Difference between revisions of "Logs:The End of Pretend"

It's late enough that M'vyn's children have long since been settled in their beds and are fast asleep. The small room that had once been used as his music space has since been converted to his children's space, but his weyr is still where he's requested to hold the rehearsal with Ebeny for their set in the coming days. He's pushed the couch to a far wall and has set up a stool for each of them near the hearth. He's got a gitar in his hand which he is tuning as he idly flips through the music selection he's made on the stand in front of him. Other than the occasional sound of his gitar's strings strumming, the weyr is peaceful and quiet. Elsyth has settled in her wallow for the night and had fallen asleep shortly after the children were put to bed.

For her part, Laurienth is perfectly content to sit out on Elsyth's ledge and glow, even her dark hide a faint beacon in the night. Her rider is less content to be anywhere, really, and though she's not (yet) argued or asked to rearrange anything, she wears her discontent in the form of the scowl she sports, displeasure marking usually bright eyes heavy. "You're only going to wake the children, you know," Ebeny assumes, the first words she delivers as she moves through into the weyr. "I'm not sure I know how to do any of what you've taught me quietly."

"Music shouldn't be sung quietly," M'vyn replies with a lifted brow as he looks up from his gitar. "Do you think they can't sleep through it? I practice often after they've gone to sleep. I wasn't about to leave them in the nursery all night so we could practice. Do not concern yourself about it." He flicks his fingers to the stool near him. If he notices her shift in behavior, he doesn't outwardly appear to indicate it. It's just as well Elsyth is asleep for if she were awake and found Laurienth glowing as she is on her ledge they likely would not be staying long. "Our vocals and gitars aren't the same as a full band with drums and such," he continues, shrugging as he slides a sheaf of music onto her stand.

"I think I could make good money if I bet on you ending up with two wide-awake kids within the hour," Ben replies, giving a one-shouldered shrug. "But hey, if this is 'just' anything, maybe I'll be better off at home anyway." And yet she sits, though it's much as a sullen child might, slouched and with her arms folded, the music given only a brief glance before she looks away again, like she'd prove some point only she knows about. "What do you want me to do?" she demands, staring not at M'vyn, but into some middle distance.

M'vyn's irritation begins to show as his brows descend at Ebeny's words. He doesn't hook into her comment on his children, knowing better than to continue that argument with her. He must have experienced critiques on his parenting from others to know when to not press his own point of view on another. It's her demand that draws his answer, "I want you to sit up," his answer is sharp, "get your posture and your breath right. Then I want you to sing so we can master this piece for our performance."

Does she sit up? She does not. Ben purses her lips like she might just be considering the idea in an over exaggerated manner, yet ultimately she doesn't move. Or sing. "You know, you could leave them with their mother," might sound downright cruel, were she not to appear genuinely thoughtful. "Or you could do what I did and leave your kids with people they barely know, because everything else seems to be going wrong, so why not add parenting to that list?"

"Their mother has chosen not to be in their lives," M'vyn's gaze has gone steely and he has stilled all movements as he narrows in on Ebeny. "I will suggest that you stop seeking to find other choices for me than the one I have made," he warns her, lips tightening at the corners, "and to focus on the task I have asked you here to complete."

"Or you chose for her." It's still in the realm of idle musing, save for the darker taint to her voice. "D'you know what it's like? Really? To have a child and give them up and be scared to even see them, because it hurts that much more each time?" By now, her gaze has gone glassy, her questions not questions at all. "And you tell yourself you're doing something better - something right for them - and it doesn't matter that it's not right for you, and--" Clarity, for a moment, where Ebeny must see beyond the haze of her green's hormones, and she bolts to her feet with a low snarl of sound. "I have to go."

"Why is it always the woman who chooses to belittle a man for taking care of children? Did I not aid in conceiving them? Do I have nowhere to stand because this body did not carry them for nine months?" M'vyn snaps back, rising from his stool as his hand clenches the neck of his gitar. He holds back any further comment as he realizes that her questions are not for him and then his face hardens. "You've either fought with the Weyrleader or you're proddy," he decides aloud, releasing his gitar to its stand as he turns from her. "If you can't control yourself enough to be in another's company then, please, by all means - go." He waves his hand in the direction of the ledge.

"Your gender doesn't have anything to do with it!" Ebeny snaps, the sharpness to her gaze growing all the more as he mentions either one of the options that he deems have reduced her to her current state. "And of course it has to be a man who's the reason," she scoffs. "You're a fine one to talk about control. Word is, you'll have anyone when you're proddy." With nowhere to go but out, and with out presenting nothing but her own dragon to lash out at, she kicks out at the stool she was sat on, just to make herself feel better or to punctuate her words before she turns away.

"Pick up that stool," M'vyn's voice is icy as he turns at the clatter of noise. "For a Weyrlingmaster, you certainly have no control of yourself in this state. You'd be better locking yourself in your weyr." He folds his arms in front of him as he juts his chin out in agitation. He watches her closely. It may have been easier to let her go in the wake of that kick - but he seems prepared to push her further as he continues, "I'm amazed your man let you out of his sight when you're like this." The smile he offers her is cold and humourless, "Maybe you like to find another to slap around when you're like this too much."

Just like she didn't sit up, Ebeny doesn't pick up the poor piece of furniture either. "No-one lets me do anything," she insists, lips curled back in a snarl. "Maybe thinking like that is why your children's mother isn't with you at all." She shakes her head. "You know what? I take it all back. I agree with everything you've ever said about yourself. You really are a prick." When she reaches out this time, it's for the sheet music. "Don't worry, sweetheart. You couldn't handle me when I'm rough." And so she heads for the ledge, her intent to take the music with her whether he likes it or not.

M'vyn must not know when to back down as he strides after Ebeny to rip that music from her hands. "You won't be performing with me this seven," he tells her, "I don't know when Laurienth is going to rise. Today, tomorrow, or three days from now. We'll revisit this music next seven when I can guarantee your sanity." He steps close enough to invade personal space as he tells her in a low, far too controlled voice, "I never wanted to 'handle you' as you say when you were your whiny, insecure, self. This prick likes a woman with a backbone and some fight." He means to step back before a slap can connect, his cold smile replaced with a far too knowing smirk. "I do believe we are done now." He indicates the ledge. "You may go as fast as your glowing green can take you."

Ebeny is silent and still for a long moment before she declares, "No." Only it's not a rejection of his refusal of her, but agreement and a step further of her own. "We're done all right," she says hoarsely. "You can play pretend apprentice with someone else from now on." It's not a slap that she goes for, nor is it something far lower that she adjusts her weight to seemingly deliver, but instead she clears her throat and unwisely lifts her voice without warming up to belt out a high, clear note - certainly enough to wake the children and prove her point - and moves for the ledge to leave him with those thoughts: that she can sing and won't (or any damage done to her voice), and the prospect of a night disturbed by children with partly-charged batteries.