Oaths and armor, an existence devoid of bared weakness— there should be no surprise in that confession. Yet he keeps the medallion held fast within his own grip regardless.
"This will be a gift of appreciation, nothing more."
Uh huh. His eyebrows climb during that explanation, then slowly settle back down.
"What I was trying to say," he clarifies, "is that it's mine."
Letters shine on the badge's surface, Canterbury, and Executive Officer. How many times has he instinctively reached for his pocket, only to remember it was left on the Roci?
He crosses his arms, impatient; but can you blame him? It's all the more ridiculous since he's sure Jone would give it back to him in a heartbeat, if he'd said as much.
"Before I was captain of any vessel, I worked on a ship called the Canterbury. Captain Carl McDowell gave that to me before he died. Now, do you need me to prove it to you, or are you going to take my word for it?"
The silence stretches longer, Gabranth’s thumb still perched protectively across the medal’s embossed finish, measuring the weight of all earned trust against the improbability that they would simply stumble across a memento left lying beneath a rift that does indeed somehow belong to Captain Holden himself.
Fortune— or perhaps faith— favors him.
There is a low noise of disapproval let out somewhere within that helm as he relinquishes his would-be gift.
He might not have known it was possible, either, if Petrana hadn't mentioned to him recently something similar happening to her. But Gabranth relents, and he breathes out, reaching out to take the badge in his own hand. The weight of it is familiar against his palm, cool even under the midday sun.
For a long moment, he's quiet.
"I wasn't acting XO for longer than a day." There's something of wryness in his voice, old grief. Faint amusement, too, for the person he'd been then. "It's where I met Amos."
He's not sure how well Gabranth might know him, but it's hard to know one of them without knowing anything of the other, common enough knowledge that they'd arrived together.
There is something of a glimmer of recognition in Gabranth’s duller mind, his memory untidy as it is focused and narrow in its accommodating scope. The name is familiar. The context not. The look Holden wears, however...
Fondness, grief, longing— a tangle of emotion all too visible in reflection, as Holden runs his fingers across it, taking it into his own grip.
Has he been too forward in his assessment? His claim? The look is sharp enough that even broad, and armored, and harsh in his bearing, a visibly uncertain pause colors the faint movement of his helm as it shifts to one side.
He does not wish to insult his friend, or press upon him some terrible discomfort when discretion is necessary.
"The man you keep company with, your Amos. He is your swain, is he not?"
If it helps, it's more bewilderment etched across his face than anything else. Swain isn't more recognizable to him than leman, but rather than asking for another clarification, he says,
"He's my mechanic." A beat, then, equally baffled: "The two of us, our pilot, and my XO are the only people left from this ship."
His tone maybe takes some grimness off the statement, at least as it first sinks in.
Perhaps, Gabranth decides, it would be best to let the inquiry rest where it lies: their assumptions are running along different lines, and he is not half so meddlesome as to truly need to know what sentiments run between captain and crew. The medallion was important to him— a reflection of a past that holds value— that is enough.
"Executive Officer," he says, clearly relieved to hit on an simpler topic. The badge gets pocketed, now, as he goes on, "Second in Command. She keeps me from doing anything too stupid, and leads in my absence."
The abbreviation is distasteful to Gabranth's stern-set mind. Too casual. Too informal. He makes only a slight grunt of confirmation in the wake of it, one hand falling to his hip as his stance shifts, resting light across the edge of a pommel.
"So the day you received that medal was your one day as acting Executive Officer?"
Casual, maybe, but it's a damn sight faster to shout a message to your XO in the heat of battle than your Executive Officer.
"Badge," he corrects. "All it says is that you have the job. The captain wanted to promote me to XO, I turned him down, and he gave it to me anyway."
Which is exactly the kind of pain in the ass McDowell was, convinced he knew better about Holden's potential. He's had a lot of time, over the years, to wonder what McDowell would think of him now.
"He was correct to ignore your dismissal." Gabranth concludes, easing back in his stiffened posture to survey the area. They have done much in the last few days, and though this calm may only be temporary, he holds hope that for a time, it might last.
And that no more rifts will opt to make themselves known before their departure.
"I thought you said you weren't going to work on compliments."
is what he says first, faintly amused. Then he breathes out, looking up once more just to be sure there aren't anything besides the usual suspects, like another Veil-thing glow.
"Tony'll be glad we found a place to put a vane."
And for all the other work, of course, but the Provost isn't head of Research for nothing.
“That remains true.” Gabranth asserts, reaching up to tug his helm free at last, tucking it just beneath his arm. With that trinket gone, he does not know what he could bring back to either Jone or Benedict aside from the curtest of stories, given without embellishment or enthusiasm.
But then by now, that much is what they themselves are accustomed to.
“It is only the truth, Captain. You did well. You have always done well— where a lesser man would not. Whatever faith was placed in you, has not been misplaced.” One gloved hand runs coarse along the back of his own neck, catching the sweat spared from combatting demons.
Months since he first met Gabranth, since he first saw the man's face, and he still doesn't understand the whole deal with the armor. He doesn't know who else has seen his face, or why he's so dedicated to keeping it hidden. But the thing is: Holden doesn't have to get it. He can respect Gabranth's wishes, his secrets, and work to live up to this trust.
"I try to do what I can," he says in response to that glowing praise, whether meant as gentle correction or just addition, "which is all anyone can do."
Easier to answer is the next question.
"Tony? Of course. I'm no scientist, but it's obvious even to me how impressive everything he does is. He's easily one of the smartest people I've ever met. And he's also a good man, which isn't an easy combination to find."
"A rare combination indeed, yet amongst Riftwatch's own leadership such traits make themselves commonplace."
For the most part. Gabranth still finds himself straining to comprehend much of Commander Flint's own purpose within the context of his actions. That, however, is a burr he sets aside in favor of drawing his cloak a touch higher across the slope of his shoulders.
"Have you considered a position of leadership here as well, Captain?"
He makes an assenting sound, though Tony's the only Division Head he knows well. He's passingly familiar with the Ambassador, with the Scoutmaster; and Flint is, truthfully, someone he's also trying to figure out. But he did teach Jim a valuable lesson about their war, and he respects that.
The question earns a laugh, disbelieving, as he shakes his head.
"God, no." Which might be kind of a funny answer, but he's probably made clear he wasn't even looking for the last leadership position. "I help where I can. No one needs me to tell them how to fight their war."
That doesn't stop him from expressing his opinions, but you know. As a regular guy.
"Why?" Is the question that rises to meet it, strangely sincere in its cast. Lighter, softer— not at all the piercing set of Gabranth's typical, biting tone.
"Why do you run from such responsibility, particularly when it would suit your talents."
Is it running? He'd felt that he'd stopped running sometime after the Roci, where he'd learned to stand his ground and have it mean something; where three other people had put their lives in his hands, and he'd kept them safe; where they worked together to do good, where we can, when we can.
But he hasn't seen the Rocinante in months, and months, and months. And he won't again in this lifetime, and he's made peace with that.
"War isn't what I do. I don't send people to their deaths. I don't kill people if I can avoid it. And I don't give a damn about politicking."
He looks to Gabranth, eyes narrowed in the brightness of the sunlight. It'd be easy to mention the Navy, dishonorable discharge instead of firing first and asking questions later. Instead,
"It doesn't take any special jobs or titles to help people. The more power you have, the more compromises you have to make. That's not how I want to do things."
"That is not always so. And I would argue that our current allegiance is a far more lenient thing than any formal military." A man might bind his hands in office, but Lord Larsa— bright as a spark— had always found his own path around such obstructions with fluid efficiency. He had made it all seem that much easier.
Just as his elder brother made it that much easier to rip away notions of piece like glued parchment to stone.
"People will be sent to die, regardless of your voice. Regardless of your influence or lack thereof. You cannot absolve yourself of the guilt of waged combat, it claims all in its own right."
In other words, to Gabranth, it does indeed seem like running.
But then Gabranth holds no office either, so perhaps there shouldn’t be any thrown stones between them in a Thedosian glass house.
There's something in him that can't seem to help sparking to the notion of absolution of guilt, with the badge from a killed ship weighing heavy in his pocket. In other circumstances, he might get angry.
But today, he only says,
"I have the right to decide what I have to carry and what I don't."
“No, Captain.” His hand rises, stiffened from the fingertips down in a stern show of disagreement. “You may believe it to be so. And perhaps fate, or the gods, favor you enough to make it so...for a time. But no man is free enough to choose his own burdens, for even the coward is ever hounded by them.”
Noah fon Ronsenburg did not choose the shadow of his homeland, he did not choose the ghosting touch of a mother he could not save, nor the brother he could not keep. All haunt, all torment— all are burdens he shoulders, regardless of his own innocence. His lack of agency at the time.
“Yet I shall speak no more of it. We have done good work, and there is no benefit to sullying the satisfaction of our accomplishments with conjecture.”
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Oaths and armor, an existence devoid of bared weakness— there should be no surprise in that confession. Yet he keeps the medallion held fast within his own grip regardless.
"This will be a gift of appreciation, nothing more."
no subject
"What I was trying to say," he clarifies, "is that it's mine."
Letters shine on the badge's surface, Canterbury, and Executive Officer. How many times has he instinctively reached for his pocket, only to remember it was left on the Roci?
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There is stern accusation in his tone. His hand is fisted now, the medal clutched within it.
“It cannot be yours.”
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"Before I got here."
He crosses his arms, impatient; but can you blame him? It's all the more ridiculous since he's sure Jone would give it back to him in a heartbeat, if he'd said as much.
"Before I was captain of any vessel, I worked on a ship called the Canterbury. Captain Carl McDowell gave that to me before he died. Now, do you need me to prove it to you, or are you going to take my word for it?"
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Fortune— or perhaps faith— favors him.
There is a low noise of disapproval let out somewhere within that helm as he relinquishes his would-be gift.
“Take it, then.”
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For a long moment, he's quiet.
"I wasn't acting XO for longer than a day." There's something of wryness in his voice, old grief. Faint amusement, too, for the person he'd been then. "It's where I met Amos."
He's not sure how well Gabranth might know him, but it's hard to know one of them without knowing anything of the other, common enough knowledge that they'd arrived together.
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Fondness, grief, longing— a tangle of emotion all too visible in reflection, as Holden runs his fingers across it, taking it into his own grip.
“...he is your leman.”
gabranth's really firing on all cylinders huh
is neither a yes or a no, a snap of his attention back to Gabranth.
he's trying; he has the emotional comprehension of a potted plant so
He does not wish to insult his friend, or press upon him some terrible discomfort when discretion is necessary.
"The man you keep company with, your Amos. He is your swain, is he not?"
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"He's my mechanic." A beat, then, equally baffled: "The two of us, our pilot, and my XO are the only people left from this ship."
His tone maybe takes some grimness off the statement, at least as it first sinks in.
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"What is an 'X-O'?"
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"So the day you received that medal was your one day as acting Executive Officer?"
Is that the right of it, Jim?
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"Badge," he corrects. "All it says is that you have the job. The captain wanted to promote me to XO, I turned him down, and he gave it to me anyway."
Which is exactly the kind of pain in the ass McDowell was, convinced he knew better about Holden's potential. He's had a lot of time, over the years, to wonder what McDowell would think of him now.
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And that no more rifts will opt to make themselves known before their departure.no subject
is what he says first, faintly amused. Then he breathes out, looking up once more just to be sure there aren't anything besides the usual suspects, like another Veil-thing glow.
"Tony'll be glad we found a place to put a vane."
And for all the other work, of course, but the Provost isn't head of Research for nothing.
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But then by now, that much is what they themselves are accustomed to.
“It is only the truth, Captain. You did well. You have always done well— where a lesser man would not. Whatever faith was placed in you, has not been misplaced.” One gloved hand runs coarse along the back of his own neck, catching the sweat spared from combatting demons.
“You respect him, do you not? His work.”
Tony, he means.
no subject
"I try to do what I can," he says in response to that glowing praise, whether meant as gentle correction or just addition, "which is all anyone can do."
Easier to answer is the next question.
"Tony? Of course. I'm no scientist, but it's obvious even to me how impressive everything he does is. He's easily one of the smartest people I've ever met. And he's also a good man, which isn't an easy combination to find."
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For the most part. Gabranth still finds himself straining to comprehend much of Commander Flint's own purpose within the context of his actions. That, however, is a burr he sets aside in favor of drawing his cloak a touch higher across the slope of his shoulders.
"Have you considered a position of leadership here as well, Captain?"
no subject
The question earns a laugh, disbelieving, as he shakes his head.
"God, no." Which might be kind of a funny answer, but he's probably made clear he wasn't even looking for the last leadership position. "I help where I can. No one needs me to tell them how to fight their war."
That doesn't stop him from expressing his opinions, but you know. As a regular guy.
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"Why do you run from such responsibility, particularly when it would suit your talents."
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But he hasn't seen the Rocinante in months, and months, and months. And he won't again in this lifetime, and he's made peace with that.
"War isn't what I do. I don't send people to their deaths. I don't kill people if I can avoid it. And I don't give a damn about politicking."
He looks to Gabranth, eyes narrowed in the brightness of the sunlight. It'd be easy to mention the Navy, dishonorable discharge instead of firing first and asking questions later. Instead,
"It doesn't take any special jobs or titles to help people. The more power you have, the more compromises you have to make. That's not how I want to do things."
no subject
Just as his elder brother made it that much easier to rip away notions of piece like glued parchment to stone.
"People will be sent to die, regardless of your voice. Regardless of your influence or lack thereof. You cannot absolve yourself of the guilt of waged combat, it claims all in its own right."
In other words, to Gabranth, it does indeed seem like running.
But then Gabranth holds no office either, so perhaps there shouldn’t be any thrown stones between them in a Thedosian glass house.no subject
But today, he only says,
"I have the right to decide what I have to carry and what I don't."
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Noah fon Ronsenburg did not choose the shadow of his homeland, he did not choose the ghosting touch of a mother he could not save, nor the brother he could not keep. All haunt, all torment— all are burdens he shoulders, regardless of his own innocence. His lack of agency at the time.
“Yet I shall speak no more of it. We have done good work, and there is no benefit to sullying the satisfaction of our accomplishments with conjecture.”