==== December 19th, 2013
==== T'ral, Esanth
==== Another long day in the aftermath of the surprise Fall comes to a close.

Who T'ral, Esanth
What Another long day in the aftermath of the surprise Fall comes to a close.
When There are 0 turns, 5 months and 6 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr


Days ago, twenty six stars winked out of Esanth's mindscape. Forever.

Thirteen of them from Esanth's own Southern constellation. One of those remaining, a pale yellow-green star, flickers fitfully.

Esanth orbits this flickering star.

The young dragon, curled on himself, keens quietly. So many of his crew lost. The keening is a raspy, flutelike wail at this point. He's long since gone hoarse. Most dragons have moved on, pragmatic, focused on the now or the future and the fight. But Esanth is… inconsolable. Jiamoth is still hurting and while she suffers, he mourns everything -fresh- each day. Visits from Prymelia have brightened the little blue some, but she's been busy with tasks of her own in the fallout of Fall.

Since the unexpected Fall, T'ral and Esanth have been staying in the ground weyrs. T'ral, not even formally accepted into the studies, has been pulling shifts at the dragon infirmary, helping, rolling bandages, moving things. Basically, trying to stay out of the way as much as possible and do things that skilled hands and minds aren't needed for. He shuffles into the groundweyr he and Esanth are sharing. It is late. He's not sure how late, but dawn hasn't yet begun to brighten the sky so it's probably… who the fuck cares. T'ral collapses against Esanth. The blue shifts and nuzzles his rider. T'ral curls into Esanth's shoulder, under a wing.

"She's sleeping." No question who the 'she' is. And Esanth knows, but T'ral says it anyway.

« When she's ready to eat, I'd like to hunt for her. » T'ral floats in the Void, drifting yet caught, the vastness bone-chilling. He shivers.

"I think she'd appreciate that." T'ral yawns, wincing as bandages pull against his healing wound. The scores was superficial, but long, winding around his ribs onto his belly. Tricky to wrap. "Can you warm it up a bit?"

Esanth shifts. T'ral's feet touch down in the hold, sofly. It's mostly empty. Echoing. Front and center: the gurney. Pooled with torn, shimmering fabric and scattered sequins, feathers. « Ovine. It's her favorite. » There is a mask. A moth mask, broken. T'ral can feel the softness of the feathers, the jagged edges of the broken . He collapses onto a crate, bandages. Over there a small, clever locking case of fellis vials. And there, crocks of prepared numbweed, packed with straw, safe, ready for use. T'ral sighs. Life support kicks on, warmed air blowing through the vents. « You're okay? »

"Yeah." He is. More or less. He's been running on nerves and adrenaline.

"I don't know if dragonhealing is for me." He coughs, winces. "I have to pretend everything is gonna be fine and… I just don't know." Cerise. He can hardly even look at her. T'ral is glad that E'don has been there to take the brunt of just… being with the injured green pair. He shakes his head, nudging into something more comfortable against Esanth's warm hide, "I don't know anything and it feels like lying."

T'ral closes his eyes hard. "How are we going to get through decades of this?"

« Together. »

"Yes." That. "Always."

A pause, "She's gonna be okay." He believes it. Esanth curls his head down, tucking it around T'ral and two -exhausted- finally sleep. Somehow they'd come through this. All of them. Or as many as possible.


Add a New Comment