Friday Fiction: The Good Old Days

By | June 26, 2009


Today’s friday fiction is the first of many collaborative writing efforts between Bricu and Threnn. Three years on, its still one of my favorite stories. Not because of its awesomeness or badassery, but because it laid down a foundation of long distance friendship that could only come about through RP and WoW.

A Bottle of Port to Court Your Daughter

When they had spent the entire night talking, kissing, cuddling and drinking tea, Bricu expected to be wake up with a kiss on the neck or better. He did not expect hard boots on pavement with a, “Who are you and what, pray tell, are you doing with my daughter?”

They were propped up by shop’s front door. Bricu and Threnn were sitting on his cape. They were wrapped up against the cold in Bricu’s tabards. The Wildfire Rider tabard underneath the Argent Dawn covering them both. Under both tabards, wrapped his arms around Threnn.

“Mornin’ Squire.”

Bricu attempted to gracefully disentangle himself from the situation….

The mountain shifted around her. She nuzzled at his neck and muttered something, trying to steal more warmth and a few minutes’ extra sleep.


Mountains didn’t have necks. Or beards. Or arms.

And they didn’t say, “Och, love, you might want ta wake up now.”

His arms loosened as she lifted her head, and Threnn felt a twinge of disappointment. She’d liked them there. She opened her mouth to say something, or maybe to close in for another kiss, but Bricu kept cutting his gaze out toward the street. Mornings weren’t her strong suit, but she caught on after a couple of those glances and turned to look.

Padraig al’Cair’s face was an interesting shade of crimson. “Go in the shop, Threnn,” he said, and held out the ring of heavy iron keys.

She stood slowly and took them, so he couldn’t use them to hit Bricu. The tabards fell away as she rose and she shivered in the early morning air. Gods, he’d been so warm. “It’s not what it… Okay. It’s probably exactly what it looks like. But – ”

“Get in the shop, Threnody. Now.”

She winced. He never called her by her full name, even when he was mad. He must be beyond anger and working into rage. Reaching a hand out to help Bricu to his feet, she tried to put some steel into her voice. “I won’t, Dad. I’m a woman grown. And we did nothing wrong.”

Bricu took Threnn’s hand to stable himself. As he pulled himself up, he noticed the look that Threnn’s father gave him. It was quite clear that Bricu had made the wrong move.

“Thanks for the hand lass.” Bricu tried not to smile. Smiling here, in front of Threnn’s father, would only complicate things further.

But he couldn’t help it. She made him smile.

Still smiling, he turned to her father,

“Mornin’ squire. Nice shop….”

Padraig focused on his daughter.

“Threnody al’Cair. Open the shop. Right now. ” Padraig took his eyes off of his daughter for one moment to glare at Bricu.

While mornings weren’t his strong suit he did work well under pressure. Meeting Mr. al’Cair, something he wasn’t sure he was going to do in the first place (and definitely not under these circumstances), seemed to be the very definition of pressure.

A quick look to Threnn–and another smile–told him that she was not going to back down either. His mind raced. Angry father. Pretty girl.

Usually, Bricu’d just take his leave. This time, Bricu tried something different. Looking directly at Mr. al’Cair, Bricu whispered something.

“By the Light, What on Earth are you saying to me you Lout!” Padraig shouted, inches away from Bricu’s face.

“I said, why don’t I get us all some breakfast. My treat.” he paused for effect. “The Rose makes an excellent Lordaeron Breakfast. Rashers, Eggs, fried tomato, Sausages, ham an’ a black puddin’ that actually has flavor. What’d ya say ta that, sir?”

Her father opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. He looked like an angry fish, and it was all Threnn could do to keep from bursting into giggles.

“You…you want to buy us breakfast.”

Bricu nodded. Threnn gave his hand a squeeze.

Padraig took a step back, and another. One more and he was out of swinging distance, but whether he was moving back so he couldn’t hit Bricu or Bricu couldn’t hit him, was unclear. Maybe it was a little of both.

His coloring slowly returned to normal as he blinked first at his daughter and then at her companion. They’d derailed and diffused him for the moment, and Threnn knew it was the best time to extricate themselves from his presence. He’d rail at her later, but she’d be able to handle him. “You have the Connells coming this morning, Dad,” she said gently. “Why don’t I go and bring breakfast back to you? We’ll talk then. You and me.”

Ten full seconds passed before his shoulders sagged and he came forward to take the keys from her. Padraig didn’t meet Bricu’s eyes as he unlocked the door to the shop. We’re in the clear, thought Threnn, but then her father paused.

“Bad enough you picked up a sword,” he said quietly, not turning around to look at her. “Worse that you wear that tabard now. I wonder how far you’ll go to disgrace us. We’ll talk later, you, your mother, and me.” He walked inside the shop and closed the door with a click.

Threnn felt the color rise in her face, and didn’t know which of anger and embarrassment was the stronger. “I’ll walk you to the Rose,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster.

Bricu gave Threnn’s hand a quick squeeze.

“I’m still buyin’ him breakfast, even if he’s bein’ unfair.”

Bricu waited a moment, then he kissed her on the cheek.

“Come on love, we’ve got a wee bit o’hike. Then I’ll let you back to your responsibilities.”

Bricu walked with Threnn, hand in hand, to the Rose. He didn’t say anything to her he simply held her hand.

At the Rose, he greeted innkeeper with a polite nod. Then he shouted for the cook.

“Oi, Squire! Three breakfasts to go.” the cook nodded and promptly set off to make breakfast.

He guided her to a plush and terribly comfortable chair. “S’what happens when you pay six months in advance. The help actually helps. Now have a seat love, I’ll be back before they finish the rashers.”

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