Bitra's Burn: Chapter 2
The Bitran Seven have been targeted, an unknown group attacking them in the most unthinkable way: with firestone in Benden Weyr. Buthaynah searches for answers.
K’leel scrubbed his face in one of the washbasins set outside the third tier of weyrs. He splashed water on his face before drying it with a soft fur towel, moaning with pleasure at the smooth feel of the cloth. He grabbed his toiletries and made his way up the stairs to M’jid’s weyr where he had been staying ever since the explosion that had collapsed his and Pirveth’s weyr and killed their friend and fellow Bitran expat, M’kai.
M’jid was distraught, so much so that he and Glimath had been grounded by H’mrit, his wingleader, until the Weyrhealer deemed them capable of more than gliding. M’jid was a between risk in his current state. He had been close to M’kai and K’leel had known of his feelings for the man. K’leel had chosen to share weyrs with the man more to mask his concern for the pained rider than actual need. There were others in the Weyr who would truly welcome handsome K’leel and comely Pirveth; the greenrider could have stayed with many a man.
But M’jid needed him just to keep going, to wake him in the morning and make sure that the greenrider remembered to eat, and, until such time as the true perpetrators behind the recent incident at Benden Weyr were discovered- and hopefully the reasons behind it as well- K’leel would stay with him. Because maybe, just maybe, K’leel needed M’jid, too.
ØØØ
Galla scrawled the words out on the thin hide, seeming not to notice T’yib looking over her shoulder from his place by the entryway to her quarters. He peered at the words, more in confusion over her unfamiliar handwriting than in difficulty with the reading skill, and was uncomfortable to recognize the subject of her report: M’kai, rider of green Dyath, who had been killed several days before. T’yib looked at the Weyrwoman curiously. Her eyes were dry and her brow was set in a deep furrow. It made the bluerider wonder if she really cared about M’kai or if she was merely intent on her work.
“All riders are important, regardless of their dragon’s color,” Galla said quietly. She paused her stylus atop the piece of hide and clucked her tongue. “Can I help you, T’yib, rider of blue Fiyaleth?”
T’yib swallowed, taken slightly aback by the Weyrwoman’s calm and imposing demeanor. As a Search rider, he had often had to come in contact with minor and occasionally major Lord Holders but Weyrwoman Galla, bonded to gold Biheth, the senior queen dragon of Benden Weyr, was a far more daunting figure to him.
T’yib took a deep breath and looked at Galla, his eyes focused on her cheekbones.
“I would like to inform M’kai’s former hold of his-” T’yib winced. “-death, as well as his relatives, if I may.”
Galla turned back to her report.
“A drum message should be sufficient, bluerider. You need not exert yourself.”
“I would like to tell them in person.”
Galla raised an eyebrow.
“I was not aware you two were so close,” she said blandly. “Would not M’jid prefer to tell them?”
T’yib’s breathing quieted the slightest bit before returning to normal, his voice refusing to waver. “M’jid is not well enough to do so, Weyrwoman. I would gladly take his place.”
“Hmm,” Galla said, putting a finger to her chin, the stylus clutched between it and her thumb. “Bluerider, I would be more inclined to grant your request if you were more honest with me. I tire of your verbal meanderings. What is it you really want, T’yib?” She turned back to look at him, her eyes boring calmly into his skull.
“I speak no untruth to you, Weyrwoman. I dare not,” T’yib returned cautiously.
Galla laughed, a soft, ladylike titter.
“And, yet, you are not telling me the whole truth. Why is it that you, a man whose lover, dragon, and closest friends were all senselessly attacked and injured, have come to me completely calm, asking for permission to make a trip home? T’yib, what logic is it that brings you to me? I am not your Wingleader.”
T’yib said nothing. Galla waved her hand irritably.
“Fine, bluerider. Leave the Weyr. Take the news of M’kai’s death to his family. Shells, take all of your friends with you when you go. Do what you will when you’re back on Bitran soil, I can’t stop you. Just be back for Threadfall.”
T’yib thanked her and saluted the Weyrwoman before turning stiffly and leaving the room.
“It’s not like I can keep you safe,” Galla muttered, watching him go. She sniffed and turned back to her report.
ØØØ
T’yib climbed the stairs next to the Bowl slowly, his hands buried deep in his pockets. Galla’s words confused him, their meaning incredibly unclear. Was she angry at him for wanting to talk to M’kai’s family or was there something more bothering her? The Weyr had been under attack, certainly, but T’yib had been told that the men responsible had been caught and that there was no further danger.
T’yib had never been good at holding anger or fear. His father had disliked him throughout his childhood, blaming him for every mishap in the holding and criticizing him constantly, calling him lazy, effeminate, and unambitious. Tayyib had learned to simply ignore his father’s verbal assaults, brushing his heavy blows away with daydreams and calm thoughts so that they barely stung. By the time he was thirteen Turns and had entered into his first romantic relationship with another boy, that dislike had solidified into avid scorn and disgust. Every Turn the relationship between father and son had grown worse and every Turn Tayyib had become number to his father’s scornful attitude.
It made the recent attacks easy to ignore. They were one more hardship that he couldn’t control and so he focused on S’haiyl and Hamseth’s recovering health and happiness instead. He could not change what had happened and he hadn’t the means to find the minds behind the plot to destroy Benden Weyr’s Bitran riders. The most he could do was to bring the news to M’kai’s family while M’jid was grounded.
T’yib heard the sounds of two men arguing as he climbed the fourth flight of stairs to the Bowl. He thought to continue on as the fighting had the sound of a rather violent lover’s spat but stopped when he recognized one of the men’s voices: L’yown, green Razith’s rider, one of his former flight instructors. He looked to his right, his left leg poised to climb the next step, and found a pair of inscrutable hazel eyes watching him. T’yib recognized B’vlan, brown Yimth’s tall, portly rider, standing not ten centimeters from L’yown, who was looking up at the brownrider angrily. T’yib stilled, anger beginning to boil within him as he decided that B’vlan meant L’yown harm. The brownrider was leering over L’yown, the two obviously in the middle on an argument and T’yib could see that B’vlan with his greater height and weight could easily overpower L’yown.
He called out to them cheerfully to mask his worry and anger. B’vlan’s eyes flashed for a second but then he sighed, his hand stilling on L’yown’s arm. L’yown narrowed his eyes at B’vlan before acknowledging the blonde rider standing behind him. He turned, scowling at T’yib.
“L’yown,” T’yib stalled, not having had sufficient time to prepare an acceptable excuse.
“Bluerider,” L’yown responded crossly, either not recognizing his former student or annoyed enough to not care.
“Can I talk to you alone for a moment?” T’yib asked, his eyes following B’vlan as the heavy-set rider let go of L’yown’s arm sighing and walked back into his weyr. L’yown’s expression soured even more. T’yib began to doubt that his interruption had been a good idea.
“Why? You have no business with me,” L’yown snapped, loud enough for everyone- had there been anyone- nearby to hear. T’yib’s heart skipped a beat when an awful thought flashed through his mind: that L’yown was angry at him for stopping his and B’vlan’s argument.
“I-” T’yib began but L’yown cut him off.
“Look,” L’yown said fervently, his eyes shifting as he took in their surroundings. “Your weyrmates with S’haiyl, right?” T’yib nodded, confused. “And both of you just got attacked. Don’t try to sell me this runnerdung about it being an accident. I’m not stupid,” L’yown said quickly. “Dyath was killed. Hamseth was attacked. Look at it from my point of view: one of the top five most-sought after greens is dead and another’s rider is injured. Do you know how bad this looks for me, bluerider? I’ll tell you: bad, really, really bad. They were both in competition with Razith and every sharding other greenrider knows it. I’m thinking your pretty little greenrider didn’t tell you about that nasty little fact since you started sharing furs again but for a while there he was some well-wanted meat around here.”
“I simply wanted to ask you a question-”
L’yown jerked his head in a bare semblance of a shake, cutting T’yib off.
“Well, don’t. Razith and I are getting enough odd looks as it is and we’re too old to be switching Weyrs over a greenfight. Shells, man, don’t you understand? You can’t talk to me. Ever. If anyone, anyone in this blasted Weyr who doesn’t like me sees me talking to you or sees Razith so much as look in your dragon’s direction, we’re through. I’m not going through this again just because some pretty green couldn’t stay with her weyrmate.”
L’yown winced and ran his hand through his hair which T’yib realized for the first time was thinning. Perhaps the greenrider had a point. An awful, calculating point.
“I don’t mean to be so harsh, T’yib,” he said slowly, as though weighing his words carefully. “But things are getting very…strange… around here and it’s not the first time something’s happened to a green or her rider because she was competition. I’m glad you’re with S’haiyl and I’m glad Hamseth’s next flight won’t be contested, and I’m not going to deny it. It’d be better for everyone if you just stayed away from me, bluerider.”
“I meant no harm, L’yown-”
L’yown shook his head.
“Just leave me alone, T’yib, and things will be fine.”
T’yib nodded and, shoving his hands back into his pockets, walked away, L’yown’s words trailing after him.
AN: I've been getting a lot of conflicting reviews over at FF.net for this fic and Bitra's Bite, saying that they like it but it meanders, it's interesting but there's no plot, it's insightful and intriguing but there are glaring cosistency errors and canon mistakes. *sigh* I've already realized that I'm being told I pretty much suck at multi-chapter fics which I'm going to have to agree on because I had similar problems with Can It Really Be? and A Brush With Celebrity, both of which I'd be happy to scrap. Arbeit Macht Frei is also difficult to keep up with because of its format of showing three POV per chapter, which I think I'm going to abandon if I want to finish the story. A Boy Queen is probably my best but even there I have difficulty finding a strong plot line. How do the teeny fans, the ones with no grammar, spelling, or realistic characterization abilities, write so many longfics? Honestly, you go over to any site and there are 45, 60, and 70 chapter fics. How does someone write that much?!
God, I feel pathetic.