Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar.
Who: Neiran, Aida
Where: Infirmary
When: A while after the Hatching.
What: Neiran vs Aida, round one! Neiran wins. They talk about /feelings/.
Stifling a yawn with a hand that is no longer splinted, Aida wanders into the infirmary with a casual, lazy sort of pace -- still full of the ease that comes from having worked in here as long as she did. For her, it's a comfortable place. Yes, she's a freak. The young woman draws up a few feet in from the entrance and off to the side, pausing there to sweep the cots and the people with her eyes, hunting to see who is about, and where.
Finding Neiran in the infirmary is worth no surprise. Even the most casual resident has doubtless recognized that the man essentially lives in here. However, the departure from his usual clean-cut and professional appearance and demeanor is surely worth another glance, especially from one who knows his ways and habits well. On one far cot, amongst those equipped with privacy curtains, the Journeyman might be recognizable for the view of the tail of black hair at his neck, and the back of his vest. He's not in his usual infirmary attire, and sits solitarily with his back to the inside of the cavern itself. His shoulders are slightly hunched, a contrast to his usual ramrod posture, and although shielded from Aida's immediate view, he cradles a mug of steaming tea in his hands.
When blue eyes catch on that familiar back of the head, Aida abandons the rest of her inspection. It takes only two heartbeats of study for her lips to curve down into a frown, and only one more after that for her to give up her spot by the entrance in favor of a much less casual pace towards the Journeyman. A poor aide is sidestepped with a quiet "I'm fine" in turn for a query as to whether she needs something. No, she knows precisely what she's doing, now. Still, the striding slows as she approaches where Neiran is sitting, and she stops just inside the range where her voice can be heard. "Neiran?" Concern, it's oh so heavy in her tone.
Before Aida speaks, Neiran sits up a little straighter. Likely he heard the girl approaching, her footfalls on the stone. Perhaps he sensed a pair of eyes on him. Whichever the case, it's not a happenstance movement; he seems prepared for Aida to slide into his peripheral vision. His face is composed, but visibly strained and fatigued. His skin is paler than usual, faintly sallow and moist, and his keen eyes have a dullness perhaps because of the dark circles beneath them. "Good day, Aida," he murmurs quietly, lifting his mug to his lips to take as dignified a sip as possible. His concern for his appearance shows in a surreptitious straightening of his vest, a hand freed to smooth the slightly rumpled fabric over his lower chest, ensuring all the buttons are done and the shirt beneath remains tucked in.
Acknowledgment is perhaps all she was waiting for; Aida slips forward the rest of the way, stepping in beside the cot where he is sitting and gathering her skirt just so as she slides down to sit beside him. Her hands fold properly into her lap, and then she's leaning forward a little and turning her head, tilting it to the side as she looks over into his face. Only then does she speak, offering her own quiet "Good day." There's a brief pause, and then she's asking a bit more softly, "Can I get you anything?" It's as close as she'll get to poking and prodding at him about *this*, at least for now. Still, there is no covering up the worry there, none at all.
"I have what I require. The worst has passed; I need only to rest and recover. Thank you for your concern." Steam wreathes the Journeyman's face as he utters his words, words more quietly spoken than is his usual wont. Neiran's eyes travel to the tea pot on the bedside table, and his leaden gaze rests there for a few silent moments. "I would extend you the courtesy of an offer of tea, if it were not that this particular brew contains medicinal herbs not for casual consumption. My apologies." He looks back at Aida, and the healer's unable to resist a surreptitious look at the girl's hand. A surreptitious look that turns into a silent, unguarded stare. While so tired, although appearing simply calm, it's more difficult for him to continue the vein of conversation, and voice the polite inquiry as to her health, but it hovers on vaguely parted lips.
"Don't apologize," Aida murmurs, her own voice staying soft, as inoffensive to ears that might be sensitive to it as she can possibly pitch it. The young woman shifts a bit, leans forward to rest on her forearms on her knees. There's a moment of study given to the ground before she looks back up; it doesn't take her long at all to realize he's staring at her hand, and so she lifts it, turning the wrist up as she holds it out his way. There's still a faint hint of the marks the ropes left around her wrists, and then where the bandages and the splint left their marks, but aside from that and the bit of extra paleness, it otherwise looks mostly normal. "I'm fine," she points out quietly. "No more bumps, bruises all gone, swelling all down. They took the splint off a few days ago. I'm none the worse for wear."
The man regards her wrist, but refrains from reaching out to palpitate it or draw it closer for inspection. He's not technically the healer assigned to her case, so he settles for a distant glance over the lip of his mug, and it evidently suffices. "High Reaches Weyr has certainly been a hub of activity lately," he notes absently, the words almost muffled by the ceramic near his lips. With no remark to presage his query, he inquires, "have you felt the need to visit a mindhealer?" Kidnapping isn't something any young lady could just breeze over. The question, therefore, isn't one that sheds doubt on Aida specifically, but merely the position she's been put in. It's asked gently, not only due to his low-key demeanor presently, but out of a sense of delicacy needed in the query. "You may have another means of counsel. You may not desire or require it. But it is something some of my colleagues occasionally forget to mention as an option."
When the inspection is complete, Aida pulls her wrist back again, once more settling forward onto her forearms. It's a comfortable sort of position, all relaxed. This makes the tension that creeps into her shoulders at the question of a mindhealer all the more obvious, holding as it does for a few heartbeats before she lets most of it go, shakes her head. "It is not something that was not suggested," she replies softly, her eyes once more setting back down on the floor. "I have declined pursuing that option; I think I'm coping well enough on my own. It's hard enough for me to talk about things to people I actually wish to talk to." She's only quiet after that statement for a moment before she points out softly, "Haven't managed to see you much, lately." This, of course, leads to the next, "How have you been?"
"I understand." Not merely an acquiescing remark that allows Aida to change the subject, those two words - there's the weight of true rapport behind it, all the more apparent for his solemnity. He finishes swallowing his most recent sip of tea, clearing his mouth at his own pace to respond. Behind their quiet corner, the infirmary's usual soft noises persist; gentle chatter, the wheeling of occasional trolleys, footsteps steadily going to and fro. "Indeed," he agrees. It has been a while. "I have been neither poor nor exceptionally good. My lessons progress, the weather has turned more pleasant. The Weyr's atmosphere has been somewhat disconcerting as of late." His tone turns dry, considering Aida knows well enough what kind of disconcerting things are going on here. "As there is nothing I can do, I continue with my routines. It is all anyone can do. And...yourself?"
Those two words when given with the weight their are given with, cause Aida to exhale a soft sigh of mixed relief and gratefulness; not only for the fact that she will not have to justify herself, but for the fact that he does understand. It all even pulls her lips up at the corners, her smile soft but finally appearing -- though it's brief, fading away again at the shift of his tone to the dry. His question, though, it draws out a chuckle and she shakes her head. "About as you could expect," she replies, her own voice touching dry. "Jumpy and skittish, but...glad to be home, really. Things have been good, as of late. As busy for me as I think they have ever been, but good, especially now that both Donavon and Katric have been apprehended."
"It is unfortunate that the weather is so pleasant during such a tumultuous time for us, both in our personal lives and the greater happenings of the Weyr. The window of opportunity for enjoyable outdoor leisure pursuits is small at High Reaches." The man's slender fingers ghost up towards his ear, and make overtures at tucking hair behind it - but his hair has reached the length that it stays tied in its tail now, recovered from whatever over-enthused barber decided he'd look better with the front portions shorter. The self-conscious grooming gesture isn't so easily outgrown, however, and having done nothing his hand drifts back to his mug to hold its warmth. "I understand I missed the hatching today. Do you recall some of those who Impressed?" He looks up from scrying in the depths of his tea, to politely meet the woman's gaze. It's not as steely as it can be, or acute, but glazed with the vague absent-mindedness that comes from little sleep and recent stress.
Wait, did Neiran just say it was a shame things were as they were so that he couldn't go outside? Neiran? What? Aida tilts her head to the side again, giving him a mildly bemused look...that swiftly fades away in favor of concern, because it registers that he just noted his own personal life is tumultuous. There's a moment of a searching look, as if she could determine everything just by studying him, but it's eventually given up in favor of her looking back to the ground when the question of the Hatching comes. This time, she makes no attempt to hide her frown. "Essdara did not," she explains, after a moment of consideration. Her eyes come back up, and oh hey, eye contact -- her smile comes back reflexively, though it disappears promptly again. Her words falter for a moment; that's not a normal look, from him, but she just shakes her head and looks down again. "The egg that was not entirely smashed did hatch, a blue -- and he Impressed someone who I am not familiar with. The blue was...wounded. A broken leg, when he hatched. Natain, the trader -- former trader, now -- Impressed a brown. He was...hurt, though not badly, from what I could see. He will likely be in sometime soon to have his face stitched up." Given the way her frown deepens for that bit being related, it's likely the cause for her displeasure. "There were other faces I recognized...oh." Nosewrinkle. "Kierom Impressed a green. As did Asynnida. And the weaver girl...Kianda. I did not recognize most of the others, not enough to name them."
"I see. Thank you." Aida's report on the hatching elicits that minimalist's response, followed by a small sip of his tea. That sip concludes his cup, and after realizing that he'll no longer have steam to waft fragrantly about his face, he looks somewhat dolorously at the tea pot for a few moments. "I noticed bemusement on your face due to some remark of mine," he observes distractedly, leaning forward in preparation to rise. It's still a graceful movement, but he wavers barely perceptibly when he stands for a moment. The tea is retrieved and poured without err, so there's no further grounds for Aida's concern to rise. His observation can very well be taken as an invitation to question him for clarification; just now he seems to have little else to do, and with the tired aura he seems to exude, it's unlikely he has pressing business that he can actually attend to. Idle conversation with tea is a leisure he only permits himself to enjoy when he's too exhausted to do much else, it seems. He returns to his seat, the mattress of the cot indenting only slightly under his lean weight.
Oh, she starts to get up promptly when he does, but...well, he gets up, and there has been chastisement about her fussing over him, and so Aida just drops back to the cot and frowns up at his back for a moment. Frown. Should have let me get that, her expression says -- doubly so given the slight wavering he does. Still, she clears it right up, putting back on a faint smile and bringing one of her own hands up to ruffle through her curls in the back, a light tug given on the bottom edge of the scarf in her hair. "What sort of outdoor leisure pursuits do you...ah, partake in?" She answers, after a long enough silence that might have implied she missed his comment. Her smile only falters for an instant when he sits back down again, the hand lowering from her hair, but caught before it reaches out towards him. It's set promptly back down into her lap. Further words linger on the tip of her tongue, but they're caught as much as her hand was, stifled.
Of course, Neiran suffers no excess of fawning; charity is not something he enjoys, and would certainly not seek to abuse. His tea, independently gained, is coveted in both his hands once again, the aroma breathed in with a long, easeful inhalation. After a gentle exhale, he replies, "I ride, when the ground is not comprised entirely of mud. I also walk around the Bowl proper to ensure I experience fresh air and exercise." This is said to the far wall, the man's aquiline profile set to Aida not to shun her, but because he need not look at her all the time to make her feel included in the conversation, and this he knows. But even looking away, he can sense the pregnant atmosphere, and so looks back at the young girl. Patient inquiry, overlaid with the deep relaxation of an ill man slowly recovering, is written on his features. With others, such sentences of expression might be spelled loud and clear; Neiran's visage is less bold in font, ciphered even to most eyes, but readable nonetheless.
Shifting about on the cot a bit when he looks back to her, Aida rests her elbows on her knees and sets her chin on her hands, letting her eyes settle across on the teapot. It's likely she interpreted that glance from him quite accurately given the shift, but she doesn't answer the unspoken question, at least not immediately. Instead, it's the first topic that she returns to, her tone conversational (though her voice is still soft). "Once it stops raining so much, we should go riding," she suggests. "I don't really know anyone else who does it for fun, and it's always nicer with company. If, you know, you could manage to get away at some point for a few hours." That last little bit takes on a dry note, and she glances sidelong over at him again. There's only a moment's pause before she admits, really only barely audibly, "I worry about you, Neiran. That's all. And you don't like me fussing, but it's in my nature to fuss. I know you're okay, or are going to be, but...well, I just do. No big deal, or anything? I just don't know how to help."
Neiran is still while Aida shifts, not unlike a stationary tree that only moves every so often due to a specific rustle of wind. He purses his lips, a long pause presaging some carefully chosen and enunciated words. "I believe that I would not be adverse to your company during a ride, Aida." The fact that a girl is safer with an escort these days slips by unmentioned, as does the reality of the Journeyman's likely minimal ability to act as defender should a situation arise. Those currents drift beneath the heavier sense of acceptance, perhaps even pleasant anticipation. But there are more solemn things to discuss than leisurely springtime rides. "Perhaps there is nothing that you can do for me, Aida. However, if there is something that can be done by me in order to clear your mind of anxiety, I would perhaps be willing to entertain it. A young lady should not spend her time worrying about..." The healer drifts off for a moment. Dangerous ground is approached here. A man of rank? A man? Someone to whom she has no legitimate ties in the eyes of society? Any of those suggestions are true, but also verbal traps that might offend. "...About something that is beyond her control. I have many demands between Caucus, infirmary duties, and the sudden skeleton of a social life I seem to possess and need to nourish, as well as a medical condition that steals...more of my time than I enjoy realizing. It is simply the way it is."
There is a nod given, when he states he'd enjoy her company; no more than that. Suggestion made, accepted, and the acceptance acknowledged. Aida continues to study the ground, her eyes flitting from spot to spot on the stone of the floor, as if the variances to be found, minimal as they might be, are terribly interesting. There's another -- brief -- sidelong glance over to him when he pauses, but it doesn't linger long, gone again before he speaks up once more. "It is simply the way it is," she agrees without delay, voice quiet. "As is my being concerned. Don't tell me what I should or should not do, especially not on the grounds of me being a young lady. I know there's nothing I can do; I know there are a great many demands on you. I know, I know, and I know. That knowing does not take away the concern, out of my control or not. You are my friend, and I worry about you. Should, shouldn't, it doesn't play in at all. It just doesn't. You *hurt*." With that little bit emphasized, she turns her head so she can actually look up at him again, attempting to catch his gaze. "And so I worry. I am who I am."
It is that subtly emphasized word that catches Neiran. No doubt his guard is down, in his state. He looks briefly stricken, as though hearing that word from someone else's mouth for the first time makes him realize the reality of it. Almond-shaped eyes become momentarily rounder, the muscles around his lips tense, while a furrow appears above the line of his nose. She successfully catches his gaze for a moment, enough to see that flash of various tumbling unpleasant emotions behind dark eyes, and then he looks away. The long line of his throat moves; a swallow, and not because of any sipped tea. With the power of a few measured breaths, taken with the surety of one who uses breathing to regulate emotion often, he regains a semblance of his tired self. "Life is not such that all are afforded a leisurely time of it, particularly not during a Pass. I have been fortunate in the opportunities that I have been given." Not the joys experienced, or wonders seen, but dry opportunity. "If I have failed to disguise my own emotions successfully here, then I have done my colleagues and...friends, including you, an injustice, and for that I ask forgiveness." With what gravitas is left to a collected man slightly shaken, he finds solace in another sip of tea, regarding the far wall quietly. "It is my oath to heal the sick, not to burden others with my maladies. My experiences here have been both stimulating, disconcerting, and disarming, and I fear I have failed to adhere to that clause. I should not have attempted to belittle your compassion by alluding to your gender, or what is or is not under your power to alter."
Oh no. Aida's own eyes go a bit wide at his reaction to her words, worry sharpening to something almost pained. The hurt look that crosses over her face when he looks away is not for herself, but instead born of something that insists with near desperation that she make it better, rather than wound. Aida sits up, shaking her head -- over and over she shakes her head, perhaps trying to refute his points, perhaps just denying his words. Something. When he finishes, her head is shaken again, more soundly, and this time she does dare to reach up with one hand, attempting to rest her fingers light on his shoulder as she leans in towards him. It's a conspiratorial sort of posture, or would be if it weren't for her own touch of upset. Still, when she speaks, her voice is quiet. "Neiran," she murmurs, a hint of a plea to her tone. "You do not need to ask for my forgiveness; you have it, but you have not done me any wrong. It is not your oath to be more than human. You have been fortunate; some would say that you have been blessed. I don't deny that. But with highs come lows, and...shards. Failed to disguise your emotions? The only injustice I see is that you try to do so so completely, locking them away from the people who care enough to /want/ them. Bad or good." Insistent, her tone is for those last few words. So very, very insistent.
Neiran is tired enough that the touch doesn't cause him to flinch reflexively, instead a languorous look is cast down at that hand, as if surprised to find it there, and then Aida's face so close. It's not often his personal space is infringed upon, unless it's he who's approached someone - and them usually with a Threadscore that needs sewing, or medicine that needs administering. He manages, however, not to shy away, but remains seated still even with her lean. Closer, she might notice the tanginess of various bitter herbs enshrouded in the more cloying flavorful herbs. And, the strong undercurrent of clove that comes not from the tea, but from the man himself; specifically, his clothing. "When I ask for forgiveness, I believe that is my...indirect way of stating an apology or regret in a less ignominious fashion." As for his emotions, disguised or otherwise, he remarks, "it has been my observation that expressing negative emotion has one of two responses. One, you elicit the scorn, mockery, or contempt of those around you and worsen your condition by being exposed to their reflections or exploitations of your discomfiture. Two, you elicit worry and compassion which distracts the minds and feelings of those experiencing it from their own more worthwhile pursuits, and worsen your condition by then feeling the guilt of selfishly eliciting such a response." He is not so much insistent as he is methodical, as if reciting a catechism from a book, or a Harper's taught ballad.
There's no backing off this time, not even when her hand is glanced at. Aida has invaded his personal space, and so there. Her expression does at least settle out considerably once he's speaking again; with his composure gained, her own is easier. Of course, his methodical recital has her exhaling a quiet (yet clearly aggravated) sigh, dropping her forehead down against her hand lightly, lashes drifting to close her eyes. "Your observation can go Between," she points out, something cranky threading through her tone now. "As can your guilt over my caring about you." Her head lifts back up, though her hand stays in place, and she gives him an openly dirty look. "You...Neiran, you have to know better." She pauses there, takes a deep breath, and both her expression and her tone soften again, gentling. "If you don't, please take my words as the truth from someone who does understand. If you keep it all bottled up, it will fester, and it will get worse, and it will continue to weigh on you more and more heavily until you can't -- no matter how strong you are -- keep it close any more. There are people who care about you. /I/ do. The third option is that expressing negative emotions lessens the weight on your shoulders, because it's distributed a little bit. Does it distract? Yes. Is that bad? /No/. Caring about somebody isn't bad, Neiran. It just /isn't/. And it doesn't always blow up in your face, either."
"I am aware that figurative slivers of doubt and displeasure must be removed, as must their physical counterparts, lest festering occur," he acknowledges. "I am not allowing anything to fester. For a surgeon to do so would be laughable. I am content. Merely a little more tired than usual as of late, particularly at this moment." He proceeds directly, calmly, allowing her hand to remain while his shoulder neither relaxes nor tenses, but remains the still and slender thing it is. "I am simply not accustomed to accepting caring graciously." He doesn't seem phased that that alludes to a truly bizaare and likely regrettable upbringing, or some quirk of nature in his own mind that doubtless is worth much frowning from more well-adjusted individuals. "I've not suggested it's bad, and in truth your concern for my well-being is flattering." The series of rapid blinks that accompany that word overlays the word 'confusing' atop of flattering. Neiran has another drink of his bitter tea, medicines of his own devising working internally whilst the soothing nature of tea-taking works its own kind of magic on his psyche. "What would you suggest I do? You are not the only one who's expressed distress at my methods of interrelation. I'm curious as to what alternatives one would envisage. I believe that my current mode sees me through my days sufficiently." He's attempting to assuage the girl's irritation, concern, and everything directed towards him in his own quiet way, tolerant and reasonable even though it's surely somewhat discouraging to open up to advice from a young girl about feelings. And to think he was suggesting she go to a mindhealer.
Lashes drifting down to cloak her eyes at his response, Aida does a fine job at maintaining her composure. She will remain patient. There will be no shaking of the healer. His shoulder is given a light squeeze before her hand withdraws, settled back into her lap as she finally straightens away. She's still sitting close enough that she is invading his personal space, but at least it's not *quite* so bad. It's not until he finishes speaking that she opens her eyes again, looking up at him with an expression that is now mild. Calm, patient. "You're too smart for me to talk down out of this tree," she points out quietly, her good hand lifting to let her tug the scarf out of her hair, fingers ruffling through the curls as her eyes leave him to let her gaze be cast up towards the ceiling. "It's hard to have a discussion like this with somebody smarter than you." This is followed by a momentary pause, long enough for the words to sink in before she continues. "You asked for my forgiveness for the injustice of me figuring out how you feel." She's taken on a tone of idle conversation for this, light, certainly far less intent than her earlier words. Time to switch tactics. "My first suggestion would be, really, for you to stop thinking it bad to share such things." Her gaze drops abruptly, locking back on his face. "Sufficient." It's said like it's a dirty word. That tone is gone again, when she continues. "You put up a wall. Everybody else stays on one side, and you're on the other. There's not...there's not any one thing you can do. There's no thing I could point to to say -- that, right there, that will help. It's not about me being dissatisfied with you. It's not. Well, I mean, I am poking at you. But it's about /you/. You're tired enough that I saw it. You're not /content/ and it's not /sufficient/, and you're lying to yourself if you say you are and it is."
The healer seems equally inclined to patience, listening to Aida as though she were an equal colleague of his. If there's one thing to be credited to him, it's a willingness to find wisdom in any source, and a lack of derision for those beneath him even despite the subtle professional vanity with which he conducts himself. Once she's finished speaking at length, he responds, "I do not believe carrying on a conversation like this lends itself to your classification of me as a 'wall'." Despite the fact that he's gently rebuffing her statement, that word seems worth some pursing of his lips, his thoughts weighing on that serendipitous vocabulary choice. "If I am a wall, I am a somewhat permeable one, not unlike water. I associate with people, and discuss personal issues that I was disinclined to even permit a second party to allude to Turns ago. I have shared with those who have ventured close to me some specifics of my life that I am loathe to expose, namely my condition; I believe that is a gesture in trust towards a friendship, making yourself vulnerable. I have shared my hobbies, as well, to prove that my companions are not emotional splints to ensure I develop correctly. I have found that it can be pleasant to discover mutually enjoyed activities and conversation topics. I do not understand how this presents as a wall. There are certain protocols of rank and formality which must be observed," and his observance of such has made him a shoe-in for practicing ambassadorial duties in future Caucus Turns, "and I am not lax in them unless long familiarity allows a certain relaxation of those traditions. ...I spoke rather lengthily just now. My apologies; I believe it can be summed up that you are concerned for me. I accept your concern, though I do wish I could eliminate it, as it is bound to fruitlessly continue as for the next three Turns I envision my lifestyle will be much the same as it is currently."
Swinging her eyes away from him again, this time Aida sets her gaze on the wall. She listens silently to him speak without a slip in her composure, withdrawn behind the patience and the calm and keeping any reaction to all of it well to herself. For all that she tends towards expressive, her poker face (so to speak) is actually very, very good. When he finishes speaking, she gives a light little shake of her head, noting quietly, "You need not apologize for speaking at length; I have been listening." Her gaze shifts from the wall, dropping down to her skirt, and she picks at it lightly with one hand, brushing some imaginary fuzz away and generally focusing her attention there for a few long moments. "I do not dispute that you are forming friendships," she finally says quietly, addressing his words beyond just the apology. "Nor that you go through the motions perfectly, every step taken in the dance nigh perfection in the way it is placed. But." And that word is allowed to sit on its own for two heartbeats before she glances sidelong at him again and continues, "You stated that your failure to conceal your emotions was doing people a disservice. 'An injustice' was the phrase you used. Explain /that/ to me again, Neiran. Explain to me why it is such a horrid thing for me to see that you're hurting, instead of it being 'yes, ouch, it hurts' and me offering a sympathetic smile and maybe a hug and saying 'shells, I'm sorry it hurts again'."
"For calling me more intelligent than you, your perception continues to impress me, and I never doubt the Headmaster's decision to make you his aide." Presumably that can't be said for just any young girl. But saying such things, complimentary as they are, is mostly a stalling tactic. Neiran's poker face, worn all the time, is a very solid mask, though the wearer's eyes and mouth can be seen through the holes of it, and they betray flickers of his brain's workings. Here, he frowns mildly, and a hand goes to his stomach as though finding nausea - but he only smoothes his vest once again. He's not moved since fetching his tea, but now he shifts slightly on the cot as though making himself more comfortable, though in truth he's seeing to his circulation, grown somewhat sluggish in his dangling legs just recently. "It is selfish to lean too strongly on those around you. You argue that distributing the weight can aid one, but it is seldom an even distribution that occurs. And, like a child born with a twisted leg, if he is permitted crutches for all of his life, he will never straighten the limb and walk on his own. If the crutches are removed, he will fall. In a community, those who weigh too heavily on others are a burden. And like a hiker who relieves himself by placing his pack on the ground after a few dragonlengths, such respites in others become too tempting and the cycle is continued. It is best that each individual find sufficiency in himself first before looking to others to shoulder the burdens of his own inadequacies." His lids lower, fine lashes visible in profile, and he regards his tea as if scrying once again. "Furthermore, it makes me uncomfortable to think that the exterior I cultivate so tenaciously can be bypassed; not everyone holds honest intentions as you do, Aida. Acknowledging or noticing any discomfort, physical or emotional, does not make it dissipate, but adds to it."
She's doing a good job of remaining calm until he starts in on the selfishness bit. Aida's eyes go slightly wide and then she sets her jaw, shaking her head and turning away again, leaning way forward over her legs until she's crouched over, chin down on her knees, fingers wrapping lightly around her lower legs. It lets her look at the floor and her shoes that much closer, see. And so it is an inspection of her shoes that occurs as he is speaking, distracting her enough to keep her at least mostly superficially calm. When he finishes, she's dead quiet, as if perhaps she had tuned him out entirely and had not quite realized he was done speaking. Still, a few heartbeats later she turns her head enough that she can look at him again, this time sideways and almost upside down. "So it's selfish and it makes you uncomfortable?" She asks, tone back to idle again. "Sometimes it has to hurt worse before it gets better, you know." One of her shoulders is lifted and dropped in a vague shrug, and she turns back to staring at her feet and the floor. "It is not the same as a twisted leg and a crutch or a hiker with a pack. They're close and they sound like good comparisons, but they're really awful ones, because it's nothing like that at all. It's not selfish, it's not /weak/, and the people who care about you aren't going to hate you if you lean on them. It's /more/ like...you're a person. You need to eat. Indulging your appetite when it says 'I'm hungry' is not weakness or selfishness because you're eating food somebody else could, it's smart, because you're a person and you need to eat. Emotional contact is almost as important as food. Because you are human."
Neiran sips his tea in the interlude of silence he's afforded due to it being Aida's turn to speak. He watches her shifting of posture empirically, noting with half-lidded eyes the discomfiture it conveys. "I did not suggest that that handful of individuals who spare a thought for me would hate me were I to confide in them, as I do occasionally. I simply feel no need to express myself by discussing my rather superficial difficulties in life. The thought of doing so greatly displeases me. What they are, are things that cannot be changed, or I have the power to alter but choose not to. To complain of them would be pointless, and a waste of time when more fruitful and mutually enjoyable conversation could be had. I eat when I am hungry, and I see that my body receives proper nutrition. It appears to be little when compared to an average plate, but it is all that I need." The next sip of tea to whet his lips finishes off the mug, and he rises to place it on the bedside table. There is no wobble, this time, and he does not choose to sit once more. "Perhaps we are discussing this at a disadvantageous time. When I have been bedridden in agony for five consecutive hours, I am not predisposed to being optimistic in my opinions during discussions afterwards." A pause. "For having expressed my current 'problem', I feel no relief, but actually unease for stating the fact of the matter. Some medicines are ineffective on certain patients; perhaps unburdening is not a balm to me as it is to others."
The quiet word that escapes Aida's lips when he rises may have been under her breath, but it's most certainly a curse. Her shoulders slump, her chin drops more heavily onto her knees. Otherwise, there's no reaction to be hand until he's finished speaking, and when he has, she gives a little shake of her head. "I'm sorry," she states, her voice very small for those two words. Her fingers trail around to tug at the laces of her boots, fiddling lightly with them for a long moment before she can even begin to find any further words. Eventually, she just gives a little shake of her head, hand dropping away as she straightens herself out and slides up to her feet. A brush of her skirt, an adjustment of her shirt at her wrist, and...she still doesn't quite look at him, instead letting her gaze sit on his shoulder. "There's no 'problem' with you, and don't take my opinion on the matter as indicating that there is one. I'll leave you in peace, now." And there's no waiting for a response before she's in motion, turning to likely head away.
The healer's brows and mouth maneuver in a small concert of consternation and what appears to be confusion as she moves off. Did she not just prove his point, by leaving after he ventured to lean? It's left the healer a little a-flounder, so much so that no action is taken, and he simply watches her turn. "There is indeed a problem with me; at the very least one which has been diagnosed. It was my impression that we were discussing the weight of these things." Another pause. "Good...evening," he adds, the tone suggestive of a question more than his usual firm statement of farewell. Likely his confusion is chalked up to tiredness, and his lack of understanding of the female species. Surely he couldn't have said anything wrong. He sits on the cot once more, assuming Aida will leave, stooping to remove his shoes while he sits on the edge of it.
Two steps are taken away before she spins back around, digging her heels in, so to speak. Aida tilts her chin down some as she looks back at him again through her eyelashes, lips curved down into the slightest of frowns. "It's...that's not what I meant," she points out, her tone now holding a stubborn note. "I was saying you were right, and apologizing because it was unfair of me to poke at you when you're hurting. Because it is. I made it worse, and I'm /really/ sorry." For all that she carries herself so well most of the time, youth shines out for a moment there, when lashes lift and she gives him a sort of a pleading look. "The last thing I want in the whole world right now is to actually make anything worse. Just...there's no need for my forgiveness, alright? For anything, not ever."
"I don't feel any worse," Neiran insists, brows raised faintly as he pauses in the act of sliding off one shoe. "It wasn't unfair; if I'd wanted you to cease, I would have definitively changed the topic of conversation. I was interested in what you had to say. And, as I said, my asking for your forgiveness was more of an expression of regret than a genuine entreaty, Aida. Please do not feel upset on my account. I am not hurting at the moment, simply somewhat tired, and displeased that because of my episode I missed the Hatching and will now have to cut time out of my infirmary shift to sleep, whilst hoping no one comes in who needs my specialized attention, as I am not at my best when woken up after a migraine, and any patient referred to me specifically almost certainly needs the best of care." He places his shoe on the ground, neatly parallel to the bed, and sits again to remove the other one. A sign of his perfectionism is exhibited in his precise setting of the untied laces into an orderly configuration before the shoe is set down. "Thank you for the conversation, Aida."
Frustration, confusion, a general upset; these things are for the most part masked, though there's a ghost of it all across her face before Aida sets her jaw against it and forces the appearance of calm. She closes her eyes briefly, and when they open back up again she even manages to draw her lips up into a smile. "You're welcome," she says quietly. "Rest well. I'll track you down again sometime soon. Good evening." Nothing further than that -- she's all too aware that there isn't room in her mouth for the other foot. So she instead gives a little dip of her head and turns, beelining for the exit. Whatever brought her in here initially has apparently been entirely forgotten.
Neiran sets his other shoe down, done unlacing it and tidying it with his dextrous hands before Aida's done staring in consternation. "Good evening." This one is more assured. Like a sieve of emotions, he doesn't seem to be retaining any of the displeasures of moments ago; it could very well be that he's simply too tired. He's not too tired to forget his strict need for privacy, and the sound of the curtain being closed around the bed follows Aida's retreat from the infirmary. Enclosed in his little fabric-walled asylum, Neiran removes his vest, folds it, and slides underneath the cot's covers to attempt to rest. Ruminations on their discussion can come at another time, when refreshed. For the immediate moment, it's a dreamless sleep that claims him almost instantly.
Where: Infirmary
When: A while after the Hatching.
What: Neiran vs Aida, round one! Neiran wins. They talk about /feelings/.
Stifling a yawn with a hand that is no longer splinted, Aida wanders into the infirmary with a casual, lazy sort of pace -- still full of the ease that comes from having worked in here as long as she did. For her, it's a comfortable place. Yes, she's a freak. The young woman draws up a few feet in from the entrance and off to the side, pausing there to sweep the cots and the people with her eyes, hunting to see who is about, and where.
Finding Neiran in the infirmary is worth no surprise. Even the most casual resident has doubtless recognized that the man essentially lives in here. However, the departure from his usual clean-cut and professional appearance and demeanor is surely worth another glance, especially from one who knows his ways and habits well. On one far cot, amongst those equipped with privacy curtains, the Journeyman might be recognizable for the view of the tail of black hair at his neck, and the back of his vest. He's not in his usual infirmary attire, and sits solitarily with his back to the inside of the cavern itself. His shoulders are slightly hunched, a contrast to his usual ramrod posture, and although shielded from Aida's immediate view, he cradles a mug of steaming tea in his hands.
When blue eyes catch on that familiar back of the head, Aida abandons the rest of her inspection. It takes only two heartbeats of study for her lips to curve down into a frown, and only one more after that for her to give up her spot by the entrance in favor of a much less casual pace towards the Journeyman. A poor aide is sidestepped with a quiet "I'm fine" in turn for a query as to whether she needs something. No, she knows precisely what she's doing, now. Still, the striding slows as she approaches where Neiran is sitting, and she stops just inside the range where her voice can be heard. "Neiran?" Concern, it's oh so heavy in her tone.
Before Aida speaks, Neiran sits up a little straighter. Likely he heard the girl approaching, her footfalls on the stone. Perhaps he sensed a pair of eyes on him. Whichever the case, it's not a happenstance movement; he seems prepared for Aida to slide into his peripheral vision. His face is composed, but visibly strained and fatigued. His skin is paler than usual, faintly sallow and moist, and his keen eyes have a dullness perhaps because of the dark circles beneath them. "Good day, Aida," he murmurs quietly, lifting his mug to his lips to take as dignified a sip as possible. His concern for his appearance shows in a surreptitious straightening of his vest, a hand freed to smooth the slightly rumpled fabric over his lower chest, ensuring all the buttons are done and the shirt beneath remains tucked in.
Acknowledgment is perhaps all she was waiting for; Aida slips forward the rest of the way, stepping in beside the cot where he is sitting and gathering her skirt just so as she slides down to sit beside him. Her hands fold properly into her lap, and then she's leaning forward a little and turning her head, tilting it to the side as she looks over into his face. Only then does she speak, offering her own quiet "Good day." There's a brief pause, and then she's asking a bit more softly, "Can I get you anything?" It's as close as she'll get to poking and prodding at him about *this*, at least for now. Still, there is no covering up the worry there, none at all.
"I have what I require. The worst has passed; I need only to rest and recover. Thank you for your concern." Steam wreathes the Journeyman's face as he utters his words, words more quietly spoken than is his usual wont. Neiran's eyes travel to the tea pot on the bedside table, and his leaden gaze rests there for a few silent moments. "I would extend you the courtesy of an offer of tea, if it were not that this particular brew contains medicinal herbs not for casual consumption. My apologies." He looks back at Aida, and the healer's unable to resist a surreptitious look at the girl's hand. A surreptitious look that turns into a silent, unguarded stare. While so tired, although appearing simply calm, it's more difficult for him to continue the vein of conversation, and voice the polite inquiry as to her health, but it hovers on vaguely parted lips.
"Don't apologize," Aida murmurs, her own voice staying soft, as inoffensive to ears that might be sensitive to it as she can possibly pitch it. The young woman shifts a bit, leans forward to rest on her forearms on her knees. There's a moment of study given to the ground before she looks back up; it doesn't take her long at all to realize he's staring at her hand, and so she lifts it, turning the wrist up as she holds it out his way. There's still a faint hint of the marks the ropes left around her wrists, and then where the bandages and the splint left their marks, but aside from that and the bit of extra paleness, it otherwise looks mostly normal. "I'm fine," she points out quietly. "No more bumps, bruises all gone, swelling all down. They took the splint off a few days ago. I'm none the worse for wear."
The man regards her wrist, but refrains from reaching out to palpitate it or draw it closer for inspection. He's not technically the healer assigned to her case, so he settles for a distant glance over the lip of his mug, and it evidently suffices. "High Reaches Weyr has certainly been a hub of activity lately," he notes absently, the words almost muffled by the ceramic near his lips. With no remark to presage his query, he inquires, "have you felt the need to visit a mindhealer?" Kidnapping isn't something any young lady could just breeze over. The question, therefore, isn't one that sheds doubt on Aida specifically, but merely the position she's been put in. It's asked gently, not only due to his low-key demeanor presently, but out of a sense of delicacy needed in the query. "You may have another means of counsel. You may not desire or require it. But it is something some of my colleagues occasionally forget to mention as an option."
When the inspection is complete, Aida pulls her wrist back again, once more settling forward onto her forearms. It's a comfortable sort of position, all relaxed. This makes the tension that creeps into her shoulders at the question of a mindhealer all the more obvious, holding as it does for a few heartbeats before she lets most of it go, shakes her head. "It is not something that was not suggested," she replies softly, her eyes once more setting back down on the floor. "I have declined pursuing that option; I think I'm coping well enough on my own. It's hard enough for me to talk about things to people I actually wish to talk to." She's only quiet after that statement for a moment before she points out softly, "Haven't managed to see you much, lately." This, of course, leads to the next, "How have you been?"
"I understand." Not merely an acquiescing remark that allows Aida to change the subject, those two words - there's the weight of true rapport behind it, all the more apparent for his solemnity. He finishes swallowing his most recent sip of tea, clearing his mouth at his own pace to respond. Behind their quiet corner, the infirmary's usual soft noises persist; gentle chatter, the wheeling of occasional trolleys, footsteps steadily going to and fro. "Indeed," he agrees. It has been a while. "I have been neither poor nor exceptionally good. My lessons progress, the weather has turned more pleasant. The Weyr's atmosphere has been somewhat disconcerting as of late." His tone turns dry, considering Aida knows well enough what kind of disconcerting things are going on here. "As there is nothing I can do, I continue with my routines. It is all anyone can do. And...yourself?"
Those two words when given with the weight their are given with, cause Aida to exhale a soft sigh of mixed relief and gratefulness; not only for the fact that she will not have to justify herself, but for the fact that he does understand. It all even pulls her lips up at the corners, her smile soft but finally appearing -- though it's brief, fading away again at the shift of his tone to the dry. His question, though, it draws out a chuckle and she shakes her head. "About as you could expect," she replies, her own voice touching dry. "Jumpy and skittish, but...glad to be home, really. Things have been good, as of late. As busy for me as I think they have ever been, but good, especially now that both Donavon and Katric have been apprehended."
"It is unfortunate that the weather is so pleasant during such a tumultuous time for us, both in our personal lives and the greater happenings of the Weyr. The window of opportunity for enjoyable outdoor leisure pursuits is small at High Reaches." The man's slender fingers ghost up towards his ear, and make overtures at tucking hair behind it - but his hair has reached the length that it stays tied in its tail now, recovered from whatever over-enthused barber decided he'd look better with the front portions shorter. The self-conscious grooming gesture isn't so easily outgrown, however, and having done nothing his hand drifts back to his mug to hold its warmth. "I understand I missed the hatching today. Do you recall some of those who Impressed?" He looks up from scrying in the depths of his tea, to politely meet the woman's gaze. It's not as steely as it can be, or acute, but glazed with the vague absent-mindedness that comes from little sleep and recent stress.
Wait, did Neiran just say it was a shame things were as they were so that he couldn't go outside? Neiran? What? Aida tilts her head to the side again, giving him a mildly bemused look...that swiftly fades away in favor of concern, because it registers that he just noted his own personal life is tumultuous. There's a moment of a searching look, as if she could determine everything just by studying him, but it's eventually given up in favor of her looking back to the ground when the question of the Hatching comes. This time, she makes no attempt to hide her frown. "Essdara did not," she explains, after a moment of consideration. Her eyes come back up, and oh hey, eye contact -- her smile comes back reflexively, though it disappears promptly again. Her words falter for a moment; that's not a normal look, from him, but she just shakes her head and looks down again. "The egg that was not entirely smashed did hatch, a blue -- and he Impressed someone who I am not familiar with. The blue was...wounded. A broken leg, when he hatched. Natain, the trader -- former trader, now -- Impressed a brown. He was...hurt, though not badly, from what I could see. He will likely be in sometime soon to have his face stitched up." Given the way her frown deepens for that bit being related, it's likely the cause for her displeasure. "There were other faces I recognized...oh." Nosewrinkle. "Kierom Impressed a green. As did Asynnida. And the weaver girl...Kianda. I did not recognize most of the others, not enough to name them."
"I see. Thank you." Aida's report on the hatching elicits that minimalist's response, followed by a small sip of his tea. That sip concludes his cup, and after realizing that he'll no longer have steam to waft fragrantly about his face, he looks somewhat dolorously at the tea pot for a few moments. "I noticed bemusement on your face due to some remark of mine," he observes distractedly, leaning forward in preparation to rise. It's still a graceful movement, but he wavers barely perceptibly when he stands for a moment. The tea is retrieved and poured without err, so there's no further grounds for Aida's concern to rise. His observation can very well be taken as an invitation to question him for clarification; just now he seems to have little else to do, and with the tired aura he seems to exude, it's unlikely he has pressing business that he can actually attend to. Idle conversation with tea is a leisure he only permits himself to enjoy when he's too exhausted to do much else, it seems. He returns to his seat, the mattress of the cot indenting only slightly under his lean weight.
Oh, she starts to get up promptly when he does, but...well, he gets up, and there has been chastisement about her fussing over him, and so Aida just drops back to the cot and frowns up at his back for a moment. Frown. Should have let me get that, her expression says -- doubly so given the slight wavering he does. Still, she clears it right up, putting back on a faint smile and bringing one of her own hands up to ruffle through her curls in the back, a light tug given on the bottom edge of the scarf in her hair. "What sort of outdoor leisure pursuits do you...ah, partake in?" She answers, after a long enough silence that might have implied she missed his comment. Her smile only falters for an instant when he sits back down again, the hand lowering from her hair, but caught before it reaches out towards him. It's set promptly back down into her lap. Further words linger on the tip of her tongue, but they're caught as much as her hand was, stifled.
Of course, Neiran suffers no excess of fawning; charity is not something he enjoys, and would certainly not seek to abuse. His tea, independently gained, is coveted in both his hands once again, the aroma breathed in with a long, easeful inhalation. After a gentle exhale, he replies, "I ride, when the ground is not comprised entirely of mud. I also walk around the Bowl proper to ensure I experience fresh air and exercise." This is said to the far wall, the man's aquiline profile set to Aida not to shun her, but because he need not look at her all the time to make her feel included in the conversation, and this he knows. But even looking away, he can sense the pregnant atmosphere, and so looks back at the young girl. Patient inquiry, overlaid with the deep relaxation of an ill man slowly recovering, is written on his features. With others, such sentences of expression might be spelled loud and clear; Neiran's visage is less bold in font, ciphered even to most eyes, but readable nonetheless.
Shifting about on the cot a bit when he looks back to her, Aida rests her elbows on her knees and sets her chin on her hands, letting her eyes settle across on the teapot. It's likely she interpreted that glance from him quite accurately given the shift, but she doesn't answer the unspoken question, at least not immediately. Instead, it's the first topic that she returns to, her tone conversational (though her voice is still soft). "Once it stops raining so much, we should go riding," she suggests. "I don't really know anyone else who does it for fun, and it's always nicer with company. If, you know, you could manage to get away at some point for a few hours." That last little bit takes on a dry note, and she glances sidelong over at him again. There's only a moment's pause before she admits, really only barely audibly, "I worry about you, Neiran. That's all. And you don't like me fussing, but it's in my nature to fuss. I know you're okay, or are going to be, but...well, I just do. No big deal, or anything? I just don't know how to help."
Neiran is still while Aida shifts, not unlike a stationary tree that only moves every so often due to a specific rustle of wind. He purses his lips, a long pause presaging some carefully chosen and enunciated words. "I believe that I would not be adverse to your company during a ride, Aida." The fact that a girl is safer with an escort these days slips by unmentioned, as does the reality of the Journeyman's likely minimal ability to act as defender should a situation arise. Those currents drift beneath the heavier sense of acceptance, perhaps even pleasant anticipation. But there are more solemn things to discuss than leisurely springtime rides. "Perhaps there is nothing that you can do for me, Aida. However, if there is something that can be done by me in order to clear your mind of anxiety, I would perhaps be willing to entertain it. A young lady should not spend her time worrying about..." The healer drifts off for a moment. Dangerous ground is approached here. A man of rank? A man? Someone to whom she has no legitimate ties in the eyes of society? Any of those suggestions are true, but also verbal traps that might offend. "...About something that is beyond her control. I have many demands between Caucus, infirmary duties, and the sudden skeleton of a social life I seem to possess and need to nourish, as well as a medical condition that steals...more of my time than I enjoy realizing. It is simply the way it is."
There is a nod given, when he states he'd enjoy her company; no more than that. Suggestion made, accepted, and the acceptance acknowledged. Aida continues to study the ground, her eyes flitting from spot to spot on the stone of the floor, as if the variances to be found, minimal as they might be, are terribly interesting. There's another -- brief -- sidelong glance over to him when he pauses, but it doesn't linger long, gone again before he speaks up once more. "It is simply the way it is," she agrees without delay, voice quiet. "As is my being concerned. Don't tell me what I should or should not do, especially not on the grounds of me being a young lady. I know there's nothing I can do; I know there are a great many demands on you. I know, I know, and I know. That knowing does not take away the concern, out of my control or not. You are my friend, and I worry about you. Should, shouldn't, it doesn't play in at all. It just doesn't. You *hurt*." With that little bit emphasized, she turns her head so she can actually look up at him again, attempting to catch his gaze. "And so I worry. I am who I am."
It is that subtly emphasized word that catches Neiran. No doubt his guard is down, in his state. He looks briefly stricken, as though hearing that word from someone else's mouth for the first time makes him realize the reality of it. Almond-shaped eyes become momentarily rounder, the muscles around his lips tense, while a furrow appears above the line of his nose. She successfully catches his gaze for a moment, enough to see that flash of various tumbling unpleasant emotions behind dark eyes, and then he looks away. The long line of his throat moves; a swallow, and not because of any sipped tea. With the power of a few measured breaths, taken with the surety of one who uses breathing to regulate emotion often, he regains a semblance of his tired self. "Life is not such that all are afforded a leisurely time of it, particularly not during a Pass. I have been fortunate in the opportunities that I have been given." Not the joys experienced, or wonders seen, but dry opportunity. "If I have failed to disguise my own emotions successfully here, then I have done my colleagues and...friends, including you, an injustice, and for that I ask forgiveness." With what gravitas is left to a collected man slightly shaken, he finds solace in another sip of tea, regarding the far wall quietly. "It is my oath to heal the sick, not to burden others with my maladies. My experiences here have been both stimulating, disconcerting, and disarming, and I fear I have failed to adhere to that clause. I should not have attempted to belittle your compassion by alluding to your gender, or what is or is not under your power to alter."
Oh no. Aida's own eyes go a bit wide at his reaction to her words, worry sharpening to something almost pained. The hurt look that crosses over her face when he looks away is not for herself, but instead born of something that insists with near desperation that she make it better, rather than wound. Aida sits up, shaking her head -- over and over she shakes her head, perhaps trying to refute his points, perhaps just denying his words. Something. When he finishes, her head is shaken again, more soundly, and this time she does dare to reach up with one hand, attempting to rest her fingers light on his shoulder as she leans in towards him. It's a conspiratorial sort of posture, or would be if it weren't for her own touch of upset. Still, when she speaks, her voice is quiet. "Neiran," she murmurs, a hint of a plea to her tone. "You do not need to ask for my forgiveness; you have it, but you have not done me any wrong. It is not your oath to be more than human. You have been fortunate; some would say that you have been blessed. I don't deny that. But with highs come lows, and...shards. Failed to disguise your emotions? The only injustice I see is that you try to do so so completely, locking them away from the people who care enough to /want/ them. Bad or good." Insistent, her tone is for those last few words. So very, very insistent.
Neiran is tired enough that the touch doesn't cause him to flinch reflexively, instead a languorous look is cast down at that hand, as if surprised to find it there, and then Aida's face so close. It's not often his personal space is infringed upon, unless it's he who's approached someone - and them usually with a Threadscore that needs sewing, or medicine that needs administering. He manages, however, not to shy away, but remains seated still even with her lean. Closer, she might notice the tanginess of various bitter herbs enshrouded in the more cloying flavorful herbs. And, the strong undercurrent of clove that comes not from the tea, but from the man himself; specifically, his clothing. "When I ask for forgiveness, I believe that is my...indirect way of stating an apology or regret in a less ignominious fashion." As for his emotions, disguised or otherwise, he remarks, "it has been my observation that expressing negative emotion has one of two responses. One, you elicit the scorn, mockery, or contempt of those around you and worsen your condition by being exposed to their reflections or exploitations of your discomfiture. Two, you elicit worry and compassion which distracts the minds and feelings of those experiencing it from their own more worthwhile pursuits, and worsen your condition by then feeling the guilt of selfishly eliciting such a response." He is not so much insistent as he is methodical, as if reciting a catechism from a book, or a Harper's taught ballad.
There's no backing off this time, not even when her hand is glanced at. Aida has invaded his personal space, and so there. Her expression does at least settle out considerably once he's speaking again; with his composure gained, her own is easier. Of course, his methodical recital has her exhaling a quiet (yet clearly aggravated) sigh, dropping her forehead down against her hand lightly, lashes drifting to close her eyes. "Your observation can go Between," she points out, something cranky threading through her tone now. "As can your guilt over my caring about you." Her head lifts back up, though her hand stays in place, and she gives him an openly dirty look. "You...Neiran, you have to know better." She pauses there, takes a deep breath, and both her expression and her tone soften again, gentling. "If you don't, please take my words as the truth from someone who does understand. If you keep it all bottled up, it will fester, and it will get worse, and it will continue to weigh on you more and more heavily until you can't -- no matter how strong you are -- keep it close any more. There are people who care about you. /I/ do. The third option is that expressing negative emotions lessens the weight on your shoulders, because it's distributed a little bit. Does it distract? Yes. Is that bad? /No/. Caring about somebody isn't bad, Neiran. It just /isn't/. And it doesn't always blow up in your face, either."
"I am aware that figurative slivers of doubt and displeasure must be removed, as must their physical counterparts, lest festering occur," he acknowledges. "I am not allowing anything to fester. For a surgeon to do so would be laughable. I am content. Merely a little more tired than usual as of late, particularly at this moment." He proceeds directly, calmly, allowing her hand to remain while his shoulder neither relaxes nor tenses, but remains the still and slender thing it is. "I am simply not accustomed to accepting caring graciously." He doesn't seem phased that that alludes to a truly bizaare and likely regrettable upbringing, or some quirk of nature in his own mind that doubtless is worth much frowning from more well-adjusted individuals. "I've not suggested it's bad, and in truth your concern for my well-being is flattering." The series of rapid blinks that accompany that word overlays the word 'confusing' atop of flattering. Neiran has another drink of his bitter tea, medicines of his own devising working internally whilst the soothing nature of tea-taking works its own kind of magic on his psyche. "What would you suggest I do? You are not the only one who's expressed distress at my methods of interrelation. I'm curious as to what alternatives one would envisage. I believe that my current mode sees me through my days sufficiently." He's attempting to assuage the girl's irritation, concern, and everything directed towards him in his own quiet way, tolerant and reasonable even though it's surely somewhat discouraging to open up to advice from a young girl about feelings. And to think he was suggesting she go to a mindhealer.
Lashes drifting down to cloak her eyes at his response, Aida does a fine job at maintaining her composure. She will remain patient. There will be no shaking of the healer. His shoulder is given a light squeeze before her hand withdraws, settled back into her lap as she finally straightens away. She's still sitting close enough that she is invading his personal space, but at least it's not *quite* so bad. It's not until he finishes speaking that she opens her eyes again, looking up at him with an expression that is now mild. Calm, patient. "You're too smart for me to talk down out of this tree," she points out quietly, her good hand lifting to let her tug the scarf out of her hair, fingers ruffling through the curls as her eyes leave him to let her gaze be cast up towards the ceiling. "It's hard to have a discussion like this with somebody smarter than you." This is followed by a momentary pause, long enough for the words to sink in before she continues. "You asked for my forgiveness for the injustice of me figuring out how you feel." She's taken on a tone of idle conversation for this, light, certainly far less intent than her earlier words. Time to switch tactics. "My first suggestion would be, really, for you to stop thinking it bad to share such things." Her gaze drops abruptly, locking back on his face. "Sufficient." It's said like it's a dirty word. That tone is gone again, when she continues. "You put up a wall. Everybody else stays on one side, and you're on the other. There's not...there's not any one thing you can do. There's no thing I could point to to say -- that, right there, that will help. It's not about me being dissatisfied with you. It's not. Well, I mean, I am poking at you. But it's about /you/. You're tired enough that I saw it. You're not /content/ and it's not /sufficient/, and you're lying to yourself if you say you are and it is."
The healer seems equally inclined to patience, listening to Aida as though she were an equal colleague of his. If there's one thing to be credited to him, it's a willingness to find wisdom in any source, and a lack of derision for those beneath him even despite the subtle professional vanity with which he conducts himself. Once she's finished speaking at length, he responds, "I do not believe carrying on a conversation like this lends itself to your classification of me as a 'wall'." Despite the fact that he's gently rebuffing her statement, that word seems worth some pursing of his lips, his thoughts weighing on that serendipitous vocabulary choice. "If I am a wall, I am a somewhat permeable one, not unlike water. I associate with people, and discuss personal issues that I was disinclined to even permit a second party to allude to Turns ago. I have shared with those who have ventured close to me some specifics of my life that I am loathe to expose, namely my condition; I believe that is a gesture in trust towards a friendship, making yourself vulnerable. I have shared my hobbies, as well, to prove that my companions are not emotional splints to ensure I develop correctly. I have found that it can be pleasant to discover mutually enjoyed activities and conversation topics. I do not understand how this presents as a wall. There are certain protocols of rank and formality which must be observed," and his observance of such has made him a shoe-in for practicing ambassadorial duties in future Caucus Turns, "and I am not lax in them unless long familiarity allows a certain relaxation of those traditions. ...I spoke rather lengthily just now. My apologies; I believe it can be summed up that you are concerned for me. I accept your concern, though I do wish I could eliminate it, as it is bound to fruitlessly continue as for the next three Turns I envision my lifestyle will be much the same as it is currently."
Swinging her eyes away from him again, this time Aida sets her gaze on the wall. She listens silently to him speak without a slip in her composure, withdrawn behind the patience and the calm and keeping any reaction to all of it well to herself. For all that she tends towards expressive, her poker face (so to speak) is actually very, very good. When he finishes speaking, she gives a light little shake of her head, noting quietly, "You need not apologize for speaking at length; I have been listening." Her gaze shifts from the wall, dropping down to her skirt, and she picks at it lightly with one hand, brushing some imaginary fuzz away and generally focusing her attention there for a few long moments. "I do not dispute that you are forming friendships," she finally says quietly, addressing his words beyond just the apology. "Nor that you go through the motions perfectly, every step taken in the dance nigh perfection in the way it is placed. But." And that word is allowed to sit on its own for two heartbeats before she glances sidelong at him again and continues, "You stated that your failure to conceal your emotions was doing people a disservice. 'An injustice' was the phrase you used. Explain /that/ to me again, Neiran. Explain to me why it is such a horrid thing for me to see that you're hurting, instead of it being 'yes, ouch, it hurts' and me offering a sympathetic smile and maybe a hug and saying 'shells, I'm sorry it hurts again'."
"For calling me more intelligent than you, your perception continues to impress me, and I never doubt the Headmaster's decision to make you his aide." Presumably that can't be said for just any young girl. But saying such things, complimentary as they are, is mostly a stalling tactic. Neiran's poker face, worn all the time, is a very solid mask, though the wearer's eyes and mouth can be seen through the holes of it, and they betray flickers of his brain's workings. Here, he frowns mildly, and a hand goes to his stomach as though finding nausea - but he only smoothes his vest once again. He's not moved since fetching his tea, but now he shifts slightly on the cot as though making himself more comfortable, though in truth he's seeing to his circulation, grown somewhat sluggish in his dangling legs just recently. "It is selfish to lean too strongly on those around you. You argue that distributing the weight can aid one, but it is seldom an even distribution that occurs. And, like a child born with a twisted leg, if he is permitted crutches for all of his life, he will never straighten the limb and walk on his own. If the crutches are removed, he will fall. In a community, those who weigh too heavily on others are a burden. And like a hiker who relieves himself by placing his pack on the ground after a few dragonlengths, such respites in others become too tempting and the cycle is continued. It is best that each individual find sufficiency in himself first before looking to others to shoulder the burdens of his own inadequacies." His lids lower, fine lashes visible in profile, and he regards his tea as if scrying once again. "Furthermore, it makes me uncomfortable to think that the exterior I cultivate so tenaciously can be bypassed; not everyone holds honest intentions as you do, Aida. Acknowledging or noticing any discomfort, physical or emotional, does not make it dissipate, but adds to it."
She's doing a good job of remaining calm until he starts in on the selfishness bit. Aida's eyes go slightly wide and then she sets her jaw, shaking her head and turning away again, leaning way forward over her legs until she's crouched over, chin down on her knees, fingers wrapping lightly around her lower legs. It lets her look at the floor and her shoes that much closer, see. And so it is an inspection of her shoes that occurs as he is speaking, distracting her enough to keep her at least mostly superficially calm. When he finishes, she's dead quiet, as if perhaps she had tuned him out entirely and had not quite realized he was done speaking. Still, a few heartbeats later she turns her head enough that she can look at him again, this time sideways and almost upside down. "So it's selfish and it makes you uncomfortable?" She asks, tone back to idle again. "Sometimes it has to hurt worse before it gets better, you know." One of her shoulders is lifted and dropped in a vague shrug, and she turns back to staring at her feet and the floor. "It is not the same as a twisted leg and a crutch or a hiker with a pack. They're close and they sound like good comparisons, but they're really awful ones, because it's nothing like that at all. It's not selfish, it's not /weak/, and the people who care about you aren't going to hate you if you lean on them. It's /more/ like...you're a person. You need to eat. Indulging your appetite when it says 'I'm hungry' is not weakness or selfishness because you're eating food somebody else could, it's smart, because you're a person and you need to eat. Emotional contact is almost as important as food. Because you are human."
Neiran sips his tea in the interlude of silence he's afforded due to it being Aida's turn to speak. He watches her shifting of posture empirically, noting with half-lidded eyes the discomfiture it conveys. "I did not suggest that that handful of individuals who spare a thought for me would hate me were I to confide in them, as I do occasionally. I simply feel no need to express myself by discussing my rather superficial difficulties in life. The thought of doing so greatly displeases me. What they are, are things that cannot be changed, or I have the power to alter but choose not to. To complain of them would be pointless, and a waste of time when more fruitful and mutually enjoyable conversation could be had. I eat when I am hungry, and I see that my body receives proper nutrition. It appears to be little when compared to an average plate, but it is all that I need." The next sip of tea to whet his lips finishes off the mug, and he rises to place it on the bedside table. There is no wobble, this time, and he does not choose to sit once more. "Perhaps we are discussing this at a disadvantageous time. When I have been bedridden in agony for five consecutive hours, I am not predisposed to being optimistic in my opinions during discussions afterwards." A pause. "For having expressed my current 'problem', I feel no relief, but actually unease for stating the fact of the matter. Some medicines are ineffective on certain patients; perhaps unburdening is not a balm to me as it is to others."
The quiet word that escapes Aida's lips when he rises may have been under her breath, but it's most certainly a curse. Her shoulders slump, her chin drops more heavily onto her knees. Otherwise, there's no reaction to be hand until he's finished speaking, and when he has, she gives a little shake of her head. "I'm sorry," she states, her voice very small for those two words. Her fingers trail around to tug at the laces of her boots, fiddling lightly with them for a long moment before she can even begin to find any further words. Eventually, she just gives a little shake of her head, hand dropping away as she straightens herself out and slides up to her feet. A brush of her skirt, an adjustment of her shirt at her wrist, and...she still doesn't quite look at him, instead letting her gaze sit on his shoulder. "There's no 'problem' with you, and don't take my opinion on the matter as indicating that there is one. I'll leave you in peace, now." And there's no waiting for a response before she's in motion, turning to likely head away.
The healer's brows and mouth maneuver in a small concert of consternation and what appears to be confusion as she moves off. Did she not just prove his point, by leaving after he ventured to lean? It's left the healer a little a-flounder, so much so that no action is taken, and he simply watches her turn. "There is indeed a problem with me; at the very least one which has been diagnosed. It was my impression that we were discussing the weight of these things." Another pause. "Good...evening," he adds, the tone suggestive of a question more than his usual firm statement of farewell. Likely his confusion is chalked up to tiredness, and his lack of understanding of the female species. Surely he couldn't have said anything wrong. He sits on the cot once more, assuming Aida will leave, stooping to remove his shoes while he sits on the edge of it.
Two steps are taken away before she spins back around, digging her heels in, so to speak. Aida tilts her chin down some as she looks back at him again through her eyelashes, lips curved down into the slightest of frowns. "It's...that's not what I meant," she points out, her tone now holding a stubborn note. "I was saying you were right, and apologizing because it was unfair of me to poke at you when you're hurting. Because it is. I made it worse, and I'm /really/ sorry." For all that she carries herself so well most of the time, youth shines out for a moment there, when lashes lift and she gives him a sort of a pleading look. "The last thing I want in the whole world right now is to actually make anything worse. Just...there's no need for my forgiveness, alright? For anything, not ever."
"I don't feel any worse," Neiran insists, brows raised faintly as he pauses in the act of sliding off one shoe. "It wasn't unfair; if I'd wanted you to cease, I would have definitively changed the topic of conversation. I was interested in what you had to say. And, as I said, my asking for your forgiveness was more of an expression of regret than a genuine entreaty, Aida. Please do not feel upset on my account. I am not hurting at the moment, simply somewhat tired, and displeased that because of my episode I missed the Hatching and will now have to cut time out of my infirmary shift to sleep, whilst hoping no one comes in who needs my specialized attention, as I am not at my best when woken up after a migraine, and any patient referred to me specifically almost certainly needs the best of care." He places his shoe on the ground, neatly parallel to the bed, and sits again to remove the other one. A sign of his perfectionism is exhibited in his precise setting of the untied laces into an orderly configuration before the shoe is set down. "Thank you for the conversation, Aida."
Frustration, confusion, a general upset; these things are for the most part masked, though there's a ghost of it all across her face before Aida sets her jaw against it and forces the appearance of calm. She closes her eyes briefly, and when they open back up again she even manages to draw her lips up into a smile. "You're welcome," she says quietly. "Rest well. I'll track you down again sometime soon. Good evening." Nothing further than that -- she's all too aware that there isn't room in her mouth for the other foot. So she instead gives a little dip of her head and turns, beelining for the exit. Whatever brought her in here initially has apparently been entirely forgotten.
Neiran sets his other shoe down, done unlacing it and tidying it with his dextrous hands before Aida's done staring in consternation. "Good evening." This one is more assured. Like a sieve of emotions, he doesn't seem to be retaining any of the displeasures of moments ago; it could very well be that he's simply too tired. He's not too tired to forget his strict need for privacy, and the sound of the curtain being closed around the bed follows Aida's retreat from the infirmary. Enclosed in his little fabric-walled asylum, Neiran removes his vest, folds it, and slides underneath the cot's covers to attempt to rest. Ruminations on their discussion can come at another time, when refreshed. For the immediate moment, it's a dreamless sleep that claims him almost instantly.