Difference between revisions of "Logs:Holding To Ransom"

When one has thrown the records keepers out and one's golden lifemate is lying curled up outside the door, one can be sure of only certain company in the Records, in that only one other person has access via the spiral staircase, and others will have to note Elaruth's presence and still deem a task important enough to walk past her (or simply be familiar enough with her to move past anyway). Hattie is currently occupying two chairs and sits slightly twisted in her seat, her feet caught up on the chair next to her and one arm settled flat across the table, her head propped between shoulder and elbow. It puts her almost eye-level with her work, her gaze darting from one bigger volume to the smaller, leather-bound one that she makes notes in.

Ali's path is slow today, as much for the drizzling afternoon weather as anything. She's got a stack of hides clutched against her chest, and it's only when she notices Elaruth's presence right out front of the records room that she stops dead. "Elaruth...? What's- what's wrong? Issy, ask her-" « What's wrong? » There's none of Ali's alarm in Isyath's tone; the younger queen circles the skies even in this weather - not quite wet enough to drive her into shelter.

Elaruth has none of the usual affection for her daughter or her rider, but where others might be rude or standoffish, this lack of warmth and gentle touch merely colours the pale queen distant and simply... there. Like part of her is missing. « There is nothing wrong, » she claims, her pale-blue gaze directed at Ali. « There is only what is. » Indeed, she doesn't crowd the door, nor seek to prevent any from passing, but she does /watch/.

Isyath may well repeat that, « There is nothing wrong, » but that doesn't assuage Ali's concern any. "Is she okay? I should-" she hurries past, unaware of the distance in Elaruth's stance or tone. The fact that the records room is /empty/, truly empty, is probably unusual, given she's so used to the records keeper's presence. Her eyes immediately fall on Hattie, holding there a moment before exhaling, a flush of color to her cheeks. "I thought you were- Elaruth is acting strangely," she says, as she ventures closer to the table.

"Elaruth," Hattie says slowly, drawing out of her (affectedly?) lazy half-sprawl over the table the very second the door opens and she realises that she has company, "is doing as she pleases." She seems in no rush to sit up, and stretches her arms high over her head before easing her shoulders back, pen still clasped in the fingers of her right hand. "Thought I was what?" she echoes, finally sitting back in her chair. "I don't think that there's much that could happen to me in here, unless I were to be buried under a pile of books."

Setting the hides down with a careful sort of reverence, Ali sinks into one of the other chairs with an exhale of relief, brushing a hand over the surface, though her protective cradle appears to have spared it the worst of the drizzle. With another slow release of breath, there's something apologetic there, though she does say, "I heard a story the harpers told once, about an old Master who got trapped under a pile of records in the archives. He had to dig himself free. /Then/ he felt obligated to return all the records back to their rightful place."

Is it Hattie mirroring Elaruth, or Elaruth mirroring Hattie? The Weyrwoman maintains the same distance as her lifemate, though hers is created through the more obviously physical means of cold, clear gaze and the drawing towards her of the books that she's been using. "If he hadn't, he'd have no right to call himself a Master," she remarks lowly, with little conviction to her words conveying a certain lack of investment in her response. She regards Ali thoughtfully as hands automatically go to close the smaller book, then fold her in lap. "I don't suppose that you know why what we may need to help us through a bad winter is missing?"

While Ali might not know the /why/, it'd be hard for her to miss the growing coolness in Hattie's demeanor, making her chew her lower lip. "The- the missing marks? I'd heard-" she's swallowing, now, gaze downcast. Maybe she'd considered lying, for a moment, but the weight of the Weyrwoman's gaze is rather too heavy for her to ignore. "I'll forfeit my pay, for as long as needed. And I'll- I'll make it up. It wasn't-" a breath, "-isn't my intent to let the Weyr starve. Whatever I have to do to fix it, I'll do, ma'am."

It's difficult to tell whether Hattie is more appalled, relieved or shocked by Ali's response. It's too soon for /anger/, for she's too busy trying to make her junior's confession make some sort of sense, her lips parting to produce a response that never appears. Instead of shouting or snapping something back, she wearily plants an elbow back on the table and hunches over, supporting her head with the hand that covers her eyes. Maybe it's just as well that her muttered curse isn't entirely intelligible. "You know," she says, still propped there, "I've spent this time wondering whether I can't trust the father of my youngest children, a Headwoman who's been in her role longer than you or I have been riders, or /you/." And, somehow, she manages to pour more hurt into that one word than her mentions of N'muir or Shevena.

Oh, yes. Weighted disappointment is /far/ worse than yelling, and Ali's not even /attempting/ to look at Hattie yet, gaze firmly on the twisted fingers in her lap. "I- I didn't want to disappoint you. But I /had/ to. I /needed/ him, my brother, after- after everything." She doesn't say "Boll" but it's in the momentary twist of her expression all the same. "And I couldn't think of any other way- other than by force. And we've had enough of that. I- he, /we/ will pay it back." She's emphatic on that score.

"And I need people I can trust after /everything/," she'll borrow Ali's words, "but I don't have that, do I?" There's the first hint of heat in Hattie's words. "You could have /asked/," she insists, looking up. "If it was something that important to you, I would have given you my own marks, if they would have been of any use." She slumps back in her seat, unable to look across the table, her expression trapped by a horrible mix of nausea and anger. "Shells, Ali!" That's /snapped/, out of nowhere, though she subsides the moment those words escape. "You'll give your keys back," she utters with the awkward lilt of one who doesn't quite know where to put themselves, "and /hope/ that we aren't forced to buy anything in this winter."

There's a wince at those words, and Ali's chewing her lower lip. "We haven't- all been all truthful with each other," she says, in a faint voice. It's not accusatory, just matter-of-fact. "But if it comes out- it's better if no one else was involved." She, too, looks pale and ill, but her shoulders square as Hattie snaps, taking an uneven breath. Silently, she puts her keys on the table. Finally, her gaze flickers upwards, regretful. "I'm sorry, Hattie. I didn't want to lie to you. It's- it's family, and I felt I had no choice."

"No," Hattie murmurs, swinging her feet slowly down to the floor, "and I suppose now we can hold each other to ransom, can't we? I can't tell you how much fun it will be." If her voice was any dryer, she'd be rasping out that utterly humourless statement. She reaches out to close fingers around those keys; manages to make them disappear into one of the pockets of her dress without any fuss at all. Her attention starts to lift towards her junior, but the attempt is abandoned before too long, words literally bitten back by teeth clamping down on the inside of her lip. She just shakes her head and pushes her chair back, collecting her little book and pen to her chest. "...Funny, that," she says sadly, bitterly, once she's found her feet. "I thought you were my family."

"I don't want to have that sort of relationship," Ali says, immediately, starting to stretch a hand across the table as Hattie reaches for the keys, but drawing back soon after. "I don't want us to point the finger at one another. I- I like where we are. Where we /were/," she amends, with a hint of misery. "And I know it- it will take time for you to feel you can trust me again. But I hope you will." The fingers in her lap are pressed together tightly enough that her knuckles are white. It's the latter statement that affects her the most- leaving her pressing fingers against her belly. It's soft, but determined as her gaze follows Hattie when she stands: "You are. I'd have done the same for you, to get you back."

"...I wish you'd trusted me enough to /ask/." Hattie takes a deep breath, already drawing back into the cloak of weary, cold distance that she and Elaruth have thrown over themselves. "And I think you /know/ that I won't sell you out, because I didn't sell /him/ out. Or maybe I /hope/ you know that." She shakes her head, already dismissing those thoughts. "I don't... know." Another shake of her head follows, her dark eyes momentarily seeking out the book she's left on the table. "You know, when they were..." She doesn't talk about it; hasn't talked about it. And doesn't manage to now. "It doesn't matter," she murmurs to herself. "We'll discuss your pay at a later date," the Weyrwoman states, squaring her shoulders. Already, she's turning away, heading for the spiral staircase.

Ali worries at her lower lip, finally breathing out unevenly, "I should have asked. I'm- I'm sorry." There's a visible wince as Hattie begins to talk about /then/, and a subtle sort of relaxation when she doesn't finish. "Good evening, Weyrwoman." Her gaze follows Hattie towards the stairs and her progress up them; it takes her longer to gather her composure enough to put away the records, and finally slip out past Elaruth with a murmured, subdued farewell.