When James William Lemar opened his eyes, the azure arcane lamps of his chamber in the city of Dalaran did not shine upon him, nor did golden sunlight greet him. The grey and violet walls of polished stone were absent around his person, as was the desk stacked with tomes and notes of magical mysteries on which he so often tended to succumb to slumber, the former night being no exception. Absent was Evander's excitable knocking on the wall, or Percy's eager voice calling him for the day's first meal.
He knew that place, though he very much wished he did not.
Ashen hills of solid rock rose around him, the dust clinging on them unmoving given the absence of the wind in the charged atmosphere. Two tattered tents rose in the dreadful clearing, far from the reach of naked branches of coal trees that menacingly spread their sharp edges towards the outsider. Papers were scattered over the camp, the frantic scribblings repeating the one very sentence which James had struggled to forget, yet never could.
But it was all trivial compared to the sight of the two corpses thrown at his feet.
They were just as he had remembered them, images haunting his nightmares more than the actual men when they had been alive. Stalwart soldiers both, yet now they were bathing in their own blood, only somewhat dried and darkened just as they had so long ago. Sir Eric Dwyght, the dark-haired Crusader with the eyepatch and Aldred Clauder, the pleasant blond with a love for ale. Yet here it stood, the reminder of their demise, of two noble lives reaching a tragic end.
They had not perished there of course, not truly. As James painfully averted his gaze from their corpses, he remembered. None of that was real. Not the barren world, or the camp overlooking a false tower of Karazhan, not the perpetual stillness of this fake Deadwind Pass that so very well mimicked the actual one. How long had it been since the Legion's invasion, when the unsuspected cultists led by Lurthius Marrowgrave had summoned the Faceless One and trapped the three companions in this vision? How long had it been since death in this false world had proven to be the only path to the real one?
How long had it been since madness overtook James' two companions upon reaching reality, making them question what was true and what a fabrication, leading them to ending their own lives?
He could not face this, not again. The scent of metal in the blood of the two men felt nauseating, all too real to ignore. Yet as much as he averted his gaze, the image of their ravaged bodies was still etched in his mind - had it ever truly left him?
The scribblings, ravings of a madman fluttered before him, shaken by no current. The air remained awfully still, heavy with the stench of dust. One of the papers danced before the young Kirin Tor arcanist, who cought it in his empty fist. He knew those words, of course. They had been written by his hand.
You must kill the centre of their world.
A shiver shook his body. Oh, how he wished to crush that page, throw it off the cliff, or perhaps even burn it in his grasp, but he could not. As if a cloud of despair was hanging above him, numbening him completely, all the young man could do was stare at the words which had once promised salvation, but had only resulted in damnation.
"Why now?" he whispered. "Why now?"
It felt as if he knew the answer, but the knowledge had blurred. Something was happening in the true world, his world... No. A world. Something concerning, something he had been made aware of, something he needed to remember. Yet with every beath taken in this false world, memory was drifting further out of reach.
But was this world truly false?
Oblivion blanketed James gently, tenderly. The numbness he felt was not without a touch of sorrow, crippling despair. He could not turn away from the corpses, not for long. They were his sin and guilt for having analyzed the whispers, for having survived the madness of this land, for having survived. How fitting his punishment was. Perhaps the real world had been nothing but a vision. Perhaps this torment was the actual truth, the land in which his advice had led his companions to demise.
The young Lemar's lips spasmed, but the apology he so desired to be free of never echoed in the glade. He simply stared at the wounds which had shredded their chests, their faces, the blood pooling from the hollow forms. No, he had no right to forget. He never could.
How long had he been standing there, staring, trembling? It was not without courage that he eventually turned around, his breath heavy, nearing a sob. But even that seemed impossible at the moment. A terrible passivity was webbed within him. The arcanist's bright gaze rose, seeking the haunting figure of the Last Guardian's residence, as if hoping the mysteries locked within to give him an answer.
Something heavy fell on his shoulder. Metallic. Dull and painful.
A deep, coarse breath was drawn awfully near his ear. The man shuddered.
"You know what you must do now, don't you, young Lemar?"
In the years since his death, James had not forgotten Sir Eric's voice, a deep baritone fitting his stoic personality. Yet never before had it been so twisted, ravaged, wrong. The stench of rot encompassed the young Kirin Tor. He turned to look behind his shoulder slowly, daring to catch but a glimpse.
The Crusader had neither miraculously returned in a shower of the holy Light which had once served him, nor had torn through an illusion to claim his demise false. Death was clinging on every part of his existence, even if decomposition had not yet begun. The blood was still wet on his form, the brutal wounds of knife and sword ever present and leaking.
"You can do it, lad." an equally dreadful, yet lighter voice followed that of the Crusader. James did not dare to turn in order to see what had become of Aldred. He felt the second soldier looming over him, so close that he could feel the cold plate of his armour against his arm.
"You must kill the centre of your world." Sir Eric's voice was heard again, as if seeking to remind him of something long lost, forgotten. Something heinous.
"End it." Aldred added, the two voices interchanging. "You have done it before. Like we did."
"The pact, James. The pact must be completed."
They were right, of course. How could they not be? Whispers of their damning voices persisted in his ears as his two risen companions haunted him. Death was the way. Had it not been last time in order to escape the shadow's illusion? Was this not the right thing? The pact, the pact.
Did he not owe it to them? To die?
Trembling hands rose in front of his chest, a small distance preserved. It should have perhaps surprised the arcanist how azure motes of arcane coalesced around his grasp - casting had not been possible before. That was but a mere tickle in his mind, the echo of a concern never heard. The ancient power fused into the conjuration of a dagger, masterfully formed and decorated with sanguine rubies. How fitting.
He thrust it backwards, staring at it. The two men, risen from their bloodbath, coated in the stench of death, did not leave him. They never would.
"Do it, lad." Aldred commanded.
"The pact must be honoured." Sir Eric demanded.
"You owe it to us."
"Death is in your hands."
"The deal has been made."
"You were never meant to survive."
"You must kill the centre of their world."
"Kill the centre of your world."
"James."
"Do it."
"James!"
"Finish this!"
"James!"
Something struck his hand, forcing the dagger out of his grip. It fell on polished stone floor with a loud clank, its fine blade reflecting the azure light of arcane lamps.
The reflection of the camp in the Deadwind Pass was gone. The walls of the young man's chamber in Dalaran embraced him, while the rays of the morning sun leaked onto his desk, where he had fallen asleep the previous night. Papers recounting complex of abjuration stared at him, bereft of scribblings and the heinous sentence that would never give him peace.
James turned in alarm, blinking his blue eyes. It was not the bloodied faces of Sir Eric and Aldred which he found beside him, but the concerned expressions of Evander Johnson and Percival Foster, the apprentices that Master Maharis had thrust upon him after abandoning the Kirin Tor for the sake of the Alliance. His good friends.
The two teenagers stood mortified, eyes wide. What had happened? What had they seen? Their mentor and friend holding a dagger in front of his chest, aiming to do what with it? What would they think?
He wanted to speak reassuring words to the two teenagers, assure them that it was all well. It had been but a dream, it had to be. But it was not. Just as James' lips parted, his body spasmed. Dread came in waves as the memory of the two risen men manifested in his mind, the men who had surrendered to madness, the men that had died, just as he should have.
James lowered his head on the desk, embracing it, covering his face. Sobs shook him, but he did not care. It did not matter.
"Percy," Evander's voice echoed in the tension. "It is happening. Go get Master Rowlis, go now!"
The heavy steps of the chubby apprentice barely reached James as Percy ran out of the room. Evander's arms may have encompassed him in support - he could not tell. Nor could he clearly hear his voice, understand all that was said as he lingered so deep into grief.
And if there was somewhere inside him a voice remembering what had long lost been forgotten, of the malicious influence spreading across this world, he did not want to listen. For all James William Lemar knew was that this nightmare born in the hands of Lurthius Marrowgrave, that vision he had given birth to, would never cease to haunt him.
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