To Leave it like This

Writers: Iluva, Sia
Date Posted: 20th May 2026

Characters: I'thralos, Shassene
Description: Congratulations are in order?
Location: Dolphin Cove Weyr
Date: month 10, day 15 of Turn 12
Notes: Mentioned: N’vanik, Z’kim, Aleriand, Vianne,

I'thralos

Shassene

The hatching feast was in full swing, and I'thralos was exhausted.

Vorlogoth had taken forever to finally wind down enough to sleep, and he'd protested every step of the way in a manner similar to a toddler refusing a nap. Of which, Ithianne now did, rubbing her eyes like it might force them to stay open and angrily protesting when anyone dared suggest to go back home and rest. She didn't want to go very far, either, though currently she was angrily not-sleeping in the arms of her foster-grandmother.

His family did their best to keep him surrounded, entertained, and well-fed, offering condolences and congratulations in equal measure. All varieties of parents and siblings and cousins and people he recognized more as friends than whatever tenuous familial connection they might have claimed. He was glad that Vorlogoth had been a surprise to nearly everyone else, though the excitement of a Stands Impression (and a bronze one, at that) overshadowed the tragedy of his education and his quiet family life slipping through his fingers.

By that point, Hallsecond Shassene's approach was more than welcome. He'd worked with the journeymen and Master Aleriand much more than the artist, but she had been a fascinating teacher and her commissions challenging.

"Hallsecond." He said formally at first, the tiredness in his voice leeching what should have been humour from his tone. "I guess the Weyr is going to be requesting another Journeyman."

Tapping a foot in time with the jaunty tune the harpers were playing across the crowded dance floor, Shassene reflected that it had been a day of celebration and surprise. Many surprises. The Weyrleader's inordinately steamy display with a male greenrider was still stirring all kinds of talk-- and not all of it very kind.

Shassene, however, was softly aglow from the wine and excitement. Her expression held the rapt interest of a woman whose only regret was leaving her sketchbook behind at the Printer Hall-- a jarring contrast to the many hall and holdfolk around her who'd been forced to bear witness.

Etyrion was tired of the drama and the dancing by now, and had wandered off with Balrudex to get some air. The Hallsecond glided unhurriedly to refill her wine glass and was just eyeing a handsome bluerider as her next potential dance partner when she spotted the young bronzerider.

“Ilthralos,” she smiled up at him, eyes soft and shining. He looked completely wrung out, even for a new weyrling-- but her expression did not change even as thoughts of his family and his young wife here resurfaced.

“Someone without your initiative and same journalistic instincts, I expect," she lamented lightly. The young journeyman had been a favourite pupil of hers-- nevermind that she felt that way about most, if not all, of her apprentices. “How are you doing, dear?”

I'thralos let out a breath that might have been a laugh on a better-rested day, one hand dragging briefly over his face before he managed something closer to a proper smile. "Someone older too, imagine. Master Aleriand looked furious." Guilt for that washed over him too. He'd requested the Weyr-posting and the Hallmaster had been, or what had seemed at the time, to be unreasonably irritated by.

"I'm still standing," He added tiredly, his gaze flicked, instinctively, toward where his family was nearby, toward the small, stubbornly wakeful shape of Ithianne in her grandmother’s arms, before returning to Shassene. "It's a lot. It hasn't properly settled yet. I keep thinking about all the deadlines I'm going to miss, how messy my desk is, if anyone is going to be able to read my notes well enough to write my pieces--" He trailed off. Would anyone even bother to try to take on his workload right away? Articles could be scrapped. The journal could go out bare-bones. All that work he poured into it, gone.

“It is a lot. I can see how hard this is for you.” Shassene offered gently. “You're a wonderful writer, and Master Aleriand cares about your work and your contributions almost as much as you do. The Weyr's a busy place and dragons do have a way of taking our plans and scorching them.” She and the Hallmaster had only been sitting a few rows away in the Stands, and that small, sweet, sobbing girl with the huge set of pipes wasn't something she'd forget in a hurry either. Poor little darling. It was for the best that Aleriand had disappeared when he had, understandably irate and likely in need of something stronger than wine by this point.

“But he is a resourceful man, and as long as there are stories to be told, we'll need people to tell them. You have so much to think about now. I don't want to add any more. But perhaps, when your training has settled down, you'll find your way back to it. If that's something you want.”

I'thralos' mouth tightened faintly, something conflicted flickering through the exhaustion as he listened. For a moment, he didn't answer-- just watched the crowd, the movement and noise and all of it feeling oddly distant. "I don't know if it'll be up to me," he admitted at last, "It doesn't feel like anything is. If Vorlogoth was a green or blue, maybe, but a bronze…?" Even a young bronze fledgeling would be held to a higher standard. There weren't many that kept up their craftwork beyond a passing hobby.

"All that work. It mattered. It still matters. It feels like such a waste to leave it like this."

Shassene took his hand in hers and gave a very light squeeze. “It does matter.” She agreed. If she could no longer put what she saw in the world or in her mind onto a page when she felt like it, she would be devastated. It was passion as much as purpose. “A bronze is a lot in every way. That’s a lot to take in, even when you’re Standing and expecting it.” His regret was palpable, his future at once uncertain and bound. Glancing in the direction of his relatives, she asked curiously, “Your family’s here with you?”

I'thralos followed her glance automatically. "Almost all of them. Both types of parents and siblings. Cousins coming out of the stonework." The ones closest to him had come to express surprise and condolences while others had come to get in on the gossip or for the chance to get eyes on the newest dragonrider of the family without much interest in his own feelings on the matter. His mother, a greenrider, was one of those people, more proud at his Impression than she'd been when he'd walked the tables.

And Ithianne-- still stubborn and even more overtired-- was still fighting sleep with furious determination against her foster-grandmother's shoulder. The sight tugged painfully at something in his chest. Vianne was still nowhere to be found, but the candidates left behind often came late. "They're trying," he admitted quietly. "I think everyone's trying very hard to make this feel like a good thing." His gaze dropped briefly to the wine in Shassene’s glass before lifting again, tired and uncertain. "Maybe it will be. I just…" He exhaled slowly. "I had a shape for my life before today. Even if it wasn't perfect, I knew where I was going. I liked it. My writing was making it into news across the Weyrs. Now it's going to be relegated to a hobby."

"I'm sorry for what today has cost you, Ilthralos. And your family." She didn't add anything more to it. No ‘but’, no reassurance about what lay ahead. She wasn't sure she had any to offer that would be worth the offering. What she did know was that he was still here, still upright, still managing the impossible crowd of well-meaning people. That, at least, was something.

Shassene’s smile, when it came, was small and entirely honest. "You don't have to find the words for any of it yet."

I'thralos shrugged. He'd always had the words before. Words were his specialty. It was unreal. Cruel. Vorlogoth stirred when he focused too long on the exhaustion and confusion and grief, the bronze drowsy, immense, and still too pleased with himself that it made I'thralos nauseous.

The bronze's mind pressed against his with unquestioning certainty, and with the heavy sincerity of impending sleep, }: I would not have chosen someone unimportant.:{

The words struck harder than anticipated. Hard enough that he had to look away for a moment, throat tightening and eyes burning. "Thank you." He said at last, meaning more than the conversation itself. For not trying to convince him he should be grateful. For not pretending the loss wasn’t real. "I appreciate it. I think, for now, I'm going to try and put my daughter to bed. That can distract me for a while."

Shassene was not privy to the details of the young journeyman's thoughts of course, to any side of dragonlife other than the few Turns that saw the Printer Hall stationed here in Dolphin Cove, and there was not an ounce of dragonrider blood in her family to speak of. It did not take a dragonbond to see the pain he was trying to hold, even if one had caused it. She took his hand in hers again and squeezed it firmly. “That's a lovely idea.”

“And if there is anything I can do, don’t hesitate.”

Perhaps, if nothing else, she would check in with the other printers in the coming days to determine which of Ilthralos’ outstanding projects could be tied up or even released in their current forms and what might inevitably need shelving for the time being.

Shassene bid him one last smile. Her eyes lingered. She couldn't wish him luck. Many young men dreamed of being in his position. Chosen. Yet seeing him dragged into a new life, not kicking and screaming, but with an agonizing amount of composure, took all the celebratory flair out of her blood. Turning back toward the dance floor, she sipped her wine, mostly tasting its bitter undertone. She set it down on the nearest table and, with a soft sigh, she made for the exit.

Last updated on the June 8th 2026

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To Leave it like This