The Grey Tower

He was late. So, so very late.

Tristram didn’t know how he had managed to lose track of time, but he had. Well, that was something of a lie. He knew how… just not how how... how many drinks he’d actually had. The last thing he recalled was playing a game of dice, winning, ordering yet another round of drinks for the losers, and everything after that was fairly blurry. He remembered singing and dancing and laughing and drinking and drinking and drinking…

The only reason he had woken up was because some fight had broken out in the streets that had been too loud to ignore, and even then he had thought about going back to sleep. That was until the realisation had come smashing its way through his already pounding skull.

Shit.

He raced through the streets, his eyes constantly darting to the sun which was still, in reality, rising. By his calculations he didn’t have long until classes started, and he was supposed to be there, conjuring up rainbows and sunshine and puppy-dog tails. He was going to end up in so much trouble. Soldiers weren’t supposed to leave the Tower. Soldiers were supposed to be good little boys and go to bed when they were told.

People had to jump out of the way as he continued to run, and he barely missed crashing into a cart heavily laden with wine (wine! He could do with some more wine to sooth his pounding head!). He made his way to the gates, managed to bribe the guards with a fair amount of money (now you see me, now you don’t…), and raced back towards his quarters. Maybe he could pretend that he was too sick to attend the classes. He was of course, but he didn’t think ‘sneaking out and drinking too much’ would go terribly well. He’d just had to get out of the Tower, even for one night, before he suffocated.

He all but fell into his room, immediately moving to strip off his shirt, which stank of wine, and collapse onto the bed. Only then did he realise he was not on his own. How amazing.

He threw an arm over his eyes, trying to block out the light, even as he pulled a piece of straw from his hair. “Oh, yay, they’ve finally given me a roommate.” It almost hurt to talk, the sound of his own voice far too loud. He groaned. “Name? But quietly!”

Olin was in the process of writing his first missive back to his Mother and Sister, in fact he had been chewing on his quill as he debated letting his sister know that he might possibly know someone who could tour him through the shops and dressmakers of Hama Valon, when the door to his room flew open.

The man who entered looked to be feeling the effects of a very long night, and Olin could feel his nose crinkle as he smelt the wine and sour sweat coming off the other man as he stripped and collapsed onto the bed.

When the other man asked his name Olin chuckled, although he had never really been too far away from the watchful eyes of family at the various country events he had been at, it was not hard to recognize the pain and spirits in the man’s voice.

Without much thought, Olin stood and grabbed his pewter cup and good riding canteen from the hook he had placed it on. He had grown used to always keeping water nearby when he was tasked with various chores and rides in the countryside, and so he poured the other man a glass of water.

Holding the water out to the other fellow, an Andoran from the look of him if Olin didn’t miss his guess, he simply replied, “Olin Trakson, here you better take this and get some food in you before classes.”

Tristram didn’t move, his arm still flung over his eyes. All he wanted was to lie back and fall asleep. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked for his new roommate’s name, but instead told him to keep silent, not to move, and that he could sleep on the floor, because Tristram used the other bed as a bookshelf. There was a great stack of books against one wall. No one could ever say that he didn’t like read. It was one of the, albeit less fun, ways to stave away the boredom that was life as a Soldier learning what should have been the most exciting thing in the world.

“I’d rather not,” he said, still not moving his arm from over his eyes. It didn’t take a genius to know what his new roommate was offering. “Because I don’t know where it’s been, and, more importantly, it’s not wine.” He didn’t offer his name, but groaned again as a sharp pain stabbed just above his eyes. He took a breath, cursing under his breath, “Do you snore? I’m afraid you’ll have to find a different room if you do.”

Oh Light! He’d been given a bloody farmhand straight from a barn for a roommate! Tristram bit down on a groan and wondered if the Master of Soldiers would listen to him if he demanded a new one. He wouldn’t be surprised, though, to find that it had been done on purpose: teach the noble a lesson! What better way to humble him than stick him with someone whose friends had been sheep?

Arm still flung over his eyes, he rolled over to face the wall, his head still throbbing. If he couldn’t get the Master of Soldiers to change his roommate, then he would just have to make things horrible enough that said roommate would soon demand it, too.

“Do I look,” he said, still not having even glanced at his new roommate, “as if I’d be able to stand up at get to the food hall? I plan on spending the day in bed. As much as the Asha’man love me, I’m sure they won’t miss me for a day. Just… make sure you keep everything on your side of them room. I don’t want anything of mine smelling of sheep.”

He had hoped the sheep farmer would leave, but apparently the man was going to be a stubborn one. Tristram finally sat up, wincing again at the light, his hair sticking up on end. He groaned once more, pain stabbing through his forehead. One day, he hoped, he would learn some kind of weave that cured hangovers. You couldn’t Heal yourself, could you?

He’d enjoyed the night, but he never enjoyed the mornings. He didn’t enjoy the Tower much either. Being a Soldier was far duller than he had been led to believe. Throw in the fact that he was older than most of them… Well, drinking was a definite distraction.

He smiled, even though the move hurt, and pushed a hand through his hair. “Oh, they do a lot worse than making you wash a few more pots. I mean, that’s no different to what you have to do on a normal day. And have you seen the sheer amount of floors you have to scrub…” He raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t think you’d be spending most of your time learning to channel, did you? It’s mostly chores. They’re a lot more inventive with punishments. Thankfully for me, I genuinely am sick.”

If he could have paid to have his own room he would have, but apparently he had to wait until he was Dedicated to have even the teeniest tiniest bit of privacy. Being a Soldier was all about how they could humiliate you and make you feel like nothing. Tristram had gone from owning and managing his own estates to being shoved into a room with the Creator only knew who. There wasn’t anywhere to call his own. It was ridiculous.

He flopped back down on the bed and laughed, instantly regretting it as another stabbing pain shot through his head.

There was this strange assumption, too, that he was here to make friends, but he wasn’t. He didn’t care whether he had friends or not. He was happy to make connections, yes, but there was nothing advantageous about befriending some country bumpkin.

“Library duty is for those second ranks who are interested in becoming Browns,” he said, the arm back over his eyes. He snorted. “Us lower ranks are stuck with washing the floors, dishes, and clothes, no matter how well behave we are. So I’m going to have fun while I can. But I’ll see you around!” although he had absolutely no intention of going to the Gardens later on.