(no subject)
Who: Sefton and Neiran.
What: Neiran presents an interesting book report.
When: Shortly after the last scene. I'm good with times, right?
Where: Sefton's quarters.
Background: This is one of my all-time favourite logs, and is vintage Sefton and Neiran. It's an important moment, and sets up a great deal of what will happen later. Remember how Sefton was tutoring Neiran each week, giving him a book to read and then discussing it? Seeing as how he was in a cruel mood, last time he gave Neiran one of Bailie's trashy romances to read. Here is the result.
Sefton is expecting his visitor. The door is wide open, and he's standing at the desk, leaning over a tray. It holds the makings of two cups of tea, and the instructor is currently inspecting a small packet of something, holding it up to inhale its scent.
Neiran comes up to the door, clad in the usual garb he wears when not tending to Healer's duties. His hair, as usual, is tied back neatly. In those respects, he appears as coiffed as usual. However, his expressionless mask is a little thinner than usual, some measure of disgruntlement at the fore instead. The book is in his hand, and he comes up short as he discovers the door wide open. He blinks for a moment, then steps over the threshold after that hesitation, and attempt to muster more composure. "Instructor," he says, by way of greeting as well as announcement of his presence.
"Neiran," Sefton offers by way of greeting, without turning his head. "Come and smell this, tell me if it's likely to set off a headache." He does turn then, holding out the small package of tea for the other man to take. "It's very mild, I should think it's inoffensive enough. Still, I wouldn't want to take the edge off your anaylsis." His lips quirk up in amusement, and if the smile isn't entirely kind, it's not entirely unkind either.
Neiran approaches, laying the book aside once he reaches the table. He eyes the package quizzically, though his instructor somewhat moreso. Nevertheless, he reaches forth and takes the package. It is given a long, deep, purposeful exhale, eyes closed whilst he places the scents, and summons to mind the medicinal properties of the herbs contained within. His eyes open, dark orbs downcast upon the packet, and his hand reaches it back towards the instructor. "Nothing which would agitate a headache, instructor. I must warn you my analysis will likely be lacking, however."
"Good." Sefton breaks the seal more completely, lifting the lid of the teapot and emptying half the contents inside, then closing it against the steam that wafts out. "You distress me though, Neiran. I've had a trying day, and I've been looking forward to an intelligent conversation." Abandoning his tea-making, he turns to settle himself back against the edge of the desk, arms folded over his chest. "Explain."
Neiran lifts his eyes from the tea, examining Sefton's expression and posture for signs of this alleged trial before this hour, seeking minutiae that might offer hint towards what kind of adversity the Bollian had met. "My apologies," he murmurs, gaze flowing to the teapot once again. "You asked me to think of why anyone would read such...such a thing. I can assure you, reading that was very discomforting to me, and I'm left with little hypothesis as to how any one could actually enjoy it."
"Neiran, Neiran, don't tell me this." Sefton sounds sorely tried, fixing a look more suited to a frustrated parent than anything else on the healer. "I've spent the last pair of hours trying to hammer the simplest of concepts..." He breaks off, unfolding his arms to dismiss that problem with a wave of one hand. "See this, here?" He reaches out to tap a stack of three books that sits on the corner of his desk, drumming a finger against it. "If you can't give me a decent report, this is your next sevenday's reading. Would you like to look it over?"
Sefton's weariness inspires some more effort within the young man. He'd come here in a bit of a tiff, not looking forward to the topic of discussion at all, really, and therefore reluctant to give voice to his opinions. He presses his thin lips together, mustering resolve for the sake of intelligent discussion to come. He still wishes to weigh his decisions, however, and so reaches for the first book on the stack, to wordlessly flip through. The quantity of three does not frighten him, though he's worried the contents might.
And indeed, though the quantity will not pose a problem, the quality surely will. More of just the same -- names, professions and settings have changed, but the stories don't differ an inch from his most recent reading. Sefton's smile regains that slightly unkind twist as he turns away to tend the tea once more, lifting the lid to check on the progress of the liquid. "You will be comforted to know that Bailie seems to have an almost infinite supply of those things," he murmurs, amusement colouring his lazy drawl. "I know you'd hate to be defeated, so you can take as many as you need to reach insight."
Neiran shuts the book's cover firmly, and replaces it on top of the stack. "I think, for the purpose of my mental and gastrointestinal health, I'll endeavor to do my best now." He sucks in a breath of air between his teeth, and exhales lengthily. "Personal opinion of the book aside, I can only surmise that girls read that sort of thing for the sake of foolish hope, and entertainment. It's highly idealized, as a method of escapism." He glances at his instructor out of the corner of his eye, to see if he's grasped at a correct thread of thought, or otherwise.
"Neiran." Sefton uses the other man's name again, this time to indicate disapproval. "That is exactly the sort of review I asked you not to bring me. They're quite obviously entertainment, they're equally obviously escapism." The tea is deemed ready, and he begins to pour, continuing in a more even tone. "Why is it that they find the books entertaining? Why do they provide an escape? What aspect of plot, writing, characterisation -- if we can call it that -- offers that up to them? I hoped not to have to ask you these questions." If Sefton was relaxed and familiar seven days ago, reaching out the hand of friendship, this evening he's far more the instructor, far less the sympathetic conversational companion.
Neiran lifts one arm, supporting an elbow, while his hand hovers in front of his mouth. Fingertips hover by thin lips, eyes finding another focus point in the flow of steaming tea which the man pours. "The writing is simple to suit the plot, yet elegantly stated, to enliven the imagination. I imagine the female reader imagines herself in the place of the heroine, and as such, the...men are particularly detailed in demeanor and appearance." Here, the Healer frowns. "Some readers likely hope that such a situation, of being wooed and entranced, will happen to them in their lifetime. Others must realize that is simply an impossibility, but allow themselves this slice of cake even if they cannot digest the entire thing." Blinking somewhat frustratedly, he lowers his eyes. "I feel as though I'm simply stating the obvious, instructor. It seems foolish that one would waste their time with such readings. There are more productive things to read, and such subject matter can only lead one down the path of false hopes."
"Mmmmm." This is all Sefton responds for a long moment, before he slides one cup across the desk in Neiran's direction. Taking up his own, he lifts it to inhale the steam slowly, eyes shut, profile less animated than usual as he relaxes for a moment. Then his lashes lift, and he speaks again. "You are quite right, Neiran. There are certainly more profitable things to read. If we assume for a moment that not all the readers of these books are silly enough to fail to realise this, then we must look further, and ask ourselves why they choose to spend time on a less productive pursuit."
Neiran indulges in a similar moment of tea fume appreciation, head bent over his mug whilst Sefton does likewise. He keeps the mug aloft below his chin, so the steam will waft up and wreathe his face to warm it and entrench him in the citrus fragrance. "Perhaps...to compare themselves to the characters within the book itself, or to analyse their behavior and use it in social situations? I'd never read such a thing before that book," he says, feeling the need to justify his lack of acute insight. "Or...perhaps they simply wish to be unproductive." So alien is this concept, although he knows others do enjoy it, that it causes the corners of his mouth to turn downwards in mild distaste. "It engages their imagination, perhaps makes them feel free of the day's burdens. If they're not foolish enough to uselessly hope, perhaps they entertain a sense of whimsy that's relaxing to them?"
"Indeed. Perhaps they find some merit in relaxing," Sefton agrees, without a hint of irony. "Sit, Neiran, this might take a while." He turns to prop himself against the desk, nursing his cup between both hands as he chooses his words. "I would venture to suggest that they do find the books both comforting and relaxing. If this is the case, then certain insights regarding their personalities can be gleaned from that knowledge. Do you agree?"
Neiran lowers himself into the chair, mug balanced expertly for his slow descent. The irony does not escape him, but he chooses not to make comment on relaxation - that's not the matter at hand, here. He knows this lesson has a point, and he wishes to get to it, so that all the trouble of wading through that novel will come to fruit. "Yes, I agree. I recall that was your initial aim when you gave me the assignment, in the first place. I would postulate that someone who reads such material is dissatisfied with her current lot in life, is perhaps a little naive, and not very pragmatic." Realizing belatedly that these books have been gotten from the collection of this man's fiance, he 'ahems' softly.
Sefton laughs outright, tilting his head back and taking his time over returning to his former seriousness. There's a slight softening in his expression as he rakes his hair back from his eyes. "Oh Neiran, you have a gift." For what, he does not say. "So you would postulate. Would the insight you gain in such a fashion prompt you to deal with the readers of these books in any particular fashion?" Finally he samples a mouthful of his tea, using both hands to bring the cup to his mouth -- no finely bred holding of his teacup here.
His instructor's laughter is regarded suspiciously, guardedness deepening with vague remarks about what gifts he might have. Detecting possible sarcasm, his spindly fingers tighten their grip upon his mug, and he bows his head to the steam so that his discomfiture will not be regarded directly. In that posture, he contemplates his instructor's question. "I...no. It would not prompt me to deal with them any differently. I do not 'deal' with people very often. I imagine they might be susceptible to wooing," he adds as an afterthought, lip curling somewhat facetiously, though likely fairly embittered that he's not having incredible success with this assignment. Neiran takes a soft sip of tea, to discover if it's cool enough to drink.
"Mmmmm." Something in what Neiran says fails to please Sefton. "If you persist in believing that you don't and won't have to 'deal' with people, Neiran, there is very little I can do for you. You are intelligent, and you are analytical. I do not accept that you fail to see the point in adapting your approach to apply in different ways to different parties." Another, larger mouthful of tea, and he pushes away from the desk to stand. "Is it vanity? Would it be lowering yourself, to join in on the great game the others play?"
"I am not vain," Neiran states, sitting up straighter in his chair. "I have little to be vain about, so such feeling would be a waste of time." He lowers his mug to his thigh, balancing it there with both hands bracing the ceramic curve of it to absorb the warmth. "I have nothing that I want from others, and they have nothing they want from me. There is no reason to adapt my approach. From what I have played of the 'game,' I discovered I was poor at it, and was unwelcome on the board. So, I no longer play." He swallows, lips pressed together tautly, eyes avoiding Sefton's form.
Sefton laughs again, shaking his head -- his hair falls into his eyes, and he rakes it back slowly. "Neiran, you're intelligent and skilled in your craft. Many have managed vanity on far less." Having veered between amusement and disapproval for much of the conversation, he seems now to settle on amusement. "If you see no reason to engage with the rest of the world, however, no reason to attempt to improve rather than withdraw, then I fear I may have fairly seriously over-estimated you."
Neiran, apparently, is having difficulty of some sort. It's miserable when your own logic is pointed out to you, and tossed in the face of irrational emotion. "I am attempting to improve," he informs the man begrudgingly. "I am endeavoring to pay especial attention during my Manners course." However much it puts him ill at ease, to be surrounded by those already leagues ahead of him in social relations. "I am sorry, instructor. I shouldn't be so adversarial when you're spending your time in tutoring me. After an allegedly difficult day, as well. My...half-brother mocked me when he realized what I was reading. It's predisposed me to irritability." Knowing the tea might help him relax, he takes another restorative sip. "A lady who reads such material...might be won by flattery, herself, unless she is intelligent enough to be guarded against the very thing which she reads about. Observation of her around others might suggest which type she is." He attempts to return to the lesson at hand, if he might.
"Neiran, I have been trying to coax you for the last pair of months to be adversarial," Sefton murmurs in amused reproof. "If my efforts are at last bearing fruit, then I am pleased. But you were already predisposed to irritability. I supsect it comes of being superior to those around you." More deadpan, no hint of the tease that he's aiming at the healer. The other man's analysis of the readership of romances is ignored, and Sefton wanders over towards the bookshelves to scan the spines absently as he speaks. "What is it you are aiming for, Neiran? Do you want to be Masterhealer? Discover new techniques? Make a name? Or do you simply aim to serve, caring not whether they remember your name at all?"
Neiran watches the man proceed to the bookshelves, the tea on his lap suddenly forgotten as he finds himself remaining the object of scrutiny despite his attempt to drive things elsewhere. "Masterhealer?" He echoes, torso turned in his chair so he can observe the man's route, and follow along the spines he searches. "Not for a long time, I imagine. If I were elected to that position, I would do my utmost to fulfill it well. But it is a possibility so many Turns in the future, if ever, that it is not something I have thought overlong on. As to the other things...I would be lying if I said that I would be content to pass from existence without having left some mark. I hope to improve my skills, to improve the Hall in its techniques and business," he murmurs, removing a hand from his mug to tuck a stray lock of hair back where it belongs. "Is that a satisfactory answer?"
Sefton considers the reply, head on one side, then nods. "It is a satisfactory answer, yes." A slow mouthful of his tea, and he resumes studying the titles. "I am left all the more baffled, however, regarding the manner in which you aim to achieve any of it." Slowly he turns to face the healer, silent for a moment as he picks out his words. "You have two options. Correction: you have many options, and they fall into two main categories. One choice is to research hard, make a discovery, pass it along, and have future generations make good use of your new technique. Laudable, if not something you'll be personally remembered for. The other is far more difficult. You can change the way your Hall operates. Modernize it, change its place among the crafts and on Pern."
"Indeed." Neiran turns so that his spine is no longer swiveled, and his back is consequently to his instructor. It's not to snub him, but merely to cease the strain on his vertebrae, and sit correctly in the chair. "I am young. There is no rush, and I have much to learn before I would be justified in attempting to remodel an institution that has sustained itself for so many Turns, and done decently in saving Pern from a pandemic. There is reorganization that needs be done, and knowledge gaps to fill, of course. It will be done. In the meantime, I know I am helping ease pain and aid recovery to the best of my ability. I am researching dragonhealing methods, as you know, with the aim to possibly assist in that genre of endeavors during my stay at the Weyr. It would be ill-mannered not to return some service to the Weyr which has given me this opportunity."
"Not just the weyr," Sefton notes absently. "Plenty of different institutions have poured funding into this experiment." He leans back against his shelves, studying the outline of the healer far more intently than he does when the man's in a position to look back at him. "Which do you aim for then, Neiran? I think you'd be more comfortable working behind the scenes, certainly more suited in temperament. I think you're well capable of doing something more than that, though." Another mouthful, and his tea is finished, the cup hanging from one hand. "If you apply that intelligence of yours to learning how to play the game properly."
If the healer is aware of his instructor's scrutiny, he does not squirm under it or take pains to pose for it. "I will do what circumstance demands. If my skill is best used 'behind the scenes', then that is where I shall remain. If...there is benefit to be had by a stepping forward, then for the greater good that would be what I would labor towards." There is the soft sound of his breathing, and the draw of a rounded nail along the ceramic curve of the mug. Then, he turns once more, face lifted to look up at Sefton, eyes as dark as ever. "I am not Blooded. There is little title or wealth for me to gain. Responsibility is my only consort. Learn to play the game properly. To what end?"
"You would labour." This amuses the instructor no end. "That is a noble undertaking, Neiran. More tea?" For his own part he crosses over to the teapot once more, tilting it to fill his own cup. "Do you not see the end to which you would learn to play the game, though? How else do you expect to change your Hall, if you cannot influence those in it? Lamentably, your medical skill will not be the only count on which you are judged. How else do you expect to represent your Hall to those outside, if you cannot play the same game as they do? They will assume you are a superlative physician, and will look for much more than that when deciding whether to deal with you as an equal."
"Yes, please. It is very good." Neiran lifts his mug, so it might be filled with the pleasing brew once more. "I had hoped that I could entreat others to play an ambassadorial role in my stead - but even doing that requires some measure of...playing the game, I imagine." He exhales, eyes closing in a lengthy blink, opening only after he's regarded the steady black behind his lids for a few moments. "I am finding my logic at war with an irrational disinclination to acquiesce to setting myself to learn these rules. Yet, card players who are late in learning the rules are reluctant to sit down at the table, let alone lay marks upon their odds. I suppose that is my aversion. It..is foolish of me, I know." Having his tendencies exposed, he can peg them as foolishness, and stubbornness, and purely emotional in a way which disdains him into frowning once more.
Sefton laughs, filling the healer's cup and setting down the pot once more. "You call it an irrational discinclination, I call it vanity. You are good at what you do. Who willingly becomes an apprentice, when he's used to being a great deal more than that?" Reaching for his mug once more, he cups it between his hands. "The later you leave it, the harder it will be. It will be hard for you anyway, you are disinclined towards my game for more reasons than your lateness in coming to it. Nevertheless, I would challenge your vanity a little. I would say it is worse to be foolish and refuse to learn, than it is to admit you have something left to master, and set about doing so."
Neiran has not yet been accused of being vain in his short Turns, it would seem. He weighs this new adjective with some hot tea in his mouth, mulling it over as he mulls over ginger and lemongrass, cup regained in both his hands, set 'pon his lap. "Indeed. I agree. It is the peak of foolishness for a student to hide his ineptitude, rather than expose it so it might be remedied - like a patient trying to hide the extent of his symptoms from his healer." Evidently he's dealt with both foolish behaviors, for he shakes his head slowly from side to side. "I suppose I've come to the inevitable. I suspected when I entered Caucus that there would be necessary changes to my convictions," he confesses.
"Perhaps you will allow me to effect some of those changes then," Sefton murmurs, subsiding slightly and pulling his amusement back into line to make the offer with a fairly neutral expression. "I have been trying to offer you the chance to learn some of those lessons in private for quite some time now. That, at least, should save a little of your vanity. I don't imagine a public dissection would suit even a healer."
"I would be most grateful to you if you would spend your time with such a pupil as I, and give me what social arms that my other classes are not imparting, or which I might need extra tutelage in," Neiran states, bowing his head in gratitude and obeisance. "Indeed. Dissections are best done in closed quarters, with plenty of analgesic." As though tea were such a thing, he takes another sip.
"With plenty of..." Sefton laughs again, white teeth gleaming against his olive skin as he grins his approval. "Don't listen to them if they tell you that you've no sense of humour, Neiran. They're lying." His tea has cooled enough to drink, and he holds a mouthful for several seconds before swallowing it. "You haven't so far to go. You need a wider general knowledge, the books will take care of that. You need to be at ease more in conversations. That will come with more of them. You need social grace. It will come with time, and exposure." Exposure to what? He does not elaborate. "In return, I will get some intelligent conversation." And a potential alliance with a healer who is sure to rise. "It will do."
Again, Sefton's laughter meets with some faint expression of surprise to be seen in a mild series of blinks. Evidently, if Neiran has humor, he himself is mostly ignorant of it. "You have my thanks." The books are not looked at, though surely he has them at the forefront of his mind - such a boon will be greatly accepted and devoured, so long as he isn't forced to read romances again. "Is intelligence in conversation so lacking in this Weyr that you're forced to consider dialogue with me especial?"
"Intelligence is easily found. Not all of the students are sent here for political reasons." A hint of disdain in Sefton's voice as he crosses over to the desk, taking up his earlier spot and propping against it. "A very high level of intelligence is something rarer, and despite the fact that you speak, act and move as though someone had a pole strapped to your back, I suspect it's hiding in there. I'm interested enough, for now, to burrow down to try and find it. Call it a project, if you like." His fingers go out to drum on the stack of three romances, almost absently.
"Removing an entire pole from someone's spine would surely kill them," Neiran comments in his mellow voice, fingers shifting to tuck within the loop of the mug's handle. Uncertain of how he feels to be someone's project, even if it is for his alleged benefit, he makes no comment on such. There are more pressing issues at hand, as well. Namely, the fact that Sefton is drumming his fingers upon that triad of doom. The healer's dark eyes widen a margin, and travel up the length of the man's arm, to his face. He says nothing to entreat the man to be merciful, but merely stares.
"I don't want to remove it. Just bend it here and there." Sefton's watching Neiran's eyes take in his possible homework, and his easy grin broadens. Perhaps a reaction was all he wanted. "I should make you do it, just to see if you're committed to the idea." Instead, he drains his tea and comes to his feet, setting it down on the desk. "I'll let you off, but let me warn you -- some of them are unimaginably more descriptive than the dross you read. Behave, or I'll source them and set them for your reading." For now, instead, he heads for the shelves.
"So long as I am not left a hunchback," Neiran murmurs, reasonably worried about what such efforts towards rearrangement might do to him in the long run. The man's grin elicits a mildly fretful purse of his brows, which only eases once the man moves towards less nauseating literature. "Unimaginably more descriptive..." Suitably, he cannot imagine what that might entail, but even the lengths to which his mind does go leaves him with a sour taste on his tongue, requiring more tea to alleviate it. "Please define 'behave', so I can do my best to avoid more unpalatable reading assignments?"
"A moral hunchback, perhaps." This, too, amuses Sefton -- many things do, tonight. "I've no intention of giving you a list of behaviours, though. You'll only stick to it, and my plan to teach you about social flexibility will be defeated because you insist on sticking to boundaries I've set for you." Finally he pulls a book down from the shelf, comfortingly fat and a boring green colour. "Try this. Detailed history of High Reaches Weyr. I had to plough through the thing, so can you." He walks over to drop it onto the couch next to Neiran, and it pushes the cushions down under its weight as it lands beside him.
Neiran lays his tea aside, so he might draw the tome onto his lap with all the eagerness of a child accepting a gift. With tempered interest in his gaze, he opens the cover to take in the penmanship, and perchance a few rogue words and sentences here and there, for he leafs through the thick of it with patient enthusiasm. "This is much more acceptable. Perhaps a margin more time might be alloted, owing to it's size?" He regards the binding appraisingly, pursing his lips as he thinks. "Perhaps...within the first week of the fourth month. I shall have it finished by then. The writing is rather small. If that is acceptable to you," he adds, lifting his eyes from the pages, to his instructor. The cover is gently closed, thin fingers splayed on the neutral green of its front.
"And here I thought you'd be all rested after reading that fluff, and ready for something more difficult." Sefton teases, and this time he's more open about it. "Take your time, and let me know when you've finished it. No hurry." Setting his cup down on the desk, he indicates the door with a sweeping gesture. "For now, I'm afraid I have another student coming tonight. In the future I will endeavour to keep the evening free, to facilitate a longer discussion."
Neiran gathers the book into his arms, quite slender by contrast to the hefty tome. "Thank you." The man gets an inclination of his upper body in a thankful bow. "The tea was very good. It will help me sleep easily tonight, and for that I'm appreciative. Good evening." Perhaps fearing more reading might be heaped upon him if he lingers too long, he makes his escape now.
What: Neiran presents an interesting book report.
When: Shortly after the last scene. I'm good with times, right?
Where: Sefton's quarters.
Background: This is one of my all-time favourite logs, and is vintage Sefton and Neiran. It's an important moment, and sets up a great deal of what will happen later. Remember how Sefton was tutoring Neiran each week, giving him a book to read and then discussing it? Seeing as how he was in a cruel mood, last time he gave Neiran one of Bailie's trashy romances to read. Here is the result.
Sefton is expecting his visitor. The door is wide open, and he's standing at the desk, leaning over a tray. It holds the makings of two cups of tea, and the instructor is currently inspecting a small packet of something, holding it up to inhale its scent.
Neiran comes up to the door, clad in the usual garb he wears when not tending to Healer's duties. His hair, as usual, is tied back neatly. In those respects, he appears as coiffed as usual. However, his expressionless mask is a little thinner than usual, some measure of disgruntlement at the fore instead. The book is in his hand, and he comes up short as he discovers the door wide open. He blinks for a moment, then steps over the threshold after that hesitation, and attempt to muster more composure. "Instructor," he says, by way of greeting as well as announcement of his presence.
"Neiran," Sefton offers by way of greeting, without turning his head. "Come and smell this, tell me if it's likely to set off a headache." He does turn then, holding out the small package of tea for the other man to take. "It's very mild, I should think it's inoffensive enough. Still, I wouldn't want to take the edge off your anaylsis." His lips quirk up in amusement, and if the smile isn't entirely kind, it's not entirely unkind either.
Neiran approaches, laying the book aside once he reaches the table. He eyes the package quizzically, though his instructor somewhat moreso. Nevertheless, he reaches forth and takes the package. It is given a long, deep, purposeful exhale, eyes closed whilst he places the scents, and summons to mind the medicinal properties of the herbs contained within. His eyes open, dark orbs downcast upon the packet, and his hand reaches it back towards the instructor. "Nothing which would agitate a headache, instructor. I must warn you my analysis will likely be lacking, however."
"Good." Sefton breaks the seal more completely, lifting the lid of the teapot and emptying half the contents inside, then closing it against the steam that wafts out. "You distress me though, Neiran. I've had a trying day, and I've been looking forward to an intelligent conversation." Abandoning his tea-making, he turns to settle himself back against the edge of the desk, arms folded over his chest. "Explain."
Neiran lifts his eyes from the tea, examining Sefton's expression and posture for signs of this alleged trial before this hour, seeking minutiae that might offer hint towards what kind of adversity the Bollian had met. "My apologies," he murmurs, gaze flowing to the teapot once again. "You asked me to think of why anyone would read such...such a thing. I can assure you, reading that was very discomforting to me, and I'm left with little hypothesis as to how any one could actually enjoy it."
"Neiran, Neiran, don't tell me this." Sefton sounds sorely tried, fixing a look more suited to a frustrated parent than anything else on the healer. "I've spent the last pair of hours trying to hammer the simplest of concepts..." He breaks off, unfolding his arms to dismiss that problem with a wave of one hand. "See this, here?" He reaches out to tap a stack of three books that sits on the corner of his desk, drumming a finger against it. "If you can't give me a decent report, this is your next sevenday's reading. Would you like to look it over?"
Sefton's weariness inspires some more effort within the young man. He'd come here in a bit of a tiff, not looking forward to the topic of discussion at all, really, and therefore reluctant to give voice to his opinions. He presses his thin lips together, mustering resolve for the sake of intelligent discussion to come. He still wishes to weigh his decisions, however, and so reaches for the first book on the stack, to wordlessly flip through. The quantity of three does not frighten him, though he's worried the contents might.
And indeed, though the quantity will not pose a problem, the quality surely will. More of just the same -- names, professions and settings have changed, but the stories don't differ an inch from his most recent reading. Sefton's smile regains that slightly unkind twist as he turns away to tend the tea once more, lifting the lid to check on the progress of the liquid. "You will be comforted to know that Bailie seems to have an almost infinite supply of those things," he murmurs, amusement colouring his lazy drawl. "I know you'd hate to be defeated, so you can take as many as you need to reach insight."
Neiran shuts the book's cover firmly, and replaces it on top of the stack. "I think, for the purpose of my mental and gastrointestinal health, I'll endeavor to do my best now." He sucks in a breath of air between his teeth, and exhales lengthily. "Personal opinion of the book aside, I can only surmise that girls read that sort of thing for the sake of foolish hope, and entertainment. It's highly idealized, as a method of escapism." He glances at his instructor out of the corner of his eye, to see if he's grasped at a correct thread of thought, or otherwise.
"Neiran." Sefton uses the other man's name again, this time to indicate disapproval. "That is exactly the sort of review I asked you not to bring me. They're quite obviously entertainment, they're equally obviously escapism." The tea is deemed ready, and he begins to pour, continuing in a more even tone. "Why is it that they find the books entertaining? Why do they provide an escape? What aspect of plot, writing, characterisation -- if we can call it that -- offers that up to them? I hoped not to have to ask you these questions." If Sefton was relaxed and familiar seven days ago, reaching out the hand of friendship, this evening he's far more the instructor, far less the sympathetic conversational companion.
Neiran lifts one arm, supporting an elbow, while his hand hovers in front of his mouth. Fingertips hover by thin lips, eyes finding another focus point in the flow of steaming tea which the man pours. "The writing is simple to suit the plot, yet elegantly stated, to enliven the imagination. I imagine the female reader imagines herself in the place of the heroine, and as such, the...men are particularly detailed in demeanor and appearance." Here, the Healer frowns. "Some readers likely hope that such a situation, of being wooed and entranced, will happen to them in their lifetime. Others must realize that is simply an impossibility, but allow themselves this slice of cake even if they cannot digest the entire thing." Blinking somewhat frustratedly, he lowers his eyes. "I feel as though I'm simply stating the obvious, instructor. It seems foolish that one would waste their time with such readings. There are more productive things to read, and such subject matter can only lead one down the path of false hopes."
"Mmmmm." This is all Sefton responds for a long moment, before he slides one cup across the desk in Neiran's direction. Taking up his own, he lifts it to inhale the steam slowly, eyes shut, profile less animated than usual as he relaxes for a moment. Then his lashes lift, and he speaks again. "You are quite right, Neiran. There are certainly more profitable things to read. If we assume for a moment that not all the readers of these books are silly enough to fail to realise this, then we must look further, and ask ourselves why they choose to spend time on a less productive pursuit."
Neiran indulges in a similar moment of tea fume appreciation, head bent over his mug whilst Sefton does likewise. He keeps the mug aloft below his chin, so the steam will waft up and wreathe his face to warm it and entrench him in the citrus fragrance. "Perhaps...to compare themselves to the characters within the book itself, or to analyse their behavior and use it in social situations? I'd never read such a thing before that book," he says, feeling the need to justify his lack of acute insight. "Or...perhaps they simply wish to be unproductive." So alien is this concept, although he knows others do enjoy it, that it causes the corners of his mouth to turn downwards in mild distaste. "It engages their imagination, perhaps makes them feel free of the day's burdens. If they're not foolish enough to uselessly hope, perhaps they entertain a sense of whimsy that's relaxing to them?"
"Indeed. Perhaps they find some merit in relaxing," Sefton agrees, without a hint of irony. "Sit, Neiran, this might take a while." He turns to prop himself against the desk, nursing his cup between both hands as he chooses his words. "I would venture to suggest that they do find the books both comforting and relaxing. If this is the case, then certain insights regarding their personalities can be gleaned from that knowledge. Do you agree?"
Neiran lowers himself into the chair, mug balanced expertly for his slow descent. The irony does not escape him, but he chooses not to make comment on relaxation - that's not the matter at hand, here. He knows this lesson has a point, and he wishes to get to it, so that all the trouble of wading through that novel will come to fruit. "Yes, I agree. I recall that was your initial aim when you gave me the assignment, in the first place. I would postulate that someone who reads such material is dissatisfied with her current lot in life, is perhaps a little naive, and not very pragmatic." Realizing belatedly that these books have been gotten from the collection of this man's fiance, he 'ahems' softly.
Sefton laughs outright, tilting his head back and taking his time over returning to his former seriousness. There's a slight softening in his expression as he rakes his hair back from his eyes. "Oh Neiran, you have a gift." For what, he does not say. "So you would postulate. Would the insight you gain in such a fashion prompt you to deal with the readers of these books in any particular fashion?" Finally he samples a mouthful of his tea, using both hands to bring the cup to his mouth -- no finely bred holding of his teacup here.
His instructor's laughter is regarded suspiciously, guardedness deepening with vague remarks about what gifts he might have. Detecting possible sarcasm, his spindly fingers tighten their grip upon his mug, and he bows his head to the steam so that his discomfiture will not be regarded directly. In that posture, he contemplates his instructor's question. "I...no. It would not prompt me to deal with them any differently. I do not 'deal' with people very often. I imagine they might be susceptible to wooing," he adds as an afterthought, lip curling somewhat facetiously, though likely fairly embittered that he's not having incredible success with this assignment. Neiran takes a soft sip of tea, to discover if it's cool enough to drink.
"Mmmmm." Something in what Neiran says fails to please Sefton. "If you persist in believing that you don't and won't have to 'deal' with people, Neiran, there is very little I can do for you. You are intelligent, and you are analytical. I do not accept that you fail to see the point in adapting your approach to apply in different ways to different parties." Another, larger mouthful of tea, and he pushes away from the desk to stand. "Is it vanity? Would it be lowering yourself, to join in on the great game the others play?"
"I am not vain," Neiran states, sitting up straighter in his chair. "I have little to be vain about, so such feeling would be a waste of time." He lowers his mug to his thigh, balancing it there with both hands bracing the ceramic curve of it to absorb the warmth. "I have nothing that I want from others, and they have nothing they want from me. There is no reason to adapt my approach. From what I have played of the 'game,' I discovered I was poor at it, and was unwelcome on the board. So, I no longer play." He swallows, lips pressed together tautly, eyes avoiding Sefton's form.
Sefton laughs again, shaking his head -- his hair falls into his eyes, and he rakes it back slowly. "Neiran, you're intelligent and skilled in your craft. Many have managed vanity on far less." Having veered between amusement and disapproval for much of the conversation, he seems now to settle on amusement. "If you see no reason to engage with the rest of the world, however, no reason to attempt to improve rather than withdraw, then I fear I may have fairly seriously over-estimated you."
Neiran, apparently, is having difficulty of some sort. It's miserable when your own logic is pointed out to you, and tossed in the face of irrational emotion. "I am attempting to improve," he informs the man begrudgingly. "I am endeavoring to pay especial attention during my Manners course." However much it puts him ill at ease, to be surrounded by those already leagues ahead of him in social relations. "I am sorry, instructor. I shouldn't be so adversarial when you're spending your time in tutoring me. After an allegedly difficult day, as well. My...half-brother mocked me when he realized what I was reading. It's predisposed me to irritability." Knowing the tea might help him relax, he takes another restorative sip. "A lady who reads such material...might be won by flattery, herself, unless she is intelligent enough to be guarded against the very thing which she reads about. Observation of her around others might suggest which type she is." He attempts to return to the lesson at hand, if he might.
"Neiran, I have been trying to coax you for the last pair of months to be adversarial," Sefton murmurs in amused reproof. "If my efforts are at last bearing fruit, then I am pleased. But you were already predisposed to irritability. I supsect it comes of being superior to those around you." More deadpan, no hint of the tease that he's aiming at the healer. The other man's analysis of the readership of romances is ignored, and Sefton wanders over towards the bookshelves to scan the spines absently as he speaks. "What is it you are aiming for, Neiran? Do you want to be Masterhealer? Discover new techniques? Make a name? Or do you simply aim to serve, caring not whether they remember your name at all?"
Neiran watches the man proceed to the bookshelves, the tea on his lap suddenly forgotten as he finds himself remaining the object of scrutiny despite his attempt to drive things elsewhere. "Masterhealer?" He echoes, torso turned in his chair so he can observe the man's route, and follow along the spines he searches. "Not for a long time, I imagine. If I were elected to that position, I would do my utmost to fulfill it well. But it is a possibility so many Turns in the future, if ever, that it is not something I have thought overlong on. As to the other things...I would be lying if I said that I would be content to pass from existence without having left some mark. I hope to improve my skills, to improve the Hall in its techniques and business," he murmurs, removing a hand from his mug to tuck a stray lock of hair back where it belongs. "Is that a satisfactory answer?"
Sefton considers the reply, head on one side, then nods. "It is a satisfactory answer, yes." A slow mouthful of his tea, and he resumes studying the titles. "I am left all the more baffled, however, regarding the manner in which you aim to achieve any of it." Slowly he turns to face the healer, silent for a moment as he picks out his words. "You have two options. Correction: you have many options, and they fall into two main categories. One choice is to research hard, make a discovery, pass it along, and have future generations make good use of your new technique. Laudable, if not something you'll be personally remembered for. The other is far more difficult. You can change the way your Hall operates. Modernize it, change its place among the crafts and on Pern."
"Indeed." Neiran turns so that his spine is no longer swiveled, and his back is consequently to his instructor. It's not to snub him, but merely to cease the strain on his vertebrae, and sit correctly in the chair. "I am young. There is no rush, and I have much to learn before I would be justified in attempting to remodel an institution that has sustained itself for so many Turns, and done decently in saving Pern from a pandemic. There is reorganization that needs be done, and knowledge gaps to fill, of course. It will be done. In the meantime, I know I am helping ease pain and aid recovery to the best of my ability. I am researching dragonhealing methods, as you know, with the aim to possibly assist in that genre of endeavors during my stay at the Weyr. It would be ill-mannered not to return some service to the Weyr which has given me this opportunity."
"Not just the weyr," Sefton notes absently. "Plenty of different institutions have poured funding into this experiment." He leans back against his shelves, studying the outline of the healer far more intently than he does when the man's in a position to look back at him. "Which do you aim for then, Neiran? I think you'd be more comfortable working behind the scenes, certainly more suited in temperament. I think you're well capable of doing something more than that, though." Another mouthful, and his tea is finished, the cup hanging from one hand. "If you apply that intelligence of yours to learning how to play the game properly."
If the healer is aware of his instructor's scrutiny, he does not squirm under it or take pains to pose for it. "I will do what circumstance demands. If my skill is best used 'behind the scenes', then that is where I shall remain. If...there is benefit to be had by a stepping forward, then for the greater good that would be what I would labor towards." There is the soft sound of his breathing, and the draw of a rounded nail along the ceramic curve of the mug. Then, he turns once more, face lifted to look up at Sefton, eyes as dark as ever. "I am not Blooded. There is little title or wealth for me to gain. Responsibility is my only consort. Learn to play the game properly. To what end?"
"You would labour." This amuses the instructor no end. "That is a noble undertaking, Neiran. More tea?" For his own part he crosses over to the teapot once more, tilting it to fill his own cup. "Do you not see the end to which you would learn to play the game, though? How else do you expect to change your Hall, if you cannot influence those in it? Lamentably, your medical skill will not be the only count on which you are judged. How else do you expect to represent your Hall to those outside, if you cannot play the same game as they do? They will assume you are a superlative physician, and will look for much more than that when deciding whether to deal with you as an equal."
"Yes, please. It is very good." Neiran lifts his mug, so it might be filled with the pleasing brew once more. "I had hoped that I could entreat others to play an ambassadorial role in my stead - but even doing that requires some measure of...playing the game, I imagine." He exhales, eyes closing in a lengthy blink, opening only after he's regarded the steady black behind his lids for a few moments. "I am finding my logic at war with an irrational disinclination to acquiesce to setting myself to learn these rules. Yet, card players who are late in learning the rules are reluctant to sit down at the table, let alone lay marks upon their odds. I suppose that is my aversion. It..is foolish of me, I know." Having his tendencies exposed, he can peg them as foolishness, and stubbornness, and purely emotional in a way which disdains him into frowning once more.
Sefton laughs, filling the healer's cup and setting down the pot once more. "You call it an irrational discinclination, I call it vanity. You are good at what you do. Who willingly becomes an apprentice, when he's used to being a great deal more than that?" Reaching for his mug once more, he cups it between his hands. "The later you leave it, the harder it will be. It will be hard for you anyway, you are disinclined towards my game for more reasons than your lateness in coming to it. Nevertheless, I would challenge your vanity a little. I would say it is worse to be foolish and refuse to learn, than it is to admit you have something left to master, and set about doing so."
Neiran has not yet been accused of being vain in his short Turns, it would seem. He weighs this new adjective with some hot tea in his mouth, mulling it over as he mulls over ginger and lemongrass, cup regained in both his hands, set 'pon his lap. "Indeed. I agree. It is the peak of foolishness for a student to hide his ineptitude, rather than expose it so it might be remedied - like a patient trying to hide the extent of his symptoms from his healer." Evidently he's dealt with both foolish behaviors, for he shakes his head slowly from side to side. "I suppose I've come to the inevitable. I suspected when I entered Caucus that there would be necessary changes to my convictions," he confesses.
"Perhaps you will allow me to effect some of those changes then," Sefton murmurs, subsiding slightly and pulling his amusement back into line to make the offer with a fairly neutral expression. "I have been trying to offer you the chance to learn some of those lessons in private for quite some time now. That, at least, should save a little of your vanity. I don't imagine a public dissection would suit even a healer."
"I would be most grateful to you if you would spend your time with such a pupil as I, and give me what social arms that my other classes are not imparting, or which I might need extra tutelage in," Neiran states, bowing his head in gratitude and obeisance. "Indeed. Dissections are best done in closed quarters, with plenty of analgesic." As though tea were such a thing, he takes another sip.
"With plenty of..." Sefton laughs again, white teeth gleaming against his olive skin as he grins his approval. "Don't listen to them if they tell you that you've no sense of humour, Neiran. They're lying." His tea has cooled enough to drink, and he holds a mouthful for several seconds before swallowing it. "You haven't so far to go. You need a wider general knowledge, the books will take care of that. You need to be at ease more in conversations. That will come with more of them. You need social grace. It will come with time, and exposure." Exposure to what? He does not elaborate. "In return, I will get some intelligent conversation." And a potential alliance with a healer who is sure to rise. "It will do."
Again, Sefton's laughter meets with some faint expression of surprise to be seen in a mild series of blinks. Evidently, if Neiran has humor, he himself is mostly ignorant of it. "You have my thanks." The books are not looked at, though surely he has them at the forefront of his mind - such a boon will be greatly accepted and devoured, so long as he isn't forced to read romances again. "Is intelligence in conversation so lacking in this Weyr that you're forced to consider dialogue with me especial?"
"Intelligence is easily found. Not all of the students are sent here for political reasons." A hint of disdain in Sefton's voice as he crosses over to the desk, taking up his earlier spot and propping against it. "A very high level of intelligence is something rarer, and despite the fact that you speak, act and move as though someone had a pole strapped to your back, I suspect it's hiding in there. I'm interested enough, for now, to burrow down to try and find it. Call it a project, if you like." His fingers go out to drum on the stack of three romances, almost absently.
"Removing an entire pole from someone's spine would surely kill them," Neiran comments in his mellow voice, fingers shifting to tuck within the loop of the mug's handle. Uncertain of how he feels to be someone's project, even if it is for his alleged benefit, he makes no comment on such. There are more pressing issues at hand, as well. Namely, the fact that Sefton is drumming his fingers upon that triad of doom. The healer's dark eyes widen a margin, and travel up the length of the man's arm, to his face. He says nothing to entreat the man to be merciful, but merely stares.
"I don't want to remove it. Just bend it here and there." Sefton's watching Neiran's eyes take in his possible homework, and his easy grin broadens. Perhaps a reaction was all he wanted. "I should make you do it, just to see if you're committed to the idea." Instead, he drains his tea and comes to his feet, setting it down on the desk. "I'll let you off, but let me warn you -- some of them are unimaginably more descriptive than the dross you read. Behave, or I'll source them and set them for your reading." For now, instead, he heads for the shelves.
"So long as I am not left a hunchback," Neiran murmurs, reasonably worried about what such efforts towards rearrangement might do to him in the long run. The man's grin elicits a mildly fretful purse of his brows, which only eases once the man moves towards less nauseating literature. "Unimaginably more descriptive..." Suitably, he cannot imagine what that might entail, but even the lengths to which his mind does go leaves him with a sour taste on his tongue, requiring more tea to alleviate it. "Please define 'behave', so I can do my best to avoid more unpalatable reading assignments?"
"A moral hunchback, perhaps." This, too, amuses Sefton -- many things do, tonight. "I've no intention of giving you a list of behaviours, though. You'll only stick to it, and my plan to teach you about social flexibility will be defeated because you insist on sticking to boundaries I've set for you." Finally he pulls a book down from the shelf, comfortingly fat and a boring green colour. "Try this. Detailed history of High Reaches Weyr. I had to plough through the thing, so can you." He walks over to drop it onto the couch next to Neiran, and it pushes the cushions down under its weight as it lands beside him.
Neiran lays his tea aside, so he might draw the tome onto his lap with all the eagerness of a child accepting a gift. With tempered interest in his gaze, he opens the cover to take in the penmanship, and perchance a few rogue words and sentences here and there, for he leafs through the thick of it with patient enthusiasm. "This is much more acceptable. Perhaps a margin more time might be alloted, owing to it's size?" He regards the binding appraisingly, pursing his lips as he thinks. "Perhaps...within the first week of the fourth month. I shall have it finished by then. The writing is rather small. If that is acceptable to you," he adds, lifting his eyes from the pages, to his instructor. The cover is gently closed, thin fingers splayed on the neutral green of its front.
"And here I thought you'd be all rested after reading that fluff, and ready for something more difficult." Sefton teases, and this time he's more open about it. "Take your time, and let me know when you've finished it. No hurry." Setting his cup down on the desk, he indicates the door with a sweeping gesture. "For now, I'm afraid I have another student coming tonight. In the future I will endeavour to keep the evening free, to facilitate a longer discussion."
Neiran gathers the book into his arms, quite slender by contrast to the hefty tome. "Thank you." The man gets an inclination of his upper body in a thankful bow. "The tea was very good. It will help me sleep easily tonight, and for that I'm appreciative. Good evening." Perhaps fearing more reading might be heaped upon him if he lingers too long, he makes his escape now.