Xanadu Weyr
All around the tiny world the weyrlings occupy in the first month of weyrlinghood.
Stefyr didn't survive the hatching sands. F'yr was a different man when he stepped off. The moment the hatchling crashed into him, cracking his ribs and stopping his breath, the shell that was Stefyr shattered, making way for F'yr-some Stefyr of Yesterturn. His life didn't flash before his eyes, but ten moments did.
Ten.
He pelted pell-mell down the corridors, holding the lifeline and whipcord that was the Weyrleader's hand. Two too-big bodies demanded space in crowds of people moving in different directions, some toward the source of the deep, bone-rattling hum and some away on other tasks. His heart raced. His focus narrowed to R'hyn, to the path weaving through and around until there was rain on his face and there was a moment when the why they were running together cease to matter for him. For a handful of heartbeats, he was subsumed by the exhilaration of running with R'hyn, of skipping, of sliding in the mud, of laughing. He should have been thinking of the eggs, the sands, the imminent event that could (would) change his life forever. It was hardly the moment for the breathless exhilaration of connection… especially with the man who had rejected anything more than just his friendship only moments ago. And yet, here was a man for whom he couldn't stop feeling something more for. What's a little word like "can't" to the logic of the heart?
Nine.
R'hyn's hands on his shoulders, the shake, the look on his face burned into Stefyr's memory. Those four words that meant to him than they should.
Eight.
Air against his bare skin as he stripped wet clothes and tripped over his own feet on his way to his cot. He hurtled past the line of already departing candidates to snatch his robe from his trunk and don it even as he sprinted after those far more prepared than he.
Seven.
The self-fulfilling prophecy of stepping onto the sands and thinking of home, of briefly wishing he were at home, with tasks familiar instead of here where everything suddenly seemed so far from anything he'd ever known. That feeling fading in the face of his awe and aw and AHHH! as the first hatchling broke shell and the first impression was made.
Six.
His eyes flicking away from the eggs and the hatchlings to R'hyn, and to the stands to look for Risa. Two stars in the constellation starting to shape what guides and grounds him here in this place of miracles. What are hatchlings if not that, even if they're the common uncommon variety, the same as each newborn babe. He knew the truth of that miracle. Briefly, he looked to the stands again as if there might be a familiar face there, but no; he might be briefly wishing to be home on the farm, but none from the farm would've come for this. Everyone who mattered in these moments was here, in this arena, some even on these sands.
Five.
Keruthien's face as he realized that Kihatsuth had come for him. A perfect moment. Not the first to impress, but the first friend to do so. His heart swelled.
Four.
The determined stride of the green destined for Evi, the grace of her neck as she made her choice and Evi's tears and kneel to greet her. A win she needed, and he was glad for her.
Three.
The stumble-trip-fall and nose-boop of the fun-loving gold into Rhody. Rhody. He could have crowed for her. Just where that gold was most needed. Just where this gold would perfectly fit. He thought Rhody's eyes shone from the maybe-tears. An unforgettable moment.
Two.
The rush of green, the flare of wings that suddenly hid Khavro, who would never be Khavro again. Not really. V'ro's yelp would forever be his first act as his new self, but he would be okay.
One.
Tiny now-Ri'tah and his dazzling little green. When Sezoruth found the youngest member of the candidate class, Stefyr's breath caught, stopped, started. Memories of another vital moment in another place with a rider with a unique story and good advice flooded his mind. That story would help him now, now that there was a Ri'tah and not just the possibility of one.
None.
If he hadn't been robbed of his breath, he would have laughed, first in wonderment at the view, the vibrant green, the dazzling sun. Then, at the song. That song. He didn't know it, and yet wasn't it the very one that danced through his dreams as a boy? The one that highlighted and heightened the deeds of great heroic dragons and their riders? It was near enough. And then. Oh, then. Such an introduction! He would have, could have laughed at that, too, with delight, with shared humor, with everything that he was so instantly infatuated with everything this dragon seemed to be at first blush, and second look, and on and on, deeper and deeper. Any other person would have been wrong for Glorioth; the dragon didn't need to tell him for him to know in the moment that he was named. He just knew because no one, no one, could love a dragon like this the way that he could, would, already did.
Every moment in the new is precious. Every breath, every emotion, every thought that is forever different than any that had come before because the universe has a new center, or at least a new and brightest star. Everything is so real, so raw, and revolutionary that it's easy to swear in the moment you'll never forget it. You'll never lose it. These things will burn incandescently in your memory and never dim, never blur, never lose any of the crisp clarity they have in the moment.
Future F'yr would find himself forsworn on these accounts. Whether it was the sheer volume of overwhelming thoughts, feelings and experiences so wholly unprecedented in his experience or simply the immediate and persisting haze of sleep deprivation that makes all the early days of a new life seem like some sort of bizarre but beautiful dream, but ten moments would stand out forever from that first month, gilded in that breathtaking dazzle and fascination of the novel and surreal.
One.
The night of the hatching, he meant to sleep as soon as he finally made it back to his cot, after running for his things, after running into Katailea, after stopping to speak with Kha — V'ro, Ri'tah, Ru'ien and Louci each briefly, but each meaningfully. He really had meant to sleep. Except…
Once his head hit his pillow, he couldn't help but just look at him. That magnificent, merciless, myth-in-the-making was his lifemate. Given everything that happened after leaving the hatching sands, F'yr should have been furious. He should have hated being bonded to such a beast. If he were anyone else, maybe he would have. And maybe minutes ago he'd had doubts about being lucky. Maybe he'd expressed something like that, but in staring at this bold, beautiful baby bronze, he knew it wasn't true. He was the luckiest.
He loved it. Loved him. On a visceral level, he loved the chaos, the drive, the independence, the confidence. Glorioth was the flame and he was drawn helplessly into his thrall. No more the monotony of farmer life. No more the worry that he wasn't who or what he was supposed to be. No more the fear that he didn't belong, couldn't belong in a place like this. This was home. Glorioth was home. For F'yr, a lifetime of adventure with Glorioth was the greatest gift he would ever receive, the wildest wonder he could ever witness. Just being with him, like this… it was more than enough, more than he had ever expected to have.
This bond wasn't fragile, like a role assigned or earned. It wasn't something that could disappear short of death, and F'yr would do his damnest to prevent any possibility of that. His bronze might be a protector by nature (if strangely so as it would doubtless prove), but F'yr was his protector, his companion, his lifemate. He felt like he could float.
Float he did, right into a dream, not his own but Glorioth's. The bronze drew him along as naturally as if it had always been so, and maybe for Glorioth, it had. The walls of the stone maze drew high and the hero charged down way after way, booming his bright laughter, mowing down shifty eyed foes still too indistinct to really see. … and F'yr cheered him on. He should've been still in his somnolence, but he wore a stupid smile for the scant hour before Glorioth was leaning right into F'yr's face. Bap-bap-bapping went the baby bronze, to ENCOURAGE F'yr toward wakefulness, toward care of a dragon who needed him, who wanted him, who would settle for no other.
« Cease this dawdling, my F'yrsomely fatigued fellow, the foe wakes and we must meet it in bravest battle. »
BAP BAP BAP
If nothing else, all the forthcoming episodes of encouragement would help F'yr keep from getting a big head about the hard-headed beast he was head over heels in love with.
« SHROUD YOUR PERVERSIONS, MY DEVOTED STATUARY. If you don't want to be a statuary, then get a move on. » HIS TUMMY, IT ROARS ITS SAVAGELY ADORABLE BATTLECRY.
«If you don't stop thinking I'm cute this instant, » the bronze's spine straightened and he gave his rider a baleful look, « you will live long enough to regret it. »
Laughter was alright though as long as F'yr was moving toward the meat buckets. "I love you, Glorioth."
« KEEP YOUR EFFEMINATE SENTIMENTALITY FOR SOMEONE WHO WANTS IT. THERE ARE ENOUGH OF THEM. » Ugh. Glorioth can do without, thanks. (Except he can't, F'yr. Even if he behaves untouched, that thread of feeling that laces through all the heroics and dragonlyness that he directs to you alone swells at the sentiment because it is returned, but that can be your little secret.)
"Let's slay the foe, Glori."
« THAT'S MORE LIKE IT, MY F'YROCIOUS FRIEND. ONWAAAAAaaaaaAAAAaaaaRD! »
Two.
The first time Glorioth told him a tale of of his epic adventures. This first was the
MYSTERIOUS DEPTHS of his own wallow. And then someone else's. They weren't the same. His was better. F'yr was enraptured by the tale; he was far too willingly Glori's starry-eyed audience.
Three.
That brilliant surge of gratitude and love when Glorioth bowed to Leirith for her role in finding himself and the way that Glori had wanted to meet Risa, even if he didn't say so in any way the Weyrwoman could have recognized in the moment.
Four.
The first "accident." All the things he did wrong. The realization that the farm work wasn't over after all.
Five.
The feeling of endless warm bronze hide under his hands as he cared for the itches and would-be-cracks of rapidly growing dragon skin and the smell of the oil. The radiant light and armored patterns of that spectacular body that was power and punch and dream all in one.
Six.
The first time F'yr sang Glorioth to sleep, making up words about his dragon's valor to set to tunes he knew; once it was done one time, he was expected to repeat the trick. His dictionary would come in handy. He would ask the Harpers about something for rhyming, too.
Seven.
The joy in Glorioth's everything when Roderick hatched and was given his name. How could F'yr even be mad after that?
Eight.
The way he laughed until he felt like he was coming apart at the seams while Glorioth tried to learn to squirt water from his tongue from his big, bronze father, while R'hyn literally saved his life (well, okay, he probably wouldn't have laughed so hard he was in danger of drowning if it hadn't been for Xermiltoth's role in it all, so maybe it all evened out in the end?). They were all still alive at the end at any rate, and he would treasure the memory.
Nine.
The way it felt to be tucked in the protection of Glorioth's forepaws. Given the baby bronze's propensity to shred foes in his sleep, it could have been dangerous. Seeing as how Glori had fallen asleep outside because he was « NOT EVEN A LITTLE TIRED, MY F'YROCIOUS NURSEMATE, » and there was no way to move him once he was out for the count, F'yr had little choice but to dare. The fall night was too chilly to do nothing, so he carefully settled in. In sleep, if at no other time, Glorioth was tender with him. He felt… loved. Cherished, even.
The hot mess of emotions that unleashed made Glorith nose his hair in his sleep, and F'yr laughed when his lifemate's enormous tongue lolled out and licked his ear before he shoved the big bronze's head away. He couldn't tell whether the bronze was awake or asleep while those comforts were given, but the dream they shared was extra epic, and F'yr even got to step out of the strictly sidekick role to slay a few foe-villains of his own. It was … sweet.
Ten.
The day Glorioth and Inasyth sought the Temple of Papers and ended up in the Caverns. Who could possibly forget that?