Lion of the Night [Cath]

Perhaps he should have been intimidated by the ever-growing form of the gold—for she was Gold—wher that stalked swiftly towards him out of the dim cavernous lighting, but he wasn’t. However for all of his learned serenity around Weyrbeasts since his arrival at Dalibor, he had certainly learned the respect that was deserved by those of Wherhold, weyr, and their bonded. Meeting those angry eyes and bared teeth unflinchingly Sebolaren bowed to the pair—grateful for Reylia’s lessons. Finally he could perform a proper bow that didn’t seem awkwardly out of place with his Herdermannerisms, nor was it sick with pretention; infuriating a Wher was not exactly what he’d had in mind coming down in to the recesses of the caverns.

”Handler Kalenna and Gold Kalesk; I hope I have not disturbed you; I am Sebolaren, a Dragon Candidate. It is indeed a good evening, but as this time is tending more toward the early hours for Wherhold I thought I should attempt to learn the storerooms while waiting for everyone to wake—I did not want to cost anyone their sleep, and these rooms are a maze I should know for myself so that I don’t need to rely on the Whers to rescue me when I become lost.” Straightening as he spoke he offered her a somewhat rueful smile at the corners of his mouth. ”Even as a Holderbred I did not come to learn the inner stone corridors because I was always in the runnerfields. I do, however, have a purpose that isn’t entirely self-serving.”

Scanning the corridor again before his eyes returned to the Goldhandler he did appear slightly embarrassed. ”Someone became stuck in one of the storerooms a day ago, and I’ve come to see if the door simply needed oiling, and perhaps to alert the Wherhold; although I don’t particularly see how a faulty door would be your territory at least you wouldn’t be surprised if you came across crazed surface-dwellers: You know how we can get in tight places.” It was a genuine smile he offered, he had very little problem in accepting the teasing he received from most Handlers concerning his lot in life—in their eyes—as always he probably held far more respect for the Wherhold than most Weyrfolk.

Aware of the continuing scrutiny of the Gold, Sebolaren found himself impressed by her conviction and protectiveness; there had been a Hold Weyr at Ruatha, it was true, but that was a beast of the Blood and not for him to interact with. Other than that Weyr, the only others he’d had occasion to meet had been the wilds which chose to prey on the runners: Perhaps not the most ideal situations in which to gain an appreciation for the beasts, but regardless of their feral instincts the ones that were bonded served their masters to a fault. He appreciated that. Having come here and seen what a force they were within the Weyr proper, well he was certainly sold on their existence—and often sought out Handlers to meet.

Although he had not expected to meet one of the Goldhandlers. ”It is, I will admit , however, that due to my upbringing and various factors surrounding my history and Craft, being left unImpressed was a hard blow to stomach. I decided that in order to Stand again honorably I must prepare myself; make myself more useful for the Weyr through work. I know that, in the end, Impression is so much more than the skills learned, but I feel that I can prepare myself for the possibility of aging out. Perhaps I could still serve a purpose within these stone walls, and to do that—I’d need to navigate them.” That drew a soft smile onto his face, because it was true; he might spend more time down here than anticipated in the future—how useful would he be bumbling around lost?

”I’m afraid that might be my fault, in some ways I am still learning about the hierarchy of Weyrlife. I did not think it was a matter which necessitated bothering the Weyrwoman, and past that I was entirely uncertain of the protocol; what with Dalibor lacking a Headwoman.” Bemusement tinged his voice as his palms spread into the smallest shrug. ”I thought I could kill two birds with one stone and happen upon a Wherhandler who had more of an idea than me.” At her hopeful words he offered a brighter, open, smile. ”That is my hope, Kalenna, but it no longer defines me—I can continue without it if the road goes that way.”

”Perhaps, I would certainly not turn down the opportunity to Stand for a Wher—and would probably do so until life was taken from me. Did you stand for dragons once?” Sebolaren wouldn’t lie, the thought had crossed his mind: Would a wher find him before a dragon did? Would a wher find him long after dragons had not? Perhaps there were others—no, he knew there were others—who would not find bonding with one of the night creatures to be as honorable, or as useful, as bonding to a dragon, but he would not turn down either opportunity. Even if he would miss the possibility of flying; freedom above the ground and in the sky—it was a draw unlike any other.

There were many other positions, and he nodded as she listed them. He would do well serving in many of those areas, and probably more: Whether it was with a wher, or as a Crafter. So long as his secret remained, perhaps so too could he, because behind all of his issues with finding a place within the Weyr, his brand was still an issue often overlooked by others. Not through their choice, of course, but because he still had told very few.

”I am but a Herderboy from the runnerfields of Ruatha, I did not even walk the tables before a dragon carried me away—in my eyes I am less than those who have toiled here for turns, and what I may someday have in rank; that would only be in name. Respect and usefulness must be earned through hard work and dedication. So no, Kalenna, I would not consider it beneath me.” Actually he had been somewhat nervous to speak to anyone when he arrived, and the Kitchenfolk had put him in his place promptly after by swatting him out of their cooking areas—it had taken moons for him to be allowed back in under the supervision of Taavi. ”I hope so, but more because I hope that my…caution…is not a fault.”

Accepting her short-lived tale with a nod, he did not press further; whatever she had been, she was Goldhandler now, one of only two at Dalibor. Purpose; what everyone sought in one way or another, a place in the world to their liking, usefulness; even Xiro’el and his perpetual need to flee sought happiness and a place. It wasn’t here, but it was a place. Although her suggestion was a fine one, it did carry worries for him; still quite convinced he would be hard-put to be accepted into any Crafthall. ”Perhaps. I do believe, however, that I might have made a new start for myself here, and I would like to pursue that—even if it requires I receive further training elsewhere to be of use.”

Thread. His skin prickled with the word in a way that wasn’t at all fear. He respected the coming threat, that was true enough, but he also relished it. What greater purpose to Pern than one who helped combat thread; whether it was as a Rider, a Wherhandler, or a member of the Ground Crews. Did others feel as he did? Possessed to serve against the threat? They must, to be here and not run, that he believed. Those final words, however, did pull a grin from him that might have been partially impish. ”Unfortunately I may have a streak of bravado in me, I have this great urge to help everyone, but I assure you that I am working on it—or rather the wounds I’ve received are helping me work on it.”

”It is my first, and it has been an experience. Until I arrived, I had expected to know only runners and beasts for the rest of my days, but I do not regret it.” Coming here, that was, though he doubted he needed to expand on his words with that much precision: Kalenna did not seem like a stupid woman. “Honestly, that is my hope should I age out of dragon Impression. Perhaps I could even study alongside duties as becoming a Wher Candidate.” Giving a small shrug he contemporized—not entirely sure what Wher Candidacy entailed, nor being at that point in his life just yet. Soon, but not yet.

”Aye, the fire, and other times before that.” Nodding at her words, he did not feel any change within him concerning his opinion of her. ”The Weyr cannot lose her Queens, regardless of the bravery or experience of those bonded to them; that was an understandable decision, and it shows a great deal of restraint.” For one long moment he very nearly asked her the question which had been on his mind since that day; since he had pulled those pieces of twisted metal from the stone while cleaning, since he had asked the healers about the bits of metal being drawn from the bodies of his friends—which Queenrider had left the flamethrower in the Hall. He did not. The words would not come, as they could not, he was bound by her rank, his brand, and his need to survive here when there were very few places he could go.

”The adjustment would probably happen more easily than I expect, the stable already keeps me long into the hours of a Wherhandler’s day,” Sebol replied with a smile, and then that smile turned into a grin at a thought that occurred to him. ”A Herdcrafter Wherhandler would be an interesting occupation indeed, reinforcing to the new-born wher that the runners are not for eating—a few of the dragons still don’t understand that concept—or if they do, they don’t enjoy it. All of the four-leggers are food.” Predators. Much like women they could have their own peculiarities—but couldn’t everyone?

”Aye, willing, though I admit I find myself expendable—perhaps a depressing thought, but I’d rather see me in there than one who is bonded: Far too much to lose, but with me—well—the Weyr rarely hurts for those willing to Stand.” Perhaps it was a bleak outlook, but he didn’t view it as such, it was simply life. He would have run into a burning stable to save the runners—had done it before, and been trained to do it for turns, so why not for human life? Taavi was correct, he did manage to do many stupidly heroic things, but at least they gave him a purpose—for now—until his purpose was more than just himself. Until his oath belonged to dragon and sky—or wher and terra.