Logs:The Untold Stories
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| RL Date: 14 November, 2015 |
| Who: Quint |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Vignette |
| What: Quint's worried about his family, but there's logic to adhere to. |
| Where: Kitchens, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 4, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Ryneton/Mentions, Jocelyn/Mentions |
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| He sat in the kitchen for a long time, well past the dinner hour. It was lively in there -- life went on, necessity dictating that food must be made, and people must eat. Ryneton came to relieve him after dinner, the apprentice's eyes tight, looking tired. They exchanged a few words, Quint imparting a reassurance and confidence that was as good a construct as that which he'd given Jocelyn, earlier. The excitable young seamstress? His sister. A gracefully aging artist of some talent who depicted one of the former Lady's grandsons? His mother. A fisherman saving up to buy a boat with which to support the young woman he hopes to wed? His one day brother-in-law. He'd briefly entertained the notion of bribing some rider to take him as far as they dared -- landing him outside of Boll -- sneaking in and rescuing his mother and sister and her beau like some daring hero of the stories that inspired the minds of the young and impressionable. But he was not so young, and far from impressionable, and he was too well trained for his mind not to automatically follow the "what if's" to their inevitable, poor conclusion. He couldn't live with the idea of infecting another person unnecessarily for his own selfish need to know. Knowledge was everything to him, and its lack made him... unhinged. Unwhole. Undone. His fingers curled. He could feel himself slipping, and it frightened him. And so, he told himself the things he told his apprentices, and anyone else that turned their worried gaze in his direction, seeking some sort of response. There was a chance the quarantines would hold, that this would burn itself out before it hit High Reaches. Soon, they would know all there was to know, and be able to do something. To help. What had happened would run its course, and they could no more alter the outcome than shift the path of the moons themselves. Would that he could otherwise, though. Tomorrow, maybe. Tomorrow could be a different story: the drums in his dreams that sounded the all clear from Southern Boll would drum, in reality. Tomorrow was indeed, a different story, though far from the one he'd hoped for. High Reaches riders, sick. That meant it was in the Weyr, and there was no leaving now -- not via rider, anyway. Ever the Harper, he calculated the miles between High Reaches and Southern Boll, the speed of an average runner. The answer made it worse. The "what-if's" worse still. All logic dictated he'd be best placed to remain. And yet his heart begged otherwise. Fortunately, he was trained to listen to both in equal measures, to weigh and judge without emotion of involvement. It was a logical decision that won. Some days, he didn't feel grateful for his training. |
Comments
Jocelyn (20:18, 14 November 2015 (PST)) said...
Oh dear. :o
I think Jocelyn's callousness just multiplied, even though she didn't know. Yikes.
Squishy (22:12, 14 November 2015 (PST)) said...
Interesting insights.
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