Logs:A Mother's Thanks
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| RL Date: 24 March, 2009 |
| Who: Veylin, Riahla, Suireh, Rodric |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Vignette |
| What: News of Satiet's death is brought to her mother. |
| Where: Sea's Peak Hold |
| When: Day 13, Month 4, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Satiet/Mentions |
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| It's been a long time since Rodric came this way and ultimately, the rider who did him the favor of dropping him off leaves him on the road a little ways to the south of Satiet's home hold. The harper re-shoulders his pack, hand lifted in thanks and farewell to the rider, then turns to walk up the road, blue and green firelizards scouting ahead and wheeling back to him. He looks a little haggard, traces of lack of sleep mark Rodric's face, but other than the white hair, the sure signs of encroaching age, he is still recognizably himself as his steps carry him onward towards the hold proper and the wash of salty waves near the docks. A several day ride from Tillek along its northern coast, Sea's Peak is a literal hole in the wall, from which a wooden dock stretches out. It's one of many of the minor fishing holds that look to Tillek, with its particular distinction coming from the height of its unnavigateable cliffs rising from what appears to be the ocean itself. There's a well-beaten path, grooved with the wheel tracks of traveling wagons along side a shoreline almost too rocky to be called a beach. Spring's come to the area, the afternoon light burning the morning fog away, and filters into the cavern that meets the docks that bustle with life. In here, the ships are kept safe from weather, though there are far fewer moored now than in the winter, of which the one named 'Veylin' is one, and long past the stone floors with its anchor knots to tie ships to, there's a stairwell that leads higher and deeper into the hold's central space. The sounds of children's laughter echo down from the well-lit, warm and cozy area, and coming up on that landing, the common area is decorated in bright, inviting colors. To the side, a harper teaches classes, while the elderly of the hold watch from dinner tables lined against the other wall. Midst this sits Veylin cradling a child against her side, whose dark hair falls limply into her face. The 'road' brings Rodric up along that beach, blue eyes turning out towards the water, the sunlight piercing the fog and casting glints across the sea's surface. The boats are for the most part, out, but he catches sight of that one with the familiar name and smiles a little, before turning heart-heavy footsteps up to the hold itself. A word exchanged with a holder mending nets down below sees the harper master up the stairs, head appearing before the rest of him. His gaze sweeps the space, finds his old friend, face falling easily into fond lines as he watches her. Briefly he looks away, towards the children at their lessons, but he does not interrupt the other harper: his business is not with his craft today. Rather as he mounts that last step, he turns inevitably towards Veylin and speaks her nickname once, softly: "Lin." A grandmother's chin falls to press lips into a granddaughter's hair, her arm tightening reflexively when the little girl begins to show more interest in the harper class currently going. A harper class her blonder, more vivacious sister has thrown herself into with gusto. "Si!" A nickname that could be entirely mistaken for the word 'see,' if not for the way Suireh's head perks and kens towards Riahla's call, "Come'ere!" Bright blue eyes flash backwards coupled with a wave of her hand to which Suireh, now that time has passed, can only obey and stumbles off the bench. It's then that Rodric interrupts, the delight that brightens briefly that time-worn face diminishing instantly as the white-streaked blonde head turns to find the once Masterharper at her doorstep. It takes Veylin many moments to find her voice or a smile to pair it with, and a welcoming hand extends even as she gets to her feet, "Rodric. How good it is to see you again." The interaction between the twins arrests Rodric mid-step and it's the dark-haired Suireh he follows with bright blue eyes of his own. His hand lifts briefly to his temple, but drops soon in favor of meeting Veylin's as he closes the distance between them and folds both of his hands around hers, aims to draw it upwards to his lips. "My dear Lin," he says softly, "I should have come much sooner," the harper claims with a touch of regret in his voice, gaze lifting to take in her face again up close, the streaks of white in her hair, the touch of crow's feet at eyes' corners. There is only fondness still and admiration for her, though he can't keep the sadness from his eyes. "Is there somewhere that we could sit for a little while? To speak together?" he asks next, tone all too gentle. In her hands rests the nervousness that doesn't betray itself elsewhere; not in her newly composed features or the steady appearance of her frame. But it's in her hands as he claims hers for his lips, a tremble so fine as to be nigh unnoticeable by sight alone. The harper at the head of the class pauses at the sight of Rodric, faint recognition gleaming in the young man's eyes, before he continues on briskly, but the other women and men who comprise the hold's elderly aren't quite so quick to move on. They watch, they study intently, and likely even long after Veylin rises from her seat, with her hand genteely in Rodrics - long after that, will they gossip. But that's what she does, rise to walk and bring Rodric along behind her past one of the many curtained-off exits from this central room. She walks in silence, not giving allowance for a moment to speak in her unhurried, weighted steps until they're just within a small room made up of heavy quilts on the floor in lieu of a bed. And still, as she lets him in, closes the door and turns to look up at him with liquid in her pale eyes, she doesn't speak. Rodric's palms press gently, perhaps because he would take that nervousness away if he could and provide only comfort in its stead. He can't be unaware of how they're studied, but he pays no mind, other than a brief, polite nod to the harper and a quiet greeting, by name before following Veylin out. Within the quiet, quilt-muffled room, he lifts his hands again, first to her shoulders, then her face. "She chose her time this morning," Rodric says simply, voice a little rough-edged, his brow wrinkling faintly with emotion that is difficult to contain. No longer the lithe, lissome Veylin of Harper Hall many years ago, there are nonetheless signs of the girl she once was somewhere in the matronly curves life has brought her. She's led a good life, if the wrinkles about her mouth and forehead, the crow's feet around her eyes indicates; a happy, if unambitious one. And while many girls might believe they look vulnerably pretty when in sobbing, Veylin's sorrow has transcended that of tears. Perhaps she's already cried too much in the night, held in the arms of another man, of her husband, of her now dead daughter's father. She allows his touches, the one to her shoulder that travels to her cheek, and when his fingers land there, her chin lifts and drops, gracious. "Thank you." A cool voice, once filled with song, expresses gratitude distantly, "For taking the time to come tell us." Rodric's hand turns, knuckles grazing that time-worn cheek lightly and there's a faint smile for that coolness, perhaps recognizing all over again traits shared between mother and daughter. "How could I not?" is the harper's quiet reply just before his hand drops to his side. His eyes remain on her face for a long moment, then break as he reaches for the bag slung across his body. "I -- have something for you, for the girls. There is a copy at the Hall as well, but I thought perhaps, you would like one, to share with them." From the bag he withdraws a very slender bound volume. Within are expensive, printed pages of music. The frontispiece reads: "Suite for Summer's Snowflake" authored by the man who stand within the room. He says nothing further, for the time being, at least not with words, though those eyes speak volumes that perhaps at least this woman can read easily. Grief. Regret. Resignation. Affection. Veylin reaches, and in doing so the tremble of her hands transfers from skin to paper, rustling them audibly until they press into her chest, held there not for the benefit of the music itself as much as steadying her nerves. "Thank you," is parroted once more, almost being the only thing she seems capable of saying except her next, exceedingly dry words, "The mindhealers would have so much business deciphering the relationship of our families." Or more correctly, her family and him. But then there's that shake of her head once more, the blonde hair in their held bun releasing a few curls to fram her face. "I-." It's not even a word really, just a breath that might be a word. There's so much she might say and so little she can actually say. Instead, a slender hand wrests free of the papers and her chest to curl one finger down along his cheek to his chin. "You should go," she finally says gently, the curved finger releasing so the entirey of her palm might rest flat against his cheek, fond. "This isn't your grief to carry us through, Rodric. I'll play this," her other arm shifts the papers as indication, "For them someday." With the volume transferred, Rodric's hands rest at his sides again. He smiles a little for that dry quip. "They've already tried to make a feast of me. I ran away back to the caravan," he tells her with something like his old levity, though there's warmth still in his eyes, for her. Those curls, tempt and Rodric does not resist that temptation to brush them back gently behind her ear. Her hand to his face draws a soft sigh and his head tilting a little, eyes closing for a moment's rest and relief from heavy grief. "I know," he says simply. When his eyes open again, they swim a little with unshed tears, but he only leans forward to kiss her lightly, not a lover's kiss by any stretch of the imagination, but the brief touch of lips from one true friend to another. "Be well, Lin," he wishes sincerely when he draws back. "I will come again, next turn when the caravan comes north." She allows the kiss, accepts it with a turn of her cheek to make it easier for him to miss her lips and says no further words except a tacit nod. Perhaps incapable now as she clutches the volume of music to her chest and steps aside so the door is easily accessible. But once he leaves, she'll sink to the ground with her back pressed to the wall. But she won't cry. Rodric lingers a moment longer, then has only a smile to offer before he retreats back into the corridor, footsteps slowly fading out of earshot. In the common room, he stops to exchange a quiet word or two with the other harper, more official-type notification and a warning for discretion and tact. It's possible his gaze might linger on a fair and a dark head as the girls continue on with their usual activity. However, Rodric leaves the giving of that news for the children to family. After that word given to his colleague, he is no longer needed or required and goes back out the way he came. |
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