Difference between revisions of "Logs:Fatherhood"

Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr

Ringing the southwestern side of the hatching sands are ample tiers of carved stone benches, the lowest of which is some six feet off the ground -- just high enough to separate wayward hatchlings from unwary viewers, and vice versa. A metal railing on the outside helps prevent anyone from falling off; it also extends up the stairs that lead the way higher into the galleries. While most of the area is open seating, ropes section off some of the closer tiers when dignitaries are expected; those areas even feature cushions in the Weyr's blue and black.

The higher one climbs, the more apparent the immense scale of the entire cavern becomes. The dragon-sized entrance on the ground is dwarfed by the expansive golden sands that glitter in the light. Everything on them is easily visible from the galleries, whether that's a clutch of eggs and a broody queen, or simply its emptiness and the handful of darker tunnels that lead to more private areas than the bowl. Wherever one sits or looks, however, one thing is constant: the overwhelming, suffocating heat.

It's his dragon's first clutch, and for all the brown is currently missing in action (occupied by the hunt), the fact that he's been spotted on the sands more than once, and with an almost fatherly gaze on his offspring (or, the ones he thinks are his), should make the clutch all the more momentous, surely. And yet, H'kon is seated way up high, far away. Where the galleries are less crowded, where the view is more expansive... where he can write out some thoughts on an old scrap of hide in relative peace as the after-supper gawkers move in and out.

Madilla enters the Galleries as part of a group of four, with a blonde boy of about four in her arms, and a much darker girl probably twice that leading the way to the very front of the galleries. It's the last member in their group - a woman probably some turns older than Madilla - who takes the boy from the healer's arm, and escorts both children on to get a better look. At first, Madilla simply watches, enjoying their delight in the clutch, but as she turns to find herself a seat, her gaze can't help but fall towards H'kon. She has only a moment of hesitation, and one more glance towards her children, before she begins climbing the rows towards him. "I intended to come past your way and wish you happy turnover," she says, as she approaches. "But you'd disappeared before I got there. Happy turnover, H'kon, belated though it may be."

Enough that Madilla's children aren't much known to the brownrider, outside of general rumour, but more, he's not particularly paying attention to the comings and goings down below. Wasn't that the whole point of so high a perch? Madilla's words, then, don't necessarily make him jump, though the glance up at her initial greeting, such as it is, is certainly quicker than that of a man expecting company. His face remains blank for a moment, catching up; only then does that twist that's sort of like a smile appear. "Ah. Yes." The hide, and the board behind it, are let fall to his lap, pen hand draped unconcernedly overtop. "Had I known, I should have waited." Head bobs faintly, uncertainly, all through, "There was a great deal going on."

"It's all right," says Madilla, smiling genuinely, as she comes to a halt a row or two down, one hand resting upon the railing that lines the stairs. "I imagine I would have disappeared quickly if I were you, too. I didn't stay long, myself." She hesitates, uncertainty marking itself out in the line of her shoulders, and her so-careful pause. "I'm not disturbing you, am I? I only wanted to say hello. I can go back to the children."

'Oh,' is mouthed, and H'kon has already started to make sure his things are gathered in preparation to slide a bit away from the edge of the bench he'd taken by convenience. "No," is hardly from his mouth when the word 'children' sinks in, and green eyes are set promptly to scanning those gathered below. But of those children below, far be it from him to pick out the right ones. A breath, a brace, and he's looking back to the Weyrhealer. "You aren't disturbing. Though if you would rather share this with your children..." Brownrider nod.

There's that smile again, twitching around the corners of Madilla's mouth, and then pulling it all the way around: a proper smile. "Oh no," she says. "Delinda's got them in hand. Dee's in the middle of a stage where he's only interested in what his sister has to say anyway; they'll be fine." Nor does she make any effort to point them out in particular, even if she does follow his gaze downwards. "Is it any easier, with eggs on the sands? Something concrete?"

So H'kon completes his slide, and room is made for Madilla. "Ah," is the only thing given initially to her summary of her children, his attention pushed to the question that follows it. That brow creases a little, mostly thoughtful, with an interruption of the gloom that has become the more common, otherwise. "I would not say easier," comes once he's sorted himself out. "This is... the one thing is the same. This is something other." A pensive look finds its way to the sands, and makes, "How old are your children?" all the more non sequitur. Except not.

Madilla climbs the last few steps and drops herself onto the bench alongside H'kon, hands pressed into her lap. "I suppose that makes sense," she allows. "Nothing is so easily fixed. Still, you must be proud. He must be proud." She seeks her children out more directly, this time, watching as the sturdy nearly-eight-turn-old lifts her younger brother for a better look, pointing out this egg and that, their carer keeping a close eye upon them. "Lilabet will be eight in a couple of months, and Dilan four a month after that. They're good children."

"He is," is said as if it's some sort of surprise. "And... not in his usual way." H'kon's lips press into a line, and for a shining moment his eyebrows actually raise up (different lines). Features even get to relax thereafter, in the bit of time he allots to studying the woman once she's alongside him. "Well, also in his usual way, but..." Thereafter, he does his best to follow her gaze. At least the pairing of approximate ages should make it possible for him to be watching the right ones. "Four between them," is mused. It's probably unconscious, if he sits forward a bit more, the better to watch.

"I didn't think I would get the opportunity to have another child, after Lily," says Madilla, offering up that piece of information with a quiet laugh. "Dee took me by surprise. What do you mean by 'not in his usual way'?" The question turns her gaze back towards the brownrider, her brows lifted to emphasise the query. "I'm glad he is. He should be. Everyone says they are beautiful clutches. Lily's going to be counting down the Turns even more now, I think. Until she's old enough. She wants a green, just like her father had."

"Opportunity," H'kon repeats, the smile that has such trouble on his face at least managing to get into that word. "I mean, I suppose, that Arekoth... Arekoth is a great deal of bluster. Not dishonestly. He is bluster. And there is that, but something more..." His hands lift together, rotating at the wrist, stopping. "Still, I suppose." Hands fall back down, the beginning of a roll on the pen's part stopped short by a palm. "Had." This time, the repetition is more leading, and green eyes have slid sideways to Madilla once more.

"B'tal," she says, softly, but without the raw emotion she might once have had when mentioning the greenrider, H'kon's clutchmate, now dead nearly five turns. "She doesn't remember him, of course, but she knows his name, and Jeibeth's. Once upon a time," she continues, skipping back, and smiling, ruefully, "I was supposed to get married and settle down and have a family, and it's all I wanted. Even once I was here. And now-- here I am, two children by two men, no relationship to show for either. Life has a way of doing that to you, I find. Still, I have no regrets. So Arekoth has - is - bluster, but there's something deeper, with this? His pride over his clutch?"

H'kon's, "Oh," is soft, the mention of B'tal earning a quick, almost formal bowing of his head. He's still watching Madilla well after she's finished her history - what does a man say to all that? - and asked after Arekoth. The realisation of that prompts a quick turn away, a bit after the fact. Fingers shift to grip the farthest edge of that little makeshift writing desk, and he forces a focus on the clutch. It takes a moment, eyes partway closing, face fuzzing in that 'dragon reaching' way. "I suppose," comes at last, "he feels like a father." It takes a bit longer, and this time only a furtive look her way, for him to add, "Proxy is not how I'd have ever guessed to feel it. Long ago now," and he's looking toward the sands' edge. "When my plans were not so different from yours," certainly has an element a forced allowance, returned for her sharing. Fair, at least.

Madilla's gaze lingers in H'kon's direction throughout her words, and stays there even after he's looked away again; it turns her smile rueful, perhaps even wryly amused, at least about the corners. For once, there's no longing in her expression as he reaches for Arekoth, and instead, her expression seems expectant, eager. At the end, his explanation makes her smile more broadly. "It's a heady feeling," she says, quietly. "Parenthood. I'm sorry, that you haven't had the opportunity to feel it yourself, no proxies involved. There goes the Weyr again," she laughs, turning away to glance down at her children. "Changing our plans, in one way or another. You don't have to tell me things, H'kon, just because I keep talking. Say what you want. I don't judge."

"Hmm," allows H'kon some time more or less in his own head. Some time to recover, to ease back. Though he doesn't quite see his way to releasing the would-be desk. His eyes slip from the sands to the healer's children once more, perhaps picking up on some cues contained entirely in Madilla's aura... or perhaps it's just the subject matter. "No," he decides at length. "It has been on my mind, with all this." The whole desk-board is lifted in the direction of those eggs that he's not looking at. "And I did know, or at least have some suspicion, as to what might be given up when I was asked to stand." A breath is taken, pushed out in a slow sigh. "The dragon must always come first. Wouldn't that make for a poor father?" It's mostly rhetorical. Except that he looks over to her when he speaks it.

She glances back, now, her nod barely present, but nonetheless marking her understanding - or her attempt at understanding, at least. "Not necessarily," she says, calmly. "During the Pass, it might be different, but it's Interval: many riders even have their children living with them. Proper families. I don't think you would love your children any less, for having Arekoth." She lifts her chin, considering him. "What does Arekoth think? Of children. Of you having them."

H'kon yet again repeats the woman's words, this time, "Proper families." It's dubious at best, as is the look levelled on Madilla. "But to what extent would love really exist, when actions are limited?" There's a bitterness there, one that brings a frown, and seems to prompt his actually picking up that board-desk he grips, and shifting it, and the pen, and the hide, to his side opposite Madilla. Hands clasp together firmly in front of him, once the brownrider is once again pointed forward - now with shoulders hunched. They stay hunched even after some reflection, even after his hands have slackened their grip on each other, at least somewhat. "Arekoth... is not unfavourable."

Madilla's hand lifts, as though she'd like to reach out and touch H'kon, though she can't seem to decide where-- or indeed, whether she should do it at all. "That's a bias of mine, clearly. My family is certainly proper, even if we're not traditional." She falls silent after that, watching - studying - H'kon, with her teeth resting upon her lip, and her brow furrowed; she's visibly troubled by his bitterness. "Love always exists. B'tal never had a great deal of time for Lily, but he loved her, and she knew it. K'del loves his boys-- you can see that a mile away. He spends as much time as he can with them. I don't think any Weyr children lack love. Don't close yourself off to the possibility."

And in this moment, at least, H'kon is neatly unaware of any internal debates, or studying, on Madilla's part. He's probably not even really looking at the sands, or those children, for all that's where his face is more or less pointed. "I think," comes at length, just above a whisper, and with a sudden blink and sitting-up on his own part, "there is a great deal more to being a loving father than simply feeling that way. And I certainly did not mean to imply," and here he refocuses his eyes, head turned to the healer again, this time with an apologetic tilt, "anything, so far as your family is concerned." The clasp has turned into a rubbing of his knuckles. "Tell me of your children?"

Madilla's hand stills, the moment - if it even existed - gone. "I didn't take it as an implication," she promises, quietly, aiming to meet H'kon's gaze squarely, green eyes to green eyes, if she can. "Neither of my children have fathers. I know we're-- different. Lily wants to be a Harper, and write stories, or a Greenrider. She's bright and independent, so often off in her own world, and sometimes it feels like she's nothing like either of her parents, but I can't imagine her any other way. She's Dilan's hero, I think. He's shy, rather than quiet like she is. A thinker; less imaginative. He wants to be whatever she is, but I think that will change." It's only after she's talked of her children, eyes bright with enthusiasm for them, that she adds, rather closer to a whisper, "I think you're too hard on yourself."

H'kon looks back when their eyes meet, steady with another of those brownrider nods. But as Madilla speaks, he looks down to those children again, even eases into what must be a more comfortable position, weight no longer held up by arms and shoulders, the worrying of his hands not ceasing - yet - but at least becoming the less intense. He even manages the edge of a smile, and one that doesn't look like it hurts, at that. It's all drawn up - hands, smile, the lot - for that last. Caught off guard, "Am I?" is the best he can manage, volume to match hers, but tone heavy.

His smile makes her smile, too, a quietly pleased one that doesn't seek to bind with intensity, but shows a certain quiet satisfaction and approval: good. Good. "Yes," she says, more certainly this time. "I think so. You don't want to do anything partway, which is laudable, but... there's a difference between doing something to the best of your abilities, and doing it... lazily, or, as the more crude might say, 'half-arsed'." She pauses, just for a moment, and then says: "I'm sorry. You didn't ask me to analyse you. Or to probe."

H'kon listens to the woman, even faces her once more, steady again, as she speaks. "Perhaps," is more a space-holder than anything. "But what reason is there to pursue something that could not be done fully? When circumstances aren't forced..." Her apology is, at least, a reason to break from those thoughts that are getting his brow the more creased with each second passing. "No," is agreed to her. There's a wry twist at his mouth, not quite that smile-for-children from before, but something at least. "Though it is not terrible to have someone who does it thoughtfully, rather then simply telling me how wrong I am. And how wonderful his clutch and aerial prowess are."

"Happiness," is her answer to the first, one she lets hang for several seconds before saying anything else. She can't keep her dismay from her expression, though: it lends shadows to her eyes, and furrows to her brow, until hers almost resembles his. "How many turns have you been at the Weyr now, and you've not had a friend to talk to? Oh, H'kon." Her head shakes; she looks positively wretched at the idea. "Well, you have me now. You can say anything you like, and I'll listen. I'll even try not to push too hard... though I admit part of me would like to see you impregnate a woman in a flight, and be forced into fatherhood, because I think it would make you happy. But," and she smiles at him, "I'll be satisfied, mostly, by making you smile every once in a while - properly smile."

It's probably Madilla's expression that has H'kon shaking his head, arms tensing in their brace on his knees. "It is not so bad as all that. There are those I do speak with." Whether this is the same as rightly having someone to talk to probably only barely slips into his mind. It might be the cause, at any rate, of the longer look he gives her. "And if I have you," is gravely serious, "then you might also simply speak to me. I can also listen." And maybe even enjoy it. "Though I will say, I'm not certain a child from a flight is the way to go about making me happy."

Something in Madilla's expression suggests that she doesn't see 'speaking to' as being quite the same thing as 'having someone to talk to', but she doesn't press the point. Instead, she gives him a nod, just a short one, just barely there. "A mutual arrangement," she agrees. "I think that's only fair. And no; you're right. I don't imagine that is the right way to go about it. But--" She breaks off, and it's only the hint of a smile, this time. "It's certainly simpler than getting you settled down with a weyrmate and a - to use my words - 'proper' family." She glances back down towards the children now, and with apparent reluctance, adds, "I should get back to them. This evening is not the right time to share all that weighs on me, though I can safely promise that you're not the only one who has-- burdens. Have a good evening, H'kon."

"Go and be with your children," H'kon agrees, standing, the better to gesture back down toward those stairs. "I imagine they will remember events such as this one. Best you're there in them." Another quick nod, and maybe even one less crease to his forehead when he looks back up. "Happy Turnover, Madilla."

"Happy Turnover, H'kon," she agrees, gifting him with a brilliant smile. "I'll talk to you soon." The she turns, climbing down those tiers one after another until that little blond boy turns to see her, throwing himself around her legs. She'll glance up only once more-- and when she does, it's to wave at the brownrider, a gesture echoed by her son. From that distance, it's surely not possible to see her wink.