The Grey Tower

There was something wonderfully cathartic to be found in breaking things.

Zeen sat on the floor, his bare back braced against the farthest corner of his room. One leg was tucked in front of him, the other bent up near his chest. His right elbow was propped up on his knee. Empty fingers curled inward, the soles of his feet fidgeting against the cold tiled floor as he tried yet again to ignore the persistent flatness that tried to overwhelm his mind.

The Amadician reached into the sack that drooped open next to him, plucking out the first thing he touched. He brought it up to his face, silver-grey eyes studying the object. A chipped teacup. He hooked his finger through the handle and then hurled it across the room as hard as he could. The porcelain collided with the doorframe and broke apart in a magnificent burst of white gilded powder and tiny shattered fragments. It was not quite as satisfying as the plate had been, but the cup had broken better than the bowl had.

It was an odd sensation, this abrupt distance to the bond. Jaryd had gone to Cairhien with Avyra in tow; for what, the other Asha’man had not said. Zeen had not asked. Based on the feelings that had crested between them both, the Green had his suspicions. He had reinforced the usual commands against self-harm and self-destruction and said nothing further as Red left.

The Captain-General sighed, chin tilting up, his unruly shock of brown curly hair cushioning the back of his head from the hard wall. Without looking, he reached into the sack again, pulling out what felt like a saucer. A fingertip found a prominent crack. Excellent. He whipped his left arm forward, launching the small dish at the opposite wall. He grinned a little as it broke, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling above him. The sound of smashing porcelain was oddly soothing. He lifted each damaged piece from the sack with deliberate care before throwing it against the far wall, each pulverized item soothing him a little further until he could breathe again without feeling the desperate need to plant his fist through a window.

The sack was almost empty when something heavy ricocheted off his door with no small amount of force, the sound jolting Zeen out of his trance-like state. He immediately seized saidin, reflexively falling into the Void. Grey eyes went flat. The harsh sound came again, and again, each impact causing the sturdy panel of wood to shake and rattle against the frame.

“Captain-General! Captain-General!”

He tensed, pushing himself to his feet. Something was wrong. Something had better be wrong. Hostility spiked hot and fast at the intrusion as he quickly yanked the open flap of his unbuttoned breeches closed. They were the only thing that saved him from a complete state of undress as he padded across the room on silent feet, jerking open his poor abused door without ceremony to glare at the unwelcome messenger.

“What?” He bit through the word as he took in woman that had just attempted to beat her way into his private rooms. His brow furrowed as he realized that he recognized her. She... what in the Light was she doing here? “Risha?”

“Zeen.” She made an impatient gesture at him. “You’re needed at the Citadel.”

His brows lifted and he released his hold on the Power, and with it, the Void. He left the door open as he nodded, and went to dress without hesitation. He quickly stomped into his boots, shoving himself into the first discarded shirt he could find. “Do I need to get the others? Is it-”

“There’s no time!” The soldier snapped, surprising him again. She had never spoken to him like that before. “The others will be notified. I’m here to get you. Armour. Gear up. It’s Callie.”

He paused midway between the bed and his dresser. “What’s happened?”

“Gear up,” was the only response he received.

He paled, wasting no more time on words. He threw open the wardrobe and grabbed what he needed, following Risha out at a dead run. The Amadician somehow managed to don on the the leather and chainmail, only fumbling a little with all the straps and buckles while sprinting, the shorter woman outpacing him despite his longer stride.

The Aes Sedai on duty did not hesitate, somehow knowing their destination as they raced into the Traveling Yard. Zeen bolted through the hole in reality, the blast of frigid air hardly giving him pause. The courtyard was bustling despite the cold though not with the standard fare; no one trained, no one moved supplies, no one so much as spoke. He could hear himself breathing as he dodged past men and women dressed in similar fashion, many of them leading horses clad in various states of armour and barding.

Risha finally turned, her expression grim. “Three patrols went missing two nights ago. Callie’s was one of them.”

Merciful Creator...

Zeen floated in numbness, the blank shroud of the Void at odds with the surroundings that had even the seasoned Blight veterans with him emptying their stomachs. Saidin lit the world from horizon to horizon, the Power lending blistering sensitivity and clarity to all five of the Captain-General’s senses despite his fervent wishes to the contrary. He could no more unhear the sound of the bubbling cook pots than he could unsee what floated around in them. Silver-grey eyes searched for any signs of the crusty warrior amidst the Trolloc camp, the Amaidician both grateful and frantic that he did not find any.

A few of the severed heads that bobbed to and fro still bore patches of scraggly hair, scalps oddly shiny and smooth. In the cook pot nearest to him, an arm ending in a flaccid mailed hand floated, somehow erect, in the simmering viscous liquid. The Light have mercy on those souls... The Void kept the worst of his horror and his revulsion at bay; even still, his stomach tried repeatedly to rebel, riding up on wave after wave of nausea. It was the smell. It was always the smells.

“Zeen!” His heart leaped up into his throat as he turned- “Over there-” -and promptly sank again, settling somewhere in the soles of his boots.

“Risha!!”

He did not recognize the scream as his own as the weaves leapt from his outstretched fingertips, coils of Earth and Air smashing into the beak-faced monstrosity that suddenly eclipsed the Kandori woman’s armoured form. She was brought down, hard, disappearing beneath the bulk that reeked of carrion and something else foul enough to make his eyes water. Light!

He yanked the Trolloc away, crushing it, before tossing it aside. “Risha!” His body scrambled towards the fallen warrior, and yet he did not have any true recollection of doing so. A dome of hardened Air sprang up around them, a bubble of fleeting safety in the middle of the fighting and carnage.

“Risha...” he knelt down in the strange brown-orange dirt and shoved Healing flows into the still body. The weaves were rough, and lacked any finesse whatsoever, but he breathed out a sigh of relief as she bolted upright, her arms flailing about her for a moment. “Risha!” he called, leaning back just in time to avoid a fist to the side of his nose.

“Hammer!” she gasped, her eyes rolling around in her head.

The world listed to the side and dropped out from under him. “What?” He was not quick enough this time and caught a palm squarely to the face.

“C-c-caaa-allie’ss h-aa-h-hamm-eerrr!”

“Where?” Zeen tried to frown, but the Void cut off that emotion and the expression before it could fully form. His hands flew away from Risha’s shoulders, the brown-haired man realizing belatedly that he had been shaking her.

At her unsteady indication, he hauled her upright, directing her towards the nearest knot of Citadel warriors. The protective dome of saidin dropped with a flick of his fingers, and flat grey eyes scanned the area that Risha had pointed to. Corpses. Corpses. More corpses. A haphazard pile of... what used to be living, breathing people. No. How had Risha even noticed...? It did not matter. It was something he could follow, more than he had had a moment ago.

Earth wound between his hands, his jaw clenching despite the Void as he braced himself for what he might find.

Zeen stared down at his hands, palms tilted up towards the sky as if in silent supplication. His breathing was rough and ragged even though he was settled firmly in the Void. He had the hammer. It very quickly became evident that there was... something attached to the haft. His eyes refused to focus on it; the Amadician could not even bring himself to look directly at it, but the silhouette was immediately recognizable. A gauntleted fist. Mailed wrist and forearm. Ending in a ragged, dirty stump. Callie’s... it was Callie’s... arm. Light! An even worse, horrifying question: Where was the rest of her?

The weight of the hammer he held barely registered.

The Asha’man focused on the soiled metal with single-minded intensity, saidin flaring in his grasp. He pulled in shallow breaths through his nose, jaw flexing as he ground his teeth together. He could not... if he... looked down at what he stood knee deep in he would... he could not... oh Light, the bodies...

The Captain-General slowly backed away from the pile of corpses that had once been destined for the Trolloc cook pots, his steps careful and deliberate. When he was back on solid ground, thick flows of crimson Fire leapt up and traced through the air before him. The blazing pyre soon eclipsed half of the sky, the Power-fueled inferno searing along the exposed skin of his face, neck, and fingers. The Void kept what pain he might have felt at bay, but he still could not bring himself to move. He tried to wet his lips, but the meager moisture from his tongue only made the sensitive skin dry out all the faster, his mouth cracking then finally bleeding in response.

Sudden, violent disgust stiffened his spine and broad sweeping strokes of all five elements fused together to rid Callie’s hammer of the gore and filth that stained it. What was left of her arm was ripped free. He did not know how Risha had glimpsed it; he did not care. All that mattered was that he had it. The hammer had survived. Its owner would have survived as well. Somehow. Some way. There was a small part of him that knew such logic was faulty, but each time that traitorous thought surfaced, he drowned it viciously. Zeen fixated on the hammer. He could still sense Jaryd, somewhere off to the south. Red still lived.

When the weapon gleamed, pristine if somewhat battered, the Asha’man immediately placed a Tracing weave on it. He could feel the hammer, to some extent. It... lived. He could not sense Callie... but the crusty broad was alive too. She had to be. She had to be... With that echoing within the very depths of his soul, he then went to remove the... smears from his boots and cleaned his breeches and armour the best he could. The emptiness he floated failed to keep the faint grimace from passing over his face.

---

Time lost all sense of meaning as Zeen lagged behind. It did not ever occur to him that he could make a Gateway back to the Citadel. He rode, like the rest of the soldiers and warriors he traveled with. It was comforting, even if he wanted no part in their grim, exhausted camaraderie. Some distant part of the Asha’man’s mind knew that separating himself from the rest of the group was dangerous; he knew that he was presenting himself as a possible target; he knew it but he could not bring himself to care.

The hammer was strapped awkwardly to his back, silver-grey eyes blank as he took in his surroundings without truly seeing them. How had Callie managed to wear the weapon as naturally as she had worn her armour? He did not understand. The additional weight threatened to unseat him from his mount with every swaying step, and yet he could not make himself carry the hammer any other way.

Every so often, he became dimly aware that someone rode next to him, matching his pace. Zeen did not answer their quiet questions despite having known each of them intimately at one point or another during his time spent at the Grey Tower’s border fortress. Eventually they left him alone, rejoining the bulk of the group. No one stayed to prod or cajole him out of his self-imposed silence and he found that in this instance, he prefered it that way. He missed Fiona.

He ate when rations were pressed into his hands. He kept watch when it was his turn to and slept when it was not. On the third day... or was it the fourth?... it was so difficult not to lose all sense of oneself while traversing through the strange burnt orange dirt that denoted the Blight’s touch... On the third or fourth nameless day, something roused Zeen from his apathy.

“...possible survivors...”

A glimmer of sound, a whisper of hope. Two words, nothing more. His head whipped up and his eyes narrowed in the direction of the whispers. Saidin surged as he seized it, bringing the world around him into blistering clarity even as it burned him alive from the inside out. Half of the group had gone forward, he realized. He could see them at the very edges of some kind of gnarled and twisted... copse of bushes... nothing more than a tangle of underbrush really. The rest had formed into a defensive wedge, with he in the middle. Irritation flickered along the edges of the Void, but he could not fault them for that. A moping lovesick sop would have been more use than he up until this point. Bloody Captain-General indeed. Time to remedy that. The tall Asha’man heeled his mount forward, grey eyes alert and flat.

“Who?” The word flew out of his mouth, cold and clipped.

“Zeen -”

“Who?” It was not phrased as a question, the Amadician looking expectantly between the two suddenly silent scouts.

As they reluctantly listed off the names, one slammed into his mind, drilling away all rational thought. He stiffened, kicking his horse into a full gallop.

“Zeen! No!”

By the time the syllables caught up to him, he was already jumping off the saddle. He hit the ground running, using his height and broad frame to his utmost advantage. It was remarkably easy, shoving his way through. There was a woman in a dress kneeling down next to three prone bodies, heedless of the dirt and the smears that stained her skirts. He stopped short, boots planting into the ground. Aes Sedai. His brow furrowed. When had an Aes Sedai joined them? Had he been that far gone into himself that he had truly not noticed?

“Asha’man,” she said by way of greeting, her voice soft.

“Aes Sedai,” he replied just as quietly, unable to match the gentleness of her voice while wrapped within the Void. From where he stood, he could not see any of their faces. Uncertainty and irrational hope gnawed at him.

“I have Healed the others as best I can, but her... I cannot. The bleeding has stopped, but she is most certainly riddled with infection. She lacks the strength to survive it, on both counts. If I attempt to Heal her, I will kill her. If I do nothing, the infection will kill her.” The Aes Sedai turned then, soft eyes boring into Zeen’s for a significant moment. “Are you versed in the other way of Healing?”

He shook his head. “No.”

She nodded brusquely before finally shifting to the side.

He grunted, feeling as if he had been struck in the stomach. He did not remember closing the distance between them, nor did he recall kneeling down next to the Aes Sedai. He was silent as he took in the familiar armoured figure in front of him. She looked pale, the scar that split her mouth in half, a line of livid colour. A crude form of triage and makeshift bindings wrapped around what remained of an arm ending just above the elbow. The weight of the world suddenly tugged down on his back and it was all he could do not to cry out in dismay. He had found the rest of her arm. Light in heaven...

“Callie,” he made himself say, his voice steady and even despite the turmoil swirling inside of him.

She stirred a little but did not open her eyes. “Nugget.” It was a rasping sound, nothing more.

He stared down at her, his jaw setting. “I found your hammer,” he began without preamble, lowering his head until his lips were nearly touching the dirty shell of her ear. “The Aes Sedai says that you are too weak for Healing. If she attempts to drive out the infection that has set into your arm, it will kill you. If she does not, it will kill you. You are dying. There is a way to strengthen you for the ordeal, but I must have your permission.”

“I bloody heard her well enough the first time it was said.” Nothing more.

The Asha’man nodded as if to himself, his tone still remarkably level. “Very well. I will keep your hammer. I shall even name it after you when you pass, and all these assembled here will bear witness.”

Bloodshot eyes opened fully then and the woman glared up at him. “The Dark One’s flaming-” she gasped in pain, but her other hand swung up and somehow managed to grab onto the side of his head with remarkable strength, “-bullocks you will!”

“I do not think you have long left. It would be a fitting tribute, would it not? Tai’shar Arafel. I would honour you-”

“Bloody well honour me by learning how to swing that hammer properly.” Callie bared bloodstained teeth at him. “It’s yours now, Nugget. I’ll kill you myself if you don’t.”

Zeen did not wince as mailed fingers clenched in his hair. “You have to survive in order to be able to do that.”

She turned towards him. He did not move away. Their faces were so close that their breath mingled together. This close to her, he could smell the unwashed stink of battle and of sweat. He fancied that he could even smell the faint sickly odor of the infection that was slowly killing her. The warrior glared angrily at him. The Captain-General stared back. He had no intention of backing down from this particular contest of wills, and while he knew that what he offered was not truly a choice at all, he was loathe to repeat what he had done to Red.

“Fine.”

Callie did not look away as the word left her mouth, one corner ticking up slightly as the other curled downwards. That was all he needed. Zeen did not hesitate, flows of Power coming together quickly. He reached over and pressed a fingertip against her temple, settling the weave into her. As had happened with Jaryd, there was no gradual coming to terms with the second awareness that lanced into his mind. He supposed that was no less than what he deserved. He had long since stopped asking the Light to forgive him for something he felt next to no remorse for. The world spun and pain that was not his assaulted every nerve he possessed and it was all he could do not to double up and scream.

“Did you...?” It was the Aes Sedai.

“Yes,” he ground out through clenched teeth. Callie was still glaring at him. Her eyes were hazel, he realized belatedly.

Callie yanked his face to hers, mouth pressing against his cheek. “If you name the hammer after me, I’ll still kill you. This... bond or not.”

His lips twitched despite himself. “I would expect nothing less from you, woman.”

“Have the Aes Sedai do her hand twirly things,” his new bondmate said grumpily. Callie did not release his hair, still glowering at him. For some reason, that comforted him. Beneath the pain, she felt about as warm and soft as a nest of spines. And yet... there was... also an overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude. Grey eyes blinked. His genuine surprise was met with another surge of exasperation and the warrior shook her head slightly at him. “I hurt. I want to go home.”