Four

Pathways

Morticai left Hardishane, Marinda and Zihasi alone in the desert, his mood darker than it had ever been before. In his mind, images swirled and taunted him while right in front of him, his words were ignored time and time again. How many more times could he manage it? How many more times would he be able to break the spell that Karazahn had placed on his family?

And still they returned to that place, still they heeded not a single word he said. Alerca charged in head first, attacking it alone and directly while Marinda attempted to sneak in. Meanwhile, Caledfwch concocted ludicrous plans to lead an army against it.

No one listened to him!

His mood had been dark when Zihasi called to him, his mind haunted by the image of Rizarah in the arms of another man. But this drove him too far.

So, he left them all. He said not another word, simply left. He teleported and then quickly cast the spells against the Guildstone that allowed him to move freely and without their knowledge. He found a place where he could be alone, a dark place, a quiet place, and he sat there for days, pondering the future…..

“I think you’ve done this enough, boy.”

-Morticai let fly another frostbolt, taking the Lady square in the chest, and again she seemed to simply shake it off. With a roar he followed it with a fireball, and then his arcane missiles – still, she seemed to take no damage, the magics sliding off her like so much water. She grinned as she lifted her own hands slowly, and the pain erupted throughout his body.

“Too much, boy! Too much! After I warned you not to use this place!”

-stepped up the stairs slowly, his staff tapping on the ancient rock of Karazahn with every other footfall. The massive gates before him were locked, yet they gave way before him as if he were expected. Inside, the patterned floors sparkled and shone as if recently waxed and readied just for him.

Men and women of all ages and sizes moved here and there, none seeming to take notice of him as he tap-stepped his way to a large room full of retainers who lined the walls on either side, and filled the floor before him. They parted for him, making a wide path to where She stood, high upon a dais.

Hardishane was there next to Her, dressed all in fine white robes, looking very much the Prince or the Priest – whichever way his mood might lean this night.

High above them, chandeliers held thousands of candles, casting light down upon them all, forcing Morticai to squint, the throbbing behind his eyes slightly more intense than normal.

“Have you come to supplicant yourself?” She asked, and he nodded.

He held aloft the phylactery, his eyes downcast as She took it with a smile.

“…you didn’t really think you could win, did you?” She asked, her voice like bells as She laughed.

“Of course I did,” he replied, and the phylactery exploded in her hand, throwing him back with such force he struck the far wall with a sickening-

“Enough!” Zekeith cried. “You torture yourself!! And for what?!”

-Rizarah smiled weakly, her head cradled in his arms. Her hair had long since lost its fire, becoming a dull rusty color streaked with white.

Morticai tried to tip the flask again, let the liquid flow past her lips, but she pushed his hand away.

“No.”

“It helps. It breaks up the cough, helps you breathe easier.”

“No,” she said again, the defiance back in her eyes. He’d not seen so much fire in her for many a long year, not since she’d demanded he refuse the call to Karazahn when it came. It still bothered him, that. He should have gone, should have fought, yet she’d argued with such heat, so vehemently opposed to his going off to die, that he could not deny her, not after she had given up so much just to be with him.

“All right,” he agreed softly, his hand stroking her hair back. She looked up and he replied softly before she could even ask, “Yes, they are coming. Your Wardens.” She nods, settling back again, closing her eyes.

“Ah shoul’ ‘ave ‘ad children,” she whispers, and he can only look away. He took that from her, children and grandchildren, all so she could be with a dead man for the rest of her life. He’d never considered that she would die one day, and he would still be here, still be Forsaken, and be alone again.

“Loksoral?” she asked.

“Coming. And Cy and all the other Wardens as well, I promise you,” he replied gently. She nodded again.

Thirty years. Thirty years of happiness, of fighting and making up, of pleasure and torture. Thirty years of being together and now age, and sickness had set in faster than he thought possible, and the love of his life was slowly slipping away, and there wasn’t a blasted thing anyone could do.

Another round of coughing, and he holds the chamber pot for her to spit the blood before handing a moist towel for her to wipe her mouth. An accusing glare and he sighs.

“I did not give you the plague,” he says for the hundredth time.

“’ow choo be sure? Choo dun know!”

“If I had given you the plague,” he spat through clenched teeth, “It would have come on DECADES ago!”

“Hmph!” she said, turning away from him, arms crossed across her chest. She was in a spectacular mood, and it was quickly catching. He was almost glad to hear the sounds of hooves on the hard packed clay of the road, hear the voices of the Wardens as they approached. He moved outside into the desert sun to allow them some time to catch up, tell war stories and make their peace.

She died late in the night, and Cy was kind enough to help Morticai dig the grave beneath the tree back behind the house, the one she seemed to like so much. Afterwards, Morticai gathered his things, locked away for so long in a spot beneath the floor: Staff, backpack, robes, black hat.

“Where are you going?” Cy asked as he climbed his horse.

“To die,” he replied, starting his journey to Karazahn some thirty years later than he first intended.

“….you should have had children,” he whispered to her as he passed the fresh grave.

“-torture yourself! This is madness!”

-cried out, and he could barely spare her a glance, but he knew that Marinda had fallen and would not be getting up again. Caledfwch rushed ahead madly, and Morticai called to him again, trying to rein him in, but it was too late – their line was breaking apart.

Blast it! Where was Zeraphe?! And Alerca?! He’d lost them in the smoke and haze of so many spells. Hakkai fought on, as did Emm by his side. Caledfwch and Fishbed charged when he called for a defensive line, Lukaine stood protectively over Marinda’s still form, Rubina, Bevia, Liberius – even Zulab – they all looked at him for guidance, yet they were about to be over run.

Torero, Elain, Deikum, Magretha, Windstrika, Zihasi – all dead in the first wave, along with so many others.

His fault; their blood on his hands.

Without a second thought, he cast the spell for a portal to Orgrimmar.

“Retreating? After all of this?” Zulab said in a monotone voice.

“Gather the dead, take them through.”

“And the others?” Zulab asked.

“I’ll bring them. GO!”

Morticai ran, never looking back, eyes on Caledfwch and Fishbed as they hacked their way through the enemy, never seeing the next wave heading for them. The pain shot through him, and he sputtered to a stop, hand clutching his chest.

Hardishane stood high above him on the wall surrounding Karazahn, his hand outstretched, the word ‘doom’ still fresh upon his lips. Knowing he had no time left, Morticai let loose with everything he had, trying to clear the way for Caled and Fish to make their escape, and then the pain came-

“Stop!” Zekeith pleaded with him. “No good can come of this! You must Stop!”

-Rizarah smiled weakly, her head cradled in his arms. Her hair had long since lost its fire, becoming a dull rusty color streaked with white.

He tried to tip the flask again, let the liquid flow past her lips, but she pushed his hand away.

“No.”

“It helps. It breaks up the cough, helps you breathe easier.”

“No,” she said again, the defiance back in her eyes. Her husband chuckled, setting the flask aside.

“All right,” he agreed, his hand stroking her hair softly. She looked up and he replied softly before she could even ask, “Yes, they are coming. Your Wardens.” She nods, settling back again, closing her eyes.

“An Mor’icai?” she asked, and her husband’s eyes glistened.

“No, not Morticai,” he replied gently. “He fell at Karazahn, remember? Hardishane is coming though.”

She stared at him for a very long time, her own eyes filled with unshed tears. “Fell,” she whispered. “Ah remembah.”

“Gamma!” squealed a little girl, and Rizarah’s face lit up as the child dove onto the bed and wrapped her arms around her. The child was quickly followed by her mother, who smiled and spoke with her father.

“Loksoral is not far behind, and the other Wardens,” she said, but Rizarah was already playing lightly with her granddaughter, pointing out that yes, it was a very pretty dress that she wore and that she would make a very fine Shaman when she grew up.

Hardishane slipped in long after the others, and went unnoticed for quite some time before Rizarah saw him and called him forward. He bowed, and bent knee to her, ever the gentleman.

“Choo brough’ this to me, ‘member?” she asked, slipping the silver locket from around her own neck, and placing it around his. Fingers tipped in talons touched it reverently as he nodded.

“I do.”

“Ah dun need it where ah be goin’,” she said softly. “Ah t’ink he want choo ta ‘ave it now.”

Hardishane could only nod at that. Her hand reached out and touched his heart.

"'e fixed it, didn' 'e?" Again, he could only nod, slowly backing away from her. She looked so frail to his eyes, yet the power and fierceness was still there, deep beneath the surface - along with the Pride. Her Morticai had done it, had healed Hardishane, freed him once and for all.

She died late in the night, and Hardishane helped to dig the grave beneath the tree back behind the house, the one she seemed to like so much. Afterwards, he rode straight to the Zepplin, crossing the ocean and coming to Brill without delay. There, in the graveyard, he found the well-tended grave of Morticai. Torero was just leaving, the fresh flowers he placed there each morning, still glistening with dew. The Tauren said nothing as his Primarch marched past, falling to his knees at the marker.

“She’s coming to you,” he whispered. Taloned fingers clawed at the earth, making a small hole just deep enough to hold the locket. He slipped it inside, then covered it again. “Warn the Heavens for me,” he added with a sad chuckle.

-Morticai choked.

“…that one,” he said in a husky voice. “Give them that one.”

“It doesn’t work that way, boy.”

“It can,” he replied petulantly. “It will.”

“You can’t force it – that’s not the way….”

“I can. I will. He-I saw it, the choices he made. I will make the same choices.”

“No,” Zekeith said emphatically. “You cannot do this!”

“I can. I will. They deserve better. She deserves better.”

“And what about you, boy? What do you deserve?”

“It doesn’t matter. She deserves to be with someone who can give her a future, someone who can give her children, make her happy – grow old with her, and yes, even die with her. Someone who is alive.”

“You are being a fool, boy. You’re doing this out of some misguided sense of nobility – she has said that she wants you! Not all of that! You.”

“No. I’m doing what is right.”

“What is right?”

“Yes. ….I always do what’s right.”

* * *

Morticai sits on the highest claw, just above the entrance to the Cleft, precariously seated on the talon’s tip. No sunlight reaches him here; the primary reason for his coming to this particular spot. The second reason is that the denizens of this city, those who mill about making noise and kicking up dust all day and all night, are far below him and rarely, if ever, take notice of him up here alone in the shadows.

....for he prefers to be alone.

The tiny silver locket is clasped in his hand, recently retrieved from its hiding place where he’d buried it not long after Hardishane was kind enough to return it to him. Why had he buried it? A myriad of reasons. First and foremost, he needed to give himself some distance from it all, needed to stop allowing his emotions to override his own good judgment. Reason and logic needed to be applied here and he couldn’t do that if he were constantly blinded by emotions.

His thumb caresses the dent in the surface, lips curling into a tiny, private smile as his mind recalls the attack. So intense at the time, so terrifying, and yet when he looks back now he recalls only her beauty; her fierceness. She deserves to be happy.

”And what about your happiness?” That was Zihasi speaking. The lioness’ voice had been so earnest when he heard it through the stone. ”Don’t you deserve to be happy? Don’t you deserve to be loved?”

It’s not that simple, he’d replied, or something near to it. Of course she didn’t understand, people rarely did when he spoke the Truth. Truth is difficult to accept and people often turn away, disgusted and angry when confronted with it. They want to live in dreams where the hero bests the villain, and lives happily ever after with the Princess in the castle.

In Truth and in life, rarely does the hero survive. The villain, more often than not, goes on unmolested and the Princess is married off by her father to increase his land holdings, income and status with his peers.

”I AM TOO YOUNG TO BE MATED!!!” Torero. Despite himself, Morticai could only chuckle at the memory of the Tauren male-boy really, as Morticai checked on him and the gifts he’d sent.

”As am I,” he replied dryly.

”….this is not a Forsaken mating ritual?”

”Giftgiving? Not in this case, no.”

Torero let out the breath he’d been holding causing Morticai to cough a bit and cover his nose with a handkerchief. One of the Tauren’s other forms had been eating fish recently. Lots of it. Pity the boy had no control over any of them.

”You procrastinate.” that was the voice in his head, the voice of his mentor, his tutor, the only one who ever really showed him any affection in life; the Bloodelf Zekeith. How she came to be in his head, and why, he’d yet to puzzle out. If she was the manifestation of his own subconscious, it had a poor sense of humor. If she was something else…. He’d toyed with that idea more than once but had no concrete evidence to support the theory.

”There is a reason for everything I do,” he replies, though his lips never move.

True enough, he reasoned. So much left to do. He had managed to retrieve Hardishane, with the help of the Splinter en masse, from the Scarlets who held him but it was only a temporary stopgap. The other business still loomed over them all, and he knew from his own dreams and visions that he would have to be there in order for that particular chapter to close once and for all.

He’d given Hardishane a choice, not long ago. A difficult one, he knew but a choice nonetheless. The Hunter, Khadiz, had talked Hardi into a dangerous and foolhardy plan that would only have worsened their hand in the long run. They wanted him to come to them and discuss it. In Karazahn.

”Karazahn. Do you recall what I said to you all those years ago, boy?”

”Need I even dignify that with a reply?”

Laughter; brilliant and light peeling in his own mind.

How many times has the path before him led to Karazahn? How many times has he taken the unexpected fork? How many more times can he create those forks?

”I will come to Karazahn, if that is what you wish. But know that if I do, I cannot be there for you later. The choice is yours.”

Hardishane hadn’t liked that one bit, oh no. He came running to Brill rather than Morticai come to them. He’d seen the light though, and had abandoned the scheme that would have seen more pain and misery brought to bear by the Society.

”You’ve apologized to Hukari.” said flatly, accusation flaring in Hardishane’s voice. This was weeks before when something told him that his irrational dislike for Hukari was just that – irrational. They had a long talk following, and he’d managed to quell the situation with the Witch Doctor. Yet he had rarely spoken to Rukra since, and had no idea if he had destroyed that relationship or not. His throat lumped at the very thought.

”I have. I thought it best.”

”You’re getting your affairs in order.” Hardishane again, and nearly as petulant as he has ever sounded.

”Am I?” he’d replied lightly. He did his best to calm his friend’s fears, but there is only so much he can do. While he has not come outright and said it to Hardi, the man is not a dullard – he can infer from the talks they’ve had exactly what is going on and what is on his mind. Not to mention his reluctance to goto Karazahn.

”Morticai! What are you doing –there-?!” Zihasi’s voice from his guildstone late one night. It was lax of him not to shield the stone, cover his movements only he’d been enraged by the Cenarions and their treatment of her. It was unforgivable, really.

He really had thought he’d been far more covert in his movements in the Moonglade. The realization that he had not, coupled with the fact that he had been so thoroughly tracked and followed had been a severe blow to his ego, to say the least. He’d not planned to be facing off against 6 rather burly chaps all intent on ending him once and for all.

Imagine his surprise when the barrow den seemed to freeze and fill with pale but intense green light…..

Sitting atop the claw, he shook his head. That was a tale for another time. Today, he had other pressing matters to attend to.

The Locket caught the barest sliver of sunlight through the branches of the tree stretching out above him, twinkling like a star in the shadows where he hid. It seemed a fitting moment to his mind, an ending to it all. He’d made his choice before today, and had taken this time only to let it sink in and come to terms with it all. He could never be what she needed, no matter what he thought or she thought. He had obligations, promises he’d made that needed to be kept no matter the cost.

”Stubborn, foolish boy.” Zekeith’s voice again, echoing in his mind. ”It is better to love and be loved than to deny yourself. Even if it’s for a day, an hour – a minute. To cut yourself off this way, to deny your own feelings, your emotions – you love that girl. You know it, and I know it. Why put either of you through this?”

”I promised to protect this Family long before I met her. That means I have to say and do things no one else can bear, no matter what it is, in order for this Family to survive.”

”And what would your Primarch say to that? ‘Things no one else can bear’? How would he react to learn what you –do- to protect this Family?”

”He would be shocked and sickened. You see, he’s not like you and I. None of them are. They’re the heroes of the piece.”

”And what does that make you?”

”I am the villain.”

The chain coils as he lowers the Locket into his right hand, eyes closed for a moment. He does not place it around his neck as he once would have, instead sliding it into the inner pocket of his robe, patting it once to make sure it is safe and secure. He rises and takes a step forward, off the talon, the wind whistling past as the ground rushed up at him. The spell is already on his lips though, and he becomes light as a feather, boots touching the ground gently mid-step as he makes his way to the mailbox. The letter, written so long ago, comes easily enough from his pack, the crude Orcish letters forming the name ‘Rizarah’ plainly on the envelope. He used a Gold ink.

There is no hesitation now, his mind made up. The letter slips from his fingers and into the box, awaiting a Goblin to retrieve and deliver it.

With staff in hand, he tap steps his way through the Drag, out into the sunshine of The Valley of Strength. Reflexively, he pulls the brim of his hat down lower to shade his eyes and tugs at his cloak to pull it round him.

The Bank isn’t crowded as he steps up to the Orc he has grown accustomed to speaking with. His presence even garners a smile.

“Looking to pull your box, Master Morticai?”

“Hmmm? Oh, no. Not today. I’ve a question for you, if you’ve the time.”

“Always the time for you, sir!” the Orc says with a genuine smile.

“Wonderful. I thank you. I was wondering, if I were to leave a package with you, along with some gold of course, would you be willing to deliver it for me on a certain day?”

“Package? What sort of package?”

“Nothing untoward, I assure you. A small box about yay long and wide…” Morticai gestures with his thumb and forefinger. “Along with a letter. All for a friend.”

“I suppose I could, certainly. When would I be delivering this?”

Morticai was already nodding. “Hmmmm? Oh. I’ll give you the exact date in a moment. I needed to be sure you were willing. Give me a moment if you will?”

The Orc nods, and Morticai steps to one of the side walls, sliding down to the ground, laying his staff beside him. He pulls the small box he’d had made from his pack, and retrieves the Locket from its pocket, gazing at it for a time before lowering it inside. One last look, he tells himself, then he replaces the cover on the box, and seals it with small incantation. Only the one intended to open it now can.

Pen and paper come next, and he sits for a long while as people come and go. Chuckling to himself at the absurdity of it all – the letter to Rizarah had been so difficult at the time, yet now he found this one to be near impossible to begin. How insane. In the end, he decided it was best to begin at the beginning, so to speak, and the words seemed to flow….

“Hardishane,

If you are reading this letter, I have gone to Karazahn in search of that which was taken from you, and I won’t be coming back……”

The End.

Epilogue

In the center of the clearing, Zekeith is tied atop a pile of wood. She looks out over the assembled villagers, her chin held high as she meets each and every one of them eye to eye. Most of the epitaphs die on their lips as she locks them with her gaze one by one. A few pick them up again, shouting ‘Witch’ or ‘Demon’ at her, giving the rest courage to pick up the mantra. The first torch is tossed in the air and quickly followed by a dozen more. She tracks it as it arches up, and then she sees him.

Morticai stands at the edge of the clearing, his eyes wide with horror as the flames leap up to lick at her robes. She gives no sign that she can see him as the flames engulf her, licking at her skin, her hair, that she can hear him as he howls and then vanishes.

….the future is safe again.

For the first time since being captured, she opens her mouth and the words that flow forth form a Dark Incantation. The pain sears through her, yet her voice is solid and unbroken. Her eyes glow brighter than the fire that is killing her, and the villagers step back in awe and horror, the first shouts of fear escaping their lips. They turn to flee the demon they thought to destroy, and are stopped dead in their tracks as the Black Light explodes from Zekeith’s eyes, nose and mouth; engulfing them.

The ritual is complete. The sacrifices made. Zekeith’s body is consumed by the fire, but her spirit is released to travel across time and space, pushed by one Ritual, and pulled by another.

Blinking, the pain is remembered and she begins to howl in a voice not her own. A new voice, a new pain and she is howling for both the old and new, her mind screaming, eyes tearing, body on fire; she is dying a second time.

“Peace, My Lady! Peace! You are safe again, you are with us in Quel'Thalas…”

Time passes and the pain begins to fade, but still her mind reels. She cannot think, cannot see and hear, react to the things going on around her. She is aware, but nothing more and she cannot put it into context, cannot make sense of anything.

“…..how long?” The voice is odd, higher than it should be. It’s weary, edged with pain and her ears tell her it’s not her own while her mind says it is.

“Twelve days.” The answering voice is deep, resonant and wholly unfamiliar. Her face must convey this, and he answers her unspoken question, “It is I, Zoriath. The Circle is unbroken. We are Thirteen.”

“Zoriath…” Relief. Twelve days…..? “Has…” she coughs, a hacking fit and a cup is placed against her lips. She drinks greedily, the sweet nectar soothing to her throat.

“…it’s the Transfer, My Lady. We attempted to find one of suitable Power and Stature for you, but the more powerful the Form, the greater the resistance. It will take time for your Essence to fully take control. Until then, there will be some…..discomfort.”

“How long?”

Zoriath sighs. “There is no way to tell. Weeks. Perhaps even months.”

“There isn’t enough time for that. We have a schedule to keep.” The voice she used was a bit stronger. It would merely be a matter of her will dominating over the one she is replacing. “Where is He?”

“We keep him under surveillance both physically and through mystical means, but he is most difficult to track.”

“Of course he is – I made him what he is. Never underestimate him.”

“We do not. He keeps to himself more and more these days, but there was an incident recently with a Troll Woman….”

“The Link is still there. I handled the situation from within. She will not be an issue now. He must be where we want him, when we want him.”

“Karazahn.”

“Yes. The Stars… I will need to track them…”

“Our figures indicate we have a matter of months, if not weeks, before the alignment occurs.”

“I will verify it myself. There can be no mistakes with the Ritual.”

“I am aware. We do not have another ten thousand years in which to wait.”

Zekeith opens her eyes, the light is harsh, searing through her minds eye. She blinks back tears for a time, taking the offered handkerchief from Zoriath to blot them away. The room is simple enough, light shining through the large oval window to her right; a few pieces of furniture here and there, and Zoriath sitting in a chair beside her.

He has changed, of course. No longer the man she knew, his Essence inhabits this new Form; younger, sleeker and darker. It will take getting used to. All of it will.

“No. No we do not,” she answers him softly. Zoriath offers the cup again, and Zekeith takes it, her eyes locking on the hand reaching to grasp the cup, her mind feeling disconnected from it. Her memory tells her this is not her hand, yet when she wills it to move, it responds….

“The Ritual-“ Zekeith looks up, her eyes locking on his and causing him to stop mid sentence. The face is so different, the hair darker and longer than the Zoriath she knew and counted as her right hand.

“-will go forward,” she finishes for him. “Gather Them, Zoriath. Morticai must go to Karazahn. He must die. And in his death shall the Circle be reborn, and the Journey can finally begin….”

“As it is written, so shall it be.”

“…so shall it be.”

~End