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It had been a week since the Battle of Light’s Hope Chapel. The death knights under the command of Highlord Darion Mograine -- now calling themselves the Knights of the Ebon Blade -- had fully taken control of the Acherus and were now planning their next move. The Lich King was still out there, and they knew he would be rebuilding his forces; the vast majority of his knights had defected at the battle and would need to be replaced before any major assaults could begin. That bought them some much needed time, but they understood it wouldn’t be long before Arthas had a new army of undead warriors to fight for him. But that wasn’t the Ebon Blade’s only problem. A good portion of the knights were still in a state of shock and despair over what they’d done, and what had been done to them. This, plus the knowledge that they needed to kill, was too much for some of them, especially those who’d previously devoted their lives to healing. Telling them the urge could be sated by killing mindless undead or even wild game for their kitchens did little to console them.
The former priests and paladins were having the hardest time coping. No longer able to sense the Light, they felt abandoned by their old source of power and comfort; or even worse, that they had abandoned it. //Not even the draenei could still feel the Light, and that was something natural to their race,// Darion thought morosely, as the debate around him continued. But the blood elf – or had she been a high elf? – currently speaking had just made a good point.
“Just because you can’t feel it doesn’t mean it’s not there,” she’d said. At some of the looks she received, she elaborated. “Cyrrani healed me two days ago when I was hurt on patrol. She used the Gift of the Naaru to close my wound, and that ability is based on the Light.” This quieted the room, as the assembled knights considered the implications of what the elf was saying. “She, a death knight, successfully used it to help me, another death knight. If the Light had truly abandoned us, she couldn’t have used it and it wouldn’t have helped me, now would it?”
Darion couldn’t argue with that. None of them could.
“But we are still undead,” an anguished voice from the other side of the room proclaimed. “And all those terrible things we did…how do we get over that? What can we do now that could possibly make up for it all?”
Darion rose to his feet. “Listen to me,” he said, gazing out over the room filled with the refugees of the Scourge. He felt something stir inside him. “I know that some of us have been nearly paralyzed by the realization of what we’ve done. Coming back to the waking world and out of Arthas’s control was a shock to us all.” He swallowed hard. “We all remember what we did. But we must also remember we had no control. No free will of our own.” He paused, knowing the likely response to his next statement. “Like the orcs, after they drank the blood of Mannoroth on Draenor.”
There was muttering and consternation then. More than one orcish death knight had, after coming back to their senses, committed suicide over the horror and perceived dishonor of having been enslaved to another’s will twice in their lifetime.
One of the still-present orcs cleared his throat. “I was a shaman,” he said solemnly. “Or at least I used to be, before I died. I was too young to have fought in the last war, but I remember how our elders spoke about that time. It was like a madness had set in, they always said.”
A few of the other orcs there nodded in agreement. “Those were dark times.”
“But your people got through it,” said Darion, knowing the necessity of pointing this out to some of the other races there. “Because you knew what had been done during that time was the result of an outside influence.”
A draenei spoke then, the same one who’d healed the elf during their patrol. “That made it easier to forgive them,” she said softly. “Once we learned what the Burning Legion and Kil’jaeden had done to them.”
“The worgen too,” added a human with a strong Gilnean accent. “Those who were overcome by the curse weren’t in control of their actions. We never held it against them after they were treated. It wasn’t their fault.”
There was more murmuring, and Darion felt the tide of the assembled knights turning. “We won’t forget what happened,” he stated. “We can’t. But we can see to it that nothing like it ever happens again.” He smiled grimly. “We were forged into weapons of immeasurable power. And now we will use that power against Arthas.”
“We’re strong now…stronger than we ever were,” said another knight. “We may have gotten that strength in a terrible way, but it’s ours now, and we’re the ones who’ll determine how it’s used. Not the Lich King.”
“And we’re stronger together,” Darion continued. “Working consciously towards a new goal, all of us, of our own free will, alongside both the Alliance and the Horde. We’ve proven it can be done -- that races formerly hostile towards one another can put aside their differences and move forward.” He looked around the room. “Is anyone opposed?”
There were words and nods of varying degrees of assent, but no one disagreed. The general feeling was that any enmity from the past paled in comparison to the struggle ahead of them, and nobody there wanted to believe the peace they’d had between each other before couldn’t be maintained by themselves as conscious individuals. “The one and only good thing that came from the Scourge,” a night elf mused, his voice tinged with dark humor. “Who would have thought?”
“I have to say, here and now, that I am honored to know each and every one of you,” Darion proclaimed. “We have seen terrible tragedy, that is true, but we will rise above it. We will use it to free our world from the Scourge and the Lich King. We will become something better, more noble, than Arthas or anyone else ever would have thought possible.” His eyes gazed proudly over the knights under his command, all of whom were there willingly and who had sworn to protect their world from the menace of the Scourge. “We are the Ebon Blade, and together we will bring back Light from the darkness.”