Work Text:
One Turn of the Pass down, forty-nine to go. Yet for all the decades of battle that loom ahead, life is sweet.
Last Turnover there'd been little festivity at Benden, the meager tithings scarcely enough to feed one Weyr’s dwindled strength. Even as the Red Star’s malevolent gleam shone through the Eye Rock as the dawn sun alighted on the Finger Rock, F’lar had been forced to contend with intransigent naysayers, inadequate records, and a Weyrwoman coolly civil to him at best. Had made plans with grim determination but only a fool’s hope. In a Turn’s time, would there be naught left of them all but Threadscored ashes?
Instead, six full Weyrs now rise to fight the Threads. In Benden’s Lower Caverns, the Weyrmen celebrate Turnover with a proper feast, the generous gifts of a grateful populace, and F’lar smiles to see that atmosphere of good cheer that prevails. Lessa is nestled contentedly against his side, his brave, brilliant mate, her belly gently rounded with his child. He drinks deep of good Benden White, the fine bubbles tickling his lips, and toasts to the future.
One Turn of the Pass down, forty-nine to go, and they’re going to make it.