Part Two: The Scarlet Man

Chapter Ten

To Sir Daellin Lightheart,

I pray this letter finds you well, friend. I know last night was most unfortunate and, as promised, I will do everything in my power to enlighten you. The courier that is to deliver this letter is a trusted ally of mine so have no qualms or concerns with him. Your presence is requested this evening at High Command. We will discuss in detail what happened last night and the ongoing machinations we need to handle. I imagine you have many questions and may feel lost. Don't worry, brother, as you know as well as anyone else that we are never truly lost in the Light. I will see you at sunset.

Blessed,

Grand Crusader Saidan Dathrohan

Daellin sighed as he folded the letter in half for the tenth time that morning. The parchment paper, aged yellow in color and had the faint aroma of soot and ash, was creased to the point that it looked like a used handkerchief. Daellin took the parchment note and the envelope it came in with in one hand and stood up sluggishly. While staring intently at the letter, he glided to his fireplace like a ghost in the night. The dying embers made the shadows in his humble room not flicker in excitement but rather dully move from side to side.

Lightheart lowered himself to the pitiful fire and tossed the papers into the fireplace. With the papers resting on top of a well burnt log, the fire responded to its gift with a hsss and slowly enveloped the parchment in fire. Without blinking or any indication of emotion, Daellin watched the papers burn. What grabbed his attention the most was the crimson wax seal on the envelope. He could still make out the symbol of the Scarlet Crusade, a bold L to represent their beloved kingdom of Lordaeron, even with the flames getting more pronounced. The seal bubbled, then suddenly popped at Daellin, forcing him to recoil from the flame.

"Light dammit."

Disgruntled from the apparent attack by the fire, Daellin walked back to his table and plopped down in his chair. The table was littered with notes and letters, many of which were weeks old. In the sea of expired notices and announcements was his libram. The tome was as pristine as ever. Despite the holy book being in his possession for nearly two decades, there was not a sign of misuse or distress.

As he had done countless times in his life, Daellin opened his libram to the latest page. Passages of faith were scrawled on the left page with the right page blank. He read and reread his latest entry that he wrote a week ago. Upon a set of golden wings shall we fly over the valley of death and despair. With the wings of grace we can overcome anything. The words brought comfort to the venerated paladin. While the flames in his firepit whimpered, the flame in his heart grew.

"Maybe it is time for a new passage. Adversity sure does bring inspiration," he muttered as he reached for his quill resting beside his inkwell.

The second he dipped the quill into the ink, all ideas that were swirling in his head were thrown out the window. When a moment ago his mind was inundated with phrases of divine inspiration, now it was filled with the pain of void. He struggled to even come up with a word, any word. "Good ol' writer's block," Daellin told his quill.

The quill did not reply.

However, it did not take long for the void in his mind to be filled with words and images. They were not the joyful messages of passion or faith but rather the haunting images of last night's terrible occurrence. The sight of the assassin striking her dagger at Daellin as he rolled helplessly drowned out any other thought. The moments that almost led to his untimely death played in his mind on loop like a broken gnomish projector. The vividness made him sick.

But just as quickly as his thoughts were invaded by the assassin, as if it were her last attack from beyond the grave, Saidan Dathrohan presided in his mind. It started with the Grand Crusader interrogating the assailant. His words swung from calm and collected to brutal and terrifying like a pendulum. Then, without warning, Saidan's impromptu execution of the assassin played in Daellin's mind over and over and over again. Each time, the assassin's body would vanish into a cloud of smoke, clogging his lungs.

Then, only Saidan's words remained. In a sea of black, the only thing in Daellin's mind was the words his commanding officer and old friend said last night. Last night, they felt reassuring, as if Saidan was in control of the situation and will reveal all of the unknowns in due time. Now, at his chair in his room, the words only worried Daellin. "I imagine you have many questions and may feel lost." The line echoed in his mind infinitely.

"In the Light, I am never lost."

With Daellin's adamant statement, the echoes and visions of yesterday slowly melded away. Once again, only nothingness accompanied the paladin.

The fire pit flickered one more time before the last embers died.

"The Light has been at our side since the days of yore! It has yet to forsake us!" The preacher cried out from the comfort of his raised platform. The bald man was barely tall enough to be seen behind the lectern. It looked like a budding onion growing from the ground at the beginning of harvest season. Based on the congregation's less than stellar reaction, it was a poor harvest.

Daellin hoped that attending the midday church service would bring him solace following his rough start to the day. All it brought were yawns. From the front row of the pews in the basilica, Daellin looked back to the congregation, then back down to his lap. Lying peacefully on his legs was his open libram. His eyes gravitated to the passage he had open.

Entry Fifty-Seven

Blessed are those that believe in the Light with utmost conviction. Blessed are those that use their strength to illuminate the dark passage to provide safety for the weak. At times, we choose when we enter the dark passage. Other times, we are forced into the shadow. In either case, we have our torch. We have the Light.

With each passing word, Daellin followed along with his wrinkled finger. The ink of this passage was long dry, yet showed no signs of aging. He penned this entry shortly after becoming Andorhal's preacher following the war. A different time. A simpler time.

He reread the passage again and again. Each time he read the hallowed words, his mind momentarily drifted away from the pews of the Tyr's Hand church. However, the second he finished reading the libram entry, his mind would instantly paint a vision of floating ash and the night stars. Each time, his lip quivered and his spine shuddered.

"We were blessed by the Light to be just and righteous! We use it to overcome and annihilate our foes!" The preacher's red face quaked when he spoke. Yelled was more accurate. This particular message must have awoken the congregation, both from their half-sleep state and their passion. His impassioned voice woke many within the congregation, while some matched his enthusiasm. Some shot out of their seat to holler in praise while others loudly proclaimed their strength in the light. Daellin did not. He kept his appreciation for the good message tame in comparison to his fellow Scarlets.

Caught between the calm of mentally reciting the passages he wrote in his libram and the raucous roars from the crowd, Daellin looked at those in attendance. It was a modest gathering today, approximately three dozen. Most were Crusaders like himself, with only a scant few villagers from the city and neighboring farming communities in attendance. It was usually like this. Since the day he rode into Tyr's Hand during the fall of Lordaeron at the hands of the bastard prince Arthas, Daellin noticed that fewer and fewer civilians attend prayer services. Despite the decreasing numbers, Lightheart remained dedicated in attending and holding prayer, even if he was not the one at the lectern.

"We live by the Light and the sword! Without either, we stand to lose everything we have sacrificed for!" This line brought down the house. The Crusaders, many young initiates forced to attend midday service before combat training, roared in approval. Lightheart even spotted a few that he personally trained in the Holy Light. Despite his best intentions and teachings, most were more inclined to use cold steel than channel their faith into their physical being to empower their being.

In contrast to the roaring Scarlets, Daellin was more reserved in showing his approval with a muted clap or respectful head nod. The second he finished nodding or clapping, however, his mind would then default to replaying last night's events over again. Each time, he would spot a new detail that he missed while either fighting for his life or digesting the impromptu execution of the assassin. She always defaulted to running on her left side, as if trying to flank me at all times. And her eyes, so piercing…

"Ah, a welcome surprise!"

The statement startled Daellin back to his senses. The room around him melded back to reality. Instinctively, he looked up and met the preacher's gaze. Daellin knew his eyes were red from the lack of sleep but that paled in comparison to the preacher's. The white in Brother Bedlam's eyes were blood-red and veiny. Daellin could trace each vein clearly and find himself in the same location- the mind of an awfully dedicated priest of the Light.

Bedlam hailed from Tirisfal and arrived at Tyr's not long after the Capital fell to the Scourge. He brought with him a small collection of devout followers that traveled with him across Lordaeron, much like a shepherd herding his flock. His collection of followers told the locals that there were more of them originally but lost many due to "weakness before the Light" and that only the strongest survived the trek. In the grueling years that followed, Bedlam made a name for himself in Tyr's as highly passionate and could rouse any crowd. Daellin did not pontificate his devotion in such a pronounced manner. His relationship with the Light was more personal and reserved.

The red eyes still stared, seemingly waiting for a response.

Daellin politely nodded to acknowledge his fellow man.

As the congregation's roars gradually dulled, Bedlam cleared his groggy throat and proclaimed, "My friends, I would be remiss if I did not address the fact that we are joined today by a true man of the Light!" Bedlam, still looking at Daellin, gave a sly wink before continuing, "Sir Lightheart of Andorhal, famed Scarlet Crusader of Lordaeron, has blessed us with his presence!" Daellin's face grew red. "Shall we hear some sage words from our ardent defender?" Bedlam loudly asked.

Those in the congregation slowly nodded their heads or clapped halfheartedly. It was a far cry from the roaring applause and approval they gave Bedlam moments earlier. Daellin hesitated in the pews, looking to his left and right. The faces he met were both familiar and stranger at the same time. With Bedlam holding out his hand to Daellin, Lightheart nodded and slowly rose to his feet. The few claps from the pews ceased as he walked up from the front row of the pews to the raised platform. He stopped next to Bedlam by the lectern and gave a polite smile.

"What a surprise," Daellin said.

"I didn't think anything surprised you, Lightheart," Bedlam replied. The bald preacher stepped away from the lectern and held out his hands in dramatic fashion, as if acting as a chaperone at a play. Daellin walked up to the lectern like he had hundreds of times. Even though this was not the one he used for years in Andorhal, he still found the same comfort.

He noticed that Bedlam's holy book was still open. With the hall still silent, he took a moment to read a few lines of the book. It spoke of righteous fury and standing tall to smite unholy enemies. Certainly one of Bedlam's books. A holy message should be a personal one. No need to copy another's thoughts.

Daellin took a deep sigh before looking up to his impromptu flock. "Thank you for lending me your time, ladies and gentlemen," he began in his strong, deep voice. "I pray I bring a smile to your faces today. I can't say the same for me when I looked into the mirror this morning. What a wretched sight to behold." Despite his welcoming smile and slight self-deprecating joke, the congregation remained stone faced. Daellin cocked his head to one side and took a deep breath. Tough crowd.

He cleared his throat. "My friends, we all know that we have experienced tremendous trials and tribulations these last few years. When we look around, we do not see what we called home for generations. We see the wreckage and carnage that has challenged us all with our mortal eyes. But let me remind you, we are not alone." Daellin paused to look over the congregation. A few had looks of remorse, others of anger. Any mention of Lordaeron's fall surely brought out strong feelings.

Daellin continued, "Alas, we are not alone. The Holy Light has always been there with us." With the mention of the Light, he felt warm and more confident. He pulled away from the lectern and paced to the front of the raised platform to be closer to his listeners. He was so close to the edge that the tips of his shoes fell over the edge of the platform. Behind him, Bedlam, with beady eyes, cocked his head slightly.

"As its most devout followers, we have been blessed to be basked in its glory in the face of so much adversity. I have seen so many fall to anger and sorrow when life proves too difficult. Not us, we were gifted tranquility under the Light. Even when the mortal realm is ruined, we can look to all that is holy for protection and guidance." At this point, a few of the listeners leaned in. Many more, however, leaned back and started to chatter with one another. Daellin understood. He was no stranger to disengagement. From the church to the battlefield, lethargy was always around him. Granted, the stakes were far greater with a sword than with the holy book.

"Thus, with the Light as a guiding hand, it will always steer us to a just and righteous path. A path that will redeem our land and our people." With the tips of his shoes over the edge of the platform, Daellin leaned in to see the listeners' reactions. More of the same as before.

"Brother Lightheart," Bedlam loudly began as he stepped forward to Daellin's level, "you have spoken much of the Light and how it guides us. All wonderful thoughts! If I may, I believe our friends here today, many of whom you have personally trained if I am not mistaken, would like to hear how it helps."

Daellin nodded. What an odd question. "Why, brother, it helps us by preserving us in this life and after. Without it, we would be lost and in an even worse situation than we are now. It brings us eternal peace and tranquility," Daellin answered, partially to Bedlam, partially to the congregation. The bald preacher only raised an eyebrow, seemingly expecting more from Daellin. Meanwhile, those in attendance were growing more impatient.

"I apologize, I must have been vague. I suppose my question is how do we see the Light in action? What tangible evidence is there for the devout in our quest to destroy our foes?" Bedlam asked. His peaked eyebrow was only a few inches from the ceiling.

Daellin's eyebrows, challenged by Bedlam's bushy brows, furrowed by the question. He could hear a few mumblings from the crowd asking the same question. "Well," he began with much uncertainty, "when I saw Uther the Lightbringer at Blackrock all those years ago, he resonated with Light and easily dispatched the orcish Horde." Many in the crowd nodded, a few even clapped or whistled.

"Hmm… Is there a more recent example you can provide the congregation?" Bedlam continued with his onslaught of questions.

"Or, when Alexandros Mograine destroyed thousands of Scourge with his mighty Ashbringer and devolution to the Light," Daellin stated matter-of-factly. This brought many of the attending Crusaders to stand up in and cheer loudly. Some even high-fived or patted one another on the back. For a moment, Daellin felt like he was in a busy bar after a long work day, instead of a place of worship.

"Ah!" Bedlam exclaimed. "There it is, Sir Lightheart! It is when we use the Light as a tool, a weapon, that we see the full results of its power! When Alexandros -may his soul rest peacefully- destroyed the dead with the Ashbringer, he used the Light in such a manner to smite the damned!" Even more people stood up and showed their roaring enthusiasm. The crowd in the church-bar was at a fever pitch.

"I-I think that may be oversimplifying it," Daellin stammered. He was so caught off guard by the resounding applause Bedlam was receiving for his statement to the point that he staggered away from the edge of the platform. He feared he would be shook off the platform if the congregation grew anymore raucous.

"I think it is you that is oversimplifying, friend!" Bedlam's hands flew in the air like high flying dancers in circuses that jumped from one hanging ring to the next. His voice was raised so high that even the roaring crowd could distinctly hear his words. Bedlam returned to his flock below him and proclaimed, "Why simplify the Light to just a mythical concept when instead it is most useful when used as a weapon! Ah, a weapon against the walking dead that continue to defile our land!"

The mention of the undead stoked the fire in the church. It was not the same cheerful roar as before but rather a more fierce, angry collection of yells and jeers. Bedlam relished in it. He moved from one side of the platform to another, raising his arms in the air as if he was conjuring a spell. The red in his eyes now matched his beat-red scalp.

Daellin, meanwhile, shrunk from the front. He politely clapped as he walked down a set of stairs. Even though this was not a battlefield, the elder paladin felt defeated.

What began as a surprise sermon ended in an absolute torrent of commotion. Daellin watched the scene play out from a dark corner of the basilica. Faces both familiar and new grew more and more disgruntled and audibly let all of Azeroth know their displeasure with the Scourge. Obscenities and promises of revenge were thrown around the church with reckless abandon. Bedlam continued to perform on stage, occasionally calling out, "Death to the Scourge!" or "We will defeat the enemies of life!" A far cry from the promises of peace and tranquility under the Light.

"He sure does know how to strike up a crowd," a soft voice said.

Daellin turned to his side, somewhat surprised he could even hear such a light voice in the midst of the roaring crowd. Beside him was a robed lady taking in the rambunctious service. Even in the dark, Daellin could make out the faint outlines of her face. "That he does," he replied.

The lady continued, "You can never say that ol' Broderick lacked enthusiasm."

"Aye," Daellin lingered in his response. No one uses his first name in such a casual manner.

"Despite Bedlam's enthusiasm and ability to get his congregation involved," the robed lady began before turning to Lightheart. The few flickering wall-mounted candles that illuminated the basilica revealed the details of her face. A mature woman with ashen hair and joyful green eyes met Daellin's dull visage. "I much preferred your message."

Relief fell over Daellin. "At least someone did," he said. "I'm not sure about the rest of the crowd."

"In my experience, the young tend to gravitate to boisterous promises of glory over calming truth." Her words were as smooth as silk, a far cry from the deafening and bestial roars of the congregation. It was amazing that they were even able to hold this soft conversation with the noise around them.

Daellin went to reply when the lady bowed her head and said, "I just remembered I need to be somewhere! Thank you for your time, Sir Lightheart, it has been a pleasure. I pray to the Light that our paths cross again soon." Her sincere words were like a collection of butterflies in the middle of a storm- fluttering as best as they can in the midst of a torrent while maintaining an aura of grace and beauty.

Daellin bowed and muttered, "May the Light guide your path."

With that, the ashen haired lady went for the large doors of the basilica. Daellin noticed that she stopped a few steps from the doors. She looked back at the ruckus congregation, shook her head, and left. Whatever displeased her, Daellin could not help but relate. Hard to imagine Uther allowing a congregation getting out of hand this badly, even if their sentiments are just. I think I've had my fair share of service for the day.

There is something to be said about the blissful joy of children. Smiles and laughter without a care in the world that carried throughout the city, perhaps all of Azeroth. As the kids played in and around the water fountain in the town square, nobody was around to keep an eye on their little games of war. Splashes of water cascaded over their small and limber bodies with each declaration of battle. But they did not care if they got wet; in fact, it was probably the most fun thing they experienced in their lifetimes.

From afar, Daellin watched the scene play out. Not at all surprising that their parents aren't around. Must be children of farmers and miners from the Scarlet lands outside the city walls. Too busy working to keep an eye on their kids. Oh, how I can relate. Daellin laughed when one of the kids, a young boy with blonde hair, was overcome by a tidal wave of water and fell on his rear. The culprit, a girl a little older, laughed in her latest victory in the fountain.

It was clear that this war of water attrition had two clearly defined sides. Six boys versus six girls. If I was a betting man, I'd take the gals in this one. Absolutely ruthless. Just as he thought of which side to wager imaginary money one, another boy took a hard blow to the face from a well placed punch. The girl, the oldest of everyone playing in the fountain, blushed and shielded her face with her hands. A few of the other girls laughed in amusement. In fact, a few of the boys laughed at their fallen comrade. Daellin could not tell who blushed the hardest- the assailant or the victim.

In any case, he had spent enough time watching this game of war. The beating summer sun above reminded him that he had places to go. The kids had the benefit of playing in cool water while the venerated paladin did not. With that, he continued down the cobbled road, leaving the happy cries of joy and battle behind.

How many times have I walked these streets? How many more times will there be while I am here in the mortal plane? Even though I've lived here for only a handful of years, it feels like an eternity- more than my time in Andorhal. Alas, Andorhal…

While lost in his thoughts, Daellin did not even recognize that his feet had taken him to the headquarters of the Scarlet Crusade. If the Tyr's Hand's basilica church was large and imposing, then the command center for the Scarlet army was even more so. Home to many spires that pierced the dull skies above, the building was notorious for being so large that people would get lost for hours in it. The traditional crimson red of the Crusade's order was all over the roofs, walls, and the dozens of doors. Truly, it was a giant red force in defiance against everything that stood against the Scarlet Crusade.

Daellin walked up to the main entrance, a set of imposing metal gates. Waiting at the base of the gates were two guards, both Scarlet soldiers in their traditional guard outfit. Protruding from their red plate helmets were large whites feathers, making them look like a pair of Stranglethorn Cockatoos. Lightheart walked up to the smaller of the two guards and saluted.

"Good day, gentlemen. I hope all is well with you both," Daellin politely said.

The smaller guard looked up to Daellin while his rotund counterpart continued to stare off into the distance. "And a good day to you, Sir Lightheart," the guard yelped, his voice cracking midway through his greeting. Embarrassed, his cheeks blushed as bright as the armor he wore.

Daellin chuckled once then said, "I have a meeting with Saidan today. Mind if I just scooch on in?"

Suddenly, the larger guard snapped his head to Daellin and proclaimed, "You mean Grand Crusader Dathrohan, Lightheart."

Daellin cocked his head to the side for just a moment but snapped back so as to not appear rude. Of course I know his name and rank. We fought for the Light since you were a little babe.

Nodding, Daellin replied, "Yes, of course. And I believe that would be Sir Daellin Lightheart of Andorhal to you."

The larger guard grumbled incoherently before returning to his staring contest with the abyss. The smaller of the pair gulped and said, "If you may, Sir Daellin Lightheart...of Andorhal." The guard pulled a lever by his side that raised the metal gates. The horrid sound it made was akin to nails on a chalkboard. It seemed to take an eternity for the gates to fully open, which was a bit unnecessary given Daellin was not twenty feet tall. With the gates fully open, the small guard marched in with Daellin following in tow.

The corridors of the Tyr's Hand command center were winding and dull. The bricks that lined the walls were burnt red with cracks that spider-webbed in every direction. Only the occasional torch or door to another passage interrupted the monotony. After the last few years living in Tyr's, Daellin had memorized where all the turns in the building were and where the few paintings were hung in the command center. Only the portrait of King Terenas Menethil in Saidan's room. Granted, Brigitte has her small portrait of her old man in her personal quarters.

While the inner architecture was dull, the one thing that showed signs of life in the structure were the dozens upon dozens of scurrying Scarlets going from one room to another. Just like how a colony of ants is constantly on the move with a purpose unknown from an onlooker, so, too, were the Scarlets and their intentions. They all had a sense of urgency in their step, no doubt eager to get to their assignment or yelling session from a superior.

Daellin felt a sense of pride anytime he saw a group of Scarlet exit a room in a single-file, clearly dismissed from an assignment briefing and ready to take on the damned of ruined Lordaeron. Kinda like Ahran and I during the war against the orcs; always on the move due to orders. Even his personal escort was in a hurry, making sure that his short legs were constantly pumping. Evidently, the short guardsman was eager to complete his task and return to his mundane task of defending an over sized gate.

Being no stranger to these twisting corridors, Daellin knew that he was about to appear before the High Command chamber door. It was only another turn away. Another dull passage, void of any sense of personality. As they turned the corner to the final passageway, the guard suddenly stopped in his tracks, surprising Daellin.

"When we get to-to the room, I...I will walk in and a-alert the others of your presence," the guard stammered. Daellin could hear his teeth chatter against one another.

"And I will patiently wait outside until you tell me I may walk in," Daellin pleasantly added, making sure his reassuring smile was visible to the guard.

The guard chuckled once, no doubt trying to make his apparent awkwardness as subdued as possible, before walking ahead to the door. As Daellin patiently waited beside the dull wall, the guard gulped before knocking three times on the equally dull wooden door. From within the chamber room on the opposite side, an impassioned voice called out "Enter!"

The guard looked back to Daellin, half-smiled, before swinging the large door open. Just as quick as the door opened, the guard was swallowed into the chamber with the door shut behind him. Daellin leaned back on the wall, trying to find some relief during this wild day. With his back against the wall, he felt an odd sensation- almost like a back massage but far from relaxing. In addition to the rhythmic bumping against his back, he could hear faint voices. Lightheart realized he was listening to those inside the High Command chamber on the other side of the wall.

Curiosity crept inside him like an inquisitive cat. He leaned his body into the wall as much as he could. If it was not for the laws of the physical plane, his body may have blended right into the wall. With one ear pressed against the wall, he could hear a few distinct voices, all with different volume levels and emotive responses.

"I trust him with my life…"

"...cute and all but seriously…"

"...faith is inspirational…"

"Of anyone you would pick, you chose the most delusional!"

This last voice was the most shrill Daellin had ever heard in his life, including his own mother's after he was caught tipping cows and destroying bales of hay. It sent a distinct shudder down the wall he was leaning against. He was sure that the cracks in the wall grew from small spider-webbed lines to entire chunks falling off the bricks. Whoever that was is bringing down the house and not like when Ahran tells an uncouth joke.

Before Daellin could register whose voices he was eavesdropping on, the door to the chamber swung open. Startled, Daellin launched from the wall and stood at attention, as though he was a child being caught in the middle of something devious. The terrified guardsman that escorted him through the bowels of the building stood at attention. His face was completely pale and his eyes rapidly shifted. Even though he was a small man of stature, he appeared even smaller. There were toddlers and gnomes taller than him.

"You...you may enter...Sir Light-Lightheart…"

Without waiting for Daellin's response, the guard fled, lost forever in the corridors. Confused, Daellin went for the still open door. Before he could even take one step into the chamber, a wall of yells and commotion greeted the paladin. Sheer madness and chaos.