From the moment he was born, probably from the very moment he had been conceived, he had been a coward. That was probably why he was born two weeks late. His mother had apparently been in labor with him for nearly a full day, willing and pushing him out. She had named him Willem, but several years later when he became an adept of the Holy Light, some of his more cruel classmates had nicknamed him "Faintheart." The nickname had stuck until no one, not even his teachers, remembered his name was Willem.
And he had grown up and become a full-fledged priest despite his cowardice, and when the first vestiges of the Plague had begun to spread across Lordaeron, they had sent him to Darrowshire to minister to the sick and wounded there. Though he was almost useless in the thick of battle, his skill with healing was relatively unmatched. Even though his peers still referred to him as "Faintheart," his name rung with respect in their mouths, for once.
At first he had hated Darrowshire. The sight of many he could not save, most of whom rose once more to attack their compatriots, sickened him. The landscape, already corrupted, seemed to grow more and more oppressive as the weeks dragged on and they waited for reinforcements that did not come.
And then...she came.
She was a high elf, and he had rarely seen one before. And more strangely, she was a paladin-not a terribly usual occupation for a high elf. Her name was Lady Helliana Fairsun, but they called her "Fairlady." And Faintheart loved her from the first time that he saw her.
They spent several weeks in each others' company. At first he was hesitant even to talk to her. She was a venerated military commander and he...he was nothing more than a lowly priest, he admitted to himself. Plus, she was far more beautiful than any woman he had seen before. Surely she would not even deign to look at him.
But to his everlasting surprise, she had looked at him. She had made an effort to talk to him almost every day. She had teased him mercilessly and brought him pastries that she had baked herself (and they were so terrible that he couldn't eat them but he couldn't bear to tell her that, so he threw them away when she wasn't looking). And finally, one sunlit day as they had sat at the top of the Eastwall Tower and told each other their deepest dreams and fears, she had kissed him, and for those few hours there, he had not been afraid of anything.
"You should never be frightened," she had told him. "The Holy Light protects us. And I will look after you."
It was only a scant few days after that when the Scourge had struck at Darrowshire, when Redpath had made his famous last stand against the great undead general Marrowdark, one of the Lich King's most powerful and favored servants. And Fairlady had been there, throwing her might against the Scourge.
Faintheart had cowered in his room until he heard her shout of defiance. Then his better and braver nature had risen up and he had rushed to her aid...only to see her fall at the hands of Marrowdark, her golden hair stained to a crimson, pain and shock knitting her exquisite features. Before Faintheart could do anything, even just cast a bubble on her to protect her from further harm, Fairlady had died.
Rage had taken over. He had charged Marrowdark, screaming in a berserker rage. That was the last thing he remembered for a very long time.