Logs:What Might Have Been...
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| RL Date: 26 September, 2015 |
| Who: R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Vignette |
| What: Failings. Falterings. Frustrations. Fear. |
| Where: Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 12, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Torani/Mentions, Enwei/Mentions, Leova/Mentions, I'daur/Mentions, Jorea/Mentions, Satiet/Mentions |
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| The morning's wing briefing had gone quickly -- mostly through his own desire to get through it, to drop, shaking, onto his chair as the last of Savannah's voices disappeared. He waited until the shaking of his hand mostly subsided before he began to write, carefully. His hand slipped, near the end, and he made a noise of frustration. He stared, regarding the letter, re-reading it. Wondering if it would make sense. Make them understand. He doubts himself. Ten minutes later, he is standing, feeling better, walking to the edge of the ledge as he shrugs on his flight jacket. He shades his eyes against the sun, seeking the rim -- where he can see the outline of his bronze, one amongst many warming in Rukbat's light. "Leiventh," he calls. While he waits, his eyes drift over the Weyr below. Heights had never much bothered him, and the view was welcome. His eyes were caught, as he watched, by a familiar shadow passing below, tugging his attention in that direction. It was his old ledge -- his first, with the hammock, not occupied in near thirty Turns. He leaned out from the edge of his ledge; from here he could see the outline of the hook-nosed bronze. Was it someone else's weyr, now? Would they notice? Complain? "Leiven--" it hit him again, that dizzying, blinding white light, painful to behold, and not a thing he could shut his eyes against. But he could shut his mind against it. Was that what Torani had done, in her more lucid moments, he wondered? Or had she embraced it? He heard Enwei's voice in his head, telling him about the importance of his acceptance of the situation. As if that mattered for the outcome. There had been plenty of times when he'd pushed Leiventh away in their long partnership. Sometimes out of fear (always his own), to protect himself and Leiventh (Leiventh couldn't lie, but he couldn't tell what he didn't know), and sometimes simply because he didn't want to face Leiventh's disappointment of him. On balance, he decided that now was not one of those times. There was no coherence. It hurt. But they endured together. It was late in the afternoon before they got moving. He'd wanted to visit the Beowins at Nabol, to drop by Tillek, and maybe even Ista before the day was through. The last two were looking less likely. He felt tired, as he reached for the straps. In his youth, he remembered, he often chose to forgo them, seeking the thrill of the moment, trusting in Leiventh. Today, though, he strapped in without hesitation. He still trusted Leiventh. But he had changed. "Nabol," he murmured, and Leiventh lifted off, the swirl of his dragon's cold wintry thoughts rising up around him. Within the cold were images -- odd thoughts. A flash of red, something heated. These thoughts were prominent, overlaying the image of Nabol that Leiventh conjured to mind. "No," the syllable slipped from him, as cold enveloped them. Home. They could always remember home. Always find their way back. The jut of the seven spires as they spiked up above the Weyr, casting shadows late in the afternoon. The cold seemed to last forever. And then they were out, breathing. Alive. He rested his head against Leiventh's hide, breathing deeply, eyes drifting below. It looked different, in a way he couldn't conceptualize, at first glance. Dragons soared lazily through the skies. Everything seemed at ease. The watch dragon barely challenged him, recognizing him. « The Weyrleader is here. » And then he saw a bronze that shouldn't be there. I'daur's Zunaeth. His heart contracted as he saw the queen that lounged on the ledge. Teonath. Long dead, as were their riders. He saw the storm brewing in the middle distance, over High Reaches Hold, where Jorea and her Iseuth stood watch. And then he remembered. He remembered this day. This day that had already happened. The quietness of it. The stark contrast to the screams that would later fill the bowl, the keening of dragons, and the hopelessness that filled the expressions of many of the Weyr's occupants. This was the day of the first fall of what would later be called the Comet Pass. The fall over High Reaches Hold; the first on all of Pern since the end of the Pass -- the one that came, unexpected by all -- and took so many lives. His heart thudded in his chest, fingers tightening against the loops of the straps as he leant forward. "We could warn them. How many lives could we save, today?" « It does not feel right, R'hin. » Leiventh's thoughts are jumbled, not steady. "But we are here, already. Leiventh, we could--" Except they couldn't -- because if they'd already done it, they would know it. But maybe they could just-- Between one heartbeat and the next, the bright light returned, searing pain lancing through his eyes and into his head, and Leiventh is suddenly dropping like a rock. Down, down, endlessly down. Cold envelopes them again, and they think of one thought, together: Home. « Home. » The cold receded, slowly, and he could feel the pale, wintry sun on his face, the rushing of wind past him. Leiventh landed, jarringly, lacking his usual grace, but they were here. « Home. » He opened his eyes. Still breathing. Shaking. Home. R'hin couldn't tell if it had been real or just another facet of the illness that had taken hold in them. He wasn't sure what terrified him more: that he might've jumped backwards in time twenty-seven-odd Turns, or that he hadn't, but it had been real enough for him to believe he had -- that they had believed. « Dumb, » Leiventh chimed in, abruptly. It made him laugh, unaccountably, thinking back to that time in Monaco, many other times, they'd had such an exchange. « We did not change it. Cannot. » There is a zip of something like pale electricity in the bronze's cold wintry thoughts. "No. Nor the future. Mostly," he murmured in turn. Something catches his eye, and he dismounts, slipping down, and slipping back into the familiar: the confident, sure Wingleader. It is he that meets Leova. He can feel, in his head, Leiventh quivering briefly at the remembrance of the storm that was not a storm. We did not change it, he echoes the words back to Leiventh. But it is not, so much, the storm they are both afraid of, not anymore. |
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Comments
Jo (22:18, 1 October 2015 (PDT)) said...
Utterly heartbreaking. ._.
Faryn (23:15, 1 October 2015 (PDT)) said...
It's raining on my face.
Alida (00:19, 2 October 2015 (PDT)) said...
Oh, R'hin...Leiventh... :( ; . ; *sniffles*
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