Black, blacker, blackest
Colder beyond frozen things.
Where is between when there is naught
To Life but fragile dragon wings?

.•.•.•.•.

It's quiet. I like it this way, it's times like these that I think the most efficiently. Timor is hiding behind a half-full Belior, giving a strangely dark effect to the sky. The stars rarely seem this bright, perfect for stargazing. I straighten my dress and close my gray eyes. My brother, my only friend calls them emotionless. What am I supposed to do about that, I asked him once. He told me to smile. Just smile. Today won't be that terrible. He told me to stop dwelling, that I had a better chance of Impressing than he ever would. Tell Narukilyth that.

What a silly idea. Me! Liera of Great Cliffs Weyr, Impressing a dragon? If it wasn't for Jierou, I would have gone insane a long while ago. I am lucky that the new Candidate's, once Weyrbrat, fire-lizard Clutched. I am honoured to have Impressed the little blue, he's a perfect companion when Tereke, no. T'ere. When T'ere has transferred to another Weyr, entirely for the purpose of Impression. How could he expect me to move again? I begin to wonder, how long did that little blue look at me that time at the Hatching? Did I reject him? Was that my fault that he went Between? Already, I feel the tears seep down my cheeks. The breeze blows accross harshly. Autumn is breaking into winter, and hours such as these are freezing. My face stings.

I open my eyes, and see that Belior has risen further. It's like my age. I keep getting older, but I refuse to change properly. My exterior might change, but overall, I am still the same person. Once it reaches its climax, I will have to find a craft, and forget this silly prayer to Impress a dragon. What craft might I go into? Stargazing? No, I would never be able to chart the stars. I would be trapped, forever, in this dark place of thought. I have found that if you have too much time to think, you can locate a strange, obsolete corner of your heart. Soul. Whatever you would like to call it. I suppose I would go into the Weavercraft. Its quiet, takes concentration, and if you don't, you'll prick your finger. That'll keep me from drifting off. I would rather not bleed. It hurts to bleed. Usually, anyways.

Maybe I can take up the Weaponscraft. I think that the WeaponsMaster might say I am too short, too frail. I must say, I agree. I have no physical form to ride a dragon, save my life, lift a bag of fire-stone. Tereke, no. T'ere says I'm strong enough, and I suppose I am. I have seen other riders, some who are only a hand or two taller than I, myself. They seem okay. The light of the moon is strangely bright, yet it does not cast any light around me. I cannot see my hand, though I'm lifting it up. It's cold. Very cold. I am sure that if I could see at all, I would see my breath. The dew on the grass is clinging to me, and feeling around where I am not laying, I can feel that it is frozen. At least, I could before my fingers numbed.

I open my eyes, but the cold and the salty tears obscure my vision. I don't really see the stars, I don't really think about beautiful blue dragonwings. I don't really believe that maybe I really did Impress that day, but my determination not to Impress was so desperate that I killed him... I didn't kill Tugith, I didn't. I cling desperately to the grass, I think, but I am not sure. Is this what a dying dragonet feels? I didn't really reject a dragon, perfect, beautiful, Tugith, mine.

Did I?

By the light of the Belior?

It's quiet.