the forces of darkness had been soundly defeated!

Lordaeron was supreme. Alone and unaided by its ungrateful allies, Lordaeron had held its ground. It had driven back the undead and crushed them under the leadership of their Prince!

There was something not altogether right, though. Prince Arthas had returned home alone, ahead of his soldiers. It was a decision which did not seem to fit him. His armor was different as well, ornate where before it had been simple inlaid with skulls. His cloak was a black as night, where before it had been blue, and it covered his face. Neither Falric nor Marwynn his two greatest and most loyal Lieutenants accompanied him.

Yet it seemed that a mania had overtaken the crowds who lined the streets in great throngs just to watch him pass. It didn't matter that there was no army with him. It didn't matter that he paid them no heed as he walked forward without a word or a sideways glance to them. He was their victorious Prince, and they were welcoming him home!

Arthas walked through the streets of the city. He noticing the people around him. The drawbridge to Lordaeron Palace was let down with a loud crash and bridged his way into his home. The place he had spent his early years in, before war after war had seen him dragged away from it. From one place to another, far from home, far from his Father. In those days the King of Lordaeron had spent more time in the company of Daval Prestor than his own children.

He walked along a street and as he did so rose petals were cast down upon him by many noble crowds far above. For a moment he halted and reached out with one hand to catch a rose petal in his palm. Even as it rested there, the edges of it became blighted. He crushed it between his thumb and forefinger. Then he cast it down and glanced up for the first time at the adoring crowds. There was Rebra, a servant who had worked in Lordaeron Palace her whole life. And further on was Count Ordinmar, observing from a higher seat. He knew their faces and names like the back of his hand, he knew all their faces and names. It was a talent he had always possessed, to know the nature of those around him.

No longer was he the son of benevolent King Terenas. No longer was he the protege of Uther Lightbringer. No longer was he doomed to be a passable successor to an impossible idol. He had his own legend now, his own legacy to pass along. If he died this very moment, he would be known for his great deeds throughout history. And he felt nothing for it.

Turning his gaze forward again he walked away.

Arthas made his way through the rest of the palace. He paid no heed to the dignitaries and sycophants who lined every corner. At last, he reached the throne room. Casting the doors open, he let some measure of his anger show at last. The anger he had not been aware he'd felt until now, in this single moment. The doors were flung open. They crashed against the side of the wall as he strode forward past the guards into the throne room.

The colors here were more subdued. A thin beam of light shone down through the windows to illuminate the throne room. The curtains looked a brighter red than they ever had, the ornate floor more decadent than ever before. At the far end of the room, at the top of a flight of steps was his Father awaiting him, looking very proud of him.

Pride. Everything Arthas had done had been to make his Father proud of him. Everything else had been secondary. He had fought a thousand hopeless battles. So that King Terenas might look upon his true heir with a fraction of the affection he had bestowed upon Varian. Varian, the one he had known as a brother. A distant brother, one who always seemed considered better at everything. Varian was superior with the sword. A young prodigy who had arisen to lead his people in their time of need. While Arthas was still getting bruises learning how to hold a sword. Not that his Father had done much to help him with that.