Post by Tealah on Feb 9, 2010 2:25:08 GMT -5
The valley was certainly pretty enough. Who would have thought that such a refuge could be found amidst the barren landscape outside the canyon?
But P'neil could not bring himself to care about the beautiful surroundings. No, his mind was still back on an island in the southern continent. An island where, for a little while, he was actually happy.
We ruled there, Artoneth agreed.
P'neil let his head fall back against the grassy riverbank, scowling up at the sky. We FAILED there. Blue, curled up in the grass next to him, drew back with a startled peep at the hurt in P'neil's mental tone.
Artoneth, usually so quick to anger, just rumbled. He was stretched out near P'neil on the grassy riverbank of their new home, soaking up what sun he could. He stretched out his wing along the ground for better sun coverage, stretching and trying to warm the stiff Thread-scarred joint. When he spoke, his voice was unusually subdued. P'neil, I don't even remember what happened. Was it our fault that we all had to leave to come here?
P'neil swallowed painfully. Sometimes, the short memory span of dragons was a blessing. Right now, though, it was anything but. "No," he said finally. "It wasn't your fault we had to leave. We just couldn't stay there anymore, that's all. We were needed here more." He'd kept from Artoneth his belief in what Crown had accused Kitari of - the anguish the brown had felt when Gwynevith went between had been hard enough to bear - he couldn't compound that pain with the knowledge that another queenrider had caused it.
He'd still been reeling, overwhelmed, when Crown and the others made their decision to leave. One of the young Weyrlings had made it obvious that she was determined to go, but the dragonets were barely flighted - they'd have to make the journey flying straight. The brown she rode was one of Artoneth's clutch. Artoneth and P'neil made the journey with them, giving Artoneth a chance to stretch his stiff wing and P'neil time to get his head on right.
The time hadn't done them any good. Artoneth still wasn't his old, fierce self, and P'neil still found himself drowning in his own self-blame and hurt. They were a mess, really.
A broken down, useless mess, Artoneth agreed dispiritedly, huffing at the stiff joint of his wing.
But P'neil could not bring himself to care about the beautiful surroundings. No, his mind was still back on an island in the southern continent. An island where, for a little while, he was actually happy.
We ruled there, Artoneth agreed.
P'neil let his head fall back against the grassy riverbank, scowling up at the sky. We FAILED there. Blue, curled up in the grass next to him, drew back with a startled peep at the hurt in P'neil's mental tone.
Artoneth, usually so quick to anger, just rumbled. He was stretched out near P'neil on the grassy riverbank of their new home, soaking up what sun he could. He stretched out his wing along the ground for better sun coverage, stretching and trying to warm the stiff Thread-scarred joint. When he spoke, his voice was unusually subdued. P'neil, I don't even remember what happened. Was it our fault that we all had to leave to come here?
P'neil swallowed painfully. Sometimes, the short memory span of dragons was a blessing. Right now, though, it was anything but. "No," he said finally. "It wasn't your fault we had to leave. We just couldn't stay there anymore, that's all. We were needed here more." He'd kept from Artoneth his belief in what Crown had accused Kitari of - the anguish the brown had felt when Gwynevith went between had been hard enough to bear - he couldn't compound that pain with the knowledge that another queenrider had caused it.
He'd still been reeling, overwhelmed, when Crown and the others made their decision to leave. One of the young Weyrlings had made it obvious that she was determined to go, but the dragonets were barely flighted - they'd have to make the journey flying straight. The brown she rode was one of Artoneth's clutch. Artoneth and P'neil made the journey with them, giving Artoneth a chance to stretch his stiff wing and P'neil time to get his head on right.
The time hadn't done them any good. Artoneth still wasn't his old, fierce self, and P'neil still found himself drowning in his own self-blame and hurt. They were a mess, really.
A broken down, useless mess, Artoneth agreed dispiritedly, huffing at the stiff joint of his wing.
