Disclaimer: Anything recognizable from BTVS and Angel belongs to Joss Whedon while the concept of Death Knights, the Lich King, and anything else from Warcraft that I might add belong to Blizzard Entertainment.
Fic: DEATH KNIGHT - 1/??
It was early morning at the library; the first of November. Xander stood at the center of the room, a broadsword he borrowed from the library cage in his hands, dressed in the leather breeches, boots, and white tunic he wore the night before he automatically shifted to a balanced sword stance. He stood there for a few moments, breathing evenly, the sword in his hands seemingly weightless. He slowly blinked and swung; the sword started to sing.
He’d like to think that Halloween didn’t change him. But it did. He usually didn’t wear leather breeches and boots. He detested wearing floppy white shirts. He certainly didn’t know how to wield a sword like it was a part of his body.
He certainly didn’t usually have an ethereal voice whispering in his head. It called him, by name, smoothly talking to him, calmly whispering to him; addressing him like a parent would a child. It was strangely comforting.
Xander’s parents didn’t care about him. He knew that since he was a kid. Jesse and Willow, he liked to think they were his family. His brother and sister. That they were the only ones he truly needed.
‘Alexander,' it whispered. ‘Alexander, come to me.’
‘You can hear me, Alexander,' the voice continued. ‘All my children can hear me.’
His sword swings and movement didn’t stop, didn’t break. The rapid, instinctive, movement, and the strain that accompanied it, blocked out his thoughts. If any of the gang could’ve seen him now; they would’ve been shocked. Not even Buffy, the slayer, could achieve the same skill that he was showing at that moment.
It was a forceful, instinctive, a sword style that only few in the world knew; one that even fewer practiced.
Only the chosen knew it.
He continued to swing the sword; half-remembered, mostly unconscious, memories guided him. His body, as it was, was unfit and unprepared for the grueling task the style demanded of him. He continued though, it helped… helped him block it out.
It blocked out the voice.
But he could still feel it.
‘You feel it do you not? The Power I have given you.’
He could feel it. The Power.
Frigid power started to envelop him; within him, around him, around his blade. Blood. It was linked to blood; like all strong, and dark, magicks were. It required his blood, their blood, anyone’s blood. He felt it inside him, churning, increasing his strength, speed and stamina. It felt good.
An…Unholy…feeling. But good…so very good.
More and more of the power started to flow within and around him. Anyone near the library would’ve felt it; anyone within would’ve seen it. A maelstrom of power; coalescing on Xander.
Visions started to come to him. Xander saw visions of battle, blood and glory. A frozen, barren, and rocky wasteland welcomed him. He saw an army.
His Army. The Unholy power’s army.
He saw an armor, its armor, his armor. His face behind a demonic metallic guard. The voice’s shadow around him, a part of him.
The Voice was getting stronger.
‘Child…Come to your master!’
He broke. He didn’t want the power, didn’t need it. But it was there; beneath the surface, on the surface. Churning within his mind and body.
The Voice of the Lich King.
"NO!" he screamed, swinging the sword down and breaking a library table.
"Oh my word!" exclaimed a voice behind him. Xander turned and saw Giles standing at the library entrance, mouth agape.
"Giles..." Xander whispered. He turned to library table he swung at, seeing it broken and covered in frost. "I…I need your help..."