With Apologies Sir, You Are Free To Go

The nervous sentry started to salute Gavrisom as he passed, but realized the ridiculousness of it before his hand could reach his head and checked himself. He managed to turn the almost-salute into an awkward head scratch instead, but the motion and intent was not lost on Gavrisom. He frowned at the guard – just a kid really – who smiled a toothy grin at him.

“Have a lovely afternoon, sir!” the sentry said with a cheerful nod.

Had the whole world lost its mind? 

Just beyond the threshold ahead, at the main hallway of the Stormwind Keep, his wife was holding court with two of the guard captains and a small crowd of castle ne'er-do-wells. She attracted attention everywhere she went, not only because she was so young and so lovely, but for the strength of her presence and personality. In so many ways, despite the years that had passed and taken their tolls, Arylia was still the same girl he had met in the shadow of Lordaeron's last days.

The loss of her family and kingdom had not prevented her in the slightest from growing into the regal young woman her pedigree dictated. Having been a child of Lordaeron's aristocracy allowed her to move in powerful circles with ease and grace. Effortlessly comfortable with generals and nobles alike, she was impressed by few, and would be cowed by none. After becoming a sister of the Church of The Light, Arylia had grown up literally on the front lines of the war, enduring its hardships first-hand as a healer of the battlefield's damned. She was a strong, proud, and fiercely determined woman who would make the whole of Azeroth right with her own two hands if she could, and nothing would dare stand in her way. Arylia Soren-Barca was nothing less than a force of nature.

She was the strongest person in the world, of this Gavrisom was sure. And he thanked the Heavens above each and every day that she was, and always would be, his greatest ally.

Arylia smiled at Gavrisom when she saw him approaching, waving him over even as she said her elegant goodbyes to the assembled hangers on. Gavrisom beamed as the two of them finally shared a warm embrace without the bars of his cell to keep them apart. She had arrived – eventually – a fortnight earlier, chastising him for whatever nonsense had landed him in such a sorry state, decrying his involvement with troublesome friends (that means YOU Donagher Benton!), and assuring him that though he undoubtedly deserved whatever he was getting, she would see him through it.

“Well you certainly look worlds better than when last I saw you,” she said with a satisfied smile. “You even smell good. And are you wearing a cashmere coat?”

“Ary, what the blazes did you do?” Gavrisom asked, feeling a very strange and very powerful combination of relief, amusement, and dread. “They let me use a general's private washing up room to shave and take a bath before releasing me! And at least two members of the House of Nobles kissed my ass on the way out,” he said, giving his wife an accusing look. “One of them invited us to tea!”

“Oh?” Arylia said with a straight face. “What time?”

“I don't want to have tea!” Gavrisom hissed.

“Fair enough,” she shrugged.

“And yes, these aren't even my clothes!” He smiled at his wife in awe as the two of them began to walk arm in arm. “I don't know what you did, love, but they've been treating me like I was some long-lost friend of the King all morning.”

Arylia smirked, in spite of herself. “Funny you should say that.”

The euphoria of having overcome two weeks in irons was quickly fading from Gavrisom and being replaced with a knot in his stomach that told him he might rather have taken his chances in the Stockades. “What do you mean?” he asked suspiciously. “What did you do? No, wait! Don't tell me. I'm not sure I want to know.”

“You haven't even said thank you,” she reminded him.

Gavrisom grinned. “That's because I'm not sure I'm actually thankful yet.”

“You're just terribly, terribly lucky that for whatever shortcomings you may have, and whatever ridiculousness you constantly manage to get yourself in," she said with a weary roll of the eyes, "that you have at least a few very persuasive friends.”

“Oh no! Please, please tell me you didn't go to Shaw! Or Trias!” Gavrisom groaned, closing his eyes and slumping his shoulders like a petulant child. “You did, didn't you? You went to Shaw! I knew it!” He stomped his foot. “Blast it all to hell! This'll be the second time he's gotten me out of the Stocks,” he whined. “The last thing in the world I needed ever again was to be indebted to Shaw and his company men! To this day, the Defias still have a bounty on both our heads because of the last time I owed him one!”

It was Arylia's turn to grin.  “I did not go to Mathias Shaw, nor Elling Trias I'll have you know. Although both of them do send their regards,” she said, patting his arm reassuringly. The two of them stopped to look at each other and she ran a hand sweetly through Gavrisom's hair, letting it linger lovingly on his cheek. “You do, however, owe someone a dreadfully big favor,” she said with an amused sigh and gave him a soft smack.

Gavrisom took her hand and kissed it. “You mean besides you?”

“Indeed, though I'll be much easier to please I'm sure. I'll settle for a dinner at the Pig and Whistle – at least for now. I doubt you'll get off so easy once we get back to Northrend.” They wrapped their arms around each other as they continued walking, their footsteps echoing off the great stone walls of Stormwind Keep. “As soon as we get back, however, Brann Bronzebeard is extremely eager to have a word with you.”