Logs:Draconic Memories
| |
|---|
| RL Date: 23 March, 2009 |
| Who: Satiet |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Vignette |
| What: Satiet and Teonath go between. |
| Where: High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 12, Month 4, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
 |
| She had not slept. The pretense of drunk had given her a moment's respite from just wanting to throw herself off a cliff already. It had given her precious few moments where she might have the courage to say things she'd wanted to say and do things she'd wanted to do. But to the end, though the lack of speaking and tacit understanding of the situation was a burden on them both, she couldn't make it a reality with her voice. And so she feigned drunkenness and wept within, continuing to weep when brave fronts and strong arms surrounded her. In the end, words always got in the way between them and they subsided into nothing but the tender moments that were so rarely shared when alive and given so freely in death. If only- and yet, would they have been in this place if there had been that 'if only?' In bed, by a man who'd struggled against, and finally fell asleep, she listened to his breathing, curled more closely into his side. She heard his heart beat. She felt his arm tighten reflexively and felt, for the briefest moment, safe. From reality. From her fate. She could just let go and fall asleep, blaming her own tiredness, rather than cowardice, on lack of follow through, but then felt herself roll over to the other side of the bed, his tightened arm giving way. For a moment, she stood by the bed, pale eyes cast down to study the lines of N'thei's sleeping face to the rise and fall of his chest. She adjusted the blankets, drawing them up higher along his torso, pettng them down smoothly with lingering fingers pressed into the sheets - a likely excuse to just touch him once more. A finger extended to trace his jaw and she leaned forward to press her lips to his forehead, and mouth words that lacked the strength of voice in his ear. And then, with silent steps, bare feet on stone, she navigated her way out, straightening things as she went. She had things to do before. "It's late." Interspersed between shallow breaths, two words. In the quiet night shrouding her ledge, it was easy to forget to breathe; to breathe as if life were normal and everything were fine. "It's late." In repetition, her words bore emphasis and made real what was to be done shortly. She would no longer reflect on the last thirty odd years; not spend great amounts of time dwelling on or grieving a life yet unlived. Of protege's unrealized. Of children grown to adults unseen. Of lovers unfought with, unheld, gone. She would not- but the warmest touch that traced slow along the periphery of her thoughts drew tears to the corners of her eyes. With her head tipped back, her lips parted to seek the crisp winter air and pale eyes closed, her thighs pressed into the warm hide beneath her legs and her thin body leaned forward so slender, increasingly thin arms could rest against the golden dew-scattered hide once more. "Do you have me?" « I have you. » Then, a pause, followed by the driest, most enveloping continuation: « You are Teonath's, now. » Who said dragons had poor memories? |
Leave A Comment