02-11-2018, 02:36 PM
Hana was unperturbed by the channeling; did not even look up to confirm what she must have seen from the corner of her eye, just continued with what she was doing – which culminated in spooning a hearty portion of stew into a bowl, and setting it down on the table before the Asha’man. His responding smile was candid, boyish – authentic in the way of the young. So whatever troubled him to seek the bottom of a bottle and a broken jaw, she did not think he was so lost as to not be able to find his way back. Supposing the Tower gave him time to heal; she knew from experience that scars not of the flesh often fell to the care of an Ashaman’s wife, and Jai did not wear a ring.
She let him eat, undemanding of an answer to her questions, keeping herself busy. When he did speak, her own reply was a swift: “Good.”
The word held a note of old pride, but she left it at that, and did not even look up from her work until no more explanation followed the first. Not that she had really expected it to be that easy. He was looking at her, and she didn’t think it was the stare of inner contemplation, but one of outward study. Like he’d deflected the question back. Was he still thinking about the fact she had told him she was a widow? Or simply resisting the notion of looking back, of confronting whatever demon he had been running from in the first place, by thinking of her sorrows instead.
He never answered the second question, but he didn’t really need to; his fidgety actions spoke for themselves. She could make the question simpler: why did you drink so much? But interrogation served no purpose; she knew better than to either coax or demand explanations which would not come easily, even if she thought he should speak of whatever had happened. Fortunately, Hana also understood the need for routine, and the solace to be found in action that not only did not require thought, but consumed it. If he was going to insist on burying his head, better to do it in sword forms than heavy liquor.
She titled her head a little at the question. Araya must practise; he took the oath to forge himself as a weapon seriously, even when it did not sit naturally. But she had never witnessed it. Like a guilty necessity, he kept it hidden away. “If he does, as I’m sure he must have, I’ve never seen it here.”
Which was not to say there was not a sword in the house. Daeyl’s effects were in a box upstairs; the uniform folded neatly, the pins placed atop. The blade rested alongside in its scabbard. She aired out the uniform every now and then, the gaps between a little longer each time. Washed it, pressed it, folded it away. The pins she polished on quiet nights; old rituals, and the closest she ever felt to her husband. The sword, though, the sword she never touched, because Daeyl had always cared for it himself. “But I’m sure I can find you something.”
She retrieved the empty bowl, and the glass. “Though if you’ve the energy for sword forms, you’ve the energy to shave. And don’t forget your shirt next time.”
The words were softened by a smile – the first hint of one since she’d brought him through from the stairs, though that was not to mistake the fact she meant every word.
~*~
Snow had fallen; thick, wondrous, crunch under the foot snow – at least, until a thousand other footsteps compacted it down to treacherous ice. The main thoroughfares had been cleared, of course – it was Tar Valon, after all – but not the outskirts upon which Araya kept his house, where you could almost turn and reach up to the sky and capture the White Tower itself between forefinger and thumb. During the day, at least; it was dark now, or darkening, the snow glowing bright against lamplight. As they walked home, threads of fire sizzled the snow and ice to steam, creating an elaborate walkway where Korene placed her feet. It was intended to make her smile, as were most things Araya did around the kid, but he could tell by the darkening at her young brow she was only irritated with the babying. Hana had bundled her up for the outing; a dark navy scarf wound up to her nose, her hood pulled over tight, but he could still see that glower.
Araya didn’t feel the cold, but his hands were thrust into his pockets anyway; an olive-green jacket with ornate silver buttons and yellow threadwork. His chin buried down into the violet scarf wrapped round his neck, the tails drifting out behind him as he walked. A brooding walk. A thinking walk. Today's treat had been an escape to the Ogier Grove, where he'd told her the best stories he knew to fill the silence; the Tuatha’an, the Greenman, the Ogier – everything he could think off while she trundled behind, kicking powdery clumps of snow and watching her boots. Always the same ritual. She never answered, she never smiled – never even looked at him unless he asked her to, and then her eyes were dark pits, startlingly hollow, and it was usually him who looked away first.
He didn’t know who was more relieved when they reached the threshold. Araya opened the door for Korene, ushering her through before Hana could complain they were letting the chill in. Wisps of fire steamed off the snow drifts huddled on the end of his boots, dried the melt from his hair – aided by the scruff of a hand – and finally mopped up the little wet puddles Korene was leaving in her wake down the hall, off in search of Hana. They found her in the kitchen, the room bursting warmth and the most heavenly aroma (he ate meat; it hadn’t been an option not to, at the Black Tower).
“Ahh, smells great!”
He said it with a good-natured grin, though he didn’t really feel like smiling. Hana must have noted the tightness in his eyes, because her head tilted in patient sympathy. Time, Hana always said. Give it time. But nearly a year had passed already, and he wondered if he had been wrong to ever take Korene away from the Borderlands. The fact was, children usually liked Araya. He pandered to their curiosity, spoke to them like adults, entertained their whims, and never lied. It was natural as breathing for Araya to make friends. But Korene hated him.
He shrugged a dogged I know and gestured his head upwards to ask after their Asha’man guest.
“Sword forms,”
Hana said, beckoning Korene closer to help her out of the heavy cloak and scarf. “Light, child, your fingers are like ice!”
She unravelled Korene like a parcel, cheeks and nose bright with cold, dark hair damp and frizzling on the ends. Small red hands peeped from woven mittens, and Hana rubbed them rigorously with her own, while the kid watched expressionless. To Araya, Hana said: “Through there.”
So Jai was up. Which was good.
Araya had been back to the Black Tower that very morning, firstly to speak to the M’Hael; to officialise the period for recovery and explain the disappearance. Even wore the black for the occasion. A risk, if Jai were then called back, but a risk worth taking – and only a small one, anyway, Araya thought, and far better than potentially being branded a deserter. Turned out there was no risk at all; the kind of trouble Jai had brought down on Black Tower heads, Araya was beginning to understand, was the kind of trouble best tucked out of the way until it cooled down. Keeping his head low was about the most competent thing Jai could be doing right now.
The second reason he’d gone back to the Tower had been less fruitful; to that end, he was still digging.
Araya knocked before he entered, but didn’t wait for permission. Lots of men lost themselves in practice, and he didn't really expect Jai to register him - not that that was the same thing as being unaware. Asha'man were weapons, they were never unaware. Hana had clearly given him leave to push the furniture out the way to allow him enough room for ease of movement, because all the stuffed chairs were backed up against the various cabinets lining the walls. Is that a broom?
She let him eat, undemanding of an answer to her questions, keeping herself busy. When he did speak, her own reply was a swift: “Good.”
The word held a note of old pride, but she left it at that, and did not even look up from her work until no more explanation followed the first. Not that she had really expected it to be that easy. He was looking at her, and she didn’t think it was the stare of inner contemplation, but one of outward study. Like he’d deflected the question back. Was he still thinking about the fact she had told him she was a widow? Or simply resisting the notion of looking back, of confronting whatever demon he had been running from in the first place, by thinking of her sorrows instead.
He never answered the second question, but he didn’t really need to; his fidgety actions spoke for themselves. She could make the question simpler: why did you drink so much? But interrogation served no purpose; she knew better than to either coax or demand explanations which would not come easily, even if she thought he should speak of whatever had happened. Fortunately, Hana also understood the need for routine, and the solace to be found in action that not only did not require thought, but consumed it. If he was going to insist on burying his head, better to do it in sword forms than heavy liquor.
She titled her head a little at the question. Araya must practise; he took the oath to forge himself as a weapon seriously, even when it did not sit naturally. But she had never witnessed it. Like a guilty necessity, he kept it hidden away. “If he does, as I’m sure he must have, I’ve never seen it here.”
Which was not to say there was not a sword in the house. Daeyl’s effects were in a box upstairs; the uniform folded neatly, the pins placed atop. The blade rested alongside in its scabbard. She aired out the uniform every now and then, the gaps between a little longer each time. Washed it, pressed it, folded it away. The pins she polished on quiet nights; old rituals, and the closest she ever felt to her husband. The sword, though, the sword she never touched, because Daeyl had always cared for it himself. “But I’m sure I can find you something.”
She retrieved the empty bowl, and the glass. “Though if you’ve the energy for sword forms, you’ve the energy to shave. And don’t forget your shirt next time.”
The words were softened by a smile – the first hint of one since she’d brought him through from the stairs, though that was not to mistake the fact she meant every word.
~*~
Snow had fallen; thick, wondrous, crunch under the foot snow – at least, until a thousand other footsteps compacted it down to treacherous ice. The main thoroughfares had been cleared, of course – it was Tar Valon, after all – but not the outskirts upon which Araya kept his house, where you could almost turn and reach up to the sky and capture the White Tower itself between forefinger and thumb. During the day, at least; it was dark now, or darkening, the snow glowing bright against lamplight. As they walked home, threads of fire sizzled the snow and ice to steam, creating an elaborate walkway where Korene placed her feet. It was intended to make her smile, as were most things Araya did around the kid, but he could tell by the darkening at her young brow she was only irritated with the babying. Hana had bundled her up for the outing; a dark navy scarf wound up to her nose, her hood pulled over tight, but he could still see that glower.
Araya didn’t feel the cold, but his hands were thrust into his pockets anyway; an olive-green jacket with ornate silver buttons and yellow threadwork. His chin buried down into the violet scarf wrapped round his neck, the tails drifting out behind him as he walked. A brooding walk. A thinking walk. Today's treat had been an escape to the Ogier Grove, where he'd told her the best stories he knew to fill the silence; the Tuatha’an, the Greenman, the Ogier – everything he could think off while she trundled behind, kicking powdery clumps of snow and watching her boots. Always the same ritual. She never answered, she never smiled – never even looked at him unless he asked her to, and then her eyes were dark pits, startlingly hollow, and it was usually him who looked away first.
He didn’t know who was more relieved when they reached the threshold. Araya opened the door for Korene, ushering her through before Hana could complain they were letting the chill in. Wisps of fire steamed off the snow drifts huddled on the end of his boots, dried the melt from his hair – aided by the scruff of a hand – and finally mopped up the little wet puddles Korene was leaving in her wake down the hall, off in search of Hana. They found her in the kitchen, the room bursting warmth and the most heavenly aroma (he ate meat; it hadn’t been an option not to, at the Black Tower).
“Ahh, smells great!”
He said it with a good-natured grin, though he didn’t really feel like smiling. Hana must have noted the tightness in his eyes, because her head tilted in patient sympathy. Time, Hana always said. Give it time. But nearly a year had passed already, and he wondered if he had been wrong to ever take Korene away from the Borderlands. The fact was, children usually liked Araya. He pandered to their curiosity, spoke to them like adults, entertained their whims, and never lied. It was natural as breathing for Araya to make friends. But Korene hated him.
He shrugged a dogged I know and gestured his head upwards to ask after their Asha’man guest.
“Sword forms,”
Hana said, beckoning Korene closer to help her out of the heavy cloak and scarf. “Light, child, your fingers are like ice!”
She unravelled Korene like a parcel, cheeks and nose bright with cold, dark hair damp and frizzling on the ends. Small red hands peeped from woven mittens, and Hana rubbed them rigorously with her own, while the kid watched expressionless. To Araya, Hana said: “Through there.”
So Jai was up. Which was good.
Araya had been back to the Black Tower that very morning, firstly to speak to the M’Hael; to officialise the period for recovery and explain the disappearance. Even wore the black for the occasion. A risk, if Jai were then called back, but a risk worth taking – and only a small one, anyway, Araya thought, and far better than potentially being branded a deserter. Turned out there was no risk at all; the kind of trouble Jai had brought down on Black Tower heads, Araya was beginning to understand, was the kind of trouble best tucked out of the way until it cooled down. Keeping his head low was about the most competent thing Jai could be doing right now.
The second reason he’d gone back to the Tower had been less fruitful; to that end, he was still digging.
Araya knocked before he entered, but didn’t wait for permission. Lots of men lost themselves in practice, and he didn't really expect Jai to register him - not that that was the same thing as being unaware. Asha'man were weapons, they were never unaware. Hana had clearly given him leave to push the furniture out the way to allow him enough room for ease of movement, because all the stuffed chairs were backed up against the various cabinets lining the walls. Is that a broom?
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