Logs:A Fraud
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| RL Date: 23 April, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, Quinlys |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Quinlys tracks Farideh down in the galleries. They speak, but not altogether successfully. |
| Where: Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 12, Month 8, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, Azaylia/Mentions, Iolene/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions |
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| Most people are enjoying what remains of the balmy summer day and the sunlight, and the galleries, now that there aren't any eggs to ogle, are free of visitors-- except Farideh is there. She's sitting on the bottom row, hunched over with her elbows on her knees, staring unwaveringly at the shards and fragments of shells mixed in with the gold granules of the hatching sands. Her expression is that of someone thinking hard, her brow furrowed and her mouth pulled tight against whatever thoughts whirl around in that head of hers. And Roszadyth, bit of sunshine that she is, is happily dozing on her couch in the barracks, an occasional bubble of light or music escaping her mind and floating off in the direction of another dragon's. Weyrlingmasters, like parents, have eyes in the back of their head... and a sixth sense, too, when it comes to their weyrlings (or maybe it's just they have half the eyes in the weyr reporting back to them; either way). Whichever it is, Quinlys' red-headed figure appears in the entrance to the galleries, and, after those blue eyes sweep around thoughtfully to take in her surrounds, promptly heads towards the dark-haired weyrling. She's silent as she pulls herself to a seat alongside Farideh, hands crossed in her lap; she waits. It isn't until the Weyrlingmaster is sitting down next to her that Farideh finally looks up from the sands, sitting back as she does so, hands resting on her knees in lieu of her knees. "Am I in trouble?" is all she asks, at first. "I just-- wanted to go somewhere quiet, where people wouldn't be-- staring at me, talking about me, speculating about me." She glances aside at Quinlys, and almost immediately looks down at her hands. "Roszadyth is sleeping." "No," says Quinlys, instantly. "No, not at all. I just wanted to-- check in. See how you were doing." She draws her feet up onto the seat, now, knees pressed against her chest. "I saw Iolene go through this, and then Aishani and Azaylia-- but at least they had each other. But it was different for all of them, because we had a senior, then, and now we..." Don't. Properly. She turns her head side-long to look at Farideh. "It's okay to feel overwhelmed." The dark-haired weyrling is quiet until Quinlys finishes speaking, and then she lets out a wearied sigh. "Did they ever think this would be their life? I thought for sure a blue, or a green, but not-- Roszadyth. Not this life. Not-- " Farideh's forehead creases. "It's overwhelming. It's scary. It's-- nothing I wanted and yet I can't imagine not having her, and she comes with all of this. I'm scared of what people are saying. Another Igenite on gold, another--" She shakes her head, but peeks a glances at the bluerider, hater of all things Igen. "Do you? Hate me for it?" For once, there's nothing smug about Quinlys' expression; no smirk. "What? No. No. Shells, Farideh. You're going to be a Weyrwoman of High Reaches; it doesn't matter to me where you were born, because I know I'm going to train you, and you are going to belong here." Irianke's part in all of this... that's not (yet) up for consideration. "I'm not sure anyone expects it, honestly. I'm not surprised you feel overwhelmed, but... right now, you're one of my weyrlings, and that's it. The rest can wait. Anyone who doesn't like it, or you, can suck it." Her vehemence is fiery. "You aren't worried that I'm going to be biased towards Igen?" Farideh is still staring at Quinlys, openly curious, almost desperately needing to hear the answers the other woman is giving. "It's not an easy position to be in, not after everything that's happened lately. I still don't-- I'm not sure I'm the right girl for the job, but I don't really have a choice. Do I?" She pushes her fingers through her hair, raking back the length-chin strands on either side of her head, while she turns another baleful glance on the sands and its remnant legacy. "I can't take it back. Some days are easier than others, and some days I just want to run away." In lieu of direct answer, Quinlys flicks her gaze away from Farideh and out towards those largely empty sands. "Iolene tried to give me Ysavaeth," she relates, quietly. "She barely understood what Impression meant, and... but Ysavaeth chose her for a reason, and Roszadyth chose you. You're not supposed to be ready for it, now. It's okay." Now, she glances back at the weyrling. "You chose to come to High Reaches. Not to Stand, but to live. That's enough for me. Your next job is to prove it to everyone else, but most of all, it's to take it one step at a time. Focus on Roszadyth." "Tried to give you Ysavaeth?" That idea makes Farideh sit up straighter, a tad more concerned for that former goldrider. "What if I'm never ready?" is followed closely by a semi-hysterical: "And how can I just focus on one thing and take it one step at a time? There's so many things to think about-will everyone hate me? Will my mother? What if Irianke leaves? Will I die too?" She closes her eyes at the end and drops her hands onto the bench that they're sitting open, blowing out a slow breath. "Roszadyth is just so happy, and I don't want her to feel my anxiety. She doesn't need-- doesn't deserve it. I don't deserve her." "Yes, but--" But whatever Iolene tried to do, Quinlys has moved past it: she's focused, instead, and dropping her knees and reaching to grab for Farideh, to draw her in for a hug whether she likes it or not. "You do deserve her, because otherwise she wouldn't have picked you. And you're not going to die; I won't let you." It's a command. And then: "Let it out. All of it. No one's judging you, here." For this, for the embrace, Farideh doesn't pull away, though she's mostly malleable to Quinlys' manipulations. "I don't know what to do. I didn't want this-- not--" The sound she makes might be a tremble-y sob, but it's hard to tell, muffled as it is by the hand she's got pressed to her mouth. "It's worse than that. It's-- I'm a fraud, and everyone is going to be depending on me-- for what? For what? I can't do anything, I can't help anyone." "No," comes Quinlys' reply, soft and soothing, clearly more focused on the sounds she's making than the actual words. "It may feel like it, but you're not, not even a little." She gives the weyrling a squeeze, not drawing back but still making sure there's room to breath and to talk, and even to get away if she should so choose. "Impressing doesn't make you a weyrwoman. Training does. You're fine. You're going to be fine, because I'm going to help you. We all are." It would be easy to assume Farideh's lack of words, after all her rambling on, as calm, but her body slowly becomes tenser. "Were they good weyrwomen? Were they happy with what they became?" is all she asks, quietly even. Her next move, or words, seem to hinge on whatever answer the redhead gives her; for better or worse, good or bad. Is it a lie that Quinlys speaks, intended to soothe? If it is, it's a well-told one. She draws back as she says it, allowing her the opportunity to stare Farideh directly in the eye as she says it. "Yes," she says. "I believe so. And... look at Irianke. Do you think her unhappy?" Whatever the bluerider's feelings on their acting weyrwoman, she seems pretty sure of that. "Farideh," she begins, then. "I believe in you. You'll learn. Being a weyrwoman isn't about being nice, though some try to make it so. It's about... managing. And that's a skill you can learn. And... remember. Roszadyth was born to this. She'll support you." "I don't--" Farideh pulls back farther, staring into Quinlys' face like she's just now seen her. "Irianke is a complicated woman. She's lively, and brave, and strong, but--" She moves to extricate herself from Quinlys and hastily stand up, suddenly nervous and fidgety all at once. "I should go. I think Roszadyth is-- she's waking up. I should be there. I should-- I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything." Her face twists into a grimace, and then she's walking, clipped strides, towards the exit. "Don't--" begins Quinlys, rising from her seat as if she intends to follow Farideh-- chase her down, perhaps. But then she stops; she lets her go. "We'll talk again soon," is what she does say, though so low, beneath her breath, that surely the weyrling won't be able to hear. Still; there's steely resolve, there. They will talk again. |
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