"Silver never rusts. It may only tarnish, but underneath the grime, it remains pure, waiting to shine once more."
Cristovao sat at the gates of Hearthglen, his posture slumped. He looked down at the small disc in his hand, no more than three inches in diameter. What was once a lovely, shining work of art was now a corroded, ruined slab of metal. With a gloved hand, he flaked at the rust and grime covering obscuring its effigy: a closed fist, with a name engraved underneath it.
Atilio di Silvio.
The paladin sighed softly, rubbing his face with his right hand. This was the only physical remain of his departed father. His father, Atilio, the wayward knight of Draenor. For months, he pursued the spirit of him alongside the spirit walker Kapre, the orc lorekeeper Orvisha, his lover Diwaata, and many others who came and went as they became entangled in the hauntings and visions across Draenor. The trail led them from Shattrath City to the barren wastes of hellfire peninsula and the ruins of old Alliance and Horde settlements there. It lead them to the desolate and dead bone wastes, and the once sacred Draenei necropolis Auchindoun. Then, at long last, he learned the final resting place of his father: shadowmoon valley, in the Black Temple. It had bore many names before that... Black Citadel. Shadowmoon Fortress. Karabor Temple. Every one of them witnessed unheard death and mourning... and among them was his father.
Cristovao stood to his feet, looking into the Argent Crusade town. Slowly, diligently, he began to plod himself heavily in, his head hung low. He kept rubbing his thumbs over the badge. He could have had it cleaned. Had it restored. It was made of silver, unlike Atilio's armor, which was iron and steel, long rusted and crumbled away into dust. The badge endured. Beaten, weathered, ugly, but endured.
He could have had it restored. But he didn't.
Across shadowmoon valley, a place cursed to its core by fel and evil, he led his friends and others to Karabor on the far end. Ghosts and shades continuously appeared and vanished around them. He knew they were coming. Expecting them, expecting his son. They reached the ruined Draenei temple, and were guided inside by a mourning draenei who had also come to face her own ghosts. Through the sewers. Across the desolate courtyard. Into the desecrated, sacrilegious halls, up onto the higher levels. Twenty years ago, this was an evil altar where souls of orcs and flesh of men were disgustingly fused into death knights. The very heart of evil in Draenor. It was here, Cristovao's father in battle to destroy the heretical place.
It was strangely dry in Hearthglen this day. Usually, it rains nonstop, but today there was nary a cloud in the sky... not that Cristovao would tell, he looked at his feet as he walked the dirty streets of the town. He headed for a small house near the inn, a home he had visited many times before. The home of his mother, Maeia.
It took almost an hour of searching the upper floor, but eventually Atilio's remains were found. Lost, forgotten in a far off corner where no orc or demon or elf had ever bothered to check. Covered in dust, all that remained were the skeletal remains of a proud human knight. The armor was almost gone, just thin rusted sheets that crumpled apart when Cristovao tried to hold the remains in his arms. The sword was a blunt, mishapen stump, and the shield was little more than a piece of scrap. The cloth tabard of Lordaeron and feathered plume of his helmet, and the cape that all knights of the Silver Hand wore were all long molded and rotten away... but there among it all, one object remained. A small, tarnished badge. Once brilliant silver, still enduring over two decades of neglect.
"Silver never rusts. It may only tarnish, but underneath the grime, it remains pure, waiting to shine once more", Cristovao said to himself as he finally looked up from his feet. He reached for the door in front of him and knocked heavily three times. Thump. Thump. Thump.
When Cristovao rose to his feet at Karabor, an apparition appeared before him. One of his father, of Atilio. No longer trapped in his memories, in his past, he spoke to his now-grown son which last saw when he was but a child. There, he asked for forgiveness. Forgiveness as a bad father. As a bad role model. As a bad paladin. As a liar. As a drinker. For all the misdeeds he did under the name of the Silver Hand. For all the tarnish he put on his good name. Cristovao did so weepingly. His father was a knight... but he was still but a man. That his shame, his guilt, had kept him from rest... was too much. He did not care how tarnished his father was. He was still silver-hearted at his core. He still loved him, and that was all that mattered. Atilio let go of his mortal worries... and passed on. All was silent, save for the tears of the son, and those dear to him who could only watch.
The door clicked, then swung open. Cristovao looked down somewhat at his expected hostess. His mother, Maeia di Silvio, widow of Atilio, undead of the forsaken. She beamed at her son as she saw him, always loving his visits, though she could not smile for lack of any lips around her mouth. He did not return the warmth, frowning solemnly as he held the badge in his hands.
"Cristovao, my dear, what has you so upset today?", she asked with that tone that only a mother could have, despite the gurgling of her rotten throat trying to interfere.
The paladin paused. He looked down at the badge, then to his mother, tiny and fragile. He inhaled deeply, and finally spoke. "Mother... may I come inside? I have something to tell you..."
Your stories will always remain...
![[Image: nIapRMV.png?1]](http://i.imgur.com/nIapRMV.png?1)
... as will your valiant hearts.