Magic had preserved his handsome face, save for the light pink flush that, in life, had afforded him his boyish good looks. His pale parlor now gave those high cheeks a more gaunt appearance. Oddly, death suited him in a way it often does not suit others.
A flash in the night and the corpse’s white armor split in a jagged line down his torso. Long, nimble fingers, almost lovingly, pried the piece apart. The fatal wound in the middle of his chest had been sewn cleanly shut before burial.
“I imagine you thought you were finished with us.”
Slowly, his vision adjusted. He wasn't sure what he'd expected--that it had been a nightmare perhaps, that he'd wake up tangled in silken green sheets, warm and at home. Safe.
West tried to sit up or at least change positions, but his head was still heavy, weighed down by that thick fog. The uneven stone floor scraped his back as he shifted, irritating the angry red lines burning between his shoulder blades.
The ropes were gone, he noted with some relief. Instead, he'd been bound in leather cuffs and that damned collar was still cinched tight around his throat.
"Well," Westel closed his eyes as a bead of sweat slowly trickled across his forehead, "I'm fucked."
"Not sure I've got an absolute favorite. I like the feeling of silk against my skin. I like grass and tree bark under my bare feet. Little hands and arms clinging to me accompanied by shrieking giggles. The warmth in the pit of your stomach that slowly spreads after a good pull of whiskey. My wife's lips tickling my ear when she whispers something to me late at night."
The first letter he wrote explained the mission they had been sent on, commended Cal for his valiant actions, and insisted that his death had not been in vain.
Westel stood frozen to the spot, watching Caloneth's body crumple limply to the ground, unmoving. The massive Death Knight stood over him, his rune blade dark with the paladin's blood. Chilling blue eyes locked onto Westel with a silent promise that he would soon follow his brother.
The second draft focused less on Cal's accomplishments and largely lamented Westel's own failings in those last hours of the paladin's life. The word 'sorry' had lost its meaning by the time West crumpled the paper into a ball and hurled it away.
The cold lingered even after the Death Knight fell, holding Westel in a vise, squeezing the air from his lungs. In a panic, he tried to revive Cal; he shook him, poured water over his face, shouted in his ear, all in vain. Finally West just knelt in the grass, shock pushing past the adrenaline. He knew not how long he sat there when the captive researcher tentatively called out to him.
He attempted a third draft. He wrote of Cal's loyalty, his determination to do right by both their team and the Horde as a whole, his courage in the face of the most hopeless battles. He wrote that Cal had died not only for the Horde, but for the Sin'dorei; he had died rescuing someone who could not rescue herself. It was a honorable death, and Cal would have been proud of it. Westel tossed that letter as well.
Westel carried the body the entire way. He kept a brisk pace, his body having lost the concept of fatigue. The rescued researcher complained for a while, insisting that they rest, but West ignored her.
It was early morning when they reached base. He shrugged off all offers of help, moving straight to the infirmary where he insisted that the healers there set things right. After a brief examination, they said there was nothing they could do. This pushed Westel over the edge of shock and into hysterics.
"You have to fix him! I know you can! You can!" He shouted, fighting off soldiers' attempts at restraining him. "You're lying! YOU CAN FIX HIM!"
They could not. One letter explained that despite the best efforts of the army's top healers, Cal could not be revived. Westel closed his eyes, remembering the corrupt blade as it ripped from Cal's body, taking a wisp of Light with it--his soul, a priestess had told West as he described what had happened.
This last letter, like the others, was scrapped. Dozens of times Westel has had the unfortunate responsibility of writing letters to family members of fallen Rangers, yet for some reason he could not seem to find the right words for this one.
West sat back in his chair, staring at a blank piece of parchment on his desk, and made the decision. He would have to personally notify Cal's widow.
***
Night had fallen by the time Westel reached the estate. He had not been permitted to leave base until he allowed healers to see to him, but he was stubborn and let them do little more than bandage his few wounds. The moment the last cut was stitched up, Westel was up and on his way.
At first he thought the house empty. All the windows were dark and nothing stirred when West approached the great double doors. A dragonhawk knocker greeted him. Tentatively, Westel lifted the knocker and rapped it against the door. When no answer came after several moments, he knocked again. Still no answer. When he reached for the knocker a third time, the door began to creak open. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath.
"Heal him! Do SOMETHING!"
Dessandra was as beautiful as Westel remembered her. Her long, crimson hair was pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder. She was dressed for bed, he could tell, though she preserved some of her modesty with a thin, silk housecoat. Her countenance changed quickly from one of irritation, to shock, and finally to sly curiosity.
"My, my...Westel Sorrelon. You are the last person I expected to find on my doorstep." She took a small step forward, resting one manicured hand on the door frame. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
West did not bother correcting her. He dropped his gaze first to his muddied boots, then to Dessandra's bare feet. "I am sorry to bother you so late, Lady Sorrelon--"
"Westel, my old friend...Dess, please."
"--but I felt you should know right away."
The sly smile slipped from her lips. Dess straightened her posture slightly and she stepped back. "Well, whatever it is...I would like to know it inside." She gestured for him to follow her to the drawing room.
They sat on a long, elegant couch that was mostly made for appearance rather than comfort. Dess had the fire in the hearth going with a flick of her wrist and Westel watched the firelight and its accompanied shadows flicker across her face. She shifted slightly under his gaze, crossing and uncrossing her legs. The left sleeve of her housecoat slipped from her shoulder.
"It is...hard to find the words. But I knew I could not just write you a letter..."
"A letter about what, Westel?" Dessandra tilted her head to one side, her lips pursed just slightly.
He opened his mouth, but words failed him. West just looked at her, shaking his head as he drew in a few deep breaths. Finally he managed a few soft words. "I'm so sorry, Dessandra..."
The magistrix's eyes widened slightly, and for a moment it seemed she knew not how to react. She looked away for a moment, watching the fire. "My husband is dead."
"...Yes." Westel's ears drooped and he bowed his head, looking at his hands.
"It is very kind of you to come here for me, Westel." Dessandra shifted closer to him and reached out, taking Westel's hands in her own. "You have always been very kind." She leaned forward, trying to catch his gaze, which was focused firmly on the floor now.
"If there is anything...anything at all that I can do for you, Dess..." West lifted his head, a pained look on his face.
Dessandra's lips quirked up into a small, sad smile. "Oh West...dear sweet West. I know you would not hesitate to help me anyway you can."
He nodded quickly. "Anything you need. The...the funeral arrangements..or anything with the estate--"
"Shhh....we will cross those bridges when we come to them." Dess gave his hands a pat. "Tell me, did he go well?"
Cal's eyes went wide and he stumbled forward just slightly with the force of the strike. He never looked down at the blade protruding from his chest, instead his eyes stayed on Westel's, his lips still curled slightly into that grin even as blood dribbled from the side of his mouth.
West grimaced and found himself squeezing Dessandra's hands. "He had a quick death...and an honorable one. He was saving someone else."
Dessandra had a few more questions and Westel finally just told her the whole story. He left nothing out of the trying tale, even when he had insisted that they do battle immediately, rather than rest. Dess listened in silence until Westel finally finished with, "...and so I came here."
She exhaled slowly, shaking her head. "I had actually expected him to come home tonight. The cook is making a huge breakfast in the morning...stacks and stacks of pancakes." Westel had nothing to say to that. Dess just offered him another sad smile and rested her head on his shoulder. "Thank you for coming to comfort me, West." One slender hand rested lightly against his thigh.
West tensed, his eyes flickering from Dessandra's hand to her face. "Dess, I--"
"This house has been so quiet without him here. I don't know what I am going to do." Her fingers walked along his chain mail and leather, pausing at his knee. "You'll keep me company tonight, yes?"
"Dess." Westel cleared his throat, sitting up straighter. "Cal was my brother."
She arched a thin, sculpted brow. "Yes, he was."
"He was my brother, and your husband."
Now his words made sense. Dess pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile, and gave Westel's knee a light squeeze. "That didn't seem to bother you last time, dearest."
Westel paled. "...That...Things were different then."
"Nice shot, little brother!" Cal turned, grinning at him.
"Were they? And you two reconciled out in the trenches? Did you have a heart to heart about our little tryst?"
Westel stood. "Now is not the time to discuss this, Dess."
"Perhaps not." She rose as well. Even though she was shorter than Westel, she still somehow managed to look down her nose at him. "But I do not appreciate your high and mighty attitude either. Just because you fought next to him for a few months does not mean you are a good brother. In fact, if I remember correctly, you have not claimed him as a brother in at least ninety years."
"Dessandra--"
"And you come here and tell me how you forced him to fight while injured and exhausted. How very brotherly of you."
Westel stared at her, his mind reeling as he tried to catch up with the magistrix's sudden change in demeanor. "I never meant...I didn't think..."
"Thank you for your heartfelt notification, Ranger-Captain. If you will excuse me, I would like to return to bed. I will have a lot of arrangements to make tomorrow." She brushed past him, stalking through the door and up the grand staircase in the foyer.
West turned towards the already dying fire and watched its feeble flames flicker, fighting off images of Caloneth's boyish grin while Dessandra's words repeated themselves over in his mind.
Westel pressed the rag hard to Cal's leg. The paladin could only gasp and wheeze at this point, his voice having fled him. By Westel's foot lay the axe that had been embedded in Caloneth's leg a minute before; its curved blade smiled wickedly up at West, stained by its victim's blood. Its master, however, lay a few paces away scrabbling at his throat where his own blood slowly choked him.
Wes watched the dying dwarf for a moment and snorted. His fault for ripping the arrow from his throat. And anyway, reasoned Westel, he did not have time to offer his enemy a clean death, not with Cal laying here white as a sheet. The dwarf coughed and gurgled horribly, but Westel ignored him, renewing his efforts with his brother's leg.
"Look at me, Cal." Westel took the paladin's square chin in his hand. "You are going to be fine, I just need you to calm down. Take a deep breath...there you go. Keep that up for me, hm?" From what Westel could see, Cal would not bleed out. This injury of his was quite a hindrance to the mission, though, until Cal had the energy to heal it himself.
Caloneth let out a strangled cry as Westel lifted his leg a little to rest in his lap.
"Oh don't be a wuss, it's still attached isn't it?" West scoffed as he continued putting pressure on the wound.
Cal allowed a weak chuckle, coupled with a trembling sniffle. "Sound like father."
Westel tensed for just a moment before forcing a bout of lighthearted laughter. "You must be delusional from blood loss."
Unable to muster up a retort, Cal just shook his head.
As he rummaged through his scant medical supplies, Westel seethed quietly. Caloneth should never have been here. For a search and rescue mission like this one, West would have brought Matero, yet the light-footed ranger had been grievously injured in the air raid that had almost claimed Westel's life. Despite all the healers' efforts, Matero had not fully recovered, which left Westel without a second in command. Even without Matero, Cal would not have been Westel's second choice, but it was the paladin who had eagerly volunteered to join his brother on this mission.
Westel hadn't the heart to turn him away.
Once he had Cal properly bandaged up, Westel stood and took in the scene around them. Five Alliance soldiers lay dead -- including the dwarf who had finally gone quiet. Two of the five were Cal's to claim, surprisingly enough. He was getting better at this, and Westel made a point of telling him so.
Cal laughed and dismissed it humbly. Another thing he was getting better about.
"No, really." Insisted Westel. "That was the fierce fighter I remember from my childhood. You're doing well." He offered Cal a reassuring smile as he knelt by the dwarf, picking through the fallen soldier's belongings. Those were not fond memories he brought up, but it was true. West remembered his brother's skill with a blade well; Cal had been born to wield and don steel. Sparring Cal was brutal, especially under their lord father's supervision. With Caloneth I present, Cal would not stop even if Westel yielded--though he never did.
"And where did you learn to fight like that?" Cal peered curiously up at his brother, watching him pick through the corpses.
Westel snorted. Doubtless Cal was recalling the same memories as him, only he was envisioning the scrawny boy who could barely lift a blade and never learned to parry properly. "Ranger training was far better suited to my skill sets than father's sparring matches. It did me a lot of good." He swiped a few bandages from a Kal'dorei rogue's bag. Cal's blade had nearly severed her head from her shoulders, so West figured she would not need the bandages any time soon.
With Westel's help, Cal managed to get to his feet and the pair slowly made their way through the jungle. West wanted to put as much distance between them and the dead. Those were definitely scouts, Westel warned Cal, and that meant they were close to an Alliance camp.
"Perhaps that's where those lost historians are being kept." Pondered Cal.
West had managed to track the two archaeologists for several miles through the jungle, and had lost the trail close to where they ran into the Alliance scouts. "Maybe. We'll just have to see, won't we?"
Night descended quickly. Any evening light that might have lingered was shut out by the thick canopy, leaving Cal and Westel to traverse the jungle in darkness. West could move through the night just fine, but Cal's feet were constantly getting caught on the tree roots that twisted up along the ground. When it was clear that the paladin could not continue, Westel reluctantly came to a stop.
"Sit." West ordered, pacing around. If he had his way, Westel would scale a tree and settle there for the night. He could not leave Cal, though, and even without that wound Cal had never been much of a tree climber. So on the ground they would stay. West would just have to keep watch all night.
Cal sat against an ancient, gnarled tree. Slowly he worked his leg plates back off and examined his wound. "Did quite a number on me." He shook his head and held his hands over the lesion, tendrils of light slipping through the torn muscle. He grimaced as he tried to knit his flesh back together and finally the wound closed, though the spot was still an angry red. With a heavy sigh, Cal leaned his head back against the tree trunk, closing his eyes.
They did not have long to rest. Jovial laughter sounded near by, sending Cal to his feet and Westel's hand to his quiver. Silent, the brothers listened as more people joined the chorus of laughter. Westel caught a few words in Common. Cal turned to his brother and held up six fingers, lofting a brow. West shook his head and turned back to the direction of the noise. 'Only four' he mouthed, looking to Cal again.
West held up a hand, gesturing for Cal to stay put, and crept forward through the brush. As he neared the voices, West took to a tree, climbing quietly to a long, thick branch where he eased himself out over a clearing. Four soldiers were gathered around a small campfire, roasting their dinner on a spit. They passed around a large bottle, taking long swigs of its contents between bouts of laughter. A gnome with mint-green hair seemed to be the comedian, regaling them with an amusing tale. Westel counted six tents, but he knew five of their comrades lay dead about a mile away. His eyes continued to sweep the area until he spotted her.
The elf wore fine robes, though they had been torn and muddied and her long mousy brown hair was tangled and frizzy. She was shackled and chained to a post, kneeling between two tents. Westel surveyed the camp, but he could not find the other missing archaeologist. Most likely dead, he surmised. The two of them might have caused trouble, and really the Alliance only needed one to talk.
Quietly, Westel crept back to the tree trunk and waited for a moment, thinking. There were only four, he pondered. He could easily have two of them on the ground before the others knew what was happening. But that would be reckless, chided a soft voice, and he had promised Astoreth that he would be careful and safe. Taking on four enemy soldiers alone was neither of those things. Sighing, Westel climbed back down and went to get his brother.
"We should wait until morning," Cal protested when Westel returned. "We're both tired and they outnumber us."
West scoffed. "There's less of them than the scouting party we ran into."
"West, we can wait until morning."
"What if they find us tonight, huh? We should act now, kill the soldiers, get the girl and start for base."
Cal sighed and leaned down, taking up his sword. "I know you're in a hurry to get this done so you can go home, but..."
"No buts," Westel interjected with a soft growl. "I promised Astoreth I would be home today. I want to go home, Cal. I want to see my wife and my daughters. So we are doing this now while we have a chance. They are drunk and off guard. Let's go." He turned, drawing and arrow from his quiver. "That's an order."
Cal protested no further, following sullenly after Westel, still with a slight limp.
The jungle was quiet now, and West winced with every heavy step the paladin behind him made, but he was positive that the soldiers had been making enough ruckus as to drown out any other noises. He had not considered the Worgen among their ranks, however.
As they neared the edge of the Alliance camp, yellow eyes flickered in the shadows of the tree tops.
"I thought I smelled something." He growled just before dropping down, slashing at Westel.
West was quick to react, leaping backwards and loosing his arrow in one smooth movement. The arrow caught his attacker in the shoulder, and the Worgen howled with rage. He pounced, teeth bared and two daggers drawn. Westel went to loose a second arrow, but Cal moved in front of him and a flash of light knocked the Worgen back against a tree. Cal glanced over his shoulder, smiling smugly. West rolled his eyes and directed an arrow between the Worgen's eyes before he could get back up.
The others had been alerted by now and rushed through the trees. West ducked under a fireball and danced around Cal as the paladin's blade smashed into a Draenei's shield. The gnome crouched behind a large root, bobbing up every few seconds to hurl another fireball at Westel, only to duck down again before West could get a shot off. The trees here were too thick, he decided. They needed to fight back in that clearing.
"Cal! To their camp!" Westel turned, expecting Cal to follow. The clearing was much better and once West was a good distance away from the trees he turned and drew a red feathered arrow, waiting. The gnome blinked through the trees first. Expecting the draenei, Westel aimed too high and his arrow whistled well over the gnome's head and exploded against a tree trunk. A barrage of arcane missiles followed. West could only dodge so many until one after the other struck his chest and knocked him off his feet. The gnome giggled delightedly and lifted his hands, chanting.
Cal's great blade swept the gnome aside like a speck of dust. He continued forward, bounding over the crumpled mage as the Draenei paladin crashed through the trees. Cal turned, holding a wide stance between Westel and the other paladin. Once he had his bearings, West was back on his feet and reaching for another arrow, waiting for the prime opportunity.
The paladins came together in a brilliant clash of Light that knocked both back for a moment before they collided again. West had trouble not getting distracted by the awesomeness of their battle, but he kept his focus. He just needed the Draenei to lift his arm just right.
The shot opened up. Another red feathered arrow cut through the air, over Cal's shoulder and found the crease of the Draenei's elbow as he parried Cal's blow. The shot exploded on impact, tearing apart the Draenei's arm and giving Cal the opening he needed.
As his opponent dropped to the ground, Cal turned to Westel with a boyish grin, but West was not smiling. That was three down...where was number four?
His question was answered almost immediately as a tendril of shadows snaked around Cal's neck. The paladin dropped his sword and clawed at the shadows, gasping for air. Several paces away stood the priestess, whose attentions had turned to Westel. Another shadow leaped out and West stumbled back, two arrows cutting through the darkness in quick succession. It only took one to fell the priestess.
"Nice shot little brother!" Cal took in a few gulps of air and turned to Westel, that boyish grin on his face and laughter at his lips.
He probably never even felt the sword that lanced through his back.
They should have seen it coming. A day of no bloodshed usually meant double would flow the next. Yet still they were caught unaware. Because of the morning fog, the scouts spotted the air raid with little time to spare. The alarm bells screamed and officers sprinted up and down the halls, dragging soldiers from their hammocks.
When Westel threw open the door to his squad's quarters, half were wrestling into their gear. "What have I told you lot about always wearing your armor!?" He growled, grabbing his bow and quiver of red-feathered arrows. Quiver at his back and bow in hand, West turned on the group, surveying them quickly.
"Edanna, with the rest of the healers."
The priestess scurried away without question.
"Matero, Alvaris go up top and man the flak cannons."
After a sharp "Yes sir!" they both hurried away as well.
Westel turned onto the battle mage, frowning. "With the windriders, Isais. Take out as many of those damned gyrocopters as you can. And any Alliance paratroopers you see best be dead when they hit the ground."
The mage nodded and strode off with long, quick strides. That left Westel with Caloneth.
The paladin was of the few already outfitted in his armor, standing at attention, eyes alert. He was probably the only other one awake when the raid had been spotted. "Where am I headed, Captain?"
West resisted a sigh. What could Cal do? He had no talent with the cannons or with a gun even, he'd be useless up on a windrider, and Westel didn't even trust him to hold his own on the ground fighting Alliance. But he couldn't do nothing. Deciding to stall, Westel beckoned Caloneth to follow him as he moved quickly from their quarters and to the main room of the barracks.
"I need you to..." To what? All he could possibly do was fight, Westel supposed. He turned and pointed outside where the battle had already begun. "Move quickly, don't stay in one place for very long or you'll get shot and--" Westel stopped short as a flicker of orange caught his eye. "...and put out those fires. We can't have the place burning down. Help any wounded that you can. Go!"
Cal hesitated, but only for a moment before sprinting outside. Westel followed soon after, searching for higher ground. Looking straight up the entire time would only get him a sword in the back. Westel zig-zagged across the base, ripping arrows from Alliance he had felled not a moment before. Once he had taken a small dirt hill--his only source of high ground--Westel focused on the paratroopers that drifted down from the copters.
At least four more Alliance soldiers lay dead by Westel's aim when the gyrocopter came crashing down. The distant shout of "Look out!" was his only warning, and Westel didn't question it. He dove forward a mere second before the flying machine smashed into the earth right where he had been standing. Cursing, Westel swiped away a trickle of blood where a piece of broken propeller had sliced into his cheek.
The ground obviously was not an option. West stood, his eyes falling on the barracks' roof where snipers and the flak cannons were typically perched. Good enough, he decided, leaping over the body of a gnome pilot and racing back to the giant stone and metal building.
"Captain!"
Westel stumbled to a halt, turning as Caloneth came bounding up to him. He noted that Cal's torso was scarlet with blood.
"Cal! Are you--"
"It's not mine," Cal interjected quickly. "Where are you going?"
Westel scowled, pointed up to the barracks, and promptly continued on his way.
"Wait! You can't!" Cried Cal, reaching for Westel's arm.
The Ranger-Captain shook him off. "It is not for you to tell me where I can and cannot go, soldier." There was no time to stop and argue, so Westel ignored Cal's continued protests as he followed him inside and up the stairs.
"Three cannons are already down!" Shouted Cal. "The goblin mechanics won't even come up here to fix them." He was still saying something else, gesturing to the blood on his front, when a large explosion sounded, shaking the building's foundations. Caloneth was barely able to keep his feet, even as Westel continued his two steps at a time strides.
"I'll be shooting arrows, so that matters little." Westel threw open the heavy metal door, stopping short as bullets whizzed by. When it appeared that the coast was clear he made to duck out onto the roof, but Cal took hold of his arm.
"They're focusing their fire power on anyone up here, Captain! You can't shoot from up here!"
Westel glared and wrenched him arm away. Stupid paladin, he seethed. Cal may have been scared of those flying machines, but Westel was determined to take them all out. "I'll be fine," he waved Caloneth away, "get back to helping with the wounded."
He darted out onto the roof, climbed up onto a high ledge, and looked out over the base. Several gyrocopters lay destroyed on the ground, but there were still a few whirring around, shooting Horde soldiers down where they stood. An explosive arrow nocked, Westel took aim, unaware of the fresh wave of copters coming in from the east.
With every paratrooper that slumped forward with an arrow in his chest, Westel shouted off a number. The copter that he took out with a barrage of exploding shots counted for two.
The bullets rained down at 'six'.
Two blazed by, their heat burning his ear. The third grazed the side of his head as he turned to face the oncoming copters, and sent him reeling backwards. Desperately, Westel tried to stay upright; his bow dropped from his hand in his attempt to grab on to something. As his feet went out from under him, his fingers finally clung to a hard, metallic something that wrapped tightly around his hand and pulled.
Now Westel was falling forward. Another bullet pierced his chain mail and bit into his backside; West's cry of pain was cut short when gravity slammed him face first into the metal floor. Air fled his lungs and blood filled his mouth, hot and bitter. Before Westel could even think to catch his breath, a heavy weight was thrown on top of him.
His head ached, his tongue throbbed, and his ass blazed with pain as the large paladin lay on of him, a plate metal shield against the continued spray of bullets. Westel could hear them ping against the floor and the ledge, but Cal had managed to wedge them tight against the ledge wall and away from the line of fire. The only problem was while those copters were in the air, they'd take both men down the moment they moved out into the open.
"West? Westel? You alive?"
Wes tried to respond, but talking was difficult with the hole he had bitten into his tongue. He just grunted instead and wiggled the fingers of his free hand that weren't trapped under Cal's weight.
Caloneth sighed with relief. "Good...I saw you get hit in the head and I...I wasn't sure I just.." He trailed off, pressing closer as a gyrocopter flew over them, a little too close for comfort. A moment later he relaxed again, but remained silent.
Westel could hear snipers and flak cannons firing from the ground and the surrounding guard towers. From the sounds of it, four more copters were downed. By West's count, that left two more. It seemed like the remaining pilots were busy with the Horde soldiers on the ground and in the air, so Cal took the opportunity. He stood and crouched by Westel, bringing the Ranger Captain's arm around his immense shoulders. Slowly Caloneth worked West to his feet, though much of his weight depended on his older brother.
"Easy now, we're just going to take this nice and--Shit!" He dropped his arm from around Westel, and West echoed his curse as he crumpled to the ground, at the feet of an Alliance soldier.
The human was about as broad as Caloneth, if not broader, clad in the blue and white of Stormwind and wielding an ugly iron blade. He wasted no time in attacking Cal, hacking at the paladin in a fury. Caloneth staggered backwards as the sword's edge swept mere centimeters away from his person with each strike. Finally he was able to draw his own sword, lifting it to meet one of the human's wild swings. They stood locked this way for a moment, brute strengths pushing on each other until finally it was the human who had to fall back.
As the warrior struggled to regain his balance, Cal seemed to remember he had more than a sword at his disposal. He drew in a deep breath, his hands aglow with a white light. With a howl the warrior lunged and Cal thrust his palm out, a surge of Light sending the warrior sprawling. This was where Cal succeeded, with his opponent on the ground. Blinding Light enveloped his sword as he thrust down, through the warrior's plate and into his chest.
All the while Westel stared, incredulous. Where the fuck had this Caloneth been in every other battle? Cal caught the look and smiled sheepishly as he wrenched his sword back up and returned it to its sheath.
"I stood by and let one brother die already," he explained, stooping to help Westel back to his feet, "I'm not about to make the same mistake with the other."
West said nothing, his swollen tongue throbbing painfully. Cal didn't seem to mind though as he half-dragged the wounded Ranger from the roof.
***
At the sight of Westel's bloodied mouth, the healers had feared internal bleeding until Westel showed them his bitten tongue. With that revelation he was bumped near the bottom of the priorities list, given a stiff cot to lay on and some quick bandaging while they dealt with the more dire injuries.
When the healers did finally get to him, most of his wounds were swiftly taken care of. The Light knitted his tongue back together and healed the small wound at the side of his head, with no evidence that he'd ever been hit. With a delicate touch a priestess mended his sprained and broken fingers, injured in his fall from the ledge.
His ass was the problem.
Cal laughed out loud when an elderly, wrinkled orc drew the curtain back and wordlessly pulled Westel's leggings down past his knees, baring his swollen and bloodied buttocks. Before the healers could do any of their healing, the bullet had to be extracted. Westel was given some whiskey and a strip of leather to bite. This was an orcish war base after all, there was no knocking a patient out for a tiny bullet.
"Bet you wish your wife was here," sniggered Cal, who had not left his little brother's side since dragging him into the infirmary.
Westel scowled and grumbled, "Hardly." He winced as the orc unkindly cleaned the wound.
Caloneth tilted his head curiously. "What? Is she not terribly sympathetic?"
"No no, she would be." West mumbled around the leather strip. "And she'd be all sorts of worried and she would have given these healers-- ouch!" He bit into the leather again, screwing his eyes shut.
"Relax," grunted the orc.
"How can I fucking relax when you're digging a bloody bullet out of my ass?" Westel snarled back.
The orc responded by digging deeper, earning a cry of pain from Westel.
Caloneth scowled and stepped towards the old orc. "If you aren't going to numb the pain, go easy." He glared down at the wrinkled green shaman who cursed him and went back to work, but gentler this time.
"....She would have given these healers hell for not seeing to me quicker," continued Westel.
"Huh...that must be nice." Cal folded his arms over his chest, looking around their small, curtained off space.
"I'm sure your wife would do the same for you." West grimaced, fingers curling into the cot's sheets as the orc prodded around for the bullet.
Cal scoffed. "Not likely. Perhaps she'd pay them off to get me healed up quicker."
Westel tried to get a good look at his brother's expression, but found himself blinded by pain as the orc slowly drew the bullet from his flesh. West bit fiercely down on the strip of leather in his mouth, his shoulders heaving with labored breaths even after the projectile had been extracted. He whimpered when the orc gave his rear a rough pat.
"Healers will see you soon."
The orc left and the brothers were left alone. Wincing, West lifted up to pull the sheets over his waist and laid back down.
Cal sighed. "I know you may not think so, but you lucked out when Dess left you that day. You'd be in my position, with a wife who probably could not care less if you returned home in a box." He thought on this for a moment. "In fact, she'd probably have fun playing the grieving widow for a while." Cal shook his head and sat in a chair beside Westel's cot. "Meanwhile you've a wife who is beautiful and cares enough to fret over even the smallest wounds."
Westel furrowed his brow. If he was honest with himself, he had not thought much of Dess and Cal's betrayals in many years. And he certainly would not change things, if given the opportunity. He had a family now; he had an adoring wife and beautiful daughters. The life Cal had created for himself paled in comparison it seemed, if what he said was true.
A priestess strode in and unceremoniously pulled the sheets away from Westel's backside once again. All business she pressed her hands to the wound, channeling the Light into Westel's torn flesh. While never painful, Westel always considered magical healing to be an uncomfortable process as his body was forced to heal and knit back together at an unnatural rate. It was over in a few seconds, however, and the priestess replaced the sheets.
"Rest here over night," she ordered in a clipped tone. Stern eyes moved onto Caloneth. "You should leave your Captain to rest for now. You may visit again in the morning."
Cal nodded, "Just another minute and I will be out of the way." The priestess narrowed her eyes at him, lips pursed as if she tasted something sour, but she did not protest, simply turning to leave them.
Westel chuckled softly. "And I thought Mel was a strict nurse." He shook his head and shifted to get more comfortable on the cot. "You know...my wife's told me she wishes to meet you. Perhaps next time she sneaks on base I'll introduce the two of you."
Cal smiled softly at that as he got to his feet. "That would be nice."
"On one condition." Westel lifted his left hand, holding up his index finger.
"Yes?"
"You don't tell her about this incident. Any of it. She will have an absolute fit."
Cal chortled and clapped Westel on the shoulder. "It stays between you and me, I promise." The sour faced nurse paused by the curtain, staring at Cal. He laughed again and bid Westel goodnight.
Sighing, Westel closed his eyes as a familiar, loving presence drifted through his mind. He smiled softly as Astoreth greeted him from far off, and as she inquired about his day he glossed over some of the details.
When the squad slowly trickled back in to Domination Point, all that could be discussed were the wonders of their two week furlough and how fourteen days simply was not enough.
Caloneth listened, silently objecting to his comrades' claims. Two weeks had been much too long, he thought bitterly. While Alvaris had spent her days arm in arm with her twin sister, and Edanna celebrated her nephew's birthday, and Isais reunited with his fiance--thought lost in Dalaran--Cal had counted the days until he would be back on the front.
Sullenly, Cal listened to Isais once again recount the tale of his fiance's gallant escape from Dalaran, while remembering his own reunion with his wife.
***
Cal had returned to an empty home, save for the dutiful staff of servants. As he thought back on it, he wondered what made him believe he would come home to a hero's welcome, drawn into his wife's arms while his sister and parents were there to greet their haggard soldier. Only heroes received a hero's welcome. Caloneth knew he was no hero.
He was greeted at the door by a cheery young maid who quickly welcomed her Lord back home, informing him of the preparations that had been made. A bath was already drawn, his most comfortable clothes washed and pressed, and his favorite meal was cooking. Caloneth welcomed these comforts of home as he sank into his first hot bath in months, but he knew it was the servants' paychecks that drove these actions, not admiration as he had once pretended.
Three days passed before his wife deigned to come home. A servant had come to inform him during lunch that the Lady was home and had retired to her study. What he had hoped to accomplish, Cal could not say, but he promptly stormed into his wife's study in a fury. Dessandra listened to his rant in a cool silence, that smile of hers playing at her lips all the while. He demanded to know why she could not take a day to be with her husband who had been away, fighting in a war. She laughed.
"I have been busy, dearest husband." She had said, then added as if an afterthought, "Though the way I hear it, you have not been doing much fighting my Lord."
***
A tropical storm had the whole of Domination Point huddled together inside, leaving the barracks insufferably hot, humid, and loud. Finally tired of listening to the same happy stories over and over again, Caloneth stood, jostled his way through elves and goblins and orcs, and stepped out into the storm.
Cal ducked his head against the heavy rain and sloshed clumsily through the mud. By the time he reached the gate, guarded by four unhappy orcs, his clothes were soaked through. The orcs watched with hard eyes as Cal trudged by. One turned to his companion and muttered an orcish word Cal couldn't understand, but the laughter it earned told him enough. He wondered how far word had spread about Caloneth Sorrelon II the blundering paladin.
The trek to the docks was a lot longer than Cal remembered, but he supposed much of it had to do with the gales that blew against him, almost demanding that he turn around and go back inside. Once he reached his destination, he spotted a lone figure standing at the far end between the two docked battleships. He was not the only one who had decided to escape the overcrowded barracks.
As Cal neared, he was able to get a better look at the soldier. It was another elf, with short black hair plastered to his head from the rain. His cloak had a hood, but it had either been blown off or he had simply chosen not to wear it. Caloneth paused to watch the elf for a moment. He stood straight and tall, embracing the storm's ceaseless onslaught, with his head tilted back just slightly to feel the rain on his face. The wind howled and the ships rocked back and forth in the water, but the elf stood unwavering against its force.
"Your staring is making me uncomfortable," the elf called over his shoulder.
Caloneth jumped in surprise. The resolute elf braving the tempest was his brother--no, his Captain. He could barely recognize Westel, who before leaving for the Dalaran Campaign had sported a wild mane of black curls barely contained by a pony tail. The younger elf's hair was now cut short, though it was no less wild even as nature herself tried to tame it with the rain.
Hesitantly, Caloneth took a step closer, raising his voice to be heard above the crash of waves. "I didn't recognize you...the hair!"
Westel lifted a hand to his recently shorn locks as if he too was not aware of the change. "Cut it before marching on Dalaran." He finally said.
"Well it looks much better than that chaotic mess you had before." Cal smiled, but something about his compliment obviously rubbed Westel the wrong way. His jaw visably tightened, and the muscles in his neck tensed. Cal scrambled to recover. "I was thinking of getting mine cut once we go home! Who is your barber? He must be quite good if he could manage that mayhem."
Westel shot him a hard glare and Cal snapped his mouth shut. He was not very good with words it seemed, at least not around Westel.
Turning his eyes to the roiling ocean, Cal muttered under his breath believing the storm would drown out his words. "...Was just a joke."
Unfortunately, the Ranger Captains' keen ears seemed to hear everything. "You're not funny," Westel snapped. His eyes rose, watching lightening illuminate the angry sky. Thunder followed a beat later.
"I am funny!" Caloneth countered indignantly. Westel, who wore a perpetual scowl, would never know humor if it smacked him across the face!
Westel snorted. "No. You are not."
As if he knew anything, Cal seethed. Party goers roared with laughter when he entertained them with one of his many tales. "Plenty of people think I'm funny!"
The Ranger Captain turned his gaze onto Cal, observing him quietly before finally speaking. "Other unfunny people thinking you are funny does not, in fact, make you funny." He turned back away.
Once again, lightening streaked across the sky and the heavens bellowed in response. The brothers were quiet. Westel watched the storm, and Caloneth watched Westel.
Why was Westel so damn difficult to hold a conversation with? Cal was at a complete loss. He'd had no problems talking to Vathal when he was alive, so why should conversing with his youngest brother be any different? Wiser men might have kept their wonderings to themselves. Caloneth, however, was hardly what one might call wise.
"Why can't we talk, Westel?" He had to shout over a particularly violent gust of wind. Long strands of golden hair were blown into his mouth, forcing him to cough and spit, trying to detatch the wet and muddied hair from his tongue and lips.
Westel watched his efforts with a cool expression, waiting until Cal had dealt with his hair ordeal to respond. "Are you still trying to be funny, Caloneth?"
"No," Cal insisted, "I just want to know why we never talk. I know you and father never saw eye to eye, and you had some spat with mother that has left you estranged. But you still talk to Melody! She tells me so. Tells me the two of you have afternoon teas during the week."
"You want to have afternoon tea with me?" Westel stared at him, disbelieving.
Caloneth sighed and pushed his wet hair from his eyes. "Not tea. Drinks maybe...I know you like fine liquor." At Westel's incredulous expression, Cal nodded emphatically. He remembered his brother's taste for good scotch when it was available and his great thirst for bourbon at parties.
Eyes narrowed suspiciously, Westel turned away again. "I tire of your jokes, Caloneth. I got tired of them a long time ago."
"I'm not joking, Westel." Caloneth frowned at him, raising his eyes to meet the Ranger's. When had Westel gotten taller than him? "The last time you and I truly talked until this war was....was..." He paused, grasping at the faded memory.
"My wedding." Westel interjected in a low voice.
Caloneth's features brightened with recognition, but as the memory slowly returned to him his eyes lowered to the sea.
Westel had once been betrothed to Dessandra. He was a puppy at her heels, as Dess had described him once. But he served her purposes, whatever those were. Cal had never bothered to ask. Dessandra was stunning, powerful, and rich and she had agreed to take Cal as her husband, so long as he helped her with a few things. When suddenly she and Westel were engaged, she admitted that she had let this farce of hers go too long, but that she would fix it. For months Dess insisted that she would fix it until Cal had all but given up hope.
"We were getting ready," Westel spoke up. "I was fumbling with my stupid bow tie and you came over to help me with it. Told me you were happy for me."
Caloneth could not look up, even as Westel turned to peer at him. He had reached out to his younger brother for years, seeking to reconcile. Every letter, ever Winter's Veil dinner invitation, even calling out to him in the city...Westel ignored it. Cal supposed he could not blame him. Sighing, the paladin pushed his wet hair away from his face as the rain continued to beat down on them. "When this war is over, we should sit down like men and talk about that."
"What is there to talk about, Caloneth?" Westel shot back. "You bullied me for the entirety of our youth, but I never thought you'd actually stab me in the back."
"There's plenty to talk about. And we will." Cal nodded and, though he looked skeptical, so did Westel.
The brothers settled into a curiously comfortable silence as the storm gradually blew itself out. The sheets of rain calmed to a drizzle, and finally even the wind quieted aside from the occasional whistle. Westel shifted then, turning to face the distant base. "I am going to go see what poor excuse for a meal they are serving us tonight." He took a few steps forward before pausing to look back at Caloneth. "You coming or what, soldier?
Blinking, Cal scurried to Westel's side, trying to match the ranger's long strides as they walked up the muddied trail. "Oh...I owe you by the way."
"For what, exactly?"
"Well...I never got a chance to properly thank you. Saving me from the mogu and all. You could have left me, but you didn't. I'm in your debt, Captain."
Westel snorted. "I don't expect you to be repaying that debt anytime soon."
Caloneth's face burned. "And what's that supposed to mean?" He kept stalking forward, unaware that Westel had stopped and stuck his foot out in Cal's path. The paladin's arms pinwheeled for a second in a desperate attempt to stay vertical, but to no avail. His broad form tumbled face first into the mud. The orcs guarding the gate howled with laughter.
"It means," chuckled Westel as he crouched down beside Caloneth, "that I only trust men who can keep their feet to keep me on mine." He gave Cal's shoulder a pat and stood, continuing his stroll back to the base.
Their mission into the Ogu’dai ruins was a disaster from the start. Mogu were everywhere, and Westel warned the group that they would have to move carefully and stealthily if they were to retrieve those stones unscathed. Not a minute into their search, Westel brought his squad to a halt as a warrior and sorcerer marched by.
One moment, Cal was naming Westel a craven, and the next…chaos. The squad desperately tried to hold off their attackers as they retreated through the ruins, but the clamor of battle only attracted more of the ancient warriors. Alvaris fell early to an onslaught of rock broken free from the ceiling of the tunnel. Matero, ever quick on his feet, had managed to drag her away from any further harm. The battlemage, Isais, was nearly incapaciated from a blow to the head. Isais’ own injury, however, was a result of the bumbling paladin. The strike might have taken Isais’ head clean off if he had not seen it coming in time to blink away, leaving him with a small wound above his temple. Caloneth only lived through the battle because the Ranger Captain would not leave a man behind.
As the foolhardy “veteran” had charged in on one of the mogu, he was swept aside like an irksome insect. The blow lifted him off his feet and threw him into a tunnel wall where he slumped, motionless. Most of the mogu were still intent on the group at large, but one had set its eyes on Cal. It occurred to Westel that Cal probably deserved to die to his own folly, but he knew immediately that he could not let that happen. Shouting to Matero to continue leading the others out, Westel ducked under a mogu’s arm to get to his brother just as his attacker swung its sword.
The force rent a crack in the wing of Westel’s bow as he lifted it to shield himself and Caloneth from the blade. Cal had just sat there, frozen until Westel managed to give him a kick and ordered him to make a run for it. When the paladin was a safe enough distance away, Westel rolled out from under the mogu as it lifted its sword to strike again, shot an exploding arrow into the ceiling, and sprinted in the opposite direction. Then they ended up on the beach.
Ragged and battered and bruised, the squad stood silently as their Captain tore into the golden haired paladin. Caloneth was still a few inches taller than his younger brother, but for the first time it was Westel that towered menacingly over him.
"YOU COULD HAVE GOTTEN US KILLED!" He roared, red faced and with spit flying.
Cal shrank away, and the five on-lookers winced. None of them, not even Matero who had known Westel for almost seven years, had ever seen the Ranger-Captain this furious.
"Draw your sword!" Westel ordered.
With a steady hand, Cal reached back to draw his great two handed blade, its edge still coated in a thin layer of blood. Wordlessly, Westel stuck out his hand. At this, Caloneth hesitated, unsure of what his brother would do with the weapon. The look on West's face and the blaze of his eyes, however, told Cal that surrendering the sword was his only option.
Westel slouched with the weight of the two-hander as he lifted it, examining the craftsmenship. "Only a proper soldier should weild something like this. Do you even know how to use it, Sorrelon?!" Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "They told me they were sending me veterans! Some of the finest soldier's our kingdom has ever had, that is what I was told." West dropped the blade at Cal's feet and his voice lowered, though it still trembled with ire. "So why are you here?"
"I am a veteran!" Caloneth shot back indignantly. "I-I fought in Northrend! I have defended our city!"
Westel laughed in his face. "Your pampered ass wouldn't have survived two days in Northrend."
Cal scowled. "But I was--"
"Shut up!" Westel barked, and Caloneth fell silent. "Name one thing you have done to benefit this squad! Through all your blundering, your inability to follow the simplest of orders, and your lack of the most basic military knowledge...name one thing!"
Caloneth remained quiet, eyes lowered to the sword laying in the sand between them. In the distance, mortar shells exploded.
Westel turned to the rest of his squad, assessing their state. Alvaris leaned heavily on the small Matero, her leg bent awkwardly where it had broken. A bandage had been wrapped hurriedly around Isais' head and kept slipping down over his eye, while their healer Edanna sat exhausted in the sand, unable to heal her comrades for the time being. Westel heaved a heavy sigh and moved over to the priestess to help her up.
"The rest of you are dismissed...get up to the outpost and take the portal back to base. See the healers, eat, get cleaned up and rest. We will have little respite between this mission and tomorrow's."
As the rest of the group dragged themselves towards the outpost, Westel turned back onto Caloneth. They stood in a heavy silence; Westel had no words to express his anger and Cal was simply afraid to speak. Sighing, West kicked at the sand to avoid looking at Caloneth as he asked, "Those stories people tell...they aren't true, are they?"
"You know what I am talking about Cal," Westel growled. "The stories...your show of heroism at the fall, your participation in the Northrend campaign."
Caloneth hesitated, averting his eyes to the dark forest a few feet away. "I was in Northrend, but..."
"But what?" Demanded Westel.
"But I was called late into the campaign, and then they made me stay away from the frontlines." He ran his fingers through his neatly cropped hair, frowning. "I saw and did very little."
Westel snorted and turned, facing the sea. "That's what I thought," he said with some satisfaction. He had battled wave after wave of Scourge, not to mention a number of the other unsavory creatures that inhabited that frozen wasteland.
"Westel--" Cal stopped short at the look he received and back tracked. "Captain, I truly did wish to fight. I wanted to personally take the head of the Lich King, just like the rest of our kin. Possibly more, considering what happened to our brother."
A heavy sigh left Westel as he thought back. Vathal, one of the cities brightest young mages, would have been within the city walls as Arthas and his scourge marched through. He imagined his brother incinerating dozens of Arthas' cold soldiers before eventually falling, outnumbered. And he imagined Cal's supposed attempts to save their brother. Knowing what he knew now, it was no wonder Caloneth failed; he probably never even felled a single attacker.
"I did try, you know." Cal's voice had dropped to a soft whisper, his words nearly carried away by the wind. "I saw them coming for him. I tried to call out but...but I just couldn't. Everything was chaos and I couldn't get to him in time. I was still maybe fifteen feet away when I saw him drop to the ground."
Caloneth went quiet, reliving those last moments over and over in his mind. Westel turned to peer at him, his sharp features contorted in confusion. His older brother had gone very pale as he recounted the tale and his eyes glistened with unshed tears. Feeling rather uncomfortable, Westel cleared his throat and moved as if to rest his hand on Cal's shoulder, but instead stepped past him, kicking at the sand. "Well, uh--"
"I think about it all the time. I should have been able to warn him. Or get there quicker to help him. But instead I turned and ran as waves of scourge trampled over our brother's body." Caloneth shook his head. "Dess was the one who said I was a hero. Trying valiantly to save my brother. She was away on business with the Kirin Tor at the time of the invasion, but I had told her what happened. After word got around, well...it just got out of hand."
Westel glanced up, meeting Caloneth's eyes. He searched his brother's face, wishing for a moment that he was lying. That Cal felt no guilt, or that he had never even tried to save Vathal, or that he had truly spread those tall tales. West could find no evidence of this, though. Cal merely stood before him, vulnerable and with guilt and shame weighing heavily on his shoulders. And he was looking at Westel as if he might have the words to sweep it all away.
Yet all West had to say was, "Got a nasty cut there on your cheek. We should go get it looked at. Let's go." He turned and bent to retrieve Caloneth's sword, handing it over to him, hilt first. Caloneth stood motionless at first, unsure, until Westel had to physically place the sword in his hand. "You'll be needing this," he said.
"Yes sir..." Cal nodded and sheathed his blade behind his back.
Westel nodded in turn and they both trudged towards the outpost, leaving the battlefield behind them.
Getting into the Alliance fortress had been the easy part.
Preceded by a barrage of artillary fire, Westel and his team made a slow approach along the shore, mostly concealed by smoke and all around chaos. The alliance infantry that did spot them were easily cut down by either Matero, Alvaris, or Westel.
Lead by the stealthy Matero, who either killed or incapacitated any soldiers in their path, the team was able to plant the wards successfully without raising too much alarm. For a moment, Westel had been confident that this was an easy in-and-out mission and they would be back at Domination Point in time for lunch.
He had not, however, taken into account the watchmen flying their gryphons overhead. Within seconds it felt like the entire Alliance army was on their heels. Alvaris and Caloneth both insisted that they stand and fight, but Westel wouldn't have it. The mage, Isais Vi'le provided enough cover in the form of both fire and ice to put a decent amount of distance between them and their pursuers. Westel urged them on. Surely if they got to the beach, the chaos of the battle and the cover of artillary would allow them to get out from behind enemy lines in one piece.
West had been right, for the most part. Two members of his team, however, had to be carried back up to Sparklight Outpost. Isais fell to a gunshot wound and the priestess Edanna suffered a severe wound to her side when she stopped to heal him. Westel could not help but be thankful for Caloneth's large stature when Isais needed to be carried quickly down the beach.
They were a rough sight to see when the elves stumbled through the portal leading back to Domination Point, but Westel receieved what seemed like a genuine congratulations from General Nazgrim when he reported their success.
For what remained of the day, Westel stayed in the infirmary with the injured. The healers saw to Isais fairly quickly and he was escorted back to their quarters. Because Edanna's state was not considered critical, it took a while for the healers to get to her. West distracted her with a book of parables written by Pandaren monks until the healers finally got around to taking care of her.
It was late into the night when Westel and Edanna returned to the bunker. Everyone had already fallen asleep, it seemed, completely spent after the day's events.
Physically, Westel was exhausted. It was a chore to move one foot in front of the other. Mentally, however, he was wide awake. A small table and chair were situated against the wall, and there Westel sat with a soft sigh. He rummaged through his bags until he found a thin, leatherbound journal and his pen. By the soft glow of candle light, West wrote down what he could remember of the mission; he recorded the good and the bad, who did what, etc. He reminded himself that the mission had not been a complete failure; they had accomplished their goal after all.
As he closed the journal, finally ready to turn in, two envelopes slipped from their pages. Wes paused, frowning softly as he lifted one of the envelopes and slipped from it a small stack of goblin photographs. Slowly he looked through them, pictures of Anais and Laurelia playing, a grinning Kuvasei, and Astoreth with that soft smile of hers--
"Who's that?"
West nearly jumped right out of his chair. He turned around to find Caloneth curiously peering over his shoulder at the photos. Westel instinctively rested his hand over the simple photo of Astoreth as Cal tried to get a good look at her. "Er...that'd be my wife."
"Your wife?" Cal looked surprised and tried to see the photo through Westel's fingers.
"Yes, my wife." He tried to slip his photos into their envelope but Cal reached over West's shoulder and snatched them up.
"I didn't know you were married." He held the grainy photograph near the candle light. "She's pretty," he observed, flipping through the photos.
"Married last June." Westel sat stiffly, watching Caloneth look through the stack, certain that they would end up in flames any moment.
"And who's this?" He held out the picture of a smiling, shoeless teen.
"Her name's Kuvasei." West paused, but Caloneth seemed to want more of an answer than that. "My wife..uh...Astoreth adopted her before we were married. She's a good kid."
Caloneth nodded and plucked up the next picture in the stack of a baby girl no older than two.
"Laurelia," said Westel before his brother could ask. "She's Astoreth's daughter from a former marriage."
"Why do you have a picture of her?" Cal brought the photo to the candle light again, peering closely at LaLa.
"Well...she's practically my own." He sighed softly, looking down at the photograph of the baby girl with her toes in her mouth. "I love her like my own, anyways. I bathe her, make her food, put her to bed. I was there when she took her first steps." West furrowed his brow. Why did he have to explain all this to Cal? What interest did he have in his family?
Caloneth then held up a picture of a six year old girl with fly-away black hair and a huge grin. "Your wife adopt her too?"
"Well...technically."
"Technically?"
"Anais is mine..uh...she's six. Astoreth adopted her after we married."
"Six? Huh..." Caloneth frowned softly and leaned back against the wall, peering at the photograph of Anais. "Yeah...yeah I remember now, Melody telling me about this one. Didn't tell me you were married though."
"I s'pose she didn't think you'd really care, Cal."
The paladin blinked and tilted his head, a line creasing his brow. Westel gently plucked his pictures from Cal's hands and placed them back into their envelope. An awkward silence settled between them as West packed his things away. Though his questions had quieted, Cal still curiously reached for the remaining envelope laying on the table.
"Don't touch those." West hissed.
"Why?" A slow smirk tugged at Caloneth's lips as his fingers inched towards the now forbidden envelope.
"They're..." Westel faltered, unsure how to describe this without simply tempting Cal more. "They're just private."
A split second later, the brothers darted towards the table in an effort to get the envelope. Cal, being closer, seized it first and held it high above his head, grinning. "What is it, Westy?"
"You've got to be fucking kidding. I'm not six anymore, Caloneth." Westel whispered furiously, even as he jumped up to try to rescue his photos from Cal. The paladin chuckled quietly and turned his back on West, trying to get a look at what he was so desperately trying to hide. "Stop!" Westel growled, ducking under Caloneth's elbow to snatch his property away. "Didn't mother ever teach you not to touch what wasn't yours? Good gods." Scowling, West stashed the photographs away in his bag and glared up at his older brother.
Cal simply laughed, shaking his head. "When did you get so serious, lil' Westy?"
Westel stared. "You...I can't....Go to bed, Sorrelon. You're lucky I don't put you on..latrine duty or some shit." Bag in hand, Westel pushed past Cal and climbed up into his hammock. "And blow the candle out."
"West--" Cal stopped short as his words were met with a malevolent glare. He sighed, turned to extinguish the candle, and vanished with the light.
Ranger Lord Leafshade had never liked Westel, just as she had never liked his father Tyren. There was one difference in their situations, though. Tyren had made Phaedra Leafshade's life rather difficult. Westel remembered watching them interact when he was a young Ranger; Tyren would flirt with her, as he did anyone else with breasts, and she fell for it every time. Her cheeks would glow bright pink, her typical frown would morph into a shy smile and she'd even twirl her copper hair as she giggled at some ridiculous joke he was whispering in her ear.
Leafshade was not anywhere near Tyren's type, though. Anyone that could beat him in an armwrestling match, as she certainly could, was not fit to share his bed. But he did flirt with her, he strung her along until it finally dawned on him that she was smitten and he had not the slightest interest in her or her body. Needless to say, she did not take it well.
When Ranger Captain Leafshade was eventually promoted to Ranger Lord Leafshade, she took out all her anger and frustrations on Tyren. When Tyren died, Phaedra's revenge turned onto Westel.
"I just do not think it is appropriate for my brother to be under my command." Argued Westel, doing his best not to overstep his boundaries. The moment he raised his voice just slightly, he'd be in trouble.
"I'm sorry, Captain, but your relationship with Lord Sorrelon is not on record. In our military records we have you with one parent, no siblings." Leafshade smiled pleasantly up at Westel. "My hands are tied."
Bull shit Westel wanted to say. His birth into the Sorrelon family was Silvermoon City public record, and the Silvermoon and Horde military had access to it. Somehow, she had found out about his estrangement from his brother, he was positive.
West argued until he teetered on the edge of insubordination. Leafshade desperately wanted him to cross that line, and so he kept himself in check. Quietly, he thanked her for her time and turned to leave, but the Ranger Lord called him back.
"While you're here, Captain Firewing, I have your team's first orders."
"Orders?" His brow furrowed in confusion even as he reached for the scroll in her hand. "I've had mere hours to get to know them, I don't know their strengths, weaknesses..."
"New sentry wards need to be placed in prominent areas around Lion's Landing," Leafshade continued as if Westel had never spoken. "Brief your team and start towards Sparklight Outpost at first light. You will receive more information there. Understood?"
Westel hesitated.
"Is that undestood, Captain?"
"Yes ma'am." He slipped the orders into his back and saluted her stiffly.
It was Caloneth that broke the lingering silence in the form of a great guffaw. All eyes turned onto the paladin as he held his stomach and shook with loud laughter. He wiped a nonexistent tear from the corner of his eye and managed to compose himself enough to chuckle, "Little Westy!" Cal stepped forward as if to embrace him, but Westel stepped away. The paladin paused and laughed again. "Who would have guessed? All these years and now you and I end up in the same squad!" The coincidence was so hilarious that once again dissolved into uncontrollable chuckling.
Westel straightened his posture and looked over Cal's shoulder at the rest of the assembly. His lips spread into a thin smile as he did his best to appear unaffected by Cal's amusement. "Welcome to Domination Point," he paused and looked from face to face until finally allowing his gaze to fall on Caloneth. "I am Ranger Captain Westel Firewing. You may address me as such, but Captain Firewing or simply Captain will do."
That wiped the grin off Cal's face.
West's glare remained on the paladin as he continued. "I will be your commanding officer during this campaign, or until new orders are given. This is Lieutenant Matero Eventide," he gestured to the stout rogue at his side, "if I am not around, or should I fall in battle, you answer to him." Westel watched with some amusement as Caloneth struggled to take all this information in. His attention turned to the entire group and he raised his voice.
"All of you have found yourselves on the shores of an entirely new land. It would be wise to note that there are more dangers here than the Alliance down the beach. As time warrants, I will fill you in on the goings on here. For now, however, I just want to get you settled this evening. If you'll follow me..."
Westel turned sharply and lead the group away from the dock and back inside the fortress. He gave them a brief tour, showing them where they could get repairs, train, and eat. He pointed out the flak cannons and explained the drill during an aerial assault. Lastly, he brought them to the barracks and showed them their quarters.
"We share this area. It is small, so I expect you all to keep it neat. No boots or gear left out in the middle of the floor. If we have to leave quickly for any reason, I do not want someone tripping over boots and breaking their neck. Understood?"
Alvaris Brightbane, a tall and broad shouldered woman, immediately stood at attention and bellowed an enthusiastic, "Yes sir!" The others quickly followed suit.
Except Cal.
This was what Westel had been waiting for. His lips thinned and he stepped toward the paladin. "Is that understood, soldier?" He asked quietly. Caloneth sneered and moved to close the distance between them. "Sorry, Westy, but I don't think I can take orders from my baby brother."
For a moment, Westel was a boy again, small and scrawny and unable to stand up to his bully of an older brother. The moment quickly passed however. He was an adult now, he reasoned with himself. An adult that outranked his older brother. "You will obey orders, Sorrelon, or you will find yourself on your ass so fast you won't know what happened."
Quietly, Cal snickered and mistakenly tried to push Westel back.
Westel was a strict commander, but he usually tried to avoid physical confrontations with the soldiers he was in charge of. When Cal's hand moved towards him, however, Westel did not have to think about seizing the bigger elf's wrist, twisting his arm behind his back, and shoving him face first against the wall.
The room had gone absolutely silent besides Cal's grunts and swears as he tried in vain to escape Westel's pin. Westel let him tire out a little before leaning forward to whisper in his older brother's ear.
"Not so fun when you're on the other side, is it, Cal?" He tightened his grip and pushed on Cal's arm, causing the elf's legs to almost give out as his body tried to escape the pain. "This place is hellish enough and I have no desire to make it worse for you. But I will if I must. Is that understood?"
Caloneth was silent until Westel once again pushed up at his arm. He gasped out a "Yes!"
"Yes what?" West demanded.
"Yes Captain."
Westel allowed a satisfied smile to curl at his lips. "And you will help keep our quarters absolutely immaculate, right?"
"Yes, Captain."
Nodding, Westel released Caloneth and stepped away. His muscles tensed as Cal turned from the wall, anticipating retaliation. None came, however. Instead, Caloneth drew himself up to his full height, brought his heels together, and pressed his fist to his chest. Even with the gesture, Westel could see the contempt in the paladin's features.
West turned to the rest of the group, tugging awkwardly at his ear. "Please, make yourselves comfortable. You will be here a while. If you need anything, see Lieutenant Eventide. I have some business to attend to." The group murmured their "Yes sir" and "Yes Captain", but Westel was already on his way out the door. Leafshade had some explaining to do.
"Captain Firewing," the white haired ranger poked his head around the corner, "the ships are arriving."
As Westel turned to face him, the ranger stood up straight, heels together, and brought his right fist to his chest. West waved a dismissive hand as he strode past, muttering, "At ease, Matero."
"Do you have the orders?" Westel questioned as he walked through the barracks and into the cold drizzle outside. A group of orcs tore across the path and splattered mud onto his red and gold tabard. With a sigh, Westel brushed some of the muck away and looked expectantly to the Lieutenant at his side. Matero fumbled with the leather tube encasing the scrolls addressed to the Ranger Captain and finally produced the proper one.
Westel continued to move through the fortress, towards the docks as the small rogue trotted at his heels to keep up. "Ships should arrive at oh-seven-hundred," Matero read slowly, occasionally stumbling over some of the words. "The Dawn's Lady will be trans...transporting your squad." Matero glanced up just in time to keep from colliding with Westel's back as they came to a halt. He staggered to the Ranger Captain's side and read on, "Their names are listed below. Give them a short briefing on the current state of affairs. Once they are famil-- familiar? Familiar with the area, you will re...receive official orders."
Matero peered up at Westel nervously. The Ranger Captain lofted a brow and peered down at the damp paper in the rogue's hands. "Is that all?" He asked, looking back out at the ships as they neared the docks. The Dawn's Lady was not difficult to spot among the dark orcish ships, with her bright gold sails and Sin'dorei flags flaring in the wind. "No," Matero began, "there is a bit more before the list of soldiers." Westel sighed and clasped his hands behind his back. "Then continue, please."
Pushing his damp hair away from his eyes, the small rogue read the last few lines. "It would be wise to note that your performance reflects upon all Sin'dorei. Remember, Ranger Captain, that there is more at stake here than your promotion."
Westel's lips thinned and his gaze dropped to his boots. "Fuck Leafshade," he grumbled. West snorted and looked back up as supplies were unloaded from the ships. "Old woman probably hasn't touched a bow since before the Second War." He shook his head and looked to Matero for affirmation. Wisely, the rogue nodded in agreement. Westel shook his head and bid Matero to begin reading off the names of the elves under his command.
"Alvaris Brightbane, a warrior specializing in protection...Edanna Felo'dal, a healer..." As the Lieutenant listed off the names, Westel watched as orcs, tauren, goblins, and elves made their way onto the dock. His brow furrowed as a few elves descended the ramp of the Dawn's Lady. He had never lead anyone but Rangers before. West was suddenly regretting his insistence that he be allowed command over a small team of Sin'dorei.
"...Isais Vi'le, battle mage and..."
A bright, golden head appeared above the throng of helms, and green skin. Westel stiffened as the paladin drew nearer, behind the rest of the Dawn's Lady passengers. "They couldn't possibly..." He wrenched the paper out of Matero's hands just as the rogue announced the name.
The estate was nestled comfortably in the woods, just far away enough from the city to lend some privacy, but not so distant as to be isolated from civilized society. It was a tall, white building with a Sin'dorei red roof and sparse windows and often acted as the nerve center for some of Silvermoon society's grandest parties. Today, though, the white building with its red roof and few windows stood very quiet.
Lounging in a patio chair was Caloneth Sorrelon--the younger, of course. Young Caloneth Sorrelon, heroic paladin of Silvermoon. Caloneth, the handsome Lord and socialite for whom women swoon in the streets. Caloneth who slew dozens of Scourge the day Silvermoon fell in a valiant attempt to save his younger brother's life. That Caloneth, of course.
Cal watched as a young gardener tended to the property, wrestling stubborn weeds from the ground. Lucky boy, though Caloneth, the gardener lead such a simple life. What did he have to worry about? The only war the young man had to think about was the one he waged against weeds and insects. The knight heaved a great sigh and read over the scroll that had been delivered that morning.
Part of him had thought, foolishly, that he would be able to avoid involvement in this latest war. He was an esteemed veteran, after all! But he accepted that by tomorrow, he would be aboard a Horde vessel making its way to this continent now called Pandaria. There he would fight for the glory of the Horde and the honor of the Sin'dorei. He was positive that if Lor'themar was so invested in this, there had to be something in it for their people.
Bored with overseeing his workers, Caloneth marched inside, calling for a servant.
"When will the Lady be getting home?" He demanded when the servant appeared.
The girl, already petite for a Sin'dorei, had to tilt her head all the way back to make eye contact with her employer. "The Lady planned to be home by dinner, sir, but sent word that she will be delayed."
Cal frowned and glanced down at his boots, thinking. "Well then...have someone begin packing my things, I leave at first light. And be sure roast is on the menu if it shall just be me this evening."
Late into the night, Dessandra arrived home. The Magistrix did this often, and typically Caloneth ignored it. Tonight, though, he was furious.
"Where have you been?!" He demanded the moment Dess waltzed in the door.
The red head arched a thin brow and her lips curled into a sly smile. "Now, dear, I don't ask that of you when you stumble in at all hours of the night."
Cal faltered at that, but regained his composure an instant later. "I need to talk to you. When you say you will be home for dinner, you should be home for dinner."
Dess laughed and pushed by him. "Is that all? If not, I want to make some tea first. Would you like any?"
"Not like you to extend such courtesies," grumbled Cal as he followed his wife through the dark home and into the kitchen.
"Well, darling, I am in too fine of a mood to let you ruin it with your sour puss attitude. So I am placating you with tea. Be quiet and sit down."
Cal did as he was asked, waiting in silence for Dess to prepare her tea and finally settle down across from him at the servant's dining table.
"Now, what is so important that you need to keep me up after a long day at work?" She peered at him over the rim of her tea cup, lips poised to drink while Cal spoke.
He showed his wife the letter, explaining how he would leave in but a few hour's time for Pandaria to represent the Sin'dorei for Lor'themar. Dess paid the piece of paper little mind, simply listening with as much interest as she cared to spare anything at this hour. Finally, Cal finished his verbose tale of receiving the orders and how it had affected his day and she was able to speak up.
"Are you asking me to get you out of it? I could probably talk to someone in the morning, if I actually got a wink of sleep tonight."
Cal was appalled. "No I am not asking you to get me out of my commission! I'll fight with honor for the Sin'dorei."
Dess was oddly amused by this, but Cal knew better than to inquire why it was she giggled so gleefully at his response. She liked to ruffle his feathers and it usually worked. "Well then," she began, trailing her finger tip around the rim of her tea cup, "I'll make sure all your things are in order and will accompany you to the ship in the morning. Is this acceptable?" She rose from the table, making it clear in her voice that there was no other answer but 'Yes'.
Slowly, Cal nodded and his wife nodded in kind, turning to leave. A thought, however, gave her pause. She looked back over her shoulder, a curious smile on her lips. "Who did it say was going to be your commanding officer?"
"Someone named Firewing." He thrust the paper up for her to see the name written under who he was to report to. "A Ranger, can you believe that? Putting me under the command of a ranger." He scoffed and rolled the letter back up.
"Mm...unbelievable indeed." Dess smile and wiggled her fingers at her husband. "Try not to wake me when you do finally come to bed, hm?"
The boy, tangled up in his bedsheets, swatted weakly in the general direction of the voice that disturbed his sleep.
"Westel! You lazy, incompetent, child. You're late!"
That got his attention. Westel sprang from his bed, dragging his sheets with him , and stumbled to his wardrobe. Hurriedly, his robe was pulled directly over his pajamas and he turned towards the slim, golden haired young man standing by his bed.
"How is this, Vathal?" The robe was much too large, the hem dragging the floor and sleeves extending far beyond his hands, with one shoulder slipping down. West looked quite proud of his garment, however, and stood awaiting his elder brother's opinion.
Vathal twisted his lips, regarding the younger boy. "Did you have to pick such a...revolting color?" He inquired, eyebrow quirked. While the Quel'dorei were fond of their bright colors, the robe his brother had picked out was the most eye-searing shade of yellow.
Westel's ears drooped slightly and he busied himself with rolling up his sleeves, "Well...it was all I could afford."
With a sigh, Vathal beckoned his younger brother to follow him from the room. The house was dark, and the two endeavored to remain silent as they journeyed to the study. Vathal glided easily through the hallways, barely even disturbing his robe. Westel, meanwhile, had some trouble. While he tried to emulate his brother to the best of his ability, he continually stumbled over the too-long robe, wincing as he feared waking the entire household with his clumsiness. Impatient, Vathal pulled the boy along until they finally reached the study unhindered.
"So, what is giving you trouble, Wessy?" Vathal sneered as he strode about the room, lighting candles with a flick of his wrist.
Westel scowled at the nickname, though watched with earnest as flames magically flickered to life, illuminating the study in a soft orange light. With a sigh, his ears drooped and he collapsed into one of the large armchairs by the bookshelves. "...everything, really." He admitted dismally.
***
For a month, the two brothers met in the dark of night as student and teacher. Vathal had long advanced beyond all other elves his age in the area of arcane studies. Westel, though, had fallen far behind those his age. In their late night studies, Vathal stressed the basics and while over the weeks West made minor improvements, his older brother refused to teach new material until Westel had complete mastery of fundamentals.
When not in nocturnal study sessions, Westel often stowed away in his room with books borrowed from the study and from Vathal. He would sit hunched over at his desk, staring alternately between an open text and a fresh candle. During the days, he would try over and over again with little to no results and in the evenings he would lament his failures to Vathal, who in turn would instruct his pupil to continue trying. Eventually, Vathal insisted, the boy would get it.
***
"Come on," Westel begged, desperate eyes trained on his still pristine candle. By now he had memorized the spell, and while the words fell seamlessly from his lips all he could produce were a few measly sparks. Conviction, he recalled Vathal saying. Westel drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes, envisioning that candle alight. You must have that fire inside of you first. Slowly, he exhaled through his nose and opened his eyes, focused on nothing but the candle wick. He lifted his left hand, precisely uttering the proper words....
"VATHAL!" Westel leaped to his feet and darted from his room, blazing candle in hand. "Vathal! I did it!" He cried as he sprinted down the hall to the studious elf's room. Without thinking, Westel barged inside nearly shouting, "Look! I did it!" He practically hopped forward to present his candle, but stopped short. Two handsome blond heads had turned to regard the young dark haired boy in his gaudy yellow robes.
Cal lofted a sculpted brow and stood from the edge of Vathal's bed, staring down at his youngest brother. "What on Azeroth are you wearing, little Wessy?" He plucked at the slipping shoulder of Westel's robe, lips curled into a cruel smirk.
"A robe..." Came Westel's timid reply. He sought out Vathal's face behind Cal's broad frame and found the former looking on impassively. "I've been practicing my mage studies," he tried to elaborate, but Cal's abrupt laughter cut him off.
"Didn't you quit those months ago? Thought you were hopeless at that like you were hopeless at sword play." The burly elf leaned down to blow out Westel's flame, but the boy quickly shielded it.
"No!" He said with a ferocity that surprised even himself. "I have been practicing...and I finally managed to do this." Once more he presented his candle, looking to Vathal for his approval.
The second eldest of the Sorrelon boys glided over, a pair of spectacles perched upon his nose. "To do...what?"
Westel lost some of the conviction he had started with. "To...to produce fire. Make a flame."
Cal snorted and Vathal's eyes were drawn to the oldest elf's critical sneer. He cleared his throat and adopted his haughtier tone. "You call that little flicker a flame? Westel I was half your age when I could light candles one after the other. There is little you could possibly do to impress me. Now be gone, Cal and I were busy and we hardly have time for your trivial intrusions." He waved his hand dismissively, and with one last flicker, Westel's flame was gone.
Disheartened and humiliated, Westel turned to leave with Cal's snickering and Vathals' murmur of "witless boy" at his back. Later that evening, Westel had rid his room of all his books and Lady Sorrelon was rather confused upon finding an atrocious yellow robe in the garbage bin.
I was not more than five or six when I first climbed one of the many trees surrounding my family's property. On the way up, nothing had ever felt more natural and as I sat high above to observe the forest around me, I felt both powerful and content. Unfortunately, making my way down was not as easy as climbing up. It was well past supper time when my brothers came looking for me and spotted me clinging to the tree trunk, too scared to make any sort of movements.
After a while of laughter and jeering on their part, they left to fetch father. By the time he sauntered on out of the house, already dressed for bed, I was nearly down. He waited in silence until my feet touched the ground, then proceeded to chastise me--not for risking my health in climbing trees, but for missing dinner and being out past dark. He then forbade anymore tree climbing, and said should I do so again and end up hurting myself, I would see no sympathy from him.
For a while, I listened. However, I often found myself looking out my bedroom window and reliving that thrill I got during the climb, as well as the terror I experienced when I discovered I had to eventually get down. Such a memory might deter most children, but I took it as a challenge and every time I glanced out at the forest on the edge of the property it was as if the trees were egging me on.
I took to scaling the trees when my father was gone on business, which was often. It gave me ample time to get up and down the trees until I found the courage to leap down from one of the lower branches instead of wiggle the rest of the way down the trunk. Eventually, the trees became my safe haven when my elder brothers were bored and sought me out for entertainment. Neither of them ever tried to follow me up into my trees.
One late afternoon, I was feeling especially daring for some reason. I had been trapped inside for most of the day, suffering my asinine studies of etiquette and family history and I was anxious to get out and get some mud on my shoes. I decided to ignore the fact that my father was home for the evening already, and I set out for my trees.
It was a tree I often sought solace with. It was especially tall and had plenty of cover so no one could see me perched on a branch high above the ground. I was comfortable with this tree, and climbing was second nature to me now. So you can imagine my shock when half way up, the branch I was using to pull myself up snapped.
The next thing I knew, I was at the foot of the tree, clutching my arm with the breath knocked out of me and tears streaming down my face. When I regained some of my senses, I noticed that I was not alone. My father, who had probably been watching me the entire time, stood over me. I continued to sob and try to put together some kind of coherent sentence, and he continued to stand in silence. Finally, once my sobs had subsided into hiccups and sniffles, he spoke up.
"That hurt?"
I nodded feebly.
"Good. Go inside and get cleaned up for dinner." He turned and began to walk away, then stopped and looked back at me with a critical eye. "Do not let me see you crying again."
I did as he said.
Again, most kids would have allowed such an event to keep them away from trees for good. And for a while, I did. It was as if my trees-- my trees-- had betrayed me, I thought. Well, that eventually just pissed me off more and once my wrist had healed I returned to climbing them. I still fell, and every time my father was there to watch me while I struggled with the pain.
I never cried though, not in front of him. I had made the decision to go against what he told me. He was just holding up his end of the bargain. I decided to climb the trees, the falls and resulting injuries were my problem.
Eventually, though, I was able to pick myself up and dust myself off before he reached my side. And when I did so, I told him I would see him at dinner and limped off back to the house.
The letter arrived first thing in the morning, though it did not find its way into Cersei Sorrelon's delicate hands until brunch. As she settled down at the table, opposite her husband, a servant approached. Usually if there was any mail, it was all handed over to Caloneth, even the mail intended for his wife. However, the envelope that was slipped onto the table before Cersei was a special one. The handwriting on the back, spelling out only her name, was vaguely familiar, but it was the wax seal on the front that had caught the attention of the old servant.
"Impossible..." Cersei murmured, one well-manicured finger brushing over the wings of the phoenix on the seal.
"Pardon?" Caloneth had looked up from his own mail and was peering curiously across the long table at his wife--or more specifically, at what had captured his wife's attention.
Cersei swallowed back a few un-ladylike words and fixed a well practice smile onto her face. "Just some mail," she said with her soft, lilting voice. Her eyes dropped back to the envelope in her hands. Well, now Caloneth was paying attention to her; there was no hiding this message. Delicately she broke the seal and lifted two folded pieces of parchment. It took an immense amount of will to keep her hands from shaking as she slowly unfolded the first piece.
He is long dead...It has almost been a century. He is dead.
A tense silence permeated the dining room as Cersei read over the letter, and Caloneth watched. With a carefully controlled countenance, Cersei set down the first letter and picked up the second, an invitation. A small line creased the space between her eyebrows, and she lifted the first paper again. It certainly was not what she had expected, though it was not any less shocking either. Quietly she pondered until Caloneth could no longer take it.
"Well?" He snapped, leaning forward.
"Our son is getting married," Said Cersei, looking slowly up and across the table at the aging Magister.
Caloneth narrowed his eyes and steepled his fingers. "Cal is already married."
"Our other son, dear."
"Vathal is dead."
Cersei sighed and straightened her posture, beginning to cut up her omelet before it got cold. "Westel."
Across the table, the Lord snorted. "Your son, you mean."
Cersei's lips thinned and she bowed her head, without response. Caloneth had never openly acknowledged Westel as his son. Why should he, he would argue when the boy was young and Cersei brought it up. After all, Westel really was not his son. When Westel cried as an infant, Caloneth would alert Cersei that her son was making a fuss. She needed to control her son when he acted out as he got older. And Cersei could not argue, could not complain. It was good of Caloneth to even let Westel live with them.
"So, the boy is getting married again. What sort of Murder Row orphan did he pick up this time?" Caloneth sneered and stabbed a small potato with his fork.
Cersei glanced at the invitation and allowed the slightest of smirks to tug at her lips. "Lady Astoreth Duskflame."
That wiped the sneer off the Lord's face. "Duskflame?" He asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Were they not all wiped out?"
"I believe a few of the children survived." Replied Cersei, though she was uncertain.
Caloneth just snorted again.
"What?"
"It must be a joke. That boy, or someone that thinks they're funny, is playing a joke."
Cersei sighed and tucked the letter and invitation into the envelope. "Perhaps you are right."
When brunch was over, Caloneth left for some kind of business in the city and Cersei busied herself with to-do lists for the estate. She marched through the halls, sending servants in every direction on jobs and errands. She had much to do, but the letter nagged at the back of her mind. As one young servant girl came bustling up to to her with some kind of inquiry involving candle holders, Cersei waved her away and excused herself to her room.
Over and over she read the letter, to the point of memorizing it.
"Fifteen years," she murmured quietly. Cersei shook her head and dug her planner from her desk drawer and swiftly wrote under June 30th:
This is the last thing I would have ever guessed Astoreth and I to disagree on. We seldom speak of our families; Astoreth's family was all but wiped out in the fall, with just her and Cearalaith as the sole survivors--that is the story she tells anyways--meanwhile, my family suffered losses here and there, included my second eldest brother Vathal, once believed to be a prodigy of the arcane arts. However, the rest of my immediate family still lives, just without me.
Fifteen years ago I stormed out of those marble halls in a fury. For over a century of my life, my parents had kept from me my real identity. My story. Cersei, with her well-practiced benign smile, tried to convince me that it was all for my own good. I scoffed at this. Since when had she cared for my well-being, really? I told my mother what I truly thought of her, and my father, and this life they had formed around a society I could find no meaning in. They were shallow and frivolous and scheming and good for nothing but choosing the proper wine and hors d'oeuvres.
Never able to form a single thought of her own, my mother was silent and I left. Other than the Winter's Veil cards I received every year for a time, I had no communication with her or anyone else, other than my little sister, and on occasion I would run into Vathal in the city.
Lady Cesei Sorrelon,
Knowing all of this. Knowing that my mother ignored me for most of my childhood, knowing that I was never truly loved by her as a son, knowing that she has not reached out to me in fifteen years, even after knowing about the birth of her granddaughter...Astoreth still wants to invite her to our wedding.
In a way, I suppose it is only fair for Astoreth to force my mother upon me as I try to force Cearalaith upon her. But it is different, damn it. They are sisters who merely disagree, but still love each other fiercely. Cersei Sorrelon holds no such emotion for me. Astoreth refuses to believe that to be true. She is certain that somewhere in that heart shrouded by high society, my mother loves me as any mother should love her son. There is a part of me that wants my fiance to prove me wrong.
Astoreth says that her highest hope is that my mother is as shallow as I claim her to be, and that she will come to our wedding due to the fact that I am betrothed to a noble, someone of a higher class than even my mother, I would say. As we "discussed" this issue recently, I snapped at Astoreth that I did not want my mother there. Why give Cersei the satisfaction of knowing that I had finally found my way back into the world of political functions, fanciful balls, and two-faced scheming and gossiping? Oh I have no doubt she would be very pleased that I was, indeed, becoming the proper Sorrelon boy she attempted to shape me into so many years ago. I would hope the name Firewing on the invitation would be a nice smack in the face for her though.
Lord and Lady Sorrelon,
I think after seeing how riled up I was getting, Astoreth decided to drop it. But then I figured out why, perhaps, she was pushing the issue. Again, Astoreth does not speak often of her family unless prompted. I know she considered her older brothers--Rangers I served beside in the hours they died--to be assholes, but I also know she loved them. I know she was closest to her father, whom she greatly admired. I know she envied Cearalaith for her fair hair and easily pretty features, but she also loves and would protect her always. And I know she considered her mother to be silly and air-headed, but she was her mother after all. Astoreth misses her family, and I think she sees me with a family still intact and she misses them more.
It was a bit like a slap in the face when she basically informed me that there was something wrong with the fact that I have pretended my mother to be dead longer than hers actually had been. I rant and grumble and growl about my ridiculous, selfish, shallow family...meanwhile Astoreth's was taken from her, long before she was old enough to really appreciate them all just yet.
Well fuck me. I still do not think my mother will come, but if the simple extension of an invitation will please Astoreth, I will do it.
Mother,
Enclosed, you will find an invitation for my wedding. I am unsure if Melody has already informed you of the upcoming event or not, but my fiance thought it prudent to offer you an announcement of sorts before simply giving you an admittedly sparsely detailed invitation. I am to wed Lady Astoreth Duskflame, daughter of the late Lord Kieran and Lady Orlaith Duskflame. You may be familiar with the names, at least. We currently reside in an estate in Quel'thalas, along with your granddaughter, Anais, and Astoreth's child, Laurelia. Should you desire or need further correspondence with either myself or Lady Duskflame, I am sure you will figure out how to reach us.
