Difference between revisions of "Logs:Meaningless"

Ysavaeth's triumph was short-lived, her ecstatic mood veering sharply back down into the depths of disappointed anger when news of Rielsath's temporary promotion came quick on the heels of Iovniath's banishment.

Her mellifluous thoughts had turn into dissonance, and somehow the clashing notes were calming. Melodic, in their own way. It was just enough to work down the red blinding rage that threatened to seep from every pore and thought. It was just enough to stop her from raging at her mate who was supposed to have been on her side.

Only just enough.

But not enough for Iolene not to notice and understand, before any real news had come out of the conclave, what had happened.

They'll be gone soon.

The words interjected themselves with that newly awakened tone of hers into Ysavaeth's head; the cool quality of it always causing the gold to take pause and assess the situation. The anger receded even more.

« Yes. You should be the Weyrwoman. I should be senior queen. » Inwardly, but not veiled enough, Ysavaeth cursed herself and her poor timing. If only she'd waited a few months. If only she could control her base instincts.

Iolene ignored those what ifs. I'm not trained to. Besides, I think the position is worthless.

« You don't need training to be a leader. Some are just born to. » Like her.

Don't be distracted by pretty, meaningless titles, Ysa. The pet name carried a soothing aloe in it, the two syllables affectionate and lowly pitched even in thoughts. In the name, Iolene's thoughts warmed considerably. There are other things to do and think of.

Iolene construed the silence from Ysavaeth as acquiescence. They had come a long way in a few short weeks, but as Io untensed her frame, allowing her muscles to slowly relax and those curled fingers to straighten, she wondered if it was worth it; this odd control she had over her dragon now and what it took out of her physically to maintain it. It was, she noted distantly, easier now than before and easier with each passing conversation. She wasn't sure if this was exciting or terrifying.

The nail prints embedded in her palms still ached from the last time, and the new ones from this mental exertion were only just starting to turn from whitened crescents to red pain. The palm, released from her nails, fell automatically to her nonexistent abdomen and for a moment, Iolene wondered if there was actually a child in there and whether that child would be ill affected by her mother's emotions.

Little baby Kasalene. Or maybe K'del wouldn't mind the name Ioni. She'd already decided this child would be a little girl, who could have her hair braided and ribbons threaded through.

Her thumb pressed down against her belly button and swept downward slowly and then up. And this is how she remained, seated in her new rocking chair, staring into the hearth, even as the weyr just down the way was being emptied. This was where she was when Ysavaeth shared in Iovniath's oppressive chill. This was where she was when, Ysavaeth in her continued maternal capacity, shielded her young from their granddam's anger. This was where she was when the smoke started seeping down the narrow hallways, escaping K'del's weyr and filtering throughout. She only made it out with a fur shawl thrown over her shoulders, befor the smoke began infiltrating her own weyr.

She couldn't imagine the emotional damage of Tiriana's actions to K'del. Certainly, it wouldn't be as easy to erase the trauma away as it was for the smoke to dissipate from the ground weyrs. But she would try, with open arms and home, if not a completely open heart.

She loved K'del. She was sure of it. But sometimes, Iolene was learning, love just wasn't big enough to forgive everything.