A Meeting in the Legerdemain

Malcotin smiled at Mirium, “It is obvious to me you have a strong stomach and a hearty appetite.” He let her nearly finish her meal as he wolfed down his steak. Then he lifted his wineglass, and offered a toast to Keelath. “I applaud your resolve and your continued marriage. Not all of us have been that lucky. To the ones who came back from the Lich King’s control.”

He resumed his tale, “The Necromancers at Acherus were not able to raise me themselves, it took Arthas and that damned Frostmourne to bring me to my feet. He controlled me with that damned sword. It was so powerful, it did not allow me to even consider disobedience. I was shoved into armor and taught to fight, no niceties or preparation. They set me loose on those poor people in Havenshire…I had no choice, his words echoed in my ears. Kill or be killed was a litany I could not ignore.” His face more somber now.

Turning his gaze to Mirium, he began softly. “When you are under someone else’s control, you suffer as much as your victims. Deep inside, the guilt and the horror fester. The only way to survive, was to do as you were told. We were lucky, that Tirion Fordring as able to break Arthas’ concentration, long enough to make all of us, including the Highlord Mograine, realize what fools we had been.”

Malcotin sat back, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose. When he felt in better control, he looked straight at Keelath. “Tell me, brother in arms. Were we freed then? Were we vindicated? Were we then turned loose only to set us on a course to fight and kill Scourge the rest of our misbegotten lives? Are we ever truly free?” he whispered.

Mirium returns Malcotin’s gaze levelly. Her eyes hold empathy, but she says nothing, still stroking Keelath’s hand. When Malcotin’s gaze turns back to Keelath, she drops her chin towards her chest and takes a soft breath, as if to steady herself.

“I only heard about the fight at Light’s Hope Chapel through rumor,” Keelath admits. “I was freed much earlier, thanks to…”

He hesitates, and amends his words. “…I was freed earlier with the rest of the Forsaken in Lordaeron. I was raised without memory, and it took me the better part of this last war regaining sense of who I had even been before my death.” He turns in his chair to run a hand through Mirium’s hair, and they meet each others’ eyes. “I knew early on I had a wife and son, but I didn’t know their names or faces–or even that they were elven, at one point in time. I was concerned only with survival. We all were.”

He looks back at Malcotin, face hard. “Some say what the Forsaken did then was atrocity. It wasn’t that way to us; instead, everyone wished to massacre us instead because of the resemblance we bore the Scourge. The Horde extended peace to us when the Alliance did not, but for many years we were still no better than cannon fodder to the orcs. If anyone wonders why the undead care little for the living, maybe they should look no further than that.” He bares his teeth. Mirium coughs, and he relents, though he still looks angry. “…I suppose that didn’t really answer your question,” he finally ends with.