Logs:Too Late
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| RL Date: 30 November, 2012 |
| Who: I'kris, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: On the third day, R'hin takes I'kris to see something. It's time. |
| Where: Somewhere Remote, Southern Continent |
| When: Day 22, Month 5, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Iolene/Mentions |
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| It's been an intense few days. Home has a different flavor after all this time away. Mirinda and Indalys both have been a close companion to I'kris since his return, and perhaps surprisingly, R'hin as well. Interestingly there's been no sign of M'kris, and rumor has him posted out near the border of Honshu, though there's no substance to suggest exactly how that happened. It's on the third day after his return that R'hin suggests -- with that sense of persuasiveness that indicates he won't be refused -- that they take a trip away from the Weyr -- just them, their dragons, and a bottle of I'kris' favorite drink. Leiventh's kept a close watch on Svissath, too -- though in the bronze's case he's less apt to attempt to pry, more simply there to steady -- so the brush of his cool thoughts is probably not so much a shock, as he provides an image for their destination. Somewhere deeper into the Southern Continent -- close to the base of a mountain near a waterfall, they emerge -- only to be confronted by a cacophany of voices. « Leiventh! Welcome. You're back! » The strength of the voices is not unlike during weyrlinghood, loud enough that one might be tempted to turn to look and see whether another dragon was in the sky beside them -- but they are the only ones visible. « You're not alone. Who is that with you? » The voices, initially warm and envelopingly welcoming, become something wary, almost afraid. In response, the normally taciturn Leiventh opens up, a deft, reassuring touch undershadowed by a warmth and delight to be here. « He is Svissath, » the bronze replies. « Be at peace. All is well. » There's a wary acceptance in the minds, but at least they don't further intrude as Leiventh glides down towards a rocky outcropping on the cliffs above the waterfall. The I'kris that returns to Indalys and Mirinda is a far cry from the one they saw last: pale and withdrawn, his hands inclined towards nervous spasms, his gaze unable to meet theirs. It takes most of the first day before he's even really willing to respond to them, even non-verbally; when he finally does, it's with an outpouring of tears and self-loathing that takes a long time so subside back into quiet unhappiness. He hasn't asked about his father, not once, but there's something in the way he keeps staring off into the distance longingly that suggests he hasn't completely given up hope-- even though he knows better. After weeks spent inside, locked away from the world, Kris seems reluctant to venture out, and surprised, too: he hasn't asked any questions about his fate, and has seemed determined to steer the conversation away from it. But he comes. Svissath is easier, now that he's home, and perhaps the same is true of his rider in some small way. The weight of it all still weighs heavily on him, but with the support of Leiventh (and Zaisavyth, too), he has held back the rising black tide of his anguish. It's hard to tell what kind of relationship he and I'kris have, now, but flying together is still something-- right up until the wariness and fear of those draconic voices upon their arrival. Panic flares in his thoughts, and though soothed by Leiventh's reassurances to the others, he remains cautious as he follows the larger dragon down to that outcropping. I'kris stays where he is, even once his brown has touched down: he clings to neckridges, and draws his knees in tight to his dragon's sides, as though he's afraid to let go. Leiventh's odd openness lingers -- sending something that is closer to cool breeze than his normal chill wind -- and more than that, sharing willingly. « The wind darts and drifts here, but it is always warm and pleasant. » Though the ground is rocky underfoot and the day is warm, the spray of the water spilling down the nearby falls sends a light rain into the air. Perhaps that's why R'hin keeps his riding jacket on, if unzipped, as he climbs to the ground, and pulls a bottle of rum from the bronze's saddle bags. He tips his head upwards to regard I'kris, an apologetic sigh exhaling through his lips as he says, "I should have warned you -- but I wanted you to /experience/ it. You and Svissath." He doesn't urge the other Monacoan down to land, but he does stroll a short distance, settling himself on the cliff's edge, pulling the top off the bottle and taking a long gulp. « It is pleasant, » agrees Svissath, his tone cautious, rather as though he's still afraid he might attract unwanted attention; that the foreign dragons, here, might descend upon him... or see too much of the darkness he keeps below the smoother, sweeter surface of his thoughts. « Not-home, but still... They are yours. All this. » It's a thought likely shared unconsciously between dragon and rider, because it's at much the same moment that I'kris says, in a ragged voice: "It's fine. I wish--" He doesn't finish the thought, swallowing back his words audibly. "You love it here. Home." Now, finally, he begins to climb down to the outcropping, though he seems reluctant to stop touching his brown, even if Svissath shows no sign of noticing. He watches R'hin, and hesitates, as though there are things he'd like to say - or perhaps ask - that he can't bring himself to verbalise. Very deliberately, decisively, « Not mine. Ours. » The correction is apparently important to Leiventh. While he settles down into his mostly-still posture -- that is the familiar dragon of his sire -- his mind remains in light, easy contact, and here and there, a sense of something washes over the pair of them, akin to a pleasant shower. Delight. Drowsiness. Curiosity. Not their emotions, but somehow so close, so aligned that the intensity of the emotions could be mistaken for otherwise. Home. That receives a long look from both dragon and rider, the latter more so. R'hin rubs a hand against the stubble on his chin with a grunt that seems, after a fashion, to be acceptance of his assumption. I'kris' inability to speak doesn't seem to deter R'hin overmuch. Instead, he offers the bottle in the other rider's direction -- although reaching it means stepping away from the touch of his brown. "I wanted you to hear them. For you to know that there's more that's possible than what your father believed in. Sometimes," there's a grimace, "It's hard to see past the moment we're in, to see what might be possible." Svissath accepts that correction, and with it the understanding of something more: a different way of seeing things, of understanding the world. Or is it the sudden clarity of a pair of spectacles - the world seen through a new lens? He drops his head, resting it upon his tidily position forelimbs, and seems to muse over this possibility. « I understand, » he says, and it's likely he means more than the superficial. I'kris' gaze falls upon the bottle, and he falters - he falters again, and more obviously, at mention of his father, utterly unable to hide that expression of yearning. Finally, however, he takes a step forward, and then another, and leaves behind the dubious security of his dragon to accept it, and to swig from it. It's only after he's swallowed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand that he says, "But not possible for me. It's too late for that. Isn't it." And more quietly still, as bitter as ashes: "It's not fair." That sense of being watched lingers, but it's accompanied by Leiventh's pleasure at his son's understanding. Even if the rider may never receive it, the dragon has his father's approval. A faint smudge of red on the surface of the bottle is probably easy to miss as he takes ownership of the rum. While there's sympathy in R'hin's voice, he doesn't try to lie, matter-of-fact in return: "It is, too late." With an exhale, he continues, "Some people live their whole lives, never once believing in anything. There's a power in belief -- it changes the world. You changed the world, Kris. For better or worse. That's far more than most men can ever claim in an entire lifetime." His gaze is fixed on the brownrider, and there's that undertone of admiration there, though not overwhelming. This time, there is no flinch: I'kris' expression barely changes as R'hin answers him, though he inclines his head forward just ever so slightly. Too late. So much too late. It's the rest that prompts his bitter, angry laugh, and has him diving back in to the bottle again. The red on the bottle goes unnoticed, even now. "Great. I changed the world," he says, that bitterness rising to the surface once more. "But not the way I intended. I thought-- I was stupid. Even the people who hated her don't-- won't--" He lets out a long ragged breath, and blindly attempts to offer the bottle back to the other rider. Svissath's sigh is a mental one, one part longing and one part regret: he understands too much, perhaps, though there's contentment in the knowledge of his father's approval. It matters. In return, he offers his trust. R'hin's pushing to his feet, kicking a rock over the edge and turning to watch for a moment during I'kris' laugh. He reaches out readily for the bottle: perhaps a faint click of something metal, almost inaudible, as he accepts it back and takes a gulp of the liquid. "Killing a dragonrider is unthinkable. Killing a queenrider more so. But," pale eyes drift back to regard the other rider again. "She was dangerous, and I'm not sure how much people realized. There was a time when I'd have hoped for a queen whose rider chose to stray from tradition, but the exile girl proved how dangerous that could be. Queens are taught to lead -- they learn it and breathe it. A queen who bucks tradition and yet rules to her own whims is a -- a precedence we do not need." His free hand stretches out to settle on I'kris' shoulder. Slowly, Svissath feels them more keenly, like an unrelenting wave lapping at the shores of a beach. They -- he can feel them, more than one, although it is oddly difficult to distinguish -- brush against him, circling, curious rather than malevolent, intrigued rather than wary, now. Leiventh's rumble is more felt than heard, though the others don't fully retreat. I'kris' admission follows R'hin's words, the information shared as an offering; his last gift. "They faked the flight. I accused her of it, and-- I saw the look on her face. She didn't deny it. She did it. They did it." And then there's that laugh again, not quite on the edge of hysterical. "I guess that makes me High Reaches' Weyrleader. I hadn't thought about that until now. I think Ysavaeth must have stopped everyone from knowing. She was dangerous. They were." Is it comforting, now? It's hard to say. He wraps his arms around himself, holding on as if it's the only thing that's holding him together. The hand on his shoulder is not shrugged away, and he glances up, regarding R'hin almost thoughtfully. « Hello, » says Svissath, making no attempts now to push these others away: here he is. If they aren't going to bring back the black, then perhaps they can stay. This is all he is: salt-encrusted and sweet, keeping himself together despite the brittleness beneath. It surprises R'hin, that bit of realization that he shares, too. "I... hadn't, either." His jaw clenches, and the exhale that follows is measured, like he's trying to control himself. "Well, we have that in common, too, then. Ex-Weyrleaders." The smile that follows is genuine, even if it falters soon afterwards. A moment of silence, and when I'kris looks at him, he steps closer, to pull the other rider into a hug, unashamed. Though he doesn't say it, there is no doubt: it is a farewell. For these other minds, the surfaces interests them briefly, but it is what's underneath that interests them more. As a collective, there's something overwhelming, and determined, seeking to burrow beneath that thin veneer with no foreknowledge of what might lie beneath. Leiventh, beside him, can be felt, but he is... less intense as the sensations from the other dragons become stronger. "Ex-Weyrleaders," repeats I'kris, who can't even bring himself to smile even briefly, but who lets himself be pulled into that hug without hesitation. It's lucky he's not much shorter, for despite his best efforts there are tears in his eyes - he cannot miss the obvious - that threaten to fall-- and a face that is only barely kept from burrowing into the other man's shoulder. He manages to stand strong. "Thank you," he says, barely above a whisper. "For everything. You'll-- look after mother? And Mirinda?" As if I'kris had ever managed that. At first, Svissath attempts to reject this burrowing determination, but his barriers are not so strong, not now: they break away like brittle spun sugar, revealing the depths of his despair beneath. There's no light here; no warmth. He has lost his way - lost his I'kris - and there is nowhere out. He's afraid. And sorry, too: sorry for overflowing with this, sorry for letting it free, because now he can't seem to stop it, and it rises up through his rider, too, who gasps just once. "Of course," R'hin says without hesitation. The minds of the dragons at first remain intrigued. Why, why, why? What does he have to hide? It is only when they reach that pit of despair that they begin to recoil and spin away, quiet horror in their minds. The voices rise again in a cacophany that makes it difficult to distinguish individual threads, only smatterings surfacing: « No-- isn't-- how could--! » R'hin can feel it too, that breach: he goes stiff, staring past the brownrider in the direction of the dragons, his jaw gone tight, taking a step back from I'kris, his hand lingering on the other's shoulder. One, two, three heartbeats, no coincidence at all, then with forced lightness: "You should go and be with Svissath. Go together." Svissath has no answer, no explanation. He's laid bare for the others: this is all there is. His reaction is as physical as it is mental: a heart-rending keen that nearly buckles I'kris' knees. The tears are splashing down the rider's face without hesitation, now, as though he's barely keeping it together-- but he's trying. He unwraps his arms, one arm about to reach for the bottle once more, before it stops. Stops, because - audible to everyone, no filters put in place - there's Svissath, turning his head to look at his rider and to say, « I'kris. » Kris' gaze is too blinded by tears to let him look at R'hin, and he makes no acknowledgment, but now he doesn't hesitate: he walks - no: stumbles - to his brown, clinging to him in desperation as he attempts to pull himself into that position between two neckridges that is only his. He's shaking. It's that noise. The keen. R'hin's barely able to keep himself upright, let alone I'kris, and a moment later, his hand drops away from the brownrider's shoulder -- but he keeps looking, forces himself to watch, his lips moving in something that might be a farewell but never makes it to vocalization. The knife that was up his sleeve slips into his palm -- slight slick of blood left behind -- before it drops to the ground. A moment later, the bottle, too -- though the glass is thick enough to protect it. Still, he watches. As does the dragons. It is like they collectively hold their breath -- waiting. The recrimination is past, the decision accepted, and now they are spectators to what follows -- ensuring that, on this last journey, they aren't alone. Amongst them, briefly, the thread of Leiventh's icy cool wind can be felt, a mere zephyr against the strength of the brown's despair. I'kris does not buckle himself into the straps, once he has made it atop Svissath: he clings on to the ridge in front of him, bare hands pale and shaking. It may be that the words he's speaking so silently are to R'hin, but it's rather more likely they are to Svissath - Svissath, who uses the presence of those other dragons, and of his sire in particular, to pull himself together enough to rise into the air once more. I'kris never looks back - he's closed his eyes, slumped down as if to try and press as much of his skin as possible into his dragon. Even as far away as High Reaches, their last call will be heard: in that last breath before the brown disappears, he reaches for his dam and his sire, and then, finally, to seven tiny dragons for whom his apology may be too much to bear. And then they are gone. |
Comments
Brieli (Brieli) left a comment on Fri, 30 Nov 2012 19:31:28 GMT.
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Sad freaking story. :(
Azaylia (Dragonshy) left a comment on Sat, 01 Dec 2012 03:01:27 GMT.
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Goodnight, sweet princes. :c
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