Side By Side
Location: East Weyr at HRW / Exile Beach
Time: Sunrise on Day 8, Month 8, Turn 2 at HRW / Night on Day 7, Month 8, Turn 2 on the Island
Players: Roa and Ashwin
Scene: Separated by timezones and an ocean, a pair of lovers reflect.
The sun is creeping up, and Roa woke up a little bit before that. She's currently standing, wearing her little black tank top and half-pants, leaning against the opening between inner weyr and ledge. She peers out at the bowl. Folks move sleepily. The watchrider wings to bed as the next one arrives. On her couch, beneath the red and orange sky, Tialith is still asleep. Roa's eyes find, for a moment, the ledge on which Morelenth slumbers, and then they snap away again. She steps back inside the weyr, but leaves the curtain open. It is in a patch of slowly creeping sunlight that she sits and settles, legs straight and spread a little apart, to begin the stretches that will warm her muscles. I figured out the times, she thinks to herself. What are you doing now? You're safe, aren't you? You'd better be safe.
Ashwin makes his way down the path in silence, bare feet failing even to crack a stick or rustle the debris. He's a shadow moving through the darkness, away from where the islanders are gathering around to hear a story after their evening meal. He peels off his shirt as he arrives on the sand, and drops it by where the trees end. He sinks to the cold sand, legs spread a little apart, to begin stretching. Fuck this, he thinks to himself. I'm done here. Come and get me. I'll take my chances.
She bends over her toes first, reaching down to wrap her hands around one foot. Hold. Count to thirty. And then the other. Hold. Count to thirty. He's told her to wait on that one. That it's too big a reach for the first warm-up stretch of the day, but she likes the way it feels. Likes the tug of tight muscles and how they learn to accommodate. It wakes her up. Did you even read my letter? Did you read Jen's?
He allows his legs to slowly begin stretching themselves, starting with his arms. Reaching for his ankles is too big a stretch, first thing, and he can feel a twinge from that morning. So he bends one arm, braces it with his other hand, counts to thirty. Reverses the position. What time is it there? Six. She'll be asleep. He closes his eyes for a moment, summoning up a mental picture of the Caucus barracks, walking down the aisle in his mind's eye to where she sleeps.
She straightens again with a deep sigh and begins on the smaller things now. Her head rolls back, to the side, to the front, and around. A slow circle that her shoulders join in. Her eyes have closed and she can see him so easily. The advantage and the curse of her memory. His face is never far from her thoughts. His hair was getting so long. She settles her hands on her hips and twists slowly in one direction. Hold. Count to thirty. The other direction. Hold. Count to thirty. A bit of her wants to rush through this part. It's dull. But he's taught her too well, and she doesn't skimp.
He doubles over slowly, reaching down easily to flatten his torso against his outstretched leg, wrap a hand around his ankle, turn his head sideways to press his cheek to his knee. Stretch, hold, exhale, push a little further. Count, reverse, repeat. She was always impatient when he made her wade through this part, fidgeting and talking to him, wanting permission to press on to more interesting parts. He likes this part. It's quiet, and his mind is already beginning to calm, in anticipation of what's coming. I should have told you, he thinks. I should have said it out loud.
Her legs move together now, pointing out directly in front of her, toes tipped so they form an arrow at the wall. The biggest stretch. The longest. The dullest. She bends forward again, her upper torso flattening against her straightened legs, hands curling around the bottoms of her feet. She turns her head sideways to press her cheek to her knees. Stretch, hold, exhale, push a little further. Her body is so still that it sets her mind to jumping. Her spine twitches a little in anticipation. Last stretch. The next part is better. Do you even think of me? Are you angry?
He uncurls, and comes to his feet in an easy movement, the stiffness from his morning session banished, now. He twists slowly, bending back, shoulders, neck, one knife hilt digging into his ribs. He adjusts it, and sinks deeper. Time for the real stuff in a minute. His breathing is slowing, eyes closing as he holds the stretch. Even the prospect of his routine is relaxing him, bringing him down from the state of tension in which he spends most days, now. He swallows. She'll have her day, while he sleeps. What would she do with Lorna?
Her knees bend and she rises with a final stretch. Her arms reach up, head tilts back, toes push her body up. It's not training. It's just luxurious and it feel good. And she’s fairly certain, when she did it in front of him, it drove him wild. Then she relaxes, hands hanging at her sides as she settles into the beginning stance. Routines flick through her mind, quieting other, restless thoughts for a moment. She picks and chooses. What will go where, when. And then she has her sequence and she's ready. Shells. I have no idea how I'm going to explain to you about Jen. I didn't mean it the way it'll seem. I'm so sorry. You're going to hate me. Teeth gritting, she launches into a lunge.
His hands go to the knives at his belt, fingers wrapping comfortably around the hilts. He's noticed only Derek's guards carry knives like his. Someone's going to ask him for them, sooner or later. He draws a slow breath in through his nose, and as he draws both weapons, he gives himself a slow shake, checking on loose muscles. I need to talk to you. I don't know how to do this without someone to talk to, anymore. Your father wants it to be him. I need to talk to you. He exhales, and pushes into his first lunge.
From the lunge she drops into a crouch and then a roll that brings her up to her feet so she can jab with the heel of her wrist at some phantom's throat. Jump back and to the side, turn, kick. Lu-...kick was off. Roa stops, breathes in slowly through her nose, and kicks again. Foot's tilted the wrong way. Again. -There-. That way. Twice more before she's doing it without thinking. Then she backs up. Jab with her wrist. Back and to the side. Turn, kick, lunge, twist, roll. I miss you so much. It isn't getting easier. I thought it would.
He forgets to think for a time, dropping into a routine that fits his body flawlessly. Lunge, drop, roll, kick, slash. The movements are slow - it takes skill and practice to slow them down this much, to reach this level of precision. He plants his foot in the sand, twists, kicks, aiming his heel at just /this/ spot, then just /this/, bringing it down where a foot would be, swinging with an elbow. You promised to come back in a turn, let me choose somewhere else to hide. I don't think I can last. I think J'lor would take me somewhere. I don't think I can go. Lorna. Your father. What would you want me to do?
She stands from the roll and runs a hand over her hair, smoothing the wisps back. I got new clothes. I think you'd laugh at me, but I think you'd notice. They fit differently. Having gone through her routine once, she begins again, this time at a pace a bit faster than a snail's. Lunge, crouch, roll, jab, back and to the side, turn, kick, lunge, twist, roll. No mistakes. She smiles just a little bit. Please be safe. Please be there when I come for you. Please don't hate me.
His knife catches the belly of an imaginary adversary - perhaps the man he imagines has a face - and with a twist, he's finished. Seamlessly, he begins again. Lunge, drop, roll, kick, slash. Slightly faster, not much. He grits his teeth, reaching for the calm this routine usually brings. This can't beat me. I have no other option. Step, twist, kick, kick. I've chosen a side. I didn't want to, but I've had to. You'd want to know why it took me so long to choose him.
Again. Faster. The trouble with practicing so much is that she's improving. She can think even as she moves faster. Lunge, crouch, roll, jab. Have you met him? Has he spoken to you? Maybe I got lucky and he hasn't. Somehow. Back and to the side. Turn. Has he told you things? Shells. At least I know -you'll- keep quiet. Kick. Lunge. Twist. Roll.
The good part about training is that he can think as he moves, allowing his body onto autopilot as his mind runs through problems. He'll sense it, if a move is off. I need to talk to you. I feel at last like I know a little what to do. I've chosen a side, and that simplifies things. Maybe I'm helping Lorna. I need to talk to you. Faranth, I need to touch you. So badly. Duck, jab, come up with an elbow swinging around.
She stops for a moment, leaning her hands onto her knees to inhale slowly, exhale slowly. Deep breath. Full speed. Lunge, crouch, roll, jab. Back and to the side. I have a weyr now. Days after you left. The bed's too big without you in it. Turn. Kick. Lunge. Twist. Roll. Tia said you'd take bits of me when you went away. Begin again. Faster. She was right.
Wait, that foot was wrong, landed turned outward just a couple of degrees more than it should. He catches himself, backs up two steps, launches in again. Jab, knife hilt aimed at a hypothetical temple, step forward, lunge, duck, lean sideways, kick for the knee. I miss you. How did I end up needing you so much? I should have been more careful. I'm glad I wasn't. I should have looked you in the eye.
Last time. She throws herself into the routine, moves snapping one after the other in a flurry of precision...lungetwistroll...and she's up on her feet again, panting, leaning on her knees, head bowed. You would have been proud of that. Wouldn't have shown it, but I'd have known anyhow. She straightens slowly and closes her eyes to begin the warm down exercises. One leg is lifted behind her, ankle grabbed with the opposite hand. I can't remember what it was like without you anymore. I try. I can't. I’ve never been able to forget anything, before.
He halts, twists, and in careful slow motion, kicks backwards. A slight alteration, experimental. He repeats it again, and again, and once more, then a fourth time, this one lightening fast. A nod, and the routine resumes, incorporating this new kick, and running to its conclusion at that same breakneck speed, so that his breathing has finally accelerated when he finishes. He doubles over, reaching for his ankles, to stretch. I need you. I need you asking me your questions. I need to look at you, I need to hold you while you're sleeping, I need to take you to bed and wear you out. I don't know how it happened, but I need you. What if I come back, and you're there, but not mine?
Hold. Count to thirty. Switch ankles. Ashwin. I can't believe you didn't think I'd keep my word. I can't believe you'll trust Jen to do the impossible, but not me. I can't believe you picked me. I love you. Ass. She bends down with a soft grunt, hands curling around her right ankle. Hold. Count to thirty. Shift to the other leg. Repeat. Shift to the middle, touch the ground. Hold.
Hold, be still, allow the stretch to work. Switch, move, twist, hold this one. Oh, Roa. I wish I'd said it out loud. I will, if I see you. If the next thing you do is walk away from me, I'll tell you. He straightens, stretches his arms halfheartedly. This was supposed to help him feel better. I miss you, he thinks. This is hard. I wish I'd met your eye. I wish I'd told you. I think I'm doing what you'd want. Abruptly he abandons his stretch, too early, and turns to walk across to where his shirt is, snatching it up and pulling it on.
She rises from her stretch and does a few more cursory ones. Halfhearted. He wouldn't let her get away with it, so this is her punishment for him. He's not here. He can't stop her. Every so often, she'll skimp. Besides, she thinks guiltily, I'm going to take a bath. I'm walking there. That'll serve for the rest. She opens up her wardrobe to snatch down a towel, some sweetsand, and her new clothes. When you get back, she thinks as she pushes her feet into her well-worn boots, I'm going to take you dancing again. Then she slips from her weyr and clumps down the stairs, untied laces trailing after. Training is finished, and the day must start.
He buttons his shirt, rotating his shoulders slowly, as though this will make up for the stretch he should have gone through. When I get back, he thinks with quiet, firming determination. /When/ I get back, this will work, somehow. We will find a way to make it. I'll say what I should have said, make it right. He breathes in slowly through his nose, steadies his breathing, and turns for the pathway. Training is finished, and his day is over.
Time: Sunrise on Day 8, Month 8, Turn 2 at HRW / Night on Day 7, Month 8, Turn 2 on the Island
Players: Roa and Ashwin
Scene: Separated by timezones and an ocean, a pair of lovers reflect.
The sun is creeping up, and Roa woke up a little bit before that. She's currently standing, wearing her little black tank top and half-pants, leaning against the opening between inner weyr and ledge. She peers out at the bowl. Folks move sleepily. The watchrider wings to bed as the next one arrives. On her couch, beneath the red and orange sky, Tialith is still asleep. Roa's eyes find, for a moment, the ledge on which Morelenth slumbers, and then they snap away again. She steps back inside the weyr, but leaves the curtain open. It is in a patch of slowly creeping sunlight that she sits and settles, legs straight and spread a little apart, to begin the stretches that will warm her muscles. I figured out the times, she thinks to herself. What are you doing now? You're safe, aren't you? You'd better be safe.
Ashwin makes his way down the path in silence, bare feet failing even to crack a stick or rustle the debris. He's a shadow moving through the darkness, away from where the islanders are gathering around to hear a story after their evening meal. He peels off his shirt as he arrives on the sand, and drops it by where the trees end. He sinks to the cold sand, legs spread a little apart, to begin stretching. Fuck this, he thinks to himself. I'm done here. Come and get me. I'll take my chances.
She bends over her toes first, reaching down to wrap her hands around one foot. Hold. Count to thirty. And then the other. Hold. Count to thirty. He's told her to wait on that one. That it's too big a reach for the first warm-up stretch of the day, but she likes the way it feels. Likes the tug of tight muscles and how they learn to accommodate. It wakes her up. Did you even read my letter? Did you read Jen's?
He allows his legs to slowly begin stretching themselves, starting with his arms. Reaching for his ankles is too big a stretch, first thing, and he can feel a twinge from that morning. So he bends one arm, braces it with his other hand, counts to thirty. Reverses the position. What time is it there? Six. She'll be asleep. He closes his eyes for a moment, summoning up a mental picture of the Caucus barracks, walking down the aisle in his mind's eye to where she sleeps.
She straightens again with a deep sigh and begins on the smaller things now. Her head rolls back, to the side, to the front, and around. A slow circle that her shoulders join in. Her eyes have closed and she can see him so easily. The advantage and the curse of her memory. His face is never far from her thoughts. His hair was getting so long. She settles her hands on her hips and twists slowly in one direction. Hold. Count to thirty. The other direction. Hold. Count to thirty. A bit of her wants to rush through this part. It's dull. But he's taught her too well, and she doesn't skimp.
He doubles over slowly, reaching down easily to flatten his torso against his outstretched leg, wrap a hand around his ankle, turn his head sideways to press his cheek to his knee. Stretch, hold, exhale, push a little further. Count, reverse, repeat. She was always impatient when he made her wade through this part, fidgeting and talking to him, wanting permission to press on to more interesting parts. He likes this part. It's quiet, and his mind is already beginning to calm, in anticipation of what's coming. I should have told you, he thinks. I should have said it out loud.
Her legs move together now, pointing out directly in front of her, toes tipped so they form an arrow at the wall. The biggest stretch. The longest. The dullest. She bends forward again, her upper torso flattening against her straightened legs, hands curling around the bottoms of her feet. She turns her head sideways to press her cheek to her knees. Stretch, hold, exhale, push a little further. Her body is so still that it sets her mind to jumping. Her spine twitches a little in anticipation. Last stretch. The next part is better. Do you even think of me? Are you angry?
He uncurls, and comes to his feet in an easy movement, the stiffness from his morning session banished, now. He twists slowly, bending back, shoulders, neck, one knife hilt digging into his ribs. He adjusts it, and sinks deeper. Time for the real stuff in a minute. His breathing is slowing, eyes closing as he holds the stretch. Even the prospect of his routine is relaxing him, bringing him down from the state of tension in which he spends most days, now. He swallows. She'll have her day, while he sleeps. What would she do with Lorna?
Her knees bend and she rises with a final stretch. Her arms reach up, head tilts back, toes push her body up. It's not training. It's just luxurious and it feel good. And she’s fairly certain, when she did it in front of him, it drove him wild. Then she relaxes, hands hanging at her sides as she settles into the beginning stance. Routines flick through her mind, quieting other, restless thoughts for a moment. She picks and chooses. What will go where, when. And then she has her sequence and she's ready. Shells. I have no idea how I'm going to explain to you about Jen. I didn't mean it the way it'll seem. I'm so sorry. You're going to hate me. Teeth gritting, she launches into a lunge.
His hands go to the knives at his belt, fingers wrapping comfortably around the hilts. He's noticed only Derek's guards carry knives like his. Someone's going to ask him for them, sooner or later. He draws a slow breath in through his nose, and as he draws both weapons, he gives himself a slow shake, checking on loose muscles. I need to talk to you. I don't know how to do this without someone to talk to, anymore. Your father wants it to be him. I need to talk to you. He exhales, and pushes into his first lunge.
From the lunge she drops into a crouch and then a roll that brings her up to her feet so she can jab with the heel of her wrist at some phantom's throat. Jump back and to the side, turn, kick. Lu-...kick was off. Roa stops, breathes in slowly through her nose, and kicks again. Foot's tilted the wrong way. Again. -There-. That way. Twice more before she's doing it without thinking. Then she backs up. Jab with her wrist. Back and to the side. Turn, kick, lunge, twist, roll. I miss you so much. It isn't getting easier. I thought it would.
He forgets to think for a time, dropping into a routine that fits his body flawlessly. Lunge, drop, roll, kick, slash. The movements are slow - it takes skill and practice to slow them down this much, to reach this level of precision. He plants his foot in the sand, twists, kicks, aiming his heel at just /this/ spot, then just /this/, bringing it down where a foot would be, swinging with an elbow. You promised to come back in a turn, let me choose somewhere else to hide. I don't think I can last. I think J'lor would take me somewhere. I don't think I can go. Lorna. Your father. What would you want me to do?
She stands from the roll and runs a hand over her hair, smoothing the wisps back. I got new clothes. I think you'd laugh at me, but I think you'd notice. They fit differently. Having gone through her routine once, she begins again, this time at a pace a bit faster than a snail's. Lunge, crouch, roll, jab, back and to the side, turn, kick, lunge, twist, roll. No mistakes. She smiles just a little bit. Please be safe. Please be there when I come for you. Please don't hate me.
His knife catches the belly of an imaginary adversary - perhaps the man he imagines has a face - and with a twist, he's finished. Seamlessly, he begins again. Lunge, drop, roll, kick, slash. Slightly faster, not much. He grits his teeth, reaching for the calm this routine usually brings. This can't beat me. I have no other option. Step, twist, kick, kick. I've chosen a side. I didn't want to, but I've had to. You'd want to know why it took me so long to choose him.
Again. Faster. The trouble with practicing so much is that she's improving. She can think even as she moves faster. Lunge, crouch, roll, jab. Have you met him? Has he spoken to you? Maybe I got lucky and he hasn't. Somehow. Back and to the side. Turn. Has he told you things? Shells. At least I know -you'll- keep quiet. Kick. Lunge. Twist. Roll.
The good part about training is that he can think as he moves, allowing his body onto autopilot as his mind runs through problems. He'll sense it, if a move is off. I need to talk to you. I feel at last like I know a little what to do. I've chosen a side, and that simplifies things. Maybe I'm helping Lorna. I need to talk to you. Faranth, I need to touch you. So badly. Duck, jab, come up with an elbow swinging around.
She stops for a moment, leaning her hands onto her knees to inhale slowly, exhale slowly. Deep breath. Full speed. Lunge, crouch, roll, jab. Back and to the side. I have a weyr now. Days after you left. The bed's too big without you in it. Turn. Kick. Lunge. Twist. Roll. Tia said you'd take bits of me when you went away. Begin again. Faster. She was right.
Wait, that foot was wrong, landed turned outward just a couple of degrees more than it should. He catches himself, backs up two steps, launches in again. Jab, knife hilt aimed at a hypothetical temple, step forward, lunge, duck, lean sideways, kick for the knee. I miss you. How did I end up needing you so much? I should have been more careful. I'm glad I wasn't. I should have looked you in the eye.
Last time. She throws herself into the routine, moves snapping one after the other in a flurry of precision...lungetwistroll...and she's up on her feet again, panting, leaning on her knees, head bowed. You would have been proud of that. Wouldn't have shown it, but I'd have known anyhow. She straightens slowly and closes her eyes to begin the warm down exercises. One leg is lifted behind her, ankle grabbed with the opposite hand. I can't remember what it was like without you anymore. I try. I can't. I’ve never been able to forget anything, before.
He halts, twists, and in careful slow motion, kicks backwards. A slight alteration, experimental. He repeats it again, and again, and once more, then a fourth time, this one lightening fast. A nod, and the routine resumes, incorporating this new kick, and running to its conclusion at that same breakneck speed, so that his breathing has finally accelerated when he finishes. He doubles over, reaching for his ankles, to stretch. I need you. I need you asking me your questions. I need to look at you, I need to hold you while you're sleeping, I need to take you to bed and wear you out. I don't know how it happened, but I need you. What if I come back, and you're there, but not mine?
Hold. Count to thirty. Switch ankles. Ashwin. I can't believe you didn't think I'd keep my word. I can't believe you'll trust Jen to do the impossible, but not me. I can't believe you picked me. I love you. Ass. She bends down with a soft grunt, hands curling around her right ankle. Hold. Count to thirty. Shift to the other leg. Repeat. Shift to the middle, touch the ground. Hold.
Hold, be still, allow the stretch to work. Switch, move, twist, hold this one. Oh, Roa. I wish I'd said it out loud. I will, if I see you. If the next thing you do is walk away from me, I'll tell you. He straightens, stretches his arms halfheartedly. This was supposed to help him feel better. I miss you, he thinks. This is hard. I wish I'd met your eye. I wish I'd told you. I think I'm doing what you'd want. Abruptly he abandons his stretch, too early, and turns to walk across to where his shirt is, snatching it up and pulling it on.
She rises from her stretch and does a few more cursory ones. Halfhearted. He wouldn't let her get away with it, so this is her punishment for him. He's not here. He can't stop her. Every so often, she'll skimp. Besides, she thinks guiltily, I'm going to take a bath. I'm walking there. That'll serve for the rest. She opens up her wardrobe to snatch down a towel, some sweetsand, and her new clothes. When you get back, she thinks as she pushes her feet into her well-worn boots, I'm going to take you dancing again. Then she slips from her weyr and clumps down the stairs, untied laces trailing after. Training is finished, and the day must start.
He buttons his shirt, rotating his shoulders slowly, as though this will make up for the stretch he should have gone through. When I get back, he thinks with quiet, firming determination. /When/ I get back, this will work, somehow. We will find a way to make it. I'll say what I should have said, make it right. He breathes in slowly through his nose, steadies his breathing, and turns for the pathway. Training is finished, and his day is over.