A mother's love [R'nya]

In the end, she didn’t find the body.

Peorray had helped where she could in the first chaos, following whoever yelled the loudest for help. Once her brain had gotten over the shock of the event, her memory reminded her Soren had stayed with a little friend last night, one of the Stolen women with a young son of her own. One right up against the Northern edge of the Weyr. Once she remembered, she went straight for the area where the hut had stood. But with the land shifting and still coming down, Peorray had to pull back several times or risk getting mired in the mud beyond Wydrith’s ability to retrieve.

So she kept herself busy between attempts and fervently hoped that they hadn’t been in the hut for some reason- even that Soren had slipped out in the night and had tried to come back to her. She’d take uncertainty about his fate over the gnawing feeling of dread in her stomach.

It wasn’t until the sun was high in the sky that teams made their way that far back. By the time that rescue efforts had begun turning into recovery, a harried-looking man tapped her shoulder and led her over to a certain collapsed hut, where a small body had been pulled from the muck with two others.

He was dirty and his neck lulled at an odd angle –it would have been quick, the man hastily assured her- but it was still her boy. Her boy that she’d hesitated to have, her boy that she’d spent a turn of her life building her world around. Her boy that she’d suddenly had to split her time with, when Wydrith and M’din came into their lives. It hadn’t been a hardship then, sharing their time and love like a family, but didn’t she feel unreasonably guilty now- when she should’ve hoarded all the time she could with Soren while she still had him?

It was with that thought in mind that she gave her dragon a firm No. when the gold asked if she wanted M’din to come to her. Right now, she just wanted to be left alone to say goodbye until she had to let him go for good, reaching out to close his eyes and brush his hair off his face with a shaking hand while her other remained clenched in a white-knuckled grip at her side. Her head bowed in an effort to hide her tears, because she didn’t want to burst into tears in front of this many people. She’d been raised to be tougher than this. One baby dead? There were always other ones still depending on their mama’s attention, in the world she’d come from. Only, for Peorray, there weren’t. Even Wydrith couldn’t be properly counted a baby anymore.

Other than a quiet moan of distress Wydrith had remained respectfully silent during the first wave of her rider’s grief. She fretted as the silence from Peorray dragged on, where ordinarily the woman would have been quick to comfort her and accept it in return, finally reaching out in an uncharacteristic show of initiative. Not only did Peorray need someone if she wouldn’t accept comfort elsewhere- Wydrith’s mind had raced ahead to a problem she knew her rider hadn’t really considered yet. She knew Soren would have to be taken Between, she hadn’t thought about who would get him there. Wydrith was still too young to have been taught that skill safely, so they couldn’t do it themselves.

Wydrith might have been forbidden to contact Armath, but Xyreith’s rider could certainly do something with the flashes of Peorray/worry/hut/Soren’s body/grief that she poured anxiously into his mind after a hesitant initial touch. They couldn’t do this alone and Wydrith would see that Peorray got her help, when she hadn’t gotten around to looking for it herself.

[Spoiler=OOC] I'm going to be angling to use this as a reason to have Peorray be pushing M'din away in her grief, leading to them not being Weyrmates anymore.

Sir?

The lingering, hesitant way in which the dragon contacted him made the little hairs on the back of R’nya’s neck stand up, and a chill run frozen fingers down his spine. The bronzerider carefully set down the items he had just carried across to where the healers were working; passing them over to a harried looking youngster that quickly vanished into the thick of the bustling people. R’nya did not need to ask, to know that something had upset his dragon, and that that something upset Xyreith because he knew it would upset R’nya. The bronzerider straightened, and pursed his lips. What is it?

Xyreith didn’t answer, and R’nya’s frown became pronounced as the bronze dragon appeared overhead, and circled for a moment while a space was cleared that he could land in, ruffling his wings indignantly as a little blue dragon blinked up at him. You best come. That didn’t make R’nya feel any better, and he continued to frown with his lips set in a serious, flat line, as he slipped through the bustling people and nimbly climbed atop Xyreith, years of practice making the motions second nature. Even as he settled between ridges, the bronze flared his wings once more, and pushed powerfully into the sky.

R’nya half expected the dragon to take him between, but he was thankful when he did not. Wet, bare and muddy feet were not made for the ice of between and R’nya did not believe that frostbite would look good on him. He liked his toes. His worrying, however, only intensified when Xyreith did not input on R’nya’s idle thoughts, and once more the frown – which had a moment ago faded away – returned. Xyreith? What is it?

One of the girls. The dragon responded, his voice muted and his thoughts carefully clouded. R’nya respected his bronze’s attempts to protect him, rather than going foraging for information. He would find out soon enough, of course, but R’nya was not particularly fond of surprises. A little one is dead, the dragon finally gave in, his voice filled with worry. Not because a child had died, but because he could see enough of R’nya’s memories to know that would sting – and he was not mistaken, as the bronzerider’s breath froze in his lungs and he went numb.

There were not many of his girls with children; Jada was in her second trimester, and Kahleena had already confided her disappointment and relief that she was not with child from Okalinath’s last flight. He was still fretting over whether or not Rhaedalyn was pregnant, and was unsure how to broach such a topic with the girl. He had not heard her confide in any of the others, however, but he was not sure if that was at all surprising. Surely, however, Kahleena at least would have been informed if Rhaedalyn suspected pregnancy? He’d seen A’mad with the little boy of Ameris’, which left –

“Peorray,” R’nya’s voice was a hoarse whisper as Xyreith landed – perhaps not even two minutes after taking off – not far from the young goldrider. R’nya barely waited for his lifemate to settle solidly on the ground before he was sliding down the bronzed hide and trotting across the damp earth towards the mourning woman. He slowed his pace before reaching her, one hand reaching out gently to touched Wydrith lightly on the nose; a fleeting brush of the finger tips designed to be reassuring, though R’nya had no idea if it conveyed that at all, as he paused for a moment to collect himself, and his own memories and emotions.

“Peorray?” R’nya’s voice was low and gentle, filled with regret and understanding that, at any other time, would have given away far more about his own past that he would have desired. Numbed in her own grief, Peorray may miss the tones in the usually stoic dragonrider’s soft words; or perhaps not. R’nya was oddly oblivious as he stepped forward quietly, bare feet sinking into the mud with low squelching sounds. Uncharacteristically dirty fingers settled on Peorray’s shoulder and R’nya stepped up beside her.

His hand shifted, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and holding her both gently and firmly. He did not want to force her to shift her attention from the child that had once been a centre piece of her life, but nor did he wish her to feel alone, or as if she couldn’t turn away, should she need to. He didn’t say anything, what could he say? His own loses had been so vastly different. He was out of his depth, and had no idea what to do, or say. But she mustn’t know that; R’nya had built himself up as a rock for the women he sought to protect – even the strong ones, who didn’t want it – and when could Peorray ever need a more solid rock, than as she stared at the broken body of her son?

Even at the best of times, Peorray tended to be less than discerning about subtleties. When grieving her only child? Not a chance that she would look beyond her own loss into R'nya's. Wydrith crooned gratefully as R'nya passed her, trusting that the man would put things right again.

The bronzerider's familiar presence did draw the young woman from her grim attention on the sight before her. She'd always appreciated how the man tried to be there for those who'd been Stolen, a friendly face among a world of fantastic beasts and strange new ways, but she tried not to need him. Some of the other girls were much more emotionally fragile than she, needed his support more, and she hadn't wanted to be another stress on him when she could mostly get along by herself.

Now, though, Peorray couldn't hide her tired and vulnerable expression as she let herself be distracted and looked up at R'nya. There were so many things she could say, wanted to say. Wanted to rage and rail and ask 'why?!'. But what was the use? What was, was. All that remained was to deal with it.

"I don't know what to do now." Was what actually came out, a harsh, almost croaking confession. Peorray had never had a child die before, didn't know what to do to process this, make the aching, empty feeling go away. Part of her just wanted to curl up with Wydrith, bathe in the gold's presence and love, but surely there was too much that needed done around here, to allow her time for that?

R’nya waited, a quiet, gentle presence beside the grieving woman; waited for her to do something, to say something. He was not sure what he was expecting... tears, perhaps, or a raging tantrum of emotional grief? Something, someway for Peorray to express all the things she must surely be feeling. But, perhaps that would come later, shock was always a heavily dealt hand, and R’nya could tell by the blank expression on the girl’s face that shock was definitely the most strongly felt emotion.

Her simple, broken statement was both incredibly Peorray and completely wrong for the situation as a whole. R’nya sighed softly, and he gave a gentle squeeze as he shifted his weight just a little, glad the girl had turned herself away from the scene, if only a little. “No one does,” he said gently, his voice a low murmur as he watched her face quietly. The lack of Peorray being anything but Peorray made it difficult for R’nya to dictate how to act himself. Screaming, crying, hitting, and tantrums were things R’nya could more easily deal with; the lost shock was less forthright in the correct way to be handled.

He will need to be taken between, Xyreith spoke gently to R’nya, the bronze looking up from where he was sitting quietly and calmly beside Wydrith. The bronzerider looked down towards the muddy, broken little boy and his eyebrows furrowed. He knew he’d have to be the one to drop the little boy; Peorray couldn’t do it on Wydrith and M’din would be far too worked up to concentrate on something like that; it would have to be he… but how could he drop that poor boy between, covered in mud and muck and grime?

Stepping gently away from Peorray, R’nya dropped to one knee and picked up the tiny, broken child with gentle hands, brushing mud and muck tangled hair off his face as he stood up. The disaster would not allow them the ability to wash the boy, or to dress him in his best, but R’nya turned to face Peorray quietly, his face pale and drawn as he met her eyes. “Do you have a blanket we can wrap him in, Peorray?” His voice was low pitched, and the girl’s name spoken to bring her out of her own thoughts, lest she wind up stuck in them forever; but mostly, R’nya was sure a task was something Peorray needed, no matter how trivial.

Peorray twitched and took an automatic step forward as R'nya picked up the body, before checking herself and dropping the hand that instinctively wanted to stop him from taking Soren away for good. The offer of a task to do did help, and she pounced on the bronzerider's question with some internal relief.

"I'll get one." The look on her face and the grimly determined note in her voice promised she would, even if she had to go through someone to do it. She turned away from R'nya to chase down one of the healers' assistants helping in body recovery, eventually coming back with a mostly-clean blanket clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

She was also crying by then, silent tears that rolled down her face unchecked. Her throat burned as she fought the deeper sobs that threatened to emerge. But she would see this through, the last thing she could do for her son, before tending to her own needs.

While Peorray went to find a blanket, R’nya quietly used the hem of his shirt to clean the child’s face of as much mud as he could, then licked his thumb, and cleaned away the smears. He tried not to let his mind wander as he worked, focusing on the present and the task with great determination. When Peorray returned, R’nya had cleaned the child’s face of almost every speck of mud or grime and he held the body gently against himself as he had occasionally managed to hold the boy in life.

“Thank you,” he said gently, taking the blanket from Peorray and very carefully wrapping Soren up tight enough to be snug, but not so tight as to be uncomfortable; a trivial worry, all things considered, but one R’nya couldn’t help enforcing. Lifting his gaze from the now snuggly wrapped body; the bronzerider’s pale eyes studied Peorray for a moment. Stepping forward, R’nya very gently wiped at the tear track on the goldrider’s left cheek, touch gentle. “Do you want to come with me, Peorray?” His question was very gentle, and he implied no expected answer as he waited patiently for her response.

It would be good for her, in theory; she could let go of her son herself, and R’nya could make sure she didn’t manage to toss herself into the void while she was at it; but he would understand any reluctance Peorray may have at leaving Wydrith alone for those few moments. R’nya could not remember the last time he had ridden another’s dragon, and he knew it was not something that occurred regularly in any manner of speaking. Wydrith was skittish as a rule, too, and to leave her alone, now? Would Peorray be comfortable with that? Would Wydrith?

Xyreith rose silently as R’nya waited, walking a few paces closer and preparing to allow his rider to mount, with or without the woman at his side.

Peorray took a while to answer R'nya. "I-" She began, then stalled- caught between a mother's responsibility and a rider's. She'd never been very fond of rides on strange dragons (though, they'd all been strange when she'd first formed that opinion). But the real question here was Wydrith, and all of them knew it.

Not least the dragon herself. Wydrith tensed when Peorray glanced back at her, knowing it would be best for her rider if she could make herself let the woman go. And the gold had been doing alright so far, throughout the toil and terror of the day, with Peorray by her side. Wydrith thought about the terrible feeling of loss on the air, the continual keening as a rider or dragon lost the fight for survival, the frantic chaos of the landslide- and what if it happened again? If something went wrong and Peorray wasn't here and never came back-?

Peorray's thoughts settled at the dragon's full-body shudder, accepting the decision that had been made for her. She couldn't risk her live dragon spooking Between or something for the sake of her already-dead son. It would just kill her -if the rest of the Weyr didn't get her first for losing one of their still-needed golds. "I can't." She told the bronzerider with regretful finality. "I trust you to take care of him for me."

Peorray lay a hand on the blanket-wrapped body, careful not to undo R'nya's painstaking work, while she silently said whatever last goodbye she needed to. She then retreated to press her back against her dragon's chest and forelegs, watching R'nya and his dragon with all the grim resignation of one steeling herself to bear witness to something dreaded but necessary. Hopefully, the contact would soothe them both.

I'm sorry. Wydrith creeled apologetically to her rider. But she just knew with terrified certainty that something bad would happen if Peorray went Between without her, out of her sight. I wish I was different. Mizeath and Okalinath would have let their riders go. The gold speculated miserably, in her familiar, gravelly tones. It was another thing that Wydrith would change if she could, but Peorray dearly loved that voice that others rarely heard.

If you were different, you wouldn't be my partner. Peorray pointed out, logically. And we're not perfect, love, either one. But we fit. Even if they would have to figure out how they'd fit with an important piece of their life missing from now on.

The responsibility of being a dragonrider, of tending to one’s lifemate, had always been something that came before all else; it would always be the number one responsibility of any man or woman that found themselves with a dragon. R’nya was not surprised when Peorray declined to accompany him. He knew why she did so, and he knew that, in the end, it was the most wise course of action. Responsibility to the dragon, rather than the child, was a way of life for dragonriders. Why else would they so readily give up claims to parenthood?

He nodded just once, a firm motion of acceptance without judgement, and waited patiently for Peorray to say her final goodbyes. His expression gentle, R’nya took a step backwards when Peorray retreated to Wydrith, before turning smartly on his heel and approaching Xyreith. The child was handed over to Xyreith, for a moment, as R’nya climbed aboard, with the great bronze passing Soren back once he was carefully in place and belted in. R’nya cradled the child’s body as his dragon crouched, bounding skyward with great sweeps of his wings a moment later.

They vanished between; a few breaths later, and the pair reappeared, perfectly on par with where they had vanished from, and Xyreith slowly lowered himself to the ground. R’nya’s arms were empty, but he could feel the weight of what he’d done resting over his shoulders. It wasn’t right, that one so young and with so much promise had been lost. But nor was it right htat so many of the Weyrlings had lost their lives, and R’nya hadn’t needed to be told by Xyreith that many of the older riders had been working overtime, dropping half-alive boys into the black void where they could find the bond they once claimed.

R’nya dismounted when Xyreith landed, making his way quietly to where woman and dragon were waiting. He did not bother to say anything; instead, he placed a light hand on Peorray’s arm, just above her elbow, and a light kiss to her temple. There was nothing he could do, or say, that would make the world better for the woman – but if she needed a friend, he would always be there. Retracting his hand gently (he had no desire to crowd Peorray), R’nya studied her face for a moment. “You should get some rest,” he knew she wouldn’t, but it would not be proper of him not to make the suggestion.

Behind him, Xyreith gave a low snort, before reaching over to give Wydrith’s shoulder a gentle nudge, rumbling a soft reassurance. The little gold was one of the most ridiculously flighty creatures he’d ever met (and Xyreith was not above making snide – and very private – comments about her nature to R’nya) but the bronze wasn’t completely cruel and he would certainly never piss R’nya off intentionally. Being a prick to Wydrith, that would piss R’nya off; so he played nice, as he always had, and kept his opinions to himself.