This was the third time Marcail woke up someplace strange in the past 48 hours. The first thing she felt was pulsing, searing pain throughout her body. Moving her limbs made it worse, as if she were pulling joints from their sockets. She cried out, and tried to settle her body into the bed she had been placed in. A tickle formed in her throat, and she gave a racking cough. The cough exacerbated the pain in her body, as she cringed and tried to brace herself for the pain. Her head felt like it was tearing in two, as she put her hands up to her scalp and dug her fingers into the skin. She tried to holler for help, but her voice was worn and weak. All she could do was lay there and suffer until sleep or shock took over. She prayed one, it didn't matter which, would come soon.

.

The red-headed dwarven priestess had promised to come check on the female blood elf who suffered from paradoxical undressing the night before. The stout woman knocked on the door as a warning, and then let herself in with the key she had permission to borrow from the innkeeper. She cautiously entered the dimmed room, and blinked in the darkness.

"Lassie?" She called, as her eyes adjusted to the low light. She started toward the dimming fire, and stirred the wood to give more heat and light in the small room. The priestess walked to the still body of the blood elf, and leaned in closely to observe her face. The girl's face had a petrified look of pain, teeth bared, eyebrows twitching in her sleep.

"Och, puir deary," the healer cooed, and her hands glowed with light as she blanketed the girl with healing energy. She started to put the back of her hand to the girl's forehead, when her fel-green eyes snapped open.

"Please," she croaked out in Thalassian to the dwarf before her. She reached her hand out and motioned for something to drink. The healer nodded and handed her a flask, but once Marcail brought it to her lips, the healer kept her from tilting the flask upside down. She gave the blood elf a concerned look, and the blood elf seemed to understand, as she sipped from the leather flask gingerly. Her insides seemed to quiet their screams and settle for the cool relief of the liquid. Polishing off the entire flask, she collapsed back down into the bed.

The healer placed the back of her hand on Marcail's forehead, and snatched her hand back as if she were shocked. The priestess felt such a fever coming from her, she knew she had to contact the night elf who hired her. Or at least the male elf that was there the night before, but she had no idea what his name was.

This girl might need a specific herb, like bloodthistle, but the dwarf lacked the necessary coin to purchase it with. The fever had crept on fast, which wasn't a good sign. The dwarf chewed on her cheek as she offered the blood elf more water, who graciously accepted. The fever could have been brought on by the deep frozen air, or it could be some sort of elven disease.

She wished she could ask the elf, who was currently suckling on the water flask. The dwarf didn't feel comfortable leaving her alone. Especially with her wincing in pain every time she tried to sit up. The girl's eyes had lost their luster she saw the night before, the normal healthier glow had faded significantly. The dwarf didn't have the knowledge on healing blood-elf-specific illnesses.

Just as the girl started to slip into sleep, the door creaked as it opened slowly. The priestess turned around to see the male night elf from the previous night. He had clearly had trouble sleeping the night before, as dark circles shadowed under his golden eyes.

"G'morn," the priestess smiled, as the warrior came closer to the bedside and sat down in a chair. He buried his face in his hands, rubbing his temples.

"Sorry, I had a long night," he gritted out, as he glanced at the woman. She nodded in understanding.

"Laddie, Im'ma dwarf," she grinned, and then she went back to Marcail, stroking her hair to soothe her.

"How's she doing?" Galen asked.

"Lassie is runnin' a fever," the priestess' eyebrows drooped in disappointment. "I fear I cannae 'elp 'er. I dunno what ales her."

"Could it be the cold weather? Blood elves usually live in a warm climate, so they aren't made for this." The priestess nodded in agreement.

"It's a possibility," she answered, looking down at the pained eyes. "I've ne'er seen a fever come on so quick 'afore."

"What can we do to make her better?" He asked. He told himself there was no way he'd get his ransom if she died from this illness. And if he truly was a protector, he would be able to keep her from harm.

"I say, let it run it's course," the priestess concluded. "I've done all I can for the lass." The woman started gathering up her things, and left a few healing potions out on the nightstand.

"Give 'er one in the morn, and one in the evenin'. It should aid whatever she's fightin'." The priestess also tossed Galen a small purple vial. "For the 'angover," she winked.

"If I need you again, how do I send for you?" Galen asked, as he popped the cork of the vial and downed the liquid. He feared he might need her help again.

"Och, just ask the keeper upstairs. 'E's my brither." She nodded and took her leave. When the door closed behind her, Galen heaved out a frustrated sigh. He let his gaze fall over the mage, who had bundled herself tightly under the blankets. He rose from his seat and leaned over the girl, pulling some of the blankets down to see her face. The color and spirit in her face were dimmed from the first day he saw her. He put a hand to her forehead and felt she was hot to the touch, but when he touched her, her face began to relax. He pulled back his hand and pursed his lips, as her expression remained relaxed. He returned to the chair he was sitting in.

This was all his fault. Warriors were meant to defend and keep those under their watch safe. The jobs out in Alterac Valley had given him a distaste for the girl, just for her being horde. That was part of the reason why he wasn't able to protect her. Another part of him told him he should probably stay away from her, but she was so inciting, he didn't want to. The way her naked body had squirmed against him, bringing up the thought again almost put him in a coma right there. The recall of her creamy, flawless skin against the shadows and glow of the fire, and her lavish breasts pressed against him all were enough for him to feel his rod stir.

And she mentioned his name in her sleep. What did that mean? Maybe it really meant nothing, but he had kept replaying the whisper of his name on her lips over and over again. It had become the reason why he had trouble sleeping the night before, and why he came to meet the healer this early in the morning. He grunted with the thought of morning. One would lose track of time in Ironforge, with no sun or moon to keep him on pace.

He began to get lost in his thoughts, and he crossed his arms over his chest. He began to nod off, as he watched the girl calmly sleep in front of him. His vision blurred, and finally he succumbed to the slumber.

.

Over the next few days, Galen or one of the humans came in twice a day to give the mage potions and to try and feed her. She had been difficult, refusing to eat and trying to ignore her caretakers, but Galen had refused to give up on her. Even though it caused him some discomfort to ask, he convinced Darrick to try and tend to her since she took a trust to him over anyone else in the group.

"You must eat," the human paladin told the blood elf, with a firm tone in his voice as he held a wooden bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. The dwarven priestess had given him bloodthistle to put in her broth, but the herbs wouldn't help her bring her fever down if she didn't eat them.

As if she hadn't heard him, Marcail stayed in the same position, turned on her side facing the wall. She felt awful. She was freezing one minute, and then the next she felt as if she had fallen into the river of molten iron that flowed under the city. Her head pounded and her insides felt as if there were a dagger being twisted inside her stomach. If this was to be her demise, she wished it would end sooner.

"I know you can't speak my language, but I'm not going away until you eat this. I'm sure you know exactly why I'm here." Darrick's tone grew more frustrated.

Marcail hummed a weak reply, cuing the human that her intentions had little to do with complying. Her eyes remained closed, as she prayed for the pain to let up, just a little. She felt so weak, even breathing seemed like a chore. She heard the human let out a defeated sigh and the bowl being paced on the nightstand beside her. She had to give him some credit with his patience. He had been at it with her for nearly an hour. When she heard him stand and walk out the door, she breathed a sigh of relief. Once the door closed, she removed the blankets from herself as she felt a hot flash race through her body, and her blood was set to boiling temperatures. The woolen chemise that Sarah had given her seemed to cling uncomfortably to her dampened skin, prickling like tiny needles all over her body, and she was playing with the idea of removing it.

She rolled over on her back and stared at the ceiling. Her vision was spinning, slightly, and she figured it was symptom of the dehydration. The dwarven priestess had been by a few times, but it was clear she didn't know what ailed the mage. To be honest, Marcail didn't even know what was wrong with her. Clearly her body didn't appreciate the brush of death she experienced in the severe weather, at the warrior's hands. She mostly blamed him for her condition, she had tried to convince him not to let her travel there without proper clothes. Closing her eyes and breathing out deeply, she tried to succumb to sleep again, this time praying that she wouldn't wake up.

.

Galen impatiently awaited the return of his human friend in the tavern above the inn. The night elf had been sitting alone at the fire, staring into the flames and praying for success. Finally, his friend joined him, as he dumped himself in an animal-skin armchair next to Galen's seat. The human covered his face with a palm, peeking his eyes out as he let a groan out.

"I have no idea how to make her eat," he mumbled, clearly upset with his results. "She just ignored me as usual."

"I really hoped you would have had better results, today." Galen explained. "It has been three days since we arrived here. I figured if she ate, she would have accepted it by your hand." Once again, that strange twinge of anger nipped at him. He forced himself to push it away, because it was getting annoying. Really, he must have been without the company of a female for too long. When he got a break in the current situation, he figured he might just rectify that problem for a night.

"I fear her condition is getting worse. The priestess is clearly baffled with her illness." Darrick explained as he ordered ale from a curvy barmaid. "You should try talking to her again."

"She's just too difficult to talk to. Five minutes with her and I'm consumed with anger." He scoffed. He didn't want to stress her out any more than he already had, he needed her to live.

"Galen, I've been thinking," the paladin grew more pensive.

"What's that, my friend?" The night elf leaned back in his chair, trying to relax a little.

"I think we need to return her to her own people." Darrick paused, waiting for him to angrily strike back with a rebuttal, but when his friend continued staring into the fire with no response, he continued. "The blood elves would probably know more about this than we do. Hell, they might even have a cure for her. If she stays here, she will parish. The fever and dehydration will take her long before the starvation does. That is a death I wouldn't wish on anyone, Galen."

Silence fell over them, as the noises of the bar patrons conversing and clacking of wooden mugs being brought together became more defined. The fire before them popped loudly, and finally the night elf fisted his hands and gave an answer.

"No."

"Are you serious, Galen? You're willing to kill this girl?" The paladin demanded in awe. Never in his years of following the night elf's orders had Darrick heard something so cruel. He was incredulous as to the sudden shift in his friend's demeanor, it disturbed him greatly. When the night elf didn't respond, a horrible, sick feeling washed over the paladin.

"Galen, I'm sorry," his jaw grew stiff as he looked over into the golden eyes of the night elf. "I have to draw the line, here. There is no honor or glory in this. I can't follow you down this path. I refuse to follow you down this path." He then stood up, took another hopeful look at his old comrade. When he was met again with no response, he scoffed, and then left.

The warrior sat at the armchair silently, staring into the fire, resting his chin on his fists, trying to plan his next move. Darrick was an old friend who had helped him in countless battles, and Galen had more than returned the favor. If his friend walked away, it was never without good reason. Darrick was very loyal, and when the warrior had come to ask for his help with capturing Marcail, he hadn't questioned Galen in the least.

The warrior sighed, running a hand through his long, indigo hair. So much had changed. When had he become such a monster? Darrick was right, and he had the gumption to say it to Galen directly, just like a true friend would. The warrior had feared he was losing his soul to vengeance, but it might have started even earlier than Nellan's attack. After overseeing prisoners for years, and "forceful persuasion" to gain tactical advantages over the Horde army, he probably had gone a little mad. A few cases of "forceful persuasion" had really stuck with him over the years. Had he truly lost his soul along with it?

Sending Marcail home with her people could possibly help her, for no one in Ironforge knew of blood elven diseases. She could be helped, but she probably wouldn't survive the journey to Horde territory. He was certainly in no way shape or form going to leave her behind at some outpost and wait for her family to collect her, much less drag her out into the cold again. He wanted to help her, and he had scoured healing scrolls at the mage tower to find something to help the girl's illness. But throughout everything, he came up empty-handed.

He dug his fingers into the armrest of the chair, as he thought more on what would really help her. The priestess had acquired bloodthistle to feed to the mage, and figured it might help. The herb contained small amounts of arcane magic, which blood elves needed to survive. The small amount of magic should help give her body enough energy to fight off her illness.

The warrior rose from his seat, with one thing on his mind: getting that broth into her system if he had to force her. His brisk footsteps down the stairs should be warning enough for the girl to know he was coming. He removed the key from a pocket and opened the door to the room. Inside, the girl lay on the bed. When she heard the door open with a creak, she turned her head to him. She looked eminently disappointed.

"Wipe that scowl off of your face," he ordered her, in Thalassian, as he stalked to the bed. Marcail found him to be such a pain, but she was so drained of energy, so she did the only thing that would help. She complied.

He sat in the chair beside her and leaned forward. He reached a large hand to her head, and the mage's eyes widened, as she slightly shifted away from him to avoid contact. She groaned lightly in pain from the small movement, and suddenly wished she hadn't just used all her energy. The warrior gave her a stern look, as he brought his hand down on her forehead. It burned to the touch, but he didn't want her to see his weakness by jerking his hand away. His brows furrowed, and he picked the bowl of broth up with the spoon. She looked up at him with miserable, pleading eyes, for him to just leave her be in peace.

"If you have a death wish, I fear I will shatter those dreams." He stared into the now cold broth of the bowl, as the deep crimson herbs swirled in the clear liquid while he stirred with a spoon. She still clearly feared him, but her weakened state had kept from lashing out at him.

"I will give you one more chance to redeem yourself," he tried, raising an eyebrow, challenging her to refuse. Her gaze slipped away from him, as she looked to the iron ceiling.

At this point, forcing her to eat would be torture. Swallowing had become difficult, and cold water burned like acid in her mouth. Marcail didn't believe that a bowl of broth and bloodthistle leaves were going to help her, even in the least. At this point, suffering in bed for three days with nothing to alleviate her body pain and fever, she was ready to slip into the afterlife. Even thoughts seemed exhausting, and she swore that even her hair hurt.

She felt her eyelids growing heavy again, but the warrior moved closer, and reached for her. She felt his proximity and faint warning bells rang off in her body. If she hadn't wasted her energy moving away from him the first time, she would have done it now. A cool, large hand reached underneath her neck, and she felt the bed shift as he sat down beside her. Another arm snaked behind her back, lifting her slightly from her position on the bed.

Suddenly, Galen was immediately struck by just how sick the mage was. Her body was limp, as if she were paralyzed. He had gotten hopeful that she was feeling a little better when she moved away from him when he put his hand on her forehead. His eyebrows furrowed in alarm, as he was struck by the thought that she was going to die here, in this bed, in his arms.

A wave of sheer will and motivation rushed through him, as he refused to let another life die at his hand. He moved pillows and blankets behind her, and gently rested her down on them so she remained propped up. A few sighs of pain escaped her, and she croaked out some words that meant nothing in any language he understood.

"I know you're in pain," he began, suddenly feeling sympathy for her, but he also knew the best thing to help her. "But you must try to eat."

She looked up at him, propped up with all of the pillows and blankets, and her cracked lips parted. She wanted to tell him to just let her die at this stage in her fever. As her pale lips parted, he spooned out some of the broth with bloodthistle leaves, and held it to her. Letting her take the next move. She could reject it at this point, or acccept his offer.

Marcail stared into his golden eyes, assessing whether or not it was a good idea to continue her life, at his whim. She wondered if she should just reject his offer, and let herself fall further down this pit of sickness. Something in the night elf's eyes made her reconsider her stance. She opened her mouth a little more, and allowed him to spoon the rest of the liquid on her small tounge. It was difficult to swallow, as she choked a few times and grasped at her neck. However, the warrior remained at her side, rubbing her back until the liquid finally made it down her throat. When she gained enough sense to look up at him again, he had another spoon filled with the bloodthistle broth. Frowning, she took another spoonful.

This painfully continued until the bowl was emptied. Marcail felt like she would explode from the brims of her ribs, but also strangely felt a little restored. She felt the arcane energy of the bloodthistle coursing through her veins, even if it were such a small amount. The pain she felt all over her body slowly dwindled into a tolerable level. She couldn't help but give a thankful lopsided smile at Galen when she met his gaze.

"T-thank you," she croaked out. The warrior was taken aback by her sudden change.

"You're welcome," he finally answered. He wanted to tell her how overjoyed he was to get her to eat, but when her eyes started fluttering, he knew that this was not the time. He cupped the back of her neck again and lifted her by the small of her back to get the extra pillows and blankets from underneath her. When he removed them, he rested her back down on her single pillow.

"Galen?" She asked, as he was positioning the blankets around her.

"Yes?"

"I don't understand why you're so determined on keeping me alive," she said, as her brows raised together in concern. He felt his heart suddenly squeeze again, as he struggled to gather his thoughts to answer the blood elf.

"I need you to stay alive."

"I just don't understand. Why?" She asked, her eyes growing in confusion.

"Just know that it has nothing to do with you, personally." He tried to answer, but he felt he had already given too much of his mission away.

"But-" her eyes darted from him to the ceiling as she thought, "that doesn't make any sense. How could it have nothing to do with me if you took me away from my home?" Galen knew he shouldn't give too much away. He had already told her too much.

"Believe me when I say, that this has nothing to do with you. It has everything to do with the Lightbringers." He finally answered, as he watched the mage's eyes relax.

"You honestly say that?"

"I do," he answered.

"I was so worried," she replied, weakly chuckling in sarcasm, as her eyes still shifted between awake and fluttering asleep.

"Do you wish to sleep?" He asked, gently. The tone even surprised him, as her eyes widened. She was a little surprised at his tenderness in allowing her to dismiss herself from their conversation. In thruth, he did understand the meainging of sleep, and how important it was for someone with an illness to sleep.

"I-" she stuttered, her eyes wandering the wall opposite from him, before she finally came out and said what was on her mind. She fiddled with the blankets in her fingers, unsure of her words. "I'm ready to die."

"Why?" He asked in a more harsh tone than he wanted. Her eyes snapped to him, as she tried to judge what would be appropriate to share with him.

"I just am. In fact, I would prefer a quicker death than this damned fever," she winced as she moved, as a sharp ache in her neck kept her from moving too quickly. At first, Galen couldn't believe her. Life was a gift, and right before he would end one, he saw the desperation and urgency to prolong their own life a little longer. He had never before seen a life become so somber that death was their only wish. His prisoners were all very passionate and valued their lives. It now brought up a new pain in his chest to think of it.

"You're not going to die," Galen replied, looking away, as he began to stand.

"You don't know that for sure," she answered, weakly. He turned his head toward her, with a menacing glare, but her eyes had closed, and she was breathing deeply.

"I won't let you die," he murmured, as he collected the wooden bowl from the nightstand and began to walk to the door. He glanced at her one last time, as she dozed off, and silently swore to himself that he would not let her die from this.