diamond in the rough

Sat, 24 Oct 2009 23:30:04 GMT

Another vig. Or something.

It was an odd thing indeed, to be home. Xilaros found the chair that was once comfortable -- his chair at the table -- was at once too small and too hard, an uncomfortable propositon. The cothold itself seemed too small, more run-down, though Xil knew it was in similar condition in which he left it.

He stared down at the stringy piece of roast on his plate, then questioned a look upwards to his mother. She looked-- almost embarrassed, but steeled her face with a fierce pride and had no trouble meeting his eyes. Her voice, when she spoke, held the same Bitran twang that occaisionally touched his own tone. "Xilaros, don't you dare look at me like you pity me, boy. I brought you into this world and I have no trouble taking you out of it."

He smiled, reflexively, to that: some things never change. Then he applied himself to his food with gusto, somehow surprised at how tender the meat ended up, how flavorful the mashed tubers were.

Really, there's nothing like being home... and nothing better than your mother's cooking.

Xander had taken the two babies out-- the rest of their siblings were out with pops, plowing and seeding the wheat fields that gave Yellow Sheaf Cothold it's name.

"Ma," Xil starts, after his plate is clean, leaning back. Ilaria moves to take his plate, replacing it with a bowl of berry crumble, a blurb of cream splashed over the top. Xilaros cannot help the groan at the thought of more food any more than he can help tucking into the dessert with intensity. It's his favorite, after all.

"Tell me," Ilaria states, seating herself sans a bowl of her own. Hands of long, lean sinew fold together neatly in front of her: they are calloused hands, used to work, but capable of soothing a child's tears away and frightening monsters back under the bed. Xilaros remembers such, gazing down at them.

He jerks his head back to her face with a start. "Tell you what?" he questions, for the first time uncomfortable.

"You sent us a note. And while da thought he had threw the marks away, it helped us through last winter. Thank you," Ilaria hasn't a problem saying, though that injured pride flashes once more in faded-denim blue eyes.

"It wasn't anything special," Xilaros states again, once more uncomfortable. "I have more. Nothing... presumptuous, but enough to help you out again. Better seed for the second harvest. I've a few jewels, left, and notes of credit I can draw upon at Bend--"

"Xilaros, child, we didn't need your money before, and we damned sure don't need it now," Ilaria states with no little asperity. Her voice and expression softens after a moment, however. "If you'll see to it that the little ones have new shoes, though, that... would be a blessing," she softly finishes, a wistful look on her face.

Xilaros falls silent, allowing his mother the moment, waiting for her to recompose herself. She offers him a wan smile. "My father told me it would be like this," Ilaria states. "Never realized what 'this' would be..." Her rich soprano breaks off, and she focuses her gaze back in on her son. "So, my boy, my Xilaros, why have you left your cushy job? What heartbreak has divorced you from your home at High Reaches?"

"You sound like Gramps," Xilaros notes idly, his bass tones obviously stalling. Eventually, he rocks back in his chair, and focuses his gaze upwards to the ceiling. "It started with a girl," he begins. Aren't most stories started with such a line?

It doesn't take long to list out the details: the whirlwind relationship, Linny's candidacy, Impression, and weyrlinghood-- the rigors of working as a jewel agent, the tedious repetition of shearing woolies, weyrmating and all it entailed. Pregnancy scares, and arguments, and the heartfluttering beauty of fresh love.

Ilaria is smiling, at the end, even with Xilaros' depiction of their last fight, the fight where he walked out. "My heart," she addresses her son, "That seems not entirely enough to make you, of all people, to walk out." She arches an eyebrow.

Reluctantly, Xilaros continues. "I talked to Tharlan," he bluntly states. "It was as Linny said. He told me straight out that he wanted me to marry one of his daughters. He didn't understand why I would stay with someone who wouldn't even stand up for herself. I--" He shakes his head, frustrated. "I gave him his signet back, and my cache of cut gems, and left. I couldn't stand to be around him any longer. I understand his motives, and-- I'm flattered, in a certain way, but..."

Ilaria leans a hand out, tucks her fingers across his palm. Her blue eyes are troubled. "Honey, a job is a job. You'll find another one, or-- you can move back here. We've a little place down by the cows that Xander's at, you could liv--"

"No, mom," Xilaros interrupts, gently. "I don't intend on staying too long. Just long enough for me to get my head. Maybe a few days of honest work, for a change, will help." His simle is lackluster.

"Now, about this girl," Ilaria overrides him imperiously. "You seem to care for her, but you walked away from her because she told you the truth." She casts him a pointed look. "You realize this."

"I can't handle the arguments any more, mother. I can't-- I hurt her, and I don't want to hurt her, and I /won't/ hurt her any more," he swears, more to himself than to her.

"I'm sure you're hurtin' her plenty, you bein' here like you are," comes a quavering voice from the doorway; Xilaros' face creases out into a smile, despite the content of such sentance. "Grams," he states, rising to his feet and moving to gather his grandmother into a careful hug. The woman's ninety if it's a day, but she has no problems with swatting him hard enough, with her cane, to leave a bruise. "Sit yer ass back down, boy, and keep goin'. Your ma was about to tell you sommat important, I reckon."

Xilaros keeps an eye on the iron-haired tiny woman, but settles down as demanded. Ilaria clears her throat, with one of those looks to the older woman that children are wont to do to errant parents, regardless of ages involved.

"Why didn't you go back and talk to her, hmm?" Ilaria questions, simply enough. An eyebrow arches, something familiar enough: Xilaros himself has the same epxression.

"I... I think she hates me," Xilaros states, somewhat defensively. "It's not my fau--"

"Hell yes it is, sonny, and you know it or you wouldn't be protestin' it so damned much!" Grams cackles, whacking her cane at the back of Xilaros' chair. Despite the man's brawn, he winces as the blow connects to an unguarded piece of flesh. He eyes her cane, afterwards, as if trying to calculate how much effort it would be to wrest the piece of seasoned skybroom away from her.

"Aha, don't even try it, kiddo," the little old woman states with a rheumy eye on his assessment of herself. "I'm gonna go make me a cup o' tea," she announces, moving to the back of the cothold.

Ilaria stares over at her son, eyes searching. "Why are you here, Xilaros?"

"I'm here t--"

"He's here to make trouble, Illy, just like he always has," comes a sarcastic voice, deep and raspy. A man big enough to make Xilaros look like a lean young buck enters the cothold, one shoulder at a time. He's bald, much like his son, with blocky features that could interchange with Xilaros' without too much difference in appearance. "You bring back my runner, boy? You ain't runnin' off with him again," Xarone barks at his son, moving to sit in a chair at the end of the table. It creaks ominously under his weight.

"I have to hear from damned Silaren about him bein' back. From /Silaren/! You ain't got enough sense to return a runner, to send a note-- hell, you'd think the least he could do is come see his ol' da once he's back in the area." The content of Xarone's words are completely flat, no jockularity or amusement: it's pure contempt, through and through.

Xilaros' jaw tightens, his chin lifts, and he trades an even look with this bear of a man. "Well, if I'd had half a damned role model growing up, perhaps I'd know what proper manners were," he snips back, his growling voice a low threat of restrained violence.

"Ha. If you'd halfway listened, 'stead of running off to join the damned guards-- the fucking guards, boy? You have diarrhea for brains, an' it all leaked out a long sharding time ago. Ain't gonna amount for anything, mark my words."

Xilaros pushes himself to his feet, a dangerous look to his eyes. Ilaria's mouth is set in a hard line, and she's glowering at Xarone with a gaze that would kill if it could. "I see. Hug Grams for me, ma? I love you."

"Where d' ya think /yer/ goin'?" Xarone questions, offense in his tone.

"I'm leaving, since apparently it's what I do best. You always wanted me to achieve high marks in /something/, eh, father?" Xilaros' words crack like a whip, and he turns to exit his childhood home.

Silence follows his footsteps, out the door and beyond.

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 15:02:15 GMT

A vig. Or something.

It was cold in High Rock. Xilaros was indifferent to the cold-- he had spent a fair number of turns here on the desolate steppes. The lonely whistle of wind at his back didn't bother him. The severe vista in front of him didn't worry him.

He was leading his runner- the big Highland Draft had thrown a shoe, and he had too much respect for the big-boned blue roan to do much other than bring his pace down to a crawl. The gelding nudged him every so often, impatiently, as if to say that /he/, for one, didn't care about being shoeless on his near fore.

Xilaros didn't mind. Nothing mattered. He just didn't care anymore. The words shared between Tharlan and himself had done any last emotions he may have kept in. He was womanless, jobless-- near lifeless in some aspects.

His possessions were packed up into two neat saddlebags, slung up over Seve's withers for quick access. Once the pair was out of the rocky terrain of the northern wastes, Xil figured he'd pull the other shoe-- Seve only was front-shod-- and perhaps pick up speed.

He only had one place left to go, and it would take him a while to get there. But who cared? Xil sure as hell didn't.

...

The meager campfire crackled and popped, the hare spitted and roasting above it. Xilaros leaned back against his saddle, eyes focused out over the distant hold. It wouldn't be too long, now. It had been over a month of aimless travel, of cold oat rations and stringy meat. At least Severius looked good: the big draft's coat glistened from care, lean muscle and a spirited gleam in dark eyes.

It wouldn't be long at all, now. He reached forwards, to check to see if the rabbit was done, yet, burnt himself on a hot piece of fat, stuck his thumb in his mouth with a reflex curse.

He followed that curse up with another when he heard a familiar bass rumbling out, "An' here I'd thought you'da found yourself some fancy git by now, Xilly."

Xil turned about to level a dark glare to the young man standing behind him. Where Xilaros is dark, Xander is light: sky blue eyes, short golden-chestnut hair sheared close but spiky yet. Xander's pretty-faced to Xilaros' blocky features, a contemptous smirk for his brother's staid glare.

"But no, y'still got daddy's old draft. What, y' done with y' ramblins and now you want home?" Xander scoffs, leans back, hands shoved in his pocket. "Gotta hand it to y', Xilly boy, when y' fuck up, y' fuck up bad."

"Don't call me that." Xilaros' even, terse words clip out, as he deliberately turns his back on his fraternal twin, takes the rabbit off the spit to cool before eaten. "You want dinner? I know you're incapable of actually hunting or cooking anything yourself," Xil continues, "And I'd hate for my most favorite sibling to go starving."

"Ah, Xilly boy, I weren't gonna say no, 'n you know it," Xander states, flopping himself next to Xilaros with the loose-limbed grace that is his mark. "Y'know momma died," he states, without pause.

Xilaros' hands were working on slicing the rabbit in quarters; now they still, and he bows his head, fiercely, staring blankly down at his hands.

"Aw, fuck man, it ain't even no fun messin' with y' no more. Momma's fine, y'fucker. She'll be 'round once all o' us is dead 'n died, y'know."

Xil loosens a breath that was pent up in a quick whoosh, head turning to level another glare onto Xander. His brother is immune- you share a womb, you tend to not care if your sibling's looking like he's gonna kick your ass.

"An'ways, y'gonna cut that bitch 'r just stare down at 'er all day? C'mon, some o' us are hungry," Xander complains, making grabby-gimme hands at his slightly older sibling. Xilaros tosses him a full haunch in retort, and cussing fills the air as the too-hot meat lands in Xander's lap.

"Serves you right," Xilaros mutters to himself.

...

The two make their way towards the ramshackle house on the outskirts of Bitra. Both of them are silent, Seve's breathing the only thing audible. Two big men, a big runner between them: the similarities between the two cannot be denied, as different as their coloration and facial features are. The same walk, powerfully-impulsed and long-legged, the same manner of carriage.

A woman is weeding in front of the small cothold. The house itself is thatch-roofed and in need of repairs of varying degrees, but the landscape about it is carefully tended. A small child, about the age of four, is hiding somewhat behind the crouched woman.

A careworn face lifts, wrinkles creasing further around blue eyes as Ilaria focuses on the two heading in her direction.

She drops her handspade as she recognizes the one on the right, eyes widening as they come up to a halt, not too far away.

"See wha' I brought home, ma?" chirps Xander; a single look from Xilaros shuts him up, though the boy still beams impudently.

"Hello, mother," Xilaros states, his words simple. "I'm home."

Mon, 20 Jul 2009 11:04:17 GMT

What....

The....

Fuck.

I've really lost her, now. Out of all the things that could have happened..... My dad would really mock me now. Up there, watching her, waiting, almost hoping... hoping that it wouldn't happen.

Kaelidyth. I hope... Faranth, what can I hope? Nothing. Nothing at all. I think I'm going to take a trip back to Bitra. It's been overdue that I've seen my family.

.... a goldrider. Why, of all things, gold?

Mon, 15 Jun 2009 13:59:30 GMT

Shearing time. Never thought that I'd ever have to do this again, I didn't. Suppose it's what I get for being a trader for a damned cotholder. Tharlan means well enough, even if his eternal persistence in his efforts to marry me off is irritating. I know he has seven daughters, but damn. Find someone else. Find someone interested. They're all pretty enough, with black hair and blue eyes, the whole lot of them. Must take after the mother, because Tharlan doesn't have any measure of decent looks to him, considering his youngest.

Neither here nor there.

Speaking of which, this whole splitting time between the weyr and High Rock is beginning to wear. It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for her. I hated seeing the look on her face, in her eyes, when I told her I was leaving. I never meant to hurt her, I don't want to hurt her, but I'm hurting her by just being in her life, it seems.

I'm going to take it day by day, and enjoy what I have, for once. It's time enough to grow up. For me, but for more than me, too. I don't know where this will go.

I just hope I don't ever run into her mother. Ever. Ever. Ever again.