Disclaimer: Don't own it.
Katel was born to be last, but his seeming docility hides a fierce yearning to be remembered. Can he conquer the difficulties that come with riding Blue?
The sands were hot. They always were. From the shadows at the side of the hatching grounds, Katel could feel their merciless heat on his face, and he was reminded of other Hatchings, where the lucky candidates had walked from the arena with their lifemate, and he had retreated to disgrace and his uncle's wrath. Again, and again.
The faces of the anxious crowd were blank to him. He was only aware of the iron grip of his uncle's supposedly reassuring grip on his thin shoulder, and the thought that Joran would not tolerate another failure from his small nephew. It had taken many of Joran's contacts and much persuasion to let the fourteen-year-old onto the sands as a candidate once more, after failing so many times. Short, small and slender, Katel was a disappointment to his broad-shouldered guardian in more ways than one. His youthful features were smooth and finely sculpted, almost girlish. Like his mother.
Katel shoved the thought away furiously. Now was not the time to be thinking of her, not when he was supposed to be concentrating on the eggs. The dragons' presence became more pronounced as their humming rose in urgency, and Katel found himself shoved onto the hatching grounds with the others, his white robe still in the humid air. It gripped him in its sweaty folds as he stumbled nearer to the rocking clutch. Those who were first-time candidates shuffled nervously as Torith, her eyes blazing, whipped the sand around her into a frenzied whirlwind. Another protective dam, Katel thought wearily. Shards, was he in trouble.
But the queen stopped suddenly, as though checked by a command no one else could hear. The dark-haired boy rolled his eyes. Of course she had been. Yenna, her rider, was standing on the heights above her she-dragon, her face slightly blank as she soothed her.
And then, quite suddenly, the dragons' humming rose to such a pitch that he had to clench his teeth together to stop their rattling. He dragged his attention back to the now cracking eggs. He remembered, in a flash, who was waiting by the entrance to the hatching grounds, and what would happen if he didn't Impress – and Impress well.
"It has to be a bronze, boy." Joran's firm tone had brooked no argument. Any other colour would be… unthinkable. It would also be a Very Bad Thing. Joran's smile had been thin, and cold. "But I am sure that you will not fail me this time, Katel. It will not even be a brown. It will be bronze."
The words echoed in Katel's head as he watched a dragonet clumsily fall onto the sands, deeply hued with sunshine. His desperate plea went unheard as the bronze looked unseeingly past him to another, the hatchling's thin voice raised in a delighted creel as he headed straight for his new lifemate. Impression, Katel thought bitterly. His hands clenched, the nails biting deeply into his skin. A great crack rendered another egg formless as another small dragon screeched and wobbled towards the white-robed boys.
Please, his mind screamed. You must hear my voice. Look at me! And it seemed for a tantalising, brilliant moment that the miniature bronze had heard him, for it looked at him intently for a second. But it was only to pass the rainbow-whirling gaze onto a curly-haired lad much taller than him, and to tumble into arms far stronger than his own. He felt rather than heard the delight in the boy's voice as he announced his lifemate's name.
A gasp rippled around the watching crowd as the queen egg, shining pale gold on the hot sands, trembled in its place, and slowly, ever so slowly, began to crack. One moment the egg was solid, and the next, a tiny fury had emerged in a shower of eggshards, streaking towards the hapless girls who cowered in the sands.
Torith's daughter snarled ferociously as her clumsy claws caught in tender skin and a shriek of pain bloodied the air. The little queen tumbled in a tangle of claws and wings to land, quite unexpectedly, in the lap of a tall girl who had knelt to help her friend. The young woman stiffened momentarily, but that was gone in an instant as she suddenly cradled the ungainly head with her arms as though the queen was terribly delicate. As though she hadn't just savaged a girl.
Katel was numb. His body was already shutting down: his vision was distinctly blurred, though whether with tears or the sudden, odd exhaustion he couldn't know. To have been on the sands so many times, and not to Impress… He turned to leave, defeated once more.
And promptly fell over a dragon.
Well, it was a dragonet, really. But rather large, for what it was. It crooned at him anxiously, and he wondered vaguely why he could feel its distress. His distress. And then he knew. He bent down to look at the eyes, tinged a loving whorl of lilac and blue, and stretched out a small hand to stroke the muzzle extended to him, longing for contact – for his touch. He suddenly laughed, and Sorth butted him in the stomach, blinking at the silvery tears that were falling on his nose. His very blue nose.
Suddenly Katel's tears weren't of joy. Blue! He stumbled away, blinded by the salty rivulets running down his face, and he heard a terrified bleat behind him.
Don't leave me! The hatchling's words broke desperately as he scrabbled after his reluctant lifemate. Katel's rejection was incomprehensible to him. It made him want to burrow into the sand, or leap, shrieking, into the air, to seek the solace of between. The young boy was aghast as that possibility flashed into his dragon's mind. He staggered in turning around, his face an ashen shade of grey.
"NO!" He uttered the word with such force that the little dragon sprawled backwards onto his tailbone, shooting Katel a look of comical dismay, coloured with reproach. The young weyrling didn't realise that he had fallen to his knees again, finding that his cheeks were wet and his hands were trembling as he attempted to right his clumsy lifemate. Mine, he thought blissfully. He knew, with some instinct, that the only someone whose touch he dreaded losing was right here, trembling before him, his beautiful, beautiful blue hide glittering in the sunlight.
He chose then. And knew, with deadly certainty, even as Sorth's head thankfully found his chest and burrowed into it, that he would pay dearly.
He also knew, with equal conviction, that he didn't care.
Okay, this fic was rotting on my old account, so I took it down and reposted it here, with several details tweaked. I have a pretty clear outline for the story (my muse is being rather obliging at the moment), so don't fear that it will rot here! I'd love to read your comments on this, and see your opinions, so it would be great if you could take the time to jot down a few words. I've enabled anonymous reviews, so go have some fun!
PS: I will start calling the newly Impressed dragonrider by his new name in the next chapter… but I didn't feel that it would be appropriate until he properly accepted Sorth.