Logs:Balance and Control
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| RL Date: 1 August, 2014 |
| Who: Quinlys, V'ros |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Following this scene, V'ros comes to confess. |
| Where: Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Mentions: Azaylia/Mentions, Iolene/Mentions, Satiet/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions |
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| Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr Made private by a thick, insulated door that blocks out most of the noise from the barracks beyond, the weyrlingmaster's office is a comfortable, quiet alcove. Instead of an imposing desk, much of the room is taken up by a large round table, with five chairs spaced around its edges. Beneath it is a square rug pieced together from twisted rags that stretches from wall to wall, just barely leaving room for the long bookcases and filing cabinets. On the back wall, a geometric tapestry and blue and black is hung, providing both insulation and decoration. Weyrlings are scarce, making themselves busy with dragons, exercises, and exploring their new-found independence from the barracks. Except V'ros, he's been pacing near the weyrlingmaster's office for the better part of an hour, with those nervous steps. He finally stops all that movement, lifting a hand to knock on the door. As soon as he does, he visibly pales and looks around, as if seeking someplace to hide. Quinlys must be - must be - aware of V'ros' presence outside the door (or at least the presence of someone), but she holds her peace; she's waiting. No doubt that's why her answer is so immediate following that knock; "Come in," she says, firmly, a command as much as it is a reply. "And close the door behind you." The bluerider sits at the far end of the table, one foot tucked up beneath her, and both palms flat upon the table's surface. The response - that trusted and feared voice - has the weyrling going even whiter. He looks like he might bolt, even as he opens the door and moves inside. "Ma'am," V'ros says as he closes the door with a soft "click". "I.. I've done something." And he's still casting around with his eyes, fidgeting nervously with his hands, shifting uncomfortably where he stands or perhaps in his own skin. "Bad." The general good humour of Quinlys' expression fades, red brows knitting as she gestures towards the chairs opposite hers at the table. "You'd better sit down, then," she says, after a moment, her foot wiggling its way free until it rests, firmly, upon the floor. "And tell me exactly what's happened. I assume Zmeyth is fine; I assume I'd know if it were otherwise." V'ros stares at the chair as if it might grow feet and sidle away, but in the end, he sits down heavily. His head is bowed, unable to meet Quinlys's eyes. "Zmeyth is.. he's fine. Napping." One hand wraps around his opposite wrist, gripping firmly - in the next sentence, the answer may become clear. "I hurt.. someone.. else. I.. I didn't to.. but I.. I.. I pushed her. She.. she fell and now.. I think, her arm," he finishes lamely, holding up the gripped-wrist. "Broken." Shame is written all over his face. Quinlys' silence is heavy, the kind that carries with it disapproval without any physical signs of it. Finally, her mouth draws together, rather as though she's been sucking on a lemon. "Why?" It's quiet, and very, very simple. Why probably isn't the question that he was expecting, given the dumbstruck expression. "I.. I.." V'ros stares at the bluerider with his mouth open, clearly confused himself. "I.. just.. I was.. mad. I've.." He stops and grimaces, shaking his head and then gripping it in his hands. "Zmeyth says I shouldn't let people call me names.. he says I should stick up for myself.. I should.. and I was just.. I was 'angry' and I didn't mean to shove her, I just wanted to show her she couldn't.. treat me.. like that.." Weakly, he drops his hands into his lap and stares at them, unseeing. "I didn't want to hurt her." "Violence," says Quinlys, after a moment, "is never the answer." It's a platitude, and not one that seems to especially please her, now that she's actually come out with it. "That's not why we teach self-defence... though it doesn't sound like you were using those skills, either." Her fingernails tap idly upon the pitted surface of the table. "You need to learn to control your temper." V'ros' mouth works, moving silently a few times as Quinlys speaks. He definitely looks guilty, and even winces as her nails tap the tabletop. "I didn't.. I didn't even know I had a temper. Not like.. not like that. I've never hurt anyone.. I never even thought about hurting anyone." It's not trying to convince her, it sounds more like he's trying to convince himself, with disbelief in his tone. That has Quinlys stopping, leaning backwards in her chair and eyeing the weyrling in front of her thoughtfully. "Zmeyth," she says, after a moment. "He has a temper." "What?" V'ros glances up from his hands, staring once more slack-mouthed at the Weyrlingmaster. "Zmeyth.. he.. he is strong and brave and all of the things I'm not. Sometimes he gets angry, sometimes he has a.. different approach to things.. sure." "You aren't Zmeyth, V'ros," says the weyrlingmaster, quietly. "You need to be able to keep yourself separate from him. You don't need to be him. You can learn from him; he can learn from you. But you aren't the same, and you need to make sure you keep yourselves as yourselves." Quinlys twines her fingers together, studying V'ros. "I appreciate that you came to tell me. That was you." "I could be," comes the little voice, quiet and quavering like a child's. "I could be hard and quick and unrelenting too. Zmeyth wants to teach me, I want to learn." V'ros curls his hands into fists. "I don't want to hurt people, I don't think Zmeyth would want me to, but I.." He sighs and turns his head to the side. "Sometimes I can't." Rather than look relieved that she understands or appreciates his honestly, he keeps that guilty face. Quinlys studies V'ros' expression; studies his hands, too. "Maybe you could be. Maybe you can be," she says. "But you don't have to be. There's nothing wrong with people the person you are; don't forget that, V'ros. You don't want to hurt people? Then don't. Consider what Zmeyth has to offer, and balance it against what you think and feel. You're a partnership. Make your own decisions." "I don't know," V'ris says and presses his hands against his eyes. "I thought.. I thought this would be easier. I don't know how to.. how to balance him and I. I'm a coward, he doesn't put up with disrespect, I'm easily pushed, he is as solid as a tree." Now he looks sad. "He knows what he wants, knows what to do, and he thinks he knows what's best for me too. What if he does?" "It's not. It's not easy for a lot of people. You should... do you know K'zin? He's not my favourite person in the world," which may be an understatement given the way Quinlys grimaces, "but he had similar issues. Beyond that? Well. We're going to work on this." She straightens, shoulders sharply back. "For now, I want you to stand your ground on at least one thing, every day. It can be small - utterly insignificant. But one thing." Another expression change - surprise, bewilderment, all wrapped up in a nice package at the mention of the bronzerider's name. "Really?" V'ros continues to sound surprised, "I didn't know that, but I.. I know him." He listens to the rest of what Quinlys has to say with an open mind, his brown eyes hinting at a slightest anxiousness. "Me? Stand up to.. Zmeyth? I.. I don't know if I can, but I.. I'll try. Just one thing.. maybe.. maybe I can." But there's a lot of uncertainty in that sentence. "Ask him about it," suggests Quinlys. "Tell him I sent you; with luck, he'll feel guilted in to talking to you about it." She untangles her hands, running one set of fingers through her hair. "Not maybe. You can, V'ros. Believe me, you can. Pick your battles; start small. Try. That's all I can ask of you. Now," she smiles, smirkily. "You're also going to apologise to this girl of yours, formally. And your privileges are revoked; when you're not bathing or eating, you're in the barracks, for the next two weeks." All of this is taken in, silently, anxious face and all, until Quinlys gets to the part about not leaving the barracks for the next two weeks. V'ros has the audacity to say, "Two weeks!?" with a glum look. As if he expected anything less. Still, he's nodding his head in acceptance - not much else to do. "Two weeks nothing but the barracks and.. standing my ground with Zmeyth.. and.. and.. uh, apologizing. I understand, ma'am." There's no change in Quinlys' expression... well, almost. It's possible she looks faintly smug; it's not precisely a foreign concept to her. "Two weeks," she agrees. "And we're going to work on this, V'ros. We're going to help you - help you both. That's what we're here for. And you? You aren't going to shove people. You're going to control your temper. All right?" "Yes, ma'am, I won't shove anyone anymore." V'ros closes his mouth firmly after speaking, his lips compressed into a tight line, and stares across the desk at Quinlys. "I'll do my best to control my temper. I don't want this to happen again." "I appreciate that, V'ros," says Quinlys, nodding once. "Go: make the most of the afternoon. From tomorrow, you'll be spending most of it inside, after all." One of her dimples shows up; she seems obscenely pleased about something. The smile throws V'ros off, makes him give Quinlys a second glance before he stands, awkwardly, and edges towards the door. "I'll.. yeah, yeah, I'll go do that. Thank you, ma'am," with a stiff nod and a backwards shuffle towards he door. He gives her one last 'look', which is still vaguely confused, and then he's out the door. |
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