Brothers Apart

This series saw a facelift in January 2022 as part of the Great Revision. Some of the most notable edits include moving some scenes to Deleted Scenes, finishing replacing the Tyrdan character and tag with Tyrric, and adding the Alelsa tag.

Author’s Note

“What are you–are you mad?!”

Tyrric commanded himself not to flinch and, with a kind of gratitude, felt affronted anger replace the weakness in his limbs. “You heard me,” he said coldly.

He schooled himself into a dignified pose and a dignified expression, even as his insides burned hot with rage. How dare his brother question him! How dare Mirium defy him! After all he had done for her! Putting up with her moping and her obsessions, while he moved past it all, making a future where no one thought there was the possibility of any–

And his brother. For too long Tyrric had ignored the corruption circling his brother’s heart, drawing him to Sylvanas and enslaving him to bloodlust. Tyrric was now weary of the confusion, of the sense he had that somewhere deep down Keelath still truly believed, in a part of him guarded by the Light, that he was doing the right thing. It was ludicrous, of course — old God corruption, or something else. Now that he thought of it, he could recall a time when Keelath had intentionally humiliated him over a game of Nine-Stars, making it rather a bigger deal than it should have been, just as he was making a bigger deal of Sylvanas than she should be now. Maybe his brother had always been overdramatic, or worse, had always been evil, and only now, when he stood to lose everything, was it coming to the fore…

This time, Tyrric would take decisive action, not wallow in the ashamed helplessness he has felt back then over the game.

“I want the both of you gone by tonight,” he repeated across the table. “By my word as the Baron, you are hereby exiled from Dawnmist and the lands surrounding due your continued loyalties to the Banshee. Return, and I will see the full force of the laws of Quel’Thalas brought down upon you.”

His contempt for Mirium made it easy to ignore her as the woman detached from Keelath and staggered from the room. More than that, Tyrric thought: let her reel! It was no more than she deserved.

Maybe, but deserve for what? some faraway part of him made itself heard with a conciliatory logic. Did you really expect her to abandon him? Tyrric hurriedly squelched it before the thought could grow anymore. Let action speak the louder now.

Keelath seemed torn between following his wife to comfort her and confronting him. Tyrric took the matter into his own hands instead, and he left the room, hoping that finality would get it through Keelath’s thick skull that he really meant it this time. He really was done with his brother’s suspicions and interference…

He felt Alelsa take his arm as soon as they were clear. There was an urgency to it, a soft press in her fingers. Tyrric ignored her. If you ignored shame, it eventually went away. He lifted his head. He had a manor to see to now. Fierce contentment rose in him. A manor he had built himself, and had now cleansed of all that would threaten its purity. His manor! His people–

Aren’t Keelath and Mirium your people, too? The small voice intruded again. At one time, Tyrric’s circle of protection had included them. But no, no more. Not after what they did. Tyrric gave the voice a harder shove away. No more doubts.

When Alelsa’s fingers almost became claws on his arm, he detached them with firm gentleness and sent her on her way. He carefully didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to see those doubts reflected in her eyes. She would understand eventually. She would have to.

Her eyes were indeed hard as she left.

He crossed to a window in the hall and looked out. The Dawnmist grounds were quiet now, most of the squires asleep in bed. Tyrric frowned at the bulk of the stables looming in the darkness on the other side of the gardens as a new thought occurred to him. He’d have to find a new stable master, now that Mirium was gone. Perhaps Furen could do it. Yes, that would work. Then he, Tyrric, could start interviewing in the morning. All would be fine. All would go according to plan. He was good at making plans.

Just as Keelath had been good at correcting their flaws and then seeing them through.

Tyrric’s knees abruptly buckled at the thought, without his permission. Grief broke past his walls and threatened to overwhelm him. He tried to turn it into anger. You could shape anger, make something useful of it…

But what was there to make of this, truly? Was he really just soiling his own bed, one he now had to lay in, as his brother thought?

What was the cause of Keelath’s long stubbornness and obsession with Sylvanas? It could not be love or loyalty: that was foreign to the undead. If Keelath loved him, he wouldn’t act this way, Tyrric was sure.

And why was he wallowing? He had promised himself he wouldn’t do that.

Tyrric shoved himself back to his feet. There was work to do: papers of exile to file, a new stable master to find. He turned away from the window and went to his study, to complete the process of purifying his manor. He was on the right path. The rest of the world just had to wait and see to believe it. Apparently…

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