Cruel To Be Kind
Location: Sefton's Quarters
Time: Backdated to Day 3, Month 11, Turn 2
Players: Sefton and Roa
Scene: The next weekly meeting between the weyrwoman and the Headmaster. Do they discuss politics? Exiles? Murders and mayhem? Mmm...not so much, no.
Aida has been at her work again, which is to say that Sefton is eating. Or at least, he has food. A sandwich, to be precise, which is currently in his hand, unattended. He has a firm grip on it though, to help keep the generous filling from escaping, and he stands before his bookshelves, head back, frowning faintly as he skims the titles. The door is its habitual crack open, inviting visitors.
As per usual, Roa announces herself with a quick knock before she nudges the door open and steps inside. She takes in the sandwich, the frown, the look, the bookshelf. There is a moment where she shifts her bag on her shoulder before asking, simply, "lost something?"
"Hmmm?" Sefton doesn't look up for a moment, continuing his search until he's skimmed as far as the end of the shelf. "No. No, I haven't. Good evening, Roa. Close the door, will you? Can I fetch you something to drink?" He pauses then, turning to conduct a quick survey of his room. "I have a box from Kelar, actually. Would you prefer something else?"
The door clicks faintly at Roa complies. "Would I prefer something other than a box from Kelar?" she asks with a small laugh. "No, his packages always seem to be worth opening." As has also become her routine here, the little weyrwoman moves to the couch to set down her bag, sit and unlace her boots. The footwear is put aside and her feet are lifted and tucked up underneath her. "Have you spoken to him?"
"Then the box it is," Sefton replies, turning away from the shelves, and crossing over to the pile of clothes at the end of the bed. The box is retrieved from underneath them -- it is open, and someone else has had first pick, but he drags it over until it rests where Roa's feet would be, if she had not tucked them up. And there he crouches, as though courting her, his easy grin acknowledging the similarity.
She smirks. This position has been taken up by Sefton more than once and Roa has yet to feel anything but bemusement at the gesture. "I'll give you the honor of fishing though it and myself the pleasure of sitting here and doing nothing," she informs the headmaster airily.
"A true representative of your sex," Sefton replies with a grin, reaching up with his free hand to rake his hair back from his eyes. It tumbles down once more as he drags the lid off, nursing his sandwich with one hand and using the other to ferret through the usual packing material. "Food or drink, my Lady?"
"I should hate to disappoint your expectations by revealing myself to be otherwise," Roa chides as one foot comes free to bump at the box. "Food, I think, if he's sent fruit. Drink, if not."
"Mmmmm." There's amusement rich in Sefton's hum of reply as he glances up to her, feeling around in the far corner of the box. "You rarely disappoint, Roa, although you frequently challenge expectations. Ah, here." A peach is produced, and offered as though a supplication. "Will this do?"
"Perfectly," she leans forward to accept the offering, turning it in her hands and feeling the faint fuzziness of the fruit. She doesn't yet bite into it, but rather, tips her chin down to peer into the box. "What else has he sent?" Curious little thing. "I don't mind being a challenge to you," she muses. "Faranth knows somebody should be."
Sefton laughs, pushing aside the straw with one hand to begin revealing the rest of the contents. A thick letter, half stuffed back into its envelope, more fruit, two bottles, a swathe of bright green material, the edge of a parcel that's wrapped in plainer cloth. "If I contrive to suggest I go unchallenged, then I am delighted," is the Headmaster's reply.
She peers down, canting her head a little to the side at some of the unknowns. The green material. The letter. The parcel. Still, it is not her package and Roa leans back into the cushions still cradling her peach. She looks around the room slowly before noting, "I believe we have our topic for the night."
And Sefton looks up, head tilted to one side, watching her study his possessions with interest. "Why do you ask to see?" It is not an answer to her question.
"Because I like knowing," Roa's shoulders lift and fall in an easy shrug, "and I miss him." She brings the peach to her lips now and bites down, sucking up most of the juices before they can dribble.
Sefton considers that for a moment, fingers playing idly with the straw packing. "And what do you gain from this knowing? There should always be something." Half tease, half instruction, those words. Then, more gently, "He is always pleased to see you."
A small smirk creeps up Roa's lips after she swallows. "Just now, I am studying the ways in which you avoid what I asked you. Maybe later, if I can sift through the items, I'll know a bit more about you from what he sends, and a bit more about him as well." Her dangling legs tucks up underneath her. "He does seem to be," she notes quietly.
Sefton grins his mea culpa, unrepentant. "He always is," he confirms, his fingers shifting so the straw begins to fall back into place. "You may sift now, if you like. The letter is my own, although a page or two he has written for you. The rest of it you may peruse at your leisure. Tell me what you learn."
"You're still avoiding," Roa notes, a little bemusedly, "and now you're bargaining as well. What if I say I'd rather not? I'd rather discuss you know exactly what." She takes another bite of peach, one brow arching upwards.
"I know exactly what," Sefton agrees placidly, his fingers moving again, so that now the straw hides Kelar's gifts from sight entirely. Off the table. "And I have not said no. But I will say 'not today'."
A small exhalation and the little weyrwoman scoots to the side and forward, bending down to retrieve her boots. "As you wish," is her only comment. Then the peach is set between her teeth and one foot is sunk into the clumping snow-ready footwear.
"You have all faith in me, Roa," Sefton murmurs, shifting backwards to accommodate her movement, "yet none at all." His voice is low, regretful. "You wish a teacher, but only the lessons you desire." Nevertheless, he has no more protest than this, bracing against his knee with his free hand to come slowly to his feet.
One hand comes up to loose the peach and set it aside. "I think that I have spent a great deal of time doing just as you desire." Laces are pulled tight and tied off. "This is important to me. It bothers me. It frightens me, and I do not think saying 'not today' is in any way for my own benefit."
Sefton steps back -- he will not block her way, although he will speak in response. "Will you say to me that I would act otherwise, Roa?" His words are low, drawl gentle indeed. "I have taken you into my circle, and you know what that means."
"Yes." And now Roa's own voice gentles, her eyes lifting to meet Sefton's. "I do. And I do not suggest that you wish me any harm." Her tiny smile returns, "but I have ten stories now that prove even those in your circle are not wholly free from your machinations. Even if they are, in part, for their own good."
"You have been privy to more than that," Sefton replies, failing to match her smile. Instead, the teacher, the older brother, the protector, he who knows better. "And you should know. But you have much to do, and if you wish to go, then take your peach with you."
And is it not natural, then, for the student, the younger sister, the protected, she who knows less, to chafe underneath such edicts? Roa remains bent forward, her second foot poised to press into her other boot. "Why not today?" she asks quietly.
Sefton is silent for a beat as he considers his reply -- he bites down finally on that sandwich he's got one hand wrapped around, meat and gravy, catching at a drip of the latter with his tongue. So then he must chew, and swallow, before he can speak. "I'm still thinking," he all he offers in response.
"You know," and up goes Roa's eyebrow again, "I have been told that a thing can only be debated fruitfully in one's own head for so long. Eventually, to progress, ideas must be spoken aloud and tested." She looks down at her feet, the one still lifted lowering, but to the side and behind its boot. "Bring him here," she notes quietly, "or go to him."
For that, she earns herself a flash of his grin, white teeth showing briefly. "Wise advice, Roa," he concedes, watching her as her gaze goes down, and then her foot. His brows hike upward at her next words. "Speak to /him/ about it?"
"Well it's apparent for whatever reason that I don't rank," she replies a bit testily. But Roa's hands are unlacing the other boot, her feet retucking, peach reclaimed. "I know he does. The sooner you have your head around it, the sooner I can come in. So." Another bite, juices dribbling down the fruit and onto her wrist causing her to chase after it with her lips.
Sefton pulls a face -- a bad habit learned from his students -- and his hand comes up to rake his curls back from his face. "There is no..." He pauses, catches himself short, shakes his head. "There is a hierarchy, then. This is unrelated. Imagine the way in which he would listen, and the way in which you would listen. You can draw the distinction. I know you are capable."
"He'd listen for you," Roa says after a moment of consideration. "I'd listen for myself. Someone listening for you is what you need." There's another bite and swallow before she adds "But you need someone listening."
"Well done, Roa." Despite his assertion of her capability, Sefton is pleased at her response. "I do not say to you that I will not act against your interests. I say that I act for them, and that is an important distinction. If you accept it, then you must accept that you are not the best ear I might find. Not as you currently listen."
The weyrwoman says nothing more. She only glances pointedly down to her boots that have been once more set aside, and then back up to the headmaster with her head canted slightly and her brows raises. And then Roa simply waits and eats her peach.
It's worth a try. Sefton's lips quirk for a moment, acknowledging just that -- he tries, with his next words, to divert her. "I had Neiran in last night." As he customarily does. "He has improved a great deal, since first he joined us."
"He goes runnerback riding now, I've heard," Roa allows the diversion, "and it seems as if he and Reyce might be...friends." The last word is experimental, the weyrwoman unsure anyone can really claim such a title when it comes to the bastard of Benden. A faint frown before Roa queries, "You didn't make him drink, did you?"
Sefton's lips quirk as that doubt registers on her behalf, and he acknowledges it with a nod -- his mouth is full again, and he is required to chew and swallow before he can reply. "Only a sip, and I do not need a lecture." She has accepted his change of subject, and for that she wins herself an easy grin, a tease.
"You do if you keep foisting alcohol on him," Roa quips. The peach is done, the pit held between her fingers for a moment before it is set on the small table to the side of the couch. "Find other ways to torment him. The ways that won't leave him in crippling and debilitating pain, afterwards."
Sefton wrinkles his nose, turning his head to look back at his desk. For a moment, he is ready to back up towards it, lean against it as usual. Then, instead, he steps forward, to fold to the ground on the far side of Kelar's box of gifts, settling himself so he can look up at her again. "A sip cannot do that. He makes the concession for a reason. It is his choice to do so."
"I think a sip could. Have you ever bothered to ask?" As he sits on the floor, Roa scoots off the couch to settle on the ground, on the other side of the box, crossing her legs. "I've read some about the condition. There isn't a great deal of information, and I suspect that's part of the problem. But it does seem that the things that trigger the attacks don't need to be present in very big doses in order to do so."
"Why should I ask?" Sefton's question is simple, delivered with a shrug. "It is his decision to drink the stuff. He understands the options available to him, and he makes his choice. He makes no real effort to evade it, or to negotiate a different course of action. Perhaps he values the conversation the more, for paying a price. I do not know."
"Please. Do not attempt to play the innocent. If you want him to drink, I imagine the other options you present are wholly unappealing or impossible. He is your student as much as he's your experiment. That is why you should ask." Roa laces her fingers together as she watches, leaning a little against the box.
Sefton laughs, delighted with the phrase -- that he sits on the floor with her is the signifier of a new phase for the pair, rather than the cause of it, and he leans in against the other side of the box. It might be a table between them, ready for a game of cards. "He has options, Roa. He can forego his private sessions. This road is always open. Or he can offer something else. This has not yet occurred to him. I will thank you not to suggest it, or my experiment will be quite spoiled."
"I will not suggest it, and you will find some other means of making him struggle to think of it on his own. Please." Roa's brows lift, her head tipping downwards. "I'm asking."
Sefton pulls another face, wrinkling his nose. "You are no fun," he accuses, pausing for a mouthful of his sandwich, chewing, swallowing. The pause this causes, it would seem, yields up no useful alternative. "He is faced, you would say, with serious pain on a weekly basis. He has not thought yet what else he might do instead. I would say he deserves what he gets, but you are softer hearted than I."
"It's part of why you find me so endearing," Roa supplies for the headmaster with a tiny smile. "Maybe the way to encourage him to think differently is to play a slightly different game. Stop making him drink, find something else. The results might please you even more than they'd please me."
"No, what I find endearing is that somebody so small can be so bossy," Sefton corrects her with a grin. "Step aside from your compassion for a moment, and marvel with me. Do you not find it unusual that a man as intelligent as he should repeat the same behaviour over and over without seeking an alternate route? I find it fascinating. I am sure there is something to be had from understanding why he does it."
"I am sure that you are resourceful enough to find the answer without subjecting him to this particular choice every seven," comes Roa's easy response. She dips her head into a nod, a modest acknowledgment of her bossiness and her diminutive stature. "I don't want to marvel over why Neiran does it. That will led us down into an entirely different debate, and I haven't won this one, yet."
"Now you want to win as well? Small and bossy /and/ demanding," Sefton marvels. "Most of your fellow students would be content simply to take part, and they have not even that. Admit you find it an interesting question, and that a small part of you shares my fascination at his expense, and we will speak of alternatives."
Roa holds up one hand, curled lightly into a fist. As she speaks, one finger uncurls for each of her next three words. Gentle corrections. "Diminutive. Assertive. Confident." Her hand again falls into her lap as Roa tsks softly. "Most of your students are not faced with the possibility of running a weyr in the next who knows how soon. But, all right, I admit the question as you phrase it is an interesting one. Speak to me of alternatives."
"Shall I complete the list?" Sefton asks his question dryly, teasing -- he is then forced to catch a drip of gravy from his rapidly disintegrating sandwich. "Honestly, I think that girl is afraid I will waste away," he murmurs, studying the offending meal. "When you need to run a weyr, you will do so with my counsel." And as though this should provide ample reassurance, he continues. "Speak to you? You steal my phrases while you trample my fun, Roa."
"I suspect, without Aida, you would waste away. I also suspect that if you'd eaten the sandwich when it was originally brought to you, it would be gone by now and you wouldn't be battling with gravy. You get no sympathy from me." Roa curls her own hands around her knees. "Hush. You're having a great deal of fun. Finish your food. Then, alternatives." 'Assertive' indeed.
"You are very hard on me," Sefton observes gravely, although he does as instructed, applying himself to his meal in silence for the couple of minutes required to demolish it. Then he speaks, politely, patently aware his words are not those desired. "I have no alternatives. You were the one who suggested they might exist. I suggest you begin." And then he licks his fingers clean.
"I like Aida," Roa says with a chuckle. She waits as Sefton eats, one hand tap-tap-tapping against the box. Her brows come up; he has surprised her with that last. "You could have him write poetry or read romance novels," she suggests after a time. "Or eat unhealthy foods."
"I like Aida too," Sefton replies in 'so there' fashion, finishing cleaning his hands off on his pants. Black, you see. Doesn't show. And people just show up and take away his laundry periodically. It's most convenient. "Tried that. It was amusing, but not as satisfying. Also, the novels are particularly time consuming, and I would rather he read other things. I suppose the food would serve."
"He's not at all keen on porcine," Roa offers in one part hope and one part help. "Or you could have him list the various herbs, teas, and medicines he takes daily and then make him whittle it down to only one or two." Her shoulders go up and down again. "There are many options."
Here now, perversity: "He takes them for a reason, does he not? You are more cruel than I, Roa. If he were to whittle them down, he might suffer pain every day." Sefton is mildly disapproving, casting her a glance through the curls that have tumbled down past his eyes.
"Then you shall simply have to ask -why- he takes each thing and make an informed decision." If Roa is offended, her bemused smile is hiding it rather well.
"I will say it again, Roa. You are no fun." Sefton has no prop -- no sandwich to pay attention to, no glass to turn around in his fingers, or study. So he looks across at her instead, for an unusually prolonged period. "Particularly sweet things, I imagine, would bother him."
"Mmm. Sweet. Fatty. Sticky, I should think. Gooey sorts or things. Anything superfluous, or of low nutritional value. Especially, I suspect," Roa closes her eyes and shakes her head, as if she cannot quite believe she's saying this, "if foods of higher quality, to his way of thinking, were also present."
Sefton laughs suddenly, shaking his head. "So I ought to sit around eating fruit, and offer your friend a plate full of things covered in cream and sweetener, or else with ham baked through? All I desire of him is a single mouthful, Roa. Are you sure your fate is not worse?"
A wry twist of Roa's lips. "After this conversation, I doubt I have any right to consider myself Neiran's friend any longer, if I ever made it to that ranking to begin with. And I still think I'm right. Alcohol is worse. I suppose you'll find out if, when next time you meet, he is slightly relieved or slightly more distressed by the new choices set before him."
"So be it, Roa," Sefton allows, lifting his hands, as though to absolve himself of blame or responsibility. "I will try it once, because you have asked me to do so."
"My hope is that you will keep up with it after that once, be it for your own amusement or for interest in your student's well being." There is a small pause before Roa concedes, if a bit wryly, "Thank you, Sef."
Sefton raises a hand again, this time as though to halt a charge. "One step at a time, bossy," he instructs her, lowering it so he can drum his fingers on the box. "You have taken away my game. I have put a great deal of time and effort into the lesson I can learn from this, and now I suspect I shall be set back considerably while he sorts himself out."
"Then I shall be both generous and foolish enough to ask how I might make this inconvenience up to you." Roa's own hand creeps up the box, fingers curling around the edges, brushing against all of that covering that hides the items within.
"No, no," Sefton murmurs, finding himself a prop at last -- he takes up a piece of straw, and concentrates on bending it in on itself over and over. "I have had your indulgence for another week. That will stand, Roa." And so his evasion is complete, the words delivered with a faint smile. No particular triumph, though.
"You have, and it seems a suitable trade," she allows, the small smile returned. "I expect our time is up, and I've still homework to finish. So, until next seven..." Roa is leaning forward and pushing up into a stand.
Of course he comes to his feet, courteous in this, as ever. "Indeed," he agrees, raking his hair back from his eyes. He pauses then, looking over at her for a moment. "Nothing interesting in class tomorrow," he offers, then. "Take the time and do something useful with it. I won't be leading a discussion."
She laughs softly. "'When are the days you don't do your work,' they ask me. 'Only the ones I visit with the Headmaster', I reply." The smile deepens and Roa says, only, "Thank you. I will." She gathers up her boots and bag and then walks to the door before pausing and noting, "I'm not really sure green is her color."
Sefton lifts a brow, grinning his farewell. "Bailie tells me she likes to wear bright colours, to chase away thoughts of the impending winter," he observes without a flicker. "Kel and I seek to oblige her."
"Bailie. Well then," Roa replies with a shrug, "I can't be right all the time." Another small smile, and then she ducks through the door and away.
Sefton's grin is her only reply -- he watches her go, and watches until she disappears. Then he drops to a crouch beside the box, ferreting around inside once more for a peach.
Time: Backdated to Day 3, Month 11, Turn 2
Players: Sefton and Roa
Scene: The next weekly meeting between the weyrwoman and the Headmaster. Do they discuss politics? Exiles? Murders and mayhem? Mmm...not so much, no.
Aida has been at her work again, which is to say that Sefton is eating. Or at least, he has food. A sandwich, to be precise, which is currently in his hand, unattended. He has a firm grip on it though, to help keep the generous filling from escaping, and he stands before his bookshelves, head back, frowning faintly as he skims the titles. The door is its habitual crack open, inviting visitors.
As per usual, Roa announces herself with a quick knock before she nudges the door open and steps inside. She takes in the sandwich, the frown, the look, the bookshelf. There is a moment where she shifts her bag on her shoulder before asking, simply, "lost something?"
"Hmmm?" Sefton doesn't look up for a moment, continuing his search until he's skimmed as far as the end of the shelf. "No. No, I haven't. Good evening, Roa. Close the door, will you? Can I fetch you something to drink?" He pauses then, turning to conduct a quick survey of his room. "I have a box from Kelar, actually. Would you prefer something else?"
The door clicks faintly at Roa complies. "Would I prefer something other than a box from Kelar?" she asks with a small laugh. "No, his packages always seem to be worth opening." As has also become her routine here, the little weyrwoman moves to the couch to set down her bag, sit and unlace her boots. The footwear is put aside and her feet are lifted and tucked up underneath her. "Have you spoken to him?"
"Then the box it is," Sefton replies, turning away from the shelves, and crossing over to the pile of clothes at the end of the bed. The box is retrieved from underneath them -- it is open, and someone else has had first pick, but he drags it over until it rests where Roa's feet would be, if she had not tucked them up. And there he crouches, as though courting her, his easy grin acknowledging the similarity.
She smirks. This position has been taken up by Sefton more than once and Roa has yet to feel anything but bemusement at the gesture. "I'll give you the honor of fishing though it and myself the pleasure of sitting here and doing nothing," she informs the headmaster airily.
"A true representative of your sex," Sefton replies with a grin, reaching up with his free hand to rake his hair back from his eyes. It tumbles down once more as he drags the lid off, nursing his sandwich with one hand and using the other to ferret through the usual packing material. "Food or drink, my Lady?"
"I should hate to disappoint your expectations by revealing myself to be otherwise," Roa chides as one foot comes free to bump at the box. "Food, I think, if he's sent fruit. Drink, if not."
"Mmmmm." There's amusement rich in Sefton's hum of reply as he glances up to her, feeling around in the far corner of the box. "You rarely disappoint, Roa, although you frequently challenge expectations. Ah, here." A peach is produced, and offered as though a supplication. "Will this do?"
"Perfectly," she leans forward to accept the offering, turning it in her hands and feeling the faint fuzziness of the fruit. She doesn't yet bite into it, but rather, tips her chin down to peer into the box. "What else has he sent?" Curious little thing. "I don't mind being a challenge to you," she muses. "Faranth knows somebody should be."
Sefton laughs, pushing aside the straw with one hand to begin revealing the rest of the contents. A thick letter, half stuffed back into its envelope, more fruit, two bottles, a swathe of bright green material, the edge of a parcel that's wrapped in plainer cloth. "If I contrive to suggest I go unchallenged, then I am delighted," is the Headmaster's reply.
She peers down, canting her head a little to the side at some of the unknowns. The green material. The letter. The parcel. Still, it is not her package and Roa leans back into the cushions still cradling her peach. She looks around the room slowly before noting, "I believe we have our topic for the night."
And Sefton looks up, head tilted to one side, watching her study his possessions with interest. "Why do you ask to see?" It is not an answer to her question.
"Because I like knowing," Roa's shoulders lift and fall in an easy shrug, "and I miss him." She brings the peach to her lips now and bites down, sucking up most of the juices before they can dribble.
Sefton considers that for a moment, fingers playing idly with the straw packing. "And what do you gain from this knowing? There should always be something." Half tease, half instruction, those words. Then, more gently, "He is always pleased to see you."
A small smirk creeps up Roa's lips after she swallows. "Just now, I am studying the ways in which you avoid what I asked you. Maybe later, if I can sift through the items, I'll know a bit more about you from what he sends, and a bit more about him as well." Her dangling legs tucks up underneath her. "He does seem to be," she notes quietly.
Sefton grins his mea culpa, unrepentant. "He always is," he confirms, his fingers shifting so the straw begins to fall back into place. "You may sift now, if you like. The letter is my own, although a page or two he has written for you. The rest of it you may peruse at your leisure. Tell me what you learn."
"You're still avoiding," Roa notes, a little bemusedly, "and now you're bargaining as well. What if I say I'd rather not? I'd rather discuss you know exactly what." She takes another bite of peach, one brow arching upwards.
"I know exactly what," Sefton agrees placidly, his fingers moving again, so that now the straw hides Kelar's gifts from sight entirely. Off the table. "And I have not said no. But I will say 'not today'."
A small exhalation and the little weyrwoman scoots to the side and forward, bending down to retrieve her boots. "As you wish," is her only comment. Then the peach is set between her teeth and one foot is sunk into the clumping snow-ready footwear.
"You have all faith in me, Roa," Sefton murmurs, shifting backwards to accommodate her movement, "yet none at all." His voice is low, regretful. "You wish a teacher, but only the lessons you desire." Nevertheless, he has no more protest than this, bracing against his knee with his free hand to come slowly to his feet.
One hand comes up to loose the peach and set it aside. "I think that I have spent a great deal of time doing just as you desire." Laces are pulled tight and tied off. "This is important to me. It bothers me. It frightens me, and I do not think saying 'not today' is in any way for my own benefit."
Sefton steps back -- he will not block her way, although he will speak in response. "Will you say to me that I would act otherwise, Roa?" His words are low, drawl gentle indeed. "I have taken you into my circle, and you know what that means."
"Yes." And now Roa's own voice gentles, her eyes lifting to meet Sefton's. "I do. And I do not suggest that you wish me any harm." Her tiny smile returns, "but I have ten stories now that prove even those in your circle are not wholly free from your machinations. Even if they are, in part, for their own good."
"You have been privy to more than that," Sefton replies, failing to match her smile. Instead, the teacher, the older brother, the protector, he who knows better. "And you should know. But you have much to do, and if you wish to go, then take your peach with you."
And is it not natural, then, for the student, the younger sister, the protected, she who knows less, to chafe underneath such edicts? Roa remains bent forward, her second foot poised to press into her other boot. "Why not today?" she asks quietly.
Sefton is silent for a beat as he considers his reply -- he bites down finally on that sandwich he's got one hand wrapped around, meat and gravy, catching at a drip of the latter with his tongue. So then he must chew, and swallow, before he can speak. "I'm still thinking," he all he offers in response.
"You know," and up goes Roa's eyebrow again, "I have been told that a thing can only be debated fruitfully in one's own head for so long. Eventually, to progress, ideas must be spoken aloud and tested." She looks down at her feet, the one still lifted lowering, but to the side and behind its boot. "Bring him here," she notes quietly, "or go to him."
For that, she earns herself a flash of his grin, white teeth showing briefly. "Wise advice, Roa," he concedes, watching her as her gaze goes down, and then her foot. His brows hike upward at her next words. "Speak to /him/ about it?"
"Well it's apparent for whatever reason that I don't rank," she replies a bit testily. But Roa's hands are unlacing the other boot, her feet retucking, peach reclaimed. "I know he does. The sooner you have your head around it, the sooner I can come in. So." Another bite, juices dribbling down the fruit and onto her wrist causing her to chase after it with her lips.
Sefton pulls a face -- a bad habit learned from his students -- and his hand comes up to rake his curls back from his face. "There is no..." He pauses, catches himself short, shakes his head. "There is a hierarchy, then. This is unrelated. Imagine the way in which he would listen, and the way in which you would listen. You can draw the distinction. I know you are capable."
"He'd listen for you," Roa says after a moment of consideration. "I'd listen for myself. Someone listening for you is what you need." There's another bite and swallow before she adds "But you need someone listening."
"Well done, Roa." Despite his assertion of her capability, Sefton is pleased at her response. "I do not say to you that I will not act against your interests. I say that I act for them, and that is an important distinction. If you accept it, then you must accept that you are not the best ear I might find. Not as you currently listen."
The weyrwoman says nothing more. She only glances pointedly down to her boots that have been once more set aside, and then back up to the headmaster with her head canted slightly and her brows raises. And then Roa simply waits and eats her peach.
It's worth a try. Sefton's lips quirk for a moment, acknowledging just that -- he tries, with his next words, to divert her. "I had Neiran in last night." As he customarily does. "He has improved a great deal, since first he joined us."
"He goes runnerback riding now, I've heard," Roa allows the diversion, "and it seems as if he and Reyce might be...friends." The last word is experimental, the weyrwoman unsure anyone can really claim such a title when it comes to the bastard of Benden. A faint frown before Roa queries, "You didn't make him drink, did you?"
Sefton's lips quirk as that doubt registers on her behalf, and he acknowledges it with a nod -- his mouth is full again, and he is required to chew and swallow before he can reply. "Only a sip, and I do not need a lecture." She has accepted his change of subject, and for that she wins herself an easy grin, a tease.
"You do if you keep foisting alcohol on him," Roa quips. The peach is done, the pit held between her fingers for a moment before it is set on the small table to the side of the couch. "Find other ways to torment him. The ways that won't leave him in crippling and debilitating pain, afterwards."
Sefton wrinkles his nose, turning his head to look back at his desk. For a moment, he is ready to back up towards it, lean against it as usual. Then, instead, he steps forward, to fold to the ground on the far side of Kelar's box of gifts, settling himself so he can look up at her again. "A sip cannot do that. He makes the concession for a reason. It is his choice to do so."
"I think a sip could. Have you ever bothered to ask?" As he sits on the floor, Roa scoots off the couch to settle on the ground, on the other side of the box, crossing her legs. "I've read some about the condition. There isn't a great deal of information, and I suspect that's part of the problem. But it does seem that the things that trigger the attacks don't need to be present in very big doses in order to do so."
"Why should I ask?" Sefton's question is simple, delivered with a shrug. "It is his decision to drink the stuff. He understands the options available to him, and he makes his choice. He makes no real effort to evade it, or to negotiate a different course of action. Perhaps he values the conversation the more, for paying a price. I do not know."
"Please. Do not attempt to play the innocent. If you want him to drink, I imagine the other options you present are wholly unappealing or impossible. He is your student as much as he's your experiment. That is why you should ask." Roa laces her fingers together as she watches, leaning a little against the box.
Sefton laughs, delighted with the phrase -- that he sits on the floor with her is the signifier of a new phase for the pair, rather than the cause of it, and he leans in against the other side of the box. It might be a table between them, ready for a game of cards. "He has options, Roa. He can forego his private sessions. This road is always open. Or he can offer something else. This has not yet occurred to him. I will thank you not to suggest it, or my experiment will be quite spoiled."
"I will not suggest it, and you will find some other means of making him struggle to think of it on his own. Please." Roa's brows lift, her head tipping downwards. "I'm asking."
Sefton pulls another face, wrinkling his nose. "You are no fun," he accuses, pausing for a mouthful of his sandwich, chewing, swallowing. The pause this causes, it would seem, yields up no useful alternative. "He is faced, you would say, with serious pain on a weekly basis. He has not thought yet what else he might do instead. I would say he deserves what he gets, but you are softer hearted than I."
"It's part of why you find me so endearing," Roa supplies for the headmaster with a tiny smile. "Maybe the way to encourage him to think differently is to play a slightly different game. Stop making him drink, find something else. The results might please you even more than they'd please me."
"No, what I find endearing is that somebody so small can be so bossy," Sefton corrects her with a grin. "Step aside from your compassion for a moment, and marvel with me. Do you not find it unusual that a man as intelligent as he should repeat the same behaviour over and over without seeking an alternate route? I find it fascinating. I am sure there is something to be had from understanding why he does it."
"I am sure that you are resourceful enough to find the answer without subjecting him to this particular choice every seven," comes Roa's easy response. She dips her head into a nod, a modest acknowledgment of her bossiness and her diminutive stature. "I don't want to marvel over why Neiran does it. That will led us down into an entirely different debate, and I haven't won this one, yet."
"Now you want to win as well? Small and bossy /and/ demanding," Sefton marvels. "Most of your fellow students would be content simply to take part, and they have not even that. Admit you find it an interesting question, and that a small part of you shares my fascination at his expense, and we will speak of alternatives."
Roa holds up one hand, curled lightly into a fist. As she speaks, one finger uncurls for each of her next three words. Gentle corrections. "Diminutive. Assertive. Confident." Her hand again falls into her lap as Roa tsks softly. "Most of your students are not faced with the possibility of running a weyr in the next who knows how soon. But, all right, I admit the question as you phrase it is an interesting one. Speak to me of alternatives."
"Shall I complete the list?" Sefton asks his question dryly, teasing -- he is then forced to catch a drip of gravy from his rapidly disintegrating sandwich. "Honestly, I think that girl is afraid I will waste away," he murmurs, studying the offending meal. "When you need to run a weyr, you will do so with my counsel." And as though this should provide ample reassurance, he continues. "Speak to you? You steal my phrases while you trample my fun, Roa."
"I suspect, without Aida, you would waste away. I also suspect that if you'd eaten the sandwich when it was originally brought to you, it would be gone by now and you wouldn't be battling with gravy. You get no sympathy from me." Roa curls her own hands around her knees. "Hush. You're having a great deal of fun. Finish your food. Then, alternatives." 'Assertive' indeed.
"You are very hard on me," Sefton observes gravely, although he does as instructed, applying himself to his meal in silence for the couple of minutes required to demolish it. Then he speaks, politely, patently aware his words are not those desired. "I have no alternatives. You were the one who suggested they might exist. I suggest you begin." And then he licks his fingers clean.
"I like Aida," Roa says with a chuckle. She waits as Sefton eats, one hand tap-tap-tapping against the box. Her brows come up; he has surprised her with that last. "You could have him write poetry or read romance novels," she suggests after a time. "Or eat unhealthy foods."
"I like Aida too," Sefton replies in 'so there' fashion, finishing cleaning his hands off on his pants. Black, you see. Doesn't show. And people just show up and take away his laundry periodically. It's most convenient. "Tried that. It was amusing, but not as satisfying. Also, the novels are particularly time consuming, and I would rather he read other things. I suppose the food would serve."
"He's not at all keen on porcine," Roa offers in one part hope and one part help. "Or you could have him list the various herbs, teas, and medicines he takes daily and then make him whittle it down to only one or two." Her shoulders go up and down again. "There are many options."
Here now, perversity: "He takes them for a reason, does he not? You are more cruel than I, Roa. If he were to whittle them down, he might suffer pain every day." Sefton is mildly disapproving, casting her a glance through the curls that have tumbled down past his eyes.
"Then you shall simply have to ask -why- he takes each thing and make an informed decision." If Roa is offended, her bemused smile is hiding it rather well.
"I will say it again, Roa. You are no fun." Sefton has no prop -- no sandwich to pay attention to, no glass to turn around in his fingers, or study. So he looks across at her instead, for an unusually prolonged period. "Particularly sweet things, I imagine, would bother him."
"Mmm. Sweet. Fatty. Sticky, I should think. Gooey sorts or things. Anything superfluous, or of low nutritional value. Especially, I suspect," Roa closes her eyes and shakes her head, as if she cannot quite believe she's saying this, "if foods of higher quality, to his way of thinking, were also present."
Sefton laughs suddenly, shaking his head. "So I ought to sit around eating fruit, and offer your friend a plate full of things covered in cream and sweetener, or else with ham baked through? All I desire of him is a single mouthful, Roa. Are you sure your fate is not worse?"
A wry twist of Roa's lips. "After this conversation, I doubt I have any right to consider myself Neiran's friend any longer, if I ever made it to that ranking to begin with. And I still think I'm right. Alcohol is worse. I suppose you'll find out if, when next time you meet, he is slightly relieved or slightly more distressed by the new choices set before him."
"So be it, Roa," Sefton allows, lifting his hands, as though to absolve himself of blame or responsibility. "I will try it once, because you have asked me to do so."
"My hope is that you will keep up with it after that once, be it for your own amusement or for interest in your student's well being." There is a small pause before Roa concedes, if a bit wryly, "Thank you, Sef."
Sefton raises a hand again, this time as though to halt a charge. "One step at a time, bossy," he instructs her, lowering it so he can drum his fingers on the box. "You have taken away my game. I have put a great deal of time and effort into the lesson I can learn from this, and now I suspect I shall be set back considerably while he sorts himself out."
"Then I shall be both generous and foolish enough to ask how I might make this inconvenience up to you." Roa's own hand creeps up the box, fingers curling around the edges, brushing against all of that covering that hides the items within.
"No, no," Sefton murmurs, finding himself a prop at last -- he takes up a piece of straw, and concentrates on bending it in on itself over and over. "I have had your indulgence for another week. That will stand, Roa." And so his evasion is complete, the words delivered with a faint smile. No particular triumph, though.
"You have, and it seems a suitable trade," she allows, the small smile returned. "I expect our time is up, and I've still homework to finish. So, until next seven..." Roa is leaning forward and pushing up into a stand.
Of course he comes to his feet, courteous in this, as ever. "Indeed," he agrees, raking his hair back from his eyes. He pauses then, looking over at her for a moment. "Nothing interesting in class tomorrow," he offers, then. "Take the time and do something useful with it. I won't be leading a discussion."
She laughs softly. "'When are the days you don't do your work,' they ask me. 'Only the ones I visit with the Headmaster', I reply." The smile deepens and Roa says, only, "Thank you. I will." She gathers up her boots and bag and then walks to the door before pausing and noting, "I'm not really sure green is her color."
Sefton lifts a brow, grinning his farewell. "Bailie tells me she likes to wear bright colours, to chase away thoughts of the impending winter," he observes without a flicker. "Kel and I seek to oblige her."
"Bailie. Well then," Roa replies with a shrug, "I can't be right all the time." Another small smile, and then she ducks through the door and away.
Sefton's grin is her only reply -- he watches her go, and watches until she disappears. Then he drops to a crouch beside the box, ferreting around inside once more for a peach.