this space for rent

The drill was a simple one, easy enough that a beginner would have little trouble completing it, but the sheer number of repetitions that Avarael Frostfallen had performed was more than enough to drive a master swordsman to the point of exhaustion. And yet he continued, repeating the pattern of steps and strikes, over and over, without faltering or stopping for breath.

Undeath had its perks.

His body did not protest against the strenuous exertion, nor did his mind. After all, this was practice. All warriors needed to practice, regardless of runeblades or enchantments or undeath.

And besides, practice made perfect.

He had lost track of how long he had been seated. A fierce ache was spreading throughout his back; his legs were as stiff as the hard wooden bench that bore his weight His fingers, weary as they were, plucked mechanically at the harp’s strings as he worked his way through the opening of an old folk song.

“Stop.”

He froze.

“You made a mistake,” Mother said. Her voice was toneless and impassive, as if she was making an offhanded comment about something mundane. “Look at the sheet. Do you see where you went wrong?”

He wasn’t completely sure where he had made a mistake, or if he even had made a mistake at all, but there was only one correct answer. “Yes, Mother.”

“You’ll keep practicing until you get it right. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother.”

She adjusted the sheet music on its stand and pointed at the very beginning of the song.

“Again.”

Given how foul-tempered some death knights could be, it wasn’t too uncommon for arguments to become fights. Avarael avoided them whenever he could. Fights meant punishment and, in some cases, an appointment with a fleshcrafter.

Unfortunately for him, this particular scuffle was loud and large enough to be considered a brawl, and he was stuck right in the middle of it. However, he did not involve himself. He threw no punches and landed no blows, keeping himself pressed flat against the wall and out of everyone’s way.

It didn’t take very long for one of the commanders present in Acherus to break up the brawl. She and several other death knights yanked the combatants apart, delivering swift thumps on the head and shackling limbs in ice whenever necessary. Avarael siezed the opportunity to shuffle away from the thick of things, but he lingered nearby. He hadn’t been dismissed yet.

The normal prodecure followed: the commander demanded to know the cause behind the ridiculous display; a clamor of voices, all demanding to be heard over the others, answered her. She silenced them with a gale of frigid wind, and swiftly assigned everyone involved to a week of labor in the armory, effective immediately, since they had nothing better to do than bicker. Finally, she turned her attention towards the elf who had not uttered a single word throughout the whole spectacle.

For a moment, she looked like she was about to give him the same scolding and assignment that she had given the others. Her gaze went from his sheathed runeblade to his scuff- and dent-free armor, and she shook her head. “Get back to whatever you were doing, then.”

Avarael wandered away. He knew better than to speak needlessly.

He wasn’t sure he liked parties. They were too loud, too bright, and there were too many flashy spells cast by mages who sought to impress each other. Everyone was a lot older than he was, and the only other youth present at tonight’s party was at least ten years his senior. He didn’t like the food or the drink, and he didn’t like the formal robe he had to wear. It was itchy.

They also wore on for hours past his bedtime. He was tired, he’d been introduced to no less than twenty grown-ups, and he’d sang a few songs from his repetoire for some of the guests. He was tired. He wanted to go home.

Fighting back a yawn, he made his way towards his parents. They were deep in conversation with a priest, and he had no desire to interrupt them. Instead, he tugged on Mother’s sleeve.

“I’m tired,” he said quietly, trying not to whine. “When can we go?”

Mother looked down at him.

“Now,” she responded.

He liked the answer. He didn’t like the way her mouth curved down at the corners, nor did he like the sharp glance that Father sent his way.

Father murmured a cordial farewell to the priest, and they departed. The frown lingered on Mother’s face for the entire journey home. He wondered, fear stabbing into his stomach, if he was in trouble.

His fears were confirmed soon enough. Mother shooed him inside, and Father closed the front door behind them. He found himself in the hallway, trapped, with Mother behind him and Father in front of him, both of them looking thoroughly disappointed.

“Shame on you,” Father said sternly. “Haven’t we taught you to respect your elders? Don’t interrupt. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Children should be seen, not heard.”

Death knights were fearsome and formidable in battle, but there were simply some death knights who were not nearly as fearsome or formidable as the rest. It was unavoidable - even in a necropolis full of mighty undead soldiers, there were some who were mightier than average, and some who... weren’t.

Avarael knew very well that he was one of the not-as-formidable Death Knights. He still had his uses, though. Death knights who didn’t have any skills or specialties to make up for whatever shortcomings they had wound up dead. His superiors and the Argent Crusaders they sometimes worked with had decided that the slim, silent elf was best suited for scout work.

Being undead, he could observe an area for days without having to worry about sustenance or poor circulation or anything that plagued the living. The only downside was that it was boring, and he always returned from those wait-and-watch missions with the urge to inflict pain gnawing incessantly at him. Still, orders were orders, and it was his duty to obey them.

He returned to Hearthglen after such a mission with one thing on his mind: return to the Heart of Acherus, throw himself into the training ring, and find a sparring session or five. However, he had to submit his report before he could attend to his needs.

The smile and nod from the Argent Crusader working in the office was more polite than welcoming; the look in his eyes was more scrutinizing than anything else, as if he was trying to discern if Avarael had done something wrong. It was a look that Avarael was used to.

“’Forsaken soldiers. Not Scourge. Passing through to Tirisfal. No suspicious activity.’ Straight to the point. Don’t enjoy writing, I take it,” the human chuckled as he slipped the report into a folder. “It’s a shame, really. I wish my penmanship was as good as yours.”

Avarael shrugged.

He tore through the house, bare feet pounding so hard against the floor that he feared it would make the bubble of pride and excitement in his chest burst. He burst into the sitting room where Mother was reading, his latest project cradled protectively in his arms. “Mama, mama!” he cried, leaping onto her armchair and waving the sheaf of papers at her. “Look what I wrote!”

Mother sat up sharply, her brow knitted, the tiny frown that meant she was displeased tugging at her lips.

He forgot his excitement and remembered himself. He climbed off the armchair and stepped back. “Hello, Mother,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “I wrote something that I’d like you to read.” And he held out the sheaf of papers.

She set aside her book and accepted the papers the same way she might accept a glass of the finest wine. Heart pounding, he waited for her approval. He’d spent the whole morning in his room, writing and drawing, and he wanted to know that Mother was happy with it.

“What is it supposed to be?” she asked.

The bubble of pride popped.

“It’s a story, Mother,” he explained hesitantly. “I had an idea I wanted to write about, so I wrote it.”

“Well, it’s not very good.” She reached over to the end table and picked up a pen. Frowning, she circled his story’s title - “Sunstrider the Linx” - in stark red ink. “You spelled ‘lynx’ incorrectly. And your handwriting is sloppy. Your father taught you how to hold a pen properly, didn’t he?”

Mother went through each page of his story, leaving small comments and corrections on margins and between sentences. Finally, she returned the papers to him.

“I’m disappointed in you,” she said crisply as she went back to her book. “You can do better.”

Serving the Lich King had been easy. His master gave him a command, he obeyed. He had been less than a soldier, nothing more than a tool.

Avarael had been content.

Then the Lich King had been defeated, and his place in life had been torn apart. What was a soldier without a commander? What was a tool without hands to wield it?

He had wandered Icecrown for months, begging and pleading silently for the Lich King’s presence to return. But nothing had answered to fill the awful, silent void where his purpose had come from. Nothing except the growing need to hurt, to injure, to kill.

He’d been firmly in the grasp of madness by the time an Argent Crusade patrol on “cleanup duty” found him. Although he had attacked them with the fury of a cornered, starving beast (which he had been at that time, all things considered), the Light had prevailed that day. Within minutes, the Argents had defeated him, leaving him subdued and bound in the snow, smoldering pitifully as his fate was decided.

Luckily for him, the Crusaders who had found him happened to be of the belief that even enemies deserved mercy and a second chance. Instead of ending his existence, they had decided to return him to his fellow death knights in Acherus.

They’d made a stop in Dalaran, where he had been stripped of his runeblade, armor, and everything else he carried. After several hours’ worth of questioning (to which he either nodded, shook his head, or shrugged in response) and magical examinations for sanity and lingering Scourge or Cult of the Damned influence, he'd been deemed “safe”. He hadn’t gotten his armor or weapon back, but they’d returned the leather satchel that contained all his worldly possessions.

“Were you travelling light?” one of the Crusaders had asked with a smirk.

His satchel had been completely empty.

He came home from choir practice that afternoon to find Mother in his room, his belongings neatly arranged instead of lying in the jumble that he had left them in. He couldn’t find the sketches he’d pinned to the walls by his bed, or the half-finished clay sculptures that dwelled on his bookshelf and desk. All of his books had been returned to the shelf, except for one, which she was reading.

With a jolt of panic, he realized that she held his new journal, and was currently digging through all of the secrets he had recorded over the past week.

“That’s mine!” he exclaimed, stepping towards her and reaching for the journal.

Mother held up a hand, keeping him at arm’s reach. “When I’m finished with it,” she replied, and turned the page. “I never said that you were a failure, by the way. You made that up.”

Something ice-cold and white-hot at the same time seared through his chest. He lunged forwards, swiping madly for the book. She turned away and his hand closed around empty air.

“Why are you unhappy?” she continued. “Did those friends of yours teach you to be unhappy? You have everything a child could ever want. You have clothes, food, shelter, toys, books, and parents who love you very much. You need to count your blessings.”

She turned the page again. Her frown deepened.

“No, you may not quit the choir,” she said. “We aren’t raising a quitter. Besides, you’ll just wind up regretting your decision if we do let you drop out. Imagine how silly you’ll look.“

Flip.

“Give it back,” he said. His voice was shaking.

Mother ignored him. “Why do you think you can’t do anything right?” she asked. “You need to have more confidence. You have such a defeatist attitude. It’s all in your head. All you have to do is be positive and tell yourself, ‘I can do it’, and you won’t have these negative thoughts.”

Flip.

“‘I don’t want to sing anymore’,” she read out loud. “‘It makes me feel sick. I hate it when everyone’s watching me. I hate singing, I hate performing, and I hate music.’ Hate is a very strong word. How could you say such things? Do you realize how much effort your father and I have put into helping your career?”

Flip.

She shook her head. She’d reached the last entry, the one he’d written that morning before he’d left for choir practice.

“Your father needs to see what you’ve written about us,” she said. “We will talk about this later. You need to do a better job tidying your room, by the way. How will you ever be a self-sufficient adult if you can’t do something as simple as keeping your room neat? Your clothes go in the wardrobe, your books go in the shelf. Blankets go on the bed. Throw out your trash, don’t stick it all over the walls and leave it on your desk. How many times do I need to repeat myself?”

The death knights of the Ebon Blade often considered each other “family”, but that didn’t mean they held back during training.

They sparred with the same ruthless ferocity they fought their foes with. If they inflicted serious damage, it could always be repaired. If they caused someone’s final death, well, then the slain knight simply hadn’t been strong enough. Either way, there was no lasting harm done.

Avarael studied his current sparring partner, a massive Tauren who towered over him. He had no desire to injure the other death knight beyond what was necessary to sate his thirst, but from the toothy leer he was staring into, his opponent did not feel the same way. He only hoped that the Tauren’s warhammer was not as heavy as it looked.

“Ooh, this’ll be a good one,” someone snickered to his left. A gnome was seated there, her bright pink pigtails clashing horribly with her greenish-gray armor. She caught Avarael’s gaze and grinned widely.

“Little knife-ears is gonna get crushed,” someone else commented.

“That’s why my money’s on him!” a third voice roared.

“That’s why you’re an idiot,” a fourth grumbled.

His stomach lurched unpleasantly as the Tauren advanced, warhammer poised to strike. Several of his brothers and sisters had paused their training to watch, it seemed. No - not just several of them. There were at least ten. Eleven? Twelve? He lost count. There were some behind him, some to his right, some to his left, some seated on the ledge overlooking the training ring. Their eyes were on him. They were all watching. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t escape.

The last thing he remembered seeing before the world-shattering impact smashed him into the floor was the multitude of eyes, glowing bright blue in the dimly lit hall.

He wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly.

“What?” he asked.

“Tomorrow,” Father repeated. “You’re performing in Silvermoon City tomorrow. Get some sleep. You have an early morning ahead of you.”

He didn’t know what was whirling faster - his mind, or his stomach. The unpleasant sickness he felt at the mere thought of performing for an audience swamped him. He felt like he was coming apart, like his terrified soul was fleeing the shaking, sweating body that stood in the sitting room.

“I sent in an application for you two weeks ago,” Mother explained cheerfully. “The director was happy to accept you. What must you say?”

I don’t want this, he thought.

His mouth opened. “Th-thank you, Mother,“ his body said.

He didn’t sleep that night.

Father helped him dress and comb his hair. Mother tried to coax him into eating breakfast. Both of them walked with him to the gates of the city, chattering on and on about how excited they were to hear him sing - even though they’d made him perform dozens of times, for more people than he could ever remember - and led him to the venue where he was scheduled to perform.

“Make us proud,” Father said.

They left him backstage.

His name was called. The hall went quiet. All he could hear was his heartbeat, pounding harder and faster than he thought was possible. His legs carried him forwards, up the steps, onto the stage. Scores of people stared up at him. All he could see were their eyes, glowing bright blue in the dimly lit hall.

What did all of those people see? Did they see a nervous child? Did they see a talented prodigy siezing his destiny? Or could they see the condemned prisoner, walking to the gallows to face his worst fear?

Their eyes were on him. They were all watching. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t escape.

The world fell away. His heartbeat faded to a dull buzz. His head stopped spinning. His stomach stopped churning. He still couldn’t feel his hands or feet - or anything else, for that matter. He had not moved an inch, but he could almost see himself, as clearly as if he was standing beside his own body. He was a ghost, invisible, intangible, impervious to the countless staring eyes, floating in the spot where a pale, trembling boy stood alone on a stage far too big for him.

He was safe.

The boy opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Ten minutes later, a stagehand gently ushered him away so that the next musician could perform.

He hid in a broom closet and cried silently until the last performance had concluded. Part of him wondered if Mother and Father were going to go home without him. Another part of him hoped they would.

His parents found him eventually, though.

They walked home without saying a word to him, or each other.

He knew what was waiting for him when he got home. He knew he’d be punished. He knew he’d failed his parents.

Father closed the front door, and pointed to the stairs.

“Go to your room,” he said, sounding as exhausted as if he himself had performed onstage. “You are an embarassment. You’ve disgraced us. I don’t want even want to look at you right now.”

Somehow, hearing the disappointment in Father’s voice made him feel even worse than he would have felt if Father had launched into a furious lecture. He crept upstairs, went to his room, and closed the door.

All things considered, he wouldn’t mind if no one wanted to look at him ever again.

Avarael couldn’t remember the moment of his death. He could remember eating breakfast with other Horde soldiers in their camp that morning. His next memory was of waking up on an altar, surrounded by enemies-turned-masters, the pitch-black night sky stretching endlessly above him.

He hadn’t felt any desire to kill them or escape, though. There was a new presence in his head, terrifying and comforting at the same time. It left a single thought that offered the a very familiar course of action that he clung to with all his might.

Obey.

They’d tested him. The necromancers and the other death knights under the Lich King’s control had made sure that he knew how to wield a weapon. They had made sure that he could use the runic powers that all death knights were capable of. They had even commented about his affinity for ice (he’d served the Horde as a battlemage, specializing in frost magic).

“Good enough,” one of the necromancers had said after she’d finished evaluating his abilities. “You’ll do. Now go and carry out the Lich King’s will.”

Little did she know how deeply her words had affected the freshly raised death knight. After a lifetime of being told that he was not good enough, would never be good enough, those words meant the world to him.