A Father's Sacrifice - another short story
Posted: Wed Jun 08, 2011 2:05 pm
Over the past few days I have been considering re-creating Constantyne's father, Bastien, as a death knight. With those thoughts dancing in my mind, I decided I wanted to write something of his death during the Lich King's invasion as a sort of inspiration. Again, I wrote this at work, and I offer my sincerest apologies if anything doesn't flow right or seems rushed anywhere. I've always been so scared to write and share things like this with the world, but after my last story and all of your kind comments, I was inspired to do so 
Thank you all again for being so warm and kind to me.
------
They were losing the fight.
His breath labored and his heart heavy, Bastien gazed upon his homeland — what was left of it, anyway.
Smoke billowed from the ruins of glorious, red and gold pillars, curling upwards to paint the sky black. Fires raged in the ruins. Screams filled the air. The gilded streets, the very same he had walked with his family hours before, were stained with blood and decorated with bodies.
And still they kept coming. Gangly skeletons, rotting ghouls, grotesque abominations sewed together by human remains. For every one they killed, a hundred more seemed to rise from the ground.
Bastien was growing weak, exhausted. His fingertips were burned black from the heat of his own fiery formations; his robes tattered and ripped from the undead monsters that tore their jagged claws into his legs. He was vaguely aware of the blood that soaked his muscled figure, dripping down his battered body to pool upon the ground beneath his feet. But he had to press on. He had to keep fighting…
“The king has fallen!” he heard a magister cry out, and a chill pierced Bastien’s spine. Not Anasterian. Not the very king whose reign he had been born into, grown up in, seen his only son born into. Not the king who ruled his beloved homeland, who had always kept his people safe.
When those words hit his ears, Bastien knew he had a choice to make.
He was a soldier, a hero. He would die for this land that he loved so much.
But his wife and son would not.
His muscles aching, his body begging to give up, Bastien ran. He ran as fast as his throbbing legs would carry him, his stomach sick as he dodged the open-eyed, mangled bodies of familiar elves that now lay in the street. They were the faces of his friends, his comrades — people he had just seen that morning, smiling and laughing, now dead at the hands of an endless scourge.
But he couldn’t mourn them right now. He had to save the only two people left who mattered.
The run home, what once seemed like such a short walk, seemed endless. Bastien’s mind whirled with horrifying possibilities, thoughts of seeing his wife and son’s faces on the corpses that piled up all around him. But when he reached their home and saw it untouched, relief poured through every inch of his body and filled him with a renewed strength, a new hope.
They hadn’t reached them yet.
Bastien half-collapsed against the door and his trembling, bloodied hand grasped desperately at the handle, nearly tearing the knob off as he wrenched the door open. His heart soared when he saw them there, half-cowered behind the kitchen table.
Under any other circumstance, they would have looked a sight — his relatively small wife with her arms wrapped around their tall, muscled son, her face strained as she struggled to keep him from rushing onto the frontlines with his father.
“Bastien,” Annemarie gasped, her eyes red with the tears that poured freely down her face. She rushed to him, flinging her arms around his neck and sobbing into his chest. A warmth emanated from her fingertips as she pressed them into his skin, wordlessly beckoning the Light to heal her beloved husband.
“Father, what is happening?” Constantyne asked, his trembling voice betraying the brave façade he put on for his mother’s sake. He scrambled to join his parents, his eyelids falling to a close as he melted into the arm his dear father hoisted around him. He’d begun to wonder if he would ever see him again.
Bastien wanted so desperately to stay in that moment, surrounded so closely by his wife and son. But time wasn’t on their side today.
“I am getting the both of you out of here,” he said, carefully surrendering himself from his family’s embrace. Even with his wife’s holy touch, his energy was horrifically depleted. But he had to summon the strength for one last spell.
With magic dancing along the tips of his blackened fingertips, Bastien’s eyes floated closed as he poured every ounce of strength left in him into conjuring a portal. The very act made him want to drop to his knees in weakness, but he stood tall, staying focused on the task at hand.
“Prince Kael’thas is in Dalaran,” Bastien said, his tone grave as the gateway whirled wildly before them. His gaze fell to his wife. “You and Constantyne must go there. You will be safe.”
“Not without you,” Annemarie hissed back, still staving off the tears that rocked her lithe figure. “I’m not going without you.’
“My love, you must. Please,” Bastien whispered, his voice growing desperate. “I will be right behind you, I promise. Please, love. They are coming.”
He just didn’t realize how fast.
As if on cue, an eerie laugh pierced the hushed whispers of the Dawntreader family and Bastien swore he felt his blood go cold. “Annemarie, go. Go now,” he choked.
She didn’t have time to respond before the door burst open, and the Lich King himself stood in its ruin. The very sight of him would have been enough to kill some men in fright: his flesh pale as bone, his eyes wild with insanity, his lips curled into a smile that was pure evil. His entire presence reeked of cold and death.
“Touching,” Arthas laughed; a horrible, hollow sound that rattled the walls of their home. “Do you truly believe escape is so easy?”
He reached for his sword, the horrific, blood-drenched Frostmourne. Bastien spun around, drawing the staff from his back.
“Take him and go! Now!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, raising his staff against the Lich King. It splintered like a twig against the might of the Frostmourne’s blade. “I’ll come for you! Go!”
Behind him, Annemarie felt as if the strike had been to her heart instead. Everything was happening so quickly, yet at the same time seemed to be moving in slow motion.
She knew her husband was going to die here, no matter what he said. She would lose him today. But her son, their son, their precious son — he could survive. He had to survive.
It seemed impossible that such a split-second decision would also be the hardest, most heart-wrenching one she would ever make in her life. With her arms tight around her son, who was thrashing and screaming in desperation for his father, she stepped backwards, into the portal. “I love you Bastien,” her voice so broken and weakened that she couldn’t guarantee he had heard it at all.
She prayed he had.
“Fool,” Arthas snarled as he raised his sword again. This time, with no staff to make a feeble attempt at defense, he plunged the blade straight through Bastien’s chest.
The elf fell into a heap on the floor, blood rapidly pooling around him as it rushed from the gaping wound. His fingertips fell to a close, as did the portal behind him.
Even as he lay dying, the Lich King’s laughter echoing in his ears, a smile crept onto Bastien’s lips.
He’d done it.
They were safe.
Thank you all again for being so warm and kind to me.------
They were losing the fight.
His breath labored and his heart heavy, Bastien gazed upon his homeland — what was left of it, anyway.
Smoke billowed from the ruins of glorious, red and gold pillars, curling upwards to paint the sky black. Fires raged in the ruins. Screams filled the air. The gilded streets, the very same he had walked with his family hours before, were stained with blood and decorated with bodies.
And still they kept coming. Gangly skeletons, rotting ghouls, grotesque abominations sewed together by human remains. For every one they killed, a hundred more seemed to rise from the ground.
Bastien was growing weak, exhausted. His fingertips were burned black from the heat of his own fiery formations; his robes tattered and ripped from the undead monsters that tore their jagged claws into his legs. He was vaguely aware of the blood that soaked his muscled figure, dripping down his battered body to pool upon the ground beneath his feet. But he had to press on. He had to keep fighting…
“The king has fallen!” he heard a magister cry out, and a chill pierced Bastien’s spine. Not Anasterian. Not the very king whose reign he had been born into, grown up in, seen his only son born into. Not the king who ruled his beloved homeland, who had always kept his people safe.
When those words hit his ears, Bastien knew he had a choice to make.
He was a soldier, a hero. He would die for this land that he loved so much.
But his wife and son would not.
His muscles aching, his body begging to give up, Bastien ran. He ran as fast as his throbbing legs would carry him, his stomach sick as he dodged the open-eyed, mangled bodies of familiar elves that now lay in the street. They were the faces of his friends, his comrades — people he had just seen that morning, smiling and laughing, now dead at the hands of an endless scourge.
But he couldn’t mourn them right now. He had to save the only two people left who mattered.
The run home, what once seemed like such a short walk, seemed endless. Bastien’s mind whirled with horrifying possibilities, thoughts of seeing his wife and son’s faces on the corpses that piled up all around him. But when he reached their home and saw it untouched, relief poured through every inch of his body and filled him with a renewed strength, a new hope.
They hadn’t reached them yet.
Bastien half-collapsed against the door and his trembling, bloodied hand grasped desperately at the handle, nearly tearing the knob off as he wrenched the door open. His heart soared when he saw them there, half-cowered behind the kitchen table.
Under any other circumstance, they would have looked a sight — his relatively small wife with her arms wrapped around their tall, muscled son, her face strained as she struggled to keep him from rushing onto the frontlines with his father.
“Bastien,” Annemarie gasped, her eyes red with the tears that poured freely down her face. She rushed to him, flinging her arms around his neck and sobbing into his chest. A warmth emanated from her fingertips as she pressed them into his skin, wordlessly beckoning the Light to heal her beloved husband.
“Father, what is happening?” Constantyne asked, his trembling voice betraying the brave façade he put on for his mother’s sake. He scrambled to join his parents, his eyelids falling to a close as he melted into the arm his dear father hoisted around him. He’d begun to wonder if he would ever see him again.
Bastien wanted so desperately to stay in that moment, surrounded so closely by his wife and son. But time wasn’t on their side today.
“I am getting the both of you out of here,” he said, carefully surrendering himself from his family’s embrace. Even with his wife’s holy touch, his energy was horrifically depleted. But he had to summon the strength for one last spell.
With magic dancing along the tips of his blackened fingertips, Bastien’s eyes floated closed as he poured every ounce of strength left in him into conjuring a portal. The very act made him want to drop to his knees in weakness, but he stood tall, staying focused on the task at hand.
“Prince Kael’thas is in Dalaran,” Bastien said, his tone grave as the gateway whirled wildly before them. His gaze fell to his wife. “You and Constantyne must go there. You will be safe.”
“Not without you,” Annemarie hissed back, still staving off the tears that rocked her lithe figure. “I’m not going without you.’
“My love, you must. Please,” Bastien whispered, his voice growing desperate. “I will be right behind you, I promise. Please, love. They are coming.”
He just didn’t realize how fast.
As if on cue, an eerie laugh pierced the hushed whispers of the Dawntreader family and Bastien swore he felt his blood go cold. “Annemarie, go. Go now,” he choked.
She didn’t have time to respond before the door burst open, and the Lich King himself stood in its ruin. The very sight of him would have been enough to kill some men in fright: his flesh pale as bone, his eyes wild with insanity, his lips curled into a smile that was pure evil. His entire presence reeked of cold and death.
“Touching,” Arthas laughed; a horrible, hollow sound that rattled the walls of their home. “Do you truly believe escape is so easy?”
He reached for his sword, the horrific, blood-drenched Frostmourne. Bastien spun around, drawing the staff from his back.
“Take him and go! Now!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, raising his staff against the Lich King. It splintered like a twig against the might of the Frostmourne’s blade. “I’ll come for you! Go!”
Behind him, Annemarie felt as if the strike had been to her heart instead. Everything was happening so quickly, yet at the same time seemed to be moving in slow motion.
She knew her husband was going to die here, no matter what he said. She would lose him today. But her son, their son, their precious son — he could survive. He had to survive.
It seemed impossible that such a split-second decision would also be the hardest, most heart-wrenching one she would ever make in her life. With her arms tight around her son, who was thrashing and screaming in desperation for his father, she stepped backwards, into the portal. “I love you Bastien,” her voice so broken and weakened that she couldn’t guarantee he had heard it at all.
She prayed he had.
“Fool,” Arthas snarled as he raised his sword again. This time, with no staff to make a feeble attempt at defense, he plunged the blade straight through Bastien’s chest.
The elf fell into a heap on the floor, blood rapidly pooling around him as it rushed from the gaping wound. His fingertips fell to a close, as did the portal behind him.
Even as he lay dying, the Lich King’s laughter echoing in his ears, a smile crept onto Bastien’s lips.
He’d done it.
They were safe.
Ooooh good. More!
Thank you!
