#liealia

Stavier Luminiar,

You are possibly the closest thing I have to a son, and I never wanted a son. You’re bull-headed, foul-tempered, all but lost to common decorum. You drink too much, you fight too much, and your choice in women is poor to abysmal.

And I’d make a terrible father. I struggle enough being called uncle. I drink too much, fight too much, and my taste in women is arguably as bad as yours. To say nothing of my stubbornness. I’ve been a hypocrite, and cruel, and though it was with the intention of sharpening your edge, I could’ve done much better at being a friend to you. I could’ve been a mentor instead of an instructor. There is plenty I did wrong in regard to Stavier Luminiar.

And yet, you came out alright. You’ve made something of a name for yourself, and far surpassed what anyone thought you would achieve. Well, anyone but Kieran Duskflame. Would that I had his eye for potential.

I never wanted a son, but if I had a boy grow into half the man you’ve become? There would be no end to my pride.

I am leaving soon. There is much still unsaid, but the most important parts are spoken.

Take care of yourself and yours, Stavier Luminiar. Take care of Cearalaith. Take care of Astoreth. Even Liealia.

-Balor Redgaze, Reinstated

  P.S. Tell Liealia I…

Tell her, er…

She’s not so bad. I like that you met someone with your fire. I’m almost sorry I was an ass at your wedding. Almost.

“Okay, so… A, B, B, A, A, B, B, A.”

“Right!  That’s the octave.  Next you’ve got the sestet, and you’ve got choices there.  You can go CDCDCD, or CDCCDC, or CDECDE, or –“

“Choices?”  From the too-small desk, the brawny young blood knight frowned up at the even younger mage.

“Right.  Just don’t end with a couplet – that’s a different form.  Which actually I like better, but for these purposes –“

“How many are there?”

Zavyrian blinked at his student.  “How many… choices?  Forms?”  He furrowed his brow.  “Well, there’s a lot, I mean –“

Stavier put up a hand.  “Poems, Zavyrian.  How many poems are there.”

“How many –“ Zavyrian stared at Stavier, incredulous.  “There’s… there’s all the poems.  As many as can be written.  There’s poems that haven’t even been thought of yet.  Which is good – that’s why we’re here, right?”  

Stavier scowled and put his pencil down.

“What?”

“I just – I don’t get this.  I’m never going to get this.  This was a horrible idea.”

“No, you’re going to get this, Stavier, come on.  You’re smart, man, you can do this.”  Zavyrian hopped up on the blood knight’s desk, crossing his legs artfully as he did.  “Come on.  It’s just patterns, just rhyme patterns.  You can do this.”

Stavier exhaled slowly.  “How do I know which one to use?”

“You use the one that feels best.”  Zavy lightly pounded his own chest with his fist, over his heart.  “The one that sings to you.  The one that takes your words and frames them like a picture, that showcases them best.”

“How do I know which one that is?!”

“You just do!” Zavyrian threw up his  hands.  Stavier hung his head, and Zavy couldn’t help but feel kind of sorry for the guy.  “You… look, I really like the form I just gave you, because it sounds so cool when it works.  And rhymes are pretty easy for it in Thalassian.  But if you’re writing in Orcish – if I’m writing in Orcish?  I use a different one entirely.  ABAB, CDCD, EFEF, GG.  Still fourteen lines, you still have a turn in the middle, but it’s a totally different pattern – it’s got that couplet I just told you not to use – but it’s still a sonnet, and you get this really cheery rhythm that –“

“No.  Fuck this.  This is stupid.”  Stavier shoved back from the desk.  “None of this makes sense.  Your stupid patterns don’t make sense.”  He swept himself up to standing like an avalanche in reverse, his ire rising with him.  “Why do I have to rhyme at all?  Why am I writing poems at all?  This is fucking stupid!”  He turned towards the door for only a second before whirling back and stabbing an accusatory finger at Zavyrian.  “And why I’m even listening to you while you prattle on about this shit —”

“HEY!” Zavyrian snarled back, surprising even himself with the force in his voice.  “You had better listen to me, Luminiar!  You are listening to me because you came to me for help.  And because out of my own ridiculous generosity, I am helping you.   And why me?  Well because on my end, it’s because Liealia loves you, and I want her to be happy – and on your end it’s because I am an epic success in the one area where you fucking fail: goddamned old-fashioned rose-tinted romance.  I am the best teacher you’ve got.  Now we’ve been through the beginner’s classes – holidays, flowers, candy and footrubs – and now you are in Doctor Fucking Firewing’s Advanced Courses on listening to her feelings and motherfucking poetry, and you are in the home stretch and you are not fucking giving up now. So sit your ass down, soldier, pick up your pencil, and start thinking of what flower her eyes remind you of most.”

The two men glowered at each other for a long moment, Stavier’s face darkening dangerously, Zavyrian trying his damnedest not to flinch now that he’d spent all his bravery on one impassioned speech.  Finally Stavier grabbed his chair forcefully, spun it around and sat back down.

“Good,” Zavyrian breathed.  “Good.  Now.  Like I was saying… maybe the other form would be easier.  We can start with that, and –“

“You didn’t answer my question,” Stavier grumbled, so low Zavy almost missed it.

“What question?”

“Why rhymes?”  Stavier scrawled in a corner of his paper.  “Lots of poems don’t rhyme.  Why are we even bothering with this bullshit?”

Zavyrian sighed.  “I know free verse seems like it would be easier… but without a framework, it’s really easy to fuck it up.  You still need flow and feeling, and if you don’t get it right then you don’t have a poem, you just have garbage.  A grocery list, at best.  And yeah, done right that grocery list could, in turn, be poetry… but you’ve gotta know the rules before you can break them.  You know?  Like… like…” Zavyrian trailed off, shrugging.  “Like…”

“Street brawling.”

Zavyrian blinked at Stavier.  “Street brawling,” the blood knight said again.  “If you’re fighting a guard, or someone trained… it’s most effective if you know going in what they’ve been trained to do. Otherwise you’re just flailing aimlessly.  And you look like an idiot, and you lose.”

Slowly Zavyrian nodded.  “Yeah,” he said, with no small measure of relief.  “Yeah.  We can work with that.”

“Your mother,” Kiravel retorted.  “Why not just make her another of those exploding sheep-dog -cow-things?  I’m sure I read somewhere that chicks dig volatile artificial livestock.”

Zavyrian glared at his friend.  “It was a prototype.  And if you’re not going to help me you can—“

“Am I interrupting?”

Lightning never struck as fast as Zavyrian was on his feet.  He grinned and ran his hand through his hair.  “My lady!  Kira, look, it’s Lady Liealia Luminiar.  Good day, Lady Lia.”

Kiravel rolled his eyes and rolled off his porch into a standing position.  “I just remembered I have somewhere else to be.  In another place.  That isn’t here.  My lady.” 

Liealia gave him a friendly smile.  “Aww, that’s a shame.  We’ll have to talk some other time, Kiravel.”

Kiravel grumbled something unintelligible and glowered at Zavyrian as he stalked past.  Zavy frowned.

Liealia wrinkled up her nose.  “What’s with him?”

Zavyrian shrugged.  “Fel if I know, he –“

“OH!  ZAVYRIAN, BEFORE I FORGET!” Kiravel shouted from down the way.  That in and of itself was a shock – Kira could barely be convinced to speak in normal tones half the time – and both Zavyrian and Liealia turned and blinked.  “THE NICE LADY FROM THE CLINIC CAME BY!  SHE SAID IT’S SEVERE BUT TREATABLE.  BOIL YOUR UNDERWEAR, KEEP USING THE OINTMENT SHE GAVE YOU AND COME BACK WHEN THE RASH CLEARS UP.” 

Then Kiravel grinned, turned and walked away with a new bounce in his step.  A pair of trolls sitting by the path watched him go, then turned and looked significantly back at Zavyrian.

Liealia covered her mouth.  Zavyrian covered his face.  “I am so, so sorry….”

“These things happen,” she reassured him, repressing her snickers.

“I just… don’t even know… I mean….”

“Well, it sounds like you just need to keep using the ointment, and everything will be okay.”

Zavyrian’s mouth fell open and he stared at Liealia, horror-stricken. 

Liealia burst into giggles.  “I’m sorry!” she laughed, leaning into him.

“You are not!”  He grinned despite himself, his arms going around the huntress as she shook with laughter.  “I am grossly humiliated, and you are reveling in my pain!”

“Well… maybe a little.”  She snickered and looked up at him.  “So how have you been?”

He smiled down at her.  “Oh, fine, fine.  Greatly improved since you arrived, however.”

Liealia smiled.  “Any new poetry?”

Fuck.  Zavy grimaced, and took a distancing step back.  “It’s… in the… development stages.  These, uh, things take time.  You know.”

“Well,” she purred, and gave him that look that he was sure melted men’s hearts.  It did his, at least.  “Maybe you just need a little… inspiration?”

He licked his lips.  “That I might,” he conceded with a grin.  “May I buy you a drink, Lady Lia?”

“You may,” she smiled, and slipped her arm through his.  The Orgrimmar sun glinted off her red hair in fascinating ways, and her touch was simply electric.

“My horse was Andellion long before the son of your grandson,” the old sin’dorei mused, “It’s even inscribed on his statue.”

Stavier leaned back in his seat and took another drink. The evening was cool, the new veranda was perfect in every conceivable way and he was surrounded, by family. Even Balor, who was both family and not, seemed in a pleasant mood. It was a good night, even if the other man was looking to pick a fight.

“Andellion is the waning crescent moon, you old goat,” Stavier Luminiar had never been one to back down from a conflict, “And has been since before even you were born. Hard as it is to believe anything is that ancient.” The older sin’dorei smirked: “You think it’s a coincidence when your grandson raises horses? ” Balor paused to sip from his cup, “You give your blood too much credit.”

“His blood!”

Something hard hit the back of Balor’s chair, nearing sending the glass tumbling from his hand. Both men glanced back, startled. Liealia Luminiar stood with her hands on her hips; she’d aged much better the pair of them, with only a little white in her mane to show for it. Even scowling, her face remained as fair as its youth, “You wouldn’t know the lineages resulting in that boy if you had the whole family tree spelled out before you.”

“Madam Luminiar,” Balor greeted the House matriarch with a nod and a tilt of his half-empty glass, “Glad to see you could wash the animal stink off your skin before joining us.”

Liealia leaned forward and kissed the old man on his cheek, before sliding into the seat with Stavier, “I’m glad see you’re both being so productive. A few decades without war and Silvermoon’s finest turn into freeloading layabouts.”

Stavier put his arms around her, and slide his glass into her hand, “We’ve just finished your new porch. We’re enjoying the spoils of our labor.” The former ranger gulped down the content of the tumbler like it was water, “No Ana’an tonight, Balor?” she asked, shouldering her way into a more comfortable position.

“They’re fighting,” whispered Stavier, taking his empty glass back from his wife with a disappointed grumble, “Big surprise.”

“She’s got her horns all in a twist because I wouldn’t go to her stupid event at the Exodar,” corrected the aging paladin, “Fucking Argents and their windchime-worshiping nonsense.” He spat on the ground, like he were talking about a reviled foe and not his wife.

“I think you’re scared of the Vindicators,” muttered Liealia, “And after you called their home ‘baby’s first Tempest Keep,’ you probably should be.”

“I think he’s scared of Ana’an after he introduced her as ‘the blueberry’ to our grandson,” noted Stavier.

“I think I hate you both,” grumbled Balor.