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| Details |
| Author: | Luridel |
| Summary: | Bertrand and Zathary talk about girls. Three girls in particular. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
It is late in the evening at Wintergarde, and under the dim light of the stars and the aurora Captain Zath Tyrrell strides across the grounds in his heavy black coat with an illusory air of purpose. Only if one watches him for an extended period does one notice that he is simply pacing to one location, stopping, and then pacing purposefully back toward another, as though on some solitary unofficial patrol between the inn, the outer gate, and the barracks.
Bertrand, exiting the inn with a happy smile on his face, still takes notice. "Hey, Captain!" he calls cheerfully, making his way down the hill to meet Tyrrell.
Tyrrell exhales heavily, forming a large cloud in the frigid air. "Did your lady enjoy the tour?" he says. He sounds a bit stiff, possibly from the cold.
"She did!" Bertrand smiles, his expression going a little dreamy for a moment before he shakes it off. "How did you like her?"
For a moment his face warms a little a slight smile softening the grim edges of his mouth. "She seems to be a delightful woman," he says. "Bright, engaged and interested in her surroundings, a gracious hostess, and clearly devoted to you. You are a lucky man."
"I am," Bertrand agrees. "You look like you're freezing out here. Were you waiting for me?"
"Ah, no," he says, then hesitates. "Not… explicitly, no, I just… I think better when on the move, so I was—" He makes a sweeping circular gesture with one hand. "Though it is good to see you, and I was curious what she thought of the place."
Bertrand nods, sticking his gloved hands into his coat pockets. His nose is a little red, probably because he's been out in the cold. "She said there were fewer ghouls scaling the walls than she'd feared."
"Give it a week," Tyrrell says dryly.
Bertrand laughs and shakes his head. "Hope we get a little longer than that. She's staying until Lady Esprit's business is concluded, and I'd rather they not get caught in the middle of this place getting swarmed."
"And just how long do you think that might be, exactly?" says Tyrrell. Almost between clenched teeth. Because of the cold, certainly.
"Not sure." Bertrand shrugs. "Perhaps as long as a week. You, uh… she doesn't really like to brag about this sort of thing, so I didn't really want to bring it up earlier, but, remember how you said that we'd be adequately supplied soon enough?"
"Yes?" Tyrrell says, his gray-streaked brow rising as though trying to merge with the gray streak on the same side of his hair.
"That'd be because of her. Lady Esprit's the one who got that going in the first place." Bertrand shrugs. "She's not some sort of… war profiteer. She knows everyone, she's got connections for days, and she's come up here in person to make sure that when our stuff gets here, it's the right stuff."
Another huge exhale, this one stormy enough to clearly be of frustration. "Well," he says. "Wonderful. Not only do I appear the boorish ingrate, but now I shall have to check any shipments that come my way for… Light knows what." He tugs sharply on the wrists of each glove in turn, as though the perfectly-fitted, warmly-lined black leather were in danger of falling off.
"Hey, you didn't know," Bertrand says, his tone sympathetic. "And you won't have to… she wouldn't do anything to them. We're getting the good stuff, Captain, that's the entire point."
"Yes, well now she's got some… bizarre nefarious plans involving me, and I don't know her well enough to know to what lengths she intends to stoop to bend me to her will." He tucks his hands under his arms, another sign that he is cold, and yet he makes no move whatsoever toward shelter.
"I'm sorry?" Bertrand looks like Tyrrell has said something genuinely nonsensical.
"So am I," says Tyrrell dryly.
"She what?" Maybe asking again will make this make more sense.
"Ah yes, you left before you could see her simultaneously declare her eternal dislike for me and also her determination to wed me."
Bertrand's jaw drops. Then he bursts out laughing. "Wow. Wow, she moves fast."
"Like a tram that's lost its track. And I am currently trapped in the tunnel with it."
Bertrand shakes his head. He seems amused. "Well, when's the wedding?"
"Plan for my funeral first," he snaps, then seems to remember that he is with Friend and should be Friendly. He exhales again and softens his tone. "I refused her unambiguously. I do not and will not engage in … political marriage machinations. I freed myself of all of that nonsense ages ago."
"I was just kidding," Bertrand says, unbothered. "But look, whatever she wants from you, she wouldn't make the 7th suffer for it. That's not the kind of person she is. She's Scilla's best friend, I've known her for years. So don't worry about the shipments, okay?"
"Very well," says Tyrrell, and briefly rests a hand on Bertrand's shoulder. "I shall remove that from the list of vexations she has brought to an already vexing season. If you know her well, perhaps you can help her to understand that I am not subject to her orders?"
Bertrand pats his hand. "Sure. If you wanna apologize about the supplies thing, I'll back you up. You didn't know." Bertrand jerks his head in the direction of the path. "Seriously, let's get somewhere warmer."
Tyrrell falls into step with Bertrand willingly, but repeats, "Apologize?" as though Bertrand has just asked him to sacrifice a kitten to C'Thun.
Bertrand shrugs. "I mean, I would want to. But then again, that's me." He doesn't seem genuinely invested in making Tyrrell apologize - he just seems focused on getting somewhere that isn't freezing.
"I fear that if I capitulate on any point it will only encourage her to believe that everything I say is negotiable, and so she will have to remain offended by my lack of gratitude. Though for the sake of your good opinion, I must assure you that I would never have treated her interest in our supplies with such hostility if I had known she was… supplying them. I am not a monster."
The emphasis suggests that he does consider himself something in the Monster Ballpark at the very least.
"I know," Bertrand says, and takes a hand out of his pocket to pat Tyrrell's arm as they walk. "Fair enough."
"But you say you know her well. Do you have any suggestions on how I might dissuade her? Since apparently she is not dissuaded by being treated similarly to something one unexpectedly finds on the sole of one's boot."
Bertrand considers this on the walk up. "I mean, marrying someone else would do the trick," he says, and shrugs. "I'll think about it."
"I do… I have considered… there is someone who has caught my interest," he says. "But… I do not want to rush the matter."
"Oh? Can't hurt to at least see if they're a little interested back, can it?" Bertrand smiles at him. "Good luck."
"Oh, I doubt she would be interested as of yet, but… perhaps you can… assist? With the approach? This is a matter I would not want to handle poorly." Tyrrell looks genuinely bashful, which is a strange look on him.
"I mean, sure." Bertrand nods.
Tyrrell takes a deep breath, and finds something along the path to look at that is not Bertrand. "I ah… I made the acquaintance of your younger brother and sister, the other night, as you know, and…" It sounds as though every word coming out of him is physically dragging razor blades over some portion of his viscera. "…Your sister made quite an impression upon me." He hurriedly adds, as though expecting to be challenged to a Duel, "I assure you, my intentions are nothing but intensely honorable. But I would like to know… I would like some idea of… of what delights her, so that I might… perhaps make an impression in return?"
Bertrand claps a hand to his mouth to keep himself from laughing again. "Cress? Oh, wow. Okay. Uh, clothes. She makes 'em, she designs them, she used to want to grow up to be a famous fashion designer before her magic manifested. We spent years on a farm during the fall of Stormwind, and Mother lost most of her wardrobe, because, you know, running, orcs," Bertrand waves a hand vaguely, "and Cress decided she was going to learn how to make clothes so that Mother could have something pretty to wear."
Tyrrell looks at Bertrand with soft, grateful eyes, softer than Bertrand has seen them, as though the other man is telling him something Inexpressibly Adorable and Charming. He just nods, seeming to have lost the power of speech.
"She's good at it. That robe she was wearing? Made that herself with something she calls shadowcloth." Bertrand sounds proud talking about his sister's accomplishments. "She and Cole are super close. He knows her better than I do. I've never heard her express any kind of romantic interest in anybody, but then again, she also spent most of her life engaged to Mordecai Harbrooke, and it wouldn't have been proper, then. So. I doubt she's used to getting offers."
"I see," says Tyrrell softly. "I certainly would not wish to alarm her." He sighs. "I had noticed that she was impeccably dressed. I wish I had known to say something. She is… truly extraordinary. I can honestly say that meeting her, hearing of her accomplishments — it was the first time in my life that I had even considered marriage. I have never seen a woman so thoroughly impressive in every way. But — I must sound ridiculous to you, speaking this way of someone you saw in swaddling clothes."
Bertrand laughs. "Nah, I get it. She is pretty impressive." They have made it up the hill and are now approaching the keep.
Tyrrell exhales again. "Thank you. Thank you for understanding. This is — this is all very new to me. I have — I am by no means immune to having my head turned by a pretty face, but this is — different. I find myself — I find that I feel unworthy of her. Did you feel that way, when you met your betrothed?"
"Oh, yeah, absolutely," Bertrand admits without a hint of embarrassment. "I felt like a total idiot."
This elicits a soft laugh from Tyrrell. "I am relieved to hear that I am — in this small matter at least — relatively normal. Are there any particular gifts she might enjoy? Topics she is especially keen to discuss?"
"If you ever come across something truly hideous that is also magical and just needs to be turned into dust, she's an enchanter, too." Bertrand scratches his head. "I think she probably likes practical gifts, but I'm not the best judge of what she actually likes these days. Cole would know. She talks about work a lot, but, again, she tends to get really into her work."
"If I'm being honest," he says as the warmth of the barracks building at last washes over them, "I feel reluctant to talk to your younger brother about her. He strikes me as a bit of a — guardian of her, and as a paladin he is likely to judge me with particular harshness."
"Cole? Cole's a real sweetheart," Bertrand says, shrugging. He removes his gloves, stuffing them into his coat pockets. "As long as you aren't planning anything untoward, uh, you should be fine."
"I have found that some men consider any romantic intentions toward their female relatives to be untoward. It is why I didn't mention it to you sooner, in case it gave offense. I have… appreciated your willingness to socialize." Aw, Zath, you sweet talker.
Bertrand waves a hand. "Nah, intend away. She doesn't expect that she'll have a lot of choices, since her dowry went to Cole for Mordecai."
"I couldn't be less interested in a dowry," Tyrrell says immediately, almost scathingly. He remembers to soften his tone, because Friend, as he continues. "I have wealth enough of my own, which is the very thing your friend the Duchess is after. But I grew up witnessing the results of such an arrangement, and I will not suffer it again now that I have freedom to choose."
Bertrand seems genuinely unbothered by being snapped at. "I really do wish you luck, with her. She's… tricky, even to me. I wouldn't have a clue where to start what sort of people she's actually interested in."
"I appreciate your support regardless," Tyrrell says. "You have pleasantly surprised me on a number of fronts, and I am pleased that circumstances have directed us to become acquainted."
"Likewise," Bertrand says agreeably. "Get some rest, hm?" He waves goodbye as he ducks into the barracks for his unit.
Tyrrell nods and lifts his hand in a wave, very casual, as if to say, yes, of course, he has no worries and will sleep like a baby tonight.
Once Bertrand has ducked out of his eyeline, Zath heads back outside to resume his pacing.