Difference between revisions of "Logs:Making His Mark"

Cove, High Reaches Hold

Waves pound the rocky coastline night and day along the edges of this small cove, just a short walk from the main hold. Standing watch, the tall column of the lighthouse stretches high into the sky above the beach its rosy stones sparkling faintly when the sun's rays catch just right. The beach stretches as far as the eye can see, eternally washed by the salty sea as it relentlessly carves pockets and crags out of the scattered boulders and spiny ridges of Reaches' shores.

The sky is clear today. The air remains cool and damp, but the weather is overall pleasant today.

It's been a couple of weeks since Rynien's death, a couple of weeks since Braeden returned home. The young Lord has been away from the place of his birth for turns, now, and those first few weeks have scarcely been the time to reacquaint himself with it. But now-- slowly, as the days get shorter and colder, he's been venturing beyond the family chambers, and from meetings with the advisors that were once his father's, and now, questioningly, look to him. Sometimes, those ventures are with Issedi, with whom he is so obviously close; today, however, during the last hour or so of daylight, he's come alone to the cove, bundled up against the bitter wind, to stare moodily out at the grey sky.

With the surefootedness of someone who is familiar with the cove, another figure comes down the trail. Devaki's familiar, though in the weeks since Braeden's return, he's remained out of the new Lord Holder's way, by and large -- though Braeden's undoubtedly seen him in the company of Issedi frequently enough to raise the hackles of even if the least protective of brothers. The red-headed hulking figure of Raum, normally somewhere in his vicinity, is markedly absent tonight. There's a slight scuff as the exile slows and stops, studying Braeden's figure -- a hint of surprise in his expression, like perhaps he was expecting the sister, not the brother -- but he manages to cover it well enough with a cheerful, "Hope you don't mind a bit of company." And then, as an afterthought, perhaps more through forgetfulness than deliberate: "Sir."

It's not out of the realm of possibility that Issedi's hand is involved in this supposedly by-chance meeting: a suggestion here, a quiet remark there. Devaki's arrival shifts Braeden's expression from moody and brooding, to more thoughtful -- and surprised. His hands dig into his pockets more deeply, as his shoulders droop; this is not the formal Braeden who appears occasionally in public events, though it's not quite the doting brother that Issedi is so fond of, either. His stance may be casual, but he's not missing much. "As long as you aren't here to fill my ears with platitudes about my loss," he says, in that well-trained voice of his. "I won't object. My sister, at least, finds your company soothing, it seems."

"Your sister is a smart woman, and a good judge of character." A moment of hesitation, deliberate, and Devaki adds, "She speaks well of you. Always has." A little shift of his shoulders, then, "I won't lie. I enjoy Issedi's company a great deal. I imagine she's set up this little meeting. She seems to have a way of nudging things along," his laughter is deep, amused and appreciative at once. As for platitudes, the blond's silence on that score says a lot, and instead he settles into a companionable stance, hands deep in his pockets, gaze on the view rather than on the Lord Holder. Something in his posture eases the longer he waters the water, as if he finds it soothing. Finally, he says, "Sometimes, it takes a bold action to step out from under the shadow of a fixture like your father was."

Watchful and wary, Braeden's expression speaks volumes as to what he thinks of Devaki's intentions towards his sister, or, at the very least, their friendship in general. But he can't disagree with the islander's assessment of her, either, and so: silence, on that score, too. It's Devaki's latter comment that draws more interest, though the young Lord's attention, too, has turned back to the darkening horizon, and thus there are no immediate clues as to his opinion. "My father was well-liked," he says, which is probably an admission. "He was a good man, for all we didn't necessarily see eye-to-eye." That's no secret: Braeden's fostering ought to have ended turns before it did, and Issedi has, no doubt, admitted the reasons for it. "If Issedi's hand is in this meeting, I imagine that means you have a proposal." He sounds tired. "Go on."

Devaki returns Braeden's forthrightness with some of his own: "I have proof of the Islander's lineage being tied to High Reaches'. Your father knew it, yet refused to acknowledge it for the issues it would cause with the Weyr, and for himself. Instead, he paid them, in tithe, to keep us away. Keep us contained." As he speaks, the exile's posture grows rigid, though his voice is full of determination. "I don't wish to damage reputations. High Reaches is my lineage, too. But my people -- they've been wronged. All I ask is that they be acknowledged. Their Blood -- my Blood -- recognized. Most do not want anything but that -- and to return to the Island, in some cases." He takes a breath, his gaze level on Braeden. "Talk with Shimana, one of our Elders. Make a deal that benefits both of us, and you will win the loyalty and support of my people."

Given Braeden's reaction - a sudden shift in his expression, a sudden stiffening of his shoulders - this is news to him, something his father never saw fit to mention to his somehow-estranged son. But where the father might have dismissed the idea, the son looks thoughtful. "I'd wondered," he admits, "why the weyr chose to keep you all. Forcibly. Criminals, I thought. But Issedi has always spoken so highly of you," and it isn't as though Braeden has seen anything untoward. "So we recognise your Blood. Let those who desire it return to the island. Can they support themselves? Properly, this time. They'd need to tithe." One hand withdraws from his pocket, rubbing at his forehead as he thinks aloud. "Those who don't wish to return to the island. I suppose you'll want things, too."

It is unlikely that Devaki misses the surprise, and he nods briefly, as if confirming his suspicion on Braeden's lack of knowledge on that score. "The Sea has always provided well for us Islanders. Tithe would not be difficult -- if you don't mind fish." The exile talks about it like a living entity, and his gaze is drawn, naturally, towards the water, lips twitching upwards into a wry sort of smile. It fades by measures, as he studies the High Reaches Holder, sidelong. "Land. Enough to work, to support ourselves and provide tithe, of course. Some will... have to stay, I guess, at the Weyr. In return? I'd give you the evidence that will allow you to hold the Weyr to task for anything you require. I'd imagine it would do poorly for them if it got out that they exiled entire families of Blood, knowing that they were innocent of anything but being related to an ambitious Lord Holder."

The request for land does not surprise Braeden, but the explanation of what he will get in return? That clearly does. His expression clouds, and instead of looking at Devaki, as he had just recently begun to, he turns away again. "That seems," he remarks, "as bad as holding my own Hold responsible for what happened, generations ago. Do you blame me, Devaki? My family? My Hold? If you see me as your enemy, my sister, then we may not have much to talk about."

Devaki, in contrast, remains matter of fact: "It's what politics is. Exerting the right amount of pressure, positive or negative, to get what's best for your people. Isn't that what you want? The best for your people?" It's clearly what the exile wants, too, and he makes no attempt to hide it. While Braeden turns away, the blond pulls hands from his pockets and bends to scoop up a handful of rocks, flinging them out towards the sea and watching as they skim over the surface before sinking under. It's obviously something he's well-practiced at. His voice grows vehement, intent in a way that bespeaks truth: "The people who I could blame are dead. What I want is to right the wrong, to see my people legitimized, not called exiles for the rest of their lives. I am not your enemy: it's why I'm talking to you. I think you have greater vision than your father did."

They're of an age, Braeden and Devaki, but for a moment, there, Devaki's matter-of-factness leaves Braeden looking younger and less sure-- but it doesn't last, and turns, instead, resolved. "I don't know if you're flattering me, Devaki, to get what you want, but I do take your point. I want to help you. I want to be the kind of Lord who would. My father-- he was a good man, but he became entrenched in his ways as he gold older. I imagine your people threatened him." Braeden's hand slides back into his pocket, and his shoulders flex. "I'm going to ask Aughan to postpone Issedi's wedding. We need time to grieve and recover. I don't imagine my mother would survive losing her daughter, too, not now. Perhaps I'll take my sister to see the eggs, when they arrive at the Weyr. Perhaps there will be a number of opportunities, there."

"It's the truth, not flattery." Devaki says, and as Braeden speaks there's a slight loosening of his posture, fingers that were clenched around the pile of stones loosening. Gratitude, too, in the quiet tones of his response: "I'll make sure one of the Elders seeks you out, if only to offer condolences." On the surface, anyway. The revelation, too, of postponing Issedi's wedding earns a genuine surprise, and a darted look that is by turns thoughtful and, perhaps, quietly relieved: certainly, there's a sudden brightness in his gaze. "I'd imagine she'd be relieved. I know how much she loves the Hold and is loathe to leave its environs for good."

Whether or not Braeden believes Devaki completely is difficult to discern, but the young Lord nods his confirmation nonetheless. "I'm sure," he remarks, in a tone that is studiedly light, "it will indeed throw the cat among the pigeons for Lord High Reaches to converse with your people in such a public location." Now, his attention turns, watching the reaction to his remark on Issedi's wedding in a way that leaves no doubt that he's interested in the response. "I know," he agrees, softly and with genuine affection for his sister ever audible. "She has been so few places, and to leave entirely... It isn't the match I would have chosen for her. A good match, yes, but - we'll see. I risk relations whatever I do. My poor, sweet Issedi."

"Lady Edeline once told me that no publicity is bad publicity, when it comes to making yourself known as a strong leader." Devaki's chuckling: it almost sounds like he's fond of the strong-willed Lady Tillek. He doesn't linger on the topic of her, however, casting another stone towards the ocean before he says, "Issedi would miss the Hold, and you. And we would miss her." There's a faint note of emphasis on 'we', though it's subtle enough that it's probably unintended. He's also perhaps unaware of how familiarly he talks about the Lady Issedi. "I'm sure she would welcome any delay." He glances sidelong at the Lord, adding: "Lord Aughan would find another match, should the wedding not proceed. Would your sister fare as well, if it did?" He's being fairly blatant about planting the seed, but then it wouldn't be hard to imagine why he might not encourage such a match on a personal level.

"Lady Edeline is a wise woman," is Braeden's reply, and he, too, sounds fond of her - fond, respectful, and also a little sad, no doubt both in recollection of her present circumstances, and for his own recent departure from that Hold that was, after all, his home for some turns. After that, he's silent for some seconds, watching Devaki sidelong in a way that is not entirely approving; his mouth draws together, his sucked in breath audible. "Lady Issedi could find a good match wherever she went, I have no doubt." The words that follow may well be a subtle reminder of their own, a warning: "She will do her duty. When the time comes. I have no doubt that Aughan would find another match; I don't believe that is the point." And what is the point? He doesn't elaborate, either because he expects Devaki to understand, or, perhaps, because he simply doesn't find it relevant. "She's grieving. Don't make things worse for her." Those last words are abrupt, and followed soon after by his turn - he seems intent to head back up the path towards the Hold.

Something surprised and thoughtful flickers across Devaki's features; he turns to look at Braeden at his final words, not so much for the abruptness as the content themselves. He opens his mouth as if to, perhaps, protect, or maybe explain, but the words don't come in time, and he doesn't try to stop the Lord Holder's departure towards the Hold. Instead, he turns back to the sea, and can be seen, flinging more rocks out into the ocean. Waiting, perhaps, for the Lady in question.

Comments

Azaylia (Dragonshy) left a comment on Sat, 12 May 2012 03:36:53 GMT.

Ooooooh~ *gasp* Ooooooh~ Devaki and Issedi, sittin' in a tree!

But no, this sounds as ominous for HRW as it does good for the exiles. Eep!