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There were times when T'rus was inclined to allow interruptions. Now, as he was bent over the riding straps that the weyrlings were only just learning to create, was not one of those times. Riding straps were not coming easily to him. They were coming easier to some of the other weyrlings. He did not like this fact. Of course, he wanted his peers to do well. But not better. Better was a problem.

When Shine appeared nearby, crooning anxiously, T'rus was all set to ignore the flit. He frowned, made a vague, dismissive gesture, and lowered his head to his work. It was then that the images, blurred, brief and confused, hit him. Captain, perched on Akerth's back, and Lord, on T'rus's shoulder, were immediately agitated, and T'rus could hear his own breath drawn in with a low angry hiss.

He stood without planning to, without intending to. He stood because Shark was bleeding somewhere and somehow that mattered, mattered sudden and sharp as a blade. Later, it might bother him, that it mattered so much. But for the moment, he was not capable of such analysis. And Akerth, who surely was, said nothing, only stood and followed with neither objection or comment.

There was a problem with approaching a wounded Shark. Particularly, that he was wounded, and other than nursing his own injuries when he was younger, T'rus really didn't have much experience with that. there was, as well, the issue of pride. Back when he was Shark, that is, back when he was like Shark, he had not really liked being seen while injured. He had nursed his wounds with silent resentment, unwilling to share that pain.

But now, he was here. He had come without thought or preparation, had responded on instinct instead of reason. It was not wise, to do so. But he had come because he had to come, and having come, it was too late to retreat. Seeing Shark, wounded and bleeding, he would not be able to bring himself to do so.

"Shark," he said. He did not have words for this. The script was unfamiliar. 'Are you okay' seemed like the most foolish possible question. And what he said, when the words got past the anger and concern and awkward discomfort was, "I'll deal with them."

And he would. Oh, he wouldn't fight. But, he wasn't Shark. He had allies. He had people who would happily return a favor by roughing someone up. People he could drop the right complaint too, whisper the right rumor to destroy a reputation.

Sitting down across from the other boy, he took out his belt knife and cut a strip out of his sleeve. "Use this."

He was moving slowly, with care. He made no attempt to touch the other boy, though there was an odd instinct to offer such physical comfort. Instead, he kept his gestures careful, non-threatening. Now was not the time to challenge Shark's instinct to run.

"'course it wasn't." T'rus agreed, his tone level, with not even the slightest hint of reproach or disapproval. "It never is."

It was a statement that could have been sarcastic, but was said with something more like sadness or remembered disgust. It'd never been his fault either. No, T'rus was certainly not one to blame the victim. Not even when there was good reason to suspect that it might well have been the victim's fault.

"Sounds like it's hard to talk." He said, in that same mild, 'I am safe and non-threatening' voice. "You don't need to. I'm here. I'm not going to hurt you and no one else would dare with me and Akerth here."

Again, he looked at Shark, though sideways, careful not to use the direct sort of stare he knew the other found so unsettling. Now was not the time to test boundaries. Still, something dark was bubbling up under the surface of calm, something that shivered and twisted and tasted like memory, ambition, and hate. "I'm going to deal with them," he said again. He still sounded calm, but something dark flavored the edges of the words.

T'rus liked rules. He liked order. He liked ideas that worked every time you used them. Where rules were obeyed there was safety. There was consistency. There was the sense that no one would beat on you because there was a rule against that sort of thing. It was part of where it came from, that longing for leadership. He knew, if he was just handed the reins of power, he could make things safe.

Safe for Shark, who was not safe. Who would not be safe because T'rus would never have the power to make him so. It would always be thus, Shark beaten and bloody, and T'rus only able to use the twisting, backward routes to help him. And now, even worse, there was Shark in pain and none of the systems he knew, none of the sets of behaviors, worked.

What did you do then? What did you say? Part of him wanted to leave. It hurt, watching, and not knowing how to act. T'rus liked to know how to act.

The other's misplaced faith brought only a ghost of a smile. He was strong, but not so strong as that. And the solutions he would use to fix this problem would involve no muscle of his own.

"I'm sorry," he said at last, a pairing of words he had long stopped saying with any sincerity. But there was truth to them now. "I should have been with you. I should-- be keeping a better eye on you."

"If you were in the barracks--" he nodded sharply, cutting himself off and smiling with sincerity for the first time. He was looking at Shark again, forgetting early caution. At least, when he reached out to pat the boy's arm he did so lightly, "Yes. Of course. Once you impress, you'll have your dragon with you. And I'll arrange to have you in my wing. You'd make a good wingsecond, Shark."

As if he'd have a wing. It was a ridiculous ambition. But one he could at least strive for.