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"I can't believe there's a ballad," Moreta whispers, squeezing Lessa's arm. The press of a thousand wide-eyed holders makes room for them. Lessa shoots a look of fierce protectiveness at anyone who dares to presume. The Benden Weyrlady has been the only one to treat Moreta as, well-- real, not a legend stepped out of a Harper's song.
"They'll want to listen to you. And touch you!" Lessa rolls her eyes. "Being the material of ballads is...difficult."
"And everything's so large..." She's been in awe since she saw her own dear Orlith as small as a blue next to Lessa's Ramoth.
I am much faster, though, Orlith says, both complacent and insistent.
You are, much, Moreta agreed. Is the ledge warm?
Nothing like Southern, Orlith says wistfully.
Moreta silently agrees. Lessa insisted they would recuperate faster there. Moreta had been in and out of fevers, barely understanding she'd been thought dead for hundreds of Turns.
"Ramoth says Orlith misses Southern," Lessa says wryly.
Moreta remembers her weeping fit on Lessa's shoulder; the comfort Lessa offered then. "I do too, love."
"We'll return soon," Lessa promises archly. It's all that allows Moreta to greet the Present Pass as her own.