Chapter 35

Redemption

Stefan dropped his knees onto the cold ice of the Frozen Throne's steps. Feet under his butt, he placed his hands on his lap, waiting patiently. He should have been dead from the chill, only wearing a leather war harness that didn't cover his arms, and thin, torn pants. But the cold was something only the weak trifled with. Stefan had been placed a step above. The Lich King turned and climbed the steps back to his Frozen Throne. He faced Stefan once more, and slowly lowered himself onto the icy seat of power. He leaned forward, placing Froustmourne between his legs, his hands resting on the hilt.

They watched each other like a pair of distant, pacified rivals. Stefan moved first, unclasping his weapon belt and dropping onto the ground in front of him. The maces were glowing white hot, as they should in the presence of the highest point of evil on Azeroth. They sizzled quietly on the icy floor, urging Stefan to pick them up and charge the vile Lich King. But he knew he had no chance of defeating the demi-god in single combat. The Lich King knew as well.

Stefan closed his eyes, shutting down his physical body and releasing the expanse of his psychic persona. The Lich King soon followed suit, and atop the Frozen Throne that cold afternoon, the two achieved perfect, calm silence.

---

He stood alone in the grove. He hadn't been a moment ago. Muradin lay dead, confusion and sorrow still wrought in the Dwarf's empty eyes. He turned away from his friend's corpse, unable to look upon the poor soul. Instead, he eyed the runeblade in his hand, listening to the faint whispers of triumph that sang in his ears. He had done it. Frostmourne was his, and he would defeat the demons with its power. He would triumph in the name of the Light. All would praise him as a hero. But then something dawned upon him, a thought that hadn't crossed his mind when the event had truly happened years ago, before the Burning Legion had come in full force. Before he had made the journey to Icecrown and taken up the crown of the Lich King.

"Surprised it didn't end the way you thought it would, Arthas?"

The Prince turned to the entrance of the grove, where a lone figure stood. He was dressed in a leather war-harness, a shirt of fine silk beneath the protective vest. His legs were wrapped in leather leggings, concealed by thin pants. At the man's waist was a pair of war maces, their Elementium heads shaped in the form of a screaming demon. The man's brown hair tossed about in the cold wind, but he never moved to pull the strands from his intense, brown eyes.

"Perhaps. But maybe it was destiny? What makes you think it would turn out any other way?"

The man stepped forward. "Faith, Arthas. It's all we have. You have forsaken your own. You submitted yourself to the whims of a wretched, filthy demon."

"I have forsaken nothing. My people were weak. I had to act to save them. I submitted myself to power, Stefan."

"Maybe. But here and now, there is no power. There is no Lich King, and there is no future. It is just you and me, Arthas. Even Ner'zhul is not present. The only advantage you can bring to bear is the fire within," said Stefan, unslinging his maces. They weren't glowing.

Arthas raised Frostmourne, shutting out the faint whispers that reverberated in his head. "Let's begin, then."

They charged one another, Stefan silent and anticipating, Arthas growling with anger. The Prince's first stroke was a downward chop which Stefan stopped by crossing his maces together. Arthas attempted to press the assault, but Stefan planted his feet firmly and threw aside his attack. He cut a stroke toward Arthas' head, but the Prince easily sidestepped the blow, anticipating Stefan's second attack which he batted aside with a parry of his sword. He returned with a stab, but Stefan moved faster than he thought. The man pushed the blade aside with his mace, and slammed his shoulder into Arthas' chest. Though his plate armor protected him from the damage of the attack, the blow was enough to get Arthas stumbling on his feet. He hastily threw a hand up to deflect one of Stefan's maces, wincing at the pain as he made contact. He planted his feet and brought Frostmourne around in an arc, forcing Stefan to keep his distance.

They took a moment of respite, facing one another in flustered silence. Their chests rose and fell rapidly, attempting to catch up with their rapidly beating hearts.

"Where's the fire, Arthas?"

He growled and came at Stefan again. His swing was wild and unfocused, easily side-stepped by his opponent who planted a mace firmly on the back of Arthas' head. The Prince continued to trundle forward, dazed. He faced Stefan again, rage building in his eyes.

"You cannot defeat me! I have Frostmourne!"

He charged again, attempting to remove Stefan's head from his shoulders. He ducked the blow, delivering a strike into the chink between Arthas' armor and knocking the wind out of him. He smashed his other mace into the Prince's sword hand, forcing him to drop the weapon. Then he kicked the weakened Arthas off his feet. The Prince scrambled away as Stefan approached.

"No...this is not how it happened!"

"This is not your past, Arthas. This is a chance at redemption," replied Stefan. Arthas' backed up against the grove's wall, fear clouding his eyes.

"No..."

"Make your choice, Prince. Save yourself," said Stefan.

"No!"

As Arthas gasped the word, Stefan brought his maces up, dropping both down toward the Prince's head. But Arthas had made his choice. He brought his hands up, and caught the maces by their heads. They struggled, Stefan's muscles tense and taut as he tried to force past the Prince's guard. But he couldn't.

There was no fear in Arthas' eyes anymore. There was something else: humor. In fact, he began to chuckle as, slowly, he began to win the test of might. Arthas inched the maces away from his head, and all the while Stefan's expression of indifference didn't change. But the maces had begun to glow white hot and smoke was rising from the Prince's palms. Then in a brilliant flash of light, the maces vaporized, and Stefan was thrown back by an explosion. When he came around, he saw Arthas standing there, his gauntleted hands smoking, an evil grin on his face. But he knew it wasn't Arthas anymore.

Though it was the Prince's body, it was Ner'zhul who picked up Frostmourne and came toward the fallen Stefan with an evil laughter boiling up in his throat.

"I told you he could not be saved, Stefan. But you did not listen."

Stefan got onto his knees, facing the Lich King without a trace of fear. "I gave him his chance and he forfeited it, Ner'zhul."

"You lose, Stefan," said Ner'zhul as he brought the blade up to his shoulder.

"No," answered Stefan, with sorrow. "Arthas lost."

The blade came down, and everything went white.

---

Stefan coughed up blood, sending a red spray across the floor of the Frozen Throne. The Lich King rose from his seat, coming toward the Human. He looked down upon Stefan as the man began to cough up more blood, still splayed on all fours for support.

"You had your chance, Stefan. But now you must submit to me. Relinquish your soul, and Kha'Tzeen'Azyr. You shall be my left hand, the eyes of the world. You shall direct my Scourge to victory, as it has been forseen."

Stefan's chilling laugh sent a spark of amusement coarsing through the Lich King's cold veins.

"You think you know everything don't you, Ner'zhul?" said Stefan, raising his head to look at the Lich King. His mouth was bloody.

"It is why I prevailed and you, even with an artifact of all-seeing knowledge, did not. It is the future laid out before us."

"Nay," answered Stefan, coughing up blood. "I did not come to defeat you, nor to join the ranks of your minions. I came to offer the better side of you a chance. I came to offer you a change to change the future. And you refused it, Arthas. Shame on you."

He sat back on his feet again, supporting his weight on his knees. Placing a hand on the small of his back, he spoke again. "But I also came to show you, Ner'zhul, that even a god amongst men can know shame. Even you, the most powerful being on Azeroth, can be defied."

Realization dawned on the Lich King.

"And now, Ner'zhul, I defy you."

The Lich King reached toward Stefan, but it was already too late. With a single, fluid motion, he brought up the gun he had left in the back of his harness, placed the muzzle in his mouth, and fired. Kha'Tzeen'Azyr shattered as Stefan's psychic persona exploded, falling to pieces as his body slumped to the floor.