What is with people? Can't they just leave her alone?
Who: G'thon and Miniyal
Where: Records Room, HRW
When: 17:34 on day 12, month 3, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
What: G'thon comes seeking Miniyal after a rather abrupt note was delivered to him.
8/8/2006
It is 17:34 on day 12, month 3, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
The atmosphere in the records room lately has been rather subdued. More than normal, even. When the boss is unhappy how can everyone else be anything but. Oh, it doesn't interfere with her work, Miniyal would never let something bother her that much. But, even the students who come in are quiet and go about their business as they try not to bother the head of records. There's a few lingering in here now, beginning to gather things to head off and seek their evening meal. No one is on duty, all of them were sent off to eat, but Miniyal. Seated at her usual table near the corner it looks normal. Hides, pen, ink. All the trademarks of Miniyal at work. However, she's not working. She's not even really seeing the hide laying in front of her. Just sitting there.
There is no new student to guide to the Weyr's records, no contrived purpose to excuse G'thon's arrival on the room's threshhold. He does pause there a moment and take stock of what's within; a pale brow arched already slips a little higher, sending up curved creases into the expanse of his forehead. He does not hesitate long. As surely as if she were filed under decimal and letter, the once-Weyrleader strides between the stacks to the table where sits his obvious goal: Miniyal. He stops across the table from her, lays a pale hand atop the seatback of a chair, and looks down upon the head of records, silent. The eyebrow stays put, and his mouth rests even, somber, uncrooked.
The comings and goings in her domain do not go unnoticed. When one of the caucus students depart she knows. And when the former weyrleader arrives she notes this as well. Although she says nothing her hand moves and she picks up her pen so she can return to her writing. Which she does in silence, letting him stand there. It is only when she reaches the pen out to ink that she lifts her head, a fraction of a second of a glance before she looks down again. "You seek something that has been misplaced?" she asks softly. After all, why else would he be here? Something the index cannot locate is the only reason. It's certainly the only reason she would speak to him.
"Actually, yes." G'thon apparently takes her question as invitation to draw back that chair and be seated. He lifts his hands to the table's surface and laces his fingers there, one thumb tapping silently atop the knuckle of the other. But rather than explain what it is he seems unable to find, the old man lowers his voice to a pleasant murmur and begins a strange interview: "Tell me what you would have appreciated. Or how you were forced. Or why you ascribe so easily to the obvious - ?"
This conversation was expected. Even Miniyal, of all people, could not have believed that she would get away with what she did without some talk of it. But, that does not mean she cannot put it off for a little longer. She writes, one line then two and finally three. Only when those are done does she set her pen down and fold her hands on the table, never on the hide. "You used me," she says quietly, tone so very even. "That's all there is to it. You used me to betray someone I never would have done that to. And I was stupid enough to think. . ." Well, all sorts of things that need not be said outloud. "So I have nothing at all to say to you."
The old man across the table is patient. Perhaps more than patient he is impassive; he does not move while she writes, while she delays. Not even that high-propped eyebrow twitches. When Miniyal lays aside the pen and folds her hands, G'thon moves but sparingly, tongue parting his lips to wet them. But he stays quiet until she has spoken. Even when he speaks it is sparing: "Diya?" After this, he lets the other brow creep up, punctuating the question. It is, apparently, not rhetorical; also apparently, it is all he will bother to say.
"She was good to me," Miniyal replies, voice getting quieter with each statement. He's not the only one who can play that game. She's out waited plenty of people. Sat still and silent until they gave up and left her be. The pen is picked up again and dipped once more in ink so she might get back to work. The only noise other than the pair of caucus students shuffling almost quietly, trying to get closer to hear what is going on, is the sound of her pen as she writes. The next time the pen is dipped into the ink she adds, "I don't expect you to understand and you're the last person I would explain it to."
G'thon's head raises the slightest increment and he shifts his gaze, slowly, sideways. If this subtlety of motion is not enough to make Caucus students sure they've been seen (through eyes in the back of the bald man's head) and send them swiftly away, then only the man's change in rank could explain it. He refocuses upon Miniyal. "She could have been better," he muses, as if he is not quite talking about the recordskeeper, not really. "But I suppose the same must be said of us all. I have no doubt Diya is furious, Miniyal. She must be." The way he inflects this is a little bit strange.
Head shaking, Miniyal looks over for the first time. "Not to me," she says loyally. One of many faults, once that loyalty is given she cannot admit it was ever misplaced. So, she's loyal to Diya until one of them dies. Then her head drops back down to check her work over. As if she needs to do that. "She will never speak to me again." As if they still really spoke. But, that is quite beside the point! Entirely. As for those caucus students, there is some shuffling towards the door, but there they linger. Maybe the voices will carry or rise in volume so they might get something juicy to share with their fellow students.
"You carried a message, at my request. You did not convince G'mal of my rightness, nor did he offer you any opportunity - that I am aware of - to alter the outcome of your meeting." One of the brows flickers, and then G'thon lets them both settle, lowering his head slightly in a nod that remains nodded. "And to be quite honest, Miniyal, I find it somewhat surprising that she knows the nature of your journey at all." No, no, he is not surprised. Nothing about him measures surprise. He is perhaps, if the faintest trace of his voice could be considered indicative of a faraway smile's echo, pleased.
Miniyal's head lifts again and her expression is rather fierce. "I did not say anything," she more hisses than whispers. It's quiet again as she sets her pen down and once more folds her hands on the table. "People are not stupid. You may think them so, but they are not. I go to Igen with a message for you and then this happens? No, I think people are quite aware of what happened. You sold out the weyr. Underhandedly and just. . .wrong. And while I am sure what I think means little to nothing it is an action I cannot forgive." Quite possibly so much not the selling out as the being used, but that is open to interpretation as her tone gives nothing at all away. She sits still, turns of experience at that helping her conceal what she's truly thinking.
"J'cor has none of my print upon him, Miniyal," says G'thon, and says it very quietly indeed. What it is more likely the students loitering at the door will hear is the old man clearing his old throat; they will see him raise a fist to his lips as though he might cough, then put his hands back down and reknit them in careful patience. They will hear also his next words, or their gist: "We have what we have here now and I consider it most important to make of it what we can." Blah, blah. Before Miniyal's ears can close, the man who was Weyrleader lowers his voice again. "If your duty is to Diya, there are probably better ways you can serve it than this."
Pulling her hands into her lap so nothing can be seen, Miniyal says nothing at all. If her knuckles are white or her hands shake it won't be seen now and she can continue to act as if nothing is bothering her at all. The caucus students linger a moment longer before giving up. Clearly there will be nothing at all to take away from this but whispers. "He needs not your touch," she finally says after giving it a moment's thought. "Your touch is all over the new weyrwoman and he was clearly her choice. It's nothing that needs discussing. What is done is done and there's nothing to be done for it now. Besides, it's not my place. The less I have to do with the world outside of this room the better things will be."
G'thon is, at last, somewhat taken aback. Too bad for the students that this change comes after they have left; it is subtle, but so uncharacteristic for the man that it might make good telling. His head draws back and he slips his hands off the table quickly, as if they might have been bitten. "Then you serve no duty to anyone but history," he replies at length, and his tone is strangely grave. "That which has already been done, regrettably or otherwise." The old man's hazel eyes are unusually wide, and -now- true surprise does register brightly there. He pushes back his chair, drops his palms flat to his knees, bent a bit in preparation to stand. "I am pleased then, if nothing else, that I was able to give you this haven."
Well, really. What did he expect of her? That she might actually tell him the truth? The truth is, she herself isn't even sure why she's so upset. It's not as if her and Diya remained close or that she has any real ties to anyone here that she feels have been betrayed. "My duty to the weyr got me nothing," she says quietly, studying her hands. "I should have known this would be something else." She looks up now and her head shakes. "It's not right is what it is," she says quietly. Maybe she's finally snapped? "Concealing intentions. Deliberately doing what was done was wrong. And there's those who would excuse you for whatever reason, but I will not. It would be too easy to say you did what you did because you could not help yourself, but I don't believe it. There is just. . .there is no excuse for it. And. . .well, I don't appreciate it." As if her appreciation is what everyone was waiting for.
The man's posture softens. His knuckles bend and his fingers curl upon his knees, and presently he leans back a bit, straightening, drawing his hands up to idle places upon his lap. "I did not ask you to excuse me, Miniyal," he says, softly. Kindly, even, as if he forgives her already for such confusion. There is rue as well in what he says next: "Nor do I request your forgiveness. I suggest only you might make better of what is now offered than you seem to intend. But - if you have decided a quiet life is the better one - I cannot argue with your choices."
"Of course not. No one ever does," is the reply as Miniyal takes up her pen again. "I don't expect much to matter as far as I am concerned. I am quite accustomed to my life the way it is." The pen dips in ink and she writes, the same neat and careful penmanship as always. "And at least if I have as little to do with others as possible there is less for me to be. . .well, it just makes it easier, doesn't it? There won't be any more misunderstandings again. And I can work here until someone else needs to be given something and I lose my place to them. I'm sure enough it will happen." Such is life. Things are given and taken away. Not that the former weyrleader wouldn't be quite aware of this fact of life himself.
Indeed. G'thon smiles at last, but it is a slight and bitter little smirk, and does not persist long. "It will be my dedicated effort to prevent that from happening as long as I have influence here, Miniyal," says the pale man, pushing himself at last from his chair. He sweeps imaginary lint from the hem of his shirt, then clasps his hands behind his back and looks at her a moment more before excusing himself with a little bow of his head. He turns away - but turns back, of course, having thought of something else to say. "I know I have not earned your trust or consideration. But you have mine." There; he is done. So he turns again, and starts for the door.
Oh, how dare he! How dare he say something like that? Miniyal has no answer for anything. She sits there, continuing to write as if nothing has happened. She lifts the pen, dips it in ink, writes, and repeats the process. All through his final words and as he rises to leave. There is nothing else for Miniyal to say and so she says nothing at all. As he heads for the door there might be a noise. Surely just a clearing of her throat as if she's got a frog in it. Anything else it might be is clearly just the delusion of a dragonless old man. There is no crying in records.
Where: Records Room, HRW
When: 17:34 on day 12, month 3, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
What: G'thon comes seeking Miniyal after a rather abrupt note was delivered to him.
8/8/2006
It is 17:34 on day 12, month 3, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
The atmosphere in the records room lately has been rather subdued. More than normal, even. When the boss is unhappy how can everyone else be anything but. Oh, it doesn't interfere with her work, Miniyal would never let something bother her that much. But, even the students who come in are quiet and go about their business as they try not to bother the head of records. There's a few lingering in here now, beginning to gather things to head off and seek their evening meal. No one is on duty, all of them were sent off to eat, but Miniyal. Seated at her usual table near the corner it looks normal. Hides, pen, ink. All the trademarks of Miniyal at work. However, she's not working. She's not even really seeing the hide laying in front of her. Just sitting there.
There is no new student to guide to the Weyr's records, no contrived purpose to excuse G'thon's arrival on the room's threshhold. He does pause there a moment and take stock of what's within; a pale brow arched already slips a little higher, sending up curved creases into the expanse of his forehead. He does not hesitate long. As surely as if she were filed under decimal and letter, the once-Weyrleader strides between the stacks to the table where sits his obvious goal: Miniyal. He stops across the table from her, lays a pale hand atop the seatback of a chair, and looks down upon the head of records, silent. The eyebrow stays put, and his mouth rests even, somber, uncrooked.
The comings and goings in her domain do not go unnoticed. When one of the caucus students depart she knows. And when the former weyrleader arrives she notes this as well. Although she says nothing her hand moves and she picks up her pen so she can return to her writing. Which she does in silence, letting him stand there. It is only when she reaches the pen out to ink that she lifts her head, a fraction of a second of a glance before she looks down again. "You seek something that has been misplaced?" she asks softly. After all, why else would he be here? Something the index cannot locate is the only reason. It's certainly the only reason she would speak to him.
"Actually, yes." G'thon apparently takes her question as invitation to draw back that chair and be seated. He lifts his hands to the table's surface and laces his fingers there, one thumb tapping silently atop the knuckle of the other. But rather than explain what it is he seems unable to find, the old man lowers his voice to a pleasant murmur and begins a strange interview: "Tell me what you would have appreciated. Or how you were forced. Or why you ascribe so easily to the obvious - ?"
This conversation was expected. Even Miniyal, of all people, could not have believed that she would get away with what she did without some talk of it. But, that does not mean she cannot put it off for a little longer. She writes, one line then two and finally three. Only when those are done does she set her pen down and fold her hands on the table, never on the hide. "You used me," she says quietly, tone so very even. "That's all there is to it. You used me to betray someone I never would have done that to. And I was stupid enough to think. . ." Well, all sorts of things that need not be said outloud. "So I have nothing at all to say to you."
The old man across the table is patient. Perhaps more than patient he is impassive; he does not move while she writes, while she delays. Not even that high-propped eyebrow twitches. When Miniyal lays aside the pen and folds her hands, G'thon moves but sparingly, tongue parting his lips to wet them. But he stays quiet until she has spoken. Even when he speaks it is sparing: "Diya?" After this, he lets the other brow creep up, punctuating the question. It is, apparently, not rhetorical; also apparently, it is all he will bother to say.
"She was good to me," Miniyal replies, voice getting quieter with each statement. He's not the only one who can play that game. She's out waited plenty of people. Sat still and silent until they gave up and left her be. The pen is picked up again and dipped once more in ink so she might get back to work. The only noise other than the pair of caucus students shuffling almost quietly, trying to get closer to hear what is going on, is the sound of her pen as she writes. The next time the pen is dipped into the ink she adds, "I don't expect you to understand and you're the last person I would explain it to."
G'thon's head raises the slightest increment and he shifts his gaze, slowly, sideways. If this subtlety of motion is not enough to make Caucus students sure they've been seen (through eyes in the back of the bald man's head) and send them swiftly away, then only the man's change in rank could explain it. He refocuses upon Miniyal. "She could have been better," he muses, as if he is not quite talking about the recordskeeper, not really. "But I suppose the same must be said of us all. I have no doubt Diya is furious, Miniyal. She must be." The way he inflects this is a little bit strange.
Head shaking, Miniyal looks over for the first time. "Not to me," she says loyally. One of many faults, once that loyalty is given she cannot admit it was ever misplaced. So, she's loyal to Diya until one of them dies. Then her head drops back down to check her work over. As if she needs to do that. "She will never speak to me again." As if they still really spoke. But, that is quite beside the point! Entirely. As for those caucus students, there is some shuffling towards the door, but there they linger. Maybe the voices will carry or rise in volume so they might get something juicy to share with their fellow students.
"You carried a message, at my request. You did not convince G'mal of my rightness, nor did he offer you any opportunity - that I am aware of - to alter the outcome of your meeting." One of the brows flickers, and then G'thon lets them both settle, lowering his head slightly in a nod that remains nodded. "And to be quite honest, Miniyal, I find it somewhat surprising that she knows the nature of your journey at all." No, no, he is not surprised. Nothing about him measures surprise. He is perhaps, if the faintest trace of his voice could be considered indicative of a faraway smile's echo, pleased.
Miniyal's head lifts again and her expression is rather fierce. "I did not say anything," she more hisses than whispers. It's quiet again as she sets her pen down and once more folds her hands on the table. "People are not stupid. You may think them so, but they are not. I go to Igen with a message for you and then this happens? No, I think people are quite aware of what happened. You sold out the weyr. Underhandedly and just. . .wrong. And while I am sure what I think means little to nothing it is an action I cannot forgive." Quite possibly so much not the selling out as the being used, but that is open to interpretation as her tone gives nothing at all away. She sits still, turns of experience at that helping her conceal what she's truly thinking.
"J'cor has none of my print upon him, Miniyal," says G'thon, and says it very quietly indeed. What it is more likely the students loitering at the door will hear is the old man clearing his old throat; they will see him raise a fist to his lips as though he might cough, then put his hands back down and reknit them in careful patience. They will hear also his next words, or their gist: "We have what we have here now and I consider it most important to make of it what we can." Blah, blah. Before Miniyal's ears can close, the man who was Weyrleader lowers his voice again. "If your duty is to Diya, there are probably better ways you can serve it than this."
Pulling her hands into her lap so nothing can be seen, Miniyal says nothing at all. If her knuckles are white or her hands shake it won't be seen now and she can continue to act as if nothing is bothering her at all. The caucus students linger a moment longer before giving up. Clearly there will be nothing at all to take away from this but whispers. "He needs not your touch," she finally says after giving it a moment's thought. "Your touch is all over the new weyrwoman and he was clearly her choice. It's nothing that needs discussing. What is done is done and there's nothing to be done for it now. Besides, it's not my place. The less I have to do with the world outside of this room the better things will be."
G'thon is, at last, somewhat taken aback. Too bad for the students that this change comes after they have left; it is subtle, but so uncharacteristic for the man that it might make good telling. His head draws back and he slips his hands off the table quickly, as if they might have been bitten. "Then you serve no duty to anyone but history," he replies at length, and his tone is strangely grave. "That which has already been done, regrettably or otherwise." The old man's hazel eyes are unusually wide, and -now- true surprise does register brightly there. He pushes back his chair, drops his palms flat to his knees, bent a bit in preparation to stand. "I am pleased then, if nothing else, that I was able to give you this haven."
Well, really. What did he expect of her? That she might actually tell him the truth? The truth is, she herself isn't even sure why she's so upset. It's not as if her and Diya remained close or that she has any real ties to anyone here that she feels have been betrayed. "My duty to the weyr got me nothing," she says quietly, studying her hands. "I should have known this would be something else." She looks up now and her head shakes. "It's not right is what it is," she says quietly. Maybe she's finally snapped? "Concealing intentions. Deliberately doing what was done was wrong. And there's those who would excuse you for whatever reason, but I will not. It would be too easy to say you did what you did because you could not help yourself, but I don't believe it. There is just. . .there is no excuse for it. And. . .well, I don't appreciate it." As if her appreciation is what everyone was waiting for.
The man's posture softens. His knuckles bend and his fingers curl upon his knees, and presently he leans back a bit, straightening, drawing his hands up to idle places upon his lap. "I did not ask you to excuse me, Miniyal," he says, softly. Kindly, even, as if he forgives her already for such confusion. There is rue as well in what he says next: "Nor do I request your forgiveness. I suggest only you might make better of what is now offered than you seem to intend. But - if you have decided a quiet life is the better one - I cannot argue with your choices."
"Of course not. No one ever does," is the reply as Miniyal takes up her pen again. "I don't expect much to matter as far as I am concerned. I am quite accustomed to my life the way it is." The pen dips in ink and she writes, the same neat and careful penmanship as always. "And at least if I have as little to do with others as possible there is less for me to be. . .well, it just makes it easier, doesn't it? There won't be any more misunderstandings again. And I can work here until someone else needs to be given something and I lose my place to them. I'm sure enough it will happen." Such is life. Things are given and taken away. Not that the former weyrleader wouldn't be quite aware of this fact of life himself.
Indeed. G'thon smiles at last, but it is a slight and bitter little smirk, and does not persist long. "It will be my dedicated effort to prevent that from happening as long as I have influence here, Miniyal," says the pale man, pushing himself at last from his chair. He sweeps imaginary lint from the hem of his shirt, then clasps his hands behind his back and looks at her a moment more before excusing himself with a little bow of his head. He turns away - but turns back, of course, having thought of something else to say. "I know I have not earned your trust or consideration. But you have mine." There; he is done. So he turns again, and starts for the door.
Oh, how dare he! How dare he say something like that? Miniyal has no answer for anything. She sits there, continuing to write as if nothing has happened. She lifts the pen, dips it in ink, writes, and repeats the process. All through his final words and as he rises to leave. There is nothing else for Miniyal to say and so she says nothing at all. As he heads for the door there might be a noise. Surely just a clearing of her throat as if she's got a frog in it. Anything else it might be is clearly just the delusion of a dragonless old man. There is no crying in records.