Logs:Don't Let Go
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| RL Date: 28 June, 2012 |
| Who: Iolene, K'del |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A perfectly mundane day turns to tragedy. (Angst warning!) |
| Where: K'del's Weyr / Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 5, Month 2, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
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| K'del's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr Rank certainly has its privileges, and among them are amply appointed apartments. The short flight of stairs from the Weyrleader's Complex opens up into the larger of two chambers, formally decorated and clearly designed to cater as much to important guests as the occupant's personal living. Old, but obviously expensive, llama wool rugs dyed blue-and-black cover the stone floor, leading towards the second chamber, the stairs, and the rush-filled dragon couch and ledge beyond it. A formal seating arrangement - a sofa and chairs, all blue-and-black - sits around a large, tiled fireplace, whilst along the other wall, a finely made, if now somewhat antique, desk sits between a bookshelf and a tall cupboard to which tack-hooks have been attached, riding gear arranged neatly inside. Two tapestries hung from the high walls depict overdone splendour for High Reaches Weyr, one a long view of the snow-covered bowl, and the other a hazy impressionist piece of dragons flaming over a springtime countryside. The inner weyr, made up of a sleeping cavern and a private bathing area, is smaller and cosier and distinctly less ostentatious. An oversized wooden sleigh bed fills much of the space, the mattress piled high with overstuffed down pillows and comforter, their covers dyed in varying shades of navy blue, light blue and bronze. There's a nightstand on either side, both with reading lamps, and against one of the other walls, a tall, heavy wardrobe made from a dark wood that matches the bed. The bathing area is part of the same cavern, a folding screen shielding the toilet and slightly raised, double-sized bathtub built into the stone, and a small shelf holding toiletries, shaving equipment, and clean towels. The Weyrleader's weyr is inhabited again, though there's a new-to-the-weyr rug placed strategically on the floor, and a lanky blonde lounging in an armchair, her legs draped over an armrest and her back supported by a massive cushion. The hearth is lit, warming her wiggling toes, while Iolene flips listlessly through a hide. Her attention is far from the reading at hand, those dark eyes shifting to find K'del every so often with a twitch to her lips. Just when her constant peeking might get irritating, she remarks in that picking-a-fight sort of sad way, "Tiriana's gone and nothing's changed." Cosy domesticity is one of those things K'del rather enjoys, enough so that he's indulgent of Iolene's peeking even when he really is trying to get some work done. "Changed?" he asks, absently; it's hard to know whether he's really registered Iolene's tone, distracted, or if he's ignoring it in the hopes of it going away. In any case, though he glances up to smile briefly in the blonde's direction, his gaze soon drifts back to his work. There are scores along Iolene's brow as another page turns, the indecision of just how petulant she wants to come across warring through that pretty little head of hers manifesting visibly. She's still not reading. Another page turns, somehow as loudly as a turning page can sound. "I'm still in Avalanche. I'm still-," the teenager's voice falters and abruptly segues into, "Never mind. I'm just tired. Are you really busy today?" There's effort to sound less irate that's only half successful. This time, K'del does look up - and sets down his paperwork, too, so that he can illustrate properly that she really does have his attention. "Not sure what Lujayn's thoughts are on that, but maybe she intends to train you up with the other two." His tone is aiming for conciliatory. "Hey, now. It's fine. I'm not that busy. I guess I--" There are probably a lot of reasons K'del could provide about why he hasn't made sure things have changed for Iolene, but he breaks off before getting in to them. "Do you want to do something? Go somewhere? Can I help with anything?" The attention that he pays her rather than his work mollifies Iolene, as a small smile lifts her lips. Fortunately, she's just not aware enough to pursue an actual fight that requiring a conclusion to those unvoiced thoughts of why he has no power to change her status would likely bring. The smile leads to her moving, shifting off that armchair with cautious movements, and taking her time to pad across the room and drape her arms and self over K'del's shoulders. Bright eyes look at her lover from far too close, all shiny and imploring, "Do you have to work tonight? It's snowing, and no one's going anywhere and nothing's going to change anywhere," why yes, there's another note of petulance sneaking in there, even if it does get squashed in any successive words, "The Weyr'll keep running for a night without you finishing your work, no?" It's likely that K'del is relieved for that subject - or, more importantly, that fight - to be put aside, enough so that the smile he aims at the goldrider as she drapes herself across him is a beatific one. Tilting his head up so that he can place a kiss to her forehead, he assures her that, "No, I can take tonight off. The weyr'll be fine." The hides are flicked towards the floor, to fall as they may: his arms reach up to wrap around Iolene in reply. Iolene cozies herself on K'del's lap, enwrapped in those arms pretty easily. "I want you to tell me and baby a story." As if to stave off any dubious looks before they have a chance to start, the still fairly slender girl lifts a finger to his lips and continues with, "I'm pretty sure he-," pause, "She-," yes, far more satisfactory, "She can hear in there and she wants a story. Tell us about how you grew up and what you wanted to be before you met Cadejoth." With two five-turn-olds who love their father desperately, K'del has, at least, had some experience at telling stories; even so, it really does look as though he might object before that finger pauses him. "All right," he says, then, shifting his position just so for increased comfort-- and presumably using the time to work out what to say. One hand creeps around to rest on Iolene's belly as he says, "Once upon a time, there was a boy called Kasadel. He had six older brothers, and two sisters: one older, one younger. And it always felt like everything he could possibly do or be good at had already been done. It wasn't fair." The finger to his lips falls so her hand might rest upon his. It's a light touch at first, which then turns into a soothing caress. "It's never fair," agrees Iolene. Her body snuggles in all the more, blonde hair spilling down his back as she rests her head against his chest. "Kasalene," a name is tried on for size, and discarded (though not immediately replaced) with a wrinkled nose, "Wants to know what happened next." "Anything for Adelene," murmurs K'del, an interruption to the story, one accompanied by the turning of his hand so that he can capture her fingers and twine them through his. In a louder voice, "Kasadel was close to his sister, Nakasha, and they did nearly everything together. That made it really hard when, the turn he was fifteen, he decided to leave the family vinehold and go away - to find something that was his and hadn't been done before by Caderin or Perris or Ander or any of the others. Nakasha cried, but he swore he'd come back for her-- he'd've taken her with him, but she was just too little." Io tries that on for size: "Adalene." It's a low murmur, and still results in momentary dubiousness in her brow twitch. "Do you think she'll be as close to Nikalas and Kasey as Kasadel was with Nakasha?" Unexpected things. Bad, unexpected things. They always happen at the most mundane of times. Or seem to. Or maybe it's the balance or the comparative nature of humankind that makes the events leading up to something big seem far more normal than they really might be. As Iolene shifts, there's a dampness that seeps through the thin material of her little nightie - a pale colored blue one that would not count as a dress even to the most modern of weavers - onto K'del's pants. But she's moving again, albeit a little uncomfortably, and the sensation of something wet seems to pass. "She'll be their little sister," predicts K'del, quietly. "They'll adore her. Big, protective brothers, always keeping her safe." Those moments often go unnoticed at the time: other thoughts, other emotions, other things, all taking priority. K'del is wrapped up in his story, his pants thick enough that the dampness doesn't instantly seep through to more sensitive legs. "And so," he continues, oblivious to what's going on, his fingers tightening around Iolene's, "Kasadel travelled to Tillek, and stayed with his brother for a time. Not that there was anything for him at Tillek, either: he wasn't likely to become Lord Holder, and one of his brothers was already working as an assistant to the Steward. Anything else just wouldn't be enough." "Lord Kasadel." This name with a different title is tried on for size and elicits the tiniest little smile, but also visibly scrunches her eyes up in bemusement. "I can't imagine you as anything other than High Reaches' Weyrleader," says the Weyrleader's loyal lover. Iolene's hand over K'del's presses down, her thumb sweeping across the back of his hand in a repetitive motion. "I hope they do. I hope they like her even if she's-," a shadow dissipates the lightness the earlier scrunching brought, "My daughter." "Hey now," says K'del, shifting his position so that he can meet Iolene's gaze squarely, with a suddenly serious expression. "Why wouldn't they like her? There's nothing not to like. There's no reason not to like her because of you. None." That reply trumps any fantasy imaginings of Lord Kasadel, Craftmaster Kasadel: all of it. "You're perfect." Iolene pulls away enough, just so she can look at K'del straight on, but it does shift her position once more so she's less curled into his side and almost at his knees leaving in her wake a crimson streak that's also manifested beneath that chair, pooling on the stone floor. This weyr and blood, it's seriously bad luck. "Do you think... I mean, will anyone make fun of her for being the daughter of an- exile?" The last word, a title she rarely likes to use in reference to herself, follows her split second hesitation forcefully, almost as if she has to spit out to be able to self-reference that way. As she shifts, K'del follows her with his gaze, and in doing so-- how can he miss that redness? He can't. There's no answer to her question, not even the roughest beginnings of one: by the time she's talking, his face is beginning to go pale. "Io-- Io, no, fuck, we need to-- Io, you're bleeding." The paleness of his cheeks are the first signifier that she should stop talking, and anything else she might say or protest with about exiles and children and the prejudicial treatment of such, fades off into open-mouthed silence. Her own cheeks, wan already from a less than easy first few months of pregnancy, turn paler as those dark blue eyes slip to follow his gaze down. "Nooo," is her suddenly soft, pained denial. "No... that's Seani's." Never mind it's fresh and in totally the wrong spot. The awareness of all that's wrong with her rejection of his statement, or the implications of blood, exhales in a broken, "K'del," and arms that, rather than cling tighter to his solid frame, fall limp to her sides. "We've got to--" But it's obvious K'del doesn't know what it is they need to do; doesn't know, probably, how to deal with this. So much blood. "We've got to go to the infirmary. They'll know." The line of panic in his voice is impossible to miss, but at least he's reaching now to grab at Iolene, to pull her towards him or to pick her up; it's hard to tell what he's intending. Perhaps he doesn't even know. After all that shifting, Iolene is suddenly unwilling to move, the state of her shocked expression mixing with fear. Fear of moving. Fear that moving will make it worse. Fear from the assumption of what's exactly going on. It makes her limp and malleable to be picked up, dropped, hustled off. When (and if) he does pick her up, her arms suddenly cling and her face finds his chest for a sob. "It's my fault," is her mumbled, only vaguely coherent, cry. He does pick her up, scooping her up in his arms so that he can cradle her even as he's adjusting his grip and attempting to rise and get moving. If he had a free hand, there's no doubt there's a lot he'd want to do with it right now - but he doesn't, and so has words alone to soothe and comfort. "It's not," he says, desperately, as he pushes past a chair to get around it. "No. Don't think that. The healers will-- it's going to be fine. It's nothing you've done, I swear." His desperation draws more panic out of Io, than the soothing words can calm her. Those slim, maybe too skinny, arms squeeze so tight, as if by sheer force of will this might end soon. "I got sick. And it was cold. And I should have rested more and-." There's a small torrent of tears forming that spill down her face into his chest. This, at least, causes her to stop talking. And as the pair move, the late afternoon crowds part at the sight of the Weyrleader with a barely clad Iolene in his arms. Cheerful greetings die before they see air and the gossip mill begins to churn, in hushed, uncertain whispers in their wake. K'del's, "No, no, no," is a constant litany as he walks-- no runs through the weyr towards the infirmary. "It wasn't your fault, don't even think that. No. It's not-- no." It may not be a coherent narrative, but it's enough to sustain the Weyrleader who is oblivious to those who watch them - or perhaps he's just uncaring. Through the living caverns, into the inner caverns until, finally, bursting into the Infirmary, he has tear-soaked words for the healers at hand: "She's bleeding. Fix her." Please. The healers, unused to having the Weyrleader burst through their doors in tears and with demands stop to stare, a little taken back, until the apprentice who should be manning the admission's desk comes forward. Hidework can wait, is her ultimate decision apparently, as though her hands move in rote response (by gathering up documents), her feet and voice indicate the bronzerider to follow towards a curtained off area with a cot. Face pale as she appraises the situation, she adds, "I'll call the journeyman on duty to come immediately, sir," before scurrying off. Iolene seems loathe to let go of K'del, unwilling to be set on that examination cot, and makes her feelings known through the constrictive tightening of her arms and a whimpering, "No, don't let go." So K'del sits on the cot, still cradling Iolene (though at least he doesn't have all of her weight to support anymore), rocking her gently as he waits for the healer to arrive. "I'm right here," he promises, in a cracked and breaking voice. "Right here, not going anywhere. It's okay. The healers--" Will no doubt make him move, eventually, but for right now: this is where he needs to be. The healer who comes, an aging master rather than journeyman (being Weyrleader has its privileges), is quicker than the apprentice to appraise the situation and doesn't allow any emotion other than a practiced gentle kindness to smooth her features. The curtains are closed about the examination cot and through a combination of soothing pets, low words, coaxes Iolene out of K'del's arms and onto the cot. There's no attempts to move the Weyrleader from his seat, however, should he choose the cot over a nearby chair. The examination is brief, and when the grim prognosis is voiced with an initial, "I'm sorry," the floodgates Iolene hasn't really held back successfully, spill forth anew; so much so the rest of the healer's words get lost on her. It's to K'del mostly, but also to Iolene, the healer continues to speak softly, explaining what will happen next: the bleeding, the cramping, the eventual bedrest, and the herbal concoctions the blonde woman will have to take to aid the process and recover. Perhaps, the outcome was known even before the master showed up, for shortly, a journeywoman appears with fellis-laced brew, smelling faintly floral. "It'll help you sleep," is assured. Which it does, eventually. And after the exam, the fellis administrating, the changing of Iolene into something warmer and less stained, the healers leave the pair alone to grieve; or at least K'del alone to grieve. Cause somewhere in all this, with her hand clasping his so tightly, Iolene's fallen into a drug-induced sleep. >---< Gossip: Iolene sick >--------------------------------------------------< Sometime, late in the afternoon of the fifth day of month two, the
Weyrleader was spotted racing through the lower caverns towards the
infirmary with Iolene in his arms. Healers are notoriously tightlipped
about their patients, healer-patient privilege and all that, but when
K'del emerged later that night, he looked haggard, and for some, it wasn't
too hard to put all the pieces together: that the exile-turned-goldrider
lost the Weyrleader's baby.
Reactions vary from: 'it happens' to more derogatory remarks about it
happening a lot to those exile girls, perhaps some remembering Jaques's
wife, Evie. Others comment on the cocktail of herbs and drugs the blonde
woman is reportedly on.
Iolene was discharged from the infirmary four days later and put on bed
rest. She is reportedly not accepting visitors.
>-------------------------------< Day 5, Month 2, Turn 29 of Interval 10 >---<
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