Difference between revisions of "Logs:All Kinds of Growing Up"

The girl sits atop the railing, more of a silhouette than anything, all drawn-up knees and pulled-up shoulders. "Look." She eyes the rest of them. "They're /talking/ about us." Her own voice is muted, a little flat, like the ambiguous shape of her body: like she can't quite remember how she was, how she wants to be. But, in a mutter: "/No/ /puberty/." Pee-yooou.

"No news there: they're always talking about us." Rather more resigned, more collected, this member of their little group, though there's a good chance it is - as it so often is - well-crafted cover for deeper feelings. "My cousin told me about a kid who put dragon doody from the weyrlings under his arms every day for months, and it stopped him, you know." Growing up is hard to do.

"Your cousin lied to you." Less resigned. Less collected. Leaning on the railing, forearms laid on on the other, chin on forearms, body at an angle. One foot bracing, the other crossed over the back heel of the first, and bouncing, a constant fidget. "It's not -doody- that helps." The end of the statement is slightly muffled by a shift to look down over that rail, a press of mouth to arms. "And it's not your armpits." This one's got older siblings.

There's a snicker--doody, times two--and, in lieu of words (perhaps she's used them up already), a long sideways glance complete with dubious hook of brow. The faint breeze catches at her raggedy bangs, but briefly. Perched like this, to the extent she fidgets, it's more of a gravity-testing slow-slow-motion sway.

Loath to be challenged, shoulders (not so broad, yet) square; chin lifts. "So what is it then? And how do you know it's not? Could," and isn't this the kicker? "All be lies." Silence, now, and the reflective resignation of a mouse that is beginning to suspect it really has been caught in a trap.

A moment of stillness in that foot, for a steely sort of glare, head lifted up from forearms and everything. "Could be. Doesn't matter." Two quick twitches of the foot, then still again. "Gets said it's worth not knowing." Then, the top arm unfolds, to point. "They're lookin'." Totally not an attempt to change the focus.

/At you/, says her own sepulchral point, sleeve falling back along her arm... into the quickness of a frown. Habit makes one move out of plucking it back with her free hand, tucking it into the scruffy leather bracelet. It doesn't stop her from extending her point, then, her lean toward a shoulder-/poke/. But to the mouse, "All lies--do what '? want." Could be /you/; more likely, /we/.

The mouse isn't looking. Gamely, defiantly (determinedly). Not at the watchers, anyway; blue eyes, instead, study youthful companions. "And what's that, then?" What DO they (we!) want?

/At me/, says the shift in posture, standing, gripping the railing now, both hands, leaning over. That focus changes, though. Pointedly. Rather than echo the question, this one just widens eyes, and waits.

A brief, lilting whistle provides musical (dramatic!) accompaniment for that change in posture; hands retracted, post-poke, they compress just short of knuckle-cracking as amber eyes return to blue. And to those wider. And back, both. "Mm." It's /happy/ contemplation. "Aught grand, before we're sent, 'prentice or shells or what." Before /specialization/. "See the sights. Scrounge the stores. Filch--more'n your aunt's sweetcakes, hm?--a prize to put back."

Just for a moment, there's a flicker of unease from the mouse-that-isn't-really-a-mouse, the mouse-that-pretends-to-confidence. But now's no time to be shown up by another, and so those shoulders square once more, that chin lifts. "Something /big/. The heist to end all heists."

The lookers are forgotten; this is more interesting. Eyes dart, just barely, pressed on by the rapid mental search. What was showy posture slides into a sideways lean, all asymmetrical. But no fidget. Eventually, eyes stop, and the failed search is masked with, "What, you gonna steal a dragon?"

It's not cheesy, that quick smile of hers, reward without a trap-- that becomes, as their fellow chimes in, an equally silent but ever-broader laugh. "Could steal 'Koth," she lays out there. "What about you?"

"He'd let himself be stolen, too, wouldn't he?" It's unfair, almost, says the merest breath of a whine in low-toned voice: not all dragons are so amenable. "That's basically just too easy. Cheating. No, this has to be something big. And not stupid big, like... like stealing one of the eggs." Because that really would be stupid. "Just... something cool. Something awesome."

The mouse gets a nod and a 'hm,' of not-quite-tacit agreement. Way too easy. Halfway into trying to make that lean cool (again?), everything gets put on hold. A flash of wide eyes, a flash of, good - obedient, even - kid. The cool remains forgotten. "We gotta do it sneaky anyway. They can't notice. Not right away. Then there's no fun."

"Might help us steal some more," she speculates, teasing it out. But she has a quick nod-and-grunt for not-egg, not-stupid, got-/that/-right. For sneaky, she pauses to pick a split end off her bangs with her nails. "Not stupid, not noticing, need a not-not." More picking. "...How many dragons /would/ we have to steal 'fore it counted?"

"A whole wing," decides the mouse, in a burst of determination. "Make 'em write letters in the sky or something. Maybe not our whole names, but initials, at least? No one could ignore /that/." He-or-is-it-she straightens, determined. "But it can't just be, like, Arekoth telling the other dragons. Because that's too easy too."

"And what are they gonna write with, huh?" Skepticism has returned; the lean gets all cool and sardonic by association. Hard glances alternate between the first and the second co-conspirator. This one will hold court.

"Firestone 'most seems harder than the dragons," says she with a bit of a sigh-- if not /daunted/, not at all. While she's at it, "A whole wing, the same wing? Or some from here, some from there. Wingleader shouldn't just tell." She picks at her hair, tosses the resulting end into the ring.

Does the mouse need to explain everything? A roll of the eye and a majestic shrug of the shoulders suggests that, surely, mere details can be come up with by others. Surely! "They could hold themselves in the air in a pattern," is suggested, then, a little long-suffering. "Not necessarily a whole wing like /that/. Just... enough of them to notice. For the Weyrleader to glance up at the sky and see."

A snort, derisive. "And how are you gonna get a whole wing to fly in your initials like that without cheating with Arekoth?" Eyes roll back, as hard as eyes can roll. With the shortsightedness hopefully covered, it's back to the other train of conversation, lips pressed together while digging back the words. "Firestone... Where do they keep that?" Good. A chance at proving gumption.

A quick nod for the pattern, a quicker shrug for firestone after, "'Enough,' 'member? Like it's so easy. Like he'd not have his own fee." Which she might exaggerate. Which she might be happy to pay, anyway. But, focused, /leaning/ atop that rail if only with her attention, "Weyrleader? ... How come?" Interested, like it might be a story, like it just might be more than his having that before they were born.

A criminal mastermind perhaps this particular weyrbrat is not, but the questions - all of them, floating around - are given due consideration nonetheless, chewed over much like the rough skin of a lower lip. "Weyrleader," comes the answer, snottily, "because he's going to /notice/ drills that aren't his, dragons that don't belong. Because it makes it big. Bet there's leftover firestone in the weyrling barracks, /and/ they've all moved out so there's no one going to be there."

Due consideration is catching, and has this one - in the moment at least - forgetting the attitude. A little. That one foot even finds a way to resume its bounce-bounce, though the rhythm is occasionally broken. "I hear you can do things with firestone. If you hit it hard enough, make it explode."

Her shoulders fade a bit; she glances up at the sky, at the few floaty clouds up there, attention diffused. Oh. Still looking up, "How much," is a distracted question-- that becomes a slow but head-turning, "/Explode/." She beckons one-handed: keep going.

"/Explode/." Ok, attention caught; this might (might!) be a better idea than all the others so far. Head tipped, lip chewed, eyes narrowed. "Bet there are some bats in the games cupboard. Would that be hard enough?" Beat. "Though would that be too close?"

"Explode." A word to bask in, and wear like laurels. "Yup." One more time, "Explode," with all the certainty that comes from attention. Beaming face, dancing eyes. "Bats could be okay. If we can't get anything with metal. I-" no, start over, "Metal works better." Certainty. "How close depends on how much we get."

/Explode/. It's still dreamy in her amber eyes, but increasingly a-sparkle. "Could try it with just a little, first." In case that's too prosaic, "So we'd know what we'd get, /and/ they wouldn't know." And, "Could throw a piece from up on a ledge maybe, see when it hits the ground." And-- "It would be... wrong to get a dragon to step on one. In case he hurt himself." But her young voice's speculative all the same.

There's a lot to unpack here, but maybe most important of all: "We might end up blowing Arekoth's foot off!" Because it goes without saying, that if any dragon is stepping on firestone, /clearly/ it's got to be Arekoth, so conveniently accessible.

"Whose ledge?" With the renewed authority of explosion comes an unintended renewed skepticism. One that is caught, and gets, "I mean, we'd need one we could get to from the ground." An attempted softening, and one that again sets the fidgetting in motion, this time, fingers drumming the railing. This is all getting out of hand. And attention is on the two companions, and certainly not on the figure, the -adult- figure, approaching the group from behind this one's back.

Her shoulders twitch outward, protective; "Which is bad!" just in case anyone isn't sure. As for whose ledge, that gets a literal handwave, though her expression eases a bit at the softening. "Got to check out the 'stone, next. See what we /have/. And the bats, yeah?" for the not-always-mouse. "And--" if she'd only listen to her mother, and braid her hair out of her eyes, she mightn't get so /surprised/. As it is, her half-turn becomes a hard swallow.

"One of the ground weyrs, then, yeah?" Because the mouse is far too caught up in this plan to consider the downsides, the risk... or the potential for being overheard. Or indeed the not-even-potential-anymore, because unfinished sentences are, surely, merely gaps in which to throw one's opinion, and not at all reason to /just stop talking/. "There's an empty junior queen's weyr, isn't there?"

And he, all he has to do is stand there, come to a stop on - were they that silent? - feet, chin brought just a bit down, better for staring out from under greying eyebrows. Well, maybe that's all he has to do for Raija. When the kid he stands behind starts talking again, H'kon goes so far as to clear his throat. (The kid stops.)

That's /right/, got to remember that for next time-- and she nearly says as much settling just in time for a speaking-if-silent look at the mouse. Followed by, upon shifting for better balance on the rail-- plus a better look at you-know-who-- a slightly-louder-than-necessary, "Hullo."

Red-faced, the mouse shifts position, uneasily adjusting weight from one foot to the other, chin lifted once more. The silence is defiant-- so is the mulish expression now settling into still-childish features.

When the one comes off the laurels and glances -almost- around, enough to make him out, H'kon figures, there's a slight furrow of brow, a slow intake of breath. It is held, his chest rounded out by it. It does not get allowed into a sigh. (Young people!) When he speaks, the decision is: "I have heard you. I know your names." As demonstration, eyes sharpen, on his. "Raija." It's left to his look, to say, 'you're late.'

Heard /what/, /how much/-- she swings her legs to the other side, then stops again. "Sir." She looks at him, then at her friends; "Later." /Then/ Raija pushes off and down, landing flat-footed, the better to accompany-- herd?-- her father away. But it's with a bump of knuckles for the one's shoulder, as she passes, and for the mouse, an under-her-breath, "Sorry." /Parents/.

Once they're out of sight, out of ear-shot, the mouse may be tempted to make dismissive remarks - likely enough there will be eye-rolling, and mutters of 'parents!' and the usual. In the short term, however, there's just silence, gaze slightly lowered despite earlier bravado. For once, this particular weyrbred knows better than to make it worse. Arekoth, he's one thing. Arekoth's rider? Quite, quite another.

(Currently) silent weyrbrats in his wake, H'kon still waits - waits until they are well out of earshot, well on their way. His fingers twitch, arm lifting only a little from the side to which it fell when he'd turned to go, but all are stopped reaching out. Friends are watching. He presses his mouth into a line instead, waits another step or two more. Then, "We will meet in the bowl, then."

Well away from her people-- her newer people-- to run with and watch over, at least with the (singular) likes of him. Her face lifts up, not just her chin. "Good."

Only a non-verbal 'Hm,' to acknowledge that one word. The one hand has resumed its disciplined position at his side, not quite parade-strict, but restricted, formal. The formality ends at his shoulders. H'kon is watching her, brow furrow less severe, but present. Not worried, exactly. But there are Thoughts.

Once her father's responded, even if he /is/ still watching her, she looks briefly at where his hand is now (where it was (where it had been, before)). There, and back up to his expression, and then she's walking towards the bowl. Raija doesn't drag it out, but neither does she rush. If he pauses, for now she'll pause-- not with the immediacy of someone matching a march, but with the naturalness of each being in the other's orbit.

The pause does come (didn't she know it?), those fingers curling in on themselves again, then, almost airily, lifting toward that one bit of hair, the tip of a shoulder. Furrow's still there, changing, only barely, in that way it does in these sorts of situations.

It's natural, too, to... not exactly /lean in/, nothing so overt, but it just so happens that she's there for it. Amber eyes slide sideways in a not-quite-smile. It's not overt, either, how she watches out for others-- differently: those on two legs, the shadows of dragons, all to be left behind.

Another 'hm,' satisfied. H'kon looks along his path, now, and takes it back up.

It's an unexpected family reunion at home (though it surely cannot be wholly a surprise, not when there's a Benden queen come visiting, throwing her weight around the bowl): Lilabet's dropped in at Tillek to pick up her brother from the seacraft, and so it's the two of them, and Madilla, cozily arranged in the weyr with tea and pastries that on any other day would surely spoil your supper.

"Watch out." Dilan, long-haired and beleagueredly amused, keeping a closer eye on the entrance than his mother and older sister, who are busy ganging up on him. "They'll start on /your/ hair next, Raija." (To which, of course, there is an answering chorus of welcome: hello H'kon, hello Raija, oh-Raija-your-/hair/.)

H'kon - /H'kon/ - doesn't manage to keep back a flash of smile upon seeing Dilan. He does keep himself back, though, near the entrance. Out of Raija's way, but without overt command to send her forward. From here, he can see them, see the scene that's familiar, and yet... Lilabet gets an inclination of his head, a bit more formal - or perhaps just a quieter non-verbal salute.

Not that Raija stays out of her father's way, bumping up at his hip before further eyeing the room... and not-quite-stomping far enough that Dilan can properly see her welcome-scowl. Not that she gets that hair out of her face to do it, so it winds up being close enough to /also/ spot the pastries. As well as her sister, of course. "What're you," /you/, "doing here?" is actually positive, though it's by their mother that the girl sits. Close by, too. Within pastry-range, ideally.

Close enough that Madilla can reach out and ruffle her youngest's hair in a gesture that's likely intended as both greeting and affirmation, though there's no tell in her expression beyond the usual fond pleasure: so rare, these days, to have the whole family together. "Visiting /you/," is Lilabet's prompt answer, flippant, but also edged in pride. "We're cleared for /between/, so I thought I'd grab Dee and say hi."

("/Dilan/," puts in the bearer of that particular nickname, with a roll of his eyes.)

Still at the edge of things, still with feet firmly in contact with the ground, showing no particular urge to lift, the last overt motion the faintest postural acknowledgement of Raija's brush. Still H'kon - except the eyes that are moving, for the time at least, over the teenager in their midst. Looking for cheeks red from sea-reflected sunlight, or, "That craft is making you stronger." He'll probably move eventually.

Raija doesn't complain, and if her head rests ever so momentarily within her mother's palm, she's soon enough reaching out for the goods. "D'you have to have a minder still?" she asks on the way, something peculiar in her voice that isn't quite envy. She flicks a glance at the teenager-who-gets-to-travel, sniffs, brief as anything.

"Ought to be!" agrees irrepressible Dilan, not without a hint of pride. He'll never be tall (though he's taller than H'kon), and he's stocky, but the muscles are there. "I won't be getting fat any time soon, anyway. Everything's good here?" A tip of his head towards his mother, his little sister, though presumably he doesn't expect much of an answer.

"Not as of today," is equally proud, and announced at much the same time as Dilan's reply - Lilabet launches forth into her own remarks with pleasure. "I'll have to take you out with me sometime, Raija, just the two of us. Three." It's not quite an afterthought, remembering her own dragon. It's just... different. Different realms. "If you'd like."

That flicker of pride on H'kon's features can't rightly be called reflected; refracted, maybe, from a similar source. "Well," deeper in his register, perhaps harder to pick up in the other knot of conversation, "the day is young. And your mother's brought a good many pastries." The corner of his mouth even twitches as he, finally, takes a few steps in, toward Dilan for a quick, firm squeeze to the boy's shoulder by one hand. And then, to sit, an available stool, not quite next to anyone.

"/Yes./" Some of those pastries-- now minus one-- are even still left. Raija's engulfed her first with her hand but eats delicately if not exactly tidily, not letting a crumb go to waste, licking them off her thumb when she has to. More careful with her words now, "I could go after class and chores. Or before. Benden is east," and she has a map hidden amongst her things, with marks for where her siblings are.

Dilan's still a teen, and not quite as perceptive as perhaps, one day he will become; his gaze lingers on H'kon a fraction of a second longer than perhaps it needs to, though his smile - in reply to that shoulder-squeeze - is bright. "As long as Raija doesn't eat them all first," is a tease, slightly louder.

"It's late at Benden right now," agrees Lilabet, so calm about it that if she's not actually supposed to be out and about so late, it's not obvious. "So earlier in the day is better, but we'll make it work, I promise."

(It's not that Madilla is deliberately saying nothing, but she just looks so pleased, so contented: everyone's here! Likely that's part of what prompts her glance at H'kon just now, too, and the shallow dip of her chin, both greeting and acknowledgement.)

Something almost like contentedness works at the corners of H'kon's eyes (or affection, for those who know where to spot it) at that tease. And that same look, whatever it is, gets turned toward the gathered women(-ish) folk, might even be there to meet Madilla's eyes. Of course, the word 'late' dims it into something else. Not the first time H'kon's been not-quite-worried, but there's another Thought. Unspoken.

Just for that-- so easily provoked? or just the sound of her name?-- Raija reaches for her second, dealing Dilan another of those half-hidden glances. Not that she eats it, yet; that calmness cloaks 'late' enough that she doesn't think twice, and so she's replying in a voice pitched to be steady, "Could do tomorrow. Any time in the seven, really. It would be nice." As though weyrlings could pick whichever time they chose, or much-older sisters would want to. Less steady, just a little, "...Didn't see her on the ledge. Or Arekoth."

Madilla's fond smile tightens just ever so slightly in acknowledgement of H'kon's shift in expression (not to mention her eldest daughter's blitheness). It sends green-eyed gaze sliding back to the weyrling, even as her fingertips, again, seek to brush at Raija's hair (or as close as they can reach).

Oblivious to this, Dilan reaches to snag himself a pastry, grinning winningly at Raija (and then sticking his tongue out for good measure), while Lilabet says, "Probably not tomorrow, sorry Raija, but definitely soon. We'll go anywhere you like." And as to the location of her queen, gaze momentarily unfocused as she confirms? Smiling, "She's on the rim, bothering everyone. She says she's not, but you can't really trust her."

It's not exactly a laugh, nor chuckle, but it's something terribly close and familiar, perhaps even vaguely influenced by a certain brown in good company on the rim. This is maybe the first time H'kon's looked fully at Lilabet since his arrival in the weyr. His lips even part a bit, as if preparing to allow words through. But those words aren't quite found. Just a sympathetic flick of his chin, then.

Oh. The girl files that away, gaze dropping-- to her pastry, which needs a nibble before she can say a proper, "Thank you." She curves her mouth in a smile to go with it, then turns partway, making her hair that much more accessible to her mother... for now. Distractedly-- gaze drifting to Dilan-- "Why can't you trust her?"

"She's enjoying Arekoth's company, which is probably terrible news," Lilabet continues, meeting H'kon's gaze with a genuine smile.

Dilan: "She can't trust her because she's a bad influence, I bet."

Lilabet: "No, because she has no self-awareness at all. Much like you, peabrain."

Some things, it seems, never change: Madilla's amusement is visible, though perhaps Raija will feel the faintest tightening of that hand upon her hair, not quite a restraint (because it's not Raija who needs restraining!) but certainly very present.

"Terrible," H'kon agrees. Gravely. The way he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely clasped in front of him, then, the way he looks even somehow satisfied in this more casual position, is surely unrelated. Dilan gets a glance, rejoinder awaited.

Bad influence is one thing; 'no self-awareness'-- Raija stares at Dilan now, not testing Madilla's hold enough to turn her head-- though it /is/ such a subtle tightening-- and, of all things, giggles. Pee-brain. "Your mouth isn't full," she reminds her brother.

Faux sotto-voce, Dilan leans forward just slightly to impart to Raija: "Bad influence. Such a shame, too. Defective." And then he takes a big - big - bite out of his pastry, chewing exaggeratedly, just for emphasis.

Lilabet's eye-roll is probably affected, much like the way she shakes her head, glancing at first her mother, then H'kon, as if to encourage a tsk of disapproval for her younger brother (quite as if she hadn't been name-calling just a moment ago, of course). "Anyway," she says, firmly. "She's quite content, and so am I. It's lovely to see you all."

Raija holds what remains of her pastry in front of her mouth for a long moment as though she will /also/ take a big, big, /big/ bite-- but in the end, after a glance around through her hair, settles for a nibble. It's not a prim nibble-- her knees are splayed, and so is her elbow not on her mother's side, and she's sort of hunched-- but it isn't quite the copying (much less /escalation/) it might ordinarily have been. "Good," the girl says right after the 'content' bit... just that, and she shifts upon the wood of her seat.

"And it's good to see you, too," is a bit stiff, but it's verbal, and audible. A sweep of H'kon's eyes includes Dilan in the comment as well as Lilabet. But with the former incapacitated by pastry, it's this suddenly - even if she's travelling solo now - weyrling who gets the deeply interested, and yet somehow also dryer-than-any-pastry follow-up, "How is training?"

How did Madilla manage to raise two children like Dilan and Raija... and then Lilabet, who sits with such poised confidence? At least the healer seems inclined only to glance at son and younger daughter, mouth twisting in amusement, rather than to chide - though that's not her way at the worst of times, truthfully. Dilan's aware, and unrepentant, though the glance he gives Madilla is affectionate. (So is the one he gives H'kon, for that matter.)

It's well over a decade, now, that H'kon's been part of Lilabet's life - more than half her lifetime - and so she leans forward to respond to the brownrider's question with enthusiasm, and not mere dry politeness; it's a long-established habit. "It's going well. We'll officially be senior weyrlings in the next few sevens, and after that I'm likely to spend most of my time with Margaut, which is a whole new kind of training, I think. My hope is still to fly with the weyrling wing, though, as we can. I think there's still a lot we can learn."

And now that her father's turned to her sister-- Raija gets rid of the crumbs and is still licking her fingers as she slips off and away. There's Dilan's jacket to hunt out, after all, and the frequently-fascinating contents of its pockets. She does glance at him along the way, less for permission and more to make /sure/ he knows.

H'kon leans forward, too; this isn't so much a serious change of position as of attention. Clasped hands are tighter, attention on Lilabet, sharp. Nods to each thought. "Hm," to different training, strong agreement, but that of an outsider. But on flying with the weyrling wing, there are full sentences: "Good. Do that. They will matter, I imagine, for many reasons."

Dilan knows, though aside from a raised eyebrow and the twitch of one (ever-so-slightly hairy) upper lip, he doesn't react. His pockets, though: they're predictably full of treasures, from a handful of seashells, to an apprentice-grade knife, and - interestingly(?) - a piece of pink ribbon.

"Because..." Lilabet begins. "Because they're my clutchmates, and that bond matters. And because it's good to belong, and to know how things work, even if we won't be flying in the wings. And it's good exercise, too. I have," and she grins, both at H'kon and also, with amusement, at her mother, "muscles I didn't even know existed. I'd quite like to keep it that way. Fresh air and exercise; I remember, Mama."

Treasures which Raija, as is her wont, sorts through; she drops cross-legged to the floor, his jacket sprawled over her knees as a table, and starts sorting. Seashells, she pounces on those, though she saves them for last; the knife is attractive, and she opens it long enough to test its sharpness on-- with a glance at her mother, /not/ the ribbon but instead a frayed thread. But as long as she has that ribbon in hand... she holds it high to look for telltale wrinkles, all set to give it a sniff before gauging its length against her wrist.

More semi-tacit, non-verbal agreement from H'kon, as Lilabet speaks. And even a twist of a smile, right at the corner of his lips. "I remember our weyrlinghood," no directional nod to explain 'our', because Lilabet will know who the other is. "I was surprised, when throwing firestone from dragonback was so different from throwing nets." His eyes sweep sidelong for Dilan, in case the teen is paying attention.

Madilla's attention is drawn in multiple directions, but it's not unfair to say that her two eldest - the two she sees so much less of - are awarded more than their fair share, and so she's ostensibly oblivious to Raija's experiments with the knife (which is plenty sharp). Still, both she and Dilan are drawn back in her direction as the ribbon is lifted. It's a decent length, that ribbon, a little frayed, and faintly scented with something floral - not the kind of scent that might fit with a little girl's hair ribbon. Dilan glances away again, as if embarrassed (the concurrent conversation is so convenient); Madilla leans forward.

"Nets are nothing to the weight of firestone," declares Lilabet, confidently.

"Have you ever thrown a net, Lily? A wet one?" Dilan's dismissive, and more engaged than is strictly necessary. "They're plenty heavy. But they'd be pretty different to throw, right, H'kon?"

Raija does wrinkle her nose, and yet, and yet... her cheeks have lifted in her version of a smile, and she swiftly starts sorting through shells. She picks those with an interesting gleam, or a complicated texture, before those that are simply whole; and of those choices, she selects a nicely-sized spiral with a very convenient hole. A few wraps of the ribbon later, knife and the-- well, most of the-- remaining shells slipped back into the jacket's pockets, she's prancing back towards the group with the back of her hand grandly proffered as though to kiss. "Look, mama," see her knotted-on trophy? "Look what Dilan brought me." Such a good brother!

H'kon is careful. Careful, not to agree to quickly with Dilan. It's a careful inclination of his head, that's almost a nod. "More than a question of weight, the difference was a question of technique. It's a very different throw, of something very differently shaped. You want a different flight..." And was that an almost envious look to the young seacrafter, as hands now callused with dragonriding duties close just so, over an imagined, and long absent [thing grasped, pose away, still working on it].

Lilabet's chin sets, as if, just for a moment, she's inclined towards being huffy - but no, she's too practical for that, and just shrugs her shoulders, accepting the difference (more or less, anyway). "If you say so," she declares, and perhaps there would be more to follow that, but there's Raija and her prize, and Dilan's sharp intake of breath to interrupt, and the latter? That's definitely of interest to both mother and sister.

"Raija--" begins the apprentice, who then stops, cheeks pink about the edges and gaze abruptly dropping.

And from Madilla, who has absolutely noticed her son's reaction, but is too kind to push it: "Manners, Raija." Because what do we say to people when they give us ('give' us) gifts?

"Thank you, Dilan," Raija chimes in sweetly, a moment after her cue. Her eyes are bright, and she tucks her curtain of hair behind one ear before displaying her trophy to her father-- the shell-- and sister-- the ribbon?-- to look in turn. But then she's sidling back to her brother for a hug and a quiet murmur of a tug, "Won't you come tell me where you found them? ...After you're done talking nets, anyway." Away from the rest of the class~

Unclear whether H'kon first notices Madilla's response to Dilan, or Dilan himself. Either way, the dragonriding talk, the sea talk, all is put on hold. The muscles of his jaw twitch, and, "Raij-" is started in that low, almost tired tone that has met any number of pre-teen antics of late. The final vowel gets lost, caught up in the girl's wake as she moves away. And yet it's Lilabet who gets the look, seeking... support? Assistance? Sympathy?

And what is Dilan to say, to do? One arm goes around his younger sister, holding her against his side even as he's sighing; giving in. Perhaps that ribbon once threaded the bodice of a beautiful woman; perhaps it threaded somewhere else. It probably doesn't matter-- not now. Still sighing: "You're welcome, Raija. Maybe I'll show you some of the best shell-collecting beaches, one of these days."

Lilabet's head shakes, a rueful gesture matched by the amused-resigned-rueful expression on her face. "I think," she says, just quietly, "As someone who has spent at least some time teaching, I'm allowed to say: all you can do is try. Also, aren't you glad I disappeared off to Harper Hall when I was Raija's age? And Dilan went to the Hold?" Still, the glance she aims at Raija is affectionate (if that even counts).

Her name, in that voice, /again/... Raija's shoulders twitch together, and it's work for her to loosen them, until-- at her brother's capitulation, his /hug/, it's no work at all. She aims to help herself to his knee, even, and lean in: "You're my favorite brother." Even if he weren't her only! Also (not looking at Lilabet, who is being quiet; not looking at Lilabet, even if she did hear; not looking at Lilabet, even more if she had heard), "Let's do. When do you like to look? What makes the best /best/?"

H'kon, too, has stiffened up a bit. His gaze has gone from Lilabet and on, with a significant pause at Madilla, to Raija and Dilan. But the slightest inclination in Lilabet's direction comes as the initial answer. It takes a moment of reflection for him to say, so quietly, "Yet you were both missed." A bigger shift on that stool now, as he pushes his shoulders back. Hard to loosen them, too, but more effective than it might've been before.

"Oof," says Dilan, though not in disapproval: Raija's getting big for a knee, but luckily her brother is a sturdy, seafaring type, ready and willing to take on the challenge. "I'm your only brother, sprout, but I'll still take the title. The best ones... they're the ones with the shells that are least broken. Or the ones where you can find sea glass."

His mother's got half a wary eye on Raija, and half a glance on Lilabet - mothers are powerful creatures, able to express themselves in detailed and intricate ways in multiple directions at once - and the latter twists her mouth and looks, for a moment, repentant. "Very much missed," agrees Madilla, low-toned. "And still missed, now. Even if you are all grown up." And - supposedly - past the trying age. Supposedly. (Lilabet's cheeks go faintly pink; message received.)

Raija, settling in: "Which are those?" She wrinkles her nose and edits, "What /kinds/ are those? Do really strong waves break them, or carry them in real well? I like the blue sea glass best," does he remember?

Enough of sitting. H'kon's shoulders roll back again and this time the motion seems somehow to push him up from his seat, entering a bit more into the centre of the group - all to retrieve a pastry. The first one grasped, however, is held in Madilla's general direction. He can always grab himself another.

"I remember," grins Dilan. "It's all kinds of things, I think. The way the tide comes in; the angles, and the force of it. Whether there are too many rocks around. Tillek's got a pretty rocky shoreline, but there's a few more sheltered beaches: those are pretty good."

Madilla's still keeping an eye on her eldest daughter (not to mention one on the younger, as often as she can spare it), but the motion of H'kon's hand draws her gaze-- and she smiles. Arm extended, she accepts the offered pastry, and says, just quietly, "This was a good surprise. Lilabet, how much longer can you stay?"

"Hm," next thing to non-verbal. Raija has that look, that memorizing /look/; her fingers press into her own knee as he talks, //tide// before /angles/ and /force/ and //rocks// and /shelter/. She's silent for the next moment, and the next. Until, in much the same tone but oh so quiet, "Did you go to it, or away from here?"

H'kon's eyes fall to the second pastry, his pastry. He sits slowly, near Madilla [look, I can't remember what the seating arrangements are, so imagine either furniture or floor], and begins eating almost ritualistically. Ears are active, but no one gets acknowledgement. Yet. Pastry.

Lilabet's mouth is already open to respond to her mother, but she's too much a harper-trained listener not to have caught Raija's question, and it has her lips pressing together again in lieu of answer. Madilla, too, stills, though her free hand /had/ been reaching towards H'kon, as if intent upon resting in contact, just present.

If Dilan's aware of that silence, he shows no signs of it, instead furrowing his brow in apparently intent thoughtfulness. "What do you mean? Did I..." And a pause. "/Not/ away from here. The sea called to me, squirt. More then flying. I saw what they did, when I was at High Reaches Hold," seacrafters, presumably, "and I knew it was what I wanted. And that's ok, right? You get to decide what you want. /And/ you can change your mind."

"Like I did." Lilabet.

"What--" Raija had been leaning in, drinking it in, but now her gaze turns sharply: Lilabet. Who'd been /listening/. She stares, amber gaze wide, and then looks immediately back to her brother, expression contrite-- but given /he/ seems unfazed, she puffs out an unsubtle breath that should be relief. Mostly, it is. Disquiet lingers, delaying her breathy, "She can't." Lilabet. "What... did you see? In the sea."

H'kon must have seen, or must know. The reach is completed, a little lean, a shift of the angle of an elbow. He could surely carry on with the last bite of the pastry one-handed, but there's an Arekoth-esque tug at the corners of his eyes with Raija's last question to Dilan. Whatever -did- he see, the attention now on the seacrafter prompts.

Madilla's hand makes contact, and settles: just the lightest brush of fingertips, really, but present. She's as silent as her eldest daughter is, the daughter that acknowledges the choices she no longer has with a nod, her shoulders shrugging easily (even if it's clear the attention is not on her).

Dilan frowns, his brow furrowing intently in a way that is reminiscent of H'kon's (even if the younger man's brow is less expressive). Deep thoughts aren't really his way: he's a doer, not a thinker. "I guess..." He hesitates. "It felt like freedom. And not freedom from something, not like I felt like I was trapped before. On the water, I wasn't mama's son, or Devaki's, or anyone's anything, except me, doing something I loved."

/Raija's/ brows draw in. She's silent as the apprentice seacrafter-- as Raija's brother!-- talks, her breath held and ready, until she has to replace it with another, and another and... then he stops. She must feel Dilan's last description deserves /some/ space, mustn't pounce lest it deflate, but still-- what if someone interrupts? After only another finger-press, then, her still-treble voice quieter than his, "What about bad-weather days? Or when you have to scrub things. Keels and things."

In that time when Raija waits, H'kon simply, slowly, leans back, letting out a slow exhalation, until his back hits the rest. It's a sigh of understanding, and an unfocused look that might be Arekoth, or might just be watching somewhere else altogether. Eyes close a beat. A more regular breath comes and goes. And then he's looking back to Dilan. If it weren't H'kon, he might be beaming. As it is, there's just something knowing there, in that brow.

Madilla is so very silent, so very still, gaze locked upon her son. Have those lips pressed together ever so slightly in acknowledgement of his words? Perhaps, yes, though the look to her eyes is far more one of understanding than anything. (Lilabet tosses her head, as if intending to toss the hair that's been cut so short and still hasn't grown back; but at least she doesn't interrupt).

Is Dilan especially conscious of being watched, of all eyes on him? If he is, he's as placid as-- well, not the ocean, but there's a descriptor there somewhere. "Mm," he says. "Bad weather's not always fun, nor the scrubbing, and the rest. But it's /outside/ and it's all part of the balance, isn't it? If the days were only ever sunny and still, we'd never sail. And the decks? Well, they're /your/ decks, and there's pride in keeping them all shipshape." One imagines this might be a romanticisation.

And one that a not-big sister might /want/ to fall for, at least a little. Raija settles for a bit of a sigh, sheltering in his shoulder, fingers playing quietly with her bracelet. A sigh, and-- putting all those would-be questions aside-- "Hm."

The nod is somewhere between approving and understanding. Who knew H'kon was a romantic? "What of your shipmates?" Okay, and also still practical. The reverie has been put aside. He sits up a bit more and finishes his pastry.

Dilan ruffles at Raija's hair, idly, though with the end to her questions - and the inclusion of H'kon's - his gaze has shifted towards the brownrider instead. "They're like wingmates," he decides. "Or what I imagine wingmates would be. Everyone's got their things to do, separately, but the important thing is that, collectively, you're... steering the ship, I guess. Literally. You gotta trust them all, and they've gotta trust you too."

Raija doesn't complain when //Dilan// does it; her laugh is quiet, but still: no questions. Nor is she going anywhere, yet.

H'kon hesitates with a response to that, and ultimately, after a quick glance to Raija, presses no further. "Ours was always a smaller matter - different from the craft I'd imagine. Small boat." He turns to take in Lilabet, sidelong. "Long ago."

"Long ago," agrees Lilabet, her smile one of thoughtfulness and perhaps a hint of wistfulness, too, or perhaps it's just the one she wears when she's half lost to the process of composition (even now). "A different life, even."

Dilan's far more practical, agreeing easily: "Small boats are different. Still need the trust, though, I'd imagine."

Small girl leans her cheek against big brother's shoulder, more of a bump than anything, then slips off and is off without looking back. Her heading's back for that jacket, though, this time to slip it on.

"Mmm," is an affirmative, to Dilan. H'kon might have said more, but now there are hints of Arekoth in his face, to redirect him, and perhaps also leave Dilan conveniently free - at least, from this side - to follow Raija's antics. To Lilabet, once he's back: "How strict will your duties become? How soon?"

Dilan - well, he's content enough to watch his younger sister, half an eye and likely most of his attention on her; only lingering awareness for the rest of the family. Madilla's probably managing to keep it all in view, though that's likely part of her quietness: that, and the sheer simple pleasure of having her family all together.

"The Weyrwoman," a pause from Lilabet, somewhat wry, and then a correction: "/Margaut/ is expecting to ramp up my time with her, going forward. She's only had Cora for support," Cora, finally officially retired after turns and turns without her queen clutching, "so she'll be glad of my help, but of course even harper-trained, there's a lot for me to learn. She's... young." Not so dissimilar in age to Lilabet, though clearly the weyrling sees herself as more worldly-wise, despite her relative goldriding inexperience.

Raija adopts his jacket (her coat) with complete disregard of boy-smells but consummate attention to other details: tucking the collar just so, turning around as she-- given the motion of her elbows-- does up buttons and then undoes them again, and arranging the shoulders with particular care for her new knot. Then and only then can she tromp with her not-so-seagoing swagger back to... not Dilan, not the riders, but their mother, their quiet mother. She sits, right there. She even leaves the remaining baked goods alone, hands disappeared into the too-long sleeves, though her gaze settles on one with currants.

H'kon nods a little, with the corner of his mouth twisting off to one side. "Of course." A little stream of air, not quite a sigh, escapes. "You'll have many expectations to meet." Lips press together, and Lilabet is eyed up. "But if you need - have - a moment away..." he'll leave the rest to the brown on the rim. Oh look, Raija is up to something. Welcome distraction.

There's a glint of amusement in Madilla's green gaze as she watches Raija with that jacket, visible at a close glance but likely easily missed otherwise. "Trying it on for size?" she asks her youngest. "How does it feel?" She's got a glance for Dilan, too, though the shake of his head is slightly more uncertain.

Despite the distraction of her sister, Lilabet's gaze is square as she returns H'kon's regard. "We're only ever a moment away," she reminds, an acknowledgement that is not much above a murmur, though intent all the same.

Amber eyes peek up and over, away from the currant-trove and through the wilderness of her hair. "I thought you'd like it, mama," Raija chirps. "It's a dress, on me." A /short/ dress, sadly devoid of lace.

It's Raija's words that seem to allow H'kon's attention to slide back, a little, toward Lilabet. But time enough can pass before that the last subject can, too. Instead, "This was a good thing you did." The nod to the familial gathering, to Madilla, Raija, Dilan, is the sort that is wont to get shared especially with the eldest.

Dilan: "It suits you, sprout. But I still want it back." He's grinning, but really: the ribbon's loss is bad enough.

"Beautiful," declares Madilla, though no doubt she'd be more pleased by her youngest in a real dress, preferably with a hair-cut to go with it... though the hair is probably the bigger of the two wishes.

Lilabet's quiet, gaze seeking away from H'kon and towards the others; her family, collected in full for the first time in so very long. "Family is important," is what she says, when she does finally open her mouth. "I've missed... this." But she's looking, above all, at her mother, and her mother's so-obvious pleasure.

"I wouldn't /keep/ it," declares Raija, so offended! She tips up her nose, too, in a way that turns into a head-tilt to her mother. She smiles. She /smiles/, warm, loving, one confidant to another. And then she turns to, "Papa." It's louder, designed to get attention, before she drops it once more to ask, very seriously, "When is mama the most beautiful?" She reaches for her mother's hand, preferably under the table.

Papa's attention is duly obtained. The breath on its way out, that gets caught by the question, maybe sounds like 'oh', but this must be mere accident. No amount of breath catching can impede that flush up his neck and beneath the stubble. "Um," is almost an actual utterance. Eyes find Madilla, quickly, but the answer gets directed to Raija: "When she's happy."

"Well, /good/," says Dilan, sticking his tongue out at Raija.

Madilla's hand is easily caught, long fingers wrapping about Raija's shorter ones, squeezing gently. She flushes, though, gaze slipping from Raija to H'kon, meeting his gaze for a moment - but no more than that. She, too, glances back at Raija. "I'm very happy," she says. And clearly very beautiful.

Lilabet's smile grows, a certain amount of smugness visible there; good work, self.

Raija sits /almost/ still, a barely-escaped quiver of happiness; she's grabbed her mother's hand tighter-- still under the table-- but her eyes remain on her father with great interest, even after her slow benediction of a nod.

That happiness coming from the youngest is enough to get a bit of a pull, not a full smile, from H'kon. But even after so many years as a unit, there's a level of exposure here, the unstated reality that he assumes everyone knows but prefers unstated, very near being voiced openly. His weight shifts,as if to stand, though he holds himself back. "Dilan," is the escape route, fairly or not; also, perhaps, the assumed ally, "when are you due back? I'd see that ship of yours..."

Look at Dilan. Look at Dilan trying--valiantly!-- not to laugh. Oh, not /at/ H'kon, not as such, though the grin he aims at the brownrider is irrepressible. "Soon," he allows, with a glance towards the exit quite as if he could see the time from his position (which he clearly cannot). "Likely, anyway. You'll take me? Not," with a hasty glance at his eldest sister, "that your girl's not a smooth enough ride."

It can't be easy for Madilla, to acknowledge that her two eldest must depart, but her smile doesn't shift: perhaps it's enough, for now, that they've been here at all. "You'd better take the rest of the pastries with you," she decides: that Dilan is (at least in theory) still a growing boy goes unstated.

Lilabet--as valiant as her brother--elects not to stick her tongue out, but there's a glimmer in her expression, and something that keenly resembles mock-disapproval.

/Mother/. After all Raija's done for her! Her nascent scowl is not-so-mock-aggrieved, and she swoops for the currant scone with her free hand, sleeves or no sleeves, seeking to untangle her other hand to make her hold good. (But at least she's not staring at her father.)

"We could," H'kon nods. 'We get to,' more accurate, is to be found only in the hint of anticipation, a twitch really, right above the corner of his mouth. "Do you remember how to fit straps?" A vague gesture, as he now makes good on standing, toward their usual place near the dragon's couch. But the feet he's gained are used, rather, to approach Lilabet. "Someday. Soon. Have her call. We'll show you our favourite places."

"I'd like that," is Lilabet's response, as she draws herself up in a fluid motion, standing, so that she can meet H'kon's gaze squarely. "/We'd/ like that." The nod is just subtle, but nonetheless an acknowledgement of more than her words; connection.

Dilan's slower to respond, despite the way he's already standing, already in motion: it's better to let his eldest sister have her moment, better to be silent a few moments more than's actually required. "As if I'd forget," is quiet, even then, and anyway: he's already in motion, isn't he?

It could be-- must be!-- difficult for Madilla, but she remains where she is nonetheless, attention caught between her two eldest. Not that there's not attention enough for Raija, too; not a knowing smile in /that/ direction, currant scone and all. "And you'll all come back soon," is not a request.

Surely her brother can't leave without his jacket. Raija hunches there in her seacraft-knotted nest, picking the currants out with her teeth and licking up whatever crumbs and chunks threaten to fall. She eyes them, the people. The would-be /leaving/ people. Moment or no moment, she's not audience but analyst, apprehension-- rebellion?-- tightening her elbows against her ribs. And she stays there. [LONG PAUSE] Something happens, then (a movement, someone passing between her and the glows, a sound from beyond their table); she does dislodge herself (where, not that long ago, littler Raija had not) and shuffle out where she (and the jacket) can be better accessed. So there.

There is sound from the couch: dragon sound, as Arekoth makes his way back. Between Dilan and him just what sort of greetings are exchanged, though the chances of, at the least, a jet of dragon breath directed at hair are good. "Hm," is, this time, solid approval from H'kon, maybe some acknowledgement as well. Lilabet gets that much longer of a look in exchange before he shifts, a glance over his shoulder to Madilla as he heads to the ledge. Not exactly apology, but not so unrelated.

From Dilan, by way of a reply, a hand lifted to press against dragonhide, expression fond but not - as it might have been, once upon a time - wistful. And then he's turning, attuned to Raija's shuffling footfalls, and extends his arm: jacket, please. And if his gaze lingers on her briefly, perhaps seeking out that purloined ribbon? Well.

Lilabet's steps have her bypassing Arekoth (though not before she gives her mother a quick squeeze - nothing lingering, no dramatics) to walk towards the edge of the ledge, eyes upwardly seeking the young queen still perched upon the rim, quite at home in this foreign Weyr (quite as if she owned the place). There's that smile, that hint of incandescence in it. But, "I'll be back again soon."

Madilla? She leans up against the weyr wall, watching; waiting.

Raija? Still on course, of course, with only a step or two more to reach her brother and deliver the goods. She doesn't hurry, exactly, though neither does she stall, exactly. Nor does she hand over the purloined pinkness, exactly. Unless it counts that the ribbon's looped through the lowest buttonhole of what she does hand over, where it had hidden beneath the tabletop during her snack. "Come back soon," she instructs with upward-tilted chin.

H'kon sets up to watch Dilan, supervise the equipping - but trust wins out, and it's a glance back to Madilla instead (with one arm held out, just in case Raija cares to brush his hand on her return). "We won't be too long."

For Raija, Dilan has a nod, that subtle inclination of his chin that likely acknowledges all kinds of things as he accepts the jacket, shrugging it on immediately though surely it would be easier to wrangle straps without it. He winks at his sister, with a sideways quirk of his mouth, but turns back to his task without further comment: true to his word, he's not forgotten.

"Take your time," assures Madilla, smile curving into position. "There's no rush." Above, the young queen takes flight from the rim, taking what could almost be termed a victory lap around the bowl as she makes her descent. Lilabet nods, satisfied, then turns back, considering her family.

It /just so happens/ that Raija's shoulder (and some of all that hair) bumps into her father's hand, though she doesn't look at him; at least, not until a step or two later, a sliding, near-smiling glance. She's on her way to Lilabet, and that's where she stops, her closed hand held out for her sister's palm. Presumably she doesn't have a worm in it /this/ time.

Half her attention's on the boys as they make their departure, but Lilabet's got time and notice, too, for her sister: for that closed hand, and her own palm, which is extended. Maybe those dark brows lift, just a bit, but the expression is as open as the palm she offers. (So maybe she catches her mother's glance over the top of Raija's head, but it's only for a moment, and only so that they can smile at each other.)

/Raija/ doesn't look at her mother, no glance back, though for a moment she might be a pillar of /something/: her heavy brows drawn in over a thinned press of mouth, aligning palm-over-palm as though... divining. Their hands don't touch when the-- no, not wriggly, not sticky, so /not-worm/ falls for Lilabet: small, light, unalive. Small; symmetrical; shiny, if only on the inside of the cone, with a waft of pearly iridescence; a shell. Raija doesn't take her hand back right away, glance angled at Lilabet, as sidelong as straight-on can be.

Lilabet lets the shell fall where it will upon her outstretched hand, palm steady as she drops her gaze towards it. There's the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth, and then less of a hint and more of something real and true: genuine pleasure, unfeigned. "Benden's coast," she tells her sister, "has nothing on High Reaches'."

Turns out, Raija had held her breath; its release is near-silent as she sinks on her heels, hands knotting behind her back, square as her father but nowhere near as settled: high-strung and not /relieved/. She ducks her head. She stands there until finally she shuffles back, their mother at her back. "Good."

Madilla's arms extend, aiming to draw Raija snug against her. Green eyes studying the elder of her daughters, taking in the way Lilabet stares at the shell, turning her palm this way and that before her fingers finally close around it. Carefully, the shell gets stowed in the top pocket of Lilabet's worn riding jacket. "I'll keep it on the mantel of my weyr," the weyrling promises.

The girl accepts it (presses back), her eyes part-closing (still studying, or trying), her heels nudged up against her mother's toes (much too old to step on them). From that vantage, "You can show mama. When we come."

Madilla's arms form a warm cage around Raija's shoulders. "Soon," she says, following so quickly on after Raija, wistful and pleased too. "We'll have to come soon." She drops her chin so as to press a kiss to Raija's head.

"Soon," agrees Lilabet, with a grin, one hand on her hip in a gesture that is jaunty and confident and so completely unlike either of her parents. "We'll have to show you everything. The coastline may not be as good, but-- well, Benden's still got plenty going for it."

Raija doesn't nod (she might bonk her mother in the chin). Her hesitation opens up all that coastline, lesser or no. Finally, "What kind of soon?" /Practically/.

"Lilabet's busy," says Madilla, straightening, gaze intent upon the weyrling. "We can't make too many plans, not until she's more sure of her availability."

"No--!" Pink floods Lilabet's cheeks in the wake of her outburst; she ducks her gaze to the floor. "No, no, I'd like you to come. I'll make time." One hand curves into a fist at her side, while the other sits flat upon her thigh.

Fascination floods Raija's eyes in black; she doesn't wiggle, exactly, but muscles move in her bony shoulders without those bones going anywhere. Her cheeks lift, on another-but-different, "Good." (So quiet. Just a little chorus. Or witness.)

Madilla-- a healer for how many turns now? Long enough to have a daughter grown to adulthood-- is far too observant to have missed Lilabet's reaction, and were it not for Raija... but Raija is here, and her hands press upon her shoulders, gentle, though she may not even be aware she's doing it. "Then we'll come." What goes unsaid might as well still be audible, though: we'll always come.

Lilabet sucks her upper lip into her teeth, then lets it go in order to smile: bright and cheerful and everything-is-fine. (Everything /is/ fine.) "Then it's a date. Do I get a hug, Raija? Before I need to go?"

/There's/ the relapse into the not-quite-teen, the skew of head and all that hair; she might say yes (reluctantly), she might say no (daringly), she might wrinkle her nose (or just lift it)-- but, a beat later (also daringly), "Come and get it." While they're all right /there/.

Fine dark brows lift, a half-hearted, mostly teasing challenge. Madilla's arms tighten in response, quite as if to claim all those hugs for herself... or perhaps simply to pin her youngest down, so that her eldest can launch herself at the pair: ready or not!

Little Raija would have squealed and tried to bounce up and down (when she wasn't clamming up the way littlest-Raija had); this Raija lifts her chin: she can take it! (And, just for a moment, /squeeze/.)

And so it's a hug for one, two, three of them; Madilla and her girls. Lilabet's arms go for Raija, of course, but Madilla's shift so that she can envelop both of them into her embrace, poor Raija right in the middle of the sandwich (or is that the best place to be?). "It's been so good to see you," says Lilabet, voice muffled. /Both/ of you.

Absolutely the best, and Raija doesn't pretend otherwise, even if that means a faceful of sweater; her smothered sigh's a happy one, and she holds tight, even if it's not (beyond that moment) as hard as she can. (Best not to break, nor to be broken.) Lingering: check. Dramatics: real. It's only when one of the others starts to let go that she'll wriggle as though for freedom.

Madilla doesn't /say/ anything to her eldest, but there's probably something in the way she clings, just a little longer than maybe necessary, to suggest some unspoken conversation. But she withdraws, and so does Lilabet, and both let Raija loose.

"Right," says Lilabet, straightening sharply. "I should go. It's /late/ in Benden."

Raija's retreating towards the table-- perhaps there are leftovers she'd missed-- without apparent inclination to wish further goodbyes, or to be (re-)introduced to the source of Lilabet's someday-maybe-even-soon ride, or witness the ceremonial donning of flight gear. (Which won't prevent her from skulking afterward if Madilla goes too far, the better to stay in earshot... but otherwise stay clear until she has her mother to herself again.)

The moment is over: Lilabet's bravado has been picked back up, shaken out, and donned as surely as her riding gear, vulnerabilities tucked away tidily beneath jacket and gloves. Cognizant of this, Madilla's goodbyes are brief, and in no time at all that foreign queen is launching skywards, and then gone, as if she'd never been there at all. And so it is a thoughtful healer that returns, dry-eyed but wistful for all the forced cheer she directs to her youngest by way of a smile.

Raija's not looking (not /now/), engrossed in wiping the table (without being asked!); the chairs have already been straightened, more precise than necessary in their configuration, except for the one-- H'kon's-- askew. She's old enough (well-behaved enough?) to not lick the found crumbs off her palm, but before she shakes them into the basket, she rescues a stray currant. And eats it.

"Raija! Thank you." Madilla's tone is slightly brighter than it needs to be, but her pleasure at Raija's initiative is genuine nonetheless-- or certainly sounds it, at least. /She/ moves to straighten cushions on the sofa, an act more likely to be completed out of desire to keep busy than true need.

The girl mutters something like a grunt. She nudges the table leg with her toe, a low-level push rather than a poke. She nudges again; it creaks. Eventually, not much more intelligibly, "Do you think she will? Soon."

Grunts are part-and-parcel of (pre-)teens, and Madilla takes no notice. It's that later vocalisation that has her turning her head, glancing over her shoulder at her youngest. "Lilabet keeps her promises," is what she says, quietly. "She always has. And--" She takes in a breath; releases it. "I got the impression she misses us, didn't you?"

"Hnh." And, "Didn't promise soon," says she who keeps track, not /not/ resigned. This time the nudge is more of a lean; the creak is slow, low. "Would you go?"/Go./

Madilla doesn't answer that first, though there's /something/ in the way she looks in Raija's direction, and, too, the way she pauses in what she's doing. "Go?" she asks. "To Benden, to see Lilabet? Of course I would. /Will/."

"/Go/-go. And papa."

And again: "/Go/-go? Raija?" She's not following.

"So you could see her every day."

Oh. /Oh/. Madilla's cheeks go pink, and she straightens, but her words are quick: "No. High Reaches is home, and I think... even if we /wanted/ to, it wouldn't... no. High Reaches is home."

"How come?" Half a pause. "Even if."

Madilla hesitates, and after a moment, sits onto the couch, hands clasped into her lap. "Lilabet's growing-- no, /grown/ up. She misses us, but she's been away from here a long time. A /long/ time. Us moving to Benden would never be on the cards, Raija, but... but especially not for Lilabet. It's better for her, easier, to miss us from a distance."

That gets digested in relative silence, the occasionally-repeated wood-sound the only protest. "We were there, wouldn't have to miss."

"If we were there, she'd wish us gone again." There's resignation in Madilla's tone, and she's smiling. And then a clarification: "Not because she doesn't love us, but because we would crowd her."

Her treble giggle, at last, leaves the table alone. Raija moves on, moves around, moves to the couch and sits-- by her mother's feet, a squat, then on the floor. "Nobody wants you gone ever." How could they?

Madilla drops a hand to her daughter's hair, running her fingers through it-- then smoothing it down (tidy, tidy). She laughs.

"Ow," isn't very loud and maybe pro forma besides. Raija goes rummaging in her pockets with a clack too hard to be crumbs (at least, not fresh crumbs).

"Give it a turn or two," says Madilla, dryly. "Eventually... sometimes we all need space to grow in. To become who we need to be, without... well."

Maybe Raija's stopped listening; her head's still tipped down to whatever she's fiddling with, which now happens to be (also be?) the laces of her mother's shoe. But then there's another nudge, a grunt of a nudge: keep going.

Silent, as she watches Raija play with her shoelaces, Madilla starts - just slightly - at that nudge. She pauses, a breath taken in but not immediately released. After her exhale; "I was about-- no, a turn or so older than you, I think, when I left my mama. And once I had, I couldn't have gone home again, and they could never have followed."

That's forever; that's no time at all. But mostly forever. "...'I couldn't come back.'"

"We... our worlds get bigger, sometimes, when we grow up." Madilla's words are slow, more of a staccato beat than a melody. "And it doesn't mean we love our homes and our families less. It doesn't mean we can't /visit/. Or /miss things/."

There's the shush-shush sound of laces through grommets, loosening, and every now and again an aiglet's tap. (Staccato tap.) "Papa too?"

"Papa too," confirms Madilla. "But that doesn't mean /always/. Lots of people are fine just where they are. Or can leave, and come back, and that works too."

"But you said-- you couldn't go back." That Raija couldn't. Raija, who still hasn't looked up from her /very important task/.

Madilla holds her silence for a moment, perhaps mulling over her words before she can string them together into something coherent. "/I/ couldn't."

/Raija/ can string them together. They just mightn't necessarily be what her mother would mean. But: "Why?"

"Healer Hall taught me all kinds of things," says Madilla, slowly, though not as slowly as that earlier response. "And some of them didn't fit with what my mama taught me. Where I grew up, it was different. And once I'd seen other things, /I/ didn't fit anymore. But that's not always true. Look at-- plenty of Lilabet and Dilan's friends are still here, and they're not going to go. Everyone's experience is different." (Once she's started talking, it's like she can't stop: the words start coming faster and faster.)

Though Raija doesn't interrupt (more than the shush-sounds, the occasional tugs, the sucked-in breath) it's a near thing. In the end, she goes back: "What didn't fit? If you went to Harper like Lily, could you then?"

Madilla's laugh is immediate, not /at/ Raija, but, as her words make clear, "Me, a Harper? No - it wasn't /Healer/, specifically. It was the world. Where I grew up, little girls, or less-little-girls, didn't make choices. And once I'd seen that I could..."

Next time they're in stores, next time Raija wants the shirt that her mother isn't so happy about, this topic may return; the flip side is that right now, the girl's shoulders have hunched up some and one side of the laces gets an extra tug. At least the other shoe is still pristine. "What did Lily learn?"

"I think... I think Lily learned how..." Madilla breaks off, shaking her head. "I think Lily realised she needed to not feel like /just/ my daughter, Teris' niece. She needed to make her own history." Does that make sense? Madilla seems-- sounds-- uncertain about it.

The short little grunt says she's /heard/. Lacing continues, only this time it's lace-up instead of lace-down, and not exactly the same as it was before. "History." Tug. "Story."

"Your sister has always been one for history," says Madilla. "History and stories, they go hand-in-hand, I think. And she's always had her eye on the bigger picture."

Raija finally looks up over her shoulder at /that/, one amber eye peering through all that hair, though it can't be a conscious parallel.

Somehow, being looked at interrupts Madilla's train of thought (as if it hadn't already been partially derailed), and the healer goes silent, lips pressed together. Then: "She'll be a good weyrwoman, one day. But she'll be better for not having our eyes on her /all/ the time."

Hm. The amber eye doesn't shut, not all the way, but-- after some seconds of studying-- it half-closes as Raija turns back, resting her head against her mother's knee. Then she lifts her head again; to the room, this time, "Nobody says we can't go back, or that mostly people don't, anyway. They should tell us." /She's/ going to tell them.

Madilla's fingers smooth Raija's hair, pausing as the girl lifts her head again. "Oh, Raija. Lots of people do, though. It's only sometimes." Nevermind the track record of /this/ particular family.

"But they have to know." Raija loops around loops, and gets up as swiftly as she'd sat, leaving her mother with two shoes tied in bows: one at the top, but one at the /side/. Destination: table, once more.

"Okay," agrees Madilla. "But-- Raija?" She'll leave the shoes as they are.

Her head turns in lieu of a, 'Mama?'

"You get to decide. If you want to /go/, if you want to /stay/, if coming back feels right or wrong. And whatever you decide... papa and I will be there if you need us."

Click click click. Three little shells where they sit: none at all as perfect as the one she'd given Lilabet, but all with /colors/. "'S not," she says, finally, "just /feeling/."

"No?"

Her eyes roll back and around, her palm planted on the tabletop. "Can't just do what you /want/ to," and in her voice are all the times she had to /put things away/ [as opposed to leaving bits in not necessarily obvious places to be stumbled upon, sometimes literally], all the tending of tots, all the minders that corralled her little pack until they could jump the fences [sometimes almost literally] back into the wild.

"No, that's true," Madilla agrees. "Sometimes you have responsibilities. Like-- when Lilabet as a harper she had to go where she was sent. And she had to ask permission to go to Benden to Stand, too, because she'd made a commitment to the harpers. And now, she couldn't just decide to come home, either. But if, when she was an apprentice, she'd decided that harpering wasn't what she wanted to do, and she was /really certain/, she could have come home then. Or Dee. But I /asked/ to stay at High Reaches, because I knew it was home and I didn't want to leave, and sometimes that can happen, too."

Her eyes narrow. "How did you know?" The emphasis goes on any of those words, and all.

"Because... because it felt right. I had Delifa, and then I had papa, and of course here was home for Lily and Dee and then /you/, and..." There are probably a hundred different times when Madilla could have left High Reaches, perhaps /should/ have, craft-wise.

/Feelings/. /Again/. Raija makes a noise, and pokes at the shells again-- bright shells, wild shells, none of them /perfect/ shells-- and so far as she's concerned, that can be that. She can stack the glasses, and disappear into her hidey-hole, and-- it'll be later, when she meets with her pack, that she describes the likelihood of /going/ meaning /not coming back/.

Words, like feelings, are so often never quite enough - certainly not explicable, quantifiable, easy to categorise. If Madilla's dissatisfied with her own part in this conversation (and she very likely is), it's not something to be dwelled upon (at least not /now/; perhaps later, with H'kon). She draws herself back to her feet. She lets her youngest go.