Difference between revisions of "Logs:Building Trust"

It's been a pleasant day, more summer-than-fall, with Isyath circling high above the Weyr. Though in recent sevens she's kept a close eye on things, dragon memory is a fickle thing, and by measures she returns to her old habits, unaware of any fuss. Certainly, Ali's working hard not to remember or let her queen remember: this afternoon was a stroll around the lake, and now with a slightly breathless cast she walks towards one of the boulders, glancing over her shoulder. The glance is for K'varl, shadowing her in a distant-but-obvious way, earning a scowl from the normally amiable junior.

Circling high above, Fort's junior has not a care in the world: the weather is still summer-like, and Isyath's enjoying the afternoon thermals with a delight and joy that rings out across the Weyr. (To Fort dragons from Isyath)

Hattie still isn't going anywhere fast, and has kept away from the shore of the lake out of necessity of late, leaving Elaruth's bathing to those few that she actually trusts, but this afternoon she's inched as close as she dares, aiming to avoid not only sand, but twisted roots and sharp rocks underfoot in a manner that's /not/ so dissimilar to her queen's preference for soft ground over which to journey. Now sat at one of the stone tables towards the edge of the tree line, she's been observing and not observing Ali's path, doing nothing to draw attention to herself, but that all changes in a matter of moments, when K'varl's not-stalking of her junior gets too much to bear. "Hey, K'varl," she calls, voice harsh. "Shove off."

K'varl grimaces, and however reluctantly leaves the grove: that he listens to /Hattie/, but not Ali is obviously galling, the junior's expression unhappy. Pressing fingers against the material of her dress as if smoothing it out might help her regain some equilibrium, Ali alters her direction to take her to the table, sinking onto the bench with a near-silent sigh. "Thank you, Weyrwoman," she breathes, after a moment. With barely any time for a response, she goes on, glancing sidelong at Hattie, an obviously well-rehearsed speech: "I- they're /all/ talking about guarding and protection. I don't want /any/ of that. I don't want us to all be looking sideways at other members of the Weyr; we can't build trust that way. It's what I should've done when we- when Bea was around, but didn't."

There's something of quiet approval in Hattie's dark-eyed gaze when Ali addresses the more political nature of the guarding issue, but it soon dwindles beneath the heavy, blunt honesty of her reason for wishing to reject and deny the wishes of Fort's weyrfolk. "I do /not/ want anyone lurking ten feet from me at all hours of the day," she mutters, heat running low beneath her words. "Whether I trust them or not. I am /not/ going to have anyone tracking where I go or what I do or /keeping/ me anywhere." The Weyrleader is the only person to have ever got away with /some/ of that. "Healers are one thing. I won't have someone that /someone else/ has chosen watching me."

Ali's expression, as Hattie speaks, grows quietly more unsettled, chewing on her lower lip. She's never been that good at concealing her expression, and her concern is obvious. "We're in agreement," she says, after a slight pause - even if the /reasons/ for it are completely different. Twisting her fingers together, she exhales, "Will you be able to convince the Weyrleader of it?"

Hattie's expression shutters further at mention of the Weyrleader, her attention lifting to the distant wall of the bowl and away from Ali or the space around her. "I don't know," she has to confess, low-voiced. "We aren't--" And then she stops. Tries again: "We don't--" No, that's not what she wants to say either. "If the matter isn't silenced and becomes something that we must address, then I'm sure we will discuss it." Her distant stare lingers for only a moment or two more before she blinks back to her junior and states, out of nowhere, "I spoke to Aishani the other day."

"I'll tell him," Ali says, straightening deliberately. "If you- if you want me to." The 'if you /can't/' goes unvoiced; she's far too polite for that. It's the latter comment that makes her go still, uncertainty at the mention of Reaches' junior, "Oh?"

The best Hattie can offer is a murmured, "We'll see," in an uncharacteristically evasive manner, a quick bob of her head given so as not to be as dismissive as she might otherwise seem. "...We're agreed - Aishani and I - that the Interval is turning into a less and less safe place for goldriders," she says slowly. "Politically or..." She avoids referencing anything directly and simply waves a hand between the two of them like she could mention Boll and /not/ mention it. "And we can either do something about it /ourselves/ or potentially let things get worse; let /other people/ decide that we need guards and all sorts."

Even if there isn't a direct reference, there's a visible wince from the dark-haired woman sitting next to her. Ali's head drops, hair falling forward to obscure her expression. When she finally does speak, she sounds unsettled, fingers visible fidgeting with the material of her dress. "What do you mean by /ourselves/? /We/ decide whether we need guards or not." The last is, at least, certain.

"/We/ decide?" Hattie echoes, arching an eyebrow. "So, I didn't see K'varl trailing after you for however long there?" she queries with a tilt of her head. "What I'm saying is that it's time that we help each other, rather than sit back and watch if and when another weyrwoman needs help," she seeks to clarify. "I'm not suggesting that we go blundering into another Weyr's politics, but perhaps that we start with small things, like agreeing on security protocols for the Sands that we can all employ, instead of thinking each other to be paranoid."

There's a flush of color in Ali's cheeks at Hattie's retort, visible as she uncomfortably shifts in place. "We need to let everyone know that's our stance-" she tries to justify, haltingly. "I-" she shakes her head, slowly, looking uncomfortable, struggling to voice it: "I don't know. I don't want- Onyka coming in and criticizing how we do things. You know she'd love the opportunity. And agreeing on /anything/- I've seen how Weyr Council works."

"I can handle Onyka." That's said darkly and without a hint of doubt. "She's only entitled to an opinion. Just because she says or thinks something, it doesn't make it true." Turning a little in her seat, Hattie slowly swings her feet up beside her onto the bench, the smoothes the skirts of her dress over to cover them. "If she'd turn up only for that and continue to make remarks of a derogatory nature, then there's no saying she'd have to stay. We don't need a goldrider intent on doing damage to others." She sighs and shakes her head a little. "I just think it's worth a try. We've spent too long working against each other."

"I think we- need to fix what's broken here first." The words are out before she thinks, for once, and though Ali's countenance is flushed and anxious, there's a weight of sentiment behind that, too. "Do you- remember what they said? Those- those riders didn't think of Fort as /home/." Her words grow more halting, trying /not/ to remember, and yet: "I wish I could understand /why/, what we did to make them- think that way. I wish it would make /sense/."

"Then, if I have to, when something is arranged, I will go alone." There's no anger to accompany that statement, but Hattie is nothing if not as she has been since she told K'varl to hop it (and for so many days before that): blunt and to the point. /Remember/ makes her look away and out across the bowl, jaw clenched. She says absolutely nothing for quite a long stretch of time, as if trying to pretend that Ali has said nothing at all, but, eventually, she drops her gaze to patch of ground and states, in a monotone voice, "They blamed me for S'fin. They said they had no choice. That they had to take action."

"That's not what I said. Of /course/ I'll go with you," Ali's quick to say, her support instinctive, though she pauses to press a hand against her stomach. "If- it happens soon. I'll be going into my second trimester soon, they say. I shouldn't- travel, then." While Hattie is silent, she is too: none better than her can understand the need for time, and her hand reaches out for the other goldrider's. There's more silence, following the Weyrwoman's statement, her junior giving her a sidelong look, then likewise looking at the ground, before taking a breath, like she's trying to brace herself. "Turns ago- you grounded a number of riders. N'muir was amongst them." The words are hesitant. She's never asked, one might say deliberately, until now, but, with a squaring of shoulders, she finally asks: "Why did you?"

It's awkward, the way Hattie lifts her chin in what could be acknowledgement or acceptance, too tense to accept or seek support in any kinder, more gentle ways. Her fingers curl immediately around Ali's when her hand is reached for, the grip that she forms clingy and fearful all at once, trying to offer her own comfort and being afraid of it being the /wrong/ thing to do or of being rejected. And then she /does/ draw her hand away, fully expecting to be rejected or abandoned when she finally swings her gaze back her fellow goldrider and murmurs, "If you're asking the question... then you already know. Maybe you don't think you do, but... you do, Ali."

When Hattie draws her hand away, Ali drops hers back into her lap, looking visibly pale. There's a long silence, and her voice is leaden, she speaks, like she doesn't /want/ to believe it, but: "N'muir's one of the renegades? But he- he /can't/ be."

"...He hasn't been; not since Bijedth caught Elaruth the first time." Hattie sounds utterly defeated, her shoulders slumped and her focus now sticking determinedly to a patch of ground to the left of the table. "He's the one who handed them over. They've... changed, over the turns. Recruited. They didn't start out... like /that/." Or so it seems she wants to believe, if she possibly can.

Does /Ali/ believe that? It's hard to say: the dark-haired woman is white, hands pressed together so tightly they'll probably leave marks. "Is that why- why they felt- N'muir...?" she's stumbling over that, unable to comprehend, and yet, it makes so much more /sense/ now. Shakily, she says, "It can't come out. It would destroy- everyone's belief in the pair of you." It's hard to tell if she says that because that's what she suspects what will happen, or because that's how /she/ feels: certainly, she's not looking at the Weyrwoman, gaze fixed on the ground.

There's the faintest of ripples in the delighted joy that spreads out from Isyath as she circles high over the Weyr; a mere blip that passes soon enough. (To Fort dragons from Isyath)

To Fort dragons, Suraieth, watching from the ledge that is finally - /finally/ - hers, focuses her gaze upon Isyath; she's curious, but not questioning.

Ownership is nice. Owning one's ledge. Sitting on one's ledge. But flying is /so/ much better- and Isyath sends out an invitation to her daughter to join her on the warm afternoon thermals. (To Fort dragons from Isyath)

To Fort dragons, Suraieth /could/ be persuaded to leave the sun-warmed expanse of her ledge - perhaps. It /is/ nice to use one's wings for the purpose they were designed for, after all! It's only... logical. But, even as she's launching herself, there's the inevitable question: « Why do we fly? »

Hattie carefully eases soft-booted feet back to the ground and inches her way along the bench, gripping the edge of the table with intent to stand. "Do you want to measure him against a mistake or all that he's done for this Weyr?" It's not even a demand, so tired does she sound. "When you have to make the decisions I've had to--" She doesn't even finish that sentence, shaking her head. "...I've paid the price more than once," she utters bitterly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "Believe me."

Ali's head starts to lift as she hears Hattie moving to stand; she tenses as if to offer assistance, but doesn't once she seems sure the other goldrider can manage. "I-" she hesitates, unable to quite voice her reaction, other than to say, "He's not who I thought he was. Has never /been/ who I thought he was. Did he know about-" but she breaks off, abruptly, shakes her head. /That/ much she can't associate with what she knows of N'muir. "It's- just a lot to take in." She, too, sounds, exhausted, unhappy. "Maybe-" she ventures, though uncertainly, "It /is/ better if it all comes out. No more- secrets."

« Because. » Was there meant to be more of a reason than that? Well, « We are dragons. We have wings. The air is warm and we can fly forever. » It's only logical, for Isyath, anyway. (To Fort dragons from Isyath)

« Because, » Suraieth supposes/repeats/considers, « We were hatched to do so. » Perhaps that's reason enough! Certainly, the young green seems to take some small amount of measured pleasure in the activity. (To Fort dragons from Suraieth)

"If he isn't the man you thought he was, then he wouldn't have handed them in in the first place. He wouldn't have tried to rescue us." Any hurt or anger or /anything/ about the circumstances of her own retrieval flashes only for a fraction of a second before Hattie stamps it down again. "He wouldn't have given up any of our stores to try and save us. He wouldn't care or worry about you or this Weyr the way he does if he were this other creature you're imagining." She stops short of arguing against the truth being shared and instead fixes Ali with a weary, accepting stare. "...If you wish to let this loose on the Weyr, then you must live with your decision, just like I have. There's more to leadership than secrets and truth and lies."

There's a visible wince from Ali at Hattie's words, her shoulders hunching. After a moment, she ventures: "Don't you think- this would've been different, if we'd known? If we'd tried harder to accept... integrate the renegades?" But then, Ali's always been the optimist. "Give them what they'd yearned for, /before/ it go to this. They must have, once, had ideals that- that N'muir believed in." She's shaking her head, slowly, at the latter. It's hard to say whether it means she /won't/ share, or whether it's disagreement: she looks vastly unsure of herself.

Certainly, that makes total sense to Isyath, and- especially if it means she gets more company in the skies, welcoming Suraieth. The thermals don't- won't last forever, after all. Just for now. (To Fort dragons from Isyath)

"...They wished for self-sufficiency; for us not to deal with or care about our Holders and break away from Fort," Hattie murmurs, silent for only as long as it take she her to draw breath. "/Some/ of them. Others... others were restocking the herds when were short. /N'muir/ was doing that. He wanted what was best for Fort. He wanted to help." She glances skywards, as though trying to draw strength from somewhere. "...And when I was hating him and shouting at him and ordering him, he only ever wanted to do the right thing for the Weyr." Shaking her head again, she draws back from that memory of their early leadership and glances back at Ali. "They didn't want to be here. They wanted to get their own way." Swallowing hard, she adds: "He'd do anything for Fort. And he did." In her opinion, anyway. "Then /and/ now. He got us back."

"The- plague?" It's been Turns, and Ali's surprised by that, chewing her lower lip. "Self-sufficiency is- thread will fall again, one day. And we won't, can't do that, then." If anything, the junior just seems more unsettled, more uncertain. She falls silent as Hattie looks upwards, speaking, and while she does, the dark-haired woman stands. It's not at all coincidental that it means she's right there, next to Hattie, if needed. A shaky breath, and then: "He got us back." She agrees on that much, even if it's with a voice barely audible.

"Didn't want us to starve," Hattie says under her breath, confirming, in her own way, that everything does indeed date back to the plague. "...We all have secrets," she utters even more quietly. "Things we could have done better." She takes a deep breath and sneaks a sidelong look at her junior. "I-I think..." Has Hattie stuttered in turns? "I think you could probably do with some tea. It's my turn to look after you, remember?" Even with such phrasing, the hesitant lilt to her voice turns her words into an invitation, as fearful of rejection as she once again seems. "And I should collect Nehmet on the way." Just the boy's name sounds like an awkward and inadvertent reminder of the once-renegade Weyrleader.

Surprise ripples through Ali's expression, and it makes her look at Hattie for a long, awkward moment after her invitation. "That would be nice," she says, finally, and the mention of Nehmet makes her smile, briefly, inadvertently, her soft-spot for the boy obvious, even if it brings the awkward topic to hand again.

"Let's go, then." It's something practical; something active that she can get on with, and so Hattie readily attempts to leave behind all that's been argued and confessed, though her steady steps one after the other aren't terribly quick. Still, she's determined, and though tea can't really make up for anything, all is done without the expectation of or intent to encourage silence. Hopefully, the grove can keep secrets.