Exams are over, hallelujah! But summer training starts soon, so please don't be upset when I don't update weekly as per usual...Anyway, this chapter was probably the most fun to write EVER (you'll find out why...bwahaha...)! Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, keep em coming--if you have a bone to pick, think something should be done differently, click that lil button and tell me so! I can take it, I'm a tough writer. : ) Anyway, enjoy!
Arwen, out!!
Arryn grabbed another sack of firestone, wincing as the sore muscles in her arms protested. She gave Maventh a mental nod—they had been at this for hours, and neither of them needed verbal commands anymore. Arryn wasn't sure whether her back ached from hoisting sacks of firestone or from flying, the line between their consciousnesses had blurred so greatly. They were in constant demand—the Fall was going badly. She knew that much, from the amount of dragons that had winked between to the Weyrbowl, where those taking a break from ferrying firestone (a small number, for this Fall) waited to assist Threadscored riders and exhausted dragons.
Amazing, thought Arryn as she deftly tossed the sack to a brown-rider. The extra numbers provided by the newly graduated weyrlings—about twenty in all were flying—barely covered the loss of M'ran, simply due to his experience and the fact that communication between wings was now very disjointed. Narenth and the queen's wing seemed distracted as well, and more than once a blue or green had broken their low sweep to flame a patch of Thread that posed a threat to the great golden dragon and her bevy of smaller dragons.
Even flying in the Queen's Wing would be better than this, thought Arryn bitterly as she and Maventh glided to the ground, only to be summoned again by a rather frantic-sounding green. Let's between this one, suggested Arryn. That way we can get up to cover level without having to weave in and out of everyone. Maventh agreed silently, resting for a brief moment while a rider whose dragon was injured and therefore grounded handed Arryn a full sack. Maventh lunged upward, her wing-strokes abrupt and jerky compared to her normal smooth rhythm. They were both tired. It was a pattern—wink between, cold, cold, cold, wink into existence again, check for Thread and dragons in the way, toss the sack, wink out again, cold, cold, cold, wait for another call.
"Arryn!"
She turned to face R'sen, a fellow green-rider, who was looking at her concernedly.
"Do you want to take a break?" he asked her. "Rilith and I can cover ferrying for a little while."
Arryn half-smiled. Even in her weary state, she recognized the fact that the smaller greens were more exhausted than she or Maventh could understand. After all, Maventh was the size of a small brown or a large blue, depending on which way you looked at it, and there was no excuse for them not to do the work of one, even if Maventh was finer-boned and lighter than most dragons her size—that was only to be expected, she supposed. "No, it's all right, R'sen," she managed to croak out after a moment of swallowing to wet her throat. But she accepted the water-skin R'sen offered gratefully, and shoved a piece of sweetbread into a pocket of her vest for later.
You all right, love? she asked Maventh as she took a final swallow of the tepid water and handed the skin back to R'sen.
Of course, Maventh replied, swinging her head about to nudge at Arryn affectionately. Why would I not be?
We've been ferrying for a long time. I know you must be tired. In response, Arryn felt Maventh give the mental equivalent of a nonchalant shrug.
We do what needs to be done, she said simply. Baerth has bespoken me. They need more stone.
Well, then, what are we standing here gabbing about for? grinned Arryn as she swung herself back up between Maventh's neck-ridges.
Maventh wheeled between two browns as they drew near to Baerth's position. The blue dragon looked tired, a grey tinge dulling his hide. Lira caught the sack of firestone with a wince, her face smudged with soot. Maventh drew near enough that Arryn could see the cut bleeding sluggishly across Lira's cheek, and the slight Threadscore across Baerth's flank. She glanced about, checking for incoming pockets of Thread; they were in the clear for a moment.
Baerth, she called. Tell Lira that she should really get that cut taken care of, please. The blue dragon wearily acquiesced, his reply short to the point of being sharp. Lira glanced at her and shook her head, pressing her lips together stubbornly. Arryn sighed; her weyrmate seemed to have become more stubborn as the hours progressed. Baerth was a steady flier, yes, but it was their first Fall, after all, and Arryn was surprised that her Wingleader, I'tar, or Wingsecond, A'vin, hadn't told the new riders to rest yet.
Incoming, said Maventh calmly, sighting an ovoid of Thread heading in their general direction. Arryn visualized the firestone station on the rim of the Weyrbowl, and they blinked out just as Baerth drew back his head to flame. She couldn't help the spike of jealousy that twinged in her stomach at the sight of Lira and her dragon flaming Thread.
We will be up there soon enough, Maventh said, banking to land with a bit of a jolt on the ground.
I know, I know, Arryn replied, stretching her shoulders and rolling her head to work out the tightness in her neck. Patience isn't exactly one of my virtues, love.
Maventh rumbled in agreement and amusement.
Finally, after what seemed like ages, the Fall ended, and the greens who had been resting were sent out to run low cover-sweeps, skimming the treetops as they searched for active pockets of Thread on the ground that had been missed by the ground patrols with their flamethrowers. The grubs protected the roots of the trees, yes, but damage could still be done to other parts of the land. Arryn helped clean up the firestone, until she was shooed away and told to get some rest. She pulled herself up onto Maventh's back one more time and the green dragon gamely leapt into the air, gliding toward their weyr and some welcome respite.
When they landed, Arryn all but fell off Maventh. "Having half the amount ferrying firestone and twenty more dragons to ferry for is definitely not my idea of efficient management," she muttered as she worked at the buckles of her riding gear. Maventh rumbled in appreciation as her rider slid the gear off, flexing her wings freely. Arryn dumped the gear into a corner and asked Maventh, Do you need me to oil you, love? No response. She frowned and turned around. Maventh?
Her dragon was already fast asleep on the ledge, her green hide glowing in the dying light of the afternoon sun. Arryn merely stood and gazed at her for a moment, a fond smile touching her lips. Then her stomach growled and she turned into her weyr, eager for some food and sleep.
She slept for a few hours and then found herself awake again—it was late evening, not too far into the night. Stretching tentatively, she moved her arms and shoulders, wincing when she found particularly sore muscles. Not too terribly bad overall, she thought reflectively, considering they had ferried for basically the entire Fall, with only a few short breaks.
Lira was sprawled across her bed, still entirely in her riding gear, wher-hide vest and all. Her face, though, was clean, and there was a small white bandage on her left cheek. Arryn paused and considered leaving her that way, still struggling with the fact that her friend had gotten to fly Thread—her final exam as far as becoming a full-blooded rider, as it were. But then she sighed and shook her head at herself, pulling off Lira's boots gently and tucking a blanket about her. She sighed again and suddenly realized she wanted to talk to T'ran—she wondered how the Fall had gone for him.
Arryn changed into a soft blue tunic and a pair of comfortable but respectable-looking breeches, making a face as she bent down to pull on her boots. She spent a moment in front of the mirror finger-combing her wild chestnut curls—she considered plaiting it, as she usually did, but for some reason she liked it down, and to her own surprise she reached for a deep wine-red scarf and a matching sash. The scarf she folded thin and tied about her head—there, the deep color set off glints of autumn in her hair, red and golden sparks playing along her curls. And the sash went about her waist, complimenting the rich color of the blue tunic and the flare of her hips. She wasn't as thin as some, she reflected, but she was tall and had long legs and was curved in basically all the right places.
"Going somewhere special tonight?"
Arryn jumped almost guiltily, snatching her hands down from where they had been pressing at her hips. "Lira, I didn't know you were up."
"I wasn't, a minute ago," Lira replied in her dry manner. "But then a well-meaning someone divested me of my boots and my feet got cold."
"Well, forgive me for trying to be a good weyrmate," said Arryn, hiding her irritation behind a smile.
"You are forgiven," Lira replied solemnly. "And you're avoiding the question."
"What? Oh, no, I'm not going anywhere special, I'm just going to see T'ran to see how he fared in the Fall."
Lira quirked an eyebrow. "Just going to see T'ran, eh?" She smiled and looked pointedly at Arryn's ensemble. "I like your scarf and sash. Are they new?"
"Er—no, I think it might be yours, actually."
"Well, you can borrow it. Because you're such a good weyrmate and all." She smailed again, and then turned serious. "Arryn, are you still mad at me for flying in the Fall?"
"I—of course not! I was never—mad at you for flying…" Arryn trailed off as she realized how feeble her protests sounded, even to her own ears.
Lira gave her a small, sad smile. "I'm sorry. I told them I thought you should have flown. Did you even take any breaks when you were ferrying? Honestly, I thought that was the harder job today, only having twenty-odd to ferry for everyone…with no new weyrlings yet and all…"
"We took a few breaks," Arryn replied carefully. After all, greens could only fly half a Fall, and she didn't want anyone to think that she pushed Maventh harder than she could handle.
"I just… I saw you everywhere, and other riders noticed it, too, even the older riders. I heard a few of them talking about you."
"Well, you and Baerth flew well today."
Lira shrugged. "We flew. That was all. Nothing spectacular. I mean, people notice us because we're both unusual, you know, you with a green as big as a brown and me, a girl with a blue."
Arryn sat down on her bed. She was beginning to sense that this discussion was about much more than Lira was telling her. She patted the bed next to her and Lira sat down.
"I was so happy when I Impressed Baerth," Lira said quietly. "It was so unbelievable, like every disappointment I'd ever had, the times I walked away from the Hatching Ground with nothing to show for it except burned feet…it made up for all that, the instant I knew he was mine." She glanced at Arryn and sighed. "But now, it's just, people don't even want to know me, or know my name. I'm just 'the girl with the blue.' It's like nothing else matters, I'm defined by that. And sometimes I feel like I don't know who I am anymore."
"We are defined by our dragons, in a way," Arryn replied. "You know what I mean? There's nothing that's brought out in you by Baerth that wasn't there before. He just…" She paused, searching for the right word. "He magnifies you. Understand?"
Lira nodded. Then she grinned at Arryn. "I don't want to keep you from T'ran any longer." She evaded Arryn's swat. "Go on then!"
Arryn laughed and walked out into the cool night. Maventh raised her head sleepily. You can go back to sleep if you want, love.
Where are you going? Maventh asked groggily.
To see T'ran. Ereth's rider.
Her dragon was already nodding back off to sleep. I like Ereth, she murmured before drifting off. Arryn smiled and stroked her dragon's nose before walking past, setting a good pace towards T'ran's weyr.
She was greeted by T'ran's weyrmate, a large blond youth who shook her hand heartily and introduced himself as V'remnar, rider of bronze Devarith.
"Devarith says he can hear you sometimes," V'remnar added after introducing himself. Arryn blushed.
"Well," she said awkwardly, "yes."
"Oh, well don't be such a stranger then!" V'remnar admonished. "Any rider my dragon likes is more than all right in my books." Then he squinted at her good-humoredly. "Hey, is Maventh by any chance that sharding big green?"
"Yes again," Arryn admitted, not knowing whether to laugh or twist her fingers in embarrassment.
"Thought I recognized you!" V'remnar said gleefully. Arryn couldn't help but smile. "You were brilliant today in the Fall, all over the place—and you have great aim."
"Yes, great aim tossing firestone sacks," Arryn said wryly.
"Oh-ho, someone's a bit bitter," said V'remnar jovially. He clapped Arryn on the back, rather hard—she turned her wince into a laugh. "Don't worry, you'll be showing us all up soon anyway!"
"I'll be showing you something soon if you don't quiet down," came a growl from the doorway of the weyr.
Both Arryn and V'remnar turned to see had growled at them so rudely. It was T'ran. Without a shirt on. Shards. It was all Arryn could do to keep her jaw from dropping. T'ran—his dark hair mussed, grey eyes sleepy and stormy both at once, wearing rumpled trousers that were loose on him and just barely clung to his hipbones, almost slipping down to there—by Faranth's egg, she couldn't breathe. Only stare. And stare some more. How had she not noticed this before? When had he gone from adorable best-friend-material to unbelievably gorgeous drool-worthy-material? She was sure that this miraculous transformation had happened overnight just to spite her, and she was suddenly very, very glad that she had followed her strange impulse to wear the red scarf and sash.
"Oh, hello, Ar," he said, still hazy from sleep. He rubbed his hand over his face. "Want to come in?"
Ar? When had she let him start calling her that? And why couldn't he put a shirt on? No—wait, she didn't want him to put a shirt on, but…she couldn't talk, only nod dumbly. If he wanted her to participate in an intelligent conversation he had better put a shirt on, she amended, following him into the weyr and shooting a look of helpless desperation at V'remnar, who only gave her a shrug that said, I can't control him. Believe me, I've tried.
"Want some klah? It's kinda cold, but it's better than nothing," T'ran said, pouring a cup for himself and knocking it back like a shot of whiskey. He made a face and poured another cup. The curve of his arm as he lifted the jug fascinated Arryn. "Want some?" he repeated, and she shook herself. Get with it, get with it, she scolded herself mentally.
"Sure," she managed to reply, taking it from him. Her palms were sweating. As he turned away she noticed the bandage about his shoulder—she'd missed it in the shadows. "You're hurt!" she exclaimed before she could stop herself.
"It's not bad. I just got in the way of some Thread."
"Oh, like you have a habit of getting in front of people's fists as well?" Arryn teased, finally trusting her voice again. Okay. This was rather safer territory. She took a gulp of klah and almost spit it out—it was horrible. Of course it would be, she thought to herself. Boys can't even make klah right.
T'ran made a face at her. "I usually have good reason."
Her eyes twinkled wickedly. "Such as…?"
"Well, that first fight with P'tar was justified…that was just…" He shook his head, grinning ruefully. "He's just an idiot. He deserves it."
"Hmph," she said. "What about the second time?"
"The second time, I just wanted to punch him. No justification," T'ran admitted, smiling again. They lapsed into a silence that couldn't exactly be termed comfortable…it might have been for T'ran, but Arryn could only fervently wish that he would put a shirt on and release her from his thrall.
"So…you just, um, got in the way of some Thread?" she asked finally, fiddling with her mug.
"Yes," he replied definitively. For some reason he was avoiding her eyes.
"Um. Does it hurt?"
"Of course not," he said. Then he grimaced. "Well. A little bit. I can't really lift my arm, to tell the truth. Can't get a shirt on."
"Oh. Oh." So it wasn't part of some wicked scheme to render her totally senseless. "I could help you?" Her offer came out as a question, little more than a squeak, but he looked at her with relief.
"Please," he said. "V'remnar, he's a great rider, but he'd never let me live it down. He's a loudmouth," he whispered to her confidentially.
Arryn laughed. "I noticed." She got up and walked over to his wardrobe. "Now, sir, what shirt shall we be wearing tonight?" she inquired in a stuffy, nasal voice, gesturing grandly to the meager selection of clothes folded on the shelves. He walked over and stood beside her—unnervingly close. Her light-hearted smile faltered as he looked down at her, his grey eyes dark with an emotion she couldn't identify.
"We?" he asked softly, raising an eyebrow questioningly.
"We as in, you, as in, how rich holders talk," Arryn clarified rather quickly. Next she would be stuttering, she thought in chagrin. That was how it always progressed.
T'ran merely smiled enigmatically—since when had he been enigmatic, either?—and picked out a plain, loose shirt made of white cotton. "This one will do."
"Fine choice, sir." Arryn resumed her role-play of stuffy servant. She held the shirt daintily with two fingers, pinching the shoulder seams as she delicately shook the wrinkles out, feigning a sort of bored disdain. She could tell T'ran was almost laughing—good, if he laughed it would break this strange mood—and then she held up the shirt. "All right, how shall we do this?"
"Very carefully," replied T'ran seriously. She opened the bottom of the shirt and stood on tiptoe, dropping it on his head. There were muffled sounds of mirth as he pulled the shirt down over his head with his good arm. He started to push his good arm through the sleeve but Arryn stopped him.
"You'll need as much slack as possible so that you won't have to lift your arm very far," she explained.
"You seem to have this very planned out," T'ran remarked. He stepped closer to Arryn and seemed to be waiting. She caught her breath and took hold of the shirt pooled about his neck with a business-like air.
"Of course," she said. "I never do anything half-way. You should know that by now."
He chuckled but then broke off in a hastily stifled groan as she pulled the shirt down over his shoulder.
"Sorry, sorry," she apologized quickly. "Here, can you lift your arm just a bit?"
T'ran bit his lip and raised his arm with an effort. Arryn took his wrist and quickly slipped it through the sleeve.
"There," she said as he wriggled his good arm through the other sleeve. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
He didn't reply. He was gazing at her again in that strange way…and it was the oddest thing, Arryn suddenly recognized that look in his eyes: it was the same look he had gotten when they had sat on Lira's bed, after his first fight with P'tar, and the look he had given her after she had gone between for the first time…His hand was moving, she realized, to her waist—she could feel the heat of his skin through the red sash—and he was drawing closer, closer…
"OY! Loverboy! Want to come get summat to eat?"
Arryn bit her lip, trying not to laugh at T'ran's badly concealed chagrin. Secretly, she was relieved as he moved away and answered V'remnar.
"Of course! I'm starving!" He rolled his eyes at Arryn and smiled forbearingly as they made their way to the door.
"We dashing bronze-riders, we've gotta eat, you know," V'remnar confided to Arryn with the utmost sincerity.
"Oh, I'm sure," she grinned. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow, or sometime, T'ran. It was nice meeting you, V'remnar."
"Nice meeting you too!" bellowed V'remnar after her as she walked away. She heard him interrogating T'ran as they made their way toward the kitchens. "D'you like her, T'ran, are you sweet on the pretty little green-rider? Oy, tell me now, what's the deal here?..."
She almost felt sorry for him. But then she remembered how he had tortured her with his shirtlessness, and she smiled to herself. He deserved it.