Work Text:
Those Who Are About to Depart
a Pern ficlett
by BlackRose
Dusk had become evening, the shadows slipping longer across his writing table until, at last, Robinton had risen to fetch a glow. It wobbled precariously on a stack of slates, its light falling warm across the sandtable as he twirled the scribe stick between his fingers and stared, humphing softly to himself, at the jumble of marks upon the sand.
The quiet knock at his door distracted him briefly. Unthinking, he called out "Come in!", looking up only belatedly as the door eased open.
Straightening, Robinton grinned, pushing his chair away from the table. "Come in," he urged again, when the intruder hesitated at the door.
The younger man, still lanky with the suddenness of boyhood, nodded a bit stiffly, turning to nudge the door shut with one shoulder before stepping forward within arms reach of the table. Once there he seemed at something of a loss, his eyes darting around the room, hands twisting aimlessly.
Seeing it, Robinton frowned, brows drawing down in concern. "Is something wrong?"
"Master," the younger man said at the same moment, voice breathless.
A slow grin broke across the Masterharper's face. He shook his head, gesturing the younger man to a chair. "I'm not your Master any more," he drawled gently, humor twinkling in his eyes, "Journeyman."
The younger man swallowed, throat working. The light of the glow was too dim to pick forth details but he kept his head down, eyes averted. "You'll always be my Master, sir," he said hoarsely. His chin came up reluctantly, eyes daring to flicker towards the older man, then away again. "And you're still the Masterharper. Master."
Robinton chuckled softly. "Point conceded," he admit. Gesturing again to the chair, he flicked lean fingers at the younger man. "Sit!" he commanded, a command which was followed with bone jarring swiftness as the youth dropped automatically into the seat.
"Now," Robinton continued, resting one elbow against the edge of his writing table, chin propped against his hand, "what brings you here? Shouldn't you be off drinking congratulation toasts with your fellows? Crawling off to the oblivion of sleep in the wee of the morning, only to have to rise at an obscene hour with pounding head and heavy pack to make your way to your new assignment?" Abruptly, he slammed his fist down upon the surface of the table, making sand and slates and glow alike jump. "Shards take it, there's tradition to be upheld young man!" he boomed in a more then passable imitation of the nearby Fort Hold's Lord Holder.
The younger man, who jumped just as high as the contents of the table at the initial crash, paused and then almost reluctantly smiled. The gesture broke through his tension, relaxing the brittle line of his shoulders into a more habitual slight slump. "When you've got me going to Telgar Hold at the break of dawn?" he asked, a hint of humorous acid touching his voice. "I'd be a fool to drink like some of them are doing."
Like quicksilver the humor vanished from Robinton's face, sobriety replacing it. "I am sorry about that..."
Spreading his hands, the younger man quickly shook his head. "It's not your fault, Master."
"Telgar was very... insistent."
A grin touched the younger man's lips. "I'm sure he was. I don't mind, sir, truly. It's just very sudden."
"Well, then." Straightening abruptly, Robinton leaned back in his chair, making a long armed reach for something on the floor. He came up with a wineskin in hand, one which sloshed reassuringly as he tilted it experimentally. "There," he exclaimed, satisfied. "Adragonback at the break of dawn or no, there *are* traditions, and we can't just toss them aside. Think what Groghe would say." Fishing about on the cluttered surface of the table, he produced two cups, deftly pouring the deep red wine into both before extending one to the younger man. "A toast, to a job well done."
The younger man hesitated, glancing from the cup to Robinton and back again. "I've... already had a few," he hedged.
"Then have one more, with me," the Masterharper urged. When the younger man still hesitated his tone turned wheedling. "I haven't had a chance to congratulate you properly, yet. Would you deny me that...?"
"Of course not," the younger man replied at once, scandalized.
"...And we can't have you becoming the only Journeyman in history to leave for a new assignment with a clear head," Robinton finished as the younger man took the cup from him, eyes twinkling.
The younger man paused, then shook his head ruefully. "Master Robinton," he sighed. Raising the cup, he inclined his head to the older man. "To the man who taught me," he offered.
"To the singular joys of a good student," Robinton deferred. There was silence for a moment as they drank but the younger man put his cup aside first, the wine barely touched.
"Master..." he paused but Robinton waited, patient, and in the next breath the younger man shook his head. "It's hard," he admitted quietly, looking away. "Harder then I thought it would be."
Placing his cup down amidst the clutter, the Masterharper leaned forward, fingertips just brushing the other man's wrist. "The first step is always the hardest," he said quietly, sympathy in his voice. "But the Hall will always be here, and it will always be your home."
There was a moment, no longer then a heartbeat, unbroken by breath. "Not leaving the hall," the younger man corrected, eyes fixed firmly to the floor. "Leaving you."
"Ah." Startled, it was all that Robinton could think to say. The younger man rushed on, voice tight with his anxiety.
"I don't want you to think me ungrateful," he said hastily. His hand, almost unbidden, reached out to catch at Robinton's. Callous tipped fingers, the lines of them worn lean and corded with use, slipped daringly between their matching older counterparts. "I know you're sending me where I can do some good, and I *know* I can justify that confidence in me. But..." his voice unforgivingly broke, forcing him to swallow rapidly. "I don't... want to leave you."
Robinton gently squeezed the fingers caught between his own. "You know you are as dear to me as a son," he began gently.
"Don't!" The word leapt out between them, suddenly desperate in its intensity. The younger man reached out, shaking fingertips all but touching the Masterharper's lips. "Please don't," he begged softly.
Caught by surprise, Robinton fell silent. Into that silence fell the words of his former apprentice, breathless and hushed. "I'll go. I know my duty. Shards, I swear I'll make you proud of me. But I couldn't... I needed to..." Words failed at last, action alone sufficing to convey meaning. In the moment as the younger man leaned forward Robinton inhaled sharply; caught the strong scent of wine, not his private reserve, and the sharpness of nervous fear.
Soft lips closed across his. It was a fumbling kiss, a jumble of mouth and tongue tip and the bump of noses. Robinton closed his eyes, tasted wine and the spices of the evening meal, breathed in a scent distinctly unique.
In another heartbeat it was ended, his lips cold in their resumed solitude. "Master." The whisper brushed his cheeks, almost a sob, and then the hand he held was twisted away from his, the chair clattering back across the floor as the door was slammed open, the footsteps fading. He opened his eyes before the door had swung shut once more, but he was already alone.
Almost hesitantly Robinton reached up, fingertips ghosting across his lips. One hand partially stretched out, as though it might, even now, call back the moment already passed.
"Sebell," he whispered.
end