Vignette: The Move
You cannot build character and courage by taking away a man's initiative and independence. ~Abraham Lincoln
Gabrion's mother has found out about his plan - or at least the part where he stands for impression - and ordered him to withdraw from candidacy. But Gabe is having none of it. He seizes on the first act of defiance he can think of: moving into the candidate barracks.
"You've always been a good boy, Gabrion," his mother said to him, her voice steely and cold despite the words of praise. "I know you'll do the right thing, just as soon as your temper has cooled and you're that thoughtful, sensible son I've raised, again."
That parting shot rang in his ears the whole time he packed, piling up his things on his bed and arranging them just so, to be carried to the candidate quarters. His ears and face burned, just thinking about it, and how he'd flipped her off as he stormed out of the cavern, in front of all those people. The right thing. Screw the right thing. He was done with doing the right thing. He felt like going out and doing as many wrong things as he could fit into a single evening: have an orgy with six other guys, to start out with, then get plastered and get three girls pregnant. Then he'd write an eloquent letter to Master Kinston suggesting eight different ways for him to go fuck himself, and get kicked out of the Healer craft, for good this time. He'd smash a clutch of firelizard eggs, kick a spit canine, and go piss on the dragons in the bowl, maybe break into the weyrwoman's weyr and steal her underwear and get P'ax to help him hang it from the busted star stones. Then he'd just jump right off and splat into a hundred bloody pieces on the ground: that would show her the right fucking thing.
Great idea, Gabe. Just lovely. That's all really going to help, he told himself sharply. Four shirts, four pairs of pants, two towels, six pairs of underwear, six pairs of socks, a nightshirt, and one long dressing gown. He piled it all up neatly, tucking a towel over the top so that the socks wouldn't roll away, and picked up the bundle in his arms.
He might get to work on some of that other stuff later, but for right now, Gabrion was going to move into the candidate barracks. And his mom could suck on it, for all he cared: he was done trying to make her happy.
But what if she never forgives me?
No. He was done. He kicked the door shut behind him and strode down the hall.
Gabrion's mother has found out about his plan - or at least the part where he stands for impression - and ordered him to withdraw from candidacy. But Gabe is having none of it. He seizes on the first act of defiance he can think of: moving into the candidate barracks.
"You've always been a good boy, Gabrion," his mother said to him, her voice steely and cold despite the words of praise. "I know you'll do the right thing, just as soon as your temper has cooled and you're that thoughtful, sensible son I've raised, again."
That parting shot rang in his ears the whole time he packed, piling up his things on his bed and arranging them just so, to be carried to the candidate quarters. His ears and face burned, just thinking about it, and how he'd flipped her off as he stormed out of the cavern, in front of all those people. The right thing. Screw the right thing. He was done with doing the right thing. He felt like going out and doing as many wrong things as he could fit into a single evening: have an orgy with six other guys, to start out with, then get plastered and get three girls pregnant. Then he'd write an eloquent letter to Master Kinston suggesting eight different ways for him to go fuck himself, and get kicked out of the Healer craft, for good this time. He'd smash a clutch of firelizard eggs, kick a spit canine, and go piss on the dragons in the bowl, maybe break into the weyrwoman's weyr and steal her underwear and get P'ax to help him hang it from the busted star stones. Then he'd just jump right off and splat into a hundred bloody pieces on the ground: that would show her the right fucking thing.
Great idea, Gabe. Just lovely. That's all really going to help, he told himself sharply. Four shirts, four pairs of pants, two towels, six pairs of underwear, six pairs of socks, a nightshirt, and one long dressing gown. He piled it all up neatly, tucking a towel over the top so that the socks wouldn't roll away, and picked up the bundle in his arms.
He might get to work on some of that other stuff later, but for right now, Gabrion was going to move into the candidate barracks. And his mom could suck on it, for all he cared: he was done trying to make her happy.
But what if she never forgives me?
No. He was done. He kicked the door shut behind him and strode down the hall.