Logs:Just Breathe
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| RL Date: 20 September, 2015 |
| Who: Hattie, Elaruth |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, Southern Boll Hold |
| Type: Vignette |
| What: Hattie doesn't actually manage to make it into Southern Boll Hold, after a day of too many reminders. |
| Where: Southern Boll Hold, Fort Area |
| When: Day 11, Month 11, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: N'muir/Mentions, Aislara/Mentions, T'rev/Mentions, E'dre/Mentions, Ali/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Mentions of torture. |
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| She had thought to journey to the Hold to ensure that the right messages had been conveyed and an accurate account of events delivered, yet the moment that she and Elaruth emerged above Southern Boll, she knew that she had made a mistake. They had left behind a smudge of ichor where the little queen had once stood, hide caught against branches and sensitive paws slammed too hard into the ground, and the dull throb of her lifemate's pain blended too easily with memories of her own. They would go back and to the dragon infirmary once duty had been dispensed, to clean up what she knew were not life-threatening scrapes. She had to check, she had to make sure... but she couldn't tell whether the burning in Elaruth's paws was all she was feeling and-- Hattie let out a quiet moan as she swung herself down from her queen's straps and let her feet touch the ground. She had to move forward and seek out the riders of her wing, only... she couldn't move. Her feet were on fire. She knew they weren't, that it had to be all in her head, but... Embers and questions and her own muffled shrieks. She hadn't told them anything. She hadn't told them anything, had she? It was her own fault, for fighting. But she couldn't leave Ali. The illness had taken her strength with it - strength that had never truly returned - and she hadn't been able to get out to Elaruth. Keep quiet. Keep quiet. For the love of Faranth, don't say anything. Don't let Elaruth say anything. She'd had her knife at a man's throat earlier, hadn't she? Why? « Hattie? » Her heart was racing out of control, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't seem to drag in enough air to actually breathe. Her lungs burned, much like her feet, and for moment after moment, she couldn't even see anything at all. « Hattie? » It was by no means the first time she'd been back to Boll since she'd been held there. She'd managed to tolerate meetings and dinners and resist the urge to race back out to Elaruth and flee. She had never been the most talkative of guests, but she'd managed control and the odd word or two of small talk around the main issues that she absolutely had to address, and though she didn't congratulate herself for surviving it, all she knew was that she had. Managed it. Survived it. She couldn't go in. She couldn't go in, she couldn't go in, she couldn't go in. Hattie slumped down at Elaruth's side, shielded by the cover of one shadow-brushed wing. She had to get a grip. « Shall I call Bijedth? » her queen softly proposed, bowed beneath the weight of memories neither of them wanted to relive. No. That brought some clarity. N'muir had felt so terrible about the whole thing that they'd barely spoken in anything but an official capacity for months after. He hadn't been able to look at her. She wasn't going to bring it all back again. His awful, pained reaction whenever either of them were forced to mention the incident was almost enough to make her crack, each and every time. Breathe. Just breathe. Now wasn't then. There was no-one lying in wait to hurt her. But if Boll could no longer trust their own... « Ryerith? Mecaith? Wroth? » No, she couldn't let any of them see-- « ...Isyath? » No. She wasn't going to take a trip down memory lane with Ali. The world began to swing back into view, filtered by pale gold hide. ...Tell the wing I want reports of all that's gone on here by tomorrow morning. No exceptions. Anyone who was here writes a report. Elaruth's acquiescence was composed of nothing but silence. « Come away from here now, » she told her, wrapping her up in cool mist and distant stars. « You need to come home. » In more ways than one. Shaking hands grasped at straps, buckles needing more than one attempt to secure. Home. To family and--no. She had put them through enough these past few months. Home. To hide away. To suppress and pretend. |
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