Anything.
Vellath has spent the time since J'lor departed curled up on his ledge, eyes half-lidded, doing his best impression of a large blue boulder. But it is only five hours or so after the initial departure that the dragon lifts his head and then the rest of his body, and launches off his ledge towards the beach. Twenty minutes later, he and his rider are both making their way, on foot, towards The Alley. J'lor moves slowly, one hand resting on the blue's hide. He gives the dragon's chin an affectionate 'chuck' before he begins the craggy climb up to Derek's home. Beneath, Vellath sits and watches.
Derek has spent his time in productive toil, and though he returns to his home some moments before J'lor, he is not far enough ahead that the bluerider will be deprived of chance to note the island king, sweaty enough that his shirt clings down the center of his back, ascending the path along the cliff face before disappearing into the shade thrown by the cave. Shadows are long by now, the sun sinking toward the western waves, and even before he bothers to peel off his soaked shirt Derek collects wood from the meager pile in the back of the Alley and dumps it into the firepit, anticipating a chill wind off the ocean by nightfall. He might know, should know, that J'lor's on his way. He pays no evident mind, pouring water from a gourd into his bent and chipped basin to soak a cloth in, lifting the cloth then to his overheated face.
So Derek is shirtless and sweaty by the time J'lor finishes his own climb and stands in the doorway. He's quiet. Watchful. Allowing Derek a moment to finish this private task before the bluerider draws in a slow breath and speaks. "I made a mess of it," he says simply, "and Odern is going to be a problem."
"I know Odern's going to be a problem," Derek tells the rag of a washcloth he's got held over his features. Then he drags the cloth down, fitting it to his face with the curve of one palm, tending with most pressure to thick brows and mustache - where sweat and salts catch most constantly. He crouches and drops the cloth into the cool water, then looks up at the taller man from that low vantage. "I'm prepared for him to be a problem. He's a Lord, J'lor - in your heart you expect it, too. Now, what sort of mess did you step into?" Not 'make.' The dark man's voice is sandy, soft, even forgiving - already.
"I told him," the tall man says softly, leaning one shoulder up again the Alley's mouth. "I explained that they wouldn't all survive and he...he just didn't care." There is wonder and perplexity in J'lor's voice as he shares this news. It was a response he had not imagined and still, it seems, cannot fathom. "He wouldn't hear it. He just...it's more than being Lord. He's...we're going to have to leave as quickly as we can. I had hoped for better."
"Leave," Derek says, a little surprised-sounding. He rises, knees popping as he gets back to his full height, but he doesn't approach J'lor; he just looks at him for a moment, brows crouched, as if he's considering an alien life form. Then he turns away to get his poor tinderkit from the ragged piles of his few personal belongings in the back of the narrow cave. "Leave a mountain hold with room for dragons to weyr, defensible terrain and potential farmland downslope. With clean water and proven mines." His voice echoes gently forward from the back of the cave, growing a little louder once he's found the stone and strike and is padding back forward to the firepit. "I think we'd be better served to solve the problem of Odern than leave. If it becomes such a mess that someone must go, we outnumber him, J'lor. And he has other places to go."
"I doubt I could convince him to just up and..." J'lor falls quiet and studies Derek in pensive silence. "No fighting," he says quietly. "No hurting anyone. We can't do that again."
"Then we eliminate the problem at its root," Derek says with a little jerk of his shoulders, and after another alien-invasion look at J'lor crouches beside the pit to start building the fire. "From what E'sere's said, Odern thinks he's ruling these folk with a club and a blade. We'll go in, you and I and Nera, and stand between him and the people. It might not be much fun for us, but if the holdfolk and the riders come to know that they come to -us- for what they need - and that we'll provide, and be fair - Odern will be a non-issue."
"I..." there is a small swallow and then a nod as J'lor shifts his weight a little. "All right. We can do that." Another slow breath before J'lor adds, "Still the first day of the eighth month. It's too soon, but I messed it up." A hand lifts to scrub at his face, though the gesture is likely less cleansing than Derek's wet towel.
A small dry fire is building in the little sand-filled pit: a tipi of rough driftwood pieces with shredded bark tucked beneath. "I think E'sere messed it up before you ever got there. If I'd known we were going to be trading a deadline for herbs and ointments I'd have gone myself." Derek's mouth turns thin and displeased, pulling down on the corners of his mustache while his hands pause in fire-building, one curled over his knee and the other on the striking stone of his tindermaking things. He doesn't look up, but asks, sandy and rough, "How bad do you think it'll be?"
"I don't know. I've never seen this sort of training rushed before, and I haven't seen it at all for over ten turns." These words are muffled until J'lor's hand falls back to his side. "We'll start tomorrow and hope they've mastered it well enough that we only lose one or two." The weyrlingmaster falls silent, closes his eyes, and swallows sharply. "As if even that number is permissible. Is something to hope for. He was ready to simply refuse us entrance. I should have let him."
"But you didn't," observes Derek peacefully, while his hands stir into motion again. The tropical weather defies fire this early in the evening; nevertheless, the island king is bent on making the Alley from a cool shelter from the day into a stone-bound sweat lodge. A few harsh chipping sounds, stone on stone, and pulses of weather-beaten muscles later - and he bends low to nurse with bare palms and breath a spark into flame. "You want to go home," he says, once his lungs belong to words again, and looks up as soon as he dares. "Let's hope for zero. That's what hope is for. And prepare for more, in case we have to be prepared. Do you think we should tell them?"
"Yes," J'lor replies to the question, or the statement really, on whether he'd like to return. "That doesn't excuse it. My fault, if they..." He breathes in deeply through his nose and stuffs his hands into his pockets as his gaze settles on the little spark catching hold. "They'll know without behind told. They'll understand, once I start explaining the mechanics of betweening."
Derek leans back into his bent haunches and waves a flippant hand occasionally at the tiny flame, encouraging it to swallow the shredded bark. "Not your fault. They want to go home, too. All of our faults, maybe. Or Odern's." He glances up then, suddenly severe, eyes pale and sharp like knives made from clouds. "You cannot go into torpor again, J'lor, if it should go badly. No matter how much it hurts. You are too needed, now." As if -now- he is more needed than when he half-died before. When he was the Leader.
"No, I won't," the bluerider agrees. "Ana was different. Torpor?" One brow arches and the faintest hint of a smile touches the corner of his mouth. But then the spark of mirth is extinguished by the thoughts that come after and J'lor studies his bare feet with a thoughtful scowl. "I'll speak to the healer about S'val. See what will be needed to move him."
"S'val," Derek repeats, as if he's remembering that's a problem - and unhappy to remember it. But of course, it's an unhappy topic. He prefers to poke at the fire with a fearless, unburnable finger, then look up again and repeat, "Torpor," almost questioning: yes, why was that amusing?
"I don't think I was quite that bad," J'lor notes without much humor. "Just bad enough." To step outside one day and realize he'd been replaced.
Derek finds no amusement in this response, and turns his pale gaze back to the fire. "You should ask Nera, then," he remarks in a sandy near-whisper, and pokes a twig, kindling larger than the shred and smaller than the driftwood, into the gap formed between.
"I think I know Nera's opinion on the subject," J'lor replies tightly, shoulders lifting and shoving back as his spine straightens. "Thanks. I think that's all I had to say. Anything else you want to know?"
"All kinds of things," Derek says, poking another twig into the fire. "What you make of him. What you make of the place. What we're going to need to do first thing when we get there. But it sounds like it's more important that the weyrlings spend every available moment making ready to survive the trip." He looks up, then, and asks, "Would you rather I look into things about S'val? Anything else I can get off your shoulders?"
"You could, I suppose," J'lor agrees quietly. "If I can think of anything else, I'll be sure to say." Yes. Of course he will.
"Anything," Derek repeats, gently, to make his commitment on this count adequately clear. "Go ahead, I don't want to keep you," he says then, looking back at his fire, which has flames high enough now to lick the insides of the structure of driftwood. Satisfied, the black-haired man stands again, his knees popping softly from the strain. "I bet Vellath's glad to have you back so soon."
"He is. He's not used to worrying." A roll of J'lor's shoulders elicits several crackles and pops of his own and the bluerider shakes his head. "Pair of old men," he notes with a small roll of his eyes. "We'll start training tomorrow. I'll tell them after dinner. I'm sorry I couldn't...you said you were counting...well. I'm sorry." And with that, J'lor inches backwards and begins to lower himself back down the cliff face.