EPILOGUE

Theramore Isle, one year later…

Light poured through the arced windows, illuminating the hall and brightening even the cold marble of the floor.

Silence reigned within the hall, though people, their number in dozens, had gathered for this occasion. Almost all of them sat—most on benches—and the exception applied to only one…

Arthas Menethil stood in the sunlight. This time he was clad not in skeletal armor, but the aristocratic blue-yellow garments of Lordaeron, the crest of the defunct kingdom on his cloak. He looked at the window. For a brief moment he felt warmth pleasantly run across his face.

He then turned to those three who would decide his fate. Three figures were seated behind the long desk. By one side sat a Dwarf, the end of his long beard unseen behind the wooden furnishing. By the other side sat a Gnome, small even compared to the representative of the other race. Arthas could have sworn he had encountered both of them before, yet their names and status did not float in his head at the moment. Yet the third one, his place in the center, was familiar to him: Bolvar Fordragon, a Paladin and a trusted advisor to King Varian Wrynn of Stormwind. Indeed, one could not find a better candidate to represent the Human kingdoms. All the races of the Alliance were now represented.

"Lord Arthas," it was the Bolvar's that interrupted the silence, "before the judges leave to make the final decision, you are given the chance to give a statement."

"Thank you, Your Honor," Arthas said, correcting the blue cloak on his shoulders.

The former Prince of Lordaeron himself had advocated that this trial was to be set up. There was no other way to act; he could not continue his life as an exile whether in Orgrimmar or anywhere else anymore. His decision, just like his reappearance, had raised a lot of uncertainty on the highest levels of Alliance authority, and it was impossible to imagine what thought were predominant in the masses.

Arthas turned to those accommodated on the long bench, those who had witnessed the tribunal from the first day.

"Not much is left to say, for everything has already been presented," he started, "I will not ask forgiveness. I will not beg the court to spare my life. I will accept the decision of the judges no matter what the verdict would state. I have presented my case before you, and it is up to the all of you, both the judges and those who are not, to decide who Arthas Menethil really is," he turned his face back to the judges, "and if the verdict you proclaim is Death…"

"…then Death is what I am worthy of," he looked again at the others, yet his words were for all, "and this decision I will not challenge."

He made several steps in the direction of the window, a symbolic source of light. Through it he gazed at the clear sky, perhaps even expecting to see familiar figures there.

He had felt something constantly twitch inside his soul the whole time he spoke and it still continued; a feeling of sadness.

"Ten thousand years ago in a different land, a trial also took place," his voice trembled slightly, "however, it solved no problems and brought no improvements to any of the sides. I pray to the Light that this time everything will turn out differently," he looked at the people again, "Life shows that a lot of things cannot be gained with good words or gold, but by blood! If this is the remedy to cure old wounds and the key to open the gates into a better future, then I shall willingly ascend the altar and let my blood be spilled to manifest it like the blood of our ancestors was in the days of distant past!"

He made a deep breath.

"With this I end my speech," he nodded sadly and hid his hands under his cloak, "and let humanity decide whether my words wee a prayer or my last farewell."

He became silent.

"The court will now leave the room to make a final decision," said the Gnome.

As stated by the protocol, the judges ceremonially and silently stood up and disappeared in the doorway that led into the adjoining room. The guard closed the door.

Arthas remained in his place.

This process had been a heated one from the beginning when the news of his wish first came to Stormwind and the Alliance discovered the return of the Prince Arthas that was before the Plague. A lot wanted his head; he was not surprised by it. Yet interestingly, after all he had done there still were people to speak for him. Through Jaina Arthas had found out that a group of seventeen Alliance nobles had signed a letter addressed to the judges and the leading figures of the Alliance giving recommendations and listing the reasons to spare him. Arthas did not know the exact contents were, but surprisingly the first signature, which belonged to the main author, belonged to another advisor of the King, Lady Katrana Prestor, a relative of the missing Daval Prestor. He did not know what the reasoning was for the mysterious noblewoman had decided to defend the Prince even though it brought confusion to the Alliance. This just showed that a living Prince Arthas was more valuable than a dead one for some circles in the elite echelons of the Alliance even though it served the interests only of some parties. A corpse could only be reanimated, while his life cleared new horizons in political games in which his involvement was not necessary at all.

He was afraid this whole trial was just a spectacle for the crowd, and his fate was decided, the verdict unknown, not by the judges but by other people. How deeply had corruption infested the Alliance!

The trio eventually returned to finish their job.

"Lord Arthas Menethil," Bolvar, as the Chief Judge, was to proclaim the verdict.

The Paladin was the only judge to stand.

"Yes, Your Honor," Arthas responded.

"There is no denial that you have on your hands the blood of King Terenas Menethil, Uther the Lightbringer, Archmage Antonidas, and many others. This grim fact cannot be softened by your past achievements before the Alliance and your regret."

A pause followed.

"However," Lord Bolvar then continued, "After a long time spent on the analysis of the existing evidence, the court has come to a conclusion that you were not fully in control of your actions when these atrocities happened, having been under the sway of the cursed runeblade Frostmourne. Hence, we have found your case different from those of the villain Baron Rivendare and the madman Kel'Thuzad. Having taken everything in account, the court will now announce the verdict…"

Arthas felt everything inside him get squeezed by fatalistic suspense.

"Lord Arthas, it is impossible to declare you not guilty. Yet the circumstances, mentioned by the court, have been taken into account. History will probably remember this decision of the judges as the most unique and controversial since the times when our distant ancestors founded the nation of Arathor. Yet the high principles of the Alliance guide us all."

The next few moments stretched like an eternity.

"Arthas Menethil, the court grants you pardon."

There was no reaction from the people behind his back. Applauses were not expected, but neither did angry shouts erupt. Nobody could know what thoughts at these moments dwelled within the minds of the people present, and what would be the reaction of the masses in Stormwind or Theramore, Ironforge or Gnomeregan.

Arthas knew that though the long shadows behind the judges had spared him for different reasons, destiny would likely not grant him the opportunity to win the hearts of the people a second time…

—

It was night when Arthas came to the balcony of Jaina's tower on Theramore. Unlike, the dry Barrens, the climate on the island was much more hospitable. Here the merciless heat of the day and the incredible cold nights typical to the barren land was replaced by tropical warmth when the sun was up and the cooling breeze at nightfall.

An excellent view was open to him. Theramore, a place he had been unofficially confined to, exiled to, by the Alliance. He could see bellow the darkened houses in the architectural style of the Eastern kingdoms mixed with local exotic trees; a piece of Lordaeron in a foreign land. What would the future hold for it?

The future, however, hurled him to the past. He was again on the rooftop of Grommash Hold, in the center of the burning capital of the Horde. He again heard the exchange in words between him and the two other Night Elves and witnessed the fall of the second Lich King, the Lord of Outland, Illidan Stormrage.

Nobody on Azeroth had heard of Illidan or Kel'Thuzad since the day the two were carried away to a mysterious fate. The Naga along with Lady Vashj had retreated back to the ocean depts.

After Illidan's disappearance Thrall and his forces arrived in the city to liberate the Hold from the fortified Illidari. Now the Horde enjoyed a period of relative peace, gained after two successive campaigns, the colonization of their new lands continued.

Arthas himself would have probably not been alive to see the sun set if it had not been for the twin of the half-demon, Malfurion Stormrage. It was the druid who used the powers of nature to save the life of the human and heal his wounds before leaving the location with him and the women on the wounded but still living Hyppogriph. The Night Elves had returned to Ashenvale and their secluded ways, but perhaps one day they would become more open to the world.

Arthas had even gotten news about the Blood Elves. They were in the process of rebuilding their kingdom. Silvermoon had already risen from the ruins, and Kael'Thas had promised his people that the Sunwell would be restored as well.

Yet there were few reasons for optimism.

Illidan had been right—the Scourge needed a strong leader, and with his disappearance the dark hold on it was weakened. Though Illidan's contingent in the Barrens had been eradicated in and shortly after the battle for Orgrimmar, there had been clashes with a faction of now mindless undead in the Eastern Kingdoms. There was no news about the ones left on Northrend. Arthas actually wondered what kept that numerous mass there: the plain inability to leave the frozen continent or the echoes of Illidan's will.

More doubt was in him. Thrall had shared his suspicion with the Prince and the Night Elves, his theory that it was not Medivh that had appeared before them and had, in a way, triggered Illidan's downfall, but somebody in his guise, so different his methods and scope of participation were. Arthas hoped the Warchief was wrong this time, and the Prophet had really reemerged from the shadows of the past for this purpose…however Illidan had made powerful enemies.

Was the Burning Legion trying to get revenge on him for his latest betrayal in this desperate way? The thought of the Dark Lord Kil'jaeden himself manipulating them via false visions almost made him tremble.

Illidan had been reckless with magic, so perhaps the Blue Dragons, their numbers few, had attempted to get rid off the wild card with the hands of others? Mages noticed recently the changes in the behavior of the flight of Malygos from neutral to a more hostile one.

Was it just the first step in a bigger plan of this unknown force? There were many possible answers.

Illidan's defeat changed little—perhaps it even changed nothing. The future still was in the mists of uncertainty…just as three years before.

"Arthas?" he heard a soft voice behind him.

He turned around to see the fragile figure of Jaina Proudmoore crossing the darkened hallway. She joined him on the balcony.

"Why aren't you in bed? Is something wrong?" she asked.

Arthas gazed into those beautiful blue eyes, deep as the seas, noticing sparkles of concern in them.

"No, everything is fine. I just wanted to get some air," he replied, a smile spread across his face. Pleasant in view, yet fake in its nature.

At the same time he thanked the Light that in this changed and hostile world there was one person who would always be there for him because of her love, not hidden motives.

Jaina nodded with her own light smile appearing.

He looked at the moon that hung silently over the mortal plane. He did not sigh, for he was afraid it would hint on his numerous concerns and trouble the one true love of his life.

Though the Prince of the defunct kingdom was pardoned reluctantly by the judges and those who stood behind their decision, he, nevertheless, had not avoided punishment. The shadows of his past were always with him, the true Inquisition and the coldest of Executioners; they carried out their work with all their merciless eagerness.

Later that night he went to bed, but they again found him in his sleep—they had often done. In his dreams he once again walked the streets of burning Stratholme. He once again stood before a pedestal above which a sword with fear-striking decorations lifelessly hung in its maliciousness. He once again witnessed the painfully familiar scene with the bloodied crown falling on the marble floor of the royal palace…

Time would later prove that one simple truth Arthas Menethil, the last Prince of Lordaeron, kept until his final days, and to him, a past idealist, that truth was like a cup of poison handed by a treacherous friend.

The sagas of the old always ended with the monster overcome and a lifetime of happiness. That, however, was not his tale.

—

Author's Note: Thank you for reading, ladies and gentlemen!