Log: Falling Water, Floating Straw
RL: March 2, 2008.
VR: Day 1, month 7, Turn 15, of the Interval. It is a summer afternoon.
Louvaen surprises Leova in an unguarded moment. There are dares, straw ships, and confidences. There are also friends.
Lakeside, High Reaches Weyr (#420RIJs)
The grass is lower here, due to the sandier soil that surrounds the lake. A few benches have been placed here, along with two small tents for those in need of a swimsuit before wading in to the lake. A precious few willow trees, their long branches hanging low and swinging in the breeze, provide a bit of relief from the warm summer sun. The ground rises up sharply towards the northwest end of the lakeside, and the waterfall that feeds the lake thunders downwards there, creating a fine mist that distorts the light and creates a mysterious, shadowy area behind it.
Afternoon elongates the shadows from the willow trees and the cliffs beyond, though plenty of sunlight still warms the ground and glints off the breeze-trembled leaves. On one of the benches sits a bundled-up jacket with belt and tools wrapped inside, one sleeve sprawled out to cover a plate with a half-eaten slice of cheese tart. The bundle's owner glances back at it every now and again, but less often now, engrossed in sticking her hand into the mist of the waterfall and darting it out again, her sleeve dark enough with damp that she must have been doing it for a little while now. That, or she goofed.
It's been another long, dirty day and Louvaen shows the signs of it as he strides along the lake's edge. His shoes are lightly rimmed with mud and manure, his trousers and shirtsleeves peppered with slivers of straw. A few tenacious golden stems even lurk in his hair. Grime shadows his face and a scent of runner that's not wholly unpleasant clings about him. His steps bring him to the bench with the familiar looking jacket, which he stares at a moment while setting a bundle of clean clothes beside it. Straightening, his hands go up to rake through his hair and link behind his neck as he scans the area for the jacket's owner.
Leova's for the moment oblivious, laughing, flicking the water this way and that before retreating and beginning it all over again. Sometimes she holds her hand one way, to see how that channels the water, sometimes the other way, and sometimes she just plays. It's probably the most relaxed Louvaen's seen her at High Reaches, much like how she'd run around in the pasture with Little Foot, who now would be approaching three months old. It turns out that her boots aren't the cleanest either, though more with mud than manure. They sit beneath the bench with their toes pointing out and socks stuffed inside like two dead tunnelsnakes.
A fond smile slowly stretches wide across Louvaen's face when he spots Leova. He just stands quietly a moment in the sun, watching her enjoy the waterfall. Dropping his hands finally, the young man perches at the edge of the bench. Shoes and socks are pulled off and slid under to join the other candidate's, all the while his eyes sending glances the girl's way. He rolls his pant legs up to his calves and then reaches up to pull all the way loose the lacing at his collar. It is only then that he stands again and pads softly towards Leova, not exactly sneaking but surely not interrupting by announcing his presence.
Up by the waterfall, up on the high ground, Leova dances her fingers in and out of the mist like a troupe of girls at a harvest Gather, in and out, spiraling, turning, and finally making a crook-fingered bow. Earlier she had washed off one foot that had gotten muddy through all this, and now she stands on it while rinsing off the other, and of course that's when she glances back to her tools and notices that familiar brown hair. Complete with straw. Teetering, surprised, she laughs again.
Louvaen's grin lights brightly at her laugher. "Hello," he says simply. His steps lengthen, bringing him to her side more rapidly now. A hand reaches out, offering to steady her while she finishes rinsing her foot. At the same time, his gaze stretches up to take in the roaring froth arcing before them. "Amazing, how something can seem so powerful and delicate at the same time," he muses abstractly, canting a look back to Leova. His eyes search out her expression.
Leova plants herself automatically on solid ground, still laughing, before she can even give him a "Hello!" right back. But then Louvaen stretches out his hand, and she gives him a quizzical, sideways look that holds for one count. Two. And she decides to accept it, hers wet in his. She sticks her foot out: wet, wetter, spreading her toes, letting the water wash between them, wiggling. "Maybe because you're closer now," she says to the waterfall, leaning further than she safely could on her own. There's still laughter sparking in her eyes, droplets of water as jewels in her rusty hair, but the curve of her mouth has a more thoughtful tilt. "You see it."
Louvaen's grasp closes gently but then holds firm. His hands are no longer as smooth as they once were, bearing new nicks and calluses from the chores all the candidates share. Standing solidly with feet braced to properly serve as an anchor, the young man laughs with soft delight and hidden nerves as he watches her lean into the mist. "Maybe," he grants, grin mellowing to something gentler, more lopsided. He's silent a moment in the wake of her last thought, eyes dazzled by the pure sparkles of light that bead in her hair. "Tell me how you see it, Leova?" though his gaze lingers on his companion, it does turn back to regard the showering spray.
He didn't drop her. But then, she hadn't truly thought that he would. She doesn't clench on, just enough to steady her by, enjoying reaching into the mist further... maybe even further than that... maybe a little... no. Perhaps not. Perhaps that's far enough, her body bending backward like a bow, her pant leg wet past her knee. But she keeps looking into the waterfall, her eyes half-closed now against the thickening mist, and it's so tempting to jump in. He speaks, and it takes a little while to make words out of the thundering spray. "Don't know if I can..." Words, needing their reply, pull her backward and straighter and back to land. Mostly. Her toes curl over the edge and she's grinning, grinning. "Don't know if I can," she repeats, turning to look at him and catching that last lingering moment before he turns, too, and she gets to watch him profiled against the mist. "It's huge, maybe. And wet. And cold but the sun is warm, and it's not as cold as it used to be, and it's moving. All those little bits. All going their own ways. Different ways, but mostly the same way, in the end. And the splash." Leova's tone warms, teasing. "It's your turn."
"I already said!" Louvaen's eyes crinkle with humor. His fingers loosen when she comes back to her two feet, but he leaves it to her to take her hand away. "Powerful and delicate," he repeats, still watching the waterfall. But, with a breath, relents and continues. "Always similar, but never the same. And the little bits," he uses her term with a nod, lifting his other hand so his fingers can waggle at the frothy facets that split off around the edges. "They break free and seem almost motionless for a second. I love them. I try to watch one, all the way down. But how can you choose? And then you loose sight of the whole." The hand sweeps out, his head tipping to the side as he gets caught up in his thoughts. "I love the sound, too. Listening to the roar all at once, or trying to hear all the different splashes." He takes another deep breath, this one catching in his chest as his grin widens. Chuckling it out, he turns his smile back to Leova.
Leova just smiles at him, and listens while he goes on with his hand still around hers, and looks at the little bits and the other little bits and then still more little bits. And at him. "Do you choose? Or do they choose you? Didn't think of the sound that way. You're right." But once he's looking back at her, she smiles more widely, and gets back to what she was really after: "It's still your turn, Louvaen." She nods to the waterfall, steps back enough that she's no longer toe-close to the edge, and visibly braces herself. He's tall, but she's strong. She's had to be. But trust is something else altogether.
Oh, /that/ kind of his turn. Uncertainty flashes in his eyes as Louvaen watches her brace herself. "You sure?" he asks, as if she were the one who was nervous. But even before Leova can answer, he edges his own feet up to the edge. A glance is given downwards, no doubt gauging what a fall would bring and perhaps affecting the show of trust when he leans out. For he does lean out, just a shift in his weight at first and then slowly tilting further as his fingers clutch about hers and thin muscles cord in his arms. Even given his height, it is true that Louvaen is not a large man - and certainly not large to arms used to dealing with runners like Big Foot. His laughter carries more apparent nerves now, but he turns his face up as the mist swirls about him dewing on his face and in his hair, the water's thunder filling his ears. "Okay, okay!" he calls when he's had enough, arm coiling against her grip to help pull himself in.
While he's edging up to the edge, Leova's assuring, "I'm sure." Her tone is calm, and she's not smiling now, except for the minutest curve of her mouth that she gets sometimes while persuading her runners not to spook through some new effort she's putting them to. Louvaen's not bred for pulling wagons, but it could be he's the more high-strung for it, with a man's mind and logic to boot. And when he does try it, and does lean, she stands with knees bent and braced to compensate, and he makes it. She releases none of her relief. And she helps him reel himself in when he's had enough, too: no making him do all the work, much less stranding him "for his own good." He's back. And he made it. And Leova has to ask, "How was that?"
"Refreshing," is the first thing Louvaen can think to say. He reclaims his hand, bringing both up to his hair to give it a good ruffle and forming his own little corona of mist as water is chased back into the air. "A bit scary," is admitted a moment later with a confiding wrinkle of his nose. "I was thinking I might go in, where it's easier to get down." A finger points to the base of the rise where the sandy beach slopes gently into the water. "Are you interested?"
Leova nods once. "It was, wasn't it? I liked it too." Even if that isn't exactly what he said. She follows his gesture down towards the gentler path, then agrees after a moment, "All right." Though she does glance upward again, drawn toward the dance and dazzle of the mist, before she follows him down.
Louvaen shadows her nod, his smile light on his features as she agrees to accompany him. His steps bounce down the incline, gaining speed as he nears the bottom. He jogs right into the shallows, splashes spraying up from his feet as he wades in up to his knees. "Oh!" he exclaims in an exhale of breath, turning back to look for Leova. "It certainly isn't warm. Feels nice, though." Hands reaching down, he cups water in his palms and splashes his back into his hair, fingers raking through the short length and leaving alternating tracks and spikes. Some of the slivers of straw have begun to come loose, bobbing away on the ripples that surround him.
Leova is coming in after him, but more slowly, stopping when she's at the water's edge to roll her pant legs up past her knees before entering more slowly yet. "Oh, it does!" She stops to rescue one of the straw-slivers and balances it on her finger, only to send it flying all over again with a flick of thumb and forefinger. "Wouldn't it be great to have more days like this?" She bends to pick up another piece.
Louvaen wades closer to Leova as she comes in, unmindful of his soaked trousers. He shrugs good-naturedly at her question. "Ideally I could have done without the work during the first part," the young man teases. "But, yes, it is beautiful." His hands come up, setting on his hips as he looks over the other candidate. "It seems High Reaches might be growing on you?" he asks with a lopsided smile.
Leova laughs his way, "So you weren't just rolling around in the hayloft, then?" She flicks away the new bit of straw, too, but off to the side away from them both. "Might be. It might. Hope it's not just because I like compliments as much as the next girl, though... and then there's the winter." She tips her head back to let the sun soak into her tawny skin, to let it warm her down to her chilled toes. "What about you?"
"No," Louvaen answers the first with a chuckle, his eyebrows ticking up as his gaze drops. Chin still lowered, and his smile high on his cheeks, his eyes slide back up to Leova as she goes on. His face lifts again at the word 'compliment', sly and curious smile tilted towards the girl though he doesn't prod on that point. "I am interested in seeing how fast the cold weather is going to descend again," he instead comments. Taking a few lazy steps backwards, he lets the water lap up higher on his legs and drops his fingers to pick idly at the surface. "I like it here quite well. Lots of interesting people, interesting prospects..." he gives a shrug.
Leova says to the sky, "Mm," but can't resist looking down to see his face, though she just gives him a smile in return. Sly, right back, but pleased. "Fast, I heard." Flick goes another piece of quick-fetched straw. The next gets pinched between fingers, held vertical like a miniature sundial without any bearings. "What sorts of prospects? I've wondered what sort of life you came from." Flick. "Rilsa. Talking about me joining the dragonhealers. Maybe." There's her answer, the bit of straw rocking on the ripples from his walking.
Louvaen's palms skim along the water, absently herding straw into a little bobbing fleet in front of him instead of picking the slivers off the surface. "Well, for one, I think it'd be really interesting to work on the tithe and trade arrangements for the Weyr. Figuring out what is needed, what's available to exchange for it. Negotiating. It seems a much more dynamic situation then at a Hold, and possibly easier to get an entry position on Hayda's staff then somewhere more concerned with Blood ties. Though," he admits in light of her interest on the subject, "I am not completely without them." Cocking his head to the side, he turns to her last words. "But, dragonhealing?! Wow. You know, I can see you being really good at that," he says with a nod.
"So that's if a dragon doesn't find you," Leova muses, and flicks another bit towards the very edge of that herd... that fleet. "What do you mean, dynamic? With the changes? Crom?" She glances around for more nearby straw and just comes up with a leaf, blown into the water from the willows, that she holds up to the light. To the leaf, "Not completely without them... sounds like you don't much like talking about them." Just so he knows she knows, and leaves them be. "About dragonhealing, though. Thanks. The way she said it, made me want to."
"Yes," Louvaen responds to her musing. "I don't think I can really plan on a dragon, you know? Dragonhealing seems a nice idea, in that respect. You can do it either way, correct?" Circling out a hand, he gathers in her offered addition to the cluster. "I didn't exactly mean Crom," he says to her questions, face scrunching as he thinks what to say. "The incident with Crom is certainly an indication that there's need for improvement in negotiation. But by dynamic, I more mean that a Hold has more control of what its products will be. A Holder has a more direct hand in which fields get planted, how many trees are felled, which runners to breed," the last is added with a grin to Leova. "A Weyr doesn't produce its own goods on a meaningful scale, so is more removed from those decisions. It's left in a more reactionary position, in terms of assuring it can provide for the needs of its people. Anyway," he stops himself a little sheepishly. "Its not that my family, my background, is a huge secret... I just don't want to be that guy, hanging his identity on greater people." He pauses, looks up to Leova with a twitch of his lips. "My mom is of Nerat, and I fostered with the Lord's family in Lemos, so that does make for a pretty big safety net."
"Right, either way," Leova says, distracted by the rest of what he's beginning to say, enough that she looks back from leaf-filtered sun to him. She stands there in the water, toes curled through the sand beneath the water, absently fraying the sail of the leaf from its woodier veins. What he says. How he says it. It makes her smile, brighter for the runners. "An opportunity, maybe. Where somebody else might see a problem." His next revelations bring a soft exhalation of understanding, just shy of a whistle. "Blood... ties. Right. A net. But you're... not. It. Are you?"
Louvaen nods happily, "problems can be a very good source of opportunity." His hands cup together at the wrist behind the collected fleet, and with a gentle shove of water he sends it off towards Leova. Straw captains must not be very good, for the pieces start to disperse as they bob along on the ripples towards her. To her last question he grins, giving a shake of his head. "It? Blooded? Not really. My mum isn't in the direct line, and my father's father was just a fisherman, so no one's likely to offer me any land. My elder sister did manage to marry well, though. She's lady of quite a nice Holding in Lemos."
"Maybe that's why you're pretty much always so pleasant to people." But Leova's left to keep the fleet from getting lost and falling off the edge of the world or, worse, crashing on the cliffs of her knees, and it's not easy. The bits of straw like to beach themselves on her fingers if they get too close, and it takes her some time to learn to pull her finger between them so they're caught instead in that minute current. "Do you and she get along? Don't know whether I'd want land myself. Probably not."
Louvaen's brow dips a bit at her first as he tries to decipher her meaning, but there's a smile on his face. He watches as Leova gathers the herd, pushing gently at the water to help send a few strays her way. His feet shift underwater into a wider stance, the ripples from the motion threatening to disperse the straw again. "We get along well enough. She's twelve turns older, so we were never very close." Tilting his head. "I don't think I've asked if you have siblings. Back at Granite Hold?"
"Don't know how you do it," Leova says as she works, which may or may not be of much help. She tries pushing the water more deeply too, one hand on one side of the fleet, one on the other. "Maybe she'll need a steward someday. Not too soon." Her smile may be visible for a moment, in the crinkles about her eyes and the way the apples of her cheeks rise, despite her face being tipped toward the water. "Siblings." Leova gives the water another push, still looking down. "Mostly sisters. Not so much for runners."
"I like people," Louvaen notes with a shrug. A hand lifts, re-wetting hair that had dried as he rakes hid fingers through and then coming to rest at the back of his neck. "Not too soon," is agreed with a grin. But he's more focused on the top of her head, watching her hands move and perhaps trying to decipher what expression she hides. "/Mostly/ sisters?" Obviously he figures that this indicates at least one brother. "Are they more the sewing and children type, then, if they don't like runners?"
She nods, not looking away from the little fleet, finally getting them herded into a milling group. When the bits of straw bump into each other, sometimes they cling into their own, larger ship. Sometimes they just bounce. What smile she has is very still, the next thing to frozen, until her mouth compresses and one finger flicks in the water, giving them a place to go. Not towards him, not towards her. Off and away. She sighs. "Two brothers. And yes. Sewing... children. Dancing. Clothes." Has her tone gotten wistful? Leova makes up for it with, "Cooking. Canning. And more sewing."
"You must have a big family," Louvaen notes idly as he watches her disband the fleet. "It sounds as if you might be the black sheep." He slides a few steps closer into shallower water, though angled a bit to the side so as not to be too imposing. The hand on his neck slides down and it seems for a moment he might reach out to her before it drops against his leg where fingers bunch against the damp material. "You've mentioned clothes before," he says with a soft twist to his lips, eyes searching.
"That's safe to say," but Leova's low voice is more resigned than bitter. She does look back up at him, then, the water lapping a little higher up her bare calves from where he'd walked through it. The sun isn't catching her eyes any longer, and they're dark as they meet his. "But I deserve it." The little boats float gamely on. There's a small cluster now in addition to the several outliers. "Doesn't mean I don't miss some things. Not that they would hold up, not to what I do."
Louvaen looks into her darkened amber gaze, soft appreciation and gentle disagreement couched in his gray eyes. "Deserving. Such an interesting concept," he murmurs. The young man shifts closer still, his head bowed and shoulders rounded so at least he doesn't make for a completely looming figure over the shorter Leova. "You don't think you should have nice things? You don't spend every hour with the runners, at chores. I don't think I've ever even seen you in a skirt," he says in fond musing.
Leova can't hold that gray gaze, not with what lies within it. She bites her lip, her eyes falling past Louvaen's chin, his shoulders, down the blue cord that closes his shirt. Out in the middle of that forgotten fleet, a leviathan perhaps twice the size of her hand surfaces only to disappear with a straw ship within its toothy jaws. If the ship is spat out somewhere within the depths, it does not surface. "Got my tools," she defends, not stepping towards him. Not stepping away. Not reaching for his hand. Not running. But she must know what he means. "But no. You haven't." She glances up from the corner of her eyes, sidelong. Other ships bob in the fish's wake.
Dimples are pressed into his cheeks when she mentions her tools, a breath catching in whispering laughter as it exhales through his nose. Focused as he is on Leova, the young man spares not a glance after the ship-taking leviathan emerged from the deep. "Far be it from me to malign a good set of tools." Louvaen's jovial nature seeps through the attempted serious delivery. "But I meant something pretty. Something like a skirt, a dress... ribbons to tie back your hair," his eyes lift to look over the auburn tangle. And then he actually dares, lifting a hand towards an errant lock with the intent to smooth its course to her shoulders. "Maybe a pair of impractical shoes in soft leather," there's actually joy in his voice as he speaks of these things.
The fleet floats in place now, an undisturbed rise and fall that grows shallower with every moment the human-powered tide is still. The breeze is still, too, just that whispering laughter that makes Leova snort like one of her runners, roll her eyes, and wind up laughing half at herself. "Wise," she says to him. "Very wise..." But then. A dress. Ribbons. She sighs now. Memory. Imaginings. A touch: her rusty head nudges into his palm. Like the runners. Like Corineth, maybe. It passes. Her eyes slide back up to him. Her mouth is curved. "Not wise."
"Hey, I know enough about woodcarving to know how important good tools can be," Louvaen says easily, though his voice is pitched soft. His hand is steady as it smoothes the strands of her hair, fingers dragging softly against her scalp and palm unflinching as she presses into it. He holds his hand cupped gently behind her ear a moment, smiling into her raised glance. There's friendly affection in his eyes, sure, and gratitude that she hasn't shied away, but nothing more demanding than that. "Hmm," is all he says at first to her last. And then his hand drops away, his weight shifting back to put more room between them. "I'd like to know that you had something nice to wear," is what he decides on saying, "for the Hatching party, if nothing else, on the chance you'll want to attend."
After that assurance, Leova lets him be about the tools. That assurance, and that distraction, which doesn't leave her smiling. Not exactly. At least his expression is calming, while hers is confused, though then she tries on a smile too. And when he leans back a little, she takes a deeper breath. A little while later, trying to cover distraction, "Hatching party. What's that? Before?"
It is her look of confusion that turns Louvaen's eyes away, and the edges of his ears have become a bit red. Then again, they have been out in the sun awhile. "Not before," he answers with a shake of his head. "At least, not that I know of." Hands left idle now move, one propping at his waist while the other comes up to rub and then hang at his neck. "It's afterwards, with all the guests who've come to attend. Though I gather that sometimes some of the new weyrlings don't have enough energy to attend."
"Oh." Leova bites her lip. "I... do you think people will be up to that? Not... want to get out of a crowd." She moves her hands too, linking them behind her neck, bracing her. Her shoulders are back. The fleet wanders. Below the water, her feet are still, even her toes. "Louvaen." Now her toes stretch into the sand, planting themselves. "Didn't want to embarrass you. That's all me. Don't dare like it too much."
"Some seem to be. I remember from a Hatching at Telgar I got to go to as a kid, anyway. There was a boy I knew from Lemos who Impressed - guess he was the sort that really liked crowds and attention, now that you mention it." Louvaen's voice trails almost reluctantly as he finishes the relatively safe thought. His eyes turn back to Leova at the sound of his name. "It's no-," he closes his mouth on the depth of meaning that leaked into his voice. The hand on his neck brushes quickly forward thorough his hair then back again to squeeze at the muscles along his spine, mouth tightening as he closes his eyes a moment. Another of those soft laughs breathes through his nose, and he looks at her again as a smile perches perilously on his lips. "It's not just you," he finishes much more evenly this time. There's frankness, now, to his bearing that he's been flustered into. "Look, I don't know," his brows peak, eyes wandering a moment before returning to her face, "what you're scared of. Or, really, what you think of me. Leova, I..." he huffs out a breath, smoothing his voice again. "I don't want to give you the wrong impression. I don't want to hurt your feelings, or... or lead you on. I like talking to you. And being around you. I mean," a wry twist lifts at the corner of his mouth. "Just, don't be the runner that spooks away from people to the far side of the pasture. People can be nice. It can be nice, to have your mane brushed and your ears scratched, and..." he's getting lost in the words again. Taking another breath, "I'm not saying you're a runner. Just. It can be good, to reach out, and know you're not alone. Don't deprive yourself of something as simple as that," he ends, deflating a bit as he finally subsides and peeks over at her.
The boy from Lemos could just as well have been on the straw boat that's beaching itself against the shore. Or the one that sank. Watching Louvaen, the way he reacts, what he says and doesn't say, Leova gets one of those quizzical smiles that turn up one side of her mouth more than the other. She lowers her hands carefully, the light fabric of her sleeves mostly dry by now, reaching for one of the tools at her belt and not finding it. So she lets her hands fall. And it can't help but be flattering, his letting show what he does. And all those words. "I like talking to you," she says with equal frankness. She's stopped smiling. "And the rest." Her eyes slide away, return, try to hold without falling this time. She shifts back on one hip, too, letting the other try to relax a little. "I like that you put it like runners, for me. I miss them. I miss currying them, currying Big Foot, exercising her. Knowing... what you said. And there's been nothing like that here." She can't speak, her mouth working for words. Finally, "Corineth. I was managing. Then Rilsa said I could touch him, and he was warm, and he liked it. Wasn't Big Foot. But it was good. And I missed it even more."
Louvaen's eyes search worriedly over Leova's face, obviously not sure what to think at first when her smile fades. But as she begins speaking, the tension starts to melt away. His lips curve up softly as she appreciates his interjection of the runners, and his eyes soften as she talks of what she misses. He's quiet a moment, obviously struck by the authenticity of what she's revealed and making sure he's not interrupting. "Okay," he breaks his silence by saying softly. He blinks, head tilting, "thank you." And, despite how a lesser gesture just spawned all this, he reaches his arms out unmistakably for a hug. "C'mere?" It's definitely a question. Tapping into more raw honesty has left uncertainty open on his features, along with the melancholy of someone adrift himself.
She had been standing very still, but now she exhales in relief and something more, shifting to the other hip. "Careful," she tells Louvaen, amber eyes intent on gray. "We still have to be careful. There's reason." There, she's warned him. But Leova doesn't pause before closing the space between them, walking into his arms, the ripples eventually reaching and lifting what distant straw boats remain. Uncertainty is hers now, too: if nothing else, just where she should put herself. A human hug. It's been a long time.
Louvaen nods solemnly. "I'll be careful," he promises. His arms fold about her as she steps into them, wrapping over the crests of her shoulders. She's not left much in the way of options as his arms squeeze snug, his cheek resting against Leova's hair just over the same spot his hand had been before. "I know I'm no Big Foot, or dragon," and his voice is rather apologetic of the fact. "But I hope, maybe, I can help you... manage?" he uses her word. There's a pause, in which his hand moves in short pats over her shoulder blade. "I really think you'd make an excellent dragonhealer," he adds softly. "And a dragonrider. I can see how you were with Big Foot translating well to them."
He says that, but will he? Leova doesn't talk as she's enfolded, holding her head away from his chest until, with a sigh, she just lets it rest. Her arms eventually curl around his waist, fingers tucking into his belt so they won't fall when she stops holding them up. Warm, breathing human. Talking. With her ear against his chest, she can hear the passage of breath before it becomes speech, and after. The patting soothes. "Don't know if I hope so," she says eventually. "Maybe.... What do you want?"
Louvaen first just hums vaguely, more a vibration then a sound. He hasn't thought to apologize about the scent of the stables no doubt still on his shirt, but then again he may be assuming it's not likely to bother her. "I want to be able to make a difference," he says after his own pause in thought. His cheek shifts against her hair, chin lifting slightly as if he's gazing upwards. "I want to be successful," the young man adds more quietly, reluctantly, sadly. "I think I could do that as a dragonrider. Other ways, too, but..." his shoulders lift fractionally.
Leova doesn't quibble at the humming, nor at the stables-smell for that matter: if it does bother her, it doesn't bother her enough to rouse her out of the increasingly comfortable lean. The line of her shoulders and back have softened, her head tilts down slightly, but not so much that she can't wonder out loud. "What does that mean? For you. Success..." She takes a deep breath, stables or no, and exhales softly, slowly. "And someone inside your head. Always. You don't mind?"
Louvaen answers the easier question first, now the stretch of one of his smiles shifting against the auburn hair. "I think I'd rather like the company," he says lightly. "No, I don't know. But I'm optimistic that I'd do alright with that, at least." The smile retreats again, his fingers curling and uncurling against the plane of her back in soft scratches. "Success," he repeats softly. "Making a positive impact on other people's lives. Being able to provide for people I love. Being respectable, admirable." His head lifts and he leans back while leaving his arms about her shoulders, craning to see her expression again. His own is vulnerable, with eyebrows peaked as he searches for approval. "Does that sound good to you?"
"If you get along," Leova murmurs wryly, only to sigh a do-that-some-more when he touches her back that way. She had touched her runners, she had touched Corineth, but just now it's good just to be the one who's stroked. Though she does start to lift a hand to trade back, it's perfunctory at best, and whatever improvements there might have been fade away when she's cued to look up. "It does. It... really does." She focuses cross-eyed on his chin for a moment before adding, grave amber eyes lifted higher, "But you didn't sound happy. When you were talking about it, before."
"Okay," he says with a thankful smile, a child getting a gold star on his drawing. "It is kind of a selfish thing to want," Louvaen continues, partially explaining his discomfort. Never mind that this is a bit contradictory to some of the things he rattled off. There's still the shadow of something held back. His eyes turn outward, looking along the lakeshore and his hands absently start their scratches again. "I don't want to be a disappointment."
"Selfish, he says. When he kept talking about helping other people," Leova murmurs to Louvaen's shirt, and lets herself deeply inhale of cloth and man and, yes, stables before turning in his arms. He can still look at the lake. She'll catch one of his hands, if she can, and rub its muscles that might be sore. "And: disappointment. To whom? Why would you?"
Louvaen doesn't respond to her murmurs other then by a twitch of his smile. As she twists he loosens his hold to give her more room. He readily lets her take that one hand of his while the other arm props itself over her shoulder to dangle idly in the air. Looking over her shoulder, he watches as she massages away the knots from the work he's so unaccustomed to. "My family," he answers after the smallest hitch of hesitation. "I'm comparatively not very accomplished."
"Are you." Leova does him the courtesy of sounding doubtful as she works over his hand, deep into the muscles if she can get there, tender over the nicks. "Suppose this," she nods toward the lake, "Is a different sort of pond to be a fish in... Do they... respect... dragonriders?"
Louvaen shrugs at her kind doubt, the hand out in the air gesturing lazily. His other hand is completely given over to Leova, his posture taking on a bit more slouch as he relaxes further. "I think so," he answers, though his tone isn't completely sure. "It is certainly more respectable then living off of my relatives' goodwill. I've failed to make it in Hold or Craft," he notes with dark humor, "so that leaves the Weyr as my chance for redemption."
"Wonderful relatives you must have," Leova says dryly. "Don't think you mentioned Crafthall before, either... Swap hands," she instructs once she's gone over his thumb one last time and the webbing between each finger, tipping her head back to peer upside down at him. Him, and what proves to be a dimming sky. "Shells," just a murmur. "Wish we had more time."
"Some of them," Louvaen says, perhaps a bit obliviously. He's quick to oblige her command to switch hands, though. "Did I not?" mention a crafthall. "Well, I'm too old now, is the crucial point." There's distraction as he looks down into her inverted features, and then follows her gaze upwards. "Yes." Pause. "I'll want to clean up before dinner," he notes reluctantly. "Are you going to the barracks?"
"Now," Leova repeats, but lets it ride. She lowers her gaze, lowers her head, does what she can with his other hand: long stretches, loosening tightened muscles and the connective tissue, helping it all slide smoothly together. Until, at last, she just links her fingers through his. "Was thinking I'd go straight there. But..." she leans back, just for a moment, before standing on her own two feet. "Let's find each other again." A look over her shoulder, a smile that lights her husky voice. "Friends."
VR: Day 1, month 7, Turn 15, of the Interval. It is a summer afternoon.
Louvaen surprises Leova in an unguarded moment. There are dares, straw ships, and confidences. There are also friends.
Lakeside, High Reaches Weyr (#420RIJs)
The grass is lower here, due to the sandier soil that surrounds the lake. A few benches have been placed here, along with two small tents for those in need of a swimsuit before wading in to the lake. A precious few willow trees, their long branches hanging low and swinging in the breeze, provide a bit of relief from the warm summer sun. The ground rises up sharply towards the northwest end of the lakeside, and the waterfall that feeds the lake thunders downwards there, creating a fine mist that distorts the light and creates a mysterious, shadowy area behind it.
Afternoon elongates the shadows from the willow trees and the cliffs beyond, though plenty of sunlight still warms the ground and glints off the breeze-trembled leaves. On one of the benches sits a bundled-up jacket with belt and tools wrapped inside, one sleeve sprawled out to cover a plate with a half-eaten slice of cheese tart. The bundle's owner glances back at it every now and again, but less often now, engrossed in sticking her hand into the mist of the waterfall and darting it out again, her sleeve dark enough with damp that she must have been doing it for a little while now. That, or she goofed.
It's been another long, dirty day and Louvaen shows the signs of it as he strides along the lake's edge. His shoes are lightly rimmed with mud and manure, his trousers and shirtsleeves peppered with slivers of straw. A few tenacious golden stems even lurk in his hair. Grime shadows his face and a scent of runner that's not wholly unpleasant clings about him. His steps bring him to the bench with the familiar looking jacket, which he stares at a moment while setting a bundle of clean clothes beside it. Straightening, his hands go up to rake through his hair and link behind his neck as he scans the area for the jacket's owner.
Leova's for the moment oblivious, laughing, flicking the water this way and that before retreating and beginning it all over again. Sometimes she holds her hand one way, to see how that channels the water, sometimes the other way, and sometimes she just plays. It's probably the most relaxed Louvaen's seen her at High Reaches, much like how she'd run around in the pasture with Little Foot, who now would be approaching three months old. It turns out that her boots aren't the cleanest either, though more with mud than manure. They sit beneath the bench with their toes pointing out and socks stuffed inside like two dead tunnelsnakes.
A fond smile slowly stretches wide across Louvaen's face when he spots Leova. He just stands quietly a moment in the sun, watching her enjoy the waterfall. Dropping his hands finally, the young man perches at the edge of the bench. Shoes and socks are pulled off and slid under to join the other candidate's, all the while his eyes sending glances the girl's way. He rolls his pant legs up to his calves and then reaches up to pull all the way loose the lacing at his collar. It is only then that he stands again and pads softly towards Leova, not exactly sneaking but surely not interrupting by announcing his presence.
Up by the waterfall, up on the high ground, Leova dances her fingers in and out of the mist like a troupe of girls at a harvest Gather, in and out, spiraling, turning, and finally making a crook-fingered bow. Earlier she had washed off one foot that had gotten muddy through all this, and now she stands on it while rinsing off the other, and of course that's when she glances back to her tools and notices that familiar brown hair. Complete with straw. Teetering, surprised, she laughs again.
Louvaen's grin lights brightly at her laugher. "Hello," he says simply. His steps lengthen, bringing him to her side more rapidly now. A hand reaches out, offering to steady her while she finishes rinsing her foot. At the same time, his gaze stretches up to take in the roaring froth arcing before them. "Amazing, how something can seem so powerful and delicate at the same time," he muses abstractly, canting a look back to Leova. His eyes search out her expression.
Leova plants herself automatically on solid ground, still laughing, before she can even give him a "Hello!" right back. But then Louvaen stretches out his hand, and she gives him a quizzical, sideways look that holds for one count. Two. And she decides to accept it, hers wet in his. She sticks her foot out: wet, wetter, spreading her toes, letting the water wash between them, wiggling. "Maybe because you're closer now," she says to the waterfall, leaning further than she safely could on her own. There's still laughter sparking in her eyes, droplets of water as jewels in her rusty hair, but the curve of her mouth has a more thoughtful tilt. "You see it."
Louvaen's grasp closes gently but then holds firm. His hands are no longer as smooth as they once were, bearing new nicks and calluses from the chores all the candidates share. Standing solidly with feet braced to properly serve as an anchor, the young man laughs with soft delight and hidden nerves as he watches her lean into the mist. "Maybe," he grants, grin mellowing to something gentler, more lopsided. He's silent a moment in the wake of her last thought, eyes dazzled by the pure sparkles of light that bead in her hair. "Tell me how you see it, Leova?" though his gaze lingers on his companion, it does turn back to regard the showering spray.
He didn't drop her. But then, she hadn't truly thought that he would. She doesn't clench on, just enough to steady her by, enjoying reaching into the mist further... maybe even further than that... maybe a little... no. Perhaps not. Perhaps that's far enough, her body bending backward like a bow, her pant leg wet past her knee. But she keeps looking into the waterfall, her eyes half-closed now against the thickening mist, and it's so tempting to jump in. He speaks, and it takes a little while to make words out of the thundering spray. "Don't know if I can..." Words, needing their reply, pull her backward and straighter and back to land. Mostly. Her toes curl over the edge and she's grinning, grinning. "Don't know if I can," she repeats, turning to look at him and catching that last lingering moment before he turns, too, and she gets to watch him profiled against the mist. "It's huge, maybe. And wet. And cold but the sun is warm, and it's not as cold as it used to be, and it's moving. All those little bits. All going their own ways. Different ways, but mostly the same way, in the end. And the splash." Leova's tone warms, teasing. "It's your turn."
"I already said!" Louvaen's eyes crinkle with humor. His fingers loosen when she comes back to her two feet, but he leaves it to her to take her hand away. "Powerful and delicate," he repeats, still watching the waterfall. But, with a breath, relents and continues. "Always similar, but never the same. And the little bits," he uses her term with a nod, lifting his other hand so his fingers can waggle at the frothy facets that split off around the edges. "They break free and seem almost motionless for a second. I love them. I try to watch one, all the way down. But how can you choose? And then you loose sight of the whole." The hand sweeps out, his head tipping to the side as he gets caught up in his thoughts. "I love the sound, too. Listening to the roar all at once, or trying to hear all the different splashes." He takes another deep breath, this one catching in his chest as his grin widens. Chuckling it out, he turns his smile back to Leova.
Leova just smiles at him, and listens while he goes on with his hand still around hers, and looks at the little bits and the other little bits and then still more little bits. And at him. "Do you choose? Or do they choose you? Didn't think of the sound that way. You're right." But once he's looking back at her, she smiles more widely, and gets back to what she was really after: "It's still your turn, Louvaen." She nods to the waterfall, steps back enough that she's no longer toe-close to the edge, and visibly braces herself. He's tall, but she's strong. She's had to be. But trust is something else altogether.
Oh, /that/ kind of his turn. Uncertainty flashes in his eyes as Louvaen watches her brace herself. "You sure?" he asks, as if she were the one who was nervous. But even before Leova can answer, he edges his own feet up to the edge. A glance is given downwards, no doubt gauging what a fall would bring and perhaps affecting the show of trust when he leans out. For he does lean out, just a shift in his weight at first and then slowly tilting further as his fingers clutch about hers and thin muscles cord in his arms. Even given his height, it is true that Louvaen is not a large man - and certainly not large to arms used to dealing with runners like Big Foot. His laughter carries more apparent nerves now, but he turns his face up as the mist swirls about him dewing on his face and in his hair, the water's thunder filling his ears. "Okay, okay!" he calls when he's had enough, arm coiling against her grip to help pull himself in.
While he's edging up to the edge, Leova's assuring, "I'm sure." Her tone is calm, and she's not smiling now, except for the minutest curve of her mouth that she gets sometimes while persuading her runners not to spook through some new effort she's putting them to. Louvaen's not bred for pulling wagons, but it could be he's the more high-strung for it, with a man's mind and logic to boot. And when he does try it, and does lean, she stands with knees bent and braced to compensate, and he makes it. She releases none of her relief. And she helps him reel himself in when he's had enough, too: no making him do all the work, much less stranding him "for his own good." He's back. And he made it. And Leova has to ask, "How was that?"
"Refreshing," is the first thing Louvaen can think to say. He reclaims his hand, bringing both up to his hair to give it a good ruffle and forming his own little corona of mist as water is chased back into the air. "A bit scary," is admitted a moment later with a confiding wrinkle of his nose. "I was thinking I might go in, where it's easier to get down." A finger points to the base of the rise where the sandy beach slopes gently into the water. "Are you interested?"
Leova nods once. "It was, wasn't it? I liked it too." Even if that isn't exactly what he said. She follows his gesture down towards the gentler path, then agrees after a moment, "All right." Though she does glance upward again, drawn toward the dance and dazzle of the mist, before she follows him down.
Louvaen shadows her nod, his smile light on his features as she agrees to accompany him. His steps bounce down the incline, gaining speed as he nears the bottom. He jogs right into the shallows, splashes spraying up from his feet as he wades in up to his knees. "Oh!" he exclaims in an exhale of breath, turning back to look for Leova. "It certainly isn't warm. Feels nice, though." Hands reaching down, he cups water in his palms and splashes his back into his hair, fingers raking through the short length and leaving alternating tracks and spikes. Some of the slivers of straw have begun to come loose, bobbing away on the ripples that surround him.
Leova is coming in after him, but more slowly, stopping when she's at the water's edge to roll her pant legs up past her knees before entering more slowly yet. "Oh, it does!" She stops to rescue one of the straw-slivers and balances it on her finger, only to send it flying all over again with a flick of thumb and forefinger. "Wouldn't it be great to have more days like this?" She bends to pick up another piece.
Louvaen wades closer to Leova as she comes in, unmindful of his soaked trousers. He shrugs good-naturedly at her question. "Ideally I could have done without the work during the first part," the young man teases. "But, yes, it is beautiful." His hands come up, setting on his hips as he looks over the other candidate. "It seems High Reaches might be growing on you?" he asks with a lopsided smile.
Leova laughs his way, "So you weren't just rolling around in the hayloft, then?" She flicks away the new bit of straw, too, but off to the side away from them both. "Might be. It might. Hope it's not just because I like compliments as much as the next girl, though... and then there's the winter." She tips her head back to let the sun soak into her tawny skin, to let it warm her down to her chilled toes. "What about you?"
"No," Louvaen answers the first with a chuckle, his eyebrows ticking up as his gaze drops. Chin still lowered, and his smile high on his cheeks, his eyes slide back up to Leova as she goes on. His face lifts again at the word 'compliment', sly and curious smile tilted towards the girl though he doesn't prod on that point. "I am interested in seeing how fast the cold weather is going to descend again," he instead comments. Taking a few lazy steps backwards, he lets the water lap up higher on his legs and drops his fingers to pick idly at the surface. "I like it here quite well. Lots of interesting people, interesting prospects..." he gives a shrug.
Leova says to the sky, "Mm," but can't resist looking down to see his face, though she just gives him a smile in return. Sly, right back, but pleased. "Fast, I heard." Flick goes another piece of quick-fetched straw. The next gets pinched between fingers, held vertical like a miniature sundial without any bearings. "What sorts of prospects? I've wondered what sort of life you came from." Flick. "Rilsa. Talking about me joining the dragonhealers. Maybe." There's her answer, the bit of straw rocking on the ripples from his walking.
Louvaen's palms skim along the water, absently herding straw into a little bobbing fleet in front of him instead of picking the slivers off the surface. "Well, for one, I think it'd be really interesting to work on the tithe and trade arrangements for the Weyr. Figuring out what is needed, what's available to exchange for it. Negotiating. It seems a much more dynamic situation then at a Hold, and possibly easier to get an entry position on Hayda's staff then somewhere more concerned with Blood ties. Though," he admits in light of her interest on the subject, "I am not completely without them." Cocking his head to the side, he turns to her last words. "But, dragonhealing?! Wow. You know, I can see you being really good at that," he says with a nod.
"So that's if a dragon doesn't find you," Leova muses, and flicks another bit towards the very edge of that herd... that fleet. "What do you mean, dynamic? With the changes? Crom?" She glances around for more nearby straw and just comes up with a leaf, blown into the water from the willows, that she holds up to the light. To the leaf, "Not completely without them... sounds like you don't much like talking about them." Just so he knows she knows, and leaves them be. "About dragonhealing, though. Thanks. The way she said it, made me want to."
"Yes," Louvaen responds to her musing. "I don't think I can really plan on a dragon, you know? Dragonhealing seems a nice idea, in that respect. You can do it either way, correct?" Circling out a hand, he gathers in her offered addition to the cluster. "I didn't exactly mean Crom," he says to her questions, face scrunching as he thinks what to say. "The incident with Crom is certainly an indication that there's need for improvement in negotiation. But by dynamic, I more mean that a Hold has more control of what its products will be. A Holder has a more direct hand in which fields get planted, how many trees are felled, which runners to breed," the last is added with a grin to Leova. "A Weyr doesn't produce its own goods on a meaningful scale, so is more removed from those decisions. It's left in a more reactionary position, in terms of assuring it can provide for the needs of its people. Anyway," he stops himself a little sheepishly. "Its not that my family, my background, is a huge secret... I just don't want to be that guy, hanging his identity on greater people." He pauses, looks up to Leova with a twitch of his lips. "My mom is of Nerat, and I fostered with the Lord's family in Lemos, so that does make for a pretty big safety net."
"Right, either way," Leova says, distracted by the rest of what he's beginning to say, enough that she looks back from leaf-filtered sun to him. She stands there in the water, toes curled through the sand beneath the water, absently fraying the sail of the leaf from its woodier veins. What he says. How he says it. It makes her smile, brighter for the runners. "An opportunity, maybe. Where somebody else might see a problem." His next revelations bring a soft exhalation of understanding, just shy of a whistle. "Blood... ties. Right. A net. But you're... not. It. Are you?"
Louvaen nods happily, "problems can be a very good source of opportunity." His hands cup together at the wrist behind the collected fleet, and with a gentle shove of water he sends it off towards Leova. Straw captains must not be very good, for the pieces start to disperse as they bob along on the ripples towards her. To her last question he grins, giving a shake of his head. "It? Blooded? Not really. My mum isn't in the direct line, and my father's father was just a fisherman, so no one's likely to offer me any land. My elder sister did manage to marry well, though. She's lady of quite a nice Holding in Lemos."
"Maybe that's why you're pretty much always so pleasant to people." But Leova's left to keep the fleet from getting lost and falling off the edge of the world or, worse, crashing on the cliffs of her knees, and it's not easy. The bits of straw like to beach themselves on her fingers if they get too close, and it takes her some time to learn to pull her finger between them so they're caught instead in that minute current. "Do you and she get along? Don't know whether I'd want land myself. Probably not."
Louvaen's brow dips a bit at her first as he tries to decipher her meaning, but there's a smile on his face. He watches as Leova gathers the herd, pushing gently at the water to help send a few strays her way. His feet shift underwater into a wider stance, the ripples from the motion threatening to disperse the straw again. "We get along well enough. She's twelve turns older, so we were never very close." Tilting his head. "I don't think I've asked if you have siblings. Back at Granite Hold?"
"Don't know how you do it," Leova says as she works, which may or may not be of much help. She tries pushing the water more deeply too, one hand on one side of the fleet, one on the other. "Maybe she'll need a steward someday. Not too soon." Her smile may be visible for a moment, in the crinkles about her eyes and the way the apples of her cheeks rise, despite her face being tipped toward the water. "Siblings." Leova gives the water another push, still looking down. "Mostly sisters. Not so much for runners."
"I like people," Louvaen notes with a shrug. A hand lifts, re-wetting hair that had dried as he rakes hid fingers through and then coming to rest at the back of his neck. "Not too soon," is agreed with a grin. But he's more focused on the top of her head, watching her hands move and perhaps trying to decipher what expression she hides. "/Mostly/ sisters?" Obviously he figures that this indicates at least one brother. "Are they more the sewing and children type, then, if they don't like runners?"
She nods, not looking away from the little fleet, finally getting them herded into a milling group. When the bits of straw bump into each other, sometimes they cling into their own, larger ship. Sometimes they just bounce. What smile she has is very still, the next thing to frozen, until her mouth compresses and one finger flicks in the water, giving them a place to go. Not towards him, not towards her. Off and away. She sighs. "Two brothers. And yes. Sewing... children. Dancing. Clothes." Has her tone gotten wistful? Leova makes up for it with, "Cooking. Canning. And more sewing."
"You must have a big family," Louvaen notes idly as he watches her disband the fleet. "It sounds as if you might be the black sheep." He slides a few steps closer into shallower water, though angled a bit to the side so as not to be too imposing. The hand on his neck slides down and it seems for a moment he might reach out to her before it drops against his leg where fingers bunch against the damp material. "You've mentioned clothes before," he says with a soft twist to his lips, eyes searching.
"That's safe to say," but Leova's low voice is more resigned than bitter. She does look back up at him, then, the water lapping a little higher up her bare calves from where he'd walked through it. The sun isn't catching her eyes any longer, and they're dark as they meet his. "But I deserve it." The little boats float gamely on. There's a small cluster now in addition to the several outliers. "Doesn't mean I don't miss some things. Not that they would hold up, not to what I do."
Louvaen looks into her darkened amber gaze, soft appreciation and gentle disagreement couched in his gray eyes. "Deserving. Such an interesting concept," he murmurs. The young man shifts closer still, his head bowed and shoulders rounded so at least he doesn't make for a completely looming figure over the shorter Leova. "You don't think you should have nice things? You don't spend every hour with the runners, at chores. I don't think I've ever even seen you in a skirt," he says in fond musing.
Leova can't hold that gray gaze, not with what lies within it. She bites her lip, her eyes falling past Louvaen's chin, his shoulders, down the blue cord that closes his shirt. Out in the middle of that forgotten fleet, a leviathan perhaps twice the size of her hand surfaces only to disappear with a straw ship within its toothy jaws. If the ship is spat out somewhere within the depths, it does not surface. "Got my tools," she defends, not stepping towards him. Not stepping away. Not reaching for his hand. Not running. But she must know what he means. "But no. You haven't." She glances up from the corner of her eyes, sidelong. Other ships bob in the fish's wake.
Dimples are pressed into his cheeks when she mentions her tools, a breath catching in whispering laughter as it exhales through his nose. Focused as he is on Leova, the young man spares not a glance after the ship-taking leviathan emerged from the deep. "Far be it from me to malign a good set of tools." Louvaen's jovial nature seeps through the attempted serious delivery. "But I meant something pretty. Something like a skirt, a dress... ribbons to tie back your hair," his eyes lift to look over the auburn tangle. And then he actually dares, lifting a hand towards an errant lock with the intent to smooth its course to her shoulders. "Maybe a pair of impractical shoes in soft leather," there's actually joy in his voice as he speaks of these things.
The fleet floats in place now, an undisturbed rise and fall that grows shallower with every moment the human-powered tide is still. The breeze is still, too, just that whispering laughter that makes Leova snort like one of her runners, roll her eyes, and wind up laughing half at herself. "Wise," she says to him. "Very wise..." But then. A dress. Ribbons. She sighs now. Memory. Imaginings. A touch: her rusty head nudges into his palm. Like the runners. Like Corineth, maybe. It passes. Her eyes slide back up to him. Her mouth is curved. "Not wise."
"Hey, I know enough about woodcarving to know how important good tools can be," Louvaen says easily, though his voice is pitched soft. His hand is steady as it smoothes the strands of her hair, fingers dragging softly against her scalp and palm unflinching as she presses into it. He holds his hand cupped gently behind her ear a moment, smiling into her raised glance. There's friendly affection in his eyes, sure, and gratitude that she hasn't shied away, but nothing more demanding than that. "Hmm," is all he says at first to her last. And then his hand drops away, his weight shifting back to put more room between them. "I'd like to know that you had something nice to wear," is what he decides on saying, "for the Hatching party, if nothing else, on the chance you'll want to attend."
After that assurance, Leova lets him be about the tools. That assurance, and that distraction, which doesn't leave her smiling. Not exactly. At least his expression is calming, while hers is confused, though then she tries on a smile too. And when he leans back a little, she takes a deeper breath. A little while later, trying to cover distraction, "Hatching party. What's that? Before?"
It is her look of confusion that turns Louvaen's eyes away, and the edges of his ears have become a bit red. Then again, they have been out in the sun awhile. "Not before," he answers with a shake of his head. "At least, not that I know of." Hands left idle now move, one propping at his waist while the other comes up to rub and then hang at his neck. "It's afterwards, with all the guests who've come to attend. Though I gather that sometimes some of the new weyrlings don't have enough energy to attend."
"Oh." Leova bites her lip. "I... do you think people will be up to that? Not... want to get out of a crowd." She moves her hands too, linking them behind her neck, bracing her. Her shoulders are back. The fleet wanders. Below the water, her feet are still, even her toes. "Louvaen." Now her toes stretch into the sand, planting themselves. "Didn't want to embarrass you. That's all me. Don't dare like it too much."
"Some seem to be. I remember from a Hatching at Telgar I got to go to as a kid, anyway. There was a boy I knew from Lemos who Impressed - guess he was the sort that really liked crowds and attention, now that you mention it." Louvaen's voice trails almost reluctantly as he finishes the relatively safe thought. His eyes turn back to Leova at the sound of his name. "It's no-," he closes his mouth on the depth of meaning that leaked into his voice. The hand on his neck brushes quickly forward thorough his hair then back again to squeeze at the muscles along his spine, mouth tightening as he closes his eyes a moment. Another of those soft laughs breathes through his nose, and he looks at her again as a smile perches perilously on his lips. "It's not just you," he finishes much more evenly this time. There's frankness, now, to his bearing that he's been flustered into. "Look, I don't know," his brows peak, eyes wandering a moment before returning to her face, "what you're scared of. Or, really, what you think of me. Leova, I..." he huffs out a breath, smoothing his voice again. "I don't want to give you the wrong impression. I don't want to hurt your feelings, or... or lead you on. I like talking to you. And being around you. I mean," a wry twist lifts at the corner of his mouth. "Just, don't be the runner that spooks away from people to the far side of the pasture. People can be nice. It can be nice, to have your mane brushed and your ears scratched, and..." he's getting lost in the words again. Taking another breath, "I'm not saying you're a runner. Just. It can be good, to reach out, and know you're not alone. Don't deprive yourself of something as simple as that," he ends, deflating a bit as he finally subsides and peeks over at her.
The boy from Lemos could just as well have been on the straw boat that's beaching itself against the shore. Or the one that sank. Watching Louvaen, the way he reacts, what he says and doesn't say, Leova gets one of those quizzical smiles that turn up one side of her mouth more than the other. She lowers her hands carefully, the light fabric of her sleeves mostly dry by now, reaching for one of the tools at her belt and not finding it. So she lets her hands fall. And it can't help but be flattering, his letting show what he does. And all those words. "I like talking to you," she says with equal frankness. She's stopped smiling. "And the rest." Her eyes slide away, return, try to hold without falling this time. She shifts back on one hip, too, letting the other try to relax a little. "I like that you put it like runners, for me. I miss them. I miss currying them, currying Big Foot, exercising her. Knowing... what you said. And there's been nothing like that here." She can't speak, her mouth working for words. Finally, "Corineth. I was managing. Then Rilsa said I could touch him, and he was warm, and he liked it. Wasn't Big Foot. But it was good. And I missed it even more."
Louvaen's eyes search worriedly over Leova's face, obviously not sure what to think at first when her smile fades. But as she begins speaking, the tension starts to melt away. His lips curve up softly as she appreciates his interjection of the runners, and his eyes soften as she talks of what she misses. He's quiet a moment, obviously struck by the authenticity of what she's revealed and making sure he's not interrupting. "Okay," he breaks his silence by saying softly. He blinks, head tilting, "thank you." And, despite how a lesser gesture just spawned all this, he reaches his arms out unmistakably for a hug. "C'mere?" It's definitely a question. Tapping into more raw honesty has left uncertainty open on his features, along with the melancholy of someone adrift himself.
She had been standing very still, but now she exhales in relief and something more, shifting to the other hip. "Careful," she tells Louvaen, amber eyes intent on gray. "We still have to be careful. There's reason." There, she's warned him. But Leova doesn't pause before closing the space between them, walking into his arms, the ripples eventually reaching and lifting what distant straw boats remain. Uncertainty is hers now, too: if nothing else, just where she should put herself. A human hug. It's been a long time.
Louvaen nods solemnly. "I'll be careful," he promises. His arms fold about her as she steps into them, wrapping over the crests of her shoulders. She's not left much in the way of options as his arms squeeze snug, his cheek resting against Leova's hair just over the same spot his hand had been before. "I know I'm no Big Foot, or dragon," and his voice is rather apologetic of the fact. "But I hope, maybe, I can help you... manage?" he uses her word. There's a pause, in which his hand moves in short pats over her shoulder blade. "I really think you'd make an excellent dragonhealer," he adds softly. "And a dragonrider. I can see how you were with Big Foot translating well to them."
He says that, but will he? Leova doesn't talk as she's enfolded, holding her head away from his chest until, with a sigh, she just lets it rest. Her arms eventually curl around his waist, fingers tucking into his belt so they won't fall when she stops holding them up. Warm, breathing human. Talking. With her ear against his chest, she can hear the passage of breath before it becomes speech, and after. The patting soothes. "Don't know if I hope so," she says eventually. "Maybe.... What do you want?"
Louvaen first just hums vaguely, more a vibration then a sound. He hasn't thought to apologize about the scent of the stables no doubt still on his shirt, but then again he may be assuming it's not likely to bother her. "I want to be able to make a difference," he says after his own pause in thought. His cheek shifts against her hair, chin lifting slightly as if he's gazing upwards. "I want to be successful," the young man adds more quietly, reluctantly, sadly. "I think I could do that as a dragonrider. Other ways, too, but..." his shoulders lift fractionally.
Leova doesn't quibble at the humming, nor at the stables-smell for that matter: if it does bother her, it doesn't bother her enough to rouse her out of the increasingly comfortable lean. The line of her shoulders and back have softened, her head tilts down slightly, but not so much that she can't wonder out loud. "What does that mean? For you. Success..." She takes a deep breath, stables or no, and exhales softly, slowly. "And someone inside your head. Always. You don't mind?"
Louvaen answers the easier question first, now the stretch of one of his smiles shifting against the auburn hair. "I think I'd rather like the company," he says lightly. "No, I don't know. But I'm optimistic that I'd do alright with that, at least." The smile retreats again, his fingers curling and uncurling against the plane of her back in soft scratches. "Success," he repeats softly. "Making a positive impact on other people's lives. Being able to provide for people I love. Being respectable, admirable." His head lifts and he leans back while leaving his arms about her shoulders, craning to see her expression again. His own is vulnerable, with eyebrows peaked as he searches for approval. "Does that sound good to you?"
"If you get along," Leova murmurs wryly, only to sigh a do-that-some-more when he touches her back that way. She had touched her runners, she had touched Corineth, but just now it's good just to be the one who's stroked. Though she does start to lift a hand to trade back, it's perfunctory at best, and whatever improvements there might have been fade away when she's cued to look up. "It does. It... really does." She focuses cross-eyed on his chin for a moment before adding, grave amber eyes lifted higher, "But you didn't sound happy. When you were talking about it, before."
"Okay," he says with a thankful smile, a child getting a gold star on his drawing. "It is kind of a selfish thing to want," Louvaen continues, partially explaining his discomfort. Never mind that this is a bit contradictory to some of the things he rattled off. There's still the shadow of something held back. His eyes turn outward, looking along the lakeshore and his hands absently start their scratches again. "I don't want to be a disappointment."
"Selfish, he says. When he kept talking about helping other people," Leova murmurs to Louvaen's shirt, and lets herself deeply inhale of cloth and man and, yes, stables before turning in his arms. He can still look at the lake. She'll catch one of his hands, if she can, and rub its muscles that might be sore. "And: disappointment. To whom? Why would you?"
Louvaen doesn't respond to her murmurs other then by a twitch of his smile. As she twists he loosens his hold to give her more room. He readily lets her take that one hand of his while the other arm props itself over her shoulder to dangle idly in the air. Looking over her shoulder, he watches as she massages away the knots from the work he's so unaccustomed to. "My family," he answers after the smallest hitch of hesitation. "I'm comparatively not very accomplished."
"Are you." Leova does him the courtesy of sounding doubtful as she works over his hand, deep into the muscles if she can get there, tender over the nicks. "Suppose this," she nods toward the lake, "Is a different sort of pond to be a fish in... Do they... respect... dragonriders?"
Louvaen shrugs at her kind doubt, the hand out in the air gesturing lazily. His other hand is completely given over to Leova, his posture taking on a bit more slouch as he relaxes further. "I think so," he answers, though his tone isn't completely sure. "It is certainly more respectable then living off of my relatives' goodwill. I've failed to make it in Hold or Craft," he notes with dark humor, "so that leaves the Weyr as my chance for redemption."
"Wonderful relatives you must have," Leova says dryly. "Don't think you mentioned Crafthall before, either... Swap hands," she instructs once she's gone over his thumb one last time and the webbing between each finger, tipping her head back to peer upside down at him. Him, and what proves to be a dimming sky. "Shells," just a murmur. "Wish we had more time."
"Some of them," Louvaen says, perhaps a bit obliviously. He's quick to oblige her command to switch hands, though. "Did I not?" mention a crafthall. "Well, I'm too old now, is the crucial point." There's distraction as he looks down into her inverted features, and then follows her gaze upwards. "Yes." Pause. "I'll want to clean up before dinner," he notes reluctantly. "Are you going to the barracks?"
"Now," Leova repeats, but lets it ride. She lowers her gaze, lowers her head, does what she can with his other hand: long stretches, loosening tightened muscles and the connective tissue, helping it all slide smoothly together. Until, at last, she just links her fingers through his. "Was thinking I'd go straight there. But..." she leans back, just for a moment, before standing on her own two feet. "Let's find each other again." A look over her shoulder, a smile that lights her husky voice. "Friends."