Difference between revisions of "Logs:Not Tethered"

A short tunnel and a shorter set of stairs leading up from the ledge
  reveal a weyr that has been well maintained over time and disuse, if one  
  that perpetually has a sweet, earthen smell. Unusually, there are no      
  separate chambers in this Weyrwoman's weyr, the bedroom and bath only made
  distinct by two walls that rise three-quarters to the ceiling.            
                                                                            
  In the main area, the hearth sits near the tunnel from the ledge,         
  decorated with a square pattern of ruddy bricks along the floor, which    
  rise into a decorative arch above, the mantel stretching from one end to  
  the other. An indigo velvet sofa and two wing-backed chairs upholstered in
  blue and gold, sit in front of the hearth, on a plush cream and antique   
  gold patterned rug; a more recent addition is the low coffee table,       
  showing ornate legs, that squats before the couch. Against the opposite   
  wall is a finely made sideboard, with multiple drawers and cabinets for   
  storing crystal glasses, silverware, and on top, bottles of distinguished 
  wine and liquor, flanked by towering bookcases filled with books and      
  pretty bric-a-brac. To the east is a tunnel that leads down towards the   
  Weyrleaders' Complex.                                                     
                                                                            
  The bedroom section of the weyr contains an ornate wooden queen-sized bed,
  dressed in a plush mattress, soft cream sheets, and piled high with dark  
  blue pillows and varying shades of gray furs, and both a tall armoire and 
  low chest of drawers; the later piece of furniture is decorated with large
  glass jars filled with candles that burn in the darker hours of the day.  
  In one corner, a full length mirror is angled against the wall. Just      
  across from the bedroom, behind the other three-quarter wall, is a small, 
  elevated stone bath that is built into the walls. Ancient plumbing makes  
  sure there will be hot water when needed and though no vanity exists, a   
  single built-in shelf is carved out just above the tub. Hung on the       
  half-finished wall is a slightly warped mirror.

Colder weather means sorting and storing climate-appropriate items, and for some odd reason, it's at night that Farideh's set herself to the task. Outside, it's chilly, and inside, while the fire blazes, clothes and decor are strewn around the weyr haphazardly; it's enough to wonder if she's emptied out the contents of her wardrobe and trunks. She's sitting somewhere in the middle of the floor, leaning against the couch, holding up a sweater that she's busy eyeing critically, and nearby, there's a semi-full wineglass of something red. A sigh precedes her tossing the quality garment to the side, in a steadily-growing pile.

Drex has made himself scarce throughout Farideh's clothes-sorting frenzy. It's been raining heavily, as evidenced by the fact that he's soaking wet, though he doesn't sound like he's completely soused, which is a nice change, as he stops in the entrance, head tipped, watching Farideh with an odd expression.

A second sweater makes its way into the pile, on top of a lacy pink dress; hers are quick, efficient decisions, sticking to some internal checklist Farideh has. She sits back to admire her handiwork, even if she's frowning while she's doing it, and then notices Drex lingering near the entryway. Straightening immediately, she looks momentarily stricken, like she's been caught doing something bad. "What?" is the greeting she settles on, reaching for and lifting her wineglass.

"Nothin'," Drex replies, with equal amounts of guilty-at-being-caught as she displays, shoulders quickly lifting and dropping as he makes his way inside. His coat is shed and hung up near the door, but he's less neat with his boots, hopping his way along as he pulls them off one by one, tugging hand through wet hair before dropping onto the couch where he can watch what she's doing.

Farideh does her own fair share of staring as he gets rid of jacket and boots, but by the time he touches the couch she's set down her wineglass again and is folding another shirt. "I was thinking of getting a few new things made. I don't know if I should stick to one of the weavers here or send for someone from the Hall, but," she sets the shirt aside and turns to look up at him, "I thought, if you needed anything, we can do that at the same time. You don't have to wear the same things all the time." Her eyes flick back to the wet, discarded jacket.

If he seems surprised that Farideh's getting more clothes, well -- Drex has known her long enough not to be, or to be able to hide it. It's the latter comment that earns a scrunching of his face in reaction. "Aint nothin' wrong with my clothes," he says, with only a hint of defensiveness. "Besides," he adds, as he leans forward, his foot catching one of those neatly folded dresses, holding it up, "Aint any room in your closet to store anything of mine anyway," he teases.

"No," is slow, cautious, "but what if you can have a better jacket? Boots? Warmer sweaters? You wouldn't want the best?" Even if she already knows his answer, and her face shows it, Farideh got ahead and asks anyway. She attempts to snatch back the dress he's dirtying with his muddy boots, frowning. "You might need them when you're on your ship. It gets wet and cold, right?" The look she gives him is part irritation and part pout. "You don't have to, I just thought--" Frustrated, she turns back to her clothes, which she starts picking up, studying, and discarding stiffly.

Drex squints, briefly, since he can tell her tone is cautious but he's not sure why, and not sure he's not getting played. "Aint fallin' apart or nothin'," he replies, like he's not sure why she's even asking. His foot lowers when she snatches back the dress, and he snorts. "If I fronted up to the ship in fancy new," his hand waves over the piles of clothes, "Things, they'd probably make me walk the plank. Fari," he says, stretching out a hand as if to beckon her towards the couch, "Come over here."

"Your crew seems awfully plank-happy. Don't agree with Itsy? You walk the plank. Wear nice clothes? You walk the plank. Look at someone cross-eyed? You walk the plank." It could be construed as amusement, but her sour expression conveys something altogether different; she's not impressed by the rags-and-tough-skin reputation, apparently. "Why?" she asks, suddenly wary of his beckoning, holding up a sweater like it might protect her from whatever he has in store. "You want to help?"

"It's just a saying," Drex says, perhaps a little unconvincingly. Especially since he mutters, "Mostly," under his breath a moment later. With a shake of his head, he replies, "No. I want to cuddle my girl. Aint nothing wrong with that," a bit defensively, again.

The sweater eventually drops when Farideh's hands lower. "No," she admits, softly, and gets to her feet, making her way carefully through the clothing to get to Drex. "I'm sorry. It's been-- a long day," is somewhat nervous-sounding, but then she drops down on the couch next to him and has a more genuine smile. "How was yours?"

"Aint had a good run," Drex agrees, of Farideh's day -- days. When she drops onto the couch, he settles an arm around her, pulling her close -- kissing her on the head. "Ought to take a vacation. Somewhere warm. Shake that bug of yours," is his assessment. "That or, drink lots of rum. That always worked on the ship." Kind of. Of his day, there's a lift-and-drop of his shoulder: "Stuck working inside most of the day 'cos of the weather. Makes me feel..." he trails off, unable to come up with an appropriate word, though the squint of his expression might tell the story well enough all the same.

The familiar comfort has the goldrider sinking into Drex, giving a tiny sigh that's more akin to happiness than frustration. "I don't think now would be a good time," Farideh manages, in a level voice. "I--" Her voice cuts off before her mouth closes, and then she's fiddling with the hem of her shirt in a preoccupied way. "Restless?" she guesses, lifting her eyes to his face. "Are you ready to be back on the ship? It's been-- a while."

"Why? You're," Drex waves his hand about the cavernous room, "The boss." Except for, you know, the boss above her. Her question about his restlessness makes him hesitate, obviously, before admitting, "Wouldn't mind getting back out there. No word back from the Pirate Queen yet. She hasn't made port." He's frowning, at that. "Maybe I can hire a fishing boat, and take you out." Because that'll surely help with not vomiting everywhere.

"I'm not," Farideh retorts, a bit heatedly for the casualness of the conversation, "the boss. Irianke is, and Roszadyth doesn't exactly-- can't go." Which is to say, she obviously hasn't thought of going outside the Weyr, without her dragon. "I'm sure you will, soon. You said two and a half months. Maybe they're-- caught up, somewhere," is supposed to be calming offering, but towards the end, even she sounds unsure; it's all followed by a soft, if sharp, inhale. "Drex-- we-- I'm-- sorry," sounds sad, apologetic.

"Baby boss, then," Drex corrects. "Yer like... me, to Itsy. Boss of others. Still can do shit, y'know?" Her talk about her dragon has him furrowing, as usual obviously not quite understanding the whys. "Aint worried," he says, after a beat. "Itsy can look after her." Her being the ship, presumably. And Itsy looking after herself is just a given. His arm tightens around her at the apology. "Aint nothing," he blows it off, now, anyway, and his casualness belies the twitchy restlessness he's been demonstrating.

Something he says has her going very quiet, very still; sitting passively while he talks. His easy acceptance has her turning into him, resting her cheek against his shoulder, which also conveniently keeps her face -- and subsequent ashamed expression -- out of ready view. "That's not--" is followed by a short pause. "I went to the infirmary today."

Drex doesn't read the signs, perhaps distracted still. It's only when she mentions going to the infirmary that he shifts, his head dropping to try and catch her expression and failing. "What's wrong?" he asks, clearly alarmed. "Thought it was just a bug? Are they going to send you to Southern?" because that's where all the sick and/or injured people go to die, except when they don't and come back.

Her expression, if seen, is filled with embarrassment, guilt, and the phase just before tears, with flushed cheeks, bright, downcast eyes, and a deep frown. "No, they're not sending me anywhere, I'm--" Farideh still hesitates, clearly caught up on some emotion or misconception. "Drex-- I hope you don't hate me," softly, and just before, "they said I'm-- pregnant."

And Drex... stares at her blankly. Because clearly he must have misheard her, or... something.

The staring? It's almost worse, and Farideh quickly covers her face with her hands. "I'm sorry," gets whispered through fingers.

After a longer pause. "What?" Drex shakes his head. "Sorry about what?" with a kind of forcefulness.

It's going well! That must be why, when Farideh lifts her head from her hands to stare at him incredulously, her eyes are wet-looking from burgeoning tears. "What?" she repeats, clearly confused, in spite of her splotchy complexion and sad expression. "Because, I didn't-- we weren't supposed to-- not after the last time. I wasn't trying to," as she starts wiping away the tears that have begun to fall just under her eyes.

It's going so well, except Drex's processing power seems rather slower in catching up, and he hasn't even had any (probably) beer today! He's still frowning. "Are you... really?"

Calm -- much calmer than she might otherwise be -- Farideh says, "Yes. That's-- why I've been-- it's not a stomach bug. I'm not sick, not like that anyway." She keeps wiping purposefully at her face, but shifts on the couch so she's turned slightly away from him now. "The healers know."

"Oh." Drex is... taking it well. Or possibly not at all. It's hard to say. There's conflicting expressions in his gaze; like he's reacting but trying to suppress it. "Is it..." he hesitates, like he's not sure for a moment he wants to continue, but then pushes on: "Mine?"

A single sniffle interrupts Farideh's sudden, ominous quiet, moments before her head turns and her disbelieving stare is pinned on the sailor. "Are you implying that it isn't?" she questions, sitting a little stiffer and certainly, less warm.

That ominous quiet should be enough to warn him off, and yet Drex stubbornly (stupidly?) persists: "There were others," he says, defensively. "Aint saying... won't look after you, either way. I just want to... know."

Every single emotion plays across Farideh's face as she feels it, but mostly there's anger, from pricked pride. "And you're equating me to--" Her jaw clenches, her hands, now in her lap, balling into fists. "A whore." It's a bad word on her tongue, one which has her getting to her feet and walking away.

"Didn't say that," Drex replies, sharply, his brows drawing downwards, now. "Hey, hey," he says, standing as she does, and trying to encircle her in a hug from behind. "I'm sorry, I didn't--" he exhales sharply. "I just... it aint easy."

"You didn't have to say it," is Farideh's curt reply, but she's not moving fast enough to evade the embrace-from-behind. She stills completely, body rigid, regardless of his intentions. "I thought," she starts, quietly, "you would be mad. You might assume I was lying again. I didn't think that you would ask that."

"I'm trying not to be," mad, presumably, Drex's arms tense around her, relaxing by measures as she stills, even if she's still rigid. He drops his head into the curve of her shoulder, while one of his hands shifts to press over her stomach. His, "You said you wouldn't lie," is his response to that last, before he falls silent.

The tension keeps, and while he's brave enough to touch and settle, she doesn't reciprocate. "I wouldn't," Farideh affirms, followed by a stretch of silence. "It's impossible," rings tired and hollow, "that it isn't. They said five or six weeks, and it's been longer than that. You were gone after, and then--" Her head shake is so slight it's almost imperceptible. "It's yours."

It'd be hard for her not to feel that the tension seeps out of Drex's arms, even if he's largely unaware of it himself. "Ok," he says, near inaudibly. His arms tighten, imperceptibly, before he presses lips to her cheek, and releases her. He moves towards the desk -- the one he never goes near -- and starts to fiddle with her things, pulling out ink and hide.

If Farideh notices anything, she chooses not to react, instead standing, unmoving and blank-faced, until he walks away; her bewildered stare follows him to the desk then, guarded eyes studying him warily. "What are you doing?" is doubly worried, given his more recent lack of desire for writing. "Drex."

There's a look of concentration as Drex pens the first word, before he glances over at her question. "Writin' Itsy." He frowns down at the paper, "How do you spell, uh, can't? And back? I remember come."

Comprehension doesn't dull the look of consternation Farideh wears, but she does walk to the desk and gives him, his paper and pen, both pensive stares. "You're sure?" she counters, letting her eyes to his. "I'm not going to make you stay. Not after the last time and not if--" Frustration rises, briefly. "C-a-n-'-t, b-a-c-k."

"Gonna be winter soon, anyway. By the time I got back--" he gives a shrug, like it doesn't matter any more, even though it did not that long ago. Drex frowns, and bends back over the paper, carefully writing as he reads aloud the letters. It's rather short, all told, but requires help with a few more words, in particular 'dad', since he's never had occasion to use the word before. When he's done, he sets the pen down, looking up at Farideh, since he's seated. "Might want to take some time off here and there to -- get out on the sea at least. And when winter's over, at least a month." He's looking at her expectantly, as if waiting for her approval.

No more protests come from Farideh, who stands beside him and largely silently, helping with whatever words he needs help with, but mostly watching and still bearing that pensive expression. She's looking vaguely bewildered when he sets his pen down and looks at her. "Time to-- a month of what?"

"Get out on the sea," Drex says, like that should be obvious.

"Oh." Oh! "If you want to go, go. You'll have to get the proper clearances with Jounine, but-- your time is your own, to do with as you please," has the ring of business, and it's softened by, "I'm not going to selfishly keep you here. I thought you might want to go, anyway." Farideh glances down at the letter. "We didn't plan. I didn't think about it. You can still do what you want. Better than us both being stuck here," she sighs.

"I do," Drex admits softly. "Want to go. But," as he stretches out a hand to her in offer, this time, "But want to stay with you, too." He frowns, a bit. "Can't you ask for time off? We can... I don't know. Go stay at Tillek, or High Reaches, somewhere with a port. Roszadyth can help me fish." Or something! It's not like he really knows how dragons work or anything.

"It won't be good if you resent us, either," Farideh says, staring quite willfully at the offered hand before setting her own lightly in it. "Drex, that's not how it works. Not now." She is sympathetic for him, for now, in his ignorance of search and cycles. "She can't go anywhere because she's going to lay eggs soon, and from those eggs-- more dragons. She'll be bound to the sands until they hatch. It will be-- a while, and I can't go between either right now. Not for two or three more months." Sadly, "I'm sorry, but you should go, if you want to."

Drex hand, his fingers are rough, rubbing against hers silently for a moment. "I'll go," he says, finally, slowly. "But not yet. Ok?" He stands, regarding her, as if waiting to see how she'll react to that.

Drex's hand takes hers, and his fingers are rough, rubbing against hers silently for a moment. "I'll go," he says, finally, slowly. "But not yet. Ok?" He stands, regarding her, as if waiting to see how she'll react to that.

Her response is slow, but certain: a succinct nod that signifies a yes and pliant fingers. "Ok," Farideh answers. "Not yet. Whenever you feel--" The need? "I won't stop you if you need to go. When. I promise." She only glances up when he stands, studying his face in turn. "You're not tethered."

And Drex answers that, but wordlessly, with a gentle kiss, cradling her face as he does so.