Coping Mechanisms (Ruin)

On his side of the world where everything was rarely going right, but only because he managed to surround himself with people who always made things go wrong—on top of his obvious predilection for horrible timing, stubbourness, and no family—Sebolaren was attempting to eat. Because it was one of the few things he could do without being maimed, drowned, burned, bruised, lacerated, bitten, trampled, beaten, stabbed, slapped, soaked, or otherwise defamed, irritated, annoyed, coerced, cheated, or abandoned. So he was going to enjoy the shaffiting shards out of it. Which he was, that is until two angry, annoyed, chattering, flustered twin Blue Firelizards appeared in the air over his head: Proving that—yet again—shard Sebol and his needs.

He listened to them with an open mind as they bombarded him with what could only be thirty images a second; attempting to glean what information he could—all of it seemed to revolve around Daymar. Of course. Because he hadn’t seen the man since the letter incident two days past; because the man refused to speak to him—which was probably warranted, but would hopefully be unfounded in the end. ONE. AT. A. TIME. This brought them to a shocked standstill, and for one moment Sebol wondered if they would simply give up on him and leave, but they didn’t. Instead the images came more slowly; and in an order which he could process. Daymar. Pallor. Rukbat. Danger. Sweet twice dusted dimwitted thrice starved and left for Thread Candidate.

Food forgotten it was all the ex-Herder could do to not trample everyone on his way out of the Dining Hall at a dead run which only lengthened as he hit open ground—the flits screaming as they wove above his head flashing him images of where he needed to go—down to the River, where the rocks were thickest. His lungs filled with cold autumn air and expelled it in a hot cloud like a runner at the races, and he wasn’t even sure why the raw certainty of peril had caught his heart from the twins—but it had, and for one split second he was grateful when he came over that rise in the bowl to see Daymar there by the river; apparently fine, and safe, but even that façade could not halt his forward momentum.

What in all the sharding Weyrs of Pern did this man think he was doing? That was the question that Sebol wanted to scream as he saw the Candidate stumble toward, and then in to, the river. Yet he could not waste the air in his lungs for yelling at the fool, not when he was still pelting those last hundred feet: He was no distance runner like Xiro’el. Not trained, or experienced, he was running on adrenaline and need, and the stab of fear from the firelizards—which proved to be nothing but truth when Daymar pitched forward into the water; bobbing with a sickening lifelessness—unable to even list face-up due to the heavy clothing that was slowly sinking him deeper. DELILAH and the twins were gone.

But he was there, ready, willing, and able, and his long stride never faltered as it carried him out those few feet to the prone body of his friend; kicking up huge swathes of water and not even a stumble for all the determination, and focus, that he felt. Even if he had been a small man, the fire running through his veins would have lent him the strength he needed to lift the water-heavy man; but he was not a small man—and he was quite enraged. He hooked his arms under those of the Candidate and wrenched him free of his death, dragging him back onto shore. Depositing him neatly; one hand swept to a pale, slender wrist and checked for a pulse—which was there faint, and thready—the other, along with his ear, checking for signs of breathing: Which he could not determine.

Thank the stars for extra-curricular activities, and a little Trader ingenuity. His knife was in his hand before he realized it—taken from the modified sheath he wore against his lower back (being far too tall and lacking the grace that would allow him to keep it within his boot as Xiro’el did). It was beautiful, and sharp—a gift—and he used it to quickly sunder the thick and binding layer of tunics Daymar wore from throat to belly: Exposing his pale flesh to Rukbat’s glare and Sebol’s attentive eyes. Not breathing.

He could breathe for him—and he did so, his mouth covering Daymar’s as one large hand completed the seal by pinching those white nostrils shut: Then he breathed. Hard and long, and waited, and then again.

Relief washed across him as those wracking coughs purged the water from his lungs—thank Faranth the man’s body remembered how to have a sharding involuntary self-preservation mechanism. He aided the man in his turning; holding him gently to ensure the entirety of choking river would find its way out, and meeting the man’s gaze without anger—only relief and perhaps a passing anxiety he could feel now that the danger was mostly behind them. Then he watched the man slump into unconsciousness—a quick check assuring the ex-Herder that he was still breathing—yes—and a pulse—yes.

He was so grateful to see Agnith; knowing that Delilah would be right behind, and when the Healer came to her knees he did his best to answer her. ”Had to be the heat—what with all his clothes—Daymar would’ve never even touched the river water if he’d been of sound mind, but apparently he had it in his head enough that ended up face-down in it. Fainted maybe—though with the letters…” He didn’t believe his trailing insinuation, but it had to be said; she was a Healer and needed the information he had—all of it.

He nodded in agreement to her observation and then followed her words, lifting the man gently into his arms so he could help strip the mass of cloth from around his arms and off of his back. His eyes cast around briefly for the twins: They had been doing tandem carries, and now it would count more than ever—Daymar preferred his large blankets, but those would be impossible for the firelizards—one of the smaller emergency blankets from the Healer caverns would, however, not be. He sent them both the image; they repeated it back, and then they were gone. The added importance of their synchronized work added a handful of breaths onto the time they were gone, but the blanket was dropped lightly into Delilah’s lap no more than a half minute later.

Poor Daymar indeed. Poor dimwitted illogical terrified Daymar who would somehow manage to see himself off before Thread could do it for him. Not that Sebol would give him the option. The answer’s to Delilah’s questions were spoken quickly, succinctly, and without emotion flowering them into opinion. ”Most of it. Three breaths, I was nearly on top of him when he fell. No, two breaths of mine before he coughed. I would say less than a minute from submergence to his first breath.” Even though it had seemed far longer than that—it couldn’t have been logically.

If he had been aware of Agnith’s intentions he might have tried to stop her himself, but really—who could stop Agnith if not even Delilah had. Her shout made him flinch, and of course it brought Daymar awake—it would bring the dead awake: From between even. This of course coincided with the twins returning with their burden, and the Candidate in his arms probably viewed them as his reason for being so confused and out of sorts—or in the very least as attacking him.

Daymar wrenched himself away with a determination that bespoke his abject fear and confusion, and of all the things he clung to it was Agnith. Stars above at least he trusted dragons—there might be hope for him yet: If he could simply live until the sharding Hatching to Impress. He chose not to supply a response to Delilah’s comment—Daymar was likely to assume he was the enemy regardless of his words.

When those eyes burned into his he knew that he’d been correct. Daymar felt betrayed, and wronged, by him—still did, probably would continue to do so, and this was certainly not going to smooth things over with him, but Sebolaren was not a liar, and he did not run from his problems—or try to hide them. The only thing he could do was tell the man honestly where his clothes had gone: The important thing was that he still drew breath, and the Hatching was drawing close enough that it might rescue him yet.

His hands reached and snagged up the soggy remains of his wardrobe; all of them in fairly good shape save for the fact that they had been neatly halved across the chest: Xiro’el would doubtless find it an improvement to Daymar’s drab wardrobe—the Candidate would simply be horrified. He lifted the soaked fabric so the man could see the full damage, speaking as he did so: ”They weren’t taken, they were cut off—you became too hot and fainted. I cut them off, I am sorry—I can have them fixed.”

He would too—perhaps he could find someone to teach him sewing, there would be plenty of shirts to practice on. Certainly they could all be mended, the cut was clean—none appeared knit in a seacraft manner. His eyes did not meet Delilah's; as he would not break from Daymar's gaze as if ashamed, but he was aware of her. He was also aware of Agnith caring for the man; seeing her from the corner of his eye, and he approved. Not only because this was Daymar, but because she would be called to duty in the future to soothe Threadscored dragons and their terrified Riders. Perhaps she would not have the influence of a Queen—but she had the influence of Agnith: Something told him it would be enough.

Well that wasn’t expected. Hatred, bitterness, rejection—more betrayal, fear, loathing, disgust: Shards…he would have even expected the man to accuse him of sexual misconduct before the actual words that left his mouth. Those words being utter disbelief. Not just mild—‘oh well, Sebol you would be far too nice to slash my clothing’, not even medium disbelief—‘you did it, but it was an accident’—no, Daymar, in all of his infinite neuroticisms, that even managed to beat out Delilah, had managed to suddenly convince himself that he had been divested of his clothing by some stranger: Then was thrown into the river by said stranger.

Amazing. ”No, Daymar, you did not hit your head, and I know that because I saw you fall in, and I saw that because the firelizards fetched me when they noticed you were feeling ill. I assure you, there was no strange man—there was only me, and now Delilah.” He had to at least make an honest effort to make the man understand; otherwise he could go on to assume anything had happened—anything at all, and that would certainly lead into dangerous territory what with how far he’d jumped to conclusions already.

His eyes flickered to Delilah before returning to his room-mate and he nodded with understanding. ”I can take care of you, Daymar; the Kitchen staff will offload warm foods onto me if they know it’s for you—and Taavi, former Bakercraft, has gone a long way to smooth their ruffled feathers over my appearance.” It was his hope that the man wouldn’t be too stubbourn, there was no reason for him to fall ill—on top of everything else.

”Daymar,” he started, inhaling to frame his words and steel his resolve against failure, ”the two Blues you saw are twins; Xiro’el and I Impressed them this sevenday past—ever since you stormed out of the Barracks that day; when I told you about Reylia, they have been following you: Because honestly I wasn’t sure if you would try to take your own life or mope yourself to death. In this case it seems like you’ve tried both—that is how I knew to come here. That is why I made it on time. That is why I know you were alone. If I was close enough to pull you from the water before you drowned, don’t you think I would have been close enough to see the culprit—had there been one—and do you not know me well enough to be certain that I would have run said person down if only to avenge your honor?”

The words ceased as suddenly as they had started and he did his best to assume the most open, and honest expression possible; which he maintained—even in the face of this new wave of phobic terror: that nearly caused him to cup his head in his palms. Oh Daymar. Sweet, neurotic, terrified Daymar. Whatever dragon would look to him—it better have a sharding firm resolve; else it might never fly. Ever. ”Daymar, you’re going to be fine—you were in the water only a moment and now you’re wrapped in a blanket. Warm food and rest: Both will see you perfectly fine by the morning, aye?”

He rose to his feet slowly, the offending bundle of shirts in his hand because he would fix them; legs having gone slightly numb from his awkward position, and he regarded the man who sat still well-within the protection of Agnith’s Pink forelimbs. ”I can carry you if you’d like, start that relaxation early—I’m not sure how steady you will be on your feet. Otherwise, I am an arm to lean on.”

Just like that the honest truth was dismissed as fabrication. Of course the man didn’t have a reason to trust him currently—but it wasn’t like he had lied about sending the letter: Maybe it was implied that he shouldn’t, though in terms of civility and honor and manners—it was required: Something that Daymar should have known. The fact that Sebol had mentioned he was here—well that’ was just what needed done; and it would turn out all right. And, so had this—he had to admit. The man thought that he had been accosted; which would need dealt with before he blamed the first person he saw, but he was alive. Safe even; or would be if they could relax him and feed him, and bid him rest.

Of course he had convinced himself he wouldn’t be fine, and probably would make himself sicker for all the anxiety he would cause himself; still he felt compelled to fall in beside him on the side opposite Agnith, a wearied smile pulling at his lips that only Delilah could see as he turned his head toward her—thank Faranth they’d had time to work out their differences; where would he be now without their quiet guidance—Daymar would have certainly found a reason to panic even if she hadn’t mentioned sickness: So it didn’t occur to him to blame the Pinkweyrling for that.

”I do not believe it is what you were doing today, but at the time; days ago—yes—I was worried for a friend I’ve come to cherish deeply. Your safety was my only concern. The firelizards could stay out of sight and make sure you were safe. That, and I also worry for you—concerning your sister. As I am largely to blame I felt it was my responsibility to watch over you. So I did as I thought best.”

And he had, and he still believed quite firmly that it was the best course of action—that all of it had been—and convincing him he wasn’t right would be a trial in-and-of itself; especially as his logic sometimes only made sense in the near future: As in when they Stood and Daymar’s father could be proud of him.

Had it been his place? No. Yet, had it been his father’s place to claim him as a son to a Hold in the same package that abandoned him from it? No, it hadn’t—and he would deal with that on his own until he understood what those words meant to him. Mardanres had his own son to worry about, and what with him sending off care packages like it was life or death, Sebol decided it was high time he knew his son had been Searched.

He met that gaze without falter; unashamed, but willing to accept the judgment and possibly hatred of his friend—though there was only a quiet wariness in those eyes; no little reproach, but nothing that indicated to Sebolaren that he had lost a life-long friend. Not yet, anyway. The man still had not accepted the truths that the ex-Herder had told him; apparently because he thought Sebol too good of a man to do most of them. The truth would be destructive; but the lie more-so. What would he convince himself to ease his mind? ”Blood will tell, Daymar—you have not become an angry or bitter man; everything else is understandable.” He had hurt him, he had, but it was for the greater good. Some decisions in life had to be made for us—would he one day consider his brand to be such a decision when there was nothing more important to his life than the dragonwings that held him aloft?

He listened to the man fuss over the predicament and nodded, soothing him with a raised hand; though not touching him. ”I’ll run ahead and fetch you some clothes, enough layers to get you safely inside the Barracks and into bed; it’ll only take a moment,” this last was tossed to Delilah before he turned and headed for the male-side; though with a tired weariness.

He hadn’t managed to go far at all; not that he wouldn’t have returned—not that Delilah’s voice wouldn’t carry: He turned in time to see Daymar struggling to pick himself up against a weariness he didn’t know had sapped his strength. Sharding stubbourn man. The ex-Herder jogged back gamely even though his legs protested their extended usage, and he pulled up alongside his room-mate; sharp eyes appraising those quivering limbs. That really left only one option. ”Sorry old friend, this is as far as you’ll go alone.” That said he simple swept the man up into his arms. Lighter than Xiro’el due to his gangliness; he was nothing cradled against Sebol’s powerful chest.

He locked his arms underneath those knees and around those shoulders; fingers lacing together in front of the man’s body. Then cocking a trademark grin at Delilah, he pushed forward bravely the remaining distance to the Barracks; bravely for the sake that he expected Daymar to fight him—possibly knee him in the face and break his jaw, or otherwise cause them to topple over. How he managed to do so much carrying when he wasn’t the most stable person on his feet was a wonder to him.

As was the fact that they made it to the Barracks at all—at least inside the Barracks, the common area that split the male and female sides neatly in two; where there just so happened to be a familiar female form that made his heart skip a beat to see—and not because of her gangly coltish features or the realization he was late for his dance lesson…no; it was far graver than that.