A cloud of doubt darkened Brother Sammuel's heart as he watched the young man who sat, scowling at a copy of The Paths of the Light.  Squire Bartolomei Wishock.  Third son of Lord Ranulf Wishock.  Such a promising boy, full of joy and passion...

...and arrogance, like all of the House of Nobles.  And anger.  Such anger!

Even now, in the peaceful silence of Northshire Chapel, he seemed furious.  Sammuel took a seat on the bench beside his glowering pupil and smiled gently.  "What seems to be the problem, Bartolomei?  What has your book said to put you in so foul a mood?"

"It's nonsense!" the young paladin snapped, waving dismissively at the text.  "You can't seriously expect me to believe this, can you?"

His words sent a chill down Sammuel's back.  "The Paths of the Light explains the most fundamental truths of the Light.  What do you find so... unbelievable in it?"

"Well, I understand the Virtue of Compassion.  Even though -- yes, yes, I know -- I have some difficulties with it.  I understand the Virtue of Tenacity.  One person's passion can change the world, if only his will is strong enough."  Sammuel frowned.  That wasn't exactly the Lesson of Tenacity;  it sounded more like a warlock's philosophy than a paladin's.

"But the Virtue of Respect is ridiculous on its face.  Each thing has its own connection to the world, which must be respected?  I diminish the happiness of the world if I thwart the happiness of any creature?  Please!"  Bartolomei's nose wrinkled.  "What does an orc's pleasure matter?"

"Perhaps that's a question you ought to consider.  The Horde..."

"Is foul," Bartolomei interrupted. "Look, I know some people would argue about the Horde.  But what about the Burning Legion?  The Scourge?  Is the world a better place when the Liche-King is happy?  No, of course not.  There are good creatures and there are evil creatures.  The joys of the good enhance the world and should be respected.  But the joys of evil-doers are poisonous and deserve no honor."

"And who decides which creatures are good, and which evil?  Who can look into another being's heart?  You?"

"Yes!  Well, no."  He at least had the grace to correct himself.  "I mean, yes I decide.  Everyone does.  No, I can't see into anyone's heart.  But most of the time it's obvious whether they're good or not."

"Is it?"  The shadow on the old man's heart grew deeper.  "Bartolomei, have you ever considered that, perhaps, the paladin's path might not be... appropriate for you?"

"No.  Never.  Why would I doubt myself?"  Baffled and angry, he stared at his teacher.  "You said yourself that I'm making great progress.  You said few candidates have the power to master the spells you've taught me."

"You are making wonderful progress... but only along the Path of Retribution.  Not Holiness, or Protection.  There's more to being a paladin than just violence."  

Bartolomei rolled his eyes.  "Violence is what I'm best at."

"It isn't good for you.  It darkens your soul.  Child, you are so young, and yet this fury burns within you..."

"So?  Doesn't the Light teach us that our emotions are our tie to the world?  Anger is an emotion."

"A shadowed emotion.  One that brings strife and hatred to the world, unlike love."

"You're wrong.  Anger *is* love."

For a moment, Brother Sammuel was too stunned to speak.  And before he could recollect his wits, Bartolomei pressed on.  "Love and hate, anger and joy.  They're two sides of one coin.  If you love something, you hate what harms it.  Joy tells us that all is right with the world.  Anger tells us that something is wrong and it gives us the strength to stop it.  Don't ask me to give up my anger.  I can't -- any more than I could abandon joy.  You cannot love good without hating evil."

"Hatred clouds our judgment."

"So does love.  How many parents overlook their children's flaws, because they love them too much?"

Out of the mouths of babes...  Brother Sammuel sighed.  He knew now what he had to do.  No matter how fond he was of Squire Wishock.  "We can discuss this another time.  Right now, I want you to take a letter to Stormwind for me.  To Duthorian Rall, one of the senior paladins of the Order of the Silver Hand..."

************************************************

It was almost a year before Sammuel saw the boy again, kneeling quietly in a side chapel at the Cathedral of Light.  "Was he very angry about my report?"

Duthorian Rall clapped him on the back.  "Oh, at first.  Full of spit and fury about how his mentor had 'betrayed' him.  Wouldn't listen to a word anyone said.  But when we plunked him down in front of one of the Scarlet brothers, he suddenly realized that this was serious.  Noble or no, he could be thrown out of the Order.  Or, worse, find himself charged with heresy.  That made him sit up and take notice."

"After that, things went swimmingly.  He's bright.  He's devout.  And -- once you have his attention -- he's eminently trainable.  Wasn't long before the inquisitors got his theology all straightened out.  We kept a close eye on him for a while after that, of course.  But he's shaping up to be a fine paladin."

"I cannot tell you what a relief that is.  I thought he'd despise me."

"Not at all.  Though if you still feel guilty about reporting him, why don't you go have a chat?  Ask him yourself."

"I think I shall."  

The monk's soft leather boots barely made a whisper, and so he startled the young man as he knelt beside him.  "Hello, Squire Wishock.  Or is it Sir Wishock these days?"

Perhaps it was a trick of the sunlight, streaming in through the crimson shards in the Cathedral's stained glass windows.  But for a moment the paladin's eyes seemed to glow with a fiery rage.  Yet when he turned to face the older man that gleam vanished, replaced by a bland, pleasant smile.

"Brother Sammuel!  How good to see you again, sir."

"It warms my heart to hear you say that.  I rather expected you to punch me in the nose, or challenge me to a duel."

"I don't do that any more," Bartolomei said.  "It brings disrepute upon the Order and demonstrates a failure to understand the first Virtue, Respect."

The right answer, delivered without hesitation.  So why did it make him uneasy?  Sammuel searched the paladin's face, looking for any sign of the boy he knew.  The cocky squire who threw raging fits when assigned tasks 'beneath' his skills.  The teen who had no time for rest because there was too much wrong with the world and it all needed to be fixed NOW.  The youngster who would argue for hours, until the sun lit up the eastern sky, over the tiniest point of theology.  There was no sign of that child in this docile paladin who knelt beside him.  The fury that had troubled Bartolomei was gone.  But so too was much of his passion.

Gone?  Or hidden under a patina of lies?  He was a noble, after all, and they learned to lie at their mothers' breasts.

"Were you angry with me?"

"Why?  Because you betrayed the secrets I'd confided in you?  Because you nearly destroyed the only thing that makes my life worthwhile?  Because you shamed me, so badly that I thought of killing myself?"  Bartolomei laughed, a charming, silvery chuckle that was entirely at odds with his harsh words.  "Of course I was angry.  But it was necessary.  I see that now.  You were wise to give me the help I needed, even if it wasn't what I wanted.  That is what the Lesson of Compassion teaches us to do, is it not, sir?"

Sammuel swallowed.  If only he could believe he meant that.  "Are you still focused on the Path of Retribution?"

"Yes sir."  An acolyte glided by them, murmuring a quiet welcome to Brother Sammuel.  As the monk greeted him in return, he nearly missed the young paladin's next, whispered words.  "Now, more than ever."

Sammuel started.  "Sorry?  What did you say?"

"I said, yes sir."

"No, after that."

"Nothing."  Bartolomei cocked his head, blue eyes wide with innocent puzzlement.  Before the monk could contradict him, he was rising to his feet.  "I'm afraid I have to go now, sir.  I've got orders to deliver a message to Menethil Harbor."

"But we've barely begun to talk.  So much has happened..."

"I know.  But I fear the message won't wait."

Sammuel rose as well.  "Later then?  When you get back, you can stop by and visit me."

"Of course, sir."  Bartolomei's smile was as smooth and cool as glass.  "It would bring me great pleasure to visit Northshire Abbey again."

But he never did.

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