Just For Tonight

“Don’t bother coming home tonight!”

Before she spat those hateful words at his back, Westel never considered her home his as well. How awful, he brooded, to be barred from a home he didn’t even know he had. Peering down at the bottom of his glass, Westel allowed that argument to replay in his head yet again.

It was all Ellisera’s fault, he seethed. Pinning this pregnancy on him. The girl wasn’t exactly chaste and she had a boyfriend now for the Light’s sake. Why did she have to insist on involving him? Westel had no business being a father, some snot-nosed kid’s role model. Who wanted a hateful addict for a father? He was doing the kid a favor, trying to stay out of its life. This was all her fault.

The bar was especially crowded this evening. Full of other lonely sods who’d pissed off their girls and were compelled to drink and forget for a while. Westel ignored the lot of them; he ignored the rowdy group hogging half the tables, brushed off the older elf who had begun telling his life story earlier, even turned down the two girls who sashayed over looking for free drinks and a good night. West just wanted to sit at the bar and drink and then scowl at his empty glass until the bartender refilled it. Eventually he’d stumble upstairs to a room, or perhaps just to a tree out in Eversong, and in the morning he’d find Ashelyen to patch things up. That was all he wanted to do.

“Another?” The bartender took Westel’s glass without waiting for an answer. New ice cubes clinked against the glass, soon submerged in the bourbon he’d befriended for the evening. Without so much as a thank you, West took the newly made drink and drained nearly half of it. The bartender simply walked away.

Glad that he was not going to be bothered, Westel returned to glaring at his drink. They’d fought only a few hours ago, but he could scarcely remember what set things off. Why was she so pissed at him anyways? What’s it to her, whether he takes part in this child’s life? Especially with such little proof that the thing was even his. Gods the woman went from mildly disappointed to practically breathing fire in two seconds. Westel shook his head and tipped his drink to one side, listening to the little chink of ice against glass again. He had no clue how to fix this.

So preoccupied with his own dark thoughts and woes, West didn’t even notice the hush that settled briefly over the bar. Nor did he realize that someone had slid onto the stool beside him. He took no note of her until she leaned close, perfectly manicured nail dragging up his forearm as she  purred, “If it isn’t Westel Sorrelon.”

West sat up, back rigid and muscles tense. His grip on the glass turned his knuckles white. He made no move to look at her or even properly acknowledge the woman’s presence, he simply stared straight ahead with a curtain of his tangled black hair between him and her.

Dessandra only found amusement in his silence. Her symphonic laughter filled Westel’s ears and simultaneously chilled his blood and warmed his heart. “I barely recognized you all…wild looking.” She lifted a delicate hand and snapped her fingers once for the bartender’s attention. “Two glasses of what he’s having.” Dess turned her attention back to Westel, finger still skating up and down his forearm. “Still haven’t discovered the use of a comb I see,” she reached up to tuck that curtain of dark hair back behind and Westel’s ear. “That’s quite all right. Everyone learns at their own pace, mmm?”

He still refused to look at her, but he could imagine perfectly the curl of her painted lips as she smirked at him. Still unaffected by his stony silence, Dess continued chatting. “I do like thew new ornamentation though.” The hand that had toyed with his hair moved on to his ear, flicking playfully at a hoop near the tip. “Tell me…it almost seems as if you haven’t cut this hectic hair of yours since…” She trailed off purposely, and this time Westel didn’t have to imagine her smirk as he turned to fix her with a cold stare.

“Since you betrayed me? Something like that.” He snarled in a low tone.

Dess simply rolled her eyes and lifted one of the glasses of bourbon. “So overdramatic. What is this talk of betrayal? The winds changed, you should know how that works my darling summer breeze.” Her fingers finally abandoned his arm, instead moving to trace the hard line of his jaw as he scowled at her.

“What are you doing here, Dess?” He snapped. This dive of a bar was the last place he expected her to come strutting through, decked out in her full Magistrix regalia at that. Glancing around, he noticed the way others stared and whispered. Dess never was one for just blending in places.

The Magistrix smiled her bewitching smile and took her time with the bourbon before answering. “I desired a good drink and even better company. And…look at this. I have both.” Dess glanced down to the glass in Westel’s hand and the second drink she’d taken the liberty of ordering for him. “I did not mean to interrupt your own drinking though, dear. Please do not let me distract you.” She quirked a finely sculpted brow in a way that said she knew exactly how distracting she was.

A drink sounded great, West decided and he polished off his first and started in on the second. Dess giggled into her own glass as she watched him. She had always found him so amusing, especially when he was making no effort to be.

“So what about you, Westel darling? What brings you to this lovely establishment tonight? Is there not a darling woman waiting eagerly for you to come home?”

Westel tensed again. “No. There is not.”

“No?” Dess tsked softly, almost sympathetically. “Holding out for someone…special, then?”

He ignored her question. “Don’t you have a husband eagerly waiting for you to come home, Dessandra?”

“Oh I am sure he is holding his post by the window, awaiting my return.” Dess smirked at him. “But you know how much I love to make a man wait.” She tipped her head back, draining what remained of her bourbon. Impulsively, Westel’s gaze dropped, following the curve of her neck, the slope of her gown’s neckline… “And you heard me,” her voice called Westel’s attention back to her lips instead, “I desired a good drink and better company.”

Westel used to dream up scenarios such as this, in which Dessandra would come waltzing into a bar or simply up to him in the streets. She would be as beautiful and captivating as ever and of course she would desire Westel’s company over her husband’s. Over Westel’s brother. But those were simple, foolish daydreams. Ones he had given up long long ago.

Yet here she was, smiling and giggling at him, with her fingers playing across his arm and her knee maddeningly brushing up against his leg every few seconds. It was too good to be true. There had to be some sort of catch here, but Westel was having a difficult time coming up with one.

Dess talked on and Westel listened, mesmerized by every word that fell from her lips. Her slender fingers continued to graze across his arm and eventually they wandered to tangle with his. She commented on his calluses, recalling how very much she enjoyed the roughness of his hands. West was having a hard time swallowing the many drinks she ordered him, with his heart lodged in his throat the way it was.

Soon, the bar was lost to the haze of alcohol, and there was nothing else but Dessandra. Dessandra’s hand on his thigh, his fingers toying with Dessandra’s dark crimson hair, Dessandra’s lips brushing his ear as she murmured words he needed her to repeat they were so unreal.

“Would you walk me upstairs?” She giggled, her breath hot against his cheek. “I fear I’ve…I’ve had much too much to drink. I might fall!”

Westel promptly stood, a little unsteady on his feet himself. He took Dess’ hand nonetheless as she plucked a room key from the barkeep’s. Though it was supposed to be Westel leading Dess, she walked ahead of the swaying ranger. She didn’t seem all that drunk to him, but then again Dess had always boasted a talent of maintaining perfect grace at all times. The pair of them were giggling when they stumbled to a halt in front of the door and Dess fiddled with the key. Once the room was open, she turned to Westel, hands pressed against his chest as she leaned close.

“Perhaps you should join me,” she suggested, voice barely above a whisper. “For old times’ sake?”

Ashelyen immediately leaped into his foggy mind and the protest was on his lips. However, Dess was quicker. A flawless, delicate hand slid up from his chest and curled around the back of Westel’s neck to pull him close as she kissed him. Thoughts of Ashelyen fled his mind. In fact, all thought and reasoning left him as Dessandra drew him into the room and closed the door behind them.

Serpentine Memories

For Kate

***

Tyren had this habit of walking around his house in the nude. Almost the moment he walked in the door, clothes started flying. Occasionally his hat or cloak my make it on a hook, but everything else wound up strewn across the floor while Tyren strutted on to the kitchen or his bedroom in nothing but a pair of shorts– if that.

After a few weeks, Westel got used to it. The first time the older elf’s pants dropped, however, West felt compelled to flee to his bedroom. It was not as if he could just ask Tyren to keep his clothes on. The man was letting him stay here, after all.

So, as seeing a man dart about the house in his birthday suit became the norm, West started to…kind of…you know…notice things. Westel knew very little about the cheerful, yet enigmatic Ranger who’d taken him in and a person’s body often spoke tales that would never normally leave their lips.

The scars on Tyren’s hands, for example, spoke of both swordplay and years of hand crafting with sharp tools. While other quirks stood out, the main storytellers were Tyren’s tattoos.

A few of the colorfully inked marks, West could figure out for himself. The phoenix taking flight across Tyren’s right-side ribs was obviously for house Firewing. Then there were the runic markings in red that swirled and twisted along the length older ranger’s right arm. West recognized a few of those symbols as marks for strength, endurance, and agility. He often wondered if they carried any magical properties.

The snake, however, was a mystery. Mottled black and green, the serpent started at Tyren’s elbow and wound its way almost lovingly up his arm and over his shoulder, from which it slithered down his chest where the head lay, just above his heart. There, the snake lay poised to strike, mouth open with fangs dripping of venom.

It was a curious tattoo, to say the least.

Westel found himself trying to think of any noble houses he knew whose sigil was a snake, but none came to mind. Tyren had never spoken of a fondness for them, either, though the day he saw one outside the front door he easily grabbed the reptile by its tail and tossed it into the neighbor’s garden. If West had paid any attention to literature in school he might have known what snakes and serpents meant, but he’d been too busy looking out the window at trees.

Like so many felines, Westel’s curiosity finally got the best of him. He was in Tyren’s kitchen, in the process of making a pie crust, when the Ranger Captain came home and started his routine disrobing. He was down to his shorts and socks when he wandered into the kitchen in hopes of swiping some of West’s laboriously prepared food. Tossing a casual greeting to his house guest, Tyren snatched up an apple slice, oblivious to the boy’s staring.

The words flew from Westel’s mouth before he could think to swallow them.

“What does your snake tattoo mean?”

Tyren paused. In reality, it was a mere second of time, but to West it felt like an hour as he watched Tyren’s merry feature harden. A grave line creasing the Captain’s brow and his smiling lips fell into a frown. Westel could see a thousand thoughts and memories swimming in Tyren’s bright blue eyes, though he voiced none of them. The older elf recovered quickly from the sudden strike of nostalgia, however, his warm smile jumpiing right back into place.

“I got it to remember a very old, very good friend. Tattoos are good for that sort of thing…” He trailed off, peering hungrily at Westel’s pie-in-the-making. “Remembrance. Immortalizing a love one or a memory in your skin. I’d like to think she would appreciate the gesture,” Tyren chuckled but it lacked it usual mirth, “but I imagine she’d think me ridiculous.”

More questions fought for the privilege of speech, but only a quiet statement won Westel over, “I see…well it’s very nice.”

“I am fond of it,” murmured Tyren in return as he plucked up another apple slide. “Save a bit of pie for me this time, eh kid?”

He winked and turned away, usual grin back in place. Giving Westel’s hair an affectionate ruffle, the ranger retreated to his room where he remained for the rest of the night.

Detention, Boobs, & Unfortunate Noises

**A Guest Post! By: Westlynn of Moonguard**

The halls of the academy were long and made of many doors that housed full classrooms of bright, talented, and diligent students. Located in the heart of the school was the vast Library—a maze of books and tombs filed away neatly..all but  were returned and piled high in what seemed like never-ending stacks. That is where, deep in the middle of the literary mountains, Little Miss Euphrates Rossi Quan’tico sat on a high stool. Though she was quiet at work—flipping each page of every new book to ensure its quality and then filing it away in its proper origin, one might see that she did so begrudgingly. The head Librarian would occasionally peek over her gold-brimmed glasses at the young girl—she was told to keep an eye on that one. She was tricky.  In other parts of the library others like Phrates were at work—toiling away as punishment for acting out in class. They were the difficult ones and into the library another would enter.

He was late. Cursing under his breath and trying to smooth down his very obviously tousled hair, Tyren Firewing slipped into the Library. Tardiness was what landed him there in the first place but…Oh it was worth it. Smirking at the memory, Tyren  ducked around book cases, doing his best to avoid the Librarian. If she asked, he’d been here the -whole time-. Quietly, the young man stationed himself at the opposite side of a tall stack of books from another girl. He plucked one up, opening it and-
pretending to inspect its pages before putting it up on a random shelf.

Though her time spent here was meant to be punishment, it seemed the girl enjoyed it far more than being stuck in a classroom which subjects that didn’t ignite her interests. Her talents lay in getting what she wanted—and with just a few theatrical displays during lecture, she had received a nearly free pass to her current location. As she flipped the pages with dainty polished fingernails, she’d briefly stop..finding interest in the illustrations of the nude body in a medical book—or fancying a passage about a particularly crude character of a play. She was easy at entertaining herself, as she was by far her biggest fan. She had seen the boy as he entered..keeping close notes on who came and went. At his approach she quietly closes her book and observes. “You’ve placed it in the wrong pile.” she says in a hollow voice.

Tyren glances up from the next book he had chosen. He lofts a brow and cants his head to one side with a curious smile. He drags his fingers through his long, messy hair and shrugs. “What’s it matter?” Euphrates’ lips shift into a sweet smile and she stretches out her foot to stand. She takes his book and replaces it with the one in her hand “it matters because that’s my ‘opps these books have naughty drawings in them and should be removed’ pile. She flips to a page in her book and taps her finger upon a scrawling of curse words and rather imaginative body poses. “Oooh..why didn’t you just say so.” He grins a broad, charming grin that caused the corners of his eyes to crinkle. With a deft movement he snatches the book back and fishes a pencil from his uniform jacket’s pocket. His boyish grin morphs into one of gleeful mischief as he scribbles something on the inside cover. He nods to himself once finished, satisfied, and sets the book back on the naughty pile.

Euphrates watches him with curiosity—did she appreciate him creeping into her literal pile of trouble? “Well let us see what you drew—I can’t possibly allow you to continue without checking the quality.” Phrate’s side glances as she says this, smirking to herself furtively.

With a shrug, Tyren gestures to the book he had set down. “By all means,” he whispers, that grin still playing on his lips. As Phrates inspected the book, she would find a crudely drawn woman— well, what was expected to be a woman. The majority of the drawing was her breasts, probably three times larger than the rest of her body.

Euphrates cranes her neck, sending her cream-curls down to bounce against her face as she does so. Her eyes scan the page before flicking over to look at the boy. At eye contact she bats her lashes and smiles deviously “What’s your name, boy?” she asks in a quiet voice, lingering over the book. Tyren hums quietly as he places a few more books into random piles. “Tyren Firewing…” He pauses and looks up at the girl. His brow furrows and he leans in close, “You…I know your name. Something…Fruities?”

She had deviated her eyes again—looking over the library—at his name guess she lofts a quiet brow, seeming to decide, then, that this kid was …interesting…and also annoying “Phrates, I understand, though, that you and half the school have a certain speech impediment that disallows you to properly wrap your tongue around it’s prononciation, and I do pity your future ventures in life because of it. I can’t imagine how embarassing it must be to stumble over words like common peasantry.” She says this in a dry and calm voice—watching him for a few moments before her eyes go back to whatever they were following.
For several long beats, Tyren simply stares at the girl. He can’t quite seem to decide whether to be amused, or offended. Finally he lets out a loud laugh, not caring if it would get them in trouble. “-Phrates-. My apologies, Miss Phrates. It’s quite nice to meet you.”

“yes…..” she says with mild distraction “It is.” she grins to herself before changing her tune rather promptly. She returns her eyes back to the book with a bit of haste “Have you drawn in books before?” she asks with enthusiasm. He smirks and wiggles his pencil between his index and middle fingers. “I draw shit in my text books sometimes. Arithmetic gets rather boring.” He tilts his head and opens up a book, offering it over to Phrates. “What about you?”

Phrates displays an interest in him. Though she was young, she knew boys were hard pressed to ignore a pretty girl’s attention “Oh. I dabble.” she understates. “Are you always so bad?” she says with a sweetened voice “What else do you do? ”

Tyren’s smirk slowly turns back towards that boyish grin of his. “Well,” he brushes the tip of his nose and shrugs, “I really wouldn’t call myself -bad-. I just like to have fun, y’know?”

“oh, I bet~” she winks and feigns a blush. “Oh um.” she shrugs her shoulders up coyly “Can I see more of your doodles?” she taps on the book with her fingernail.
He shakes his head and offers Phrates his pencil. “Let us take turns, mm? You draw something for me.” Phrates gasps “Oh!” she says in a spirited whisper “Well~~ Okay” she winks. However, she doesn’t take the pencil but instead backs up and at an opportuned moment she lifts her voice “No! I won’t draw in those books! I can’t believe you’d do that!” she hisses and backs away with shock—pointedly bumping into a stack of books and nearly topling it.

At the noise another figure comes closer—having been watching the two while she made her rounds, the lead librarian darts over and shoves Tyren away “WHAT ON AZEROTH!” she says in the loudest whisper possible. Her words spit out loathsome shock and incredulous rage. Tyren, once again, is left staring at Phrates as she shouts shrilly. His mouth moves, though no sound comes out until the librarian arrives. At that time he just closes his mouth and shakes his head incredulously.
The Librarian whips off her golden-rimmed glasses and stares down at the book for several moments. She snaps and looks over to Phrates with a suspicious growl “What did you two do?!”

Phrates throws her hands up “What did, I do?! I don’t even have a pencil!” she insists, patting herself down “He told me he wrote in that whole pile of books! I didn’t know!” she pleads.  The librarian growls and whips around to look at Tyren
Tyren stands there for a while, still slowly shaking his head. He finally finds his voice and his big, boyish grin. “Well, ma’am, I suppose I’ve been caught red handed. I have been systematically drawing in every book in this library. Even though I’ve never checked one out. I’m sneaky that way. Are those new glasses?”

The Librarian was -furious-. Who would do such a thing? She was perplexed at his audacity..and..oh he complimented her glasses! How sweet he was—what?! No! “YOU ARE IN -big- TROUBLE” she says with great emphasis..though she still maintained a whisper! She was skilled. Her hand reaches out for his school uniform and with ink-stained and paper-cut fingers she tugs him away. “You are going to be erasing graphite and magically removing ink for the rest of your school year at this rate! Look at what you’ve done, you illiterate, bafoon!” As they were making to go, Phrates would certainly attempt to sneak in a small wave to Tyren and a wink. Poor unfortunate, stupid boy, she smiles to herself.
At that time, the librarian turned back to thank Phrates—but instead she saw the proud and satisfied look upon the girl’s face. With rage she turns back around and shakes her head with immense disappointment and annoyance. She grabs up Phrates as well—“No one innocent would be making a face like -that-!!” Tyren throws his head back with a laugh as the Librarian turned to snatch up Phrates as well. “Ahh my partner in crime, you almost got away!”

“Please keep the hole in your face shut—you are an unfortunate noise.” she grumbles as they were toted off to the Dean.

Dashing and Dapper

With a growl and a colorful swear, the young ranger threw his hands up in frustration. The poor boy was having quite a time trying to get his wardrobe put together good and proper. For hours he had done nothing but moan and groan about the uncomfortably stiff shirt collar, the trousers that hugged his groin a little too intimately, the stupid waist coat, and now his neck tie.

Tyren observed the young man’s tantrum quietly all the while, a small smile tugging at his lips. Presently, the boy–for despite his thirty-some years he was still very much a boy–was clawing at the partially tied length of cloth until he had freed his neck from its grasp and finally threw it to the ground with a huff. For good measure, he gave it a good kick as well. The silk flew up, then dropped sadly back down to the floor.

“I’ll just not go.” Proclaimed Westel as he eyed his reflection in the full-length mirror. All things considered, he would have looked quite the dandy if he could truly pull off such a look. He felt he looked silly in the tight, black fall front trousers, and the tight, stiff collar of his shirt coupled with the double breasted black waist coat had the young ranger feeling constricted. He had not even put on the “hunter green” tail coat.

“Oh like hell you won’t.” Scoffed the older ranger, straightening up and stalking across the room to join the younger in front of the mirror. “I am not showing up at the Ranger’s Ball without my protege. I’ll have you know I gave up having a darling date on my arm for you. Thus far, you are proving to take longer to get ready than a woman.” Nose wrinkled, Tyren straightened out the front of his own suit.

Ever the one to make a statement, Tyren had donned a cobalt blue tail coat with gold buttons and cuffs, with a gold vest underneath and a blue cravat. His trousers were the same as Westel’s, with black lace up boots that reached his knees. His feathered hat, he said, had gone out of style and so his head went bare for this evening’s event. His scruff had been trimmed and shaven, leaving him with a stylish goatee. Tyren Firewing knew fashion, even if he often took everything a step up, making his clothing bolder and brighter. The Ranger-Captain never failed to draw attention to himself.

“Now come here,” demanded Tyren, taking Westel by the elbow and turning him to face away from the mirror. “It’s an ascot, for goodness sake.” He sighed and shook his head, bending to pick up the black silk. “And I swear if I hear you complain about this suit one more time, I’ll have you shooting at the range until your fingers bleed.”

“You already do that.” Westel countered grumpily. Even now his fingers were bandaged from his last archery session.

The retort earned the young man a smack on the back of his head. “Hush,” Tyren admonished. “I had this suit tailored specifically to your scrawny stature. And it is of the latest fashion. So quit moping.” Nimble fingers swiftly did up Westel’s ascot, tucked it neatly against his shirt and took the liberty of buttoning up his vest as well.

“How do you do it, Tyren?” Asked Westel, as he shrugged on the green tail coat.

“Practice. Over and up and thr–”

“Not the ascot. The whole…look.” Westel turned to face his mentor and gestured to him with a sigh. “I do not understand how you can go from being caked in mud, in scuffed up leathers with your hair all over the place to this…fop.” He made a face and shoot his head, hands sinking into the pockets of his trousers.

Tyren allowed a rather self-satisfied smile. “Some people are just born stylish, kiddo.” He lifted his chin and stroked his goatee, grinning. When Westel frowned and turned away, Tyren sobered up. “And I wasn’t. When I was your age I was never much of one for such styles either. You know me. I love rolling about in the muck and dirt, with troll blood on my hands. But there is a time and place for that. Just as there is a time and place for looking dashing and dapper.”

“But I cannot look dashing and dapper. I just look like a tool.”

“That’s only because you think everyone that dresses like this is a tool. Which, I’ll admit, many of them are. But you and I, are not. Maybe if you ran a comb through that rat’s nest of yours once in a while…Oh bloody hell come here.” Tyren yanked Westel down into a chair and grabbed an ivory comb off his dresser. “While I have to go to this ball with my protege at my side, I will not go to this ball with a protege that looks like some street urchin I plucked up from the gutter on Augur’s Row*.” Roughly, Tyren yanked the comb through Westel’s hopelessly tangled, thick, wavy locks.

After about twenty minutes, Tyren sighed and lowered his comb. “Looks better. We’ll get you a haircut next time though.” He nudged Westel up and beamed down at him. “Remember, boy, chin up and shoulders back. But be casual. You could have a million other places to be, but on a whim you chose this ball. Don’t be too aloof–don’t look at me like that. I know how you are.”

Westel sighed and just nodded as he listened to Tyren’s instructions.

“And gods don’t cling to me for too long. You’re a big boy, I am sure there will be plenty of young ladies you would rather cling to once we get there.” He went to ruffle Westel’s hair, then stopped himself. “And remember, when they call you up there smile and shake hands like I showed you. You’re being officially brought into the ranks of the Farstriders. You are happy and honored.”

“Yes sir.” Westel ventured a smile, though it was clear he was still feeling as hopeless and nervous as he had hours before.

Tyren clapped him on the shoulder and strode forward to the door of the flat, but stopped with his hand on the knob. “And kid?”

“Yes?” Westel looked up from fiddling with the black velvet of his coat collar.

“Above anything else, remember that I’m proud of you.” As he caught sight of Westel’s broader smile, Tyren turned and opened the door. “Now come on, boy. You’ve made us late enough as it is.”

 

 

(( *Augur’s Row is the high elven name for what is now known is Murder Row in Silvermoon City. And here is a visual of Westel’s suit, and the style of Tyren’s: http://tinyurl.com/Dandy-Westel ))

 

We Choose Our Joys and Sorrows

The Ranger paused about one hundred feet out from the estate. Before him stood a grand home, a bit more modern than the places he was used to; brighter and flashier, a gaudy display of wealth and grandeur. So this was the life she had chosen, he mused to himself as he tipped his head up to observe the building in its entirety. Silently, he wondered if life on the other side of the huge front doors was as magnificent as the home suggested. As he stalked up the path to the front door, the man was happy to assume that it was all a sham.

Upon reaching the huge doors with their thick golden knockers, the Ranger drew himself up to his full, impressive height. A gloved hand rose to lift the heavy knocker, but the door was open before he dropped the metal the first time.

“Can I help you, sir?” Inquired his greeter, a small dark-haired woman in a servant’s garb.

“Ah, yes,” he flashed her a nervous sort of smile, despite the confidence he was attempting to exude, “I have business with the lady of the house. Could you let her know I am here, dear?”

The servant woman narrowed her blue eyes at him, and gave the tall man a long, critical once over. His hair was long and ill-kept, pulled haphazardly into a ponytail so to keep it out of his scruffy, sun-kissed face. While he was tall and obviously fit, he was not big, and actually appeared not to have been eating well for a while. His long ears almost twinkled in the sunlight, due to the amount of  rings pierced through them, and as the breeze blew a few of the earrings jingled softly against each other. The dark leathers he wore were scuffed and dirty, and one of his gloves was missing the thumb; this man certainly could not be here for business with her Lady.

“Servant’s entrance is around to the side, sir.” Said the woman curtly before moving to close the door.

“Oi!” The Ranger shouted indignantly, his left hand darting out to catch the heavy door as the woman continued to shove against it. “We’re friends, the lady and I. Old…old friends.” He tried to keep the pleading tone out of his voice as the servant continued to try and shut him out. The man gave the door a shove with his shoulder, causing the servant to stumble backwards, panting and looking quite frightened of this unkempt man now. He growled in frustration and pointed to the huge staircase at the woman’s back.

“Tell Cersei that Ranger-Captain Tyren Firewing has called on her. And that is an order.”

She gave a small squeak and dashed up the stairs without further protest.

Tyren stepped over the threshold, grumbling to himself as his dark green eyes scanned the foyer. His old leather boots were certainly muddying up the pristine white floors, and he made a point of smearing the marks across the entrance with an indignant snort. “…Servant. Bah.”

Hands knit behind his back, Tyren waited stiffly in the center of the foyer. After a minute, he could hear voices drifting from the floor above.

“He was very insistent, my Lady, and strong…” Whimpered the servant who had tried to force him out.

“Momma I’m hungry!” Moaned another voice, a young one that made Tyren’s gut twist into a knot.

He remained still, despite his body’s impulse to bolt, as he strained to hear the third voice.

“It is fine, Irona. I will deal with it…” Cersei’s firm tone faded slightly as she rounded a corner and spotted Tyren from the top of the stairs. Her fair, pale skin appeared to lose what little color it had to it. She faltered for but a moment before she straightened her shoulders and descended the stair case with all the elegance of the Lady she had shaped herself to be.

Silent, Tyren watched her, not quite able to save face the way she could. Cersei was not the epitome of beauty; her nose was a little too small, her lips slightly too wide, and she had never quite adopted the womanly figure of her female peers. However, she had slightly more curve to her than Tyren remembered. Probably thanks to the small blonde boy who padded along at Cersei’s heels. Behind the make-up, outrageous jewelry, and rather tawdry and low-cut gown, she was of average appearance, as far as their beautiful-by-law race went.

“You look surprised to see me, Cersei. Did your lovely, hospitable servant not inform you as to who your caller was? Or were you expecting a different Ranger-Captain Firewing?” He smirked, and his voice carried with it a light-hearted mirth.

“Irona,” said Cersei, never taking her eyes off of Tyren, “take Vathal to the dining room and have the cook fix him lunch, please.”

“Yes, my Lady.” Irona eyed Tyren with a scowl and reached down for the boy’s hand and began to lead him away.

“Oh and Irona?” Cersei finally tore her gaze away from Tyren.

“Yes, my Lady?”

“Lord Sorrelon does not return this evening, does he?”

Irona eyed the Ranger as he smeared more mud across the floor she had wiped down just that morning. “No, my Lady.” With that she tugged young Vathal away, leaving the Lady and her caller alone in the foyer.

“Captain Firewing,” Cersei dipped into a small curtsey, “I apologize for my servant’s earlier rudeness. It is not often I am paid visits by…Rangers.” She left the last word hanging as if speaking of some grotesque ailment or deformity.

Tyren rolled his eyes and folded his arms over his chest. “Let’s cut the bull shit, shall we, Cersei?” He brushed past her to a small end table with little more purpose than to house an old vase which hadn’t a purpose at all. Tyren lifted the delicate pottery and tossed it back and forth from hand to hand. “How are you doing, my old friend?”

“I thought we were cutting the bull shit, Tyren.” Cersei hissed and snatched the vase from his grubby hands.

Tyren scoffed and turned to snatch the vase back. “That was not bull shit. That was genuine interest in how you are fairing.”

Cersei reached for the vase with a sigh of exasperation, but Tyren held it just out of her reach with a sly smile. “I am doing marvelous, Tyren. Everything is fabulous– Please put that down!”

He turned the vase over to peer down inside of it, with one eye shut. “A little dusty. Your maids clearly aren’t up to snuff.” Tyren grinned devilishly and tossed it up into the air. Cersei squeaked and cringed in anticipation of the ceramic piece crashing to the floor. The Ranger-Captain snickered and held it up between them. “Are you quite sure everything is fabulous? You are far too young to have those creases in your forehead, love.”

Cersei sighed at him and leaned up to take the vase back from him again. But just as her fingertips brushed its slick surface, Tyren snatched it away again and swiftly leaned down, his lips pressed to hers. Cersei’s green eyes went wide and for a moment she was frozen as Tyren kissed her. Once he finally pulled away, she stared at him, as the blood rushed to her cheeks. Tyren just smirked, quite satisfied with himself.

“You–You…!” With an unintelligible shout she grabbed the vase from Tyren’s hand and smashed it furiously against his chest. The vase shattered and the pieces fell to the floor at their feet.

“…Now that was a little over dramatic, don’t you think?” Admonished Tyren as he rubbed his chest.

Cersei was in shock, standing in front of the Ranger in silence.

A moment later, Irona appeared in the door way, “My Lady? What has happened?”

Being addressed by someone other than the scoundrel Ranger seemed to bring Cersei back to the present. “I– Yes, Irona. Just..clumsy, quite clumsy. Clean this up, if you please.” She stared up at Tyren for a moment, then turned on her heel and stalked from the foyer.

Tyren smirked at the servant girl and patted her cheek. “You heard her, doll. Clean up!” Grinning he slipped out of the foyer after Cersei. She continued  to march through the house, passing through the parlor, down a corridor and into a room off to the right. Tyren quietly followed, ducking into the vast study. Book shelves lined the walls and a large portrait of Dath’remar was mounted on the wall above the fireplace. Cersei perched on the edge of a large desk, pinching her slightly too small nose.

“What are you doing here, Tyren?” She asked quietly, all the venom gone from her voice.

Tyren sighed and closed the door behind him, closing them off from the rest of the house. “I came back to see if you had thought about what I said, last we spoke.”

She looked up at him, delicate brow furrowed. “I have not seen or heard from you in almost sixteen years, Tyren.”

“I suppose that means you do not recall my proposal.” He replied quietly, his charming smile faltering.

“No, no I remember it. But it’s been sixteen years! Tyren I have two sons, a husband, a life.” Cersei shook her head and stood up. She watched Tyren as he avoided her gaze, looking around at the hundreds of books kept in the study.

“I merely thought to give you plenty of time to think about it.” He shook his head and looked around the study again. “You can’t possibly be happy here, Cersei.” Tyren looked back to her, confident in his assertion. He knew her. He had known her for almost his entire life. “This is not the type of place we used to talk about. It’s outrageous.”

“I…bettered my standards.” Cersei insisted.

“No, you weighed down your coin purse. And stooped ridiculously low to do so.”

“Tyren I am comfortable here, happy. I don’t have to worry about anything. I can just live my life freely, without a care in the world.”

The Ranger-Captain shook his head, “You’re not happy. I have seen you happy, and that’s not how you look or act when you’re happy.”

“Perhaps I have changed.” Snapped Cersei, causing Tyren to wince. She frowned and strode forward, placing her hand on his arm. “I am not the same girl who dreamed of prancing about the world, living on whatever we could scrounge up. It is a childish romance, I know this now. We were just a childish romance.”

“I am not a child, Cersei.” Tyren growled. “I am a grown man, a Ranger-Captain. I have esteem, I have a social life outside of boring political parties and stuffy brunches, I live a comfortable life. But I’m still missing something.” He looked down at her meaningfully. Under the intensity of his gaze, Cersei tried to look away, but he lifted his hand to cup her cheek, forcing her to look back up at him.

“Tyren…”

“I’m missing you, Cersei. Us.” His thumb gently stroked her smooth cheek and he smiled softly. “Let Lord Sorrelon find himself another trophy wife.”

Cersei’s lower lip trembled and she leaned away from Tyren’s warm touch. “I can’t do that, Tyren.” She insisted. “I am a mother, a wife, a Lady.”

“You could still be all those things– Well perhaps not the Lady bit, but who gives a damn about that anyways? Come on, I have given you sixteen years to play princess in the castle. Come back with me.” Before she could protest, Tyren pulled her into his arms. Feebly, Cersei tried to squirm out of his grasp, but it really was no use.

“I cannot, Tyren. I am truly sorry, but I made my choice many years ago”

“And so did I.” He pulled her into a kiss, holding her steadfastly to his chest.

Cersei tried to protest, but soon her I can’ts were lost to his lips as she melted against him.