Chapter Text
Art by: Linnpuzzle
Our Heartsong in Red and Gold
Acquila Everdawn
The Frozen Throne, Seat of the Lich King
Icecrown Citadel, Northrend
It is with utmost reverence and respect that Acquila enters the Frozen Throne, bowing his head as he flanks his liege, Lor’themar Theron. Settled atop the chilly peaks of Icecrown Citadel, it is the seat of the Lich King—formerly an enemy—now an ally. Acquila remembers the current Lich King—Bolvar Fordragon—in life. Even if he is now a Blood Knight of Silvermoon, scarcely anyone of the Paladin profession has not heard of the venerated Lord Fordragon of the Alliance. He held a speech to the Argent Dawn once at Light’s Hope Chapel during the first scourge invasion and the appearance of the dread citadel Naxxramas. Acquila was among their ranks and can still remember the Lord’s inspiring words to this day.
“Regardless of who you are, in our service to the Light we are one. Human or orc, elf or dwarf, anyone pledging their loyalty to this cause is an ally I am proud of serving together with, side by side. In the name of Azeroth we shall prevail against the scourge and those who threaten to tear our world apart!”
There’s bitter irony to how Bolvar Fordragon in the aftermath ended up being the one to take the mantle as the leader of the scourge with the defeat of the former Lich King, Arthas Menethil. But there’s also a certain poetic justice to how the very same man thus took absolute control over the scourge, finally ending their seemingly eternal reign of terror.
At least up until now.
Acquila quickly surveys their surroundings as they approach the middle of the room. The Ebon Blade are gathered around them in a half circle, their ritualists spread out around the runic circle on the ground of which the shards of the Helm of Domination rests in the middle. A group of Kirin Tor mages, flanked by Archmage Modera and Aethas Sunreaver are channeling arcane energies—for whatever purpose—in the background. As they join the rest of the Horde’s faction leaders, Acquila cannot help but notice the palpable hostility radiating from the newly crowned Night Warrior, Tyrande Whisperwind. He gives a curt nod towards the Alliance leaders. King of Gilneas, Genn Greymane, has the courtesy to return his greeting although it is aimed more towards Lor’themar than towards Acquila himself. Everyone but Tyrande follows Genn’s example and Acquila supposes he cannot fault her. Her story was one of great sacrifice and loss—and parts of the Horde were to blame for that.
It is with wistful longing he casts a glance at the last of the groups gathered there. The Champions of Azeroth—adventurers of different races and creeds—are all standing together, some wise beyond their years, some having seen enough for a lifetime already, a stark contrast to how the Horde and the Alliance’s leaders still have a great divide between them.
“As I previously stated—” Alleria Windrunner says, indicating that there’s been some discussion before Acquila and Lor’themar arrived, “—I think it wise to use some of our strongest in our pursuit of my sister. I am personally involved with her and find it only natural I go.”
“We are all personally involved.” Tyrande speaks, her voice frosty, “I will go as well.”
“I would advise against that.” Lor’Themar says, shaking his head. It is clear that this aggravates Tyrande immensely.
“And why is that, Regent Lord?” she says through gritted teeth, “You find yourself not up to the task? Is the Horde left with only weaklings as their leaders now?”
Acquila wonders briefly if she is merely baiting him or if she is speaking out of anger. Suffice to say there’s a strong chance it is both. Lor’themar remains calm and collected, only a slight furrowing of his brows can be seen.
“The peace remains tenuous.” he says, “These are troubled times. Our people need stability—Alliance and Horde alike. We cannot risk sending Azeroth’s leaders on what might well be a suicide mission. Our friends who were abducted would offer the same counsel.”
“Coward!” Tyrande shouts, the darkness in her eyes swirling as a thick aura of maliciousness rises around her. Acquila fights the impulse of brandishing his sword. Doing so would be seen as a clear invitation for a fight.
“I would pay any price— any price —to see the Banshee impaled upon my glaive!”
“Even threatening your own allies with malicious intentions?” Acquila says calmly, facing the Night Warrior as he steps in front of Lor’themar. There is a very real possibility Acquila’s actions will only anger her further, but he isn’t a well-known diplomat for nothing. Either way, as he is currently Lor’themar’s escort it is his job to step in if he senses danger towards the Regent Lord, and right now, it is rolling off Tyrande in waves.
“Allies? Allies? The Horde are no allies of mine. You would do well to watch your tongue, sin’dorei. ” Tyrande says as she towers over Acquila, “To think your tiny bodyguard here possesses more guts than you, Lor’themar Theron. Pathetic.”
“I too want Sylvanas to answer for her crimes.” Genn says, a gentle hand on her shoulder, “But Lor’themar is right, Tyrande. Anduin wouldn’t want us to risk the well-being of the Alliance for his sake.”
“The kaldorei need you if they are to have any hope of finding peace, High Priestess.” Calia Menethil adds, taking a step forward from behind Lor’themar. “You are their beloved leader, losing you too would be devastating.”
“Peace ? You dare speak to me of peace !? After the atrocities your kind inflicted?”
Tyrande violently shakes Genn’s hand off her shoulder, her glaive glinting in the frosty lights as her fingers closes around its handle. Acquila has his sword up now with zero hesitation, his pulse already racing.
“ ENOUGH! ”
Bolvar’s booming voice rattles and echoes off the walls of the throne room. The lava veins in his skin flares and the pressure in the room rises abruptly.
“ The war is over. We can ill afford to start another. Lay down your weapons. ”
Tyrande’s hand falls away from her glaive as the pressure lowers again, and her hard gaze shifts from Acquila to Calia.
“You are to address me as Night Warrior, I am High Priestess no more. Don’t you ever forget it, little forsaken. ” she hisses, and Acquila notices how Calia winces at the scathing remark.
“Both the Horde and the Alliance have highly decorated champions at their disposal do they not?” First Arcanist Thalyssra interjects, commanding the attention of both groups. “There really is no need for us to argue when the decision is so clear before us. Highlord?”
Bolvar turns his attention to the broken Helm of Domination. The shards are floating lazily in the air, spinning around their own axis within the circle. He gives a nod to Thalyssra and straightens his shoulders.
“We need to take action regardless. I do however see Regent Lord Theron’s argument as the wiser one. This is not only a matter of freeing our comrades, it is also a matter of keeping the frail peace we have already achieved. I should know that better than anyone.”
Tyrande grits her teeth at his words but doesn’t otherwise challenge him. They watch as he approaches the shards. They’re humming with potent energy.
“When the Banshee shattered the helm, it tore a gaping wound through the veil between our world and the Shadowlands. During my vigil upon the Frozen Throne, I caught fleeting glimpses into the realms of Death. Among them, I saw a place of inescapable darkness. This is where our champions must go, if you are to save those Sylvanas have taken.” Bolvar says before he pauses, staring intently at the shards, “Together, we can open the way. Place the Shards of Domination around the circle of runes. Then the ritual can begin.”
The Ebon Blade Ritualists scatter to pick up the shards and place them around the runic circle, the shards pulling and pulsing in their grasp as if connected by a magnetic force. The Kirin Tor moves around them, creating the outer circle as they channel arcane energies—most likely to stabilize the ritual.
“Our champions shall venture forth beyond the shattered sky above, into the Shadowlands, and search for those who were taken. The dangers you face will be considerable but I have faith in the heroes of the Alliance and the Horde. The Ebon Blade shall lend you their strength, Darion Mograine will be at your side.”
“The Ebon Blade does not fear death. Here, or in the realms beyond.” Darion says, taking his place in front of his army. Bolvar walks out of the circle and stands with the focal rune in front of the throne.
“Living mortals were never intended to cross beyond the veil. Where you are going, you may be unable to return. But there is no other course. On this day, you will be remembered as heroes. Heroes who in our darkest hour come to the aid of Azeroth once again.”
The Champions of Azeroth all move with the practiced ease of a hero towards the center of the circle, ready to take on the challenge. Acquila admires them but he does not envy them. Their sacrifice will not be forgotten, and he hopes it is not in vain. Azeroth’s future is at stake, and they all need to play their part, both those venturing into the Shadowlands and—
—those staying behind.
He sneaks a glance at Tyrande. The Night Warrior is stone cold as she watches the ritual unfold. There’s an uneasy feeling tugging at the back of Acquila’s mind, her earlier words echoing in his mind.
‘I would pay any price — any price — to see the Banshee impaled upon my glaive!’
“The time has come! The path opens!” Bolvar shouts, commanding everyone’s attention as black energy interspersed with white lightning crackles from the main shard. Slowly a void forms from the shard, expanding outwards on the stone floor. The champions steel themselves, the Ebon Blade brandishing their weapons, ready to charge through the rift. Acquila watches with rapt attention. He’s bared witness to many a major event due to his high status as a knight, but yet one of this calibre. They are opening up a rift into the afterlife, an action that might break the world as they know it.
“Your courage will be remembered, champions. Al diel shala.” Lor’themar salutes the heroes, prompting Acquila to do the same.
“Find those who were taken and bring them home!” Genn shouts, following Lor’themar’s example and saluting Azeroth’s last hope. The darkness expands further and even if Acquila isn’t standing in the center he can feel the pull of the void within, almost a sweet, beckoning whisper. He shakes his head to get rid of the foggy feeling creeping into his mind. The powers currently at work were not to be trifled with in the slightest. He jolts as the Night Warrior lets out a massive roar, pulling her glaives from their straps.
“Rescue the others! The Banshee is mine to kill!”
“Tyrande! Don’t do this!” Genn shouts over the crackling energies, a fruitless effort as he transforms and tries to jump the Night Warrior to hold her down. She dodges him with ease, spinning in the air and aiming for the portal.
“Tor ilisar’thera’nal!” she roars as she charges forwards. The moment her body makes contact with the darkness of the rift two of the Ebon Blade ritualists fall to the ground unconscious as ripples of white lightning crash out from within the portal. Bolvar grunts as the ritual destabilizes and the portal flickers dangerously.
“No…!” he pants through gritted teeth. Aethas Sunreaver and another quick-thinking Kirin Tor mage take up the vacant ritualist spots in an attempt to stabilize the ritual as Archmage Modera teleports the unconscious ritualists away. For a moment the rift seems stable again, but then it erupts into an explosion of chaotic energies. The void on the ground expands rapidly, swallowing up the Ebon Blade army and the Champions of Azeroth. Some are immediately pulled away, others scream in agony as they slowly sink into the inky darkness, vomiting black matter as life disappears from their eyes.
“My liege, you need to get out, now !” Acquila says, ushering Lor’themar and his group to the citadel’s teleporting mechanism. The Alliance leaders are all backing away, Genn looking utterly crestfallen and in shock as he is dragged along by an equally distressed Alleria Windrunner.
“We cannot lose you… to the darkness.” he calls after Tyrande, desperation palpable in his voice.
The rift suddenly lets out a massive gravitational pull, dragging more people into the center of the room. It feels as if all the air in his lungs are knocked out of him as Acquila is harshly yanked into the rift, waist deep in what feels like thick syrup. Desperation tears at the edges of his mind as he can feel the foggy sensation from before, slithering around in his brain and how his feet are slowly sinking into the deep. Lor’themar and his group have gotten out, thank the Light. Through his failing vision he can see Modera and the Kirin Tor mages teleport Bolvar away, along with other unlucky people caught in the pull. Someone suddenly blinks into existence in front of him, through his swimming vision he can make out a halo of red hair and the purples of the Kirin Tor tabard.
“Hold on.” the mage says, latching onto Acquila and pulling them flush together. “I’ll get us out of there.” Acquila is too dazed to say anything, he clings onto the mage for dear life. The terror he feels right now is like nothing he’s ever felt before, the sheer and utter fear of death is all-consuming. Torturous seconds pass by, the mage grunts in frustration.
“No…why..?” he groans as if in pain. Acquila has lost his vision completely, everything is dark. He can still hear the crackling and the screaming around them, and the dark syrup has reached their upper bodies.
“Kamijou!” he hears Modera call out, her voice sounding like static, “Ta-- m- han-! K---jou!”
“Hold...on. Whatever you...do...don’t let go…” the mage murmurs into Acquila’s ear and Acquila does as he is told, tightening his arms around the man’s waist right before his consciousness slips away into a darkness so very, frighteningly absolute.
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