((Art by oboon))
They called us many things.
I remember so little of my life before. I remember a sharp breath in warm air, the taste of copper and a breeze of cold on my face. That same cold greeted me again, filling my lungs with a bitterness that clung to me as I awoke in an unfamiliar place holding a sword in my hand and staring down the legions of dead.
What was I now? A soldier? A slave? Cursed?
I am a Death Knight. I know not rest. I know what it is to inflict pain, to unleash my sword and strike down lesser beings. I am not a bastion of power, but a product of it, untamed, unbridled, kept at bay only by killing.
I remember the cries of Icecrown, the hallowed cries of the wandering dead and those who lingered between. Whether their death was at my hand or at another, their cries remain torturous to my ears, forcing me to relive moments I hadn’t remembered, moments stolen from me during years of servitude.
There is no remorse in what I have done, I cannot change what I am nor run from it.
“Don’t you ever get tired?”
You spoke those words so long ago. I do not remember what it means to be tired. Is it when I feel as if I cannot go on? Is it being weary or weak? Is it sleeping when the body becomes exhausted? How long has it been since you’ve been gone? How long has it been since she was gone? Since I kept my word?
Time seems to have stood still, but I kept my word to you. I came back but I have a request of you, my friend.
Can I sit for a while? The world is quiet now and my body feels heavy. Just for a short time. It is all I ask. You forgave me in the end and even said thank you. Is it my turn to thank you now?