Get The Guards

Half Moon Bay Weyr - Records Room
A large, natural cavern that is well lit for ease of reading. Tall shelves, holding everything from old-time hides to newer printed books, cover every inch of the cavern's walls. A few round, wooden tables offer work stations, while small, uncomfortable wooden chairs give readers and refugee's a place to sit. At any given time there is at least one resident working the shelves, replacing lost books or tidying up after messy study sessions.

There are small, uncomfortable chairs here in the records room. The somewhat diminuative form of Taeski isn't exactly dwarfed by them, but at least he has room to move around. He's found one to perch in though, and a book is settled in his lap that he doesn't seem particularly interested in reading. His hands instead are kept busy with the spindly brown firelizard settled atop the hardcover, roaming over ridges and letting the little thing burrow against him. Exhausted though the teen might look, there's a softness in his expression for the little creature, soaking up the adoration it seems to bring with it. He's quiet, though, save for the few soft noises from the firelizard and the light squeak of the chair underneath him. There is nothing to say.

Maybe it was a firelizard sent ahead, maybe it was a poor, studious harper, but whatever came for Ila'den has Ila'den coming through the door of the records room sans any of his usual smiles. The resident working the rows is given one look from the former Weyrleader and knows, abandoning their task to depart with haste and leave Ila'den alone with Taeski in the relative quiet of an abandoned room. The doors close behind him with a soft sound, and Ila'den moves forward with slow, feral grace, turns of practiced movements hindered by a hint of a limp in his gait. "Why do I have a feeling I'm not going to like what I'm about to hear?" comes that husky burr, accent thick in agitation as he leans forward to clasp the back of the chair opposite Tae in calloused hands. "Why are you here, Taeski?"

Silence. It's obvious when Ila'den enters, and Taeski's fingers still from where they have been petting that firelizard. It takes him a while, halting that petting motion when the tips of his digits begin to shake, and instead drops his hands to grip at the book in his lap. The brown quickly scrambles away and out of the chair entirely, skittering across the table before taking to the air. "You were right, you know." Why wouldn't Ila'den /like/ hearing that? That he had been right /all along/? The teen lifts red-rimmed eyes though to look at Ila'den, a brief moment of managing to hold the bronzerider's gaze before they slide away again. The defiant hostility was gone for now. Fear is there instead, with a voice thick on choked back emotion. "There's something wrong with me. I didn't want there to be, and I thought-I really did, that I'd be okay." As much as Ila'den might not /care/ about his nephew's emotional state, the teen can't really help himself. If he doesn't /get/ it out, then he might not be able to, later. "I hurt J'en. I didn't..intend.. He's alright. He is. But I..did that. And I can't.." Taeski clamps down finally. There's a hard breath taken, trying desperately /not/ to fall to tears in front of /this/ man. This one in particular. "Do whatever you want."

Taeski should have started with the condition of J'en first, and not that Ila'den was right, because if the older, former renegade is at all pleased to hear the admittance coming from his nephew's lips, it doesn't show. But there they are. Five simple, unassuming words that have the opposite effect desired: muscles coil and stand out in a physical display of the restraint it takes Ila'den to be still, much like a muscle ticks in the sudden set of the bronzerider's jaw every time his teeth clench, and those stormy grey eyes have damn near gone feral. He wanted to be wrong. He needed to be wrong. And despite the basics of human nature dictating there is power to be found in veridical absolution, one thing is clear: Ila'den doesn't have it in him, and in this, Ila'den takes no pleasure. How could he? Who, in this, gains anything? But Ila'den is a patient man; he remains silent as he listens, red-rimmed eyes holding red-rimmed eyes until Taeski's reached the end, and then they hold a little longer. "You," he rasps, and the pain in Ila'den's voice is something that the impossibly untouchable man, for once, either cannot, or will not hide, "are going to make me break your mother's heart." The accusation comes, and clarity is lent: Ila'den's ache, Ila'den's sympathy is for Kiltara. Only Kiltara. It's the knowledge that doing the right thing means becoming a monster to the little girl whose nightmares you spent a lifetime chasing away - and knowing you're going to do it anyway. It's why the next word Ila'den breathes is harsh in exertion, thick with emotion, forced from his throat despite its best efforts to close. "Again." And hasn't he done that enough to last him another lifetime? But there's no lectures to be gained from this man, no gloating villain to further along Taeski's self-pity, or praise for him doing what was right; Ila'den simply leaves Taeski the quiet of the Records Room with his firelizard for company, stopping at the door long enough to breathe, "Get the guards," for somebody hiding in anonymity, and remaining only long enough to ensure the guards arrive.

There is a brief fear. A quiet terror that Ila'den /will/ made good on prior threats to end the teenager's life. But it doesn't come, and in fact the bronzerider says very little. The fact that his mother is brought up earns a bit of a flinch from him though. After all, he'd already /gone/ to her about the incident. It's not like she doesn't already know what was bound to happen in the end. Carefully, he removes the book from his lap, setting it down on the nearby table. It's /that/ he looks at, not at all raising his eyes again for the soft answer he supplies. "I did this, not you." And after all, Ila'den had warned them all along. He stays in his chair to wait though when that call to the guards comes. Where else would he go?

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