Logs:Come Home
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| RL Date: 7 November, 2012 |
| Who: Hraedhyth, Cadejoth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A mentally exhausted Hraedhyth reaches out to Cadejoth and tries to set things right. It's harder than she thought. |
| Where: The Minds of Dragons, High Reaches Weyr/Deserted Beach |
| When: Day 1, Month 3, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Ysavaeth/Mentions, Iesaryth/Mentions, Aristath/Mentions |
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| His scent has yet to go completely cold, thoughts darting in what tall grass remains from the wildfire that is Hraedhyth's fury. Her thoughts are quick, scouts brushing by several minds until she feels a familiar tether, however faint. « Cadejoth. » Alpha. Sire. Drums sound far off, echoing a distance created by uncertainty in only where he is, not who. « You are not here. » It's as if only now, after caring for so many, that the gold realizes the Weyrleader's weyr is empty. Has been. Her weary contralto carries with it a weight that has more to do with just his own den, however. THE Weyr. High Reaches Weyr. Home. He is not Home. (Hraedhyth to Cadejoth) To Hraedhyth, Cadejoth is not Home, and though his reply is less greyed-out and quiet than it once was, it's a far cry from his usual exuberance. His yearning for home is not expressed in words, but it's there nonetheless: a leaning towards her, a desire for those spires of home and not (as creeps out, unbidden) these desolate beaches. « I am not, » he agrees. And why? There's K'del, seen through Cadejoth's eyes, perched upon a forelimb and staring out towards the sea. K'del, stony-faced; K'del, silent. « I don't know when we will be back. You need to be strong, Hraedhyth. » Daughter. Queen. « We believe in you. » To Cadejoth, Hraedhyth's response is swift, almost too much so, punctuated with several blows to taut drumskin. « I am strong. We, » Her rider, and the others with gold influence. « Are strong. » For a moment there is an awkward stillness for the bronze leaning upon her, lasting only as long as it takes her to realize what it is he needs. Spark. Light. A roaring fire carries with it a warmth meant to envelope, melting her own defenses in order to offer him comfort. « Soon. » It's a question without the tell-tale note, pretending to be an answer. « You... will be home soon. » Now, heavier beats hint at it being more of a demand. « Our tribe needs you. » To Hraedhyth, Cadejoth is comforted by that warmth, that spark. It's not Ysavaeth's sunny warmth (Ysavaeth!), but it's still warmth-- it's still something he needs. « I know you're strong, » he confirms, that unnatural quiet softening his reply for all that there's the metallic rasp of his mental chains to remind him/her/them of himself. But her last, her demand: it leaves him silent all over again, and no comfort in the world can properly prepare him to answer. « We will come back, » he confirms. « But without-- » Ysavaeth, whose name he dare not put into words, referred to only by that burst of honey-sweet warmth, « we will not lead. Aristath will care. And in time... perhaps you will choose your own leader. » To Cadejoth, Hraedhyth hurts with the memory of her name, with the way of a dragon's mind. She had forgotten her name, if only for few moments. Scorched wounds sting with salty spray, a hint of her Sister, mostly that of her rider's tears. Tense, as if constricted by those creaking chains, she eventually relaxes, flame flickering and dancing with the queen's mental sigh. That is until he names the imposter. « He is no Leader. No queen chose him. He conquered no gold. » Aristath. Burned from her thoughts, but staining them with ash. It is not right. « I choose now. » Dry ground splits, shielding the unnatural crack of her rich voice, « The Weyr needs you to lead. » K'del and Cadejoth both. A whisper of tangy smoke says what she will not: She and Hers need them. To Hraedhyth, Cadejoth, too, has tears - but only the salty memory of them, for his rider's eyes have dried, leaving behind this barren wasteland, this empty loneliness. Cadejoth hurts. But not nearly so much as his rider. « I chose him, » he reminds her, quietly, though her protest does not go unacknowledged. « We chose him. » K'del. « We needed to. Hraedhyth... » He yearns to be back at High Reaches; he yearns for his Weyr, despite every effort to avoid it. His Weyr. It's still his Weyr. But... « He can't. We can't. Not now. I will make him ready, when the time comes. When you fly, » because it must be Hraedhyth, « we will be there. » For them. Ysavaeth's influence is fading. It has held him close for so long, forcing him, focusing him. He has never doubted. And now... she fades away, little by little. The warrior queen gives herself only a few moments to openly mourn with the bronze, composing herself with a fortifying rumble. Flames that so often hurt look to soothe, washing over his mind, along with the hint of savage, though well meaning fur. « You are not a queen. » Aristath did not catch him. Still, she won't argue his decision, stubborn yet understanding the futility of such a battle. She needs to conserve her strength. « I do not understand. » There's a twinge of delicate, floral incense, « But Mine does. » She pulls back, not in retreat, but to keep Ysavaeth's lingering influence as pure as time allows. « I will... let you, » Restraining her golden will, « ...and the Weyrleader have time to heal. We will keep the Weyr strong for you. » A gift of sorts, from both gold and goldrider. (Hraedhyth to Cadejoth) That fur seems to make Cadejoth start, just for a moment - but Hraedhyth is fire, and not the ice of Iovniath, and her fur is different: safer, more secure. His appreciation for his progeny's wisdom washes over the both of them, casting out the shadows of grief and promising a future return to equilibrium. « You could replace him now, » says the bronze. « Your rider could pick another. You could. But - » Not Cadejoth, not yet. Quietly, but with earnest appreciation, he adds, « Thank you, Hraedhyth. Thank you. You make us both proud. If there is anything we can do to help, » from here, in their desolate exile, « you need only ask. » (Cadejoth to Hraedhyth) Not luxurious and white, Hraedhyth's fur is much more coarse, splotched and carrying with it a primitive familiarity. « ...I will consider this. » Inexperience is cast up in bright specks from her steady flame, though kept at a distance lest she tarnish Ysavaeth's lingering sunshine. With a low growl, she both accepts and understands his gratitude. There's a mental 'thump' that is meant to be comforting, the gold finally beginning to pull back and focus on those who need her the most. Smoke trails after her over fragrant petals, two very separate voices mingling in an unspoken whisper: Come back soon. (Hraedhyth to Cadejoth) To Hraedhyth, Cadejoth lets her go - but he's watching her as he does. Can she feel his pride in her, even once they've drifted apart? It's there. It's always there. |
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