The summer sun bathed the courtyard, but its warmth was lost upon the lone Forsaken who sat by the apple harvest, lost in memories of his former life.
… children laughing, a ball being kicked across the yard….
He looked down at his hands, running a finger along the palm of the other. Cold clammy flesh, he could feel his fingers and the touch, but not the sensation of hot or cold. How, if he could feel no external heat could he have emotions of warmth, of love, of a burning desire for revenge?
… the smell of gunpowder, of burning flesh. Screams as Alliance soldiers torched the fallen bodies, some still writhing as they clutched to the last strings of life….
Emotion overwhelmed him, but no tears fell. No tears COULD fall. The dead cannot weep.
… He screamed in defiance as the soldiers dragged his wife away by her hair, yanking her head back to expose her creamy white throat, her cries drowned out by his own screams as a blood stained blade ripped her life from her in a gushing fountain….
But he was not dead. His body was dead. His mind, his consciousness was alive. And by some dark sorcery he was here, in the flesh, with all the abilities he had in life… and more.
… his last vision was of a mailed boot smashing into his face before the darkness enveloped him…
And within that darkness, time had no meaning. Hours, days, years… they were all one and the same. All he had was his sorrow, his anger, and the memories of his love, until the voice summoned him. Irresistible, terrifying, full of power, compulsion. He opened his eyes and it was still dark, but his queen had summoned him. She needed him. She needed them all. And he could nothing but obey her will.
Perhaps his wife too had been summoned. Perhaps he would see her once more. He hoped that he would recognise her – or that she would recognise him. When he had looked into the trough of water, he could hardly believe the rotting corpse staring back at him was the man he once used to be.
He clenched his fist. He had a purpose now. Revenge. No mercy for the Alliance.