Melchisedech sat back, blinking eyes that should not have felt strain. Closing his thick tome, he glanced around, watching the denizens of Undercity scurry about their lives, some of them little more than husks, while others were active; soldiers, wizards, inventors, alchemists. Some days, Melchisedech wondered which he was.
For the last week, he had spent much of his time secluded, researching elusive societies and species that may no longer exist, may never have existed. The only evidence the priest had that these "Pandaren" even existed were a few scattered accounts of drunkards who claimed they were noble, disciplined, and excellent brewmasters.
Melchisedech pushed away from his reading desk and snuffed out his candle, hefting his most recent tome beneath his arm. He stepped out of the "library" in the Magic Quarter, moving back toward the wagon he shared with Acherontia. As he walked, he listened to the hollow echoes his feet made as they slapped against the cold, stone floor.
What was he seeking?
He stood before the crowd, listening to their cheers as the sound reverberated through the Royal Auditorium, amplified by the acoustics of the performing arena. He bowed, deeply, enjoying the feel of roses thrown from the crowd as the soft petals fell all around him, stroking his arms, his back, his face. They loved him.
He basked in their adoration. This was his day. Every king of Lordaeron gave his favorite artisan, the most worthy, the Crown of Glory. It was an honor given once in each king's reign. It was generally given once in a lifetime, and it meant an end to competition. Forevermore, the recipient would lounge in luxury and indolence. Their name would be carved into history. They would be immortalized.
Today, he was to receive the Crown of Glory. He had already been named the recipient of the prestigious prize. He stood in the center of the Royal Auditorium, and the echoes of his last, haunting song were drowned out by the cries of his audience, the cheers, and the sobs from those who feared he would never sing again. He had performed once more for King Terenas, and so the ceremony was nearly complete.
He climbed the steps toward the King's throne, moved to the Auditorium for this, his last performance. His cloth-of-gold robes draped from his exquisite physique as his sandaled feet scraped against the stone steps. When he reached the top, he lowered to one knee before the king, letting his head fall forward.
He barely heard the words the king spoke, praising him for his skill, his ability, and his music. He impatiently listened as the king spoke of mourning the loss of such skill, and yet wanting to reward the music and emotion that skill had created. It took all his will not to simply grab the Crown from the king.
"I do not need my praises sung, fool," he thought to himself. "I've sung them myself many times!"
Eventually, however, the long-winded ceremony came to an end, and he stood beside the king, looking out over the cheering crowd, with the weight of the Crown of Glory resting on his platinum hair. He felt full. He looked at King Terenas, and it was all he could do to keep from laughing in his face.
"You may rule them, old man," he thought, "But they love me."
"They love me."
Melchisedech shook himself, coming back to the present. He looked around, wondering where his feet had taken him. He stood in the courtyard of Lordaeron, near the few grave markers that had been raised for the lucky minority who had died and stayed dead. In the fading sunlight, never very strong here in Tirisfal, a glint of gold in the dirt caught the priest's eye.
Melchisedech knelt, ignoring the dirt on his robes, and began scraping at the ground. As more and more of the gleaming object was uncovered, the Forsaken began laughing, then harder as he plucked the bent, broken, golden circlet from its moldy tomb.
The Crown of Glory.
He sat down in front of one of the graves, turning the ornament over and over in his hands. He read along the inside, barely legible, the engraving, "By the order of King Terenas Menethil, let no man forget Andar Cotter, or the joy his craft has given Lordaeron." In clawed, skeletal hands, Melchisedech clutched the crown.
Once, he had been loved. Entire nations had crowded into unsafe, unsanitary quarters to catch a glimpse of his radiance, to hear one note that would forever change their lives. Once, he had stood beside kings. Once, he had been the envy of the entire civilized world.
Now, what was he? Broken. Ragged. Rotting. Melchisedech was little more than a beggar. He had no faith, no fame, no future. He was despised by most, hunted by many, and loved by none. He was viciously alone.
Or was he? Melchisedech looked at the tabard he wore, absently brushed filth from the red skull of the Grim. He was not truly alone. He had those who would fight and die at his side, who would fight and die for him, and he for them. He had friends, if but few, and he was a part of something greater than himself.
He thought about Acherontia. She was so different from the women he had known in life. She did not swoon over him… and why should she? He was hideous. He smiled at himself. No, she did not swoon, but she did stay with him. They spent nearly all their time together. They both shared as little as possible, and both desperately tried to give only what they had to in order to keep the other nearby.
Melchisedech ran his fingers over the writing inside the Crown. He had wanted immortality. He had wanted to be loved. He thought he'd had them both. Now, no one remembered him. Oh, maybe someone, somewhere wondered what had happened to the famous singer, but most of his fans were dead or undead. Those that were neither barely remembered him. Their "love" for him had been fleeting, and his immortality had been anything but.
The priest stood, holding the Crown gingerly. He could see, now, that he had never held what he had wanted. His fame and fortune had been shallow. Any love he had felt was nothing more than fleeting infatuation. All the money, all the glory, all the women he had ever possessed meant nothing, because there was nothing real behind it. He had been an actor, and he had fooled everyone, including himself, into thinking he had a perfect life.
Melchisedech walked to the edge of the glowing green moat in Lordaeron's courtyard. He lifted the Crown of Glory once more, taking a last look at the award given once in a king's reign, the last Crown of Glory ever to be given. Lordaeron was gone. Undercity stood in its place, and the Forsaken its people. Andar Cotter was dead. He died a coward's death.
With a flick of his wrist, Melchisedech sent the Crown of Glory spinning into the green ichor. It landed with a thick splash, sank almost grudgingly out of sight. Smiling, the Forsaken returned to the Undercity, walking toward the wagon he shared with Acherontia.