Aftermath [Solo Post]

From the bath house, you could hear the Hatching Feast revving up in the Gather Square, full of joyful congratulations and Riders reminiscing fondly about their own Hatchings. Or so Breccan assumed. She had no desire to attend the feast, and no interest in who was saying what at it. With her luck, there would probably be some important pronouncement simply because she wasn't there to hear it.

At the moment though, Breccan was of the very firm opinion that the Weyr as a whole could take itself to frozen between and she wouldn't be troubled. Why couldn't they have sharding left her alone, in a life she was totally content with? In her life, hard work was the key to everything. She had confidently expected to be made a Master within a few Turns, and then it was only hard work and smart politics that stood between her and being MasterHealer. MasterHealer. That was the highest rank she could aspire to and it was something you earned. Here, she didn't know what the requirements were. She couldn't do anything to make herself more appealing to a dragon in general, much less the right dragon. And with that long-necked wherry of a goldling choosing another girl, she now had absolutely no shot whatsoever of any meaningful position.

At first, she had simply resolved in her bitter heart to hate Jada and Krypth with everything in her. It wasn't true that there was no hope. It was true, however, that she had to hope the pair was lost between in Weyrlinghood or eaten by felines before she could even begin to hope for something for herself, and even then, there was no guarantee that Nirinath would produce another Gold at all before she shut down her genitalia for good. Now even if she did Impress Gold she'd be Junior Weyrwoman, sharding Junior. Junior was nothing and no one. What was the point of being here if she could never be anything? At least up North she could have worked her way to something. Master was prestigious enough, if for some reason MasterHealer was taken out of the equation. Here she couldn't do anything except be a good little soldier and cross her fingers extra-hard the next time one of the dragons found herself in a family way.

"Fardles," she burst out, wishing for the vocabulary of a sailor. She didn't know enough curse words to accurately describe her current feelings, to push all of the black rage out and into the world. She needed to break something, to hurt someone, to scream, and she could not do any of those things. No, she had to hold herself together and pretend a stoicism she did not feel, or an optimism she thought moronic, or go to her room and cry. Echlerov had done this and been strong enough -or stupid enough, she reflected- to do it again, and he'd been rewarded. But she had no idea how he'd managed it, or why he'd even wanted to try again. When sixteen dragons flatly ignored you, how did you go back and hope maybe something different would happen?

Well, she thought humorlessly, her fingers finding her face, not completely ignored. No, Echlerov's Blue had fallen all over her and clawed open her face, and some boy's Bronze had bumped her hand. What fine reassurances. This whole place was nothing but trash, the sort of place the rear end of a bovine could produce without even trying. Somehow she'd thought a warm bath could make her forget all that, but she'd apparently forgotten for a minute how sharding stupid that idea was. She had to get out. There was no place you couldn't escape from, given the right circumstances. The biggest hurdle, as she saw it, was a big one indeed: the Southern Sea.

She could leave Katila, that was no problem. Just walking off into the woods wasn't enough to sound the alarm. She'd done that enough herself, though at the time, she really hadn't been thinking seriously of escape. No, she'd been full of a stupid rosy hope. Now that bubble had popped, and she was back to seeing things as they really were. Even if she did Impress, it would probably be to some sharding worthless thing that wouldn't get her anywhere. More importantly, there was no longer anywhere to get. Her only chance at anything was escape. She just didn't know how to cross that ocean. The dragonriders went, now and then, but she doubted she could stow away when the fardling vessel was telepathic and could simply inform the Rider she was there. She hadn't seen any ships, either, not that she had the knowledge to pilot one. Somehow, she guessed it was more than pointing it north and puttering about while it serenely floated you home. She didn't even know where on the Southern continent she was, nor much about the landmass itself. What if it was longer than Northern, and she could sail right past her home and off the face of the planet?

She didn't know how to provision herself for such a journey, or who to approach. She didn't even know if any Seacrafters had ever been stolen, and why would they? Katila probably had no real use for them. Dragons were pretty good boats, when it came right down to it. Ugh. Breccan slapped the water and found that a pretty pathetic way to lash out. It did nothing to expel her rising tide of frustration, hopelessness, and, let's face it, hurt. She was hurt right down to the core of her, torn in a way no dragon could have managed with its claws. Not one! Not one dragon had wanted her, but she'd been studied by a few. At least three had considered who she was and all she'd ever be and found her wanting. She was not good enough. Hard work was not good enough, accomplishments were not good enough, and she didn't know what that left her with, except anger. Anger was a lover who'd treated her poorly in the past, but who she could not resist going back to. Anger was easier than hurt or failure. It was hot and present and alive, and anything was better than the cold death of hopelessness. She could be angry. Perhaps for the rest of her life.

But first, she would escape.