Who | |
What |
Vignette: the first night after Impression. Dreams and truth. stream of conscious-y |
When |
It is late night of the twenty-eighth day of the fourth month of the eleventh turn of the 12th pass. |
Where |
Weyrling Barracks, Igen Weyr |
OOC Date | 01 Jul 2017 05:00 |
Only if one believes in something can one act purposefully.
Weyrling Barracks
A cluster of small buildings punches out from the Weyr's walls here, each building just spacious enough to admit a few growing weyrlings and little else. Each has its own sturdy little hide covering the entrance to provide a modicum of privacy to its occupants, and a large stone basin for meat or water stands ready nearby. The Weyrlingmaster's office sits to one side, the smallest building in the area often doubling as class space. Within that space, the pale salted walls are covered with various charts, maps, and informational diagrams. In the small yard surrounded by these buildings, tables and chairs stand ready to seat as few or as many weyrlings as needed. A small hearth is situated at the nearest wall wall, with a small assortment of pots and kettles available to heat food or boil water, whether for cleaning or for klah.
believe [bih-leev]
verb (used without object), believed, believing.
1. to have confidence in the truth, the existence, or the reliability of something, although without absolute proof that one is right in doing so:
Only if one believes in something can one act purposefully.
Dreams are vital.
In so many ways, they show us the truth of things. Whether they be true dreams dreamt under a moonless sky, or the things that we aspire to, the things we yearn for, the things that causes the blood in our veins to pine after — dreams are vital.
And for R'kyr and Dhazkyth, the first night of shared dreams reveals naked truths. It should not be unexpected. After all, everyone knows that between those that share a single soul, nothing remains concealed…
It is cold up here, the promise of winter sinking teeth into the late-autumn wind. The texture of rooftops range from flat concrete to old-fashioned fired clay, modern asphalt, treacherous thatching. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to the variety of technologies and times. Below lies the low thrum of activity of an ever-living city. The night may wrap alleys and roadways in fog and darkness, but there are citizens down there going about their evening business, a constant movement visible to those who stand above the temerant.
Inky darkness slowly coalesces into a silhouette, or the suggestion of a silhouette. It's stark-lined, hard-edged, hard-souled. This is Stryker, Ryker, R'kyr — third time's the charm, as it ever is. Even in the hazy metaphysics of a shared hallucination, the man takes the time to stand perfectly upright, to investigate the area around him, to dot his proverbial i's and cross his imaginary t's.
And then there's Dhazkyth.
A stretch of duplication reveals itself as an eternal mirror, stretching as far as the eye is capable of seeing: from horizon to horizon, just northwest of where Ryker spawns into existence in this unworld, the veil stretches. It looks the same, a reflection of this nonreality, except…
Dhazkyth stands where Stryker does, only opposite his position — the mirror-veil hangs between them. He is not the sharp-edged outline like this man he's destined to spend all his days with. He is the amorphous joy of existence, the subconscious mind's sleeping bear, a mirage of force and will and energy. A truthsayer rather than truthseeker, brash, impetuous.
Ryker turns to stare into the mirror. The mirror stares back, a colorful abyss everchanging.
« You. » Unlike the force of first possession, in this single spoken word Dhazkyth seems… older, as if he's reached a final form far beyond the juvenile antics of his waking mind. This is an ancient being despite his youth, cold as eternity. This everfreeze creeps towards the mirrorveil, attracted to the sudden fire burning bright in the darkness.
Because Ryker — R'kyr — he does burn, with a blackfire flame casting shadows rather than light. He leans forwards despite himself, leaning a hand against that mirror. » You. « the man breathes in return, as if he's somehow thought that the events of the day were truly a dream, and this was his waking to reality.
But this isn't reality. This isn't close to reality.
« R'kyr, » Dhazkyth Names him, that simple mouthful sounding so strange to the man's ears. The whole of him is laid bare in the slurring of two syllables together. The dust of the road to Fort, the road home. All of the bitter regrets that only a life misspent can collect. The surefire strength of a compass, his internal morality ever pointing north. The pride of an unbent spine. The rage. The loss. Chillblains and chains. The emptiness. The fire. In this naming does Dhazkyth breathe life to the frustrated wish of an entire life's journey; in this Naming does the dragon breathe purpose, that necessary pillar so long missed. He rights the wrongs of twenty-six turns in the whispered truth of a man.
Without quite knowing what he's doing, but instinctively reaching for the same, R'kyr looks at this waking mirage across from him. There are sparkles there, yes, and darkness, and the promise of every color of every rainbow. There's the rain there, too, and the troubled disorder of a soul fucked up enough to match his own. There's something of a soldier in him. But there is…
Within Dhazkyth, there is more than just himself. The dragon is no lone wolf, separated from his pack, living in isolation like some others may have. There are connections within his kinetic cloud, connections that branch out like the spreading roots of a massive tree. Some lie thicker than others; some are tiny. With a flash of insight, R'kyr leans forward, indulging in a moment of rare, unsheathed curiosity. These are the dragons of Igen, he thinks. These are the dragons of Dhazkyth's clutch. These are his friends and his relations and his fierce brothers.
» Dhazkyth, « he replies. He doesn't have the same knack of this as the ka'kari bronze does, but he makes a passing go at it. Dhazkyth. The one who doesn't care what others think, but cares for them more than he appears to. The one who feels, who sees and reacts, who disregards For The Greater Good. The hedonist. The mercenary. The believer.
The other half of his soul he never realized he was missing.
For a dizzying moment, it's not necessarily obvious which 'he' that fits. Because it fits them both, two puzzle pieces locked together to form a piece of machinery that far defies the gearwins and cogs and tackles. This is an intricate melding at the most cellular level.
This is sufficiently advanced science.
« That's me, fucker, » with such irreverent cheer, the everchanging edging of the everfreeze reaching to the mirrorveil, reaching beyond. In lockstep will they always be, starting here - starting at the birth of both of their destinies - both springing forth from the dawning of darkness.
At this physical touch in this metaphysical place, R'kyr is driven to his knees. Not in impact, not in pain, but in sudden surprise, sudden shock: there is more to this than foul language and a keen eye for true names. There is more to this than the attraction of that which is cold to that which is hot. There is more to this than the draw of something that facilitates to that which is broken.
There is love, here, buried just under the surface of sarcasm and swagger. When R'kyr touches it, it is marvel and wonder and all the things he has thought he has lost. Dhazkyth's acceptance floods over him like cool water when one has been parched and overheated for far too long. His fierce belongingness.
There's no words needed for this. Just the rooftop and the mirror, the fire and the freeze. The ka'kari bronze and his once-guard lifebond, tied forever together in a way that only death can separate.
With arms braced against one another and nothing but the night to face them, the reality of the shared dream slowly drifts away as feathersdown into a headwind, scattered to the wild throes of memory.
It's not meant for them to stay in this moment.
It's meant for them to believe.