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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | Ralaea returns home to Fallon House on the Elwynn coast and learns more about what happened to necessitate the return. 5k~ words. Personal Plot. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
Arc: The Bride Will Fall
The 10th evening of March brings a west wind to Fallon House. Also, coincidentally, a Westwind.
The house is a controlled sort of quiet, the type of silence that is more like a slow breathing than true stillness. There's more movement within it than usual, and an alertness beneath the surface that pervades the entire structure. In the front foyer, small ripples of low tones — not quite whispers, not quite a quiet conversation, but something in between — ripples over the house nearing its bedtime hours on the cusp of the ninth bell. The conversation partners are halted at the left hand stairs, Avrenne two steps above Finley, very slightly evening their heights out.
Avrenne is in one of her house dresses, a dark pink silk that flows over her form with no effort made to conceal her growing visible pregnancy. Her hair is already down, the golden cape of it past her hips, but she still has on the cosmetics that hide evidence of fatigue. They do nothing to conceal her frown at her conversation partner.
Finley wears a similar frown, but nothing else in common. He's dressed in a plain brown suit, the cravat off and probably tucked away, the collar left open. Several days of hair growth has left him a considerable amount of stubble, already beginning to edge into beard territory. He has one hand on the banister, one quarter turned away from Avrenne, having been halted in the process of leaving.
"It's not a problem," Finley insists, a hot note of irritation making the words sharper.
"Not yet, but there is no reason not to consider an alternative before it becomes necessary," Avrenne replies, her own voice so tightly controlled that it begins to sound like it, as her hands, clasped in front of her, squeeze together even more tightly. She opens her mouth to add more, but halts as Finley looks to the front door with a quick glance of a Butler's Honed Sense.
And then the Westwind knocks. It’s an impatient sort of knock, but not an irritable one, more like a vibration of eager energy come to interrupt the pervading silence like a true storm.
Avrenne still startles in surprise, a brief twitch swiftly controlled, and she puts a hand to her hair. "Who — " she begins.
"I'll get it," Finley says, loudly enough to carry to Vane nearby, as he removes a hair tie and two bobby pins from his jacket, handing them over to Avrenne without taking his eyes off the door.
Avrenne begins to swiftly put up her hair as Finley skips the last two steps in a single long legged drop, crossing to the door. He glances back only once over his shoulder to make sure Avrenne has her hair at least gathered up, before he opens the door with a butler's efficient pull, his face bland for a second by sheer habitual training.
The moment he sees who it is, he's shocked into a soft, affectionate laugh as he shakes his head. "Second Lt."
“First Lt.,” Ralaea returns automatically, before pausing to peer up at him. “Are you growing a beard because you’re grounded?”
She is wearing her full arms and armor and looks like she hasn’t slept in a day, but somehow contains even more suppressed energy than usual. Also, she smells like a horse, probably because Alnair was her first stop, and the horse got a nice long hug.
Finley gives a light scoffing laugh, leaning down slightly already. "I'm not grounded," he answers, as he steps aside to usher her inside, sweeping a look behind her as if he expects something in the darkness.
Avrenne removes the tie from her hair, letting it fall back free, as she descends the last several stairs with a stately walk, and the relief on her face is noticeable. "Ralaea," she greets. "What are you doing knocking, dearest? Oh, do come inside. Are you all right? Has something happened?" An unusual tight yellow note of fear weaves into Avrenne's usually steady voice.
"You look like you haven't slept," Finley observes quietly.
Ralaea blinks in surprise. “You can tell? No, nothing happened. Well. Nothing happened to me. Siamus told me all about how Finley killed a witch using her weakness and a kitchen knife, (I bet it was onions,) and how Isla saved him, and that there are other witches still out there, and so I asked if he’d rather have me home, and he would, so here I am. I left immediately, and I couldn’t exactly sleep on the kite, so that’s why.”
She steps further into the house to offer Avrenne a smile. “Anyway, I stopped by the townhouse first because the portal dumped me in Stormwind, but they said everyone was here, so that’s why I thought you might be grounded, Finley. My dad always used to grow a beard when he couldn’t get out to the ocean for a while. I guess it doesn’t really make sense because the ocean is right here, and you’re not Kul Tiran, but still. And I knocked because I figured everyone might think I was a witch breaking in.”
Finley closes the door behind her literally through nothing but pure muscle memory. He's frowning in deep confusion, making faint ah? and wha — noises as he can't quite manage to decide on a word to start with, as he struggles to untangle everything Ralaea said, and all the things wrong with it. Where to even begin??
Avrenne accepts this explanation in stride, as she crosses the foyer, moving to hug Ralaea, arms, armor, and all. "We appreciate the thought of courtesy, dearest, but you must always feel yourself welcome to enter the house as your own home. We will know it's you," she says with a Duchess' confidence. "Have you eaten?"
Ralaea actually hugs her back, although, still horse smell. “Only an apple on the way here. Luckily I still had one to give Alnair. Nothing else has happened, right? Did I get here in time?”
Avrenne says nothing of horse smells — she's a horse girl. She releases Ralaea only halfway, keeping a light touch on her armor with her hands. She does, however, signal Vane with a look. "A plate, if you please, to Ralaea's room," she says to him, before she turns her attention back to Ralaea, all traces of fear tucked far away once more, a calm and sure confidence all that shows. "Nothing else has happened to anyone here. We are all well. I have been unable to contact the family responsible to a sufficient degree, as the one with the most to answer for is allegedly in Pandaria, out of mail contact." A cold darkness creeps into Avrenne's voice, and there are lights reflected in her eyes from fires that don't exist in the room.
A blink, and they're gone, as is the ice. "Siamus is handling it. We will have answers soon enough," Avrenne declares.
"You came back to guard the House," Finley guesses, with a wry smile that softens the evaluating sharpness of his eyes.
There is mild confusion in Ralaea’s eyes as Avrenne requests a(n allegedly empty?) plate to be sent to her room, but she is immediately distracted by the new information.
She nods with Avrenne’s assessment. “Siamus has people that can get that done. I’m not good at tracking people down. I am here to guard the House, but at the very least I’m also a morale piece,” she says. “Both for everyone here, because I’m probably pretty reassuring to have around, and for Siamus so he can focus on the war without wishing he could do more at home. Also, I’d really like to pay those people back for using my fence injury for their amusement.”
Avrenne's lips flatten into a tight line at the reminder of the injury, as her chin lifts up higher, and shoulders square off. "Those responsible will be made to pay for it. House Esprit always collects its debts." Avrenne pats Ralaea's armor lightly, and releases her fully to set her own hands together, though she is careful not to touch them to her dress, for reasons. Her expression gentles. "I am glad to have you home, for a capable guard and for morale both. It was very good of you to think of Siamus in such a way. It is most appreciated, and I, too, am reassured by your presence."
"The one who used your injury for her purposes is dead," Finley adds, slipping his hands into his pockets, half his attention on Avrenne, and half on Ralaea. "She was a warlock. I've been thinking about the spell they use. 'Eye of Kilrogg.' It's something that could be sent as a spy, at a distance. Watching, learning. I have a feeling it's how she'd been keeping an — " He pauses, but it's too late. He finishes, with an audible exasperation at himself, "eye on us."
“Well, yeah, because Eye of Kilrogg,” says Ralaea Doesn’t Get Jokes Westwind. “But there are more, right? So if one of the others were to really die of a fencepost…”
She doesn’t finish that line of thought. “Do we know if the rest of that House has anything special going, besides the witch part? Could help to know what to watch for. Do they have any mages? And Finley, before bed, we need to have a private talk. Lt. stuff."
Avrenne raises both brows because she can't raise only one, and looks at Finley.
Finley looks back at her, his own expression moving in slight twitches, and head gestures.
Avrenne's face reflects controlled, purposeful partial expressions. In the end, she slowly nods once to him — which makes Finley sigh, and run a hand down his face before he turns his gaze to Ralaea.
It's like they're having a whole silent conversation between the two of them.
(Witchcraft??)
It's Avrenne who answers out loud, "We aren't certain at all what the family is made of among themselves, mages or more warlocks. They appear to be isolated, in a general way, and deliberately keep to themselves, on a small privately owned island off the coast of the Swamp of Sorrows. Finley can fill you in further. Why don't you take this conversation up to your room? You can continue discussing it, and be sure to eat properly once the food arrives," Avrenne suggests in a Motherly Suggestion Tone. "I'll have Catrin warm up some milk as well, so that you see to resting soon after." Another brief touch to Ralaea's arm paired with a genuinely warm smile. "I'll see you in the morning, Ralaea."
With that, she's already sweeping past them towards the kitchen.
Finley's shoulders are slightly rigid as he regards Ralaea seriously. "Do you want a few minutes to settle in? Change out of the armor?"
“Good night, Avrenne,” Ralaea says, before returning her attention to Finley. “If you give me a few minutes, I might fall asleep.”
She starts up the stairs, pausing halfway to make sure he is following.
"Yeah, I get that," Finley replies, as he follows silently, right behind her. Maybe a little closer than he would ordinarily, as if ready to catch her in case she suddenly falls asleep mid-walk. "I could open a window in your room. You can sit or stand by it while we talk. The cold air can help keep you awake."
“If you’re worried you’re going to bore me to sleep, don’t be,” Ralaea says, heading straight for her room as soon as she tops the stairs. “Stimulation is one thing, quiet alone time in a safe place? Sleep inducing.”
Once inside, Ralaea takes a seat on the floor by her tent, offering Finley the chair.
Finley glances at the chair, but instead folds himself into a companionable seat on the floor by the tent, partially to her side, partially across from her, unbuttoning his suit jacket and setting his arms on his knees, as he looks at Ralaea with a guarded expression. "I'll try to be interesting then," he says once he's settled. "Shouldn't be too hard."
Ralaea notes his choice with smug approval. Take that, fancy chair. She waits a moment, sizing him up, then asks, “Was she your first kill?”
Finley exhales sharply, and reflexively starts to reach for something in an inside jacket pocket, but stills his hand before he reaches it. He puts that hand decisively back where it was, as he looks around the room at anything except Ralaea, fixating eventually on the window.
"Yeah," he says quietly after a moment. He swallows hard and adds, "Maybe technically second as well. I had to kill her twice." A shake of his head. "Warlock. Soulstone."
Ralaea eyes him suspiciously. “Did she have a demon? Do you know which one?”
A pause, but not for long. "Yes to both," he says, and sets his murky gaze back on Ralaea. There's no trace of a pleasant young man there — only a serious one, with an edge of a banked, long burning anger directed at some other source. "An archincubus to start. She summoned a shivarra after I got the first one down."
Super impressive for a man armed with supposedly a butter knife and an onion.
Ralaea is silent for a moment as she tries to math this out. When she returns her attention to Finley, it is clear her math failed. “Those are big,” she says. “You can’t kill them with your height.”
Finley laughs quietly. And then turns his head to look over his shoulder at Ralaea's door. "That'll be Catrin," he says.
Extremely faintly outside Ralaea's room is the sound of Catrin's tea cart, barely audible just before her telltale gentle scratch in lieu of a disruptive knock, before she opens the door. Catrin has a full plate of Ralaea's favorite sandwiches and two apples peeled and sliced into neat wedges, as well as a warmed cup of milk, and a warmed up cookie as big as Ralaea's hand.
Catrin makes no comment about serving the meal on the ground, moving as efficiently as if they were seated at a proper table.
“Thank you, Catrin,” Finley says, with a nod to her more in line with a fellow servant than a gentleman of the house.
"Good to see you home, miss," she says with a smile before curtseying to them both, to take her leave.
Ralaea nods her thanks to Catrin, before eyeing Finley again. Notably, she doesn’t ask how he fought off two demons and a warlock. “Do you feel guilty about it?” she asks. “Sometimes, even when they’re a bad person, or undead, you still feel things about it. That wears on people sometimes.”
Finley waits for a moment to answer, as if waiting to make sure Catrin is far enough away from the door that there wouldn't be the slightest chance of being overheard through a door. Never mind that he's not speaking loudly enough for someone at the door to hear well, but all the same.
"Guilty is the wrong word. I don't regret what I did. She came there to kill me. She had a plan on how to take the children away from Avrenne. No. I don't feel guilty," Finley says, but he stares at Ralaea's plate when he speaks. Quieter, and in a lower voice he adds, "She really didn't want to die. I saw it in her eyes. She went out sure that she wasn't going to — that she couldn't die there. I know how she felt." He looks up from her plate to Ralaea. "I felt the same way."
“I think that’s called empathy,” says Ralaea, Scholar of Feelings. She takes a sip of her milk and some of the wired tension from lack of sleep melts away at the warmth, leaving her with the brief glow of an appreciative smile. “So you related her to yourself.”
"Yeah. I do that," Finley says, so quietly it's just shy of inaudible. He sighs, and there's a hint of a reflective half smile at hers. "I know you're wondering how I managed it. And no, there was no kitchen knife and no onions. There's something you should know about me. It's important because with you here, you need to know how and where to prioritize your guarding. And you'll need to know in an emergency when to get me, and why."
Ralaea regards him levelly, taking a bite of sandwich before responding, allowing for a more thought out reply. “Okay,” she says. “But tell me only what I need to know. I get the feeling I shouldn’t pry, so I won’t. We all know I’m bad at secrets.”
"And it is something of one. But I think you can get this one. Think of it like a hidden weapon, you know? Some weapons you wear out on your belt. But others, you have tucked away, where people can't see them. You don't mention them to people. I'm one of those," Finley explains. "A hidden knife. I'm more effective when people outside the House don't know what I can do, you understand?"
“So… you’re like Sil except not in Cobalt Company?” Ralaea asks. “He’s got that whole, cheerful, don’t expect him to have a knife thing. Not that you’re cheerful.”
Finley tips his head a little. "Sil… Silvestre Silentstep, formerly Sullivan? Sort of. Except he's not really hiding his knives. He was in the circus for it. Knife thrower act." He gestures with a hand, mimicking a knife throw. "It's a bit more like Fallon and being a tidesage. It's the secrecy of the Kul Tirans about it. Don't advertise what they can do. Let people think it's just a convenient fog. Just a lucky wind."
Ralaea takes another bite of sandwich, looking unconcerned. “Well that part’s easy,” she says. “To me, you’re just Finley. So what if you can kill a warlock and a couple demons? That can only be a good thing. If it helps, I can stick with the onions and dinner knife story, if I get asked at all. Oh, does Isla know about this? Siamus said she revived you.”
"She knows I fought off someone from the MacBrides, but I didn't tell her what I'm telling you. As far as she's concerned, I got in a lucky shot against a mad woman. Isla doesn't mean to spill secrets, but she gets careless and excitable. She can't know. She's not the Second Lt," Finley says. He stares at one of his hands. "But she was the one who brought me back. I'd been dead for probably two hours. Maybe longer. I don't know how she did it. Pure stubbornness probably."
“Two hours,” Ralaea repeats, her brows lifting. “That’s lucky, then. Usually even one hour is pushing it. Do you remember anything from it? Sometimes people do. I never do, but I haven’t stayed dead for long.”
Finley shakes his head slightly, looking at her window again. "No, not really. Only that it was… colourless," he says, frowning. "And dark." He runs a hand down his face, rubbing it along his stubble.
"But I need you to remember it, in an emergency. I am not one of the ones to worry about guarding. You go for the children, or Otto," he instructs, turning his attention back to her. "I had training back before, with Sir Somer. I was never much good at it, truth told. I didn't have that build for a guardian knight like he was. And, I didn't apply myself to it. Not really. I sparred to fight." He shrugs. "After everything that happened in past few years, I got a different attitude. So I've been training, in secret. Not how to guard. Not how to fight honorably. But how to kill. How to be fast and lethal. I always have a weapon on or near me. That included that day. I had two knives, and two paralytic injections. That's how I took down the demons and the warlock.
"It's just better for me if people don't know that about me. So, most of the time, unless they need to know about the MacBrides, best thing for me is that you say nothing at all of it. Don't mention the fight, or what I did. If you have to say why, you could say the MacBrides threatened and harmed a 'member of the family.' If they're not close enough to know that it was me, no reason to tell them," Finley concludes.
Ralaea nods. “Okay. I won’t guard you. But I can still back you up if you need someone sturdy, right? Or if you have to kill someone else, but don’t want Isla or someone else getting suspicious, you can say I did it, if it’s helpful.”
She finishes the first sandwich and moves on to the apple slices. “I’m planning to send Harvey to Pandaria to help Siamus, and if I stick around here, I won’t have anyone to tell anything to. Except… do you think it’d be okay to invite Miralynn here so I can stay sharp? Goldshire is too far away if I’m guarding the House.”
There is an odd conflict of emotion on Finley's face for a moment, relief and…dissappointment? for some reason, at the mention of Miralynn coming to the house, rather than Ralaea going to the Ebek's house, and he looks away. But he summons a pleasant smile to erase the other expressions, and nods. "That's good thinking, Second Lt," he says. "Especially since Isla's still going off to the city for her own lessons with Miss Kensington-Whit. Burren goes with her." He leans closer with a conspiratorial tone to add, "It's part of a footman's job to be able to be an armed bodyguard, after all. It's why Shine was so good to have on it before."
“Isla’s being trained by Natalyah?” Ralaea asks, as apparently this is news to her. She and Harvey really must not communicate much via letters. “Does she know about the secret? If she does, I bet that paladin also knows. And maybe his friends. Like Elle, and that Kul Tiran, and Harvey.”
She frowns as her brain works in conspiracies. “I don’t want to fight Elle, but I can swear Harvey to secrecy and beat up the other two. It’s not really Natalyah’s fault, so she’s fine.”
"She was there with Isla. She's the one who found me. But, she's been told by the Guard to keep it quiet. House business. And it is. The more widely this is known, the weaker it can make the House look, depending on what we do from here. She's on retainer of House Fallon, so she has incentive to keep it quiet. And both Dinnsfield and Hartrim are strong allies of Fallon. Hartrim's a 'good friend' of his, and Dinnsfield owes him a great personal debt. There's no need to make them not talk," Finley cautions. "I haven't told Elle myself. And I don't think he knows. I can write him though, and then I'll be sure. He has no guile."
“Elle won’t say anything, if you tell him not to,” Ralaea says confidently. “I don’t know about the other two. I don’t like them. Is Hana still around? She wanted to join Cobalt Company, but I don’t know if she ever did. Elle’s not home, so this is her chance.”
Finley looks away sharply at the mention of Hana, and pulls on a pleasant smile. By the time he looks back at Ralaea, the Painter Gentleman has a perfect expression that expresses little at all but the vague pleasantry he's known for. "She's still around, yes. You'd have to ask her about her efforts. You might consider some of Cobalt Company's local work while you're home. There's a new arcane feature they've been using out of Dalaran. 'ECHO,' it's called. Recreates battles. Keeps skills sharp."
Ralaea eyes him suspiciously. “I don’t like magic,” she says. “The last thing I want is to be trapped in a room of it fighting fake battles. What if something goes wrong in there and we’re stuck forever, locked away in some pocket dimension thing until someone accidentally pulls us out of their magic bag or something ten thousand years later? Besides, the whole point of being here, is to be here. So I’ll just see about Miralynn. If we invite her officially for work, we can avoid being flooded with presents. You know how that family is.”
His smile twitches at her evaluation of ECHO, growing more real. But there's still enough control that there's not even a slight hitch to his expression at the reminder of Miralynn and that family and gifts. "I do. I'll let Avrenne know to send a contract over. It'll be like sending Avrenne a cookie in her current mood. Except she'd probably prefer the contract to a cookie, truth told," Finley says, with that note of conspiring together in his voice.
Speaking of cookies, Ralaea starts in on hers, enjoying the hit of sugar. “There are too many vegetables in Pandaria,” she observes. “And I know if Jenzelle were here she’d say that pumpkins aren’t technically vegetables, but I don’t care, they’re close enough.”
She leans back against the wall, finally starting to lose that feeling of overabundant energy. “It’s probably going to bother you for a while,” she says. “The kill. And it won’t get easier. And if you’re anything like me, you won’t want to talk about it, but you should anyway, because you’re not alone in all this and I have to kill all the time, and sometimes that’s just how it is. If you don’t talk about it, sometimes it’ll come out in the worst way, and you probably don’t want to learn what that is.”
The pleasant smile drops off, as the serious man replaces it. Finley leans slightly closer as she leans back, arms relaxed over his knees, deliberately not crossed off. "Is that what happened with you?" he asks quietly.
Ralaea takes another drink of milk for fortification, and nods. “My first kill was technically undead,” she says. “Some civilian man, probably mid-twenties. But the first living person I killed? That was a middle aged woman. An innocent. Unarmed and fleeing. You didn’t really know me, before I came to the House, but I was… trying to erase Ralaea Westwind. I thought if I just went from one battle to the next, became colder, pushed myself down, shoved everyone away, I could somehow make up for what I did. Truth is, it’s not going to go away. Not ever. And suffering, saying I don’t deserve to be happy, that’s not going to appease the dead, it’ll just hurt the living. I have people who care about me. And so do you. So you’ll carry your kills until they get too heavy, and sometimes you’ll need a hand to get up again, and it’s okay to take that hand. That’s what I’ve learned, anyway.”
Finley listens with guarded eyes, and he looks away briefly in sympathy at the description of killing an unarmed, fleeing woman, but he looks back at her soon after.
He reaches out, purposefully, to set his hand over Ralaea's in a loose grip. "I was prepared for it. I came to terms about what it would mean, to kill someone, years ago," he says in that low voice. "But you're the most I've talked to about it since it happened, 'sides from Avrenne. That was giving a report though." He hesitates, as if he might say something more, and is reconsidering. In the end, he says it. "You asked about my beard. It's 'cause I can't shave. I cut myself shaving the other day, and all I could think about was slitting Quinn MacBride's throat. Can't stand to have a razor on my skin. Couldn't keep going. So. Here we are." Stubbled.
Ralaea pats his hand with her free one. “That makes a lot of sense,” she says earnestly. “I punched out a mirror, once. But I understand why it might be hard to talk to Siamus or Avrenne. Sometimes when people worry, it can be… like a sticky mire that just makes you feel worse about everything. Or maybe they start to think you should stop doing dangerous things, even though someone has to and they know it. And then they feel bad and you feel awful that they feel bad, so you resolve to be better and stronger, but you can’t always control what’s going to happen because sometimes a dragon will come and mess up Stormwind one day. If I had the chance to talk to my birth parents again, I don’t think I could tell them half of what I’ve gotten up to these past years. What I mean is, you can talk to me about anything you want, and hopefully I won’t make you feel bad about it.”
Finley gives her a tired, conspiratorial smile, and a return pat. "Same, hm? We lieutenants have to stick together. Now, more than ever. Avrenne thinks that this goes deeper than one mad woman with a madder plan. If she's right, this may get uglier before it gets better," he says, as he withdraws his hand gently and slowly, before he pushes up to a stand. "You should get some rest. I'll tell Avrenne about Mrs. Ebek, and I'll trust you with the house. I'll be in the townhouse in the city as my own base of operations."
Ralaea finishes her milk. “It can get uglier all it wants, but it’ll be in looks only, because I don’t plan on letting anything bad happen here,” she says. “Besides, it can’t be as ugly as the sha-monsters.”
She flashes him a smile. “You know where I’ll be if it comes time to coordinate anything. Or if you want any bombs. I’m good at bombs.”
Finley laughs quietly as he rebuttons his suit jacket. "Yeah, I know you are," he says with affection, crossing her room with long strides. "Night, Second Lt."
“G’night, First Lt.,” Ralaea returns, already disappearing into her tent.