There was nothing—no one—inside.
Only the armor, icy black, clattering to lie in pieces. The helm, empty of its owner’s head, slid to a halt to lie at Arthas’s feet. He stared down at it for a long moment, a deep shiver passing through him.
All this time…he had been chasing a ghost. Had the Lich King ever really been here? If not—who had thrust Frostmourne from the ice? Who had demanded to be freed? Was he, Arthas Menethil, supposed to have been the one encased in the Frozen Throne all along?
Had this ghost he’d been chasing…been himself?
Questions that would likely never have answers. But one thing was clear to him. As Frostmourne had been for him, so was the armor. Gauntleted fingers closed over the spiked helm and he lifted it slowly, reverently, and then, closing his eyes, he lowered it onto his white head.
He was suddenly galvanized, his body tensing as he felt the essence of the Lich King enter him. It pierced his heart, stopped his breath, shivered along his veins, icy, powerful, crashing through him like a tidal wave. His eyes were closed, but he saw, he saw so much—all that Ner’zhul, the orc shaman, had known, all he had seen, had done. For a moment, Arthas feared he would be overwhelmed by it all, that in the end, the Lich King had tricked him into coming here so that he could place his essence in a fresh new body. He braced himself for a battle for control, with his body as the prize.
But there was no struggle. Only a blending, a melding. All around him, the cavern continued to collapse. Arthas was only barely aware of it. His eyes darted rapidly back and forth beneath his closed lids.
His lips moved. He spoke.
They…spoke.
“Now…we are one.”
EPILOGUE: THE LICH KING
The blue and white world blurred in Arthas’s dream vision. The cold, pure colors shifted, changed to the warm hues of wood and fire-and torchlight. He had done as he said he would; he had remembered his life, all that had gone before, had again walked the path that had taken him to the seat of the Frozen Throne and this deep, deep dreaming state.
But the dream was not over, it would seem. He again sat at the head of the long, beautifully carved table that took up most of this illusionary Great Hall.
And the two who had such an interest in his dream were still there, watching him.
The orc on his left, elderly but still powerful, searched his face, and then began to smile, the gesture stretching the image of the white skull painted on his face. And on his right, the boy—the emaciated, sickly boy—looked even worse than Arthas remembered him looking when he had entered the dream of remembrance.
The boy licked cracked, pale lips and drew breath as if to speak, but it was the orc whose words shattered the stillness first.
“There is so much more,” he promised.
Images crowded Arthas’s mind, interweaving and lying atop one another into glimpses of the future and past entangled. An army of humans on horseback, carrying the flag of Stormwind…fighting alongside, not against, a Horde raiding party mounted atop snarling wolves. They were allies, attacking the Scourge together. The scene shifted, changed. Now the humans and orcs were attacking one another—and the undead, some crying out orders and fighting with minds that were clearly their own—were standing shoulder to shoulder with the orcs, strange-looking bull-men, and trolls.
Quel’Thalas—undamaged? No, no, there was the scar he and his army had left—but the city was being rebuilt….
Faster now the images poured into his mind, dizzying, chaotic, disordered. It was impossible to tell the past from the future now. Another image, that of skeletal dragons raining destruction down on a city Arthas had never seen before—a hot, dry place crowded with orcs. And—yes, yes it was Stormwind itself that was now coming under attack from the undead dragons—
Nerubians—no, no, not nerubians, not Anub’arak’s people, but kin to them, yes. A desert race, these were. Their servants were mammoth creatures with the heads of dogs, golems made of obsidian, who strode across the shining yellow stands.
A symbol appeared, one Arthas knew—the L of Lordaeron, impaled by a sword, but depicted in red, not blue. The symbol changed, became a red flame on a white background. The flame seemed to spark to a life of its own and engulfed the background, burning it away to reveal the silvery waters of a vast expanse of water…a sea…
…Something was roiling just beneath the ocean’s surface. The hitherto-smooth surface began to churn wildly, seething, as if from a storm, although the day was clear. A horrible sound that Arthas only dimly recognized as laughter assaulted his ears, along with the screaming of a world wrenched from its proper place, hauled upward to face the light of day it had not seen in uncounted centuries….
Green—all was green, shadowy and nightmarish, grotesque images dancing at the corner of Arthas’s mind only to dart away before they could be firmly grasped. There was a brief glimpse, gone now—antlers? A deer? A man? It was hard to tell. Hope hung about the figure, but there were forces bent on destroying it….
The mountains themselves came to life, taking giant strides, crushing everything luckless enough to cross their paths. With each mammoth footfall, the world seemed to tremble and shake.
Frostmourne. This at least he knew, and intimately. The sword whirled end over end, as if Arthas has tossed it into the air. A second sword rose to meet it—long, inelegant but powerful, with the symbol of a skull embedded in its fearsome blade. A name—“Ashbringer,” a sword and yet more than a sword, as was Frostmourne. The two clashed—
Arthas blinked and shook his head. The visions, tumbled, chaotic, heartening, and disturbing—were gone.
The orc chuckled, the painted skull on his face stretching with the gesture. He had once been named Ner’zhul, had once had the gift of true visioning. Arthas did not doubt that all he had seen, though imperfectly understood, would indeed come to pass.
“So much more,” the orc repeated, “but only if you continue to walk this path fully.”
Slowly, the death knight turned his white head to the boy. The ill child met him with a gaze that was astonishingly clear, and for a moment, Arthas felt something inside him stir. Despite everything—the boy would not die.
And that meant…
The boy smiled a little, and some of the sickness dissipated as Arthas struggled for words. “You…are me. You are both…me. But you…” His voice was soft, tinged with wonder and disbelief. “You are the little flame that burns inside me still, that resists the ice. You are the last vestiges of humanity—of compassion, of my ability to love, to grieve…to care. You are my love for Jaina, my love for my father…for all the things that made me what I once was. Somehow Frostmourne didn’t take it all. I tried to turn away from you…and I couldn’t. I—can’t.”
The boy’s sea-green eyes brightened and he gave his other self a tremulous smile. His color improved, and before Arthas’s eyes, some of the pustules on his skin disappeared.
“You understand, now. Despite all, Arthas, you have not abandoned me.” Tears of hope stood in those eyes and his voice, though stronger now than it had been, quavered with emotion. “There must be a reason. Arthas Menethil…much harm have you done, but there is goodness in you yet. If there was none…I would not exist, not even in your dreams.”
He slipped off the chair and slowly walked toward the death knight. Arthas stood as he approached. For a moment, they regarded each other, the child and the man he had become.
The boy extended his arms, as if he were a living, breathing child asking to be picked up and held by a loving father. “It doesn’t have to be too late,” he said quietly.