Greenhouse, High Reaches Weyr
A rustic and unadorned vestibule leads in from hewn spiral steps to a refitted ledge, enclosed by limestone pillars. Sturdy wooden framework captures elongated glass panes, tilted to absorb the most light during the day. The wash of heat from within, lush and humid, persists even into the dead of winter; the air is heady with the scent of fresh-turned soil and various flora.
Long, deep troughs of soil line the inner stone wall, planted with an assortment of broad, leafy tropicals - practical and decorative alike. Fruit and vegetable baskets hang from rafters, optimizing space, tempting in reach with a perpetually ripening harvest. A series of stone shelving is devoted to flourishing, aromatic herbs and new green shoots; even the softest touch releases a burst of savory scent from tender leaves. Amidst the greenery, a handful of wooden benches have been scattered, making this a temptingly warm and secluded spot to sit.
Shuttered vents serve to regulate humidity and heat given off from a small hot spring recessed into an alcove at the back; a secondary pool with cooler waters siphons off to provide a constant, fresh supply for irrigation. A small potting station nearby is cluttered with watering cans and gardening tools of various uses, with a wooden bin for composting materials tucked underneath.
The greenhouse may be warm where the Bowl is cool, but its humidity's just another form of dampness. At least the shutters are open, today. Mid-morning light's greyer here in the cliff's shadow, but still Leova's chosen to stand where it's strongest, talking in low tones with one of the gardeners: something about trees. And fertilizer.
H'kon is here with a distinct interest in neither trees, nor fertiliser. His interest, surely, is something to do with the bunch of herbs he holds carefully in his hand, which is almost certainly taking on their smell. It's the gardener, originally, he's seeking out. But it leaves him standing near both gardener and greenrider, waiting for the conversation to finish. Looking a bit awkward.
It takes a little while, though both glance over at least a couple of times: the gardener, probably to make sure H'kon's not going to be beating his chest and hollering as he swings from a vine anytime soon, Leova with less transparent interest. Still, finally there's nodding, and a promise of a bag of this-or-that coming up in exchange for a different this-or-that the greenrider's going to transport somewhere-or-other, and Leova steps back with a wave: all yours. Of course, then she loiters.
H'kon does no swinging, no chest-beating. He waits, plants in hand, even patient. His own affairs to sort out with the gardener are far less involved, it would seem; a few quick words, a few curt nods, and they're off and separate. It's here he turns and sees, "Leova." And does not make for the exit, as was his original intent.
"H'kon." The curve of the greenrider's mouth is sedate, but the glint in her eyes, not so much. Weariness smudges the dry skin beneath her eyes and blurs the angle of her jaw, though she stands straight enough. A glance after the gardener, another towards the windows' panes, and then she looks back at him. "Is there news? ... Not that we need more."
H'kon's hand closes a bit more tightly about those herbs. The smell on his skin will surely only prove stronger for it. His brow finds a neat furrow, but after a moment, the brownrider shakes his head. "There is talk. Very little new. Though perhaps you would hear more than I."
"Perhaps." There's no happiness in her tone, but only more of that weariness. Leova tips a nod to the herbs, then lifts her brows in silent question, distraction.
Reminded, fingers loosen to a more casual grasp. H'kon's hand is raised incrementally. "Something my mother recently discovered." And that hand is dropped back to his side. He considers those herbs a moment, thoughtful. It's the same look that is turned back up to the woman.
"She's wondering what it is? Or does it have a notable quality?" Leova promptly asks, interested.
"She- no." And it's here that H'kon's face darkens a little, a sheepish sort of flush. "It..." that fist of herbs knocks against his leg, "tastes good in fish chowder."
"So useful," then, Leova says rather approvingly. "Do you want it to get into the chowder at the Weyr?" And then, with barely a pause, "How are you. Arekoth. I'm so glad they hatched all right, Tillek or no."
"I had not thought so broadly yet," comes from the corner of his mouth, where all its focus has pulled. Another glance to his hand. "They would need to grow quite a bit more." If it was the start of a smile, it's quashed soon enough with a formal sort of nod. "Arekoth is well pleased with his offspring. Tillek or no." The repetition is much quieter.
That quashed whatever-it-was, Leova's own mouth pulls slightly to the side. Rueful, "I do hope it works out." The tip of her head suggests both. So close to a question, "Hope you're... holding up."
"I," H'kon repeats with what is almost a mimicry, and then is left with nothing at all more. Those herbs get knocked against his side once more, this time less a conscious motion. A new start, instead: "Awareness is a strange thing. It seems much is otherwise just distortion." He's looking off, at whatever image it is he's got in mind. When eyes return to Leova: "And you?"
"Mm." Leova gives a one-shouldered shrug, and steps less away than past, down the aisle with a glance back: will he come? "Hard to tell, sometimes, when we're seeing straight," she says to the plant nearest her, a glossy green thing with leaves every which way. "I keep catching myself thinking about how it had been, then. Or, not so much thinking."
H'kon gives a final tap of those plants in his hand to his leg, and then, indeed, sets in after Leova, following a step behind, listening by old, old habit. "I wonder if you see it straight, now."
When he speaks, she doesn't have to look back, to check on him. "If so, not differently than before. I don't hold to thieving. Wasn't my place to pass judgment on theirs, neither, and I was glad for that. How do you remember it? Back then."
"Back then..." H'kon frowns to himself, and shoves both hands into his pockets, quite without thinking, herbs and all. "As now. Only giving up everything that had been mine for this place was a fresher-" Leova might catch that whole of that (or what makes it to words), if she's not facing him, provided she has sharp hearing. "Those who would only take," is said distastefully, and at a more civilised conversational volume.
"'Was a fresher,'" Leova prompts for she did hear, and has turned to look back. The herbs go unnoticed and, by her, unmourned. "
The grimace is a guilty one, really an older version of the same that might once have been seen for having his inability to control his young lifemate brought into the spotlight. But after so many turns, the brownrider can lift his head, attempt to look proud. "Do not misunderstand me. I would not have a life without Arekoth. This is our home. For whatever may come of it."
And she waits it out, with patience, much as she had before. But it's patience that's frayed, as much as in the early days when they were short on sleep and more. "Yes," Leova says. "Which I recognize as not being an answer. Which, yet again, I won't demand of you. There's," she touches her finger to the tip of the leaf, sees it bend, "too much of that already."
H'kon takes a moment to sort out his words, for all there's still little of an answer to them. "I'd not have given up the things closest to me only to see that for which they were paid taken." He withdraws his hands (and herbs), and crosses his arms (more carefully for his cargo) over his chest. "That was then. Now, I would certainly not be made to help someone in the taking. And yet."
It's enough of one that Leova can read, or at least read into, for, "Aye." She paces, a sudden two steps, pivots back. "How much do you think a whole family ought to suffer for what its adults, or perhaps the menfolk, do?" The light tousles her hair, not yet given its springtime crop, throws shadows across her face.
"Near every decision a man makes stands to affect his family. Or is impregnating women to be a means of avoiding accountability? Any chance a family might be claimed?" No shadows on his face but that beginning of a beard, and H'kon keeps his gaze steady. "And she has certainly not renounced her menfolk."
"Affects, and quite often not for the better. Even with the best of intentions," Leova replies to the first, though a tip of her head acknowledges that lack of renunciation. "And most often they are the ones who have the widest choices."
"And now that is not the case," H'kon ends bluntly. "Now this 'Aishani' seems to have the widest choices." All at once those sprigs have regained interest, and he uncrosses his arms, and twists the bunch idly in his fingers, and stares at it. "Whatever may come of it," is still with his head down.
"For now." Leova's exhale is all too audible. Then, eyes lifted to observe that staring, that twisting, and all the rest, "She could do so much worse."
"There is still time." H'kon pulls his gaze up from those poor, bruised herbs, and turns it on Leova once more. "I would doubt the disclosure of a name amounts to a debt paid." And his attempted excusal of, "I must go find soup," is far more melancholy than those words should ever be.
"Aye." Leova won't keep him, but, "Remember that people will live down to expectations, also." It has the cadence of someone reminding herself. She compresses her lips. Finally, wearily as before, "Good luck... with your quest."
"Especially those they themselves have had a hand in setting." Her wish of luck, however, gets only a nod. And finally, H'kon is back to his original plan, making for the exit.
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