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Lad, no one feels ready. No one feels he deserves it. And you know why? Because no one does.
It s grace, pure and simple. We are inherently unworthy, simply because we re human, and all
human beings aye, and elves, and dwarves, and all the other races are flawed. But the Light
loves us anyway. It loves us for what we sometimes can rise to in rare moments. It loves us for
what we can do to help others. And it loves us because we can help it share its message by
striving daily to be worthy, even though we understand that we can t ever truly become so.
He d clapped a hand on Arthas s shoulder, giving him a rare, simple smile. So stand there
today, as I did, feeling that you can t possibly deserve it or ever be worthy, and know that you re
in the same place every single paladin has ever stood.
It comforted Arthas a little.
He squared his shoulders, tilted the visor back, and smiled and waved to the crowd that was
cheering so happily on this hot summer day. Rose petals were showered upon him, and from
somewhere trumpets blared. They had reached the cathedral. Arthas dismounted and a groom led
away his charger. Another servant stepped up to take the helm he tugged off. His blond hair was
damp with sweat, and he quickly ran a gauntleted hand over it.
Arthas had never been to Stormwind before, and he was impressed by the combination of
serenity and power the cathedral radiated. Slowly, he moved up the carpeted carved stairs,
grateful for the sudden coolness of the building s stone interior. The fragrance of the incense was
calming and familiar; it was the same as that which his family burned in their small chapel.
There was no giddy throng here now, just silent, respectful rows of prominent personages and
clergy. Arthas recognized several faces: Genn Greymane, Thoras Trollbane, Admiral Daelin
Proudmoore
Arthas blinked, then his lips curved into a smile. Jaina! She had certainly grown up in the years
since he had last seen her. Not quite a drop-dead beauty, but pretty, the liveliness and
intelligence he d responded to as a boy still radiating from her like a beacon. She caught Arthas s
look and smiled a little in return, inclining her head in respect.
Arthas returned his attention to the altar he approached, but felt a little bit of the trepidation leave
his heart. He hoped there would be a chance for him to talk to her after all the formalities were
taken care of.
Archbishop Alonsus Faol awaited him at the altar. The archbishop reminded Arthas more of
Greatfather Winter than of any of the rulers he had hitherto met. Short and stout, with a long
flowing snow-white beard and bright eyes, even in the midst of solemn ceremony Faol radiated
warmth and kindliness. Faol waited until Arthas approached him and knelt before him
respectfully before opening a large book and speaking.
In the Light, we gather to empower our brother. In its grace, he will be made anew. In its
power, he shall educate the masses. In its strength, he shall combat the shadow. And in its
wisdom, he shall lead his brethren to the eternal rewards of paradise.
On his left, several men and a few women, Arthas noticed dressed in flowing white robes
stood still and poised. Some held censors, which swayed almost hypnotically. Others bore large
candles. One carried an embroidered blue stole. Arthas had been introduced to many of them
earlier, but found that their names had gone right out of his head. That was unusual for him he
was genuinely interested in those who worked for him and served under him, and made an effort
to get to know all their names.
Archbishop Faol asked the clerics to bestow their blessings upon Arthas. They did, the one who
bore the blue stole coming forward to drape it about the prince s neck and anointing his brow
with holy oil.
By the grace of the Light, may your brethren be healed, the cleric said.
Faol turned to the men on Arthas s right. Knights of the Silver Hand, if you deem this man
worthy, place your blessings upon him.
In contrast to the first group, these men, standing at attention in heavy, gleaming plate armor,
were all known to Arthas. They were the original paladins of the Silver Hand, and it was the first
time they had assembled since their induction many years past. Uther, of course; Tirion Fordring,
aging but still powerful and graceful, now governor of Hearthglen; the six-and-a-half-foot Saidan
Dathrohan, and the pious, bushy-bearded Gavinrad. One was missing from their number
Turalyon, right hand to Anduin Lothar in the Second War, who was lost with the company that
had ventured through the Dark Portal when Arthas was twelve.
Gavinrad stepped forth, holding an enormous, heavy-looking hammer, its silver head etched with
runes and its sturdy haft wrapped in blue leather. He placed the hammer in front of Arthas, then
stepped back to stand with his brethren. It was Uther the Lightbringer himself, Arthas s mentor
in the order, who next came forward. In his hands he carried a pair of ceremonial shoulder plates.
Uther was the most controlled man Arthas had ever known, and yet his eyes were bright with
unshed tears as he placed the armor on Arthas s broad shoulders. He spoke in a voice that was
both powerful and trembling with emotion.
By the strength of the Light, may your enemies be undone. His hand lingered a moment on
Arthas s shoulder, then he, too, retreated.
Archbishop Faol smiled at the prince kindly. Arthas met the gaze evenly, no longer worried. He
remembered everything now.
Arise and be recognized, Faol bade him. Arthas did so.
Do you, Arthas Menethil, vow to uphold the honor and codes of the Order of the Silver Hand?
Arthas blinked, momentarily surprised at the lack of his title. Of course, he reasoned, I m being
inducted as a man, not a prince. I do.
Do you vow to walk in the grace of the Light and spread its wisdom to your fellow man?
I do.
Do you vow to vanquish evil wherever it be found, and protect the innocent with your very
life?
I d by my blood and honor, I do. That was close, he d almost messed up.
Faol gave him a quick wink of reassurance, then turned to address both the clerics and the
paladins. Brothers and sisters you who have gathered here to bear witness raise your hands
and let the Light illuminate this man.
The clerics and paladins all lifted right hands, which were now suffused by a soft, golden glow.
They pointed at Arthas, directing the radiance toward him. Arthas s eyes were wide with
wonder, and he waited for the glorious glow to envelop him.
Nothing happened.
The moment stretched on.
Sweat broke out on Arthas s brow. What was going wrong? Why wasn t the Light wrapping
itself around him in blessing and benediction?
And then the sunlight streaming in through windows in the ceiling slowly began to move toward
the prince standing alone in shining armor, and Arthas exhaled in relief. This had to be what
Uther had spoken of. The feeling of unworthiness that Uther assured him all paladins felt simply
seemed to drag out the moment. The words Uther had spoken came back to him: No one feels he
deserves it& its grace, pure and simple& but the Light loves us anyway.
Now it shone down on him, in him, through him, and he was forced to shut his eyes against the
almost blinding radiance. It warmed at first, then seared, and he winced slightly. He felt
scoured. Emptied, scrubbed clean, then filled again, and he felt the Light swell inside him and
then fade away to a tolerable level. He blinked and reached for the hammer, the symbol of the
order. As his hand closed about the haft, he looked up at Archbishop Faol, whose benign smile
widened.
Arise, Arthas Menethil, paladin defender of Lordaeron. Welcome to the Order of the Silver
Hand.
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