In which our heroine really is dumb.
Who: E'sere, G'thon, Miniyal
Where: G'thons's Quarters, HRW
When: (backdated to) Late evening, day 14, month 6, turn 2 of the 7th Pass
What: The happy couple's *snickers* celebration of G'thon's birthday is interrupted by a visitor. We find E'sere trying to be gracious and not getting the hint, G'thon trying to be gracious and eventually running out of patience, and Miniyal, scarily enough, handling herself quite well even after they manage to get E'sere to leave.
Note: Yes, there is an OOC comment left in here. Why? Because it had me laughing so hard I nearly fell out of my chair. And was a comment on something that was in no way planned by participants but was come up with nearly at the same time. Also, at G'thon's request the Little Voice speaks up. :) Oh, and it was 2:30am when this scene was finished. If there are typos it's your own fault for noticing them! Not the fault of the tired people in the scene.
9/23/2006
Late evening, day 14, month 6, turn 2 of the 7th Pass
It is a certain someone, or someones, turnday. All day it has been, actually, but the time found now is somewhere in the evening. Not overly long after dinner, but long enough that it's a time when most people are off doing their own thing alone or with family and friends. How High Reaches former weyrleader spent his entire day is something only he knows. However, now that time is quite taken up with a visitor.
Miniyal waited until after dinner to come calling, should plans have been made that did not include her. When she arrived she did so with gifts, still unopened on the table where meals are taken. The only thing that has been touched around the three carefully wrapped items is a small cake. That is, well, not someone's best effort. Or perhaps it was. Burnt on the bottom and undercooked in the center it was a sad attempt for the unprofessional to bake. Perhaps that is why it has been abandoned.
The bad cake has not seemed to bring down the mood in here at least. Miniyal has taken to curling up in the corner of the divan so she might watch as she converses. A glass of wine is held in both hands and her feet are tucked under her. Someone has made herself at home as her shoes are neatly set off to the side. Her laughter might even carry out to the hallway as she attempts to recount the story of the horror of baking. It seems the rest of the kitchen feared she'd burn them all up. And this amuses her to no end. Or, something in her story does anyway because she is laughing.
On in the evening, E'sere leaves Vanya's quarters on his way to his next errand. It's not terribly far to the former Weyrleader's room, but he can't make the journey straight there: first he has to make a detour out to retrive a small, elegant box from his weyr, and then return once more to the inner caverns of the weyr. Making his way down again, he finally finds himself at the door to G'thon's room, pausing there. He glances down at the box he holds, purses his lips slightly, and then reaches out at hand to knock twice before stepping back to await invitation.
Gans' voice is here, too - though brief in its appearances, dry in its humor and wry in its pleasure, it is here, offering the quick word in among Miniyal's regarding this or that aspect of her story. His laughter is rarer even than his speech, but there is chance enough that E'sere might have some snippet of it in his ear as he goes one way and the other up and down the hallway outside.
That the old man might bend over the back of the divan to press a kiss to the woman's cheek; that he might stroke a lock of her hair back from her temple with pale fingers as he walks by; that he might cast back a fond look upon her before he turns to attend to the knock at the door - well, all of these things would be at best suppositions for E'sere, ones he will probably prefer not to entertain. When the door opens and the bronzerider is revealed there, G'thon can't quite hold back the dry twinkle that lights his eyes or the wry bend that slopes up his mouth on the right-hand side - but he can sound grave and solemn and polite enough about it in saying, "Wingleader! What a surprise. Won't you come in?" There's no call, really, for him to have invoked the version of his voice that once filled caverns without need for yelling. But he has done, and that will quell all conversation. Ganathon steps back from the door, offering E'sere the way inside.
There was, at the knock, the faintest pout to G'thon when he got up to answer the door. But Miniyal held her tongue and merely sipped her wine, content enough to deal with entertaining a visitor. At the greeting she sits up where previously she might have been too reclined. There is no flurry to right anything as she's quite proper. Other than those shoes and it is much too late to do anything about bare feet. So, she remains where she is and the only thing that gives away her sudden nervousness is the too large drink of wine that leaves her glass empty. And for G'thon, the knowledge that mere seconds ago she was relaxed and at ease and now is anything but. However, once E'sere steps inside, assuming that is his intent, she has found a polite enough mask to settle over her features that will give little enough away.
"Sir. Miniyal." E'sere offers quick greetings as his eyes travel through the pair. "I don't mean to interrupt, if I've come at a bad time?" He seems almost to wish this, by the way one foot is cocked backward, as though preparing to turn; but after a moment's hesitation he must steel himself and step forward, slipping inside the room when G'thon offers him that opportunity. "I won't stay long," he notes, half-promise to them, half to himself. "But I--well. Happy birthday, sir." With a small smile for the older man, E'sere offers the box: inside is a package containing a rather expensive blend of tea, hailing, notably, from the Nabol region.
G'thon does little about the door but let it go onto the weight of its hinges; its own momentum draws it back to rest about a foot ajar. "No, the time is fine, wingleader. It's always a pleasure - " Wait, birthday? As if the setting inside, the woman and the divan and the packages and the sad little cake did not all scream complete personal awareness of the date, the former weyrleader crooks up a curious brow at the box in E'sere's hand. "- Whatever for?" A touch hesitatingly, the older man reaches out to accept the object from the younger one; in that much time he can manage a wryer still bend to his smile, a slight irony for his tone. "Most unexpected, E'sere. Do you have time to sit for a moment?"
This is not her room and that leaves it someone else's place to speak, really, at first. So, Miniyal is content to allow that to happen. She is far happier, as always, to let someone else use their voice and leave her to her quietness. She does find a brief, if not entirely believable smile, to offer to the wingleader. "There's no interruption, really," she murmurs since that's the sort of thing one says. "Just don't let him offer you any of the cake. It being my own creation it's not fit for man or beast." This is when she hesitates a moment before rising to her feet. "Would you like a drink? I don't think the wine is all gone." A look to G'thon then, as if it's him and not her who would be responsible for such a thing.
"Yes, sir," E'sere answers, a reply to both questions at once as, freed of his burden, he slips further inside. Past G'thon, he offers Miniyal another brief-lived smile, wry as G'thon's. "No? I've a strong stomach, and surely it couldn't be /that/ bad. Your mother--?" It's half-question, though the rest is unspoken: hasn't she taught you anything? "A drink, though--I'd appreciate that, please, if you don't mind. And--" here, he glances back over his shoulder to G'thon, solemn "--you know, sir, it's mine as well."
G'thon's sense of humor is nothing if not dry. "I do, E'sere. I held you." Nothing to make a young man feel young, or an old man more nostalgaic about his age, than such recollection. He lifts his voice a little in strength then, allowing some of its power to creep in around the edges so that he may make a little sense of the moment: "Even if we have had all of it there's another bottle on the shelf." O infamous shelf, gestured at carelessly with a wave of pale fingers as the room's supposedly sole occupant circles the divan, murmurs something that might be like, 'don't trouble yourself, I can get it' to Miniyal on his way, and approaches the table. There is, in point of fact, more wine in the bottle - though the bottle is small and drowning in a bucket sweating from ice within. Gans pours a glass just the same, the liquid golden and threatening sweet flavors even to the eye. "And I wouldn't say the cake was so bad, Miniyal; E'sere, if you want a piece you may of course have it, just take care to cut from the edge." There's a little ripple of laughter threatened underneath this advice. In all of this conversation and such there has been more than adequate time for the little matters of carrying the wine to the wingleader - and for math: "And how has your thirtieth been?"
Miniyal frowns a moment at E'sere, a thoughtful expression. It passes swiftly enough as she shrugs her shoulders. "My mother is a baker, yes. It does not mean I am. I've learned at my father's knee, not hers. And I think the world is thankful for it. But, as Gans says. If you wish to risk it feel free. Just please don't say I did not warn you." At this she smiles ever so slightly and since G'thon has said he will get the wine she settles back down into her seat, toying with her own empty glass but making no move to get it refilled. "Oh. Happy birthday, E'sere," she offers once her bare feet are tucked away again. It seems she has decided it is more proper to conceal them than to sit properly with feet on the ground and the like.
For that, E'sere has a slightly broader smile. "Of course, sir," he agrees with a nod. He takes a seat then, settling lightly onto a chair and regarding the pair. "Thank you, Miniyal. And--hmm. I /did/ have dinner just a little while ago, so I believe I'll pass for now. Perhaps later," is his polite way of refusing the cake. To G'thon, as he accepts the drink: "It was good, sir--quite good. Far less traumatizing than my older friends would have had me believe. And your sixty-seventh?"
"Far less traumatizing than my younger friends would have me believe." G'thon's rejoinder is swift but affectionate; perhaps one of those younger friends is present. In any case he seems to have reason for a little twinkling sparkle upon the remark. "I'm actually completely surprised you're not out - or in - celebrating. I expected your call no sooner than the morning, if then. Maybe you're getting old after all?" Brightly offered, this is certainly a tease. G'thon pulls the chairs away from the table while speaking, turning them so he can offer one with a gesture to E'sere; the other he also sets out, but makes no sign of planning to sit in. In time he comes to the table again, where the tea-box the wingleader brought waits, and there the old man indulges in opening the lid and taking from the contents a sniff. "Oh, that's lovely stuff, E'sere. Thank you." And he closes the lid.
Oh, the age talk. How. . .lovely. It's a conversation that has not really come up. Or has been ignored anyway, between the two who had been alone. "For the best. I was forced to try it as it's my own creation and I would have cried horribly had Gans not pretended to be able to try a bite or two for me. Friendship can be a horrible burden I think." Another shrug, it really is Miniyal's best gesture, and she falls silent so the other two can verbally spar with one another. It's a sport she has no skill at and therefore she chooses to try her best to remain out of it.
"Indeed it can," E'sere answers first Miniyal, more solemnly than perhaps warranted, for all he's quick to flash another wry smile at G'thon. "And you, sir? I half-expected to find you already in bed," he remarks, equally teasing. One brow, however, quirks almost provokingly as he glances between the man and woman, finally resettling his gaze on G'thon. "You're welcome, sir. I thought you might appreciate it, especially considering the current situation with Nabol. I had quite a time finding it: it's become quite rare, anyway, of late, even discounting the fact that I don't feel welcome going to purchase it myself. Considering the situation." He quirks a dry, ironic smile--there's definitely some emphasis on the tea's origin.
G'thon rises to, but does not rile at, the wingleader's remarks about the tea. "If any of us could feel welcome at Nabol, E'sere, it should be you." His tone is dry, maybe even an increment prideful; if it conveys anything in subtext to the bronzerider it would be at most reserved approval. "I appreciate the trouble you've taken to get it. I could put on a pot if you'd like...?" The lilt of his voice at the end lets the question drift off into the plausibly rhetorical - the hour is, after all, late; and tea is, after all, not what E'sere accepted first to drink. "And the cake, my dear, suffers only from a little trouble with the oven. The recipe is good. It has a nice flavor. One must just be careful about - " He looks up from the box of tea, upon which one hand still rests. "- carving it." In glancing up at the woman, his apparent companion in celebration, perhaps the old man notices an empty wine glass; in any case he starts off a little stiffly toward the shelf where that second bottle, promised, waits.
"Yes, to avoid the ninety percent that is inedible. You needn't spare my feelings, Gans. I've no future in baking." Miniyal shakes her head and will almost rise when he moves to the shelf. But, there is none of that and if he will fetch the wine she will not stop him from it, content to remain seated still. "I shall have to tell Issa that there is, indeed, no place for me at all in the kitchens. So tragic. Another potential career cut short. I shall have to try to think of something else to try at next."
"For helping to /cause/ this sitation?" E'sere returns, just as dry as G'thon, but with less approval in his tone. Still, he shakes his head, raising a hand to emphasize his refusal. "No, no, thank you. I've this--" he lifts the wine, not yet sipped "--and I'll let you save that for yourself and Miniyal." At whose name he glances to her again. "Oh?" he queries curiously. "And what else have you tried? You have another idea for one?"
"Ah, but if Odern were a reasonable man I believe he would recognize you for your part in it," replies G'thon, though he himself will not apparently be caught describing precisely what that part might be. "You would be better welcome there then, as you should be." He turns away from the case and again favors Miniyal with a warm (shameless) glance. "Give me your glass," he bids her, drawing near with a hand outstretched while the other tends the bottle just taken down. "I'll give you what's left from the other and then put this on ice. - E'sere, nonsense. Drink if you like; no one's counting glasses here."
Head tilting, Miniyal's attention turns to E'sere and she gives a faint nod. Someone else might smile here, even if it is false, but there's no smiles from her it seems. "Well, my career as a harm preventer is going well enough. Although it doesn't have a steady income of marks. But, as so far things have been, around me, calm, I can but assume I am doing an excellent job." Into the hand goes her empty wine glass and if her fingers touch his longer than necessary surely it's just her making sure she doesn't drop the glass. "You should be more careful with the wine," she teases as she releases both glass and hand. "After all, what reason have I to continue to visit if all the good stuff is gone?" And the former weyrleader does get a smile, a flash of something warm before it disappears and she glance at her hands. "But, really, as to a career. For now I am exploring what few options I have."
At G'thon's latter words, E'sere hesitates, glancing downward at his untouched drink. "I am," he admits quietly. Still, he lifts it to his lips and takes a gulp, larger than his usual almost dainty sips. "A harm-preventer," he then echoes Miniyal, bemused. "It sounds very useful to me; I don't know why we didn't have anyone in the post earlier. Do you busy yourself giving lectures on safety, or rescuing people about to be hurt, or injury-proofing the surfaces of the Weyr?" He arches his brows, takes another sip, and watches Miniyal with a faint smile.
"Then I will have to get more of the good stuff," replies G'thon, letting her fingers linger with his before he straightens and carries the glass toward the table. There he makes good on the plan announced, emptying the first bottle into Miniyal's glass so the second bottle can go into the ice. "She seems in large part to serve as an icon. A guard of a kind, or a - talisman," provides the former weyrleader while he busies his hands with the business of wine. Whether he means this seriously or as a daring, affectionate tease directed at the woman whom he describes is up for debate; his voice is dry, of course, but the crook of his brows and bend of his mouth is in part obscured by his attention to the wine. Eventually he turns and pauses with Miniyal's now-part-full glass in his hand. "Why counting, E'sere? Perhaps we're keeping you from more serious celebration?" Now this plainly -is- teasing, and it might just be affectionate, too.
"Well, right now I am formulating a plan, you see?" Miniyal says cheerfully. A cheer that sounds true although that means little. "Actually, it's just the first step, really. You see? I figure soon enough I'll be doing well enough at harm prevention that I can step up and run the guards here. Although, I do think having locals would be better. A small group dedicated to insuring the criminals that seem to be flocking here are treated as they should be." A pause and then she laughs, a curious sound that's hard to define. "I would make an excellent guard captain. So long as I were not required to actually be involved in scuffles. I do find violence so tasteless. There are much easier ways to solve problems." At the teasing she pouts, after all, he has her wine she can't say too much or he might withhold it. "I make an excellent icon," she agrees, mocking herself in tone. "Do not live as this woman does or you too shall end up like her." At the comment to E'sere from G'thon she looks at the younger man to see what he will say.
E'sere, for G'thon, has another of those wry smiles, shakes his head slightly. "Habit, perhaps: it's a hard one to let go," he excuses himself. Or perhaps, it's simply hard to let go, period, and enjoy the drinks. E'sere toys with his now, two sips down but still half-full, and after a moment, glances up at Miniyal again, still solemn. "Indeed," he agrees. "I'll wish you luck in that endeavor, then," he says simply.
"An excellent guard captain," muses G'thon, as though he were thinking about the possibility for the first time, or as if he were willing to suffer it aloud for the purpose of a little humor only for the first time. "But a poor lieutenant, given the proclivity toward peaceful solution. An honorable captain, though, my dear?" The question is rhetorical; in fact, the way he lets out a little grace of a bow toward her once he's reapproached her to provide her again her refilled glass makes it seem as if he's stated a fact. This done he turns to E'sere, backing up so he can rest a slender hand pale upon the divan, not far from the woman's shoulder. "I do have a gift for you, wingleader. I admit I didn't expect you here to receive it. I trust you will have a little patience and not pry around my things trying to find a secret surprise?" One pale brow arches; his tone is again almost fond. He belittles the man a bit in this question, but he belittles him in nostalgaic fashion, some obscure reference to the nature of a little boy E'sere has long since left behind.
"Having grown up as I did how could I be anything but honorable?" Miniyal asks with a small laugh. Accepting her wine she raises it in salute to E'sere. "I shall take your luck. And when it happens you may be one of the ones who can say you knew me the night I announced my grand intentions." Her gaze slides up to G'thon as he stands and she smiles at him over her glass before taking a sip. "I shall have lieutenants enough I think. Two. I have not decided whom will get the posts. At least one shall be a woman I think. Not both. No sense making everyone uncomfortable. One of the nannies perhaps. If she can wrangle dozens of children she can handle a criminal or two. Or drunks once we've cleaned the place up." The subject clearly amuses her, it's not one she takes seriously. And she will allow it to fade away and let the other two speak of gifts and the like. A curious spectator in their history.
"I should be proud to say so," E'sere tells Miniyal, still solemn, though one corner of his mouth threatens to twitch upward in contrast. Quickly, he slides his gaze to his drink and takes another slow sip of it, before flicking eyes upward to G'thon. "No, sir," he agrees, giving in to that smile at last, almost impish in its amusement--the tilt of his mouth hints at what he might once have been, though the look to his eyes is still older when he notes, "I've learned patience."
G'thon laughs too at Miniyal's remark, but -his- laugh contains a note of irony that hers does not. "A nanny," he observes a little later, bending his head enough that it seems most like he speaks to her and less like he speaks to E'sere. "It's a little late to try to bribe her tongue, don't you think?" He laughs again then, glancing up at E'sere's reply; the note of irony is downright pleased this time. "Very good, wingleader. It's a noble trait. One you've been able to start passing on to your men, I assume?"
Miniyal takes a sip of her wine and then transfers her glass to one hand so her other might reach up behind her and rest atop G'thon's lightly. "Silly," she tells him with eyes twinkling. "I would not bribe anyone to work for me. Honorable, remember? I've been studying up on leadership between duties in records and I've quite think I've almost got the solution. Until I do, of course, I wouldn't bother trying. No, no. There will be no need to bribe silly tongues quiet. I shall simply be a sterling example that people wish to follow." At this she laughs, the sound ending in a sip of wine from her cup. At this she settles for staring into her wine to reflect. Or watch it. Or simply not have to say more.
"I have tried," agrees E'sere, watching G'thon. "They're young, many of them, and quick-tempered, but they do learn, sir. I hope I've been a good influence on that, at least." He doesn't respond to Miniyal for a moment, only inclining her the barest of nods after she explains.
G'thon chortles a little, softly, and his hand migrates from the divan to Miniyal's shoulder. There it takes up a slow circular motion: massage, the silent refuge of a couple experiencing something slightly stressful. Yet the old man can find no small amount of twinkling light and hints of crooked smiles to offer E'sere, and has no trouble remarking upon his efforts: "Well, we must certainly say you have learned well how to learn. Would I had mastered that so young."
At the talk of things that really have little to nothing to do with her, Miniyal takes refuge in her wine. A small sip and then another as she is careful not to drink it all. Her head tilts so she might look up at G'thon and offer him a brief, fond smile. Her gaze then switches to E'sere. There is, it would appear, nothing she has to /say/ to him, but she watches him anyway. Practice for her new career perhaps. Observe the enemy!
E'sere, swirling the small remainder of his wine, glances downward at its surface and cracks a small smile. "Yes, sir. I'd like to say I had a good teacher, but experience, as they say, keeps a dear school," he answers before finishing the last swallow of wine.
"Then you did," replies G'thon, drily. "Would you like a little more?" Then he draws up his hand from Miniyal's shoulder and starts around the divan toward the table, a hand going to gesture without particular care toward the wine there. But the offer is no better made by his words being at odds with such apparent willingness to continue playing the good host. "It was kind of you to stop by. I can't imagine what caused you to think of me - I mean, the obvious, surely, but still - your thirtieth!" If he hasn't made E'sere feel slightly unwelcome yet, let this have a try: the old man leaves off the wine and the table to step toward the wingleader and look him over once, like he's trying still to come to terms with the young man that boy has become.
This is most definitely the time in the conversation where a certain ex-head of records goes silent. A sip of wine and then another before her glass is empty. Once it is so then Miniyal peers at the glass. She turns it around in her hands and watches the two men interact. It's an interesting lesson and one she seems most eager to learn. What exactly she is learning from all this is anyone's guess. But what a rapt pupil.
If G'thon is trying to get rid of E'sere, he will have to be more overt: the wingleader is no fool; surely he knows, but he feigns ignorance in favor of offering his glass again to the man. "If you please," he agrees, with a crooked half-smile. "And... Well. I'd no plans for the night, and I thought it would seem rude if I did seek some other--entertainment for the night, and neglect you in favor of my own pleasure, sir."
"Oh, I wish you wouldn't," replies G'thon through his one-sided smile, in the self-deprecating tone of someone who'd rather not cause his friend so much inconvenience. But he puts out his hand to take the glass and starts back toward the table, there to be busy a while opening the new bottle of wine. A glance at Miniyal might be a little bemused, and is privately made, E'sere excluded. "I can't believe you have no plans. What happened to your ladies? To your wingmates? No one planning to have you out to fly the spires or get you drunk and dunk you in the lake? - Oh, right; counting your cups."
"How thoughtful," Miniyal says quietly as she looks down into her wine glass to hide her own expression. A glance back up in time to catch G'thon's and she smiles once more at him. "Did you see your mother?" she asks to E'sere. "You're so lucky if she didn't summon you immediately upon waking. I cannot lose my parents when it is my birthday no matter how hard I try. I suppose it could be worse. I pity those who aren't close to their family in a way. Then again, family can be a pain." Shaking her head she rises from the divan to bring her empty wine glass to the bottle. "Don't run him off, Gans," she chides gently to the 'host' of the evening. Her free arm loops loosely around the older man's waist and she turns a sympathetic smile on E'sere. "We're pleased to have you if no one else will."
"My ladies," repeats E'sere wryly. "No, I haven't one, and I've forbidden my wingmates from any such thing--they know I don't care for it." He shakes his head and takes a sip of his refilled wine: it seems a freer one, at least, than the ones he took of the first glass. "I--I did not," he answers Miniyal after a moment, her question sobering him again, stiffening his shoulders slightly. He studies the drink rather than either of them. "I haven't spoken to her in some time. Since--she went to Telgar, I suppose. I've... meant to, but." A shrug; another gulp of wine.
So now Miniyal will play the hostess, as G'thon has apparently lost his patience with the facade. This is good; it leaves the old man little to worry about except the business of keeping two wine glasses full. One might wonder where -his- glass has got off to, but that one wondering would be someone else. "You should go tomorrow," he says after a solemn and too-long silence, suddenly serious. "She will want to see you."
It is a scary thing when Miniyal is left to fall back on turns of etiquette drilled into her for no reason by her mother. But fall back on it she will. "Gans, sit," she tells him gently with a warm smile. "It's your day as well and I've been very remiss in allowing you to do so much. Would you like tea? Or more wine?" He is propelled gently towards a seat before she turns to E'sere, nodding. "It's true. Mother's always want to see their children at times like this. It would be rather impolite to not go visit." She pauses here a moment and then shakes her head. "And it is impolite of me to act as if I should tell you such things. Really, you're both older than me so I've no need to lecture. Are you staying out of trouble, E'sere? Little drinking, no women. If you're not careful you'll turn into me. Only better looking, of course."
E'sere quirks half a smile, wry and humorless. "Do you think so?" he asks G'thon, a little more earnestly than he'd like, to judge by the faint pull of a grimace at his lips. It's hidden by another smile, this one more amused and directed at Miniyal. "Thank you," he tells her with almost forced lightness. "I think. I--I'll try to go. After drills. I should like to see her again." He sounds like he's trying to convince himself as much as them, definitely not very enthusiastic about that suggestion.
G'thon resists Miniyal's efforts to make him sit long enough to give E'sere a long moment in his thoughtful regard. "I do," he says after that, then bends his head toward the woman and nudges at her cheek with his nose. This display complete he slips out of her grasp and goes, as she wishes, to sit down. "Wine would be fine. We have the bottle open so we'd better get it taken care of, hadn't we?"
Miniyal, then, will get the wine. When she is unable to locate the missing glass she merely empties hers and then refills it, bringing this to G'thon. "I was not up to guessing where you stashed yours this time," she tells him as she holds the glass out. She doesn't sit back down, but remains standing as it's her turn to rest a hand upon his shoulder. This gesture comes only after she's bent down to kiss his cheek. Once she's straightened back up she looks to E'sere, all polite smiles. "While the cake is a disaster there's still a pastry or two cooked by someone who knew what they were doing. Would you care for one?" There is no indication her patience is wearing out with the charade of polite behavior, but her hand doesn't move from G'thon's shoulder and she stands just a little too close to be entirely proper.
(OOC) The play-by-play announcer explains to the home audience, "Having failed in their effort to suggest E'sere show himself out by thanking him for his visit, the psychopath and his questionable consort will now attempt to nauseate the wingleader out of the room. Let's see how this maneuver pans out!"
E'sere studies G'thon a moment longer, then nods once, acquiescing; then, and only then, does he manage a sincere smile for Miniyal, gratitude written there. "Ah. Yes, please, if you don't mind sharing with me. I'd appreciate that. And--" he glances at the wine remains and, with a shake of his head, he tips that glass back to finish it as well. "A refill," he finishes, "since you've got it out. I'll just count higher," is his joke.
"As long as we don't exceed any of our capacities for numbers," chuckles the former weyrleader, glancing up as Miniyal straightens, as her hand on his shoulder and her presence near him for reasons only known between them call his gaze up toward her. He smiles, then smiles even at E'sere, as well. "Thank you," regarding the wine, a bit belatedly, and G'thon takes a sip from the glass. "Oh," about the pastries, a little surprised; they had been all but forgotten. "Indeed! Try one."
"My pleasure," Miniyal says with a nod of her head. Her hand moves off G'thon's shoulder because it must if she is to fetch treats. But before she steps away her fingers lift to find his cheek and rest upon it for a moment. Stepping away she goes to E'sere to get his glass and carry it to the table where the pastries are uncovered and one is placed on a plate. The glass is refilled as well, near the last of the wine. "Oh, it looks like this is last call anyway," she says with a smile. "I reserve the right as the only woman to claim the last glass and it is coming up." So, ha! That will get rid of him. Or something.
"Thank you," E'sere remarks when handed the glass and the pastry. He takes a bite and chews slowly, washing it down with a drink, and then another sip before he abruptly stands. "I should really be on my way, though; it's getting late and, birthday or no, I've still work to do--especially if I intend to take some time away to visit Telgar tomorrow," he notes reluctantly. He finishes the pastry quickly, and then the wine, his third glass, before he tells the pair, "Thank you for your hospitality, and allowing me to interrupt your celebrations, Miniyal. I hope you enjoy the tea, too, sir, and--happy birthday." He offers a small smile to first Miniyal, then G'thon, before he turns to see himself out.
What brought G'thon this luck will go unknown. But they have finished the wine and offered the last hospitality Miniyal can muster out of the things on the table, and E'sere has made final with repeated intent his decision to visit Lexine the next day. If this plan gives the wingleader no satisfaction, perhaps it will somewhat make up for it that G'thon provides a flicker upwards of his brows and reiterates, "I think she will be glad to see you, E'sere. It's been too long if it's been that long." And he seems keen to remind the other man of something else just then, but the words get no farther than his parted lips; rethinking them, he closes his mouth around them and tucks them tight away. A nod, and he shapes something else to say instead. "Happy birthday to you, too." A little sad, a little deflated. Nostalgaic.
"There's nothing to thank me for," Miniyal tells E'sere as she walks to the door to open it for him to depart. How polite. In that she doesn't shoo him out. "It was nice to see you. I wish I had known it was your birthday and that you would drop by. I shall ask Corin to make you a little something special and you can bring it with you to see your mother. Just stop by the kitchen before going." She smiles at this, the last of her social skills depleted in that fleeting, friendly gesture.
"Thank you, sir. Miniyal, I will," E'sere tells the pair again as he pauses at the door with a final smile. "I will. Good night." And then, turning, he's gone, out into the hallway again, pulling the door to behind him.
G'thon remains seated, as if he hasn't got the energy to show E'sere the way out. "I should have told you," he says in an apologetic tone, and though the words are a reply to Miniyal, they are meant for E'sere to hear; they are the footnote to all of their conversation, his admission of failure in informing his lover that his birthday and his weyrwoman's son's are one and the same.
Of course, he didn't inform his lover of his own birthday either, though he ought to have known she'd have it at her fingertips from her workplace. Only when the door's closed does his smile bend from politely affectionate to wearily bemused - no, better than bemused. Outright hysterical. He would laugh, it looks, if he had the energy; even as it is he manages a weak, dry chortle. "He didn't visit for twenty-nine," Gans observes, brows arching. "Tea from Nabol. Like I have anything to do with whether Odern can stand him or not!" In this one thing, at least, the old man will claim innocence.
Miniyal lets the door close with a click and then leans heavily against it with a sigh. Straightening up she glances towards the door and snorts. "As if I would let you touch a thing like that from him. You're not going to use that tea, right? Who knows. . .I mean, surely he's not stupid enough to be that obvious, but still." Shaking her head she walks to the table, fingertips touching the gift in dismissal. She takes up her gifts then, not too much really, and carries them to where he sits. "It's all right, Gans. I think we did fine." Not that she would have a clue. One bare foot reaches out to nudge his and she shuffles her gifts until she has a free hand that she can use to touch his cheek and then tilt his chin up so she might kiss him. "I'll not let him ruin the rest of our night," she says when done.
His foot moves when hers nudges it - and he shifts wholly a second later, as if he expects her aim is that he shove over a bit on the divan to make her better room. So he goes all tense from head to toe when she puts her hand on his face and makes clear the intent of a kiss - not because the kiss makes him tense, but because he has to hold still right now so she can have it. So -he- can have it. When her lips leave his, the bright in his eyes has lost some of its arch irritation. "I think I do horribly by him every time I see him, Miniyal. I hope that's not why he's - " A pause. Just long enough for doubt. "If he's involved in things he shouldn't be, I hope that's not why." Paternal guilt. Gans shifts his wine into the other hand and puts an arm out across the back of the divan: now there really -is- a spot she's meant to sit in, up against him. "Now what is all of this," he says, mock-stern, looking not at the gifts she bears but at the woman herself.
"I think whatever he is involved in is no one's fault but his own, Gans," she says ever so softly. And with the room for her now there she sinks down beside him lets out a quiet sigh. "And I am sorry I did not handle that better, but really. Still, it is over and we're all alright and. . .and it's fine. And it is not your fault." She stresses this softly as she watches his face, trying to see if he believes her or not. When the moment passes she laughs softly and shrugs. "I thought, well, I've never really had friends to get gifts for. So, it seemed the perfect time to try this whole thing out. It's really not much. Here. Open this one first." This one is the smallest one and she hands it over, more excited it seems than him. Shifting around she tucks her feet up under her once more and leans against him in a manner that allows her still to see him as he opens gifts.
It is very hard to tell, really, from looking at him whether he believes her. The long thoughtful moment does not provide an answer. The bow and shake of his head, the self-deprecating smile; these do not provide one either. He comes back to her when she returns the conversation to the matter of gifts, stealing a glance up from the package she's giving him - he leans a little to set aside his wine so he can, with the hand not curved around her opposite shoulder, take up the little gift. "You have to help me," he says after a moment, because he's not going to get far with just one hand and he's not willing to let her go from being curled so nicely against him so he can have the other. Still, the hand he has works a bit at opening it, deft about picking open a corner to start from.
A tilt of her head is all he gets in return for his expressions. She is, perhaps, learning slowly to not take him at face value. Instead of saying anything or trying to answer for what she thinks he might think she nods her head and looks at the gift. The others rest in her lap and she reaches out to help him unwrap the first. It is, as she said, not much. A bracelet she's made, the white ribbon embroidered in what seems to be a random pattern of four colors. "This is the most important one," she says earnestly as she touches it briefly before allowing him to examine it. "Remind me after we're done and I'll teach you the pattern. With this you can find four places that are safe here at the weyr. Four places no one can hurt you." Her words are stressed gently, but she watches his face, eyes so serious.
Gans is, in all earnestness, pleased enough that she has made him something - that much shows on his face, brightening his eyes, drawing up this sweet and not at all droll smile on the right-hand side of his mouth. It's plain in the way his fingertips wander the pattern, pausing over each of the first iterations of the colors. So it startles him a little when he hears and, a second later, understands what she's said about the bracelet's significance; he looks up and his brows arch yet again. "A punisher of troublemakers and a code-writer?" In his hand the bracelet is lifted for a closer look; of course he's not going to figure it out in a brief examination, but he wonders at it for a moment while the other arm snugs her a little tighter against him. "You worry too much about me," he says, wry now, a little abashed; it serves in lieu of a more formal thanks.
"Someone has to worry about you," is pointed out as she ducks her head down to hide any embarrassment. "And, it's not really a code. It's just. . .well, sort of. It's really easy. But, you have to know the starting points is all. I've never done one before. I am almost positive it will work." Biting her lip she sighs softly. "I know I can use it, but I am not sure someone else can. I will explain it and we will hope for the best. I wish I could, well, do more." Shaking her head she drops the next gift into his lap. "This one goes with the other one. I'm not sure you'll like it. I'm not, well, sure about it at all. But these last two. I think they are. . .well, anyway." The one in his lap is a larger thing. Heavier. It's wrapped, but a book is a book is a book.
"You can explain it to me," Gans interjects, or tries, and after draping the bracelet across his leg where the main white ribbon of it provides sharp contrast against his charcoal grey trousers, puts his hand over upon her knee. This little comforting gesture, not quite as chaste as it could be, is not as long-lived as he might like because she does go and put that book into his lap, and at that he has to chuckle a little and unwrap something else. "Advice on hiding...?" Droll. He turns it so there's a good chance from the binding that it will be faceplate up, ready to find out with a lift of cover at most what the title might be.
There is no title on the book and it's plainly enough bound. "No. That would defeat the purpose." There actually, is nothing in the book. "It goes with the other gift. Which, I should have given first I think. I screwed up. It's. . .well, there's no real, I mean. It's for when you want to write down who you are. So it can go into records. It's important we have a recording of what goes on. And who better to do it than you? You've served the weyr a long time and done a lot of good. Why let someone come behind you with an agenda and write their own version. This is your chance to write out your history." She stops here and tilts her head up, one hand touching his gently. "But no lying," she whispers, oh so embarrassed to be saying it. "It has to be truth. And, well, I got you a new set of inks and pens. To write with. Too. You can open them later or now. It goes together." Now she cannot even look at him. Perhaps she worries how he will take her words, but Miniyal is unable to look anywhere but at the last gift that is sitting in her lap, wrapped but no surprise now.
"I am not certain the truth should bear the eyes of every Caucus student and weyrling ever sent up to records," muses Gans in a good-humored tone, a droll sweetness she will by now recognize as one of his common responses to new ideas. He must let them grow on him a little first - though he turns the book over on his lap and lets his fingertips play over the leather that binds it, bemused. "You want me to keep a memoir," he says at last, and reaches over first to lay his hand a moment on her knee, then to gently take from her lap the other parts of his gift. "You are not troubled by the truth being described as I see it?"
"They should see it," Miniyal says with a shake of her head. "Everyone should see the truth. It's the only way we're equals. In the truth." She has her ideas, you see? At the touch on her knee she lifts her gaze to look at him. but only for a moment. Damn that voice anyway. It's been having a field day tonight as it is. The fact she kept thinking she'd have to yell when E'sere was here to be heard over it was bad enough. But now? The little whispers. Those are the worst. The quiet, oh, so quiet question, 'Do you want his truth? You know if even bothers to mention you it will be horrid. But he won't. Because why would you be worth even a line.' That voice? That evil voice. But she tries so hard to drown it out. Even if it has her unable to look at him anymore. "Your truth is important. More than anyone's." The fact the words are accompanied by mocking laughter in her head is a fact for her alone. Although the way she squirms and edges ever so slightly away from him might indicate something is wrong.
Gans laughs a little; he cannot possibly know how well his laughter coincides with that of Miniyal's voice of doubt. But these laughters are, at least, very unalike in character. Gans' is charming and charmed, and a little bit abashed. "I would not say more than anyone's. It may be, I suppose, a unique contribution." She squirms; she edges away. He puts aside the writing-things, setting the inks and pens far enough away that nothing tragic can befall them should the pots be ceramic or glass and thus breakable; the book he sets close by, as though he has already taken on its onus and its ownership. But more important just now is Miniyal's little effort to avoid him. He turns toward her on the divan, shifting his narrow knees toward hers; his arm is loose about her, but it -is- about her and refuses to slink away. "I would have to trust it to you, I think, to decide when it should go into the stacks. Would you be - willing?" The hesitation is all for her. It's real enough, his uncertainty that she might be up for taking on that responsibility; it's just that he allows the pause to betray that uncertainty and, if he were not so interested in having her relax again, he might not trade out such valuable coin as this little vulnerability. He would not make so weighty the request he makes of her. But he does; and he does.
Unable to get away then she settles down, hands folding in her lap and head tilted firmly downwards so that Miniyal might study her hands. "If that is what you wish," is offered softly. There is little doubt that this acceptance brings with it new doubts judging by the hesitation in her voice. For all she's insisted the night not be ruined it appears it is working towards being just that and there's nothing she can do now to stop it. Her inner demon is wide awake and the wine and the gifts and the fact they are alone doesn't seem to be quashing it this time. There is perhaps one thing that would silence it. Although even as it occurs to her the voice knows she will not do it. Except? It seems to be wrong. This is, perhaps, one time she should have welcomed the intrusion and listened to what that voice said. But, is it any surprise she does not? That she sets herself down on a path that will only be worse than the one she's on currently? Her head tilts up and one hand leaves her lap to touch his arm as she manages a smile. It's a weak one to be sure. "I would be honored, Gans," she whispers over the roaring demon in her head, "To do whatever you wished." Ahh. That's brilliant. Trade one evil inside voice for one evil outside voice.
"No, no. That's - not what I ask." It is, actually; were he held to his words he would have to admit that what he asked for and what she's said are ideas based on the same foundation. But she had to fight with it, and he doesn't like it. So he reaches out to find her chin with his fingertips, the gesture that half the time leads to him breathing gentle words upon her to try to melt her and the other half of the time causes kisses. It's the words, this time. "I trust you." And what words they are. "I want you to have it - first. And after that you can put it out into the stacks straight away, or keep it, or whatever you think fit. I just can't judge it myself." Gans' eyes are brightly lit - they usually are, with her - but with pleading. "Miniyal, if I know you're going to see it first, I think - it will be easier to write it as you want it." That is: truthfully.
"I will read it first, I promise. No one will see it before me." Miniyal can promise this easily enough even looking at him when there's still some doubts about the wisdom of. . .everything. It's like standing on a cliff that is eroding around you and knowing you can tumble down with it or jump and hope to land safely. Either decision is a bad one. But, one is made and the other made for you. For once, whether he wishes it or not, she's going to jump and hope for the best. "I trust you." Said so softly were he not so close he might not hear, but said with surety and no doubts. Whatever internal struggles she has had thanks to extra guests and unclear words she has mastered, at least briefly. Her hand lifts to touch his where it cups her chin. She uses it to draw him closer, wanting no more words. The only ones she allows to be spoken then and some time after is a quiet repeat of her own before a kiss. "I trust you."
Where: G'thons's Quarters, HRW
When: (backdated to) Late evening, day 14, month 6, turn 2 of the 7th Pass
What: The happy couple's *snickers* celebration of G'thon's birthday is interrupted by a visitor. We find E'sere trying to be gracious and not getting the hint, G'thon trying to be gracious and eventually running out of patience, and Miniyal, scarily enough, handling herself quite well even after they manage to get E'sere to leave.
Note: Yes, there is an OOC comment left in here. Why? Because it had me laughing so hard I nearly fell out of my chair. And was a comment on something that was in no way planned by participants but was come up with nearly at the same time. Also, at G'thon's request the Little Voice speaks up. :) Oh, and it was 2:30am when this scene was finished. If there are typos it's your own fault for noticing them! Not the fault of the tired people in the scene.
9/23/2006
Late evening, day 14, month 6, turn 2 of the 7th Pass
It is a certain someone, or someones, turnday. All day it has been, actually, but the time found now is somewhere in the evening. Not overly long after dinner, but long enough that it's a time when most people are off doing their own thing alone or with family and friends. How High Reaches former weyrleader spent his entire day is something only he knows. However, now that time is quite taken up with a visitor.
Miniyal waited until after dinner to come calling, should plans have been made that did not include her. When she arrived she did so with gifts, still unopened on the table where meals are taken. The only thing that has been touched around the three carefully wrapped items is a small cake. That is, well, not someone's best effort. Or perhaps it was. Burnt on the bottom and undercooked in the center it was a sad attempt for the unprofessional to bake. Perhaps that is why it has been abandoned.
The bad cake has not seemed to bring down the mood in here at least. Miniyal has taken to curling up in the corner of the divan so she might watch as she converses. A glass of wine is held in both hands and her feet are tucked under her. Someone has made herself at home as her shoes are neatly set off to the side. Her laughter might even carry out to the hallway as she attempts to recount the story of the horror of baking. It seems the rest of the kitchen feared she'd burn them all up. And this amuses her to no end. Or, something in her story does anyway because she is laughing.
On in the evening, E'sere leaves Vanya's quarters on his way to his next errand. It's not terribly far to the former Weyrleader's room, but he can't make the journey straight there: first he has to make a detour out to retrive a small, elegant box from his weyr, and then return once more to the inner caverns of the weyr. Making his way down again, he finally finds himself at the door to G'thon's room, pausing there. He glances down at the box he holds, purses his lips slightly, and then reaches out at hand to knock twice before stepping back to await invitation.
Gans' voice is here, too - though brief in its appearances, dry in its humor and wry in its pleasure, it is here, offering the quick word in among Miniyal's regarding this or that aspect of her story. His laughter is rarer even than his speech, but there is chance enough that E'sere might have some snippet of it in his ear as he goes one way and the other up and down the hallway outside.
That the old man might bend over the back of the divan to press a kiss to the woman's cheek; that he might stroke a lock of her hair back from her temple with pale fingers as he walks by; that he might cast back a fond look upon her before he turns to attend to the knock at the door - well, all of these things would be at best suppositions for E'sere, ones he will probably prefer not to entertain. When the door opens and the bronzerider is revealed there, G'thon can't quite hold back the dry twinkle that lights his eyes or the wry bend that slopes up his mouth on the right-hand side - but he can sound grave and solemn and polite enough about it in saying, "Wingleader! What a surprise. Won't you come in?" There's no call, really, for him to have invoked the version of his voice that once filled caverns without need for yelling. But he has done, and that will quell all conversation. Ganathon steps back from the door, offering E'sere the way inside.
There was, at the knock, the faintest pout to G'thon when he got up to answer the door. But Miniyal held her tongue and merely sipped her wine, content enough to deal with entertaining a visitor. At the greeting she sits up where previously she might have been too reclined. There is no flurry to right anything as she's quite proper. Other than those shoes and it is much too late to do anything about bare feet. So, she remains where she is and the only thing that gives away her sudden nervousness is the too large drink of wine that leaves her glass empty. And for G'thon, the knowledge that mere seconds ago she was relaxed and at ease and now is anything but. However, once E'sere steps inside, assuming that is his intent, she has found a polite enough mask to settle over her features that will give little enough away.
"Sir. Miniyal." E'sere offers quick greetings as his eyes travel through the pair. "I don't mean to interrupt, if I've come at a bad time?" He seems almost to wish this, by the way one foot is cocked backward, as though preparing to turn; but after a moment's hesitation he must steel himself and step forward, slipping inside the room when G'thon offers him that opportunity. "I won't stay long," he notes, half-promise to them, half to himself. "But I--well. Happy birthday, sir." With a small smile for the older man, E'sere offers the box: inside is a package containing a rather expensive blend of tea, hailing, notably, from the Nabol region.
G'thon does little about the door but let it go onto the weight of its hinges; its own momentum draws it back to rest about a foot ajar. "No, the time is fine, wingleader. It's always a pleasure - " Wait, birthday? As if the setting inside, the woman and the divan and the packages and the sad little cake did not all scream complete personal awareness of the date, the former weyrleader crooks up a curious brow at the box in E'sere's hand. "- Whatever for?" A touch hesitatingly, the older man reaches out to accept the object from the younger one; in that much time he can manage a wryer still bend to his smile, a slight irony for his tone. "Most unexpected, E'sere. Do you have time to sit for a moment?"
This is not her room and that leaves it someone else's place to speak, really, at first. So, Miniyal is content to allow that to happen. She is far happier, as always, to let someone else use their voice and leave her to her quietness. She does find a brief, if not entirely believable smile, to offer to the wingleader. "There's no interruption, really," she murmurs since that's the sort of thing one says. "Just don't let him offer you any of the cake. It being my own creation it's not fit for man or beast." This is when she hesitates a moment before rising to her feet. "Would you like a drink? I don't think the wine is all gone." A look to G'thon then, as if it's him and not her who would be responsible for such a thing.
"Yes, sir," E'sere answers, a reply to both questions at once as, freed of his burden, he slips further inside. Past G'thon, he offers Miniyal another brief-lived smile, wry as G'thon's. "No? I've a strong stomach, and surely it couldn't be /that/ bad. Your mother--?" It's half-question, though the rest is unspoken: hasn't she taught you anything? "A drink, though--I'd appreciate that, please, if you don't mind. And--" here, he glances back over his shoulder to G'thon, solemn "--you know, sir, it's mine as well."
G'thon's sense of humor is nothing if not dry. "I do, E'sere. I held you." Nothing to make a young man feel young, or an old man more nostalgaic about his age, than such recollection. He lifts his voice a little in strength then, allowing some of its power to creep in around the edges so that he may make a little sense of the moment: "Even if we have had all of it there's another bottle on the shelf." O infamous shelf, gestured at carelessly with a wave of pale fingers as the room's supposedly sole occupant circles the divan, murmurs something that might be like, 'don't trouble yourself, I can get it' to Miniyal on his way, and approaches the table. There is, in point of fact, more wine in the bottle - though the bottle is small and drowning in a bucket sweating from ice within. Gans pours a glass just the same, the liquid golden and threatening sweet flavors even to the eye. "And I wouldn't say the cake was so bad, Miniyal; E'sere, if you want a piece you may of course have it, just take care to cut from the edge." There's a little ripple of laughter threatened underneath this advice. In all of this conversation and such there has been more than adequate time for the little matters of carrying the wine to the wingleader - and for math: "And how has your thirtieth been?"
Miniyal frowns a moment at E'sere, a thoughtful expression. It passes swiftly enough as she shrugs her shoulders. "My mother is a baker, yes. It does not mean I am. I've learned at my father's knee, not hers. And I think the world is thankful for it. But, as Gans says. If you wish to risk it feel free. Just please don't say I did not warn you." At this she smiles ever so slightly and since G'thon has said he will get the wine she settles back down into her seat, toying with her own empty glass but making no move to get it refilled. "Oh. Happy birthday, E'sere," she offers once her bare feet are tucked away again. It seems she has decided it is more proper to conceal them than to sit properly with feet on the ground and the like.
For that, E'sere has a slightly broader smile. "Of course, sir," he agrees with a nod. He takes a seat then, settling lightly onto a chair and regarding the pair. "Thank you, Miniyal. And--hmm. I /did/ have dinner just a little while ago, so I believe I'll pass for now. Perhaps later," is his polite way of refusing the cake. To G'thon, as he accepts the drink: "It was good, sir--quite good. Far less traumatizing than my older friends would have had me believe. And your sixty-seventh?"
"Far less traumatizing than my younger friends would have me believe." G'thon's rejoinder is swift but affectionate; perhaps one of those younger friends is present. In any case he seems to have reason for a little twinkling sparkle upon the remark. "I'm actually completely surprised you're not out - or in - celebrating. I expected your call no sooner than the morning, if then. Maybe you're getting old after all?" Brightly offered, this is certainly a tease. G'thon pulls the chairs away from the table while speaking, turning them so he can offer one with a gesture to E'sere; the other he also sets out, but makes no sign of planning to sit in. In time he comes to the table again, where the tea-box the wingleader brought waits, and there the old man indulges in opening the lid and taking from the contents a sniff. "Oh, that's lovely stuff, E'sere. Thank you." And he closes the lid.
Oh, the age talk. How. . .lovely. It's a conversation that has not really come up. Or has been ignored anyway, between the two who had been alone. "For the best. I was forced to try it as it's my own creation and I would have cried horribly had Gans not pretended to be able to try a bite or two for me. Friendship can be a horrible burden I think." Another shrug, it really is Miniyal's best gesture, and she falls silent so the other two can verbally spar with one another. It's a sport she has no skill at and therefore she chooses to try her best to remain out of it.
"Indeed it can," E'sere answers first Miniyal, more solemnly than perhaps warranted, for all he's quick to flash another wry smile at G'thon. "And you, sir? I half-expected to find you already in bed," he remarks, equally teasing. One brow, however, quirks almost provokingly as he glances between the man and woman, finally resettling his gaze on G'thon. "You're welcome, sir. I thought you might appreciate it, especially considering the current situation with Nabol. I had quite a time finding it: it's become quite rare, anyway, of late, even discounting the fact that I don't feel welcome going to purchase it myself. Considering the situation." He quirks a dry, ironic smile--there's definitely some emphasis on the tea's origin.
G'thon rises to, but does not rile at, the wingleader's remarks about the tea. "If any of us could feel welcome at Nabol, E'sere, it should be you." His tone is dry, maybe even an increment prideful; if it conveys anything in subtext to the bronzerider it would be at most reserved approval. "I appreciate the trouble you've taken to get it. I could put on a pot if you'd like...?" The lilt of his voice at the end lets the question drift off into the plausibly rhetorical - the hour is, after all, late; and tea is, after all, not what E'sere accepted first to drink. "And the cake, my dear, suffers only from a little trouble with the oven. The recipe is good. It has a nice flavor. One must just be careful about - " He looks up from the box of tea, upon which one hand still rests. "- carving it." In glancing up at the woman, his apparent companion in celebration, perhaps the old man notices an empty wine glass; in any case he starts off a little stiffly toward the shelf where that second bottle, promised, waits.
"Yes, to avoid the ninety percent that is inedible. You needn't spare my feelings, Gans. I've no future in baking." Miniyal shakes her head and will almost rise when he moves to the shelf. But, there is none of that and if he will fetch the wine she will not stop him from it, content to remain seated still. "I shall have to tell Issa that there is, indeed, no place for me at all in the kitchens. So tragic. Another potential career cut short. I shall have to try to think of something else to try at next."
"For helping to /cause/ this sitation?" E'sere returns, just as dry as G'thon, but with less approval in his tone. Still, he shakes his head, raising a hand to emphasize his refusal. "No, no, thank you. I've this--" he lifts the wine, not yet sipped "--and I'll let you save that for yourself and Miniyal." At whose name he glances to her again. "Oh?" he queries curiously. "And what else have you tried? You have another idea for one?"
"Ah, but if Odern were a reasonable man I believe he would recognize you for your part in it," replies G'thon, though he himself will not apparently be caught describing precisely what that part might be. "You would be better welcome there then, as you should be." He turns away from the case and again favors Miniyal with a warm (shameless) glance. "Give me your glass," he bids her, drawing near with a hand outstretched while the other tends the bottle just taken down. "I'll give you what's left from the other and then put this on ice. - E'sere, nonsense. Drink if you like; no one's counting glasses here."
Head tilting, Miniyal's attention turns to E'sere and she gives a faint nod. Someone else might smile here, even if it is false, but there's no smiles from her it seems. "Well, my career as a harm preventer is going well enough. Although it doesn't have a steady income of marks. But, as so far things have been, around me, calm, I can but assume I am doing an excellent job." Into the hand goes her empty wine glass and if her fingers touch his longer than necessary surely it's just her making sure she doesn't drop the glass. "You should be more careful with the wine," she teases as she releases both glass and hand. "After all, what reason have I to continue to visit if all the good stuff is gone?" And the former weyrleader does get a smile, a flash of something warm before it disappears and she glance at her hands. "But, really, as to a career. For now I am exploring what few options I have."
At G'thon's latter words, E'sere hesitates, glancing downward at his untouched drink. "I am," he admits quietly. Still, he lifts it to his lips and takes a gulp, larger than his usual almost dainty sips. "A harm-preventer," he then echoes Miniyal, bemused. "It sounds very useful to me; I don't know why we didn't have anyone in the post earlier. Do you busy yourself giving lectures on safety, or rescuing people about to be hurt, or injury-proofing the surfaces of the Weyr?" He arches his brows, takes another sip, and watches Miniyal with a faint smile.
"Then I will have to get more of the good stuff," replies G'thon, letting her fingers linger with his before he straightens and carries the glass toward the table. There he makes good on the plan announced, emptying the first bottle into Miniyal's glass so the second bottle can go into the ice. "She seems in large part to serve as an icon. A guard of a kind, or a - talisman," provides the former weyrleader while he busies his hands with the business of wine. Whether he means this seriously or as a daring, affectionate tease directed at the woman whom he describes is up for debate; his voice is dry, of course, but the crook of his brows and bend of his mouth is in part obscured by his attention to the wine. Eventually he turns and pauses with Miniyal's now-part-full glass in his hand. "Why counting, E'sere? Perhaps we're keeping you from more serious celebration?" Now this plainly -is- teasing, and it might just be affectionate, too.
"Well, right now I am formulating a plan, you see?" Miniyal says cheerfully. A cheer that sounds true although that means little. "Actually, it's just the first step, really. You see? I figure soon enough I'll be doing well enough at harm prevention that I can step up and run the guards here. Although, I do think having locals would be better. A small group dedicated to insuring the criminals that seem to be flocking here are treated as they should be." A pause and then she laughs, a curious sound that's hard to define. "I would make an excellent guard captain. So long as I were not required to actually be involved in scuffles. I do find violence so tasteless. There are much easier ways to solve problems." At the teasing she pouts, after all, he has her wine she can't say too much or he might withhold it. "I make an excellent icon," she agrees, mocking herself in tone. "Do not live as this woman does or you too shall end up like her." At the comment to E'sere from G'thon she looks at the younger man to see what he will say.
E'sere, for G'thon, has another of those wry smiles, shakes his head slightly. "Habit, perhaps: it's a hard one to let go," he excuses himself. Or perhaps, it's simply hard to let go, period, and enjoy the drinks. E'sere toys with his now, two sips down but still half-full, and after a moment, glances up at Miniyal again, still solemn. "Indeed," he agrees. "I'll wish you luck in that endeavor, then," he says simply.
"An excellent guard captain," muses G'thon, as though he were thinking about the possibility for the first time, or as if he were willing to suffer it aloud for the purpose of a little humor only for the first time. "But a poor lieutenant, given the proclivity toward peaceful solution. An honorable captain, though, my dear?" The question is rhetorical; in fact, the way he lets out a little grace of a bow toward her once he's reapproached her to provide her again her refilled glass makes it seem as if he's stated a fact. This done he turns to E'sere, backing up so he can rest a slender hand pale upon the divan, not far from the woman's shoulder. "I do have a gift for you, wingleader. I admit I didn't expect you here to receive it. I trust you will have a little patience and not pry around my things trying to find a secret surprise?" One pale brow arches; his tone is again almost fond. He belittles the man a bit in this question, but he belittles him in nostalgaic fashion, some obscure reference to the nature of a little boy E'sere has long since left behind.
"Having grown up as I did how could I be anything but honorable?" Miniyal asks with a small laugh. Accepting her wine she raises it in salute to E'sere. "I shall take your luck. And when it happens you may be one of the ones who can say you knew me the night I announced my grand intentions." Her gaze slides up to G'thon as he stands and she smiles at him over her glass before taking a sip. "I shall have lieutenants enough I think. Two. I have not decided whom will get the posts. At least one shall be a woman I think. Not both. No sense making everyone uncomfortable. One of the nannies perhaps. If she can wrangle dozens of children she can handle a criminal or two. Or drunks once we've cleaned the place up." The subject clearly amuses her, it's not one she takes seriously. And she will allow it to fade away and let the other two speak of gifts and the like. A curious spectator in their history.
"I should be proud to say so," E'sere tells Miniyal, still solemn, though one corner of his mouth threatens to twitch upward in contrast. Quickly, he slides his gaze to his drink and takes another slow sip of it, before flicking eyes upward to G'thon. "No, sir," he agrees, giving in to that smile at last, almost impish in its amusement--the tilt of his mouth hints at what he might once have been, though the look to his eyes is still older when he notes, "I've learned patience."
G'thon laughs too at Miniyal's remark, but -his- laugh contains a note of irony that hers does not. "A nanny," he observes a little later, bending his head enough that it seems most like he speaks to her and less like he speaks to E'sere. "It's a little late to try to bribe her tongue, don't you think?" He laughs again then, glancing up at E'sere's reply; the note of irony is downright pleased this time. "Very good, wingleader. It's a noble trait. One you've been able to start passing on to your men, I assume?"
Miniyal takes a sip of her wine and then transfers her glass to one hand so her other might reach up behind her and rest atop G'thon's lightly. "Silly," she tells him with eyes twinkling. "I would not bribe anyone to work for me. Honorable, remember? I've been studying up on leadership between duties in records and I've quite think I've almost got the solution. Until I do, of course, I wouldn't bother trying. No, no. There will be no need to bribe silly tongues quiet. I shall simply be a sterling example that people wish to follow." At this she laughs, the sound ending in a sip of wine from her cup. At this she settles for staring into her wine to reflect. Or watch it. Or simply not have to say more.
"I have tried," agrees E'sere, watching G'thon. "They're young, many of them, and quick-tempered, but they do learn, sir. I hope I've been a good influence on that, at least." He doesn't respond to Miniyal for a moment, only inclining her the barest of nods after she explains.
G'thon chortles a little, softly, and his hand migrates from the divan to Miniyal's shoulder. There it takes up a slow circular motion: massage, the silent refuge of a couple experiencing something slightly stressful. Yet the old man can find no small amount of twinkling light and hints of crooked smiles to offer E'sere, and has no trouble remarking upon his efforts: "Well, we must certainly say you have learned well how to learn. Would I had mastered that so young."
At the talk of things that really have little to nothing to do with her, Miniyal takes refuge in her wine. A small sip and then another as she is careful not to drink it all. Her head tilts so she might look up at G'thon and offer him a brief, fond smile. Her gaze then switches to E'sere. There is, it would appear, nothing she has to /say/ to him, but she watches him anyway. Practice for her new career perhaps. Observe the enemy!
E'sere, swirling the small remainder of his wine, glances downward at its surface and cracks a small smile. "Yes, sir. I'd like to say I had a good teacher, but experience, as they say, keeps a dear school," he answers before finishing the last swallow of wine.
"Then you did," replies G'thon, drily. "Would you like a little more?" Then he draws up his hand from Miniyal's shoulder and starts around the divan toward the table, a hand going to gesture without particular care toward the wine there. But the offer is no better made by his words being at odds with such apparent willingness to continue playing the good host. "It was kind of you to stop by. I can't imagine what caused you to think of me - I mean, the obvious, surely, but still - your thirtieth!" If he hasn't made E'sere feel slightly unwelcome yet, let this have a try: the old man leaves off the wine and the table to step toward the wingleader and look him over once, like he's trying still to come to terms with the young man that boy has become.
This is most definitely the time in the conversation where a certain ex-head of records goes silent. A sip of wine and then another before her glass is empty. Once it is so then Miniyal peers at the glass. She turns it around in her hands and watches the two men interact. It's an interesting lesson and one she seems most eager to learn. What exactly she is learning from all this is anyone's guess. But what a rapt pupil.
If G'thon is trying to get rid of E'sere, he will have to be more overt: the wingleader is no fool; surely he knows, but he feigns ignorance in favor of offering his glass again to the man. "If you please," he agrees, with a crooked half-smile. "And... Well. I'd no plans for the night, and I thought it would seem rude if I did seek some other--entertainment for the night, and neglect you in favor of my own pleasure, sir."
"Oh, I wish you wouldn't," replies G'thon through his one-sided smile, in the self-deprecating tone of someone who'd rather not cause his friend so much inconvenience. But he puts out his hand to take the glass and starts back toward the table, there to be busy a while opening the new bottle of wine. A glance at Miniyal might be a little bemused, and is privately made, E'sere excluded. "I can't believe you have no plans. What happened to your ladies? To your wingmates? No one planning to have you out to fly the spires or get you drunk and dunk you in the lake? - Oh, right; counting your cups."
"How thoughtful," Miniyal says quietly as she looks down into her wine glass to hide her own expression. A glance back up in time to catch G'thon's and she smiles once more at him. "Did you see your mother?" she asks to E'sere. "You're so lucky if she didn't summon you immediately upon waking. I cannot lose my parents when it is my birthday no matter how hard I try. I suppose it could be worse. I pity those who aren't close to their family in a way. Then again, family can be a pain." Shaking her head she rises from the divan to bring her empty wine glass to the bottle. "Don't run him off, Gans," she chides gently to the 'host' of the evening. Her free arm loops loosely around the older man's waist and she turns a sympathetic smile on E'sere. "We're pleased to have you if no one else will."
"My ladies," repeats E'sere wryly. "No, I haven't one, and I've forbidden my wingmates from any such thing--they know I don't care for it." He shakes his head and takes a sip of his refilled wine: it seems a freer one, at least, than the ones he took of the first glass. "I--I did not," he answers Miniyal after a moment, her question sobering him again, stiffening his shoulders slightly. He studies the drink rather than either of them. "I haven't spoken to her in some time. Since--she went to Telgar, I suppose. I've... meant to, but." A shrug; another gulp of wine.
So now Miniyal will play the hostess, as G'thon has apparently lost his patience with the facade. This is good; it leaves the old man little to worry about except the business of keeping two wine glasses full. One might wonder where -his- glass has got off to, but that one wondering would be someone else. "You should go tomorrow," he says after a solemn and too-long silence, suddenly serious. "She will want to see you."
It is a scary thing when Miniyal is left to fall back on turns of etiquette drilled into her for no reason by her mother. But fall back on it she will. "Gans, sit," she tells him gently with a warm smile. "It's your day as well and I've been very remiss in allowing you to do so much. Would you like tea? Or more wine?" He is propelled gently towards a seat before she turns to E'sere, nodding. "It's true. Mother's always want to see their children at times like this. It would be rather impolite to not go visit." She pauses here a moment and then shakes her head. "And it is impolite of me to act as if I should tell you such things. Really, you're both older than me so I've no need to lecture. Are you staying out of trouble, E'sere? Little drinking, no women. If you're not careful you'll turn into me. Only better looking, of course."
E'sere quirks half a smile, wry and humorless. "Do you think so?" he asks G'thon, a little more earnestly than he'd like, to judge by the faint pull of a grimace at his lips. It's hidden by another smile, this one more amused and directed at Miniyal. "Thank you," he tells her with almost forced lightness. "I think. I--I'll try to go. After drills. I should like to see her again." He sounds like he's trying to convince himself as much as them, definitely not very enthusiastic about that suggestion.
G'thon resists Miniyal's efforts to make him sit long enough to give E'sere a long moment in his thoughtful regard. "I do," he says after that, then bends his head toward the woman and nudges at her cheek with his nose. This display complete he slips out of her grasp and goes, as she wishes, to sit down. "Wine would be fine. We have the bottle open so we'd better get it taken care of, hadn't we?"
Miniyal, then, will get the wine. When she is unable to locate the missing glass she merely empties hers and then refills it, bringing this to G'thon. "I was not up to guessing where you stashed yours this time," she tells him as she holds the glass out. She doesn't sit back down, but remains standing as it's her turn to rest a hand upon his shoulder. This gesture comes only after she's bent down to kiss his cheek. Once she's straightened back up she looks to E'sere, all polite smiles. "While the cake is a disaster there's still a pastry or two cooked by someone who knew what they were doing. Would you care for one?" There is no indication her patience is wearing out with the charade of polite behavior, but her hand doesn't move from G'thon's shoulder and she stands just a little too close to be entirely proper.
(OOC) The play-by-play announcer explains to the home audience, "Having failed in their effort to suggest E'sere show himself out by thanking him for his visit, the psychopath and his questionable consort will now attempt to nauseate the wingleader out of the room. Let's see how this maneuver pans out!"
E'sere studies G'thon a moment longer, then nods once, acquiescing; then, and only then, does he manage a sincere smile for Miniyal, gratitude written there. "Ah. Yes, please, if you don't mind sharing with me. I'd appreciate that. And--" he glances at the wine remains and, with a shake of his head, he tips that glass back to finish it as well. "A refill," he finishes, "since you've got it out. I'll just count higher," is his joke.
"As long as we don't exceed any of our capacities for numbers," chuckles the former weyrleader, glancing up as Miniyal straightens, as her hand on his shoulder and her presence near him for reasons only known between them call his gaze up toward her. He smiles, then smiles even at E'sere, as well. "Thank you," regarding the wine, a bit belatedly, and G'thon takes a sip from the glass. "Oh," about the pastries, a little surprised; they had been all but forgotten. "Indeed! Try one."
"My pleasure," Miniyal says with a nod of her head. Her hand moves off G'thon's shoulder because it must if she is to fetch treats. But before she steps away her fingers lift to find his cheek and rest upon it for a moment. Stepping away she goes to E'sere to get his glass and carry it to the table where the pastries are uncovered and one is placed on a plate. The glass is refilled as well, near the last of the wine. "Oh, it looks like this is last call anyway," she says with a smile. "I reserve the right as the only woman to claim the last glass and it is coming up." So, ha! That will get rid of him. Or something.
"Thank you," E'sere remarks when handed the glass and the pastry. He takes a bite and chews slowly, washing it down with a drink, and then another sip before he abruptly stands. "I should really be on my way, though; it's getting late and, birthday or no, I've still work to do--especially if I intend to take some time away to visit Telgar tomorrow," he notes reluctantly. He finishes the pastry quickly, and then the wine, his third glass, before he tells the pair, "Thank you for your hospitality, and allowing me to interrupt your celebrations, Miniyal. I hope you enjoy the tea, too, sir, and--happy birthday." He offers a small smile to first Miniyal, then G'thon, before he turns to see himself out.
What brought G'thon this luck will go unknown. But they have finished the wine and offered the last hospitality Miniyal can muster out of the things on the table, and E'sere has made final with repeated intent his decision to visit Lexine the next day. If this plan gives the wingleader no satisfaction, perhaps it will somewhat make up for it that G'thon provides a flicker upwards of his brows and reiterates, "I think she will be glad to see you, E'sere. It's been too long if it's been that long." And he seems keen to remind the other man of something else just then, but the words get no farther than his parted lips; rethinking them, he closes his mouth around them and tucks them tight away. A nod, and he shapes something else to say instead. "Happy birthday to you, too." A little sad, a little deflated. Nostalgaic.
"There's nothing to thank me for," Miniyal tells E'sere as she walks to the door to open it for him to depart. How polite. In that she doesn't shoo him out. "It was nice to see you. I wish I had known it was your birthday and that you would drop by. I shall ask Corin to make you a little something special and you can bring it with you to see your mother. Just stop by the kitchen before going." She smiles at this, the last of her social skills depleted in that fleeting, friendly gesture.
"Thank you, sir. Miniyal, I will," E'sere tells the pair again as he pauses at the door with a final smile. "I will. Good night." And then, turning, he's gone, out into the hallway again, pulling the door to behind him.
G'thon remains seated, as if he hasn't got the energy to show E'sere the way out. "I should have told you," he says in an apologetic tone, and though the words are a reply to Miniyal, they are meant for E'sere to hear; they are the footnote to all of their conversation, his admission of failure in informing his lover that his birthday and his weyrwoman's son's are one and the same.
Of course, he didn't inform his lover of his own birthday either, though he ought to have known she'd have it at her fingertips from her workplace. Only when the door's closed does his smile bend from politely affectionate to wearily bemused - no, better than bemused. Outright hysterical. He would laugh, it looks, if he had the energy; even as it is he manages a weak, dry chortle. "He didn't visit for twenty-nine," Gans observes, brows arching. "Tea from Nabol. Like I have anything to do with whether Odern can stand him or not!" In this one thing, at least, the old man will claim innocence.
Miniyal lets the door close with a click and then leans heavily against it with a sigh. Straightening up she glances towards the door and snorts. "As if I would let you touch a thing like that from him. You're not going to use that tea, right? Who knows. . .I mean, surely he's not stupid enough to be that obvious, but still." Shaking her head she walks to the table, fingertips touching the gift in dismissal. She takes up her gifts then, not too much really, and carries them to where he sits. "It's all right, Gans. I think we did fine." Not that she would have a clue. One bare foot reaches out to nudge his and she shuffles her gifts until she has a free hand that she can use to touch his cheek and then tilt his chin up so she might kiss him. "I'll not let him ruin the rest of our night," she says when done.
His foot moves when hers nudges it - and he shifts wholly a second later, as if he expects her aim is that he shove over a bit on the divan to make her better room. So he goes all tense from head to toe when she puts her hand on his face and makes clear the intent of a kiss - not because the kiss makes him tense, but because he has to hold still right now so she can have it. So -he- can have it. When her lips leave his, the bright in his eyes has lost some of its arch irritation. "I think I do horribly by him every time I see him, Miniyal. I hope that's not why he's - " A pause. Just long enough for doubt. "If he's involved in things he shouldn't be, I hope that's not why." Paternal guilt. Gans shifts his wine into the other hand and puts an arm out across the back of the divan: now there really -is- a spot she's meant to sit in, up against him. "Now what is all of this," he says, mock-stern, looking not at the gifts she bears but at the woman herself.
"I think whatever he is involved in is no one's fault but his own, Gans," she says ever so softly. And with the room for her now there she sinks down beside him lets out a quiet sigh. "And I am sorry I did not handle that better, but really. Still, it is over and we're all alright and. . .and it's fine. And it is not your fault." She stresses this softly as she watches his face, trying to see if he believes her or not. When the moment passes she laughs softly and shrugs. "I thought, well, I've never really had friends to get gifts for. So, it seemed the perfect time to try this whole thing out. It's really not much. Here. Open this one first." This one is the smallest one and she hands it over, more excited it seems than him. Shifting around she tucks her feet up under her once more and leans against him in a manner that allows her still to see him as he opens gifts.
It is very hard to tell, really, from looking at him whether he believes her. The long thoughtful moment does not provide an answer. The bow and shake of his head, the self-deprecating smile; these do not provide one either. He comes back to her when she returns the conversation to the matter of gifts, stealing a glance up from the package she's giving him - he leans a little to set aside his wine so he can, with the hand not curved around her opposite shoulder, take up the little gift. "You have to help me," he says after a moment, because he's not going to get far with just one hand and he's not willing to let her go from being curled so nicely against him so he can have the other. Still, the hand he has works a bit at opening it, deft about picking open a corner to start from.
A tilt of her head is all he gets in return for his expressions. She is, perhaps, learning slowly to not take him at face value. Instead of saying anything or trying to answer for what she thinks he might think she nods her head and looks at the gift. The others rest in her lap and she reaches out to help him unwrap the first. It is, as she said, not much. A bracelet she's made, the white ribbon embroidered in what seems to be a random pattern of four colors. "This is the most important one," she says earnestly as she touches it briefly before allowing him to examine it. "Remind me after we're done and I'll teach you the pattern. With this you can find four places that are safe here at the weyr. Four places no one can hurt you." Her words are stressed gently, but she watches his face, eyes so serious.
Gans is, in all earnestness, pleased enough that she has made him something - that much shows on his face, brightening his eyes, drawing up this sweet and not at all droll smile on the right-hand side of his mouth. It's plain in the way his fingertips wander the pattern, pausing over each of the first iterations of the colors. So it startles him a little when he hears and, a second later, understands what she's said about the bracelet's significance; he looks up and his brows arch yet again. "A punisher of troublemakers and a code-writer?" In his hand the bracelet is lifted for a closer look; of course he's not going to figure it out in a brief examination, but he wonders at it for a moment while the other arm snugs her a little tighter against him. "You worry too much about me," he says, wry now, a little abashed; it serves in lieu of a more formal thanks.
"Someone has to worry about you," is pointed out as she ducks her head down to hide any embarrassment. "And, it's not really a code. It's just. . .well, sort of. It's really easy. But, you have to know the starting points is all. I've never done one before. I am almost positive it will work." Biting her lip she sighs softly. "I know I can use it, but I am not sure someone else can. I will explain it and we will hope for the best. I wish I could, well, do more." Shaking her head she drops the next gift into his lap. "This one goes with the other one. I'm not sure you'll like it. I'm not, well, sure about it at all. But these last two. I think they are. . .well, anyway." The one in his lap is a larger thing. Heavier. It's wrapped, but a book is a book is a book.
"You can explain it to me," Gans interjects, or tries, and after draping the bracelet across his leg where the main white ribbon of it provides sharp contrast against his charcoal grey trousers, puts his hand over upon her knee. This little comforting gesture, not quite as chaste as it could be, is not as long-lived as he might like because she does go and put that book into his lap, and at that he has to chuckle a little and unwrap something else. "Advice on hiding...?" Droll. He turns it so there's a good chance from the binding that it will be faceplate up, ready to find out with a lift of cover at most what the title might be.
There is no title on the book and it's plainly enough bound. "No. That would defeat the purpose." There actually, is nothing in the book. "It goes with the other gift. Which, I should have given first I think. I screwed up. It's. . .well, there's no real, I mean. It's for when you want to write down who you are. So it can go into records. It's important we have a recording of what goes on. And who better to do it than you? You've served the weyr a long time and done a lot of good. Why let someone come behind you with an agenda and write their own version. This is your chance to write out your history." She stops here and tilts her head up, one hand touching his gently. "But no lying," she whispers, oh so embarrassed to be saying it. "It has to be truth. And, well, I got you a new set of inks and pens. To write with. Too. You can open them later or now. It goes together." Now she cannot even look at him. Perhaps she worries how he will take her words, but Miniyal is unable to look anywhere but at the last gift that is sitting in her lap, wrapped but no surprise now.
"I am not certain the truth should bear the eyes of every Caucus student and weyrling ever sent up to records," muses Gans in a good-humored tone, a droll sweetness she will by now recognize as one of his common responses to new ideas. He must let them grow on him a little first - though he turns the book over on his lap and lets his fingertips play over the leather that binds it, bemused. "You want me to keep a memoir," he says at last, and reaches over first to lay his hand a moment on her knee, then to gently take from her lap the other parts of his gift. "You are not troubled by the truth being described as I see it?"
"They should see it," Miniyal says with a shake of her head. "Everyone should see the truth. It's the only way we're equals. In the truth." She has her ideas, you see? At the touch on her knee she lifts her gaze to look at him. but only for a moment. Damn that voice anyway. It's been having a field day tonight as it is. The fact she kept thinking she'd have to yell when E'sere was here to be heard over it was bad enough. But now? The little whispers. Those are the worst. The quiet, oh, so quiet question, 'Do you want his truth? You know if even bothers to mention you it will be horrid. But he won't. Because why would you be worth even a line.' That voice? That evil voice. But she tries so hard to drown it out. Even if it has her unable to look at him anymore. "Your truth is important. More than anyone's." The fact the words are accompanied by mocking laughter in her head is a fact for her alone. Although the way she squirms and edges ever so slightly away from him might indicate something is wrong.
Gans laughs a little; he cannot possibly know how well his laughter coincides with that of Miniyal's voice of doubt. But these laughters are, at least, very unalike in character. Gans' is charming and charmed, and a little bit abashed. "I would not say more than anyone's. It may be, I suppose, a unique contribution." She squirms; she edges away. He puts aside the writing-things, setting the inks and pens far enough away that nothing tragic can befall them should the pots be ceramic or glass and thus breakable; the book he sets close by, as though he has already taken on its onus and its ownership. But more important just now is Miniyal's little effort to avoid him. He turns toward her on the divan, shifting his narrow knees toward hers; his arm is loose about her, but it -is- about her and refuses to slink away. "I would have to trust it to you, I think, to decide when it should go into the stacks. Would you be - willing?" The hesitation is all for her. It's real enough, his uncertainty that she might be up for taking on that responsibility; it's just that he allows the pause to betray that uncertainty and, if he were not so interested in having her relax again, he might not trade out such valuable coin as this little vulnerability. He would not make so weighty the request he makes of her. But he does; and he does.
Unable to get away then she settles down, hands folding in her lap and head tilted firmly downwards so that Miniyal might study her hands. "If that is what you wish," is offered softly. There is little doubt that this acceptance brings with it new doubts judging by the hesitation in her voice. For all she's insisted the night not be ruined it appears it is working towards being just that and there's nothing she can do now to stop it. Her inner demon is wide awake and the wine and the gifts and the fact they are alone doesn't seem to be quashing it this time. There is perhaps one thing that would silence it. Although even as it occurs to her the voice knows she will not do it. Except? It seems to be wrong. This is, perhaps, one time she should have welcomed the intrusion and listened to what that voice said. But, is it any surprise she does not? That she sets herself down on a path that will only be worse than the one she's on currently? Her head tilts up and one hand leaves her lap to touch his arm as she manages a smile. It's a weak one to be sure. "I would be honored, Gans," she whispers over the roaring demon in her head, "To do whatever you wished." Ahh. That's brilliant. Trade one evil inside voice for one evil outside voice.
"No, no. That's - not what I ask." It is, actually; were he held to his words he would have to admit that what he asked for and what she's said are ideas based on the same foundation. But she had to fight with it, and he doesn't like it. So he reaches out to find her chin with his fingertips, the gesture that half the time leads to him breathing gentle words upon her to try to melt her and the other half of the time causes kisses. It's the words, this time. "I trust you." And what words they are. "I want you to have it - first. And after that you can put it out into the stacks straight away, or keep it, or whatever you think fit. I just can't judge it myself." Gans' eyes are brightly lit - they usually are, with her - but with pleading. "Miniyal, if I know you're going to see it first, I think - it will be easier to write it as you want it." That is: truthfully.
"I will read it first, I promise. No one will see it before me." Miniyal can promise this easily enough even looking at him when there's still some doubts about the wisdom of. . .everything. It's like standing on a cliff that is eroding around you and knowing you can tumble down with it or jump and hope to land safely. Either decision is a bad one. But, one is made and the other made for you. For once, whether he wishes it or not, she's going to jump and hope for the best. "I trust you." Said so softly were he not so close he might not hear, but said with surety and no doubts. Whatever internal struggles she has had thanks to extra guests and unclear words she has mastered, at least briefly. Her hand lifts to touch his where it cups her chin. She uses it to draw him closer, wanting no more words. The only ones she allows to be spoken then and some time after is a quiet repeat of her own before a kiss. "I trust you."