Unforgiven

Laandra woke up in darkness and blindly held out her hand to touch him.

Luckily, Eireannan wasn't far. She felt him tense, as reality came back to him, in one split second...then, with a sigh, he let himself fall back against the pillow.

" You've dreamed again', she said,softly.

He didn't answer, only nodded. It was too dark to guess his expression. But only remembering the glimpses she'd had while giving him her own magic was enough to understand.

She was lucky, he had said. She had no memories at all.

"Tell me', she whispered in the darkness. " Tell me what you dreamed of"...

"It's not what I dream of", he answered, his tone betraying his utter weariness. "It's just the fact that..."

He broke. Laandra did not ask anything. Somewhere, deep in her heart, she knew he'll continue. There was too much pain, long not share with anyone that still walked the face of earth.

And then, after what had seemed like an eternity, Erieannan spoke again, his voice still low, almost indifferent, as if he hadn't been talking about himself, but someone else, a stranger...

“I swore I’ll hunt down Arthas Menethil. Destroy him. Burn him at the stake. He used to be prince of the Light, a paladin, you know? Then the damned Plague came and he was sent to investigate. Chased a dreadlord all across the land. Have you ever been to Stratholme?”

“No.” Laandra whispered. Matter of factly she had never ventured in the Eastern Plaguelands, so far. But for Eireannan it was sort of home. Or what his home used to be.

“Not a beautiful sight, I assure you. Kel’Thuzad’s high residence. Naxxramas.”

“ The bloody lich was behind all of it. Not many remember what happened then, since most of them are dead now. And rotting. The forsaken remember though. I do.” He smiled in self mockery. “I was training to become a priest. Well, priesthood was not an option in my family. My proud father wished his elder son joined the Rangers, of course but at that time the arts of healing and meditation appealed to me much more than the bow and the blade. Eventually, he gave up in front of my determination. When the Plague began I was studying with some Paladins of the Silver Hand, learning about the Holy powers of the Light.”

“Kel’Thuzad infested the grains. They were distributed from Andorhal across the country. People ate them, unsuspecting. Then they grew sick and died. Imagine the horror of their beloved when they rose as undead and started slaughtering their own families.”

“I got to see it really well, from the front line. It no longer mattered that I was only an apprentice as there were few healers to ease the suffering of all those ravaged by the growing numbers of walking dead. We did our best but it was not enough. There was no cure. No hope.”

“ Arthas tried to stop the grain from being spread in Lordaeron. He even succeeded in killing Kel’Thuzad, a mere necromancer at that time. The Lich King’s puppet.” He spat the words, Laandra noticed, as his words became more intense.

“But the growing undead army lay siege on Andorhal and he was blocked there.
Uther the Lightbringer barely made it in time, with some reinforcements, to save us all from slaughter. The grain arrived to Stratholme. People ate it. And they grew sick.”

“When Arthas’ reached the city he knew there was only one way left to prevent all of those people from being turned into undead. Destroy them all. The Culling of Stratholme…”

“The Lightbringer refused to help him, but was unable to stop him either. I guess he understood as well that it was the only chance. A Paladin could not dirty his hands, though. Holy rigteousness! Arthas did. We did. All those that followed him into Stratholme that night. I WAS THERE!”

He took his face into his hands and his shoulders shuddered under the violent torment he felt.

“ Soldiers got carried away with it. Not all of those purged were infested. Some innocent lives were lost in the process. Blame Arthas Menethil for it. Yet, at that moment, he was right. There was no other way. It had to be done!”

“Then he went to Northrend to hunt down Mal’Ghanis, the Dreadlord. I returned to Quel’Thalas, to help secure borders against the plague. Word came the prince lost his sanity in the frozen fields of the North. You’ve probably heard what happened next, upon his return, wielding that damn runeblade that took away the lives of my beloved and my commander…how he murdered his own father and lay waste in front of him, from the Plaguelands to Silvermoon…to the Sunwell itself.”

“The damn sword drained his soul. Turned him into a monstrosity, with no sense of feeling or remorse. I wondered were it started. It did not seem so utterly mistaken in the beginning, to avenge his own murdered people…”

“But now I know”…he added after a moment and Laandra started to protest, but Erieannan interrupted her almost brutally.

“It all started with a desire for revenge. No matter what, the price, the sacrifices. He took on Frostmourne. I learned of the shadow arts. You wield the power, swearing it’s only for a short time. You’ll only use it to set things right, and give it up afterwards. Then it’s too late. You’ve already been corrupted through the bone … crossed the thin line between madness and sanity, between good and evil, right and wrong. There’s no redemption. Nothing else you can do.Your’re lost.”

“ I’m no better than Arthas. It’s just that there’s no Scourge marching behind me. That’s probably the only difference between us. And the more I think about it, the more I realize...this fight will never end. I will not allow it to end...Even if there were no undead left in the Plaguelands, I would still feel this hatred, this...this thing that eats me up day and night!"

" My people are scattered...Some in the Outlands, serving a demon, hoping to build a new home...But what safe haven can they find in the middle of this madness? The rest, trying to salvage what's left of our lands...feeling everyday more stranded in a world that changed beyond recognition. Feeding their addiction on everything that possesses even a glimpse of magical energy. Many of them turned to poor wretches, unable to control their unending thirst...And a handful of us still craving for revenge, elf, human and forsaken together...Sylvanas is right. Why pity the living? We are not more alive than any of the ghouls wandering the land..."

"Eireannan..." she started, then stopped. Listening to her own heartbeats, strong, erratic...

Messed up was definitely an understatement for the state to which her plain simple life dedicated to upholding the virtues of Light had reached to.

"Don't tell me anything", she breathed, unable to hold it back anymore. " The Alliance are after you and they asked our Prophet Velen to provide help."

"Oh", Eireannan remarked. " So they sent someone for me..."

" Velen sent me", Laandra whispered.

A frightening moment of silence followed and she thought ironically that the roof hadn't yet crushed upon them. That would have been nice, though...