Post by tuathade on May 31, 2011 19:49:13 GMT -5
I’saac was not coping well.
Not that there were good ways of coping with losing a dragon. But there was not coping well and then there was... not coping well. The former greenrider was lucid about half the time, still. (And quietly suicidal, whenever he had the presence of mind to think about it.) Half the time he was almost happy, almost his old self, to the point where C'ross could very nearly relax. (Except that those were the non-lucid periods when he hallucinated that his dragon was back.)
Merceth was not much better. Every day C'ross quietly thanked Faranth for Weyrleader Lanakirene - well, no, not Weyrleader anymore. Only Weyrleader for a short time, though C'ross still called her that in his head. Regardless, she was Master Dragonhealer first and foremost, and she had been beyond valuable. She'd kept the gravely injured bronze calm, and she and her staff worked gently but efficiently. Merceth still hated the healers, hated being handled and poked and prodded and stitched up, but as long as C'ross or Lanakirene was there he was not truly frantic, not to the point of making his injuries worse.
Needless to say, they both needed constant watching.
Nearly four sevendays had passed since the prison break, and Merceth was at last on the mend. He hadn't attempted much flying yet - not until he grew used to the lack of depth perception and his limited field of vision, at least - but the gashes left by teeth and claws were closing into fresh scars, and he could at least walk short distances without much more than stiffness and discomfort. The bronze was a tenacious, willful creature. And on this particular morning - blazingly hot without a cloud in the sky - he'd risen from his shelter, shaken out his wings, and announced quite firmly that he was going to go see Semith and the eggs.
No. Merceth growled softly in response to C'ross' protests, the enormous eye in the window whirling briefly orange. You are going to stay here, with I’saac. Better yet, take him somewhere nice - or sleep, you could use it. We don’t patrol anymore; might as well take advantage of that. The bronze’s mindvoice was tinged with bitterness. C’ross had accepted the necessity of stepping down from his position as squadleader, at least for the time being; his dragon was significantly injured, and C’ross himself barely had the time and energy to keep himself and his weyrmate functioning, let alone an entire squad. Still, it had felt like a bitter and humiliating defeat to stand in front of the new Overseer for the first time, only to formally resign his post.
The shiny rock with its vein of quartz, picked up on the day that Semith ran (and that seemed a lifetime ago at least) still lay in its place in Merceth's wallow. He picked it up in his jaws, huffed a curt I'll be back soon, then took off for the Hatching Sands. On foot took longer than by air, longer still when he had to pause and rest on the way. It was late morning by the time he reached the gold's clutch lying on the sands, the bright Southern sun beating down heavily on the bronze's dark back. He quietly requested permission of Kith, then approached the queen brooding over her eggs. And what a beautiful clutch they were… Generous in number, brilliant in hue and design.
You and Kith made beautiful eggs, Semith, Merceth greeted softly, laying his meager gift on the sand. He did not approach too closely, not without invitation – Semith was a sweet creature, but she was Kith’s, and she was a mother brooding over a clutch. That meant keeping a healthy amount of respect.
Not that there were good ways of coping with losing a dragon. But there was not coping well and then there was... not coping well. The former greenrider was lucid about half the time, still. (And quietly suicidal, whenever he had the presence of mind to think about it.) Half the time he was almost happy, almost his old self, to the point where C'ross could very nearly relax. (Except that those were the non-lucid periods when he hallucinated that his dragon was back.)
Merceth was not much better. Every day C'ross quietly thanked Faranth for Weyrleader Lanakirene - well, no, not Weyrleader anymore. Only Weyrleader for a short time, though C'ross still called her that in his head. Regardless, she was Master Dragonhealer first and foremost, and she had been beyond valuable. She'd kept the gravely injured bronze calm, and she and her staff worked gently but efficiently. Merceth still hated the healers, hated being handled and poked and prodded and stitched up, but as long as C'ross or Lanakirene was there he was not truly frantic, not to the point of making his injuries worse.
Needless to say, they both needed constant watching.
Nearly four sevendays had passed since the prison break, and Merceth was at last on the mend. He hadn't attempted much flying yet - not until he grew used to the lack of depth perception and his limited field of vision, at least - but the gashes left by teeth and claws were closing into fresh scars, and he could at least walk short distances without much more than stiffness and discomfort. The bronze was a tenacious, willful creature. And on this particular morning - blazingly hot without a cloud in the sky - he'd risen from his shelter, shaken out his wings, and announced quite firmly that he was going to go see Semith and the eggs.
No. Merceth growled softly in response to C'ross' protests, the enormous eye in the window whirling briefly orange. You are going to stay here, with I’saac. Better yet, take him somewhere nice - or sleep, you could use it. We don’t patrol anymore; might as well take advantage of that. The bronze’s mindvoice was tinged with bitterness. C’ross had accepted the necessity of stepping down from his position as squadleader, at least for the time being; his dragon was significantly injured, and C’ross himself barely had the time and energy to keep himself and his weyrmate functioning, let alone an entire squad. Still, it had felt like a bitter and humiliating defeat to stand in front of the new Overseer for the first time, only to formally resign his post.
The shiny rock with its vein of quartz, picked up on the day that Semith ran (and that seemed a lifetime ago at least) still lay in its place in Merceth's wallow. He picked it up in his jaws, huffed a curt I'll be back soon, then took off for the Hatching Sands. On foot took longer than by air, longer still when he had to pause and rest on the way. It was late morning by the time he reached the gold's clutch lying on the sands, the bright Southern sun beating down heavily on the bronze's dark back. He quietly requested permission of Kith, then approached the queen brooding over her eggs. And what a beautiful clutch they were… Generous in number, brilliant in hue and design.
You and Kith made beautiful eggs, Semith, Merceth greeted softly, laying his meager gift on the sand. He did not approach too closely, not without invitation – Semith was a sweet creature, but she was Kith’s, and she was a mother brooding over a clutch. That meant keeping a healthy amount of respect.
