Logs:For Leading You On
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 14 August, 2011 |
| Who: Jaques, Iolene |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Jaques apologizes. Iolene calls him out on his lie and discovers the truth of the boys' night out fight. Ysavaeth dreams in Iolene's memories and tonight, with the recollection of the hatching, she reaches out to dam and sire until Iolene hurts her. |
| Where: Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 28, Month 6, Turn 26 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Devaki/Mentions, Tomaeran/Mentions |
  |
| It's that rare moment of respite, where Ysavaeth is sleeping and Iolene's making a mad scrambling dash to do humanly things. Matted damp hair can only mean a recent bath, which is probably an all too good thing as any other weyrling in her vicinity might know, Io's smelled like she hasn't had a bath in three days. In spite of the food before her, a bowl of unsweetened oatmeal and a small plate of summer berries, she doesn't look like she's eaten in as many days what with how skinny she appears to be getting and even now, her spoon picks listlessly at her bowl. Churn it. Churn it some more. Pick it up. Drop it down. Pick it up again and consider the mound for a very long time. It's no longer dinner time, so the living cavern is nominally empty. Greshaith, ever obedient to his queen, has done his hopping penance even if he hasn't been particularly friendly toward Ysavaeth in general. And Jaques has been minding his own business since their spat as well, though at least some of that is at least matched in his increasingly overwhelmed expressions as they try to keep up with growing dragons. Tonight, though, he hesitates with food in hand before he approaches Iolene and sets his plate down opposite her. The oatmeal's been stewing in her bowl for long enough that the spoon in it stands up straight when Iolene lets go of it. Any other time, this might draw her smile to her lips, but the new rider only looks tired and a glance up to see whose shadow casts over her table just makes her look all the more wearied as her brow pinches together. But it is Io, after all, and she can't be unwelcome even when ignoring someone. It's a flaw. So she says, "Hi," very very quietly. "Hi," Jaques echoes back, nearly as quietly. And then he's silent again, settling down with his food to start picking at it. Despite the workload, he doesn't seem particularly hungry tonight, and instead finds himself watching Iolene in that way of his, for several long moments before he offers, "I'm sorry." Six days. Six days for him to approach her. Six days for her to speak to him. Six days for her to have a dragon listen in on her every thought and know more of her than she'd ever share with anyone. There have also been six days for Iolene to stew herself, much as that spoon starts doing again, and consider her options and grow some semblance of a spine. "No. You're not." Beat. "But that's ok." Some semblance, not a full one, and she attempts a smile that just barely fails. "You can sit. You should eat. They didn't tell us a lot about being dragonriders." "You're not, either. At least I tried," Jaques points out, evenly though it might be. He manages a couple of bites, picking through everything with a solemn expression; now he takes more interest in the food than in her, which may or may not be comforting. "They told us plenty," he notes. "It's just--different." "I didn't say I was sorry." Confused, Iolene's long lashes fly upward to stare. "My point," says Jaques, pausing in eating to meet that look with one of his own. "I should be sorry," is what Iolene surmises aloud, less confused as to what Jaques means and more uncertain of what he's implying. "Why?" So, "Forget it," says Jaques, and returns to eating. Some seconds later, "How is Ysavaeth?" Iolene ignores that. She's a troubled seventeen year old who has probably slept less than twelve hours in the last six days. "Why do you hate me?" The spoon finally finds her mouth and shoves a mouthful of oatmeal into it, so much so that it causes her to choke, spitting half of it back into her bowl. The question is surprising enough to pull Jaques' attention back up to Iolene, and his brows arch for just a moment before a small, not particularly cheerful smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "I don't hate you, Iolene," he tells her. "I couldn't." Miserable, and able to reveal it now from behind her really thin, horrible poker face, Iolene's lower lip pulls out. "Then, why would you do that to me? How could you? How did you find out? Have you know this whole time? You think I'm disgusting. You hate me. You told /everyone/," is the final, restrained wail that punctuates her series of questions. Even when upset, the questions, they are unending. She's not smart enough to realize Jaques might not know everything. Oh well. Even in sleep, Ysavaeth dreams. Most of the time, they're thoughts and memories that are accessed from Iolene's memories. Tonight, this includes the hatching, and unintentionally this causes the young queen to stretch forth, in a draconic version of sleepwalking, to brush a fluttering decadent scarf in rainbow colors past her dam's mind, a scarf that turns musical with each actual contact of mind to mind. Then. Then. There's a baby snore that interrupts the intermittent musical. (Ysavaeth to Iovniath) "Why do you think we got in that fight?" answers Jaques, brows furrowing as he tries to understand--not her hurt; that's easy. But the confusion, when the how's seem so obvious even if the why's don't. The why's, that he leaves alone for now. "We fought?" Iolene's misery comes to an abrupt halt and the food, half-finished in her mouth, just stays there as she stares at Jaques. She /fought/ with someone? Jaques, patiently, "Tom. Dev. And me." She swallows whatever oatmeal is left in her mouth in one gulp that will probably not stay down that nicely later. Weakly, as the puzzle starts to make a type of sense Iolene doesn't want to recognize, "Grams said boys sometimes fight." Jaques shrugs. "Doesn't mean we don't have our reasons." She knows. She might not want to know, but she does. Iolene's eyes close and her lips disappear into her mouth. What she breathes out, eventually, breaking their silent tableau is, "Oh. Jaques." A hand reaches across the table. A soft, well-oiled, but somehow still grimey (despite the bath) hand that tries to rest on top of and then pet his. "He didn't know." A continued melody, that's carried along a heavy, rainbow-dyed silk scarf, brushes past Cadejoth's mind in a fluttering motion, where each tactile moment where scarf, and a sleeping baby queen's mind, meeting her sire's mind creates a note. It's disjointed to be sure, and abruptly ends with a baby snore that pops all the rainbowy musical notes. Like soap bubbles. Sleeping baby dragons + subjects that were, not so long ago, on a rider's mind = dreams and recollections and unintentional reachings out. (Ysavaeth to Cadejoth) Her expression makes Jaques' mouth pull into that wry smile of his again, and he turns his hand to take hold of hers. "Not why I hit him, anyway," he remarks with a lift of his shoulders. Does she want to know? Iolene takes in a long, suffering sort of breath, and expels it with, "Why?" Probably not really, not if her expression and slumped shoulders state more for her than her voice can. Surprised, Cadejoth's chains jangle into activity, dropping abruptly still again moments later - no doubt the same moment in which he realises that she's sleeping, that this is not an /intentional/ intrusion. So he hovers, extending out a silver thread that clearly seems intended to soothe and caress; as long, of course, as he hasn't woken her up already. (Cadejoth to Ysavaeth) To Cadejoth, Ysavaeth remains asleep. Though, in a barracks not so distant from his ledge, a sleeping baby dragon's eyes squeeze much like a child's might when unexpected light spills into the room, or in this case, a jangle of chains that don't quite fit into her melody. It's a tense little moment where the gold's brain wavers between sleep and wakefulness, but eventually, with a flop of her tail and a turn of her still, small body, she finds sleep once more. This allows a little miniature version of her to pop up into Cadejoth's mind and prance after that silver thread, bat at it, nose it curiously and then disappear with another snoring pop. Such cuteness! It's not been long enough for Cadejoth to forget his role as sire; he leans in to watch with a certain amount of paternal adoringness, extending that thread into a playful ribbon-- at least as long as she's there to chase it. He's so quiet, now: so still. To wake her up would be an intrusion, and besides, this is a pleasure he's loathe to lose. It's as though he's holding his breath, hovering just barely outside her mind, like an encouragement for her to return to his. (Cadejoth to Ysavaeth) Simply, "For leading you on--hurting you--in the first place." For a while, there's nothing intentionally extended from her. But should he be peeking or hovering, the gentle rhythm of a tired out dragon can be heard in successive snores and then a sleep yawn that has her turning once more. As she cozies herself physically, her brain again reaches out to the one touch that accepted her somnolent state, and the tiny little dragon reappears and hovers. The sudden emergence of a tall red colored tree hides her until her little head leans out from one side to peek and giggle. It's not very dragon-like at all. In fact, it's very Io-like. (Ysavaeth to Cadejoth) For that, Iolene can admit, sad, "I was hurt." The teenager, so young, considers her bowl and what little appetite she had befoer is now gone. "He's gone now. He left." A pause then leads to a shake of her head, "Or he's dead. I don't know which, but he's gone." The blonde girl can smile now, though it's not a happy one. "I got a boyfriend. And I lost him. I got a brother. And I lost him. I have a dragon now. If we had never gotten rescued... I'd be married I think and wouldn't have Ysavaeth." It's only when her dragon is sleeping that such thoughts might creep into her head and impart in her tone: that she's not sure which she would have preferred. To Ysavaeth, Cadejoth, let's face it, is not exactly patient. Or subtle. Or inclined to accept boundaries if he can get away with it. And Ysavaeth? Is part of his weyr. That totally justifies peeking. But he seems much more content with that tiny little dragon in his head, and adds to the image a representation of himself, much larger, but nonetheless terrified by the peek-a-boo Ysavaeth. 'Terrified'. The giggle seems to amuse him, resonating quietly in the faint twang of bone-and-chain, caught short though it is, like a captured breath. Just because she's sleeping doesn't mean she can't hear her rider's thoughts; those bright, vividly colored thoughts that Iolene can't seem to stop sharing even when speaking so so quietly. In a succession of rainbow colored soap bubbles popping, Ysavaeth withdraws, the little dragon stung and hurt, though not, it would seem, by anything her sire's done, for she takes along with her that silver thread should it still exist and curls her mental touch about it. It will spend the rest of the night suffocating in her honeyed, smooth, withdrawn little head. (Ysavaeth to Cadejoth) More harshly than he usually is, Jaques says, "Good riddance," to Devaki. He makes a pretense of poking at his food before finally just pushing it all away. It's cold anyway. "We'd all be different. I'd have Evie instead of Greshaith. I'd have a /child/ instead of Greshaith," and that thought still fills him with wonder and sadness. "But it is--what it is. I'm happy for you. You deserve better, if any of us ever did." "I love him," says Iolene, her once rich voice now dulled. But the emotion is simple. It lacks lust or anything more than the simple affection Io shares with anyone who is hers. "I love you too," lest he misunderstand, is added abruptly. "I don't know that this might be better." But the blonde reels suddenly, as if a migraine's suddenly pounding in her brain. "I don't feel so good. I think- I think something's wrong with Ysavaeth. I-... I-," Io winces again. "You should eat, ok?" Her, "I need to go," is tossed back as she pelters away to the bowl and the barracks and to where her dragon's sleep is suddenly fitful and pained. It exists: it stays. And if it is comfortingly warm to the touch, well, that's just a representation of a father's love for his child: hers to take with her, wherever she goes. (Cadejoth to Ysavaeth) Faint worry creeps into Jaques' expression then, but he only nods. "All right," he agrees, though he doesn't move to eat anything after all. Instead, he lingers there watching after her, while Greshaith extends a faint thought toward the gold himself: not interfering, just watching, as quiet as his rider. |
Leave A Comment