He held things together. It was what he strove to do. Dess worked to keep a unity at the Demesne, to be a center of calm when tensions rose, to foster community, even family, as his part of ensuring not only the survival but the prosperity of the Meraki. But as Kelski stood in the sand pit before him, eyes averted, frustration evident, Dess felt like he had failed to hold together that which had come to be the most important thing, most important person, to him.
Dess's intention had been innocent, but so far off the mark. What ensued had pulled back a veil, it peeled off scabs and magnified differences. Dess had thought he knew Kelski, because he was part of her. He did know her, knew her past, knew what she was, at least he did in his head. His failure was that he didn't take it to heart. He thought he understood, but the Damazar was desperately wrong. And the result was to make her feel less, because she was not like him. That much was clearly evident through the echoes of the bond, if not through her demeanor.
Kelski wouldn't even look him in the eye. Dess wondered if she could hear the string of curses he mentally laid upon himself for hurting her. He had hurt her in a way more visceral than physical wounds, no less so than the string of wicked men in her past. Kelski took his hand, but with no affection, and Dess released it. It was not the time for affectionate touching.
He was a disciplined warrior, yes. But in the complexity of relationships, a neophyte. Dess knew Kelski enough to realize words would mean little at the moment. Everything he had said so far was either foreign or contrary to his bondmate. He could sense her urge for solitude, to be away from him. Dess wouldn't make her stay. Hopefully, later, they could work through what had happened.
"I shouldn't keep you. I'll be up shortly." Dess added, stepping back to allow her space to leave. Once Kelski left the practice grounds, Dess stalked out of the sand pit. He watched the figure of his bondmate en route to the manor and sighed.
He stood before Hector, the practice device he had erected earlier in the year. His breathing was steady, but his attempt to focus his mind and calm his spirit foundered. With a metallic singing sound, the iron razors sprung forth from his tightened fist, and in an explosive strike, he embedded them in the wooden chunk of Hector's torso. The blades sunk in the body and would not pull free. Only with the flow of djed into his arm and shoulder could Dess tug the weapons free. The blades silently retreated back into his forearm and he turned to return home.
Dess's intention had been innocent, but so far off the mark. What ensued had pulled back a veil, it peeled off scabs and magnified differences. Dess had thought he knew Kelski, because he was part of her. He did know her, knew her past, knew what she was, at least he did in his head. His failure was that he didn't take it to heart. He thought he understood, but the Damazar was desperately wrong. And the result was to make her feel less, because she was not like him. That much was clearly evident through the echoes of the bond, if not through her demeanor.
Kelski wouldn't even look him in the eye. Dess wondered if she could hear the string of curses he mentally laid upon himself for hurting her. He had hurt her in a way more visceral than physical wounds, no less so than the string of wicked men in her past. Kelski took his hand, but with no affection, and Dess released it. It was not the time for affectionate touching.
He was a disciplined warrior, yes. But in the complexity of relationships, a neophyte. Dess knew Kelski enough to realize words would mean little at the moment. Everything he had said so far was either foreign or contrary to his bondmate. He could sense her urge for solitude, to be away from him. Dess wouldn't make her stay. Hopefully, later, they could work through what had happened.
"I shouldn't keep you. I'll be up shortly." Dess added, stepping back to allow her space to leave. Once Kelski left the practice grounds, Dess stalked out of the sand pit. He watched the figure of his bondmate en route to the manor and sighed.
He stood before Hector, the practice device he had erected earlier in the year. His breathing was steady, but his attempt to focus his mind and calm his spirit foundered. With a metallic singing sound, the iron razors sprung forth from his tightened fist, and in an explosive strike, he embedded them in the wooden chunk of Hector's torso. The blades sunk in the body and would not pull free. Only with the flow of djed into his arm and shoulder could Dess tug the weapons free. The blades silently retreated back into his forearm and he turned to return home.
