Many of Horror (Ruin!)

Another restless night to slake the warmth of the burns which continued to heal; another day to pass onward into the inevitable future: Hatchings, Threadfall, deaths, and new life. He could not use work to weary him, at least not in the way he wished—he could not throw himself wholly into tasks that stretched into the depths of lightless evening. Even he had seen the honesty behind the pity in Atenna’s eyes when she had told him he couldn’t work with the late-season birthings in the stables, or even muck the stalls beside her; he was a Candidate, and there were wounds he bore now that needed time to heal away from risk of infection. So he could only now accomplish simple tasks that his burned and bandaged hands would allow, and light lifting that wouldn’t tear the sutures from his healing back: None of this work was able to drain him, and this would be the fifth day he spent walking by starlight lost in thought.

It was true that he was no longer consumed by guilt, or bitterness, or fear, but there were plenty of other things to consider that didn’t directly involve a personal pain: Coming Thread heralded by the bright star that hung in the darkening sky, concern for those who had been lost, and those who had left: New Candidates flowing in as Couineth continued to grow larger since her flight. Even the fire itself could not be forgotten, not with the paranoia and fear that had spread afterward; not when his room-mate spent every night so buried beneath a protective layer of bedding and furs that Sebolaren could not tell if he still drew breath—though he suspected that the angry grey pillie who guarded that pile would alert him in some way if its occupant expired.

Certainly Daymar was less than p leased that the ex-Herder was out here now, out here and not safely inside—the man still assumed there was some larger villain at work who was lying in wait to finish those who had escaped the blaze alive—but there was no help for it. Sleep would not come while he was still so energized, and too many turns under the stars on Watch had left him incapable of sleeping in stone when anything less than exhausted. He greeted those Wherhandlers he met; most of them were as used to seeing him as they were to seeing Xiro’el, but he did not bother them—or join them—instead he headed for the glassy surface of the lake.

For one moment he thought he spied the Trader himself—though the loss of height and obvious lack of movement proved that it could not possibly be the Cyanweyrling. Being that Sebol wasn’t the most quiet of people, and generally avoided attempting to stealth around (having found this a bad practice around both Daymar and Xiro’el) he simply continued his forward perambulation which ended when he pulled alongside the young man and spoke a simple greeting; ”Evening”

”Aye, mild. I’ve never stayed the cold months here; curious if we’ll be as snow-locked as the Northern Continent.” His voice was still muffled by burning damage from the acrid smoke, but he did his best to keep his voice from quaking or faltering. In a way he supposed the curiosity was valid, living next to a river wasn’t the same as living surrounded by the vast sea—in many ways the cold months could be worse here than they ever saw in Ruatha, but he could adapt to the climate easily enough: He would simply avoid the ocean until the weather warmed again. It is possible, though not likely, that he might not have recognized Va’an if the man hadn’t been one of the last to Impress, as it was he did recall the Viridianweyrling; even though they had never formally met.

”Sebolaren, by the way, we never had a chance to meet before Callistath’s Hatching; how is your Viridian?” Large, the ex-Herder would assume, far larger than Tigreath, Agnith, or Prith. However, Sebol assumed the Weyrling dragonet would be far less likely to tackle him with passionate emotions if he’d heard it said true about the personalities of Dalibor’s sickly-green subKings. Hopefully the man wouldn’t be disturbed by his lack of formality, and obvious curiosity; he’d probably spent far more time than was natural with other Weyrlings in his class: If there had existed within him some semblance of self-erected separation from the Dragonriders and he—the unImpressed left Standing—it had long ago been washed away.

”Ha, as expected,” his grin was bright even in the shade of falling darkness. ”Likely to whine and moan about snow not worth mentioning too, I’d suspect: Nothing like waking up and needing to shovel everything you own out of banks of snow larger than three of you stacked atop one another.” Somehow he realized he would miss that snow; as silly and tiring as it was to shovel his way across open fields to find stranded runners when the snow drifted so high that they couldn’t even break through it. Ah well; in some ways it would make it easier—they’d still expect chores to be done, and perhaps he could help shovel the walkways during the winter: That would keep him quite busy until the Hatching.

”I’d heard as much about the Viridians, but I have to admit I’d probably prefer grumpy over the joyous exuberance I’ve experienced from say—Pink Agnith. I’m sure one of these days she’ll forget that she’s grown far larger than me and then snap my back in an attempt to express how much she loves her friends.” Not that he really minded, but he did hope to keep his spine intact: He’d made a promise that only Thread would take him, and thus far it seemed like everything else was out to do him in instead, even his friends.

Clasping the offered hand firmly about the wrist he gave a softer smile; ”Well met, and feel free to call me Sebol—the rest is a mouthful—I was around, but aye it was madness when I arrived. Unexpectedly so; Even now nearing Couineth’s Clutching the Barracks are still barely full compared to that time.”

”Should all go on holiday once we’re well graduated and into a cold where Thread isn’t a threat; then we can take them on a little vacation to a real snow, eh? From Ruatha, but I spent more of my time in the fields on Watch than inside anything that could resemble a settlement: Dig through snow to make camp, dig out of camp in the morning. We were able to cheat though; wrapping their hooves in heavy sacking and they’d break through even the hardest crust frozen the night previous.” Did it sound like he missed it? Probably. He didn’t miss everything that went along with it, such as his Father, but he did miss the beasts, and the simplicity of it all. ”I suppose it’ll be different there soon, what with Thread.” This was where he was meant to be now, not there; what would life have been like trapped within those stone walls during Fall?

”Ha, vapid; I tend to stick with passionate—she’s a sweetheart, but would definitely be too much for me.” Nodding with agreement he gave a soft laugh, ”there must be, but I wouldn’t say it’s too late; from what I’ve heard the dragon knows its bonded better than they know themselves—mayhap you’ll both grow into your bond and find your legs—or seat—as it were. That’s all I can ask for, and it was hard being left Standing, but I have no regrets or worries now—wish the days would go faster.” At that last his eyes cast up to the Red Star and he had to catch the sigh that hitched in his throat; he’d be even further behind his duty than the class ahead of him—they’d be able to deliver bags, possibly transport the wounded: Sebolaren, on the other hand, would only be able to help pack and carry the bags and not even as well as Whers.

”Had it been? Nearly be as long this time I suppose; if the dragon birthing songs are right—and I’m sure a Harper would have a talk with me if I insinuated they weren’t. Should be tending toward spring by the time Couineth’s eggs hatch; just a few moons shy of the last. Perhaps the Holders are clinging to their own with Thread looming.”

The smirk of the other man pulled one onto the corners of his mouth as well, ”Probably lose required parts and then we’d just be scolded for taking them into such dangerous territory as what only the Holdless can survive. If by ‘pass through’ you mean on circuit, then there’s a good chance I’ve at least met some of your members if any of them would give words with a wet-behind the ears Holderbred with stars in his eyes. Father always appreciated the care Caravanners gave their animals, and the firm-handed upbringing.” Pausing momentarily as memories swept across his mind he gave a soft laugh; though it ended in a ragged cough as his lungs protested the action.

”Was told off once by an older man for feeding his canine; was lessoned early on not spoiling an animal who needs to work to live. I tell you, I was so chastised after that I think my face was red for moons, but I took it in stride.” For once, Sebolaren wasn’t entirely sure if the man had been Holdless; he didn’t believe he’d been wrong on the assumption of the context, but this man—if he was Traderbred—was atypically calm. Perhaps it was due to Impression, but he doubted it, Xiro’el had certainly not changed in the face of Tigreath’s bond. ”Aye, was hard on me—won’t lie—but I’ve worked through it. I decided to apply my extra time to learning skills I never did at Ruathat: Which are plenty, believe me, and it’s given me a focus. Even if I never Impress, I can find a place somewhere.” Though likely not at a Hold, not once Thread fell from the skies, and not with a Caravan either—not with his markings, and not with their lives becoming all the harder for the threat.

”Perhaps. I worry less about the Holders and more for those on the road; a hard life during an Interval, harder still during a Pass. I’m sure some can find safe holding within stone walls—those that have wares and work that can be produced internally, but for the lumbercarters, animal trains, and those whose money comes from trades that stretch across the Continents—Harder.” Where would Pern be though, without the help of Caravanners to move their wares between Hall and Hold during a Pass; the dragons would be far too busy flaming to move cargo as burdenbeasts. “ None better suited to it though, and I’m sure they’ve all been planning their routes and practicing them for turns—cavern to cavern.”

”That sounds like fantastic practice; even if the Thread falls more swiftly it’s a good practice of in-flight flaming: Not as predictable as someone throwing dyed rope from a dragon either.” That was the real question, wasn’t it? All Wing Drills and Rope Drills aside there would still be overzealousness to Threadfall that would possibly claim a few lives—everyone was new to the event now; there would be no champions of the fight until later in the Pass. Thoughts returned to Ruatha as the Viridianweyrling confirmed his quiet assumption, and a smile played across his mouth. ”Good to know I’m not the only one then, and aye; so sold off plenty of stock to the Holdless thanks to Father’s trust of certain caravans.”

”Indeed; you can never be certain of your path outside of doing everything you can to ensure you stay on the true road and have a spare wheel.” With a shrug of his shoulders his eyes returned to the glassy surface of the lake which he contemplated quietly with all the outward appearances of it being the most interesting lake in existence. Really he was just sorting through his thoughts as they pertained to the situation. ”Has it been hard to adjust? To being settled I mean—or mostly settled. Quite a few of the Traderfolk I’ve met here aren’t quite ready to consign themselves to the Weyr: Although one is a Wher Candidate and he’s got it worse than the rest of us what with being locked below during the light hours.”

Certainly he did not possess the fear of stone that some had exhibited; even if he’d spent much time out in the fields; that never came close to a life of freedom, and the Barracks didn’t trouble him at all.

”That’s certainly one lesson I’ve never learned, and it probably would have served me well if I had. I’m not a man for change. I had never expected to leave Ruatha, but sometimes our hands are forced in unexpected ways, eh?” For some it would be Thread, for other it was the threat of starvation or the possibility of making more coin. Others still would find their lives stretching out into sweet bliss—or hard labor—and it was simply a means to the end. Not for him, however; he’d had the choice made for him that turn ago. He couldn’t take it back, nor could he go back—his father had seen to that. “Still, if there is one thing I’ve got, it is acceptance. I can’t fight the change; I know that now, but I don’t have to let it rule me.”

Or ordain what he would, and would not, do with his life. There would be a dragon for him, or perhaps there wouldn’t, but regardless of where the road took him it would be somewhere here. ”Have you considered transferring?” A soft chuckle broke his words as he gave a quick smile for the tangent of his thoughts. ”I suppose said that way it sounds terrible, but I was more thinking as a sort of…means to continue journeying. Paperwork involved makes it less than ideal, but if you could—would you travel between Weyrs over the turns just to get a taste of new places? Fight with new Wingriders.”

The silence, as it consumed them, did not concern him or bother him. He was used to such silences; in fact he was typically the cause of them. It gave him time to reflect on his own history and the circumstances which had brought him here, and the circumstances which persisted. So much had changed for him a turn ago—over a turn ago—and things were still changing. Shifting. Falling into place or stuck in a perpetual state of waiting. Yes; he understood long silences of self-contemplation and consideration, typically his thoughts would turn to the most recent in a long line of changes—the abandonment of his Father. His master. Disavowed and seen as a betrayer. That would barely touch on the brand he bore beneath his skin; one he had not sought.

Hope was one of the few positive changes that the past moons had seen—he had hope. That things could be better—would be better—here, of all places, in the Weyr he had never intended to join. Though he couldn’t know the man’s entire story, he could guess parts of it—his dealings with Xiro’el and other such Traders who had lost everything they had been in being Searched, or had perhaps lost it all previously of their own motivations. Even he had lost it all through his choice to stand, and his choice to sit at the wrong caravan campfire on one lonely night. Little lost Herderboy with stars in his eyes.

Noticing the change in the man’s tone, and the hesitation, Sebolaren chose to acknowledge the Viridianweyrlings words as a whole rather than focusing on one part. ”I would not say all of us, there are many who come filled with the hope of it all—no other considerations save their luck and honor in being chosen, but yes. Many of us have given something greater than ourselves to these stone walls. I, for one, have nowhere left to go if I cannot make a place for myself here: If I crossed any bridges to arrive here—they have long since been burned to dust.” Unconsciously his bandaged hands closed against their binding as if testing the reality of those words, but the bridge he spoke of had burned worse than flesh.

”I have hope for that, possibly even confidence that I may regret, but it is a thought in my head—that there will be a dragon for me in her clutch.” In fact he had counted the days since she had Risen in the hopes of being ready for her Clutching. It would be a full circle, like a harvest reaped and then sown again. The moment his fingertips touched that railing and his eyes fell on eggs hardening on hot Sands—it would be the second notch in his life. Hatching.

Of course it could be that he would again be unImpressed and he would again leave alone, and again there would be moons to wait—until he aged out. Until it was over. That was the consideration he gave less thought. Perhaps in some cases it was better to have a blind confidence—yet still prepare—and allow life to go on. He could not control the coming sevendays, nor could he control the outcome of the Hatching.

”It is better to accept what the road brings than worry oneself into sleeplessness considering the brigands and wild whers around the corner—for then, when they do come, one will be ill-prepared to handle those obstacles, and will fall to them”

”Aye, I’ve heard that as well—driven to Rise to provide the Weyrs with Dragonriders to fight Thread. I suppose all that can tell us is time, though.” He no longer doubted his Impression past the usual, but the following words that Va’an spoke rang true in him beyond the usual. ”I agree. I believe I am a better man for being left Standing. It made me stronger, it solidified my want to be here, and it pushed me to better myself in many ways I might not otherwise have pursued.

I’d have been a simple Herderboy with a dragon if I’d Impressed then. Now I can be a Dragonman through and through—with some extra lessoning of course: Though Weyrlings in your class have taught me plenty what with my eagerly accepting foisted oiling. And the accidental maulings.” His tone had changed to be rather bleak toward the end, but it was done with a happy twinkle in his eye that bespoke the pleasure he felt at being friends with those who had Impressed in his stead—any interaction, any lesson—was well learned.

Even if it was more the case of ‘hey, I’ve accidentally thrown myself from a cliff, can you oil my dragon?’ That wasn’t precisely pleasant. That expression turned somewhat sour in response to the rule reminder. ”I had not expected it to be quite so strict, but I’ve never been able to break those basic rules—nor even bend them. Truthfully I feel as if I’m likely to be pitched out at any moment.” That wasn’t even touching on what he had to lose from those in charge finding out about his flesh.