A/N: This story will take place in the Era of MoP. The last time I played was in fact the end of WoD, so some of the newer changes and storylines are alien to me. It's just for a bit of fun, and any changes/similarities that are or are or are not represented from current content are purely coincidental. Also, I own nothing, not even the computer that I type this on, so no suing plz.

If you enjoy please press all the buttons and comment or whatever to give me some encouragement :)

Ethriel Dawnstar was going to die, and it was all because of his own idiocy. He sprinted as fast as his screaming legs would carry him through the dense forest, desperately leaping over fallen trees and dodging errant branches. While he barely dared to risk a glance behind him - lest he fall, and then he would die immediately - he could hear the angry buzzing of a swarm of mana wyrms in pursuit. All he'd wanted was a little pick-me-up after his bloodthistle ran out. There was nothing wrong with wanting a little magical morsel; everybody did it. In perfect hindsight, he reflected that of course he should have known better. He should have known better than to let himself become powerless over his urges, and known better than to pick the target that he did. At the time, they'd seemed convenient, but in his mindless desire, he had forgotten that these were not the tame creatures he often picked off on Sunstrider Isle. Now those would completely ignore you, even if you sucked on every last one. Out here he hadn't even attempted that – just a tiny mana tap from old and gnarled looking one. He could argue that he was doing them a favour by removing it from their midst. They didn't seem to think so, however, as they had instantly turned furiously on him. It was stupid. He was stupid, and he was going to die because of it.

Their droning suddenly grew impossibly loud; in his mind's eye, it sounded like bees the size of dragonhawks. He managed to steal a quick glimpse while he deftly swung a corner around a stump. They were extremely close, Oh Light. There was nothing he could conceivably do about it now. Between ragged breaths, he let out an anguished snarl at the irony. It was ironic: the very creatures he had spent most of his life siphoning and draining of magic, would now consume him. All of him, until he was a dusty, rotting corpse out here in the middle of nowhere for nobody to find him. Ethriel wasn't even sure if anyone knew he was out here. Generally, that was ideal when you were running away from your responsibilities like any old adolescent, but now he kind of wished he'd left some clues as to where he headed back home. Master Kaelwyn would have understood and come for him, or so he hoped. He laughed humourlessly - what a fate to befall a Sin'dorei!

No, that is unacceptable. It was the dark corner of his mind that spoke to him: the Ethriel Dawnstar that he used to be. The Ethriel Dawnstar from before the scourge invasion, when he had lost all his memories. It fought the hopeless resignation. It wasn't just not seemly for one of the Sin'dorei to die that way; he must survive at all costs. There was an instantaneous boost of confidence and vigour. On the back of his tongue, he could almost taste the determination of someone he had forgotten. All was not lost: there was still hope.

For what felt like the hundredth time, he slowed, all too aware of the closing gap, to grasp mentally for some magic. Instantly, the subtle warmth of light washed over him, spreading to every inch of his body. He fought the urge to bask in its radiance - there was no time for that just now. With a single-minded purpose, he gathered the sum of all his fear and projected it into a psychic scream all around. Another glance revealed his pyrrhic victory: only a handful of the wyrms veered off in terror, the rest were immune by now. Oh Light.

Ethriel bolted once more through the treacherous twists and turns of the trail. It took only a few seconds distraction for the worst to happen - he tripped on a fallen log and fell face-first into the mossy ground. He winced as a sharp twig left a scrape on his pointed ear, the warm trickling of blood ran down the side of his face. In a last ditch effort, he seized as much light of the remaining light as he could from around him, and deftly cast one of the few spells he knew well.

"IMPERIUM AEGIS!"

He screamed the words of power with as much effort as he could, feeling the shiver of holy magic ripple through him. There was a familiar tug in his chest as his soul blossomed to meet the command, and shield his body. At the time, he was sure it was the most potent he'd ever cast, but it weakened significantly, even as he flipped himself around to face the assailants. His heart sank at the realisation it wouldn't buy him much time at all. Through the opaque barrier, he looked on in horror as the eel-like, luminous bodies threw themselves against it. Each impact diminished the barrier noticeably. As the final threads dissipated, leaving him open to death, he closed his eyes, and waited for the end. Oh, Light.

"IMPERIUM AEGIS!"

He felt more than heard the repeated cast, and opened his eyes in shock. Had he imagined it? It certainly hadn't been his voice. A few paces down the path, another elf stood confidently, with a great number of the creatures turning their attentions to him. He looked around the same age, but then again, amongst the more long-lived elves, appearance was deceiving. His skin was unusually pale, and his hair as black as midnight. The glowing eyes that peered out from under the billowing silk hood were not the familiar fel green, nor the pale white of a dirt-elf, but a deep violet. From the cut, and colour of his robes, it was clear he was a fellow priest, though with such an ambiguous racial appearance, of which elven race he was unsure. It occurred to him that in this situation, Wretched could not be choosers. With a raised palm, it called the light once more. "SANCTUS IGNIS!"

Ethriel knew the energy from the words, but found himself unsure of their meaning. As if in answer, a vast pillar of flames shot down from the sky. Holy fire - one of the most powerful and destructive forms of sacred magic. He scrambled desperately backwards, hoping to avoid the coming devastation, but it was too fast. As they fell around him, he recoiled and expected to watch in horror as the heat sloughed the flesh from his bones. Instead, the spell glanced around the shield, leaving him unharmed. The cloud of mana wyrms were mostly vaporised, alongside a wide circle of forest. He heard a few casts of "Percutite!" to finish of stragglers, and as rapidly as it had begun, it ended.

Through the smoke and burning remains of vegetation, his saviour strode forward and extended a helping hand. At Ethriel's moment of hesitation, he only smiled. "Anu belore dela'na, my friend." Perfect Thalassian.

He breathed a sigh of relief and accepted the palm, but the moment their skin met, a great jolt of magic surged painfully through their arms. It at once felt like fire and ice as it shot through flesh. Ethriel gave a surprised yelp and let go, falling back to the earth with a painful bump.

"What did you do?" Ethriel demanded, clutching the limb to his chest.

"I did nothing." The stranger replied uncertainly, and examined his own hand, then let out a cry of his own. "Ahh! Look!"

They both peered at the golden skin, now marred with a white circle that shone like a scar where they had touched. Tentatively, Ethriel unfolded his own hand which to his dismay displayed a matching blemish.

"What is it?" He remarked.

"I have no idea..."

The dark haired elf looked vacantly at the matching marks. For a moment, his lips moved as if to speak, but he then bit his cheek as if to silence himself. Instead, he proferred his other arm. "I don't want it to happen again."

"I doubt it will." Oh I bet you know it won't, Ethriel thought sourly. There was a hint of knowing in the priest's tone; he'd have to wrangle what it was out of him.

"Well, to be sure." He struggled to his feet, hissing as the defaced skin prickled sensitively against everything. Finally, when he had managed to regain some modicum of composure, he met those strange violet eyes. "May I know the name of my rescuer?"

"Of course." The priest bowed unusually deeply, and powerful muscles rippled beneath the robe's fabric; it was clear he was not only a scholar, but a battle priest. "My name is Belarion." As he spoke, the purple glow flashed enigmatically.

"My thanks to you, Belarion." He stumbled through the words in embarrassment as the whole situation finally clicked in his mind. He would have died without this assistance. All of it was excruciatingly embarrassing. He tried in vain to regain some confidence, regardless of his scarlet cheeks. He would act the part of wandering adventurer – they got into scrapes all the time. "I am in your debt, and may grant you a boon, though for now I must continue on my quest."

Belarion eyed him with some amusement. "I think that for now, your quest is over - I shall escort you back to Sunstrider isle."

Ethriel's eyes opened wider - who was he to be deciding such for him? Besides, he couldn't turn back now. "That will not be necessary - I have business in Fairbreeze Village to attend to."

They paused at the awkward conflict, but when Belarion spoke, it was with authority. "It is clear from what has transpired, that in terms of the enclave, I am your superior." Ethriel narrowed his eyes suspiciously: this sounded rehearsed. "I must therefore insist that we return to safety, for clearly you are not yet capable of completing this... quest... of yours in one piece." Glints of knowing showed in his eyes. Those strange, enchanting eyes felt almost like they saw into his soul. "I am not asking when I say I will accompany you back to the Academy, to Master Kaelwyn."

Damnit! "He sent you." It all clicked in his mind. Everything about this was simply too convenient. "He sent you to find me, didn't he?"

The laugh Belarion let out echoed clearly throughout the newly burned clearing. "You are correct, Ethriel Dawnstar." Without any more words to the shocked look, he turned and set off down the long back to Silvermoon. Reluctantly, Ethriel dusted some of the charred leaves from his apprentice robe, and followed morosely.

"Yes, sir."

"Belarion will do."

"Yes, Belarion."

"Excellent." Master Kaelwyn muttered to himself. "Just as I had hoped."

He had known, of course that the disenchanted student would attempt to run. Indeed he had also known to where, and who to send after him. He was Master Kaelwyn, Honoured Elder of the Clave: he knew everything. Or rather, he cultivated the image of such. With an expert flick of his wrist, the crystal scrying orb went blank, images of the two students vanishing. Despite his aching bones, he picked the heavy ball up and shuffled across the room to stow it away. His body ached and groaned with every movement today – he wasn't as young as he used to be. When had he gotten so old? Hazy memories of youth from centuries past lingered on the edge of his mind. He knew a moment's jealousy for the two elflings, but quickly pushed it aside. Envy was a lowly emotion. Besides, feelings were no longer his own – he owed them to his apprentices. He owed them his years of experience and wisdom. Every ounce of his being left must go to them, even if they were not yet ready.

Determinedly, he sat back at his desk and wrung his aching hands before picking up his quill. It was an old and simple one, but well made - much like most of the things he owned. It was so old indeed that the feather still bore the blue of when they had called themselves the High elves. He let himself chortle gently – such an apt name. They had all been high on the Sunwell back then. Around his chamber, a few objects accented the same hue. Unlike many of the Archmages he knew, Kaelwyn valued living simply. In fact, his chamber was sparsely decorated, even to his own standards. Often, his peers would visit and glance distastefully at the antiquated Quel'dorei memorabilia, and suggest some modern improvements. Sometimes, they even tried to implement them without permission. He rejected such ideas on principle. His personal space was just that – personal. There was no need for the opulent luxuries and conspicuous spending others seemed to value. The room was clean and minimal, just as he liked it; there was no time for useless trinkets in his ever shortening life.

Time. He was running out of time. One quick glance out of his window showed the glorious sun slowly falling on the horizon. Better begin while he could keep his eyes open. With practiced dexterity despite the pain, he dipped the quill and continued writing his blasphemous scrolls. He would have to ensure that the privacy enchantments were renewed upon the parchment from now on, lest unwanted eyes find them.