Melchisedech opened the double-doors set in the ground behind his church in Tarren Mill, grunting with the effort of moving the heavy slabs of oak. The last, dying rays of the sun barely illuminated the murky cellar beneath the house of worship, but the Forsaken did not hesitate. He stepped into the gloom and closed the doors behind him.
Pitch darkness reigned. For long moments, Melchisedech simply stood, bathed in the darkness, shrouded in its comforting embrace. He let his thoughts wander, let the distractions of the day slough off him. He regretted leaving Yichimet’s tale unfinished, but soon that, too, faded. Here, in the darkness, he was nothing but Hers. He could almost imagine Her touch in the shadows, reassuring him. He missed Her.
He shook his head, pushing away such weakness. He was Her servant, Her hand in Azeroth. As much as he enjoyed Her company, Her wisdom said that he could better serve Her by learning, growing in power. If She saw fit to send him away, then away he would go. His discomfort, his desire to feel Her presence was insignificant next to Her will.
He began moving through the dark cellar, moving blindly but surely. He had walked this room many times, and he knew its few obstacles without the use of his eyes. His fingers found the edge of his table, found flint and steel, struck a spark to light a candle. Flickering firelight sprang to life, dimly illuminating the interior of the chamber.
It was ascetic, containing but few items. A table and rickety chair by Melchisedech bore sheets of parchment, bottles of ink, quills, and a writing knife. In the far corner, the priest had created a small shrine to Sylvanus, to which he now moved, lighting the candles on the altar. Along one wall, there stood a bookshelf, covered with yet more candles, musty tomes, and a few bottles of wine. At the base of the opposite wall sat an open casket.
And in the center of the room, dangling by his wrists from bloody, rusty chains hung from a rafter, was a Blood Elf, pale and fair. His clothing was rich but tattered, his left eye swollen shut, and streaks of blood ran down his face and arms. At the appearance of the light, he tried to shrink back within himself.
“Please…”
Melchisedech did not reply, moving instead toward the casket. The elf’s good eye followed the priest warily. The Forsaken plucked a filthy, grime-encrusted shirt from the casket and turned toward the elf.
“Good evening, Shasharren.”
The elf whimpered. Melchisedech slowly and carefully removed his robes, folding them neatly and setting them on the edge of the casket. The shirt was pulled on, the front covered with blood, the back with ichor. The Forsaken retrieved a small, black bag from the casket and carried it to the table.
“It’s time for your confession, Shasharren. I have been patient and, indeed, gentle with you until now, but my patience grows thin.”
“Please… gods, please…” The Blood Elf kicked and thrashed, trying to wrench his bloody, raw wrists from the chains. Tears ran streaks through the grime on his cheeks, and his voice broke as he sobbed. “No more… Light, let me die!”
Melchisedech shook his head as he laid instruments on the table before himself: a cat-o-nine-tails, a pair of tailor’s shears, a rusty dagger, a leather glove covered in small metal hooks, a bar of cold wrought iron. “The Light cannot hear you here. I know yours is not true faith. I have heard rumors of what your kind has done to gain its power. I applaud you, really. It shows both strength and cunning. But I will not abide your blasphemy in my church.”
Melchisedech lifted the cat, examining the leather floggers capped with small, jagged, metal squares. “I was once one of the Scourge. Did you know that?” The priest ignored his captive’s struggles and moans. “Scourge. What a terrible name for them. You see, to the unenlightened, a scourge is only agony. It is pain, it is torment.” Melchisedech walked behind the elf, who struggled all the more. “But to those who can see, to those who know Truth, it is freedom from weakness.”
With all his might, Melchisedech lashed the cat across the elf’s back, tearing ragged strips of cloth and flesh from the pale skin, and sending droplets of blood dancing through the air. The elf released a high wail and sagged in his chains.
“With each stroke of the scourge, weakness leaves the body.” A second lash drew forth another wail, and wracking sobs. “With each stroke of the scourge, we banish distractions.” A third stroke elicited a scream that sounded ragged, like the elf’s throat was tearing itself apart. “With each stroke of the scourge, we are reminded of the Dark Lady.”
“PLEASE!” The elf sobbed, shaking his head, blood and sweat matting his long, golden hair to his face. “You don’t know how much this hurts!”
Melchisedech laughed, moving around in front of his captive. “No?” Letting the scourge fall to the floor, he removed his filthy shirt and turned his back to the elf. Shasharren’s eyes widened at the strips of dead, necrotic flesh that hung from the priest’s back, at the exposed bone and scarred skin. “I flay myself daily, elf. I flay myself to punish myself for my indiscretions and weaknesses toward Her. THAT is faith.”
“That is madness!”
Melchisedech turned, his eyes hard and cold. “Madness?” He replaced his shirt, recovering the scourge and returning to the table. “Madness.” He lifted the tailor’s shears, opening and closing them twice, letting the sound of the metal scraping against metal chill the elf’s blood. “Madness is refusing to accept the Truth when it is so plainly laid before you.
“We have moved beyond confession, now.” Melchisedech turned, walking toward the elf. “This will be our last session, I am afraid. I have other parishioners who require my ‘attention,’ and you have proven intractable. Now, I have only the hope of saving your soul before I send it on.”
The elf began sobbing again as the priest drew closer. “Unfortunately for you, to save your soul, I am going to hurt your body. I am going to give you pain. I am going to hurt you until you do not know who or where you are. I am going to strip you of comfort, of dignity, even of identity. Then, when you have fallen as far as you possibly can, I am going to send you to Her, and She will remake you as She sees fit.”
As Melchisedech began cutting, the elf began screaming.
Hours later, Melchisedech stood, soaked in blood, gnawing idly on one of the elf’s fingers while he thought. The elf was still alive. Melchisedech had severed digits, broken bones, cut off patches of skin and chunks of flesh. Melchisedech had consumed blood by the cup. He had seared wounds closed with heated iron, and then reopened them with a rusty knife. Still, the elf lived.
Lived, but did not think. Gibbering uselessness spilled from his lips, fell with strings of drool onto his bloody chest. He hung limply, now, and did not respond to pain or speech or cold water. Occasionally, he shrieked, but it had no bearing on what Melchisedech did.
Perfect.
The elf was purified. No thoughts of the Light or the Blood Knights or his people would hamper him. No selfish concerns of safety or comfort or survival would distract him from service when and if She saw fit to reanimate him. Only one thing remained.
Melchisedech returned to the table, spitting out the bones of the elf’s finger. He lifted the barbed glove almost reverently, sliding it onto his bony hand and buckling it around his wrist.
“Lady Sylvanus, Banshee Queen of the Forsaken, I beg you to hear me. I dedicate this sacrifice to you, not for my own aggrandizement, but that he may serve you in death as he would not in life.” The priest walked toward the lunatic. “I hope only that his death serves you and your goals, that my life has not been wasted in ill service. Dark Lady, we ask that you continue to shelter us, continue to teach us, continue to guide us. In your shadow, we thrive. So shall it ever be.”
With that, he grasped the Blood Elf’s throat, turned his wrist a bit to ensure that the hooks caught in his flesh, and tore. Blood gouted from the ruins of the elf’s neck, and he made a gurgling, wheezing noise. His head fell back, and his lips curled up. His body shook, and a stain spread on the front of what remained of his breeches.
Melchisedech smiled. He would take the corpse to Sylvanus immediately.