Fireseared my Weyrheart [Cath]

What he really wanted was for her to return to where she was needed, where they both were needed, but arguing with her would only draw out what could be a swift exercise—then they could both return: That, and she was doing it for him, specifically, to keep the secret she had never had any intention of learning. Grateful for her friendship, and yet guilty for it, he dropped the tapestry from his shoulders, flicking it to the side heedless of the protest from his seared hands. Not wanting to keep her longer than necessary, and knowing she would need access to his wounds, he gathered his resolve and simply stripped away the tunic as if tearing a bandage from flesh—one quick movement. Luckily, many of his wounds had not clung to his tunic; he lost less flesh than expected.

Heart rate slowing, and a numbness overcoming him as he slipped into a wearied state where his lungs could hardly find the freshest air to breathe life into him, he simply allowed her eyes to see the obvious wounds. The tightness and angry pain across his back felt as if he’d lain on three metal railings, and he could feel the blood mixing with sweat as it swirled down absently toward the ground—that, he assumed, would be the worst of the damage. There was nothing to be done for his hands, either, save to bandage them completely from fingers to elbow; he held them out for her inspection and sighed softly. ”They should heal quickly, I hope, if you can bandage them enough to protect them, but so I can also use them—to work.”

She, out of anyone, would understand his resolve for what it was—he did not doubt she would spend the next day or two at the camp working until her fingers bled, acquiring the distinct tint of redwort into her hands, and he—he would be lifting, and dragging, and moving the dead and destroyed. All must do as they could to continue on through this pain, yes? In the Bowl, far beyond the outer edge of their quiet piece of Weyrwall, Kalith had settled, but he still felt that pain deeply—all of it. Delilah would feel it worse. ”Is there anyone,” faltering over the words his jaw tightened to control the ripple of worry that passed through his weary fire-seared voice. ”Were any that we know intimately brought out dead?”

Part of him hated the qualification—intimate—as if any loss of life was acceptable, or less potent, but now that Delilah was here—away and safe—he found himself worrying for those he knew who were still out working. Names and faces flashed through his mind paired with questions and worries, even Sigard echoed the anxiety, but refused to leave his bonded: Instead the firelizard twined himself more tightly against that booted leg and keened his own sorrowful song much in the way of Herders—the haunting melody filling the cavern as it echoed the inward pain of the man to whom he looked.

At her command he sank to his knees as if a tree felled with a great axe, and there he remained; head bowed and awaiting her ministrations. He was numb—not as she would worry, or expect, but inwardly there was a calm in his soul that would amaze him in later days. He simply waited: She would do her duty, and then he would do his. Under his own power he would return to that distant stench-filled waste of burned wood, twisted metal, and melted bodies. He would stay until it was finished, without sleep, without food, and he would barely recognize when the ordeal was over. It was how he coped in those first few days. It was how he got through one hour to the next. Then, kneeling there in the crevice, he could not see the scope of his actions, but long after the numb had faded to a distant pain he would.

Large fingers closed over the canteen that was offered, the roughness felt like sizzling against his seared flesh, but instead of putting it to his lips he placed it beneath his nose seeking any hint of herb or plant that was not water or wine. ”No fellis, correct?” Realistically she should not be of rank to handle the plant that would dull him and render him useless, but he could not trust that the Healers had not passed it out as if numbweed or bandages in this time of need. It was not, and they had not, a small grace. If he had been a different man he would have been forced under its effects, but his brand had saved him from uselessness. Instead of a stay in the infirmary he would instead be able to hide the severity of his wounds beneath tunics like he hid the inky black that dwelt within the flesh.

With a quiet curiosity he wondered if the red-hot metal that had marred his back had rendered some of those markings out of existence—it wouldn’t matter of course, but it would be a curious fact if fire had burned even an inch away: Redeemed that one small segment by his duty. Grunting an agreement to her words—he would tell her—Sebol finally lifted the canteen to his fire-chapped lips and choked down a swallow past his ruined throat: The liquid burned its way down much like the smoke that had filled his lungs previously, and it was a terrible pain that doubled him with fierce coughing. He would never feel cold again.

He accepted the pot into his sensitive fingers as well and gazed at it with weary but cautious eyes. Whatever it was, it did not smell of anything that would ruin him and somewhere—he knew—she would see the need for his body to still work under his commands. There was no great threat in him working to exhaustion, there was no dragon for him to see after or worry he was destroying with the lifelessness he felt inside. Sebolaren was simply the Candidate, the ex-Herder, the man who could lift, and pull, and dig, and strive to fix. There was no reason for her to drug him into a stupor. If any of his friends would understand his motivation it would be her—she would have as much free time as he did, dragon or no.

It tasted disgusting, not that he had expected otherwise; he spooned it into his mouth on fingers that had not been badly flame-kissed, but the caution was unnecessary. Though the mess proved to sting slightly on contact, it soon brought a chill to even his fingers that was pleasant—in his throat he could feel the vapors as if torn flesh had turned to sweet spring. It was amazing. Swallowing for what felt like the first time since the word ‘fire’ had been screamed into the kitchen, he reveled in that which he had taken for granted—the simple closing of his throat without the pained scrape of tortured flesh on flesh.

Even the work on his back was barely comparable to the pain of the wounds themselves, only the barest ripples crossed his muscled back in reaction to her swipes of damp fabric, and they were like shivers on a chill night. It could have been so much worse, and she would certainly see worse before the night was over—many of her patients would scream as she worked clothes from their charred flesh. Then there would be blood, and infection, and the smell of Southern nuts—then talk would turn to mercy or amputation. Sebol did not envy her the days ahead, even when she would be more likely to feed and nap than he.

The dead could not cry out their pain to him, the destroyed wood held only distant memories, even wounded runners could not beg for their mothers as their time drew closer. No. That was not a work he wanted to bear—not now, not ever. The smile he tried to muster at her words failed before it was even a promise on his face and while he agreed with what she had said—Daymar would likely have a fit and then wonder if he had died—what he spoke was vastly different. ”I pulled the Weyrwoman’s son out of the kitchen.” It was a burden he could not carry quietly, perhaps it was selfish to speak the words, but he still saw that crop of light-kissed hair and it was a stone against his heart.

Sebolaren did as he was commanded, lifting the cool fluid to his lips again; this time it did not cause him to hack or retch against its touch on his throat. Sigard crooned up at him piteously, and then Avsiran was there—both sets of faceted eyes were messes of orange and yellow that only reminded him of the licking flames. Comforting them as he could, they were able to settle between his knees in a pile of warm smooth dragon parts that rumbled and crooned and warbled songs to him. It made him wonder where Xiro’el was, but Avsiran did not act as if his bonded had passed away. Nothing to be done for it now, not while Delilah took time away from her Weyr to tend to him inside the stone walls—soon, however. There would be time.

To mourn. To bury the dead. To cope. Not now. He sighed softly and cocked his head to the side so he could gaze back at Delilah—or try. Really he wasn’t able to catch sight of anything save for her fingertips sweeping past as she prepared his flesh for what he could only assume would be the sutures he had known would be necessary: Blood was unnatural for burns. ”You are an amazing woman, Delilah, and a Dragonrider—you will get through this. Through all of it.” She didn’t need his words, and yet perhaps they both did. The silence, for once, unnerved him—he felt as if he could hear the screams of the dying sweeping past the entrance to their hidden sanctuary.

Such as it was. Still, she had Agnith; undoubtedly she would fare better than he. Although, there was always Daymar to worry about: Daymar who would see past his charades and did not have a dragon to distract him. He had not seen Daymar there—did not think he would be there, and Delilah hadn’t seen him either. Hopefully the man was safe—wherever he was.

While she rested against him he remained still, giving her what time she needed—what little time she had—to simply be, and exist: The coming days would be a nightmare for the both of them. The litany of her words did not drown out the pain of that first needle-thrust, and the movement actually drew a hiss of breath from between his teeth—not from pain, there was none, but from the noise it made against the crackled flesh that bordered the lacerations. His worst wound indeed. As she spoke on he realized just how bad they must be—it was her expectation that they would become infected.

Hopefully they would not; of all the things he could weather infection was not one: Not because he was weak, or worried, but because of the Hatching everyone assumed would fall during Winter. He could not—would not—miss a chance to Stand. Not when he was so close to achieving the community—the purpose—that he wanted. Luckily, no one had to know, but if his wounds festered…well. They wouldn’t. There was no other option. He would bathe in the ocean and change his shirt on every hour if that is what it would take. Perhaps he would even return to the fire and press his back against smoldering ruins to cauterize the lacerations.

Of course he wouldn’t ruin Delilah’s work like that, but it was something he should have considered while at the fire—not that he had known his back had been cut to bleed. Unfortunate; as was his startled jump at Daymar’s sudden appearance—completely unexpected: He winced and gave another drawn out hiss as his movement caused Delilah’s needle to dig deeper than the numbweed had touched.

Twisting his head around he offered up what he hoped would be an encouraging smile to his room-mate. ”Thank you for bringing clothing, Daymar. She’s tending to my wounds; I can’t be seen by any other Healer.”

”Because the last thing I, or frankly anyone, wants to deal with currently are the marks on my back. If they were discovered at this moment it’s entirely possible the fire would be blamed on me simply because they brand me as bad.” The thought had honestly not occurred to him until he had to speak the words to Daymar, and with an inner chill he realized how true they were. Sebol would be blamed, or at least be under intense scrutiny—people going through trauma did not like change or new things; he would become new. He would be bad. This formed a crack in his inner calm that would take the better part of a night to mend, but he weathered the distraction well—mostly by distracting himself with pressing matters such as tending to the Weyr.

Question answered, and with more brutal truth than he had expected, his eyes returned dispassionately to the back of the crevice before they cast downward at the firelizards still twined between his legs. Hopefully Daymar wouldn’t bother them; they deserved a break more than most—he still had the vivid image of Sigard appearing above his head in the maelstrom: Both of them must have been terrified. For all intents and purposes they were napping now, minding their own business—for once Sebol wanted to believe Daymar would do the same. Unlikely, but miracles were possible.

The forgetfulness was not amazing to him; the man still refused to believe he had bonded to a firelizard even after months of evidence—Daymar would ignore anything in the face of the easiest answer. The reverse was probably equally true, so it was actually amazing that he’d managed to befriend the Candidate instead of immediately being taken as horrible (the easiest answer) in lieu of actually discovering who he was—ah well; another thing to be grateful for. Later. Sebol shifted gently on his knees to balance his weight from the shifting done when Daymar had appeared, careful not to jostle Delilah at her work, and then he settled in—answering the question as he could.

”A fire broke out in the kitchens, a grease fire built on several layers of unwashed stove-top. It spread through most of the racks and the wooden cutting counters. It spread out into the Hall by way of the service counters. There…I think— It didn’t really matter what he thought. The metal he had seen lodged into the twisted tables, in the walls, inside bodies. There hadn’t been anything like that in the Dining Hall previously, and he had his own assumptions from scraps he’d managed to pull free, but those were only speculation: Nothing to fill the minds of others with. ”We do know that the buckets were missing, though many people re-purposed cooking pans, pots, and even water troughs from the stables.”

Pausing momentarily to allow the vivid flashes of filed memories—his snapshots—filter across his mind, he gave a soft sigh and continued. ”At least four Dragonrider’s dead from the talk from the bivouacked Healers. Countless Weyrfolk dragonless weyrfolk dead. Countless injured. The Weyrwoman’s son among them. The smoke spread to the Infirmary.”

”I do not know, though from the destruction in that part of the kitchen I assume they have expired. Many of the corpses in those depths had been reduced to charred bone and ash—save for the Weyrwoman’s son who had been protected by one of the cooks.” If he wanted his questions answered he would have them, but with none of the usual tact Sebolaren might have used for speaking to Daymar. The nervous man would hear far worse in the coming days—best to hear the facts from someone who had been there now; even if he was likely to ignore what he was told in favor of his most favourite rumor or saboteur plot.

”I am uncertain. I have guesses, and assumptions, and some small evidence, but until more of the area is cleaned—scraped—the bodies are washed and cleaned: Everything is speculation. You are correct, Daymar, fires do not explode.” As for how he received all of this, well; that was fairly simple. ”Carrying out the living, or in the case of the Weyrwoman’s son—the dead. The bolts on the pan rack in the kitchen must have melted and the entire mess of it fell onto me. They are the worst of my wounds.” The worst of those on flesh, anyway. Even he knew that the smells, the sounds—those would not be quickly forgotten.

The ex-Herder couldn’t help but smile at Delilah’s chiding words; ever his protector—even when it meant boxing him around the ears and giving him what-for. It was endearing, and though he would most likely tease her more than show honest appreciation—he did feel indebted to her beyond words. Perhaps one day he would be able to perform a similarly selfless service simply to help protect and hide her.

”Aye. I removed quite a few bodies which were still identifiable when I realized that the living were clear—any who can claim theirs deserve the peace of mind: Deserve something more to send between than a pile of dust.” Privately he wondered if that would be how he died—taken by Thread and winking out of existence with nothing left to mourn. Or perhaps he would lose his dragon and be simply a broken shell of a man: Dead to the world for all intents and purposes yet still clinging to a tenuous connection of life. Better that—in some ways—than a family left to wonder if their loved one was chardust or simply missing. Perhaps the smoke had twisted down into the caverns and there were those who slept a slumber of acrid asphyxiation.

”Thank you, Daymar. I am lucky, but I needed to help those who were injured—or otherwise.” Some would not approve of his brazen act of heroism, some would understand—none would want to hear the words that he found himself more expendable than those who were bonded, or useful. He was just one of many Candidates, another in a long line, and he could give himself wholly until that time where he was bonded and called to something greater than himself. Then, and only then, would he place his life ahead of another.

When Delilah finished he turned on his knees, the firelizards mewling piteously at the movement and crawling onto his thighs to cling to him uncertainly—eyes swirling anxious yellows: They weren’t ready to let him go, but somewhere in the back of his mind he was disturbed that Avsiran was not with Xiro’el. Extending his seared palms to the Healer he offered her an encouraging smile—at least he had not lost his fingers. They would be sore, and sensitive, but nothing aloe and sevendays bandaged wouldn’t fix.

”Reylia was directing the water line and beating those too slow to get out of the way—out of the way. She is a wildcat in a crisis. Xiro’el—“ Sebol trailed off, his eyes on the dark Blue flit on his thigh before they cast upward to the flashes of pink hide outside the crevice opening that was Agnith. ”We would know. He was pulling wounded from the fire when I last saw him. We would know.”

The repetition was firm, but tinged with a faint uncertainty as if even he did not believe it—why was Avsiran with him and not his bonded? It was disturbing, and if he hadn’t been possessed of that unexplainable inner calm he might have charged off to find out for himself. ”I believe we lost a Candidate, I heard—words, I’m not certain who it was. I was headed back when Delilah whisked me off to tend to me.”

Those words were not reproachful, simply explanatory—he was not upset that he had been pulled away, she was not, in this case, a silly woman: She was doing what was necessary, what was needed. Otherwise he might have lost everything—his Candidacy, his friends, his entire life. Her words brought a nod of recognition and acknowledgement from him; if his back was a horror his hands were not far behind—they’d lifted and prized far too many burning objects off of the injured.

Even the scrap of metal he had touched had seared him and cauterized already wounded flesh. They would heal, but she was right—the skin would be sensitive and weak for sevendays, if not moons. As long as he could stand he would weather it all like a ship in a sea-storm. There was nothing else he could do. ”Thank you, Delilah. Without you—“ the words fell off into the hypothetical: Without her, everything. It was incomprehensible.

”Probably,” Sebol answered with little conviction. Or the man had consigned himself to the flames—but they would know: Tigreath would have betweened and they would know. Perhaps he was resting and Avsiran had sought out the company of one who was not in a slumber—the firelizards were still nervous, confused, and worried: He soothed them with a calming stream of fuzzy thoughts mostly born within him through the care and regard Delilah showed in tending to his wounds.

It was not a happy thing, to know a Candidate had died, but—selfishly—Sebolaren knew that those he loved were safe, even G’dan who he had helped pull out of the smoke-filled infirmary. That which he cared for was accounted. Brief moments of selfish thoughts would be common during a crisis such as this: It was hard to mourn for those you did not know while also rejoicing that you had not lost the ones you did. Weary soot-reddened eyes turned to Daymar and he offered the man an encouraging smile; aware of how bravely he was coping regardless of the death, the wounds, and even the firelizards that still clung pitifully to Sebol’s thighs.

”I am not sure how much I should say, please take these words as only consideration, but the metal I saw—that which was buried in the flesh of those in the Dining Hall—there was nothing in the Hall that could have done that save for…what I believe…was a flamethrower. I have no solid evidence yet: May not until the Healers pull metal from more bodies, but I plan on trying to find at least one identifying piece while working.” Pausing, to allow that to sink in, he continued softly. ”One of the Queenriders must have left it in the Hall when the shout of fire went up.”