Cheladoth screamed at them one more time over her drained wherry, then launched into the air. In a flurry of blue, brown, and bronze wings, they followed.
Skepnadth thrilled to the power of his wings. It had been too long since he’d flown, really flown, and he roared out his joy at regaining his supremacy in the sky. Each wingbeat sent a delicious rush of wind over his body, hot with the blood of the herdbeast he’d killed racing through his veins; hot with the southern sun on his glossy, dark bronze hide; hot with desire for his pretty green wingmate.
Usually the lambent shade of the sea after a storm, Cheladoth now gleamed enticingly jade as she darted away from her suitors. She was two Turns older, more experienced, and fast. In the time it had taken Skepnadth to get off the ground, she had already climbed over the treetops. The blues, only a little larger than she, were close behind, but she was too clever for them. When one got too near, she turned on a tailtip and changed course, weaving sinuously through the air like a dolphin through water. She, too, reveled in her prowess, and did not intend for her flight to be arrested so easily.
Skepnadth knew he could catch her. She was fast, but he was strong: he could outlast her and outstrip the lesser males in her train. His only real competition was the other bronze, Arnoth. He flew wingsecond, and not for nothing: he was smart, his conformation excellent with a bright, brassy hide, and he was brave and tireless in Threadfall. Skepnadth’s race was against him.
The two kept an eye on each other as they beat their way past the flagging blues and sought to gain the edge on the trio of browns who were still keeping up. Cheladoth was showing off now, pretending to fall back only to twist away and put on another burst of speed when one of them fell for it. Skepnadth saw that she couldn’t keep it up much longer, though, and he knew Arnoth knew it, too. Her color was less bright, her turns less sharp. It was just a matter of time before she’d have to choose or let the competition choose for her.
The young bronze wanted her to choose him. He’d show her he was the best dragon here—the best on Pern!
He filled his lungs to their limit and let out a great bugle that would have shaken leaves off the trees if they weren’t so high aloft. The others answered with startled challenges of their own. In that moment, just when everyone’s eyes were on him, he pumped his wings as hard as he could and shot out ahead of the pack. He was right below Cheladoth. She tilted her head down toward him with a flirtatious call, then climbed up, away. He followed.
Arnoth was right behind him, and gaining. Skepnadth cut across his path, blocking him, but losing momentum. The other bronze turned, almost as nimbly as a green, and the two spiraled around one another. Skepnadth couldn’t get past him; any way he turned, Arnoth turned, too, the perfect mirror. He hissed in frustration. Cheladoth had stooped down to loop them, taunting them with her nearness, and one of the browns was making a bid to catch up while the bronzes kept each other trapped.
Skepnadth couldn’t allow it. There would be one chance: one moment when Cheladoth was nearer to him than to Arnoth, and he could break away. He just had to see it coming.
It came! There she was, just beneath him. He folded his wings, dropped like a stone, and threw out his claws. Cheladoth squawked in surprise and tried to roll out of reach, but too slow: her claws rotated into range, and he snagged them in his own. Their necks twined together. Skepnadth opened his wings with a leathery snap, and together, they glided.
When it was over, the two riders put their pants back on and sat side by side on the edge of the shelter’s bed, regaining their bearings. It was warm, since privacy wouldn’t allow for the wide open windows generally required in the South, but the wind had changed, and a welcome breeze off the ocean blew in through narrow slats below the roof.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” V’ranen asked. The dark-skinned Istan gently turned E’rik’s head toward him with two fingers beneath his chin and examined the shiny, white and red Threadscars on the right side of his face. “I tried to go easy on you, but you know how it is . . . ”
E’rik shrugged. “Well, you didn’t make it all better—but you could hardly make it worse.” He tried to smile without looking like he was leering. In fact, he’d lost sensation in that side of his face, and with it, mobility.
V’ranen looked dubious, so E’rik added, “We’ve been cleared for
between flight for a sevenday. If I’m healed enough for that, I’m healed enough for this. And it was good timing. Skepnadth needed the boost to his confidence.”
V’ranen was kind enough not to comment on the blatant falsehood beyond a skeptical “Uh-huh.”
Of course, in the manner of dragonkind, Skepnadth barely remembered the accident anymore. It was his rider who suffered the worst of it, both physically and emotionally, and was still reeling from the blow to his self-assurance. After all, it was E’rik’s lapse in judgement that had resulted in them both being scored. After letting his dragon down so badly, it was he who needed to renew his faith in the strength of their bond. The exultant merging of their psyches in a successful mating flight had been just the antidote.
Currently, he felt Skepnadth’s replete satisfaction with himself as he curled more snugly around Cheladoth in the wallow outside.
I never doubted us, he murmured sleepily.
In V’ranen’s weyr, E’rik chuckled. “Anyway, thanks,” he said, giving the greenrider a companionable clap on his bare shoulder. “I hope I wasn’t . . . you know . . . terrible to be with.”
“Oh, no worries. Anything for a wingmate in need, and Cheladoth likes Skepnadth.” V’ranen smiled, his teeth standing out brilliantly in his dark face. “In fact, if you find you have green fancies after all, feel free to seek me out again.”
“I don’t think you can use that expression anymore,” E’rik said, flattered and a little embarrassed. “More girls are Impressing greens all the time.”
V’ranen shrugged. “I’m sure the girls won’t turn you away, either. Seriously, if you’re worried about this . . . ” he touched the back of his fingers to E’rik’s scarred cheek, “don’t be. Anyone who can’t see past it isn’t worth it.”
E’rik hadn’t allowed himself to dwell much on his drastically altered appearance—he was lucky to be alive, and wallowing in depression wasn’t fair to Skepnadth—but he hadn’t completely accepted it, either. The other man’s reassurance buoyed his spirits, and he nodded.
“Thank you, V’ranen. For everything.”
I don't have a proper title for this yet, but the subtitle is "How Derik Got His Groove Back." The first time, anyway. {= )
I don't like using his original name, because doing dragonrider names that way is stupid and irritates me, but I didn't feel right changing it, either, so "E'rik" it is. Sigh.
As he points out, I could easily have had a female greenrider in V'ranen's place due to when this is set, but I preferred to show a healthy example of what happens when a straight guy ends up in this situation, because if you think about it, it obviously happens a lot. And it doesn't have to be OMG awkward and horrible for him if everyone understands about these things and nobody is judging anyone for it. So there.
I've got another fill for this prompt in mind, so hopefully, with doctorlit's help, I'll get it up before the next one rolls around!
~Neshomeh
