Nightmare
This is a dream Roa's been having off and on since she first came to Telgar when she was nine. It's been a pretty rough month which means I'm making her have it again.
The dream always starts out the same. It’s only the voices that change.
She is standing in a circle of light, glowbaskets placed around the circumference seem to shine only inwards, on her, the space beyond her circle pitch black. She can feel the weight of a thousand eyes on her, but she can see no one.
“Well her gold’s all right. Flies really well. For a gold.” The voice sends her turning in circles, trying to locate its source. She knows that cadence and dialect, but the sound comes from everywhere at once. “Kinda a shame.. Could’a done a lot better for a rider than she’s got.”
“She broke my heart,” adds another voice, ragged and thick sounding as if just finished crying. “She didn’t even know she was doing it. How’s *that* for observant?”
“I don’ know,” begins a third voice. “I’d’a said she was m’friend b’fore this. But what kind’a friend climbs into your bed when yer in love with someone else?”
“While her arguments can often be astute and even intriguing, I feel that her internal compass is skewed.”
“Really? An interesting point, and one I’d very much enjoy discussing with you at a future date.”
“She had no right,” and this voice is also thick, but with anger as well as tears, “no right to say those things to me.”
“And where is your grey line, weyrwoman?”
“Not very good at playing hero, is she?”
“It is a likely hypothosis that her willingness to assist in my endeavors stems from a deep-seeded guilt rather than any genuine interest in bettering the plight of her fellow man.”
“She’s kinda wierd.”
“Well? Do you have anything to say in your own defense?” The question rumbles through the air and through her body.
She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. The harder she strains, the tighter her throat becomes.
The space beyond the circle flares into brightness and now she knows exactly where she is. Inside Fort Hold.
Her eyes look around the crush of people pressed into every available seat and standing in the spaces that are left. Most are strangers, but some she knows. Now she can place the voices to the faces.
There’s T’zen in the back with a riding cap perched on his head. Beside him, Essdara has a picnic basket dangling from her fingers and tears on her cheeks. Jensen sits in the middle to the left, arms cross, a half-smile on his face. G’thon stands on the right, a restrained upward quirk of his lips all the cheer his face will allow, and immediately beside him is the handsome and smirking Headmaster. Penny’s unmistakable dark, Bollian hair can be seen hidden in the back right, though her head is bowed, face in her hands. Diya sits, prim and proper, squarely in the center of the crowd. K’sar lounges on the sideline, arm around a tall, sleek woman whose face is in shadows. Neiran is sitting in the second row, taking meticulous notes with one hand and popping leaves into his mouth wth the other. Aspen is somehow sitting, perfectly calm and casual, on the ceiling.
And there, in the front row, are the Weyrleader and Weyrwoman of Telgar, and between them a scrap of a girl. She is so small that seated in the chair, her feet cannot reach the ground. Dark hair falls around her face and huge blue eyes are wide in horror, little hands pressed over her mouth.
And that’s when Roa wakes up.
The dream always starts out the same. It’s only the voices that change.
She is standing in a circle of light, glowbaskets placed around the circumference seem to shine only inwards, on her, the space beyond her circle pitch black. She can feel the weight of a thousand eyes on her, but she can see no one.
“Well her gold’s all right. Flies really well. For a gold.” The voice sends her turning in circles, trying to locate its source. She knows that cadence and dialect, but the sound comes from everywhere at once. “Kinda a shame.. Could’a done a lot better for a rider than she’s got.”
“She broke my heart,” adds another voice, ragged and thick sounding as if just finished crying. “She didn’t even know she was doing it. How’s *that* for observant?”
“I don’ know,” begins a third voice. “I’d’a said she was m’friend b’fore this. But what kind’a friend climbs into your bed when yer in love with someone else?”
“While her arguments can often be astute and even intriguing, I feel that her internal compass is skewed.”
“Really? An interesting point, and one I’d very much enjoy discussing with you at a future date.”
“She had no right,” and this voice is also thick, but with anger as well as tears, “no right to say those things to me.”
“And where is your grey line, weyrwoman?”
“Not very good at playing hero, is she?”
“It is a likely hypothosis that her willingness to assist in my endeavors stems from a deep-seeded guilt rather than any genuine interest in bettering the plight of her fellow man.”
“She’s kinda wierd.”
“Well? Do you have anything to say in your own defense?” The question rumbles through the air and through her body.
She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. The harder she strains, the tighter her throat becomes.
The space beyond the circle flares into brightness and now she knows exactly where she is. Inside Fort Hold.
Her eyes look around the crush of people pressed into every available seat and standing in the spaces that are left. Most are strangers, but some she knows. Now she can place the voices to the faces.
There’s T’zen in the back with a riding cap perched on his head. Beside him, Essdara has a picnic basket dangling from her fingers and tears on her cheeks. Jensen sits in the middle to the left, arms cross, a half-smile on his face. G’thon stands on the right, a restrained upward quirk of his lips all the cheer his face will allow, and immediately beside him is the handsome and smirking Headmaster. Penny’s unmistakable dark, Bollian hair can be seen hidden in the back right, though her head is bowed, face in her hands. Diya sits, prim and proper, squarely in the center of the crowd. K’sar lounges on the sideline, arm around a tall, sleek woman whose face is in shadows. Neiran is sitting in the second row, taking meticulous notes with one hand and popping leaves into his mouth wth the other. Aspen is somehow sitting, perfectly calm and casual, on the ceiling.
And there, in the front row, are the Weyrleader and Weyrwoman of Telgar, and between them a scrap of a girl. She is so small that seated in the chair, her feet cannot reach the ground. Dark hair falls around her face and huge blue eyes are wide in horror, little hands pressed over her mouth.
And that’s when Roa wakes up.