Logs:My Queen
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| RL Date: 19 October, 2014 |
| Who: Hraedhyth, Rasavyth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: The day after the storm that claimed Iesaryth, Rasavyth seeks 'Reaches senior queen. |
| Where: High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 14, Month 1, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Dragon angst. Back-dated. |
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| He hasn't reached for her. He even did what he could to shut out her presence when it was made available to all the dragons of the Weyr. After he tripped up, after he let the pain of his loss be seen, he walled himself off. But now... now that there's been some time, but not so much that it isn't still fresh, there's the soft sounds of his reflected drums. They sound lacking in depth, lacking in exactness; it's all the effort he can muster as he seeks out his dam now. He'd wanted to be strong enough to deal with this on his own, but every dragon has his weaknesses, and Iesaryth was one of his. How does one stop a heart from hurting while it still beats in one's chest? (To Hraedhyth from Rasavyth) Hraedhyth is here, and more than ever she makes that fact known to the members of her tribe. She does not seek them out, knowing that so many grieve in their own way. When Rasavyth comes to her with his best, she doesn't comment on what he lacks. She envelopes him, an all forgiving, all accepting warmth of dam to son-- of queen to dragon. For a moment, it's as if he's a weyrling again, surrounded by course fur and the smokey maternal musk of Hraedhyth. But even those who did not hatch from her eggs are offered this comfort, the genuine love and pain she feels. « It will hurt less, in time. » She rasps, « For now, we feel. » And she does so, without allowing herself the buffer she offers others. Hraedhyth intends to suffer through every raw, real moment of her sister's passing. Rasavyth can be spared, numbed, if he so wishes-- but she doesn't force it on him. (To Rasavyth from Hraedhyth) To Hraedhyth, Rasavyth would like to not need it. Not need her. But he does. He doesn't even have the strength to fight that need. He's been so lost. For so long. Where is home anyway? He remembers. Or rather, K'zin does. They left for Fort. To be guests. Honored a little, even, at least by Isyath, or at least by the fact that there were eggs. Then they visited. It was meant to be a tryst, a nothing, just another moment stolen with Nicaith's-- and then... And then. Only when he crashed, he lived. He buries the pain. Digs and digs and buries. Perhaps they can be just the tiniest bit grateful that in between, nothing can be felt, so Iesaryth cannot be in pain. She will not have to know that pain, whatever of it she knew before she vanished. He came home, he remembers. (Was it home? Sometimes he feels unsure.) It was Hraedhyth he came for. He needed to be here, for her. How confusing it is to have had a queen, and then another, and to never really have either. Rasavyth, whose invisible threads of thought were once so neatly woven, reveals, to this queen, to his? queen, just how tangle they've become. Some are even broken and he's not sure how to begin to mend them. Knots are a kind of scar, aren't they? Evidence that something was wrong. It's wrong. All wrong. Why did she have to go? His thoughts are muddled, he reaches for the fur for the smoke to bury himself. For all that Hraedhyth can be overbearing and far too intense, it is with a Weyr made vulnerable by grief that she manages to temper her savagery. She knows, can feel, Rasavyth's reluctance, and yet she accepts him. Knots and all. The queen, his or not, does not falter in offering her strength to those who need it. It's aged her, if temporarily. The violent warrior's touch is calloused and strong, but it's with an earthy wisdom that she reaches for the threads she can feel rather than see. As Rasavyth sinks into that coarse fur, the heat of her heart's hearth attempts to sink in, to soothe his aches. Her focus is split, but especially with the tormented bronze-- partly plucking at his threads while also stroking over those constant, tumultuous thoughts. She is not Iesaryth, but Hraedhyth is here. It's a dam's burden she readily accepts, to know that for Rasavyth that might not be good enough. (To Rasavyth from Hraedhyth) It doesn't fix it. Probably, turning back time wouldn't even fix it. But it helps. It's some moments after he has let the heat ply him, his weather-strained wings and aching heart, and then quietly his tenor comes, finding words for the first time in-- well, since it happened, really. « What was she doing there? » Is it surprising that he is both anguished and angry? What business did their queen have flying into that storm. The rest of them would have gone, could have gone. Didn't she know her worth? There's a moment where he seems almost abashed in his stupidly slow (though probably still fast for some other dragons that could be named) realization that, of course, Hraedhyth herself had been there too, and he doesn't mean to chastise, only-- he hurts. (To Hraedhyth from Rasavyth) Hraedhyth doesn't answer right away. Instead, his question is added to the rest, kindling that is slowly consumed by the queen's pensive flames. « Dragons fly when there is danger. » It is her reason for being out there, but she knows that's not what he's asking. It's faint, the floral incense that seeps through, gone as soon as the gold find an answer through her bond. « Iesaryth's made many strange decisions. » The opinion is subtle, but there. Dragons, including clever queens, are rarely to blame for these things. Be it favoritism, or an accidental scolding for her own presence in the storm, there is no insult to be found in Hraedhyth's touch. He hurts. They all do, but even she can realize that this is a strange, deep hurt for Rasavyth. (To Rasavyth from Hraedhyth) The bronze didn't really expect her to have an answer. He knows as well as anyone that Iesaryth often kept her own council. He accepts her answer nonetheless, letting it help temper some of his frustration and protective instincts. Of course, their golds wouldn't sit idle when their Weyr was at work, but it doesn't stop him wanting to protect them-- wanting to have been able to protect her, to spare her. But he couldn't. Just as he can't now hide his pain. So he lets it be, lets it join with Hraedhyth's, if not with the Weyr at large. It's Cadejoth's Weyr; let him bear himself to them, Rasavyth need not. Fleetingly, there is an edge of appreciation, dampered by his depression, but there, at least for a moment. He appreciates her. His touch fades, not gone, still taking comfort with her, but the thoughts, jumbled as they were, are no longer distinct, just a tangle of oozy threads knotted and broken. He leaves them for now. Later, he will surely think to try to unsnare them all, but for now, he hasn't the heart nor the patience nor the care. Now is just-- now, so he lets it be. (To Hraedhyth from Rasavyth) Though Hraedhyth is brutally honest with her Weyr, she keeps Rasavyth's hurt separate from the others who mourn with her. Her grief-soaked husk carries a heat, a passion for life that she hopes to pass on to the clever bronze. « Rasavyth. » A sense of importance she passes on to all the dragons, and each time it's genuine. She's slow to let him go, the very edge of her black smoke keeping touch with those tattered threads, though they do end up fading into the background. Hraedhyth has enough heart for both of them, her flames a constant and welcoming warmth should he seek her out, later. For now, she lets Rasavyth be. (To Rasavyth from Hraedhyth) |
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