Chapter Text
Wherever Sylvanas had expected to find herself - and certainly, there had been a wide range of possibilities after she’d catapulted herself toward that rent in the fabric of existence - this was not somewhere she would have picked.
The place looked - the word tasted like ashes on her tongue - idyllic. It had the look of a village square that could have easily sprung from her childhood - cobblestones beneath her feet, edged with grass and gardens, a modest water feature in the centre. Hemmed in by elven looking buildings, in hues of purple, blue, and brown, leafy trees that gently shed autumnal leaves, dappled rays of sunlight from overhead, and paths that seemed to wend their way around gentle hills and through dales before disappearing into the distance. A taunt for her, then - colour scheme aside, it too closely reminded her of younger days than she was comfortable with recalling.
She picked herself up from the ground, dusted her hands across her leather armour, and stalked off in the direction of one of those exits between buildings. It only seemed to lead her straight back into the square, though. She cast about, looking for some sort of signifier she could use to identify - ah. The sign on that building labelled it the ‘Sleeping Inn’. Her lip curled in distaste, and she tried to leave again.
She arrived in the square once more. The ‘Sleeping Inn’ sign withstood the strength of her glare. Something - some one - was keeping her here. “I will not be contained!” she snarled, and paced a tight circle as she thought furiously.
She had been approaching the rift between Azeroth and the Shadowlands, having catapulted herself skyward towards the Old God N’zoth’s new form. She’d succeeded at knocking the eldritch horror off-course - a shiver of satisfaction at her success there - and aimed herself true to claim its course as her own. She had not known what she would find here, but she had certainly not expected to be ignored.
The crunch of metal plate on the cobblestones pulled her from her thoughts, and she looked up, as her ears twitched in sudden trepidation. She saw him come into view, and stride the path into the square. She felt the chill of the falling snow that circled him like a cloak prickle at her skin. She experienced, for the first time in many years, true fear.
Arthas Menethil, the Lich King, her murderer, strode into the square, and ground to a stop across from her. He held Frostmourne, the cursed blade that had enslaved her to this torment a lifetime ago, and he stabbed it into the ground, leaning on the cross-guard as if for support. She stared at it - at him - wide eyed, frozen as if she were a gazelle who had just spotted the hunter about to claim her for sport.
His helm prevented her from seeing his face, except for the bright blue glow where his eyes should be, and the snow flurried around him. His cape fluttered in a breeze that was not there. His armour rose and fell with his breaths, though distantly she thought it an affectation. Her own blood pumped urgently, ringing in her ears, as her long-forgotten fight or flight instincts screamed at her incoherently, sluggish from disuse.
When at last he spoke, his voice was as cold as the grave. “I did promise that the last thing I would give you would be the peace of death, Ranger-General. I hope you find it to your liking.”