“The remark… hurt. Arthas hadn’t expected it to. He paused, emotions warring within him, and Uther, ever the better in their bouts, used that brief hesitation to charge forward. “For the Light!” he cried, pulling the hammer back and swinging it at Arthas with all his strength. The gleaming weapon arced at Arthas so swiftly he could hear the sound of its movement. He leaped aside, barely in time, and felt the air brush his face as the weapon rushed past. Uther’s expression was calm and focused… and deadly. It was his duty as he saw it to slay the betraying son, and stop the spread of evil. Just as Arthas knew it was his duty to slay the man who had once mentored him. He needed to kill his past… all of his past. Or else it would forever reach out with the deceptively sweet hope of compassion and forgiveness. With an incoherent cry, Arthas brought Frostmourne down. Uther’s hammer blocked it. The two men strained, their faces within inches of each other, the muscles in their arms shaking with effort, until with a grunt Uther shoved Arthas backward. The younger man stumbled. Uther pressed the attack. His face was calm, but his eyes were fierce and resolute, and he seemed to fight as if his victory was inevitable. The utter confidence shook Arthas. His own blows were powerful, but erratic. He’d never been able to best Uther before—“It ends here, boy!” Uther cried, his voice ringing. Suddenly to Arthas’s horror the paladin was limned in a glowing, brilliant light. Not just his hammer, but his entire body, as if he himself was the true weapon of the Light that would strike Arthas down. “For the Light’s justice!” The hammer descended. All the air in Arthas’s body was knocked out of him with a rush as the blow landed straight and true across his midsection. Only his armor saved him, and even that crumpled beneath the glowing hammer wielded by the holy, radiant paladin. Arthas went sprawling, Frostmourne flying from his grip, agony shooting through him as he struggled to breathe, struggled to rise. The Light—he had turned his back on it, had betrayed it. And now it was exacting retribution through Uther the Lightbringer, its greatest champion, infusing his old teacher with the purity of its brilliance and purpose. The glow enveloping Uther increased, and Arthas grimaced in agony as the Light seared his eyes as well as his soul. He’d been wrong to forsake it, horribly wrong, and now its mercy and love had been transformed into this radiant, implacable being. He stared upward into the white light that was Uther’s eyes, tears filling his own as he awaited the killing blow. Had he grasped the sword without realizing it, or had it leaped into his hands of its own volition? In the swirling mental chaos that was that moment, Arthas could not tell. All he knew was that suddenly, his hands were closing on Frostmourne’s hilt, and its voice was in his mind. Every Light has its shadow—every day has its night—and even the brightest candle can be snuffed out. And so can the brightest life. He let out a gulping inhalation, sucking breath into his lungs, and for just a second, Arthas saw the Light enveloping Uther dim. Then Uther lifted the hammer again, ready to deal the killing blow. But Arthas was not there. If Uther was a bear, enormous and powerful, Arthas was a tiger, strong and coiled and swift. The hammer, strong and Light-blessed though it and its weilder might be, was not a fast weapon, nor was Uther’s style of fighting. Frostmourne, however, though it was an enormous two handed runeblade, seemed to almost be able to fight on its own. He moved forward again, no hesitancy this time, and began to fight in earnest. He gave no quarter as he attacked Uther the Lightbringer; offered no moment’s breathing space for the paladin to draw back the weapon to deliver a crushing blow. Uther’s eyes widened with shock, then narrowed in determination. But the Light that had once surged so brightly from his powerful frame was diminishing with each passing second. Diminishing before the power granted to him by the Lich King. Again and again Frostmourne landed—here on the hammer’s glowing head, here on the shaft, here on Uther’s shoulder, in that narrow space between gorget and shoulder pauldrons, biting deep—Uther grunted and staggered back. Blood poured from the wound. Frostmourne craved more, and Arthas wanted to give it more. Snarling like a beast, his white hair flying, he pressed the attack. The hammer, great and glowing, fell from Uther’s nerveless fingers as Frostmourne nearly severed the arm. A blow dented Uther’s breastplate; a second in the same spot cleaved it and tore at the flesh beneath. Uther’s tabard, the blue and gold of the Alliance he had once fought for, fluttered to the snow-covered earth in pieces as Uther the Lightbringer fell heavily to his knees. He looked up. His breathing came with difficulty. Blood trickled from his mouth, seeping into his beard, but there was no hint of surrender on his face. “I dearly hope that there’s a special place in hell waiting for you, Arthas.” He coughed, the blood bubbling up. “We may never know, Uther,” Arthas said coldly, lifting Frostmourne for the final blow. The sword nearly sang in anticipation. “I intend to live forever.” He brought the runeblade straight down, through Uther’s throat, silencing the defiant words, piercing the great heart. Uther died almost immediately. Arthas tugged the blade free and stepped back, shaking. Surely, it was only from the release of tension and exultation.”
— World of Warcraft: Arthas: Rise of the Lich King by Christie Golden
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