[Vignette] A Day for Remembering
"Hey," said I'vash, loitering beside the barracks door late in the evening. I'daur wasn't sure how long he'd be there, waiting in patient silence for I'daur to finish settling the weyrlings in for the night. "Wanna drink?"
I'daur stopped to glance back, not at his brother but at the dark entrance. It was quiet, only the occasional sleepy voice murmuring to their dragon, or the rustling of wings trying to get resituated. "Weyrlings," I'daur said: explanation, refusal--either way, it made no difference to I'vash.
"Yeah?" I'vash answered; he was already moving, already heading to Berouth's side. The blue wore his straps, spreading his veined wings and giving them a couple of slow flaps to warm the stiff joints. Then he lifted his head to watch I'vash and I'daur, the weyrlingmaster limping in his elder brother's wake.
There was no discussion of where they were going; Berouth and Zunaeth simply appeared over Tillek's lands together, and their riders simply walked into the Rusted Hulk together, took seats at the bar together. The bartender had pulled out a fresh bottle of whiskey as soon as he saw them enter. He didn't say anything and neither did the brothers, one grey head and one already white hunched over their glasses together.
Zunaeth and Berouth huddled their own shoulders against the wind off the ocean. The husky, arthritic blue grunted as his neck twisted until he could tuck his grayed nose under a wing. Zunaeth stretched his own scarred wing out beside him, the other tucked into his side; he looked into the wind, out at the water. They were quiet, too, while the evening wore on.
<< You remember Nauvuth's? >> Berouth finally asked, his voice idle, reflective. The image he drew from his rider's mind was drink-fuzzled: just another man with grey-shot hair and a stick of a brown behind him.
<< Nope, >> Zunaeth answered simply.
<< Me, either, >> agreed Berouth. The pair were silent again, several more long minutes stretching between them in the chilly northern night.
<< Remember Lonreth's, >> the bronze said eventually, his battered muzzle turning to nudge at his wing, the mass of scar tissue aching in the cold. He imagined the sandy-haired youth, but it all blended together in his mind, into a string of small young faces of which Lonreth's was only representative.
It was late, after midnight, before I'daur and I'vash left the bar, shuffling out to the two dragons, both by now curled with their backs to the wind, their wings and neck and tail spread over cold feet, only warm blue eyes bright in the gloom.
"So, next year?" I'vash broke the silence, stoppping a few yards from the dragons. I'daur hesitated, too, shifting his weight, leaning it off his left side.
"Next year," he agreed, and continued on, head ducked and collar turned up as he mounted Zunaeth. I'vash watched his younger brother go, procrastinated his own leaving until the other pair had gone. When Zunaeth reappeared over the Weyr, glided down to land by the barracks again, both he and his rider waited until they saw Berouth blink into being again before I'daur dismounted and stepped back into the training room again.
There was a bottle where he'd left it, in the drawer of his desk. I'daur picked it up, took a drink. Walked over to the barracks doorway and stopped, his weight leaned against the frame while he let his eyes adjust to the blackness. He counted--one two seven twelve nineteen, all of them there now--because he told himself he needed to know nobody had snuck out, had taken advantage of his absence to disappear for a little while. He put that whiskey away, went home to finish the rotgut he knew was there.
I'daur stopped to glance back, not at his brother but at the dark entrance. It was quiet, only the occasional sleepy voice murmuring to their dragon, or the rustling of wings trying to get resituated. "Weyrlings," I'daur said: explanation, refusal--either way, it made no difference to I'vash.
"Yeah?" I'vash answered; he was already moving, already heading to Berouth's side. The blue wore his straps, spreading his veined wings and giving them a couple of slow flaps to warm the stiff joints. Then he lifted his head to watch I'vash and I'daur, the weyrlingmaster limping in his elder brother's wake.
There was no discussion of where they were going; Berouth and Zunaeth simply appeared over Tillek's lands together, and their riders simply walked into the Rusted Hulk together, took seats at the bar together. The bartender had pulled out a fresh bottle of whiskey as soon as he saw them enter. He didn't say anything and neither did the brothers, one grey head and one already white hunched over their glasses together.
Zunaeth and Berouth huddled their own shoulders against the wind off the ocean. The husky, arthritic blue grunted as his neck twisted until he could tuck his grayed nose under a wing. Zunaeth stretched his own scarred wing out beside him, the other tucked into his side; he looked into the wind, out at the water. They were quiet, too, while the evening wore on.
<< You remember Nauvuth's? >> Berouth finally asked, his voice idle, reflective. The image he drew from his rider's mind was drink-fuzzled: just another man with grey-shot hair and a stick of a brown behind him.
<< Nope, >> Zunaeth answered simply.
<< Me, either, >> agreed Berouth. The pair were silent again, several more long minutes stretching between them in the chilly northern night.
<< Remember Lonreth's, >> the bronze said eventually, his battered muzzle turning to nudge at his wing, the mass of scar tissue aching in the cold. He imagined the sandy-haired youth, but it all blended together in his mind, into a string of small young faces of which Lonreth's was only representative.
It was late, after midnight, before I'daur and I'vash left the bar, shuffling out to the two dragons, both by now curled with their backs to the wind, their wings and neck and tail spread over cold feet, only warm blue eyes bright in the gloom.
"So, next year?" I'vash broke the silence, stoppping a few yards from the dragons. I'daur hesitated, too, shifting his weight, leaning it off his left side.
"Next year," he agreed, and continued on, head ducked and collar turned up as he mounted Zunaeth. I'vash watched his younger brother go, procrastinated his own leaving until the other pair had gone. When Zunaeth reappeared over the Weyr, glided down to land by the barracks again, both he and his rider waited until they saw Berouth blink into being again before I'daur dismounted and stepped back into the training room again.
There was a bottle where he'd left it, in the drawer of his desk. I'daur picked it up, took a drink. Walked over to the barracks doorway and stopped, his weight leaned against the frame while he let his eyes adjust to the blackness. He counted--one two seven twelve nineteen, all of them there now--because he told himself he needed to know nobody had snuck out, had taken advantage of his absence to disappear for a little while. He put that whiskey away, went home to finish the rotgut he knew was there.