#zavyrian

It hurt, more than Zavyrian could put into words – to know that while he was leaving the house at the crack of dawn, laboring all day in the hot sun, and coming home after dark to barely make ends meet – going to bed early in preparation of doing it again the next day – that Kiravel was sneaking out to the Row behind Zavy’s back, taking students and bringing in gold to spend on bloodthistle and jewelry while Zavyrian despaired as to how to pay the rent and still put food on the table.  To the Row.  To Murder Row, the worst part of the city Kiravel had told Zavryian he would rather die than see again – the city which Kiravel had nearly killed them both to avoid seeing but a year ago.

It hurt even more to know that even if he had words, there was no way he could speak them.  By the time Kiravel had confessed the deception, he was already over the bloodthistle – or so he said – but he was still too weak and disorganized of thought for Zavy to feel comfortable pressing him about it.  When he presented Zavyrian with the ring, and Zavyrian had flinched with the thought of everything else that money could have bought, Kira nearly collapsed from the fear that Zavy might say no – and then Zavy couldn’t say no.  Not faced with that, not with Kira’s happiness, Kira’s health on the line.  When every word was a potential dagger to his lover’s heart, Zavyrian wielded them with caution indeed.

Zavyrian bit his lip, twisting the ring again.  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to say yes.  But that wasn’t how he’d wanted to say yes.  He loved Kiravel, yes… but the Kiravel he’d known in Dalaran.  The smug, strong, self-assured warlock who was his best friend.  That was the man he could see himself spending the rest of his life with – that was the man to whom Zavyrian had considered proposing – not this trembling, whimpering, damaged shadow of an elf who’d replaced him.  For a year now he’d taken care of that shadow, comforted him, provided for him, pampered him, been patient with him, waited faithfully for the day the shadow would heal and his Kiravel would return again.  And he had never complained.  Never once.  Sickness and health, right?  Married or not, that’s just what you do for a person you love.  Right?

But that day had not come, and time had begun to chip away at Zavyrian’s confidence that it ever would.

His lip quivered in a way he never would have allowed in the light of day.  Or inside that house, or ever in front of the man who slept soundly inside.  “Am I making a mistake?” he asked the ring in his fingers.

“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.”

The younger fellow – well built, but looking a bit underfed – ran his hand through his short locks and sighed.  “Look, I’m sorry, I –“

“Sorry?!  Sorry!?  Your mother’s been worried sick about you since Dalaran and you’re bloody sorry?!”

“Dad, there’s been complications –“

“Boy, I am not interested in your complications.  I could not give less of a fuck about your complications.”

“Dad, I’m sorry, I –“

“Come home, Zavyrian.”

The younger man – Zavyrian – blinked at the elder.  “What?”

“Come.  Home.   You know this isn’t going to last.  You know how this is going to end – you know how his family ended.  You don’t have to let him drag you down with him.”

“Dad, no, stop.  Leave Kira out of this.”

“How can I leave him out of this?  When he’s done this to you?”

“He didn’t do anything to me!” Zavyrian snapped.

“Come home.  Your mother misses you.  Your sisters.  Everything can be as it was.  Your mother keeps talking about this nice girl — I know a fellow looking for an intern at the Spire —”

“No, Dad.  Stop it.  I’m not coming home!  I’m not living your fucking life!”

“You know, most Firewings get cut off when they come of age.  I’ve already been extraordinarily generous with you, Zavyrian, and time and fucking again you’ve thrown it in my face.  But now you want my help?  You’ve got to give me something in return.  Come home, Zavyrian.”

Zavyrian stared at the ground.  “No, Dad.”

The elder man stared at the younger.  “No?”

“No.”

The father sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets.  “…well, then,” he said finally.  “That’s that.”  Something in the finality of his tone indicated that this was not the first time they’d had this discussion, but maybe it was going to be the last.

“Yeah.”

There was another long silence.  “You’re making a mistake.”

The young man stood quietly.

“Write your mother.  But don’t come asking me for anything else.  You understand?”

Zavyrian closed his eyes, as the elder man turned and walked away.