My mother used to say that she named me Meniva for the wisdom that was in my eyes the day I was born, that even then I was older than time. And as my hair slowly grew in white, she knew she had chosen my name correctly. My mother was beautiful, raven haired with pale skin, an oddity considering she was a farmer's wife. When she wasn't sewing clothes to be sold in the city, she labored in the fields, milking the cows, feeding the chickens, yet never tanned. I inherited her skin, always pale. As pure as snow she said of my skin and hair, though I'd not seen snow then.

I'd only known my father to be a farmer, and that he was kind and thoughtful. He'd always had a healing touch with our farm animals, working miracles on our old and tired creatures. I worked alongside him, tilling the plots and caring for the animals. Sometimes we fished or pretended to sword fight with sticks. Much to my mother's dismay, I was a tomboy and took pleasure in romping through the woods, fighting imaginary monsters. Rarely did I wear the beautiful dresses my mother sewed for me, preferring to cut up and refit my father's leather britches and canvas shirts. They suited my play style and seemed more practical. I got into my share of scraps with the neighboring farm boys, but we were all friends. It was during one of our regular runs through the woods that I first discovered I was different. One of our happy band stumbled upon a snake. Startled, the snake lunged for his leg and sunk its venom in before slithering into underbrush. The boy fell to the ground, his calf already beginning to swell. He began to turn a sickly green. I quickly reached for the leg of his trousers, pulling it up over his knee. I held his ankle to steady his leg while I looked at the bite, fearing we would not get back in time for help. As my fear grew, a light began emanating from my hands. Strange and uncontrollable, I was as afraid of the light as I was of the poison killing the boy. Within an instant, the poison appeared to be gone. His color returned and he felt no pain. Although we never talked about it, I knew he regarded me with curiosity after that. But then, so did I.

The light would reappear many times over the next few years, whether I cut myself on the plow or burned myself cooking. I never talked about it. Until Brother Joshua.

It was a late summer evening in my 16th year and my father and I were taking the mules to the river for a drink. Rumors of a dark force spreading in the South near Darkshire had filled the Goldshire inn for weeks. Traveling salesmen had told tales of spirits rising from crypts, of ghouls and undead creatures attacking farmers. It is hard to think about, that evening. Near the Darkshire shore, we saw a strange... I still cannot describe it... form drifting near the water's edge. My father drew into a knot and a look spread over him that I had not seen. He looked hard, as if the blood in his veins had been replaced with iron. Never saying a word, he rummaged through our small wagon, retrieving a mallet and headed into the water for the shore. I called to him, but his eyes were fixed and he didn't turn to me.

The form on the other side had taken note of him as he pulled himself onshore. They met in an explosion of light and I screamed a scream that echoed along the water. I jumped in, frantically heading for my father. Just as I reached shore, the shapeless form seemed to evaporate and all that remained of it was a dull bluish glow. Tears of anger filled my eyes when I looked at my father. His skin had begun to blister as if he was being eaten from the inside out by some disease, and his curled body began to convulse. I touched his arm, hoping that light that had appeared so many times before would surface. It did, but it wasn't enough. In frustration, I wailed and tried and tried, but nothing could save my father. Suddenly, I realized I was not alone.

Across the water, my mother stared at her husband's slumped body, her pallid glowing daughter hovered over him. A young man in priest's robes stood next to her. They had heard my screams and followed them, my mother from the house, the young priest from downstream. The sight was too much for my mother I imagine. Her eyes were wild before she sprinted, her long hair loosing itself from the bun and streaming in the wind behind her as she fled. I was too numb to even call for her, and I never imagined she had kept running. Later when I returned to the farmhouse, I saw that she had not stopped to take anything with her. Vanished.

The young priest, Brother Joshua, remained. It was Joshua who took me to Stormwind that night and found me room in the orphanage. I've always said he saved me from wandering lost and angry, in more ways than one. He had seen the light and he knew what it meant. The next day at the cathedral, he introduced me to the bishop, explaining that I had a “gift” and would be a likely fit for the order. They agreed to tutor me, and I stayed at the orphanage helping to care for the children in exchange for room and board.

It did not take long in the following weeks before I found the priestly ways too limiting. When I should have been reflecting and meditating, I worked on my mace skill using the cathedral candelabras. I had trouble controlling my temper and was easily frustrated by the priests. Their kindness and sense of acceptance of everything only seemed to irritate me. Joshua remained by my side; he himself still undergoing tutoring. That too grew difficult. I had begun to have feelings for Joshua, the impossibility of which only angered me further, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Archbishop Benedictus.

By mid-Fall, the Archbishop had referred me to Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker, head of the paladins, saying that I undoubtedly had the light within me, but that I had a warrior's heart. Lord Grayson became my mentor and I easily fell into paladin training, almost finding peace in the physical demands and emotional restraint they taught.

It was Lord Grayson who told me about my father's path. He was not just the simple farmer I had always believed him to be. Skilled in maces, swords, shields and axes, my father had traveled Azeroth and fought beside Lord Grayson against the horde, against demons and beasts. He had been a high ranking paladin until he walked away from the light, trading his mace and shield for rakes and ploughs. Lord Grayson never said why, but I could guess. Still, he had left with his honor, moved not too far away from the brotherhood in Elwynn Forest and built a farm for his new bride. That night by the river, he had died defending the light and held his honor and oath to the end. I thought of him often. Sometimes, I walked the halls of the Cathedral touching the cold stone walls, wondering if my father had touched this stone or that. I sat in the chairs of the library trying to guess which books he may have read, skimming the pages looking for him. I worked hard to discipline myself the way I imagined him, but my heart was a fickle organ.

All the wisdom my mother saw in my eyes could not control my heart. My heart belonged to Joshua. And though he was obviously torn, I'd like to think his belonged to me. We often strolled evenings in Cathedral Square counting the stars over Stormwind.

It was late January when Lord Grayson summoned me to the training hall alone.
“It is not lightly that I came to this decision,” Lord Grayson began, “but I am in agreement with Archbishop Benedictus. Your, as well as Joshua's, training suffers. I do not need to say why. I know. All too well, I know.”

He sighed heavily, his eyes shifting to the stained glass window, “I have made arrangements for you to study in Ironforge with Brandur Ironhammer, a worthy teacher and friend.”

Anger fired up and surged through my veins, but before I could speak, he said, “you have taken an oath as a paladin. You cannot turn your back on the light. Or your father.” As quickly as I reacted, I calmed.

I knew he was right. In my short six months in Stormwind, I had embraced my paladin brethren. I began to see myself as not one, but as a part to a whole. I belonged to something larger than anger, or pain, or... love.

That evening rather than counting stars with Joshua, I packed my apprentice armor and mace, and my father's workshirt, the one I was wearing the day he was killed. I said goodbye to the orphans and hoped they would find homes. The matrons said I would always have a home there, but I knew it would be a long time before I returned, and when I did, it would not be to come home.

As I turned the corner of the orphanage toward the ally leading to the tram, I could hear the children laughing inside. I glanced back briefly. As I expected, Joshua stood at the top of the cathedral steps, his hands cupped in his sleeves. He would see me off from a distance. Always at a distance.

Despite my sense of loneliness, I waited on the tram with a hint of anticipation, if for no other reason that to leave the tram rats behind. I had not been to the great city to the north. Home to the dwarves and more recently gnomes, it was known to be a rowdy city, full of energy and ale. I had met dwarves in the Stormwind shops and inns and heard their stories. They always spoke with pride for the heavy gates, the steam rising in the middle of the city from the great forge, of the manpower it took to build at the mountain.

I could feel the heat of the forge even as I got off. Asking a guard for directions, I made my way to the mystic district to meet Ironhammer. He was a short man with a beard and a hearty voice, made gruff I guessed from ale, but an overall amiable fellow as I found most of them to be once you earned their trust. He wasted no time in my training.

Every afternoon I sat in the back room polishing my armor, mostly because I liked the feel of it in my hands. It was substantial and tangible. It reminded me of reliability and strength. And it gave me time to turn my thoughts to Joshua. One such afternoon, I was concentrating on fixing a dent in my greaves when Ironhammer's voice startled me.

“You know that armor isn't going to look so pretty with your blood spilled across it.”

I knew better than to reply, lifting my gaze to meet his stare. “You spend too much time prettying your armor when you should be working on your swing,” he said.

His eyes held mine and still I could not answer. He continued, “There is something to be said for strong armor. I've fought many a day where it was my plate that saved me and not my mace or my intellect. Good plate is hard to come by, not made by ordinary craftsmen, not good ones anyway. It takes time, sweat, and a strong hand to wield a hammer. And new plate gleams, it wears the sparkle of tears from its creator. Dwarves, they fathered armorcrafting. They craft the most sought after pieces in the world over,” he paused and pursed his lips, “Come.”

The simple command spurned me to move and I followed in his quick pace toward the great forge.

We approached one of the crafters at his anvil shaping a piece of steel. Ironhammer wasted no time, “Grumnus, I've brought you an apprentice.” The black haired, sutted face dwarf turned to eye me up and down. Grumnus Steelshaper was the city's armorsmith. No other's work compared in quality and craftsmanship. His personality... lacked.

“Another one?” he shouted, “do I look like I have nothing better to do? And a human? When are you going to bring around a dwarf with stocky arms for swinging? She's as pale as a ghost. She might just ignite in the heat. Say girl, do you mind getting dirty? Cause you're going to get dirty. This isn't prissy work.”

Ironhammer let out a deep-bellied laugh and headed back in the direction of the temple, leaving Steelshaper and I to stare at each other through the steam.

Initially, I was a fetch girl, never allowed to touch the metal or tools. I spent hours watching him in silence since he wasn't a talker. He slowly began to let me work with the metal and I found satisfaction far beyond that of polishing my old armor. I created. I made new. Each piece grew more ornate, more intricate. And amongst the anvils, I earned respect. I became the running joke of the white skinned, human armorcrafter. You could spot me easily from a distance. In time, I recognized that it was no longer a taunt as much as affection. Grumnus Steelshaper proved to be a tough master, but fair. A compliment from him truly meant something as they weren't given often. For years, when I returned from battle to train with Ironhammer, I also visited Grumnus, sitting in our usual silence listening to the ding of his hammer against the anvil.