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The first sound he hears in a long, long while - or perhaps not even shortly after the ice cocoons him and his head is stuffed full of the darkness and nonsense ramblings of the walking dead all over Azeroth - is a clatter. It's muffled, and something goes flying across the floor and out of sight.
Amor, he thinks, then, Arthas. These are words that rise to the forefront of his thought, like watching a sunrise climb up over the horizon through a sea of dense fog: slow, dumb, sleep-drunk. All the world is still, waiting on a single breath amidst the dark.
Who. Not a question, nor a statement. Not even an interruption.
The shape of the person standing before the throne whirls around - at him.
The dragonfire simmers in his veins. Weak, a spark failing to strike a fire. It is not enough to warm his blood, though all that he is burns the agony of life, the pain of birth. His flesh is volcanic bedrock, and it is heavy. He cannot erupt. The magma flows sluggishly, coagulating.
He stares.
She rushes into view, quick and furious. Screaming, a demon come from the depths of hell.
Her hand slams against the block of ice. Cracks explode and splinter across the surface. Then again, and again, and again, and again.
The ice doesn't break. No force on earth, Light or Shadow, not even Fel, can.
She stops. She stares.
He stares.
At the top of the world, with only the stars and the saronite spires for company, the wind howls. The Alliance, the Horde, Tirion - all are gone from this forsaken place. There is no more reason to be here.
Except for her.
Trouble, the man that was once Bolvar Fordragon calls Sylvanas Windrunner as she turns her back on him and walks away. Head held high and pace slow and sure.
Nothing but trouble, he growls one sludge-filled moment later, and drifts. Eyes wide open, to the sight of the Banshee Queen surrounded by val'kyr and a frozen throne dusted with fading, ghostly feathers.