A Winter Night's Dream

[Raffe]

Asha'man Araya

Somehow, even the coldest, greyest winter days seemed beautiful in the Ogier’s Grove. It was a place untouched by such trivial things as weather; ageless, perhaps, in the same way as the Aes Sedai, though certainly not as deceptive; the trees showed their age with every line and wrinkle, a proud testament to the years upon years they had been standing, growing both taller and deeper. It was peaceful, too, and less busy than the Tower grounds, which was why Araya was fond of visiting (less in the desire to avoid company, of which he was fond, and more for the beautiful tranquillity in which he could lose himself). It reminded him of his youth, in a strange sort of way; of the rustic and simple life he had lived with the Tuatha’an.

The pale Asha’man sat beneath the boughs of a particularly large oak, tucked into a hollow between its roots. He might have been hidden almost completely had he been dressed subtly, but the bright fabric about him was stark against the natural greens and browns of shadow and leaf, and the pristine white of the snow. It was not unusual to find him dressed in the eccentric clothes of the Tinkers (few, in fact, would have ever seen him donning the severe black of his title), and he had rather neglectfully forgotten the silver pins of his station too. He wore wide, loose pants of deep cobalt and a coat of scarlet, a scarf of sunburst orange about his neck and tucked down into his collar. The iciness of the season did not bother him much, for all that he was dressed warmly, and threads of fire had warmed his seat and melted the ice before he had made himself comfortable. In his hands, resting on one crooked knee, was a lute which he strummed softly, fingers nimble against the strings of the neck. He played to the trees rather than himself, though that was not a notion he would be apt to share. They were his audience, tall and silent and listening. He smiled, hummed somewhat tunelessly (for all his skill with the instrument) and changed key on a whim.

---

Trista Gaidar

Since she was a child, Trista found hobby in climbing. The trees on the Altaran coast, where she had been born, were not large or thick enough to be stable, so the cliffs along the coast were her first experience. Not until she was brought north had she discovered the magnificence of trees. They were a whole different beast, the levels of variety offered by their rising limbs allowed for a whole new sort of play. Truthfully, scaling, swinging, ducking, diving along the limbs was the closest to "play" the ever vigilant Gaidar came.

The trees in the ogier grove were the most exemplary specimens. The first time she had stood at their trunks, staring up into the great bows, she found herself thinking with a nearly child-like wonder that surely, they must go on forever. She had nearly fallen once in her quest to reach the top of that canopy, but had eventually succeeded. She was careful - the Aes Sedai were not wont to appreciate her gallivanting through the canopy (although none would ever really choose a word as free as "gallivanting" to describe the hardened Gaidar).

Now, reaching the summit of the canopy was still difficult, but even with the branches coated in snow the Gaidar scaled them deftly. Her uniform was similar to the one she wore for her training on the beam in the fields, cut to allow movement. The fabric was colored in soft browns and dark blues, blending well with the wintry backdrop of wood and snow, and made of a flexible material. She did not wear her Warder cloak, which would only have been an encumberence within the maze of bows.

Today she had reached the top of her favorite Great Tree in record time. The view was astounding, although Trista would never see it with the delight another would. She was beginning to relearn emotion, slowly, but it was a long and unforgiving path. Without it, the vibrancy of color was lost, the beauty of melody forgotten. For this, she did not stay at the top as long as one might expect, instead disappearing swiftly back into the mass of branches. She flowed from one to the next, eventually taking her from tree to tree to tree, finally nearing what constituted the lower levels of a massive oak. Below her, music drifted up to her ears from a vibrant patch of color nestled within the trees outgrown roots. She listened to the notes for some time before now, having followed them to the place she had come. Slipping along the canopy was a practice in stealth as well as agility, and she was a master. She made less sound than the wind that pushed the trees to sway and creak, as she dropped down through the limbs.

The man she gazed down at was familiar. Despite the odd clothing he wore, one glance of his face and Trista recalled his identity. Another woman may have blushed from the coincidence of finding him after her dream only a short night before, but the Void served as a buffer between expression and emotion. What little capacity for emotion she possessed. Since that night her headaches had returned, a cacophony of pounding drum beats trapped in her skull. The Void helped, but did not ease it entirely. Now, however, she found something in the soft notes from his lute soothing, pushing back the thumping until only a single, solid beat remained. The rhythm was somehow familiar, perhaps a song she had heard in childhood and forgotten.

Trista crouched on the branch for a time and finally lowered herself onto her side. She looked like a panther stretched out in the tree, lidded eyes watching him as if she were unsure if he was prey or predator himself, but she already sated enough not to care either way. The Gaidar waited until his fingers came to a pause before speaking. "Your music is lovely, Asha'man. You play well," her voice was prosaic, as it always was. Sneaking up on a channeler was never healthy, but as silent as she may be, in such close proximity if he held saidin he likely knew of her presence. Had he not noticed her, he might lash out with the Power in surprise, but the Gaidar was not afraid. She regained some measure of her will to live over the years, but a reckless disregard remained. She was not bonded, so no one would suffer if she were to die. A purpose for death would be nice, but she was no borderlander, bent on an honorable return to the Mother. Besides, no matter nationality, the dead did not complain.

---

Asha'man Araya

If the Asha'man was startled by the sudden voice, then he did not deign to show it. In fact, Araya's only reaction was to rest his head back against the bark and tilt his eyes upwards, the picture of casual curiosity, and still idly plucking chords. Asha'man. That alone told him the stranger must know of him, for there was little other indication of his rank, and indeed when his gaze settled on the woman stretched languidly in the tree, her form dappled beneath the canopy, he recalled her. Not her name, at least not immediately, but her face certainly, and the eyes most of all. Deep and listless, and the most striking shade he had ever seen. A strange woman, he mused, but not at all unattractive.

"Flattery will get you everywhere." He chuckled at the jest, and did not fully expect any retort. Despite the lidded gaze she gave, that blank, vapid expression seemed to reject humour, and he did not know her well enough to expect otherwise. He suspected it hadn't even been flattery as much as a simple observation. "Do you play, gaidar?" He smirked and turned his azure gze back to his lute.

---

Trista Gaidar

For all his expectations, Trista smiled at his comment. A bare upturning at the edges of her lips, too ephemeral to make it into her eyes. The expression was eerie on her otherwise dispassionate features. "Exactly where I want to be," she responded. Few knew her well enough to know that she had a sense of humor, cynical as it may be. This was not cynicism. For anyone else it might have sounded flirtatious.

She snaked her upper torso backwards, sliding it off the branch until she hung from her knees. She faced away from the Asha'man, then her back arched until her shoulders pressed against the opposite side of the branch. Her arms reached out to each side on the limb, supporting her in the same motion that she released her knees. Her feet, covered in soft leather leather boots that laced up her calves, pressed their soles against the trunk of the oak and she loosed one arm, then the other. She slid gracefully down the trunk, despite the divots in the wood and the extra loss of friction from the snow. There was a watery element to the way she moved, a fluidity that tied each motion to both those preceding it and those that followed.

She came to rest on the top of one of those standing roots he nestled in; the breadth was only a hair thick than on of her feet, but she had walked smaller in the boughs above, and did not appear to notice. "Not the lute," she answered his earlier question, crouching down on her toes and resting her elbows on her knees. The position was relaxed, and dryer than simply sitting down. "The flute, the violin," she named the two instruments she'd received lessons in as a child, "formerly. That was a lifetime ago." This time she was close enough he might catch the flicker in the depths of her eyes that mirrored a smile. Those eyes drifted slowly from his own to the bright scarf at his throat, before wandering back up. There was no judgment, just the same painful neutrality. They all had scars.

"Is this all you play?" This was a rare occasion; conversation was not something the Gaidar normally even attempted. A poor attempt, but an apt example of just how unnatural it was.

---

Asha'man Araya

Araya had not expected her to come down from the tree; she did not seem the type to engage strangers in idle conversation, though he admitted the Tower attracted many who were not always who and what they first appeared to be. He did not complain of her company though; in fact he welcomed it, blank neutral stare or no. Araya was a social man; he did not overly enjoy extended periods of his own company, and the Tower could be a lonely place. Especially for an Asha'man. It made him question, sometimes, why he remained - to travel was in his blood, after all. But remain he did, at least until the next whim chanced to carry him off, like a leaf on the wind.

He watched her climb down the tree with open appreciation for the fluidity of her form. That was another thing one quickly came to learn about the former Tinker; he was frank with his emotions and thoughts, and it did not take an expert at the Great Game to read his expressions, which he did not often make attempt to hide. The woman's lithe movements could make a cat look clumsy, he mused, and the slow nature of her descent only served to highlight the strength and control of her muscles. She had the sort of grace one might expect in a dancer, though he presumed the only dancing the Gaidar would do was with a sword.

Trista. The name came unbidden, remembrance sparked by the dull violet of her eyes now that they were bright in winter light instead of dark in shadow. It was funny how the mind could do that, but he supposed that though it had been years since that brief meeting in the Aes Sedai's Hall of Sitters, she was a memorable character. Those eyes... If he had been a man prone to such things, they might have made him uncomfortable, but there was little that could disturb Araya. Though he was a man of aesthetics, and it showed in the way he dressed and presented himself, he was also a man who saw beauty before ugliness, light before dark, and hope before doubt. He was not naive; the Creator knew he had seen enough years to know better than to see these things blindly, but he was also extremely laid back, tolerant, and accepting.

As such, Araya saw the spark in her eyes before the emptiness; the momentary flicker of a smile no sooner there than gone, and he smiled in response. He noticed, too, her gaze linger, if only fleetingly, upon the scarf about his throat. He wore the item for others' benefit as much as his own, for the scar was an ugly one and it always felt a waste of breath (on his part) to recant the story of how he had partially lost his voice. Sometimes the sheer raspiness of it was enough to insight curiosity, but he had found that most in the Tower were simply too polite to ask (he could imagine their faces should he joke that he had a cold).

"Formerly..." he repeated, and it half sounded as though he were disappointed she did not still play. His fingers slowed now, and the melody became soft, so that his whispered voice was clearer above it. "I suppose your 'instruments' are steel now. I find this is much more soothing for the soul." He smiled wryly, and shrugged in answer to her question. "Formerly. A lifetime ago, you could say." He had in fact only recently procured this lute in Tar Valon, and the talent of his youth had sprung as if like magic to his fingers, as if it had only been yesterday he had last played. He did not lie to say it was soothing, not least among the trees of the Ogier.

"You should try it. I would gladly teach you." It was difficult to say if that was a serious comment or not; certainly, he would teach her the instrument if she accepted, but equally he would not be phased should she shrug it off as jest. In part he was testing her; prodding and pushing to explore this enigma of a woman and her reactions. He was curious.

---

Trista Gaidar

As relaxed as his emotions were, the openness with which the Asha'man wore them on his face was strange to the Gaidar. Surrounded by serene Aes Sedai and the other hard faced Gaidin, Trista no longer expected emotions, from herself or others. The sheer absurdness fixed her gaze to his face raptly, while her own remained impassive. Feelings were as foreign to the Gaidar as they were natural to Araya, but she was not as completely devoid of life as she once was. She still, however, had the social skills of a mole rat, but perhaps that was why she actually considered the man's offer.

Those shallow red-violet pools eyed the lute with as much expression as ever. She never had much musical talent, and as deft as her fingers were at finding pressure points, throwing darts and twirling daggers, she doubted that had changed. She was too technical a person, and her imagination had hardly grown with the experiences that brought her to the Tower. The warder training regiment had stimulated that half of her brain, but also entirely reworked it; the Gaidar could think of a thousand creative ways to kill a man, and turn any mundane object into a weapon, but the notes of music floated over her head and into the wind without a hint of recognition.

All these thoughts skirted the edge of the Void and were fed into the flame within a flutter of her sooty eyelashes. Then, she nodded, "I will try." The small gesture was surprising, even to herself, which is why she was wont to vocalize it. She slid down off her root and into his divot, gauging the instrument with her eyes the same as she did an opponent before battle. She rested on her shins in front of the Asha'man, mindless of the moisture seeping into the fabric of her breeches. As relaxed as the position might be for another, her body remained visibly tense; a predator still but a cat none the less, with a need to sate her own curiosity.

---

Asha'man Araya

The last thing Araya had expected had been an acceptance, and he found himself pleasantly surprised, for all that her blank, unchanged expression showed not one ounce of willingness. Certainly there was more than met the eye, here, else she was simply humouring him and his eccentricities. Either way, the Asha'man was happy to take it at face value, both amused and curious. He smiled and let his fingers carress the strings in one final, idle chord as she slipped down deftly from the tree root and came to rest before him.

To the casual onlooker, she may appear relaxed, but for all his blase attitude towards anything remotely millitant, Araya had worked his way through the Black Tower and its stringent regimen. He could see the minute signs; not quite apprehension, but a readiness, certainly. For all the stiffness in her posture, he may as well have been holding a viper. His response was a chuckle, a low, throaty sound; a gurgle, almost, and an unfortunate sound for a laugh, but he had long since grown used to the effects of his scarring, and it no longer bothered him, else he had simply ceased to notice it.

"It will not bite, gaidar, and nor will I." The words were accompanied by a flicker of the lips, but the jibe was well intentioned. That errant cheekiness was a customary facet of his disposition, and he dished it out irrespective of rank or status or gender. With that violet stare and empty expression, for all he knew Trista might strike a dart through his neck there and then, but Araya did not tend to think on such things. He was himself before slave or king, gaidar or Aes Sedai. It earned him his fair share of reprimand, of course, but those were not usually the sorts of people Araya kept for company.

He passed the gaidar the instrument; a modest thing, with little ornamentation, but solid amd sturdy. A nice weight, too, which in turn gave it a nice timbre. He had bought it for sound rather than looks, which was unusual given his propensity for beautiful things, but he did love good music.

He shifted on to his knees, mirroring the woman opposite, if visibly more relaxed. "Rest the belly part on your thighs. Right. And then--" Unabashedly, he took hold of her hands to position them correctly, firm but gentle, resting her smallest finger on the soundboard, and stretching the fingers of the other hand on the neck. He had been playing so long it had become innate; he did not think, just played, but now he had to think, and it brought the smallest line of consternation to his brow, shading the brilliant blue of his eyes.

"Okay, now pluck this string here..."

---

Trista Gaidar

The awkward sound of Araya's chuckle drew Trista's eyes up from the lute's smooth surface, her brows lifting a hairsbreadth in question. She did not look at the scarf wrapping his neck this time, but was aware of it. Then he spoke, and despite the raspiness of his voice the man himself earned her full attention once more. A glimmer, lasting a little longer this time, deepened her otherwise vapid gaze. "I will." As dead as her voice usually was, the tiniest mirror of that glimmer sounded boldly where for anyone else it might have gone unnoticed. Her lips parted in a toothy smile that put the fear of the Light into her trainees. For Araya, there was no threat in the jest, just promise.

She took the lute from him as he shifted, facing her on his knees. She was acutely aware of how close he was. Trista was well accustomed to being near the men she called brothers; sparring in the heat of summer was often done while baring more skin than a Cairhienin at the Festival of Lights. Hand-to-hand spars meant being particularly intimate with your opponent's skin and sweat and warmth, regardless of gender, and that style of fighting was a specialty of the Gaidar's. She was not uncomfortable with men, but there was something about this one that made her... anxious.

That restlessness knotted in her back as he took hold of her hands. Forcibly feeding the tension to the Flame eased her muscles to an extent, but a wariness remained. A wariness that heightened her already exquisite attention to detail; the concentration sharpening his gaze into a pair of blue gems, the pressure from his fingers as he placed hers, the weight of the lute against her thighs- all were suddenly immensely important.

For a hollow instrument, it really was quite heavy.

Her head no longer ached, but the offending throb continued softly. Her heart beat soundly in her ears, steady but decidedly faster than the rhythm it usually held. She took a long, silent breath, pacing it to the slower, foreign cadence in her head. The sound was soothing in its own fashion, and a thought flashed across the Void that it was related to the Asha'man somehow. The idea was discarded as unfounded.

Trista plucked the dictated string, and each after it. The sound was correct but mechanical, and did not flow at all in the way it had for the Asha'man. Instant mastery was an unrealistic expectation, but a child may well have produced a more pleasing sound from the contraption. Araya was a patient instructor, and the Gaidar was not prone to frustration, but it became quickly apparent that the struggle may well be futile.

"Music is not a strength of mine," she spared Araya the task of ending the lesson. She did not give up easily, but at the rate she was improving they would remain in the Ogier Grove until the sun fell and rose again before she showed any semblance of prowess. Slender fingers, usually so adept and graceful, stumbled out the notes of a short melody he taught her. She held the lute towards him them, a smile dangerously close to genuine tugging at the edges of her mouth. "I think the trees prefer the sound it makes for you."

---

[[This is old, but just to give context to Araya and Trista's relationship. Timeline wise it's while he was still living at the White Tower, before he has retrieved Korene from the borderlands or has his house in Tar Valon with Hana]]