Counting

Writers: Avery
Date Posted: 13th August 2015

Characters: L'pin
Description: L'pin wallows in his pain.
Location: Dolphin Cove Weyr
Date: month 1, day 3 of Turn 8
Notes: Part 2 of 3. Follows "The Final Test".

Drip. Drip. Drip. Beads of liquid rolled down the side of the glass of
liquor, pooling along the stone when they reached the bottom of the
glass. L'pin counted every single one of them as they went. It was a
soothing ritual, using a simple activity to focus his attention and
put conflicts out of his mind.

Whenever he was stressed, he counted. The ending of weyrlinghood was
always a stressful time, and there was so much for him to count. Days
until the Blooding, for example. Number of weyrlings who were injured.
Number of ways that it could all go horribly wrong. A ceaseless litany
of numbers had been running through his head all morning.

37 - The original size of Panitath's clutch.

1 - The number of under-aged weyrlings.

2 - weyrlings held back for performance or other reasons.

1 - severely injured weyrlings, who might never graduate or might take
months to heal.

That made 33 who had greeted the day, prepared to fly the Fall and
burn the Thread. And now that the Fall was over, a new number joined
the ones he'd had this morning:

1 - The number of deceased weyrlings from this clutch.

Together, it added up to:

32 - The number of weyrlings he could actually send to the wings at
the end of the month.

As a Harper with archivist training, and as a member of the
weyrlingstaff, L'pin had spent enough time in the Records Rooms of the
Weyrs to know all about the numbers. Losing weyrlings was hideously
common. Riding a dragon was extremely dangerous and training had to be
harsh and relentless to give them a chance.

Based on the mortality figures that he knew by heart and had known for
Turns, this class had an excellent survival rate. They hadn't lost
anyone /between/. The flaming practice accident hadn't been fatal. 1
loss out of 37 was incredibly low.

His head knew that. But his heart was unable to accept it, to call
this class' Blooding results 'good'. How could it be good that he'd
only lost one weyrling? Losing any was a tragedy. Every weyrling was
someone's son or daughter, or sister or brother. Someone who had
mattered to other people, who would now never see them again. And
weyrlings were _children_ who hadn't experienced all of their life
yet. Satai would never grow older and have her own, or have a
weyrmate, or pick up a craft. She'd barely started her adult life and
now she was gone.

Chaneth projected love and affection in an attempt to counteract the
waves of misery he felt. He didn't like the way his rider's mind felt.
It was sick and disquieting. He wanted it to stop. The blue remembered
the earlier Threadfall. He remembered the weyrlings doing well. He
remembered the ones who had seared Thread from the sky, who had saved
their wingmates, who had emerged unscathed. His rider was fixating too
much on the one who had not. He was seeing a tail at the expense of
the whole herdbeast.

}:We are good teachers,:{ the blue said, pushing his muzzle as far
into the main part of the weyr as he could to try to reach his rider
physically as well. }:The hatchlings did well. You should not be so
sad.:{

Chaneth could say that now, but he didn't understand, the bluerider
knew. He wouldn't carry the grief of the ones they'd failed and lost.
Eventually his memories would fade. He wouldn't remember which dragons
he taught without L'pin's prompting. Whereas his rider had to remember
everyone he'd lost. Satai's face was another one to add to his chain
of losses.

The condensation was pooled at the bottom of the glass and the count
had done nothing for him. The bluerider grabbed it, brought it to his
lips, and tossed it back. He welcomed the hot burn of the liquor
sliding down his throat. Tonight he needed to forget.

Last updated on the August 13th 2015

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Counting