Note: This first chapter will make little sense without first tottering over and reading Black-Raven3's Prodigal Son. It's a masterful, if abrupt, one-shot of itself; but with the lovely lady's permission, this unworthy scribe was granted permission to 'extend' and branch from it. Do not take her story to be unerringly related to this one, as it is still a separate, unrelated, one-shot. This is simply a 'what if' factor seeing as how I detest Character Death despite the disturbingly inspirational message I inferred from such a story.

If you do not wish to go read her short story before continuing, you will be a bit lost on some points and mentions within this chapter, but I suppose it can be at the least, enjoyed without the tiny nuances of knowledge.

Warnings: Descriptive Suicide, Character Death, Language, Violence, Mild Sexual Themes (non descriptive), Implied Homosexuality. This may eventually contain homosexuality as a major point, but until such a time as I meander my way to such a thing, it will not be mentioned, as I may very well branch away from the vague ideas floating about my head.

-Prologue-

Despite what one would think of this old fool, or the gaggle of immortal fools sitting aloft the high tower of the metaphorical "Mt. Olympus", ours is not the only world floating adrift in the Twisting Nether. As the Burning Legion more than brought to light so many thousands of years ago. While I do not claim to know all, or even much, of most of the worlds in this entire expansive mass of ever expanding space some might call a "Universe", I do happen to know quite a lot regarding time and space. Being reared as a member of the Bronzeflight does tend to lend one certain abilities and forms of thought outside the previously understood or accepted norm.

The Nether is far more vast than I believe even the Creators may have once assumed or anticipated, in all their seemingly omniscient knowledge and forethought. Verily I believe they are but one group of creators among many, or perhaps they have created all, and such is why they seemed to desert us for a time? But I digress.

This story is not about the Creators, or even the Nether itself. Simply, it is regarding one boy, a man really, whom was deemed through accident or with a purpose, to be worthy of perhaps coming to right the many and vast wrongs in this seemingly doomed world. A last ditch effort, as his power echoed through the ages, reaching even our one small pin-prick of space. One beaten, broken, man; wrong in his own way... But then, right and wrong hold no meaning when an entire world is soon doomed to extinction through the fault of its inhabitants.

Survival. It is a simple, base, thing. All creatures possess it. All humans covet it. All orc, and elf, and tauren cling to it with a driving need. No creature is ever born without the instinct of survival. It is in every first breath ever taken. Every ragged, last, death rattle as a soul leaves the body. In every mournful cry loosed in pain upon the wind... Yes... Not even the mighty, immortal, dragons are immune to such... strikingly mortal conditions.

Perchance that happens to be why I chose to catalog such an occurrence as this? To warn survivors away from the mistakes of the past? To teach a lesson which is none the less always repeated? To imprint my own thoughts upon such brittle parchment to set my own mind at ease? Verily it matters little. If ever you asked a Bronze the time of day, they would tell you quite frankly and with the greatest of knowledge, "Why, it is never and always; Yesterday and Tomorrow; Yester-year and fore-year; Infinite and Fleeting."

Despite their faults, the Bronze are perhaps the wisest of the flights... I loath them for it. Loath myself even more, for the events which I aided in bringing forth. Quite willingly, despite all protest I may have given at the time... Survival is a beautiful, and terrible thing to possess.

O0o0o0o0o

Blood dribbled slowly across filth stained stone, doing nothing to further sully the already corrupted chamber. A corpse, long dead by itself was the only company the lone figure sitting at the center of the room had outside of his own last thoughts. The blood pooling from wrists held limply on his knees attested to his lack of care or thought for his surroundings. Dead eyes glinted oddly in the dim lighting, already lending the illusion of stony embrace.

Ironically, the last person to speak to him had been dead himself, but such was lost on the desolate figure. He felt nothing, the sting of the blade having long since faded to a base numbness which left him ringingly hollow within his own skin. The process was slow, to be certain, however it was no less than he deserved for that which he had committed mere hours ago. Acts of war stained his soul worse than that of the deeds of the one whom he originally sought to stop.

Above him, he could almost imagine he could hear the wails of the dead and dying, as they clung to life which he had so brashly cut short. But such was impossible. Basely, he knew even without thought that they were already dead or tended to. It filled him with a perverse sense of accomplishment even despite the broken conversation that had taken place mere moments ago. Terrified did not cover the full scope of all of his feelings; so he chose to feel dead, as he should be, and would be in roughly twenty minutes time if he made the cuts correctly despite his fumbles with deadened nerves.

The Baron was wrong... He would not be forgiven for his sins. He would not be returned home with open arms with this act. Pure cowardice had driven him to this point. Pure cowardice spurred him to take his own life. And as a coward would be his receivement into the next life. So he simply waited. Perhaps the most patient he had ever been in his entire life save during his life in the cupboard under the stairs.

Unexpectedly, a broken laugh worked its way from his throat, sounding more a sob than anything. Rashly he had run headlong into danger, after danger, after idiotic danger in his life... Now it was only in death that he waited. Dumbledore at one instance may have called it 'wisdom' but Harry knew better for his thoughts were his own.

Feeling began to return after a time, finally inspiring some show of pain. His jaw twitched as his nerves finally acclimated itself to the trauma, sending spasms of agony shooting up his arms, attempting in vain to trigger any sense of survival instinct. Having lived with various types and amounts of pain for the majority of his short life, he chose to ignore it. Amusing himself instead by absently dipping his fingers about in the congealing mess around his legs.

His wrists twinged with the movement, but again, he ignored it. Despite having cut the tendons to ensure greater bleeding, he found his arms had not ceased working yet, so he simply waited, dabbling with the blood through limp fingers. A brief flutter, a trickle of thought. Dying was rather boring, he decided. Still, he waited.

After a time he began to feel drowsy. Leaning back without a fuss, he closed his eyes. A quiet sigh escaped him as black and white spots danced before his eyes and bone-deep numbness finally settled over him. Finally.

As the last, quiet, breath escaped his body, he failed to notice that all was not as it should be. Slowly, inexplicably, the air began to ripple, as if a heat wave were causing some illusion. Slowly, sparks of light began to dance, picking its pace in a swirling, rippling mass after a pause. It seemed to move with a life of its own, dancing and feeling its way about the chamber, until it sensed the only two bodies within. The mass of colors and lights gave a great shudder, abruptly expanding and moving towards the organic matter. Seeming to exude an aura of hunger, it converged over the two bodies with fierce intent.

Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own any characters, histories, settings, etc., recognizable as belonging to Blizzard Entertainment, JK Rowling, Warner Bro., or any other parties responsible there-in. No monetary or material gain is being made by this fan work.