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A lot of my Fall and Rebirth readers have told me that they love Rotvine. So I decided to tell part of his story. I hope you all enjoy it!

I never thought I would be an undead. Even in my wildest imagination, as I lived in Dalaran with some of the brightest mages of the age, did the thought of my dying and being raised as an undead ever cross my mind. I suppose it should have, what with the magics Kel'Thuzad was playing with.

But for years, I carried on.

I was young when I first arrived in Dalaran, no more than fifteen, but with a thirst for magical knowledge that my tutors taught me to embrace. In two years, I had eclipsed most of the mages my age and was moving onto bigger things.

My name, when I was alive, was Carrick. Carrick Runevine. I wasn't what you'd really call handsome, but I knew enough magic so that girls noticed me. More specifically, the girl. Alma Highland. She of the soft brown hair and large gray eyes that captured my heart the moment I saw her.

When she noticed me, I thought my heart would burst.

When I first kissed her, I was positive that magic was bursting all around us. Or maybe it was just the fireworks going off in my head.

And when we got married, I was so proud and happy that I accidentally lifted myself off the ground with an impromptu levitation spell that caused our wedding guests to laugh themselves silly.

We were happy, we really were. We weren't exactly rich, but we weren't poor either. Our house was a modest one, just on the outskirts of Dalaran, because we were still studying. Even when we completed our studies, we couldn't bear to leave our little house, so we stayed there, working with the mages on a daily basis.

Children never entered our lives, which I suppose now is a good thing. It's not that we didn't try to have kids, we did, but Alma unfortunately could never stay pregnant for long. We moved past it, eventually.

We celebrated our thirty years of marriage on the day we heard rumors about a mysterious plague that was ravaging the countryside. I will never forget the look on Alma's face when she heard. She couldn't comprehend what the archmages of Dalaran were saying. I don't think anybody could. It was so unfathomable that we thought at first that it had been some elaborate hoax designed to test us all.

Oh, how I wish that had been the case.

What came to be known as the Plague of Undeath ravaged Lordaeron swiftly, leaving nothing but despair in its wake.

We had gone to visit my parents, who lived near Hearthglen, and, as was their custom, they greeted us with open arms and freshly baked bread. I had recently had a stomach complaint, and so I didn't eat the bread, instead simply settling down to eat the hot chicken broth my elderly father had prepared for me.

My parents were the first ones to drop dead, right there at the table. As I tried to revive them, Alma suddenly cried out, clutching at her chest. I remember screaming. Reaching out to her as she fell off her chair and onto the floor. My beautiful and sweet Alma died in my arms, just as my parents' bodies began to stir.

I was numb with horror at what had happened – had the plague really killed my family in minutes? How? Why wasn't I affected? I didn't have time to answer that question as my mother's dead hands pulled at me. Pustules had broken open on her kind face, oozing some putrid green substance.

I did the only thing I could think of. I ran, dragging Alma's body behind me, and casting a spell towards the house so that it was engulfed in arcane magic that consumed it from within. I was dimly afraid that Alma's body would start to move, but it didn't. She looked as beautiful as she had on our wedding day. But her lips were blue.

I buried her on the side of the road, my entire body shaking with sobs, and using magic to make the best gravestone I could for her. She deserved better, but I had no way of bringing her back to Dalaran. And it wouldn't have mattered if I had. She was dead, nothing could bring her back.

Or rather, something could bring her back, but she would never be my Alma again.

I began my trek home, on foot, as our horse had bolted when I had destroyed the house. Everywhere I went, I saw death, and smelled something that I came to associate with the Plague, that sweet smell that came from plagued grain.

Very little do I remember about my journey home, except for the fact that I never made it back to Dalaran. I had just arrived in Andorhal, and in my state, I didn't realize that the once-proud city had fallen to the plague. Had I done, I might have given it a wide berth, and maybe lived a little longer. But I was past caring. My family was gone. I wanted nothing more than to lie in a ditch and let death take me too.

"Here, friend, have some bread," said a man in a long black cloak as I sat down on a bench just inside the entrance to the city. "You look like you could use it."

The man had a kind voice, and I took the bread, biting into it before my fevered mind had intervened. The bread was good, hearty, and would have fortified me had it not been for one little thing.

As I finished the slice of bread, I began feeling horrible stomach cramps that had me writhing on my bench while the man watched. I know now that the man was a necromancer, a member of the Cult of the Damned, but I wouldn't have guessed it back then. The skin across my face split open and began to bleed, and my vision swam as my blood seemed to run frigid through my veins. The last thing I saw before I died was my hair, falling in clumps to the ground.

When I woke up, everything was different. Only minutes had passed, but I felt like I'd lived two dozen lifetimes and died every time, each death more painful than the last. Unbearable agony racked my body. Surely nothing could live with that? The pain drove me insane, and I was left only with the will to destroy, kill, hurt someone as much as I was hurting.

But in the back of my mind, there was a soft voice. A terrible voice that told me to be calm. The pain would not fade, but my urges could be channeled.

Somehow, I still had my mind. I could remember my life, barely. I remembered how Alma had died, and I was filled with a fury so complete that I cast a spell to burn the bench I had died on.

"Take it easy," said the man. "Our master has plans for people like you, especially if you remember your magic."

Remembered my magic. I did, some of it. But it didn't seem enough. Pretty fires and arcane baubles didn't fit with me anymore. Of course, I know that my fires and arcane magics had been powerful. But in the moments after death, it all seemed trivial.

I'd like to say that I stayed in Andorhal. But I didn't. The master, The Lich King, indeed had plans for those of us who had kept part of their minds. So I was on the move, along with countless other soldiers of the Scourge who had died a death similar to mine. We killed. We slaughtered, We replenished our ranks when some people managed to kill us.

And when Arthas joined the Scourge, we fell in behind him willingly, marching towards Quel'Thalas.

What happened then is a chapter of my undeath that I would rather forget. Even in my altered state of mind, I knew that what we were doing was horrible. But I was bound to the will of the Lich King. I couldn't suddenly decide not to do this. And so I participated in the sack of Faith and Sylvanas' homeland. I killed countless elves who bravely tried to fight us.

I was there when Sylvanas was killed. I heard her screams. I saw what Arthas did to her. Faith doesn't know about this. I don't think she would ever speak to me again if she knew. But I was there. Through all of it, I was there.

And even now, I have moments of guilt that threaten to send me over the edge again. What I did. Who I became with the Scourge.

Maybe that's why I'm so close to Faith. I want to be sure I never cause that much pain to someone again. I want to try to make someone happy again, the way I think I made Alma happy.

My name is now Rotvine. I thought it best to change it, to fit the new me. I like to hope that I've repaired my wrongs since I joined the Forsaken. That I've managed to help get rid of enough Scourge to redeem myself. But I don't think it works that way, does it?

Faith tells me sometimes that what we did as members of the Scourge doesn't count because we weren't in complete control of ourselves. But how can I not feel sadness and guilt whenever I see how deeply affected Faith still is when it comes to Sylvanas? I still grieve for my wife, but Faith's grief goes deeper than that, and I suppose that if I had been through what she went through, I'd have reacted the same way.

I see her now, walking towards me. She's smiling, and I know she's just been with our queen. Her lover. She puts her hand on my shoulder, this girl whom I think of as the daughter I never had, although she's half a decade older than I was when I died.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks me. She's used to Forsaken moods now, the grief and sadness than come over us at times, mixed with anger and a slight amount of fear.

"I'm thinking about how I'm finally going to best you in training today."

"Well, you can try," she says quietly. She knows I'm lying. She sits next to me, waiting for me to explain. When I don't, she gets to her feet, "None of us blame you, you know."

"I know."

"You and the other Forsaken have done so much good since you broke free of the Scourge. Your families would be very proud of the way you've handled yourselves. Believe me."

I look at her, and I see something in her eyes. There's pain, yes, I don't think that will ever be erased, but I also see that she's telling the truth. "How do you know?" I ask.

"I just know."

I can't really smile, but I reach out and take her hand, squeezing gently. "Thanks, Faith."

I look out over the canal, where some of the mages from the First Magi Corps are training. I do owe Undercity a lot. I don't know how I would have managed if I had broken free from the Scourge on my own. I probably would have wandered the world, trying to find my place.

But I do have a place here. A new family.

A home.

The End