In which history is discussed, if not made.
Lorna drops by as Sefton eats lunch, and returns the book that Sefton then gives to Neiran in the scene posted prior to this. Let's do the time warp again... They speak of the Instigators, and how history is recorded.
Lunchtime at the Weyr, and the halls are busy with riders, residents, and students alike rushing around to take care of various tasks during their meal breaks. Lorna, for her part, has found her way to the Headmaster's office and sits, waiting patiently in the chair facing his desk. She or someone before her has brought him his lunch, the same healthful sandwiches and sliced vegetables that might be found in any child's packed lunch. She sits with legs drawn
up, feet perched on the edge of the chair and her latest book resting on her knees; it is not open, though; instead of reading, she idly traces her fingers over the letters stamped into the book's cover, staring vaguely at some point past the desk.
"Aida, I need --" Sefton shoulders the door open, striding in with an animation that's at odds with his lazy drawl. He gets no further, realising the room is empty of Aida, and instead full of Lorna. He pauses, exhales slowly, puffing out his cheeks, and then allows his weight to fall forward onto his foot for the next step. "The world is disobliging today," he observes, circling his desk to thump down in his chair. "And you are going to look at me until I eat, I have no doubt." It works, though. He's already reaching for a sandwich. "I have forgotten an appointment, I think."
"I can go, if you need this time for something else," Lorna offers, turning her head round to peer at Sefton as he enters. She makes no move to stand, though, or move toward the exit. "I only came to return this to you. I have had it far too long as it is." She leans forward, dropping one foor back to the floor for balance, so she can set the book on the desk. Another history, one of the oldest in the collection, which Lorna has had for weeks.
"No," Sefton murmurs, waving the sandwich in refusal. "I will stop, and eat, and company is welcome. I will find you another book to read, before you go." A mouthful, and he chews and swallows it before he speaks again, taking his time. "What did you think of the history?"
"I thought it..." Lorna pauses here, unconcerned with leaving gaps in her speech, to consider. "Odd. I suppose it makes sense, that things shift, and that people don't speak the way they did long ago, but I found it harder to read than I would like to admit. But the writer seems to think of the subject the way I think of it. He tells it like a story, and I couldn't help but enjoy myself." She pauses, this time the hesitation more pronounced as uncertainty. "It makes me wonder how far distant an event must be to be called history."
"I am glad," Sefton replies. "Perhaps one day you will write histories of our time. One school of thought suggests that an outsider is best poised to make observations. High Reaches, at present, will certainly be discussed in future histories." He eases back in his chair, the sandwich in his hand already forgotten. "What do you think the answer is? How far distant must an event be?"
Lorna is silent for a few moments, no doubt filing that away, that the events ocurring now will have a place in history. After she has done so, she only shakes her head a little. "I am certain some would say that things must be written down immediately so as not to be forgotten -- while others would say in order to understand which events are truly important and which only seem to be so at the time, the writer must be seeing them in hindsight. I would not ask, if I knew the answer." But she's amused, showing it visibly with a brief glimpse of fleeting smile. "Last sevenday? Last turn? Last decade?" She is asking something, with those questions, that she has not quite gotten around to voicing outright.
"I think that perhaps the answer lies somewhere in between those two viewpoints," Sefton replies. "We keep records as we go, and in some cases, those will be valuable to those in the future. At times, those who keep them will not realise the significance of what it is that they are writing down. When that is the case, we can only hope that they are accurate. It is often a faint hope." He tilts his head to one side, clearing his curls from his eyes for a moment. "Certainly, Lorna, there are events of the past decade that will be considered history. I would say that now, we have better perspective. It would be a wise time to conduct further interviews, perhaps -- save that it is also true to say that for many who were involved, the subject is yet sore."
"People put themselves in a position to be hurt," Lorna says quietly in reply, "when they believe in something so strongly as that." Her chin comes down to rest on her knees for a few moments as she fixes Sefton with a particularly blank stare, gaze holding even for several long seconds. "Do you have any books about the instigators?" She is quick to follow the question, in her soft voice, with the comment: "How strange it would be, to see your name in the pages of a book. To be in a history while still alive."
"Most certainly," Sefton agrees, though he does not pursue her comment, or the reason for the blank stare. "I have one such book," he replies. "It is dense. If you have questions on the subject, I should be happy to answer them for you." Finally his lunch is remembered, and he pulls the filling out of his sandwich, ignoring the bread. "I imagine you will see my name in such books, before we die. Perhaps we will see your name on such books. What do you think?"
Lorna's head tilts a little, where her chin rests on her knees, as she regards the Headmaster. "It was not a specific question." She pauses, then elaborates. "I was very young when it all happened, Too young to understand anything, certainly, but as you said, it is recent enough that people do not speak of it much. Children like me are stuck only knowing that it was bad, these people like the bogeymen of a child's bedtime story." Her gaze is mild, and her chin is still on her knees, her arms clasped loosely about them. "I only wanted to find out what the world thinks of them now."
"If you wish to know what the world thinks of them," Sefton replies, pulling out the slice of meat that filled his sandwich, and examining it, "then you had best ask it, is my general advice. On this subject, it is better to be more circumspect, and ask more carefully. As you say, the events of that time still arouse considerable fear. They represented a challenge to a system within which people feel safe, secure. The attempt to alter their lives was not welcome, and even now their response to it echoes."
"How would--" But then Lorna halts, hesitates, an uncharacteristic backpedaling that results in a few moments of silence. Then, tilting her head a little, she says, "You aren't going to give me the answer to my questions, are you?" Bemused, she lets her legs back down to the floor and leans back in her chair again. "I do not know so many people that I can ask," she admits, quietly. "Though I am certain you would say that this only makes it a challenge."
"That is unkind, Lorna," Sefton murmurs, his drawl amused -- close to affectionate even, or indulgent. "Have I just not begun to tell you what the world thinks of them now? The response of the time echoes down until today. Until recent times, I think that many had not thought of them in some turns. Except those who lost family, of course. You are right in calling it a challenge, but I wish you to be careful in regard to your questions on this subject. If they are specific, bring them to me."
The sound of that drawl brings a quirk of Lorna's mouth, a quick smile of answering amusement that is quickly gone again. "Careful?" She raises an eyebrow, her voice bemused. "Who could suspect such a nice, quiet girl of being an instigator sympathizer?" But there is no appropriate gravity accompanying the words, more tease than anything else. Knees draw up again, her face dropping down against them once more. She has sobered again, that much is evident, by the way her look becomes unfocused again, staring at some point through Sefton's shoulder. "My father felt strongly about the things that happened. I only want to know a little more about it."
The tease doesn't draw a smile, and Sefton is waiting for her to join him in his sober expression, silent until she does. "Your father is not the only one who felt strongly about it, Lorna. You cannot know whether you are speaking to someone whose life was touched by the things they did. If you do not know, I advise restraint. On the whole, I suppose I would say that there is a reason that stories of the men and women involved are used to frighten children. Injury was caused, misdeeds were done. Some of them, I think, did not intend it. Nevertheless, they were a party to it."
"Strange how an entire group of people have come to be such a thing to be feared," Lorna murmurs. "And imagine what some would give today to be able to sit down and speak with one of them, learn what took place on their end of things, how they thought they would do what they thought they could." Her eyes lift, refocus, and her lips quirk. "What a history that would be."
"It is hard to imagine how they thought they could," Sefton agrees, quiet. "At least one was an intelligent man, of that I am quite sure. I read his writings, although certainly I was not supposed to do any such thing. I do find it hard to conceive, that a man of his sort could harbour such delusions. That his ideas would meet willing ears. That they would be welcome." He shakes his head, almost regretful for a moment. Then he eats the bit of meat he's pulled out of his sandwich.
Mouth pressed against her knees again, Lorna listens in silence, watching her teacher. Eventually, she lifts her head, though it's a few seconds before she speaks. "Perhaps he only thought people were capable of more. Perhaps Pern failed him, rather than the other way around." She unfolds, sitting up straighter, hands clasped loosely in her lap now, the sign she is preparing to leave. "Delusions are happy things," she continues, flashing a brief smile. "I have the feeling the majority of the world lives quite happily wrapped in a muffling blanket of their own design."
"Perhaps he presumed to know what it was that people wanted, and was wrong," Sefton replies gently, setting down his sandwich, barely touched, as she signals her intention to depart. "I think it is possible that -- though it is a contradiction -- many people choose their delusions, with at least some degree of deliberateness." He shakes his head, curls falling into his eyes, and dismisses the subject. Instead, he opens a drawer, and from it produces a slender volume. "It is not the Instigators, I am afraid, but this is a collection of stories from my home, Southern Boll. A form of history, if you like."
"And this is such a crime?" Lorna lifts an eyebrow. "Do you not occasionally presume the same thing yourself? Perhaps the difference is that you are never wrong." This is certainly a tease, though Lorna is as grave as always, and she gets smoothly to her feet in order to lean forward and take the book. "Thank you," she says, solemnly, dropping her eyes to its cover in inspection for a moment before looking up again. "I'll leave you to your lunch." And then she's heading for the door, intent on doing just that.
"Not the difference I would pinpoint," Sefton replies, though he does not press the point, instead handing over the book, and coming politely to his feet as she departs. "Good afternoon, Lorna." The Headmaster is smiling, as he sinks down into his chair, reaching absently for a less dismantled sandwich, as he turns his attention to the pile of hides at the left hand side of his desk.
Lunchtime at the Weyr, and the halls are busy with riders, residents, and students alike rushing around to take care of various tasks during their meal breaks. Lorna, for her part, has found her way to the Headmaster's office and sits, waiting patiently in the chair facing his desk. She or someone before her has brought him his lunch, the same healthful sandwiches and sliced vegetables that might be found in any child's packed lunch. She sits with legs drawn
up, feet perched on the edge of the chair and her latest book resting on her knees; it is not open, though; instead of reading, she idly traces her fingers over the letters stamped into the book's cover, staring vaguely at some point past the desk.
"Aida, I need --" Sefton shoulders the door open, striding in with an animation that's at odds with his lazy drawl. He gets no further, realising the room is empty of Aida, and instead full of Lorna. He pauses, exhales slowly, puffing out his cheeks, and then allows his weight to fall forward onto his foot for the next step. "The world is disobliging today," he observes, circling his desk to thump down in his chair. "And you are going to look at me until I eat, I have no doubt." It works, though. He's already reaching for a sandwich. "I have forgotten an appointment, I think."
"I can go, if you need this time for something else," Lorna offers, turning her head round to peer at Sefton as he enters. She makes no move to stand, though, or move toward the exit. "I only came to return this to you. I have had it far too long as it is." She leans forward, dropping one foor back to the floor for balance, so she can set the book on the desk. Another history, one of the oldest in the collection, which Lorna has had for weeks.
"No," Sefton murmurs, waving the sandwich in refusal. "I will stop, and eat, and company is welcome. I will find you another book to read, before you go." A mouthful, and he chews and swallows it before he speaks again, taking his time. "What did you think of the history?"
"I thought it..." Lorna pauses here, unconcerned with leaving gaps in her speech, to consider. "Odd. I suppose it makes sense, that things shift, and that people don't speak the way they did long ago, but I found it harder to read than I would like to admit. But the writer seems to think of the subject the way I think of it. He tells it like a story, and I couldn't help but enjoy myself." She pauses, this time the hesitation more pronounced as uncertainty. "It makes me wonder how far distant an event must be to be called history."
"I am glad," Sefton replies. "Perhaps one day you will write histories of our time. One school of thought suggests that an outsider is best poised to make observations. High Reaches, at present, will certainly be discussed in future histories." He eases back in his chair, the sandwich in his hand already forgotten. "What do you think the answer is? How far distant must an event be?"
Lorna is silent for a few moments, no doubt filing that away, that the events ocurring now will have a place in history. After she has done so, she only shakes her head a little. "I am certain some would say that things must be written down immediately so as not to be forgotten -- while others would say in order to understand which events are truly important and which only seem to be so at the time, the writer must be seeing them in hindsight. I would not ask, if I knew the answer." But she's amused, showing it visibly with a brief glimpse of fleeting smile. "Last sevenday? Last turn? Last decade?" She is asking something, with those questions, that she has not quite gotten around to voicing outright.
"I think that perhaps the answer lies somewhere in between those two viewpoints," Sefton replies. "We keep records as we go, and in some cases, those will be valuable to those in the future. At times, those who keep them will not realise the significance of what it is that they are writing down. When that is the case, we can only hope that they are accurate. It is often a faint hope." He tilts his head to one side, clearing his curls from his eyes for a moment. "Certainly, Lorna, there are events of the past decade that will be considered history. I would say that now, we have better perspective. It would be a wise time to conduct further interviews, perhaps -- save that it is also true to say that for many who were involved, the subject is yet sore."
"People put themselves in a position to be hurt," Lorna says quietly in reply, "when they believe in something so strongly as that." Her chin comes down to rest on her knees for a few moments as she fixes Sefton with a particularly blank stare, gaze holding even for several long seconds. "Do you have any books about the instigators?" She is quick to follow the question, in her soft voice, with the comment: "How strange it would be, to see your name in the pages of a book. To be in a history while still alive."
"Most certainly," Sefton agrees, though he does not pursue her comment, or the reason for the blank stare. "I have one such book," he replies. "It is dense. If you have questions on the subject, I should be happy to answer them for you." Finally his lunch is remembered, and he pulls the filling out of his sandwich, ignoring the bread. "I imagine you will see my name in such books, before we die. Perhaps we will see your name on such books. What do you think?"
Lorna's head tilts a little, where her chin rests on her knees, as she regards the Headmaster. "It was not a specific question." She pauses, then elaborates. "I was very young when it all happened, Too young to understand anything, certainly, but as you said, it is recent enough that people do not speak of it much. Children like me are stuck only knowing that it was bad, these people like the bogeymen of a child's bedtime story." Her gaze is mild, and her chin is still on her knees, her arms clasped loosely about them. "I only wanted to find out what the world thinks of them now."
"If you wish to know what the world thinks of them," Sefton replies, pulling out the slice of meat that filled his sandwich, and examining it, "then you had best ask it, is my general advice. On this subject, it is better to be more circumspect, and ask more carefully. As you say, the events of that time still arouse considerable fear. They represented a challenge to a system within which people feel safe, secure. The attempt to alter their lives was not welcome, and even now their response to it echoes."
"How would--" But then Lorna halts, hesitates, an uncharacteristic backpedaling that results in a few moments of silence. Then, tilting her head a little, she says, "You aren't going to give me the answer to my questions, are you?" Bemused, she lets her legs back down to the floor and leans back in her chair again. "I do not know so many people that I can ask," she admits, quietly. "Though I am certain you would say that this only makes it a challenge."
"That is unkind, Lorna," Sefton murmurs, his drawl amused -- close to affectionate even, or indulgent. "Have I just not begun to tell you what the world thinks of them now? The response of the time echoes down until today. Until recent times, I think that many had not thought of them in some turns. Except those who lost family, of course. You are right in calling it a challenge, but I wish you to be careful in regard to your questions on this subject. If they are specific, bring them to me."
The sound of that drawl brings a quirk of Lorna's mouth, a quick smile of answering amusement that is quickly gone again. "Careful?" She raises an eyebrow, her voice bemused. "Who could suspect such a nice, quiet girl of being an instigator sympathizer?" But there is no appropriate gravity accompanying the words, more tease than anything else. Knees draw up again, her face dropping down against them once more. She has sobered again, that much is evident, by the way her look becomes unfocused again, staring at some point through Sefton's shoulder. "My father felt strongly about the things that happened. I only want to know a little more about it."
The tease doesn't draw a smile, and Sefton is waiting for her to join him in his sober expression, silent until she does. "Your father is not the only one who felt strongly about it, Lorna. You cannot know whether you are speaking to someone whose life was touched by the things they did. If you do not know, I advise restraint. On the whole, I suppose I would say that there is a reason that stories of the men and women involved are used to frighten children. Injury was caused, misdeeds were done. Some of them, I think, did not intend it. Nevertheless, they were a party to it."
"Strange how an entire group of people have come to be such a thing to be feared," Lorna murmurs. "And imagine what some would give today to be able to sit down and speak with one of them, learn what took place on their end of things, how they thought they would do what they thought they could." Her eyes lift, refocus, and her lips quirk. "What a history that would be."
"It is hard to imagine how they thought they could," Sefton agrees, quiet. "At least one was an intelligent man, of that I am quite sure. I read his writings, although certainly I was not supposed to do any such thing. I do find it hard to conceive, that a man of his sort could harbour such delusions. That his ideas would meet willing ears. That they would be welcome." He shakes his head, almost regretful for a moment. Then he eats the bit of meat he's pulled out of his sandwich.
Mouth pressed against her knees again, Lorna listens in silence, watching her teacher. Eventually, she lifts her head, though it's a few seconds before she speaks. "Perhaps he only thought people were capable of more. Perhaps Pern failed him, rather than the other way around." She unfolds, sitting up straighter, hands clasped loosely in her lap now, the sign she is preparing to leave. "Delusions are happy things," she continues, flashing a brief smile. "I have the feeling the majority of the world lives quite happily wrapped in a muffling blanket of their own design."
"Perhaps he presumed to know what it was that people wanted, and was wrong," Sefton replies gently, setting down his sandwich, barely touched, as she signals her intention to depart. "I think it is possible that -- though it is a contradiction -- many people choose their delusions, with at least some degree of deliberateness." He shakes his head, curls falling into his eyes, and dismisses the subject. Instead, he opens a drawer, and from it produces a slender volume. "It is not the Instigators, I am afraid, but this is a collection of stories from my home, Southern Boll. A form of history, if you like."
"And this is such a crime?" Lorna lifts an eyebrow. "Do you not occasionally presume the same thing yourself? Perhaps the difference is that you are never wrong." This is certainly a tease, though Lorna is as grave as always, and she gets smoothly to her feet in order to lean forward and take the book. "Thank you," she says, solemnly, dropping her eyes to its cover in inspection for a moment before looking up again. "I'll leave you to your lunch." And then she's heading for the door, intent on doing just that.
"Not the difference I would pinpoint," Sefton replies, though he does not press the point, instead handing over the book, and coming politely to his feet as she departs. "Good afternoon, Lorna." The Headmaster is smiling, as he sinks down into his chair, reaching absently for a less dismantled sandwich, as he turns his attention to the pile of hides at the left hand side of his desk.