The Grey Tower

There were no second chances in a fight. One wrong move, one slip, and that was it: everything was over; you might as well say your goodbyes. It was something that Johan knew all too well. He’d seen it countless times for himself, had witnessed it with his own eyes whilst growing up in the Rahad, where one false move could mean a knife in the guts, even if you were winning. There was no coming back from such mistakes; you couldn’t just rise from the dead, after all. It was why, from the moment he had arrived at the Tower, he’d thrown himself straight into training. He didn’t want to be one of those people who ended up dead in the gutter.

He gripped his sword as he circled his opponent, barely pausing to push the hair from his eyes, his attention never once leaving the other. He was already soaked in sweat. The fight hadn’t been going for long, but the effort exerted was intense. He was breathing hard, and already nursing several bruises. He thought that he might even have cracked a rib.

His opponent moved suddenly, and Johan was just in time to block the flurry of blows that came at him, before his opponent spun away and they were soon back to circling. He knew that he was being tested. He was younger than his partner, smaller, too, and far more inexperienced, on his guard more often than not. It was amazing that he had lasted this long; he knew that he would eventually end up face down in the dirt.

A few more blows were exchanged, a few more parries, and the inevitable happened. His opponent feinted left, he fell for it and followed, and the next thing he knew the wooden sword was smashing into his stomach, taking both his breath and his footing. He crashed to the ground, his vision bursting white.

When his vision and the dust cleared, he took the offered hand and pulled himself to his feet, making way for the next sparring partners. Even if as he moved, he couldn’t stop the split his face from ear to ear. He’d lasted two minutes longer than the last time. Every minute counted in a fight. It meant you weren’t dead.

He picked up his wooden practice sword and headed to the edge of the practice area, whereupon he once again crashed to the ground, letting his legs simply collapse beneath, and not really looking at the person next to him.

“You don’t…” He was still out of breath, still fighting to slow it down. “You don’t mind if I sit here, do you? I just need to… to,” and he waved vaguely at his stomach, where he had been hit, “ to …be able to breathe properly again.”

Oh, his stomach hurt, but his grin had yet to fade.

The sun was warm on Velvaen’s face as she leaned back against the fencepost. The Warder Yards were buzzing with activity–both Drin and Ji’val drilling with Gaidin or sparring against one another, and the smell of sweat was in the air. There was probably a host of more useful things she could be doing during her free time–but wasn’t relaxation the whole point of it? If a sister asked, she’d just say she was curious about combat. Which, she was, come to think of it. Not in an experimental way, mind. Just idle curiosity.

The closest pair of Drin were in the middle of a heated bout, with practice swords speeding through the air and meeting with a series of loud cracks. It was strange–how could trying to kill someone look so much like dancing with them? Just watching was exciting–it was rather beautiful. Light, what would Grandfather say to that? It is killing, after all.

Something shifted in the fight–one moment the two Drin were neck-and-neck, and the next, one was lying flat on his back. Velvaen stared, intrigued. Swordfights could certainly change quickly; quicker than she’d have believed before leaving Tremalking. Then, surprisingly, one of the combatants trudged over to where she sat and unceremoniously collapsed next to her. “You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?” he asked with a grin. A sheen of sweat shone on his brow as he gasped for breath.

“These are your grounds, aren’t they?” Velvaen replied with a small smile and a raised eyebrow. “Are you new? I don’t believe I’ve seen you around before.”

It took a moment for Johan to stop sounding quite so out of breath and like he had run the entire length of the Westlands. He had thought he had been fit before coming to the Tower, but the reality was that he had been nowhere close. The level of fitness demanded here was something completely different. There were times where he thought he would simply collapse and never get up. Even now, he seriously doubted that he’d be able to get to his feet quickly if it was suddenly demanded of him. He needed another five minutes at least; maybe even ten or fifteen.

He tilted his head back and looked up and to the side to see just who it was who had answered. A Novice, if he had to take a guess, although he was still struggling to remember all the uniforms. She was short with auburn hair, which did nothing to help him place where she was from. Her accent, too, gave him no help at all. It was still somewhat amazing that there could be so many different people from so many different places all in one place. He was waiting for the day he came across someone from Seanchan.

“My grounds?” he finally replied, sounding less out of breath as he leaned back on his hands and stretched his legs out in front of him, “I wish! I wouldn’t be here if they were mine.” He smiled. “I was just worried you wouldn’t want someone all sweaty and gross sitting near you, because I’m pretty sure I don’t smell terribly nice. And, yeah,” he added. “I’m new. I take it you come here fairly often, then? I'd hoped to blend in.”

“You are a Drin,” Velvaen said as she eyed his dusty uniform. “If future Warders can’t call the Yards their grounds, I don’t know what would be—unless you’d prefer dueling in the Gardens...”

Then she snorted. “And if you think this smells bad, you should’ve been in the kitchens last week. I got set scrubbing pots, and that grease—narrowing her eyes, she lifted a hand to her nose and sniffed suspiciously—It stays with you,” she finished, sighing. Twisting, she turned to take in the Drin. A young man, he had olive-hued skin, mousy brown hair, and dark eyes. Altaran, she pondered, or is that look Amadician? She really had to get better with Westland nationalities. Of average height and build, he was rather plain-looking fellow—in a crowd, she realized, she might’ve easily passed over him.

“And I wouldn’t say often...” she continued, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Especially if it was a sister asking.” Half-mindedly fingering a greasy splotch on her sleeve, she went on in a more normal tone. “Besides; how will I be able to pick a Warder if I don’t know what to look for?”

“Oh?” Johan turned to look back at the Novice, and arched an eyebrow. He hated talking about Warders, but he wasn’t about to admit that. He had never been one to let anyone know when something made him uncomfortable, because that was surely a sign of weakness, and he wasn’t weak. Weak got you in trouble, or, worse, killed.

He grinned and stretched out further, taking on an almost casual sprawl: anything to make him look like he wasn’t bothered by the new subject. His voice was just as casual.

“I always thought it was just a case of finding someone who’ll match your outfits…”

“Outfits?” Velvaen raised her eyebrows and gave a small, rueful smile. “Yes—I plan to ignore swordsmanship, stealth, persuasion, intuition, and any possible complementary characteristics to myself in favor of a fellow who dresses a certain way…”
Her smile slipped as her eyes fell on a group making their way across the Yard. An Aes Sedai—sporting a bright-green riding dress—was gliding toward the Tower doors, trailed by precisely three watchful Warders, garbed respectively in emerald, leaf, and lime hues that practically shouted the Sister’s Ajah.
"Not that matching in itself is bad, mind..." she added with a subtle glance to see if he'd noticed the party.
"That bout was quite a show," she exclaimed, shifting a little, trying to grab his attention. "Uh... do you like it?" Inwardly, she groaned. Like anyone would want to get in a fight.

Johan plucked at his own shirt. Soaked in sweat, it stuck uncomfortably to his skin, the feeling only getting worse as it dried. It was one of the many reasons why he hated the uniform; they didn’t exactly give him many other shirts to go and change into… Not that he had had many back at home, but he hadn’t had to work nearly as hard. He made a decision, then, and pulled the shirt over his head so that his chest was bare. It was easier to see the bruises that covered his skin, some old and faded and some new and fresh. He placed the shirt beside his practice sword, looking up in time to see the Aes Sedai pass by with her three – quite literally – green Warders. His gaze then flicked to the Novice, and he found himself grinning.

“Swordsmanship, stealth, persuasion, intuition…” His grin only grew as he ticked the traits off one by one, and then he laughed, distracted for a moment about having to think of his own fate as a Warder. “I think you might need to speak to her on that one.”

His mood quickly sobered as he turned to look back at the Aes Sedai and her Gaidin. It hadn’t taken long for his thoughts to drift back to his own future; he was not going to spend the rest of his life literally trailing after someone else. What sort of a life was that? It wasn’t one. He wanted to be out there leading and making his own decisions.

“But, thanks,” he continued just as quickly, tearing his gaze away and turning his attention back to the Novice as he sketched a quick bow - even seated as he was - and grinned again, knowing that the question had probably been asked as a distraction. “They’ve always told me I fall on my ass quite impressively. I’m not sure I like it. Falling on my ass, I mean, but,” and he shrugged, “I like the fighting. Well, not the fighting, but… I like knowing that if it ever comes to it I’ll be able stand up for myself, or, more importantly,” his thoughts turned to his siblings, “those I care for. Getting battered every now and then is worth it, I think.”

The Drin’s chortles told Velvaen how effective her distraction had been. Watching the Aes Sedai pass through the Tower doors, she shot a glowering look at the Sister. Well, at her back anyway. Anything else would be asking for a visit to Velanya Sedai. Really though, three separate shades of green was excessive. “Careful, Drin.” Velvaen warned jokingly as she turned back to face him. “You could be in lime and lace up to your ears if you’re not care…” She trailed off, seeing he’d displayed his chest—battered and muscled. It spoke of more fights than she’d expected. “...ful.” Well.
Pointedly swiveling back to stare at the current duel, she listened to his thoughts. As he spoke, she caught herself thinking about home. If I’d fought for my people, would it have turned out differently? Velvaen gave herself a small shake. One girl fighting wouldn’t have changed anything—not against what she’d faced. “There are other ways to protect your loved ones,” she responded fervently. “In my experience, talking with your opponent solves more than sticking them with something pointy. Or, failing that, running.” Velvaen looked at him earnestly. “How would your family feel with you on the pointy end?”

“Johan,” Johan helpfully supplied, giving his name. He didn’t want to be known as ‘Drin’. There was still a part of him that was very much against the label; that didn’t see himself as that. He wasn’t really a Warder Student, because he had absolutely no intention of becoming a Warder. That was the aim of most Drin, but not his.

“And I think I’m safe,” he added with yet another grin, leaning back against the fence and pushing the hair from his eyes. His attention was back on the current fight, and he had to wonder if he’d ever be as good as the two currently fighting. “I don’t,” and he shot a quick glance at the Novice before looking back, “think I suit green, wouldn’t you agree? Doesn’t match my skin tone.”

He shifted where he sat, stretching out his legs in an attempt to try and relieve some of the muscle ache. Now that the adrenaline had had time to die down, he was becoming aware of just how much his body hurt, but, as ever, he ignored it.

“And, sometimes, there isn’t always the option to talk or run away. If you’ve got someone who wants to hurt you, they aren’t going to listen whatever you say. Half the time, they’re not even going to give you the chance” He shrugged his shoulders. “I’d rather be able to defend myself, and I’d rather it be me instead of my family. I don’t really care what they think so long as they’re safe and it’s not them. I suppose you believe differently?”

“I most certainly do!” Velvaen sniffed. “You make it sound like there are murderers and madmen running rampant.” Noting the slight prickle in her voice, she took a calming breath and went on. “Not to say such men aren’t out there, but more often than not, there’s a person—with reasons, however misplaced—holding that other blade.” A small smile flashed on Velvaen’s face as she watched the current bout end—one Drin toppling to the dirt with a thump, the other reaching down to pull him upright with a dusty-faced grin. “When their reason for fighting fades, they stop. No one gets hurt, and both families get to stay whole.”

Crossing her arms, she raised an eyebrow at Johan. “I know protecting your kin is crucial, Johan, but killing won’t solve anything—especially if your family shares your sentiments. If you fell, what would stop them from taking up arms to battle your killer?” Velvaen knew she was pressing him, but her time in the Westlands had pressed her, too. It had shown her an abundance of bloodthirsty viciousness that spit in the face of her principles. If I can just teach one person the right way of things, she thought determinedly, surely others could follow.
"Violent solutions are just painful cycles. Besides—‘Minds align closest though discussion,’” she quoted, only realizing how haughty the words sounded after their escape.