A/N: Alright, I know I should be writing one of my other fanfics but I kind of got hit with the urge to write this one shot. It's a short story about one of my World of Warcraft characters. The exact reason why I'm making this one shot I don't particularly know, the idea just struck me from out of the blue. So without any further ado I present to you His Faith.

Disclaimer: World of Warcraft is property of Blizzard not me, if it was there would be some changes.

His Faith

Brother Michael of the Church of the Holy Light hummed to himself as he swept the grounds out back of the Cathedral of the Holy Light. He briefly stopped to smile and wave as a group of children ran by. Looking at the clear blue skies he smiled to himself, today was such a wonderful day. His musing was cut short as he heard his name being called from the path leading to the Stormwind Cemetery.

"Excuse me, Brother Michael may I have a word with you?" An old caretaker asked, his eyes shifting around nervously. Michael tilted his head a bit to the side and gave the man an odd look but nodded his consent. The older man grabbed the priest by his wrist and started leading them into the graveyard. Along the way the man's incoherent words so fast Michael was unable to understand what was being said. He was about to ask the man to stop and repeat everything he said when they came across a grave. However unlike all the graves around it, this grave seemed to be recently dug and filled. That was crazy though, Michael had been through the cemetery enough times to know that this particular grave had been here for years.

"It's just as I told you Brother Michael, last night while I was tending the grounds I saw some shadowy figure lurking about, I was going to talk to them but they had some sort of otherworldly glow about them not to mention the scythe I saw them with," the man said with a shudder. Michael furled his brows and tried to comprehend what in the name of the holy Light could have been going on. Looking down to the grave he saw that it was for a William Duskhammer, a vaguely familiar name. He shook his head and told the grounds keeper that he would look into it. The man gave a thankful on and went off on his way leaving Michael alone with his thoughts.

As he turned to head back to the Cathedral his eye briefly flickered back down at the grave, only to notice something he had missed before. Kneeling down he gave his full attention to a worn prayer book that lay near the headstone. It was not one from the Cathedral, it bore the crest of the fallen kingdom of Lordaeron, not only that but it looked to be at least a decade or two in its age. Gingerly picking the old book up he was hit with a bout of curiousness when he found a bookmark nestled within the pages of the tome. His interests peeked, he opened the book and looked down at what had been revealed:

O divine Light,

Your love is given to us from our birth,

Your providence guides our lives,

And by your command we return to dust.

Light, those who die still live in your presence,

Their lives change but do not end.

I pray in hope of my family, relatives and friends,

And for all the dead known to you alone.

By your power and grace,

Let us all find us back our way if we somehow stray,

Back into your arms, into your blessed kingdom,

Where all of our tears are wiped away.

Unite us together again in one family,

To sing your praise forever and ever.

Amen.

Michael gazed at the prayer, one that had been very common in Lordaeron even more so after the Scourge's invasion. It was something that kept many survivors from falling into the deepest depths of despair. That this book was here and at this prayer, did this grave belong to a Lordaeronian refugee perhaps? Or maybe it was set up by the person's family who was unable to recover the body. Light only knew how many graves here and in Northshire belonged to those unfortunate souls. Sighing a bit, Michael stood up, prayer book in hand, to head off to the Cathedral's achieves to look into this as he had promised.

After hours of looking through the admittedly disorganized files he finally stumbled upon a several sheets of parchment dedicated to William Duskhammer. He was surprised to find that Sir Duskhammer was actually one of several knights stationed in Stormwind as a sign of faith between kingdoms and his actions in the war earned his family a count-ship and the name Duskhammer, so named due to a mace recovered from an Orcish commander. Michael was a bit saddened to find his assumption of the body never being brought to Stormwind was correct but had not been confirmed that it had been hit with the plague. The only living relatives were his son and daughter-in-law, and his youngest grandson, a bastard it would seem if the hyphenated last name was truly his. This living grandson seemed to be the only member of the minor house to come to Stormwind, with only one other grave being asked for. This troubled Michael, what had become of the rest of the family?

Thoughts of what may or may not have happened would continue to flutter through his mind the rest of the day and into the night. He found it unsurprising that he was one of the few remaining to watch over the Cathedral that night. On his patrol around the Cathedral he made sure to check the grave, prayer book still with him, and found nothing. Ruefully shaking his head he mused that perhaps it was some rowdy youths deciding to play a trick on the old grounds keeper. Chuckling to himself he headed back to the Cathedral.

Upon stepping into the hallowed building he felt something was amiss. With a sense of unease he quietly crept forward, alert for anything potentially harmful. His silent steps lead him inside to the church proper, where he found the apparent source of his unease. There, kneeling at the alter was a man, he was dressed in the standard garb of the Church but with a black hood added and drawn up. By his side lay a gleaming silver scythe that reflected the moonlight that flowed through the central window.

The stark difference between the light provided by the clear widow and the two stained glass ones that flanked it seemed even more pronounced as the beautiful white light from the center seemed to dance over the man, added to the soft glow he emitted. Michael's breath caught in his throat as he realized that this was the figure the old man spoke of. He dared not speak, not even to really breath, least the man be hostile. It was in this silence that he heard the man. He spoke in a somewhat harsh baritone that sent chills down Michael's spine.

O blessed Light,

I have wounded your love,

O Light, heal me.

I stumble in the darkness,

Light of the world transfigure me.

I forgot that I am your home,

Spirit of the Divine, dwell in me.

Forgive me though for the harm I've done,

My sorrows and rage blind me,

But I apologize only to you and those beyond us,

Not to those down here.

I am stained, broken and flawed,

But even in my ugliness I know you find love for even I,

A love I cannot give to those who have harmed me,

Harm that I will return in kind.

Even after all that I do or will have done,

I ask you for your forgiveness,

That I may have the strength to meet you with my head held high.

Amen.

Time seemed to stand still, the words sinking into Michael's brain, trying to grasp who this man could be. He flinched when the man took his scythe and stood. Beads of sweat dotted his brow as the unknown man turned and headed his direction. When the man was so close that Michael could have reached out and touch him, the man stopped. The priest held his breath, watching and waiting, not daring to make a move.

The man's form seemed darkened somewhat now that he was not directly in the light from the window, even with the soft glow that surrounded him. This left his face cloaked in shadow leaving his identity up in the air. Later, Michael would almost swear that the glow and the moonlight almost made it seem as if a halo of holy light had surrounded the man. The man spent a moment to gaze at Michael, almost as if judging him. Then he reached up slowly with his free hand, making the priest go pale with fear, only to grab the prayer book Michael had firmly pressed against his chest since seeing the man.

Michael limply let the man's clawed hand take the book from him. The man looked the book over and seemed pleased that everything seemed in place. He stepped around Michael and began to walk away. Michael let out a shaky breath, hearing his blood pounding in his ears. He almost squealed when he heard that harsh baritone voice.

"My faith is my own, Brother, and no one can take it from me, not the Scourge, not Windrunner, no one," Michael nodded dumbly and sank to his knees.

It would only be the next day that he understood what exactly happened.

A/N: And there you have it! It felt really good writing this down since I've been wanting to do stuff more involved with fantasy and the like since I've been doing a lot of WoW stuff recently. Also the fact I got a Garrosh kill and WoD is on the horizon so yeaaah. I'm a Hordie and have been flipping out.

Anyways, it was fun and I'll see you guys next time!