He paused to let their injured use the portal back before he stepped through it himself, appearing in the courtyard of his lodge in Stormwind. The woman flinched as if she'd been struck, the first sign of anything but acceptance to her fate. "Tibault!"
"Jenimue." There was concern etched deeply on his friend's face, as her eyes coasted over him. He gave her a lopsided grin to show he was uninjured, and her expression lightened immediately, her eyes drawn to the limp burden he carried. He was beyond happy to see her... the woman would need to be peeled from this armor, bathed, examined. Little of it sounded like a chore he wished to attempt alone.
"What is that?" She demanded, craning to try and get a good look. The woman had her face turned securely into the folds of his cloak, denying that good look, and Jen raised concerned eyes to him.
"Prisoner of war. She has stood down, and Lord Tirion has accepted her surrender... personally. We've held Light's Hope against the Scourge onslaught, so far. The little one here rode with them; for all that she lives and breathes. She's badly off, however."
"This way." She gave the tiniest wrinkle of her nose. "We'll start with a bath and work from there..."
She led the way to an open room, a tub already filled with steaming water waiting. Tibault set the woman down, relieved when she stood on her own, and looked around the room, blinking. Jen grimaced slightly when she got her first good look at the woman, and indeed, it was the first truly good look he'd managed to get as well. She had pale, ashen blonde hair, nearly colorless. Pale, pale skin stretched over high cheekbones. Her eyes were sunken into their bruised sockets, but in spite of it all, he could sense that this had, at one time, been a lovely woman. She did not wear the ebon armor of her compatriots, but a mismatched set that had probably started out its career as a young paladin's harness. Her cloak was a tattered banner of Lordaeron, most of the blazon obscured by filth, held around her by a shadowed chain of barbs. She glanced at the bathtub, then warily at him. "You intend to stay?" She demanded, and he stared back. There was no way he was going to leave Jen alone with this one, even if she did appear to be on the verge of death. She'd looked that way going into Light's Hope, and had given him one hell of a fight then.
"I most certainly do."
"And you intend to have me bathed?" She did not try to obscure the revulsion in her voice, and he sighed.
"You're filthy. Yes, we intend to bathe you..."
"Tib. I think she may be a little put off that you intend to be here. You are, after all, male..." Jen giggled, and the woman glared at her. Her outraged stare widened to encompass Tibault, and he realized that, in spite of the annoying giggle, Jen had grasped the problem.
"You don't want me here?"
"I most certainly do not." Her voice was deep, rather harsh, but she had a compelling tone. "I've no wish to show myself to a living man." Disgust colored her voice, and he stared at her.
"You'd rather a dead one?" He asked, and she nodded. "Why?" He demanded, stunned, and she stared calmly back at him, the sunlight gilding her hair.
"Because the dead have few urges in that manner."
"Urges." She was so small, so defiant, so serious... He tried to fight the chuckle, and the words that came after that word, but it was impossible. "Little one, I cannot tell you how unappealing I find a scrawny, filthy, plague ridden scourgeling like yourself. Now, drop the armor."
She sighed, but moved to unbuckle her harness, dropping the pieces to the floor. It was worse than he'd first thought; he realized when she was done. She was almost cadaverously thin, her ribs blatantly obvious under her skin. She was bruised, but that was undoubtedly his fault, filthy, scarred. "So this is the way that the Lich King cares for his servants." He sighed, shaking his head. Her responding look was desperate and confused, she obviously had no answer for that either. "In." He motioned at the tub and she climbed in, allowing a stunned, silent Jen to scrub her clean.
"What do you mean; we will not be going after Besseth?" Declan snarled. His twinned brother, Diarmid, hissed beside him. "The nine of us stand ready..."
"I know you do. But this is the wish of the King. Besseth is to be left where she is."
"She's held by the Argent Crusade...!" This was intolerable. This was an abomination. Besseth had not stood down when Mograine had ordered it, that was consistent from every story he'd gleaned from those there. She'd been taken. She was theirs, and they wanted her back. "This is not what we were..." He stopped just short of using the word promised. Promise was a word for paladins, and the nine children of Besseth Southcross were hardly that. "We agreed to not become involved because she was supposed to die here, be raised as she should have been years ago. She was supposed to become one of us, truly. A Champion of the King. We're not asking for support, the nine of us can retrieve her, easily..."
"Still no." The lich before them whispered and he glared impotently.
"What good does it serve us to have her held by the Argents? She is not one of the traitors. She was not with Mograine. We brought her in from Icecrown for this." He seethed inwardly, but remained chilled and focused on the outside. If he had known this, he'd have killed her himself rather than let her fall to the Argent Crusade. She'd be angry at him for a long time. She'd hold it against him, possibly forever, but she'd still be theirs.
"The living will be accepted by the Argent Crusade easier than the undead. Besseth's less than noteworthy appearance will allow her to be absorbed much easier than those still bound to us who laid down their arms at Light's Hope."
True, but he still didn't like it. "We brought Besseth to Light's Hope to die because she was getting old. Planting her in the Crusade doesn't make her any less old. We'll lose her like this."
"It's too fine an opportunity, Declan. Besseth will be overlooked, as always." The lich sighed, its attention already moving away from the outraged nine death knights facing it.
Overlooked, as always. Declan gave his twin the exasperated stare he could not send at the lich. That was the entire point. Get Besseth killed. Raise her imbued with the full power of the King. Create the death knight he knew was there. If she managed to be as fine as she was while still living, still limping along with what little power she'd been given at her creation, what could she be now? A true Champion of the Scourge, worthy to be his mentor. Glory, incarnate. And once again, something stood in his way, but this time it was apparently the will of the King. His brother spat something truly crude in Thalassian, under his breath, and Declan nodded in agreement.
"I hear quite well, knights of my king." The lich chuckled, "And my command of Thalassian is strong. Such profanity is not becoming a Champion."
"The King wishes us to leave our mother in the hands of the Argent Crusaders, and does not expect some issue?" Sanity, and it came not from the twinned quel'dorei. Declan glanced over at the speaker, the sixth of the children. Raien was bulky, rolling in muscles, unbreakable... as calm as a boulder and as ungiving. "Declan is correct. Leaving Besseth with the Crusade runs us the risk of losing her. She is fragile without the gifts of the King, fragile in life. If she dies in the hands of the Crusaders, is laid to rest in consecrated ground, we have lost her. Such is not the right end for such a servant of the King... I will kill her myself before I allow that."
"The Crusade is filled with paladins. They will work to heal your mother, not kill her."
"We don't want her healed." The eighth of the children hissed, and Declan grimaced. Of course somebody had to go and say it aloud. Of course it had to be Alaroc, who would no more lie or dissemble as he would flee a field of combat. "She needs to die. But she needs to die well, and this does not qualify. Neither does dying of age, and the pox, as she was."
Declan studied the wall next to him with sudden, great interest. Damn orc. He'd drown a desert in the truth if given half a chance. Besseth's condition was common knowledge in the family, but it did not need to be aired quite so publicly.
"Besseth serves the King." The lich stated simply. "Besseth served the King before each and every single one of you did. She made you all to do the same. He believes she serves him best where she is right now. Her loyalty is noted. And her children's loyalty to her is also noted." It floated serenely to a great tome, chained to the floor, turning the thick pages in its hands. "And she stays where she is. Do not attempt to remove her." It paused, "However, your concerns about her safety and well being are well founded. If, indeed, Besseth was to lose her life in the hands of paladins, and be laid to rest by them, we would lose her. Keep an eye on her, keep her safe, and get her out of there if the worst happens."
Declan sent Alaroc a narrow eyed stare, and the orc nodded slowly. "As the King wills." He stated, turning and striding away. It was the best they were going to get, and Declan knew it. They had blessing to keep watch, and since Besseth was currently deep in Azeroth, they had blessing to keep at least one of them close to her at any given time. They'd have to be discreet, however...
"Raien." He stated, falling into step behind Alaroc. "How do you like...the south?" Besseth's children, just like the King's servants, came from everywhere. Declan and Diarmid were the eldest, quel'dorei, raised during the destruction of Quel'thalas and the Prince's push to Silvermoon. Of them all, Raien had the best chance of remaining close to her, and his temperament was most suited to the task.
"Send the human to Elwynn to keep an eye on Mom?"
"Makes more sense than sending the orc to Elwynn to keep an eye on Mom."
The orc in question glared back over his broad shoulder but said nothing. The logic was undeniable; he was not going to Elwynn to watch over Besseth. It would be difficult for Raien to manage, even being once human, and possessed of a remarkably even temper. "I'll want Khraben." Raien noted slowly, obviously considering his options, and Declan nodded in agreement, feeling his twin mirror the nod.
"Of course." He glanced at Khraben, and the third of Besseth's children slid closer, his eyes locked on Declan.
"I go to watch the mama." He breathed, "Yah. I go. The cattle will na see me, mon." The troll grinned, flashing a mouthful of tusks, and then vanished into the shadows.
"I will keep an eye on them, Declan." Ellorie, one of Besseth's two daughters, chuckled, moving past the cluster of males she called brothers. "On our mother as well. Bredit... let's go. We have things to do."
The other daughter moved closer, staring up at the grouping. "Aye, Lori. Things to do and little time to see them done in."
The bath, clothes, and a full platter of food. Besseth wanted little of it, but the male paladin stared daggers at her until she at least made a good show of picking at it. "You need to eat to regain your strength." He muttered, and she stared back. She did not need to eat this much. A full belly made her lethargic and slow to respond.
"You didn't seem to think I needed to be stronger at Light's Hope." She growled, and he raised brows at her. The giggling fool was long gone, and Besseth was happy to see her go... If living men were worrisome, then living women were irksome.
"You put up a fine fight there." He granted, his eyes never leaving her. "So, where are you from, Besseth?"
"Icecrown." That was probably not the answer he was looking for, but it was the truth. She stared back with the same unyielding focus that he used on her, reading him as voraciously as he read her. He was about her age, about a score and a half, his russet brown hair lightening at his temples. He had quizzical hazel blue eyes, and a face that had seen much. He was worthy, but she'd had experience trying to raise paladins. It was too much of a fuss, and it got entirely too messy.
He frowned at the single word, his eyes darkening. "Before Icecrown." He stated calmly, and she shrugged.
"Lordaeron."
"Hmmmm. So you were there during the scourging?"
Besseth diverted her attention to the meal, it seemed safer. She'd been there during the scourging because she had aided it. "I was there before the scourging. It was where I lived. Where I was born. Where I became one of the King's servants."
"By King I assume you mean Arthas, and not Terenas." He stared wistfully into his glass, and she nodded. She'd never had any reason to know Terenas, except that he was the King's father. He had died at the King's hand, mere days before she'd come into his service.
"Terenas was a little before my time."
"He was a good man, a good king." He gazed at her mournfully for a long moment, and she shrugged. As she'd said, Terenas was before her time, mourning a dead man was a waste of time, of effort. "When did you come to Arthas's service?"
"When he led the Scourge to our farm. He was still only the Prince then, and they found me there."
"You are one of Arthas's original death knights?" Horror and amazement colored his voice. They had been few then, still finding their feet beneath them.
"I am counted amongst the second group." She murmured. She had not been one of the absolute first, those had come from Arthas's original men at arms, and Besseth had not been one. But what she was still made her one of the few, rare survivors of a time lost in memory. Declan and Diarmid, her firstborns, were older in service than the vast majority of the True King's servants. She was barely weeks older than they, and decades younger. Sometimes she wondered if the pair had ever contemplated that... "Raised from the scourging of Lordaeron."
"So you have been this for eight years." He sighed, "Lost to the Light."
Besseth grimaced, she'd always known paladins to be fools, but now she was going to be forced to listen to them. There had been precious little Light in her life before the Scourging. The King had brought her closer to that than any paladin could hope to, snatching her from hell and giving her the power to strike back. Only under his aegis had she felt safe enough to raise the young ones that life had denied her. And in repayment for that, she had produced nine of the greatest death knights the Scourge knew.
"Bah." She spat, glaring at him. She had stood down, yes, but that hardly made her a great follower of the Light. This one called her a prisoner of war, and that was correct. She would not raise a blade against him or the Argent Crusade until called upon to do so again by the King, but she was no traitor.
"You doubt that?" He asked warily.
"I was lost to the Light long before the Prince came for me, Tib. The Light is a luxury for fine young ones with food on the table, wood in the stove and wool on their backs. The rest of us find our way in the darkness."
She rested her forehead against the palm of her head, exhausted. Without the King's strength to gird her, bolster her, she felt pathetically weak. At least the children were not here to view this.
"Hmmm." She could sense his disagreement, but he had the common grace to not pursue it...yet. "Be that as it may, you need to sleep. We can agree to disagree for now." He moved to pick her up, and she considered putting up a struggle, but that seemed like a great deal of work for little reward. She was asleep well before he made it to his rooms and planted her in the extra bed he kept in his office. He tucked her in, and went in search of clothing to replace the rotting tatters she was wearing under her armor. With Jen's aid, he gathered a pile of colorful, pretty dresses, as far from the dull, darkness worn by the few servants of the Scourge who bothered to dress as he could manage.