Melchisedech sat in the basement of the church in Tarren Mill, a lit candle flickering fitfully in the shadowy chamber. His head rested on his hand, his elbow propped on the table. The other hand clenched and unclenched at his side, bones cracking and flesh tearing away from the skeletal joints.
He snarled and stood, hefting his chair and hurling it against the far wall where it shattered into kindling. He curled his hands into fists, threw back his head, and shrieked a curse, loudly enough that he could hear disjointed cries of surprise and curiosity from Tarren Mill above.
He wasn’t angry with her. The gods knew he should have been, should have been burning her books and destroying her symbols, maybe even tearing down the church that stood above him, but he wasn’t. The hole that seemed to lurk in his guts, gnawing at his innards and tearing at his mind was born not of anger at her, but anger at himself.
How could he have been so foolish? He had faith, and faith had abandoned him. He had dedicated his unlife to a series of fundamental precepts and ideas, one of the most important of which was, “Forget the past.” She had taught him that to give the past thought was to give the past power, and to deprive the present of its importance. Regret, guilt, doubt… these things were to have been left in the grave. He had been given a new life, and to dwell on the past was to deny the value of this new life.
But he’d heard her sing.
He and Acherontia had been walking through the sewers of the Undercity. She heard it first, a haunting melody that echoed through the stone tunnels. They had followed the song, rushing to the Royal Quarter, and there he had found her, singing. It was mournful, melancholy, regretful. It was beautiful and terrible, and it nearly brought tears even to Melchisedech’s weary eyes.
He had walked away stunned. He had known, of course, that Sylvanus Windrunner had once been a ranger in the military of Silvermoon, a Thalassian elf, before Prince Arthas the Death Knight had slaughtered her people, murdered her, and raised her as a banshee. He had known that she had history, had a past more full of sorrow than any Forsaken he knew.
But she mourned.
“Forget the past,” she’d taught him. Now, he had discovered that she had violated her own rule, that he had given his dedication and devotion to a hypocrite. He was furious with himself. With another shout, he grasped the edge of his bookshelf and toppled it, listening to books fall, bottles smash, candles snap.
Melchisedech had never been uncertain. In his life, he had been a man of self-assurance, egotistical and arrogant, but never uncertain. In his short time as Scourge, he had been mindlessly driven by another’s will, and always knew exactly what he was and what he should do. Even in undeath, as a Forsaken, he had been dedicated and driven, his faith beyond reproach.
Now, all of that had been shattered. He found himself doubting every action, every word. Was he doing the right thing? What was the right thing? WAS there a “right thing”? He agonized over every decision, second-guessed every choice. Whenever he cast a spell, there was a moment’s hesitation. Whenever he leapt into battle, there was doubt.
He could not afford that, not for his survival, not for the survival of those with whom he fought, and not for his sanity. It was driving him mad. He had to do something, and soon, before his indecision cost him something too dear to lose.
He looked around. This place would not help. It was a tomb, now, a grave for his faith in Sylvanus. If he stayed here, he would desiccate and rot. He had to leave, but where to go?
He hefted a backpack, began stuffing his few, meager possessions into the container. When he came to his implements of torture, he stopped, hesitated. His fist clenched. He hurled them away, heaving the scourge last of all. What a fool he had been, and what a fool he had loudly made of himself.
He hefted the backpack and looked around at the mangled carcass of his home. He chuckled softly, then started laughing more loudly. It was not a sound he made often, and it sounded like a catfight overlaid with the sound of glass scraped over slate.
Without a backward look, Melchisedech turned and climbed out of his torn chrysalis.