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C'ross woke in the infirmary, to sterile white walls. To bandages and the distinctive smell of numbweed. To Nimith, pressed to his chest, eyes dull with exhaustion and the bleak aftershocks of adrenaline.

"Confined to the infirmary until further notice" were not words that any young man wanted to hear, but there was no fire in C'ross' heart to oppose them. Not when Nimith's dark hide was interrupted by swaths of clean white gauze, and when C'ross himself could only stand for brief periods of time without the world swaying and spinning around him.

Blood loss, the healers said. Reckless. Risked your dragon for nothing. He'd endured the lecture from the healer, as well as from the blackrider who'd brought him back to the weyr. Likely there would be one from the weyrlingmaster coming as well, and C'ross would endure that one too. He slept through most of the two days, ashen under his tanned skin, one arm draped around Nimith and the blue pulled securely to his chest as if someone would steal them apart while they dozed. The rest of the time, he occupied himself with whatever he could: the parts of Nimith's hide that weren't covered by dressings were scrupulously tended to and shone like oiled steel.

The damage would not be permanent. C'ross' wounds were clean knife-slashes through skin and muscle, easily stitched. They would mend into new scars. As for Nimith... The dragonhealer he'd spoken to seemed relatively optimistic, remarking offhandedly that the very young tended to be resilient to injury. But only time would tell.

C'ross picked half-heartedly at the plate of food that had been brought for him, while Nimith curled at his feet, dozing like a feline. Somewhere outside the infirmary, other Trine riders were likely planning their next assault on the wherholders. Half of C'ross - the half filled with a renewed burning hatred - wished he could join them. The other half never wanted to feel Nimith's pain through the bond ever again.

C’ross glanced up at the sound of I’saak’s voice, and Nimith startled, jerking awake and instinctively baring his teeth at nothing at all. Wordlessly C’ross reached out and gathered the blue into his lap, one arm wrapped loosely around Nimith’s chest. His free hand reached out to stroke Ellibreth’s soft muzzle when she nudged at him.

“I’saak.” His voice was quiet, subdued, and after briefly meeting the greenweyrling’s eyes he dropped his gaze again. Nimith stilled against him, once again calm and controlled, but C’ross didn’t let go. He spent nearly all his waking hours in contact with his dragon, if he could manage it, and Nimith permitted him to do so. “I’m surprised the healers let you in. We’ve… been better. But we’re surviving.”

Ellibreth. Nimith inclined his head fractionally. Our intent wasn’t to upset you or your rider. Only to try to convince Natai and her gold to return to safety. And clearly, Natai and Iachixth were no longer safe. Not when the wherhandlers were willing to go to such extremes to prove a point and strike a blow at Trine.

To be perfectly honest, C’ross would not have said no to a hug. He wanted to be back in his own bed with his dragon and never let go and never again have to experience that horrible empty feeling of fear that Nimith would go between.

He ignored I’saak’s protests, shifting so that Ellibreth would have room to sit with him on the cot and continuing to gently rub at her eyeridges. His other arm stayed securely around Nimith, but the blue scooted over to partially entwine himself with Ellibreth until there was just a solid weight of blue-green resting on C’ross’ folded legs. The hatchlings were warm, if heavy, and it was oddly comforting to have Ellibreth there. She was a solid, physical reminder that the world kept turning and that the rest of the weyrlings were unharmed. The war was happening out there. Not here within the walls of Trine.

Not yet.

“Sure,” he answered I’saak dully. “Healers said I lost a lot of blood, but that just needs time to fix itself. Once the stitches come out I’ll be good as new.”

Natai and Iachixth are safe for now. They got away, went between to some other place. We don’t know where, but hopefully that means that the wherholders don’t know either. Nimith’s eyes were intermingled with equal parts grey and orange at the memory. It was… They attacked without warning. I don’t think they even wanted her – they let her escape. They just wanted to hurt us because we were there.

C’ross glanced up, finally seeking eye contact when he realized that I’saak was still just standing there. “Do you want to sit down…?” he offered hesitantly. There was a chair in the corner if I’saak needed it. Or he could join them on the cot.

It does matter, Nimith protested, though his eyes were slowly fading to blue under the combined ministrations of Ellibreth’s affection and his rider’s hands. It matters because they attacked those smaller and weaker than them – on purpose – because they were smaller and weaker. A healer with a bad leg, the white dragon... The proud little blue couldn’t quite bring himself to be included in that category. Not aloud. But his meaning was clear enough.

They ganged up on us, he rumbled, flopping his head back down on C’ross’ chest. We were fending off whers, and humans with knives. It wasn’t a fair fight.

C’ross scooted over to give I’saak a little more room to sit down as he approached the cot. It was a bit tight, with two large men and two baby dragons the size of large dogs all laying there. But it was warm and curiously comforting, and it banished the chill that seemed to have gripped him since he went down outside the Hold. “He’s taking it hard,” C’ross told I’saak in brief explanation. They were both taking it hard. Nobody wanted to be the first to go down in a fight, even if the odds had been stacked against them.

I’saak’s request was met with a half-hearted shrug. “I’m not going on the next mission. Neither of us will be ready in time.” He carefully evaded making promises about future missions.

Nimith regarded Ellibreth with his usual thoughtful gravity for a long moment, then huffed out a draconic sigh. No. They are not evil. But when a good man hears an evil order, he ought to refuse it. One of their number did – we saw a bronze turn on his kin and refuse to fight. As for the rest…

Even days later, what had transpired still troubled Nimith. The world ought to be clear, ought to be black and white, but it was not. His voice was just as doubtful as hers as he continued on, trying to put words to the complicated feelings in his head. They speak good words. Words about equality, and respect for all dragons and riders regardless of color. But then they do evil things. That’s why it’s so important for us to fight them. So that when C’ross and I are older and stronger, people won’t think we are evil for agreeing with those good words – even if we disagree with the methods.

I’saak was mocking him. That little smile, the noncommittal words. He would have expected I’saak of all people to understand why it was so important to C’ross to prove his worth, but… he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Some word of support, maybe. Some confirmation that this hadn’t just been one more failure in his life out of a string of failures. C'ross couldn't just stop being what he was - he was a fighter. He and Nimith were both fighters. C'ross had thought that I'saak understood that, but apparently he was wrong.

His expression shut down, even as I’saak lay his worries bare. In different circumstances C’ross would have sympathized – he’d lost a brother to the revolution, he knew the pain of having no one left to turn to. But right now he didn’t want to be reminded of D’ros. “I won’t take Nimith out again until he’s old enough that we can fly and fight together,” C’ross said flatly. “That’s all I can promise you."

Then they hurt everyone who does believe in those things. Nimith rumbled, carefully blocking his rider out of his next comment to Ellibreth. I know that they lie. And we will always do our duty to the Weyr. But I do not want C’ross to be unhappy because of me... and when he fell, I panicked too. I couldn’t do anything.

Probably C’ross should have been more upset by Ellibreth bespeaking him directly. It was some kind of taboo among dragonriders, wasn’t it? But – Ellibreth talking to him didn’t quite feel the same to him as, for instance, Poth talking to him. Ellibreth was I’saak’s, and she was just another part of I’saak, a part that could speak mind-to-mind. He stroked her muzzle reassuringly when she nuzzled it into his hand, then let out a heavy sigh and reached out an arm to beckon I’saak closer.

“For Faranth’s sake, I’saak, come here.” He pulled the greenrider into a rough hug, as tight as he dared when he had stitches running along his ribs. “I’m all right. I’m not going to die and I didn’t get captured.” A little pang of guilt struck his heart at the thought of V’lay, and he added, “But I saw a bluerider get taken. That was the first time I’ve ever had to leave a man behind – first time I had something worth protecting that was more valuable than my allies. I hope we get him back safely. And I hope... I hope Natai got to wherever she was going, and that she’ll be safe there. We have no way of knowing for sure.”

…Oh. When C’ross had gone for the hug, he had envisioned this as being the kind of hug that would have a definite endpoint. You lean in, you squeeze briefly, you let go.

This was the kind of hug that… did not end. Instead there was an I’saak half-reclined beside him and their limbs were all tangled up together and their dragons were all tangled up together and this was confusing. C’ross shifted awkwardly, grateful for once for the odd constraints of weyrlinghood. They had two baby dragons (one injured) playing chaperone; he wouldn’t have to figure out how to fidget his way out of the situation without damaging a friendship irreparably.

For now he settled down once he’d found a position that was comfortable and didn’t put undue pressure on any of his stitches, and permitted I’saak to stay where he was. “Natai wants to start her own Weyr. She likes Trine better than she likes the Wherholder bastards, at least, but she doesn’t want any part of the war. I think she doesn’t trust some of the Benden refugees – one of them gave her the impression we kill atypicals here or something? Nimith mentioned something to me about her being upset about Benden’s attitude toward atyps.”

Nimith crooned hesitantly, rubbing his muzzle against Ellibreth’s and eventually curving his good wing over her like a blanket of fine leathery dark hide. Still. I will do better next time. I will be bigger, and I won’t let them overwhelm us like they did this time. Once we can fly, I will be able to take C’ross out of danger if I need to.