[Log] The Enactor
Who: Derek, E'sere
When: Day 19, Month 10, Turn 2, 7th Pass
Where: Derek's Cave, Western Islands
What: E'sere stops by for a chat with Derek.
He almost always comes back here for breakfast. That's easy enough to figure out if one takes breakfast with the rest of the island; everyone takes breakfast in solitude or somewhere out of the main clearing at some point, but Derek's absent almost every day. His presence is far more notable than his absence.
There's fish and fruit in a plate on the table. The days are hot and the nights aren't even particularly comfortable, but despite the persistent heat of the long dry season there's been a fire in the pit, now dashed out, coals swept over and suffocated in sand. The man himself isn't in the cave, though. He's sitting out on one of the larger rocks just before the cavemouth, a stick in one hand. Another rock's been displaced before him, leaving - until the tide comes in - a somewhat bowed expanse of wet sand. In that sand Derek sketches out shapes, thoughts, ideas. The unused arm props on a knee, bare foot propped in turn against the side of the rock. The stick's four feet long and he still has to bend over a little to reach the sand with the tip; it's a large rock he's perched on.
E'sere, in the time since his abrupt arrival, has adjusted to some degree to going barefooted. He still picks his way carefully over the rocks leading up to Derek's cave, but there is, overall, less mincing, and he's no guide this time. Instead, alone, he makes his way up toward the man on the rock: dressed as neatly as he can manage, but in island wear rather than the much nicer things he arrived in. With the bronzerider's slow pace, Derek has plenty of time to notice if he looks up; still, E'sere, when he gets closer, greets the man with, "Sir."
He doesn't even have to look up, per se; general sense of sound and presence gives him warning of an approach and a little peripheral glance is good enough to get a fix on identity. "Good morning, son." Derek's voice is pleasant if, as ever, sandy-soft and a little higher than his presentation would suggest it ought to be. He whips out a series of dashes on his drawing with the tip of the stick, putting them into an angled line flanking two ranks of Xes. When he's finished with that much, he does bother to look up directly, squinting, the easterly glare of sunlight severe from the forward right. "Breakfast on the table," he notes, as if he expected company. As if he expected, for that matter, E'sere.
"Yes, sir," E'sere agrees, nodding once as he studies Derek, then drifts past him toward that table in the cave. He takes fruit from the plate--the fish, even after time on the islands, doesn't settle well with E'sere for breakfast. With the fruit, he retreats back outside, to another rock a couple of feet from Derek, where he perches now to eat. "I hope I'm not intruding, sir? How are you this morning?" he begins with the usual pleasantries.
While E'sere goes in and comes out, Derek sketches in another row of dashes, then puts the stick down with the tip deep in the sand, the rest leant up against the rock itself. "The Alley's open to anyone," he replies, hardly an answer at all, as E'sere comes back out, and Derek draws up the other foot to curve its sole to the side of the rock like the other so he can rest both arms out across his knees. "About the same as most of them. And you?"
"The same, sir," E'sere answers easily, as he works on eating, still with all the manners he mastered at the Reaches. He's silent a moment, and then asks, "Why do you call it the Alley?" Idle curiousity, to be sure: E'sere doesn't seem particularly interested in the answer, and after a couple more moments of silence he adds slowly, "I... thought I should probably--apologize, for the other day. After the hatching." Nevermind that was a couple of weeks ago now. It probably took him that long to work up his courage.
"A crack someone made when we first found it, turns ago," replies Derek in just a soft little mutter, as understated as the question might have been rhetorical. "Apologize?" He flicks a glance over at the other man, just as narrow as it had been when he was looking almost into the sunlight. Then he looks down past his knees and toes at his drawing. "Nah."
E'sere frowns slightly, and he glances around at the opening of Derek's Alley then, studyingly. Then, he turns back, and eyes the remains of fruit in his hands before setting it aside on the open surface of the rock so that he can look back to Derek. He's silent, expectant of more, as his brows knit for the man's reply.
Derek sits on the rock. He is obliged to readjust a foot on the curved side of the rock, because the weight of his arm and knee forces a little slippage. He looks out at the sea, the view fairly commanding, perhaps part of his preference for the cave behind them. And he seems perfectly content, having declined the other man's apology, to do all of these things in silence.
They sit in silence, then, though, on E'sere's end at least, it's wary rather than comfortable. The bronzerider sits, studying Derek, then the sea when staring seems improper, still with a slight tilt of his head toward the other man, in case he should care to impart more words on that subject. But none come, and finally, he's obliged to speak himself. "We've no word," he begins, just as slowly, "of Cassiel yet?"
"We've no word," Derek echoes as confirmation, and the stare with which he regards the sea grows blacker by the syllable. After a moment he looks over at E'sere. "I can't think of a single explanation I like. You got any?"
"None that I like," E'sere admits, echoing Derek, frowning as he glances downward. He's silent a moment, then notes, "She's been captured." Silence, again; he picks up the fruit once more and plays with it rather than eating it. "There's no other explanation: they wouldn't welcome her back if she tried to defect--and I doubt she would, anyway. The dragons would know if she had died /between/. So they've a queen somewhere holding her green, and they're hiding her somewhere, for some reason. I can't fathom their motives any more."
"Information," offers Derek, blandly. He reverts his regard to the drawing below his feet. "Plans. Ideas. The sheer bloody hell of it." His shoulders lift and fall in a clipped, irritable shrug. "I'm not sure," and this has the tone of confession, very soft and very gently said, "If we should risk sending scout, or sit tight."
"There's nothing we can do for her," says E'sere, shaking his head. "If we did send someone after her, they'd be captured themselves. They'll be watching for us now, and their queen could ground any dragon we used. Either they'll return her to us on their own when they're through with her, or they'll kill her."
Derek sucks in breath through his nostrils and lets out a slow, pensive sigh. The breath seems to suck the life out of his eyes, narrowing them, steeling them against the unpleasant facts the bronzerider puts to words. "I'd hoped you'd have a different perspective," he replies at length, darkly. "If she's gone too long we'll have to - " A pause, and he glances up and over, some of the squint falling away from his eyes. "Would you know if she was dead?"
"I've tried every perspective I can think of, but none of them were worth holding on to," E'sere says evenly. "As much as I believe we shouldn't leave her to them, I also know we can't save her now; we're simply not strong enough yet." He pauses, and while Derek looks at him, he stares at the sea, thoughtful. "Morelenth might," he notes. "Dragons usually do, but it's harder for them to communicate from this distance. Nenuith has a stronger connection than anyone else, her being a queen; she could perhaps stand a better chance of finding out." Pause. Another second of silence before: "I don't think she's dead. Their dragons would not appreciate that: even when their riders aren't, they are honorable, at least. And I don't imagine her capture is common knowledge there, either, so if the other dragons happened to realize she was dead..."
Derek keeps looking at E'sere even after the bronzerider's been through every word of his thorough response and trailed off. His jaw tightens and loosens and tightens again and if one were to look closely there's a little sucked-in spot of his cheek, like he's chewing on the inside of it. "Dragons're honorable, by definition, then." As if this were something kids on Pern weren't taught, or as if he somehow missed the lesson.
"Yes," affirms E'sere, glancing around then to Derek, intent. "They always have their limits, of what they will do, of what they'll allow their riders to do. Some of them are moreso than others, of course, but." He shrugs, glances waterward, and then back. "Morelenth, for example. He doesn't approve of ordering murder, but it's not egregious enough to send him /between/ in shame. It would be, I think, for some."
"But if he went - between - permanently, you'd die." It's a question, just not lilted up at the end like one. Derek frowns, looks back out to sea. As the sun rises higher, the glare softens and the view, though cloudless and dry and hot, becomes less imposing. "So it's part - how you feel about the dragon, and part self-preservation. And the dragons back on the mainland. You figure they'd rank killing Cassiel higher than your Morelenth ranks ordering someone dead?"
"Not necessarily, but it wouldn't be a pleasant existance, still," E'sere notes grimly. It's notable, perhaps, that when the subject he knows more about than Derek does comes up, some of that obsequecious deference of earlier fades, replaced by a still polite but less over-the-top conversation on the bronzerider's part. "Most... Most do end up suiciding. Ganathon didn't." E'sere, tiring of holding the fruit without eating again, sets it aside once more, and slides it away from him to remove the temptation. "I'd say so, yes," he notes in answer.
If it's notable to Derek that E'sere's attitude shifts, the notation is made most privately. He seems no less at comfort - and no moreso - than he did prior, though it would be fair to say his -mood- is rather not improved. "Ganathon," he repeats. He's done this before, when E'sere spoke the name, but now he does so with more cognitive content than prior. The squint narrows. "Ganathon at High Reaches. My very own weyr. And yours. I see." A moment later the corners of his moustache bend, and he lifts a hand to smooth them with thumb and forefinger, like he's aiming to stop the smile from smiling.
"Ganathon," E'sere repeats in agreement, nodding once. "Hirth was killed in the first 'Fall of the Pass--the beginnings of our troubles. Most of what happened afterward was due to his machinations--he's not been the same since it happened. Or perhaps he has, and I simply never knew him before."
"G'thon spoke at the trials," replies Derek; maybe the contraction's a request for final, perfect confirmation, because it might be that for this man who knows so little of dragons that Hirth's name isn't enough. Maybe it's just a dedication to temporal accuracy. "Spoke a lot, if I recall, and never said a thing."
"Ganathon," says E'sere, "is very good at that. Most of my conversations with him, I'd describe as such." He hesitates, tugs idly on his shirt and rakes his hair. "I would have said, once, he was almost a father to me. But that was a long time ago, and he forfeited that."
"I got the idea that he might have had more investment in saying nothing than he could have hidden if he'd said something." Derek frowns more deeply, brows crouching to shadow his eyes. "And now I sound the same way," he observes distastefully, and hardly even pauses for a beat and certainly not for breath before observing additionally, "Aivey says you're meant to be weyrleader there."
"Probably," concedes E'sere, with a wry smirk. Then, brows knitting, he looks back to Derek, giving the man a carefully neutral expression. "That has always been the intended goal for my life, yes," he notes slowly. "And she promises to give me as much myself."
"She told me so. Although she does make it sound like she expects you to do some of the work," Derek replies, wry himself, if not smirking. "I'm sure you both have your unique skills that will serve that goal."
"Of course," E'sere answers promptly, nodding once. "I'd not expect her to do everything, after all. If I am not, at present, capable of... certain things personally, then I'm happy to accept what help she can offer me. My own skills are... I am, sir, a politician, as I believe I've told you. My strength lies in dealing with people--in getting them to follow me and my ideals willingly. I have always had a great deal of popular support, at the Reaches."
"You're not obliged to call me 'sir,' son." Very softly spoken, and then Derek turns to level his steely stare in all its unfeeling seriousness on the other man. "And what will you do when your popular support raises you? How do you plan to run that weyr?"
"I know," says E'sere. "It's... something that I do, have always done." His shoulders lift as if to say, what else can you do? He's silent a very long time, in answer to that question, before he asks, "What do you plan to do, when you return, sir?"
"You'd do better to ask J'lor about that, son." Derek looks out to sea, impassive, but one hand reaches down and finds the top of his stick, reclaiming it into his grasp. A few twitching turns of his wrist and it starts out a steady tap, tap, tap against the rock. "He's the vision. He's the dream. Did anyone ever tell you about it?" Beat. "Ganathon?"
"But you're the enactor," returns E'sere steadily. He studies Derek then, brows knitted just slightly, and he shakes his head to answer the question. "No, sir?"
"J'lor would put deserving men and women in places of power, and strip out those who don't serve the people who follow them. He'd have the suffering of the commonplace people end." Derek speaks with a slow, simple certainty, not quite reciting, but as if the ideas, if not these particular words, are well familiarized on his lips. "I'm not the enactor. I'm the guard. I'm the spy. I'm the enforcer. I keep the peace here. I'll keep it there, too." He makes no real effort to hide the fact that he's not explaining himself fully. He feels no obvious obligation to do so.
"Ideas are well and good," says E'sere, "but not enough in themselves. They require execution. These ideas... will perhaps require more literal execution than most." His mouth twists wryly, and he notes, "It's an admirable goal, I'll admit. Though, I do wonder by what criteria he determines worthiness to lead. It /sounds/ good, yes, to say the common people will lead, but most of the common people are not equipped to do so. I don't mean to belittle them, of course, that they aren't /capable/, but they simply have never had the opportunity to develop whatever abilities they might have. If they can't be readied to take care of themselves before they actually do so, then the battle is already lost."
"I didn't say," not, 'J'lor doesn't say,' "that the common people will lead. Just that their suffering ends." Derek's mouth twists a little sour around those words; perhaps they're personal. "You talk like you know," he adds, softly. Softly is not quite the same as gently, not here. His focus dissolves into that gray thousand-yard stare. "What will you do with that weyr when you have it?"
"I don't think, sir," E'sere notes after a moment, another of those pregnant pauses for the question, "that I can answer that now. What I do with my Weyr depends on how Pern develops between now and then--and afterward, too."
"Then I have nothing else to tell you." It's quick enough to be retort, but his voice stays soft. Derek unbends his knees and slips down from the rock, bare feet landing in the drawing he's made in the damp sand there. He half-turns and looks up at the bronzerider, eyes narrow. "But if I were Aivey, I'd be asking you for a little more information."
"Then, sir, I'll be glad you are not," E'sere notes, with a quick smile for Derek. More seriously, he adds, "I simply don't know what to say any more. There was a time, I'll admit, when I would have--did--gladly support anything my mother did. Anything Ganathon did, or any of the rest of them. That was how I was raised; that was all I knew. But now... I'm having to reevaluate now, and find my feet again, and that will take me some time."
Derek doesn't seem to find his displacement of identity from his daughter's nearly as amusing. There's in fact something a little too serious about the bland stare with which he tolerates the bronzerider's smile. "You have time," he answers, after a moment quiet. "But not a lot. Think fast, son." He tips the writing-end of the stick into the sand and turns away, rounding the rock toward the cavemouth. "Want any more breakfast?"
"No, thank you, sir," E'sere says, with a shake of his head. And: "Yes, sir, I know that. I intend to be ready, when we do return, so I can make the most of that opportunity. But I shouldn't intrude on you any longer--I've chores--unless you've something else you'd care to ask me, sir?"
Derek doesn't turn around wholly, but he does stop, one step below the cavemouth, a hand on his knee, ready to ascend. He turns his head and slips a glance back from the corner of his eye at the other man. "Asked everything I needed to from Aivey," he says, as sweet as his own daughter can be. Then he looks up into his cave, as if that last step is a trial, and climbs on in.
"Yes, sir," says E'sere, nodding once as he rises and watches Derek a moment. Then, he offers, "Have a good day, sir." And he, too, turns, picking his way down from the cave.