Icecrown Citadel (26)

"I have thought about it," Arthas replied after a long pause. "But I don't think so now. My father, my mentor, and you... you're always telling me what's right and wrong, what I should and shouldn't do. I'm tired of it."

"You're not only tired of the truth," Nathanos interrupted him, struggling to sit up from his throne. Only then did Arthas realize that Nathanos was severely wounded, barely able to walk. "You're also tired of your responsibilities, your responsibilities as Prince."

These words startled Arthas. He resented Nathanos's assessment of him, for he had slaughtered the citizens of Storsom to stop the plague, and for his sacrifice in Northrend, ultimately destroying Mal'Ganis. All he had done was for the people, yet he was condemned by everyone.

Who can understand my pain?

"But that's not your fault."

Arthas looked at Nathanos with even greater surprise.

"It's all because of me," the man before the throne said, filled with remorse. "From the moment we met on the street, I was wrong. I showed you the beauty of ordinary people's lives, planting the seed of protecting them in your heart. The more I hoped you would make the right choice for the people, the more I pushed you down the path of darkness. I'm so sorry, Arthas!"

The Dark Prince could only stare in disbelief at the scene before him. It was the first time he'd ever heard someone apologize to him... and it felt truly strange. Arthas wondered how he should react, but instinctively replied, "I don't need your apology; it's too late."

"Yes, it's too late," The Witherer repeated. "Your sins are too deep to be redeemed."

"So, you're here to correct my mistakes, just like these other people? Haven't you seen what happened to them?"

"I must tell you," Nathanos said, each word distinct, Shadowmourne in his hand glowed blue. "I've taught you many things, but there's one thing I haven't told you: never focus solely on the enemy before you. Tirion!"

With all his might, the Witherer hurled Shadowmourne at the immobilized Paladin. Frostmourne was indeed far more powerful than the battle axe, but some spells within the Rune Sword could be neutralized by forces of the same element. Nathanos had discovered this during his battle against Sindragosa.

Shadowmourne struck precisely the ice cage imprisoning Tirion and began absorbing its energy. The ice shell on the Paladin's face began to shatter and peel away. He found he could move his hands again, and a gritted-teeth expression gradually formed on Fordring's face as more ice flakeed off with his effort. He moved slowly, but it wasn't enough!

"O supreme the Holy Light!" Tirion cried, "Grant me the strength to break free from these shackles!"

Arthas had always believed that the Holy Light was utterly useless in the darkest corners of the Scourge, but now he was wrong. Fordring was completely enveloped in golden light, and the cracks in the icy cage were clearly visible under the light.

The Paladin roared to the sky, and a tremendous cracking sound erupted from Ashbringer's blade, filling the entire Frozen Throne.

The ice shattered, sending chunks of ice flying in all directions. Fordring was unharmed; the cage had done nothing to him. Countless shards of ice fell from his armor of justice.

"Arthas!" Tirion Fordring charged toward the Dark Prince, Frostmourne in hand, just like in their first clash.

The golden blade gleamed with dazzling light, and the Rune Sword was ready. But this time, Arthas heard a groan and a cracking sound in his ears. The sound came from within the sword itself.

He realized, and had known all along, that Frostmourne was already overburdened and its blade was damaged. It was no longer trustworthy.

Frostmourne snapped with a clang—no, it shattered completely. The fragments spun and scattered in all directions.

Tirion, Arthas, Nathanos were all staring intently at Frostmourne.

The Paladin's tears welled up; this sword had destroyed the beautiful and bountiful Lordaeron, and now it was shattered! Arthas felt his consciousness freeze; this sword had given him everything, and now it was broken! Nathanos had anticipated this scene—the destruction of Frostmourne —but when it actually occurred, the Witherer was overwhelmed with mixed emotions. How should he react? He found himself utterly devoid of any desire to raise his arms in celebration.

"This is impossible." Arthas trembled, the only fragment of his Rune Sword slipping from his grasp—not by choice, but by its own voluntary release. Countless souls were released, accompanied by even more groans. The sound was so immense that Arthas took a step back, staring in horror. It was as if the entire world was being torn apart.

These are the souls of those who perished under the sword Frostmourne. In the Rune Sword, they were controlled by Arthas, but now, the first thing these slaves do after being freed is often to vent their anger on their slave owners.

He was surrounded by souls, his body uncontrollably lifted off the ground, floating in mid-air. Arthas found himself powerless; he could neither summon his servants for help nor destroy the souls.

So many souls, so furious, like a raging tide blotting out the sky, threatened to overwhelm him. In an instant, Arthas felt himself about to be crushed and destroyed.

Only now did he realize that these souls had never been conquered by him, never.

"I am like a lion among sheep, but they are not afraid of me, nor have they ever been afraid."

"It's over, Arthas. Your days of slaughtering living beings are over today."

Ashbringer landed on Arthas.

The pain, the agony erupting from the wound, utterly devastated Arthas. This feeling had never left him, even after he had ripped out his own heart. He hadn't felt it in so long; it was like a newborn baby being pricked by a needle.

"Has it always been like this?" Arthas thought desperately, realizing he hadn't gotten rid of anything.

The Helm of Domination rolled off Arthas's head. The Dark Prince reached out to grab it, but the distance felt like an insurmountable barrier. He couldn't reach it, and collapsed limply onto the ice, blood gushing from beneath him, his white hair disheveled behind him.

"My son."

Arthas opened his eyes in horror. His father's spirit stood before him, looking down at him, and Nathanos was there too.