Post-presentation
After meeting with Lord Odern, Derek and Nera discuss their Lord and their roles for the future. Picks up with first two poses from prior log.
Derek has not bowed in a long time, not seriously. He has not, however, forgotten how. He puts a hand back and a foot forward and bends; then he turns, and makes the one move toward Nera which is meant for Odern, not she, to interpret. His hand. By it, he will attend her out.
Nera rises, and in the moment before she demonstrates that the art of the curtsey has not trickled out of her, and into the island sands, she turns her head to look across to Derek, and his bow. Then she sinks herself, fingers gripping her skirts, to give the Lord his self-announced due. Derek's hand is permitted to shield the small of her back; it is not permitted to touch her, as they make their exit.
Good enough. What of Nera's moves Derek interprets is a counsel, until halfway or better through the Hold's halls, he keeps his own.
In time his steps slow, however; rejoining their people, they he is so urgent to wish settled, is not quite next on his agenda. He doesn't go slower for too long - lest she just sweep away in front of him - before saying, softly, "I'm sorry I made you see that. I misjudged our purpose."
Without protest, Nera halts; she turns her head, and regards her island king steadily for a long moment. Her one softness, her mouth, is pressed now into a hard, firm line. "We have people grieving," she replies, gathering up her skirts once more, and preparing to turn away.
"And you can't expect them to heal in the next six hours or the next six days," Derek sends back, swift if not ungentle. "No matter how much of your magic you work." He glances up, looks around, maltrusting even of the Hold's empty halls; empty, mostly, of people turned out to gawk at the riders that came with the band of rumored exiles to Five Mines today. "Nera." He takes a step closer, or after her if she's so speedy, and halts again. "Nera, I need something from you."
His words are enough to halt Nera, though her hands stayed curled through the now-unfamiliar skirts, lifting them the couple of inches required for swift movement; she hovers close to resumed movement, although she is still, head turned a couple of degrees to listen. "I remember how this place works, now," she replies, very soft. "If you need it, you know very well you have it."
"No," says Derek, but it is only a whisper, a protest, and one he does not then explain. Instead he answers what she asks, informs her of his need, also in a whisper - not one of hesitance, but of seemly quietude. "You have to lead them, now."
If his first were were enough to halt her, these turn her; Nera moves sharply, pulling in her skirts against herself. They still drape and hang from her fists, swinging gently after her own movement has ceased. "Have you lost your mind?" Nera whispers too, but hers is harsh, a hiss. "Your Lord in there is about as likely to swallow that as -- what do you mean, lead them?"
"My /Lord/ in there," Derek very nearly sneers enough around the word to lose hold of his tightly controlled whisper, "has my word. For what it's worth." From sneer to almost apology in three words' time. "You have to lead them. Put me between them," a tip of his head toward the Hold's exit hallway describes 'them' as the people they brought here, "and him. Put me between -you- and him. Nera. Please."
Nera has not a twitch of expression for Derek's sneer, for his whisper, or his apology. She let him take his step in, and now she does herself, closing the gap. So careful, most usually, to keep a particular distance; she abandons it now, and tilts her head forward to speak in his ear, her breath on his neck. "Tell me what your word's worth," she whispers, the hiss gone so that she's almost inaudible.
Derek is quite still for Nera's movements, for the closure of the gap, for the tilt of her head. But what she asks, in her almost-silent speech, sends his head jerking back and he looks on her with eyes as wide as they get - not very, but they are so pale and for him to look surprised at all is so rare. The expression is precious. "To you," he says, simply, and does not trouble too much to be too quiet. Why keep such obvious truth secret? "My life."
Nera doesn't jerk in response, but turns her head patiently to observe his rare surprise. "They will think it unusual, the locals," she observes quietly, though the whisper is gone. "If I don't look at you, or at J'lor, or at Diya, before I speak. Our own people aren't used to looking to me. How could it work?"
"Look at me, then," Derek replies - she's out of a whisper, and he's back into one. "And speak anyway. Talk to me before, or after when before won't work, because I have to come back here - " A jerk of his head backward, toward Odern's chamber. "And make it work for him. And when they're used to you speaking, you won't need me standing around ready to be looked at, and maybe we'll be better off by then."
"His Lordship," Nera replies, her very quiet words rich with derision. She bows her head, and sniffs; her contemplation is silent after that, and her breathing is slow and even as she makes him wait. The gap between them is already small, and she makes it smaller as, head bowed, she steps in until her shoulder touches his. Head bowed, she turns into him, begging the touch of his hand at her back, or his lips at her cheek, in a very rare public display.
Derek smiles. He smiles first for the derision in Nera's words; he approves of that tone, with his small, moustache-curling smile, and waits for her to come to terms with what he's done while her head is bowed. He is gathered enough to seem unsurprised when she rests her shoulder against his. His arm slips around her, the hand that hovered helplessly over her back as they departed Odern's presence making gentle contact now. His mouth brushes the shape of her name along her face just in front of her ear, all relief and gratitude.
Her breath catches in a tiny stutter at that brush of his mouth, and her shoulder leans a little more heavily on his. Then Nera lifts her head with a sniff, and smoothes down her skirts one more time, hands fussing at the worn fabric. "If you want them to look to me, then you need to do it too," she murmurs to him, lifting her gaze to seek his. She's businesslike again, though shaken. "I'm just a woman here, we haven't been away long enough to forget what that means. Some of them won't look to either of us, they'll want to break away entirely."
"Of course," Derek replies, loosening the hand from her back - just not enough to let it leave her, as though it remains as wide-eyed and devoted as the four words, 'to me, my life' had been. "Besides, should you need to look to me - it's pretty good cover if I'm looking back," he points out, then lifts the hand not on her back to smooth down his moustache, and banish the smile beneath it, with thumb and forefinger. All the while his small, pale eyes keep to Nera's face, evidently comfortable with her return to business demeanor. He doesn't bother with such a thing, himself. "I think we enlist J'lor to round up the malcontent." A moment's discontentedness makes a last observation slightly sour: "It's not like they'll have far to go, here."
"It's not about far to go, it's about who they're looking to," Nera replies, as though he's one of the island children, and needs telling off. "I suppose it's their right, now they're back here, if they don't want to look to us any longer." Her grey eyes meet his as she speaks those words, searchingly; she does not expect her lover to echo her sentiment, and she would judge the strength of his disagreement. "I'll speak to J'lor. He's had such a shock. We need him, and he'll need us."
The strength of his disagreement is mild. It might be said to be absent, for Derek responds with grey, bland stare and a twitch of shoulders. "Thread," he says, and then, "My lord Odern." What else is there to say? If they wish to face those options, certainly his people have the right to leave him. The island king, displaced and king no more, smiles all over again, so much for the smoothing of his moustache. "I'll talk to him also, in a few days." A pause, and Derek lets go Nera's back - his hand slips across the band of her skirt and the tuck of her blouse with what passes, from him, for brash affection. This is almost a tease, as much as he could ever muster one: "By your leave."
She studies his face for long moments, measuring what she can see there, weighing up something. Then she returns his smile with a softening of her mouth, a small curving upwards, and a dipping of her chin. "Get out there," she scolds, fleetingly affectionate, lifting her chin and stepping back from him, playing at haughty. "Just don't get in the way. J'lor's got the weyrlings, and I've got to find somewhere to get all our people stashed in time to sleep tonight." Back on deck once more, she looks away from him, and turns her face once more towards the task they've set themselves.
If she will play at haughty, he will play at solicitous. Derek bows for the second time today, and though this time he is jovial, even playful about it, there is something about the motion which is - this time - more sincere. "I think I'd like a word with some of my men. Their work's changed, now." His pledge to stay out of her way - and to remain, she's warned, purposeful - given, Derek too turns toward the doors that will let them out from the halls of the Hold, toward their people.
Derek has not bowed in a long time, not seriously. He has not, however, forgotten how. He puts a hand back and a foot forward and bends; then he turns, and makes the one move toward Nera which is meant for Odern, not she, to interpret. His hand. By it, he will attend her out.
Nera rises, and in the moment before she demonstrates that the art of the curtsey has not trickled out of her, and into the island sands, she turns her head to look across to Derek, and his bow. Then she sinks herself, fingers gripping her skirts, to give the Lord his self-announced due. Derek's hand is permitted to shield the small of her back; it is not permitted to touch her, as they make their exit.
Good enough. What of Nera's moves Derek interprets is a counsel, until halfway or better through the Hold's halls, he keeps his own.
In time his steps slow, however; rejoining their people, they he is so urgent to wish settled, is not quite next on his agenda. He doesn't go slower for too long - lest she just sweep away in front of him - before saying, softly, "I'm sorry I made you see that. I misjudged our purpose."
Without protest, Nera halts; she turns her head, and regards her island king steadily for a long moment. Her one softness, her mouth, is pressed now into a hard, firm line. "We have people grieving," she replies, gathering up her skirts once more, and preparing to turn away.
"And you can't expect them to heal in the next six hours or the next six days," Derek sends back, swift if not ungentle. "No matter how much of your magic you work." He glances up, looks around, maltrusting even of the Hold's empty halls; empty, mostly, of people turned out to gawk at the riders that came with the band of rumored exiles to Five Mines today. "Nera." He takes a step closer, or after her if she's so speedy, and halts again. "Nera, I need something from you."
His words are enough to halt Nera, though her hands stayed curled through the now-unfamiliar skirts, lifting them the couple of inches required for swift movement; she hovers close to resumed movement, although she is still, head turned a couple of degrees to listen. "I remember how this place works, now," she replies, very soft. "If you need it, you know very well you have it."
"No," says Derek, but it is only a whisper, a protest, and one he does not then explain. Instead he answers what she asks, informs her of his need, also in a whisper - not one of hesitance, but of seemly quietude. "You have to lead them, now."
If his first were were enough to halt her, these turn her; Nera moves sharply, pulling in her skirts against herself. They still drape and hang from her fists, swinging gently after her own movement has ceased. "Have you lost your mind?" Nera whispers too, but hers is harsh, a hiss. "Your Lord in there is about as likely to swallow that as -- what do you mean, lead them?"
"My /Lord/ in there," Derek very nearly sneers enough around the word to lose hold of his tightly controlled whisper, "has my word. For what it's worth." From sneer to almost apology in three words' time. "You have to lead them. Put me between them," a tip of his head toward the Hold's exit hallway describes 'them' as the people they brought here, "and him. Put me between -you- and him. Nera. Please."
Nera has not a twitch of expression for Derek's sneer, for his whisper, or his apology. She let him take his step in, and now she does herself, closing the gap. So careful, most usually, to keep a particular distance; she abandons it now, and tilts her head forward to speak in his ear, her breath on his neck. "Tell me what your word's worth," she whispers, the hiss gone so that she's almost inaudible.
Derek is quite still for Nera's movements, for the closure of the gap, for the tilt of her head. But what she asks, in her almost-silent speech, sends his head jerking back and he looks on her with eyes as wide as they get - not very, but they are so pale and for him to look surprised at all is so rare. The expression is precious. "To you," he says, simply, and does not trouble too much to be too quiet. Why keep such obvious truth secret? "My life."
Nera doesn't jerk in response, but turns her head patiently to observe his rare surprise. "They will think it unusual, the locals," she observes quietly, though the whisper is gone. "If I don't look at you, or at J'lor, or at Diya, before I speak. Our own people aren't used to looking to me. How could it work?"
"Look at me, then," Derek replies - she's out of a whisper, and he's back into one. "And speak anyway. Talk to me before, or after when before won't work, because I have to come back here - " A jerk of his head backward, toward Odern's chamber. "And make it work for him. And when they're used to you speaking, you won't need me standing around ready to be looked at, and maybe we'll be better off by then."
"His Lordship," Nera replies, her very quiet words rich with derision. She bows her head, and sniffs; her contemplation is silent after that, and her breathing is slow and even as she makes him wait. The gap between them is already small, and she makes it smaller as, head bowed, she steps in until her shoulder touches his. Head bowed, she turns into him, begging the touch of his hand at her back, or his lips at her cheek, in a very rare public display.
Derek smiles. He smiles first for the derision in Nera's words; he approves of that tone, with his small, moustache-curling smile, and waits for her to come to terms with what he's done while her head is bowed. He is gathered enough to seem unsurprised when she rests her shoulder against his. His arm slips around her, the hand that hovered helplessly over her back as they departed Odern's presence making gentle contact now. His mouth brushes the shape of her name along her face just in front of her ear, all relief and gratitude.
Her breath catches in a tiny stutter at that brush of his mouth, and her shoulder leans a little more heavily on his. Then Nera lifts her head with a sniff, and smoothes down her skirts one more time, hands fussing at the worn fabric. "If you want them to look to me, then you need to do it too," she murmurs to him, lifting her gaze to seek his. She's businesslike again, though shaken. "I'm just a woman here, we haven't been away long enough to forget what that means. Some of them won't look to either of us, they'll want to break away entirely."
"Of course," Derek replies, loosening the hand from her back - just not enough to let it leave her, as though it remains as wide-eyed and devoted as the four words, 'to me, my life' had been. "Besides, should you need to look to me - it's pretty good cover if I'm looking back," he points out, then lifts the hand not on her back to smooth down his moustache, and banish the smile beneath it, with thumb and forefinger. All the while his small, pale eyes keep to Nera's face, evidently comfortable with her return to business demeanor. He doesn't bother with such a thing, himself. "I think we enlist J'lor to round up the malcontent." A moment's discontentedness makes a last observation slightly sour: "It's not like they'll have far to go, here."
"It's not about far to go, it's about who they're looking to," Nera replies, as though he's one of the island children, and needs telling off. "I suppose it's their right, now they're back here, if they don't want to look to us any longer." Her grey eyes meet his as she speaks those words, searchingly; she does not expect her lover to echo her sentiment, and she would judge the strength of his disagreement. "I'll speak to J'lor. He's had such a shock. We need him, and he'll need us."
The strength of his disagreement is mild. It might be said to be absent, for Derek responds with grey, bland stare and a twitch of shoulders. "Thread," he says, and then, "My lord Odern." What else is there to say? If they wish to face those options, certainly his people have the right to leave him. The island king, displaced and king no more, smiles all over again, so much for the smoothing of his moustache. "I'll talk to him also, in a few days." A pause, and Derek lets go Nera's back - his hand slips across the band of her skirt and the tuck of her blouse with what passes, from him, for brash affection. This is almost a tease, as much as he could ever muster one: "By your leave."
She studies his face for long moments, measuring what she can see there, weighing up something. Then she returns his smile with a softening of her mouth, a small curving upwards, and a dipping of her chin. "Get out there," she scolds, fleetingly affectionate, lifting her chin and stepping back from him, playing at haughty. "Just don't get in the way. J'lor's got the weyrlings, and I've got to find somewhere to get all our people stashed in time to sleep tonight." Back on deck once more, she looks away from him, and turns her face once more towards the task they've set themselves.
If she will play at haughty, he will play at solicitous. Derek bows for the second time today, and though this time he is jovial, even playful about it, there is something about the motion which is - this time - more sincere. "I think I'd like a word with some of my men. Their work's changed, now." His pledge to stay out of her way - and to remain, she's warned, purposeful - given, Derek too turns toward the doors that will let them out from the halls of the Hold, toward their people.