At least the paladin kept some books. His pickings were slim compared to her own personal library, those she had rescued, and gifts from the children...and pathetic compared to the great library of Icecrown that she had been given access to, but they were something to help pass the time. Idle was not completely unusual for her, but forcibly idle and unfocused was. She sighed, and glanced out of his window overlooking the lists. He was out there, she caught sight of him, but another caught her attention with greater interest. While Tibault was one of the worthy, he was adult, formed, oathbound and finished. That, on the other hand, was not.

She stood, narrowing her eyes in thought, feeling the immediate confirmation. That was one of the worthy, young, awkward, unformed, unmelded. Besseth's stomach clenched. No, not here, not now. There was no way she'd be allowed to touch that one. He was already counted among the young being trained as a paladin...

Tibault frowned when the death knight appeared in his doorway. She'd been hesitant, stubbornly resistant, to leaving his home without him pushing her to. Two weeks had changed her greatly; she'd gained a great deal of weight and had lost the odd pall of death which had clung to her. Even the zealot's marks were fading as her color returned. A few more weeks, and he thought she'd hit the edge of lovely he'd first seen the hints of.

Her gaze flicked between him and the list field, warily, and then she set her jaw and moved towards the field. He stared at her as she came up behind one of the younger recruits, her gaze solemn and thoughtful. He'd been watching the same young man, watching him struggle. He was taller, thinner, much more awkward than his classmates. The agreement was that, when he grew into his height, much of his problems would work their way out.

Besseth stopped immediately behind him, said something to him, and the young man nodded. Tibault's eyes widened when she wrapped her left arm around his belly, stepping in closely behind him, touching all of the way down her body. So much for fearing the living, for their urges... few things had more of those urges than a stripling lad... She grasped his sword hand with hers, adjusting his grip on the practice blade he bore. The lad had his head tilted, listening, considering her words. She had attracted the attention of the trainer, who was moving briskly down the line towards them, until Tibault waved him off. No...

The man glared, moving instead to Tibault's side. "Reason why you're going to let the death knight paw my student?" He demanded under his breath, and Tibault shrugged. "I want to see what she's doing." He muttered in response, and the trainer sighed. How much damage could she do anyway? Broad daylight, in front of a score of paladins...

"Go!" He heard her whisper sharply, and the boy stepped into the sword drill he'd been working on, the death knight one step to his side like a frail shadow. She matched him move for move, her hand open and pushing his attack further when it needed to be powered, gliding back when he needed to hold it. By the fifth time she'd run him through it, the young man's improvement was undeniable, and Tibault arched a brow at the trainer.

"She's good." He finally granted. "Unfortunately, she can't be trusted. I hear tell she trained death knights?"

"Some of the best, Mograine said." Tibault said, his eyes still planted on the pair. His first sense was to stop that, pull her away, but she seemed so suddenly alive, so suddenly there. Tirion had insinuated that boredom was a danger, and for the first time since she was well enough to be back on her feet, she didn't seem to be bored.

"Thank you, mistress." The lad grinned, until he caught his first good look at his benefactor. His expression stuttered slightly, but the smile never completely faded. "It seems so simple now."

"You are welcome." She smiled, the first time that Tibault had seen her do that. It transformed her face, and the young man's eyes widened. He blushed, glancing at the ground, and Tibault moved to rescue the pair of them.

"Nicely done, Anselm."

"Thank you, my lord." He nodded, and moved when Tibault gestured for him to rejoin his class, watched over by the ruffled instructor.

"I know, I know." Besseth growled, her voice still much deeper than most normal women's, even after she was obviously reverting back to her former appearance. "Leave the baby paladins be. I will lead them astray..." Her eyes followed the youth as he moved away.

"You trained for the Lich King." He finally felt the opening to breach the subject, and she raised level brown eyes to him.

"I did, yes. I've trained nine, one every year for the past eight years."

He frowned at the blatant error, and she chuckled. "The first were twins. I raised and trained them as they were born, had lived, and had died...together. Declan and Diarmid." Maternal pride crossed her features; her faint smile was almost smug. "I dislike seeing worthy young ones struggle without aid. That one would do better with a dedicated trainer..."

"We lack that luxury." He stated. Wouldn't they all do better with dedicated teachers? The concept of one trainer, one student, that she referred to stunned him. The Scourge had that luxury? What were they turning out in Icecrown?

"Hmmm." She breathed, "Truly sad. He will not shine like this. And then he will fail."

"You think you can do better?"

"I know I can do better. The lack of my library would be a hindrance, but I could still manage. I mother the finest, Tibault. That one would qualify, but he'll never have that chance."

"He's meant to be a paladin."

She shrugged, turning her back to him and facing his home again. "He's meant to be great." She whispered. "Paladin, death knight... none matters. If you do not fill that gap, if I do not fill that gap, then another will."

"You're a cynic."

"And you're a paladin. Means you lost touch with reality a long time ago, so blinded by the Light that you see nothing else." She moved away, back to the house, leaving him trailing in her dust. Again, if she spouted that in rage, in anger, he could face it. He had difficulty facing her calm, gentle resignation.

"What have we ever done to you?" He demanded, when she had crossed the dim threshold, and stood within the kitchen. "You are the one who aided in blighting Lordaeron. You are the one who did not stand for her. You are not even dead, so you have no excuse! You're not even dead, but your students are!" The dimness of the room was a relief from the bright glare of the list field, and he pulled the door closed behind him.

"Done to me?" She queried softly, "Nothing. Done for me? Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing." She sat at the trestle table, studying the scarred surface of the wood. "The world is full of nothings, Tibault. But you're so blinded by what you are that you never bother to see anything else for what it is. Certainly, I helped blight Lordaeron. I admit that freely. May Good King Terenas rot in hell, and the Silver Hand with him."

There was the edge of hatred she had been missing...it was still faint, and much less than he was used to, but it was present. Besseth Southcross hated. She raged, against something, and those were the tools he needed. Calm acceptance was too logical, and he could find no chinks in it. This was different.

"Why?"

She laughed, and he was somewhat dismayed that most of it seemed to be honest amusement with him and that the edge of rage he was counting on was nearly gone. "As you keep reminding me, Tibault, I was a citizen of Lordaeron. I found her king lacking. So I supported her Prince to the Throne. I serve a Menethil, to this day. Certainly, Terenas failed me. Uther failed me. The Silver Hand failed me. That's fine, Tibault. They lie dead..." She held her hand open before her face, "And this hand has been anointed with the blood of the so called Lightbringer. I do not let their lacks eat me, Tibault. They failed. They paid. It's time to carry forward."

"By destroying every living on the world?"

She chuckled, shaking her head. "Precious, precious little paladin." She breathed, "For all the world is dark and you don't want to see it that way."

"All the world is not dark. You've been locked in darkness for so long that you don't remember..."

She stood, her eyes calm and resigned as she watched him. "I don't remember what, Tibault?"

"What it was like...before?"

"Before. There was no before, Tibault. This is all that is. Every scar on my body came from before I served Arthas. They came from those who were supposed to love me, keep me, and care for me. My father. My husband. I do remember, Tibault, and that is the problem. The darkness was there before, unnoticed, as paladins and nobles rode by, unimpressed by the problems of a peasant farm woman. All most of them ever cared about was how cheaply my husband would sell me to them for a night. This is better than before, Tibault. Or I wouldn't be here."

"So you've been hurt, and you hold it against us."

"When your job is to prevent, protect and care, I most certainly do. Paladins are all bluster and little substance, full of fight for the big, glorious fights, but they miss the small ones. And mine was just a small one. The master has cared for me well beyond the will of any paladin."

"Cared for you? You were a skeleton, wasting away. If he truly cared for you, I possibly may not have been able to take you at Light's Hope. You would have had the weight, muscle and physical ability to hold me back. But you didn't."

"As long as I live, I am weak." The proclamation was again calm and level. She believed it. He knew, at that moment, that she was well aware of the plot to have killed her at New Avalon, and condoned it.

"If that is so..." He stared at her, "Then why have you waited this long to die? If you truly believe that your life makes you weak, less, then why have you struggled so long to stay alive? You must have, to have survived this long. Some part of you won't give it up without a fight, Besseth. Some part of you understands, still. And that is why we're still willing to fight for you, because on some level, you still fight for yourself."

She did not give him the argument he expected, she contented herself with a shrug. "What does it matter?" She finally asked. "You say you will fight for me, but you will deny me the only joy in my life. Living here, like this, is what? At least Arthas gave me what I wanted, without question. You will just talk, and talk about how valuable I am, how redeemable I am, and it's nothing but empty words, Tibault. You'll never trust me enough, nor should you."

"You wish to train Anselm."

There was a flash of something in her eyes, desire, anger, almost akin to lust, and then it was gone, hidden again beneath her outward calm. "A cruel question, paladin. But I guess I deserve it." She stood slowly, moving towards the stairs. "All of this has tired me." She breathed, "I go to sleep now."

He watched her go, and waited long enough for her to sleep, before moving back to the window. His eyes found Anselm's auburn head, and he frowned. Yes, in those few moments, he had seen a light shine there, but it was gone again. The lad was awkward, fumbling, and it seemed worse now, like something had been snatched from him. It was pure foolishness to actually consider giving her what she shied away from requesting, the blessing to train one of their initiates.

He shouldered his cloak, and moved back out into the brightness, his steps long now that he had made up his mind. Tirion would deny the request, but he would ask it anyway.