World of Warcraft®

The orphaned youth marveled at the majesty that was the Cathedral at Stormwind. She spent many an hour gazing at it from the small window in the orphanage or sneaking out to stand quietly in a corner within its halls listening to the soft murmurings of the Priests, Priestesses, and Paladins as they went about their duties. Bright blue eyes peered searching with a curiosity that was not uncommon to children of the age but there was something more that lingered behind those eyes: the call of the Light.

"Where is she?" Came the Matron's voice, shrill with frustration as Genevra had wandered off again. The girl knew that she was in trouble; she'd been told off several times now for "harassing the clergy" and knew that she was in for it. She hugged the pillar hoping beyond hope that she would not be seen and avoids the extra chores as a result.

"There's no need to hide child, not when it is the Light that calls you here," Came the soft-spoken voice of the Archbishop. Genevra jumped startled as she looked up at the Archbishop stammering an apology that was waved off with a hand.

***

The Priestess sat on a bench in the Cathedral, watching the scene unfold in her mind's eye. It seemed so long ago. Her eyes could not help but drift to the place where the Archbishop usually stood standing proud and watching over those who entered the Cathedral of the Light.

***

"Respect is the first of the Virtues that you must understand. We cannot look out for our own happiness but be mindful of other's wishes as well. You must not be selfish in your want to serve the Light; you cannot force it upon others." He spoke in a level-headed voice surveying the young woman.

"So when Drew got upset that I told Sarah said she liked him, and she told me that he liked her too, I shouldn't have said anything?" She asked understanding only the basic concept in the way that a pre-teen could.

A soft chuckle left the Archbishop's lips, "That's a start; you must have respect for others feelings, even if they do not pertain to the Light, but especially if they do."

***

Genevra knelt before the Archbishop; a paladin dressed in golden armor knelt at her side as the Archbishop spoke. "The Lich has been amassing doomguards to do his bidding, you must find that Phylactery and destroy it, lest the doomguards start rampaging the realm more than they already are. There are ten that we know of."

"Only Ten?" Came Hafter's cocky voice. Genevra's smirk grew to match his.

"We will be cautious sir."

"Do not let your confidence get the better of you Hafter, this will not be an easy task, your companion still struggles in the face of that which may overwhelm her. She must rise to the occasion and prove that she has mastered the act of Tenacity or the two of you will have a very troublesome time ahead."

Genevra dropped her gaze at the Archbishop's words, nodding before departing with Hafter for the Outlands.

"It could be worse Gen; he could have kept you there."

***

It was a rush of memories: the fel stench of the doomguards, the pulsing vile magic that was contained within the phylactery, the exhaustion, the satisfaction, she had not faltered, but she had sustained wounds nonetheless. Waking up with Hafter and Llanus watching over her, she knew she was safe.

"You did well Genevra," came the praise from the Archbishop in the coming days. She had not let him down, and for this she was proud.

***

Compassion, it was the last and final virtue, that which the Priestess struggled with for as long as she could remember. Could she show compassion to Ardam? Who damaged her first home so, or to the Archbishop, who had shaken her faith?

The Black Bishop set poised to destroy the Cathedral, to harm King Varian, the betrayal of Samuelson; all of it added up to something amiss within the Cathedral, within her home. And she had been ignorant of it. Ignorant of the fact that her mentor had been drifting from the Light with each passing day.

Still his words echoed in her ears as she sat within those hallowed halls, "There is no good. No evil. No Light. There is only POWER!"

"No." She spoke unknowingly spoke out loud, garnering her looks from those worshiping in the Cathedral. Quietly Genevra recanted the three virtues: Respect. Tenacity. Compassion. She could not show compassion to the Archbishop, for it seemed that he had abandoned this virtue the day that he took up the mantle of the Twilight Father, the day he turned his back on the Light.

She breathed slowly, calmly, knowing that the winds of change were not coming; they had already brought a storm to their lands and left devastation in their wake. The treachery of Benedictus would leave many who followed the tenants of the Light and those who followed and worshiped within the Cathedral at a loss. If ever there was a time for Genevra to hold to her convictions and to the tenants of the Light, now was that time, following the fall of the Father.

It was not often that a death knight could be shaken by events - after all, they were dead, what was the worst that could happen? But like Genevra Stoneheardt, Artimus Devaneaux was greatly shaken by what had happened. Saavedro had often spoken of the grace and wisdom of the Archbishop. He had been the apprentice and chosen successor to old Archbishop Faol, whom Artimus remembered from the days of the Second War, standing at the side of King Terenas, giving him the Light's counsel.

Seated in his home outside Goldshire, Artimus composed a letter to his friend in Silvermoon, Master Taeril'hane Ketiron.

My old comrade,

I have just returned from Northrend, from Wyrmrest Temple in the great Dragonblight. The legions of Deathwing have laid siege to the Temple and their elemental and faceless monstrosities corrupt the very land. Even with the Scourge running rampant, I have not seen things of such evil, such corruption. The Worldbreaker's rage, his corruption, his outright evil are far greater than even the Lich King's, if such a thing was possible. You and I saw first-hand what Arthas was capable of, but even the destruction of our homelands is nothing compared to what is to come if Deathwing is not stopped.

I have seen this. Nozdormu showed me, and many other proud souls who fight the evil of the Twilight's Hammer, what had to be done to avert the Hour of Twilight. We have seen the future, the past, the present. We have retrieved a great weapon to bring down the Destroyer and end his reign of terror. We have at last identified the mysterious Twilight Prophet, the successor of the foul Cho'gall as master of the Old Gods' cult...and that identity has shaken me to my very core. Our own Archbishop, beloved of all, is a traitor. Well...he was a traitor. Now he is dead. May his spirit know no peace.

But Benedictus' treason is merely one of the more extreme examples of the chaos that has gripped our world. Even the most beloved and holy figures of our nations are swearing allegiance to Deathwing and the Twilight's Hammer, and we are forced to kill them to ensure that they do not consign our world to the apocalypse envisioned by the Timeless One. Proof, I think, that Azeroth as a whole has lost its mind. It is perhaps fortunate that you have chosen to retire in solitude to your homeland, my old friend...the things I have seen in Northrend in recent days make the war with the Lich King look like a childish squabble.

Give my best to Areinnye and Ord'taeril...and pray we can end this insanity before it denies our children and grandchildren their richly deserved future.

Yours, as ever,
Artimus

As he finished the letter, he heard a voice say behind him, "Fear not, Artimus. This is not proof of the end...but it is the beginning of the end. The end of the Worldbreaker."

Artimus turned around, hoping to see the speaker. But the doorway behind him was empty.

Betrayal.
It was not something Cray was unfamiliar with.
That, however, was not especially comforting.

Ordinarily, Cray was able to manage his rage reasonably well but since he had heard of the Archbishop's betrayal.... he felt himself losing control. Doubt, fear -- these filled him too, but nothing ate at him like his rage. Narnicka had done his best to help, but the words of an image of an elderly shaman could only do so much.

Cray glared towards Joachim, who had been ordered not to serve Cray drinks. The paladin clenched his eyes shut, grinding his teeth. Orders. Without orders, he had once thought, there could be no traitors.

~~~

"Father, think about what you're doing. We know people who live there!"

Warren Auchtin turned to his son. There was a hardness in his eyes that Cray could never remember not seeing there. "I'm following my orders, boy, and you would do well to show some respect to the prince."

Cray shook his head. "We should be fleeing, and helping others do the same. This is madness."

The hand came from nowhere -- there was never warning, just the sound of impact and the taste of blood. If it happened less frequently, it would be surprising. The younger Auchtin spat on the ground, trying to expel the blood from his mouth. He looked at his father -- fist still poised to strike again -- and turned on his heel. Something told him their paths had parted, and they would never meet again.

~~~

For a long while, Cray had thought himself the traitor. But now, older and wiser, he had learned that the worst traitor of all was one who betrayed his own convictions.

One like Benedictus. The man who had given Cray his chance at redemption, and saved him from himself.

It was Benedictus who had found him, passed out from the drink, on the steps of the Cathedral. It was Benedictus who had brought him in to be nursed back to sobriety. It was Benedictus who had taught him that he needed to avoid alcohol at all costs, lest he return to his days of drunken brawls. It was Benedictus who had been his second father, of sorts.
It was true they had not spent too much time together before Cray shipped off to Northshire, but the time had been invaluable to the paladin. Perhaps it was just another lost soul that Benedictus had found and brought into the Light. But then, perhaps, if he’d had a chance... if they’d had some time…

Cray glared at Joachim once more. He frowned down at his tankard of water, knocking it off the table with his fist and storming out of the Blue Recluse. By the Light, he could use a drink.