Chapter 16 The Second Path

The currents favored the Icebreaker as it traveled the sea between Menethil Harbor and Valiance Keep that crisp Autumn, seen as a good omen by the stout dwarf that lead the Alliance Expedition to Northrend.

Although not known for their seafaring ways, Skinflint the Dwarf was familiar enough with travel and sailing to have become accustomed to it. He even enjoyed the trips, not afraid of water and wetness, or getting sick as was common with members of his race. He even adopted many of the superstitions held by the sailors. His son, however, was not as adapted, and spent most of the week-long journey in his quarters, green in the face. Although Skinflint assessed correctly that there was more to his sickness than just physical aliment, there was little he could do. Cyrus stubbornly refused any treatments, particularly from Neiana. This stubbornness reminded her of his time in Winterspring; how he refused to take any of her precious potions to cure his hangover. This, of course, brought to mind a certain Blood Elf, which only increased her anticipation as they traveled North.

It wasn't until the last day of the trip that Cyrus was able to walk on the deck without a problem, but by then Neiana had lost all interest in him. She was also aware that there was something troubling him, but had decided that it had nothing to do with her. As they looked over the port bow to the looming shore, the five companions were filled with mixed emotions.

"It's been a fine trip, eh Denevell," Skinflint remarked. "It's a good omen, I wager."

"Indeed, if one considers such things, then we shall have a fortuitous expedition," Denevell agreed, placidly masking his own anticipation that had nothing to do with fortunes to be made.

As they entered the port, it became apparent that not everything would go as smoothly as they had hoped. For on the pier stood three female companions, instantly recognizable. It wasn't their presence that made them pause, it was the state of a very obviously pregnant Lorenna. Four of the Alliance companions immediately glanced at Cyrus, whose tanned face turned a distinct shade of white.

"By the Light!" he whispered. "And here I thought we had taken every precaution!"

"Now ye've done it! Ya boy shoulda listened ta my Geldie, but ya jest 'ad ta go on bein' a fool!" Skinflint roared.

But the ever practical Wigget had her own perspective.

"You aren't married. The law clearly states that all bastard children are the responsibility of their mother. You don't have to pay a cent. Just have Neiana Portal her to Stormwind."

Neiana nodded in agreement.

"That is true, Cyrus. She should have enough money saved from all her expeditions that you shouldn't have any financial obligations. It's her fault for not being careful, after all," she explained.

Cyrus did not speak, but rather gave her such a look of incredulity, that she became aware of her own hypocrisy and flushed pink.

After landing and a few muted greetings, Cyrus and Lorenna stood back and held a private conversation while the rest of the hung back, in a group.

"What 'appened ta that 'fl n' crazy gnome?" Skinflint asked Geldie.

"Ah they left as soon as they saw what we did," she replied derisively, gesturing to her belly.

"Are ya sure that 'e's tha father?" Skinflint asked.

"Tha timin' is right, I recon. But we'll see when it get' s 'ere."

Denevell had other concerns, and he voiced them.

"Now that there will be only two of you traveling, perhaps you can join us. Seven is not too great a number for a party."

"That's right," Daela agreed. "We could pool our resources together and it won't be so hard."

But the two dwarves, being completely clueless about love, disagreed. While they were talking, Neiana was taking in her surroundings. Although she had been to grander cities, Valiance Keep was still impressive. Its skyline was completely dominated with the keep, which was built in stout human fashion. Thick gray stone walls were held with wooden beams, topped with a glossy, blue tile roof. The pier was noisy with the hustle and bustle of new arrivals and goods, being sent to and from the newly connected southern continents. The pungent smell of fish mixed with sea and rum wafted to her with every breeze. There was something chilly about the wind, and crisp. It was dry sort of cold, one that she hadn't experienced in Winterpsring. She knew at once that her robes, as beautiful as they were, were insufficient for a prolonged stay.

Meanwhile, Cyrus was convening with Lorenna to the side.

"It reminds me of Theramore," he mused. "But colder..."

"Yes," Lorenna agreed. She seemed a little dejected, and quickly returned their conversation to the previous subject. "I should have listened to Geldie, I guess. But this isn't so bad. I was thinking of hanging up my spurs anyway. I miss Redridge Mountains. I have enough saved now that I can build a house by the lake, like I always wanted."

"Yes, and now with most of the Gnolls killed off and the Blackrock orcs are held at bay, it is relatively safe," he agreed.

"Listen, perhaps if you can, you may come visit," she offered cautiously.

Cyrus shrugged, before replying. "If it is financial assistance you require, I will not hesitate to give it once the child is born and I am satisfied that he is indeed mine. But as for marriage, that is out of the question. Love was never part of the equation between us. You have known that from the start."

She smiled weakly before replying.

"Although you did once."

"And you cured me of that pretty quickly," he retorted.

She sighed and nodded resolutely. Undoubtedly, there would be those who would talk once she reached Redridge Mountains, but there was little she could do.

"You have your revenge at last?" she asked snidely.

"Revenge? I am not bitter," he replied. "You helped me grow. If anything, I must thank you. I do think that you will do well with this child, regardless of whether or not it is mine."

After she left to Stormwind, taking her packs and her horses with her to an uncertain future, the group decided to meet at the Inn to decide on what to do. Once again, the elves suggested they join both groups. Neiana agreed. Everyone else, however, did not. Skinflint was the most adamant, claiming that the land was too harsh for such a large troop. Logistics were key, and it would be best to split up the group into two smaller ones. Cyrus immediately offered to go with Geldie. Wigget assumed she would be joining them, but Cyrus had other plans.

"You watch Neiana for me. Make sure she doesn't wander off on her own," he declared playfully.

"I can watch myself, thank you," Neiana replied with mock outrage.

"No yer not! Yer not saddlin' me wit' yer crazy gnome!" Skinflint roared, but to no avail, she was coming with them.

"As a proud member of the House of Spindleswift, you have my word of honor," she whispered back with a wink.

Although she'd toned down her claims to nobility around Skinflint, she still put on airs around Cyrus, which was an endless source of amusement.

So it was that Skinflint, Denevell, and Neiana traveled North and explored Borean Tundra, with Wigget joining them, much to Skinflint's annoyance. Cyrus and the two ladies went West, to Howling Fjord. They were to meet again in Dalaran in six months, with tales and gold, so it was hoped.

During their travels, Denevell noticed something the others did not. While on the road, her gaze was glued to the horizon. If ever they encountered a male blood elf, her eyes would become lit with hope for a brief moment before dulling with telling disappointment.

Three months after their arrival, they found themselves helping the unfortunate gnomes at Fizkrank Airstrip. Since their beds in the inn were much too small for them to use, they opted to make a small encampment at the outskirts, near the airstrip. Wigget decided she would spend her time in the Inn. Not that anyone minded, a little of gnome went a long way.

Danevell and Skinflint sat by the campfire. Two tents, one for Neiana and their things and the other was for them, were recently put up behind them. Their mounts were tied to wooden stakes between the two tents. Borean Muskrat on-a-stick was the menu.

The wind howled and roared, muffling the sounds of progress and wayward robots that came from the gnome encampment. The sun was at its last waning moments, and the two men were discussing the allocation of missions and loot.

"Why isn't Neiana here?" Denevell asked.

"She's sulkin' in 'er tent, as usual," Skinflint replied. "She 'asn't eaten all day, too. Neiana, lass! Git out 'ere, now!"

"I'm tired!" she yelled.

Skinflint sighed."Now lass, we're all tired. But we won't give ya anythin' if ya don't p'rticipate!"

"What about Wigget?" she asked.

"Wha' about 'er? She's at tha gnome village wit' 'er crazy kin!"

They heard her sigh from within and then the door of her tent opened, revealing a woman who clearly looked upset. Even Skinflint could tell she had been crying.

"Just split it even four ways. Why do men make everything so complicated?"

No one replied as they shifted awkwardly, unable to respond properly to her feelings.

"Well, it's all about allocating loot to whomever would use it best," Denevell explained.

"Then why did you need me for? I'm going to take a walk! I need some air! And don't you worry, I won't wander off far!"

The two watched with confusion as she left in a huff.

"What is wrong with her? Is it the time of her cycle?" Denevell asked, perplexed.

"She's got much ta learn, she does."

Denevell rose to his feet and morphed into a cat.

"That may be true, but she should be watched, in case she runs into trouble."

"Ya go see what be troublin' tha lass. No one does it betta than ye," Skinflint said with a sigh.

The cat disappeared.

Denevell found her sitting on a mound, not too far from everyone but in danger of being killed by any passing wild life or trampled up on by elephants. Did she have a shred of self-preservation left?

"He lied! That bastard! He lied. He used me. That bastard..." she whispered hoarsely.

He noticed that in her hands she clasped a green Malachite Pendant, which shone brightly in the waning sun. She seemed angry and strangely resolute.

"Who lied?" he asked, materializing beside her.

She turned to him, her face filled with embarrassment and shock.

"Denevell! I..."

"So, who was it that lied?" he prodded gently.

"The Blood Elf we ganked at Tuurem. I went back and tended his wounds. We kissed..." she explained derisively.

"Oh?"

"He said that Northrend was large enough so we could make a home here without worrying about being found, or judged. He promised that he would come for me before two months passed!"

"And what else?"

"And that...and that he loved ..."

She burst into tears.

Denevell sighed.

"This is for the best. Even if he came, like a white knight, to rescue you and help you find the home that you long for so dearly, do you really think it would work?"

"I had hoped."

"Hope does not change the fact that you will grow old while he remained young. Do you think it will not matter to you? To him?"

The words were harsh, but since it was a cute, furry, purple cat saying them, it soften the blow.

"And what of your children? Where would they belong?"

"I had hoped."

Fresh tears fell slowly. The word "hope" sounded so hollow.

"I guess hope is for fools," she declared as she squeezed pendant so tightly, it almost cut her hand. "Well, it seems I don't need this anymore."

As she was about to throw the Malachite Pendant away into the Tundra, Denevell's purple paw reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her.

"What are you doing, child?"

"I am throwin' this thin' away tha' 'e gave me," she replied, her accent giving away her anger and distress.

"Why?"

"'Cause 'e lied 'e did! N' I dunno want it!"

"Then this Sol, he was the elf you met in the banks of the river in Elwynn Forest?" Denevell asked poignantly.

She stood, frozen with shock that he would remember, giving her clarity.

"You remember? You figured it out? When?"

"Just now. That pendant is the same one I examined those years ago. I can tell by the workmanship. We elves are long-lived, and we never forget," Denevell replied.

She paused, considering those words.

"Does that mean that he never forgot me?"

"Hrm. Blood Elves are different. They are not like us, so I cannot say. However, I will advise you to use it to give another child hope, as he gave you hope all those years ago. Do not throw it away, but give it to a child who needs it," he advised.

"That's true. I...I should give this gift to someone else," she said with a sigh. She was a little annoyed by the prospect. It really grated how Denevell was so noble and reasonable, as she sorely wanted throw the pendant away, and have it trampled by a herd of elephants.

The matter now settled, as far as Denevell was concerned, he began to walk back to the camp.

"Now that we have all of this sorted out, we should go back. You need to apologize to your father. And be glad that you are not with child, or you would have to go back home like Lorenna," he said with a sniff, as she followed him back to camp.

Another three months passed, and during that time Neiana never gave up hope. Although she didn't show it, and was in every way a competent member of her team, she would scan the Horde parties they encountered, hoping that she'd find that one group she knew personally. Although Sol stood out to her the most, all the members were etched in her mind forever: the haughty female elf Lucilin; the brusque but relaxed Orc and his hideous spider, Guntag and GlubGlug; and finally, the odd and rather awkward Forsaken by the simple name of Bill.

One unusually sunny afternoon, while they were traveling along the Dragonblight, right at Wyrm Rest Temple, she thought she saw them pass by. One of the members, the Orc Hunter who traveled with a huge green spider, paused slightly and turned to her. There was a Forsaken Priest too, who seemed rather familiar with his slack jaw and awkward gait. For a breathless second, she thought that it was Guntag and Bill, and she felt her heart constrict painfully. But just as quickly as she felt her hope surge, it crashed, for in the group was also a large, black unfamiliar Tauren, and no Blood Elves, male or female. She sighed and quickly looked down, her heart now as cold as the bones that dotted the landscape.

She refused to cry, but even so, a few tears escaped and streaked across her reddened cheeks. Neiana was grateful for the large hood which covered her face, hiding her tears, and the cold, relentless wind. Still, she had to make sure they could not see, so she lowered her hood she as she followed Skinflint and Denevell into the large, foreboding tower of Wyrm Rest Temple.

Wigget, lagging a bit behind, saw everything. But her large green eyes saw something else: behind one of the large temple pillars stood a black-haired elf, examining them. His hair was a little longer, and his large hood covered most of his face, but the bright green eyes gleamed from within the shadow of his cowl were familiar. When their eyes met, she recognized the same proud, almost cruel stare that she'd noticed all those winters ago in Winterspring. He gave her a knowing, dismissive glance, before turning to join his party. Wigget, remembering her promise to Cyrus, said not a word.

As for Cyrus, he had a great time. It wasn't unusual for him to make friends at every encampment they met, regardless of faction. He even broke bread and drank the night away with a group of Orcs they ran into in the wild. They put some meat on the spit and danced till dawn, much to the women's chagrin.

Geldie noted with some contempt that he was every bit as bad as Lorenna, finding women in nearly every human Inn and encampment along the way. And just as she had warned her, she was now warning Cyrus about leaving a trail of bastards along the road to Dalaran. Cyrus only laughed at her concern, patting her shoulder as he told her not to worry. This time, he was being careful.

Daela, however, saw something like desperation in his behavior that was the marking of a man seeking forgetfulness. She tried to talk to him, but on this issue, he was silent. Not allowing anyone, not even her, into his thoughts.

Six months passed, and Geldie lead her group into Dalaran. The city was impressive. It's tall, ivory towers were tipped with blue, rounded domes. The white walls glistened gold in the waning light, shimmering and humming with magic that they could only feel faintly, like an afterthought. Its cobblestone streets were clean and well ordered, so they had no problems finding their way about. Neither did the throng of adventurers block their way. It seemed as though the city were a perfect marriage of the elven love of beauty, and stout human architecture.

Even though the city was far above the ground, a fact that Geldie found more than a little disconcerting, it was no colder than the surface and they experienced no shortage of breath. The atmosphere and temperature were perfectly controlled to reflect the conditions bellow. This, more so than the elevation, was what impressed the companions the most.

"We should head on to A Hero's Welcome," Daela said after they had seen their fill.

"True, as there is little 'ere in tha way o' trainin' or sellin'. I canno imagine livin' 'ere as a 'unter," Geldie said as she patted her huge wolf's fur.

But Cyrus had different ideas.

"Hrm. An Inn filled with nothing but Alliance sounds boring. I'm going to mix it up with the Horde at the Lounge," he said, pointing to the, large, rowdy Inn not two yards away.

Geldie gave him a skeptical glance. Just then, a glass bottle was flung out of the door by an overzealous customer, shattering on the cobblestone road with a sharp crash. It didn't help his case. One of her thick, golden eyebrows rose slowly as she frowned, displaying her displeasure.

"I know what you're going to say," he began, raising his hand defensively. "But really, I don't want to hang around a bunch of self-important humans and elves, no offence Daela."

She shrugged before speaking.

"Do what you want," she said, and then bent down to whisper to Geldie,"I think he wants to be alone."

Geldie relented with a sigh.

"Lemme take yer 'orse then. And ye best not drink ta much. Ya never know wit' tha 'orde, ya might wake nakid, wit'out a bit o' gold or a stitch o' armor," she warned.

He gave her a smile and a wink. "Don't worry. I got this. Besides, it's no different than hanging around gnomes."

With that, he turned to the rowdy, and very noisy Inn, leaving the two women out alone. Geldie sighed wearily as she took his horse by the bridle and began to lead her group to the Silver Enclave. Daela noted that he did not talk to his mount before leaving them, which was rare.

"Tha lad's more trouble than 'e's worth, or I'm n' 'lf."

"You should be more patient with him. He doesn't have a real family, so he doesn't know who he is or where he comes from. He's just learned that Lorenna gave birth to boy with his auburn hair, making it almost certain that it is his. So he's fathered a child with a woman he doesn't love, and the woman he does love sees him only as a brother. It's clear he's been on the path to forgetfulness these past six months," she explained sympathetically. Although she didn't have much hope that Geldie would listen. This was not a new conversation.

"He's practically your cousin you know, since Skinflint took him in when he was a boy," she continued.

"I dunno care 'bout that! Tha lad is five full years 'bove tha age o' maturity. If 'is 'ead isn't on straight now, 'e'll neva 'ave it straight!" Geldie declared with impatience, then, after a sniff, she continued. "'Cousin', hmph, 'e's a queer lookin' dwarf if that what 'e be!"

The women said no more as they traveled the short way to their destination.

Meanwhile, once left to his own devices, Cyrus entered the The Legerdemain Lounge and immediately walked to the bar. The women would have been surprised as he, for once, did not socialize with those around him by flirting with the bar maids or buying a round of drinks, but rather kept to himself, finding a lonely place at the edge of the bar.

He looked around him, and found the Legerdemain Lounge to be everything that he'd expected. The air was thick with smoke coming from pipes and thick cigars, while barmaids swiftly moved from table to table, sure to serve their drinks as fast as they could. The air hummed with dozens of boisterous voices of adventurers, quick to share their tales and spend their new-found fortunes.

Although a neutral inn, the actual seating was pretty segregated, mostly by faction but sometimes also by race. However, that was not always so. In one corner, there were a group of adventurers staging a drinking contest. The Horde was represented by an Orc Hunter, who looked rather familiar. His green spider sat beside him, it's thick, hairy legs were folded neatly under her large abdomen. A huge black Tauren stood to his right. He was a Shaman, and was healing him on the sly, trying to give the Orc and advantage, as Cyrus could plainly see. The Alliance was represented by none other than the purple haired elf, Faelden. Beside him was his ever constant gnome companion, Gearshift. They seemed to be evenly matched. The two were flanked by members of their faction, cheering them on.

Cyrus wondered with slight amusement if he should tell Faelden that Lorenna's child was obviously his. But then he thought against it. Faelden probably wouldn't even remember him.

"You don't look right, adventurer, care for some spirits?" the fair elven bartender asked him, breaking Cyrus from his thoughts.

"That would be great," he said.

He ordered a Caraway Burnwine, wishing that they served Dwarven Stout, and proceeded to silently mull his thoughts away as he drank. It was then that his warrior's instinct detected that he was being watched. He raised his eyes cautiously, following the source of the stare and found, to his surprise, that they came from a Blood Elf standing at the foot of the stairs leading to the second level. His hair was a dark, midnight black, and hung loosely upon his shoulders. His dusky Northrend style armor was thick and a little worse for wear. It was then that Cyrus recognized him. Not just as Sol, the elf that he'd ganked at Tuurem, but as the elf he'd chased into Duskwood those years ago. Cyrus' eyes had always been very sharp, and he'd seen that face clearly even in the gloom, staring back at him across the river bank.

It did not surprise him that Sol would take such an interest in him. After all, he had been part of a group that had ganked him in Tuurem and had left him for dead. Perhaps he was seeking revenge. But this did not seem to be the case. There was no hostility coming from him. Sol motioned for him to follow by nodding ever so slightly up the stairs, before proceeding to go.

For several minutes, Cyrus sat frozen with uncertainty. Sol was in many ways his most hated enemy. He'd hurt his love, left her for dead, and then had the audacity to take her heart. Looking back, he was sure that there were times when Neiana had seen him as more than a brother, but being the fool that he was, he'd never taken advantage of it. But regardless of the past, she'd given her heart to Sol. He would respect that, but he would be damned before he would turn into an errand boy for those star-crossed lovers whatever her feelings. He was simply too proud. If that was the purpose of him being called up, then there was nothing to do but decline right away.

With new resolve, he set his cup down firmly, placed a few silver coins on the table as tip, and headed to the stairs. After reaching the top, he was surprised at the abrupt change in atmosphere. The loud den of the bar beneath suddenly muffled, and even his ears could barely detect the noise, except for a slight hum. He had a hard time believing that such phenomena could occur without magic. The walls were paneled with ivory and silk and the floors were richly carpeted with emerald and sapphire rugs. It took less than a second for him to take in his new surroundings and realize, to his horror, that he was the only one standing in the hall, and not a sound came from any of the rooms. Was this a trap? Cyrus immediately prepared himself and reached for his sword.

That is when a man cleared his throat to his right. He turned, with his sword wielded, to the sound and saw an Undead Priest, with an unsettling slack jaw and moss-green hair, standing before an opened door. He gestured with his hands toward the door, inviting him in. Cyrus did not sheathed his sword as he obeyed, and eyed him suspiciously as he entered the room. Neutral ground or not, there were no witnesses.

The elf, Sol, was seated on a sumptuous chair before a fireplace. In that brief space of time that Cyrus had wavered, the Paladin had found time to remove his armor and he sat there, in black plain clothes and leather boots. It was then that Cyrus noted that he looked rather aged. It was not his face, which was as smooth and free of lines, or his hair, which was still glossy and without a hint of gray. It was the weight the experience that creased his brow and reflected heavily upon his eyes. He was not a young elf, whatever age he looked.

The Forsaken Priest said a few words, in a language he did not understand, although he had enough experience to notice the exaggerated politeness. Apparently, so did the elf, for his lips twitched with amusement as he dismissed the Priest. Cyrus did not relax after the Priest left, closing the door behind him. Instead he remained standing, his sword at his side, as he glared at the elf, waiting for him to make his move or speak.

After a few moments, Sol glanced at him with a hint of mirth and then spoke with his accented common. "I know you grew up in the wild, but surely you've picked up manners since then. You should probably sit down."

Cyrus was not surprised that Sol could speak common. He already surmised that mutual communication was necessary to have an affair of any sort, and he knew enough of their history to have guessed that quite a few Blood Elves probably could speak common, whatever the law. What did surprise him was his heavy accent, which rounded heavy consonants, giving his speech an air of refinement. None of the High Elves he'd encountered spoke in such a way. Clearly, this was an elf long unaccustomed to human interaction.

The man cautiously sheathed his sword, but did not do as commanded. "You are one to speak of manners, and yet you've invited me here without a formal introduction. As for me, I am Cyrus, a Foundling, and human Warrior from Stormwind."

"Well, then, I have been schooled indeed, Cyrus the Foundling. My name is Soliandrus Autumn Lightbringer, a Blood Knight from Quel'thas. Now, do sit down."

Cyrus briefly wondered why his parents would have named such a dark looking elf after the sun, but kept his thoughts to himself as he sat down on the plush, white chair as commanded.

"If this is about Neiana," he began tersely. "She will arrive tomorrow and she will stay at A Hero's Welcome. Although you cannot enter, no doubt, she will come looking for you at Runeweaver Square. Whatever you have to say to her, say it then, for I will not be your errand boy."

Sol felt Cyrus' jealousy quite acutely, but did not confront it. There was another reason for his invitation. "Thank you for the information, but I did not request you here for that. I would not be so cruel," he replied knowingly.

"Then do you wish to settle our score with a duel? I did gank you, after all. There is also my challenge at Elwynn Forest, which we have not settled," Cyrus replied shrewdly.

Instead of unsettled shock, which is what Cyrus expected, the elf seemed somewhat pleased. This made the human shift uncomfortably in his seat. Clearly, there was something that Sol was hiding and he was playing with the human, trying to goad him into guessing the purpose of his visit.

"That is not why I have asked you to come, either," Sol replied slyly. "Would you like some brandy?"

That is when Cyrus noted the luxurious bed behind them, dressed in soft white linen. The soft fireplace and the strong drink. He was trapped here, alone, with a powerful Paladin in the room and a Priest guarding the door and who knows what else. A look of abject horror crossed his face. A lesser man would have panicked.

"Sir! I am not at all interested in love between men," Cyrus declared firmly.

Sol threw back his head and roared with laughter. All at once, the years that seemed to weigh upon his features lifted, and it seemed to Cyrus that he was seated by a man no older than he.

"Oh by the Sunwell, your face! I will keep that horrified expression of yours in mind whenever I am stuck in the tedious company of Tauren. Bless their solemn hearts but I require some diversion when I am around them for too long. Believe me, Cyrus, there is not a man in or out of Azeroth in danger of that, you least of all."

"Well, then, tell me what it is," Cyrus declared hotly. He did not like being laughed at. "You invited me here, after all. If it is not for any reasons I listed, then go ahead and state your intentions, or I will leave."

"And rightly so. But before we begin do take a drink. You are going to need it," Sol said.

Cyrus took the drink wearily, even sniffing it a little before taking a cautious sip.

"It is quite safe," Sol said with a chuckle, as he poured himself a serving. "At any rate, I am here to give you, Cyrus the Foundling, a name."

This startled Cyrus enough so that the drink was forgotten for the moment.

"What?" he asked.

"Haven't you been curious about what I gave my cousin Aeman in Terokkar Forest, when you interrupted our little exchange?"

"That was you?" Cyrus asked, incredulously.

"It was. My helm, and the shadows of the olemba tree, thwarted your unusually good eyes that day. But your hearing betrayed us to you. Several Alliance parties passed us by, and none of them heard our conversation from the road. Don't you find that peculiar?"

"I have always had excellent hearing," Cyrus replied cautiously.

"And vision, if I recall correctly you were able to see the slight warning I gave you as I passed you by on the road in Winterspring, saving Neiana's life. The cave was far from the road, and yet you still saw it. And there is also the time in in Elwynn Forest, you could still see us even though we had traveled some ways into Duskwood."

Cyrus' lips went dry even as he took a healthy swig off his drink. "What are you trying to say?"

Sol did not seem to acknowledge the question. He merely leaned forward and keenly examined Cyrus' eyes instead. "Remarkable, most who have elf blood have blue eyes, and yet yours are green. It must have been that he accepted the Taint before you were born."

This is when Cyrus rose up immediately from his chair, and stared at the elf with a mix of horror and disbelief.

"No, it is not true! It can't be. I am human! I am no Half Elf! And you...you...are not my father."

Sol smiled wearily before replying. "No, I am not. I am much further removed from you than that. But sit and I will tell you what you need to know. And your name."

The story itself was straight forward and required little explanation. Sol grew up in Quel'thas, but never fit in with the elves. He ran away from High Elf society, which he found constraining, swearing he'd never follow his father's footsteps as a jeweler (the irony did not escape him). He was then employed by a merchant of some means, a Cyrus Turner, who hired him to transport goods from Lorien to Dalaran, Ironforge, Stormwind, and even Quel'thas.

Cyrus had a daughter, who was quite young when he first was employed but grew to be a beauty. Although they never legally married, there was a make-shift ceremony conducted by Cyrus in his home, with a few employees and their families to add some legitimacy to the whole affair. After all, she was now pregnant and having a bastard, particularly a Half-Elf bastard, was out of the question.

Although the man never quite forgave Sol, he kept him under his employment to save his daughter and his future grandchild from destitution. He'd hoped that she would have either married a man of her class who would have taken over the business, or have led the business herself. But as it was, she was not interested in money, trade, or any suitable mates, so she disappointed him thoroughly. Instead, she loved herbs and magic, and studied them. Her name was Adelle Jillian Turner.

"Aunt Jill?" Cyrus broke the narrative, surprised. "That old hag? She was your wife?"

"That 'old hag' was your great-grandmother and the only reason you are alive. Show some respect," Sol chided. Then with a small smile he added, "She was not always old, you know. When she was young, she was quite beautiful."

"Alright," Cyrus said, wearily. "Continue with your tale."

"As I was saying. I was still working for Cyrus, your great-great-grandfather..."

"Got it," Cyrus interrupted, not yet used to the long time frames that marked an elf's life, and found the whole thing rather surreal. Sol did not look a day over twenty-five after all.

"I could have taken a job working at the distribution center, which would have kept me close to home. I tried it at first, and little Ildri kept me company. Your grandmother, by the way," Sol continued.

Cyrus nodded, this time helping himself to another shot of brandy before Sol found it safe to continue.

"She was the cutest little girl you could ever lay eyes on. She had such pointed ears, and curly hair! Ah, to go back to those days. I would give everything. To be honest, she never grew..." he noticed that Cyrus had divested the need for the cup and was now drinking straight from the bottle. "That's enough of that, or you won't remember a thing tomorrow!" Sol cried, tearing the bottle away.

"That's the idea," Cyrus replied with flushed cheeks.

Sol laughed and placed his hand on his shoulder. "I know this is much to take in, but you must remember: you are the only family I have left...well, besides my crazy cousin Aemon. Even you can see why I wouldn't want to claim him," Sol explained.

Cyrus chortled at that admission. "That's true."

"The note you saw me pass to him was a request, with money, to search for the last remnants of my family. The receiver a certain Alliance Farstrider who owed him favor or two. Unfortunately, she discovered that they have all passed away, except for you. Ironically, it was you who nearly bungled the whole thing by storming in like Varian Wrynn, discovering some fiendish plot. Such is my lot in life, for I would have liked a more intelligent great-grandson. But you'll have to do."

Nearly two hours were spent as Sol explained everything. Although he tried to be concise as possible, it was Cyrus who stretched the tale along, asking many questions, trying to find a weakness or inconsistency that would have exposed the tale as a lie, but none was found. By the end of their meeting, Cyrus was completely sober. He left with nothing to show for his new found knowledge but a name, as he had been promised, and a ring.

As Cyrus Ath'len, Warrior and quarter Blood Elf, son of Aton Horus Ath'len Half-Elven, deceased, walked out of the Inn and into the night, he stared at the ring ruefully. He'd been promised that Cyrus was not there to play errand boy. And yet here he was, doing just that. The last thing that Sol had done was request that he should give Neiana the ring.

"She'll know what this means," was the enigmatic command, spoken in a muted tone and sad eyes.

In the end, Cyrus had gained nothing. Within his veins ran the blood of his enemies. It was a shame he would have to carry to his grave. The name given was one he could never use, for it would indicate his elven ancestry.

To make matters worse, his mother, although still alive, wanted nothing to do with him. To her, Cyrus was nothing but a great shame, a blight of her teenage years. All he knew of her was that she lived in Menethil Harbor, and was married with children. He wondered briefly if he'd ever seen her on his way to Theramore, or on his return. Whoever she was, she only revealed her parentage with the promise of anonymity.

And what of Sol? Even if he was family, what would they do? Have family reunions with just the two of them in some neutral goblin town, silently drinking wine? It was not even legal for them to speak! The whole thing was ludicrous.

It also amused him how Sol asked him quite poignantly whether or not Neiana was actually his sister. Aton's death was not clearly recorded, and for all he knew, his grandson could have sired another child. When Cyrus informed him that it was impossible, for he had found Neiana by the banks of Crystal Lake himself, as a young lad of five, Sol's relief was palatable.

What a selfish elf indeed. How he wished he could go back to being Cyrus the Foundling, bastard of Elwynn Forest! Things were much simpler then, and less painful.

Such dark thoughts crossed his mind, that he did not notice Neiana standing beside him until she called his name the third time.

"Cyrus!"

He looked up, startled by the sound of his name. Neiana was beside him, fully armored; holding her great staff with both hands. The simple Malachite Pendant she wore around her neck contrasted with the finery of her raiment.

"You were supposed to arrive tomorrow," he said, confused.

"Skinflint wanted to just get here today, so he really drove us hard. I heard from Geldie that you were here so I decided to come fetch you, since it's late. But you...Why are you here, standing in front of the Legerdemain Lounge, looking so lost?"

It seemed to her that she would have preferred to have found him drunk, in the arms of a serving wench, than looking so sad and defeated. The Warrior did not answer, but instead placed the ring in her hands.

"He is over there!" he declared, pointing to a window on the second story of the building. "He will be happy to see you, I'm sure," he continued with a little less harshness, before walking away into the night, heading for A Hero's Welcome.

As he walked away into the gloom, she looked at the object that he'd left her, recognizing it as the ring that Sol had promised her those years ago. The same one that begun the mad dash at Nagrand. Her eyes watered, as she became overwhelmed by longing, sadness, and joy.

Cautiously she followed the path that Cyrus had made to the furthest window on the second story. There stood a silhouette of a man, a dark shape against the warm glow of a fire that burned within. He was looking down at her, she knew, gazing at her with those green eyes she loved so.

She clasp the ring, realizing that he was giving her a choice, above lay a difficult life, one with brief happiness and a lifetime of pain. To live it, she would have to break away from her home, her family, and everything she held dear. She would be labeled a traitor, and her children despised, living between two worlds.

In front of her were the shadows of the second path, laid before her in that cobblestone street. Through initial pain, she would find peace. She would live her life in relative calm, among those who loved her. She would regain the home she'd lost as a child, and fulfill her promise to the one who gave her life to save her.

It was a bitter choice, but one that she knew was the right one. With one last look above, she whispered, "I love you, Sol. Goodbye."

The silhouette moved, placing one hand on the window as though sending a parting of his own. After that last bit of understanding, she nodded and began to walk away, willing herself not to turn back, and every step heavier than the last. How she wished she could change her mind, run up to the Inn and beg to come with him! But she could not.

Up in the room, Sol watched her walk away with a sad smile. She had made her choice. It was the right one, and he knew it. Still, it felt no less bitter. For the first time in his recollection, he regretted ever taking in the taint and becoming a Blood Elf. But if he hadn't, would they have ever met? Would he had ever loved her?

Bill, who until that time had hung back, beside the door, approached and stood to his right. They both watched as Neiana receded into the darkness. It was only after she was out of sight, that Sol turned to him and broke the silence.

"Bill, bring Huron and Guntag up here. We will be leaving early in the morning to Undercity, and we need them sober."

"Yes, Sir," Bill replied and began to make his way to the door. Then, after a few steps, he paused and turned to Sol once again. "Sir, I am sorry. This is not the ending I would have written for you, for what it's worth."

Sol smiled lightly and turned to him. "Oh? Then you would have written a fantasy. But I must say, Bill, that I envy you Forsaken most of all. For of all creatures, you cannot feel."

"Oh we do feel, Sir, but it is love that we cannot understand. We feel only hatred, anger, emptiness, and in me, the occasional longing but even those feelings, we never have in extreme. No, Sir, I must respectfully disagree. It is you who is the most fortunate one of all."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"You have loved, and felt the joy that comes with it. And now that you have lost, you feel the exquisite pain that it brings. Sir, you are alive, something I could never be again. And for that alone, you are the most fortunate," Bill replied with conviction.

The Priest made his way out after a slight bow, leaving Sol with his thoughts. He sat once again by the fireplace, contemplating the totality of his life, and the woman that he'd just set free. Truly, it was she who was the lucky one, for as a human, she would move on.

Oh she wouldn't totally forget him. Their moments together would surface in her mind from time to time, and perhaps inspire a smile. Yet he would be but a specter, attached to nostalgia of youth and the foolishness that came with it, and that is all.

She would move on, marry, and bear children. She would take back her home from the Gnolls who destroyed it, and rebuild, as she'd sworn to do. Perhaps she would end up with Cyrus, which was a good outcome. Whatever his grandson's faults, he cared for her, at least.

But Sol was not human.

"To forget: that is a luxury we elves are not given," he whispered, echoing Denevell's words.

The night deepened as the clouds blocked the moon, casting a shadow over the elevated city. The elf closed his eyes and lost himself in reverie.

On the other side of the city, a woman walked through a bright entry way, away from the darkness and into the light of the inn. There, on the far side, she saw her friends, each with a cup in hand, merrily enjoying each other's company.

Denevell and Daela were seated beside each other, their heads close together, as they spoke in happy whispers. Skinflint was sharing a few tales with Cyrus and his niece, Geldie, while Wigget sat on the table itself, enthralled by every word. She then saw the diminutive woman turn toward her, and smile.

"Hey, everyone, Neiana is back!" Wigget declared.

Everyone looked up and turned their attention to the door. Geldie lifted a mug of ale and grinned.

"Welcome back, lassie!" she called.

The salute was echoed by the rest of her party, who hailed her with a raised glass. Her heart gladdened at the sight as she made her way to them.

"We were worried you weren't coming back, weren't we Cyrus?" Wigget said.

"No, we weren't," he replied, giving her a tense, warning glance. Skinflint was aghast at the very idea.

"Now why would ya worry 'bout that, ya crazy gnome? 'ere, well, 'ere is 'er family! There is nothin' bettah. N' if there is, I haven't found it, n' I've traveled the len'th n' breat' o' this world. N' ya can take that ta tha bank!" Skinflint declared emphatically.

Her spirits lifted, she took Cyrus' glass and raised it, much to his annoyance.

"A toast, ta fam'ly old n' new!" she declared, motioning to Daela.

"Wut? New? Now what ya mean by that?" Geldie asked, clueless as ever.

"We're engaged, silly," Daela replied with a smirk.

"You'll just have to get used to having seven in a party now, because we are never going to be separated again," Denevell declared with jovial sincerity, facing Skinflint directly.

"Well, I'll be! I guess I'll 'ave ta make due!" the venerable dwarf said with admiration.

Laughter erupted from the table. It was the happy laughter of those who knew each other's strengths and weakness, who were intimate with their fears and sorrows, and yet accepted each other without reservation. The room warmed as the hearth fire brightened.

Whatever times may bring, whatever Cataclysm may fall, they would remain unshakably united.

The End

AN: Thanks for reading and all the reviews! They really were nice and they kept me motivated.

For those who may have remembered the original story, this one is somewhat different. Several characters were changed.

Cyrus, for example, was the leader of the party, a war veteran, and in his forties. But in this story, I changed him to a much younger, more naive man who grew up with Neiana and was about as immature. I think this gave his character more depth. I really like how dense he is, though and I love him a great deal.

Neiana is almost the same, but I made her more aggressive, giving her a lot more personal agency. For example, in the end it was she, not Sol, who decided the end of the relationship (even though they both knew where it was going).

Bill was originally a character that I added at the end of the story, dragged along with the party as they searched for Sol in Terokkar Forest. Instead, I had him introduced early in the story, dragged around while they searched for him there. The introduction of that character was almost the same. I changed his class from Rogue to Priest. In the original story, he was a Rogue with the heart of a Priest so he dressed the part. I thought it was confusing, so I made him a Priest with the heart of a Knight who tried to do his best to act the part. I also made him a writer, adding a few literary references including King Author and Don Quixote. His last speech was him rephrasing Alfred Lord Tennyson's, "Tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all."

Lucilin was made a rouge because I had too many magic users and too many Warlocks in the story.

Sol is the one who changed the most. I inverted his age and experience with Cyrus, making him the grizzled veteran and adding a cynicism that was not there before. In the original story, he feared the dark and his trauma was living through the Scourge. I removed his fear of the dark and instead gave him the trauma of losing his family, mainly his daughter, as well as the Third War. He is suffering through a mild case of PTSD. This gave him a side quest throughout the story that led him to his last remaining kin.

His personality also changed. He was basically Faelden. In the scene where Sol runs into Neiana at the World's End Tavern, it was he, not Gearshift, Julius and Faelden who spoke with her. Their conversation was taken word for word from the original part of the story I had left, giving his parts to whichever character I thought was more fitting. Switch the names to Sol, and you'll see just how much that character changed. Although still selfish and egotistical, he became more serious and much more mature. I felt that he had a strong presence throughout the story, guiding me along new territory. He became my favorite character and nearly hijacked it.

The original story was mostly about the flirting, with a bit of a pill stuck in the jam: namely, don't go for jerks, ladies. But this one was not like that. I'd like to think that this story was more about the interactions that occurred between the different factions, contrasting their differences and similarities. It also became a coming of age tale for Neiana and Cyrus, examining the nature of true love.

In the end, I wanted Sol and Neiana to end up together. I thought Sol was more worthy a candidate this time than he had been before. I even toyed with the idea of making a more open-ended ending. But after sleeping on it, I realized that even if they did, it wouldn't last long. The reality of their world wouldn't have allowed it.

I won't be writing any more World of Warcraft fanfiction because I no longer play the game. The game was a lot of fun, but I simply don't have the time.

At any rate, thank you again. Forgive the long, self-indulgent author's note.

~OP