Brothers in Arms

[Sol]

((Sol? In your Storylines forum? It's more likely than you think.))

September the Eighth
Late Evening

For lack of a better term, it was bloody freezing. The chilly evenings of the ninth month in the year were something that young Miles Matheson had not yet grown accustomed to. After a summer of warm Elwynn nights, warm taverns, warm beds and booze that started a fire in your throat to round it all off, the abrupt change in weather was decidedly quite unwelcome. Particularly considering how pleasantly temperate the mornings and afternoons still were - the loose, thin linens he'd slid into after falling out of bed were far from ideal for a night like this. Regardless, he had work to do and more importantly, a belly to fill. So he kept walking, relying on his own motion to keep his temperature up, a small crate tucked neatly underneath his left armpit.

Stormwind was still as active as ever at this time of night, for nine bells had yet to ring and the most eager of merchants were still peddling their wares to whoever might be passing them in the Trade District. The curious sights of adventurers made their processions between the stalls, picking out blades and garments and food and then trying to make whatever margin of profit they could with their blunt and insistent haggling. If there was one thing Miles didn't like about adventurers, it was their lack of tact. His own tact was an acquired trait, something extremely useful, and something which he coveted. Still, brash attitudes aside, adventurers weren't all bad. They were by and large a good-natured sort, always eager to share a story or a drink with anyone they came across. Excellent company in the taverns.

Not to mention excellent company elsewhere; there was something about a loud, proud, slightly intoxicated woman in a good state of physical fitness who hadn't slept in a proper bed in weeks that made Miles feel a teensy bit squiggly.

He smirked at the thought.

While smirking at seemingly nothing, he'd become stranded in the thick crowds around the stalls. At the same time, he'd allowed his eyes to linger for a few seconds more than was proper on a redhead lass around his age in well-fitting leather armour. As she finished her negotiations with her merchant of choice, it occurred to her to take a look over her shoulder, and the moment she met his gaze her face soured into a scowl. Miles swallowed and tried smiling at her, but he hadn't noticed the brute next to her. At a conservative estimate, the hulking man in mail was at least twice Miles' height and three times his width, and he put an arm around the woman's shoulders and gave the young courier a glare that could put a small mammal into cardiac arrest. It nearly did the same for Miles.

He stared at the floor until they made their way elsewhere, cheeks burning red, and was lifted from his embarrassed stupor as a familiar cut through the crowds from behind the stalls.

"Matheson, my lad! Is that you?"

He looked up, blinked and dragged a hand across his eyes. Looking back at him was a man a few inches smaller than he was (that was saying something), with spectacles, a sagging gut and balding, greying hair.

"Mister Pestle," he acknowledged, forcing a weak smile as he made his way closer. Morgan was wise enough not to question as to what exactly had happened, but a knowing smile said he didn't need to. The old apothecary's gaze fell to the package Miles carried under his arm, and the younger man, far too flushed and exhausted to draw out the conversation any longer than was needed, passed it over quickly.

"Here you are, Mister Pestle. Your brother William sends his regards."

Morgan nodded, removed the lid of the little crate, and his face lit up with delight in an instant. "Marvellous, my boy!" He exclaimed, clapping his hands once then patting Miles on the shoulder. "This is exactly what I'll be needing for what I'm brewing later this eve. I'd like to send a sample back to my brother, but it shall take at least tonight to prepare--"

Miles breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, rest.

"--and besides, there's scarce a point having a timid and vulnerable fellow like yourself make his way through the woods twice in one night!" The elderly alchemist gave a boisterous chuckle and shook his head good-naturedly. Part of Morgan's inadvertently patronising manner irked Miles, but ultimately it only further endeared him to the old cauldron-stirrer. The courier grinned his approval as the apothecary counted him out a total of fifteen silvers into a small pouch and handed it over. Miles savoured the weight in his hands for longer than was necessary.

"Come by tomorrow morning, we'll see about you heading back out to Goldshire then, shall we?"

"Of course, Mister Pestle. Pleasure doing business with ya."

"Much the same, my boy, much the same to you!"

Calmer now, Miles smoothly negotiated his way out of the crowd and began with a sprightly pace to make his way towards his family home in Old Town. Passing through the canals provided him with a literal breath of fresh air from the tightly packed Trade District, even if it was little more than a glorified sewer. White brickwork and grey cobblestones seemed to gleam slightly in the moonlight as the church's bells rang to signify the passing of the hour. Miles smiled as he imagined his mother fretting about her son being out so late, and his father half-heartedly trying to calm her down. He'd have to at least stop in and let them know he was all right before he proceeded to the Pig and Whistle. It happened a lot, and he always needed to defuse the situation - but it was never anything too serious.

So imagine his surprise when, just as he started approaching his house, the door swung open wildly. Out stumbled his middle-aged mother, hastily dressed, with a disconcertingly manic look on her face.

"Miles!" She all but screeched, and he couldn't help but wince. She hurried his way over to him, and a glance over her shoulder revealed his father poking his head out of the door. From what he could see, he was in his old Stormwind Army dress uniform, pressed and neat as it always was, and looked as impressive as ever despite missing his right arm below the elbow. It wasn't usual he was dressed up in such a way.

"Er . . . Mum?" He eventually managed to spit out.

"We've been looking all over the place for you!" She continued with panic in her tone as she flew at him. "Come on!" In a blur of motion, a hankerchief was in her hands, and before he knew it she'd spat in it and was dabbing furiously at his face in the way mothers tended to do. It often escaped her that he was twenty-three years of age. Miles only stood there for a moment, flabbergasted. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, that his father was grinning broadly.

"Wha . . . why?"

"It's the ship," she explained bluntly, wringing her hands for a moment and looking back towards her husband. She paused for a moment, then she turned back to her son with a light, wheezy giggle that made her seem much younger than she actually was. "The ship! The, ah, the Thunderchild, whatever it's called. It's a troop ship. It belongs to the Fourth Legion. It just pulled into port!"

Miles blinked once again, expression impassive as he tried to make sense of things. Fourth Legion . . . wasn't that familiar? His mother almost slapped him as he squinted at thin air.

" . . . It's Harry's ship! He's home! Your little brother's coming home from the north!"

"Oh. Right."

No further explanation needed, Miles Matheson broke off running.

[Sol]

September the Eighth,
Late® Evening

The Harbour was a magnificent sight as always. After sprinting through the city on an adrenaline rush like no other, Miles, now that he found himself stopping, stared out at it below him in awe for a moment. He coughed and he wheezed and he almost doubled over as he got a hold of himself again, but that didn't reduce the impact. There were, as a bare minimum, at least four ships in port in the Harbour at any given time. Usually, at least two of these were merchant ships, and the other two were military. And at any given time, these ships were bustling with life – cargo and crew and passengers were being dispersed from them, while more was loaded on at the same time.

Miles took a moment to identify the ships. One was from the merchant navy, another belonging presumably to a freelance trading company. Another was small, boxy and sturdily built, and the size of the inhabitants in the distance and the hammer on the sails allowed him to recognise it as being under Ironforge's control. The fourth and final one, the one furthest down the docks, was a mighty steam cruiser, a large icebreaking ram affixed to the front and the combined insignia of the Grand Alliance sewn onto the blue sails. In the corner of the sail, in tiny Arathorian numerals that he could just barely make out if he squinted, was the number four.

He started running again, without even bothering to glance over his shoulder as his parents finally caught up with him.

Miles kept a mental tally of how many times he almost stumbled on the steep Harbour steps, but did not stop moving, nor did he even slow down. Not once. He subjected his body to the most brutal of beatings as he ran beyond his limits, and yet quite frankly he didn't give a damn. His heart was all but doing backflips in his chest. His little brother was home.

Muscles aching, he slowed to a steady jog as he reached the docks, still quickly making his way through the crowds towards the military ship. Already, he could see distinctive blue dress uniforms on the distance – almost like his fathers. Although when he finally reached the boat's pier and he finally stopped moving, he could see and hear delighted reunions all over – but he couldn't see his brother's face anywhere.

“Mister Matheson, I presume?” A clipped and calm voice rang out from near him, one with a subdued aristocratic accent and a level tone that masked emotion. He turned to face it to see a man in a particularly extravagant uniform with lots of clippings and medals, gold and silver bright against navy blue. He recognised one of the badges as a lieutenant's. He was tall, powerfully built, short-haired and clean-shaven, with stern features that matched his voice almost perfectly. He wasn't Harry. He knew that sure enough.

“Uh. Yeah,” his response came unsteady. “Where's Harry? Er, Private Matheson?” Already, he could feel his heart sinking. Colour drained from his cheeks and a lump welled in his throat, and he internally begged and pleaded that his worst assumption was not the truth. The reply seemed mercilessly delayed.

But he didn't get one.

He didn't quite realise that the officer was distracted, aiming an incredulous stare over Miles' shoulder. Behind him, he heard his mother shriek once again. He wheeled around to see her zooming through the crowds of soldiers and their overjoyed relatives towards a figure of the pier. Everyone was courteous enough to make way for her.

She almost tackled the figure and immediately burst into tears.

“Corporal Matheson, I'm sure you mean,” the officer clarified with a sardonic edge in his tone and a slight smirk. His one-armed father limped up behind Miles, and he and the returning Lieutenant shook hands and exchanged pleasantries for a moment. They seemed to know each other. “He really is something to be proud of,” he heard the officer say, vaguely. “You've done an excellent job raising that one.”

Glancing between the two pairs briefly, Miles made his way across the pier towards his mother and his brother, exhaustion creeping up on him amidst his mood of euphoric relief. He observed, for a while, and he chuckled heartily. His younger brother, hair cut short and with a week's worth of stubble, stood tall and proud in his smart and neat uniform, and despite his weathered skin and the weary look in his eyes, he was the victim of a familiar scene.

His mother, in between dabbing her eyes with it, was now dabbing her hankerchief at Harry's face. Only this time, he wasn't dirty, and he didn't look even remotely embarrassed about it. It was the first time since he was a child that he'd seen tears in his brother's eyes.

He could hear his mother was almost babbling as he approached, but exactly what her words were didn't really matter – only the sentiment did. As he got nearer, his mother decided to give the two a miniscule amount of room.

“Lookin' good all things considered, mate,” Miles greeted him.

“Same to you, Milo, same to you,” his younger brother responded. He couldn't remember him sounding so deep. “Seems like the city's treated you well, has it?”

“Oh, if only,” the older sibling grinned. Harry responded in turn, then extended his hand tentatively. Miles took it.

Stronger than he'd ever been, Harry seized his brother and dragged him close by his hand, his ruse having been successful. Without hesitation, he slung his other arm around his smaller brother's shoulders, patting him heavily on the back as the embrace was returned. Neither one could stop laughing. Weeping and laughing simultaneously was a curious combination, and one both of them were enjoying for the first time.

“Two years,” Miles whispered, “two bloody years.”

"A year and ten months at the most, ya big softy."

As the two brothers pulled apart, Harry's attention wandered elsewhere. With the length of a pier between them, father and son, in matching uniform, exchanged salutes. And so after two cold, hard, and indeed, bloody years, Harold Matheson, with his brother and his parents in tow, made his way back to his family home.

[Sol]

((This and the next post or two will be rather mundane and dialogue-heavy, so bear with. :P))

September the Ninth
Late Afternoon

Something extraordinary had occurred. Two incredible things had happened in the space of a day. For starters, the youngest of the Matheson family (though not for long - Karen, up in Dalaran, was engaged and with child) had came home at long last. Moreover, though, in the short term, something that gave equal cause for celebration had returned:

Cynthia Matheson's cooking ability.

In recent years, Miles had only resentment for his mother's stew, but as though her enthusiasm had came back to her with her little baby (as she still insisted on calling him), there was something lively and vigorous about how the meal had been prepared that made it truly delicious. His mother had been positively glowing throughout the day, humming and singing to herself as she went about the household's chores, and she was similarly upbeat while cooking. Even their father was whistling as he went to work.

Stew was something he'd grown used to - his father, being an amputee, did not take well to meals that required the use of both a knife and a fork at the same time to eat. He only hoped he could grow used to stew this quality.

The two brothers made their way through their bowls quickly, but Miles knew Harry'd be eating just as ravenously if he were presented with a bowl of slop his mother had prepared for him. He'd heard little good about the rations up north, and a proper, home-cooked meal must have been a blessing for him.

"So," Harry began, ceasing his onslaught against the stew after draining the remaining gravy from his bowl. No small wonder he'd been the first to finish. "How come you're still at home, Mile? I would've thought you'd have moved out by now."

Miles' gaze dropped down to his bowl momentarily as he did his best to hide his shame. He drew the spoon in circles through the thick stew as though it was the most interesting thing in the world all of a sudden. He tried to think of a valid explanation, but predictably he didn't come up with one quickly enough.

"Trust me, son," the head of the house chimed in between two mouthfuls of stew, "I would've thought the same."

Swallowing, Miles lifted his head up again and grinned. "It's just the money, is all," he explained, forking some more of his meal into his mouth. "I'm not in what you'd call steady work, nor anything pays particularly well."

"Why? What's it you're doing these days?"

"I'm a . . ."

"He's a delivery boy, Harold," their mother cut in, smiling ever-so-sweetly as she made her way through her own portion of stew. Miles' cheeks reddened momentarily, but he smirked and waved a hand at her dismissively.

"You make it sound like a bad thing, Mum."

"Well, best make do with whatever talents you have," Harold conceded. It didn't take a genius to pick up on the sarcasm, and Miles jabbed at Harry's ribs with his elbow. His little brother, who was, of course, bigger than him, only grinned, before continuing. "How come you're not working with Dad any more? Not need the extra hand with the locksmith's business?"

Miles almost winced as he said "extra hand". Their father, of course, was willing to let it slide, given that he got cruel jokes about it often enough - whatever skill or talent he had aside, a one-armed locksmith was hilarious to most people. He was used to it. It didn't bother him. Certainly not so if it was a slip of the tongue from a family member. But still, it was Harry's turn to blush now.

"We agreed," Miles said, "that it'd be best if I earned my own separate income nowadays, to better support the household." His spoon scraped against the bottom of the bowl as he tried to make the most of what remained of his stew.

"Not that we see much of it," their mother cut in.

"Better he burns his own money down the pub than trying to borrow some from us," came her husband's reply. Now Miles quite vividly remembered who was the favourite son. Finally, he finished his stew.

"S'not all I do, believe me, Harry. I travel a lot, y'see."

"What, down to Goldshire and back once a fortnight?"

"Muuum . . ." Miles groaned, bringing a hand up to meet his forehead.

"You've got to give him that, dear," his father said. "He's out of our hair often enough."

"But of course, if the dinner is this good, maybe I should hang around more often, hm?" He tried a joke to lighten the mood.

"Maybe. That was lovely, darling - thank you." Their father leaned in to peck his wife on the cheek after wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his good arm. Miles left his spoon in his bowl, his appetite sufficiently sated for the time being. Cynthia made a move to collect the bowls, but Harry raised a hand. "Not to worry, Mum. I'll deal with the dishes."

"Oh, thank you, dear, that's wonderful."

"You sure you don't want to volunteer, Miles?" His father was giving him a sort of look that essentially said, "we want you out of our sight for a moment." He hadn't received such a look since Karen had visited in the summer, or since his parents had spent dinner making inappropriately suggestive remarks at one another and were later in want of some privacy. That happened with disturbing regularity when Miles stopped in for dinner, come to think of it.

"It's fine," Harry insisted, then continued his way out towards the kitchen with the four pewter bowls stacked in his thick arms. There was a period of uneasy silence before Edward Matheson decided to break it.

"Just a shame Karen ain't here with us," he muttered.

"I'm fairly certain he mentioned in one of his letters that they met in Dalaran when he had a week's leave earlier this year," Miles clarified, "it's not as if she's been estranged as long as we have from him."

"She's still my baby girl," his mother said, sighing as her gaze drifted off into nothing. "It'd be lovely to have the whole family here."

"And her fiancée, don't forget," The middle Matheson reminded her, "and maybe your grandchild, too." His mother brightened at this, but his father only grunted.

"If the bloke's giving me grandkids, that's all right, but I still think he doesn't do the girl no good. Can't trust an Alteracian, no matter how charming he is or whatever bloody fancy magical education he's been through."

"Eddiiieeee . . ."

His father gave a sudden cough and averted his gaze from his wife. "Miles," he abruptly started, avoiding any potential nagging from his better half like a professional, "why don't you go and help Harry with the dishes, and then you can see about taking him up the pub for a few drinks?"

"Not to worry," Harry called with a raised voice from the kitchen. It had occurred to none of them that perhaps he could still hear them while doing the dishes. "I've got plans of my own."

[Sol]

((More extended dialogue than your body has room for.))

September the Ninth
Early Evening

It was curious, really. For weeks, now, since the first Stormwind troops had started returning from Northrend, Miles had made a habit of, when seeing them in taverns, to approach them in their huddled groups, do his best to ignore the glares he got for disturbing them, and asked them if they'd heard anything about a Harold Matheson. While seeming aggressive at first, they quickly became co-operative, often even sympathetic, when he told them his brother was cut from the same cloth as they were. Of course, none of them had even heard his name before.

Now he was sitting in one of those groups, the only-non veteran sitting around their table on the upper floor of the Pig and Whistle, next to the man he'd been asking about.

The two of them had been greeted with cheers and small applause. They were the last to arrive. “Alright, settle down, ladies,” Harry told his comrades with a smirk. “This is my brother, Miles.”

“Oh, right, Milo!” One of the soldiers, a blonde-haired man about a year younger than Harry in a dark shirt and trousers acknowledged him with a loose grin. “Harry told us all about you and what you two got up to when you were younger, you cheeky buggers,” he chuckled, glancing among his colleagues to meet similar expressions.

Miles himself grinned, though half-heartedly. What he and Harry had done as teenagers was not something he was particularly proud of, and in fact was the reason he'd encouraged his younger brother to join the army in the first place. It was disconcerting that he'd brag about such things afterwards, but he remained fairly certain that his time in the army – what he'd seen, what he'd been subjected to, what he'd been forced to do. That'd scare the juvenile, impulsive streak out of any man.

Miles was quite happy not to have joined the army. His own juvenile, impulsive streak was something he was quite proud of at times.

“Yep, that was us, me and Milo,” Harry said, patting his brother on the shoulder as the two of them sat down. “Anyway, these're the guys from my unit who came home. This is Sam--”

“That's me, alright,” the blonde fellow said, flicking a wave at Miles. He smiled and sent it right back.

“And this is Garth--”

“Nice t'meet yeh.” He seemed the oldest, or at least the most haggard of the group, what with having the most wrinkles, the most scars, the worst teeth, the greyest hair and the eyepatch. It seemed he'd slipped into blacksmith's overalls as soon as he stepped off the boat. “Likewise, mate.”

“And Laura," Harry finished. A woman's name. That was the one that mattered to him. Miles adopted a coy smirk and nodded at the woman. “Hey.” She just smiled politely, her chestnut hair falling loose around her face. She was dressed in loose, modest clothes that said nothing complimentary about her figure - but still, she wasn't bad looking, although she looked far too weary and stern to be conventionally pretty. That had an appeal in and of itself though. The elder Matheson swapped handshakes around the group as he sat down.

“Right, I'll go and get the drinks in,” Harry said, glancing around the table before rising. “Not to worry, my esteemed sibling offered to pay for the first round anyway. What're we having?”

“Strongest!” Garth spat.

“Strongest thing they've got, my man.” Sam chuckled, and he and Garth brought their fists together in some sort of gesture of recognition.

“What they said,” Laura echoed. She sat up straight with her legs crossed, one hand resting on top of the other on the table and a decidedly neutral, almost bored expression. Miles would, at a stretch, assume this was her normal mood in any situation, given all the obvious reasons she'd have to be happy.

“Not as if I'm spending the wage on anything else, I guess. And you, Miles?”

“Just a port, please.” He tried his best not to shoot incredulous looks at all of his younger brother's friends. Harry nodded and scooted off down the stairs in search of a barmaid.

“Sensible one, are we?” Garth asked with a toothy (and largely toothless) grin, reaching over to punch Miles lightly on the shoulder. It hurt a lot more than Garth had intended and than Miles had expected, but he took it with a laugh and a weak return gesture.

“You wish, mate,” he retorted snappily, “I just don't have access to the lucrative pay of a soldier.”

“Lucrative, my right arse cheek,” Sam interjected, “Not as if the kingdom'd fork out much for us. Not a job for you if you want appreciation, I tell you.”

“You'd be surprised,” Miles insisted. “You lot are bloody heroes.”

“Don't, you'll make us blush,” came Laura's response in a deadpan tone.

Miles controlled his sudden urge to tell her he had other ways to make her blush. Instead, he just grinned as the other two soldiers chuckled.

“I'm touched. Truly, I am,” Sam said, mockingly wiping his eyes before putting a hand to his heart. The grin didn't go anywhere.

Garth said nothing. At first Miles assumed he just wasn't the wittiest of the group, or maybe that the subject had already been milked for laughs. It took him a moment to register that there was a genuine smile on the weathered man's features, if only for but a moment. Laura's expression mimicked his. Sam made no comment about it, and nor did their comrade's older brother.

Not one to let the conversation lag, Miles continued. “Praise where it's due, I suppose. I know I couldn't have signed my own name on the dotted line, anyway. Why'd you lot sign up, anyway?”

“The pay, of course,” Sam was the first to respond, “however lucrative it might be.” One thing Miles liked about Sam immediately was their similar senses of humour. The two of them smirked at each other.

“So 'e says. He's jus' bein' all modest. Lad's got a bit of a hero complex to his name, I tell ya,” Garth did indeed tell Miles. Sam responded by clipping the older man lightly around the ear, which led to a brief and remarkably childish slapping fight between the two until Sam eventually relented.

“Anyway, fer me, it was ta kill a few deaders. What else?”

“How about stories to tell young, impressionable fellows like Milo here, you old mess?”

“Pudda sock innit, Sam.”

“Leave that up to interpretation, shall we?” Miles quipped, then turned to who was evidently the quietest of the three. “What about you, Laura?”

“Oh, you know. King and country and all that. Seemed awfully romantic at the time.” Again, Miles bit back his words as they came to the tip of his tongue. He wasn't going to offer her something else “romantic” any time soon, despite what his immediate impulse was. Not to mention there was something odd about flirting with somebody who his brother probably saw as family.

“See, at least Laur's honest 'bout 'er hero complex.”

“Put a sock in it, Garth.” Both she and Sam intoned with almost disturbing synchrony. The two of them smirked afterwards.

“If mah people will it, it shall be so,” was Garth's grinning comeback. He yawned, leaned back and swung his enormous booted feet up onto the table. It was at this point, with his mouth still wide open, that he mimed stuffing something invisible inside it. Then he spat it out. “I suppose ye already know why yer brother enlisted, Milo.”

“You would, after all, wouldn't ya?” Sam said, and for once his voice was devoid of sarcasm. “He really looks up to you, you know. You and your dad the same.”

“'Course he does, I'm a bloody role model.” The spitfire response only belied his true feelings. An immense feeling of pride accumulated within Miles, but he did nothing to show it.

“He told us a lot about yer old habits, the two of yeh. We should thank ya, I reckon. S'good you pulled him out of all that dodgy business, set 'im straight. Put 'im on a more respectable career path. He's a great lad, a stellar NCO, .” Garth went on. Sam nodded a few times, and Laura was smiling again. "He had - and he's still got - lots of potential. Joining the army meant it was properly applied rather than squandered on petty crime."

“Oi, now I'm about to start weeping. Where the fel is he, anyway?”

“Calm down, ya big crybaby, I'm here,” came Harry's voice from above and behind him. Miles craned his neck backwards to peer up at his upside-down image and grinned as he caught sight of the tray of mugs. A few cheers came from around the table as Harry put the tray down.

“Took your time,” Laura said, seeming to brighten a bit at the sight of the returning corporal.

“One thing I didn't miss about Stormwind – how busy the taverns are,” Harry muttered, sending a lingering smile in Laura's direction.

“Excuses. Where's my change?” Miles asked immediately with an ironic smile.

“Bah, you think the money you gave me covered all this, mate? Not as such. You only paid fer about half of these drinks.”

“Way to contribute to the war effort, Miles” Sam remarked.

“Cut the lad some slack. No effort needed these days,” Garth countered. He moved his legs down off the table and took to resting his elbows on it instead. There were four mugs of whatever happened to the “strongest” for the soldiers, and a comparatively tiny glass of port for Miles. Garth's idea of a joke was nudging the glass of what was evidently the weakest drink towards the group's only woman, but he only received a frown in response from her and a punch to the shoulder from Sam. Harry, he could've sworn, was glaring at him for a moment, but he paid it all little heed. Taking iti n his stride, Miles snatched the port and smirked. “Mine,” he said, then wagged a finger at the soldiers.

“Right, then, lady and gents. What're we toasting to?” Harry asked as he sat back down.

“'Ow about the fact we literally conquered death?” Garth almost cackled.

“Nah, bit morbid. Freedom and the lucrative paycheque?” Sam suggested. Harry nodded. “I'm for that,” he agreed.

“Sounds alright,” Miles conceded, swishing the fluid around in his glass in encroaching boredom.

“I think we'd ought to toast to Stormwind, personally.” It was Laura who chimed in last, hands wrapped around her mug.

Harry was quick to back her up. “Aye, Stormwind! Why'd we not think of that?”

“I think that's what we were all fighting for. Why not?” Sam agreed.

Garth's eyes met Miles' and he saw that toothy grin again. The older man brought a fist down to the table. “See, what'd I tell ya? Hero complexes, the bloody lot of 'em.”

“Well,” Laura cut in, “as Milo here said before, we are, after all, 'bloody heroes'. It's only fitting, really.”

“I'll drink to that,” was what Sam came out with next, already in the process of lifting his mug. Garth shook his head for a moment, then grinned and did the same. “Peer pressure, I tell ya.”

“You love us really, old man,” Harry smirked as he raised his own mug. Laura followed suite with a satisfied smile, and Miles' drink was the last to go up. National pride was something he didn't really dwell on, so it felt a little strange for him.

“To Stormwind,” they all said at once. The mugs came together with a series of clacks and thuds, and a bit from Sam's splashed into Garth's in the process, leading to the exchange of dirty looks and cheery smiles between the two, respectively. Miles' glass of port made a comparatively pathetic little chime, but it didn't stop him from having a drink with the grunts come home. Really, he was surprised at how readily they'd accepted him. It was as though the bond between proverbial “brothers in arms” extended to the blooded relatives of those involved – but philosophical implications aside, Miles was simply pleased to have a few new drinking buddies.

[Sol]

((I apologise if this Warcraft fiction is starting to read like a soap opera, but it is from a civilian perspective, and I'm having a blast writing it. Although squabbles between characters you probably have little emotional investment in might seem boring, I'm quite pleased with how this turned out. It's a bit slow to start off, but eh, bear with me. Quite extensive profanity in this post towards the end, so take heed, weary traveller.))

September the Tenth
Early Afternoon

Apparently, something Harry had missed up in Northrend was some good Elwynn fish. Given that aquatic life up north had a reputation (one with quite some backing in reality) for trying to kill you at every available opportunity – and this was before you got into the terrible taste – this was wholly understandable in Miles' eyes. So, like they had when they were much, much younger, after waking up from a night of drinking and revelry, the two decided to head out into the forest with a pair of fishing rods that hadn't seen use in over a decade and made their way down the path to Goldshire.

Miles had neglected to transfer samples between the Pestle brothers the day before as he'd been requested to do, but Morgan was surprisingly acceptant of this. Upon hearing word of the youngest Matheson's return from Northrend, he could only congratulate the family and wish them the best. He'd assured them that indeed, his brother William would feel the same, and that he would actually be pleased to see Harry for the first time in years. The delay, while inconvenient, would give way to a delightful discovery, the portly old apothecary had told Miles as they passed his shop on their way out of the city.

It was, the pair came to a mutual agreement, just like old times. There were, however, a few key and obvious differences. First and foremost, the brothers were no longer children, but, as a matter of fact, able grown men, although Miles reluctantly conceded that one was more able than the other. They'd also acknowledged that unlike many of their childhood fishing trips, their father was not accompanying them, and their sister was nowhere to be seen. The latter, at least, was concluded to be a good thing, and Harry cited the reason for this being that their fishing trips no longer had a "crap person" tagging along. Neither of them were keen to admit that Karen had easily been the best fisherman (fisherwoman?) of the three siblings.

Entering the Lion's Pride, they found that the tavern was surprisingly populous, considering. A pair of adventurers, a dwarf and a gnome who'd apparently decided to kit themselves out in full travelling gear as soon as they got out of bed, were dividing a breakfast between themselves. A bard and a few workers on their morning break sat at the grand table near the unlit fireplace, and the fact said bard was multitasking playing a battered old harp and a flute was quite impressive, even considered he was only doing a half-decent job at both. The thing Miles was most curious about, as he often found himself attracted to the peculiar, was a trio of rough-looking men in mismatched leather armour who were having a hushed conversation in one corner of the room. He assumed the worst of it but paid it little heed.

"Ah, mister Matheson," William greeted Miles from the side. "And who is your friend? By the Light, it can't be . . ."

"It can, actually," Harry corrected him with a cheery grin. "It's good to see you again, mister Pestle."

"Good grief, I can recall treating the pair of you when you came down with the pox when you were young! It's wonderful to see you've returned from the north in one piece, my boy. Are you fully well? Because I've a handful of remedies you might be interested in . . ."

"We're fine," The courier interjected, smirking faintly at the elderly apothecary's attempt at salesmanship. "But I do have a package here for you, from your brother. Samples of whatever it is he used what you sent him last for."

"Excellent. But a day in delay, are they not?" William asked with a faint smile, glancing between the two brothers.

"Yeah, sorry about that. Something came up in the family, you understand," Miles laughed, then reached over and thumped Harry on his well-muscled left biceps.

"But of course. If I can just take that off your hands . . ."

So he did. Miles didn't object. He gave William the little crate and received a pouch of silver for his troubles. After buying some bait and two skins of spring water from Brog Hamfist over by the bar, the two headed out to Crystal Lake, but not before Miles noticed he and Harry were receiving some guarded looks from the rough men in leathers in the corner. He paid them about as much heed as he had before.

"You know, they say that the boathouse near this lake is haunted," Miles said as they reached the lake of the shore. "Children under the thrall of demons gather there at certain parts of the day, or so the bards tell me."

"I've heard the stories, mate," Harry told him. "Dad used to tell us the same when we were little, remember?" The two of them kicked their boots off and hooked some slimy, squirming worms at the ends of their lines, then waded into the shallows.

"Though come to think of it, they must be pretty dedicated to whatever dark cause they abide by. To do that every day at the same times for so many years. Not to mention the fact they'd be around . . . thirty, now?"

Miles chuckled and shook his head. "That's why them stories are bollocks, mate."

"Heh," came Harry's only reply, and they cast out their lines. A few minutes of small talk went by that was finally broken when the younger of the two, who had taken to moving his pole around in small circles to make his bait seem a more lively and tempting morsel to the inhabitants of Crystal Lake, something finally took a nibble. He shushed his brother and waited for it to take a bigger bite, then, with a might heave, yanked his pole back and sent the fish flying overhead. It slammed into a nearby tree, and Miles made an obligatory remark about Harry having put on far too much muscle in the north. This led to a brief exchange regarding the work you did compared to the nutritious meals you'd receive, and the fact you had to do more of the former than the latter could really keep up with. Miles was, he had to admit, fascinated by what his brother had been up to on duty, despite his insistence that it was largely routine.

"That's a big one," Miles remarked. "Good catch, big guy."

"Looks awful colourful for a catfish," Harry continued. "Reckon Pestle'll pay much to dissect it?"

"May as well stop by the man himself and ask when we're done."

And they resumed their fishing. An hour, perhaps two, went by slowly, assisted by some conversation and the occasional, sporadic excitement of a catch. Harry caught half a dozen in the first hour, but as time continued to go by, Miles rapidly caught up until they were matched.

"You know," Harry started, "earlier, you had me thinking a disturbing thought."

Miles frowned slightly, tuning in his ears to pay particular attention. "I did? Sorry, mate."

"Not to worry, brother of mine," came Harry's response with a smirk that Miles immediately recognised as forced to mask his troubled expression. The army had done a number on his brother's social tact, he concluded - Miles had become something of a master at poker faces over the years, and the army only taught you how to keep your face straight when you were being shouted at by a man with more ribbons and medals than you.

"It's just . . . what you were saying, about that boathouse. About possessed kids and what have you," Harry continued, pausing to let out a soft sigh. "That's . . . that's exactly what I was fighting against. I mean, what I was fighting for, was Stormwind. Her safety. You know what I mean? I was trying to stop horrible things like that from happening over here."

"It's alright, mate," Miles tried to sooth him, audible worry and sympathy creeping into his tone. Then he laughed, and the fact that it was contrived was excellently disguised. "It's just a story, innit? A dumb little story."

"That's not what I meant," Harry almost growled. "Since I've come back, everything seems just . . . strange. Like there's evil at work all over the place."

"I think you're just a bit too used to fighting the Scourge, mate, personally." Miles' frown deepened as he gave his diagnosis, not even bothering to act on the gentle nibble he felt on the end of the line. His concern was directed elsewhere.

"No, really." Harry insisted. "You might think I'm daft, Mile, but I know what I'm seeing. Everyone has these hidden little intentions, and I'm surprised you can't tell by looking at 'em," he explained, his voice dropping to a harsh mutter as he continued.

"What do you mean? You've barely been back a day and already . . ."

"It's not hard," he grunted. "They're everywhere. Like you see people moving through the streets, normal, ordinary-looking people, and I can just tell that there's something wrong about them. That they're about to do something terribly, terribly wrong. Everyone seems to have their own little agenda, and it's almost never pretty. You know?"

"Yeah, I know all about that. But that's hardly saying the kingdom's at threat, is it?" Miles laughed.

"You'd be surprised. While I was getting the drinks last night, this fella? He looked like an adventurer, but let me tell you, he wasn't. It was the way he looked at people. A cold-blooded killer. The fact some lady in a dark dress with the same sort of look in her eye wandered up to him, whispered something to him, and the two of them left together right afterwards - that didn't help."

"So maybe a guy's in one of those moods where he can strangle someone. We've all had 'em. Don't deny it. Then he decides to sneak off with his girlfriend for a bit of fun to wind down. So what?"

"It wasn't like that," Harry kept pressing. "Alright, another thing. Those blokes back in the Lion's Pride? The ones in the raw hides and leathers? The way they were talking amongst themselves, the looks on their faces - you could tell they weren't proper friends. Hell, they weren't even comrades in arms by the looks of them. How their hands kept dropping to the blades at their belts when there clearly wasn't any trouble to be had. You could even tell what they were talking about by how they leaned in close. And their armour? That's the most indicative of it all."

"You making a point of analysing any adventurers we're gonna come across, then, Harry?"

"Might as well, if they seem to be more than just passing adventurers. I was watching them while you were jabberjawing away with Pestle back in the tavern."

"You know, Harry," Miles sighed, pulling his hook out of the water to see neither a catch nor the bait he'd been using. "You spent two years out there at war. You're home now. There's no need to keep fighting for the kingdom."

"f**k that," he snarled, putting his fishing rod and simply turning to stare at his brother. "I'd do it all again if I could."

Needless to say, Miles was actually frightened now. "You really mean that?"

"Of course I do!" Harry snapped. "When I signed my life away on that dotted line, I bloody meant it. I learned to put king and country before myself, and I always will."

Miles was lost for words. "It's something Dad would approve of," Harry continued, seeming almost smug now. "Why don't you learn to do the same?"

Miles' frown became a disgruntled grimace as he simply dropped his fishing rod and jabbed a finger in Harry's direction. "Don't you try that shit with me, Harold. I've always looked out for you."

"I'm not your dumb little brother any more, Miles."

"Not my dumb little--? Well, don't bloody act like it! I had to drag you out of the dirt when you decided to play around in it, remember? That's why you 'signed your life away' in the first place!"

"But you never bothered pulling yourself out of it, did you? I knew you were hiding something from me from the way you wrote your letters. I knew you weren't as squeaky-clean as you made out to be, and now? Well, f**k me, now I've had confirmation."

"Yeah? Well, please, go on, oh noble sir knight." The two of them were closing in on each other every time they opened their mouths.

"It's the way you look at people, Miles," he hissed. "You watch them, you scrutinise them, you take in every little detail . . ."

"Makes two of us, then, doesn't it?"

"Don't. When I look at the wrong sort of person, I see threats. When you look at anyone, you see opportunities. It's in your body language, how it changes. You adapt to anything that comes your way and you try and make the most of it. By the Light, mate, has there ever been any situation you haven't looked out for number one in?"

Miles swallowed, his face pale and his eyes feeling more than a little bit watery. Harry had learned his way around a sword in his time in the army, but he'd manage to cut him deep enough with words alone. "Yeah," he eventually said at a subdued volume. "That one time. When I convinced you to put the shiv down and leave that life behind."

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but no, his mouth simply stayed open. Hostility started draining from his features.

"That's right. When my dumb little brother got in too deep, I stopped him. And believe it or not, I did do the same. I called the whole shabang off. I grew up, mate, and I think you've done too . . . but maybe this Northrend shit made you grow crooked."

"I'm the one who's grown up crooked, am I?" Harry responded, his voice weak and weary. He looked more hurt than enraged, now. "I know you better than anyone, mate. And I know we've been apart for a long time, but just look - I know you. You were always the opportunist, and I know I was almost like you, but the army . . . it straightened me out. It helped me get my priorities straight, and realise what was valuable in life. I'm not the crooked one - believe me, Miles. You're not as blatant about it now, but I know you're the same. Just subtler. And that's even worse."

Miles could only stare at him for a few seconds, before he swallowed and managed a retort. "Alright. Alright. Okay then. Your big brother's a bastard, Harry. I admitted it. Are you happy now? Because for how straight your priorities are, and your knowledge of what's valuable in life, you're having a shouting match with your brother, who helped raise you, ankle-deep in lake water in the middle of a forest. This was meant to be a little fishing trip, just like old times, but it seems we've accomplished more than catch bloody fish."

An extended period of quiet ensued. Neither of them looked away from each other, and neither of their somewhat stunned, saddened expressions changed in the slightest bit. Eventually, Harry gave a shuddering sigh and his head dropped. "I'm sorry, mate. I just . . ."

Miles lifted a hand, then bent down to pick up his fishing rod again. "Save it, Harry. It's alright. Let's just go home and eat some fucking fish."