Ethriel was in two minds about the timely rescue: on the one hand he was glad to be alive, but on the other there was no way that any of this could have gone worse. He considered the long stream of bad decisions he'd made as he trudged along the increasingly wild path and kicked the scattered small stones in frustration. It earned him a questioning look from Belarion ahead as they skittered past. "Are you okay?"

He simply pulled a childish face in response. That was after all, what this whole endeavour looked to be by now. Childish. Not only had he been so predictable that Kaelwyn had been able to send someone after him, but he was so incompetent that he couldn't even run away properly. It was shameful and embarrassing, not to mention the insane level of criticism he'd get for it back at the Academy. Not just from the masters of course – from his peers. Yes, he could see it now, in one of their regular "progress" meetings. In an open-air pavilion, they would be in a circle discussing what they could do "for the good of the Sin'dorei" and denouncing all that did not aim for that goal.

While he had run mostly from the burdens of responsibility shoved unceremoniously upon him constantly, it would still be viewed negatively by Blood Elf society as a whole. It would have been different if he were a young adventurer – people went out without formal training and killed themselves stupidly within weeks all the time. Eversong Woods was littered with corpses of wayward questers, of which he had almost become one. He was held to a different standard though with his formal training and status: it was ungrateful to the state to shun that. In the current climate, that effectively meant unforgivable. Perhaps he'd even be branded as a Blue, light forbid.

In the sky, the sun was slowly dipping towards the horizon, with only a handful of hours left before nightfall. A few ominous thunderclouds were coalescing in the eastern sky, and he could only hope that they reached an inn before they were forced to stop by torrential spring storms. Not that there were any other seasons in Quel'thalas. The Great Springtime Enchantment milennia ago had frozen it in flowery lively joy ad nauseam. One of the greatest feats of their people, that was the focus of a lot of study itself: the type and form of the magic was long lost to their people. Hopelessly he peered at the shape of the land obscured by the golden canopy, hoping to discern where exactly they were. Other than the ocean in the distance, he saw but a few lonely dragonhawks floating on the updrafts. It betrayed nothing. After much argument, Belarion had insisted they go this way, citing some sort of alleged shortcut. So far, as far as Ethriel could tell they'd been traipsing around fairly mountainous terrain without actually making much progress towards Sunstrider at all.

"I still think we should find our way back to the main road." He began again. They'd had this disagreement about a dozen times to no avail. It was no good either pointing out that he grew up in the forest, as while he got flashes of instinct, the recollection was lost to him. While he could easily bluff, those amaranthine eyes seemed almost to read his mind.

"Mr. Dawnstar, you are perhaps the most stubborn person I have ever met." Belarion stopped and turned to him with a rogue smirk, leaning casually against a tree trunk. Ethriel felt an involuntary blush rise to his cheeks and scowled. He was making fun of him, again. It was bad enough that his incompetency was highlighted by the mana wyrm incident, he did not particularly enjoy having it shoved in his face continually. Several times now, the dark-haired priest had turned just to make him uncomfortable in that enigmatic stare. Saying nothing, Belarion surveyed the landscape critically.

"We're lost, aren't we?" It was blunt.

"Of course not. I'm just trying to work out where we are." Belarion replied, and lifted a hand to his brow to block the sunlight. "Though we're not going to make it to an inn tonight, I'm afraid."

"You don't know where we are, and we're nowhere near civilisation. That makes us lost."

"We are not!" He raised a finger to point west at the pinkening sky. "That way is Sunsail Anchorage. We'll reach it tomorrow morning."

"SUNSAIL ANCHORAGE?" Ethriel roared suddenly, snapping. The blush in his face transformed into scarlet rage. "But we haven't moved North at all then! This is some sort of a wild treant chase! There's not even any towns along the Sea Path towards Sunstrider there - this is the worst!"

Exasperated, he put his hands on his hips, oblivious as to how ridiculous it looked. This was utterly ridiculous! Sure, the man had saved him from death, but he would have been much better off overall alone. They had made no progress towards this alleged safety at all. Belarion had the audacity to press the tips of his fingers to his temples and mutter to himself through the tirade. "Oh so YOU'RE the one losing patience with ME?" Is that how it is? This is outrageous! I am grateful for your assistance before but this is just not good enough!"

"Oh light, give me strength." Belarion muttered. Ethriel's face created a previously unknown shade of red.

"Light give me strength! There isn't even a Tallstrider roost or dragonhawk master there! Do you just expect us to trundle along the coast and die of the chills from the rain the rest of our trip? Before we get anywhere close to back?!"

The silence between them blossomed immensely, so that when Belarion spoke evenly and clearly, it was particularly poignant. "Anchorage."

"I know what it's called!" He raged.

"Do you know why it's called that?"

"Well obviously. It's a harbour."

"Exactly." The pieces suddenly clicked and he felt dizzy from the surge of regret. A ship. They would take a ship from Sunsail Anchorage to Sunstrider Isle. One sailed every other day – it was probably how Belarion had gotten to him so quickly in the first place. Graciously, there was no riposte to his outburst, but a deferential nod in the direction of the sea.

"Well I don't have enough gold for passage." Ethriel tried to give relevance to his spiel, but instinctively knew it was useless. Master Kaelwyn was shrewd – he'd probably booked the passage here for Belarion and back for them both personally. He wouldn't need to pay a copper, though with a little pat to his purse, he probably couldn't have even afforded that.

Belarion gave him a sympathetic look from down the path that knew all. Ethriels suspicions of mental violation were all but proven when he then spoke. "Don't worry about it so much. Do you think you're the first young Sin'dorei to try to run?"

"It's wasteful, and unpatriotic." Ethriel recited, though he wasn't sure if he truly believed it. "It is my duty to the people to respect my responsibilities to them."

"Ana'ralah belore." Belarion said in a mocking tone. "Justice for our people... I sometimes wonder where the justice is for the actual people."

Ethriel was absolutely shocked, and stopped to gape in disbelief. "That's heresy."

"That's treason actually." He corrected amiably.

"If anyone heard you speak like that-"

"Then I'd repeat it to them just to ensure they heard correctly."

Ethriel's lips moved, but no sound came out. It was forbidden to speak that way. Not only was it socially unacceptable – anyone who did quickly went the way of the exiled High Elves – but depending on severity, such counterrevolutionary ideas were punishable by death. The Sin'dorei government had the best interests of their continued culture at heart, and it was not their place to question it. Every ounce of effort must be directed towards clarity of purpose: the purpose of rebuilding their reputation on Azeroth, "Higher than Teldrassil itself!" Their distant cousins' prosperity was a particular sore point and focus for competition. He found himself gripped by a strange combination of terror and admiration as he looked on at Belarion trundling carefully down the path ahead of him. To voice his discontent so openly, he was either in a position of great power with little to fear, or stupid and reckless. He imagined it was the latter. Either way, he found himself wanting to know more.

"What's your background?" Ethriel questioned, trying to make it sound as innocuous as possible. In centuries past such a question would have been considered quite rude, but many things about their culture seemed to be changing rapidly. In a world where they'd lost most, the Sin'dorei seemed to cling to their defining social hierarchy. This new system told not only of social status, but of the crucial factor in modern society: adherence and loyalty to the Blood Elf cause. It was a common question, and everyone who was respectable had their equally common answer rehearsed. That didn't stop it being a difficult one.

"Fel Green." Ethriel couldn't hide the visible cringe. It was one step away from outcast, the "Blue" Quel'dorei loyalists and class enemies. Any family without full devotion to the movement were suspect. Belarion looked suitably awkward as he explained further. "My father was a Magister in the Old Aristocracy and served under Kael'thas."

Regardless of previous transgressions, it told him that his family was one of power, much in contrast to his own. "And since... are they?"

Belarion sighed, but kept his eyes fixated on his wandering boots as he replied. "My father - we haven't seen him in many summers."

Ethriel pushed a pang of jealousy to the back of his mind. "Go on..."

"During the invasion we were on our estate. Many serving staff died in defense, but my family survived. My mother has since become obsessed with proving our loyalty."

It was a familiar story, the disgraced aristocrats, throwing their entire fortunes into showing the Sin'dorei their devotion to the cause. Children forced into training, and pressured to uphold or recreate the family legacy. "That must suck." Ethriel said softly, though it was little comfort.

"It does, yeah. How about you?"

His heart started beating quickly in his chest, and his breathing became ragged. No, he wouldn't panic, not here and not now. It took huge effort to smooth himself out and stop his voice from breaking. "Forest green." He spoke with a joviality that he didn't feel.

Belarion's head straightened up. "Well that's not so bad."

"They were rangers in Tranquilien."

Belarion was silent for a few moments, letting the implication set in, reflecting on the nerve he'd struck. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you, but it changes nothing." The venom in his own voice surprised him. It was common knowledge that most families from the area had been slaughtered and most resurrected as undead in the invasion. For him, the trauma had been so great that before waking up in the field hospital, he remembered nothing of his life. Sure, he knew that he had once had three sisters and parents, but all memory of them was gone. So he found it strange that so much feeling could come from the reminder. "I apologise, Belarion."

"No need." It was matter of factly, but the guilt was obvious in his tone. "Are they still...?"

"I don't know. I can't remember them."

Belarion momentarily stopped walking to give him a sympathetic look. "I can't even imagine..."

"As I said, thank you. I'd rather not discuss it further." He tried to push some imperious confidence into the words, but failed miserably.

They walked in contemplative silence for a while as the sky slowly turned darker. In the west, the evening star suddenly flared into existence on the pink horizon, burning with the anguish of their people. Each stopped for a moment to admire it, until Belarion spoke.

"It's getting colder. We should try to reach that clearing down there." He pointed at the small break in the treeline down the hill. Ethriel didn't reply, but he had no rebuttal to the reasoning. Later, as the first real stars began to show, they set themselves up to make camp under a small outcropping of mossy rocks. It could barely be called a cave, with just enough shelter from the incoming rain for two if they huddled closely. The ground here was covered in the typical Eversong golden leaves and tangles of weeds. Belarion eyed it distastefully. "Move back."

Ethriel retreated a few strides. "Why?"

"Sanctus novus." Belarion commanded. It was a common utility spell that he himself hadn't mastered yet, but he'd never seen it used for this before. A flash temporarily lit up the twilight forest, and a shockwave of light rushed out from the priest, clearing the space of all vegetation, leaving the hard earth beneath. At the edge of its range, a few small animals went scurrying off from their hidden dens, but otherwise it bore no resemblance to the devastation of the holy fire he'd wielded earlier.

"Useful."

"Indeed." Belarion nonchalantly popped himself down and began raking through his small travel bag absently. After a few moments he proffered a large copper pot from it much to Ethriel's shock. It was quite large – much larger than the bag itself seemed to be. How on Azeroth? Belarion interrupted his confusion. "Can you get us some water from the stream back there for tea? I have some bloodthistle here."

He was instantly beaming. Bloodthistle! Thank the light – his own supply had run out. Ethriel obeyed enthusiastically, but mentally sieved through common enchantments for something that might account for the bag's paradoxical size. At the back of his mind, something told him he should know, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He soon found the stream, and kneeled down by its bank. In the cool rushing water he cupped his hands and splashed his face, making sure to clean off some of the detritus from his ill-fated adventures. A surprising amount of dried blood and dirt washed away. In the fading light, he looked down at his palm and the white blemish there once the caked mud was removed. In vain he scrubbed at it with his fingers, hoping it would wash off to no avail. It felt warm and sensitive, like a burn, but the mixture of cool air and icy water were soothing.

He'd almost forgotten it during the afternoon. Upon closer inspection, it looked like a circle, but the edges were more ragged. In a way, it was like a many-sided, uneven star. A few seconds told him trying to count the spokes was futile – there were too many. They seemed as fine as the grain of his skin itself. It almost looked like the sun, or an artistic interpretation of it. Beautiful or not, it was a mar to perfection and made him feel uneasy. Shaking dry, he reached into his cloak and took out some gloves to cover it. He'd rather not think about that just now.

When he got back to the campsite, he realised how long he'd been down at the stream lost in thought. In the centre of the little sheltered area, Belarion had dug out a small pit for a fire, though his immaculately clean hands did not betray how, and through whatever strange sorcery that bag held, a variety of thick blankets to protect against the increasing chill. Ethriel felt grateful for them as the first breaths of night made him shiver.

He put the kettle down next to Belarion, who was fussing over a set of strange-patterned marble spheres. There were five of them in varying sizes. He popped down upon what felt like the softest fabric that he'd ever known and eyed them suspiciously. "What are those?"

There was no answer, but he carefully arranged them in the shallow depression he'd made for the fire. "What are you do-" He was cut off as the priest snapped his fingers and the stones burst into a pure white, smokeless flame. "Wow..."

"Wow indeed."

"Is that... transmutation magic? Fire magic?"

Belarion looked at him wearily. "You really aren't too bright are you?" Ethriel puffed himself up, ready for another indignant speech, before he was defused with a smirk. "They're sunstones."

The name struck a chord, but he couldn't quite place it. He glared at the stones, as if willing the memory to materialise.

"They are enchanted by a mage both skilled in fire and earth magics to create portable and clean fire for any occasion. They will even burn in a storm."

As if to prove his point, thunder struck somewhere in the distance with a flash. Underneath the outcropping as they were, they were spared from the rain that began to pound. Ethriel shuffled further underneath their natural shelter into the narrow protection from the elements. "Well that's quite convenient. Where did you get them?"

"My mother bought them for me on last Summer Solstice." he replied uneasily.

"Well they're very convenient." Ethriel offered. He gazed at the mesmerising flames and the patterns they made as Belarion boiled the kettle and crumbled some bloodthistle into the water. In the steam the bitter tang of the herb filled the air. It was warming and electrifying at the same time – he couldn't wait. Suddenly all the troubles in the world melted away, and he desired nothing more than to drink it. "My own supply ran out."

"I know." The dark-haired elf smirked. "You've been in the worst mood all day. Someone has a bit of a habit."

Ethriel bit his tongue hard out of spite. He was correct of course – he'd developed quite the taste for it. In a tea, in a pipe or even chewed despite the disgusting taste, Bloodthistle was his island of calm in the storm of life. Every elf struggled with addiction; they lived in the constant urge to use and devour magic, chasing that euphoric moment where everything else fell away to the ecstasy of power. The herb was like that, but weaker, and definitely helped him to forget what he had... well forgotten? When he panicked, it was there and helped. When he was down it was there and it helped. When he was tired, it was there and it helped. The only thing he didn't enjoy was the stress of when it ran dry. It took special effort to act as if the comment was baseless, though he didn't manage to tear his eyes from the boiling water.

"It will be a cold night." Belarion observed hesitantly as he passed a cup of tea. "The tea will help, but we have not enough blankets for two to stay warm... nor the space."

He ignored the problem as sipped generously from the steaming liquid. Eyes drooped as the warmth spread through his body. Glorious. It was a tingling across his skin and a blossoming heaviness in his chest. He blearily eyed the sheets of rain falling at the edge of their little shelter. It didn't matter really. "Oh well..."

There was something important in that, he knew it. A poster in the dilapidated Silvermoon Bazaar read "man and man don't increase the population" or something equally inane as that. Yes, it was the new taboo that had everyone flustered – to stay warm they were going to have to huddle up out here. If anyone knew he'd get criticised for that too. In decades past it was something the elves wouldn't have thought twice about – but now? Now anything that didn't directly promote population growth was taboo. Any other time he would probably have made an issue of it, but right now he didn't particularly care. Instead, he basked in the glow of the flames and the bloodthistle.

Belarion gave him a concerned look, but shook his head and shuffled up closer. They were both sitting with their backs against the stone, using up most of the space in this tiny refuge. "It would be improper for us to lie together." He asserted.

"Yes, yes..." Ethriel agreed dreamily. It wasn't like that, besides, he just wanted to sleep, and his eyes were already heavy. He picked up the blankets and covered them both with the fabric. It felt silken against his skin. Carelessly, he tossed the cup to the ground and leaned his head on Belarion's shoulder, curling himself up comfortably. This was all lovely, and warm and amazing. Why had he been so upset about it earlier anyway?

"Good night, Belarion."

But he was already fast asleep against the rock too, the cup of bloodthistle tea spilling from his hand. A part of him wanted to rescue it and drink it too, but half way into the innocuous reaching he passed out as well.