Paths We Tread

*Several years ago during the Northrend campaign; Icecrown*

Hooves bit into the thick crust of snow, driving down deep and leaving a furrow in the frozen landscape. Each foot forward plowed up more snow, the pace of the deathcharger fast enough to risk broken limbs but not fast enough for Beckyann. Mercilessly she dug her spurs into the beast's flanks, hoping to coax even a little more speed out of it.

The undead steed had been wounded in several places and an arrow protruded from its right hindquarters. The damage alone would not be enough to stop such a creature, and they did not feel pain except as an irritant, but each wound slowed it down, each severed muscle made it that much more difficult for the necromancy that sustained it to keep it going, and right now Beckyann could not afford to have it slow down.

Behind her they came. Like a dark cloud floating on the surface of the snow they ran after her, tireless and hungry. The restless dead would stop at nothing once they had a foe in sight, well did Beckyann know this. There was no hope for it now but to run. The company she had been attached to had been decimated and all of the men and women with her had been slaughtered to a man. Some of them even now likely ran alongside the Scourge that pursued her; newly risen in the service of the Lich King. She had seen Cult of the Damned necromancers amongst those who assaulted them so it was not outside of the realm of possibility. Even as she glanced back, she could see dark figures on horses amongst the dead that chased her; they were not about to let her get away and warn the other nearby crusade companies of the disaster.

Suddenly a spell flashed by Beckyann, slamming into the snowbanks nearby and sending up a plume of white powder. She jerked the reins in her hands, steering the deathcharger around the sudden blast and pressing on. The spellcasters had gotten into range, and it was only a matter of time now before the end was upon her. No sooner had that thought passed through her mind then a second spell struck out, this time aimed much more carefully. It struck the back of her deathcharger, severing vital tissue and necromantic connections and hurling her and the beast forward as it stumbled, dying.

Beckyann flew through the air, a white wall of snow rushing up to meet her as she tumbled head first into a bone-jarring collision with a snowbank. Her undead steed, in its last throes of existence, thrashed behind her, stumbling and collapsing on top of her, the impact snapping several of her ribs and pinning the lower half of her body beneath it.

For a moment, she lay there, the impact stunning her. She felt pain only dimly, so the damage to her body was not a concern, but she knew now that she would never escape the dead that pursued her. She would lay beneath her dead steed and be torn to shreds. Bitterly her mind drifted, a confused haze of memories flashing before her eyes as she thought about the events that had lead to this moment...

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She had been eighteen at the time. A slip of a girl, green-eyed and eager to prove herself. It had taken her almost a year after her parents died to save up the coin she needed to make the trip. A year of hard work, fleeting hope, and the desperate need to rise above the poverty she had been born to. After all of her struggle, all of her time and effort, she had finally made it to Dalaran, to the city of Mages and Magic. To a place where her destiny lay.

"You have five minutes," the man said, his tone stern. He was middle-aged, although his hair and long beard were already touched with a hint of gray.  He sat in a high-backed chair behind a rather imposing hardwood desk, staring at Beckyann through his thick-rimmed glasses, his hands folded before him.

The room they were in was a small study which connected to a larger magical research laboratory. Although there were many powerful artifacts in the room, Beckyann could tell that the lab beyond was the real wonder of the structure. It was there that new magic was discovered and old spells were improved, where a person could learn and grow in the Arts. It was there that she most wished to be, working and studying and making something of herself.

She had five minutes to make that happen.

With a nervous intake of breath, Beckyann rose and stood before the Archmage's desk. Dressed in a simple powder-blue dress that had seen better days and shoes that had soles worn so badly they wouldn't be useable in another few weeks, Beckyann looked nothing like the typical students that applied for studies in Dalaran. Many of the others came from well-to-do families that wished to have the honor of having a child become a member of the Kirin Tor. Others were the sons and daughters of merchants that could afford the entry fees into the grand city and ensure their children had a place amongst the other students.

Beckyann had no such advantages; she had to rise and fall on her own merits. She'd had only just enough coin to make the trip to Dalaran, and not nearly enough to afford to actually apply as an apprentice. She'd had to wait for the right moment to catch one of the Archmages as they walked the streets of the city on errands, and then catch that person's eye. She'd finally done it after weeks of living on the edge of starvation, and now she had five minutes to prove that she should be taken on as an apprentice.

Beckyann exhaled, becoming utterly still and calm, a look of sheer determination on her face. Energy flowed through her and around her as she began to chant, carefully intoning the words of the rudimentary spells she'd learned on her own. In the air above her, a form shimmered and materialized as her familiar, a white songbird, popped into existence and flew around her before landing on her shoulder and singing merrily. Its presence further calmed her, and Beckyann fell into a meditative state as she continued to chant.

The magical energy in the room grew, swirling over the desk in front of the Archmage. The man sat back, saying nothing as he watched the little urchin girl cast her spell. The top of the table shimmered and his view of it wavered as a huge assortment of food appeared where before had been empty space. The food looked and smelled delicious, and he reached forward, snatching up an apple and biting into it. In front of him, Beckyann lowered her arms, ending her chant as her spell was completed and the food had been completely conjured.

"Interesting," the Archmage said, looking her over critically. "Your technique, although crude, was adequate to complete the spell. However, we have more than enough food in this city. You should have come with the standard spells that all first year apprentices learn in their home studies. Before you go though, have a bite to eat since you went through the trouble."

He tossed the apple to Beckyann and the fruit collided with a magical barrier. The young woman's eyes glowed with arcane energy as the fruit hung in place between them, unable to pass through her shield to reach her, and held aloft by her magic.

The Archmage sat back in his chair, his fingers steepled before him as he studied Beckyann anew. His eyebrows arched slightly as he watched the fruit hanging there. "Fascinating. Some of my fifth year apprentices cannot conjure a mana shield of that power, and certainly none of them can manipulate the weight of an object to slow its fall. You have impressed me....Apprentice."

Triumph surged through Beckyann, a grin creeping across her young face as her hopes and dreams bloomed before her. She'd done it! She'd become an Apprentice of an Archmage of the Kirin Tor! She was going to be trained in real magic, and have the opportunity to live the life her parents would have wanted her to have! It was the proudest moment of her life. The crowning glory of who and what she aspired to be. She had achieved everything she could have wanted.

The memories shifted, leaving that happy moment to follow it to its inevitable conclusion. Not triumph, not power and wealth, but passion and obsession mixed together in a disastrous combination that would lay her low and lead her to the doom that was her fate. 

She remembered a room in a small village deep in Lordaeron. A room filled with the sick and dying, with victims of the Plague of Undeath. People whom she was desperate to help. People who had no hope, although they did not yet know this. Beds lined the room, and a slightly older Beckyann sat behind a desk, her face in her hands and scattered papers covering the wooden surface before her.

"We have to go now Becky," Frederick said, his voice filled with concern. He walked up behind the mage, placing a hand on her shoulder. "It's too late now, and the dead are gathering in the forest around this village."

Beckyann shook off the hand on her shoulder, looking up at him through tear-stained, bloodshot eyes. She shook her head, gesturing at the people laying on the beds in the room with her, "I can't just leave them. I have to HELP them! I can figure this out, I know I can! I just need more time. I'm so close to discovering the source of the plague. It's a type of magic mixed with science to spread to its victims. I'm sure I can discover the source but you need to give me more time!"

Frederick shook his head, anger beginning to creep into his voice, "Becky....we don't have anymore time. I know that you think you can save these people, but in about two hours they are going to perish and rise as more dead. The best thing to do is to torch this building and let them have peace. I'll lose men holding this little spit of a village if we stay here any longer."

Beckyann rose in anger, turning away from the man who was her lover. She looked out over the beds of the plague victims in the small village and more tears streamed down her face. Her voice came out in a low murmur as she spoke, "It's my fault Frederick. Some of these people were well before I came here. I told them they could care for their sick children. I even allowed some of the older kids to help. And now they're all infected. Because of me. Because I thought my first magical vaccine would keep them safe. Because my research was faulty."

She heard the man moving up behind her, and again he placed his hands on her shoulder, speaking softly into her ear, "I know Becky. I know that's what you think. But it's not true. Whether we'd come here or not, these people would be sick. You can't help them now and we need to keep you and the men safe. You've got precious knowledge about the plague in your research journal. We need to get that back to the capital and get others to study it."

Beckyann didn't respond at first, staring at the sick as they coughed up blood and gasped for air, their dying sounds damning in her ears. She shook her head, her blonde hair bouncing as she spoke in a choked whisper, "The vaccine Fred...It had plague in it."

He blinked at first, not understanding what she said. After a moment, it dawned on him and he roughly grabbed her, spinning her around to stare hard at her, "What? What do you mean it had plague in it?!"

She stared at him with tears in her eyes, the look on her face a look of utter defeat, of complete surrender. Her mouth spoke the hateful words of truth, her voice still low, "I weakened it. I thought...I thought it would allow them to gain some protection. But it didn't. Because the plague is magical as well as physical. You can't weaken it enough. Ever. I did this Fred...I infected these people. All of them in this room. The men. The women. The children. Because I thought I knew better. Because I thought I could help."

Roughly, Frederick pushed Beckyann away from him, watching tears spill from her green eyes. He shook his head in disgust. "We're leaving. Now. Get your research and  let's go."

She gasped, a hand reaching out to hold him back as he made to turn and walk away, "Fred...we need to press on. To the outskirts of Stratholme. Please. I'm so close to finding a cure. So very close. And then no more have to die. I can undo what I've done here. I can erase the mistakes by saving thousands. The people here, they'll have died for a cure, not for nothing. And we can put them all, ALL of them, to rest."

The man paused, staring hard at the woman that he loved, seeing in her perhaps for the first time the desperate need to rise that had driven her relentlessly to this moment. But he saw beyond that too. In the depths of her despair, he saw the soul of the woman behind the ambition. He saw a person in agony over her choices, desperate not to gain fame or power, but to undo a grievous mistake. Slowly he nodded, the breath escaping him in a long sigh.

"Fine, but the minute things turn sour we're pulling out. We've lost enough men already and the Woodbury family did not authorize me to expend all of our people on your insane quest to find a cure. They can always flee to the Kingdom of Stormwind if need be," he said heavily. He paused, staring at her before his expression softened somewhat. "We'll find a way Becky...we'll find a way."

Crying now, Beckyann nodded, leaning forward to wrap her arms around her beloved. After a moment she let go, walking to her desk and picking up her research journal before turning and walking from the room, leaving her patients, her experiments, to die the painful death that fate had set for them.

In the depths of her despair, Beckyann and her men set out towards the city of Stratholme, where the infection had first begun.

Where she would meet the painful death that fate had set for HER in a place that would come to be known as the Plaguewood.

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Beckyann jerked back into consciousness, the images of her life that had been flashing through her mind fading away. For a brief moment, she had allowed herself to relive those experiences, to feel again what life had been like while she was alive. To know what had driven her, and what had ultimately destroyed her and lead her down the path to becoming a death knight and the foul creature that she now was.

There was one interwoven theme in all of it, one point of fact that could never be disputed. It was that Beckyann did not surrender. The will that burned within her, the soul that made up her being, had never given up. She had always reached for her goals, had always excelled at everything, even when it cost the lives of others. Even when it cost her own life. She had tried to see everything through to the end. She was relentless. Her will was all that she had now, all that had not been stripped from her.

In that moment, trapped beneath her dead steed on the frozen, snowy plains of Icecrown, Beckyann came to realize what it meant to exist. Came to know what she truly was. In that moment, she swore that she would see that existence through to its end. She would let nothing end it if it was in her power to prevent it. No matter the cost to herself. No matter the cost to the world.

With a surge of necromantic energy Beckyann's eyes glowed foul blue and she heaved with all her might, sliding the dead steed off of her body. Slowly she rose, her gaze a baleful blaze of scourgelight, her runeblade trailing in the snow beside her as she made it to her feet and turned.

In the distance, the dead ran towards her, the necromancers amongst them holding back as they waited for their minions to tear this last shred of defiance to pieces so that they could go back to raising the fallen for the Lich King. The dead came on, unable to resist their commands, knowing only the urge to slay in the name of their foul King.

Beckyann stood upright, her runeblade rising beside her as necromancy far more powerful than the distant cultists could imagine flowed through her limbs. She set her feet, both hands gripping the blade as her enemies rushed at her. As they rushed to their fate.

As the first came at her, Beckyann whispered to the wind, "My will be done."

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In the frozen north, heroes were forged in blood and death as the mortal races of the world sought to thrown down the king of the dead that had threatened all existence. Armies rose and fell, men committed great deeds and foul treacheries, and in the end a King fell and the world rejoiced. Amongst all of these tales, many were lost to time or had no one to witness them. Many heroes fought and died alone in the frozen snow, never to be remembered. Many deeds were done that would have made an incredible tale if told around the fire, if only there were lips to speak them.

No one told the tale of the dead blonde woman who walked from the blizzards that forever harassed Icecrown and rejoined an encampment of Knights of the Ebon Blade. No one asked her where she'd been, or why her armor was rent in a dozen places. No one questioned the gore that spattered her, or the chips taken from the edge of her runeblade. In the end, it did not matter, because one more sword, one more body was always an advantage over the endless tides of the dead.

It was not the tale that mattered, not the deeds that were done, but the hero that was forged from them. The blonde haired woman that fate had decided would rise and fall, only to rise again in a new existence, her purpose forever unquestioned in her own mind.