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 Posted: Fri Oct 01, 2010 8:02 pm
“Do you know where you'll go?”
The question had been left unanswered for the better part of the morning, eating at Aislin as she untangled her long limbs from S'raid's bedsheets. He had done it on purpose, she knew, woken her up with a whispered question. It had accompanied a kiss, one to her temple that they both knew meant nothing at all. He always did that sort of thing, planted ideas where he wanted them and watched them take root before Aislin was even fully aware. That particular question had been planted months ago, and in the days leading up to the Hatching S'raid had been able to watch with pride as the fruits of his labors emerged from Aislin in the form of nervous fidgeting. Her nails, usually perfectly kept, had been chewed down to stubs.
She sat now at the foot of the bed, fully clothed and securing her long, dark hair with pins. They adjusted and readjusted regarded the still shirtless bronzerider with that empty stare. He was just lying there, as he had been while she had dressed, barraging her with questions while he casually observed her. He made it all sound so simple. What would she do? Where would she go? How would she live if she failed to Impress? They sounded like casual questions when spoken in his voice, calm and strong and so deceptively comforting. Questions which meant the end of the life she had known for the past nine turns, spoken as though he were asking her if it might rain. Fingers laced behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles, the bronzerider wore arrogance like a second skin.
“I will deal with that when-” Aislin caught herself, “-if that becomes an issue.”
There was something comfortable between them, something reassuring in knowing just where they stood. He was a bronzerider, a favored candidate for future Weyrleader, and she was an ambitious young woman with the right look. The match had damn near made itself a few turns ago with only a little assistance from a Gather and a few mugs of wine. It was a strange sort of escape form the world of Benden politics, where the line between friend and foe became horribly blurred. Aislin liked to think that they were codependent, that she came to him out of a need to feel powerful and he came to her for a need to feel, well, anything. Of course, Aislin liked to think a lot of things, none of which could have been farther from the truth.
“It won't be long now,” she shifted the subject as she slipped the last pin into place, securing her hair, “A matter of days before they hatch. Galvanth must be having fits of anticipation by now.”
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Posted: Fri Oct 01, 2010 8:28 pm
"He is," S'raid agreed, but he was not turned from his present course. She could convince herself that she would not fail, but he needed her to quail. And then he needed her to succeed. He had every intention of breaking her down to build her up stronger, better, his. This was not the first time they had had this discussion, nor would it likely be the last. "Aislin," he spoke from his place on the bed, sprawled out like he owned this, and everything else in the Weyr, because they both know that it was rightfully his. "Kitten."
The Bronzerider had been planting these ideas in her skull from the very moment they had consummated their... alliance. He had been molding her, and shaping her, chipping away at her like a Master sculptor, with Aislin as his masterpiece. And she would be his masterpiece. She would be more than she could ever have dreamed of, S'raid mirrored in those near black eyes, broken and whole, and perfect. Perfection was what he strove for, constantly and relentlessly.
"Deal with it now." The words were spoken so softly, as if he cared, as if-- and he could have laughed-- he were being gentle, considerate. As if he had known what consideration was to begin with. But he had learned, through long and careful practice, how to mimic it. He knew how to fake it like a champion, and he had fooled so many. Aislin was not always fooled, but she let him do what he would with her, let him make of her what she would.
She kept coming back. No matter what he did, no matter what he said, she always returned. And she'd make little excuses, "reasons", she called them, why she had returned. Often she never told him what lies she'd concocted to soothe her savage soul. His wild cat was far too independent to allow herself to believe that she was owned. Somewhere, deep down inside that slender body of hers, she knew. But she would never admit the truth of it, and she would rather have died than have spoken the words aloud.
At least, when she was thinking. Frequently, he went about rendering her thoughtless, but it was that brilliant, active mind that drew him. He delighted in questing for responses, because she'd give them, and try to stand on even ground with him. It ... amused him. There was so little that amused him these days. It was true what they said, if you fed a feline it would follow you home, and she had. She was shameless, in her way, desperately seeking the power that his name provided. He wouldn't have had it any other way.
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Posted: Mon Oct 04, 2010 8:06 pm
Aislin cringed when he voiced the pet name, but her open disgust did not keep her heart from skipping a beat. What they had was not love; to call it so would be to shame the reality of such a thing. It was not even a relationship so much as it was an understanding. A strange infatuation, on and off again, but with an underlying confidence that no matter what, she would always end up right back there. She was his and he was, well... he was just S'raid. It was all she would expect him to be. Aislin always did end up back there, after all, sitting at the foot of his bed, watching him, waiting for him to reveal his hand. He never did, of course, but he seemed able to keep her convinced that if she just waited long enough, he would slip up and she could gain the upper hand.
It was a far-fetched fantasy, at best, but once which kept Aislin's interest. One which kept her coming back to him. On rare occasion she would gain some kind of leverage, establish a footing on the high ground, only to be toppled moments later. In the setting of a Weyr, only a queenrider stood a chance of besting the man, and that ship had sailed many turns ago. So Aislin clawed and scraped and held fiercely to any scrap of power, searching for windows of opportunity. She saw in S'raid a pedestal upon which she might stand.
Aislin knew that his words were hollow, but she turned her gaze on him nevertheless. For a moment she regarded him in silence, searching for answers. S'raid brought many things into her life, but never were answers among them.
“I don't need to deal with it now,” she snapped, irritation clipping her words, “'There's still this hatching. That's nine eggs. I wouldn't be the first candidate to Impress on their last chance.”
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Posted: Mon Oct 04, 2010 9:55 pm
"No," S'raid conceded, admitting the point. He, after all, had been the final Candidate to Impress at his very last Hatching. And oh, had he ever made up for that fact. Still, it was highly unlikely that Aislin would follow in his footsteps. It would be pure foolishness itself for either him or Aislin to count on history repeating itself. ... Although, the point might well be raised that history had a habit of doing so. A rather nasty habit, truth be told. "But if you deal with it now, you will be prepared if it does happen, and will not crumble. You're not weak, Aislin. Let's not pretend that you are. Let's pretend, instead, that I think you would be better served planning for success, and for failure."
And she was. She was so much better off, planning for failure. "What will you do, kitten, if you do not Impress? Will you allow yourself to become... trivial?" It was clear from his blank expression and cold eyes that she had, on some level, disappointed him by being unwilling to face what to him was simple truth. The odds were against her, and while he found her more deserving than any of the other young Candidates he had encountered, that did not mean that her dragonet would be on the Sands.
However, that did not mean that it wouldn't be. "Don't be foolish, Aislin. You're not this naive." And if she was, well. They both knew what he would think of her if she was. "If you don't Impress, I expect you to make something of yourself. We both know that." He was stroking he hair now, arranging it as he occasionally did. There were times that he used it as more of a leash than a tool by which to express his... affections, if they could even be called that. S'raid was fairly sure that he was incapable of feeling much beyond the faint possessive pride, fascination, and obsession that he held toward his most complete work of art.
She really did remind him of a baby feline, all sharp claws, and feral behavior. Aislin hated being put in her place, and she wanted what he, or the idea of him, offered far too much to not return when he had done so. The question of what she would become had come up time and time again. He had waved it aside occasionally, but now he was pursuing it with a ruthlessness unmatched by a canine that had scented its prey. How very apt. She was the feline, and he was the canine... but in the wild, the feline was far superior to the canine, so clearly that particular metaphor would not suit. Perhaps, then, he was simply an older and more crafty feline, who knew more tricks than she. Would Aislin one day learn to outmaneuver him?
"Personally," S'raid told her idly,"I see you as a future Lady Holder, if not a dragonrider. Thoughts?" Perhaps his fascination stemmed from the very notion that she might have the potential to overpower him. Perhaps.
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