Zeen
The way Taesh explained how the Talent worked made a certain kind of sense. That the majority of plants needed Water and Earth to grow went without saying. Air too. Green, fragrant, and blooming things needed Air, just as humans and animals did. Spirit... Zeen could accept that as well, based on the Gray’s reasoning. He had never been particularly well-versed in that element, and yet it could be worked seamlessly into any number of weaves that he knew, strengthening or subtly changing the effect and the shape of the flows.
It pleased him that he would be able to use Fire as well.
The Amadician tensed reflexively as he sensed saidin coming from the other man, his pulse quickening for a fraction of a second. The M’Hael forced himself to relax, his attention going to the forming flows he could just begin to see and not to Taesh himself. The Head Clerk meant no harm; there was no threat here; the dark skinned man had been gracious enough to agree to teach him.
Zeen watched as instructed, almost as if mesmerized, as the Gray demonstrated. A fine net, delicate and intricate, comprised of all five elements. Water and Earth made up the bulk of the flows. Spirit came next, a bar of flashing of silver against the blue and green. Then Air. Zeen could just make it out, like the faint glisten of weak sunlight. The barest hint of red crossed beneath, then over, threading through the weave. His eyes followed the line of crimson. Fire, he knew; no matter how much was woven, or how little as this case was, he could pick out the strongest of his elements in practically any capacity.
The net touched upon several of the seeds and melted into them. He tilted his head to the side ever-so-slightly, a smile coming to his face as the seeds twitched and then burst open, small spears of new grass unfurling as the tiny tendrils of roots creeped out. And then it was his turn. He glanced down at the handful of seeds nearest to him.
He seized, studying the lingering residue of the weave. Earth came easily, brilliant, vibrant... the green opalescence through which he could view the ground beneath reminding him of the way much of Hama Valon had looked right after the Seanchan siege. His hold on Water was tenuous at best; it was his weakest element and it kept wriggling and fighting his every attempt to bring it to heel. As the minutes passed, he became more and more aware of Taesh’s dark eyes on him and his lack of progress. Frustration and impatience rippled outside the Void.
“Why must you be so stubborn, little stone brother?”
“Always in such a hurry.”
“You cannot force the stone to your will, as a hammer to a nail. You must guide it instead, shape it, speak to it, as a friend.”
Zeen released the weaves and closed his eyes for a moment, pulling in a slow, steadying breath. How could one speak to stone? The Ogier could. How could one speak to plants? Taesh could, after a fashion. Perhaps Zeen himself could too, in a different fashion. He did not allow himself to think further, the Void keeping whatever feelings of embarrassment and self-consciousness at bay. He wet his lips. It began as the barest hint of sound in the back of his throat, displaced air vibrating and shifting as silver-grey eyes opened again. Earth looped together with Water, the first notes of a wordless tune floating up around the former Green. He used the verdant strands as guideposts, leads, for the slippery blue, and though the weave was not as precise and as neat as Taesh’s, soon the brown-haired man had a net of roughly the same proportions.
He was humming in earnest now, loud enough that he could actually hear himself. The Asha’man did not remember the words that Vamar and the others had used, and probably would butcher the pronunciations even if he did, but he would never forget the melody of their songs. Spirit came again, a bar of flashing silver that took up half as much space as Earth and Water. Air next, winding through the net. And then finally the barest hint of fire, a single line that spanned from top to bottom. Or from side to side, depending on how one wanted to view things.
The M’Hael sang, quietly, just on the very edges of being audible, laying the net of all five Powers onto the seeds, melting into them. The wordless song died as Zeen waited for something to happen. A breath. Two. And then he was looking up at Taesh, a grin of utter delight transforming his face as the seeds began to bloom.