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Ennrik had been home from Harper Hall for nearly two sevendays, basically wallowing in self-pity. As far as he was concerned, he was entitled. He hadn't just given up after his first calamitous performance. He had spent two years trying to force himself to perform in public in any capacity. He could sing beautifully in rehearsal and even when people came in just to listen, but in an actual performance setting he failed every time. And multiple attempts hadn't improved matters. They'd made them worse with every successive attempt as he remembered all his failed ones and they weighed on him until he could barely breath with the pressure. And then the fresh case of stage fright would set in and he'd be practically paralytic.

His father, of course, was less than thrilled to have his twenty year old son home and not even raised to a journeyman's status, and made snide remarks whenever he found an excuse. If there were no excuses, he made some up. In a way, Ennrik could understand his father's animosity: he'd been sent to Harper Hall just as he was becoming old enough to be helpful in his father's business, and now he came back with no really useful skills. His younger siblings were more useful to their father, and although they were kind enough not to mention the fact that he couldn't do the things which came as naturally to them as breathing, it was obvious.

In the past he would have gone to the Hold's Harper and found solace in music, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to face the man who had done so much for him. He felt that of all the people he had disappointed with his shortcomings, Harper Bice was the one he had let down the most. Bice had given him a chance to do great things and apprentice himself to a real craft, not just the piddling things his father involved himself in to earn marks. Bice had written so highly of his vocal talents. Talents Ennrik couldn't bear to share with others, apparently. Irksome. Tiresome and irksome.

Despite his reservations about seeing Harper Bice, his feet were used to making the trek from his father's home to the Harpers's lodgings. From a distance he could hear the youths of the Hold going through the basic teaching ballads in varying stages of skill and familiarity. His trained ear could pick out mistakes in pitch and lyric, but he knew it would eventually be sorted out. At least the mistakes in the lyrics. Sometimes pitch couldn't be helped, especially not in the case of the teens whose voices were still settling. He cringed in pity for them and hoped that their voices settled quickly. It was such an awkward stage.

He found himself slipping into the back of the classroom and pretending he hadn't seen Bice nod a greeting to him. Sitting in the back, surrounded by people who didn't care if he was there and weren't listening to him, Ennrik was able to join in the singing, adding his strong, trained voice to the others'. It was good to sing, even in secret. Not that it was really secret. Bice knew he was there, and everyone in the room had subconsciously tried to match their singing to his. But it was more anonymous than anything he'd tried lately.

He was finally beginning to relax when someone beat a summons. Bice silenced the class and both he and Ennrik listened intently to the drumbeats. They were inexpertly done, but readily understandable. A dragonrider was riding Search, and all youths of a candidate's age must present themselves. The class dispersed at a run once the message was translated for their ears, racing to be the first. As if that would make a difference. Ennrik stayed back, looking to his first mentor apologetically.

"Bice," he began. "I'm -"

The Harper cut him off. "You can tell me later. Didn't you hear the summons? You must go, too. You're within the age range."

"But I-"

"Later, Ennrik."

Ennrik wondered if he'd have the courage later, but he obeyed Bice and took off at a brisk pace in the same direction the others had taken. He couldn't see what any dragon would want with someone who'd folded so spectacularly and so many times when he was under pressure, but he wasn't about to disobey the teachings and show so much disrespect to the dragonriders as not to show up when summoned. He wasn't quite the last to arrive in the open area where the dragon and his rider waited, but he was among them, and this made him self conscious.

Ennrik stood to the back of the assemblage until it became evident that he would be forced to join them in a line. This was humiliating. He was barely young enough to be Searched anymore. Someone official announced the names of the dragon (Dimeth) and his rider (L'mel).

It had been exciting the one other time he'd been called to stand in front of a Search dragon, it had been the same day Harper Bice had told him that he'd recommended him for an apprenticeship at Harper Hall. That day he'd been elated at the prospect of spending the rest of his life surrounded by music, and then terrified by both the dragon, the rider, and the prospect of having the music taken away. He actually tried to make his thoughts unappealing to the dragon, in hopes that he wouldn't get taken away. It had worked.

Now he stood in another line, one of the oldest people gathered, and waited for the dragon's enormous head to swing past him and dismiss him, as it had the first time. Well. The first time it had lingered, but then moved on, and he had not been singled out. He was waiting for the same to happen, only without the lingering. He didn't know most of the youths of his hold anymore, but he was certain there were better qualified candidates than he among them. The pretty girl who seemed about sixteen turns with the big, brown eyes and the brave smile, for instance. (He thought her name might be Solla).

Yet, when the dragon's head finally did stop, it was Ennrik who found himself staring into the deep eyes of Blue Dimeth. It seemed that his heart stopped, and yet he could hear his blood pounding in his ears, giving lie to the feeling. Even if he had wanted to run, he would have been rooted to the spot. He didn't remember it being like this before. He understood, now, why they wrote the word Searched with an emphatic S. It was terrifying, yet questions raced through Ennrik's mind: Did the blue dragon examine everyone so closely? What did it mean that the dragon had spent so much time with him? Had it really been as long as it felt?

He was relieved when the rider (L'mel, he reminded himself) pushed the dragon's enormous head away, though it took several moments for him to understand and then process what L'mel was saying to him. He'd actually been selected. That was...shocking. Maybe Dimeth liked music. It did register dimly that L'mel didn't seem to be as imperious as he made out, though he was too shell-shocked to figure out why.

Ennrik didn't want to embarrass himself or the Harpers who had trained him when replying, so he chose his words carefully. "I am honored, L'mel, Blue Dimeth, by this opportunity. I can be ready to leave within the hour, or sooner if you prefer."

He had yet to unpack the things he had brought with him from Harper Hall, and the only goodbye he really had to make was to Harper Bice, who continued to give him opportunities, even after he'd made such a sharding mess of the first one.

Ennrik couldn't figure out the reasoning behind the grin, but he was willing to believe that the dragon had said something amusing. He had no idea what passed for amusing to a dragon or to this rider in particular, but it seemed more likely than the idea that something he, Ennrik had said in the few words he'd spoken was humorous. He'd thanked the blue and his rider and said he could be ready quickly. He was fairly certain he hadn't used the wrong address for either. In his defense, it wasn't like he had lots of practice talking to dragons and their riders.

"I'm Ennrik." He stopped himself from adding that he was an apprentice Harper with minimal effort. He was no longer an apprentice Harper, by his own choice, and so he really had no excuse to angst over it. He would try harder not to in the future.

"It's an honor to meet you, Dimeth, L'mel." He couldn't remember if he was supposed to name the dragon or the rider first, but it seemed more sensible to him to greet the larger, toothier one first. He continued to address the blue, even though he wasn't sure it was appropriate. "I hope I prove a credit to your abilities, but if not, the fault is entirely my own."

At L'mel's query Ennrik nodded once, sharply. It should take him less time than that, but it had seemed prudent to give an outside estimate, just in case. The only one who would really be disappointed to see him go was his next-younger sibling, Cyrenna, who had been the only one glad to see him home, too. She would be home, cleaning or cooking while their father worked in the shop which was attached to their home. Even if he just walked quickly he'd have plenty of time, as long as she didn't get weepy.

"I'll be back sooner if I can manage it," he said, trying to ignore the envious glances being cast his way. He could understand why they would be jealous: he had first been sent to train as a Harper, and then Searched to stand the sands at a Hatching. Even if he didn't Impress, he would have seen more of Pern than any of them and been at least fleetingly more important. Also, he got to ride a dragon, which was reason enough to be jealous.

He took off at a brisk pace was home within a quarter hour. He ignored his father's shop for the moment and went to where his as-yet unpacked things from Harper Hall were. He had little difficulty selecting clothing and finding the warm jacket he had bought several gathers ago for no reason other than that he liked how the cut flattered him. It would be useful if he was going to be on a dragon, though. He remembered hearing it got cold when flying.

The real difficulty came with his instruments. Although his voice was his primary instrument, Ennrik couldn't stand the idea of leaving them. His father wouldn't appreciate them, and would probably sell them, which would mean when he failed to Impress he would be forced to make use of Harper Bice's instruments, which would be all right, but an inconvenience to the harper. He decided to bring a set of pipes he'd made himself and his guitar, which he had not made (thankfully). The rest he asked Cyrenna to please take to Harper Bice at some point to hold in trust. Cyrenna agreed with moist eyes and hugged him tightly, but she didn't cry.

"You better Impress something good," she mock-scolded. "Or else Father will box your ears for humiliating the family."

He told his father he was leaving, but not where he was going. He didn't want to have his father find out if he failed again. His father's response was something along the lines of good riddance. He'd written his oldest son off years ago, when it turned out that he actually would rather become a Harper than follow his father's profession. Ennrik had written his father off around the same time as hidebound and short-sighted.

He made it back with about ten minutes to spare and presented himself to L'mel. He knew the guitar would be awkward baggage, but he wanted it so he could at least continue to make up his little tunes to amuse himself. He wasn't willing to negotiate on that count, and his stance as he held the guitar and his satchel probably made that obvious. He'd rather leave his clothes. Those were more easily replaced.

"I'm sorry for the wait," he said.

Ennrik was very conscious of L'mel's gaze on his guitar and tried hard not to look defiant, but he released a tense breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He knew the guitar would be cumbersome, but he could sling it across his back by its strap, and it would hopefully not hinder Dimeth's wings. He was less concerned about his clothing. He would manage that bundle. If he could get onto the dragon at all.

He looked at Dimeth, trying to figure out how to get onto his back without embarrassing himself completely. The leg would help, but it would still be an awkward scramble. He decided that was all right, as long as he didn't slide right off the other side or something. He shrugged into his jacket, though it would provide scant protection against between he was sure. It didn't matter. Lore said it was no more than an eight-count.

Aware of the ill-concealed scrutiny of those of his hold, Ennrik slung his guitar onto his back and fastened the bundle that held his clothing so that the straps from the two pieces of baggage formed an X across his chest. He took a few jogging steps toward the dragon and accepted the offered leg, flopping awkwardly across the spot behind L'mel and barely avoiding conking the dragonrider in the back with the neck of his guitar's case. He squirmed gracelessly for a few seconds as he strove to haul himself to a sitting position.

Thus accommodated, although by no means comfortable, he put his hands very lightly on the dragonrider's waist, like he would a girl he was escorting, but wasn't particularly interested in. He was still processing the rest of what L'mel had said to him about new homes and Candidatemasters and chores when the rider added one more comment that made him chuckle, albeit nervously. He had never ridden a dragon, and he had no idea how well he would do at it. It had never occurred to him that he might piss himself, but now that the idea had been planted in his head, it became his chief concern: not doing so, that is.

"Much as I appreciate that," he said, hoping he didn't sound like his stomach was turning flips, "I'm hoping I don't. I doubt your handsome mount would appreciate it much."

He reminded himself: three heartbeats.

Ennrik hadn't meant to take any tighter hold on L'mel's waist than he had initially, but the moment Dimeth's muscles coiled his stomach trembled warningly. When the dragon took to the air he was certain that his stomach had been left behind on the ground, which was probably for the best or else its contents would be splattered all over the back of the rider to whom he was clinging as though to life itself. Already he could feel his hands cramping from the tight grip he had suddenly taken on the rider's waist. It occurred to him that it was probably uncomfortable for L'mel to be thus squeezed, but he could not for the life of him force his hands to loosen their hold even a smidgen.

He moaned softly, but the sound was carried away by the wind generated by Dimeth's wings slicing through the thin, chill air. Ennrik's jacket was insufficient for dealing with this altitude. Not that anyone could tell whether his shivering was terror or cold. There was some exhiliration, but it quickly receded into terror when Dimeth passed between. Nothing in any of the songs or records, no warning from anyone, could have prepared him for it. He couldn't feel Dimeth beneath him or L'mel in front of him or his guitar on his back. The last of the air in his lungs was expelled in a strangled scream that he also couldn't hear, or even feel inside.

Three heartbeats can be an eternity.

When they emerged into the world again, Ennrik's scream cut off abruptly, though not instantaneously. The cold of between still clung to his bones with icy fingers. His teeth were chattering. It took until they were nearly on the ground for him to begin to feel the sun's warmth again. Suddenly this seemed like a very bad idea. If he Impressed, he would have to endure that on a regular basis. The flying was actually exhilirating, if stomach-churning, but between...Oh! The small part of his brain which was left sane tried to find words or notes to describe it, and then laughed at itself for being such a harper.

The landing was far gentler than the take off had been, and he was grateful, though his gratitude hadn't quite reached his stomach and his legs yet. He watched L'mel dismount with practiced ease and decided he, himself, was in no condition to try to mimic that motion, nor even to take advantage of the proffered hand. Instead he slithered awkwardly to the ground and was unspeakably relieved when his legs decided to support him, rather than give out. He wondered if his face looked as green as he felt, or if he'd actually passed to grey.

"Thank you, L'mel," he said. "I hope I give you and Dimeth reason to be proud."

He bowed carefully to Dimeth, wary of upsetting his stomach. He rose from his bow even more carefully, because he was suddenly exhausted, and the effort involved seemed almost too much. He hoped someone would come to collect him. And he hoped his guitar hadn't been damaged by the cold.