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When You Least Expect It
A Love is in the Air story
Part One: Rosebloom
There is a story behind each and every person who weighs anchor in the pirate port of Booty Bay. Needless to say, some are more interesting than others. Some are stories that can barely live up to the name, belonging to people passing through with the town as no more than a waypoint. Of the interesting stories, some are funny, some are mysterious, some dramatic and some romantic. Some are a bit of all of the above.
Many stories involve the Salty Sailor Tavern in one way or another. Indeed, often the elves and trolls who staff the place are directly involved in the events. No surprise, given how much the story of each of their lives unfolded within the Tavern's walls. Though sometimes they are merely in the background while others play out their parts.
The point is, you never really know who might come in to Booty Bay, and until they are there you never really know what kind of story one might tell about them.
This is a story about a gentleman. There are many stories that could be told about gentlemen who've come to Booty Bay – many have been told already.
Two things set apart this particular gentleman from all the others. The first is that our gentleman is a Quel'dorei, a rare enough sort in Azeroth to make his story noteworthy no matter where it takes him. The second is the reason to tell the story, which begins, as many Booty Bay stories do, with a large bird's wings flapping as it squawks and deposits a passenger on the ground...
**
The gentleman's name is Caltheral, and the first thing that he thought upon landing in Booty Bay is that dragonhawks offered a much smoother ride than dwarven gryphons ever could. Either that or he had somehow been given the most tempermental bird that would jostle him as it ducked or dived this way or that en route to the southern tip of the continent.
He was not a man generally given to the vanity that marked men of his people, though all the same he found himself wishing he had a mirror just then, to make sure that the wind had not made too much a mess of the pale hair that spilled over his shoulders. He kept it in check with a cloth headband. It was nothing too fancy, because that was what they taught you in the priesthood: to eschew the material in order to gain a greater divine understanding of the Light and blah blah blah...
None of which was going to be much help for him at all on this day. Whim and a generous dash of optimism led him here in search of someone he'd heard he might find in the town. The optimism more than any other thing, seeing how he made sure to dress himself in the finest silk robe he owned – coincidentally, the only silk robe he owned. It also explained the bouquet of red roses, just in case. Piety was not going to make much of a first impression, not if this was the same girl he remembered.
Cal tried not to let himself get his hopes up too much in all of this planning. There was always the chance that the name he caught in passing did not belong to the girl from his youth. Perhaps she did not even remember him. If either was the case, he was about to feel a bit silly. Not that the prospect of feeling silly stopped Cal from doing much in his life, which, now that he stopped to think about it, explained a lot.
These were the mental diversions he engaged in to take away from the fact that he was somewhat terrified of walking into this Tavern because he had no idea what was going to happen. Sure, that girl might not be inside; maybe it was just someone with the same name. But if she was there, then he would have to figure out what to do about it. It all sounded so easy when he put it that way.
As with many things, the hardest step to take was the first, and he found that once he was moving in the direction of the door his feet were not stopping. Cal stepped inside, clutching the roses behind his back. Just in case that girl was there, so he could surprise her with them and get to cherish the look on her face.
From somewhere in the room he could hear snickering, no doubt the result of his tentative approach. That stung, but then, he probably did look ridiculous.
He caught sight of a dark-haired elven girl behind the counter and his heart leapt into his throat. Could he really have found her?
The girl finished wiping down the counter, looked up to see what the fuss was about, and just as soon as the mixture of terror and joy seized his emotions, they fled. He was not sure exactly how the girl of his dreams looked these days, but this was not it.
Not that this girl knew anything about why he was here. She smiled as she caught sight of him. “Good afternoon, sir! Welcome to the Salty Sailor Tavern! Won't you please have a seat?” As Cal started to shuffle off to a table, she added, “May I get you something to drink?”
“Pour me a strong one,” Cal said as he slumped into a chair. It seemed it was a false hope that had brought him here, but at least he could get drunk before he left. The roses he dropped in front of him and he stared glumly at the flickering candle that was lit on the table's surface.
She brought over a mug full of an amber liquid. Cal took a drink and felt it burn all the way down. That was just what he was looking for. “Thank you.”
“Sir?” The girl's gaze was fixed upon the flowers, he noticed as he took another sip. She looked anxious, being the only female in the Tavern at the time. “Are these... for me?”
Cal swallowed quickly, shaking his head to ward off any misunderstanding. “No. Forgive me... no.”
“Oh,” she replied in relief, as she let out the breath she was holding. “Thank the Eternals.”
“Complicated enough without a strange Quel'dorei walking in with roses and professing his love. Right?” Cal chuckled after asking the question.
“Something like that,” the girl said, smiling as she relaxed a bit. “You were expecting someone, sir?”
“More of a fool's hope, really,” he confessed, shaking his head. “I think someone I used to know may work here. But I suppose it was too good to be true.”
“I see.” The girl looked down at the roses again. There was a glint in her eye, as if she was challenging his dismissal of the potential companion as just “someone”. “Perhaps I can assist you, sir? I am Mariveaux Shadowraven, the owner of this establishment. Please call me Mari, everyone does. I could tell you if the one you seek truly works here.”
Just like that, the hope so quickly crushed had rushed back. Perhaps his childhood girl was here after all and he'd just come in on a day where she was not around. “A pleasure, Mari. I am Caltheral Goldscale. You may call me Cal. And I thank you for the offer, but perhaps it would be best if I not get my hopes up any farther. The chances are so slim...”
“Is it Nikoleta?”
Cal blinked. “No. I am sorry. The girl I am looking for is...” He paused, laughing at himself, and took another drink. “This is going to sound so incredibly daft. Please don't laugh.”
Mariveaux had not taken her eyes far from the roses, and Cal thought she knew something he did not know. But that was impossible, because he had not even given her a name. “Try me,” said the tavern owner.
“Where to begin...” Cal trailed off almost as soon as he started, thinking. “I grew up in Fairbreeze Village. My father was a merchant there. The business did not survive the Scourge, though I understand the building did. Families from the surrounding farms always came in to do business with my father, trade surplus goods for things they needed in their houses or on their farms. For a little boy, this was always a treat when the wagons came in with children about my age to play with. There was one family I would look forward to seeing the most, though. Their farm was... around Goldenbough, I believe. The Roseblooms, they were. Does that name mean anything to you?”
Hopes sank once more as Mariveaux shook her head in response. He almost got up and left right then, but some part of him wanted to finish the story he had started telling. He had to tell someone about this, even if it was this girl he had only just met, who probably did not even know his childhood girl.
“They had a daughter, near my age, I suppose. She always had a flower in her hair. Something her mother put there, I am sure. How I always wanted to be the one to give her the flower! She had such beautiful dark hair. I confess at first I almost thought you were she. Ahh, what an idiot I am! This story must sound like some tale of childhood lovers. Nothing of the sort. You see, my childhood crush was a bit... well, let us just say my feelings were not returned. Not that I ever spoke them to her, you see. But all she ever did was chase me around with sticks and push me in the mud. How is that for unrequited love?”
**
Let us interrupt for a short moment to make abundantly clear something that Caltheral has no way of knowing: Mariveaux knows exactly of whom he is speaking. This is not the first time she has heard this story. She knows, more or less, what he will say next. She will keep quiet for now, though, because she has waited for this day for a long time, and this calls for a very special plan.
**
Cal chuckled ruefully, though he did not allow her to speak before he continued. “Well, anyway... eventually I stopped seeing her. My father owed someone some money. Gambling debts or something like that. His way of settling it somehow involved sending me off to the priesthood.”
That made Mariveaux stop and blink in surprise.
“That part isn't important. As fate would have it, I was back in Silvermoon the day the Scourge came. You know that story already, I trust. After they broke through the gate, it was chaos. Everyone running every which way. I saw her. She looked as beautiful as I always imagined she would, once she had grown up. I loved her all that time, wondering if I would ever even see her again. Then there she was, the one bright spot on the worst day of my life. She was just sitting there... waiting for them to sweep her up. She was going to die. I dragged her to safety, but she was in shock. She never said a word. I always hoped she survived, but I never even knew... ahh, what does it even matter? She would not still remember Cal the merchant's son, even if she was alive. Would you remember something like that?”
“I would remember,” Mariveaux replied.
“Hmmm.” Cal had been willing to believe the worst up until that point, but there was something about the way she said it that made him keep thinking about it. “Might be some hope for me after all.” He swung his legs back towards the floor and stood. “I thank you for the drink, Mari. You'll write to me if you hear word of her? You can get a letter to me in Stormwind. Caltheral Goldscale.” He never once stopped to consider that she already knew word of his childhood girl.
Mariveaux nodded. “May the Eternals watch over you, Cal. But... your farm girl. Would you please tell me her name?”
Cal shrugged, turned and started to walk towards the exit. He left the flowers behind, having already forgotten about them. “I do not see how it could hurt,” he said over his shoulder. “My childhood girl, my Rosebloom... maybe she is out there somewhere.”
He paused in the doorway, suddenly realizing he still had not spoken the name. “Oh,” he said on his way out the door. “Her name...
“Her name is Dualla.”
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Part Two: The One He Saved
Dualla Rosebloom, the little girl who Caltheral remembered with the flower in her hair and who he saved in Silvermoon, is known in Booty Bay. She is the same Dualla who is the manager of the Salty Sailor Tavern. Up until now, no one knew this except for Dualla herself because no one knew Dualla's family name. She had not given the name to anyone since Silvermoon was sacked. In Dualla's mind, her past life was entirely over and this was a second chance.
She remembered her family lovingly, but her life would never go back to the way it was when she was growing up on the Rosebloom farm, even if she wanted it to. And now that she had come to make her home in Booty Bay, she did not want to go back. She was supposed to grow up and turn from a farmer's daughter into a farmer's wife. Now, she was whatever she wanted to be. She missed them, but she was happy now, and she realized that she could not have both her old family life and her present life.
The secret of her family name was not kept out of malice or with the intent of deceiving anyone. She did not make up a new name for herself. Indeed, she told herself that if someone really wanted to know, they would ask. For nearly a year now she had been introducing herself as simply Dualla. No one had ever asked what her family name was. Nor did she ever volunteer to tell anyone. Perhaps they should have asked; perhaps she should have told.
No one asked Dualla and she never told anyone, but when something is meant to happen, these things matter little. Life is funny like that.
**
With great care, Dualla crept up the body of the frozen giant. His name was Arngrim the Insatiable and he had been frozen for a long time. She had only noticed him for the first time earlier that day and as she hovered there near his face, a frozen tooth dislodged itself, bounced off of the frosty beard and into her hand. Thanks to the sudden rumbling that came from the inside of the ice giant, she had a sudden understanding of Arngrim's legendary hunger.
Eager as she was to curry favor with the strange Sons of Hodir, Dualla went out into the valleys between the Storm Peaks and gave the icy tooth a taste of the local worms. All that was left to do now was put it back into place.
“Just when I think I've seen everything...” she muttered, chuckling to herself. A week scarcely went by without her saying that at least once. The world never stopped surprising her. That was the best part of being alive. You could think you knew everything about the world and everything about everyone around you and it would still find a way to surprise you.
The tooth slid back into place and the next time the wind gusted, Dualla would have sworn that she heard a satisfied sigh. The insatiable was sated, at least for today. But the wind continued to blow and Dualla realized just how cold she was. Northrend often had that effect. You could ignore the cold for a while even as you flew through the highest snowy reaches, but once the cold sensation hit you and you realized you could see your breath frosting every time you exhaled, then it was time to go warm up.
Fortunately for the mage, she was never farther than a hearthstone away from home, and even Booty Bay on its coldest and rainiest day was never as cold as anywhere out here in the Storm Peaks, where the snow never melted. She hopped down to a more solid place to stand, took out the stone, closed her eyes and concentrated her mind on home.
Even before she opened her eyes, she could feel the heat. The familiar sights of the Salty Sailor Tavern were a comfort for her every time she returned, no matter how long she had been gone. That cranky silver-skimmer Nixxrax behind the bar, Skindle the innkeeper, Whiskey Slim... well, maybe not Whiskey Slim. You could never be too sure about a gnome, even one who seemed to have left all the machines and tinkering behind in favor of the pirate life. The big keg sat on the counter, empty mugs were all over the place and candles flickered on the surface of every table.
Dualla took a deep breath and smiled. The sea breeze smell mixed with the burning candlewax and the searing meat that was on top of the stove. Everything she did out in the wide world was so that she could protect this place long before it ever came to any harm. Booty Bay might be as far from snowy Northrend and the Lich King's frozen throne as you could get, but he and his minions had a long arm and you never knew when or where they might be planning to strike next. But they would not be reaching anywhere as long as Dualla and others cut off the arm, so to speak.
She gave a curt wave towards Nixxrax. The goblin was not one of her favorite people and she was not one of his. “Have you seen the boss lady?” she asked.
“You're the boss lady,” Nixxrax replied, offering his most insufferable, toothy grin.
“Always the smart-arse, Nixx. One of these days I'm going to come over there and --”
“Dualla! Be nice!”
The mage laughed as she turned around to face her friend Mariveaux. There was nothing that could get Mari to appear faster than to create just the right moment for a gentle chiding to be nice. It was one of those things Dualla could count on as much as she could that the sun would rise in the east the next day. She did not even need to think about it: that was what would happen because that was the natural way of things.
“Nixx knows I'm just kidding. Right, Nixx?” Dualla looked over her shoulder and smiled at the goblin, who rolled his eyes.
“Whatever you say, boss lady.”
Turning back towards Mari, she noticed her friend regarding her sudden contrition skeptically, but the other blood elf woman smiled all the same. Dualla always supposed that for Mari, the chance to scold her was the same sort of thing.
Mari stepped over towards her, with a furrowed brow at first as she examined Dualla. “Oh, you know I must make sure you are still in one piece,” Mari explained.
“You're never going to let me live down that one time, are you?” Though Dualla feigned irritation at being fussed over, there was nothing but fondness in the smile with which she regarded Mari. Besides, it was probably Dualla's own fault for coming back from Wintergrasp once with blood flowing from one of her temples. Nor did she mind having someone who cared about her so much as to worry.
“You will have to live with it,” Mari said, “because you are not allowed to die.” She regarded Dualla for a moment with a look tinged with sadness. The moment quickly passed and the smiles returned, but the point was taken.
Not that Dualla needed to be reminded that she was so dear to Mariveaux. Of course she knew that. But a fresh example always made her happy. “Thank you,” she said simply, pulling her friend into a hug. Sometimes, no words seemed to fit to express her fondness. She hoped the small gesture would be enough.
Stepping back from the embrace, Dualla scanned the room a second time. “Did I miss anything interesting today?” She spied the red roses, still laying on the table by the door and her eyes lit up with mirth. Dualla stepped over to the table and picked one of them up, smelling it. “Oh, this looks like a story here. What happened? Blind date gone wrong? Jilted lover looking for a second chance?”
Dualla was too wrapped up in her gossipy theories to notice the look on Mari's face, which, had she seen it, may have tipped her off to something. Instead, she was oblivious to the silence. “Well,” Dualla continued, “I don't suppose it matters. Probably better in my imagination anyway.” Though, with that said, she could not resist one last theory. “They weren't for you, were they?”
Mari shook her head vigorously. “They weren't for me.”
The mage offered a silent thanks for that. The last thing she needed was to have to chase away some other hapless fool. That thought finished, she only then noticed that Mari was unusually quiet. Generally the two of them would end up gossiping about anything at all. “Is everything okay?” Without any prompting at all, Dualla's mind began to spin wild ideas about how the flowers ended up there and why Mari would be pensive as a result. None of these came close to the truth.
“Of course, I am fine. Just something that has been on my mind today.”
“Do you want to talk about it? Let's sit down.”
They sat across from one another in the table in the corner, so they would both be close to the bar counter if someone came in and wanted a drink. “What did you want to get off your chest?”
Mari clasped her hands together and wrung them a couple of times before beginning. “Well, there is a friend of mine...”
From only these seven words, Dualla was already assuming that the story was about Nikoleta, or perhaps even Mariveaux herself.
“...and I know something and I do not know what I ought to do about it. You see, there is someone from her past who has showed up looking for her. I think he... likes her. No, I am sure that he does. He wishes to see her so badly that he tracked her here, but... she has no idea he is even alive.”
Not Mariveaux, then, Dualla thought to herself. She was still convinced that it was Nikoleta but would play along with the ruse of anonymity for Mari's sake. Maybe it was something that she was not supposed to know. “Do you think that your... friend, likes him still?”
Mari tilted her head from one side to the other as she thought. “I have only remembered just now. Yes. She has spoken of him before. I think she does.”
Dualla chuckled to herself. That was an easily resolved dilemma, it seemed. But she knew that sometimes you just had to talk to another person about something to confirm that your initial thought was correct. “If it's who I think it is, she certainly deserves another chance at happiness.”
“Without a doubt, she does,” Mari nodded. “I would be happy if she could be... happy.”
“I think your friend is lucky to have you, Mari.”
Mari smiled. “Oh, she has always been there for me. I want to help her.”
“That settles it, then, doesn't it? So what's the name of Nikoleta's mystery man? Where did he come from? Is he cute?” Noticing Mari's panicked look (Dualla assumed that it was because she had so casually blown the cover off the 'friend' story) she laughed and winked as she added, “Don't worry, you don't have to tell me anything. I'd not want to give away the surprise. I might actually run into Niko and let it slip!” And the Eternals knew that Nikoleta deserved to find some long-lost crush after what had happened to her night elf lover. That was a cruel bit of business.
“I, ah... thank you for the discretion, Dualla.”
“A request for a subject change, if I ever heard one. Ah, well. I suppose I'll get the gossip in good time. So long as you are in a question-asking kind of mood, why not hit me with another? I will tell you anything.” Part of it was boredom. Part of it was that it seemed she did not get as many chances to sit and talk with Mari alone as she wished she could – no reason to let it end so quickly, then.
The pause that followed (not that Dualla had any way of knowing) was the exact length that Mari decided would be long enough to separate the next inquiry from the previous subject of discussion. “I know one,” Mari said. “I have always wondered, but thought you had your reasons not to tell. Still, since you said it could be anything... would you mind telling me your family name?”
Of that question presently posed, Dualla probably ought to have been perplexed or puzzled, but she was, peculiarly, pleased. “I always wondered,” Dualla responded, smiling, “when someone would ask me that.” Though she frowned suddenly. “You do not mind that I have not told you on my own, do you?”
“Oh, of course not, Dualla! When we first met, I never thought anything of it. After all, you never know what sort of person may come to the Leaky Bucket. For all I knew, there was something you wished to hide, and who was I to pry? Once I got to know you, I realized it was unlikely you were hiding a life of crime. Though by then, it would have been strange to simply ask out of the blue. As I feel strange to have done so now. I know you must have had your reasons.”
“Not really.” The mage shrugged. “I just... never said. And no one ever asked. Somehow it was easier that way. I always told myself that my name did not matter. We were no one important. Ah, but here I am, still dodging the question.” Now that she was thinking about all the reasons that she had kept the secret, memories of the fallen flooded back to her unbidden. The sadness that she tried to keep bottled up was uncorked. She felt moisture flood into her eyes and flow down her cheeks, reached out to wipe them with a sleeve. “Oh... you must think me such a wreck. I... don't know what's wrong with me.” Sniffling, she looked back up at her friend. “My family was the Roseblooms. Which, I suppose makes me Dualla Rosebloom. But I don't... feel like much of a Rosebloom any more. Look at me now. They probably wouldn't even recognize me.”
“You are who you are,” said Mariveaux. “I would not wish for you to be any other way. Nor would they who loved you the most. I know that they would be proud of you. I am.”
Insecurity about what her departed family members would think about her was one of the recurring problems that Dualla had with herself. She often asked hypothetically what her mother would think to see her now. The question was usually asked when she was in some situation that there was no way one would have ever guessed a little farmer's girl would ever be found. And even when someone would say that her family would be proud, Dualla did not think about it much. In realizing that they would be proud of her, she first had to remember that they were gone.
In truth, the tears she shed now were the first that she shed for them. Life was a fog after they were gone, until she achieved some measure of control over the mana addiction, and more importantly left behind the bloodthistle that she'd come to rely upon while she wasted away days at Saltheril's Haven. Once, on a night much like this one in the Tavern, she'd cried into Mari's shoulder out of fear: Dualla was deeply afraid of being alone again. That was not the same as tears that flowed for family lost.
Dualla lifted her head up from Mari's shoulder and blinked, sniffling. She hadn't even registered that Mari got up and drew her close. “Ah, dammit, Mari... you're always so right.” To have her coping mechanism so suddenly laid bare, with nothing but compassion and understanding from her dear friend, was overwhelming for her. The sobs started again and Dualla clutch onto Mariveaux to hold herself up as the tears rushed out like water finally spilling over top of a dam.
“Shh... do not worry, dearest Dualla.” Mari stroked Dualla's hair as she spoke softly into her ear. “Please do not let the bad feelings poison you. You need not hold your tears any longer.”
When her eyes were finally dry, Mari's tunic was soaked. Dualla could not help but laugh a bit as she tried to compose herself. “I'm sorry, Mari. I've ruined your shirt.”
“It's only a shirt. You are more important to me than a shirt. Though,” Mari added with a wink, “if you're that concerned, you can wash it for me.”
Cleaning clothes was a simple enterprise for a practiced magistrix like Dualla. “Remind me another day, if you would.” After all of that, she was suddenly very tired. “I think it's time to turn in for the evening. Thank you, Mari. I don't know what I'd do without you.”
After another embrace, the two friends bid one another good night and Dualla wearily dragged herself up the stairs and into the room that she had made her home for a significant portion of the past year. She fell asleep as soon as she laid down and closed her eyes, having never once had even the slightest suspicion that Mari's “friend” was Dualla herself.
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