I don't own Warcraft.
Legendary
"Apocalyp— SHIT!"
With a grating clash of steel and a blinding shower of sparks, the two great swords, Frostmourne and Ashbringer, collided.
Contrary to canonical accounts, Arthas Menethil, the dread Lich King, did not in fact declare, "Impossible!", when Frostmourne shattered to pieces in his hand. Rather, and quite appropriate for the circumstances, he grimly muttered, "Well, fuck me."
That exalted paladin, Highlord Tirion Fordring, beamed upon his reeling adversary a toothy, wholesome smile of triumph—for indeed it was so; a righteous reaming by the Light was at hand. The holy Highlord scarcely had time to savor his victory, however; as mere moments after that momentous blow, the Ashbringer sprang willfully from his grasp, burying itself to the hilt in the floor of the icy arena below the Frozen Throne.
This was when the center of the platform buckled, cracked open, and then promptly collapsed from beneath the two combatants. As equally indifferent to the saint as to the sinner, gravity dutifully tossed both men into the abysmal darkness below.
Those vaunted champions of the Light, who had so boldly come to witness the Great Day of the Lich King's Judgment—brave looters, every one—were left standing, stunned, upon a doughnut of crumbling ice, wondering what the hell had just happened.
It was when the swarm of ghostly malcontents began spurting from the ruptured Frostmourne that the living deemed it a fine time to cut their losses and bail.
Valiant voices were raised in a unified, rallying chorus of "Screw this shit!" as Azeroth's staunchest defenders bolted for the spiral steps—all thoughts of victory's spoils, high adventure, and exit portals completely forgotten.
There were stairs; they took them.
Here, upon this slippery slope, and by a cruel twist of fate—or possibly, a spiteful goose from a certain orc shaman's deposed spirit—one overly-zealous Tauren warrior to the rear chanced to stumble. With a strangled moo, the huge bull, innocent victim of his own great mass and its momentum, suddenly found himself the unwitting catalyst behind the cascading domino-effect that ensued. Chins, knees, backs, and buttocks smacked the ice as the entire party slipped and fell on the treacherous footing.
What followed then was a fail of truly epic proportions.
In a veritable avalanche of helplessly-flailing flesh, this tangled mass of Azerothian elite plummeted headlong and screeching down the spire's icy steps. Around and around that gelid coil they hurtled, armor crashing, voices yodeling with shrill indignation over their unstoppable flight. Massive support chains groaned and rattled, the frozen construct swaying with their swift passage until—and with a notable precision of obvious intent—Icecrown Citadel forcibly disgorged its intruders, chucking them forth, and onto the frosty expanse well beyond even its substantial boundaries.
Here, the living jetsam came to rest, at last, firmly packed into a smelly snow bank, decisively dismissed.
With haste did the brave heroes rise up from where they wallowed, turning as one towards the distant tournament grounds whence they came. And so, back across the snowy slopes they surged; no thought, no prayer, no tear was spared for their lost Highlord.
Meanwhile, life-loathing, omni-genocidal Lich King and Most Holy Paladin of the Light were tumbling head over heels—the former roaring obscenities, the latter shrieking unheeded prayers—as the two antagonists plunged down into the newly-formed glacial crevasse.
xxx
A dizzying interlude later, upon opening his dazed eyes, and reaching to gently palpate his bruised nose, Arthas Menethil found himself pondering the unexpected sight of Tirion Fordring's startled face mere inches from his own. Wincing from this unwelcome vision, the Lich King realized he was lying upon the chasm's frozen floor in the unbelievably awkward position of having the Supreme Commander of the Argent Crusade—that most enthusiastic of would-be ass-kickers—sprawled inelegantly across his chest.
It seemed their besagues had nested and wedged together during their fall; and the Highlord, rasping out what appeared to be every prayer he had ever committed to memory, was working mightily to separate the pieces of plate.
Arthas could see absolutely no reason to not make the most of the situation.
"Oh, Tirion," he crooned, "Why didn't you tell me you just wanted to cuddle?"
The response to this droll goad was indignantly flared eyes and a pronounced increase in the paladin's already frenzied, but futile squirming.
"I hope you know you're only making it worse," the Dark Lord rumbled, as scuffling, bonging sounds, punctuated with angry grunts and growls, reverberated throughout the passage. Showers of shifting ice intermittently blitzed the two men from above.
"Stop gouging me, ASSHOLE!" came Arthas' echoing bellow; he had arrived at the abrupt end of his infamously-limited patience. "And watch where you poke your goddamned knees!"
Now thoroughly pummeled by the thrashing paladin astride him, and exasperated beyond all measure, it was with irritable vigor that the Lich King applied his own great might to the matter at hand. Slapping impatiently at Tirion's fruitless efforts, Arthas tugged, tweaked, prized, and plucked at the meshed armor plates, cursing roundly in the endeavor, until with a resistant, metallic squeal, they finally parted company.
Bouncing off his archrival, Tirion rolled speedily away, horrified by such appalling intimacy with The Foe, "You stink of death, Murderer," he announced, lurching to his unsteady feet.
"So says the man with ghoul guts splattered all over his holy vestments," was the Lich King's caustic retort.
These words provoked an indignant snort, and the Highlord bestowed a bitter scowl of loathing upon his enemy. Noting his righteous response had minimal effect upon the Prince of Darkness, the paladin redirected his energies to smoothing his cloak and straightening his scuffed armor. Fastidiously did he flick away the larger bits of noxious muck clinging to his sullied tabard. He adjusted his huge, holy libram just so, keeping a vigilant eye upon the nearby Lich King.
Still lounging comfortably in the shallow crater created by the impact of their arrival, Arthas snickered over this open display of aversion, "You were on top, Fordring, what more do you want from me?"
Tirion tautened, blushing furiously in his outrage; and Arthas' faint, derisive smile widened into one of perfectly-wicked glee. The Highlord's rather prominent ears—peeking from his tousled, graying curls—flared with high color, bringing to the Lich King's mind an image of bright sails upon a storm-tossed sea, and he wheezed with stifled laughter.
"You could strive to comport yourself in an honorable manner," the Light's paragon responded stiffly, his flushed face waxing a deeper and even more satisfying crimson.
"That would be a no," said Arthas, sitting up; he glanced around, one hand gripping his still-spinning head. "Well, this is a fine, fucking mess you've gotten us into," the Dark Lord observed, staggering slightly as he stood. Frowning, he investigated his damaged armor, drumming his fingertips on the paladin-shaped dent in his breastplate.
Not so indestructible now, he mused. No doubt having a great deal to do with the loss of his Helm and the demolition of Frostmourne.
"And how am I answerable for this atrocious circumstance?" the Highlord demanded, bristling at the very idea of being thus accused.
With a shrug, and a pointed glance to Tirion's empty scabbard, Arthas turned slowly to scrutinize the walls of the fissure with a critical eye; he then looked up, studying the thin ribbon of pale light far, far above. They had fallen at least three hundred feet, he estimated. Or, to be perfectly accurate, they had rolled, careened, and haplessly skidded that distance through a jolting maze of painfully unyielding ice.
Musing, the Lich King folded his arms, glancing to his sole companion on this grand adventure. Slowly but surely an evil smile began to dawn upon his face, in celebration of the absurdity of it all.
He and this glowering tower of righteousness, tobogganing the frozen bowels of Icecrown together, locked in a desperate embrace...
Arthas chortled; he guffawed, suddenly doubling over with raucous, immobilizing laughter. Once again, a rain of stinging ice pelted down, pinging off their battered armor.
His jaw working furiously, Tirion assumed a stately, commanding pose; and in this fine, reprimanding stance did he glare reproachfully at the cackling villain. This huffy gesture only inspired yet another uncontrollable peal of malicious merriment.
Unamused, Tirion peered around their gloomy prison with an ill-tempered snort. There wasn't much to see, as the only illumination was the unholy radiance from Arthas' smoldering eyes.
Why has the holy Light done this to me? the pious paladin pondered. What divine purpose was served in shooting me down a glacier's gullet, perched like a useless bauble atop the ice-crusted armor of my most hated enemy?!
That he was actually no worse for this preposterous experience was hardly the issue for Tirion Fordring.
He felt wronged.
"Oh, Lighten up, Fordring, heh heh heh," the Lich King said, his icy composure restored, "Surely we can agree that we're both presently screwed."
As he spoke, Arthas waved his hand experimentally, finding he still possessed enough power to brighten the area with a nebulous, cerulean glow; but that was the extent of his present capabilities. He certainly could not conjure what was necessary to facilitate a successful escape.
The Dark Lord grunted. It appeared their glorious final conflict had sputtered to a rather limp conclusion. "Well," he said, with a decisive clap of his gauntleted hands, "Time to find an exit. Care to join me, Highlord?"
"Do you propose a truce?" Tirion balked. "I dare say never! Monster! Bitterest foe of Virtue's Honor! And I, the Champion of the Light! Bah!"
Arthas gave that statement the amount of thoughtful consideration he deemed it deserved—which was none whatsoever. "Or," he replied, "you can just stand here debating upon how to best preserve your flawless reputation, until you freeze the fuck to death. Think I care?"
There was no doubting either inevitability; the Foe was remorseless, and the cold in this Lightless place was nigh paralyzing. Grimacing with revulsion, his flared nostrils ejecting small puffs of indignant vapor, Tirion Fordring named his conditions. "I would have your most solemn vow that you will tell no one we were…" he paused to grimace over the final, repellent words, "…in accord."
"Am I suddenly on speaking terms with anyone who might conceivably give a shit?" Arthas asked, arching a sarcastic brow.
Willing to admit the Dark Lord's remark perhaps had its merits, Tirion took a moment to present a wise and meditative posture, "Very well then," he decided, reckoning now was as good a time as any to fully impress upon his enemy the sheer vastness of his tactical genius. "So, have you any contingency plan in place we might make use of? Some sort of escape route, or other iniquitous and profane design of furthering your Light-cursed agenda should your inevitable and well-deserved comeuppance occur?"
"Nope."
"No back door, for Light's sake?"
"Considering it's the very source of all my malevolent power, and where I'm pretty much absolutely invulnerable, I thought you might be intelligent enough to not attack the Frozen Throne," the Lich King said; he smiled, "Silly me."
Tirion huffed, suspecting—and rightly so—that he had just been insulted. "But we were victorious!" he proclaimed with as much vehemence as this ludicrous, shared moment allowed.
"Yes, that certainly explains why we're stuck down here chatting in a glacier's ass crack," Arthas muttered, idly scanning the softly glowing walls of ice surrounding them. He smiled, thinking they were quite beautiful—in that deadly, brutally uncompromising way he so appreciated. Shortly, he glanced at Tirion, noting the paladin's fixed, questioning stare, "And what's that judgmental look for?" he demanded.
"This entire matter reeks of your abominable guile!" the Highlord suddenly blared, beset by explosive frustration. He gestured to encompass their surroundings, concluding with a brandished fist, which he then shook forcefully at his enemy.
The Lich King grunted out a cynical laugh, jabbing a finger skyward, "That," he said, "was deliberate sabotage—" the fell finger swooped in his direction, "by your precious Ashbringer. Ha! The great Tirion Fordring, shafted by his own holy weapon!" Arthas paused to sneer, "How priceless is that!"
Tirion straightened abruptly, in agitated denial. "This wretched outcome was indubitably a part of your diabolical scheme!"
"It pains me no end to say this, Fordring, but I am not responsible for every fucking calamity that happens to befall you!"
"Bah! You are known to twist the truth to your own savage purposes!" the Highlord stated with imposing force, exuding the Light's righteous ire in a fervent aura. "You are the Nemesis of LIFE! You are an irredeemable CREATURE of lies, of deceit and VILEST darkness!"
"And you are a bloated, holy relic…"
"You will stoop to any depths! You will cast aside all that is Just and Good! You will flout even the most hallowed convention to suit your despicable machinations, Lich King!"
"Yes, I'm such a clever bastard."
Annoying fiend, Tirion thought testily, pausing to focus his troubled thoughts that he might respond with calm reason, despite the trial. "We should now strive to climb, or tunnel out," he then declared, his voice firm in its conviction.
"Perhaps you could just blast your way to freedom with all that holy hot air you're constantly discharging!" was the Lich King's helpful suggestion.
The paladin's goodly chest swelled with resentment. "You mock me," he accused.
"Well shit, you just make it so easy."
"You mock the holy Light with your unrepentant hostility!"
"I am damned near powerless thanks to you and your holy Light," the Opponent replied curtly, "So you'd do well to take your best shot while you have it, Highlord; there will not be another." Arthas paused, glancing around; he frowned, "And could either of us be any more disarmed, do you suppose?" he muttered, "Just where the hell is Ashbringer, anyway?"
Tirion turned stubbornly away, his expression wounded, his posture rigid. "I, well...I don't want to talk about it."
The Lich King studied him in silent disbelief. I have a real talent for getting myself saddled with the headcases, he thought grimly. First Sylvanas, and then that insane flying elf, now this shit...
It was only after several moments of gloomy silence that Tirion finally unburdened himself. "Even though I was able to purify the corrupted Ashbringer with a mere touch of my hand," he waved said holy hand theatrically, "that sword never liked me, Arthas, never." His brow furrowed over this worrisome grievance, and he cast a resentful glance at his enemy.
"What a tale of woe," the Master of the Scourge dryly replied. "A good thing Ashbringer didn't steal your soul and seduce you into servitude to the discorporated consciousness of a demon-corrupted orc wizard. Yes?"
There was an extended, pregnant silence, during which Fordring gave him a mystified frown.
Arthas smiled sarcastically, "And it sure was fun while it lasted," he said, striding away. "Though I will admit the whole idea of ruling forever was a rather impractical goal to aim for."
The eldritch light that Arthas had summoned began trailing after him like an ephemeral puppy, and so Tirion had no choice but to follow, lest he be left in total darkness.
Thusly, did they make their way through the narrow, ominously creaking tunnel of ice.
During this interlude, their disagreements not only endured, but indeed, festered—broadening in scope, and growing progressively louder as the two antagonists proceeded. Their bickering voices boomed and echoed off the fantastical, frozen walls that enclosed them.
"Oh Light!" the Highlord lamented, "what will my devoted brothers and sisters think of me now? Familiarizing with the likes of you."
Arthas snarled irritably through clenched teeth, lengthening his already aggressive stride, intent upon putting more distance between them.
"You have no grasp of my obligations, of the importance of my role in this holy endeavor!" the paladin persisted, hurrying to match the angry Dark Lord's relentless pace. "It's not as if your army of brainless, undead sycophants would ever question your actions!"
Arthas pivoted suddenly, setting his feet for confrontation, causing Tirion to bellow in outrage as he inadvertently overran the combative and immovable King. The two men jostled each other belligerently, banging their breastplates noisily together in a fit of pique, and sending a hollow, clanging echo rattling throughout the passage. Yet again, they were bombarded by a vigorous shower of icy projectiles. Tirion glared; the Lich King returned it, full force.
"The only difference between your army and mine is the undead part, Fordring," Arthas growled with virulent emphasis, "So you can just put a fucking cork in all your pompous, principled bullshit."
"Foul-mouthed DEMON-spawn!"
"Sanctimonious PRICK!"
And onward they journeyed, sharing many such pleasantries.
The arduous pace and venomous squabbling took its toll on the Highlord, however; and soon they had to pause for a brief rest, as Tirion was waxing quite breathless from trudging across the uneven floor of the passage. This proved especially difficult while bellowing at his enemy every disparaging comment he could think to assemble. Arthas—who was, of course, tireless—finally conceded to a halt, but only after a lengthy and scathing display of intolerant disdain.
They sat down, facing each other in the narrow passage.
For a time, both men fumed in menacing silence, engaging in an aggressive exchange of mutually ineffective glowering, and dwelling stormily upon this insufferable turn of events.
"Have you any idea where you're going?" Tirion finally demanded.
"I'm thinking out is as good an idea as any!"
"Unless you're leading us in circles."
"I'm fairly confident that glaciers don't crack in circles, Fordring. But I could be wrong!"
"Very well, don't be so danged sensitive."
Arthas sneered malevolently. A brief, but weighty hush descended; and the only sounds to be heard were the creak of shifting armor plates, the rattle of chain mail, and faint, grumbled huffs of aggravation. Tirion took and sloshed his canteen, had a drink, and then began rummaging in his roomy belt purse. After a few moments of excavation, he located what he sought.
A small travel comb.
Arthas' eyebrows shot up and he watched with a sort of mesmerized fascination as the Highlord fussily groomed his hair and frowzy beard, molding both into admirable form.
"One should always look one's best," Tirion counseled, eyeing Arthas' long, unkempt mane rather unfavorably.
"Destroying the world here, Fordring," was the grouchy reply. "Looking pretty is not high on my to-do list."
"You were once a paladin, Arthas; you know how important appearance is."
"People shit in their pants when they see me. I think I can say I've nailed my signature look."
With a disapproving glance, Tirion heaved a deep, long-suffering sigh as he put away his comb. Folding his hands, he settling into a droning litany of thankful prayers—these included a number of urgent requests for divine intervention and deliverance.
Arthas was stoically silent for many long moments; but finally, as these petitions appeared to have no foreseeable conclusion, and as he was beginning to feel the onset of a virtue-induced migraine, the Lich King decided it was time for a distraction.
"Now, I've been thinking," he said, hoping to rouse the Highlord from his beatific state, "I believe I can focus enough residual energy to lift you back up to the top of the crevasse," he gestured, "It'll be a slow process, as I'm underpowered, so there is the possibility you might freeze to death before you get there, but if you're willing to risk it—"
Tirion smiled, "Why, by the Light, Arthas, is that concern I'm hearing?"
"Concern that you'd be too dead to tell anyone else I was still down here," the Lich King muttered. "Not that you would. No, you'd just leave me here, I know it." He paused, considering Tirion's rather puzzled expression. "So I have abandonment issues," Arthas snapped, "What of it!"
"Well, you rather brought this isolation upon yourself," Tirion replied. "You just stated your entire agenda is one of global annihilation!"
"As if that's a new idea."
"I am only suggesting you might consider being a bit less inflexible on the method," Tirion held forth with the calm voice of a patient advisor. "Not everyone shares your enthusiasm over the prospect of Azeroth as a lifeless ball of ice! And frankly, Arthas, there has been much discussion, and a great deal of logical objection to your selfish determination to take all the credit."
The only response was a stubborn snort, and an arrogant, dismissive glance.
Tirion sighed, "Folks want to be included, Arthas. They need to feel their input is valued."
The Dark Lord gave that a bit of thought, "Free will," he muttered grimly to himself as he got to his feet, and then stalked away. "And people actually wonder why I prefer the company of the dead."
The blue glow danced after him, and once again Tirion was obliged to either follow, or languish in the directionless gloom. Even the Lich King's company was preferable to that fate, he decided, climbing to his feet. In fact, he could think of no one more qualified to navigate this dismal realm than his present companion.
"I will admit you do have a valid point there, Arthas," he said, as he fell into step with the cranky tyrant, "Having dealt with Varian and Garrosh, Light help me! Even you would not believe those two."
"Can't say if I ever met Garrosh," the Lich King replied, "but I sure as hell know Varian."
"Oh, I dare say you would scarcely recognize your old friend now, after he had that errant personality episode to afflict him."
Arthas frowned deeply, glancing around; and for a moment, the Highlord was certain he saw disquiet upon that cold and chiseled visage, and then the Dark Lord said, "Varian has a personality?"
Tirion laughed so heartily that Arthas could not resist joining him. "Severed in twain, actually," the Highlord shared, "When he fell victim to the schemes of an evil, power-hungry dragon."
"And just how exactly did the dragon part of this equation escape Varian's keen discernment?"
"The foul creature disguised herself!" the Highlord exclaimed.
"Ah, I see. Behind an ample cleavage, no doubt. Heh heh, yes. That's Varian, all right."
Tirion sighed, eyeing the grinning Dark Lord irritably, "That aside," he snorted, placing his fists upon his hips, "Do you want to hear my story or just be a cynical pain in the behind?"
"Both, of course," Arthas assured him, amused by the paladin's ire. Tirion gave him an obstinate look, firm in his offense and in his stance. "Please continue," Arthas added then, with a flourish of his hand and an excess of courtly courtesy—the authenticity of which Tirion found highly suspect.
"It was a grave trial," the Highlord said fiercely, "against which only the staunchest of hearts might hope to prevail! One that shook King Varian to the very foundations of his humanity! One that left a kingdom in turmoil, lost without its sovereign lord, and cruelly deprived an innocent child of his beloved and devoted father! How can you scoff at the tribulations of a man you once loved as a brother?" With stern disapproval, the great paladin awaited something at least vaguely identifiable as remorse from the chortling Lich King.
"Fun fact, Tirion, I once rubbed down the inside of Varian's armor with hot pepper," Arthas informed him, clarifying the futility of his expectations. "He then returned the favor by doing the same to mine—with poison ivy." The Lich King paused, tilting his head. "And you think I'm wrathful," he added with a smile. "Heh."
Tirion blinked rapidly, seeking an appropriate, preferably instructive reply, only to find none to serve him. Shaking his head, he pressed on. "It is a rousing tale, his ordeal," he stated, "and indeed, I fear the good king would have been utterly lost—had it not been for Lady Jaina's transformative powers."
"Oh? Well, let me guess. She set him on fire."
Tirion could not contain a chuckle, "I imagine she has been sorely tempted, on occasion."
"Sounds rather like the same old Varian to me," was the Lich King's opinion; he shrugged, continuing on. "First I've heard of the matter."
"You're a bit out of touch, aren't you?"
"Been a little busy, Highlord. The truth is, telepathy is overrated, and no one ever willingly tells me anything."
"I suppose that is just one disadvantage to being a supreme force of absolute evil," Tirion said. "But, if it's any consolation, I have the very same problem."
Arthas turned to eye him distrustfully. "That has to be a lie. May as well just admit it."
"Indeed not," the paladin insisted, "I make most folks almost as nervous as you do."
"Mortals..." the Dark Lord grumbled, "What the hell do they want?"
"The mediocrity of small sins," Tirion intoned wisely. Another suspicious look prompted him to add, "I fear it is true. And if I may say so, Arthas, in all my years of being the Light's purest vessel, yours is the most spectacular Fall from Grace I have ever had the privilege of reviling."
"Ah yes, thank you. That did progress nicely, didn't it?" the Dark Lord replied with a pleased smile.
The Highlord sighed deeply, giving his foe an earnest look. "Frankly, I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't answered the Call and plunged headfirst into the pit of Deep Dookie that consumed you. I was starting to lose all hope of ever being the Light's Hand of Justice and Judgment."
"This is Azeroth, Tirion. There will always be some unspeakable horror to task you."
"I just get so lonely in the interim," the Highlord murmured, "here at the pinnacle of holy perfection. These days, not even the noblest act of sacrifice is appreciated; and one gets exactly zero respect for trying to save the ungrateful rabble."
Being something of an authority on that subject, Arthas nodded. "Yes, a lesson I learned well at Stratholme," he said. "The same day I discovered having a conscience is nothing but a fucking nuisance."
"And no matter how hard you try, someone will always find fault with your most selfless labor."
"I just ice the whiners, Tirion. Problem solved."
"There are times when I do envy your callous lawlessness, Arthas," the Highlord confessed, "As dedicated as I am to the Holy Work, and as much as I love our redeemed fellows, especially Darion—hollow though he may be, and admittedly, a bit creepy in his cowl—egad sir, he just goes on and bloody on with his angst!"
"Mograine was always a petulant little princess," the Lich King contributed.
"Yes!" Tirion cried, eager to vent, "And Bolvar! Ye, gods! So pushy, so up one's backside about everything! I must confess to a rather forced sincerity while delivering his post-Wrathgate eulogy. In truth, I felt a burden had been lifted."
"Imagine my relief when Sylvanas took her poisoned-arrow fetish and flounced off on her Dark Lady, self-improvement quest. Seeing her fine little ass going in the opposite direction was a real pleasure, in more ways than one."
Having had his own dealings with the redoubtable Banshee Queen, the Highlord could only empathize. "She is a piece of work."
"You have no idea, Tirion, but my guess is you'll find out soon enough." Arthas paused for a thoughtful moment. "That woman takes her 'Death to the Living' mantra damned seriously; so I highly recommend you don't expect her to take a nice long nap and give you the time to get your shit together."
Momentarily, they resumed their journey; and shortly thereafter, a natural glow began to illuminate their trek. The Lich King smiled, pointing. Just ahead, the fissure opened up to the overcast Northrend sky.
"What a blessed sight!" Tirion enthused.
"Now I know where we are," Arthas said, gesturing to an ice-covered flight of stairs to their right; it wound steeply up into frigid darkness.
Oh my, Tirion thought uneasily, that's one misstep away from 'Goodbye, Light', to a quick conscription into a certain someone's undead cavalcade...
"I used to sneak down here to catch a break from all the ceaseless adulation and grab a quick smoke," Arthas was saying as he stepped to the edge of the ice shelf where they presently stood. They had emerged on the southern face of Icecrown.
Here, from this vantage point, and buffeted by the perpetual, keening wind that scoured the side of the massive glacier, the two men silently pondered the ice fields far below.
Shortly, the Lich King gestured into the distance. "Not to judge your stratagem, Tirion, but that haul-ass retreat seems rather at odds with your purpose," he paused to observe his dwindling opposition. "Shit, look at them go."
Heaving a melancholy sigh, his eyes wistful and forlorn, the Highlord watched his troops rush madly towards the tournament grounds, their Argent tabards glowing in the silvery, cloud-filtered sunlight, their bright standards snapping in the icy wind. Not one glance back did they afford him, he noted.
Arthas tilted his head, "Well, come along, Fordring," he urged, "I will not forsake you..." With a wicked smile, he turned away, striding down the slippery path with confident grace. Tirion, not caring to become intimate with the howling, wind-filled void beyond the jagged precipice, followed at a more sedate pace.
"This way to the Frozen Throne," the Lich King proclaimed.
xxx
"I can only imagine how anticlimactic that was for everyone," Tirion muttered despondently when they reached the summit, finding the platform completely deserted. Together, they peered down into the crevasse that had engulfed them earlier.
"Damn, they didn't even take a minute to toss down a rope for you," Arthas commented, "That has to hurt." He glanced at his companion sidelong, "And after all you've done for them too, like marching them here to this frozen meat grinder to be brutally massacred and gobbled up by an unending ocean of... oh, wait." He cackled softly.
"Humph," snorted the Argent commander, "I didn't see your devoted minions making a human chain to pluck you from the ice, either!"
Arthas pointed to his Helm; it still lay where it had fallen after tumbling from his head. "I lost my mojo. What's your excuse?"
Tirion scowled, refusing to reply; he glanced around. Little remained of their final, epic battle—only footprints, a few puddles of blood, fragments of ruined armor, and what seemed to the Highlord an inordinate number of urine signatures, all slowly freezing into perpetuity.
The Ashbringer was nowhere to be seen, Tirion then observed, glumly resigned. Faithless blade, he thought. It always preferred Darion...
Arthas, he saw, had strolled over to the scattered remnants of Frostmourne. He nudged them with his toe and then stooped to lift a few pieces for closer inspection. The ghostly vestige of a freed soul buzzed angrily around his head, until Arthas absently swatted it off the platform, sending it screeching to its eternal reward.
"Oh shit," he muttered then, with surprised look and a faint grimace, "Sorry, Dad."
"I do apologize for your sword, Arthas," Tirion said, crossing to where the King stood, pondering the once-beautiful, now irrevocably shattered Frostmourne. "But I was just improvising, you know. I really had no clue as to what might happen. It's so rare for my prayers to actually be answered."
Arthas shrugged, tossing the metal fragments, one by one, into the crevasse before him, "Not a problem, Tirion," he said, brushing off his hands. "The damned thing never shut up—always hungry, always bitching about it." He bent to retrieve the Helm of Domination.
"Tirion!" Bolvar Fordragon suddenly thundered from the Frozen Throne.
Arthas inclined his head towards the imposing figure at the top of the snowy steps. "Duty calls," he said with a smirk.
"Tirion Fordring!"
"Oh, Light," the Highlord groaned, pressing one palm to his knitted brow.
Arthas laughed, "Well, don't let me keep you."
"Yes, back to herding the righteous, I suppose," Tirion said with a weary sigh; he glanced at his companion, "But what about you, Arthas?"
The erstwhile Lich King mused thoughtfully, rolling the Helm between his hands before passing it to Tirion. "Don't you think I'm a little overdue for some me-time?" The Highlord had to admit that was probably true. Arthas paused, debating for a moment before adding, "And say, see if you can get Jaina to go on a date once in a while, would you? That woman desperately needs to get laid."
Tirion nodded gravely, and then the two men exchanged a brisk handshake. "It just won't be the same without you, Arthas," the great paladin remarked. "You will always be the One, True King."
"Yes," Arthas said, with a sly, amused grin. "And I predict before long you won't be the only one saying that."