I don't own Warcraft.
AN: Originally written to amuse (annoy) Frostfyre, this story has found renewed purpose as my final tribute to the late, great Tirion Fordring—a man for whom Virtue was a veritable Super Power.
Be forewarned, the shit is about to get dangerously deep.
Holy Highlord!
Tirion Fordring gazed with the kindest of intentions into the infernal eyes of the death knight, Darion Mograine; and the great paladin was granted the joyous privilege of humbly being this vile, murderous, but potentially exploitable fiend's deliverer, thereby lifting him up (Light be praised!) from his wretched and despicable state.
Arthas, the Lich King, sly and prepared arch-villain of the Light, laughed—cold and fierce in his malice—iniquitous Lord of Darkness and Death.
What a contrast between these two men! Darion thought, with redemption's telling clarity. I must save this good Lord of Light from The Nemesis! he further decided; and with full, noble purpose did he move against his former master in the Highlord's defense. Determined now, and readying his blade for confrontation with the invincible god of death, Darion knew full well—yet cared not—that by inciting the Lich King's wrath he had taken a final and perilous stand from which there could be no return.
And then, with this self-less act of willing sacrifice, a miracle did fast occur! For lo, the stilled heart of that poor, doomed Soldier of Darkness began to beat again at the glowing Highlord's merciful allowance.
Darion felt renewed, nay, reborn, in the Great Man's saintly presence; and through his Grace, was the death knight imbued with the divine warmth of the Light. Forthwith, did he cast aside all death, all darkness, and disease.
Though a bit unsettlingly consistent in its eagerness to inflict cruelest judgment upon the blameless victims of the Lich King's curse, the Light's surpassing radiance did not harm the undead man, despite his bereft state—for yeah verily, Its venerable source was this Holiest of Holy Men. Darion gasped with the one certain knowledge that it was he, Highlord Tirion Fordring, in his overwhelming charity, who had (indeed!) reshaped the very Light, Itself! Making It gentler, kinder, more generous—and why yes, it was He who elevated even the Light with his Purity of Spirit!
The ice began to melt all around them, warmth and life sweeping out from the Holy Ground of Tirion Fordring's entirely Upright and Righteous Intestinal Fortitude. And lo, as it swiftly overspread the evil Dark Lord, he cried out in his rage (Fuck YOU, Fordring!) and sudden agony (OW! Shit! Argh!), as he began to thrash about, and then (LO), he commenced to shriveling markedly, bellows of fury and indeed, indignation, echoing within his unspeakably profane armor. Though he did struggle with all his great might and evil will to preserve himself, resistance to the Highlord's most Luminous Power was futile, and availed the cruel tyrant not at all.
The Light's Justice grew to a nova intensity, and Darion Mograine, stricken (with shock and awe), was forced to cover his eyes, lest he be blinded by its Sacred Ubiquity. It was only when the Light dimmed to a tolerable glare that in its fading illumination did Darion behold a most wondrous conclusion.
Metal pinged, leather straps creaked in complaint, chain mail jingled, the Helm of Domination teetered precariously; and then, with a hollow bong the Plate of the Damned suddenly collapsed in an unholy heap to the icy floor. The Fiend's black cloak fluttered down with one last hostile puff of sleet—and all was still.
Darion gazed upon the Highlord, squinting slightly from the billowing vapor of his Sanctity and Purity as it flooded the place, routing out all shadows and other furtive minions of Darkness, casting all unsavory and demonic powers into the frozen wilderness beyond the horrid halls of Icecrown Citadel.
Following that extended moment of bated breath and worshipful silence, a strange, unlikely cooing sound was heard, and lo, a wee, golden-haired toddler came forth, crawling with great energy from out of the cursed shell of blighted armor—protected from its ungodly aura by the Highlord's Mighty Encompassing Goodness.
Unperturbed did the magical babe begin tumbling about upon the vanquished Lich King's tattered cloak. Bare and pink, he was, grinning hugely at them both. Green eyes twinkled, as little arms reached up in expectation.
"Blessed Light!" the Highlord proclaimed, "Evil has been purged! The Age of Darkness is done! It. Is. Finished!"
Then did Darion eye the smiling tot with great suspicion, "You mean to say this is all that's left of the Lich King?" He pointed and the merry babe cackled with amused delight.
The Great Paladin beamed in his accomplishment. "The Lightbringer did say but a trace remained of the lost Prince," he explained. "Otherwise, well, that was one honking-big chunk of Badass, my boy."
Tirion Fordring smiled benevolently, moved by fatherly urge and affection to scoop the laughing babe into his arms, and the Light poured forth from that Hallowed Man, bathing the foundling in a protective shield of Awesome.
Placid and basking in this anointment, the babe played Peep-Eye with Darion, all guileless charm; and so, compelled to action by such vigorous cuteness, Darion reached with caution to pat the small head with its wild fluff of pale gold hair. There was a mighty mischief in those alert and impish eyes, as the baby clucked with rascally content, giving Darion a crooked grin that was just a tad too familiar.
"Let us see if we cannot raise him right in the Light this time!" the Highlord enthused, as he pulled absurd faces and sputtered ridiculous sounds for the cheerful babe's amusement.
Darion gave pause, and indeed did his eagerness to mindlessly serve fast dwindle. "What's with this 'we' shit?" he croaked, quick eyes seeking any exit.
Barely hearing the death knight's alarmed, and rather uninspired response, Highlord Tirion Fordring, that grand Man-of-Purpose, his magnanimous heart nigh bursting with bliss, raised up his arms, lifting the wee innocent high above his head, and presenting him to the Light for Its Glorious Blessing. Pausing in this perfect moment, the Highlord gazed with fondness and pride upon the fair changeling—whereupon with a jubilant squeal of glee, the chortling babe happily, and with great accuracy, pissed like mad in his smiling savior's upturned face.