Two Letters for a Holdless Heart [Cath]

He was oblivious to Daymar’s entrance; he was even oblivious to the words the man spoke, and to the fear that had been in his room-mate’s heart. His entire world had been reduced quite simply, and quite quickly, to the waves of utter betrayal and abandonment that were coursing through him like alternating knife cuts in his soft flesh. There was no world in this storm. It would be a lie to say his father was a loving man, but what he lacked in love he made up for with genuine care and fair learning. It was no less than could be expected from a Holdless family; Tytallen treated everything as seriously as if it were life or death, and perhaps that was what had kept his heart hardened to his son.

Though it hardly mattered now, did it? Perhaps the man had a heart, and Sebolaren had broken it when he had left, though it was still more likely that—having abandoned Beastcraft—Tytallen had abandoned him. Yet his father asked him to do something that he was no longer willing to do—deny himself. Deny who he was, and who he could be. That was an unforgiveable slight; that was not fatherly: It wasn’t even nurturing. If the Master Herder could spare days of his life to nursing a weak foal; could he not extend that same courtesy to his grown son—the boy turned man who had never begged a day in his life nor attempted to live off of his father’s graces?

Apparently he could not, would not—never would. He was still oblivious to Daymar’s presence, and to the fact that the man had read the visible note, not that he would have cared anyway. As far as he was concerned, he was no longer the Ruathan; or even a Ruathan—a conviction that would have been far easier to maintain if it hadn’t been for that second letter. A letter signed by one of the most powerful hands that resided at Ruatha. What could he do? Reverse the disownment and spurn what appeared to be honest entreaty—perhaps even care?

His eyes disobeyed his silent command to be emotionless and filled with thick tears he desperately wanted to shed, and his throat burned an angry oath against all his denial and restraint. The movement at the corner of his eye was forgotten as a trick of the light—until a hand touched him. He jumped slightly, it might have even been mistaken as a hiccup of air, but it jolted his tears free; they would not be stopped again. Now clear of the film of sorrow his gaze fell upon Daymar, and surprise filled him before being washed away by the pain he needed so desperately to release.

His shoulders hitched painfully as half of him fought that catharsis bitterly, and then lost; the tears flowing freely as he dropped his head to Daymar’s shoulder and allowed himself the freedom of tears without a burden of judgment or the possibility of scorn. The Candidate was a tether in the storm, a safety line, and Sebolaren accepted it, and clung to it like a man lost at sea.

Now possessed of a lifeline to keep his sanity in check as he flushed his newest wounds with the the redwort of release; Sebol gave in. It burned, it stung his soul like being pricked with needlethorn over and over, but it was leading him to a peace he could not deny. He had denied enough in the past; had refused to accept the need of his heart to be free of the shackles that bound him and made him bleed. Not this time. Not even his own father would destroy him—if he could rise from the ashes of leaving the sands unimpressed he could certainly mend his heart against the man who chose Craft over Kin. He was no traitor; he was no weakling who would be oppressed in the face of this man. Not this time.

He gave himself willingly to Daymar’s arms; and perhaps that would surprise him at some later time, but for now the man’s arms around his large form and that forehead pressed to the top of his head were like rocks set to keep him from being swept away. Solid ground upon which to stand, and Sebolaren would not turn that kindness away. The tears came violently at first, wracking sobs that tore from his lips fit to kill him in an upheaval of lungs and thudding heart, but as time passed and his tears flowed on; those sobs evened out into a mourning death knell as it sounded loss.

Time continued and that death knell became nothing more than the silent breathing of a wounded man, and then even his breathing evened into a recognizable pattern of air intake that was not stymied by sorrow. His tears slowed and cleared; leaving his face sticky, flushed, and puffy—but there were no longer lines of pain or grief gouging at his forehead or eyes. When he lifted his gaze to meet Daymar’s, his eyes were clear like the eye of a storm, and sharpness had returned to them even surrounded by such abused and reddened tissue. He offered the man a wan smile.

“Thank you, I think that was the worst of it. Though…” his teeth found his lower lip pensively as his head turned; eyes seeking that second note. The one which should have been easy to forget but could not be. “There was a second message, an addition. I cannot…it is a puzzle to me. It is there on my bed, perhaps you will understand the meaning more than I.”

Shaffit, but he was grateful for his need to constantly observe those around him: Turns of such study had left him not only capable of empathizing, but also at discerning from body posture what words alone could not say. Would not say. His alert and stormy eyes had followed the Candidate as he rose, as one hand sought to claim that second letter, and great stars willing; as the eyes that scanned the parchment and those delicate letters sought to find some meaning. Perhaps something that Sebolaren had missed—aside from the obvious.

Had this so-called Steward signed him into servitude with the promises of marks and means? Sebol’s hair tightened at the nape of his neck for a reason he couldn’t discern, but he brushed away idle thoughts to continue his assessment of Daymar—his eyes burrowing deeply into the ones that were focused not on him, but on the writing. Luckily he was still seated firmly at the man’s feet, otherwise he might have missed the surge of powerful emotions that flowed into those eyes—through them—looking fit to burn the fire from his hands like Thread.

For one long moment Sebolaren was saved from overreacting by the fact that he was dumbfounded. First the man holds him as if he had never experienced a moment of anxiety over flesh or contact, and now this. His eyes full of emotion that the ex-Herder did not know he had space in his heart to feel alongside all of his fears and doubts. Hurt, anger, was that betrayal? Confusion kept Sebol seated firmly as Daymar warred within himself over things that his fellow Candidate could not even guess, and would never assume.

When the man’s eyes closed; sweeping him away from the room in what could only be his only hope at coping with whatever he had gleaned from that paper: It could certainly not be about himself, why would Daymar feel such distinct emotion when Sebolaren had felt only pain compounded by the message from his father? The parchment slipped from fingers that seemed all-together more pale and fragile than they had been moments before, and the line of wording was followed by Daymar’s body which now seemed broken and huddled.

There was no further hesitation in Sebol’s heart as he eased himself onto the edge of the bed beside his fellow Candidate, one large hand landing with a gentle firmness on Daymar’s shoulder; a return tether to stave off any lonely despair his heart might be falling in to. Brilliantly clear storm-grey eyes met the matching pair clouded dark with pain, and remained wholly open; reflecting back only gratitude, and warmth, and the willingness to understand. “I can see the lie in your eyes, Daymar. Allow me to be for you, what you were for me. What did that letter speak to you?”

This was an interesting development for Sebolaren; not welcome, but not unwelcome—he would have preferred if whatever had been sent to him had not so apparently affected his room-mate, but it was certainly exposing things about the man that even the ex-Herder had never guessed. A depth of pain behind those eyes and in that soul was that why he was so afraid; was he even afraid? So many new questions sprang to the tip of his tongue and were cast aside unasked, that would be for later: If Daymar let him in, past those walls, and found it in himself to trust someone. The question then became; how would Sebol trap him gently like a vtol between his hands—capture him so as to help the man find his own peace.

Sebol seriously doubted that Daymar would hold up under the same treatment he had used on Xiro’el. Would it tear down his walls? Certainly—but whose walls would survive that. Xiro had been stronger in many ways, and Xiro had wanted his; Daymar wanted nothing more than to hide as was evidenced by his cringe and the immediate impression that he had shriveled into himself like a redfruit left too long in the sun. Sebolaren took the time to scan that face as Daymar fell into what must have been a distant—if painful—memory. He eased off his gaze when the man seemed to come back to himself; only to ask a question of the ex-Herder who sat beside him.

He regarded Daymar’s hands with every ounce of attention he possessed, showing the man that he certainly cared about what was being said; even if he might not see the purpose or direction with so little context. When those harrowed eyes met his, the pain sent a shock through his heart at its depth, and when the man pulled away it took every ounce of willpower Sebol possessed not to follow him and pull that pain from him. He would need to be gentle. Earn the trust he was requesting, earn the information he was seeking. “My hands were as equally destroyed after those two sevendays of extended labour K’var gave me, and I have spent my entire life doing work such as that. Our bodies do not tell us what we are good at—our actions do, our convictions and our passions do.”

His eyes tracked the man as Daymar moved to, and began ripping through, his clothing chest—words flowing from him bitterly; but not words of cathartic release, words of denial and self-pity. “My father believes that I was not good enough for him, because I chose to come to a Weyr instead of following in his footsteps as Master Herder—footsteps he laid out for me the day I was birthed into the world. The Steward does not seem like a man who cares for me as a person, but as an acquisition. I can only assume he sees my father’s move as a dangerous affront to the Weyr when Thread will be falling soon—I thought you had it out yesterday; I would not be able to fit into it.”

Sebolaren allowed the man his freedom to stumble and puzzle his way through the hurts he felt; and to war with himself on whether or not to trust the ex-Herder he had been holding what seemed like only moments before. None of it offended Sebol, none of it made him think less of Daymar, and as such he had no reason to construct a wall around his expression; he sat there as open as he had been while sobbing in the man’s arms. That still-same want to understand, acceptance, and warm seeking to fill the other Candidate whenever he found the courage to look: Which probably would not be often, but Sebol would be ready when it did happen.

Daymar’s question was not ignored, it was heard and saved, but the ex-Herder knew there was far more than one simple question to be poured out before he would fall silent; so he waited. He listened to every word, every intonation, every hand movement and folded shoulders—he took everything in—watching as the Candidate erected a physical wall around himself as openly as he strove to maintain the walls around his heart. When the venom had spat itself out and turned to resignation, and resignation had turned to silence, Sebolaren answered as honestly as he could.

“The Weyr did not fix me, Daymar. The Weyr compounded my stress and anxiety and left me feeling more doubtful of my position and worth. The people of the Weyr did help to fix me—because no man can be healed of wounds he refuses to clean himself. You helped fix me, just now, and every time you’ve been kind to me instead of judging me as vile for the brand I bear on my flesh. Do you think your father would accept me as a man—as worthy of anything—if he knew what this arm of mine bore? It doesn’t take a great man to lead or even a brave one—it simply takes confidence; and I was sorely lacking in confidence for quite a long time. There is very little about anyone that is perfect.”

He paused one moment, to allow those words to sink in, before he replied to what had been the man’s final comment. “Behind every hero in a Harper’s tale is the man who jotted it down—are his words not as great as the man for whom he writes?. Behind every Weyr rising to fight Thread are the generations of Archivists who have so meticulously collected and compiled the course of Falls and Passes—have these men not saved as many, if not more, lives than any Dragonflight? Behind every Hall, and Hold, every Caravan, and Wing; live the men who ensure that all functions: All is counted, and measured, and weighed, and recorded—do these men not ensure the continuity of our existence—our society?”

He watched the man crawl into his bed, back into his next to curl up and hide from the world, and he said nothing. He simply waited, listening to the man refute his words with self-hatred. So the Steward was Daymar’s father. What fantastic timing, and what an amazing gift he had given his room-mate who had only come to help him. He listened to that litany fall apart, and when the break came he expected it. Daymar’s control fell apart as he talked; as Sebolaren’s own control usually faltered: Thus one of his many reasons for avoiding difficult topics.

The ex-Herder moved when he felt the man shatter; his legs crossed the space between them in less than a heartbeat, and he sat easily on the other Candidate’s bed; though for once he kept his hands well to himself. His presence would be enough to remind Daymar that he had someone to hold him if he chose it, but Sebol was not going to risk chasing those tears away or earning mistrust. His throat hummed a quiet lilting tune under his breath as he settled himself there, and though it stopped when he spoke; it resumed every moment he fell quiet.

”For all that I put on a good show, I assure you that I have many weaknesses. You did not expect to find me crying on the floor of our room, but did you think less of me for doing so? I left the Sands alone this last Impression, branded, while everyone I knew—the only people I knew—moved forward into a new life. It has taken me from that day until this sevenday to accept that this is where I belong. Everyone shows confidence in different ways, and everyone is proven in a way which will show their nature. I was tested by being left behind; I am tested again with this recent abandonment. “

He paused momentarily and then continued, “I cannot pretend to know how your father feels: Until this day I had assumed that my father would watch me Stand and be proud of me, but now I know that he feels I have abandoned my Craft to become nothing—I doubt he and I will speak again. However, his judgment of me is not who I am. If who I am meant to be is someone other than what he wants—then I would suffer through his betrayal to find myself, and my place."

He listened to that sorrowed plea, and understood it intrinsically. ”This could be your home, Daymar. You were Searched to Stand here; that is not a gift that should be lightly taken. I questioned the Searchdragon's myself once; wondering if I was fit to Stand, but was informed that they Search true.”

”Daymar,” he breathed sofly, a warm hand reaching out to gently touch the man’s shoulder. ”Your father does not know me. I am nothing but an acquisition; bought for the highest price; he may as well be trying to marry me off for the sake of his Hold. Son of Ruatha, not son of Mandares. He seeks only to smooth over tensions with the Weyrs; tensions my father is well known for setting to boil.”

His large hand rubbed a gentle circle between Daymar’s shoulders as he spoke again, “Are you so certain he has forgotten you? Did you send word when you left Western? Certainly I hope to make my place here; but we have not Stood yet and only the Sands will prove me Dragonman—as they will prove you when the day comes that you Impress.”

He considered what more to say about himself; not wanting to turn this into a discussion based on his own problems; but feeling like drawing comparisons between himself and Daymar would help to show the man that they had similarities. ”I lost myself for a long time. The markings on my arm were forced onto me, against my will, and took from me the ability to become a Master Herder. It does not take much for a person to lose sight of who they are; all it takes are pains upon pains piled up until we become too weary to bear them, and then we collapse in on ourselves and give up. If you were nothing, you would not be here, and I would not call you friend and relish your company.”

He continues the tenuous physical contact he’s made with Daymar, his hand continuing a steady rhythmic rubbing which times with his gentle Herdsman’s tune. He longs to pull the man into his arms and hug him properly; as much as he wants to chase away all the demons and help him find his confidence; but he knows that even this contact might be a fleeting possibility. So he sets his resolve and moves slowly; as if sacking out a foal for the first time; willing to repeat it until the foal no longer shies away from touch or sound or movement.

“I could easily return that which he has given me, Daymar. If he is Ruatha then he certainly would secure Ruatha’s honor in terms of seeing along Dragonmen. I see only political agenda in this; otherwise why not discard my father’s own note and send a lie instead?” He fell silent, allowing Daymar to voice more of his fears and worries, absorbing them before asking softly: "So you haven’t written to tell them that you’ve been Searched? Is it not possible that if you did send word, he would just as readily send you support?” He felt a sinking in his stomach at the next words that left those lips and he squeezed the boy’s shoulder gently. “Daymar, how can one Impression overshadow another? Every Impression is critically important to this Weyr; to all the Weyr’s. The only waste on Hatching Day occurs when dragonets go between. Every dragon serves a specific purpose, even the dragons who cannot flame are critically important in covering swaths of the sky with agenothree and arresting the fall of dragons from wings above. Everyone, everyone finds a place—all it takes is trust, and the willingness to accept who you are: Without discrediting yourself as nothing outright.”

He paused in his speaking and humming when that troubled face turned to meet him; eyes searching him; and his expression remained completely open to the man, his hand still a firm presence on one shoulder. “You’ve been running yourself to the ground with anxieties and worries; not simply about the things here, but about who you are, and what you will become, and whether or not your father will accept you. Weariness is to be expected, but if you can find it in yourself to allow some of this tension to ease; you’ll find you can breathe easier—even here. If you can breathe easier you can see this place in a way that never occurred to you before, and you will feel safer, because there is no place safer than a Weyr. If a dragonet chooses you, a dragonrider you will be, and while you may lack confidence in yourself—I have never doubted that you would Impress.”

He offered Daymar a soft, honest smile, and answered his parting questions without a moment’s hesitation. “You are intelligent, kind, and honest; you don’t try to hide your insecurities behind bravado which takes a great amount of courage. Have you realized that you are more yourself for the people of this Weyr than I am? I still carry with me one secret that will change their opinion of me, and I have never considered showing them and living easier. Also, you ask nothing of me that I do not give freely because I value your friendship and am genuinely honored to name you as my friend to others. You give me what I need, acceptance and trust.”

“Perhaps he simply felt sorry for my predicament; the man does not know me to assume what I will become, or the use I will make. And you might say that others think such things, and some do, but I assure you they are Holdbound in both mind and body—no Dragonman believes any other dragon to be greater than their own. No Weyr considers this either. Are we any less important as Candidates due to our differences? We will fit two different dragons, with two different purposes, and fulfill two different roles to better serve our duty. If you do not Impress, then you will find another way—if you can surmount the challenges of Candidacy, then you can find a passion to follow after it.”

He was not surprised when the man moved closer to him for contact, but he was surprised at the method: Even Xiro’el had sought to make himself tiny against the ex-Herder’s broad chest, but Daymar seemed as if he still wanted to comfort as much as be comforted. A fact that was perfectly acceptable for Sebolaren; especially if it helped the man to release his pent up pain and anger. If the other Candidate’s hug was awkward, then his returning embrace was graceful as a feline. He could not fully pull the man into his arms, but he could use one of his to circle that smaller back partially—fully if he wanted, but was trying to avoid making the man feel trapped.

As he listened to Daymar that hand rubbed a comforting path on the Candidate’s back, but the childhood comment garnered a soft chuckle. “Perhaps, but you certainly weren’t sure about me here. Just because you’re slow to open up doesn’t mean you’re broken, I’d have won you over as children eventually, and you have me here now—that won’t ever change, regardless of what happens to the both of us at future hatchings. You forget, I’ve already left the sands alone once—it could happen again.”

He automatically lowered his cheek to the top of Daymar’s head when the man pressed his forehead to one large shoulder, and he would be grateful for his instinctual need to comfort—because Agnith came upon him like a fury of fast expression—as she had many times now. If he hadn’t been so contained around Daymar he probably would have rocked to the floor from the force of it. Typically the Pink was never able to speak to him—controlled quickly by her Rider and reminded that Sebolaren was not to be trusted and was in fact an unscrupulous member of the Weyr to be avoided. Possibly forever. The pain of that realization compounded with the welcome and love he felt in Agnith’s words—compounded on the pain of abandonment and night’s confusion. Only his iron will saved him from shedding tears onto the Candidate who awkwardly held him. Whatever the Pink had found; the timing could not have been worse, and though part of his heart wanted to fly to her side—he remained to care for the man he called friend. The man who hadn’t abandoned him like Tytallen or Delilah.