Who

Majel, Dyxath

What

The complexity of Impression, like truth, is revealed to be a beautiful and terrible thing.

When

It is afternoon of the fourth day of the eighth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Weyrling Barracks, Igen Weyr

OOC Date

 

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Weyrling Barracks

A cluster of small buildings punch out from the facade here, each just spacious enough to admit growing weyrlings and little else beside. Each has its own sturdy little hide covering their openings to provide a modicum of privacy to their occupants and a stone basin meant for both meat and water squats ready before each door. To one side, the Weyrlingmaster's office sits, the one large building in the space. Here, the pale salted walls are covered with various charts, maps, and informational diagrams. In the small yard before these buildings, a table and chairs is set, a small hearth against the opposite wall holds a cavernous kettle kept a-boil with various meals, while a smaller hangs from an iron tripod for klah.


Dyxath is unusually quiet that afternoon as Majel works on carving up his lunch, thoughts shuttered neatly into a shuffling silhouette behind a dimly door. Oh, he’s hungry, to be sure, but there’s also a sense of puzzling through a series of facts, a careful consideration of the case at hand.

Dyxath. Lunch?

The pacing halts. Obediently, he opens his maw, chewing thoughtfully. Pleasure in his meal spills over their link, but there’s a buzzing distraction just present in the background, an off-key chorus of hums that forms a strange cacophony.

Majel’s hand pauses in mid-air before she passes the cleaver on to another weyrling, ushering the dark blue and his allotted meal to a quieter patch along one of the walls. Something’s bothering you, she says evenly after a few moments.

Turning his eyes from his repast to his soon-to-be rider, he regards her quietly. He can’t deny it, not when the truth is so plainly writ between them. There are no secrets, here.

Majel. There’s a world wrapped in the way he says her name. She’s his partner. His intellectual equal. The only other being he could possibly fathom being so wholly connected to. A lengthy pause later, his gravelly voice catches with uncertainty: Are you sorry I dragged you into this?

It isn’t often that Majel’s composure cracks, but it threatens to do so now. Finish eating and come sit with me. It’s a softly-spoken request, as close as the woman allows herself to get to an entreaty.

The two retire to their alcove. She pulls the curtain around to block out as much of the rest of the world as she can, turning her focus to the not-so-little dragon who, in his own way, seeks reassurance. I’ve never regretted that we found each other. What’s brought your questioning on so suddenly?

Maybe a change in perspective would be helpful, Dyxath suggests dryly. We’ve practiced this enough to have the hang of it by now.

And suddenly, Majel finds herself viewing past conversations with other people from within his mind and feelings when they were both present. Flickers of reddish lighting highlight those moments where she unknowingly allowed doubt to seep through their mind; her always-present undercurrents of thought that worried they weren’t working hard enough; the funny ache that she never could quite hide every time someone congratulated her on their Impression, or expressed how very much they wished that they, too, were undergoing similar training with a lifemate; the very new, real fear that they could die in training or not long afterward if just one little thing goes wrong.

She gasps as she pulls, pulls herself back to her own mind, taking deep breaths. Without thinking, she reaches up to wipe at her cheeks, staring silently at her fingers as they come away shiny and wet. She isn’t sure where the feelings are coming from; at this point, they’re both his and hers, all escaping in one writhing, choking knot that claws for escape from within.

Blindly, she presses near to him, hugging him close so that she can release silent sobs into that warm hide that always seems to smell faintly of smoke and rain. Her breath hitches repeatedly, so she burrows her face deeper into his neck to mask the tiny sounds.

I’m sorry, is the extent of her vocabulary for the next several minutes. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. She didn’t stop to think about how he might perceive her feelings that have been neatly compressed and bottled since they began together. She cries for the both of them in that space, barely registering his croon that’s meant to soothe.

You needed this, he says gently. There’s no censure for her catharsis, only a puff of cigar-scented support offered through gently drizzling rain. You gotta trust in us now, Majel. It’s all very well and good to know that I’ve got my facts and you’ve got yours, but we’ll never solve anything unless we really put our heads together.

It’s still hard to accept this, sometimes, the weyrling admits as her breathing slows. Not the need to trust, she clarifies, but the fact that I can.

A warm breath descends over her neck, ruffling up her hair. I’m here for you, the blue says simply. The Chief puts his best on the high-profile cases. One day, it’ll be us.

Majel straightens, equilibrium restoring as she ensconces herself firmly in his confidence. It will, she affirms. Rest now, Dyx, and there’s a deep, tender warmth that she inserts between them, a feeling rarely shared outside of their bond.

A clothed darkness tips neatly over his mind as he yawns his way into a nap while she quietly exits for afternoon chores. A brisk breeze rolls through him with palpable relief; he follows it into dreams.

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