Malaika could not settle, and neither did she wish to return to her Ajah, or to the library. The door at which she found herself was not one she had ever stood outside before. Nor had she ever even been within these halls, despite her many years at the White Tower. It was closed now, and she did not knock, knowing the occupant was not to be found within. The smallest furrow marked her brow, but it was the only indication she gave of the turmoil within. Byron Gaidin had been gone for months, and while she knew it would have justification – he would not have missed Mistress Osilia’s wedding for anything less – it was something close to desperation that drew her. A vain hope that he might somehow be here despite all knowledge to the contrary.
Her hands were clasped in silent vigil for the moments she simply stood there. She did not realise quite how hard she had been rubbing at the scar on her palm, pain numbed entirely by the crimsonthorn, until she shifted to reach into her skirts and retrieve a small bound notebook and charcoal case. The tendons cramped, dull and slow, making navigating the implements, as well as writing itself, unnervingly difficult. Malaika could see the skin was sore, even if she could not feel it. But she did not linger over the observation. She only folded the note as best she could with her uncooperative grip, and slid it underneath the door.
On her return journey, she found the paths across the grounds were not as empty as they might usually have been at this moonlit hour. Weapons were not blatant, but she noticed all the warders were armed, their vigilance strung tighter than usual. Yet no enemy was in sight. Malaika saw not another sign of them, but she found her brief glimpse of the Sitters and their severe faces to be emblazoned on her mind. Matters of the Hall were far above her humble consideration, yet she was undeniably unsettled. What calm Vladamir Gaidin’s company had helped smooth fled entirely now. His poem had spoken of unity, of camaraderie in the darkest of times. But in the darkness Malaika witnessed the fractures spreading alone.
The library was never completely empty no matter the time, as it indeed wasn’t now, but its hush was for once uncomfortable – as though something arctic had spread right through it, leaving nothing untouched. Malaika could feel nothing by the slow pound of the heart as a cold, pervasive fear began to spread into her limbs. It had been many years since she had felt something so invasive, and in fact she had never felt unsafe within the White Tower’s halls, not since the first day she sat across from Kekura’s desk and made her acknowledging mark in the Novice Book. Even when the dreadlord threw his armies at the gate, she trusted in the Tower’s protection. But the sanctuary now felt shattered.
Forceful footsteps announced the sudden path of Anura Gaidar, her Aes Sedai a step behind. Eithne was unusually sombre, a dark cloak thrown over her flower-pinned hair, diluting her usual merriment. She had been among Malaika’s mentors once, the woman who had guided her through her discovery of Chakai’s identity. But no kind mirth flushed her cheeks now, only a colour of fury Malaika had never before seen on the former tuatha’an. Surprised, she moved backwards from their path, and while the warder cut her a quick look and tilt of the chin, Eithne did not spare her a glance. They had gone before Malaika parted her lips to query.
It was not until later she discovered the cause.
![[Image: Malaika-grief.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/08/Malaika-grief.jpg)
Much later, when Adira found her, Malaika was sat stiffly in one of the library armchairs. A book was laid across her lap, utterly unread, for she only stared around the words. Numbness held her, the shock too great for pain. The words on the page were her own, the lines those she had practised while she learned her letters. Fate had been a patient teacher, still in the bands of Acceptedhood then. It was a kindness that, whilst originally arranged under the direction of the White Sitter Broekk, had fostered and blossomed her love of the Brown’s sanctuary. Years later, when she earned her own ring, it had been to Fate that Malaika had officially pledged herself. Every strengthening memory had taken place here, amongst the desks and bookshelves, and more importantly alongside the strength of the women who’d made it a home for her.
And now Fate was dead, the foremost among them; her light extinguished, to become nothing but a casualty of her own brilliant strength and loyalty.
Malaika was not unfamiliar with loss, its unfairness or its cruelty. She surmounted her own past with small steps and tenacity. But this, she struggled to process. Not just the personal grief, which felt like a knot in her chest that spiked with every breath she did not scream, but the realisation of what had been destroyed in the process. The solidity. The safety. She felt adrift in the change, utterly lost, as though the last connections keeping her whole had been irreversibly cut free.
Though the Council fought for unity, privately within itself the Ajah was breaking apart over the controversy of Fate’s execution. The Sitters gravely stood by the new Amyrlin, but Eithne was not the only one who fled after the night the Hall came for Fate. Kaydrienne Lindelle herself was dead, executed alongside her Keeper, for conspiring to gift a gaidar into Seanchan slavery. Stunned, Malaika had witnessed it shoulder-by-shoulder with Aes Sedai who had called her Mother and pressed their lips to her ring. Justice in Seander was unyielding, and it was not the first execution she had ever seen, though for her own feeling, perhaps the most horrific. Vladamir’s words stayed with her, a figurative hand upon the shoulder, and she did not look away even from the worst. Though these were not women ready for death – they were defiant until the very end. Kadrienne, whom Malaika had spent years in quiet admiration, never gave up the location of the oathrod which would have saved the Brown from following them to the gallows.
As a very real hand now squeezed a gentle pressure on her shoulder, Malaika actually flinched. The book slid from her skirts, to Adira’s apology, but Malaika only glanced up confused. After a moment of reorientation she shifted to retrieve the book, but it was Adira who scooped it up from Malaika’s pinched and clumsy grip. She found she could not look back up, heat for a moment stinging her eyes, not from embarrassment, but from a cave-in of pain as the loss hit her anew. She accepted the slim volume with her good hand.
“I’m sorry, Adira, I was quite somewhere else,” she said. Dark hair fell straight either side of her pale cheeks, shielding her still expression and hurting eyes. Adira was sombre herself, her brows pinched, mouth drawn from its usual smile and easy chatter. Her comforting hand had withdrawn, uncertain.
But neither of them could think of any more words.
Much later, in the silent cocoon of her own rooms, Malaika searched her shelves for the piece by Norinen Mathevron. The focus soothed her mind with some normality, and though she knew the words by heart, she read them over again before tying the parchment back up with string. Her hand still ached, and her writing was not quite as neat as that of the transcription she gifted, but she set up her desk and spent some time penning a note to accompany it. The contents were as brief as if she spoke them in person, not wishing to commandeer Vladamir’s time more than necessary.
It has given me comfort in times I have needed it. May Mathevron’s lost words offer you the same in times of trouble.
She paused over the ink, watched as it dried on the page, undecided and quietly contemplative. Then she lay down the quill and rose, lost for a while more in the personal shelves that lined her quarters. It was not a search so much as a meander through memory and reflection. Through the words of others Malaika felt some navigation of the turmoil around and within her, and for a while it offered her a peaceful bubble of existence. Most of her collection spanned the unknown, the anonymous, the lost. Pieces that moved the soul. Ordinary voices buried by time. From those which she loved most, she selected two more which she had always found poignant. Neither were voices of note, or at least had no historical attachment the Ajah had ever uncovered, and as such were not catalogued on the open shelves for study. Malaika prevaricated over including them, uncertain if he would find it presumptive if she sent more than the Mathevron she had promised. Vladamir was always reading, at least whenever she had seen him in the library, but it did not mean he would welcome unsolicited recommendation.
In the end, sat back at her desk with the pieces in hand – one a parchment, the other a small bound pocketbook. After some time to consider it, the works were added, and the note extended to allow for the forwardness without assuming it would be welcomed. She reasoned it was a thank you for the kindness he had offered by speaking with her on the bench; for listening when he did not need to.
I have included some more pieces, not Mathevron, but that you may not have read and I thought you might appreciate. Consider them a gift, and please do not trouble yourself to read them if you do not wish.
The papers were beautifully yet simply bound, the note sealed with wax and slotted atop. She would not deliver in person, certain the intrusion would be too much, and possibly inappropriate. Given his bond to a Sitter and all the duties it must entail, especially in the midst of such upheaval and murmurings of war, she did not expect to receive a response beyond the acknowledgement of the servant she would send with the gift. And while she might be curious for his thoughts, she would not prevail upon him to share them, lest he feel it was a duty.
After the servant was dispatched, Malaika returned to the public library, discontent with her isolation as much as she wished for no company. Its halls were as quiet and industrious as ever, and she felt a pang for how easily life continued, for she no longer felt like she knew how to exist here. Her mind was still displaced in the strange feeling when the Accepted cleared her throat for the second time. As Malaika's attention focused, the woman curtsied with pursed lips, though when she spoke her tone was carefully scrubbed free of any annoyance. "Calathea Sedai wishes to see you, Aes Sedai."
Her hands were clasped in silent vigil for the moments she simply stood there. She did not realise quite how hard she had been rubbing at the scar on her palm, pain numbed entirely by the crimsonthorn, until she shifted to reach into her skirts and retrieve a small bound notebook and charcoal case. The tendons cramped, dull and slow, making navigating the implements, as well as writing itself, unnervingly difficult. Malaika could see the skin was sore, even if she could not feel it. But she did not linger over the observation. She only folded the note as best she could with her uncooperative grip, and slid it underneath the door.
On her return journey, she found the paths across the grounds were not as empty as they might usually have been at this moonlit hour. Weapons were not blatant, but she noticed all the warders were armed, their vigilance strung tighter than usual. Yet no enemy was in sight. Malaika saw not another sign of them, but she found her brief glimpse of the Sitters and their severe faces to be emblazoned on her mind. Matters of the Hall were far above her humble consideration, yet she was undeniably unsettled. What calm Vladamir Gaidin’s company had helped smooth fled entirely now. His poem had spoken of unity, of camaraderie in the darkest of times. But in the darkness Malaika witnessed the fractures spreading alone.
The library was never completely empty no matter the time, as it indeed wasn’t now, but its hush was for once uncomfortable – as though something arctic had spread right through it, leaving nothing untouched. Malaika could feel nothing by the slow pound of the heart as a cold, pervasive fear began to spread into her limbs. It had been many years since she had felt something so invasive, and in fact she had never felt unsafe within the White Tower’s halls, not since the first day she sat across from Kekura’s desk and made her acknowledging mark in the Novice Book. Even when the dreadlord threw his armies at the gate, she trusted in the Tower’s protection. But the sanctuary now felt shattered.
Forceful footsteps announced the sudden path of Anura Gaidar, her Aes Sedai a step behind. Eithne was unusually sombre, a dark cloak thrown over her flower-pinned hair, diluting her usual merriment. She had been among Malaika’s mentors once, the woman who had guided her through her discovery of Chakai’s identity. But no kind mirth flushed her cheeks now, only a colour of fury Malaika had never before seen on the former tuatha’an. Surprised, she moved backwards from their path, and while the warder cut her a quick look and tilt of the chin, Eithne did not spare her a glance. They had gone before Malaika parted her lips to query.
It was not until later she discovered the cause.
Much later, when Adira found her, Malaika was sat stiffly in one of the library armchairs. A book was laid across her lap, utterly unread, for she only stared around the words. Numbness held her, the shock too great for pain. The words on the page were her own, the lines those she had practised while she learned her letters. Fate had been a patient teacher, still in the bands of Acceptedhood then. It was a kindness that, whilst originally arranged under the direction of the White Sitter Broekk, had fostered and blossomed her love of the Brown’s sanctuary. Years later, when she earned her own ring, it had been to Fate that Malaika had officially pledged herself. Every strengthening memory had taken place here, amongst the desks and bookshelves, and more importantly alongside the strength of the women who’d made it a home for her.
And now Fate was dead, the foremost among them; her light extinguished, to become nothing but a casualty of her own brilliant strength and loyalty.
Malaika was not unfamiliar with loss, its unfairness or its cruelty. She surmounted her own past with small steps and tenacity. But this, she struggled to process. Not just the personal grief, which felt like a knot in her chest that spiked with every breath she did not scream, but the realisation of what had been destroyed in the process. The solidity. The safety. She felt adrift in the change, utterly lost, as though the last connections keeping her whole had been irreversibly cut free.
Though the Council fought for unity, privately within itself the Ajah was breaking apart over the controversy of Fate’s execution. The Sitters gravely stood by the new Amyrlin, but Eithne was not the only one who fled after the night the Hall came for Fate. Kaydrienne Lindelle herself was dead, executed alongside her Keeper, for conspiring to gift a gaidar into Seanchan slavery. Stunned, Malaika had witnessed it shoulder-by-shoulder with Aes Sedai who had called her Mother and pressed their lips to her ring. Justice in Seander was unyielding, and it was not the first execution she had ever seen, though for her own feeling, perhaps the most horrific. Vladamir’s words stayed with her, a figurative hand upon the shoulder, and she did not look away even from the worst. Though these were not women ready for death – they were defiant until the very end. Kadrienne, whom Malaika had spent years in quiet admiration, never gave up the location of the oathrod which would have saved the Brown from following them to the gallows.
As a very real hand now squeezed a gentle pressure on her shoulder, Malaika actually flinched. The book slid from her skirts, to Adira’s apology, but Malaika only glanced up confused. After a moment of reorientation she shifted to retrieve the book, but it was Adira who scooped it up from Malaika’s pinched and clumsy grip. She found she could not look back up, heat for a moment stinging her eyes, not from embarrassment, but from a cave-in of pain as the loss hit her anew. She accepted the slim volume with her good hand.
“I’m sorry, Adira, I was quite somewhere else,” she said. Dark hair fell straight either side of her pale cheeks, shielding her still expression and hurting eyes. Adira was sombre herself, her brows pinched, mouth drawn from its usual smile and easy chatter. Her comforting hand had withdrawn, uncertain.
But neither of them could think of any more words.
Much later, in the silent cocoon of her own rooms, Malaika searched her shelves for the piece by Norinen Mathevron. The focus soothed her mind with some normality, and though she knew the words by heart, she read them over again before tying the parchment back up with string. Her hand still ached, and her writing was not quite as neat as that of the transcription she gifted, but she set up her desk and spent some time penning a note to accompany it. The contents were as brief as if she spoke them in person, not wishing to commandeer Vladamir’s time more than necessary.
It has given me comfort in times I have needed it. May Mathevron’s lost words offer you the same in times of trouble.
She paused over the ink, watched as it dried on the page, undecided and quietly contemplative. Then she lay down the quill and rose, lost for a while more in the personal shelves that lined her quarters. It was not a search so much as a meander through memory and reflection. Through the words of others Malaika felt some navigation of the turmoil around and within her, and for a while it offered her a peaceful bubble of existence. Most of her collection spanned the unknown, the anonymous, the lost. Pieces that moved the soul. Ordinary voices buried by time. From those which she loved most, she selected two more which she had always found poignant. Neither were voices of note, or at least had no historical attachment the Ajah had ever uncovered, and as such were not catalogued on the open shelves for study. Malaika prevaricated over including them, uncertain if he would find it presumptive if she sent more than the Mathevron she had promised. Vladamir was always reading, at least whenever she had seen him in the library, but it did not mean he would welcome unsolicited recommendation.
In the end, sat back at her desk with the pieces in hand – one a parchment, the other a small bound pocketbook. After some time to consider it, the works were added, and the note extended to allow for the forwardness without assuming it would be welcomed. She reasoned it was a thank you for the kindness he had offered by speaking with her on the bench; for listening when he did not need to.
I have included some more pieces, not Mathevron, but that you may not have read and I thought you might appreciate. Consider them a gift, and please do not trouble yourself to read them if you do not wish.
The papers were beautifully yet simply bound, the note sealed with wax and slotted atop. She would not deliver in person, certain the intrusion would be too much, and possibly inappropriate. Given his bond to a Sitter and all the duties it must entail, especially in the midst of such upheaval and murmurings of war, she did not expect to receive a response beyond the acknowledgement of the servant she would send with the gift. And while she might be curious for his thoughts, she would not prevail upon him to share them, lest he feel it was a duty.
After the servant was dispatched, Malaika returned to the public library, discontent with her isolation as much as she wished for no company. Its halls were as quiet and industrious as ever, and she felt a pang for how easily life continued, for she no longer felt like she knew how to exist here. Her mind was still displaced in the strange feeling when the Accepted cleared her throat for the second time. As Malaika's attention focused, the woman curtsied with pursed lips, though when she spoke her tone was carefully scrubbed free of any annoyance. "Calathea Sedai wishes to see you, Aes Sedai."
![[Image: cherry-blosson.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/cherry-blosson.png)