Note: Blizzard is not mine, the characters are not mine, World of Warcraft is not mine, I make no money off this. That should cover it.
Now, about this story. It's set after the current events in World of Warcraft (as of patch 3.0.8a), and essentially describes the future of the world of Warcraft as I envision it. Massive spoilers for WotLK content as well as most other Warcraft stories. All characters, locations etc involved are lore characters, whom I've tried to keep as in-character as possible. This is my take of how events could turn out after the Battle for Undercity. A small timespan is skipped in-between, but the events during it will be made clear as the story progresses. Since there's a strange canonical relation between the supposed deaths of major lore characters in their dungeon / raid incarnations and continuity, for the sake of this story, please consider any major lore characters that appear as dungeon or raid bosses and can apparently be killed by the player (example: Illidan etc) alive unless otherwise specifically stated. After all, with Blizzard characters, you can never be too sure about who's dead.
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Chapter I: World at War
Nothing had been left to chance this time.
Lady Jaina Proudmoore and Priestess Tyrande Whisperwind, accompanied by King Magni Bronzebeard and Chieftain Cairne Bloodhoof of the Tauren - a shade crossed Jaina's eyes, as she reminisced on why Thrall wasn't here, but she quickly put it past her; what was done was done and there was no changing it - had assembled the bulk of the armies of both the Alliance and the Horde, and warped to Northrend. Upon the frozen lands they had encountered two more contigents of allies, the two most unlikely orders to join together against a common cause - the Knights of the Ebon Blade under Darion Mograine, and the Argent Crusade under Tirion Fordring. But the wrath of the Lich King had shattered many bonds, of hatred as much as friendship, and here they were, Humans and Night Elves, Orcs and Trolls, Dwarves and Gnomes, Tauren and even the Undead themselves, risen against a common foe. Not only them - legions of different creatures, from Centaurs to Owlkin to the exotic Pandaren had assembled to join the war that threatened them as much as any of the previous factions. The grand display was completed by the overwhelming presence of the Dragons, the ancient behemoths floating overhead. Against the combined might of the crusade assembled against it, Angrathar the Wrath Gate, final resting place of Saurfang the Younger and Bolvar Fordragon, brave heroes and the first who had challenged the new Lich King, fell with minimal resistance. The heroes of the Alliance still wondered at how easily they were able to eliminate the undead guards and tear down the fanged gate, entering the unholy lands of Icecrown Citadel.
Until now.
Vast as they were, the armies of the Argent Crusade could only be called an even match, at best, for what expected them before Angrathar. For every Night Elf sentinel, for every human warrior, for every dwarf, gnome, tauren, or deathknight that was out there, for every single member of the force gathered to stand up to the Lich King's might, ten undead seemed to face them from the opposite sides of the battlefield. Millions of Ghouls and Skeletons, Nerubian spiderlings and larger Crypt Fiends, or the horrid Abominations and bulky Obsidian Statues, coupled with rows of Meat Wagons and entire squads of Necromancers. The Dragonflights had their hideous counterparts as well - Frost Wyrms and Destroyers darkened the skies of Northrend. And if the Crusade had their champions and leaders, the Scourge did not lack those, for in front of the eastern wing of the undead towered the bulk of Anub'Arak, the ancient Crypt Lord, king of the Nerubians who had pledged his loyalty to the Lich King before and after his rebirth, and Kel'Thuzad, the phantom of Naxxramas and immortal Lich champion of the undead. Various other decaying forms clad in black armor with different insignia than the rest designated there were even more lower-ranked commanders and lieutenants, but the Crusaders only had eyes for one, the terror-inspiring form of the absolute entity of Azeroth, the reborn Lich King, the once Paladin, once Deathknight, now something greater...
...Arthas.
Even now, Jaina's eyes watered at memories she had sworn to forsake. When had it begun? Was it at Brill, where their confrontation with the scourge had begun? At Andorhal, where Kel'Thuzad foretold his fall? At Hearthglen? Or was it in Stratholme that the honorable prince's soul was seared in the fires of the purgatory he unleashed upon the city? Until that point, what was it that Jaina could have done to stop this flow of events? Was it destiny that had guided her away from her homeland, to the ancient lands of Kalimdor, and ensured the survival of at least some of her people? Or was it just self-preservation, and there was something that could have been done, something that could have been saved, had she stayed? Was it the Light that had forsaken Arthas, or was it herself?
"Fordring." The cold voice of the Lich King, dimmed by the visor of his unholy helmet, echoed across the silent soon-to-be battlefield - or slaughteryard. "I see you were more than empty words this time. You've brought some familiar faces along." His empty gaze stopped for a moment on Darion Mograine, who wavered but did not lower his eyes, before skimming through the rest of the Crusade's ranks. Was it her imagination, or had the Lich King's eyes lingered at her before moving on? How much of the cruel overlord of the Scourge was still Arthas? A defiled, haunted Arthas, but still the young prince she had once known - and loved?
"You seem talkative today, traitor." Tirion growled. "This is beyond words now. Fight, coward. Fight and face your destiny." The paladin walked forward, and the great sword, the legendary Ashbringer, glowed beneath the merciless sun of the frozen kingdom of the undead.
"As you wish." Came the deathly reply, and like the reaper's scythe, Frostmourne, the dark blade that had condemned the prince's soul, was drawn from his side. Silently, Jaina shed tears, hoping that noone would notice in the moment's tension. Tears for what must be done.
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Elsewhere, amidst the plagued wastelands that were called Tirisfal Glades, another pair of cold, dead eyes observed a different, albeit quite impressive, military display. Sylvanas Windrunner, the Dark Queen of the Forsaken, had rallied her troops to march. Her ranks lacked not in fodder creatures, such as the vast number of Ghouls and mindless Skeletons, and even a decent number of Abominations, but her most prized subjects were the converted commanders of the Scourge, Necromancers and Banshees, and others, once human wizards and priests that had fallen to the undead plague, and had now defected into her embrace. Vastly superior to the Scourge's soldiers, the only problem so far had been how to match their opponent's overwhelming numbers. Those fools that had banded together into the Argent Crusade had solved that problem. Her gaze followed the foothills where the Meat Wagons that stored the New Plague, a plague with the capacity to eradicate living and undead alike, were positioned, ready for her order. The time had come.
"Open the portal to Icecrown." She commanded. Puttress had been a fool, she thought as the air rippled in front of her, her minions twisting space to eliminate the need to bring all those soldiers to Northrend with ships. He had lost his patience and sided with that other idiot, Varimathras, and caused her a load of trouble in the process. But now they were both dead, and she had once again control of the situation. She was going to thank the Horde and Alliance forces that had helped her regain her city by enlisting them to her ranks. After killing them, that is. As for the Scourge... her eyes glowed as she thought of the vengeance she was about to bestow upon her hated adversary. A special arrow, for him only. Imbued with the core of the new plague, this one would be the end of him. A hole in the air appeared, large enough to accomodate a thousand undead at once, showing the empty iceland that was Northrend. In the distance, the ruins of the Wrathgate were visible. Sylvanas had chosen this spot and this time exactly. Her spies had informed her of the Crusade's progress, and she was about to turn up right behind their backs, in a position where she could dominate the battlefield against both the Crusade and the Scourge.
"Move!" She began to order, but stopped as the edges of the portal waxed and waned, shimmering in the twilight that governed the Tirisfal Glades since the plague had settled in, and with a snapping sound closed abruptly, leaving traces of torn magic behind, enough residue to cause her ears to start ringing and her head to ache.
"What is this?!" She shouted once she was able to recover. "Who did this?"
"It wasn't us, my lady." One of the magicians assigned to the portal said fearfully, though of what had just happened or of her own wrath, she could not tell. "Someone disrupted our weave forcefully. I can't understand how this was done, but..."
"It's been a while, my lady." Sylvanas' head whipped around to detect the man who had just addressed her in her old, native tongue. Memories of an age long-lost filled her as she gazed upon the blonde elven prince.
"You!" She exclaimed as the figure of Kael'Thas Sunstrider, prince of the Quel'dorei, advanced towards her. She had heard he had defected from the Alliance and joined with the Night Elf traitor Illidan Stormrage and the Burning Legion, but she had assumed he was somewhere in the Outland. To have him appear here, at this time, and in force... many other stern-faced High Elves - no, Blood Elves, as they now called themselves - stood behind him, all armed and apparently ready to fight. "What are you doing here?" She demanded angrily." Unlike her, he hadn't changed. His still beautiful elven features seemed a mockery to her hollow form, a disgrace. A shame she had hoped she had left behind, but had just found out she could not even begin to bear.
"I bring forth a suggestion. A request, if you wish." The pleasant, casualy way he spoke angered Sylvanas almost as much as the fact that he was interfering with her plans. Her prince he might have been, but that was long ago. "My master fears your interference in Northrend may ruin his plans for the Lich King's fate, so he has requested that your armies stay here." He looked behind her, at the assembled force of the Forsaken, his eyes showing nothing.
"Your master? Illidan?" Sylvanas asked. She had presumed Illidan to be dead after Arthas' ascension to the Frozen Throne, but apparently he was one of the bastards who just wouldn't die, just like Arthas himself. He, too, was somewhere in Outland, though the way the day was going, she would not be surprised to have him turn up and ruin another one of her carefully designed plans.
"I'm afraid not." Kael's eyes focused on her again. No, he had changed, after all. His eyes were tilted with the taint of arcane corruption, the bane of the Quel'dorei. How far had he fallen, serving his demonic commanders? "I serve a higher power now."
Before Sylvanas could respond, a commotion behind Kael'thas drew her attention. "Ah, yes." The leader of the blood elves said airily. "He has sent some gentlemen to deliver his greetings, as well."
Things suddenly got much, much more complicated for the Forsaken queen, as from within the Blood Elven ranks, three Dreadlords emerged.
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"Today, our dead brethren shall be avenged."
"Today, our true enemies shall perish."
"Today, the Light will shine upon our victory, upon our glory."
"TODAY IS THE DAY OF THE ALLIANCE!!"
Thousands upon thousands of voices relayed those words, as King Varian Wrynn raised his heavy two-handed blade overhead, stimulating the enthusiasm and a desire to fight not far from sheer bloodlust to the countless humans that had answered his call. Fools were those that believed their enemies stopped short at the Lich King and his minions. Fools were those that believed that any sort of victory could be achieved while those bastard orcs and their so-called Horde roamed unmolested while holding half the world captive. Any combined front with the Horde was bound to break before the Scourge. Purging the undead would serve nothing if the Alliance remained oppressed by the vile greenskins and their brethren. Only after establishing true dominance in the realms of Azeroth could the fight be taken to Northrend and the traitor prince be brought to heel. But the Eastern Kingdoms could not be reclaimed if the Horde forces there were constantly reinforced by their home bases in Kalimdor. Varian Wrynn did not care much about the tree-loving elves, or the bizarre new 'allies', the so-called draenei, but the humans who lived in Kalimdor too deserved their freedom from the Horde. No, Durotar was a thorn in the side of the Alliance in many ways. The Orc mockery of a nation had to be purged for the King's vision of a united world, of one true Alliance, to be fulfilled.
I will not follow a mad King. Jaina had told him angrily before storming out of the Royal Chamber of Stormwind, ordering her forces to prepare for departure towards Northrend, where they would join with whatever standing forces had remained there after the King had called back for all available soldiers in order to wage this war against the Frozen Throne. Foolishness. That was madness. If the girl could only see the logic of this... bah. It was too late either way. Before the day was over, Orgrimmar would be dust to the ground and Theramore would be his. Jaina, if she survived, would be nothing but an unimportant nuisance.
"LOK'TAR OGAR!!" The familar orc warcry sounded from the other side of the battlefield. Varian Wrynn gazed upon the truly vast numbers of the Horde. He had made no effort to keep his preparations secret. This was not going to be a surprise attack. He would destroy the Horde on his terms, and prove the difference between the Orcs' brutish bloodlust and his honorable way with the sharp end of his blade.
"Their Warchief is with them." Broll, the trusted Night Elf druid and the only one of the pinkskins on the battlefield, growled. True enough, Thrall led the defensive, mounted on his giant black wolf and wielding the legendary weapon of Doomhammer. Varian had hypothesized he'd be in Northrend, but this made things much more fitting. He'd be able to bring the Horde to heel by eliminating their very Warchief. Once the leader was lost, the trash would crumble.
"Well, shall we begin?" Valeera asked calmly. She was not fazed by the barbarians' display. Neither was he. Like his own ranks, which held not only humans, but dwarves and gnomes as well - none of the draenei or the Night Elves had either asked or been asked to involve themselves in the conflict - Thrall's army had been bolstered by the vicious Trolls, as well as several gigantic Tauren. The absence of undead and so-called Blood Elves was notable - then again, theirs was only a mock alliance, just as the one between the residents of the Eastern Kingdoms and the Alliance in Kalimdor. In time, truth would be revealed, and those who truly stood with their King this day would bathe in the Light of victory.
"FOR THE ALLIANCE!!" The King screamed, and charged.
---
"We are ready to move." Velen's voice resounded clearly in the central chamber of the Terrace of Light. "A'dal, with your blessing..."
"No!" The naaru's voice suddenly spoke up, sounding... agitated. Velen had never heard the divine entity like that before. As one, the heads of the ten thousand draenei that had been assembled, including those from Shattrath city and from Exodar, as well as several of the Broken tribes, and even the Scryer Blood Elf defectors, whipped up in shock. They were ready to warp to Northrend via the newly-opened portal to the Icecrown in order to aid the Alliance against the undead Scourge. But now...
"You must not go!" A'dal sounded strained, in pain. "There is... a huge darkness looming over us. A monstrous evil. This is..."
"Prophet!!" A scream was just heard from outside the corridors. One of the few draenei guards that had remained on Shattrath's walls stormed into the sacred chamber, panting heavily. "A huge army is upon us! Demons, and Fel Orcs, and Blood Elves as well! And at it's head, it's..." He paused, from fear of uttering the next words as well as to take a breath.
"Illidan." Voren'thal the Seer, the Scryer's leader, finished for him. "He's come at last, and with what timing. He probably hoped to storm the citadel and steal the naaru's essence while we were gone."
Velen sighed mentally. The day they feared for so long had come, and at an inconvenient time. And now they had to fight the one who had helped them kill one tyrant - and replaced him in the process.
"Get in position." He ordered. "Prepare for the siege."
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In Outland, Kalimdor, Lordaeron, and Northrend, four decisive battles are about to begin. Four battles, four wars, that will determine the fate of the entire world. No race can stay out of it. The war of the worlds has begun.
And Medivh, the Prophet, the Last Guardian, must now gaze upon the consequences of a catastrophe he had helped shape. But he could not linger long. He had another, most important mission to accomplish.
Shifting into a crow, he flew off, flew to where he could carve his own, last part in history.