The sharpening breeze cut through the lists, and Besseth sighed in a mix of utter boredom and a growing anticipation. So much talk. Such little doing. As if they didn't already know how important this was. Call the mount. Call the weapon. The final step before they knelt to become a true paladin. There was nothing to say about it, but the trainers somehow managed to wax, if not poetic, then vociferously, about the importance of this day.

"Anselm Tiegan."

He would not fail. He could not fail. He'd had the best, and it showed. Tibault watched him from the side of the list, his gaze intent. "Call your mount."

Almost before the command was given, it was there. No surprise. Besseth studied the grass trying to grow in the packed sand of the list field. Call the mount, yes. His was as great as she would expect. Call the weapon... She watched, rapt, as he called the weapon... a great, golden warhammer. He grinned like a child at Winter's Veil, and she chuckled. He'd earned it.

"Besseth Southcross." That was a different thing all together. Earned? Had she really, honestly earned this? Was it finally going to fall apart after all this time, all this effort? She looked straight into Tirion's level eyes... he had never foundered in his faith in her. Neither had Tibault. Anselm. "Call your mount."

She closed her eyes, unwilling to watch this. It would be the same small dreadsteed she had ridden in the Scourging and beyond. Worse, it would be nothing at all. There was a sudden murmur from the watchers, she felt a presence beside her, but was still too fearful to look. "Call your weapon."

There was a weight in her hands, odd for one who had wielded an axe for a decade. She opened her eyes... there was a cold length of shining steel in her hands, a sword. She stared at it, puzzled. A sword? And the massive shadow of a great charger which blotted out the sun, a wall standing next to her. It was easily as large as the monster that Anselm had summoned, with smoldering eyes and an iron gray coat.

"Besseth is quite impressive."

Tibault did not dignify that with a response, watching her lead her shining new charger off of the list field. "She failed none of her tasks, Highlord." That was also putting it mildly. With the minor exception of her little trip to Acherus, she had never failed to shine at her tasks. If she wasn't in the same class as Anselm, she would be hands down the finest paladin of this class. Now, she was in a toss up with him.

"No signs that things are not as they seem?" Tirion asked, watching her meet up with an ecstatic Anselm. She accepted an exuberant embrace from the young paladin, and Tibault frowned. Mograine's words at the encampment beneath Ebon Hold had hit a little too close for his comfort. It was just his luck to find a woman who made his breath short and his heart burn, who had been so badly abused that she would not give him a second glance, even though she lived beneath his roof. Soon, he wouldn't even have the excuse he had used with himself... that it was immoral to become involved with a student of his. Besseth ceased to be that tomorrow morning...

"Except for what happened when we took her to the Ebon Hold, no."

"Hhhmnmm. It is perhaps not wise to push that. Like it or not, she has claws in her soul. It would be better to send her against a common foe for us and the Scourge.

"The Legion."

"The Legion. Outland is far, far from Arthas. Perhaps Besseth would do well that truly distant from him, and his."

"Hmmm." Tibault muttered, feeling the Highlord's gaze upon him.

"Tibault?"

"Nothing, Highlord."

Tirion leaned against the railing which marked the outermost edge of the lists, his eyes back on Besseth. She had her back to the pair of them, her attention still squarely focused on Anselm. "So that is how it is." The Highlord noted, and Tibault grimaced. Hiding anything from the man was an impossibility, as always. "She is worthy, Tibault. Tomorrow will make her moreso, adult, free."

"Maybe she is free. Maybe she is not." He'd paid close attention to several statements made by Besseth, and he'd gotten contradictory information. "She was married before the plaguing."

"I was aware of that."

"She refers to her marriage as past, but refers to her husband in the present tense. I get the impression she doesn't consider him gone."

That appeared to worry Tirion more than anything Tibault had told him. The Highlord had handled the story of her bellowing out Arthas's words at Ebon Hold better than he took those words. "Their marriage was not a happy one, I've gathered." He said, his words guarded, and Tibault did not bother to rein back the harsh bark of laughter that statement brought.

"From what Besseth will admit to, it was brutal."

"Hhmmm." Tirion's grizzled brows dropped lower. "She lived in Lordaeron? Close to Light's Hope, I was told?"

"Yes."

"There were many records recovered from Light's Hope, Tibault. See if you can find something in the ones we brought back from there. And..." He shrugged. "There are many ways to end a marriage. Besseth considers it done, which is more than half the battle. A divorce. An annulment..."

"Putting a sword in his hand and telling him to stand for his crimes..."

Tirion sighed. "That, too. Hardly sporting to send him up against those who would champion Besseth, or worse, against Besseth herself, but a valid point still. Go see if the information is there, Tibault. Then we go to Besseth with this. I will not go behind her back. But Tibault, she is not so far gone from us that a good man could not find a place in her heart."

Besseth slept. She might have been the only one in her class to accomplish that feat, but she had. She woke to a pure, beautiful day, listening to the sounds of the house she had begun to take for granted... Two deep, male voices downstairs, both whom she loved in differing ways, muted laughter. The sounds of the Order stirring outside.

She crawled out of bed, staring at herself in the glass mirror hanging on the wall. It showed a face she had once grown to hate, that of a lovely woman with wide brown eyes, and a thick braid of honey blonde hair. But that was the face that would gain her the smile she was beginning to notice cross Tibault's face every time he saw her.

I don't know if I'm ready to go there. That would mean letting go of things she wasn't certain she was willing to let go of. Was it time to grow up that much? "Bah." She grumbled, dressing and going downstairs. She'd worry about that after breakfast, after today.

"You're awake." Tibault greeted, placing breakfast on the table. He was a good cook; she'd have to give him that. And yes, he wore that smile. "Now that I have both of you here, I wanted to let you know how proud I am of you two."

Proud of her. It was a puzzling idea. Had anyone ever been proud of her before? No. She didn't think so. The true king had valued her most times, giving her what she required without question, but she'd never gotten any pride from him. Her children, no, not either. They wanted to be, but were not content with what she had been. "Thank you, Tibault." She breathed, taking her seat at the foot of the table. She'd worry about all this in due time. Right now, she was busy.

The Order's chapel was packed, it was small for the crowd within it, but Tirion had always insisted on taking the oaths of his paladins within it, rather than the cavernous depths of Stormwind's cathedral. "Besseth." He breathed a greeting when it was her turn, resting his gauntleted hands on her bare ones clutching the quillions of her blade. "Welcome to the Order today, my sister." He murmured, then began to project his voice to the rear of the Chapel, walking her through the final oaths of a paladin of Azeroth.

Tibault frowned, turning the pages over in his hands. He had found the records of Besseth's birth...she appeared as Bessbeth Southcross, thirty four years ago, and was counted among the census, four years later as Besseth Southcross. He found the records of her mother's death, when she was eight. He could even pinpoint when she had left her father's farm and moved to another, owned by one John Medlyn. From there, until the Fall, she was listed as part of his household, but never as his wife. All the information was present, and it wasn't there.

He sighed, tucking the volume under his elbow and rising to find Tirion.

"Did you find it?" Tirion demanded without greeting when he saw Tibault, and the great book with him.

"I think so." Tibault rested the battered book on Tirion's desk. "I don't believe Besseth was ever truly married under the high law. The union was not consecrated, I gather. It was common law." And thereby, under the Order's view, meant little. If there was no oath before a church official, then Besseth was not married. She had no ties to another which should keep Tibault at bay. No oaths for him to respect.

"Bring her in. It's time to get the truth of this. I do not like the idea of one of my paladins tied into a union that could cause such problems. And, as a paladin, she'll be listed in our rosters, and Stormwind's censuses. We need to know."

Tibault nodded, sending a page after her and waiting. She arrived quickly, her expression guarded. "Lord Tibault. Highlord? I was told you needed to see me?" She asked, and took the seat beyond Tirion when the Highlord motioned her to sit.

"What is the current status of your marriage, Besseth?" Tirion asked without greeting or pleasantry, and she blanched pale as the first day that Tibault had ever seen her.

"It doesn't exist." She managed after a long and awkward pause. "It has no status."

Tirion stared at her, opening the record book before her. "You are this Besseth Southcross?" He asked, and she leaned forward to study the page. She nodded assent after a long pause, slamming the book closed, her expression going empty and expressionless. It did not sway Tirion, who remained calm and determined in spite of it. "You are familiar with high law, Besseth. You did quite well in those classes. And you are aware that, as a paladin, you are supposed to live those laws, be an example of them. We can find no records of a marriage, Besseth. Was it common law?"

She stared back at him, before she broke eye contact and glanced in Tibault's direction. "It was. There was no consecration. No oaths. My father owed him money, and I was the payment. Now I know that no official of the Church would have blessed such an arrangement."

Tirion nodded, obviously unsurprised. Tibault clenched his back teeth together and stared blankly at the floor. The Highlord would get the answers he wanted, and get them from her with much less anger. And if she did get angry, he'd prefer it not be at him. Tirion did not live with her. He did. "John Medlyn." Tirion continued, and if were possible, she went even more pale, a bright crescent of blanched pink rising on her cheeks. "You don't even claim his name..."

"No. I don't. My name is Southcross. Why are you asking this, Highlord? Certainly you would not try to hold me to the marriage...?"

Tirion sat, running his fingers over the cover of the book. "My fears were simple, Besseth. From what you have told us, you were married to a man who never deserved you. He was at least partially responsible for your decision to follow the Lich King as truly as you did. If he was to show up now, and if you were truly wed, he could create chaos. My thoughts, if you were truly married still, was to petition the church for an annulment. End it all, release that tie upon your soul. Allow those around you who might seek a more intimate relationship with you the freedom to attempt it unfettered. You are surrounded by paladins, Besseth. An oath is sacred, but if none was given, then it does not matter. Where is he?"

"Who?" Besseth echoed, an edge of panic audible in her voice. Her glance kept a constant flickering between Tirion and the doorway. The Highlord did not dignify the question with an answer, and she blinked. "John?" She finally demanded, her voice breaking.

"Yes. John. Does he live still?"

"He... ran afoul of one of my children, Highlord. They went hunting him, the three of them that I had then. They...caught him. He is, as I said, not an issue."

Tirion chuckled, shaking his head. "I should have guessed." He finally sputtered. "Do I want to know?"

She studied her hands, folded in her lap, the gleam of her shiny new signet ring blatant even in the shadows. "John's a geist now." She finally stated. "He wears my so called wedding ring around his neck so that he will never forget what he pays for."

"I'm sorry, Besseth."

It had taken him over an hour to commit himself to warily climb the stairs. She had felt him come to the bottom several times. Felt him stare up into the stairwell. Decide to wait and then retreat. Return. He finally climbed them slowly, as if he expected her to scream at him when he reached the step she considered too close. He had finally made his way in, and now stood just within her doorway, obviously close enough to it to beat a quick retreat if he felt he needed to. "I needed to know."

The part of her which still was Besseth, Champion of the Scourge whispered a negative. Her secrets were just that, hers, and secret. She didn't need to share them with bright, shiny little paladins trying to get in her bed. The other part, Besseth of the Argent Crusade, understood his questions all too well. If she was truly still wed, then he would be held away from her until that could be resolved. He would keep her marriage, even as broken as he understood it to be, sacred. "I know." She finally whispered.

"I...love you, you know." He sighed, as if they were the hardest words he'd ever said. "I know you'll turn away from me now, but I had to say it before you were gone. Good luck, Besseth."

He turned, and she frowned. He was going to still leave it up to her. Why she was surprised, she wasn't certain. She was too used to men who pushed, and it was obvious he wasn't going to. He really would just walk away now, in spite of everything. He really would just turn his back on the past year, on his freshly stated feelings, and walk out of her life. "Where do you think you're going?" She asked, sitting up in bed and dropping the pillow she'd been clutching to the floor.

"I've said all there is to say, Besseth." He muttered, his back still turned. "You made it plainly clear, in the very beginning; you had no interest in this. You prefer undead males for their lack of...urges...I believe you said. I'm not undead. I don't lack those urges. I'm sorry. You've done absolutely nothing to show me otherwise. It's strictly..."

The damn fool was simply going to talk it to death. Besseth sighed, rising to her feet and coming up behind him. Why she was nervous, she had no clue. It wasn't like she was some blushing virgin, untouched. She knew this man much more than she had any before, including her husband. She knew his heart, and his soul. Maybe that was it. "You talk too much, Tibault." She stated, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her ear against his back. She could hear the deep pound of his heart, the rush of his breathing. He smelled good. He felt good. It was all...good.

Anselm let himself into the silent house, the sky at the east lighting in false dawn. He had to be cautious, Besseth was a frantically light sleeper, and Tibault was not much deeper a one than she. The first thing he noted, with a suddenly sinking heart, was that Tibault's bedroom door hung open. "Damn." Anselm muttered. He was an adult, he should be able to stay out without one of the watchers waiting up for him like this... He moved around the chimney, more than half expecting Tibault to be waiting. The chairs facing the fire were empty, and the fire had banked down a long time ago. No one waited.

He peeked into Tibault's room and it was quiet, his bed had not been slept in. So either Tibault had not slept in the house at all, perhaps he was at the Keep, or in Northrend, or... Anselm glanced up at the ceiling. Or he had finally bowed to the obvious and could be found in Besseth's bed. Interesting idea.

It was not an idea that Tibault had ever wanted to hear, throwing up bluster that it would be inappropriate to try with Besseth; she was a student of his... It had taken a good while before Tibault had admitted the rest. "She's been harshly used, Anselm. Don't try. Don't even hint. Let her heal." Fair enough. There was a wide eyed twitch that Besseth showed on occasion that lent weight to those few words, but she had never shown that vaguely hunted expression around Tibault.

Anselm slid up the stairs, listening every inch of the way. The house was not completely empty; he could feel someone was here. They belonged, as well. His guess was Besseth, she felt that way, and he rarely sensed Tibault's presence like this. Her door was firmly closed, and he contemplated it for a long moment. Senseless curiosity was unbecoming, but... He grasped the latch, carefully moving it up and nudged the door open a few inches.

Besseth was indeed at home, curled up on her side, asleep facing the door. She was also not alone, Tibault slept in the same position beside her, his arm wrapped around her. Anselm gave a tiny hmmph under his breath, pushing the door tight and gently dropping the latch back. Finally. He grinned from ear to ear, shaking his head as he carried on to his own, empty, bed.