Anne McCaffrey - Dragonquest

“Jaxom, what are you doing?” someone yelled at him but it was too late.

The thick inner membrane was visible now and this was what had been impeding the dragonet’s emergence. Jaxom ripped the slippery stuff open with his belt knife and, from the sac, fell a tiny white body, not much larger than Jaxom’s torso. Instinctively Jaxom reached out, helping the back-stranded creature to its feet.

Before F’lar or anyone could intervene, the white dragon had raised adoring eyes to the Lord of Ruatha Hold and Impression had been made.

Completely oblivious to the dilemma he had just originated, the incredulous Jaxom turned to the stunned observers.

“He says his name is Ruth!”

Evening at Benden Weyr: Impression Banquet

.

IT HAD been like coming up out of the very bowels of the deepest hold, thought Brekke. And Berd had shown her the way. She shuddered again at the horror of memory. If she slipped back down . . .

Instantly she felt F’nor’s hand tighten on her arm, felt the touch of Canth’s thoughts and heard the chitter of the two fire lizards.

Berd had led her out of the Ground to F’nor and Manora. She’d been surprised at how tired and sad they both looked. She’d tried to talk but they’d hushed her. F’nor had carried her up to his weyr. She smiled now, opening her eyes, to see him bending over her. Brekke put her hand up to the dear, worried face of her lover; she could say that now, her lover, her Weyrmate, for he was that, too. Deep lines from the high-bridged nose pulled F’nor’s mouth down at the corners. His eyes were darkly smudged and bloodshot, his hair, usually combed in crisp clean waves back from his high forehead, was stringy, oily.

“You need cozening, love,” she said in a low voice which cracked and didn’t seem to be hers at all.

With a groan that was close to a sob, F’nor embraced her. At first as if he were afraid of hurting her. Then, when he felt her arms tightening around him – for it was good to feel his strong back under her seeking hands – he almost crushed her until she cried out gladly for him to be careful.

He buried his lips in her hair, against her throat, in a surfeit of loving relief.

“We thought we’d lost you, too, Brekke,” he said over and over while Canth crooned an exuberant descant.

“It was in my mind,” Brekke admitted in a tremulous voice, burrowing against his chest, as if she must get even closer to him. “I was trapped in my mind and didn’t own my body. I think that’s what was wrong with me. Oh, F’nor,” and all the grief that she’d not been able to express before came bursting out of her, “I even hated Canth!”

The tears poured down her cheeks and shuddering sobs shook a body already weakened by fasting. F’nor held her to him, patting her shoulders, stroking her until he began to fear that the convulsions would tear her apart. He beckoned urgently to Manora.

“She’s got to cry, F’nor. It’ll be an easing for her.”

Manora’s anxious expression, the way she folded and unfolded her hands, was strangely reassuring to F’nor. She, too, cared about Brekke, cared enough to let concern pierce that imperturbable serenity. He’d been so grateful to Manora for opposing a re-Impression, though he doubted his blood mother knew why he’d be against it. Or perhaps she did. Manora in her calm detachment missed few nuances or evasions.

Brekke’s frail body was trembling violently now, torn apart by the paroxysm of her grief. The fire lizards took to fluttering anxiously and Canth’s croon held on a distressed note. Brekke’s hands opened and closed pathetically on his shoulders but the tearing sobs did not permit her to speak.

“She can’t stop, Manora. She can’t.”

“Slap her.”

“Slap her?”

“Yes, slap her,” and Manora suited actions to words, fetching Brekke several sharp blows before F’nor could shield her face. “Now into the bathing pool with her. The water’s warm enough to relax those muscles.” “You didn’t have to slap her,” F’nor said, angrily.

“She did, she did,” said Brekke in a ragged gasp, shuddering as they bundled her into the warm pool water. Then she felt the heat penetrate and relax muscles knotted by racking sobs. As soon as she felt Brekke’s body easing, Manora dried her with warmed towels and gestured for F’nor to tuck her back under the furs.

“She needs feeding up now, F’nor. And so do you,” she said, looking sternly at him. “And you are to kindly remember that you’ve duties to others tonight. It’s Impression Day.”

F’nor snorted at Manora’s reminder and saw Brekke smiling wanly up at him.

“I don’t think you’ve left me at all since . . .”

“Canth and I needed to be with you, Brekke,” he cut in when she faltered. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead as if such an action were the most important occupation in the world. She caught his hand and he looked into her eyes.

“I felt you there, both of you, even when I wanted most to die.” Then she felt anger in her guts. “But how could you force me onto the Hatching Ground, to face another queen?”

Canth grumbled a protest. She could see the dragon through the uncurtained archway, his head turned toward her, his eyes flashing a little. She was startled by the unhealthy green tinge to his color.

“We didn’t want to. That was F’lar’s idea. And Lessa’s. They thought it might work and they were afraid we’d lose you.”

The empty ache she tried not to remember threatened to become a hole down which she must go if only to end that tearing, burning pain of loss.

No, cried Canth.

Two warm lizard bodies pressed urgently against her neck and face, affection and worry so palpable in their thoughts it was like a physical touch.

“Brekke!” The terror, the yearning, the desperation in F’nor’s cry were louder than the inner roaring and pushed it back, dispersed its threat.

“Never leave me! Never leave me alone. I can’t stand being alone even for a second,” Brekke cried.

I am here, said Canth, as F’nor’s arms folded hard around her. The two lizards echoed the brown’s words, the sound of their thoughts strengthening as their resolve grew. Brekke clung to the surprise of their maturity as a weapon against that other terrible pain.

“Why, Grall and Berd care,” she said.

“Of course they care.” F’nor seemed almost angry that she’d doubt it.

“No, I mean, they say they care.”

F’nor looked into her eyes, his embrace less fiercely possessive. “Yes, they’re learning because they love.”

“Oh, F’nor, if I hadn’t Impressed Berd that day, what would have happened to me?”

F’nor didn’t answer. He held her against him in loving silence until Mirrim, her lizards flying in joyous circles around her, came briskly into the weyr, carrying a well-laden tray.

“Manora had to attend to the seasoning, Brekke,” the girl said in a didactic tone. “You know how fussy she is. But you are to eat every bit of this broth, and you’ve a potion to drink for sleeping. A good night’s rest and you’ll be feeling more yourself.”

Brekke stared at the young girl, watching in a sort of bemusement while Mirrim deftly pushed F’nor out of her way, settled pillows behind her patient, a napkin at her throat, and began to spoon the rich wherry broth to Brekke’s unprotesting lips.

“You can stop staring at me, F’nor of Benden,” Mirrim said, “and start eating the food I brought you before it gets cold. I carved you a portion of spiced wherry from the breast, so don’t waste prime servings.”

F’nor rose obediently, a smile on his face, recognizing the child’s mannerisms as a blend of Manora and Brekke.