Soldier, Sailor, Candlestick Maker...
Ashwin grew up first at High Reaches Hold, and then at Tillek. He did go out on boats, but it turned out he was a terrible seasicker, so in the end he settled first for building them, and then for joining the guard. Roa wrote about what might have happened if her life had gone differently; if J’lor had never impressed, and the Instigators had never come to be. In that other life, Roa was an outgoing, self-confident Harper Journeyman, posted to High Reaches Weyr and living with...
He stumbled over her second guitar case on his way in from the ledge, and swore as he stumbled, skipping a couple of steps to regain his balance. He lifted his head, pulling off his helmet, and ruffling his hair with one hand to unflatten it, waiting - and there it was; laughter.
She was seated at the tiny desk he’d cobbled together for her in the space between the end of his bed and the hearth. He’d mentioned finding a larger weyr, but by then she’d already wormed out of him that he liked the quiet and isolation of this one up high, and his ears were ringing with declarations of affection for her small desk before he conceded. She was wearing one of his shirts again, bare legs drawn up inside it so that she had to reach past her knees to write. That was Roa, making herself at home. Making herself at home in his shirts, making herself at home in his weyr, making herself at home in his life. He didn’t remember asking at any point. He couldn’t imagine complaining.
“How did your drills go?” she asked. She always remembered what he’d been doing, always remembered to ask. He liked that she did, wondered how she always knew what to say, to show people she was thinking of them. “Fine, we’re not flying ‘fall tomorrow,” he replied, snagging his helmet on the hook by the entrance, and peeling off his jacket. “I can take you back to your family in the morning, if you like. Nothing else to do.” He was rewarded for the offer by her smile, and returned it with one of his own, quieter, but no less genuine. He knew she’d been itching to go. Perhaps this was the same thing, showing her he was thinking of her.
“Will you miss me?” she asked cheekily, cocking her head to one side, and setting down her work to hear the answer. He pretended to consider the question for a moment, turning away to hang up his jacket, and turning back scratching his head. “Probably not,” he settled on, deadpan. “There’s a cavern down there full of girls, one or two’ll keep me entertained.” Her mouth opened, ready with some mock-outraged reply, but he continued quietly, walking into the weyr so he could sit down on the bed, and lean down to untie his boots, and in the end she twisted to hear him keep talking. “We’re fickle,” he continued, nodding to the ledge outside where his lifemate lounged, sleeping off the exertions of drills already, adopting his dragon’s playboy ways momentarily for his own. “Probably forget why we’ve got these instruments all over the place in a couple of days, lose them in a card game or something. You don’t really like that drum, do you?”
This time she didn’t hold back her outraged snort, and for it she earned a sidelong grin from her lover, and a wink. “Bronzeriders,” she muttered, sliding her legs down from their nest inside his shirt so she could rise to her feet, and stomp across towards him. “You stamp those feet,” he encouraged her, kicking his boots off, and leaning back on his elbows, amusement gleaming in his pale eyes. “I’d quake in my boots if I was still wearing them, fierce little thing.”
“Ash!” She’d heard his family use that part of his name, and now she never called him anything else. Part and parcel of the way she’d just decided to install herself one day. It made him happy. His low tease was enough to achieve his aim. With a sound that was half roar, half helpless laughter, she launched herself at him, and he brought his hands up to intercept her, pulling her onto the bed and rolling her over onto her back so he could lean over her, propping up on one elbow. “Now,” he murmured, pausing to kiss her. He got a sharp nip at his lower lip for his troubles. “Give me a reason to remember you a whole seven, mmm?”
So, laughing, she did.
He stumbled over her second guitar case on his way in from the ledge, and swore as he stumbled, skipping a couple of steps to regain his balance. He lifted his head, pulling off his helmet, and ruffling his hair with one hand to unflatten it, waiting - and there it was; laughter.
She was seated at the tiny desk he’d cobbled together for her in the space between the end of his bed and the hearth. He’d mentioned finding a larger weyr, but by then she’d already wormed out of him that he liked the quiet and isolation of this one up high, and his ears were ringing with declarations of affection for her small desk before he conceded. She was wearing one of his shirts again, bare legs drawn up inside it so that she had to reach past her knees to write. That was Roa, making herself at home. Making herself at home in his shirts, making herself at home in his weyr, making herself at home in his life. He didn’t remember asking at any point. He couldn’t imagine complaining.
“How did your drills go?” she asked. She always remembered what he’d been doing, always remembered to ask. He liked that she did, wondered how she always knew what to say, to show people she was thinking of them. “Fine, we’re not flying ‘fall tomorrow,” he replied, snagging his helmet on the hook by the entrance, and peeling off his jacket. “I can take you back to your family in the morning, if you like. Nothing else to do.” He was rewarded for the offer by her smile, and returned it with one of his own, quieter, but no less genuine. He knew she’d been itching to go. Perhaps this was the same thing, showing her he was thinking of her.
“Will you miss me?” she asked cheekily, cocking her head to one side, and setting down her work to hear the answer. He pretended to consider the question for a moment, turning away to hang up his jacket, and turning back scratching his head. “Probably not,” he settled on, deadpan. “There’s a cavern down there full of girls, one or two’ll keep me entertained.” Her mouth opened, ready with some mock-outraged reply, but he continued quietly, walking into the weyr so he could sit down on the bed, and lean down to untie his boots, and in the end she twisted to hear him keep talking. “We’re fickle,” he continued, nodding to the ledge outside where his lifemate lounged, sleeping off the exertions of drills already, adopting his dragon’s playboy ways momentarily for his own. “Probably forget why we’ve got these instruments all over the place in a couple of days, lose them in a card game or something. You don’t really like that drum, do you?”
This time she didn’t hold back her outraged snort, and for it she earned a sidelong grin from her lover, and a wink. “Bronzeriders,” she muttered, sliding her legs down from their nest inside his shirt so she could rise to her feet, and stomp across towards him. “You stamp those feet,” he encouraged her, kicking his boots off, and leaning back on his elbows, amusement gleaming in his pale eyes. “I’d quake in my boots if I was still wearing them, fierce little thing.”
“Ash!” She’d heard his family use that part of his name, and now she never called him anything else. Part and parcel of the way she’d just decided to install herself one day. It made him happy. His low tease was enough to achieve his aim. With a sound that was half roar, half helpless laughter, she launched herself at him, and he brought his hands up to intercept her, pulling her onto the bed and rolling her over onto her back so he could lean over her, propping up on one elbow. “Now,” he murmured, pausing to kiss her. He got a sharp nip at his lower lip for his troubles. “Give me a reason to remember you a whole seven, mmm?”
So, laughing, she did.