Frigid Water; Fiery Soul [Cathaline]

He loved to feel the cold water sliding against his naked flesh. It brought forth such memories of home that he could taste the bitterness of doubt rolling up from his chest into the back of his mouth. The cold washed it all away, or in the very least made it easier to organize and file away for later. His life had been ahead of him at Ruatha: Table walking, summer foaling, winter trimming, foal training.

It had been planned, and almost ordained, since his birth. Would he return home to resume that status if he failed here? Was it even failure to stand and not Impress? Would he stand again if this hatching went by without a dragonet to call his own?

His lungs burned with their desire for fresh air, he reveled in the feeling of being master of his own fate—live or drown. It was simply a feeling, not a need; he had no reason to consider his own life ending: So he headed up, breaking the surface lungs full of steaming used breath—a sharp exhale sweeping it all away so he could draw the coolness into his chest again.

His arms and legs swept back and forth as he tread water, hair slickened to his face and drenching his eyes in a curtain of droplets. He swept the overly long bangs out of his face, brushing his eyebrows and nose free of that which clouded his vision—he was not alone.

She stood there in the nightlight, her hair glowing so brazenly he almost mistook her for a trick of the water, or perhaps even mist, but as he swam closer he realized she was corporeal: More than that, she was aware of him. He snorted softly into the water, clearing his nasal passageways of stowaway moisture, and all the while he watched her.

It didn’t occur to him that he should be worried, or concerned—that she was the closest anyone had been to discovering him—he remained submerged neck down and gave her a smile: It wasn’t his typical, he was neither trying to disarm nor trick her, he was simply welcoming her to his world.

“Cold water is the best tonic to hard work; although I have heard others use fellis.”

His smile brightened cheerfully as she spoke, mostly because he was amused: She had taken this conversation in stride, and, what’s more, she agreed with him. Although it did look like she was bent on ensuring his continued safety where the water was concerned—over time?

Yes, she had mentioned the effects of fellis over time, and in context of a human. Was she perhaps a healer? He may as well be betting against a Bitron—she’d never leave him be, not if she thought he was going to drown himself with his own stupidity.

Come to think of it, knowing the general lack of common sense some Holderfolk had—or didn’t—she could have been correct were he anyone else. She did persist; reminding him that he shouldn’t forget he was in water still chill-touched from winter. He honestly couldn’t keep the smile off of his face. Although he had to admit he was nearly touched by her care.

“I had some robes that needed mending, white ones. I can’t sew so I bartered that skill with my own—double shifts at the stables for a sevenday.” He left it at that, with another flashing smile, and began spinning around in small circles—moving his limbs to keep the cold from kissing them too deeply.

He swam closer to shore, his long arms reaching down until he could just barely touch the silt lakebed, fingertips dragging and gripping at small stones and reeds. He fingerwalked toward her this way, waterline caressing and accentuating his jaw line as he turned his left side to face her, propping himself down on his right arm. He listened attentively as she spoke and then answered—quietly now due to their closeness.

“I was an Apprentice Herder under Master Tytallen at Ruatha, the work I do is what my body is used to—much as this swim I take. It was not often we had the luxury of warm water when attending to a runner who was foaling or a beast who had mired himself a-field. Where were you apprenticed, Healer?"

The smile wiped from his features, though not out of unhappiness, and he added—as an afterthought—but sincere none-the-less.
“You aren’t intruding.”

He smiled gamely at her questions, but inside he was busy mulling over his options. Beneath the water he had returned to treading, assuming that the movement would keep warmth generated in his muscles and his body—in actuality his night swims were typically quite fast: In and out was as much as you could remark on them.

He could feel goose bumps rising on his exposed flesh as it dried, but that wouldn’t be too alarming would it? You could get goose bumps on a hot day depending on the breeze. Still—he would be hard pressed to dissuade a healer from her assumed duty.

As long as he wasn’t shivering he could at least answer her without giving away his game—and technically he could simply swim to the other side of the lake and take off at a run: Somehow he felt being discovered with an altered flesh and naked would only make his acceptance much worse.

“I was Searched from Ruatha, by J’von, I’m not sure why he strayed so far into the Northern Continent. I’m actually not very familiar with the ways of Dragonmen.”

He continued moving his body under the water, but now every time a cold current swept between his legs the muscles there cried in protest and shook. He schooled his expression to be placid and alert, as if he was listening to her over a cup of warm klah—warm klah…that sounded quite good at this moment. He chuckled softly to chase away the thoughts of warm and nodded.

He too understood that feeling: Something had changed so significantly in his life, and now he was halfway around Pern, hoping for a chance to be something greater than he had been. Maybe not greater, but certainly different, and infinitely more important in terms of Thread and the people of Pern.

“Perhaps they go seeking Crafterfolk specifically from far regions? Do you often come out this late to the bowl? I’ve been here nightly and no one has ever stopped to say hello.”

Sebolaren had to admit that his toes were thoroughly numb now, in fact it quite felt like his legs were dead weights attached to his thighs—weighing him down toward the inevitable bed of the lake. Still, he was strong and determined; he kicked them harder through the water and leaned forward onto both arms, fingertips digging deeply into the muddy ground for support.

He kept his sharp eyes on her, sitting there in the starlight—possibly oblivious to his predicament, possibly enjoying it, and attempted to maintain his smile: He could feel the starting tremors of shivering around his jaw, and tightened his neck muscles reflexively to keep the spasms at bay.

How had it come to this? Here he was, stubbournly clinging to freezing water, limbs going numb, well within walking distance of a hot drink and warm food. For what? For an unblemished opinion of his character? The fact that he had to hide like a skulking wherry stoked in him a flame of anger that built—warming him slightly, but dampening his mood. It was his body, his life, and he had been Searched.

By all accounts of all the stories if he became a Dragonrider he would be a guardian of Pern. Would they look at threadscar and see beauty, and then see art and cringe?

Of course they would.

“Was your family proud to see you carried off to Dalibor? To be a Dragonrider?”

He wanted to ask her to leave. He would have if it had been possible, but now—with coldness seeping in—everything hurt far too much. Each breath was becoming a bitter agony against his ribs and inside his lungs. He wanted to sigh, or yell, or beg for her to leave—no, he didn’t. He was tired of the constant worry and the panic; he was tired of always hiding, covering, washing with a sense of haste or nervousness.

He was just plain tired.

His head slipped under the water momentarily, there was a brief second where he considered simply staying there—but that was the cold talking, not him. He wasn’t a dimglow, and he was far braver than this. Forcing his deadened legs underneath his body he brought his head above water: He pushed the hair from his face and smiled half-heartedly at her, hoping she would at least think it had been intentional.

“My father considered Beastcraft the only option in my life.” He also refrained from saying more than that, whatever else would be said between them—about their respective fathers or otherwise—paled in comparison to what he needed to say.

“I believe I’ve overstayed my welcome in this frigid water,” his teeth clacked together painfully audible before he could even finish the sentence. “My clothes are behind you, if you could grab them?”

As soon as she had turned away to find his clothes he began to exit the cold waters. His deadened toes slid along through the slimy mud seeking purchase on rock and reed. To him—this moment—stretched on for an eternity. As his large frame left the water and began to settle down onto his feet, his full weight came back to him: At first supported by the water that circled his chest, and then his waist, and then his thighs. The real trouble came when he reached the water’s edge.

All he had to do was make it a little farther. Two more steps and then he was free, or confined he should say—when he put on his clothes. She wouldn’t look; he had full confidence in that. He had spent time around the lesser women of the Hold; the ones to who even a soon-to-be Journeyman Herder seem a delicious conquest. Those women would not have hesitated to join him in the water, those women would not have sat idly by while he barely spoke, and they certainly would not have done it for his safety.

No, this one was better than that. A healer, and she simply cared—he had in fact intruded on her night. He was her duty, but now he was fighting against gravity—which never liked him to being with—and the tiring pressure you feel after extended weightlessness. The lakebed beneath his toes was running into the sandy bank, and he could only tell from the way it pressed and formed around his foot: Otherwise, his legs were simply as sticks—dead and equally fragile.

His control was tenuous at best, and when it was lost there was no surprise. He did not yelp, or gasp, or reach for her hand. His legs gave out and he simple crumpled forward onto his knees—pleased to find that he had at least cleared the water—and finding he didn’t quite feel like moving, he rested back on his heels; pressing his palms flat on his thighs. Though fully exposed—in more way than one—he was unashamed, and for once unafraid: If this was the way of it then here it was. As he had been listening, he decided simply to respond.

“There is always Dragonhealing.”

He accepted the offered pants readily, pleased that she hadn’t looked, but he’d have to stand to put them on—at least in any normal fashion. So he tried again, gathering his legs under him like a runner would to jump, or a dragon to launch itself, but again he met only failure—this time it was more apparent. His knees gave out, still numb and useless, and he fell forward: Barely able to catch himself with aching arms. He glared angrily at them; they were useless, his hands dug angrily into the sand, crushing his pants deeply into the cool grainy dunes that formed near the lake.

Useless—all for nothing. To save some trouble, hide a secret, all for what? Now he was weak, and belittled, and stupid. Extremely stupid—but how do you erase a handful of turns in hiding. How do you erase the opinions of others, how do you erase that which is permanent? You don’t. It was as simple as that. He was laying here because you cannot change that which you don’t control; but you could guide it. He could Impress and Rise, he could stand as a proud example of a man—never do wrong by his Weyr or his Wing or his family of Riders. Perhaps then they would see.

And it could start with her. She who had come here simply for his well-being; would she regret it now? His eyes burned brightly as he stared up at her, willing her with all the powers he didn’t have to answer his unspoken questions. Would she abandon so quickly this man she had come to save, who swam at night, swam in the cold, and defied the nature of flesh and blood? Still he answered, flat and emotionless yet firm.

“There are far worse things to die for than a dragon, and far greater things to fear than claws that can deliver you from your sins past.”

He laughed, it was harsh and it was bitter, he’d seen her face as clear as day, and the emotions that had passed over her fair skin. They would all look at him that way, though perhaps his choice of words hadn’t been best—he felt as if he had sinned though. Why else to carry such a burden, not his choice but his folly none-the-less, his consequences.

He was glad she didn’t question him thoroughly: What would be worse—a reason he could tell her, to help her understand, or no reason at all. He’d searched for answers and found none—possibly never would. Unless he ran across the Traders what saw it done—what did it.

He accepted his shirt from her—gently—it wasn’t her he was angry with, all the same he didn’t bother to cover himself. Why? What good would it do now, the marks would still burn bright under cloth—and she would supply her own version of them over the tan fabric. Best she get the looking over with now, at least then she’d not have a reason to imagine she’d spied skulls or symbols of death on him. Innocent whorls and swirls: Not innocent—damning—but better than glorifying violent things.

He snorted softly and nodded, rolling himself into a seated position—useless legs spread in front of him. Sebol glared at his insolent legs. Traitors, but unmarred like his unforgiveable right shoulder and arm. “Worry not, the colour will not scrub off if you get close—I’ve tried—and it isn’t elsewhere: it’ll not taint your fair skin with its vile darkness.” He gave a chuckle, though it was tainted with ironic bitterness, and he took care to cover his midsection with both pants and shirt.

His muscles rippled as Sebol resisted the urge to wriggle his toes free from her careful examination. He had rarely been to a healer; perhaps a handful of times when he’d stupidly been caught by a bloodhot runner, or that time he had crushed his hand with a hammer. He had certainly never had one touching his feet—he rarely even touched his own feet save for bathing. He snorted softly and again strove not to wriggle. “I can feel that quite well, not likely to fall off I’d think,” he said as an afterthought. Not that he was the Healer here—and he did allow himself a brief flash of shame—wouldn’t do to treat her poorly when she was thus far reacting well. As well as she could anyway.

“Not that I know,” he added. Trying to admit his wronging her—a fragile apology, barely an apology, but it was sincere. His voice was soft again, the quiet baritone of metalwork or horsehooves on crushed grasses. He had to admit he was relaxing—this was not the reaction he had expected. Perhaps if she had been shocked and also run, perhaps if she had run and also screamed that there was a creature in the Weyr, perhaps if she’d screamed and taken him to the Weyrwoman—but not this.

A true Healer, and he wouldn’t ruin that. He was cautious and still—aside from his subtle shivering and rippling muscles. He wanted her to understand that there was nothing wrong with him, that he was just a man, regardless of his skin. Perhaps even a Dragonman, which begged the question to be asked.

“Would you forgive me my markings if I Impress?”