Epilogue: The Salvation of Hellscream

Archimonde strode through the lands of Northrend, inspiring terror wherever he walked. Following him were his doomguards, and all that beheld his coming fled in terror. He passed over the mountains and highlands, and through the snows like a fel wind. He paid no heed to the pathetic natives. Their time would come soon. Finally, he came before Icecrown Glacier. The Lich King was not unprepared, however. He had brought to his aid countless undead from the nearby regions to bar Archimonde's path. The Demon Lord raised one hand, and summoned down infernals. The doomguards rushed forward into battle.

The fray went back and forth, as Archimonde marched through it. He slew those who stood in his way and left the rest for his minions. His feet thundered throughout the snows until he came to Icecrown Spire itself. There he stood before the Lich King, and loomed over the Frozen Throne, power radiating around him.

'Pitiful, wretched creature!' snarled Archimonde. 'Did you truly believe your treachery would go unnoticed?'

'My champion acted against my orders,' pleaded the Lich King, voice pleading, 'he has betrayed me as well. I have not betrayed you!'

'Perhaps not,' admitted Archimonde. 'however, your usefulness to me has all but expired. If you cannot control your subordinates, I see no reason why I should be lenient. Proceed, on your way to oblivion.'

Then reaching out with one hand, he gripped the spire. His power converged upon the Lich King. For a moment Ner'zhul resisted in terrible desperation. He threw everything he had into stopping him. Yet it was in vain. The ice cracked and shattered. The spire collapsed down to the ground. Then it exploded into a brilliant display of light.

The Lich King died alone.

Archimonde looked upon the remnants. He watched for Ner'zhul's soul that he might recapture it and send it back into eternal torment. Yet it did not appear, and the spirit of the Lich King remained elusive. He pondered this for the moment, wondering where he had gone.

'No matter,' he said at last, 'I will find him sooner or later. The mutiny is finished.'

He turned back to where his doomguards were finishing up. Many of them had fallen, to his irritation, for the undead had fought tooth and nail. The zeal and power of the Lich King behind them. Elsewhere in this continent, Archimonde could sense the undead going berserk. They were no longer restraining themselves as they acted only out of a desire to destroy. Yet they were converging on his location.

He considered sending another demon to take control here. Yet it seemed that Northrend too had all but outlived its usefulness. He would let the undead run rampant, and then return to finish off the winner. For now, he had business in Kalimdor. The time had come to settle the score.

A brilliant green light of unholy flame illuminated the ravine. It burst through the night to be seen for miles around. The two orcs quickened their pace and rushed to the source as it died down. Weapons readied, Thrall and Grom came round the bend. There they found Mannaroth's weapon lying shattered upon the ground. No sign of the demon could be seen around them.

'Where is he?' asked Thrall, looking around.

It was at that moment that a figure stepped out of the shadows. He looked almost a shadow himself. His hair was white, his skin was pale, and his eyes were blue-green. He was clad in black armor, and a long cloak which was scorched with fire. His breastplate was badly damaged, as though it had been run through. In his hand was an evil looking sword, inlaid with a skull. He seemed vaguely familiar.

'You…' said Grom, recognition in his tone, 'where is Mannaroth?! What is the meaning of this!'

'Mannaroth is dead,' said the man, voice cold. 'I have slain him.'

And somehow they knew it to be true. They could feel it in their hearts. Mannoroth was dead. A burden Thrall had never known he was carrying had fallen from his back and rolled away. Never to be seen again.

'It was you who warned me against drinking his blood.' realized Grom, 'Who are you? What right have you to involve yourself in orcish matter?! Mannoroth's blood was ours by right.'

'Orcish matters?' asked the man, looking at Grom hard. 'Are you truly so self-centered. Your drinking of his blood set in motion the First and Second wars. He is the architect of untold devastation inflicted upon the Alliance. Humanity has as much a right to his head as you. And anyway if you had listened to me, to begin with, we wouldn't be in this situation.'

Hellscream shut is mouth, and looked down at the ground thoughtfully. He had obviously not considered it in that light before now. For his part Thrall remembered his manners, recovering from the shock. This was the shadowy figure who had warned Hellscream then? 'If you have slain Mannaroth, then my people owe you a debt we can never repay. May I have your name, warrior?'

'I am Arthas Menethil, and we have met before.' stated Arthas, sheathing his sword.

'…You were the Prince who watched me do battle in Durnholme.' realized Thrall, old memories coming back to him. 'Jaina spoke of you before the Prophet. Your hair and skin are different, and you reek of unholy magic. What is the meaning behind all this?'

'The story is too long to go into now.' said Arthas. 'I expect Jaina should be able to explain it to you if you ask. May I ask a favor of you, Warchief?'

'State it, and I will answer then.' said Thrall, wary of his request.

Arthas removed a locket from his neck and offered it to him. 'Give this to Jaina, tell her I believe she should have it back. Tell her that I am sorry. Just that. And don't do it in front of her men, make it a private meeting.'

Thrall took the locket in his hand. 'I will do as you ask.' he remained silent. 'You are no friend of the Burning Legion. If you return to camp with us, you might speak such words to her yourself.'

'No, I'm afraid I'm past the point of no return.' said Arthas. 'I am going to Ashenvale. That is where the Legion will strike next. Preparing for their attack was the entire reason Mannaroth spilled his blood. You should take your new allies there.'

'And what do you mean to accomplish on your own?' asked Grom, eyes narrowed.

'Revenge,' said Arthas, 'it's all I have left at this point.' At this time a skeletal horse road through the darkness and came to nuzzle Arthas' face. The death knight petted the undead creature, before hauling himself atop the creature. He looked at them. 'I am sorry for your losses. Light protect you.'

Then he turned and rode back into the darkness.

Silence fell over the two friends as the hoofbeats faded into the distance. Finally, Thrall spoke; 'Grom…'

'Yes, Warchief.' said Grom.

'I'm glad you're back on our side.' said Thrall.

'So am I, little brother.' said Grom.

And then, though they did not know why they suddenly started laughing. They made their way back to camp in better spirits than they had in weeks. It was as though a weight they had not even been aware of had been lifted from their shoulders.

The locket had been given to Arthas, by Jaina during their courtship in Dalaran. It had happened so long ago. So much had happened between then that Jaina had completely forgotten about it. Now it stood here, in her shaking hands again.

'He…' she began, 'he said he was sorry?' The sarcasm in her tone was bitter. 'Well, I'm sorry too. Damn him! How could he… Leave me; I need to be alone Thrall.'

Thrall nodded, and wordlessly departed the tent. Jaina remained silent for some time, looking at the locket, before looking up to the mirror. Her hand moved almost of its own accord as she cast the locket into the mirror. It shattered into a thousand pieces as Jaina fell to her knees weeping.

Then, drying her tears, she forced herself up and picked her staff up. Straightening herself out, she made her way out of the tent and up a hill to look out over the battlefield. Even now the orcs and humans were busy clearing away the bodies. The sun was setting over the battlefield, bathing all the world in red light. A wind blew through her cloak, throwing off her hair flowed through the air behind her as she mourned.

She sensed the Prophet before she saw him. He must have realized as much, because he halted a few feet behind her, waiting to be recognized. Jaina didn't give him a look, instead focusing on what lay ahead. Finally, she lost patience. 'What did you have to do with this?'

'I… the Prince of Lordaeron had been tracking the orc Warchief on behalf of his demon masters.' said the Prophet. 'He approached me and demanded I tell him where he could find Mannoroth. When I realized that the only way to sway him from confronting the demon was to kill him, I led him there.'

'What's so important?' asked Jaina suddenly. 'Why were you so set on Hellscream being the one to kill Mannoroth?'

'Hellscream is special.' admitted the Prophet. 'In almost every timeline whenever he confronts Mannoroth, both of them end up dead. Had Arthas confronted Mannaroth and been killed, it would have been disastrous.'

Jaina looked at him flatly. For a moment there was silence.

Finally, the Prophet sighed. 'I feel I owe you an apology, Ms. Proudmoore, for… many things, some of which have yet to happen.'

'What do you mean?' asked Jaina, voice wary.

'As you have already noted, I have not chosen the most efficient way to save this world from the flame.' said the Prophet. 'In truth, I have chosen the safest way to ensure the Burning Legion's downfall. Saving Azeroth is merely a… side benefit if you will.'

'Well I'm glad you've been so forthright with me until now.' said Jaina, dripping with sarcasm. 'I certainly wouldn't have wanted to know all this before I fled to Kalimdor.'

'You don't understand!' said the Prophet, voice holding a note of desperation. 'No one does. You… I've seen things, that you have not imagined in your darkest nightmares. Ancient beasts rising from the depths of the earth to consume all that live. I've looked at alternate timelines where Archimonde never set foot in Azeroth. They are worse!'

'Worse?' asked Jaina 'How could it be worse?!'

'Because Azeroth is not the center of the universe.' said the Prophet. 'The Burning Legion has scorched countless worlds before this one. If they are not stopped, they will destroy countless more. I… if events proceed here as planned, the Burning Legion will be dealt a blow from which they will never recover.

'It will be the beginning of the end for them. The battle waged here, if won, may save countless other worlds. Azeroth must suffer, so that the others may be saved.'

'Only one question,' said Jaina, 'and I want an answer. If I had gone with him to Northrend, could I have stopped it?'

The Prophet remained silent. At that moment more than anything, he wanted to lie, to say that nothing she said or did could have averted his fall. At least it would help her peace of mind. '…Yes.' he said finally. 'Your presence would have kept him stable enough to trust in his own forces, rather than dark powers. He would have killed Mal'ganis and returned a hero. It would have delayed the inevitable by at least sixty years.

During that time Archimonde would have burned three other worlds. Worlds you've never even heard of. Billions consumed for the sake of one Kingdom.

'I… I'm sorry.'

'Get out of my camp before I have you crucified.' stated Jaina in a soft tone.

That was his cue to leave.

The Prophet flinched and transformed into a raven. Turning he flew away out of the tent and away into the distance. Jaina turned her attention then to Ashenvale, far in the distance. There she saw a lone rider, clad in black with flowing white hair, heading into the darkness. The Alliance and Horde would follow soon enough.

For, now she decided to take some rest, and mourn her losses later.

The Alliance and Horde mustered their forces and prepared for the great battle of their age. Though who would emerge the victory was anyone's guess.

Authors Note:

I've concluded that the best case which can be made for the Prophet is as follows. He picked the safest possible path, rather than the one which yields the best results. By that standard, events in this fanfic are less safe than the Prophet would have liked. They just happened to yield a positive result.

I appreciate everyone who has taken the time to comment and read this little series of mine. I particularly appreciate the efforts of Which Brew and Andtorismyname. Their endless feedback has worked to make this fic possible. Without you guys, I probably would have dropped this a long time ago.

See you guys next time!

Oh yeah, and the Lich King is dead. So much for Frozen Throne.