Post by tarra on Mar 10, 2010 6:24:19 GMT -5
The letter had come a sevenday after Fort's attack; and even now, two months past, the sheer astonishment and disbelief that had struck him then still remained fresh in his mind, hot in his conscience. He had had nightmares, he recalled, just after that attack; and the thoughts of those who had died or been wounded in obeying Morreliath's orders still brought a bitter taste to the back of his tongue. But the letter had done nothing to assuage these dreams; it had, rather accentuated the nightly disturbances, portents of an uneasy mind and an uncertain soul. He had always been the obedient Wingsecond, the sturdy rock of support to his leaders and the firm backing to their given orders. Did he dare think now that he might lead - when the only time he had been given leadership had also granted a Wing enough injuries to ground over half of them?
The vista of the churning river met his raised eyes, the fall of the waters a dull roar over which the thin calls of dragon to dragon and flitter to flitter could be heard. S'kor's weyr, like most of the bronzeriders', was lower in the cliffs, closer to the turbulences of the river beneath them. From the corner of Morreliath's ledge one could make out the sight of the southern Watch Point just beyond the bend of rock, but it was not the main Weyr that the bronzerider contemplated. His gaze was on the waterfall, on its foaming depths and flying sprays. Not an unfit description of how felt, but the whirl of feelings made it hard to discern, decidedly, just what he felt at all.
He was afraid, he decided finally, his mind reluctantly putting a name to the emotion seething just beneath his consciousness. They had made him a Wingleader, and not only one but also the one in charge of the newly-formed Immunis Wing. A Threadfighting Wing more than a Fighting one, to his relief, but no less important for the function it had: to give form and definition to the younger riders' lives as they left Miles and came into the dragonriders' ranks proper. Not that everyone on Immunis was a younger rider, of course; but there remained the fact that they would be his responsibility when drills or Thread or fighting came. And though they were designated more fr Thread than dragonfighting, he had no doubts at all that fighting there would be at some point or other. No matter what Selenitas had been before, it was now a battle-proven Weyr, and this resuffling of the Wings could not have come too soon.
Which, quite naturally, raised one concern: how would he find in himself the courage and the steel to meet it? The Fortian attack still weighed fresh in his mind: ichor shining and fire scorching, framed by the dying screams of riders and Weyrfolk alike. They had hated him, he remembered, hated him because it was he who had allowed the orders of his bronze to go ahead, he who had been the easiest target for anger born of pain and suffering. And the sense of being hated so vividly had been disconcerting (an understatement, yes, but he did not want to think more deeply than that). He had been afraid, he had known only that he could not let the Fortians get to his people despite their desperate situation; and only his usual stubbornness coupled with Morreliath's overweening confidence had gotten them through without collapsing completely under the strain.
But a leader had to lead no matter what the circumstances; and he feared above all else that his inborn gentleness, his brown-like patience, might someday sear his conscience enough that he made some decision which cost his riders their lives.
That day will not come, Mine. You have always thought too poorly of yourself - though much of that is attributable to your family. You have left them behind; you will not be what you were once, in their shadow.
The bronzerider half-turned, his hazy eyes lighting amusement as he contemplated the large dragon lounging on the ledge beside him. Morreliath had drawn himself up onto his elbows, hindlegs sprawled and tailed curled lazily along the edge of the ledge, his long arching neck raised as he gazed back at his rider. The bronze's feelings, he knew, had little in common with his when it came to considering the carnage that had been left in the Fortian attack's wake. For Morreliath those changes were long overdue, if only out of sheer common sense (who wanted to use wood for a major structure like the Main hall when it could be burned down at a whim?). Neither had there been much regret in his dragon's thoughts of their response to the attack, costly though it might have been. There was only pride - pride that the then-Cyclone Wing had beaten off an equivalent force of Fortians, and pride that it was his Wing that had captured the two hostages who now supplied them with long-needed information. If there were any regret at all, it was for those who had died in the prime of their lives, never fulfilling the potential they might have had otherwise. Morreliath was an eminently efficient dragon, a trait founded on the natural intelligence that gave him a bearing on what each person under them was good at (or good for, for that matter), and he hated wastage. Light flashed over the big bronze's shoulders and flanks, highlighting the healed slashes now fading into scars as he rolled onto his belly.
Besides, you should be glad of how we did during Fort's attack, his mindvoice was firm, We stood our ground, we did not back down, and our Wing did well enough under our lead given those circumstances.
We lost people too, Morry, he added drily, trying not think of names or faces. Eight people had died during that skirmish and its resulting fire, not counting their dragons or whers. It was the highest casualty rate of the targeted sections throughout the Weyr, and it weighed heavily enough on him that he felt sick just thinking of it. He had seen people die before, of course; but never as a Wingsecond or a Wingleader, and the extra burden it gave to his heart just made him envy S'rei and Ka'rys all the more. They had been dealing with this much longer; and they did not have the curse of a beastcrafter's upbringing to burden them with needless patience and empathy. Or compassion. Death was so much easier to embrace without such thoughts.
Yes, the bronze dragon's voice had become soft; uncharacteristically so, But we triumphed in spite of it. And we did it without losing ourselves. You have seen the dying of those under you, and become the stronger for it. If anything, we are finally being recognized for our capabilities, and you are more than you have ever been before.
S'kor sighed, his eyes slipping shut to the roar of the waterfall's turmult, the odd gentleness in the bronze's tone tapping at depths he had forgotten in himself. Had his dragon suddenly become him, with that attendant gentleness and understanding? But...Morreliath was right - of course. His mind and heart were stronger, he knew, then he had ever been before. Stronger than before the Seige; stronger even then they had been before Fort's recent attack. The S'kor of five turns ago would have cringed, turned down everything and run tail between his legs back into the shadow of a Wingleader. Beneath someone who could lead. He had always been the nurturer, the gentle caregiver with a mind of stone that surfaced whenever his mind was set to anything. But the last five turns had turned that stone into steel and that natural empathy into disciplined consideration for how his riders might be used: what they were good for, what they could or could not do. Afraid though he was of admitting it, he was indeed ready for this; agonizing though it was to acknowledge, his mind and soul had become so moulded by death and suffering that he had accepted them as part of life, and moved on in spite of them (or the thought of having caused them).
Crazy Mine? Talking? Think much, too much - think less.
Sky had woken. The blue salamandyr uncoiled from his customary napping position beside the desk and began to stalk towards the ledge, stretching out his limbs and his spine as he moved. Blinking in the wash of light beyond the shadow of the stone walls, he hissed once at Morreliath (a standard greeting, no matter how badly it was usually received) and then proceeded with preening himself, starting from the head and moving downwards.
S'kor watched him a moment, then sighed with a soft smile. No, he would not answer Sky (it would only set off another chain of arguments in which he usually lost). Still, he could not help but reflect that, in a sense, he was beginning to resemble Morreliath even as the big bronze began to reflect depths that were reminiscent of him. How quaint.
How quaint indeed, the dragon noted, just as wryly, tail-tip curling in towards his rider as he ignored the salamandyr who was (and indeed should be) below his notice, Did you really expect anything else? It is as I said when we were weyrlings - stones come smooth through constant rubbing. It is the way of things in life.
The vista of the churning river met his raised eyes, the fall of the waters a dull roar over which the thin calls of dragon to dragon and flitter to flitter could be heard. S'kor's weyr, like most of the bronzeriders', was lower in the cliffs, closer to the turbulences of the river beneath them. From the corner of Morreliath's ledge one could make out the sight of the southern Watch Point just beyond the bend of rock, but it was not the main Weyr that the bronzerider contemplated. His gaze was on the waterfall, on its foaming depths and flying sprays. Not an unfit description of how felt, but the whirl of feelings made it hard to discern, decidedly, just what he felt at all.
He was afraid, he decided finally, his mind reluctantly putting a name to the emotion seething just beneath his consciousness. They had made him a Wingleader, and not only one but also the one in charge of the newly-formed Immunis Wing. A Threadfighting Wing more than a Fighting one, to his relief, but no less important for the function it had: to give form and definition to the younger riders' lives as they left Miles and came into the dragonriders' ranks proper. Not that everyone on Immunis was a younger rider, of course; but there remained the fact that they would be his responsibility when drills or Thread or fighting came. And though they were designated more fr Thread than dragonfighting, he had no doubts at all that fighting there would be at some point or other. No matter what Selenitas had been before, it was now a battle-proven Weyr, and this resuffling of the Wings could not have come too soon.
Which, quite naturally, raised one concern: how would he find in himself the courage and the steel to meet it? The Fortian attack still weighed fresh in his mind: ichor shining and fire scorching, framed by the dying screams of riders and Weyrfolk alike. They had hated him, he remembered, hated him because it was he who had allowed the orders of his bronze to go ahead, he who had been the easiest target for anger born of pain and suffering. And the sense of being hated so vividly had been disconcerting (an understatement, yes, but he did not want to think more deeply than that). He had been afraid, he had known only that he could not let the Fortians get to his people despite their desperate situation; and only his usual stubbornness coupled with Morreliath's overweening confidence had gotten them through without collapsing completely under the strain.
But a leader had to lead no matter what the circumstances; and he feared above all else that his inborn gentleness, his brown-like patience, might someday sear his conscience enough that he made some decision which cost his riders their lives.
That day will not come, Mine. You have always thought too poorly of yourself - though much of that is attributable to your family. You have left them behind; you will not be what you were once, in their shadow.
The bronzerider half-turned, his hazy eyes lighting amusement as he contemplated the large dragon lounging on the ledge beside him. Morreliath had drawn himself up onto his elbows, hindlegs sprawled and tailed curled lazily along the edge of the ledge, his long arching neck raised as he gazed back at his rider. The bronze's feelings, he knew, had little in common with his when it came to considering the carnage that had been left in the Fortian attack's wake. For Morreliath those changes were long overdue, if only out of sheer common sense (who wanted to use wood for a major structure like the Main hall when it could be burned down at a whim?). Neither had there been much regret in his dragon's thoughts of their response to the attack, costly though it might have been. There was only pride - pride that the then-Cyclone Wing had beaten off an equivalent force of Fortians, and pride that it was his Wing that had captured the two hostages who now supplied them with long-needed information. If there were any regret at all, it was for those who had died in the prime of their lives, never fulfilling the potential they might have had otherwise. Morreliath was an eminently efficient dragon, a trait founded on the natural intelligence that gave him a bearing on what each person under them was good at (or good for, for that matter), and he hated wastage. Light flashed over the big bronze's shoulders and flanks, highlighting the healed slashes now fading into scars as he rolled onto his belly.
Besides, you should be glad of how we did during Fort's attack, his mindvoice was firm, We stood our ground, we did not back down, and our Wing did well enough under our lead given those circumstances.
We lost people too, Morry, he added drily, trying not think of names or faces. Eight people had died during that skirmish and its resulting fire, not counting their dragons or whers. It was the highest casualty rate of the targeted sections throughout the Weyr, and it weighed heavily enough on him that he felt sick just thinking of it. He had seen people die before, of course; but never as a Wingsecond or a Wingleader, and the extra burden it gave to his heart just made him envy S'rei and Ka'rys all the more. They had been dealing with this much longer; and they did not have the curse of a beastcrafter's upbringing to burden them with needless patience and empathy. Or compassion. Death was so much easier to embrace without such thoughts.
Yes, the bronze dragon's voice had become soft; uncharacteristically so, But we triumphed in spite of it. And we did it without losing ourselves. You have seen the dying of those under you, and become the stronger for it. If anything, we are finally being recognized for our capabilities, and you are more than you have ever been before.
S'kor sighed, his eyes slipping shut to the roar of the waterfall's turmult, the odd gentleness in the bronze's tone tapping at depths he had forgotten in himself. Had his dragon suddenly become him, with that attendant gentleness and understanding? But...Morreliath was right - of course. His mind and heart were stronger, he knew, then he had ever been before. Stronger than before the Seige; stronger even then they had been before Fort's recent attack. The S'kor of five turns ago would have cringed, turned down everything and run tail between his legs back into the shadow of a Wingleader. Beneath someone who could lead. He had always been the nurturer, the gentle caregiver with a mind of stone that surfaced whenever his mind was set to anything. But the last five turns had turned that stone into steel and that natural empathy into disciplined consideration for how his riders might be used: what they were good for, what they could or could not do. Afraid though he was of admitting it, he was indeed ready for this; agonizing though it was to acknowledge, his mind and soul had become so moulded by death and suffering that he had accepted them as part of life, and moved on in spite of them (or the thought of having caused them).
Crazy Mine? Talking? Think much, too much - think less.
Sky had woken. The blue salamandyr uncoiled from his customary napping position beside the desk and began to stalk towards the ledge, stretching out his limbs and his spine as he moved. Blinking in the wash of light beyond the shadow of the stone walls, he hissed once at Morreliath (a standard greeting, no matter how badly it was usually received) and then proceeded with preening himself, starting from the head and moving downwards.
S'kor watched him a moment, then sighed with a soft smile. No, he would not answer Sky (it would only set off another chain of arguments in which he usually lost). Still, he could not help but reflect that, in a sense, he was beginning to resemble Morreliath even as the big bronze began to reflect depths that were reminiscent of him. How quaint.
How quaint indeed, the dragon noted, just as wryly, tail-tip curling in towards his rider as he ignored the salamandyr who was (and indeed should be) below his notice, Did you really expect anything else? It is as I said when we were weyrlings - stones come smooth through constant rubbing. It is the way of things in life.