I bring nothing to this table.

by imperialvirtue

The Orzel tent is open and airy this summit, as Clarice finds herself on the other side of the table, evaluating candidates for their suitability in ways that cannot possibly be well evaluated by a short interview. Three months of terrible nightmares, miserable strain and broken sleep weigh heavy on her eyelids as she struggles to stay awake and pay attention, to look alert and engaged rather than exhausted and resentful. I’m not being rude. I just haven’t slept properly in weeks. Across the table the candidate is loud, brash, obnoxiously so. One of the Senators – de Rondell? – asks him what he would bring to the table, as General of the Golden Sun.

The candidate thinks for a moment. “Well, I mean, Soldier’s a great presence on the field. Tancred’s a great logistics man. And Clarice…”

The pause is endless. Deafening.

Clarice is nothing.

Clarice is silence.

Clarice is nobody.

Clarice is formless, shapeless, wordless, useless.

“… well Clarice is your charismatic field commander,” he manages eventually. He can think of nothing he has not already said.

Too late, she thinks. Not with anger – but wearily, dispassionately. Far too late. Tick tock.

He’s a lackwit, tubthumping Vexille idiot who knows nothing. It shouldn’t matter.

It does.

Clarice brings nothing to this role.

Bang on the nail.

Later in the interview, he declares his appreciation for the public feud between Soldier and Clarice; says something fatuous about how that kind of fire would conquer the Barrens for us.

Only then does the urge to drown the man in a bucket of pitch rise in her heart.

*

 

She is annoyed with Bo for being late in girding for the Ordeal; annoyed with the elections for taking longer than they should have, and annoyed that her adj is not, in fact, at the meeting as promised. Above all, she is annoyed that she has once again been made late for the Military Council by physicks. I should have had time for this. It’s not good enough. For fuck’s sake.

But it’s more principle than anything else. Andrea scolds her; the rebuke is stinging enough, but to her own disquiet she finds that she doesn’t care enough to be truly chastened beyond the familiar dull ache of having disappointed someone. It’s a depressing feeling: the realisation that she is too resigned to the feeling of being disappointing for it to cut her to the quick any more. It’s clear that Andrea doesn’t feel the same way; she crackles with indignant energy, as though her whole being is wrapped up in the Towerjacks. Clarice murmurs an apology, accepts the reprimand. She isn’t hurt by it, or angry. Only tired, and depressed. Later, she will be grieved that these are the last words they ever exchange; but she doesn’t know it yet.

As she leaves the Senate building alone, it occurs to her that she would probably care more, if she thought that her absence made the slightest difference.

*

He’s a charming man, Lord de Rondell, and he knows it. “You know I don’t like to ambush or strongarm people,” he says pleasantly, eyes twinkling.

Clarice snorts with laughter. Just because it’s done with a drink doesn’t make it not an ambush. Wedged into a corner of the Forge, she knows she’s being played. Ordinarily, she’d resent it; but de Rondell is wise enough not to attempt flattery or empty compliments. Instead, he plies her with duty. With commitment. With the camaraderie of terrible jobs;  with mutual despair of finding someone competent enough to hand over to. “One year more,” he says.

I bring nothing to that table. She says as much, in so many words. He disagrees. Worse than being charming: he’s clever. Articulate. Quick enough to counter her own swift steps from point to point. A good mental sparring-partner. He convinces her – not of his rightness, but at least of his belief in it. I need a balance, he says. Someone to keep them in check. Someone to think before they speak. Someone to have different priorities.

In the end, she agrees – or rather, she does not disagree. One more year. I’ll let you think on it.

When he has gone, she sits a while. Someone to keep them in check. Someone who stands back. A counterweight. A balance. It’s a fitting metaphor: something leaden and shiftless, shackled to someone dynamic and forceful to wear them out, slow them down with sheer friction. She can feel it rubbing her raw already, after only a season – the sheer exhausting friction of being the one dragged over the ground to slow them down. Counterweight. Corrective measure. Contrast.

I knew I would bring nothing of my own to this role.