In which two men dressed in black speak...
Ginella discovered something in G'thon's desk that awoke in her a suspicion as to how Yevide died. Ginella brought this information to Sefton.
Sefton now brings this information to Neiran. Sefton also suggests a solution. Neiran agrees to this solution.
This is, hands down, one of the best scenes I have ever been lucky enough to be involved in. I play better, as I have for a long time now, simply to make sure I am good enough to deserve what Neiran throws at me. I have no idea how to express the extent to which this scene just rocked me. It is the culmination of three IC turns of relationship building between Sefton and Neiran. Sefton is a Master Politician. This is what he does.
The extent to which he is genuine in the thoughts and emotions he conveys to Neiran, I leave to you to decide.
The usual set up for one of Neiran's private tutoring sessions awaits with the Headmaster -- or does it? The door is ajar in invitation, and announcement that he is not otherwise engaged. The man in question stands by the bookshelves, studying them with his hands clasped together behind his back, curls falling into his eyes. And on his desk sits a tray, with an insulated pot, and two large mugs set out. Though not as delicate or as ornamental as that produced by others in the weyr, the makings of tea seem to have replaced Sefton's usual offerings of alcohol.
Footsteps approach, slow, and halt, but Neiran does not immediately enter the cozy den of his Headmaster. He can be spotted loitering on the threshold, not with any indecision, but with a book in his hand, eyes firmly on the page. The title is tiny, etched onto a cover plate typical of the Fourth Interval, revealing the title "Miscellany Pursuits of Idleness; the Art of Purposeful Inactivity." The man's eyes move fast, and after turning one last page, the usual ribbon bookmark is set in place, and the volume closed and drawn to his side by thin, grasping fingers. A blink clears away the fog of reading, and Neiran notes the open door only now. He purses his lips once, and steps inside, drawing the door somewhat closed behind him, though he does not close it. "Good day, Headmaster," he murmurs in greeting, pausing just inside the door as he is wont to do, out of respect, before being invited in. After greeting the man from Boll, the Journeyman's eyes linger on the tea service, both brows piquing faintly after noting it.
"Neiran," Sefton drawls in reply, turning his head to look over the other man for a long moment. "Will you close the door entirely, please, before you come in?" Not the Headmaster's usual request, and it is made without his usual hint of mocking humour -- the anticipation that's usually present, before one of the verbal fencing matches that these visits bring.
Neiran draws his eyes away from the tea set, and his brows lower themselves to their usual place as the object of note is taken from view, and something asked of him. "Of course, Headmaster," he responds, without hesitation. His cassock swishes faintly when he approaches the Headmaster's desk, black fabric belying his recent occupation in the infirmary. The subtle, primal smells of sickness and repair loiter around him, almost as much a part of the man's skin as the fabric of the cassock itself. The healer comes to stand before Sefton's desk as he is accustomed, book clasped with both hands before him, expression that of the model student; calm, receptive, open to learn, yet guarded by his own shrewdness. With naturally narrow eyes, Neiran can hardly help expressing the lattermost quality.
For a long moment, Sefton is silent. When he speaks, it is still absent his usual amusement. His drawl is quiet, low, and entirely solemn. "I should like to speak to you in confidence, Neiran. It is not a request I am making in any way in connection with my position as your teacher. Rather, it is because I wish to discuss a matter of moral judgment, and I consider you to be the foremost candidate amongst my acquaintances to assist me in a decision I must make. It is not a pleasant subject, and it is one on which I suspect you will find continued silence uncomfortable. If you cannot agree to it, I am prepared to continue with your lesson, instead."
Faced with this unusual solemnity from the very initiation of their meeting, Neiran is given pause. The presence of the tea suggested a solicitation that's now been backed up by Sefton's words. "A matter of moral judgment," the Journeyman echoes, the distance in his voice suggesting it's an unconscious echo made while his mind mulls over the situation. The man slowly places his book on the man's desk, parting his fingers from it reluctantly - and they float back to his side as if lighter than air, his mind utterly distracted from his limbs at the moment. After a stretch of contemplation, his eyes refocus on Sefton. "You flatter and honor me by your request, Headmaster, and your offer of confidence. It would be ill-mannered of me to refuse to hear you, when you have made such a request of I, who am indebted to you for your tutelage."
"No, Neiran." Sefton lingers over the words, over the vowels in his student's name. "There is no debt to be called in today. I am asking you to keep confidence on a matter that I suspect you will wish to bring to the attention of others. I am, therefore, asking you to trst my judgment above your own in this, and I will not call on any debt of any sort in making such a request. If you wish to continue with your lesson, I will attach no fault or blame, and there will be no repercussions. This," -- and finally he pauses, white teeth flashing in a very dry grin -- "is extra-curricular."
Neiran's dark eyes linger on the whiteness of Sefton's teeth. "I...believe it will be impossible for me to know whether or not I wish to participate in this 'extracurricular' activity until you have outlined it for me," he murmurs, addressing the teeth at the beginning of his sentence, concluding with eye contact. There is guarded curiosity in the healer's gaze - the expression of a surgeon who senses intriguing organs just below the membrane he can see, yet humanely pauses before slicing too far beyond what is prudent and known.
"That is what I have been trying to say," Sefton agrees mildly -- a glimpse, here, of the man who plays politics at a higher level than that required to fence with his students. Something in his dark eyes, in his unwavering gaze. "This is not a confidence I can afford to offer you, without the assurance that you will keep it. So I am asking for your trust." With a faint shake of his head, he steps back. "I see that I ask too much. It is not a fair request, at any rate. I have tea that my brother has sent me from Boll. Is it likely to bring on a headache?"
"I find that tea is one of the few things that does not directly solicit a headache," the Journeyman replies after a moment of quietly regarding the tea set. "Thank you for your consideration...I would be pleased to sample some Bollean tea. I have had Istan tea only recently, and would like to compare the two on my palate." He leaves it to the host to pour, or at least, he does not move immediately to serve himself. In the pause of silence in the wake of his acceptance of the offer of tea, he lifts his hand to make a vague gesture of indication that he has more to say. "I understand that some things cannot be said before a promise of silence is assured. And again, I am honored that you would trust me so to approach me with such a thing. I believe you may rest assured that this healer's silence is promised without asking," Neiran concludes softly, directing his eyes once again to the man's face. His visage bears a look that confesses curiosity, a penetrating need to know. A look that desires Sefton to tell him what he's withholding.
"This is not a conversation to which alcohol is appropriate," Sefton murmurs, making the earth-shattering announcement that such a conversation, in his opinion, actually exists. He leans across his desk, and takes up a sheet of hide, setting it down on top of the book the healer has just returned. "If I understand it correctly, this record relates to the dosages of some substance required to cause death. I am not sure what sort of subject it was tested on, although I assume the victims were not human. It seems likely somebody would have noticed. Perhaps the level of dosage might give you an idea as to who or what it was tested on." And having so said, he sets about making tea.
The Journeyman turns his eyes to the sheet placed before him, but does not touch it. Rather, he clasps his hands loosely at the small of his back, and looms over the page, eyes downcast with the bridge of his nose as a focus. His eyes move rapidly over the page's face, within moments summoning the thoughtful, computational expression Neiran bears when calculating sums; lips faintly pursed, eyes narrowed further. "It...is difficult to tell what precisely the test victims were, if I do not know the substance in question. It is either an extraordinarily toxic substance, or the victims were relatively small, fast-metabolizing creatures, judging by the conclusions and dosages here." One of the man's hands sneaks around, and a single finger lifts before his lips, hovering just short of pressing against them. His eyes give the sheet another scan, and then it's to Sefton he looks, with puzzlement and faint concern detectable through the cracks of the mask he usually struggles to maintain. "What precisely am I regarding?"
"If I knew what you were regarding, my mind would be easier," Sefton replies, looking up from his task. "This was brought to me by Ginella, who could see enough in it that she was concerned as to what it might mean." A pause, a heartbeat of silence, and then two. "She copied it out, unbeknownst to the author. If there is an innocent explanation, I should be relieved to hear it, frankly. I am afraid I have one in mind that is not."
The Journeyman returns his eyes to the parchment again, as if his mind required a third reading through to grasp the contents. More likely, he's observing caution and exercising hope in a quest for the very innocent answer Sefton should like to hear. "It appears to me to be all the requisite information one would require to compose a euthanasia table, or graph. We are educated on such things in late apprenticeship, so we are aware of the risks of certain herbs and substances. However... current Hall policy does not condone experimentation on living creatures, as the fatal doses of most of the herbs we utilize are, by now, well known. This could not have been copied from an old record?" He proposes carefully, watching his verbal step.
"I suppose it is possible," Sefton replies, though there's a note in his drawl that contradicts his declaration. "This is a fruit tea, it will grow markedly stronger as it steeps. Inhaling will give you a notion as to how far it has progressed. I will leave it to you to judge when it has finished steeping." A step back, and then another, so he can rest his shoulders against his bookshelves. "Ginella found it in Ganathon's possession, Neiran." The words are delivered quietly -- regretfully.
"Thank you." That is for the tea, of course. Bereft of his preferred method of preparing tea - ticking off the proper minutes - he does as suggested and lifts the lid of the teapot briefly to take a base sense of its first phase of steeping, grasping for a sense of the richness of the brew, so he might not withdraw the herbs too early or too late by misjudging its potency. It's with steam broiling around his features that Sefton makes his regretful announcement. The Journeyman returns the lid to the pot once more, and the air immediately clears of the subtle fragrance and the steam. Neiran straightens, and regards the Headmaster with a stare that goes beyond the man, and the shelves behind him. "He has been to no mindhealer since he lost his lifemate..?" The leap to that question Neiran does not explain immediately.
Sefton studies that stare, more interested in that than in any other thing so far, to judge by the new intensity that appears in his dark eyes. A blink, and it's gone, so that he can speak once more, with the quiet reserve that he has brought to this conversation. "I am not aware that he has done so, no. I had hoped, by appointing him to his current position, that some new purpose might emerge in his life. Something to assist. We owe him great respect. His past service, you understand."
"Of course," Neiran is quick (but not hasty), to respond, returning his attention to Sefton rather than the faraway realms beyond the bookshelf he'd just been studying. "Speaking as a student of his, he has done admirably as an instructor, especially given the circumstances in which he came to his position." Well-rehearsed, and certainly oft-practiced deference is imbued in his tone, precisely the tone needed to speak of a superior who has faced a tragedy. Not pitying, per se, but tacitly acknowledging everything beyond what is bluntly said. "I understand that you do not wish to draw undue attention to this dilemma, due to that deference we owe him. And it is not the Hall's desire to force treatment of any kind upon anyone. However, when one toys with the notion of ending one's existence, especially when outside of Hall supervision, it is not to be taken lightly."
"I do not wish to draw undue attention," Sefton replies. "His position is unique. It might be said, indeed, that it would not be wrong, were his life to end. Very few riders survive their dragons, and for one to survive his dragon by so long is yet more rare." One hand comes up to rake his curls back from his forehead -- the Headmaster's eyes lack their usual amusement entirely, and the regret that echoes in his tone is mirrored in his face. "Perhaps he ought to have seen a mindhealer. I wonder whether it was the obligation of those in a position to do so to see that he did. I wonder if it was my obligation, in some way."
The Journeyman frowns mildly, and looks to occupy himself with the tea. He lifts the pot's lid, allowing the tea's steam to permeate the air. Presumably he derives clarity from this, rather than the fog the steam suggests. Nostrils flare subtly, drawing in the scent of the brew, analyzing it. His eyes lid halfway as he directs his gaze into the pot, seeking to glimpse the color of the water, if he can, to add that data to his contemplation of the tea's strength. "The etiquette surrounding any individual's obligation to make any individual seek the aid of a healer - particularly a healer of the mind - is nebulous. I do not remember that he displayed any overt signs that would suggest he require aid. Perhaps his rapid competence should have been taken as an indicator in and of itself. I recall he came to and stated clearly that he would retain his honorific name." The Journeyman deems the tea not quite yet ready, and replaces the lid. "I am not experienced in dealing with riders who have lost their lifemates, but that remark suggests to me a focused mind rather than anything else. Perhaps the grief has only now caught up to him, just as some severely injured men do not recognize their own injuries, due to shock. Perhaps he simply grows weary of being without Hirth. I cannot claim to comprehend it. You would wish me to discreetly inform a respected mindhealer so he may be given appropriate counseling...?"
"I am not speaking of etiquette, Neiran. I am speaking of my moral obligation," Sefton replies quietly, allowing his hand to drop, and his curls to fall back into his eyes, as though he is tired. "I am afraid I am not yet come to the worst of it. It may be that Ganathon has considered taking his own life, I do not know. Certainly, I now think him unbalanced. If anything, I would say that I have an obligation to the man that he was, rather than the man that he is now. I have a responsibility to Hirth's G'thon, not to Ganathon, who should not have outlived him." He pauses, but one hand comes up to forbid a reply just yet -- after a few moments, he finds the words he wishes to use to continue. "My fear is that this table does not reflect the results of experiments undertaken with his own end in mind. My fear is that this represents evidence of another intention he has already fulfilled."
The thin skin beneath one of Neiran's eyes twitches briefly after his eyes narrow, and the healer lifts a thin finger to smooth one of his eyebrows as if dispelling the tic. It disappears a few moments afterwards, leaving his visage placid again. Rather than roost at his side, his hands fold with one another before him, palest white against the backdrop of his cassock - though an astute eye may notice they're but a shade pinker than his face, the result of copious redwort application. He doesn't impose on that lifted hand, never one to rush to head off his conversation partner at the pass, or trample on the dragging train of their words. The Headmaster's suggestion has the healer turn his face, regarding Sefton now out of the corners of his eyes, askance. His mouth opens, hesitates in silence, and closes. The Journeyman faces Sefton fully once more. "...please continue."
He is torn, the Headmaster. He is reluctant to utter the words, and he hesitates -- he is regretful, and yet, he is certain. Or else, he is an excellent actor and politician. "The Weyrwoman," he murmurs, his drawl drawing out the words, though he does not play with them as he has before. "Yevide." Her name is almost a whisper, dark eyes resting square on the healer's face as he murmurs those two syllables.
The Journeyman's gaze remains on Sefton's face for only a few moments, until his dark eyes glaze and direct their attention elsewhere. To the tea once more, specifically. Moving with the delicate confidence brought by his profession, his hands lift the tea set and make to pour the herbal tea into two cups. The liquid is just at the cusp of over-steeping, flavors imbued to their fullest. After having poured, the Journeyman withdraws the herbs so the remainder of the pot shan't over-steep. It's not a thoughtless ritual, but one meant to buy time, done at this moment out of convenient necessity. A man well versed in the study of faces could well see the telltale line between the healer's brows, just so above the bridge of his nose, and the bit of tension at the corners of his mouth which has forced his lips into thinner lines. "Please outline for me his suspected motives." Slender fingers turn one of the cups so that its handle is towards Sefton, and with the precision of a mellow host, he lifts it and offers the cup of liquid to his Headmaster, along with the forced, rigidly blank expression he's put on.
Sefton has been watching Neiran for turns. He has been inviting the healer to his quarters for turns. He has been challenging him, provoking thought, engaging him in debate and providing dilemmas. The responses to all of these inform his understanding now, as he watches his student react to his words. He reaches slowly to accept his mug, though he doesn't lift it to sip. Instead, he eases back once more to rest his shoulders against his bookcase. "Please, sit if you prefer," he murmurs, that low note of regret still present. "He transferred the Weyrwoman in under the most unusual of circumstances. She was his lover, that we now know clearly. He did not effect a careful, thoughtful transfer, but instead signed in the moments before her flight. She introduced a Weyrleader he had not planned, with consequences of which we are aware. She then replaced him with that Weyrleader. If he had dreams of acting as a de facto Weyrleader, they were at that point surely ashes."
The Journeyman is often one to stand unless etiquette requires he sit - but he sits now without needing further coaxing. Neiran eases himself into the chair neatly, and takes up his tea to let the steam bathe his face. He closes his eyes for a time, letting the tendrils touch him as the Headmaster's words do. "I am unqualified to state whether or not G'thon would have been in such a mental state as to consider...eliminating a disappointment or an inconvenience. If you suspect him, nonetheless, it is incumbent upon you to alert the proper harpers and present them with this new evidence," he murmurs, drawing back the lids of his eyes and lifts his gaze to Sefton while his face remains tilted down at his mug. "I no longer see the moral dilemma you speak of." Now that it has been explained a little, the correct path - the just path - is clear. Tell the men who are trained to deal with such things.
There is silence, for a long time. Sefton studies his tea, as once did the dead Weyrwoman whose name he has recently murmured, as though he might find in his cup the portents she once claimed she found in hers. "I am quite sure of it," he murmurs at length. "I have worked with him, Neiran. I have spoken to him, dealt with him at length. Your diagnoses relate to the illnesses of men. Mine are less certain, but I do not think you doubt my skill." Finally, he lifts his tea, tipping his head back as he would to swallow a mouthful of wine, not wincing at the passage of the liquid, still hot, down his throat. "My dilemma is twofold, Neiran. I am convinced I am correct. I back that certainty with all my skill. I am not convinced I have the evidence with which to establish that this is the case. Further than that, though. I am considering my duty to G'thon-that-was. To the man I knew, before he lost Hirth. We owe him a great debt. We owe him, I think, more consideration than we owe Ganathon. I hesitate, Neiran, to push ahead with something that will forever sully his name, and all the things he has done."
The smallest of nods cedes to Sefton an acknowledgment of his skills, and the healer returns to motionlessness. In an unconscious shadowing of the Headmaster, Neiran chooses then to take the first sip of his tea, although it is only a sip and not a galvanizing gulp. "I do not know that I am entirely comfortable dividing G'thon and...Ganathon...so cleanly from one another," he murmurs, that line appearing above the bridge of his nose again. Recognizing that he's relying on his mug to distract his attention from the issue at hand, he straightens his shoulders and places it down so he might regard Sefton directly, devoid of crutch. "Please do not continue applying numbweed any longer, but make the first incision and come to the heart of your plans of action," he appeals, embellishing this entreaty with the spreading of palms one usually expects from an orator. It seems for a moment as though he will go on, that furrow of his brow suggesting that he'd be driven onward by a rising sense of puzzlement - but he bites his tongue, and closes his mouth, retreating to placidity and receptivity once again.
Sefton keeps hold of his mug, looking down to it once more, and allowing the steam to wash up around his face -- a morning ritual, transplanted to this one evening. "We mst draw a line, Neiran. G'thon would never have done such a thing. I can say this categorically. The loss of Hirth transformed him, and to say that anything less took place is to do the man an injustice. He is not unintelligent -- he knows it serves him to play that no great change took place. I would defend his actions against those of Ganathon." Another mouthful of tea, slower this time. "I apply nmbweed, as you say, because I am circling words I do not wish to speak." There is heavy reluctance in the Headmaster's drawl, in the drop of his shoulders as he exhales. "You are a sounding board for my moral decisions, Neiran -- I trust that you know I strive to make them, whatever my reputation. You are also my surgeon." His dark eyes lift to the other man's face, slowly. "What I do not wish to say to you, is that Ganathon now infects society. Our moral duty, perhaps, is to perform surgery."
Dark eyes meet dark eyes from across the table, across chasms of experience and temperament and the gap of Turns. There is a period of blankness, incomprehension - the final stitch in the line of comprehension is withheld not because the healer has the mind of a drudge, but rather because his quick mind would try to spare his heart the burden of the meaning behind Sefton's words it's interpreted. It's inevitable that it dawns on him, and the clarity of the proposal can be seen in the lifting of Neiran's eyes, the subtle widening of his dark pupils against near-black irises. He leans back, pressing his spine and shoulders against the chair, a slow recoil that doesn't match the forced neutrality of his face. "You...propose to...excise him from the organ of the Weyr? Or...the broader system of Pern entirely?" He would not wish emotion to cause him to leap to conclusions further than those Sefton is drawing. But surely his reaction belies he suspects the latter already.
Sefton waits, quietly, as his student pieces together the parts of this lesson, this proposal. "You are a surgeon, Neiran," he murmurs, his drawl running the words together, though they remain distinct enough to comprehend. "You understand what is required for a total cure. For the good of the weyr. For the saving of a good man's reputation. Those who say that morally correct decisions are those which come most easily have lived very little of life. Fortitude is required, to do what one knows one must."
"I understand what is required for a total cure," the man in black echoes, even while the controlled rise and fall of his narrow chest betrays some amount of struggle within him against emotion and the logical face he's continuing to present to his instructor, his Headmaster. "However, I likewise understand that surgeons make errors, whether indeed true errors or only errors as their betters would later see them. But if it appears more tissue was removed than should have been, or stitches were done incorrectly, or infection set in, the surgeon responsible is uncovered and appropriately punished." His words begin smoothly, but in the end conclude sternly while his expression adopts a certain iciness. There is no way this operation would leave them intact. "Fortitude can only serve a surgeon before the operation and while he cuts, not afterwards. With respect, Headmaster."
"With great respect Neiran, I do not doubt." If there's a challenge in the healer's words, the Headmaster does not take it up. Rather, he is quiet, weary, regretful still. "I consult you not only as a morally upright man, but as a healer. Should we do this thing -- should we make this excision -- then there should be no chance for uncomprehending eyes to turn towards us later. Those who did not understand would react, of course. If it appeared a natural thing, though. If it seemed as though, without intervention, what should have happened when Hirth died had happened now. If a respected healer, and the Caucus Headmaster, future Lord of Fort were present to attest to the manner in which it happened. If I thought the right thing could be done in another fashion, Neiran, do you not think I would have proposed it? I do not suggest that it is right for us to do this simply because Ganathon decided it was his right to murder a Weyrwoman. I suggest it is our only option, as honest men. On her behalf. On behalf of G'thon, who would have wept, to see what he would become. On behalf of who knows what other man or woman he may turn his eye on next. Roa, for all we know, or R'vain. It is that knowledge which must sustain us afterwards, Neiran."
There is a long silence. One hand ascends, and forefinger and thumb come to pinch the bridge of the healer's nose; an uncharacteristically dramatic gesture. It's doubtful that the tea has evoked a headache, and it's left to wonder that he's so delicate that this conversation could excite in him whatever imbalance prompts his attacks - or if he's merely resigning himself to expressing a part of the milieux of turbulent emotions bubbling under the surface of his thoughts. The silence goes on, Neiran for once taking it for granted that he'll be allowed to extend propriety and take these moments to think, and formulate response. At one point his head turns slightly, as though about to shake slowly in disbelief, but only half of the gesture is completed. And after that, he lowers his hand and lifts his gaze, to draw his tea to him again. "I am...unnerved...that it is more daunting to consider what would become of me were I to refuse this," refuse /you/, Headmaster, "than were I to assist you in this, and that on the whole perhaps I am not as sickened as I would have hoped myself to be when presented with the charge to break my oath." He swallows, though he has no tea in his mouth. His eyes fall upon the book on the table. 'Miscellany Pursuits of Idleness,' covered by the sheet of evidence.
"Then let me counter one of your concerns," Sefton replies -- even now, tired, regretful, heavy, his words are slow and smooth, as though practiced. "If you refuse, then it is your right to do so. What comes next will be determined by you. I have placed myself in your hands -- asked that you keep this conversation in confidence. I cannot compel you to do so, and I will not. I hope that you would do so. I will ask you to speak nothing further of it, and if your shoulders are not strong enough to bear it, the problem will no longer be yours." For a moment, the Headmaster is forgiving, understanding, compassionate. "It would be understandable, if you could not. I would say, however, that if you are not sickened, it is because your oath is designed to guide you into actions which are morally right. What we contemplate," -- what /we/ contemplate, together, the gentle confidence in his tone says -- "comes under that category."
The Journeyman draws a sip of his tea while the Headmaster speaks, his grip on the handle of the teacup perhaps a little firmer, his wrist more rigid, than is his usual wont. "I did not wish to imply that you would refuse me the right to refuse," he assures softly. "Only that my own conscience would not permit me to continue existing easily being aware of the necessity, and having done nothing. I cannot selfishly pass this duty on to another candidate, who is, at present, innocent of your designs." The tool has been placed in his hands. To drop it would be a breach of trust, sloppy, selfish, irresponsible; the line of knowing needs be curtailed as close to the source as possible. A surgeon does not hand off the bone saw when it is put in his hand, as gruesome as the duties it implies are. "It...is very likely for the greater good, the health of the Weyr entire, that G'thon be removed. Gangrenous limbs are... rightfully severed," he murmurs. "It is to my regret that this particular limb has a mind and heart of his own, and individuals beloved to it."
"That is also my regret," Sefton replies. "I had enormous respect for him. I retain enormous respect for the man he was." He pauses, looking down to his mug, and lifts it for a slow swallow. "It should be done as simply as possible. In our presence, so that we can attest that -- whatever it is that you suggest. That his heart gave out, perhaps. So that I can attest to your efforts at revival. So that he can be taken between, without the need for any examination. They will accept your word. We will appear distressed. There will be no need to feign that. There is such a thing, I take it, that might be added to his tea? I should like it to be done as painlessly as possible." His easy drawl drops, becomes heavy. "And soon."
Neiran looks down at his tea, now considering it as a vehicle for poison rather than the soothing comfort it usually is. Little surprise then, perhaps, that he chooses to put it down without sipping from it immediately. "There are...suitable things," the healer murmurs. "Man is a regrettably fragile creature. And...G'thon particularly so, I would imagine. Although he is not old, he is not very young, and men of his stature and physiology often develop health complications which I imagine would only be compounded by the trauma of losing a lifemate. The physiological effects of the severing of such a tie are not entirely understood by the Hall, and I imagine anyone." The Journeyman presses his lips together, perhaps displeased with how easy it is for his mind to supply reasons, excuses, alibis. His eyes idle on Sefton's mouth. "I shall...investigate the most merciful course of action," his own lips murmur. His eyes tic up to the man's eyes, lock there. "Do you not think a hastily executed disposal will be more suspicious?"
"Please do investigate," Sefton murmurs, not so hesitant in drinking his tea -- he drinks once more, looking down at the dregs, and presumably failing still to read the future in them. "I think that after expressing shock, and sorrow, people will murmur what I murmur to you now, Neiran: Perhaps it is better, so. It was so hard for him to outlive Hirth. Perhaps he should never have done so. Perhaps now, he rests." He shakes his head, curls falling into his eyes. "It need not be hasty. It is only necessary that his body should not be examined as the Weyrwoman's was, or in any manner that will reveal what has happened. If he need lie long enough for those who loved him to make their farewells, so be it." He pauses, exhaling slowly, sadly. "I will do so myself, once he is
G'thon again, preparing to join Hirth."
The possibility of protest on some point flickers in the healer's eyes, but is decisively snuffed a moment later. "Indeed," he murmurs, defaulting to that wondrous, blanketing word that meets every conversational requirement of him. "I am not a man who puts much stock in any recognizable existence beyond what one we have in this world, so I would say that if he is not 'with' Hirth, at the very least he is no longer without him, and the Weyr is no longer at risk." Clearly the healer is reluctant to bring undue amounts of sentimentality into his consideration of his actions. Neiran frowns slightly, then, but remains silent.
"At the very least, that," Sefton murmurs, with a slow nod. "If you will think on this, perhaps you will be good enough to let me know when you have reached a conclusion as to the best method. I will then arrange a meeting on some subject connected to the Caucus. We will do what is right, but we will take no joy in it." He pushes forward from the bookshelf, and sets his mug down on the edge of the table. "I find I wish I could replace my tea with something harder after all. It seems wrong, though, to take any step which might artifically blunt my misgivings." His tone, through the same subtle alteration he has ever employed, signals the beginning of the conclusion of the interview. "I hoped I was right to have faith in you, Neiran. If one good thing has come of this, it is that that much has been confirmed."
"Trust that I will alert you as soon as I have come to a conclusion, and trust that I will remain silent." Neiran can sense the change in atmosphere as well as tone that alerts him that the end of the interview draws near, and so he slowly rises to his feet. "If it were not almost certain to invoke more discomfort than it would blunt, I would be tempted to request a drink to imbibe for myself." He allows Sefton the temptation of drinking, but leaves what he thinks of taking such an artificial step unsaid. "I do not know if faith in an assassin is to be considered a good thing." He's looking at the books behind Sefton, perusing what ones have titles on their spines.
"I think that in this, faith is all we have," Sefton drawls simply, lifting his shoulders, and then his hands, to indicate what he would call his helplessness in the matter. "Thank you, Neiran. For your counsel, as well as your aid." As though the healer has said something, this evening, that will determine their course. "I will forget neither."
"I do not know what verbal formalities are expected of me in this social situation." Surely nothing Neiran has read could have prepared him for this. "So I can only say that I am appreciative of your trust in me, and I am thankful that you are not a man who makes such decisions lightly nor forgets assistance. It is my hope such sentiments will suffice, and if they do not, it is my hope I will be forgiven on the grounds of mental distraction." He'll not confess to the emotional aspect, of course. The healer does not turn to leave just then, but lingers a moment more. Lest the silence become awkward, as surely it would, he explains himself. "I would prefer to leave with a book in hand." It is what is expected, and a more convenient distractor from the true kernel of their discussion tonight, should anyone ask how his meeting went.
Finally, a gleam of amusement surfaces in Sefton's dark eyes, though it lacks his usual hard edge. "I believe that will suffice," he allows, permitting a hint of it to reach his drawl. He waits through Neiran's silence, and inclines his head at the explanation. "Of course." The Headmaster turns towards the shelves, and scans them at length, before he draws down an elderly book indeed. "This is a very old history," he informs the other, holding it out. "Lorna has recently finished with it, and was impressed by the author's storytelling style. I should be interested to know what you think."
"Certainly." Neiran takes the book, draws it to himself, remains standing and staring for a few moments. It occurs to him to step out from in front of the chair, and then he pushes it into place neatly. Before turning to go, he indulges in a visual survey of Sefton. A dissection of the eyes, looking to see if there's anything beneath the layers there that might have warned him of this. Or if anything now has changed. The results of his regard are kept to himself, and the hairline fractures in his mask revealed earlier are being painted into invisibility as he stands. "Good day, Headmaster." The expected half-bow follows before the Journeyman will take his leave.
Sefton accepts that study as part of this process, standing still and quiet beneath it. His mocking, amused edge is gone -- for now, at least -- and the Headmaster is tired, or acts it, one hand resting against the edge of the desk, shoulders down, his usual lazy air also absent. As to whether this is all displayed wittingly or unwittingly, there is no way to be sure. "Neiran," he murmurs in farewell, inclining his head once more. He remains still until the healer is gone, and the door shut behind him. Then he turns abruptly for his the shelf that holds his collection of bottles.
Sefton now brings this information to Neiran. Sefton also suggests a solution. Neiran agrees to this solution.
This is, hands down, one of the best scenes I have ever been lucky enough to be involved in. I play better, as I have for a long time now, simply to make sure I am good enough to deserve what Neiran throws at me. I have no idea how to express the extent to which this scene just rocked me. It is the culmination of three IC turns of relationship building between Sefton and Neiran. Sefton is a Master Politician. This is what he does.
The extent to which he is genuine in the thoughts and emotions he conveys to Neiran, I leave to you to decide.
The usual set up for one of Neiran's private tutoring sessions awaits with the Headmaster -- or does it? The door is ajar in invitation, and announcement that he is not otherwise engaged. The man in question stands by the bookshelves, studying them with his hands clasped together behind his back, curls falling into his eyes. And on his desk sits a tray, with an insulated pot, and two large mugs set out. Though not as delicate or as ornamental as that produced by others in the weyr, the makings of tea seem to have replaced Sefton's usual offerings of alcohol.
Footsteps approach, slow, and halt, but Neiran does not immediately enter the cozy den of his Headmaster. He can be spotted loitering on the threshold, not with any indecision, but with a book in his hand, eyes firmly on the page. The title is tiny, etched onto a cover plate typical of the Fourth Interval, revealing the title "Miscellany Pursuits of Idleness; the Art of Purposeful Inactivity." The man's eyes move fast, and after turning one last page, the usual ribbon bookmark is set in place, and the volume closed and drawn to his side by thin, grasping fingers. A blink clears away the fog of reading, and Neiran notes the open door only now. He purses his lips once, and steps inside, drawing the door somewhat closed behind him, though he does not close it. "Good day, Headmaster," he murmurs in greeting, pausing just inside the door as he is wont to do, out of respect, before being invited in. After greeting the man from Boll, the Journeyman's eyes linger on the tea service, both brows piquing faintly after noting it.
"Neiran," Sefton drawls in reply, turning his head to look over the other man for a long moment. "Will you close the door entirely, please, before you come in?" Not the Headmaster's usual request, and it is made without his usual hint of mocking humour -- the anticipation that's usually present, before one of the verbal fencing matches that these visits bring.
Neiran draws his eyes away from the tea set, and his brows lower themselves to their usual place as the object of note is taken from view, and something asked of him. "Of course, Headmaster," he responds, without hesitation. His cassock swishes faintly when he approaches the Headmaster's desk, black fabric belying his recent occupation in the infirmary. The subtle, primal smells of sickness and repair loiter around him, almost as much a part of the man's skin as the fabric of the cassock itself. The healer comes to stand before Sefton's desk as he is accustomed, book clasped with both hands before him, expression that of the model student; calm, receptive, open to learn, yet guarded by his own shrewdness. With naturally narrow eyes, Neiran can hardly help expressing the lattermost quality.
For a long moment, Sefton is silent. When he speaks, it is still absent his usual amusement. His drawl is quiet, low, and entirely solemn. "I should like to speak to you in confidence, Neiran. It is not a request I am making in any way in connection with my position as your teacher. Rather, it is because I wish to discuss a matter of moral judgment, and I consider you to be the foremost candidate amongst my acquaintances to assist me in a decision I must make. It is not a pleasant subject, and it is one on which I suspect you will find continued silence uncomfortable. If you cannot agree to it, I am prepared to continue with your lesson, instead."
Faced with this unusual solemnity from the very initiation of their meeting, Neiran is given pause. The presence of the tea suggested a solicitation that's now been backed up by Sefton's words. "A matter of moral judgment," the Journeyman echoes, the distance in his voice suggesting it's an unconscious echo made while his mind mulls over the situation. The man slowly places his book on the man's desk, parting his fingers from it reluctantly - and they float back to his side as if lighter than air, his mind utterly distracted from his limbs at the moment. After a stretch of contemplation, his eyes refocus on Sefton. "You flatter and honor me by your request, Headmaster, and your offer of confidence. It would be ill-mannered of me to refuse to hear you, when you have made such a request of I, who am indebted to you for your tutelage."
"No, Neiran." Sefton lingers over the words, over the vowels in his student's name. "There is no debt to be called in today. I am asking you to keep confidence on a matter that I suspect you will wish to bring to the attention of others. I am, therefore, asking you to trst my judgment above your own in this, and I will not call on any debt of any sort in making such a request. If you wish to continue with your lesson, I will attach no fault or blame, and there will be no repercussions. This," -- and finally he pauses, white teeth flashing in a very dry grin -- "is extra-curricular."
Neiran's dark eyes linger on the whiteness of Sefton's teeth. "I...believe it will be impossible for me to know whether or not I wish to participate in this 'extracurricular' activity until you have outlined it for me," he murmurs, addressing the teeth at the beginning of his sentence, concluding with eye contact. There is guarded curiosity in the healer's gaze - the expression of a surgeon who senses intriguing organs just below the membrane he can see, yet humanely pauses before slicing too far beyond what is prudent and known.
"That is what I have been trying to say," Sefton agrees mildly -- a glimpse, here, of the man who plays politics at a higher level than that required to fence with his students. Something in his dark eyes, in his unwavering gaze. "This is not a confidence I can afford to offer you, without the assurance that you will keep it. So I am asking for your trust." With a faint shake of his head, he steps back. "I see that I ask too much. It is not a fair request, at any rate. I have tea that my brother has sent me from Boll. Is it likely to bring on a headache?"
"I find that tea is one of the few things that does not directly solicit a headache," the Journeyman replies after a moment of quietly regarding the tea set. "Thank you for your consideration...I would be pleased to sample some Bollean tea. I have had Istan tea only recently, and would like to compare the two on my palate." He leaves it to the host to pour, or at least, he does not move immediately to serve himself. In the pause of silence in the wake of his acceptance of the offer of tea, he lifts his hand to make a vague gesture of indication that he has more to say. "I understand that some things cannot be said before a promise of silence is assured. And again, I am honored that you would trust me so to approach me with such a thing. I believe you may rest assured that this healer's silence is promised without asking," Neiran concludes softly, directing his eyes once again to the man's face. His visage bears a look that confesses curiosity, a penetrating need to know. A look that desires Sefton to tell him what he's withholding.
"This is not a conversation to which alcohol is appropriate," Sefton murmurs, making the earth-shattering announcement that such a conversation, in his opinion, actually exists. He leans across his desk, and takes up a sheet of hide, setting it down on top of the book the healer has just returned. "If I understand it correctly, this record relates to the dosages of some substance required to cause death. I am not sure what sort of subject it was tested on, although I assume the victims were not human. It seems likely somebody would have noticed. Perhaps the level of dosage might give you an idea as to who or what it was tested on." And having so said, he sets about making tea.
The Journeyman turns his eyes to the sheet placed before him, but does not touch it. Rather, he clasps his hands loosely at the small of his back, and looms over the page, eyes downcast with the bridge of his nose as a focus. His eyes move rapidly over the page's face, within moments summoning the thoughtful, computational expression Neiran bears when calculating sums; lips faintly pursed, eyes narrowed further. "It...is difficult to tell what precisely the test victims were, if I do not know the substance in question. It is either an extraordinarily toxic substance, or the victims were relatively small, fast-metabolizing creatures, judging by the conclusions and dosages here." One of the man's hands sneaks around, and a single finger lifts before his lips, hovering just short of pressing against them. His eyes give the sheet another scan, and then it's to Sefton he looks, with puzzlement and faint concern detectable through the cracks of the mask he usually struggles to maintain. "What precisely am I regarding?"
"If I knew what you were regarding, my mind would be easier," Sefton replies, looking up from his task. "This was brought to me by Ginella, who could see enough in it that she was concerned as to what it might mean." A pause, a heartbeat of silence, and then two. "She copied it out, unbeknownst to the author. If there is an innocent explanation, I should be relieved to hear it, frankly. I am afraid I have one in mind that is not."
The Journeyman returns his eyes to the parchment again, as if his mind required a third reading through to grasp the contents. More likely, he's observing caution and exercising hope in a quest for the very innocent answer Sefton should like to hear. "It appears to me to be all the requisite information one would require to compose a euthanasia table, or graph. We are educated on such things in late apprenticeship, so we are aware of the risks of certain herbs and substances. However... current Hall policy does not condone experimentation on living creatures, as the fatal doses of most of the herbs we utilize are, by now, well known. This could not have been copied from an old record?" He proposes carefully, watching his verbal step.
"I suppose it is possible," Sefton replies, though there's a note in his drawl that contradicts his declaration. "This is a fruit tea, it will grow markedly stronger as it steeps. Inhaling will give you a notion as to how far it has progressed. I will leave it to you to judge when it has finished steeping." A step back, and then another, so he can rest his shoulders against his bookshelves. "Ginella found it in Ganathon's possession, Neiran." The words are delivered quietly -- regretfully.
"Thank you." That is for the tea, of course. Bereft of his preferred method of preparing tea - ticking off the proper minutes - he does as suggested and lifts the lid of the teapot briefly to take a base sense of its first phase of steeping, grasping for a sense of the richness of the brew, so he might not withdraw the herbs too early or too late by misjudging its potency. It's with steam broiling around his features that Sefton makes his regretful announcement. The Journeyman returns the lid to the pot once more, and the air immediately clears of the subtle fragrance and the steam. Neiran straightens, and regards the Headmaster with a stare that goes beyond the man, and the shelves behind him. "He has been to no mindhealer since he lost his lifemate..?" The leap to that question Neiran does not explain immediately.
Sefton studies that stare, more interested in that than in any other thing so far, to judge by the new intensity that appears in his dark eyes. A blink, and it's gone, so that he can speak once more, with the quiet reserve that he has brought to this conversation. "I am not aware that he has done so, no. I had hoped, by appointing him to his current position, that some new purpose might emerge in his life. Something to assist. We owe him great respect. His past service, you understand."
"Of course," Neiran is quick (but not hasty), to respond, returning his attention to Sefton rather than the faraway realms beyond the bookshelf he'd just been studying. "Speaking as a student of his, he has done admirably as an instructor, especially given the circumstances in which he came to his position." Well-rehearsed, and certainly oft-practiced deference is imbued in his tone, precisely the tone needed to speak of a superior who has faced a tragedy. Not pitying, per se, but tacitly acknowledging everything beyond what is bluntly said. "I understand that you do not wish to draw undue attention to this dilemma, due to that deference we owe him. And it is not the Hall's desire to force treatment of any kind upon anyone. However, when one toys with the notion of ending one's existence, especially when outside of Hall supervision, it is not to be taken lightly."
"I do not wish to draw undue attention," Sefton replies. "His position is unique. It might be said, indeed, that it would not be wrong, were his life to end. Very few riders survive their dragons, and for one to survive his dragon by so long is yet more rare." One hand comes up to rake his curls back from his forehead -- the Headmaster's eyes lack their usual amusement entirely, and the regret that echoes in his tone is mirrored in his face. "Perhaps he ought to have seen a mindhealer. I wonder whether it was the obligation of those in a position to do so to see that he did. I wonder if it was my obligation, in some way."
The Journeyman frowns mildly, and looks to occupy himself with the tea. He lifts the pot's lid, allowing the tea's steam to permeate the air. Presumably he derives clarity from this, rather than the fog the steam suggests. Nostrils flare subtly, drawing in the scent of the brew, analyzing it. His eyes lid halfway as he directs his gaze into the pot, seeking to glimpse the color of the water, if he can, to add that data to his contemplation of the tea's strength. "The etiquette surrounding any individual's obligation to make any individual seek the aid of a healer - particularly a healer of the mind - is nebulous. I do not remember that he displayed any overt signs that would suggest he require aid. Perhaps his rapid competence should have been taken as an indicator in and of itself. I recall he came to and stated clearly that he would retain his honorific name." The Journeyman deems the tea not quite yet ready, and replaces the lid. "I am not experienced in dealing with riders who have lost their lifemates, but that remark suggests to me a focused mind rather than anything else. Perhaps the grief has only now caught up to him, just as some severely injured men do not recognize their own injuries, due to shock. Perhaps he simply grows weary of being without Hirth. I cannot claim to comprehend it. You would wish me to discreetly inform a respected mindhealer so he may be given appropriate counseling...?"
"I am not speaking of etiquette, Neiran. I am speaking of my moral obligation," Sefton replies quietly, allowing his hand to drop, and his curls to fall back into his eyes, as though he is tired. "I am afraid I am not yet come to the worst of it. It may be that Ganathon has considered taking his own life, I do not know. Certainly, I now think him unbalanced. If anything, I would say that I have an obligation to the man that he was, rather than the man that he is now. I have a responsibility to Hirth's G'thon, not to Ganathon, who should not have outlived him." He pauses, but one hand comes up to forbid a reply just yet -- after a few moments, he finds the words he wishes to use to continue. "My fear is that this table does not reflect the results of experiments undertaken with his own end in mind. My fear is that this represents evidence of another intention he has already fulfilled."
The thin skin beneath one of Neiran's eyes twitches briefly after his eyes narrow, and the healer lifts a thin finger to smooth one of his eyebrows as if dispelling the tic. It disappears a few moments afterwards, leaving his visage placid again. Rather than roost at his side, his hands fold with one another before him, palest white against the backdrop of his cassock - though an astute eye may notice they're but a shade pinker than his face, the result of copious redwort application. He doesn't impose on that lifted hand, never one to rush to head off his conversation partner at the pass, or trample on the dragging train of their words. The Headmaster's suggestion has the healer turn his face, regarding Sefton now out of the corners of his eyes, askance. His mouth opens, hesitates in silence, and closes. The Journeyman faces Sefton fully once more. "...please continue."
He is torn, the Headmaster. He is reluctant to utter the words, and he hesitates -- he is regretful, and yet, he is certain. Or else, he is an excellent actor and politician. "The Weyrwoman," he murmurs, his drawl drawing out the words, though he does not play with them as he has before. "Yevide." Her name is almost a whisper, dark eyes resting square on the healer's face as he murmurs those two syllables.
The Journeyman's gaze remains on Sefton's face for only a few moments, until his dark eyes glaze and direct their attention elsewhere. To the tea once more, specifically. Moving with the delicate confidence brought by his profession, his hands lift the tea set and make to pour the herbal tea into two cups. The liquid is just at the cusp of over-steeping, flavors imbued to their fullest. After having poured, the Journeyman withdraws the herbs so the remainder of the pot shan't over-steep. It's not a thoughtless ritual, but one meant to buy time, done at this moment out of convenient necessity. A man well versed in the study of faces could well see the telltale line between the healer's brows, just so above the bridge of his nose, and the bit of tension at the corners of his mouth which has forced his lips into thinner lines. "Please outline for me his suspected motives." Slender fingers turn one of the cups so that its handle is towards Sefton, and with the precision of a mellow host, he lifts it and offers the cup of liquid to his Headmaster, along with the forced, rigidly blank expression he's put on.
Sefton has been watching Neiran for turns. He has been inviting the healer to his quarters for turns. He has been challenging him, provoking thought, engaging him in debate and providing dilemmas. The responses to all of these inform his understanding now, as he watches his student react to his words. He reaches slowly to accept his mug, though he doesn't lift it to sip. Instead, he eases back once more to rest his shoulders against his bookcase. "Please, sit if you prefer," he murmurs, that low note of regret still present. "He transferred the Weyrwoman in under the most unusual of circumstances. She was his lover, that we now know clearly. He did not effect a careful, thoughtful transfer, but instead signed in the moments before her flight. She introduced a Weyrleader he had not planned, with consequences of which we are aware. She then replaced him with that Weyrleader. If he had dreams of acting as a de facto Weyrleader, they were at that point surely ashes."
The Journeyman is often one to stand unless etiquette requires he sit - but he sits now without needing further coaxing. Neiran eases himself into the chair neatly, and takes up his tea to let the steam bathe his face. He closes his eyes for a time, letting the tendrils touch him as the Headmaster's words do. "I am unqualified to state whether or not G'thon would have been in such a mental state as to consider...eliminating a disappointment or an inconvenience. If you suspect him, nonetheless, it is incumbent upon you to alert the proper harpers and present them with this new evidence," he murmurs, drawing back the lids of his eyes and lifts his gaze to Sefton while his face remains tilted down at his mug. "I no longer see the moral dilemma you speak of." Now that it has been explained a little, the correct path - the just path - is clear. Tell the men who are trained to deal with such things.
There is silence, for a long time. Sefton studies his tea, as once did the dead Weyrwoman whose name he has recently murmured, as though he might find in his cup the portents she once claimed she found in hers. "I am quite sure of it," he murmurs at length. "I have worked with him, Neiran. I have spoken to him, dealt with him at length. Your diagnoses relate to the illnesses of men. Mine are less certain, but I do not think you doubt my skill." Finally, he lifts his tea, tipping his head back as he would to swallow a mouthful of wine, not wincing at the passage of the liquid, still hot, down his throat. "My dilemma is twofold, Neiran. I am convinced I am correct. I back that certainty with all my skill. I am not convinced I have the evidence with which to establish that this is the case. Further than that, though. I am considering my duty to G'thon-that-was. To the man I knew, before he lost Hirth. We owe him a great debt. We owe him, I think, more consideration than we owe Ganathon. I hesitate, Neiran, to push ahead with something that will forever sully his name, and all the things he has done."
The smallest of nods cedes to Sefton an acknowledgment of his skills, and the healer returns to motionlessness. In an unconscious shadowing of the Headmaster, Neiran chooses then to take the first sip of his tea, although it is only a sip and not a galvanizing gulp. "I do not know that I am entirely comfortable dividing G'thon and...Ganathon...so cleanly from one another," he murmurs, that line appearing above the bridge of his nose again. Recognizing that he's relying on his mug to distract his attention from the issue at hand, he straightens his shoulders and places it down so he might regard Sefton directly, devoid of crutch. "Please do not continue applying numbweed any longer, but make the first incision and come to the heart of your plans of action," he appeals, embellishing this entreaty with the spreading of palms one usually expects from an orator. It seems for a moment as though he will go on, that furrow of his brow suggesting that he'd be driven onward by a rising sense of puzzlement - but he bites his tongue, and closes his mouth, retreating to placidity and receptivity once again.
Sefton keeps hold of his mug, looking down to it once more, and allowing the steam to wash up around his face -- a morning ritual, transplanted to this one evening. "We mst draw a line, Neiran. G'thon would never have done such a thing. I can say this categorically. The loss of Hirth transformed him, and to say that anything less took place is to do the man an injustice. He is not unintelligent -- he knows it serves him to play that no great change took place. I would defend his actions against those of Ganathon." Another mouthful of tea, slower this time. "I apply nmbweed, as you say, because I am circling words I do not wish to speak." There is heavy reluctance in the Headmaster's drawl, in the drop of his shoulders as he exhales. "You are a sounding board for my moral decisions, Neiran -- I trust that you know I strive to make them, whatever my reputation. You are also my surgeon." His dark eyes lift to the other man's face, slowly. "What I do not wish to say to you, is that Ganathon now infects society. Our moral duty, perhaps, is to perform surgery."
Dark eyes meet dark eyes from across the table, across chasms of experience and temperament and the gap of Turns. There is a period of blankness, incomprehension - the final stitch in the line of comprehension is withheld not because the healer has the mind of a drudge, but rather because his quick mind would try to spare his heart the burden of the meaning behind Sefton's words it's interpreted. It's inevitable that it dawns on him, and the clarity of the proposal can be seen in the lifting of Neiran's eyes, the subtle widening of his dark pupils against near-black irises. He leans back, pressing his spine and shoulders against the chair, a slow recoil that doesn't match the forced neutrality of his face. "You...propose to...excise him from the organ of the Weyr? Or...the broader system of Pern entirely?" He would not wish emotion to cause him to leap to conclusions further than those Sefton is drawing. But surely his reaction belies he suspects the latter already.
Sefton waits, quietly, as his student pieces together the parts of this lesson, this proposal. "You are a surgeon, Neiran," he murmurs, his drawl running the words together, though they remain distinct enough to comprehend. "You understand what is required for a total cure. For the good of the weyr. For the saving of a good man's reputation. Those who say that morally correct decisions are those which come most easily have lived very little of life. Fortitude is required, to do what one knows one must."
"I understand what is required for a total cure," the man in black echoes, even while the controlled rise and fall of his narrow chest betrays some amount of struggle within him against emotion and the logical face he's continuing to present to his instructor, his Headmaster. "However, I likewise understand that surgeons make errors, whether indeed true errors or only errors as their betters would later see them. But if it appears more tissue was removed than should have been, or stitches were done incorrectly, or infection set in, the surgeon responsible is uncovered and appropriately punished." His words begin smoothly, but in the end conclude sternly while his expression adopts a certain iciness. There is no way this operation would leave them intact. "Fortitude can only serve a surgeon before the operation and while he cuts, not afterwards. With respect, Headmaster."
"With great respect Neiran, I do not doubt." If there's a challenge in the healer's words, the Headmaster does not take it up. Rather, he is quiet, weary, regretful still. "I consult you not only as a morally upright man, but as a healer. Should we do this thing -- should we make this excision -- then there should be no chance for uncomprehending eyes to turn towards us later. Those who did not understand would react, of course. If it appeared a natural thing, though. If it seemed as though, without intervention, what should have happened when Hirth died had happened now. If a respected healer, and the Caucus Headmaster, future Lord of Fort were present to attest to the manner in which it happened. If I thought the right thing could be done in another fashion, Neiran, do you not think I would have proposed it? I do not suggest that it is right for us to do this simply because Ganathon decided it was his right to murder a Weyrwoman. I suggest it is our only option, as honest men. On her behalf. On behalf of G'thon, who would have wept, to see what he would become. On behalf of who knows what other man or woman he may turn his eye on next. Roa, for all we know, or R'vain. It is that knowledge which must sustain us afterwards, Neiran."
There is a long silence. One hand ascends, and forefinger and thumb come to pinch the bridge of the healer's nose; an uncharacteristically dramatic gesture. It's doubtful that the tea has evoked a headache, and it's left to wonder that he's so delicate that this conversation could excite in him whatever imbalance prompts his attacks - or if he's merely resigning himself to expressing a part of the milieux of turbulent emotions bubbling under the surface of his thoughts. The silence goes on, Neiran for once taking it for granted that he'll be allowed to extend propriety and take these moments to think, and formulate response. At one point his head turns slightly, as though about to shake slowly in disbelief, but only half of the gesture is completed. And after that, he lowers his hand and lifts his gaze, to draw his tea to him again. "I am...unnerved...that it is more daunting to consider what would become of me were I to refuse this," refuse /you/, Headmaster, "than were I to assist you in this, and that on the whole perhaps I am not as sickened as I would have hoped myself to be when presented with the charge to break my oath." He swallows, though he has no tea in his mouth. His eyes fall upon the book on the table. 'Miscellany Pursuits of Idleness,' covered by the sheet of evidence.
"Then let me counter one of your concerns," Sefton replies -- even now, tired, regretful, heavy, his words are slow and smooth, as though practiced. "If you refuse, then it is your right to do so. What comes next will be determined by you. I have placed myself in your hands -- asked that you keep this conversation in confidence. I cannot compel you to do so, and I will not. I hope that you would do so. I will ask you to speak nothing further of it, and if your shoulders are not strong enough to bear it, the problem will no longer be yours." For a moment, the Headmaster is forgiving, understanding, compassionate. "It would be understandable, if you could not. I would say, however, that if you are not sickened, it is because your oath is designed to guide you into actions which are morally right. What we contemplate," -- what /we/ contemplate, together, the gentle confidence in his tone says -- "comes under that category."
The Journeyman draws a sip of his tea while the Headmaster speaks, his grip on the handle of the teacup perhaps a little firmer, his wrist more rigid, than is his usual wont. "I did not wish to imply that you would refuse me the right to refuse," he assures softly. "Only that my own conscience would not permit me to continue existing easily being aware of the necessity, and having done nothing. I cannot selfishly pass this duty on to another candidate, who is, at present, innocent of your designs." The tool has been placed in his hands. To drop it would be a breach of trust, sloppy, selfish, irresponsible; the line of knowing needs be curtailed as close to the source as possible. A surgeon does not hand off the bone saw when it is put in his hand, as gruesome as the duties it implies are. "It...is very likely for the greater good, the health of the Weyr entire, that G'thon be removed. Gangrenous limbs are... rightfully severed," he murmurs. "It is to my regret that this particular limb has a mind and heart of his own, and individuals beloved to it."
"That is also my regret," Sefton replies. "I had enormous respect for him. I retain enormous respect for the man he was." He pauses, looking down to his mug, and lifts it for a slow swallow. "It should be done as simply as possible. In our presence, so that we can attest that -- whatever it is that you suggest. That his heart gave out, perhaps. So that I can attest to your efforts at revival. So that he can be taken between, without the need for any examination. They will accept your word. We will appear distressed. There will be no need to feign that. There is such a thing, I take it, that might be added to his tea? I should like it to be done as painlessly as possible." His easy drawl drops, becomes heavy. "And soon."
Neiran looks down at his tea, now considering it as a vehicle for poison rather than the soothing comfort it usually is. Little surprise then, perhaps, that he chooses to put it down without sipping from it immediately. "There are...suitable things," the healer murmurs. "Man is a regrettably fragile creature. And...G'thon particularly so, I would imagine. Although he is not old, he is not very young, and men of his stature and physiology often develop health complications which I imagine would only be compounded by the trauma of losing a lifemate. The physiological effects of the severing of such a tie are not entirely understood by the Hall, and I imagine anyone." The Journeyman presses his lips together, perhaps displeased with how easy it is for his mind to supply reasons, excuses, alibis. His eyes idle on Sefton's mouth. "I shall...investigate the most merciful course of action," his own lips murmur. His eyes tic up to the man's eyes, lock there. "Do you not think a hastily executed disposal will be more suspicious?"
"Please do investigate," Sefton murmurs, not so hesitant in drinking his tea -- he drinks once more, looking down at the dregs, and presumably failing still to read the future in them. "I think that after expressing shock, and sorrow, people will murmur what I murmur to you now, Neiran: Perhaps it is better, so. It was so hard for him to outlive Hirth. Perhaps he should never have done so. Perhaps now, he rests." He shakes his head, curls falling into his eyes. "It need not be hasty. It is only necessary that his body should not be examined as the Weyrwoman's was, or in any manner that will reveal what has happened. If he need lie long enough for those who loved him to make their farewells, so be it." He pauses, exhaling slowly, sadly. "I will do so myself, once he is
G'thon again, preparing to join Hirth."
The possibility of protest on some point flickers in the healer's eyes, but is decisively snuffed a moment later. "Indeed," he murmurs, defaulting to that wondrous, blanketing word that meets every conversational requirement of him. "I am not a man who puts much stock in any recognizable existence beyond what one we have in this world, so I would say that if he is not 'with' Hirth, at the very least he is no longer without him, and the Weyr is no longer at risk." Clearly the healer is reluctant to bring undue amounts of sentimentality into his consideration of his actions. Neiran frowns slightly, then, but remains silent.
"At the very least, that," Sefton murmurs, with a slow nod. "If you will think on this, perhaps you will be good enough to let me know when you have reached a conclusion as to the best method. I will then arrange a meeting on some subject connected to the Caucus. We will do what is right, but we will take no joy in it." He pushes forward from the bookshelf, and sets his mug down on the edge of the table. "I find I wish I could replace my tea with something harder after all. It seems wrong, though, to take any step which might artifically blunt my misgivings." His tone, through the same subtle alteration he has ever employed, signals the beginning of the conclusion of the interview. "I hoped I was right to have faith in you, Neiran. If one good thing has come of this, it is that that much has been confirmed."
"Trust that I will alert you as soon as I have come to a conclusion, and trust that I will remain silent." Neiran can sense the change in atmosphere as well as tone that alerts him that the end of the interview draws near, and so he slowly rises to his feet. "If it were not almost certain to invoke more discomfort than it would blunt, I would be tempted to request a drink to imbibe for myself." He allows Sefton the temptation of drinking, but leaves what he thinks of taking such an artificial step unsaid. "I do not know if faith in an assassin is to be considered a good thing." He's looking at the books behind Sefton, perusing what ones have titles on their spines.
"I think that in this, faith is all we have," Sefton drawls simply, lifting his shoulders, and then his hands, to indicate what he would call his helplessness in the matter. "Thank you, Neiran. For your counsel, as well as your aid." As though the healer has said something, this evening, that will determine their course. "I will forget neither."
"I do not know what verbal formalities are expected of me in this social situation." Surely nothing Neiran has read could have prepared him for this. "So I can only say that I am appreciative of your trust in me, and I am thankful that you are not a man who makes such decisions lightly nor forgets assistance. It is my hope such sentiments will suffice, and if they do not, it is my hope I will be forgiven on the grounds of mental distraction." He'll not confess to the emotional aspect, of course. The healer does not turn to leave just then, but lingers a moment more. Lest the silence become awkward, as surely it would, he explains himself. "I would prefer to leave with a book in hand." It is what is expected, and a more convenient distractor from the true kernel of their discussion tonight, should anyone ask how his meeting went.
Finally, a gleam of amusement surfaces in Sefton's dark eyes, though it lacks his usual hard edge. "I believe that will suffice," he allows, permitting a hint of it to reach his drawl. He waits through Neiran's silence, and inclines his head at the explanation. "Of course." The Headmaster turns towards the shelves, and scans them at length, before he draws down an elderly book indeed. "This is a very old history," he informs the other, holding it out. "Lorna has recently finished with it, and was impressed by the author's storytelling style. I should be interested to know what you think."
"Certainly." Neiran takes the book, draws it to himself, remains standing and staring for a few moments. It occurs to him to step out from in front of the chair, and then he pushes it into place neatly. Before turning to go, he indulges in a visual survey of Sefton. A dissection of the eyes, looking to see if there's anything beneath the layers there that might have warned him of this. Or if anything now has changed. The results of his regard are kept to himself, and the hairline fractures in his mask revealed earlier are being painted into invisibility as he stands. "Good day, Headmaster." The expected half-bow follows before the Journeyman will take his leave.
Sefton accepts that study as part of this process, standing still and quiet beneath it. His mocking, amused edge is gone -- for now, at least -- and the Headmaster is tired, or acts it, one hand resting against the edge of the desk, shoulders down, his usual lazy air also absent. As to whether this is all displayed wittingly or unwittingly, there is no way to be sure. "Neiran," he murmurs in farewell, inclining his head once more. He remains still until the healer is gone, and the door shut behind him. Then he turns abruptly for his the shelf that holds his collection of bottles.