Logs:Like A Picnic
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| RL Date: 12 August, 2011 |
| Who: Devaki, Madilla |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Post-hatching, Devaki and Madilla have a quieter celebration. Dilan is unknowingly conceived. |
| Where: Madilla's Room, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 22, Month 6, Turn 26 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Iolene/Mentions |
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| Madilla's Room, High Reaches Weyr The generous size of this cavern, and the evenly spaced glow-lamps, result in a set of private quarters that are less claustrophobic than they very easily could be. A set of brightly coloured quilts cover most of the walls, covering over uneven patches and ensuring the room stays cozy even in the middle of winter. On the floor, several rag rugs create the same affect - they may not be palatial, plush carpets, but they do the job. A small table with two chairs sits just opposite the door, not quite flush to the unevenly carved wall. In the far corner, a simple, single-sized bed, made up with another brightly coloured quilt, sits with a wooden press at the end, and a baby's cradle just beside it. A peculiarly shaped alcove, opposite the end of the bed, provides more storage space: several hooks for clothes, and a chest of drawers. It's late on the evening of the hatching. Most of the revelry still continues, with the living caverns crowded with weyrfolk and visitors alike in celebration mood. The sound of the harper's music is audible from across the bowl, though not loud enough to mask the knocking sound at Madilla's door. Devaki's there, a bottle of wine in hand, as well as a carefully wrapped plate of food. "Maddy?" Behind the door, there's the sound of footsteps followed, a moment later, by the creak of the door as it opens. Madilla's not dressed for bed, at least, and the glowlamps are still lit, but her hair is down, her shoes off; the surprise on her expression softens almost immediately to warmth. "I meant to catch up with you again, earlier, but - I guess it didn't happen. Hello, Devaki." Devaki holds up the plate, as if in offering, easy smile springing to his lips. "I figured you wouldn't stick around long, with the kids being fussy -- I brought some food. Want to share?" The bottle, too, is held up quickly as if to prevent any refusal with a back up offer. "And wine. I'm told it's one of your traditions, to toast the hatching." "It's the excitement: it makes them impossible," admits Madilla, though she sounds more amused by it than anything. She swings the door open, beckoning Devaki in cheerfully; she'll shut the door behind him, too. "It is at that. How can I refuse?" She's back down to one child, now, and Lily sleeps the sleep of the dead-- the kind that are actually still breathing, anyway. "It certainly was a night of... surprises," Devaki concedes, lips twisting in a wry smile. He steps inside at the silent invitation, nodding his head in thanks. His gaze drifts towards Lily's cot, and there's a low laugh from him. "Least you know she'll sleep tonight." He's familiar enough with her room that he heads for the table and sets down the plate and wine, though a moment of consternation appears. "I didn't bring glasses. We can drink from the bottle if that's not too... uncivilized for you?" 'Surprises' draws Madilla's gaze to linger on Devaki's face, watching for any hint of what it all means for him in that wry smile. Of Lily, she agrees, "That's true. She fell asleep in my arms, and hasn't stirred since." She follows the islander to the table, her laughter barely contained; her eyes gleam in amusement. "I shall feel like an apprentice, sneaking out to get drunk in the orchard," she tells him, cheerfully. "I think I can lower myself to that." "Well, we /could/ do that, if it'd make you feel reminiscent," Devaki offers, apparently genuinely, since he pauses in uncovering the plate to glance up at Madilla with a grin, "I'd imagine in this sort of weather the bugs would get in everything, though," he adds. "I thought you might be a white drinker. I'm told it's a good southern wine -- not that that means much to me, really." Madilla admits, blithely, "I never actually did it. One of those apprenticeship experiences I'll lack forever, I suppose. But - the bugs, yes. I don't think it /would/ be pleasant, really." She's sitting down as she says it, clearly not really interested in trying it out for real. "White is lovely. You haven't really gained a taste for it, yet? I suppose it takes a while. I wasn't a big fan at first, really. It grows on you." The plate's covered in a mixture of takings from the feast. Fresh meats, mainly, but a good mix of vegetables and maybe one or two sweets stuffed in on the top. "No cutlery, either," Devaki realizes as he pulls aside the cover with a sigh. "I really need to plan these impromptu visits a bit better. Here, start," he encourages, while he reaches for the bottle to uncork it. "I prefer ale, so far, but I'm... experimenting with a lot of things." He tentatively takes the first sip, makes a bit of a face, and sets it down between them for now, as he settles into the chair next to Madilla's. "Bit sweeter than I expected." "It's like a picnic," says Madilla, firmly. "You always eat with your fingers at a picnic; it's fine." As if to illustrate that, she reaches immediately for a piece of meat, putting it into her mouth and chewing without hesitation. "It was a good idea. I didn't get much chance to-- eat, while I was there. It's been a busy day." She washes the meat down with a swig of the wine, looking only a little bit silly doing it, and adds, "It's good. Thank you. It's--" Pause. "Are you okay? It must all feel very strange. I'm glad you thought to find company." "Picnic?" Apparently that's not a term Devaki is familiar with. But eating with his hands is an exile tradition, and so he does just that, rolling up a slice of the meat and sighing appreciatively at the quality. Her question catches him off guard, and he keeps his gaze on the food, rather than her. "Almost everyone I was close with is, has impressed. I don't really know how to feel," he admits, slowly, his voice dropping. "Happy for them, I guess. But also... alone." The last comment draws his gaze upwards finally, and it earns a flicker of a smile. Explaining takes a moment: Madilla pauses to consider before saying, "A meal eaten outdoors, on a blanket, usually. Finger food. We could eat on the floor, but that seems silly when there are chairs." She's silent, though, as he responds to her question, her fingers wrapped around the wine bottle again but not actually seeking to lift it. A slow nod follows his words; her smiles is slightly more than a flicker, rich with comprehension and understanding. "It's hard," she agrees, very quietly. "Being the one who-- isn't. And you don't even have a craft, I suppose, the way I do. I'm sorry." "That almost sounds like every meal we ever had on the island," Devaki admits, testing the word again, "Picnic." He seems set on focusing on the food, rather than his emotional reaction to her question; his expression is somewhat neutral, but it has the enforced feeling of deliberate casualness rather than honest indifference. He's silent for a long while, chewing, and then finally, "They'll be /different/ now, won't they? Those that impressed?" "Then you're an expert picnicker," teases Madilla, idly, though she's got a close eye on Devaki's reaction to the rest of the conversation that seems to take most of her attention. It doesn't stop her from picking at the food, though, and chewing with careful, methodical movements. "I-- yes. A little, at least. There's a part of them you'll never really understand, and they won't be able to explain. It doesn't mean you aren't still friends, or--" Beat. "Whatever. But it's always going to be different." And again? "I'm sorry." "Now I know you're just making that word up," Devaki accuses, though there's a smile as he says it. This fades by measures, his gaze flicking up to study the healer as she tries to explain. "It's fine," he manages to voice it rather diffidently, reaching for the wine and taking a gulp or two from the bottle before setting it back down between them. "Different. They're a part of the Weyr now. It's-- good." But he doesn't sound like he really believes that. "I'll find something else. Not a craft, I don't think, but something." "Something," repeats Madilla, uncertainly, though it's not actually a question. "I hope it's good. I hope it helps everyone - if some of your people are part of the weyr, then perhaps there'll be more freedom for all of you. That's what the Weyrleaders wanted, I think. I hope." She aims a smile at Devaki, one that is probably intended to be encouraging. "I'm sure you'll find something. And-- I'm still here. Still me. That's not the same, but I hope it helps a little." "Something to help our people," Devaki agrees with an absent rub of fingers against his chin as he reaches for another slice of the meat. "I'm not sure that's what they wanted at all. Your Weyrwoman," it's subtle, but it's still /your/ Weyrwoman, not /the/ Weyrwoman, "Didn't look happy at all out there. I'm guessing," there's a twist of lips, sudden sardonic humor in the islander's tone, "She didn't anticipate an exile impressing the gold." After a beat, his lips twitch upwards, returning that smile with one of his own, reaching out as if to brush her fingers with his in silent gratitude. "True. And I /do/ appreciate the company. I couldn't quite face that crowd out there, but it seemed wrong not to at least appreciate what was put out." Subtle - but not enough that gets past Madilla, whose expression shifts just faintly on receipt of it. "She may not have," she agrees. "It will be a-- big adjustment, for Iolene. Being a Weyrwoman is-- it's difficult, as far as I can see." Her fingers don't move away: indeed, as his brush hers, hers reach to take his and squeeze them, just softly. "I'm glad you came. I don't really like the crowds, either - but this is nice. Getting to celebrate anyway." Drinking wine out of the bottle with her free hand. "Io is--" Devaki hesitates, though there's genuine emotion in his voice as he continues, "Tough. She's her Gram's descendant, all right." And there's an odd expression that follows, like a thought that suddenly occurs to him that he doesn't like at all. It's put away swiftly now, as he focuses on Madilla, and continues, "She's strong enough to be okay. The islanders will support her." His gaze flickers to the wine, then back, with a deepening of his smile. "I'm sure they will." Beat. "You will." Just a subtle correction, made almost immediately, accompanied by a rueful smile. "I'm glad. I hope she'll - she sounds like she'll do well, then. It's good, having people around you like that, to support you. Family." Madilla considers Devaki, still smiling, though there's a flicker of a change to her expression, just briefly, as Devaki's own shifts. Not that she asks - she never does. "Right. I will." Devaki accepts that correction with barely a pause. But his attention is on Madilla now, and he uses his fingers on hers to turn her hand over, his other hand reaching to brush against the inside of her wrist, like he's tracing a line down her arm. Madilla's breath catches, just softly, as Devaki's fingers brush against her wrist; she goes still, watching his hand for a few long seconds before she lifts her gaze towards the islander's, her smile crooked; pleased; wine-softened. There hasn't been a question, but in the moments that follow, there is certainly an answer. |
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