[Vignette] Family Affairs
I've never been a fan of the whole: I've been idle so my character will be on vacation/sick/another planet until I get home post. Still, with my extended absence lately, and Tiriana's own position and influence on the Weyr, it seemed necessary to account for that /some/how. Thus, a vignette, beginning some indeterminate time ago, and concluding at the present day.
Belyth's touch was never exactly unwelcome, but it was unusual enough that white flashed down their link and into the other gold's mind sharply.
<< Belyth. >>
<< Iovniath. >> The elder queen's voice held a touch of--concern? panic? barely contained emotions , none of them pleasant. << Eadranth's-->> Then it was all images. Sh'drian berating a council room full of people. Paler than even usual. Hand braced on the table.
Collapsing.
-=-
It's one of those harper cliches, moments that seem to last forever. Then again, there's a reason things become cliche, and those instants after Belyth's message certainly lived up to the billing for Tiriana. She wasn't quite sure how she managed to brusquely wrap up her own morning meeting without shaking, let alone walk the short distance home, mount Iovniath, picture Ierne well enough not to lose herself /between/--at least not any more than her brain already felt like it had been sucked into the blackness.
Over Ierne, the commotion was visible on the Weyrleaders' ledges even now: lots of milling people, angry faces, yelling. Several overwhelmed healer apprentices seemed to have been mostly charged with barring the door to the Weyrleader's quarters. Iovniath landed nearly unnoticed, and Tiriana scrambled down to the ledge, ready to crumble.
But Ria and Nuria had, between them, that well in hand--even R'dur was there, in on the action. Grandma Ria was hysterical, sometimes crying on the apprentices, sometimes letting R'dur try to calm her down, though he looked little better. Nuria was all bluster, fussing about how stupid her big brother was, how the healers just better get out of her way and let her see him, how she wasn't worried at all and anyway it served him right if he died miserable and alone. N'ro was about the only still person: he just looked blank, watching his mother pace around and fret so ineffectually. Tiriana had never seen them all so--small.
"Tiriana!" wailed her grandmother, and threw herself on the oldest of her granddaughters. "Tiriana, they won't tell me anything!"
So Tiriana drew herself up, disentangled herself from the old woman, and marched straight into the weyr.
"Ma'am, you can't--you shouldn't--" the bravest apprentice tried to say. He received a cold look for his troubles, and shut up promptly. No one else tried to stop her; even her family just stood there, wringing their hands and not trying to follow her.
-=-
The weyr was a mess, no surprises there. Clothes all around, his and hers--many, many hers. Eadranth had stuffed himself into most of the space, much further into the weyr than was made for dragonkind. He looked wan, and his eyes were glazed. Iovniath touched his mind, and it was all acrid, stinging smoke.
And Sh'drian--Tiriana couldn't even see him, not until she was nearly upon him. The bedroom was in the very back, and a trio of very grave-looking healers surrounded him.
As for the Weyrleader of Ierne--he looked paler, and skinnier, all hollow cheeks, purpled eyed, damp hair, and a discomforting rattle in his chest. Tiriana could see the white strands now, distinct from the white-blonde of the rest of it. He looked old, and terrifyingly human.
"Ma'am--" began one of the healers, an unfamiliar, reedy-looking man; but he was silenced by a lifted hand from the Weyr's longtime healer.
"Tiriana," said Rusalka. "You shouldn't come in; it may be contagious."
Tiriana stared at her hard for a moment, but despite the warning, the woman didn't actually try to stop her. In fact, her tacit allowance seemed to settle the matter for the other two healers, who did not look nearly so friendly toward the intrusion. Tiriana didn't even look at them as she made her way toward the bedside, pausing by her father.
"What's wrong with him?" she asked.
"We're not certain. An infection is our theory right now; I've asked Master Colm and Master Alston to consult with me. They are experts in the field, and we're doing everything we can for your father," the older woman explained, patient. "I expect he's been trying to push himself through this for some time, hence the sudden, severe onset of symptoms. Now, I'm going to go speak to your family and see if I can allay some of their fears. We've already started treatment to bring down his fever and reduce the pain, though I'm afraid that means he's not very conscious right now. He is stable, though."
"Is he going to--"
"We're doing everything we can, Tiriana," Rusalka repeated. More gently, "You should sit down, rest yourself. You know, I'm sure he'd like to hear your voice again, dear."
Tiriana didn't say anything then, but she did take one step closer, fingers on the edge of the bed while she fidgeted. Rusalka watched her for a moment before slipping outside, and the other two healers paid her no mind at all as they went around making notes on clipboards and assembling a small infirmary's worth of medicines within the weyr's chambers. Tiriana finally slid down to a spot on the floor, back propped against the bedside.
"Hi," she began, very slowly.
-=-
There was something about an infirmary that turned people into zombies, and it crept into Tiriana even in the weyr that had once been her home. Sh'drian didn't stir except to writhe in wet sheets, and the healers were automatons, going about their business without seeming to notice her much, even Rusalka. Tiriana was left to her own business, dozing in a chair or on the couch for a couple of hours at a time, meticulously oiling every inch of Iovniath and Eadranth both, just to keep her hands preoccupied, if not her mind. The bronze's smoke hung thick around his mind, and he said nothing, though Iovniath offered cool winds and crystal-cold blue sky to him.
Those first couple of days, Tiriana stayed, forcing the staff to cover for her absence from her own Weyr. She said very little herself, even when one by one the rest of the family managed to get in to visit. Ria cried and tried to work herself up again until the healers told her to go. Nuria berated Sh'drian and tried to work herself up again until the healers told her to go. R'dur only hugged Tiriana and sat quietly with her on the couch. R'uen, she'd asked to stay away, because she wasn't sure how well she would be able to hold up if she had to see him, too. Sh'drian was unchanged, and the healers seemed to think this was actually a good thing.
Finally, with that precarious balance still in place, she had to return home, just for a little bit. She cried for the first time, curled up in bed with R'uen until she finally fell asleep. The usual meetings the next day passed without a fight, and without explanation for anything: the last thing Tiriana wanted was sympathetic faces and pats on the shoulder from people who would as soon spit on her any other given day of the turn. Ierne was good about guarding the weaknesses, at least, and while rumors and hearsay did make the rounds of Pern, little definite and nothing official was announced.
Tiriana went back to Ierne that evening, and the next, stretched herself as thin as she had between the Reaches and Fort. Frayed nerves made her more snappish, but less interested in the day-to-day goings-on as the Weyr went on, as Crom went on. With her personal assistant helping cover the workload--and the time away--Tiriana managed; there enough to get the mechanical things done, even if the heart's not in it anymore.
And then, one evening, she met Master Colm on his way out of the Weyr; the old man was muttering under his breath, head shaking darkly. Tiriana crept inside and found the weyr deserted, even Eadranth gone to hunt for himself for the first time since it had happened. When she paused at the bedroom's door, Sh'drian glanced up at her with faded blue eyes.
And he smirked, faintly.
"Hey."
-=-
It wasn't exactly the same; just maybe, it was better. Confined to bed for some time longer, Sh'drian pissed off every one of his would-be nurses and caretakers at some point or another; but Tiriana bore it well, ignoring much of it and sniping back just as often, where everyone else shied away. Eventually, the healers started to talk, oh so cautiously, of full recovery, slow progress. An extra hour sitting up, a walk across the room. Tiriana sat on her feet in the chair while Sh'drian paced one foot in front of the other.
"You should quit," she said.
He looked up from the floor, sharply; his steps stopped and he balanced very carefully with the cane the healers had given him (and he had been given to whacking their shins about as often as walking on it).
"Quit what?"
"Weyrleader."
"And do what?"
"I don't know. Retire to Southern, Ista, somewhere like that. Sip fruity drinks on the beach and sleaze on girls my age in bikinis. Whatever it is you old people do."
"Us old people."
"Yeah."
"Now why," Sh'drian said slowly, his eyes very keen as he studied his daughter.
"Because," said Tiriana, steadily watching him in return. "Quitting's better than losing, and you're going to lose sooner or later."
"All right, then."
-=-
They didn't speak of it again, certainly didn't tell anyone else; Tiriana half-wondered if he'd lied, or forgotten, or--. But he wasn't like that; he did as he pleased and damned if you didn't like it. Weyr business went on, in the Reaches and on the island, participation perfunctory at best on both sides. Finally, one afternoon when his weyrsecond brought the usual missives and messages, Sh'drian waved him away.
"I'm done," he said.
The staid brownrider sputtered something uncharacteristic, stared from Sh'drian to Tiriana, who looked no less surprised.
"Done with--?" he finally got out.
"This shit. Weyrleading. You're on your own now, Faranth help you all."
"But you can't just--" began the weyrsecond. Sh'drian lifted a brow, and the other man corrected himself. "I mean, what are you going to do now? What will people say?"
"When," said Sh'drian, "have I ever given a damn what anybody else thought?"
-=-
It felt like ages, and it had been months, since Tiriana had been full-time at the Reaches, her attention undivided. It always felt like there was some other loose end to tie up, even when Sh'drian was well. First it was making sure the new acting Weyrleader wasn't going to jump off his ledge anytime soon; then it was helping R'dur and Brijana pack up all their weyr and the kids too, and move to Ierne. R'dur didn't stammer around the point when he explained: his mother needed him, with her oldest son having been so ill. He and Sh'drian didn't say much to each other, though Sh'drian did hit on Brijana as much as ever; R'dur only sighed, and shook his head and smiled at Bri when Sh'drian wasn't looking.
Finally, on the fifth day, third month, Belyth rose. Eadranth ignored her, and by the next morning, some new young twit was parading around like he was something special. Sh'drian, of course, made sure he knew his place, foremost by not moving out of the Weyrleader's weyr (something about a healer's note? change bad for his health?) The new guy made do with the smallest junior weyr, the only unoccupied one. Ierne's former Weyrleader seemed at ease enough, and if nothing else, the increased free time meant more time to harass the weyrfolk and start fights. The cane, he'd kept, though often as not it was tucked under an arm as used for walking. It made a very nice weapon in times of need, and Sh'drian found many needs for it.
Tiriana didn't feel quite so at ease as she resettled herself into her Weyr. Her assistant had handed in her notice, too; the strain of lying, covering for Tiriana, sorting all the people wanting a little piece of the Weyrwoman's already thinly-spready attention was more than she had signed up for, and now that the crisis was over, she just wanted a cushy position at an inventory desk in the storerooms. Tiriana let her go. She'd find a replacement on her own, and in the meantime, there was paperwork to sign, deals with Crom to finalize, and a weyrmate clamoring for attention (and that passel of kids) again.
Not to mention the task of terrorizing everyone into remembering just who she was again: the Damn Weyrwoman.
Belyth's touch was never exactly unwelcome, but it was unusual enough that white flashed down their link and into the other gold's mind sharply.
<< Belyth. >>
<< Iovniath. >> The elder queen's voice held a touch of--concern? panic? barely contained emotions , none of them pleasant. << Eadranth's-->> Then it was all images. Sh'drian berating a council room full of people. Paler than even usual. Hand braced on the table.
Collapsing.
-=-
It's one of those harper cliches, moments that seem to last forever. Then again, there's a reason things become cliche, and those instants after Belyth's message certainly lived up to the billing for Tiriana. She wasn't quite sure how she managed to brusquely wrap up her own morning meeting without shaking, let alone walk the short distance home, mount Iovniath, picture Ierne well enough not to lose herself /between/--at least not any more than her brain already felt like it had been sucked into the blackness.
Over Ierne, the commotion was visible on the Weyrleaders' ledges even now: lots of milling people, angry faces, yelling. Several overwhelmed healer apprentices seemed to have been mostly charged with barring the door to the Weyrleader's quarters. Iovniath landed nearly unnoticed, and Tiriana scrambled down to the ledge, ready to crumble.
But Ria and Nuria had, between them, that well in hand--even R'dur was there, in on the action. Grandma Ria was hysterical, sometimes crying on the apprentices, sometimes letting R'dur try to calm her down, though he looked little better. Nuria was all bluster, fussing about how stupid her big brother was, how the healers just better get out of her way and let her see him, how she wasn't worried at all and anyway it served him right if he died miserable and alone. N'ro was about the only still person: he just looked blank, watching his mother pace around and fret so ineffectually. Tiriana had never seen them all so--small.
"Tiriana!" wailed her grandmother, and threw herself on the oldest of her granddaughters. "Tiriana, they won't tell me anything!"
So Tiriana drew herself up, disentangled herself from the old woman, and marched straight into the weyr.
"Ma'am, you can't--you shouldn't--" the bravest apprentice tried to say. He received a cold look for his troubles, and shut up promptly. No one else tried to stop her; even her family just stood there, wringing their hands and not trying to follow her.
-=-
The weyr was a mess, no surprises there. Clothes all around, his and hers--many, many hers. Eadranth had stuffed himself into most of the space, much further into the weyr than was made for dragonkind. He looked wan, and his eyes were glazed. Iovniath touched his mind, and it was all acrid, stinging smoke.
And Sh'drian--Tiriana couldn't even see him, not until she was nearly upon him. The bedroom was in the very back, and a trio of very grave-looking healers surrounded him.
As for the Weyrleader of Ierne--he looked paler, and skinnier, all hollow cheeks, purpled eyed, damp hair, and a discomforting rattle in his chest. Tiriana could see the white strands now, distinct from the white-blonde of the rest of it. He looked old, and terrifyingly human.
"Ma'am--" began one of the healers, an unfamiliar, reedy-looking man; but he was silenced by a lifted hand from the Weyr's longtime healer.
"Tiriana," said Rusalka. "You shouldn't come in; it may be contagious."
Tiriana stared at her hard for a moment, but despite the warning, the woman didn't actually try to stop her. In fact, her tacit allowance seemed to settle the matter for the other two healers, who did not look nearly so friendly toward the intrusion. Tiriana didn't even look at them as she made her way toward the bedside, pausing by her father.
"What's wrong with him?" she asked.
"We're not certain. An infection is our theory right now; I've asked Master Colm and Master Alston to consult with me. They are experts in the field, and we're doing everything we can for your father," the older woman explained, patient. "I expect he's been trying to push himself through this for some time, hence the sudden, severe onset of symptoms. Now, I'm going to go speak to your family and see if I can allay some of their fears. We've already started treatment to bring down his fever and reduce the pain, though I'm afraid that means he's not very conscious right now. He is stable, though."
"Is he going to--"
"We're doing everything we can, Tiriana," Rusalka repeated. More gently, "You should sit down, rest yourself. You know, I'm sure he'd like to hear your voice again, dear."
Tiriana didn't say anything then, but she did take one step closer, fingers on the edge of the bed while she fidgeted. Rusalka watched her for a moment before slipping outside, and the other two healers paid her no mind at all as they went around making notes on clipboards and assembling a small infirmary's worth of medicines within the weyr's chambers. Tiriana finally slid down to a spot on the floor, back propped against the bedside.
"Hi," she began, very slowly.
-=-
There was something about an infirmary that turned people into zombies, and it crept into Tiriana even in the weyr that had once been her home. Sh'drian didn't stir except to writhe in wet sheets, and the healers were automatons, going about their business without seeming to notice her much, even Rusalka. Tiriana was left to her own business, dozing in a chair or on the couch for a couple of hours at a time, meticulously oiling every inch of Iovniath and Eadranth both, just to keep her hands preoccupied, if not her mind. The bronze's smoke hung thick around his mind, and he said nothing, though Iovniath offered cool winds and crystal-cold blue sky to him.
Those first couple of days, Tiriana stayed, forcing the staff to cover for her absence from her own Weyr. She said very little herself, even when one by one the rest of the family managed to get in to visit. Ria cried and tried to work herself up again until the healers told her to go. Nuria berated Sh'drian and tried to work herself up again until the healers told her to go. R'dur only hugged Tiriana and sat quietly with her on the couch. R'uen, she'd asked to stay away, because she wasn't sure how well she would be able to hold up if she had to see him, too. Sh'drian was unchanged, and the healers seemed to think this was actually a good thing.
Finally, with that precarious balance still in place, she had to return home, just for a little bit. She cried for the first time, curled up in bed with R'uen until she finally fell asleep. The usual meetings the next day passed without a fight, and without explanation for anything: the last thing Tiriana wanted was sympathetic faces and pats on the shoulder from people who would as soon spit on her any other given day of the turn. Ierne was good about guarding the weaknesses, at least, and while rumors and hearsay did make the rounds of Pern, little definite and nothing official was announced.
Tiriana went back to Ierne that evening, and the next, stretched herself as thin as she had between the Reaches and Fort. Frayed nerves made her more snappish, but less interested in the day-to-day goings-on as the Weyr went on, as Crom went on. With her personal assistant helping cover the workload--and the time away--Tiriana managed; there enough to get the mechanical things done, even if the heart's not in it anymore.
And then, one evening, she met Master Colm on his way out of the Weyr; the old man was muttering under his breath, head shaking darkly. Tiriana crept inside and found the weyr deserted, even Eadranth gone to hunt for himself for the first time since it had happened. When she paused at the bedroom's door, Sh'drian glanced up at her with faded blue eyes.
And he smirked, faintly.
"Hey."
-=-
It wasn't exactly the same; just maybe, it was better. Confined to bed for some time longer, Sh'drian pissed off every one of his would-be nurses and caretakers at some point or another; but Tiriana bore it well, ignoring much of it and sniping back just as often, where everyone else shied away. Eventually, the healers started to talk, oh so cautiously, of full recovery, slow progress. An extra hour sitting up, a walk across the room. Tiriana sat on her feet in the chair while Sh'drian paced one foot in front of the other.
"You should quit," she said.
He looked up from the floor, sharply; his steps stopped and he balanced very carefully with the cane the healers had given him (and he had been given to whacking their shins about as often as walking on it).
"Quit what?"
"Weyrleader."
"And do what?"
"I don't know. Retire to Southern, Ista, somewhere like that. Sip fruity drinks on the beach and sleaze on girls my age in bikinis. Whatever it is you old people do."
"Us old people."
"Yeah."
"Now why," Sh'drian said slowly, his eyes very keen as he studied his daughter.
"Because," said Tiriana, steadily watching him in return. "Quitting's better than losing, and you're going to lose sooner or later."
"All right, then."
-=-
They didn't speak of it again, certainly didn't tell anyone else; Tiriana half-wondered if he'd lied, or forgotten, or--. But he wasn't like that; he did as he pleased and damned if you didn't like it. Weyr business went on, in the Reaches and on the island, participation perfunctory at best on both sides. Finally, one afternoon when his weyrsecond brought the usual missives and messages, Sh'drian waved him away.
"I'm done," he said.
The staid brownrider sputtered something uncharacteristic, stared from Sh'drian to Tiriana, who looked no less surprised.
"Done with--?" he finally got out.
"This shit. Weyrleading. You're on your own now, Faranth help you all."
"But you can't just--" began the weyrsecond. Sh'drian lifted a brow, and the other man corrected himself. "I mean, what are you going to do now? What will people say?"
"When," said Sh'drian, "have I ever given a damn what anybody else thought?"
-=-
It felt like ages, and it had been months, since Tiriana had been full-time at the Reaches, her attention undivided. It always felt like there was some other loose end to tie up, even when Sh'drian was well. First it was making sure the new acting Weyrleader wasn't going to jump off his ledge anytime soon; then it was helping R'dur and Brijana pack up all their weyr and the kids too, and move to Ierne. R'dur didn't stammer around the point when he explained: his mother needed him, with her oldest son having been so ill. He and Sh'drian didn't say much to each other, though Sh'drian did hit on Brijana as much as ever; R'dur only sighed, and shook his head and smiled at Bri when Sh'drian wasn't looking.
Finally, on the fifth day, third month, Belyth rose. Eadranth ignored her, and by the next morning, some new young twit was parading around like he was something special. Sh'drian, of course, made sure he knew his place, foremost by not moving out of the Weyrleader's weyr (something about a healer's note? change bad for his health?) The new guy made do with the smallest junior weyr, the only unoccupied one. Ierne's former Weyrleader seemed at ease enough, and if nothing else, the increased free time meant more time to harass the weyrfolk and start fights. The cane, he'd kept, though often as not it was tucked under an arm as used for walking. It made a very nice weapon in times of need, and Sh'drian found many needs for it.
Tiriana didn't feel quite so at ease as she resettled herself into her Weyr. Her assistant had handed in her notice, too; the strain of lying, covering for Tiriana, sorting all the people wanting a little piece of the Weyrwoman's already thinly-spready attention was more than she had signed up for, and now that the crisis was over, she just wanted a cushy position at an inventory desk in the storerooms. Tiriana let her go. She'd find a replacement on her own, and in the meantime, there was paperwork to sign, deals with Crom to finalize, and a weyrmate clamoring for attention (and that passel of kids) again.
Not to mention the task of terrorizing everyone into remembering just who she was again: the Damn Weyrwoman.