Brothers: Part VII

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.