Difference between revisions of "Logs:Lessa Or Fax"

Life goes on - High Reaches being no exclusion. Nearly a week after the untimely death of the Weyrwoman, there's no outward sign of the doom and gloom that haunts the weyrfolk of the Weyr; it's all blue skies and pleasant breezes. Inside the greenhouse, it's equally as pleasant smelling, of fruitful plants and fresh soil. Not that one could tell if they were using Farideh's dour face as a gauge. She's sitting on one of the wooden benches, near the back of the greenhouse, idly plucking leaves off the stem of a hearty-type of flower. Her ankles are crossed under the bench, and at her side, her candidate's knot and a set of dirty, well-loved books. Otherwise, she's lost to the world, at large, being absorbed in her own inner musings.

And then there's Rafe, outside enjoying the sun himself today. His stroll through the gardens of the greenhouse is languid, just savoring being out in the light instead of the dark caverns that were almost his and the other Smiths' home as much as those actually trapped there. But the peace is broken, because there's someone else there, and his feet inevitably carry him toward Farideh's bench. "You look inappropriately glum for a day this nice," he points out.

"People keep dying," the candidate says quietly, squinting up at Rafevan with that same troubled expression. Her fingers, at least, still in their destruction of the flower as she considers the blonde-haired smith. "Shouldn't we be upset? That our-- Weyrwoman, died? In a fire? I can't imagine that's a terribly fun way to die, and she was only in her mid-twenties." Farideh's mouth takes a sour turn and she sighs, wrinkling her nose.

"People die every day," says Rafevan, like that should somehow make it okay. He moves to seat himself alongside her, stretching out his own long legs, hands curled around the bench's edge. He snort, offers blackly, "Usually not as dramatically as they seem to do here, though. I didn't know her."

"People die every day," says Rafevan, like that should somehow make it okay. He moves to seat himself alongside her, stretching out his own long legs, hands curled around the bench's edge. He snort, offers blackly, "Usually not as dramatically as they seem to do here, though. I didn't know her."

"Yes," she agrees, still glum. "When they get very old or very sick. You're right, here though-- it's like, there are all these instances of strange, horrible death, and it's all women in of rank" Farideh chews on her lower lip, and after a short silence, flicks a glance at Rafevan. "I didn't know her either. I met her twice. Once, she spilled klah on me, and another, she gave me a dress. I didn't have any impression on her, but she-- kept the Weyr going, took care of us, if it was from a distance. I feel a little guilty, not mourning her like-- other people. You know?"

Rafevan, slanting looks over at her, shrugs after a moment. "I wouldn't say you should feel guilty," he tells her. "But then, I wouldn't say she was what kept the Weyr going, at least not day-to-day. That distinction, I should think, goes more to habit than anything else. After all, we're still going now, even when everyone is mourning."

"How do you feel?" Farideh honestly wants to know, with a considering look. It's his words that precede her face going blank, her void eyes blinking back at the apprentice. "Who-- what-- the Headwoman?" is part question, part skepticism. Toto, she's not at Big Bay Hold anymore.

"You go do your chores because that's what you're supposed to do," says Rafe after a moment. "Because someone posted it for you to do. They posted it for you because that's what they're supposed to do, and so forth on up. Not to say we don't need a Weyrwoman, for those times the system breaks down, for the times something unexpected happens... but by and large, for the people like us? It's business as usual. Just a little inexplicably sadder than usual."

"You make it sound like-- like-- a machine." There's a queer kind of expression transforming her features, her brows draw together, her mouth set. "Can any Weyrwoman be replaced for another? Do you think Irianke will do the same as Azaylia? Nimae isn't like Azaylia or Irianke," Farideh points out, her head tilting to the side.

It's a comparison the Smith doesn't seem too surprised by, his mouth pulling to one side in bemusement. "I suppose it is, in a way. Our own perpetual motion machine. People who break that mold are rare, our heroes and villains, I think," he says after a moment, building on the thought. "You didn't know the Weyrwoman Azaylia; do you think you'll still be thinking of her in ten turns? The circumstances of her rise, maybe--that whole ordeal with the other goldrider, the one who died in the storm. The circumstances of her--admittedly terrible--death. But those aren't things she did. Those are things that happened to her." He pauses, reaching up to brush a hand through his hair. "This probably sounds callous, doesn't it," he realizes. "And I'm sure she made some lasting impression on those who actually knew her. I don't mean to belittle that."

"No." Farideh self-consciously tucks hair behind both of her ears, but otherwise stays rapt of attention, studying the smith while he talks. "I won't. I barely remember the other goldrider, and even now-- Weyrwoman Azaylia's memory--" Her mouth pulls to the side, rueful. "I think her face was round and her eyes dark, but--" She lets the flower drop to the ground, amid macerated flower parts, and clasps her hands in her lap instead. "I must be just as callous because it makes sense. I've never thought about it that way-- I think I only remember all of the Holders at home because I had to. Not because of anything they did." Beat. "Do you remember any of the Weyrwoman before them?" Before the ones who died, presumably.

"Hm." It's an interesting question, one that has Rafevan considering it fully there on their bench in the sunshine. "I remember hearing about the exile gold," he says after a moment. "I was at the hall when she was killed, and I remember that making an impression. And before that there was the one who was exiled herself. I think that was right when I was apprenticing or so. I actually had someone the other day blame all this bad luck on her, or maybe the Weyrleader for driving her off, I'm not sure. But the run on golds started there anyway, was the theory." He lifts his shoulders slightly, then turns the question on her: "Do you?"

"That's ridiculous," comes the fully snooty response, more Farideh-esque than her moping. Still, it's a thought, and has the young man chewing on her bottom lip again. "No." She lets that settle and then scrunches her nose. "I'm not from here, to start, and even then, my mother's not really a fan of--" Her gaze skitters off and there's notably a blossom of color in her cheeks. "Weyrs." A nonchalant shrug follows. "I remember hearing about that gold who got transferred up from Monaco, but it only seems like a passing memory-- it was far removed from my world," she murmurs.

"But you must know of the ones from--I forget where you're actually from," Rafevan says, his tone apologetic but eyes sharp. He knows when things aren't being said. "I suppose that's my point, though. We remember the Lessas and Faxes, because they did great things. Maybe terrible ones, too, but great all the same. The rest of us... we do our jobs, and we keep the machine going in the meantime."

The brunette tenses, regarding Rafevan warily, before inclining her head ever-so. "Big Bay Hold," Farideh says, fingers twisting. "I know the Igen goldriders now, and a bit of the history going back only so many turns." She becomes more introspective, her expression thoughtful. "What do you want to be? A part of the machine or-- one of the people who do great things? Do you want to be a Lessa, or, a Fax?"

"Big Bay, that's right. I've never been," agrees Rafevan, nodding slowly to that. He considers. "So you must have been familiar with Weyrwoman Irianke--her name--already." Since they're on that subject already. But he doesn't push it, at least not now; instead, "Doesn't everyone want to do great things?" The idea they might not puzzles him, clearly. "Though I'd rather be a Rafevan, and known for that. Whatever it is he might do in his next years."

"You'd like it. If," Farideh quantifies, "you like the heat, and sand, and crystal-clear beaches. If you don't, then you'll hate it." Her mouth finally eases into a smile, after all this time. "I've known-- of Irianke for a long time now. She's a smart, brave, and respectable woman, though maybe not in the traditional Hold values. She is of trader stock, but that makes her so much more--" Her eyes light up and her smile stretches. "Rich, vibrant." It's obvious where her loyalties lie. "I don't hesitate to say that being well known or well liked would be nice-- what if I was infamous the world over for my beautiful eyes?" Cue dramatic fluttering of lashes. "But to be a Lessa? A Weyrwoman who saved Pern? Or Fax? A Lord Holder who almost ruined it? No, those are too great of responsibilities, that I would never want to shoulder."

The question of the burdens shouldered in greatness is left nearly untouched for the time being: Rafevan only nods in distracted assent that could mean he agrees or he just acknowledges that she said something. Instead, he notes of Irianke, his tone neutral, "You sound like you know her well."

It could be that the transition is innocuous or that she's distracted by their topic, but Farideh glances sideways at Rafevan and offers another smile. "For over seven turns now." And instantly looks like she regrets it; stiffening, straightening, and staring, guiltily, with wide eyes at the smith.

And Rafe, for his part? Just wears a half-smile that reeks of smugness: whether he knows the significance of that relationship, he knows when Farideh thinks she shouldn't have said it. "I've gathered she's a clothes horse but I didn't realize she needed a personal laundress--and at a Hold, no less," he tells her, with a sly sideways look. "Do you get the whites very bright?"

The flush of red in her cheeks must be customary by now. "No," Farideh says, in somewhat of a whine, that's also sullen. "It wasn't-- like that. We met at one of her family's-- when they set camp outside of Igen Hold. I've never been her personal laundress and I never was, before--" She sighs loudly, dramatically, looking away. "Here. Is it so odd? That two people who knew each other previously, from a different region, could come to live in the same place?"

"No," Rafevan concedes that much, with a tip of his head. "I ran into a neighbor of my family's hold that I grew up with, just the other day. He's a bluerider now. But I don't turn quite this shade--" a gesture takes in her current coloration "--when I remark on the coincidence." A beat. "You realize, of course, the most important part of the poker game is a good bluff. Yours is shitty."

Busted, Farideh hangs her head, chin to chest, in defeat; not without a full measure of pouting. "You didn't even teach me, it's not exactly fair and--" She shoots him a glower from the side. "I've never been good at hiding how I feel about things, which is the problem--" Rather than continuing to blather on, she clamps down on her tongue, lips compressing. "You can't tell anyone. Anyone. Not even Drex, or Itsy," is paired with a warning look, even with the flushed cheeks.

The rambling, Rafevan takes in stride, just letting her talk as long as she does; it's the latter that makes him just snort. "That pair?" he counters. "I wouldn't trust that pair with my dinner. Our secret." And he crosses an X over his heart, like a child swearing.

A disapproving frown takes the place of her embarrassment. "What's wrong with them? I thought you and Drex were friends. I'd trust them with my dinner-- not, my secret, just yet." Farideh scrunches her nose again, and peers down the aisle towards the door, then back at Rafevan. "My uncle is Big Bay's Holder, and I'm not supposed to be here. Irianke knows, but--" She points a finger at him, frowning. "Don't. Tell anyone. Now or ever."

"Just because we're friends doesn't mean I'd trust them," says Rafe, patient. The secret she imparts, however, earns his full consideration, blue eyes narrowed slightly as he regards the woman beside her. "Let me guess," he says after a moment, slowly. "Arranged marriage? And you fled to the Weyr to escape, and make your own life as a cog of your choosing? You did seem to take our little exercise in storytelling entirely too seriously."

"Isn't that-- a requisite of being friends? I don't call people friends I wouldn't trust." It's preoccupied, the way she says it, and then she shrugs her thin shoulders. "You're close," Farideh says, her lips twitching with feeble amusement, "but not quite. They hadn't yet. They wanted-- want to. I just don't want to be someone's pawn, or someone's heir-maker. What if I got stuck with," there's a displeased face, "Lord Xanemin, or that Holder down by Southern Boll." It sounds like those are the worst things she can imagine, now. "You-- you have a craft, at least. I don't have any skills and nothing I'm particularly good at, unless you consider dancing and reciting lists of Bloods necessary. So, I came here, to start new and try something different."

"Mm." It's a noncommittal sort of noise, in regards to Itsy and Drex. Rafevan continues, "Yes, my craft. Though if you think merit is the only stick by which the crafts measure, then you're unfortunately mistaken. Craft life is its own elaborate dance of talent and politicking, which I'm afraid I may be failing. But maybe there's hope for you, at least, as a rider?" He lifts a brow, head tipped toward the candidate's knot beside her.

"That is what I hope. I might Impress a brown and become a Wingleader, or a green and flaunt convention. What about you? You don't want to try?" Farideh stretches out her, much shorter, legs and her arms with them. "I don't know what I'll do if I don't. I think I'm particularly poor at laundry. I might-- perhaps, ask Giorda to try on the assistant's knot. I was taught how to run a Hold from a wife's perspective, if, it was a bit unconventional by most standards."

In light of her latter words, Rafe lifts one brow slightly. "And yet not the gold?" he wonders of her. As for himself--that just earns another of those telling snorts. "I still have my craft. Irianke even went so far as to offer a letter of recommendation for me, in light of recent events," though he sounds somewhat less excited about that than he probably could.

"Didn't we just talk about this? I don't want to be a Lessa. How terrible must it be to have to live up to everyone's expectations, and likely fail? As you said, no one will remember you, turns from now, so why go through the effort." Farideh may not be succinct, but her attitude is suddenly breezy about the whole subject. She's much more content to talk about Rafevan's life, anyway. "You never wanted to do anything else? Do you crave being a smith? You don't have to," she points out. "Or are you happy about being recommended? Will you walk the tables?"

"The choice isn't be Lessa or be a failure," counters Rafevan. "You can be competent and still unmemorable, ultimately." A shrug follows, though, as far as his own craft is concerned; he concedes, "I love my craft, so no, I've never considered doing anything else. I'll walk, providing they do see fit to follow that recommendation. My initial hope was to make Master within the decade, but... Things get in the way." A shrug.

"The choice is to be Lessa, a failure, or unmemorable-- hm." Farideh gives him a skeptical look. "I'd much rather be a brownrider, or a bluerider, or a greenrider. Besides," one toe scrubs at the ground, "the goldriders around here seem to die, remember?" Her voice is wane, her cheeks once red now pale, though her eyes lift to Rafevan's face. "I'll keep my fingers cross for you, that all your hope and dreams come true. One day, you might be building me something," is clearly an attempt at a jest, her smile weak.

"Name one famous bluerider in history," is Rafe's easy challenge on that point. "You're automatically unmemorable with that." But his mouth's quirking into a small smile all the same, one that turns rueful in regard to the latter. "I think building is less my specialty than destroying."

Point. "I meant, if I'm going to be unmemorable, I might as well have not been pushed to my limits and stressed living a life as a goldrider, when I could live the easy-breezy life of a bluerider. You don't see the Weyrwoman, any of them, getting drunk in the Snowasis and naked at the lake," Farideh says, arms crossing over her chest. "What do you mean? Breaking apart things to make something else?" with a furrowed brow.

Rafevan's mouth twists into that familiar smirk again. "A shame, that. Sounds like they're missing out. --But no. Well, occasionally. But one of my areas of expertise," he clarifies, "is explosives. Such as we used in the recent cave in."

"Is that what you think of it? Duty?" Farideh looks genuinely interested in his answer, in his perspective, which is, without a doubt, different from hers. "You are a strange one. I never would have thought you a smith to start with," with a flick of eyes over his tall frame, "and not so-- humble? Strange, so very strange," she murmurs, eyebrows lifted.

Rafevan, dryly, "I like to confound." But he's moving to rise then, getting up to his feet before he notes, "Besides. Humility is much more useful than arrogance, I'm finding."

"Are you?" Farideh sounds amused, even as she's pulling her knees closer to the edge of the bench and looping her arms around them, her face reflecting the laughter imbuing her voice. "Remember. Don't tell anyone," she says in a parting reminder, since it seems he's leaving, and then nods her head. "Enjoy the rest of your day and the-- weather."

"Our secret," agrees Rafevan, pressing one finger to his lips to emphasize the point. And then he's taking his leave, wandering on out of the greenhouse.