Caufar Weyr
Behind These Scars – V'ren's Tiny Story
Written by Tessa for Tath

“Sharding things get heavier every time, I swear!” Gavlin muttered under is breath, voice shifting through a half-octave as his indignation rose throughout the sentence's progress, as the vocals of a lad edging into puberty were wont to do.

“They're not getting heavier, you're just getting punier... Look at how tall you are, all legs and arms, and no muscle!” Varren mocked the other lad as he stepped up beside Gavlin, helping him to shift the heavy agenothree canister up into the small wagon that the High Reaches ground crews would use to transport their spares. Every man, woman or youth working to combat Threadburrows from ground zero could carry a full tank on their own, but as Lord Halinon was fond of saying, better safe than sorry. No sense running the risk of having a canister malfunction, and not being ready with a backup. Unfortunately, no beast was silly enough to stay outside – and remain manageable – in the trail of Fall, so the wagon was to be pulled by the two young men loading it...

“Hey, I've got muscle!” Gavlin objected, shoving Varren in rough camaraderie as soon as the canister was securely tied with the others. To prove his point, Gavlin took a moment to pull one rope-like arm into a flexed posture. His arm corded with toned flesh, but it was lean and lanky, nothing on his partner;  at fifteen Turns, Varren was already enviably broad across the shoulder, trimmed in the waist, and catching the eyes of their female peers... Gavlin, a young Apprentice Tanner, had dexterity and precision, but no brute force to him at all, thinner and taller than Varren, his limbs awkward even if the hands at their end weren't.

Varren had a jibing reply already half-formed in his mind when Jorli, a cantankerous old Healer heading the ground crews, called them to action, her shrill, raspy voice urging the lads to grab the poles of the wagon and get on the road. Varren gave a small sneer at Jorli's high-handedness, even as he set his back to steering the wagon along the track that would follow the ominous fog on the horizon that heralded Thread. Willing to do his fair share of the work, he was. Willing to be overseen by a snaggle-toothed auntie who would probably be put to better use minding toddlers... well, it wasn't Varren's idea of a Gather day.

“Be nice to actually be in the glory of battle, instead of just on mop-up duty, huh?” Gavlin tried to start up conversation, though all he got from Varren was a small nod, and a bit of a shrug. Gavlin was nice enough, eager to lend a helping hand, but as far as Varren was concerned, the lad was too eager, too talkative, to excitable. Who didn't dream of being a dragonrider, really? Who wouldn't want to rise to the ranks of Pern's heroes, to ride with the elite beasts who saved all with their flaming crimson breath? Who wouldn't want to have ballads composed in their honor, learned for Turns to come?

But dreaming and doing were not the same thing...

* * *

“Aw, that's disgusting!” Gavlin cried, staring at the burrow before him, jaw slackened, lips twitching in feverish angst as his eyes blinked in rapid shock at the writhing, silver mass of Thread that was rapidly burrowing its way into the terraced High Reaches fields. The Hold's agricultural presence, though small, was still a necessity to the livelihoods of it citizens, and if the burning filaments of ravenous Thread, hissing as they struck stone, seeking better sustenance, were not immediately destroyed, much could be lost...

“Get back, Gavlin, you idiotic whelp!” Jorli bellowed, roughly shouldering the lad back as she hefted an agenothree canister onto her back, aiming the thin nozzle at the burrow's base and unleashing a torrent of the fluid onto the Thread, effectively scalding and drowning it in one fell swoop. Half of the peril of running ground crews was in keeping young lolly-gaggers from being starstruck by the damnable stuff!

In her effort to decimate the parasite, Jorli never saw Gavlin stumble, never saw him pitch awkwardly towards another burrow, small strands of silver peaking out from between a wide mossy crack in the stone wall that bracketed the terrace on one side...

“Ah! Jorli, no!” Gavlin cried, limbs pinwheeling madly, body twisting into impossible contortions as he attempted to steer himself away from the burrow, but the momentum of the thick woman's shove was too much. Only a miracle could save him. A miracle, or Varren...

Varren felt all of the breath in Gavlin's chest being expelled as he stepped in front of his peer in an effort to brake the other lad. Gavlin stopped, barely, needing an extra shove from Varren to steer him completely away from the burrow, but Varren kept going, his normally stable build thrown off-balance by Gavlin's weight. He himself barreled towards the burrow now, and he threw his arms out, stopping himself against the edge of the crack.

His palms, his fingertips, his knuckles... Everything burned! His vision went white, his muscles jerked spasmodically, and all the sound in the world was blotted out in the face of his screaming, a sound that rose unbidden, harsh and raw, from his throat. He could feel the fire of the Thread searing through his flesh, he could feel it move as it nestled beneath his skin, feeding on the flesh he called his own!

Varren was going to die. Dragonriders could survive Threadfall, but they had a team of Healers at their beck and call, they had dragons to take them there instantly! He had Jorli and a team of burly but ignorant teenagers, far away from the main Holding of High Reaches. Here, in some minor field, by the senseless whim of an unmarked Thread burrow, because he taken a moment to act instead of think, Varren was going to die...

* * *

He awoke with a heavy linen sheet so firmly tucked across his chest that he couldn't actually move, barely able to lift his head from the pillow cushioning his head. He knew he could barely move it because when he tried, his neck sent bolts of pain sizzling along his vertebrae, and his head pulsed with pain. A groan escaped his lips before he could close his throat on the sound, and that was when Jorli appeared.

“Bet you thought you were lost, or dead, didn't you?” she laughed, her eyes disappearing the crinkles of flesh around them as she cast a smug grin his way, tending to the ends of his arms. His arms! Oh, Faranth, did he still have...

“My hands?” he asked, wincing sheepishly as his voice cracked.

“Can't feel 'em, can you? We thought it would be that way...” Jorli remarked, raising his limbs into sight so that he could see the heavy gauze “gloves” binding them. “The superficial tissue damage was extensive but we managed to pull you away pretty quick, soak you good with water, get you here for some quick bandaging... You lost a good amount of the skin and outermost muscle, Varren. It could be be a very long time before you have any feeling in your hands again, let alone the level you knew before. They'll be less dexterous, too. You'll need to do recovery exercises and stretches with them every day, unless you like the idea of having clawed hands?”

Varren shook his head, jaw clenching as he adroitly avoided Jorli's gaze, brow furrowing sternly as his lip pulled into a sneer. Trust the woman to tell it like it was, even if he didn't care for her diagnosis.

“Gavlin's grateful to you, owes you his life, he says...” the Healer pressed on, this time her tone more gentle. “Boy's exaggerating a bit, but to him you've become a hero. Says he'll make you a fine pair of gloves as soon as he can, to repay you.”

Varren's sneer only greatened. What did it matter that Gavlin would make him gloves? Gloves would not repair his hands. Gloves would not take away the pain of his injuries or expedite the laborious, months-long healing process he would need to endures... Gloves... Gloves were a slap in the face!

Jorli, seeing her news was doing nothing to comfort her patient, gave an unimpressed harumph and departed, leaving the lad to stew in his own thoughts, alone in the Infirmary.

* * *

“Do... do you like them?” Gavlin asked hesitantly, tone cautious as he tilted his head to one side. “They're made of kid leather, it's softer and more durable, so you can feel more. I had Master Zhevil help me with them, but the embroidery is all my own...”

The Tanner bit his lip. He and Varren were peers, of an age, and High Reaches was not a terribly large Hold, but the boys were not close. Gavlin had no way of knowing how Varren would react, if the gloves would be well-received or not... Varren hadn't spoken with him since the incident, had made a point of avoiding him, it seemed, the long sevendays. Gavlin was an omega in the hierarchy of the High Reaches youths, and he knew it. What more could he give to Varren than a part of his craft, something he had made – mostly – himself to prove his gratitude? He half expected the other teen to throw the gift to the ground and reject it...

“They'll do.”