You Can't Go Home Again
This is in response to Writing Mission #3: Family Ties and takes place later the same day that Roa and Ashwin decide on a plan of action in regards to the dishonored Captain (Day 21, Month 6, Turn 2). Roa returns to place she once called home to find a particular object.
If you want to know more about the characters (or items) mentioned below, check out +info/7 +info/8 +info/9 +info/10 and +info/12 J'lor.
Roa climbs down from Tialith’s neck, landing lightly in the dirt beneath her feet, the cold of between still clinging to her skin. Cavel, the guard of the hour, makes as if to undo his own straps, but suddenly the gold is launching herself upwards yet again to settle into a circling pattern in in the air. The man’s protestations are lost to the wind as the little goldrider stares up, eyes squinting, hand shielding her face from the sun. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, and if she sounds it, she does not summon the dragon back to the ground.
Instead, she turns, peeling off her riding jacket, knot and all, and draping it over one arm. Roa has several miles to walk, as one cannot be discreet about a gold dragon without using distance as a hiding place, and by the time she steps over the final hill the hem of her skirt is brown with dust and the riding jacket has been folded over her arm in such a way as to conceal what it actually is.
The cothold is just as she remembers it. Almost.
The house itself with its modest size and metal roofing, a last attempt at protection should the dragonriders fail, has not changed. There is less green than there used to be and the two boys fixing a heavy metal shutter on the windows are barely boys anymore. The taller one has his father’s blond hair, cut short. He is wide like his sire, and with his back to her, Roa cannot see his face. The other, a little younger and a little less wide, sports too-long hair that is curled, but dark as her own. The rider realizes that her feet have stopped moving her forward and with a determined set to her chin, they are set back in motion.
Amid the sound of the hammers banging nails in and the brief discussion the two near-men have between one another, they don’t yet notice the little goldrider’s approach. The one with blonde hair, she thinks to herself. His name is Patel and he would be...shells...eighteen turns now. And then the smaller one is Arlan. Sixteen. They were six and four when she saw them last.
“Excuse me...” Her voice, ever soft, has to be raised several times before the first one turns around. Patel. His eyes are blue like hers, but rounder. Closer together. He is blinking in confusion.
“Can I help y’miss?”
That gets Arlan turning around. His eyes are brown, but their noses are similar. The perplexity in the two lads’ faces is echoed in Roa’s own. It’s disorienting.
“I’m looking for Petir. Is he here?”
“Da?” Arlan’s brows pull down in a scowl Roa can remember on a different face. The man she once thought of as her father, frowning as she came charging into the cothold, muddy and wild, from a day of exploring. “Y’know our da?”
“Used to,” is Roa’s reply. The boys exchange glances and look as if they would question her more, but a new arrival halts the attempt.
“Hey lads, I don’t hear hammerin’. Y’better be finished...” Petir comes around the side and he has aged well. Curly blonde hair is a little thinner, belly a little wider, but other than that he looks nearly the same. Save that when he sees Roa his eyes widen, his jaw drops, and there is shock on his face the likes of which she’s never observed. “An...Analia?” Petir takes a halting step forward. “No. Y’too young and y’too short.” The surprise shutters, becomes something still and guarded. “Roa.”
“Hello, Petir.”
The two boys are staring now, too. They know that name and they vaguely remember the face that goes with it. “Roa?” Patel queries.
“Boys, y’go and get us some water for washin’. Bressa’ll have dinner on soon.”
“Don’t need two of us t-”
“Yes I do. Don’t sass, just get.” The glower Petir throws towards his offspring has them slinking away, though not without long, backwards glances. Petir watches, waits until they’re out of sight, before he turns back to the slight thing before him. “Didn’t expect on ever seein’ you again.”
“I didn’t expect on coming back, sir.” Roa’s hands have begun doing what they always do when she’s nervous: curl into something and squeeze. This time, it’s her carefully folded flight jacket.
“What is it y’want, then?”
“A scarf.” Her fingers knead the leather methodically. “It was my...it was hers.”
“Yeah?” Petir is scowling now, and though he looks at her, the glower isn’t so much directed at Roa as through her. “Can’t say as I kept anything o’ hers.”
“Oh,” is all the Telgari can manage. It took her quite a while to work up the courage to come here, and now it seems-
“One box,” Petir admits grudgingly. “Was all I kept. Wait here, I’ll bring it out. Don’t come in.”
She does, and he does, and soon Roa is crouched over a wooden crate as Petir stands over her, arms crossed. She removes the top and stares down at a collection of neatly folded dresses. Blues and browns and yellows. Underneath them, an intricate red one. Her fingers slide over the fabric. Most are simple, but well made. Gowns are drawn out and set on her lap as she looks for the specific object. Petir does not move. Perhaps, Roa ponders, he thinks I’ll steal something?
It’s down at the very bottom, crushed into a corner. Roa draws it out, lets it uncurl and whip about in the slow breeze. Silver and blue and almost translucent. The colors have faded some with age, a corner has started to unravel. The pattern is chaotic, splotches of varying sizes mixed around and over one another. Silver and blue. Tucking it into her lap, Roa begins to return the rest of the clothing back into the crate. When she’s done, Petir wordlessly picks it up and brings it back inside.
Roa slides the silky object over one hand, and then the other. She remembers this scarf. Her mother wore it almost always when they lived here. In the rush to leave, it had been left behind. It was, Analia had said, the first present Roa’s real father had ever given her.
Petir comes back outside, hands in his pocket. “So. Y’stayin’ gone this time, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” The man looks up at the sky, squinting. Roa must resist the urge to look as well, to see if he might somehow spot Tialith. “Y’keepin’ y’self alright?” Petir asks to the clouds.
“I am, sir.”
“And...y’mother? She doin’ al’right?”
Roa keeps her face impassive, but her breathing stops. How is it possible that Petir doesn’t know? He must have paired the name of the Instigator leader with the name of the bluerider that was their frequent visitor. He must have seen the posters that circulated to every hall and hold. And yet the question seems genuine, a sort of desperate curiosity leaking out from beneath his stoic mien.
“Yes, sir. She’s doing fine.”
Petir grunts faintly. Nods once. It is as much of a farewell as Roa gets, because he turns and retreats back into the house.
Roa looks the place over one last time, absorbs it. Then she too turns to go, beginning the trek that will return her to her circling dragon and her very unhappy guard.
If you want to know more about the characters (or items) mentioned below, check out +info/7 +info/8 +info/9 +info/10 and +info/12 J'lor.
Roa climbs down from Tialith’s neck, landing lightly in the dirt beneath her feet, the cold of between still clinging to her skin. Cavel, the guard of the hour, makes as if to undo his own straps, but suddenly the gold is launching herself upwards yet again to settle into a circling pattern in in the air. The man’s protestations are lost to the wind as the little goldrider stares up, eyes squinting, hand shielding her face from the sun. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, and if she sounds it, she does not summon the dragon back to the ground.
Instead, she turns, peeling off her riding jacket, knot and all, and draping it over one arm. Roa has several miles to walk, as one cannot be discreet about a gold dragon without using distance as a hiding place, and by the time she steps over the final hill the hem of her skirt is brown with dust and the riding jacket has been folded over her arm in such a way as to conceal what it actually is.
The cothold is just as she remembers it. Almost.
The house itself with its modest size and metal roofing, a last attempt at protection should the dragonriders fail, has not changed. There is less green than there used to be and the two boys fixing a heavy metal shutter on the windows are barely boys anymore. The taller one has his father’s blond hair, cut short. He is wide like his sire, and with his back to her, Roa cannot see his face. The other, a little younger and a little less wide, sports too-long hair that is curled, but dark as her own. The rider realizes that her feet have stopped moving her forward and with a determined set to her chin, they are set back in motion.
Amid the sound of the hammers banging nails in and the brief discussion the two near-men have between one another, they don’t yet notice the little goldrider’s approach. The one with blonde hair, she thinks to herself. His name is Patel and he would be...shells...eighteen turns now. And then the smaller one is Arlan. Sixteen. They were six and four when she saw them last.
“Excuse me...” Her voice, ever soft, has to be raised several times before the first one turns around. Patel. His eyes are blue like hers, but rounder. Closer together. He is blinking in confusion.
“Can I help y’miss?”
That gets Arlan turning around. His eyes are brown, but their noses are similar. The perplexity in the two lads’ faces is echoed in Roa’s own. It’s disorienting.
“I’m looking for Petir. Is he here?”
“Da?” Arlan’s brows pull down in a scowl Roa can remember on a different face. The man she once thought of as her father, frowning as she came charging into the cothold, muddy and wild, from a day of exploring. “Y’know our da?”
“Used to,” is Roa’s reply. The boys exchange glances and look as if they would question her more, but a new arrival halts the attempt.
“Hey lads, I don’t hear hammerin’. Y’better be finished...” Petir comes around the side and he has aged well. Curly blonde hair is a little thinner, belly a little wider, but other than that he looks nearly the same. Save that when he sees Roa his eyes widen, his jaw drops, and there is shock on his face the likes of which she’s never observed. “An...Analia?” Petir takes a halting step forward. “No. Y’too young and y’too short.” The surprise shutters, becomes something still and guarded. “Roa.”
“Hello, Petir.”
The two boys are staring now, too. They know that name and they vaguely remember the face that goes with it. “Roa?” Patel queries.
“Boys, y’go and get us some water for washin’. Bressa’ll have dinner on soon.”
“Don’t need two of us t-”
“Yes I do. Don’t sass, just get.” The glower Petir throws towards his offspring has them slinking away, though not without long, backwards glances. Petir watches, waits until they’re out of sight, before he turns back to the slight thing before him. “Didn’t expect on ever seein’ you again.”
“I didn’t expect on coming back, sir.” Roa’s hands have begun doing what they always do when she’s nervous: curl into something and squeeze. This time, it’s her carefully folded flight jacket.
“What is it y’want, then?”
“A scarf.” Her fingers knead the leather methodically. “It was my...it was hers.”
“Yeah?” Petir is scowling now, and though he looks at her, the glower isn’t so much directed at Roa as through her. “Can’t say as I kept anything o’ hers.”
“Oh,” is all the Telgari can manage. It took her quite a while to work up the courage to come here, and now it seems-
“One box,” Petir admits grudgingly. “Was all I kept. Wait here, I’ll bring it out. Don’t come in.”
She does, and he does, and soon Roa is crouched over a wooden crate as Petir stands over her, arms crossed. She removes the top and stares down at a collection of neatly folded dresses. Blues and browns and yellows. Underneath them, an intricate red one. Her fingers slide over the fabric. Most are simple, but well made. Gowns are drawn out and set on her lap as she looks for the specific object. Petir does not move. Perhaps, Roa ponders, he thinks I’ll steal something?
It’s down at the very bottom, crushed into a corner. Roa draws it out, lets it uncurl and whip about in the slow breeze. Silver and blue and almost translucent. The colors have faded some with age, a corner has started to unravel. The pattern is chaotic, splotches of varying sizes mixed around and over one another. Silver and blue. Tucking it into her lap, Roa begins to return the rest of the clothing back into the crate. When she’s done, Petir wordlessly picks it up and brings it back inside.
Roa slides the silky object over one hand, and then the other. She remembers this scarf. Her mother wore it almost always when they lived here. In the rush to leave, it had been left behind. It was, Analia had said, the first present Roa’s real father had ever given her.
Petir comes back outside, hands in his pocket. “So. Y’stayin’ gone this time, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” The man looks up at the sky, squinting. Roa must resist the urge to look as well, to see if he might somehow spot Tialith. “Y’keepin’ y’self alright?” Petir asks to the clouds.
“I am, sir.”
“And...y’mother? She doin’ al’right?”
Roa keeps her face impassive, but her breathing stops. How is it possible that Petir doesn’t know? He must have paired the name of the Instigator leader with the name of the bluerider that was their frequent visitor. He must have seen the posters that circulated to every hall and hold. And yet the question seems genuine, a sort of desperate curiosity leaking out from beneath his stoic mien.
“Yes, sir. She’s doing fine.”
Petir grunts faintly. Nods once. It is as much of a farewell as Roa gets, because he turns and retreats back into the house.
Roa looks the place over one last time, absorbs it. Then she too turns to go, beginning the trek that will return her to her circling dragon and her very unhappy guard.