Can You Feel It, Holderborn? [Iroh's Touching]

”Tanrider, Q’sis,” she replied evenly, appointing his rank in a more respectful manner than she had heard whispered between men in the Holds. Would he prefer to be called Queenrider? It seemed to draw negative attention to the sex of his dragon, and away from the importance placed upon those who rode clutching dragons—that was the Weyr’s way, not hers. His presence was unsettling, and she could feel his eyes on her without turning to meet them, what man wouldn’t look—and judge. She gave him no reaction to his closeness, or his size, until his hand closed on her shoulder. Only then did her head turn, so a warning look could meet his widening eyes—she would not be easy prey.

If he believed that he had found a game here, her rank within his Weyr making her an easy target, he would be sorely disappointed. It did not seem, however, that he had games in mind. Irohvyne barely had a moment to register that one of his fingers had sunk more deeply than it should have, before he spoke, and then released her. An interesting thing to say to a Candidate, especially one who might have had high hopes for the clutch in question, but the meaning was not entirely lost on her. Holderwomen with dragon dreams always sought the ones that shined. Perhaps it would surprise him to know she sought neither, but it could be her secret to play with.

As he had not chased her off, she followed behind him, careful of her footing in the loose hot sand, and even more careful of the eggs as she drew nearer—though he seemed less afraid of harming them. ”We are in agreement,” she answered simply, her eyes scanning the eggs to take in their curious assortment of colours and extremely haphazard arrangement. ”Though I anticipate your ladies have something in store for Dalibor’s worthy men,” came the addendum as she landed on the large red ovoid. It was most unfortunate she would be forced to watch this hatching from the sands, having witnessed so many others in Benden’s sweeping stone gallery, but it was to be tolerated.

Of course she did not have any wants when it came to his prizes, half buried in hot sand as they were, but that was hardly a good reason to pass up an opportunity such as this. ”Tell me, Dragonrider, who were you before you were Impressed, and is this the life you would have chosen for yourself, if it had not been chosen for you?” Of course a hatchling did not care for the pasts of their chosen bonded, from what she had been told, neither did they care about that person’s future aspirations—it was only who they were that mattered.

Which was more troubling than it should have been, because what did she know about the wants of young half-crazed creatures when they spilled across the hot chamber, covered in the remnants of their egg and the sand that stuck to them. Wasn’t there the possibility that this man, Q’sis, could deem her unfit for his clutch and refuse to have her Stand? Perhaps not, especially with the Weyr understaffed and stealing fresh blood from Hold, Hall, and, in some cases, each other.

If only there wasn’t the constant necessity to maintain appearances, because she had to be as honored as any to be given the chance to Stand, even if she wanted nothing more than to return to her duty—the one for which she had been born, and from which she had been taken.

Curious. It seemed as if she had offended his delicate sensibilities in some way, though not with her assertion that his clutch held little for her. Perhaps he was simply trying to figure out her motivations, or maybe he wasn’t very fond of having questions turned around—wasn’t this to be a chance for the Riders to interrogate those who came for the eggs? While calm and relaxed for him, inwardly she was acutely aware that there could possibly be some form of confrontation brewing between the two of them, this Dragonrider and her, but it seemed as if Q’sis had a differing method on unseating those who came to him.

It was almost symbolic, the way he plucked one of his charges from the hot sand and brought it to her. Would he, she wondered, deliver eggs to other Candidates who sought them, or would he lead them around like so many beasts in the field—too stupid to find their own way. ”Was I?” She queried softly, returning his searching gaze calmly, not at all oblivious to the fact that he had come so far only to pull away again. She allowed the Dragonrider his pride, following his movement back with a step forward of her own, moving as near as he wanted so that she could examine his presentation for herself.

Iroh had not really considered the notion of touching until this moment, and she felt that familiar stir of trepidation in her breast, but as close as she was to this Dragonrider, how could she spurn his offering without spurning him in turn? Relinquishing her worries to courage, she stretched out her fingers to the pearly shell, and found it surprisingly pliant beneath her smooth tips. It was like the finest leather she had ever had the pleasure of testing, textured neatly with nearly a fibrous appeal, but it gave the impression of something that was far too thick to be worked.

When there was no answering movement against her hand, no sign of life from within, she felt truly free to explore: Perhaps it was too early for the dragons inside to sense the world around them. They harden on the Sands, that was what she had been told, but only a few would know how truly vulnerable they appeared to be when freshly laid and set to cooking. The Tanrider liked to speak, though only indirectly in response to her question, so she allowed him to disseminate uninterrupted, keeping a carefully neutral eye on him. When he paused to smile, too perfect a thing for honest happiness, she gave the man her full attention, which was then lead to the indented sandy trench that could have only been made by a dragon.

”Weyr called, Hold answered,” she said simply into the hot air, ”and I will Stand with honor as duty dictates.” There had been no choice there, but that had not been her question. Perhaps he would have always been so cynical in imagining another life, or perhaps it was simply too late when a dragonbond was made—which was partially terrifying, and otherwise comforting. If it was so simple to forget what life had been, before Impression, then perhaps she could make a life here if a dragon happened to choose her.

It was only the presence of the egg between them that stilled her reservations about his encroaching finger, because there was no reason to fear he had ill intentions when he cradled a precious life in his hands, and held hers against it. As overbearing as Q’sis was, she saw no real malice in him at this moment; there was plenty of derision, but no intent to harm her. There were very few people on Pern who hated stone, exactly for the reasons he had previously mentioned. ”Stone is the only guarantee of survival during a Pass, do caravans and familial bands not seek shelter in caves during Fall?”

It was, perhaps, unfortunate that she had seemed to find herself in the company of a former Holdless, when she was so obviously of that ilk herself, far too plump to have lived a hard life, but as with most things she endured—there was no helping it. As fiery as he seemed to be, unpredictable and opinionated, she would not simply allow his disrespect for the sake of his supposed rank—or his overly large size. ”If survival is the only objective, then the stone-bound Holderfolk you hate have already accomplished their life’s task.”

Carefully, for the sake of the egg whose unhardened shell was the cause of her freedom, she slipped her finger from beneath his and calmly folded her hands together. ”And now you reside in stone, and fly in defense of those whose existence irks you so. Not, I believe, a life you would have chosen for yourself, Dragonrider. It is true, we are born a way, but all can be undone, or done differently—even Blood—through betrayal and treachery. It is what we make of ourselves that matters, in what little time we have before being snuffed out.”

Q’sis was not, however, her better. Being himself bonded to a large dragon within a stone-bound Weyr made him just another Dragonrider trying to impress his ideals on the unsuspecting Holderfolk who had been stolen from their homes. ”And you do not?” The counter came easily, because whatever life he had lived, free of stone and the people he despised, surely had greater repercussions for their people simply making off into a new life before a Pass. Then again, it was entirely possible that his people, whoever they had been, worshipped the Weyrs as infallible much like the Weyrs expected to be worshipped. Or perhaps he was an exile, and had been accountable to no one, but again—he would have known betrayal intimately.

She was distracted in her observance of him by his dragon, whose sweeping entrance into the stone chamber doused her with buffets of cooler air dragged in from without by her large sails. It was not the fact that she was a dragon, that gave Irohvyne pause, because dragon’s were a constant presence at Benden Hold. It was instead the colour of her hide that was a curiosity. Every colour seemed to have their own special key attributes, and Tan was one of the few no other Weyr could boast in its roster. Perhaps the information would be useful, should she be allowed to return to her home and in the case that relations between Hold and Weyr became caustic.

Her Rider’s words, when they came again, seemed oddly misplaced to the Holderwoman, but as dragonmen often appeared to speak to themselves, she dismissed them as being for the Tan and not herself. It was only when Q’sis continued, that she realized he may yet be speaking to—or about—her, though how he could personally believe that she was a ‘good woman’ when he seemed so very disgusted in her words, was entirely out of Iroh’s understanding. It was also beyond her care. This man was like many others she had met, and as such her movement was not away—back to the Barracks—but forward, her skirts dragging furrows in the hot sand as she flanked the man and his prizes a few steps to open up her view of his lady.

”You tell me—Q’sis, Tanrider—that nothing can be undone with one breath, and then, with another, you bid me go—return home.” Quickly her eyes went from his dragon to him, but they were surprisingly neutral and did not give way the defiance she felt in her breast. ”What would you have me do? Shall I go to your Weyrwoman and tell her that her Dragonrider finds me unfit? Would that undo a Search done on the heels of plague?” Perhaps it was a possibility, or maybe he would even go and speak to those who led him on his own, because surely no man such as he would appreciate such open antagonism in his own cathedral.

Still, it was his place, and his right to bid her go, so she would—after her final interest was at least, in part, broached. ”What is she like, your good woman,” Iroh asked, and it was a softer query than the others—though she applied his own words to the dragon with her own assumption that he would describe her as such. Even if it was not true, he seemed to favor goodness in females as all sexist men did, so surely it had to apply in some way: Otherwise his own dragon might have taught him more appreciation than he was wont to feel.