11-02-2017, 04:57 AM
It sat on her desk, free of its box but still nestled in its packaging. From across the tiny room, Nythadri sat on the bed, legs folded, head resting against the cold stone wall. Staring at it.
She had cared little for her own identity within the family’s structure, and had freely poured her own trinkets into her father’s open palm when he shame-facedly asked. Of all her possessions, only her instruments had earned her obstinate defence. Not so for Tashir. Her brother had been arrogant, proud, stubborn; though he, of course, had called these things loyalty, dignity, self-respect. He had hated that pendant; the gaudy gold, the ornate detail. But the day their father had come to reclaim it, he’d worn it doggedly - determined to keep their House above water, to grasp tight their noble identities and the riches he thought should be inherent to their family name. It had hung round his neck the night three men had beaten the life from him. And when she looked at it, she remembered.
It had never been recovered. Stolen for its value, or with the intention of obscuring the identity of the body it had adorned. There was no reason for it to resurface after so long, let alone into her hands. A threat? A warning? Why delivered to her and not her father? And from whom? Years had passed since Tashir’s death, and a thousand scandals and conspiracies had doubtless passed through Caemlyn’s rumour mill since. Such a thing should have been lost to dust, wholly forgotten. Yet someone had either discovered or kept it secret since Tashir’s murder. If her father had sunk into further financial turmoil, it was nothing to her. If this was a threat from his old debtors, it was not one she feared. It seemed unlikely anyway; it was a brave bailiff who threatened a daughter of the Tower. Simply an act of cruelty, then? But who would care to punish her so?
Or... light forbid, a construction of the Aes Sedai’s? Some light-forsaken lesson or test. To crown her guilt and misery with White Tower salvation. It tipped her dangerously close to old hatreds. How could things be so clear one moment and so dark the next? She could find out who sent it. She knew she could. Just as she knew she could have chased Tashir’s killers; spent years routing out the mystery of the cover-up and delivering punishment. But she never had. Sadness pushed up through her chest, threatened to shake her into something human and weak, if she let it. When she had confessed her guilt to Jai, she had felt that weakness; had realised how stagnant the old wound had become beneath the apathy. Had she ever even grieved for her brother?
She closed her eyes, locked her jaw. Saidar flooded so pure it was painful. She grew so bright, drew so agonisingly deep, that for a split-second she was the deer who saw the flight of the fatal arrow before it pierced her breast. Fear of burning herself out dimmed the need to press her boundaries; she gasped air, and control wrought an intense sort of composure. Mind charred of thought, tears banished, she stared at it. And hated that it was here, stoking emotions and memories better left to rot. Resolute, she stood, crossed the short space of the room and slammed it back in its box. Her knuckles grew white over the edges before she let go, then scraped back the chair from her desk and sat. She would not chase herself in tormented circles discovering who had sent it. Banishing the box to the edges of her vision, she pulled out a blank sheaf of parchment. And what in the light do I write? It was rare for words to come haltingly, but it was years since she had written her father. Ink blotted and scribbled several pages, those ending crumpled in frustration on the floor, before her pen stilled. Apologies, insults, accusations, sincerities, cordialities. Hundreds of words he would never read. And less than a dozen that he ever would. 'This came into my possession. I thought you would appreciate it. N.'
She had cared little for her own identity within the family’s structure, and had freely poured her own trinkets into her father’s open palm when he shame-facedly asked. Of all her possessions, only her instruments had earned her obstinate defence. Not so for Tashir. Her brother had been arrogant, proud, stubborn; though he, of course, had called these things loyalty, dignity, self-respect. He had hated that pendant; the gaudy gold, the ornate detail. But the day their father had come to reclaim it, he’d worn it doggedly - determined to keep their House above water, to grasp tight their noble identities and the riches he thought should be inherent to their family name. It had hung round his neck the night three men had beaten the life from him. And when she looked at it, she remembered.
It had never been recovered. Stolen for its value, or with the intention of obscuring the identity of the body it had adorned. There was no reason for it to resurface after so long, let alone into her hands. A threat? A warning? Why delivered to her and not her father? And from whom? Years had passed since Tashir’s death, and a thousand scandals and conspiracies had doubtless passed through Caemlyn’s rumour mill since. Such a thing should have been lost to dust, wholly forgotten. Yet someone had either discovered or kept it secret since Tashir’s murder. If her father had sunk into further financial turmoil, it was nothing to her. If this was a threat from his old debtors, it was not one she feared. It seemed unlikely anyway; it was a brave bailiff who threatened a daughter of the Tower. Simply an act of cruelty, then? But who would care to punish her so?
Or... light forbid, a construction of the Aes Sedai’s? Some light-forsaken lesson or test. To crown her guilt and misery with White Tower salvation. It tipped her dangerously close to old hatreds. How could things be so clear one moment and so dark the next? She could find out who sent it. She knew she could. Just as she knew she could have chased Tashir’s killers; spent years routing out the mystery of the cover-up and delivering punishment. But she never had. Sadness pushed up through her chest, threatened to shake her into something human and weak, if she let it. When she had confessed her guilt to Jai, she had felt that weakness; had realised how stagnant the old wound had become beneath the apathy. Had she ever even grieved for her brother?
She closed her eyes, locked her jaw. Saidar flooded so pure it was painful. She grew so bright, drew so agonisingly deep, that for a split-second she was the deer who saw the flight of the fatal arrow before it pierced her breast. Fear of burning herself out dimmed the need to press her boundaries; she gasped air, and control wrought an intense sort of composure. Mind charred of thought, tears banished, she stared at it. And hated that it was here, stoking emotions and memories better left to rot. Resolute, she stood, crossed the short space of the room and slammed it back in its box. Her knuckles grew white over the edges before she let go, then scraped back the chair from her desk and sat. She would not chase herself in tormented circles discovering who had sent it. Banishing the box to the edges of her vision, she pulled out a blank sheaf of parchment. And what in the light do I write? It was rare for words to come haltingly, but it was years since she had written her father. Ink blotted and scribbled several pages, those ending crumpled in frustration on the floor, before her pen stilled. Apologies, insults, accusations, sincerities, cordialities. Hundreds of words he would never read. And less than a dozen that he ever would. 'This came into my possession. I thought you would appreciate it. N.'