They heard Light's Hope Chapel before they saw it. What had once been a remote cathedral buried in the Plaguelands had transformed overnight with the arrival of Naxxramas. Every guild imaginable had gathered to try and dare the Citadel's walls. Some guilds had been formed simply due to Naxxramas itself. The cathedral hadn't had room to hold them all. Slowly, the guilds had expanded until tents lined the hills and nudged the sickly trees of the Plaguewood, entombing themselves slowly underneath coatings of mushroom spores. Adventurers trickled out; their shouted conversations peppered the woods, along with the clang of repair anvils and the crackle of dueling spells.

"The Oldmoon rates may be going up, but they're still the most reliable," Liasin told Jenna as he slowed the wagon to let a pair of hunters pass. She had started complaining ever since the peak of the Chapel had come into view, and hadn't stopped. "I guess they've succeeded in cornering the market. I'm surprised the Delisers didn't invest in that field first."

Jenna was less than enthused. "If they had, Slowfoot would be a lot less grumpy, and we could all retire rich today. Do I really have to negotiate with the Parlor?" she wheedled, switching tacks with the grace of an experienced procrastinator.

Liasin sighed. The path clear once more, he nudged the wagon forward. "Read the heraldry for me. If I take my eyes off the horses, I swear I'll run over someone."

She obliged, shifting her swords as she leaned her weight in the saddle to get a better look at the banners around them. The pommels dug into her waist. "Blue and white, lightning bolt in the center. That's Storm-something, isn't it?"

"StormLine. Anyone else?"

"Next to them is the letter C underneath a tent," she reported dutifully. "Purple on black."

"Waning crescent underneath a roof," Liasin corrected. "Good. The Parlor's here. Try to find their representative while I go to see if the Dawn's pit is full."

She pulled a sneer, halfway hoping that he might yet change his mind. "The Parlor's a bunch of thieves. I've never met one who didn't try to steal a kill, claim an ore vein, or yank some rare weed out from underneath my very feet."

"They're also the best options we have for getting the dead back home." Liasin did not sound swayed. "What color is the cord?"

Squinting at the crescent mark, Jenna spotted the signal rope that hung like a lash across the curve of the moon. "Blue."

"Then they have someone here. You're not off the hook."

They wound the deadwagon slowly through the tents -- Liasin steering in careful stops and starts, Jenna dancing her horse around clumps of adventurers too lazy to move -- until they reached the banner pole that had been driven into the ground to mark the Brigade's rented territory. There, she roped her horse up beside the wagon, confident enough that the beast would not be stolen. Her companion for the last two years, Jenna had saved the mare from the knackers in Menethil several years back, nicknaming her Flea in a fit of pique after an afternoon spent picking mites out of the saddle. In exchange for the kindness, Flea had promptly gained threefold times the pests. The one good thing about the mare's ill temper was that she could be trusted to defend herself from any would-be thieves as avidly as she resisted Jenna as a passenger.

Behind her, Jenna could hear Liasin struggling with the roster check. "Blackwind's Brigade, under 'L.' Yes, except that it's pronounced Lee-asin. William Liasin, here with Jenna All-Bright."

Will lie and sin, she thought to herself with amusement, remembering the joke that had roamed for months around the Brigade before Blackwind could stamp it out. Lie and sin. Stretching, she surveyed the camps lazily. The standards mixed and mingled together. A few of them were manned by supply officers that had been sent back to restock for their guilds, while others were stationed as rally points for latecomers along the far perimeter of the camp. Scanning the colors, she found over half to be familiar. The rest blurred together in a clutter of mismatched shapes, like a flock of crazed roosters trying to outdo one another in plumage.

All the major guilds were pitching their coins in the ring, hoping to conquer Naxxramas -- even as the fight against Ahn'Qiraj continued to rage. The more expansive guilds that could afford portals were attempting both battlefronts, overtaxing mages to tear holes between the continents and ferry supplies and manpower. Warlocks made a healthy trade summoning stragglers from point to point. Innkeepers everywhere were becoming rich.

Among them, the Brigade's standard hung doggedly on its racking pole, having survived any attempts at defacement while the guild was on the march. A yellow cord was draped over the front, signifying the absence of any representatives. Absently, she reached up and found the blue one, flipping it across instead.

When Liasin rejoined her, she said, "The matron gave you a terrible name."

"Only around people with nothing better to do than make crude jokes," he replied, not missing a beat. Noticing the cant of her gaze, he glanced around. "Anyone else show up?"

"The usual. The Vics, the Truesilver Arms, Fire Everlasting. There's a new guild claiming to be the next big shots on the field, the real champions of the Alliance," she added, hauling out the overnight gear from the supply crates stacked beside the banner. The Brigade paid for enough ground to fit a tent and wagon during the guild's absences, allowing room for provisioners and stragglers -- but not luxury. "'Fortis Eternalum.'"

Liasin mouthed the name in bewilderment as he moved to assist her. "What does that even mean?"

"No idea. I'll pass the news over to Blackwind -- I don't know if he'll enjoy telling the Vics more, or just letting them find out for themselves."

The makeshift camp took only a short time to assemble, Liasin working smoothly beside Jenna in practiced tandem. As they finished stretching the canvas down in a half-tent from the deadwagon's side, voices rose angrily along the path. A refurbished supply cart trundled past; its riders were jeering at the other guilds, making rude, indiscriminate gestures. Their ragtag armor was patched by leather scraps. A stained yellow banner hung doggedly from the cart's side; the insignia had been crudely painted on, rather than stitched from cloth. If Jenna squinted, the pattern almost looked like a kite shield with a sword laid across it. Otherwise, it could have been an apple, or a dying balloon. Potentially, it was a murloc.

"Golden Guard," Liasin said under his breath; it was as guttural as a curse. He shook his head in dismay. "I don't know what they hope to accomplish up here."

Jenna skirted her gaze towards him. "Weren't you in the Golden Guard once?"

He flushed predictably at her teasing. "It was a long time ago. I was younger then."

"It was last year, Liasin."

"It was a long time," he insisted, tossing aside the remainder of the ropes in loose coils while she broke into silent laughter behind him.

By the time she had finished unrolling the bedding, Liasin had disappeared. She hunted him down through the crowd to the message board tacked beside the mailbox. Light's Hope had staked out their notices on a wide wooden plank alongside the hill that ran up to the chapel. The board was overflowing with clutter as people nailed up their recruitment flyers, their entreaties for aid, and scribbled notes to one another for all to see. Handwriting crossed the pages like warring spiderwebs; comments crawled over memos, coupled with personal signatures and thumbprints for authenticity. Jenna only gave the scraps of paper an arbitrary glance; she had no one to correspond with, and -- as far as she knew -- no one who wanted to look for her.

Liasin had already finished collecting the packages for the Brigade, but was remaining to watch the crowd. An opened envelope was pinched between his fingers. He was running his thumb down the spine of the bundled packages, aligning them together in a stack. Liasin handled letters the same way that librarians did their books: with a gentleness, an affection, as if the messages were living beings to respect instead of inanimate objects. He touched most things that way, when he thought no one else was looking; Jenna had once caught him stroking a tea set.

She hesitated near the path, unwilling to intrude on the moment. Whenever Liasin was happy, really happy, a small, crooked smile would creep over his mouth -- and would vanish in an instant, as if he didn't dare to show such honesty to others. From where she was standing, it looked as if one was starting to appear.

Then he glanced up and noticed her, catching himself. His smile broadened, looking more enthusiastic, but his eyes became guarded once more.

He slid a different envelope out of the mix and extended it towards her as she crossed the path towards him, wedging the first one back into the stack. "A letter from your parents. I wonder if they're finally asking you to come home and be respectable."

She snatched the entire bundle from him; he grinned, empty-handed, and settled down on the slope of the shallow hill. A packet came up first as she searched for Liasin's letter. "Next on the agenda," she read aloud, "invoices for Coppershine from Deliser. Probably charging us for wear and tear on the horseshoes used to bring us our rations. That man is terrifying."

"But he keeps us legal." Leaning forward as she finally discovered the opened correspondence, Liasin plucked his letter away before she could rifle through it. Seeing her lean nosily towards him, he flapped the paper dismissively. "A few paladins from other guilds are trying to get together next month and speak about types of strategies that we've found useful while healing. They sent out invitations to see who would be able to attend."

Jenna shuffled the packages in her hands, peering at him over the edge of their brown butcher paper wrappings. "Will you go?"

Liasin sighed, folding the envelope into a neat square and tucking it away. "I'd like to. I don't know how much new information I have to contribute, but I'm interested if anyone has fresh insights. Sammal's on the list as well. He and I agree on the use of weaker incantations to use in harmony with those of priests and druids, rather than wasting energies in competition to see who can cast the largest spells first. I'm curious to hear what he has to say."

At the mention of the other guild's paladin, Jenna frowned. "Don't let Blackwind know you're fraternizing with the enemy."

Liasin shook his head. "Guild lines shouldn't keep us from developing our skills. We're all paladins -- we should all try to help each other. We're capable of powerful things with the Light, and even if we have to resort to enchantments or armor that aren't traditional, if it helps us get the job done, then shouldn't we use them?" The sudden burst of passion turned him restless; he shook his head again, agitated. "How can we let pride get in the way of helping people? Isn't our most important duty to protect others, regardless of what role we happen to be fulfilling at the time? If healing is what's needed, then we should heal. If it's to cleanse the wounds of the injured, then that's what we should attend to. Shouldn't we be willing to do whatever is necessary, even if it means we may not earn personal glory? Even if it's not something we would take pride in?"

A small knot of paladins had gathered near notice board. As Liasin's speech picked up in intensity, they turned around, narrowing their eyes in his direction. Jenna didn't recognize their colors.

"Listen to this fellow," one of them scoffed, loud enough to cut Liasin's diatribe short. "Sounds just like another priest faker, doesn't he?"

"I wonder why," Liasen replied evenly.

Their reaction was mixed. Several paladins smirked in scorn. Then one of them pointed at the Brigade mark on Liasin's tabard, whispering. Immediately, the mood shifted. The man who had criticized first fell silent with an ugly, sullen cant to his jaw. A few hesitated, looking as if they wanted to come forward and speak, but the result was final: the knot of people broke up. Liasin touched his brow briefly in what Jenna recognized as exasperation. Any relaxation he had harbored had vanished; he only looked weary again.

"I'll bring the mail back for you," she promised. "And go talk to the Parlor. Take the afternoon off."

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. "Thank you."

- - - - - - - -

As the crowd dispersed, Liasin watched, marking faces to memory. It had not been the first time he'd encountered hostility while expressing his perspective. He knew it would not be the last. Two of the paladins gave him respectful nods of recognition; he offered the same back. The others drifted away.

One man was revealed lingering on the sidelines. He had not been part of the hecklers, but stood apart from the rest of the crowd, with no companions by his side. He wore no tabard or waist sash that might have identified his affiliation. His armor was composed of unmatched plate that looked as if it had been pieced from the spares of an armory. The libram that was bound to his belt was easily overlooked, thin and battered, hanging in place by worn leather strapping.

Liasin wasn't certain why the man had struck his notice. Amidst the cacophony of travelers that flooded Light's Hope, the stranger looked no different from any transient. His hair was a sandy brown that was peppered liberally with grey strands. A spear had been lashed to his back, crossing a shield and travel pack.

Another newcomer hoping to be taken on by any guild that will have him, Liasin thought first, and then berated himself. It wasn't fair of him to judge based on armor alone, or to assume motivations.

He tried to look away, silently apologizing to whatever Light might be listening, but his chin only jerked a fraction when he told it to move. His attention seemed stitched to the other man. His eyes felt locked in place.

Then, as if sensing Liasin's gaze, the stranger turned his head suddenly and looked back.

Hazel eyes met blue. Across the distance, Liasin could not determine their intent. The man's weathered features looked expressionless, masked by a short beard and scruff. Then some invisible balance shifted; a crease appeared between the man's eyebrows as he furrowed them, equally perplexed.

"Kobolds and candles!" A woman's voice broke in. "Liasin, is that you? It's been too long!"

Turning at the shout, Liasin spotted another paladin making her way towards him. Keldrin was her name; stout for a human and dark-haired, she was dressed in the blue and white of StormLine. They had met early on during each of their travels, giving one another assistance before guild business had inevitably drawn them onto separate roads. Every now and then, their territories overlapped, but with decreasing frequency; the last time he'd seen her was near Scholomance.

He embraced her briefly, their armor scraping in protest before he released her and clapped her on the back. "Blackwind keeps me busy. You look as if you've been making a name for yourself. Your gear may have seen better days, however," he noticed affectionately, studying her at arm's length and counting the scuffs that marred the craftsmanship. The history of extended campaigns was written out in the composition of her armor, forged from dark iron metals and imbued steel. Keldrin was young, but no one looking at her equipment would imagine she was a novice to battle.

She dusted pollen off her cloak with the back of her hand, laughing. "The dents give it character. That's my excuse, at least. I just came from the blacksmiths -- they said the waiting list is too long to fit me in for repairs before my big meeting."

"Oh?"

She slowly ran her fingers over her cloak again, drawing out the moment before she finally answered. "The Vic recruitment officer contacted me last week. She said they'd heard good things about me, and wanted to have a meeting to discuss some... opportunities."

Despite his best attempt at neutrality, Liasin couldn't help arching his eyebrows. Smoothing his expression over, he nodded his head towards the Plaguewood. "If you wanted to speak with them, you might want to head towards Naxxramas. We passed them on the way over."

Keldrin's eyes flicked mischievously to the side. "Well," she confessed reluctantly, "this isn't exactly a public meeting. Let's just say that I'm here on personal time."

He took the cue, turning them away from the notice board and leading the conversation into the trees. The buzz of the crowd faded to a hum; the chirp of insects filtered in to replace it. Once they were safely alone, he turned to study her, this time evaluating what he saw with a sterner eye. "StormLine will hate to lose you."

"They won't." Keldrin's voice was certain. "The Vics would have to give a really good offer to buy out my guild contract. I doubt I'm worth that much to them -- unfortunately." She reached out, tracing the rosette of knotted cloth that sat on the shoulder of his tabard. "I see you made officer."

"You mean I refused officer, and Blackwind made me the paladin captain in revenge."

A thin smile surfaced and vanished on her lips, turning like a fish. "I still have that libram you lent me, back in Stranglethorn," she said, changing the subject. "'A Solitary Light in the Mountains.' Here," she continued, unclipping the book from her side. The chains clattered as she unthreaded them from the libram's rings. "Sorry about the, ah, chew marks. One of our hunter's pets got hold of it before I could catch them."

He accepted the damaged book with bemusement. "Don't worry. I'm sure its value can only be enhanced by proof of its flavor. Listen, Keldrin -- "

She shook her head to silence him, forstalling any protests. "Some of us have to take our options where we can, Liasin. Besides, they offered to buy me dinner. I can't pass up a free meal!" Her attempt at humor died as swiftly as her smile. "Who knows -- maybe I'll see you again soon, out where the real action is. Save some glory for me, all right?"

Before he could figure out what to say back in response, she clasped his arm awkwardly. Her grip loosened after only a moment; she was no longer meeting his eyes. He watched as she trudged away, the hem of her cloak swaying around her boots as she waded through the clumps of withered grass. The insect staccato creaked into the silence she left behind.

"Don't do it," he whispered aloud. Her shape was becoming smaller and smaller in the crowd. "Don't join them."

"You don't think she should be allowed to choose?"

Startled, Liasin jerked his head around. The voice was unfamiliar; the human it emanated from stepped into view across the clearing. As the shadows peeled back, they revealed mismatched armor, light brown hair, and a steady gaze. The man's steps were measured, unhurried. Though there were no longer any weapons visible on him, he moved with the confidence of a person who did not feel as if they had anything to fear, and no reason to enforce a threat.

It's him again, Liasin realized. The stranger from back at the message board.

"My pardons, sir," he offered cordially to the man, reservation keeping the politeness crisp. It was awkward to be caught -- both for Keldrin, and for himself. The last thing either of them needed was gossip that could incite mischief between the guilds. "It's not jealousy, though I'm sure some would have you believe as much. Even though the Victorious don't get along with my guild, they respect paladins decently. I just hope she'll be happy where she ends up -- and I'm not sure she's like the rest of the Vics. But if it's what makes her happy, then that's what I'd want for her. Despite my misgivings."

The answer seemed to satisfy the man. He stepped further into the clearing, stopping when he was face-to-face with Liasin. He moved quietly enough; the lack of ornate platemail served to his advantage, not giving off warning sounds of metal sliding against metal. "I apologize for eavesdropping. My name is Granden. I couldn't help but hear your talk about healing, and wanted to ask you about it. Is that a common role for paladins these days?"

Mention of the topic instantly put Liasin on familiar territory; almost immediately, he felt himself relaxing. Still, the sudden shift of the man's questioning might only be meant to put him at ease before an attempt to dig for more information. Manipulation or not, he accepted the possibility with resignation. "Depends on the paladin. We all disagree now, it seems like -- about what paladins should and shouldn't do."

The din of the campgrounds rose and fell in the distance. As if memory tugged at him, Granden glanced back towards the Chapel. "I remember it used to be laughable, whenever a paladin would stand back instead of wade into the front line."

"Most people still mock us when we claim we're capable of healing. Most paladins as well. 'Protectors of the Light.'" The laugh that came out of Liasin was bitter, raw. "We have so much to offer, if only they'd be willing to see. Protecting something doesn't just mean hitting things with a stick."

"But sometimes that stick is needed." Granden's head came back around, fixing a steady gaze upon Liasin again. "Healing alone hasn't fixed the Plaguelands. Look at this land."

"Yes, look at this land." Liasin's hand snapped towards the ground. The words burst out hotly; it was a struggle not to let passion launch him into another speech. "The earth is trying to return to what it used to be, while some forms of life have adapted and found an equilibrium. How can a person choose between them? When does finding a cure become destroying what's managed to survive? At what point do we decide to ignore all the efforts of that which has fought to find new life here, in favor of what we think it should become?" He caught himself suddenly, realizing he had failed to keep from another lecture. Morose, he clenched his teeth until he mastered his tongue. "I'm sorry. Are you -- are you also here to seek battle with Naxxramas?"

The question hung between them. Then the man broke into a chuckle, unexpectedly warm. "And what would Naxxramas have to do with the likes of me? No. I don't get involved in things anymore. This world gets along just fine without my efforts."

"Some would call that cold."

"They have a right to say it." His calm as impenetrable as a shield, Granden lifted a finger briefly in warning. "If it's one thing, boy, stick to what you believe in, even if all the world condemns you for it. Should you waver, then hope you have allies who can help you remember what you want most -- whatever that may be."

It was simple enough advice. Too simple, Liasin thought. Too tempting. Wariness flared briefly inside him, fighting against his own inclinations towards openness. To buy time, he turned the angle of the conversation around. "Is that how you do it?"

"Me?" The corner of the man's mouth pinched wryly in a smile. "I don't have allies."

"No guild at all, then? Not joining the Dawn?"

The breeze stirred as Granden kept silent, taking his time in answering. A nearby mushroom shivered and expelled a fresh cloud of dust. Granden did not flinch from it as the powder settled around him, drifting down like a handful of copper-tainted flour. "Follow what your heart tells you, and you get creatures like Arthas. Follow someone else's guidance, and you get the poor soldiers who died under his banner. Even trying to find a course at all is suspect, because it relies on either your judgment or someone else's to tell you if you've strayed. The only salvation," the man suggested quietly, "lies in doubt and self-questioning. But it takes suppressing doubt to find the courage to change anything, for good or for bad. So where is the balance?"

The logic was unforgiving. It was also familiar. Liasin felt an echo of it stirring treacherously in his own thoughts. More than once, he had veered towards impossible standards in his own frustrated debates, and had always shied away. Confronted by possibilities that could be laid out so starkly, Liasin found he did not want to consider them directly. "Even the Brotherhood of the Light admits that they themselves follow extremes," he murmured instead, touching his temple and resisting the urge to cover his face. "The Scarlets and the Brotherhood. Two sides of the same coin, with the same goal, brought together like this against the Scourge. And when fire fights fire, we all get burned."

Granden acknowledged the conclusion with a nod of his head. "In my eyes, both factions are crazy -- but in theirs, I lack spirit. I won't be staying here long. No, it's the open road for me. Will you be returning to the front?"

"As soon as I figure out what to do with the bodies." Shelving his troubled thoughts for later, Liasin sighed and waved back towards the cacophony of banners peeking through the distorted forest. "Three of them are paid for by the guild, and have families to return to. It's the fourth's that's a problem -- she's a Scarlet. I'm not sure where to send her. The Parlor gives me a discount if I use Darkshire, so a discount determines where she ends up." Disgust flavored his voice, self-recrimination pitted against his own acceptance of being limited by funds. He checked himself, this time succeeding in tempering his nerves. "Our commander once said, 'this war is fought by mercenaries.' We're recognized by the law through signing guild charters, but the only true law we follow is that of our finances. This is a war fought by pocketbook."

The accusation was more resigned than condemning. It fell and was swallowed among the chirrup of insects; their song had grown bolder, until it rang like a chorus of broken bells. Dusk was sneaking in. The sun had begun to creep away. The gleam of distant campfires leaked a warm glow through the woods, a seeping haze that invited stragglers to come in for rest.

Nodding towards the Chapel, Liasin finished bitterly. "We fight against Naxxramas, we fight against the Black Dragonflight and the Silithids, but in reality we're fighting most against each other. If there wasn't a chance of glory or reward, half these people wouldn't even be here. We live from bounty to bounty, from task to task -- stealing treasures from whatever caches we can find and calling it the rightful spoils of victory. Meanwhile, those who seek our aid have to scramble for the gold to tempt us to come in the first place."

Granden did not seem disgusted by the summary. "Yet, that's the world we live in now," he countered. "Ever since the Third War."

"Then it's a world where our enemies break bread with us at the dinner table -- and where we have no reason to help a stranger on the road."

"Help a stranger?" Trailing off there, Granden glanced away as if stung. The corners of his mouth twitched in what looked suspiciously like a wince. "Compassion is supposed to be practiced by the wise, to know when it should not be extended." The words came out like hesitant soldiers, lining themselves up one by one. There was no passion behind them, no determination -- only a rote recitation, spoken by a believer who might have reason to fail their own doctrine. "Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is not to help at all. Sometimes, that's... best."

The sudden break in Granden's calm came like lightning; he had not lifted his voice, but his body language was as good as a shout. Another man might have seized upon the vulnerability. Liasin let it pass. Granden's shoulders had tensed; Liasin felt his impulses bend towards wanting to patch over any strife he might have inadvertently caused. He forced out a rueful laugh. "Then I'm not a very good paladin, I suppose."

Despite Liasin's attempt at downplaying the moment, Granden's head turned sharply. The gaze he leveled upon Liasin was astonished. Though he tried his best to decipher meaning in the other man's face, Liasin could not guess at how such a simple phrase could have earned such a reaction.

He stared back, helpless, waiting for a cue on what to say next.

"This Scarlet of yours," Granden said at last. "May I have a look at her?"

- - - - - - - - - -

They followed a less congested route back to the Brigade tent, cutting past gnarled trees and overenthusiastic mushrooms as they circled the campground. Liasin led the way, brushing aside ferns whose delicate leaves were weighed down by fungal welts. Something about the other paladin bothered him, nipping at his attention. It was strange; he did not feel threatened by the stranger, but neither did he feel comfortable. They traveled in silence, each one keeping to their own thoughts.

I've never seen him before, he wondered. Have I?

The answer had to be no. But there was something about Granden that hounded Liasin's attention; he guessed that Granden sensed it as well, because Liasin noticed furtive, troubled glances from time to time.

Liasin's instincts did not provide him with any insight either. The compulsions that rode him were split between wanting to offer up total honesty -- and to withdraw at the same time, as an animal might flee upon sensing the mass of a predator in waiting. The combination left Liasin's wits snarled. Ill at ease, he mulled over what he had observed so far.

The nature of Granden's words warred with the man's appearance. The familiarity that he showed with doctrine -- with the same kinds of philosophy that Liasin had argued for hours over with the priests -- implied a lengthy bout of service with the Church, but the lack of guild mark and the simpler armor did not. A paladin that had fallen from grace might have turned his back on all his beliefs, thrown his libram away rather than allow one to hang at his side. A paladin who still served the Light would have no reason to be ashamed of it.

Back at the deadwagon, the banner stood silent watch. Jenna was nowhere to be seen. The blue signal cord slapped gently against the pole in time with the breeze. So far, there had been no messages pinned to the banner; if Liasin was lucky, no one would notice their presence, and he and Jenna could flip the cord back to yellow and escape.

Four lumps waited inside their makeshift shrouds. None of them seemed disturbed. Giving them a cursory glance, Liasin grasped the edge of the canvas blanket, waiting for Granden to join him before pulling it back.

Days on the road had caught up with all the corpses. Rot had quickly infested the sopping flesh, blistering and rupturing the tissues. Discolored patches of skin pulled back from teeth; identity was vanishing under the invasion of decay. The smell had been masked by liberal douses of ghost mushroom oil, but it wafted free as Liasin lifted the canvas further up, revealing more of the four bodies. Most of the insects had been warded away by packing bundles of silversage twigs between the corpses, but a few flies had braved their way inside; they buzzed in protest as they were exposed, rising like flecks of ash before settling once more.

"Do you recognize her?" he asked Granden, halfway wondering if Scarlet membership was the heart of the man's strange behavior.

But Liasin's hopes were fruitless. The other man shook his head. "No."

Straightening the canvas in his hands, Liasin began to pull it back over the corpses once more. As he did, however, Granden stepped forward, touching his wrist to halt him.

"If she's a paladin, she expected her brothers and sisters to be here to honor her passing. Instead, she has us. May I pay her the respects deserving of one?"

Folding the covering back, Liasin extended his hand in invitation. "Go ahead," he answered quietly, regarding Granden with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

If Granden sensed the expectation, he did not take offense. Waiting respectfully until Liasin had backed away, the man inclined his head to study the Scarlet. "I would give you flowers for her corpse, but I'm out of proper ones to give," he explained. "A few circles use Tears as a token for one paladin to another. You know the ones I mean, I assume."

"Arthas' Tears?" Surprised, Liasin jerked his head in a nod. "I've seen them before. But -- I'm sorry. I don't understand. Why -- "

"Why, when they're named after such a cursed prince?" Granden finished for him, turning away from the corpse to face Liasin directly. "It's said that some part of the young paladin's soul survives, and weeps over the monster he has become. So the flowers symbolize mourning by us -- for what could have been, and for what has been lost. As I said, some circles use them. It's not common."

His mind racing, Liasin attempted to recall everything he had heard of the plant. The violet flowers did not have many medicinal applications. If they had, he would have heard demands for them from the other healers before -- and all they had mentioned was that it could be brewed to strengthen a person's resistance, and to cause a minor disease. Necromancy? But a paladin shouldn't be involved in that -- unless he's lying about being one. "I haven't heard of that practice before," he admitted. "Who uses such a thing?"

Granden watched him for a long, steady moment before answering. "Certain survivors of the Silver Hand."

Liasin swallowed. "Oh," he said, feeling abashed -- abashed and ashamed, as the quirks of Granden's behavior fell suddenly into place. A veteran of the Third War would have enough reasons to keep to their own privacy. Too, they would have more than a fair share of jadedness. And here I am, preaching to him about battlefields, he realized with dismay. "I'm sorry. I've been rude. I haven't given my name yet," he blurted, throwing aside the rest of his hesitation. "William Liasin. It's an honor to meet you."

Shaking his head, Granden dismissed the lapse. "There's no rudeness. I didn't ask." A long sigh came out of him; as if the admission had broken some resistance of his own, Granden leaned back against the cart, his shoulders slumping wearily. He fished at the throat of his armor with his fingers. Two slender metal chains slipped free from the collar of his shirt, pinched between his fingers as he untangled them from around his neck. A golden circle swung from one, catching the waning sunlight -- a ring, Liasin realized, before Granden tucked it back away.

From the second chain hung a flat silver toggle, no bigger than Liasin's thumb. It was not a work of fine craftsmanship; the wad of stamped metal appeared to be left over from a jeweler's casting, inscribed crudely with an array of clumped lines. The pattern looked like a child's scrawl, a rough sketch of petals and stems.

Moving briskly, Granden pulled the chain free over his head, and presented it to Liasin for closer examination. "I'm out of live flowers, but maybe this will help her rest," he explained. "It's my own burial wreath. I've been carrying it with me, so that I'll be ready if I'm killed upon the road. This can watch over her for the both of us. If I can, I'll send some living Tears to her grave later."

"Thank you." Surprised by the unexpected generosity, Liasin handed the pendant back. "It doesn't bother you at all that she was a Scarlet?"

Granden bent forward over the woman's body as he lifted her skull, disturbing her as little as possible as he pulled the chain carefully around her neck. "Why should it?" Life had entered his voice again, lacing it with gruff amusement. "Such was the path that she chose. If I can't honor that, I shouldn't be helping to bury her in the first place. Does it bother you?"

The question was simple for Liasin to address. "No. Even though there was -- is -- strife between them and myself, they're still people. I'm not ignorant -- I've seen things that they've done. I know what they're capable of." He left his position suddenly, crossing over to the deadwagon to stand beside Granden. "But she's dead now, defenseless. Someone should try to take care of her. Even if her spirit is safely gone," he continued, reaching down to touch his fingers carefully to the corpse's forehead, "we can still be kind to her memory." His voice felt hushed. He inclined his head towards Granden. "You have my thanks for honoring a stranger."

His solemnity was not shared by the other paladin. "It's easy to honor her. She's dead," Granden remarked pointedly. "You're not -- not yet, but listening to you talk tells me that something's wrong. So tell me. What's killing you, boy?"

Taken aback by the direct thrust of Granden's question, Liasin blinked. "I'm -- no. I'm sorry. Nothing," he protested automatically. "Nothing."

A skeptical grunt came from the other man. He finished securing the pendant, stretching the canvas back over the bodies once more. "Respect, Tenacity, and Compassion," he voiced suddenly once the shroud was back in place. "Something tells me that you're struggling with one of those three, and I don't think it's Tenacity. Why is a man such as yourself so concerned with someone who would try to harm you, if were she still alive?"

Liasin stifled a wince. Now that he knew the nature of Granden's past, it was harder to deny the man his request. Granden's claim to former membership with the Silver Hand might have been a lie -- but even if it was, the bleakness that ran like a current beneath the man's words remained. It struck Liasin's nerves, tugging on them as surely as a bridle might yank on a horse. Closing his eyes briefly, he resigned himself to confession.

"I mourn for our opponents even as I fight," he admitted. Just speaking the truth scraped him raw. "It's driving me mad with grief."

"Compassion, then." The man's mouth was a stern line as he delivered the pronouncement. "If Compassion is still being taught as the hardest of the three Virtues, then it seems you're finding out why. Do you know why Compassion must be tempered? Because it kills, boy. Didn't they make you study Faol's Balance of the Three?"

"Of course." Flustered enough to answer defensively, Liasin found himself stumbling. "It's a classic dissertation."

"And do you remember what it said?"

"That Compassion was the most dangerous of the Virtues -- both to the practitioner, and to those they would seek to help. So Faol claimed," Liasin added, attempting to steer his voice back towards neutrality.

"And he was wrong." Granden's reprimand came out in a snap, bordering on angry. He softened himself instantly with a frown and a quick twitch of his chin. "All three of the Virtues have their risks. Everything good can be bad. Everything that helps can also hurt. So, tell me why you've allowed yourself to take yours this far?"

At first Liasin did not speak. His own rationales swam in his head, each one shouted down a hundred times before; he knew the arguments and counterarguments well enough to stand both sides in a debate. "Ahn'Qiraj. The Old God," he admitted suddenly, a husking of breath the only indication of his relief of being able to speak. "You might have heard that anyone trying to enter the temple is prey to the whispers of C'thun. The rumors are true. Everyone loathes him -- they spit on the sand when they hear his voice crawling through the hive, but I find myself welcoming it. Not out of adoration of C'thun," he clarified quickly. "My mind's not turned. But sometimes I go down there near the entrance gates, out of reach of the watchful sentries. And I sit. And I listen. Or I linger after our forces retreat, keeping vigil on enemy ground." His voice took on a wistful cast; the shapes of dunes rose in his mind, covering entrances to tunnels that wound through the intricate hive. "All I can think when I hear him is how lonely it must have been to be locked up there for generations, as if we are the first new victims in an eternity -- and he relishes the opportunity to speak to us. As if it eases some torment for him to threaten me. It's such a little thing. How can I withhold that?" Lifting his head, Liasin focused his gaze upon the other man. "I can't admit this to the Brigade. They'd think me insane, or fouled by the Old God's taint. The Cenarion Circle would have even harsher words, I'm sure -- particularly after the Hold's Commander lost his beloved to C'thun's touch. And Naxxramas -- " He hesitated, and then forged on. "Naxxramas is worse. All the shouting. All the screams. And yet, every time I set foot in that place, some part of me feels glad."

Beside him on the other corner of the wagon, Granden's features were growing blurred as the dusk rolled in. His silhouette had gone hazed. "You're very free with such personal information."

"You seem like you want to know."

"And so you'll tell me, just like that?" Granden's eyebrows furrowed; he shook his head in dismay. "Just because I want to know? What a cruel thing Compassion is to you." Curt enough to be mocking, the paladin folded his arms. "You pursue a very dangerous course, to extend sympathies to such beings. Is this really the decision you would make for your life?"

"Yes." Provoked into reacting despite himself, Liasin stepped away from the wagon, forcing boundaries of space between him and Granden. He turned sharply -- and then kept turning, wheeling around and stabbing his finger towards the other paladin. "Because it's right. Because I believe it to be the right thing to do, even if everyone else gives reason after reason of why it's wrong -- and I can't explain it, I can't defend it, but it still haunts me." The volume of his words rose before he cut them off; the echo of his voice was eaten by the insect-ridden night. He realized he was breathing hard. "If you know so much, then you might know the answer to this. Naxxramas and Ahn'Qiraj -- something draws me to those places. I don't know what. It feels as if I belong there. So even if it doesn't make sense, wasn't that what you said? To follow what I believe in most?"

No ire rose to match his challenge. As quickly as he had baited Liasin, Granden relented, exhaling sharply as he merely lifted and dropped his hands. "If you're looking for help, then you've heard my advice already. Compassion will kill you. Then again, we'll all die someday. Who's to say that your poison is any worse than my own? In the end, we all end up like them," he concluded grimly, nodding towards the bulk of the corpses on the deadwagon's bed. "And if we're very lucky, we get buried like her."

Offered a chance for reprieve, Liasin took it. "Forgive me, sir," he sighed, "but that's not much comfort."

"It's not meant to be." With a final pat of his hand to the canvas shroud, Granden straightened up. "The only thing we can do is hope for peace for us all. If you pray tonight, pray for that."

By the time that Jenna made her way back to the deadwagon, night had swallowed Light's Hope. Tents had been rolled out; cooking fires dotted the landscape. Adventurers had settled down for the evening, drifting between guild banners as they traded sleepy gossip and promises of glory to be chased with coming of the next dawn.

Liasin had already started the fire up, digging through the supplies for dinner. The flames were warm and crackling, merrily devouring their cache of wood. She flopped down beside them as Liasin produced half a loaf of bread and a few intact eggs, balancing the latter on his fingers while he scrounged through the packs.

"Look at these rates," she bragged, flourishing the list. "They tried to charge extra this time for cart space, but I told them they were going to stack them two-up anyway, so we managed to get away without an inflated cost. You should be able to get your Scarlet shipped almost for free! Liasin? Liasin, are you even paying attention?"

The paladin hadn't reacted to the good news, occupied with the frying pan. He tilted it back and forth; butter slid in glistening rivulets over the pitted metal. "Respect tempers Compassion, and tells it when to hold back," he said suddenly. "Tenacity encourages Compassion to press ahead through adversity. Therefore, Respect halts Compassion. Tenacity moves it. Compassion and Tenacity goad each other on, while Respect holds each in check."

Jenna lowered the paper, disappointed. "What's all that about?"

Smiling, Liasin placed the eggs on the firepit rocks and reached across to take the list from her. "Just something from a book I read a while ago. As it turns out, I was reminded of it today." He scanned over the numbers, giving a thankful nod when he reached the total at the bottom of the page. "You deserve an extra helping of eggs for all this. Eat well -- we have a long ride back tomorrow."