"Back again, Tibault? Problems?" Tirion sighed with the air that all he was brought were problems, and he did not look forward to another heaved on him. "The death knight being an issue?"
Tibault sat on the chair that the highlord motioned to. "No, milord. Besseth has been well behaved. She has begun to train Anselm, as promised, and he is making quick progress. Milord, why did you send her back with me? To the Order, instead of into a prison?"
"The woman burns with the Light, Tibault. She is a victim, not a perpetrator... Incarcerating her would do no good, and much harm, I felt. I was wrong?"
"No, milord. That's why I've come to see you, in fact. Besseth submitted to the healing and purging you required...obviously, since she is teaching Anselm." The Highlord nodded, and Tibault took a deep breath. "The healing was more successful than I dared to hope. It seems to have severed Besseth's tie to the Lich King. Her soul shines now, obvious to pretty much any to see. I have offered her the chance to train with it..."
Tirion's face flowed through a myriad of expressions, too quickly for Tibault to accurately pin any of them down. "Besseth is... thirty?" He finally asked slowly, and Tibault grimaced.
"Thirty three, she says. Nine years since the Scourging, and she admits to having been married before that. I know she is old, Highlord, but..."
"But I am old enough to still be her father." Tirion mused slowly, "And the Light did not hold that against me when I came back to the Order. She has been training steadily for the past nine years by training others. She is fit, on edge, and ready to go?"
"She is."
"Then go ahead. See if the Light will bless her, and if it does... begin her training. I would welcome Besseth Southcross as one of my sisters in the Order, Tibault. Let her shine as brightly as she will." He stared for a long moment at his desk before him, before pushing his chair back from it. "Her tie is severed?" He finally murmured, and Tibault nodded.
"Milord, you would not recognize her." If he hadn't been there the entire time, Tibault himself would doubt that he'd gotten the right woman back. "She is...lovely. She has lost all of the marks she had from his service. All of her gifts from him have died. It is wondrous and frightening all at once. I fear for her if that void is not filled. I fear for Anselm. Highlord, I fear for myself..."
He hadn't meant to say it all, but Tirion had always had the ability to get Tibault to pour his soul out. He grimaced when the Highlord's steady granite eyes locked on his face. "She's lovely." He repeated slowly. "I'm growing...fond...of her. I will fight to keep her."
"I see." Somehow, the Highlord meant just that. He saw, and did not judge. Tibault had always envied the man's ability to accept without judgment. "And she is willing to be initiated as a trainee. Very well, then, I will return to Stormwind, release her from the hold I have on her, and take her initiation oath from her. Then you can begin her training, Tibault."
Besseth stalked the faire, in a foul mood. Everything about it annoyed her, but she didn't want to go back home. She hated being made a fool of. She doubly hated being made a fool of in front an audience. And to be made a fool of in front of one of her children, still in training, was the greatest insult she could imagine. Anselm would never respect her now. Damn Tibault. Damn him to hell and back. He'd known he could take her on the ground at Light's Hope, the outcome here, now, should have been obvious.
"Mistress Besseth?"
Oh, there was the last soul she wanted to run into now. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and turned to give a display of gowns in the booth next to her more attention than they warranted. Anything to keep from facing him... "Anselm." She greeted slowly.
"I...don't understand." He murmured, moving closer.
"What's to understand?" The fingertips holding a rather garish lavender gown had gone numb, and she forced her attention to remain on it. "Tibault brought me down at Light's Hope. You knew that. No reason why he would fail to do so again..."
"I was told you were a death knight. A champion of the Scourge. Of the Lich King himself... Something has gone wrong. Any fool can see that, milady."
"Don't worry about it, Anselm." She shook her head at the booth's dealer when he decided the long moment she had spent staring at the gown equaled an interest to purchase it.
"Oh. I see." His voice was edged in steel, and she tilted her head to stare at him. He had the look she recognized as outraged and immobile young paladin. Sheer, pure stubborn. "On one hand..." He held out his sword hand, palm up, towards her. "You tell me to grow up. On the other..." He shadowed the motion with his off hand... "You tell me to not worry my young little head over it? And no, that dress is truly ugly."
She sighed, dropping the hem. She'd known that. And it was always harsh when the younglings realized 'grow up' meant they should be treated as the adults they were being pushed to be. "Anselm, the Highlord, Tirion, required me to be cleansed by the Church here before he would allow me to train you. It seems to have broken my tie to the master. I have lost his gifts." A death knight no longer. What a terrible idea.
"You have lost this because you chose to train me?"
That was the realization she had not wanted him to come to. But it was too obvious to not see it. "Yes." She finally admitted it to him, to herself.
He was still for a long moment, his eyes drawn to the deep, flawless blue of the sky vaulted overhead. "Walk with me." He asked finally, and she fell into step with him. She'd spent very little time truly alone with him, always carefully watched by Tibault. That one had taken his victories, both on the list, and her agreement to be trained, and had vanished somewhere with them. No great loss today. "The faire is boring anyway."
She shrugged. It was the first she'd been to, and she'd spent a childhood pining to go to one. No money then, and, laughably, no money now. Her pockets were still as empty as a beggar's. She'd never had a gold to her name. "Where are we going?"
"There's an inn on the docks... Tibault will never find us there. We can talk, for once."
"I've no money." He glanced at her, puzzled, and she spread her hands. "At Icecrown, I was given what I needed or wanted. Here, I am a prisoner... I don't get paid for that."
He chuckled, leading the way through the packed crowds. They thinned when he hit the docks, and by the time he'd come to the inn in question, the street was empty.
"Quite... seedy, young Tiegan." She noted, and he flashed her a cunning, wicked little smile. That was obviously exactly what he found so appealing about it.
"Thank you, Mistress Southcross. I think it's nice too. It has one stellar quality... so far, I've recognized no paladins from the Order in it, and I know most of them." He opened the door, and she smelled good food, and strong beer. Perhaps it wasn't quite as bad as it seemed.
He brought food, beer, and settled at a table in the far corner. "So, what now?" He finally asked. "You have lost your tie, your gifts, and now are...what?"
"Besseth Southcross."
He frowned, obviously hoping to hear more than that. "What does Tibault say?" He tried again, and she sighed.
"Tibault wishes to train me as a paladin."
Anselm straightened, blinked, and stared back at her. "Is that...possible?" He finally managed, and she shrugged, uncertain. It sounded pretty damn foolish to her as well.
"He believes I still hold the Light. That I can be taught to channel it. His greatest worry is that I may be too old to go through the training."
"That would be beyond wonderful." He caught her dubious look, and smiled. "Besseth. The Light is a gift, nothing at all to turn your back on. If I didn't truly believe it, then I wouldn't still be fighting. I gather that your life has been harsh, and that you embraced the darkness you found yourself in, but this is a chance you won't see again. What is the worst that will happen if you try? Are you more afraid of failing...or succeeding?"
Succeeding. If she failed, she would still be exactly what she was, Besseth, servant of the Lich King, held by her enemies. If she succeeded, then she would have to make a choice, the first true one she had made. She had not been asked if she wished to marry. Certainly never been asked her opinion on the worth her husband put in her. There had been no true choice to serve the master...she would serve, living or dead. That had been her choice. Live or die. This asked where her soul went, how she bled and served. This would now, no matter which way she went, make her a traitor. "Succeeding." She admitted, and he nodded.
"Then you would have to decide. Commit. Did you ever truly do that before?"
"Only to my children."
"Fair enough. Give us a chance, mistress. See for yourself. It's the only way you'll ever know for certain."
Only way to know for certain. Besseth was not surprised when she was called into the depths of the Order's keep at Stormwind. She was surprised, however, to see Tirion standing beside Tibault. The aged Highlord glanced at her, then narrowed his eyes and stared, not bothering to hide his surprise. He measured her silently for a very long moment, before raising a brow. "Besseth?"
"Yes."
"I'm impressed. The change in you is a great deal more than I was expecting." He moved closer, extending his hand slowly. When she did not bridle or pull away, he rested his open hand over her heart. She felt warmth, well above his body temperature, and a sudden sense of calm security. "Yes. Truly wondrous, Besseth. Tibault is correct. You have the soul to be a paladin, to stand in the Light with us. Whether or not you make that decision is up to you."
"You're not going to tell I'm too old?" She teased, and he laughed.
"Hell, girl, if you're too damned old, then I'm doomed. But you cannot take up the oaths of an initiate now, not while you are a prisoner of mine." He sighed, glanced up, nodded slowly as if involved in a discussion that only he could hear. "Besseth Southcross. I release you from your capitulation. You are free of me. Make this decision before you with care and great deliberation. Let me know your answer when you are ready to."
"I have already decided, Highlord."
He nodded. "Very well, then. Your decision is?"
She paused long enough to make Tibault look uncomfortable, but Tirion never wavered. "I will enter into this training, if I am still permitted to uphold my responsibilities with Anselm. Otherwise I will not consider it."
Tirion nodded, taking a seat and motioning her to do so as well. She did so, and Tibault sat farther away, close enough to hear, but far enough to seem distanced from it. "While I believe most young paladins in training have a lot to gain by living in the barracks, you have reached a certain age to where I doubt you'll gain much from the experience. You will need to attend the same classes as Anselm, those which teach you how to fight in a group. But I have no intention of removing Anselm from your and Tibault's custody. Things seem to be doing well the way they are now. I will not change them. Since you have made your decision, I would be proud to swear you in as an initiate, Besseth."
"Do you, Besseth Southcross, swear to the service of the Argent Crusade..." Tirion's voice was calm, firm, proud. Tibault, standing just beyond him, also stood proudly. Anselm's face was alight with joy. Besseth just felt...rather empty. The overwhelming denial she'd been expecting, no, praying for, did not happen. There was just one small voice whispering assent. It won in the lack of bellowing denial she'd be hoping for. She had truly been abandoned to her fate, and her fate was this... a paladin. If it wasn't so bitterly sad, it would be laughable.
"This, I swear." It was also sad, that in her thirty three years of life, it was the first oath she'd ever taken. Even her supposed wedding had been without one. The Lich King had never asked for one either, her service had been assumed. She stared at the floor, feeling the weight of Tirion's blade... Ashbringer... on her shoulder. It would know. It would see through this farce, and she'd die, here in the Order's cathedral at Stormwind. Again, on consecrated ground... far from the children.
"Besseth. You have been found worthy. Stand true, stand tall, and begin your training as a paladin of Azeroth."
The form hung from the ceiling, as adept as that odd leaning as any healthy soul on sound ground. The shift from ceiling to wall side caused no dismay as well, it stuck to the wall with the same grace and ease as a spider. It knew what it was looking for, and could feel the power from where it hung. There. It took one last, cautious gaze around before leaping the twenty feet to the cabinet. It was locked but that was little deterrent for a geist on a mission. A second later, the lock clicked and it pulled the door open. A great axe leaned up against the inside corner of the cabinet, the runes gouged into it glowing blue. "Grrhgh." The geist sighed, grasping it and slinging it across its back. A plain, shining walnut box rested beside where the axe had, and the geist's thin, nimble fingers opened it. A stained, stinking banner, white and blue still shining through the blood and filth rested within, along with a leather bag which clinked and ground metallically when the geist prodded it. These were the three items it had been sent to recover, the belongings of the master's mother lost in combat. It tucked the box under an elbow, and was gone, scooting quickly back to where the master waited.
"You got da stuff, ya?" The master asked from the darkness of a shadow thrown from between two trees. A slight fall of snow cascaded down like spilled salt...the day was still and the sky was clear. It would not snow again today. Perhaps tomorrow.
"Grrhgglhg." The geist muttered, unslinging the most important of the relics, the rune weapon of Besseth Southcross. Her child took it, testing its heft and balance.
"Ya. Good. Damn paladins keep 'nough of what's ours." The third child growled, his eyes glowing blue in the deepening twilight. "An' the rest?"
The geist surrendered the box, and Khraben opened the lid reverently. "Ya. Nice job." He rubbed the geist's head thoughtfully. "Nice, nice job, boy."
The geist merely watched him warily, and from its neck, a plain, thin brass ring hung from a fading pink ribbon stained darker in spots.
