Logs:What Matters
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| RL Date: 16 November, 2015 |
| Who: Ebeny, N'rov, Laurienth |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Of names and darker subjects. |
| Where: Weyrleader's Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 4, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: E'dre/Mentions, Suireh/Mentions, M'vyn/Mentions, N'muir/Mentions |
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| Perhaps Laurienth is not a fan of her new, if temporary, home, for though she could be snug and safe and warm inside the Weyrleader's weyr, she's instead outside on the ledge, lounging curled in a crescent moon shape, her hooded gaze cast out across said ledge and down the stairs, rather than out across the bowl. The noise coming from the weyr itself is unmistakably Ebeny - that is, it's unmistakably Ebeny's voice; the one she no longer shares in the living caverns. Inside, what must have so recently come out of boxes is now being put back in, whether a precautionary measure or mere acceptance of the likely need to move again in the near future. Over a sevenday since she and E'dre had moved back in together, good news; the racing plague, really bad news. N'rov's looking gaunt as he heads up the stairs to that ledge that used to be Bijedth's, and the previous day's word from the Weyr Council can't help. He stops short of Laurienth, head cocked; and then he looks at the green. Just the green, not towards the mouth of that weyr and that singer. Laurienth observes N'rov's progress, yet, beyond the entryway, her rider's voice keeps on following its own melody, and so maybe any presence beyond her own is not conveyed. The angular green doesn't move beyond the rather obvious drag of the claws of her front paws across the rock beneath, enough to make an unpleasant counterpoint to Ebeny's melody, and perhaps even leave marks behind too. Only on the heels of that sound does she give a low rumble - a warning. "Claws nice and sharp," N'rov observes, "as they ought." He glances towards the singing, then, and back at Laurienth, followed by a shrug with widened hands that isn't yet a bow. And then he walks past, not fast, nor are his footsteps loud until he fetches up past the entrance: timed between stanzas if he can, but only if they don't wear on. There's not much time. As Ebeny turns to move a pile of what looks like children's clothes from a nearby table and into a mostly empty crate, she catches N'rov at the periphery of her vision and lets what would have been the next note on her lips catch in her throat and die. She colours, pink flushing across her features, and clutches the clothes more tightly to her, though given a moment or so, she remembers how to move and resumes her approach to the crate. "E'dre's not here," she states. It might not have been so long ago that he's glimpsed her; longer, perhaps, that he's recognized her; longer than he's seen her. In answer, N'rov steps back with a crisp nod as though that question's answered; then he just stops, leans heavily against stone, and looks at her: for the changes in her. There's no hiding it now; that's for sure. Still, there are no voluminous dresses and swathes of concealing fabric for Ebeny - she's dressed as practically as ever, the crisp lines of her shirt now interrupted by the obvious curve of her stomach. She's paying for it in the gauntness of her features, her jaw somehow more angular and cheekbones more evident, though she does not otherwise look particularly unwell. Another step carries her to the crate, where she settles her burden and straightens to lift her gaze to N'rov. "Why did you stop singing?" is N'rov's question out of nowhere. Given a second to gather herself to field that question, Ebeny asks, "In general or just now?" in answer. "Yes." But it boils down to, "In public. Unless you hold," N'rov can only suppose, "your own out-Weyr events." "There's a Master here now." Ebeny shrugs, like the twitch of her shoulders could convey what she must deem so obvious as to be unnecessary to explain. She glances down at her feet - or what she can see of them now - and gives an audible sigh. "...That and I half lost my mind on M'vyn and told him we were done with that before..." Muddy-green eyes lift away find something other than N'rov to stare at. "Before that flight," she murmurs. "An amazing one," N'rov's not shy about saying. "But she's hardly likely to critique you in front of all and sundry." He pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his duster. "Why?" Why before. Why. "You just supplied your own answer." Ebeny turns away to move back through the weyr and collect up another bundle of clothes. "Why what?" she demands, a few paces into her journey back. "Why don't I want to make an idiot of myself? Why don't I want to be branded a fantasist? Why don't I want some proper Harper laughing at me?" Maybe she'd stop, only she doesn't, her pause just long enough to draw breath. "Why did I lose it? I don't know. You tell me; you've seen that side of me up-close. Why does it matter?" She paces, there and back; N'rov doesn't, his back against the wall, though there's a moment where he looks for recourse from the ceiling. It doesn't fall. "It shouldn't," is more elliptical than it might sound. "She won't laugh at you." He hadn't met Suireh in her youth. "It's not like everyone who dares to whistle's been rounded up and their mouths sewn shut." "Whether or not I sing in public doesn't make any difference to you," Ebeny insists, reaching to nestle in one set of clothes next to the other. "It doesn't affect you at all. And I really think it's the least of--" Her expression becomes pinched, an exasperated look directed at N'rov, then down at her stomach. "Stop that," she half-growls, to the one of them who plainly isn't the bronzerider. "Only you could make a baby not even born insufferable," she mutters. That's for N'rov. "Not at all. I only ever inquire about things that don't make any difference to me," N'rov says, polite in tone if not in waiting his turn. That's for Ebeny. But then, "Really?" It's suddenly boyish, and comes with an even more sudden smirk. "Excellent." That's for the unborn. "Dibs on naming." Ebeny mutters something rather uncharitable under her breath. "When you carry it, you get to name it," she wearily declares, moving to awkwardly sit down on the edge of the crate, which may or may not be such a good idea. "You played your part," is only faintly accusatory. If there's a less than classy pun there, she doesn't acknowledge it. "Be content with that, for now." "You said you don't want it," N'rov counters, if not charitably and certainly not contentedy, then with some residual cheer; his elbows drop back as he deepens his lean, watching her with her crate. "I'd bet it likes your singing, though." "That doesn't mean that I'm going to let you name it whatever you like." That's stated flatly, Ebeny entirely unaware of the hand she's lifted to rest against the - if the tension in her features in anything to go by - still jabbing baby. "D'you want me to say it again? That I don't want it?" she presses, half-aggressive and half-fearful. She abruptly drops her gaze from him again and gives an uneasy roll of her shoulders. "It'll stifle the high notes soon, so maybe it'll just have to remember," she murmurs. N'rov doesn't give her an answer; instead, "Is 'Ebeny' short for anything? Like Ebeneezerinya or something? Because 'Norov' isn't. It's not like I'd want to call it 'Yo' or 'Ebno' or, shells, just plain 'No' or something. And how would it stifle them, anyway?" "You try breathing properly with a baby occupying all the space that it can find," Ebeny replies in a manner that she manages to keep to a low key complaint, or perhaps she's just too tired to be more matter of fact about it. "But no," she shakes her head, "I'm just 'Ebeny'." In that, she sounds secure, resigned, as if it sums her up completely. "I don't know what you'd want to call it, but if the only thing I ever do is leave it a name, I want it to be something that I can stand." "Ah, yes." N'rov looks down at the bulge he's suddenly made of his belly, if only by dint of breath. Which makes it harder to talk properly without losing it thereafter, but he copes; "What can you stand? I like the n-y part, 'nee' or 'nigh.'" Ebeny finds an interesting spot on the floor to stare at as she says, "...I don't think an E-name would be fair," rather quietly. "It'd... make it seem we're trying to pretend its father is... who it isn't. And all of my little ones have E-names and I don't... want to confuse them... if..." They end up understanding who the baby is? Another shrug. "Using 'rov' somewhere could do for a boy or a girl." "No," N'rov agrees, regardless of whether 'fair' would have been the word he'd have chosen. "Far it be from me to force a child to recognize its brother or sister." Moving on. "'Nyrov' might get confusing if he Impresses. Noryn starts to sound like a girl. Roveny," 'o' as in 'ah,' "isn't so bad; Roveny," as in 'oh,' "better. Roeny. Or switch it around: Voreny, Nyvor," he could go on. But, "Anything you can't stand so far?" It's the second comment that does it, that has Ebeny rising to her feet and, after a moment's hesitation, delivering a vehement, "Fuck you," that's only all the more heated for that second's worth of an attempt at self-control. She abruptly turns to head deeper into the weyr, in an all too obvious attempt to put more distance between them, though then she struggles to find something to even pretend to put in the crate. And so, while she isn't even sure where to put herself, she snaps, "Roveny," of the second variety. "Just call it Roveny." It's distance that he doesn't close, but then, neither does N'rov seem particularly surprised. Or shocked. Nor sarcastic, though there's a twitch to his mouth that suggests he could. "'Rovyn' if it's a boy," he calls back. Beat. "Unless that would be too confusing with M'vyn." "I guess more than one person will have assumed I've been with him too, so it depends whether it'd bother you or not, to have the kid mistaken." As she's evidently just so okay with it. Ebeny turns, her back to him, and uselessly rummages through a pile of things that have already been sorted before she manages to turn back and actually look at him again. She swallows hard. "Is that it? Do we now meet again after I've spent however many hours losing my dignity and delivering it?" His low laugh may have something to do with that too, or else the whole shebang; but then, drawn up short, N'rov tells her, "You don't have to lose your dignity in front of me." As though she hadn't. "I'd like to think you at least get congratulations." "Don't worry. I haven't assumed that you'll want to be there," is supplied just about as evenly as Ebeny can manage. Only now does she begin to move back to the crate, empty though her arms are. "It doesn't matter what I get, does it?" It's rhetorical, plain and simple, accompanied by another twitch of one shoulder. "But I think you'd better go before I embarrass myself." The very thought make the white show around N'rov's eyes, just for the instant before he swallows. But when he speaks, it's low, intent, forcefulness restrained. "What matters is that you and it come out of it safely, and don't get sick." Not like the others, not like so many they both know. "Beyond that, you need to say. Everything before that last. I'll go after that." "What matters is that it lives," Ebeny softly counters, almost unwilling to acknowledge what her words might betray of the child she supposedly does not want, a practicality there that's surrendered to over sentiment. "...And that you don't take it from E'dre if being involved would help him. Promise me." "That too," N'rov agrees. For the rest, just as deliberately, "Taking it from him requires that he have it in the first place, Ebeny. If he wants a boy to dandle, if he wants to give that child attention while he's with you, that's fine. I don't plan to stop that; I can plan not to, even if things go south. But I can't promise there'll never be cause." "I mean if I'm dead, N'rov," Ebeny says slowly, unflinching from that potential reality. "If I'm gone and he needs time... you give it to him." It sounds a lot less like a request now, or even an attempt to extract assurance. She darts a look at him, then away again, and needlessly rearranges some of the contents of the crate. "And you don't give our child," which is better than 'it', "some ridiculous name." With that, and with what may be the last of her strength on the subject, before something weaker or more needy might surface, it would seem he's dismissed. "Well, fuck." N'rov gives her a dark look, a better-not-die look: possibly, better-not-die-or-else. He doesn't promise; but then, either he'll do it or he won't. What he does do is push away from that wall and move to seal up some of those crates up for her before he goes. If she dies, or if he does (not sick yet; not proved immune), let those be the very last words. |
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