(II)

Fortunately, the Church turned out to not be in the habit of rounding up potential threats to its monopoly on Holy Power to burn us at the stake. Or maybe forcefully induct us into the cult. At least this Archbishop wasn't. Possibly because there hadn't been a precedent, though the notion seemed unlikely to me, how was there a first prophet or saint or whatever if you could only have Light powers given by someone else? Was it all just the Naaru from Mereldar's dream micromanaging everything? Did the talent exist in humans only because Tyr gave it? Did it trace even further back through the vrykul to Odyn? All of the aforementioned?

The Archbishop did have some very intense questions for me though. The talk stretched into late afternoon, then into the evening, then my father awkwardly extended an invitation to continue this at our home since the pews and stares of the loitering bystanders were getting mighty uncomfortable. The Archbishop instead invited the whole lot of us to join him in his lodgings at the local parish and had everyone wined and dined while our talk continued into the evening. Much befuddlement encroached on the local clergy, but the Archbishop handled that by turning my 'petition' into an open debate that stretched deep into the night.

The general consensus was that the Light was anything and everything, which was sort of right, but also not because then why did it need rituals and symbols to cast its spells? Technical answers were few and far between, which was not unexpected of a dogmatic organisation, but I still had enough to start experimenting on my own later. To my surprise, Alonsus Faol was actually quite interested in my perspective and seemed ready to stay up until morning, and to be honest so was I, the Light was helpful like that. That Alonsus Faol, of all people, found our talk so engaging that he didn't care about the slanted looks I was getting from the other clerics for being a thirteen year-old maybe-heretic was honestly flattering.

He did get around to asking me why I wanted to know all this though. "What do you seek by these questions?"

"I don't know yet," I said honestly. "But I'm getting closer with every answer."

Alonsus Faol seemed accepting. "Well, far be it from me to impair dawning enlightenment. In the end, we are all inadequate vessels."

Inadequate vessels. That… felt important. And not just because I knew about the supposed curse of flesh.

Alas, the talks got bogged down because nobody else understood what I was even saying half the time, so I had to keep explaining things. The Archbishop eventually decided on an indeterminate recess while everyone familiarised themselves with the copious notes that Turalyon, of all people, had spent the entire time jotting down.

I myself had a few of papers, full of the practical details I was planning to follow up on later, but the deacon? The man had somehow filled a small book, his writing speed was phenomenal and his shorthand was shockingly legible too. I could see why the man would experience such a meteoric rise through the ranks in wartime, he'll probably become a general by the simple expedient of doing all the war's logistics in an afternoon.

Then I found out just how the Archbishop intended to follow through on that follow-up, because it wasn't empty words at all.

"Child, how would you like to join the Church?"

Please don't say I was wrong about forceful induction.

"Will you come with me and learn more of the Light? I've already got my eye on an apprentice, but as outgoing and virtuous as he is, he's also terribly self-effacing. I'm worried he can't properly appreciate the true value of the life he's lived, the wisdom and experience he can himself impart. He could use an understudy to fret over, and he especially could use living proof that the Light will answer the right soul, regardless of accolades."

Was Alonsus Faol seriously offering to make me apprentice to Uther? Him calling me the right soul left me honestly touched. I was actually reconsidering my life's path now! Truly, authentic priests have the most incredible charisma. "I am seriously considering it." I said honestly, pretending not to notice my parents' desperate miming for me to go ahead and accept right now. It was good I was so close to my fourteenth birthday because otherwise they might have made the decision for me. "Are you sure though? I already told you, I'll never muster the faith you lot have."

"Because the light is a provable, observably true reality, yes, but you do realise that puts you ahead of the majority?" I could already guess that from being able to wield the Light when some priests actually couldn't despite whatever rite they used for empowerment, and I was sure some even lost their abilities later. But the ease with which this man could speak so honestly about his own organisation was amazing. "Besides, you might be surprised by what faith can achieve even then, or what can happen to make faith necessary to endure this life."

Sally Whitemane and all the zealots she brought back from the dead would tend to agree. Faith was so flimsy, though, and so easily used to twist your purpose to that of someone else, and it didn't even work to make the Light protect you consistently. The Light somehow didn't stop even the most faithful bug, man, priest, saint, prophet, god, titan, even reality itself from being mindfucked by vague tentacles of effects and BDSM into becoming enemies of all creation. Even from lower-tier threats. Despite the Light's main thing including breaking mind control.

The Light within me weakened.

Now why would it do that? These were facts, as far as I knew them. Even if I were to dismiss everything not directly written by the first lore writer as wild fancies of people who didn't actually glimpse into this reality, that was still a lot of evidence. Even if I disregarded everything from the Third War onwards, the Lich King, the Nathrezim, the Old Ones and Frostmourne were already in there. Was I supposed to put all the onus on Arthas for his choices when the Light hadn't left him? If no, then the Light didn't protect him from brainwashing. If yes, the Light was not entitled to an opinion on what it was used for. Which was already debatable in itself, the investment of the Paladins of the Silver Hand involved a bunch of priests infusing the power of the Light into other people. Conversely, Uther could later strip the light from Tirion Fordring through excommunication. Tirion's desperation eventually overrode it in a pivotal moment, but those were still contrary, entirely human choices. Like Whitemane's resurrections, they were wholly mortal rulings the Light fully enforced.

The Light within me stalled.

And what about everything from as early as the First War, how many times was Garona bathed in the Light and still stayed under the Shadow Council's mind control? What about Medivh? What about Deathwing, he masqueraded as a high noble for years, how many Church services did he attend, how many times did the Light enter him? How many times was he in the presence of Alonsus Faol and the Light didn't bring back Neltharion? The Archbishop literally went around casting blessings of wisdom and clarity on people who came to see him walk the street, even an instant's worth of clarity for the Aspect of Earth would have changed everything.

The Light wavered again, but in a different cant.

Screw vessels being unworthy, that's just false modesty, I'm going to figure out how the universe works to make a future that actually makes sense and you're going to help.

The Light settled firmly within me, warm and here to stay.

I relaxed. In the end, as good as faith and zealous conviction were at pulling the Light forth, factually justified certainty was just better. It was just common sense. "I'm afraid I must still refuse. I have some things to do here, I need to…" And yet my refusal still stalled in the face of that earnest, encouraging gaze. I would have suspected mental influence right now if it were anyone else. When I latched onto the Light to purge me of anything of the sort anyway, there was nothing. Not incontrovertible evidence, given the various aforementioned failures of the Light to deal with such things even in people so full of it that they glowed in the dark, but still. Then it struck me. "Does this offer have a deadline?"

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Alonsus Faol actually looked disappointed, but understanding all the same. "I cannot speak for any limits the Light may or may not place on its grace periods, but there are no arbitrary limits on mine."

"… I have very important things to do as a layman." Here, as soon as possible, ideally without supervision, while my time is still my own. Well, relatively speaking. First I needed to bulk up, I was already taller than most people after my incredible growth spurt of early spring, the Archbishop himself had to look a bit up to meet my eyes, but a gangly teen does not a worthy man make. I needed some proper muscle if I was going to be building engines and generators. "But what if I go looking for you in Lordaeron in, like, a couple of years maybe?"

"Then you will be welcomed."

"It might not be to sign on even then, though. Or if it is, it may be, say, as a means to pursue a borderline mercenary approach to charity."

"Perhaps you should leave it at that, child," Alonsus Faol said, amused. "Unless these mysterious plans of yours are something I should be aware of?"

I opened my mouth, closed it and watched the man thoughtfully. "I might have a favour to ask. As a good parishioner, if not a particularly faithful one."

"Not particularly faithful he says," the man muttered, then rubbed his beard and smiled ruefully. "Go ahead, child, lay it on me."

"If you, entirely hypothetically, ever hear about, say, lightning being harnessed for various uses like creating light, making fire, turning wheels and forge hammers and what have you, maybe even relaying words from coast to coast in an instant with no magic whatsoever, could you have it checked to see that the Hywel family name is firmly attached to all of it? And maybe steam power too, those are the main ones off the top of my head. I'd hate for my parents and I to be dumped in a filthy ditch somewhere by some unscrupulous opportunist without any reprisal." I almost capped it off with 'and maybe harness the motive force of fiery explosions' but I thankfully managed to stop myself before I inadvertently insinuated to potential time dragons that I was planning to introduce the internal combustion engine.

Assuming the dwarves and gnomes didn't already have it. They had oil platforms and tankers during the second war, even flying machines, but they looked made of wood, and the specifics of the technology were always nebulous despite oil platforms being among the objectives of the orc campaign. Gnomish mounts would all use clockwork and steam too, when they finally happened, despite Gnomeragan being chock full of (electric?) lighting and vents spewing nuclear fallout everywhere. Did this world skip past internal combustion straight to nuclear power? But then what was oil even used for that it was still treated like a strategic good?

… Only during the second war. And briefly in alternate Draenor, if I recalled right.

Hmm.

Not that I'd ever find out if I ran afoul of the local underworld the moment I was out the door. If it was likely to happen anywhere, it was Alterac.

There was no levity in the Archbishop's face now. Only calm resolve. "I promise to do so personally." Wait, really? That was a lot more than- "In the meanwhile I will pray for your success, young man."

Not 'child' anymore? "Thank you, then. And I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"My disappointment is and will remain just that, mine. The Light walks with you, Wayland Hywel. And you, sir, madam, go with pride in what you have achieved."

"Goodbye then." "We will, Your Holiness, thank you."

"Uther, it's very late, please see them safely home."

"Of course, Holiness."

The night was dark and full my parent's terror that we'd trip over a rock and fall in a pig sty. Of which there were many, most of them vacant because the pigs were allowed to roam all through the night in order to clean up the filth. Yes, that was something cities did before plumbing and plastics. And possibly muggers too, the Archbishop's visit had pulled a lot more people and their coin purses out of their homes at once. I ended up leading the way because Uther was not a local and the Light improved my senses as if I'd gruellingly trained them since birth. Also, I had night vision now. Alas, though supremely useful, it did not prevent the other three from stumbling into mud and crap every fifth step, even with Uther's lantern. It was a new moon night, unfortunately. Eventually I just gave up and told the Light I very strongly needed my eyes to glow like a pair of searchlights.

"This has to be some kind of heresy," Uther grunted, then stepped on a piglet. It squealed. Loudly. "Then again, the Light knows its agents best."

"I'm surprised you're not doing this yourself."

"The Light doesn't answer just anyone, lad, never mind for something so trivial, and I've not been invested any more than you, I'm not a priest."

"So you people keep telling me, but I thought – aren't you the Archbishop's disciple?"

Sir Uther cast a long gaze across town to where the church's tower rose above the homes, barely visible in mere starlight. "His Holiness has made the offer." His gaze turned back to me, intense and meaningful. "After today, I think I will accept."

This has gone way past the point of sharing old stories. But I didn't insult the man by asking why. The Light was no trivial gimmick in reality, being able to channel it was seen as the literal blessing of divinity upon the world. I didn't consider myself holy, but I didn't consider myself not holy either. That it took some sort of ritual to allow new people to call the Light at all was something generally consistent across all races and cultures too. Still, wouldn't Uther become a cleric at Faol's invitation anyway? "Don't misplace any credit, I'm sure you don't let chance encounters rule your choices. If this is your right path, you would have chosen it regardless."

"Perhaps, but not today."

Well.

Good to know my first world-shifting change was a positive one.

Finally, we were home. "Thank you for coming all this way, Sir Knight," my father said, finally back on the familiar ground of playing the host. "Would you like to come in for a spot of rest and refreshment before you go back?"

"My thanks, but no. Be well sir, madam. It was good talking to you, lad. Maybe we'll meet again someday."

"Goodbye, Sir Uther. Let the righteous know peace, and the unjust know the back of your hand."

"Ha! I'm stealing that!"

Go ahead, it was yours to begin with.

Finally, I was alone with my parents. My mother, Agnes, who fell upon me with the blubbering wailing hug of stressed mothers everywhere. And my father, Domar, who shambled over to the pantry with all his beer gut and rheumatism and arthritis, drank a whole mug of beer in one go, poured himself a second and shambled back with it in hand to flatly tell me. "What the hell, boy."

"Father." I cast Holy Light. Relations immediately improved. "How much does a cobbler's son get as allowance?"

It was the first of April in the Year 579 of the King's Calendar, thirteen years since I was born, thirteen years before the Dark Portal's opening. Not the most auspicious timeline, one might think, except that random Azerothian citizens had the leisure to walk entire continents, cull every last foodchain into submission, master their might, master their craft, get rich, uncover conspiracies, kill all the monsters, kill all the demons, space travel, dimension travel, even kill gods, all in the space of a year.

Thirteen years ended, thirteen years started, the first of April here and now right in between, and my birthday was another twelve days from now on a Friday.

I was going to be the biggest and best joke ever played on this world.