Post by Alyx on Jan 12, 2018 19:48:22 GMT -5
Khavar, Igen Weyr
He’d begged off chores, faking a stomach bug. The headwoman had frowned, but shooed him off to the healers; he’d never gotten there. Instead, he was up here, on probably the highest place he could get, staring down into the Weyrbowl; not the best place to be with dark thoughts. He sat on the edge of the abandoned ledge, his legs dangling down, winds batting at his feet as he watched the oblivious little people and dragons below him.
His Lute sat nearby, still in its quilted travel case, as did the lunch he’d brought wrapped in cloth. He wasn’t hungry now, and he definitely didn’t feel like singing. The letter sat near him, flatting in the breeze, almost like it was alive or breathing or something. At least it was breathing…. Khavar wasn’t. To breath meant to be alive, and right now? He simply felt dead inside. His fingers flexed on the edge of the edge, his throat almost painfully tight with the rage and tears he felt inside.
The morning had started wonderfully. They’d had one of his favorite lessons; meat cutting. It was a standard candidate lesson, but Khavar enjoyed it mostly because of the reactions most of the fresh candidates had to it; there was always a noble born or two that had no clue what to do, or the precious girl that had ever done a thing or herself, or the weak stomached one that turned green and had to be taking to the infirmary. This time had been all of the above, and then some.
Khavar came away hoping that if he impressed a Blue or Brown, he would someday be able to teach classes like the Candidate Master did. It seemed like the old Bluerider had way too much fun. He never thought beyond what he would do once he impressed, other then what he had planned all along – return home and get Colette, bring her here, and it would all be perfect. Perfect….. perfect. He closed his eyes against the tears.
My Lady's eyes are like the skies
Of a soft and sunlit blue
No other fair could half compare
In sweet midsummer hue…
That wasn’t going to happen now, was it? He opened his eyes, staring at the weyrbowl far below. No. It wouldn’t. The letter had seen to that, shattering the perfect image he had of his future. He wanted to scream, run, throw himself off this ledge and let himself drop to the weyrbowl far, far below to kill the pain. Anything so the pain would go away. He had… he had hoped….
The letter, in his mother’s delicate handwriting, was bidding him come home for the midsummer festival. It would be the first time he’d have been home since his Searching; she went on and on how she missed him, and that he had been gone too long. Too long? Yes, clearly too, too long. She wanted him home, if possible, to be there for his brother’s wedding. His brother’s wedding… to Colette. HIS Colette. He’d had to read the letter several times to make sure he was reading it clearly.
‘You don’t have to stay too long if you don’t wish it. The word from the riders said that they had no eggs on the sand right now, so you might be able to get away from a seven-day or so? It would mean so much to me, I’ve missed your smile and your voice, Khavar. Taliuk is getting so big, you’d barely recognize him. I’m sure if you asked, for just a few days, a rider would be willing to bring you home? Just for the Midsummer festival? It would be wonderful for you to be here for Traven’s wedding. I know you boys were at odds quite a bit, but he asked about you often. And Colette – it is going to be wonderful to have her as part of the family finally.’
Was that a hit at him? That he should have stayed? His fingers tightened down on the ledge again, so hard he could almost feel the stone flinting into his skin. The rest of the letter was only worse; hinting that the wedding was a quick planned thing, that Traven and Colette had a need to handfast quickly. Reading between the lines, it was clear – only one reason Colette’s father would allow a rushed event. Babes are best born in wedlock rather than out….. Khavar locked his teeth together hard, making his jaw ache.
He thought for a moment, in a fit of rage and jealousy, to do just as his mother asked. Fly home, and wreck the whole thing; beat his brother into the ground, drag Colette away. But… no. No, he couldn’t do that. Clearer thoughts over a raging Harper’s heart. He just couldn’t… it would make her cry, and he couldn’t handle seeing Colette cry, even after all this. If it hadn’t been something she wanted, he would have heard from her. She hadn’t written in several months, even though he’d sent letters to her. He had simply thought she was busy with her father, baking from the spring workers and the upcoming festivals. Well, it was clear now she’d been ‘baking’ something, and it hadn’t been with her Da.
He arms tensed, fingers locking on the stone. It would be simple…. One push and, that would be it. An end to the pain, the hurt, the rage, then…. Whatever this was. The thoughts were dark and turned darker the longer his eyes remained unfocused on the grass far, far, far below. Khavar didn’t realize as he leaned forward, over his knees and out into the air, his heart raging and his breath racing. Yes… one good push-
There was a pop, to his right, and a screech. He blinked, tears running down his cheeks as he jerked his head around. Cilla, barely able to contain her panic, chattered and screamed at him, battering the air with her soft green wings. The firelizard squawked and wailed, clearly sensing what her bonded was considering be it intentional or unintentional. She grabbed at his sleeve, actually getting the skin under it in places, and pulled back with all her little might like somehow she thought she could drag him off the edge.
Pain lanced up his arm. “Ouch! Cilla!” He batted at her, but she refused to let go. Little eyes, red and gray, spinning in panic as she yanked more on him, squalling like a raging little storm. Blood bloomed on the fabric of his shirt, then Khavar managed to get a hand on her and yank her free. That didn’t help at all, the hiss of pain letting him know clearly she’d had more than just a little skin. “Why you little-!” His fingers tightened down on the green juvenile flit.
But she didn’t try to escape. Cilla remained in his hand, even though she could have bitten him or something and blinked away, making soft, sad sounds. She looked up at him, eyes fading more grey than red now, and whined. Khavar froze, realizing what she had done… and why. “Oh… oh Cil, I’m sorry. I’m sorry… I didn’t, I mean…” Tears, again. Unchecked this time. He pulled the firelizard against his chest, cradling her, and rocked a little in his pain.
Cilla shifted in his hands, pressing her body against his chest, her head against his chin, and cooed softly, almost as if she understood that he hadn’t meant any of the rages he’d directed at her. Khavar didn’t know how long he sat there, cradling her like a babe and crying. At some point, he’d crawled away from the ledge, stretching out on the cold stone floor. When he finally felt the world around him return, he was laying on his side, wounded arm up, Cilla tucked up under his chin.
“I’m sorry, silly.” Cilla chirped, nipping at his nose. He smiled… the first smile he’d had since the letter had found its way into his hands. He sat up, stiff from the cold stone, and rubbed a hand against his face. The back of his hand – since the insides now bore a thin, dried cut of blood from the ledge’s edge. He took in the room, the state he was in, and finally – stiffly – shoved to his feet. Cilla claimed his shoulder, the unwounded one, as he collected his Lute, his meal, and the hated letter.
He’d best go see the healer, though he wasn’t sure how he would explain the wounds. Maybe they wouldn’t ask? He sighed and headed back down into the Weyr. It was probably better to not stay up here for now…
And would that I could tell her why
I dare not speak my love.
Too high, as far as any star
Her station is to mine,
Too wide that space to e'er embrace,
Beneath her I repine.
Song snipets: My Lady's Eyes
(A bit of Khavar's history before Mavros. Felt the need to get it on paper)
)