Logs:Final Negotiations
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| RL Date: 28 May, 2012 |
| Who: Ali, N'muir, Jivrain |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, Southern Boll Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: Fort Weyr finally manages to negotiate a deal for the return of Southern Boll. |
| Where: Harper Hall, Fort Area |
| When: Day 18, Month 11, Turn 28 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Hattie/Mentions, K'del/Mentions |
| It's that time of the week again, when the Harper Hall hosts its meeting between Fort Weyr and South Boll. For weeks now, the meetings have been little more than strained, uncomfortable silences, broken only by the unrelenting voice of the harper diplomat, ever the optimist. This week, however, when N'muir arrived, it was to find Ali there - looking a little worse for wear - chatting quietly with the harper before the proceedings. When Lord Jivrain arrived, he was in a mood, furious, even - immediately accusing N'muir of some sort of bribery with High Reaches Weyr. It took some time for the harper to calm the Lord down enough to begin negotiations - and with High Reaches' assistance off the table, the negotiations where made much easier. By the end, when Lord Jivrain stormed out, it was with the grudging acceptance that Fort would receive his tithes once again... in return for some concessions, of course. Ali, while present throughout the meeting, remained silent, only occasionally leaning forward to murmur something to the harper. By the time Jivrain leaves, she looks, frankly, relieved, and - with a glance at the harper, approaches N'muir. "Sir," she greets him, tentatively, fingers twined tightly together, gaze downward. The curiosity of concern dwells in the tired but determined eyes of the Weyrleader as his attention seeks Ali out in the aftermath of their unexpected triumph. "Weyrwoman," he returns, the word heavier than usual; foreign and yet familiar on his tongue. "Was this your doing?" The junior's shoulders slump, as if the words are some sort of accusation. "I didn't promise anything," Ali says, hastily. "He heard what he wanted to hear. But we have Boll back, or will- that's what matters, right?" she bites her lower lip, uneasily. Uncertain of what the Weyrleader's reaction might be. A knit develops between N'muir's brows, confusion settling into the line of his mouth. There are hints of hope - possibly even pride - but they are interspersed with uncertainty. "What did you say to him?" he asks gently, accusation kept out of his tone. "Just that you- you would consider voting to support him. I didn't /promise/," Ali assures him, hastily, finally daring to peek a glance up at him. She looks distinctly nervous, fingers starting to twist around the hem of her shawl. The lightness of happy feelings that fed into his features fades and N'muir tries to fight from becoming consumed by agitation. "So you lied," he states plainly, glancing away. He heaves a sigh to shed the sharpness from his eyes before he looks back, voice growing gentle; almost repentant. "Are you coming back to Fort?" The weight of the response earns a hitch of breath from Ali, something desperate in her voice, like she's trying to make him understand: "I lied, for /us/. Nothing was ever going to change, Lord Jivrain wouldn't have come back to us on his own." Her expression is on the verge of distraught, gaze angled downward again. "Issy misses home," the goldrider admits, quietly. "I do too. But," she heaves a breath, "I will talk to- to High Reaches and see about a trade, if that is what you still want, sir." N'muir shakes his head with disappointment that seems more aimed at Lord Boll and High Reaches than the slight woman near him. The corner of his mouth turns down. "You might be right about that one," he mutters. "Anyway, I will look forward to the look on K'del's face the next time I see him." The bronzerider looks away from that vulnerable expression, his posture becoming rigid while he struggles not to let awkward emotion sink its teeth into his bones. "Elaruth misses her daughter," he says at first, and lingers in that one phrase. The harper still standing somewhere on the edge of the conversation gets a hard side-long glance. "Would you mind if I asked for a moment alone, sir?" N'muir asks and waits until he is alone with Ali before continuing. "I don't want to give High Reaches anything," he says gruffly, and then his voice softens: "I want you to come home. To /stay/. Can you do that?" A beat. "For Fort?" There's a slight shudder from Ali as N'muir mentions Elaruth, and she looks as if she's struggling for words. With a slight tip of head, the harper departs; the dark haired woman doesn't even look in his direction. She keeps her gaze downwards, mostly- but dares a look at his gruff voice, as if she wants to check his expression. She bites her lower lip, letting out a sudden breath: "Oh, sir. I /want/ to come home. I don't /want/ to be traded." She rushes forward a couple of steps and, unless he stops her, throws her arms around him in a quick hug, her voice taut with emotion. "I'm sorry I said such awful things, sir." Young women throwing themselves at N'muir has never been the bronzerider's strength, and so when Ali hugs him, those rough parts of the man are worn away at quickly. He drapes one arm around her back briefly to return the quick embrace. "I'm sorry for being an ass. You will always be Fortian," he assures her softly, his dark voice rumbling with hints of fondness. He fishes into his pocket and pulls out her old knot, slightly more mangled than before. "But." Isn't there always a but. "You need to figure out how to be strong even in the worst of times. You and Isyath are mothers of Fort now. A mother never leaves her children in danger, does she?" Ali takes a step back, a rush of color - embarrassment, maybe? - touching her cheeks, and she accepts the knot back with an exhaled breath, fingers stealing over the cords as if welcoming back an old friend. She does look up at him, though, a mixture of uncertainty and trepidation in her expression. "Hattie and Elaruth are the mothers of Fort," she says, very distinctively. There's an edge in her voice, that hint of envy that she guards closely. "Issy isn't maternal at all. But she- she did want to reach out to her children." Her fingers close around the knot, as her head drops. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm- I'm tired of feeling afraid. Being watched, and judged. I just wanted- I guess that's selfish." Her voice trails off, shoulders stiffening somewhat, as she murmurs, "I will try, sir." "I'm not here to feed you lines to make you feel better," N'muir remarks with some tenderness left for Ali as his calm reserve returns to him. "I wasn't being literal. Isyath doesn't need to be maternal to be a mother. /You/ don't have to be maternal. You just have to ensure your children - every resident, every crafter, ever dragonrider, every creature within the walls of our Weyr - are provided for. You just have to be there for them, even if you don't think your presence will do any good. It will, and it does." His frown deepens with sympathy and he reaches out to lay his hand heavily upon her shoulder. "Would you give up Isyath to feel safe again? To not be judged or watched by anyone?" Ali looks shocked by the very suggestion, and her response is heated, almost vehement: "Not in a thousand Turns!" she takes a deep breath, her gaze distant, quiet for a time - Bijedth, perhaps, can feel Isyath's presence growing stronger, and the woman's fingers no longer play along the cords of her knot: she raises her gaze and looks at N'muir. "Everyone says that, with a dragon, you never feel alone. And I don't, but- I still feel lonely. And I-" she's hasty, continuing to not give him much of a chance to respond, "-I'm not saying that because I want your pity. Just so you understand, maybe. So /someone/ does." "It's the price you pay," the Weyrleader reminds her. "Every Weyrwoman does. Why don't you try to spend more time with Hattie. Or any of the weyrwomen of other Weyrs. They have all been where you are." He shrugs his broad shoulders and his hands find his pockets. "Or get a companion to spend your time with. Or foster one of the children from the nursery." He takes his jacket from the back of his chair and stuffs his arms into the sleeves and then turns to begin wrapping his scarf around his neck. He's ready for flight within a minute, every buckle done and every tie tied. "I wish there was something I could do to help you," N'muir murmurs. "But you've got to learn how to swim when you're thrown in the lake. I can tell you how to swim but I can't move your legs for you." A short pause - perhaps too short a pause, and then: "Ready?" A few of his suggestions has the younger weyrwoman flinching, but with a stiffening of shoulders, she manages to take it in stride, otherwise. "I've tried. But I- I was always better at being friends with males than females. My brothers were my best friends, growing up." Ali watches N'muir, as he gets ready, though she doesn't follow suit, immediately. It's only when he asks if she's ready that she actually stirs to motion, exhaling. "Yes, sir." The words are, as always, dutiful, but there's an odd intensity to them this time, too: a subtle gratitude, or something heated. She slips the knot into her pocket, then rests a hand on his arm- able at least to pretend to those watching outside the room that everything's well. It's N'muir's most telling and most favoured expression: the frown, and he wears it well even when it's slanted in something between disappointment and sad understanding as it is now. "And I've always been better being a wingrider," he tells her, and for a moment there's a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He straightens and rests one gloved hand over hers. "Let's go home then," he says, and tries to guide her hand into the crook of his arm to play the proper, polite Weyrleader to the weyrwoman - even if either or both of them are pretending for the time being. "If it helps," Ali murmurs, through a half-smiled sidelong glance, "You're better at being a Weyrleader than I am at as a weyrwoman." The dark-haired Fortian is amenable enough, fingers settling in the crook of his arm, a nod given towards the harper and a grateful murmur as they pass by him. Isyath soars above the skies of the harper hall, pleased to be back within Fort's domain, her pleasure something that seeps outwards, difficult to ignore, for Ali, especially: she shades her eyes briefly, looking skywards, a smile brightening her features. "Thank you, sir," he murmurs. It must be a well-painted portrait for anyone watching the Weyrleaders leave, arm in arm, and N'muir's face spread in a heart-felt chuckle. "Or I'm really good at faking it," he murmurs for her ears only. As soon as the necessary gratitude is given where it's due to the harper affiliates, he's up in his straps and into the sky, where Bijedth gladly flies in the shadow of the rose-tinted Isyath all the way to the welcoming mouth of the Weyr's caldera. Home. And with good news. |
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