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Today at work, the ache of the uncompleted bond itched me from the time I came in until Figment left, and a little after even then. I tried to avoid the pull, and therefore probably spent less time overseeing the area that Figment was sitting in than I did the rest of the areas. Every now and then I'd go collapse in a chair over in the little haven of quiet around him and just de-stress as much as I could before getting up and running off to do something else. I'm not sure if it's that he doesn't notice the potential bond floating, waiting for us to let our guard down for it to connect (and it'll connect hard and fast and dirty and probably physically) or that he's too polite to mention it, because he can see that I'm fighting to appear as if I'm ignoring it.

If the mirror has started telling lies, they're very interesting ones, because it tells me that my hair's as long and glossy and curly as my pre-adolescent and adolescent self dreamed it should be, my eyes are as dark and alluring, my lips are as full and promising, and I've finally achieved that constant little smile that makes my mouth not frown all the time (as if we were brother and sister by blood instead of just soul, ralmathon and I have the same thing going on with our face).

In the shower after work, I brushed my hair free of the tangles of the day and bound it up, like my magic, lest it fly out and get things tangled and snarled beyond easy repair. I closed my eyes and ignored the swirling sigils of creation and destruction as I plaited the last few inches into safety. Perhaps one of them was my own death I saw, and my own rebirth.

I brushed my silver medallion with the last little bits of the strawberry toothpaste and my own toothbrush. Other jewelry, I brush with a scrub toothbrush. This, the living silver that's been threaded through and through with the bond energy, I brush with my own toothbrush, because it's as much a part of my body as a geek's primary computer is part of theirs, as a magician's tools are part of theirs, as a prosthetic limb becomes.

Once out of the shower, I bound the plait of heavy hair twice and squeezed the water gently from it. I lit the three-layer berry-scented candle that's come to represent my constant search to find the self that I must be true to, and the ongoing process of coming to recognize those truths and those uncovered soul-roots. I dug through my incense drawer, and the package on top was the Dragon's Blood. The scent of magic will carry me into my dreams, and I'll go to sleep with the medallion nestled snug against my throat (cord adjusted back to choker-length after the medallion had to hide at full extension of the cord because there were clients in at work) and the feel of my bondmate's shoulder warm and illusory against my left cheekbone, right where we fit best.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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