Logs:Finally Breaking Down
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| RL Date: 8 March, 2009 |
| Who: Satiet, Carobet |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Satiet breaks down and has to tell someone and cry at how unfair life is. |
| Where: Mindhealer's Office, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 21, Month 2, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
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| It is a winter afternoon, of day 21, month 2, turn 19 of Interval 10. (shortly after the Fort hatching) Three heartbeats. That's all it takes for a dragon to travel from Fort to High Reaches, scant minutes after their mid-morning hatching ended. Already the talk of a new queenrider for Fort has made the local gossip mill. Already the tallies are being talked about for the betting kind, and those just curious. But three heartbeats, a few minutes where the blur that is Satiet runs through the lower caverns to the infirmary, bring the Weyrwman, breathless into the opening of the mindhealer's office. Maybe no one's there. Maybe she doesn't have to make good on her actual arrival into these hallowed quarters, but if there is someone, they'll soon see a sight unseen for most, rare even in private: the slight, formidable Weyrwoman with her back to the wall, sinking to the ground with a sob finding breath and tears at her eyes. Carobet is, as it happens, here. The office is somewhat formal, as if reflecting the serious tone of the craft it embodies. The walls are dark, the furniture stately, the leather chairs not nearly as comfortable as, say, those near the Nighthearth. But the young healer is somewhat less serious at the moment, not expecting any patients, least of all the Weyrwoman. Least of all the Weyrwoman in her present state. Her slippers are partially kicked off, her legs dangled over the side of her chair's arm. And then Satiet appears, so unlike herself. Carobet stands, setting aside the file she'd been flipping through, and crosses towards her, carefully. "Weyrwoman, ma'am." A calculated tone: respect mixed with genuine-- and professional-- concern. "May I help you?" Words have escaped her. She's incapable of them: of saying them, thinking them, or comprehending them. Terribly sobs wrack her too thin shoulders, transparently so even beneath the layers of her fur-lined winter clothing, and her slow descent finally finds Satiet with her back to the wall, her bottom to the floor, and her arms wrapping around her knees. But the physical proximity of another begins to cut through the layers of overwhelming despondancy, and though her tears don't stop, at least the dark-haired woman's head lifts just enough so that Carobet can be seen through damp lashes. Carobet says nothing for long moments as the dark-haired woman sobs, but folds her legs beneath her, settling down on the floor a foot or so away from Satiet. She uses no form of therapy, for the moment, except for simply being present. Nearly-silent time passes until, as if the despondency permeating the room has simply become too heavy, she cuts through it with a low whisper: "Water. I can pour you a glass of water. Would you like some?" Reassuring: "It will help." Nearly-silent time indeed, for the onslaught of Satiet's cries seems near endless, going on and on enough to try even the most patient of people, and only quieting (a little) just seconds prior to the voice cutting through her sorrow. That then in turn draws out heaving sobs, as the woman struggles to breathe. Struggles, for a moment, to try and grasp a composure that's just out of reach. But it's enough moment of control, even just that split-second, that allows Carobet's offer to sink in, which then leads to a hoarse, "Please." It isn't quite enough to halt the flow of tears from her eyes, but at least, now, they sound markedly less wretched. Repeated, post-staggered breath, is a duller, "Please." Carobet stands once more, carefully, making sure her movement does not jar the sobbing woman-- the way someone might move who is trying not to wake a baby. She crosses the room to where a pitcher of water sits on the desk, fills a glass, and brings it back, offering it down to Satiet. Nothing is said to implore the woman to stop, to do anything but let out the entirety of her emotion. Were Satiet to pause for any length of time to observe the young healer-- or, more probably, would there have been an observer in the room-- Carobet's expression would have been noted: a wide eyed, in-over-my-head expression, mixed with hearty doses of worry and concern. Have minutes passed? Or are they hours? When self-involved, the passage of time becomes arbitrary, and Satiet, after what likely feels like not a whole lot of time to her, becomes increasingly more subdued. Eventually, silent tears merely stream down her face, and her breathing, while unsteady, is far more even than before. Though Carobet's brought water, it takes this span of time before the slight, frail woman reaches for it, if only to hold, not drink. Finally, as if recognizing the ludicrousness of her situation, Satiet's alto, ragged for its excessive wailing, ventures a quiet, wry, "Is this when you ask me about my parents?" "Unless you rather I ask about your recent dreams," Carobet replies, equally wry, relief in her voice not well masked at the fact Satiet's sobs have abated. "May I offer you a chair, ma'am? I have never tried the floor, myself, but I'd daresay it's not the most comfortable place to sit here." An attempt to stay light, humorous, doing her best to change the prevailing mood of the room. Though she might joke, capable of speech once more, the eyes that lift to find Carobet through a veil of mussed hair and wet lashes, glisten with as yet unloaded sorrow but are void beyond that. Dull. No light to see there. She also doesn't move, maintaining her ground, literally, with a drop of her other hand to the floor, falling away her knees. Those knees, they also fall, collapsing from the strength of having to keep them up, sliding along the ground until they're flat. The glass of water stays steady, held against her abdomen, and then- then there's that quiet, hoarse voice once more: "If I had been a n-." Pause. Rephrase. "Is this karma coming to kick my ass?" Carobet doesn't push the matter; if Satiet prefers the floor, than she does too, and she sits upon it once more, cross-legged, hands in lap. "Do you believe that it is?" There it is, the mindhealer training finally coming out. One simple question, no simple answers. And Carobet, patient as ever, waiting for what Satiet has to say to that. Well. It depends on the speaker. For Satiet, despite her deprecation and her distancing from her tears and sickness with dry not-humor, the answer is simple and it comes forth after the slightest pause. It's unclear whether that pause is thought or just the need for another heaving breath. Then; "No." Her gaze drops to the water in the glass, watching how it moves with even the smallest shifts in her hold. "I don't want your pity." Not that Carobet's been giving pity. Still, it must be said, a touch defensive. "Well, you're in luck. That isn't my job," Carobet observes, waiting a moment before responding to that one-word answer. "I've seen dragonless men, thread-scored and disfigured riders. If I was in the pity business, I'd have little left for you." That settled, she finally remarks: "But you've considered it. Do you wish the explanation were that easy?" /That/ draws Satiet up short; this foreign idea that there are other people in the world in direr straits than herself. The slim fingers wrapped around her glass tighten reflexively, and thereby causes the glass to tremble with the force of all her strength. At least anger is one step better than self-pity. Drawing back each piece of vulnerability tossed out so emotionally before, her shoulders draw back to press into the wall. Colder, "I wish it were easier." Carobet nods, the tough-love tack abandoned for now. "It's natural to feel that way. As hard as it might seem-- as difficult and incomprehensible by any other human being-- what you are experiencing is very... normal. For someone going through what you are." She falls silent, taking in Satiet and trying to gauge her reaction to her words-- the trembling glass, the tightening muscles of her hands, her damp eyes from crying. Add to that her lowered lashes. Rather than look to Carobet, those once-bright eyes have fallen to her lap. It's hard to maintain anger in this state, but bitterness? It rises sharply sour in her throat, betrayed in the quick, distasteful swallow that fails. "What I'm /experiencing/?" And there, for a moment, Satiet comes face to face with reality. "You are aware I'm dying, yes? How would you feel knowing that?" "This isn't about me, Satiet," Carobet says quietly. "Of course I'm aware that you are dying. I have your file." She straightens her back slightly, trying to grasp onto each ounce of authority she has as a healer. "I am not trying to demean the fact that you're facing the unthinkable. I'm only trying to help you come to terms with what is, when it comes down to it, a part of everyone's life. In a way, you have been granted a luxury: the time to try to comprehend death, instead of your life being stolen from you unexpectedly. You have time to grieve." "I'd rather not." Grieve; though she already has and is. "I don't plan on telling anyone. They don't have to know." Satiet: does she convince herself, or do her words fall on her own deaf ears? It's not quite a statement, a little too lost in its drop of intonation, but it's not quite question in its repetition. "They don't have to." Do they? The question lies in her fine brows as they lift, in those dark lashes as they break free of each other to turn liquid eyes upon Carobet. "It should be easier." The glass falls again, untouched and in the resultant pause, a thought surfaces. "Like with-. But she's not ready. Neither of them are." "Who isn't ready?" Carobet asks, encouraging elaboration on that half-spoken thought. "Of course, it's your choice to tell others or to keep your illness to yourself, as you wish. But perhaps that some of the burden would be lifted from you, if you could share in the process with someone you trusted... besides a mindhealer." A pause-- "But if, and when, you do, is your own choice," she reiterates. In that, Satiet's made up her mind. It's clear in the definitive drop her teeth to her lower lip, in the unshed tears that are, this time, held back. "It would be too hard. For them." Not her. She could elaborate, but those pale eyes shift away and that slight frame slides up along the wall, pushed with her bent knees, leaving her half-empty glass on the ground. "I-," and then there's the embarrassment; that realization that, however minute it might be, she's let her guard down and showed unintended emotions and fears. "Thank you, for your time." Carobet nods with a professional, curt movement of her head. "Anytime, Weyrwoman. All you have to do is ask." No more questions for now; the healer can tell that there is no point elongating the impromptu session. And a small smile is offered, a reassuring smile of secret-keeping. Tears? What tears indeed. Satiet looks. Truly looks at Carobet for the first time since arriving here. She looks at the apprentice healer with her dark hair and striking features, and those pale, wobbly gaze *looks* to find trust. Whatever she might see, agrees, or at least satisfies for now, for the slight woman returns the curt nod with one of her own, favoring one cheek slightly in deference to how she's impinged on the healer's time. Without further words that might betray her, the slight woman takes one more breath and then exits, quieter, more composed. |
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