Lost Violent Souls [fic]

The World outside the Grey Tower is a vast place.
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Elan
"Lord of Chaos"
Posts: 450
Joined: December 6th, 2016, 10:29 am
PC: Jaren Marle, Asha'man
SC: Mael Akashi, Asha'man
TC: Delaine Taborwin, Novice
QC: Valentin Akashi, Soldier
Location: Finland
Contact:

Lost Violent Souls [fic]

Post by Elan » August 26th, 2017, 6:47 pm

Mael Akashi - Soldier of the Black Tower -
His first impression of Andor — and what would be his most vivid memory of the country for years to come — was the rain. The incessant, cold drizzle that didn’t quite turn to sleet but blurred the landscape until everything was grey and lifeless. In Kandor, there had already been a foot of snow on the ground and more fell by the day.

When the gateway rotated shut behind him, Mael slumped forward in the saddle. Seeing the window to Kandor vanish, turn into yet more of the rainy grey nothingness that was Andor, felt like some essential part of him had been cut off, possibly for good.

He’d barely been given time to pen a letter for Ariane. He had no way of knowing if Asha’man Zarac would actually see it delivered. He had no way of knowing if the man could be trusted, yet he had no choice but to do exactly that. Trust… and hope that his wife would get the letter explaining why he’d never returned.

Hope. What a joke.

“Look alive, Akashi,” the Saldaean said cheerfully as they rode towards what seemed not so much a tower but a walled compound made of dark stone. Sure, there were tall buildings inside, but nothing that stood out as towering over the others. Yet it had to be this Black Tower he’d been told about. Zarac’s next words confirmed that readily enough. “Welcome to the Black Tower.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. More men in black uniforms came to take their horses, though these ones had neither the Sword nor the Dragon pin that Zarac sported on his collar; Soldiers, then. That much Zarac had explained already. Mael would be joining their ranks himself soon enough.

He was led to one of the several massive, blocky buildings that Zarac explained were the Soldiers’ barracks. Soldiers were housed in rooms of four, though currently Mael would be sharing his with only two others. He would be issued a uniform and then, seeing as he had started channelling already, his skills would be assessed so that he could be placed into a group corresponding with his skill level to continue learning.
* * * “Name?”

“Mael Akashi, sir.” Mael watched the man sitting on the other side of the desk warily. Had Asha’man Zarac told the man nothing about him, or was this a test of some sort?

Without as much as looking up at Mael, the man scribbled something down on the heavy book before him. “Age? Nationality?”

“Twenty-six, sir. Kandor, sir.”

The man snorted softly. “Bloody Borderlanders.” Now he did look up at Mael. “I bet you think you know how to use that sword of yours, too, eh?”

Mael blinked, startled. He was a Borderlander, a lord whose lands skirted the Blightborder; of-bloody-course he knew how to use the sword. His hand went instinctively to the hilt though he had no intention of drawing the weapon, not here, not in an Asha’man’s office. “As a matter of fact, I—”

“I’m not actually interested, son,” the Asha’man said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Just know that whatever you think you know, it’s not gonna be enough, and it’s not gonna set you apart from the other Soldiers in any way.” He waited for Mael to nod before continuing. “Now, you’re the one as fancies himself a Dreamer, unless Zarac’s talking out of his ass again. Hmm?”

“I don’t know about any… Dreaming,” Mael replied quietly. “Everybody has nightmares. But if you mean the sort that leave scars…” He rolled up his sleeves to reveal the scars that ran along his arms; the mending process had been far enough along by the time he’d got to Chachin that even Zarac’s Healing hadn’t made the scars fade completely. He lifted his chin and stared back at the Asha’man across the desk. “…Then, yes, I suppose I am one.”

The Asha’man smiled thinly. “So you do have some spirit,” he said, sounding almost bored though the words were approving, on the surface level. “Just be sure you don’t talk back to the wrong people… and anyone with more pins on their collar than you is ‘wrong people’. My name is Artan Sandhill; that’s Asha’man Sandhill to you. I’m in charge of the Soldiers, and that means I’m the one you need to impress before you’re getting your grubby little Borderlander paws on the Sword pin. I can tell you right now your scars aren’t doing it.”

Face flushing with humiliation, Mael opened his mouth to argue, then clamped it shut again without saying anything. The amused glint in the Asha’man’s eyes made Mael hate the man even more.

“Now, you’ll be expected in the channelling grounds, so run along. Ask for Asha’man Trenvael, he’ll be doing your evaluation.” When Mael stood to leave, the Asha’man spoke once more. “Oh, and tell me… What were your parents thinking of when they named you? ‘Hope’? Honestly?”

Mael simply gave him another withering look and saluted the way he’d seen other Soldiers do, before turning on his heels and stalking out of the room.
* * * Alastair Trenvael was nothing like Artan Sandhill, or even Sayid Zarac. Trenvael had a commanding presence, yet he didn’t speak condescendingly to those of lower rank, and it took Mael a while to realise that Trenvael was not in fact taller than him, such was the aura of utter confidence and competence he projected. Over the next hours he talked Mael through the process of accessing the True Source, which he’d never done consciously before, and they were well into the different elements by the time the bell rang, announcing it was time for dinner.
* * * Over the following days and weeks, Mael got better acquainted with life in the Black Tower. It was a harsh life, even for a Borderlander, and within the first week, Mael witnessed another Soldier burn out after losing control of saidin in the training grounds. The unfortunate soul was sent out of the Tower and only his friends seemed sorry to see him go, or indeed feel anything for him at all though he probably didn’t have long to live. To the Black Tower he was nothing but a ruined tool, now.

“It seems heartless, I know,” Asha’man Trenvael replied when Mael commented on the matter at the end of a lesson one day. “But life without saidin, after you’ve tasted it, is no life worth living. I’m sure you can see that. Trying to keep the poor kid alive would be more cruel than letting him go and do what he will.”

Mael reluctantly agreed, and the matter was settled, no more was said of it and the conversation was forgotten.

His training continued. The Black Tower pushed its students hard, but Mael learnt quickly and was able to keep up with the ever heightening demands of his teachers. Asha’man Trenvael was the only one of those teachers he actually grew to like; Trenvael was as demanding as any of them, but unlike the others, he was never unnecessarily cruel. He had a way with the students, the ability to motivate and bring out the best in people, at least in terms of talent.

Mael discovered that he had an affinity for Fire and Spirit, fair skill with Air and Earth, and some trouble with Water. He was taught to use the Power as a weapon; that was the main purpose of the Asha’man of the Black Tower, as Trenvael explained it, to fight in the Last Battle once it came. Being a Borderlander, Mael could understand and accept it readily enough. He’d been fighting the Shadow all his life; now he would just learn to do it more efficiently.

Some of the things taught, however, seemed to have little to do with fighting the Shadow. Weaves of Spirit and Fire could be used to inflict pain without causing physical damage, and though Mael never displayed any particular talent for such thing, he was taught the basics, like every man in the Black Tower. He didn’t enjoy inflicting pain, and he struggled to see the necessity of it until Asha’man Trenvael made him observe the interrogation of a Darkfriend; the experience made Mael grudgingly accept that there was a time and a place for less savoury methods.
* * * As for the thing that had brought Mael to the Black Tower in the first place — Dreaming — most of his teachers didn’t seem to put too much stock in such things, if they believed him at all. Dreaming was considered largely useless, something Aes Sedai might wax poetic about but which wouldn’t be of any use to an Asha’man. Weapons didn’t dream… or Dream.

Alastair Trenvael was the only one to take him seriously at all, and even he couldn’t help much because he was no Dreamer himself and didn’t understand the matter too well. Mael was left to his own devices with his Talent.

Sharing a room with other Soldiers, he had to learn to wake up quickly and without making a scene; his fellow students understood Dreaming even less than his teachers, and waking up screaming from a perceived nightmare was considered a sign of weakness to be exploited.

The first time he Dreamt since coming to the Black Tower was a couple of months after his arrival. He saw Ariane standing on a barren field, holding their infant son, Eleas. Behind her, a great roaring fire was coming, her form silhouetted against the flames. Mael tried to tell her to run, but he wasn’t truly there, his screams echoing into nothingness while she stood still as though unaware of the danger… Yet when the fire reached her, it parted on either side of her, passing by without harming either her or the child.

Mael woke up with a start, breathing hard, heart pounding in his chest. It took him a while to get his bearings, remember where he was… And when he did, he found that he’d woken up his roommates. Mael stifled a groan and rubbed his face, trying to shake the last shreds of the Dream and hoping the two younger men might just go back to sleep.

Alas, no such luck.

“So what was that about?” the younger of them, a Saldaean called Ezran, asked. He didn’t sound like he actually cared, but then he never did.

“Whatever it was, can you not make a habit of it,” the other one, a Cairhienin lordling judging by his accent, said in a bored voice. “Some of us would like to sleep.” Ezra voiced his agreement emphatically.

Mael didn’t reply; he didn’t feel like explaining anything right now, and certainly not to these two. He turned to face the wall and pulled the thin blanket up over his head, but it didn’t block the sound of his roommates’ snickering amongst themselves. After that, he did his best to keep his Dreams to himself and gradually learnt to sleep very still, and to wake himself up at will from ordinary dreams or nightmares.

He was left to learn navigating Tel’aran’rhiod on his own as well; the only help he received on that front was finding out the name in a book Asha’man Trenvael gave him. This resulted in several narrow brushes with death over the following years, and several more scars, but he survived, sometimes through sheer dumb luck, and kept surviving for long enough to learn from his mistakes and experiences.

Over time, Tel’aran’rhiod became something of a refuge to him, a place he could escape the harsh reality of the Black Tower. It was the one place where he felt in control; he could go anywhere, do anything… be anything. Learning to use Tel’aran’rhiod for anything useful happened quite by accident. He was exploring the areas of the Black Tower where Soldiers weren’t allowed when he discovered that he could sometimes read pieces of correspondence, documents, letters and orders from the M’Hael’s desk. He tried the method elsewhere and found that it worked just as well, though the text only remained fixed for small amounts of time before changing into something else entirely. Though there was nothing in particular he was looking to find out at present, he kept practising in case it became useful at some point.
* * * If there was something the Black Tower taught its students, it was to not question one’s superiors… And that was perhaps the thing Mael struggled with the most. Asha’man Sandhill never said it outright, but Mael wasn’t stupid; he could figure out that his unwillingness to blindly conform was why he was kept from advancing to Dedicated for twice as long as other Soldiers at his skill level. Eventually, it was Alastair Trenvael who intervened on his behalf, threatening to kick up a fuss if Mael wasn’t treated according to his abilities.

“Tell me,” Artan Sandhill said, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he eyed Mael from behind his desk, “is he bedding you? Or what does he get out of fighting your battles? Does he simply wish to sow discord, to show the world that he can override my authority?”

Mael glanced down at the silver Sword pin glimmering on the desk between them before meeting the Asha’man’s eyes again. “Asha’man Trenvael does not explain everything he does. Certainly not to me.” He kept his voice even; not outright challenging if not exactly deferential, either. Much as he wanted to punch the condescending smirk off the Asha’man’s face, he knew he couldn’t afford to antagonise the man any more than he had to. At best he’d get himself into more trouble, and at worst he’d drag Alastair down with him.

Sandhill smiled thinly. “But of course,” he said. “You are, after all, just a Soldier.” He waited for a moment longer before pushing the Sword pin towards Mael, but even then he didn’t let the Soldier pick it up just yet. “Have a care with Trenvael. Whether he’s screwing you in bed or not, associating with him may yet screw you over in other ways.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Mael replied blandly. “If there was nothing else..?”

Sandhill gave a nonchalant shrug. “Suit yourself.” He gestured for Mael to finally take the pin. “Good luck, Dedicated.” There was an audible sneer in his voice at the last word. “You’re going to need it.”


Mael sought Alastair out after the meeting and asked the Asha’man about the things Asha’man Sandhill had said. Well, the thing about getting in trouble for associating with Alastair, not the other thing. That wasn’t something Mael wanted Alastair to ever hear implied; Mael had a wife, though he was forbidden from keeping in touch with her until he gained the Dragon pin, and from the way things looked in the Black Tower, he suspected Ariane and their son were safer if he appeared to have forgotten everything about them.

Alastair gave him a long, contemplative look before speaking. “There are people in the Black Tower,” he began, “who believe I’m conspiring against the M’Hael. Some even go as far as to say I’m plotting a coup.”

“And are you?” Mael asked.

Ginger eyebrows shot up and Alastair barked an incredulous laugh. “If I were, do you expect me to talk about it?”

Mael shrugged, unfazed. “You can’t stage a coup alone,” he said, a detached part of his mind marvelling at how calm he sounded, as though the subject matter wasn’t something that could get both their heads hung in the Traitor’s Tree if anyone happened to overhear. They were in Alastair’s quarters, behind layers of Wards, but nowhere on the continent was safe enough to talk about this. Hells, if he’d miscalculated and Alastair was loyal to the M’Hael, he might send Mael there anyway. But… he didn’t think he was wrong about Alastair Trenvael. “You’d need followers.”

The silence that followed stretched on for long enough to make Mael nearly doubt his judgement… But finally Alastair spoke. “And you’re signing up?”

“If you’d have me.” There was no hesitation in Mael’s voice, or his heart. Alastair was the only one in the Black Tower who had shown him a semblance of kindness; Mael would follow him all the way to Shayol Ghul itself if need be. When the silence dragged on again, when Alastair gave no sign of what he might be thinking, Mael went on, “I know I’m not influential or someone people look up to, but I’m strong and a skilled channeller and you’re going to need numbers…”

He cut off when Alastair raised a hand in a warning gesture. The Asha’man channelled to bring a bottle of brandy and two glasses from the liquor cabinet. He poured the drinks and floated one of the glasses to Mael. “Have a drink, boy, and listen.” He waited for Mael to nod before continuing. “I’m not planning a coup. Simply because right now it would be suicide, and I’m not tired of my life just yet.” He flashed a crooked smile. “It’s no secret that I don’t like the M’Hael and he doesn’t like me, but as long as I keep my head down and don’t openly oppose him in anything important, he can’t get rid of me, I’m too powerful and a lot of the men respect me. If he got rid of me, it might cause him more problems than it would solve. And he knows he’s safe from any direct action from my part; he’s the M’Hael, he’s in control.”

Mael nodded slowly. “A delicate balance,” he murmured and brought the glass to his lips. The potent drink burned its way down his throat and he grimaced faintly — he’d never been much of a drinker, and Soldiers weren’t allowed alcohol — but it did help calm his nerves a little.

“A delicate balance indeed,” Alastair agreed. He gave a wry half-chuckle. “Light, I could wish you weren’t so perceptive. It would be a good sight easier to just tell you you’re imagining things and that Sandhill is full of shit. Which, of course he is, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a point.” He fixed the younger man with a level look. “I’ll do my best but I can’t guarantee that I can protect you.”

Mael wanted to assure him that he didn’t need protection, but fact was that he had no other friends in the Black Tower, and he was likely making powerful enemies… And he was still only a Dedicated. Without Alastair, nobody would question it if an accident was to happen to him. So he held his peace and merely nodded, and that was the end of the subject… for now.
Last edited by Elan on March 9th, 2018, 12:44 am, edited 1 time in total.

Elan
"Lord of Chaos"
Posts: 450
Joined: December 6th, 2016, 10:29 am
PC: Jaren Marle, Asha'man
SC: Mael Akashi, Asha'man
TC: Delaine Taborwin, Novice
QC: Valentin Akashi, Soldier
Location: Finland
Contact:

Re: Lost Violent Souls [fic]

Post by Elan » August 26th, 2017, 6:49 pm

Mael Akashi - Dedicated of the Black Tower -
Mael’s training continued as a Dedicated. Like his peers, he now had more freedom but also more responsibilities than as a Soldier. He was given students to teach, new Soldiers who could barely light a candle if even that, and whenever any of them advanced in their skills enough to start working on battle weaves, they were assigned to other teachers’ care. Other Dedicated were allowed to teach more advanced classes, and though again nobody said it outright, Mael strongly suspected that this was Sandhill’s way of making it appear as though Mael was no better than a Soldier himself.

Alastair told him to pay it no mind; petty power games were where Artan Sandhill’s true influence ended. Nobody else cared about what level of students Mael was teaching. As a Dedicated, it was far more relevant how well he did in his own classes, and he learnt fast enough that several of his teachers were grudgingly impressed. Nobody showed any interest in pushing for his promotion to Asha’man, though.

Nobody but Alastair.

Of course, the political climate of the Tower being what it was, being mentored by Alastair was not a point in his favour. Mael remained a Dedicated for far longer than he should have by rights, a fact which made Alastair angry, but the Asha’man was already in a precarious enough position that he was hesitant to make a big deal of favouring Mael.

But no matter how careful Alastair was being, he couldn’t prevent Mael from getting into trouble on his own.

The spar wasn’t meant to involve the Power; the students of the Black Tower were taught mundane weapon skills as well as saidin, and Dedicated were encouraged to use real steel against each other. Healing was readily available, after all, and the teachers believed that Dedicated should be beyond wooden practice swords.

Mael was pitted against his former roommate, Ezran, and the Saldaean was good… but not better than Mael. The match was very even, to the point that they were both getting tired without neither gaining a clear upper hand, the gathered crowd getting bored — until Mael tripped seemingly on thin air and stumbled. Ezran used the momentum to knock him down and disarm him.

The impact drove the breath out of him and made stars dance in his vision. Struggling to draw breath, he pushed himself up on his elbows, looking around. The Asha’man supervising the spar was watching impassively, as though he didn’t find any fault in what Ezran had done. But Mael knew the ground, he knew his own balance, and he knew he hadn’t simply tripped over his own feet. Someone had channelled; if not Ezran, who’d been hard pressed to keep up with the duel itself, then one of the onlookers. The Saldaean certainly had enough friends in the crowd, and Mael had none.

Still trying to catch his breath, Mael stood up to see Ezran being congratulated by his friends. White-hot rage welled within him; rage not only at the injustice of what had just happened, but at every slight he’d been dealt, every indignity he’d been made to suffer during his time at the Black Tower. The Asha’man standing smugly by and turning a blind eye to blatant cheating was but the last straw.

Rage flared, burned away, focused into a sharp edge as he slipped into the Void. Saidin was immediately within his grasp, and he reached for it, drawing deeply of the True Source. “Ezran!”

The Saldaean whirled around, eyes wide with alarm. The Asha’man and several of the others were seizing saidin as well, but they couldn’t link and any single one of them wasn’t strong enough to shield Mael while he was already holding the Power. The Asha’man was shouting at Mael to release saidin, but Mael was too angry to listen.

He channelled, ropes of Air snaking around Ezran, lifting the Saldaean up into the air. “You think you can humiliate me?” he said, voice smooth but hard. “You think you can—”

He was cut off when one of the other Dedicated barrelled into him, knocking him down again. He lost his hold on the flows of Air holding Ezran, and the Saldaean fell to the ground with an indignant yelp. Mael pushed the other Dedicated aside with a barrier of Air, but his hold on saidin was shaken enough that the Asha’man managed to cut him off and shield him… And then Ezran’s friends were bearing down on him like an angry mob.

Shielded, all Mael could do was try to shield his head with his arms as the blows rained down… Until something like a thunderclap split the air. The beating stopped and the other Dedicated scrambled back. Mael could hear them muttering nervously among themselves, and he wanted to get up to see what was going on but everything hurt too much — and then he heard Alastair’s voice. With a few curt words, Alastair dispersed the crowd, but not without ordering the other Dedicated to report to Asha’man Sandhill for disciplinary measures.

Then, Mael heard footsteps approaching, and Alastair crouched next to him. The Asha’man laid a hand on Mael’s arm, and then Mael felt the chill of Delving. Alastair grunted and brushed sweat-plastered — or was it blood? — curls back from Mael’s forehead. “You’ll be fine,” he said in a low voice. “You’ll be fine…” Then he straightened, calling out to somebody else. “Brendon, we need Healing here.”

Another Asha’man Healed Mael and helped him up… and then he was face to face with Alastair.

“Come with me, boy.”

The walk to Alastair’s quarters was long and silent. Though Mael had been Healed, he thought he could still feel the blows, taste blood in his mouth. The stony look on Alastair’s face whenever Mael dared to steal a glance his way was far from reassuring. But Mael also remembered the sound of Alastair’s voice, the relief in it after the Delving, the gentleness of his touch. Alastair had been frightened, finding Mael beaten on the ground; he’d have to remember that in whatever else was to come.

“What under the bloody flaming Light do you think you were doing?” Alastair demanded as soon as they were once more in his quarters, behind his Wards. He was pacing the length of the sitting room, casting furious looks at Mael in between glaring at everything in general.

“Sir, I—” Mael began, but trailed off under the weight of Alastair’s glare. “Nothing, sir,” he said, subdued, lowering his eyes to stare at the floor.

“Damn right you were thinking nothing!” Alastair stopped pacing, drew a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair before speaking again, sounding calmer if no less angry. “You could have gotten yourself killed. Lars wasn’t going to stop the beating. He’d have stood there and watched as those sons of goats beat a shielded man to death, and he would have gotten away with it, claiming you were dangerous, that you attacked another student unprovoked.” He held a hand up to forestall any protests. “I know it wasn’t unprovoked; I know you, Mael, and I’m not stupid.” But before Mael had the chance to feel relieved, he went on, “Though frankly, I thought you’d be smarter than that, too.”

Though he was still inwardly railing at the injustice of what had happened, Mael felt too ashamed to speak out in his defence. “Yes, sir,” he said, looking down again… until a thought came to him and he met Alastair’s eyes once more. “What will happen now?” he asked, trying not to sound as worried as he was. “Ezran won’t forget, and I doubt that Asha’man — Lars? — is happy about your interference? Will you get in trouble for this?”

Alastair barked a laugh and shook his head. “They can’t do anything to me,” he said with a dismissive gesture. “I’m quite safe, I assure you. But you may not be. That Saldaean bastard will be looking for ways to get back at you, if I know his type at all, and the others won’t be far behind.” He eyed Mael for a moment, looking thoughtful. “I think it’s time for some practical learning. Pack your things, we’re going to the Borderlands.”
* * * And on to the Borderlands they went. For the next several months, the two patrolled the Blightborder, Travelling from place to place, fighting the Shadow where they encountered it. Every now and then they’d come to a village and Alastair would test anyone who wanted to find out whether they could channel, and sent anyone who tested positive back to the Black Tower via a gateway, but beyond that they had no contact with the Black Tower, at least that Mael was aware of.

During these months of travelling and fighting, Mael learnt a lot about his own strengths and weaknesses as a channeller in a way that simply blasting up rocks or target dummies in the Black Tower training grounds could never have taught him. He learnt resilience and endurance, how to conserve his strength and fight as efficiently as possible in an encounter that dragged on for longer than anticipated or against foes whose numbers turned out greater than expected.

Besides channelling, he also learnt to know Alastair better and soon enough began to see the Asha’man as not only a mentor but a friend. Out of the stifling confines of the Black Tower, away from the politics and power struggles, the older man seemed so much more alive; the hardened, cynical shell opened up to reveal an immensely charming man with a sense of humour and a mile-wide reckless streak, who laughed in the face of danger… before obliterating said danger and going out of his way to find more.

As nights grew long and dark by the campfires, Mael found it increasingly difficult to keep in mind that he was married.

And that was partly why he eventually asked Alastair if they could head over to Kandor next.

The look Alastair gave him was full of thinly veiled speculation. “Took you long enough to ask,” was all the Asha’man said, and it was then that Mael realised that Alastair had been expecting the question for a while already. The next morning, they Travelled to Kandor.
* * * The village at the foot of the hill upon which the Akashi manor stood looked like it had seen better days, but in truth that was how it always looked; this close to the Blightborder, anything that looked too thriving would only attract twice the attention from the Shadow. Mael explained this to Alastair when he noticed the Asha’man looking around as they rode through the village, pointing out how nothing was actually in bad repair though buildings looked old and grey and washed out.

The manor itself was more a fortified keep than anything; it had to be strong enough to withstand a Trolloc raid, and big enough to be able to shelter the population of the village and their livestock until the danger passed and people would return to their ransacked homes to rebuild and carry on with their lives. From its position on the hill, the walled building was easily defensible and had a good view in every direction, giving its guards time to alert the villagers to any danger. Mael remembered the countless times he’d rushed down to the village with the guards to help people reach safety, and to protect those who were slower.

Now he would be able to do all that on his own, and so much more, with the One Power… If he ever came back home to stay. He’d always assumed he would, once he was raised to Asha’man, but now as they rode up to the manor gates he wasn’t so sure anymore.

“Do you want to greet your wife alone?” Alastair asked as they left their horses in the hands of a stable boy and a guard escorted them inside the manor.

Mael shook his head. “That… will not be necessary,” he said. A part of him wanted to beg Alastair not to leave him alone with Ariane, and though he gave no voice to the sentiment, perhaps Alastair heard it anyway, because the Asha’man didn’t try to argue and simply nodded.

Ariane awaited them in a sitting room, with two children playing on the thick rug before the fireplace. Two children. Eleas would be eight or nine by now, and the older of the children matched that age, but the younger… Mael stared, transfixed, until Ariane’s voice snapped him out of his trance.

“Leander will be six, come next spring,” she said coolly.

Six years. Mael’s mind raced as he tried to do the math, to remember how long he’d been away. Light, was it possible? He tore his eyes off the children, who were now looking back at him, dark eyes bright with curiosity. The younger boy — Leander — looked so much like Eleas… who was a miniature version of Mael himself. He looked helplessly over to Alastair, who looked like he was regretting every decision that had led them here; the Asha’man would be of no help in this.

Finally, Ariane stood up and rang a bell, and a nursemaid came in to herd the children away. When the door closed behind them, Ariane spoke again. “I was with child when you left,” she said, her voice tinged with weary resignation. “Leander is yours. For what it’s worth.”

And she would have been all alone, dealing with running the House and protecting the village and not one but two children… Mael drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I had no idea— Why didn’t you tell me?”

Something fierce flashed in her eyes, and Ariane suddenly advanced on him and punched him in the face. Taken by surprise, Mael staggered backwards and might have fallen if Alastair hadn’t steadied him. Ariane, meanwhile, stood rubbing her hand distractedly and glaring at the two men. “I wrote to you,” she said, “but did you write back? No! Not a word, in almost six years! You didn’t care enough to wonder how your son was doing? Your wife?”

“I didn’t care enough?” Anger and helpless frustration made Mael’s voice crack and he cut off with a hiss, trying to calm down. He didn’t want to alarm the children, if they were still within earshot; the room was not Warded against sound, though now he wished he’d thought of doing so. He shook his head slowly. “I didn’t know,” he repeated, less loudly at least if he didn’t exactly feel much calmer. “If you wrote to me, I never got your letters. I didn’t know.

The ice in Ariane’s eyes showed no signs of thawing. “And would it have made a difference if you knew?”

Mael opened his mouth to speak, to declare that of course it would have made a difference; it would have changed everything… but the words died on his tongue. Would it have, truly? Would he have left the Black Tower? Even if he’d been allowed to drop his training and go home, would he have taken the opportunity? He could see Ariane had seen the truth of it before he ever admitted it to himself. He released a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, feeling defeated, and closed his eyes against the accusation in his wife’s stare.

“I didn’t think so,” she said softly. When Mael looked at her again, she’d folded her arms and everything about her posture spoke of wounded pride, but the edge of anger was gone. “I think you should leave.”

Mael nodded. “Of course.” He hesitated for a second. “If you wish… If you wish to divorce me, to be free to marry again, I have no objections. Eleas will be the High Seat— I will officially step down, of course— and you will remain his guardian until he reaches the age of majority…”

“Divorce you?” For the first time during the encounter, Ariane actually sounded surprised. “On what grounds?”

“Infidelity,” Mael replied without thinking, without missing a beat. Only the shock on Ariane’s face made him realise the implications of what he’d said and he felt his face flush slightly with embarrassment, but he stood his ground. “If I’ve been unfaithful, nobody can fault you for wanting a divorce.”

“I see.” Ariane watched him for a long while in silence. “There’s not really been another woman, has there.” It wasn’t a question; there was barely any inflection and she certainly seemed confident enough that she was right.

Keeping his face carefully blank, Mael replied, “There has not been another… woman.” But as he spoke, he glanced sideways to Alastair, who was still trying to pretend he wasn’t there and definitely not listening.

Ariane followed his gaze to Alastair, and her eyebrows arched eloquently. “I see,” she repeated. “However,” she went on, “I have no intention of marrying again. And I doubt you’re seeking to marry him, so a divorce will not be necessary. I will remain your wife, not just the guardian of your children, I will continue to run your household as I have done the past six years. And you will go back to your Black Tower and stay there. You will not intrude on our lives again.”

Of course, there was only one thing Mael could say. “Very well.”
* * * They stayed the night, and in the morning they resupplied and continued on their way, without ceremony like any ordinary guests. Anyone outside the manor never even knew that the High Seat of House Akashi had come to visit, and the occasion was likely kept quiet even within the manor staff. That was fair enough; Mael hadn’t returned to stay and it would have only confused the people who had got used to Ariane being in charge of the household over the past years.

It was several days again until either Mael or Alastair spoke of what had passed. They were camped some miles south of the Blightborder, far enough that the vegetation and climate were both appropriate to the Borderlands; the horses were more at ease out of the Blight proper, and sleeping was generally safer when plants weren’t liable to try to kill you in your sleep.

Alastair poked at the fire with a stick, making sparks fly up into the darkness of the night. “What you said to your wife,” he began then, looking up at Mael. “Or what you implied, rather. About us.”

Mael froze. “What about it?” he asked, trying to sound casual and failing horribly.

There was a clear note of amusement in Alastair’s voice when he spoke again. “Somebody might interpret it as an invitation.”

“Is that so?” He looked at the other man over the fire, but Alastair’s expression was unreadable, the shadows cast by the fire dancing on his face. “And how do you interpret it?”

Alastair snorted softly. “I think you’re lonely and hurting and desperate for a friendly touch,” he said. “I think you’re young, but more than that, I think you’re human and about to make a very human mistake.”

“If…” Mael trailed off, mouth suddenly dry. “If you think it’s a mistake, why don’t you stop me? Why don’t you say no?”

Alastair’s laughter held no amusement. “Because I’m only human, too.”

Mael had no recollection of getting up, of rounding the campfire— but then Alastair met him halfway and nothing short of a full fist of Trollocs could have stopped them from making that mistake.
* * * Later that night, asleep in Alastair’s arms, was the first time Mael Dreamt of a tower made of glass. Tall and majestic, it rose to the heavens above, seeming to grow taller still even as Mael watched. Sunlight reflected off its walls and windows until it seemed to shine its own light over the surrounding lands. Like a sword of Light, it reached up to stab the clouds that tried to gather over it, penetrating through the darkness no matter how thick the clouds grew.

Mael awoke from the Dream feeling lost and confused, but he didn’t want to worry Alastair and so he kept the Dream to himself.
* * * They returned to the Black Tower soon after that night; they couldn’t stay away forever, Alastair reasoned, not without being branded deserters and he wasn’t willing to give up on the Black Tower. Mael could understand that. Alastair had a position of some power there, though one he had to constantly fight to maintain, and he wanted to make a difference. These past months of travelling with Mael had been an indulgent escape and he couldn’t be sure of the consequences.

Of course, Mael wasn’t thrilled to be returning to the life of a Dedicated, either. Alastair had let him forget about rank — had in fact insisted on it — but being back in the Black Tower reminded them both of it soon enough. Alastair loomed silently in the background while he met with Artan Sandhill, and Mael more than suspected his presence was the only thing keeping Sandhill from resorting to truly sadistic measures to punish what he saw as a runaway Dedicated. Alastair insisted that he’d required Mael’s assistance with a mission to the Blight, and Sandhill was in no position to directly contradict him.

What was unexpected was that it only took weeks after that for Mael to be raised to Asha’man.
Last edited by Elan on March 9th, 2018, 12:45 am, edited 1 time in total.

Elan
"Lord of Chaos"
Posts: 450
Joined: December 6th, 2016, 10:29 am
PC: Jaren Marle, Asha'man
SC: Mael Akashi, Asha'man
TC: Delaine Taborwin, Novice
QC: Valentin Akashi, Soldier
Location: Finland
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Re: Lost Violent Souls [fic]

Post by Elan » August 26th, 2017, 6:50 pm

Mael Akashi - Asha'man of the Black Tower -
As a Dedicated, Mael had been easy to dismiss and keep from anything important or interesting, but as an Asha’man, his strength in the Power couldn’t be ignored. Someone of his ability couldn’t be forgotten behind a desk and left to rot, but neither did the leadership want him — or anyone with ties to Alastair Trenvael — involved in anything too important. So he was thrown into the front lines in any conflict the Black Tower was involved in… And if there was nothing, he practically lived in the Blight.

He didn’t mind too much. The Black Tower was all he had, but it was hardly a home and so staying away from it was no hardship. Often he had a small group of Asha’man or Dedicated with him, and over the following years he proved himself enough that even the Asha’man assigned to accompany him accepted his leadership over the operations. The Blightborder became his home, the men under his command his family, and the never-ending fight against the Shadow his lover.

True to his word, however, he did stay away from a certain village in Kandor.

Alastair rarely had the chance to accompany him. The older Asha’man had his own battles within the walls of the Black Tower, and though he didn’t talk much about it when they were together, Mael could tell he was increasingly angry and frustrated with the situation. A couple of times Mael tried to get him to talk, to accept help, but Alastair insisted that the best thing Mael could do was not to get involved.

It didn’t make Mael particularly happy, to have his assistance brushed aside for his own safety, but he didn’t want to spend their time together on useless arguments. Alastair would do as he bloody well pleased, as he always had, and Mael could either live with it or stop associating with him entirely.

And the latter he was not going to do.

They never defined their relationship, never really talked about what they were to each other. Mael tried to bring it up a few times, but Alastair shut the conversation down, saying that if what they had wasn’t enough for Mael, he didn’t have to keep coming back. Those conversations always left Mael frustrated and on edge, but he didn’t want to lose Alastair completely and so he stopped bringing the subject up. Eventually he concluded there was nothing to talk about; they weren’t exactly in love, and while falling into Alastair’s bed when they both were at the Tower was pleasurable, Mael was happiest when he had Alastair by his side on the battlefield.

Clearly, it wasn’t love.
* * * Years passed and things remained much the same. Alastair didn’t stage his coup though he remained a thorn in the M’Hael’s side; an outright rebellion might have torn the Black Tower apart. That had never been what Alastair wanted; he believed in the Black Tower, though he had his differences with the current leadership. Mael spent most of his time up by the Blightborder. He never became an officer in any official capacity, the leadership still didn’t like him, but the men who served with him respected him and valued his competence.

Of course there were times when everything didn’t go according to plan. Losing men in battle was something Mael never grew used to, no matter how well he knew he couldn’t always be lucky. If the fallen had any known family, Mael would write to them himself, as well as provide financial support as needed. The Tower leadership didn’t entirely approve of his actions, but since it was his own money he was handing out, not the Tower’s funds, they couldn’t exactly stop him from doing it.
* * * Mael didn’t go back to Kandor. Ariane’s parting words remained fresh in his memory no matter how many years passed, and eventually enough time had passed that he had to consider the fact that she wasn’t a channeller. Did he even want to see her — did he want her to see him — as she grew old and and he didn’t? It wouldn’t be fair.

A part of him wanted to go and test his sons for the ability when they reached the suitable age; though he’d hardly been a father to either of them, he didn’t want to think about outliving his children by centuries. The year Eleas turned nineteen was especially difficult, and he ended up making a compromise with himself: he wrote to his son.

The answer was curt and unambiguous; neither Eleas nor Leander wanted anything to do with Mael or the Black Tower, or the One Power if they could help it.

Mael didn’t write again.
* * * He’d been an Asha’man for nearly thirty years when his life changed again. There must have been a traitor in their midst because there was no warning when the fists of Trollocs descended upon the small camp Mael and his men had set up for the night. The chaos was too complete to use large-scale battle weaves without risking hitting their comrades as well as Trollocs, and as the battle raged on, Mael found himself separated from the others

Somehow he got to his horse and managed to control the terrified beast enough to mount up, thinking he could see better if he was higher off the ground. It did help a little, he managed to locate the other Asha’man and assist some of them, but it also made him a better target for the Trollocs. Keeping up defensive Wards and barriers while fighting was tiring and the Trollocs kept coming, and in the end it only took one miscalculation, one moment of distraction—

The horse went down from under him and he didn’t manage to roll clear, getting crushed under the beast.

Through the haze of pain, he could still hear the sounds of the battle, the screams and the explosions and the clash of steel, but also something… else. And then the horse carcass was lifted off of him. The voices that spoke were not Trolloc, but that was all he could figure out before darkness claimed him.

The next thing he knew, Alastair was kneeling over him. He couldn’t move and everything hurt. “You’re awake?” the older Asha’man said. “Good. I’m going to try to Heal you—”

“Are you out of your mind, Trenvael?” another voice interjected. “You’ll kill him!”

Alastair’s voice, when he spoke again, was grim. “If we move him, he dies. If we leave him to wait for a Healer, he dies. I’m the best chance he’s got, so just guard my bloody back and shut the hell up.” He looked at Mael again, and Mael became distantly aware of the vast amounts of saidin he was holding. “Light help me, I’m the only chance you’ve got…”

Mael would have nodded, but his body wouldn’t obey. “Do what you must,” he said… or tried to. Then everything went dark again.

The next time he woke up, he was in the Black Tower, in Alastair’s quarters. He felt like he’d been ran over by a dozen horses, but he was alive and he could move his limbs and turn his head to look around… and he could hear what was happening around him. It took him a few seconds to identify the voices; one was Alastair, and the other was an Asha’man called Brendon Nolaisen, a Healer.

“—A right mess of it, Trenvael,” Nolaisen was saying, sounding disgusted.

“I did what I had to, to save his life.” Alastair’s voice was tired but unyielding; whatever he’d made a ‘mess’ of, he wasn’t apologising.

Nolaisen didn’t seem to agree. “You left him a cripple, is what you’ve done.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Mael said. His voice was rough, his mouth dry, but he was able to speak; he hadn’t been entirely sure until he tried. He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at the two men looking back at him like they’d just been reminded that he was actually there. He accepted the cup of water Alastair offered and took a sip. As he handed the cup back, he spoke again. “Now. What was that about a cripple?”

Nolaisen gave Alastair a flat look. “By some miracle, Trenvael’s Healing didn’t kill you,” the Healer said, the posh Cairhienin accent becoming more prominent with his annoyance. “But your right leg was broken in several places. The bone didn’t align quite right. How well you’ll walk is anyone’s guess at this point.”

Mael stared blankly at him for a long while. The bone didn’t align quite right. How well you’ll walk… “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” he muttered. The leg didn’t feel any different from the other while he was still. Was that a good or bad sign? He couldn’t tell. He felt weak from the extensive Healing and more than a little apprehensive over what might happen when he tried to stand up, but he couldn’t just… lie in bed. He sat up on the edge of the bed, then pushed himself upright.

Putting his weight on the right leg hurt, making him inhale sharply, and the effort made sweat push out of his skin, but he made his way to the couch on the other side of the room. He collapsed unceremoniously on the couch, breathing hard, and ran a hand over his face. “I need a drink.”
* * * Despite Brendon Nolaisen’s best efforts, there was nothing to be done about the leg; what had been Healed once couldn’t be Healed again. All Mael could do was learn to live with it. He could get by with a cane well enough, most days, and though things like exhaustion or stress or having to navigate the endless flights of stairs within the Tower made it more difficult, he refused to remain shut in his room, conveniently out of sight.

The hardest lesson of all was that he now had to be much more careful about picking his battles. When the enemy only needed to dismount him to make him slow and vulnerable, he was a liability in the thick of battle. He couldn’t go on roaming the Blightborder with no more than a handful of men like he’d used to. His freedom was severely restricted from what he was used to, and it made him frustrated and irritable.

It didn’t help that Alastair had taken to avoiding him.

Almost a year passed by, days bleeding and blurring into one another. Mael had never been a drinker, but now it seemed that there was no reason not to indulge; it wasn’t as though he was of any use to anyone sober, either. Alastair spent the year mostly away from the Tower, in an ironic reversal of their previous roles, leaving Mael to wonder if he was even alive or if there was any reason he should still care.

Until one fine evening he returned.

Mael was in his quarters, lying on the couch in the sitting room because he’d smashed his cane to pieces in a fit of rage earlier and now getting himself to the bedroom involved too much effort. The bottle of brandy on the table, a glass within easy reach and the rumpled, obviously slept-in clothes painted a sordid picture of the state of the man blinking blearily up at Alastair.

“What do you want?” Mael asked, or that was the idea; he couldn’t will enough inflection into his voice to properly make it a question.

Alastair stared down at him, shock and guilt and anger warring on the suddenly expressive face. “Brendon told me,” he began, trailed off helplessly, wet his lips before trying again. “I didn’t want to believe…”

Mael closed his eyes again. The room seemed to rotate slowly around him, or maybe around Alastair; the man certainly acted like the world revolved around him. “Brendon can shove his concern up his—” A wave of nausea hit him and he cut off with an inarticulate groan, swallowing bile.

There was a sigh, and then a cool hand came to rest on Mael’s forehead. Mael felt the menace of saidin being drawn fill the room, and then the cold shock of Healing washed over him, making him gasp and shiver. Sobriety crashed in, Alastair’s hand withdrew, leaving Mael suddenly uncomfortably aware of the sorry state he was in. He didn’t want to open his eyes, to face the disappointment in Alastair’s.

His feet were pushed aside, and the couch shifted under Alastair’s weight as the older man sat down. “Tell me, Mael,” Alastair began, voice rough with a jumble of emotions Mael couldn’t begin to dissect. “Should I have left you for dead? Is that what you’re trying to say with all this?”

Mael’s eyes shot open, staring incredulously at the man who’d been his friend and mentor, but Alastair wasn’t looking at him. “You did what you had to,” he said quietly. “Light, I would have done the same.” He sat up, reaching for the bottle on the table, but changed his mind halfway, hand hovering awkwardly for a second before coming to rest on his knee. When he spoke again, his voice was hard, brittle. “But then you left me to rot here. So you tell me, Alastair; would I be better off dead? You could properly bury me and move on—”

“Don’t be an idiot, Akashi.” Alastair’s words cut the air like a knife. Still without looking at Mael, he leaned his head back and sighed. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me,” he said quietly, a very uncharacteristic tremor to his voice. “I’d failed you, I—” He cut off, eyes squeezed shut, and in the dim light it took Mael a moment to realise that silent tears were trickling down the side of his face.

Alastair Trenvael was crying.

The Wheel itself seemed to stand still as Mael shifted forward, reached his hand to gently cup the other man’s face, brushing the tears away with his thumb. Alastair finally looked at him again, confusion writ all over his features.

“You did not fail me when you saved my life,” Mael whispered. “It was after, when you shut me out, choosing to wallow in your misguided guilt rather than talk to me. But,” he went on, “I forgive you. I forgive you, Alastair, just— Don’t do it again.
* * * Life went on. Mael returned to the battlefields but it was never the same; he had to plan more carefully, to keep out of harm’s way, to avoid close combat if possible. He could wield his sword on horseback as well as channel — he was a Borderlander still — but getting close enough to anything that might bring his horse down would be to risk not only himself but anyone who’d feel duty-bound to rush to his rescue.

Partly because of that, he accepted when Alastair suggested that he should stay at the Black Tower more. Mael had always sneered a little at those Asha’man who stuck to the Tower and spent their days buried in correspondence or research, but now, with Alastair’s guidance, he got to learn about all the things he’d thought were of less value than fighting in the battlefield. Alastair had a fairly extensive intelligence network — according to the man himself, it rivalled that of the M’Hael’s — and once he got over his initial reluctance, Mael proved that he had a good head for details and his assistance soon became invaluable. Soon little went by in the political field of the Westlands without Mael knowing of it.

That’s also how he learnt more about the Grey Tower. He had known, in vague terms, that there was a group of traitors and Wilders somewhere who also called themselves Asha’man, but as long as there was no outright war between the two groups, it hadn’t been relevant to know much more than that. Now he learnt that the other group, calling themselves the Grey Tower, were also involved in politics and the fight against the Shadow — or at least that’s what they claimed.

When Mael asked Alastair about the matter, the older Asha’man only grumbled something about children who’d rather run and hide away and play at being male Aes Sedai, than fight to shape the Black Tower for the better. Mael let the subject drop, knowing he wouldn’t get anything less than heavily biased information out of Alastair.

The Dreams about the glass tower returned, however, and Mael couldn’t help but wonder if his loyalty for Alastair wasn’t blinding him to something important.
* * * The letter that told of Ariane’s passing, at the age of eighty-two, was the first Mael had heard from his family in forty years. He’d been expecting the news for some years by that point, a part of him wondering if Eleas or Leander would even bother letting him know when it happened. For a non-channeller, eighty-two years was a respectable age, and for someone living so close to the Blightborder, all the more so.

Ariane had lived a full, rich life and died peacefully in her sleep.

It was all a Borderlander could hope for.

Mael attended the funeral in silence, keeping to the back of the grieving crowd, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He had grown-up grandchildren he’d never met, some of whom now looked older than he; he had great-grandchildren he’d never heard about, whose names or even number he didn’t know. He was an outsider here; he didn’t belong.

He didn’t weep when Ariane was lowered to the ground, into the last embrace of the Mother. He’d lost that right when he’d left, when he’d stayed away because it had been easier than to try to make amends and fix things. Only Eleas, a man of sixty now, recognised him and that was the way they both preferred to keep it.

There was no place for an absent, too-young-looking patriarch in House Akashi.
* * * In the years following Ariane’s death, Mael threw himself back into the fight against the Shadow. He took risks, only narrowly evading death on numerous occasions, gaining a reputation as a reckless and dangerous man. Nonetheless, there were always men who chose to follow him and somehow he lost men no more often than any other officer of the Black Tower.

Despite his successes in the battlefield, he felt like he was lacking direction, adrift without a real purpose. He might live for centuries; was this all his life was going to be? Weary and a little disillusioned, with himself and with the world in general, he thought of leaving the Blightborder and returning to the Tower but something kept him away.

He Dreamt of the glass tower almost every night, now; it stood before him like a shining monolith, and gazing up to its dizzying heights felt like damnation and salvation all at once. Some nights he also Dreamt of a man in red, who in turns cloaked himself in shadows and embraced sunlight. Mael never saw his face, not until the last time he Dreamt of him.

That last time, the man in red turned and looked right at Mael… and spoke. “Wake up, Akashi. It’s time to wake up.”

Mael jolted awake, sitting bolt upright and startling the Dedicated keeping watch by the campfire. Mael answered something suitably dismissive when asked if everything was alright; he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong and that he should have been somewhere else, he should have been doing something to stop whatever was about to happen—

The gateway that opened perhaps a hundred yards from the campsite interrupted his thoughts. A smell of smoke accompanied the man who staggered through. Mael grabbed his cane and hurried to meet Brendon Nolaisen, catching the Cairhienin when he fell. “Alastair,” Brendon gasped. “Alastair is dead. You can’t go back—”

But Mael wasn’t interested in listening to reason. Alastair, dead? Mael had to find out what had happened. Maybe Brendon was mistaken. Surely, Alastair Trenvael couldn’t be dead. Alastair had always been there, and would always be there; Alastair was like the mountains or the sea; he was indestructible. Seizing saidin, ignoring Brendon’s protests, Mael Travelled to the Black Tower.

The M’Hael’s henchmen were waiting for him. The ensuing battle was brief but bitter, and Mael was forced to flee into Tel’aran’rhiod, bleeding and burned. Alastair was dead and the M’Hael wanted him dead, too. He couldn’t return to the Black Tower. Though if he couldn’t find help soon, he realised, he wouldn’t have to worry about that; he was dying.

A part of him wanted to just lie down and let it happen. Maybe, if there was an afterlife, he’d be with Alastair again.

But then he remembered the man in red. Wake up, Akashi. The tower of glass; damnation and salvation. The Grey Tower. It’s time to wake up.

Decision made, he shifted through Tel’aran’rhiod, to the city called Hama Valon.

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