Fires Make Everything Prettier [Ruin!]

”Xiro,” came the quiet echo accompanied by a weary, but genuine smile. It had been two days since the fire, and Sebolaren had only just finished a round in the infirmary seeing to those who had been injured—helping in any way that his wounds permitted. While he certainly bore marks, and sutures, as testament for his help during the blaze, he didn’t look half as haggard as the Cyanweyrling. Of course Fel had been wounded, perhaps he was feeling the stress of that—as well as the loss of life. His dragon had keened with the others, had she not? Dragonriders would feel those deaths with vivid emotion the unImpressed could not fathom. ”You’re not looking well; you haven’t managed a bit of rest, have you?”

Genuinely worried now, Sebol took the man by the shoulder with a gentle hand and gave him another look-over from boot-heels to head. ”Why isn’t Avsiran with you, and where is Tigreath? If you have some time we should find a quiet place to take a moment.” Although the ex-Herder wasn’t entirely certain that his blood-brother would give in, there were ways to suggest things to a man such as the Trader that would make it seem as if they’d had the idea all on their own—if need be he’d go with that angle. Common sense had to see the light at some point, and there was something bothering the man enough to have him wavering around listlessly in the Bowl.

As if summoned by the question, or perhaps by a neutral presence around the mostly strung-out Trader, the twins appeared near them in the dusky evening air; both were the picture of a solemnity that was foreign. Both wanted to be near their smaller bonded, that was evident, but almost as if they doubted the man could support their light weight they settled instead on Sebol—necks craning outward as they warbled softly. Perhaps the man was troubled enough internally to have driven off the firelizards; it was curious, but questions could wait for now. Instead of questions, he took from his hip the large wineskin he’d taken to carrying—though it had been repurposed to carry water—this he pressed into the Trader’s hands with a softer smile.

Content to simply watch the exchange between flit and bonded, Sebolaren waited until Avsiran was settled to begin speaking—or to try; because no sooner was Avsiran at Xiro’el’s shoulder than Sigard also made his way cautiously to the smaller man, curling up against that crop of dark hair and singing softly into the ear he exposed. Tiny blue forepaws gripping there, his tail joined his brothers in wrapping around the other side of that slender neck. Now that both flits were settled, and now that the matter of the Trader’s mental state was quite obviously spoken in the firelizards attention, Sebol slid his large hand down that smaller arm and gave a gentle tug to lead the man with him.

”I think I know a good place. How are you feeling, were you terribly injured by the fire?” Of course his blood-brother didn’t seem as if wounded, just dazed—possibly drugged, but if he was drugged then he must have been injured, and if he was this upset then…well. There were a hundred possibilities for why and how Xiro’el came to be like this, the only thing that mattered was his obvious inability to care for himself past the need to run his body into the ground. Which wouldn’t do—it never had. Not intending to physically drag the man across the bowl—not that he needed to in the first place—he had originally released the Trader’s arm, but when the wearied man stumbled for the second time Sebol caught his arm again to help support him.

The place in question, where he had wanted to go, was the stables, but as they drew closer and eventually into that sanctuary of Herderdom Sebolaren saw how this was a very unlikely place to be at the moment. To say it was devastated couldn’t put into words the dragon-gouged wood from where the troughs had been ripped, and even the runners still seemed unsettled. Unable to care for them, warded off by Atenna, Sebol hadn’t even been down to see what state the place was in. Almost wishing he hadn’t laid eyes on it, he offered Requias a gentle smile and soft pat before exiting with Xiro’el again; this time heading for a break in the Weyrwall that would take them out.

Keeping the pace to something the Cyanweyrling could handle without stumbling, but one fast enough where he wouldn’t recognize that Sebol was somewhat coddling him, was a challenge that drew that trek into something of a journey, but eventually they did reach the darkened break in the outer wall that signified the crevice he had used several times with Xiro’el, and Delilah—the most recent when she had cared for his fire-wrought wounds. Allowing Xiro’el to enter first, he followed the smaller man in and sighed softly, feeling with his feet to see if he could find a comfortable position that wouldn’t devastate his back. ”How much have you heard about the fire?”

Being here, inside this place of rough and biting stone, Sebol realized just how debilitating his wounds were; serious though they may not be, and though they would not last as long as most earned on that day, he was still having trouble thinking of a way to lever his larger body down to the ground. His palms weren’t padded enough to allow for support against the stone, and he hadn’t yet found an area smooth enough where he could rest his back—two days was certainly not enough for traipsing around, but the Trader seemed to need a reprieve, and to be honest so did he. The work had been ceaseless until early this morning when they’d finally managed to clear the last bit of rubble from the Hall. Still plenty to do, but he’d been shoo’d away and told to take a rest—a long rest at that—having worked for the better part of the past two days without sleep.

Finally, after much deliberation, he did the only thing he was capable of doing at the time—he simply sat. The somewhat controlled drop to the ground was heralded by his resigned sigh, and then echoed by the hissing gasp of pain that tore from his lungs as the lacerations on his back pulled unforgiving against their sutures. Not that he was quite finished at that point, because the hiss became a cough, and the cough became a fit, and finally when it was all said and done he was laid out on the floor wishing he didn’t have to breathe to survive. At least the stone beneath him was worn smooth; by what, who knew, but the cool against his tunic and bandages was enough to soothe whatever pride might have been damaged in his graceless descent.

”Flamethrower’s what did all those folks in. Been pulling metal parts out of people for days, and scraps of it were found embedded into the stone. One of the Dragonriders had it in there and left it to tend to the fire or something. That was the explosion. Would’ve been fine if not for that—regardless of what all the wherries are saying about buckets or what not. There were plenty of pots, pans, and—as you saw at the stable—water troughs. The blaze was settled in less than a quarter hour from when it started. If not for that sharding flamethrower.” Others might be alive. Of course the original blaze had still charred many bodies to bits; notably in the kitchen, but that was where it had originated and blazed strongest.

”Aye,” the word was soft, mostly because of his damaged lungs and knowing he could speak quietly to avoid coughing, but it also held a weight that bespoke the thought Sebolaren had put into that. Likely nothing would ever come from the incident, as far as he was concerned, the Queenriders were the highest ranking members of the Weyr. Somehow he had the impression that here, where their dragons ruled through way of supplying generations of new dragons for Riders, they were above the law. He had heard no whisper of accusation, nor heard any word mentioned on the matter. Somewhere, deep inside, that rubbed part of him raw every time he thought about it: These were the women he served—or would serve—as a wingrider against Thread. Yet there would be no responsible party for the deaths.

”You would think so, you honestly would,” the words came harsher, and he didn’t bother to cover the anger and resentment that tinged them—if anyone would understand, it would be a Trader. ”Those responsible should be forced to admit their errors even if they cannot pay for them. All this paranoid blubbering about buckets when there were plenty---plenty—of things to carry water in on hand, and yet I don’t hear any whispers about the flamethrower. I’m not even sure if anyone else noticed aside from me and the Healers I spoke with.” Pausing in his speech to take in a breath, he did his best to quell the rising discontent before expelling the air in a sigh. ”Was a sharding grease-fire, Xiro. Someone neglected to properly clean the equipment and the grease lit when the stove-top did and everything caught. I was inside the Kitchen when it happened, with Taavi.”

Likely he wouldn’t forget that anytime soon, not the fire nor his return to that kitchen. Only the cook had been in flames at first—flames he had helped extinguish beginning the layers of burning to his hands and forearms that required bandages from fingertips to elbow—but later there had been only black-char bodies. Save for one. Pushing away those thoughts, the ex-Herder sighed again and then offered a smile up at the Trader. ”How is your sister? She seemed to be alright. I haven’t had a chance to see Taavi yet, or get to the infirmary.”

The worry, and concern for him on a personal level, made him smile—genuinely—and he was quick to reach one large and well-bandaged hand out to pat his blood-brother on the knee. ”M’alright, and yeah; she sharding well forced me away from the Kitchen once my back was badly wounded—threw a tapestry on me to save anyone from seeing. Not that they could with all the char and soot. She did it here, right I here.” Eyes casting around the small place he couldn’t stop the wry flip of his eyebrow. ”Place has seen many a wound—and suture—but at least no more stuck dragons, and no—I’m not stalling—I wasn’t in there when it exploded. I—“ faltering, his mouth curved downward into an unnatural grimace. ”I left to fetch water, I should have dragged Taavi with me; I outpaced him and he was caught in the explosion.”

The grief that Xiro’el expressed was felt by the ex-Herder, as he felt people so well; as he seemed to feel everything. Luckily for Xiro’el, and his oaths and secrets, there were plenty of assumptions his blood-brother could make that would dissuade him or lead him astray of possible curiosities about the situation; even curiosities he remembered from the day of the fire—such as the agony in the man’s eyes, and the way he threw himself into the Hall over, and over again. Because of this, while he felt that agony keenly, he did not assume it was anything other than the mourning of a Dragonrider for the lost—because the Cyanweyrling would have of course felt those deaths more than he himself had. Giving that knee a gentle squeeze he exhaled softly and nodded. ”Innocents should never need to die, but they do, and when Thread falls even more lives will be claimed, but at least Thread isn’t caused by the oversight of a drudge in the kitchen—or by the Queenrider’s of the Weyr.”

If the words should have alerted him to the fact that the man cared for him as something other than a nuisance—or thing to drive absolutely crazy for the thrill of it—Sebolaren was oblivious, instead he simply nodded and agreed with words that were equally neutral. ”I am as well, and selfishly glad I didn’t know any of those lost intimately—though Osro is a memory I won’t forget. The kitchen was one of the worst places in terms of fire damage because it started there.” Another soft sigh as he considered what could have been if that flamethrower hadn’t been there, and then he pushed those thoughts away to listen as the Trader spoke of the wounded, eventually turning to face the man as he stretched out on the cool stone of the floor next to his blood-brother.

”I am glad Fel will be well, and Taavi; it is still hard not to feel anger. They weren’t in the Kitchen—they never had to be wounded, but what will come of it. Perhaps some lessons on where not to have one’s flamethrower.” He could still smell the burning when he thought about it; human flesh and hair had a distinctive smell that one did not soon forget—even runnerhide wasn’t quite so acrid. ”I am sorry, I don’t mean to continue back to the same note; I simply know that you are one of the few with whom I could discuss it. I certainly can’t go bespeak the Weyrwoman when it might have been her.”

For all of his stubbourness, he did quiet when the Trader offered him that faint smile and did his best to soothe guilt—which hopefully would find its rest once he’d spoken with Taavi. The words were wise, and logical, and—they did make him feel better; though most guilt doesn’t readily die. ”Thank you, Xiro’el. You’re right of course. I did drag him out of the kitchen, where I thought the real threat was, I did not know there was a—that—no one could have I suppose, not even the person who left it behind. Or they wouldn’t have, would they? What is that saying, everyone is long in the eye when looking into the past?”

Offering a smile of his own in return he gave the slender hand that touched him a gentle pat with his larger, bandaged, hand—which only served to cause that smile to form into a weary, but genuine, grin. ”Heard you did a fair bit of rescuing yourself—without causing any more trouble. I’m impressed.”

Glad that the Trader echoed his own feelings in so many ways, and that he wasn’t left feeling ripples of anger and confusion concerning the flamethrower and Dalibor’s Queenriders, Sebol settled in more comfortably; echoing the Trader’s movements and rolling onto his own stomach—something he probably should have considered doing when he’d first tossed himself onto the floor. Sigard chose that moment to stretch out between his two bondeds; large wings unfurling to cover both men’s shoulders easily. The little male was only half grown; his wingspan would increase, but it was amusing that he could cover so much area with his sails now—even if they lacked the area of dragon’s wings.

”If you were graduated because then she couldn’t kick you out so much as you could simply make for the North.” There was no anger or bitterness in those words, only amusement. His thoughts of running had left long ago with the truest destruction of the life he had known—and the Impression of his cohort. The Trader had said himself that the ex-Herder couldn’t survive on his own, and Sebolaren would never be able to approve of them both going into Fall, or abandoning their Weyr. Of course with this recent happening there was always the consideration of transferring, but he wasn’t about to suggest that. Not that the man would have wanted to trade one prison for another.

”I’m amazed I didn’t catch as well, though I had plenty of help with bringing folks out, Wherhandler helped with Taavi so I could carry on, which is when I found Osro. Perhaps, if it was the Weyrwoman’s flamethrower, she did pay—with blood. That’s one of the oldest forms of repayment between the Holdless, isn’t it? Blood for blood? We’ll never know, I suppose, unless someone asks—or confronts her—but after such a loss who would want to be that person?” There was one thing that would convince him to speak, he had to admit that to himself. ”Daymar is beyond himself with the missing buckets, and rumors of treachery and murderers. If that persists to a dangerous point I could see myself asking the Weyrwoman for further information.”

”He had cloth wrapped around his wher’s head, but if I know that Bronze—and I do, mind you—it was his idea to drag his Handler out. Good for me, and for Taavi, and everyone else. Smarter than just human senses.” Joining his blood-brother in stretching out on his stomach, or at least trying to do so without scraping at his bandaged hands or pulling at the wounds along his back, Sebolaren sighed softly. He was happy for the quietude that was brought by simply being here away from the rest of the Weyr, at the same time he couldn’t help but sense the turmoil in the other man—hidden, and lost in translation, but there.

The Trader’s reaction to his comment on the Weyrwoman, and the assumption—incorrect—was curious, and somewhat unsettling. Turning toward the slender man while gaining some leverage on his fore-arms so he could fix the Cyanweyrling with a curious gaze, he snorted. ”I don’t care one whit about this so-called bucket thief. No, if I go to the Weyrwoman it will be to ask her who left the flamethrower in a burning Dining Hall. Buckets didn’t do the damage I saw, they didn’t even help it. Everyone was so fast with troughs and kitchen pails—no, it’s the flamethrower I’d be concerned about.” Another contemptuous snort echoed out of his lungs and then he lowered his face back onto the cold stone, not trusting his hands to bear the weight of his skull without pain.

”Bucket thieves indeed. For all we know the firelizards decided buckets were some new prize and ran off with them—least of my concern. Should be the least of everyone’s concern but these sharding rumors and paranoia—well that’s mentality of those what live in stone. Can’t trust one another more than they can throw them. In a Weyr of all places. I expected better.” Falling into silence he was fairly certain that his words would be mostly surprising to his blood-brother, when had Sebolaren exhibited anything but pleasure and duty toward his Weyr, but if he had learned anything from his father it was that rank did not put you above the morals and laws of the people.

Deflated by those words, Sebolaren exhaled sharply into the dusty stone upon which his face lay. ”Nothing, that’s the answer. Probably get myself thrown out for my troubles. I would assume she knows already though, what with the healers pulling the metal out of bodies. Someone would have mentioned it. Maybe there needs more proof, a larger piece—didn’t find much but shattered metal remains that could’ve been anything. Still, what would be done—nothing.” So that was it then, an answer to the problem was to simply carry on as if nothing had happened regardless of the lost lives. What more could be done.

”Aye, s’pose. Whatever comes of it I hope those who took the buckets aren’t found out—they’d probably get the worse end of a stick that wasn’t theirs to be beaten with. Once Couineth Rises things should settle somewhat maybe, looking forward to a new hatching—if Dalibor is used to anything, it’s losing Riders. The orange circle in the crest should be black like the brigands use.” Death mark indeed, that made him chuckle. Sigard crooned softly to the both of them and settled himself further between them; sucking at their warmth as much as leeching a comforting chill from the stone.

”I look forward to snow,” Sebol announced quite out of nowhere into the growing darkness as the evening stretched on into night. ”Also, a little bird told me that you’re pretty”

Having remained quiet while his blood-brother spoke, the response to his tease was startling and it actually caused him to laugh—hard enough to jostle his wounds and make him gasp in pain. Which then set off a terrible cycle of laughing and wincing and wheezing and laughing. Perhaps he had gone temporarily insane, but regardless—this was funny—and it did take him a moment to get control of himself: Sigard simply chittered at him angrily for the movement and disruption, he was comfortable!

”Not me, you daft wherry, Taavi. The Baker finds you pretty, he was asking Khem for you and described you as quite pretty. Don’t feel badly, he told Khem I was large and prone to stupidly heroic acts—so it sounds like the Baker has us pegged, eh?” Pretty indeed, the man must be tired to get such a thought into his head, but it was entertaining nonetheless. ”Perhaps he’s a shipfish as well, Xiro’el, and you two could have a nice romp after this—well after you graduate. I won’t suggest anything likely to wound you or your dragon.” Snorting softly he fell silent, shoulders still rippling with mirth from the situation.

”Although, I suppose I should be wounded,” Sebol wailed quietly, lips pulling into mock sorrow. ”Not interested in me? I’m such a catch, though—the unfairness of it all.” This set him off again but he attempted to make the wheezing laughter sound like quiet sobs as he buried his head in his arms.

”A girl? No—I suppose you don’t, but…I don’t really think he thinks you are a girl; certainly no man could mistake your usual colourful attire and graceful—okay no…I do see the resemblance.” Every fiber of his body quivered in an attempt to keep the laughter inside so he wouldn’t ruin what was a very serious attempt at being serious. Yes, perhaps he did like pushing the Trader’s buttons, but it was always done with the best intentions—was it not? Every time it had ever happened it had served to distract him from that which troubled him, and Sebol would be crackdusted if he’d fail in his attempt at slightly bolstering the man’s mood enough that he could at least sleep.

”Has anyone else told you that you were pretty? Or shown any interest? Perhaps you should find a woman—you might have a lot more in common with them than with a male.” Again with the stilling of his shoulders—the effort caused pain, but was entirely worth it in his eyes. It disrupted Sigard who was torn between why one bonded was upset and the other was not, but as a general rule he stuck to Sebol: Proving this, he crawled onto the large man’s rump (having found this was the only place he could sit that didn’t cause his human to throw him off) and cheeped curiously. Just what was going on here?

Sebolaren was not ignorant of the shift closer to him, and he snaked his head around to settle a very obvious look on the Trader. ”Coming on to me then? I knew it was only a matter of time, what with you being a shipfish and all. I’ll have you know that you’re far too insensible for me, and you obviously lack the necessary amount of duty I would require in a mate. Luckily I can just go about my business and seek out Reylia or Delilah for these matters—both are mostly sensible women. They know what work needs to be done, and they do it.” With a snort at the assumption he scoffed and shook his head. ”It was in fact Taavi; I thought I would spread the word in case you sought some loving companionship, but I see you are disinclined to accept the proposal.”

The indignation buried under all of that exhaustion and fellis-induced fuzziness amused Sebolaren to no end. Literally he would not have stopped teasing the man save that he didn’t want to actually make him angry. ”I have to agree, Requias would make a lovely mate, although I’ve been told I’m a lot like a certain Bronzewher—so maybe Khesk would accept me as a mate. I’m sure you on the other hand could find a lovely woman to keep up with you. “ Snorting at the elbow, though he hadn’t honestly felt it, he allowed his eyes to flutter dramatically as he feigned a swoon. ”Oh yes, you’ve caught me, I love how much of a woman you are Xiro’el, and I want to make you mine.”

The man was daft, but entertaining, and hopefully he’d relax and laugh a little before falling asleep; which was starting to be a lovely idea to Sebol whose mind was also becoming fuzzy as he relaxed—for what had to be the first time in days—in the company of his troublesome blood-brother. As long as he wasn’t stabbed, then everything should occur as normal, eh? Those were his thoughts anyway. Just some rest and relaxation—even the flits wanted to join in as they were curled in nearly identical spots on their bondeds. Though the smaller frame of the Trader made the similarities somewhat off. Lost to his wandering thought he came back to attention only to flash a bright grin at the man.

”Of course,” Sebol agreed amicably, though he really hoped the man would forget everything about this entire pretty conversation when he woke up and the effects of drugs had worn off. A little bit of rest wouldn’t hurt either, so as the man began to fall asleep, Sebol left him to his own devices. Even when the Trader’s breathing had steadied, the ex-Herder found it hard to slip into sleep; it was cooler than it seemed, and he hadn’t expected to spend the night inside the Weyrwall. If Avsiran hadn’t been so wrapped up with his bonded Sebolaren doubtlessly would have sent the twins for a blanket, but as it was he simply resigned himself to it and did the best to relax his muscles.

Really, during the winter, there was no warm on runnerwatch, but he’d been spoiled over the past few months having a roof over his head near constantly. Eventually, however, even he was immune to the effects of sleep calling to his wearied mind—he’d just worked too hard over the past couple days. There’d been too much time spent helping, too little time resting. His sleep probably would have been deep, and restful, if it hadn’t been that the man beside him came awake right as he was on the edge of sleep.