A Friend in Need [Sasra] - 999 NE

[Sirayn]

ooc: Reposted from some time ago. Timeline is 999 NE.

 

When Sasra had heard through the grapevine about what had happened to her old mentor, Sirayn Sedai, her heart had sunk and her stomach turned somersaults. The woman had lost her left hand, the one that she fought with. The fact that Sasra had seen such a thing happening years ago when she had tested for Acceptedhood, regardless of whether the circumstances were the same or not, chilled her to the bone. The rumours she had heard about how Sirayn had come to lose her dominant hand had varied, from it being cut off by a Fade, accidentally severed during a sparring session with her Warder, one even suggested that her whole arm had been bitten off by a trolloc, with Sirayn going on to kill the creature with her remaining hand. Needless to say, Sasra didn't believe a single word of the rumours that had spread like a fire in a hayloft on the woman's return to the Tower. She had sent a number of novices to see Nynaeve Sedai to be punished for gossipping, and sent others to the kitchens for extra duties there in the hope of silencing the rumour-mill which was in the business of producing ever more fantastic stories surrounding the loss of Sirayn's hand.

 

She had wanted to give the woman a chance to recover, both physically and emotionally after such an event, but had made subtle enquiries as to how she was. So far all that she had managed to glean was that Sirayn had remained mostly in her rooms, having been attended to by Yellow sisters. She had to do something for the woman who had been her guiding influence for her first twenty or so years in the White Tower. Sirayn meant too much to her for her to just ignore the woman's plight. While practising with her sword one morning she had decided to try using it in her left hand instead of the right, to see if she could appreciate at least a little of what the woman would have to be going through. It was far from easy. Years of use had gradualy shaped the leather strapping on the handle to her own grip, and the change of side made it uncomfortable, and the sword felt too heavy, because of course she wasnn't used to carrying the weight of a blade in her left hand.

 

She had gone to the finest swordsmith she could find in Tar Valon, and given him very clear and precise instructions on what she wanted. A katana, but one which was a little lighter than usual. The blade was to be highly polished, with a winter rose etched onto it, and the handle was to be shaped to make it easier to use right-handed, without having to wait for the leather to wear in. The scabbard was to be lacquered in green, also with a winter rose on it in silver inlaid wire. This was more than just a new sword for a friend, it was a way for Sasra to say thank you to Sirayn for all that she had done for her. Once the sword was ready to be collected she had decided that she would visit the woman, and persuade her to visit Tar Valon with her, where their route would conveniently take them past the swordsmiths, at which point Sasra would take her into the shop and present her with the sword, so that any final adjustments could be made to her requirements.

 

She was rather pleased with herself as she set off towards the Greens' quarters, a journey she had made many times over the years, and as she walked she reflected on what the woman had come to mean to her. Despite the fact that she had been a good deal shorter than Sasra, even when she first came to the Tower as a girl, she had always looked up to Sirayn, and Sirayn had somehow managed to tower over her. Whether that was a trick with the One Power, or something more subtle and subconscious to do with the woman's stature and reputation was neither here nor there. What mattered, was that Sirayn Sedai had been a more closely personal and guiding influence than Sasra's own parents. It was Sirayn who had first spotted the signs that Sasra might be destined for the Gray ajah, and had encouraged those traits, steering the girl towards her destiny. It was Sirayn who had given her her first knife, Sirayn who had arranged for Sasra to train with Urien, who had gone on to become her Gaidin, it was partially through Sirayn that she come to realise her love for Tayline. All in all, she certainly had much to thank the woman for.

 

Finally she arrived at the door with the winter rose carved into it. She had stopped off at the secret garden and picked one fresh - the simple bloom had always been precious to Sirayn and the winter rose bush in the secret garden was kept in bloom all year round, and was well tended. She paused before knocking - for years she had simply knocked and entered, knowing that if Sirayn hadn't wanted her to come in for whatever reason she would've locked or warded the door. She embraced Saidar briefly, and probed at the door, which was warded heavily. A little too heavily, perhaps, as if the occupant of the room was trying to keep the entire world out. Choosing not to follow her normal protocol, Sasra simply knocked at the door and waited, until a voice from behind - Sirayn's voice, but somehow lacking something of what made it her - called out "Who is it?". The voice was not cold exactly, but seemed empty in a way, and possibly frightened. Sasra had never heard fear in the woman's voice in all the years she had known her, and it wasn't right, Sirayn never feared, and if she did, she never let it show.

 

"It's me, Sasra.", she said, not too cheerfully, but not cold or formal either. She waited for an answer, but instead of a voice, the ward disappeared from the door, and it swung open, pulled by threads of air. She walked slowly in and glanced around. The room had not been tidied in some time, which wasn't like Sirayn at all, and the woman herself was seated by the window, looking out through the leaded glass. Sasra only walked halfway across the room, a half smile on her lips

"I came to see how you were. I brought this."

 

Sirayn turned from the window and stared at Sasra. It was Sirayn, but it wasn't her face. The eyes were hollow, empty, and cold. There was barely a flicker of recognition in them. Dark circles ringed the eyes, and her cheeks, always pale even before this, seemed sunken and pallid. It seemed as though a lifetime of suffering had finally settled onto her, she looked like a woman who was impatient to embrace death, to finally be welcomed back to the arms of the Creator, to end the strife, and the struggle and the suffering and sacrifice of life.

 

A flash of a half smile barely touched the woman's mouth as her eyes took in the winter rose with Sasra held carefully in both hands, but only for an instant. The empty look which soon overtook it pulled at Sasra's heart as surely as if someone had stuck barbed fish hooks into it and now pulled at lines, trying to drag it from her chest.

 

She took two steps to bring her close to the woman, was it her imagination, or did Sirayn actually flinch as she approached? Sirayn had on many occasions done her best to be motherly towards Sasra. She had seldom managed it, it seemed to be an emotion that she had trouble opening herself to. Sasra, however, had no such difficulty. She had looked on all of her mentees as children, and even though she knew she would never marry or bear children she always felt that she would've made a good mother, had the Wheel of Time chosen this path for her instead. Almost as a reflex action she put her arms around the shoulders of the still-seated Sirayn, pressing the woman's head against her stomach, and stroking her straight black hair tenderly with one hand.

 

"My dear sweet sister. My dear Sirayn.", she said, as she held her and stroked her, "What has become of you? What did they do to you? How have they so nearly destroyed you?"

 

She held her close for several minutes, before releasing her arms and looking down into the woman's eyes. Dark cold pools, they were, filled with pain and suffering, but with anger and hatred and passion still burning, faintly at the back. So she was not completely destroyed. There was still something of Sirayn left, some embers, smouldering quietly at the back. All Sasra needed to do was to find a way to fan those embers and bring them back to life.

 

Sasra Cooper

Bonded to Urien Santra

Mentor to Dawn and Mira

Proud mentee to Sirayn Sedai, once upon a time.

 

*

 

: : : : She had not stirred from her bed since Seiaman had laid her there, barely conscious, for Lwena to work on at the end of her ordeal. The skilled healer had attended to the wounds her body had borne, both inside & out, but as for those that could not be seen so easily … no mastered art such as healing could patch together the damage her son & his consort had done to her. She lay curled up, one arm held across her belly protectively, in a gesture that would come often to her & become a deeply ingrained habit, before this affair was done; and she stared into the corner where shadows still gathered away from the searching sunlight, and held herself entirely empty of thought and memory. As long as she lay with perfect silence and stillness she could be all right. No words got past her determined ignorance, nor visitors to draw out her attention … nothing disturbed … harmony.

 

: : : : Her thoughts wandered, stealthily, lightly, touching over subjects with the delicate hesitation of a butterfly. The sun was bright … dancing motes of dust in its stabbing shafts. She was still cold & the blankets wrapped tight around her small form had done nothing to dispel the chill that diffused through her. Lwena had gone long ago, days, years, it meant nothing, but as she stirred slightly to get comfortable a twinge stabbed through her and she froze, a nameless horror stirring in her memory, like some dark leviathan poised to surface & held perfectly still until it eased. Then she let out a slow, careful breath and relaxed. A brief and painful hope that she could just stay here, like a wounded animal gone to ground & sheltered from the curiosity and contempt of her fellows … but … even something dark and cold stirred at the back of her mind warning her that she could not hide here forever, pricking her insistently but there was nothing left to shrivel at its scorn.

 

: : : : Could she be dead already? Was it possible to still breathe, to think, her heart to still beat and yet some vital part of her -- her will, perhaps, or her spirit -- was utterly gone and only a shattered shell still lived on. Perhaps this was death. Or maybe that was just the taste of despair. Sunlight fell golden across the blankets twisted round her, across her surviving hand seeming pale and skeletal almost translucent with only the harsh lines of bone to define angles and hollows. She flexed those fingers slightly watching them move; frail seeming, but all she had, now that her good left hand had been reduced to a stump so hideous she did not want to look at it; twined them in a fold of the blanket, clenched bone tight but the tough fibres resisted her grip. The inside of her arm burned where she had been holding onto … something. Didn’t want to think about that. She forced it from her mind. She couldn’t imagine that that fragile and scarred hand would ever wield steel and saidar again.

 

: : : : Self pity, she thought tiredly. A faint restlessness had uncurled in her and she viewed herself now in a colder & more objective light. Lying abed festering in her own misery for days was a pitiful occupation even for one as reduced as she. But those thoughts drew out pain from the dark place it had been buried, showed her for a vivid instant the depth of her own inadequacy and everything lurched dizzily as though she had been leaning over a pit. She shut her eyes tight and tried not to think. For a time, it even worked.

 

: : : : Later she got out of bed, more out of a suppressed desire to fill time with movement than any wish to face the world. Her first attempts to dress were clumsy, fumbling, and in the end, doomed to failure. Her already weak right hand grew more tired with each feeble attempt. She gritted her teeth and kept trying doggedly but couldn’t seem to make her surviving hand work properly. Frustration rose up dark and bitter but she turned away from it not wanting to realise the distress … the grief … the knowledge of her loss that she had so far kept out. No, to be unfeeling was by far the better choice. She could fetch someone to help her dress, she reflected, then dismissed the thought immediately. Better to try and fail than to show her weakness to everyone. A tired sigh, and she continued her solitary struggle.

 

: : : : Finally she was dressed, tousled dark hair combed, and some measure of readiness restored to her appearance. She couldn’t think why she had bothered. Her quarters were still strewn with bloodied clothes and dirty cups and plates from Seiaman’s long vigil by her bed. She seemed to remember sending Seiaman away shortly afteward. Standing in the midst of her quarters she looked around blindly, trapped in listless apathy and tried not to contemplate the thoughts which welled up more insistently in her mind … memories … of something she wanted desperately to forget. So successful had been her attempts so far that she could barely remember what it was she tried so hard to force any vestige from her mind. All she knew was that the consequences might be terrible if she remembered.

 

: : : : A knock at the door. She turned, suddenly afraid. She had warded the door some time ago, when exactly she couldn’t remember, and for a brief and intense moment she wanted to wake those wards and turn to ash anyone that thought to disturb her refuge. “Who is it?†She barely recognised her own voice. And the name that followed … Sasra. She frowned twisting and turning at that name to fit it into her mind. A memory sharpened, of a young woman standing blankly behind her, a man shrouded in shadow and bleeding away his life at her feet. Yes Sasra, Sasra Cooper, her mentee. Saidar was eager to her bidding, she had not forgotten those skills that made her livelihood, and Sirayn opened the door silently allowing the Gray Sister to enter. She turned her eyes away, toward the sun drenched vista that her window presented her and waited mutely.

 

: : : : The next words drew her attention away again. She turned her gaze obliged by duty to the gift Sasra held in her hands. It was a rose. A black rose, slender stem spiky with thorns, and a perfect white bloom. A hesitant smile curled her mouth, she loved roses, but then … staring at it in uncomprehending horror, the white rose represented far more than she wanted to dwell on, both days long past tarnished by the passing of time & the raw memory of blood and steel that still tormented her. And now Sasra was approaching holding the rose in her hands and suddenly the flower was a weapon, her stance threatening, stronger than she by far … arms closing round her and there would be the metal taint of blood and her voice scraped hoarse by screaming … a scream that now echoed silently through her as she fought not to shrink back not to let them see any flinch no no no.

 

: : : : Moments passed instant by grinding instant. No violence was offered her. No insistent voices prying out any sliver of courage that still remained. But they would be waiting, only waiting for her to let her guard down for an instant. She unclenched her surviving hand, carefully, noting with a distant surprise the ache of a too hard grip and raising her hand pushed at Sasra blindly until the other woman let go. She dropped her eyes to the floor seeking with the instinct of a wild animal to hide her weakness. “I do not want you here.†There was a curious kind of dignity about her then, the only shards of pride she could still cling to; something old and grave and irreparably damaged. “Please go,†her voice cracked on the words, she hated that breach with a sudden violence. “Please leave me alone!â€

 

*

 

Although Sasra had never seen tears in Sirayn's eyes - the woman had always been as strong as the Tower itself - she half expected to see them now, but when she looked down at Sirayn's eyes they were just as cold and empty as they had been since she arrived. Cold dark pools of nothing. Somewhere in the back there was still that light of passion burning, but it was dim and distant, and whatever embers of the old Sirayn remained, Sasra's tenderness had failed to fan them. Sasra released her arms, and let them fall to her side, and Sirayn simply returned to her sitting position, staring out of the window.

 

Sasra felt an icy chill begin to spread through her body, starting from her heart and spreading outwards through her blood. She was watching a friend die. More than a friend, really, Sirayn had come to mean so much more to her than that, from her very first day in the White Tower. She could not bear to see this pathetic shell of a woman any longer. Sirayn wanted her to leave - was that real? Did she really want Sasra to leave, to be left alone for the Creator to come and take her, or was she just trying to protect Sasra from having to see this? That would fit with the old Sirayn, but this broken and empty woman sitting by the window waiting for death wasn't that woman any more.

 

She turned, and walked slowly across the room, and the sense of relief that she felt behind her was almost tangible. Reaching the door, she took hold of the handle, but something in her wouldn't allow her to open the door and leave. She had given up any idea of traditional family to come to the Tower. She had walked away from her parents and her friends and, it turned out, her unborn brother, although she hadn't learned of that until years later. That was history now, they all were. The gift of longevity that came with the One Power was also a curse - so much extra time to regret not having returned to look after her parents at the end of their lives, as any other child would have. Of course, she had ensured money was sent, to keep them in comfort, and they had been visited by numerous other sisters, they had always been cared for, but she hadn't been there, duty had kept her too busy. Tayline, Urien and Sirayn had been the family she could never have.

 

"Can you just walk away? She helped you to mourn the death of man you didn't know, a man who's life you took. Can you just walk away from her now, now that her spirit is crushed? Can you forget about how many times she was there for you, and desert her?"

 

"No!", she exclaimed forcefully, with words intended for the voice she had just heard in her head, "No, I can't. I can't and I won't!". She released the door handle and walked back to the middle of the room, not too close to the woman who turned back from the window to stare at her, almost incomprehensively, as if she still barely recognised Sasra.

"Burn me Sirayn, I won't, and I won't let you make me! Call yourself a Green sister? A sister of the Battle Ajah? What kind of Green sister gives up the way you are giving up? You once told me that as long as there was breath in your body you would fight the shadow, and you would die fighting the Shadow. How are you fighting the Shadow now Sirayn Sedai". She emphasied the last word, not with a snarl, not insultingly, but to reinforce that Sirayn was still Aes Sedai, no matter what happened, "Well I promise you now, Sirayn, that while there is breath in MY body, I will not let you give up. I will not allow you to let hope wither and die, do you hear me? Blood and bloody ashes Sirayn!"

 

She realised she had taken two steps closer without thinking, and with a sudden movement she flicked her hand upwards, overturning the book on Sirayn's table. Light, but the woman was definitely cowering. It wasn't much, but she was trying to press herself back into her chair, as if she feared a blow to herself.

 

"I won't hurt you.", Sasra continued, not shouting, but still forceful, "The Light knows you mean more to me than that, and you should know it too. I cannot let the Shadow have you, Sirayn, and have you it will, if you don't bloody fight. The Shadow or the Creator will, at any rate, but if either of them wants you, they'll have to pass me first. I'll fight them, and I'll fight you if needs be."

 

Was her own passion starting to stir something in Sirayn? There was something in her eyes, she was sure of it, maybe just a flicker, but there was something. Light, but this had to work, she didn't know what else she could do. She hid one hand behind her back, clenching her fist desperately, and offered up a silent prayer to the Creator for help. As if in answer to her prayer, she remembered that Sirayn still should have no idea that she had learned to use a sword.

"I'll make a deal with you.", she said finally, with a half smile, "Come down into the yard and fight me. If you win, I'll leave you alone. Now, do I have to drag you down to the yard and kick some life into you?"

 

She stood then, firmly, in the middle of the room, doing as good an impression of the Sirayn that she used to know as she could, her arms folded, her eyes cool and unblinking, and waited.

 

Sasra Cooper

Sister of the Gray Ajah

Bonded to Urien Santra

Once-proud mentee to Sirayn Sedai

 

*

 

: : : : She remained huddled in the chair as Sasra walked away from her … her expression empty, like the surface of a mirror reflecting only a hollow where once there was life and passion; the wide grey gaze that followed the other woman seeming devoid of its usual edge, the sharp defensive anger of a woman holding too much pain and too many secrets to hide … missing. It might have seemed as though the woman she had once seen was dead, and perhaps in a way, she was; as though something precious and wilful and necessary had been torn out of her leaving nothing more than this … a scarred husk cast in the same likeness. The only spark of life that burned in her was a remnant of the all consuming terror that had seized her once Sasra presented a threat. She quieted that fragile flame, held it suppressed, and watched warily.

 

: : : : Lettting go a long breath she relaxed a little as Sasra made to leave, but just when the other woman had been about to leave her in peace, instead Sasra turned on her seeming angry. The words were intense, even half accusing and the woman was so strong; the force of her presence impressed on her and she too hollow to resist it. She shrank back, puzzled, half fearful. Why did Sasra want to hurt her? She struggled to conceive of what she had done wrong that Sasra wanted to punish her for; though even so battered and losing any semblance of a grip she remained firmly convinced that she had sinned grievously and must be condemned for it. Perhaps this was the justice she had escaped all along before this. “I don’t want you to hurt me.†It was a bare whisper, soft, like a child hurt and yet still trusting. “Don’t hurt me. I just … please leave me alone.â€

 

Sirayn Sedai

Sister of the Battle Ajah ... technically.

 

She had grasped at straw, but now Sasra had nothing left, no way remaining to help the woman she had so loved and so admired for all these years. Sirayn Sedai, the woman who for the entire time Sasra had been at the White Tower had come to epitomise strength and determination was now more pathetic than a child. Sasra sank to her knees in front of the woman, still desperate to find some spark of life in her eyes, some sign of spirit. Perhaps the woman would be better off dead. She knew she had it in her to kill – the thought of it never gave her any joy, knowing that she had the mental and physical capabilities to take a life, to snuff out someone’s existence like a candle – but she didn’t think she could kill someone she knew, or cared about so deeply. And yet she could no more bear to think of Sirayn suffering in this way than she could bear the thought of the woman dead. She could leave one of her knives, within easy reach, and give Sirayn the choice herself, but it was probably pointless – the woman had always carried more knives about her person than a travelling knife salesman, everybody knew that. People used to joke that it was a wonder she didn’t clank when she walked, there were that many concealed blades in her clothing.

 

She almost reached for one of her own knives – there was no need for a sister to carry any kind of weapon in the White Tower, although many Green sisters wore a sword of some description, but Sassra always carried a few well hidden knives as a habit – but she couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t find it inside her own heart to give the woman a way to die, not while there was any hint of life in her own body.

 

She had sounded cold, angry even, when she had spoken before, and it had made Sirayn flinch. Now she softened her voice once more, using the tone she always used with new novices, girls who were often frightened by their surroundings and made nervous by the presence of Aes Sedai.

“Do you know what goes through my mind when I’m faced with a difficult task? I think ‘What would Sirayn do? Would she give up? No, she wouldn’t so nor should I.’, that’s what I tell myself. When I was tested for the shawl, I nearly gave up twice. I never told you that, and I’m not proud of it, but I was just too hurt, too exhausted, too frightened to go on. But as I tried to force myself to remember the weaves, I thought about you. I thought ‘Would Sirayn ALLOW you to fail?’, and I knew I couldn’t stop fighting then. I thought of how strong you were, and that gave me strength. You’ve always been my strength, Sirayn. Always.â€

 

There was a tiny glimmer in the woman’s face, a suggestion that Sasra’s words had been heard, listened to, maybe even comprehended, but there was no real reaction. She could’ve nodded, or moved her head, or something, but she just sat there, staring, her eyes barely moving. Sasra could bear it no longer. She placed her hands gently on the woman’s knees – she felt cold, as if she was already dead, and so she let her hands linger for a while, to maybe transfer some warmth to the woman’s blood.

“I love the woman you were Sirayn Sedai,â€, she said, very softly, “and I always will.â€

 

Her eyes began to sting with unwanted tears as she pulled herself upright and turned to leave. Just before she reached the door she turned back to the woman, who had not moved at all in her chair.

“I thought all your strength and courage was in your heart and your blood.â€, she said, fighting to keep her voice from cracking as she felt a warm tear slide down her cheek, “but I see now it was all in your left hand. I’d say that losing your hand has turned you into a coward, but that would be unfair to cowards. A coward doesn’t know what it is to show courage. You’ve become worse than a coward, Sirayn, because you’ve chosen cowardice over courage. You had a choice to fight, or to crumble, and you’ve chosen to crumble. The Sirayn that I knew didn’t let life happen around her, she grasped it by the throat and made it do what she told it. If it’s all the same with you, that’s the woman I shall choose to remember, and not the feeble, pathetic….â€, she fumbled for another word, but could think of nothing better than, “..short coward that you’ve become.â€

 

She turned away again, her vision misting as her eyes began to fill properly, and reached for the door handle…

 

Sasra Cooper

Sister of the Gray Ajah

Bonded to Urien Santra

 

Once a mentee, always a mentee.

 

Coward.

 

Like a line cast out across previously still and untroubled waters it dragged across the serene surface of her calm, caught at her focus, brought ripples of disquiet in its wake. The word still resounded in her thoughts fraught with such significance that even her mentee who had once known her so well did not grasp the half of it. Just a passing mention meant too much to her … a weight of remembrance never lightened by time, images not permitted to dull or tarnish. It disturbed her, touched some precariously balanced sense of self which she had worked so hard to keep shielded from all but the most fleeting troubles.

 

Briefly she frowned; the slightest drawing together of dark brows, a shadow passing across her ageless and empty face, and her lips tightened a fraction at a sudden rush of memory. That single word reverberated through the ages for her. For a brief and vivid instant she looked back across the years at a stern face, jade eyes holding nothing but contempt where she had once looked for acceptance, and made young and small again her heart quailed in the face of another’s disdain; another instance where what might have been straight and true had been twisted into a distorted mirror.

 

And now discomfort touched some far more priceless well within her. Anger seemed so new and strange to her in her current state that its bitter taste gave her pause … yet … even as she did so every inch of her will recognised it so strongly; fury to feed her strength and defend her from anyone who might presume to touch her heart; a deep and abiding sense of outrage. A rising sense of wrath which devoured all clouding confusion like a cleansing flame and brought every edge to bitter sharpness, and stamped its mark across her so that her surviving hand tightened bone white on the chair and her grey eyes lifted in a gaze holding such intensity that anyone might be stopped in their tracks.

 

Coward.

 

In the earliest years of her life she had been much like this woman perhaps; knowing little of which she spoke, full of wit and fire, signifying nothing. Once she had been a child even as all others had once been a child. Now two centuries had passed and she no longer had the luxury to speak so lightly of the most harrowing ordeals. Only her kind understood the true burden of courage. Had her mentee ever known what it was like to see one’s friends dying around one and be powerless to lift a single hand because one’s duty lay elsewhere; even when she would have spent everything she had for the opportunity to die in their place? To let even those terrible events sway her from her course would have been a worse failure. All the losses she had taken since then … her closest friends, her sisters, her companions … still she kept those wounds close to her heart and yet still her duty obliged her to take on hardship of similar immensity so that soft and insolent women had the freedom to criticise where they liked.

 

Coward.

 

Decades upon decades she had brought shawl and saidar to a hundred campaigns in the north, across the great uncharted wastes of the world, into danger far more dire than could be set to words. She had slain more people for their one and only precious cause than her mentee had likely ever met … had given up far more than her mentee had ever known. She had put aside her two children when they were just babes in arms and forgotten all but their names. That much she had sacrificed for the only cause that meant anything.

 

Coward.

 

She had stalked the Black Ajah in halls far from home knowing all the while that if she were discovered channelling her life would be forfeit; knowing much harder and colder that if she did not use every ounce of wit and skill she possessed it would be pieces of her that they were sending home to the white city. And though she brought her most prized companion into cruel danger and left another to wither and die alone like a seedling in frost she had prevailed there and never wavered an instant, even when she woke dazed in Black Ajah captivity, even then she had had more courage than a Gray Ajah diplomat could ever know.

 

Coward.

 

She had made a mother’s hardest choice to gentle her own son, done it with her own hands, and later drunk bitter tea with the Red Ajah to make vivid and real her failure, while all the while her son plotted with Dreadlords against her. And most bitterly she had lost her pride and her good left hand in one fell swoop guarding the Tower’s secrets … had lost far more than that, but resisted even an attempt to put words to it. Never … for even an instant … had she permitted herself to be a coward. Never. All the years in the world would never make a coward of her. If she had ever let fear make her decisions even in the smallest way … if she had ever let herself be less than a sister should … it did not bear thinking about. She might as well be dead.

 

A part of her mourned that it took this much sheer provocation to break through the wall she had made for her battered heart; that she had never learnt to speak the language of gentleness, never understood how to work except to be battered into obligation. Part of her quailed: still trapped in a dark cave far below the ground at savage folk's mercy. Some small fraction of her always would be. Yet the greater part of her ... the much greater part of her ... had suffered so long and so hard for the Battle Ajah that the whole of her iron will was too great a challenge for anything else. There never would be time to rest or to look after the grievous wounds she kept close to her heart. This was not a time for mending. It was a time for breaking. And still the word lingered trapped and tasting of despair.

 

Coward!

 

In the space of a jagged instant she surged to her feet; chair tumbling, the world swaying for a dizzy instant, she seized the table rather than show a moment’s disorientation. And her snarl held a world of wrath. “How dare you speak to me like that!†Harsh and rasping her voice echoed with the strain of not enough days past; stressed, as no doubt was obvious, by too much screaming. It belonged to the mentor she had once known but Sasra Sedai might have been forgiven for not recognising it at first … torn as it was, rough with a creeping cruelty, and expressing an old and proud dignity irrevocably outraged.

 

“Coward? You call me a coward? You speak to me … to me, a sister of the Battle Ajah, a soldier for the Light … as though you knew the smallest fraction of what I have known in my lifetime! As though I have not hunted enemies the likes of which would haunt you to your grave! You …†breaking off as fury consumed any further words, she took a slow breath as she fought to master her rage, bringing herself to a simmering calm. “If a duel is what your heart desires, Sasra Sedai,†nearly a snarl on the words, recklessness heady in her; she was wounded and weak and useless and she would rather be battered to a bloody pulp again than back down now, “a duel it shall be! And I shall have my satisfaction of you, hand or no bloody hand!â€

 

Sirayn Símeone-Damodred

Head of the Green Ajah - 999 NE

White Tower RP Co-ordinator

 

Sasra’s hand froze on the door handle as she heard the sound of movement behind her. The clatter of wood was unmistakable as the sound of Sirayn’s chair tipping over. Two unsteady steps followed, and then a muffled thump. She could hear Sirayn’s breathing – years of listening through walls and doors, and eavesdropping on conversations had taught her to shut out sounds that weren’t important, focussing her attention on what she needed to hear, and these days she didn’t even need to use a weave to listen when she was close. She didn’t need to turn around to know that Sirayn would be steadying herself – standing up so suddenly after a long period sitting would make anybody dizzy. The sound that came from the woman next started as a long low growl, almost primal in its anger.

 

â€How dare you speak to me like that!â€

 

Sasra’s mouth curled into a pleased smile.

“Welcome back, Sirayn Sedai.â€, she whispered to herself, before wiping the smile from her face and turning around to face the woman who had been, who would always be, her mentor. She walked back towards the table, her face a blank mask, betraying none of her feelings. Sirayn was standing, as she had guessed but leaning on the table with her good hand, her other arm still hanging limp by her side. Her dark hair hung partially over her face but the redness that flamed on her normally pale cheeks was as welcome to Sasra’s eyes as a clear sunrise after a month of dark and stormy skies. Her tirade continued unabated, and the anger, the fire, the passion in her voice took Sasra back to the day she, a novice then, had once suggested that Sirayn might not be as dedicated to the Light as an Aes Sedai should be, the day the woman had almost cut her throat with a weave of air. That was the woman she remembered, and that was the woman she faced now. She didn’t care if Sirayn was offended by her words, and she didn’t care if the woman hated her for the rest of her days because of them, so long as she continued to be that woman that Sasra knew and loved.

 

â€..a duel it shall be! And I shall have my satisfaction of you, hand or no bloody hand!â€

 

Once upon a time, an outburst like this would’ve left Sasra cowering in the corner, but she was stronger now, she was a woman grown, and she wore the shawl of an Aes Sedai. Although she would never consider herself so, she was in effect Sirayn’s equal, and shrinking back was not an option. Besides, had she shrunk back she might’ve missed a second of Sirayn’s fire. The fire that continued to burn in her eyes even after she had finished speaking. The strain of such effort was clear, she swayed slightly, despite her hand on the table, and her chest rose and fell rapidly with her breathing. Her eyes were narrowed, still, and her mouth was slightly open, as if she was trying to find more words to throw at Sasra.

 

“Well, at least you can still remember that you ARE a sister of the Green Ajah.â€, Sasra, said, her face softening a little, almost a smile. Her voice wasn’t harsh now either. It wasn’t exactly soothing – that might be what a homesick novice needed to hear, but to Sirayn it would’ve been patronising – but it wasn’t hard and ice any more either.

“I have spent more time in your care than I spent in the care of my own mother,â€, she began, “I know well that you have suffered, and that you have loved, and that you have lost. I may not know the full extent of your sacrifice, but I know that you have sacrificed much for the good of the Tower, the Light, and the World. But you are not alone, Sirayn, we all make sacrifices, we all give up our own families when we come to the Tower, we all know what it means to be Aes Sedai.â€

 

Sirayn seemed to take a deeper breath, and opened her mouth to speak, but Sasra didn’t allow her to get a word in. She had, over the years, made an art of it. She had interrupted powerful and influential people across the world, without actually interrupting them. She had faced royalty and talked to them without letting them speak, she could certainly face one of her sisters in the same way.

 

“You have nothing to prove to me, Sirayn. You always used to say that you could beat another sister in a spar with one hand behind your back, and I have never had reason to doubt you. And you have years of experience as an advantage over me. I may be able to throw a knife, but can I match your ability? No, Sirayn, it is not I who needs any proof of anything from you, not now. But spar with you I shall. There are other people who need proof, sister. The people who whisper that Sirayn Sedai is dead, or reduced to a vegetable, the people who think you’ve disappered, the people who murmur to each other in the novice and Accepted quarters that the Green sister everybody feared had been stilled, or burned herself out. I will spar with you, Sirayn, to prove to everybody else that you are still alive, that you are still a sister to be reckoned with. I will not let the Shadow have you, Sirayn, I will not let darkness claim your name, and consign to memory. You are alive, Sirayn, you still have your heart, you still have the One Power, and you still have your right hand. Show the rest of the Tower that, show the world, but most of all, show the forces of the Dark, and let them fear you.â€

 

Sirayn seemed to be forming a reply, but Sasra didn’t allow her the opportunity. She turned from the table and stalked towards the door, opening it and then pausing in the hallway outside. Turning back, she looked at Sirayn, still leaning on the table. She turned her mouth to a friendly half-smile.

“Are you coming, or do you want a day to get ready?â€

 

Sasra Cooper

Sister of the Gray Ajah.

Bonded to Urien Santra