What happens when the polite excuses wear thin?
"You bet I'll leave. And I don't care if you have to climb down from this weyr, Menolly. Indeed I don't!"
The heavy, flouncing stomp to her stride served Mirrim all the way out of the the queen's weyr and into the echoing stone corridor, where they could not longer see her. Only then did her shoulders slump and her feet begin to drag as her brain absorbed the repercussions of her words. She didn't care how Lord Jaxom of Ruatha stared after her, if he was of a mind to after she all but blatantly insulted his Ruth. He could stare all he liked, it was no score on her skin. It was the subtle look of shock and hurt that had momentarily colored Menolly's Harper-trained features that bit her deepest. Not even bothering to suppress the flush of confused fury that colored her own face and made her motions rough and abrupt as she approached Path, whose green hide shone slightly in the dim of the corridor, Mirrim seized the fighting straps and hauled herself a-dragonback. She turned her face away as the green's head swung round to peer at her rider in some concern.
What is wrong? she queried, surprised and affronted by her partner's behavior and the utter, roiling turmoil of her mind.
Nothing. Mirrim half snapped, crossing her arms tightly—instinctively, protectively—across her chest, as she bid Path take them down. She didn't really expect Menolly to come after her, so she couldn't really admit how bitterly disappointed she was when the Harper journeywoman did not come to the ledge in an of course futile attempt to wave her back and reconcile the edgy discomfiture between them. She leaped to the ground almost before Path's forelegs touched down, startling both beast and herself, stumbling as her knees gave. She bloodied her palms on the gravel and wasn't at all surprised when hot tears started to her eyes. She let them sting there a while before forcing them back, because even if she couldn't shed them, this at least helped, a little.
What is wrong with you? What is the matter? Path insisted, catching at her rider with her forepaws and blowing into her face as she dragged her close. I am what bothers you? The sudden anguish in her dragon's mental tone sent true tears to Mirrim's eyes. She threw her arms around her green's neck as far as they would go.
"No, love, never, ever. It's myself that's bothering me. Not you. Never you." She reaffirmed the vow with heavy mental pressures, to make Path believe, because she wasn't sure she did, herself.
You are what is bothering you? Path cocked her head. I am confused.
"So am I," Mirrim admitted quietly, climbing over Path's encircling legs. "I'm sorry." She brushed a hand on the silky hide, leaving streaks of blood. "Shells," she cursed and began to pick the dirt out of the abraded skin, her shoulders stiff to keep from flinching.
It will be all right, soon, the dragon crooned. You'll see. We'll both feel better, when I fly.
Mirrim's shoulders began to shake in earnest, then, and she had to hide her face in her cupped hands. Path squawked her alarm, rising back momentarily on her haunches, her whirling eyes bespeaking utter confusion. She curled around the quaking form of her rider as Mirrim sat on the grass of the feeding ground. No one was around to see her, but she still curled in around herself, to hide, to become as small as possible, though no one was around to see.
It wasn't just that, even though it was. Terror of the imminent event paralyzed her, and every time she saw the increasing luminescence of her green's glowing hide, the new surge of fear rose up in her made her sick, froze her thoughts and struck her dumb. The sense of foreboding was with her always, even in sleep, because Path was there, too.
Menolly's words stung. "If Path doesn't rise soon, you won't be on terms with anyone." It wasn't only that. Mirrim thought she'd be glad when her dragon rose at last, too, just to give her a respite from the confusion and not knowing whose feelings were whose, and lashing out not knowing why, and crying, always crying. She'd set Menolly against her, too, swelling the ranks of her aggressors. But it wasn't all Path's fault, either, and that bitter truth made her burn with shame. She'd suffered under the rain of taunts from the other weyrlings, the not-so-snide comments some of the older riders made, the cold look the weyrling master afforded her for whatever wrong thing she'd done. The only wrong she'd ever done was being born a girl, being the only person in the hatching ground Path wanted for her rider. It wasn't as easy as they made out, this dragonriding business. Mirrim fingered a thin scar on the back of her hand, sliver tissue where the skin had been seared away during her first Fall, and let her head thump back against Path's thickly-muscled side.
I am sorry you are frightened. I don't know why, but you are mine, and I will never let them hurt you.
It is their words that hurt me, Path. You can't stop them hurting me. Mirrim buried her face between her knees, unable to shield her disquiet from her dragon, further ashamed because she's stirred Path up, worse because now she was confused and felt at fault for things out of either of their control. It hurt so, with F'lessan and all the others constantly prodding her, and before, everyone else snubbing her. Brekke understood, acutely, but Mirrim couldn't talk to her foster mother anymore. She couldn't have explained, couldn't make her see why it hurt her so badly, why the things that bothered her should matter. She hadn't been able to speak to T'gellan, not in weeks. Every time she tried it had come to raised voices, and she couldn't bring herself to apologize. Nobody knew or cared how hard it was to be the only female in a fighting wing, to constantly endure the taunts and the criticisms. Nobody but Menolly, and now, she'd driven her away, too. Mirrim's shoulders heaved with the sobs she couldn't control, making Path chirp her consternation, swinging her head from side to side, warning of the bulk off the big bronze who'd come close. Mirrim didn't look up to see whose he was.
Come up into the sky with me, Path cajoled. Come away from all of this, that makes you cry. I don't like to see you crying. I will take you away from here. Nodding, Mirrim pulled herself clumsily up the fighting straps, the tears on her face cut ice-cold into her skin as Path vaulted from the ground and flung them into the sky. They climbed higher and high, until clouds obscured Benden Weyr and the air was thin. Path carried them on the currents of the air, her strong wings spread wide to balance them, widening the link between rider and dragon until Mirrim was not sure whose wings beat the air and whose lungs strove for oxygen in the thin air. Soaring high above the cares of the world below, Mirrim cried herself out.