21.Apr.14, 08:55 AM
Her voice was soft as ever, but there was a trace of motherly concern there that had only grown more pronounced in the days that followed the moving of the bulk of the Weyr to the North. She knew S’cer was unsettled; she could feel it in the way he slept fitfully at night, dreaming of things he would not divulge to her, and his surly demeanor during the day. He spoke with her, of course, but even in this there had been a shift—he was quieter, more withdrawn, with smiles coming so rarely that sometimes Quelseth could not imagine how S’cer looked when he was happy.
He didn’t respond, but turned away from her, expression clouded. It pained her to think that he was brooding over something she wasn’t privy to, but Quelseth wasn’t sure how to help. Her own brand of sympathetic questioning failed about as much as it helped—her rider had an aversion to feeling pitied, it seemed, even if it came from her. Blinking, the green tucked her tail primly to her side, arching her neck so as to examine the empty building before her and the fruit trees that seemed to be everywhere on the island.
I know, came the reply after a long moment, and S’cer sighed, shoulders falling in visible defeat. He was tired of shouldering this burden that he tried so hard to keep from her, more out of some misguided sense of protection than anything else, and Quelseth found that trait as endearing as she did infuriating. They were a pair, and it was hardly healthy to keep secrets from one another, especially when it caused such distress.
I lived here before they let me go to Katila. After they’d taken me from Telgar.
He rarely talked with her about his life before their Impression to one another, but she knew that it had not been happy. She had gleaned much about the varying groups at Katila—the Stolen, the Southerners, the antagonistic animosity between the two groups. Quelseth was uncertain as to how she was supposed to feel about it all; on one hand, she could understand that it was traumatizing to be stolen in the night, but on the other the dragonets had desperately needed candidates. Of course, she would never say as much to S’cer lest it cause problems between them, and so she kept her opinions on the subject to herself.
S’cer, who had up until this point simply stood staring at the empty barracks, moved toward it, placing a pale, freckled hand on the door. T’lian was here as well. He… tried to harm himself. He made no moves to push the door open, considering something that Quelseth wasn’t privy to, before turning to face her.
You don’t understand, S’cer cut across her, frowning in the direction of his boots.
She reached out tentatively, picturing the warm brown of his hide and the immense size of him. He seemed a steady sort, or at least a dragon with his head on straight, and surely he could help. At least, that was what she told herself to quell her nerves—this was not something she normally did, after all.