Not Just a Dream

Writers: Rochelle
Date Posted: 30th September 2007

Characters: R'syl
Description: R'syl goes through an old trunk, reviving memories.
Location: River Bluff Weyr
Date: month 6, day 8 of Turn 4

The chest was large and bulky, battered looking and the color that came from too many fingers running across the wood. It was the same one they'd brought to Vista Point all those turns ago, but R'syl had kept it anyway.
It was tucked into the corner of his weyr, and frequently in use as seat or a glowstand. But every once in a while, he cleared it off, and opened it up.

Carefully setting the pile of papers on top aside, he knelt in front of the battered chest, running his hands over the dark wood as he had so many times before. It was a ritual, one he underwent whenever he felt the need for reassurance that his memories were real, and not just a dream.
Reassurance that he sought more often than before, these last few turns.

Deftly undoing the knot holding it close, since the lock had long ago disintegrated, he pushed the top open, mindful of the creaking hinges and leaning the lid against the wall. He closed his eyes as the scent of the preservation herbs, must, old papers and something more earthly reached his nose. An image crossed his mind, dark haired and proud, eyes flashing in anger as she threw her head back to look at him.

Her. It smelled like her.

Opening his eyes, he looked into the jumble crowding the inside of the chest, and began untangling them and lifting them out, one at a time. The world seemed to narrow, shrinking as it always did until there was nothing but him and the chest.

A toy, a little carved dragon given to Thorom. His son had loved that dragon, and it showed. The paint was mostly rubbed off, and there were dents where he'd knocked it about. Part of the tail and left wing were missing, from an accidental collision with Sairyl shortly after Masair died. He remembered taking the crying boy into his arms, how small he'd been. He closed his eyes briefly. He could still feel the small body clutching at his shirt, the squirming weight on his lap. He reached in again blindly, and his fingers closed around a handle.
Opening his eyes again, he hefted out what remained of the pottery pitcher. A wedding present, from Masair's mother, broken by Oroma while learning to walk. He'd always thought the thing was ugly, but Masair had refused to part with the pieces, even going so far as to pack it away in its own padded box. It must have fallen out when he moved the chest.
Setting it aside, he pulled out the next item.

Pictures, scribbled on scraps of paper and hide, carefully bundled together and wrapped in an old baby blanket that had serviced the first four children. Little hands had drawn pictures of dragons, of family, the sea, and a thousand other things that could not be deciphered except by the mind that made it. Rosair had done the one on top, a crumbling depiction of Usaeth in a lake, with an arrow pointing to the stick figure on top and the simple label "me."

There was nothing in that picture to indicate what he had become, what he had done. Just as there was nothing in his father's memories to give him any indication why. Rosair had always been a bit more violent than his siblings, a bit more inclined to temper tantrums. But never any more violent or any worse than the other children, and he'd never turned into a bully. Proud, yes. Strong-minded, certainly. Given his parents, he couldn't have been anything else. But there was nothing in the chest to show why his son had become a murderer, nothing to show that he had the potential. Gently rewrapping the scraps, he set them beside the chest, out of the way of anything else that came out.

A blanket, plain and threadworn, the colors faded into anonymity. His blanket, the first gift Masair ever gave him. They'd been awkwardly courting at the time, him a new bronzerider, her the uncertain ex-wife. It had been a peace-making gesture. She'd confessed her reasons for tormenting him while they were married, and asked him to forgive her. He swallowed. They had used the blanket for everything from sleeping under to picnics, and all of their children had been wrapped in it after birth. And even when he'd brought home other lovers while they were fighting, no one but Masair had ever joined him under it.

Untangling the end of the blanket from some stray threads, he pulled part of another item from the chest. Masair's gather dress, done in a resplendent dark blue with red and green embroidery along the hems. It had been his birthingday gift to her the turn before she died, and had showed off her dark hair wonderfully. He could see her now, throwing a quick smile at him over her shoulder, as she dove through the crowds toward the stalls, a moving spot of night in the brightly garbed gather.

He smoothed the folds in the bodice, noticing with detachment that they were starting to set. He should hang them out for a while. But then, the bodice was bigger than he remembered. She had thickened around the waist after Sairros was born, but somehow she had always seemed to be the waspish thing he'd married. He'd told her that once, and it had sparked her unpredictable temper, Masair demanding to know why he preferred his fantasy to her reality.

Tenderly, he gathered the fabric to him, breathing in the faint scents of herbs and memories. It was his only proof now, that his memories weren't a dream. The contents of this chest were all he had left of a love more passionate and turbulent than any he'd ever known, and of the family he'd had. The children he'd left behind at Telgar, who would no longer speak to him even when he came to visit, who had grown beyond him. It was all he had left of the time before his son and Thread's return had smashed his life to bits. His only proof that he'd once been loved by someone other than his dragon.

}:I love you.:{ Usaeth said softly. }:Isn't that enough?:{ R'syl smiled sadly to himself, his face buried in the bodice. **It is. It has to be. But sometimes I miss what I used to have as well. I guess I'm greedy.**

}:You are not greedy. They love you too, even if they do not say it.:{
**But why? Why won't they speak to me then? Why can't they tell me?**

}:I don't know.:{ Usaeth admitted reluctantly.

R'syl closed his eyes, letting the dress fall to the floor as he breathed in the scents of the chest with a sigh. **Neither do I.**

Last updated on the October 1st 2007

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Not Just a Dream