To Tinker a Doubt [Rii]

The unassuming voice that called his name gained his attention immediately; even with all the time that had passed—ages it seemed—Sebol could have picked that voice out of a crowd; much less out of the nearly silent bowl beside him. “Gess…” he said softly as he turned around, and then he caught sight of the man’s growing Green and remembered that he had forgotten his new honorific.. “Gess now G’dan Greenrider of…” He hadn’t caught the dragon’s name at the hatching, and while he typically wouldn’t be so forward with such things—he felt a strong urge to simply know. This dragon had been a blessing for G’dan—or so he assumed; though he hoped the man would certainly tell him.

“How has Weyrling life been treating you? Would you care to sit and join me? Or we could go find shade against the Weyrwall.” He smiled happily at the Greenpair. He had waited quite a while to run into them—and at least he saved face by having avoided seeking any of the Werylings out himself: but really their schedules were so different now could anyone blame him? He quietly packed up his inks and quill and rolled the hide, showing everything to the man as he was putting it away. Sebolaren had always gotten the impression that G’dan needed to feel certain of his position with people, and so he always wanted to take care to involve the man; let the man in on whatever was happening. Sure, perhaps his string of words was atypical, but it cost him nothing to speak whereas it might be relaxing the newly Impressed man who stood before him.

“I have a roommate now, no more hiding out in the stables alone.” He grinned brightly—anyone who knew him would know he had enjoyed the stables and was less excited about his newly forced admittance into the Candidates Barracks. “However, I was very fortuitous in that my roommate is an accomplished scribe, and he agreed to teach me things—possibly so long as I didn’t beat him into a pulp. Which of course I would never do but he’s very shy. In fact if you happen to see him sulking about—his name is Daymar—you should see if you can’t…I don’t know…convince him that the Weyr will be good for him. Duty, brotherhood…you know: My usual soliloquy.”

He paused briefly while sliding his implements into the leather carry-case and then continued from where he had left off. “At any rate, I’ve decided that I need to better myself; for the Weyr and for whatever should happen in the future. So I’ve been working on my scrolling. I don’t suppose you’ve picked up any interesting tidbits about Weyr politics as a Weyrling. I’m still striving to learn the wherrybeast that is Weyrlife.”

Sebol inclined his head to Prith, of course he remembered that wise and stoic gaze from the stands. A perfect match for his nervous tinkerer—well her nervous tinkerer now. However, to Sebol’s ears, the man did seem less nervous. Sure he was still predisposed to caution, but he spoke freely and with a confidence that he had lacked before; even in private company. It was warming to see. He had wanted all the best for this man, in so many ways, and it seemed as if that hope was coming to fruition.

He only smiled and shrugged to G’dan’s apology, of course he didn’t need an explanation—it had taken him well over a month to meet all of his old friends. In fact they had all fallen into line right around the same time, so he had a feeling that first handful of sevendays would be incredibly tiring. Perhaps there was something of a pride there—inside Sebol, for this man, and it made him glow to hear him speak so highly of his experience—yet the mention of Thread did bring a twinge to his thoughts.

“We’ll all help with thread. By that point even I may be Impressed and my dragon and I might carry bags from the caverns to the bowl.” he could not stop his mind from wandering down the pathways that lead to death—who would be lost in first fall: Where every rider was new on the field of battle, where even the Wingleaders could make fatal errors—much less those who had only recently graduated. Paint-covered cloth could only get you so far.

Sebol accepted the man’s compliment and then laid a large hand atop the other mans’ shoulder. “I am nothing but proud, and happy, for you Gess. You did what I am doing—you came here to a new place, faced off against those who did not like you, and Stood: Not only did you Stand but you left together with your Prith.” His gentle hand gave him a small congratulatory shake—as if a father or a friend who knows better than to be overzealous.

Although he couldn’t keep that dangerous flash in his eyes when the Greenrider hesitated—much like his old self—and spoke words that awakened Sebol’s protective instincts automatically. “Peeve? Who—how?” He, of course, wanted both answered—but the information mattered more than the order in which it was received.

Sebolaren smiled brilliantly at G’dan with genuine happiness. He still had his doubts—of course; and some far more insidious than others, but it had been liberating hearing the new Weyrlings’ support of him. From all corners and aspects of their flight. It warmed him in ways that he had not expected and he clung to the well wishes. He would carry them onto the sands with him the next time he stood. He watched the weyrling’s eyes unfocus in that tell-tale characteristic of mental communication; and was rewarded with doubtless confidence from his Prith.

“Thank you, Gess, and thank you Prith. You both have no idea what your support means. I could not lie and say that I did not have my doubts—but I am working through them. Every kind word is one I can carry with me when I stand for another attempt at Impression.”
Sebolaren looked from Prith to Gess as the Greenrider stumbled over his explanation. Of course as a Candidate he was perhaps less capable of dealing with things—yet at the same time perhaps it wasn’t something that needed his firm guidance. “Do you mean to say you lose your head a bit in tinkering while at flight practice, and they berate you because they don’t want Prith to lose her wing or go between and lose you both?” He contemplated the dilemma, his mind had always been a factory of processing thoughts: Concise and controlled. Was there a way that he could help G’dan teach his brain to operate differently.

Anything that would save his friend’s life: This alone was more important to Sebolaren than armguards, Wherfriendships, or even his scrollwork. “Gess. I’m sure you and Prith try very hard. Have you ever tried forced meditation, it got me through many a runnerwatch at Ruatha. You won’t be able to instantaneously fix your mind at Weryling lessons: You’ll be busy looking at what could be fixed with flight paths, or harnesses, or even firestone carrying: and trust me, they need that from you. But if you could devote a mark a night at least and do nothing but sit somewhere quiet—you can learn to clear your mind. It will take practice, it will be harder than any physical activity you’ve ever done—but it will keep you alive. When you fly into Thread your mind will clear instead of clutter. Will you try it for me, Gess?”

Sebolaren nodded, understanding—so he wouldn’t have to go and fight himself off a couple of bully dragonriders, the boy was just getting himself a talking-to for being a dreamer: Which surprisingly Sebol didn’t have a problem with—though it was only because Thread was looming as a real threat to Pern; his eye went to that red star momentarily. Yes, otherwise he would have been quite upset about anyone punishing his nervous tinkerer for simply dreaming; but he didn’t want to lose the man to Fall because he’d decided mid-way through that if they shifted the formation the flight would flame better!

“Thank you, Gess. I mean that,” and he did; he couldn’t control this Greenrider—who outranked him now that he’d been left unimpressed—but it was a credit to G’dan’s nature that he could take entreaty or quiet order, and realize it was being done or asked of him for reasons that might be foreign or unexpected. He did hope it was only his nature so long as he trusted the giver implicitly; but that was a discussion or another time: Solidified by the fact that now the Greenrider had begun to mumble through a question of his own that seemed to make him quite uncomfortable.

Sebolaren was quick to reach out and steady his friend’s resolve with a firm hand on the shoulder. Smiling brightly to show him how please; and honored he was to have been asked—and to have a friend such as G’dan. “You have no idea what your offer means to me! I can’t very well go and bother every Master in the Weyr because I’m worried about Impression. They’d run me off! They have actual Crafters to teach. Come now, I’m sure you can picture one of your old Masters. ‘You want me to drop everything to teach you? Because you didn’t find a dragon your first time? Wet behind the ears and arrogant to boot—away with ye!’” He snorted and inched closer in a boyishly conspiratorial way.

“To be honest I’m trying to work on things for which the Weyr will have use, such as scribing—I can send letters. I’d really love to do mapwork as well, but that requires a technical hand that I’ve never developed sketching runners all day.” To be sure there was very little Sebolaren did not want to learn, but he wasn’t of the mind to run around forcing people to teach him—oh how he loved the idea of it though. Filling the sevendays that stood between him and the next Hatching with work and learning.

Sebolaren watched the Greenrider curiously as he began stumbling over and shying from the very words he was speaking, and the actions he was doing: Never had the Herder seen someone so torn between doing something and fleeing from it. Even Daymar just ran; without hesitation, rather than considering another alternative. He watched G’dan’s hands shuffle around in his pack with none too little anticipation; as if he were going to see a secret of his own for once: Rather than everyone finding out about his.

The flinch that rippled across the weyrlings body concerned Sebol, but considering that it had happened as the scroll was opened; the Herder could only guess that it wasn’t necessarily the item G’dan had been seeking. Still it was placed—somewhat defiantly—in front of Sebol and he took it up tenderly in his large hands. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking at, but it was a credit to the Greenrider’s hands that Sebol was able to at least assume—his mouth and face tightening with extreme concentration; and nearly pleasure.

They looked like joints, for something—something that G’dan probably had planned or was working on: They were exquisite. It was as if he had opened up the flesh of a beast and sketched out only the areas where bone met bone. “Gess, these are amazing. So detailed. I don’t even know what they are, but I can tell they are joints for something. The level of detail you have—it’s astounding. I’m not sure I could even learn this well enough to please you; but certainly—I would give everything to try if you have the patience to teach these thick hands such a delicate work.”

Sebol was well pleased indeed that Gess thought he would have the time to teach him; he could always use more learning: Especially concerning things he wasn’t quite good at doing, and wanted to improve. He was still contemplating the technical drawing when his hand was caught up by the Greenrider—and the Herder barely contained the surprise he felt lance through him. Gess had never actually touched him of his own intent; not once. Sebolaren would have expected anything from the man—if it were like the weightless graces of a woodrush on a branch. Instead, he felt as if he’d been well and truly caught by that grasp.

Of course the man was a Smithcrafter—Sebol should have expected such a grip from a man of that Hall; but having known G’dan as Gess the nervous tinkerer---well it was unexpected to say the least. Unexpected yet pleasing. So this quiet man did have tougher stuff in him: While the Herder would always be certain to look after the Greenrider in his own way; it pleased him that for now, while Sebol was still unimpressed, he could care for himself—He hoped anyway. He more hoped that it wouldn’t be tested.

He listened quietly and then nodded. “Indeed I hadn’t thought of Crafter’s hands; well those are what mine are I suppose—but even Masters must still draft. This is a thought which brings me comfort; I was worried it would be impossible for me to learn. We could start whenever you’re available; I’d only need a list of the supplies I would need so I could trade for them.”