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The time had come. The time had come, and honestly D'mar had let it go far, far too long already. Their dragons were nearly grown now, and in days, weeks, they would be torn from each other, divided into the wings, and released to battle thread, to fight and fall and die screaming. It had taken quite some time for D'mar to put his view of the world and his place in it to rights, and longer still to process his feelings for those around him, Shahera in particular. Strangely enough it had been easier to forgive C'sar and even Illiandinth than it was her. He knew of Therianth's attempts to connect with Strigonth, the blue having relayed all their late night talks. It left him somewhat wondering that Shahera herself hadn't caved and come to him first...but he would be the bigger man, here, he'd decided.

So it was that late one evening, after dinner had been served and eaten and cleared away, when most of the riders had retreated to their weyrs for the night, but she still remained for one reason or other, that he approached her. Despite his want to keep his face neutral, it was so, so very hard. He felt the rush of emotion behind his breastbone, thrusting up as if to rip from his throat, though he managed to swallow it down. Her actions both on and off the sands had cut him deeply, to his cracked and broken bones, and a part of him sorely wanted to deny her any forgiveness, ever. But despite the wants of the heart, his mind knew the value of her company. Marinel had lived, after all, and he'd found his own feet again after a time, even if he'd had to do it alone but for Strigonth...and eventually, C'sar and Illiandinth.

"Shahera," he spoke as he stepped up to the bench beside her, an impassive expression on his lean face. The past months of recovery and then the rigors of riding training had stripped him of much of his lingering adolescent awkwardness, and he'd gained another inch at least at the same time. It was impossible not to stare down his nose at her, but it was an expression that should be intimately familiar to her, one she'd seen for turns and turns in every dancing lesson—though the Courtesan Hall felt a lifetime and a half ago to him now. He slid to sit beside her, not quite as close as he once might have...but not out of reach either. A moment passed, but not long enough of one to become stilted or awkward. No, he was ever too smooth for that.

"How are you?"

For a moment he felt himself wanting to withdraw, to leave, since she so clearly was more than happy to lash out with that old familiar sting. But then, a breath, a pause—that old familiar sting—he'd been the one to change, not her. Sliding back into their old back and forth would be...comfortable, wouldn't it? He could smother the sting, ignore it like he'd ever done. "Away," was his blunt answer. How could he explain to her of all people the struggle of the last months? It would be a weakness to admit to it, and weaknesses were to be hidden from friend and foe alike, as well as those somewhere in between.

"Klah would be fine." A hand lifted to modestly accept the offer. The dining hall was mostly empty this late, there were few others around and those that were were giving them no attention. Here was as private as anywhere else, and he had little interest in inviting her back to his weyr (and less in venturing to whatever ledge or wallow she'd claimed). The warmth of the drink, once given, settled nicely in his chest. The season was slowly turning from summer, though at Western that meant little by way of temperature changes. Still, time was moving.

"We'll be fighting soon. You're ready?" It was a casual thing, a common thing, perhaps, for one weyrling to ask after another. But in it was his real question—how are you? How are you doing? Are you healthy, are you faring well in all aspects?—and a rare moment where he seemed genuinely interested in the wellbeing of someone else.