02-13-2018, 09:25 PM
A steady, "Yes ma'am,"
and Jai left, spooning down a refilled bowl as he went.
An hour later his throat felt better, cleaner. It looked better too, Jai concluded, turning sideways by a mirror. He left a strip of sheared off beard along his jawline, though. Cut down short enough to look purposeful and orderly. The final swipe of a towel cleaned off the traces of soap, frosted over the steam on the mirror with the Power and studied the result. He looked tired. Testing out a half-hearted smirk, and Jai was unconvinced; he'd seen better days, that was for sure. The beard was a nice change. Though it reminded him of Zakar's, who'd kept the habit up since he was old enough to start sculpting facial hair. Their father did it too, but only around the mouth, never on up as though about to meet his trim sideburns. Jai had been likely to follow in their footsteps, but one grumble from Jaslene about scruffy-haired men snuffed the desire thirteen years cold. Until now.
An inner rumble of hunger tore his attention away, and he remembered the towel then. He was unsure what to do with it, and stood there looking down at the way the dead cloth was wadded up heavy in his hands. It was fuzzy white wool of apparent good quality because no fluffs stuck to his hair when he wrapped it hot and damp across his mouth those few minutes before the shave.
It was too dirty to return to the peg he'd found it on, but there was no basket drop it in either. He blankly scanned the basin pooled with muddled water perched before him. A faint residue of soap skimmed its surface and the stuff from Araya's kit was neatly lined up around the bowl. The kit itself was exactly like his, he'd found it easily enough. Though he'd been surprised to find the full gamut of cosmetics rather than just the basics within. Oil to smear on before shaving, cream to soften and lift rough stubble. Jai was surprised Araya fell among men who found shaving to be an art. Even his straightblade came with an ivory fitted handle, and the pin rotated smoothly when Jai snapped it shut. It went swiftly back in the kit the moment he was done with it. Unliking the way it sat so promising in his fingers and grazed so smoothly across his flesh. Razor aside, Araya must have been exposed to the finer things in life at some point, because a guy would move mountains to keep this kind of stock in his kit.
Jai finally folded the damp towel into a tight square and left it by the basin. One last bottle saw a dab of soothing balm coat his fingertips and soon enough it splashed cool and refreshing as a winter wind on his face. He left then, the faint aroma of lemon hanging on the air.
He carried the coat downstairs draped over one arm rather than wearing it. His shoulders were heavy enough as they were and the tapering waist rippled impeccably under its own weight. Hana must have had it pressed professionally? Not that she was incapable of such work herself, but the folds and creases were complex for someone not used to caring for the style. Unless Araya left his stuff around for Hana to tend? It seemed doubtful. The first channeling beat into a Soldier's daily repertoire was spiffing up his boots and pressing his uniform clean. After snapping that first flame to life, that is.
While the coat was neatly draped, his shirt was tucked in tight. Enough that every reach, lunge or stretch overhead would not see it come undone. An hour passed to see everything polished, boots included, and ready to go before he settled comfortably in the clarity of monotony, and was as still as much lost when the sounds of knocking registered.
It became a blur, the passage of time which followed. The coat hung across the back of one of those chairs he'd shoved toward the wall. The broom stick studied in his palm a few minutes before it was clenched with determination and the first swing slashed the air. The would-be weapon protested at first, lagging behind awkwardly, likely yearning for more mundane responsibilities. There was no gentle reverence urging it to become something other than what it was designed to be. It fought him, a sentiment Jai understood. But soon the stick wheedled its way from the path of prosaic destiny, likely getting a taste of something unrealized and liking it, sought another. Animated of its own accord, slashes wrenched the jagged control from the arm that pivoted it, and some minutes into the routine, smoother swings emerged.
Muscle trembled, defiant of the will's unreasonable demands, and watery, screaming for rest but the beautiful hum of accuracy was a poetry of distraction. Soon, the pace dissolved from his head. Furniture glossed abstract. Walls crumbled away. Araya's figure watching from the side aged, crumbled, then fell to the dusts of time and destiny. The last of it, a low reaching arc turned deflective and upright, was consuming in the way saidin kept Jai adhered to the pins when sounds of a deserter's evil promises tempted him toward freedom.
He was lunged forward at the end, broomstick out stretched, stoked within the furnace that was holding saidin at the same time. His legs held the stance, back tight, elbow stiff, until memory confirmed behind hot eyes there was no additional move to perform. Three counts later the wood clattered to the rug, his hands dropped to his sides, and he straightened out as much as weary shoulders allowed. Panting. And for the blink of an eye while he stared at the tired substitute resting on the floor, he accepted that it wasn't losing Asad's weapon, his stolen inheritance, that finally polished away a man of his identity, it was acknowledging that he was the weapon.
"Araya."
He met the other man's gaze, a clear-headed nod the only thing to otherwise fill in the silence stretched out while the two men watched one another. Jai braced as though something might happen, but a second later, he broke the trance-like tension, retrieved his coat and shrugged it on. Expert fingers soared up the buttons, expertly shrouding him in black warmth.
Beneath the black his body shook from the exertion. Saidin cooled as well, exhaustion forced him to let it go. But he refused to wilt. Not now.
"I know I owe you,"
his voice came out steadier than he thought it would. If it'd just hold a few more moments, "But if you would do me the additional favor of a Gate back to the Black Tower? I imagine I'm past due to report."
The precept of being what they were blanked almost all emotion from eyes recently reglazed to a new world view: one of compliance. The suspense of righting the wrongs he'd committed twitched this sabbatical with uneasy rest; he was ready to return and face what must be faced: to get it over with and not be a disappointment a second time. The M'Hael did his job well; Jai praised him for that.
They were both slaves to the same healthy fear. Though Jai's cut crisp, recent. The wounds still sore and the slashes still red. It rightly shadowed everything he thought, said, and wanted. Hopefully Araya would understand. And help, this one last time. He shuddered to wonder what would happen otherwise.
and Jai left, spooning down a refilled bowl as he went.
An hour later his throat felt better, cleaner. It looked better too, Jai concluded, turning sideways by a mirror. He left a strip of sheared off beard along his jawline, though. Cut down short enough to look purposeful and orderly. The final swipe of a towel cleaned off the traces of soap, frosted over the steam on the mirror with the Power and studied the result. He looked tired. Testing out a half-hearted smirk, and Jai was unconvinced; he'd seen better days, that was for sure. The beard was a nice change. Though it reminded him of Zakar's, who'd kept the habit up since he was old enough to start sculpting facial hair. Their father did it too, but only around the mouth, never on up as though about to meet his trim sideburns. Jai had been likely to follow in their footsteps, but one grumble from Jaslene about scruffy-haired men snuffed the desire thirteen years cold. Until now.
An inner rumble of hunger tore his attention away, and he remembered the towel then. He was unsure what to do with it, and stood there looking down at the way the dead cloth was wadded up heavy in his hands. It was fuzzy white wool of apparent good quality because no fluffs stuck to his hair when he wrapped it hot and damp across his mouth those few minutes before the shave.
It was too dirty to return to the peg he'd found it on, but there was no basket drop it in either. He blankly scanned the basin pooled with muddled water perched before him. A faint residue of soap skimmed its surface and the stuff from Araya's kit was neatly lined up around the bowl. The kit itself was exactly like his, he'd found it easily enough. Though he'd been surprised to find the full gamut of cosmetics rather than just the basics within. Oil to smear on before shaving, cream to soften and lift rough stubble. Jai was surprised Araya fell among men who found shaving to be an art. Even his straightblade came with an ivory fitted handle, and the pin rotated smoothly when Jai snapped it shut. It went swiftly back in the kit the moment he was done with it. Unliking the way it sat so promising in his fingers and grazed so smoothly across his flesh. Razor aside, Araya must have been exposed to the finer things in life at some point, because a guy would move mountains to keep this kind of stock in his kit.
Jai finally folded the damp towel into a tight square and left it by the basin. One last bottle saw a dab of soothing balm coat his fingertips and soon enough it splashed cool and refreshing as a winter wind on his face. He left then, the faint aroma of lemon hanging on the air.
He carried the coat downstairs draped over one arm rather than wearing it. His shoulders were heavy enough as they were and the tapering waist rippled impeccably under its own weight. Hana must have had it pressed professionally? Not that she was incapable of such work herself, but the folds and creases were complex for someone not used to caring for the style. Unless Araya left his stuff around for Hana to tend? It seemed doubtful. The first channeling beat into a Soldier's daily repertoire was spiffing up his boots and pressing his uniform clean. After snapping that first flame to life, that is.
While the coat was neatly draped, his shirt was tucked in tight. Enough that every reach, lunge or stretch overhead would not see it come undone. An hour passed to see everything polished, boots included, and ready to go before he settled comfortably in the clarity of monotony, and was as still as much lost when the sounds of knocking registered.
It became a blur, the passage of time which followed. The coat hung across the back of one of those chairs he'd shoved toward the wall. The broom stick studied in his palm a few minutes before it was clenched with determination and the first swing slashed the air. The would-be weapon protested at first, lagging behind awkwardly, likely yearning for more mundane responsibilities. There was no gentle reverence urging it to become something other than what it was designed to be. It fought him, a sentiment Jai understood. But soon the stick wheedled its way from the path of prosaic destiny, likely getting a taste of something unrealized and liking it, sought another. Animated of its own accord, slashes wrenched the jagged control from the arm that pivoted it, and some minutes into the routine, smoother swings emerged.
Muscle trembled, defiant of the will's unreasonable demands, and watery, screaming for rest but the beautiful hum of accuracy was a poetry of distraction. Soon, the pace dissolved from his head. Furniture glossed abstract. Walls crumbled away. Araya's figure watching from the side aged, crumbled, then fell to the dusts of time and destiny. The last of it, a low reaching arc turned deflective and upright, was consuming in the way saidin kept Jai adhered to the pins when sounds of a deserter's evil promises tempted him toward freedom.
He was lunged forward at the end, broomstick out stretched, stoked within the furnace that was holding saidin at the same time. His legs held the stance, back tight, elbow stiff, until memory confirmed behind hot eyes there was no additional move to perform. Three counts later the wood clattered to the rug, his hands dropped to his sides, and he straightened out as much as weary shoulders allowed. Panting. And for the blink of an eye while he stared at the tired substitute resting on the floor, he accepted that it wasn't losing Asad's weapon, his stolen inheritance, that finally polished away a man of his identity, it was acknowledging that he was the weapon.
"Araya."
He met the other man's gaze, a clear-headed nod the only thing to otherwise fill in the silence stretched out while the two men watched one another. Jai braced as though something might happen, but a second later, he broke the trance-like tension, retrieved his coat and shrugged it on. Expert fingers soared up the buttons, expertly shrouding him in black warmth.
Beneath the black his body shook from the exertion. Saidin cooled as well, exhaustion forced him to let it go. But he refused to wilt. Not now.
"I know I owe you,"
his voice came out steadier than he thought it would. If it'd just hold a few more moments, "But if you would do me the additional favor of a Gate back to the Black Tower? I imagine I'm past due to report."
The precept of being what they were blanked almost all emotion from eyes recently reglazed to a new world view: one of compliance. The suspense of righting the wrongs he'd committed twitched this sabbatical with uneasy rest; he was ready to return and face what must be faced: to get it over with and not be a disappointment a second time. The M'Hael did his job well; Jai praised him for that.
They were both slaves to the same healthy fear. Though Jai's cut crisp, recent. The wounds still sore and the slashes still red. It rightly shadowed everything he thought, said, and wanted. Hopefully Araya would understand. And help, this one last time. He shuddered to wonder what would happen otherwise.
Only darkness shows you the light.