Hypertensive Hesitation
In the right light, at just the right time of day, Zhath's hide had always been known to reveal subtleties of color. Chalky yellow here, strange, impossibly subtle blue there. She was, after all, no albino. Her hide was colored in white, and it had its imperfections and variations.
But, yesterday, there had been a strange vibrancy building in those variations. And the Calcium was no fool. Her rider, perhaps, could be one from time to time, but not for this. This harbinger of an event they had awaited and dreaded since the day of her birth. Her hide was hardly metallic, she did not glow. But she became brighter and more catching to the eye.
Most dragonesses become vicious, impatient, angry. But Zhath seemed more than anything to be tired. Exhausted, and lazy, and filled with irritation at anything that would disturb her rest. She was not the strongest flier that the Weyr had ever seen, and in another day or two, she would need ever ounce of her energy. She had sought out her beloved, her Jironath, and had been resting, side pressed to his much larger flank, since earlier yesterday morning, barely even speaking.
She spoke now.
My Dearest. She intoned, rousing herself from her half-asleep daze for a handful of words, and pulsing with brief distaste for the way her voice seemed to echo in the confines of her own skull. You must find him, my sweet. We are well and truly out of time, now.
Though Miss Match had been born of one of S'haile's fair, the young man had been suspiciously hard to seek out since her birth, and Lovely's. Only Quinn, really, knew how and where the curly-topped younger man could be found. Now, once again her loving self, free of maternal jealousy or flightlust, she was more willing to obey a dragon's wordless commands. The calcium sent the lesser seraphim, to seek out where S'haile, and his many firelizards, and his own wyvern could be found.
She disappeared, briefly, and returned, chittering, the image she brought back vague and hard to decipher. But it did show S'haile, and Vorth, together. That was good enough, for Zhath knew- she did her best to keep tabs on him- where Vorth was.
Vorth. My Dearest comes to see Yours. Please, do not let him run. Not again. Not this time. The words were, perhaps, rather hard to interpret. After all, while S'haile had been hard to come by for the last two months, he had never actually run away. But, Zhath knew the way of emotions, so condemned to feeling them always, and while her proximity to Jironath now nearly removed the sensations of others entirely, she could recall flawlessly the way S'haile had been so withdrawn, so distant, when he had been near them. The way he had run into his own mind, never seeking out with that former jubilation her Rider's affection. The cause of his discomfort, she did not know. But, whatever it was, she could not allow it to destroy Adeloc, and he would listen. This one time. He would have to.
The calcium tucked her head beneath one wing, then, trying to block out the weak sunlight of early spring- or was it late winter?- and steal away more sleep, Jironath's warm bulk beside her to protect her from any distraction.
As for Adeloc, he had spent the last day without food or sleep, a habit that he'd rather assumed broken by the past few months of regular eating and rest. But, he fell back into it easily, his anxieties consuming anything resembling relaxation. His stomach roiled incessantly, because regardless of what Milona, or N'tel, or the endless and worryingly well-informed gossip mongers had to say, S'haile had hardly spoken to him in two months. And now, without so much as a jumping off point, he was going to, what. To beg? To plead? To ask a favor? No matter how he studied the whole mess, it stank of unforgiveable selfishness and horrifying risk. What if, for example, S'haile's continuing distance was proof of his disinterest? What if he was disgusted? Rejection and disappointment, Adeloc had grown accustomed to, and in its way, even disgust. But not from Sai. He wasn't certain he'd be able to withstand it.
But, he had promised himself, and Larrziath, that he would listen to Zhath's words on this matter. She seemed, at least, quite confident. And so, he waveringly followed her unspoken directions, seeking out Vorth, and by extension, the bronzerider Saiahle had become.
Lovely and Miss Match disappeared, the pair hardly even fighting, and he knew dully that they were there already, popping between to bear witness to this event. Quinn, dear Quinn who had been his longer than anything else, though, merely wrapped herself around his neck, barb hanging harmlessly, and tried the croon comfort, taking up Zhath's place as the calcium dragon slept.
Each step seemed to take forever, but when he actually caught sight of Vorth's looming bulk, the brevity of the journey- they hadn't been more than ten minutes walk separated- struck him.
To be so technically nearby, still occupying the same Weyrling Clearings until graduation, and yet have not spoken since Turnover. He was terrified, but he dared not turn away now. He had two choices, and this one was by far the more palatable.
"Sss'haile." It was all he could muster as a greeting as he took in the bronzerider's appearance. He was beautiful, of course, because everyone in his family had always been unreasonably gorgeous, with their curls and their skin and their wide, almond eyes. But the details, the way his eyes seemed swollen with exhaustion, the way his posture sagged with too much responsibility, and perhaps most tellingly, the way even Pash and Nan, let alone the rest of the fair, avoided Adeloc, spoke volumes.