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WIP Fic: Untitled, Tennis RPF/Dragonriders of Pern AU
Title: ... (this nonsense doesn't even have a title yet)
Rating: This, G. Eventually, M probably.
Fandom: Tennis RPF/Dragonriders of Pern AU
Pairing: Andy Roddick/Roger Federer, Andy Murray/Novak Djokovic, multiple minor other relationships referenced in the background
Other characters: Mardy Fish, Tommy Haas, Serena Williams, later Mischa Zverev, Sascha Zverev, probably half the tennis tour. Multiple OCs (all dragons)
Summary: A’dy has no idea how he’d come out of utter disgrace with an assignment to fly in Wimbledon’s second wing for a season, but that doesn't mean he has to be polite to his new wingleader. Unfortunately, his dragon likes R'ger way more than he does.
The general consensus among the Weyrs was that Searches were reward duty. Getting out and about around Pern, being welcomed with the best wine vintages and invited to stay for the evening meal at the right hand of the Lord and Lady Holders; even the blue riders, usually relegated to seats at the back of the dining hall at the Weyr, were welcomed as equals by the powerful across Pern when they came seeking new dragonriders. Every Lord Holder wanted the honour of their Hold providing new riders these days – or more accurately, the excuse for increased access to Weyr gatherings, sway with the dragonriders and – the almost unimaginable goal – providing the juniors who eventually became Weyrleaders and with it, all the associated prestige to the Hold.
All in all, A’dy would much rather have taken Nebrath to their lake today as he’d planned. Let the other riders have their ears talked off by smug lordlings if it was supposed to be such an honour; he had better things to do than play nice with the hopefuls.
Stop sulking, Nebrath chided him as they circled out of Between, the shining clear day painting Indian Wells Hold in pinpoint-sharp lines beneath them. The lake will still be there tomorrow. The Search will not.
‘Pretty sure it will,’ A’dy muttered out loud for the extra petulance. Serena’s Olympath laid a mammoth clutch this time around, with forty-five eggs in total and the largest queen egg the older riders said they’d ever seen. This Search was going to take weeks, probably right up until the first shellcrack; there was no reason to drag A’dy along on his day off.
R’ger didn’t drag you anywhere. He asked politely. Nebrath craned her head around to give him what A’dy thinks of as the dragon’s version of an eye roll, a sweeping blink of yellow across the facets of peaceable blue-green. There’s a dusty smudge down one side of her green muzzle, he’s irritated to note; a bath was the other reason he’d been planning to take her to the lake today, not only to sidle out of this marathon Search. No matter what R’ger said.
He knew you were sneaking off somewhere you shouldn’t and wanted to keep an eye on you. P’ete is getting suspicious.
A’dy flinched and felt the riding straps catch him as they banked into the broad, claw-scored courtyard in front of the Hold. No he isn’t, he insisted, silently to Nebrath this time because M’rdy’s blue Fisath is landing beside them, neatly avoiding the wide stretch of Nebrath’s wings as she hastily folds them down. She’s oversized for a green and the angled sweep of her wingspan takes up a sometimes-uncomfortable amount of sky.
It also makes her the fastest green in the Weyr – in all of Pern in A’dy’s opinion, although P’ete forbid him from challenging the other Weyrs anymore after the other Weyrleaders complained that their rider wings were spending all their time trying to fly faster and someone was going to bank into the side of a mountain if they didn’t stop.
A’dy privately thought they only complained because they didn’t want to be humiliated when he started beating even their brown riders, but Serena – the only rider able to quell A’dy’s sharp tongue with just a look – had backed her Weyrmate up and that had been that. A’dy had spent months racing only wild wherries and they weren’t worth the eardrum-piercing squawks when they saw a dragon. Until, of course, he stumbled on a better option.
Nebrath snorts at the smug edge to his thoughts, raising a cloud of dust from the dry courtyard. C’nnor knows you’re doing something you shouldn’t but he thinks you have a holder girl somewhere, or so he told Sampath. You would be grounded from the wing again if he found out what you’ve really been up to.
Panic washed over A’dy, briefly colder than a trip Between. Does R’ger suspect what we’re actually doing?
Nebrath swung her head around to peer over Fisath’s neck at the great bronze shape of Wilsonth, backwinging down into what would’ve been an impossible landing for anyone else, even the smaller dragons. Show-off.
I do not think so, she says after a moment, uncertainty rippling through her thoughts. You know Wilsonth keeps to himself but he likes me. Would you like me to ask?
No! A’dy snaps hastily and slaps one broad green shoulder for emphasis, lightly because he knows she was at least half-teasing. Don’t you dare. The last thing I need is R’ger wondering why I’m hassling his dragon.
It would not be hassling, Nebrath murmurs as he unbuckles the riding harness, but she cranes around to nudge him affectionately as he slides down her shoulder. Fine. I will restrict my remarks only to what a fine day it is and how many fine candidates may be found here if you are too afraid of big scary R’ger to confide in him.
‘You are not as funny as you think you are,’ A’dy tells his dragon out loud, knowing his voice has gone softly fond as he scratches her eye ridge, marvelling all over again that she’s his. Even if she does give him more cheek than anyone, even Serena. ‘One of these days you’ll smartass Olympath and she’ll bite your tail off.’
Nebrath snorts an almost-human sound of amusement. She would have to catch me first.
A’dy laughs and pushes her head away gently. See? Cheek. Go and let Fisath keep you out of trouble on the fire heights.
He cannot catch me either, Nebrath remarks complacently and A’dy has to step back from the crouch and downstroke of his dragon’s wings as she takes off, raising a miniature dust storm across the courtyard. Sure enough Fisath’s left two wingbeats behind her, struggling to keep up, and A’dy’s surprised to see Nebrath shove at the blue dragon’s shoulder when he lands too close, catching the rare red flicker of his dragon’s eyes as she pushes the smaller dragon away.
Hey, play nice! he chides and turns to see M’rdy a step behind him, frowning up at the heights. ‘Sorry about that,’ A’dy apologises. ‘Any idea what’s up with them?’
It’s a relief when M’rdy’s rare smile surfaces from beneath his frown. ‘Nope. I’d suggest that Nebrath’s proddy but you’ve been in such a mood all morning, you might bite my head off as fast as she would-’
He laughs when A’dy shoves him, albeit gentler than Nebrath shoved his dragon and he catches the hand A’dy offers to steady himself easily, shaking his head. ‘Alright, objection noted. One of these days you’ll tell me where you’ve really been-’ He cuts off when A’dy coughs pointedly. ‘What?’
‘Problems with the dragons?’
It’s R’ger, standing expectantly behind them. The fine dusting of dirt from Nebrath’s abrupt take off doesn’t seem to have touched him because his riding leathers still gleam, freshly oiled, in the late morning sun. With Wilsonth taking off behind him with neat, graceful wingbeats that barely raise the dust, he’s the picture-perfect recruitment image for the dragonriders. A’dy tries not to glare because he’s not bitter no matter what M’rdy implies; he’s just- standing up for green riders.
He fails at the not-glaring when R’ger smiles at him a little tentatively and offers, ‘I can ask Wilsonth to keep an eye on them if you’d like?’
‘And do what, scold them in his majestic bronze tones if they misbehave?’ A’dy arcs an eyebrow, ignoring M’rdy not-very-surreptitiously elbowing him to shut up. So what if R’ger Impressed a bronze and not a green; they’re all dragonriders. ‘When I need help controlling my own dragon, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know.’
R’ger’s face flushes pink. ‘That was not what I meant. I only-’
‘Incoming,’ A’dy interrupts and squashes his guilt at the flicker of annoyance in R’ger’s eyes at the interruption, even as he’s turning with his smile back in place to greet the approaching lord holder.
‘That was mean,’ M’rdy mutters to him behind a fixed smile as they wait. ‘You need to watch it.’
‘Why, or they kick me out of this Weyr as well?’ A’dy mutters back. ‘He was out of line.’
M’rdy’s sigh is mostly hidden by R’ger’s warm greeting to Lord Haas. ‘And of course you took the opportunity to overreact. You want to be careful before other riders start wondering why you’re trying so hard to make the next Weyrleader dislike you.’
Before A’dy can stumble up a retort, M’rdy’s stepping forward to meet Tommy’s warm smile with his own. They’re friends; Andy knows they keep in touch by runner messages and dragon whenever one’s passing ever since they’d been fostered together for a while. That’d been the year after A’dy Impressed and M’rdy had still been Mardy, fretting at being left behind in Boca Raton Hold alone until the holder sourced Tommy as a hitting partner to improve his tennis with an eye on future Games.
A’dy tries not to be envious of the easy warmth between them now – that used to be between him and M’rdy instead. He tells himself it’s still there, that it wasn’t lost somewhere in the year he’d spent cloistered in the cavernous weyrs of Flushing Meadows, desperately trying to keep Nebrath fed as she grew handspans overnight and not to feel out of place in the crowd of girls who’d impressed greens. It didn’t matter anyway, in the end; at Lovath’s next Hatching, Fisath practically climbed the tiers of the Ashe Hatching Ground to reach Mardy in the crowd.
He’d only been there because A’dy made a not-entirely-sanctioned last minute flight to fetch his best friend on new, somewhat-unsteady wings. Sometimes – usually when M’rdy sees through his bullshit, or like now when – A’dy tells himself that he’s an idiot and should regret giving himself a wingman who always calls him on his dumb decisions.
You don’t though, Nebrath points out sleepily from the heights. All the dragons like lazing at Indian Wells, the dry, bright sunshine and the way the Hold sits, hemmed in perfect-for-sunbathing hills that hold in the warmth like a Hatching Ground. And I like Fisath, when he is not sitting too close. You are being ridiculous again.
No I’m not, A’dy retorts and inwardly grimaces at his own bitterness. Sorry. I mean, you don’t need a bronze telling you what to do and I can cheek R’ger if I like. He’s not Weyrleader.
Not yet. Nebrath’s voice echoes thoughtfully in his head. I like Wilsonth too. I will do what he tells me, as long as it is something I would like to do anyway.
Distracted wondering how, in all the hundreds of dragons on Pern, he had to end up with the smartass, A’dy blinks back to himself and notices the hand Tommy’s got proffered toward him. Has had offered for a minute, judging by M’rdy’s wince when he lunges hastily to take it.
‘Lord Haas, good morning,’ he says, trying to make a self-deprecating joke of his awkwardness. ‘Apologies, my dragon has a habit of giving me attitude when my attention should be elsewhere.’
The lines around Tommy’s blue eyes crinkle as he grins at him, laid back and easy and fine, A’dy admits that if he has to talk to the holders, then Tommy’s on the short list of the ones he actually likes.
Which doesn’t exactly make him feel better about the accidental snub; with his current standing in the Weyr, one lord holder complaining about his attitude will be enough to demote him to cleaning up the feeding grounds after the hungry dragons. Probably while R’ger supervises and makes supposedly-helpful comments about his shovelling technique.
Though – ‘Not to worry,’ Tommy says, clapping A’dy’s shoulder. ‘I have children so I know exactly how that feels. And how many times do I have to remind you, it’s Tommy. To you at least; M’rdy here can still call me Lord. It makes me feel important.’
His wink, along with M’rdy’s good-natured protest, makes A’dy laugh, bad mood lifted as much by the teasing as R’ger already striding away toward the hold without another word. If Tommy catches his glare at the retreating bronze rider, he doesn’t offer a comment – only a questioning look.
‘Is there anywhere in particular you’d like to Search?’ he asks with an air of casual nonchalance as he adds, clearly aware A’dy hadn’t been listening, ‘R’ger said he’d check around the classrooms. Maybe you’d have some luck at the practice courts?’
Outdoors, in view of Nebrath in case she decides to push Fisath off the heights out of incomprehensible dragon tetchiness. A’dy nods gratefully.
‘Sounds good to me. Is there anyone you’d like to put forward?
‘There are a couple of lads,’ Tommy says, falling into step with their long strides easily. He’s not short himself and in good shape for a holder; A’dy’s heard he’s won his fair share of trophies at the annual Games. ‘I’d be sorry to give them up but it’d be the best thing for them. They’re chafing at being holdbound already.’
A’dy frowns. ‘Can they behave? We’re not here to offload the unwanted troublemakers from holds you know.’
M’ardy grins at him over Tommy’s shoulder. ‘So why were you picked then?’
‘Because I am the model of good behaviour.’
M’rdy’s laugh startles the watchwher, curled half inside its den by the practice court gates. It growls at them but quiets fast when Fisath makes a rumbling murmur of annoyance from the heights, M’rdy flicking a warning look at his dragon.
‘Sorry,’ he tells Tommy, who shrugs it off. ‘It’s just that, considering the way A’dy got Searched was by trying to steal the Wimbledon Weyrleader’s dragon-’
‘Not steal!’ A’dy stops short, only half-exaggerating his indignation because this story keeps following him. ‘It’s not my fault that Sampath makes up for P’ete barely stringing two words together by babbling to anyone who’ll listen like a flustered wherry. I just went to ask him to be quiet so I could concentrate on my ball toss!’
Tommy, who is a bad man and nowhere near as nice as A’dy gave him credit for now he thinks about it, honestly holders think they’re so hilarious – grins slyly at M’rdy and says,
‘The way I heard it, you were riding straps and fifty foot in the air over Ashe Hold before P’ete ran out yelling at Sampath to land.’
‘Wine glass in his hand and holder lady he’d run out of a dance with telling half of Pern that she’d never speak to a Weyr again,’ M’rdy agrees solemnly. ‘Sampath hid in his weyr for a week because he’d turned brown with shame. So I heard.’
A’dy glares at the ridiculous pair of them.
‘I’m going to get Nebrath to sneak up on you in your sleep and drop you both on top of a mountain on the Southern Continent,’ he threatens and, spinning so hard his boot heel digs a hole in the dirt, he stalks towards the practice courts. Trailed in the wake of his irritation, he catches Tommy’s murmur:
‘Did he mean that?’
‘Of course not.’ M’rdy pauses, then more hesitantly, ‘Nebrath wouldn’t agree anyway.’
It sounds fun, Nebrath remarks in A’dy’s head and, judging by the sound of muffled outrage behind him, in M’rdy’s as well. I’m sure Fisath would not mind a little prank.
I would like to see you try.
Fisath’s mental drawl is soft as always, entirely unflappable. ‘Threadproof’ P’ete’s called him more than once in A’dy’s hearing – unlike most of the dragons, not even imminent Threadfall upsets him. It’s a good balance to M’rdy’s tendency to overthink; it’s what makes them so good in Threadfall, M’rdy’s alertness to the anchor of Fisath’s steady calm.
A’dy’s grateful for it most of the time; M’ardy smiles more, and more easily, since Impressing.
It does make teasing him that much harder though.
A’dy sends the blue dragon a rueful thought of spoilsport and grins up at the heights to take away any sting or – hopefully – any inadvertent incentive for Nebrath to push him off. Fisath blinks down at him, eyes gleaming the lazy blue-green of good humour.
You could ask Wilsonth for help, he offers and A’dy groans, walking faster so he’ll get to the practice courts ahead of the others and not have to put up with any more nonsense while he tries to conduct official Weyr business. That he didn’t even want to be on anyway.
He almost trips on his face in the dirt when a low murmur, the one that sounds like R’ger muffled through the Weyr walls when A’dy’s listening out to avoid him, says in his head, I would help. R’ger needs to laugh more.
I don’t need to give R’ger a good laugh by getting hauled in front of the Weyrleader for kidnapping, he tells the bronze dragon and deliberately shuts out the chorus of protest from both Wilsonth and Fisath that that wasn’t what they meant at all.
Nebrath’s pointed silence that tells him he’s being an idiot is harder to ignore and he hunches his shoulders against her telepathic glare as he steps through the elegant wrought-iron gate to the practice courts. When even the dragons think he’s being childish he’s probably on the losing side of the argument and he surveys the courts hopefully for a distraction.
There’s six neatly-marked rectangles, set out in a three-by-three grid bounded by ankle-height rows of shrubs. Because this is Indian Wells Hold every row is precision-ruled and well-tended, the fresh green grass of the courts to his left trimmed to the correct length and the packed dirt of the others smooth, the different coloured lines for each game so bright they must’ve been marked that morning. On the court furthest away, the only one unoccupied, a stooped groundskeeper is marking out fresh white squares with stencils and chalk.
Any thoughts on who Tommy meant? A’dy asks Nebrath, pretending not to notice her brooding disapproval humming at the back of his thoughts. All the men and women moving around the courts look possible to him, all in the right age range and athletic as they toss the small rubber balls to each other to warm up, run sprints or hit practice shots with the tight-strung wooden racquets.
A’dy ignores his faint pang of wistfulness at that last one; tennis had been his sport once, but that was before he’d been Searched. Dragonriding is better than any games rooted in the dirt. Disgraced dragonrider is better than the most successful tennis player.
Those two Nebrath says just as A’dy’s about to look away from the grass court. The way they move together.
Letting himself actually look rather than be mired in nostalgia, A’dy sees immediately what she means. Both of the boys practicing tennis are slender and a little gawky, not quite grown yet into the height they’ve shot up to but they move with an easy litheness around the court. One runs and pounces on each shot like a watchwher stalking prey, stillness a pause between blinding movement; the other, in contrast, never stops, sliding across the grass like weyrlings on the frozen lake in winter. The rubber ball spins through the air between them like a bird, swooping and chipping and neither of them managing to win the point with a clean shot.
Except- A’dy realises after a minute, neither of them is trying to win. He remembers the rules pretty well, enough to know the aim is to hit the ball past your opponent.
The two almost-men playing aren’t competing. Instead they’re working together, intent but grinning at each other across the court, moving seamlessly in balance to keep the ball from ever touching the ground.
Ruefully, A’dy acknowledges that Tommy was right. It’s a crime these two haven’t been Searched already.
A lone dragonrider backlit by the early sun clearly isn’t worth distracting themselves from a fun rally and the two play on, oblivious to A’dy’s half-wistful scrutiny, for a few more diving, laughing points. It takes a vast shadow falling across the court, the wind stirred up by giant wings, for the one running for the ball – the sliding one – to yelp, and trip, shot gone wild as he goes down ass-first on the grass. Final shot all off, the ball spins up high over his head and vanishes into the shadow but both of them are too busy staring upward to make the return.
A’dy’s pleased to note that they aren’t screaming, or running away. Although they are both watching Nebrath circle with wide-eyed tension that suggests they’re not overly delighted either but he’ll settle for a lack of outright terror.
At least they’re doing better than the occupants of the other courts, currently making half-stifled shrieks and moving rapidly towards the gate. As if Nebrath isn’t obviously wearing harness, peering anxiously between her forelegs as she circles to make sure she doesn’t flatten anyone when she lands and A’dy’s standing right here in blatantly obvious dragonrider leathers. If Nebrath was the kind of wild they’re picturing, everyone would be on fire before they made the gate, anyway.
Dismissing the idiots as not worth a dragonrider’s time, A’dy jogs over to the boy who’d fallen, on the way ducking Nebrath’s wing as she lands on the next court.
You couldn’t have caused more of a panic if you tried, he tells her with a mental sigh. No- don’t leave claw marks in their court surface!
There’s a definite air of guilt as his dragon carefully curls her forepaws under her. I did not think they would run like wherries. At least it was a good test of these two.
That they didn’t run away in case you ate them? Not sure that’s a mark of intelligence.
Oh shut up and stop pretending that you don’t like them, Nebrath remarks and swings her head around to nudge the boy still sitting dumbfounded on the grass. A’dy’s silently pleased to see the other boy start over at a sprint to defend him, racquet raised – even if it’s entirely unnecessary, and if Nebrath was about to eat his friend, hilariously futile.
Five strides away – about the point he needs to make a decision what he’s planning to do with the wooden racquet he’s brandishing at a gigantic fanged lizard whose head alone is bigger than his torso – Nebrath turns to give him what A’dy knows is supposed to be a coy look. Mostly it looks like a massive apex predator debating if she should swallow him whole to avoid getting bones stuck in her teeth.
Racquet-boy flinches but takes the last few steps with his shoulders squared, one eye warily on Nebrath the whole time. He doesn’t look away, even when he reaches down to pull the other boy to his feet.
‘She won’t hurt you,’ A’dy says, stepping out of the sun glare and enjoying the way they barely avoid tripping backwards. Reaching out, he scratches Nebrath’s closest eye ridge until her lids half-close, an entirely ridiculous hum like a purr rolling vibrating in her throat. ‘See? She’s harmless.’
Nebrath nudges him hard with her muzzle. Speak for yourself!
The second boy, the one who’d run to defend the other, bites back a half-stifled laugh. A’dy tilts his head in interest, watching the way the boy flushes under the scrutiny.
‘Do you hear dragons?’
‘Yes,’ the boy admits after a long hesitation. ‘I always have,’
He had the thick accent of the northern mountains, half the world away; A’dy wonders how he’d ended up in Indian Wells. The boy’s face, pale beneath his tangled thatch of reddish hair, is still boyish but he must be seventeen at least, too old to be fostered.
This one too, Nebrath says and nudges the other boy – gentler than she’d shoved A’dy but he still stumbles back, the northern boy reaching out to steady him. He’s pretending not to.
Hmm. That could be a problem. Frowning intently at the second boy – this one at least is tanned, although A’dy suspects he’s gone pale beneath it – A’dy watches him badly mask a flinch. ‘What’s your names?’
‘Novak,’ the recalcitrant boy says, after a moment of frowning back at him. ‘This is Andy.’
A’dy spares a flicker of amusement for his old name, and the blink from both of them when he introduces himself. ‘I’m A’dy, and this is Nebrath. We’re from Fl- Wimbledon Weyr. That was was a pretty interesting version of tennis you were playing. Practicing for the Games in the summer?’
‘No- well- yes- we haven’t qualified yet,’ Andy admits when Novak keeps quiet. They’re both sneaking cautious looks at Nebrath, wary sideways glances as if she might- what? Leap on them and carry them off? Eat them? A’dy knows there’s plenty of silly idiots around Pern who’re afraid of dragons, but two boys who’d grown up hearing them should know better.
‘Would you be playing for Indian Wells Hold?’ he asks, wondering if he can come at the problem tactfully. Nebrath, picking up on his curiosity, stretches her nose out to nudge, pointedly, at one of Novak’s hands and Novak jumps as if stung.
Careful, A’dy cautions but Nebrath’s so clearly begging for a stroke like a dog that no one could take it as a threat. Slowly, as if every muscle is fighting him, Novak’s hand uncurls to rest hesitantly on Nebrath’s green muzzle.
He’s trembling, Nebrath remarks. She sounds slightly put out.
‘She likes her eye ridges scratched,’ A’dy says casually, as if oblivious to the tension ramping up a notch. Nebrath tilts her head with a rumble in her throat like a question and when Novak’s thin fingers – still shaking, A’dy notes suspiciously – unfold to scratch exactly where she likes, the rumble turns into a chirp of appreciation.
Glancing back at Andy, A’dy raises an eyebrow expectantly but the northern boy is staring at Novak’s hand petting the dragon with an expression that’s almost dumbfounded. When A’dy clears his throat, they both jump.
‘Indian Wells?’ A’dy asks, reminding him of the question and Andy swallows. It’s not a difficult question; A’dy doesn’t know why they’re both being so awkward.
He’s forced to retract that thought a second later when Andy continues, voice gone tight with the well-worn tiredness of a much-repeated explanation,
‘No, we train here because Tommy fostered us- after, and for the better weather. But I’m from the north and Novak-’ The boy in question glances back at him and they share a look, something silent passing between them. Shellcrack, if these two Impress how will they cope when they’re already Impressed on each other?
Whatever the look meant, it must’ve included permission because Andy finishes, soft, ‘And Novak would be playing for Belgrade Hold.’
Oh. Oh. Suddenly Novak’s skittishness around dragons makes perfect sense. Aware that both Andy and Novak are bracing themselves for his reaction, A’dy forces his shoulders to relax from their hunch and makes his smile easy rather than sympathetic. If it’d been A’dy in their shoes, he’d find any attempt at empathy from a stranger more grating than an insult, but Belgrade Hold… for once he’s lost for a response.
Having watched the exchange in uncharacteristic silence, Nebrath’s the one the break the tension with a sigh loud enough to ruffle Andy’s hair. Relieved to take the out, A’dy laughs.
‘Nebrath says I’m taking too long to get to the point. You’ve probably guessed why we’re here-’
‘You’re on a Search,’ Andy blurts and immediately flushes bright pink. ‘Sorry, just- us? Really?’
A’dy debates teasing them but Novak looks like he’ll fall over if Nebrath so much as sneezes, and Andy isn’t much better; he takes pity. ‘Is that such a surprise? You hear dragons, Nebrath likes you. Why hasn’t anyone Searched you before?’
This quick look Andy exchanges with Novak is laced with guilt. He avoids A’dy’s stare when he says, ‘No one’s asked us before.’
They hid. Nebrath raises her head to blink at Andy, breathing a firestone-heavy snort in his face; he flinches but, A’dy’s pleased to see, holds his ground with feet planted, glaring back at Nebrath. The last time there was a Search here and before that, at Barcelona Hold. They hid together in a store cupboard.
The emphasis she places on together has the coy inflection she uses when A’dy wakes up with M’ike or M’rdy after a mating flight, or when he flirted with Brooklyn at Gathers. Hmm. If both these two Impress bronzes or browns – and A’dy will bet his flying leathers than they do – that could be complicate matters.
Candidates rarely thought that far ahead about Impressing though, even ones who hear dragons; A’dy can’t imagine these two are passing up the chance to be Searched just to avoid potentially awkward mating flights later. Maybe it’s Novak’s fear from what happened at his Hold, shared with Andy like dragon sickness until both of them have let it hold them back.
That won’t do. They both hear dragons. If one good thing can come from A’dy being dragged on this Search, it’s getting these two to the sands.
And further, Nebrath says with the softness that means it’s a comment for him alone, and then louder with the echo that means she’s broadcasting, as forlorn as a dragon voice can sound, what’s wrong? Don’t you like dragons?
Novak’s mouth twists down at the corners, his thin shoulders tucking up around his ears as if he’s bracing himself to be dragged off to answer for his thoughts to a flock of offended vicious lizards. A’dy’s about to make a show of telling Nebrath off – his dragon is his pride and heart but by the egg, subtly is not one of her talents – when Novak reaches out a stiff hand to pet her muzzle again.
‘We like dragons,’ he says, hoarse as if he’s scraping out the words over dragon claws around his throat. Andy shuffles closer and Novak leans into him without looking, with the ease of long practice, letting his racquet fall so he can curl his arm around Andy’s waist. ‘If you want to Search us – we can go.’
In the same quiet tone Nebrath uses when she’s speaking only to A’dy, Andy says, ‘We don’t have to.’ The look he gives Novak is so intent, so clearly shutting A’dy out of the decision they’re making, that he almost steps back to give them privacy.
‘I think we do,’ Novak says. He looks at A’dy, expression strained but his hand is still gentle on Nebrath, rubbing circles that steady the more she purrs. ‘When do we leave?’
Which is, with his usual impeccable timing, the moment R’ger says from behind A’dy, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
-
How was I to know that they weren’t the two that Tommy meant? A’dy grouses to Nebrath as they assemble into wing formation over the Hold. And it’s a Search, what does it matter! We want anyone who you like!
There was a lot of shouting. Nebrath sounds confused, rare because she’s usually smarter than the other dragons – at least in A’dy’s opinion. Wilsonth says he’ll try to calm R’ger down but that we should take them straight into the Weyr out of sight when we get back and try to pretend that everything is fine.
While he runs straight to P’ete to complain no doubt, A’dy says bitterly and winces as the wind catches his eyes when they bank into formation behind Fisath. His flying goggles are in his pocket but it’s too late to fumble them out and he blinks instead, annoyed that M’rdy might glance back and think he’s crying.
As Nebrath dips in an air pocket, the hands around his waist clutch in sudden panic. A’dy turns his head and catches Andy’s white face, eyes screwed shut.
‘Hey!’ A’dy shouts back to him over the wind, ‘it’s okay, we’re just making sure we don’t come out on top of each other.’ Andy doesn’t open his eyes, and A’dy curses under his breath. ‘Nebrath can you tell them-’
I’ve told them. Andy says to stop fussing, it’s just that his eyes are watering too.
Andy now, is it? A’dy asks, amused. Should I be jealous?
Nebrath doesn’t deign to answer but A’dy feels her snort rumble through the solid green body beneath him and grins.
At the front of the formation, Wilsonth’s settled into the steady hover wingbeat. Waiting for the signal to go A’dy tries not to let himself glare at R’ger’s back, straight and stiff, motionless as he sits on his dragon’s neck.
He’d been so angry when A’dy refused to leave Novak and Andy behind. Not that he raised his actual voice but he’d been white-lipped with the effort of holding it back, arguing silently with the dragons as they backed A’dy up and staring at A’dy with the faintly bewildered annoyance he wears, that here’s someone who doesn’t immediately and unquestioningly worship him.
You know that is unfair, Nebrath says in reproof. He is trying to help but Wilsonth says you do not make it easy? I do not understand. Andy and Novak can talk to us, all the dragons like them. All of the points you made were good.
Up ahead, R’ger’s arm lifts and falls in the signal. Warn them that we’re going Between, A’dy warns Nebrath instead of answering and waits for her to rely the message before he tells her to go.
The ice-cold dark of between is like a slap in the face after the dry heat of an Indian Wells spring. A’dy grits his teeth and counts, three long breaths and then they pop back into light and sunshine that’s slanting down much later than the day they’d left, tinged with evening gold across the wide emerald sweep of Nebrath’s wings. Behind him, A’dy hears Andy exhale a choked sound of relief.
They alright? He asks Nebrath as they follow Fisath’s glide in a loose downward circle. He doesn’t look back; the first time between is a private terror, and if Novak’s fallen off the back then there’s nothing A’dy can do about it now anyway.
He has not fallen off. Andy says he did not know that falling off between was a possibility and he will be sending a strongly worded note to the flight captain.
A’dy glances back, startled, and meets Andy’s eyes. He’s pale, hair woven into an impossible tangle by the breeze but the faint uptick to the corners of his mouth is distinctly teasing and after a second of wariness, A’dy smiles back. Over Andy’s shoulder Novak looks a bit grey, but he gives A’dy a thumbs up.
See? I like them, Nebrath says, as if that settles the matter and banks low over Centre so that the setting sun spills out behind them and gilds all of Wimbledon in gold. Despite his cranky mood, A’dy can’t hold back a murmur of appreciation at the sight.
Wimbledon was the oldest of the dragon Weyrs – the best, dragonriders admitted when they were three glasses of wine deep at a Gather and the other Weyrleaders weren’t close enough to shout about favouritism and unfair advantages. Flushing Meadows riders argued that it was their Weyr that formalised Weyr rules and traditions, that attracted more holders to become dragonriders in the early days when everyone still ran screaming from the cast shadows of wild dragons overhead, but everyone knows underneath that’s just semantics.
Wimbledon was where Walter Wingfield, providing protection detail on a trade caravan between Llandrinio Hold in the western provinces and London, stumbled across the first wild clutch of eggs ever discovered, watched over by an enormous golden dragon. Barely waiting to see the caravan to safety in the centre of London, Walter had crept back with a hand-picked group of officers on orders to destroy the nest before the eggs hatched and could become a threat to London. Instead they’d stumbled into the first Hatching witnessed by people and Impressed entirely by luck before the queen could attack.
Wingfield and his bronze Teneth had become the first Weyrleader pair. He’d laid out the foundations for the giant Hatching Ground now called Centre and organised the raid on the wild dragons that left Teneth blind in one eye but acquired the new dragon weyr their first precious queen egg. He’d set up the rudimentary sponsorship system in return for protecting the Holds from the wild dragons and when Thread fell again ten years later, it had been the ageing Wingfield alongside the Renshaw brothers on their twin bronzes who’d mobilised the dragons of Wimbledon to meet it with flame over London.
Wimbledon was the Weyr every holder kid wanted to be Searched for, the Weyr every rider from elsewhere dismissed as stuffy and hidebound but they never turned down a wing rotation there. It produced the most elegant dragons, the best wings, had the best facilities all immaculately maintained among the green lawns where dragons sunbathed and lounged around the lake.
All in all, A’dy had no idea how he’d come out of being disgraced with an assignment to fly in Wimbledon’s second wing for a season.
Because they know we are the fastest except for the bronzes who cheat by growing bigger and also, everyone in the wings likes you, Nebrath says, backwinging neatly to land on the grass between the graceful curve of One, the ivy-covered building that housed the most important dragons, and the broad avenue leading between the lawns to the guest quarters. Also Wilsonth said when we arrived that they thought we would cause less trouble here, remember?
No, A’dy said, although he remembers R’ger’s teasing smile as his dragon said it, inviting A’dy to see the joke in his entire life being uprooted. A’dy, knowing that he was at Wimbledon on sufferance because they couldn’t exactly kick him out of being a dragonrider and still smarting from his demotion, had stared stoically ahead and not allowed himself to laugh. I can’t say I remember that at all.
That is fine, I can ask Wilsonth to repeat it for you, Nebrath said with sly innocence and then, as A’dy’s about to order (beg) her to never ever remind Wilsonth of that moment unless she wants him to trade her in for a watchwher, she adds, You’ve lost one.
‘Lost wh-’ A’dy starts, but a glance back provides the answer. Novak’s on the ground and making determinedly for the looming bulk of Centre, not quite at a run but close. With a curse, A’dy half-leaps off Nebrath’s neck – almost taking Andy with him – and sprints, catching Novak up short by the neck of his shirt.
‘You want to get eaten as soon as you get here, there’s ways to do it that won’t get me and Nebrath exiled to the Southern Continent,’ he snaps over Novak’s outraged yelp. ‘You want to see the eggs, you wait for an invitation. Clear?’
‘But candidates are allowed-’
‘Candidates are allowed when they’re told they’re allowed and not before. Especially not you two when I stuck my neck out all the way to Roland Garros to get you here. Now quick before-’
‘Everything alright?’
Before R’ger guesses what you were doing, A’dy finishes in silent resignation.