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Ten turns into the 8th recorded passing of the Red Star

It was an unseasonably warm day when the riders departed from Telgar Weyr to begin their Search.  It was a small party this time, for after three days with no threadfall, the holdspeople would no doubt be in a celebratory mood.  The farmers would be leaving their fields and congregating in the shops and alehouses of Crom Hold.  The crowd would be thick.

And so S’ngellan, bronze rider and Weyrleader of Telgar Weyr, decided to limit his party to three as he set off on his Search.  His bronze dragon, Alaboth, was large and impressive but his size would make it difficult to maneuver through the courtyard of the Hold.  The blue and green who accompanied him were small by comparison.  They could light down among the outbuildings with ease, and their riders were both disciplined and compassionate of spirit, and skilled with a blade.  They had good eyes for Searching out potential candidates for impression as well as innate abilities to comfort and correct those who still viewed the Search for potential dragon riders as little more than kidnapping and slavery.

They climbed into the sky with Alaboth at the head of their traditional V formation, until the land beneath them looked much the size of toys.  S’ngellan drew in a quick breath, steeling himself for the jump.  With a quick snap, Alaboth took them

between

.

S’ngellan had impressed Alaboth at the age of seventeen.  Since that moment on the hatching grounds of Telgar Weyr, he had never been alone, sharing every thought and action with the dragon that had chosen him.  He trusted Alaboth completely, but even after twenty-three turns, he still couldn’t quite control the tendrils of dread that crept over him whenever he was surrounded by the utter blackness and bone numbing cold that assaulted the senses when going

between

.

Luckily, their jump was short.

They re-emerged several hundred feet above the Hold and S’ngellan drew in a breath of warm, sunlit air as the wingmen resumed their V formation.  They flew in a wide arc around the perimeter of the Hold, indicating a non-aggressive approach.  S’ngellan let his gaze wander over the perimeter of Crom.  There were a number of outbuildings.  The sight of them caused the bronze rider to grimace slightly, but only for a moment.  Law and tradition both dictated that the Lord Holder should house his people within the Hold’s stone walls, safe from threadfall.  It was forbidden, technically, to build outside a Hold, but if one was going to bend the law, then the people of Crom had at least done so with wisdom.  The outbuildings were strong, with walls of thick stone.  They would protect the holdspeople from any thread.

As  the dragons began their final circle and commenced their descent, the courtyard and ground began to fill.  Crafters, drudges and men at arms all flooded together, united in awe at the spectacle of the descending formation. Not one among them cast an eye on the dark-haired, blue eyed young man who skulked between them and ducked into the tavern door.

Mikhailo Milkovich, or Mickey to those who might care,  spent little time within the walls of Crom Hold.  In truth, he barely left the distant collection of tiny farmholds along Crom’s southern border.  Today, though, he’d been sent with his brother to tote their family’s meager contributions to the Hold, probably so that they could be the ones to take the beating if the Headwoman or cook wanted to invoke a fecking lesson for shorting their mandatory offering yet again.  As if Terry would give a shite.  He would keep the best for himself and send his sons to pay, in blood if necessary, for his greed.

Today, though, Mickey was glad to be at the Hold, for no lashing from the men at arms could rival the ones that his father had been handing out to him for the past fortnight.  His shirt still stuck to the crusty, scabbed gashes left by the whip.  The warm sun had managed to burn them even through the thin cloth.  Mickey sighed and rolled his aching shoulders as he fell into a rickety bench in a dark corner of the tavern.

It had been sunny on that fateful day, too.

His let his mind wander back as he scanned the dark room. His father and brothers had gone east to poach off a mining convoy, leaving him to mind the hold. And he and Ian had definitely minded it.  They’d minded every fecking length of it.  It had seemed like a small miracle, after a full turn of quick and dirty couplings in sheds and the darkest stable corners, to have found actual privacy and a whole day of freedom.

And maybe it had given him a false sense of safety, this sudden privacy, this sudden closeness with the boy turned man that he’d so carefully kept at arm’s length.  But they hadn’t been careful.  They’d left the little hold and gone down by the stream.  They’d gone in the day.  They’d been too busy wrestling and playing to watch.

Ian had been staring back at him, his eyes wide and shining, and it had pierced Mickey’s heart in a way that made him both terrified and elated.  Because what now?  How would he retreat back to the safe distance they had so carefully maintained?

His worries, of course, had been for shite.

He’d felt a prickle at the back of his neck as the green of Ian’s eyes went dark with panic.  As the familiar hiss tore through the air, he’d braced himself for pain that never came.

It had taken him a moment to realize that Ian had rolled over him and taken the blow from the leather strap across his own back.

Mickey let his eyes close against the dark room and the darker memories.  They’d run.  Ian had fled towards his family’s own farmhold, but he’d glanced back as he’d yanked on his breaches.  Mickey had paused in his own flight to glance at the red hair and the equally red slash across the other man’s back.  Their eyes had met and he’d seen the realization dawn in the green gaze.  Whatever had been stitching itself together between them was entirely rent apart.

It had to be.  Terry would not stop.  Mickey had avoided the worst of the wrath but his father had delivered calculated whippings every day since.  He was beaten raw but he could have born that.  No, the greater danger was to Ian.  Terry wanted him dead.

He would not settle for less.  Not for such a breach.  No Milkovich would practice such degeneracy.  That was for filth.

And dragonriders.

The crowd outside was quieting, dispersing, and some of the patrons were making their way through the tavern door and back to their abandoned cups.  Mickey stood and headed back outside, scanning the crowd for the tall bronze rider who had led the formation.  Sure enough, the man had found Lord Rustan, the Steward of Crom and brother of the Lord Holder, and had immediately engaged in energetic discussion.  Mickey felt a surge of hope as a possible solution presented itself.

Please, please, shards and shite and PLEASE...let this be a Search.

***********************************************************************************

“You intend a Search?”

S’ngellan starred carefully at the face of the man in front of him, looking for any signs of the boy he’d once known.  Not that such intimacy would generate any favor from one such as Rustan of Crom.  Years ago, Rustan had been the younger son of a lord who had required discipline and compassion from his children.  His heir had embodied these traits.

His second son, however.

It was Rustan who would steal food and blame it on the drudges of the Hold, Rustan who would mock those born beneath him and demand acts of service.  At the time, the bronze rider had only been Sangellan, the son of a drudge maid and an assistant to a metalworker.  He had been happy, though, and treasured by parents who were blessed with only one child.  And he was of an age with the Lord’s youngest son.

There was logic in Lord Marston’s decision to cultivate a friendship between his troubled and troublesome child and a son of a holdsman.  No doubt the Lord has intended it to teach Rustan of the worth of his people.  As a boy, Sangellan had tried to build an honest friendship between the two of them and he did feel he’d made some strides, but the Lord’s son was in many ways untouchable; too arrogant, too convinced of his own superior worth.

They had not parted as enemies when Sangellan had been Searched himself, over twenty turns ago, but nor had they been friends.  And now, circumstances had changed drastically.  The haughty boy was a man, and Steward of the Hold, a prestigious position that Lord Tristan, his careful older brother, had no doubt given him to both slake his ego and keep him under watch.  And now, of course, he was no longer Sangellan, drudge-born inferior.  He was S’ngellan, bronze rider and Weyrleader of Telgar Weyr, responsible for the protection of all of Crom and its surrounding Holds.

His status has surpassed Rustan’s.  Rustan knew this.  It would no doubt complicate negotiations.

“So you are here to Search?” the Steward asked, reproach thick in his voice, “in addition, of course, to the tithing requirements we supposedly owe to the Weyr?”

“Tithes are not due at this time,” S’ngellan replied, keeping his response flat and factual.  The number of men at arms still present in the Hold assured him that Lord Tristan was still on Crom lands, though not in the Hold itself, but until the Lord Holder appeared, he had not choice but to present his directives to the Steward.

“We come in Search,” he continued, maintaining his calm voice, “Faidre’s gold has produced a sizable clutch…”

“And you would take our able-bodied men away,” Rustan interjected, taking a step forward, “Men we need in the field, in the mines, in the Lord’s forces?”

“Yes.”

S’ngellan carefully suppressed his amusement as outrage stained the Steward’s expression.

“You would dare…”

“ I would dare to protect Crom Hold from thread,” the Weyrleader stated with emphatic authority.  “If the thread is not burned from the sky, it will burrow into the ground and spread.  It will score through everything it touches.  And then you will have no farms, no mines, no forces.  But surely, Lord Steward, I don’t need to tell you this.  I don’t need to tell you that dragonsfire is our best defense against this threat.  For you and your family are wise leaders who understand such things.”

There was anger in Rustan’s eyes now, but S’ngellan could also see hints of uncertainty, and this concerned him more.  Rustan of Crom was wavering, but S’ngellan could not tell the direction.

“Well met, Weyrleader!” A welcomed voice boomed across the courtyard, drawing both men’s eyes.  S’ngellan broke away from the Steward, relieved to see Tristan, Lord Holder of Crom, approaching across the open space.

***********************************************************************************

“You think its a Search?”

Ian Gallagher jerked his eyes up from the dirt path in front of him and glanced at his brother Lip beside him.  The sound of another voice had been startling, as deep in his thoughts as he’d been.  Mickey had been hiding from him for weeks and that was bad enough, but now that miserable fecking bastard Terry was encroaching on their lands.

This morning, he’d found one of the family’s chickens dead in the yard, it’s neck twisted completely around.  Ian had stared at the poor, dead bird for several minutes, vacillating back and forth between anger and horror.  They needed those chickens.  His family barely managed to scratch out a meager living as it was.  But that was true of every farmholder in South Crom.  Ian wouldn’t put it past any of the roughhewn farmers or their kin to steal a chicken.  But to kill one?

No, this was a threat, a threat from Terry Milkovich.  The man hated everyone and everything but he did have a hierarchy and “degenerate ass-feckers” rated right at the top of the list.  Gallaghers in general were up there, too.  And a Gallagher ass-fecker…

Mickey’s father wanted revenge.  There was no denying that.  Ian had known since the instant he looked up from their perfect moment beside the creek and right into Terry’s enraged eyes.  There had been nothing in them but a promise of pain and destruction.

“So, do you?”

Lip was nudging at him, trying to get him to engage.  Ian guessed he couldn’t blame his older brother for that.  He’d been in a barely contained panic for five days now, ever since Mickey had failed to show up at the deserted old outbuilding they’d met at every week for the last half-turn.

He needed to do something.  He needed to find Mickey because something had to be wrong.  Though the black-haired man would deny it furiously, Ian knew that Mickey cared for him far too much to just disappear.  No, he cared for Ian as Ian cared for him.  The one who didn’t care was his father, a fact that had been appallingly evident to Ian as he gazed up into the man’s raging eyes. Terry had aimed his whip at Mickey but his fury at Ian, and that was what scared the redhead most.  To Terry, Mickey was property, a workhorse to be beaten, broken and retrained.  Ian was the danger, the corruptor and if Terry was going to drag Micky back into self-hating submission, he’d need to remove the source of the corruption first.  Terry could kill him.  Terry could hurt his family.

And Terry could destroy Mickey.  Mickey, who had just finally begun to put his arms around Ian’s neck as they kissed.

“Ian!”

Ian shook his head and glanced apologetically at his older brother as the other man shook his head.

“Where are you, man?” Lip asked finally.  The elder man paused in the road and turned towards his younger brother, looking him over with tense appraisal.  “You’ve been, like, a million lengths away for days.”  He ground to a halt in the road and Ian pulled up beside him, avoiding the obvious worry on Lip’s face.

He could tell him, Ian realized.  He could tell his brother.  Lip knew his preferences.  Lip didn’t judge him for it.  And if Terry Milkovich kept this shite up, he was going to need his whole family to help fight back.

But not today.  Today Lip had his own shite to deal with and Ian needed to find Mickey.  He’d be at the Hold for sure.  The missive that the men at arms had brought to the South Crom farmholds had required every able-bodied youth to attend this Gather and not even the Milkovichs were bold enough to ignore a direct order from the Lord Holder.

“Sorry,” he muttered, taking a step forward and drawing his brother back into conversation as he navigated them back down the road. “I’m alright.  It’s just, I have shite on my mind but I’ll tell you later.”  He glanced up the road as the distance turrets of Crom Hold came into sight, perched high up on a rocky hill, overlooking the land it governed.  “It could be a mining impressment.”

“Feck,” Lip muttered, “I hadn’t even thought about that.  Great, they can take some of us South boys to go die in the darkness.”

Ian nodded, “Or it could be a Search.”

“Which could be even worse.”

Ian shrugged.  The Weyr life had always been viewed with suspicion and that had only deepened over the past decade, as whispered rumors about the connections between dragons and threadfall had gained volume.  To Ian, though, the egalitarian lifestyle of the hollowed mountain homes of the dragons and their riders had always held a distinct appeal.  In the Holdlands, desiring another man was grounds for exile.  In the Weyr, such things were a natural and accepted way of life.

But still, to be Searched meant to be taken from everything you knew.  It meant dragons.  It meant taking tithes from the Holds and being exposed to the disdain of the people.  And it typically meant never seeing your family again.

“It could be worse,” he agreed in a heavy voice.

“Better!  Worse!  Who could even say,” a bitter, slurring voice exploded from behind them, but neither man turned around.  They should have known their father would find his way to the Gather.  There’d be free food there.

“This is what the Lords always do,” Frank Gallagher continued, swaying on is feet as he passed them by, “Doesn’t matter if it’s the mines or the Weyr or stealing food from the mouths of the poor working men to pay tithes.  The Lords always find away to take from the working man.”

“When was the last time you worked?” Lip asked lightly but Frank barely spared him a glance as a loud roar suddenly echoed across the grounds.

“Looks like there’s our answer,” Ian muttered, gesturing towards the huge, winged creature that dove off one of the Hold’s rocky ledges and circled over the surrounding grounds.  He felt a prickle of nerves dance up his spine but it was beyond him to tell if they were of fear or exhilaration.  It mattered little, though.  The poor farmholders were always called for a Search but they were seldom chosen, and Ian and the rest of his wretched southern holdsmen were even less noticeable than most.  No, he would go to the Hold, respond to the Lord Holder’s summons, see a dragon, and return to the south to eek out his meager living with his siblings and deal with Terry Milkovich.

The courtyard of the Hold was filling rapidly as more and more young men poured in through the open gate.  They came, worn and well-dressed, muscled and scrawny.  They hailed from the mines of the Telgar Mountains in the East, the minor Holds of the West and the poor farmholds of the South.  And here they assembled, to the Major Hold at the northern tip of Crom, to present themselves to their Lord Holder’s summons and the perusal of the Weyrleader of Telgar, a man who had once been of no higher birth than they.

S’ngellan leaned against the parapet of the Hold’s battlements, staring down at the assembled masses in the courtyard.  The crowd milled around, creating a din of nervous chatter, but all the sound cut off in an instant when the massive bronze dragon rose up and sunk his claws into the stone wall beside his rider, folding his wings neatly over his back.  The horde backed away as one, creating a wide perimeter between the wall and the men who reluctantly formed the first line.

The Weyrleader let his gaze drift over the mass.

Look at them

, he spoke wordlessly to the dragon beside them.  He laid a hand on Alaboth’s side as they scanned the crowd together,

Tell me what you see.

There was no movement, as each man tried to hide in his own stillness. S’ngellan swallowed down the slight bubble of anger that built in his chest.  Once, if the lore was to be believed, it had been counted a great honor to be Searched.  Now, the Weyr was viewed with disgust and open fear, as if they were enemies and not protectors.  And this mindset was gaining in strength even since he’d left the Hold twenty-three turns ago.

If he made the call, he doubted anyone would answer willingly.  But he must make it nonetheless.

“I am S’ngellan, Weryleader of Telgar.  We fly in protection of the people of Crom.  I come in Search.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle on the people. Letting Alaboth consider their responses.  “Is there anyone who would come forth to volunteer in this Search?”

There was no movement, but S’ngellan had expected no less.  There were benefits in this result, as well as drawbacks.  Seizing candidates through Search against their will darkened the mood towards the Weyr, but it also meant S’ngellan and his bronze could choose the most suitable among the assembled masses.

A low rumbled emitted from Alaboth’s chest, and S’ngellan snapped his head up to the side.  The crowd to the left was jostling about as a raven colored head wound its way through the men towards the open courtyard.

The man who stepped into the clearing was young and fit.  His clothes were ragged and worn and there was a dinginess to him that indicated a farmworker.  The expression on his face was fierce and challenging but it was the shadow in his crystal blue eyes that held the Weyrleader’s attention.  Caution?  Desperation?  Even fear?  Beside him, Alaboth gave off another rumble.

This one

.

No sooner had the words whispered through S’ngellan’s mind then the boy opened his mouth.

“I ain’t here to volunteer.” he stated, his voice dripping with contempt.  “I just wanted to know if what they say is true.  Do you all feck each other regularly, regardless of what’s between your legs?  Because if so, you should take Ian from the Gallagher hold.” The brunette glanced over his shoulder, but the force of his derision still carried his voice.  “He tends toward that himself.”

For a moment, the entirety of the Hold stood in frozen silence.  They broke as one, yelling and jeering and threatening aimlessly as they all turned back and forth.  The Lord Holder stepped forward, raising his hands to his men at arms, ready to signal them forward to stop the melee, when a red haired youth burst out of the crowd and tackled the other boy to the stone floor.

Immediately, the crowd turned to blood thirsty cheering as the two rolled around, throwing their fists into the most delicate parts of the other’s body.  S’ngellan took in the sight momentarily as a clear suspicion dawned on him, but he didn’t have the luxury of time.  He could not let the Search descend into this madness, lest his authority be questioned.  Beside him, Alaboth tightened his talons into the stone, waiting as his impressed linked a forearm through the riding harness and placed his boots against the hide of his side.

Leap,

S’ngellan thought.

The massive bronze descended, lightly but powerfully, planting his feet upon the stone of the courtyard as he touched down and spreading his wings up and over the heads of the crowd.  The men breathed in terror, pushing back and away from the enormous body as S’ngellan released his hold and stepped down.  He took several strides forward, feeling his men falling into step beside him as he stalked towards the two youths who still fought furiously and obliviously on the stone ground and the chestnut haired man who had appeared out of the crowd and attempted to pull them apart.

“Hold them,” he ordered the other riders, gesturing towards the other two as he himself waded into the fight.  With a yank, he ripped the dark-haired youth from the ground, seizing his chin and the nape of his neck and marching him backwards.  The rage fell from the blue eyes as realization dawned, leaving behind nothing but blood spattered fear, misery and a delicate sheen of tears.  He began a weak struggle against S’ngellan’s hold, but the Weyrleader found he was in no mood for games.  Digging his fingers painfully into the boy’s chin and neck, he hauled him close against his chest, until they were mere breaths apart.

“Do you really wish to know the answer to that question?” he whispered, letting his voice slide dangerously over the brunette’s ear.  “Be still or I will claim you in Search right now, and you will find out.”

A hint of mutiny flitted across the blue gaze but S’ngellan was not about to give it attention.  Keeping his grip on the youth firm, he turned towards the others.

His riders had pulled the other two to their feet and twisted their arms up behind them.  Blood marred both their faces, too, along with a fair layer of field grime, but this did little to disguise the strength that emanated from both of them.  S’ngellan felt a tremor beneath his fingers as they curved around the brunette’s jaw.  Alaboth was gazing favorably on the scene beneath him and for one lunatic moment, the bronze rider considered giving in fully to his instincts and seizing all three.

But no, no, good sense must prevail.  He could not have this much havoc in the Weyr, not with threadfall at a peak.

Turning back, he tightened his hold around the brunette’s face, pulling the youth fractionally closer.  He studied every inch of the visage, committing every curve and slope and freckle to perfect memory before he caught and trapped the blue gaze with his own hard stare.

“I’m taking him,” he whispered, unsurprised when fresh tears of relief sprang up in the blue eyes.  “And as for you, you will go now.  Turn and walk away.  But do not forget me, boy, for you and I will speak of this later.”

He released the brunette with a light shove.  The boy stumbled back and caught himself before pulling up straight.  He didn’t hesitate, backing towards the gate of the Hold, but even as he went, he spared one last miserable, relieved glance at the pinned and struggling redhead.

Then he melted out of the gate and was gone.

Remember him.

S’ngellan demanded towards Alaboth as he strode back across the courtyard, but his bronze only huffed at the unnecessary command.   He glanced up towards the parapet, where Lord Tristan still stood, now joined by a murderous looking Rustan and examining the proceedings with a carefully blank expression.  They could speak later.  Right now, he needed to deal with the other two.

Brothers

, came the silent observation from his bronze.

He nodded his agreement as he stepped up and grabbed the fronts of both of their shirts.

“Be still or I will take you both,” he spat.  The reaction was immediate, the two youths dropping limply against their captors.  There was fear in both of their eyes as S’ngellan looked them over.

“I

am

taking you,” he murmured to the redheaded boy, “You realize I must.”  He glanced around at the seething, tittering mass of men that still pulsed several feet away from them.  “You cannot stay.  They will not let you live in peace now.”

The redhead sagged completely for a moment, but his green eyes suddenly lit with a fire.  He found his feet and met the Weyrleader’s eyes, offering a curt but determined nod.

S’ngellan returned the gesture.  “Good,” he murmured as he turned to the other youth.  “You are brothers?” he asked out of politeness.  The chestnut headed lad found his own feet and nodded.

“Yes.”

“How many in your hold?”

“Six.  No, seven.  My sister’s baby grows.  And our father seeks shelter from threadfall there, though I’m rarely sure where he is at other times.”  The youth’s lips curled up in disdain.  “He doesn’t contribute,” he explained shortly.

“I see.”  S’ngellan felt his jaw clench lightly.  It was as he had suspected.  He would have to leave this one behind, too.  He could not take two strong workers from one family.

“Ian?” he asked questioningly, turning back towards the redhead.  The boy nodded, miserable but resigned. “I will give you time to bid farewell to your brother.”

This caused Ian to startle.  “I must go now?  What about my family?  My things?”

“You’re brother can carry word to your family.  And we will retrieve your things at a later date.  Now, the hatching is impending and I must attend to the rest of the Search. You will stay by Alaboth’s side, boy.  Do not make me go looking for you.”  With that, S’ngellan turned back towards the crowd with his riders in tow.

Hours later, the Lord Holder walked S’ngellan towards Alaboth’s perch on the escarpment.  The despondent redhead was there, leaning into the bronze’s side.  Stopping on a rocky outcropping above the ledge, the Weryleader let himself consider the scene before him.

“He shows no fear of dragons,” Tristan stated from beside him, his own eyes fixed on the youth and the bronze, “Surely that’s a good sign.”

“Indeed,” S’ngellan answered, moving forward for a better view.  The redhead’s eyes were closed and he let his body move with the rhythm of Alaboth’s breaths.  S’ngellan schooled his face from an overly revealing smile.  If the young man could draw comfort from a dragon, then it boded well for a strong impression on the Telgar hatching grounds.  And that hatching would be soon.  They needed to return.

“We must depart,” he declared, moving forward.

“One moment,” the Lord Holder said from beside him.  S’ngellan turned towards the other man expectantly but Lord Tristan was staring down at the redhead himself.

“What makes you choose this one over another?”

The Weyrleader offered a feeble shrug. “It’s a feeling.  When I look at a potential candidate and feel a sense of agreement between myself and Alaboth… that is all.  I can think of no better way to explain.”

“I see,” the Lord Holder said, but his mouth had twisted with concern.

“Do you think that something is wrong with the boy?’

Tristan shook his head adamantly.  “No, not...he comes from a troubled family in a troubled land.  They are quite...resistant to outsiders.  But he is a good lad.”

“There is something that concerns you though,” S’ngellan pressed, stepping forward.  The Lord Holder turned his gaze towards the horizon, past Alaboth and the redheaded youth and over the expanse of the Crom lands as they spread out below them.

“There is something.  There are rumblings, rumors.  Complaints.  There are whispers in pockets of the Hold’s lands.”

“What do they whisper?”

“That terrible things will befall us if we continue to support the immoral behavior of the Weyr.”

“Immoral behavior?”  S’ngellan asked incredulously, feeling a tightening in his jaw.  “This is because we believe in the elevation of women to leadership?  Because we allow all people to love as they choose?”

“Yes,” came the simple reply.

“And what do you say to this?” S’ngellan spit, catching the defensiveness in his voice.  He steadied himself with a breath.  His attitude wasn’t befitting of his role and Tristan of Crom certainly didn’t deserve his condemnation.  Indeed, the expression on the Lord Holder’s face said as much.

“I am Lord of a Major Hold.  You are the Leader of a Major Weyr.  Do either of us, in these times, during a passing, during chronic threadfall, have the time to give a care to such things?  May the strong, wise and brave rise to lead.  May love flourish.  And may you never ask me such stupid questions again!” He caught and schooled his own voice. “These are not my beliefs, as you well know.  But they exist.”  He nodded toward the redhead again.  “The other, with the dark hair…”

“The one who named him?”

“Indeed.  They’re lovers.”

“Shards.  I suspected...How do you know this?”

“It is my business to know such things,” the lord replied in a rather flat tone, “but the dark haired one, Mikhailo,  hails from a troublesome family.  His father...I believe him to be a perpetuator of these lies.  But he is one among many.”

S’ngellan sighed.  “You do not know for sure?”

Lord Tristan’s reply was short, simple and just as troubled, “No.”

“And yet you can speak with authority about the clandestine relationships between farm boys.” S’ngellan grimaced, forgetting himself again. “I apologize.  But this is troubling.  We need no further strain between hold life and Weyr life.  Not during a pass and a threadfall season.”

“Agreed,” the Lord Holder stated.  “I will look into this further.”  He returned the Weyrleader’s formal nod and retreated towards the Hold.

S’ngellan leapt lightly down the rocks to the outcropping where Ian rested against Alaboth’s side.  The youth’s face was flat, practically emotionless, but all of the pain was contained in his eyes.  S’ngellan could think of no words to comfort him, for what could he say?  His inclinations had been publicly laid bare.  He would never be accepted back into the Hold life now.  His own family would have to reject him or face ostracism and starvation themselves.

But S’ngellan doubted that the condemnation of the people of Crom was Ian’s primary concern.  No, the young man had been betrayed by one he loved and though S’ngellan felt that he understood the raven haired youth’s true motives, he doubted that would bring much comfort to Ian.  No, words would not help.  The greatest kindness he could bestow on the red haired lad was to get him to Telgar for the hatching.  He’s seen the most damaged and distraught candidates transformed by their impression with a dragon.  And this youth, while raw and bent, was far from broken.

“We must fly,” he stated, reaching up and climbing into his harness with ease.  Turning to the redhead, he offered a hand. “Now.” he finished in a tone that brooked no argument.

Ian didn’t have an argument to offer.  A feeling of dull numbness had replaced the roiling clash of emotions that had overwhelmed him in the face of Mickey’s accusation.  He had nothing left.  He recognized that he was accepting the offered hand and climbing onto the back of the massive bronze dragon, but it seemed utterly foreign, as if he were watching a stranger go through the motions in his body.  And when the massive animal tipped himself off the ledge and fell into flight, he felt no fear, no trepidation.  Only the mildest elation as the wind blew his hair back from his face.

As the rest of the dragons, each with a rider and new candidate, fell into formation and gained height, he let his gaze wander over his home far below him.  The Hold looked so small, but he could still distinguish the people as they crowded and milled about the courtyard.  They were all still there, in an over-excited clump, no doubt whispering and speculating about him.  The rest of the land was bare of people.

Except for one.

A single, dark head was walking down the Lord Holder’s road, heading towards the southern corner.  Even from this height, Ian knew that stride.  But Mickey was walking quickly, walking away.  He didn’t look up.

Deep in his heart, Ian felt a tiny twinge, a nearly imperceptible snapping.  A cold determination settled into the tiny chink left behind.

He turned and stared hard at the back of the man before him, fixating on the grain of the weyrhide coat.

He didn’t look back.  
  The times are nightfall, look, their light grows less;
The times are winter, watch, a world undone:
They waste, they wither worse; they as they run
Or bring more or more blazon man’s distress.
And I not help. Nor word now of success:
All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one—
Work which to see scarce so much as begun
Makes welcome death, does dear forgetfulness.

Or what is else? There is your world within.
There rid the dragons, root out there the sin.
Your will is law in that small commonweal...
-Gerard Manley Hopkins

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Eleven and a half turns into the Eighth passing of the Red Star

It had been written in the lore that it was impossible to stand on the planes of Telgar and see the tops of the Northern Barrier Mountains, so high did the rocky crags jut into the sky.  No, the only way to see the peaks was to ride a dragon.

And there were dragons aplenty in the foothills of the Barrier Mountains.  They circled the slopes and climbed into the air, dropping, dodging and weaving in elaborate formations.  They rested and sunned on the rocky ledges as high as the eye could see.  Green, blue, brown, bronze.  All circled and played, spun and drilled as the sun hung high in the sky.

To an outsider, it might have seemed a carefree day, and perhaps it was, but that all changed as an echoing chorus of dragon bugles rose up from a massive foothill at the base of the range.  One and all, the great beasts added their own trill to the melody as they turned in mid-air or leaped off outcroppings, heading in haste towards the same foothill from which the sound had originated.

The hill was the true marvel of the mountains, for all that the skyscraping peaks might intimidate and impress.  Few had climbed to those heights but fewer still had crested over the lip of the steep, foreboding hillside, only to realize that the imposing stone walls were just a facade.  For inside the impenetrable perimeter was the world of Telgar Weyr.

The mountain was actually a massive crater.  That was probably the thing that shocked newcomers the most.  The walls sloped sharply downward to a dirt packed floor, creating a perfect Bowl, huge and roomy in scope.  A small lake consumed one corner of the ground.  A sandy training field, bearing the marks of a hundred thousand sword swipes and evasive side steps, took over another.  Arches and doors littered the lower perimeter of the hollow Bowl, leading to tunnels and barracks and kitchens and meeting halls, carved deeply into the stone walls.  And up and down the the interior sides of the mountain, large caves were cut into the impressive rock.  Accessible only by flight, these individual weyrs each housed a dragon and their rider.

One by one, the huge creatures crested over the lip of the mountain and touched down in the Bowl, their riders sliding to the ground.  Now dragons waited at attention as their human counterparts quickly moved to assemble.  Riders grouped into their assigned Wings, with Wingleaders calling strict orders.  For when the dragons of a Weyr bugled their warning cry, it meant only one thing.  Threadfall was imminent and playtime was over.

After brief instructions, the Wingleaders dismissed the riders in their command with an order to suit up and return.  The Bowl was suddenly loud with the roaring echo of a hundred dragons wings beating at the air to take flight.  They lifted off carefully.  Small, sprightly greens and blues swooped to the highest weyrs.  Massive, stately bronzes put down in the lower weyrs with surprising elegance.  And in the middle, the browns rose.  Steady, powerful and disciplined, they did not show off like blues or fight for personal glory like bronzes.  They were anchors, staid and dependable and always welcome in a threadfight.

They rose as one, the sun catching the brown of their hides and exposing the dazzling array of hues in each set of scales.  Surely, the bizarrely bright greens and the blinding gold of the Queens were more obviously stunning, but no other dragons could hold a candle to a brown for subtle beauty.  Chocolates and caramels and rippling shades of amber danced in the light, but even in this impressive showing, one stood out above the rest.

Karth of Telgar Weyr was still young, but one would never know that to look at him.  He was massive; the biggest brown in Telgar’s history if the lore was to be believed.  And unlike the others of his stature, the sun pricks against his hide revealed a deep russet sheen the likes of which had never been seen in any of the Weyrs of Pern.  The sight of the massive and oddly colored brown had disturbed many a visitor from the Holds and Crafthalls around the land, but Karth never sensed such judgment from his peers.  Weyrfolk were different.  They accepted the necessity of adaptation.

They welcomed growth and change.

And besides, the color of the dragon seemed to make perfect sense when one considered the vibrant red hair of his rider.

Karth put down lightly on the ledge of his weyr and held still to allow the young man to slide to the ground.  They needed to make haste but the brown needn’t worry.  His impressed was a true brown rider: skilled, disciplined and focused on his task.  True, he had sometimes been prone to strange, frenetic bursts of energy or malaise when they’d first impressed, but their bond had steadied these tendencies and now they were a thing of the past.  Now, it was just the two of them with compatible minds and a clear mission.  And that mission awaited as his rider strode deeper into their weyr towards his bedchamber in the rear, tearing off his simple smocked shirt and tossing it aside as he reached for his weyrhide and armor.

The man had once been called Ian Gallagher.  Back when he was still the son of a drunken lout who had somehow scammed ownership of a farmhold, back when he fought a daily grind to survive, along with his ragtag siblings, he had used that name.  But that was not who he was anymore.  The dirty, skinny, half-starved boy was gone.  Now, he was worked hard but fed well and his body carried a layer of thickly corded muscle.  The naive innocence had melted from his eyes and the sweet childishness in his face had been cut away by sharper cheekbones and a strong jaw.  When Ian Gallagher had arrived at Telgar Weyr, he’d still been a boy.  But I’an, respected brown rider and thread fighter, was a man.

He didn’t think of his old home very often now, and when he did, it was in terms of protective strategy.  He fixated on how to keep them safe.  That was all.

Usually.

And if he occasionally woke with a cry on his lips or felt a compelling need to take himself in hand to the thought of blue eyes, well, those moments were rare and none but his dragon knew of them.

And Karth would never whisper to a soul.

I’an pulled on a weyrhide undershirt and padding, then dropped the armor plated tunic over his shoulders and tieed up the sides.  His flight boots were already laced up his legs to mid-thigh.  He strode back towards the weyr’s ledge, grabbing his hide gloves and ornately carved riding helmet as he went.  He loved this helmet, especially the red accents that had been added along the sides in honor of Karth’s unique beauty.  He settled in onto his head and fastened the chin strap, then reached out and gave his riding harness a sharp tug to test its security.  Vaunting himself onto the Karth’s back, he reached down and scratched between the reddish brown eyeridges.

You ready?

He could hear the indignance in Karth’s huff.

I am always ready, Mine.

I’an smiled as Karth tipped them over the ledge and descended to the bottom of the Bowl.

Sliding off the brown’s back, I’an made to rejoin the other riders in his Wing.  He’d flown with these men for half a turn now, ever since Karth had come of age.  He loved and trusted them like brothers, though the thought sometimes weighed heavily on his mind.

One thing he’d never been poor in was the support of family.

The dragons were joining their Wings  and readying for flight when I’an’s eyes suddenly landed on a surprising sight.  Alaboth’s giant form was hovering outside the ledge of the Weyrleader’s weyr, but he was not looking at the Wings beneath him.  He stared up at the top lip of the Weyr, a look of intense concentration on his face.  I’an watched as S’ngellan walked to the ledge, mounted Alaboth and let his gaze drift over the assembling Wings below him.

I’an wasn’t surprised when the Weyrleader’s eyes fell on him and paused for a moment.  S’ngellan of Telgar was a man who held tremendous responsibility upon his shoulders and had little time for other pursuits, but I’an was well aware that the man kept a close eye on him and tracked his progression through the ranks of the Weyr.  When he’d impressed Karth on the hatching grounds only a day after his arrival, S’ngellan had looked on approvingly.  When he’d passed his trials and been promoted to full rider so soon after Karth’s maturity, the Weyrleader had seemed decidedly proud.

Pride was not in his eyes now though.  All I’an saw was a fiery determination as the bronze rider pulled his gaze away, swinging onto Alaboth’s back and taking to the skies.

The Weyrleader never looked back and I’an was soon saddled on Karth and heading

between.

By the time he and his Wing were firing on the long, ribbony filaments of thread over the borderlands of Telgar and Crom, S’ngellan’s hasty departure had disappeared from his mind.

But I’an was not far from the Weyrleader’s thoughts.  He had watched with proud satisfaction as the young, heartsick man had taken to Weyr life with grace and ease.  I’an and Karth were an exceptional pairing and S’ngellan suspected that they would rise in continued prominence.  I’an was already being vetted to stand as a Second in his Wing and he’d likely be one of the youngest Wingleaders the Weyr had ever seen.

S’ngellan had been exceedingly pleased to see the young man flourish, but that pleasure had always been marred by the slightest of black marks.  S’ngellan was a man who needed to trust his instincts, and I’an success only solidified those beliefs.  But it also reminded him that his initial impulse had not been to Search I’an alone.

There had been another he had left behind.

S’ngellan had often thought on the damaged, dark-haired young man whose face he had committed to memory.  And from the moment he’d released the boy’s neck and let him flee the Hold, he had known beyond a doubt that he and Alaboth would return to claim him later.  He could not explain how but he somehow knew as he’d watched I’an fight this boy on Crom’s courtyard floor that he was witnessing raw potential.

He’d waited.  He’d let time and distance heal some wounds, let I’an gain a foothold in this new world.

But the waiting was now over.  In fact, as he thought back on the message that had arrived at the Weyr from his network of contacts at Crom, he really could only hope he hadn’t waited too long.

Such were his thoughts as he and Alaboth re-emerged from

between

, circling the Hold of Crom just as they had a turn and a half ago.

And just like the last time, it was the Steward who met him in the courtyard, only now S’ngellan already knew that the Lord Holder was away from Crom.  The urgent message had emphasized that.

“How may we serve your needs now, Weyrleader?” Rustan said as he came across the courtyard with a contingent of men at arms.  S’ngellan strode into the gate, ignoring the welcome protocol.  He had not time for entitled nonsense.

“I come in Search,” he stated emphatically, stopping directly in front of the other man.  Lord Rustan’s face screwed up in surprise at the demand.

“Search?” he sputtered, “But you just…”

“I am in Search of one person only,” S’ngellan continued, staring hard at the Steward.  “I understand you have a son of the Milkovich farmhold in your custody.”

Anger flashed through the Steward’s eyes.  “How do you…”

“Do you have him or not?”

S’ngellan could see the Steward carefully examining his face and could only assume the other man was looking for some exploitable weakness.  But the Weyrleader was in no mood for games and Rustan of Crom must have realized this, for he fell back a step and nodded.

“He has been sentenced to exile.  He is Holdless now, no longer of Crom.”

“For what offense?”

The Steward shrugged, “He began a public brawl.  And he has been sighted for theft before, and for failing to make proper contributions to the Hold.”

“And for that you would render a man Holdless?” S’ngellan found it hard to keep the anger from his voice.  During a Pass, there was no worse punishment than exile.  It left a person with no protection against threadfall.

Again the Steward shrugged.  “There are other issues.”

Ah yes.  He might have suspected that in the judgmental and over involved world of the Hold, Mikhailo’s secret would soon have been discovered.  .

“You are fortunate he has not yet been cast out.  His “issues” will not be a bother at the Weyr.  I will take him off your hands.”

Rustan’s mouth twisted.  S’ngellan could see him racking his brain for a reason to deny the release.

“The Lord Holder…”

“Your brother would not have allowed this,” S’ngellan spit out, tired of the shite.  “He would never have sent a man into exile for such offenses.  At most, he would have sent him to us.  So do not pretend that you intended to wait.  Mikhailo Milkovich would have been thrown out of Crom before your lord brother ever had a chance to consider the situation.  But that doesn’t matter.  He is here and I claim him in Search.  Will you deny this?”

Rustan’s eyes were ugly, his complexion mottled with rage.  In the back of his mind, S’ngellan could hear whispers of caution from Alaboth, but still he held his ground and the Steward’s gaze.  The situation affronted him on so many levels.

S’ngellan could tell the moment the skirmish of wills was won.  Rustan’s eyes blinked and his gaze broke beneath the Weyrleader’s obvious disdain and he stepped to the side, offering the other man passage.

“He is in the cells,” he muttered, holding out a key. “Take one of the men to lead you there.”

“I grew up in this Hold,” S’ngellan bit back, taking the key in hand and striding forward.  “I need no escort to find my way.”  He stalked across the stone yard, well aware of the eyes still fixed on his back.  He had bested Rustan of Crom in this battle, but the war remained.

S’ngellan had never had much occasion to visit the cells of Crom but they were just as dank and miserable as his few memories suggested.  He’d grabbed an extra torch as he headed through the kitchens, but even that did little to diminish the terrible darkness.  There were only two lanterns burning in the whole corridor as he came to the bottom of the winding staircase and began to peer into each barred alcove.  He passed six empty pits before he found his prize.

“Hello, boy,” he stated simply as he held the torch up to cut through the oppressive darkness.  “Did you remember me like I told you?”

Mickey Milkovich’s first instinct was to slam his eyes shut.  The torchlight was dim but after more than a day set in utter blackness, even that little glow caused his eyes to tear.  Holding one hand up as a shield, he tried to focus his gaze on the barred opening at the front of his cell.  At first, all he could make out was a blurry shape, but gradually he took in more detail.  It was a man, tall and imposing with broad shoulders and a bearing that screamed that he could kick ass now and take names later.  A thrilling combination of panic and elation ran up the length of his spine.  He remembered the man.  He couldn’t see the sandy blonde hair or the gray eyes but still, he remembered.

It was the Weyrleader of Telgar.  Shite.  Shite, shite and shite a thousand times!  The man had said they would speak later but Mickey has assumed it was nothing but talk. He should have known better.  Dragon riders didn’t talk.  They acted.  And now he needed to worry about this one’s actions.  Feck it all, hadn’t his day been miserable enough?

“I remember,” he said carefully, striving to keep the nervous edge out of his voice.  He didn’t want this man to see his fear.

He struggled to his feet and stepped close to the bars as the Weyrleader’s eyes turned appraising.  “I see you’ve gotten yourself in more trouble, boy.”  The man stated in a tone that seemed indifferent to the answer.  It grated Mickey.

“I have a fecking name!”

“So I hear.  Mikhailo?”

“Mickey.”

“What?”

“It’s Mickey.  No one calls me...never fecking mind.  It’s Mickey.”

S’ngellan let his teeth clamp at his tongue, suppressing a smile.  Mickey.  Fine then.  Mickey was cold and hungry and filthy, and the Weyrleader could smell the fear on him, but he still stood strong and held a gaze.

Something good would come of this one.  S’ngellan could still not put to words how he knew, but he did.  Turning this youth from the hate and squalor of his former world would take discipline and hard work, but it would be worth it.

Right now, though, he needed to get the raven headed man out of this cell and back to the Weyr.

“Do you know why I’m here?”  he asked plainly.

The youth’s mouth turned mulish and his gaze broke towards the floor.  “No,” he replied with a hint of mockery.

“And you expect me to believe that?” S’ngellan answered.  He took a step forward and placed his torch in a nearby sconce, then settled back into his place and crossed his arms over his chest.

There was a long moment of silence as they two men examined each other carefully.  It was the brunette who broke first.

“I ain’t going with you,” He muttered.  His own arms crossed in front of him, but the gesture seemed protective instead of relaxed.

S’ngellan moved with the reflexive speed that had made him the greatest of bronze riders.  Before the raven haired young man could blink, the Weyrleader had seized him by the chin and nape yet again and hauled him forcefully against the cell door.  The youth offered him some fleeting resistance this time, shoving at  his chest through the bars, but even this rough hewn boy from the wastes of Southern Crom knew better than to actually strike a dragon rider.  Staring through the bars, S’ngellan met and held the furious, miserable blue eyes and this time the brunette didn’t look away.

Good,

he thought,

good.  I know you’re strong.

But out loud he only said, “First, you speak as if you have a choice in the matter.  You do not.  I am the Weyrleader of Telgar and I am here in Search!  But more importantly, I am here for you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” S’ngellan replied honestly.  “It is largely an intuition.  I feel it, as does Alaboth, my bronze.  We have never ignored this feeling and it has always served us well.”
A huff emerged from the brunette’s throat.  The hands that had pushed futilely at his chest fell away, sliding around the bars instead.  There was fear again, and genuine confusion in the youth’s voice.  S’ngellan released his chin and let his own large hand settle on the bars, though he kept a firm grip on Mickey’s neck.  He stared into the blue eyes in front of him, reading so much in their depths.  
Of course the brunette was confused.  Who had ever valued him before in his short life?

“I can’t...”

“You can,” the bronze rider interjected, cutting off the anticipated protest.  “You will.  You will come with me to the Weyr and become one of us. There is nothing left for you here.”

That truth weighed heavily upon the young man.  S’ngellan could see the change.  Mickey did look away now and his shoulders actually sagged.

“I can’t.” He repeated, and now S’ngellan could hear pleading in his voice.  “You don’t fecking know…”

“I know.”  The Weyrleader stated sharply.  “And it does not matter.  The Weyr houses more than two hundred dragons and more than four hundred people.  If you and my brown rider think it is so necessary to avoid each other, you shall be able to do so with little difficulty.”

“Your brown rider?”

S’ngellan nodded.  “Your friend has impressed one of the strongest browns ever born to Telgar Weyr.”

A shimmer of pride softened Mickey’s blue gaze at that pronouncement and it only made the Weyrleader more determined to take him.

“What am I supposed to do there?” the brunette asked in a voice that smacked of resignation.

“You are going to impress a dragon, my boy,” S’ngellan replied, “and you’re going to become a rider.”

“I don’t want…”

S’ngellan’s hand tightened around his nape.

“Do

not

lie to me.  You do want.  You want to go.  You want to see him again. And that in no way affects how I or anyone else will see you.”

Now the fire was back in the blue eyes, and this time Mickey leaned closer instead of pulling away.

“Yeah,” he murmured with a furious edge to his voice, “and just what the feck do you think you see, oh wise Weyrleader?”

S’ngellan only stared back, unmoved..  He stared and stared until the youth finally blinked and glanced down.  Still, though, S’ngellan was pleased.  This man would be a great rider.  His nerve would be unmatched.

“I see a candidate, nothing more.  But when you impress, you will become a Weyrling, and you will fight your way through the trials and earn your place.  And when you succeed, you will be a dragonrider.”

“If I don’t, can I leave?”

S’ngellan couldn’t suppress the slight shake of his head.  This young man was stubborn and angry and mulish as feck, but he was determined.

“You will,” he replied, stepping back and feeling in his pocket for the key Rustan had handed him in the courtyard.  “And when you do, all the things that concern you now, all the things you fear, will seem as nothing.  So strong and precious is the bond of impression.”

The barred door swung inward and S’ngellan let it sway loosely to the side.  Mickey stepped out hesitantly, as if he didn’t quite believe he’d been freed.  He looked untethered but the Weyrleader couldn’t have that now.  They still needed to make it back to the Weyr.

“I nearly took you at the last Search,” he spoke quietly, stepping into Mickey’s space, “but then I realized that whatever had passed between you and I’an might impact the Weyr.  So I gave you both time.  But that is over now.”

“Ian,” came the quiet reply.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s pronounced Ian.”

“No.  Ian Gallagher is gone.  I’an of Telgar, honored brown rider, is who he is now.”

A grimace twisted the young man’s mouth.

“I can’t.”

“You can and

will!

” S’ngellan could hear the thunderous authority in his own voice.  “I, S’ngellan, bronze rider and Weyrleader of Telgar, have come to this place in Search.  I am claiming you, Mikhailo Milkovich, for impression.  It is

done.

”

He turned and strode towards the stairs, leaving the flickering torch behind him.  After a moment, he heard the screech of the sconce and saw the light begin to move in his wake.  It seemed the youth, for all his denial and will, was not foolish enough to attempt to reject a Searching.

You are of my Weyr now, boy

, He thought as he took to the stairs,

and that is where you belong.

The kitchen was silent as he walked through it, the drudges timid and cowed, their eyes fixed on the floor.  S’ngellan glanced around, suddenly ill at ease.  What the feck was wrong with these people?

“They’re afraid of you,” a voice whispered from behind him. S’ngellan turned quickly, coming face to face with Mickey as the brunette reached the landing in the kitchens.  He looked even filthier in the light, but as S’ngellan glanced around at the reaction of the holdspeople, he found himself quickly abandoning his plan to have Mickey wash and change before departing.  It mattered not how he looked when he arrived.  No one at the Weyr would care.

But they must eat, at least.  Quickly.

“You there,” he gestured to one of the drudges, “We need food.  Bread, cheese and klah.”

The girl nodded but kept her eyes firmly on the ground.  S’ngellan turned towards the large table that stood in the center of the kitchen and sat upon the bench.  After a suspicious glance around him, Mickey sat as well.

“Explain,” the Weyrleader demanded, leaning close.

“It’s the movement.”

“The what?”

Mickey shook his head and glanced around them again.  No one seemed to be paying attention, but still, he leaned closer before answering.

“It’s been growing for a while now.  It may have started in the South, or in the mines, or other places where the poor shite like me come from, but now it’s pretty much everywhere.” he paused for a moment as the drudge stopped by the table, baring a tray with food and two mugs of hot klah.  Mickey seized one of the mugs and took a deep drink or the dark, hot, energizing drink.  He waited for the girl to depart.

“They say the thread is punishment.  That its been sent by some kind of force in the stars.  That the force judges us or some shite.”

“A force?  The Red Star brings the thread.”  S’ngellan wasn’t sure whether to be angry or intrigued by this new idea.

“Yeah, okay, but they say the Star is alive or something.  That it has thoughts.  That it doesn’t like what we’re doing down here and the thread is supposed to make us pay for it.”

“And what’s the Star so upset about?” Now the explanation was sounding absurd but the tension in the kitchens made him hold his tongue and listen.

Mickey leaned forward against the table, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth.  “I don’t know, they say it’s the Weyr.  The people of the Hold get punished for supporting the Weyr.  They say you’re evil, that you support evil shite.”

Now S’ngellan could feel his anger rising.  He took his own drink of Klah and ripped at a mouthful of bread.  “What do they mean?” he demanded carefully.

Mickey exhaled slowly, keeping his eyes on the bread in front of him.  “It’s not like its some great fecking secret why Rustan was gonna throw me out.  They know how I like to be bedded and they think it’s sick.”

“But that is nothing new.  The holds have always been like that.  Your lord discussed this with me at our last Search but he only seemed concerned.”

“Yeah, but it’s different now.  It gets people angry in a way I’ve never even seen.  When they see it here, with the men, or with women who get too mouthy or some shite, they throw them out.  Because that’s the Weyr way.  They say the Weyr is full of filth and that you let women dress and act like men.  And then you come and steal our food.”

“Tithing is not theft.  It is service for the risk we take in fighting thread!”

Mickey nodded slowly.  “Yeah, but they think you caused the thread.”

S’ngellan had not risen to be Weyrleader without the honing of a sharp tongue, but at this moment he truly found himself speechless.

“Rustan encourages this shite.”

The bronze rider could feel his shoulders tense.  “How do you know this?”

“He’s the one who talked to my father.”  Mickey sighed and leaned back, scanning the kitchen.  The drudges had all managed to slip away.  The brunette rubbed the back of his neck.  “They wanted me to marry some bitch whose father owns a farmhold near ours.  They’re trying to consolidate power.”

The Weyrleader didn’t like the sound of this.  “Power for what?”

“You think I know this shite?” the brunette spit back.  He wilted a little under S’ngellan’s furious glare.

“Look, I don’t know much.  I mean, I hear talk but that’s it.  But this is spreading.” He gestured around them at the empty room.  “Not everyone believes it.  Like, I doubt the people in here did, but it ain’t worth the risk to be seen with us.  The movement is violent.  They feck people up over this.”

S’ngellan sat back, too, no longer hungry.  He let the weight of the brunette’s words settle on him.

“So they think the Red Star is some kind of power?  That it hates the Weyr, and the Hold for supporting it?  And that the Red Star sent the thread to punish us all?”

“Yeah.”

S’ngellan just shook his head.  “That is absurd.”

Mickey’s eyes ran deep when they glanced back up at him.  “A lot of these people don’t think so. A lot of them believe.”

Suddenly, S’ngellan had no words again.  Just a feeling.  And he always trusted his feelings.  “Let’s go,” he murmured, standing and walking towards the courtyard, leaving Mickey to follow.  The youth, for all his arguments in the cells, didn’t lag behind.

There were two men at arms in the courtyard, but otherwise, the Hold was strangely still.  The threadfall would be over by now.  People should be milling about.  Where was everyone.?  S’ngellan’s unease has ebbed now that they were close to Alaboth, but he still wished to be gone immediately.

“You there,” he called to the men.  “Where is the Lord Holder?”

“Ista Hold,” the man said, easily and affably.  S’ngellan wished he could take comfort in the man’s ease, but everything suddenly seemed like a potential ploy.  “He traveled for the wedding feast of the Lord Holder’s sister.”

“And your Lady?”

“The whole family traveled together.”

S’ngellan nodded.  He took a deep breath and laid a hand on Alaboth’s eyeridge.  The bronze dragon gave him a meaningful look and sent a stream of calm his way, and the rider felt himself settle.  He should not take any action at this time.  In truth, he could not.  He needed to talk to Faidre, the Weyrwoman with whom he served, and with the rest of the Weyr’s leadership.  This was not his decision to make alone.  And he had come to Crom with one job, and that job was not done yet.

We fly

, he spoke to Alaboth and sensed the approval of the dragon through their bond.

With well-practiced moves, he linked an arm through his harness and hauled himself atop the bronze.  When he looked back down, the brunette was standing beside Alaboth’s side, staring up at him with unease.

“I can’t …”

“I’an did it easily,” S’ngellan said as he sorted out his reigns.  The innocent comment had the desired effect.  Mickey grunted but scrambled onto Alaboth with surprising grace for one so untrained.  He looped his hands into the rear holds of the bronze’s harness.

“He won’t let you fall,” S’ngellan said simply as he made ready to fly.

“How the feck do you know that?” the brunette asked in a shaky voice.

“Soon you will see,” the Weyrleader replied as they lifted off the ground.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

For the better part of his life, Mickey Milkovich had passed under the radar.  His father had only ever paid him mind long enough to land a whip across his back or to pull him into plots to fleece the local crafters.  His mother had been dead before he had any memory of her.  And to the rest of the small collection of farmholders in Southern Crom, he was just one of the unwashed horde of Milkovich children, looked down upon even by even the lowliest of Crom.

For a brief, bright moment in his life, Mickey had been very visible to one person, but that was over now.  The Weryleader had spoken the truth when he’d said that it would be possible to avoid others at the Weyr.  So far, I’an had stayed well away.  Mickey had caught glances of  him across the meal halls or far out on the training grounds, a place where only proven dragon riders could go.  Each time he caught a flash of red hair, his heart leaped in his chest.

There was little that he could do about it though.  I’an was a dragon rider.  Mickey’s role here, at least for now, was as a candidate.  There was far more equity in the world of the Weyr, certainly more than the strict and oppressive hierarchy of the Hold, but that didn’t mean that it was absolute.  The Weyr had one purpose; to protect Pern from threadfall.  Everyone in the Weyr had to play a part in that purpose.  So, the rules were actually pretty simple.  Fulfill your role and don’t get in the way of others fulfilling theirs.

I’an didn’t want to see him.  That was obvious and, even though Mickey hated to admit it, understandable.  Yes, he’d done what he’d done to keep I’an safe, but it was his own fears and cowardices, beat into him by his father, that had made him do it in the way he had.  He didn’t have to run I’an off.  He didn’t have to expose him publicly to force his compliance.

The more Mickey thought about it, the less he could justify his actions.  It was his fear, his inability to admit who he was, that had rooted this.  Not Terry.  Terry was always a threat.  Terry would kill a person as soon as look at them for anything.  No, Mickey was learning to accept his responsibility.  At one point, he and I’an’s predicament had been truly hopeless, when they were trapped in Southern farmholds with no possibility of an escape.  Desiring another man had long been taboo in Hold society, though families had frequently shielded loved ones in order to avoid their exile.  But with the movement’s increasingly expansive reach and power, such protection was becoming impossible.

Mickey wasn’t sure I’an had every fully understood just how much they were risking every time they snuck off to meet.  If there was one thing that had attracted him to the redhead, it was the perpetual hope and positivity that he radiated, despite the harsh world they inhabited.  But Mickey had no such luxuries.  I’an’s family would have accepted and sheltered him to the best of their abilities.  But if Terry hadn’t needed him, Mickey was pretty sure that the old man wouldn’t have bothered to have him publicly exiled by the Lord Holder.  No, Terry would have simply slit his throat.

His father had made this very clear the night after he’d first caught them, when he’d strung Mickey up in their barn and raised bloody welts across his entire back.  He’d repeated the process every few days for weeks, leaving fresh bruises and new wounds over top of  the barely healed marks that already covered Mickey’s skin.  In times past, this likely would have been enough to mollify the perpetually furious man, but the winds were shifting in Crom.  The movement had been spreading whispers through the community for a number of turns, and now their voice was growing in strength and volume.  Mickey had not idea where the root of the movement lay but his father was a vocal conduit of its message.  The Weyrs did not help Pern.  They cursed it through their filthy, deviant behavior.  Rather than being an open and accepting society, the Weyrs were morally bereft.  They did not protect the lands from thread. Instead, threadfall was the punishment set upon Pern for supporting Weyr life in the first place.

The movement was fanatical, of that Mickey could attest, but he knew his father wasn’t quite so focused.  Terry Milkovich hated the Weyr because it was there, because it was different, because it had things and there was no way for him to steal them.  Terry used the movement like he used everything else, with complete selfish indifference.  But while he was using it, he wasn’t about to let his youngest son and the piece of shite Gallagher boy threaten his position in it’s ranks.

So Mickey had hidden away from I’an, hoping that the redhead would realize the danger and let the matter rest, hoping that Terry wouldn’t want to risk any guilt by association if the movement became aware of his son’s activities.  He’d taken his father’s whippings and kept his distance and for a brief spot of time, he thought that maybe the plan was working.

Until Terry had offered a falsely innocent observation about the flammability of the Gallagher farmhold’s roof.

Mickey had been desperate by the time he and Iggy had been sent up to the Hold with their shortchanged tithe contributions.  The presence of the dragon riders had seemed like a stroke of luck but Mickey had long ago learned that luck was never on his side.  So maybe, maybe, he could be forgiven for fixating on getting I’an away from Crom and ignoring everything else.

He could be forgiven, if that was his real reason.  But it wasn’t.

No, if that was his reason, he could have waited until a break in the threadfall and snuck to I’an’s hold.  He could have told him the danger, made I’an believe, and made plans for them both to flee to the Weyr.  But he hadn’t been willing to take that risk, hadn’t been willing to publicly admit who he was.

In the end, it had made no difference.  In the end, he couldn’t fully deny himself enough to submit to a marriage that would always be a lie.  And maybe luck had finally found reason to favor him.  His father had attacked him in the tavern in Crom’s Hold.  It had earned him imprisonment and a sentence of exile, but spared him a slow death beneath Terry’s fists.  He’d sat in a cell, contemplating his next move, when, in a flash of torchlight and authoritative command, his future had been snatched up and rewritten.

Now, everyone knew him for who he was.  The people of Crom had no say in the matter.  The people of Telgar found it utterly unremarkable.  He was free, safe, and hovering on the edge of being happy.

But he had no right to I’an.  Not anymore.

And so he stayed away.  He adhered to the rule of the Weyr.  He didn’t go near I’an because it would anger him and Mickey had no right to be angering a dragon rider.  Especially not now.  S’ngellan and Faidre, the Weyrwoman of Telgar, had gathered the entire Weyr together not soon after Mickey’s arrival.  Pern was moving into the epicenter of the Red Star’s Pass, the Weyrwoman had explained.  They were almost twelve turns in.  If the lore was to be believed, nearly forty turns remained before the star’s orbit left Pern in peace for another interval.  The threadfall was going to increase dramatically now and they had to be ready.

It was common, she’d continued, for the people of the Holds to become wary of the Weyrs during the two hundred year intervals between each pass.  Generations would be born and die without ever encountering threadfall.  If the lore was to be believed, this distrust would usually have dissipated by now, as the need for the Weyrs became more apparent.  But such was not the case during this pass, and thus the Telgar could not expect appropriate support to merely be given.  Instead, they must show a consistently united front that created excellence in threadfighting and a protected population.  Then the Holdspeople would have no choice but to acknowledge that the Weyr was true to its mission.

This sounded a little naive to Mickey, but still, he would do his part and that meant following the rules.  He’d never been much for rules in the world of Crom, having been raised by man who flouted them with impunity.  Here, though, he’d felt an odd compulsion to do the right thing, to make smart choices, to trust in the wisdom of others.  It had taken him a while to recognize the guiding principle in these actions for what it was, but he knew now.

Respect.  It was respect.  He felt it for the Weyr and the people who served in it.  He gave it and was given it in return.  It was the strangest part of the equity of Weyr life, that someone might do the right thing for no other reason than that it was, in fact, right.  At one point, Mickey would’ve viewed this as weak.  Now, he welcomed it.

And there were no two people who earned his respect more readily than the Weyrleader and the Weyrwoman.

The hall that Mickey walked through was like much of the Weyr, practical and unadorned but impressive nonetheless due to its sheer scale and ingenuity.  It was within the walls of the cratered rock but an elaborate system of tunnels and mirrors reflected enough outside light to make the hall passable.  Another system of bellows drew in fresh air.  Neither Mickey nor any of the other Weyr dwellers knew much about the history or technological roots of these wonders.  They simply accepted them for what they were and maintained them with care.

This hall was particularly special.  Every hundred lengths or so, a large wooden door was set into the heavy stone.  On the other side of each, a massive private weyr sat, each with a bedchamber, a sitting room  and a private bathing hall with running water.  Each apartment contained a huge ledge, big enough to hold a Gold dragon.

There were ten Gold weyrs in all, built during a more prestigious time for Telgar.  At the height of a Pass, when threadfall was at its worst, it was common for more and more Golds to be born.  The reason for this was simple enough, Mickey had learned.  Of all the dragons housed in a Weyr, only Greens and Golds were female.  And of those females, only the Golds could carry and lay a clutch of eggs.

They were the Queens, quite literally, and their riders were Queen Riders, the only women to impress dragons.  And the most senior among them was the Weyrwoman.

Mickey didn’t fully understand why S’ngellan, a man with a thousand burdens laid upon his shoulder at any one time, would take such an interest in him, especially now that Mickey was in the Weyr, exactly where the great man had wanted him.  But the Weyrleader did pay attention.  He kept a close eye on Mickey’s assimilation into his new world.

It was S’ngellan who had put Mickey directly under the influence of Faidre.  Mickey, who had grown up without a mother and with only one sister, who had never cared for a woman in a personal or romantic sense.  He’d assumed that he would loathe Faidre with every fiber of his being.  He’d been wrong.

In fact, she was quite possibly the most impressive person that Mickey had ever encountered.

At merely five lengths tall, with her hair close cropped to her skull, Faidre could easily have been mistaken for a boy from the rear.  In fact, if the stories were true then many a holdsman had mistaken her for an easy mark, to their detriment.  Faidre was no one’s fool and everyone’s equal.  She was utterly fearless, utterly competent, utterly compassionate, and utterly devastating with any bladed weapon.

These skills all combined to make her a tremendous leader.

It took most holdborn Searched awhile to understand and adjust to the leadership structure in the Weyr, since there was nothing comparable to it in the Holds.  In Telgar, the main leadership council was comprised of three people in addition to Faidre.  First was D’vin.  He was a tall man, wiry but frighteningly strong, and he rode upon a bronze who was tiny by typical standards, but who’s speed and agility bordered on the surreal.  D’vin had been Weyrleader for a time and he now held the high honored post of Weyrlingmaster, in charge of training all the newly impressed and dragon riders in training.

Justine held the position of Headwoman, the one role in the Weyr that had a counterpart in the Holds.  Tall and slow to smile, the woman always appeared to be scanning what was in front of her and determining how it could be set to a greater rate of efficiency.  She was iron willed and demanding but Mickey found her consistent expectations incredibly comforting after the chaotic world of the Milkovich farmhold.

And then, of course, there was S’ngellan.

Mickey stopped in front of a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall.  He laid three knocks against the wood and waited for a response.  When he received none, he walked in and glanced around.  The large room was empty and when he walked through the chambers to the oversized ledge, there was no dragon to be seen.  With a nod, Mickey headed back into the chamber and begin stripping away the blankets from the small, functional bed in the corner of one room. He’s never done this kind of shite in his life before, what with the Milkovich farmhold generally being in squalor, but he’d become an expert now.  That was apparently what happened when the Weyrleader names a person the Weyrwoman’s personal steward.

Mickey walked around the room, setting each part of it to right.  He did this each day with a militant dedication to the task.  It was rote and uncomplicated and he liked that, too.

He’d been ready to rail furiously at S’ngellan when the man had first handed down the assignment to him.  He’d assumed it was a joke, or at least a punishment; a humiliation on level with the one he’d dealt to I’an in front of the people of Crom.  But this was the Weyr, and being a steward was a respected post.  It hadn’t taken Mickey long to realize that he’d been put in a position that required a great deal of responsibility and no small degree of significance.  He cleaned the Weyrwoman’s chambers and cared for her armor but he also helped manage her schedule and the greater responsibilities of running the Weyr.  He’d sat in on meetings and offered advice, when asked, about the wording of missives.  He’d been allowed to see maps and formation plans and supply lists.  He’d demonstrated a surprising adroitness at numerical figures and was taking very quickly to the written word, having been subjected to mandatory tutoring by Justine.

This presented him with even more confusion.  Humiliation and punishment he could have understood, but this assignment at the hands of the Weyrleader suggested other things.  It suggested trust.

And so Mickey found himself in the completely foreign circumstance of respecting others and being respected himself.

It terrified him.  But he was not willing to fail.

He

was

willing to question it, at least at first, and he’d approached S’ngellan after a council meeting, carefully angling for some information.  He’d nearly laughed at his quickly emerging skills at diplomacy, but he’d already learned on two prior occasions that he wasn’t a match for the Weyrleader, either physically or in terms of raw will.  So he’d asked carefully, and received a typically cryptic response.

“It’s a good fit for you.”

S’ngellan had looked up from a pile of scrolls, his gray eyes probing, as they did anytime Mickey was in his vicinity.  And as usual, Mickey had begun to squirm under the assessment.

“How would you know that?”

S’ngellan had only raised a brow at him as he gathered up the remainder of his paperwork, sliding a hefty pile of it into Mickey’s hands as he strolled away, and giving the steward no choice but to accompany him.  As they’d walked, S’ngellan had picked his brain about the Southern Holds of Crom, about the people and their fears and how best to communicate with him.  He listened when Mickey spoke and asked careful questions.  It had been hours later, lying in his bed, that Mickey realized  the Weyrleader had answered his question months ago.  Sometimes, S’ngellan just knew and when that feeling came, he trusted it.

Mickey was folding new blankets onto Faidre’s bed when a loud dragon bugle suddenly sounded.  He looked up, surprised.  This was a dragon call he had not yet heard and curiosity and a tinge of alarm sent him running towards the ledge of Faidre’s weyr.

The private weyrs of dragon riders were interesting places.  Cut into the inside wall of the crater, most could only be reached by dragon flight and as such, a drudge such as Mickey would have no opportunity to see one.  The weyrs of Queen riders were accessible from the main living quarters but this was not their only differences.  Other weyrs faced that massive main crater of Telgar, with its practice grounds and lake.  The weyrs of the Gold Riders had ledges that opened up to the small, enclosed corner of Telgar known as the Hatching Grounds, an expanse of black sand that drew in the heat from the sun with incredible efficiency.

It took no time for Mickey to locate the source of the unique trill as he stepped to the lip of the  ledge and looked down.  Below him, up on the slightly raised sands, Feith, Faidre’s Gold, was pawing at the black expanse and stalking back and forth, bellowing in agitation and discomfort.  Her time neared, the brunette realized.  Feith would lay her clutch on the sands soon and then spend the following six weeks obsessively tending them.  When they hatched, all candidates would be brought to the hatching grounds to see if they impressed one of the dragonets.

Mickey had no doubt that he would be out on the sands. In fact, he was sure that Faidre or S’ngellan would push him out there with their own fecking hands.  By custom, there were far more candidates than eggs during an impressment in order to give the emerging dragonets as many options as possible to choose from.  This was essential, as a dragon could not survive without an impressed rider.  Mickey had been told stories of newly emerged dragonets rejected all of the potential candidates and snapping

between

to their deaths.  The Weyr could little afford such losses, especially during an active pass, and thus provided all the possible candidates for each hatching.

“Are you near finished?”

The voice from behind him barely caused him to jump, as accustomed to it’s elegant timber as he’d become.  It made something loosen inside of him, this sense of security that he’d never felt at his old home.  Turning, he sought out the Headwoman, who was coming up beside him.

“Nearly,” he answered, managing not to wilt under Justine’s careful gaze.

“And yet you’re standing here watching this?” she asked, her voice clearly rhetorical.  Her own eyes scanned the scene below.  “You will be out on those sands, no doubt.”

Mickey didn’t argue.  He didn’t doubt it either.  He studied the other woman carefully, a question hovering on the tip of his tongue.

“You never impressed?”

“I was put on the sands when Faidre impressed her Gold and for both of the Gold’s hatched from Feith herself.  We’ve had no other Golds since then.”

“What happened…”

“You've not been told?” Justine’s voice was harsh, but she heard the anger and reigned it in.  It was not the boy’s fault for asking.  And he needed all the knowledge he could glean, for if S’ngellan was to be believed, he’d be a rider soon, and a great one at that.

She took a deep breath.  “They went

between

,” she answered simply, clinically.  “There was an illness at the Weyr, many passes ago now.  It took many, but for some reason the Queen riders were most affected.  It took Sufia, the former Weyrwoman whose Gold birthed Feith, and both of the riders of Feith’s birthed Gold’s.  It nearly took Faidre, too.”

Justine stopped and took a step closer to the ledge, letting her eyes wander over the sands.  Mickey let his own gaze trail after hers.  Feith continued to stomp at the hatching grounds, putting her mark all over it in preparation for the laying of her clutch.  She seemed more settled now, though, and more in control of her actions, creating a series of soft pockets in the sand, each large enough to hold an egg.  With a nod of her head, Justine led his eyes to Faidre, who sat cross legged on the side of the sands with her eyes closed and a peaceful expression on her face.

“This is what they do,” the Headwoman said softly, a note of admiration warming her typically cool voice.  “This is the job of the rider, the purpose of the bond.  Dragons are incredible.  They have emotions and sentience and power.  They have the ability to love.  But all of this is too much for them on their own, so they reach out and bond with their rider, who helps guide them with logic and self-control and direction.” She took a step inside and picked up one of the discarded blankets.  “The dragons cannot live without it.  When Sufia and the junior Queen riders succumbed to their fever, their dragons did what all dragons do at the loss of their rider.  They went

between

and never emerged, letting the cold and darkness take them.  If Faidre had died as well, we would have lost Feith, too.”

“But without Golds…”

“The Weyr would be lost,” the Headwoman finished, reading his thoughts.  “This is why we hope so fervently that this clutch will contain a Queen’s egg.  Or two.  But Feith has not given us one in many, many turns.”

“Why not?”

“Who can say,” Justine answered, some of the brusqueness returning to her voice.  She walked off the ledge now, and back into the Weyrwoman’s bedchamber.  “Feith and Faidre have wondered if it is the loss of her first two Golds and the mark it left on her that prevents it, or even the results of the illness and their close brush with death.  Faidre has sought to comfort Feith’s mind but some wounds of the heart and soul are not easily mended,”  She sighed and turned back to the brunette.  It was not her way to be so open, especially with a meer Steward, but her Weyrleaders were right.  This one was different.

“I am not the person to teach you about the bond,” she replied, pulling her shoulders back and resuming the businesslike attitude that made her feared and respected in the Weyr.  “Besides, the next impressment is rapidly approaching.  You will soon understand all of this much better than I.”  She strode towards the door.  “Come now.  The room is turned and I need your help in the council chamber.”

Mickey snorted, glancing back at the sands a final time.  “Who the feck even knows if I’ll impress,” he muttered as he followed in her wake.

Justine turned back towards him as she held the heavy door open.  Now it was her turn to snort.

“You will.”

***********************************************************************************

Justine had spoken truth when she’s said that she could not understand the bond, but there were plenty in the Weyr who did.  They watched now, seated on the ledges of their own weyrs with their dragons, observing as the Queen beat at the sands in preparation for the laying.  The air around them crackled with excitement and nervous energy, for each new clutch had the potential to change the dynamics of all of Telgar.

Few outside of a Weyr really understood their ways, and for the riders and their people, this was fine.  Life here was different by design.  They had one job, to protect Pern from threadfall, and all of their decisions and efforts were made in that pursuit.  It impacted every aspect of their lives, from where they lived to what they wore, from what they ate to who they fucked.

It was the latter that was most intriguing to the riders now.  A new clutch meant the potential birth of a new Gold.  And that opened up interesting and far-reaching possibilities.

The people of the Hold had only the vaguest understanding of the mating habits of dragons.  To them, it was easiest to reduce it down to rampant promiscuity among the riders, judge them for it, and be done.  But the truth was a far more complex and heavily guarded secret, one that was only truly understood once a dragon came of age and their rider experienced a full heat for the first time.

It was something that I’an was just beginning to truly grasp.

He patently ignored the brunette as the other man retreated off of the Weyrwoman’s ledge and instead forced his attention back to the woman herself.  And her Gold.

I’an understood the bond.  In fact, after nearly two full turns since his impression with Karth, he could scarcely remember what it felt like to live without it.  He remembered his farmhold in Crom, remembered his family and...other things, but a new reality had been overlaid atop that life and it now felt as if Karth had been beside him the whole time.

He wasn’t alone in that assessment.  Every other rider he’d spoken to had mimicked the feeling.  The bond was just there.  It was the core of every thought, the tether of every action.  It was his responsibility and privilege to have access to Karth, to share his thoughts and feelings and to help the massive creature as he steered and managed his most base and primal impulses.  That balance had surprised him at first.  It had seemed so strange to have sentient conversations in his head with a personality who could offer sarcastic quips and wry observations in one breath and seek to kill a man or dragon in the next.

But that was who a dragon was.  Riders were needed to be that steadying force, to help them direct their natural bloodlust towards training and threadfighting.

And mating.

That balance had surprised him, too.

Ian Gallagher became I’an of Telgar, a Weyrling with a new dragonet, less than two days after his arrival at the Weyr.  As such, he learned and observed very little of Weyr life before he was thrust into training.  Some had grown up in the Weyr and most had lived and served the riders before ever becoming one themselves.  They’s seen a mating flight from the outside before ever experiencing it as an active participant.  I’an hadn’t had this chance and the first time after his impressment that a green rose to mate, he’d been rendered bedridden by the emotional and physical response to the female’s pheromones.  It hadn’t been a sexual response.  Karth was far too young for that, but it had been powerful and compulsive in its own way and it had left him weak and sick for days.

He’d awoken in his tiny weyr in the Weyrling dormitory to find the Weyrlingmaster at his bedside, whittling at a stick with a firm set to his mouth.

“This frightened you.” D’vin had declared frankly, barely glancing up from his work as I’an pushed himself to sit up on the bed.

“No…”he’d started, but D’vin had simply continued.

“Yes.  And that is acceptable.  You’ve come to us from a place that is very limited in their views of mating.  You’ve internalized this and also been hurt by it.  And now you’ve been thrown into a world that gives you a great deal of freedom and respect but also asks a great deal of you.  And you’ve had no warning.  So we will talk.”  He’d settled back into his chair and met I’an gaze.  “What do you wish to know first?”

I’an had let his eyes fall to his hands as they smoothed self-consciously over the blanket that covered him.

“Why does it have to happen like this?”

“Like this?  Why does a rider get pulled into the mating?”

“Yes.”

D’vin had nodded and resumed his wittling.  “You are very new to this and I’d value your answer.  Tell me why you think we bond with our dragons, why the dragons need their bond.”

I’an had sighed and let his gaze drift over to the brown curled up and asleep on the tiny ledge to his left.  Karth had been small by dragon standards then, no bigger than a pony, but he’d been half that size at birth.  He was growing at a speed that seemed incredible to the untrained new rider.   The brown stirred and lifted his head lazily.

Mine

, had echoed dreamily in I’an mind, soothing him and settling him.  He’d turned back to D’vin.

“They need it,”  he’d answered simply, “And...I need it, too.”

He hadn’t been sure how D’vin would respond but the Weyrlingmaster had issued him a stiff nod and continued speaking.

“Exactly.  They need it in all things.  We ask much of our dragons and we must give them the help that they need.  This is true in a threadfight or a hunt but most especially true in a mating flight.

Understand,” he’d continued, glancing up from his stick and knife, “When a female goes into heat, she will fly as high as she can and seek to evade the males who give chase.  A worthy mate must catch her.  Then they fall.  It sounds quite simple but there are many perils.  The riders of blues, browns and bronzes help control the male’s aggression and drive to mate at any cost.  The Queen riders and riders of greens help manage their female’s fight or flight responses.   Otherwise, they might instinctively be driven to tear each other apart or exhaust themselves and fall to their deaths.   This is essential to their safety, but it does mean that the mating drive overtakes us as well.  It is an experience that we accept and support without judgement.”

He’d made to stand then.  “You need your sleep, Weyrling.” he’d stated insistently as he set the chair back against the walls of the dorm.  He’d turned towards the door but I’an voice had stopped him.

“May I please...just one more question.”

The tall man had turned back towards him and raised a brow.

“What happens,” I’an had muttered, turning his eyes towards his lap to hide his still-fresh heartache, “What happens to the riders afterward?”  He’d let his gaze drift up to the bronze rider’s face.

A glimmer of pain had flashed across D’vin’s eyes before he turned away, staring out of the little weyr into the small training yard that held the other newly hatched dragonets.  He’d watched them all for a long moment.

“It depends,” He’d stated finally in a careful voice.  “When the female in question is a green, it often leads to a stronger bond of friendship between the dragons and their riders, though if it became more, that would also be fine.  It always leaves some imprint and this is counted a good thing. But greens cannot carry clutches and thus, the relationships are less essential.

When a Queen rises, there is more supervision because there is much at stake.  A Queen will bare the young of the Weyr and the seniority and prestige of her rider and the rider of the dragon who flies her dictates the Weyr’s leadership.  Those relationships carry a great deal of weight.”

“So, they’re, like, a couple?”

D’vin’s jaw had tightened at the question and I’an had wished he hadn’t asked, but the taller man had responded anyway.

“Often.  The affections of the dragons and the riders outside of a heat can play a highly influential role in this process, often in positive ways.  But it does not have to be so.  You will quickly realize that Faidre and S’ngellan are not a, um, couple, as you put it.  They share a deep platonic love and respect for each other, but they do not share a bed outside of Feith and Alaboth’s mating flight and that too is accepted and supported without judgement.”

D’vin had hovered a the lip of the ledge for a long moment.

“I can only explain this academically.  You will see it again, experience it again, and you will come to understand.  But in the meantime, you and Karth will be given training in how to control your responses to a heat.  This was an oversight and I apologize.  It is so rare to have an impressed who has never lived in the Weyr and been exposed to heat pheromones prior to their bonding.  You’ve had no chance to build up a tolerance, but do not worry.   It won’t feel like this next time.”  He’d turned and headed for the door again.

“Sleep,” he’d ordered over his shoulder as he vacated the dormitory.

I’an had learned.  He’d learned incredibly well.  At this point, there’d been more than a dozen greens who had been flown since Karth had matured and entered a fighting wing.  Karth was eligible to fly a female dragon, but he had shown nothing more than a passing, instinctive interest.  He had never actually risen to give chase.

I’an had felt a tinge of guilt at this but was uncertain what he could do about it.  He’d arrived at the Weyr angry and with his heart in tatters.  He’d impressed Karth the next day and he now couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d somehow infected his beloved brown with his own hurt and jaded viewpoints.

It was healthy and good that Karth should mate.  I’an didn’t want to prevent this, even if he himself felt empty at the thought.

We will see, Mine,

the massive brown whispered inside I’an’s mind,

And you needn’t worry.  I just have particular tastes.

You don’t know that,

he answered in kind, twisting to look at the brown who hovered on the ledge beside him.  He crossed his arms and pillowed them onto Karth’s snout, staring into one huge brown eye.

And you do not either, Mine.  All we know is that none have thus struck our fancy.

I’an made a face.  “Shite, must you speak like a highborn lord all the time?” he asked out loud., “Besides, it isn’t ‘our’ thing.  You need to like…”

I will not pursue one if you do not care for their rider.  That would not do, Mine.

The brown blinked at him meaningfully,

Besides, you are already in love…”

“Don’t start that shite again,” Ian muttered, standing up and walking out to the lip of the ledge and looking down.  Feith had settled in the very middle of the hatching grounds, spreading her neck, tail and wings out to cover as much of her claimed territory as she could.

Do not be vulgar, Mine.

“It’s just…”I’an turned back towards the brown, “I don’t love him.”

You do.

“I don’t!”

The brown didn’t answer but offered I’an an incredulous look as he turned back towards the ledge.

You will tell me things are complicated.  I do not understand such things.  I only know your heart.

” The huge brown shifted up onto his legs, his scales catching the last rays of the setting sun and glowing with a brilliant fire.

Come, Mine, we will eat.

I’an did not argue.  He didn’t want to pursue this line of thinking any further.  With a leap, he swung atop Karth’s back and let the giant brown carry them both down to the feeding grounds.

As he sat at the trestle table for honored brown riders in the hall later, eating his own dinner, he found it a struggle to keep his eyes from drifting towards the stewards.  And so it was that he saw the beginning of the altercation as another drudge approached Mickey from behind and flipped his trencher, knocking his food to the floor.

Mickey rose to his feet with fluid grace and I’an made to follow without realizing it.  He was halfway out of his seat when two strong hands landed on his shoulders and pushed him back down.  He tore his head around furiously, only to have his anger bleed away when he saw who held him.

S’ngellan.  Of course.

“Do not interfere,” came the whispered command from the Weyrleader.

Indeed, there was no need.  I’an didn’t know the dumb fecking fool who had approached Mickey but it was obvious from his bearing that he was high born and thought well of himself.  I’an’s table was far away but the entire hall had gone quiet enough for him to hear pieces of the exchange between the brunette steward and the arrogant drudge.

Apparently, the young man didn’t feel that Mickey’s lowborn status merited him a place at the steward’s table.  I’an felt like laughing.

Mickey did just that.

The high born drudge had clearly been trained in courtly dueling strategy.  It might look pretty but it was no match for the rough, improvisational pugilism that Mickey and I’an had mastered to survive the Southern farmholds.  When the drudge moved to slap Mickey, the brunette ducked and evaded him, moving behind the other man with ease.  Before the high born fool could react, Mickey caught him  around the throat with a forearm and yanked him backward and off balance.  With a shift of his hips and a well placed foot, Mickey dumped the snotty fecker right into the food he’s thrown on the floor, only to follow him down and straddle the drudges prone body, pinning him to the dirt.

I’an started to tense and stand again as Mickey grabbed the other man by the hair and cocked his fist back, but S’ngellan kept ahold of him.

“Wait,” the Weyrleader replied calmly.

I’an could see the rage on Mickey’s face.  He knew that look, that dagger gaze of cold destruction.  He’d seen it on the face of Terry Milkovich many times and seeing it now, the sneer on Mickey’s lips, the cold hate in Mickey’s eyes, made him sick.

It had lasted for a long, tense moment but a shudder suddenly ran through the brunette, softening him from head to toe.  His face morphed, as if in shock at his current position.  His blue eyes turned towards his fist, still cocked in the air, and he yanked it down, releasing the drudge’s hair at the same time.

There was a nervous undercurrent in the hall as the eyes of every weyrfolk honed in on the raven haired man.  I’an was no different, his gaze fixing automatically on Mickey’s face as a litany of confused emotions flitted across the brunette’s features.  His eyes darted around the room without anchor, confusion and a tinge of panic dimming the vibrance of the blue.

But suddenly, his gaze locked on I’an’s eyes.  And held.

It could have been moments or hours that they stared across the hall, completely alone despite the crowd.  I’an had no way of telling, as lost as he was in those terribly familiar blue eyes.  He could feel all his rage and resentment bubbling near the surface but for that one second, it was held at bay.

Mickey was the first to blink.  He broke the stare quite suddenly, whipping his head to the side and gazing out the doors that led out of the hall.  His face and shoulders were set, alert and intent.  He almost appeared to be searching for something.

Or listening.

I’an made no attempt to move, his thoughts clearing now, but he didn’t look away when Mickey threw him a final, bewildered glance.  But then the brunette was struggling to his feet and clambering away from the prone man beneath him, letting the last bit of tension in his fist relax against his thigh.  His blue eyes scanned the room, taking in the accessing stares of the entire Weyr.  And still, he seemed to be searching for something.

He moved suddenly, reaching towards the table and grabbing a cloth.  As I’an watched, he dropped it onto the drudge on the floor.

“Clean up your mess,” he ordered as he stepped over the other man and walked out of the hall and onto the sands of the Weyr’s crater floor, leaving a building din of confused and intrigued voiced in his wake.  The noise was cut off by the sudden, cacophonous bugle of dragons.

“That sneaky girl,” S’ngellan muttered affectionately behind him.  He felt the Weyrleader pat his shoulder as he walked away.

“Feith is bearing her clutch,” he called to the crowd, grabbing some bread off the table and biting into it as he hurried from the hall.

All around I’an, excited clamors rose up, but the bronze rider stayed silent.  He glanced towards the drudge on the floor, but the boy appeared to have used the distraction to clear away the mess and flee the hall.  I’an’s eyes flickered back to the door that Mickey had exited through.

He kept his gaze fixed there for the rest of the meal, but the brunette never returned.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The Weyr at Telgar was not overly crowded.  Though the relative space and privacy it afforded was well received by it’s inhabitants, these circumstances caused quite a bit of dread and apprehension for the Weyr’s leadership.  Threadfall was increasing and if Telgar was going to defend against it, they needed all the weyrs filled to capacity, comfort be damned.

On the sands of the hatching grounds, Feith stepped lightly, each move surprisingly graceful from a beast of such size.  She paused at each egg, sitting upright in it’s divet in the sand. Feith would carefully nose at the shell, adjust its position, and breathe over it warmly before moving on.  The action was no longer remarkable to the other inhabitants of the Weyr. Their Queen had been doing it for nearly eight weeks now.

The eggs were spread evenly across the sand, covering the field from one end to another.  It was a strong clutch, of that there was no dispute. Twenty-three eggs littered the grounds, a larger than average grouping.  They looked strong, too, and of a good size. But once again, to Feith and Faidre’s despair, there was no gold hued egg to mark the birth of a new Queen.

Justine, Headwoman of Telgar, stood at the ledge of one of the junior gold weyrs and gazed across the sands.  She had cleaned out the weyr personally, quietly hoping that this display of faith might yield a gold egg in Feith’s clutch, but it had not been so.  The weyr would remain uninhabited now. As she took in the sight before her, Justine could, for the first time, finally admit to a frisson of real fear.

Twenty-three was a very good number of eggs.  She knew that. Faidre knew that. All of Telgar knew that.  But it would not be enough to build up their ranks to capacity.  One Queen could not sustain an entire Weyr for the duration of a Pass.

“You left our bed early.”

Justine did not turn towards the voice behind her.  Her gaze continued to peruse the scene in front of her as the Weyrleader of Telgar came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.  She let S’ngellan pull her back into his embrace and bury his face in her hair, searching out what comfort her scent could offer. For the rest of the Weyr, the man must look strong and unyielding and confident.  But Justine knew better. He too could feel fear, even if he only ever let her, D’vin and Faidre, see it.

“She’s still out there.”

The Weyrleader pulled back, following Justine’s gaze across the sands to where Faidre sat, cross legged on the ground in her typical spot.  Once again, her eyes were closed as she communed with her gold.

S’ngellan sighed and turned into the empty weyr.  “Alaboth tells me they both feel guilt.”

Justine sucked in a breath, “They should not…”

“I

know

,” the Weyrleader spit out, drawing in his own sharp breath as he turned back to the lady.  “I apologize. My frustration is not towards you. Or them. It’s just, I have tried to tell them this, as has Alaboth, but we can only speak to their minds.  Their hearts, unfortunately, defy our logical arguments and accept blame that is not theirs.”

Justine listened carefully but she could see his hands balling against his thighs.  “And you, my love, what do you accept?”

“I accept…”his voice drifted away, staring off into the cold darkness of the empty weyr, “I believe perhaps it is time for another to fly Feith.”

As the Headwoman of Telgar, Justine was well practiced in the art of maintaining a calm demeanor.  Nonetheless, she nearly gasped aloud at S’ngellan’s voice.

“But...who?” she asked, finally finding her voice.  Her mind raced through the ranks. There were ten bronze riders in the weyrs at Telgar and they were all good men, loyal, dedicated, and brave in a threadfight.  But none truly stood out. None appeared ready to take on the necessary responsibilities.

And that was what it meant.  The rider of the Senior Queen rose to prominence as the Weyrwoman.  The rider of the dragon who flew her assumed the mantle of Weyrleader.

“My love,” she began, trying to keep her faltering voice reasonable, “There are none so capable…”

“I am not capable,” he bit out.  He turned, and she winced as he ran his hands through his sandy blond hair.  S’ngellan was not given to nervous actions. “I am not,” he continued, looking back at her.  “I can muster the riders, I can Search them out and train them. I can delegate and speak to the masses and negotiate with the Holders.  I am not doubting those abilities. But what of it, Justine? We need more golds! Without them, the rest is worth nothing!”

“Shards, S’ngellan,” Justine laughed bitterly, throwing him a caustic look. “Do not play foolish with me.  It is worth everything. Everything! We could have ten golds all baring clutches on a regular rotation and it would protect no one, as well as endanger

everyone

, if we had no proper leadership.  There are good men in the bronze ranks, some who could be built towards leadership even, but there are none who are ready now.  And you are speaking nonsense anyway. The eggs are determined by their dam, not their sire.” She glanced out onto the sands again, catching sight of Feith, “If it is not their fault, and I agree wholeheartedly that it is not, than it is certainly not yours either.”

She saw his head fall forward and walked towards him, wrapping her arms around his waist now.  “What does your heart tell you?”

“You trust my heart more than I do sometimes.”

“I do.  You’re doubting yourself now.  But tell me.”

S’ngellan sighed and Justine felt the rumble run through her own body.  “I feel calm. I feel like everything will be fine. But in this moment, I also realize I have no tangible reason to feel this way.”

Justine let her grip tighten around him.  Only moments ago, she had been stewing in her own fears and now she found herself dispelling her lover of his.  S’ngellan was right. She did trust his intuition, sometimes more than he did, and if S’ngellan’s heart was telling him to be optimistic, then by the first egg, she was going to believe it.

“How long have you felt this way.”

“You know.”

“Tell me again.”

He sighed but this time there was a playfulness to it.

“Since Alaboth and I saw them at Crom Hold.”

“Exactly,” Justine murmured, turning him around to face her, “And since then, they have both done amazing things.  I don’t know what will come of this, but we need to trust it.”

Outside, the bugle of dragons sounded, drawing both their gazes to the ledge of the weyr.  Threadfall was coming. S’ngellan needed to go, but before he escaped, Justine pinched his chin and drew his head back around.  “We need to trust it. So none of this despairing talk now.”

He nodded slowly and brushed their lips together as he headed towards the door.

All across the Weyr, the dragons were descending.  Coming to the ground lightly, I’an slid from Karth’s back and batted the huge brown on his side, sending him towards one of the massive troughs of firestone. I’an glanced around at the men who milled about on the ground.  A turn ago, there had been days between threadfall. There had been opportunity to rest and recuperate properly. Such leisure time was dwindling with the full onset of the pass. Looking up into the sky, the brown rider could clearly make out the shape of the red star.  It was still far off, closer to the horizon, but it would pass across the entire planet before it finally resumed its awkward orbit, and as it traversed the skies, the threadfall would only get worse.

The dragons had fought for three days in a row now.  The men were tired. The grim set of their mouths was beginning to seem permanent.  Older riders who had lived in Telgar during the end of the last Interval, when threadfall was only a theory for which they trained, and the more recently impressed who knew nothing of Weyr life but the fight all now looked the same.

And they had many, many passes to go.  Most of these men would not live to see the Red Star leave Pern’s orbit.

I’an walked among them, mustering up his biggest smile, talking to each person as he passed.  It wasn’t much, he knew, but anything that could be done to bolster morale was necessary. They all needed to do their part.

Walking towards the troughs, I’an checked on Karth’s progress.  The brown was large. He had already proven capable of flying for an entire threadfall.  But it meant he needed to consume enough firestone to supply them with flame for the duration.  Coming up to the brown’s side, I’an scratched along his soft hide with long strokes, allowing himself a moment of levity to chuckle at the sight of Karth.  His dragon was so eloquent and refined in so many ways.

But he ate like a pig.

You’re making a mess.

Karth only harrumphed.

That is hardly a concern now, Mine.

As the brown at his fill, I’an adjusted his armor, fixating on the fit of his gloves.  He kept his eyes down and his mind busy, well aware of his tendencies. The troughs lay close to the entrance to the hatching grounds.  His eyes, for whatever reason, would want to seek out Mickey as the brunette served Faidre on the outskirts of the sands. And he couldn’t do that now.  He needed to get into a fighting mindset. Already, there was enough tension in the Weyr. The clutch could hatch any moment. Impressments could begin any moment.  I’an had no doubts that Mickey would impress. If S’ngellan’s unshakeable confidence hadn’t already convinced him, then Mickey’s strange behavior towards the eggs had secured the notion.  He practically lived on the hatching sands with Faidre for the past two passes of the moon.

I’an was not going to pretend he hadn’t been watching, but he couldn’t dwell on that now.  The dragons had consumed their firestone and the bugle was sounding. I’an climbed atop Karth and waited for the bugle of his wingleader, signalling them to rise.

When they lifted off the ground, they banked to the side, splitting off the the left.  Another wing took the high middle position, another the low, and a fourth to the right.  They hovered, nearly two hundred strong, the wind whipping from the flutter of so many wings, before Alaboth’s command echoed through the telekinetic bond of all the dragons as one simple word.

Between!

I’an ducked down, flattening himself along the delicate bumps of Karth’s spine, bracing against the horrible sucking sensation that assaulted him as they slipped

between

.  Then, they were there, and their eyes and ears were useless to them.  The dimension was utterly devoid; perfectly still, completely dark, blindingly cold.  The redhead clenched his knees around Karth’s sides and wrapped his hands more firmly in the reigns.  He hated the

between

, and feared it, but he did not judge himself harshly.  He knew of no rider who didn’t hate the dark dimension, and that included the Weyrlingmaster and Weyrleader themselves.  And with good reason. If a rider fell from his dragon, there was no light or sound or smell. There was no way for his dragon to catch him.  He would simply fall until he froze.

They emerged quickly this time, to the relief of all in the Flight.  Beneath them stretched the expanse of Telgar Hold and its surrounding farmholds.  It was closer than Crom, which made for a shorter travel time in the dark dimension and less recovery time for the riders and beasts on the other side, which was a boon.  But it abutted the sea, and the strong winds that swept over the water often caused the thread to get sucked into the drafts, making the fall pattern unpredictable. The riders always yielded a higher number of scoring injuries when fighting thread in Telgar Hold and it weighed on I’an mind as he looked over the members of his wing.  They looked ready. He was ready, too.

And not a moment too soon.   Bugles echoed through the air as the long silvery ribbons of thread began to descend from the sky.

I’an pushed up on his feet and let his thoughts flow through his bond with Karth.

We go high.

Yes, Mine.

They broke as the wing scattered, targeting individual strands of the long, silver filaments.  I’an knew that thread was non-sentient and in his everyday life, he believed it, but whenever he found himself confronting the silver shite, doubt crept it.  It just seemed too smart, too deliberate in it’s movements.

They narrowed on a strand, coming down from above in a narrow spiral.  It glinted in the sun as it twirled. Diving down, he an Karth got beneath it, looking up for a greater vantage point.

Let’s go,

he murmured in the brown’s mind.

He felt the pressure against his knees as the great beast took in a giant breath.

And let loose a blast of fire at the silver strand.

It alighted easily, emitting the squeaky shriek that was a signature of burning thread.  It sounded like a death cry, it sounded alive, but I’an knew it was only the sound of the filaments squeezing and popping as they melted.

At that moment, without warning, the thread broke formation. The tight coil loosened and began to descend in large loops, drifting horizontally across the sky.  The tail end drifted down, near Karth’s back.

Go Left!

Ian demanded.  There was no hesitation on the part of the brown, so strong was their bond.  He dove immediately, snapping

between

for a brief second and emerging thirty lengths below the silver strand.  Glancing around, I’an looked to spot other flying pairs as Karth looped up under the falling filament. There was always the danger, during heavy threadfall, of the dragons flying too close and encountering the flame projections of their wingmates.  There were no others close by, though, and he returned his attention to the thread.

I will start at one end,

Karth murmured.

I’an agreed.

And so it went.  They burned the strand, ducking and weaving and snapping

between

as the endless ribbon of silver shifted and whirled through the air. They burned it to its end, only to turn and find another.  And another.

And another.

One the ground beneath them, blues and greens were spread out, blasting the last falling pieces of the filament with their own fiery breath, making sure to get each little piece.  No thread could touch the ground, for the tiniest scrap could score the landscape, growing as it consumed all living material. Whenever a blue or green touched down upon the ground to rest, another would take to the skies.  They worked in tandem, a well oiled machine under S’ngellan and the Wingleaders’ guidance.

Hours later, I’an sat upon an exhausted Karth, scanning the skies.  They had seen no sign of the telltale silver filaments in an hour. The fall had passed.

Home!

Commanded Alaboth through the bond.

I’an leaned down and rubbed Karth’s eyeridges, then hunkered down against the brown’s back again as he snapped

between.

When they arrived back at the Weyr, a large meal was being prepared in the kitchen.  The flying pairs all hurried to their weyrs to strip off and tend to their armor and the harnesses of their dragons.  They were exhausted and hungry, but nothing came before preparation for the next threadfall, for no one knew when that might be.

With his armor cleaned and Karth’s harness mended and stored, I’an pulled out a brush and a jug of oil.  Starting along one side, he worked the fragrant liquid into Karth’s hide, sloughing away the soot and dead skin, revealing a lustrous new coat below.  He concentrated on the movements, fixating on each stroke.

The hatching has not happened.

What?

Inside his head, he heart Karth chuckle.

He has not yet impressed.

I’an could feel himself bristle but he measured his response.

It hardly matters.

Oh, do stop, Mine,

the dragon murmured.  His long neck swung around until his massive hazel eyes could lock on the sheepish green gaze of his rider.

It matters to us all.  And to you more than most.  There is no shame in that.

I’m not ashamed,

the redhead answered, his voice firm,

I’m cautious.  I trusted him. He broke that trust

You admit that he did it to save you.

And to spare himself.

Ah.

Karth said no more.  He simply let his rider speak his mind.

You don’t know him.  Not really. You only know him from rooting around in my head.  You know the person I thought he was.

Is it possible for a human to so fully mislead?

Sure.

Hmmmmm.

I’an finished up Karth's hide, moving carefully down each of his back legs.  The huge creature grumbled in appreciation.

How’s that feel.

Much better, Mine.

He stood and shook, settling his wings against his back.

You know, if he impresses, I may get to know him.  If his dragon and I connect.

I’an sighed.

You could just not…

Oh, do not be foolish, Mine.

The huge brown muttered affectionately.

You understand as well as I that a dragon will form bonds and make connections.  It is what we are meant to do. And I warn you, there is a good chance I will be drawn to the one who impresses your love…

He is

not…

A warm, tender feeling suddenly suffused the redhead, calming his ire.  Karth’s eyes sought him out again, and this time they were apologetic.

I am sorry, Mine.  I do not mean to speak so bluntly.  But the warning stands. You had a bond with this man once, an intense bond.  If you know longer feel it, then it should be of no concern. But, Mine, I think you do, at least a bit, and it will inspire new bonds to form.

He butted his head against the redhead gently, and I’an leaned into the touch.

I’m not going to let him in again.  I have a job to do here. I’m good at it.  I’m not fecking up my life for him. Again.

Alright, Mine.  We will discuss it no more.  May we eat?

I’an nodded, but his gaze remained far away as he leaped onto to Karth’s bare back and let the brown carry him to the ground.

Leaving the dragon to dispel the remnants of firestone and seek his own meal, I’an headed into the Weyrhall.  He took his seat at the brown rider’s table and dug into the large helping of warm stew and fresh bread a kitchen drudge served him.  He spoke with his men and focused on his food and the good conversation around him, but his eyes kept drifting over the masses in the hall.

Mickey wasn’t with the Stewards or the table of potential candidates.  He must still be outside with Faidre.

He headed out of the hall and into the darkness of the crater.  The mood was less jovial tonight, with few bonfires set in the yard.  He saw no sparring or games of chance being conducted in the firelight tonight.  The few men who sat around them sipped cups of ale and stared into the flames. Even more seemed to be retreating towards their weyrs to sleep.  I’an sighed and called for Karth. They both needed their beds.

As he waited for the huge beast to settle next to him, his eyes drifted once again towards the two large torches that sat on either side of the entrance to the hatching grounds.  Mickey was there. I’an could feel it, and the feeling terrified him.

Karth was right.  Of course he was. No one knew him better than his impressed.  But it didn’t have to be that way. He could bury the sensation, could kill it off with polite indifference.  But he had to hurry, before Mickey’s future dragon grew enough to form connections with others in the Weyr.

Karth alighted next to him and I’an climbed on his back.  He forced his eyes away from the hatching sands as they ascended into the sky.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Feith’s bugle tore through the Weyr just before the dawn broke.  I’an was on his feet in an instant, pulling on his boots and a warm weyrhide cloak and leaping upon an anxious Karth’s back.  Off the ledge they flew, surrounded by others as the entire population of Telgar woke and descended upon the hatching grounds to see what would transpire.

Karth alighted upon one of the high outcroppings that looked down over the black sands, settling in to observe.  But I’an slid from the brown’s back and clambered down among the rocks, hunkering down just above the sands with a group of his wingmates.

And they watched.

Feith bugled again, and the sound reverberated through the Weyr, answered by every dragon up to the very top of the mountain.  On the sands, the eggs were just beginning to tremble and twitch slightly, but I’an’s eyes were pulled away from them by the sudden influx of candidates following Faidre onto the grounds.

They were all male, as was typical for a clutch that contained no gold eggs.  They were a motley crew, tall, spindly, burly or short. They were the sons of lords, crafters and farmers, all dressed in the same basic weyrcloth garments, equal in this moment.  They looked scared or elated, and sometimes both as they spread out across the perimeter of the sands. Around him, I’an’s wingmates jostled each other for a better view and made murmured comments to each other, but the brown rider hardly noticed.

All of his attention rested firmly on the brunette who stood in the middle of the group with fixed, glazed eyes.

For the first time since his arrival at Telgar, Mickey had no interest in I’an’s whereabouts.  If someone had shouted the redheaded rider’s name right next to his ear, Mickey wouldn’t have blinked or turned his head.  The slight tremble in his hands and the barely discernible, nattering whisper in the back of his mind, which had begun eight weeks ago on the night Feith birthed her clutch, were increasing past discomfort and nearly to the point of pain.  His gaze was tunneling around him, focusing in with intense precision on the fixed point that could give him relief.

Without warning or permission, he broke from the crowd of candidates, and utter silence descended upon the Weyr as he stepped upon the sands.

It was typical, everyone knew, for a Queen to be highly territorial of the hatching grounds once her clutch had been laid, and Feith had never proven to be an exception to that rule.  So, it had surprised everyone when the massive creature had let her rider’s steward approach the sands as she birthed her clutch two moons ago. Such an act would typically be seen as suicidal, but Feith had paid barely any mind to the young man as he’d entered the grounds.  He’d remained for the entire night, standing and watching in a nearly trancelike state. He may have stayed longer if an exhausted Faidre hadn’t led him back to the hall the next morning and forced him to eat.

Mickey had recovered, mostly, going about his daily work with his typical level of care, but each evening he would return to the sands and each evening the Queen would allow him near her clutch with nary a bugle of protest.

The Weyrwoman didn’t know what to make of it.  In truth, neither did the Queen. She could only explain to her rider that the young man felt right among the sands.  It had thrown Faidre, this statement from Feith, for such an explanation was not unheard of. It had been spoken of her, in fact, by Sufia’s Queen, right before she impressed Feith and became a gold rider.

She had explained this to Mickey, taking the young man even farther into her confidence than she previously had as they sat side by side on the sands, watching the Queen worry over her eggs.  Truly, though, she had no explanation for him either. Never in all the written lore had a man impressed a gold and even if it had been possible, it wouldn’t have mattered. There were no gold eggs on the sands.

She may have been confused, but Faidre wouldn’t deny she had enjoyed the company.  Mickey had been an anomaly at the Weyr since his arrival, but where others might have seen a rough-edged, rough-tongued villein, she and S’ngellan had seen a keen-eyed, dynamic thinker with an acerbic but effective way with words.  The young brunette was not one to keep quiet when presented with an idea he deemed “fecking stupid”.

Faidre had let a great deal slip in those conversations, things she would typically only have shared with junior gold riders.  In fact, when he’d asked her why the female greens impressed men, she’d answered without hesitation.

“A male rider can’t get with child.”

Mickey’s slightly glazed stare, previously fixed on the shadow of the eggs in the gloaming light, had cleared momentarily and Faidre had nearly smiled at the sardonic glare she received.  In the face of his recent confusing behavior, it had been good to see that her steward’s raw but honest roots were still intact.

“No shite.  But I guess that makes sense.  You wouldn’t want to risk the mother and kid in a threadfight.”

He’d been satisfied with the answer. She could have let the issue lie.  But instead, almost unbidden, she’d heard guarded truths fall from her lips with nary a hesitation.

“It’s more than just risk.” she’d replied, letting her own gaze drift across the sands.  “It is a foregone conclusion.” She’d felt the steward’s eyes fall upon her, concern intermingling his curiosity at the obvious tremble in her voice.  She’d been unable to control the edges of her emotions as dark memories assaulted her.

“It’s the

between

.” She’d continued without thought, “That place, that darkness and emptiness.  It is hard enough for the hearty and grown to survive it. The unborn have no chance.  If a woman with child goes

between

, she loses the child.  That has always been the way.”

Mickey had stared at her for several moments, weighing the obvious question, but Faidre hadn’t tormented him for long.

“I have one child,” she’d stated simply.  “He was sired by S’ngellan during a mating flight.  He now lives at the medicinal crafthall in Brenden, studying to be a healer.”  She had turned towards him, catching his blue eyes. “There was another by the Weyrlingmaster of Brenden Weyr, with whom I am close.  Perhaps others, too early to tell.” She sighed. “I wanted to keep the child, but couldn’t. We move

between

.  Our whole culture depends on it.  We cannot fight thread or reach the far distances across Pern without going

between.

Not in a threadfall.  We do no judge the women who make this decision.  It is not our way. But we do try to keep it limited, so as not to force such a choice.”

“Why keep it secret?”

Then it had been her turn to be incredulous as she’d eyed the young man carefully.  His face had been honest, though, with a hint of anger in the corners of his eyes and lips.

“The Hold would never accept…”

“Feck the Holds,” he’d lashed out, his features softening apologetically as he caught the tone of his voice.  They’d both glanced back towards Feith, lying in the middle of the eggs, but the massive gold hadn’t moved. Her lack of action hadn’t even surprised her rider, though.  Feith had clearly accepted Mickey as no threat, at least not to those the Queen considered to be hers.

“Seriously,” he’d continued, looking back, “Feck ‘em.  Not all of them, but the upper crust pricks. You think the common fold, the people from the poor as shards pissholes in Southern Crom would judge you?  That’s a fecking luxury they don’t have, okay. They’d get it. They know what it’s like to have to make the shite choices to survive. That’s their day to day life.”

Faidre had listened as he’d spoken, her eyes opened to this rarely heard perspective.  For so many years, the riders had favored the younger children of minor holders. They’d so rarely Searched among the mines and the poorer farmholds, so rarely reached out to the masses they sought to protect, the masses who gave them tithes.  And there she’d sat, suddenly confronted by the Weyr’s own arrogance. As was often the case, she’d found herself grateful for S’ngellan’s intuition. He’d taken a chance two times on Search and both were turning out to be exceptional selections.

Faidre recalled all of this as the stunned silence enveloped the Weyr.  As she watched, she felt a painful tug at her heart and the soft, comforting murmur of Feith inside her head.  She was glad, she

was

.  Mickey needed to impress a dragon.  He was strong and smart and creative.  He’d be an asset to any wing. But she would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that she’d mourn the loss of her steward and, perhaps in these last few weeks, her friend. By the time he left the sands, he’d be someone else.  Not Mikhailo of the Southern Farmholds of Crom and not Mickey of Telgar either.

Not for the first time, she wondered about his new name.  M’lo? M’kilo? Those would be the typical choices in dragon’s tongue, but they somehow didn’t sound right. But there was nothing for her to do but wait and see now.  Taking two steps to the right, she found a clear line of vision between the rustling eggs and watched, along with the entire Weyr, the raven haired young man’s progress.

The rest of the Weyr may have fallen into silence but Mickey would not have known.  The whole world had become loud for him. There was a whisper in his mind, unyielding and insistent.  It drew him in and pulled him forward, guiding him through the maze of waist high eggs. He could hear the crunch of the sand beneath his boots as he strode purposefully across the hatching grounds, but there was nothing else but the whisper.

And the egg.  Yes, that was the one.  It was tilting and rocking violently as the creature inside fought for freedom, but Mickey paid the danger no mind as he sank to his knees and spread his hands, open-palmed, over the straining shell.

The silence of the Weyr dissolved into nervous chatter up and down the rocks that surrounded the hatching grounds.  Pushing up from his perch, I’an found his feet and scurried down for a clearer view. He’d only witnessed one impression and he’d been a participant, not a spectator, but he remembered the warnings that Faidre and Justine had laid upon the candidates.  Dragonets often emerged from their eggs in a state of panic, unimpressed and terrified, seeking their chosen. They were dangerously unpredictable on the hatching sands. More than a few candidates had been mauled and even killed by a panicked dragonet.  Surely Mickey had been warned.

His fears fell away, though, when he finally managed a glimpse of the brunette’s face.

In his life in the Southern Holds, Mickey Milkovich had always kept himself apart.  He’d locked himself away and kept everyone at a distance. Before this moment, I’an could have truthfully claimed to be the only person in all of Pern who had seen the real Mickey, at least partially exposed and laid bare.  It had been sporadic and incomplete, that honesty, but I’an had treasured it as the gift it was, for it was as much as Mickey was capable of at the time, subject to the everyday dangers of Terry Milkovich and the judgmental disdain of the movement.  Here, though, he saw Mickey utterly stripped, laid out for all to see. And then, in a blink, he ceased to be Mickey.

He became someone else.

The crack of the shell was loud and echoing, but Mickey barely noticed.  To him, the whole world had shrunk down to the incessant whisper in his mind and the two huge, beautiful eyes that peered out between the cream colored pieces to alight on him.  The whisper grew to a roar that was almost too painful to bear, but suddenly the sound exploded into a clear, distinct voice.

Mine?

The word echoed in his head, new and yet already established.  It tore along a well built connection, pinging off of every nerve ending and synapse he possessed.  His whole body felt electrified but it was neither pleasurable nor painful. He was simply alive in every way possible, shivering beneath the onslaught of connection.

Mine?

The question repeated in his mind, a little nervous now, a little panicked.  The fear in the precious voice tore at his heart and he felt himself lurch forward to the eyes, meeting and holding the gaze.

Yours.

He affirmed immediately, crawling further forward and tugging lightly at the shell.  The voice in his mind turned warm and comfortable and relieved.

Mine

, it repeated again, stating it now instead of asking, utterly confident in the relationship.

Mine, Mine, My M’ckey.

M’ckey?

He heard himself ask the question, heard himself try to explain

No, no, that’s not really my name.  It’s Mikhailo. Or M’khailo or...

He struggled in his head, trying to mimic the shortened, softened syllable blend of the dragon tongue, but he need not have bothered.

“Blechhh,” came the very real dragon bugle right next to his ear.  He shook his head clear, suddenly realizing that his impressed his...his...fecking shards, his

dragon,

had crawled out of its egg and wrapped itself around him.  It’s head rested against his shoulder and they’re eyes met easily when he turned towards it.  A new rushing sensation filled him now, lighter, warmer, engulfing. He’d impressed his dragon, accepted his dragon, but this new feeling was different.

It was love.

“Hello, Lalith,” he spoke out loud, surprised at the clarity in his own voice.  She preened at the name, accepting it with a giddy energy and she looped her long, green body around him more securely.

Yes,

she agreed easily,

Yes, that will do.  But yours will not, Mine.  You are

not

M’khailo!  No! That name is heavy and burdened.  It is said in anger, in hate. You are M’ckey.  That name is said in love. And you are loved! You are Mine!  You are my M’ckey!

The tiny green was becoming agitated, still new to this world, but M’ckey...yes, M’ckey...he was M’ckey now.  He could never be anyone else. M’ckey’s instincts took over, guiding his hands into soothing circles as he crooned soft, melodic sounds.

I’m M’ckey,

he agreed, rubbing his cheek against Lalith’s throat.  She preened again and nuzzled closer, squirming all around him while her new wings fluttered aimlessly above them.

M’ckey,

she murmured in his mind,

M’ckey, M’ckey, Mine.

The sands were full now, engulfed in the organized chaos that signified a hatching.  All around the brunette and the green, dragonettes were clawing their way through the thick shells and dragging themselves across the sand, searching the air, sniffing, and charging towards their impressed, causing all others to dive out of the way or risk the damage of thoughtlessly placed claws.  One by one, each dragon found their rider, curling around them, exchanging names, speaking, accepting. Loving.

From a ledge above, S’ngellan watched the results, taking careful note.  This was a good hatching by any standards. Eight blues, six greens, six browns, and three,

three

new bronzes.  All had survived the hatching, all had impressed.  It was a good day and despite the lack of a Queen egg, S’ngellan could only feel content.

Mostly.  In the middle of the sands and slightly to the left, a meadow colored green was curled in the lap of a handsome young man with dirty blonde curls.  Now that was an interesting development, the Weyrleader decided. It had been a number of weeks since S’ngellan had even seen Corin, not since he’d made his poor attempt at a status grab by knocking Mickey’s food to the ground.  The boy, renamed C’rin, no doubt, was stroking his hands rhythmically over the length of his green’s back while fat tears rolled down his cheeks. S’ngellan gave them a contemplative assessment before his eyes traveled on. They’d be fine eventually, he was sure of it.  But it would take some work to get them there.

But there was another pair he was looking for and finally he found them.  He let his gaze settle on the raven haired young man and the emerald bright dragonette that curled around him.  He watched as M’khailo…

M’ckey.

Alaboth’s voice echoed in his head.

Her name is Lalith and she has named him M’ckey.

S’ngellan’s contentment only deepened.  M’ckey. Yes, this was fortuitous. The young green rider was crooning to Lalith, his hands mindlessly seizing handfuls of sand and working it gently against her hide, sloughing off the itchy, dead skin and polishing the new coat.  He looked completely natural already, just as S’ngellan had expected him to be.

An instant impressment.  S’ngellan had never seen one in his life.  But he’d known. He’d known from the moment he saw the brunette throwing frantic punches at...hmmm.

Turning his eyes away, the Weyrleader glanced over the hordes of riders, clustered about to watch the spectacle.  He scanned and scanned the crowd, searching for red hair, but there was none to be seen. Taking a step out on the ledge, he look out towards the Weyr’s crater.  He could just see Karth’s russet brown wings disappearing into his weyr.

Taking a step back, S’ngellan let his gaze return to the sands.  There was little to be done, he supposed. He had trusted his intuition and followed it to its inevitable course.  They had both been Searched. They had both impressed under unique and powerful circumstances. Now, the Weyrleader felt just as strongly that he needed to step back and let the wheels of fate turn.

Alone on the bunk in his weyr, I’an’s thoughts were far less peaceful but equally determined.  He had cared for, probably loved, a man named Mickey Milkovich of Crom. That man was now gone.  True, a green rider now wore his face, but that was no matter. I’an was an honored brown rider, respected among his peers, rising in rank and already expected to assume the mantle of second in command of his wing.  He had respect, affection, and responsibilities to his brothers in arms, his Weyr, and to Pern. He would not give in to temptation. He would not allow himself to take foolish risks and be hurt again. He had a duty to protect Pern and that meant that he must also protect himself.

Comforted by the strength of his conviction, I’an drifted off to sleep

On the ledge, Karth dozed, still tired from threadfighting.  Below him, he could hear the buzz of excitement that still drifted up from the hatching sands.  More pressing, though, was the chronic buzz inside his head as the newly hatched dragonettes flitted in and out, trying to seize control of their new telepathic abilities.  Raw and untrained, they popped in and out the full grown dragons’ minds. It was mildly annoying at best, like a buzzing of flies, but suddenly one voice spoke up, as clear as day.

Hello?

It was a young voice, new to this world, but it was melodic and peaceful nonetheless and Karth could not ignore it.

You’ve lost your way, little one.  Return to Yours.

I will,

came the answer

, but I like it here.

It is not polite to come in uninvited,

He explained patiently.  In truth, he was intrigued.  It often took many months for dragonets to mature enough to communicate telepathically with other dragons.  Who was this young one who had found him so easily?

Oh,

came the quiet reply, and for a moment, the brown was sure she was gone.

But no.

Then invite me.

Cheeky, cheeky, but Karth couldn’t help but chuckle.  He like this one. Somehow, he knew he liked her.

For a moment, little one.  Then you must go, for Mine sleeps and I must as well.

He listened to her contented purr and felt a new, stranger warmth.

What’s your name?

I am called Karth.

Karth,

she repeated, as if mulling the name over,

Karth.  I like it.  It sounds like love.

He felt warm again.

And you, little one.  What are you called.

He could practically hear her preen through the connection.

Mine calls me Lalith.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The sun sat high above Pern, throwing a warm light over the towering mountains and rolling green fields.  The sky was completely clear, thread free and cloudless and cerulean. It was a perfect day for rest, camaraderie, and a little bit of play.

Or perhaps it would have been once.  Less than two turns ago, when the threadfall had still been sporadic, such days of leisure had been a regular occurence.  Now, though, there was no time for such frivolity. A day without threadfall meant healing injuries and repairing the damage to equipment.  And it meant training. It meant developing and perfecting the skills that kept them all alive.

When D’vin, the Weyrlingmaster of Telgar, had been born, there had been no threadfall as Pern had been coming to the close of the last Interval.  And, as was always the case according the the lore, the people were in a state of deep upheaval. Did they trust the ancient scrolls, which insisted that a terrible danger, gone now for two hundred turns or more, was making its way closer and closer to their home planet?  Or did they believe the skeptics who scoffed that thread was only a legend, a folktale preserved by superstition and fear?

D’vin himself had never had any doubt.  Even when he’d still been Devin, the unbonded Weyrbrat son of a bronze rider and a steward, he’d clung to the lore as his personal tenet.  His father had taught him to believe, often sweeping he and his mother up to the bronze’s weyr to tell them the stories that filled the aging scrolls.

But the lore had it’s detractors and although they’d remained in the minority, they’d been vocal in their beliefs that threadfall was no more than a myth, a lie told to frighten children.

D’vin had always struggled with the detractors.  To their point, it was hard to keep the faith, to believe in something that one had never seen for themselves.  Whole generations of riders and dragons bonded, trained, and died without ever fighting a single strand of thread.  But to D’vin, the disbelief was far too big a risk. It was a luxury that the few allowed themselves, while the many fought to preserve the old ways.  His father had fought, hard and long. To him, the danger of disbelief was too great, because the enemy was terrifying enough on paper, never mind falling in silver tendrils from the sky.

And D’vin’s sire had also impressed upon him one undeniable conviction.  The Weyrs of Pern had one purpose; to protect the people of Pern from the destruction of threadfall.  That was the basis for the generally symbiotic relationship that they maintained with the Holds, accepting food and other supplies in exchange for that protection.  But, the older bronze rider had argued, if thread was nothing but a myth, then what right did they have to demand anything of the Holds? It wasn’t protection then.

It was extortion.

It had been a tense time in Telgar Weyr.  Dissident voices were rising up in the Holds as well as the Weyrs.  It was in the midst of this turmoil that Devin of Telgar impressed Eeyreth, a small but lithe bronze gifted with incredible speed and dexterity.  It was in that same hatching that a petite brunette named Sufia had impressed her gold, along with several other young women of the weyr.

It had set the naysayers running, at least for a short time. All the lore spoke of a rising number of golds as a signal of the Red Star’s approach.  And as if that were not enough, the aging Queen failed to rise the following turn, signaling the ascension of a new gold to take her place. Merely three moon passes later, the gold ridden by a barely of-age Sufia had risen and been won by Eeyreth.  Timid, overwhelmed, and still feeling very much like a boy, D’vin had found himself the new Weyrleader of Telgar.

It had been terrifying but also elating.  T’lly, the former Weryleader, had elected to remove himself from the contendership for Sufia’s gold in order to cleanly usher in a new era.  It was as self-effacing move that had made a profound impact on D’vin and the way he had viewed his new role. He was to be a servant leader, one who put his people before his own ambitions.  He had T’lly and his father at his side, providing sound guidance.

And he had Sufia.  Tiny, strong, witty, and brave.

Everything had seemed right, hopeful.  The Weyr prospered for the next few turns, growing their numbers under young but established leadership, with up and comers like Faidre and S’ngellan following close behind.

D’vin looked down from the perch he had assumed atop a rock in the wall of the crater, letting his gaze drift over the men and beasts who were moving around the space, working on formations or repairing damaged skin and equipment.  From this vantage point, it was hard to believe that the leadership worried endlessly about their numbers, so plentiful did they appear, but D’vin knew better. They were losing too many, either to age, injury, or death. This should have been an issue to be mourned and dealt with, instead of a cause for barely contained panic.  But once, they’d had several golds, plenty to maintain and improve upon the Weyr’s numbers. Now, though, they had only Feith and Faidre.

And as the threadfall worsened, it was only becoming more apparent that one gold was not enough.

His heart twisted hard inside him, as it always did when he thought of Sufia.  It had happened so quickly. One day, there had been an entire sorority of gold riders.  Within two weeks, there had only been Faidre, who had clung to life by a hair. On to her young shoulders, weakened by illness and reeling from the loss of her close knit sisterhood, had fallen the burden of leadership for the entire Weyr.  She had been thrust immediately into the roll of Weyrwoman, but the rest of the of the leadership had been in disarray. Though S’ngellan and Alaboth had won Feith each time she’d flown, Faidre hadn’t been Weyrwoman. D’vin’s own leadership position, hower, had been tied to winning a gold who had now gone between permanently.  Sufia was dead.

There was no precedent for this transition of power and it could have led to disaster, but in this dark moment, fate had finally proved fortuitous again.  Feith rose again within a few moon passes, and when she did, D’vin and Eeyreth made no move to chase her. In truth, the very idea of taking another made both feel ill.  Alaboth won, as most had anticipated, and S’ngellan and Faidre assumed the roles of Weyrleader and Werywoman with tradition firmly in check.

But with no new golds in the clutch.

The drilling all around D’vin carried on with careful and determined.  Every life in the Weyr was precious but that intensity had doubled down now, for if one fell, they had no guarantee of another to take their place.  Right now, four mid-sized wings were being compressed into three larger groupings in an attempt to combat the threadfall with fewer men.

Walking through the masses, D’vin’s gaze fell on a shuck of bright red hair.  Here was one such an example. I’an had risen to second in his wing now, and D’vin could certainly find no fault with the young man’s promotion.  The brown rider had a keen mind and a charismatic way about him that drew people in and made them trust him. He was driven and disciplined and demanded much of his men, and he was always the first to volunteer and the last to eat in his wing.  His men saw that, the care, the sacrifice, and they followed it. But pleased as he was by it, D’vin couldn’t help but lament at how early the promotion had occurred. I’an should’ve had several more turns to grow into the role, but the thread would not allow it.  The young brown rider’s predecessor, a highly capable flyer also beloved by his men, had been scored to death by threadfall only two moon passes ago.

Deaths happened.  All riders knew that.  But when so many capable and competent men started falling, simply overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of their enemy, it was hard to remain rationale and stoic.  It was hard to hold the panic at bay.

Nonetheless, D’vin had a job to do.  Across the yard, the newest cohort of dragonetts were clustered together with their impressed.  They were drilling, too, working on their telepathic skills by moving into battle formations on the ground.  The newly hatched were still small by dragon standards, but they were roughly the size of horses now. They’d started taking to the skies by themselves over a moon pass ago and would be ready to carry their riders within the next few weeks.  But today was a new first.

Today, Eeyreth was going to teach them to eat firestone and digest it in the second stomach that was designed to break the substance down.

And then he was going to teach them how to blow fire.

***********************************************************************************

D’vin was not the only with with mixed feeling about I’an’s sudden promotion.  The brown rider himself was no less troubled by the circumstances. As he stood on the outcropping on the wall of the Weyr, surveying the assembled wing, the red haired man couldn’t help but quake slightly under the tangible pressure of the responsibility that lay upon his shoulders.

I’an loved his new role, of course.  He found it both humbling and exhilarating.  But he was also painfully aware of its significance.  Threadfall was increasing and the Weyr was underpopulated.  Each thread fight needed to be carefully orchestrated for maximum impact with minimal troops, and much of that burden now fell to him and G’lain, the wingleader and a bronze rider of renown.

I’an was brave and resourceful.  He knew this about himself. But he was also young and nervous beneath the weight of his position, a role he had been thrust into with little mentorship.  G’lain was battletried and adored by his men, but he was also reeling from his own loss. The wing’s fallen second-in-command had been G’lain’s best friend.  They had been Searched from the same Hold and impressed their dragons from the same clutch. I’an had sometimes wondered if the two had been more to each other, so deeply did G’lain feel the wound of the death.  It was a constant reminder to their whole wing that they lived perilously, that a wrenching loss could come at any time.

It made I’an think thoughts that he could ill afford in the face of his new leadership role.  And yet, he could still feel his gaze drifting towards the end of the caldera, where the dragonets from the new clutch hovered around the piles of firestone.  His eyes sought until they finally landed on a large, meadow green dragonet and the raven headed man who stood beside her, rhythmically stroking her hide. I’an sighed inwardly, allowing himself a mere minute to look.  He tried so hard to carefully separate himself from all reminders of his former life but it was proving increasingly difficult. Karth had tried to warn him, to prepare him for what they had both expected, but even I’an’s brown had been surprised at the speed and depth of the bond that had formed between him and Lalith, Mickey’s green.

No, not Mickey.  He was M’ckey now, green weyrling of Telgar Weyr.  I’an rolled the name over in his head a few times as he watched the sunlight glint off of ebony tresses.  He’d never spoken it out loud, but he’d thought it in the dark of his weyr, dreamed of whispering it along pale skin, of hearing his own name blending together with pants and cries against his throat as he…

Fecking

hells

!  I’an ripped his gaze away, a frustrated grimace twisting his lips.  Why did he keep doing this? Why did he keep torturing himself. He forced his eyes back to the practice ground, which was littered with his wingmates as they drilled evasion tactics a few feet above the ground.  He drew in a deep, steadying breath as he looked at their numbers. Nearly everyday, I’an leaped on Karth and flew into a battle that could take his life at any moment and in a few more moon passes, M’ckey would be up there as well.  I’an still felt rage and pain that ate at his very heart every time he thought of their last meeting, but it didn’t stave off the fear.

What if one of them fell and they’d never even spoken again?

With a huff, I’an leaped off the outcropping, letting the jarring impact shake him from his sentimental musings.  When Mickey Milkovich had torn his heart apart, he’d obviously kept a piece, but I’an could ill afford to dwell on such things.  He had sworn to put all thoughts of M’ckey aside and it was a vow he had to keep. He needed to be practical and in control. Too much was depending on him.

With another deep breath, he strode across the floor of the training ground.  He’d nearly rebuilt his cool and stoic facade when a familiar voice hailed him.

“Second?  Report?”

I’an bit down a sigh.  S’ngellan, of course. I’an loved his Weyrleader like a brother but the man had the uncanny ability to show up to poke at I’an wounds whenever they were at their most raw.  He turned towards the older man, ignoring the hint of concern that crossed the leader’s face, and began to speak.

“The new members are progressing well.  They’re starting to react intuitively in time with the rest of the wing.”

“So, they aren’t jumping in front of each other’s flame paths anymore?” S’ngellan asked, his voice a blend of amusement and consternation.

I’an smiled more easily.  “No, they’re listening to each other.  Their mental bonds are cementing with the other members of the wing.”  He let his eyes drift over the riders as they drilled before him. “They’re coming together.”

“How long?”

I’an allowed himself a moment to answer.  “Another moon cycle?” he threw out tentatively.

Now it was S’ngellan’s turn to consider his words.  “You have half that,” he said finally, turning serious eyes on his brown rider.  “I understand your concern, believe me, but we need to move the new wings into formation.  We need to make the choices that protect the most lives.”

The redhead could feel his jaw tighten but there was nothing but compassionate understanding in the face of his leader.

“It’s hard to make these decisions, to send the men out when you’re not sure they’re ready.  Believe me, there’s no one who understands better. But that is our reality now. Your reality.  The worst part of being a leader is making the choices to protect the greatest number. It means acknowledging that you may not be able to save them all.  It takes strength but also humility.” S’ngellan’s eyes narrowed assessingly. “Can you do this?”

“Yes,” I’an stated, a bit surprised by the vehemence in his voice.

S’ngellan nodded.  “Regardless of who it might involve?” he asked, letting his eyes drift towards the dragonette trainees grouped near the piles of firestones at the end of the caldera.

“Yes,” I’an bit out, but even he could hear the hesitation in his voice this time.

S’ngellan’s gaze didn’t shift from the group of new riders.  “I do not doubt you, I’an. I believe you know that. You have been placed in a difficult position.  Much has always been expected of bronze riders. Their size and strength has put much responsibility on their shoulders, but this has also created a thirst for personal glory that they must learn to keep in check.  You and Karth, though...you have strength equal to any bronze but a selfless heart, the quintessential brown rider. It is what makes you such a unique leader.”

He paused for a second, as if considering his next words.  “But even the best leaders have weaknesses and fears they have to manage.”  His voice trailed off again and I’an watched as he lifted a hand and laid it on his shoulder.  “Manage them, I’an. Don’t ignore them or run from them.”

I’an could feel his shoulder tighten reflexively under his leader’s hand.  Gah, this was why S’ngellan made him crazy. The man always knew just how to needle him, but I’an wasn’t stupid.  He knew that the older man’s words only bothered him because they were true. Meeting the Weyrleader’s eyes, he drew in a breath to speak.

The collective wave of fear and concern that suddenly crested through the dragons and their riders cut him off soundly.

“What is it,” he asked, hearing the fear in in his voice.  He could read the same emotion on S’ngellan’s face as they both turned towards the dragonettes in the distance.  They could see them milling around in nervous agitation.

“I don’t know,” The Weyrleader said, “but you need to stay here.  Keep them calm. Keep them drilling. Do you understand!” There was a demanding bite in his voice that had I’an nodding.  S’ngellan only tipped his head slightly as he stalked across the sands.

I’an stood helplessly for a moment, stunned by the sudden shift.  Above him, the members of his wing were breaking formation as the nervous panic spread.

No, no, he couldn’t let this happen.  He had no idea what was going on with the dragonettes but that didn’t stop the fact that a threadfall could be imminent.  He and his wingmates had a job to do and that’s where their focus needed to be.

Stepping forward, he called up to the men whose eyes were locked on him.  “Run it again. Tighten up. Listen to each other.”

The directive seemed to snap the riders to attention.  They tightened their groupings, falling in lines as they began to weave a battle formation above the ground.  Below them, I’an watched, keeping his eyes fixed on the sky. Only one dragon was slightly out of place. Near the rear, Karth wavered, his attention clearly torn.

Karth,

I’an called to him,

I need you here with me.

There was a rush of panic across their bond before the huge brown finally found his voice.

Mine,

he pleaded,

It’s Lalith.  Something is not right.

I’an froze for a whole minute beneath the rushing of the dragon’s beating wings.  He only snapped awake when the pain of his nails cutting into his palms became too much to bear.

***********************************************************************************

There was no threadfall that day.

There was no threadfall that night.

Every soul in Telgar Weyr breathed a deep sigh of relief as the hours passed by without the hint of an alarm.  There was no doubt among the men that if they flew tonight, lives would be lost. There was simply too much distraction and fear among the ranks.  Instead, they all huddled inside their weyrs, listening.

Waiting.

Normally, the health of a random green would not have raised such a fuss.  Certainly, the potential loss of any dragon was a cause for concern, but in the world of the Weyr, a green was not as significant.  They were small and quick, but they couldn’t fight for a full threadfall. They were not like the bronzes, or even the browns, who’s size and stamina made each one vital to Pern’s survival.

But somehow, this green seemed different and the entire populace of Telgar Weyr knew it.  They could not forget their leader’s acute attention to the young man who had impressed her.  They could not forget the unique circumstances of that impression.

If she was ill, if she died, what did that mean?  Was their leader wrong? Was their faith in vain?

All along the perimeter of the caldera, as high as the eye could see, the riders sat on their ledges with their dragons, waiting for some news.  Along the ground, the dragonette riders and general weyrfolk clustered, straining for information.

Midway up the left wall, I’an rhythmically stroked Karth’s hide, sending warm feelings his way to stave off the cold dread that filled the brown’s every thought as the silence continued.

Every eye in Telgar remained fixed on the ledge in the western wall that led to the head healer’s chamber.

On the ledge itself, the mood was tense.  The head healer had taken Lalith back into the depths of the cave, but Faidre had insisted that M’ckey stay out of the way.  The decree had infuriated the green rider at first but in his heart he knew the Weyrwoman was right. He was too keyed up and it was affecting Lalith.  She didn’t need the stress.

But she didn’t seem to be feeling any now and M’ckey didn’t know what to make of that.  In fact, his little green had been completely calm throughout the entire exam. It made M’ckey want to hope and that hope made him afraid all over again.

What the feck was wrong with her?

It had started innocently enough.  Eeyreth, D’vin’s bronze, had been showing them how to use their digested firestone to shoot the flames they’d need to burn their thread.  Lalith had ingested the stones and had been watching the bronze’s demonstration carefully when she’d suddenly become violently ill. She had retched up every stone she’d eaten, all still firm and undigested, over the course of the next few hours and by that time, the entire Weyr was aware and M’ckey was in a full blown panic.

But not Lalith.

And apparently not the healer either.

“I’ve identified the problem,” the man said as he walked out on the ledge.  He was tall and craggy with a salt and pepper beard and his expression was stoic as he approached the group. It made M’ckey want to grab the man and shake him but he held himself in check.  He was a dragonrider now. He couldn’t react like a farmrat from the the South side anymore, and besides, he needed the healer to give him answers.

He schooled his face carefully as the Healer approached him.

“The green has no second stomach with which to digest firestone,” he said simply, speaking loudly for the benefit of the group but keeping his eyes fixed firmly on M’ckey’s.  “She will never be able to make fire.”

M’ckey wasn’t sure he remembered the first thirty seconds after the healer delivered his diagnosis.  There was suddenly no sound. The floor beneath him seemed to fall away and he found himself floating, disembodied, in a cloud of panic.

No fire.

Lalith had no fire.

But if she couldn’t make fire, why would they…

“M’ckey!”

His whole consciousness snapped back into focus, staring into Faidre’s eye as she cupped his cheeks and willed him back to sanity.

“M’ckey?” she demanded again, her hands gentling around his face as the life returned to his eyes.

“You can’t…” he could hear the choking despair in his voice but he fought through it.  “You can’t hurt her. It doesn’t matter...She’s not…”

“M’ckey!”

There was a firm authority in the voice this time and it shut him up instantly.  Faidre’s face remained calm but her eyes had erupted in a fire that singed him as she stared him down.  He couldn’t look away from the glow, might never have looked away if Faidre hadn’t broken the gaze herself to glance at the rest of the assembled leadership.  Taking a step back, she released his face but recaptured his gaze.

“Whatever foolishness has entered your mind, I want it to stop!” she stated firmly, “Have you learned nothing from your time here?  We are not like the holds! We do

not

cast out or kill our members because they are different.  We embrace their differences and use them to our advantage.  You

know

this.”

The typically stoic woman’s eyes were still blazing and M’ckey could see, beneath her firmly fixed expression, the barest traces of hurt.  It nearly sent him reeling in shame. Fecking shards, after all this time, he still hadn’t let the Crom mindset go. In the deepest, darkest corners of his mind, he still expected pain and rejection.  Feeling his face burn, he turned to catch the Weyrwoman’s eyes but Faidre had already turned towards S’ngellan and D’vin. All around him, voices were chattering, discussing, planning how to work with the new development.  There was no anger or frustration in any of the voices, just careful intent in finding a solution.

M’ckey didn’t know when he had sunk to the ground, finally overcome by the various emotions that had been peaking in him for the past hours.  He could feel his eyes burning and he wiped at them furiously. Fecking shards, he wasn’t going fecking cry.

Heavy boots glomped along the floor, stopping by him for a second.  He felt a strong hand on his shoulder and he glanced up into the eyes of the Weyrlingmaster.

“The golds still fight, when they aren’t carrying,” D’vin stated matter-of-factly, staring down meaningfully, “the gold riders use flamethrowers while riding and burn thread to great effect.”  He sighed and M’ckey could see the haunted look that danced across the bronze rider’s face. “If there were more gold riders, you’d be well acquainted with this, but don’t worry. You’ll learn fast.”

Giving M’ckey’s shoulder a final squeeze, he headed off the ledge.  Moments later, M’ckey heard Eeyreth bugle into the night and knew that that bronze was telling the Weyr that Lalith was alright.

Lalith!

M’ckey surged to his feet and ran into the back of the healer’s hall.  The man himself was busy at a table full of flasks and he offered nothing but a quick nod as M’ckey sank back to his knees beside the little green.

Lalith?

The green was dozing but she started gently, turning a sleepy head towards him and dropping it heavily into his lap.

You worry so much, Mine.  There is no need.

You’re okay?

She let her head nod slowly in his lap, then batted against his hands until he began to rub rhythmically over the ridges of her eyes.

I expelled all of that horrible stuff.  I won’t eat it again. Yuck!

You can’t…

I know.

Her voice was calm in his head.

I’ll do other things instead.

They said...something about flamethrowers.

Yes, that sounds fine.  We will learn.

A rush of calm began to inundate M’ckey’s exhausted mind and he let himself lean down and press a kiss against Lalith’s check.  She huffed contentedly, still burrowed in his lap, then turned to glance up at him with one eye.

You are tired, Mine.  You worry too much. You and Karth both.

You spoke to Karth.

In his lap, Lalith huffed again.

Of course.  He was worried.  He was probably driving his prettyrider mad.

Now it was M’ckey’s turn to huff.  Karth’s prettyrider…

No,

NO

, Mine.  You know that this will just lead you down an endless loop of thinking of the pretty one, then trying to banish him from your thoughts. I need my sleep and so do you and as I have told you before, if you do not wish to be tied up in such knots over Karth’s prettyrider, you should just go speak to him.

I can’t…

Mine!

Lalith spit out, a disgruntlement echoing around inside M’ckey’s head,

Tonight we must sleep.  Tomorrow we have much to discuss.

M’ckey fought the thought for mere moments but he could feel the pull of Lalith’s exhaustion combining with his own.  He had never been in the healer’s weyr before and had no idea about the protocol, but at that moment, he just couldn’t care anymore.  Letting Lalith lay her head upon the reed covered floor, he slunk over her back and curled into the warmth of her belly.

He was asleep in moments.

All about the Weyr, the feeling of panic waned.  Dragons, riders, and weyrfolk found their beds, anticipating a day of threadfall on the morrow.  A fully relieved Karth drew his rider close, soothing the man’s rambling mind until it fell into slumber.

On the edge of the hatching grounds, S’ngellan let his eyes gaze across the sands.  He wasn’t surprised when an equally pensive Faidre came up beside him. They shared a glance that said everything.

Greens were female, but rendered barren by firestone.  Golds had no second stomach to digest firestone, and thus they remained fertile and bore the young of the Weyrs.

But perhaps a green who could not ingest firestone…

Perhaps...

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Tristan, Lord Holder of Crom, leaned against the ledge of the rough hewn outcropping upon which he stood, staring down at dragons and riders as the milled about on the grounds of the Weyr.  From his spot beside his former lord’s son, S’ngellan followed the gaze. It didn’t take him long to realize that Lord Tristan had focused his attention on M’ckey and his rapidly growing green.

“I should have known you would be back for him.  You are nothing if not committed to your championed causes.”

S’ngellan paused before he spoke again, letting his own gaze flit across the grounds in front of him.  He spied M’ckey easily, standing with the other nearly mature dragonetts as he adjusted Lalith’s riding harness.  They’d been riding for a full moon pass now, learning formations and the proper safety protocols for traveling

between.

They were nearly ready to fight and S’ngellan was glad of it.  They needed the numbers badly.

“I should think you’d be glad that I did,” he replied, letting just enough jocularity bleed into his voice to temper the seriousness of his message.  “His dragon is the best hope we have to our current predicament.”

Tristan snorted but his frustration didn’t seem directed at the Weyrleader’s words.  “Our problems aren’t entirely the same, old friend.”

“They are rooted in the same cause and will bring about the same ends if we cannot find solutions soon, though.”

This time, the Lord Holder nodded.  “This is fair,” he muttered, “May we walk?”  He took a step forward along the rough hewn stone walkway that skirt the perimeter of the Weyr’s left wall as S’ngellan fell into step beside him.

“I’ve nearly lost control of the southern farmholds,” he explained as they walked.  The declaration left a sick knot in S’ngellan’s stomach.

“That’s where…” he bit out before his voice trailed off and a darkly pensive look swept over his face.  Beside him, the Lord Holder nodded.

“Yes, that is where they’re from.  When you took the Gallagher boy, it was mostly underground.  By the time you returned for Milkovich’s son, the father was openly preaching.” He paused in his walk for a moment, glancing back down at the dragonettes. “That’s why you found the boy in the dungeons.  The attitude has shifted.”

“I was surprised not to find you there,” S’ngellan admitted.  “Was it wise to leave Crom with your whole family and guard. In Rustan’s hands?”  The Weyrleader could hear the derision in his own voice but if he had offended Tristan, the Lord Holder showed no sign of it.  Instead, he took a step towards the rail again, scanning the grounds close to the main hall until his eyes fell on his party. Both men could see Rustan in the group.

“It was a calculated risk,” Tristan admitted.  “It was a large wedding and all the Lord Holders were in attendance.  It was a chance to gain visibility for my sons and to sure up alliances.  But believe me when I tell you it weighed heavily on my mind.” S’ngellan could see the other man’s jaw tighten as he glanced away from his brother and resumed their walk.

“I know a bit more about this movement now,” he explained carefully, “It has no formal name and its main acolytes hail from the poorest farmholds and mining villages.  It has taken hold in the places where life is hardest and where resentment can breed more easily.

“If they want to see ‘hard’, they should come live here,” S’ngellan muttered.  He grimaced the moment the words left his mouth but he saw nothing but sympathy in the Lord Holder’s eyes.

“I do not dispute that,” Tristan replied as they continued their walk.  “If my people wish to criticize me, to claim that I lead a life with access to privilege, I will accept that criticism, but I will defend the Weyrs, always.  You take on a hardship that others cannot comprehend. But that is the point. The people don’t understand the Weyr life. They don’t see the danger and sacrifice.  It makes it easy for these movement members to manipulate their fears and desperations.”

“Thread doesn’t scare them?  Because it should!”

“No, no, it does.  It terrifies them, but they hardly ever see it.  They see dragons all the time. But that’s the wicked beauty of this movement.  They’ve turned the threat of thread upside down.”

Now it was S’ngellan’s turn to pause in their walk.  He could feel his hands curling over the lip of the rail and he leaned back on his arms, pulling the muscles taught to release some of his anger.  From his vantage point, he could see the world of the Weyr, his world, spread out beneath him. He could see D’vin working with the trainees, with M’ckey and  C’rin and the others as they dedicated their strength and energy to learning how to defeat their enemy. Justine was walking among the Wings in the middle of the caldera, speaking with G’lain and the other Wingleadrs as they assessed the quality of the riding harnesses.  Even from this distance, S’ngellan could see the careful notes that Justine was taking, intent on keeping their riders safe.

He could see Faidre.

Out in the corner near the hatching grounds, the Weyrwoman sat on the ground.  She was cleaning and rebuilding a distinctive blue flamethrower that he could recognize even from this distance.  It had belonged to Sufia and she had used it to fight thread on the back of her Queen whenever the gold had been non-gravid and able to fly.  S’ngellan felt his fingers dig in to the stone even more tightly. D’vin had kept Sufia’s weapon since her passing but he had turned it over to Faidre so that she in turn could give it to a new owner.  It was destined for M’ckey, and somehow that thought made the Weyrleader even more furious. His mentor and dearest friend was passing down a piece of his lost love’s legacy, all in the name of hope and the protection of Pern.

And this movement wanted to label them evil?

“So let me make sure I understand you,” he began slowly, speaking out into the distance as Tristan moved to stand by his side, “The people of this Weyr risk themselves in every possible way to keep Pern safe.  As a result, the people of Pern have failed to grasp the danger of threadfall and are instead believing some horribly concocted nonsense that thread is alive and sent to punish the Weyrs for our immorality? Is that correct?”

“You’ve forgotten one thing,” the Lord Holder responded stiffly, “The number of dragons are dropping.  They see that as confirmation that the thread was sent to destroy you.”

For long moments, S’ngellan stood in silence, unable to find words.  His fury was bubbling inside of him along with a staggering fear. He couldn’t afford this right now.  More than ever, he needed to be in control.

“I do not tell you this to cause you distress,” Lord Tristan spoke quietly from beside him, his voice and face softening, “but you need to know this.”

“I need to know that people of Pern spit upon our losses?”

“No!” Tristan replied forcefully, “

Not

the people of Pern.  Not even close. The majority have not given in to this nonsense.  But it is spreading, no doubt, and while my men and I will do everything we can to retake order, I must warn you.”

S’ngellan exhaled slowly.  “There is little they can do that would directly affect us.”

“True, but they can make it more difficult to collect tithes.”

“They would deny us…”

“They will not.  It will not be tolerated.  But they will try.”

The two men stood in silence again, the lord letting his former serf regain his equilibrium.  S’ngellan could feel the other man’s eyes on him and he suppressed the urge to bristle. It had been many years since he had felt this vulnerable and yet the stress of the Weyr’s depleting numbers coupled with the news of the movement’s rising influence left him shaken in the presence of the man who had once been his Lord Holder.

“You said you had good news.”

“What?”

Tristan turned to him and offered a tight but genuine smile. “I didn’t ride all the way out here for the first time in two years just to bring bad tidings my friend.  You sent a missive, claiming that you might have good news.” His smile turned expectant.

“Yes, that.” S’ngellan took a breath and resumed their walk.  “Nothing is confirmed, but we might potentially have another breeder.”

“But your last missive claimed there were no golds…”

“It’s not a gold.”

“What?”

S’ngellan shook his head slightly at the confusion in Tristan’s voice.  Perhaps he should not have shared the news yet. What if he were wrong.

“It’s M’ckey’s green.  She has no stomach to digest firestone.  It may be that this adaptation may preserve her fertility.”

“Could it be?” There was a hint of real hope in the Lord Holder’s voice.

“Time will tell.  She is still in training.  A green typically does not rise to mate in her first year but I wouldn’t be surprised if it happened soon after.”

A beat of silence followed before Tristan asked the question that was on both of their minds.

“Who will win her in her first mating flight?”

S’ngellan only shook his head.  “Who do you think?”

“Will you push this.”

Now the Weyrleader only snorted.  “Their dragons formed a bond within the first hour of the green’s birth.  That is unheard of. We do not push in these matters, ever. This bonds must develop naturally.  But even if we were so inclined, I doubt pushing would even be necessary.”

“They have always been drawn together.”

This time the Weyrleader could feel amusement drawing up the corners of his mouth.  “How do you know such things?” he asked.

“It is my business to know such things.  They hail from the very lands that cause me, and thus, you, so much trouble.  It was the Milkovich boy’s father who tore them apart. He used his son’s exile to generate a power grab.  I understand your position, but if news were to get out that his son had resumed the relationship…”

“Then this movement could further claim that we are dangerous and degenerate.”

Tristan sighed.  “Yes, that is a possibility.  But if it disrupts his leadership…”

“Tristan!”

S’ngellan could see the surprise flicker across the Lord Holder’s face.  He was sure the man was unaccustomed to being interrupted, especially twice in one conversation, but he didn’t look angry.  In truth, it would not have mattered. S’ngellan was Weyrleader and what he had to say needed to be heard.

“We are not politicians.  I cannot and will not use the mating bonds of my riders and their dragons to push political agendas.  It would be the worst kind of betrayal, to the individuals, to the Weyr, and ultimately to Pern.” S’ngellan could see Tristan’s jaw tighten but could also saw the minute nodding of his head.  He was grateful for the gesture. The Lord Holder

was

a politician, tasked with playing the difficult power games between the Holds, but S’ngellan knew that at his core, the man was moral, and an ally.

He threw Tristan an understanding smile.  “Besides, as I stated before, I think it will progress that way anyway.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The back corner of the main hall was raised above the rest of the room.  It was quieter up there, set apart, and it provided a good place to eat in peace, lick old wounds, and contemplate new discoveries.

M’ckey needed that tonight.  He needed solace and a place to process his thoughts or some shite.  His mind was a mess and his body...shards. Two and half turns since he’d last felt those hands on him.  Two and half turns and it had taken no more than a moment for it all to come crashing back down on him.

Hells.

His emotions were running wild and he didn’t know how to control them.  He knew where he wanted to put the blame. On D’vin and G’lain. On Ian himself.  No, no, not Ian. Never Ian. His name was I’an now. But perhaps M’ckey could forgive himself the mistake because when I’an had wrapped strong hands around his hips today, it had felt the same as it had the last time they’d touched, turns ago on his father’s farmhold, before their mutual world had tipped sideways.

M’ckey sighed, stabbing at the food in his trencher, his body still awash with nervous energy.  He could feel Lalith skirting along his consciousness, checking in on him, but he brushed her away, much to her amusement.  She was as much a part of the fecking conspiracy as any of them!

But that was the problem.  There was no conspiracy. There was no mass movement among the members of the Weyr to force he and I’an back into each other’s company.  He was stupid to think so, for who amongst them even knew about their prior relationship? S’ngellan, of course, but he hadn’t been a part of today’s training at all, and he wouldn’t play those games even if he were.  Faidre and D’vin wouldn’t either. They had concerns that soundly trumped the ridiculous broken love affair between two riders. And G’lain was a wingleader with many riders to worry about. Of course, he would relegate M’ckey’s training to his second in command.

That thought made M’ckey cringe inwardly.  Today’s shite would not be a one-off thing.  He and I’an had been able to give each other space for nearly three full turns, but that was a luxury the Weyr wouldn’t afford anymore.  I’an was the second in command of a wing that desperately needed an influx of new green riders. M’ckey rode a maturing green who was ready to begin active thread fighting.  Their dragons had already formed a deeply compatible mental bond that the Weyr would need to take advantage of. It had been a foregone conclusion that he and I’an had would end up in the same wing.

It was hell.

But he wouldn’t change if for anything.  He was done lying to himself. He wanted to be close to Ian Gallagher again and if the only option afforded to him was to serve under I’an, brown rider of Telgar Weyr, than he would take it.

Besides, there were other things to consider.  He was a dragon rider now. He had a job to do, a commitment that he’d made to his brothers and sister in arms and he intended to fulfill it.  He would do his duty and protect Pern. And if there was one thing he and I’an had definitely proven today, it was that M’ckey and Lalith were ready to get out and join the damn fight.

M’ckey had spent the last two weeks working exclusively with Faidre and Feith.  It had been an emotional moment for the Weyrwoman when she had handed over the handheld flamethrower that had once belonged to her best friend and mentor.  He’d been able to see the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes as she’d passed him the weapon and showed him how to strap it to his forearm.

“I’ve cleaned it and rebuilt the mechanism,” she’d explained in a voice that was clipped to hide her emotions.  “You put the firestone in the pack here and grind it before you take flight. You need to anticipate your needs and grind up enough to last the flight, just like the males or other greens do when they digest it.  You will use this lever to ignite it.” She’d run her thumb across the mechanism that curled against his palm. “Just squeeze your fist and the flame will expel from here,” she tapped the gun that projected two feet away from his hand.  “It will be closer to you then actual dragon fire and you will need to be in constant mental contact with Lalith, since the flame will be behind her line of vision.”

They’d practiced for several days until M’ckey and Lalith both had a handle on the process, but training with another female who also relied on a flamethrower wasn’t going to give him the confidence to pass his trials and fly with the rest of a wing.  There was only one way to do that. And so, at the end of the second week, Faidre turned him over to G’lain.

And I’an.

It hadn’t started off bad.  B’ron and R’hil were two of the other green riders who had been assigned to that wing.  They had impressed at the same time as him and they’d all become close during the training, forming the kind of relationships that M’ckey might have called friendships if his wayward youth had properly prepared him for such a thing.  C’rin had been set to join the wing, too, and M’ckey hadn’t been too fecking pleased about that, but hells, the guy was pretty quiet now and all other shite aside, it was obvious he loved Mindeth, his little green, deeply.

It was fine.  It was all going to be fecking fine.

Until G’lain had tasked I’an to work with teaching him how to communicate during flight formations.

M’ckey twirled his dagger in his hand, watching the torchlight from the wall sconces flicker off of it.  The hall below him was getting crowded but no one was approaching him and he was grateful as hells for that.  Telgar wasn’t always perfect and everyone tended to live in each other’s business like it was their fecking job but one thing the constant telepathy between dragons and riders did breed was an awareness of others’ emotions.  If you seemed like you needed space, people would probably let you have it. And he needed it tonight.

M’ckey doubted most people in the Weyr would even have noticed the firm set of I’an face when G’lain had handed down the order.  But M’ckey was not most people and he’d seen Ian Gallagher at his most open and vulnerable. For the briefest of moments, he’d expected I’an’s Southern core to rear its head and for G’lain to be told to go to hell.  But this was not Ian Gallagher, it was I’an of Telgar, a man who did his duty. I’an had simply nodded to his wingleader and moved towards Karth.

“C’mon,” he’d tossed at M’ckey as he walked by.

It was a little thing, a single word, spoken without anger or emotion, but it had made M’ckey’s heart leap and his stomach knot anyway.  It was the first word I’an had spoken to him in three full turns.

They’d run flight drills first, letting M’ckey learn the patterns the wing used to avoid flying into each other as they went

between

.  It was a difficult type of training, as the dragon’s and riders mastered physical actions and telepathic command protocols, but they had kept at it, letting Karth and Lalith commune freely.  Up they’d gone, swooping up, snapping

between

, moving together perfectly to target the enemy while protecting each other.  It had been seamless.

A clatter of dishes broke M’ckey from his thoughts.  Several of the drudges were cleaning up some lower tables.  The hall was full now and a few other men had joined him quietly at the upper tier.  Below him, to his left, he could see B’ron, R’hil and C’rin taking seats along the wall where the green riders typically congregated.  He tried to fight the impulse, tried not to give in, but as his gaze drifted back, it landed on the wingleaders’ table.

And I’an.

Their gazes locked immediately and there was nothing M’ckey could do to pull away.  I’an eyes were as intense as he remembered, but instead of challenge, M’ckey saw only careful evaluation.  I’an green gaze chipped and probed at him from all the way across the hall but he finally managed to pull away, staring down into his trencher.  He gritted his teeth but forced himself to swallow his pride. He hated looking down first, hating backing off from any challenge, but he was a dragon rider in training and who the feck was he to get in the face of a wing second.  Hells, who was he to ever get in I’an’s face after what he’d done to the red haired man.

And I’an had every right to be disturbed, considering how their training had gone.

It was G’lain himself who had finally interceded, flying into their beautifully choreographed flight pattern and signaling them to the ground.  It wasn’t until they’d landed and slid from their riding harnesses that the situation became clear.

“What were you doing up there?”  G’lain had asked, his deep voice a blend of annoyance and wistfulness, “It’s good to see the cohesion in your flight, but we’ve other skills that need some time, too.”

M’ckey had let the words roll over him, confused by the implication, but it had been I’an who had spoken, his voice tight but carefully diplomatic.

“We were running the flight patterns.  We aren’t going to work on fire patterns until we know how Lalith flies.”

G’lain’s eyes had narrowed in confusion.  “I’an, I’m not faulting that, but your flight patterns were impeccable.  They were absolutely perfect after the first ten minutes.” He’d glanced at M’ckey and the corner of his lips had curled up slightly, “I’ve actually never seen anything like it.  You were in perfect synch. But you could’ve done if for half an hour and been done. You need to work on flame patterns, too. It’ll be harder with the thrower.”

Then it had been M’ckey who was confused and he’d heard the same disorientation in I’an voice when the brown rider said, “We were only up there for twenty minutes.”

“Twen…,” G’lain’s amusement had melted away and a look of genuine concern had graced his features.  “I’an, you were up there for over two hours.”

The truth had hit M’ckey hard but he hadn’t doubted it for a minute.  Of course. Lalith and Karth had shown a mental compatibility that was rare as hell.  Shite, it was practically primal and he and I’an had fallen right into it. The realization had left M’ckey with his cheeks burning in embarrassment.  Hells, his whole job was to help Lalith manage her basic instincts. That was what a rider did, for fecks sake.

Do not lay the blame solely on me, Mine,

Lalith had teased him,

I’m not the only one with primal thoughts.

He’d shot the green a dirty look but said nothing as Lalith chuffed happily and clawed at the ground.  Karth had stood to the side, stoic and still, but M’ckey could have sworn that the large brown was saying plenty to Lalith inside their heads.

It had been I’an who recovered himself first.  “Sorry,” he’d stated towards G’lain, “We’ll get the fire patterns down.”  To M’ckey, he’d kept his voice controlled and professional. “Get your shite,” he’d said simply as he ran a hand over Karth’s hide.

It hadn’t taken long for M’ckey to grab the now familiar flamethrower and configure it onto his arm.  He’d given the ground firestones a quick stir in their canister as Karth and Lalith had soared up above the Weyr again.  The dragons’ mental bond had instantly flared up again, but this time M’ckey had known what to look for and pulled back against the instinctual draw, focusing intently on the flamethrower in his hand.  It had been difficult at first, as the brown and green’s natural bond attempted to fully assert itself, but he’d maintained control this time, helping Lalith to temper the connection and direct it towards their primary purpose.  He’d recognized when they’d finally struck a balance, when the push and pull of being dragged under versus losing the connection had finally abated. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, M’ckey had found something solid that he could lean against, something that could brace him just enough to allow Lalith to commune with Karth without being overpowered by the bond.  They’d begun to run the burn patterns, and it had been immediately obvious that their focus and precision were stronger.

Looking down, M’ckey had been able to see G’lain staring up at them from the grounds of the Weyr.

His bronze calls us back, Mine,

Lalith had explained and M’ckey had nearly smiled at her sulky tone.

“What are you so salty about?” he’d asked, leaning close to her neck as they settled to the ground.

This isn’t as much fun.

M’ckey had snorted despite himself.  Leave it to his green to want threadfighting to be fun.

“It’s our job, Lal, not a fecking game.  You and Karth can’t just go play.”

I know that, Mine,

she’d bit back, sounding affronted,

I know fun.  I know games.  Karth and I were having fun.  You and his prettyrider are playing games.

M’ckey had startled for a moment as he slid to the ground.  “What are you…,” he’d begun, but Lalith had cut him off.

To fly together is fun for dragons.  To help us stay in control is a job for riders.  To pretend that you don’t know who is helping you keep that control is a game that you and the prettyone play.

The prettyone.  Hells. The wood of the trestle table was rough from many turns of use and M’ckey could feel each facet of the grain as he ran his hands over it.  The food in his trencher was cooling now but he didn’t think he could finish it. His stomach was knotting again, just as it had out on the training grounds when Lalith’s exasperated words had finally sunk in.

I’an.  Of course.  While their dragons were reveling in their own compatibility, he and I’an had unconsciously found balance by leaning into each other’s presence in the bond.  That was the fortifying force he had felt in his head. Fecking perfect. The only way that he could help Lalith maintain control over her most basic instincts around Karth was to rely on the mental supports of the man who’s heart he had publicly danced upon.  Suppressing a frustrated growl, he pushed back from the table until he could lean against the wall behind him. He let his eyes fall closed, shutting out the world around him as he tried to process the rest of the shite storm.

The afternoon had only gotten messier.  G’lain had nodded approvingly at their progress but had also offered up some suggestions.

“You need to be able to reach underneath her,” he’d explained, “Greens often fly closer to the ground to burn up the thread that gets through and lands.  You need to hover over it and ignite it from above. It’s the safest way but it’s tricky with a thrower.”

“I get it,” M’ckey had replied, scrambling back onto Lalith’s back.  Once seated, he’d examined the space between his green’s fore and hind quarters carefully.  Leaning over, he’d aimed his arm and the attached canon into the space, keeping it away from Lalith’s tender hide.  All had seemed fine until…

Shite!

He’d realized he was going to slip less than a second before he lost his grip.  The slide had been slow but steady and all of his scrambling and readjustment had done nothing.  He had been falling, losing his hold on his dragon as the weight of the canon overbalanced him and dragged him sideways.  True, he and Lalith had been on the ground and when he inevitably slammed into the dirt, it would only have been from a few feet up, but that was this time.  The next time, they’d be hundreds of feet in the air and what the hell would he do then? A bolt of panic had swept through him at that thought, freezing every muscle he had, when all of the sudden he’d felt a bracing presence, a pull that had halted the fall.  The ground had stopped getting closer, but even as his physical movement had stopped, his mind had suddenly ricocheted away from him.

There had been lights.  Brighter than any light he had ever seen, shuttering and flashing at incredible speed.  Vertigo had overwhelmed all of his senses, stripping him of all balance. His hands had flailed blindly, one arm still trapped helplessly by the weight of the canon, but his free fingers had managed to find the force that was holding him up.  It had been firm and strong and locked around his hips.

And it had been familiar.

In the blink of an eye, the swirling, nauseating colors had whirled together, creating a tunnel that had dragged him forward.  He’d known what it was. First his mind had recognized I’an’s presence and now his body had recognized I’an touch. A flash of clear memory had permeated the whirling color and for the briefest moment, he’d been back in the deserted farmhold in Crom, collapsed on top of a pile of moldering old grain sacks with his knees spread and Ian Gallagher draped over him.  Ian’s hands had been on his hips then too, strong and firm as he’d drawn Mickey back, pulling him down the length of his…

Shite

!

M’ckey had shaken his head frantically, fighting against the rolling nausea in his stomach.  Somewhere along the edges of his mind, he’d been able to feel Lalith reaching out to soothe him.  And he’d still felt I’an’s hands on him. Real and firm, they rested against his hip bones, holding him steady.  The brown rider had managed to scramble onto Lalith’s back and catch him as he’d slipped to the side. I’an had still been there, bracing him, pressed close behind him.  The proximity had been jarringly familiar and M’ckey had just managed to retain enough control of his spinning mind and racing emotions to avoid leaning back into the familiarity of the solid body behind him.  No, no, he couldn’t do that. That was taking too much liberty. Instead, he’d let himself pitch forward, catching himself as he rested his free hand against Lalith’s back. He’d grit his teeth and determinedly blocked out the memory that had just flooded his mind.

“Are you good?”

“What?”

The close proximity of the familiar voice had finally shocked him out of his stupor.  He’d looked over his shoulder and found I’an face close behind him. The redhead’s voice had sounded professional and removed but M’ckey knew it too well to miss the slight waver in the tone.  Shame had suddenly overwhelmed him, shame for nearly falling and for dragging I’an into this. Whipping his head back around, he’d slowly extracted himself from I’ans hold and shifted up Lalith’s back, settling more securely back into his harness.

“I’m good,” he’d answered in as neutral a voice as he could muster.

There had been nothing but an affirming grunt from behind him and then I’an had been gone, sliding to the ground with an elegant ease.  He’d turned and reached up, and M’ckey had felt those strong hands again as they suddenly encircled his ankle.

“Come here,” I’an had ordered with clear command in his voice.  The hold on his ankle had been gentle, though firm and M’ckey hadn’t protested.  As both the man who’d broken I’an’s heart and the lowly, untrialed green rider trainee in the wing, he had no right to protest.  But somehow he’d known that he wouldn’t have, even if he could. The simple presence was still there, still in his head, and it made him want to trust I’an.  He didn’t know what to do with that fact, but he hadn’t been about to question it.

“Here,” I’an had continued, pulling M’ckey’s leg down and turning his toe in.  The redhead had used his other hand to feel along Lalith’s hide until he located a joint in the green’s shoulder.  Turning M’ckey’s foot carefully, he’d placed the toe beneath the outcropped joint and held it there firmly.

“There,” he’d said, staring up into M’ckey’s eyes.  “You need to keep your foot right there when you need to fly low to burn the ground residue.  If you lean over, you can use the harness to brace yourself and your foot as a hook to keep from sliding.  Ride closer to her head when you’re low so you can access this point easily.” Releasing his hold on M’ckey’s foot, he’d stepped back and caught his eyes with a flinty green gaze.  “Now show me you can do it on your own.”

M’ckey had felt his mouth moving before he knew what words were going to come out.  “It’ll hurt her,” he’d sputtered, hearing the Southern Crom attitude rear it’s head momentarily, “I ain’t fecking hurting her.”

It won’t hurt!

Lalith had muttered mulishly in his head, but he’d barely been able to notice.  Instead, all of his attention had been focused on the green glare that burned into him.  I’an had taken two steps backwards, never breaking eye contact, and M’ckey had felt whatever brazenness he’d been able to muster simply melt away under the gaze.  They’d stared at each other, M’ckey squirming and I’an loose and authoritative as long minutes dragged by.

“Hurt her?” I’an had finally asked.  He’d pursed his lips in mock acceptance but his voice was tight and angry, “Okay, sure, it might pinch her a bit. Maybe cause a little discomfort.  But I doubt she’d care. See, she understands what the hells is going on here. She knows that no matter how much it might hurt, it won’t be as bad as watching you fall off of her and die in a pile of burning thread!”

He’d spit out the last words and they hit M’ckey hard.  Relenting, he’d torn his eyes away from the terrible green gaze.

“I get it,” he’d muttered quietly.

“Do you?”

“Yes!”

“Do you.”

“Feck, I said I get it, Ian!”

M’ckey had sucked in his breath, trying to draw that last word back in.  It had been too late but it hadn’t much mattered. I’an had barely reacted.  A coolness had settled over the red haired man.

“That’s not my name,” he’d stated simply, “Now show me.”

So M’ckey had.

Over and over, I’an had made him run the new movement.  On the ground, in the air, until the his arms and legs ached and Lalith’s sides were slick with sweat.  It was G’lain who finally relieved him, after he and I’an had spoken and the red haired man had walked off towards the other new recruits.

“You two look really good,” he’d said as M’ckey slid to the ground.

M’ckey could only snort as he rubbed soothingly along Lalith’s flank.  The green was making no small mention of her exhaustion inside his head.

“You wouldn’t know it,” he’d replied, tipping his head towards I’an’s retreating back.

The Wingleader had only stared at him for a moment, a careful, inquisitive stare that had M’ckey’s hackles raised.  “He wants you safe,” he’d finally replied in an even voice, “Now go take care of your dragon. You’re dismissed.”

Those words and that probing gaze had stayed with M’ckey into dinner.  He rolled both things over endlessly in head, trying to pull them apart.  He loved his new life, wouldn’t trade it for anything, but it was this element that frustrated him most.  Riders could commune telepathically through with their dragons and the dragons could all speak to each other, of course, but dragons were such objective creatures and they typically viewed the nuances of their humans’ relationships to be silly and complex.  And it led to this kind of shite. You never knew just how much someone else might know about you, because the channels of communication were so fecking convoluted and unclear.

He sighed.  He was tired and should probably find his bed.  They had been free of threadfall for two days but that streak of luck wasn’t likely to continue.  And he would be expected to go out with the wing during the next fall, to stay low and burn off thread like he’d been taught to today.  And this, of course, was why I’an was so worried. He needed M’ckey ready to keep his whole wing strong, nothing more.

Nothing more.  But that just didn’t seem true.  Not in the ferocity of I’an anger or the depth of G’lain’s assessing eyes.  With a final, tired sigh, M’ckey curled his arms up on the table and lay his head down.  Once, he’d have never risked such vulnerability in public, but that was something he loved most about his new life; the safety and familiarity of everyone in the Weyr.  He was tired but I’an was in the hall with him and M’ckey could still feel the redhead’s comforting presence inside his mind.

As his eyes fell closed, he wondered if I’an could feel it too.

***********************************************************************************

I’an could feel it too.

Over the past few years, I’an had grown so accustomed to the perpetual presence of others in his head that it was practically second nature.  Karth was as much a part of him as he was himself and if the brown rider were ever to lose his dragon, his mind would definitely be lost too. He could understand why so many riders took their own lives upon the deaths of their dragons.  The emptiness had to be unbearable.

He was used to the phantom threads of others as well.  Dragons communicated telepathically, with their riders and with each other.  Sometimes, there was some overlap. It was typically short bursts of background noise that he had long ago learned to ignore.  But there was no ignoring this.

When G’lain had first approached them this afternoon, I’an had been mortified.  He’d done a pretty good job covering it up but it had been fecking humiliating. How in hells had he allowed himself to be pulled so fully into Karth’s primal drives.  A rider’s responsibility was to help his dragon control those urges at all times, even in the heat of battle or a mating flight. And he was no new rider. He was the second in command of an entire wing!

Frustration and other emotions he didn’t want to examine too carefully drew his eyes back across the hall to the raised tables in the far corner of the dining hall.  He’d locked eyes with M’ckey, who was seated up there, earlier in the meal. The brunette had looked pale and confused and completely exhausted and it had only made I’an feel worse.  Fecking hells. He was a leader with responsibilities and M’ckey was one of his men. That alone would require him to take more care. But of course, that was only the surface issue.

“You want to talk about it?”

A voice from over his shoulder pulled I’an back from his musings.  He turned as G’lain sat down beside him and accepted food and ale from a passing drudge.  The wingleader stared at him pensively, waiting, as I’an shook his head clear and caught up with the conversation.

“About what?”

“No,” G’lain said simply, glancing pointedly across the hall, right to where I’an’s eyes had been fixed only moments ago.  M’ckey had let his head drop onto his coiled arms, and even from this distance, I’an could see the tension that still marred the brunette’s features.  It twisted something deep in his heart, something he didn’t know if he could keep ignoring.

“No,” G’lain said again,  his voice kind but firm,“You and I aren’t doing that shite.  I’ve been in this Weyr for many turns and there isn’t much I haven’t seen.  So just be straight with me. How far inside each other’s heads are you two?”

I’an sighed.  Carefully, fixing his eyes on the face across the hall, he reached inside his mind and probed carefully, searching until he found the familiar presence he’d first chanced upon that afternoon.  As he mentally ran a hand across the sturdy connection, he nearly started as he felt something push back against him. On the dais in the corner, M’ckey’s features visibly relaxed, the stress leaching away as he tipped over the edge into a deep sleep.  I’an sucked in a breath at the sight, trying to control the tingling sensations that rippled over his skin.

“Hells,” he sighed out loud.

“So, pretty fecking far, I’d say.”

It took I’an a moment to tear his eyes away from M’ckey’s sleeping form and glance sideways at his wingleader.  G’lain had ripped into a piece of bread and was chewing away, a pensive gleam in his eyes as he stared across the hall himself.

“Is this bad?” I’an asked, hating the tentative lilt in his voice.  “I mean, I thought bonding was normal.”

“It is.  You know that.  But what I saw today wasn’t normal bonding.”

I’an could feel his stomach churn.  “Shite! Is that...

is

it bad?”

“No!” G’lain answered quickly, turning to meet his eyes.  “It’s not bad. And it’s not completely unique. I’ve seen it before.  Hells, I’ve felt it, at least to some degree.” A dark shadow crossed over G’lain’s face and I’an’s thoughts flickered to the fallen second in command who’s position he had filled.  “But I’ve never seen it happen like this. I don’t even know how to describe it to you, I’an. You were flying in perfect synch. It was amazing. But it needs to be controlled.”

“I know.”

“Yes, you do know.  But you need to be careful.”

“How?”

G’lain only sighed.  “I’m not sure. I know that isn’t terribly helpful.”

“I’ve been trying to keep my distance from him.”

G’lain’s next sigh has sounded more like a groan.  “I’an, I don’t know much about you and M’ckey. Nobody really knows.  But it’s obvious that there is something between you. This bond is not just because of your dragons.  Who the two of you are to each other, that’s the catalyst.”

Now it was I’an turn to groan.  “I know that, okay!” he spat before biting his lip and drawing in a breath.  “I know that,” he repeated, forcing a belying calm into his voice.

“Then I’m not sure avoidance is the best strategy.”

“Yeah.  I hear you.  S’ngellan’s already given me the same speech.  But hells, you don’t know the story. S’ngellan does but he doesn’t know how the feck it felt to be…” his voice thickened as the memory roared back.  Across the hall, M’ckey suddenly startled awake, but I’an turned away before the brunette could catch his eyes. It caused his gaze to land back on G’lain, though, and the wing leader’s expression had only grown more knowing.

“So something did happen?”

I’an grimaced.  “Yeah.”

“Something unforgivable?”

“I’m not sure.”

They might have argued the point more, but a sudden raucous from the lower tables was drawing the attention of the whole hall.  Standing, I’an scanned the room until he found the source of the noise. Un-fecking-believable. C’rin. That little shite green rider who’d tried to screw with M’ckey was standing by his table with a small food stain on his tunic and blood on his hands.  On the floor in front of him, a drudge was sprawled on the ground with a split lip and a terrified expression.

Fecking hells.

Several turns prior, I’an probably would’ve waded into the fray without thinking, but his training had taught him restraint.  Taking three steps forward, he leaped onto the a stool to get a better look.

C’rin was standing stock still, his face frozen in place.  His jawline looked firm and mulish but his eyes were clearly shocked.  And afraid. But that changed when his two fellow green riders stormed to their feet.

“What in the hells is your problem, you complete ass!” B’ron railed, stepping into C’rin’s face.  The former Holder’s son was not about to back down, however, even if his voice was wavering and his chin was trembling.

“He’s a damn drudge.  He thinks he can spill shite on me and get away with it?”

“Oh, you arrogant fecking fool…” B’ron roared, stepping forward before his fellow rider yanked him back.  I’an had seen enough. C’rin needed to be disciplined. He was about to step down to intervene when two things caught his eye.  From one side of the room, D’vin the Weyrlingmaster was striding through a rapidly parting crowd with fire in his eyes. But from the other side of the room, with an equally burning gaze, came M’ckey.

Shite.

C’rin deserved it but meting out punishment was not M’ckey’s responsibility in the Weyr.  Nor his right.

Don’t!

I’an knew the brunette wouldn’t hear the actual word but he said it anyway, hoping it would have the desired effect.  Then he pushed hard against the strange thread that M’ckey and Lalith had woven into he and Karth’s bond.

Don’t!

He could jump down and push through the crowd but he wouldn’t get there in time.  D’vin was close but M’ckey was gaining ground more quickly. Damn! He’d get flogged and I’an knew with sudden and absolute clarity that he didn’t want M’ckey hurt.

Don’t!  Stop!

M’ckey pushed through the crowd into the tiny clearing surrounding the sprawled drudge and the struggling green riders.  He stalked forward with purpose, right up to C’rin…

...and right past him.  Tearing a strip off the bottom of his own tunic, he pressed the material to the drudge’s lip, staunching the pouring blood.

D’vin had made his way through the crowd and he had C’rin roughly by his bicep.  The green rider wasn’t struggling anymore. In fact, he looked utterly beaten and when D’vin ripped him from the hall, he offered no resistance.  The other green riders stepped forward, helping M’ckey lift the shaken drudge to his feet. As they guided him out towards the healer’s hall, M’ckey turned back and threw I’an one final, burning look.  And then he was gone and the presence in I’an’s mind retreated ever so slightly.

But very deliberately.

“So,” a voice suddenly said beside him, “You’re not sure if it’s forgivable?”

Turning to G’lain, who had joined him on the bench, he shrugged.  “I’m not sure.” he spit emphatically.

“Well,” the Wing leader muttered without a trace of humor, “I suggest you figure it the hell out.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

M’ckey knew what it felt like to experience change.  True, everyone had to deal with change at some point in their lives, but he’d been handed more than his fair share, in his opinion.  As a young child, he’d had no understanding of thread. Why would he? At the time, there’d been no such thing. And then things had changed.  The Interval ended. The Pass of the Red Star began. Silvery, ribony poison began to fall from the sky and giant beasts with men upon their backs had suddenly appeared to burn it to ash before it could touch the ground.

That had been one change, but not the only one.  Once, he’d been a child with a mother. That had changed.

Once, he’d been the son of the poorest and most violent farmholder in all of Southern Crom.  He’d been a useless waste who would amount to nothing. That had changed, too.

He’d experienced all manners of change in his life, but none seemed quite so significant as the one that was nearly upon him.  He and the greens in his wing had been actively fighting thread for three full turns of the moon now. They were no longer novices.  They’d burned thread from the sky and protected Pern. They’d saved their fellow riders. They’d seen their fellow riders fall. They were trialed and battle proven and full blown members of their wing and their Weyr.  It meant that their dragons were mature.

It meant that, as greens, they’d be ready to rise to mate.

M’ckey ran a hand gently up Lalith’s side as the huge animal dipped her head into the stream beside them and took a long drink of water.  To their left, C’rin was rubbing down Mindeth’s wing joints carefully as the little dragon drank her own water. All around him, other greens and blues had settled to rest and M’ckey didn’t judge them for it.  Small, lithe, and highly acrobatic, the green and blue dragons were very useful for chasing down errant thread, flying low before the poisonous shite could touch down on the ground and start to burrow. But the very size that made them so versatile in the air also meant that they tired more quickly, typically flying for only half of a threadfall.  Now, half of the wing’s contingent of blues and greens were resting by the stream, replaced by the other half, who had taken to the skies only minutes ago.

It was a good system, M’ckey acknowledged.  It prevented injury and didn’t overly exhaust any member of the wing since they would almost definitely have to fly and fight again within a day or two.  But though it worked for the masses, M’ckey couldn’t help but feel frustrated. Lalith was grounded with the rest of her color, only allowed to fly for half the fight.

But Lalith was no ordinary green.

Having hit her maturity at thirty-two lengths, she was massive, a full seven lengths longer than the largest green in Telgar’s record.  She was so large that she and M’ckey had needed to surrender their original weyr, far up in the mountain side where the greens usually dwelled, and accept a lower, larger cave among the brown riders.  Lalith had enjoyed it, of course, since it had put her even closer to Karth. The two seemed to spend half their time communing with each other now. It frustrated M’ckey, of course, since it only brought him more fully into I’an orbit, but of all the complicated feelings that the brown rider elicited in him, the one M’ckey was experiencing today was simple and straightforward.

He was pissed.  He was pissed at I’an and G’lian, at D’vin and S’ngellan.  He was pissed at Faidre herself. He was pissed because he was a dragon rider who had sworn an oath to protect Pern.  He wanted to do his duty and support his wing, but every fecking member of the Weyr’s hierarchy had gotten together and fecking grounded him.

Really, Mine?

M’ckey shot Lalith a dirty look but the green only chuffed at him and resumed here drinking.  Hells. There were times when M’ckey hated the fact that his girl could read all his thoughts.  She was far too logical to go along with his dramatic outbursts and far too cheeky to keep her fecking thoughts to herself.

And she was right.  It burned M’ckey to admit it, but she was.  Faidre was right, G’lain was right, I’an...hells, I’an was right.

Lalith was huge.  She could handle longer flight, especially since she, like a gold, wasted no energy metabolizing firestone and sustaining flame.  M’ckey handled that part with his flamethrower. But the leadership was still right. With their numbers so depleted, the Weyr couldn’t support permanently grounding a dragon, but they weren’t willing to tempt fate too much.  At least, not until they knew whether or not Lalith would be able to carry a clutch. And if she proved to be fertile, M’ckey knew the restrictions would only increase. If she proved fertile…

I will.

Rubbing his hands down the soft, green hide, M’ckey couldn’t suppress a grin.  His girl was always so damn confident.

How can you be so damn sure?

Lalith snorted.

I just know.  I could not explain it to you.  It is my purpose.

When.

That, mine, I cannot say for sure.  But soon.

Soon.  It would be soon.  Already, the greens in their wing were starting to show early signs of a rise and it was peaking the interest of the males around them.  And of course, because his friend couldn’t seem to catch a break, no one was maturing more quickly than C’rin’s little meadow green girl, Mindeth.

M’ckey turned to look at the other man, who was laying on his back on the riverbank, rubbing Mindeth’s eye ridges while the green rested her head on his stomach.  They looked peaceful and content, but they had both been showing the signs. Increased temper was obvious. Restlessness. Insatiable hunger. No, the older riders were right.  Mindeth was going to rise very soon and his friend would be the first of the new greens to experience what it meant to be a rider during a mating flight.

His friend.

It still amused M’ckey that he now thought of the former nobleman as his friend, but that was just another thing that had changed.  When D’vin, the Weyrlingmaster, had hauled C’rin out of the great hall, M’ckey had felt nothing in his heart but contempt for the one time holder’s son, and even a petty little sliver of glee at the thought of the ass beating he was about to receive.  It had been a rough day for him, between the intense training session he and Lalith had undertaken with I’an and Karth and the stress of dealing with their newfound mental connection so he’d cut himself a break.

The problem was, D’vin hadn’t been so generous.  Less than two hours later, M’ckey found himself standing on the ledge of C’rin’s Weyr along with B’ron and R’hil as the Weyrlingmaster lectured them on their new responsibilities.

“We have a job to do,” the bronze rider had stated as he stalked up and down the length of the little weyr, “We have a sworn oath to protect Pern.”  At that, he’d glanced down at C’rin, lying prostrate across his bed with his thoroughly beaten back exposed to the air. The gaze had lingered and M’ckey could’ve sworn he’d seen a look of pain cross the Weyrlingmaster’s face.  It had been gone in an instant, though, and D’vin had resumed his pacing. “This rider has been dealt a consequence for behaving in a way that shames all in Telgar. But he has paid the price and we will leave it at that and move on.  As his fellow green riders and wingmates, I leave him in your capable hands. Get him healthy and riding again.” And with that order and a final glance at the prone form sprawled across the bed, D’vin had stepped off the ledge onto Eeyreth’s back and was gone, leaving M’ckey, B’ron and R’hil to stare after him.

“Well, shite,” B’ron had muttered, mirroring M’ckey’s thoughts, “How the hells are we supposed to know what to do?”

But they’d managed, working together to speed C’rin back to fighting and flying form and it didn’t take the group long to realize that the Werylingmaster’s plan had been a solid one.  They were four young men from different Holds and classes in the outside world, but here they were, together, equal, and confronting face-on the differences between the world they’d all left and the new one they inhabited.  Growing up in the shite holes of Southern Crom, M’ckey had assumed that he won the day when it came to a bleak and dangerous childhood but he soon learned that being highborn could be just as horrible.

“He didn’t have to beat you so bad,” he’d found himself muttering three days after D’vin had dished out their assignment.  He’d been spreading salve-soaked cloths across the worst of the bruising that still criss-crossed the other green rider’s back and the sympathetic notes in his voice surprised him.  C’rin had lain quietly for a long moment, and M’ckey hadn’t expected a response, until a strong, clear voice cut through the silence.

“He could’ve whipped me until I bled,” C’rin had stated simply, “It would’ve been fair of him.  He didn’t do that to spare me the pain. That takes a long time to heal.”

M’ckey hadn’t replied at first.  He was seldom at a loss for words but he had suddenly found himself unsure of what to say.  Personal experience at the hands of his own bastard of a father had made him painfully aware of the healing time required to recover from a real whipping.  But how would this Holder’s son have had any idea?

A tight knot had formed in M’ckey’s stomach as he perused the bruise-mottled skin that stretched across C’rin’s back.  Grabbing a candle from the table, he’d held it up, peering closer.

And there they’d been, the answer to the terrible question that had suddenly sprung up between them.  Beneath the streaks of blue and purple, clearly visible now that he knew what to look for, he’d been able to make out the thin white stripes of whip scars.  There’d been dozens upon dozens of them, overlapping each other from the top of the green rider’s shoulders to the lower curve of his spine.

“Fecking hells,” he’d breathed, leaning in to bring the light a little closer.  He’d barely gotten a good look before C’rin tensed and pulled away. “Who the hells…”

“I don’t…,” C’rin had stated sharply, only to take a deep breath and calm himself, “I don’t...this isn’t something I can just talk about.  Please.”

So M’ckey had let it go.  He hadn’t wanted to, had wanted to drag the information out of his wingmate, to understand how some highborn kid had been subjected to years of brutal beatings, but pushing and demanding wasn’t who he was anymore.  If C’rin wanted to tell him, he would.

And he did, eventually, as the fading of the bruises made the underlying scars more evident and R’hil and B’ron both saw them for themselves.  C’rin had been back to training with the wing and eating in the hall when an older blue rider had made a crack about the progress of the newest greens.

“You’re all looking good.  Gonna be flying soon, fighting with your wing.  And you know what comes after that,” he’d quipped with a good natured wink as he’d strode past the table.

“You know they’re all placing bets on this shite, right,” R’hil had muttered into his cup of ale.  “Which one of the new greens will rise first and who’s going to catch them.”

“They’re not doing that,” B’ron had muttered incredulously, but the words had barely been out of his mouth before R’hil and M’ckey had snorted their laughter.  “Why would you think they’d do that?”

“Think it,” R’hil had muttered, giving M’ckey an elbow, “Give us a year and we’ll be running the pool ourselves.”

They’d laughed themselves hoarse at the horror that had crossed B’ron’s face, but M’ckey guessed he couldn’t blame the other man.  He was the son of a Major Farm Holder within the borders of Telgar Hold, and while he might not have lived the life of a high nobel, B’ron had never had to scrape for money or fight for his next meal.  A little naivete about the seedier things in life could be expected.

Their raucous laughter had been quickly cut off, however, when C’rin had suddenly risen to his feet, excused himself quietly, and abruptly left the hall.

“Hells,” R’hil had turned and watched their fellow rider’s hunched, retreating back, then turned back to catch M’ckey’s eyes, “You need to go talk to him, man.”

“Why me?”

Then it had been B’ron’s turn to snort.  “He trusts you the most. He’ll talk to you.”

“Trusts me?  I’ve almost kicked his ass twice.”

“And that’s why.  He knows you’re real with him.  Just take my word for it. I’ve got an instinct for this shite”

M’ckey didn’t know about that, but he hadn’t been in any place to argue.  He’d just headed for the door to the floor of the Caldera.

The skies above had been clear and rife with stars but he’d barely had time to glance up.  Instead, he’d headed across the barely lit yard towards the feeding grounds, where he could just make out the familiar outline of C’rin among the huge bodies of the dragons who huddled over their food.

“The hell, man?” he’d asked as he approached.

C’rin had said nothing for a moment, concentrating his gaze on Mindeth, who’d been nudging her forehead against his shoulder insistently.  M’ckey had stepped back and given them some space. He knew what it looked like when a rider and dragon were having a talk

“You’re placing bets?”

The statement had been calm and straightforward but M’ckey had still felt a sliver of guilt creep over.  He’d tamped it down and fixed his gaze on the other rider. He had nothing to be guilty about.

“I mean, I’m not, but yeah, a lot of the guys are.  But that shite can’t get to you. They all do it to each other.  It’s supposed to be harmless.”

“Is it?”

“Hell, I don’t know.  It’s supposed to make this shite seem normal.  I mean, it is normal, right? That’s the thing.  They can make bets because they don’t see it as strange or fecked up or anything.  It’s a regular part of life here and they might place bets but no one’s judging anyone or looking down on people.”  He’d tried to catch C’rin’s eyes but the other rider’s gaze had remained fixed on his dragon. “You get that though, right?  That this isn’t about hurting us?”

“That’s not my concern.  It barely matters, really.  Let them have their fun. I was just wondering if you were placing bets because that would hardly be sporting.”  There’d been a hint of amusement in C’rin’s voice as he’d finally turned to meet M’ckey’s surprised eyes.

“The hell you talking about, man?”

C’rin had let out a gentle breath and the tiny curl of a smile had slipped from his lips.  “I mean that you already know who will win Lalith. You’ve suspected for a while but now you know for sure.  And that means you will be among the first to rise.”

“The feck are you…”

“I recognize the signs, M’ckey.  When I see you and Lalith around Karth.  Around I’an. I know what I’m seeing.”

“How?’ The question had been out of his mouth before he could stop it and the second the words passed his lips, the inquiry had become irrelevant.  He knew how. What he’d needed to know was…”Who?”

“Eeyreth.  And D’vin.”

Oh.

“Fecking hells.  How…,” M’ckey had lost his words, letting his knees give out slowly as he sank down on a large rock under the weight of that revelation.  “How do you know that?”

“How do

you

know?” C’rin had asked simply.

M’ckey had felt himself bristle for a moment under that inquiry.  The old tendencies, the Milkovich roots, had reared their heads for a moment, wanting to curse, to hoard information, to tell the spoiled bitch of a nobleman’s son to kiss is ass, but holding himself in check was getting easier.  Here, in this world where communication was key, the men learned to share everything.

“We knew each other before.  We had...hells, we were together…like, a couple.  But my father found out and threatened to kill him and so I...shite.  I waited until the Search and told everyone he liked to screw other men.  I figured they’d take him and keep him safe.”

“That makes sense.”

“Shut the hell up.  It doesn’t make sense.”

C’rin’s voice had remained calm.  “I’m not passing judgement. I’m too damn sore for that.  I’m saying I understand what you did.” He’d paused for a second and his gaze had become more intense.  “How long did it take Lalith and Karth to form a bond?”

“The first damn night.” M’ckey’d snorted, grunting as Lalith chuffed proudly from her feeding trough off to their left.

C’rin had only nodded, turning his eyes back towards Mindeth, rubbing rhythmically over her head and neck, “They were the same way, Mindeth and Eeyreth.  They found each other that first night. But I should have seen it coming anyway.”

“How the hell…”

“You knew him, before?  I’an. And more than that.  You had a relationship with him?  Loved him, even?”

“Wait, how did you…”

“You’ve seen my back.”  M’ckey had slammed his mouth shut at those words.  Yeah, he’d seen C’rin’s back and he really wanted to know what the feck had happened.  And how the Werylingmaster of Telgar and his bronze were involved.

“My father is, by standard accounts, a good Lord Holder.  He believes in the dragon riders and supports the Weyr. But he is a hard man and a careful man.  He does not like waste. He will give the Weyr what it demands in tithes, but never anything more.  He will thank them for their service, but he will not see them as equals. He expects everything and everyone to find a proper place, to know where they belong, and to fulfill their obligations.

I have two older brothers.  This gave my father an heir and a spare son to help with the running of the Hold.  What he needed from his third child was a girl, a daughter who could be married off to another Holder in order to secure alliances.  Instead, he got me, a third son, something he did not need. I had no purpose, no role to fulfill and even worse, my mother died giving birth to me.”

At this, M’ckey had tried to catch the other rider’s eyes, to offer some kind of empathy, but C’rin’s gaze was far away, back at his father’s keep, and his voice remained even and flat.

“I should probably feel the loss more, but I don’t.  It was hard to understand because my father didn’t seem to care much about her death.  What my father did care about was that my mother had served a purpose, to give him the right kinds of heirs, and I’d fecked that all up, twice over.

He didn’t cast me aside or anything.  I was still given good food and clothing, the right kind of education, but he hated me.  He mostly ignored me but if I made any kind of mistake, it would drive him into a fury. That’s when the whip would come out.  He wouldn’t even take me out to the stables or some place private. He’d string me up right in the hall, beat me, and leave me there throughout the meal so that everyone could stare.”

“I get that,” M’ckey had stated,  “My dad...he used to whip the shite out me, too.”

“Well, my father was bad.  The beatings were terrible but the worst thing was the way he treated my brothers.  They had a purpose, see, so they couldn’t really do much wrong. And he had no problem with them treating me like trash.  They’d lock me in dark rooms, in cells and closets, lock me out in the cold, steal my food, destroy my things, damage my armor.  They’d beat me themselves any chance they got. In truth, most of the scars I have came from them, when my father started letting my oldest brother handle my whippings himself.  But the worse fecking thing…

One day, when I was six, I fell into the goat pen.  It was stupid but I panicked until one of the stable hands pulled me out.  But my brother had seen it, see, and it gave him an idea. After that, their new game was to see how much of a panic they could send me into around animals.  At first, they just did it with the sheep and pigs. They’d throw me in the pen and hit me with sticks when I tried to climb out. I’d get stepped on, butted, nipped at.  I’d get completely filthy and my hands would be a wreck from the splinters in the fences. No one would stop them or help me because they knew that my brothers would have the power in the Hold someday.  And when my father would see me, he’d string me up and let them whip me, for being a mess but mostly for being a coward.

It got worse.  One day, they threw me in the dog kennel.  My father’s dogs were well trained but I was in their area.  They bit me twice and I bled everywhere. That day, my father finally got involved.  I still got my beating, of course, but he took my brothers out to the stables and whipped them hard.  And he forbade them from ever trapping me near any of the Hold’s animals ever again.”

C’rin had paused for a moment, staring into Mindeth’s eyes and M’ckey had taken a moment to draw in a deep breath and check his own anger.  Less than two weeks ago, he’d despised C’rin. Now, all he wanted to do was find his shite brothers and throw

them

to some fecking dogs.  But he’d bit his tongue and listened as C’rin turned back and continued.

“Of course, this only made my brothers hate me more.  They would whisper as they walked past me that they were plotting their revenge and that I’d never know when it was coming.  For almost two years, they did nothing to me. And then, one day, we received a message that the dragon riders of Telgar were coming for a summit.  I’d seen dragons from a distance before but this time they’d be spending the night in the yard of the Hold’s keep. Of course, I was terrified. I was terrified of all animals by that point.  And of course, my brother knew that.

They caught me in the back stairs and dragged me to the outposts of one of the kitchens and my older brother told me that they’d finally found a purpose for me.  Since I wasn’t good for anything else, I could be dinner for the dragons.

They stripped me down and trussed me up like a game bird.  Put pepper all over me so my skin was burning and I could barely see.  And my brother shoved a huge apple in my mouth, like I was some roast suckling fecking pig, so I couldn’t scream.  The locked me up in the larder until everyone was at the feast that night, and then they made their move.”

“Their move?”

C’rin had only nodded, his eyes still far away.  “I fought like crazy, but there were two of them and I was only ten.  They dragged me up to the courtyard and pretty much rolled me across the stones and right under the nose of the bronze who’d been sleeping near the door to the great hall.

I’m not exactly sure what happened then.  I know the bronze started pawing at me and moving me around, which only made me panic worse.  Somehow, I finally managed to bite through the huge fecking apple and get it out of my mouth. And then I just started screaming.  The dragon had me in his claws and was licking at me with his tongue. I really thought he was going to eat me.”

“They don’t…”

“I know that now but I didn’t then.  And neither did my brothers. This wasn’t a prank.  They would’ve been perfectly fine if I’d been eaten alive right in front of them.  But all of the sudden, someone was there, pulling me away from the dragon. He cut my ropes and wrapped me up in his cloak.”

“D’vin?”

“Yes, and Eeyreth was the bronze who was licking me.  It wasn’t until later that I learned he was just trying to calm me down.  D’vin brought me right into the hall and demanded to know what was going on.  My father couldn’t ignore the situation any longer and honestly, he seemed pretty sickened by what his own sons had done.  He fostered them out to other Holds for training by the end of the week.”

“Have you seen them since?” M’ckey’d asked, feeling a little ill himself.

C’rin just shook his head.  “No. But someday one of them will be Lord Holder so I still might have to deal with them.”

“So then what?”

C’rin had shrugged. “Things got better.  A little. My father still couldn’t stand me but no one was actively trying to torture me.  I still got plenty of whippings but they were done in private and at my father’s hand. And my mother’s aunt came to stay with us after hearing the story.  She was an older widow with only daughters and I think she liked having a boy around for a change. She was good to me. She made me the tunic I was wearing when...when I hit...not that it makes it okay but it’s all I have left of her.”

“And D’vin,” M’ckey’s pushed.

“D’vin kept me safe,” C’rin stated simply.  “He made a point of coming to my family’s hold every time there was business with the Weyr.  Even when he surrendered his leadership status and S’ngellan became the new Weyrleader, he’d come and check on me.  He put me on a horse, made me get in a pen with pigs until I was comfortable with animals again. He could never get me near a dragon again, though.  Anyway, he became my hero. I always wanted to be around him, even if he only saw me as a little kid.”

“He didn’t…”

“What?  Hells no.  I was ten turns old.  He was the youngest Weyrleader in Pern’s history, if you believe the lore, and he was completely in love with Sufia, the Weyrwoman,”  At this omission, C’rin’s jaw had tightened and M’ckey had clearly made out a pained sheen in his eyes. “I met her, a few times.”

“Really?” M’ckey’d exclaimed in genuine surprise.  The only people he’d ever met who actually knew the revered former Weyrwoman were people like S’ngellan and Justine, who were practically mythic themselves.

Just like D’vin.

“But you said yourself he never, like, showed any interest in you.  Why are you so worried?”

C’rin’s expression had been incredulous and slightly aggrieved when he finally turned back to glare at him.  “You know that isn’t how it works. He didn’t see me like that, of course not, but he still saw me. No one else saw any worth but he did.  He always checked on me, always sought me out. He taught me some advanced swordsmanship but also showed me some tricks for knife fighting, which is a hell of a lot more practical but something my father would never have approved of.  Too uncivilized for a Holder’s son, you know. But he saw me as worthy. He answered that worth with care. And that’s how this shite starts. He didn’t see me that way and I didn’t see him that way either. I worshipped him like a hero from the old lore and he gave a genuine hell about me.  Nothing else matters. The world outside of the Weyr might judge us but here, it doesn’t matter.” Leaning in, C’rin had let his stare deepen, “And that’s why your ass shouldn’t be placing any bets. Because I don’t need to tell you any of this. You already know it. ”

Turning back from the water, M’ckey glanced down at where C’rin was still lying on the ground.  Both he and Mindeth appeared calm at the moment but his friend had a flushed look about him that was difficult to ignore.  Off in the distance, Alaboth’s bugle signaled the end of the threadfall and called all the riders home. C’rin opened his eyes with a jerk, clinging to Mindeth as the two of them breathed in and out, shaken by the sound.

It begins, Mine.

Swinging his gaze back to Lalith, M’ckey quickly read the situation in her eyes.  It was happening. Mindeth was going to rise, probably with the dawn. Turning back to C’rin, he saw the start of a panic.

“You never told me,” he blurted desperately, trying to keep the other man calm, “how did you get over your fear of dragons.”

C’rin’s gaze darkened pensively.  “I didn’t,” he stated simply, nuzzling his cheek into Mindeth’s side as the little green craned her neck around to butt her forehead against this shoulder again, “One day, D’vin and Eeyreth showed up at our Hold and said that he came in Search.  He and my father, they just stared at each other in the middle of the main hall for a minute and then my father told me to get my things. D’vin didn’t say anything to me but he looked so fecking angry, I didn’t have the nerve to argue. I actually let him drag me right onto Eeyreth’s back because at the moment, he looked scarier than the fecking dragon.  But then,” C’rin’s voice broke but a sharp nudge from Mindeth urged him on, “when we got up higher, he had Eeyreth circle around one of the far roads. There was a wagon train coming up the road, with banners that I recognized. It was my oldest brother, coming home after receiving his knighthood. No one had told me, or warned me, but D’vin found out and he swooped in and…”

M’ckey couldn’t help but step forward as his friend’s voice cracked under the strain of the memory.  Hells, if he ever got a chance to really hurt one of C’rin’s sheep-fecking brothers, he’d take it in a heartbeat.

It was still dark the next morning when M’ckey awoke, dragged from his sleep by Lalith’s incessant nagging inside his head.

Mindeth rises, Mine.  Faidre requires you in the alcove to the flight room.

The flight room?  But that made no sense?  The flight room was the private chamber prepared for the riders of mating dragons.  The alcove was where the riders congregated, using their telepathic connection to help control the mating drive and protect both the female as she rose and the males as they attempted to catch her.  It was a tense room, emotions ran high, and no one was permitted there except those in the chase and the support staff who helped them. Why in the hells would Faidre want him there?

Because you will be next.

M’ckey whipped his head towards Lalith but the huge green only shot him a look that managed to be both exasperated and cheeky at the same time.

You can’t know that,

he muttered in his head.

I can.  You can, too.  I will rise and Karth will catch me.  You and the prettyone will be with us.

Twisting, she twined her neck around M’ckey’s back, drawing him close to her side.

I know you fear this, Mine.  I do not understand why you fear what you love, but I know you do, and I am sorry, but it cannot be helped.  I will rise. I cannot help that. Karth will catch me. He cannot help that. And his prettyrider will come for you and you will go to him.  And we will have a new clutch of eggs to keep Pern safe.

You make it sound so simple.

You make it sound so hard, Mine, but you and I’an long for each other.

He doesn’t…

He does.  It is simple.  It is you who make it so messy, you and your fears and your stubborn belief in the things thatman told you about yourself.  He was horrible and no sire should treat his young so. But I’an saw you as I do.

M’ckey sighed.

Yeah, and how’s that.

I see you as everything.  He saw you that way, too. And because of that, I am willing to share you with him.

“Hah,” M’ckey muttered out loud, “You don’t get to share me.”

I do.  You are Mine.

They stared at each other for a long moment as M’ckey let himself take in her calming presence.

Faidre calls us.

Drawing in a deep breath, M’ckey scrambled onto Lalith’s back and let her launch them off the cliff and into the Weyr.

The alcove outside of the flight room was large and open, with a ledge that led down to the floor of the Weyr below.  But as large as it was, the tension in the air made the space seem suffocating. Healers stood around the perimeter, their eyes open and assessing as they scanned the crowd.  A large group of blue and brown riders paced the length the space. Their faces were oddly blank and their eyes were distant and unblinking with blown pupils. It didn’t take much to figure out why.  They were only in this room physically. Their minds were far overhead with their dragons.

In the very middle of the room, C’rin stood perfectly still.  He’d stripped off all his clothing at some point and was now clad in nothing but a pair of light cotton breaches that stopped at his knees.  He was flushed from head to toe and fine beads of sweat were gathered on his shoulder blades. His mouth was wide and slack and his gaze was utterly black and fixed.

“He’s doing well,” a voice murmured to M’ckey’s right.  Turning, he found Faidre beside him. “He’s keeping her in control, even with Eeyreth right on her trail.”  Faidre gave a little chuckle. “She’s giving them quite the chase.”

M’ckey scanned the milling crowd.  One by one, the men were coming back to themselves, their eyes clearing as their dragons became exhausted and abandoned the chase.  They stumbled out, guided by the healers, into the arms of various stewards or drudges or other riders, desperate to slake their lust.  And as the crowd thinned, M’ckey noticed two things. First, D’vin was there, his eyes fixed and his mouth tight and determined. As the crowd began to thin, he moved forward, coming to stand right in front of C’rin, staring right into the green rider’s soul even as the young man remained completely one with his dragon.

The other person he saw was I’an.

A jolt of pain turned his heart for a moment at the thought that Karth might be flying for Mindeth, that I’an might be here to take C’rin.  But the brown rider’s eyes were clear and his posture was relaxed as he leaned against the wall. Somehow, even in the presence of a green rider in full mating thrall, I’an was unaffected.

At least until he looked up and met M’ckey’s gaze.  Then the green glare seemed to smolder with a low, dangerous burn.

“I want you to watch this,” Faidre said from beside him, “Both of you.  So you understand and aren’t surprised.”

M’ckey opened his mouth to argue that it might not be Lalith who rose next and might not be Karth who caught her, but he closed it just as quickly.  There was no point in arguing. No one believed that, not even him.

Beside him, Faidre started.  “Aaahh, look.”

The rest of the men were floundering away, out the door or down the ramp.  But D’vin was hovering over C’rin, pressing their foreheads flush a he ran big hands up and down the length of the green rider’s spine.  The huge room was practically empty now but the tension and heat seemed to be growing, not dissipating, as the healers nudged the two men carefully towards the flight room’s open door.

“Are they alright?” M’ckey asked as D’vin tore off his shirt, revealing an equally flushed and sweat soaked torso.

Faidre nodded.  “This is how it is,” she explained in an easy voice, “During the chase, the rider must hold back.  They must remain in control so their dragon doesn’t get pulled too deeply into its own instinctive drives.  When that happens, they fly too high, as I’ve told you before. But now, the riders’ role is different. They need to take on the mating heat, give up control and give in to it completely, so that the dragon is not overwhelmed by their lust.  They split it between them, if you will, and that helps them find their way through it.”

“What if he gets hurt,” M’ckey muttered as D’vin suddenly reached down and seized the green rider around the hips, pulling him into his arms and carrying him into the far room.  The bang of the closing doors echoed through the chamber.

Faidre said nothing, choosing to nudge him towards a table with several bottles spread across the surface.  “You will be well prepared,” she answered simply before turning towards the door.

Letting out a deep and exhausted breath, M’ckey headed towards the ledge outside the flight room.  Slumping sideways, he let his shoulder catch him as he hit the sidewall.

The sun had finally crested over the lip of the Weyr, casting a rich orange hue over the inside of the caldera.  The ground looked like fire. Not the deep purplish red of dragon fire but the burnished orange of an open flame.  Like the flames that would lick along the wood when the Southern farmholds of Crom held bonfires, when he and Ian Gallagher could be seen together in a crowd without drawing suspicion.  When they could steal away for a few moments without being seen.

But where was I’an now?

M’ckey could feel the thrum of nervous tension as it pulsed through his whole body.  He pressed his shoulder hard against the wall, letting the cool stone ground him as best he could.  But nothing was going to ground his against the sensations that ripped through him when two strong, familiar hands settled on his shoulders.

“We’re next, you know,” a deep voice whispered against his ear.  There was a careful detachment in the tone but it didn’t really matter for shite, not when I’an’s breath was on his skin.  “Are you going to be able to handle this?”

Could he?  Fecking hells.  Could he handle it?  He’d just seen his friend lose his damn mind in a mating flight and look pretty fecking pleased with the situation as it was happening.  But could he handle it? With I’an.

Yeah, he could.  There was no other option.  He and I’an might be a fecking mess, their heads so turned around with anger and fear and lust that they couldn’t find a straight path, but in the end, this wasn’t even about them.  This was about Pern, about survival. Lalith was Pern’s next hope. Everyone knew it, including her. She’d chosen Karth, practically from the moment of her birth, and that meant he and I’an had to put their shite aside and support this mating.

“I can,” he murmured quietly.

“You’re sure.”

“Fecking hells,” he bristled, fighting his raging emotions with every word, “Yes.”

“Alright,” the careful voice replied after a long moment.  “Lean back.”

M’ckey didn’t argue.  And he didn’t resist when I’an’s huge hands pulled him close until his back was pressed into the redheads firm chest behind him.  Immediately, he could feel the response. His body betrayed his resistance, melting into the warm form behind him as I’an drew him near.

“Shhhh,” the sound whispered gently against his cheek as long fingers wove their way down his chest and tangled into the laces of his shirt.

Shite.  This was going a little farther than he had expected.  In the recesses of his mind, the thought that he should pull away, slow them down, had begun to form, but it was soundly extinguished when the neck of his shirt fell open and warm hands palmed their way down the planes of his chest.

“Aahhhhhh,” the whispered gasp was the only sound he could make as his body went completely limp, sinking back against I’an’s chest as his head lolled against the redhead’s shoulder.  M’ckey could feel his eyes slipping closed, could feel his hands reaching back from his sides to clasp at I’an’s hips, but he was helpless to stop them. He couldn’t do a damn thing but feel every spark and tingle as the brown rider soothed the tension from his shoulders and chest with strong, capable fingers.

“See, you can be okay.”

The voice was still flat and clinical, and M’ckey could feel his body tensing at the sound, but I’an’s hands moved too quickly, sliding up and under his tunic to splay across his stomach and over his heart.

“You didn’t go after C’rin.” The words flew from his lips, heavy with emotion, before he could stop them, but it only made I’an pull him closer.

“No,” he answered simply.  The awful, careful tone was still there but his hands were moving again, fingertips brushing in small circles over M’ckey’s skin.  “Eeyreth and Mindeth belong to each other. D’vin and C’rin do too, it seems. And Lalith and Karth, they…” his words trailed off as the cool, composed tone chipped away to show raw emotion underneath.

M’ckey couldn’t find words.  He had never struggled to speak in his past life, but the speech was aggressive and cutting.  Now he needed to find a way to cut through the tension, to express the most humbling of truths, but his clever tongue had abandoned him.  There was so much he needed to say, to explain, to beg forgiveness for. But maybe he should just start there. He should just say…

“I’an, I’m…”

A sudden movement cut him off.  One moment, a warm, familiar body was surrounding him.  The next, all he could feel was the chill morning air.

“I’an?”

The brown rider had scrambled to the other side of the ledge, and M’ckey could see the fire in his green eyes as he drew in a deep breath.  The gaze hardened but didn’t rise to meet M’ckey’s as he spoke again, fighting to retain the same tight, detached tone.

“You can handle it?  Right?”

A knot was twisting in the pit of M’ckey’s stomach as he careful murmured, “Yes.”  I’an was so close, all he needed to do was step forward and take the redhead’s face in his hands and whisper his apology against his lips.

But in an instant, as the sun rose fully over the far walls of the Weyr, the brown rider gave a quick nod and strode down the ramp to the ground below.

*************************************************************************************

Mine, you cannot keep running away.  If you would go to him now, he could even help you with this.

Hells, Karth, get out of my head.  I don’t need his help.

His touch would not be more soothing than your own?

Karth!  I am not talking about this shite with you.

Mine, you know I deplore such language.  However, this shite, as you say, will be upon us all soon.  Within days, I suspect. Wouldn’t it be better to mend hurts, to build trust, first?

I don’t need to trust him to fuck him.  I just need to touch him and I just proved I can do that fine.

Perhaps, but it would be far more enjoyable for you if you mended hurts and acknowledged your true feelings.

Dammit, Karth!  I’m not going to enjoy it.

Oh, Mine.  Do not lie to me.  Do not lie to yourself.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

There was a cutting chill in the air this morning, as there had been the day before, and the day before that.  In the support staff halls, the drudges stoked their fire pits and huddled together on their beds. In the solitude of the weyrs, the riders lit their braziers and pulled on their thickest tunics and leathers.  They cuddled close to the sides of their dragons to share the creature’s heat. All over the Weyr, riders and drudges alike grumbled through their morning routines.

But I’an wasn’t one of them.  He strode through his weyr, his spine stiff with agitation as he stripped away the thin and sweat soaked undertunic he’d slept in, throwing the garment to one side as he approached the large stone basin in the far wall.  Like most in the Weyr, I’an had little understanding of the complex pipe system that pumped hot and cold water throughout Telgar and into each rider’s personal living space, but today he couldn’t have cared less about the strange luxury.   Leaning down, he plugged the basin and opened the cold water tap. He let the cool liquid pool for a moment before he plunged his cupped hands in and flung a gush into his overheated face. Without pausing, he splashed another handful against his throat and chest, sending dozens of rivulets streaking down his bare back and torso.

It helped but it wasn’t enough.  Leaning forward, he braced his hands on the stone rim of the basin, staring into the water as he took slow, deep breaths.  His hands were shaking badly now and the incessant shivering was working its way into his forearms. It wasn’t from the cold, that he knew.  It had started a week ago as nothing more than tiny tremors in his fingers.

It had started when he’d let go of M’ckey and walked away from the flight room.

Releasing a long, frustrated breath, I’an pushed away from the sink and walked towards the ledge of his weyr, where Karth was shifting about restlessly.  I’an was no better, and when he sank down beside his brown, he could see his knee jumping up and down.

Fecking hells.  This feeling was getting unbearable but it wasn’t as if he didn’t understand the cause.  His body and heart were finally stealing the reigns away from his stubborn ass mind. His body and heart where telling him to go to M’ckey.

And they were winning.  It had been a long week, one filled with interactions that had managed to be horribly tense and incredibly relieving at the same time.  Lalith was about to rise. Karth was her chosen mate. And I’an no longer had the willpower to resist Lalith’s rider. His own instinctive drive was winning out, drawing him closer and closer to the man who had hurt him terribly but whom he still couldn’t seem to resist.  I’an no longer bothered to fight within himself, to insist that he and M’ckey would walk away from this mating unscathed. He didn’t know what would happen but he was finally accepting that they could only love each other or hate each other. The cool disregard he’d intended to maintain towards his former lover had been a failed plan from the start.

So he’d indulged all week, because why the hell not.  Not excessively, at least not in his opinion, but not with much restraint.  He’d opened his mind completely, let the unique mental bond he and M’ckey shared through their dragons flow freely.  Pressing up against the distinctive mental presence and feeling M’ckey push back against him just as firmly had tempered the burning knot inside of him and kept the debilitating tremors of anticipation under control.  And whenever the mental presence hadn’t been enough, he’d simply walked up to the green rider and pulled him close. M’ckey would always come willingly, eagerly, but he didn’t push for more and the restraint caused a deep knife twist of longing in I’an’s heart, one he couldn’t ignore anymore.

I’an wanted.  He wasn’t sure what he wanted exactly, but it wasn’t polite detachment.  He wanted to push and chase and shout. He wanted to be somewhere with M’ckey where the could really put their hands on each other, where they could throw each other down and roll around and pant nonsense.  He wasn’t sure if he wanted them to beat each other or fuck each other, but whichever way, he wanted it senselessly.

But that wasn’t something they could indulge in, not yet. Not this week, as they barrelled towards their inevitable roles in the fate of Telgar.  Regardless of his own racing, roiling emotions, he was a dragonrider of Pern, sworn to protect the land, and right now, the land they served needed he and M’ckey to help their dragons through a mating that could be the salvation of Telgar and the entire land around it.  So they had only touched, had only clung to each other just long enough to calm the racing heat, to make it manageable. They had spoken little but with the bond thrown open, words had seemed unnecessary.

Letting out another deep breath, I’an pressed down on his knee.  M’ckey’s presence seemed withdrawn this morning, focused intently on some distant target only he could see.  It was wreaking havoc on I’an mind and body but he knew better than to push or interrupt. If M’ckey wasn’t with him, then he could only be in one place.

He was with Lalith.

We must eat, Mine.

Glancing over, I’an met Karth’s gaze.  The huge brown had craned his neck around and was staring at him with an intensity that belied his typical stoicism.  I’an understood that, too. His unflappable brown was fixed on his purpose and nothing was going to stand in his way, including the internal emotional warfare of his rider.

It had taken Karth less than a day after Mindeth’s rising to express, in no uncertain terms, that he was done with I’an’s horseshite.

The memory of  the anger and frustration he’d seen in the eyes of his impressed as they’d readied themselves for their threadfight was still making him squirm.

Mine, I love you, but I am done with your horseshite.

I’an’s head had whipped around, shock maring his features.  All around them, dragons and riders had been forming into their wings and making ready to fly, but I’an’s whole mind had been overtaken by his dragon’s words.  Had Karth just cursed? On purpose?

“Hey,” he’d quipped lightly, trying to work some mirth back into his brown, “since when do you approve of that language?”

But Karth had been in no mood.

What option do you leave me, Mine.  I have tried listening. I have tried reasoning.  You continue to be stubborn. You continue to fight your own heart.  So now I must resort to speaking in the only language you seem to understand.  Stop your horseshite.

A tightness had begun to form in I’an’s chest, a blend of guilt and rage that had threatened to steal his breath away.

“You keep speaking about things you know nothing about,” he’d spit out tightly, nearly taken aback by his own tone.  He had never,

never

spoken to Karth with real anger in his voice before, but the realization hadn’t been enough to restrain him.  “You were born and raised here. Sure, there are people in this world who judge you and hate you for being what you are, but they all live outside these walls.  You’ve never had to live right beside them. You’ve never had them threaten you to your face or put their hands on you in anger. And you’ve never, ever been betrayed by someone you loved.”

Mine,

Karth had murmured inside his head.  The brown’s voice had been more restrained but a steely, biting edge had remained.

I do not speak of these thing.  They are complex and deep rooted, and you are right to say that I do not understand them.

There’d been a softening in the brown’s voice at that last comment, but Karth wasn’t done yet.

But I am speaking of what I do know.  I know that I told you of a connection between myself and your love’s dragon long before she was ever conceived.  I know that Lalith found me within hours of her hatching and impressment. I know that we belonged to each other from that moment on.  And I know, as you know, that Lalith and I are not the cause of this connection. It is you and him. We belong to each other because you belong to each other.

Karth had twisted his long neck around, turning his gaze away and I’an couldn’t help but follow.  They’d stood side by side atop the rock outcropping with the wingleadership, letting their eyes travel across the impressed pairs readying their harnesses on the ground beneath them.  It hadn’t taken long to find their targets.

Lalith says that M’ckey’s hands are shaking, too,

Karth had prodded gently.

And with those words, the knot in I’an’s chest had released.  A well of furious and miserable tears had poured down his cheeks and he’d turned his face into Karth’s neck to hide from the assembling wings.  Fecking hells.

“So what do I do?” he’d whispered into the brown’s hide, “What do you want me to do?  Do you want me to just walk over there and hash it out with him right now? Try to make everything all better?”

I’an had heard the exasperation in Karth’s voice as the brown huffed out a breath of air.

Not now, Mine.  It is too close to Lalith’s rising to risk that kind of upheaval.

“So I should’ve listened to you.  Gone to him last night?”

Yes, but not to talk.  In that, you were correct.  But do not pull back. Reach out to him, take comfort in the bond you share.  I know that you believe it is a terrible risk but you have taken terrible risks to be with him before.

“Yeah, but I never realized he was the danger.”

Is he really?  Did he do what he did out of malice or love?

“He did it out of fear.”

And?

Shite.

I’an didn’t bother dressing beyond a new tunic.  Jumping onto Karth’s back, he let the brown fly them down to the feeding grounds on the far side of the Weyr.  Sliding from his harness, I’an pressed his forehead to Karth’s neck.

“Will it be today?”

A rumble issued from Karth’s chest.

Before the sun breaks, I believe.

With a sudden heave, Karth bolted into the feeding grounds, surprising those around him.  I’an followed, eyeing the huge beast as he snatched a sheep up in his talons and tore into the animal viciously.

“You want to pull him back.”

Startling at the voice, , I’an turned to meet the eyes of the Weyrleader, barely visible in the weak pre-dawn light.

“What should I do?” he asked as he turned back towards Karth.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, S’ngellan gestured him closer.  “Faidre is with M’ckey. Lalith woke to eat over an hour ago and is pacing the hatching grounds now.  She will fly within the hour.” The bronze rider gestured towards Karth with his chin. “Pull him back.  Tell him to drink the animals dry but avoid the meat. The blood will strengthen him for the chase without weighing  him down.”

I’an nodded, pushing out with his mind and reaching for Karth.  He’d been warned, of course, but even he was surprised by the intensity of the instinctual pull he could feel in his dragon.

Not too much,

he ordered, pushing hard through the drive that was building in Karth.  It made him feel lightheaded as his own blood began to rush to a different part of his body, but he ignored it and pushed through.  This was his job, to help Karth keep control of his impulses, not to get sucked down with them.

That would come later.

He could feel the sudden give when Karth began to listen, when his human logic finally overrode Karth’s animal instinct.  The huge brown tossed aside the carcass unswallowed and quickly pounced on another animal, sinking its teeth into the creature’s neck.  I’an nodded, sending soothing feelings through his connection as Karth fed.

From beside him, S’ngellan nodded approvingly.  “Good. He should be ready.” Turning back to I’an, he quirked a brow.  “I hear your wing has been flying extremely well lately.” he stated with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Who told you that?”

“G’lain and D’vin.”

I’an glanced up.  “D’vin? How would he…?”

S’ngellan cut him off with a cleared throat and a gesture of his chin.  Looking up, I’an caught site of D’vin’s personal weyr, situated low to the ground with the rest of the bronze riders.  From this distance, he could just make out Eeyreth and Mindeth, curled up together in a loose pile on the weyr’s ledge.

I’an couldn’t suppress a little grin.  “Is C’rin…

“I’m sure he’s curled around Eeyreth’s rider, warding off this chill.”

I’an nodded.  “Is it because of their flight?”

S’ngellan shook his head.  “No, not after this many days.  They have not left each other’s side since the flight ended.  But then again, their bond is one that runs much deeper. It’s been building for a long time.”

“You’re pretty happy about this, aren’t you?”

The Weyrleader only nodded.  “They’ve both suffered much. I’m glad they can move beyond their pasts and find peace together.”  He levied a meaningful look at I’an, who found himself nodding easily. He wasn’t going to pretend that he didn’t understand the bronze rider’s intent.

“So tell me, then.  How has your wing been flying?”

I’an shrugged.  “Really well. We have a whole group of new riders but they all seem to be learning so fast.”

S’ngellan nodded.  “Yes, well, bonds will do that.  Healthy, open ones will infuse an entire wing with improved communication.  It will make them all more effective and keep them all safer. You can see that, right?”

An answer popped into I’an head and he opened his mouth to speak when suddenly, all words dissolved in his mind.  The answer, the question, all conscious thought was instantly blown apart by a bolt of heat so intense it caused him to stumble.  His vision blurred and doubled and he flailed his head about, desperate to see if Karth was alright. But his eyes weren’t working right, or his brain had been fried by the sudden fever heat.  He found the brown, but a disjointed, fractured picture inside a picture blurred the view and suddenly he also saw himself, saw as he stumbled forward onto the ground.

“What the hells?”

There was panic in his voice but also strong arms grasping him beneath his shoulders . “Up we go,” a gentle voice soothed and he saw himself being hauled to his feet just as he felt it.

“Pull back and concentrate,” the voice whispered in his ear.  “Don’t let yourself get pulled into his mind until you’re ready.”

Feck.  This was it.  Lalith was rising, she had to be. He slammed his eyes closed and concentrated on staring into the darkness behind his own eyelids, pushing everything else away.  When he finally, hesitantly, opened them again, the nauseating double vision had passed. All he could see now was Karth as the brown pawed frantically at the ground with his front claws.

S’ngellan’s was holding him steady, clasping one of I’an’s arms around his neck and bracing him up at his hip.  The brown rider tried to catch his leader’s eyes with gratitude. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t be standing without the other man’s help.  But S’ngellan wasn’t looking at him. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the sky.

“There she goes,” he stated simply.  Following his gaze, I’an could just make out a fleck of green as Lalith disappeared into the cresting sunlight.

The Weyr was suddenly filled with the echoing mating bugles of dragons, but none rang louder than Karth’s.  I’an could only watch as his huge brown abandoned the feeding grounds with four huge leaps and soared into the skies.

“Go,” S’ngellan ordered from beside him, “Go with him.  He needs you to help him.” When I’an turned his confused gaze to the Weyrleader man, the older man simply raised a brow.  “You know what to do. Use your bond. Help him stay in control so he doesn’t hurt her. Or himself.”

I’an could feel his head nod instinctively.  Right, right. Yes, he knew this. D’vin had taught him.  Closing his eyes, he focused only on Karth, chasing the brown through their bond.  A bright, blurry mess of colors began to swirl behind his eyelids and his stomach started to turn again but all of the sudden the muddled light snapped into a crystal clear picture.  The sky, and the sun, and the wind in his face. But it wasn’t his face. It was Karth’s, racing past the clouds with fire in his heart and no other thought in his mind but a green dragon who remained just out of sight.

Karth,

I’an called,

Karth, stay with me.

The brown dragon wasn’t listening, too focused on his chase to hear reason.  Inwardly gritting, I’an pushed harder, yelled louder. This was his purpose. He wouldn’t fail his impressed now.

Karth!  Pull Back!

His voice roared across the bond, echoing in the shared antechamber of their minds.  Karth didn’t stop, not even close, but he slowed slightly and a thin barrier seemed to form around the raging heat in the dragon’s mind.

Mine?

I’an leaped at the sound.

Karth!  Stay with me.  Don’t lose yourself.

I can’t find her!

There was a panic in his brown’s voice and it ripped at I’an’s heart.

Please, Mine!  I will lose her!

You won’t!  Karth, listen to me.  She isn’t hiding from you. She’s waiting for you.

You do not know this…

I DO!  So do you.  She’s waiting for you because she’s yours and you’re hers.

The desperation in Karth seemed to pale a bit as he fought for a fraction of control but with nothing to gauge it by, I’an didn’t know how long the brown’s tenuous hold would last.  He needed to do something.

Karth, I’m still here but I’ve got to pull back a moment.  I’ve gotta go...gotta find…

I’an’s eyes snapped open.

For a moment, he was lost.  He was in a room, he could see that, a room full of other riders.  He knew this place. He’d been here before. It was...what the hell was it?  The flight room! The alcove outside the flight room. How the feck had he gotten here?  S’ngellan? Probably, but right now, who the hell cared? He needed to find M’ckey.

His head whipped from side to side as his eyes scanned the room.  Where the feck was he? He was here, I’an knew that. He could smell him, taste him, hear the beating of his heart.  But the crush was too thick. Why the hells were there so many riders there? Did they actually think they could win Lalith?  Or take M’ckey from him?

Something raw and primitive was licking across his bond with Karth and it took every ounce of willpower for the red haired man to beat it back.  No, he couldn’t do this. Not yet. He couldn’t surrender to his feelings until they’d caught Lalith. And to do that, he had to find M’ckey. And he had something the other poor bastards in the alcove didn’t.  Reaching deep within himself, I’an willed a simple message…

Where are you?

...and shoved it down the bond.

He hadn’t felt M’ckey much all day but the force of his emotions lit their connection up like a beacon.  He followed the brightly lit path in his mind, barely aware of the bodies he was jostling out of his way as he strode forward, until he caught a glimpse of raven hair. Pushing aside the last of the crowd, he found himself at the door to the flight room.

M’ckey’s pupils were blown and he leaned back against the doorframe for support.  His upper body was swaying as if he were drunk, but I’an was suddenly certain that he knew what was really  wrong. M’ckey’s own emotions were suddenly pouring through the bond and I’an could feel the panic. Not M’ckey’s though.  Lalith’s.
“Mick!”
I’an surged forward, cupping M’ckey’s face in his hands and pulling it up towards him with a gentle urgency.  He could feel fingers on his shoulders trying to pull him back but a jolt of pure adrenaline coursed through him and he turned, snapping his teeth at the offending hand.  Turning back towards the brunette, I’an caught his wild gaze.
“We need to help them,” he whispered, “They’re lost up there.  They can’t find each other.”

There was almost no blue left in M’ckey’s eyes, just a deep jet black that threatened to suck I’an in with him.  But he couldn’t do that. Not yet. Too much depended on them keeping their shite together. Blinking furiously, he cleared the glaze from his eyes and the fog from his brain and did the only thing he could think.  He reached all the way down the strange bond he shared with the green rider in front of him and pressed against it as hard as he could.

“Can you feel me?” he shouted over the steadily increasing roar of the fire in his mind.  All around him, he could feel the pulsing energy of the other riders as the pull of Lalith’s heat grew.  They could lose her, he realized. Another could take her, take M’ckey, but he’d be damned if he let it happen that way.  “Can you?” he demanded again, still holding the green rider’s face in his hands “Hells, Mick, fecking answer me!”

The brunette said nothing, but I’an could see his eyes widen just slightly.  M’ckey’s hands were shaking furiously as he fought for control, but I’an could feel the trembling abate as the other man wrapped his fingers around his wrists and clung tightly.  The blown pupils contracted and I’an could see a slight perimeter of blue reappear and along with it, a hint of real recognition. With a gentle but firm tug, M’ckey pulled on I’an’s wrists until their foreheads were flush and their gazes were locked on each other.

“Listen to me,” I’an whispered against the brunette’s lips.  “We go to them, okay, and we use the bond to bring them together.  Okay?”

M’ckey still couldn’t manage words but the nod he gave was firm.  A warm body collided against them, knocking them back against the doorjamb and I’an could hear the din of rowdy voices growing around them.  They didn’t have much time. Pulling M’ckey a fraction closer, he whispered, “Go!” and closed his eyes.

This time, the transfer was instantaneous.  One moment he was in the flight room, holding tight to M’ckey as the rest of the crowd milled all around them.  The next, he was airborne again, whipping through the sky with Karth as the huge brown continued his frantic search.

Karth!

He bellowed inside his mind, nearly exhaling in relief as his impressed responded.

Mine?

I’m here.  I’m with M’ckey.  Can you feel us? Can you follow our…

But there was no need to finish the statement.  A sudden rush of purpose overwhelmed him as Karth suddenly banked left, shooting across the early morning sky with a renewed and concentrated vigor.  Faster and faster he flew, ignoring the the burn in his eyes from the wind as he raced towards his goal. I’an was helplessly along for the ride again, able only to soothe Karth’s mind as the dragon surged forward.  He cut sharply right, streaking around a larger bronze who had exhausted himself in the chase. And then he dove.

I’an only saw a hint of green before every word he knew or memory he possessed was obliterated, sucked down and under by an impossible wave of heat.  He didn’t know where he was anymore, barely knew who he was anymore. All he knew was heat, heat and an intense urgency he could not slake. He knew brief moments of clarity; warm skin beneath his palms, the gentle give of muscle as his teeth nipped, raven hair threading through his fingers.  And then crests of pleasure that drove the last remaining vestiges of sanity from his mind.

And then darkness.

*************************************************************************************

Darkness.

Darkness and a crick in his neck.  And an incredible, familiar scent that drew him in, that made him want to burrow deeper and deeper until he was drenched in it.  He knew that scent. He’d been noticing it for months now, ever since he and Lip got into that fight with the Milkovich boys over water or cows or whatever the hells.  The day he’d realized that he wasn’t the only one in Southern Crom with those thoughts and feelings. But the scent was rich and ripe and all around him now. What the hells was going on?

Ian shifted, but his body was too heavy, his arms and eyelids leaden and unmoving.  Fecking hells. He had never felt this exhausted before and he’d once harvested for twenty-one hours straight.  He couldn’t move, not an inch, but he could feel and that only led to more mystery.

He could tell that he was laying down. Well, sprawled flat on his face might be more accurate.  And not really flat either. First, there was something soft beneath him. A bed? Definitely, but softer than any in his family’s farmhold.  But more importantly, there were warm, firm planes pressing up next to him. Warm,

alive

planes, pulsing beside him and emitting that smell.  Shite! He needed…he had to...he couldn’t just…

His shoulders and neck screamed with the pain of a million pin pricks as he forced them back into life.  His movements were stiff and stilted and slow as he fought to get an elbow underneath himself, to prop himself up slightly.  His head was still throbbing and he suddenly realized that opening his eyes was going to hurt like all hells. But he had to do it.  He had to see.

At first, all he could make out was muted color.  It threw him off so severely that he nearly pitched forward, catching himself on his forearm before he collapsed back onto the soft bed.  He took one, two, three deep breaths to calm his rebelling stomach, squinting his eyes almost shut again until the colors stop swimming in circles and finally started to clear.  Hells! What the fecking hells?

Prying his eyes back open, he glanced down and drew in a long, deep breath.  He was lying on a bed alright. And he was staring into the sleeping face of Mickey Milkovich.

The feck…

No, no, he could think about all that other shite later.  But now, for just one minute, he was going to let himself drink in the sleeping form beneath him.  He didn’t know what the hell had happened so who could tell if he’d ever have the chance again. For all he knew, Mickey was going to wake up and slit his fecking throat.

It was hard to believe that though, judging by the blissfully serene expression on the brunette’s face.  Ian couldn’t tear his eyes away. The worry lines in Mickey’s brow, the permanently tense set of his jaw, all signs of stress and strain had been smoothed away as he slept.  Ian let his eyes wander, drinking in the light smattering of freckles that dotted the other man’s cheeks. His lips were parted slightly and he was drawing in relaxed and even breaths.  He was deeply asleep, perfectly peaceful, and Ian could barely contain his shock. Mickey never looked like this. And he sure as hell never fell asleep when they were finished. No, this was when he always started to get all pissy and pushy, to remind Ian that he was nothing more than a warm mouth to him.

Wait.  A warm mouth?  When had Mickey called him that? And when had they started screwing around?  A nauseating knot of dread was building in Ian’s stomach and he forced himself up onto his hands and knees and then back on his haunches.  His body rebelled against the loss of Mickey’s warmth and the brunette responded in kind, even in sleep, squirming against the mattress with his shoulders as he sought out his lost heat source.

Tearing his eyes away, Ian glanced around.  They were on a bed, large and comfortable and a hell of a lot nicer than anything he’d seen in Crom, just like he’d thought.  The whole room was open and clean and two curtained windows took up much of one wall. At the foot of the bed lay a pile of soft blankets and Ian didn’t even think before he snatched one up and spread it over the brunette’s prone body.  Mickey seemed gratified, snuggling into the warmth and immediately quieting back into his deep sleep.

Ian knew this room. He couldn’t place it, but he knew it.  He knew the room and he suddenly knew something else, too. He was fucking Mickey Milkovich.  He had been for the better part of a turn, anywhere and everywhere that they could. In fact, he had clearly just finished fucking Mickey Milkovich, based on the lingering scent and drying release flaking off his skin.  But where the hell were they? He shut his eyes against another bolt of pain as it lanced through his brain. Shite. He needed to get up. He didn’t want to leave Mickey alone on the bed but he had to figure out what the hell was going on.  And he needed to check on Karth…

Karth…

Who the feck was…

When the rush of memories hit him, they felt tangible, like an actual stampede of cattle stepping all over his mind.  He thrust a knuckle into his mouth and bit down hard, concentrating on the pain to keep another, fiercer bout of nausea from overtaking him.  His vision was going again, blurring all around him, and he suddenly realized he was pitching forward again and hat his arms were too shaky and he wouldn’t be able to catch himself.

Whamph.

A last minute twist of his shoulders allowed him to land clear his sleeping bedmate but the the force of the impact still caused the entire featherbed to shake in its frame.  He lay there for a long moment, unable to do anything but suck in deep breaths in an attempt stave off his rising panic. He knew where he was. He knew who he was. And he knew what the hells had happened.

“The feck…”

A voice, dripping with familiar aggravation, suddenly echoed through the chamber.  Turning his head to the side, Ian...no, no, no, NO! That wasn’t who he was! He was I’an, rider of Karth, honored wing second of Telgar Weyr.  But when I’an of Telgar turned his head, he still found Mickey Milkovich staring back at him.

“What the hell, Gallagher?” the brunette spit at him.  As I’an watched, he brought the balls of his palms up, pressing them hard against his eyes. “How the feck could you let me fall asleep?  We don’t do afterglow, bitch.”

“That’s not my name.”

The words were out of his mouth so quickly he didn’t have a moment to consider them but the impact they had was immediate and jarring.  Mickey’s eyes narrowed momentarily, both angry and confused, but I’an could tell the second the brunette’s own reality hit him hard.

For the second time in his life, I’an watched as Mickey Milkovich disappeared.   He watched as the patented sarcastic aloofness was re-extinguished under a flood of fear and guilt and loss.  He watched as Mickey’s eyes widened in horror, as he turned towards the ceiling and let his lids fall closed, desperate to contain the fallout.  The perfect peace from only moments before had crumbled completely, and all I’an could see was the painful, tight set of the brunette’s face and body as tears streamed out of the corners of his eyes.  Across the pulsing bond in their minds, he could feel it almost tangibly; the moment that Ian Gallagher’s beloved badass disappeared and the broken warrior who had replaced him reemerged.

“Mick?” he asked gently.

“That’s not my name,” came the choked response.

It wasn’t.  And what did that mean?  Mickey had been Ian’s, but Mickey and Ian were gone.  But M’ckey was here. And M’ckey belonged to him! I’an could feel the complicated mess of emotions inside of him twisting and turning and ripping at him, until they finally coalesced into a blinding, directionless fury.  M’ckey was his, and he was M’ckey’s, and he didn’t care how much damaged love and broken trust lay in shattered piles between them. He wasn’t going to let M’ckey hurt alone anymore. And all the forces that wanted to feck with them could get the hell out of their way.

He moved suddenly, reaching out with his hands and his mind in perfect symmetry.  He could feel his body pressing along the lines of M’ckey’s skin. He could feel his arms curling under the brunette’s neck and over his shoulder, pulling him close.  But mostly he could feel the bond, the full force of it. He’d touched M’ckey here many times over the past weeks, used it to communicate when they’d both feared their words.  They’d strengthened each other through it and soothed each other through it, but this, this was something different. I’an didn’t reach out and touch so much as fling himself recklessly at the fragile barrier that separated them.  He didn’t simply reach this time. He pressed against it with everything he was, every inch of his body, every facet of his mind, every crevice of his soul. And when he felt M’ckey’s warm hands sliding up over the bare skin of his shoulders and warm thoughts rushing to meet him at his very extremities, whatever tenuous hold he’d managed to retain suddenly frayed apart against the sharpened edge of long suppressed need.

I’an was aware of his body.  Incredibly aware. Every nerve was firing as he surged over M’ckey’s prone form, as the brunette pulled him close between his thighs and wrapped all his limbs around him.  He could feel his shaft filling, feel the swollen head as it slid perfectly up M’ckey’s own length and caused them both to choke on their own breath. He could feel M’ckey’s words against his throat, promising that he was still open, still ready, telling him that he needed to feel him.  And he felt the tight and perfect heat when he finally breached M’ckey’s opening and pushed his way inside.

He felt all of this, but mostly, he felt the bond.  More and more he could feel, as they pushed themselves wider and wider across the fragile barrier between them. It wasn’t enough.   It couldn’t be enough. Further and further he spread himself, further and further M’ckey opened to meet him, until every last part of them was embroiled in the caress.  Everything he was, every part of his body and mind, was thrumming and pounding with a pleasure so intense it was nearly painful and still,

still,

it wasn’t enough.  He could feel the frantic pace of his hips, the desperate clench of M’ckey’s arms and legs around them as he pulled him close.  He could feel the perfect heat where their bodies connected over and over again.

At first, he couldn’t hear the other voices, at least, not clearly.  All he knew was M’ckey. But suddenly, they were there, muted and distant, but present nonetheless.  And they were panicking, calling out to him with desperate warnings. But what were they saying? The distant yelling was impossible to hear, but there was another voice, softer, more insistent, repeating a word over and over again.  I’an focused, fixated on the sound as it cut through the blissful haze that surrounded them. I’an knew that voice. He trusted it. He needed to listen to it.

Mine?!

Karth?

Come back, Mine.  You must both come back!

Come back?  Come back! With a surging sense of panic, I’an pulled back, frantically drawing the widespread swaths of his mind and soul back across the barrier.  On the other side, he could feel M’ckey fighting the same battle, reassembling himself with care. With a fresh wave of horror, I’an suddenly understood.  The barrier was buckling, tearing apart beneath the pressure they’d exerted. Hells!

The other voices were becoming clear now, louder, cutting through the haze.  There were hands on his body, pulling at him, but he shrugged them frantically away.  No, no! They couldn’t just rip apart like that. They needed to come back first, they needed to…

I’an let his eyes snap open.  There were people all around him, S’ngellan, Faidre, the head healer, but they meant nothing.  All he cared about was M’ckey, sprawled beneath him and fighting his way back to his body. That’s what they needed.  They’d let their minds run wild. They needed their bodies, needed to feel them clearly again. And there was one thing I’an could do.  His one arm was still looped beneath M’ckey’s shoulders and he used it now, pulling the other man close, grinding their connected bodies together.  Pressing their brows together, he whispered against the brunette’s slack lips, “Come for me. Come back.”

The reaction was mutual and instantaneous.  M’ckey cried out against his mouth, his whole body heaving in a climax that immediately sucked I’an in.  Waves of pleasure washed over them, again and again, and I’an chased every crest, determined to feel his own body again.  Beneath him, M’ckey’s eyes shot open, blue and clear and lucid even as his chest and hips bucked. Their gazes, full of shock, fear, and relief, met and held as the tremors slowly died away and a bone deep lethargy caused them to collapse against each other.

This time, I’an went willingly when the strong hands pulled them apart.  He could see dazed expressions and shaking heads all around him but he didn’t have the energy to care.  In the back of his mind, he could hear Karth muttering about responsibility and reckless actions but the dragon’s grumblings were mostly kept to himself.

He was laid out on his back and and the insistent face of the Weyrleader filled his view.

“I’an?” S’ngellan demanded.

Yes.  Yes, he was.  A brown rider of Telgar Weyr.

“Yeah,” he whispered, and promptly passed out.

*************************************************************************************

It was nearly dusk when M’ckey pushed himself up from his bed and looked around the darkened interior of his weyr.  It was finally empty and blissfully quiet and he let himself just absorb the silence for a long moment. It had taken forever to get everyone out of his space, to convince them that he was okay, that his body was unhurt and his mind unbroken.

They’d fretted over him like a bunch of fecking mother hens for hours.  Faidre had poked and prodded at him while Justine looked on disapprovingly.  B’ron, R’hil, and C’rin had hovered. D’vin had thrown curious and concerned glanced through various doorways.   But it was the Head Healer who had really laid the truth out. Bonds were normal. Bonds were good. But bonds needed to be valued, to be treated with appropriate responsibility and respect.  Whatever came between them in the future, he and I’an could never allow themselves to let themselves get so dangerously caught up in their connection . That wasn’t just some random barrier they’d been playing with, apparently. They’d nearly ripped holes in the very fabric of their sanity.

The thought made M’ckey feel vaguely ill.  He didn’t want to think about what would have happened if they hadn’t been stopped.  Would they have succeeded in tearing into each other’s minds? He didn’t doubt they would have.  And he couldn’t deny that, despite the obvious dangers, the longing inside him to reach out and touch the bond was growing from an itch to a genuine ache.

But he didn’t reach.  He’d spent the past week extending a mental hand to I’an whenever the other man had needed it, but he hadn’t pushed then and he wouldn’t now.  Instead, he’d let everyone surround him and distract him until the need to rest had simply become to great. And finally, he had convinced them that he would be all right.  Finally, they had left him in peace.

His legs were as shaky as a newborn colts as he made his way across the Weyr.  His bed was softer but he needed a different kind of comfort now. Slumping down on the floor, he curled up next to his equally exhausted green, burrowing his cheek into her side and staring into her one sleepy eye.

Good girl,

He crooned in his mind,

Thank you for finding me.

Do not leave me, Mine,

she replied, and he winced slightly at the hesitant tone.  He had scared her. How dare he do that.

I’m sorry, Lal.  I will never leave you.

But you could have!  You both could have gotten so lost in each other that you left us behind!  And what would have happened then?

The painful truth hurt even worse coming from his precious green.  Hells, he’d been stupid. Stupid and rash and selfish. The healer had been very clear.  He and I’an had a bond. That much was obvious to all. The depth and scope of it had now been fully revealed.  They would need to learn about it, explore it and master it so that they never allowed themselves to be so overtaken by it.  They needed to do this for Pern. They needed to do this for the sake of their own minds and their dragons. The lore was very clear on the dangers wrought by riders and dragons who lost their minds due to trauma or the debilitating cold of going

between

.  They became forces of destruction, uncontrollable and a threat to all around them.  They could not be allowed to live.

Curling himself up, M’ckey burrowed closer into Lalith’s side, nuzzling against the soft green hide as angry tears squeezed from his eyes.  He could feel his girl twine her long neck, circling around him and laying her head against the small of his back. He sighed and snuggled even closer.  He was never going to do this to her again. He was never going to scare Lalith. He wasn’t stupid. He knew why this was happening. He and I’an and their stubborn refusal to deal with their shite.  They couldn’t just stay away from each other. They couldn’t. Before, it had only been lonely and painful and unhealthy. Now it had become dangerous.

They needed to be together.  Neither of them could pretend they didn’t want it anymore.  He knew it was going to be miserable to talk about it, to deal with all their shite, but that couldn’t matter anymore.  They fecking had to.

Beneath his cheek, Lalith suddenly let out a rumble and swung her head back around towards the entrance.

Here is your chance.

M’ckey was so tired he could barely lift his head to respond to Lalith’s quip, but he knew without a doubt what she meant.  It was absolutely no surprise to him when a powerful thud shook the ledge of his weyr as a large russet brown body curled it’s way protectively around Lalith’s back.

It was no surprise when strong arms encircled him and pulled him back against a warm, firm chest.  And when tentative fingers stroked inquisitively up the bond, he pressed back, gently but firmly, without hesitation.

M’ckey didn’t say a word.  There was simply too much to say; too much risk to assess, too much truth to face.  Instead, he let his exhaustion cancel out his fear. He leaned into the bond, carefully but fully, and let the warmth and comfort wash over him.  He reached down and found I’an’s hand, linking their fingers together. As he lay in the darkness, counting their tandem breaths until sleep pulled them under, he suddenly realized that their hands weren’t trembling anymore.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It had been a strange two weeks for M’ckey, green rider of Telgar Weyr.

All around him, things had become increasingly quiet.  From the ledge of his new personal weyr, it would appear to be any other cold, cloudless day, but M’ckey knew the truth and it was eating at his heart.  The truth, pure and simple, was that the Weyr was completely empty of dragons and riders as they flew towards an expansive threadfall some distance away, nearly at the border of Telgar’s territory.  All the riders had departed to fight the encroaching parasite hours before. All the riders, that was, but M’ckey.

The brunette sprawled across the smooth stone floor of his new weyr,  It was large and opulent, far more luxurious than the small, unadorned chamber that he and Lalith had previously occupied.  These rooms were normally reserved for gold riders only but the upgrade was to be expected, he supposed. Lalith was no longer a mere green.  She was a carrying female, set to deliver the next clutch for Telgar Weyr.

And once the Weyr leadership had known that for sure, everything had changed.

M’ckey had been surprised and more than a little pissed at the sudden restrictions he’d found himself under, though he knew he shouldn’t have been.  He’d lived in Telgar for years now and he’d been very close to Faidre during Feith’s last clutch. He’d been aware that the two were grounded from fighting thread so that Feith could stay safe and prioritize her eggs.  But somehow, the idea that he and Lalith would be bound by those same rules, that they’d have to remain behind at the Weyr and watch while everyone they cared about flew off to risk their lives had never really seemed real to him.  He wanted to fight, to protect his new home, but it had become abundantly clear to him that the choice was not his to make on the day of Lalith’s examination

“She carries,” The head healer had stated simply as he moved back to his table to fiddle with some silvery instruments, oblivious to the rest of people in the room as they murmured in quiet, relieved celebration.

I already knew that,

Lalith muttered inside his head in her typically prim and cheeky tone.  M’ckey had only rolled his eyes. Walking up to his girl, he’d lain a hand on her side, stroking the soft hide with long, consistent movements.  He’d felt S’ngellan’s gaze on him long before the Weyrleader finally spoke.
“You realize what this means, M’ckey?”
M’ckey had turned, less concerned by the words themselves as by the deliberate hint of authority he could hear in S’ngellan’s voice.
“What?” he’d asked simply, feeling a slight churning in his stomach as Faidre had walked over and joined them.

“We can take no risks with you or Lalith,” the petite warrior woman had stated, her expression compassionate but firm.  “You need to confine yourselves to the Weyr until the eggs are hatched.”

“But that’ll be weeks!” he’d barked, hearing the signature southern Crom bite in his voice.  He couldn’t fecking help it though. “We can’t just sit around for weeks.”

Faidre hadn’t even flinched at his tone, staring up at him immovably. “You most certainly can and will.  You are a green rider in service to Pern and right now Pern needs Lalith’s clutch far more than her fighting skills!”

M’ckey hadn’t been able to hold her gaze, turning his head aside against a painful mix of anger and shame.  He’d felt Faidre’s hand on his arm but he’d kept his eyes affixed to the floor.

“I, of all people, am not indifferent to your frustration, M’ckey.  I’ve lived through it myself. But you know as well as I that Lalith must remain protected, and that means protecting you as well.  Besides, she'll be too large to fly comfortably and safely soon and once the eggs are on the hatching grounds, you know as well as I that she will not consent to leave them unattended.”

The Weyrwoman might have said more, but at that moment, a bugle had sounded threadfall.  M’ckey had felt himself grimace as the Queen rider offered him a tight half-smile and headed towards the lip of the ledge.  Walking back to Lalith, M’ckey had sunk down beside her and leaned into her hide, closing his eyes as the whirring roar of hundreds of dragon wings filled the air.  Gently, so gently, he had let his mind reach out and stroke over the bond he shared with I’an.

Be careful,

he’d murmured in his mind, hoping that the sensation reached the brown rider, even if the words could not.  He and I’an had become accustomed to using the bond to navigate their flights and the whole wing had been impacted positively.  He’d hated depriving them of that, even if tapping into it still made him nervous as all hells.

A splash off to the side of the hall had drawn his attention back.  To his left, the head healer had been washing his hands, but he’d turned towards M’ckey with curious concern in his eyes.  M’ckey had stared back warily as the healer walked towards the spot on the ledge where he sat against Lalith. He’d never quite known what to make of the head healer, an intense man who’s name seemed unknown to anyone in the Weyr.  But he was strong and smart and incredibly good at his job, so M’ckey had tried not to balk instinctively when the man had sunk down in a crouch before him and stared at him pensively.

“You’re doing it again,” he’d stated with the slightest hint of question in his voice, “Using the bond.”

M’ckey had only been able to nod nervously, but the healer had looked satisfied as he murmured to himself and stood up.  He’d raised a hand in front of Lalith’s eyes but waited respectfully until the little green had grumbled permission before running it along her eye ridges.

“That’s good,” he’d continued.  “You need to use it. You need to explore it and understand how it works.  That is what will keep you safe and prevent what happened before.”

“Don’t you understand how it works?”  M’ckey had asked, traces of agitation in his voice.

The healer had only smiled, his eyes still trained on Lalith.  “Do you see those pipes over there?” he’d asked, gesturing back towards the sink and the metal tubing that connected to it.  “I know how they work to a certain degree. We know how to fix and maintain them. But don’t try to ask me how they were originally constructed.  I have no idea what kind of genius first thought them up and willed them into being. The bond is the same, be it between dragon and impressed or between two weyrmen, such as you and your brown rider.  I cannot tell you how they came to be. All I can tell you is how to keep them working correctly.”

“And how do I do that?” M’ckey had asked, hearing and hating the nervous lilt in his voice.

The healer’s hand had slowed against Lalith’s hide.  “I have seen a number of bonds in my time at this Weyr,” he replied calmly.  “I’ve seen them disappear instantly after the passing of the heat fever and I’ve seen them remain for the rest of the riders’ lives.  But I have never seen one this strong, one so capable of pulling two riders in to such a depth.”

M’ckey had felt his hands tightening as his old defenses rose but he’d breathed out and leaned more heavily into Lalith’s side.  “What do you think, then, if you don’t know?”

“I think…,” the healer had glanced at him then, his eyes probing and unreadable.  “You and your brown rider have confessed a difficult past. I think that you are bound together by a unique compatibility of mind and soul, but this special gift needs to be nurtured and protected.  Whatever pain you have between you, you must confront it and let it go. Otherwise, what happened before may happen again.”

“And what was that?”

“As I said, I can offer you no definitive answers, green rider.  But when I spoke to you after the flight, you claimed that, prior to coming to Telgar,  you and I’an had been forced apart by circumstances you could not control. I’an reported the same thing.  In light of that, my most educated guess is that your bond, fearing the things that keep you apart, pulled you closer and closer to each other until your very minds almost merged.  And if your dragons had not interceded, I don’t think the bond would’ve stopped.”

M’ckey had let his head fall back hard against Lalith’s flank, the sick feeling in his stomach increasing.  “So it’s dangerous?”

“I don’t believe the bond is dangerous in and of itself.  It is strong and, as I said, it needs to be nurtured, valued, and respected.  I believe the danger lies in the tumult that is still between you both, and it cannot be allowed precedence here.”

“He has every reason to fecking hate me.”

The healer had taken a step back and stared down at him assessingly.  “Perhaps, though I doubt that he does, but it is not for me to say. He is the one to whom you must speak.”

Speak.  They needed to speak.  With a sigh, M’ckey heaved himself up and stared out into the sky that spread above the Weyr.  It was starting to get dark now and the temperature was dropping with the setting sun. The riders would return soon, he was sure, and food would be served in the hall, but M’ckey had not desire to go.  He didn’t want to see the men tired from the fight he’d missed. He didn’t want to endure the attention lavished on him as the rider of the “Savior” of Pern or to answer the same questions about Lalith’s well being over and over again.  And most of all, he didn’t want to see the sharp, ugly glares or hear the words whispered under breath in the corners of the hall. He didn’t want to hear Lalith called a freak. He’d rather just go hungry.

Beside him, Lalith snorted and quirked an eye at him.  She didn’t need to say a word. He could already tell what she was thinking.  M’ckey wasn’t going to go hungry anymore than Lalith would because I’an and Karth would bring them food.  Because I’an would come here, as he had every night since the flight. He would bring food. He would sleep between M’ckey and the door to provide protection.  He would push even further inside M’ckey, body, mind, and soul.

And M’ckey would welcome it.  He knew that as surely as he knew I’an would come.

They had slept the sleep of the dead that first night, curled warmly around each other against Lalith’s side and when I’an had departed the next morning, drawn by his duties to the wing he helped lead, he’d wrapped his own cloak tightly around M’ckey and run soothing fingers through his hair for long minutes before departing.  M’ckey had worn the cloak all day as frantic and disjointed thoughts and feelings had roused him from Lalith’s side and set him to pacing. That was the first night he had skipped his evening meal, even when Lalith had given him a teasing look and flown down to the feeding grounds herself. But he had been too untethered to risk leaving the comfortable confines of his own weyr.

He’d felt it a moment before Lalith touched down on their ledge, the warm ghostly fingers that had stroked carefully and soothingly over the borders of the bond in his mind.  Immediately, he had felt the tension recede, the knots in his back loosen, and it had been no surprise to him when Karth landed on the ledge and I’an slid from his back.

The redhead had carried a basket of food but he’d laid it absently on a table as he strode past.  There had been a fixed, assessing look in his eyes and no trace of hesitation in his step and for the first time, M’ckey had truly recognized just how much their dynamic had shifted.  Once, it had been he who was in control, his own fears and insecurities governing the depths of their relationship while Ian Gallagher clambered gratefully for whatever he was willing to give.  But that had been Ian Gallagher. The man who had turned and come to stand over him in that moment was I’an, honored rider of the sire of Telgar’s newest clutch, and there had been no denying the confidence, determination, and thinly veiled hints of possession that infused every one of his actions.  When I’an had raised a hand and let it linger in the air at the side of M’ckey’s neck, there’d been no hesitation, just a silent request for M’ckey’s consent. And once M’ckey had leaned into the touch and felt the last of his tension begin to recede, there had been no going back.

He hadn’t resisted, not in the slightest.  There hadn’t been the tiniest little Milkovich inclination to push back or rebel or argue or do anything but obey as I’an guided him backwards and tumbled him down onto his bed.  He’d let his eyes drift closed and simply given the brown rider free reign to strip him bare and ease him onto his stomach, to run huge, warm, demanding hands all over him. When I’an gently stroked over the tendrils of their bond, M’ckey’s own mind had leaned into the touch with an ease that seemed instinctive.  When I’an’s long body had stretched out over him, nudging a knee between his legs and running a hand over the cleft of his ass, M’ckey had felt his thighs shift wider, opening to the request.

And when I’an had leaned in close and whispered his name, laying a small, corked bottle on the straw tick, M’ckey’s only response had been push back against the redhead’s questing fingers and let his eyes fall closed again.

It had been unique, that first time. It was not the harried, messy fucking they’d engaged in while hidden in the deserted farmstead of Southern Crom, full of panicky boundaries and fearful whispers.  And it was nothing like the furious, mindless spiral of lust, rage and fear that had subsumed them in the flight room. I’an had spread him out over the mattress, leaving him open and vulnerable on his belly.  He’d placed one huge palm between M’ckey’s shoulders, pinning him firmly, but gentling the gesture with the concentric motion of his fingertips. Using the contents of the small bottle to slick his other hand, he’d pressed into M’ckey’s cleft and probed at the sensitive rim, breaching him purposefully.

M’ckey had cried out.  There had been no way to hold it in and no will to even try.  And his hips had pressed back of their own accord, an invitation that I’an had quickly seized upon as he slipped in a second finger.  But that was all the freedom that M’ckey had been allowed. In one fluid movement, I’an had extracted himself from between M’ckey’s legs and moved to straddle the lower half of his body, using his own knees to nudge M’ckey’s thighs back together.  When he’d shifted against the bed, drawing one arm down, I’an had emitted a growl that had sent him sprawling back submissively, his body going pliant and obedient beneath the redhead’s hands.

Whatever remained of the badass farm boy he’d once been had retreated at that moment, falling contentedly to I’an’s demanding will.  And the redhead had given no quarter. He’d slicked his cock and pressed so deeply inside M’ckey that the brunette had been reduced to frantic wailing into the bedclothes.  He’d run his hands up over M’ckey’s spread arms, threading their fingers tight together while wrapping his legs under the brunette’s shins, imprisoning him with his long limbs.  He’d leaned down and lapped gently at M’ckey’s shoulder with his tongue before sinking his teeth into the tender meat.

And then he’d fucked M’ckey to within an inch of his sanity.

M’ckey bit at his lip as he stared over the ledge, watching as, one by one, the dragon riders of Telgar crested over the top of the Weyr and flew down into the caldera to alight on the floor.  He probably shouldn’t make jokes about his sanity, considering recent events, but even though the circumstances had been wildly different than their flight, the description was no less accurate. He’d been out of his mind with lust and the overpowering presence of I’an all around and inside him, and this time it had nothing to do with the bond.  No, this time,it had been nothing but the incredible force of will that the brown rider was exuding coupled with his own feverish need to utterly submit. All he’d wanted to do in that moment was lie there, panting and crying out against the bed, as I’an took and gave everything.

He’d come apart hard, with I’an following quickly and it wasn’t until they were lying in a sweaty, tangled pile upon the bed, placid and relaxed despite the chill, that he’d finally noticed that the awful, itching restlessness that had plagued him all day was gone.  He was trapped under the heavy, warm body of his former lover with a half-hard cock still nestled in his ass and yet he’d felt completely comfortable, completely at peace.

Completely owned.  Yes, that was it. He’d felt owned, as if he no longer belonged only to himself.  He was I’an’s, as I’an was his. They belonged to each other, were connected by a bond so strong it had managed to actually manifest into its own entity.  And it wouldn’t matter if they surrendered or fought each other every step of the way. Lalith had tried to tell him so many times that it was he and I’an who had drawn them all together, not she and Karth, but it had only been in that moment, prone and sated with I’an mouthing along the lines of his back, that he had truly believed.  He belonged to I’an, had long before he belonged to Lalith. He feared it terribly. But loved it more.

He’d loved when I’an had peeled himself off the bed and come back with towels and warm water, bathing all the sweat and spent seed from M’ckey’s skin.  He’d loved when I’an had brought the basket over and pulled out all his favorite foods. He loved the way I’an had curled up around him that night, warm skin upon skin beneath the blankets to ward off any chill.  The redhead had insisted on sleeping on the side of the bed closest to the door and M’ckey had easily submitted to that, too. I’an had continued to insist as the nights slipped past, as he slept by M’ckey’s side every night, bathed him and fed him every night.

Owned him every night.

But he didn’t talk to him.

I’an had probed and dug in.  He’d given and demanded everything else.  But not M’ckey’s words. For those, he waited, as if he was daring M’ckey to speak first.  As if the green rider even fecking knew how to start that conversation! Exuding a long, frustrated breath, he sank down and let his gaze drift over the Weyr

The caldera that he stared across was quickly filling as wing after wing put down on the sandy ground.  Every dragon and man was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, despite the briskness of the encroaching night.  One by one, the riders stripped their mounts of harnesses, massaging tired muscles and whispering proud endearments.  It had been a long, hard day but they had worked together to protect the land they were charged with and even though a good many of them had some burns to treat, there had been no major injuries or losses.

In the middle of the caldera, I’an perched on a rock with G’lain as they watched their wing disassemble.  They were tired as all hells. Their men had performed admirably, even staying to clean up the last remaining tendrils of thread as other group fell back with injuries.  They’d fought long and hard but had emerged largely unscathed, something that could only be attributed to their dedication and training. It left I’an with a tremendous of sense of pride.

Normally, pride would have won out over exhaustion and distraction.  Normally, he would’ve wanted to sit down with the men, share a cup of ale, and ruminate over a fight well fought.  A quick glance around the the dining hall quickly disabused him of those inclinations though. Down the length of the huge trestle tables, he could see B’ron and C’rin falling tiredly into seats while some drudges set heaping plates of food before them.  The chairs around them were still empty. The person he wanted wasn’t in the room. Abandoning all other concerns, he headed towards the doors that led to the massive kitchens.

The drudges near the door were already waiting with the same large basket that he returned every morning.  In it would be enough food to sustain the reclusive green rider throughout the next day, in addition to the supper and breakfast that I’an would share with him when he inevitably found his way to M’ckey’s new weyr.  It had become so commonplace by now that the rest of the Telgar had come to expect it.

Striding outside and snatching up his freshly cleaned harness, I’an climbed onto Karth’s back and let the brown fly them up to their weyr.   Rustling around, he quickly acquired a change of clothes and set his harness and riding leathers away, ready to be grabbed up and donned when they were needed next.  He hadn’t pushed that far yet. He hadn’t filled M’ckey’s weyr with his clothes and gear, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t encroaching in other, more subtle ways. He had every intention of taking advantage of M’ckey’s larger bath tonight and he would no doubt steal the brunette’s towels and mix his own soiled clothes in with the wash.  And M’ckey would offer no protest. If nothing else, he would quietly encourage the invasion as they continued to sleep and eat and fuck together without addressing any of their real issues.

I’an wasn’t stupid.  He knew that he was avoiding things that needed to be confronted.  He knew that M’ckey would need to be coaxed back into the world of the Weyr and that this voluntary isolation couldn’t continue indefinitely.  But a part of him selfishly wanted to hoard the other man. He wanted to bring him food and curl up around his nude form in a shared bed and breath in the scent of him as they slept.  He wanted to keep M’ckey all to himself as recompense for all the time that every internal and external force had conspired to keep them apart.

It couldn’t continue, though.  He could overlook the behavior temporarily, putting the blame, somewhat accurately, on Lalith’s condition and Karth’s primal protective urges, but at some point, he was going to have to say something to help draw the green rider out into the real world.  He couldn’t just let M’ckey hide away forever.

He’d think about it in a little while though.  Now, he needed to get clean and eat.

M’ckey could feel a slight pressure in his mind at the same time Lalith’s head perked up, staring towards the weyr’s ledge.  He watched as Karth put down lightly and moved to wrap around the green, twining their necks together and butting against her head with playful affection.  The brown carried no rider and a sharp pain twinged in his heart for a moment, but it vanished the moment I’an strode through the door to the large chamber with clothing and the food hamper clutched in his hands.

“Hey,” he murmured, hearing the relief in his own voice.

The redhead only nodded at him, passing close by as he strode towards the table and placed the basket on the surface.  He turned and leaned back against the heavy wood, fixing M’ckey with a heavy gaze.

Speak

, M’ckey murmured internally, willing himself to open his mouth.  He needed to speak, to open up some line of communication, or they were never going to find their way back to each other.  He needed to do it for Telgar, for Pern, and for the safety of the bond, but mostly he needed to do it for them. He needed I’an.  He missed him even when they were right next to each other, but healing and mending of breaches would never happen if he didn’t start talking.  Drawing in a deep breath, he forced his mouth open.

“Do you need a bath?”

M’ckey mentally kicked himself as the words left his mouth.

Coward

, he muttered in his mind, sure that he could hear Lalith chuckling.  But I’an didn’t look amused or annoyed. His expression had stayed the same, just as level, just as piercing.  Wordlessly, and without breaking eye contact, he simply nodded his head.

“Okay...okay, I’ll just…” M’ckey drew in a sharp breath, turning on his heels.  His cheeks burned red with shame as he fled towards the bathing alcove in the back of the massive weyr and flipped open the hot water tap.  Once upon a time, he might have thought himself brave and strong, but that was all belied now. He’d been too afraid to face up to his father and he was too afraid to face up to the other residents of the Weyr.  And now this. Now he was afraid to speak to Ian Gallagher.

Except he wasn’t Ian Gallagher, the man who swept towards the chamber, stripping off tunic as he walked with heated challenge and promise in his eyes.  The man wasn’t even I’an the brown rider anymore. He was something new, rough and determined and empowered by their connection. He kept his green gaze locked on M’ckey’s as he stripped himself bare, practically daring him to break eye contact first.  It took every ounce of willpower that M’ckey possessed not to glance away but I’an only looked pleased as he turned towards the tub, stepping over the lip and ducking beneath the warm water. M’ckey stared dumbly as the redhead took up a piece of oilcloth and a chunk of soap and began to work the layer of grime off his body.

“Come in here.”

M’ckey jerked his eyes up and away from I’an chest, feeling his cheeks flame again.  The redhead’s hard, challenging eyes were still fixed on him as he gestured towards the warm water with his chin.  The brunette felt himself suck in an involuntary breath. Hells. He couldn’t do this. This was too much. He’d let I’an have practically everything, but this request for a simple, intimate action felt like the gateway to a whole new arena.

“I don’t want to bother…”

“You need a bath.”

There was no aggression or insult intended from the statement.  M’ckey could tell that even without the ever present bond in his mind.  The redhead was simply making a statement of fact. But he could also see that I’an wasn’t going to back down on this and, whether he liked it or not, the other man was probably right.  He hadn’t left his weyr since he and Lalith had moved into it. He wasn’t training properly or eating enough unless I’an made him. And he sure as hell wasn’t keeping himself clean. Looking down, he saw the same stained tunic he’d worn for the past three days, yanking it back on each morning as I’an left their bed and headed out to resume his role as an active member of the Weyr.

The gentle pressure inside his head had him glancing back up to meet I’an’s eyes.  He let his own mind tangle with the bond, drinking up the comfort and security it brought.  Fine. Fine. Why in hells not. He could take a bath with I’an. He wasn’t that much of a coward.  Reaching up, he pulled the dingy tunic up and over his head, then peeled off the crusty dragoncloth leggings and tossed it all into the pile of laundry where I’an had discarded his own clothes.  Without giving himself a moment to think about it, he stepped into the large tub, settling back against the ledge across from the redhead. He met I’an’s eyes, trying to muster some of his old toughness, but as always, the effort was lost beneath the piercing green stare.  Instead, I’an held up the soap and cloth in each hand.

“Come here.”

What?  No he...but clearly he could, because his body was already in motion, slushing through the warm water at I’an’s command.  There was no hint of smugness in the other man’s visage, just a tinge of satisfaction in his eyes as he reached out and encircled M’ckey’s wrist, pulling him close and, thankfully, twisting him so he faced away from the pensive green gaze.  It was no surprise at all when I’an’s hands began to move the warm, soapy cloth over his skin.

“Your shoulders are stiff.”

What was with the brown rider tonight, M’ckey couldn’t help but wonder.  I’an had spent every night with him for weeks but he’d seemed as content as M’ckey to preserve their tender peace through silence.  Tonight, though, he’d spoken more than he had since they’d been pulled out of the flight room. It should’ve left M’ckey entirely on edge but instead he could feel all of his defenses melting along with his body into I’an’s firm touch.  The redhead used his fingers to dig into M’ckey’s tight shoulders, working all of the tension away.

“This is because you’ve been spending so much time in here.”

Hells, more talking.  This type of shite usually would’ve had M’ckey drawing in on himself, but I’an’s strong hands wouldn’t allow it, slicking soap over his skin and sluicing it away as he carefully kneaded each muscle.  M’ckey could feel his whole body going limp despite his surroundings and company. But he could also hear a low rumble in I’an’s chest. The redhead was waiting for a response.

“It’s Lalith,” he stated, letting himself fall quiet again.

“Lalith?” There was a hint of sarcastic incredulity in the brown rider’s voice, “She can’t fight, Mick, but you and I both know she can still fly.”

M’ckey could barely contain the jump in his pulse as the old nickname casually rolled off the redhead’s tongue.  They hadn’t spoken like this, not in years and the overwhelming cocktail of joy, fear, and misery was twisting the green rider’s heart in knots.  And I’an wasn’t backing down. That wasn’t who he was anymore. He didn’t let shite go.

“So what is it?  Because you know she can fly fine.”

M’ckey sighed, hating the vulnerable sound but unable to stop it.  “It

is

Lalith,” he fumbled out, fighting to keep the frustrated timber out of his voice, “but it’s not about her flying.”

“Then what?”

M’ckey squirmed, instinctively drawing himself away, but it was no use.  I’an’s hands were huge and his arms were strong and M’ckey’s will was far too weak.  The redhead simply reeled him back, continuing to rub the oilcloth across his skin as he waited for an answer.  He’d keep them there all night. M’ckey was suddenly sure of it.

“They think she’s a freak,” he spit out.  “They think we’re both freaks.”

The hands finally fell from his body and this time when he moved away, I’an let him slip free.  He moved quickly, dunking under the water to rinse the last bit of soap from his black hair, then surfaced on the far side of the tub.  Glancing back, he was met by another pensive gaze, but this time he had no energy to hold it. Letting his eyes fall, he climbed from the tub and hurriedly wrapped himself in one of the towels the drudges kept supplying.  The night chill had fully descended and the weyr felt miserably cold after the warmth of the bath and the hands that skimmed over his skin, but he couldn’t stand it anymore. Not that it mattered. He had barely reached the doorway to the alcove when a splash sounded behind him, letting him know that the redhead was in pursuit.

I’an watched as the dark haired man hurried into the main chamber of the weyr.  Grabbing up another towel, he patted himself dry and draped it around his waist.  He didn’t bother grabbing another for himself or M’ckey, despite the freezing night.  If the brunette wanted to be warm, all he needed to do was come to him and let them share heat.  But that was for later. Right now, he needed to talk sense to his paranoid green rider. Walking out of the alcove, I’an took a moment to mentally kick himself.  He should’ve realized that M’ckey was letting something like this eat him up inside. The brunette had never been able to see himself as worthy.

The torchlights and fire burning in the hearth made the main chamber brighter and tolerably warm.  M’ckey had backed himself up against the table next to the food hamper, his blue eyes shiny with the tears he was fighting to hold back.  Out on the ledge, I’an could see Karth and Lalith’s heads raised, watching him expectantly as he walked. He sent Karth some soothing thoughts, knowing his dragon would share them with his beloved green.  They needn’t worry. He’d been wrong, he now realized. It wasn’t possessiveness, something primal and base, that kept pulling him back to the other man. As much as he might personally want to keep M’ckey all to himself, the need faded away in the face of the brunette’s pain.  No, what he felt was protectiveness. He wanted to keep the other man safe, had always wanted that. Safe from an unaccepting world, safe from Terry Milkovich, safe from the nonsense in his own head.

I’an strode over towards the fire pit and leaned back against the edge, letting his gaze drift over the other man.  He was resisting the instinctive pull to walk over and drag M’ckey into his arms. He already knew how that dance would go.  The brunette would struggle sluggishly but would quickly concede and I’an would have him naked in his bed within moments. They’d drown their fears and lingering resentments in each others bodies for another night, but in the morning, they’d be in the exact same spot.  He wasn’t going to do that tonight.

Tonight, he was going to push.

“You know that’s shite, right?  You know that people don’t think that.”

There was hint of farmboy fire in the blue eyes when they shot up to meet his gaze, but the flame was quickly extinguished under the frustrated tears.  It made I’an’s heart hurt. He loved the new vulnerability in M’ckey, the massive fissures in the old armor that allowed him to reach through and touch the man in ways he’d always been denied back in Crom.  But he hated this; the shame, the uncertainty, the fear. Even back in the shite of the Southern farms, Ian Gallagher had seen the bright shine of Mickey Milkovich. The glow had been marred by everything that had happened, but so little of that seemed to matter now.  Ian and Mickey were practically gone. They had found a place they truly belonged and become the people they always could’ve been. If they could just let the rest of the shite go.

He was going to try.  He had tried, he supposed, but this was going to be different.  For the first time, I’an could say with assurance that he wanted to lay the past down and move on.  It wouldn’t be easy or happen all at once, but he suddenly wanted nothing more than to go to war with their horrible history and break whatever hold it thought it could keep over them.

M’ckey was still fumbling with his words, but I’an drew in a careful breath.  He was going to push, but not too hard or too fast. If he did, the brunette would turn skittish again.  Instead, he leaned back against the warm wall that surrounded the fire pit and waited.

“I don’t,” M'ckey finally admitted, worrying his lower lip with his teeth as he considered his next line.  “I know...most people here don’t give a shite if we fuck or...even if we care about each other. But this is different, don’t you think?” His eyes shot up, meeting I’an’s own, and the redhead could read the fear in their depth.  “I mean, everyone has their limits. The Weyrs might be way more open to shite, but that don’t mean they don’t have their own beliefs. And greens don’t carry for a reason. What if we broke their traditions and mores and she ends up having young that are too small or too weak?”

“You aren’t giving us enough credit,” I’an murmured, gently but firmly, “You aren’t giving yourself and Lalith enough either.”

A look of sheer misery crossed M’ckey’s face as he turned back towards the green.  Her head was up and even from this distance, I’an could see the determination in her gaze.  He didn’t even need to ask. He could already tell that the green was informing her rider that she and Karth would

not

have weak young.

“Have you honestly heard anyone say this?” he prodded.

“Some.” There was an echo of defeat in M’ckey voice,  “Just a few.”

“And those few are fools!”  I’an could feel his fingers curling around the curved lip to steady himself.  “In the Holds, it’s the old folk who keep teaching everyone to hate change. Here, though, it’s the old folk who value it.  You’ve read the lore, Mick. You know the truth. Dragons have always changed to meet Pern’s needs. They’ve always found a way.  The greatest dragons in our history, like Ruth, like Gnarmoth, all broke out of their molds and they saved the world. And that’s what’s going to happen here.  Everyone in the Weyr expects that. They are all pulling for that. They believe in you and Lalith,” He pushed away from the fire pit and took two steps forward, eyeing the other man carefully for any signs of retreat, “Since when the hell do you care what other people think anyway?”

“I don’t.”

“Doesn’t sound that way.”

From the ledge, Karth offered up a small rumble and a few whispered words in the back of I’an’s mind.

He does not wish to put his, um, his shite, as you say, on other people.

I’an could barely contain a slight chuckle at his poor, proper dragon but he repeated the statement to M’ckey anyway, watching as the brunette’s face screwed up in annoyance.

“How the feck would he…” the other man’s head whipped around, settling on his green where she reclined on the ledge.  Lalith looked utterly unrecalcitrant and I’an could only imagine the conversation that was taking place inside their minds.

“It’s like I can’t even have a secret anymore,” the brunette muttered, wiping furiously at his eyes.

I’an took another careful step forward, then another, keeping his gaze fixed on the smaller man.  It was true. There weren’t many secrets in the Weyr. The necessarily codependent nature of their society prevented it.  But this wasn’t new to he and M’ckey. He needed to point that out. It was a risk, but he needed to take it.

“You know, there was a time when we didn’t have secrets from each other.  You remember, back when we were each other’s secret? Back when we used to share everything with each other.”  He took two more steps forward, stopping right in front of M’ckey, so close that he could feel the heat emanating off the brunette’s bare skin.  “And I wanted that. I fecking loved it. You’re the one who changed it.”

A sob choked out of M’ckey’s throat.  A low rumble echoed from the ledge, but I’an shot a choice few words to Karth in his head.  He and M’ckey needed to talk, just them. Their dragons needed to stay out of it for once. Turning back towards the smaller man, he stepped closer until he was only inches away.  M’ckey didn’t pull back. In fact, I’an was almost certain he could see the brunette’s body draw nearer. But he tilted his gaze down and sideways, avoiding I’an’s eyes.

“You really want to do this shite now?”

“Yes,” The word was out of I’an’s mouth before he even realized it.  He hadn’t shouted but somehow the word seemed to echo through the entire chamber, bouncing off the walls and reverberating back towards them.  He could see M’ckey flinch slightly, then draw in a deep breath, but I’an wasn’t backing down. Instead, he leaned in closer, placing his hands on the table on either side of the brunette’s hips.

“I need you to tell me why you did it,” he murmured.  His mouth was only inches away from M’ckey’s skin and his voice was little more than a whisper but there was no mistaking the command in his voice.  “Tell me,” he repeated against the other man’s ear.

M’ckey bristled, glancing back at him.  “What?” he asked cryptically.

But I’an wasn’t in the mood for games.  “Don’t fecking play with me,” he growled harshly,  “And don’t be a damn coward! That isn’t who you are.  Answer me.”

M’ckey turned towards him, whipping his head around so suddenly that I’an had to pull back an inch.  The blue eyes were blazing now but beneath the rage, I’an could see a glaze of hurt. It tore at his heart but it also gave him the slightest sick feeling of vindication as he thought about standing in front of all of Crom and hearing Mickey Milkovich throw him and their secrets to the wolves.

“Don’t even try with that shite.  I didn’t make that world. I saved you from that world.”

A scoffing laugh tore out of I’an’s throat and he leaned back, staring down at the brunette as he bristled and squirmed against the table edge.  He wasn’t being entirely fair and he realized that but if he didn’t give himself this one opportunity to tell the other man just how badly he’d hurt him then he’d carry it around the rest of his days.  And he’d have to let M’ckey do the same. If they really wanted to lance the wound then they’d have to squeeze all the rot out first. “You’re right. You saved me. You’re pretty damn lucky you did. What if S’ngellan hadn’t needed me and they’d left me behind?”

“He never would’ve done that!”

I’an could feel the cold smirk curl the corners of his lips as he took three slow steps back, letting his eyes burn holes in M’ckey until the brunette finally lost his nerve and looked away.  “Yeah, you and I both know that now but we had no idea then.

You

had no idea.  You fecking hoped and you risked my life on that hope.  Not yours. Mine!”

“I didn’t risk…”

“Oh yes you fecking did!”

Now I’an was the one looking away, striding angrily back towards the firepit as a hot pricks of conflicting emotions stabbed at his heart.  Circling around, he threaded his fingers together over the nape of his neck and let his head fall back to rest against his hands in frustration as he stared up at the ceiling.  In front of him, he could hear M’ckey shifting nervously against the edge of the wooden table but he kept his eyes averted. He wasn’t going to fecking cry.

“I didn’t…” M’ckey’s voice cut off with a sigh before he continued, “I know I took a huge risk but you don’t understand.  I mean, shite, I’an. You weren’t safe anymore. You weren’t fecking safe. Terry was going to kill you, okay? He was absolutely going to kill you!”

“He always said shite like that.”

“And he always followed through!  Who the hell are you kidding? He killed plenty of people.  You know that! And I sure as hell know that because I helped bury their fecking bodies in the mines.  He killed poor shites from Crom, travelers we robbed, even some of the Holder’s soldiers. Hell, I’m still not sure if he killed my mother.”

M’ckey had pushed away from the table and now it was his turn to pace nervously.  “He was going to kill you. Every time he’d drag my sorry ass back out to the stable and string me up, he’d remind me.  He’d threaten to leave me hanging there while he went and caught you and brought you back. He’d say he was gonna hang you up right next to me and bleed and butcher you like the filthy animal you were.”

I’an could feel the bile churning in his stomach as M’ckey spoke and he hated the tears that were now prickling in the brunette’s eyes.  But he wasn’t mollified. Not yet.

“He’d have had to get me first.  And I’m actually not that easy to kill.  You’re not the only one who was raised by degenerates.  I’ve been fighting my whole damn life, too.”

“Yeah, you’re real tough shite, Gallagher,” M’ckey spit.

“I’an,” he answered, “Always I’an.”

M’ckey nodded softly, letting his gaze rest on I’an’s face.  “I know. The thing is, you’re right. He wasn’t going to do it like that.  He just said that shite to torture me. But a few weeks after he caught us, he started making all sorts of comments about your house and how easy it would be to burn it down.”

A cold tremor ran down the length of I’an’s spine and it wasn’t from the chill of the room or his relative state of undress.  Staring into M’ckey’s eyes, he suddenly knew for certain that the brunette was telling the truth.

“My fecking family lives in that house,” he whispered, hearing the horror and rage in his voice.

“Yeah, and he would’ve made sure you couldn’t have escaped.  He’d have sealed the doors shut and taken you all out. Then taken all your chickens and shite.”

M’ckey’s voice had assumed a weariness and he was slumped down against the table, his head hanging forward.  I’an stared at him carefully, assessingly. It was true. He’d known Terry Milkovich his whole life and he knew what the man was capable of.  And there would have been no way to stop it. The Lord Holder of Crom was a decent man but even he didn’t have the manpower to police the far reaches of his Hold, not with all the threadfall and unrest in the mines.  The last magistrate to stand up to Terry had disappeared. M’ckey was right. There hadn’t been any other way.

“What did he do after I left?” I’an asked quietly.  He already knew the answer. Common sense and a lingering pain crawling up their bond told him all he needed to know, but he needed to ask anyway.  He needed to hear the words.

M’ckey exhaled slowly.  “He fecked me up good. I mean, he’s done it my whole life but that, hell, that was the worst.  He broke my cheekbone, bashed my whole face up. I couldn’t see straight for weeks.”

I’an could feel his heart twisting tight in his chest.  His emotions had been all over the place since the moment he’d walked into M’ckey’s weyr but suddenly the instinctive need to protect reasserted itself.  He took four quick strides forward until he could reach out and cup the brunette’s face between his hands. M’ckey didn’t fight. Instead, he let I’an take the reigns again, carefully twisting his face back and forth at the redhead’s behest.  As he looked, I’an couldn’t help but draw in a deep breath. He hadn’t been face to face with M’ckey in years so he supposed he could be forgiven the oversight but now that he was so close, he could see the fine white scars, that crossed over M’ckey’s nose and lips and spiderwebbed across his cheeks.

“Hells.” he whispered.

The brunette’s voice hitched a bit and he pulled his chin gently free, not so much demanding as asking to be released.  I’an let his hands slip down, let them fall limply to his sides as he took one step back. He didn’t want to let go or move away. He wanted what he’d always wanted; to wrap himself around M’ckey and never let him go.  But he needed to be careful. What had been left of the tough facade was in broken pieces around M’ckey’s feet and the green rider looked fragile enough to crack.

“If they hadn’t taken you,” the brunette said softly, still staring at the floor, “If S’ngellan had left you behind, I’d have told them the truth.  About me. I’d have told them that everything they hated about you, they should hate about me, too. If they threw you out, I’d have gone with you.”  The quiet voice hitched and I’an flinched at the sound. “If they’d killed you, I’d have died with you.”

“Why?” I’an’s voice was gone, too, his throat too tight to utter real sounds.  But he needed to know.

I’an could hear M’ckey crack apart.  He could hear him fight to breath through the sob that bubbled over and out of him.  The brunette pushed off the table, striding into the cold darkness and leaning against the wall of the bathing alcove.  I’an didn’t hesitate before following.

“Why,” he repeated with more heat in his voice as he came up behind the shorter man.  He could see M’ckey’s shoulders hunch in protectively, but he’d already come too far. They needed to get the last bit of poison out.  “Tell me why.”

“You know…”

“Then tell me!”

“Don’t make me say it.”

Taking a final step forward, I’an leaned in and said, “Tell me.”

“Hells, Gallagher.  Because I fecking love you!”

The words left M’ckey’s mouth in anger but that did nothing to diminish their impact.  They flowed like a salve over I’an’s soul, soothing away and healing old wounds. But before he could reach out and pull M’ckey close, the brunette’s face crumpled into miserable panic and he bolted into the darkness of the bathing chamber, slamming the door shut behind him.

It was dark as pitch in the  little alcove. M’ckey hadn’t brought a torch or lamp in with him and there were no windows to let in the moonlight.  Leaning back, he let his head hit the door with a frustrated clunk. He was stuck now. He couldn’t walk forward and he sure as hells wasn’t going to go back into the weyr, not with everything he’d just confessed.  So instead he just let himself slide down the wooden door and sink into a pile on the floor.

What the hells had just happened?

In a way, he felt lighter.  How could he not? The weight of the horrible truth that he’d carried around for the last few years was off his shoulders.  The burden wasn’t completely gone but sharing it with I’an made it seem so much lighter. And the gently, whisper light caresses that he could feel up and down the bond made it clear that the redhead was content to bare the load with him.

So why was he hiding?

Precisely, Mine,

a teasing voice echoed inside his mind,

“I thought you wanted to talk to him.”

I did.

Then why do you hide?

There was genuine confusion in the green’s voice,

“Are you sad that he knows you love him?

M’ckey shut his eyes against the darkness.  No, no, he wasn’t sad. He was terrified. Love was so damn dangerous.  His love for the other man had nearly gotten him killed before, because it was a vulnerability, the kind that predators like Terry could sniff out and exploit.

I’m not sad, Lal.

No, you’re scared.  Why?

Because love is a fecking weakness.

He could Lalith’s aggravated grumble through the walls.

It is not!  I love you and you love me and that has made us strong.

Lal, no, I don’t mean…

It is that man again, isn’t it?  He is the one who makes you fear love!

Lalith…

No, Mine!  No! He is the real weight you are carrying.  But you have no reason to fear him. He will never come near you again.  You do not need to be afraid to love the prettyrider. That man is far away.  He cannot touch you. He cannot touch either of you. And if he ever tried, I would eat him!

A snort of laughter tore out of M’ckey and ricocheted around the little room as a warm sensation rushed all over him.

I don’t know how to do this, Lal.  I don’t know how to just be with someone.  I’ve never done it before.

He could hear Lalith’s exasperated huff through the door.

You are smart, Mine.  You are good and strong and you will learn.  Now stop hiding. You are also brave, usually, but this is not brave.

Now it was M’ckey’s turn to huff.

Go to bed, Lalith.

And you go to your bed, Mine!

Go to bed.  With I’an. He suddenly broke out in shivers from head to toe.  It could’ve been from the cold he supposed, since he was still wearing nothing but a towel, but really, he knew better. The familiar, sharp itch of need had managed to pierce through all the roiling emotions and it brought him back to his feet.  Laying a hand on the door, he drew in a deep breath. They’d spoken. They’d said so, so much to each other. There would be no going back. He knew that and he was okay with it but right now he just...needed…

He threw the door open before his own fear and self-doubts could overwhelm him again.  Stumbling out of the little alcove, he let his gaze drift over the weyr. The torches had been extinguished and the firepit was banked down to a low glow.  On the ledge, Karth and Lalith were twisted into a comfy knot, their breath rumbling together as they slept. And on the bed tucked into the far corner, leaning back against the wall, I’an sat waiting.  As M’ckey starred back, the redhead sat up and flipped the heavy blankets down, gesturing with his chin. M’ckey didn’t resist. Striding forward, he crawled up on the bed and let I’an cradle him into the curve of his body.

The taller man lay them both down in the dark as M’ckey fixed his eyes on the stone wall only a few feet away.  He was warm now, the chill easily chased away by the heat of I’an’s skin, but the shivering hadn’t abated. Each time the redhead’s breath tickled his neck, it sent an extra shudder down his spine.  He could feel I’an behind him as the tall man drew him closer, hot and full and hard against him, separated by nothing but the towel he still absurdly wore around his waist. His body was more than warm now, hot and pulsing and trembling from fingertips to toes.  With a sharp exhale of breath, he pressed back into the redhead’s touch.

“Are you cold?” I’an whispered with a hint of gentle mirth in his voice.  It soothed M’ckey’s frazzled mind even as it sent a fresh wave of tremors through his body.

“No,” he gasped, barely managing the words. His hips were shifting furiously, seeking more contact, and his self-control was fracturing under a wave of warm lust.  “No, I’m...I just need…”

“Shhhh,” I’an crooned against his throat as he shifted up and over M’ckey’s form.  The brunette could feel him pull back for a moment, reaching into the small shelf over the head of his bed to grab the little bottle of oil he’d stored there since their first night.  Then he was back, running huge hands all over him.

M’ckey’s body was reacting on pure instinct, pressing up against the redhead everywhere he could, but one last, niggling conscious thought managed to cut its way through the haze.  He wasn’t hiding. He wasn’t trying to pull away. The last thing he wanted was for the other man to think that all they’d said to each other had meant nothing. Twisting his head around, he searched frantically for I’an.  The other man leaned over him, catching his gaze with concern in his eyes.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he panted, his eyes wide.  “It’s just...I’m not hiding...I don’t want to pretend…”

The tremors in his body were growing stronger and he could hear the plea in his voice but everything he was trying to say was cut off when I’an suddenly leaned down and ran his tongue up the line of his throat.  M’ckey’s words dried up. All he could do was let his head roll back to give the redhead whatever access he wanted as the he nipped along M’ckey’s jawline to find his ear.

“Enough for tonight,” the red haired man murmured softly, rutting hard against the thin material of the towel.  With one swift yank, he stripped the blankets from their bodies, letting the cool air hit M’ckey’s overheated skin.  The huge hands were moving again, raking up and down his chest and thighs with rough, insistent pressure. “We’re not hiding but right now…” I’an’s voice broke slightly and he leaned in close, burying his face against M’ckey’s throat and breathing deeply.

“Right now we need to fuck,” the redhead panted, pushing up onto his knees.  M’ckey barely had time to fight his way through the lust drunk fog that clouded his mind before I’ans was dragging him up and nudging him forward towards the stone wall at the side of the bed.  He went easily, letting I’an press him against cool rock. Leaning into the wall, he let his head fall forward and his brow rest against his crossed forearms as the taller man used his own knees to splay his hips wide.

“Don’t move,” the redhead murmured behind him, his voice heavy and pleased.  It sent a fresh wave of shivers coursing through his body. He was spread out precariously, clearly on display for his lover’s dark amusement but he had no desire to move or argue or do anything but give himself over to I’an’s every whim.

There was a long pause as M’ckey kneeled in his pose, his skin burning under the light touch of I’an’s gaze that he could feel all over him.  His breath hitched in his chest, but otherwise he kept perfectly still, obedient and content. He had never been docile or prone to follow orders.  He had, in fact, been a chronic fighter all his life, but whenever I’an turned that dark, possessive voice on him, all he wanted to do was give the other rider anything he wanted.  They could talk and share fears and hard truths with each other, but this...this was something else.

He could feel the gentle brush of displaced air against his skin and then I’an’s hands were on him, fingertips skimming down his rib cage and coming to rest on his hips, teasing at the edge of the towel.  The brown rider was so close that M’ckey could feel the subtle shift in heat against his bare back as I’an breathed in and out behind him. His huge hands slid down M’ckey’s hips, creeping up and under the damp, clinging cloth and stroking over his belly, teasing at the base of his swollen cock.  M’ckey jumped at the sudden sensation, but a sharp growl from the redhead kept him still. I’an let his hands move in gentle circles, kneading the skin around his groin with a teasing pressure that offered arousal but no release

When he finally peeled the towel away, it was slow and careful.  He curled one hand around M’ckey’s hip and let his other fingertips drift lightly up the brunette’s swollen shaft, gently circling the sensitive head.  M’ckey gasped at the touch, drawing in a breath, but I’an wasn’t done playing with him yet. The hand on his hip retreated and he could hear the quiet pop of a cork being drawn from a bottle.

I’an’s hand was slick when he touched him next, cupping the bottom of his ass and squeezing with one hand as he continued to use the other to tease the tumid head of his cock.  Leaning in, the readhead nipped lightly at the juncture between his shoulder and neck as he let one thumb trace the line of his cleft. M’ckey sucked in a deep breath at the sensation but I’an was already moving, sliding his other hand up and over the brunette’s chest, around his shoulder and down the length of his arm.  He pressed against M’ckey’s crossed wrists with gentle but clear pressure and green rider understood the message.

Don’t move.

With one hand, I’an pressed inside him, with careful continuous pressure, until he was knuckle deep.  His other hand wrapped around M’ckey’s chin, drawing his head back until his back was lightly bowed. The arch in his spine opened him up even more to I’an’s questing fingers and the redhead wasted no time sliding a second in, and then a third.  When M’ckey gasped at the sensation, I’an only offered a satisfied huff as he let his thumb pull gently on the brunette’s lower lip.

There was an intense tingle building up under M’ckey’s skin again, as if every nerve in his body was buzzing and begging for release.  He felt half drunk and dizzy and he was vaguely aware that quiet, desperate pants were escaping from between his lips. Some far off part of him knew that he was pressing back against I’an’s fingers but hells, he couldn’t help it.  He’d been good, he’d listened, but he couldn’t fecking take this anymore.

“Shhhhhh,” I’an whispered a final time, letting his teeth graze over the lobe of M’ckey’s ear. “I’ve got you.  I’m gonna give you everything you need.”

The thick fingers slid out of his channel but the sudden emptiness was brief.  M’ckey could hear the distinctive sound of a firm hand working oil against skin and he huffed in anticipation.  And though he’d taken I’an every night for weeks, he could still feel the sweet burn when the other man set the thick, hot head of his own cock to M’ckey’s entrance and pushed in.

The brunette was helpless to stop the long, low moan that tore from his lips as he was breached.  I’an pushed hard against him, sliding in at an exquisitely slow pace, allowing ever millimeter of M’ckey’s channel to milk at the thick shaft inside him.  In and in, I’an pushed, punctuating with the occasional jerk of his hips, until the heavy weight of his balls were resting against M’ckey’s ass.

And then I’an froze.  He didn’t move. He’d reached down and wrapped his hands around M’ckey’s chest, letting his chin rest in the soft, brunette tresses but now he held them both perfectly still, pressed as deeply inside of his lover as he could be.  M’ckey’s body reacted intuitively, clenching around the hard flesh as moans poured unbidden from his lips.

It was perfect, exquisite hell and I’an seemed to content to linger in it.  Whole minutes would pass as he kept M’ckey full, sending bolts of pleasure through his whole body.  And just before the heady sensations became too intense, just before M’ckey lost the battle with his own self-control and started squirming away, he’d withdraw until the head of his cock was teasing at the brunette’s sensitive rim.

Over and over, I’an played their bodies together as sweat beaded on their skin.  Again and again, he slid inside the brunette’s channel, holding his tight as his cries echoed through the chamber.  It was good, so fecking good, but M’ckey’s body had been winding tighter and tighter since the moment he fled the bathing alcove.  He loved this but hells, he needed more. Shifting his hands against the wall, he pressed back against the base of I’an’s shaft, pushing it infinitesimally deeper and causing them both to groan.

M’ckey had kind of expected a fight.  He’d expected the brown rider to pin him tight and hold him, to exert his authority.  But I’an could also feel the shift in the mood. There had been so many times in the farmholds of Crom when they’d had to make do with a wall out of necessity, but this time, it was by choice.  They really never had opportunities to fuck slowly and with purpose, to learn each other’s bodies, to explore. They’d never really been able to just play. Well, they were playing now, and I’an seemed more than content to switch the game up a bit.  With a shift of his hips, he pulled back, leaning onto his haunches as he slid towards the middle of the bed. M’ckey turned to look over his shoulder, to gauge the redhead’s actions, but the other man was already catching ahold of his hips and drawing him back against his chest.

“Whatever you want,” he whispered, sending thrills through M’ckey’s whole body.  “Whatever you need, take it. I’ll give you anything.”

At another time, when he was less lust drunk, he might’ve been able to come up with all kinds of delicious things to do with the redhead’s beautiful body.  And he would, sometime very soon, because time and space were two luxuries they now enjoyed. But not now. Now, all he wanted was to have I’an back inside him and to come flying apart on that perfect cock.  His hips were still splayed wide over the top of I’an’s thighs and he braced his hands on the mattress and pushed back, feeling the slick head slip back inside him. Sitting up, he let gravity and I’an’s strong hands draw him down the length of the shaft until it was once again seated as deeply as possible inside him.

The cool, collected, domineering I’an had melted away.  The man who’s lap M’ckey straddled now was as lust lorn and needy as the brunette himself.  Reaching out, he wrapped his hands around M’ckey’s chest, letting his fingertips brush over sensitive nipples as he pulled him close.

“Stay up like this,” he begged, “let me feel you.”

M’ckey was happy to oblige, as desperate for the feel of I’an’s skin as the redhead was for his.  Reaching up, he wrapped his hands around the back of I’an’s neck, grabbing each of his forearms to balance himself.  It was an inelegant position for sure, but the incredible fullness inside him was generating sparks behind his eyes. M’ckey couldn’t wait any longer.  They needed to feel each other now.

Over and over, M’ckey rocked his hips, sliding up and down the length of I’an’s cock.  The only sound was the light slap of their bodies thrusting against each other and the high pitched cries that tumbled from M’ckey’s lips.  I’an was practically silent, having buried his face against the juncture of his shoulder and and neck, but M’ckey could feel the warm, quick paced breath as it brushed his skin.  His own shaft was hard and curved up, sliding lightly against his stomach and tagging his skin with droplets of his own spend.

It was nearly perfect and he was sure they both could have fallen apart from that, wrapped around each other as they tumbled off the edge.  But it wasn’t quite enough. There was something more M’ckey wanted, something he didn’t think he could have handled before. But things were different now.  I’an had seen him open and vulnerable in so many ways tonight. It seemed fitting that he take one more liberty, something he’d never even dared to want before.

He loosened his grasp on his forearms and the movement sent him tumbling forward to catch himself on the bed.  I’an, still wrapped around him, was pulled down, too, and he came quite willingly. There was surprise but also a hint of intrigue in those beautiful green eyes when M’ckey pulled off of him and spun around.

“Anything?” M’ckey asked.  Even he could hear the longing and hope in his voice.  I’an studied him for a second, but when he seemed to find no signs of distress, he simply nodded his head.

“Whatever you want.”

M’ckey sprang.  He tackled the redhead to the mattress, pinning him down on his back as he climbed over him and straddled his waist.  There was no resistance in I’an. If anything, the tall man’s green gaze seemed amused and perfectly content to lie back and let M’ckey seize control.  This was new, too.

M’ckey stared down at the other man from his new vantage point, letting their gazes connect and consider each other for a brief moment.  He hoped I’an could read the intent in his eyes. This was an apology and a gift as much as it was an experiment. Always, always, I’an had yearned for more; contact, intimacy, warmth.  And always, M’ckey had let his own fears get in the way, staying cold, staying as purely physical as possible. Until that one day, with his father gone, when they’d played with fire and gotten burned.

He’d thought it was beyond repair, that they would always be too damaged, but now he knew the truth.  The fire from that day had been dragon fire and it hadn’t destroyed them. It had burned the poisonous tendrils out of their lives so that they could experience new growth.  And here they were now, in a place of their own, touching each other in love.

For the first time ever, M’ckey stared into I’an’s eyes as he took the other man inside him.  Everything about it felt different. The angle was unique and hell, if he’d known it could feel this good, maybe he’d have tried it sooner.  But the biggest difference was I’an and the incredible intimacy of watching the other man’s face as they drew together. It was almost impossible to hold the gaze and he could see I’an fighting it too, the need to close his eyes to cope with the intensity.  Somehow, though, they managed, their eyes snapping fire at each other as M’ckey seated himself.

The last inch tore a little hiss from his lips.

“Is it alright?” I’an asked, sitting up on his elbows.  The movement jostled them and turned M’ckey’s hiss into a moan.

“Fecking...damnit, I’an,” he breathed, laying a hand on the redhead’s chest to steady himself.  He let out three quick breaths before he tried to speak, “Yes, it’s alright. You bastard!”

I’an mouth curled into an impish grin.  “It’s good?”

M’ckey snorted.  Good. Good didn’t begin to cover it.  “Down, now,” he ordered, pushing on I’an’s shoulder.  There was no argument from the other man, just a satisfied smirk as he lay back.

“What do you want?”

M’ckey shifted experimentally on the redhead’s lap and then keened as the thick cock inside him sent a shockwave up his spine.  Hells. His body and mind were both done with the games. He needed a release or it was going to fecking kill him.

“I want to ride you til I come,” he answered simply, his voice breathless.  The redhead’s little smirk split into a bright smile and his eyes burned as he stared up.

“Good,” he answered, “cause I want to watch.”

He didn’t know if it was the smile or the words or just the incredible heat that was bubbling under his skin but that was the moment that M’ckey finally lost it; his mind, his inhibitions, his last vestiges of self control.  He was vaguely aware that he’d leaned forward and grabbed the little shelf at the head of the bed for some leverage but after that, he’d been mindless, sliding up and down the length of I’an’s shaft as filthy sounds poured from his mouth.  He’d lost the battle to keep his eyes open but an explosion of light illuminated the darkness behind his lids every time he took I’an in fully.

There was no logic or grace to his movements, just a purely instinctive need to give and take pleasure with his lover.  Pushing away from the shelf, he sat up and let his back arch, running his hands through his hair and over his own body. He could feel I’an’s huge hands on him as well and he let the other man link their fingers together, using them to tweak at his nipples and stroke his sensitive belly.

He was close, so fecking close, when he finally tore his hands free.  He could feel the familiar coiling in his stomach, the tightness in his sack, the rhythmic ripple along the walls of his channel.  Leaning down again, he braced his forearms on either side of I’an’s head and rested their brows together. He could feel the redhead’s huge hands cupping his ass, calloused fingers teasing his rim.  And that was it. He was done. He came with a singular, crushing wave that receded slightly only to crash down upon him again with renewed strength. His hands whipped up, curling around I’an’s shoulders, desperate for an anchor as he floated unmoored in a sea of pleasure, the product of the first climax he’d ever received completely on his own terms.

He could feel the full length of I’an’s cock, still hard and perfect inside him.  He could feel the redhead’s hands roaming over his ass and up across the small of his back.  M’ckey’s body was going limp, each nerve ending utterly overwhelmed by the incredible force of his climax.  So he was helpless to do anything but comply when I’an rumbled low in his chest and moved, wrapping strong arms around him and keeping him firmly impaled as he flipped them over and dumped M’ckey onto his back on the bed.

“The hell…”

“Shhhhh.”  I’an loomed above him, beautiful and terrifying as the light from the fire danced off his sweat slick skin.  His green eyes were half mad, pupils huge and black and wild. M’ckey was sprawled across the bed, his body as weak as a newborn lamb, but one exhausted arm managed to slip up and weave its way around I’an’s neck.  Staring up into his face, M’ckey mustered a single nod. It was all the invitation I’an needed.

The redhead took him like a man possessed, wrapping his arms under M’ckey’s back and pinning their torsos together as he thrust, deep and hard and frantic.  M’ckey’s arms fell to the bed and his shoulders and head arched backwards over I’an’s arm, exposing the line of his throat. It was an unconscious invitation the brown rider wouldn’t ignore and he buried his face against M’ckey’s neck as he ruthlessly plundered his body.

M’ckey was helpless.  He could do nothing but let I’an chase his own pleasure, even as his body jumped reflexively with sweet jolts of bliss each time the redhead thrust home.  It was so much, nearly too much, but I’an was as desperate as he had been for release and it didn’t take long. He felt the strong arms tighten around him just fractionally as the redhead pressed up inside him and then he was filled with a rush of heat as I’an roared against the skin of his throat.  It went on and on, wave after warm wave, until I’an’s arms went lax around him. The other man was panting through his release, fighting a losing battle to hold himself up. M’ckey wanted none of that. Mustering what little strength he’d managed to regain, he reached up again, pulling I’an’s head down to rest against his chest.  The brown rider went easily, wriggling his arms sluggishly out from under M’ckey’s back and letting his spent cock finally slip free. He burrowed against M’ckey’s skin as exhaustion overtook them both. But just before he slipped into sleep, M’ckey felt the redhead slip a large hand over the back of his and link their fingers together.

For hours, there was quite in the weyr.  On the ledge, the dragons snoozed contentedly in their warm pile.  In the firepit, the banked coals lost some of their glow. And on the bed, two dragon riders from Telgar slept the deep sleep of the sated.

It was I’an who first awoke, the crick in his neck and the encroaching chill finally pulling him from his slumber.  There was nothing he wanted more than to pull M’ckey close and go right back to bed but they were filthy and cold and the green rider needed some food.  And so he forced himself to let go of the other man and find his feet.

M’ckey groaned in his sleep, squirming on the bed, seaking the lost warmth.  It made I’an’s heart clench but he quickly reached down and drew the warm, thick blankets he’d kicked off hours before up and over the smaller man.  As M’ckey settled, he hurried into the main room, grabbing a bowl off the shelf and picking up the food hamper from the table. Heading into the little alcove, he put some towels on the basket lid and filled the bowl with some warm water.  As it filled, he scrubbed the crust and sweat off his own skin as quickly as he could. They were both filthy but he wasn’t dragging M’ckey back into the bath tonight. After what they’d done to each other, he didn’t think they should risk getting in the water.  They were so worn out they’d probably drown. Picking up the bowl in one hand and the basket in another, he headed back towards the bed.

“I’m sorry.”

The words echoed out of the darkness in front of him and I’an sucked in a breath and tightened his fingers around the little bowl at the sound of the voice.  Squinting into the shadows, he found what he sought. M’ckey was awake, sitting up in the bed with his face cast down. As he watched, the blue eyes gazed up at him through thick lashes, and I’an could see that they were bright with shame.

Hells.  He could only imagine what shite M’ckey had managed to get in his head in the five minutes since he’d left him asleep in his bed.  Taking a few steps forward, he set the basket and bowl on the tabletop and wet one of the towels. With his eyes still fixed on the brunette’s face, he peeled the blanket away and sat down on the bed.  Without a word, he began to rub the grime off M’ckey’s chest and belly as the other man lay back in silent, miserable compliance.

“For what?” he asked innocently.

“You know what.”

“Is this where you tell me not to make you say it again?”  Tossing the towel onto the table, he reached into the basket and pulled out a cold pork pasty wrapped in cheesecloth.  “You need to eat,” he stated as he pushed the food into M’ckey’s hands. He kept his eyes fixed on the brunette until the smaller man relented and took a bite.  Pulling out a hunk of crusty bread smeared with honey mustard, he tore off a hunk and chewed on it as M’ckey sat silently beside him, dutifully eating his dinner.  Finishing the bread, he reached over and slipped the cloth out of the brunette’s hand, tossing it back into the basket.

In one seamless move, I’an pounced, leaning down and slipping into the warm space between M’ckey’s thighs and pulling the covers up and over them.  By the time the brunette was able to react, I’an had wrapped one arm around his head and cradled his cheek with his other hand. And if that hadn’t been enough, M’ckey was equally trapped by the fire burning in I’an’s green eyes as he stared down at him.

“You’re sorry?” he murmured, his breath brushing over the brunette’s jaw.  M’ckey’s head nodded slowly, warily, but I’an just forged ahead. He didn’t need the green rider to tell him what thoughts were running on a tormented loop in his mind.  I’an had already answered his own question. “What good does it do for you to be sorry? It doesn’t change anything. I don’t want apologies. I don’t even want your groveling and submission.  I just want change. I want to see that we can actually be different here.”

I’an stared hard into M’ckey’s eyes, watching the shadows and light that flickered in their depths as the other man considered his words.

“What do you want?”

Staring down, I’an let his gaze linger on the brunette’s mouth“What’ll you give me?”

M’ckey’s eyes widened in sudden realization and for a moment, I’an wondered if he had pushed the smaller man too far.  But the brunette’s lips twitched gently upward at the corners and his face softened.

“When?”

I’an smirked.  “Whenever I want.  In here, in the halls, on the training grounds.”

Below him, M’ckey’s eyes fell shut and he let out a long, deep breath, but finally the slight curve of his mouth bowed up into a real smile and his cheek nuzzled against I’an’s palm.

“I could just suck your dick instead,” the brunette quipped lightly as he opened his eyes.

“You can do that t…”but I’an’s words were silenced by the soft, gentle press of lips against his.  It was simple and artless and sweet, and M’ckey stared up at him the entire time. When the brunette pulled back, he only had time to nip at his lip with a mischievous grin on his face before I’an was following him down, pressing a harder and more demanding kiss to the other man’s lips.  The brunette sighed into the gentle pressure, letting his own arms wind their way around I’an’s body and pull him close. Second after second, minute after minute, they let their mouths move against each other for the first time ever.

And it was fecking perfect.

Pulling back slightly, I’an stared down at the other man, using his free hand to smooth the black tresses back from his face.

“Whenever you want?” M’ckey repeated again.  The green rider’s eyes were wide and he was sucking his bottom lip lightly between his teeth.  I’an knew that tell. M’ckey did that whenever he was scared to want something for himself.

Sliding his hand up form the brunette’s cheek, he stroked his thumb gently over M’ckey’s bottom lip, smoothing away the little worry mark that his teeth had left.  In his mind, he sent a light, soothing tendril up the length of their bond, grinning as M’ckey pressed back against him. “Whenever we want.” he stated emphatically before he pressed his tongue into the brunette’s warm and willing mouth.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It was cold again.  It was cold all the time now, as the harvest was tucked away and the last leaves fell from the trees.  It wasn’t something that would normally have bothered I’an when he woke up in the morning, but then, he’d become accustomed to being able to curl around M’ckey’s warm body and go right back to sleep.  But when he’d woken up moments ago, as the sun started to permeate the front of the weyr, he’d found himself alone in M’ckey’s bed. Again.

Hells.

He rolled over and burrowed his face into the blankets on the other man’s side.  There were lingering traces of the brunette’s sweet, unique scent and he nestled into it, but the temperature of the sheets was telling.  They were stone cold. That meant M’ckey had been up for at least an hour. Rooting around, I’an pulled the blankets up and over his shoulders.  Telgar had completed three continuous days of threadfighting but there had been none sighted in the skies to their west, so it seemed they were due for a break.  Faidre and S’ngellan had suspended training today and likely tomorrow to give riders and dragons a real chance to rest and recuperate. So, I’an was in no rush to vacate the warm and comfortable bed, but he’d definitely be a hell of a lot more content if M’ckey was in it with him.  Sighing, I’an snuggled down into the mattress and stared up at the dark ceiling. There was nothing to be said or done about it. He knew exactly where M’ckey was and the brunette wasn’t going to be reappearing any time soon.

No, he’d be out on the sands all day.  With Lalith. And her eggs.

From a purely pragmatic perspective, I’an was thrilled about their current circumstances.  When she’d gone to the sands six weeks ago, Lalith had only produced fourteen eggs, half the number of Feith’s last clutch, but they’d all been a good size.  The size and count had both been a welcome relief to the Weyr but it had all paled in comparison to the last egg Lalith had laid onto the sands. Large, shiny and golden hued, it signaled the arrival of a new Queen dragon to Telgar.

The entire Weyr had been in elation that night and there had been much music played and ale consumed before the sun broke the next day.  I’an had only heard it from a distance, though. He’d passed the whole night sitting on an escarpment up above the hatching grounds with Karth right beside him, keeping watch as Lalith hovered and fretted over her eggs.

I’an had never entirely comprehended the dynamic between Faidre and S’ngellan.  It was hard to grasp how two people could be so close and intimate without sharing any kind of romantic relationship.  Now, though, he understood completely. This, more than anything, was the job of a dragon rider; to help their impressed cope with the huge primal drives that afflicted them.  A good rider would assist in containing the animal instinct without getting sucked into it themselves. I’an already knew what that looked like. Here, though, it was his job to be in control, to stand guard with Karth and help the huge brown contain his basest nature.  Lalith was just like any other other dragon dam, awash with protective impulses. M’ckey helped to soothe her and Karth stood guard and made her feel as if the eggs were safe. But I’an was the true gatekeeper. He needed to keep the coolest head about him so he could be the last line of defense if anyone’s protective instinct started to overwhelm the rational sides of their minds.  This was what S’ngellan did for Faidre. This is what he would do for M’ckey.

It was an honorable role, worthy of his best efforts, and he didn’t regret it for one moment, but it was hellishly exhausting.  He and Karth would train or fight, sometimes far into the night. They were needed in the skies and there was no way they could remain behind but they often returned to find Lalith half-frantic from Karth’s absence and M’ckey barely containing her emotions.  Even the unique bond I’an shared with the green rider only helped so much.

S’ngellan and Faidre had coached them through it and the Weyrleader had assured I’an that it would never be quite this intense again.  Lalith was a first time dam. The nerves and tension were to be expected. She would be more comfortable with her next clutch, more aware of what to expect.  I’an hoped so, for everyone’s sake; Lalith and Karth and he and Mickey. Every moment, regardless of what else they were doing, this burden weighed on them. It was precious and essential work but it took every last ounce of strength he had.  He’d be glad when the dragonettes hatched and impressed and their lives could go back to normal.

Normal.

What the hells did that even mean?  Rolling back over, I’an let his gaze drift over the stone ceiling of the sleeping chamber.  There really was no normal for them to get back to, or at least, not one he’d want to entertain. There was the normal of frantic, hidden rendezvous in the corners of barns.  There was the normal of avoiding each other and pretending they’d never shared a forbidden connection. But the new normal, the one I’an wanted with M’ckey; that had no precedent.  And that was probably the most exhausting thing of all, to sit and wait for the moment when they could truly build something together, without all the extra responsibility.

They would have the opportunity, of that he was sure.  Most greens rose three times a turn, but golds didn’t rise again, even during threadfall, until all of their young had grown to full maturity.  The head healer felt certain that Lalith would follow that track. So there would be time, likely a full turn or more, when their lives would be relatively unencumbered.

I’an looked forward to those days. It wasn’t as if he and M’ckey did nothing but obsess over the dragons.  No, I’an could say with confidence that they had more than made up for lost time as the weeks had stretched into moon turns.  He had mapped every inch of the brunette’s body with his hands and lips and tongue and he’d let M’ckey return the favor. They’d fucked all over the weyr, even attempting an hysterical and semi-disastrous experience in the M’ckey’s bathing tub.  They’d slept together in the green rider’s bed, arms and legs twined in warm, loose knots as their dragons hummed contentedly in their own pile on the ledge.

An instinctual tingle drew I’an’s hands up and to his lips.  Running his tongue along the bottom one, he sought out any lingering traces of the brunette’s sweet taste.  He thought he could still sense M’ckey there, just a little, but whether it was his imagination or not barely mattered.  M’ckey’s essence often clung to his mouth, and the memory of it curled his lips into a cocky grin. There was so much that had changed between them, so much that had morphed and healed and grown, but nothing else quite compared to this; that he could kiss M’ckey freely and that the other man would kiss him right back.

I’an hadn’t pushed for too much at first, despite the promise he’d easily wrung from the brunette.  In the days following their explosive discussion, the brown rider had restrained himself, only claiming M’ckey’s mouth in the privacy of their shared bed.  But he’d balanced his restraint with an equal measure of debauchery, chasing the brunette’s lips down every time they fucked. Hells, he couldn’t even think about it without causing himself to swell; the intensity of spreading M’ckey out across the bed, of slipping between his thighs and sliding slowly up inside of him while he pressed his tongue between the green rider’s perfect, giving lips.  I’an now knew what it felt like to tumble off the edge of climax as they kissed, to feel M’ckey tighten around him and follow him down as they kissed. He knew the taste of the high keening wails that he could wring from the other man as he slowly, mercilessly worked his body. M’ckey, who had always been so damned self-conscious, would lose all measure of restraint, mindlessly allowing I’an to lap up the cries that would pour from his throat as the redhead thrust inside him again and again.

That had been bliss enough but it hadn’t ended there.  Within days, I’an had been catching the brunette around the hips and pulling him close, brushing their lips together gently and playfully as they passed each other in the weyr.  M’ckey had responded in kind and it had been the green rider who first pressed him up against the trestle table, winding his arms around I’an’s neck and pulling their mouth together when he returned after a long day of training.  It had been M’ckey who had maintained the contact as I’an walked them backwards towards the bedchamber.

The next morning, I’an had grudgingly untangled himself from M’ckey and slipped from their bed, hoping to escape without waking the brunette.  Lalith had been nearing her time and she was cranky and exhausted, which wore on M’ckey, too. He’d been standing on the ledge of the weyr with Karth when two strong arms had seized him around the waist from behind.  Before he’d been able to react, M’ckey had slid around to his front, pressing against his chest and placing a chaste but firm peck against his mouth.
“Have a good day and shite,” the green rider had stated, staring up through his lashes with slightly sheepish earnestness.  I’an’s smile had curved up automatically but he’d torn his eyes away for a moment and stared out across the expanse of Telgar as it stretched out in front of them.  M’ckey hadn’t left his own weyr in more than a turn of the moon now. It was getting out of hand. Drawing his arms up, I’an had curled them securely around the brunette’s waist.  
“Will you trust me for a second?” He’d whispered against M’ckey’s temple.
The green rider had gazed up at him inquisitively.  “Yes,” he’d answered with a hint of curious caution in his voice, “Why?”

I’an had said nothing.  Instead, he’d simply wrapped his arms even tighter and hefted M’ckey an inch off his feet.  He’d expected some kind of fight, but the brunette had only looped his arms around I’an’s neck, allowing himself to be carried out onto the ledge of the weyr in full view of all of Telgar’s inhabitants. I’an had been able to see the flickering panic in M’ckey’s eyes as they’d crossed over the threshold and stepped out on the ledge but the green rider had simply held on and trusted him as he set him back on his feet and brought up a hand to cup his chin.

“You’re okay,” he’d whispered, letting his thumb circle lightly over M’ckey’s cheekbone.

The brunette’s voice had been shaky when he’d replied but he’d still managed an affirmative “Okay,” and a weak version of his old, cocky grin as he’d glanced around him.  To their left, the dragons had rumbled at them before taking flight. M’ckey had watched as they touched down on the feeding grounds in the distance.

“See,” I’an had joked lightly, “Even Lalith wants to get out again.”  Releasing the smaller man, he had pressed a final, light kiss to his lips and back peddled a few steps.

“Tomorrow.”

He’d frozen.  “What?”

M’ckey had looked at him with fierce determination.  “Tomorrow. I’ll come down for breakfast tomorrow.”

The brunette had been true to his word.  The next day, he’d risen with I’an, dressed against the cool weather and walked outside without any prodding.  He’d hesitated for a moment on the last step of the ledge but when I’an had walked up behind him and stepped down, he’d followed immediately.  The cheer that erupted when he entered the meal hall had turned his cheeks scarlet but I’an had seen the sheepish grin that pulled at his lips before he could duck his head down to hide it.  They’d been assailed by their wingmates that morning, all eager to reconnect with their brother in arms, but with the exception of B’ron, R’hil, and C’rin, who’d all visited regularly anyway, the crush of well wishers had quickly dissipated, content to have their green rider back in their midst.

M’ckey had been content, too.  He’d been tense and on edge at first, always waiting for the first snide or derisive overture, but all he’d received was absolute acceptance liberally laced with awe and wonder.  I’an hadn’t been able to resist teasing the other man a bit. M’ckey was now beginning to see that as far as the Weyrfolk were concerned, M’ckey and Lalith’s uniqueness didn’t make them freaks.

It made them treasures.

With a groan, I’an finally conceded that his racing mind wasn’t going to allow him to sleep.  Maybe he’d nap later, especially if he could get convince M’ckey to leave the sands and come inside to join him.  It was mostly wishful thinking though. The green rider was barely willing to leave Lalith to go to sleep at night anymore, nevermind during the day.

Sitting up on the mattress, I’an stretched out his arms.  The cool air brushed over his bare chest, driving away the last remaining vestiges of sleepiness and he rustled quickly through his bag until he found a clean tunic.  Pulling it on, he walked through the weyr and out onto the ledge, pausing to rest his brow against Karth’s.

Good morning, Mine,

The brown murmured in his head,

You do not wish to sleep longer?

Can’t

, he replied, nodding his head towards the hatching sands that spread out under the weyr.  Karth followed his gaze, taking in the sight of Lalith as she huffed furiously among the rows of eggs.  The top of M’ckey’s dark hair was just visible over the far edge of the raised sandbed.

I feel that way as well,

the brown responded,

Go and get your love some food.  I will do the same for mine.

With a great whirring of his wings, Karth took off towards the feeding grounds as I’an watched and grinned.  His

love.

There had been a time when that endearment had caused his heart to harden and ache, but now it just warmed him against the chill air.

The hall was fairly empty with many of the riders still keeping to their beds.  I’an was surprised to see C’rin there, drinking a hot cup of klah and picking at sausage and beans as he read a large book.  D’vin was nowhere to be seen, which could only mean that he was on Search for more new candidates for the impending hatching.  When they were both in the Weyr, the Weyrlingmaster and the green rider were never far from each other, all warm smiles and gentle kisses.  I’an gave the pair much of the credit for M’ckey’s own willingness to show affection in public. It hadn’t been an easy transition for the brunette, but once he’d been out in the community again, it had only underscored the fact that a relationship with another man was so normal as to be considered dull in Telgar.  Couples displayed their love freely, especially in the halls on rest days. C’rin was one of M’ckey’s closest companions. D’vin was probably the most respected man in the entire Weyr. If they could be so unfettered, even M’ckey had to admit that there was no shame.

It hadn’t been an immediate transition.  I’an clearly remembered the first time he’d leaned in to kiss the dark haired man in the meal hall.  M’ckey had panicked, pushing him away and glancing around, expecting hate and attack to come at him from all angles.  I’an could see realization flooding over the brunette; that he was safe, that no one was going to lash out. The brown rider had simply stood by and waited, unable to suppress the impishly playful smile curling his lips as M’ckey took two determined steps forward and pulled their mouths together.  I’an had never loved their new home more than he had that moment, when M’ckey felt safe to be himself in front of any who might see.

A kitchen drudge met him at the door of the huge pantry and quickly put together another basket of food for the day.  I’an said his thanks and headed back out. Across the hall, C’rin glanced up and nodded his head in greeting.

“D’vin?” I’an mouthed across the room.

With one hand, C’rin gestured out the door and towards the sky.  It was as he had thought. D’vin had gone on one final Search, likely for a few more female candidates now that a Queen egg had been birthed.

All over Telgar there was a sense of anticipation.  Everyone knew that the time drew near. But on the hatching sands, M’ckey was barely aware.  His mind was almost always with Lalith, comforting the first time mother as she fought to control her instincts.  I’an recognized this control and appreciated it. Lalith would never hurt M’ckey or Karth. That was as much an instinct as anything to her.  But I’an himself was a bit of different story right now. The giant green would never knowingly harm him, of that I’an was certain. He was intimately attached to the two creatures she treasured more than any on Pern and she typically exhibited a good natured and teasing affection for him.  But now the dam was in a unique state, fiercely protective by nature and also deeply aware of the stakes that her clutch held for Pern. It kept M’ckey out on the sands beside her all day, constantly soothing her mind. And it kept I’an cautious and deeply respectful of the green’s needs.

As he approached the edge of the sands, I’an reached out gently through his bond with M’ckey, stroking lightly down the length of it.  He could feel the brunette push back softly and it sent a slight shiver up his spine, as if the green rider were running fingers through his hair and down the length of his back.  Across the open space, the brunette rose to his feet, his gaze concentrated on his green as she fretted over the sand pile around an egg. I’an could see Lalith slow her movements as some of the tension bled out of her shoulders.  She swung her head around and I’an immediately lowered his head, keeping his gaze fixed passively on the ground, controlling his breathing as M’ckey slowly calmed the expectant mother. He didn’t move a muscle until he felt the green rider tap at their bond and call him forward.

“You doing okay?” he asked as he came around the raised corner of the sands.  M’ckey just shrugged. He’d sunk back down onto the ground and I’an could see the dark circles under his eyes.  “You didn’t sleep enough.”

“Couldn’t,” the brunette replied, offering a haggard smile as I’an set the basket down and seated himself next to him.  “She was too worked up. Needed me out here.”

I’an nodded.   He’d expected as much.  He couldn’t fecking wait until all this shite was over.  He hoped they all got to sleep for a month. Burrowing into the basket, he pulled out warm bread and pork and rolled it together, handing it to the other man.  M’ckey tried to wave him off but I’an wasn’t having that shite.

“You need to eat.  Do it for her. The eggs are going to hatch any day and you’ll need your strength.  Don’t be an ass.”

M’ckey shot him a dirty look but the words had the necessary effect.  He took a huge bite of and chewed it as he pensively stared out across the sand.  “Pretty sure it’s gonna be today.”

“Yeah?  Why’s that?”

M’ckey shrugged.  “Don’t know. Just a feeling, I guess.”  He looked down and took another bite. “Better be fecking soon,” he muttered through a mouthful of food.

I’an snorted and butted their shoulders together lightly until he drew a small smile from the dark haired man.  They sat in companionable silence, eating their breakfast, as Lalith finally settled down on the sands and allowed herself to rest.

The respite was only temporary, though.

Lalith was the first to notice the panicked commotion, perking her head up, then roaring to her feet.  The sun disappeared below a shadow as Karth flapped overhead, settling on the rocky outcropping with his claws drawn out defensively.  Ian rolled to his feet, reaching out to the large and clearly agitated brown who’s thoughts and instincts were suddenly running in fight mode.

Karth,

he called out gently,

What is it?  I need to go find…

No!

The word echoed in his mind, sharp and loud and piercing.  Without thinking, Ian pulled up his steps, turning back towards the brunette who was standing at the edge of the sands, speaking gently to his agitated dragon.

“Lalith says not to try to leave right now,” M’ckey stated simply, scanning I’an’s face with his eyes, “Karth is completely on edge.  He won’t let you leave because he can’t protect you out there.”

What the hell happened?”

“She can’t tell.  Everyone is panicking.”  M’ckey turned back towards the green again, his eyes rolling up slightly, and I’an knew he was talking to her again.  Taking a few steps forward, the brown rider concentrated all his strength on the words that he let flow through his mind.

Karth?  Karth, I need you to come back now.  I can’t help you protect them if I don’t know what’s happening.

A low rumble emerged from the brown’s chest as they huge beast clawed at the rock. His head whipped in agitation but I’an could feel him fighting for some control.  Suddenly, though, Karth’s head shot up, staring out across the caldera floor.

Someone approaches, Mine.

I’an stared out past him.

Who?

S’ngellan and Faidre

And so they were.  The Weyrleader and Weyrwoman were hurrying towards the hatching grounds with grim expressions on their faces and suddenly I’an just didn’t want to know what they were going to come tell him.  Whatever it was, it was bad.

The two senior leaders of the Weyr were well-schooled in the difficulties that faced a dam whose eggs were on the sands and even in their distress, they made no attempt to enter the hatching grounds.  But I’an could read the severity of the moment all over their faces as he turned back towards the brown.

Karth, I need to go talk…

NO!

The voice of his typically calm and reserved dragon roared through his head,

You will remain here where I can keep you safe.

Karth,

I’an placated, his eyes glancing at the two leaders,

Listen to me!  Alaboth is your leader.  You know you can trust him and his rider.  You know it. I need to go speak to S’ngellan.  I will stay right where you can see me but I need to go speak with them.

The brown gauged at the rock and Ian could feel the huge beast wrestling to control his protective fury.  He reached out again, soothingly.

Please, Karth.

Looking back over his shoulder, he gestured towards the sands, towards Lalith, M’ckey and the unhatched clutch.

We can’t keep them safe if we don’t understand the threat.

The brown emitted a low rumble from his chest but I’an could feel the tightly wound tension that the dragon held in every sinew of his body loosen slightly as he swung his massive head around to meet the redhead’s eyes.

You will remain where I can see you, Mine?

I’an nodded.

I won’t go past M’ckey’s weyr ledge.

Karth rumbled again, but this time it was in acquiescence.   Nodding gratefully to his impressed, I’an hurried towards the two Weyrleaders standing in the open field of the caldera.

“What is it?” he asked the moment he reached them.  Both looked drawn, tired, and more worried then he’d ever seen either seasoned leader look.  S’ngellan moved to speak, struggling to find the words before finally turning to the Weyrwoman for help.  Faidre nodded and drew in a breath.

“G’lain is dead, I’an.” she said simply.

At first, I’an just stood still.  Then the meaning of the words washed over him, along with a fresh wave of horror. G’lain couldn’t be dead.  He’d been I’an’s only wingleader. He was practically indestructible. A strange thickness started to swell in I’an’s throat and he swallowed hard against it.  G’lain had been his brother. The leadership had played a huge role but it had been G’lain who did the one on one work of turning I’an into a dragon rider. It was G’lain who had made the biggest push to have I’an named his second.

Oh fecking hells.  A new horror dawned on him.  If G’lain was dead,

he

was the new fecking wingleader.  Shite. They’d need him,

now.

But he couldn’t leave M’ckey.

“Are you alright?” Faidre asked carefully, her eyes wind and assessing as they ran over I’an face.

“What the hell happened?” he demanded, stepping back and staring out across the Weyr.  Everyone was still moving around with purpose, as if they were readying for something, but there had been no signal.  There had been no thread fight.

“G’lain went with D’vin and I this morning.  We went to Crom, in Search.”

“This happened at Crom?” I’an demanded.  He could hear the fury in his voice and grimaced slightly.  He was raging at the wrong people. S’ngellan didn’t look angry though, merely deep in though.

“We were received by Lord Tristan and his Lady and given a meal, as would be expected. But there was a strange tension in the hall the entire time we were there.  Tristan alluded to more developing troubles with the movement in the South. He said the group is growing in numbers and influence and it’s becoming harder to collect for the tithes or even taxes for the care of Crom,” S’ngellan glanced up and held I’an’s eyes. “He mentioned Terry Milkovich by name.”

I’an could feel his lips screwing up at the name but S’ngellan only pushed on.  “We had come in Search for some female candidates. As you know, we haven’t had a Queen egg in a long time.  We had two volunteers who both seemed eager, which was good. We brought them back. But as we were taking flight off the back ledge of Crom’s keep, there was suddenly a huge shower of arrow fire from three different directions.  We went

between

as quickly as we could, but there were many injuries.”

“You didn’t engage…” I’an began, but he cut his words off instantly.  No, of course they didn’t. They couldn't’t. With their numbers as impacted as they were, flight was the only option.

“I’ve sent word to Lord Tristan,” S’ngellan answered.  “He will handle this swiftly. You know that. For the time, though, we must focus and we need you to do that as well.  We have lost a valuable man and his bronze today.”

A wave of nausea swept over I’an at those words.  Fecking hells! If G’lain was dead, that meant his dragon had gone permanently

between

, as all dragons did when they lost their riders in death.  I’an couldn’t keep the horror off his face as he glanced up at S’ngellan.

“I know,” the Weyrleader intoned before I’an could speak a word, “It is a terrible loss on many levels.  He was struck right in the chest by an arrow with a deliberately notched shaft. There was no way for us to remove it.”

“Was that what all the movement was about,” I’an asked flatly, gesturing towards the end of the Weyr. It was calmer now, but the sense of stress and misery still hung thick in the air.

“The other’s bronzes were attempting to give comfort to their brother, to support him, but once G’lain passed, there was no stopping it.  Many of them flew up with him but remained when he went

between.

It was a show of respect.”

S’ngellan’s words faded and the Weyrleader let his gaze drift over towards the hatching grounds and I’an followed.  Karth was still occupying his perch, watchful and ready. Behind him, the eggs rose up from the sands, glowing slightly as the sunlight reflected off their shells.  A heavy weight was settling on I’an’s chest as he stared at the hatching grounds. The stakes, already so high, had just ratcheted up enormously. It was devastating to lose any dragon and rider, but to lose a senior bronze rider and wingleader, to lose a veteran bronze dragon now, with dwindling numbers and an outside attack mounting?

A cold calm suddenly descended over the redhead and he felt his shoulders loosen and drop.  He would not tolerate this shite. He would not simply roll over. He was a fighter, born and raised in the southern farmholds of Crom.  He knew how to stand up to dangerous outside forces. He knew how to brace his feet, get a low shoulder in, and push back.

Telgar was in danger.  Crom was in danger. All of fecking Pern was in danger if they didn’t get this shite back under control.  I’an had spent too much of his life hovering on the brink of destruction. He wasn’t going to let that happen on a larger scale now.  In the distance, he could make out the M’ckey’s black hair. It was all the motivation he needed.

“Can you do this?” Faidre asked him gently from behind him.  I’an turned quickly, meeting her eyes as she continued, “We know you’re needed here now, but after the hatching…”

“Yes,” he stated simply, conviction clear in his voice.  Faidre only nodded but S’ngellan seemed more hesitant.

“You’ve been through a great deal.  You and Karth have been flying and fighting regularly and also trying to help M’ckey and Lalith through this process.  And you and M’ckey have just started to reconnect…”

“I was lying in bed thinking about that only an hour ago,” I’an heard himself muse, and the Weyrleader fell silent, “How it would be nice once we have some time without all this shite hanging over our heads.  But that isn’t the world we live in, is it? The world we live in is in danger. I have a job to do and so does M’ckey and we can’t take time off to fecking bond or whatever,” Looking up, he met S’ngellan’s gaze head on.  “I can’t do a thing until after the hatching but I’ll be there then. All the way.”

“And M’ckey…”

“M’ckey and I won’t ever have anything if we die in a thread induced famine or get killed by fecking lunatics who want to take down the Weyr,” I’an bit out.  He stared hard as S’ngellan studied his face, until the other man nodded pensively.

“Alright,” the Weyrleader stated, “I needed to hear that.”

I’an opened his mouth to speak but the cold, bright morning was suddenly split by a loud, emphatic bugle that drew all of their attention back towards the hatching grounds.  Lalith stood in the middle of the sands, baying the signal loudly.

The eggs were stirring.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The air smelled familiar, and not in a good way.

Glancing around, M’ckey took in the familiar landscape.  It had a weird beauty to it, he supposed, but after growing up in the thick of the shite here, Crom had lost all it’s charms.  For him, for I’an, it would always be the place they escaped before it could destroy them.

Now, though, they were trying to keep the thread from destroying Crom.  The irony wasn’t lost on the green rider. It had been less than two full turns of the moon since G’lain, his wingleader, had been assassinated by some radicals fucks trying to destroy the Weyrs, radical fucks from a movement that was rooted in the Southern Farmholds of Crom that he had once called home.  Hells, he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that his own father had given the orders.

And yet here they were, the dragons and riders of Telgar Weyr, risking their lives to protect the very stronghold of their enemies.

M’ckey laid a hand on Lalith’s neck as the green sprawled across the ground.  She was tired. The green had only returned to the skies full time at the beginning of the last turn of the moon and she still wasn’t back up to her full capacity after so much time spent on the ground.  It didn’t help, of course, that they’d been inundated with nearly non-stop threadfall for the past four weeks.

M’ckey turned, leaning back against Lalith’s hide again as he let he gaze drift warily over the open countryside.  They were in the middle of a large open field near a brook. There was no nearby tree cover and he and the other green and blue riders had corralled the dragons together into a ring.  It was a defensive position, one that he resented the feck out of but recognized as necessary. They weren’t safe here. The sky held the threat of threadfall but the danger on the ground was somehow more ominous.

There were a number of inhabitants of Telgar who couldn’t understand how the movement had taken hold.  They couldn’t comprehend how a community could regularly benefit from the personal risk of another group and then actively attack that group.  But M’ckey wasn’t that naive. He hadn’t been raised in a Holder’s Keep with a warm fire and his next meal guaranteed. The poor farmers of the Southern holds had to tithe for the Weyrs like the rest of Pern, but more often than not, that tithe meant the last of what they had.  And thread, while an imminent threat, never felt quite as immediate as starvation.

It was a terrible decision to have to make.  It left the population feeling worn down, demoralized and powerless.  And when someone came along and gave them a clear target to blame, it did relieve some of the burden, some of the guilt.  No, it wasn’t their desperate situation that was to blame for their children being hungry, for their children’s tears. No, it was all the fault of the dragonriders.  They were selfish. They were indecent.

They were evil.

M’ckey had tried to explain all of this to the Weyrfolk and many had been willing to listen.  They’d been willing to try to walk in the desperate shoes of Crom’s most marginalized people. They’d been willing to realize that almost all of those folks were pawns themselves and that almost all of them had

not

participated in the murder of a dragonrider.

Many had been willing to listen.  Many had not. Many wanted retaliation, to leave the Southern farmholds and the mines to fend for themselves when the thread descended.  The leadership was comprised of cooler heads and such thoughts got little traction but it was still whispered around the Weyr. It worried him.  The dragonriders were only human and any human could only take so much undeserved shite thrown their way before they lashed out. Mickey didn’t want the struggling poor of Crom to get caught up in that crossfire. He and I’an’s fecking families still lived there and though both of them could give a shite about their fathers, they definitely cared about their siblings.

But the riders were tense and at moments like this, as he stood, exhausted and at attention, standing guard against any potential threats, M’ckey could definitely understand why.

The brunette rolled his neck, feeling all the tension crack and ripple under his skin.  He needed to stay alert and ready but he was bone tired. Every part of him was wrung out; physically, mentally.

Emotionally.

It burned his ass to admit to that last part but hell if it wasn’t true.  The last eight weeks had been awful for the entire Weyr but if he wanted to be selfishly honest, he felt like he and I’an had gotten the worst of it.  G’lain’s death had been a massive blow to everyone. He had been a bronze rider and the loss of any bronze dragon was a huge loss in the middle of a Red Star Pass.  But G’lain had been so much more than that. He was an exceptional leader. He and his impressed had typically been the first to rise and the last to land during any threadfight.  He had been demanding and exacting of all the riders under his command but he had been patient and careful and had always led through example.

There was no simple way for the Weyr to cope with the loss.  The hatching and impression of Lalith’s first clutch had helped.  In addition to the new Queen dragonet, Telgar was also able to celebrate six new bronzes along with two browns, four greens and two blues.  It was a huge relief for the leadership to see such promising numbers but it would take time for the young to mature into fighting prime. And the new Queen had impressed a young girl from the Crom Hold kitchens, a lass of only thirteen turns.  A Queen would not rise until her rider was of age and that was a long ways away.

So the good news bled into the bad.  The new clutch had hatched and impressed fully and in good health, but G’lain was still lost and Lalith was still worn down and M’ckey was still staring at the edge of the tree line in the land that was once his home, waiting to see if any of his former neighbors would try to kill him.

And I’an was still in the sky.  I’an was still far away.

M’ckey sighed and leaned back against the green, who rumbled against him.  Again, it seemed that he and the redhead would never get any kind of fair shake.  I’an had stayed with him, literally right beside him, as they waited for the hatchings and impressions.  The brown rider had been careful and attentive, holding M’ckey close and supporting him as he’d reigned in a highly agitated Lalith.  The results of the hatching had been better than they could ever have hoped; a healthy and impressed new Queen,

six

healthy new bronze dragonettes.  But the Weyr had been consumed with grief and none had felt it more keenly than I’an, the man forced to take up the fallen hero’s mantle.

The hatching had barely ended before Justine swooped in and pulled I’an away to meet with the leadership of the Weyr.  M’ckey had stayed behind, holding Lalith’s huge head as the green dealt with a tumultuous onslaught of joy, relief and fear as she watched her young and newly impressed leave the sands.  She had barely been strong enough to crawl to the ledge of their private weyr before the exhaustion of the whole ordeal had dragged her down into sleep.

M’ckey had followed quickly, nestling into the warmth of the green’s hide and letting himself drift.  He’d had no memory of the rest of the day but he’d awoken briefly that night to find himself in his bed, I’an curled around him and holding him close as they slept side by side.  Raising his head slightly, he’d been able to make out the outline of Karth’s huge frame on the ledge. He’d fallen asleep again immediately when I’an tugged him close, but when the morning came, the redhead and the brown had been gone again.

Things weren’t quite so crazy now.  He saw the new wingleader throughout the day now that he and Lalith had been cleared to fly.  They rarely ate together, as I’an was typically needed at the wingleader’s table for planning, but the redhead would still spend each night in his weyr.  He would still press soft kisses to his lips in passing and press warm skin against him in their shared bed. I’an had drowned his stress and fear in M’ckey’s body nearly every night.  And they talked. A little.

But then, two nights ago, I’an hadn’t shown up.  M’ckey had fallen asleep and when he’d woken, the sheets had been untouched beside him.  From the ledge of his weyr, he’d been able to see Karth and Lalith together at the feeding grounds but I’an had been nowhere.  It hadn’t made sense until the large brown had alighted up to the lower weyr he’d once shared with the redhead, only for I’an to emerge and leap on Karth’s back, riding him to the ground.  And suddenly M’ckey had known.

I’an had taken to his own bed that night.  He had taken to it last night too.

Pushing away from Lalith’s side, M’ckey strode away to stand apart, crossing his arms at his chest.  The redhead was pulling away for some reason. He didn’t want to believe it but it had to be true. And M’ckey was afraid of the reasons.  Nothing had happened between them. They’d had no argument. But deep in his heart, little tendrils of doubt were starting to spread. Had I’an decided that the incredible bond that had drawn them so adamantly together was somehow wrong?  Did he doubt it. Reaching out, he brushed gently against the precious connection in their minds. He could feel the redhead press back but the touch was comforting and affectionate, without the usual intimacy or heat.

With a resigned huff, M’ckey let himself fall back against Lalith’s side, pulling back gently from the subtle mental connection.  He wasn’t in the air now anyway. Probably best if he didn’t distract the other man. He let his eyes skim the treeline again, still searching for any signs of trouble.  Suddenly, he felt Lalith stir beneath him.

Mine,

she murmured,

We must fly now.

***********************************************************************************

High above the grounds of his former home, I’an wiped a sheen of sweat from his face.  The air was freezing but the burning thread and dragonfire was so thick that the heat was driving all thoughts of cold away.  In front of him, a massive filament was emitting the horrible, popping shriek that so often accompanied the burning of thread.  The haunting sound still made him shudder, even after all these years, and right now it was all around him.

Sinking back on Karth’s back, I’an murmured through their minds.

Between!

When they snapped back out of the frigid blackness, they close to the ground, giving I’an a clearer vantage point to check on the status of his wing.  The thread had been so heavy and they had multiple dragons and riders flying through cuts, bruises and minor scoring injuries. So far, they’d been lucky and had avoided major damage.  They’d fought full force for awhile but I’an had finally needed to start putting the greens and blues into shifts so they could rest. He’d had to be insistent. It had been hard for any of them to leave the skies and he’d felt M’ckey pressing gently against the inside of his mind.  He’d pressed back but soon he’d had to pull away. He was needed in the skies. He couldn’t entertain any kind of distraction.

It killed him to admit that but it was true.  The world they lived in had gone crazy and no place was worse than the land they hovered over right now.  G’lain had been murdered here, murdered by the very people he sought to protect. There had been none more diligent than the wingleader.  If he could be taken down then they were all vulnerable, and I’an could afford no vulnerabilities.

That was the problem with M’ckey.  He was the biggest vulnerability of all.  I’an still wanted to be with him but how could he possibly justify such an indulgence?  He knew Karth thought he was crazed but he was trying to streamline his risks for his own good and the good of Telgar.  And for the good of M’ckey, too. The last few nights, he hadn’t even gone to the other rider.

And you slept poorly,

the brown muttered in his head.

I’an grimaced but didn’t bother to argue.  Karth was correct. He’d slept like shite without M’ckey curled up against him and he fecking hated it.

There was a bugle, loud and long, sounding from his left.  Looking up, he saw a number of his wingmen circling above him, waiting for orders.

Eyreth has spotted an abundance of thread over the Southern farmholds,

Karth explained,

D’vin wants to take the greens and blues on rest rotation from our wing to go deal with it.

They’re on rest rotation because they’re supposed to be resting,

Ian murmured, though he knew it wasn’t that simple.  With the intense threadfall, the smaller dragons seldom got a real rest.

Yes,

he responded, swallowing his concern and throwing himself back into the fight.

It was more than an hour until the thread finally thinned.  I’an took his wing down to the ground for a moment to catch their breath.  They needed a quick rest and a sharp pang of resentment tore at the redhead’s heart as he slid to the ground to relieve his impressed from the burden of his weight.  He should’ve been able let them set down and recuperate for as long as they needed, but spending any time on the ground in Crom was now seen as an unnecessary risk. The greens and blues in the wing were even forced to set up fecking perimeters...

His thoughts were cut off by the most frantic of alarm bugles.  All around him, the bronzes were throwing back their heads and braying towards the skies.  Drawing in a deep breath to steady his thoughts, he reached out towards Karth.

What?

Rogue thread storm.

Fecking hells!

Where?

Karth’s eyes drifted for a moment, reaching out to commune with his wingmates, reaching for Lalith.  I’an took the moment to reach out himself, running assessing tendrils of though over the bond he shared with M’ckey.  He received only the faintest of responses and it chilled his blood.

He cannot speak, Mine.  The thread is barely twenty lengths above the ground.

Shite.  The thread must be thick as hell if the wing had been forced that low.  I’an knew what that looked like, the dragons hovering just above the ground and holding up a ceiling of continual fire to burn the thread as it descended through.  It was an emergency tactic, only employed when the number of dragons was far too small to handle the thread fall. It was a temporary solution, one that forced the dragons to fire much too close to the ground.  That was dangerous enough, with the flames becoming just as threatening to the farmsteads as the thread itself. And they were over the Southern farmholds of Crom, the epicenter of the Movement.

I’an met Karth as the huge beast lumbered towards him, leaping into his harness and seizing up the reigns.

Up!

He commanded, but the brown was already in motion, beating his massive wings with furious speed as he took to the skies with the rest of the wing behind him.  I’an barely had time to think

Between!

before they snapped into the frigid darkness.

They emerged in hell.  Thread was writhing and curling thickly, whirling in the intense gusts of wind.  There was almost no way to avoid it, it was coming down in such heavy waves. Below them, I’an could see the massive wall of fire that the greens and blues were emitting.  He wasn’t sure how long they’d been maintaining the barrier but he did know that it was physically and mentally exhausting for the dragons and their riders. Glancing around, he watched as the browns and bronzes began to burn down the long threads, filling the air with acrid smoke.  They were all hovering on the brink of collapse right now but if they didn’t fight, all would be lost.

He needed to engage now.  His wing needed every dragon in the fray.  Reaching out, he fully opened the delicate bond that connected him to M’ckey, feeling the ripple effect that went through the entire wing.  They needed every advantage right now. Quickly though, he allowed himself one last squeeze of the bond, once final assurance that somewhere down below him, M’ckey was okay.

He didn’t think he’d ever regretted anything more in his life than his stupid choice to abandon their shared bed last night.  But fecking hells, he couldn’t dwell on that now.

With a pat and  a nudge to Karth’s neck, he pushed them into the fight.

It went on for hours, it seemed, as the weakened wing fought on nothing but sheer will.  All around him, fire burned and thread screamed. Riders and dragons alike howled in pain as thread hit them, instantly scoring any bare skin or hide it found.  Some, too injured to continue, fell away, but most stripped the filthy parasite off of them and dove right back into the pandemonium. There was no other choice.

I’an knew that S’ngellan must have sent out a distress call to the surrounding Weyrs.  Normal threadfall was one thing but if they were to survive a full blown thread storm then they needed more backup.  A moment later, he finally heard the welcome bugle, sounding the approach of reinforcements.

Ista comes,

Karth exclaimed, just as two massive golds emerged from

Between

on either side of him.  The dragons dove in tandem, both of their riders employing flamethrowers.  One he recognized immediately as his own Weyrwoman, seated upon Feith and expertly wielding the weapon.  He’d only ever seen the other from a distance but he knew her from epic tales of her accomplishments if nothing else.  Barinda, Weyrwoman of Ista Weyr, leaned far over in her harness, blasting away at a massive thread filament, her eyes alight with ferocious glee as the silvery shite screamed and died in the flames.

It was an impressive sight and I’an was glad as hell to have them there among all the fire breathers but as he and Karth attacked their own ribbon, he found it hard to get the image out of his head.  Faidre and Barinda were exceptional flyers but the need to negotiate the flamethrower made balancing on a dragon’s back during a thread fight more dangerous. And somewhere below them, M’ckey was doing the same thing as he hovered between a ceiling of fire and their equally dangerous former homeland.

To calm his nerves, he reached out down their bond again.  It was there, pulsing and alive, but the green rider felt very far away.

They have burned through all their firestone,

Karth explained as they attacked yet another plummeting thread,

they’re on the ground assisting the farmholders.

They’re on the ground!

I’an could hear the panic in his voice even inside his mind but he had not time to think about it, not in the thick of the thread fall.  They’d be fine, they’d be fine, they’d have to be fine.

It seemed to take forever, but with the addition of the wings from Ista Weyr, the dragons and riders finally began to clear the horrible silver parasite from the skies.  Night was beginning to fall but the sky was clearer now, the remaining bits of thread easy to spot and track. I’an had managed to relieve much of the wing and send them back to Telgar, along with the most severely injured.  He was anxious to see the extent of the injuries when he arrived back at the Weyr, but still...there’d been no fatalities...which seemed a small miracle…

With a nudge of I’an’s heels, Karth dove downwards.  The brown put to ground in the middle of a field I’an knew by sight.  He’d run here many times, played here, with Lip...with Carl…

...with Mickey…

D’vin was on the ground, bent in deep conversation with Barinda and a tall man who had to be L’sand, the Weyrleader of Ista Weyr.  The Werylingmaster gestured to the redhead to join their discussion.

“Thank you,” I’an said genuinely as he approached the little group, “We wouldn’t have managed that on our own.”

L’sand and Barinda nodded as one.  “Gratitude is not necessary,” the tall man replied, “It is our responsibility to come to each other’s aid.  No one Weyr can be expected to withstand a full blown threadstorm on their own.”

“I wish the people here understood that,” D’vin interjected.  I’an could hear the subtle anger in the Weyrlingmaster’s tone.

Barinda glanced around.  “Is this the place?” she asked, her eyes turning cautious as she took in the perimeter the Telgar riders and dragons had created around their group.  “The seat of this Movement Faidre wrote of?”

The discussion continued, but I’an’s attention was drawn away by a figure approaching the perimeter.  He’d recognize that walk anywhere. Excusing himself, he strode through the line of riders watching the field.

“Lip!”

His brother’s mouth turned up in a grin as he approached.  It had been nearly a full turn since I’an had even had a chance to visit his family between rampant threadfall, Lalith’s rise, and the death of G’lain at the hands of the Movement.  The brown rider knew from their letters that his siblings were weathering the storms, keeping their heads down and trying to stay out of the crossfire between the Lord Holder and the likes of Terry Milkovich.  They were good at staying alive, that I’an could attest to, but it worried him.

Reaching out, he wrapped his older brother in a warm hug.

“How the hells are you?”

Lip smiled but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.  “We’re managing,” he answered, glancing back across the field towards the little hold in the distance.  I’an could see another form step out the front door, balancing a small child on one hip. Debbie, no doubt, letting his niece run around for a bit after being trapped inside for so long.

“Mickey was here.”

“M’ckey,” I’an corrected instinctively before the significance of the words fully hit him, “Wait, he was here?  At our hold?”

Lip nodded.  “Yeah, he and his dragon were using that fire gun thing to burn off all the thread over our place.” Lip nodded towards D’vin as he spoke, “That guy didn’t want him near his own family’s hold in case shitehead Terry was home.  He landed here for awhile and helped us and some of the others put out some small fires.”

I’an’s mouth twisted in confusion.  “Fires?”

Lip nodded again.  “They were really close to the ground.  It was coming down so thick they just had to keep flying lower to stay under it and catch it all.  I mean, you’re usually so high that it all burns out before it gets close enough to cause any ground fire but some landed today.  It was dead, the thread. It didn’t burrow or anything. But it started some small fires on a bunch of the holds.”

The brown rider could feel himself grimace.  “That’s just fecking great. We fought off a full blown threadstorm and instead the Movement will jump on the fact that it caused a few fires.”

“Yeah,” Lip said morosely, “Pretty much.”

Shaking his head in frustration, I’an glanced around.  “Where’s M’ckey now?” he asked, scanning the horizon for any sight of the green rider.  He needed to speak to the other man. He needed to apologize.

“Headed to his family’s hold.”

“The feck!” I’an whirled back towards his brother, “D’vin just told him not to go there.  How the hells could you let him go?”

“Relax,” Lip said in a placating tone.  “First, let’s not pretend that I could have fecking stopped him.  Mickey…”

“M’ckey!”

Lip huffed, “Sorry, M’ckey...M’ckey’s a dragonrider.  If he wants to go someplace, he’s gonna get on his huge ass dragon and go.  And second, Terry’s gone right now. He and his asshole followers took off for the mines a couple days ago.”

“He couldn’t have known that!”

“He did know that because I told him that,” Lip pursed his mouth in annoyance and suddenly I’an felt kind of stupid.

“You talked to him?”

His brother reached into his pocket and pulled out his pipe, quickly packing and lighting it.  Letting out a long flume of smoke, he passed it to I’an, who accepted the pipe and the implications of the gesture.  “Yeah,” Lip stated, staring out across the farmhold, “He helped me, Carl, and Kev get the fire out onthe barn roof. Then we talked, mostly about your shite.”

“My shite?”

His brother’s lips curled up ironically.  “Yours. His. The two of you’s shite. Don’t play stupid, man.  You really think I didn’t know that the two of your were screwing around for more than a year?”
I’an’s gaze dropped to the ground.  “I didn’t want you to know. He didn’t want Mandy and Iggy to know.  We wanted to keep you safe.” “Fine.  But that’s done now.  He says your dragons are mated or some shite?  So now you’re together? You’re over that crap he pulled at the Hold?”
I’an grimaced.  “He did it to keep me safe,” he muttered, surprised by the heated defensiveness in his voice.

“So he said.  He said Terry caught you together.  That he was gonna kill us all? Seems like the kind of shite you should have told me.” Now the heat was in Lip’s voice and I’an forced himself to look up and meet his brother’s eyes.

“I should have,” he replied sheepishly.  He held Lip’s gaze as his brother stared at him assessingly.

“Don’t worry about it.  We can’t be rehashing this kind of stuff after all these turns.  It was a fecked situation. But you’re good now, right? They don’t give a damn in the Weyrs?”

I’an sighed.  “They don’t. And we were good but then, I don’t know.  It’s all going to hell.”

“How?”

“Terry fecking Milkovich and his band of assholes, that’s how?  They killed my Wingleader.”

“Okay.” Lip shook his head and pressed his pipe back into I’an’s hands.  The redhead took a long pull before he continued.

“We were figuring it out.  We’d talked through all of it.  We were just dealing with our dragons and their first clutch of eggs and then, just when they finally hatched and that was off our shoulders, G’lain died and I...I don’t know...I fecking lost my mind.  I started pulling away from him. I didn’t even spend last night with him and then all this fecking thread falls today and we both could’ve been killed…”

“Hells, I’an,” Lip stepped forward, slinging his arm around I’an’s neck and pulling him close.  I’an could feel the burn in his eyes and he blinked furiously against it. He didn’t know why. If there was anyone who didn’t give a shite if he cried, it was Lip.

“Man, it’s okay.  He’s okay. What are you going to do, beat yourself up because you pulled away from someone you loved while you were scared and vulnerable?  I’m not saying it’s the right thing to do but it’s completely understandable. And you’re both okay and now you realize you were wrong and you have the perfect chance to fix it.”

I’an swallowed.  “I hope I do.”

Lip only rolled his eyes. “Don’t even...you know what, M’ckey loves you.  I’m not so blind that I can’t see that. So tonight, you go talk to him. Or go sleep with him, because you both look like you’re about to fall over.  But just, don’t hide from him anymore, not when you know it’s the wrong thing to do.”

The redhead couldn’t contain his smirk.  “You’re okay with me and Mickey Milkovich?” he asked.

“Um, it’s M’ckey,” Lip quipped, loosening the hold on I’an’s neck, “And yeah, I am.  Who the feck am I to judge,” Lip paused and pulled I’an close again. “They’re sending me away.”

The brown rider felt his stomach turn, thinking of the mines.  “Who?” he demanded, “Where?”

Lip shrugged, “Lord Tristan,” he replied.  “He’s sending me to the Crafter’s Hall. They’re going to train me in history and writing the lore and shite.”

A rush of relief flooded I’an.  Of course the Lord Holder of Crom would choose Lip for the Crafter’s Hall.  Lip was brilliant. He’d do well there. But just as quickly as relief came, it faded.

“Why do they need to take you, too?” he demanded, pacing in a circle.  He threw an angry look towards the small circle of leaders. Barinda and L’sand appeared to be saying their goodbyes but I’an suddenly didn’t want to go over and see them off.  He didn’t trust himself to hold his tongue with the news he’d just heard.

“It wasn’t enough that they took me?  Who’s going to see to the farm? How’s Fiona going to manage?”

Lip nodded.  “I know, but it’ll be okay.  Carl’s more than capable of helping Fiona and with two of us pressed into service, it’ll really lower our tithing obligations.  And Liam is a huge help, too. He’s old enough.” Taking another pull of his pipe, his brother met his eyes. “They’re not giving me a choice, man, anymore than they gave you one.”

I’an sighed but his thoughts were interrupted by a shape flying low in the distance.  He knew that wing pattern well. M’ckey and Lalith were heading back. Good. His brother was right.  They needed to talk. They needed to reconnect. He couldn’t run away any more. He never knew when thread would fall, when disaster might strike.

A panicked scream suddenly pulled everyone’s attention off in the distance beyond the farmhold.  I’an could make out a frantic Debbie, chasing after her daughter as the child sprinted across the field.  It seemed harmless at first, and I’an couldn’t understand his sister’s distress but suddenly he saw it. One long, silvery tendril of thread as it snaked towards the ground.

Shite!  He turned to call for Karth as all the leaders whirled towards their own mounts.  But the dragons were too far. They’d never be able to harness up and fly in time.

Shite!

I’an turned back, trying to assess the scene.  Lip had taken off running towards Frannie but he would never make it in time.  Debbie might, but even if she did, she had no way of protecting her child except to thrown herself over the little girl and take the full force of the thread herself.  I’an was about to run towards Karth, desperate to do something, when all of the sudden a green snap caught the corner of his eye.

Lalith.

M’ckey.

But...hells...they’d used all their firestone!

I’an lunged towards Karth, his throat thick and muted by panic, but it was already too late.  No sooner had the little green snapped out from

between

to hover ten lengths above Frannie’s head then the thread was upon them.  It swirled like smoke, wrapping itself around Lalith left foreleg and over the back of her neck.  The green shrieked in pain. And then everything seemed to happen at once.

I’an scrambled into the harness on Karth’s back, barely securing himself before the brown snapped them

between

.  They emerged a mere second later with D’vin and Eeyreth at their side.  The green was thrashing from the burning wounds and M’ckey was cutting the silver filth from her hide with his knife.  He’d managed to slice through a huge chunk, tearing it off of Lalith’s neck, but the rough cut sent a cloud of tiny silver fragments into the sky.  I’an felt his stomach lurch even as M’ckey managed to tear the thread off of Lalith and drop fling it away towards Eeyreth, who immediately incinerated it.  The t fragments were so clear against the setting sun, hovering right over M’ckey’s helmeted head.

A terrible sense of premonition suddenly seized I’an.  He surged forward, opened his mouth, but it was already too late.  As M’ckey leaned over, several of the rogue fragments swerved in the breeze and slid between the breaks in his armor, at his shoulder and along his neck.

The green rider reared back, screaming in agony and terrifying his wounded mount.  His harness was thankfully tight enough or he would have lost his seat and fallen to the ground below.  I’an’s instincts took over. Diving into Karth’s mind, he ordered,

Take them down!  Now!

The brown obeyed immediately.  Lunging forward, he wrapped his neck around his flailing, panicked mate and pulled her and her rider to the field below.  I’an was out of his harness before they’d even landed, leaping to the ground and rounding on the tangled dragons, drawing his own knife as he went.  D’vin was beside him now, along with S’ngellan who had appeared out of nowhere, but I’an barely spared them a glance. The three of them hacked through the leather harness that tethered M’ckey to Lalith’s back, but the older men simply let I’an’s own adrenaline do the work as he dragged the brunette out of the melee and hauled him to the ground.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, but M’ckey continued to scream and fight, the awful scoring of the thread overpowering his sense of reason.  I’an reached for their bond, trying to calm the other man, but M’ckey was in too much agony to respond.
“Fecking...dammit…” The brown rider turned towards his Weyrleader, “Hold him down!” Immediately, S’ngellan tackled the smaller man, pinning him face down on the ground.  M’ckey’s screams grew more pitched and Lalith began to bellow frantically but I’an ignored them both, concentrating all his efforts on slicing the thick dragonhide armor away without cutting the skin beneath.  It gave readily beneath the sharp edge of his blade and I’an flung it aside and seized upon the silver tendrils in one quick movement.
“Get water,” he screamed over M’ckey’s howls, but Lip and Debbie were already there with brimming buckets.  I’an ignored the tiny thread filaments as they fell to the ground, letting S’ngellan handle them with some flint and a burning branch.  Instead, he poured the cool water over the horrible, blistering wounds that continued to crackle and pulse. Again and again, he dumped the water until every tiny strand of the silver shite that might have clung to M’ckey’s skin was drowned out.

The green rider wasn’t screaming anymore, but his silence wasn’t from relief.  M’ckey had fallen unconscious from the pain. Across the field, Lalith wasn’t faring any better, limping dazedly for only a moment before she crashed to the ground.

“C’mon,” S’ngellan ordered, reaching down to pull M’ckey up into his arms.  The brunette hung limply, the blazing red wounds streaking across his neck and chest.  The Weyrleader darted towards where Karth stood nosing desperately at Lalith’s side, yelling at I’an over his shoulder.

“Take him now.  Get him to the healer.  They need to cauterize all the wounds to burn out the rest of the thread.  The water won’t work for long.”

I’an ran forward and clambered onto Karth’s back, fastening his harness.  The huge beast was snorting and clawing at the ground, a low distress bugle caught in his throat.  Leaning forward, I’an wrapped his arms around the brown’s neck.

“What about Lalith?” he demanded.

S’ngellan glanced back at the green, lying on her side with deep burns across her foreleg.  D’vin was dutifully drenching her wounds in water but she’d need a healer too, and she wouldn’t be able to fly.  But at that moment, Feith snapped out from

Between

and set down beside her, as Faidre slid from the huge gold’s back.

“Feith will carry her back,” the Weyrwoman stated, clearly reading the distress on everyone’s faces.  She lay a hand on Karth’s side and stared into one of his huge eyes. “We will care for Lalith. You must get M’ckey to the healer now.”

I’an reached down as S’ngellan lifted the raven haired man up and deposited him in his arms.  The redhead didn’t even let himself spare at glance back towards his family, who stood clustered to the side.  He needed to take M’ckey and go, now.

They will bring her,

he whispered to Karth,

and you and I will bring M’ckey.  We will work together to keep them safe so we don’t lose them both.

A dark, cloying terror rippled between I’an and his brown.  The redhead could feel the agitation leave his dragon’s body, replaced by a new sense of fixed purpose.  Beating his wings fiercely, Karth carried them up into the air and snapped

Between.

*************************************************************************************

M’ckey had spent days in the dark.  Sometimes it was soft. Sometimes it was warm hands and quiet voices.  But more often it was hard, painful, and alone. In little patches of light, he could see Lalith writhing in pain, his father coiling a leather strap.

I’an walking away.

But slowly, the darkness had receded.  The patches of light had grown bigger and the visions within them became solid and mundane, until all that had been left was the healer’s chamber.

The healers!  Yes, that’s where he was.  In a flash, it had all come back.  The thread, the storm, the damn kid running across the field while that silver filth flew right at her.

He’d lunged up, but one of the assistant healers had been there, grabbing him gently by his arms.

“Don’t move too quickly,” the young man had said, catching and holding his gaze, “You’re better but you’re far from healed.”

“The hell happened,” M’ckey had snapped, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice.

“You’ve had a terrible fever,” the head healer had interjected, coming forward to take the young assistant’s place.  He’d reached out a hand and guided M’ckey back down against the cot. “We had to cauterize all the scoring and keep your wounds packed with numbweed but the thread is all destroyed now.”

M’ckey hadn’t had the energy to do anything more than nod and glance around.  Every cot in the room had been occupied by an injured rider, and other assistants hustled in and out of the arched doors.  But M’ckey hadn’t seen I’an and it had sent a sharp spike through his heart. The brown rider had been pulling away before the awful thread storm.  Maybe he’d left for good? But no, that hadn’t made sense. M’ckey had remembered very little, but he knew that I’an was the one who had brought him to the healer’s hall.

“There are no visitors,” The healer had stated, clearly seeing the distress on M’ckey’s face.  “With so many so grievously injured, we can not allow any distractions. But many have come to ask about you.  The Weyrleader himself has been seeking after your well being.” A shout had echoed from a side chamber and the head healer had suddenly darted away.

M’ckey had let his eyes drift closed, his healing body easily exhausted by his meager efforts.  And it was there, in the darkness, behind his eyelids, that he’d felt it; the gentle but insistent presence of I’an in his mind.

Suddenly, nothing had mattered.  His fecking father, their fears and resentments, the stress of responsibility that came with their new life.  None of it had mattered as he felt the determined tendrils of I’an’s mind run over him, probing him for injury and then holding him close.  There had been a tremor in the brown rider’s mind, a tense energy that hummed all around him and finally M’ckey understood. I’an had been banned from the healing halls along with all other healthy members of the Weyr.  I’an hadn’t left him. In fact, this enforced separation was driving I’an mad. But the healer needed to be obeyed. One glance around the packed hall had affirmed that for M’ckey.

Day after day after day, M’ckey had lain on his cot as his abused skin had slowly knit itself back together.  Day after day, as I’an had gone about his duties, he’d stayed pressed up against the bond, taut and nervous. No matter how hard M’ckey had to tried to push back, to assure the other man that he was going to be okay, the redhead’s fierce vigilance had never subsided.

“Do not even attempt to mount your dragon for at least another fortnight,” the head healer demanded as he finished his final examination and allowed M’ckey to rise from his cot.

“She’s not in great shape herself,” M’ckey muttered,  His poor girl was also healing nicely but they were both grounded again for the foreseeable future.  “I won’t be flying. Is there any other shite I shouldn’t be doing?”

The healer’s gaze had narrowed with consideration.  “Use sense. The wounds are healed but the scar tissue is fresh.”

M’ckey had excited the healing hall through the dragon’s ledge.  Lalith lay on her side, her long tail curled around her as she dozed.  M’ckey pressed his forehead to her hide as he moved past her, murmuring his destination in her mind.  He needed to get out of there but his poor girl was still sore and he didn’t want to wake her.

His gait was slow and stiff but he was steady on his feet, which was a huge relief.  The healers had been reluctant to let him walk out alone but he wasn’t about to listen to any of that shite.  He’d been stuck in that damn hall for weeks now. He needed some peace and some space. And some half decent food instead of the bland ass diet they’d kept forcing on him.

M’ckey hated the fact that his wing was out fighting thread without him once again, but in this one moment, he was insanely grateful for the quiet of an empty Weyr.  He was met with smiling faces as he approached the kitchen, as well as a bowl of thick stew and fresh bread. Carrying the hot food carefully into the huge dining hall, he managed to set it down on a table before he collapsed into his seat and let his head loll against the high chair back.  He was still so fecking tired.

His food was finished off quickly, but M’ckey made no move to leave the hall. Instead, he let his eyes drift over the rows and rows of empty trestle tables.  Their occupants were all out now, engaged in battle against an enemy he had always feared but which he now understood much better. This really was war, in the purest sense, and any day that they went to face this enemy could be their last.

He needed to talk to I’an.  He wasn’t just going to sit back and let the man he fecking loved just pull away.  It was killing him and it wasn’t doing anything good for I’an either. M’ckey was as good as anyone, and probably better than most, at letting his own lack of self-worth influence how he thought people saw him, but he also wasn’t stupid.  I’an loved him. He’d loved him for a really long time. And if M’ckey had died in that thread storm, I’an never would’ve forgiven himself.

M’ckey took a last bite of his stew and leaned back in his chair.  He was hurt and weak but resolved. He was going to fix this shite.  He knew the redhead was burdened and exhausted but they had been healing and growing strong together in the weeks before the hatching and G’lain’s awful death.  He wasn’t going to let all that get derailed. If he needed to push past I’an’s defences, he’d find a way to do that. Hell, it wasn’t like I’an hadn’t been feeling the separation.  He been a constant presence in M’ckey’s mind since the moment he’d been brought to the halls.

As if on cue, a sudden crest of intensity washed over the bond.  M’ckey’s head flew up, his eyes suddenly drawn to the door of the dining hall.  The sudden sensation and movement had him leaning into the chair back again, lightheaded and unsure of his surroundings.  I’an was here. The whole wing was on its way home but I’an was already here. He knew it like he knew his own name.

There was a massive thud on the ledge of the hall, sending a shudder through the floor as Karth set down just outside the door.  And then I’an was in the hall his eyes ablaze and the air around him crackling with emotion as he stormed through the lines of tables.

M’ckey could barely do anything but stare.  Grabbing the arms of his chair, he managed to push his way to his feet just as I’an approached and reached for him with his hands and his mind.

“I’an what the fee…”

The redhead moved like a man possessed, his eyes burning with a dark fire.  M’ckey had no time to even protest before he was hiked up and spilled across the table top.  The brunette could feel I’an’s fingers tearing at the lacing around his neck, somehow ripping through the leather strings until they were loose enough for him to pull M’ckey’s tunic off and fling it away.

For one tense moment, M’ckey couldn’t pin down I’an’s motives.  Hells, they were

not

fucking in the...but no, that wasn’t it at all.  I’an’s hands were all over his chest but the touch was clinical and probing and the fire in the redhead’s eyes was from fear.

“I’an…”

M’ckey struggled to sit up but the brown rider growled him back down as he continued to assess all the injured skin.  M’ckey’s bandages had finally been removed but the scarring was vivid and shiny and I’an swept his fingers carefully over each inch, as if he was looking for any potential injury the medical personal might have missed.  And once he had checked every single wound, he started all over again.

Reaching a hand up, M’ckey tried to touch I’an’s cheek.  “I’an...shite...I’m okay…,” he stammered, but no words were reaching the redhead.  Instead, he seized M’ckey’s outstretched hand around the wrist and used it to haul him up against his chest.  Immediately, I’an’s fingers were running through his hair, down his back and along his arms, as if he couldn’t quite believe that M’ckey was really whole.

“

Ian!

I’m okay!”

M’ckey’s voice echoed through the hallway, reverberating off the far walls.  The resounding waves did their job though, shocking the redhead out of his frantic mission.  The green eyes cleared and focused on M’ckey’s face and the brunette wasted no time. Reaching up, he cupped his hands around I’an jaw and drew their brows together.  “I’m okay,” he murmured softly, repeated the words again and again as he pressed gentle kisses to the brown rider’s lips.

The redhead’s initial panic was receding but the tension was still thick all around them.  Pulling back slightly, I’an stared down into M’ckey’s face, his mind clearly racing behind the green eyes.  One huge hand wrapped itself around the back of M’ckey’s skull as I’an let out a long, careful breath.

“Come with me,” he ordered in a voice that was thick and pleading.

M’ckey didn’t hesitate.  He simply nodded.

A moment later, the redhead was striding towards the door of the hall with M’ckey cradled in his arms.  There was a time when the brunette would have lashed out with words and fists over something like this, so ingrained was his fear and shame.  Now, though, his only instinct was to curl his arms around the back of I’an’s neck and bury his face in the other man’s shoulder. The caldera of Telgar was filling with dragons and riders as the wings returned from their fight but M’ckey didn’t notice and didn’t care.  I’an carried him through the crowd and scrambled up on Karth’s back.

They flew up and up, and it suddenly occurred to M’ckey that they weren’t going to his private chamber.  No, they were heading to I’an’s weyr. They’d never gone there before and a thrill shot up M’ckey’s spine as another potential wall between them crumbled and fell.

I’an slide to the ground and swung him back up into his arms the moment Karth landed on the ledge.  M’ckey was vaguely aware of the huge brown turning and descending from the wing, but all of his attention was quickly focused back on the brown rider.  I’an strode across the chamber with purpose, only stopping when he reached his bed and tumbled M’ckey across it. The redhead’s hands were on him immediately, flinging away all of their clothing until they were both bare and warm and entwined.

Laying a chaste kiss against his lips, I’an pulled back for a moment, stumbling to his feet.  Walking to a side table, he doused the lamp, leaving them with nothing but the weak gloaming light to see by.  M’ckey appreciated the implications, though. They had no need of light. They wouldn’t be leaving the bed any time soon.

A tense knot of need was building in M’ckey’s stomach, driving away any lingering pains or reticent insecurities.  He fecking needed I’an, now. He needed his strength and his warmth and the taste of his lips. A loud thump resounded through the chamber and a sudden breeze chilled M’ckey’s overheated skin.  Turning his head, he saw Lalith out on the ledge, sliding off of Karth’s back. The little green curled up and let the brown surround her as she drifted off.

Exactly.

M’ckey leaned back, letting his legs slide open.  Holding out his arms, he uttered only word.

“C’mere.”

And I’an covered him.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

M’ckey slouched down in his chair and picked at the bread and cheese in the trencher in front of him.  Maybe, just maybe, if he stayed low enough, he would be able to avoid the loud and never ending discussion that was volleying across the table over his head.  But no, shite was never going to be that simple. After all, the topic at the center of the whole damned conversation was him.

The room in which M’ckey found was small and the walls were made of a thick stone.  It was an important room, designed to trap and hide all of the fears and secrets that might afflict the members of Telgar’s leadership team whenever they met within it.  So M’ckey knew, deep down, that his Weyrleader and Weyrwoman weren’t really yelling at each other. It was just the echo chamber of the room. And the furious burn of their eyes.

The slam of Faidre’s hand upon the table made him question that assumption, though.

“Do not even presume to lecture me about the duties of a gold rider,” the petite woman roared.  Around the table, M’ckey could see D’vin, Justine and even S’ngellan himself draw back against their chairs slightly as she continued, “I should not even need to raise these points, not to any of you.  I am well aware of how much thread is falling and how hard we are working simply to maintain our hold on the situation. Or do you forget that I am up there flying, too?”

S’ngellan leaned forward, his hands open against the table and his expression slightly chastened, “I do not mean…”

“Be silent!”

And suddenly the room was devoid of sound.  M’ckey shrunk back into his own chair, fighting the childish need to squirm with discomfort under the weight of the Weyrwoman’s authority.  S’ngellan himself had fixed his eyes on the tabletop, mute and chastened, as the diminutive but dominant woman cast an icy glare at the leadership team seated around the table.

“I do not have the time...

we

do not have the time...to argue over details,” she stated, her words pronounced with deliberate restraint, “I am as aware an anyone else seated at this table that we are hovering on the precipice of true disaster.  But unlike you two,” she paused to gesture towards the Weyrleader and D’vin, “My primary duties are not training the riders. And this doesn’t make me less aware of our danger. It makes me more so.”

“I was not…” S’ngellan started again, but he fell silent nearly immediately when Faidre’s eyes swung his way.

“You were,” she retorted.  There was still fire in her eyes but some of the edge had left her voice.  “You were and I understand why. You need to be focused on that fight. Our situation is precarious.  I understand that.”

“It’s getting better,” D’vin stated,  “It’s still a struggle and our numbers are still down but Feith’s last clutch was so bronze heavy.  And Lalith’s first clutch will able to join us in a few more moon passes. We have endured losses but thankfully, our numbers are improving now.”

Faidre nodded pensively and glanced to one side.  M’ckey followed her eyes until he caught sight of the honey blond teen sitting stiffly against the wall.  She glanced up and met his gaze, offering him a nervous smile. He returned it easily. Nya was only fourteen and she looked terrified to find herself in this little cell with the entire Weyr leadership, but she had impressed Tavith, the Queenling from Lalith’s clutch, and that made her as much as part of Faidre’s plan as M’ckey.  A plan that the Weyrwoman was pushing for at this very table.

“I’m as relieved as you that our numbers are improving.  But that has little bearing on my point. You two will handle the riders and the training.  I have no doubt of that. But this war has two fronts and the diplomatic side is the one being neglected.  I have spent much of the last two turns helping Feith to bear her clutch, and then working with M’ckey to assist Lalith.  Now I am training a new Queenling and rider. These are the essential duties of a Weyrwoman and I recognize that they need to be done, but we must reckon with a system that is missing some key parts.”

“Other gold riders?” S’ngellan asked rhetorically.

“Exactly.”

“And you want M’ckey to assume that role?”

Faidre bristled.  So did M’ckey.

“Yes,” she stated simply, “He is needed here.  And I don’t appreciate the insinuation that his undertaking this work would be some sort of step down.”

S’ngellan’s eyes shot up, his anger clearly returning, but Justine laid a hand on his arm and turned towards her dear friend.

“He is not suggesting that, Fai.  You know that. You know that how much he values you and all you do.  We need to step back and have this discussion with a great deal less emotion,” Turning sideways, the Headwoman captured M’ckey’s gaze, “And we should probably let the green rider himself share his feelings.”

M’ckey really squirmed in his chair now.  He couldn’t help it, as the eyes of everyone he respected landed expectantly on him.  Swallowing down his nerves and a healthy dose of profanity, he met the Headwoman’s gaze.

“I mean, if I’m understanding this shi...stuff, you want me to help with writing letters to the other Weyrs and the Holds and shi...stuff.?”

Justine’s eyes was mostly unreadable as she stared down the table at him but Faidre couldn’t keep the frustration off of her face.  It seemed to rattle everyone in the little room to see the typically stoic and controlled Weyrwoman so incensed.

“This is exactly what I mean,” she insisted, sending a dark glare across the table at S’ngellan, “there is an unspoken sense that these responsibilities are secondary, that they are unimportant when compared to fighting thread.  You all should know better than that.”

“Faidre!”  The Weyrleader’s voice thundered through the room.  M’ckey could feel it go right up his spine. In her spot against the wall, Nya visibly jumped,  and even D’vin seemed shocked at the sound. But Faidre never wavered, not even for a second, as the echo finally died out in the small stone room.  Instead, she just stared expectantly at her counterpart, her eyes demanding some sort of answer.

S’ngellan’s shoulders fell slightly as he opened his mouth.  “You misunderstand me. I believe the work of diplomacy to be of the utmost importance.  I always have and I would consider it to be even more vital now than ever before. Our numbers are low and this means we have need of strong relationships with our fellow Weyrs so that we can all support each other in a threadfight when needed.  I don’t want to be caught without allies. Look at the last threadstorm! We only came through it intact because of Ista’s willingness to give us aid. We have an enemy attempting to overthrow us in the community we protect, but they are held at bay because of the actions of the Lord Holder of Crom.  You keep these channels of communication open. You make sure these contracts and alliances are maintained. You do this because without them, we’d be dead. But I don’t need to tell you any of this. These are your arguments. I’m just repeating them.”

S’ngellan’s voice was honest and pleading but the Weyrwoman remained unmollified.  “If you believe my words, then why would you even think to argue about M’ckey joining me?”

Every eye at the table turned towards the Weyrleader, watching as the man’s natural confidence seemed to desert him.  S’ngellan’s cheeks burned as he stared down hard at the table and shook his head.

“It’s foolish,” he admitted in a tight voice, “I just worry...So much of M’ckey and Lalith’s journey has been unique.  Unique and, in many ways, against our traditions.”

Across the table, M’ckey could feel a tight knot growing in his stomach, but, as if he could sense his subordinates fears, S’ngellan looked up and met his gaze earnestly.

“Do not think that I doubt you.  Alaboth and I knew that you would be different, extraordinarily so, in the first moment that we saw you.  And you have only ever exceeded our expectations. But this…” The Weyrleader sighed and let his gaze drop again, “I have asked you to accept so many risks, to step into so much unchartered territory.  I suppose I thought this might ask too much of you and the rest of the Weyr. It might ask us all to accept too much change at once.”

Sighing a second time, he let himself drop back against the chair.  M’ckey saw Faidre lean back as well as her shoulders dropped into a more relaxed set.  The heavy tension in the room was starting to break up. Even Nya, in her seat by the wall, seemed less tightly wound.

“It sounds absurd now, saying it outloud,” the Weyrleader continued, “I lead this Weyr and here I am, doubting them.  I should be ashamed. There is nothing to fear. They haven’t merely accepted a bearing green, they have rejoiced in it.  You are both respected and celebrated here. Taking on this role would be seen as an honor, and one that is your due.”

“My honor?” M’ckey heard himself ask, the words flying from his lips before the question even finished forming his mind.

“It is an honor!”

The words echoed down the table and all eyes turned towards the sober face of the Headwoman.  “It is an honor,”she stated again, her voice no less commanding. “The Weyrleader trains and recruits.  The Weyrlingmaster cultivates the newly impressed. But when it comes to forming treaties, negotiating alliances, dealing with the complex statecraft of the Weyr and it’s relations with the rest of Pern, well, that has always been the responsibility of the Weyrwoman, assisted by the Headowman and the council of Junior gold riders.”

M’ckey nodded pensively.  “And we don’t have a council of gold riders?”

Justine met his gaze unflinchingly.  “We have you,” she replied simply, “And you are exactly what we need.  S’ngellan is not the only one who saw your worth from the beginning. This very council was compelled to name you Faidre’s steward long before you ever impressed your incredibly special green.  S’ngellan has always followed his instincts. The rest of us have always trusted them. And we will not stop now.”

With that, the headwoman broke her gaze, turning towards the Faidre.  The two women conducted an intense but brief communication with their eyes before turning again towards M’ckey.

“So tell us, please, M’ckey. What are your thoughts about this?”

M’ckey let his gaze drift back down towards the table.  “Shite,” he muttered softly, rolling all the information he’d received over and over in his head.  “I mean, I want to help you,” he looked up at Faidre, “but I don’t know what good I’d be. I mean...hell...why would anyone listen to me?”

Immediately, every eye in the room was fixed and staring at him incredulously

“Why would anyone listen to you?” Faidre asked, her voice warm and amused.  “Even if you weren’t the rider of the most unique dragon of our age, even if you didn’t seem to naturally command the respect and admiration of the entire Weyr, there would still be one thing about you that would make you inherently suited to this purpose.”

“Yeah?  What’s that?”

Faidre’s smile widened.  “It’s simple. You have a particular way with words.”

***********************************************************************************

“You do, though.  Have a way with words.”

M’ckey had been lying on his side, eyeing the fire that burned in the large hearth in the middle of his weyr, but now he turned in I’an’s embrace, ducking under the redhead’s arm so he could keep their fingers intertwined as he rolled to face him in the warmth of their bed.  No longer did either of them call it M’ckey’s bed, M’ckey’s weyr. It was theirs now, the place where they lived their lives together.

“I guess.  I mean, I’m good at letting my mouth get me in trouble.”

That drew a smile from the brown rider.  “That was your shitehead father’s opinion.  Can we add that to list of things he hated about you?  The things everyone here actually appreciates?” He stared hard at M’ckey until the brunette returned the grin.

“I think,” he began slowly, “I think I’d be good at it.  Faidre showed me a letter she was drafting to one of the minor Holds, one that’s always late with their tithes.  She asked me how I’d word it.”

“And?”

“And you’re both right.  I have a particular way with words.  Not sure it’s going to work for all this diplomatic shite but it’ll give those Holders something to think about.”

I’an’s grin widened at that but M’ckey just continued.

“I mean, I can’t write every letter like that but I think...I think I could be good at this.  It makes sense to me.”

“So you’d do this with Faidre and Justine?  And Nya? Isn’t she pretty young?”

“Yeah, but it’s actually normal to start training at this age,”  M’ckey paused for a moment, playing with their intertwined fingers.  His mind drifted back to the meeting room, to Faidre and Justine’s description of the well-oiled machine that the Queen riders of Telgar had maintained under Sufia, before the illness had killed them all off.

“It was a great system,” he murmured.  His mind wanted to rebel against the heavy sadness that threatened to settle on him, but he forced his walls back down.  Faidre was his Weyrwoman but more importantly, he could honestly call Justine and her his friends. They’d been so professional, so fecking stoic, as they described the organized, diplomatic exchanges that used to maintain the channels of communication from Telgar, but even with their exceptional self control, a person would have to be blind not to see the truth.  They had lost Sufia and the close kinship they had shared with the small legion of junior Queen riders. Now, this hall of Queen weyrs only housed him, Faidre, and little Nya. That loss still pained them deeply. The least he could was let himself feel how much that shite had taken from them.

“It was a great system,” he repeated, “And it made so much sense.  There were so many of them that at least one Queen was always bearing and grounded at any given time.  That gold rider would assume the communications register. Then, once that Queen’s clutch had impressed, they would return to the sky just in time for the next gold to begin her mating flight.  Justine and the other stewards would act as assistants. It was pretty fecking seamless.”

I’an listened carefully, his brow slightly furled.  “They could manage this stuff? What about helping their golds?”

“Yeah, I asked that,” M’ckey responded.  A brisk breeze managed to sneak past the fire and the brunette shivered and curled closer to the redhead’s warm body, pulling the blankets tighter around their shoulders.  “But think about it. Faidre was way more controlled than I was when it was Feith on the hatching grounds. Hells, so was Feith herself.” Reaching up, he cupped I’an’s face and brushed a light kiss to his lips.  “It’ll never be that hard again,” he reasoned, staring into the brown rider’s eyes, “Next time, we’ll all know what to expect.”

I’an nodded, stretching and relaxing as the truth of M’ckey’s words settled in.  “Yeah,” he admitted, “Yeah, you’re right. You’re right about everything. They do need you.  You’d be really fecking good at this.”

“Yeah?”

“Hell yeah!” The redhead’s voice was emphatic and M’ckey could just see the grin on his lips grow even wider in the dim light of the fire.  “Damn, look at us. Leaders and diplomats. We’re all respectable. And you’re going to be all scholarly and shite.”

“Is that not appealing or something?” M’ckey jested back, poking lightly at the redhead’s side.

“Nope.  In fact, I’ve always wanted to ride a learned man.”

M’ckey snorted. “Or the learned man could ride you.” They wrestled lightly for a moment until  I’an relented and rolled onto his back, pulling M’ckey along to sprawl across his chest.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about anyway,” the brunette said as he traced over the soft curls of his lover’s chest hair, “You’ve always been able to read and write.”

“Just the shite Lip showed me.  And no one ever taught him anything. He just figured it out himself..  I do okay, but you’ll get really good now.” The redhead’s gaze drifted towards the ceiling, “I got a letter from him, actually.”

“Lip?  From the Crafthall?  Did he end up getting sent to the Harpers?” M’ckey asked, referring to the Hall that trained the keepers of the ancient lore and histories of Crom.

I’an nodded.  “He’s been there for a moon pass and he’s still at the apprentice level.  Says it’s pretty fecking awful so far, mostly cleaning and learning how to handle the old scrolls the right way.  But...he actually sounded excited. He’s always wanted to do something like this, whether he wants to admit it or not.”

M’ckey suppressed a snort.  Of course Lip Gallagher wanted to go where he could learn shite other people couldn’t.  Actually he was surprised that I’an’s older brother was willing to follow the rules in the first place.  He would have figured the arrogant ass would want to lord how fecking brilliant he was over everyone from the first damn day.

“I need to write him back.  Tell him that we’re good.”

“We?  You mean you and me?”  M’ckey grimaced. “Bet he’ll fecking love that.”

“He will,” I’an answered lightly.  When M’ckey snorted against his skin, the redhead wrapped his arms around him and held him tight.  “He’s the one who told me to let go of my shite, to stop panicking and pushing you away. He told me I was being a fecking coward.  And before you go getting all self-deprecating, he told me all that before you got all scored to hell.”

M’ckey mulled this new information over as his lids began to get heavy.  The redhead squirmed out from beneath him, rolling him back onto his side and curling up around his back.  Just before he fell asleep, he managed to ask, “So he wants us together?”

A half-conscious I’an yawned against his neck.  “Pretty sure everyone wants us together. At least, anyone who fecking counts.”

***********************************************************************************

The meal hall was full to overflowing, the din of a thousand voices reverberating off the walls.  It wasn’t terribly fancy. Weyrfolk were known to favor functional clothing and hearty food, and a banquet between the Weyrs didn’t need any extra trappings.  It was an opportunity for camaraderie between the Weyrs, and if the good natured ruckus that surrounded I’an on all sides were an indicator, it was providing just that.

“So you are the new wingleader?” boomed a voice from his right.  Turning in his chair, I’an found himself looking up into the face of the Weyrleader of Ista.  He’d seen the tall man arrive with the rest of the delegations from Ista and the Weyr at High Reaches and he also encountered him during a number of allied threadfights but they’d never been quite so close.  From this distance, I’an could easily see the thick scoring marks that ran up the big man’s neck, ending in a misshapen ear and a large strip of balded scar tissue along the edge of his skull. The Weyrleader’s natural bearing would’ve been intimidating to even the most seasoned of riders, but the warmth in his eyes put I’an immediately at ease.

“L’sand,” the Weyrleader said by way of introduction, but I’an was already rising to his feet.

“No, I know,” he replied, wishing he sounded less awestruck.  “You’re our honored guest.”

“That’s kind of you,” L’sand answered, gesturing with his chin to I’an’s abandoned seat and the empty one beside it.  Settling down, the Weyrleader let his gaze rest consideringly on I’an’s face, but the redhead found he didn’t really mind the perusal.

“You assumed your position after G’lain was killed?”

The question threw the redhead for a moment, but the open face of the other man settled him quickly.  L’sand’s face showed concern for the entirety of Telgar but also just for him. Leaning back in his chair, I’an let his thoughts drift briefly to his fallen wingleader.  “I did,” he murmured quietly. Across the hall, he could see M’ckey, seated at another table with a number of other dignitaries. The brunette offered him a quick smile, which I’an returned as best he could.

“I did,” he repeated.

Beside him, L’sand nodded. “My apologies,” he began, “I do not wish to bring up unpleasant memories. It is just...I knew G’lain.  We were raised in the same minor Hold on the border of the Ista and Crom plains. He was...well, he was Galain then, and a number of years younger then me, but I remember him as a good and brave boy.  He grew into a good and brave man.” There was a slight hitch in the other man’s voice and I’an felt his gut twist slightly. He understood L’sand’s grief.

“Well,” the Weyrleader said, clearing his throat, “He will be deeply mourned.  It is just...it is one thing to lose a good man to thread. It is awful but...it happens. But this way…” L’sand’s voice drifted for a moment, along with his gaze. “I imagine the loss is still quite fresh and I apologize for bringing it up, but I needed to say his name with honor to someone who would appreciate the sentiment.”

I’an could feel his head nodding unconsciously as his throat thickened.  His mind was suddenly suffused with the face of Terry Milkovich. How much pain could one piece of shite cause?

“My apologies,” L’sand repeated, clearing his throat.  The wealth of feelings didn’t leave the man’s face, but I’an could see the pains he was taking to hold them at bay.  “I didn’t approach you to remind you of tragedy. I needed to ask you about something that is essential to my Weyr.”

I’an could feel his brow furrow.  Yes, he was a wingleader, a position that put him in the upper levels of Telgar’s leadership, but L’sand was a Weyrleader.  What could the man possibly need to talk about with him?

The answer should’ve been obvious.

“Your brown.  Karth?”

I’an nodded, his face still creased with confusion.

“The two of you.  You’re the ones who fly the Green Queen of Telgar, correct?”

A burst of slightly nervous laughter bubbled out of I’an’s throat.  “You mean Lalith? Shite. I’ve never heard her called that before.”

“Really?” the Weyrleader asked, genuine surprise in his voice, “It seems that everyone in the other Weyrs calls her that.  I had assumed it was a formal title.”

“No,” I’an answered quickly.  The Green Queen. He had to admit that it made some sense, but it seemed like such a proper and ceremonial label, not at all in keeping with the impish green who had impressed M’ckey.  “No,” he repeated, “She’s just Lalith here.”

“It appears that she, and he, are more than that,” L’sand murmured with a nod of his head.  Following the gesture, I’an turned to lock eyes with M’ckey at the head table, seated among the core leadership of the Weyr.  I’an could feel the brunette stroke lightly over the bond and he returned the gesture.
“I think you’re right,” he replied as he turned back to the Weyrleader, “It’s difficult for me to see her, to see them that way, I suppose.”
“Yes, that would make sense.  They are yours. You are theirs.  And as I understand it, the roots of this connection run quite deep, correct?”
“Yes,” I’an stated carefully, drawing out the word a bit as he tried to understand where the Weyrleader was taking this inquiry.  L’sand could clearly see the hardening lines of his jaw, however, as he leaned back and took a deep drink from the cup he brought to the table.

“You must wonder, I’an of Telgar, why I am asking you this.  The answer is simple. I needed to know if the people of this Weyr recognize the significance of what has happened here.  I doubted that you did, and now that has been confirmed. It is understandable, of course. This has been a terrible time for all the Weyrs but yours has suffered in ways I can only imagine.  I believe you have all been concentrating all of your efforts on simply staying alive.

But the other Weyrs are suffering as well, and in some similar ways.  So I have come to Telgar to put a very simple question to your leadership?”

“Which is?”

L’sand sighed.  “Help me gather the others,” he answered somewhat cryptically, “this part of the discussion needs to be had with all the parties present.

It took more than an hour to assemble all the key players and move them to the large audience chamber that was attached to the side of Faidre’s weyr.  The huge space lacked the privacy of the small cell where the leadership of Telgar typically met, but the group was far too large for those confined quarters.  I’an managed to snag a seat almost directly across the huge table from M’ckey, and the brunette caught his gaze, concern in his blue eyes as they sat. I’an pressed back across the bond, but the movement did little to calm his lover.  It did little to calm him either. What the hells did the Weyrleadership of Ista want with M’ckey and him? What did they want with their dragons?

Fortunately, he got his answer quickly.

“Our golds are aging,” L’sand began, opening up the talks.  “Our Weyrwoman, Barinda, has remained at Ista because her Queen is currently carrying and grounded.  This is a good sign for us, but it is only a temporary solution.”

“To what problem, exactly,” Faidre asked in a clipped tone, “We were not aware that you were having any serious issues.”  Her jaw was as tense as her voice and I’an could see a similar set in M’ckey’s face. He knew why, of course. If Telgar had still had a full contingency of Junior Queen riders, this type of information would be easily exchanged between the Weyrs.

L’sand didn’t seem to want to use the lapse as a means to score points.  Fixing his gaze on the Weyrwoman, he asked, “How did you come to have a bearing green?  Is it something that could be duplicated?”

A general hush fell over the room as the groups wrestled with the statement that had just been put into words.  I’an’s gaze met M’ckey’s across the table, seeing his own shocked expression mirrored back at him. As they tore their eyes away from each other to glance down the table, they could see the matching tense and hopeful looks on the faces of all the assembled guests.

“L’sand,” Faidre began carefully, her own expression confused, “We...we did not create Lalith.  She was laid on the sands, hatched, and impressed like any other dragonette.”

“You did nothing differently?” interjected Katrine, the Weyrwoman of High Reaches, “There was nothing that you could point to about the mating or hatching that was different than any other?”  The woman looked and sounded perfectly composed, but there was a strange, tinny echo in her voice that the whole room was picking up on. Glancing around at his own Weyrleadership, I’an saw the same realization on their faces.  Katrine of High Reaches, a warrior of honor and distinction, was showing signs of fear, of despair. But why?

“Katrine,” Faidre queried gently, “We did nothing...at least, there is nothing that I can identify that explains why Lalith is able to bear.  From everything we could tell,” she paused, glancing towards the Head Healer, who nodded affirmingly, “well, it appeared to be a natural occuring anomaly.”

“Meaning?” L’sand pressed.

The Head Healer rose to his feet.  “The green was born without a second stomach,” he explained simply, keeping his tone even and factual, “We did not discover this until she and her dragonette wing attempted to consume firestone for the first time.  It made her very ill and the symptoms mimicked those of a gold who has accidentally consumed some firestone. It became toxic to her, but once she’d expelled it all, her recovery was quick. It was during the subsequent examination that her unique physiology was identified.”

“And you knew she’d be a bearer?” Katrine asked, hints of frustration bleeding into her tone.

“We hoped she would be,” S’ngellan answered, “And thankfully, our hopes were fulfilled.”

“And then she bore a gold herself?”

The nervous tension in the room was rising, the tenor of the conversation carrying slight undertones of accusation that I’an and his fellow Weryfolk found confusing.  Just an hour ago, these same people had been laughing together in the meal hall. What the hells was going on?

His leaders were obviously just as confused.  And in no mind to play games.

“Yes,” Faidre replied, her voice regal and firm as she rose to her feet at the end of the table, “After suffering a loss so great that it has threatened our ability to even fulfill our basic function, we were blessed by an enigma that allowed us hope.  We hadn’t welcomed a new gold in many turns, a fact you are all aware of. We are dealing with regular threadfall and low numbers. And as if this were not enough, we have a movement building momentum in the halls of the Holds of Crom that first sought to undermine us and our Hold allies and has now actively attacked us, killing a prized member of our community and causing a much needed and valued bronze to take his own life at the loss of his rider.  So I would very much like to understand why our one spot of good fortune in recent turns seems to be generating emotions other than goodwill from our closest allies.”

The Weyrwoman placed her hands on the table and stared down the long length of wood, settling her gaze on Katrine.  The other woman met Faidre’s eyes and a brief but silent discussion seemed to ensue as I’an and all the seated guests around them held their breath.  Across the table, M’ckey sat rigidly, his hands curled as if ready for a fight.

Finally, Katrine drew herself up and spoke.  “My Queen gave no golds in her last clutch. We had none in the one before that, or the one before that.” She paused and took a breath. “Or the one before that, or that, or that.” she admitted.  She leaned forward onto the table herself, but the lines of her body didn’t mirror the strength in Faidre’s. She appeared tired and resigned in the face of the news she had just received. “And as you know, we lost a Queen and a gold rider to scoring only two turns past.  Our numbers are also falling.” With a nod of her head, she gestured towards a seated L’sand, “And Ista is no different. Perhaps Barinda’s Queen will give a gold egg this time. But it doesn’t seem likely.”

At the far end of the room, Faidre remained silent, giving herself a moment to take in the information she had just received.  She felt hollow suddenly, and weak on her own feet. Why hadn’t they been told any of this?

“Why?” she demanded finally, letting some ice bleed into her tone. “Why have you not told us of this?  It is clear that you are speaking to each other.”

“It was you who stopped speaking to us, my old friend,” Katrine retorted.  “We never hear from you. We know almost nothing about what happens in Telgar Weyr.  You made no announcements about your turns of good fortune, but suddenly, word was all over the Holds.”  She glanced over towards G’ram, the Weyrleader of High Reaches, and all at the table could see the sympathy in her eyes.  When she glared back down the table, Faidre could feel the full blast of her anger.

“We knew nothing,” she snapped, “And then G’ram walked into Tillek Hold in Search.  You know the temperment of the horrible human who occupies the title of Lord Holder there.  You know the games we have had to play, the threats and bartering and nonsense we have had to endure to get what we are owed from this craven man.  And here G’ram was, walking into a negotiation with no idea that the Green Queen of Telgar even existed!”

“What is this Green Queen shite?”

Faidre’s eyes flew up, landing immediately on the source of the outburst.  M’ckey was pushing himself up to his feet, with I’an mirroring his actions cautiously on the other side of the table.  He looked angry, but Faidre knew her green rider better than that. He was scared and confused and it made her heart twist.  She was so tired of feeling like she was failing her people and leaving them vulnerable. And she had a terrible feeling, letting her gaze follow M’ckey’s back down the table to Katrine, that this woman she considered a good friend had a valid point.

“It is the title your dragon has been given by nearly all of Crom,” Katrine stated simply, “And one of respect and jubilation in the Weyrs.”

“She’s a green.  Queens are golds.”

“Technically, no,” the Head Healer said from his seat, “the name ‘gold’ is part of the larger dragon classifications.  A Queen, though, is used exclusively for a dragon who can bear a clutch. If a gold is barren, for example, they are never referred to as a Queen.  So the name is actually quite appropriate.”

“Do you disapprove?” Katrine asked, turning back to M’ckey.  Faidre could see the tension running out of the other man as he sank back into his seat.

“Would you stop calling her that if I did?” he asked.  The question seemed to be rhetorical but the Weyrwoman of High Reaches answered it nonetheless.

“Yes,” she stated simply.

The twist in Faidre’s heart only deepened.  Down the table, M’ckey seemed shocked to momentary speechlessness at the honest and respectful response.  And there were hints of sheepishness in his voice when he answered.

“No, it’s...it’s alright.  It’s what she is. But...I appreciate you hearing my thoughts.”

Katrine nodded and Faidre let out a breath.  Her eyes met S’ngellan’s and then I’an’s for a brief moment, and their faces reflected her own thoughts. This was why she needed M’ckey.  The green rider might think that all he could do was spit threats, but he was clearly more attuned to nuance than he wanted to admit. And he had managed to cut through some of the tension in the room before it blew up into something much worse.

“What happened at the Hold, Katrine?” she asked honestly, turning back towards her friend at the far end of the long table.  “Is the Lord Holder withholding tithes? Is he refusing to participate in Search?”

It was G’ram who scoffed and turned to answer, though there was a light, teasing quality to his voice that further settled the frayed nerves around the table.  “You think so little of my negotiating abilities, Faidre? No, he did not win. But, it would’ve been helpful to have had the information. In future interactions, he will try to turn it to his advantage again.”

“Then let us give him no reason.  Let us lay everything out openly. Katrine, I am well aware that I have let some of my duties lapse.  For turns upon turns, it has only been Justine and I managing our correspondence. For at time, we could make that work, but as the apex of the Red Star increased the threadfall, we just could not keep up.  But we have made no grand discovery. We have not unlocked any great mysteries that allow us to breed birthing greens. I wish we had. I wish we could have shared such hopeful news with you. But alas, her existence is nothing more than fortuitous chance.

I did stop communicating.  I ask you to understand why.  And I ask you to help me understand why you are withholding your own information.”

“Because we are facing the exact same problem,” Katrine answered simply.  “We are hatching no new golds. And others are aging. They are dying off.  You did know this.”

“I did but…”Faidre began, but the Weyrwoman of High Reaches cut her off with an imploring hand.

“Faidre, the gold are ageing.  They are not being replenished.  Our means of communicating are diminishing, too.  We can’t share necessary information, critical information, because we don’t have enough time and people to manage it when we are needed in the skies.  You lost your golds and gold riders in a terrible tragedy, my friend. But we are losing ours too. At this point, it does not particularly matter if they died in a great illness or gradually from injury and time.  They are gone either way.”

Both women sank into their seats at the heads of the table, as the leadership of three great Weyrs kept their gazes fixed shamefully on the wooden slats in front of them.  The silence stretched on for a long moment but I’an suddenly heard the squeak of a chair and looked up to see S’ngellan rising to his feet.

“I apologize,” He said, his voice booming through the room. “I apologize,” he repeated again, his voice muted and his eyes fixed solely on Faidre.  She offered him an accepting head nod before he turned back to the room. “The Weyrwoman of Telgar has been arguing steadfastly for many turns that we needed to place more importance on communication with our fellow Weyrs.  I did not disagree, but neither did I give this need the attention it deserved. But Faidre is wise, much wiser than me, and she has just recently pushed for us to make a real re-commitment to protecting our alliances. We have a new gold rider to train and she will become a part of this process.  And M’ckey,” he paused to nod his head at the brunette, “M’ckey will become a part of the process as well. And we will support this in every way we can, help in every way we can.” he finished by glancing at D’vin, who nodded enthusiastically.

“We will do the same,” G’ram stated, glancing apologetically at Katrine, “Our Weyrwoman has been no less vocal and we have been no less remiss in our duties by not supporting her efforts as we should have,” He glanced over at L’sand, who nodded.  “We will prioritize this as it deserves. We need to value these connections. We have numbers to deal with and the spread of this movement to combat. I will do all I can to help. I give you my word.”

It was D’vin who rose next.  “What can we do, though?” he asked, “I fully embrace the need for communication, but while we are here, we need to try to come up with some plans.  We now know the movement is spreading. What can be done? We know the Queens aren’t laying new golds. How can we address this?”

“We could exchange some of the bronzes.”

The words were out of I’an’s mouth before he even realized it and suddenly the whole room had fallen silent and fixed their eyes on  him. Shite. He could feel some panic churn in his stomach but he could also feel the warmth of M’ckey pressing against the bond. Looking up, he caught the brunette’s gaze.  The other man had a little grin on his face and he nodded his agreement. Yeah,

yeah,

why did he feel stupid for saying anything?  It was actually a great idea.

“Explain,” S’ngellan demanded, his voice genuinely interested.

I’an took a breath, “Well, like, with sheep or something, when you want to increase a herd, right.  Two herders will swap some rams, expose the ewes to new bloodlines. I’m not saying it’ll work but…”

“It could,” L’sand stated from down the table.

“I’m just thinking, Lalith’s clutch was bronze heavy.  Everyone says so. And they haven’t joined a wing yet, not formally.  Some of them could be moved pretty easily. I don’t like breaking up the families but…” his voice trailed off as he reached out to Karth in his head.  Across the table, he could see a similar conversation with Lalith playing out in M’ckey’s mind. The response from his brown was almost immediate. He and Lalith would hate to see their young go elsewhere but their purpose was to protect Pern.  They would understand.

“This is a plan,” S’ngellan stated, “a good plan.  Is there anything else?”

“Yeah,”

It was M’ckey who rose to speak now and I’an couldn’t resist a snort.  Farm boys from Crom were now running the summit of the major Weyrs of the land.

“What idea to do you have?” Katrine asked while every eye shifted to him.

I’an could see M’ckey swallow.  “Farmers and herders do this stuff.  Crop rotation, herd rotation. They keep records of it all, meticulous records, and this shite...sorry...this stuff goes back for turns and turns.  This can’t be the first time stuff like this has happened. We need to go look at the records. And they’re all at the Harper’s Halls, right?”

A collective sigh of aggravation ran through the leadership but it was G’ram who answered.  “Yes, but the Harpers have grown arrogant in the safety of their Halls. They’d rather spend time painting new pages for old books then actually doing the kind of research that could help us.  We could try to got there and look ourselves but…”

“The numbers, I get it,” M’ckey interjected.  “So, if we can’t afford to send any of us there, we need someone who’d be willing to do the work.  It would be seen as a shite job, right? One they’d give to an apprentice?”

I’an could feel his lips split into a smile.  Katrine’s did, too.

“You know an apprentice in the Harper’s Hall?”

Now it was M’ckey’s turn to grin.

“Sure do.”

***********************************************************************************

It was cold out, very cold actually, and Lalith drew herself deeper inside the ledge of the Queen’s weyr she now shared with Karth and their riders.  Her impressed had stoked the large fire pit only a short time before and the large room was warm and comfortable. Laying her head down on the temperate stone of the weyr floor, the green reached out to her mate.

Still eating?

Yes, I am hungry.

I will wait up for you but return soon.  I wish to sleep, not watch my impressed mate with yours all night.

I will be there shortly.

Lalith considered the scene before her.  She was accustomed to this and tonight’s performance would only include variations on a theme.  Both she and Karth’s riders liked to mate with each other. They did it so frequently that she barely even noticed anymore.  Sometimes it was quick. Sometimes they barely undressed. Sometimes they used different parts of the weyr for the act.

And sometimes they took each others clothes off very slowly, rubbing their mouths together and putting their hands all over each other.  This usually meant that they would end up on their bed, rolling around and moving on top of each other. They would make noises, letting the sound build to a high pitch, then beg each other to slow down, only to start the process all over again.

This used to confuse Lalith.  So she’d asked.

Hells, Lal,

hers had answered as his face turned bright red.  They’d been out on the ledge, and her impressed had immediately walked to the the very edge and stared out over the hatching sands.
T

Does this embarrass you, Mine?

She’d asked, directing the question to his back.

He’d shrugged

, No, it’s just...people don’t usually talk about that kind of shite.

But you are comfortable doing it?  Why not talking about it?

Hells,

her rider had said again, but he’d turned back towards her with an intent look on his face,

I don’t know how to explain it.  It feels...good…it feels nice to make it last a long time.

Is that why you make those noises?

Oh fecking...

He had stormed back to the edge, and she’d been able to feel the tinges of humiliation that were building inside of him.  She hadn’t understood why. The noises were happy ones. She didn’t mind if he was happy.

Why does this upset you, Mine.

It doesn’t...it doesn’t upset me.  I just didn’t realize you guys could hear so much.

We hear everything.  We don’t mind.

How the feck could you not mind?

Mating with the prettyrider makes you feel happy and content.  I like when you feel that way. Karth likes it, too. But I wanted to understand why you sometimes say words and make sounds that don’t make sense when you feel happy.

We’ll try to keep it down

, her’s had said sheepishly, but Lalith had only scoffed and taken flight to the feeding grounds.

They had tried, she supposed, for a few days, but it had been a wasted effort.  He and the prettyrider enjoyed themselves too much to be quiet and they finally had to admit that their dragons’ only real reaction was an affectionate eye roll.  In fact, Lalith could drift off right now, if only Karth would hurry up and return. But her love was a slow eater, so the green resumed her consideration of the sleeping alcove.

As she had predicted, this was going to be a long night for the two riders.  Hers had assumed some sort of control for the moment, pressing his mouth against the redheaded man’s and walking him backward towards their bed.  They both had their hands spread wide over the other’s hind quarters, not that she was surprised. They gave a lot of attention to each other’s hind quarters whenever they did the mating act.  As her rider pushed the redhead down on the edge of the bed, the man reached out and grabbed both globes, dragging hers down to straddle his lap. She could see the soft skin dimple beneath the brown riders fingers as he pulled her impressed close.

A bugle sounded outside the ledge and Lalith swung her long neck around, staring expectantly into the darkness.  Instead of Karth, she saw Feith descend and alight on her own ledge. The green suppressed a grumble. Karth was such a meticulous eater.  It took him forever to finish. With a huff, she swung her neck back towards the fire.

Sometime while she’d been looking for Karth, the brown rider had worked his fingers inside her impressed’s hindquarters and the brunette had begun shifting his hips up and down.  Now the noises were really starting to gain volume. This is why she had scoffed when hers had promised to be quieter. He barely knew where he was right now, he’s eyes sealed shut as he moved frantically.  His arms were wrapped around the redhead’s neck and his cheek was pillowed against his hair. He was emitting high pitched moans with every movement, punctuated by broken, pleading words, but the brown rider didn’t seem to notice, encouraging the raven haired man’s movements with a hand on his hip.

Lalith could feel little tendrils of heat winding their way down the bond she shared with her impressed.  She was used to this too. It always happened when he mated with the prettyrider. It had never worried her because she recognized the warmth easily.  This was love, an emotion her rider always felt but could usually contain. In these moments though, whenever the brown rider was inside him, his control would simply fray apart and the heat would run everywhere.  She didn’t mind it. Quite the contrary, actually. It was a very pleasant feeling.

A loud cry startled the green as it echoed through the weyr.  Lalith blinked her eyes. She must’ve dozed off, she realized, and Karth still wasn’t back.  She sent a teasingly harsh quip his way and was rewarded by a contrite promise to be right there.  Feeling content, she turned her attention back to the bed and the source of the sounds.

The redhead was now sprawled across the top of the bed beneath her impressed.  A hand was still wrapped possessively around his hip. The other was spread across her rider’s chest.  The brunette was curled over top of him, with one arm braced above the redhead’s shoulder and the other curled around the prettyrider’s fingers, their locked hands resting above his heart.   Ah, now she understood why her impressed was making these noises. He enjoyed having the redhead’s hands inside him but while she’d drifted off, fingers had obviously been replaced with the prettyrider’s phallus and that made for a much more intense sensation.  She had seen her rider beg, scream and cry while taking that inside his body.

A large thump sounded behind her and she turned to find Karth slithering up beside her.  She was large for her color but so was the brown and he easily curled his body along the lines of her spine as their tails and necks twined together.  His breath was warm against her skin and within moments, it was evening out into the long easy cadences of sleep.

Settling into his warmth, Lalith sent one final glance towards the two riders in the rear chamber.  Hers was still moving frantically but he was sitting up now, letting his own hands skim over his skin.  The brown rider had braced his own feet against the bed and was thrusting his body up to meet her impressed’s  movements. The heat washing over her was sweet.

With an amused huff, Lalith closed her eyes.  She knew this encounter was nowhere near over.  Soon, the redhead would be trapping hers with his arms, slowing his thrusts to shallow teasing.  Hers would pant and beg for release but secretly love the way his body was strummed and plucked. Slowly, slowly, they would begin to move together again, to rebuild the tense heat.  And maybe then they would let each other have their pleasure. Or maybe not. They did so love to play with each other.

Twining her neck against the soft hide of the brown dragon, the little green fell asleep, her breathing evening under the rhythmic lull of her rider’s cries.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Telgar was beautiful.

In theory, M’ckey had known that.  He’d flown over much of the land, defending it from thread, and on the rare day of rest, he’d joined his fellow riders outside the walls of their Weyr, lazing about or playing games on the open plains and the crags of the mountains.  But that had really only given him a taste.

For the first years of his life, all M’ckey had known was Crom.  Southern Crom, to be exact, but tithing and caravan robbing and the rare but necessary trips to the Crom Hold had made the larger land around him a reality.  That was it, though. If he had vague notions that there was something beyond the boundaries of his home, he gave it no real thought. In his chaotic and risk-laden world, who had the time to care about such things?  All he knew was that Crom was real and that, somewhere else, dragonriders lived. Pern was nothing but a word to him.

Now, though, the size and scope of Pern was part of his everyday business and it absolutely fascinated him.  It had started with formal letter writing, carefully crafting the missives that connected the Weyrs to each other and, equally significantly, to their Holds and Halls.  He’d never really stopped to consider the complicated web of connections that made up the social and economic structure of Pern before either, and the number of places that needed to be contacted was breathtaking.  He was good it at though. He really was. If anything, it was the physical act of writing that slowed him down at first. Once he began to master it though, the words themselves, the messages and arguments and acknowledgements that needed to be crafted, fairly flew from his mind, through his fingers, and onto the pages.  Faidre would sit beside him, reading over his shoulder with a relieved grin spreading across her face. It would, she kept insisting, have taken her days of fretting and examining every word to create the same missive. But for M’ckey, it just seemed to come naturally.

Communications had become a huge part of his duties, but so were the diplomatic missions.  He and I’an had both traveled to High Reaches with their mounts to oversee the transfer of the bronzes.  As they had suspected, Karth and Lalith were saddened to be exchanging so many of the nearly mature bronze dragonettes from their first clutch, but they were pragmatic as well.  In order to keep their children safe, they had to be willing to let them go.

The journey to High Reaches had been the first of several and soon M’ckey had not only visited Ista but also Benden Weyr, the largest in Pern.  He had never been that far from Crom, so far east that he could see the ocean. It made him feel tiny and awed.

But it also made him ask questions.  When his world had been smaller, M’ckey had viewed Crom Hold and Telgar Weyr as massive in size and scope.  Standing in the meal hall of Benden, though, he’d suddenly wondered why the great homes of the dragons were only built to house five hundred or less.  It now struck him as incredibly poor planning, given the size of the land they were tasked to protect.

M’ckey had wanted answers and he had been in luck.  His next diplomatic mission had led him right to the biggest fecking know-it-all in Pern.

“How’s my brother?” Lip had asked with a smirk when they’d met in the Harper’s Hall.  M’ckey had enthusiastically told the older Gallagher to go to hell, but then, that was how they had interacted their whole lives.  But while Faidre handled the sweet talking and letter exchanging with the rest of the more senior Harpers, he’d grabbed the chestnut haired man and pulled him aside to explain what he needed.

“Do you think you can find something?” M’ckey asked, glancing around the huge library he’d followed the other man into, “I mean, this place doesn’t look too organized.”

“When did you get so fecking polite,” Lip had groused, letting his own gaze drift over the piles of cluttered and musty texts and scrolls, “It’s a shite heap.  But that’ll help me, actually. They don’t pay any damn attention to what I’m doing really. If I want to work with the ancient writings, no one will give a damn.”

Lip had walked him out to meet up with Lalith and the rest of the delegation, muttering to himself about his plans to approach the filthy texts and scrolls.

“How many would you want,” he’d asked suddenly, “Dragons, I mean?  If we could discover something?”

“A moon pass ago, I would’ve said that we need to fill the Weyrs.  Now though, shite, I don’t know. I had no idea how huge Pern really was.”

M’ckey had gritted his teeth as the admission slipped past them, hating the idea of looking ignorant in front of the arrogant Gallagher brother, but Lip had only nodded as he stared out over the field before them.  “I didn’t either,” he’d answered, turning his gaze back to meet M’ckey’s. “So you think you’d need more?”

“Need ‘em, feck yeah, but we don’t have a place to put them.  I don’t get why they made the Weyrs so small.”

“Because most of the time, there’s no thread, right,” the other man replied.  M’ckey could see Lip’s mind working furiously behind his eyes. “The Weyr would want to reduce the number of mouths to feed during an Interval, to give the Holds a chance to rebuild after all the damage from the Pass.  So I think they’d limit the numbers as much as they could so they could also limit tithe requirements. Then, when the next Pass was set to begin, they’d start to rebuild the numbers.”

“But how?”

“That’s the question,” Lip had replied, facing him again, “But you’re right.  There has to be something. There’s got to be a system for this, if they’ve been doing it for thousands of turns.  But these feckers would rather spend years of their lives hand painting every page of one fecking book so they can create their own legacy, instead of working for the good of Pern and preserving all this knowledge.  They’re all pampered little highborn shites who don’t know what it’s really like to suffer. And now they’re here, more protected than ever.”

“So change it,” M’ckey had stated simply, letting the obvious challenge hang in his words.

“I’m a fecking apprentice, asshole.  I don’t have any power to change it.”

M’ckey had snorted, but his mind had been racing a mile a minute.  This was what made him good at this, he’d realized, his innate ability to know his audience and adjust his message.  The older Gallagher’s shoulders had bristled and M’ckey had known he had him right where he wanted him.

“Yeah, you’re just an apprentice,” he conceded in an even voice, “But I was just a steward.  There were highborn pricks there who thought I shouldn’t be given a chance but I won them over.  And look at where I am now. You gonna sit there and tell me that my ass can do a better job than you?”

Lip’s mouth had immediately turned mulish and M’ckey had known that gauntlet had been picked up.

They’d parted on their normal terms, with Lip musing that it was nice to see that M’ckey bathed regularly now and the brunette retorting that he’d tell the elder Gallagher that he could suck his dick if he didn’t know that his little brother would take care of it himself.  The chestnut haired man’s lips had quirked in amusement, but then turned pensive.

“I hope he’s getting his own dick sucked plenty,” he’d stated, fixing M’ckey with a hard stare as he climbed onto Lalith’s back.  “Only seems fair, considering all the shite he was put through.”

M’ckey hadn’t had a snide comeback for that.  He and I’an were happy but they would always be healing, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to lash out at the elder Gallagher for being rightly protective of his little brother.  M’ckey wasn’t that asshole anymore. And so, with only a nod of his head, he and Lalith had taken to the skies.

************************************************************************************

Benden, Ista, the Harper’s Hall.  And, finally, Telgar Hold. During the many turns that he’d lived in the Weyr, M’ckey had barely given any thought to the Hold that actually governed this far northern land.  To him, the Hold was always Crom; bigger, more influential, more steeped in intrigue and danger. The Hold of Telgar was small, squat to the ground and fitted out to withstand the cold that blew down from the great ice plains of the far north.  They saw less thread up here since the intense cold often destroyed much of the fall before the dragons could even engage it, and it was this lack of thread that had kept M’ckey in ignorance about the raw and open beauty of this land. He’d never had any reason to get close to the ground until he’d been sent to make diplomatic connections with the old, grizzled battle-axe who occupied the position of Lord Holder of Telgar Hold.

He was a tough old shite but a just and worthy leader who didn’t believe in living in luxury at the expense of his people. He’d once rescued a mining crew who’d gotten buried in a cave-in, losing half his left hand in the process.  He was crusty, informal and not above calling someone a damned fool if he thought them one, but he supported the Weyrfolk with a fierce loyalty.

M’ckey had same trip to the north that the green rider had first laid eyes on the little lake in the middle of the forest.  It had caught his eye as he and Lalith soared over the western expanse of Telgar, a wild and uninhabited land, nearly untouched by man or threadfall.  On a whim, he and the green had gone down to explore but it hadn’t been long before they’d returned to the skies. They hadn’t wanted to spoil the mystery until they could come back with the proper audience.

Waking from a short nap, M’ckey stretched  his arms out, letting them fall in a heap above his head.  He squirmed, feeling the battered old straw tick that he’d found, cleaned, and dragged onto Lalith’s back this morning give a bit under his weight.  This had been a brilliant idea on his part. Not that he minded a blanket spread across the browning grass but a soft surface did make his favorite lakeside activities even more enjoyable.

Ignoring the bite in the air, the brunette sat up, supporting his weight on his elbows as he stared out across the water.  The view was stunning but the perfect crystal stillness of the surface was now broken up by a gentle ripple, working its way towards the far shore.  Feeling a devious grin split his lips, M’ckey rolled over, pillowing his chin on his arms as he took in what was, in his opinion, an even more enticing view.

The cause of the water’s disturbance was currently standing on the grass, bare-skinned against the blue sky as he toweled off his hair.  A slight breeze ruffled the red locks but if I’an felt the cold, he made no indication. His skin was pimpled from the chill of the water but at least now he was clean of all the sweat and and grime from the games and couplings that had passed their afternoon.  And I’an never seemed to mind the frigid water, dragging M’ckey in for a quick dip whenever they came to visit this spot. M’ckey accepted it. After all, I’an was always quick to warm him up.

“You trying to tease me?”

The voice drew the brunette from his pleasant memories, snapping his focus back up the redhead’s face.  I’an was staring at him, his lips curled up as he finished lacing up his leggings and pushed his feet into his riding boots.  M’ckey grinned, suppressing his sigh. He honestly just wanted I’an to crawl back into their waterfront nest and pull him close, but Karth was already pawing at the ground away down the beachline.  The brown had informed the redhead that they were being paged to a mandatory wing leaders meeting and there was no arguing with that. A boon of days without threadfall had given them an opportunity to rest and train, but planning for the future also needed to be a priority and so I’an had to go.

Still, the brunette couldn’t quite help himself.  Bracing his arms, he used the leverage to pop his ass up in the air under the blankets, just high enough for the shape to frame his head distractingly.  Gazing up at I’an under hooded eyes, he nipped playfully at his own bottom lip.

For a moment, he thought I’an wasn’t going to bite, that the redhead’s innate sense of responsibility would win out completely.  Shaking his head, the brown rider simply leaned down and picked up his heavy tunic, pulling it on as he stalked past M’ckey down towards the water.

But it was while the brunette was struggling to shift out of his pose and turn around that the sneak attack came.

It was a whirl of blankets and flailing limbs but in the end, I’an pinned him easily, securing M’ckey flat on his back with his wrists crossed and trapped above his head.  The redhead wasn’t wasting any time and M’ckey couldn’t keep the grin off his face as I’an let his full body weight settle on top of him. The brown rider was smirking down at him and M’ckey couldn’t suppress a shiver as it ran up his spine.  This was what he’d wanted, deep down in the selfish innermost core of him that wished they didn’t always have to put the safety of Pern first. And as he stared up into I’an’s eyes, he could see the hints of dark playfulness flitting behind the green.  It turned the shiver into a delicate tremble as he gazed into his lover’s face.

“So you

were

trying to tease me,” the redhead demanded, the timber in his voice as dark as his eyes, “When you know I have to go to work?”

M’ckey let his whole body relax, but the ruse did him no good.  A moment later, when he attempted to surge up against the redhead’s hold, he was immediately flattened and pinned even more securely.

“Didn’t really think I’d fall for that shite, did you?” I’an drawled.  Ducking his head, he began to worry at the skin at the juncture of M’ckey’s neck with his teeth.  The brunette squirmed but it was no use. I’an’s hold on him was way too secure.

“The hell happened to going to work?” he demanded, trying to stop the hitch in his breath as I’an continued to tease him.  He could feel the redhead’s grin against his shoulder.

“But you want me to stay,” came the lilting reply.

M’ckey didn’t know what he was expecting but he could sense the energy building up around them.  I’an’s quick and tactical mind was devising some plan that was destined to be deliciously insidious.  He’d never guessed, back when they’d still been relegated to sneaking into the darkest corners of Southern Crom, that the middle Gallagher had this kind of ingenious potential, but this I’an, the one who was free from the unaccepting shackles of his former home, was fecking creative.

Above him, M’ckey could feel I’an shifting and suddenly a knee was working its way between his thighs.  His legs were mostly trapped by the blankets and he couldn’t mount any defense as the redhead reared up over him and stared down into his eyes.  He was completely at I’an’s mercy, but even in his helplessness, he couldn’t contain every little sliver of Milkovich.

“What?” he asked mockingly, meeting the fiery gaze.

I’an’s grin only widened.

It started slowly, a light, warm sensation running up and down the length of his limbs.  It felt like fingertips, gently grazing over the extremities of his body. What the...it felt like I’an’s hands but they were clearly still wrapped around his wrists, pinning him firmly to the ground.  And then he knew. The bond! Fecking hells, I’an was touching him through their bond! Above him, the redhead’s grin only got wider and more amused as he read the realization on M’ckey’s face.

Immediately, the feeling became more intense.  Holy hells. M’ckey could hear himself choking out some desperate moans, but words were evading him.  How the feck...shite! They’d grown so much stronger, so much more skilled at navigating the bond safely.  They used it to communicate, to knit their whole fighting wing together, but never in his wildest fantasies had M’ckey ever even entertained this shite.  His body, already so sensitive from two prior interludes with I’an and his cock, was jumping reflexively at the intense sensation. It felt like the redhead was everywhere, touching him perfectly.  He could feel I’an all over him and inside of him, so fecking deep inside him, and he had to slam his eyes closed as the feeling became too much to bear.

“Mick?” I’an breathed against his ear, invoking a name he only used now in the heat of passion.  It did its job. M’ckey could feel his own shaft starting to fill, curling up along his stomach under the weight of the blankets.  As his swollen head brushed against the cloth, his eyes flew open again to meet I’an’s gaze.

“Good boy,” the redhead whispered.

How the hells?

M”ckey heard himself ask in his own head, though the only sound he managed to make was a breathy, “ho...how...ah.”  I’an clearly understood, but didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he tightened his grip around M’ckey’s wrists and pulled his arms wide, only to push them back down against the straw tick beneath them.  Loosening his grip, the redhead leaned over, pressing a kiss to one wrist and then the other. Then he sat back on his haunches between M’ckey’s thighs and stared down.

“Don’t move.”

The command cut off whatever feeble attempts M’ckey had been making to sit up.  His mind and body were in no position to launch any kind of rebellion anyway. It felt like there were hands everywhere, plying at his nipples, stroking gently over the sensitized walls of his channel, toying with his lips and tongue.  His cock was hard and throbbing and it bumped and rubbed against the blankets as he frantically thrust and tossed his hips. The desperate movements only adding to the torture as I’an continued to use the bond to give him pleasure but no release.

“I gotta go.”

There was little jocularity in the voice I’an used and his expression was hard and stony.  It was the voice of a commander who expects to be obeyed and it might have thrown M’ckey if the brunette hadn’t been able to see the fiery mischief that glowed in those green eyes.  This was a game, he realized, and I’an was laying down the rules.

And M’ckey knew without a doubt that he wouldn’t be breaking them.

“I gotta go,” the redhead repeated, reaching up and gently cradling the base of the blue-eyed man’s shaft.  The light touch drew a sharp gasp from his throat but I’an looked utterly unmoved as he continued to hold him and stare him down.  “Now, I want you to stay just like this, until this cock starts to behave itself. When it calms down and realizes that it doesn’t get to come until I’m inside you again, then you can move.”

Releasing him, I’an let his thumb run gently up and down the seam of the shaft.  “Lalith is still resting at the end of the beach. I’m sure she’ll be happy to stay and sleep for as long as it takes for you to behave.  And when you get back, we’ll have a nice dinner in the hall. And then we’ll go back to the weyr and I’ll sit in that chair by the fire that you like so much and let you fuck yourself on me for as long as you want.  But no hands,” he insisted, twirling a thumb around M’ckey’s swollen head and pulling another needy groan from his mouth, “No hands now or later. On my dick or not at all.”

Fecking hells!  M’ckey wanted to protest, wanted to tell the smug faced brown rider that he’d better fuck him quick and hard before he took off to his meeting, now that he had M’ckey primed and desperate.  But he didn’t. He couldn’t. In fact, he felt his head nodding his agreement to the redhead’s orders as I’an leaned up and cupped his face.

“Kiss me goodbye,” he whispered.

And M’ckey did.

The brunette let his eyes fall closed, squinting and squeezing his fingers into fists in a meek attempt to relieve some of the burning pleasure that coursed through him as I’an cradled his head with huge hands and thoroughly tongue fucked his mouth.  And then the redhead was gone, his weight lifting away from M’ckey’s body. The blankets was pulled snugly up and around him so that only his face and hands were exposed. Still stuck deep in the heat of the bond, M’ckey couldn’t even pry his eyes open to watch as the redhead climbed atop his mount and took flight.

Leaving M’ckey spread out and writhing against the little mattress as his body thrummed.

Shite!

Forcing his eyes open, M’ckey stared up at the sky.  He was pulling in deep and frantic breaths as his body tried to wrestle with the sensual bombardment.  Whipping his head to the side, he could see his own hand lying clenched and tight and helpless, against the old mattress.  It wasn’t bound. He could move it freely if he wanted. He could wrap it around his swollen shaft and end his misery.

But he wasn’t going to.  No matter how desperate he felt, he knew he wasn’t going to.  He was going to keep his hands to himself and let his body wrestle with the pleasure.  He was going to follow the rules. He was going to let I’an play with his body and take him to dinner and then take him in his arms and torture him anew until he fell apart on the redhead’s cock.

Fecking…

His body leaped, his back and neck arching as a flash wave of pleasure assaulted him.  Damn I’an! The redhead was lengths away now but he wasn’t really, still playing havoc with M’ckey’s body through their connection.  He was ratcheting up his efforts, the gentle feeling of hands instantly replaced by the slick and insistent sensation of a million tongues, probing steadily at his furl and roaming up and down the length of his shaft.  For the briefest of moments, M’ckey tried to resist the urge, tried to bite down on his lip and stay quiet, but it was a thoroughly wasted effort. His first cry was low and choked but the one that tore out of his throat next was loud and insistent.  So was the one that followed it and the one that followed that. Over and over, he moaned, wordless and wanton, as his brilliantly evil lover continued to torment him.

Dammit, he was close, he was so fecking close.  His hips were thrusting madly against the blanket as his cock bobbed and brushed against the heavy material,  A particularly devious sensation had him arching off the mattress again, his mouth falling open as he screamed silently into the blue sky.  Still, though, his hands didn’t move, pinned down by force of I’an’s will.

Hells, he was going to come.  He could feel the incredible tension building and his sack tightening.  No, no, shite, no! He couldn’t. He was supposed to be calming down. That’s what I’an wanted him to do, even if he was the one currently turning M’ckey’s whole body to fire.  No, he wasn’t going to lose control now. He was going to fight. Turning his head, the brunette pressed his face down against his upper arm and forced himself to breath deeply, meticulously counting to five with each exhalation.  The heat and rippling sensations didn’t abate but he gritted his teeth and dug his nails into the palms of his hands and counted and counted and counted.

He didn’t know how long this went on, his mind pushing out everything except the steady hitch of his own breath and the beat of the count.  In and out, over and over, he breathed and counted. And suddenly he realized that the teasing touches had stopped. His whole body was still hypersensitive, but he was no longer on the cusp of breaking the rules and the phantom hands that continued to caress him were no longer agonizing.  Instead, they kneading at the base of his neck and the small of his back, digging into the pressure points on his clenched palms.

Slowly, M’ckey let his body relax back against the mattress, soaking up the sensation as I’an switched tactics, using the connection to soothe his tense body.  M’ckey wasn’t complaining. Beneath the covers, his shaft lay lightly against his stomach. He had not intention of reaching for it, but he pulled his arms down and let them lie limply along his sides.  He felt exhausted.

Gentle, imaginary fingers were now stroking over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, lulling him into comfort.  Damn I’an. He’d tortured him halfway to insanity and now he was settling him into sleep. Fine. M’ckey would take offense to that later.  Now, though, he let himself be lulled into a decent nap

*************************************************************************************

A warm breath was misting against M’ckey’s cheek.  In the darkness behind his eyelids, the brunette started to stir awake, groggily assessing the state of his body.  He hadn’t moved, still sprawled on his back, and while his cock had finally settled down, the rest of his body still thrummed with need.  Something large and insistent was nudging at his left side.

“Lal,” he groaned, batting the giant head away with a hand.

Do not blame me,

echoed the voice inside his head.

The fe...

Opening his eyes, he found not Lalith but Mindeth breathing down on him, with an amused C’rin grinning from her back.

“Oh fecking hells,” M’ckey heard himself shriek as he rolled away to a standing position, giving the whole shoreline a view of his ass as he snatched up his discarded pile of clothes.

“I’m not even going to ask,” his friend chortled from the back of his green, rocking slightly with mirth as he watched M’ckey struggle with the dragoncloth leggings.

“As if your ass even needs to,” M’ckey bit back, though he knew his friend didn’t believe his anger for one second, “You think anyone bought that shite about you and D’vin going ‘riding’ up in the mountains last pass?  Fecking...we all know what you were riding,” But all his words did was widen the smug grin that decorated the other green rider’s face. Disgruntled, M’ckey turned back towards his clothes. “The hell you doing here anyway?”

“I’an sent me.”

“What?” M’ckey could feel his cheeks pink but his friend only continued in a mockingly serious tone.

“Yes, he was very concerned.  Worried that he’d possibly debauched you into insanity and you’d never find your way back.”  C’rin ducked, sliding from Mindeth’s back as M’ckey balled up one of the blankets and flung it at his head.

“Whatever,” he muttered as he pulled on his boots and snatched up his tunic and heavy cloak.  He hissed quietly as the cloth rubbed at the tender bruises along his neckline, but even his friend’s teasing and the slight hint of pain couldn’t really sour his mood.  He felt warm and anxious for the night he’d been promised. He wouldn’t need much sleep, if the dip in the sun was any indicator. Fecking hells, how long had he been out?  From the corner of his eye, he saw Lalith alight on the ground beside him. Pulling the rest of his clothing on, he turned back towards his friend.

The look on C’rin’s face immediately pushed all other thoughts from his mind.  The other man was staring hard at the ground with a look of intent on his face, clearly straining his ears to listen.  Beside him, both of the greens were staring off into the distant treeline, rigid and ready to pounce.

M’ckey tensed as C’rin met his eyes and mouthed, “Harness, now!” with fear in his eyes.

The brunette didn’t hesitate.  He had trusted C’rin with his life many times and he trusted him now.  Turning back to the remnants of he and I’an’s little encampment, he grabbed the harness he’d stripped off his green when they landed and threw it up and over Lalith’s back.  With practiced movements, he cinched it down and secured it, then glanced back at the rest of the supplies.

Now, Mine!  There is no time!,

Lalith demanded inside his head.

Fine, the hell with it.  He’d just have to come back for them later. Turning back towards his green, he moved to climb up into the harness when he suddenly felt a familiar prickle along the back of his neck, and the sound of a pop and zing in the air.

Arrow!

He barely had a chance to think the word before he was tackled from behind and slammed to the ground.  Above him, the two greens turned as one, letting out a roar that shook the ground and rattled his ears.  Flipping over, he saw Mindeth take to the air and dive towards the treeline. But Lalith had one target in mind.  Thirty feet out from the trees, a lone bowman stood, staring in horror at the huge animal barreling towards him. Lalith showed no mercy.  Grabbing him up at her jaws, she whipped him back and forth, then flung his lifeless body to the ground.

“M’ckey?”

The weak voice of his friend drew the brunette’s attention back immediately.  At first, all he could see was C’rin’s face, dead white with eyes that were dilated and glazing.  But it only took a second for M’ckey’s gaze to fix on the huge arrowhead poking through the front of the green rider’s chest and the rapidly spreading blood pool staining his tunic.

“Oh shite!” M’ckey choked, pawing frantically at the wound.  C’rin’s sharp groan of pain yanked the brunette out of his panic.  Drawing up on his knees, he hovered protectively over his fallen friend and probed more clinically at the wound.

“It’s just through the muscle,” he murmured, trying to keep his voice calm even as both of their greens flapped above them, kicking up dirt and leaves with each beat of their massive wings.  As M’ckey tried to pull C’rin to his feet, both dragons settled onto the ground and began pacing aggressively, still staring at the treeline.

“I’m alright, Min,” C’rin murmured sluggishly, but M’ckey could see in Mindeth’s intelligent eyes that she wasn’t satisfied with that answer.

Mine!

Lalith called in his head,

Get Mindeth’s and come!  More are approaching.

There was a terrible, nervous energy in her voice, so different than her typically light and teasing tone.  It sent a fresh surge of adrenaline coursing through M’ckey and he turned to scan the distant trees. No one had emerged yet, but back in the shadows, he could see movement.

A lot of movement.

“C’rin, give me your arm,” he murmured carefully.  The two of them finally managed to find their feet, with the blonde weaving and fighting to remain steady as M’ckey held him up.  Mindeth took to the skies again, making low passes over the beachfront as the two riders attempted to climb onto Lalith’s back.

“Feck, how do we do this,” the brunette spit.

“You can’t pull me,” C’rin said, his voice weak and thready but determined, “Boost me up.  I can use my good arm to balance myself.”

Nodding, M’ckey moved behind the other man and laced his fingers together as C’rin steadied himself against Lalith’s side.  Taking a deep breath and summoning his remaining strength, the blond put his foot up into M’ckey’s hands and dragged himself up onto Lalith’s back.

“You good?” M’ckey called up.

C’rin had gone from pale to ashen but if there was one thing M’ckey knew about his friend, he’d learned how to cope with physical pain.  The other man squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth but nodded.

“Okay,” M’ckey yelled, “Okay, brace yourself.  I’m coming…”

MINE!!

The word was so loud, so insistent, that it seemed for a moment that Lalith had seized control of his actual body.  In one fluid movement, he ducked and turned back towards the treeline. What he saw pulled a dry, panicked gasp from his throat.

At least twenty armored men had stepped out from the trees.  Each was armed and imposing, but they were not the immediate threat.  That was the tall, competent looking archer who was currently drawing back his bow from a distance of forty lengths or less.  And the arrow was aimed right for M’ckey’s dragon and his helpless, injured friend on her back.

No!

He screamed in his mind, but the word was instantly drowned out by a deafening roar that seemed to shake the very ground and trouble the water of the little lake.  The archer broke his gaze, horror registering on his face for only one second before Mindeth landed on him with both claws and tore his body in two.

M’ckey gulped in shock.  He knew that dragons were allowed to attack humans in defense of themselves and the Weyrfolk but in his entire life, he’d never seen one even come close until today.  Now, though, Lalith had blood clotting her teeth and C’rin’s sweet little green had risen up over them, gore still dripping from her claws. Before any of the other warriors could think to attack or retreat, Mindeth opened her mouth and sent out a fire blast that immolated the treeline and every human in it.

Get on, Mine…

Lalith ordered.  Her voice jarred him from his horrified fugue.  Scrambling onto his girl’s back, he quickly slid into the harness, grasping tightly to C’rin’s shoulders to keep the other man secure.  Immediately, his green began to beat her wings, drawing them up into the sky.

“Where’s Min?” C’rin asked, his voice barely a whisper as he faded into unconsciousness.  Holding his friend’s limp form close, M’ckey chanced a glance beneath him. But it was no use.  All he could see before they snapped

Between

was the leaping orange glow of the fire.

************************************************************************************

“How’s your face?”

I’an glanced up from his vigil perch on the ledge of their weyr, meeting M’ckey’s eyes.

“It’s alright,” he mumbled, running a hand gingerly over the swollen cheekbone.  Pulling his hand away, he reached his hands towards the brunette. “C’mere,” he demanded, pulling M’ckey close and wrapping him in his arms.

M’ckey suppressed a worried breath.  I’an had been clinging to him since the moment he’d slid from Lalith’s back and managed to hoist his injured friend into the ready arms of the healers.  After that, there’d been nothing to do but wait.

“How’s your cheek,” he asked, skimming his thumb lightly over I’an’s bruised skin.
The redhead just shrugged.  “It’s fine,” he murmured, catching M’ckey’s hand and threading their fingers together, “Nothing more than I deserve.”
“Shite, I’an,” the brunette heard himself stammer.  His voice felt thick with fear and pain and exhaustion but he wasn’t about to let the man he loved do this to himself, “This wasn’t your fecking fault.  It wasn’t anyone’s fault except those fecking bastards from the movement.”But the redhead only shrugged again.  “Pretty sure D’vin doesn’t agree.”
“He doesn’t….I’an, he was in a panic.  He was lashing out. You aren’t responsible for this.”
“Not fecking true.  I’m the one who sent C’rin after you.”

“I’an,” M’ckey sighed, twisting in his lover’s arms until he could stare  him right in the face, “Shite, you should be...hell, we should be able to sneak away on our day off.  You should be able to ask our friend to go get me. We should be able to do this completely normal fecking things without some immoral assholes trying to kill us!” He reached up and took hold of I’an’s chin, “You need to know that.”

M’ckey stared hard at the other man but I’an’s face was scrunched up in consideration.

“That’s not why he hit me,” he said finally.  When M’ckey shot him an incredulous glare, he simply continued, “D’vin didn’t punch me because I sent C’rin after you.  It was because...shite, M’ckey, it was because he knew exactly what I knew. What we all knew. They were after you. They got C’rin by accident.  And he could see that I was fecking glad they did.”

M’ckey let his eyes fall closed and leaned in until his brow rested against the redhead’s.  “That’s not the same thing and you know it. You’re allowed to be relieved that I’m okay. Shite, I’m pretty relieved.  Doesn’t mean I’m glad it happened to my best friend instead.”

“D’vin…”

“Feels terrified.  And powerless. But he’s not actually mad at you.  Tomorrow, when C’rin’s out of danger, D’vin’s going to come apologize for that punch.  By tomorrow, he’ll be clear headed and he’ll recognize who the real threat is. He’ll be after the fecking movement in Crom.”

“And whoever is spying for them.”

“Spying?” M’ckey pulled back, meeting I’an’s gaze in shock.  “The hell...who’s spying?”

I’an shook his head.  He looked so tired and so incredibly young in this moment, as if all of the poise and confidence that belonged to I’an, brown rider and wingleader of Telgar, had faded.  In that man’s place sat Ian Gallagher, fighting every day just to stay alive. M’ckey fecking hated it. But he needed answers.

“There had to be someone, Mick,” he answered slowly, letting his gaze drift out over the Weyr.  It was silent, everyone retreating back to their own spaces, awaiting some kind of news. It could come any moment, from the healing halls or from the bugle of a dragon heralding the return of S’ngellan and his team of delegates.  They had flown off towards Crom Hold to confront the Lord Holder with the events of this afternoon as soon as C’rin had been stabilized. And with no news from either party, all that the rest of Telgar could do now was wait.

“There had to be someone,” I’an repeated, pulling M’ckey close again, “The only other way would be if they lay in wait outside the Weyr and tracked us.”

“Nah,” M’ckey muttered, “There’s no way.”

“I know.  I hate it but I know.” Pulling M’ckey’s face towards his, I’an ran a hand over his face and pressed a kiss to his brow.  “I just...someone that we’ve trusted helped our enemies try to kill you today. I don’t even know how to deal with that information.”

A bugle, loud and insistent, cut off M’ckey’s response.  Jumping to their feet, the two riders scanned the distance, searching for the delegation.

“They’re still a ways off,” I’an murmured in a tense voice, “It’s almost as if they didn’t go

Between

on the way back.”

“No way they’d fly all the way here from the Hold,” M’ckey insisted, but his voice didn’t sound so sure.  Finally, after many tense minutes, a closer bugle sounded and the group of dragons crested the top of the Weyr.  As they scrambled down from their ledge with Karth and Lalith right behind them, M’ckey found himself counting quickly.  Twelve dragons. The whole delegation had returned safely. But something was still wrong. He could feel it flickering over the lengths of the bond.

“Who’s that on Alaboth’s back?” I’an asked.  Before M’ckey could answer, both Alaboth and Feith issued a loud, insistent bugle.  All call. The entire Weyr needed to report the the meal hall.

It only took a few minutes for the worried Weyrfolk to assemble, since everyone had been awake and waiting.  And S’ngellan didn’t keep them in the dark for long. With a gesture, he called forward a young woman in a torn and filthy gown and two young boys with dirt and fearful expressions covering their faces.  M’ckey could feel his stomach turn immediately. He knew these people by sight. This was the Lady Holder of Crom and the two young sons she had born Tristan. Alaboth must have born them back. No wonder they hadn’t gone

Between,

with such young children traveling with them.  But the Lord Holder himself was nowhere to be seen.

“Tristan of Crom is dead,” S’ngellan stated simply.  A murmur of horror immediately began to roil the crowd.  I’an’s fingers dug into M’ckey’s arms a little more deeply and the redhead pulled him a little closer as the noise began to build, but the Weyrleader simply held up a hand for silence.  Everyone stared at the man in dreadful expectation. What the hell had happened?

“He did not die naturally.” S’ngellan continued, “He was taken from this world, killed by his own brother.  Rustan of Crom, the coward and traitor, has aligned himself with the Movement. He has declared the Lord Tristan’s lady and sons to be outlaws and has named himself the new Lord Holder of Crom.” The Weyrleader’s voice wavered slightly and M’ckey could see the rage simmering right beneath the calm exterior.  S’ngellan had lost a friend tonight. And an ally.

“Rustan has also declared that Crom will no longer support Telgar Weyr.”  S’ngellan let the those words linger before delivering the final decree. “So now we, the people of Telgar, will need to fight a battle on two fronts.  We must fight the thread and also the very people we seek to protect.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It only took three moon passes for Rustan of Crom to come pleading at the gates of Telgar Weyr.

For many in the Weyr, it hadn’t been long enough.  They had barely begun to process their rage at the fratricidal bastard, but suddenly, there he was, standing miserably in front of the protectors he had threatened and shunned.

I’an hadn’t wanted to let him in.  The brown rider had still been scrubbing the grime and soot off of his riding harness, fresh from a thread fight, when the so called Lord Holder had arrived, and the redhead hadn’t been in a particularly merciful mood.   Many in the Weyr felt the same way. The leadership of Telgar had issued a necessary but devastating decree against Crom. As punishment for his crimes against his brother and the Weyr to which he was bound, Rustan and all lands that answered to him as Lord Holder would no longer receive full protection from threadfall.

It was an awful sentence and it hurt everyone in the Weyr to see it enforced, but what else was there to be done?  On the one hand, the innocent would suffer. The decree had initially sent I’an, M’ckey, and every other Weyrfolk with family in Crom into a panic.  Thread was too dangerous to ignore. True, Faidre and S’ngellan hadn’t passed a death sentence on the people. The dragons and their riders still fought off the majority of the thread over the land.  But where they’d once been committed to burning and destroying every last strand, now they let a small number slip through their ranks and hit the ground, requiring the regular folk to run out and fight the awful shite themselves before it burrowed into the soil and began to spread.  It was dangerous, and reports of some of the injuries that the people of Crom had suffered while battling the stuff had trickled back to the Weyr, raising the tension even further.

Nonetheless, the leadership held strong, keeping the long term goals in the forefront of their minds.  The people of Crom had been too protected for too long, they argued. The needed to be reminded of the real risk that the dragon riders took for them every day.  They needed to be reminded of why they needed to keep the alliances. I’an understood this, but it didn’t make he or M’ckey feel any better when they thought about their exposed siblings and former neighbors going out into their field with torches to burn the lingering thread.

It seemed the plan was yielding some results, though, if Rustan’s arrival was any indication.  And as much as I’an didn’t want to grant any kind of audience to the fecking bastard, he knew that it was good for the people of Crom, most of whom were still innocent, for talks to begin between the Lord Usurper and the leadership of the Weyr.

He didn’t have to like it, though.

“Wipe that look off your fecking face before we get in there,” M’ckey muttered as they headed towards the meeting hall, “We have to look respectful.”

“To that piece of shite?” the redhead demanded as they hurried down the corridor.

“To our leaders. To the proceedings.  To the idea of negotiation. We don’t give anything away.  C’mon, man. You know better than to tip your hand like that,”  M’ckey shot him a withering look as he ducked into the huge chamber and headed towards his assigned seat down the side of the long table to the Weyrwoman’s left.  I’an could only shake his head as he fell into his own seat. The Southern Crom shite-talker he’d fallen in love with was now lecturing him on etiquette and statecraft.  How the hell had that happened?

He didn’t have long to consider it, though, because the Weyrleadership was already filing into the hall and finding their chairs.  Rustan followed, winding his way around to the far end of the table with the members of his cabinet. I’an could barely suppress a snort when he realized that all but one chair had been pulled away from the guest’s end, leaving the Lord Holder seated alone at the end of the long table with his entourage clustered awkwardly behind him.  As he stared at the man, I’an felt his rage burn anew, but he took his cue from his leaders, schooling his expression into one of contemptuous disinterest. It was an effective tactic, specifically designed to prick at the Lord Holder’s insecurities, and the brown rider was suddenly reminded that S’ngellan had been Rustan’s full time companion at Crom Hold for much of their childhood and adolescence.  The Weyrleader knew his opponent quite intimately, but that knowledge didn’t run in both directions. Rustan had never bothered to foment the lessons his father had hoped to teach him through the enforced bond with the young drudge, lessons that might have helped him in this moment.

I’an had no sympathy for the arrogant feck.  And if anyone at the table actually did, it was erased the moment Rustan opened his mouth.

“You seem to struggling with containing thread since Crom cut off their tithes,” he growled insolently, “I believe you’ve all had enough time to learn your lesson.”

The ass actually had the audacity to pause, letting that statement hang in the air as he stared down the length of the table.  The empty bravado wavered quickly, though. Seated across from him, S’ngellan and Faidre offered no response.

“You can’t keep letting that shite land on Crom!” he pressed, leaning forward in his chair as his face turned red.

Still S’ngellan said nothing, and again, I’an had to admire their strategy.  Instead of the Weyrleader, it was Faidre, tiny and female, who leaned forward and innocently asked, “Why not?”

Rustan’s reaction, while predictable, was still shocking to witness.  “I am here to speak to the leader of this Weyr, not to some woman!” he roared, pounding his fist on the table.  Fixing his eyes back on S’ngellan, he practically spit, “Do you think me stupid? Do you? You can’t let thread fall on Crom.  It will spread into other lands and devour everything.”

“No, it won’t,” Faidre replied simply.

“What are you talking about, you stupid woman?  You can’t contain it…”

“We can.”

Rustan fell silent, choking on his words.  It was clear to everyone at the table that the Lord Holder had no answer to that.  Faidre offered him a beatific smile, still calmly seated in her chair, but around the edges of the table, I’an could see some shifts and discomfort in the other riders.  It probably wasn’t obvious to the asses from Crom, thank hells, but to the tight knit members of the community, the distress was clear Across the way, I’an could see M’ckey’s jaw tighten slightly and he knew that the brunette was feeling the same churning nerves.  What the hells was Faidre talking about?

“Everyone out,” came the fierce order from Rustan, gesturing towards his own men to leave the hall.  He looked absolutely murderous when the riders kept their seats and looked as one towards Faidre for direction.  The woman offered an imperious nod of her head and I’an found himself rising to his feet in unison with his brothers, heading towards the door.

He was nearly out when he noticed that M’ckey hadn’t followed the rest of the riders.  Instead, the brunette was standing behind his seat with his eyes fixed on S’ngellan, clearly engaged in some kind of silent discussion.  Reaching out with his mind, I’an could feel the tension and panic building up inside the green rider, but before he could intervene, Faidre was there, taking M’ckey by the arm and speaking to him in a hushed tone as she led him towards the exit. As she passed by, she looped a hand around I’an’s elbow and pulled him along as well.

The heavy door fell closed behind them but the tiny woman just kept moving forward, down the long hall to the door of her own private weyr.  It wasn’t until that door had also shut that she finally released them.

“Faidre!” M’ckey demanded immediately, “What the hell?  We can’t...people live there.

Our

people,” he insisted, gesturing between himself and I’an.

“And you’re not even talking about the Southern lands.  You’re talking about all of Crom!” I’an heard himself interjecting, “I know the Movement’s laid down its roots there but hell!  Most of those people aren’t even involved in this shite.”

“Would they help us fight back?” Faidre asked.

“They’d want to but...they’re fecking terrified,” M’ckey stated, finding a seat at the table in Faidre’s conference alcove and failing into it, “When S’ngellan first came for me in the dungeons...he saw it then.  There were some kitchen drudges who practically ran away from him, but he wasn’t what was scaring them. It was the Movement. They’d wormed their way into the foundation of the whole region.”

“And we know they’re killers,” the Weyrwoman replied.  Turning to a sideboard table, she poured herself a glass of water and drank it down.  “We must do something, you understand. I don’t want to leave the people vulnerable to thread, but what choice do we have?  The Movement has cut off our tithes, maimed and killed our riders, and slaughtered a trusted and valuable ally. The retaliation must be decisive.  This type of brazen abuse cannot be allowed to spread unchallenged.”

“But you’re talking about completely abandoning all of Crom!” M’ckey cried, leaning on his hands and staring at her, “Sure, the regular folk can go out and fight a few strands of thread but they’ll never survive a full threadfall.  Even if they weren’t scored to death, they’d never destroy it before it burrowed.”

Faidre’s eyes were understanding as she took a seat across from the green rider and gestured for I’an to join them at the table.  “Do you both trust me?” she asked simply, holding their gaze.

M’ckey squirmed but nodded and I’an answered with an easy “Yes.” He did.  He did trust her. But he didn’t understand this.

“Rustan arrived sooner than we expected, but as I sit here now, I realize that was foolish on S’ngellan’s and I’s part.  He is a coward. He wouldn’t have had the courage to stand up to the people he would rule when they came demanding help in the face of threadfall.  So he ran right here to beg and attempt to bully.”

“He’s actually expecting us to go along with his shite about needing his tithes.” I’an spat.

“Well, we do need his tithes, but yes, he’s actually hoping we’ll accept that this is our fault and that we need him more than he needs us.  He’s hoping we’ll believe that he has the power in this negotiation,” Faidre took another long drink of her water and said, “He is a very stupid man.”

“What’s the move then?” I’an asked.

“As I said, he arrived earlier than we expected or we would have invited you into the planning.  I apologize for that. But the threat that S’ngellan will deliver is quite simple and brutal. He’s going to tell Rustan that if he does not agree to our terms, we will burn a perimeter a length wide around the entirety of Crom.  We will burn it twenty feet deep as well. We will kill anything in the soil, making it impassable for any thread. And then we will leave Crom to determine how best to fight their enemies on their own.”

“Are you fecking serious?” M’ckey spluttered, real anger building in his voice.

“No.”

Faidre’s simple answer caught both of them by surprise.  I’an, who’d been halfway through the process of lunging up from his chair in outrage, fell back into his seat.

“What the hell are you talking about, Faidre?” he demanded, “We can’t do that.  Even if we wanted to…”

“It’s impossible,” Faidre finished his thought, smiling at him.  “Correct. Even if we could find a way to live with ourselves, there’s no way to create an impermeable barrier.  The thread would find its way through and begin to spread. It always does.” Leaning back in her chair, she took another drink of water. “I know this, I’an.  You know this, M’ckey knows this, and S’ngellan definitely knows this. And Lord Tristan of Crom knew this as well. He was informed on the strengths and limitations of the Weyrs.  He bothered to pay attention and learn,” she paused for a moment and took another long drink, her eyes pensive and distant. “His younger brother, however, has no such understanding.  He could never be bothered to learn about the dangers of thread. To him, time was better spent vilifying the people who gave him protection rather than understanding his real enemy.”

An angry edge was cutting through Faidre’s typically soft spoken voice.  I’an hated it. He hated the gray streaks that were starting to spread through his leader’s hair and the deepening lines that marred her increasingly drawn features.  Faidre was one of the strongest people I’an had ever known, but anyone would start to show signs of strain under the weight of all she’d been forced to bear in her life.  M’ckey clearly heard it to, because the fury in his eyes was fading into real worry.

“Are you alright?” he asked her.

She offered him a weak smile.  “No, honestly. None of us is alright.  But we’ll continue on. We have no other choice.”  Rising to her feet, she headed towards the door, gesturing for the two men to follow her.

“We heading back in?” M’ckey asked, “Already?”

“Just us,” she replied lightly, “By now, S’ngellan will have said what he needed to say to our guest.  And I’m sure that having ‘some woman’ and the two of you witness the final verdict will make a rather effective point.”

Faidre didn’t knock.  She simply strode right into the meeting hall and took her seat at the head of the table.  I’an’s eyes alighted on Rustan at the far end of the room. The would-be Lord Holder was slumped down and looked completely defeated.

“Well,” Faidre asked, her tone conversational and unaffected, “Have we come to an understanding?”

“We have,” the Weyrleader answered.  His voice and jaw were both tight, firm, but his eyes looked pained.

“He wants me to negotiate terms of surrender with the Movement’s leaders,” Rustan answered in a flat voice, “ If they’re willing to give themselves up, you’ll all start fighting the thread again.  Otherwise, you’ll gradually start pulling back even more.”

“I see.”

“You see?” Rustan sputtered at her, rage rising in his voice again, “What do you see?  He wants me to swear that I will turn leadership over to my brother’s eldest son, a boy of only ten turns!  He wants me to cede Crom to Tristan’s widow, to serve as executor. He wants

me

to be holdless.”

“Good.”

The single word, uttered from a woman no less, cut the arrogant rant off immediately.  Rustan looked completely shocked and his only response was a meek, questioning, “Good?”

“Yes, good,” Faidre continued.  She took her seat primly at the head of the table and gestured for I’an and M’ckey to take theirs as well.

“Do you see these two men?” she asked Rustan, staring down the table at him.  “They are both formerly of Crom. The Southern Farmholds, to be exact. Are you familiar with it?”

“No,” he stammered, shooting I’an and M’ckey suspicious glances, “It’s far..it’s…”

“Poor,” Faidre finished.  “Yes, it is poor. The people who live there do so by hard work, wit, and some creative bending of the rules.  It’s also the place where the Movement really found a foothold within your lands. Your brother knew this. He knew that this group was smart, organized, and mobilizing.  He knew that they were targeting the ones who struggle the most, using their fears, giving them someone to blame for their problems. Tristan knew this because he knew Crom.  He visited every corner of it. He toured the mines without giving warning so he could see the real circumstances his people suffered through, instead of the sanitized versions the overseers tried to offer.  He went out into the field with the farm workers. He hunkered down in small farmholds during a thread fall. He saw his people.” She paused, but the man at the far end of the table wouldn’t even meet her eyes.

“But you,” she continued, derision clear in her voice, “You have never even been to the Southern lands.  These men, here, they grew up there. They lived every day of their lives there, pulling a meager existence out of it’s soil, and they would have stayed there forever if they hadn’t been conscripted to live here and risk their lives to fight thread.  They do this, turn after turn. They put their own skin on the lines to protect you from an enemy, and you can’t even be bothered to go visit their homeland. And now you have killed an ally and attempted to weaken our position for your own gains. And so, to answer you original question, good.  I think it is good that you will now be forced to live amongst the common folk. I think it is good that you should have to eek out an existence. You were born to privilege and you squandered it. Why should you keep it?”

The man at the far end of the table said nothing, his shoulders sagging in on themselves.  His eyes were glassy and fixed on the table in front of him.

“He couldn’t control them,” he offered meekly, without raising his gaze.  “The Movement, I mean. They hated him. I thought...I thought I’d be able to control them better.”

“No, you thought you’d be able to use them.  You thought you’d be able to make an effective power grab, using the violence and discord they were sowing.  But you were wrong. You can’t use them or control them. They’re controlling you.” S’ngellan spit the words out across the table, rising to his feet to look down at his broken former friend, “They have killed our brothers in arms.  They have killed our allies. They don’t get to keep their puppet. Now, you walk out of here and carry our terms back. They can surrender themselves to us, to be turned over to the Lord Holder of Telgar for trial. Otherwise, we will burn a perimeter around Crom and leave it to die.  And we will protect that border. If Crom becomes our enemy, then it will be treated as such, and anyone who attempts to flee the land will be burned.”

“You wouldn’t…”

“We won’t get a vote.  Dragons live by a code and look to their riders and the hierarchy of a Weyr for guidance and direction, but they are sentient and free.  If they perceive something, or someone, as a threat, they will burn it. We will not be able to stop them. So understand me when I tell you that you will receive no more mercy than the terms to which we are agreed.  For mercy isn’t mine alone to grant.”

*************************************************************************************

“M’ckey?  Mick? Wake up!”

“The feck,” M’ckey batted away at the hand that was incessantly shaking his shoulder, but it did no good.  I’an was set on dragging him out of the weak sleep he’d finally managed. The day before had been exhausting, between the lengthy threadfight and the arrival of Rustan.  The bitter and broken Lord Holder hadn’t departed until nightfall, opting to sleep with his men beyond the walls of the Weyr. None had been inclined to stop him. No one in the Weyr had found their beds until the the delegation from Crom had finally made their way out of the gates.

And now, only a few hours later, I’an was forcing him awake, and not for anything fun, if the redhead’s tone of voice was any indicator.

“What’s wrong,” M’ckey asked, shaking off his sleep and staring into the gray light of pre-dawn.

“I’m not sure,” I’an answered, sitting up and gazing towards the ledge.  Lalith and Karth were rustling awake. Something had happened. They could all feel it.

“C’mon,” I’an murmured, throwing off the heavy blankets, grabbing up warm clothes, and hurrying towards the firepit to dress.  M’ckey followed, suddenly desperate to know what was causing the communal distress.

They found their way to the meal hall, which was rapidly filling as more and more Weyrfolk awoke to the same unsettled sensation.  It was so early that the hearths were still banked down but some of the kitchen drudges were putting out hard cakes and making fresh, hot klah.  I’an had pressed a distracted kiss to M’ckey’s cheek and immediately headed towards a group of his fellow wingleaders, but the green rider was too busy scanning the room for the leadership to follow him.  He couldn’t find any of them, but he did spot R’hil and B’ron sitting atop one of the trestle tables with a shared, tense look on their faces.

“Have you seen the leadership?” he asked as he approached and took a seat beside them.

They nodded quickly.  “Only S’ngellan and Justine,” B’ron responded, gesturing with his chin towards the archway that led towards the meeting halls.  “They were barely awake and they hurried away with the messenger.”

“What messenger?”

“Someone arrived this morning.  They were bloody and dressed in nondescript clothing so…”

“There,” R’hil interjected, pointing towards the door to the meeting hall, which now framed an exhausted looking, mud covered man, flanked on either side by S’ngellan and Justine.  The hall was practically full now, and M’ckey could see Faidre standing in the far doorway with D’vin at her side. There was a brief, silent exchange between the two leaders as the tension in the room continued to build, but finally, S’ngellan’s shoulders fell slightly and he opened his mouth to utter one simple, but devastating message.

“Rustan of Crom and his party were attacked by the Movement as they set out to return to Crom Hold.  He was taken prisoner and put on some sort of trial, standing accused of treason. He was declared guilty…” S’ngellan’s voice wavered ever so slightly, but the entire hall tensed at the unfamiliar sound.

“Rustan of Crom,” he finally continued, “Rustan was executed by the Movement.  Crom is in their hands now.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The Weyr at Telgar had not sat idly by.  Not at all. No, they had reached out to the other Lord Holders and Weyrleaders.  They had increased all the efforts to strengthen their alliances, with M’ckey writing a letter a day, threadfall or not.  They’d kept in regular contact with Lip, tracking the slow progress he was making as he slogged through the information in the Crafthall.

The Weyr had worked.  They had taken precautions.  They had begun to plan for the rapidly approaching eventuality of confronting the rebellion in Crom.

No one could’ve foreseen what would occur.  Of course, that didn’t stop M’ckey, Justine, and Faidre from castigating themselves for their lack of prescience.

M’ckey was in the Healer’s Hall the first time it happened.  C’rin was still struggling with some residual pain from the arrow wound and M’ckey found himself lounging on the floor with B’ron and R’hil, keeping their friend company as the Healer examined him.  It was a rare moment, and it took M’ckey back to a simpler time, before he and his closest friends had experienced the mating flights that had changed them. They were all accomplished riders now, established in their Wings.  They were all deeply involved in relationships. But sometimes M’ckey couldn’t help but miss the easy dynamic that they still shared but rarely indulged in. It was nice, for once, to just sit and be.

In the Weyr, though, peace never lasted.  And this was doubly true, it seemed, for the Weyr at Telgar.

“What’s that screaming?” R’hil asked, rising to his feet and walking towards the distant racket coming from the healer’s ledge.  Already, M’ckey could feel the tendrils of dread rising and he reached out for Lalith and I’an. He headed towards the ledge with B’ron at his side, pausing only to gesture for C’rin to remain.

“Let him look,” he demanded, waving his hand towards the Healer, “We may...feck, we need you better.  We’re going to need you in the sky.”

C’rin grimaced but nodded.

Outside, there was tension and confusion everywhere, but no clear answers. Weyrfolk and dragons alike milled around in agitation, but gradually it became clear to M’ckey that the epicenter of the chaos was the door to the meal hall.

“The hell…,” he muttered aloud before turning his voice inwards.

Lal? What’s going on.

There is a rider down,

she answered quickly.

M’ckey felt his stomach drop.  Not again.

Another attack?  How? Where?

No, Mine.  The rider collapsed in the hall.  He is ill, not injured.

M’ckey rolled that thought over in his mind, slowing his feet.  Beside him, his friends slowed as well.

“Why would a sudden illness cause this much panic?” B’ron asked, clearly having been in discussion with his own mount.

M’ckey could only shake his head.  He didn’t know. The last thing Telgar needed was a plague to move through it right now, but still, one single rider falling ill shouldn’t cause a Weyr-wide uproar.  It had to be something else.

Faidre want you, Mine

, Lalith murmured.  Even inside his head, M’ckey could hear the fear in his green’s voice,

She calls you to her weyr and requests that you send B’ron and R’hil back to the Healer’s Hall to watch over P’tre and C’rin.

P’tre?

The fallen rider, Mine.  He is not from our Wing. Faidre wants him watched.  And C’rin.

Is there a threat?

M’ckey demanded.

I don’t...Mine, I know nothing.  Feith is relaying what information she has.  Come to Faidre’s, Mine. Now!

“Shite!” M’ckey spit out, turning towards his friends.  “Do you know P’tre?”

“Vaguely,” R’hil answered.  “He rides a large blue. He was in my second mating flight.  Didn’t catch us, obviously.” He quieted as they turned to watch a small crowd hurry by, carrying the blue rider’s prone body towards the Healer’s Hall.

“Faidre wants us to stay with him,” B’ron stated, moving to follow.  M’ckey only nodded his agreement. They had their orders. He had his.  As he headed towards Faidre’s weyr, his steadily building anxiety caused him to break into a run.  By the time he finally fought his way through the milling Weyrfolk and pushed through the Weyrwoman’s door, the entire leadership had already assembled.  I’an was leaning against a column across the room but M’ckey didn’t even have a moment to walk over to the brown rider before D’vin pushed into the space and began speaking.

“There is no immediate diagnosis from the Healer’s Halls,” he stated, “But they all agree the initial signs look the same.”

There was real fear in the Werylingmaster’s voice, and that same fear was mirrored back at him as he stared down the length of the table into Faidre’s eyes.  The Weyrwoman broke the gaze first, letting her head fall forward as she leaned heavily on the sturdy wood, but all in the room had seen the tears that welled before she looked away.

“What signs?” came a voice from the back.  M’ckey’s eyes turned with everyone else’s to land upon a younger Wingleader, who’s confused and apprehensive expression was matched by every other youth in the room.  M’ckey could feel I’an reaching out towards him and he pushed back against the bond, grounding them both as S’ngellan rose from a seat and began to speak.

“We don’t believe the illness that befell P’tre is new to this Weyr.  We’ve seen these symptoms before. They match the illness that took a number of our riders, including our former Weyrwoman and nearly all the Queen rider’s of Telgar.”

“This is what killed Sufia?” another voice asked incredulously.

“I fear it may be,” The Weyrleader answered in a voice that cracked around the edges.

The blue rider fought hard, but in the end, there was nothing to be done.  Before the dawn of the new day, while the riders of Telgar fought thread on the border of High Reaches, P’tre died.  Within moments of his passing, his blue let out a low, mournful bugle and rose up into the sky. He had passed in

Between

, never to emerge, before the rest of the Weyr could even react.  When Faidre returned, she held the fallen rider and sang mourning songs until the sun burned high overhead and Justine gently took the body for burial.

There was a darkness hanging over the Weyrwoman now.  She looked haunted, even as she continued to efficiently lead Telgar.  The weight that hung around her was not simple despair though. That would have been easier to address.  No, this was the crackling, unrelenting anticipation of more to come. This was dread.

Faidre’s fears did not go unanswered for long.  Less than a moon turn later, a brown rider was taken ill.  He too passed on within hours of the onset of his symptoms, taking his mount with him.

It was at that moment that the people of Telgar began to panic.  Indeed, the first burgeoning signs of strain had started to break out amongst the population.  The meal hall was empty that night, and the caldera open and devoid. Even after the most intense of threadfights, some riders could be found lingering around campfires, sharing a cup of ale, but not on this night.  Everyone had fled back to their own weyrs, studiously avoiding each other for fear of catching the disease. Even the leadership was hesitant to meet.

So when a sharp pounding began on M’ckey’s door, he couldn’t help but freeze up.

“The feck is that?” I’an demanded, coming awake beside him and sitting up to light a candle.  When M’ckey shook off his paralysis and shifted towards the edge of the bed, the redhead grabbed him.

“Don’t!” he demanded, dragging the brunette back onto the bed.  M’ckey followed his gaze towards the ledge, where Lalith and Karth now stood at attention.

It is Faidre, Mine,

came the answer to the unasked question.

Instead of trying to extricate himself from I’an’s grib, M’ckey just dragged the lanky redhead along with him, cracking open the heavy door to find the tiny Weyrwoman trembling with rage.

“I need you.  Now. Both of you.  Come directly to the leader’s meeting hall.”  And she turned and was gone.

Shutting the door, M’ckey turned towards I’an, consternation written all over his face.  “The hell,” he murmured, but already he and I’an were hurrying into their clothing and pulling on their boots.  On the ledge, the dragons sat at attention, as nervous as their riders at the lack of information. By the time M’ckey wrapped a heavy dragoncloth cloak around his shoulders, I’an was already waiting at the door.

“C’mon,” the brown rider demanded, but he softened the words by threading their fingers together as they paced down the hall.

The soundproof chamber was largely empty when they arrived, but D’vin slammed the heavy door shut and barred it behind them anyway.

“Where is everybody?” M’ckey asked, scanning the occupants of the room.  It was only the upper leadership in the chamber; Faidre and S’ngellan, D’vin and Justine.  And in the far corner, the Head Healer sat, drumming his fingers against a scroll with a pensive grimace on his lips.

“Sit,” Faidre demanded, catching the sharp tone of her voice and attempting to soften it with a smile that did not reach her eyes.  M’ckey and I’an didn’t argue, finding seats quickly and giving the Weyrwoman their full attention. She looked murderous, as did D’vin.  Justine and S’ngellan looked as if they were ready to prevent an explosion. All around them, tension crackled in the air.

“There is no illness,” S’ngellan stated, his voice clipped, as if he chose each word with care.  For a moment, M’ckey couldn’t comprehend the meaning of the statement, but then his eyes turned towards the Head Healer.

“It’s passed?  That’s...but that’s fecking great.  Why…” the words caught in his throat.  No, that couldn’t be what Faidre meant.  Such news would be cause for celebration, not this horrible secret meeting in the dead of night.

“No,” Faidre spat, confirming his fears, “No, it has not passed.  It was never here to begin with.”

“What…” I’an began, but the Weyrwoman silenced him with the wave of a hand.  “Listen,” she insisted, “All of you.” And with that, she inclined her head towards the Head Healer, who nodded and opened his scroll.

“I only told this to Faidre.  I...I wasn’t sure who could be trusted.  Not among those at this table, you understand, but in the Weyr.   The dragons, the bonds. It is hard to keep a secret.”

“But you all must!” Faidre interjected, “Even from your mounts.  None of what you hear can be shared yet. It is not in their nature to hold back or deceive and this information cannot get into the wrong hands.”

“What is it?” D’vin demanded.  There was dark, directionless suspicion in his voice as he glared down the table.  The Healer cleared his throat.

“I was only a journeymen when the Queen riders of Telgar fell ill.  I wasn’t good for much other than wiping brows, but I helped to record every detail of the illness.  It was slow and lingering. They wasted away gradually. But the symptoms; the cold sweats, the vomiting, the broken blood vessels in the eyes and nose; all of these were the same in the two most recent deaths.  But the speed...the speed was what gave it away.”

“Gave what away?” S’ngellan demanded, though the look in his eyes wasn’t one of confusion.  It was one of deep misgiving.

“When Telgar lost the Queen riders, it was deemed a disease.  Why wouldn’t it have been seen as such? It affected a specific group of people who commonly shared the same space.  It seemed to make sense that an illness could pass among them. And yes, it took a few of the green riders, too, but there was always some contact…” he drifted off, his eyes growing distant, until an angry D’vin grunted and told him to go on.

“This time was different.  This time, I had reason to pay attention, to be suspicious.  Clearly, we have outside enemies. So when the blue rider took ill, I saw the symptoms in a new light.  They could have been illness, but they also could have been…”

“Poison,” D’vin finished the sentence, his voice breaking on the word.  The Healer could only stare down the table at the Weyrlingmaster with haunted eyes.

“Yes,” he answered simply.

For a moment, all was still.  Too still, as if the air had all been sucked into a giant vacuum.  And then the room exploded.

D’vin was beyond words.  All he could do was roar as he surged to his feet and grabbed onto the edge of the table.  The huge wooden plank was thick and heavy but the bereaved man managed to lift it and smashed its legs back down on the floor several times before he gave up, turning towards the wall and pounding his fists against it.  Everyone had surged to their feet, with S’ngellan rushing to his friend’s side, but M’ckey saw Justine round the table and grab I’an by the arm.

“Reach out to Karth,” she ordered.  “Have him speak to Eeyreth and Mindeth and get C’rin down here.  But I’an,” she cautioned, “Tell them nothing of this. Nothing. It has to be kept hidden until we can discover the source.  Right now, the only advantage we have is surprise.”

“I understand,” I’an answered, and M’ckey knew he did.  Though they both might hate it, they couldn’t share this with their mounts.  No, the innocent, idle chatter of the dragons’ bonds had unearthed many a secret in the Weyr.  And this was a secret that needed to be kept.

Across the room, S’ngellan was dragging D’vin back to the table and pushing a cup of ale into his hands.

“I can’t stand this,” the Weyrlingmaster gasped, drawing in deep breaths.  “I can’t. It was bad enough thinking that they had just lost their lives. But this.  No, I can’t. Sufia...she didn’t lose her life. Fecking hells, it was

stolen

from her!”

“How sure are you?” Justine interjected, stepping back towards the table.

“Looking at it with clear eyes,” the Head Healer stated, “I’m absolutely positive.”

“How...

“The food.” Faidre stated in a deceptively calm voice, “They’re poisoning the food.”  Turning her gaze back to D’vin, she dipped her head apologetically. “It was the spotted wherry.  You remember, the one you shot and gifted to Sufia. She had it roasted and brought the meal to the gathering of the Queen riders that she hosted in her weyr.  She shared the feast with all of us and gave a portion to a group of green riders whom she asked to help carry the meal.” Shaking her head, Faidre let her gaze fix on the tabletop, “It was much slower then.  Why?”

“The dosage,” the Healer replied, his eyes distant with thought, “Sufia was the target.  Had to be. But she shared the meal and thus, it affected more people and took much longer.  Here, the doses were specific and extreme.”

“Why those two?” S’ngellan asked the room in general, “Why not target the leadership directly again?  It worked last time.”

D’vin’s hands were bruised and bloody along the knuckles and he clasped them into tight fists as he struggled to control his emotions, but the Weyrlingmaster’s mind was still sharp and seeking.  “I don’t know,” he answered in a stiff, tight voice, “but they’re choosing lower risk targets. That’s the first clue we work with.”

************************************************************************************

Poison.

Obviously.

Yes, it did seem obvious now, and no one lamented that point more than Faidre and D’vin.  I’an found it painful to watch two of the people he admired most in the world inflict such scathing rebukes upon themselves.  It wasn’t fair. They couldn’t have known. But they were in no mood to see reason when it came to assigning blame for the loss of their loved ones.

Fortunately, they were more willing to entertain organized planning when it came to catching the culprit.

“We’ve kept this group deliberately small so that the element of surprise is on our side,” S’ngellan had explained, “So you need to keep this secret.”

“Why even tell me?” I’an had asked.  He was only a wingleader after all. S’ngellan had just quirked a brow at him.

“It isn’t fortuitous to start a plan by demanding the impossible,” he’d stated lightly, “M’ckey doesn’t keep secrets from you.  We aren’t going to ask him to try. And you need to know anyway. M’ckey has clearly been a target and that makes you one, too. Lalith is the famed Green Queen of Telgar and you and Karth fly her. Taking both of you down would be a huge victory for the Movement.  And we can’t overlook the personal stakes either.” At this, he’d glanced at M’ckey. “Your father would love to see you both dead.”

It hadn’t taken long to catch the culprit.  The man responsible was hardly trained in espionage and he buckled almost instantly under the intense interrogation to which the kitchen staff was subjected.

“He’s been here for years,” Faidre explained when the small group reconvened in the soundproof meeting hall.  “He was searched under D’vin and never impressed, but according to all who know him, he’s lived quite contentedly here.”

“Why then?” I’an demanded, “Why do this to his own fecking community?”

“They have his family,” she answered simply.  “That is what he claims, and from what we can confirm about him, it seems legitimate.”

“What does he say?”

Faidre’s jaw tensed.  “It’s foreboding. He was approached by a member of the Movement in the lower storage tunnels.  He claims to be unaware of how the man gained entrance to the Weyr but says that the intruder looked vaguely familiar and seemed to know his way around.”

“So who the feck is he?” M’ckey demanded.  Faidre just shook her head.

“We don’t know.  And before you ask, yes, I do believe this man.  He has a very good reputation among the kitchens and has been committed to our cause and his role in it.  He hails from the mine district in Crom and three siblings and their families still live in the Mine Hold there.  That is deep in the Movement’s territory. As I said, the story checks out.”

“So you don’t think it was he who poisoned Sufia?”

“No.  He was just a lad of fourteen at the time.  He’s simply one of many candidates who never impressed a dragon and then went on to build what was, by all accounts, a happy and connected life here.  He was targeted because he had vulnerabilities outside of these walls. But that also means we have a Movement member who can infiltrate us, one who knows his way around the deepest interiors of the Weyr.  I know very little about those tunnels myself.” Turning her eyes to the others seated around the table, she stated, “I think I can safely say none of us do.”

They nodded.

“We may need to bring in some other members of the kitchen staff,” Justine acknowledged, “They’re already suspicious because of the questioning.”

“True,” the Weyrwoman agreed, leaning against the table and pursing her lips in frustration, “Dammit, I hate this!  These are our people, the people of Telgar, and we are being forced to treat them all with suspicion! A Weyr is run on trust.  The Movement is stealing that from us, too!” The entire group watched as Faidre gritted her teeth, wrestling with a decision in her own head.  Finally, she looked up and met their eyes again.

“We need to tell our mounts,” she stated simply, “They are agitated and that will lead to stress.”

“We do,” S’ngellan agreed immediately, “but carefully.  They’re not going to simply accept this information placidly.  They will want to mount a defense.”

She sighed.  “I know. Let me speak to Feith first.  Let me calm her fears and talk some sense to her.  That will help to gain their cooperation.”

“Cooperation?” I’an found himself asking.

“A dragon has its own mind, I’an, as you well know, but more importantly, it is still an animal.  A highly intelligent and sentient one, for sure, but an animal with instincts that can take over and dictate its decisions and actions.  This is why they have a rider, to help them govern their more primal tendencies, to use their immense power safely. But they are our bonded companions, not our servants.  We belong to them as much as they belong to us. Tell me, what would you like to do to the people who have repeatedly threatened the person you loved most?” Faidre inclined her head towards M’ckey at the question.  I’an turned and stared at the brunette, his eyes bright with anger.

“I’d like to kill them,” he answered honestly.

“Yes,  I know that.  I understand it.  Now imagine that you feel all of those emotions but you lack the innate self-control of a human.  Oh, and you can also fly and breath fire.”

I’an spun back towards her. “You think they’ll go rogue over this?”

“These people are killing our riders, whom they love to the point of death.  It is self-preservation at this point. And that’s why we can’t keep this a secret any longer.”

“But this might be the thing that causes them to go rogue in the first place!”

Faidre nodded.  “I know, but we are out of good options.” She sighed and leaned heavily against the table. “Let me speak to Feith first.  Let me help her to understand. Then we tell the others, in small groups, and she can help them maintain control.” Rising to her feet, she let her gaze drift around the room, making eye contact with all the other inhabitants.  I’an met her eyes evenly. So did M’ckey, S’ngellan, and the rest. But they said nothing as their Weyrwoman nodded and headed towards the door. What could they possibly say?

D’vin and S’ngellan had fallen into hushed conversation near one end of the room and M’ckey pushed himself to his feet.

“C’mon,” he murmured to I’an as he strode around the table, “Might as well eat, now that we know the food’s safe.”

The meal hall was tense.  Everyone, from the most senior wingleader to the novice kitchen drudges could feel the tangible strain in the air.  There was no warning of thread on the horizon, no call for a training session, but still the entire Weyr was wound upon a spindle of anticipation. Slowly, I’an worked his way through his meal, waiting for the moment when Faidre would appear and give him the opening to go speak to Karth.  He hated this silence. His brown hated it, too. And it made them hate Crom all the more.

Wait.

No, no, he didn’t hate Crom.  He was I’an of Telgar Weyr now, but he still hailed from Crom.  It was the land of his birth. He didn’t hate it. And Karth didn’t hate anything.

Did he?

And suddenly I’an knew.

He was on his feet in an instant, racing for the door to the Caldera.  Every rider in the hall was beside him, screaming outwardly and inwardly for their mounts.

“Karth!” I’an bellowed, dashing through the doorway and staring up into the sky.  He didn’t even need to look to know they were too late. The sky was filled with the roar of beating wings as every dragon in Crom took flight at once, cresting over the lip of the mountainside and disappearing from view.

Karth!,

I’an pleaded, reaching out desperately towards his precious brown.

Be still, Mine,

came the immediate answer,

We simply go to do what must be done.

What are you…

We go to Crom.  We go to end this.

I’an could feel his blood turn to ice.

Karth!

He pleaded,

No, you can’t.  There are innocent people there!  My family…

I will do my best to protect the Gallaghers of Southern Crom, Mine.  But

I

am your family.  Your love and Lalith; they are your family.  The Weryfolk are our family. Feith and Alaboth have decided.  We follow them. The dragons of Telgar will no longer tolerate this threat.

Karth!

I’an begged again, but the brown was in no mood to listen.

Enough, Mine!

He demanded in a harsh tone that turned his typically gentle voice ugly,

Do not attempt to sway me.  Accept this. Go, rest, eat, take your love to bed.  We go to end this fight.

I’an could feel his legs buckling as he sank to the ground in despair.  He could still sense Karth in his head but the brown seemed strangely untouchable.  It twisted I’an’s stomach. He couldn’t reach his dragon. Their bond was being intentionally blocked.  Karth, usually so soft spoken, so balanced, was now flying towards Crom with no tether on his most base instincts.  He might kill. He might destroy.

He might go

Between.

Suddenly, I’an was on his feet again, screaming in his mind across the bond.  All around him, other riders were on their knees or staring into the skies, each with an equally panicked twist to his mouth.  In his head, I’an could feel a steady panic rippling across his connection to M’ckey and a glance down beside him revealed the green rider to be white faced and gnawing frantically at his bottom lip.

M’ckey realized too.

Karth!

He wailed across their bond, barreling past panic and into the realm of absolute terror.

Karth, you answer me NOW!

Mine, you must..

No!  NO! You listen!  You promise...you tell me you won’t go

Between!

You promise!  You can’t, not when you’re this angry.  Not without me. You...you’ll lose your way.  You’ll get lost and I’ll fecking LOSE you…

Mine,

murmured the brown, in a voice that closely resembled his typical, soothing cadence,

I am no fool, even in my rage.  None of us will take such a risk.  We fly over the fields of Telgar now.  We will enter Crom shortly. Now, you are exhausted, Mine.  Accept that which you cannot change. Sleep!

A heaviness descended over I’an with the force of that final word.  Combined with the relief of Karth’s guarantee, it pulled I’an down to his knees and pressed his eyes closed.  For a moment, he simply kneeled on the ground, head lolling forward against his chest, as he fought off the worst of the lethargy.  Fecking hells. Karth was using the bond to put him the feck to sleep.

Well, no, Karth was only heightening the mental and physical fatigue that was already there, thanks to the stress and strain of these recent attacks.  Forcing his head up and glancing sideways again, I’an could see every rider on the floor of the Caldera slumping carefully to the ground, their faces a mix of exhaustion and resignation.  Hells. It was a little shocking, how much it took to sustain the bond when the dragons were pushing against it.

Everywhere he looked, I’an could see drudges appearing, gently coaxing the riders to their feet.

“Faidre says you need to sleep,” they murmured in soothing tones, keenly aware of the riders’ lingering distress. “If you try to fight the suggestion, it will only exhaust you more.”

With no mounts to carry them up to their personal weyrs along the inner walls of Telgar’s caldera, the riders were stranded from their beds, but the drudges were drawing them into the healing halls and meal halls, dropping them down on temporary pallets as they drifted off.

“Can you make it to your weyr?” Justine asked, suddenly right beside him.  I’an nodded.

“What is this?” he half-wondered, his voice sluggish.

“I cannot say for certain.  Obviously the dragons are using some kind of suggestion.  Faidre doesn’t think you should fight it. You cannot prevent their actions so it is best to stay out of their way.  Now come,” she murmured more forcefully, linking an arm through he and M’ckey’s elbows and drawing them down the back corridor and depositing them at the indoor entrance to their low lying weyr.

Neither the redhead nor the brunette had any strength left to argue.  As Justine pulled their door shut, they padded over to the sleeping alcove.  Within moments of hitting the straw tick, they were both deeply asleep.

************************************************************************************

Mine!

The word tore through I’an’s mind, ripping him from his slumber.  He stumbled to his feet, vaguely aware of M’ckey fighting with the tangled bedclothes beside him.  Reaching out, I’an answered the call.

Karth?

Mine!

came the response, and now it was Karth’s voice that was tinged with panic,

Mine, we have made an error.  The Hold at Crom is deserted.

Deserted?

Deserted?  Then where the hells…

Karth, where…

But any further questions were cut off by the loud crack of a door slamming into the stone walls of their chamber.  A man stood there, dressed in the armor of a soldier of Crom. He brandished a short sword and a look of disgust as he advanced into the room.

In a moment, M’ckey was beside him, quickly passing I’an his beltknife and unsheathing his own.  They eyed the intruder carefully, taking measured steps backwards towards the ledge as the soldier stalked forward.

“I might have figured I’d find you two filthy fecking buggerists together.”

I’an fought the desire to whip around.  Beside him, he felt M’ckey tense. Reaching out, I’an ran a soothing thought down the length of their bond.  They would be okay. They’d be able to get out of this. But they needed to stay calm and remember both of the threats in the room.

Stepping sideways, keeping the approaching soldier in his peripheral view, I’an turned and faced Terry Milkovich.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

In his heart of hearts, M’ckey had recognized long ago just how much his impressment had changed him..  He had acknowledged that Mikhailo Milkovich was well and truly gone, born anew into a dragon rider of distinction.  He’d wrestled with that reality, accepted it, even reveled in it as the shackles attached to that name and that existence had fallen away.

But this was different.  Standing in front of the man who had dared to threaten his Weyr, who had audaciously invaded the home he shared with I’an and their mounts, the change had become freshly evident.

This man was Terrance Milkovich.  He was a liar and a fraud, a thief and a murderer.  He was the immorally ambitious parasite who had horned his way into a misguided movement and weaponized it for his own gain.  He was a monster and a threat.

But he was not M’ckey’s father.  As he carefully stalked around the perimeter of his weyr, assessing the burly older man, the brunette didn’t feel the slightest stirring of familial concern.  And that freedom was thrilling.

Mine?

The voice of his green suddenly filled his head, bringing a grimace to M’ckey’s lips.  In the back of the weyr, I’an was carefully assessing the other intruder. In front of him, Terry was still circling with an invitation to a slow death written all over his face.  M’ckey couldn’t afford distraction.

Quiet, Lal.

No!

The green insisted, her voice echoing through her head,

No.  You are in danger.  I need to be there.

M’ckey’s stomach knotted.

Don’t go

Between,

Lal.  Don’t you dare!

Mine, I can.  We can.

Gritting his teeth, M’ckey darted to the side, away from the sleeping chamber.  As expected, Terry dashed after him, spitting expletives and threats as he fumbled along, but the brunette quickly put a large stone table between them.  He risked a quick glance back towards I’an. The Crom soldier was armored but, somehow, the redhead had managed to get his blade under the metal plating and blood was now trickling steadily down the intruder’s side and leg.  Reluctantly, M’ckey tore his gaze away. I’an could handle himself. M’ckey had to trust that. He had to confront his own problems now. He had to protect himself, his Weyr, and his dragon.

Lal?

Mine?

The feck are you talking about?

He sidestepped carefully, keeping the table deliberately between himself and his would-be assassin.  The burly shite was redfaced and cursing, clearly trying to draw him into a fight. Terry spewed all the typical bile, calling him filth, calling him a coward, words that once would’ve goaded M’ckey easily.  But this foolish man didn’t know him anymore either. The words were empty echoes around the chamber as M’ckey focused his attention on his green girl.

Tell me,

he stated shortly.

Mine, I will go

Between.

Lal…

Mine, listen!  There is no time.  It would be dangerous for others, but we...we can.  Our connection preempted my hatching! It’s strength is unique.  We will use this.

M’ckey’s throat tightened.

How?

He whispered in his mind.

Guide me, Mine.  I will go in short bursts and bring Karth with me.  Think, Mine. Think of specific places along the way and I will go to them.

Lal…

Mine, you must trust me now!

Shaking his head, M’ckey trained his ears on the sounds around him.  Over the clattering knife fight in the corner and Terry’s rage-filled huffing, the green rider could hear the distinct clash of battle.  Telgar Weyr was well and truly under attack. They needed help.

Keeping his gaze firmly fixed on his enemy, M’ckey set his thoughts clearly on Southern Crom and the deserted farmhold where he and a young Ian Gallagher had first discovered each other.

Go, Lal,

he murmured.

At that moment, Terry tired of the game.  With an angry bellow, the big man threw himself across the tabletop, swinging wildly at M’ckey with his blade.  The brunette’s reactions were slower than normal, no doubt impacted by his divided attention, but he managed to duck away and race behind the firepit.  Terry roared, chasing after him, but the big man lacked his speed and agility.

We have made it through, Mine.

Lalith’s voice chirped in his mind.  M’ckey felt the tense knot in his stomach release.  They could do this. He just needed to avoid Terry while he led his girl and I’an’s brown home.  Now staring at him across the firepit, the intruder could only seethe. “You fecking coward piece of shite!  Running like a scared piece of filth, huh. Come here and fight! Or can you only do that when you have a dragon?”

The brunette felt a frisson of rage flow through him.  The man pursuing him had spent years planning sneak attacks on the caravans that traversed Crom, murdering the outnumbered and unarmed travelers and looting for fun as well as supplies.  He had no moral grounds to stand on. But that was the point, of course. Terry wanted to push him, to cloud his judgement with emotions, and M’ckey couldn’t afford that right now. Gritting his teeth, he reached out again.

Lal?  Lal?!

I am here, Mine.  Pick a new place.

M’ckey nearly settled on the beautiful lake he had shared with I’an, until the Movement had sullied it with C’rin’s blood.  But no, that wouldn’t work. Too much emotion. Instead, as the hand that held Terry’s knife began to visibly shake, M’ckey called up a clear picture of Telgar Hold and the aging but badass Lord Holder in his mind.

Go there, Lal,

he ordered, but before he could hear her reply, a thunderous cry filled the weyr.  Without warning, M’ckey’s huge opponent charged, fury giving him a dangerous agility.  M’ckey ducked again but this time fate was not on his side. Terry caught him in the shoulder with the butt of his knife, sending him sprawling into the wall.  He rolled as he landed and was on his feet again in mere seconds, but his enemy was too close now. There was nothing else to put between them. He needed to stand and fight.

Lal?

He called, but there was no answer.  And then Terry was on him, barreling towards him with his head down and crashing them both to the floor.

The sounds, the stinking smell, the horrible weight crushing him.  Each of these sensations was painfully familiar, but M’ckey’s response was both instinctive and new.  Using the reflexes he’d honed in the air, the brunette blocked the first punch, deflecting it enough to cause Terry to drive his knuckles into the unforgiving stone floor.  The big man’s roar turned into a squeal of shock and pain and his loss of focus allowed M’ckey to throw him off quickly. He twisted to his feet with Terry right behind him, but his enemy’s cold swagger was diminished and M’ckey could barely contain his smirk.  It was as if the bastard was finally realizing that his former son wasn’t just going to just stand there and allow himself to be killed.

No, he was going to fight.  He was going to win.

Hunkering down into a stance, M’ckey adjusted the hold on his own knife.

“C’mon then,” he taunted, staring into Terry’s ugly, mottled face.

Terry charged.  So predictable. The man had never taken the time to develop any kind of technique when it came to fighting.  Instead, he’d always relied on his natural hulk, simply wading into any conflict like a battering ram, indifferent to the destruction he left in his way.  But that single, boorish strategy was no match for an opponent with natural dexterity and the training to use it.

M’ckey held nothing back, easily turning his opponent’s physical size and blinding fury against him.  Ducking at the last minute, he flipped the huge man up and over his hip, using the knife to slash Terry’s forearms up as the older man’s own speed sent him slamming back into the ground.  Terry fumbled back to his feet, but there were dazed glints of self-doubt in his eyes. When he charged again, slashing back and forth with his blade, M’ckey simply ducked and rolled, cutting down the old man’s calf before rolling to his feet to come up behind him.

“You fecking coward,” Terry squealed, limping forward out into the larger living quarters of the weyr.  Glancing to his side quickly, M’ckey tried to check for I’an but weyr’s inner door was wide open and the room was empty.  There were smeared, bloody handprints on the wooden slats and for a moment, M’ckey felt his heart jump with panic, but a quick assessment of the bond he shared with the brown rider settled his fears.  I’an felt strong and angry and determined. And unhurt. Turning away from the door, M’ckey fixed his eyes on his opponent. I’an was more than capable of taking care of himself. They couldn’t worry about each other right now.  They both needed to fight, win, and defend their home.

And that meant destroying the man who had once been his father, M’ckey realized.

The old man wouldn’t go down easily, that much was obvious.  The cuts that M’ckey had managed to inflict weren’t superficial, but the blood running down Terry’s arm and leg didn’t appear to be slowing him down at all.  His eyes burned with murderous rage and M’ckey knew he needed to be strategic. He needed to turn his enemy’s emotions against him.

“I’m going to fecking kill you,” the big man seethed as M’ckey sidestepped carefully into the open living space.  “I shoulda done when I first found out what you were. You didn’t deserve my mercy.”

“Mercy?” M’ckey replied, emitting a taunting laugh, “You call beating me half to death ‘mercy’?” He shook his head as he continued to pace the perimeter of the room.

Mine?

Lalith’s voice suddenly echoed in his head,

We are at Telgar.  Send me a new place.

Fecking hells…

Lal, I can’t.  You need to fly.

Are you in danger?

The green demanded, panic in her voice.

M’ckey grimaced.  Across the room, he could see Terry taking note of his distraction.

Lalith!

He ordered,

Do

not

go

Between!

You both fly home!  Now!

There was a lengthy pause, and M’ckey could feel himself starting to panic, but then his sweet girl’s voice rang determinedly in his head.

Fight, Mine.  I am coming.

M’ckey was rocked by a swell of determination.  Somewhere, Lalith was racing home. Somewhere, I’an was fighting for their Weyr.  They were doing their jobs. It was time to do his. Focusing his gaze back on Terry, he tilted his head.

“What do you want?” he asked simply, knowing the effect it would have on the other man.

“You’re head on a fecking pike,” came the immediate reply.

M’ckey just shook his head.  “You think you can kill me?” he challenged, infusing his voice with a layer of disbelief, “No...nope.  You can’t kill me. I’m not gonna let you.”

Across the room, Terry choked.  “You think you can stop me?” he demanded, but the confidence in his voice was wavering and fake.

“Yes,” the green rider replied evenly, “You won’t kill me.  I’m the one who’s going to kill you.”

“You can’t kill me,” Terry insisted.  There is was honest disbelief in his voice, “You’re going to kill your own father?  You’re own fecking blood?”

M’ckey would’ve laughed at the irony if the situation hadn’t been so perilous.  As it was, it just scoffed as he took a few steps forward.

“My blood?” he demanded as he paced, “I shouldn’t kill you because you’re my blood?  I’m your blood, too, you son of a bitch, and you came here to kill me.”

“I’m your father,” the other man insisted, “I brought your miserable ass into this world!”

“Yeah, well, that was your mistake.”

And before the full impact of those words could hit the old man, M’ckey pounced.

His first strike landed cleanly, the blade slashing across Terry’s shoulder, laying open the shirt and the skin beneath it.  His second,though, was countered by the fuming, raging man, who managed to nick M’ckey with his own weapon. The brunette ducked and avoided series damage from the knife, but the older man twisted and landed a bone crunching punch into his shoulder blade.  For a moment, M’ckey’s arm went numb, dead at his side as he staggered backwards. Terry didn’t waste the opportunity, barreling straight towards him with his blade at the ready. He veered left and M’ckey managed to hook right, and their weapons clashed in the middle, clanging and grating as they slid against each other.  M’ckey stepped back, attempting to use his momentum to duck and attack from a downward angle, but Terry anticipated the move. He caught M’ckey’s shoulder again, with the knife edge this time, and the brunette cried out as he stumbled away, bleeding freely from the gash.

“You think you can take me,” the old man sneered, his face twisted with derision, “I’ve been doing this since before you were even alive, you arrogant little shite.”

And that was true.  M’ckey had grown up watching Terry beat, maim, and kill.  The man might be heavier and slower but he had years of real experience on his side and no qualms whatsoever about taking another person’s life.  Well, screw that shite. Terry Milkovich wasn’t going to touch him or anyone else in his Weyr. It was time to put an end to the man.

Over and over they clashed, until blood was running from a dozen superficial wounds and sweat and grime was coating both of their faces.  They were out in the open now, close to the ledge of the weyr, and M’ckey could feel a tinge of desperation clawing at him. From outside, he could still hear the clash of metal.  He could hear screams. He needed to go help the rest of his family, his real family, and that meant finally doing away with this fake ass one.

Bracing his legs wide, M’ckey took a quick survey of the scene.  They were hovering right at the ledge now, giving him a view of the hatching grounds and the caldera behind it.  Much of the grounds were empty but there was a large group of riders and movement members battling near the meal hall, their weapons crashing furiously.  He needed to get there.

“Let’s finish this,” he demanded simply, readying the grip on his knife.  In front of him, Terry’s eyes narrowed.

“Yeah, let’s see if you actually got what it takes to kill your own father,” the big man taunted, “You filthy, honorless piece of shite!”

Honorless,

M’ckey could only muse as he took a step forward, drawing in a breath as he readied himself for this last assault.  He needed to go fast and low, attack the belly area…

Mine!  Get back!

M’ckey’s whole body froze at the ear-shattering volume of the command that ripped through his mind.  For a moment, he could see a smirk form on Terry’s lips, but his gaze was immediately pulled away as a thunderous bugle tore through the air and a massive brown dragon touched down on the caldera floor. Karth wasted no time, using his strong legs to charge the fighters.  Even from his weyr, M’ckey could hear the terrified shrieks as the Movement members abandoned their individual skirmishes and fled inside the hall.

M’ckey saw Terry charge him from the corner of his eye, but before he could even turn his head, a green blur swooped onto the ledge and pushed into the weyr.  As fast as lightning, Lalith snatched Terry up with a massive claw and slammed him onto the stone floor. The old man’s body went slack, bones shattering and blood spraying from his mouth as organs ruptured.

For the barest of moments, M’ckey felt himself falter.

Lal,

he asked hesitantly, but the green was in no mood for last minute mercy.

Mine,

she answered firmly,

I told you what I would do if this man ever tried to touch you again.

And without a moment of hesitation, the green lowered her head and tore into the living body pinned beneath her claws.

For a moment, M’ckey stood frozen, stuck between utter horror at the sight before him and complete relief at it’s bigger implications.  Terry Milkovich was dead, gone forever.

But M’ckey’s home was still under attack.

Go!

Lalith demanded, turning back towards the calder and dragging what remained of the mangled body out of the weyr with her.

Go fight for our home!

M’ckey didn’t hesitate.  He ran back through his weyr, dashing through the inner door and racing through the long hallway.  There were several bodies littering the floor and he saw with relief that they all belonged to the invaders.  The Crom soldier that I’an had battled was among them but M’ckey could spare no sympathy for the man who had come at the love of his life with a knife.  As he tore down the hallway, the clangs and screams of battle got nearer and nearer. And yet, he still wasn’t quite prepared for the sight that met him when he reached the meal hall.

All around him, chaos reigned.  Pitched knife fights were everywhere, and bodies were piling along the floor.  Some still breathed but many had fallen silent forever and, unlike in the hallway, a number of them were the people of Telgar Weyr.  M’ckey grimaced and quickly scanned the room, more grateful than ever that I’an’s red hair made him easy to spot. The brown rider was fighting his way towards the kitchens when he caught M’ckey’s eyes, but he only spared a brief second of relief before he gestured with his chin for M’ckey to join him.

The kitchens were in pandemonium, as the common weyrfolk used trays, bowls, and heavy iron cookware to defend each other from their enemy.  M’ckey wasted no time wading into the fray, jumping in beside them as they fought for their Weyr. The drudges had little formal combat training but they possessed something even a stronger; a singular purpose to secure their home .  Even the radicalized fury of their enemy was no match, and it wasn’t long before the people of Telgar began to push the invaders back.

Length by length, they pushed.  By now, the entire Weyr was gathered together, an impenetrable line of intermingled drudges and riders, united in their common mission, to drive the Movement out.  M’ckey’s relief was palpable as his eyes found his leaders, his wingmates, his friends. They were alive and fighting. And they were winning.

The kitchens were empty now, and so were the raised platforms along the back and sides of the halls.  Everywhere, broken benches and overturned trestles lay in ruin. A number of bodies, both injured and deceased, littered the floor, and though most were the invaders, M’ckey could spot a few of the weyrfolk intermixed.  It pained his heart and tightened his resolve as he and his true family continued to press forward.

The enemy’s will was breaking.  Anyone with eyes could see that.  Their numbers were starting to dwindle, but if that was not enough, their line was getting gradually but determinedly pushed back towards the wide arches on the outside wall that led to the caldera.

And there were dragons out there.

At first, it was only Karth and Lalith, roaring and clawing at the ground.  But with every passing moment, more and more of the great beasts were landing on the ground, furious and determined to protect the people.  It was a terrifying sight and the closer the invading line got pushed towards the archways and the caldera floor behind it, the more panicked they became.

You boys really didn’t think this shite through,

M’ckey couldn’t help but think as S’ngellan finally took a step forward.

“Lay down your arms!” he demanded in a voice that echoed off the stone ceiling and walls.  “We do not want your deaths. We have never wanted your deaths, but by hells, we will cause your deaths if you do not cease!”

The clash of blades halted immediately as the Weyrfolk fell back a few steps behind their leader.  Their enemy was still wrathful but their fear was winning out. Within moments, arms began to drop to the floor.

“No!” a voice rang out from the middle of the Movement’s line, a voice that reverberated with the same authority that S’ngellan had mustered.  I’an had made his way to M’ckey’s side as the Weyrleader had spoken, and when this new voice emerged, the brunette instinctively wrapped a protective arm around the redhead’s waist.

“The hell now?” he muttered.  I’an shook his head, his eyes fixed on S’ngellan as a tall, chestnut haired man of about thirty turns moved forward.

“Galen?” the Weyrleader asked carefully, and every person in the room startled at the clear recognition in his voice.  The man himself was momentarily stunned but he recovered quickly.

“So you remember me?” he asked snidely, taking a step forward himself as his mouth folded into a scornful sneer.

“Of course I do,” S’ngellan answered, “and I remember your brother.”

“Does

he

?” Galen demanded, gesturing his head towards D’vin as the other man moved to stand besides the Weyrleader.  M’ckey could see shocked recognition alighting on faces up and down the line of Weyrfolk but he had no idea who the hell the guy was.

“Who…” I’an whispered against his temple, but he only waved a hand at the red head to shut him up.  They needed to listen.

“I remember you well,” D’vin answered, his voice careful and even as he too stepped forward.  “And I remember your brother. I remember everyone I…”

“Everyone you lose?” the man interjected, his face turning ugly, “Everyone you get killed by sending them up against that poisonous shite before they’re even ready?”

“Sending them up against that shite?” A new voice entered the fray, coming from down the line.  All eyes turned to see Faidre walking out across the flagstone divide that separated the two factions in the middle of the meal hall.  From out on the caldera, Feith let out a loud bugle, a clear warning to any who might think to hurt her rider. But Faidre barely seemed to notice, intent on her target.

“That shite,” she repeated again, her voice curling with irony, “I’m sorry.  I’m a little confused. I thought we were the cause of the thread. That’s been your story, hasn’t it?  That it’s sent to punish the people of Pern for supporting the Weyrs? Well, let me ask you, did you ever tell your followers here that you used to be one of us?”

M’ckey dug his fingers reflexively into I’an’s arm as a collective murmur ran through the crowded room.  M’ckey stared at the leader, this Galen feck. He was dressed in the armor of Crom Hold, but here was Faidre, acting like she knew him.  Who the hells was this guy?

The same question seemed to be circulating among the Movement members, most of whom showed shock and anger at Faidre’s accusation.  The leader, though, he didn’t appear moved at all, continuing to stare the tiny woman down with disgust in his eyes.

“Who better to know the true evil of these places?” he asked in an even tone, his voice loud enough to echo off the walls.  Behind him, his followers’ confused, angry whispers died away as they listened to him speak. “Who knows better than I, how you steal people away and use them up.  How you send them out into the fight before they’re even ready.”

“That’s what you know?” D’vin thundered suddenly from beside.  Galen’s eyes shifted towards him insistently, narrowing with bitter hate, but D’vin just stared back incredulously.  “You were orphans. This place gave you a home and a family. It saved you from squalor. And you and T’ryme were…” D’vin shook his head. “You were both happy here!”

“I was happy until you sent my only family off to die.  Before you sent my brother into a war he was ready for!”

There was a nervous titter running through the Movement’s ranks again, as the crowd tried to digest this new and unwanted information.  M’ckey could barely follow it himself.

This man

was their enemy?

This man

was the foundation for all the destruction that had been brought upon their Weyr?  He seemed so common. He was tall and strong and had the appearance of a good fighter, but he was nothing out of the ordinary.  M’ckey, though, had learned a good deal about charisma, be it good or bad. Faidre was tiny and unassuming at first glance, but she could rally her Weyrmates to her side like no other.  Terry Milkovich was darkly compelling in his own right. And M’ckey couldn’t deny that the people standing across from him hung onto the words of this man as if he were speaking to their very souls.

He was still dangerous.

But D’vin was hardly a man to back down.

“T’ryme was a dragon rider of Pern,” he stated icily, “He was brave and loyal and highly competent.  He fought under me with distinction, to protect Crom and all of Pern from threadfall. He was scored, Galen.  You know this.” the Weyrlingmaster’s voice was rising and he took a step closer to the enemy line. From the corner of his eye, M’ckey could see C’rin cringe, but the green rider held his ground as D’vin stalked forward.  “What?” he demanded, “You thought I wouldn’t remember you? I remember everyone I ever take in Search. I remember finding the two of you in that room in the Miner’s Hold, with nothing to eat but discarded cornmeal. I remember watching you both grow and flourish here.  And I remember staying beside you as you held his hand, comforting him as the wounds took him from this life.” D’vin broke his gaze for a moment, staring at the ground. “You were one of us, meant to Impress. And now we find you trying to convince others that it is we who are the cause of the thread?  Because we are evil? Tell me, was he evil? Because he Impressed, fought, and gave his life for this Weyr.

He

was one of us!”

“Stop talking,” Galen demanded, sounding younger and far less sure of himself. “It’s because of the way you are, the way you behave.  The filthy way you live…”

“T’ryme was a green rider, Galen,” S’ngellan said drily, “He lived that way, too.  He saw nothing wrong with our way of life, and neither did you.”

“I did!”

“You didn’t.  You were happy here and you were definitely one us.  It was your choice to run away. We couldn’t find you, though believe me, we looked long and hard for a child of twelve turns on the roads alone.  But whoever found you, they filled your head with this cow shite. And you twisted it together to justify your rage. Your need for revenge.” S’ngellan shook his head, “I understand your suffering, but what you have done is not forgivable.”

“I don’t need forgiveness.”

“Good, for you shall not receive it.”

For a moment, in the face of an angry S’ngellan and D’vin, Faidre had slipped from M’ckey’s mind.  But at this cold declaration, all eyes in the room turned back on her.

“You shall

not

receive it,” She repeated, her voice sharp and piercing, “What you will receive, though,  are the wages of justice! Justice for Sufia and all the riders you have stolen from this Weyr!”

Galen’s face twisted and for one moment, he looked like a scared twelve year old instead of the full-grown man he was.  Then he grimaced and spat, “Someone needs to snuff you all out! The way you steal from us, take our meager harvest back to your rich halls…”

“Bullshite,” D’vin thundered,  “Look around you. All of you!” he ordered, gesturing towards the rest of the Movement as they huddled away from the hallway arches.  “Does this look like a life of luxury to any of you?”

There was another faint murmur running through the invaders as they glanced around the hall.  M’ckey took a moment to take stock of his home. It was spacious and, aside from the marks of the battle, appeared well cared for.  But it was filled with rough and common things, devoid of finery, and this truth seemed to settle heavily on the men of the Movement.

“You’re thieves,” Galen insisted petulantly.

“We are not,” Faidre spat back.

“You are filth…”

“You are in no position to call anyone ‘filth’!  A person who turns on those who sought to protect them, who kills through duplicity, who ignores the common good in pursuit of their own reckless, selfish need for trumped up vengeance, that is filth.

You

are filth, and I’ll be damned if I let it stand.”  With a dramatic turn of her heels, Faidre faced the Weyrfolk.  “These people don’t belong here. And they are leaving. Now!”

M’ckey didn’t react to his Weyrwoman’s words with conscious thought.  He doubted anyone in the hall did. It was instinct, pure and simple. An ingrained reaction to a trusted leader’s commands, honed through turns of living, training, and fighting together.  The Weyrfolk stepped forward, seemingly as on. And they attacked.

M’ckey spared no glances for his fellow fighters.  In that moment, he simply knew them to be safe, to be invincible as they all stepped forward together.  All his focus was fixed on the command. These people didn’t belong and he needed to make them leave. They could exit by the real door or death’s door, he cared little which.

At first, the battle seemed evenly matched.  M’ckey was vaguely aware of Galen’s voice, yelling to his Movement members, telling them to hold strong.  He was a convincing leader, M’ckey would give him that, and he might have made a good dragon rider once, but now his innate ability to rally his people to battle was the biggest danger to the Weyr.  The Movement members were simply fighting for their lives now, terrified to be pushed any closure to the lurking, bellowing, smoking threats that still clawed at the ground right outside of the hall.  M’ckey could see this, but it was S’ngellan who used it to turn the tide in their direction.

“Alaboth!” he yelled, slashing down two enemies and pausing in the middle of the melee so that all could hear his voice.  “Fire! Now!”

Suddenly, there was a blast of heat.  The entire ledge outside of the hall’s arches erupted into a massive fireball.  For a moment, M’ckey could only stare in confusion. Then, he realized. S’ngellan’s bronze had blasted a jet of flames across the entranceway, not into it.  It was a perfectly controlled flame, intense but direct, designed to destroy thread but avoid fellow dragons and riders who flew only feet away. The people of Telgar Weyr knew this.  Hells, even Galen knew this. But the rest of the Movement did not grasp their relative safety.

Within seconds, weapons were hitting the ground, setting off a cacophony of clangs as the men fell to their knees in surrender.  It was nearly instantaneous, and M’ckey and his fellow Weyrfolk suddenly found themselves standing opponent-less in the middle of their hall.  The brunette wasn’t sure what to do, so fast had the battle turned, but I’an and a few others reacted more quickly, charging towards the few straggling fighters and forcing them down on their knees as well.

In the middle of the room stood Galen, still brandishing the sword he’d once wielded as a guard of Crom Keep.  The man managed to look both furious and broken, but M’ckey simply couldn’t muster any sympathy. This man had betrayed his Weyr and his Hold, killing strong, moral leaders in both locations.  He had come close to destableizing Pern and sent far reaching ripples of damage across the land. As Faidre stepped forward with her own weapon held high, M’ckey determined that the man deserved whatever punishment he was going to get.

“Drop your weapon,” the Weyrwoman commanded.

“I will not…” Galen began, but with a spin and twist of her wrist, Faidre stepped under the man’s sword arm and used her knife to hook his pommel and guard, tearing the blade from his hands and flinging it across the room in one clean motion.

“Down!” She ordered, “Now!”

Galen stood staring at his sword hand, seemingly stupefied to find it empty, but the point of Faidre’s knife finally spurred him to motion.  He sank slowly to his knees, his eyes fixed on hers and still burning brightly with hate. But he was disarmed and surrounded by his enemies.

“We need to collect their arms…”The Weyrwoman began, turning towards S’ngellan as she spoke.  For one moment, all seemed as if it might be well.

Then Galen let out a roar, rage filled and desperate, and flung himself at Faidre’s retreating back.  Before anyone could react, he pulled a carefully concealed dagger from his glove and lunged forward, driving it into The Weyrwoman’s lower back.  M’ckey could feel himself leaping forward to defend her. From the side, he could see D’vin and S’ngellan many others doing the same. But they needn’t have bothered.  Shifting the knife in her hand as she turned, she drove it straight through the side of her enemy’s throat.

“Justice,” she bit out into his face, then dropped him to the floor.

The entire hall was silent as she gasped in a deep breath.

“Justine?” she called out, casting her glazing gaze around for her dearest friend.

For a moment, the tiny, powerful woman managed to stand tall on her own two feet.  But in a mere second, she stumbled forward, reaching for support. And Justine was there, casting her own weapon aside as she threw her arms around the Weyrwoman and bore her weight.  The people of Telgar could do nothing but watch as their Weyrwoman let out a pained moan and sank to the ground.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“M’ckey, you're needed in the healing hall!  Now!”

The meal hall was still overflowing, but now the invaders sat in groups on the floor, their arms bound behind them.  The group had been quiet, talking in murmured hushes from their spot on the floor, but they fell into absolute silence as D’vin’s voice echoed through the hall.

Near the kitchen, the brunette found his feet, his spine tense with fear.  He shot a quick glance at the redhead beside him, gesturing for him to follow as he strode across the floor.

“What…” he began, but the Weyrlingmaster was already turning, leaving the other two riders to follow in his stead.

“Her boy has had his time to say goodbye,” D’vin explained, glancing over his shoulder as he hurried forward, “but she needs to see you now.”

“How long do you think she has?” I’an asked.  The question hit M’ckey like a fist to the heart.  Fecking hells. He’d lost fellow riders before. Shite, he’d even lost leaders.  But this was so fecking different.

“It’s hard to say,” D’vin answered tightly, leading them quickly from the room.  “The wound is largely sealed by the blade so the bleeding is fairly slow.”

“There’s really nothing to be done?” I’an asked, though he already knew the answer.  The healer had made the Weyrwoman as comfortable as he could, but he’d also determined that the angle and depth of the wound was too severe.  They would lose Faidre before the night was out.
M’ckey’s feet felt heavy as they strode through the halls.  The Weyrwoman had called he and I’an to her death bed. They would go, of course, to honor their leader, but it made his head swim to think that their fierce leader would insist on spending any of her short time with him.  The Weyr was in real trouble. Faidre’s loss would be enormous and the repercussions would be far-reaching. It would be even worse than the loss of Sufia and the rest of the gold riders, for at least then, they’d had one extraordinary candidate to step up and fill the necessary role.  But what would they have now?
M’ckey could see I’an trying to catch his eye as he strode beside him, but the brunette didn’t hold his gaze.  He was too worked up, too busy trying to search for impossible solutions. Lalith’s clutch was nearly mature, nearly ready to join Wings and become a part of Telgar’s fighting force, but thread burning was only a part of their job.  And Nya was only fourteen. She was shaping up to be a brave and intuitive gold rider, but still, she was so young. She and Tavith had never even seen a full thread fight before! She lacked the requisite experience to lead, and even if she hadn’t, Tavith wouldn’t rise for at least two more turns.  What would they do until then?
“Hey,” he suddenly heard himself say, his voice echoing off the hallways, “have the Weyrs ever, I don’t know, lent each other a gold and a rider.  Like, a long-term exchange or something?”

D’vin didn’t stop but he threw a confused look over his shoulder as he continued to lead the way.  “Not that I’m aware of. I mean, we exchanged the bronzes at your suggestion but…”

“No, not…” M’ckey gritted his teeth, “No, I mean...we’re going to need a new gold rider.  We need a new Weyrwoman. We can’t put this on Nya…”

M’ckey cut his words off as D’vin slowed to a halt and turned to face him.  The expression on the Weyrlingmaster’s face was strange and considering and M’ckey couldn’t help but squirm under the careful assessment.

“The hell…”

“Nothing,” D’vin answered, and to M’ckey’s surprise, a tiny smile pulled at the corner of his lips, “It’s just reassuring to hear this.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I know.  That’s what I mean.  You’re too busy worrying about how to take care of the whole Weyr to even notice...well, let’s get to Faidre,” And leaving that cryptic statement hanging in the air, the Weyrlingmaster continued into the healing halls.

It was quiet inside, but the air felt thick with tension and nervous energy.  The Head Healer stood off to the side, his typically stoic face marred by tear tracks as he stared at the floor.  Various Wing leaders sat on a bench against the wall, but they rose to their feet as M’ckey walked past them.

“The feck…”he couldn’t help but mutter, before Justine called for his attention.

“She’s weak,” the Head Woman explained and M’ckey stopped gawking and hurried to the Weyrwoman’s bedside.

Faidre was pale, nearly white, and her eyes appeared sunken, but some of their sparkle returned as M’ckey came into her view.

“This is my son,” she told him, her voice quiet but clear.  She gestured with her chin towards the dark haired youth who sat beside her, pressing their entwined fingers to his lips. Her eyes brightened with tears as they held the lad’s gaze, but she only gave herself a moment before turning back to M’ckey.

“Sit,” she ordered gently, “We have much to discuss before I go.”

M’ckey’s mind was swimming but he felt his head nodding instinctually, felt his body dropping onto the bench on the opposite side of Faidre’s bed as she bid him sit.  He let his eyes graze over her, assessing her injury quickly. The handle of the dagger was visible just above the blanket that lay across her lap, protruding angrily from the red and swollen skin.  The bandages around it were tacky with a steady trickle of blood. M’ckey tore his eyes away quickly and fixed them on his Weyrwoman’s face.

For a long minute, the two of them just stared at each other.  Then she reached out her free hand, taking his and squeezing it with a weak but determined hold.  A shadow fell over the two of them and M’ckey glanced back to see that I’an, D’vin, and S’ngellan had formed a wall behind him, but the Weyrwoman barely acknowledged their presence.  Instead, her gaze stayed fixed on M’ckey.

“You look nervous,” she said, her voice brimming with amusement despite it’s shaking timber.  “That’s a good thing, I think. I have always been grateful to S’ngellan for his exceptional instincts.  They proved fortuitous many times but never so much as when he found you.”

M’ckey flushed at the praise.  He could feel a sob burning it’s way through his chest and throat but he swallowed it down hard.  “I’ll do whatever I can to help,” he swore, managing to keep the waver from his voice.

“Help?”  Faidre started, but D’vin suddenly leaned in and knelt beside her.

“He has a suggestion he’d like to share?” the Weyrlingmaster explained.  His eyes were bright with tears but there was a definitive air of mirth to his words that seemed so misplaced to M’ckey’s ears.  But Faidre’s lips only curled into a tiny smile.

“Tell me,” she ordered him.

“Thought we could borrow a gold rider from one of the other Weyrs.”

“Why?”

“We’ll need a new Weyr…” The sob threatened to spill out again but he fought it back furiously, swallowing hard and drawing in a deep breath.  “We’ll need a new Weyrwoman. There’s no one in Telgar who can fill the role.”

“You think not?”

M’ckey could feel his brow raise incredulously.  “Nya can’t. She’s a fecking kid still.”

Faidre’s complexion was growing more wan and the grasp she maintained on M’ckey’s hand was noticeably looser, but she managed to find the energy to widen her smile and share a fond glance with D’vin before turning her gaze back on the brunette.

“No, my dear friend.  Nya is too young, of course.  But you needn’t worry. She will not assume this position.”  She shifted suddenly, a grimace spreading across her face as she fought to sit up and tug M’ckey closer.  “It has occured to everyone else, even I’an, I’m sure, but it never occurred to you, did it. No, because you’ve never seen what others see when they look at you.  But I hope, in the coming turns, that you will learn to value yourself the way that the rest of this community values you.” Releasing M’ckey’s hand, she reached up, grunting against the pain as she cradled his chin in her hand.

“We don’t need a gold.  We need a Queen. And we have one, the Green Queen of Telgar.  She will be the next to rise and when she does, her rider will assume their rightful place.”

“I am not being a fecking Weyrwoman…”M’ckey spit out, too shocked for a moment to deal with the greater implications.

“You can do what you want with the title, my friend,” S’ngellan answered wryly, “Weyrman would be perfectly suitable.  But make no mistake, it will be you. You know our ways. You respect and defend them. And this is our way. It has always been our way.”

M’ckey could feel a burning knot forming in his chest.  His breath felt short and choppy. He wanted to argue. Fight.  No, hells, he wanted to rail and refuse and punch something, to make it hurt as bad as this hurt him.  He didn’t want this shite. Faidre was supposed to do this. Strong, competent, fearless, indestructible Faidre, who should be standing beside him, celebrating a victory, instead of lying here telling him that he needed to take up her mantle.  But he hit nothing. That would have been Terry Milkovich’s son’s reaction. M’ckey of Telgar was not that person.

“I’m not ready for this,” he stated simply, leaning close to her.

“There is no such thing as ‘ready’, my friend.  Neither of you is ready. But you are more than capable.”

“Neither of us?  You mean me and Lal?”

S’ngellan had come around to the other side of Faidre’s bedside and claimed a seat beside their son.  Now he met M’ckey’s confused gaze.

“Lalith will not be flown by Alaboth, M’ckey.  She is a massive green but still much smaller than a gold.  She is too nimble in the air. She would never allow him to catch her.  No, Lalith will rise and Karth will fly her. And you and I’an will assume the leadership of Telgar.”

There was a heavy thump on the bench beside M’ckey as I’an fell into the seat.  The brown rider’s eyes were wide but before he could even open his mouth, a spasm of coughs echoed from the Weyrwoman’s chest.  A spittle of pink foam flew from his lips, staining the white sheet. The Head Healer stepped forward and placed a hand on her chest, but all he could do was shake his head.

“Your chest is flooding.  It will compress your lungs.”

“That seems a shite way to die,” she replied dryly, “I’d prefer a quicker method.”  The words were heavy with meaning and they hung over the little group keeping vigil at the bedside.  Gesturing with a hand, she drew Justine to her side and clasped their hands tightly. Turning back to her son, she pressed a kiss to his knuckles.  “You make me proud,” she stated, fixing her gaze on the youth for a long moment before tearing it away. She turned next to S’ngellan, in the place where he stood behind their son..  They shared a long conversation with their eyes before she spoke out loud.

“It’s alright.  She understands.  But she would appreciate if Alaboth would rise with her and stay with her before she goes

Between.”

The words hit M’ckey and everyone else in the little cluster hard.  Hells. This really was happening. If Faidre was preparing Feith to go

Between

, then there really was no saving her.  For a moment more, the Weyrwoman’s eyes stayed fixed on the Weyrleaders.

Then they fell on M’ckey.

“It is a burden, my friend, this role that you must assume.  It requires patience and posturing and the ability to live with the consequences of your decisions.  And too often, it means doing what needs to be done, when no one else wants to do it.” she coughed again, but kept her gaze fixed upon him.  “Can you do it?”

“I can,” he heard himself promise, “I will.”

She nodded carefully.  “Then show me.”

M’ckey’s head was swimming.  His hands felt heavy and detached from his body.  Deep inside, he felt I’an pushing against their bond, holding him up.  He reached for it, drawing upon the strength, and took in a deep breath.

Then he lunged.

The handle of the dagger was slick with blood but his grip was still true.  He didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t, or he’d run the risk of retreat. With one firm tug, he wrenched the blade from Faidre’s side.  A gush of crimson blood flowed from the wound, spattering his tunic and pants. Vaguely, he heard the clatter of the blade as it slipped from his fingers and dropped from the floor.  Then he was seated again, pulled back against I’an’s chest and wrapped in the redhead’s arms.

Every eye in the room was fixed on him and M’ckey found himself staring back, daring their judgement.  But there was none. All he saw was profound gratitude reflected back by all present. And none more so than in the eyes of his Weyrwoman.

“I promise,” he whispered, holding her eyes as they began to glaze over.

“I know,” she whispered back.

And she was gone.

*************************************************************************************

Epilogue: ...Your word is law in that small commonweal...

Eighteen turns into the 8th recorded passing of the Red Star

“M’ckey?”

The brunette was half buried in a lengthy epistle that was spread across the table in front of him, but the slight, hesitant voice drew his immediate attention.  Looking up, he found Delaine, a gangly young woman of fifteen turns, hovering in the doorframe. When he met her eyes, however, he could see her resolve firm up. Taking two steps into the private office in his weyr, she stated, “A representative from the Harper’s Hall is here to see you,” in a much firmer and more confident tone.

He nodded, smiling.  “Is it Lip?”

“It’s the Weyrleader’s brother, yes.”

He nodded again.  He’d been expecting that fecker any day now.

“Great.  He’s probably found his way to his work area by now.  Delaine, can you have the kitchens send some food over to his offices and then summon the rest of the committee?”

“Of course,” she answered, making to leave.

“And then join us in Lip’s planning room.  I want to hear your opinions. too.”

The young woman froze for a moment, her lips thinning nervously, but M’ckey didn’t say a word.  Instead, he simply watched the fledgling gold rider as she fought the internal battle between her fears and resolve.  And as he expected, it was her courage that won.

“Thank you.  I’ll...I’ll be there.” With a look of resolve set on her face, she turned and walked out the door.

“That was a huge improvement,” a voice stated from across the table.  Looking up, M’ckey met the eyes of Nya, his fellow Queen rider, who was equally buried under her own scroll.

“You weren’t any fecking different once,” he teased, watching her nod her head in acknowledgement.  It was true, but Nya had risen to the challenge when they’d lost Faidre. Now she was nearing twenty turns, tall, strong, and equally adept at writing a well worded missive and annihilating thread on Tavith’s back.  And she and her Queen would rise for the first time soon. Tavith was full grown and showing all the signs. Carre and Aith, the gold from Lalith’s second clutch, were less than two turns away from their first rising.  And once Delaine and her gold…

M’ckey leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath.  Hope still made him nervous. Where he’d grown up, hope had always felt like tempting fate, daring it to bite you in the ass.  But as conditions at Telgar Weyr steadily improved, he couldn’t help but let the slightest little slivers of the lighter emotion trickle into his world view.  Their numbers were growing. Their relationships with the Holds were strong and consistent, buoyed by the efforts of Lord Tristan’s widow, who held the position of Steward of Crom until her eldest boy was old enough to assume his rightful role.  And though they’d lost a few of their numbers throughout the turns, and each fallen rider still hit him like a punch, deaths were thankfully few and far between.

All and all, Telgar was thriving.

And he owed a hell of a lot of it to Lip Gallagher, so whether he liked it or not, he wasn’t going to keep the bastard waiting.

Rising to his feet, he headed towards the door, smiling as Nya fell easily into step beside him.

It had been nearly half a turn after Faidre’s tragic death that an exhausted and half frantic Lip Gallagher had shown up at the gates of Telgar Weyr, clutching a huge scroll.  And Telgar had been expecting him. They’d received a furious message from the Harper’s Hall, informing Telgar of the “theft” of a precious manuscript and demanding that the thief be turned over to the nearest Hold to face justice and the property returned to them.

“Why the hells would he steal a scroll?” I’an had wondered aloud as the makeshift leadership team had perused the letter.

S’gnellan had shaken his head.  “I’m not sure,” he’d answered slowly, picking up the thick parchment and considering the angry, demanding language in front of him.

“I think I know,”M’ckey had heard his own voice reply.  The entire table had turned to stare at him, but that kind of attention no longer bothered him or pissed him off.  Instead, he’d just sighed and explained. “I mean, I don’t always like Lip. We piss each other off, honestly. But he’s good at this shite, brilliant, in fact.  I’ll admit that easily. And those other feckers up there in the Harper’s Hall, they don’t give a damn about what they have there. Lip told me about it the last time I saw him.  Said they didn’t care about taking care of the knowledge they’d been tasked to protect anymore. They only cared that the pages were pretty and the covers were shiny and polished and shite.  Lip found something, something we need. I’m sure of it. And they weren’t going to let him give it to us, because they’re selfish feckers who want to keep everything locked in their fancy hall.  That’s it. I’d bet my damn life on it.”

And he’d been right.  Lip had delivered his recount of the theft of the scroll and a single horse and his harrowing flight across half of Pern as he wolfed down the first real food he’d had in days.  But he’d made it, and the knowledge that he’d managed to locate in the scrolls that the Crafter’s lovingly stored but never bothered to read had, thank hells, given them the information they needed.

“Thread ash?” S’ngellan had asked incredulously as they stared down at the pilfered scroll.  Lip had only nodded.

“Not very much, but yeah, Thread ash.  It makes sense actually, if you think about it.  The lore says that dragon numbers always drop during an interval because they aren’t needed for Thread fighting.  They don’t get exposed to the ash and they start having fewer Queens. All you need to do is sprinkle some into their water supply and ingesting it should trigger them and prepare them to produce more gold eggs.”

“But they’re surrounded by the ash all the time,” S’ngellan had countered.

“Sure, they breathe it in, but they don’t swallow it,” Lip had insisted, leaning forward to point at the scrolls.  “Especially the males because they have two stomachs anyway. When they’re fighting thread, they need access to the one that’s got the chewed-up firestone in it.  I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a physical mechanism that cuts off their other stomach during that process.”

“There is,” S’ngellan had admitted, “that much we know.”

Suddenly, all eyes had been on M’ckey.  He’d been getting more used to it, the expectation of authority, but it still made his guts twist.  And, typically, his eyes had gone directly to I’an. It had only taken a few moments of intense discussion with their eyes and their bond for a decision to be made.

“Let’s fecking do it,” he’d declared.

And they had.

And it had fecking worked.  From north to south, from east to west.  From High Reaches to Benden to Igen on the edge of the desert, the Weyrs of Pern had begun to have their dragons ingest tiny amounts of Thread ash.  And all across Pern, the number of golds had begun to increase.

It was a huge relief and it ushered in an era of intense reform throughout Pern.  The Lord Holders and Weryleadership alike wanted answers from the Masterharpers as to how information so crucial to Pern’s very survival could ever have been simply stuck on a shelf and forgotten.  The arrogant little shites, mostly pampered and highborn, had no good answers. It had nearly made M’ckey punch a wall, thinking about how his Weyr had suffered as a result of this negligence. But he didn’t.  Mickey Milkovich did that kind of shite. The Weyrman of Telgar Weyr didn’t. The Weyrman of Telgar used his words, cutting off the whining, complaining asses and putting them clearly in their place. The Harpers had a damn job to do and they were going to fecking do it.  And if their leaders couldn’t be counted on, well...

So now Lip Gallagher was the Masterharper in charge of them all, plain and simple.  And the mission of the Harpers was quickly refocusing on the study, acquisition, and preservation of knowledge and lore.  Lip’s new position kept him busy and frequently on the move, but he made a point of visiting Telgar and sharing his information with the Weyr.  M’ckey couldn’t say for sure but he thought it was likely because Lip, like a true boy of Southern Crom, would never be fully comfortable trusting the highborns that mostly populated the Hall, even if they had largely come around to the reforms on their work and obligations.  No, Lip would come to Telgar, to him and to I’an, because they were all still Southern Side sons at their core and when they made choices, they made them with the common man in mind.

I’an was already in the small room in the Healer’s ward that Lip had commandeered for himself a turn and a half ago when M’ckey arrived.  He was talking jovially with his brother as they stood by the long table in the center of the room but the established Weyrleader of Telgar walked around the table and took M’ckey’s hand easily as the brunette entered the hall.  They took a brief moment to stare into each other’s eyes and probe gently at their bond as other members of the council trickled into the room around them. Breaking apart, M’ckey considered the inhabitants of the room. Off to the side, Nya and Carre found seats against the wall, joined by a nervous but determined Delaine.  The Head Healer was fumbling with some papers. S’ngellan took a seat beside Justine, the two of them all business. The former Weyrleader had assumed I’an’s vacated Wingleader role, but both M’ckey and the redhead had been adamant that he remain on the council in a permanent capacity. And in the doorway, M’ckey caught sight of C’rin pressing a quick kiss to the Weyrlingmaster’s lips before he strolled away to his own duties.  D’vin ambled in, his gait easy and open as he took his seat.

“You have a report,” M’ckey said as he found his own chair.  His words were formal, but he knew Lip didn’t take him too seriously.  Nonetheless, the Masterharper answered in kind.

“I do, if it would please the Weyrman to hear it.”  There was a glint in Lip’s eye as he used M’ckey’s formal title but the brunette was long past the point where such teasing could affect him.  It was who he was, after all, the Weyrman of Telgar. The first Weyrman in Pern’s history, the rider of the first Green Queen. He used to worry that it would be viewed as an insult, but now he knew it for the privilege it was.

His attention was focused on Lip as the Harper began to explain his findings, but it was only moments later that the inevitable occured.  Out in the caldera, the dragons and the horns began to bray, signaling the warning of Threadfall.

“Dammit,” Lip had muttered, “Every fecking time…”

“It’s as if the fates willed it,” D’vin  joked as every rider at the table rose and headed towards the door to prepare for the fight.

“We will continue working,” Justine called as they left, meeting M’ckey and I’an’s eyes. She gestured around the room, making a point of including Delaine in the group.  M’ckey couldn’t suppress his smile. He was lucky as hells for the people he worked with.

It was late when they returned, and the entirety of Telgar was far too tired to do anything but care for their dragons and then fall into their own beds.  I’an was busy checking on the Wings and taking care of several of the other duties of a Weyrleader, but M’ckey ducked into the Healer’s Hall for a moment. He saw Lip at the table, but the Harper waved him off.  He nodded gratefully. He was tired as fecking hells. They’d talk tomorrow. And with that, the Weyrman of Telgar took himself off to his own weyr.

Lalith was already curled up on the ledge, overlooking the hatching grounds.  She and Karth had flown three times now, and given three healthy clutches to Telgar.  They would rise again soon. The signs were all there. And when they did, M’ckey and I’an would be with them.

Rubbing a hand along Lalith’s eye ridges, M’ckey walked into the weyr, letting his girl sleep.  He made quick work of her harness and his armor, cleaning off the soot and hanging it to dry, then splashing some water onto his face and chest.  Then he sat on his bed and waited.

It didn’t take long.  A woosh of air flowed through the weyr as Karth landed and curled around his exhausted green mate.  M’ckey hadn’t realized he’d been dozing but he sat up with attention as the redhead strode through the weyr.

“Let me help,” he insisted, taking Karth’s harness as I’an smiled and went to work on his own armor.

Within minutes, they were both falling into an exhausted pile in their bed.

“Fecking Thread,” I’an muttered as he spooned up against M’ckey’s back.  “So damn tired I don’t think I could get it up, even for you.” He thrust his groin against M’ckey ass lightly, then muffled a laugh against the brunette’s neck.  “Nope. Ain’t gonna happen.”

“Dead ass tired,” M’ckey murmured back.  “Sleep. We can have fun in the morning.”

And they would.  He knew that. They needed sleep now, and recovery, and that took precedence, but they’d also have the luxury of time for each other later.  Their new life wasn’t perfect. No, it was laden with burden and usually dangerous at hell.

But hells if M’ckey didn’t love it.

And with that at the forefront of his mind, he let himself curl into I’an’s warm body and the security of their bond and drift into much-needed sleep.