I'll Keep Coming

### Chapter One: Newborn

As recently as some twenty-odd years ago, the Nightbinders of Silvermoon lived together in the elven capital in relative peace. A people of high nobility and importance, disputes between the two main branches of the family were not uncommon. Despite this, the heir of the first branch remained close friends with his cousin, the heiress of the second. Lothrin and Syralda were of similar age and spent much of their childhoods together. Lothrin doted on Syralda’s four sons and shared her excitement for the birth of her fifth child, while Syralda would spoil Lothrin’s five-year-old daughter Eony absolutely rotten.

   “With any luck, number five will be a sweet little girl,” Syralda would say, patting her bump fondly. “I’ve been praying for a daughter since my first child, you know.”

Lothrin did know. Syralda yearned for a daughter of her own, and would talk fondly of her dreams of passing heirloom frocks and jewels down to her. She would brush the girl’s hair until it shone and teach her all she should know of noble etiquette. Much of these tasks could be accomplished with Syralda’s eldest son, Aldoriel, who had probably never worn a pair of trousers in his life. Aldoriel was astonishingly beautiful, and sheathed his ethereal body in gowns of fine silk and gossamer. His hair was worn in intricate braids, which he would recruit Syralda’s help to tie. Though she was overjoyed to help her son in all the tasks she herself enjoyed so greatly, secretly her desire for a daughter lived on.

Lothrin went to visit Syralda one sun-dappled afternoon, as he regularly would now her baby could be born any day now. The Nightbinder estate included manors all over the city, but Lothrin was quite content to walk. Eony had wanted to come with him, but stayed at home with her mother to practice for an upcoming magic exam with her tutors. The Nightbinders were gifted mages, and Lothrin and his wife would ensure Eony would be no different.

Syralda’s front door was ajar when Lothrin reached it-- the first sign that something was wrong. The second was the hushed sobbing from within, and the third the acrid,ripe stench of blood that assaulted Lothrin’s senses. He instinctively funnelled his magic to his palms, heart thumping in his chest with worry for his cousin. He contemplated calling for her, but decided it could put her in even more danger than she was likely in. He crept closer to the source of the crying in perfect silence, stilling the anxious breathes that begged to be drawn. Through a crack in a door further within the house he could see Syralda; on her knees in a puddle of blood, her skin and nightdress stained red. Tears streamed down her face, clumps of black hair sticking to the damp skin. The bump in her stomach was gone.

In the corner, Lothrin spied the figure of someone else-- standing with their back turned to him, looking down at Syralda. From the way his arms were held Lothrin assumed this person was carrying Syralda’s newborn, though it was hard to tell from his vantage point.

   “Please,” Syralda wept, her voice strained. “Please-- give him back. Don’t hurt him!”

The stranger hummed in thought, his torso shifting as he now rocked the baby in his arms. Faintly, Lothrin heard it whine.

   “Those are two separate requests, Lady Nightbinder,” he said. “Don’t be greedy.”

Syralda made a noise of despair and tried to get to her feet. She slipped in her blood and landed painfully, earning an unkind laugh from the man.

He tutted. “Careful now. You’ve just given birth-- I wouldn’t be moving so much if I were you.”

Syralda ignored him, fighting with everything she had to try again. Her knees gave out as she rose. It was a pitiful, tragic sight, and one Lothrin could not bear to watch for a moment longer.

He charged through to the room, an arcane shield weaving around Syralda. He stood to face her tormenter-- a dark-haired human, with cruel, sharp features. Cradled expertly in his arms was a tiny, writhing newborn, still red and bloody.

The human tilted his head at Lothrin, bemused. “Well, this is unexpected. I’d have preferred not to be interrupted.”

He shifted Syralda’s baby to hold in one arm, and coiled his free hand into a series of elaborate gestures. The foul stink of death pierced the room, and Lothrin felt his strength wane. His muscled loosened and his shoulders sagged. The arcane potential crackling at his fingertips was snuffed out. His head clouded with indescribable fatigue. What was this human doing to him?

   “Nn... necro...mancer...,” Lothrin spat, though his speech slurred.

The human laughed. “How observant of you, Lord Nightbinder. Though I’d prefer not to be addressed by my profession alone. My name is Valder Sweeney. You’d do well to remember it. Once the Lich King controls this world, I’d expect you’ll be hearing quite a lot of me.”

Lothrin thudded to his knees and swayed as Valder sapped more of the life from him. Syralda pleaded with him still, her cries falling on deaf ears.

And then, the baby began to cry too.

It made weak sniffles first, but they soon strengthened to a wail. Valder grimaced at the child, disgusted. “Hush, boy! Flaunting the health of your lungs will only tempt me to remove them!”

The child screamed harder, wriggling in the necromancer’s grasp. A thoughtful look replaced Valder’s furious one, and he smiled across at a distraught Syralda.

   “I have a fun idea,” he said, his voice turned eerily soft. “You’ll have a choice. You can choose which life I take today-- your cousin’s, or your son’s.”

Syralda went as white as a sheet. She shook her head, watching Valder with large, incredulous eyes. “No... Valder, no... you can’t do that! Please!”

Valder chuckled and dropped the hand that drained Lothrin, though none of his energy was restored. At this point, the nobleman was only dimly aware of what was happening. Valder fished about in the pocket of his dark robes to retrieve a small, silver knife. He held it out for Syralda to see, and she shrieked and tried to snatch it from him, slicing her hand open in the process. Valder’s laughter grew, and he took half a step forward and kicked her in the chest, sending her sprawling on the floor.

   “Keep your hands to yourself, woman!” he snarled. He flourished the blade in his hand, only to dangle it horribly close to the baby’s tiny head. “Infant skulls are so fragile and easy to puncture. Shall I demonstrate?”

Syralda screamed incomprehensibly, barely able to breathe through her harrowed sobs. “NO! Don’t hurt him! Don’t!”

Even through Lothrin’s magic-addled mind, he could feel his cousin’s anguish. He could not imagine the agony she must feel right now, with the threat of her newborn’s life hanging in the hands of this abominable man. What if he were in her place? What if the life Valder toyed with was Eony’s?

There would really be no choice in that. Lothrin loved Syralda dearly, but against the life of his child... she would understand if it came to that.

And so, Lothrin forced his sluggish body forward, yanking Valder’s robes hard enough to make him teeter off-balance for a moment. The necromancer made a sound of surprise, looking down at Lothrin quizzically. “Hm? Is there something you want to say, Lord Nightbinder?”

   “Kill me,” Lothrin said. There was no need for hesitation. “Leave the child be. Just... kill me instead.”

Valder laughed again and grabbed Lothrin’s head, twisting it around so he faced Syralda. “Do you see that, Lady Nightbinder?” he taunted. “He’s willing to throw his life away for our darling son!”

Syralda’s tear-filled eyes fixed on Lothrin’s. Within were a myriad of emotions-- terror, guilt, misery-- and gratitude. She sniffed, mouth agape as she struggled to find words. “L-Lothrin... thank y--”

Valder cut Lothrin’s throat before Syralda could finish, her last words to him swallowed by a wail of grief. Lothrin gurgled, feeling pain in his throat and a dizziness that threatened to consume him. Black spots danced in his vision, obscuring Syralda’s crying form. He could hear Valder tittering in amusement, just barely audible over the bawling child.

As the world faded to black, Lothrin found himself wondering how Eony would score on her magic test.

### Chapter Two: Undeath

Lothrin must have been asleep for days by now. It was dreamless sleep, yet warm and inviting. He had long struggled with insomnia-- in part due to his wife’s tendency to fidget-- so this unusually comfortable slumber was a rare treat indeed.

He felt warm, and safe, and whole. Though there was the strangest draft seeping in from-- *somewhere*. Perhaps a servant had cracked a window open to air the room.

The cold only grew, though, until it quickly became too much to bear. Lothrin was freezing-- dying, even! Something gripped him by the neck and hauled hard-- a choking grip, he couldn’t breathe-- there was metal in his mouth, thick liquid-- *choking*--

Lothrin coughed violently and dragged his eyes open. The cold dark of a saronite ceiling came into view, riveted with ghoulish skulls and gruesome carvings. *Where...?*

   “Rise and shine, Lord Nightbinder,” came a voice. An unfortunately all too familiar voice.

Lothrin’s blood would have chilled if it could. He jerked his head aside to look to Valder, though instantly regretted the move. The gash in his throat tugged painfully. He covered it with a hand, feeling shoddy needlework holding the flesh together. His hand felt cold on the skin. The skin felt cold on the hand.

A grim realisation began to dawn to him.

Valder crouched over him, a nasty grin twisting his thin lips. “Did I cut too deep? Hm, pity you’ll just have to get used to the pain, then. Now, on your feet. There is work to be done.”

Under no circumstances did Lothrin want to do anything this foul man told him-- and yet his body moved to fulfil his command all the same. He picked himself off the floor and stood. He glanced down at himself, finding his nobleman’s finery replaced with a filthy linen tunic.

Valder seemed to notice the glance, nodding at the threadbare garment. “Oh, that won’t be final. The Blood Queen will choose you something much nicer once I’m done with you.”

   “...Blood... Queen...?” Lothrin rasped, surprising himself with his changed voice. It was weak and ragged now. It hurt terribly to talk.

   “Yes, the Blood Queen,” Valder replied. “We have some great plans for you, Lothrin. I’m sure you’ll come around to them. In the meantime, let me take you to your new home.”

It wasn’t as if Lothrin had any choice in the matter. His body followed the necromancer like a beast on a chain.

By “new home”, Valder had actually meant a squalid little cell that reeked of death and decay. Lothrin was shoved inside inelegantly, the doors locked behind him. Valder had given him a little wave and left then, only to turn up sporadically for the next few weeks.

It was around the fourth week that Lothrin became aware of his hunger.

He was fed just fine, though the food was just barely potable. But this was a different hunger-- deep in the pit of his very being. It gnawed at him, making him ache, unable to think of anything else. But how was he to satisfy it?

He realised the answer the day Valder brought him a *real*meal.

She was a human-- just barely out of her teens. She was thin and pale, bruised and cut from whatever horrific treatment she endured at the hands of her Scourge captors. For they were Scourge-- Lothrin had come to learn that he now resided in Icecrown Citadel.

Valder had unlocked his cage and shoved the poor girl in, where she shivered and begged in a corner to be let out. She looked at Lothrin with terror and disgust, shrinking against the wall when he tried to speak with her.

   “M-Monster!” she cried, pressing herself further into the grimy walls of the prison. “Don’t come near me!”

Lothrin looked at her helplessly, clearing his throat in a fruitless effort to smooth his hoarse voice. “I’m not a monster-- I’m an elf-- I won’t hurt you, I--”

His stomach growled painfully, and he doubled over with a groan. The girl frowned at him, though more with confusion than anger.

   “Are... are you alright? Are they starving you?”

Lothrin grunted and hugged his knees to his chest, shaking his head. “N-No, I just...hm?”

He’d caught the scent of something. Something sweet and warm and rich. A meal! How delectable it smelled-- but where was it? Where was it coming from?

He sniffed the air, earning a more disdainful look from the girl. She sat up-- such a tiny mistake that would cost her everything.

Beneath the rags her captors had clothed her in, a cut on her chest bled. Fresh blood blossomed through the grey fabric like the unfurling petals of a rose. It was mesmerising-- *maddening*. The smell!

Lothrin’s stomach growled with urgency. His mouth watered, and he felt his teeth poke painfully into his bottom lip.

The girl seemed to guess what was about to happen. She sprung to her feet and ran to the cage, rattling the bars and screaming for help.

She never stood a chance. Valder returned and watched with interest as Lothrin tore her apart, desperately scooping handfuls of her blood into his mouth and snarling like a mindless beast.

It took some time for Lothrin to fully understand what he had done. Valder had come to speak with him, lounging contentedly against the rusted bars of the cell.

   “It’s all Syralda’s fault, you know,” Valder said, nodding to the dark stain in the dirt that had once been a person. “That girl’s blood is on her hands-- not yours. She could have stepped in and given her child up. But I think you’ll soon learn she’d do *anything*for her children.”

   “Like any good parent,” Lothrin had snapped back, earning him a sigh from the necromancer.

Valder shook his head at Lothrin with what seemed like pity. “Oh, you poor, deluded thing. But not to worry-- you’ll understand soon enough.”

### Chapter Three: Break

After that, Valder starved Lothrin again. He brought no food, water or blood for what felt like an eternity. Lothrin was brought lower than ever before-- resorting to begging to be fed, bargaining-- even screaming threats at his captors. But they would not relent. At irregular intervals, Valder would come to stand outside his cell and just watch Lothrin rage, and later, when his energy was truly depleted, he’d watch him languish, weak and starved and unable to move or communicate.

Lothrin was sure he was going to die. It was the only thing he knew other than his hunger. But he welcomed it-- and had on occasion begged for it too. He was a cursed being now-- he knew that. He had no place among the living. It was hard to think about for long, though. The hunger was simply too great.

And then, one day, Valder came to feed him again.

   “You’ll be just thrilled, Lothrin,” Valder chirped, merrily jingling his keys. “My apologies for the delay in finding you another meal-- have you been holding up well?”

Lothrin answered with a feral screech. He leaned as far through the bars of the cell as he could, his eyes red and unfocused, saliva dripping from his chin. He could smell the blood from here. So warm! So tasty! He needed it *now*.

Valder chuckled at his response. “Did you hear that, men? Someone bring Lord Nightbinder his dinner, at once!”

Cloaked Scourge members marched into view, shoving a small figure before them. There was a rough, tattered bag over their head. The small person was thrust before Valder, trembling terribly. The necromancer placed his hands on their little shoulders, a dark chuckle rumbling in his chest.

   “Oh, Lothrin, you’ll like this. Syralda chose this herself.”

He lifted the bag off, and Lothrin found himself looking into the terrified eyes of his daughter.

Rationality screamed in the annals of his brain-- Eony! That was Eony! The damned Scourge had got her, he had to do something, got to---

--Overcome the hunger first, probably. And that would not be an easy task.

Lothrin cried in outrage, glowering at Valder. “You-- no! No! Let her go-- let her go right now, I’ll tear you to pieces! Bastard!”

   “My, such foul language, right in front of this darling little girl,” Valder tutted, tucking one of Eony’s dark curls behind her ear. Tears dripped from her face. Lothrin couldn’t stand the horror in her eyes as she looked at him.

   “As I was saying, you have Syralda to thank for this,” Valder continued. “You see, I thought I’d pay her another visit-- with another offer. You needed a meal. She had the choice to volunteer one of her children, or I would take yours.” He smirked. “I suppose I don’t need to tell you how her decision went, do I?”

Lothrin howled in fury, shaking the bars of his cage with all the strength he had-- which was next to nothing, so badly had Valder starved him. He devolved into sobs, sinking to the floor and holding his head in his hands.

   “Let her go, damn you!” he wailed. “Let her go home! You can’t do this to her!”

Valder shrugged, his smile still in place. “But Syralda can.”

His blade twinkled, digging a long cut into Eony’s arm. She cried out in pain and tried to run from him, only to be bundled up by one of his men. Kicking and screaming, they unlocked Lothrin’s cage and threw her inside, Valder suppressing Lothrin with magic as a precaution. He lifted the spells once the cell was once again locked.

Lothrin’s senses were on fire. There was blood-- blood, right here! So fresh-- he so badly needed to feed--

--But Eony-- his little girl, he couldn’t---

--The cut. Blood pulsed from it, dripping to the floor. Lothrin could hear it flow through her little body. So much of it. A feast-- a *feast!!*

Eony sobbed, squeezing her eyes shut and turning away from her father. She couldn’t bear to look at him like this, trembling and grunting, slavering at the maw like a wild animal. This creature before her wasn’t her loving, embarrassing dad anymore.

...

Perhaps it was better that Eony came to that conclusion when she did.

--

It was rare that Lothrin remembered his meals, but this one haunted his every waking moment. Once he returned to his senses, the guilt crushed him completely. He could not even bring himself to cry for her for what he had done-- he truly was a monster of the most unforgivable degree. To cry for Eony with his cursed tears would be to disgrace her.

Lothrin fell into line with the Scourge easily after that. There was simply no fight left in him. When he needed to eat, he fed, and did not think about it. His rare acts of rebellion were punished harshly enough to quash any bubbling hope that might grow with time. Valder had Eony’s body preserved, and if Lothrin was too poorly behaved, he would imbue it with necromantic energies and make her march through the Citadel.

It was hard to feel things anymore. Lothrin was more or less limited to anger, guilt, hunger... and an undying rage against Syralda for choosing his only child to be sacrificed. It pained him to admit it, but perhaps Valder was right-- Syralda truly would do anything for her children. Even kill her niece. The hatred, if nothing else, gave him some relief from the constant weight of his sins.

 And so, Lothrin served the Lich King unquestioningly, fervently, and begged for the day Azeroth’s forces would come to wipe them all from the face of the planet.