Author's Note: I always had this idea years ago that my WoW paladin's father, who was from Stratholme and with Uther during the Third War, would never have stood by and watched as Arthas burned his home to his ground. While the idea bounced around in my head and also informed my character's roleplaying, I never actually put pen to paper to describe what had happened. I also always felt that Uther's decision to leave Stratholme to its fate was a very dubious and morally gray decision and that it wasn't fair that Uther was never criticized for it. However, considering Uther's status in the WarCraft lore at the time, it felt like sacrilege to criticize the Lightbringer. However, with the events of World of WarCraft: Shadowlands—specifically the Kyrian campaign—and Afterlives: Bastion, it seemed opportune to revisit both of these points.
Here are the fruits of my labors, which I envision as the first of hopefully many little snippets about Alden and Khallen Detheron's lives and afterlives.
15 years ago
The Culling of Stratholme
"Have you lost your mind, Uther? Are we seriously doing this?"
The irony of the question was not lost on the paladin. He strode towards his large warhorse, Gallant, but halted, covering his eyes with a heavy, gauntleted hand.
"Stratholme is lost already, Alden. Either to the Cult's machinations or to Arthas's madness. Those people are dead already whether they know it or not."
"So we're to just pick up and leave?" Alden asked with growing incredulity, his face turning bright red. "Some of us have loved ones still in the city, Uther. Friends. Family. My wife and daughters live just off Market Row. I can't abandon them to the plague or to our prince."
"Then you should say a prayer to ease their passing." Uther sighed and turned around, looking at the other man. Sir Alden Detheron was a veteran of the Second War and a longstanding member of the Knights of the Silver Hand. While Uther hadn't always seen eye to eye with him, he knew that Alden had a fierce heart and a deep conscience. He'd sooner give his own shirt off his back than let someone suffer.
Uther knew that Alden's oldest son, Khallen, was another veteran of the Order. It was a good thing he wasn't here right now. The last thing he needed was another voice of dissent. It took all his will not to stand and fight for the soul of his nation, for his Prince, even if he knew how futile it would be.
"I can't believe this," Alden said, gritting his teeth and tightening his grip on his hammer. His cheeks were a bright scarlet now, as vibrant a hue as the man's long red hair. "The Lightbringer turning his back on his people. Have you forgotten the second virtue? If we gave up when things seemed tough, we would have never won the Second War."
Uther whirled on the other paladin. "Damn it, Alden! Don't you see the bigger picture here? Stratholme is just the beginning! The king needs to know what's happening here! If we throw ourselves into this fray, we'll just be dying along with our loved ones for nothing!"
"You tell yourself that, Uther. Whatever helps you sleep at night. As for me? I'd rather die defending my home instead of turning my back on it as a coward." With a single gesture, Alden clutched at his pristine tabard of the Silver Hand—the same one Uther had bestowed upon him all those years ago in Hillsbrad—and ripped it from his breastplate. The man tossed the rags at Uther's feet and shot a glare at the other paladins, who stood around or sat in their saddles in uncomfortable silence. "May the Light save you and your souls for this."
With that, Alden turned and marched back towards the city.
Uther could see flames rising up from the King's Square. He made a gesture and muttered a soft prayer, then put his foot in the stirrups and mounted Gallant. "Light forgive me," he said, urging his horse towards the southwest. The other paladins wordlessly followed after him.
In the distance, the screams started.