(2023-05-22) The Seawall and the Storm

Details

Author:	Athena
Summary:	On an ordinary Monday, both Avrenne and Siamus see to some business in the Stormwind Harbor, and encounter an unexpected storm of Avrenne's past. 4200-ish words.
Rating:	T for Teen

Arc: Ringside Seats

Chain: Siarenne

At midmorning, the sun flashing off the water at Stormwind Harbor is not yet blinding, angling as it does across the city to the east; it casts a mellow scatter of light across the glassy sea, flickering and fracturing where the breeze stirs the water to merrily-swinging waves. Overhead, gulls wheel and cry, looking like reflected white slivers against the brilliant blue sky.

The harbor is humming: The ceaseless wash of the waves is punctuated not just by the gulls' shrill cries but the gentle, occasional chime of a buoy-bell across the water, by the rasp of rope and clatter of grommets, the creaking of hulls and carts and crates, the rhythm of boots on gangplanks and decks, and the raised voices of men carrying back and forth with greetings and laughter, orders and curses.

At the harbor's southern end stands a ship of a slightly different design than the blocky Alliance cargo vessels: She looks both sleeker and steadier in the water, resting tranquilly at her mooring, though the harbor breeze causes the dark blue and silver pennant atop her mainmast to snap smartly. She wears a graceful mermaid figurehead, and a plaque on the hull names her Tidewitch. Her sails are furled, and a small group of sailors moves about her deck, no urgency to their actions.

There is a still and solitary reserve around her, even as the other docks and ships bustle and buzz with commotion.

Duchess Avrenne Esprit is clearly there on business — gone is the ballroom woman with her dress meant to say Something from a Language In Between — wearing a long-sleeved, high-necked deep, warm toned gold dress of some lightweight fabric, the skirt of it flowing enough to flutter around her in the wind of the harbor, making her seem larger than she really is. Her hair is pinned back from her face into a neat, serious chignon, and she may truly not be wearing any cosmetics at all, her lashes lighter than usual of a dark gold rather than black.

At present, she is engaged in a conversation with a rough looking man with a beard worthy of at least a brief jig if not the full song, discussing something in a way that seems serious even from far away, a slight frown on her face. The older man is nodding along, answering questions, perhaps, in short sentences or single words. He eventually takes his leave — without anything to note her station, neither bow or nod — and she watches him for a moment before turning her attention to the ship he is walking towards, cargo being loaded bit by bit into it.

From the direction of the southern dock, there is a piercing whistle, and then a familiar voice calls out, carrying across the harbor clamor in that accustomed-to-command fashion Avrenne has heard before. Neither the whistle (thank goodness) nor the words that follow are directed at Avrenne; in fact, the words have the unfamiliar rhythm and slant of a foreign language to the untutored ear.

They aren't, to judge from the way a little ripple of laughter goes up from a couple of nearby ships: That's just some Real Kul Tiran Accent there.

Siamus Fallon, grinning at the ship at the next dock up, is heading from the mooring of the Tidewitch north along the harbor grounds. Just as the Duchess Esprit is no longer her ballroom self, he is no longer the gallant gentleman of navy blue waistcoats and silver brocade with whom she is by now familiar. Today he looks considerably more like the Siamus Fallon that Zath Tyrrell and certain members of Cobalt met in Northrend, and every inch a swashbuckling sea captain.

He's wearing his weatherbeaten, salt-stained leather greatcoat and boots, his broad-brimmed cavalier's hat cocked against the angle of the sun. There is a sabre at his hip, and a pistol thrust into his faded blue sash. If it were not for that voice, for the distinctive accent, he might not be recognizable as the same man at all.

He has caught up now to a pair of waiting men, and flashes them that gleaming smile as handshakes are offered around; one of the men receives a firm back-clap. There is another brief gale of laughter from the group, and then Siamus tips his hat with a grin and moves on.

Now he surveys the other ships lying at mooring, and as his dark gaze skims the activity ahead, it snags briefly on the blonde woman in her golden dress. It starts to move past, and then his stride catches as he sweeps her with a double-take.

Avrenne turns to begin walking away from the dock she stands by, in that precise poise of hers, as though she'd seen what she came to see to and now her business is concluded, that cool expression on her face for a moment longer before she recognizes the man in the hat. There's an immediate bright smile, though she keeps it brief, at the sight before she dips into an automatic suggestion of a curtsy.

Siamus smiles at her as well, and sweeps off his hat to make a gallant's bow before approaching. There is something merrily flirtatious in his manner again, though the flirtation doesn't seem personal, exactly — or maybe flirtation isn't the right word at all. There's just something lighter and more laughing in his manner here than there was in their last, courteous encounters at his home.

He drags a hand back through his hat-flattened hair and the wind immediately objects, tousling it roughly. "Duchess Esprit," he says when he's close enough to be conversational — one doesn't shout at Ladies in the harbor — "I'd no' have expected to run into ye this morning. Business to see to?"

Avrenne seems to be struggling to keep a smile from forming up, and in the end, gives up the fight as she allows a small one to remain there on her face. "Commodore," she nods, and her eyes flick back to the ship. "Yes. There was a delay in the shipment of one of my contracts, and there were specific consequences drafted into it for addressing it if it occurred. The uniforms were already meant to be at Wintergarde as of yesterday, but the ship to carry them did not arrive in harbor until today." It's that half-distracted sounding tone of business, before she turns her head back to Siamus, and her voice warms slightly. "It has been handled. You, I expect, have far more to see to."

Siamus turns back to gesture with his hat at the Tidewitch. "Only seeing to my Witch before she goes. She'll be flying up to Valiance tomorrow and I'll no' be with her this run, because of all the… business here." He turns back to Avrenne. "But I'll no' let her off wi'out seeing to e'ery line myself before she goes, so."

He pauses, and then consciously smooths some of the Harbor from his accent when he speaks again. "I'm sorry to hear ye were delayed in your Wintergarde shipments. I do hear shipping can be a snarl up there."

Whether deliberate or not, that I do hear implies quite clearly that shipping snarls are problems other people have. Siamus Fallon wouldn't know.

"Mm." The sound is almost lost in the noise of the harbor, as Avrenne raises both brows. "A consequence of the complications that Northrend has presented. The contract was finalized quite some time ago, and so I must abide by it as is." She looks over at the Tidewitch. "Had I known you might have been an option at this time, I would have likely approached you for the contract." There's an odd undertone in the words, that same strange wistfulness she has had in her voice from time to time. She squares off her shoulders and returns her gaze to his. "But, it's done, and I have addressed the problem as best I can."

He dips his head in a respectful not-quite-bow, that slight, sardonic smile at his lips again. "I've no doubt. An astute lady of business, as well as a fine horsewoman."

Avrenne's smile moves up a little brighter at the genuine compliment, a touch of that glow in her eyes, and that is likely why it is so obvious when it's gone. There's dozens of sounds in the harbor, but the ear is always more attuned to pick up familiar ones over others, and something in that din is all too familiar to the duchess.

Her eyes flick away from Siamus to something to his right and behind him as her expression shifts into the deep horror and shock of someone who has been suddenly, brutally stabbed in a fatal wound and they know it, her complexion going so pale that if she fainted next it would not be unexpected.

She doesn't faint. She does, however, step suddenly closer to the Commodore, a hand going out as though to place it against a wall for stability, moving in such a way that it is clear she is hiding from something, if only for a brief moment, her gaze fixed on some middle distance, shoulders curling inwards with a shake to them. It doesn't last long — a few seconds at most, but it's there.

Siamus reacts just as reflexively, but in smooth counterpoint. He lifts a steadying hand as if to catch her — not touching, but there to be braced against if needed — and half-turns, both to see what it is that's shaken her and to interpose himself between her and it, without yet turning fully from her. All of his drawling humor has fallen away, his gaze gone black and flint-edged. "Your Grace," he says, and it isn't a question; it sounds more like a reminder. I'm right here.

It happens in real time, the armor she puts on over herself, her eyes going up to Siamus for just a beat longer of something, briefly helpless before — the first thing to go is the expression, as a habitual wall is brought down. Controlled. Then the shoulders. Squared. She lowers her hand, to clasp them both together in front of her. Her breathing evens out. All signs tucked away. Nothing but the cold, frigid duchess of her reputation. She moves in a way that suggests there's no hesitation to her.

"Mr. Green." The first shot belongs to her, and it's fired with precision and the sort of ice that if she could cast the magic, would have been a lance launched out.

The man who turns is not likely the type to be expected. He certainly doesn't look like a blackguard, in the way that it sometimes is with the appearances of people and their true character. He's a young man just a little below average height, with a head of straight black hair cut professionally to flatter his features, which are arranged in such a way to suggest that he is a trustworthy man; he looks, in every way, like a reliable banker, professional, intelligent, and erudite. Long, dark lashes give his dark brown eyes a permanent sense of eyeliner to them, highlighting them in a way that makes him appear even more earnest.

"Avrenne." Even his voice has a strong, steady quality to it. He looks only mildly shocked to see her.

Avrenne doesn't flinch. "The correct form of address to a duchess," comes the words of a glacier made into a person. "Is 'Your Grace.'"

Siamus turns casually, mildly, to face the man himself, his hat beneath his arm now. He sweeps Mr. Green with that hard, black-eyed look, and the slight, sardonic smile at the corner of his mouth is suddenly not an expression of humor at all but a razor-edge of ice.

If he draws himself up straighter to look down at the other man, it isn't apparent; he simply seems, naturally, to be looking down at Green.

"Ah," he says. There is a world of expression weighted in that single syllable, and none of it is aimed kindly at Mr. Green. He is not looming over Avrenne; he is looming with Avrenne. He is looming for both of them.

Mr. Green, for his part, seems just still mildly puzzled, as he looks at Avrenne. "But, you said I could call you Avrenne," comes the sort of tone of the verbal equivalent of a puppy head tilt, like he can't think of any reason why maybe, possibly, she wouldn't still allow it. It is very possible that this is not the brightest man in the harbor.

There is a slight lean towards Siamus, a shifting of her weight, as she holds her head high and steady. "You surrendered the rights to that permission when you married another person, Mr. Green." The honorific and the surname are a wall held up between them.

Mr. Green blinks a little, confusion in his expression, before he finally notices the loom. This man might not even be in the top 300 brightest men in the harbor, even if there are only 300 men in it at the moment. "Oh. Who are you?"

Siamus arches an eyebrow. "Baron Siamus Westry Fallon," he says mildly. "Commodore of the Alliance Fleet. And a friend of Her Grace." He does not ask who Joran is. "I shall assume for your own sake that it's ignorance and no' purpose that leads ye to address the lady so disrespectfully, after the craven disrespect ye've already shown her."

Mr. Green's brow furrows, and he does actually tilt his head at that, looking to Avrenne like he expects her to explain. "What disrespect?" He asks in an innocent sort of way, as though once more, he is one step behind in the conversation, something alluded to that he hasn't been made aware of.

Avrenne closes her eyes as if to hide something in them, a small shake to her breathing, her hands squeezing slightly, and doesn't answer immediately, as the wind gently blows her skirts around her.

Siamus takes one (1) step forward, not putting himself directly in front of Avrenne, not blocking her from the conversation, but placing her behind the shield of his shoulder. "I do not think," he says, "that we need to expose the particulars in public conversation here and now. They've been bandied about in gossip quite enough. If ye don't know to what I refer, then you're either a liar or a worse fool than I took ye for, and I've taken ye for a very great fool already, Green. The question is, d'ye prefer a duel or to be brought up in court on charges of fraud? Because either one can be arranged, but ye don't look like a man who shoots." He rakes Mr. Green with a look.

The wind over the harbor does a slightly strange thing, a stuttering gust that abruptly changes its course, and ships' canvas billows and snaps with the shift.

"A duel?" Mr. Green looks again from Siamus to Avrenne, like they've suddenly revealed themselves to be dragons and he's the last person to know. "What? Fraud? Why would you…?" He seems to be struggling to keep up. "Avrenne, what's he talking about?"

Avrenne takes two quick breaths, opening her eyes, staring straight ahead. She doesn't step forward, letting Siamus' shoulder hold as a shield. She doesn't argue her title this time. "He is referring to our situation, Mr. Green, and the manner in which you left it."

"But it was legal," Mr. Green says. "Bri said that it was, and that's what the Dalaran lawyer said."

"Your Grace," Siamus says, and the words are adamantite, every ounce of military and aristocratic command behind them. "Ye will call her Your Grace. Address her by her given name again and there will be a duel, so help me.

"A Dalaran lawyer and your doxy lass may have told ye what they like, but the Duchess Esprit draws an iron contract and any Starmwend judge would hear the lady's arguments. Beyond that is the matter of a man who would abandon a lady holding debts to his own family's ties, and wi'out recourse. Whether Her Grace decides to pursue ye on the matter or no' is for her discretion alone, but I'd advise ye begin your own case with a bloody apology."

Avrenne's gaze goes from whatever fixed point she'd tried to find to keep her composure from breaking to Siamus, and she holds her dark gaze there, something steadying her, as she draws strength from the sight of him.

“But…Bri said that you wouldn’t care, and that you didn’t even love me…and she was right. You didn’t come to stop it or, or anything. And after, you didn’t even try to…you didn’t try to talk to me at all. She said that you’d be fine, and you’d just find someone else rich enough and.” Joran looks at Siamus like he’s wondering if a Commodore is someone rich. He’s got a hat. Maybe that’s enough, because Mr. Green nods, and looks as thoughtful as a man like him can. “And you did, didn’t you? You’re as fine as she said you’d be. You’re not even…” He gestures to her hands. “You’re not even really mad.” An awkward pause, a glance at Siamus' gun, proving that maybe he's not too stupid to live. "Your Grace."

Avrenne's hands are clasped together in front of her, but there's no fire on them. Yet.

"I am no' clear," says Siamus conversationally — perhaps not even to Mr. Green, perhaps to himself, or the air, or that one seagull over there — "what judge or magistrate the man expects will hear love as a defense in breach of bloody contract. And whether or no' the lady is able to secure a second contract to safeguard her interests, that's no' legal remedy for the party in breach of the first. Ye may not plead her efforts in your own defense.

"And nor was that an apology. Ye have thirty seconds, or I will have one of my men bring ye a pistol. I expect ye don't have one yourself."

Mr. Green looks genuinely shocked, and he once again looks from Siamus to Avrenne like he expects her to do something about it.

Avrenne's eyes remain on Siamus, something soft in her expression, and then flick to Mr. Green, her face going as hard as the highest tensile strength metal in two worlds. There is something very cold, and very dark in those eyes. And the seconds tick along.

Mr. Green is now the one who pales, his mouth falling open. "I." He shakes his head a little, taking a step back, and then another, as if he might actually run. "I'm sorry. Your Grace." They're the right words, but they're uttered like a man trying to find the right wire to cut for a bomb that was just revealed to him.

There's a stirring of attention of the harbor around them. Something is clearly Happening, and people have begun to pay attention to the Vibe. Avrenne's eyes flick from Mr. Green to the people beginning to take notice. She takes a breath, and moves a hand gracefully up to Siamus' arm, placing her fingers there in a light touch, as though a prompt for an escort.

Siamus reflexively, automatically, shifts back a step to offer his arm. His gaze never leaves Mr. Green, but his manner suggests the shift of his attention to Avrenne. "Your Grace," he says himself, without looking at her.

Avrenne's finger taps so fast that the difference between her dots and dashes is a bare suggestion, and someone less experienced with the language would likely miss it, but not someone like Siamus Fallon. Her hand isn't particularly warm at all — just barely above an average person's perhaps.

A-w-a-y.

She stares at Mr. Green, and there's almost a smile there, something sharp and dangerous. He takes another step back, shaking his head like he's just encountered something impossible.

"You'll excuse us," Siamus tells Green. It's very much not a request.

He turns and leads Avrenne away toward the ramp that leads up from the harbor. When they're out of earshot of any milling passers-by, he says quietly and without turning his head toward her, "The townhouse is just up above the way, if ye'd like a moment and a cup of tea, Your Grace."

The reminder of the townhouse, of where she's walking, and with whom, in such a familiar way, seems to break whatever spell has kept her going, as she stops abruptly, just barely out of the eyes of most of the harbor. There's the sound like she's choking, her other hand flying to her throat, as she struggles to breathe, tearing a little at the fabric there. Her other hand tightens slightly on his arm. Tears have formed up in her eyes, but she seems to be trying to hold them back like a tidesage with a storm that would break a city.

Siamus drops the hat from beneath his arm; it falls to the ground and, oddly, the wind doesn't touch it. He puts his free hand on her shoulder — very gently, carefully — just enough that he can shift them both around, placing himself between her and the eyes of the harbor. "Your Grace," he says quietly. "Breathe. You're all right. Aye? You're wi' me, the storm's past. Breathe." His dark eyes are soft with concern.

Avrenne makes a very small, pained sound as her hands go up to cover her face, and there's a curling inwards of her shoulders as though bent by the wind into him, seeking some shelter. She clearly won't let herself make much more sound than that, faint little whimpers quelled as quickly as possible, and the only sign that she may be crying is how hard she seems to be shaking. It doesn't last long. A few seconds. And then there it is again — that sense that she's trying to pull another self over this other one, to stand strong.

Siamus doesn't let go of her shoulder. His touch there is still gentle, still careful, but he doesn't let go of her, and when she bends into him, he shifts closer, a sea wall standing over her against the storm. He does not do anything so inappropriate as put an arm around her with the eyes of the harbor on them, but he stands fast.

"Your Grace," he says quietly when the shaking has stopped. "It would be my honor, please, to offer ye a cup of tea."

Avrenne lowers her hands from her face, her expression held in such careful lines that it's obviously masking something, eyes gone red-rimmed and her lashes dark with tears, but no sign of that salt water having ever dropped can be seen — no tracks down her face at alll; her lids held them back. She gently straightens her shoulders, drawing herself up to her full, if very unimpressive height. Composure and poise wrapped around her so tightly it clearly is hurting her in some way.

It seems to cost her something to raise her eyes up to Siamus', but she does it. "Thank you, Commodore," she says, and her voice has a slight rasp to it as though she'd been yelling, but her accent keeps her vowels clipped. "But I believe I have borrowed far more than my fair share of your trouble already, and I…" A swallow, and she drops her eyes from his to somewhere around his chest. "I think it best I return home."

Siamus steps back, his own quiet concern replaced by composed, unsmiling courtesy. "No trouble of mine whatsoever, Your Grace. Shall I walk ye home, at the least? Ta will murder me if I just send ye off." There's a hint of the dry, familiar lightness to his tone at the end, though his smile hasn't yet returned.

There's the barest sense that Avrenne would have stepped forward to follow him, and something halted it. Avrenne's eyes flick towards the harbor, and she closes them, putting a hand to her waist — a breath — and opens them. "I would not want to cause you strife with your sister, Commodore. But, I'm not certain that I can afford that cost. I have already…linked our names together more than I should have. You have my sincerest thanks for your gallantry." She forces a curtsy, some fleeting pain on her face, as she refuses to look up at him. "But, I can make it alone from here." A pause and there's a strange look in her eyes. "I have seen my way through worse," she says in an echo of someone else walking away from someone he loved.

Siamus is silent for a moment, contemplating her.

He takes a further step back, stoops to collect his hat from the ground, and bows very low to her. "Your Grace. I wish you well." His tone is smooth and cool as marble.

There's a look of pain at the tone of his voice, but she pulls it back, sweeping it behind a mask. She makes the returning curtsy as though there's no choice — it's just ingrained. "And I you, Commodore. I thank you, again, for the respite you have given." And with that, she turns away, holding herself like something fragile that might break if something touches it, and starts walking home.