Crimsonthorn

[Eidolon]

Malaika, Brown Ajah

The genuine delight in his response surprised her, as did her own reaction to it, revealed in the subtle softening of a smile and a mote of pleasure that drifted in her chest before it settled into composure. Vladamir had always seemed to be so thoughtfully wrapped in his own quiet business, she had never contemplated interrupting the bubble of it with something as trivial as a shared appreciation for art. In fact it had never occurred to her to offer something like that to any other person before – or not to anyone beyond a Sister at least, and they had access to all the same resources she did.

Sobriety drew her silent for long moments after Vladamir expressed his willingness to listen. The openness of his answer filled her with shame that drew her gaze down to her own numb hands. She accepted the responsibility of her title, but she appreciated it as a shield too, for Aes Sedai were not simply women, they were vessels for a larger purpose. Despite spending much time alone Malaika had little true concept of privacy. Her life had not been her own since thirteen years of age. So when she asked to confide, it was not a plea for confidentiality, but an askance for permission to lay down a burden she did not feel right to share. Aes Sedai carried the weight alone. When she thought about the poem, it was like looking up at the stars to something beyond reach.

“His name was Andreu Kojima,” she said eventually. For a moment it was all she said, knowing that it would mean nothing in isolation, and yet the weight of speaking the name aloud landed heavy. She had not expected the rush of memory to assault her so suddenly, despite how often she had relived that moment of witness in the time since. Little showed, of course, beyond a small furrow between her brows, smoothed a moment later. She remembered the look on the man’s face when he laid the dagger at her feet. It was an expression that watched her often from the shadows, quiet with doleful recognition. A more complex accusation than guilt. “The man who jumped from the bridge.”

She had seen death before. Malaika’s origins were no secret, and her hands were not clean. Neither did a woman earn the ring and shawl with innocence intact. She did not speak from youthful shock or the naivety of a first experience. After uncovering his identity, she had taken it upon herself to return the blade to his family in the city, with what she hoped had been a ritual of both compassion and serenity. But she found no closure in the task.

“I did not understand his intention. But I should have. I replay it over, the things I should have said or done.”