Grief
Dragonsfall Weyr
Amber Hills Hold
Vintner Hall
Healer Hall
Hidden Meadows
Dolphin Cove Weyr
Dolphin Hall
Emerald Falls Hold
Harper Hall
Printer Hall
Green Valley Hold
Leeward Lagoon Hold
Barrier Lake Weyr
Sunstone Seahold
Citrus Bay Hold
Writers: AL
Date Posted: 25th June 2010
Characters: Briata
Description: Briata finishes cleaning out the weyr she and B'lamick once shared.
Location: River Bluff Weyr
Date: month 9, day 14 of Turn 5
Briata stood in the middle of the weyr, her eyes taking in its barren state. The wardrobe was still there, doors flung ope, contempts empty. The chests of drawers had their contents stripped as well, though the drawers themselves had been closed. There were no clothes within. The pillows had been arranged and returned to their proper places and sat there, unused. The place was spotless. Even though drudges could have been called to help, Briata had done the work herself. It was something she needed to do. She needed to move. To work. To...do something.
Her throat tightened and threatened to convulse, sending her into a pile of flesh and hair that would quake and sob, useless for at least a good hour. Briata fought against the wave of despair that threatened and reached up to tuck an ebony strand back into place. It was no longer their way. It had been stripped, ready for the next bronzerider who needed it.
B'lamick was gone.
Gone /between/ during Threadfall.
Only he never re-emerged.
More tears stung Briata's eyes and for a moment, she struggled. She managed to win, but barely. She looked around to be certain everything had been taken, opening doors and drawers. All was empty. Nothing had been left behind. The furniture would remain for the next inhabitant. B'lamick's things had been gathered. Items that had no particular significance were put into storage until someone else needed them. Others items...Briata had packed and sent to her new quarters. His knife. The socks she had made for him. Some of his favourite clothes...those she had kept.
She couldn't think. If she thought, she would just think about him. If she thought about him...then she would lose herself in the grief and she couldn't do that. Not there. In private. Briata bent down to take up the bucket, fingers curling about the handle and it clanked gently as she lifted it and reached for the mop. Floors clean. Bed stripped...even the walls had received a good washing. No corner had been left uninspected. All was clean. Spotless.
It was the last day she had to herself. Tomorrow she would return to her classes, return to her craft. The Masters had been kind, but she had to go back. She didn't want to, but she had to. She couldn't just wander through life listless, useless. So she would go back...but she didn't think she would have the joy that had come to her before....before....
The young woman turned and left the room to itself, her face blank, feet carrying her almost automatically as she traversed down the hallway. The bucket and mop were returned to their proper places and then she continued onward. She almost lost it halfway to her room and she had to pause, dip into the shadows and gather herself together before she could continue. She almost didn't make it. Her eyes stung as she unlocked the door and by the time the door was closed behind her, the first sob had escaped. The room was small, tiny compared to the weyr she had shared with B'lamick, but it seemed so large and empty in comparison for it didn't have him. He had filled up that Weyr with his smile, his laughter. His presence had made it comfortable. Now she was there, in a cold bare room.
Briata sank to her knees, her body wracked with her grief, shaking despite her attempt to stop it, arms crossed over her. She rocked back and forth, her breaths coming in gasps, her choking sobs echoing through the room. The box that contained the few things she had saved sat beside the bed, smaller. Emptier. She tried to stand but her legs refused to bear her wait, so she crawled across the floor, shaking with every movement and finally came to the box. From it she withdrew the shirt he had worn just before changing into his riding gear. It still smelled like him. She buried her face, tears wetting the fabric. She clung to it. Clung to the scent, tried to imagine that he might still be in it, still be there. Hers. Her B'lamick...
Briata never made it to the bed. She lay upon the floor, trembling, crying, her face marred by the tears that made tract after tract down her face. Eventually she slept, fitful, unrestful, upon the hard floor, an echo of the hard, cruel world that had taken her love from her.
Last updated on the June 28th 2010