Mother? Dark brows furrowed as she controlled her wincing. Inwardly she had always thought of this one as a child, it was impossible not to do so when the little sister seemed so helpless and in such difficulties, but it was still deeply disconcerting to realise how true that was. Her attempts to estimate how young the child truly was only unnerved her even more and she dropped the calculation immediately. Tonight she was set firmly in the role of a predator, clawing what advantage she could for herself from this disastrous mess, and it did not aid her at all to be thinking how young and soft and defenceless this one was at heart … how like her own children. No, she would not remember that; it did no good to even touch on such memories.

She herself could not remember a time when her mother had lived. That was back a hundred years ago, two hundred, far into the mists of time. Having been such a fool during her own less than starry youth did not make her any more inclined to remember, she had scarcely known the woman anyway, a penalty of a child’s idiocy. The Tower had not given her much of a family, that was for sure, and riven by quarrels and political difficulties, but she loved it as well as the family of her blood; those few folk now hiding in far off Heartswood in case retribution should come on them. Of course what she did put them in danger … that knowledge she lived with every day. It scarcely mattered any more.

As she had anticipated, as all her subtle and not so subtle maneuvrings had been toward … finally Estel Sedai spoke some words she had been waiting for: words to place herself irrevocably under the control of a foreign faction, a Green Ajah faction to be exact, and one that wished her no good at all. A slow, rather cold smile curled her mouth as Sirayn regarded the young woman thus at her mercy; asking herself what it was that made them different, what measure of cunning and cynicism had kept her free while Estel Sedai made herself quarry for any passing predator; but she did not comment, of course, better not to rouse any suspicions just yet. The child had yet to be drawn into her webs.

“Yes, of course you will,†murmured Sirayn with a benevolent smile; her surviving hand still resting on the child’s shoulder, touch and tone all so comforting. She was so good at this she unnerved even herself sometimes. "And these times are so dangerous, who knows when I may need your help myself ... once we have taken care of your child that is. You will do as I ask, won't you?" The seemingly casual words covered up a wealth of meaning and she lifted her brows inquiringly to signal that confirmation was required. If one distilled the Order of the Rose oaths to their essence, that was at the heart of it; the secrecy and the trust she could lay on afterward, once the person was at her mercy, but she had to be certain that when she commanded they would obey. She let a carefully calculated note of concern enter her voice, prompting for a definite response: "Won't you?"

“In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.â€

If a listener had been passing by a black door, even at this late hour of the evening, they might have paused at the sounds rising from within. Stone and wood muffled words at such manic speed nobody could have pieced them together; fragmented sentences made a patchwork of images, some original and others imitated, and even the stops and silence and sudden swearing formed a broken whole. It sounded like the speech of a madman or maybe some kind of foreign code … but past that forbidding black door, in quarters silent but for this strange language, everything made sense.

No such thoughts troubled the speaker in question so immersed was she in her own work. Ever since yesterday’s chaos, smoke and screams burned into her memory, proceedings had moved on at a frantic pace. In truth she did not remember much of what she had done afterward; logically she knew she had stayed in the hall for some hours lending her meagre strength, they had cleared the ruins and had the fallen removed and ignored that some folk were weeping, but few images stayed with her. In the midst of spent fury a sister had fallen to her knees right there in public, started to sob, and not a single one had gone to comfort her … now on her own in empty quarters her speech faltered somewhat. All this meant nothing: she would feel nothing, she would make it mean nothing. Talking resumed.

Meetings and mayhem had devoured her time afterward. She recalled little of what she had said, to shaking recruits and her own and cynical generation alike, but no doubt it had been as coldly calculated as was her trademark. If people feared, she had likely not dispelled that, but she had at least told them that the Battle Ajah would stand ready. Nothing they did not already know; everything they needed to hear. Maybe it was obscene in a way, that she should go about her business as Ajah Head so callously and never mourn for the lost, but Aes Sedai did not grieve … and anyway, what right did she have to do so? She was merely a line in the great song of those legends Lanfir Leah Marithsen and Lyanna al’Ellisande. It was her job to pick up the pieces once the singing was over and all fell silent.

Last night she had been preparing for the trial and her quarters told plenty of tales. Books still lay scattered across every flat surface; only a few inches of her polished wood desk could be glimpsed beneath the papers. Some she was using now, of course, tomes spread open to the ritual page where other Captain Generals in similar circumstances had consulted the past, but others still spoke of law and precedent and a hundred other technicalities she had imagined she would never need. The trial itself had been grim all the same. No doubt her first instinct had been correct, that she should be seen to be involved, but it took a special kind of fool to get mixed up where others had a hundred years’ experience and she did not intend to go back to cool court rooms and contempt any time soon.

Nor would she. As the current Captain General, and how ironic it was that she the failure would hold that rank at a time like this, it was her responsibility to commit Lyanna al’Ellisande into the earth in true Battle Ajah style … and hence the constant tireless pacing, her pieces of speech, as she drew on history and memory and her own ingenuity to compose some kind of acceptable speech for the funeral. She knew the customs and courtesies back to front of course. Near a year ago she had stood silent while Jehanine Rhessaven de Gavrielle was committed into the earth. Burial with full military honours: that was the cold end that awaited sisters fallen in the line of duty. Yet none of those women had died on her watch and this would be her first funeral as Ajah Head … the first death laid at her door.

Pace and turn. The frenzied speed helped in a way, kept tension and determination thrumming through her, though part of her suspected if she ever stopped moving she might remember something she was suppressing very hard: that she too had known these women, had some kind of investment in them, and this … meant something. No, she had no time for sentiment or softness. Hard times demanded hard folk and in this moment, facing the funeral of a fallen legend, Sirayn intended to rival iron for lack of feeling. Somebody had to be in control. This speech had to be note perfect; every pause finely calculated, gesture and intonation tightly controlled, and if she did it right nobody would look at her and think she gave a damn.

“For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality.â€

Stone and ashes and fallen heroes. Exhaustion trembled at the edges of her calm; at least she hoped it was only tiredness, stress and lack of rest maybe, nothing to compromise her work. Partly she felt … fragile, somehow, and this strange feeling waited like fingers tapping at a closed door … and she remembered: that she had gone to Lanfir still white and drawn following the blackest hour of her life and asked for judgement; not wanting forgiveness, no, for nobody could give her that after what she had done, but for punishment. Punishment to fix it all somehow, to make everything all right, to ease a weight of guilt and fear and dreadful shame … but even legends did not wreak miracles, at least not on behalf of useless commoners like her, and she had had to deal with that on her own.

For the friendless, for the isolated and alone, for those dark folk who could never come back to the light, Lanfir Leah Marithsen and her brilliant companion had been something more than women; they had been the heroes of this age, bright and flawless, and no wonder that everyone loved them so fervently. The likes of her did not speak to them as equals. She came for judgement; there would never be level terms between them. Some might deny it, others think it just the jealousy of somebody who had never earned such unthinking devotion, but say what one might about her Sirayn knew how everything worked. One did not question one’s idols, the heroes who graced the world with their presence; one only obeyed. And the White Tower had trusted those legends to lead them through the Last Battle. Much good would that do them now.

Somewhere during her musings she had stopped moving, stopped talking, and this strange fragile feeling took a tight grip. She ignored it; show a moment’s sentiment now, even in the silence of her empty quarters, and she might as well give up the pretence of being in control. This did not affect her. She was nobody’s friend, nobody’s lover, and had no right to feel anything. Finally she crossed the floor, echoing steps in the stillness, and slumped in a hard chair covering her eyes with one hand … and it would be easy to feel something now, so simple to let all that in. No: she would not be so shamed. She had not needed the Amyrlin & her great Keeper or anyone else.

Later, once she trusted herself to be as cool and composed and uncaring as anyone could ask of her, she left her quarters and headed up several levels through the great white citadel. It did not take a master observer to sense a certain despair lying like a weight on the air. The novices had gone back to their constant chores, those whose white skirts had survived the clash without taking a drop of blood, and a few sisters moved between quarters murmuring to themselves; but nobody lifted their eyes above the flagstones and when she passed through the Hall of Swords, what should have been the busiest part of the Ajah Halls, nobody so much as spoke to her. It gave her the odd sense that she was some kind of ghost unseen to all around her: or maybe she was the only one left alive.

Up here in the finest corridors, where stars had feared to tread, a woman had lain unmoving in bed ever since yesterday’s spectacular events. She had not stirred since they laid her here. It took only a word to get her past the guards and into the expensively furnished quarters beyond; as Sirayn entered, though she held her breath and froze a moment at the door, the better to pick out any movement, the sleeper did not wake. Pale light fell through the drapes and spilled cut-glass sharp across the bed. Illuminated so softly, the only one who had a right to mourn any more lay unmoving … the striking features composed, sheets drawn up to cover the scarring burns had made of her, the woman once clearly intended to save the world lay in undisturbed sleep. Part of her hoped those dreams were treating Lanfir well. Much better than the truth would do.

Silent, she took a seat at the bedside and clasped her surviving hand in her lap. The stillness lay over them like ice. Looking at the fallen soldier beside her … one who had smiled at her once, who had poured her tea and told her how sorry she was when she had been meant to pass judgement … Sirayn wished, for a brief and irrational moment, that she could fix this somehow; that a wave of her hand could vanish all that had happened and return it all to the way it was before. If she could snap her fingers and Lyanna al’Ellisande could walk in, just as dark and proud and beautiful, and Lanfir would wake and make a string of lights dance around them -- the simple novice’s trick she would never manage again -- then maybe everything would be all right. Maybe they would get through the Last Battle after all.

How many minutes passed in silence and contemplation she did not record. Only sudden sound and movement broke her from thoughts: a strangled scream as the sleeper jerked upright: the glitter of sunlight on bright tears. Fear closed on her like a cold hand. She had no idea why, it seemed illogical to be scared by this when Lanfir was the one suffering, but … being here with someone so fundamentally hurt, having to try to offer comfort when she knew so little of that … she was going to mess this up beyond recovery. She didn’t even want to think about it directly; her thoughts skirted the edges. No sister would want to remember what had happened to Lanfir. It came too close to the heart of every sister’s fears.

Outwardly composed, an image of calm in a world gone to madness, Sirayn waited while her companion got herself under control. Such strong sentiment had always discomforted her; she had no more idea of what to say to burnt-out survivors than talking to the moon. “Lyanna …†had come to her weeping one afternoon and told her how impossibly hard it was to be Keeper of the Chronicles at a time like this; Lyanna, whom she had once called a former drunkard to her face, had needed something from her she did not know how to give. “Lyanna didn’t make it.†Smooth tones, coolness, she would be in control. “She went before anyone could reach her. You took the full force of an unravelling weave. We nearly lost you both.â€

So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written. Death is swallowed up in victory.

Echoes of pain still lingered and made every nerve alive with sensation. Part of her wanted to crawl away somewhere and hide until Lanfir had come to take command. The other part knew bitter shame. She had not knelt to receive a Green Ajah legend’s bond in order to be a mere pawn; a tool through which her bondmate could be accessed. If this were the last day of her life, a surreal thought, it was a poor way to die.

Her adversary didn’t seem very impressed by her attempts to be insulting. It was all right for some; Alec had not been raised to trade witty banter with opponents as she had read Gaidin doing in books, usually before they died, in some gruesome or violent manner. No, her talents lay in simpler fields … in swinging a sword, and guarding the Tower’s greatest ever hero, and achieving that to as close to perfection as possible. Shienar’s stubborn daughter had not taken many tasks onto herself, compared to folk like the Aes Sedai who went around saving the world seven times before breakfast, but those she had accepted she did well. She was, after all, Path of Perfection.

Serashada, Serashada … the woman clearly expected her to recognise the name and again Alec scanned her memory, giving this one the benefit of the doubt that she was not actually a lunatic, and tried to remember if she had heard the name before. Maybe it had belonged to a Forsaken or some other dark legend from thousands of years ago. Nevertheless, the Dark One and all the Forsaken were bound in Shayol Ghul as those same tales had told her, and the idea of one of the thirteen most evil people in the world merely happening to pop up in the Amyrlin’s quarters some thousands of years after their disappearance seemed rather slim. Besides, the woman wore the ageless face of an Aes Sedai, and she was quite sure that that did not hold for two thousand years. Probably some kind of aspiring evildoer who thought she would get extra intimidation points by ripping off a name its owner could no longer claim.

The whole question seemed immaterial. Alec was still not convinced that this was anything more important than a common or garden Dreadlord. She herself was just a bastard child from Shienar; what would anyone of any significance want with her? Now thoroughly irritated, and feeling rather slighted about the insult to her intelligence into the bargain, Alec glowered at her tormentor. She had such complete and unquestioning confidence in her bondmate that the little speech about Lanfir would not have troubled her much at all, surely the Amyrlin Seat could handle strange evil Aes Sedai with one hand tied behind her back, but Lanfir was certainly worried. Not many people worried Lanfir.

Her thoughts scattered when she was under pressure. She ought to be better than this. She ought not to even listen to this lying stranger; even when the words spoken were such poison … that she had failed her Lanfir, that the Amyrlin Seat in all her golden glory might be brought down so easily, because her Warder was too feeble and useless to guard her … no, she would not even hear it! She had fought long and hard. There was nothing a Gaidin could do against a determined channeller, and this ought to make sense to her, ought to sound more convincing. She could not seem to shut out the sound of those venomous words. Maybe because part of her had feared this so quietly and so intensely for so long: feared that somehow she would fail Lanfir; that she, the bastard child, would be the Amyrlin’s ruin. That was not true. She would not let it be true!

Shocking agony shattered all her ordered thoughts. No warning, no crescendo, nothing to brace herself against: one moment nothing, the next moment pain. She had broken bones before but nothing like this. To her disgrace she screamed herself hoarse, screamed until all the outraged strength left her and she hung limp in her bonds, petrified and racked by suffering, shamed by the intensity of her need for Lanfir to be here. And this was everything she had feared. To be crippled and tainted and useless, a burden to her wonderful Lanfir, only a shell of the strong Shienaran Gaidin she should have been … she gritted her teeth and made her burning eyes focus. She was not going to die a failure. She loved life and she loved Lanfir and if she convinced herself everything was going to be fine it would actually come true.

Total lack of sensation where there had been pain seemed so bizarre it took long moments for recognition to sink in. Paralysis? Her? She knew the limits of her strength so well it seemed inconceivable that trained muscles would not answer her orders. Yet for all she tried to move her toes even a fraction nothing responded. Terror set in then, and shame … for she who secretly thought herself the most loyal of Lanfir’s Gaidin, never mind occasionally crazy Syl and Jerad who had never wanted it anyway, to be reduced to a weight of worthless flesh was the end of everything: the finish of the only life that meant anything to her, losing pride and strength, losing everything she relied on. Part of her wished the Aes Sedai would get a move on and fix her properly, make it so she did not know any more … part of her knew still more shame that she wanted Lanfir to suffer for her death any sooner.

Bitter tears ran unchecked. Perhaps for a proud Borderlander, a daughter of Shienar, this came hardest of all for those folk had no existence if they could not be soldiers; she might as well be the doorstop this liar had promised. Uselessly she strove for something cutting to say, something to get the smugness off that lying face, but she had never had the quickest tongue … stupid, she thought savagely, worthless and feeble and dull witted … and she had no more insults to trade. Instead she mumbled the only words she wanted to remember, “Lanfir won’t come, she’ll be fine, Lanfir’s a hero,†until all sense went out of it and she just sobbed for Lannie, she wanted Lannie, where was Lannie?

Alec FitzJagad

Not much of a Gaidin for Lanfir Sedai ;)

Path o’ Perfection

Ooc: Sorry for the lateness of my response. Got a bit sidetracked by exams. ;)

Long ago, when imagination and desperation had first dreamed up the Order of the Rose, she had feared that the group would fall apart within months; that nothing could bind together such disparate sisters, cunning and strong willed enough to be useful to her yet so divided in their causes, into a working Order in a Tower so hostile to its very existence. The gamble she had taken first with a bold young Blue Sister and later with others had been staggering in its implications. If anything had gone wrong, all their careers would have been on the line and she especially would have been in line for the strongest punishment the Hall could mete out … and all the odds had seemed so stacked against them that she had doubted the fledgling Order would ever survive.

All this meant that while the fire crackled warmly in the grate and those skilled sisters sworn to her debated the tasks she had given them, Sirayn observed with her usual cool composure and an inward and fierce pride. Bright careers lay ahead of these women whom she had marked out from the masses; more than one had already begun their own path toward greatness. Yet for all their courage and cunning, these soldiers, spies and schemers had chosen to place themselves under her command. It told her that no matter all those years of striving, the lonely times and the loss and hardship, she still had that gift … the cunning, the silver tongue and persuasion, the one great dream to bind people together … the capacity to be an inspiration and a leader that she also sought in those working under her. Many still opposed her but she did not play this game for the passing acclaim of crowds. No, she had the tools she needed for that long term gain, and she intended to make it true.

Not unexpectedly, her designated leader did not show a moment’s surprise at the announcement that she was to be in charge on this dangerous task; it could scarcely have been predicted, Sirayn liked to keep her cards close, but this one was very capable at being cool in all conditions. On the other hand, she had anticipated some comment from the one and only Serena Morrigan, the fiery little Blue being one of few women she had a genuine liking for, though in truth she was grateful for the other woman’s unquestioning acceptance … and for the silence from young Estel Liones; a handful to be certain, somebody whose bitterness had posed difficulty for in the past, although nobody could have blamed her for her wrath after Sirayn had trapped her so skilfully at her lowest point.

The only member of the Gray Ajah here had such a burning drive beneath that painted, preening Domani mask that it might as well have scorched the air around her. Yet she refused to give up that weakness for young men and until she had discarded that last remainder of the child she had once been, Sirayn had little faith that she would be the Aes Sedai she had to be; as hard and cold as the iron itself, not distracted by the passing flash of a well turned calf. She had imagined that Lavinya Sedai in particular might give her trouble over her choice of party leader, since the youngster evidently thought herself more than qualified to lead any party, and found it quite suspicious that the Domani woman never challenged her. Maybe she had a better control over Lavinya than she had thought; or maybe the woman could think of better ways to cause trouble. Not a thought Sirayn contemplated with much satisfaction given the dangers they were about to go into.

“I will provide you with a list, Aramina Sedai.†Coolness as always on the words, though inwardly she was busy wondering whether even Aramina sur Dulciena’s undoubted talents would be enough to keep these women from each other’s throats. “There is one particular herb I have interest in. You may all have had a passing acquaintance with forkroot in the past?†she let the question linger open ended. Doubtless some would already be wondering how and in what way Sirayn herself had come across forkroot and she would be burned before she would admit the whole sorry story. How one supposedly loyal and devoted had done what he did … savagely she repressed those memories, helplessness and fear, she preferred to give the impression that she had never known such feelings.

She had no guarantee that these would not react the same way as a certain young Tower Guard had done anyway. They were bound to her by stronger pledges but possessed a greater measure of knowledge and cunning perhaps. No, she would not even entertain such thoughts. The one and most paramount reason why she had bound the Order of the Rose together with oaths of such great and illegal strength was so that she could finally trust them; women whom she would never have given an instant’s opportunity to turn on her in the past she could finally speak with in secrecy and confidence. It made for a difficult and desperate time since the Order had to remain so discreet but, on the other hand, at least these had sworn oaths she could trust.

Since she had the necessary confidence in these women it was time for Sirayn to discard her usual half truths and deception and to be uncommonly blunt. “You will all be aware of the rise of a number of channelling threats in the world of late. If not, you need to give your eyes and ears a good shaking. It is a dangerous time to be Aes Sedai, one in which the Tower faces dangers it has never taken on before, and in which we must resort to desperate measures to survive. The One Power is no longer restricted to other sisters, whom at least we could trust to have the world’s best interests at heart, nor even to rogue Dreadlords whom we can exterminate through sheer force. Saidar is being turned against us, even as tainted saidin becomes the instrument of our enemies … and we can scarce afford to face such threats unguarded. Forkroot is the future, ladies. Forkroot is one tool we cannot do without in these desperate times. Go to Cairhien. Go and bring it back for me.â€

All I want from him is his work, I can assure you. You're quite welcome to add another notch to the bedpost. ;)

sweet dreams are made of this

who am I to disagree

travel the world and the seven seas

everybody’s looking for something

In the darkest hour of the night, when all the world slumbered, light shone in a bright bar beneath a door. It painted the smooth flagtones in shades of ivory pale and picked out the outline engraved in each one; all along the deserted hall, lit only by torches burning lonely in brackets on the walls, only shadows stirred in a lonely dance.

Behind the polished dark door at least one sister was still working. In the daylight hours the succession of complaints, reports and disturbances that made their way through her offices made certain that anything she began would be interrupted; at least now in the quiet and the stillness, when only shadow draped her quarters outside the light cast by tiny candles burning bravely, she could finally get some proper work done. The task of writing caustic letters to sisters sorely lacking in discretion satisfied her more than enough to compensate for the unsociable hours. She signed the missive, stamped it and sealed it, and contemplated the misery it should cause with great satisfaction. Truly she could get to like this job.

Partly, as even she had figured out, it was all a convincing reason not to go to bed until she had worn herself out. Sleeping had not been easy on her until before the Solin business; memories she had enough discipline not to touch on during her waking hours, when she controlled the topics she dwelled on, but which disturbed her greatly at night. It escaped her the last time she had slept untroubled; sometimes she wondered if there had ever been a time when she could rest without nightmares and obscure horrors; though that was a question constructed by her mind, an illogical result of her fears, she had slept perfectly well before this year. Not something of which she spoke to others and since nobody troubled her at night anyway, unless she had sought them out for ever more intriguing late-night schemes, not something they needed to know.

Once she did sleep her dreams unfolded in the usual manner. Mud and chaos at Dumai’s Wells, a cold ring pressed into her hand, a bond severed forever; darker than that, shadows and fire and screaming. Not that she ever had the same luck again. By what miracle rescue had arrived at the last possible moment, too late for some things, in time for others, she had never inquired … though it was rough enough to know in inward conviction that she would never have held up to any more of that. She had been interrogated a few times before and never with such savagery, such horrifying effect, that fear and shame and fury still haunted her at night. One day she would find that woman again, the Dreadlord whose name was burned into her memory, and maybe then she could finally lay her memories to rest.

Something seemed odd about these dreams. Only in a sluggish way did she even sense that this was false at all, merely a surface layer, when the sensation was so intense and immediate … but something unseen seemed to be moving beneath that surface; a current that drew her in some direction she did not quite perceive. It was scarcely perceptible and yet, on another level, kept grating against the otherwise consuming flow of her dreams so that even trapped in sleep her brows drew together in a distracted frown. A strange and surreal feeling that intensified as though an unseen hand guided her. And from nowhere came this strange voice:

Tell me. Tell me what he plans.

Panic flooded her in an instant. The dream wavered around her, slid into something else, and desperately she clutched for awareness. It took her several heart-pounding moments of confusion to claw her way out of sleep. All her senses sang with obscure and overwhelming fear; she registered darkness, cool air, a soft warm bed … nothing moving, nothing to trigger whatever had just happened. Her heart still hammered. Fragments of dreams troubled her and sleep coiled its heavy spell round her. Those words resounded in her memory: tell me, tell me what he plans, tell me. It stirred some memories she didn’t even want to think about at this hour confused and defenceless as she was. Nothing about this made sense.

Bemused, still half preoccupied with memories of bloody battles long past, she pushed back the covers and dragged herself out of bed. Moments of fumbling produced a tiny light which danced about her casting a pale illumination on rumpled bed covers. She wanted to collapse back into bed and sleep until all this turmoil vanished. Instead she reached for a robe, pulled it on, though her hand shook too much for comfort. Burn her but she needed to think clearly. Tell who what who planned? Had she just dreamed the whole incident? She couldn’t imagine what part of her otherwise troubling and obscure dreams could have yielded something so immediate, so sharp and clear as that voice. It didn’t add up.

Sleep still overloaded logic and made her thinking slow and fuzzy; she crossed the threshold into her living quarters, drank hot tea, slumped in a hard chair in an effort to wake herself up a bit more. Dawn was starting to colour the horizon in grey and silver hues. Still nothing stirred outside her door, though sound drifted up to her window from the white city laid out before her glance. Sirayn contemplated her tea irritably and wished there was somebody around for her to snap at. She did not care for surprises at all. It seemed like a good morning to find somebody very small and helpless and make their life a misery until she felt a bit better.

If she hadn’t dreamed it … there was the rather chilling possibility that somebody had gained access to her dreams. The prospect of some other person, of malicious intent or otherwise, peering into her innermost thoughts and fears rattled her rather a lot. How much could somebody have seen? Enough to brand her as a coward for her petrified fear during the Solin affair, to scorn her for her uselessness at Dumai’s Wells … wait, for a stranger even to know she had been there and in what context would be disastrous. She could only imagine the political fallout if that tale ever escaped to reach public knowledge. There was no possible way she could afford that coming out; much less certain other events, possible scandals, which she had on occasion dreamed of. How long had this gone on for? How much did people know?

Doubt and suspicion could get choking if she let them have complete control. Instead she sank a bit further in her chair, feeling rather lonely in her general and seething mistrust, and did her best to think clearly. There was only one skill she knew of which allowed such power … and if anyone except a practitioner were to be aware of it it ought to be her; when she had once had a youngster under her wing in the first violent stages of that Talent, had had to deal at first hand with its bloody effects. It was a very long time since she had knelt in panic and darkness somewhere far from home and sewn up the gaping hole in an innocent child, a mark left by careless and unknowing Dreamwalking, but for a moment she could see blood on her hands and hear the sobbing just as clear.

Tayline. Once like a daughter to her, a bright child who had never truly been hers, so loyal during the harshest moments of her life. Lately they had not spoken for some time. The diplomatic side of Ajah business had occupied her own time immensely and she knew the younger sister did not care for politics much; it had scarcely occurred to her as a possible problem until this dark morning, still an hour before dawn, when she sat head in hand and wondered if she had been the target of a Black Ajah campaign of Dreamwalking. And surely only the Black Ajah would have such malevolent intent toward her. Any sister of a political bent might wish to uncover what she could from the World of Dreams, but to break into her own dreams, like a thief into a locked room where all her worst fears were hiding … outraged her on such a fundamental level that she could only ascribe it to her old enemies in the Black Ajah.

Those times of cold and solitary doubt in which one genuinely suspected that a friend might be Black Ajah changed everything. It was impossible to see that person in the same way afterward; as though one had not once believed them capable of the worst deeds, imagined them to be part of a great and savage conspiracy. Maybe it was unfortunate, maybe it was just part of the code of survival for a hunter against such overwhelming odds, but it was not the kind of decision one could ever take back. She had decided long ago that if she was going to hunt the Black Ajah, a decision removed from her hands by an Amyrlin in a cold hall, she would hunt them as well as she were capable of and no sentiment or softness would hinder her. The Black Ajah devoured weakness. She had to be as hard as they were.

Therefore it was without remorse or compunction that Sirayn went about her preparations. At such a late hour nothing stirred in the cold white halls outside her door; once she had dressed she stopped by the angreal storeroom, where she found the guards sleepy but attentive enough, necessitating her to give some fanciful story about study before she could collect the items of her choice. It did not please her much that her name and business was recorded there before she could move on, she did not care for that solid record that she had been out and about at this time, but she could scarcely cover it up without getting undue attention. Thus fortified and with the items concealed about her person she returned to her Ajah Halls.

The path to this door she had known for many years. Times of fear, chaos and darkness; older and softer times before that. She remembered a day in some distant garden when she had said something, the precise words she could not now recall, that won the love and loyalty of a child. Another day and a quarrel so savage she had been determined never to forgive or forget. Yes, she had much history with Tayline; yet if she had ever been inclined to go gentle on a possible Black Ajah member, as perhaps she might be given how trustingly she had once thought Tayline looked up to her, it was not difficult to summon up other images.

Once she had lost a Gaidin in fire and smoke. Once she had been seized by Black Ajah herself, not memories she cared to bring up very often, Tear still troubled her. Once she had been bait to lure the Black Ajah out into the open … some of the most intense and difficult times of her life, having to make choices that might expose her darkest secrets to Black Ajah view, setting herself up for something at least as terrible as the Solin affair. In truth it had not been so long but given the stress and suspense of their mission it felt like decades since she had first joined the hunt for the Black Ajah. Surely the opportunity to get a bit of her own back ought not to disturb her.

Nevertheless, it was with doubts well hidden beneath her usual composure that Sirayn finally knocked on Tayline’s door. Memories were all very well. Tonight she hunted.

Some time ago, they had been bonded so long the years all hazed together in her memory, she had dreamed of something like this; that Seiaman would somehow, improbably, want her company rather than that of her gorgeous and perfect sister; that the strong hands would clasp hers for some reason other than a business like bond Seiaman had never wanted and which she herself could not find the strength to be rid of. Images and wishes had never held half as much intensity as the green eyes which met hers now. Those words came so smooth and practised while Seiaman watched her, seemingly sincere, certainly a distraction she did not need, that it took her a while to grasp the sense behind it.

Confusion did not cover half of her inner turmoil while, speechless and stunned, she listened to this unlikely discourse. After all the puzzling and contradictory signals she had received from Seiaman lately … their clash right after Seiaman returned to Tar Valon, in which her one-time Gaidin had made it clear she wanted nothing more to do with Sirayn, came vividly to mind … how could she possibly put any faith in this latest sign? Just because it sang a sweeter song, told her something closer to what she uselessly and despairingly wanted to hear, did not make it any more trustworthy. It would be shameful to listen any more closely to this simply because she wanted so intensely to believe it. How could she believe anything Seiaman said?

It made no sense for one person to switch so fast from one opposing view to the other. One moment Seiaman seemed to think herself entirely devoted, the most loyal Gaidin in existence, the next she lashed out at any attempt to deal with her and treated Sirayn exactly as she had denied she ever would. There seemed to be no consistency and no conviction; maybe it was all one gigantic sham, maybe she was being taken for a ride of sorts, or maybe something more complicated. To be frank she did not credit Seiaman with enough subtlety or enough tact to be tricking her … but some sort of mockery, maybe? Could it be that maybe she was being laughed at behind closed doors?

Certainly she didn’t fool herself that anyone would actually be interested in her as Seiaman was telling her so very earnestly right now. In comparison to the stunning Jaydena Sedai she was rather drab with her plain face and angular form; as Seiaman had been so keen to show her earlier, nobody would be interested in her with certain dazzling, auburn haired Sitters around. Maybe, she thought in a moment of cynicism, the nights just got lonely far up in the north and Seiaman was willing to say anything to get the nearest person to warm her bed. It wouldn’t surprise her in the least knowing the other woman’s preferences.

Coolly she detached her hand from Seiaman’s grasp doing her best to ignore any small inkling of warmth that stirred in her against her will. The memory of fingertips stroking her bare palm lingered with her intensely. She only had one hand left and the sensation of anyone touching it was too immediate, too intimate, for her liking; she preferred to keep her distance and keep that cold composure rather than this current state of frustrated perplexity. Playing for time, she gathered up the reins, replacing the feel of an unwanted but oddly thrilling caress with plain leather. She had kept her composure through worse provocation. Her face remained smooth.

“It escapes me where you get the nerve to speak to me in that presumptuous manner,†said Sirayn at last; keeping her tones low and harsh, hand tightening into a fist on the reins, so that nails bit where once strange fingers had caressed. “You are quite deluded if you expect me to trust a word you say after all the lies you’ve told. To still be bedding Jaydena Sedai is a demanding task, I know, but she is at least very beautiful, I have little sympathy for you. Is it so much of a crisis not to get anyone into bed until you return to Tar Valon? I must have missed that message. Now leave me alone, for the Light’s sake.â€

The shade of crimson her quarry turned rather fascinated her. Clearly a sign of guilt; she had suspected already that he was lying about this supposed message and the colour merely proved it. Ever since her initiation into the Battle Ajah countless years ago there had been a somewhat icy distance between her and the ancient Aes Sedai, indeed many of the other woman’s generation, but nevertheless she could not imagine in what cause Kaylan Sedai would want to receive strange messages from unknown children … and given the secrecy and sending of letters on the quiet she herself got up to she ought to know. No, it was a likely story indeed and not one which she intended to tolerate as an excuse.

Only by a fraction did she raise her brows at his attempt to get out of her service. Children these days had no respect. Back when she was merely a novice in skirts so white and new they lit up the dark, even then they had had more sense than to cross an Aes Sedai openly. Sparing a brief cold glance for her unwitting victim Sirayn turned away scorning his explanations and headed further into her Ajah Halls. Her quarters lay where they had always been for two hundred-odd years; the door marked with a simple carved sword, black and silver, touched with white in the colours of her own sigil; the polished wood yielded at a light touch and she entered the spacious room allowing the boy to come after her before she closed it.

Papers still covered every surface exactly where she had left them. Out of habit she collected together some loose sheets, stacked them neatly, though she had no intention of doing such unskilled labour herself in the most part; that was why she had servants like this boy around to do it for her. “Sit here, boy.†Sirayn indicated the chair behind her dark wood desk. Never had anyone but her sat there before, if she remembered correctly, and it somewhat lessened the impact of carefully orchestrated command when the place was taken by a stripling child. “This letter here is a master copy. Rip it, spill anything on it or damage it in any way and I will not be amused. And these,†she indicated a stack of plain parchment, “are the papers you will use to copy this letter out for me.

“You will note that the message is not written in the common tongue; it is in code, you are not supposed to be able to read it. It will therefore require a bit of concentration to copy the code correctly. You will sit here and copy it out until you are finished. And not a letter out of place! This is important work.†A final stern glance and Sirayn returned to her own work in the expectation that her new companion would do the same.

There's also the Morgase option where the character is so pitifully weak a channeller, even weaker than me ;) that she can only touch the True Source one time for every fifty times she tries and never gains the ability to touch the Source at will.

There's also the Morgase option where the character is so pitifully weak a channeller, even weaker than me ;) that she can only touch the True Source one time for every fifty times she tries and never gains the ability to touch the Source at will.

Nice thread! Reading and enjoying. :D

That's what I was thinking. I like the sound of your bio by the way. Good stuff. :D

Having glanced at a map, across the Erinin and into Andor is a heck of a long way for Cairhienin bandits to go raiding. It's half across Cairhien and then across Queen's Guard-protected borders into Andor ... I think it would maybe make more sense if they were home-grown Andoran bandits? Given the harshness of medieval life I don't think it would be unreasonable to get home-grown bandits anywhere at any time.

999 NE would be appropriate then. There are refugees fleeing Cairhien with nothing and I imagine it would be feasible for them to band together and harass travellers etc. Unless you're starting a novice, in which case your character is looking at being born in around 910 NE and basically nobody remembers what happened back then anyway. ;)

If I understand correctly during 999 NE there is rioting and violence in Cairhien as the city's inhabitants rise up against the Aiel currently holding the city. You could also use the 970s NE Aiel War which caused a great deal of war and chaos in Cairhien. How's that sound?

PS. Hello and welcome aboard! :D

You are Kynwric's mentee, Rien Lach, right? What day did you email him on? :)

Burn her but this was going so smoothly it was downright suspicious. Not a whisper of complaint had the child raised; indeed, her audience seemed so rapt Sirayn suspected she could proclaim herself the Dragon Reborn and this one would merely nod eagerly. She had not expected rebellion as such ... at least not in so many words, many responded to her initial overtures with hostility, and she judged them all the better for it ... but this submission struck her as odd and deeply unnatural. How had any self respecting sister got herself into such a desperate state that she fell to even the most obvious manipulation? How could it not be obvious that quarry was being stalked here?

No matter, she supposed it only made her hunt all the simpler, although at least a spark of interest or life might be reassuring. It was rather like playing with a puppet where one had expected a living child. "You are wise to put yourself in my hands, sister." Feeling rather daring tonight, at least where so little response could be expected, Sirayn laid a hand soothingly on her quarry's narrow shoulder; a certain fragility beneath her grasp, the woman needed to take better care of herself, Sirayn would make certain of that if all went well; and took another step on the road toward her goal. "See, it is not the end of the world; we will solve these little difficulties together. Of course nothing can take away your loss ... nor should it, grieving is a good process ... but we can, at least, take care of your child and your future.

"Soon it will become obvious to everyone that you are carrying a child, if it has not already, and you must be protected from the results." Defending clueless children from the consequences of their own idiocy: this left a bitter taste in her mouth, she had always taken her penance with dignity. "If at all possible you should not remain in the Tower. I can shelter you somewhere safe if you have no place of your own to go. Once the baby comes," had to tread lightly here, for some reason the sensibilities of young mothers were rather sensitive when it came to ditching their children, "you must decide whether to raise it yourself or to pass it onto someone secure to do this task for you."

Her benevolent smile conveyed none of her own memories, hard as they were, which she did not permit to interfere in this little drama. "It is," swiftly she discarded nothing to be ashamed of, Light only knew it was shameful: substituted in, "only natural that on occasion these incidents happen ... you will not be the first sister to have secrets of this sort. But truly, if you ever wish to be of use to the Tower again, you should resign yourself to giving up this child. It can be used against you so easily; and you cannot give a child a proper raising while you have your own duties to attend to. Unless, that is, you were to give up the shawl and become a common woman."

Distaste on the words she let it be, nobody would expect her to be anything but disgusted at giving up Tar Valon for children. "It is not possible to be both a mother and a sister of our great cause. I have seen cases like yours before and all attempts to balance them end in ruin. It's the shawl or motherhood; you must choose and choose fast."

She's not actually my character, I hasten to add. I'm just her master - like I am yours, Estel. :roll:

That's my darling Coraman! Isn't she so sweet ... ahem ... emotionally disturbed? :D

Despite the rather tumultous nature of their association to date, and her instinctive and ill tempered response to any painted Domani lightskirt, something within her thrilled to see intelligence and subtlety about her at last. Honestly she had given up long ago on thinking that all Aes Sedai would have some grasp of politics and necessity; these days such schemers were to be sought out like jewels and kept close ... although not too close. It was dangerous to assume that one's enemies were ignorant, true, but equally it could be awkward to imagine in some measure of competence where none existed. Here, however, was an opponent of the proper wit and cunning, and some nameless instinct recognised a fellow hunter.

Curiosity and courtesy indeed, she suspected the other woman did not have even a passing acquaintance with that last, but Sirayn remained serenely composed while the other spoke. Doubts and suspicion did not faze her. Each time this occurred was another instance to test her hard won skills in exertion against another player of Daes Dae'mar; to see how far a quick tongue and quicker wits would get her; giving her the opportunity to assess once again what lay ahead of them, how far ambition could be realised, the goals which could be achieved. None of this she voiced of course. Such ongoing processes were only hers to contemplate.

Tapping the porcelain cup lightly with her fingertips she assumed a look of feigned consideration. "Unfortunately, sister ... as I dare say you might have discovered for yourself ... the Tower is a difficult and unfeeling cause to work for." Resignation, a light cover on her tone, painted on as with many of the ways of artifice and cunning that surrounded her. "Aes Sedai dedicate their lives to it and often times it gives back nothing at all. A tragedy, yes, but also the burden of Aes Sedai." One slender shoulder lifted in an elegant shrug taking care not to send the slightest waver across the surface of her tea. "Nothing we give is enough to alter the course lying ahead of the Tower. Such is life when one wears the shawl.

"But what frustrates us, on occasion, is that it sometimes seeks to thwart the very enterprises that protect it. Sometimes the cause we all hold so dear is guarded by so many layers of consultation and discussion, of votes and policy, that it becomes impossible to do our job properly. Back before my time there was a golden age in which Aes Sedai could do as they deemed fit; in which no man nor woman would question them; and their judgement was beyond doubt, for if they had not been suitable to make those choices, they would not be raised Aes Sedai. But these days, perhaps ... trailed about by doubt and darkness ... people suspect one another. They introduce so many laws and so many rules to protect themselves that it stops the very guards they rely on from protecting them. Stifling? Perhaps destructive.â€

Silence lingered cool while for long moments Sirayn sipped her tea and contemplated the other woman idly over its surface. Her little speech carried a great deal of meaning and subtlety which she was wary to detail even in her thoughts; fearing that perhaps some slight cue or sign might betray her and she would never know. “So, our goal? To protect the Tower and its interests, discreetly sometimes … at other times, if necessary, with an iron fist. Not to be held back by small minded fools who doubt our intellect. To do all this, of course, from a position of power.†Her mouth curled into a somewhat cold smile. “Such ventures come with a measure of danger; which is why I do not speak of it to the young, the green, the reckless; or to those so indoctrinated in certain ideals and beliefs that they do not see the greater good. I speak only to you … and others like you.

“Measures of danger … measures of gain. I assume you have heard something about me already; since I cannot, at the moment, be entirely open with you, you will have to take me at my word when I say that I am in a rather privileged position at present. A position from which I can make life somewhat challenging for those who irritate me but, equally, I can bring certain advantages to those whom I favour. Advantages which the ordinary sister would have to work long and hard for. Think of my offer as a fast track through the dull, the commonplace and the tedious to the work you once dreamed of; the danger and the excitement, and possible reward, of life as truly Aes Sedai. Or, if you so choose -- if you doubt your will and my own -- you can leave now and hear no more of it.â€

Continuing her studies: now there was a catch-all phrase to cover everything, above board or illicit, including those activities a young sister might not wish to bring to her Ajah Head's notice. It interested her greatly to wonder which sisters in particular Aramina had approached, what tentative bridges were being built in these halls, but it would be unseemly not to mention a trifle obvious to inquire along those lines. Besides, sometimes children had to learn on their own ... had to take those first few steps without an elder there to guide them. Nevertheless, she intended to pay very close attention to everything she heard about Aramina sur Dulciena.

"I see you are spending your time in constructive pursuits." Unlike some others also new to the shawl; she permitted herself a brief moment of bitterness and irritation. Already she was getting complaints about the behaviour of a certain compatriot of this child's although, fortunate for everyone, the likelihood of Aramina ever picking up such unbecoming habits was minimal. "Most excellent. I take an interest in your work, as with that of all new sisters ... unfortunately some, naming no names, do not take so swiftly to life as Aes Sedai ... but it is good to have my information confirmed." Not that she had ever had any doubts.

It was difficult to trust anyone these days, particularly cool and scheming Cairhienin, but in so far as she could place her faith in any stranger she placed it in this one. Aramina Sedai certainly had enough wit and skill for ten women and, a point of no little interest to her, kept whatever ambition she possessed sufficiently under wraps not to pose an overt threat ... although truly she ought to be more suspicious of women clever enough to keep quiet about their intentions, but in comparison to, for example, Halvie Sedai and her outright malice and scheming, this one was nothing short of a relief to keep around: somebody smart enough to work for her and discreet enough not to cause any trouble. If, that was, this morning's meeting went well.

"Another question." She kept her approach deliberately oblique, touching only lightly on the edges of the matter that concerned her most of all, and though her countenance remained nothing but composed her grey gaze sought out the smallest hint of a response. "You are not the only sister to be raised of late. In fact, the Green Ajah has been busy with raisings and recruitment. Some would argue that the standard has become, how shall I put this, rather mixed? So I am curious. What measure have you made of your contemporaries? You may, of course, speak freely. This does not go beyond us."

It turned out that, in certain specific circumstances, fifteen seconds could be forever. Not exactly the honourable last words she had had in mind; but by the time it occurred to her anything resembling logic had shattered into tiny pieces. Ordinary suffering was so far detached from this as to be on the other side of madness. Blinding and all consuming agony rendered anything that had gone before it a mere pale shadow, broke everything down into screams and chaos and a stutter of images too bright for words, light and sound and the taste of copper: her own voice scraped raw by screaming: moments drew out endless. There was a line beyond which excessive pain simply overloaded everything and shut down any thought. Time and sensation blurred into exquisite agony.

Finally it ended. All reason fell apart like a house of cards; she registered bits and pieces, tears burning, the ragged sound of her own breathing, and felt wrung out as a cloth. Everything hurt. Lanfir, part of her sobbed, reaching desperately into the darkness, Lanfir, Lanfir; nothing stirred and nobody came. The silence felt obscurely like a betrayal. Bitterly her own weakness shamed her; this panic was a disgrace, Gaidin ought never to fear anything. She wanted to crawl away somewhere and hide. She wanted Lanfir. A tree needed the sun and she needed her Aes Sedai, longing beyond words, all that Battle Ajah steel would guide her in these treacherous grounds. Briefly she shut her eyes and despaired.

Fifteen seconds. How much were fifteen seconds worth? A lifetime’s shame and grief and failure? How could anything be worth not being a good Warder for Lanfir? Another harsh breath caught in her throat and she opened her eyes. Defender and tormentor looked at one another coldly. Even the name Lanfir in those unknown tones put a chill in her; every finely honed muscle itched to break free of her restraints. She had been made to fight in the clean way, bare steel in her hands and an open ground before her, not this twisted kind of war. That she might in some way be harming Lanfir simply by existing cut her deeper than this vengeful woman could ever have anticipated … everyone had their secret fears and for Alec, whose whole life revolved around her faithful service to one woman, somehow betraying Lanfir was one of the worst possible fates.

The bond told her only too clearly that her beloved Aes Sedai was coming exactly as Serashada predicted. Desperately she pushed, somehow, on some level beyond speech, only to no avail. “She isn’t coming,†snarled Alec, powerless in her fury, “she wouldn’t come to you, she won’t!†and Light if she could only convince herself that were true. It didn’t matter a jot in the general scheme of things whether one Shienaran survived; dying somewhere quietly for Lanfir was her job, the sole reason why the Pattern had spun her out, for the Amyrlin Seat somehow to get hurt for her would be a defilement of everything she stood for. “You leave her alone! She won’t come!â€

It was all useless. No matter how much she thrashed and struggled those restraints did not give way. Never had she felt so feeble -- such a clueless, know-nothing failure, a bastard child from the north, and every breath she took put Lanfir further into danger. Had to pull herself together. Had to think of something. “So what has Lanfir done to you then? Presumably a woman of your persuasion,†she had nothing but searing contempt for Darkfriends, “is too powerful to be pushed around by mere Aes Sedai? I haven’t heard of you, so you can’t be all that powerful.†Alec smiled a cruel kind of smile, inwardly terrified, inwardly desperate, and inquired with a final withering scorn: “I’m sorry -- what was your name again?â€

Alec FitzJagad

Lanfir's Warder

Ouch! You're not going to be popular in Tar Valon with a surname of Telamon. ;) Nice bio!

Had it been anyone else who made that light remark about her wit and the sharpness thereof Sirayn might have dismissed it as truthful and thus only her due; the speaker being who she was, the Red Ajah’s disgraced favourite, an incorrigible schemer and accustomed to the trappings of power, instead the few words stirred her instincts to warning; laden as they were with the possibility of threat. Outwardly she had little to fear from these two, the one a stripling child new raised to the Hall, the other once possessed of a first class political will and now clearly addled by some fool’s idea of love, but nevertheless she did not care for their combination much. Ought she to be worried? She couldn’t imagine why … but her intuition clamoured danger.

Galling though it was to admit it, whatever message lay beneath that casual reference to sun and Cairhien and spices escaped her entirely. Her interest in Cairhienin politics was an open secret, the name she carried these days conveyed that much, though few had made any connection between her and the unfortunate Ranch affair … at least few had dared to say so openly … and perhaps the seemingly careless mention held some other significance. Sometimes she wished people would talk straight instead of scheming and double dealing. At other times she remembered that a quick tongue and quicker wits were about the only advantage she could lay claim to in this dark field. Only time would show what, if anything, the Red Sister had intended there.

Discovered and interrupted? The grey eyes narrowed a fraction as she contemplated the two sinners before her, looking remarkably unmoved by their presence together, as though their very association did not prove their guilt. She remembered clearly what had happened last night, it was only a few hours ago after all, and none of it had included dubiously motivated Blue Sitters or ter’angreal or the imminent risk of discovery. Nor did the supposed glory of their results ring any bells … although she certainly recognised Elyssa Sedai’s conditions as the squirming of a rat trying to get herself out of an upcoming trap. Not exactly the Blue Ajah’s finest. Testing indeed. None of this made any sense.

The hour waited for no woman. Even the words triggered some intense and wordless feeling, set fear to stirring, excitement and thrill and wariness in a heady mix much like the reckless years of her youth. No doubt quite intentional; few women could remember those climactic events while keeping their inner calm. And this was all starting to make a bleak kind of logic … if one assumed that Telcia Sedai had been lying like a weasel last night in order to trick her into something; but then it would take an extraordinarily dense woman to turn around some hours later and expect her to have forgotten everything. It was, as always, rather dangerous to assume one’s opponent was stupid.

But what could be gained from changing tack so abruptly and so obviously? She couldn’t imagine that Telcia thought the lack of a few hours’ preparation would affect her in any way, assuming the Red Sister wished her some harm, which seemed like a fair assumption to make. “Sister, I admit, my memory is not what it once was,†Sirayn played along with a benevolent smile, masking her own thoughts that her memory had actually improved since her days of childhood idiocy, “but I distinctly recall that last night we had intended to meet in the Ogier Grove some … one or two hours from now, if I calculate correctly … in order to, what was your phrase, train parts of you harder than you’d ever been worked since before your raising. Did I hear ‘getting into top condition’ when you actually said ‘engage in dubious and career-threatening activities with Blue Sitters’? An easy mistake to make, I know.†Her dark brows lifted in polite query.

Sell me the infection, it is only for the weak

No need for sympathy, the misery that is me

Sell me the infection, it is only for the weak

On bleeding knees, I accept my fate

- "Only For The Weak", In Flames

As with all of life's most dramatic moments it came unannounced, unexpected, and brutally fast. One moment somewhere in the quiet quarters a sister immersed herself in paperwork, interest barely engaged with the work at hand, facts and figures dancing for her amusement; the next a shattering crash echoed through all the halls of the citadel. A glass fell off her desk and smashed on the floor. Light winked among broken glass and spilling water. That colossal sound revived, in the work of an instant, everything she had done her best to suppress; lit all her soldier’s instincts to burning; and when Sirayn Sedai rose to her feet it was no longer as a schemer, a conspirator, always calculating but as the old and savage general she remained underneath.

Ten steps out into the hall made a hundred too few. Novices scattered shrieking all about her. Already through a maze of twisting corridors she glimpsed a haze of dust and chaos, folk shouting, and here and there a glimpse of bright red blood. And the sound of breaking stone met the sharp high song of screams, touched the shuddering beneath her feet recognised so keenly through her mastery of earth, and it could have been a hundred places: a hundred years, a hundred battles, bound to something wild and predatory in her heart which no amount of denying would cause to die out. All the ways and all the times she had wanted so intensely to once again meet the Shadow in the open and it seemed they had come at last. Finally, in that perfect and fragile intuition that comes only a few times in one’s lifetime, she knew exactly what to do. Moments later her shout rang out at shattering pitch through the halls of the Tower’s most feared force.

"BATTLE AJAH TO ME!"

Cries, a pause, an instant: images beyond number filling that quick moment’s silence: and then up and down the halls doors opened and sisters came spilling out. She had dreamed this before, so many soldiers coming to her call. Centuries’ worth of knowledge. Discipline and strength beneath a green banner not lifted this day. Nobody faltered; the young and the green she gathered to her, the eldest, knowing their places in a fearsome machine; even the newest knew those silent signals the soldiers used to communicate. Even in that single, sweeping glance as they headed toward the grand hall, she measured a multitude of dark miracles: fire and blood and steel in a place once so pale and hallowed: dying and frantic desperation.

Beneath some great and gaping hole in the floor her old rivals battled a madman, all so bright with the One Power that they blazed, a sport for fools like the gladiator's challenges of those old stone arenas far in the past. All around her raged the dying skirmishes of a battle so tremendous it had shaken the very foundations of the White Tower. A hall once serene and pristine had shattered to broken fragments. Stone and slate still screamed if one had the skill to sense it. Smoke and dust rose amid the wreckage; people were bleeding, crawling, all about them some great work of saidar moved. And she understood ... finally and completely ... that from this hour on Tar Valon was at war.

"FORWARD THE BATTLE AJAH!"