Golden Nightmare [Lan]

[Ruin]

While the festivities raged around her, burning brightly like a flame lit in the depths of night, the only thing raging within her was the torrential downpour of her own self-consuming depression. That and the thundering echo of her dragon’s emotions as they filtered through her mind like water’s rapids through unmoving rock. They had found the door to their emotions, found it and pried it open, but now nothing would close it. There was no control to the feelings they shared, and there was no explanation. Valeath barely understood that she was a dragon, she was not equipped with the knowledge to handle the emotions of her rider so vividly, and the same could be said for Irohvyne: How could they separate what was one from the other, when they couldn’t even tell who was what in the storm? It was easier by day, when they could focus on the smaller things; the pleasure of a summertime bath, or the peace found during a rainy day and the Thread it kept at bay.

This, however, was not the day. This was the night, where self-doubt and worry were given a tighter hold on the well-protected emotions of a homesick Holdergirl, and where they took root within the shining soul of a dragon who did not understand the black seeds of despair and sorrow. This night, what was one of glory and celebration for many, was far worse for them. Tonight they bid farewell to another class of Weyrlings; the second in what seemed would become many. Another turn had proven them still unfit, incapable, of accomplishing the duties of a Dragonrider. The duties that kept K’oa and Sian so busy, so far away, so out of reach amidst the ranks of those who defended Hold and Hall from the ever-present thread of death and devastation. As she went among the people, her face an easy smile that did not betray her bleeding heart, her thoughts swirled around the realization that she was trapped here, now, more than ever before.

Her dream of returning to Benden, with her dragon that was nothing but a beautiful pet, was a dream that died and turned to dust with every passing day. With her only option of travel being overland during Thread, on the back of, or beside, a dragon whose instinctual betweening would result in injury or worse, there was nothing to be done for her situation but to remain here. Grateful that Valeath could hunt, and that she was at least allowed the freedom of the Weyrwall, even if they had not yet, nor probably would they ever, know the true freedom of the skies beyond Dalibor’s stone buttress. So she remained here, a wasted life shackled to the Weyr by a mute dragon she had not wanted, unable to fulfill even those demanded duties due to that same sacrificial bond. Yet she still congratulated, and smiled; she still clasped wrists, and passed on Benden’s blessings in a place where her identity as a Lady Holder was fading to nothingness as she lost her hold on who, and what, she was.

And where her place would be.

Above, in the darkness, somewhere, the Yellow dragon that had claimed her pined for the sake of her rider. Without knowing why, or how, and unable to process the human emotions that flowed into her with a possessiveness she did not understand. She might have been at their weyr, or perhaps on the heights, there were still no visuals with their sendings so Irohvyne could never know unless she saw her with her own eyes, but the emotion was there, and so too was her dragon. Valeath’s eyes were an eerie silver in the darkness, typical bright colours chased away by the chaos in her head, flashes of colour escaping in brilliant explosions as one emotion overpowered and then faded away. Her joy, Iroh’s sorrow, her love, Iroh’s pain, her confusion, Iroh’s misery. Green, to red, to blue, to grey, to yellow, to orange: Bursts like iron sparks in the foundry danced into the night’s darkness from where she lay.

Meaningless. A meaningless life. There had been potential inside of her once, promise of something greater than herself, plans made and actions taken, but it had all been for nothing. Valeath could not parse these thoughts, these emotions of regret, and anger, sometimes she wondered if her human did not want her, or even hated her. In many ways it was hard for Irohvyne to see this; her own depression and anxiety were reflected back at her, like a mirror, as the Yellow sought answers for things she could only show by example, not words, but occasionally the storm within them would slow—or part like clouds—and something intelligible would leak through. At those times, the Lady Holder did her very best to assure her dragon that, regardless of their hardships, she was loved, and appreciated, and even wanted, but her emotions always washed away the foundation of those assurances once the storm returned.

It was better by day. It would have been better any other night, but not this one. Not another failure in a history of failings. Not when her closest friends had risen so beautifully to the rank of Dragonrider and had both embraced their servitude with an aptitude that belied their previous recalcitrance, and left her behind. Not, of course, that she blamed them. Not, of course, that it had been intentional, but what other way was there, in a Weyr during times of Thread? She could give nothing back to the folk who fed her, and her dragon, nor could she give to those who fought and charred in the skies. There was no brothership or camaraderie, only confusion. Valeath was just a little off, well more than a little, and her reserved well-dressed Holder rider, who seemed not at all inclined to release her former life, was probably more than a little off-putting herself.

At least her smile never faltered, her demeanor never changed, her grace never fled her; even when the emotions inside betrayed her, even when the siege was so great no spoken words could pass between them lest they turn instead to screams of agony and fear. Strength. That was what Benden possessed, and that was what she would portray until the end. Whenever the end came. Whenever this nightmare procession of failures and constant disappointment ended and she was released to her home, or to the darkness. Smoothing her hands over the neat press of her layered skirts, ensuring that she was presentable every moment she wasn’t in the company of a person who necessitated attention, the Holderwoman took a moment to also check the tightness of the bun against her skull. Tucking away any hairs that had escaped took only a moment, her eyes filling that time with a scan of the Graduation Feast as it proceeded, wondering where she was needed next, whose wrist she should grasp in congratulations for a job well done. Not that she knew any of them. Even her own classmates were like strangers to her; they were given the skies and she was forever grounded. A liability.

A mistake.

Valeath crooned again into the darkness and the darkness followed her mind through that open door, crashing into her rider like an inky black flood that threatened to sweep away her thoughts and crush her heart under the weight of doubt and fear. It left her momentarily breathless, her chest hitching slightly beneath the neatly bound corset that tightened around her thick body. It was an unavoidable side-effect to the so-called miracle of their shared emotion. And it was typical. That something she would work so hard for, since Impression, would turn out to be yet another failure on her part. Or their part. Yet another thing incorrect about their pairing, as it had been from the beginning. Inside, the woman pushed through the muck of thoughts to find that golden thread, tainted black and twisted, but still her Valeath. It radiated through the darkness, an innocent unquestioning love, but it was drowning.

It was fading and growing dirtier with time.