Logs:What's Eating N'thei
| |
|---|
| RL Date: 17 March, 2008 |
| Who: N'thei |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Vignette |
| When: Day 28, Month 8, Turn 15 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Satiet/Mentions, Amerie/Mentions, Shanlee/Mentions, A'son/Mentions |
| Satiet told N'thei once that she preferred her men with balls, in her usual eloquent way. ;) N'thei hasn't been very ballsy since the flight, partially from OOC factors but why not exploit it for some emo times? I haven't done a vignette since since before N'thei became Weyrleader, so it's high time he ruminated on the expectations of the big knot; on his own feelings of impotence where Crom is concerned; a little about his feelings for the three ladies in his life, Satiet, Shanlee, and Amerie; a little on A'son being the Istan Weyrleader; on just what's had him in such a funk the past few months. My humblest apologies that all his vignettes seem to be so angsty, but the man has some issues to work through, and he just won't open up to anyone to resolve them! The galleries were empty. Six hours ago, there had been hundreds of people along the tiers, bleary eyes turned to the sands. Now there was just one person, and he sat at the top bench to command a view of the entire stadium-seating and the fringe of sand at the base of it. He drank. Of course. He was ducking Wyaeth's inquiries, trying hard not to let the dragon feel his pensive mood, not to dampen the bronze's high spirits. Nineteen dragons, a second daughter, and he hadn't even seen his fourth turn yet. Even N'thei had to admit he was a little impressed with this clutch; that's the part he shared, the part that swelled with satisfaction, the masculine pride toward paternity. Not the part that kept going over and over all the problems that kept heaping up around him, a pile growing higher one stone at a time. It would topple eventually. While there were eggs, shards of which still splattered the sands, N'thei could pretend an interest in something other than his own impotence, his own wash of self-doubt. Shanlee had no confidence in him, Satiet had no interest in him, Amerie had no understanding of him. His Weyrsecond, his love, and his lover. And he couldn't explain himself to any of them, wouldn't even if he could. He wanted a moment of recklessness, of doing something stupid without greater consequence, a second when he could sweep all the cards off the table and not have to pick them up again afterward. Shanlee would lecture him, how it's not about him any more and he needs to think like a Weyrleader and there are people depending on him and it's time he did this, that, and the other; he'd listen to her dully, most of the words bouncing off like little fists that leave no bruises, and she'd leave mad, then he'd have to find her in a few weeks to put things right. Satiet would smirk at him and make a cold comment about how he's the one that chose to be /her/ Weyrleader, no comfort or understanding; he couldn't even fathom the notion of talking to her about something that would leave him so exposed, safer just to give her the knife and bare his throat. Amerie probably wouldn't even know what to say, where to begin with her youth and her distance; he knew he would never let her in like that, not to know him beyond the larger-than-life fool that drank and gambled and gave presents. Finally, he could taste an end to the mess of Crom, a mess he inherited from a man he'd barely laid eyes on and yet suffered constantly for comparison, and he was struck with the bitterness it brought, with the knot in his stomach that twisted up every time he thought about the situation. "This will be over before the first snow," he told Shanlee. Why even give it that long? Where the hell was the man that just /did/ things, and when did this person arrive-- the one that worried about what Satiet would think, what Shanlee would do, how the Wingleaders would react? Is this really what being Weyrleader meant? Shells, if being Weyrleader was nothing but a series of miniscule decisions, A'son really ought to have won that Flight. A'son could be happy letting things happen, would enjoy doing the right thing just for the right thing's sake. A'son wouldn't feel like a damn fool every time he thought about the last nine months, nine months where Lord Crom felt he had the upper hand, nine months where High Reaches Weyr pandered to the whims of a petulant little man. The more he tried to tell himself that patience was a virtue, that they'd given it enough time to be resolved without conflict, the more he felt himself shrink from the brass bastard that had stolen all that coal, all those jewels, all that jelly. "All that jelly," with a rough laugh that sounded much too loud in the echoing emptiness. Well, A'son had his own Weyr to worry about, his own place to go and say the right things and make people like him and respect him. Thread would fall over Crom by the middle of the month, and the Wings of High Reaches Weyr would fight it. It may not have been the swift and decisive end that would have made him happy, but it would be an end. Maybe the impetuosity that had won him the knot was gone, maybe he'd never be so stupid and brash again. « You still got it in you. » Eavesdropping again, are we? « Ain't I always? --Just 'cause you're doing what you have to don't mean you can't do what you should. » What should I do? « You know what. » One last fuck-you to Crom. That's what he needed right about now. He got up from the bench, put his flask in his pocket, and jogged down the stairs to the bowl. All he had to do now was figure out how. |
Leave A Comment