Difference between revisions of "Logs:Picnics And Philosophy"

It's early on a cool autumn morning when Cadejoth gets the first sense of starry light. It twinkles about him, teasing and bright, the light fading within seconds but leaving an afterimage. Soon, Isyath's warm mental voice flows of him, full of enthusiasm as she shares, « Mine wishes to have lunch. She says we should go somewhere warm, where we can glide on the thermals forever and ever. » Well, maybe Issy tacked that last part on there. A fleeting, teasing glimpse of the blue of endless water, a white-sand beach, and a light blue sky with only the occasional cloud to cast shadows.

There's wind and snow at High Reaches, today: the intense, low-visibility kind, with all its intendant miseries, or so Cadejoth's reply suggests, chains conducting chill as they rattle about each other. « Yours is wise, » he says, « and her invitation is welcome. Our drills have been cancelled anyway. » The proprietary care the bronze takes over his Weyr does not extend to mere drills, discarded casually. « We will see you there. In a few hours? »

Isyath is, as her rider, carelessly oblivious politics, and doesn't take note of that proprietary air. While /snow/ is somewhat interesting, it doesn't take long for her to be distracted by the lure of warmth. « In a few hours, » the Fortian queen agrees, withdrawing, but that after-image of her brightness perhaps lingering longer. The sun is about midway through the sky when Isyath arrives at the indicated location. It's already warm out on this island, although the wind that comes in off the sea provides enough of a cooling breeze to make it pleasant rather than unbearable. Ali's quick to remove straps, as well as the baskets and blankets that Isyath carried, and while the brunette's setting up a blanket, the queen's already pushing off the sand and starting to explore the winds of the area.

Cadejoth's own communication fades out with a metallic jangle, bell-like, much the same as the one he uses to announce his own arrival, those hours later. If his wingbeats arch longingly towards Isyath's path above, stthat pull is not so strong to keep him from circling downwards, first, to deposit his rider upon the warm, sandy beach. "Hey," he says, brightly cheerful in a way that he mostly manages to extend to his expression and stance, though there's an underlying tension if only one looks close enough. "Good idea, this. Great idea." Cadejoth wriggles - these straps need to come off! - under his rider's ministrations, until he's free to launch himself after Isyath. '"Freedom.

By the time company arrives, Ali's managed to get that blanket stretched out with an exactness that suggests a bit of fiddling-and-adjustment. The basket serves to hold one edge down, and her discarded shoes the other two corners. She's wearing a white sundress today, and her hair is pinned back, looking all set for the warm weather. The brunette's just beginning to unpack the basket when Isyath draws her attention upwards; she shades her eyes, pausing to watch them land with a smile. "I'm glad you came," Ali replies with a smile, missing that appellation of 'sir' she normally attributes to him, even though the slight pause afterwards suggests it was a habit she had to overcome. "Both of you," with a glance to Cadejoth, and back, taking in his countenance with a frown she doesn't -- or can't -- quite hide. Isyath, meanwhile, spills a warm mental greeting over the bronze, more a sensation than words. Warmth is there, as is delight, and freedom and other things, too: she circles, waiting for him to join her.

Dumping Cadejoth's straps onto the ground, K'del strips off his jacket and the rest of his outer gear, including his boots, leaving on only a pair of light trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. "Don't give me that look," he says, aiming to make his tone teasing as he crosses the rest of the distance towards the blanket. "Reckon I get enough of that at home. Everything's fine." Perhaps he's not even aware of how much slips through into his expression, then, though at least he's managing to mostly smile now. "We're glad for the invitation." Cadejoth shoots off towards Isyath, and then - if he can manage it - past her: circles are a waste of time when there is true open space beyond.

"Sorry. I just- I haven't seen you in a while and you look-" all sorts of descriptive words probably come to mind, but Ali's far too polite to voice them aloud, so she finally settles for, "-different." She ducks her head, resuming the task of setting things out on the blanket: first the plates, glasses and cutlery, then some light salads, fruits, a potted stew that is probably still warm, fresh bread, and some juice. Then, after a visible hesitation, a bottle of white. "I'm glad," she finally says, seeming a shade more relaxed, "I hear so many rumors out of your Weyr, and I wonder." Maybe another darted glance then, as if to catch his reaction to that. Isyath's completing another lazy circle when Cadejoth shoots /past/ her, to her obvious consternation. The queen is quick to spread her wings and take off after the bronze, though he has quite a head start on her already.

K'del can't help it: he looks wry, and perhaps a little distantly sad, as he acknowledges Ali's explanation. At least settling himself upon the edge of the blanket gives him a reason not to look at her, and to focus, instead, upon his toes as they sink into the sand. Very interesting, those toes. Only a little bit hairy. There's a definite frown in his expression at her reference to what's going on at High Reaches, as though he's not even going to try and hide it. "It's been-- it's fucked up." There; he's being honest. "All of it. Lots of things. But I'm going to be fine. It's just, you know, an adjustment. After so many Turns." Cadejoth's glee is as enthusiastic as his rider's hesitance is not, and he hastens his wingbeats further just to maintain his lead, for as long as he can. Higher and higher-- maybe not to the stars, but maybe they're lower, down here. Or different. It's important to find out.

While there's a visible wince from Ali at his explanation of things being 'fucked up', it's more for the vehemence than the words themselves. "I'm sorry," she says, like that might help somehow. But her own grimace seems to suggest how futile that is, so instead, she reaches for one of the glasses and pours some wine, before offering it to him. That might work better. "Are you... are you more upset that Cadejoth didn't win?" she asks, tentatively, "Or that a brown did?" 'A' brown, not 'two' browns, since the idea of two seniors isn't something that fits into the goldrider's world view. While Isyath's consternation at being outplayed can be felt, it fades swiftly enough under that shared joy and freedom, and even before she's come apace with Cadejoth, she's in tune with him. The stars call, and she sweeps along in his wake, determined to see how high they can go.

It's likely that K'del can see that wince out of the corner of his eyes, even if he's not looking directly at Ali, even now, and for that, he looks apologetic. Accepting the wine, he takes a deep breath, looking for the world like he's about to say something, though he holds that off until he's exhaled again, and let her finish. "Half the time, I'm not sure myself. I'm... disappointed that he didn't win, but I'm horrified at who did. At-- spent too long, worked too hard, to see my Weyr just fall apart again. And--" He breaks off, suddenly looking at her. "I never even asked how you were doing. I'm sorry, Ali. The clutch... everything." It's his turn to watch her, looking concerned. Above, Cadejoth has only joy to share, now, in the openness of his mind; everything else is secondary, largely forgotten. This is what matters.

After a moment's hesitation, Ali pours a second glass for herself, though she sets it aside in favor of picking up one of the plates, starting to collect little bits of everything onto it. She's listening closely, though, occasionally flicking glance over towards him. "I never thought about it before- about how a Weyrleader might feel." She's murmuring- because her position, whatever it may be, is pretty secure. "It must be... hard... to let go." When he breaks off, when he looks at her and says those words, there's a hitch of breath, and she focuses on filling the plate, and handing it to him, first. "It's..." she wants to say 'fine', but the word comes out more honest that than, around him: "...terrible. I feel so /hopeless/, K'del. At least she- she doesn't remember." A glance skywards; the delight that spills from Isyath and mingles with Cadejoth's joy suggests her rider's keeping that thought close to her chest.

K'del sets his glass down, securing it within a bed of sand, and watches Ali, expression turning from concern to worse, his jaw dropping just slightly. He takes the plate, though that largely seems to be auto-pilot: he's much more concerned with shaking his head and saying, breathlessly, "Oh, Ali. I'm so sorry. Can't even-- imagine." His little half nod is certainly acknowledgement of the need to keep things from one's dragon, sometimes. "Been through a lot of things, these past ten, twelve turns," he says, finally. "But that..." Perhaps it's no wonder he abandons that earlier topic of conversation.

"There's not a lot I- any of us can do, not until- unless they decide to contact us." There's something kind of wooden, like hope-she-doesn't-dare express, in the words. Throughout it all, Ali continues to serve the food, reaching for another plate and beginning the process anew. This habit seems to help, as does the fact she's not looking at K'del; she seems to be struggling to maintain any sense of equilibrium. "Just- promise me you'll look after your clutches?" Her gaze finally flicks up to meet the bronzerider's, and it's hard to say if the 'your' clutches is deliberate or pure habit; he's always been Weyrleader as long as she's known him.

The next long breath K'del releases is troubled, and filled with thoughts that he's clearly not quite able to express; the same is true of his expression. "Promise," he says, firmly, and with a note of possessive authority that suggests he still thinks of them as his, too, despite everything. "I--" And then he laughs, a bitter, unhappy kind of thing. "We really should try and find something more positive to talk about, shouldn't we? No matter how hard it seems." As yet, he doesn't seem to have remembered that he has food on a plate in front of him: he holds it like a prop, the same way he did his glass.

Ali's plate is, too, a mere prop to give her an excuse to do something else momentarily; when her plate is finally full, she sets it down and draws her legs up underneath her. It also gives her a moment or two to brush at watery eyes in a way that avoids her acknowledging the gesture. "At least they're enjoying themselves," the Fortian finally points out with a small smile, her gaze lifting; the dragons are mere spots in the sky, barely able to be seen, and it's hard not feel uplifted by the pure joy the dragons are feeling in such a simple thing. With a shaky breath, she reaches for her glass, lifting it, "How about... a toast to a better Turn? I- I was thinking of leaving Fort's Turnover festivities early this time, and finding somewhere... anonymous." She chews her lower lip momentarily, and says, "Maybe Ammie should make a reappearance. She needs a break from the fish."

K'del has far too much experience with tears, now, and has been lucky enough with friends who don't remark on them that he is quite smooth in the way he entirely-fails-to-notice-really! "It's heartening," he says, of the two dragons. "That whatever happens, they can-- it helps." He reclaims his own glass, nodding firmly as he extends it towards hers. "To a better Turn. Turn 31 will be-- has to be-- an improvement. We'll make sure it is." Licking his lips, only momentarily awkward, he adds, "Karel would be delighted to escort her, if she wanted him to. I bet. Not sure there's anywhere he'd rather be. He doesn't have obligations, these days."

The little 'clink' when their glasses tap together makes Ali smile, despite everything. She takes a small sip of the wine, then after a pause, a slightly bigger gulp. "It will be better," the dark-haired woman's looking at the bronzerider like she /wants/ to believe him, but might well suspect otherwise. It's the latter that evokes a larger, more genuine smile, "She'd love it," and after a beat, and a tip of her head, "No obligations - other than bringing in a new load of fish for the winter?" If she sounds oddly wistful of such a simple obligation, well. Dutifully, she reaches for one of the fruits, starting to nibble on it.

A shadow crosses K'del's expression, as though he's just remembered having said something similar a turn ago, but he pushes it out of the way in order to conclude the toast with a long sip from his own glass. "We'll do our very best," he says, attempting to sound enthusiastic instead of tired and defeated. "Well, yes. Other than the new load of fish. And worrying about getting himself properly set up to bring home a wife, one of these days. He doesn't want to string Ammie along. But... nothing that would keep him away, obviously."

Ali's looking down at her plate, so perhaps thankfully misses that shadowed expression. The wind's still cool, but the heat of the sun directly overhead is making her lean towards the fruit, and take another sip of that cool wine, too. "I'm sure she'd wait," the dark-haired woman says, with a little smile. "Maybe he should make some connections at Turnover. See about getting a boat of his own. You know Ammie can sail, right? She had lessons from a Tillekian seamaster." A beat, and she hastily amends, with a smile, "I mean, a Neratian."

"She's a good woman, Ammie," says K'del, with a laugh, his glance in Ali's direction finally reminding him of his food. It's after he's finished chewing on his bite of bread that he adds, "Neratian, right. Sounds like exactly what he should do. Bet they've discussed it. Maybe she's been encouraging him, if he's been a little shy about it. It's probably about time, though. The sea awaits! Master of his own vessel." He seems to genuinely enjoy this story, his shoulders relaxing just enough that he no longer looks like a tightly wound spring.

With a slight shift of posture, Ali stretches her legs out, her toes hanging over the edge of the blanket and digging into the sand. With the plate settled on her lap, now, she looks a bit more comfortable, picking at bits of fruit, "She'd definitely be encouraging him," she agrees, "And if the fishing business doesn't end up doing well, they can always becomes pirates, raiding the seas." The idea of Ammie, let along herself, doing anything so outrageous has the Fortian laughing.

That laughter encourages more of the same in K'del, enough so that he's unable to reply for several seconds. As he tears off another piece of bread, ready to pop it in his mouth with some salad and stew, he says, "I bet they'd make a good go of that, too. If that's what it came to. Anything, so long as they're together." For K'del, that's apparently a bittersweet thought, because he turns his gaze hurriedly towards his food, and then, after he's eaten that bite, to his wine.

Ali's gaze flickers towards his plate, and encouraged by his eating, branches out from the fruit, selecting some of the salad and using the wine to wash it down with. "As long as they're together," the dark-haired woman echoes, something briefly wistful in her voice. Although she's normally oblivious to such things, there's a long moment of silence that suggests even she might've caught something in the hasty aversion of K'del's gaze that makes her silent, too, for a time. Finally, murmured quietly, "So what does an ex-Weyrleader do with all his free time, now?"

K'del's, "We're pathetic, aren't we? Envious of our own creations," comes out before any answer to Ali's question, and is a definite indication that he caught that wistfulness. "Go figure. I--" He cuts himself off, chewing a piece of fruit before he formulates the words to form a proper reply. "Had intended to see if I couldn't do some kind of self-sustainability project. Farming, maybe. On the islands. But-- current circumstances make that impossible." He doesn't specify why. "Been spending a lot of time feeling sorry for myself. Trying to stop that, now."

"Not pathetic," Ali counters, quickly, almost - for her, anyway - sternly. "Though I wonder if Ammie and Karel would be envious of us, too? Probably." The idea seems to tickle her, anyway, smile lingering. His answer to her question earns a visibly curious look, and she leans forward to refill his glass, then hers. "Farming?" she twists her glass between fingers, then, "Why can't you? I mean, you can't spend all of your time at the Weyr. You'd go crazy." Does this sound like the voice of experience? Certainly there's something wry in the woman's voice.

The sternness straightens K'del's shoulders and puts an apology on his face, albeit a relatively short-lived one. "Probably," he agrees, managing to smile again. "Grass is always greener, and all that." He attends to his newly refilled wine, sipping at it carefully, before he answers her question; when he does so, it comes prepended with a sigh. "The leadership at High Reaches are... not especially enamoured with me, at present. Such as they are. Such as things are. Maybe they'd like to see me out of the way, but... not sure. Might make them trust me even less."

"Out of the way?" Ali echoes, somewhat visibly alarmed at this idea. Enough so that she's chewing her lower lip, examining her plate a moment. "You could /tell/ then what you're doing. Show them. Then they wouldn't have cause to suspect that you might be plotting something." And about here, something crosses the Fortian junior's expression, enough that she looks up to catch K'del's expression. /Is/ he plotting something? But she leaves the thought unvoiced, deliberately, and says instead, more statement than guess, "You'll stay, won't you? At High Reaches- even with everything that's happened."

K'del's explanation is simple: "I'd hoped to get official sanction for the project. Weyr business. Rather more difficult for me to attempt it without; in resources alone, I'd be lacking." If he is planning something, anything, it's not written in his expression for all to see - at least, not at this moment. "I'll stay. High Reaches is home, and I care too much about it to... Can you imagine? Seeing Fort lost into the hands of someone... someones you don't think will do well by it?" The way he says it, it could well be a moment of utter heartbreak.

Even if it was written in his expression, Ali probably would've missed it regardless. "Is there any reason you can't, now? If anything- I think they'd encourage it. To... keep you out of the picture as much as possible." She's picking, a little slower, at the stew- probably as much because the warm food doesn't suit the climate so well, and she quickly washes it down with another mouthful of wine, before setting the plate aside. There's a grimace from her at the picture he paints of Fort. "I'd... I'd do anything to save my home." Will do, has done. It's in her expression briefly, that memory of a lie once told, and hopefully forgiven. "I don't imagine you'll do less. Only..." she hesitates.

In that moment, K'del, too, is reminded of that lie, and it's visible in his expression, too: yes, of course she knows what it feels like. Of course she would do anything. "Only I am not the Weyrleader, nor anything more than a simple bronzerider," he concludes, evidently assuming that these words more or less sum up her unfinished sentence. "I haven't asked them, but-- they don't seem inclined to give me anything. Can't imagine that they would, even to try and get me out of the picture. It might legitimise me in other ways." Is it an admission? If it is, he doesn't seem aware of it, so busy sipping again from his wine glass.

"You're wrong," Ali says, and it's not often that she /chastises/, and yet it's probably the closest thing to it, as she leans forward. "You're not just a simple bronzerider. You're the ex-Weyrleader. Every rider is used to obeying you. Listening to you. The dragons. The Holders, too." She straightens, glancing down at her wine, then says, "Even though N'muir's on medical leave, everyone still treats him as the Weyrleader. Listens to him. Obeys him. It's... it's habit as much as the fact that he /feels/ like the Weyrleader, no matter what. If it were just as easy as handing over a baton, then the records wouldn't be full of the struggles of new Weyrleader pairs trying to establish themselves."

It certainly surprises K'del, leaving him stuck in a position with his glass halfway to his mouth, his eyes wide, though not, at least, alarmed. Quietly, "But I am not the Weyrleader. Not anymore." Something darkens his gaze, has him turning it away. "And therein lies the problem, really. If I don't use that, that power, to save my Weyr? Imagine I'll hate myself forever. Can't just... watch it go down in flames. I can't. I won't. But they hate me for that. They despise me for it."

There's a long, slow exhale when he looks away, and Ali's voice is soft as she agrees, "Not anymore. But do you think the Weyr Council would really accept... /two brownriders/ in place of a Weyrleader?" She sets her glass aside, and there's the sound of shifting as the Fortian starts to set aside some of those plates, stacking them neatly back in the basket. "It... took me a long time for the Weyrwoman, my Weyrwoman, and I to... to really get along, and that's been... only recently. I think half of that was that it took me a long time to realize that, however she is, whatever decisions she's made, /knowing/ that she'll try and do what's best for the Weyr. Even when it hurts her reputation. Even when people don't like her for it."

K'del picks his own plate up off his knees in order to offer it back to the goldrider; he hasn't eaten much more than she has. "No," is his answer, to that first remark: he doesn't need to think about that. "And I hate to think what will happen when they need to attend a Weyr Council meeting." Even as he says all of that, it's obvious that he's thinking through what she has said about Hattie, his nods obviously more to do with that than what he's been saying himself. "It's-- important. As a leader. To make those decisions, sometimes. In order to do what you think is right." He's obviously still thinking. "Does that mean you think I'm doing the right thing?" Assuming, of course, that he is actually doing something.

Ali takes the plate with a flashed, if brief, smile, and packs it away with the rest of the things, although she leaves the glasses, and the bottle of wine, out. She takes her own glass back, finally, twisting it in her fingers, letting the condensation cool her hands. "I... I don't know your Weyr, K'del. But I know you- I trust you." Her steady gaze flickers towards him, with a tight smile. "If you think if needs your help, then I think you should do whatever- whatever it takes- to fix things. Before things get to Weyr Council," because, she, too, is grimacing at the thought.

"That-- helps." K'del's expression is one of gratitude, now, and if his smile is not broad and bright and cheerful, it is genuine. "Thank you, Ali. It's-- so hard, when it feels like the Weyr is being torn apart by it. Hard to know if I'm doing the right thing. But then I look at them, and... Have you met Taikrin? And Brieli..." He stops himself before he gets into a whole rant about the set of so-called-Weyrleaders, shaking his head to dismiss it as he reclaims his glass. "Bet you're glad you're a Fort goldrider and not a High Reachian one."

"Taikrin?" the name tickles some memory, but Ali shakes her head after a moment. While she looks curious, she doesn't query him for more details; seemingly content to sip her wine. It's the last that draws a little smile from her. "We're- we've been lucky with a stable leadership," she concedes, "But it hasn't- it's been a difficult few Turns for both Weyrs, I think. I'd imagine we'd all have been better off at say, Benden. Maybe even Igen." The idea amuses her, too. "All that sand and no water. Issy'd go crazy, I think. If... if another queen rose and there was a Weyrleader," a real one, her tone implies, "Would you think about going elsewhere?" Her gaze flickers towards him, deliberately.

K'del allows for the difficulties both Weyrs have faced with a bob of his head, his cheeks sucked into his mouth for all that he doesn't actually say anything. His head lifts to let him meet her gaze after that question, but there's uncertainty in his expression. "Maybe," he says. "It's-- hard to imagine being comfortable, even if it were someone I trusted and respected. When it was all just temporary, B'sil, that was one thing. But if it's forever-- there's less keeping me there. Even if it is home. The boys, obviously. Some friends." But then he shakes his head. "But I still can't imagine living somewhere else. Pathetic. If I were smart, I'd go to Benden, convince my sister to talk to me again."

"Family is- family helps. I think you'd adjust better than you think you would, though. For us- for riders, where you live matters less than where your heart is, I think." It's perhaps even overly philosophical, even for Ali, and she seems to realize it with something wry. "Too much wine?" she suggests with a laugh, tipping her head back momentarily to take in the sun- or maybe she's trying to see if she can spot the dots that show how far their dragons have gone. "I should- I want to stop by the weyrlings' afternoon lesson. It's kind of a habit." And if there's something protective in the undertones of her voice, well... there's no apology for it.

Ali's laugh makes K'del grin, but before he accedes to the need to end this picnic, he has one more philosophical thought: "We're never really alone, as long as we have them. Wherever I go, he will make it home." He's clearly well aware of how corny that is, though, and makes a face for it. "Of course you do. I would, too, if it were me. It's-- huh. Strange. Knowing I have absolutely no reason to hurry back. Though I will, anyway." His gaze follows her up towards the so-distant dragons, as he adds, apropos of nothing: "I'll make sure and keep him away, next time she rises. Just want you to know that. Because I know it would make things-- hard for you. At Fort." That's when he finishes his wine in a single gulp, and offers her the glass back.

Her warm smile suggests her agreement on that score, corny or no. Ali finishes off the last of her wine, carefully packing the glass away. "Is it freeing?" She wonders. "Knowing you don't have to go back to a pile of hidework? Or is it- do you miss it, more?" Her expression is odd, somewhat, at his latter statement. The Fortian junior should be relieved, for the very reason he states, and yet she takes a slow breath, accepting his glass silently and packing it in with the rest of the things. "She'll want him there." A moment or two, before she adds, with a quick look, something determined in her expression, "/I'd/ like him there."

K'del can answer that, slotting it in to the conversation without interrupting anything else: "Both." It's her answer, that reply to his announcement, that has him hesitating, uncertain, eyes watching her expression sharply. "Then-- if we can be there, we will," he says, a few moments later, sounding calm despite his earlier surprise. "In however many Turns it is. Or not." That hesitation returns a moment later, his gaze still on her, but in a more awkward way. Finally, "Guess we should get them back down here. So you can get back to your weyrlings."

There's relief in her expression at the answer, and not in the least bit hidden. "Thank you," Ali murmurs, gratefully, summoning a smile, "If nothing else, Cadejoth keeps those Fortian bronzes on their toes." But of course, that's the least of why she asked, even if she doesn't elucidate it. With a nod, her gaze goes skywards - where, reluctantly, distantly, Isyath turns from the heights and begins heading downwards, her path marked with brilliant stars the entire way. While she waits, Ali slips her hand through K'del's arm, the touch of her shoulder against his, her attention directed upwards to watch their dragons descend.

"Someone's got to do it," K'del teases in reply. As she slips her hand through his arm, he reaches across to give it a squeeze, just briefly, before relinquishing it again. Cadejoth's reluctance is just as obvious as Isyath's, but that scarcely makes the downwards spirals any less enjoyable. Eventually, with another quiet thanks for such a pleasant afternoon (subject matter notwithstanding), the High Reachian pair take their leave. Back... to the snow. And ice. And wind.