Logs:Murderer
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| RL Date: 4 November, 2012 |
| Who: I'kris, Iolene |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: I'kris gets his opportunity. |
| Where: K'del's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr / Elsewhere |
| When: Day 28, Month 2, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Ysavaeth was gone before he made it two steps; gone, except for the way her scream was ringing in his ears, physical and somehow mental, too, until his head pounded and he had to stop for breath - lean up against the bowl wall, try not to throw up. The sudden chaos made it easy to just be there, to be as pale as he was because, after all, wasn't everyone? It was easy enough to explain his presence, but no one (not right then, not immediately) even thought to ask. Not even Svissath, whose silence rung in his head almost louder than Ysavaeth's scream had. "The exile needs tea in her weyr again," said Esarra, grumpily, pushing pots around. "The Weyrleader's weyr. And the dumbwaiter is broken again, so guess who gets to take it to her? Ugly cow. I thought she was supposed to be out with him today." "I could take it for you?" He was nonchalant. "I'm heading that way anyway. Svissath's on the sands with Rielsath." He'd been waiting for this opportunity for weeks. Months. Forever. Esarra stared at him, moodily. "Let me guess, you want in her pants, too. Don't bother. She's wound the Weyrleader around her little finger. There's no way she'll want a brownrider." "No way. I don't want her. I'm just trying to be nice. It'll save you the trip!" "Fine, whatever. I hope she chokes on it." Svi? It was beginning to bother him, now. Why was the brown so silent? All the other dragons were in turmoil, as far as I'kris could hear - and see - but his brown... he said nothing. He'd never hidden his thoughts from I'kris before. Svissath. Please. Help me. The brown's silence was almost accusatory. Murderer, he whispered in the back of I'kris' head. Or was that his conscience? Murderer. She was surprised - perhaps even suspicious - to see him with the tea tray. "I'm on my way to the Sands," he explained. "I thought I'd save the kitchen staff the walk." It was the first time he'd stepped into the Weyrleader's weyr. Not, of course, the first time he'd been in a ground weyr: there had been Lujayn's, of course, and Mirinda's. And his father's: with so few queens, senior bronzeriders had staked their claims long ago at the southern Weyr. His mother had kept her own rooms, of course, and that's where he'd been raised, but... He smiled earnestly at the Weyrwoman: boyish charm, utterly harmless. It didn't matter if she let him in or not, if she invited him to stay. It was too late for that. But she waved him in nonetheless, and cleared off the table so that he could set down his burden. They spoke of inconsequential things as she poured herself a cup of the tea; she didn't invite him to sit as she returned to her seat upon the couch, but nor did she send him away. He felt his breath catch when she took that first sip. Now... now was the time for truth. For accusations. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. It had been easy to put the ground roots into the teapot, out in the passage. Easier than wielding a knife (though he knew that is what his father would expect, certainly what R'hin had intended in giving that gift). Easier than so many other possibilities. That was easy. Accusing her, causing a scene... he couldn't take the risk, not yet. She was dying, and for now, she had no idea. So they traded pleasantries, and he let her assume that his awkwardness was because he was talking to the Weyrwoman and not for any more sinister reason. He spoke enthusiastically of Rielsath's clutch, as she sipped her tea, and how soon he would return home. How he missed his home. It didn't take long; he'd chosen his weapon because of that very reason. He could see the shift in her expression as the first wave began; he could see how suddenly pale she was, and how she covered her mouth with her hand. Ysavaeth was sleeping - she'd said as much, Iolene - and this, thus far, was not so terrible that she would wake up. That was good: she wouldn't notice until it was too late. (His heart beat faster and faster. His palms were sweating. He felt ill.) (Not as ill as she did.) She even apologised as she ran for the bathing cavern to heave out her guts, to gag and spit. Sense would tell him to excuse himself, then - to leave, and be far away before it happened. But he'd come too far. He felt, suddenly, desperately alive. I did this. I'm doing this. So he followed her to the bathing chamber. He watched as she crouched on the ground, throwing up breakfast, and then bile. She shuddered; she was pale, and sweat-covered, and her hands were shaking. "You lied," he said, suddenly finding his confidence (it was too late now. Too late for anything else. Too late.). "She never rose. You made it all up. You're a liar and a thief." He saw her stiffen, and he saw the way she turned a terrified look at him, as though she suddenly understood; he knew he was right, and felt a surge of triumph. "You--" She threw herself at him. He hadn't expected that: he didn't have time to react. But she'd barely managed to scratch at his face - deep enough to draw blood - before the first seizure took hold of her. It took both of them by surprise; he could do nothing but stare, and she? She fell backwards. She fell backwards, and she hit her head upon the edge of the bathing pool as she did. She didn't even have time to scream. Svi. Please. Talk to me. I need... I need help. Nothing. In his hand, he felt the little pendant - silver and glass. He'd pulled it from the chain around her neck as she died; it had felt, somehow, like the right thing to do, though he hadn't considered trophies beforehand. Trophies. It made him want to throw up. Is that what it was? His trophy? He tried to clear his mind. Svi. Svissath. Please. Nothing. Only... Murderer. Svissath shook and shuddered. How had he never realised? How could his rider have kept such a thing from him? What, now, could he do? Nothing - not now. And so he raised his head and he keened, adding his voice to the multitude of others who mourned their lost queen. |
Comments
Azaylia (Dragonshy) left a comment on Mon, 05 Nov 2012 05:42:58 GMT.
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Bone. Chilling. Holy... wow. Now I actually feel bad for Svissath. ._.
Edit: No seriously, that was beautiful and ugly and just... wow. I'm stunned. Wow.
Bravo.
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