Servant of the One True King

[semiiramiis]

The nausea was familiar, and brought with a primal, visceral panic. She'd bled consistently since her healing, but that had ceased two months earlier. And now, this. It was foolish, if she was correct, Tibault would not harm her for it. He'd already stated he would consider it a blessing, he would move heaven and ground to protect her and his unborn, not come after her with a skin of raw grain liquor and a knitting needle. And Anselm, her child, would protect her.

She dressed, then tilted her head. While many of her gifts from the king had faded, lost in her rebirth, those the Light considered harmless had remained. She felt the cold again, for it was a natural response of her body, but many of her senses stayed intact. She felt the rising wait in the air, and frowned. A storm. A bloody big one, brewed in the snowy band of mountains northwest of them.

She moved downstairs, and it was quiet. Most of the occupants had moved on, only a handful of the Order still remained, Anselm, Tibault, the innkeep, and a couple of women serving the tables with long, resigned expressions. Besseth could guess what their true professions were, and they were getting few takers now that the merchanting caravans had gone. Paladins and whores were not a grouping that got along well.

"Morning, Mom." Anselm greeted, his eyes skipping between her pale face and the suddenly interested innkeep. "You don't look so good. It's a little late to get seasick. You going to be ready to go?"

Tibault also watched her warily, measuring, and she shrugged. Every bit of sanity, logic, screamed to just tell him. Have faith in him, and what he stood for, but that part of her broken years earlier whined and cried at the idea. It had always been easier to lose them earlier, to let John destroy them when they were still tiny, but she'd tried hiding them still.

"Tibault will not destroy his own child, nor any other man's. You are safe with him. He will hold you up."

She caught her breath, forced into sudden stillness by the almost forgotten weight of the Lich King's words in her soul.

“And, as you already know, it is not safe to leave the protection of this place. A great storm brews in the mountains. It is glorious, but I can no longer see you pass safely through the rage of Northrend. When your blade fell from your grasp, you lost that.”

The blade. The axe. It had been so long since she'd even wondered about it. It was still intact, that she understood. Had it been destroyed, she would have known instantly. Where...?

"Your children moved to recover your possessions from Tirion months ago. They care for them now..."

"Besssssseth!" Tibault's deep growl and sudden shake dispelled the touch. "Wake up!"

"I am awake." She snapped back, and he raised a dubious brow.

"I felt his touch upon you, Bess. You were most certainly not awake. What does he want now, and does he know he's not going to get it?”

She stared at him. Such a fool, sometimes. So full of erroneous assumptions, and paladin bluster. "He's not?" She echoed, and he leaned back, watching her with suspicion. "You suggest I not follow his advice?"

Anselm nodded easily, eagerly, but Tibault was wiser and infinitely more seasoned. He said nothing, just staring, waiting. "What, precisely, is his advice?" He finally asked when she didn't give into the staring match.

"That I tell you I am with child already. That you will hold me safe. And that we not leave here before that storm blows itself dead.”

He dropped the tankard he'd been holding, straight to the floor, pure shock crossing his features. Anselm only chuckled, shaking his head and going back to eating his breakfast while he pushed out the chair across from him with his foot. "Sit, Mom." He almost ordered, and she complied. "I like how the expected outcome of this managed to stun him." He continued, not bothering to bleed the amusement from his voice.

"We are not young anymore, Anselm." Tibault regained enough of his senses to defend himself, and the younger man only shrugged.

"Young enough to still get the job done, I'd say. My mother had her last after forty. You've got six years to have a couple of them... You say there's a storm coming?"

Besseth closed her eyes, sensing. Yes. A damn big one, currently brewing in the aptly named Storm Peaks. It would tear down the valleys, snowing in half the continent, and killing those foolhardly to be out on the roads. "Yes. We shouldn't leave."

Anselm sighed, pushing his meal away and standing. "I'll warn the Lodge master here, and he'll spread the news." He moved away, either oblivious to, or blatantly ignoring the appreciative stares that the bar maids gave him.

Tibault rescued his empty tankard, resting it back on the table. "You think you've conceived?" He finally asked, dragging his gaze from the scarred table top to stare at her. His eyes were filled with naked fear and an equal dose of hope.

"Pretty certain, yes. I bled right before we left Stormwind, and have not since."

He grimaced, the slightest edge of a smile quirking his lips. That had been two months earlier, and shipboard travel was boring. They'd had a lot of time to amuse themselves on the journey.

"Damn. I'd hoped to marry you before this happened." He sighed, and she gave him the look that deserved. "I know, I know, you don't need to say it. If I really meant that, I would have done things differently. I just thought it would be...more difficult...than this.”

Honestly, so had Besseth. Even understanding the phrase 'fully healed' did not truly make it sink in. "I know. As did I.”

He stared at the table for a long moment. "And I had hoped to marry you in Stormwind. But I know Tirion is on the ground here in Northrend. I will ask him for the honor, if you'll agree to marry me."

"Very romantic." She drawled, and he sent her a sad look. "I'm kidding." She said, and he shook his head.

"You can always marry him here. I'd love to see you married in the depths of the Cathedral of Darkness…”

That was a perversity she was not even going to give breath to. The true king was in a mood, indeed, and once again she had his attention. She sighed, swallowed the nausea and nerves down, and turned her attention to breakfast. The door behind her slammed closed, and she glanced back... by her guess, that would be the local Lodge master, striding towards their table.

"Tibault." The man stated, iron girding his voice. "The boy you sent claims a storm brews and warns us to take cover?”

Tibault nodded, motioning to the chair next to Besseth. "Yes. I have it on good authority we have one coming.”

"Good authority." He took the chair, barely acknowledging Besseth's presence. "Every damned death knight in the area? They scream the same."

"I haven't spoken to any of the Ebon Blade here, yet." Tibault chuckled. "I arrived last night, and haven't left the inn. No, my...." He furrowed his brow slightly in thought, his eyes rising to Besseth's face. "Fiancee senses it coming."

"Fi.... What? A joke, Tibault?”

"No joke. This is Besseth Southcross. I believe she has agreed to do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

"She has." A little toast downed made the rest of her breakfast seem bearable, and she gnawed on a sausage. "There's a big one brewing in the Storm Peaks. Surely the dragons will verify..?"

The man still seemed rather stuck on the whole fiancee thing, staring at her in ill disguised amazement. "The dragons do verify. They have given the same warnings, Lady Besseth. You belong to the Order?"

"I do. I finished my training this summer." Which made her a wet behind the ears, greener than the grass of Elwynn paladin, probably unworthy to be on the ground in Northrend, and definitely unworthy of the honor of being Tibault's bride. "I came...late...to the Order.”

"Late to the Order." The voice was melodic, forceful, an edge of amusement clinging to it. Besseth had not sensed the speaker come at all, and startled. A male elf stood an arm's length behind her, so very close, his ornamented robes gleaming in the uncertain firelight. "That is one very guarded way of putting things, Lady Besseth Southcross." He took the step to put him right behind her, and rested a hand on her shoulder. "I heard. I was not certain I could believe, but now I must. Welcome back to us, mother of the nine.”

Dragon. Had to be. That explained everything and she went back to eating. "Thanks." She muttered, and he released her shoulder. "You also warn of the storm?"

She felt him turn to the direction it grew in, "We do. By now, this means we have three separate warnings of the same happening, Lord Stantos. One, from the Dragonflight. Two, from the Ebon Blade. And now, one from Besseth. Each of them alone should be taken seriously. All three of them together…”

"We have a war effort going on here.”

"Northrend does not care." Besseth breathed, "And the Lich King's followers understand that. They don't feel the cold, and those jeopardized by such weather will return to Icecrown to wait it out. They will hope you are foolish enough to let the land itself, the crown of the world, destroy you for them."

“Awwww. You had to tell him."

Besseth ducked her eyes, but knew the male dragon had sensed the shift in her attention, and probably knew why. His hand landed on her shoulder again, but instead of the iron and ire she expected it to have, it was gentle and supportive. He leaned close, his lips nearly touching her ear. "Besseth. Champion of the Lich King, Paladin of Azeroth. To tear him out of your soul would cause grave damage, or we would try. You still live in his grace, but remember, you live in our graces as well. You are big enough to handle both."

"According to what I was just told Lady Besseth is a green paladin fresh from training." The lodge master sputtered, "And Northrend has lots of storms. We don't stop operations for them..."

"Fine." The dragon released his hold. "I will inform Tirion that we, that the Ebon Blade, and now that this green paladin fresh from training all scream the same thing. Operations will be suspended, Stantos. It's just a matter of who gives the order. You were given the information in good faith." He spun, stalked out, and Besseth caught a flash of bronze and a flurry of snowflakes through the door as he was gone.

"Damn dragon. Thinks he owns the world." The lodge master shook his head, raking fingers through his thinning brown hair. "But that's the end of that. He's right, Tirion will suspend operations until this is over. We're paladins, Lord Tibault. We do not fear a little snow.”

Besseth did not fear a little snow. She feared the sort of snow that blotted out the sky for days. Turned day to night. Turned north to south. She feared snow backed by winds so strong that the snow turned into burning sand which ate at skin. She would not face that without the blessing of the true king, and she had lost that.

"If the dragonflights and the Ebon Blade fear it, then we should at least respect it." Tibault replied diplomatically. "And much of our support is not paladins. We can't lose those and still maintain operational strength in the region."

"You are correct, Lord Tibault. It just seems like we run into so many obstacles here...and we get nowhere. The giants hound us. The fog hems us in. The Horde is on our doorstep. And now, the very land itself moves against us.”

"We didn't expect this to be easy, Stantos. But if we tell our allies and friends that we don't want or need their warnings, then we'd stand alone. And we'd fall alone. If Besseth says it is not safe, then to me, it is not safe. I bow to her judgment."

"Forgive me for questioning your lady, Tibault." The man took a seat next to her. "But a young paladin does not have the seasoning, the experience, to make this call. The day outside is as clear as any I've seen...."

All the worst ones started like this. Besseth had stood on the brow of the world, and watched them pour down the mountainsides like an avalanche of clouds. "Besseth understands Northrend like none of us do, Stantos. She came late to the Order, but she has not come late to Northrend. If she says...if the dragons say... if the Ebon Blade says... then damn well listen to them!"

"She's a veteran of Northrend?"

That was putting it mildly, and Besseth gave him her best angelic smile. "I am Besseth. I served the Lich King, until the Crusade captured me at Light's Hope.”

He stared at her out of wary, dubious eyes. "You are no member of the Ebon Blade. You are a paladin. No death knight."

"I am no longer a death knight, that is correct. But I still served the Lich King for eight years of my life. I lived here, on Northrend, for most of those. I know this place. I won't allow Tibault or Anselm to move from here until that thing blows itself out."

He blinked, then stared at Tibault. "You marry a turncoat? One of the scourge defectors?”

Tibault sighed, smiled at her. "I marry Besseth. One time Champion of the Scourge, currently my sister in arms, paladin of the Argent Crusade. You make no allies here, Stantos. She has more experience here than I could ever hope to have, and Tirion is well aware of that.”

"I am, indeed."

Besseth wondered idly if Tirion's timing was that great, or if he had waited and listened waiting for the correct moment. "Danstrasz told me..." The Highlord continued, sitting in the only remaining chair at the table and nodding a quick greeting to Besseth and Tibault. "...That you are choosing to ignore warnings about some storm brewing? I have the Ebon Blade howling at me, the dragons saying the same, and now...Besseth." He smiled at her. "And I hear congratulations are in order. When is the wedding planned?”

She glanced at Tibault, who was steadily gaining the long suffering look that said all too clearly he would have preferred to broach this subject in a more private venue than he'd gotten.

"Ah... Timing is rather of the essence, Highlord." He sputtered, and she stared at him. The man stuttered and blushed like a child caught in a crime. "Sooner would be better than later. I was hoping you would do us the honor and bind us here, in Northrend."

Tirion leaned back in his chair, his gray eyes planted squarely on Besseth. "No." He finally stated, and Tibault's face fell. She eyed Tirion cautiously, uncertain as to why he would hurt Tibault so. While she did not deserve to have the honor of having the Highlord himself preside over her wedding, Tibault did.

"Highlord?" Tibault finally managed to ask, and Tirion shook his head.

"I will not marry you here, in speed, as if there is something to hide or rush. I understand that your concerns are that Besseth has conceived, which is no crime or sin. It's only one if we act like it is. Your timing is stellar..." He gave her a sour stare, but his eyes danced. "...But that can't be helped. Babes come when babes come. But I will marry you in Stormwind, before the Order, in due time. Not here. Not like this."

"Ah, but...Highlord..." Tibault stammered again, "It's rather important that the child..."

Tirion sighed, and even the laughter in his eyes did not banish his obvious exasperation. "Under the High Laws of Stormwind, it is vastly important you’re your child be born legitimately." He noted drily, "Otherwise it is no heir. I understand that, and I will certainly not keep Besseth's babe away from you as an heir. But..." He glanced back at Besseth. "Six weeks will not kill either one of you.”

"No." Tibault sighed, and Besseth stared warily at him. For Tirion to invoke the High Laws... "Stop staring at me, Bess. It's not important."

"So, she doesn't know. Makes you a damn fool, Tibault. Cornering her like this is not advisable. And receiving her agreement to wed you under false pretenses comes perilously close to dishonor.”

Tibault flushed a riotous crimson, the first time that Besseth had ever seen him even come close to being this completely flustered and at a loss. "Fine. Bess. My father is nobility. I need a marriage under the High Laws if any child of mine is to be considered a legitimate heir of my family. That's why it was so important to me to be certain you really weren't married. Why it is so important that I marry you before you birth. When my brothers died, it left only me..." He sighed, staring without focused eyes before him. "Bess, love. I'm a paladin. It's what I was called to be... I was never called to be a noble's son, a pretty boy in silks and embroidery. You know me by now..."

Besseth's mouth went dry. Nobility. He was...nobility. She should have known, she should have guessed. Cold, dreading panic rose in her soul. There had only been one place where her background had truly never mattered, and that was now only half a continent away. The Lich King may have been born royalty, but he had been forged into more, and his eyes had been squarely planted on reforging his followers into more. Now, she was simply a green paladin from the worst of blood and upbringing, and once again, she was less than the men around her. Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Tibault's went white and his eyes were hard when he glanced at Tirion.

"You have lost me my child." He stated simply, coldly... standing and walking from the table. Tirion watched him go, silently, before settling his eyes back on Besseth.

"Come with me." He ordered, and she stood, falling into step behind him as he moved outside, into the still perfect day. Besseth was not surprised to discover he was staying in the keep. His accommodations were not luxurious, but were better than they had secured in the inn.
"Sit." Again, Tirion ordered, and she complied. "Besseth Southcross." He breathed, moving to the window, holding the heavy curtains open with his shoulder, and staring unerringly towards the brewing storm. "Congratulations.”

She was uncertain if he was being sarcastic, and remained silent, eying him warily."No." He sighed, shaking his head. "I am not being flippant. Congratulations are in order, are they not? A new babe? A wedding?"

"I cannot tell if you are being serious, Highlord." She finally muttered through numbed lips.

He snorted in amusement. "Two of my honored and great siblings have fallen for each other. They have created life from that regard, and our children are the future of this endeavor, Besseth. If we do not support the idea that we raise our children in the Order, then how can we hope to succeed? I wholeheartedly bless this, Besseth. I just will not let Tibault lead you into this blindly. He so fears losing you that he works himself straight towards that eventuality. Withholding information like this is ill advised, and I'd rather do it now and fix it, then wait until you no longer have a choice. He is correct. He was born to be a paladin, sleeping in bedrolls in tents, wearing steel, not silks and fineries. He loves you. He wants this babe. Do you love him? Do you want this babe?"

"Of course I do."

"You have risen from nothing, Besseth. That is something to be proud of. Even your service to the Scourge is, in its own way, something to be proud of. As you taught your children, you learned from them... and I will not sneeze at eight years of tutelage from the combined force of two noble scions of a Quel'dorei house. Your strength is what attracted the Lich King to you in the first place. Allowed you to raise ten of the finest combatants on this field of conflict. It makes you worthy to birth and raise more, even if their family name is Kellemen. Just between you and me, Besseth, the Light knows the noble houses of Stormwind could use a little real blood thrown into them. I fear the future of a kingdom led by them. But you are one of my sisters. A paladin. I will not see you misled, even by one as well meaning as Tibault happens to be. Marry Tibault as you planned, do it under the High Laws, in the view of one and all in the Chapel of Stormwind... six weeks from now, and I would be proud to officiate." He frowned at his own reflection in the glass before him. "You are something to be proud of, Besseth. Your child, likewise. I will not allow Tibault's fears to sully that."

"I'm not noble. Tirion, I'm not even close...."

"Bah. A noble heart makes up for any lack of noble blood, Besseth. And from what I see, most so called nobles lack both. I just wish to see you get what you deserve out of this, and married here, hush hush, by me, is not it." She could see the faintest smudge of lilac low on the horizon beyond him, beyond the window, and she frowned, moving up beside him.

"There it is."

"Aye. There it is. Thanks to the multitudes of warnings we've received, we have the vast majority of our people under shelter. I guess Mograine does have his uses after all... So. Your answer to me is....?" He placed a hand on her shoulder, but his eyes did not leave the horizon.

"I will marry Tibault still. And I will do it under the High Laws..." Which required the Church to post notification of an upcoming marriage at least a full month in advance. Tibault had been hoping to circumvent the requirement by entering a battlefield marriage, presided over by the unassailable force of the Highlord himself. "But there is still one issue...."

He glanced at her, waiting. "It took us two months to arrive here by boat." She finished.

"We have open portals at Dalaran, and other points. The boat voyages help smooth the transition, and it is how we are shipping supplies. You served as security for them. I can have you back in Stormwind within the day, if need be."


Tibault rarely felt rage. He had raged at the downfall of the Silver Hand, when he was just a young man, forced to go into hiding. Raged at the death of his brothers, who had stood while he had not... They had been free from oaths, free to go to Lordaeron's defense, while his orders unequivocably moved him away.

He raged now, silently, while Anselm remained downcast in the farthest corner from him. "I'm certain it's going to be just fine." The boy finally stated, when the silence became too much.

"She will leave." Tibault predicted, and Anselm shook his head.

"She will not. Tirion is right, you should have told her earlier. But she still won't leave you over this."

If only the boy was right. Besseth was touchy about her past, the only force in it which had validated her worth was the Lich King and her children. She disliked any discussion which brought up a past deeper than that, anything which reminded her of earlier. He heard her step in the hallway... she did not possess a light step, dainty as some women were, but her tread was still lighter than any of the men he was surrounded by. She opened the door, and Anselm tried to fold himself into an even smaller presence in the corner.

"Besseth." He greeted, not bothering to attempt to banish the gloom and doom from his voice. She gazed at him, and again, he was struck by how horribly lovely she was. Every day made her moreso, as if each dawn worked to scrub away the taint of darkness she'd carried.

"Tirion and I have come to an agreement." She began, and Anselm's expression dropped slightly. An agreement. That could mean only one thing, and Tibault sat on the bed, defeated. The Order would provide for Besseth and her unborn, of course. They'd have the best that could be offered to them. "The Church will call the banns within the week, in Stormwind."

Anselm crowed in joy, and Tibault still sat, stunned. "Congratulations, Mom." Anselm grinned, coming out of his corner to give her a big embrace. He pivoted to give Tibault the same. "Dad. Drinks are on me, downstairs, when the two of you make it." He moved through the door, laughing as he went.

She stood, waiting, as Tibault caught his breath. "You'll still marry me?" He finally asked, and she raised a brow.

"In Stormwind, in six weeks. Exactly as the Highlord requests. If I'm good enough to marry, good enough to have your baby, then I'm damn well good enough to marry in front of all who care to watch."

He stood, then chuckled. Once again, Anselm had been right. "Of course you are, Bess." He breathed, "I never meant to imply otherwise. I'll send word to my father immediately." That caused some concern on her face, and he shook his head. "He'll be ecstatic." He promised, and did not doubt his words. That was, in fact, putting it mildly. A child for the line. Born legally and legitimately, after all this time... Besseth could do no wrong now. She could have still been as she was, pale haired and marked, and his father would overlook her crimes.

Tibault had seen snow. He'd lived in Dun Morogh, passed through the ways around Ironforge. Nothing had prepared him for this. The snow did not fall. It was driven sideways, a blinding, salty, burning wave of darkness. Besseth watched it, her face expressionless, while the inn shuddered and squeaked under the onslaught.

"Oh, my." Anselm muttered, watching it from the window next to Besseth's. "Glad I'm not out in that."

So was Tibault. He'd never seen the like, not even the last time he'd served here. Obviously Besseth had. Obviously Mograine and the Ebon knights had. He glanced at her, wishing she had not blocked him off as she obviously had. "Besseth...what are you thinking?"

A flick of her eyes, and a slight shrug was all the proof he had that she had heard him for a long time. When he did not let the question go, she shifted her weight. "These are a marvel to watch from the heights of the mountains." She finally admitted.

It was difficult to counter these statements. Had Besseth been abused here, her heart and will bruised, he could bolster her, comfort her. Leading her away from what was basically home was a great deal more difficult.

[semiiramiis]

"You love it here." He murmured, and she gazed at him out of level, brown eyes. She would never let it go, completely, he realized in that moment. There would always be a shadow, a remnant, of what she had been cradled in her heart. There would always be some part of her held beyond, away. Always some part of her which belonged here, to the storms, the darkness, the Lich King...the breathless expanse of Northrend. It spoke to her, breathed in her. While he had felt nothing, the very air itself had warned her of the coming storm. And, in spite of everything, the Lich King still held her. And Tibault did not see fear or revulsion in her eyes in those moments when she garnered his focus.

"I do." She agreed calmly. "It's home."

Home. Such a simple answer. He sighed, staring out into the driving snow. She carried his unborn, she had promised to marry him, her past was her own. As difficult as it was for him to accept it, this place, and all within it, had made her what she was.

"So what do you do when it gets like this?"

"Teach. Learn." She shrugged. "It was times like this when the twins taught me..." She trailed off, the fine edge of a blush rising on her features, and Anselm perked up immediately from his bored contemplation of the fire before him.

"Go on." Tibault stated. "The twins?"

"My firstborn. Diarmid and Declan Noonshimmer. They fell before me, at Quel'danas, and watching them go down..." Her voice faded off. "I couldn't let them go like that. I taught them how to die. They taught me how to live. How to see beauty and glory instead of dirt and sweat. They taught me how to read, how to learn, how to be more than just what I had been. Without them, I would have been nothing, unfit."

"Besseth, you never..."

Her eyes were as stormy as the weather outside when she stared at him. "Never what, Tibault? Was unfit? The hell I wasn't. I give up what my so called husband did to me, and I do that freely. What he did to me was a crime and a sin, and I am pleased every day that he pays for it. But I know what I was, and I know what I wasn't, and I know who is responsible for helping me out of that hole. You'd love to say it was the Light, my own strength, and that the love of my children and the regard of the true king meant nothing. Say that and you're wrong, Tibault."

"Love and regard are aspects of the Light, Besseth. If your children love you, then that is the undying light within them shining upon you. If they taught you, as you say, beauty and glory, a value for yourself, then no, it doesn't mean nothing. It means a great deal, and I am indebted to them." He bowed his head, feeling the assault of the storm without, and the warm security of a safe room, with the two most important people in existence to him within it. "Besseth. I believe that you have been blessed to see sides of your children, your king, which are rare and fleeting now. I believe they still possess facets of what they were before, and that these are what they show you most often. I can certainly believe that your children love you, especially after I have watched you with Anselm. Even though they have fallen, they still care. I believe that Arthas values you, yes. That he holds you in high regard, yes. When you're happy and secure, you produce great children. It's in his best interest to keep you thus." Discounting that would be a disaster he wasn't certain he could hold on to her through. That could just be enough to drive her out from this inn, and into the depths of the storm beyond. She stood so damned close to those he wanted to keep her distant from, for the simple fact that he could not dispute their claims to her.


"Besseth stands on Northrend." Diarmid stated, and Declan nodded. Yes, she did. He could feel her proximity, feel her reconnect with the power which was rightfully hers. "She brings her lover and her newborn with her." Diarmid continued, and Declan remained silent. Paladins, both. Fine, fine paladins, both. Besseth never did anything with half a heart, half a soul. Tearing her away from them would be difficult nigh unto impossible. They'd need to gain them all...

"In more ways than one." Diarmid ended. "Besseth is with child, herself. Flesh and blood within her."

"Besseth Southcross and Tibault Kellemen?" For that prize, all of this was worthwhile. If this played out, that would mean they'd have Tibault Kellemen. Besseth returned. One of the children of the Tiegans, and an unborn filled with vast promise. If they failed, then they lost Besseth. All games worth winning were worth playing.

"Yes. She's thinking about us..."

Declan was already aware of that. With her attention turned elsewhere, but her mind on him, so close again, he could skim her thoughts. "Those were great times." He finally stated, and his twin nodded in agreement. Turning Besseth into a person worthy to be the person who raised them had been a fine endeavor. She had been a fast learner, and as much as she had left her marks upon them, they had left their marks upon her.

"We'll have them again, my brother." Diarmid said, clapping him on his shoulder. "After all, this child will need the loving attention of its....uncles. Our family will grow. Strengthen. Prosper." And serve. "Unfortunately, we will be held away from her wedding. Shame, that." He smiled benignly. "We'll just have to have a reaffirmation in the Cathedral when they return."

In spite of Tibault's reassurances, Besseth was not looking forward to meeting his family. Not really looking forward to as public a wedding as Tirion seemed to believe was required. She happened to agree with Tibault that a battlefield wedding, presided over by the Highlord was more than legitimate enough for her, and her child.

But no, it was apparently not legitimate enough for that Highlord, and his orders had brought her back here, to Stormwind. Here, to this graceful estate drowsing under Elwynn's golden sun and pure blue skies. She missed Northrend with a sudden, sharp ache.

"Father." Tibault began, and his unease caused her stomach to do a slow roll. "I know that Tirion has already informed you...."

"That you intend to marry. And that she is with child. A comrade of yours, in the Order, he tells me. He speaks highly of her..." The man turned from the book he had been perusing, and Besseth clapped eyes on Tibault as he would be in twenty five years. No doubts there. "And this would be her?"

"Yes, father. This is Besseth Southcross."

The man stared, not bothering to hide how desperately he measured her. "Southcross. Not a name I'm familiar with." He settled on, and she watched him. So far, he was unconvinced, but hopeful.

"My people were from eastern Lordaeron. Near Light's Hope."

"So you're not from Stormwind at all."

"No." After spending any time at all in Northrend, this room felt surreal. The pouring of amber light from the windows. The heavy breeze, laden with heat and humidity. Her skin, damp with sweat. "I am not from Stormwind at all."

"And your family?" Tibault bristled at the question, and his father regarded him for a long moment before returning his eyes to her.

"Common farmers."

"So you have no political ties whatsoever."

Besseth arched a brow at the idea. She had more political ties than she knew what to do with, but she was certain he was not considering the Court of the Lich King as a tie he wanted. "I have no relevant political ties beyond the Order." She settled on it as a safe, and all too truthful, answer.

He frowned, glancing between the pair of them. "You claim common blood, but you speak like nobility. You stand like nobility. Tirion hinted quite pointedly that have a graceful upbringing in spite of the fact that you would claim to be common, but he would not tell me how..."

Ah. He simply was not going to leave that one alone. She sensed it. Tirion's guarded assurances had merely piqued his curiosity. "I was gracefully raised in the Court of the True King."

Tibault froze, stunned into deep silence, his complexion paling. She felt suddenly, desperately sorry for him, but she would not, could not, live with a lie. "I am Besseth, one time Champion of Arthas. I was taught courtly manners by the lords Declan and Diarmid Noonshimmer. I am one of the death knights who stood down at Light's Hope."

It was heartening to see that she had managed to unsettle his father, put him off of the offensive. He was not her father,after all. "But you live."

"I live. I breathe. And after an extensive healing and cleansing, am able to conceive. I serve the Argent Crusade now. And I marry Tibault, and return to Northrend." It was inexorable, if only the man could see it. She didn't think he would, he felt like one who thought he could change things, rather than just letting them go.

"You intend to return to Northrend after the wedding?" He sounded shocked, and that response made sense. The man was desperate for an heir, with Tibault his only surviving child. Tibault was older than Besseth, and up until now, had shown precious little interest in continuing his bloodline. Now there was a child, and Besseth had just threatened to take it back to Northrend.

"I am still ordered to Northrend." She noted slowly. Tirion was, of course, aware of her condition. His final words, before she stepped through the portal to come back to Stormwind, had been that she was to return immediately after the wedding. Her orders had changed, but not as deeply as this man would like. They still returned her to Northrend, but they put her at Tirion's back, within the leadership of the Argent Crusade, not in the field. She was still small. Still graceful on her feet, no outward sign that she had conceived. And, in spite of it all, she felt safe in Northrend. Safer than here. It was where she wanted to be, and the fact that Tibault and Anselm were there sealed it.

"Insanity. All insanity." The man mourned, shaking his head. "Do you really believe you can bear a healthy child and serve in Northrend at the same time?"

"I do." Northrend was home. It called. The thought of being returned here, while the Crusade was in the field, made her soul scream. This was not where she was meant to be.

Defeat crossed the man's features. He'd seen the light of hope, and then had it snatched away from him. Besseth had no words of reassurance for him, only gut feelings, and those so often went contrary to logic. She returned to Northrend, with Tibault's child beneath her heart. "Tibault?" The man asked, obviously hoping his son would start making sense at some point in his life.

"Father. She is a paladin, no longer my subordinate. I cannot order her from Northrend."

Interesting choice of words. Besseth considered them silently, could not...definitely. Would not...that was different. If given the authority and half a chance, Tibault would order her from Northrend. Order her here, if not his father's house, then to the Lodge. How precious. At least Tirion's orders were not the same.

"I have no wish to return to Stormwind while the Order battles in Northrend." At least not now, not when the child was just an understanding, too small to show. "My orders put me behind Tirion, in the rear."

The man looked unimpressed, dropping the book he was carrying on the table before him. "Rear." He snorted, shaking his head. "Do you really believe there is such a thing on the Lich King's lands? Behind Tirion? Behind the main target that the Lich King will go after? I may not be a military man, Besseth, but..." He waved a hand at the book adorned walls which surrounded him, "...I have read the words of plenty of them. Arthas will target Tirion, strategically, tactically, for the morale of the Argent Crusade... And your words put you behind him. You wonder why I don't seem amused?"

She grinned back at him. And yes, the man had the mind which had spawned Tibault. Not a combatant himself, admittedly, but he knew in a scholarly way. "I understand that. I also understand that Northrend is home to me, and it's where I feel safest." As paradoxical as that was, it was the truth.

"Safest." He stared at her out of Tibault's blue green eyes, resigned, heartsick, and her stomach clenched at the gaze. "One time servant of the Lich King, and you still feel safest in his lands? Safe enough that you wish to stay there, now?"

"I do." She knew his argument was an intelligent, insightful one. She had no answer for logic, she was only working on instinct. "I don't want to be here." She had never wanted to be here. She didn't particularly care for Stormwind. She hated the weather, and the politics, and that seemed to be all it had...now that Anselm and Tibault were no longer here. Weather. She handled Northrend's bitterness easier than she handled Stormwind's humid heat. She didn't feel the pulse of the land here, didn't breathe with it. And politics? Stormwind valued people based on an accident of birth, Northrend on their abilities and strengths. She understood the true king's court, understood how to measure and value those within it. He surrounded himself with strength, and he didn't give a damn where it came from. That was why she herself had been so valuable... Small, fragile, easily overlooked, but he had never overlooked her ability to see greatness in others. "I don't like Stormwind." Jewel of humanity? She guessed so, it had stood while Lordaeron had fallen and now laid to waste.

"She's a lovely choice, Tibault." The man did not even play at hiding the pain in his voice, nor did he attempt to make the words seem true.

"Father... She is the only choice for me." Tibault returned slowly. "You make it sound as if I have deliberately been avoiding this. You had a woman you loved in my mother. You cared for her deeply. That was all I wanted as well. I felt cursed until I rested eyes upon Besseth, cursed to never know better. I want the same as what you had, and it's taken this long to find it. It may be too late to have a half dozen children, but it's not too late to have one or two."

"Born in Northrend?"

"If that's where Besseth chooses, if that's where the Highlord deems, then yes. I would not stand between her and where she feels safest." He bowed his head, contemplated the floor. "Father. I'm asking you to bless this. Be there with me. If not, I will still do this, but I do it without you."

"You find it difficult to believe this, my boy, but all I've ever wanted was to see you happy. And out of all of my sons, you were the one most determined to be unhappy." He glanced at Besseth, "I guess I should have expected you to bring home something unforseen. She is lovely, I will give you that. And if Tirion finds her worthy, then who am I to doubt? Welcome to my home, Besseth. Welcome to my family."

[semiiramiis]

"It's beautiful." Ellorie breathed, and Declan nodded, watching the snow batter ineffectually against the windows that held it out. Ellorie wasn't referring to the weather, glorious as it was. She had never felt the rush of power when the very land itself threw into a fit of rage, as he, his twin, and his mother did.

"Of course it is. Is she not deserving?" No, she referred to the gown arranged on the mannequin behind him. It was only right, only fitting, that Besseth's family provide the gown she would wed in. "Stormwind's chapel requires a certain level of opulence, and I'll see us give our mother what she warrants. The Order will not, and I will not see my mother reduced to a charity case for the Kellemen lord." He turned, strode over to the mannequin, and gave the gown one last glance. It was the best, most fitting, he and Diarmid could bring. The true king's perversity called for darker, blacker, ornamented with skulls and death, but then, that perversity also called to have Besseth wed Tibault in the Chapel of Darkness, presided over by him. While Declan agreed that was the best, he also knew they weren't going to get it...yet. Now, he had to settle for this. He slipped it from the mannequin, bundled it carefully.

"John." He called. While Besseth's common law husband technically belonged to Khraben, he'd come when he was called by any of the children. He served her, through them.

"ggghhr?"

"Take this..." He held out the bundle to the geist appearing from the darkness in the far corner.. "To Besseth. If it does not make its way to her in a timely, clean and intact manner, you will regret it. "

"grh." It snatched the bundle from Declan's grasp, tucked it away, and was gone.

"Hate that one." Ellorie murmured, turning away from it, and towards the dubious comfort of the blue flames banked in the fireplace. "We should have gotten rid of it a long time ago. It's too... intact."

"Of course it is." Declan didn't need the comfort of a fireplace when Icecrown roared. "If it were mindless, then it would not comprehend why it pays still. And it will pay forever." Ellorie had come much later to the family. She had never known Besseth when the marks of that one's terror were still fresh on her, when she had wallowed in filth and gore to make herself less appealing. Death and oblivion was too quick an answer. Let it serve and grovel for the rest of eternity, it was as much a member of the family as any of them were. Without it, and its misdeeds, he'd lie dead on his homeland's dirt, or worse, be mindless and rambling. His twin, likewise. That terrible day would have been the end of both of them. Besseth would not have accepted the True King's gifts that fateful day, found by him trying to escape along the road to Light's Hope. They would have all just died, and been lost, forgotten about. And that was one of the few things that truly terrified Declan. "Without it, Ellorie, there would be no us. I pay my debts, sister. All of them."


Besseth's wedding day dawned, clear, with just a touch of autumn in the air. She woke, already feeling the excitement rising in the household. She could hear a great many men's voices, Tibault's, Anselm's, Tirion's. Between the group of them, they knew precious few females, the majority of those who turned up to celebrate and bless this event were male. I wish you were here, Mama."" She sighed, shaking her head and crawling out of bed. Some things were just not meant to be, and some things were....

The gown hanging from the wardrobe door was not the same as had been there when she'd gone to bed last night, and she chuckled. What was good enough for her, with a deadline fast approaching, had obviously not been good enough for the twins. The gown before was nice, this was more, fine, lustrous linen, heavy with embroidery... its cut breathed of quel'dorei and Lordaeron styles right before the fall, and would gracefully conceal the now undeniable swell to her belly. She was showing, and showing fast. Any hopes that she would be one of those women who remained slim and athletic well into their terms were lost hopes indeed. Tirion had blinked in ill disguised amazement when he'd clapped eyes on her last night, the first he'd seen since she'd come out of Northrend. Six weeks, and the change was obvious. Anselm had grinned like the boy he had only recently ceased to be at the same sight. Four months gone, and she was already sick to death of flowery euphemisms like ripening and blooming. Swelling and exploding, maybe. "Thank you, Declan, Diarmid." She stated to the empty room.

"You are welcome, mother."

She nodded, unsurprised. Keeping them away from places they wanted to be was a struggle... the complete and total lack of magical warding she sensed in Tibault's ancestral home was an open door invitation to them to come and go as they pleased. Declan stood, like statuary, on one side of the window, his brother a mirror image on the other. They had both shed the dark, somber gear which shouted servant of the Scourge, their clothing was appropriate for male quel'dorei at a formal event, and they were bleeding the power from their eyes. They'd pass, if no one looked too hard.

"You..." Declan's eyes dropped to her belly. "Grow well."

She snorted, again, that was putting it mildly. "I am going to be huge." She spat, and Diarmid chuckled.

"We come to see you wed, mother." Diarmid smiled. "Since you will not do so in our Cathedral, we have made this journey. And, of course you're going to be huge. Tibault Kellemen is no small man. Congratulations."

That would settle better if she felt even the slightest hint of irony or sarcasm in his voice. There was none, his eyes were level and accepting, as were his twin's. He stepped forward, out of the shadow, and rested his fingertips on her belly. "Live, while you still have the chance." He breathed, pressing a chill kiss on her forehead. "This is fleeting."

Declan, always the gentler of the two, stared daggers at Diarmid. Besseth was relieved, that statement was the most comprehensible one that any of the Court had given her since she'd been left at Light's Hope. They hadn't changed. She still understood them. They were still her spawn.

"Diar..." Declan hissed, and his twin gazed mildly back at him. "That was uncalled for."

"It is fleeting, Dec. I will not lie, or coat it with honey. She is ours, and we will come for her, sooner than later."

"Not today."

Diarmid nodded, resting his hand on the back of Besseth's neck. "Not today. Nor tomorrow. Nor before the babe comes. And yes, brother, you are correct. Such statements are not fitting for today. And..." He stared into her face. "She may yet confound us again. Such seems to be her gift."

Besseth felt her lips curve. In spite of it all, in spite of his words, they were still her sons. Just as she had made them to be.


"You fuss." Anselm muttered, and Tibault growled under his breath. To be that young, and that certain of how things were, again. Of course he fussed. What else was he supposed to do?

"He's young, Tibault. He'll learn." Tirion noted, and Anselm frowned, absently playing with the treasure he'd been entrusted with, a golden band, inset with lapis and amber, on his smallest finger.

"Lose that, and I'll eat you." Tibault warned, and the young paladin only gave him a long suffering look.

"I will not lose Besseth's wedding band." He grumbled, "I'm more afraid of what she would do to me if I did, than what you would."

"Such wisdom from one so young." Tirion chuckled, his silver hair bathed with the light of noon flowing from the Cathedral's great windows. "The Order turns out for this day, Tibault."

It did indeed. It was humbling to see so many fill the Cathedral for this. When he'd suggested that the Order's Chapel was large enough, Tirion had only laughed in cheerful derision at the idea. "More than that will show up, Tibault." He'd warned, and he was proven correct.

"In fact, " Tirion continued, a grin playing under his mustache, "Unless my old eyes deceive...that would be the King."

It was. Varian Wrynn moved through the Cathedral, drawing as little attention to himself as it was possible for him to, taking a seat in one of the pews. Tibault swallowed down a sudden knot of panic. Besseth was going to explode. This was more than even he had counted for, and he'd been fearing a great deal. Why did this have to be so difficult? All he wanted to do was marry the woman he loved. The woman who carried his child. Men did it all the time.

"Besseth has stood in the Court of the Lich King." Tirion stated. "She fears little, Tibault. Stop fretting. The boy is right, you fuss...." His voice trailed off, his eyes locked on the woman who had appeared in the doorway. Anselm's breath hissed in tandem, and Tibault was speechless. Besseth. Her tea blonde hair was intricately braided with flowers and ribbons. She wore a lovely gown...which harkened back to a style which had died with Northern Lordaeron, a hint of the majesty of the quel'dorei fashions also there. It flowed over her belly, not an attempt to hide or flaunt, just graceful and lovely.

"You are one lucky man, Tibault Kellemen. I hope you realize that."

"I do." It was the first time that afternoon that Tibault would use those words. It was not the last.

[semiiramiis]

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 I have 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."

[HussamAlkarim]

THANK YOU!!!!

I honestly feel quiet bad for the twins, after all that waiting to reclaim their mother, it all came to naught.

Same for her babies, but for different reasons.

Very nice story

[semiiramiis]

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.

"*****." 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 lands, 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. "

[semiiramiis]

Stick a fork in it and call it done.

Begun the first week in April, at the request of a great friend of mine, Besseth's story was plagued with issues. If that great friend of mine hadn't been sooooo insistent that it be finished, it might not have survived. All I have to say is....back up your stories and back them up OFTEN. This one was ressurected through the email installments sent to this friend after the computer I had been writing on suffered yet another hard drive failure. It also survived being uprooted from the admittedly lacking word processing program and version it was originally written in and shifted to my new writing computer and a more commonly accepted format and program. It was actually completed about a month ago, but was put on the back burner because of my summer vacation. Enough excuses, though, here it is.

As stated, started in April. 51,646 words. And it firmly belongs to one of the greatest online friends and stubborn fans I have.... Chaviji, of Runetotem. You go, girl!

[prion]

awesome.

an issue:

"By the Light above." Anselm muttered and Besseth snorted. The Light had nothing to do with that piece of work. "What is that?"

Tibault remained silent, and she knew he was going to let her take that question. "That is Acherus." She finally identified it. Let Mograine try to christen it for his own means, that was Acherus. "Mograine calls it the Ebon Hold now. It is still Acherus."

...(snip)...

"Right." Suck it up. She silenced, dropping her eyes and willing herself smaller. It used to work... now, she was uncertain. The overlook ability she had cultivated as a servant of the king did not seem to be nearly as useful as it had before. Men still stared. Women still stared. Anselm came from beneath decks, his eyes planted firmly on Acherus.

"Mistress.... that is?"

"Acherus." She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. If only it wasn't so damned imposing... "From what I understand, we'll be going there."

You've got Anselm seeing Acherus for the first time twice.

[semiiramiis]

Originally Posted by prion

awesome.

an issue:


You've got Anselm seeing Acherus for the first time twice.

Yes..yes..I do. Continuity error in...3...2...1.
(There's a lapse of about six weeks between writing the first part noted and the second part noted.)
Honestly, they all have continuity issues... Roseleyn's number of siblings change at one point... The name of Raymond's keep in Alterac switches regularly between Beacon Rise and Beacon Hill....Anselm apparently has the worst memory on record, because, even though he's been involved in conversations which mention them all by name, he claims towards the end of "Servant" that he doesn't know the names of Besseth's children.... Declan and Diarmid change places, everytime I sit down and take another look, I'll find something else that escaped. Occasionally they are, like the one you've noted, because of a lapse in writing. Or something changed in the flow of the story and, upon rereading, I missed all the references to the original (changed) story point. Or they're just a blonde moment. (I have more than my fair share of those, being doubly doomed...blonde AND southern) I admit to them, and really, while I could go back in and reedit what is here, remove and replace them on fanfiction.net as well, I chose not to. They all have their flaws.

[animusluna]

Amazing. Truly amazing. I actually had tears in my eyes during the epilogue, and it takes some damn good writing to affect me like that.