06-23-2023, 11:14 PM
No-one knocked on the door to a reputedly haunted tower. Admittedly, by now Mira was rocking half on the edges of a doze, and might have imagined it but for the timbre of a familiar voice on its heels. Her shoulders ached. She leaned over the dark space beyond, morbidly curious for the fall that would have waited, before the vertigo whooshed the blood in her head and she gripped the cooling stone for balance. Then she slipped down from the crumbling fortifications.
The tower’s adjoining chamber had little to commend it for habitation. Likely, it had been a sentry post once, before peace made a view of the inhospitable landscape a redundancy to waste soldiers and resources on. A fortress as old as this was filled with such secrets, and Mira’s solitary explorations probably knew them better than the family whose crest emblazoned the flags on the ramparts. As such this tower was not the place she spent most of her time, just where she hid for the worst of it.
Gloom chased the little room’s corners, unlit because she did not like to look upon the marks she’d made on the walls over the years. There was no real furniture, just storage. Ink was hard to come by in the quantities she needed, and this was where she hoarded the precious bottles. Bundles of charcoal stacked alongside them, easier to acquire but messier to use. It was preferable to alternatives, though. There were scars on her wrists; she feared running out.
Lastly, pushed deepest into the shadows, were several chests storing the old drawings, banished from sight if not mind. Among them were other things Mira had stolen over the years; books, in the main. She padded bare footed past it all without looking. Valtin wasn’t expected company, but he was not unwelcome, and she didn’t pause to question the odd hour. When terror woke her on bad nights, leaving her disorientated and afraid, it was to the smithy she would retreat even in the early hours. Not because she expected a dreadlord’s sympathy, but because she did not want to be alone. It proved foolish sometimes. But she was still alive for all her oddities.
“Did you do something, Val?” Mira had no inherent cruelty to her, despite the things she often drew on the reams of parchment she fed to flames on a daily basis. Despite the things she had herself done. But morality was little hindrance either, and she didn't ask in judgement, only in offer of her help should he need it. She didn’t fault his nature. It was hard on him here; harder than it was on her. If Mira lived as a ghost, it was only a reclamation of old habits. Knowledge seeped through her curse whether she willed it or not, and the rejection of her childhood home had never really left. It was easier not to be known by these people than to risk the scrawl of a dragonfang on her door when she inevitably slipped up. Easier to have no door upon which to scrawl it.
Easier still, of course, would have been for her to flee years ago. Sometimes she told herself it was the Black Oaths that kept her at Valtin’s side these long years, but the truth was there had been ample opportunity to slip away had she ever chosen to. Many had died in the battle, and she imagined she was considered among them in the Tower’s ledgers – if her disappearance was indeed noted at all, even among her own Ajah. Nor did the Shadow hunt her for her allegiances, as they did he. Val had saved her life, as she had saved his; simple necessity and survival at the time, but still a balanced scale to which neither of them owed more. Yet she had cleaved to his company ever since Tar Valon. Maybe it was the simple fact he was outcast and friendless that forged a link she had never cared to break. Though maybe it was better to ask no questions. The answers were rarely pretty.
The door wasn’t latched. There were no wards. When she disappeared entirely, he knew well enough all her haunts, and he was the only one who did. She opened it in complete trust.
At a glance Mira was easy to dismiss. Her face had slowed long before it took on its preternatural ageless qualities, but most rarely looked at her long enough to notice. Very few would have seen her and thought Aes Sedai, not least with her sleep-shadowed eyes and wild hair. Rosene’s death had cracked Mira’s head open of all self-imposed repression, the tenets of routine and control by which she had lived almost her entire life, and she had never been quite the same since that loss. She was akin to a river finally overburst its banks, though there was none alive to mark the difference.
She saw Val first, and the face behind him second. Her eyes widened, and every sensible thought in her head abdicated in favour of a terrible and inexplicable panic, like the bolts that tore her from dreamless sleep. Her feet slipped backwards, silent and horrified. Instinct reared, its only instruction: run. To that Mira heeded; she turned with a fear-soaked breath, completely unthinking, for there was nowhere to go but back the way she had come and a fevered plunge over the crumbling battlements.
The tower’s adjoining chamber had little to commend it for habitation. Likely, it had been a sentry post once, before peace made a view of the inhospitable landscape a redundancy to waste soldiers and resources on. A fortress as old as this was filled with such secrets, and Mira’s solitary explorations probably knew them better than the family whose crest emblazoned the flags on the ramparts. As such this tower was not the place she spent most of her time, just where she hid for the worst of it.
Gloom chased the little room’s corners, unlit because she did not like to look upon the marks she’d made on the walls over the years. There was no real furniture, just storage. Ink was hard to come by in the quantities she needed, and this was where she hoarded the precious bottles. Bundles of charcoal stacked alongside them, easier to acquire but messier to use. It was preferable to alternatives, though. There were scars on her wrists; she feared running out.
Lastly, pushed deepest into the shadows, were several chests storing the old drawings, banished from sight if not mind. Among them were other things Mira had stolen over the years; books, in the main. She padded bare footed past it all without looking. Valtin wasn’t expected company, but he was not unwelcome, and she didn’t pause to question the odd hour. When terror woke her on bad nights, leaving her disorientated and afraid, it was to the smithy she would retreat even in the early hours. Not because she expected a dreadlord’s sympathy, but because she did not want to be alone. It proved foolish sometimes. But she was still alive for all her oddities.
“Did you do something, Val?” Mira had no inherent cruelty to her, despite the things she often drew on the reams of parchment she fed to flames on a daily basis. Despite the things she had herself done. But morality was little hindrance either, and she didn't ask in judgement, only in offer of her help should he need it. She didn’t fault his nature. It was hard on him here; harder than it was on her. If Mira lived as a ghost, it was only a reclamation of old habits. Knowledge seeped through her curse whether she willed it or not, and the rejection of her childhood home had never really left. It was easier not to be known by these people than to risk the scrawl of a dragonfang on her door when she inevitably slipped up. Easier to have no door upon which to scrawl it.
Easier still, of course, would have been for her to flee years ago. Sometimes she told herself it was the Black Oaths that kept her at Valtin’s side these long years, but the truth was there had been ample opportunity to slip away had she ever chosen to. Many had died in the battle, and she imagined she was considered among them in the Tower’s ledgers – if her disappearance was indeed noted at all, even among her own Ajah. Nor did the Shadow hunt her for her allegiances, as they did he. Val had saved her life, as she had saved his; simple necessity and survival at the time, but still a balanced scale to which neither of them owed more. Yet she had cleaved to his company ever since Tar Valon. Maybe it was the simple fact he was outcast and friendless that forged a link she had never cared to break. Though maybe it was better to ask no questions. The answers were rarely pretty.
The door wasn’t latched. There were no wards. When she disappeared entirely, he knew well enough all her haunts, and he was the only one who did. She opened it in complete trust.
At a glance Mira was easy to dismiss. Her face had slowed long before it took on its preternatural ageless qualities, but most rarely looked at her long enough to notice. Very few would have seen her and thought Aes Sedai, not least with her sleep-shadowed eyes and wild hair. Rosene’s death had cracked Mira’s head open of all self-imposed repression, the tenets of routine and control by which she had lived almost her entire life, and she had never been quite the same since that loss. She was akin to a river finally overburst its banks, though there was none alive to mark the difference.
She saw Val first, and the face behind him second. Her eyes widened, and every sensible thought in her head abdicated in favour of a terrible and inexplicable panic, like the bolts that tore her from dreamless sleep. Her feet slipped backwards, silent and horrified. Instinct reared, its only instruction: run. To that Mira heeded; she turned with a fear-soaked breath, completely unthinking, for there was nowhere to go but back the way she had come and a fevered plunge over the crumbling battlements.
![[Image: thal-banner-scaled.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/08/thal-banner-scaled.jpg)