To Hazard A Guess (Smara)

[Loner]

All the while the Holdless attacked the Weyr at large, the general mayhem of the internal struggles and the blood and fighting and worry and all of that, other, smaller, less noticeable things had been afoot.

Quite literally, in fact; some blasted fool had thought it would be dandy to drag her out of that impregnable cell to the infirmary, and while she was no stranger to injury or illness nor any of the accouterments of the craft that dealt with them, she had no reason to linger... and among those lacking reasons were inattentive guards from the Shield compliment the Weyr employed.

Oh, she'd tussled with one before, and it hadn't ended well. It was why she was here. But she had had no illusions as to the motives of her former clanskin, and she had slipped away in the middle of incoming madness, blood, and tears. Too many inconvenient, blubbering fools occupied the infirmary, she thought, distracting the healers and the guards alike.

But a Holdless going out was probably not nearly as threatening to their ilk as a Holdless going in, so Amnixiel had the feeling she had slipped away as easily as she had because of their distraction and unwillingness to peg her in their senses as threatening; and not because she was especially sneaky or crafty, which she would have liked to think.

But really... slight of hand was not for the un-daring, and she'd mastered that little spot of juju a long, long time ago. Being a worthless brat in a camp where everyone had to put in or be cast out would do that. That she had cast her own self out in the end really didn't factor in... like most people, Amnixiel craved acceptance and approval, and the utter lack of either had instead cultivated a raw paranoia.

All of that aside, the main bulk of the fighting seemed to have gone away, and now she was walking along with a stolen drudge's overcloak to hide her Holdless garments, and wondering just where in the highest of hells she truly was. It was one thing to get lost in a cave that was a natural formation; but when men carved the tunnels, they had a nasty predisposition for making all of them look exactly alike! Amnixiel felt if she could just find a way to see the sky, she'd feel a lot less lost.

But no! No, of course there would be no skylights, instead just bowls of glows and the glows and their baskets had been ditched to the floor and nobody had come to pick them up... and she could tell really why. Holdless vagabonds looking for blood had come this way. Doubtless by the smell of piss, sodden wool, and blood, someone, at least, had bled. But the smell was just there - not strong, not pungent, and certainly not leading. So whoever had died in these long, unremarkable passageways was evidently as lost within the maze as deeply as she was, and may all the stars and ghosts forgive her, she was probably going to die in here, too.

If she didn't starve to death first, the people who lived here (if any of them still lived here, of course) would surely slay her on sight, after what happened!

[Lady Smara]

It seemed that Amnixiel was not the only person wandering the back hallways and tunnels that made up the heart of Refuge Weyr and as fate would have it, also not the only person momentarily concerned with getting lost and starving in such tunnels. Of course, for the boy normally charged with changing the glows, the ‘lost’ part was not nearly on the top of his list. He knew that as long as he followed his feet downward he would reach the bottom floor and know exactly where he was upon reaching it. He was, however, completely avoiding the WeyrHall where he had seen and heard the fighting begin. Nope! No way was he going back there ANY time soon. No way, no how.

It was with a remarkable little rumble that he looked down at his stomach, leaving his feet to wander where they would, when he bumped quite literally into a cloaked figure. Rubbing his forehead, he looked up to find a tall, thin figure standing there in what appeared to be an ordinary drudge cloak. Even so, he quickly took a few steps back with a frown, unable to guess at the face right away under the cloak’s dark folds. With everything that was going on in the lower parts of the Weyr… well one could imagine how the twelve turn old’s mind quickly ran through the worst and most gruesome of possibilities.

“I… Uh…” he stammered, unsure if he should be shouting for help or asking for it.

[Loner]

The Holdless woman jumped back in fright, then realized he was short - a youngster, still just a boy - and she relaxed visibly, though not all the way. The look on his face as he stared up at her from his not-quite-all-grown-up height begged for permission to melt her heart, though; Holdless and nomadic she might be, and the stars knew it had been ages since she'd last even seen a man, let alone touched one, but children still tugged at her in the way they ought against anything female.

Amnixiel sighed at his stammer, half smiling, and reached out to tousle his hair. "There, now, you'd be fine, then."

Though it wasn't a good thing that she'd been found by a Weyrperson - doubtless the Holdless camp had left theirs back home in the woods - at least the Weyrperson in question was not elderly enough to have preconceived notions about first-contact situations, least of all elderly enough to understand he was enduring one right now. So long as she didn't tell, he probably would think she was just someone he hadn't seen around overmuch who worked in places he didn't get to very often.

Amnixiel wasn't inclined to disabuse him of the notion, either.

"What's a good lad like you doing about on a day like this? You've ears, I expect - did no one tell you to stay where it would be safe for youngsters like you?" If he was sharp, he'd catch her vernacular. If he wasn't, he'd probably just wonder absently why she spoke differently from the Weyrbodies he was used to listening to.

[Lady Smara]

One eye closing as his hair was tousled, the boy could not help but frown; not at the words the woman said, but the way she said them. Not only that, she had an accent that the small boy couldn’t quite place a finger on. Something felt… off. Opening his eye again as he looked up at her, his frown deepened at the woman beneath her cloak.

“There’s blood in the halls.” He finally said, in reply. His reply was slow, however, though whether from thoughtfulness or shyness it was difficult to tell. “Between here and the safe room.” Pausing, he gave her another long look. “And shouldn’t YOU be elsewhere? All of the adults are fighting, or in the safe room themselves I would suspect. Why are you here rather than somewhere useful? I would just get underfoot, you could help.”

[Loner]

She blew a sigh at the boy; sharp, quick-witted, and a good thinker, too. Not terribly alike to other boys his age, and how unfortunate that was. "Yes, and you seem intent on being underfoot. Blood in the halls suggests all the fighting has come and gone already, and the way is clear. But you didn't take that opportunity, which says you're more interested in causing more trouble than you are in surviving this clan-wide altercation."

And he was probably going to be little-boy enough to badger about it, too. Crossing her arms over her narrow chest, Amnixiel shook her head at him. "Help? Me? I have no vested interest in either side of this mess. Loyalties are what clashes today, young man. And I have none. Why should I impose myself in a fight that is not my own? And, more to the point, whom would I hurt? Whom would I help? How to choose? Sincerely, it is a question best left unaddressed. This is not my business. I am looking for the way out. I wish only to depart, and leave you and yours to your businesses without my interference."

To make sure he got her point, she added, "If I was pledged to the Weyr, would I be standing here, in this place, talking to you? Better - if I was pledged to the Holdless, don't you think you'd be dead by now?"

[Lady Smara]

Tschermak found himself with a dizzy, sinking feeling in his stomach as she began to speak, which only worsened the longer she spoke and the more the words began to stick inside his head and slowly paint a picture. She was not with the Weyr. She was not a Weyrfolk. She stated as much and it made his thought of her strange way of wording things only seem that much more apparent. A familiar thud began to beat a steady rhythm in the back of his head and he pushed it aside as he listened to her.

“If you are not with the Weyr, but not with the Holdless… Then what does that make you?” he asked, his voice wavering ever so slightly as he found himself completely unsure if even speaking to the woman was a safe venture anymore. She had said he’d have been dead already – after only a few moments of standing near eachother. It was a fact that he completely believed, however. He couldn’t fight – the bruises he hid on his body was always easy proof of that as the other weyrbrats found entertainment in tormenting him.

As much as that sinking feeling in his stomach told him that he should leave now – find another to speak to and stay with, he could not help but find a need to know her answer. Perhaps she was with a cothold, but then again were the cotholds not suppose to be with the Weyr? How could one person hold no loyalties in their life? It did make sense, that she did not wish to choose who to help and who to hurt – but should that choice not have already been made based upon those with whom you lived your life? Would one not wish to protect the world they knew?

But then she wished to leave. Would he stop her? Should he stop her? He didn’t even know who she was or why it was that she was so far inside their tunnels. If not a holdless, then who was she?

[Loner]

Amnixiel gave him a look that said his little-boyness was starting to melt her iron heart somewhat about the edges. It was crossed with irritation, indignation, and frustration, but there was a pall of sympathy for his situation. How many could bring themselves to this point, and then possess all the gall to stand there, yet none of the courage to keep from quivering as they did so?

Her annunciation of his vulnerability hammered him hard, and she saw he understood the accuracy of her point very plainly. He'd been hurt before, it seemed, and nobody had stuck up for him. He'd been abused, or beaten, perhaps by other children his age. Adults who owed no particular loyalty to him - as if he were not their son, for instance - would look upon such incidents passively, probably thinking to themselves that it would do him good, toughen him.

That was not the way to raise a child properly. He would enter adulthood - if he lived that long - a scarred and bitter creature, with recurrent issues and a sense of permanent instability about his mental faculties. It made her want to grab him up, hug him close, promise him it would never happen again... and take him away with her, away into the deep forests, where she could teach him all the wonders of the world, without the foul interruption of human filth to mar that experience.

Such a man she could craft from this poor, quivering boy. That he did not run from her, run from everything, run and hide and shake and cry openly, that spoke of a certain strength of character that many of the young his age lacked. Here was the makings of greatness, and it was being sadly, so sadly neglected. His question, however, was a grounding point.

He demanded honesty of his environment, even if that honesty required it to bludgeon him into a bruised and bloody pulp. She exhaled, softly, looking into his eyes and wondering why he felt any loyalty here of his own - was it his childhood, speaking for him? His inability to fill his own belly, carve his own niche, stake his own territory? He was not small, nor particularly sickly, or gangly, nor weak-looking. But he sure wasn't the picture of stunning health and strength, either!

"My name is Amnixiel. To the Weyr and its cotholds, I am Holdless. To the Holdless, I am a rogue. I carry no loyalty, keep no company, and pledge no fealty. I have lived alone for many, many long years, little one. My story is long, particularly uneventful, and bitter. Perhaps it is best if you never quite know just who I am, as it were."

She cupped the balls of his shoulders in her hands, long, slender fingers over the underdeveloped muscle of the boy's deltoids, and squatted with one knee up, the other down, for balance. Though her torso was tall enough for this to keep her from being quite at his eyelevel, it at least erased the sense that she meant to loom. Imposing was for felines and wiley creatures of the woods.

Children required a defter, more gentle touch.

Meeting his gaze at closer to his level, Amnixiel added, "Something in the decay that was once my heart has asked for voice; looking at you, I will offer this - if you could ask one thing of me, just one... what would you choose?"

[Lady Smara]

Tschermak listened to the woman, as she gave her name and explained, barely, what she had meant by not having loyalties for the Weyr, yet also that she was not really part of the holdless. With the holdless spilling so much blood in the bowl, however, he was hesitant to believe her that they too considered her an outcast.

Even though her touch was not a harsh one, nor with any real strength put behind it, the boy winced and found himself fighting the urge to step back, to pull away. While he managed not to pull away he did avert his eyes down and to the left, raising it back to her face only as she spoke once more.

“Ask one thing of you?” he repeated, now that his gaze was lifted once more to her own. He took a long moment to stare at her. “I have no need of anything.” He finally answered slowly, a slight frown on his lips. “I might not have what others do, but at least I have a place to call home. It sounds like you don’t even have that.”

[Loner]

Amnixiel could sense his withdrawing demeanor; and she figured it out quickly, too. But she didn't withdraw her hands from his shoulders.

"You mistake me," she began, softly. "I do have a home. My home is comforting, warm, and inviting. My home holds no ills, of any caliber, and always welcomes me back each time I return to it. It is rather you who has no home. You sustain, endure, and scrape a most meager existence out of this barren, frozen wasteland, but you are not at home here. This place will never welcome you. You may live here, young man, but that does not make it a home. A residence is not a home if it lacks the fundamental basics of homely quality. Have you family that loves you? Have you work that you enjoy, and rise early each morning to pursue anew with vigor and purpose? I daresay I could answer for you, just by looking at you. These people beat you because they do not view you as a valuable, intelligent, useful sentient being. They view you as a nameless, worthless, lifeless lump, and perhaps if they hammer on it enough it will go away, and stop obstructing their superior livelihoods."

Amnixiel shook her head, sympathetically. "Look around you. Do you think this place would miss you if you disappeared? Do you think anyone would care if you were found dead in these cold, empty corridors? Do you think anyone would go and look for you, or afford you a proper funerary rite? Do you think anyone would shed a tear in remembrance of your short, unremarkable life? How can you call this place your home, boy? It is more of a prison to you, and you don't even realize it." She sighed, pursing her lips as she looked him over one more time.

Idly, she picked at the end of one of his sleeves, though the motion was more to indicate the S-shaped bruise the hemline just slightly obscured on his arm there. "These pompous people have no love for life, or appreciation for potential. They will kill you," she met his gaze again, then, "and they won't blink twice when you finally expire. Your body will be shoveled aside, and thrown out for the felines to tear apart."

Taking a breath, she finished with, "If I am wrong about any of this... why are your wounds so old, why is your attire so tattered, ill-kempt, stained, and ill-fitted? Why are you more alone in your lovely eyes than your surroundings could ever afford? What, exactly, keeps you here, little one? Tell me. Tell me, explain to me what the allure is. Why do you stay in this wretched place?"

[Lady Smara]

Tschermak had let his head fall, his chin hitting his chest bone as he listened to his words. They stung, but not because they were spoken with venom or spite, but because they held that ring of truth. He knew the words she spoke were probably true. Yes, the kitten he had acquired helped to keep him warm at night in the Creche room for the older children, but he had no real friends. He kept himself too far apart. He refused to partake in their games and even more so refused to take part in their mischief.

When she spoke of his clothes and bruises, his hand went unconsciously to his wrist to tug back down the sleeve that she had seen a sliver of a bruise through. Even the mention of the larger felines had Tschermak shivering. He had seen one of those large felines, such a stark contrast to his ugly little Mismatch.

When she began to flood him with questions, as if daring him to prove her wrong, he bypassed them. She wasn’t wrong. She was not wrong in any of her statements. Even so, he still felt himself compelled to stay – after all a life outside of the Weyr… well the Weyr was everything he knew, he couldn’t even imagine what life outside would be like.

“I stay for the Dragons.” He finally answered, his chin still hung low. “I was allowed to see a hatching once. A few turns ago now, but not all of the little dragon’s impressed. There was a little blue dragon left alone on the sands, even though there were still more than enough candidates for him to choose from, he was all alone. When he could not find his rider, he went between and the dragon’s cried. The whole Weyr of dragon’s cried.”

Now his chin lifted higher as he brought his young eyes, full of sorrow and loneliness as they were, to meet the holdless woman’s face. It was clear that as lonely, hurt and hungry as he might be here his mind was already set in stone with a conviction that was rarely so strong even in adults.

“I will not let the dragon’s cry again just because I was not there to offer myself to the little dragons. If a dragon comes that wants me, I will not leave him standing alone on the sands like I stand alone here. When I am allowed to stand, I will. And I will continue to stand until I am no longer allowed – so that no more little dragons are left alone. I don’t want to be the reason the dragon’s cry.”

[Loner]

Amnixiel stood silent.

She reached out a hand, and touched his face, as if to remind herself of its shape and form. Her hand slid down, until it rested on his shoulder, and there it stayed. Finally, some part of her face moved, and one corner of her mouth quirked up in sympathetic smile.

"You are a noble creature."

But then the expression vanished, and she took her hand down. Rising from her knee, she smoothed the cloak she'd filched earlier, allowing it to settle over her loose pants like it ought. "But the denizens of this keep do not appreciate nobility, it would seem."

"I had a dragon once. One of the little ones. She was proud, and noble, like you. And she was brutally murdered because of that honor code. Do you know why, little one? She had no one to care for her, to protect her, when she needed it the most. I failed her, and she tore a hole the size of this mountain - and it is just as hollow - in my heart when she died."

Amnixiel cupped his face in both hands, then, making him look up at her. "You remind me of her. I see in you all the same qualities. And... the same fate, perhaps. The dragons will cry for you, little one, when you go between. I rather fear to think you may do so before your time. And if no one steps up to be your champion... your dragon will emerge from its little egg, and it will look for you among the children, and you won't be there, because someone took you too far away, to a place where no one can ever return."

"I can't bear to allow that again."

She pulled him in by his face, and when he was closer, she dropped her arms to his shoulders, and she hugged him, gently, tenderly, as a mother would.

"Fancy finding you here," Amnixiel whispered, to the empty hall behind him. In her eyes, the memory of golden wings spread and fluttered.