Difference between revisions of "Logs:Not Every Memory's a Bad One"

Not every memory's a bad one, neh?

N'thei stretched on the chair wrought iron chair of the patio ledge, his big feet clumped on the table, his hands laced behind his head, and watched the sun drip below the horizon. Crimson-and-gold ribbons scattered all over the lower caverns, ribbons of crimson-and-gold clouds reflected in the tranquil gray eyes cast skyward. Not so far off, he watched a couple of weyrlings using the last of the daylight to polish oil into new hides; in the Snowasis, he could hear an old uncle telling a long-winded story about his own old uncle; the smell of an autumnal breeze, the first taste of a chill to it, filled the last vestiges of his thoughts while he drew a deep, complacent breath.

His thoughts turned back, as they were meant to on this day in particular. He wound back through memories that had nothing to do with the Reaches-- his parents' farm, the feel of good, warm earth just after a spring tilling. His sister toddled along in his wake, babbling happily as little little girls will, and he ducked between the rows of vines and jumped out at her till she laughed herself silly and fell down in the dirt to giggle. That first glimpse of Harper Hall, blue flags flying, the feeling of being a part of something bigger and more important than he was, the first friends that he'd long ago lost. A first kiss, her lips chapped at the edges but soft in the middle, her eyes demurely downcast afterward. Laying down a winning hand, feeling the rush of it from the tips of his toes, adrenaline, the grin of that sly journeyman who'd made the mistake of teaching Nathein to play 'poker. No, not every memory's a bad one.

Unusually peaceful, he glossed over the rough spell of turns that came between his departure from Harper Hall and his arrival back at Benden Hold. They had made up a long stretch of his life, but there were no people he wanted to recall from those days, none that he felt sorry had dropped away from his life.

Shanlee was the first dragonrider from the Reaches he'd ever laid eyes on. Nearly five turns later-- they'd come a long way, sometimes enemies, sometimes almost-friends, never complacent with one another. She may not be lost to him, may at this moment be off somewhere doing work he'd pawned off on her, but she would always be elusive. He was bad to her, his way of keeping her at arm's length, make her mad and she'd let him alone. But she had brought him to High Reaches Weyr. A first glimpse of Satiet in the galleries, the twitch of her smile, the curve of lips that had ruined him. I'daur-- the first person he knew at the Weyr that talked straight to him, that said true things even if they weren't pleasant things; they may not see eye-to-eye, but he respected the old man for his lack of sugar-coating.

Candidacy with Ayson, with Talien, with Madison. Shells, that girl had thrown himf or a loop after graduation, inviting him up to drink and talk about how she was all-grown-up; he hadn't cut and run that fast in turns! He never saw her now, had avoided her since that awkward moment. Talien... That's a bad memory, one of the ones he kept at bay. She worked to fling at people when he was mad, when he wanted to get a rise out of them, but he was doing a good job of keeping self-loathing at bay today, no need to start now. He'd lost those friends from candidacy and weyrlinghood, distanced himself from Madison by choice, from Talien by guilt, from A'son by actual quantifiable distance. Ista; he still scoffed to himself about it.

His thoughts grazed across the four turns since Wyaeth was shelled, his first registration of the swaggering bronze hatchling right up to the fond smile he couldn't hide on seeing the idiot dragon perched on the star stones, lording over the spread of the Reaches like he owned the damn place. Without Wyaeth... He'd have saved enough by now to buy a spit of land somewhere, to find a plump little wife to squeeze out a dozen brats over the next few turns, to enjoy life getting fat and happy while his children grew and took over all the work for him. Might not have been bad, but the idea of life without Wyaeth gnawed at him in a way he wasn't ready to deal with. Out of all the memories-- a dark-eyed girl in his weyr in her lingerie, passing whiskey across the weyrlingmaster's desk, calling out to Nikoth and knowing that his rider would come to that little minehold in the middle of the night, a greenrider biting his arm, a bronzerider with a nearly broken jaw and just how good it had felt to hear it crack-- he could always pick a favorite: « Well, howdy, N'thei. I'm Wyaeth and I reckon we'll make a mighty fine pair, don't you? »

Maybe he was supposed to be thinking about all those people that had died, the riders that were gone under R'hin when N'thei hardly noticed, the ones he felt more keenly now that he was supposed to be responsible for their lives, but where's the use in that? He could cry a river for each and every one of them, but it wouldn't bring them back, it wouldn't give peace to their families, it wouldn't change anything. There were too many people worth thinking about, people still alive, people with whom he could still form memories.

Crimson-and-gold gave way to the soft purple of twilight. N'thei stood and stretched, popped his spine and grunted in pleasure, jogged down the steps. He had a self-defense lesson with Lujayn, and damned if he was going to make the same mistake twice. This time, he was bringing a punching bag.