After Effects (Attn: Lysira Gaidin)
Posted: September 6th, 2020, 1:25 am
Everything was gone. The searing pain, the sense of a thousand emotions at once. Even his own second thoughts.
Instead, Malcym found himself surrounded by a vibrant, life-filled forest. Sunlight filtered through the leafy canopy above him and the area was infused with a soft glow that came from everywhere and nowhere both.
His silver-blue eyes flashed as he saw a white wolf in front of him, golden eyes staring back at him. The wolf peered up at Malcym as if he was studying the young soldier.
Images flashed in his mind. Images of warmth and welcome and kinship ... and curiosity. More images, of moonlight set against the ocean waves crashing against a cliff.
“Mooncliff,” Mal whispered as if understanding the images in his mind. A name. One the wolf apparently nodded in understanding. More images ... a silver claw cutting through ... everything.
Mal touched his chest. “Silverclaw,” he murmured, referencing himself. More images ... hundreds more escalated into his mind ... ones of him running on an odd four-hoofed creature through familiar alpine forests ... enemies wearing helms eerily familiar to annoying insects ...
Pain shot through his body. A searing fire that hit him. He could not make out the surroundings, his eyes were too blurred. A crescendoing chorus of voices assaulted his ears like a flaming town crier had put a horn to his ear and shouted at the top his lungs.
“... poison is too strong to purge ... need a circle ... get the Captain-General ... Walker Asha’man ... any others ...”
His mind drifted ... the voices becoming too incoherent ... and then another jolt of pain, this one different as a hundred thousand threads flooded his body ...
...he was in the forest again, the wolf staring at him, surrounded by a number of bodies. Two-leged creatures, including one who reeked of such foulness ...
“I’m dying,” he whispered wistfully. A small smile touched his lips. Hundreds of leagues from home, alone and cut off from fellow Murandian soldiers.
You protected a brother, sisters. The voice came into his mind in the form of images, of different creatures, but ones he could identify without effort. Jerid. Lysira. Liana.
Odd that the word siblings and brother would be applied to the Asha’man and the two Warders. He barely knew two and the third least of all.
You protected your pack and killed those who sulk in shadow. More images rather than words, but Mal’s brain forced them into something he could understand. This is a good death ... but not your time to wake yet, brother. More roaming you must do ...
Again, he was thrust into a world of semi-consciousness, his mind floating between the waking and sleeping world. He heard multiple voices ... the pain replaced by aching drowsiness that seeped into his bones.
“... he needs to be questioned so that the Hall can make decisions,” one voice said, a male, grating, demanding. Amadician, by the sound of the accent.
“ ... is in too precarious of a state to speak and will not be seen, much less interrogated ...” another said, this one a woman whose origin Mal could not place.
A few other voices joined the chorus, all debating and demanding one thing or another ... something about Seanchan and threats to the Tower, concerns about war, more demands that Mal be spoken to, questioned ... clapped in irons was another phrase ...
And then a voice all too familiar ... all too protective of him.
“He will rest, he will heal, no one will speak to him,” the man said in a clear Ebou Dari accent. Mal could almost see gold-green eyes spark, like an old wolf ready to put down a young upstart without effort.
Other voices objected, demanding answers and threatening to bring in heavier fists, even the Master of Training and the Hall itself.
“Burn the bloody flaming Hall,” the Indigo Asha’man’s voice said. “I have the support of the Captain-General and if need be, I’ll appeal to the Gaidin Captain herself. She might hate my flaming guts, but she will listen, especially if two skilled Warders also speak about this boy’s need to rest and recover.”
There was silence followed by protest ... concerns of war ... concerns about preparing for war or launching a retaliatory strike ... the Asha’man’s mention of him personally returning for the drin.
“The Captain-General and others risked her life ... lost two Asha’man ... came back with the boy ...”
Light, but were these fools really considering such a move?
“... were after me, not assaulting the Tower,” the Asha’man said coldly. “There are nearly two centuries of bad blood between me and the Seanchan on this side of the Aryth. Because of them I can never go home. Because of me in some part, they have reason to ... fear channelers from this place. But there is no army coming, no Ever Victorious Army marching with raken or grolm or damane. It was a handful of Seanchan dreadlords and their minions.”
A brief silence and another utterance of words. “And for those Sitters who want war, point them in my direction or any others in this Tower who fought in previous ones. You pups are too young to remember any but the most recent ones. The First Seanchan Siege nearly brought this Tower to its knees. I fought in the Battle of Lights and the subsequent invasion of Shadowspan that followed it. I was on the front lines when the White Tower kidnapped our own and again when the second Seanchan attack occurred. I’ve fought the Shadow for this Tower for more years than I care to admit ... and lost count of the number of its people that war has killed. Wars are useless and the Hall would be foolish to consider another one.”
Silence ...
Instead, Malcym found himself surrounded by a vibrant, life-filled forest. Sunlight filtered through the leafy canopy above him and the area was infused with a soft glow that came from everywhere and nowhere both.
His silver-blue eyes flashed as he saw a white wolf in front of him, golden eyes staring back at him. The wolf peered up at Malcym as if he was studying the young soldier.
Images flashed in his mind. Images of warmth and welcome and kinship ... and curiosity. More images, of moonlight set against the ocean waves crashing against a cliff.
“Mooncliff,” Mal whispered as if understanding the images in his mind. A name. One the wolf apparently nodded in understanding. More images ... a silver claw cutting through ... everything.
Mal touched his chest. “Silverclaw,” he murmured, referencing himself. More images ... hundreds more escalated into his mind ... ones of him running on an odd four-hoofed creature through familiar alpine forests ... enemies wearing helms eerily familiar to annoying insects ...
Pain shot through his body. A searing fire that hit him. He could not make out the surroundings, his eyes were too blurred. A crescendoing chorus of voices assaulted his ears like a flaming town crier had put a horn to his ear and shouted at the top his lungs.
“... poison is too strong to purge ... need a circle ... get the Captain-General ... Walker Asha’man ... any others ...”
His mind drifted ... the voices becoming too incoherent ... and then another jolt of pain, this one different as a hundred thousand threads flooded his body ...
...he was in the forest again, the wolf staring at him, surrounded by a number of bodies. Two-leged creatures, including one who reeked of such foulness ...
“I’m dying,” he whispered wistfully. A small smile touched his lips. Hundreds of leagues from home, alone and cut off from fellow Murandian soldiers.
You protected a brother, sisters. The voice came into his mind in the form of images, of different creatures, but ones he could identify without effort. Jerid. Lysira. Liana.
Odd that the word siblings and brother would be applied to the Asha’man and the two Warders. He barely knew two and the third least of all.
You protected your pack and killed those who sulk in shadow. More images rather than words, but Mal’s brain forced them into something he could understand. This is a good death ... but not your time to wake yet, brother. More roaming you must do ...
Again, he was thrust into a world of semi-consciousness, his mind floating between the waking and sleeping world. He heard multiple voices ... the pain replaced by aching drowsiness that seeped into his bones.
“... he needs to be questioned so that the Hall can make decisions,” one voice said, a male, grating, demanding. Amadician, by the sound of the accent.
“ ... is in too precarious of a state to speak and will not be seen, much less interrogated ...” another said, this one a woman whose origin Mal could not place.
A few other voices joined the chorus, all debating and demanding one thing or another ... something about Seanchan and threats to the Tower, concerns about war, more demands that Mal be spoken to, questioned ... clapped in irons was another phrase ...
And then a voice all too familiar ... all too protective of him.
“He will rest, he will heal, no one will speak to him,” the man said in a clear Ebou Dari accent. Mal could almost see gold-green eyes spark, like an old wolf ready to put down a young upstart without effort.
Other voices objected, demanding answers and threatening to bring in heavier fists, even the Master of Training and the Hall itself.
“Burn the bloody flaming Hall,” the Indigo Asha’man’s voice said. “I have the support of the Captain-General and if need be, I’ll appeal to the Gaidin Captain herself. She might hate my flaming guts, but she will listen, especially if two skilled Warders also speak about this boy’s need to rest and recover.”
There was silence followed by protest ... concerns of war ... concerns about preparing for war or launching a retaliatory strike ... the Asha’man’s mention of him personally returning for the drin.
“The Captain-General and others risked her life ... lost two Asha’man ... came back with the boy ...”
Light, but were these fools really considering such a move?
“... were after me, not assaulting the Tower,” the Asha’man said coldly. “There are nearly two centuries of bad blood between me and the Seanchan on this side of the Aryth. Because of them I can never go home. Because of me in some part, they have reason to ... fear channelers from this place. But there is no army coming, no Ever Victorious Army marching with raken or grolm or damane. It was a handful of Seanchan dreadlords and their minions.”
A brief silence and another utterance of words. “And for those Sitters who want war, point them in my direction or any others in this Tower who fought in previous ones. You pups are too young to remember any but the most recent ones. The First Seanchan Siege nearly brought this Tower to its knees. I fought in the Battle of Lights and the subsequent invasion of Shadowspan that followed it. I was on the front lines when the White Tower kidnapped our own and again when the second Seanchan attack occurred. I’ve fought the Shadow for this Tower for more years than I care to admit ... and lost count of the number of its people that war has killed. Wars are useless and the Hall would be foolish to consider another one.”
Silence ...