Move

Writers: Eimi, Yvonne
Date Posted: 1st April 2006

Characters: Firsa, Tomone
Description: Firsa moves into her new weyr... a weyr that might not be as empty as she'd hoped
Location: Dragonsfall Weyr
Date: month 10, day 24 of Turn 3
Notes: Follows 'Storied Spaces'

"I think that's it." Firsa deposited the box in her arms on the
sideboard, then turned to survey the pitifully small pile of boxes
and belongings that were clustered together near the cold fireplace.
A few rolled up blankets to go on the walls, a few knick-knacks, a
few books that she'd saved for on her Journeywoman's salary.
Surprisingly little. It made her feel... rootless. "Thanks so much
for the use of your back, Tomone."

"Well, it's not much, but it's at your disposal," the older Master
smiled as he set his box down next to her.

"Speaking of disposal..." The Stablemaster strode over to the closet
by the bed and yanked it open. It was empty, and she smiled.
"Thankfully, they cleared it out."

"There was something in there?" Tomone asked, peaking over her
shoulder.

"Clothes." Firsa shut the doors. "This weyr apparently belonged to
the drudge who went missing a little while ago." A small smile tugged
at the corners of her lips. "Morbid, aren't I."

Tomone nodded. "Ah, I heard about that. A brownrider killed her."

"That's not true," she said a little too quickly, then mentally
kicked herself for her slip. "K'far- I mean, the brownrider- there
wasn't enough evidence. Circumstantial gossip is all that is." **And
it's _not_ because he looks like Daremek. It's _not_.**

The master looked at her curiously. "You seem rather quick to defend
the brownrider. You know him personally?"

"He's been to the stables a few times, but I'm not defending him."
She moved over to where her things were stacked and began pulling
her boots out of a box to fling onto the mat the door. "He doesn't
need defending. The Weyrwoman's already made up her mind."

Tomone shrugged. "Well, the Weyrwoman might have, but the Weyr_folk_
are still trying to decide. What's the man like?"

"I haven't spoken with him much. He seems all right. Like a
dragonrider." At least he didn't _act_ like Daremek too. That might
have been too much to take.

He turned around and peered inside one of the boxes. "Hmmm.
Appearances can be deceiving. But I suppose so can rumors."

She caught him snooping, straightened, and brushed the dirt that
clung to her hands off onto her pants. "Thank you, Tomone, but I
think I can handle it from here. It's just putting stuff away. Can I
buy you a bottle of wine or something to say thanks?"

The Master let the flap of the box fall back guiltily. "How about
coming round to our place for dinner sometime. My wife would love to
see you."

"I'd love to. Maybe in a couple of days, once I'm settled in?"

"I'll let her know, then," he smiled as he leaned over to give her a
fond kiss on her cheek. "Good luck, my dear. I'm sure you'll be
feeling right at home in no time."

She smiled. "Thank you. And thanks for your help."

"Any time. But do me a favor. For an old man's peace of mind," he
smiled as he turned towards the door. "Stay away from brownriders."

The Stablemaster's lips twitched. "Get on with you!" Tomone grinned
and closed the door behind himself, and silence slowly settled over
the room. She sighed and turned back to the boxes.

It had been a long time since Firsa had moved, and she now acutely
remembered why she hadn't. It was a pain. Packing everything up in
crates and boxes, hauling it all over, unpacking it, putting the
boxes back into storage... she sighed and rolled up her sleeves. At
least her trunk had been carried full, and didn't need to be
unpacked.

Her books went onto the sideboard, and she tossed her blankets over a
chair to be hung on the walls later. She frowned when she saw that
the little vase of Nineba's was still on the mantle - that would have
to be gotten rid of. A little knotted rug went in front of the fire,
and a leather mask she'd made turns ago was propped up on the mantle
for lack of a better place to put it. With a sigh she eyed the crate
containing the clothes that had once lived in her closet, and eyed
the wardrobe and the closet by the bed. How much clothing had Nineba
needed to fill both of those!?

In the end, she decided on the closet, thinking that maybe she could
get rid of the wardrobe and put in... something else. But she didn't
bother unpacking her clothing - it seemed too daunting. And she had
so little, she didn't relish seeing it pathetically trying to fill a
space too large for it. Shards and shells, that was her in the entire
_weyr_.... **What did I get myself into?**

The silence settled around Firsa's shoulders like a thick, woolen
blanket, and she debated lighting the fire just so that there would
be something to fill it. The space seemed too large and too empty for
her alone, and she suddenly decided that moving in here was a bad
idea. **Maybe they'll let me move back,** she thought, picking up a
book and setting it down again, **And maybe I don't want to let go of
Daremek just yet.** Being alone was scary.

She sighed and looked back at the boxes. There was a desk in the
corner; maybe she could fill that with her leatherworking supplies,
stationary, and assorted Beastcrafting tools and odds and ends to
pass the time. She picked up the crate and carried it over - it was
light, half-empty - and pulled open the top drawer.

It stuck. "Shards," Firsa muttered, and gave it another yank. The
desk shook but the drawer didn't open more than an inch. She knelt
and peered inside but saw nothing but the dark. "Figures." Pushing
the drawer closed it easily, but it wouldn't open more than a finger
width. There was something jamming it shut.

Wishing that she had a child with small hands to do it for her, she
stuck her fingers into the crack. The edges of the drawer scraped
painfully along her knuckles as she felt around. It felt like there
was some paper in there, and maybe a few pens.... and a book. One of
the pens was jammed upright, and she was able to pull it down. When
she removed it the drawer ran smoothly, and she pulled it open. A few
slips of hide and scraps of paper, a wilted flower, a napkin, the
pencils... and a book. Curiosity piqued, Firsa picked it up and ran
her hand over the smooth leather cover, then opened it to the first
page. There was an inscription.

'To my dearest Nineba,' it read, 'on the occasion of our marriage.
Your loving husband forever, Maparlin.'

It was a diary.

Last updated on the April 9th 2006

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