oâ!  how fruitlessly does the worm squirm under the grasp of a matron as grand  &  serene as lady proudmoore.  ( many mistake her for menethil. no, not her. she rips the heart out of one, controls that of the other. love is a weakness, she will never be weak. )  the daughter who foolishly bears her heart to a mother unwitting. a mother who would rip it from her chest, were it still beating. but oâ!  some fortunate fools that still remain at-large have beaten proudmoore to that feat already.
         âmy child â-â  proudmoore coos in a way that is almost welcoming, like the sweet release of death after strenuous pain. even the knights of death had a flaw in their masterwork,  &  that was how terribly frail their physical forms were capable of being.  (especially when they wore leather coats &  had pups at their heels. ) Â
         the necromancers hands have become more akin to animalistic claws after her resurrection, as if spear  &  blade werenât sufficient enough. captors would have to rend proudmoores hands from her corpse if they were to assure their own safety.  ( fortunately, she never had any captors. ) Â
         like a reaper ready to reap the soul of someone who has their time coming, the woman towers over her battered daughter, nothing more than a feeble wretch trying to make a martyr of themself. one index finger pokes at zoens collar bone, tapping once, twice, as she speaks.
         âstill, you fight.â  the third tap is much harsher this time, piercing into macabre skin with such ease that seems almost impossible for one of arthasâ own.  âstill you refuse our humble hospitality?â  a question asked in utter rhetoric, no intents for answering, no room for pause. there are no more taps of that boney claw.
         like digging through soil for the buried heirloom, proudmoores grasp digs deeper to the girls still beating heart. of course the knights would have no use for it, calia didnât.doesnât. the lich queen had ripped that one out herself,  &  that menethil is still fine.
          for what is a knight to do with the useless weight of a battered, dead heart?  there is only one answer the mother can find sufficient enough for her heavensâhigh standards.
          âtear it out ââ she grasps the organ as if it was a toy, unwrapped  &  ready to be played with, ââ  and devour it whole.â  there is a srrch of the queen plucking the entrail from where it uselessly sat for years on end. she would no longer need it, not now, not ever. so why hoard something so useless?  sentiment?  figuratively?  the answer is wholly irrelevant. with a simple  &  easy gesture. lady proudmoore plucks it from the girls chest like plucking feathers from a molting bird.
   The Wraith bares her teeth at the abomination wearing her motherâs face like a harlequinâs mask - a gruesome, grotesque parody of the woman Jaina Proudmoore, who had never known the fatal bite of Frostmourne, who had not (yet) experienced the all consuming possession of the Lich King. The wrath that blazes cold through her veins feels so similar to that inspired by the lord of the citadel, even tampered down by the same sort of wariness born from recognizing she faces a greater power. Thereâs only the slightest embers in the pyre, ashes she tries to ignore, that are vacant from the kingâs flames. Pity, perhaps, were she capable. Arthas made his choices. Jaina didnât.
   (SHE CHOSE HIM OVER YOU.
   SHE ALWAYS CHOSE HIM OVER YOU.)
   And so like in the face of the Scourgeâs Lord, her wrath is useless when thrown the Ladyâs way. What concern has a goddess for a young wolfâs disdain? None, certainly, if her attitude is anything to go by. The Queenâs claws scrape along glacial skin, inciting something nearly pain and yet not. Zoen snarls, strains against icy chains, teeth clacking together as she snaps fruitlessly at her captor.
   âIâm not yours.â
   She hates her. (She loved her.) Oh, how she hates. (How she loves.)
   âYou canât - you canât throw me away again and again and a-fucking-gain and then just - just claim me. It doesnât work that way, Majesty -â
   Claw pierce skin, and her words stutter, cease. Her touch is so cold - ice, except Zoen is ice, so how can it be that a shiver wracks her spine? She follows Proudmooreâs progress via the burn of frost; can hear bones creak and snap as the Queen navigates through her ribcage -
  - wraps her talons around Zoenâs heart and yanks.
   It does not - it should not hurt, veins snapping, arteries popping, aorta tearing apart shred by agonizing shred - Zoen gasps, chokes on pain and confusion, because this should not matter. It is but flesh, vestigial tissue, and she is - she is beyond this - she should be beyond this, why does it hurt so Light-damned much -
   âMÄter, dÄsine.â
   Death knights do not plea and yet she does, voice the cracking ice of a frozen lake caught in springtime heat. A child sobs beneath her skin, echoing through her marrow - there is a memory here somewhere but she doesnât want, she doesnât want, she doesnât want -