Difference between revisions of "Logs:AU - Severed"

It's wasn't the sweet or spicy teas that Azaylia used to serve him; this one was new, made from a mountain-grown plant abundant near the caves that now served as weyrs, a root tea, bitter and earthy, but healthful, bracing. A'rist held it out to Azaylia, looking at the grey of her hair, greyer against the bright flower clip in it. The clip was happy and out of place. It all made him ache, not in his bones or muscles, but his heart.

Once the weyrwoman had accepted the mug, he sat on the unoccupied tree trunk of a stool, casting one quick look to Hraedhyth, still in Lythronath's escort, as she'd been since her arrival. The bronze's warning clicks were intermittent - probably in time to Hraedhyth reaching through his group, though A'rist didn't know what the queen was looking for in the warped minds she would find here. But it didn't matter what she did find; Lythronath's claim was solid, unchallenged here, even by Hraedhyth. And for the time, things were still.

A'rist lifted his cup to let the steam tickle his nose. "So how many are there, do you think?"

Azaylia ran a hand through her hair. "At least a third, though... it's hard to tell when they're this little." Her laugh lines stood out better in the firelight, when she smiled. "Some might just be finding their way. They're still so sweet, A'rist."

« Babies. » Lythronath pressed at Hraedhyth strongly enough that A'rist felt it. He wanted images. Wanted tradition, maybe, in his own way. A'rist set some of his attention to listening in, but still smiled a little, wry.

"And some aren't. There are a few bronzes you'll want..." Azaylia lifted her cup, muttered along the edge of it, "Always the big ones."

"Hm." A'rist didn't know what to say, to that. He had no place apologising here - Lythronath hadn't sired a clutch in turns - and sitting, sipping tea with Azaylia - even this tea - was too comfortable for him to want to voice the dark pattern that was emerging. Even if they both must see it, must be thinking the same thing.

Hraedhyth pressed her head to Lythronath's brow, nudging until her grooming teeth landed on one of those wicked eyeridges. « Babies. » A'rist listened in, to the thundering drums of unashamed maternal pride. Even for the strange ones. The warped ones. Azaylia might never call them the wrong ones, but A'rist...

"The bronzes might not need our protection," A'rist mused. "They're as like to go off on their own, fend for themselves. Cause a ruckus, when they're old enough." He looked back over to Lythronath, his hide wearied by wounds and age. Lynner could handle them if needed. For now.

The ichor was drying at the edges of the gash in Lythronath's hide. A'rist had to scrub harder to lift the flakes off the bronze. He made a face and dug in.

"He's probably used to all that, huh?" That nervous bluerider was still hovering at his shoulder, looking over the netting of old scars and scrapes on Lynner's hide, glancing back to the brown that Lythronath had once again marked up, wringing his hands... annoying the shit out of A'rist, generally.

"Never really bothered him to begin with." A'rist could sense the testiness in his voice, and paused in tending his dragon. He forced himself to take a breath, to let his shoulders drop on the exhale. The boy was new. The boy was scared. This was the first time his blue had met his like. They'd be adjusting for now. A'rist ran his fingers over one of the more faded of Lythronath's scars. They'd be adjusting for a while.

He looked over his shoulder to his newest addition. "That's just how he's been, though. Always. More worried about what happens to me than him." He tried a smile.

"Right," said the bluerider. He pulled his hands up against his belly, but didn't stop wringing them. The brown roared when his rider hit a tender spot. A'rist rolled his eyes. These altercations were necessity; the guilt had long since gone, left only with weariness. He'd had to remind himself, more and more now, to be patient with these young ones.

So young. A'rist looked past the bluerider to the dragon, who was staring at Lythronath. Blank staring. One of the first signs. Lythronath made a few warning clicks, deep in his throat, and bobbed his head.

« Blues. »

"Oh, don't-" that bluerider was stepping forward, finally unlinking his hands, to reach one out toward his dragon. A'rist grabbed his shoulder, squeezed hard.

"It'll go better if they just... deal with it." If he could hear the tired in his voice, surely their new 'weyrling' could, too. A'rist gave another squeeze, warning, not comforting. That bluerider, he got it. He wrapped his arms around himself. Both riders stepped back.

"Right. Right." Azaylia's voice was quiet, almost a rasp. Was that from age, A'rist wondered, or the necessities of leading, when stable Weyrleaders were getting harder to come by, and the intermittent Falls had shown no sign of letting up. Azaylia had carried on, and A'rist had to scramble, focus on what had just been said. "He'll be happy about the greens, though. Two at least, but I don't know about keeping them together. One's already had her sail torn by the other."

Her smile was gone. When A'rist sipped the tea, it was bitter.

"We probably won't be able to take them all into the wing, anyway." He grimaced, at the tea, at the word. "Faranth, calling it a 'wing'..."

"Call it what it is, A'rist. It's his wing." Azaylia was looking to Lythronath now. Lythronath, who was still blissfully listening to the drumsong for babies.

"It's his gang, Azaylia." Dryly, "Call it what it is."

"Your gang," the goldrider taunted, but playfully.

Part of him wanted to laugh, part of him to lunge at her with pinches or tickles... but A'rist just pressed his lips together, and stood up from his stool. "We'll help as best we can. Take who we can, while still being able to fight. To defend."

"Hraedhyth can handle the rest of them." A'rist found it hard to accept her assurances straight off. He looked over to the dragons, long enough to mark out the different scars over her hide. The proof of her handling of them.

"Don't keep them if you're not sure, Azaylia. They're getting worse. If they're going to tear something up, let it be each other, and not the Weyr." He looked at her, hard, and pushed Lythronath to just leave the baby stories already. What place did they have here? "Don't let Ista happen here."

"We won't." Her features had hardened, when she leaned forward. "If you promise that if... if it's ever too much for you, for him, to call us." She didn't look to the dragons, not this time. A'rist wouldn't, either. "They don't always listen to a queen, but it could help. And you could come home."

A'rist scowled.

"Sorry, I just- I worry."

The old words he'd known since weyrlinghood. He nodded, still with the scowl on his face, and tossed the remainder of his tea into the fire, making the light flicker the more irregularly. "You two should get back. They need you, at the Weyr."

Azaylia was up, and had her arms around him before he could dodge. "You old hard ass."

A'rist snorted, even tried a bit of a smile to send the goldrider on her way.

« Home? » Hraedhyth's words were potent enough that A'rist felt them in his own chest. He clenched his fingers around the handle of the little cup.

A'rist knew, before the light had gone from the young bronze's eyes, before the craze had settled into his rider and sent him pitching and flailing and screaming and nearly breaking the hold A'rist's riders had on him. A'rist knew because Lythronath knew, because he felt another piece of his dragon's mind shake loose, because he felt everything trying to turn inside-out. Knew because it happened every time. And was worse, every time.

It had been, Thread was what brought them together. When he and Lythronath were younger, when they were still in the first generation of these beasts - after Lythronath - it almost made everyone normal. It brought them to the same place, to the same purpose. But each generation was worse. Coming together was dangerous. There were always challenges. There were always responses. But the instinct to fight Thread couldn't be overcome in these savage dragons.

He could feel Lythronath totter against his mind, sharp, hot madness, just on the edge.

Now, when Thread brought them together, it also brought the fights. And this time, death.

Lynner.

The dying bronze lifted his head a final time, a pool of sickly green beneath him. A'rist tasted ichor. Lythronath wavered, roared. A'rist held on.

Lynner.

The dragon collapsed.

Lynner.

The rider screamed. All the normal dragons keened. Some of Lythronath's dragons keened. Lythronath keened.

« A'rist. »

« Home. » Lythronath's was a command, and Hraedhyth received the same nip he gave to the dragons in their wing. Gang. The gold snapped her jaws, but moved back. A'rist was glad for it. Lythronath needed to keep control, here. That was what gave them cohesion, what kept them together, when so many other bonds had long since broken.

« You will come Home. »

A'rist and Lythronath watched them go.