World of Warcraft®

Several days passed. The siege was lifted, and Deathwing had met his well-deserved fate. With the Elemental War over, the soldiers who fought it went home. Taeril'hane Ketiron and Smeet Spiritgrinder had returned to Northrend after delivering their injured comrades to safety; after the Destroyer's fall, Smeet had gone back to the Whitehair estate in the Court of the Sun in Silvermoon, while Ketiron had returned to Wyrmrest for a time before doing likewise. The red dragon Zaranastrasz delivered him to the great Elfgate at the entrance of the Ghostlands, where his guard escort awaited him, and Ketiron had rode the rest of the way.

As Ketiron arrived at his home, the goblin shaman - who had returned to tending his patient when he left the Maelstrom - looked up at the entrance of the Whitehair patriarch, too exhausted to offer much consolation. "Sunwalker Eaglespear is dead, Lord Ketiron."

Ketiron sat down heavily next to the dead tauren, his face a mask of rage and grief. Along with Nor'taeron Sunblade, Telek Eaglespear had been one of his favored apprentices. He remembered when the lad had come to him in the wake of Baine's ascension and the formation of the Sunwalker order, seeking to learn more about the Light - making him the obvious polar opposite of his corrupted elder brother, Ublaz, who had been one of the Lich King's death knights - "Deathspear" he had become, as a result.

Areinnye Scourgebane, Ketiron's wife and ranger-general of his House Guard, brought the blanket over Eaglespear's face. "Light and elements grant him his rest. At least...he lived long enough for the end."

The man in the rune-and-skull saronite armor nodded. "Aye...the Destroyer will plague us no more. It's too bad, though - we could have used him in the world beyond. You know what the Aspects said, Taeril'hane...first Medivh, now the dragons, leaving us to do the work without some immortals hovering over our shoulders."

Ketiron nodded, wiping a tear from his eye. "Aye..." He looked up. "What of Packleader Zherron?" He indicated the badly-injured worgen, his breathing quiet and slow.

"He will need plenty of rest, but with the Light and our ministrations, he will recover in time. He was lucky - a bit more to the left, and the scythe-blade would have hit the heart. He'd have been dead the moment we found him."

"I heard from a few pals in the Crusade he's not exactly popular," Smeet said; he had worked with his teacher, the draenei farseer Jaeden'laek, during the war against the Lich King. "Those Pia Presidium guys that work out of Hearthglen threw him outta town for attackin' two of their people under the Corruptor's brand, and sendin' his 'Ghost' out to kill a couple more..."

"The Ghost is no issue," the man in the cowled armor replied firmly. "I dealt with that myself. He will not be killing any innocents."

"What will become of him, then?" Areinnye wondered. "He has made far too many enemies now. The Ocheliad, the Presidium...even the City Watch in Stormwind."

"Eidan Zherron's fate is what he makes of it - I cannot say for certain, nor decide his fate. I can only be a voice of counsel, as Light knows there are plenty who have lost faith and need such a voice." He smiled and sat down, removing his helm. "When he is ready, we will depart."

"So soon? There is still much we need to talk about - like how you're here at all."

He laughed. "Come now, Taeril'hane. You can't expect me to give everything up in one sitting."

Eidan Zherron awoke in a richly-furnished room, not recognizing his surroundings for a moment. "What is this? Where am I?" he demanded.

"I see you're awake at last, worgen. Good. Thought we were gonna lose ya." The goblin shaman Smeet Spiritgrinder grinned at him. "You're in Silvermoon, in the House of Whitehair."

"I see." The Packleader laid back in his bed. He knew that the Whitehairs were people of honor, even for their much-maligned race. Still, he felt he had to ask, "Am I to be your guest...or a prisoner to be executed?"

"You should know better than to ask that question, Packleader Zherron." Master Ketiron stood in the doorway, his fingers drumming on the handle of the sword he wore at his belt. "If I had wanted you dead, you would be already - I would have killed you myself, or left you to die on the side of the road. Fortunately for you, my House values honor above all things. I was given special dispensation by the Lord Regent to have you here."

"You're not sending me as some kind of trophy to Hellscream? A worgen Packleader in your custody would be a great coup - hell, you could even send me to Sylvanas."

"I have no more love for either Hellscream or Sylvanas than you do," Ketiron admitted. "With Arthas gone, the Dark Lady seems hell-bent on taking his place, and the Warchief..." He snorted. "You youths act so stupidly when your pride is on the line. Varian and Hellscream are about to go headlong into a new war, now that we no longer have a common enemy to fight."

That caught Zherron momentarily off-guard. The last he had seen, Wyrmrest was being attacked by a massive twilight dragon. "Deathwing? He is dead?"

Ketiron nodded. "Nothing left but broken armor and dust scattered by the four winds. Now we're all waiting to be brought back into the fray, to kill each other once more in senseless combat." He sighed. "I am a warlord of Quel'Thalas, and a sworn defender of the Horde. I have no choice. In the days to come, I will fight the Alliance and the friends I have there...and even kill them, or be killed by them, if that is what my duty requires." He smiled again, much more forced than the last. "Ah, enough of my problems. That will be for the future. At present...how are you feeling?"

"As well as I can be for someone who had the scythe-blade of a lunatic warlock shoved into his chest, if you catch my meaning," Zherron replied, laying a hand on his chest. "How long have I been here?"

"Nine days. You have been unconscious since we found you." The Master gazed seriously at him. "It was him, wasn't it?"

Zherron could only nod.

"Another day, another haunting by that maniac..." The blood elf rubbed his temples tiredly. "Well, at least you're still in one piece. By the skills of Farseer Spiritgrinder and myself, you're on the mend. Are you up for a little travel?"

Zherron's eyes narrowed. "Depends. Where am I going - and what's the purpose?"

"Heading back to the south, back towards Stormwind. There's a message of sorts you've been tasked to deliver to your priestess friend."

"From you? Genevra wouldn't have the slightest idea how to respond to anything you send - she doesn't know you. Only your name, that's hardly enough. And besides, wouldn't that be something for your own couriers?"

"Under normal circumstances, yes. But the situation is not normal. And the man you're working for isn't me." Ketiron's smile had a roguish smirk to it. "I know someone who could find far better uses for you than I." He stepped aside to let the man forward. A tall man in armored robes, his hair braided at his shoulders, his goatee neatly trimmed.

Zherron gasped. He had not seen this man's face in nearly thirty years - his hair had gone white, his face lined - but he recognized him instantly. The man's brown eyes were staring unflinchingly at him. He held a huge warhammer against one shoulder. It was the man he had encountered at Tal'doren - and a man that he had heard was dead, and had returned by the grace of She Who Is Life. At last, the man smiled.

"The Destroyer has fallen, Eidan. Now...it is time."

It has been so long. The will of my patrons has kept me intact - and away from my people. Now...I have returned to this place...to a place where the people's faith has been shaken by the fall of the traitor.

His thoughts echoed in his own head as he walked down the main aisle of the Cathedral of Light, approaching the altar where - more than six years earlier - he had taken his oath as a Knight of the Silver Hand, or at least as much of the Silver Hand that remained, until the union with the Argent Dawn as the war with the Scourge began.

Since the fall of the Lich King, he had been believed dead - a deception he had been asked, had had reluctantly accepted, to conduct by his draconic patron "until the time was right". He had fought for the Wyrmrest Accord in the great siege of their temple and had seen the battle won, and the Aspects faded. Now, he had come home - or at least, a place he had called home with his homeland in ruin. Ever since that meeting with Genevra in Corin's Crossing, where his father had served as magistrate before the Scourge came, he had itched to return to this city, and was horrified to see the damage inflicted by the Worldbreaker before he met his well-deserved fate. Later in the evening, he had journeyed to the gates of Ironforge, to a little clearing outside, where he had enjoyed an evening of song and storytelling with others.

How I have missed the fellowship of my brothers and sisters, he thought.

As he approached the altar, he noticed a man kneeling before it - a man in dark plate armor, and a sword at his side bearing powerful runes. It was one of the liberated death knights...and one he recognized. "Hello, Artimus."

Artimus Devaneaux stood and gaped at the figure before him. The paladin was no longer wearing his obscuring helm, so his face, his snow-white hair and his warm brown eyes were easily seen. As he stared, he suddenly went to his knees. "My lord Regent," he whispered. "You do live..."

"Rise, Artimus, please. That was a long time ago." He smiled. "Yes, I am here."

Artimus stood - he was just as tall as the paladin, and was around the same age - or at least he would have been while he was alive. "But how? We saw you die...we buried you..."

"It is a long story, my friend. Suffice to say..." The paladin chuckled. "Life will find a way." He put an emphasis on that first word.

Artimus was puzzled for a moment, then his eyes widened in realization. "But...why --"

He raised a hand. "I can explain in time. For now...I am simply here to readjust to being among my fellows again - and giving counsel where it is asked for."

"You may not end up liking where we're going, Saavedro. Just like the tensions after the Wrathgate, and after we finished off Arthas...and with Hellscream, it may end up being worse."

Saavedro of Stratholme's smile widened. "It's a challenge, Artimus."

((This has been an awesome story. I'm glad you shared it with us.))