02-21-2018, 06:58 AM
Araya didn’t watch the sword forms. Even though the smooth seduction of violence lured his gaze like a sick lover’s touch, he did not watch. Every movement was ingrained anyway, and the name of each form unfurled naturally in his subconscious. Parting the Silk, Wind and Rain, Ribbon in the Air. The appreciation repulsed him before it turned to stone in his gut. The pall of recognition; this is what I am too. But they were old friends now, hatred and acceptance; disenchanted bedfellows wedded by unbreakable oaths and the crushing fist of saidin. So he perched on the edge of a chair’s arm, gaze diffused to watch nothing in particular, and waited. Outside the room he could hear the mundane scrape of cutlery, the pleasant hum of Hana’s voice. The juxtaposition was discordant; this house he called a home but did not live in, and the brother who danced death within it.
Sometime later his head popped up at recognition of his name. Thoughts fresh from introspection made him unusually severe in expression; more worthy of the black he so seldom wore. Araya was not without shadow, nor the steel core required of a man worthy of both pins. He shrugged, brushed the words aside just like that: you don’t owe me anything, and meant it. At the Tower he’d tried to find someone who knew Jai, knew him well enough to fix whatever was broken. Given the state Jai had been in when Araya had dragged him off Tower grounds, he had expected worse. Honestly, Jai didn’t seem so bad. Tired, which was to be expected, but otherwise he was exactly as he was supposed to be; tied to the cause, tied to the Tower, tied to the Dragon. Harbinger of death in black. The perfect chastened brother.
Still, he didn’t answer the second question right away. Jai presented something of a moral quandary.
Araya acknowledged himself for what he was; in as much as one raised by the Tuatha’an ever could accept himself to be the antithesis to everything he believed. He was a weapon; a blood drenched, accursed weapon. His soul was ruined. And he coped by reaching out to those around him, scooping up the lost and setting them right. Widowed Hana, orphaned Korene. He protected them so they did not have to protect themselves; helped them how he could, because he could. But when the final horn sounded he would march, and he would leave them. Maybe he would die. If the Tuatha’an never found the Song, and the Light send that they did, the consequences of Last Battle might crush this little piece of paradise; who knew what winning would cost? But why not make that difference while he could? Even if it all crumbled to dust.
Jai, though, Jai was as damned as Araya; there was no soul to save. Did it mean he deserved a blinkered existence of masochistic adherence to duty? Because the promise of it was there in that solemn gaze, like a dog brought to heel. It sat uneasy with Araya, but the thing was, for some men relentless obedience was the kinder path. It eradicated the self - removed all the difficulties a man could ever have with the blade’s edge of his fate, so that life was simple and precise and beyond the mists of doubt. A single shining path; the path that Jai’s numb gaze saw now. There was no fault in that. Araya had been there too, when his life had seeped through fingers clutched at his neck.
“The M’Hael knows where you are.”
The cold had gotten into his throat; his voice was brittle as the scuttle of leaves in midst of a dry autumn. He considered the request. Araya was not the type to play games, and nor did he pretend to know what was best for a Brother. He’d promised no strings – offered partly in honest aid, and partly because he had no idea how to even begin untangling the knot of another man’s demons. Jai was unflinching, but Asha’man were taught to be unflinching. A man could be dead inside and still keep moving, but Asha'man weren't required to function as men, just as soldiers. “You’ll go back to the Black Tower when you can create the Gate yourself.”
He said it with a blank face, reiterating among the first of lessons ingrained in a soldier, and watched for signs of cracks.
Sometime later his head popped up at recognition of his name. Thoughts fresh from introspection made him unusually severe in expression; more worthy of the black he so seldom wore. Araya was not without shadow, nor the steel core required of a man worthy of both pins. He shrugged, brushed the words aside just like that: you don’t owe me anything, and meant it. At the Tower he’d tried to find someone who knew Jai, knew him well enough to fix whatever was broken. Given the state Jai had been in when Araya had dragged him off Tower grounds, he had expected worse. Honestly, Jai didn’t seem so bad. Tired, which was to be expected, but otherwise he was exactly as he was supposed to be; tied to the cause, tied to the Tower, tied to the Dragon. Harbinger of death in black. The perfect chastened brother.
Still, he didn’t answer the second question right away. Jai presented something of a moral quandary.
Araya acknowledged himself for what he was; in as much as one raised by the Tuatha’an ever could accept himself to be the antithesis to everything he believed. He was a weapon; a blood drenched, accursed weapon. His soul was ruined. And he coped by reaching out to those around him, scooping up the lost and setting them right. Widowed Hana, orphaned Korene. He protected them so they did not have to protect themselves; helped them how he could, because he could. But when the final horn sounded he would march, and he would leave them. Maybe he would die. If the Tuatha’an never found the Song, and the Light send that they did, the consequences of Last Battle might crush this little piece of paradise; who knew what winning would cost? But why not make that difference while he could? Even if it all crumbled to dust.
Jai, though, Jai was as damned as Araya; there was no soul to save. Did it mean he deserved a blinkered existence of masochistic adherence to duty? Because the promise of it was there in that solemn gaze, like a dog brought to heel. It sat uneasy with Araya, but the thing was, for some men relentless obedience was the kinder path. It eradicated the self - removed all the difficulties a man could ever have with the blade’s edge of his fate, so that life was simple and precise and beyond the mists of doubt. A single shining path; the path that Jai’s numb gaze saw now. There was no fault in that. Araya had been there too, when his life had seeped through fingers clutched at his neck.
“The M’Hael knows where you are.”
The cold had gotten into his throat; his voice was brittle as the scuttle of leaves in midst of a dry autumn. He considered the request. Araya was not the type to play games, and nor did he pretend to know what was best for a Brother. He’d promised no strings – offered partly in honest aid, and partly because he had no idea how to even begin untangling the knot of another man’s demons. Jai was unflinching, but Asha’man were taught to be unflinching. A man could be dead inside and still keep moving, but Asha'man weren't required to function as men, just as soldiers. “You’ll go back to the Black Tower when you can create the Gate yourself.”
He said it with a blank face, reiterating among the first of lessons ingrained in a soldier, and watched for signs of cracks.
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