Difference between revisions of "Logs:For Keeps"

It had never been her office to keep.

Even so, it had been a place of comfort - of home - for more than nineteen turns now. At first it had been Delifa's, the place where she and her mentor went to talk through the day; where she assisted the then-Weyrhealer; where she worked and learned. Later, after Delifa's departure for Southern, it had become her own space. She'd hung the quilts and laid the rugs, and tried to make it her own - home to her work, and also to the memories.

And now it was neither of theirs. Now, the office would go to someone else, and if she visited, it would be as just that: a visitor. She wouldn't visit too much; no one needed their predecessor looking over their shoulder, however kindly meant.

It was worse than that. Not just the office, really. The work.

It felt like a punishment. It was a punishment, as much as anything else. She'd put Miska in charge, and now her judgement was - for some people - in question. And her keys... she felt they were judging her on that, too; that they'd guessed, they knew, they'd worked it out.

She wouldn't have keys, now. No office, no patients, no keys. No more long nights in the infirmary; no more trauma and tragedy; no more joy and relief in a patient's life saved, a baby safely born.

It helped, of course, that her (new) work was important. That it was something she had hoped to do anyway. It was a compromise: something she believed in, something that wouldn't take her from her home.

But.

But.

She'd emptied her things out, now. She'd left the quilts and the rugs; if her replacement wished to keep them, he or she was welcome to. Otherwise, they could go to stores. Her other things, though, were all packed up in boxes. She'd ask Giorda for an office, if there were any tiny rooms going spare. She'd need somewhere to work, while she was here.

It wouldn't be this office. This office was over; gone. This life was.

She would try not to mourn.

It could, after all, be so much worse.

And it had never been her office to keep.

Treinan had been one of the first to present himself to her, after the news broke. Not jockeying for her position, of course (as if they'd let her decide on her replacement, after Miska!); jockeying, instead, for reassignment. "You know I want to deal with records and administration. Research. You know I don't want what you wanted. Request me for an assistant."

He was earnest, as she had been (once). He was eager. He'd been sent to the Weyr to gain confidence, much as she had, but really, he'd only proven - time and time again - that this was not the right place for him, as much as High Reaches hadn't been the right place for Jinja.

"I'll ask," she promised. "It may not be up to me."

In the short term, though, she instructed him to accept instructions. She spread the word: dragonriders should go to the infirmary and have their wishes recorded. To write it out: If my dragon dies, I wish to be taken between/given fellis/encouraged to live/sent away from the Weyr.

Not binding, of course, but something. Something in writing. Something noted with a clear mind.

Treinan promised it faithfully. He stood at his post at the admissions desk and accepted instructions, assigning each to the appropriate file. In case of...

She talked to people. Listened. Built bridges, where she could.

"We won't let it happen again. That's my remit. That's what I'm here for."

It felt good to try.

And still. Even so.

She passed by the infirmary, those door standing open, and she mourned.

It had never been her office to keep.