Sharing is Caring (Ruin)

Barracks indeed. Like so many saltfish packed into a jar. No one could have blamed Sebolaren for being angry, and no one would have blamed him for feeling the situation unfair—yet surprisingly he felt neither of those emotions. What had occurred previously had been chance; perhaps even good chance at that, because it gave him time to get situated and meet people in an environment—safety net if you will—where he could completely relax into a new role. Of course this was fair as well, all Candidates would be packed into these neat little rooms one at a time until full—then those last people might trickle into the stables or the kitchens of their own volition.

He gazed dispassionately at the stone walls, window-less and drab, and wondered how in the sharding hell Xiro’el had ever made it through Candidacy at all. At least he’d had fresh air and sunlight whenever he needed it, full of runnersmell and dried grasses. This was going to be an interesting experience to say the least. Even going as far back in memory to Ruatha he spent more time in the field than in the Hold between foalwatch, wolfwatch, feastwatch, and all the other watches with witty names created by people who didn’t have to spend them in the dirt. It wasn’t the sharing that bothered him so much as the claustrophobia—and sharing did leave a special sort of twinge in his heart.

Who this time? What new person would most likely learn his secret unless he managed to change alone every day—Faranth-forbid the future Hatching start when both were together, there’d be no use hiding while changing into those white robes again. Well it couldn’t be helped, could it? What was he to do, go and snivel at the Weyrwoman’s feet as if a Lord Holder’s son and pretend he deserved the right to room alone? Have her ask him why? I think not. He stared at the two beds with pursed lips—typically he would jump in and simply choose the one he wanted, it was his nature, assume that leadership role; but how could he make brazen assumptions when the very person he might slight out of their wants, could possibly hold in their hands his continued existence as a Candidate.

So…he waited. He wasn’t precisely certain for what he was waiting, but wait he did—and he was rewarded by the sound of someone calling out into the silence of the Barracks. Hello, salutations, greetings—the word said—please go away, don’t scare or hurt me said the voice. Well that was safe, wasn’t it? If he could earn this man’s trust would his secret not be safe even if outed? What if his meekness caused him even more turmoil when the markings were discovered? Perhaps he wouldn’t even listen to reason, or the lack of responsibility on Sebolaren’s own hands, perhaps he would simply flee and cry to the Weyr.

Couldn’t he assume that of anyone, though? Hadn’t Delilah proved him wrong on that count? He needed to rely on himself more firmly than he ever had—as he always had—there was rarely a person he couldn’t make headway with or turn to friendship, as there were rarely beasts with which he could not do the same. Cultivate a friendship, earn the trust of a fellow Candidate. Build those bridges early and quickly.

He walked to the door—perhaps more quietly than intended—and regarded the man moving down the hall toward him. Average height, pale, shaggy of hair—meek. An image rose unbidden in his mind, a small pale child hiding among wagon-wheels to avoid the bustle of packing holdfolk while Sebol tied off runners one-by-one. Curious. Even the quiet tinkerer hadn’t seemed so uncertain and nervous. Perhaps that was why such a memory was recalled. Nervous like a colt strayed too far from mama’s teat, inching along and testing the waters. Sebol cleared his throat quietly.

Sebolaren blinked in surprise as the young man vanished before his eyes in an act of agility that reminded him of the fighting Cyan’s Dalibor was known for. He leaned out of the doorway cautiously wondering what had become of the nervous Candidate; and met his gaze as the other gathered his wits about him and also came out of hiding. Sebol watched him curiously as he started stumbling his way through speaking, sliding his own body into plain view—long tunic, sure, but empty-handed and basically nondescript unless you count the height.

Poor lad. ”Didn’t mean t’ scare ye so”, he said with a bright smile. “My name is Sebolaren—call me Sebol I know the other’n’s a mouthful—and this will be my second time Standing at Dalibor. I actually didn’t room up here the first time, so this’ll be my first room-mate experience, an’ if yer interested I wouldn’t mind havin’ ye as a partner.” He waved into the room and then walked back in himself while talking to the man—hoping he’d at least have the courage to follow. “Not much by way of trappings, but it’ll do the job I figger, ‘till we Impress at least.”

Sebol paused to spread his arms with a shrug of his shoulders, waving to the beds, chest of drawers and wash basin. “I didn’t pick a side, figgered I’d let whomever roomed with me do the choosin, so why don’t you pick whichever you like if yer fixin’ on stayin’”. He gave the young man an encouraging smile and stood in the neutral center.

“Pleased t’meet ye Daymar. Was stayin’ in the stables. Came in late and they were already full up here. Over fifty Candidates ye know! Well I’d just been rolled out of Ruatha and spent most of my time up there on runnerwatch o’ some sort or another under Master Herder Tytallen—so I jus grabbed me a spot down in the Stables.” He watched the young man curiously and then grinned at his choice, going to the other side and sitting down on his own bed—which would hopefully keep the man from being unnerved by his larger stature.

“Aye, large clutch indeed. Thirty-five eggs for over fifty Candidates. We were mighty lucky too compared to past hatchings—so I’ve been told. None went between, there was one dud egg though.” He stretched out and gave the young man another appreciating glance. He was actually rather glad to have found this fellow for his own…typically Sebolaren chose to remain quiet and observe the actions of those who seemed to lead-the-charge so-to-speak. Less because he was a follower and more because he found that oftentimes people will make mistakes without realizing. Here however, with this young man, he could perhaps do some honest good. Help, talk, relax him, show him around Dalibor.

That is if he could convince Daymar to trust him and not await some knife at the back in the dark of night; which wouldn’t be as difficult as it sounded except between stable duty and late-night lake swims he would be coming in fairly late. “What’s it like up at Western, how long ye been there? I haven’t had the occasion to leave the Weyr to explore this island much less journey across the sea to see the Holds.”

Sebol pursed his lips in thought and then shrugged with some perplexity. “I believe this’ll be the first clutch for the Queen who will rise next moon. So she might throw fewer eggs—and Candidates always seem to pour in, especially with the Weyr’s getting ready for threadfall. So it might mean fewer Weyrlings this time.”

He had to stop a moment to consider why the boy would care, he didn’t seem quite so nervous about Impressing as he did about…everything else. In fact Daymar didn’t even seem certain about staying put in the room with Sebol, so the herder decided to take a chance with his next words.

”Y’know fewer Weyrlings makes it easier on the housing department too. Won’t get as cramped there as it might here, and it all depends on Impression. Might have a King and a fighter an’ that’s only two t’ a room. Could be you might find someone you like enough out of the Candidates to stick by them. Not to mention that it’s always easier being one o’ the first. Yer here to meet everyone early on.”

Of course this man didn’t seem likely to meet anyone regardless of how it might help him in the future, but perhaps with a little persistence and a soft hand Sebolaren could fix that—even introduce him to some of the current Weyrling class…though with his nervousness it might be best to avoid a certain incredibly vocal Pink. Weyrwoman would have his head for indirectly causing one of her new Candidates to go into seizures.

”Scribework? I can do the basics, bloodlines, stock, numbers. Nothing fancy. Perhaps you can teach me some tricks o’ yer trade when we aren’t busy? Plenty o’ stuff they didn’t teach us in the stables about scribing, even though the records had t’ be mostly pristine.”

“I’m thinkin’ so. Most o’ my knowledge ‘bout dragons comes from observin’ an’ listnin’. Plenty o’ young mothers who aren’t dragons whelp small litters their first time. An’ I heard talk that Callistath—the Gold mother dragon—had done good by her Weyr in throwin’ a larger clutch than last time…which was also her first.” He was gaining more knowledge about the dragons by the day, but of course he could only go on what he’d heard and the conclusions he drew himself—how far off could it be really? Either way they’d have to wait several sevendays to even watch the Queen rise—or hear of it.

“Aye, can get quite packed ‘round here sometimes, but ye end up on yer own eventually—at least where people are concerned. Never alone once you find yer dragon I ‘spose”. not that he knew anything about that either, but Xiro’el and Delilah seemed happy enough that he didn’t doubt it. Of course the conditions could also get cramped—but he was on as sure footing about that as this man seemed. “I’m plenty fine with people, I don’t go out of my way to avoid ‘em or hunt ‘em but if ye ever find yerself uncomfortable and I’m around ye kin stick wit me. Doubt much’ll happen, they keep us pretty busy.”

Sebol gave him a good nature'd grin. “Me dad made me learn readin’ early, for’ I was big enough to do a man’s work I was stuck t’ doin’ the ledgers. We did many a deal with the Holdless passin’ through Ruatha. Not many folk took kindly t’ them but my father would barter so long as their animals were well kept. So I can read anything ye put in front of me, but I never learned any fancy scriptwork—specially not shorthand. I figure what with Impression or otherwise might be good t’ learn a thing or to more than I do. So’s I can make myself somewhat useful outside of the chores—which speaking of…there will be plenty t’ do.”

“Aye ‘n’ good fer us dependin’ on ‘ow many Candidates show up b’tween now ‘n’ then.” Sebol watched the man go through a myriad of uncomfortable facial expressions and wondered to himself what he’d managed to say to disturb him this time—but at least for all that Daymar was obviously nervous, and uncomfortable, he seemed to push forward with a dogged determination. Was it courage? Doubtful—but he hadn’t run away and that was better than nothing. “Nay, no animals t’speak of. Was raised in the belief that animals ‘ad t’ earn their keep. No cat nor dog kin do that. Though I’ve always fancied the little firelizards—wouldn’t mind finding m’self a couple. We should scour the island when we have a chance. Per’aps we’d stumble on a clutch! I heard that a few o’ the current Weyrlings did so durin’ their Candidacy.”

Sebol continued to watch the newcomer intently, and though he didn’t smile at the man’s admission; he didn’t give away his amusement facially. Of course nothing of what he thought was malicious—instead he was quietly wondering if Daymar would Impress a dragon like Agnith. Certainly that would drive the man to exhaustion with anxiety. Still, Sebolaren had to admit he was quite curious what dragonchoice would be made several moons from now. “Ye’ll learn to trust us—as I am talking to you I imagine I belong in that group—no offense taken! S’like a family o’ people here. The unassuming kind. S’much happens that it’s hard t’find summthin t’ judge another man on.”

Well, unless you were Q’sis of course—he had seemed fit to judge a man on anything—and unless you were Sebol—but he had something that almost required judgment. “There is definitely hard work, and I canna promise that you’ll get off from that, they tend t’ keep us too tired t’ cause trouble—they try anyway! But mayhap if ye spoke t’ the Candidatemaster ye could be set up where yer talents could be used?” he wasn’t sure if Dalibor had an archivist of sorts—or anyone doing recordings into hides. Perhaps if it did that man would need a helper—or perhaps Daymar could simply be that man: Either way it wasn’t something Sebol had any say in, though… “Kin introduce ye t’ the Candidatemaster if’in ye wanted? An’ I’d be much appreciated with yer help scrollin’. What sort o’ implements would I need barter for? Hides an’ inks?”

There was a sort of need inside him, one that perhaps he wasn’t hiding too well—as he wasn’t aware of feeling it—but he had this strong drive to better himself in ways that weren’t outwardly apparent. The things he wanted to do wouldn’t tone his muscles, tan his flesh, or even callous his hands; but maybe the self-improvements would make him more likely to Impress this time around. Perhaps he could stand not only as the herder-turned-betrayer-turned-dragon-Candidate; but as all of that and a man who could chart, pen formal letters, and perhaps even understand the politics of Weyr life.

Watching Daymar and not laughing took every ounce of tact that Sebolaren possessed; and it wasn’t because he wanted to laugh at the man—because you couldn’t rightly laugh at a man afraid of firelizards when you were a man who took some convincing to jump into the ocean (alright maybe he hadn’t actually managed to go the whole way into the ocean just yet); but instead, because Daymar was pretty much right on all accounts. However he couldn’t laugh, certain that it would probably vilify him to the man as a cruel bully: He also didn’t want to outright agree with him because; while some firelizards were prone to being troublemakers—not all of them were horrible.

So he nodded as the man beat his hasty retreat from even the thought of leaving the safety of the Weyr; and inwardly smiled about how different Dragonmen could be. Here was a man who wouldn’t need any urging from Sebolaren to realize that he belonged here; in the Weyr and above it (okay well maybe he’d need a little urging about flight, but that was what a Weyrlingmaster was for—and that was for later): Yet who had Impressed last hatching but Xiro’el; a man who would probably do his best to leave the Weyr as soon as his dragon could fly. “Th’ do indeed make more,” was just about the only thing he felt safe in commenting on that wouldn’t be affirming some terrible fear—breeding was, at least, a reality.

“Plenty o’ people here have trouble trustin’. Been wonderin’ if it’s a requirement fer Searchin. Means most people start out a fresh scroll so t’ speak. Clean an’ empty. More room t’ fill with the trust o’ yer dragon, an’ the people ye meet an’ will fly with,” he shrugged his shoulders with a smile, of course it was only his opinion, but it made sense to him, and that reminded him of something else. “I know ye aren’t too keen on people. However, there’s a man just Impressed recently. His name is G’dan an’ his dragon is Green Prith. He’s a very quiet sort, tinkerer. He drafts and puzzles over things; keeps to hisself a lot. Not sayin’ ye have to hunt him down, but if’in ye happen to see a quiet willow fellow working on summat’er other, probably him. An’ he’s mighty kind and quiet.”

He nodded as the man talked and then answered with a smile, “I don’t mind t’ spend marks if it’ll help me do something right. Kin get plenty o’ cast off hide pieces from the launder-rooms an durin’ tack making; I’ll just take on some extra work t’ barter fer ‘em. An th’ Weyr does get supplies but we’re also surrounded by a good bit o’ foliage, I believe some people know where t’ find what you’d need t’make inks. An if’n it requires stuff out on th’ trees I kin get it easy enough with my runner. Bring it back t’ you.”

“Of course there are always outgoing Candidates, some people are bound to be different, but honestly I’ve done more approaching than being approached. You might be able to avoid most unwanted attention. Everyone has their mind on other things; not getting in trouble, will they Impress or won’t they, what exactly are they supposed to be doing with their time,” he trailed off with a shrug.

That was about all the comfort Sebolaren could give Daymar; in the very least he shouldn’t be accosted by a roving pack of wild Candidates. Of course the Weyrlings were a different issue entirely, especially Agnith; but there wasn’t any way to warn him without terrifying him. “Of course I can introduce you, I’ve known G’dan for a few moons now; I’ll set that up soon enough. Is there anywhere in particular that you would like to meet him?” He thought perhaps that the conversation could turn to less terrifying things—when the amazed (and terrified) words from Daymar’s mouth alerted Sebol that he’d made a mis-step.

“Technically, she is borrowed, but don’t worry: You’re right, she wouldn’t fit in here, and she’s happier in the stables.” He tried to give what he hoped was his best comforting smile.

“No,” his comforting smile brightened; “It isn’t easy to get into trouble. There are several Candidatemasters and they are all very fine Dragonmen; of course I am not sure how firm they are if one causes trouble because I don’t have a mark against me—as surprising as that may be—but they seem very reasonable.” He thought for a brief moment tallying a list of things that would certainly get a Candidate into trouble; but that Daymar seemed entirely unlikely to participate in. “ “All chores must be done; no shirking, and no sexual relations of any kind. Always keep yourself and your quarters tidy, and attend all lessons—as they’re trying to teach us to respect the Weyr and her dragons. No destruction of Weyr property or defacing her stone walls; no stealing from anywhere within the Weyr—we’re fed regularly and there is always food, but I know many people go in to pilfer wines. No fighting—though shouting does occasionally happen it should never become physical.”

He trailed off into silence; one finger on his chin tapping as he considered whether or not he’d forgotten any major rules. “Oh,” he announced with a brighter smile, “and no one in these rooms after dark save for those who sleep here.” Of course this certainly would not be a problem for the man in front of him; Daymar was already showing just how uncomfortable he was with people—why would he admit someone entrance into his private sleeping room. Sebolaren would be lucky to go the entire rooming period without managing to startle the man by his entering—or exiting—the room. The rule also would not be a problem for Sebol; because there wasn’t a person in the Weyr with whom he could one; show his secret, and two; have that secret mean next to nothing. Aside from perhaps Delilah—but she was a Weyrling, and Werylings weren’t allowed here either.

“I assume runnerbeasts fall into the—no one but those who bunk there—clause; as I would very much like to keep my flawless record I believe you are quite safe.” He fell quiet once more; trying not to watch the man like a hawk as he unpacked: Now that the man was quite distracted it was a natural inkling to observe.

“I wouldn’t say often, I’ve actually yet to witness a fight: Though there have been some moments of tension. That is mostly to do with myself and the fact that I didn’t Impress, and a certain Tanrider who easily has less empathy than your average rock.” He gave the man a bright smile; there was no doubt in his mind that Daymar could go his entire Candidacy and Weyrling period without ruffling too many feathers—especially with how nervous he was. Yet there could always be occasion where he assumed someone hated him.

When the man voiced his firm ultimatum, the Herder put up his hands to forestall any further wrath. “I will rarely be here myself, I’m often at the stables: I assure you that within these rooms you can feel safe.” It wasn’t like he had anyone to even invite over anyway. The majority of the people he was close to had Impressed and gone on; they weren’t even allowed in these Barracks anymore. Certainly Daymar would be safe.

“Weyrlings do have room-mates, and it is based upon dragon rank and size. Kings and Queens have their own quarters; Sub-Kings and Sub-Queens as well when space permits. Then the sizes are spread out among the fighters. A large blue with a black, or a Pink with a Green. Dragon sexes and rider sexes must match as well, I believe. As for whether the rider beds are near one another…I could not tell you. I have not seen the inside of the Weyrling barracks.”

As the words poured from Daymar’s lips Sebolaren felt a moment of contrition—perhaps he had spoken too freely of the Tanrider. There was no way to retract what he had said, nor would he lie to make his comment seem unjust, but perhaps he could direct the conversation elsewhere and leave it without elaboration. “Dragonriders are empathetic, they must be in order to Impress—that is one of the key features a Searchdragon senses in the Candidates they whisk away from Hall and Hold. Children of the Weyr—who are usually the offspring of Dragonriders—are already suspected to have this empathy and stand without Searching.”

“If you’ve made it this far—which you have—you already have everything that you need to Impress; in terms of mentality, empathy, and soundness of mind. The only missing piece is the dragon, and you might have to Stand more than once—as I will—in order to find your match, but technically the hard part is already over.” He gave the man an encouraging smile that only warmed as Daymar sounded his ultimatums for rooming together.

“Luckily I pride myself on cleanliness—I want to smell like the stables as much as you want to smell it, and I will knock. I shall also strive to never be late, but there are some events at the stables which may need my attention,” he trailed off; absolutely certain that Daymar had no interest in knowing about the animal birthings, or the occasions where they were forced to put one of the beasts down. He watched the man’s expression change, and followed all of the anxiety and fear that swam through those eyes. He felt that kindling of protective guidance forming in his chest and had to chase a smile from his face; he could not bar that instinctual drive to lead and guide those nervous souls any more than they could supplant their fears with rage. “They expect us to work, and learn, and grow so that when our dragon’s choose us our minds are ready—at that point; with our souls completed—we would rather be nowhere else.”

He knew it was a half-truth. Xiro’el certainly still planned on running from the Weyr the moment Tigreath could carry him. However wanderlust was a non-issue for Daymar—that was certain.