The Grey Tower

All throughout the speech, Johan sat completely frozen, his eyebrows gradually rising higher and higher with each word. He hadn’t quite expected the response that he had got, and he wasn’t able to keep the incredulous look from his face as he continued to watch the Novice.

And then, quite suddenly, he laughed. It wasn’t a full, proper laugh, but more of a disbelieving snort.

“Who said anything about killing? I’m pretty sure I talked about defending myself and my family. Not killing. I’m more likely to fight someone in order to disarm and incapacitate them. If someone is unconscious they can’t fight you, can they, and you have a far greater chance of escaping. Scare them, and they’re not likely to attack you again.” He shrugged his shoulders once more. “It doesn’t matter what their reasons are. If they’re holding a blade, and if they’re coming at me with it, I’m not going to pause and ask why they’re doing it, because that could be the moment in which they kill me. I’m going to defend myself first, see that I still live, and ask questions later.”

He looked back at the Novice. “You say that I make is sound like there are murderers and madmen running rampant, but you’re pretty quick to assume that I’m one of them.” He laughed again, picking both his sword and shirt up, and moved to stand. “Thank you for your generous judgement of me and my character!”

Dismay shot through Velvaen as Johan, with a bitter-looking smile, rose to go. “Wait—I didn’t mean it like that!” she stammered, reaching out to catch the Drin’s arm before he could rise. “I’m… I still have a lot to learn about the Westlands, and I know you’re not a crazy murderer. Please stay—I meant no offense.”
Waiting until Johan dropped back down, not looking completely sated, she let out a small sigh and glanced back at the fighters with an embarrassed grimace.
“I’m just trying to understand. Back on Tremalking, pacifism is a requirement instead of a choice.” Velvaen slumped at the thought, and drew her knees up to her chest, muttering “at least… it was.” Sitting in silence for a moment, listening to the wooden crack of the practice swords and the gruff instructions shouted by the Gaidin, home seemed farther away than ever.
Shaking her head—part for sadness, part to clear it—she looked back at the Drin, curiosity breaking through her melancholy. “What about you, Johan? Where do you hail from?” He seemed overly-battered for his age, but Velvaen knew little of such things, so she didn’t question it.

Even as he sat back down, Johan didn’t know why he was doing it. It was probably easier just to leave. He hadn’t come here, after all, to be question and challenged. He had his reasons, and they were his own. His alone. It didn’t - or, at least, shouldn’t - matter what other people thought. It had nothing to do with them

Of course, he had never heard of Tremalking. He hadn’t heard of most places, to be honest, but clearly it was somewhere like the Aiel Waste, outside the Westlands. He couldn’t say that he actually knew what pacifism was either. There were a lot of words, he had discovered, that he didn’t know.

“I’m from Ebou Dar,” he said after a moment, not even knowing why he was doing that. He pulled one leg up to his chest and wrapped his arms around it, letting his chin rest on his knee. “The Rahad. You look at someone there, in a way they don’t like, and they’ll challenge you to a duel to a death.” He gave a snort and shrugged his shoulders. “But I don’t care about that,” and he looked back at the Novice whose name he still hadn’t learnt. “Why are you even at the Warder Yards when you’re apparently so against fighting? Kind of seems like an odd place to be…”

Velvaen stared at Johan as he told her of his homeland, growing slightly pale at the casual way he stated people would “duel to the death.” She’d learned a few things about Ebou Dar since becoming a Novice—that it was a port city ripe with trade, and that its influence was minimal in rest of Altara—but she never would’ve guessed it, or any place, could be so uncaringly frivolous about human life. Light, no wonder he’s got so many old wounds. She tried to imagine growing up in such a setting; amidst countless brigands with bared blades around every corner, and suspected she came up short. And the way he just shrugged it off like it was nothing? Velvaen shuddered. Tremalking felt small, then, and far away indeed.

His next question caught Velvaen off guard—especially after she’d already confessed her interest in learning about Warders. She really was slightly curious, but that wasn’t the whole truth. Despite her words, she actually found sparring to be a thing of beauty. Each time she came here, the best bout was always between the most experienced, closely-matched duelists, and it was never simply like a dance—it was one. The two fighters would flow from stance-to-stance, meeting every blow the other dealt in a perfect exhibition of coordination and athleticism that never failed to take her breath away. If actual harm had been intended, Velvaen would’ve been the first to call down the fighters, but as it was, whatever guilt she felt for her trips to the Warder Yards was outweighed by the spectacular elegance of the display. Not that she would ever admit that to anyone.

Abrading herself for how neatly she’d boxed herself in, Velvaen’s mouth worked for a moment as she tried to figure out what to say. “Well, I… I mean… I did say I wanted to understand better, didn’t I?”

Johan didn’t know how much you could learn by simply watching. He’d always been the type of person to get as involved as he could. Perhaps that was why he was struggling so much with many of his other classes. Listening and reading about something could only teach you so much. You didn’t always get all the information. Back in the Rahad, he had always liked to watch the fisherman as they cast their nets in the river, but he doubted that he’d have been able to do it with nearly as much skill as they just from watching. It was the same here, really. You couldn’t fully understand something by simply sitting on the side-lines.

He glanced briefly at the Novice, before he looked again towards the next set of fighters. After a great amount of practice, he could now recognise the forms they were using, which came next, which the other opponent should counter with, how best to defend. It was only through doing it for himself, finding himself in their position that he had learnt that. If he’d just watched all this time, read about in books, he wouldn’t have known half of what was going on.

“Have you ever thought of speaking to anyone?” he asked, turning his attention back to the Novice. “Asking them about what’s going on? Maybe,” he shrugged his shoulders, “even having a go at fighting yourself. There’re plenty of Novices who also take lessons, you know. I mean, if I hadn’t come along and barged my way in, would you even be talking to anyone right now? And given you were pretty quick to assume that I was going to use what I learnt for violence rather than defence until I corrected you… How’s your understanding going to change if you just watch?”