It was a good five minutes before Nikora, burdened by a pot of stew and a pitcher of steaming klah, was able to coax the door open enough to wincingly jam her toe through the crack and nudge it open. Flustered by her efforts, she scurried into the weyr and hurriedly shut the door behind her. Its only occupant sat silently at a table against the wall, unaffected by the entrance even as Nikora grinned sheepishly at the racket her struggle was causing.
Eventually she managed to coordinate her task: she gingerly plunked the pitcher down on a long desk, messily scattered with hides picturing an assortment of diagrams (she frowned and pulled them delicately into a neat stack as though they would be used again), then ran her fingers through her short crop of brown hair as she surveyed the room for a clean cup.
"Deshe, dear, where do you keep—aha!" Interrupting her own query with a triumphant cry, Nikora advanced on the nightstand and snatched up a clay mug, filling it liberally with warm klah. The dark-haired woman at the corner table, her head ducked, her eyes staring blankly, did not react when Nikora placed the steaming cup at her left side, then dropped the stew, sloshing thickly against the sides of pot, directly in front of her with a grin.
"Thought you'd be hungry. Sorry I couldn't come by last night, there was a meeting. You know S'ten…" Fearing this might still be a tender subject, she trailed off and pushed the wooden spoon invitingly through the stew to Deshe's side of the pot. Then she straightened and regarded the young woman expectantly.
Deshe did nothing. She said nothing. Although the empty space that had drawn her eyes was now occupied by a warm pot of stew, she did not seem to recognize its presence. Determinedly, Nikora ignored her unresponsiveness and leant indolently against the back of her chair.
"Stew's from that Keroon holder," she said, beginning a thread of idle chatter to occupy the silence. "We stepped in after the sweep. Seems to think he's got a few 'fine young lads' suitable for Candidacy." Nikora made a face. "Personally, I think he's trying to get those sons of his with no herding sense off his hands, don't you, and I sure won't Search for the Weyr like it's a waste disposal." Deshe blinked and Nikora hurriedly changed the subject. "Anyway, between might have taken a bit out of the taste, but I warmed it well in the kitchens before bringing it up. It's delicious, Deshe," Nikora added insistently, leaning over the table now. Deshe pressed her palms over its surface, feeling the heat from the pot, but her disinterest in her meal and her company persisted.
"Deshe, why won't you say anything to me?" Nikora became visibly frustrated, bearing down on her friend with a familiar impatience and despair. "Why do you have to be so selfish?" Finally it was as though her words had the power to trigger a response; Deshe turned her head up, her huge dark eyes unblinking and fixated on Nikora's, even as the brown-haired woman's breath fell raggedly on her face. Astonished, Nikora at first avoided that soulless gaze, and then she looked…
She saw thirty seconds of pain, roiling darkly like storm clouds (thirty seconds imbued with draconic screaming, bridged abruptly into a human's rattling wail that rose to replace the agony which was silenced by between.) and then emptiness. It was the emptiness that scared Nikora, as though for a while there had only been sorrow, and Deshe had long since wept the sorrow out, convulsed it all away until all that remained was this vast and hollow vacancy.
Trembling, her eyes brimming with tears, Nikora launched herself so forcibly from the chair that it clattered backward on the stone floor. She stormed out of the room, slammed the door and stood in the shadows outside of it, her hands on her head, kneading her scalp distraughtly. She had never been disregarded so blankly by a friend; never, ever, had she encountered such an insistent withdrawal by someone she had loved and cherished for turns, since they were children who thought dragons were no larger than runnerbeasts when they saw them circling high over the stony outcrops of their Hold.
Nikora set off down the dark corridor and wept, quietly enough so that her sobs were concealed by the pounding of her feet as she sprinted away from the dank hole of Deshe's weyr. She had made only a few strides when all sounds of her movement and crying were silenced by an echoing voice and the vague silhouette of a man further up the hall.
"Nikora, is that you?"