A mother's love [R'nya]

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?