09-04-2016, 02:40 PM
If he had been more than a stranger, the answer might have concerned her given the implications. But he was an Asha’man she was hardly likely to ever see again, and his problems were his own. Just as hers belonged to her. Interesting answer. A hum of laughter left her throat. She appreciated the black tone even though it pointed at pain; a surprising turn from the ritualistic greeting, which she supposed confirmed it had been just that. Outside of friendship Nytahdri was not the most sympathetic of creatures. She did not feel tugged towards every broken soul; perhaps because she still nursed her own. It interested her, though, just because it was different. Diversion was the remedy to monotony.
A sardonic lilt to her lips banished whatever pretences at restraint she had thus far presented. "Am I not the envy of all? What girl doesn’t dream of attending all and sundry in the grand hall of the White Tower? Repayment for my sins, no doubt."
And Nythadri’s record was hardly unblemished, though in terms of her attendance in the hall she supposed it was her ‘dithering’ at choosing an Ajah (which was not dithering so much as lack of interest). It worked on rota, but it was unspoken tradition that those without affiliation won the most menial tasks most often; perhaps it was meant to encourage girls to bow before the Ajah that squabbled hardest for them. A path she was slowly funnelled toward but, as ever, failed to fully reach.
It begged the question of why she was still here; no-one forced you through the Arches after all, and she had accepted first time. Granted, the majority of her disillusionment had occurred after she had tied herself to the Tower, but even Accepted who failed to meet the ascendance to Aes Sedai could stray a myriad of paths in the world beyond. The thing was that you could never fully walk away from the Tower once it touched you. If it was a choice between Aes Sedai and failure, she chose the path of Aes Sedai. The single thing all channelers had in common was their desire to draw the One Power. Their addiction. To be Aes Sedai granted her the greatest protection to that addiction.
“Jai.”
She repeated his name at the same time she accepted the handshake, showing no apparent regard for whatever hierarchical bridges it crossed. Nythadri liked the beauty of hands. Farune had had beautiful hands, and he had always laughed at the way she studied them – holding them out to stream dawn light through his fingers, entwining them with her own, smoothing the callouses, kissing his leathered fingertips. The only thing that spoke truer of a person was their eyes.
She considered that these hands were weapons. That they had probably killed, and perhaps not only Shadowspawn. The thought wasn’t repulsive, even if it should have been; she was even curious to know the things these hands had done. Asha'man were weapons, and the texture of his palm confirmed he was a soldier even if his black uniform and the ease with which he carried his sword at his hip had not already. His grip was firm, not crushing. She had already begun to build an image of a man who valued precision, from the moment he had calculated the height of the ceiling and why, to his observance of ritual. Men bloomed to saidin later than women to saidar. Nythadri had been discovered later than most, already living an adult's existence and reluctant to relinquish her independence. She had found it difficult. She imagined men found it difficult too, to be pulled from their lives as young adults; bakers, farmers, lords, all trussed in black and labelled weapons regardless of morals or inclination. Who had he been before? Architect? Accountant? Scholar? Something that required precision, she was willing to bet. Not nobility, though; that glove didn't fit.
Her own hands were not as soft as one might expect of an Accepted, those of her rank being excused from any chore that was not necessary to looking after themselves. The Farm-callouses had long since healed, but her recent return to music had begun to re-toughen the tips of some fingers, which he would perhaps feel when she slipped her hand free.
“Nythadri.”
No surname, and not only because he had not offered his. It was one of few Tower rituals she had adhered to naturally, that casting off of past life. Wherein family was concerned, anyway. They had stopped sending letters by now, and she had little idea how either her family or House fared. Nor, in her coldest moments, did she care. Those were not the strings tying her to past dreams that could never fully be realised, and leashed her from moving forward to embrace the kind of freedoms she could have if she opened her eyes beyond looking back on “what ifs.”
She imagined plenty of people were watching the exchange, but if the prospect worried her she showed no sign. Gossip was an inevitable part of binding so many women to one place, and of the rumours she had heard circling herself, there was not much worse that could be said.
A sardonic lilt to her lips banished whatever pretences at restraint she had thus far presented. "Am I not the envy of all? What girl doesn’t dream of attending all and sundry in the grand hall of the White Tower? Repayment for my sins, no doubt."
And Nythadri’s record was hardly unblemished, though in terms of her attendance in the hall she supposed it was her ‘dithering’ at choosing an Ajah (which was not dithering so much as lack of interest). It worked on rota, but it was unspoken tradition that those without affiliation won the most menial tasks most often; perhaps it was meant to encourage girls to bow before the Ajah that squabbled hardest for them. A path she was slowly funnelled toward but, as ever, failed to fully reach.
It begged the question of why she was still here; no-one forced you through the Arches after all, and she had accepted first time. Granted, the majority of her disillusionment had occurred after she had tied herself to the Tower, but even Accepted who failed to meet the ascendance to Aes Sedai could stray a myriad of paths in the world beyond. The thing was that you could never fully walk away from the Tower once it touched you. If it was a choice between Aes Sedai and failure, she chose the path of Aes Sedai. The single thing all channelers had in common was their desire to draw the One Power. Their addiction. To be Aes Sedai granted her the greatest protection to that addiction.
“Jai.”
She repeated his name at the same time she accepted the handshake, showing no apparent regard for whatever hierarchical bridges it crossed. Nythadri liked the beauty of hands. Farune had had beautiful hands, and he had always laughed at the way she studied them – holding them out to stream dawn light through his fingers, entwining them with her own, smoothing the callouses, kissing his leathered fingertips. The only thing that spoke truer of a person was their eyes.
She considered that these hands were weapons. That they had probably killed, and perhaps not only Shadowspawn. The thought wasn’t repulsive, even if it should have been; she was even curious to know the things these hands had done. Asha'man were weapons, and the texture of his palm confirmed he was a soldier even if his black uniform and the ease with which he carried his sword at his hip had not already. His grip was firm, not crushing. She had already begun to build an image of a man who valued precision, from the moment he had calculated the height of the ceiling and why, to his observance of ritual. Men bloomed to saidin later than women to saidar. Nythadri had been discovered later than most, already living an adult's existence and reluctant to relinquish her independence. She had found it difficult. She imagined men found it difficult too, to be pulled from their lives as young adults; bakers, farmers, lords, all trussed in black and labelled weapons regardless of morals or inclination. Who had he been before? Architect? Accountant? Scholar? Something that required precision, she was willing to bet. Not nobility, though; that glove didn't fit.
Her own hands were not as soft as one might expect of an Accepted, those of her rank being excused from any chore that was not necessary to looking after themselves. The Farm-callouses had long since healed, but her recent return to music had begun to re-toughen the tips of some fingers, which he would perhaps feel when she slipped her hand free.
“Nythadri.”
No surname, and not only because he had not offered his. It was one of few Tower rituals she had adhered to naturally, that casting off of past life. Wherein family was concerned, anyway. They had stopped sending letters by now, and she had little idea how either her family or House fared. Nor, in her coldest moments, did she care. Those were not the strings tying her to past dreams that could never fully be realised, and leashed her from moving forward to embrace the kind of freedoms she could have if she opened her eyes beyond looking back on “what ifs.”
She imagined plenty of people were watching the exchange, but if the prospect worried her she showed no sign. Gossip was an inevitable part of binding so many women to one place, and of the rumours she had heard circling herself, there was not much worse that could be said.