Chapter 37: Medivh the Guardian

At the port on the coast of Tirisfal, one hundred elite soldiers prepared to follow Arthas to Northrend. Sassarian stood by Arthas’s side; thanks to the combined treatment of the Holy Light and various potions, his injuries had fully healed.

"Your Highness, if I may be so bold... where have you arranged for Dr. Mait’s daughter to be taken?" Sassarian asked, clearly worried about the young girl, who now had no parents or other kin left.

"My sister, Calia, is quite fond of the child. She said she would look after little Sally for a time."

Arthas felt a pang of sympathy for the future High Inquisitor. Her childhood could only be described as blood-stained, though fortunately, she held no direct memory of her father’s death. Arthas had simply told her that he had died heroically while fighting the plague in the southern camps.

"However, little Sally is still rather frail. I suggested to Calia that she take her to the Great Cathedral for recuperation."

"It is truly a blessing for Sally that she met you." Sassarian bowed deeply to Arthas, a gesture that served to ease some of the guilt and regret he felt regarding Mait.

Arthas waved a hand dismissively. "No need for such formalities. But what of your own wounds? Are you fit for battle?"

"I have never felt better," Sassarian said, patting his chest. "I will personally sever that demon’s head and bring it before you."

"I am glad to hear that," Arthas replied with a faint smile, though his expression immediately turned grave. "But you are not to act on impulse without my orders. That demon is not an entity you can currently hope to defeat."

Sassarian looked crestfallen. He knew well enough that he was no match for Mal'Ganis, and he understood that the Prince was looking out for his life, yet he was still desperate to slay the demon with his own hands to honor his fallen comrades.

"Do not look so downcast. Hone your skills, and one day, you will be able to kill even greater demons yourself." Arthas patted Sassarian on the shoulder in encouragement. "Major, have our soldiers board the ships now. We prepare to depart."

"Yes, my Prince."

After Sassarian turned and left, Arthas stood on the bridge, observing the weather at sea, until a strange, magnetic voice resonated from behind him.

"Prince, do you truly intend to venture to that frozen continent?"

"I thought you might not come," Arthas said, turning around. He was not surprised to see the middle-aged man wrapped in a heavy cloak.

The man leaned on an inconspicuous solid wood staff, topped with a carving of a raven with folded wings, its eyes flickering with arcane light.

"Atiesh—shouldn't that be in the hands of Dalaran?" Arthas raised an eyebrow, inquiring about the staff's origin.

"I am, in a sense, its original owner. While it no longer belongs to me, it is not a bother for me to use it," the mysterious man said with composure. "You are quite different from your father, the King."

"Then you must have visited Thrall and Antonidas as well. I suspect Antonidas, like my father, thinks you are nothing more than a raving madman and a charlatan."

"Perhaps you are better suited to be this prophet than I am," the man replied noncommittally, tapping his staff gently against the deck. "Besides, of all these people, you are the one who understands the true threat of the Burning Legion best."

"Enough, Medivh. I did not come here to listen to your prophecies meant to fool the Bronze Dragonflight. Why have you really come to see me?" Arthas interrupted the mysterious man—Medivh.

"You are, as expected, not at all surprised that I am still alive." Medivh, the former Guardian believed to be dead, stood before Arthas in the flesh, appearing as nothing more than an unremarkable middle-aged man.

"I am not surprised at all. What surprises me is why you, as the Guardian, offer only kind warnings rather than joining the fight against the Burning Legion yourself." Arthas’s tone grew sharp.

Hearing the Prince’s challenge, Medivh did not flare with anger; his tone was merely tinged with helplessness.

"The Guardian is dead, having perished alongside the evil soul of the fallen Titan. The one standing here now is merely a mage named Medivh. I owe my mother too much, and I dare not risk the life she sacrificed everything to save by throwing it into a direct confrontation with the Legion. But I have committed grave errors, and I must do something to save the world I cherish—I wish to warn you so you may be prepared. Even so, all the life in this world combined is insignificant when facing the Burning Legion. Arthas, you will be a legendary hero, but will you be the hope we need against the Legion?"

Medivh’s voice grew distant. When Arthas looked again, the Guardian had vanished, transformed into a black raven perched atop the flagship’s mast.

"The Burning Legion will return, and soon. Go to Kalimdor; that is where they intend to strike," the raven spoke in a human voice.

With that, the raven beat its wings and took flight into the sky. Arthas did not attempt to stop him; he simply watched him fly away in silence.

Arthas was not surprised by Medivh’s appearance. What puzzled him was why Medivh, with his prophetic abilities, did not reveal the specific disasters to the kings, choosing instead to use vague explanations to persuade the leaders of the Eastern Kingdoms. This had led most to dismiss him as a fraud, including the mages of Dalaran—though perhaps the people of Dalaran were simply unwilling to believe that the dead Medivh had returned.

After much thought, he could only arrive at one conclusion: the Bronze Dragonflight. These dogmatic guardians insisted on following the so-called "history," and Medivh, wary of them, had no choice but to push events forward according to that "history."

The Timeless Ones, who watched the flow of time from on high, viewed the world with cold indifference. What Arthas could not be sure of was whether Medivh had already realized that the Bronze Dragonflight seemed unable to influence this specific timeline.

As for the other errors Medivh was accused of, Arthas said little, for those were not truly Medivh’s own intent. The "Good" of the Guardian and the "Evil" of the fallen Titan’s soul had been in conflict from the moment Medivh was born. In the end, the evil had gained the upper hand, using the power of the good to bring calamity to Azeroth. Medivh had simply been a helpless witness to the fallen Titan wreaking havoc through the Guardian’s power.

As Medivh himself said, the struggle between good and evil had dissipated when he died in the tower of Karazhan. He was now just an ordinary mage named Medivh. While Arthas could not condone Medivh’s past actions, he saw no point in further judgment; Medivh’s affairs were not the most pressing concern at the moment.

"Inform everyone. Prepare to set sail."

...

A few days later, at Daggercap Bay in Northrend, the Lordaeron outpost, Arthas and his soldiers made landfall.

It was a treacherous bay in the Howling Fjord, but the water was deep enough to construct a port for the transport ships. Furthermore, being located at the base of the fjord, the Lich King’s forces would likely not detect them there.

Inside the fortress at Daggercap Bay, Arthas encountered another familiar face—Brann Bronzebeard.

"Brann? What are you doing here?" Upon seeing the adventurous dwarf, Arthas suddenly felt a sense of foreboding.

"Aha! My expedition team and I tried to delve deep into the Storm Peaks a while back, but we were driven out by the harsh climate and ferocious proto-dragons before we could get very far."

"Then we ran into trolls—so many trolls! They chased us, and we kept running..."

As Brann vividly recounted his exciting adventures, Arthas let out a helpless laugh and asked him to pause for a moment. "So, why are you in the Howling Fjord?"

The dwarf adventurer hesitated, then laughed awkwardly. "Your soldiers rescued us from those trolls. We’ve been staying here ever since."

"You have quite the knack for survival. The Frost Trolls of the north are the masters of Northrend; it’s a miracle you’re still alive after provoking them." Arthas tried to lecture Brann, hoping to discourage him from constantly seeking out danger.

The old dwarf did not feel ashamed, but rather proud. "Heh, that’s adventuring for you. Without a bit of luck, I’d have been eaten by some beast ages ago."

Fine, this guy was beyond saving. If he wasn't the king of pulling mobs, who was?

"By the way, Arthas, what brings you to Northrend?" Brann gestured toward the fortress. "I was shocked when I found out there was a human stronghold here."

"I am hunting a dangerous demon. He is one of the masterminds behind the plague in Lordaeron."

"A demon?! Now you’re talking!" Brann’s eyes widened like copper bells. "What kind of demon? An imp, a voidwalker, or a succubus? No, no—you said mastermind, so it’s definitely not one of those common types."

"It is a Nathrezim."

"Nathrezim? What in the world is that—doesn't matter, it’s definitely some rare breed, right? Can you take me along? Don’t worry, I won't get in the way. Even if I’m not as good as my two brothers, my blunderbuss is no slouch!"