View source for Logs:When the Night Stands Still

{{ Log
| who = C'wlin, Athimeroth
| where = Casterly Couch, High Reaches Weyr
| what = When life finally stands still, in the wake of the big announcement, C'wlin discovers that all preconceived notions have been thrown out the window where life, Athimeroth, and loyalties are concerned.
| when = Day 7, Month 4, Turn 31
| gamedate = 2013.03.17
| quote = None is more important than me.  Or you.  But more importantly me.
| weather = 
| categories = Vignette
| mentions = Aishani
| ooc = 
| icons = c'wlin_nightmusic.jpg, c'wlin_lannister.jpg
| log = Time.

It's fluid. It's nameless.  It's formless. It moves at impossible speeds; while the stars above never move an inch, days pass within the blink of an eye.  Lives begin and end, changed irrevocably by a single experience.  Hatching.  ''Impression''.  ''Announcements''.

For the first time since accepting his posting to High Reaches Weyr, C'wlin has found himself alone.  Not only by the new abode -- a harper's eye assesses:  rough-hewn depression there, smooth side here, a crack beneath the clothes press from the previous owner, and the fresh scent of clean rushes recently laid out -- but by the very act that lead him here.

He knew he should report, but life has passed like hourglass sands, if one had smashed the sands glass and let all of the sand out in a rush.  From that single moment when a familiar eye caught his own from the crush in the galleries, standing right where he'd said he'd be, to this moment here, so much has changed.  Unwittingly, cold blue eyes steal to the sleeping form of Athimeroth.

''His'' Athimeroth.

Dark and burnished.  Sinister and svelte.  So much power hidden in such a small creature.  C'wlin's lips quirk as this thought passes through his thoughts.  Small creature being relative.

The birth of a would-be smile dies a cruel death when eyes are drawn back to the hide.  The empty hide that holds so much promise.  The promise that he, C'wlin, a harper senior apprentice on the verge of walking the tables is supposed to fill.

''Awakening.  Emergence.  Air rushes in, consumed, as aether erupts.  Blooming.  Winds howl and gust; flags flap crazily at the edges of blurred mind-vision.  Darkness envelopes, the space betweens stars vast as the higher atmospheres come to being.  << C'wlin. >>  Rough tenor brings the blurry, hazy view of a world far-below, lit by the rising light of Rukbat.  It holds dark promise, this call of his name.  << What are you doing? >>''

C'wlin freezes, not used to not being alone.  Solitude is gone forever.

"Writing."  Such a simple answer, holding both truth and lie.

''As air fills aether, the hot dry gusts of a fully awoken mind sears through his rider's thoughts.  Youth allows the lies to lie in obscurity, but intelligence adds a hint of nasal undertone to words that come with the pounding of wind.  An echo of the pounding of waves, heredity's mark upon young bronze.  << Writing.  You would better be served by sleeping.  Tomorrow is another day, and I will be hungry.  I do not like it that Olveraeth's is teaching you to be Separate.  You are not Separate. >>''

"Athimeroth…" C'wlin's voice starts loud and trails to a whisper, cognizant of the fact that the couch might be "separate" but it is not soundproof.  The lateness of the hour draws in the longer shadows, flickering by the light of the single glow he has half-shuttered.  "… I will sleep when I want to.  I've need to finish this."

But how can he?  Already, the dragonet is rousing physically to go with the mental realization that C'wlin is doing ''something'' that Athimeroth is not involved in.  Especially now that C'wlin is learning to push back, close off.  

He sighs and gaze once more drops to the blank hide.  The empty slate waiting to be filled with -- with what?  The news is big enough that the Hall would already have heard about it.  What could he provide?  What new slant could he possibly add that would make his report valuable?  Frown puckers between indrawn brows as realization that even his own Impression would have already been reported.

Frustration allows vexation to rise, causing the new bronzerider to grit his teeth and crumple the pristine hide.

''<< Ceawlin. >>  The use of an old identity comes with purpose, the winds gusting hot against Athimeroth's lifemate's mental barriers.  Pressure is added; the deep, oxygen sucking pressure of the void of aether, while black flags are drawn by unseen bannermen, whipping in the wild winds.  << Whatever you feel is more important than ''me'' is false misconception.  None is more important than me.  Or you.  But more importantly me. >>''

The darkly weathered bronze pushes through C'wlin's mental thoughts with the sheer, physical presence of a sinister head close enough to rip the hide from his rider's hands.

"Athimeroth!"  Outrage causes his tenor to squeak higher, sounding more whiny and less entitled.  "You've no right!"  Anger flushes boyish cheeks and subtracts years from his age as temper overcomes the cool exterior.  "That is --"

''Buffet.  Buffet.  Buffet.  Gale force winds blow hot, humid, and dank.  Red slowly blooms in the earth-so-far-below; a single droplet for utter destruction.  << C'wlin.  I've every right. >>  Athimeroth's response is simple:  the truth.  Unadulterated without the clever words and half-truths.''

The hide, shredded and no longer of use, is tossed to the side the moment C'wlin gives up the battle.  This battle, anyway.  Forlornly, the weyrling stares at the destroyed hide and then to the bronze dragon as something that's been looming finally settles in.

He lifts his hands and stares at them, or rather at the invisible cuffs winding around his wrists.  Invisible shackles.  

C'wlin quivers.  "What does this mean?" he whispers, a very real uncertainty finally penetrating the days of mad rushing, sleepless nights, exhausted days.  The never-ending barrage of meat-cutting, and how-do-you-dos, and keeping up pretense.  Finally, it settles in a very real way, into the basest of understandings.

''Whipping winds die down.  Only the fairest breeze brushes through the middle atmosphere.  The flags fall limply to their unseen poles and the blooming red falls away.  << Finally. >>  Athimeroth's rough tenor holds a hint of his blustering irritation, but it's quickly settling down.  << Now that you've awoken me, >> because it is clearly C'wlin's fault that Athimeroth is now not doing what Athimeroth wanted to do (which was sleep), << Do you feel my distress? >>  Pressure and itch combine together to echo into the sudden deluge into the pit of C'wlin's stomach.  Athimeroth does what he does best:  assault the senses to get from Point A to Point B in the shortest route possible.''

"Faranth," C'wlin mutters.  "C'mon then.  And be quiet.  If you awaken the others… so help me…"

His threat is empty and Athimeroth knows it.  The two steal away from their couch like thieves in the night.  C'wlin might be the mastermind, but Athimeroth is not to be controlled.  A force of nature, that one.

Unlike the last time realization came, this time he cannot shake it.  It is forever a part of him, and to what end it will play into the greater Game of -- of the Harper Hall, he is unsure.  One thing that comes with surety:  no longer is he Ceawlin, harper senior apprentice.

He is C'wlin, rider to bronze Athimeroth of High Reaches Weyr.

Shackled.

He knows not what this will change, might change, must change, but he knows that it ''is'' change.  So much more than he ever thought… would happen.  It sends the former-harper adrift.  The world, suddenly, got a lot bigger whilst identity has gotten a lot cloudier.  Candidacy started off being firmly rooted as a spy (for many masters, but the one that stands out in his mind now is Bri--Aishani; where is that to go?  What does that mean?  Nothing?  Everything?), but now what?  Who is he now?  What is he?  Rider?  Harper?  What? 

Weyr, home; C'wlin's view of the world and his place in it have all imploded, torn apart.  Torn asunder.  Who does he report to now?  It is not so easy to snip away the ties that bind that were built over a lifetime.  A craft that took him in when none other would have him.  A craft that made him feel welcome while family left him to rot.  A craft that ---

''<< You think too much when you should just act. >>  This thought is grumbled when revelations encumber human feet, consuming all capacity for thought that leaves no room for duty, Athimeroth's impatience blows like a hurricane.  << Hurry up.  We'll be up all night at this rate. >>''

C'wlin frowns, but the bronze's desire is effective.  All thoughts to the future blow away like ashes on the wind.  What and where he is, is now.  The rest will be -- can be -- ''must be'' -- sorted out later.  

Tomorrow is soon enough.



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