Log: Perfectionists
Who: Aeriste, Giremi
When: Late afternoon, 10/6/16
Where: Teaching Rooms, Harper Hall
What: Giremi's got essays to mark and Aeriste has a lot of questions. They strike something of a balance.
Late afternoon after most classes have concluded finds Giremi grading a massive pile of essays at a table in one of the teaching rooms. It's the room he uses most often to teach and some diagrams from his last class still bedeck the slate board behind him, chalk lines neat and precise.
Aeriste pauses in the doorway, staring thoughtfully at that mountain of hidework. He'd been passing by, but a stack that high rates a second look. And a third. His eyebrows arch, and he remarks, "You must *really* like your job, sir."
Giremi looks up at the sound of that voice and peers at Aeriste over the rims of his glasses. "As a matter of fact, I do, Aeriste," he says pleasantly. "It's just a somewhat difficult time of the turn of course. Lots of exams just before turn's end. How are you holding up?"
"I know there are a lot of them," Aeriste grouses, though without much rancor: exams are just a part of an apprentice's life. "I'm the one who's been taking them, you're just the one who has to read all the stupid stuff everyone writes. Though that might be worse, depending on how much stupid you have to read."
"I'll take that as a 'No, sir, I'm not holding up terribly well, thank you,' then," Giremi notes mildly and drops another look over his glasses then turns his gaze back to the essay at hand, writes something along the margin in red. "Either way, it's a busy time of the turn for the Hall. Turnover concerts to prepare for as well." Beat. More softly and with something like consideration in his tone: "Will you be performing this turn?"
"That better not be mine," Aeriste sighs, eyeing the correction. He's quiet for a moment or two before he adds, "Master Emmi gave me a composition to study. A really good role. Tenor. I said I'd do it because it might be a match for my talent, but..." His faint grimace acknowledges the foolishness of his own bravado. "It's truly magnificent. If my voice cracks... I can just hear it now, the amazing Aeriste, prodigy extraordinaire. And Hall laughing-stock, who brays like one of those long-eared runnerbeasts."
"No it isn't," Giremi confirms. "Though I think yours is next, alphabetically," he notes with a hint of dry humor then quiets down, listening. "Are you enjoying practicing it? And have there been any cracking incidents so far?"
"Shards," Aeriste mutters. "You're so mean. Um. I love it. And not in the last few sevendays. Mostly. I yelled a few days ago and it did." He gives Giremi big, moist, hopeful eyes. "Do you think it's starting to go away? I really don't want to let Master Emmi down. Or have the whole Hall laugh at me. They would, I know it. I'd just /die/."
Brows lift at the accusation of meanness and Giremi writes some more. "Maybe it's worth it to just sing something that you love and I'm sure that most would forgive you for any cracking. It's not like there's really all that much you can do about it until it settles." He listens to the younger man's tone for a moment then gives a rueful look. "I'm really no expert, but it sounds even enough to me."
Aeriste folds his arms and leans against the doorway, torn between pleasure and dismay. "It really does. And then it gets all weird. At inconvenient moments. It's like a tunnelsnake waiting to leap out at me. Just when I think I'm safe, something inconvenient crawls out of my throat." And he looks Giremi over, his expresion ambiguous. "Can you sing?"
"That ... sounds terribly uncomfortable," Giremi remarks in a relatively neutral tone of voice though there might be something about the idea of tunnelsnakes jumping out of throats that's made his jaw tighten a little. "Yes, I can sing reasonably well," the Journeyman answers. "Enough to fulfill duties when I'm posted."
Aeriste makes an odd gargling noise and widens his eyes, as if a tunnelsnake were trying to come out right then. He reaches up to clutch at his throat, and then drops his hand to his side. "Are you going to sing, then? Or do something else?"
"I was not planning on performing, no," Giremi replies, eyeing the throat gargling with a cocked eyebrow. "I'm looking forward to spending Turnover outside of the Hall actually, with a friend at my former posting."
Aeriste seems to consider something to say, and then visibly revises it. Instead, he says sagely, "It's good to celebrate with friends."
"Yes it is," Giremi agrees and makes another mark on the essay in front of him. He sighs softly in fact and then writes final comments at the bottom before blotting the ink carefully to dry it. "Other than performing, have you any other plans for turn's end?"
"No." Aeriste doesn't sound too put out about it, but his expression is also rather bland. "It's just a winter night like any other when one's not on stage. I haven't lived long enough to reminisce about the good old times."
"That's not the sole purpose of Turnover celebration," Giremi points out after a moment, pulling down Aeriste's own essay in front of him. "It's also simply about enjoying the company of friends /now/ and looking forward to the new Turn."
"People can do that anytime," Aeriste points out. He watches Giremi peruse his essay with some trepidation. "There's no need to store it all up for one day."
"Yes, though we're not usually given so many days off in a row to use as we see fit if not performing," Giremi points out further, starting to read the essay and he pauses, frowning. "Did you include both the Domick and the Eldaron in your analysis, Aeriste?"
"...Yes?" hazards the apprentice, apprehension written all over his face. Giremi's frowning. That can't be good, right? Did Aeriste do badly? Will he get another reprimand? He pushes of the wall and stands very straight.
"Ah, very well then," the journeyman states though he does write a little note. "It wasn't necessarily obvious from the introductory paragraph," Giremi says and continues reading. No reprimand seems to be in the offing.
"Do you ever leave anyone's papers without any red ink?" Aeriste inquires not-quite-acerbically as he begins to deflate with relief.
"Only when an essay is perfect," Giremi replies, tilting a look up at the apprentice. "Would you expect anything less?"
Aeriste folds his arms again, and tilts his head to the side. He studies Giremi again, as if he might somehow want to peel back the layers of the journeyman's brain and peer at its inner workings-- well, his regard isn't that unpleasant, but his difficulty in pinning the Journeyman's thoughts down seems to somewhat rattle him. "What is a perfect essay to you?"
That look earns one in return, inscrutable, as Giremi makes yet another red-inked note and then he sits back in his chair as the question is asked. "One that follows the structures laid out in class, functional introduction that summarizes the hypothesis and expected contents, a minimum of three paragraphs that develop the hypothesis stated in the introduction with supporting evidence, a clear and concise conclusion that pulls all of the elements together. The language throughout should also flow, with word-choices designed to engage the reader and make the essay not only informative, but interesting to read in terms of cadence."
Aeriste edges closer, leaning over the desk to eye that new notation. "Fine. I'll do that, next time. What did I do wrong there?"
"If you don't mind, there's other students' essays here, Aeriste and their marks are their concern only," Giremi says lightly. "This is a note about word choice though." And his pen moves along, underlines another word and another little note appears in the margin in the journeyman's precise handwriting.
"I'm not looking at theirs," Aeriste states quite reasonably, without moving. "I'm not *that* rude. I'm looking at mine, and what you're doing to it. And you know, 'epistolary' is a fine word. It should be used more often."
"Why don't we move over to another table and maybe we can walk through this as I mark it then," Giremi suggests and caps his ink bottle precisely, lifts up essay, pen and the bottle, making to move over one table. "It's not a matter of trust, but accidents can happen." As he walks: "It's a very good word, but I'm not sure that it conveys what you were really getting at in your second paragraph."
Aeriste pushes back, and prowls along after him. "I was remarking," he states, sweeping his arms out grandly, "Upon the immediacy of the epistolary format. Notations and tables and figures are one thing, but it really conveys a sense of immediacy when someone's writing in detail about their experiences in a certain event. To someone else. The perspective is limited, and they're not writing for anyone but the person they're writing to, but correspondence should be collected, shouldn't it, just because of the immediate personal insight. Even if it's not as precise. Who was doing what's just as important as what happened, isn't it? Such as, 'Today, I had to give an accounting of myself to a very strict Journeyman. I now know what it's like to be someone under my own tutelage, because nothing is ever quite perfect enough.' From this, they might infer that you're mean and I'm overburdened, or that you're just strict and I'm whining."
Settling down in that new seat, Giremi silently draws out a chair for the apprentice to sit in. He sets up his ink bottle right where he wants it, wipes his pen down, with a cloth from his pocket and leaves it on the table. Then he uncaps the bottle, twitches it square again and dips his pen in the ink. Makes another note. "Are you whining, Aeriste?" Giremi cuts to the end there, one brow quirked and he keeps on writing. "Thank you for the insight, but I'll let the comment stand." And he tilts the page a little so the apprentice can read it. Mostly it's about making the transition smoother between the discussion in the previous paragraph and this one.
Aeriste slides into the proffered seat. "Somewhat. I'm never going to like this kind of thing as much as you are. And I'm truly not too bad at it. I don't think I'll ever live up to your expectations, even if I try my best. I'm still going to, but I think I'll just have to resign myself to disappointment." He reads the correction anyway, and he does nod thoughtfully: his mood isn't stopping him from internalising the correction.
"I'm very demanding," Giremi concedes and he swallows once, continuing to read the rest of Aeriste's writing. "This is very nice this, right here," he taps three sentences in the fourth paragraph. "That encapsulates that thought beautifully." His eye lift briefly to the apprentice beside him. "It's difficult for me to feel ... comfortable when things aren't just right."
"Thank you. And that," Aeriste informs him intensely, his eyes bright, "Is exactly how I feel when I hear an imperfect voice."
"Ah. Well. Then I suppose we have much in common," Giremi notes and writes down the praise next to that paragraph. "I -- have problems with all sorts of things being out of order. I'm not sure why, except that my mother tells me it's a bit of a family trait."
Aeriste ponders him more, as this Journeyman is turning out to be a very quirky sort of fellow. And a conundrum in the Hall is fodder for dissection. "A lot of things are out of order here."
"I frequently wipe off the handles in the water cavern and set the shelves back in order," Giremi says dryly, pen pausing briefly then he's bending again to the task at hand and finishing that next note. Page turned over to continue on through the end of the essay. "What strikes you as the most egregious of failings of order at Harper Hall?"
"That *is* pretty bad," Aeriste admits. The next question makes him think... truly makes him review just about everything. Slowly, he says, "I don't think it's a failing of the Harper Hall. I think that it's a failing of humanity. I know I just said what I did about 'just good enough', but it seems like... a lot of students feel that way about most things. At the same time, is it a wise allocation of resources to produce a generalist student instead of a tightly-focused one? Say, if I lost my voice, I would need something else to fall back on. But everything? Should anyone be obligated to be a mediocre student of many classes, when he might be an exceptional student of very few? But I suppose that's the necessity when the intermediary academic point in a Harper's life is to be a man of many disciplines. Very few are fortunate enough to move from Apprenticeship and then strictly into acadamic studies."
"I said, 'at' not 'of'." Of course, Giremi has to nitpick. "Most posting Journeymen need to have a wide enough range of skills to take care of that posting," the Journeyman points out. "Specialists tend to stay here, or get particular contracts at particular Holds. Usually major ones."
"What's wrong with staying here?" Aeriste demands, gesturing sharply: he's not angry, just passionate. "This place is the most interesting place in all of Pern! All the knowledge, the creativity... where else could you find it all, but here?"
"There's nothing wrong with staying here," Giremi continues, one brown arching and he makes another short note right at the end of the essay, then writes out a brief summary of all the comments and a final mark, circled. Ninety-five percent. "But that's not the expectation that's placed upon you. The duty of most harpers is not to stay here and simply explore personal interests, but to turn outward and teach and also learn out there." He gestures beyond the walls of the hall briefly. "I would not be half the man I am today if I had not been posted out."
Ninety-five? From Giremi, that's pretty good, right? Aeriste flushes faintly, and looks rather pleased. "It's ungrateful to say," he says softly, "But is knowledge and teaching inextricably linked?" He thinks on the last of what the Journeyman's said, and risks, "You can say that, after... It seems like some of your journeys, they... Well, you were in a *really* foul mood when you came back from Telgar, and..."
It is in fact a pretty good mark in spite of the copious commentary on the document and when he's finished, Giremi duly wipes the pen clean again, caps the bottle and neatly stacks the hides, passes them to the apprentice. "I don't know about you, but I should certainly hope so, otherwise the teaching is flawed. It's a balance back and forth between learning and teaching. All your life." The last presses Giremi's lips into a thin line and he clears his throat once. "Just be careful where you give your heart, Aeriste."
Aeriste doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, slowly, quietly, he states, "All that I've seen of love is that it makes men foolish despite themselves, and distracts them from more worthwhile pursuits."
"It inspires too. Opens the mind and heart. But it's best not to rush into things foolishly, lest one become a fool." Giremi's face is neutral enough as he says this, looks down at the now vacant space where the essay once lay. "What's worthwhile to one is less so to another. There's more than one way to move forward in life."
"About this, wise teacher, I will offer no argument. I'm not interested in giving my heart to anyone." Aeriste covers it, and gives him a wry little sitting half-bow. "Since I've depressed you this afternoon, how can I make up for it?"
"It's worth giving though," Giremi says after a moment, gaze lifting to the younger man's face though there's signs of his polite mask cracking a little at the edges, mostly in the intensity of clear blue eyes, the deep emotions carefully kept in check, showing a little. "Even the pain of losing teaches something." He clears his throat suddenly and looks away. "No need. I am not depressed," the journeyman says with a sudden, wry smile. "I have a very sweet nephew to visit at Telgar lately if the watchrider is willing. It's hard to be depressed when you're holding a brand new, unspoiled life in your arms."
Aeriste shudders, the magic of childlike innocence lost on him. The rest, he leaves as it is. "No, thank you. They make messes. And they drool on you. And they cry. How can they be unspoiled when they smell like the privies and howl worse than a watchwher? They're only small and cute so we keep them around."
"He's too young to drool yet," Giremi says quietly, patiently. "And there's just something ..." he trails off and then clears his throat again, rises slowly, collecting his things. "I'd best finish the rest of that lot so no one is held up waiting on results before turnover. I hate baing late with anything." Beat. "But good work, Aeriste. Keep at it."
"Thank you." Aeriste eyes him, and then gives him another bow, this one with a theatrical flourish, like one would give after a particularly dramatic performance. "I'm never going to fall in love," he states with brash self-assurance. "Or like children. Not even if they make your face look odd. But I might not give you quite so much to have to correct someday."
That all draws out a chuckle at least, quiet as it is as Giremi gets back to marking. "I will look forward to that day. Good afternoon, Aeriste."
When: Late afternoon, 10/6/16
Where: Teaching Rooms, Harper Hall
What: Giremi's got essays to mark and Aeriste has a lot of questions. They strike something of a balance.
Late afternoon after most classes have concluded finds Giremi grading a massive pile of essays at a table in one of the teaching rooms. It's the room he uses most often to teach and some diagrams from his last class still bedeck the slate board behind him, chalk lines neat and precise.
Aeriste pauses in the doorway, staring thoughtfully at that mountain of hidework. He'd been passing by, but a stack that high rates a second look. And a third. His eyebrows arch, and he remarks, "You must *really* like your job, sir."
Giremi looks up at the sound of that voice and peers at Aeriste over the rims of his glasses. "As a matter of fact, I do, Aeriste," he says pleasantly. "It's just a somewhat difficult time of the turn of course. Lots of exams just before turn's end. How are you holding up?"
"I know there are a lot of them," Aeriste grouses, though without much rancor: exams are just a part of an apprentice's life. "I'm the one who's been taking them, you're just the one who has to read all the stupid stuff everyone writes. Though that might be worse, depending on how much stupid you have to read."
"I'll take that as a 'No, sir, I'm not holding up terribly well, thank you,' then," Giremi notes mildly and drops another look over his glasses then turns his gaze back to the essay at hand, writes something along the margin in red. "Either way, it's a busy time of the turn for the Hall. Turnover concerts to prepare for as well." Beat. More softly and with something like consideration in his tone: "Will you be performing this turn?"
"That better not be mine," Aeriste sighs, eyeing the correction. He's quiet for a moment or two before he adds, "Master Emmi gave me a composition to study. A really good role. Tenor. I said I'd do it because it might be a match for my talent, but..." His faint grimace acknowledges the foolishness of his own bravado. "It's truly magnificent. If my voice cracks... I can just hear it now, the amazing Aeriste, prodigy extraordinaire. And Hall laughing-stock, who brays like one of those long-eared runnerbeasts."
"No it isn't," Giremi confirms. "Though I think yours is next, alphabetically," he notes with a hint of dry humor then quiets down, listening. "Are you enjoying practicing it? And have there been any cracking incidents so far?"
"Shards," Aeriste mutters. "You're so mean. Um. I love it. And not in the last few sevendays. Mostly. I yelled a few days ago and it did." He gives Giremi big, moist, hopeful eyes. "Do you think it's starting to go away? I really don't want to let Master Emmi down. Or have the whole Hall laugh at me. They would, I know it. I'd just /die/."
Brows lift at the accusation of meanness and Giremi writes some more. "Maybe it's worth it to just sing something that you love and I'm sure that most would forgive you for any cracking. It's not like there's really all that much you can do about it until it settles." He listens to the younger man's tone for a moment then gives a rueful look. "I'm really no expert, but it sounds even enough to me."
Aeriste folds his arms and leans against the doorway, torn between pleasure and dismay. "It really does. And then it gets all weird. At inconvenient moments. It's like a tunnelsnake waiting to leap out at me. Just when I think I'm safe, something inconvenient crawls out of my throat." And he looks Giremi over, his expresion ambiguous. "Can you sing?"
"That ... sounds terribly uncomfortable," Giremi remarks in a relatively neutral tone of voice though there might be something about the idea of tunnelsnakes jumping out of throats that's made his jaw tighten a little. "Yes, I can sing reasonably well," the Journeyman answers. "Enough to fulfill duties when I'm posted."
Aeriste makes an odd gargling noise and widens his eyes, as if a tunnelsnake were trying to come out right then. He reaches up to clutch at his throat, and then drops his hand to his side. "Are you going to sing, then? Or do something else?"
"I was not planning on performing, no," Giremi replies, eyeing the throat gargling with a cocked eyebrow. "I'm looking forward to spending Turnover outside of the Hall actually, with a friend at my former posting."
Aeriste seems to consider something to say, and then visibly revises it. Instead, he says sagely, "It's good to celebrate with friends."
"Yes it is," Giremi agrees and makes another mark on the essay in front of him. He sighs softly in fact and then writes final comments at the bottom before blotting the ink carefully to dry it. "Other than performing, have you any other plans for turn's end?"
"No." Aeriste doesn't sound too put out about it, but his expression is also rather bland. "It's just a winter night like any other when one's not on stage. I haven't lived long enough to reminisce about the good old times."
"That's not the sole purpose of Turnover celebration," Giremi points out after a moment, pulling down Aeriste's own essay in front of him. "It's also simply about enjoying the company of friends /now/ and looking forward to the new Turn."
"People can do that anytime," Aeriste points out. He watches Giremi peruse his essay with some trepidation. "There's no need to store it all up for one day."
"Yes, though we're not usually given so many days off in a row to use as we see fit if not performing," Giremi points out further, starting to read the essay and he pauses, frowning. "Did you include both the Domick and the Eldaron in your analysis, Aeriste?"
"...Yes?" hazards the apprentice, apprehension written all over his face. Giremi's frowning. That can't be good, right? Did Aeriste do badly? Will he get another reprimand? He pushes of the wall and stands very straight.
"Ah, very well then," the journeyman states though he does write a little note. "It wasn't necessarily obvious from the introductory paragraph," Giremi says and continues reading. No reprimand seems to be in the offing.
"Do you ever leave anyone's papers without any red ink?" Aeriste inquires not-quite-acerbically as he begins to deflate with relief.
"Only when an essay is perfect," Giremi replies, tilting a look up at the apprentice. "Would you expect anything less?"
Aeriste folds his arms again, and tilts his head to the side. He studies Giremi again, as if he might somehow want to peel back the layers of the journeyman's brain and peer at its inner workings-- well, his regard isn't that unpleasant, but his difficulty in pinning the Journeyman's thoughts down seems to somewhat rattle him. "What is a perfect essay to you?"
That look earns one in return, inscrutable, as Giremi makes yet another red-inked note and then he sits back in his chair as the question is asked. "One that follows the structures laid out in class, functional introduction that summarizes the hypothesis and expected contents, a minimum of three paragraphs that develop the hypothesis stated in the introduction with supporting evidence, a clear and concise conclusion that pulls all of the elements together. The language throughout should also flow, with word-choices designed to engage the reader and make the essay not only informative, but interesting to read in terms of cadence."
Aeriste edges closer, leaning over the desk to eye that new notation. "Fine. I'll do that, next time. What did I do wrong there?"
"If you don't mind, there's other students' essays here, Aeriste and their marks are their concern only," Giremi says lightly. "This is a note about word choice though." And his pen moves along, underlines another word and another little note appears in the margin in the journeyman's precise handwriting.
"I'm not looking at theirs," Aeriste states quite reasonably, without moving. "I'm not *that* rude. I'm looking at mine, and what you're doing to it. And you know, 'epistolary' is a fine word. It should be used more often."
"Why don't we move over to another table and maybe we can walk through this as I mark it then," Giremi suggests and caps his ink bottle precisely, lifts up essay, pen and the bottle, making to move over one table. "It's not a matter of trust, but accidents can happen." As he walks: "It's a very good word, but I'm not sure that it conveys what you were really getting at in your second paragraph."
Aeriste pushes back, and prowls along after him. "I was remarking," he states, sweeping his arms out grandly, "Upon the immediacy of the epistolary format. Notations and tables and figures are one thing, but it really conveys a sense of immediacy when someone's writing in detail about their experiences in a certain event. To someone else. The perspective is limited, and they're not writing for anyone but the person they're writing to, but correspondence should be collected, shouldn't it, just because of the immediate personal insight. Even if it's not as precise. Who was doing what's just as important as what happened, isn't it? Such as, 'Today, I had to give an accounting of myself to a very strict Journeyman. I now know what it's like to be someone under my own tutelage, because nothing is ever quite perfect enough.' From this, they might infer that you're mean and I'm overburdened, or that you're just strict and I'm whining."
Settling down in that new seat, Giremi silently draws out a chair for the apprentice to sit in. He sets up his ink bottle right where he wants it, wipes his pen down, with a cloth from his pocket and leaves it on the table. Then he uncaps the bottle, twitches it square again and dips his pen in the ink. Makes another note. "Are you whining, Aeriste?" Giremi cuts to the end there, one brow quirked and he keeps on writing. "Thank you for the insight, but I'll let the comment stand." And he tilts the page a little so the apprentice can read it. Mostly it's about making the transition smoother between the discussion in the previous paragraph and this one.
Aeriste slides into the proffered seat. "Somewhat. I'm never going to like this kind of thing as much as you are. And I'm truly not too bad at it. I don't think I'll ever live up to your expectations, even if I try my best. I'm still going to, but I think I'll just have to resign myself to disappointment." He reads the correction anyway, and he does nod thoughtfully: his mood isn't stopping him from internalising the correction.
"I'm very demanding," Giremi concedes and he swallows once, continuing to read the rest of Aeriste's writing. "This is very nice this, right here," he taps three sentences in the fourth paragraph. "That encapsulates that thought beautifully." His eye lift briefly to the apprentice beside him. "It's difficult for me to feel ... comfortable when things aren't just right."
"Thank you. And that," Aeriste informs him intensely, his eyes bright, "Is exactly how I feel when I hear an imperfect voice."
"Ah. Well. Then I suppose we have much in common," Giremi notes and writes down the praise next to that paragraph. "I -- have problems with all sorts of things being out of order. I'm not sure why, except that my mother tells me it's a bit of a family trait."
Aeriste ponders him more, as this Journeyman is turning out to be a very quirky sort of fellow. And a conundrum in the Hall is fodder for dissection. "A lot of things are out of order here."
"I frequently wipe off the handles in the water cavern and set the shelves back in order," Giremi says dryly, pen pausing briefly then he's bending again to the task at hand and finishing that next note. Page turned over to continue on through the end of the essay. "What strikes you as the most egregious of failings of order at Harper Hall?"
"That *is* pretty bad," Aeriste admits. The next question makes him think... truly makes him review just about everything. Slowly, he says, "I don't think it's a failing of the Harper Hall. I think that it's a failing of humanity. I know I just said what I did about 'just good enough', but it seems like... a lot of students feel that way about most things. At the same time, is it a wise allocation of resources to produce a generalist student instead of a tightly-focused one? Say, if I lost my voice, I would need something else to fall back on. But everything? Should anyone be obligated to be a mediocre student of many classes, when he might be an exceptional student of very few? But I suppose that's the necessity when the intermediary academic point in a Harper's life is to be a man of many disciplines. Very few are fortunate enough to move from Apprenticeship and then strictly into acadamic studies."
"I said, 'at' not 'of'." Of course, Giremi has to nitpick. "Most posting Journeymen need to have a wide enough range of skills to take care of that posting," the Journeyman points out. "Specialists tend to stay here, or get particular contracts at particular Holds. Usually major ones."
"What's wrong with staying here?" Aeriste demands, gesturing sharply: he's not angry, just passionate. "This place is the most interesting place in all of Pern! All the knowledge, the creativity... where else could you find it all, but here?"
"There's nothing wrong with staying here," Giremi continues, one brown arching and he makes another short note right at the end of the essay, then writes out a brief summary of all the comments and a final mark, circled. Ninety-five percent. "But that's not the expectation that's placed upon you. The duty of most harpers is not to stay here and simply explore personal interests, but to turn outward and teach and also learn out there." He gestures beyond the walls of the hall briefly. "I would not be half the man I am today if I had not been posted out."
Ninety-five? From Giremi, that's pretty good, right? Aeriste flushes faintly, and looks rather pleased. "It's ungrateful to say," he says softly, "But is knowledge and teaching inextricably linked?" He thinks on the last of what the Journeyman's said, and risks, "You can say that, after... It seems like some of your journeys, they... Well, you were in a *really* foul mood when you came back from Telgar, and..."
It is in fact a pretty good mark in spite of the copious commentary on the document and when he's finished, Giremi duly wipes the pen clean again, caps the bottle and neatly stacks the hides, passes them to the apprentice. "I don't know about you, but I should certainly hope so, otherwise the teaching is flawed. It's a balance back and forth between learning and teaching. All your life." The last presses Giremi's lips into a thin line and he clears his throat once. "Just be careful where you give your heart, Aeriste."
Aeriste doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, slowly, quietly, he states, "All that I've seen of love is that it makes men foolish despite themselves, and distracts them from more worthwhile pursuits."
"It inspires too. Opens the mind and heart. But it's best not to rush into things foolishly, lest one become a fool." Giremi's face is neutral enough as he says this, looks down at the now vacant space where the essay once lay. "What's worthwhile to one is less so to another. There's more than one way to move forward in life."
"About this, wise teacher, I will offer no argument. I'm not interested in giving my heart to anyone." Aeriste covers it, and gives him a wry little sitting half-bow. "Since I've depressed you this afternoon, how can I make up for it?"
"It's worth giving though," Giremi says after a moment, gaze lifting to the younger man's face though there's signs of his polite mask cracking a little at the edges, mostly in the intensity of clear blue eyes, the deep emotions carefully kept in check, showing a little. "Even the pain of losing teaches something." He clears his throat suddenly and looks away. "No need. I am not depressed," the journeyman says with a sudden, wry smile. "I have a very sweet nephew to visit at Telgar lately if the watchrider is willing. It's hard to be depressed when you're holding a brand new, unspoiled life in your arms."
Aeriste shudders, the magic of childlike innocence lost on him. The rest, he leaves as it is. "No, thank you. They make messes. And they drool on you. And they cry. How can they be unspoiled when they smell like the privies and howl worse than a watchwher? They're only small and cute so we keep them around."
"He's too young to drool yet," Giremi says quietly, patiently. "And there's just something ..." he trails off and then clears his throat again, rises slowly, collecting his things. "I'd best finish the rest of that lot so no one is held up waiting on results before turnover. I hate baing late with anything." Beat. "But good work, Aeriste. Keep at it."
"Thank you." Aeriste eyes him, and then gives him another bow, this one with a theatrical flourish, like one would give after a particularly dramatic performance. "I'm never going to fall in love," he states with brash self-assurance. "Or like children. Not even if they make your face look odd. But I might not give you quite so much to have to correct someday."
That all draws out a chuckle at least, quiet as it is as Giremi gets back to marking. "I will look forward to that day. Good afternoon, Aeriste."