He purposefully visited the dead scar. Standing on its bank he peered into the death below, tracing the old bones and barren earth to the other side, and finally across to more golden forest. He stared into its soil, into the empty eyes of a slain ghoul's skull; a silly attempt to divine some answers to questions he couldn't articulate. He bent down and touched the dead earth. A superstition had grown recently that even breathing the air around the scar, let alone touching it, was dangerous. He smiled to himself as he made contact with the unnaturally cold ground.

Not the precision with which he would customarily collect a sample, with his bare hands he grabbed soil and let it fall into a small glass vial he had with him. The last light of day shone on the horizon, but it was dark on the ground, especially under the cover of trees. He walked swiftly through the brush in the opposite direction from his home, back toward the city.

He would not be able to test this hypothesis unaided; perhaps in days past he'd have found a means to simulate the effect he was looking for, but not now. Now, he needed the magic cast from a living soul, one who dedicated his life to it. One such elf came to mind, and dismissing the late hour, he made way with single purpose to see his old acquaintance, the elf to whom he once looked for spiritual guidance, and now so again it seemed.

Eversong Woods did not sleep. Creatures of the night roamed and called, whether beast or elf. Points of light flitted from behind trees. Swift feet bore some unknown creature through the rustling underbrush. The black silhouette of Silvermoon's spires and walls rose against the starlit sky. His destination was before him. He peered through the window and he was pleased to find a glimmer of light still shining in the darkness. He rapped on the wooden door of the humble structure, but only silence came from within. The small light was still. He would not be deterred this night. He knocked again. After some time, the door opened and in the darkness he saw the silhouette of a hooded being. The being brought no illumination to see, and Tenemire had travelled in the darkness aided by moonlight.

"Who is it?"

"It's Tenemire. Is that..."

"What?" The being was unnerved beneath his hood. "Tenemire? Why are you here? Are you ok?" He spoke in a whisper.

"Yes, yes. I didn't mean to alarm you, but I do need your help, and I... couldn't wait."

"Come in." The hut, apart from embers in the fireplace and the single candle on a bare table, was scarce to the point of appearing to have been abandoned. "Can I get you anything? A drink?"

"No. That's alright." Tenemire stood and waited for his friend to take his hood off, so that they may sit and accomplish his task.

"I... haven't been out lately."

"No, I've been at magisters' terrace caught up in... silly business." He thought he heard his friend swallow from beneath the hood. "Are you ok?"

"Yes, I just haven't taken visitors in some time."

"Oh... any reason?"

"Trying some spellwork that requires isolation."

"Oh, I see." Tenemire looked at the window, the blackness seemed to seep into the dwelling, fought off only by the single flame.

"I'm sorry, Tenemire, I don't know what to do."

"I do think perhaps something is bothering you." His friend sat now, his hood cast down. His hood and cloak were a rough, brown fabric. "Come now, Ponaris. We can talk, can't we?"

"You were different then, weren't you..." His voice was rough and tired. He lifted his hood and looked up at Tenemire. They were quiet for a moment.

"Ponaris, is that what this is about?" The priest remained silent. "So you powered some spells with those crystals, what of it? You need a reliable source of magic for your work. We learn to adapt."

"You think that's all it is?" Ponaris said darkly.

"What?"

"You think we look like this because we've used the crystals for some silly spells?"

"I did think so..."

"I can't do this to you. I've kept myself here away, but I see now that's not enough, I must leave Quel'Thalas."

"What? If you are so guilty, then nearly all the elves are so too."

"We are all guilty!"

"The Light... is merciful." Tenemire was weighing his words carefully now.

"The Light." He looked at his hands.

"The Light is what brought me here. I... would like to know if it can be the answer I seek."

"I cannot help you."

"This is beyond myself, though. Take a moment, put aside this burden, and we can work together."

"I say I cannot. I'd give the lives of all the elves to amend this, but I can't."

"You mean..."

"I cannot touch the Light, I cannot commune with it or hear it... or channel it. We can have only one master... and I've chosen mine. I've broken myself in two, Tenemire, and yet I cannot die. Gods, let it end..." He broke into tears and fell onto his knees on the floor of the shack in the woods at the foot of Silvermoon's wall. Tenemire, not knowing what to do, and consciously controlling his own breaths, cradled Ponaris' head in his lap where it had landed. The fallen priest wept. Tenemire's last light in the woods had gone out. He was alone now, directionless, like in a vast cavern, any movement consuming the body's finite energy, grasping in circles insignificant in the scope of the emptiness which surrounded him.

He walked through the door into his dwelling. Streams of moonlight made their way in, casting beams through clouds of dust. He had spent too long staring blankly at empty pages in the lofty space of his chamber at the magisters' terrace, reading idle curiosities. He had spent days of time in his small bed in the chamber. He watched as morning sun spun into midday, then afternoon sun, before dying in emberlight, not stirring from the bed. Anything else he would do, had to be better than that.

The moon's zenith had come, with wind and the stirrings of forest creatures. He disrobed, removing all his garments. He took an old, unopened bottle from a cupboard long since disturbed, and went outside. He forced his body to obey his will, to stand in the night forest and bathe in its hushed darkness. He sat on the ground beneath a great tree, his body reflecting the ghostly pallor of the moon. He drank from the bottle in mouthfuls of its burning contents until the silhouettes of tree canopies overhead began to spin. He slid his feet forward, digging his toes into the moist earth like they were the roots of some sapling tree. He abandoned himself to the forest that night and with each misgiving, each anxiety, each instinct of his civilised mind which urged him to find the warmth of the fire in his home, to cover his naked body for shame and danger, he tossed his head back and filled his mouth again from the bottle and swallowed forcefully. From the grimace of his burning mouth, a grin of derision spread on his face. Shame and danger be damned. His body be damned. The elves be damned. The forest be damned. "Come then, and do what you will!" he called out to the trees. He stood and spread his arms and spun beneath the limbs and leaves. He lifted the bottle once more, emptied the contents into his mouth, welcomed their spirit into his soul, and smashed the bottle against a tree's trunk. The world spun around him seemingly of its own accord, and he released himself to the whims of nature. He did not feel his body hit the forest floor.