“Hah, good one, Aran: pregnant, pshaw, preg—pregnant?” Pregnant, pregnant; pregnant: pregnant. The though sloshed from one side of his mind to the other—back and forth. Back and forth—leaving him dazed and looking for the cheese. Manliness fled with a whooshing exhalation and he deflated considerably. A spent balloon might well do the same, as well as taking on that peculiar shade of pink.

Braxton had never heard of a pregnant male. Small fish: big pond. What would he know? Besides, some of those pregnant male fish might eat him. Aran wouldn’t possibly lie about something this important. It was life or death. When his grandfather found out? Oh, that wasn’t even worth thinking about. He did anyway.

“Aran,” whispered, “you don’t suppose. I mean, you don’t think that . . . well I couldn’t be . . . could I? It isn’t that I mind, it’s just that I’m young, you know, and it is an awfully big responsibility. Why, I’m not even a tower guard yet. What would people say? What am I going to do, Aran? What am I going to do?”

Well, as fun as that little circle jerk was, I won't be adding to it. :P

Arik, you sod, I'm going to give you a kick in the nuts next time I see you, and that had better be soon. I've been looking for you for *ages.*

“It’s true,” reproachful pause. “Where was I? Oh, right. I’m a man!” SPF 30+ if you’ve got it, if not, just save your retinas. “I was in the wood for my survival training—you and I need to speak about my mentor, I think she tried to kill me—minding my own business; trying to find my way out when—Aran? Aran! For a moment there it looked like you were sleeping . . . .”

There is no conventional method to deal with the average Braxton, who seizes is victims in much the same manner as a large dog. By the time you have managed to pry him loose, you have lost at least one leg, and have no means of escape.

"Here I am, eating bugs. Yes, bugs. Don't look at me like that, Aran, a man has to do what he can to survive. It was a life or death situation! Along comes this crazy woman, I offer her some food and she hits me. I try to stop her, and she hits me again. I won't tell you where, Aran, but it hurt quite badly.

"I think she must have been testing me, because when she'd finished kicking me and hitting me with a stick she kissed me and all I can say, Aran, all I can say is "woah." I mean. I saw stars. Her hands went everywhere and, well," Braxton frowned, "I blacked out after that. It was that good."

To his credit, Braxton almost seamlessly incorporated his new manliness into his story, including patent strutting, hair flicking, spitting, and squinting. Had there been any females present, I am certain they would have been impressed.

“. . . And that,” finished Braxton, “is how I became a man. Are you hungry, Aran? I’m hungry.”

Strut. Strut. Strut. He flowed as liquid metal, feet clacking fox trot rhythms, head tossing from side to side, eyes and teeth flashing. He greeted everyone he met; tasted the fresh Tar Valon air as he breathed. It was a good day. Everything seemed more, well, more manly. The Trees were manly, the streets—manly—and Braxton . . . ? You guessed it.

Freshly returned to Tar Valon from his survival training (he hated that, since you asked), Braxton was going to make some alterations. His boyish habits were not in keeping with his new, adult, outlook on life. Some things had simply changed in that moment. Nay, everything had changed . . . . (Wait. No. That is all wrong. Let me try again. Ahem): It was a time of change. (Much better.) The experience had left him unconscious and with a small knot of bruised flesh on the back of his head (was she a wildcat, or what!); he was finally a man.

He pictured the door to the barracks opening before him—it didn’t—not even the blood and dizziness could disrupt the heroic anthem playing over and over in his head. He strolled into his quarters, face split like a Halloween pumpkin. He fancied that people who saw him go by stopped and said to one another: “hey, there is something different about him. He’s more . . . manly.” Aran would never mock him no more. After this moment, they were “equals,” members of an ancient and sacred brotherhood. Yes. It would be a fine day.

His trainee uniform bespoke of his manliness. Manly black breeches, manly white tunic. Manly boots. To accentuate his manliness, Braxton cut his hair short and groomed the whispy beginnings of a manly beard. Outfitted, Braxton marched off in search of Aran, as he moved his new found manliness bathed him in a radiant glow. Trainees and tower guards sensed this, breaking into impromptu dances and catchy little jingles (well not really). Braxton found Aran under a tree, napping. Expecting the sheer raw power of his new masculinity (which was currently glowing with the incandescence of a flood-light) to wake him, Braxton was rather disappointed when he had to clear his throat and prod a little with his foot. "Aran!" His smile required SPF 15+, "I'm a man!"

Lachlan laughed. “Baker, actually. Or I was going to be. Sunrise to sunset sweltering next to the stoves. Knee deep in flour. I never thought I’d miss it . . . serves me right. Really. What of you? Always the mercenary? Adventure, the high seas, treasure; all that?â€

The bandit “king†had thoroughly enjoyed his day. Orders or encomiums had become the daily bread of his charade. To hold conversation? Freeing. No one looking up to him, no one looking down at him. He doubted it would happen much in the future, either way. He did not care what hour past sunset it was, he was not tired and could not have slept if he tried.

“Oh I’ve done things here and there, and there has been adventure to be had. But its not quite so inspiring when you spend a good deal of the time sleeping in the dirt and going for a time without a bath.†Grinning at the last, Aran handed the bottle over again. “But yes, spend most of my time earning coin with a blade. Not pretty work, but its what I’m good at. What would you give to go back to baking though?â€

“It wasn’t pretty work, but it is what I’m good at.†Wink. “I’m not from the cloth of leadership, probably why I was chosen, but if I’m lucky I’ll bluff my way through it long enough to find a replacement. What would I give? My sanity for a start. I know the stories; know my days are numbered. I am aware of every passing day as I am aware of the ‘taint.’"

“It is the hand I have been dealt, I can accept that. I will not accept that my final hours of sanity will be spent on a mock throne following orders! When this is over I shall order a feast, I think. Cook it myself. Byron always said that was that servants were for, but then, Byron is a pig.†Lachlan laughed again after realising what had been spoken aloud.

Laughing as he saw the look on Lachlan’s face when he realised he’d let the comment about Byron slip, Aran couldn’t help but feel sorry for Lachlan. Then again, once he was gentled he would be safe, a salve against the twinge he felt from having to mislead Lachlan so. It was for his own good, and everyone elses. “Things will be a lot better without them. And a feast would be good, been slender meals for awhile now.†Pausing, Aran continued. “More than anything I could really use a bath though, where have you been getting your water from?â€

“A stream, of course. I know where it is, but I’ve never been there. Byron says . . . a lot, actually. Bit of a waste though, it isn’t like we’d make it that far. They’d think of something. An urgent summons, a case in need of arbitration. I can only put them off for so long. Rotten sods.†Lachlan decided that last part was rather witty, and would have to remember it for further use.

Smiling, Aran said. “Do you know which direction it is?†Getting a nod, Aran got up and looking through his things found a bar of soap. Heading to the tent flap he peered outside and smirked as he saw that most people were either asleep or caught up in conversation elsewhere. They’d just have to get past their own sentries, not so difficult as they only had a couple that were more for deterrent than anything else since Lachlan’s speech had guaranteed no trouble this night. “You can be light on your feet can’t you? Quiet as a mouse?â€

Lachlan looked Aghast. “Good sir, to this day there is rumour of pastery pilfering spirits. Just see if you can keep up, old man.†He smiled genuinely and waited for a signal.â€

“Now.†Ducking outside, he led the way back around the tent and into the treeline that they had placed their camp against. Hiding behind a tree, Aran pulled Lachlan behind it as well before peering around the tree carefully. No noise, no disturbance, an absurd risk but it had paid off because as far as he could see not a soul had noticed their disappearance.

“Looks like we made it without notice.†Turning to Lachlan with a grin on his face, Aran nudged him with an elbow. “Well? Where is this stream? You do remember which way it is, no?â€

“Aye. This way.†Lachlan led Aran down a sloping incline, a shallow vale almost, pine needles softened the ground underfoot and the breeze brought a pleasant scent to the air. Slowly the trees gave way to harder ground, stone, and the crystal sounds of running water began to intrude on the edge of consciousness. “This way. It shallows out farther on. There is a path, but we won’t be using it. My ‘advisors’ are known to favour their late night indulgencies and I would not be suprised to find an attractive serving girl or two gathering water.†Lachlan’s expression turned disapproving. He did not add that most of his advisors were married with children. He knew, because most of them were older than he was.

They slowed, due mainly to Lachlan shortening his gait. There was no need to hurry. This was an experience to savour. Where were the advisors, the guards, the hopeful maidens? Gone. Gone. To a normal person, it would have been taken in stride, but to Lachlan it was a moment of such absolute freedom and control that he could not help but drown in it.

Forgetting that Aran was even present he moved through one last copse of trees and into a natural oval created by the level of the surroundings banks and the flow of the stream. The grey light of the moon illumed the area, and at that moment Lachlan had not seen anything as beautiful. He closed his eyes, lifted his head to the sky and spun about several times. It was an act so unbecoming a king, and so enjoyable for that fact. He laughed again as Aran stood alongside him.

“This is the last time I can remember ever being so alone. Well . . . not alone, there is you, but I can fix that!†With a skill no one would have expected him to possess, the Bandit King whipped Aran into the air and threw him into the stream. “Alone.†He called merrily. “Alone. At last . . .†his voice trailed off into laughter.

Lachlan

'Bandit King'

Aran

Tower Guard

Lachlan found himself laughing for no reason at all. It was rather strange behaviour, he decided, but the wine was “awfully†good. Even though his mind was dulled, Lachlan began scheming and plotting of grand scenarios where he denounced his council and took up the mantle of leadership himself. He was more than capable of dispensing with Byron, truth be known, he could after all, do a few nasty things with the one power . . . but even he had to sleep some time and that wasn't a thrilling prospect.

“If it were merely a matter of a slap across the chops,†giggle. “I would be more than capable of doing it myself.†He lowered his voice, “I am a puppet you know, or at least that is what's intended. I will sit and mouth orders while 'they' pull the strings. Freedom is a worthy cause; I don't want to lead, but I cannot let 'them' take the power for themselves. Their motives are for the good of no one but themselves. It is better to die fighting than spend my life as a mouth piece. If I could truly use my power . . . I would defeat them all.â€

There it was, so plaintive as well as so... sad. Aran felt sorry for the man who sat before him, but also felt a certain sense of... He couldn't quite put his finger on it. Not quite pride, though the genuine desire of Lachlan's to rather stand on his own two feet than be a mouth piece created something akin to that. He'd have to work it out later, because for now an opportunity had presented itself. "There is a way to fix it you know. If you fear them striking you down, strike them down first. A blade can just as easily accomplish the feat of your powers if there are enough of them."

“Fear them striking me down? No. I am not worried about that. I am a tool, if I break my own head I become a useless tool, and they will find it hard to replace me with someone possessing the same . . . abilities. It's those who actually believe in our cause that I fear for, what will happen to them when the revolution takes place. Just how many blades are we talking?â€

"Oh, one for each of your ministers I think would do it, don't you?" Aran grinned at Lachlan. "At least, it should only take one blade each, if their followers have no one to give them orders then they're going to need someone to do so. That person will end up being you, better you than them no?"

Lachlan grimaced. He did not wish anyone to be harmed, let alone murdered. Obviously Byron and his entourage would not give up their power easily, maybe not even at the point of a sword . . . but if there were a way to resolve the conflict without violence he would prefer it to at least be attempted. “Would it not be possible to . . . force their resignation rather than . . . terminate it for them?â€

Aran raised an eyebrow, this one was so innocent, that was what it was. His naivety, the idea that everything could be solved without violence. That it could be done without harming a soul, and so help him Aran thought it might be. Or rather, Lachlan made him wonder if it could be, even though he knew it couldn't. "It would be possible, but only for awhile. They will come back if you get rid of them, or maybe find someone else to use if you don't suit them. If you kill them swiftly, you save others from being killed as well. If you wait, then it'll be between them and their followers, and us." He made certain to add that, Lachlan needed to think of them as with him, loyal to him alone. Every chance that could be used to remind him of that was useful

Lachlan visibly shrunk at those words. In his dismay he was silent for some time. He knew the needs of the many outweighed the need of the few, but the feeling of guilt in the pit of his stomach would not be so easily swayed. What would he do but accept their deaths as necessary? Nothing would absolve the guilt . . . but at least others would not suffer for his mistake. “If . . . if it has to be done . . . “ He could not keep his voice level, and his arm trembled as he took an overly long draught of wine.

Nodding, Aran was surprised by what he saw, because it was something he hadn't seen for a long time. Not in a man anyway, he was surrounded by guards who were so quick to embrace violence, he was himself in fact, it was odd seeing a man who didn't. Thats what it was, the difference certainly made him pay more attention than he otherwise would have. "Its the right decision, we have them in a meeting and then we finish them in one sweep. There will be no opposition to you after that, no one to dictate to you and you can handle things as they should be, rather than being the mouthpiece to things you don't feel are right."

Lachlan looked pensive for a moment, then noted mutely. He felt sick, and it was not the wine. He rose unsteadily from his table and looked across at Aran a curious mixture of shame and frustration on his face, “If we were over heard at all . . . .â€

Shaking his head, Aran made a decision that would be dangerous but it would work nevertheless. Even if it did alert the other ministers, better to keep this one under guard than to risk losing him and the protection the man provided. "Stay with us the night if you don't trust your guards, which you probably shouldn't. We get no coin without you, so you'll be safe with us. We will have to go now though, visibly so that the others all know what is happening and can't do a thing about it with all of your other followers witnessing it."

Lachlan's face relaxed into an appreciative smile. “I have no problems with that, but you will have to lead the way.†Doing his best imitation of a proud – if wobbly – monarch, waited for Aran to stand before marching smartly to the door. The potential risks did enter his mind, but the swirling bubbles of wine chased them off too quickly for the thoughts to register.

They walked, the four: Gared and Luis flanking from beside — slightly behind — all business. Fenton and Rayenne exchanged excited whispers; gazed wondrously at the many gaily dressed hawkers and beautifully crafted wares drawn from all parts of Randland. In private revelry they were only dimly away of Gared and Luis strutting for the attention of passing females; glaring at any male who caught their eyes.

Rayenne's hand reflexively tightened on Fenton's shoulder, her thoughts travelling forward in time. Seeming to understand, he brushed her finger-tips reassuringly, then pointed to a performing gleeman and squealed. Rayenne gave a rich, pleasant laugh and followed his gaze: Luis gave Gared a scathing look. Gared only shrugged.

To speak of Rayenne is to do her disservice. Her beauty cannot be seen; it must be felt. Of what could I write to make you understand: how the passion in her voice leaves me weak; how her warmth makes me think of nothing other than spending my life alongside hers? In my mind I see her as she is – perfect – I cannot make you understand. If you could but experience those things that make her, you would come to know true beauty.

Of Luis and Gared? Though they are opposites in almost every way they are brother's in the truest sense of the word. Luis is driven by his fears and desires, always to prove, always to win; Gared by wander lust and a simple creed, “anything is better than nothing.†Working with a degree of sympactico I have never before witnessed, they are terminally effective, and their loyalty to each other is beyond questioning. Rayenne could be no better protected than by them.

Of Fenton . . . ? Well, you must wait and see.

The quartet had made their way through the market place, making sure to visit every vendor and inspect his, her, or their produce. Fenton and Rayenne were still engrossed in a corral of lavish tapestries, sweet cakes and performances; Gared was customarily hungry; Luis was peevish, as always. They neared the edge of the market place, where the crowd thinned greatly.

Rayenne's effected unease as she turned to face her three companions. Unconsciously she fidgetted and chewed her bottom lip slightly, a classic symptom of either her fear, or intense concentration. Fenton took her hands in his, and gave her a winsome smile, as Luis and Gared looked on sympathetically. Even though Rayenne was the leader of the group, she had the least experience in dangerous situations – even Fenton having seen more: he did have a tendency to create them – and she was still unable to completely control her fear.

“Luis . . . if you would . . . look after Fenton. Gared, come with me.†Luis affected a groan of dismay (yes, I used affect and effect in consecutive paragraphs, and what what are you going to do about it?), but in truth he both understood the logic of the choice and was relieved. Gared was an impressive specimen and had an even temper. His capabilities were less likely to be tested than those of the smaller, lighter, Luis. The rumour that Gared had mixed parentage and sprung partly from Trolloc stock also helped. It was a rumour Luis had started, after witnessing Gared literally tie a poor would-be thug into knots with his own arms and legs. It had been a lesson no one present had ever forgotten . . . and after a visit from an Aes Sedai the thug was more than happy to take up a new career. The claim of self-defence had been a bit of a stretch, but with a mass of witnesses all swearing, the authorities had been forced to let Gared go. The four separated into pairs.

Luis only realised he had been staring after the retreating duo when a small pointed finger jabbed him in the ribs.

“Oooh?†Luis began to sigh, then checked it.

“Huh? What? Thank you Fenton! I am a bit hungry.†Fenton held in his small hand the greenest, juiciest apple Luis had ever seen. Luis thanked him kindly and bit deep. It tasted just as good as it looked. “You know, Fenton, I'm beginning to think I misjudge—Fenton?â€

With a puzzled expression he found Fenton about ten long strides away prodding a rather corpulent man in the belly. When at last the prodding had the desired effect, Fenton whispered into the man's ear. The two conspirators then spun around and stared directly at Luis. The corpulent man was clearly displeased, while Fenton was looking particularly dastardly. Luis looked to the corpulent man, to Fenton, to the stall of apples, to his own hand . . . “Oh, light.â€

As if that was not enough, Fenton somehow produced another apple, took a mighty bite and grinned benignly at the stall keeper with apple juice running down his chin. With that, he cannoned past Luis, off at a gallop, all sparks and whoops of laughter. Luis and the stall keeper turned the same bewildered stare on one another. The Stall keeper's expression darkened to an extreme one could only describe without a handy four letter expletive as “upset;†Luis's to that of a severely chastised puppy. He considered his options for a moment, noticed the stall keeper's very large arms and muttered a quick “bugger that†before fleeing after Fenton.

Some time later:

“Fenton. Fenton, I know you're in here. Come out. I only want to 'talk.'†Yeah. Right.

“Me not here. Go away.â€

“I see. Where exactly aren't you so that I know where 'not' to look?â€

“Me definitely not behind the little blue carpet.â€

“Oh. Excellent. I won't bother looking there then, nope. I wonder where you could be.â€

“Definitely not behind the little blue carpet.â€

Luis had finally tracked him down to an expansive tapestry display up against the brick end of a street. He had not fully decided on which fantasy he was going to enact, but he knew it was going to be particularly unpleasant, and that he was going to feel particularly good about it afterwards. He crept forward slowly, his movements barely a whisper. The little runt was going to get it but good this time, he would make sure of--.

“--Luis! Where have you been? Where is Fenton?†Rayenne.

“Uhh . . . playing hide and seek?†Weak smile.

“We have to go. Now.â€

“What?†Surprise; a shiver at the seriousness of her tone.

Gared made several gestures. Luis paled. Fenton went “boo!â€

They left.

Quickly.

Braxton could feel the enormous bruise on his head without even having to touch it. By his reckoning it contained several oceans, various nations and each was racing the others into his brain. His eyes were covered by the gauze of early waking and for a moment he was unable to recollect his thoughts.

“Oh blood and bloody . . . I feel as though I’ve been hit with a roc—oh. I see—that does explain a few things. Here I was thinking that the sharp crack and blinding light were part of the overall experience. That’ll teach me for listening to Aran. What now? I do not wish to be unkind, but I must warn you that in the highly likely even that you intend to strike me again; I can and will chew off your ankles.†Weak smile.

Negative: I am a meat popsicle!

. . . What?

Brandeis gave a thin lipped smile. He had been slightly surprised by the Aes Sedai's unsympathetic reaction to the "nurse"; that is not what made him smile. What had was the contemplation as to whether any present (save himself) had the relentless conviction to seek the truth with measures beyond instinct. He hoped not, at least in Con's case.

There was no way to rule out the possibility of guilt, even through the "question." True enough, all had their limit of endurance, but occasionally death was known to strike first."

He would not perform such acts in front of Con. He was well aware of the look given to his kind, and he refused to see it on the face of that one. Aes Sedai be damned. Still, there was another way . . . .

Striding forward, Brandeis cupped the nurse's chin in his hand, eyes riving like blue fire. A ghost of the transformation that allowed him to do what he did, and to do it well. His voice became distant, and he began to gaze through her, not at her.

"You know what I am . . . ?" He spoke softly, tilting her head toward the symbol on his tabard. She nodded.

"You know what I do . . . ?" A whisper. Her body began to tremble, and he held her gaze for in silence for an uncomfortable space of time: her fear almost a scent in the air.

". . . Boo!" The single word, while not quite a shout, shattered the delicate quiet, which seemed to fragment like broken mirror. The woman's eyes rolled, and her body went limp. Fainted. Brandeis gave a snort. "Innocent," he proclaimed.

Braxton recognized the look, recognized the slight change in grip on staff before the motion began. Unfortunately his brain obstinately refused to cue the rest of his body, and in the second or so before execution he failed to move fast enough. There were two thumps. The first was Braxton being clipped along the jaw with the painful piece of timber; the second, was Braxton crumbling like a piece of sweet-bread onto the ground. “Ouch,†he said.

There was a moment’s hesitation before she moved back into action. Did he avoid the worst of her hit by luck? Or was he trained? If so, how well and by who? Was he just some rich thief who had managed to make enough to dress well? Or was he perhaps an assassin? A merchant’s guard turned criminal? A professional or an amateur?

Questions whirled through he like the staff in her hands. This time she brought it sweeping down, connecting with his sides in a back and forth motion.

There was not much he could do, although he was not overly convinced he had rightfully earned this particular beating. Contracting the muscles of his abdomen he tried to avoid being winded and took several painful shots to the kidneys for his efforts. Being beaten with a stick was nothing new to Braxton, who had learned the procedure quite well from his grandfather. Flailing about with his arms, he managed to wrap himself around one end of the stick, to alleviate the painful strikes. “You know.

If you want to ask me to dinner, there are easier ways of going about it!â€

His comment stunned her so much she forgot to try and wrest her staff from him. Was he flirting with her! How dare he! Her husband had been dead only a matter of months and he was flirting with her! It was an insult! He was practically calling her a whore!

Alianna had a temper, though she rarely displayed it since it was far easier to stay in control of a situation by letting reason dictate her mind rather than emotion. However, this boy’s insult sent her over the edge she had been teetering on since leaving the remains- if you could call the crater that- of Chachin.

In a righteous rage, she screamed something along the lines of ‘How dare you, you insolent bastard!’- Light, how long had it been since she had sworn aloud? Then she preceded to bring her foot up and then down on his groin.

Braxton’s eyes began to water, and the breath rushed out of his lungs. Amid the lights dancing before his vision, he got the distinct impression that she liked him very much, but refused to admit it. Putting a forefinger in the air in the international, “just-a-minute†sign, he attempted to get back to his feet.

Well, at least her kick got him to let go of her staff. Any attempt by him to defend himself was no longer noticed as she brought her staff back up across her chest and then brought it crashing down on his arm- alright, so she had noticed his odd gesture and had not liked it in the least that the hand was toward her.

Snatching his hand back with a slightly surprised expression, Braxton decided that this was no longer fun at all. Pulling himself back very quickly, Braxton picked up several handfuls of dirt and threw them at her eyes. He then decided the next course of action was to rush at her and push hard on the staff in an effort to push her over, so that is exactly what he tried to do.

Later on this incredibly strange event would bring many, many philosophical questions to consider. For example: ‘Would people be better off without emotions?’ or ‘How close were the emotions of anger and passion?’ or even ‘Do humans have any more control over themselves than animals?’

However to understand why these sorts of questions would plague the middle-aged, usually sensible and currently horribly troubled/depressed Alianna, the story must be told (despite how much she would like to keep it a secret).

So, in her righteous state of rage, she was stupid enough to let him throw dirt in her eyes and he knocked her over.

When his body fell atop hers it ignited a feeling she had not felt since... Why did everything lead her to thinking about her dead husband? Couldn’t that memory just leave her alone? Damn him her dying without her! If only she could forget...

The young man conveniently on top of her provided what seemed like, in her distressed state, an ideal solution. Instincts kicked in and her mouth found his and her hands worked at his clothing. How long had it been since she had been this close to anyone, let alone a man... well... boy.

However, her mind, fogged over by her outburst of rage, slowly began to work again and sensibility and grief soon overpowered her mindless lust.

Shock kept her there for a moment before she ripped her face away and slammed her fist into his temple. In moments she had found a rock and slammed it into his head.

Braxton’s memory of the event was somewhat different. In his mind, the experience had simply been too great for him to remain conscious.

His mount's hooves through up great clumps of dirt and its chest heaved with exertion as it carried its rider perilously across the battle field. Bloody warder. Brandeis had not seen him fall, but he had seen Arestes bolt past riderless. Con was on the ground somewhere, no doubt in great crisis and in need of his aid. Brandeis did push himself further into his saddle, smugly: he was still on his horse. Brandeis had never bested his friend in mock combat, but he would be sure to goad him appropriately . . . just as soon as he found him.

“Got you . . .†he murmured, when finally spotting the telltale bassinet wrestling in the grass. With a slight weight adjustment, Brandeis gave his horse its head and urged it towards his unseated friend. He spotted the wheeling rider from the corner of his eye, instinctively knew the target, and aimed to intercept. The sword felt too heavy in his grip; he still set himself for the strike. With the Creator's assistance, he would block the charge before it trampled Con.

Bracing himself for the impact, Brandeis was very surprised when a blast of air struck the the forelegs of his horse. As both his horse, and the other—obviously the target—scrambled frantically to remain upright, he turned an incredulous stare toward the Aes Sedai, before having the seasoned experience to leap from his horse. He landed in a roll and came up running, his injured arm on fire. His target had been less fortunate. His horse had landed on its side, crushing his leg beneath it as it rocked itself back to its feet. With a leap, Brandeis drove his shield down into the man's face, its force compounded by gravity.

With a hail of greeting, Brandeis moved to Con's side, noticed the cleaved Bassinet and forced it from his head. "Oh Light,sheis not going to like this." The left side of Con's face was obscured by a thick layer blood. His eye brow was dented by the blunt force of the strike. A deep slash ran straight through his eye to his jawline.

Shearing through his tabard with a discarded blade, Brandeis crudely bandaged the wound, clasped Con's forearms and helped him unsteadily to his feet. He was conscious, but not coherent. "I'm going to remember this," added the Inquistor in a cheerful tone.

Braxton leapt back. “Woah. Woah!†Rubbing his arms he gave an expression like that of a kicked puppy and eyed the staff dolefully. “Ouch. I don’t suppose we can talk about this? No. Okay. Wait. Wait. Don’t be hasty. Let’s not do anything I’m going to regret. Here, just let me put down my knife and my lunch and. Ah! No need to hit me again. There. See? Down.

“My name is Braxton. Or was. Ms. BlueJay thought th--no. Nevermind. I can see you don’t particular care what she thought. My name is Braxton, yes? And yours? You really should try this (indicating his food), it really is quite lovely and it won’t trouble me any.â€

Braxton decided he did not very much care for attempting to wrest the stick from its handler, nor did he very much care for the welt raising on his forearm, nor for any welts he was sure to get pursuant to any attempt at wresting stick from handler. Yes. Braxton was a coward, and he wasn’t going to do anything that may see him subject to a good thrashing. He was only a trainee, after all, and one couldn’t well expect him to go about handling such situations.

“I am not guilty of any crime I know of. All I really want to do is leave. Say, how are you going to know if I’m telling the truth? Are you a truthsayer? That would be neat. Maybe you have a device that tells you when I’m playing false? No. Oh well. I guess I wasn’t looking forward to it too much. All I want to do is--I don't suppose you know any magic tri . . . nevermind.â€

With his best winsome smile, Braxton pointed hopefully in the direction he wished to go.

Releasing the reins, Brandeis guided his horse with legs. His mount sensed the nervous excitement among the riders. Brandeis remembered his first battle, and part of him longed to be once more so young and naive. His face held little other than luster; his eyes shone resigned; sad. With familiar ease the Inquisitor pulled his gauntlets over his hands. After picking up his shield, he touched the war hammer strapped to his back, before fingering the reins with his free hand. There would be no pre-battle ritual. No prayer.

The formation increased to a canter, and the familiar flutter of fear clutched at his stomach. Fear he was used to. Fear could be controlled. The instinctive reaction of endless drills saved him from the fire. Without being aware of it, he responded to the command and sent his horse skidding to reposition. His mind had been elsewhere, and had it not been for quick thinking . . . Brandeis did not really want to think about it, but his mind went on ahead anyway.

In the distance Brandeis spotted a heavily built man, dressed in mail and leather. He wore black gloves and bore a heavy shield and sword, he would prove as good a target as any. Loosing the reins once again he reached back for his hammer, letting it hang at his side. The weight of the charging horse would add what he hoped to be crippling power to his swing.

His mount snorted dust, its nostrils wide and flaring as he reached his opponent. The man braced himself for the blow and his long blade flashed out in the sunlight. It later seemed grimly humourous to Brandeis that what he believed to be gloves were actually snake head tattoos and that the sword had struck like an angry viper.

Too caught up in his own blow, Brandeis was unable to duck completely behind his shield in time to avoid the tip that slid over the top of his shield and caught him on the side of the helm. He twisted his head desperately in an attempt to keep his own attack from being interrupted. A thunderous bang echoed in his ears and his arm snapped back painfully as his hammer connected with shield. The other man was thrown clear from his saddle, and with his arm momentarily useless Brandeis attempted to inflict a killing blow by the hooves of his horse. Somehow he lost sight of his opponent and, with a frown, turned to find another.

Cursing his injured arm he dropped his hammer on the field and whirled his horse about in a circle. Spotting one of Con's men on the defensive, he sent his horse charging into the fray. Turning his horse so that its shoulder collided with the other mount he sent the other horse into a stumble. It's rider, momentarily unbalanced, was caught neatly in the windpipe with the edge of his shield. There was a gurgling sound and then the rider slumped in the saddle. Brandeis reached over and took his sword. With luck its light weight could be supported by his arm; perhaps not as as well as he'd have liked, but with luck, enough to not get himself killed. If the slumped rider was not dead, he would wish he was . . . just as soon as he regained consciousness.

“Yes, Mrs. Beetle. I have been working out. So good of you to notice—now, now, Sir Vern, the dinner table is for polite discussion and not arguing. Where were we? Ah yes.†Turning to a small fern. “How are you enjoying your meal Sir Ellisley? Yes. She has worked hard. What? Tastes like bark? Good Creator, man, I dare say I would know if I were eating wood!â€

In a strict sense the comment was accurate. The meal consisted of a thick, tangy paste, the chief ingredients being a handful of bugs compounded between two rocks. Some bark shavings, and a few leaves from various local plants . . . . Well, they had the appearance of plants. Okay, they were green. Most of them. All of this was wrapped in an appetising flax leaf and garnished with . . . well, I'm not sure on that one, actually.

Among visions of knights, round tables, and bizarrely out of proportion coconuts bent on conquest, Braxton accepted the new voice with ease. Throughout the day he had been involved in discussion with various forms of animal life—except for one very rude snake who had little to say and was intent upon swallowing his toes. What was it to him if one more wished to make themselves known?

“Ah!†He began to speak while straightening and turning to face the new speaker. “I hear you animal sister and what are you? Badger? Fox? Bear? Oh . . . human. I see. Well. What do you want? You're not having my food. It is mine. Say, can I see your hands? Fine. Hey, no need to be aggressive about it. I'm sorry, but you have caught me at a rather bad time: right in the middle of dinner! And me without anything to offer you. There may be some beetles over there if you are really hungry, I cannot seem to find any rabbit. I have been wandering this forest for so very long. You wouldn't happen to know a way out, would you?â€

Ooc: I hope that is enough for you to work with. If not drop me a line and we'll talk.

Lachlan--The Bandit King--regretted his question the moment it left his lips; he was too stunned by the audacity of the man to reply with anything more profound, with anything befitting a “King.†The expressions on the faces of his “advisors†hid the embarrassment of his mistep. Every person sitting at the table--with the exception of the intrusive guest--was just as stunned as every other.

“I was wondering, how much money am I going to get if I fight for you?"

The question was directed at Lachlan, who was indeed dressed impressively, as a king should. His back was erect, he even held his utensils polishly and his ale with a delicate hand. Even so, the accounts of “his†crusade well under the jurisdiction of one of his many advisors . . . he could give no answer. The minister in question, however, had gone a light shade of pink. Lachlan knew from experience that a fervent andapparently sycophantic speech was about to take place.

“Money? Money! What is coin when compared to the unification, nay, freedom of this country! What is the currency of gold and silver, placed beside the adoration and respect of a mighty king. What is . . . “

Lachlan snorted at the mention of his “title.†He had heard this speech before, it was well rehearsed. In truth he was little more than a figure-head. He was a name to fill children with hope. A channelling rebel preparing for revoultion? Pah. He merely did what he was told and spoke when he was told. Sometimes he fancied himself fluttering in the wind like any other banner.

Lachlan made an apologetic expression toward “Arry†as the metallic ring of iron signalled the coming of the guard. Hopefully this did not take too long, he had a life to live . . . right after he started and won a war.

Aran's laugh was rather scornful at the man who'd just spoken. "Causes come and go, coin is constant. Like I asked before." Aran pointedly looked away at the minister and towards their little bandit king. "What will you pay me?"

Lachlan’s eyebrows rose in surprise, as did the minister’s blood pressure. The minister pointed a figure at Aran and screamed: “guards, guards arrest that--!â€

“Wait.†Lachlan was as surprised as everyone else that he had spoken. His softly voiced command halted the approach of the guards.

His advisor’s looked at him as though he had grown horns, but they could not contradict him in public. He was, after all, their appointed ruler. His stomach churned and he felt a flush beginning to rise as he became the object of so many eyes.

Trying to keep a quiver out of his voice he

spoke directly to Aran: “Sir. We are a humble movement, built upon the backs of the common man (at least, he thought this was true). My own clothing, save this gift of tiding, would mark me indifferent from those who nuumber themselves among my faithful. (The lie rolled so easily off his tongue; it was too late to stop now) I can offer you little more than a fair wage, and a percentage of any plunder.†Lachlan’s lips twisted in distate upon speaking the last word. He admired the man’s bluntness, and while he was present, no one would dare countermand his wishes.

Looking at the man who'd tried to order him arrested, he grinned at the man before taking a swig of his drink. It seemed there was something going on, maybe something that could be used. Looking at the king, he spoke. "Sounds good, though if some of the men we saw as we came in are anything to go by, we'll require a reasonable amount of the plunder. Quality doesn't come cheap." Lachlan frowned. Something was expected of him, only he was not sure what. His advisors and ministers stared at him intently. The appointed minster of funds attempted to speak up: “Sire, if I may be so bold a--â€

“You may not.†Lachlan’s stern features broke into a wide smile. The look on their faces! There was anger, there was horror, and was that . . . fear? If it is worth doing once, he decided, it is worth doing more. With an arch gesture, Lachlan commanded his advisors to leave the tent. It took several heartbeats for them to respond. First they looked questioningly at one another, then, one by one, they rose and left. Lachlan, atthis point, was positively ecstatic. “That’s better. Where were we? Food? Wine? I offer one fifth of our plunder, but no more."

Aran pointed to the bottle the man was still holding. "Wine. And we'll take a fifth, for now." This one wasn't the leader, he might be the channeler but he certainly wasn't the leader. Offer a full fifth? For an unknown amount of soldiers? The others must be the decision makers, yet this King had seen fit to dismiss them... Opportunity. "For that, we'll fight in a battle. But, you now... Sometimes battles aren't always fought on a field. That boy of yours was a bit uppity earlier."

Lachlan cleared his throat a little too loudly: “Some servants forget their place. I will speak with him in private . . . later.†Lachlan had no intention whatsoever of lecturing Byron--for that was his name--if anything, Lachlan himself would be dragged over the coals multiple times for this evenings conduct, but for the time being he was enjoying himself.

OOC: All good. Come upon my character whenever you wish. :)

Braxton swayed with the stirring of the breeze, as he trudged slowly through the underbrush. In theory he was going in the right direction--in theory. This was dependant entirely upon whether or not he had obsorbed his lessons properly and not mixed up his directions. Was it East, or West?

Trees, trees, ferns; dirt. An endless kaleidoscope of de ja vu. Nothing different. Everything the same. He half expected to see his own footprints in the mud. The White Tower: a den of light skirts and cut purses. Sadistic feminists and emasculated Warders. At least, that is what Braxton told himself as he seethed with sullen silence.

The thought of kicking his mentor like a naughty puppy was a cool drink of water to his raising ire. He could never accomplish such a miraculous coup, but the thought of it was so delightful that he let it play in his mind for serveral hours.

There was nothing to do other than walk, and fantasise about the various excruciating scenarios of his vengeance. Then . . . she did have very soft hands.

Were it not for cramp, Braxton was certain he would have remained lying where he was. Were it not for hunger and thirst, Braxton was certain he could have fasted. Were it not for the damp, and the many insects biting through his trousers, Braxton was certain all would have been pleasant.

As it was, Braxton sat chewing leaves – probably poisonous – while “dinner†cooked above the small fire he had managed to build. Animal or not, it was going to be eaten. To his best estimation several days had past; still his mentor had not returned. Typical. The woods proved to be dull, and itchy like you wouldn't believe. Braxton had had enough, and he would play this little game if for no other reason than to feed his mentor the leaves he had discovered to have potent “cleaning†faculties. It had been uncomfortable.

The young trainer decided that when his meal was completed, he would find a clearing and so judge the position of the sun. From there he would be able to calculate the rough direction in which he needed to go. Game would be scarce, because that was how lucky he was; he was confident that he possessed enough body fat to feed himself for several more days.

One eye opened and swiveled around like a periscope. The other eye opened. Both eyes blinked several times in unison. A frown formed. Braxton finally crawled from his bedroll with an oath—or several, if we’re going to be technical about it—an angry insect emerging from its cocoon. If one were to squint, perhaps, his madly flapping arms would appear as inchoate wings attempting to take flight.

After much flapping and consideration, Braxton dropped to the ground where he was and contemplated his next move. This suited him just fine. He did not particularly like his mentor anyway. He spent the next hour or so quietly fantasizing the many creative and spectacular (and perhaps impractical) uses his knife would be suited for. Gutting, skinning, stabbing, clothing removal . . . .

Another hour later: hunger. Yes, that is what he felt: hunger. He would go hunting . . . later, when he felt “motivated.†Braxton did not intend to move. He had a good mind to die right then and there, to drop dead. That would show his mentor. Wouldn’t she feel bad? “I’m not moving,†he said aloud.

“The bottle is indeed tainted, but not by any past crimes.†The comment was delivered with a sober expression, and a flat, serious tone: the type of comment to inspire awkward silence as the possible implications of it register. Brandeis gave no quarter, and the only guidance of his intent that he offered was the mischievous light in his eyes.

“In my younger days I would have struck you down where you sit. By the same token I would have never allowed you into a camp of my fellow children. The two Aes Sedai you are with would have been put to death, and I very definitely would not have been serving under the command of a former Tower Guard Captain."

“It is fair to say that things do not appear as they once did. I declare that were the Dark One himself to reveal himself to me in all his darkness, I doubt I would do more than knock back a few glasses and toast his good health.â€

Laughing, Con swiped Brandeis bottle once again and made sure to get what he could before Brandeis levelled a glare at him. Handing the bottle back, Con grinned at the man. "You know, I do be thinking we need another bottle, a few in fact. It no be good for us to be drinking and the rest of our Children to be going sober. You still do be having a few bottles after all, no?"

“I have no idea what you are talking about. Why, I am positive that this fine bottle in my hand is the last of my stock.†His face softened and he gazed appreciatively at the bottle, then caught Con’s gaze. “What? No. No. I refuse. I absolutely refuse. It is your job to provide for your men: not mine. I don’t have to share and you can’t make me. You cannot . . . Bah! Fine then, but you’re helping me carry.â€

With one last look of defiance he tilted his chin up, rose from his seat and started for his tent. “Well, come along then!†He called over his shoulder to the two other men and indicated that they were to follow him. Once outside his tent, Brandeis raised his palm in warning and spoke a sharp, “wait outside,†before disappearing under the flap.

Brandeis rummaged around inside his tent, solid sounding objects were knocked from their perches, locks rattled, wood scraped and finally there came a disquieting sound, as if a corpse were being dragged along the tent floor. Brandeis felt as though he were sacrificing a child to the worship of some dark entity, in actuality he was pulling a heavy trunk, laden with bottles of potent liquor across the ground. As he finally emerged, he pointed Con to the trunk and said, “here you are, big fella, it is all yours.â€

Where Brandeis had managed to secret a trunk, Con had absolutely no idea, but he wasn't going to complain for the moment. Reaching down and taking one end, Iussi took the other and together, the three made their way to the fire where the Children were gathered. All talk stopped as they saw the trunk and heard the clink of bottles, and it was with a grin that Con announced "Inquisitor Brandeis do be seeing fit to be sharing his liquor tonight, for once. Anybody?"

Everybody was the answer to that question, passing bottles out, it wasn't long before the Children were drinking away steadily and joking, mostly at Inquisitor Brandeis expense. The man drinking alone and not sharing since they'd reached Fernhill had caused a bit of resentment, but that at least was being cleared up with this act of generosity. Not that Brandeis looked completely happy about the matter, but at least he got something out of it.

Brandies was not too unhappy about the entire thing, but decided not to let on. He could, and would get more from his “supplier†some time, and he was the first to admit that he was developing too fond a taste for the stuff. Having it all consumed would relieve that temptation. There would be nothing left to take the edge of his discomfort, and this was lamentable. To make himself feel better he decided to kick a few of the children once they were thoroughly drunk and unable to remember it in the morning.

Life had spun out of control. Bowel movements, fuel; vocation were still his to influence, but the important decisions lay uncomfortably on the shoulders of two witches and a Child of the Light. Brandeis was in process of convincing himself that at least one of the three had taken too many blows to the head. Further more: life was intolerably unfair and the only possible correction for this gross oversight was libation. Indeed, ceremonial libation based on the foundation of ritual drinking. Swallowing a concoction so 'holy' that it is was just as likely melt the cup it was in as not. Sadly

Brandeis possessed none of this and would simply have to make do.

The Inquisitor’s ultimate design of the evening was to make his way unnoticed beyond the camp where he hoped he could drink himself into some form of permanent coma. He was more than a little surprised when his enterprise collapsed with one swift

greeting: "You do be needing some help with that I do be thinking." No! "I'd be glad to assist with the bottle too, if my company is welcomed. You're are Brandeis, right? I'm Iussi Dyfelle." No your company is not welcome. Die!

Brandeis could think of no clean way to remove himself from the situation: "by all means, friend." The hearty tone of his voice and the vigourous shake of the hand masked the various stages of agony he was fantasising.

Slipping the bottle away from Brandeis as the Inquisitor shook the Tower Guard's hand, Con proceeded to take a heavy swig just as the man realised it was no longer in hand. Handing the bottle back to Brandeis, Con couldn't help but wonder where the bottle had come from. It was similar to what Brandeis had earlier in the trip,

and he knew Brandeis well enough that the man had gone through a few more bottles, and possibly had more. Where he kept them while they traveled was

beyond Con. "How do the men be?"

The Inquisitor thought for a time: phrasing his response. "Black looks are few. Only one dangerous rumour has been in circulation, but it was ‘quashed’ before it took flame; the Child responsible was spoken to. Few are pleased with the company you are keeping, but all, for some reason unknown to me, are willing to lay down their lives for your judgement." Was Brandeis not doing the same thing? "They are eager and restless as a soldier ought to be."

"It do be good to know. I know I do be asking alot of them, and you as well, it no be something I ever be forgetting. There no be much to be looking eager to though, I no be thinking we do be completing this mission without bloodshed at the end of it. With the Aes Sedai to be backing us our chances do be better, the shadow be having channelers of their own and it do be possible we be straying across one in this." Not a pretty thought at all.

Grinning, Brandeis replied. "Nor do I intend to let you forget. You may know better than any of us the vulnerabilities of wit . . . 'channelers', I say that were we to face such opposition, we would simply have to defeat it! We can do nothing other than be prepared . . . and of course, pass the drink!"

Passing the bottle to Brandeis, Con had noticed Iussi had been uncharacteristically quiet. If anything, the problem was making him silent rather than encouraging him to speak. "What do be on your mind Iussi? And what do you be thinking of the Children so far? Different to what be taught in Tar Valon no?"

Pah! He did not care if she had ample food for herself. He hoped that she did not. How soothing it would it be if he were to return from a nice meal--belly as plump as a ripe tomoto--to be greeted by a dry husk of a mentor once worthy of a name. Yes. He savoured the taste of such a delicious scenario. It would be a slice of justice: it would serve her right! This was the current pattern of Braxton's thoughts as he tramped off into the wood.

Twigs, dry grasses, fallen logs; branches. All and more fell victim to Braxton's assault. When he could not gather any more from the ground he began the surgical amputation of nearby foliage. When he could no longer reach to rench branches from trunks, out came the whip: uncurling like an angry rattler; blasting offending through offending "produce" . . . . It also burned time. This was important.

Eight. This is the numerical value attributed to the quantity of armloads it required to equal the satisfaction of the young Trainee (phew). As a child he had often climbed the piles of harvested wood. The compulsion to do so now was strong. He resisted on the grounds that his mentor was weird, and may not understand the simple joy in crowning himself king of hiw own miniature mountain range. There was no way Braxton was actually going to light his fire before his other preparations were complete. No. He was not going to go away and gather supplies while his mentor lay on her bedroll like a reptile bathing in the sun on a sheet of rock. His mentor bathing in the sun on a sheet of rock . . . .

The water search demanded more in the way of time. It also demanded a proper receptacle. Luck was with him for he found a small brook close to the campsite -- a few hundred yards between trees, saplings, ferns, and other such merry forestry (yuck). Braxton could either spend his entire afternoon carting water to the campsite, or he could simply fill the jar for immediate use and worry about more later. He chose the latter. Braxton was not lazy. Quite the opposite. He poured his entire intellect around any given action to find ways of minimizing its necessary physical output. Fine. Maybe he was lazy.

Trap hunting requires much skill and much patience. Braxton waived his rights to either and instead set a simple deadfall with a heavy stump and a piece of dried meat as bait. Mission thus accomplished he walked a few yards, settled down, and went to sleep. The day had begun its descent into evening when Braxton finally awoke. He had not heard the subtle sounds of his meal. Nor the solid thump as the wood had brutally dispatched it: dispatched and tenderised.

It was not yet full evening when Braxton returned to camp, and there was light enough to start his fire. The darkness seemed to deepen and mature as the flames began their slow dance. Braxton was unsure what manner of creature he had killed. Probably a badger. He resigned himself to eating it anyway. How bad could it be? When all was in readiness Braxton returned to his mentor. "I am finished," was all that he said.

He wished she would stop doing that. There would be an effect; it was academic. The distant ring in his ear sang a melody of promise. Braxton appreciated sound. It would not be wrong to say he depended on it. Alone in the wilderness with an exquisite woman and all he could think about was how much he wanted her to *stop* touching him; her hands were very pretty....

Forecasting direction by the positon of the sun? Next she would tell him it were possible to use the stars as a guide, or that trollocs were real. The lesson continued. Braxton cared little; her voice made up for any short fall in topic. Following close behind her would have been a bore, were it not for the view.

What? "Oh. Yes, M'lady, I did hunt on the farm." More or less. When forced to hunt Braxton sent the dogs instead. The act was not of laziness, for Braxton was not lazy. It was act of resignation to truth. He hunted with the skill of a stone performing unassisted flight.

Parapets, damoiselles, high seas, sword fights, monsters; danger! In what way could petty woods and survival tips compare with these; the flames of his desire? Fame was not won in nothingness but in glorious battle!

Who would want to eat a snake anyway? Do I have any questions?--Bah! "Do I have any questions? No, m'lady. I listen attentively to those things you believe I should know."

Being woken by a bucket of ice water was not bad once you got past the mind-jarring shock. Taking his age and the subject of the dream that still lingered in his mind, it could have been seen as a blessing in disguise. Braxton spent too much time sighing. This thought did not stop him from doing so as he dressed.

The Mistress of Trainees had not left his thoughts since that day in the docks. Braxton was the first to admit it was a very long time ago but he saw her in all her alluring beauty several times a week. His conversations with her--usually for disciplinary reasons--amounted to stuttering and goofy laughter. Many times he had written her sonnets, but he lost the courage at the last moment and ate them while her back was turned. . . He had almost choked three times. Ahhhh. . . if only she had come to his rescue. She looked as though she had strong hands. . .

***

Braxton concluded that the wood in which his mentor and he stopped was sparse. Sparse and boring. He hoped he would get to meet the Captain of the Guard. Maybe even the queen! There were at least five heroes who had done that. The entire concept of entering Caemlyn was a touch daunting; he had never been there before. He was confident that he would weather it with his mentor's aid.

He listened to the lesson with customary quiet. He thought nothing of it, as it was not unlike a mentor to take any opportunity to instruct their students on the finer points of life. It was an interesting topic, but not very useful. Braxton had no intention of eating plants, nor staying in a wood or forest of any description.

Any questions? "Yes. How far away is Caemlyn, my lady?"

[/i]

Her smile was sunlight splintering the clouds on a winter’s day. Braxton’s heart burst free of his chest and took to the skies with the speed of an eagle. Okay... not really but as his legs buckled beneath him and he fell flat on is back that is what he felt had just happened. Thankfully the Mistress of Trainees was nowhere within walking distance--physically--but as far as Braxton was concerned she would ever again leave his side.

“Ah... little box... I do believe I am in love.†This was the only intelligible part of his conversation with the box... or as is more the case... the only statement appropriate to for the hearing of general audiences and/or anyone with their ears working at full capacity. Braxton had forgotten that he was still lying in the docks. The smile had--by portage--swept him him into a realm of pure love. A realm he aptly named, “The Realm of Pure Love.†A fitting name as far as he was concerned.

When Braxton heard a cough, not only did he get back onto his feet but also curtailed his loving caresses of the box and his soft crooning. Feeling much better about the day, the young trainee continued in his quest to deliver the box to the Aes Sedai and to

fulfill his promise of grooming to the young horse.