At A Crossroads

Writers: Yvonne
Date Posted: 2nd May 2008

Characters: Onesime
Description: Onesime is Searched and faces a dilemma
Location: River Bluff Weyr
Date: month 9, day 18 of Turn 4

The dragonrider was waiting outside, and Onesime knew that it was rude of him to make the man wait. A canvas bag lay on the floor and was filled with all his worldly possessions: two spare sets of clothes, a small bag of gold dust panned from the stream, a stone with a hole in it looped through a leather thong. Outside the dragonrider was waiting, and Onesime couldn't move.

This was his home. This cot, his great-grandfather or great-great grandfather had built with his own two hands. He'd helped raise the herdbeasts in the green fields and helped to card the wool that his mother spun into yarn during the long winter nights. This was the bed he'd shared with his two brothers, and they'd fill the mattress with fresh yellow straw each fall. The wood of the small windowsill was worn smooth by generations of tiny hands clutching the edge to see the stars, and more recently, Thread.

The dragonrider was waiting outside.

Onesime swallowed thickly. This was the loft that he'd fallen out of when he was six when he tried to descend the ladder too quickly. The quilt on the bed was sewn by his aunt from leftover scraps of fabric and clothes that were too worn to wear, and it was a patchwork of browns, greens, and pale yellows. Even here the rafters were filled with the crisped leaves of herbs that his mother had hung to take them through the winter - lavender, mint, thyme, parsley, chamomile. The smell was as unique as a fingerprint and just as familiar.

The dragonrider might be waiting outside, but Onesime didn't want to leave. This was his home, and out there... out there was Thread and death. His cousin P'lat had already succumbed to it, and he had taken his brown dragon with him. Here in the Valley Onesime knew what lay around every bend and hill, every tree and low stone wall. He would marry, eventually, and either move into one of the smaller cots his grandparents or older relations had abandoned or build his own. He'd raise herdbeasts and corn and flaxen-haired children, and he'd grow old and die a natural death, which was what he wanted.

Downstairs the door swung open and the heavy footsteps that fell against the floor announced his father's entrance. "Onesime! What's taking you so long?"

Coming, father. – that was what Onesime meant to say, but the words lodged in a lump in his throat. He clutched at the quilt his aunt had made and sad dumbly as his father climbed the ladder into the loft.

"Come on, boy! What are you waiting for?" He sounded annoyed, but his eyes sparkled and his cheeks were flushed with pleasure. "You're going to the Weyr, m'boy! There's no time to dawdle!" He clapped Onesime on the back and the boy staggered. "You done packing?"

Onesime nodded unhappily, and his father swung the canvas bag over his shoulder. "I'll carry it out for you then. Come on! Hurry!"
His father had just put his feet on the top rung of the ladder when Onesime managed to force a word out.

"F-father?"

"What is it, m'boy?" His father beamed at him from the top of the ladder. His hair was streaked with silver, now, and lines radiated outwards from the corners of his eyes and bracketed his mouth. His father had been a good looking youth, but age had mellowed him into mediocrity. He embodied the future Onesime felt slipping through his fingers.

The boy swallowed again. "Father, I don't want to go."

"Don't… what?" His father let the canvas bag slip to the floor and climbed back up into the loft. He sat down on the bed next to his son and the mattress sagged under his weight, even though he and Onesime were of a similar height. "Son… this is the opportunity of a lifetime. The opportunity. You can go out and be someone – you'll never have to shovel shit or spend the day working in the mud and rain again."

"But what if I fail?" Onesime asked. **What if I end up like P'lat?**

His father sat quietly for a moment. "Onesime, you're my son. If you Impress green, you're still my son. If you lose your leg to Thread, you're still my son. I love you, and I am proud that you'll have the opportunity that I always dreamed of, and never had. There is nothing you can do that would disappoint me."

**Except stay,** Onesime thought bitterly.

"Just think," his father continued on, blithely unaware of his son's thoughts. "Think of the service that you'll provide for Pern – for all of life as we know it! There is no greater calling, no greater honour or duty than that of the skies. There is no greater freedom. All that there is here is the Valley. All that you'll ever know here is the Valley, and there's all the rest of Pern that means something, too. It _means_ something," he clapped his son on the back. "And it'll be all yours. I am _so_proud_ of you, son."

Onesime wanted to protest: he hadn't done anything yet, hadn't Impressed a dragon or even left the Valley – or wanted to leave the Valley. But the words slipped away as he looked into his father's hopeful face, and he felt ashamed of himself for wanting to deny his father's wishes again. Each time he'd done so – with each apprenticeship he turned down, each opportunity he wasted, his father would smile less and stoop more. The father Onesime remembered from his childhood was as tall as a house and had a booming laugh that would echo off the Valley walls, and for the first time in turns his father was standing tall again.

"Please, Onesime," his father said quietly. "Please. Don't throw this one away, m'boy."

A lifetime of dreams – his, his father's – fought for space inside Onesime's chest. If he stayed, his father would see his dreams wither and die, but if Onesime left he would be throwing away everything he'd ever held dear. The boy swallowed. "What- what if I don't Impress?"

His father smiled kindly. "You know that you'll always have a home here, with us in the Valley. But please, Onesime…"

Duty, love, and the weight of his father's wishes slowly dissolved what little willpower Onesime had left to resist. With any luck he wouldn't Impress and could come home. He slowly stood and picked up the canvas bag. "I'm ready," he said. It was a lie, but he said it anyway.

Last updated on the May 5th 2008

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At A Crossroads