Weyrling dragons were little different from the young of any other kind, really, Manora thought to herself as she walked the length of the barracks. Born in tremendous, exhausting excitement, for the first few weeks of their lives they'd want to do little more than eat, sleep and grow. Sleep was their priority now, and couch after couch held the colourful forms of tiny dragons, variously curled and sprawled upon their beds. She paused beside the second bronze of the clutch, young F'lessan's Golanth, and rolled her eyes. The lad was tucked in beside his dragon, fast asleep.
Exasperating boy! He was a good-hearted lad, but oh, did he take after his grandsire! She'd worried, when he hadn't appeared at the feast - that wasn't like the Felessan she knew - and had half expected to find out that he and his young bronze had already started turning the Weyr on its head. The Weyrlingmaster had laughed at her suggestion, more fool him. Manora shook her head, and moved on. One of her problems solved, and in the best of all possible ways. F'lessan could give someone else grey hairs, now.
Two thirds of the way through the cavern, an old tapestry had been hastily strung across one of the natural alcoves in the rock, partitioning two of the couches off from the rest. Manora sidled awkwardly past the unused bed that belonged with one of the concealed couches. It ought to have been removed to storage already, but the drudges had been in too much of a hurry to get back to the feast. They hadn't beaten the tapestry clean either, Manora realised, wrinkling her nose at the faint odour. Trying not to let the hanging fabric touch her clothes, Manora ducked through the small gap between the tapestry and the cavern wall.
Inside, a small green dragon lay on one of the couches, belly rounded by food, and gleaming faintly in the dim light of a single basket of aging glows. Almost unthinkably, a young woman was sat beside her: the green's new rider, Mirrim. Well, if anyone was going to upset centuries and centuries of Tradition, Mirrim was the one to do it. Once the girl had a good idea in her head, there was really no stopping her, however resistant the rest of the Weyr wanted to be about it. The other couch held a small, neat pile of clothing, a much larger basket of mending, a wooden bucket full of cleaning equipment and a heavy wicker beater. Manora didn't think the tapestry would remain dusty for very long, but she hoped Mirrim would have tact enough to warn the other weyrlings to clear their own clothes away before she started raising a dust cloud. That did rather depend on how they'd been treating her, mind... Manora set down her own bundle on the spare couch, and smiled warmly. "Hello, Mirrim. Your Path is beautiful, isn't she?"
Not many observers would have said the same of Mirrim herself right then: her dress was damp and stained with blood from Path's meal, and the oil that had brought out the colour of her dragon's hide had only worsened matters, giving her dark hair a lank and unwashed look. But the look of adoration in the girl's eyes was the best of Mirrim, through and through. Fierce and determined, Mirrim would give her heart for her new friend. In every way that mattered, she already had.
Mirrim looked up at Manora, and tried to return the smile. For a few seconds, she almost managed it, and then her face crumpled into helpless sobs. Manora was beside her in an instant. "Mirrim, girl, what's wrong?"
"I didn't mean to, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Mirrim mumbled into Manora's shoulder, almost incoherently, before the sobs took over once again.
It was a few minutes before they eased and, when they did, Mirrim's first act was to pull out of Manora's arms to check that Path was still sleeping soundly. She nodded to herself, reassured, and then started apologising again. Manora stopped her, firmly.
"Enough, Mirrim. Of course you didn't mean to! And as for that ridiculous idea that you might have interfered with the eggs... Why, you'd need a dragon of your own already - just to make enough spare time in your day to do it."
"Lessa asked me about that, too," Mirrim whispered, resting a hand lightly on Path's neck. "If I'd persuaded T'gellan or one of the other riders to take me between times." She looked up, her eyes blazing. "As if I'd ask T'gellan - or anyone! - to risk themselves like that! And even if I had, there are so many other far more important things that I could have done! I could have warned Felena about Temma's accident with the spices, or told G'leng where he'd left his belt knife before he accused P'liss of stealing it, or unblocked that drain before it flooded the laundry, or even sorted out that clothes chest that I've been promising you I'd do as soon as I had enough time to spare."
Her face softened into a look of confused appeal. "Whatever am I to do? I don't think I'll have time for half of what I'm needed for now! I suppose I could pass supervision of the kitchen cleaning to Dari, but who'll manage the rest of my section when I'm busy with Path?"
"I don't know, dear, but I'm sure I'll find someone."
Mirrim grunted in disbelief, and Manora could only agree with her sentiment. There were a few younger girls who showed promise, and one who might even be up to replacing Felena some day... but none of them had the makings of a decent Headwoman, not like Mirrim had. But done was done, and if she had to keep going another dozen Turns before finding a successor she was happy with, well, that was just what she'd have to do.
And what would Mirrim become, now? A dragonrider, by all accounts, if the Weyr allowed her to fulfil that side of her potential, and if Thread didn't steal her life from her too soon, as it did to too many men of the Weyr. Twenty-three, that was the average age of a rider of a fighting dragon these days. Twenty-three. And Mirrim, always on hand to help the healers with the worst of the injuries after Fall, Mirrim knew that just as well as she. How long would they have together, the girl and her green? Manora sighed, and pushed the unlucky thought aside. "Tell me about her, Mirrim. Tell me about your Path. I've always wondered what it was like."
Mirrim's face lit up as she recalled the moment of Impression. "Oh, Manora. She's... she's amazing. She loves me so. I don't know what she was thinking to choose me, but..."
Mirrim's words trailed off into a lingering silence as she looked adoringly down on her dragon, the one being who could understand her utterly. That was how F'nor had described it to Manora in the past, and she was certain that Mirrim would happen upon similar words eventually. For good or ill, Impression had been made. Mirrim was a dragonrider, now... and if Manora was any judge of the breed, there was no reason why she wouldn't be one of the best.