Besseth Kellemen lounged in a camp chair, ignoring the foreboding rise of the wind outside. She lounged because there was simply no other way to sit, her hands clasped over the high mound of her belly. Huge. No. That word was not big enough a description. Immense, possibly. She had grown so large it was difficult to breathe, and Tirion's amusement had begun fading weeks earlier. His questions were pointed, cautious... could she have miscalculated? Counted wrong? His hope that she was farther along than stated had died as she approached the time she guessed she was due at.
"Undermining the gates would be... nigh unto impossible. They are not mortar and stone..." It was the same statement she'd made multiple times already, and she grew bored with it. "The ground is frozen around their foundations." She closed her eyes. There had to be a foot firmly lodged beneath her ribcage, and the spawn was strong. She'd kill to draw a full breath again. It was difficult to remember that she had once prayed for this, and mourned its loss.
"Anything can blow."
"The answer to everything is not always blow it up." She was well on the verge of losing her patience. The moment she lost that, then she lost her temper. It was a bad chain, and she simply could not comprehend the small ones' love of explosives. She didn't want to imagine the sheer force it would take to blow any one of the great gates guarding the entrance to the Citadel. If they managed, then she wanted to be as far away as possible... Stormwind was lovely this time of year.
"I concur." The draenei vindicator who sat opposite her had remained silent for most of the planning meeting, his eyes locked on her. She didn't have to ask why, that was the response of most people who newly met her.
A gathering pain grasped her, and she bit her lip. Not this, again. They came. They went. Her first excited thought, weeks ago, was that the babe finally made its way into the world. But no, they always subsided, leaving her frustrated. She'd stopped telling Tibault about them, because each one of them left him the same. He grew as concerned as Tirion, his eyes losing their mirth and joy. "And..." He sighed, standing. "That concludes this."
"Why?" The gnome, startled from his blow up the world litany, squeaked, glaring.
"Because I believe Lady Besseth is fast becoming unfit to continue this."
And he just might be correct. This one did not seem to want to let go like the others had, in fact, it seemed to want to settle in and grind. "I'm fine." She sighed, struggling to her feet as well. The draenei reached out to steady her, and managed to easily catch her when she swayed, a rush of fluid darkening her gown.
Besseth labored, finally. The words both relieved and terrified Tibault. This had not gone nearly as easily as he'd hoped. Besseth was not young. She'd been put through much, and had not handled her pregnancy well. He'd feel better if he was the only one who worried, but he was not. Tirion. Anselm.
So much blood. So many intent healers, the best on the ground here at Tirion's headquarters camp. Tibault felt a thin edge of panic rise, and he fought it down. Tirion's frown had only deepened, the lines between his brows chiseled out in harsh relief. He feared. The priests feared. Tibault would give anything to rest eyes on someone who didn't wear that look. This had been a terrible idea. He should have been smarter, less selfish. He was going to lose her, in a puddle of her own blood. He was going to lose the babe, unborn.
"Push, Besseth. You're close." Tirion growled, and Tibault rested his fingertips on his wife's temples. She was exhausted. She couldn't take much more of this, and all he could do was rest his forehead against hers and pray.
"There!" Tirion hissed, pulling the babe free. "It's a girl, Tibault... a little girl." The Highlord sounded oddly puzzled, and Tibault looked up. It was indeed that, a little girl. She was much smaller than any expectation...such a pregnancy, such a labor, and it was one of the smallest full term babes he'd ever clapped eyes on. "Oh, damnation." Tirion breathed. "Besseth..."
"I know!" She snarled at him, "Not done."
Tibault was more exhausted than he had ever been in his life, but Besseth slept. Those who tended her were still guarded and cautious, but their desperation and chilled panic was lifting. He had the little girl tucked in his lap, she did not sleep but seemed content enough. Her brother rested in Tirion's arms, also awake, also silent. "Twins." He marveled, finally calming enough to let hope in.
"Aye." The Highlord chuckled. "Makes more sense now. Besseth is strong, Tibault. She fights. She'll be fine. You need to sleep yourself..."
"No. Not with Besseth down." There were too many things out there that might be tempted to move on her in such a state.
"We will watch. It will give Anselm something to do."
Anselm had finally been allowed in the room. He was aware enough to know that things had not gone as well as hoped, Besseth had looked terrible the last few times he'd seen her, Tibault not much better. "What gives, Highlord?" He whispered. The room smelled of blood, sweat and fear... entirely too much like a battleground for his tastes. He didn't remember this smell, but the last birthing room he'd been in had been years ago. He wouldn't have known the correlation then. He remembered it being happier, louder, than this subdued, shadowed room, however. The babe had been screaming lustily...but there was near silence here. Surely Besseth had not lost it? She'd lost so many that it seemed bitterly cruel to contemplate the thought of her losing one here and now, but such things happened.
"Besseth and Tibault are exhausted, sleeping." The Highlord murmured. "This is still Northrend. Besseth has...friends...here that could pose problems with her now that she is this vulnerable. Watch over your mentors, Anselm. Keep them safe."
Anselm clenched his jaw and moved closer to the bed. Tibault was asleep in the chair next to it, his face still ashen. Besseth slept in a pool of lamplight, she was pale as the first day he'd seen her. He was almost afraid to look into the cradle next to her, but he gathered up his nerve...more than half of him expecting to find it empty. It was not; in fact it was over full, two fuzzy haired little scraps of humanity tucked into it.
"She had twins."
"Aye. She had twins. Little girl, born first. Little boy, after. This is why we're paladins, boy. To watch over this." The Highlord raised eyes to stare at the wall. "To keep this safe. No glory. No parades."
Twins. Declan blinked, staring at the scry. Besseth had borne...twins. Not identical, as he and Diarmid were, but nonetheless, twins. "All of the mother's firstborns are twins." Diarmid stated slowly. "Her firstborns of death. And her firstborns of life."
A little girl. A little boy. Born here, on the crown of the world. Besseth's flesh and blood. "Diarmid, I have a really bad feeling about this." He murmured, and his twin glanced sideways at him. Besseth would fight now. Fight harder than before, and probably not in a way they wanted to see. She was perfectly willing to not go against them now. Serve the True King now? He doubted. There was now too much going against that idea.
"Besseth belongs with us." Diarmid said, deliberately, slowly. "She is as much ours as we are hers. She doesn't get away from this, Declan. You know that. She has the full gaze of the True King upon her, and he will not let her go. I will not let her go. She does not get to walk away... and leave us behind. The best is that we see the plan through. Besseth. Tibault. Their children. And Anselm. No one gives up anything that way."
Declan sighed. It all sounded wonderful. If only it would play out that way.
It was such a perfect little thing, from the top of its fuzzy head to the tips of its tiny little toes. And Besseth had created it. She was whole enough, intact enough, blessed enough, to have birthed a child for Tibault. "She's beautiful." Tibault chuckled. "She have a name?"
Besseth wrinkled her nose. He had not let go of the boy, even as he watched the little girl with greedy eyes. "Does he have one?"
He glanced down, at the baby he carried. "I was thinking..." He paused awkwardly, and she waited. "Tirion."
It was a fine enough name, indeed...and Besseth had none better. "Tabitha." She finally stated, and he considered it for a long moment.
"Tabitha Kellemen. Yes. It will do nicely."
Even expecting it didn't make it easier to swallow. Declan had known, that the moment Besseth had produced her children, that the hands off policy was over. He just didn't expect the suddenness of the decree. Besseth was to die, on the lands of Northrend. She was to die well, in their grasp. She was to be theirs, again.
He stood, slowly, buckling his harness on. It was time.
They came from the storms. They came from nowhere, and Besseth had no warning of their approach. The strike was perfectly planned, she was as far away from Tirion, Tibault, Anselm, the babies, and the portal out as she could be when the snow beneath her erupted from the rise of the undead beneath. She was armored, as Tirion demanded of those on the ground at Icecrown, armed. She wasn't going down without a fight, and those coming after her seemed to expect that. In fact, they seemed to want it, no chance for quarter or discussion. They were here to kill her.
She felt panic, the usual terror that came from facing her own death. After all, hadn't all of this come from the fact that she didn't want to die? If she had, none of this would have happened. And after panic, came calm. It was too late to flee. Her only choice was to fight, and to give Anselm time to get the babies to safety. He was the one with them. He was the one just steps from the portal. Hopefully he understood the weight of his duty, his responsibility to them... to her. She wasn't getting out of this one, but she was going to take as many with her as she could. They thought they were worthy to take her down?
"Come, little ones." Anselm felt sick, sicker than he'd ever been in his life. Everything in his soul screamed to go to Besseth's defense. She was the target. She was hard pressed, and losing ground. Tibault and Tirion were cut off from her, deliberately kept at bay. He was the closest to her, and he was about to abandon her to her fate. He lifted the babies to his chest and took the five running strides to the portal, and Stormwind beyond.
They were the greatest moments of Besseth's life. The moments when she was well and truly was she was meant to be. The Light flowed through her, and those who sought to touch her were unworthy. She created carnage around her, felt power and a numbing resignation build at every step. She knew these. They weren't mindless, sent to overwhelm her. They were death knights, true combatants, a mark of her favor. They were those who thought they were her betters, those who mocked her behind her back when the darkness did not latch and flow from her. Those who called her small. Incompetent. Less, because she would not embrace death. Well, she still didn't. They'd have to cram it down her throat first, and they would know they'd crossed her to do it.
It was sickening to watch. Declan stood on the overview beside a silent Kel'thuzad, unwilling to become part of the erupting mayhem. "What?" He finally demanded of the great lich, and he felt the focus of its attention
"I watch a great paladin fall." It breathed. "Always a spectacle. Sad, because she makes a better paladin than she did a death knight. Hopeful, that she will now make a death knight of that..." It pointed unerringly in her direction. "Caliber. I look forward to aiding your mother's passage into death. It is why I was called here. Only the best."
"Maybe she will not fall."
It puzzled for a moment, contemplating. "Declan. She will fall. She already has, she just hasn't realized it yet. Her wounds are already fatal; her heart will not let her stop yet. It would be kindest to take her from where she is...for she is about to die in the midst of those who love her. The less damage to her from now, the better." It began the cast, and Declan steeled himself. One moment, he was on a precipice above Tirion's base camp, and the next, on a perch above the courtyard before the Citadel. Below him, Besseth, surrounded.
"Enough!" He yelled, moving towards her. Kel'thuzad was right. The less done to her now, the better, if she was truly dying.
The assault had ceased. Besseth was on her knees, bleeding into the snow of the courtyard. Not fair. How could this happen, now? How could she be given what she had been given, and have it snatched away? Declan's bellow was far away, all that was not far away was the rasp of her own breathing, and the touch of the wind on her cheeks. She was dying. It was over. She sensed Declan's proximity. Diarmid...as well, coming on quickly. Raien. Ellorie. They were all here, to watch her fall. Not a one was going to intercede.
"Mother." Declan grasped her shoulders gently. "It's over."
She rested her forehead against the freezing stones of the yard, vainly trying to wish it away, but the blood was pooling around her knees. He was right. It was indeed, over.
"I'm so sorry, Tibault. Anselm." She breathed into the wind. "I didn't mean this."
The twins grasped her, picked her up, and moved through the silent mob. She knew exactly where they going, and if she had any strength at all left, would have fought them. The Cathedral was breathlessly silent, but she could feel his presence within it.
"She has fallen." He stated slowly. "And, as promised, she will rise on the day of her fall. I will, Kel'thuzad will, raise her here. As befits. Get her out of that abomination she wears..."
Her armor, which had started the day proud, gleaming, golden, hit the floor with metallic rings.
Tibault.
The air was chilled on her skin. She could feel the touch of the lich, ice in her soul.
Anselm.
She was placed upon the altar, gently, reverently.
Tirion.
Power. Cold, sharp power erupted around her, she could still feel Declan's fingers on her shoulder.
My babies. My order. This is not right.
"Besseth Southcross. Champion of the one True King." His touch, upon her brow, gentle. "Finally, you have come to me, ready to take the power offered."
The world dropped out from beneath her, and there was silence, unbroken.
It remained so for a heartbeat, and an eternity.
"Choose." The other presence was strong, calm, and she sensed it held off a torrent of chaos.
Choose? What choice was there? She was dead. She had the Lich King on one side. Kel'thuzad on the other. Her children stood by...
"Choose. Which are you, Besseth? Are you Besseth Southcross, Champion of Arthas? Are you Besseth Kellemen, Paladin of the Argent Crusade? Now is the point where you must choose. You can be both no longer."
Did it matter? She was dying...
""You have died. That is over. Now Arthas seeks to raise you as promised, one of his worthy. Choose who you are."
Choose. Choose between dying or undeath. Between being the woman treasured by Tibault, the Order... and the woman treasured by those she had created as certainly as she'd made her little ones. She'd have that power that she'd always wanted... She'd be the mother to them that they'd always wanted and deserved.
Besseth's breathing had become labored, agonal, and Declan stared impotently forward. She was dying, what she had fought so hard for snatched from her. His twin sensed his distress, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Everything worth having is worth getting dirty for." He muttered, a quote from the woman dying beneath Declan's hand. She took one last breath, and there were no more.
"Good. Now we raise her..."
"As you will, master." Kel'thuzad agreed, and the pair began the work. It should be exactly as it was, the master giving them exactly what he'd promised. So much power coalescing, to be poured into Besseth. She would be grand. Glorious. A death knight to put dread into the hearts of her enemies. A true champion of the Scourge...
And the power dissipated. The master stilled, tilted his head, his eyes narrowing into slits. "Kel'thuzad?" He asked.
"She did not rise."
"I can see that. She's still dead."
Motionless, her blood freezing to the altar. The power to raise her, vanished. "She...did not rise." The lich repeated.
This time, the master did not dignify the statement with a comment. Obviously she did not. She was chilling under Declan's fingertips. She felt empty. Gone. He stared at Diarmid, who maintained a frighteningly expressionless stare. He had to feel it as well. Besseth was gone. She had not been raised. She had just died.
"What just happened?"
"She refused to rise. Her soul...rejected it. She has died, my king."
"And if you force it? We have many who did not bend... Besseth is mine. She followed my wishes for years. She will come around again..."
"Forcing it will bring her back, as a mindless one. There will be nothing left of her. Only a corpse..."
"No." Declan was barely aware that he had spoken out of turn. The only solace he had was that he was not the only. The rejection had come from eight others, those who watched their mother in stunned silence. "If she has died, then she died here, with us. And here is where she stays. Here on our ground. In our Cathedral."
Tibault was beyond sickened. Besseth was gone. He knew that, well into the depth of his soul. And all he could do was sit, and stare into nothingness. He was a widower, with two babies. His father had been right. He'd been wrong.
"Tibault?" Anselm. He should have something to say to the boy, but his mind had ceased to work. It danced around things that were important, and focused on the unimportant. Besseth was gone. That was important. The babies. They were important. "I...I got the little ones to Stormwind. I am...sorry. I should have..."
"There was no way to make it to Besseth, Anselm." It sounded exactly like Tibault wanted it to. It was good to see that Tirion still had his wits about him, and could answer in the way that Tibault was no longer able to. "You did all you could by removing the twins from harm."
I am...sorry. I should have..."
"There was no way to make it to
Besseth, Anselm." It sounded exactly like Tibault wanted it to. It was good to see that Tirion still had his wits about him, and could answer in the way that Tibault was no longer able to. "You did all you could by removing the twins from harm. It's what Besseth would have asked from you."
Tibault snorted, finally willing himself to stand and move to the doorway. The camp was only now beginning to calm down in the wake of the assault, but he could see that the casualties had been high. They had pulled him back from the point that Besseth had stood at, across the yard from where he had been surrounded at. "Tibault." Tirion began, "You need to get those wounds tended."
"I want to go to her." He already feared the worst, but none of them had bothered to actually say it yet. He couldn't go to her, because Besseth wasn't there. There was no way they would have left her here. They had come for her, and not to leave her dead in the snow.
Anselm had already been gone when the blue flash had appeared, signifying the end of the assault. After that, the Scourge had just faded back into the snow... Tibault already knew what had occurred; he just needed Tirion to confirm it.
"Besseth is not there." The Highlord sighed. "But you knew that already. There's a lot of blood, hers, but she is gone. The lich's spell to remove her was stronger than our wards to keep her..."
"Lich." Of course there would be a lich. Besseth was fated to be raised as a true death knight, as promised. Her children could probably manage it, but the best for the job would be the death masters themselves, the liches.
"Kel'thuzad." Tirion stated, and Tibault swallowed down nausea. Not just any lich, but the Lich.
"So the next time I see my wife, she will stand at the Lich King's back?" No one could stand against that. Besseth was gone.
"That possibility exists." Tirion finally admitted. "Great souls have fallen before that before hers, and she already owed much to them. But, Tibault... Anselm, she fought them. She didn't go with them willingly. At the end, she made a decision, and her decision was to stand with us."
"And it did her a lot of good."
"It does me a lot of good." Tirion said, and Tibault raised eyes to watch the Highlord. "It makes me feel like I wasn't played. That you weren't played. That the Order wasn't. That Besseth truly was one of my sisters, a hand in the Order, your wife. I will mourn her. I will wreck vengeance for her loss with a clear heart. I'm not trying to gloss this over. Your wife is gone. But I want you to rest securely in the fact that she really was that."
That might be comforting for Tirion, but it gave Tibault little ease. He stood, feeling their stares on him, but they didn't stand in his way when he strode back out into the yard, making his way to where Besseth had stood. So many corpses littered the area, both of the mindless, but more telling, of those who weren't. "Death knights." He muttered, and the priest surveying the wreckage across from him nodded soberly. She had torn her way through seven of them, leaving them dead in the snow around her.
"There were at least a dozen of them. Good death knights." The man stated slowly, and Tibault could not keep his gaze from sliding from the corpses to the central area of her stand. The ground was slick with freezing blood, bright red... the blood of the living. Besseth's.
"They have my wife." He said, and the priest kept his eyes downcast, refusing to look at him. "Tirion." He knew the Highlord stood behind him, felt Tirion wait silently. "I won't let that lie."
"We have no intention of letting this lie, Tibault, Anselm. We will get justice for every single one of our brothers, our sisters, who fall. That I promise you."
"I don't understand." Ellorie said, and Declan shook his head. He didn't, either. This was not how this was supposed to have gone. Besseth was supposed to stand again, imbued with power, blessed with glory, exactly as she was in his dreams. She was not supposed to remain broken, dead, on the altar here in the Cathedral.
"Kel'thuzad said she refused... Rejected the power. She let herself die..."
No, if Declan understood it correctly, his twin was incorrect. She had not allowed herself to die, she had forced herself to die. She had turned her back on them, chosen to give up that which she had fought for the most, rather than take the master's gifts. She had been able to deny the great power and will focused on her, and had slipped away into oblivion while they stood and watched.
"The spirits led the mama away, yah." Khraben spoke for the first time, his voice low, ignoring the vicious glance that Diarmid sent in his direction. "Said she is...not ours."
"Agreed." The orc muttered, his eyes glowing blue in the shadows of the Cathedral.
"Nonsense." Diarmid hissed. "Primitive foolishness. She lies dead because she has refused us! Refused what we offer! Turned her back on us! We have been abandoned."
"It took more than her refusal to accomplish this." The orc smoothed her blonde hair back from her brow, his touch gentle. "But. She is gone. We have succeeded only in tearing her apart." He frowned. "The blame lies not with her. She always made certain we knew she did not wish to fall. The fault lies with us, for not listening. All you see is that she rejected a...gift...one we knew she didn't view as a gift. I am not surprised that the spirits..." He stared at Diarmid angrily, "...chose to lead her away from us. We proved ourselves unfit to have her."
"Unfit?" Diarmid hissed, and Declan took a half step forward to put himself a better place if this got ugly. The children bickered often, they were all high strung and impetuous, possessed of fire and rage. The settling influence in their life rested before them now, cold and still.
"Unfit." Declan agreed slowly. The orc was correct. They had been so blinded by their idea of what Besseth deserved that they had never paused to listen to what she wanted. And did Besseth truly deserve it, or had they been ashamed of her? She had bloomed, not under their care, but under the care of the Order. And, in the end, she'd remained true to that Order. True to her spouse, and her little ones.
"It doesna matter now." Bredit growled, "Said and done. We bury our mother, for she willna rise."
"And then we go reclaim what is ours..." Diarmid said, and Bredit stared at him. "The children. The twins. Besseth's flesh and blood..."
"And what do you propose we do with them?" Raien, always the pragmatist, demanded. "They're babes in arms, Diarmid. They need warmth, care, a woman to nurse them. They are too tiny to survive here, and I won't let you kill them trying."
"Anyway, the boy took a beeline with them, right back to Stormwind. The Order will be watching them, there. We could get John in, but the chances he could bring them out is small. And I would not trust him to transport them safely. He'd be spiteful enough to drop them, or worse." Ellorie noted, another voice of reason.
"Gggrhghl." The geist hissed from his perch above the altar. "Damn Beshesh. Damn babies. Damn paladin."
Ellorie only met Declan's eyes, vindicated. He agreed, he would not trust the geist, even with explicit instructions, to carry two fragile newborns back to Icecrown. Another geist, possibly, but John was the one most likely to make the trip and not be noted. Khraben growled, using magic to snatch the geist from his perch and dropping him to the stones below. It was a mockery of a punishment, there was no way a mere fall would injure the geist, but it got his point across. The geist returned to the perch, bitterly silent now.
"So what do you suggest? Leaving the babes with the Order?"
"It would be what she wanted..." It was a little disturbing to look into his own eyes, his own face, contorted with rage. "Diarmid. We cannot care for infants long enough for them to become interesting. Raien is right. They need a woman. They need a place conducive to living. We have...neither...at our disposal."
"The Order will try to make paladins out of them."
Declan didn't bother with the obvious. Of course they would. Both of the twins' parents had been superlative paladins. It was only expected that the Order would consider them as a legacy to that ancestry.
"Enough of the bickering." Bredit growled, "Declan. Ask the master for permission to lay our mother to rest. We can concern ourselves with the bairns later, it will be years before they're more than blobs to be trained into anything. Our mother, on the other hand, should not stay like this."
"Lay her where?" Declan would be lost without the rocks of the family, Bredit, Raien, Khraben, and the orc. They counter balanced the more flighty ones, kept them grounded in reality.
The dwarf's brows rose in amazement, her blue eyes widening. "Why, here."
Here. Of course. Where else? They had very little experience with dead who stayed that way, but she was correct. Besseth should be laid to rest here, in this Cathedral. Close, held within them.
"You!" She continued, snapping her fingers at the geist. It bounded down, landing at her feet, staring up at her quizzically. Unlike Ellorie, who feared it, and the males, who bothered it, Bredit rarely acknowledged its existence. "Bring me back Besseth's wedding gown. Intact. Clean. Undisturbed."
"I'll go make the request." He muttered, uncertain if he really wanted to this soon after the failure to raise her. Neither the master nor Kel'thuzad were pleased with this, and he'd prefer to not be a convenient target for their ire.
"Declan." The master did not sound pleased, but he did not sound enraged, and Declan raised his eyes from the floor. The king had returned to his throne, Kel'thuzad nowhere in sight. Declan wasn't certain if that was a good, or bad, thing. It meant they had given up, that he comprehended. "More requests from your siblings?"
"My master..." That smooth question could hide a multitude of sins, and Declan fought to keep from flinching.
"She stays dead?"
"Yes, my master." There was the hope under that question that led him to believe that the king merely hoped that Besseth was a slow riser. Declan doubted that, too much time had passed, and she stayed as she was.
"Pity. She should have been glorious. What is the request?"
"We desire to lay her to rest within the Cathedral. As befits..." What, he wasn't certain. Her station? Whatever that was. Her service? There were hints that might not have been as stellar as he'd thought. Besseth's living nature had allowed her to hide things within her, things he was unable to touch.
The king steepled his fingers together, staring at Declan over their summit. "As befits her service to me." He finished mildly, and Declan waited. The master was difficult to read in this mood, and any comment could be the one to set him off. "Which was always beyond reproach. I gambled, Declan. We lost." He shrugged slightly. "It happens. Bury your mother here, in the Cathedral, with all due ceremony. Your sibling may doubt your mother's heart, but I do not."
"Dresh." The geist snickered, offering up a ribbon tied bundle to Declan.
"You enjoy this too much." Declan snapped, taking it from him and smoothing the bow. It was too nicely packaged to be the geist's handiwork, this had been how it was when he'd found it.
"Bitch." It purred, and Declan contemplated violence and mayhem against it. It sensed it had gone too far and silenced immediately, making itself smaller and more easily overlooked.
"You are not indispensable."
"Yesh, master."
Declan tucked the bundle under his elbow and returned to the Cathedral. The children had come to a detente, and he could sense who was with whom based on which side of the Cathedral they stood on. Their mother had loved them all equally. Made them a family, but he feared that they would not survive as such without her guidance. "Here, Bredit. We garb her in this." He gave the ribbon bow one last, fleeting touch before giving up the bundle. "And we lay her to rest here, with the master's blessings."
Diarmid looked confused, a touch outraged, at those words. "The master's blessings?" He repeated dubiously, and Raien hissed in anger at them.
"Mother would not have fallen had we not sent her to." Declan was uncertain as what, precisely, Besseth's orders were from the master, but she had seemed to follow them. The fact that they had permission to bury her like this, the fact that the master was not screaming curses upon her, upon them, told him that. There was no arguing the fact that she would have never fallen had they been permitted to move and recover her immediately after Light's Hope.
"Precisely." Raien agreed. "You feel betrayed, Diarmid. We all do. But Besseth did as she was ordered. And she has died in his service for it. I will not let her babies be destroyed for the fact that you want her back. They stay with the Order. But she does not. We lay her to rest here, with us. They cannot have her back..." He moved from the shadows, standing at her head. "Let's get her cleaned up and ready."
Epilogue:
Icecrown was just as Anselm had left it, three years ago, just after Besseth's death. He'd expected more of a change, as he had been changed, but disappointed him again. He had spent those interim years far from here, not chasing the glory he had imagined as a youth, but truly standing as the paladin he'd been raised to be. His attention had been required at Stormwind, standing as support to the man he viewed as a father, as an uncle to the little ones who had been left motherless and often, fatherless. Tibault's fall into despair after his wife's death had left him often unfit to care for the twins, and Anselm had willingly stepped into the void. He'd learned one thing at Besseth's side, and the main was that the soul who trained the young was as valuable as the one who bore a sword...or more so. He might never become the paladin he had dreamed of, but he rarely noted the loss of that dream. His fingers stroked the lavender ribbon tied around the pommel of his sword, a ribbon from Tabby's braids. None of their children were orphans. They all belonged...
"Lord Anselm. You travel far from home." The statement was without judgment. His decision was respected within the Order, and indeed, within his own family. Even now, his parents kept the twins, raising them alongside their grandchildren given to them for safekeeping. Anselm was not the only of their brood to stand here on this frozen land, not the only one to bear responsibility for little ones.
"We draw close to the Citadel." Anselm stated, and the woman nodded. "And still no sign of Besseth?"
Her brows rose quickly, before she schooled her features back into serenity. The Order had been looking for Besseth, in the Lich King's forces, since the day she had dropped. And still, nothing. Her value to her dark master had never been in the front, however, and she could still be within the black walls of his citadel... "None, my Lord. It is as if the land has swallowed her up..."
"Or she's been training more..."
The paladin grimaced. Their intelligence had put names and identities to Besseth's children, and the fewer of those that the Lich King had access to, the better. By now, she could have easily trained two or three more... an even dozen champions of the Scourge with her mark upon them. "We've seen nothing. Heard nothing. No new champions, my lord. Not on that level."
"Damnation." He hissed. He'd rather know, than be ignorant. It was not bliss, after all. He wanted to know when he was about to run headlong into the woman he viewed as a mother, be ready to steel his soul to the idea of dragging her down and putting her out of her misery. And he had little doubts that was what he'd be doing. Besseth had been truly a paladin that last day, and he would believe no different even if it came from her cold lips today.
"I am sorry. We have been looking since she fell, and still...nothing."
He nodded. So she was ensconced in Icecrown Citadel, training again. Or she was before them the entire time, unrecognizable as Besseth. His mind's eye conjured a dark glory when he considered that, showed him a death knight as superlative as the paladin she had been. "No new dark champions?" He asked again, and the paladin shook her head sharply.
"No. Lord Anselm, we have been looking with the idea that she herself would turn up as one. That she could be training more, while she kept behind those walls. We have faced her children before, they all have certain mannerisms that make them stand out. There are no new ones. There are no new dark knights who could be Besseth herself that we have seen. She must still be within the Citadel."
Which meant she'd appear during the final assault. Anselm sighed, staring sightlessly over the icy glory that was Icecrown. He would lay his mother, the mother of the two little ones he had raised from infancy, to rest as she deserved.
"How are her children?"
He smiled in spite of himself at the question. Besseth's heart had been pure when she'd conceived her little ones, true in love, and they reflected that. "Rion and Tabby are her legacy to us, children to be proud of." He breathed. He could see the child that Besseth might have been in her daughter, the hints of a beauty obscured by a child's round cheeks. Tabby had Tibault's eyes, hazel green, but her mother's thick, darkening blonde hair and pale complexion. Rion had her wide brown eyes, and his father's reddish dark hair. Both hinted at height and heft.
He sighed, looking into the gates before him. They were so close now, the gates to the inner courtyard near to the breaching point, and beyond that... the Citadel. "Besseth." he stated to the view, "We come for you."
They breached late in the day, and Anselm stepped out, onto a width of paving stones. Before him, unmistakable... the Citadel steps. He sighed, staring. It was glorious, in a terrible way. And still no Besseth. He glanced to his side, feeling a presence beside him. He was not surprised to see Mograine, the death knight staring silently at the fixed doors of the Citadel.
"That will not fall easily." Mograine noted the obvious, and Anselm snorted.
"Still no Besseth." He said, and Mograine raised a brow, his gaze moving to his right, thoughtfully.
"No Besseth. No Besseth in...three years. No new champions with her marks upon their souls, when before, she produced them like a broodmare produces foals, one every year."
That was it, exactly. Anselm knew enough now, to realize that was so. The only variance had come in the beginning, when she'd gotten twins as a package deal... and the hiccup when she'd come to the Order. "Has she displeased the Lich King?" He asked, and Mograine chuckled drily.
"Besseth never displeased the master. I believe part of the reason why she did not join the Ebon Blade was due to the fact that we had." He pondered the idea for a long moment. "I still do not like that she has gone, without a trace. By now..." His eyes moved to the darkening sky above him. "We should have some trace of her. And there is still nothing." He stepped into a sudden stride, moving away from Anselm, off to his right and another set of great stairs.
"Where are you going, Mograine?" Anselm demanded, falling into step just behind him.
"No trace." He repeated enigmatically, taking the steps two at a time. This structure had been breached already, its doors hanging, shattered, and Mograine moved in without hesitation. Anselm recognized the building for it was, it shared much with the great Cathedral in Stormwind...pews, altar...
Mograine moved to the side, along the walls, studying them. His fingertips coasted along the cold surfaces as he walked, his attention focused. "You don't think..." Anselm asked finally, putting together what the death knight sought. If this was the Cathedral of Light, then Mograine was checking the places where a burial would have taken place. Did he honestly believe Besseth had truly fallen?
"It makes no sense that we've not seen her. The Lich King would not hide her. The morale blow to the Order to see her appear across the field would be too valuable to avoid. This is why Tibault will not take the field again...he's afraid of being called upon to destroy the woman he still loves. Tirion was the one who stood for her, his reputation is bound to her, and she fell? They'd flaunt that. The only reason to stay silent is if she didn't fall, if she remained true to the Light. That would be what they'd want to hide. They'd lay her here..." He stopped dead in his tracks, tilting his head, crouching slightly to read the inscription on the wall before him better. "Here." He repeated, and Anselm moved up beside him.
"Besseth Southcross Kellemen." He read aloud. That, and two dates was all the stone bore...one almost forty years earlier, and the other...three years ago. According to this, she had fallen on the day she'd been torn from them, just a fortnight after birthing her twins. "Mograine?"
The death knight surged to his feet, snatching one of the candle sticks from the floor and striking it against the paving stones, breaking the candle off to create a pry bar. Anselm steadied the stone on the opposite side as Mograine shifted the stone, finally getting enough of a grasp on it to help him pull the stone free. The uncertain light in the cathedral caught dark blonde hair, and his heart clenched. It was not empty. Someone rested here. Someone with Besseth's hair.
Mograine grasped the slab that the body rested upon and pulled. What few doubts that Anselm had vanished. "She did not rise." He murmured. No, Besseth was here. The body was incredibly well preserved, more than recognizable as her without the name placed upon it, the wedding ring still binding her left ring finger, and the signet of the Order binding her right. He didn't need to recognize the gown she'd been buried in. "Didn't they try?"
Mograine placed his gauntleted hand over her still chest, the other resting on her forehead. "They tried." He breathed. "They failed. The magic still flows through her, but Besseth did not rise. It is one of the reasons she's still so..." He almost said it, then caught his tongue and shrugged. "Intact." He settled on a word after a long pause. "The magic to repair her body worked. The magic to raise her, did not. She died that evening...here." His silver blue eyes, lambent with power, glanced at the altar. "She died as a paladin of your Order, her death has marked this place."
Anselm took a long,shuddering breath, feeling the fears of the past three years lift. He would not face Besseth across a field of battle. She had turned away from that, saved them that. She had died as his mother, as his sister in the Order, a true and valiant death. "If the Lich King manages a counter assault, we may not hold the Cathedral again. Now that we've breached her niche, her children will try to reclaim her. Take her back to Stormwind, now." The death knight scooped her up without ceremony or preamble, offering her to Anselm. He accepted her weight, and nodded. His job here was to face Besseth. And he had her. He strode from the shadowed darkness of the breached Cathedral, into the deepening twilight outside. The lowering clouds vibrated with thunder, but he spared them no glance... moving down the steps beyond with a purpose.
"Lord Anselm...what?" The female paladin who had stood beside him watched him come back with widening eyes. "That is...?"
"Besseth did not rise." He stated, "My mistress stayed true to the Order."
"Tibault." There was a voice that Tibault would just as soon forget, and he sighed, gazing out over the foggy fields before him. Again, he would ask. And again, Tibault would refuse.
"Highlord?"
"You need to return to Stormwind."
Oh. It went from should return, which had been Tirion's last argument, to a need. Tibault did not bother to swallow the snort he gave in reaction. "And why is that?" He asked, glancing at Tirion. He didn't need to go anywhere... He didn't even need to raise his own children. The Order, Anselm, were more than happy to take even that away from him.
"For Besseth's funeral. We've brought her out of Northrend. She lies in the Order chapel so that those who wish to can give their final respects. Her husband should be the first."
So, Besseth had been torn down in Northrend, never to rise again. He nodded slowly, letting a gusty sigh free. That was over. He could take the field again without the constant, sick wait to see the one person he could not fight come after him. "I come." He promised, and some of the dire edge to Tirion's expression lifted.
"We have always been here for you, Tibault."
Tibault knew that. It had not made it any easier, but he'd always known that. He fell into step behind the Highlord, riding the short way to Stormwind in silence. He was happy to be left alone with his thoughts, and Tirion apparently felt no need to interrupt his reverie. Once in the city, the Highlord made a line straight for the lodge, and the Chapel, dismounting just outside of its doors. Tibault followed, his eyes downcast. Dead was dead. He'd seen enough of it in his life to know what he was about to see.
There was another within the chapel, and Tibault was not surprised to see it was Anselm. That one had not shirked his duties as Tibault had. He'd taken the twins. And when called, had gone to Northrend after Besseth. "My father." Anselm stated. "We have returned your wife to our hold..." He stepped to the side, and Tibault's stomach plummeted. He'd expected...worse. So much worse. Besseth rested on the slab, bathed in pale sunlight from the skylight above her, garbed in her wedding gown. She looked...asleep. Whole.
"I don't...understand." He managed, and Tirion smiled.
"She would not rise. She chose to remain as one of us, rather than rise as one of his. She remained true to her vows, Tibault. To us. To you."
He contemplated the floor, the pattern obscured when his eyes filled. Part of him had embraced the idea that Besseth was not gone. That she served her king, still cherished. That she persisted. She had been his after she'd served the Lich King for years, and had still become his bride, the mother of his children. If she had returned to his service, then she could be turned again. But this was gone. And according to them, she'd been gone the whole time. The hope had been for naught.
There was a hand on his shoulder, and for a moment he thought it was from Tirion, but Darion Mograine stood there, his face solemn. "You do not want what you think you do, my friend." The death knight murmured. "Besseth's greatest glory was that she lived, and saved her heart from him. If that had gone, then she would be no better than the rest of us. Celebrate her victory. Celebrate her freedom. Love the gifts she gave you."
He walked up to her, gazing down. There was no denying this. She had not risen. For the first time since she had fallen, he felt rage stir in his heart. She was gone. She'd been torn away from him, away from her babies, those who loved her, and the damned fools had failed to raise her. They'd merely succeeded in murdering her. They had murdered his wife. Because of them, his children would never know her. Because of them, he no longer had her standing beside him. Because they could not hold her, they had destroyed her.
"I want to return to Northrend." He stated, and Mograine released his shoulder. Tirion only nodded, his gaze fixed on the bright windows beyond him. "They will pay for this." He continued, and Anselm grasped the pommel of his sword reflexively.
"They will, my father." He agreed. "We will crush the walls of Icecrown and bring them down upon their heads."