Before Dawn

She's been busy.

Deliberately.

Because to not be busy is to let her thoughts run rampant; to not be busy is to invite the familiar siren's song of anger.

She's been good at it for a while now, between the extra hidework Treista's passed on and the extra lessons in visualization. There was more time for exercise and both rider and dragon took full advantage, pushing themselves to their limits. Honing their bodies and skills; refining themselves.

Fucking her way through at least a half dozen of her fellow weyrlings and a handful of other riders - and some guards, because they could handle it - didn't hurt, either. Theidith didn't understand, being a chaste queen - thus far - but she was grateful that her rider could indulge in things that didn't always hurt.

But the anger built.

It always did.

The spark was one that had long been burning, brightening on a knot of fury almost a full sevenday before. Telgari riders that might well have assaulted a woman - and not just a woman, but Wingsecond Alyna, and all for the clothing she wore.

That they scattered when Ulrika confronted them was a bitter moment and a sudden, bile-tasting revelation:

They didn't run because she could lay them out flat.

They didn't run because they realized they were wrong.

They didn't run because they were asked to leave things alone.

They ran because she was a goldrider - or near enough to it, by then.

Would they have run if her lifemate were any other color?

No, came a familiar growl at the back of her mind. No, they would not have. They would have fought. You might have broken them, but they would have won. M'kel would have backed them without question and called you out for inciting trouble. You would have been punished and they would have laughed.

And he would not technically have been wrong in that hypothetical sequence of events.

The bitterness built.

It was the same thing she dealt with at Ista, if with a twist. There, they didn't think a woman could do a guard's job. As a rider? Certainly: Ista Weyr was markedly more liberal in that regard. But guard work? Male work. It took longer for her to join and she would have been doomed to stay in the lower tiers, given grunt work or light duty.

And, now, she was listened to not because of her words or her strength or her ethics or her morality; she was not listened to because she was right, but because she rode gold.

It was not Theidith's fault.

She was good at keeping those thoughts at bay, well away from the great and noble queen that had chosen her.

But the thoughts were there and they needed venting and she found her way to the sparring room in the wee hours when sleep eluded her once more.

Stripped down to her workout gear, with wrapped hands and feet, she got to work. The punching bags first.

Fuck. Them. It was a mantra that she half-thought and half-hissed with every exhalation and every swing of fists. Every impact was exquisitely bone-jarring, the pain translating to pleasure in some primordial place within her. Fuck. Them. Fuck. Them.

Then, as some of the guards finally filtered in for their own routines, she roped some of them into sparring.

But it wasn't satisfying.

Punches were pulled. Their handling was careful. They danced, defensive, without striking; it forced her to push forward, to press, to grow more frustrated with their inaction. Until, eventually, she gave up in disgust and collected her gear to return to her weyr.

It hadn't been that way before - had it?

Fuck. Them.

Sky Over Jungle
The sky over the jungle and sea is clear, the heat and mugginess combated only by steady movement. Overhead, avians flutter and clouds drift; below, the green of the jungle and the blue of the sea is separated by the sand.

Early Afternoon

The jungles of Theidith's mind encroached, wordless but insistent.

Ulrika pinched the bridge of her nose and pushed the hidework aside; the letters were swimming and the numbers looked like some Ancient script that defied all mathematical conventions.

Within that shared mental space, the jungle had all but taken over the walls and the mountains that composed Ulrika's mind. There, some kind of balance had been found: Theidith with her Great Tree, Ulrika with her mountain peak. Vines stretched to that lofty point, threatening to pluck the blonde from her post and deposit her in the jungle for palaver.

« I sense that your thoughts are troubled. » Theidith's thoughts were scented with sea breezes and flowers, things drawn from the edge of the jungle where it met the sea. « Let us fly, my queen. »

Ulrika didn't take a moment to reconsider it; there would be Threadfall later, yes, and they would be there, as always, to do their part. But, for that moment? There was time and the hides could wait.

Soon strapped in and soaring, Theidith aimed high, far enough from the Weyr to lend some sense of true privacy, while still remaining within its reach.

« What troubles you so? »

» I'm not sure as there's anything we can do about things here, with the Telgari. «

Much was left unsaid; Theidith understood.

« That is the Weyrleader's duty, is it not? » Theidith considered for a moment, vines gnarled and twisted. « But. Perhaps he does not know the gravity of the situation in full. He is not a cruel man. Perhaps he might be brought to see reason. »

» Perhaps. «

Silence reigned between them, but their thoughts shifted in unison; one side building, the other adjusting, collectively constructing concepts that would withstand scrutiny.

Eventually:

» Aye, that might do it. But I'm not sure as we'd be allowed to handle that side of things proper. «

« The guards fall under the aegis of the Headwoman - and the Headwoman falls under the aegis of the queens, » Theidith pulled those thoughts from the unspoken places of Ulrika's mind and laid them out. « Surely a queen's rider must be assigned to support them. Yorprith's is occupied with the heavy burdens of her office. Zymuraith's is yet recovering. And Wrayth's- »

» Aye, I know. I wouldn't doubt she has something up her sleeves about all of this. « The thought was a wry one; accepting. All that mattered was that the duties were done. Whatever the other, younger goldrider did? That was not a concern any more unless it posed harm.

And even then…

« So, surely, you would be able to make a recommendation to the Guard Captain to have his guards collect reports on the ill-deeds of riders. »

» Aye, I probably could. Not that I reckon it would amount to much, but- « her thoughts trailed there, considering.

A few more stones were rolled into the idea. More vines pulled it together.

» Aye, « Ulrika mused after a long moment. » Aye, I think it'll be worth a shot. Bury the man in hides and hope as he doesn't give it all to the Weyrsecond to handle. «

« It is a start, my queen of righteousness. It is something. »

The Ice Fields

Evening

The Threadfall wasn't as bad as it had been in months past.

She wasn't sure if it was Weyrleader M'kel's influence - or that the Thread itself was taking less delight in destroying Southern's meager forces. Ultimately, it didn't matter.

There were still serious injuries - including one to Catmint two or so sevens ago. Theidith handled that one admirably, doing her duty to suppress the worst of the young dragon's pain once she was on the ground and able.

It was a skill that, while instinctive, would require refining.

Neither expected that it would be needed on this day.

They were surprisingly good at flying resupply, even if it was to the lower wings, where they would be safe (a bitter thought, that, but it was only fitting that her day should begin and end so).

It was toward the end when a wayward snarl of Thread descended and glanced over Ingvarth's hide. It devoured a fair part of the sail, where it met his side, before the brown could properly skip between. With a bellow, Theidith responded quickly, manifesting just over him when he was safely within range. She caught him in her talons and helped ease him to the ground with the aid of others. The resulting punctures were painful, but far better than the result of a hard plummet to the ground.

Suddenly, it was real.

More than when one of their own was struck low; this was family. This was blood.

Dragonhealers quickly got to work on Ingvarth's wing and side, cleaning and slathering with numbweed and working to stitch together what they could. Only time would tell whether he would be able to fly again.

Theidith settled in at his other side, pressing close to the stoic brown and drawing him into the distractions of the jungle, of those wild places where the stone-minded dragon could try to find some peace.

Ur'ki was not unscathed; his leg on that side was thoroughly wrapped in Thread, the leathers left ruined and his own ability to walk now brought into question.

There was nothing to say and everything to do; she helped where she could, half-carrying her brother as needed to get him to the Healers - only to be shooed away to finish her duties when it became clear there was nothing more for her to assist with. Later, she would make sure Ur'ki was set up in her weyr while Ingvarth recovered; she had a spare couch for him and the ledge outside was plenty large for the brown to take residence on. Theidith would enjoy the company, at least; she always enjoyed talking with the brown.

The Fall was nearly over and there was no more need for firestone; instead, she settled in to watch the Dragonhealers do their work. It was grisly, but necessary; ointments, stitching, and mending. Could she stomach doing that kind of work instead of flying and slinging the flamethrower? Could she bear to do both?

Yes, she realized.

Yes, she could.