[WP] The hero must destroy the necromancer, not because he is moral and it must be done, but because he's suicidal and wants to stay dead

...

I remember when The Dark Lord first emerged from the Ashes of Merlin, and I rose to fight against him. There are details missing from that distant time, of course. Misty and illusive things to me now, those memories are nothing more than faded pieces and fragments that I might still discover in the fog of my thoughts- stumbling on their shapes only to lose in an instant back to the depths they once emerged.

It pains me to realize them; to taste the bitter knowledge that I can no longer comprehend the fullest extent of my loss.

A hero though... I can still remember that. It was my role when I was alive, you see. Rodrick of the Black Sword, Champion of Knights, Warrior of ballads, and keeper of many other titles I've surely lost with the passage of time: So it was that I fought threats to those who might bring harm to my Kingdom's people.

There were others like myself, emboldened in this task, for it was not just I alone who stood against the Dark forces that emerged to threaten the world. Those old beings of legends and graying beards, some of which might still persist in the songs of far-off lands: Dragon Riders of the Northern Tribes, Berserkers of the Desert Sands, the Bands of the Mighty Falcon, and the Priests of the Illuminated Lord. To say they were all Bitter enemies would be understating their hatred for one another, yet still they joined forces together for the sake of strength: United hope of defeating the Great and Terrible Mage of Darkness their only goal.

From afar, I watched as those mighty armies crashed ahead with lighting and anvil clouds above their heads. The horns blasted sound behind my ears, trumpets of glory muffled by the thunderous cries of men heading towards war. That precious sun above our heads soon was covered by thick clouds of gray, and even the most heroic of shouts seemed quiet lies before our charge into its midst. I heard the screams of our ally's demise over the roars of our own soldier's shouts, and I believed with certainty in that instant we rode towards what a certain death.

An honorable death, perhaps, but still a death all the same.

I did not hesitate in the face of it though, for our purpose was clear even with such a threat before us: For the good of the world, the Dark Lord had to meet his end. Into the riling abyss of allies and enemies, we crashed like the fist of an angry god upon the seething ranks of warriors.

It was only moments until my stallion was brought to an early end, screaming in pain as it threw me to me into the bloody carnage of the ground below. My armor sloshed in the soaked and riled muck: A place where magics flew through the battle field like acid rain, where undead soldiers ripped themselves from the ground and graves, pulling down our own warriors with horrible and sickening bursts of death and violence. I witnessed a dragon pierced by ten thousand arrows of shadow to plummet down on unfortunate souls below, and then I watched it rise again: Scales withered and wings shaved to bone.

Hundreds of thousands died on both sides, but that horrific touch of magic would always bring them rise again. Skeletons reforming along tendrils of dark mana, corpses repurposed to whatever ends he sought. For all our careful planning, our own strength was slowly being turned against us.

Still our charge continued- desperate as it was. His soldiers were weak for all their numbers: Far weaker than the sword I wielded. I had slain a thousand enemies before it, and I crushed hundreds more that day alone with that violent arc of blackened steel. Behind my onslaught clearing a path, the surviving troops rallied, and together we cast a spear of men- driving deep into his armies and past them. On that bloody ground, I reached the Dark Lord and took terrible satisfaction in his look of disbelief.

He'd not expected such a feat. From the man who had thought to rule the world, never again have I seen such a look upon his face. Wounded and fatigued as I was, when I broke through his final guard and made my final charge: I drove my sword home. I drove it deep.

Though his chest it did pierce, to fountain a surge of red victory. It seemed even the great God of Death might find himself a slave it's tendencies: All men die, after all.

Then... Then... I remember it even now- though it is a struggle. Even now as all but my most powerful memories fades off into the dark of the great-beyond, as my purpose is lost like rusting steel left to the constant rains. I can still summon the memories of his horrified expression sliding towards a sinister smile, pale lips curling as the chants bubbled from the bloody foam that crowded his face and beard. The Dark Mage cast a single motion, hand reaching out to rip back in a single vicious tear- dragging the last of my life with it.

Soul Drinker.

That is how many know of the Dark Lord Gillian now, and that is how uncountable others have met the same fate as I did that day. When my body arose, it bowed despite the rage I felt inside: It submitted to his demands as a matter of course, and forced me to turn on my former comrades- shedding not a single tear for their screams of mercy.

Undead... How strange a thing it is to become.

My body and flesh slowly fade from their importance beneath the Black armor, the likes of which is now bewitched by the unseen magics of power residing far within the steel. My mind too has faded, memories lost and with it my sense of self. Perhaps in a way I am no longer undead, but undying: For what little remains alive of who I was, the rest of my being has already left this world- likely waiting at the gates of another great-beyond for true passage.

For all that of my slow decline, the Dark Lord has not changed since that fateful day. His youthful features are ever enduring against the passage of time, his wit and tongue sharp as ever, and his powers only seem to grow. Although, it is not without some shifting: With the years comes slow and roiling undercurrents in his moods. The Mage has taken greater and greater risks, paid less attention, failed to mind the expansive reach of those under his control.

Not forgetful- No, for his mind is fine as it ever was, a Genius unparalleled as Merlin who raised him: But growing in its decisions to overlook, to expand its ignorance in all but those fewest things he deems important enough to hold his attention.

It is in this thin gray-area of unknowing is where I raise my quiet banners of resistance.

Between his summons and orders, my battles now are much smaller things than I'd likely have imagined waging. A slow campaign of horrible fights with little glory, barely a single distant hope of a true victory on the horizon next to the persistent needs of survival. I continue on, holding what sense of self remains until the next war comes, enduring and crumbling what little things I can beneath my armored fist.

I will undo his accomplishments as the elements bring ruin to even the most masterfully crafted works; in tiny cracks and seams. I will survive to see him dead, but not for glory, nor for the good of this world I remain.

Not for vengeance, not even for the memory of that ancient Kingdom I once served- the name of which has long since faded from my memories.

No: I will see the Dark Lord meet his end, if only so that I may die myself.