Self-destructive behavior.
Who: Miniyal and Neiran
Where: Living cavern
When: Post dinnertime on day 20, month 12, turn 3 of the 7th pass.
What: Miniyal is seated alone in the living cavern when a healer invades her space. Considering the healer in question it is an odd conversation.
Note: I just want to say here for all to see that I <3 Nibbler. This was such an awesome scene.
6/16/2007
At High Reaches Weyr, it is 19:25 on day 20, month 12, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
It's after dinner and while some members of the weyr remain in the living cavern for the most part it is quiet. People are settled into little groups with most of them being by the fire. Winter is here and people are smart enough to find the warmth where they can. However, not everyone is so interested in it. Or not interested in the crowds it brings. Miniyal has found a less attractive spot nearish the tunnel leading to the bowl. Not close enough to be truly cold it does get a chill ever now and again. A cup sits on the table along with a book that she is writing it. Every once in awhile someone will look her way, but she sits alone.
It's a tired-looking Journeyman that emerges from the tunnel that leads to the infirmary. He's wearing his cassock, but unusually, the entirety of its long front is unbuttoned. It hangs on him like a thin coat, a plain blue tunic beneath, along with typical black pants. He seems disoriented for a moment, loitering near the infirmary's exit, eyeing the dinner crowd with displeased surprise. He raises his hand to his face and briefly rubs his eyes with his fingertips. Once he's finished grinding his eyeballs into their sockets, he plots a trajectory that takes him around the bulk of the crowd to where he can fetch a mug, and disappear towards a hearth to gain some hot water. Of course, he supplies his own herbs - he retrieves a small satchel of them from his beltpouch, drops them into the mug, and pours hot water atop. Still seeming to be running on some sort of automatic compulsion, he weaves around chairs and bodies and goes to his alone spot, only to find it preoccupied. Miniyal is given the once-over, and the Journeyman with dark circles under his eyes gives the goldrider a slow nod. "Do...would my company be unappreciated?" He gestures at an empty chair with his mug.
If she had known she was in someone's spot likely she would not have sat there. At the words Miniyal lifts her head from what she writes and blinks. "Oh. Neiran. Please, sit down. I am not using the whole table." One hand gestures to the table that is empty other than for her. Reaching for her mug she peers into it and then pushes it away. "You look tired. Has it been a rough day?" Someone else might have gotten asked if it was a long day, but perhaps she doesn't feel like risking him pointing out that all days are the same length.
"Thank you." Neiran puts his mug down and slides into the seat he's picked to occupy, his back to the rest of the room. Maybe if he can't see them, he can ignore them. Miniyal is given a flat look as she tactfully points out his appearance, but there's no venom in the flat stare whatsoever. "It has been...unexpectedly difficult." The long pause before the words, and the vagueness of them suggests some degree of unusualness, but his expression is resigned. An expected, surprising difficulty, it would seem. Thin, pale fingers curl around the mug's warmth, draw it close. Shoulders hunkered a little, the man regards his brewing tea with a wan expression, and asks it blandly, "how was your day, Weyrling?"
"Ah. Well, I hope there are no more unexpected difficulties to your day then." Miniyal picks through her words. She pays careful attention to them as she takes up her mug this time to have a drink. Setting it back down she takes up her pen again and dips it into the ink well by her book. As he settles down into his seat and arranges himself to his liking she writes. Only when he asks his question does she lift her head so she might look at him. "The same as every other day has been." Once she's answered she looks back at her writing again, rereading what is on the page. She adds a line and then sets down the pen to fold her hands on the table by the book.
"There shall not be. Not today." Neiran sounds sure of that, at least. One of his thin pinkies traces a repetitive line along the half-circle of his mug's brim. The Journeyman purses his lips while he does that, his eyelids falling to half-mast as if he could fall asleep while sitting before the gold weyrling. He seems to remember himself after a fluttered series of blinks, lifting his head to focus on the woman's face. "Do you find...yourself much changed, with the addition of Peloth to your daily experience?" He's grasping at small talk, with debatable effectiveness.
Luckily for him he's grasping at something his tablemate has never quite managed herself. It means any mistakes will either be entirely missed or ignored. Miniyal shakes her head slowly and then stops, nodding. "Yes. It is not the same. Sometimes it is very disconcerting. Sometimes, already, I don't even notice until she makes me." Taking up her pen she doesn't write with it, but studies it instead. When it no longer holds her interest she sets it down and folds her hands again, twisting the ring worn on her left hand around and around. "Sometimes I think she's all that keeps me together these days." Blink. Looking up she shakes her head. "Sorry. Nevermind."
Neiran watches Miniyal's calm fidgetings, his dark eyes tracking her hands. His eyes remain at half mast, his whole expression and posture vastly sedated, the sharp edges of his actions and glances utterly dulled. It's like his own soporific voice has lulled him to this state, but some stress earlier or even a herbal component is more believable than the healer singing lullabies to himself, or engaging in a lengthy monologue, surely. He flicks his eyes to her face due to those last comments, but inevitably they sink to his tea again. He wets throat with a slow sip before responding. "I have nothing to say that could potentially comfort you, other than an adage which the Hall teaches its apprentices: 'time heals all wounds.'" That he doesn't watch her face for her reaction shows he doesn't put much stock in it, or the extent of his tiredness.
"Yea, I've been told that. But when you ask how long no one has an answer, you know?" Miniyal snorts softly as she continues to twist her ring. It's this that earns her attention and not the person she speaks to. As if it doesn't matter whom it is she speaks with. Just going through the motions. "I mean, why do people say stupid things and expect it to. . .I don't know. I don't understand why people don't just tell the truth. Like, 'Sure, it feels like your heart has been ripped from your chest and danced on and left out to be picked over by animals but it doesn't matter. Life is going to go on no matter what. Get over it because no one cares.' But, no. No one just says that. And that's the truth."
"The answer is approximately two turns. One to work through the recognized phases of grief, and another to weather the first year of recovery. However, the new equilibrium - the new normal - can never be as it was before." The healer looks up from his mug, eyelids lifting from their half-lidded state. "Despite how stubbornly men and women may wish to cling to the negative emotions that they feel justified in experiencing, it is more exhausting than letting go, ultimately. I believe that is the truth." The Journeyman straightens a little, visibly trying to rouse himself so that his sentiments aren't put forth with a sloppy delivery. Neiran leans back, eliminating the stoop of his shoulders. He slides his hands away from his mug, and sees to buttoning up the front of his cassock, uniting the two halves of dark fabric in a long ascent towards the raised collar. "I would not say no one cares. I would say they care about your return to normalcy, though perhaps not about what you are experiencing now."
Miniyal's eyes remain down on her hands so his delivery no matter the style is not noticed. Instead she just watches the ring go around and around on her finger. "Two turns?" Well, that is clearly too long, but she doesn't seem to want to argue it. "Have you ever mourned anyone? I don't think it is that simple. I mean, it's not- It's not like when someone knows they're being self-destructive they can just stop it. I mean. . .it's just not that simple. Wait. People study that sort of thing? I mean, that would be a depressing sort of study. Not that it matters I guess. I'm sorry, Neiran. I'm having a hard time communicating these days." She pauses and looks over a minute with a shrug. "More than normal I suppose. I'm horrible company. if you would rather I left you alone you only have to say. I will leave you be."
"And here I had feared that it was I who was the lacking conversationalist in this exchange." He doesn't need to explain why; Miniyal's already pointed out how tired he looks. The Journeyman waves a thin hand in a vague, winding motion, a little less graceful and more wavering than usual, but it's clearly meant as a dismissive gesture nonetheless. "I have mourned," he replies, "though admittedly my connection to the deceased was not as...strong as yours." Neiran lifts the tea to his lips, and only now realizes the herb satchel is still bobbing in it. He removes it, and simply sets it on the wood of the table without so much as glancing around for a saucer. "Yes, it is studied. Preliminary examinations of grief responses is a required part of healer apprenticeship. Those going into mindhealing study it more in-depth." He looks up from addressing the table, from watching the tea color the grains of the wood. It's already darkened by the spillage of generations of dragonriders past; a little tea won't hurt it. "If one has the ability to recognize they are being self-destructive, they can choose to stop it," he states, disagreeing with the woman in his quiet, patient way. "All it requires is sufficient will."
"I have never had any complaints about your conversational skills." Miniyal reaches for her mug without looking and whatever is in it she drinks. Cold klah likely considering how long she has been sitting here. Once it is empty she sets it down and shakes her head. Now she can resume playing with her ring. Twist, twist, twist. "When someone you are close to dies- I mean, it's different. It's just sort of like-" Stopping again she sighs. "I don't even know how to explain it. I suppose I probably could do so without my words being colored excessively by my current emotional state." A visible lack of emotional state is clearly an emotional state. Just a different sort. Blinking down at her hands she stops toying with her ring and laces her fingers together. "What if that's all you have? Self-destructive behavior? I mean. . .nothing. Nevermind."
"You do realize that when one quickly negates a statement just made, that it only draws the listener's attention more sharply to what was said, I assume." Look what Caucus has taught the boy. After a vague attempt at lifting his brow, Neiran exhales, and belatedly fastens the final three buttons of his cassock. "Much commonly accepted human behavior is self-destructive. Certain eating habits, alcohol, relationships, activities...the more blatantly self-destructive acts are no different. It is never all you have. It merely takes a shift in perception to recognize what else it is that remains. Though I would not know from any /firsthand/ experience." There's a slight emphasis on that word, intended or not. The Journeyman's anything but self-destructive, a distinction he usually never fails to highlight.
Head tilting over to one side her attention is drawn up from her hands to look at the healer. "Really? Commonly accepted theories hold that a person who remains apart by choice from those surrounding him is doing himself harm." Miniyal takes no joy in saying this like, perhaps, she might have once upon a time. It is just something she points out. "You remain aloof from what goes on around you. You never seem to truly experience life with someone else. That would be deemed self-destructive by some. I've read texts about it I could quote if you preferred, but I do not have them at hand so could not guarantee accuracy." Everything said is enough and she lets out a sigh, dismissing her argument with a wave of her hand. "Sometimes it's only pain that makes someone feel like they’re still alive."
"I have read those theories," Neiran replies. It's a quick response on the cusp of being a retort; a little too quickly said to be nonchalant, but a little too devoid of ire to be a genuine rebuff. "Introversion and pathological seclusion and anthropophobia are not the same thing, and the fact that I am engaging in conversation with you now proves I do not suffer from either of the latter." He came armed with that reply; doubtless it's not the first time his habits have been pointed out to him. He doesn't seem as ready to let drop the argument as Miniyal is, his eyes regaining some of their usual focus as he wakes up, stimulated by the conversation, whatever's in his tea, or both. "I disagree with the statement you have just made. Pain is only a physical response; to rely on it for any comprehension of sentient living is incorrect."
"I feel sort of bad I couldn't come up with something you haven't heard before. I have made no real study of the topic. I have only read what we have here in records." Miniyal shrugs at this and closes her book. Likely, she was just waiting to be sure the ink was dry before doing such a thing. Since she is done writing the ink is recapped as well and her things stacked up neatly together before her. "Pain is not just physical, Neiran. I could cut myself and it would hurt, but it would not be painful. Not the sort of pain that, were I one who slept, would have me not wanting to wake up in the morning. Pain is loss. The sort of loss that you try not to let consume you and aren't really sure you can stop it. Or even if you want to some days. But at least I know if the emptiness inside me is due to loss and causes pain that I'm not dead inside."
There are many things that Neiran could say in reply. It's like a chess board with a near-infinite possibility of moves lays before him. He has to weigh each one properly, dart down every mental avenue before choosing a path to actually walk. As such, he dawdles in silence. He has the courtesy to occupy his mouth with drinking tea so he's not simply staring at Miniyal in silence without explanation. At last, he murmurs over the brim of his cooling beverage, "only necrotizing fasciitis truly makes you dead inside. You will live, and enjoy yourself again when you allow yourself to." That must be rich, coming from a guy who never smiles. "Peloth will help, undoubtedly."
Rather than worry at her ring Miniyal lifts a hand to touch the necklace worn. Finding the stone she rubs her thumb over it before letting her hand fall once more. "Yes. Supposedly she will." Clearly she disbelieves this although tone barely alters from what it was. "You're too literal minded to understand. You try so hard to see things that way. Or appear to. Sometimes. . .sometimes it's not so simple. No, there is nothing physically wrong with me. . .well, there might be, but nothing that causes me pain. But, that doesn't change the fact that I stare at each new day and can't feel anything but indifference about how it goes. Emotionally I am dead inside. I thought in the past I had felt something similar, but I was wrong. There is nothing like this. I let him die." Closing her eyes she pulls her hands into her lap where they fold together. "It's my fault I feel this way. If I could stop it without hurting her I would."
The Journeyman's lips press together. "I do not see how you have anything to do with a heart condition, Miniyal. Blaming yourself is not uncommon in situations like these, but I would advise you to seek whatever help necessary to overcome that inclination."
"There is no help for it." Miniyal shakes her head as she lifts her hands from her lap and pulls her things closer, protectively. Or just preparing to flee the conversation. "No one can tell me a lie and make it better. No one can make me believe what isn't the truth. And the truth is I let him down and he died. Because I wasn't doing what I should have. I just have to live with it for the rest of my life. Knowing he's dead because of me."
"If that's the belief you choose to live with for the rest of your life, then I am afraid you will be clinging to a fallacy," Neiran says. Gently, but firmly: his tone for the terminally ill. He rises from the table, picks his drying satchel of herbs up from the tabletop, and drops it into the mug. The lack of a splash shows that the mug's empty, tea finished some time ago. The healer reflexively smoothes the front of his cassock, his narrow chest shrinking as he exhales slowly. "I beg your pardon, but I have an assignment due tomorrow." A perceptive person could see that, however it might sound, this isn't an excuse. He pauses, hesitating in his resolved departure for a moment. "Today is...the nineteenth, correct?" The stupidity of that question smarts the Journeyman, makes his brows furrow a little.
Since he is rising, she remains seated. One person is allowed to leave the table and he is given the honor since he took it first. "No. The twentieth." Miniyal glances up for just a moment at the healer standing at her table. "Two months." Since he died. That doesn't need saying. Not from her. She just looks back down at her hands atop her book.
The Journeyman seems surprised, then displeased by the news of the date. He flicks his gaze towards the tunnel through which he came, then looks at the gold Weyrling again. "Twenty-four months maximum before a new equilibrium. Good evening." Looking only a little better than he did when he came in, the Journeyman gives her the respect of a bow, then stalks off. Unsurprisingly, it's back to the infirmary tunnel he goes, at a quick pace - for whatever reason, the healer's missed a day.
Where: Living cavern
When: Post dinnertime on day 20, month 12, turn 3 of the 7th pass.
What: Miniyal is seated alone in the living cavern when a healer invades her space. Considering the healer in question it is an odd conversation.
Note: I just want to say here for all to see that I <3 Nibbler. This was such an awesome scene.
6/16/2007
At High Reaches Weyr, it is 19:25 on day 20, month 12, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
It's after dinner and while some members of the weyr remain in the living cavern for the most part it is quiet. People are settled into little groups with most of them being by the fire. Winter is here and people are smart enough to find the warmth where they can. However, not everyone is so interested in it. Or not interested in the crowds it brings. Miniyal has found a less attractive spot nearish the tunnel leading to the bowl. Not close enough to be truly cold it does get a chill ever now and again. A cup sits on the table along with a book that she is writing it. Every once in awhile someone will look her way, but she sits alone.
It's a tired-looking Journeyman that emerges from the tunnel that leads to the infirmary. He's wearing his cassock, but unusually, the entirety of its long front is unbuttoned. It hangs on him like a thin coat, a plain blue tunic beneath, along with typical black pants. He seems disoriented for a moment, loitering near the infirmary's exit, eyeing the dinner crowd with displeased surprise. He raises his hand to his face and briefly rubs his eyes with his fingertips. Once he's finished grinding his eyeballs into their sockets, he plots a trajectory that takes him around the bulk of the crowd to where he can fetch a mug, and disappear towards a hearth to gain some hot water. Of course, he supplies his own herbs - he retrieves a small satchel of them from his beltpouch, drops them into the mug, and pours hot water atop. Still seeming to be running on some sort of automatic compulsion, he weaves around chairs and bodies and goes to his alone spot, only to find it preoccupied. Miniyal is given the once-over, and the Journeyman with dark circles under his eyes gives the goldrider a slow nod. "Do...would my company be unappreciated?" He gestures at an empty chair with his mug.
If she had known she was in someone's spot likely she would not have sat there. At the words Miniyal lifts her head from what she writes and blinks. "Oh. Neiran. Please, sit down. I am not using the whole table." One hand gestures to the table that is empty other than for her. Reaching for her mug she peers into it and then pushes it away. "You look tired. Has it been a rough day?" Someone else might have gotten asked if it was a long day, but perhaps she doesn't feel like risking him pointing out that all days are the same length.
"Thank you." Neiran puts his mug down and slides into the seat he's picked to occupy, his back to the rest of the room. Maybe if he can't see them, he can ignore them. Miniyal is given a flat look as she tactfully points out his appearance, but there's no venom in the flat stare whatsoever. "It has been...unexpectedly difficult." The long pause before the words, and the vagueness of them suggests some degree of unusualness, but his expression is resigned. An expected, surprising difficulty, it would seem. Thin, pale fingers curl around the mug's warmth, draw it close. Shoulders hunkered a little, the man regards his brewing tea with a wan expression, and asks it blandly, "how was your day, Weyrling?"
"Ah. Well, I hope there are no more unexpected difficulties to your day then." Miniyal picks through her words. She pays careful attention to them as she takes up her mug this time to have a drink. Setting it back down she takes up her pen again and dips it into the ink well by her book. As he settles down into his seat and arranges himself to his liking she writes. Only when he asks his question does she lift her head so she might look at him. "The same as every other day has been." Once she's answered she looks back at her writing again, rereading what is on the page. She adds a line and then sets down the pen to fold her hands on the table by the book.
"There shall not be. Not today." Neiran sounds sure of that, at least. One of his thin pinkies traces a repetitive line along the half-circle of his mug's brim. The Journeyman purses his lips while he does that, his eyelids falling to half-mast as if he could fall asleep while sitting before the gold weyrling. He seems to remember himself after a fluttered series of blinks, lifting his head to focus on the woman's face. "Do you find...yourself much changed, with the addition of Peloth to your daily experience?" He's grasping at small talk, with debatable effectiveness.
Luckily for him he's grasping at something his tablemate has never quite managed herself. It means any mistakes will either be entirely missed or ignored. Miniyal shakes her head slowly and then stops, nodding. "Yes. It is not the same. Sometimes it is very disconcerting. Sometimes, already, I don't even notice until she makes me." Taking up her pen she doesn't write with it, but studies it instead. When it no longer holds her interest she sets it down and folds her hands again, twisting the ring worn on her left hand around and around. "Sometimes I think she's all that keeps me together these days." Blink. Looking up she shakes her head. "Sorry. Nevermind."
Neiran watches Miniyal's calm fidgetings, his dark eyes tracking her hands. His eyes remain at half mast, his whole expression and posture vastly sedated, the sharp edges of his actions and glances utterly dulled. It's like his own soporific voice has lulled him to this state, but some stress earlier or even a herbal component is more believable than the healer singing lullabies to himself, or engaging in a lengthy monologue, surely. He flicks his eyes to her face due to those last comments, but inevitably they sink to his tea again. He wets throat with a slow sip before responding. "I have nothing to say that could potentially comfort you, other than an adage which the Hall teaches its apprentices: 'time heals all wounds.'" That he doesn't watch her face for her reaction shows he doesn't put much stock in it, or the extent of his tiredness.
"Yea, I've been told that. But when you ask how long no one has an answer, you know?" Miniyal snorts softly as she continues to twist her ring. It's this that earns her attention and not the person she speaks to. As if it doesn't matter whom it is she speaks with. Just going through the motions. "I mean, why do people say stupid things and expect it to. . .I don't know. I don't understand why people don't just tell the truth. Like, 'Sure, it feels like your heart has been ripped from your chest and danced on and left out to be picked over by animals but it doesn't matter. Life is going to go on no matter what. Get over it because no one cares.' But, no. No one just says that. And that's the truth."
"The answer is approximately two turns. One to work through the recognized phases of grief, and another to weather the first year of recovery. However, the new equilibrium - the new normal - can never be as it was before." The healer looks up from his mug, eyelids lifting from their half-lidded state. "Despite how stubbornly men and women may wish to cling to the negative emotions that they feel justified in experiencing, it is more exhausting than letting go, ultimately. I believe that is the truth." The Journeyman straightens a little, visibly trying to rouse himself so that his sentiments aren't put forth with a sloppy delivery. Neiran leans back, eliminating the stoop of his shoulders. He slides his hands away from his mug, and sees to buttoning up the front of his cassock, uniting the two halves of dark fabric in a long ascent towards the raised collar. "I would not say no one cares. I would say they care about your return to normalcy, though perhaps not about what you are experiencing now."
Miniyal's eyes remain down on her hands so his delivery no matter the style is not noticed. Instead she just watches the ring go around and around on her finger. "Two turns?" Well, that is clearly too long, but she doesn't seem to want to argue it. "Have you ever mourned anyone? I don't think it is that simple. I mean, it's not- It's not like when someone knows they're being self-destructive they can just stop it. I mean. . .it's just not that simple. Wait. People study that sort of thing? I mean, that would be a depressing sort of study. Not that it matters I guess. I'm sorry, Neiran. I'm having a hard time communicating these days." She pauses and looks over a minute with a shrug. "More than normal I suppose. I'm horrible company. if you would rather I left you alone you only have to say. I will leave you be."
"And here I had feared that it was I who was the lacking conversationalist in this exchange." He doesn't need to explain why; Miniyal's already pointed out how tired he looks. The Journeyman waves a thin hand in a vague, winding motion, a little less graceful and more wavering than usual, but it's clearly meant as a dismissive gesture nonetheless. "I have mourned," he replies, "though admittedly my connection to the deceased was not as...strong as yours." Neiran lifts the tea to his lips, and only now realizes the herb satchel is still bobbing in it. He removes it, and simply sets it on the wood of the table without so much as glancing around for a saucer. "Yes, it is studied. Preliminary examinations of grief responses is a required part of healer apprenticeship. Those going into mindhealing study it more in-depth." He looks up from addressing the table, from watching the tea color the grains of the wood. It's already darkened by the spillage of generations of dragonriders past; a little tea won't hurt it. "If one has the ability to recognize they are being self-destructive, they can choose to stop it," he states, disagreeing with the woman in his quiet, patient way. "All it requires is sufficient will."
"I have never had any complaints about your conversational skills." Miniyal reaches for her mug without looking and whatever is in it she drinks. Cold klah likely considering how long she has been sitting here. Once it is empty she sets it down and shakes her head. Now she can resume playing with her ring. Twist, twist, twist. "When someone you are close to dies- I mean, it's different. It's just sort of like-" Stopping again she sighs. "I don't even know how to explain it. I suppose I probably could do so without my words being colored excessively by my current emotional state." A visible lack of emotional state is clearly an emotional state. Just a different sort. Blinking down at her hands she stops toying with her ring and laces her fingers together. "What if that's all you have? Self-destructive behavior? I mean. . .nothing. Nevermind."
"You do realize that when one quickly negates a statement just made, that it only draws the listener's attention more sharply to what was said, I assume." Look what Caucus has taught the boy. After a vague attempt at lifting his brow, Neiran exhales, and belatedly fastens the final three buttons of his cassock. "Much commonly accepted human behavior is self-destructive. Certain eating habits, alcohol, relationships, activities...the more blatantly self-destructive acts are no different. It is never all you have. It merely takes a shift in perception to recognize what else it is that remains. Though I would not know from any /firsthand/ experience." There's a slight emphasis on that word, intended or not. The Journeyman's anything but self-destructive, a distinction he usually never fails to highlight.
Head tilting over to one side her attention is drawn up from her hands to look at the healer. "Really? Commonly accepted theories hold that a person who remains apart by choice from those surrounding him is doing himself harm." Miniyal takes no joy in saying this like, perhaps, she might have once upon a time. It is just something she points out. "You remain aloof from what goes on around you. You never seem to truly experience life with someone else. That would be deemed self-destructive by some. I've read texts about it I could quote if you preferred, but I do not have them at hand so could not guarantee accuracy." Everything said is enough and she lets out a sigh, dismissing her argument with a wave of her hand. "Sometimes it's only pain that makes someone feel like they’re still alive."
"I have read those theories," Neiran replies. It's a quick response on the cusp of being a retort; a little too quickly said to be nonchalant, but a little too devoid of ire to be a genuine rebuff. "Introversion and pathological seclusion and anthropophobia are not the same thing, and the fact that I am engaging in conversation with you now proves I do not suffer from either of the latter." He came armed with that reply; doubtless it's not the first time his habits have been pointed out to him. He doesn't seem as ready to let drop the argument as Miniyal is, his eyes regaining some of their usual focus as he wakes up, stimulated by the conversation, whatever's in his tea, or both. "I disagree with the statement you have just made. Pain is only a physical response; to rely on it for any comprehension of sentient living is incorrect."
"I feel sort of bad I couldn't come up with something you haven't heard before. I have made no real study of the topic. I have only read what we have here in records." Miniyal shrugs at this and closes her book. Likely, she was just waiting to be sure the ink was dry before doing such a thing. Since she is done writing the ink is recapped as well and her things stacked up neatly together before her. "Pain is not just physical, Neiran. I could cut myself and it would hurt, but it would not be painful. Not the sort of pain that, were I one who slept, would have me not wanting to wake up in the morning. Pain is loss. The sort of loss that you try not to let consume you and aren't really sure you can stop it. Or even if you want to some days. But at least I know if the emptiness inside me is due to loss and causes pain that I'm not dead inside."
There are many things that Neiran could say in reply. It's like a chess board with a near-infinite possibility of moves lays before him. He has to weigh each one properly, dart down every mental avenue before choosing a path to actually walk. As such, he dawdles in silence. He has the courtesy to occupy his mouth with drinking tea so he's not simply staring at Miniyal in silence without explanation. At last, he murmurs over the brim of his cooling beverage, "only necrotizing fasciitis truly makes you dead inside. You will live, and enjoy yourself again when you allow yourself to." That must be rich, coming from a guy who never smiles. "Peloth will help, undoubtedly."
Rather than worry at her ring Miniyal lifts a hand to touch the necklace worn. Finding the stone she rubs her thumb over it before letting her hand fall once more. "Yes. Supposedly she will." Clearly she disbelieves this although tone barely alters from what it was. "You're too literal minded to understand. You try so hard to see things that way. Or appear to. Sometimes. . .sometimes it's not so simple. No, there is nothing physically wrong with me. . .well, there might be, but nothing that causes me pain. But, that doesn't change the fact that I stare at each new day and can't feel anything but indifference about how it goes. Emotionally I am dead inside. I thought in the past I had felt something similar, but I was wrong. There is nothing like this. I let him die." Closing her eyes she pulls her hands into her lap where they fold together. "It's my fault I feel this way. If I could stop it without hurting her I would."
The Journeyman's lips press together. "I do not see how you have anything to do with a heart condition, Miniyal. Blaming yourself is not uncommon in situations like these, but I would advise you to seek whatever help necessary to overcome that inclination."
"There is no help for it." Miniyal shakes her head as she lifts her hands from her lap and pulls her things closer, protectively. Or just preparing to flee the conversation. "No one can tell me a lie and make it better. No one can make me believe what isn't the truth. And the truth is I let him down and he died. Because I wasn't doing what I should have. I just have to live with it for the rest of my life. Knowing he's dead because of me."
"If that's the belief you choose to live with for the rest of your life, then I am afraid you will be clinging to a fallacy," Neiran says. Gently, but firmly: his tone for the terminally ill. He rises from the table, picks his drying satchel of herbs up from the tabletop, and drops it into the mug. The lack of a splash shows that the mug's empty, tea finished some time ago. The healer reflexively smoothes the front of his cassock, his narrow chest shrinking as he exhales slowly. "I beg your pardon, but I have an assignment due tomorrow." A perceptive person could see that, however it might sound, this isn't an excuse. He pauses, hesitating in his resolved departure for a moment. "Today is...the nineteenth, correct?" The stupidity of that question smarts the Journeyman, makes his brows furrow a little.
Since he is rising, she remains seated. One person is allowed to leave the table and he is given the honor since he took it first. "No. The twentieth." Miniyal glances up for just a moment at the healer standing at her table. "Two months." Since he died. That doesn't need saying. Not from her. She just looks back down at her hands atop her book.
The Journeyman seems surprised, then displeased by the news of the date. He flicks his gaze towards the tunnel through which he came, then looks at the gold Weyrling again. "Twenty-four months maximum before a new equilibrium. Good evening." Looking only a little better than he did when he came in, the Journeyman gives her the respect of a bow, then stalks off. Unsurprisingly, it's back to the infirmary tunnel he goes, at a quick pace - for whatever reason, the healer's missed a day.