0001-01-01 - Bubbles, Rolls and a Birth

Igen's freshwater lake is frankly magical, the air softer, the heat and light less unrelenting even at Rukbat's zenith; some parts are deep enough to drown a dragon, even adult dragons, but here where Morag sits crosslegged -- in the late afternoon, after a nap, on a thick blanket in the shade of an outcropping -- the nearby water's edge is shallow and clear, currently untrafficked.

All of the weyrlings will be encouraged to take their dragonets off for their first real baths, baths more than just a dousing in the carried-over tub, but one of the assistants 'suggests' that Lo start over early, and tells her where exactly to go. It would be more efficient, the bluerider adds, if Eoventh's carried... but it's not as though he's going to stick around to make sure.

Susceptible to suggestion, in both the best and worst kinds of ways, but innocent of the intentions of them, Lo takes the advice as if it were a command and can be seen cajoling, carrying, and somehow convincing herself (and her dragon) that she can, in fact, carry Eoventh the relatively short distance from the barracks to the lake.

"No, yes, I mean yes, I realize you are quite large, but I am still quite a bit larger," is said in Lo's low, sweet voice. "I promise, I won't drop you. I don't think I could even if I wanted to," whatever that means, as it's mostly a word salad that comes out of her mouth, meant to be as soothing as possible, though it might not make sense.

Then, there they are, standing at the edge of that shallow edge, a tired exhale escaping from Lo's throat as she gently eases the still (tinier) Eoventh to the ground where the water laps onto the shore, heedless of the napper in the shaded outcropping near by. "See, it isn't so bad, is it? I grew up swimming in this lake and it was always so lovely. I promise, you'll love it." She hopes, fingers crossed behind her back.

Out in the lake, there's an island floating: an island with one visible eye glowing blue-green behind its innermost lid. Call it a queen's perogative, to have the place to herself... when she wants it. And as long as the island's rider can listen, can overhear, there's no hurry except her own impatience.

Khataith -- for it is Khataith, who'd made herself known to Eoventh in the egg with her ambient presence -- has encouraged those water-ripples with a shifting of mass, with a bit of mental breeze... and the awareness that she's around, she's findable, and look where Eoventh's already explored!

Lo's mindless soothing word scramble propels Eoventh forward less than the prospect of finding that touch. The deeply toned dragon squirms her small butt into the sand and tests the water with a snaked out limb to dance talons across the surface before plunging it down into the lake. The shallow end, to be sure, she finds bottom quite easily from this point, but there's a near-sounding crow, throaty and jubilant, that emits at this discovery. "Oh, Ev," truncates her rider, which then is followed by an abrupt correction, "Eoventh, right. I won't forget again." But she will, between sheer laziness of tongue and the exhaustion of caring for a draconic newborn.

Eoventh skulks her long neck and drops her head so she can peeeeeeeeeer out at that floating island with its bejeweled eye and Lo follows her gaze. From there, she sweeps a glance about the familiar lake's shore and pauses a long, studious beat, when her green eyes lingers on the shape of statue. Or a seated person. She squints into the shade.

The statue waves at Lo -- beckons, really. Which would mean leaving her newborn... but, then again, would mean leaving her newborn.

As for the newborn herself, the island is getting larger. Khataith's dark-sparred, light-sailed wings aren't going anywhere, and neither would be the rest of her... except that she is, paddling like a duck underwater while the rest of her floats, floats, floats. << Better? >>

A child's delight is as innocent as Eoventh's is in a spray of mental rainbows, << It's you! >> Recognition of the voice pairs with the dragon before her and she is all bubbles and joy. << Tell me, grand dam, >> whether she is or not, she at least is aware that Khatiath is older than her dam, and that Khatiath is not her actual dam.

With Eoventh entranced by the approaching island, for that's how she's described it to her rider - an honest to goodness, floating island that talks to her in her mind - Lo moves to the beckoning. Her steps start off sluggish, wary, and sideways as she watches Eoventh plop paws into the water, but never pulling her hiney along with her, then gain just the smallest bit of confidence at leaving the baby's side to stopping abruptly short just a few steps shy of being in Morag's presence. Abruptly short because suddenly those green eyes are wide, and an absent-minded hand draws the tail end of her braid to bring to her mouth to chew. "Hello." Uh. The braid drops out of her mouth, but not out of her fingers, "Ma'am."

<< Are you sure? >> Mental Khataith makes to look behind her, even while the embodied island... keeps floating. << It might not be me, >> the elder queen transparently teases. << It might be following me. >> Like that long thing in the water that's attached itself to her. The thing that resembles, albeit writ on a grander scale, Eoventh's own tail.

"In the flesh. Please sit, Lo," Morag says, smiling. The septuagenarian waits until either the girl's complied or she gets tired of waiting; "It's an exhausting time, isn't it? For all that they're so little. It's hard to believe Khataith was that small. Have some juice." Where did that mug come from? Its contents are blessedly cold; Morag turns out to have one too. "It's hard to stay hydrated."

Which is to say, she keeps it simple. Sit. Drink.

Seasoned Igenite that she is, Lo could protest she has a flask slung across her shoulder like a hand bag, but does anyone protest when the Weyrwoman asks them to sit? No. Even those who might not be considered particularly bright. Given instructions, she obeys, taking one more step to get close enough to take the mug and sinking easily down straight into a criss-cross applesauce arrangement. "When I did a turn as a nanny before I ended up in the kitchens, it was a lot easier cause there were so many of us to take turns throughout the nights and days," Lo starts before a sip of juice stops her from chattering, and the sweet something or other draws a bright smile to her face and a lightness to tired lines around her eyes. "Ooooh, is this mango with passion fruit? Something- there's something else there too."

<< You, >> replies Eoventh, << Are you. There is nothing else. >> She speaks with the straight earnestness of a child that takes everything quite literally. << If you were following yourself, then you'd be going in circles. >> Like how the small gold decides to show this much older dragon what she means by seeming to chase her tail, except far slower, more careful not to let her hindquarters sink further into the water.

"It does help," Morag imagines. "I was certainly grateful to my wet-nurses," or rather those of her children. "Imagine if we could do such a thing here, to let you weyrlings get better sleep; imagine if dragons could be tended by anyone as runners can." Which is not quite anyone, but close enough for this. Perhaps Lo will learn in time how the Weyrwoman can speculate so, logical despite the instinctive curl to her lip; the girl's pleasure, however, brings her pleasure in return. "There is something," Morag agrees, and lets her guess or not; isn't it better than that flask she has? There are other flasks... but not for weyrlings. "One of my favorites."

<< Nothing at all, >> muses Khataith-island, overseeing those circles with benign encouragement and a pleasure that tastes of her rider, plus humor that's all her own; it's only when Eoventh stops, if and when, that Khataith shares a sense of their lakeside enlarging to the lake, to the Weyr, to the desert stretching all around. There's just the thin little road, and the campsite attached to the Weyr like a burr, or a piece of fewmet clinging to a claw.

The way the logic segues from her lived experience to a what-if causes Lo's eyes to flash upwards, alarmed, and a startled, "No!" escapes her mouth before she can help it, but she rolls with it, in spite of the fact a second later cringe crinkles her expression. "I mean, no. Eoventh is my responsibility and I wouldn't want anyone else to look after her. She wouldn't want anyone else to look after her either." The certainty is ironclad for this young woman. "I mean," a breath inhales and exhales, "Would you have wanted someone else to see to Kha- Khataith's needs?"

Eoventh has stopped, her physical body craning to see what the older dragon shows in that mind's touch, unable to separate the tangible now from the what-might-bes. Another crow, a brassy little trumpet crackling with immaturity lifts with the stretch of her neck and she, all large puppy sized of her, falls forward, knobbly head first into the lake. Oh, the sputtering! Oh, the unhappy head shaking. Oh, the- she's not dead. The head stops shaking to consider this new bit of knowledge, whirling red-tinged eyes staring at the deep depths of water before her. The lake foe did not kill her.

Morag's wide smile's turned toothy. "No. No, I would not." She does add, "Now that she's larger, I get help sometimes, particularly when she's great with clutch and itches all the time," and how's that for a what-if. "And, of course, when she was little I felt no great need to shovel her so-precious dung myself, but I had to do it anyway. Between is such a blessing." While she's at it, "How much had you flown," if at all, "before?"

No, no it did not. And the island's right there, overseeing, though it's developed a great hollow mountain in the form of Khataith's curved neck, muzzle low to the water in case of any need to take direct action. Low, then lower: she blows bubbles Eoventh's way.

Eoventh swipes a talon back at the water, watching it ripple this time intently. A small bug flits in between the ripples, bouncing along the water's surface and along Khatiath's bubbles, and garners the small dragon's curiosity. << Could you do that? >> More important. << Can I do that? >>

Lo lifts her legs from their criss-crossed state, so her knees press against the sides of her elbows and her hands clasp. "None. Wasn't ever really important enough to go anywhere, and even when we..., you'd organize crews to harvest needlethorn, I'd be here on the grounds." The blonde woman leans side ways to look upon the dragons by and in the lake. "Baby, I don't think you can jump on water like that. It... that's not how any of that works."

"Then there's nothing to relearn," Morag supposes philosophically. She follows the girl's gaze, and certainly doesn't contradict her, a smile playing about her mouth.

Khataith, meanwhile: << Not on water. On clouds, >> is meant to answer both. She sinks back to her haunches and stretches, then; rain falls, if not on bug and baby.

"The weyrlingmaster will have most of your attention, but I'll borrow you from time to time," adds Khataith's rider. "If something important comes up, important to you, I expect you to pass me a message." She does not address spelling, lettering size, or margins.

It makes sense if one stopped to think about it, the need to interface with Morag directly. Yet it never occurred to Lo that she would have to interface with Morag directly. Big, rounded, orb-like eyes stare at the Weyrwoman. The weyrling looks down at her hands, clasped togetherish around that mug, and then quickly moves to knock it back like it were something a lot stronger than just juice, emerging from the mug looking only mildly disappointed at what she just drank. Staring into the too empty mug that didn't actually have liquor in it, she murmurs, "Did you want to be a leader?"

Morag, as it happens, is used to being stared at; she takes it with aplomb. And waits. Not that her brows don't lift at what the girl does to the juice.

"What I wanted," the Weyrwoman answers, "was to not show my ass. The rest came later." Next!

Something of that answer visibly reduces Lo's timidness around the older woman, the leader, the very much looked up to personage of vast importance. A small smile ventures forth, then blossoms, until her lips split into a full-fledged grin.

<< Clouds? >> Eoventh considers this after the length of time it's taken for her rider to project less of those nerves. In that time, 'Baby' didn't waver her attention from the water or from the floating island that rains drops all over her, but the fact she didn't notice the bug momentarily sinking towards the water before it somehow escapes this personal little rain storm, nor notes the 'rain' coming down on her head. << Oh, it's gone, >> she says of the little zipping bug. << Oh, it's... WATER from the sky! >> Her rider's breakthrough reflects in sudden movements, a cavorting of sorts as the still small gold splashes about clumsily, but cheerfully, lashing her own torrents at Khatiath.

"I would like to not show my ass also, but I probably already have." Such is the way of her life, and while the words on their own might be considered self-deprecating or down on herself, Lo's continued effervescent expression implies she doesn't seem phased by this fact. "I can just not show my ass going forward, if you'll show me how." Pause. "Not to."

Well! If the little one wants 'rain' directed to her, she may have it -- this time -- with a lowering of Khataith's muzzle, a scooping and swooshing. Meanwhile, her near paw makes as though to splash too, as though it were itself a hatchling skittering away and then back.

Morag, amused, "It happens. There's not much way to not, at least without turning into a statue of indecision," she practically capitalizes it, and who knows, there might be a collection of said statues in the storerooms. "But I can help you try not to, and recover when you do."

Are those the other weyrlings, emerging way out there from the barracks? Or just some adult pair, passing by?

At almost twenty, "Recovery is harder," is a given admission, a young understanding of the realities of how life is and her own reaction to her failings. and diminishes the prior grin into solemnity, "I mean," Lo begins with her favorite sentence starter, "Like really recovering and not just pretending to be laughing it off. And apologizing. And admitting you're wrong." For the last, the blonde woman hooks a small rueful smile, "I'm good at admitting when I'm wrong at least." From her vantage point, the barracks entrance can't be seen.

Eoventh squeaks. It would be a squeal if she had vocal chords capable of such sounds, but as it is, her still infantile voice just climbs to the highest registers. Her smaller form scuttles backwards and slit eyes observe the way Khatiath uses her head to spray.

Another scoop-and-splash: this time, Khataith's going for distance, rainbowing well over the little one's head. Her attention's with her too, like so many refracting droplets suspended in air.

Morag considers Eoventh's chosen with new interest. "Knowing that? That's ahead of the game." Even for almost-not-teens, even for almost-not-teens who have gone places. "Not just admitting, though we'd benefit by more people who did; all of it." But, for a moment, her glance moves past Lo. "Would you like some more juice, before the rest catch up? They," with a tinge of regret, "will be here soon." Not that she couldn't put in another 'request,' if she chose.

"They?" Lo looks around suddenly, side to side and then back over her shoulder and spies some of her peers. Her lower lip falls and her expression falters visibly. "Oh." A swallow, a chin twitch, a brief close of her eyes, and then a pressed smile that turns into something more genuine when she turns back to Morag. "I should probably... tend to Eoventh," before the others come. Shyness isn't necessarily a word in Lo's emotional lexicon, and yet, the look she casts to Morag and then back at her peers could be shy, or maybe a little ashamed. "Thank you for speaking with me, ma'am. I know I wasn't your first choice, but I'll try my best."

Does it tell Lo something, that Morag doesn't even blink? Not that she gives false reassurances; only, "That's what I'm looking for. Welcome, Lo." And she smiles warmly, for all that she doesn't get up.

Not until Lo's back to tending, anyway; Morag's flexible for someone her age, but the joints still wear, and there's no benefit to showing difficulties now. By the time the rest of the group nears, she's standing, moving pleasantly between them with hellos here and there -- yes, she knows everyone's names -- and fond-yet-assessing attention for their young lifemates. But the juice and mugs? Disappeared.

When summoned, Lo learns, whether she thinks she is or not. Though it's slow going, once things are learned, the young woman seems to really understand and extrapolate from the lessons applicable ways for its use.

It's several months later when Lo appears on Khatiath's ledge, hesitant at the opening to the inner weyr, with a small basket of aromatic goods covered with a clean cloth. Is she in? Is she not? The young woman dances lightly from foot to foot and sucks in air as courage and ducks in her movements quick and jerky, as if trying to be sneaky and convey to anyone who might be watching she's really only dropping something off. Really! Not anything nefarious.

Her queen's not in residence, so that's no help.

Eventually, though, one wrinkly hand draws the tapestry back; "Do you need the lavatory, lass?" Morag quite cheerfully inquires. Could she have been peeking? Do all tapestries have secret look-through spots and, if so, are they one-way? Or maybe someone else noticed, someone with wings, who told Khatiath who told... or maybe it's just Morag's way.

Lo shrieks! There was no one there. She looked! And then there was someone there and she was not expecting anyone there. The voice is definitely not an expected interruption to her trying to sneak in and leave a gift. Somehow, she hasn't thrown the basket of buttery baked rolls in the air, though the clean cloth has come dislodged and floats to the ground.

The tunnel is long, as in most of Igen, putting the inner weyr deeper into the cool rock; which is to say, the tunnel is of normal length, and most other Weyrs' are short. Morag doesn't even look at the masterworks on her walls, the tapestries changed regularly to suit the seasons or her mood (Keroon's been canceled more than once, though not recently). Once upon a time, a new-made Weyrwoman had marveled. Once upon a time, the headwoman had noticed what made her smile, in a time where there weren't many smiles to go around, and been kind without saying a word. Once upon a time, even those old at the time had all been new, and now none of them are.

The inner rooms are cool and dark, the glows lit only enough not to fall by. But Morag doesn't lead Lo to the sitting area, or down the passageway to the council chamber, nor to the records room that has seen several of their meetings; instead she moves unerringly up and around a short spiral stair, and into an odd little chamber.

It's round, more or less, and lit but not from glows. Cunningly placed mirrors direct a certain amount of sunshine within, and there's the sound of circulating water runneling down the wall, and the tapestries are living and green. Morag touches a leaf, fondly, as she passes by; she sits on the cushioned bench hollowed out from the stone, and almost soundlessly sighs.

Embarrassed by how easily she scared, Lo's shoulders slink in and she follows after Morag with absolute meek quiet. Even her booted foot falls make the barest sound as if she is holding her entire body weight in a suspended controlled tension. It's only after Morag sinks down onto the bench the protestations begin: "I wasn't sneaking in, I promise. I wasn't going to look or poke around or anything, even though, was that-," she slips up, catching herself suddenly, of how she had noticed something along the way where her eyes were mostly cast down. "I mean, I thought I saw, I mean... You know, you have a lot of really nice tapestries." Her hands tighten around the uncovered basket of sweet, buttery dinner rolls.

The Weyrwoman isn't looking at her; Morag's rubbing her forehead, with her ring fingers from the center out. Sometimes Morag wears rings on those fingers, but today there's just a slender trio on her left forefinger, polished silver or white gold.

She looks up. "Very much so," Morag agrees without modesty for her, or her Weyr's, belongings. "What did you think you saw?" ... "It's all right. Sit." Other than the bench, there are a couple of hourglass-shaped rattan stools, not necessarily the most stable but available.

"Oh, I can't stay," protests Lo, shaking her head and taking a step back. It's then she recalls the basket in her tightly gripped hands. "I... we had some free time today and I made these for you. Here." The basket is thrust forward to the Weyrwoman.

"And here we walked all this way," Morag says lightly. "Thank you," for she's accepted it, though she doesn't yet look in, other than to check whether the fallen-on-the-floor cloth had been replaced. "What did you think you saw?" That's twice.

"Ooooh." The phrases 'oh' and 'I mean,' may very well be fifty percent of Lo's lexicon. "I thought I saw, well, I read a story a long time ago. Far off places, magic kingdoms." A prince in disguise!. "And one of the tapestries looked a little like the illustrations? But I'm sure it wasn't." Because surely Morag of all people wouldn't have those fanciful notions. "I didn't really get a good look. I promise." She absolutely was not invading this woman's private space at all. Nope.

"Of course you didn't," Morag says. "It was dark." She considers her, and then the basket, and any number of other things less visibly.

"Please get me water and a napkin," the woman says crisply. "There's a flagon on my entry table," entry from the lower caverns that would be. "On your way back, add a glowbasket from the weyr," as opposed to the one that undoubtedly is also sitting on said table, "and walk slowly."

"Unless you feel you can't be spared?"

Lo's eyes cast upwards, visibly calculating how she might manage to carry all this (and not fall) and how much time she has left on her hands, and then drops her chin to nod quickly. "No, ma'am, I- I could do that for you. The water flagon by the table, a napkin, and a basket." The way she says it nodding with each syllable lends credence to the idea that she might repeat this litany the entire way to her destination. Her steps are hurried, though careful enough not to trip, and she tries not to look at her surroundings but fails when a bright flash of color, even in the dimness, catches her gaze briefly, before its flicked away. She didn't see anything. But once in the main chambers, she looks, ostensibly to find the entry table and the flagon. She has to now, it's been commanded.

"Very good."

That bright-glimpsed robe, its silken material full of geometric triangles, drapes over a brocade chaise. Mirrors, even in dimness, reflect movement. Patterns, designs, provide bold shapes but also internal details. Peeping out from niches are figurines, or decorative glowbaskets that smile, or -- unlike the little oasis -- succulent plants. Here in Igen, the Weyrwoman likes flowers.

The pewter flagon's self-lidded against dust, sized for a woman's... a petite woman's hand; Alendis may dispose of it, one day. Of course, so might the others. The nearby napkin is embroidered at the corner, more easily felt than seen. There's a child-sized handprint in clay, a pair of slippers by every outer entrance, a bronze bell with a star for a handle.

And the tapestries... they can tempt Lo on her way, there in the dimness, and returning with the light. What she saw was right.

While Lo's gone, Morag investigates the basket and its contents. She holds it upon her lap, first looking, then drawing it higher to sniff. And sample, in an unobtrusive location, before the girl gets back.

Morag has always planned for time.

It's inevitable that Lo's bird-like curiosity finds things to be curious about, her shadowed figure pausing to inspect the figurines and decorative glow baskets, and even pausing to touch the leaf nibs of those succulents with no small amount of envy. Eventually, she comes upon the flagon and draws it up to tuck against her body and upper arm, the embroidered napkin she drapes over her forearm, and then one of those glow baskets, the least delicate looking one of them all, held carefully in her hand.

Her return path brings her back to that hallway, better lit for the basket she carries, and she finds herself drawn to the tapestry she thought she saw, that she did and her green eyes orb roundly. It garners a very long gaze, the weyrling losing track of time as she studies every aspect of the tapestry and taking in the scene it depicts, concluding her viewing with a very happily heavy, content sigh.

She hasn't been gone that long has she? Time goes by so quickly when you're distracted. She emerges up those spiral steps with not apology on her features but rapt appreciation. "Here's the water, ma'am. And the napkin. And some more glows."

When she returns, Morag's eyes are closed, the elder queenrider napping -- or communing; her gaze soon refocuses, however, and brings with it a smile. "Welcome back," she says. "Thank you."

"How were the tapestries?" Once she has what's provided, she gets to officially sample: first, wet one corner of the napkin; next, brush it over her fingers; then, dry her fingers. It has the rhythm of ritual, elevating what could have been an everyday thing into something valued. It's only then that Morag plucks out 'a' roll and turns it, admiring it, yet never turning the already-bitten side where Lo can see it; then she gets to try it, an appreciative nibble that turns into an actual bite (conveniently swallowing up the bitten mark along the way).

It wasn't so long ago that Morag favored the sturdy breads with tasty seeds and plenty of texture; though once in a while they ache, her teeth are her own. Now, though? The seeds hurt, and rolls like this, easy on the palate and on the stomach... they're just right. She can eat at least half of this one straight, now, and later have another with pear jam, or dipped in milk.

"Delicious." And it is.

(And Morag looks for young Lo's reaction at the very same time.)

The rapt appreciation turns to pleasure in her response to Morag, "Oh, they were so lovely, but it was what I thought it was, right down to the magic carpet that flies!" And then Lo remembers. Oh shit! Her wide-eyed expression that exemplifies oh shit, turns onto Morag and sees her but doesn't actually see any of the ritual eating methods, nor does the young woman hear the compliment. She's flushed, but not for delight at how her baked goods have been received.

Well, now, that's too bad; good thing the rolls are worthy in their own right.

"Good," says Morag amiably, instead. "I always liked that tale. Well, the one I heard; it may not be the same." Which doesn't mean she doesn't lift her brows pointedly at Lo, and let the weyrling fill in the blanks.

Thus encouraged, with no reproof coming about her dallying to look at those tapestries, Lo waits a beat for the other shoe to drop. And waits. And when it fails, brightens and though she hasn't taken the seat long ago offered by Morag, her standing allows her to animatedly retell the story she learned of a young holdless boy, who through magic and assistance from the most outlandish creatures, wins the heart of a Lord Holder's daughter and goes on to become Lord himself. "I always wanted my very own magic carpet," she ends the story with, wistful and looking dreamily at the ceiling. "I don't think I need the lord in disguise though."

The ceiling has old frescoes, as it happens: blue sky beyond plant life, and a few dragons that must be far away, they're so small. "Good thing. Does Eoventh count as a magic carpet?" Morag inquires. "Khataith... she's fireworks at the very thought." Fireworks: yet another thing Igen can't afford to purchase from the smiths, though certain of its holds can.

The very idea she might have her very own magic carpet stops Lo short and suddenly, this delightful thought evokes a bubbly laughter not often heard since the day. "I never thought of it like that. We aren't anywhere close to riding atop our dragons, but, it sort of is like that, isn't it? Fancy that. Lived in a Weyr my entire life and I never thought of dragons like magic carpets." Her lips purse, the laughter melting into a thoughtful expression. "Weyrwoman? Ma'am?"

If Morag momentarily gets a vision of a skinned dragon somehow levitating, it barely starts to form before Khataith's reassuring her.

"Did I mention this is delicious?" the older rider says in lieu of a, 'Yes?'

"Is it?" More pleasure brightens the coloring on Lo's face and she finally plops herself down, forgetting her protestations of having to leave. Be somewhere else, and not intrude on the aging woman's time. One of her braids twists about a finger, and then her entire hand, and then her wrist, before she releases it to start all over again. "There was only a little bit of the white flour left and I told one of the bakers I wanted to make something special for you, as a thank you for your kindness."

On the one hand, "Thank you," but on the other, "We've used the last? Already?" Morag's sitting up, a hand on the bench to brace herself, worried. "Or -- is it just that nobody's been sifting?"

“I... don’t know.” Once she might have known, Lo, the girl of the kitchens. Once, she may have assisted a baker later in life. Or a cook. Apprenticing was never an option for how homebound she is. “They didn’t seem worried. But... Weyrwoman?” She doesn’t wait for the assent to inquire and pushed forward in a tumble of words, “Why won’t the Holds help us when we help them?”

Morag eases back down again, though the slightly deepened lines on her forehead don't relax. "That's hard." She doesn't continue immediately; she, visibly, thinks about the question and how to put it.

"To different degrees, Lo, most of them do. Part is being scared for themselves, that they might not have enough. Part is not seeing the value in what we do -- otherwise known as not being scared enough, some would say, the same people who would call the first pinchfisted. Part can be, for those who aren't the major Holds, that they have an obligation to follow their Lady's or Lord's directives."

Lo waits for the answer, much as she does the other times they converse. Instead of slouching, her body has found some mild poise, straighter and less a haphazard pile of limbs; the more subtle lessons of the past few months.

In the quiet after, the after Morag speaks, the delights of moments prior is gone leaving in its place thoughtfulness. The physical manifestations of Lo’s thinking show in the tilts of her head and the darkening and lightening of her eyes as she tries to run the mental exercise of the whys of what she’s being told.

She is left with, “Beyond duty, why do we?”

"Beyond duty, beyond the desire to not have to farm our own crops -- even were we to requisition the land -- " Morag leaves a bare, spare instant there. "It's the right thing to do, Lo. It is," the Weyrwoman supposes, "why we're here. Life is sweet with a little chaos, but not like that."

"The other part of 'being here,' of course, to partner our dragons and share our stories and create tapestries that don't just insulate but bring joy."

"Sometimes," Lo starts, "The right thing to do does not seem to make anyone happy." Let alone bring joy. "I remember, Weyrwoman, when I was younger, and tithes were even less than they are now. I wouldn't have been able to make you those rolls then," never mind not having the skills to, "I'm glad I could now. I have a lesson I need to get to. Eoventh is-," her partner, her dragon, the one that does bring her joy, who is, in fact, the one of the pair unconflicted by their duty, "Driven."

"But it can bring satisfaction," Morag says with true warmth.

Morag also listens; afterward, "I'm glad, too. Good day to you, and -- yes. Eoventh," the gleam in her eye suggesting there's more, much more that goes unspoken.

Down the road, Morag summons Lo to the infirmary one very early morning. It's cool and fresh outside, so different from during the day.

Lo, and Eoventh; Khataith is there too, and blue Serrillionth, pacing. "It's time," says the senior goldrider, wrapped up in a jewel-toned caftan. "I confirmed: she's still good with you helping. How do you feel?" It may be the last time this is asked of Lo today; all focus will be on the third rider and her blue, for however many hours that the baby -- and the aftermath -- takes.

"We're ready." This isn't her first birthing rodeo, but it is the first with another presence and that of a rider. Lo is dressed plain, sleeves rolled up and her plaits pinned against her head, out of the way. Eoventh is a whole other story, her mind a frothing bubble of excitement, with comments like, << People only have one at a time? That seems very inefficient, >> interspersed between her fairly terrible attempts at calm.

That plural invites Morag to arch a brow at her, a smile lurking.

"Remember," because Lo will have heard this before but repetition helps too, "Calm sooner means less to deal with later." Which may be why Khataith's very much present, perhaps the more so for Eoventh's bubbliness. "I'd ordinarily go inside, so I can get a read on what's going on with the rider, but..." a glance between them, "would you be better to stay out here, this time? Distracting the dragon can help, but to a point."

Lo must have said something, the downward grit of her teeth suggesting with just how much force she's projecting this. Eoventh's excitement pop pop pops, though her ability to contain it completely is just beyond her years. She hovers, virtually, in the way a child might be watchful as cookies come out of the oven, and as they get plated, and as they get blown on to be cooled. She hovers right there just over Khatiath's mind's 'shoulder.' "No, it'll be fine. I promise. Eoventh," the young goldrider looks up at her dragon bemusedly, "Likes the idea of babies."

Babies as tasty, tasty cookies! "If you change your mind, that's fine too," Morag underlines: that's not a promise she's accepting. There is going back. Unlike with the baby, who had better not.

With some convincing, Khataith leans enough to make it easier to see, so there doesn't have to be the no-longer-a-baby breath on her neck; there's room for two. "Just a minute," adds Morag, who traipses right up to Serrillionth; the big blue hesitates, pauses, dips his head down to have his cheek rubbed -- Khataith has that warm reassurance to go along with it -- before moving on. Morag glances fondly after him. "Khataith will go up to him herself if that's what he needs, but right now he just needs to keep moving. Off we go!" She waves: Lo gets to go first.

Eoventh can't follow physically and while she could follow her rider mentally, what Khataith does is far more interesting. She watches from around the larger gold's broad side, observing the way Serrillionth paces and finds reassurance on his own terms. << Will he be ok? >>

When Lo enters the infirmary, she instinctively turns to the low pitched moan from an area of the room that is far more dimly lit than the rest. A middle-aged woman in an untied robe resumes her pacing, a hand across her distended belly, before another shudder pauses her movements and ellicits a low, paced groan. The young weyrling looks behind her to make sure Morag is following and then continues to where two midwives and an aide are.

It's not that Morag definitely wouldn't abandon Lo to the situation, it's that she isn't this time.

<< That is the plan, >> Khataith assures, dark-sparred wings fanning briefly overhead before she resettles them -- careful of Eoventh -- to her flanks. That is the order of things. << We can walk with him also, when he wants. >> With a lean of her leg to the little one's shoulder, she shares the feeling of companionship, touch, groundedness in the good way.

Which reminds Morag, "As you might have guessed," she murmurs en route, "this isn't one of the pairs that needs to be kept together." To the people they're joining, she gives a you-remember-Lo complete with the converse, and a request for an update on how things are going: baby oriented correctly? mother managing?

Do they remember Lo? Their cursory look over the young woman is one of mild recognition, and whose glance is greeted with a little, slightly overly eager, nod, but ultimately of little interest when the Weyrwoman is there. "It should be a straight forward birthing. Third time and all," remarks a middle-aged woman with gray in her ginger hair. "I am a little surprised the baby hasn't just slipped out already, but..." there's a shrug. Such is the nature of things. "She's not fully dilated yet, but fully effaced, and we'll have to watch to make sure she doesn't push before her time. That could be catastrophic."

Lo listens in, but looks to the laboring woman rather than at the healers. She moves to a basin of ice on a console and drags the cup there through it, before bringing it near the woman in silent offering.

"However tempting," agrees Morag, who's like-it-or-not done this a few times herself. "If you need anything -- within my powers," has comfortable humor, "say the word. In the meantime, I'd like to see how she is with her before I barge in," her voice low enough to not be overheard by weyrling or laboring mother.

Said mother-already as well as mother-to-be doesn't throw the ice at Lo; she's frankly grateful for it, popping a piece into her pale, acne-stained cheek and starting to shuffle once more. "Why do we do this again," she says in Lo's direction. Maybe she recognizes her, maybe she doesn't. Half an actual question, "Do you have any yet?"

"Because sex is fun," is Lo's simplest answer, without any kind of deliberate humor. It's just what it is. "And sometimes... babies are nice," says the once youthful teenage nanny. "But no, I don't have any of my own. Yet." There's a very small pause before the yet. "Can I do anything for you?"

Taking Khataith's words to heart, Eoventh starts trying to keep apace with the just larger blue dragon, traipsing in his shadow and then about turning just before it looks like he might, so she won't lag too far behind.

"I remember that," the bluerider says darkly. "Mmph." She slows, stops, standing spraddle-legged for a minute. "I don't know. I...." Her focus wobbles; she crunches down on the ice, hard. Go ahead, weyrling, tell her she shouldn't do that to her teeth.

Khataith drops to her haunches, at first watching, then lifting one paw to lick it. Around they walk. Around and around, and where they stop, nobody knows. Serrillionth doesn't keep his mind particularly shielded; the surface of his mind is jumbled, even a little frothy not unlike how Eoventh's had been, only his is more like the not-yet-skimmed froth risen to the top of a vat of soup.

Lo knows nothing of teeth to tell anyone that's not the right thing to do. The wavering focus and the crunch, however, flicks her attention up quickly and she reaches out her free hand to the laboring parent. "You can squeeze it if you want." It's a calloused hand, with layered scars here and there. "I promise, I won't scream if it's too tight." There, the young would-be rider manages a brief, light smile.

Eoventh's bubbles try to find a place in the soupy froth of Serrillionth's mind, wending through out here and there and settles in a gossamer blanket over the blanket - warm, bright, curious, and young, but above all, compassionately watchful. In the bowl, she continues to traipse, much like a scurrying oversized runner or puppy trying to keep up with the adults. There's no graceful pacing here. She's just not build for that yet.

"I will." She does want to; she does. Squeeze. Not too tight, yet. But, "If it's too tight, tell..." deep breath, "..me. So hot." Her hands are heavily callused too, never mind all the dragon-oiling there is to do. Is normally to do. Not now. The bluerider gets back to walking, slower. Slower now.

He sighs, a long breath that comes more easily for that young warmth, that compassion. Ordinarily he'd be less soupy, surely, but she hurts. She hurts, and she spends resources calming him, and he worries, palpably worries about that, and she, his rider, worries about his worrying except when she just -- can't. He doesn't consciously slow with her, but he does, he plods.

Khataith does not swat at anyone's tail as they parade by. She doesn't.

Something in the way the bluerider's changed breathing alerts one of the midwives who turns from where she stands to look more intently.

Lo stands there, gamely having her hand squeezed and nods, can't talk just now. When the other woman resumes waking, she flexes her fingers a little and mirrors the few-steps-behind pace her dragon does outside with the rider's partner. "Do your other children know they'll have a sibling soon?" the weyrbred girl asks of the bluerider. "I'm Lo, by the way." In case this rider somehow miraculously doesn't know who she is.

She doesn't show any signs of noticing a kettle of hot water being brought over, and stacks of fresh towels and clean blankets appearing in the arms of a young lower caverns boy, one of today's infirmary aides. There's a cart rolled over slowly with suture kits and other birthing related necessities of the time. And then there is a slow trickle of more people to just the outskirts of this area, busy with other things (or seeming to be), but clearly there for this: a supervising healer, the midwives from before, a few nannies who are in the loose circle the furthest away.

"Hi, Lo." Hel-lo. Lo's surely never heard that one before, oh no. "They... they do. But they're ol--" quick breath, "older. Oldest pregnant, too."

"Repopulate the Weyr," comes out with some spit. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She stops.

She starts. Her hands rub her hips restlessly.

She stops. Her Weyrwoman's gaze sharpens. She takes another step.

Mother pregnant. Oldest pregnant. Repopulate the Weyr. Lo's face freezes and the hand she might offer Serillionth's rider stiffens as the realities of it all sink in. It's one thing to think of having children. Another to realize the Weyr needs more candidates. And then quite another to realize another facet of duty might be the requirement of repopulation. All those thoughts, so fast, so bright, so stunned fly through those transparent green eyes.

The more senior midwife quickly moves forward to take Lo's place and places a hand along the expectant mother's lower back, providing definite pressure. "We'll take it whatever way you want to, you lead and tell us how we can help you get into the right way." She doesn't even need to check at this point, it seems, the changes in breathing and demeanor enough for her to realize it's pretty much damn time. The bustle around them grows more and more present, though silently swift and as unobtrusive as possible. "You've done this before, Kali. Like riding a dragon," says the non-dragonrider.

Probably Morag can't overhear everything. Probably. Nor can she read the entirety of Lo's expression. Probably. But there's a touch of weary satisfaction to... not her expression, exactly, but the way she stands.

And Kali's sighing, somewhere between relief and a hiss. She steps again, with a bit of a wobble before she stabilizes herself, reaching for the nearest other person's shoulder. "Like dislocating my fu--" and the only thing that stops her is the sudden need to breathe. And again.

Morag beckons Lo with a quiet, "Ice again. Then come back," back here. Khataith's gotten up, is leaning into Serrillionth enough to remind him to lean into her. Her meaty whuff of breath runs along his neckridges, reminding him of where he is. Her thoughts are with him, and with Eoventh, reminding him of who he is. Beyond them, a wing lifts off and then vanishes between, but they might as well be on the other side of the continent. None of all that matters.

"There ya go, I got you," says the midwife in response to being clutched and the not quite expletive. Things look like they're about to start going quickly from here and a young healer apprentice has taken up a few of those towels brought over and drapes them over her redwort clean hands and arms.

Ice. "Ice, right," Lo shakes herself free of that two and two knowledge combining into four in her head finally, and moves to offer Kali some of those ice chips and comes to Morag's side, half-empty cup filled with cold cold water and some floating ice chips. "What else do we," the two of us, you and me, us who aren't healers, "Here?" Lo's low near-tenor is pitched into a whisper to the Weyrwoman.

Those ice chips disappear, into Kali's mouth but others rubbed up against her cheeks. She groans, low and shivery-sonorous. She'd disappear among the healers if it weren't for how she can be heard.

"Stay out of trouble," Morag murmurs, which is to say, "Stay out of their way." She leans against the counter, lashes lowering for a couple breaths before she looks back at the younger woman. "Bear witness. They shouldn't need us, not beyond what Khataith and Eoventh are already doing. But if they do -- we have to be here, in case. Some weyrwomen are more hands-on. I could say I'm letting the professionals do their job, but it's not that. Or, not completely that.... What are you getting from Eoventh? What do you make of how they're doing?"

Lo stands in that awkward fashion of a teenager, who is not quite young anymore, but definitely not old enough to know much of anything, one arm akimbo, the other holding that water-laden cup. It's the weird recognition of the culture of her new life,and what her role in these situations will be. Not that of an errand girl who's yelled at to bring something, or a hey you, go get this person. But an observer, an interventionist, the person attached to the dragon who should be learning the real job at hand: being the support and distraction for the dragon so the human can focus on something else.

A long pause.

Then a quiet, somehow reprimanded voice emerges from the young woman, "He worries. She is there for him, trying to ground him and keep him here and not feeling her pain. I-," those next words are abruptly cut off, as if even Lo, in this distracted state of trying to share what her bond to Eoventh allows her to feel, knows not to share those other thoughts. "She's there sort of like how she's here for me, but," a note of awe and some very trace, near imperceptible undercurrent of grief, colors her very simple words, "She's a queen." What she was born and instinctively knows to do with Khataith's wisdom and guidance.

"It is her duty."

"Not feeling her pain," Morag agrees just as quietly. "Not directly feeling it; not distressed, as much as we can manage. It wouldn't be healthy if they couldn't feel any of it at all. It helps... it helps him, as it helps her, to know that this will end. That she is not damaged, that -- " she doesn't quite chuckle, and then clarifies, "I need to not put ideas into anyone's head. Anyway: it helps them to know that this is normal and this happens and they will come out the other side, that they will fly again. All they need to do is get through."

"Do you feel like an adjunct? Don't."

Lo's gaze flies over to Morag, questions in her green eyes. "How else should I feel right now?"

"I'm not going to tell you how you should feel," says the woman who had just told her how she shouldn't. "There are a number of things you could feel. You are critical. Integral. This is the easy version. Imagine if it's a complicated birth, if they," Morag makes a small gesture of averting, "have to cut her. Her dragon will be that much more distressed, and it will be harder for your dragon to keep her own equanimity. Imagine if it is Threadfall, and dragons are badly damaged, and your dragon is distressed or rageful or frightened or simply cannot concentrate. Or damaged. Imagine this, and look for solutions. You, in this, are the last line of defense. And you will have to manage yourself, as well."

"I don't like being critical," says Lo, but follows it up with a quick, "But I know that's my duty now." She reaches up to finger one of the plaits that are pinned flat against her crown and looks forward again to the scene before them. Soundless words, 'Please, don't have to cut her. Please don't have to cut into her.'

A third child is normally not so much of an endeavor as a spilling down the chute. The fact this one seems to be more arduous draws lines of concerns on the midwives' faces, though they don't seem to verbalize these worries, instead somehow conveying them in short clipped nods as they react to what Kali wants, and in some instances, guiding her into certain positions until she's on all fours. Her cries are less screams and more guttural, deep and a release.

For each rise, Eoventh is there by Serrilionth, easing what he feels, absorbing some of it into her and seeming watchful of how much Khataith does or doesn't take in herself. For each fall, she releases her hold, easing the blue back to feeling the ebb so he might know his soulmate is safe.

Kali appears to have reached the pushing stage, and shortly, the mewling cries of an infant lifts above the din, caught by a midwife in a clean towel, held until the mother is able to turn and clutch at her child. The pain has been filled with exhausted nonsensical sounds meant to soothe and convey love.

Eoventh puddles wearily in the real world, a sprawled mass of ignoble gold.

"Don't be needlessly critical," Morag advises; along the birthing's long trek, Khataith shares somehow-warm glowlit encouragement for Serrilionth -- not as much as she would ordinarily, for she's having Eoventh take the lead -- but also for Eoventh herself, for what she does and how she does it. Allowing him that knowing, when he can: that's right, that's wise. That's safe for them all.

"I want a peek," Morag admits unabashedly, with relief, "And you may if you like, but then let's go to them," the dragons. "Exhausting, isn't it? From both of us: you have done well."

Lo purses her lips, about to ask a question, and then forgets as the arrival of the Weyr's smallest human inhabitant emerges. She is similarly swept in rapture of the little one and hovers at those fringes, where she is apparently supposed to be critical but not needlessly so, and watches.

The infant is separated from his mother briefly to be cleaned, washed, weighed and measured. He is swaddled in colorful knit blankets and a small hat is perched atop his proportionally large head. Meanwhile, other attendants, one of those numerous people who had been feigning busyness, look to the mother's needs, helping her clean up gently, the healers stitching what needs to be put back together, and bringing her and helping her into a clean robe. Then, mother and child are reunited and while the infant seeks the breast instinctively, he needs help to finally make his latch.

"Eoventh needs my attention first, I think," Lo murmurs, her voice soft for the scene unfolding before them. "We need... time to just sit and not do anything or think anything."

"Yes." Morag hasn't been rapturous, too matter-of-fact for that, but pleased, certainly. "Today... you'll have time for that."

And when they go out, Serrillionth gets his own hands-on greeting from the older goldrider, and Eoventh gets an also-pleased smile and a few quiet words, but Khataith gets a hug. No more duties for Lo until after the next meal, but after only a little more dragon-time, Morag must get back to work. It takes her longer, these days.

One more thing, one last thing: Morag's route leads through the infirmary, where she takes one of the other healers aside. They don't talk for long, but part of it is behind a curtain. By the time a helper brings the weyrling water and a small nuts-and-fruit snack, Morag is already gone.