Lay Your Ghosts to Rest
33.03.01, StarRise Weyr
D'ven stood on his weyrledge, looking out over the strangely quiet Weyrbowl. Dragons appeared overhead, swiftly descended, allowed their riders to dismount, and then got out of the way. It was moving day for StarRise, when the majority of her weyrfolk would be returning after a half-decade of absence. It should have been bustling and brimming over with excitement.
Instead sorrow dimmed the enthusiasm. Yes, they were coming home. Coming home to freshly reopened wounds, to begin healing all over again. More quickly than the first time, perhaps, but the freshness of the injury was still sharp until the patterns of everyday life could once more dull the edges and allow them to forget, for a little while at a time, until those periods of forgetfulness allowed the grief to fade into an echo of itself.
You are brooding too much. You have wanted to return for turns. We are here now. Venjyth rumbled, spreading his wings to slow his descent as he landed on the ledge next to his rider. Why are you sad?
D'ven reached up, his hand automatically finding just the right spot on Venjyth's jaw. "I'm not sad, Venjyth. I'm…" He paused, trying to find the right word. When he did, his lips twisted in an ironic grimace. He'd never have thought of himself and this mood together. "I'm wistful, and regretful. A lot of our people died here, Venjyth. Vinalli died here. The boys."
I…remember them? The dragon sounded doubtful and well he should. He didn't remember Vinalli, or D'ven's sons; not really. He remembered D'ven's memories of them, but the dragon's memories had long since faded without the daily reinforcement of living encounters with them.
"No, sir, you don't. But I do." D'ven gave Venjyth's jaw one last scratch, and then heaved a sigh. He'd been to StarRise several times over the past four months, as the miners finished the repairs and then as the support staff started coming in. Before that, he'd come by every six months to check the progress so he could report the status to his Wingleaders and goldriders at their semiannual conclaves. He'd been over every inch of stone in this Weyr, including the newly opened cavern system that had nearly killed them all, except for one. He'd waited for this, when everyone was coming home. It seemed only right that he gave the final report to her.
D'ven walked slowly down the stairs to the floor of the Weyrbowl. Children ran shrieking around him and he remembered his own sons, killed in this very Weyr, the same day Vinalli had died. She'd been crushed by stone, killed at her queen's side. The boys had inhaled an invisible gas, dying instantly.
They'd been so young.
So very, very young.
D'ven's jaw clenched and he thrust those memories aside. He'd made his silent peace with them. The nursery had been the first place he'd gone, as soon as the crafters had started letting folk back in. He'd found…signs. Evidence that Jonaven and Sojinten had been there. Had existed. Had lived and laughed. Had mattered.
They would always matter to him. It was why he'd fought so hard to save the Weyr, to come back. His only memories of his sons were here, and here he would stay.
His thoughts kept him distracted as he crossed the Bowl and approached the sealed entrance to the damaged hatching cavern. It would never be used again. The miners had sealed every entrance, every crevice, against entry on his orders. Twice now that cavern had killed a queen of StarRise. It wouldn't get a third.
The stone wall that had bricked over the entrance had been coated in plaster, providing a smooth finish. Artisans had come, painting a mural of a woman, a clutching gold curled behind her. The work was excellent. If D'ven unfocused his eyes he could almost pretend she was standing there, waiting for him to come in and see what their dragons had created. Vinalli, with her dark hair flowing loose about her shoulders, and her bright brown eyes sparkling with the laughter that seldom left them, gazed at him from a stone and plaster wall.
"He must have known you," D'ven said quietly, lifting his hand to touch the painted cheek. No warm, soft flesh met the touch, but cool, smooth plaster and paint. "He knew exactly what you looked like."
D'ven dropped his hand and cleared his throat roughly. He could almost hear Vinalli's carefree, open laugh. "We're coming back home now, Nalli. The miners are finished and say it's safer than a mother's womb. They should probably talk to the healers; I don't think a mother's womb is all that safe myself." He shrugged. "All the goldriders are coming back. You'd be proud of them. The Weyrleader's Conclave knocked Melina out of the acting position because of her injuries, but she's fine and frisky now. Lenni wanted her to stay, but you know Melina – she does what she wants. Some won't be returning. Thread got 'em, or they moved on with other things in their life. It's been hard, flying and fighting for two Weyrs for five turns now, but we did it. It'll be a vacation now."
D'ven paused, dropping his head so his view was limited to the ground, were the wall and stone floor met. He clasped his hands behind his back and allowed himself to sink into the memories he'd made sure he was too busy to remember for the past five turns. He remembered her perched on the edge of his desk, hands waving as she told him about some incident or the other in the lower caverns. Her somber stillness when they took the news of a rider's death to his holder family. Waking up with her curled against his side, her hair a silky curtain across the pillow, when he knew sharding well he'd been alone when he fell asleep. Her playful teasing when the burdens of Weyrleadership started weighing down, and her uninhibited, sheer joy in life and being a dragonrider. The sharp and insightful mind lurking behind her cheerful irreverence. He'd never been in love with her, nor she him, but they had been perfect partners, perfect friends. They completed each other in a lot of ways.
Somehow, even with her gone, he didn't feel like she was. He could still hear her voice in his head, in remembered conversations and in knowing what she'd say at certain times.
Like now. He knew just what she'd do. She'd give his beard a tug, tell him to stop being so melodramatic, and go scare some of those new riders like any self-respecting tyrant of a Weyrleader would do. And when he was done with that, he could bring her dinner and she'd tell him all about her latest conquests.
D'ven looked up and examined the mural again. The painter had definitely known Vinalli. There was no other way he could have painted her so true to life. He gave the painting a brisk nod, drawing in a deep, cleansing breath.
"All right, Nalli. I'll go be Weyrleader now. You can rest easy; your family's coming home."
D'ven turned on his heel and strode away, his boots sounding solid against the grey stone. Overhead, the blue sky could be seen through the caldera, an occasional white cloud drifting by. Rainbow specks of color popped in and drifted down as dragons came home.
And a shaft of sunlight danced upon a painted face, bringing golden sparkles of laughing life to Weyrwoman Vinalli's hazel eyes.