Life from the Ashes [Seonin!]

[Stasia]

Illyria Malkom

A little tray of cookies was carefully deposited on the drawing room table; the novice's hands shook as she tried to keep it steady, her shoulders hunched and her eyes downcast, and she muttered something that had an uncanny resemblance to a curse beneath her breath. A small smile ghosted Illyria's features, and she did not bother wiping it from her lips when the child stood straight again. Her time as Mistress of Novices had imparted many useful things, but perhaps the most valuable skill she had gained was the ability to deal with children. Novices all make Emila seem so mild-tempered… "You ought to guard your tongue, child," she said in a quiet voice, and stirred a fat dollop of honey into her cup of tea, “It would be unpleasant if it slipped at an inopportune time.” The girl’s features momentarily scrunched into frustration, but she eventually relented.

“Yes, Aes Sedai,” she muttered, and tried to look surreptitiously towards the door, but had not yet learned that anyone that wore white had very little hope of hiding anything from an Aes Sedai. Illyria would leave that to Mirin; she had taken on the mantle of Mistress of Novices not long after she had been raised to the Blue Ajah, and for all intents and purposes, seemed perfectly capable of keeping her charges in line. Eventually Kiera would grow, and if she did not, she would be put out; the dichotomy of viable candidate for the shawl and a sullen child was as wider than any chasm that Illyria knew of.

“You are excused, child.” The child bobbed into a curtsy, deliberately did not quite bend her knees, and the Indigo suppressed the urge to laugh: she reminded her of Saffiah, headstrong and unyielding to the point of detriment. Illyria took a sip of tea, and stared the child down. “After you curtsy properly, Novice.” The girl barely avoided rolling her eyes, but Illyria was able to drag forth a correct demonstration of reverence. Kiera turned on her heel to leave, and had stalked halfway out of the drawing room when Illyria called to her one last time: “You know,” she said idly, “The sooner you behave, and can show us that you can be trusted to follow directions, the sooner opportunities will fall into your lap.” The child did not turn back to face her, but her pace faltered; perhaps her words had a modicum of an effect. What makes you think you’ll ever be taught to channel if you cannot follow simple rules?

The Novice departed in silence, and Illyria returned to stirring her tea. The honey still sat in a clump at the bottom, but it would dissipate with enough time and attention. It was not often that she requested a full-service tea in her drawing room, at least not since she had relinquished any and all formal titles: Emila was still too picky to appreciate the finer things, her husband was perfectly happy eating mutton straight from the bone, and his younger brother took comfort in eating whatever Silas ate. Illyria missed the formality of tea. The little sandwiches and cookies hardly made a meal, but it tea was not meant to be a meal – it was a platform for conversation and collaboration. And hopefully, she thought as she stirred, an opportunity for growth. Mirin had asked her a few days ago to speak with a young Novice that was struggling to acclimate, and it had quickly been apparent why the child was beyond the scope of Mirin’s experience: she had been a damane.

It was a lifetime ago that Illyria had been on the opposite end of the a’dam, a lifetime ago that she had discovered that she was marath’damane instead, and a lifetime ago that she had arrived at the Grey Tower, covered in soot and heavy with exhaustion. The Mistress of Novices then had been practical; she was strong enough in the Power to train with them, but she did not have any advice to offer about culture shock or acclimating, and could not say if there was any hope for her – at the time, there were no Seanchan Aes Sedai. After fourteen long years of training, Illyria became the first to ascend the Great Stair and the first to find a home in an Ajah. A handful of Seanchan had trickled into the Tower since then; most of them were ex-damane, broken and battered, struggling to heal.

Mirin seemed to hope that Illyria could help Seonin. Illyria hoped that Mirin’s faith was not misplaced. The culture was incomprehensible to those who were not born and raised in it, and too many people suffered the misconception that a damane was free once she had been uncollared. The truth was much deeper, buried beneath layers of fear and a false foundation – the only way to free a damane was to shatter the cornerstone that had been laid by her sul’dam. Illyria sighed softly – she was all too familiar with the training, the technique, the art of breaking a marath’damane. It was nearly too much to hope that she could find redemption in learning to undo it.

There was a timid knock at the door – the moment of truth had arrived too abruptly – and Illyria squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Light help me, she asked, at least for the child’s sake. With her eyes open again, she straightened her skirts, folded her hands in her lap, and did her best to prepare for what was to come.

“You may enter, Seonin,” she called to the child in a soft, kind voice. The next hour would determine much for the both of them.

[Jenny]

Seonin passed quickly through the halls of the Indigo Ajah. She did not know what to expect. All she had received was a note that asked her to attend a sister, complete with a name, date, and time. She knew from watching Avyra suffer through her "punishments" that Mirin Sedai had creative - and sometimes strange - ways of disciplining her novices. Had she done something wrong? There was no time to worry now. She stopped before the door marked "Illyria Malkom."

"You may enter, Seonin,"

Seonin nearly froze. That voice. The accent was not strong, but it was shockingly familiar. Light! She had not heard that accent in nearly two years! Only a habit of following orders without thought, a habit that had been ingrained in her since birth, made her turn the doorknob and step inside the sister's quarters.

And as soon as she looked at the woman, she knew. The Aes Sedai had a kind and patient demeanor - but there was strength in her expression and authority in her bearing. Her voice was gentle and commanding. And there were subtle signs in the way Illyria Sedai moved toward her to stand a small distance away, and in the way she unconsciously held her wrist at a particular angle.

There was only one type of woman who spoke like that, who moved like that, and they were trained on a continent an ocean away.

Suddenly, it seemed as though past two years hadn't happened. Seonin bowed, hands at her side, in the Seanchan way, and then stood quietly, eyes casted down at the floor.

[Stasia]

Illyria Malkom

Seonin was an image of disciplinary perfection.

Illyria imagined that she had adjusted to the rigid life as a Novice with gleeful abandon: rules and regulations were sustenance for women like them, women that had been born and raised in a tightly structured society, where insubordination was not ever considered, and only acted upon pain of death. Illyria had spent the all thirteen years of her tower training strictly adhering to the complicated web of social mores that she had brought along with her; she did not have the Face to meet an Aes Sedai's gaze until she was an Aes Sedai herself. Seonin's whites were stainless, perfectly pressed, and her slippers didn't have a speck of dust on them. Every other pair of shoes in the Tower would have shown wear and tear, but her's did not - Illyria remembered the burning shame she felt when she asked for new slippers each month, thinking that she had sullied her reputation and debased the prestige of the Tower because she could not bleach out every speck and could not mend the soles to perfection. The shame still burned.

Seonin's dark hair was held back with a simple white ribbon. Every novice that had ever passed through her office during her time as Mistress of Novices had received white ribbons, and thought that she did not notice when they swapped them for more festive colors. But Seonin kept the white, just as Illyria had. The Novice stared directly at the floor, daring not even to raise her eyes to where Illyria stood. Sei'mosiev, the Aes Sedai remembered with a dull ache. It had been decades since she had followed it, but guilt wrenched through her gut: she had married someone above her standing, had a child with him, and shared a life with him when she should not have even been able to meet his eyes. It had taken time, Light, it had taken so much time, but Illyria had managed to cross the great divide between what once was and stood ready to meet what would be, and still - still, it plagued her.

It ends here.

Illyria crossed the space between them silently, her lavender skirts swishing as she swept past the abandoned tea, and only stopped when there were mere inches between them. She took the taller girl's face in both hands - "Look at me," she said softly, adopting the slurred voice that she had abandoned for so long to punctuate her plea. The girl fought and tried to force her eyes down despite her straightened face. "Look at me, Seonin," Illyria begged in a hushed voice, and felt desperation well up within her. "You have Face," she said softly, distress tinging her syllables that rolled in a drawl, frightened that the girl would believe she was being ordered instead of asked. Illyria could feel the girl recoil, and the space between them curdled, suddenly thickened with uncertainty. Illyria was slipping, and she knew it. The situation was delicate to begin with, precarious as a knife's edge, and she could feel the metaphorical blade beginning to slice away her hopes.

"We are equal," she said at a near whisper, struggling to maintain the serenity that her rank demanded and panic unraveled her, "Seonin... You are as worthy as I am." Illyria could no longer be certain if she was trying to reassure the child or herself. She kept her grasp gentle, but remained unyielding. Mirin had told her a little of the girl's past, and had been reluctant to disclose too much. Illyria knew that she had been in the Westlands for two years. It had been long enough to keep her from attempting to return to her sul'dam, and long enough for her to agree to wear white. Seonin had laid a tentative brick in what could be - what would be - a foundation of own her design. Illyria could see it, fragile and made of straw when it needed to be Cuendillar.

Illyria did not have the Talent for making Heart Stone, could not Heal more than a bruise, and was intimately aware of how easy it would be to shatter the girl that stood before her and reduce her to dust. She had no knowledge of building, nor of fixing, but she knew that the child needed safety. By design, damane learned that their sul'dam was their haven. If Seonin was to break free of her shackles, and if Illyria was ever to atone, the child would need a refuge. Invulnerability. Knowledge was power, and if the child needed anything, she needed a sense of control. She needed intimacy, security, and safety, but it needed to be precise - not left to some blind and devastating soldier that would con her into lifting her skirts for a fleeing moment of unshared pleasure, but with someone that was deft enough to navigate the complex web of Seonin's conditioning and with someone that could not ever have anything to ask of her.

"Tell me who you are," Illyria said, determination returning to voice, like flint striking steel. "Even if you can only think of a single thing. Share with me, and I will share with you."

[Jenny]

Seonin could not stop herself from trembling. Some things were the same, but others were so, so different. She missed the comfort of a sul'dam, but she wanted Anelle, not this strange woman who sounded of home yet behaved differently.

"You have Face," said the Aes Sedai. Seonin recoiled, away from the strange woman's touch. She did not understand what Illyria meant. Of course she had Face - since her arrival, she had been a model of a perfect student. She served without complaint, did her homework quickly, and respected her teachers. She had been a servant, yes, and then a damane, but she had taken pride in her work. If she had lost any honor, then she would have visited Mirin Sedai's office long ago to ask for penance.

"Seonin... You are as worthy as I am."

That made no sense. Illyria was an Aes Sedai. It was impossible that a mere novice like Seonin could consider herself equal to a superior. Seonin struggled to bring her head down, but the Aes Sedai's grip on her chin was firm. Reluctantly, Seonin looked up into Illyria's grey eyes. Grey like Mirin Sedai's, yet this woman's expression was far more warm and welcoming than the Mistress of Novices ever appeared.

"Tell me who you are," said Illyria. Now that was an instruction, and it was something that Seonin understood. She had been trained to obey. And so, she responded with little hesitation.

"When I was first brought here, I was Seonin. No less, no more. But two years later, I wrote my name in the Novice Book in Mirin Sedai's office as Seonin Namendar Seladrin. Namendar, for Anelle Namendar, sister of High Lord Eban. Seladrin, for Aria Sedai of the Yellow Ajah, who cared for me when I could not care for myself. They are why I am here today, and they are who I am."

[Stasia]

Illyria Malkom

The girl was very forthright. Perhaps too forthright. Illyria bit the inside of her lip; had she asked Seonin's permission to learn this knowledge, or had she demanded that the girl reveal this? It was too late now to consider the implications of that - What's done is done. However, it pleased Illyria that she had picked names, in addition to her own - they were names that meant something to her, even if one of them kept her tied to her sul'dam. Has any other damane done differently? Seonin did not sound like a diminutive of a full name, and the girl was quick to respond - it was unlikely that she had been stripped of her name during her time as a damane. And she referred to herself in the first person, that was encouraging as well.

Illyria nodded quietly and considered the path forward. They still stood in close proximity - it felt awkward now that Seonin had spoken, and the Aes Sedai chastised herself for her hastiness. She stepped back and gestured to a chair, careful not to offer or demand that the girl sit. "I was Calhei," she said quietly, bitterness clouding her soft tone. She had not said or heard that name in decades. Not even her husband knew. "I was training as a sul'dam, and sent here at the forefront of the Corenne. It was... Perhaps a day's distance from the shores of the Westlands... I attacked a der'sul'dam that was a member of the Blood, in defense of a damane - I was on the wrong end of the a'dam. I struck her with the One Power." She laughed beneath her breath, thinking of the young woman that had launched herself off of the side of a ship and tried to drown her shame in the Aryth Ocean.

"I do not believe that it was a lethal blow," she said carefully, regarding the slim Novice with a careful, controlled expression, "But I could not live with my actions or with the truth. I attempted to kill myself, and was... Unsuccessful. I washed up somewhere near the Almoth Plains, and was taken in by the kindest family that I have ever met. I did not deserve their charity or their compassion, or their surname. But I took it all anyway. Corinye came from my surrogate father and the name Illyria came from my surrogate mother. That was what I signed in the ledger, and that is who I became. Once I married, I took my husband's name."

"Calhei..." she sighed pensively, dropped her gaze from the Novice, and began to toy with the embroidery on her dress. "That sul'dam has been dead for a very long time. She was a fishmonger's daughter, elevated by her ability to hold the Leash, and in the end, died because she loved a damane too dearly. I..." She trailed off, reluctant to venture very far into thinking of these parts of her as one-and-the-same. "This is my thread in the Pattern," she said finally. "It is the same each time, and I suppose that I am eternally surprised by the twists and turns, no matter how many times I walk this path." She looked again to Seonin with a small, sad smile. "The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, does it not?"