the darkest nights produce the brightest stars
Fennick quickly realized he was in the wrong conversation. He didn’t understand women, he didn’t really like women, but only because they never seemed to like him. It wasn’t that he liked men, he just struggled to like anyone.
It was a burden, being so deep in your own head.
The big stallion sighed a little forlornly. He certainly had brought this upon himself. It would be shamefully cowardly to run off now, so he took a step closer to the mares and joined their conversation properly. Fennick may be a bit of an idiot, and he may be an abysmal failure at making friends, recruiting, and general conversation, but he was not a coward. It was one of the few things he had going for him, and he intended to hold on to it.
He didn’t, however, know how to answer Gallows. First off, because he was far from little. He looked her up and down skeptically. She wasn’t small, per say, but she was a hand shorter than himself, and Fennick wasn’t built along a dancer’s delicate lines. He sniffed, trying not to go rigid with conversational anxiety. These days when Fennick’s expression turned too stony the rest of him followed soon after. That was, perhaps, the only thing that could make him a worse conversationalist, if he turned to stone.
“I’m sure you know the Valley far better than I. I could say, however, that any attribute would be an improvement if the alternative is to be judged on the eligibility of our men.” Fennick’s expression turned thoughtful for a moment. Did he just insult himself? Quite possibility. He was, after all, one of the men that would be the basis for judgement if they were truly to use eligibility as a scale.
Damn it, he had just insulted himself. He decided to pretend that it hadn’t happened and move right along.
Fennick then turned to Everdeen, and tried to plaster something that resembled a civil expression on his face. The girl hadn’t done anything particularly grievous, and still she found herself on the sharp end of this tongue. Although Fennick was a bumbling fool in most situations, he was proud. He had precious few things that he valued, and therefore felt the sting all the more when one of those things was belittled, like his home for example.
“I never said that it didn’t bother me. I thought it was rather obvious that it did.” After all, he wouldn’t have said anything if it hadn’t nettled him. He hadn’t really intend to say anything, but it had popped out. He did, however, decide to let it drop. There was no use in belaboring the point. At her question he looked at her once again, trying to place her. Nope, no good. Fennick was a newcomer himself, and wasn’t particularly gifted with names. He was better with faces, but he tended to avoid crowds, giving him little opportunity to see them.
“Then you have the advantage on me, for I don’t recognize you. My name is Fennick.” He had learned that introducing one’s self was the basis for most conversation. Did following social conventions matter after you had already broken them?
Now that he was here, Fennick decided to spend the time educating himself. He listened to Everdeen’s assessment that ambition was better than looks, and expectantly turned to Gallows for her answer. Not, without first asking a question of his own.
“And what of power? Is that better than ambition? I don’t believe they are one in the same.” Look at Demian, for example. He was currently in the highest seat of power, but didn’t have a hungering ambition for it. He carried kingship like a scared duty, without the lust for power. Perhaps that was even better than ambition or power? Power without ambition?
Fennick was giving himself a headache, and probably his companions as well.