Free Arthas: Rise of the Lich King by Christie Golden

other kings, nobility, and famous personages were in attendance, riding like a parade through the city’s white cobbled streets to the massive Cathedral of Light, damaged during the First War but now restored and even more glorious than before.
    Arthas’s boyhood friend Varian, king of Stormwind, was now married and a new father. He had opened the palace to all the visiting royalty and their retinues. Sitting with Varian last night, drinking mead and talking, had been the highlight of the trip for Arthas so far. The hurting, traumatized youth of a decade ago had grown into a confident, handsome, centered king. Somewhere along about early morning, after midnight and before dawn, they had gone to the armory, fetched wooden training swords, and gone at each other for a long time, laughing and recounting memories, their prowess only a little the worse for the alcohol they’d consumed. Varian, trained since early childhood, had always been good and now he was better. But so was Arthas, and he gave as good as he got.
    But now it was all formality, incredibly hot armor, and a nagging sense that he didn’t deserve the honor that was about to be bestowed upon him.
    In a rare moment, Arthas had spoken of his feelings to Uther. The intimidating paladin, who, since Arthas was old enough to remember, had been the very image of rock-solid steadfastness to the Light, had startled the prince with his reply.
    “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