(2025-06-30) Two Hundred Sixty Gold, Fifty-four Silver, Fourteen Copper

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Author:	inkie
Summary:	Joelle Ebek approaches Siamus Fallon on the night of the charity gala with an offer. It's a generous one. Siamus tries to talk him out of it.
Rating:	T for Teen

Admiral Fallon is standing along the bank of windows at the far end of the ballroom, framed by a square of night beyond, speaking to a gray-haired man in army dress uniform. The uniform is an outdated one; its wearer is presumably not active duty but a veteran of some older conflict. He carries himself with the same telltale military straightness as Siamus and Shine and a number of other people in this ballroom tonight, and two medals, their ribbons faded, are pinned to his uniform coat.

The conversation is a somber one, the two men having withdrawn to this spot at the back of the room, Siamus's head bent toward the other man to listen under the noise of the party as they speak. Whatever the subject, though, it seems to be winding down. Siamus lifts his head and nods, says a few serious words; the other man nods back and offers his hand. Siamus shakes it firmly, and the uniformed man steps away and eases through the crowd to vanish elsewhere.

Siamus remains standing by the window, where the air gathered against the night-touched glass is slightly cooler than the rest of the room. He lifts his inevitable glass of whiskey for a sip and scans the ballroom impassively.

Joelle chooses this moment to approach, his expression stiff, almost inflexibly neutral. He hovers nearby, waiting to be addressed.

Siamus lifts the glass for another sip, spots Joelle, and arrests the motion. He raises his eyebrows at Elle over the rim of the glass, and then lowers the drink to offer that slanted smile. "Elle? What can I do for ye?"

Joelle slips his wallet out of his sleeve and offers it. "Finley sent me," he says.

That's it. That's all the context. Take his wallet.

Siamus makes no move to take the wallet. He has his drink in one hand, his other hand in his pocket. He regards the wallet neutrally for a moment, and then looks up at Elle, the line of a question between his brows. "Finley sent ye to… ?" His tone is gently curious, not a challenge.

"Speak with you," Joelle finishes. "About donating."

The wallet remains where it is, and there might be a tiny bit of pleading in his eyes.

Siamus contemplates the wallet again. He turns to set the whiskey glass on the narrow window-ledge behind him. Someone will find it tomorrow, probably. "That's very generous of ye, Elle."

Rather than taking the wallet, he moves to Elle and takes him by the elbow to urge him gently to turn around, toward the ballroom. "D'ye know the Cobalts? See some of them out there? D'ye see — there, that man I was just talking with? Or the gentleman there?"

Joelle turns easily as directed, casting his gaze out over the ballroom. He nods, though there is a question in his eyes.

Siamus nods. He puts his arm around Elle's shoulders companionably. "I invited them tonight for their service. Aye? To honor them." He studies the ballroom and then gestures discreetly — a gentleman doesn't point — at a dowager in an unflattering yellow silk gown and the pinch-faced man with a pencil-thin moustache standing beside her. "And d'ye see Lady Weslow there with her son?"

Joelle's shoulders are unmistakably tense, despite the man's outwardly calm appearance. He locates the pair indicated, and nods again.

Siamus nods and squeezes Elle's shoulder companionably. "Welt Weslow — the son, ye see? — is maybe a handful of years older than me. He's lived through all the same crises and disasters as me — more than me, because I wasn't here for the bloody First War, unlike some of you and your families. What has he done in the public service in that time? ye may ask. And I will tell ye: Not a thing.

"His father died a rich man. He and his mother are comfortably wealthy. The man's never had to work a day. He's never volunteered for a thing. He does what he pleases and he has the money to do it and it suits him.

"Now, mind ye, I'm not saying he's a bad man. He's a pleasant fellow. Mother's a bit of a termagant but she's harmless and loves her son. But the pair of them can read a newspaper all day long and never think, 'I could offer some help to that.' They can hear of an outbreak of plague in Stormwind or a dragon attack and the upsetting thing for them will be that they must go to their hunting lodge in the country for a while. But they're not bad people. They're just…" He shrugs. "Self-centered. Indifferent."

He sweeps a gesture at the ballroom. "So ye invite them to a thing like this, a thing they understand, a society event, and ye introduce them to some of the famous heroes who do serve, and ye look them in the eyes — not you, I mean, figure of speech — I look them in the eyes, and I tell them that if they aren't able to do anything else for our heroic men and women, they can still support the ones who do serve. They can be heroes themselves. They just have to write a cheque.

"And they will."

He turns to face Elle again. "I'm not asking the Cobalts for donations. I'm not asking Lieutenant Harkor. Because they already give to the kingdom and the people. And understand me, Elle — that's you as well. I didn't invite lads like the three of ye here to hand me your wallets. Ye give the kingdom more value and more dedication every day, and that's priceless. And it's a choice ye made.

"Some of 'em will donate anyway, of course, for the same reasons they serve. So if ye want to donate more, then I will gratefully accept it and thank ye very kindly. But I'm curious why."

"Because… I can," Joelle says. He bows his head, his hairpin jingling with the movement. The wallet remains extended. "I can give more."

His voice is soft, difficult to hear over the noise of the ballroom, but there is something almost desperate in it.

"Aye," says Siamus. "All right." He studies Elle. "You're a good man, Elle Ebek. Ye've had a hell of a year, this last one. You and your lads. How much do ye want to give?" He still does not take the wallet himself.

Joelle's fingers twitch on the wallet in response to something Siamus says. It is a few seconds before he speaks, but his voice is calm again. "260 gold, 54 silver, and 14 copper," he recites dutifully. It's how much is in the wallet, presumably, a large amount to just carry around, especially for a Stormwind Guard. The possibility that he planned for this is nonzero.

Siamus contemplates that number for a moment. "That's a quite a sum. Will ye donate fifty?"

"Yes," Joelle answers. "And 210 gold, 54 silver, and 14 copper."

They are now doing Math, apparently.

"Is it savings?" Siamus asks mildly. "For anything particular?"

"Not anymore," Joelle says. "Miralynn said I should keep money for emergencies, or injuries. But I don't need it. I'm not injured."

He offers the wallet to Siamus again, cradled between both hands, which, perhaps unusually, are covered by navy blue half-gloves.

"Is it an emergency, then?" Siamus asks him.

Joelle considers the wallet, then returns his gaze to Siamus. "It is," he says. "For someone."

"Well," says Siamus, "aye, that's fair. It's always someone's emergency." He still doesn't reach for the wallet. "What inspired ye to donate tonight, Elle?"

There is a heavy pause before Joelle finally answers. "Inaction," he says, and something in his expression flickers. A flash of anger. Impatience. And then it washes away again.

Siamus watches that transient expression, waits for a moment. At last he nods. "All right," he says. "Come with me." He tilts his head to beckon Elle, and moves toward one side of the ballroom to make his way along the less-crowded wall space toward the door.

Joelle follows, clutching his wallet to his chest as if it's a chunk of ice meant to cool whatever burns there. His face holds steady, unreadable, but his eyes are locked on Siamus like he is the only one Joelle can see; a single light in a dark room.

Siamus leads Joelle out of the ballroom and down the hall to the foyer, and then up the stairs. At his office door, he ushers Elle inside. "I will have to write a receipt for a cash donation, ye understand. For administrative and tax purposes. Go on and have a seat there, aye?" He indicates a chair before the desk, and then goes around it to the other side himself, shedding his suit coat to drape it over the back of his desk chair. He opens a drawer in the desk to rifle through it.

Joelle sits, a remarkably fluid and silent movement for someone of his build, demonstrating impressive control of his muscles, weight and balance. His hands settle in his lap, still cradling the wallet, and his gaze rests unfocused on Siamus's desk.

"I understand," says Siamus, drawing out a leatherbound ledger and settling in his desk chair, "that it can be frustrating for men like ourselves to witness inaction at a time like this." He opens the ledger and reaches for one of the two pens that are set in precise parallel at the edge of the desk's immaculate surface.

Joelle's fingers reflexively squeeze his wallet as something rages through his eyes. Then a breath later, it is gone, and his fingers relax again. "I can do more," he says, quietly but firmly.

Siamus looks up from the ledger. He doesn't lay the pen down, but he doesn't write. "Ah." He does not seem terribly surprised by this answer.

He sits back in his chair to study Elle. "D'ye want other than being a guard, now?"

"I…" Joelle blinks at him, surprised. He had not thought this far ahead. "I am a guard."

Siamus nods seriously. "Aye. I know ye are. What more is it that ye want to do, then, Elle? That ye aren't already doing in service to the kingdom?"

Joelle stares at his hands, some deep emotion in his eyes, struggling to break free. "I don't know," he says, nearly a whisper.

Siamus lays the pen down now and laces his hands on his stomach. "If I put it this way: What is it ye feel ye aren't doing now?"

"Anything." The word comes with a snarl of frustration, the escape of which seems to startle Joelle. "I'm sorry," he says immediately, fighting to even out his expression.

Siamus raises his eyebrows. He leans forward to put his elbows on the desk. "Why're ye sorry, Elle?" He pauses a moment and then says, "When Pennings invited me in to talk after the business with the attack on Amerith, I believe the last thing I said to her was something like, 'If I didn't know how dedicated those three' — I meant yourself and Hartrim and Dinnsfield — 'are to the guard, I'd be trying to poach them from ye for the navy.' If there's something else ye want to be doing, I'm fair certain ye could."

"I… I'm a guard," Joelle repeats. He sounds somehow less certain, as if his very identity is being called into question. His gaze returns to Siamus, lost, confused, unbearably restless. "I don't know what else…"

"Ye are a guard," Siamus agrees. "That is, that's what ye do. What ye are is a strong man with a fine, sharp mind and a devotion to his kingdom. Man like that could be any number of things, and tides know they're needed. Why are ye a guard, Elle?"

"Johann is a guard," Joelle says, as if somehow that explains everything. "Miralynn trained me. It's what I've always been."

Siamus nods. "Aye, I see how that is. My father was a navy man and officer before me. The thing of it is — " He pauses again, his eyes narrowed in thought, his expression gone abstract, as though he's doing complex mathematics in his head. "The thing of it is, I'm a father myself now. This is a matter… I've discussed a good deal, with Her Grace, with friends, with others.

"If any of my children wants to join the navy and to train up as officers, or to become a marine, then I hope they will, and I'll be bloody proud of them. But if they don't… then I hope the thing they choose to do makes them proud. And I'll be bloody proud of 'em as well." He focuses on Joelle again. "The Admiral — my father, that is — was a good man. An admirable man. But I will not raise Ery or my sons the way he did me.

"So it may be you're a guard, aye. It may just be that your father's a guard — a good guard, I know, an honorable man. But when he enlisted in the service, I don't know that he intended to enlist his child as well."

"I'm not… supposed to be…?" Joelle looks stricken. "I trained. Every day. If I wasn't supposed…"

Siamus holds up a hand. "Aye, aye. But it's no wasted training, Elle. Ye have skills. If I teach Ery to sail, and she decides not to be a navy sailor but an explorer or a cartographer, those same skills will serve her well. And ye can always learn new things besides, can't ye?

"And I'm not telling ye that you're not supposed to be a guard. I can't tell ye what you're supposed to be. I'm only saying that if ye feel it's stifling ye, if ye're frustrated and there's something more or different ye want to be doing, then ye should." He pauses. "I'll tell ye right now I'm more than half wishing ye'll say ye'd like to be a marine." His smile is wry.

Joelle stares into his lap. There's probably some sort of internal existential crisis happening, but it's hard to say for certain; his face is perfectly frozen in neutrality. "I will… consider," he says, and the last word rings almost like a question.

Siamus watches him for a moment and then nods. "Understand, by the way, that was a compliment and not a request, Elle," he says, and picks up his pen again. "May I make a proposal regarding your donation?"

Joelle nods, though he struggles to lift his gaze.

"What I would like to do," says Siamus, who has begun writing out a receipt in a swift, sharp hand, "is accept from ye a fifty gold donation. And then ye take the rest of your money home and ye think for three days whether ye want to give the lot of it and go on as ye are, or ye want to go about things a different way. Aye? I assure ye the cause is not going to vanish meanwhile. Your money in three days' time will be just as valuable as it is tonight. But if ye decide ye might want to find some other service, ye may need some of that money to set ye on the path to it. And it will be money honorably spent either way." He looks up from the ledger. "Is that an acceptable proposal?"

"Okay," Joelle says, and something in the hunch of his shoulders seems resigned.

Siamus sets the pen down again. "The reason I ask ye is that if it's not an acceptable proposal, ye may say so. It's not a rhetorical question. I would like to know, Elle, what ye think on the matter.

"And I will be honest that my own reservations in the matter are because I happen to know that 260 gold, 54 silver, and 14 copper is a goodly sum for a Stormwind Guard. A generous sum. It's a generous thing ye wish to do. But in its proportion, it's a far more generous sum than even some of the wealthiest here tonight will donate, and it would be coming from a man who already gives the kingdom his honorable service daily. I wouldn't like to think that I was asking a man who already gives a great deal to give more, to his own detriment." He regards Elle steadily. "But if I'm… patronizing ye in some way, or I've offended ye, then ye can tell me that. I have no desire to do either."

"Offended?" This surprises Joelle into raising his head. "No. You're a good person. This is…" he raises the wallet again, "it hurts. To keep it. That's all."

"And giving the lot of it away tonight is what will ease the hurt for ye, then?" Siamus watches Joelle with dark-eyed intensity.

"It will help." Joelle gazes back at him, unflinching.

Siamus nods. He studies Joelle, nods once again, and picks up his pen. "The sum of two hundred sixty gold, fifty-four silver, and fourteen copper, paid on the 30th June, year 29." He speaks as he scrawls, then lays the pen down to tear out a slip from the ledger. He slides it across the desk toward Joelle. "Ye must keep that, please. As noted there, I've accepted on behalf of the Stormwind Military Families Fund, which is where one hundred percent of tonight's donations will go."

Joelle sets his wallet on the desk and takes the slip, disappearing it into his sleeve. He watches Siamus, awaiting further instructions.

Siamus slips the ledger back into a drawer and takes out a large envelope in its place. He opens Joelle's wallet to remove the money, sorts it into neat, precise stacks on the desk — this seems unnecessary if it's all going into the envelope, but he does it anyway — and then puts the money one stack at a time into the envelope. He jots a note at the top corner and then lays the envelope at the empty far corner of his desk, across from the globe-and-sextant corner. He adjusts it into precise alignment with the corner, replaces his pen in perfect parallel with its twin at the desk's edge, slides Joelle's wallet across to him, and sits back.

"Will ye think on what I've said?" he asks.

Joelle looks away as the money appears, as if he can't bear to look at it, returning his attention to Siamus only when addressed. He seems calmer somehow, something in him appeased by this course of action.

"You said a lot of things," he says. "It will… take time. To process."

Siamus nods again, and then smiles crookedly. "Aye, I do that. Say a lot of things. Feel free to decide it was horseshite. Plenty of people do." He shrugs. "Or none of my business. But — I hope ye consider me a friend, Elle. If there's anything ye need, I'm glad to help as I can."

"This time," Joelle says, his chocolate brown eyes softer than they've been all night, "it's my turn to help."