Matrimony, Part 5
Hmm. That oddball Julian. No matter where he ends up, he's always the happily married one. Having been literally the only pair to come out of Chandra unscathed, Mael and Julian were wed shortly after the retrun of the Andhari, by blessing (read as, intensive political manipulation and a lot of legal blackmail) of the Seer, because really, you can be as openminded as you want, but a government as bitchtastic as the Unselei is always going to balk at inter-species-is-it-even-homosexual-if-they-have-different-genitalia marriages.
Julian was also half of one of the theoretical PC-verse couples to wed (in New York, New York- ceremony paid for by the alarmingly generous Ade and Sari) in celebration when gay marriage was legalized in the united states (some fifteen years from now).
So, guess what? It's about time that boy had to stare, vaguely boggled, at someone else being awesometastically happy and commited while he himself struggles maddeningly with emotional turmoil the likes of which is hard to grasp.
Also, apparently, Pern!Julian puts up an excellent front of being super-straight, given that, like AllOther!Julians he'll pretty much sleep with whoever bids highest.
==-==-==
Things had gone from bad to worse in Fort Weyr. With Goldrider Arissansee murdered by psychotic southerners along with Bronze Korith, war preparations were well underway. It was hard to imagine how anything could really get worse. At least for one so war shy as the young Weyrsinger J'ula.
Oh, but there was a way, wasn't there.
Because without whatever questionable negotiations Arisa had used- and there was little doubt that she was willing to do anyone for her Weyr- tithes dropped dramatically. Nearly half. South Boll, with its unusual loyalty to the Southerners given their Lord's first born was a Lord down there, had even threatened to cease tithing entirely.
J'ula, in his late twenties now and with more then a decade and a half as a dragonrider, had never seen things grow so tense between Hold and Weyr. But he knew, without a doubt, that the people of Fort Weyr had been in the wrong. The eggs should not have been stolen, but it was too late to fix that mistake. No one should have threatened to kill children on their home soil. It was little wonder that the long journey south had disfigured the dragonets in those shells, after all. They would never have been welcome in the noblest and oldest of all Weyrs. Why should they try to fetch them?
And yes, perhaps it would have been a smart move to try and round up that healer that was suspected for the murder of the watchrider who had failed to guard the clutch, but that wasn't even considered. It had gone directly in to madness, and with both High Reaches and Benden ready to swear their allegiance to Fort's cause...
It was the stupidest thing he had ever done. Tolomarath was more than willing to let him know that. But the Blue dragon was far too kindhearted to allow war marches to begin under his watchful gaze without doing something about it. They had been packing and unpacking for two sevendays, now. There would be no returning form this flight, and given the attitude towards southerners here, he could only imagine a northern would be equally unwelcome.
But he had sent word with a rented firelizard to his old Master, and Maril had said he would ensure J'ula's safety in as much as he could. So, in the dark, when neither he nor Tolomarath could truly and well see through the wintery fog that had settled on the Weyr, he and Tolomarath had gone, as the Harpers said. Gone away, gone ahead to a new life.
Because they needed to know.
It was much further east, the southern Sapphos Weyr, than Fort. It was daybreak there, and Tolomarath had barely been on the ground long enough for J'ula to dismount, let alone to remove his straps, when the words came singing into his mind. It was a lovely voice, smooth and smoky and low, unlike most dragonesses he'd heard.
But the words were enough to drive cold blooded terror into his soul.
I go, my J'ula. She needs someone of her own measure to love her. And that is me.
Oh for Faranth's- The force of his blue's flightlust smashed into him like some kind of terrible wall, and he began a familiar blinded stumble in an unfamliar direction. Tolomarath was nearly obssessive. Falling 'in love' with every dragoness that took wing. He had literally never missed a single flight. That often meant upwards of four a day in the spring, when the greens of Fort became especially needy. Exhausting in utterly incomprehensible ways. His dragon's endless lust had been the ruiner of his relationship with the Journeywoman weaver he'd been besotted with for the last six Turns as well. She wasn't Impressed to a dragon, how could she understand the compulsions.
Instinct as much as anything guided J'ula to a particular hut- apaprently, riders lived in huts here, regardless of how unsafe that was- and tried the door.
Locked.
For the love of all the was good in existence. Tolomarath had gotten him involved in a Stand-In flight. He prayed desperately that Tolomarath would lose, because he was in a new place, confused and concerned, and if he won a flight without having an outlet for himself, there was little saying what might happen, but it would definitely be bad.
Oh Faranth. He could hear them. It wasn't exactly the sounded construction in Pern, thin little wooden walls and the occasional gap. No worries about insulation in this horrifyingly hot climate.
Little breathy gasps, probably the woman. Though, then again, all riders down here were supposedly women. So probably the white dragon's rider, then. Soft moans that cut short, not in gasps, but into silence. First time flier? Shy about her dragon's lust, no doubt. Who was the other one, he wondered? And the desperation boiling over his bond with Tolomarath guided his head as much as anything else, to one of those small chinks in the siding. Even just seeing the object of his affections would be better than nothing. He thought he might die if he didn't know who she was.
But there was nothing much to see. It was a dimly lit room, and the weak like of sunrise did little to help him. She was pale, that much was clear. A stripe of the whitest flesh- her stomach?- and a smaller strip of freckled, windburned not-tan. And whoever her chosen was she was dark, dark like only a few family lines in South Boll were. Such beautiful skin. He didn't know which one was his, for a moment, admiring the contrast of the two soft hided- womenfolk.
Then, instinct clicked. The pale one. She was his.
She was his, and he couldn't have her.
So, he melted himself against the wall, eye plastered into the little hole, taking and watching and claiming until the flight ended, until their own mating ritual began. But not his, because, mercifully, Tolomarath had lost to another dragon that was and wasn't blue. One of the southern monsters, covered in spines and horns, and bigger than any bronze.
And exhausted and still desperate, the Weyrsinger refugee wasn't sure whether to collapse or fumble off towards the Weyr, seeking out a nubile young woman of his own.
The desperation won, of course, because it always did. And he drowned himself in one of those golden brown girls form the kitchens, beautiful thing, she writhed and sang and was generally amazing. But the whole time, he thought of shy sighs and white skin and dreamt of a woman whose name he didn't even know.
It took three sevendays before he learned it.
His name- because it had been a man, and that had left J'ula uncomfortable, but no moreso than any other flight where the other rider had been male- was Adeloc. And apparently, the Weyr was rather protective of him. He'd been engaged or betrothed or something to the rider of the blue monster, and had only, apparently, just managed to escape some kind of unspecifically horrible fate by running into the arms of a bronzerider. Also male.
For a Weyr of women, he couldn't help noting, there was an abundance of male riders and male lovers.
Still. With nearly four times as many women as men in the population, J'ula was hardly pressed for pretty little things to watch admiringly.
Alissen had broken him into little pieces with her abandonment, and he wasn't about to put himself up for that pain again. But he could watch. It was nice.
And besides, he could hardly be expected to find himself a weyrmate when he had a meeting scheduled for two hours in the future. He was a rebel now, apparently. Arisansee had been one as well. Died for her cause, trying to prevent war. She'd fallen woefully short of that particular goal.
Still. He would do what he could. The battlefield was no place for a Harper, after all.
Julian was also half of one of the theoretical PC-verse couples to wed (in New York, New York- ceremony paid for by the alarmingly generous Ade and Sari) in celebration when gay marriage was legalized in the united states (some fifteen years from now).
So, guess what? It's about time that boy had to stare, vaguely boggled, at someone else being awesometastically happy and commited while he himself struggles maddeningly with emotional turmoil the likes of which is hard to grasp.
Also, apparently, Pern!Julian puts up an excellent front of being super-straight, given that, like AllOther!Julians he'll pretty much sleep with whoever bids highest.
==-==-==
Things had gone from bad to worse in Fort Weyr. With Goldrider Arissansee murdered by psychotic southerners along with Bronze Korith, war preparations were well underway. It was hard to imagine how anything could really get worse. At least for one so war shy as the young Weyrsinger J'ula.
Oh, but there was a way, wasn't there.
Because without whatever questionable negotiations Arisa had used- and there was little doubt that she was willing to do anyone for her Weyr- tithes dropped dramatically. Nearly half. South Boll, with its unusual loyalty to the Southerners given their Lord's first born was a Lord down there, had even threatened to cease tithing entirely.
J'ula, in his late twenties now and with more then a decade and a half as a dragonrider, had never seen things grow so tense between Hold and Weyr. But he knew, without a doubt, that the people of Fort Weyr had been in the wrong. The eggs should not have been stolen, but it was too late to fix that mistake. No one should have threatened to kill children on their home soil. It was little wonder that the long journey south had disfigured the dragonets in those shells, after all. They would never have been welcome in the noblest and oldest of all Weyrs. Why should they try to fetch them?
And yes, perhaps it would have been a smart move to try and round up that healer that was suspected for the murder of the watchrider who had failed to guard the clutch, but that wasn't even considered. It had gone directly in to madness, and with both High Reaches and Benden ready to swear their allegiance to Fort's cause...
It was the stupidest thing he had ever done. Tolomarath was more than willing to let him know that. But the Blue dragon was far too kindhearted to allow war marches to begin under his watchful gaze without doing something about it. They had been packing and unpacking for two sevendays, now. There would be no returning form this flight, and given the attitude towards southerners here, he could only imagine a northern would be equally unwelcome.
But he had sent word with a rented firelizard to his old Master, and Maril had said he would ensure J'ula's safety in as much as he could. So, in the dark, when neither he nor Tolomarath could truly and well see through the wintery fog that had settled on the Weyr, he and Tolomarath had gone, as the Harpers said. Gone away, gone ahead to a new life.
Because they needed to know.
It was much further east, the southern Sapphos Weyr, than Fort. It was daybreak there, and Tolomarath had barely been on the ground long enough for J'ula to dismount, let alone to remove his straps, when the words came singing into his mind. It was a lovely voice, smooth and smoky and low, unlike most dragonesses he'd heard.
But the words were enough to drive cold blooded terror into his soul.
I go, my J'ula. She needs someone of her own measure to love her. And that is me.
Oh for Faranth's- The force of his blue's flightlust smashed into him like some kind of terrible wall, and he began a familiar blinded stumble in an unfamliar direction. Tolomarath was nearly obssessive. Falling 'in love' with every dragoness that took wing. He had literally never missed a single flight. That often meant upwards of four a day in the spring, when the greens of Fort became especially needy. Exhausting in utterly incomprehensible ways. His dragon's endless lust had been the ruiner of his relationship with the Journeywoman weaver he'd been besotted with for the last six Turns as well. She wasn't Impressed to a dragon, how could she understand the compulsions.
Instinct as much as anything guided J'ula to a particular hut- apaprently, riders lived in huts here, regardless of how unsafe that was- and tried the door.
Locked.
For the love of all the was good in existence. Tolomarath had gotten him involved in a Stand-In flight. He prayed desperately that Tolomarath would lose, because he was in a new place, confused and concerned, and if he won a flight without having an outlet for himself, there was little saying what might happen, but it would definitely be bad.
Oh Faranth. He could hear them. It wasn't exactly the sounded construction in Pern, thin little wooden walls and the occasional gap. No worries about insulation in this horrifyingly hot climate.
Little breathy gasps, probably the woman. Though, then again, all riders down here were supposedly women. So probably the white dragon's rider, then. Soft moans that cut short, not in gasps, but into silence. First time flier? Shy about her dragon's lust, no doubt. Who was the other one, he wondered? And the desperation boiling over his bond with Tolomarath guided his head as much as anything else, to one of those small chinks in the siding. Even just seeing the object of his affections would be better than nothing. He thought he might die if he didn't know who she was.
But there was nothing much to see. It was a dimly lit room, and the weak like of sunrise did little to help him. She was pale, that much was clear. A stripe of the whitest flesh- her stomach?- and a smaller strip of freckled, windburned not-tan. And whoever her chosen was she was dark, dark like only a few family lines in South Boll were. Such beautiful skin. He didn't know which one was his, for a moment, admiring the contrast of the two soft hided- womenfolk.
Then, instinct clicked. The pale one. She was his.
She was his, and he couldn't have her.
So, he melted himself against the wall, eye plastered into the little hole, taking and watching and claiming until the flight ended, until their own mating ritual began. But not his, because, mercifully, Tolomarath had lost to another dragon that was and wasn't blue. One of the southern monsters, covered in spines and horns, and bigger than any bronze.
And exhausted and still desperate, the Weyrsinger refugee wasn't sure whether to collapse or fumble off towards the Weyr, seeking out a nubile young woman of his own.
The desperation won, of course, because it always did. And he drowned himself in one of those golden brown girls form the kitchens, beautiful thing, she writhed and sang and was generally amazing. But the whole time, he thought of shy sighs and white skin and dreamt of a woman whose name he didn't even know.
It took three sevendays before he learned it.
His name- because it had been a man, and that had left J'ula uncomfortable, but no moreso than any other flight where the other rider had been male- was Adeloc. And apparently, the Weyr was rather protective of him. He'd been engaged or betrothed or something to the rider of the blue monster, and had only, apparently, just managed to escape some kind of unspecifically horrible fate by running into the arms of a bronzerider. Also male.
For a Weyr of women, he couldn't help noting, there was an abundance of male riders and male lovers.
Still. With nearly four times as many women as men in the population, J'ula was hardly pressed for pretty little things to watch admiringly.
Alissen had broken him into little pieces with her abandonment, and he wasn't about to put himself up for that pain again. But he could watch. It was nice.
And besides, he could hardly be expected to find himself a weyrmate when he had a meeting scheduled for two hours in the future. He was a rebel now, apparently. Arisansee had been one as well. Died for her cause, trying to prevent war. She'd fallen woefully short of that particular goal.
Still. He would do what he could. The battlefield was no place for a Harper, after all.