A Bitter Homecoming [Attn: Marla/Open]

[Brad]

Lucien Mantear

Trotting Gallant along the winding path through the Mountains of Mist, leaving behind the Two Rivers, Lucien unscrewed his water flask--sipping sparingly at the cool liquid and savouring the smoothness of it on his tongue. The water from the Manetherendelle was always stunningly clean, and the rushing tide of the river never left him wanting for a source of hydration. Capping the flask after another careful sip, he slipped it back into his saddlebag, heeling his stallion and clicking his tongue for encouragement. Well-trained, the grey horse shifted to a canter, ascending the gradual slope with commendable pace; pondering as he did so. His return to Andor had been abrupt; a sudden call for his presence with the ill health of the Mantear High Seat had prompted a rapid flight from Hama Valon, only to arrive and find the matter essentially resolved. A few days rest, a feast to celebrate his raising to Dedicated, and a week longer to pay his respects to the Andoran throne--and then he had departed, setting off at a more measured pace to return to Hama Valon. Smiling to himself at the memory of his farewell gala, he crested the rise of the slope which would bring Hama Valon finally into view.

Drawing rein to slow Gallant back to a halt, Lucien frowned as Hama Valon came into view, eyes widening in stunned disbelief. The city, a jewel he remembered forged by the union of male and female channelers, had been decimated--its beautiful vista rendered to a crater-riddled horrorscape. Black smoke rose from the remnants of a dozen fires, belching obsidian smog into the air like the gaping wounds of some once-beautiful beast. Nothing had been spared; the once-towering walls had been massively damaged, with a large chunk simply gone as if struck with some impossible large fist. The elevated grounds of the tower itself were a mess, with the damage mitigated only around the tower proper and the areas closest to it.

Spurring Gallant into a gallop, Lucien traversed the rest of the distance to the city in near-to record time, drawing the horse back to a walk only when they had finally entered the city, eyes scanning the devastation in utter disbelief. Numb. Staggering residents and ragged soldiers milled here and there in clusters of grim-faced survivors, searching rubble and devastated infrastructure for the slim chance of survivors, while the power was used in pockets all across the city to heave aside collapsed masonry and demolished residences to try to salvage what could be salvaged. Large swathes of ground had been essentially demolished, the faint thrum of power in the air a tell-tale sign of the force that had been responsible for the devastation.

Had it not been for the corpses of insect-helmed soldiers and large, winged reptilian bodies, Lucien would have been unsure what to believe of the situation--but the bitter truth of the attack was painfully clear in the lightning-slashed attire of many of the women sprawled dead in the dirt, male and female a'dam still coiled to their wrists--sometimes connected to dead damane, sometimes empty. Head slowly moving from one nightmarish image to the next, he led his horse through the city in stunned silence, the trained stallion weaving around dazed and vacant-eyed survivors that didn't even appear to notice its existence, or that of its rider.

The nobleman's pale blue eyes, normally filled with warmth and mirth, darkened with a mix of anger and sorrow, and lips often on the edge of a smile or laughter twisted with the emotion in his breast. Pain lanced him like an aielman's spear, coupled with a rage that set his teeth to a grit and his jaw to a handsome, if wrathful lock. His gloved fingers curled angrily on the reins, squeezing the leather with barely-restrained fury. Here and there, he noted children grouped and crying, or looking simply dazed and lost, watched over by soldiers and matrons little more composed themselves.

His trip through the city took him past wailing widows and broken men, past Gaidin stalking like angry wolves and Aes Sedai and Asha'man looking at the desolation as if they could scarcely believe it themselves, or worse, fidgeting and glancing around in a disturbing display of unease. It was not simply an attack, it had been a defeat, a sound one--and no amount of dead Seanchan or, from the looks of them, western mercenaries could account for the soul-shattering reality of what the assault symbolized: weakness. Vulnerability. The Grey Tower had been violated, its hallowed city-home ransacked and decimated. All their vaunted strength, all their professions of security, and still this had occurred.

Lucien's trek to the city ended in his arrival at the Tower's stables, the tall Andoran dismounting and handing his reins to a groom with eyes too young for the fear and sorrow within them. His left hand gripped his sword hilt, right curled in a fist for lack of anything to hold. The black riding coat and cream breeches he'd attired himself in seemed too clean to Lucien, too untouched. In his heart, he knew there was no true aid he could have provided, yet the Dedicated felt worthless--guilty. He was strong, terribly strong, strong enough that perhaps his presence--if not stopping the clearly relentless onslaught--could have worked to save more lives, keep more families from being torn apart.

Lifting his eyes to the towering structure before him, he squared his shoulder and strode forth, towards the open doors to the Grey Tower. Towards the boiling mass of channeling that heralded the insecurity and rage and pain of those he'd come to call his family. His polished boots echoed on the flagstone path, and to him it was the sound of shattering walls, and a dream crumbling around him. The flurried movement of tower servants and the hurried forms nameless Asha’man and Aes Sedai washed over him without notice, the tall Andoran making his way into the tower proper without a word to any of them--entering through the Southern Gate of the tower and raking his eyes over the absence of the food storage building.

Where once it had dominated the view to the left, now only rubble remained, with the remnants of the food stores blackened and strewn across the pavement. Even here, the devastation was tantamount, with bodies and large power-wrought potholes smoking and belching death. The stench of burning and acrid scent of smoldering earth filled the air, while Aes Sedai and Asha’man moved with their wary Gaidin, clearing rubble where needed and tending to the wounded and suffering--checking bodies for signs of life, and moving along when there was none. It was a grim scene. A hard scene.

Lucien swallowed back bile at the stench of it, and crushed panic at the sight of the decimated area. He had not grasped saidin yet, despite the raging urge to do so, despite the way his hairs stood on end from the echoes of the power wielded in the area. He would not so easily give in to fear, and from what he could see, the battle had long since been resolved. So he walked, and he watched, and his heart bled.

[Sunny]

The Fang of Hama Valon

It had been two and a half days since he woke from the Healing-induced coma, and Jaryd had not slept. Whenever he closed his eyes he felt the suffocating pressure of the collar around his neck again. He couldn't move, he couldn't speak, he could do nothing but watch in panic-stricken horror as scenes from his memory played again and again against the backs of his eyelids. His breath would quicken until his chest felt it would burst and his head began to spin. Sometimes it would continue until the visions faded into distorted nightmares of shadow and light. Most of the time, however, Kaia's hands would wrap through his and her voice would pull him back, reminding him with gentle patience that he was free.

He had spent the first half day in enforced recovery in his chambers. A Yellow had tried to fuss over him at first; that had lasted until the third time he snapped at her. After that, she didn't return. Whether he had scared her off or Kaia had said something, he neither knew nor cared. Someone had tried to pull Kaia away early on, insisting that her Healing abilities were needed. He did not like to think of how the world had collapsed inward as she turned away; she hadn't even made it out the door before his panic spilled through the bond. She had stayed, and that was when they discovered the waking nightmares. The rest of the day had passed slowly, his thoughts racing within the confines of his mind even as his body paced the outer limits of the room, around and around in circles.

When he attempted to leave his chambers that evening he found an older Asha'man waiting outside, sitting quietly in the chair across from the M'Hael's desk. He rose immediately, bowed respectfully- and resolutely blocked the door to the Keepers' study with his body. Rodric was rather imposing looking, with skin many shades darker than Jaryd's own, his left eye covered by a dark patch, and shoulders that rivaled any Jaryd had seen in the Yards. He wore Asha'man black, with the silver circled pin of the Oathsworn mounted next to the dragon at his throat. The M'Hael was to remain in his chambers, the Green informed him in his gravely voice.

"Have I been accused of a crime to be so confined?" Jaryd asked lightly, clasping his hands behind his back. It would not surprise him if he had, and yet- hurt prickled through him that he had not been notified. He felt Kaia's attention pique at the turmoil in his mind, and a moment later she joined him, laying an elegant hand on his forearm as she peered past him.

"No, Father," Rodric said, "the order was given for you own health."

The Altaran raised an eloquent brow, tilting his head as he peered up at the older man. "Until I have been formally charged with a crime, I am and will remain the M'Hael," he said, his voice like velvet over steel. "I was hurt and tired, but I have rested now and my people need me. Whatever orders you were given, I am now declaring invalid. Step aside, Asha'man." The Green had wanted to do no such thing, but trapped by his own words he had had no choice.

Jaryd was smart enough to know that he had not single-handedly caused the disaster that had befallen Hama Valon, but his actions had certainly contributed to the severity of the damage. He owed them a debt he might spend the rest of his life paying, and he did not yet know how, or if, the Hall would choose to take it from his flesh. Thus he threw himself into helping in every way he possibly could, no matter how menial the task. Everyone knew who the short olive-skinned figure in crimson was; his fame -or infamy- had spread throughout Hama Valon since his ascenson to the Fang. if the M'Hael were willing to haul bodies, clear stone, bandage wounds, and sing to children, who could possibly object to being assigned similar tasks?

By the afternoon of the fifth day since the Seanchan had been defeated, some amount of order had been restored. Shifts had been organized in an effort to keep the burden of the work even. Meals were prepared and served at regular times, the rubble had begun to clear, and the dead were being carried away to graves respective to their allegiance. Miahala had remained frosty and distant, but no summons to the Hall had come. Gradually, Jaryd relaxed. If anyone noticed the shadows beneath his eyes or the way his scarred fingers trembled when he signed paperwork, shook a soldier's hand, or gave orders to those who looked to him for direction, they wisely said nothing.

A slight woman came into the antechamber from the Green Ajah courtyard, her hands clutched over her chest and her lined faced distorted in grief. Her hair hung free, unkempt and wild, and although no one in the Grey Tower looked particularly well cared for, her brown dress was particularly dirty. She pushed her way through the people who blocked her path until she staggered to a halt in front of Jaryd, staring at him with haunted brown eyes. "He's dead," she cried, falling to her knees. "My Jory is dead." Her hands fell open, and a heavy ring fell to the ground.

Jaryd crouched before her immediately, one forearm resting on his thigh, the other hand reaching to lift the ring from the ground. It was a simple thing of bronze, the sort of thing a soldier or a well to do farmer might possess. "May Jory rest easy in the Creator's hand," he said quietly, pressing the bit of metal back into the woman's hand with gentle fingers. After a few minutes of quiet words, he was able to get her name and learn that Jory had indeed been in the Tower Guard. "I am certain he fought well, Mistress al'Dann. f you can lead a group to where you found him, we will do all we can to assist with caring for him and ensuring he is given a proper grave." Light, the hill to the north would be a graveyard to match no other in Andor. He felt sick. "The Tower will ensure that you do not suffer even more than you already have for his loss."

As fresh tears flowed from the older woman's eyes, Jaryd glanced past her and saw a familiar figure in black watching him with haunted blue eyes. Lucien Mantear had departed some two months past, the Altaran thought, pleading urgent family concerns. Now he returned to a city gutted and demoralized by war. Mistress al'Dann had him by the shirt, crying hysterically. He put an arm around her, suddenly overly conscious of the hand he had unwittingly displayed for the Dedicated. It was twisted and scarred by the torment he had suffered in captivity, pale marks standing out against olive skin on every finger.

"Welcome back to Hama Valon, child," Jaryd said, his tone pitched to carry over the woman's cries. "I hope you have rested; we need all the assistance we can get."

[Brad]

The Light's Vengeance

Lucien's eyes fell on those of one of the few people in the Tower he'd least been looking forwards to seeing again, and he felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. The M'Hael's gaze was like a pair of knives, ripping into him with a weariness and pain that punctured the Andoran Lord more lethally than any blade. He knew the look of guilt would be palpable on his features even before it impacted him, knew the M'Hael would see the way his eyes wanted to look anywhere but at the other man's own, to get away from that inadvertently accusing stare. The woman weeping in Jaryd's grasp was like a hammer driving home the nails of Lucien's perceived coffin, each wracking sob another knife into his guilty heart.

Nearby, a man stumbled out of the crowd, garbed in soot-blackened clothing that may have once been fine, a trail of blood flowing from his scalp, matting his sandy brown hair together with the mix of vitae and perspiration. His hands reached out to grasp at Lucien's arm, and the Dedicated suppressed the urge to jerk away by reflex, glad for the excuse to peel away from the M'Hael's agonising gaze. The man's eyes were a dark blue, several shades less prominent than Lucien's own, but they marked him as an Adoran--that, and the accent that spilled from his lips. "My Lord! It is you! Lord Mantear, Light be praised. I don't know-- I couldn't find-- The Tower won't--" Swallowing his shock, the nobleman fell into habit, speaking in a voice that to his own ears sounded alien. Calm, composed--a leader responding to a panicked subject. "Peace to you, man. Calm yourself. What is it you need of me?"

As if compelled by the authority that deep baritone held, the merchant, as that was what his clothing suggested, gathered his wits some. "My family, milord. My family is trapped." He almost made as if to leave, then remembered he hadn't explained. "I tried to tell them, those girls in white, that my wife-- Light, you have to help me, my lord! My wife-- My children!" He seemed unable to properly convey his meaning, and sought to move away again, then remembered, once more, his position and situation. "Please, Lord Mantear, please! My family is from your lands. Please, I beg of you, help me!" Duty and concern won over within Lucien with little to no need for consideration, and he knew that he'd help the man the moment he'd laid eyes on him, staggering out of the crowd. Nonetheless, his heart hammered with uncertainty, though he never let the man see it. "I cannot help if you don't tell me where they are, and your name, man. I need to know details."

In reply, the man swallowed, brought back from the edge of panic again by Lucien's calm, deliberate speech. "Conneth, milord. Conneth Brill. They're just outside the tower, trapped under one of the collapsed inns. They took shelter in the-- The whole thing was destroyed-- Trapped with the rats!" Making sense of the man's meaning took a moment, but the blue-eyed dedicated responded again, confirming the story quickly before anything was lost or the man's fragile mental state fractured again. "They're trapped in the cellar of an inn, which they were taking shelter in?" The man nodded, gripping Lucien tightly, eyes pleading and half-mad with worry. He was ready to bolt, but the Dedicated wasn't prepared to let him go so easily. Turning, he looked directly at Jaryd, meeting the M'Hael's gaze with that same flash of guilt, but now tempered by a surge of determination. "Father," he said, "I could use your guidance in safely extricating this man's family." By way of reply, the M'Hael spoke, his weary voice edged with a token of... grumpiness? It was hard to place. "Just so. I need a moment."

Nodding, Lucien looked back to Conneth as Jaryd exchanged some murmured words with an Aes Sedai and accompanying group, the Dedicated speaking again in that measured and commanding tone. A Lord to a subject, brooking neither disagreement nor haste. "We will make our way to your family now, Master Brill." His words conveyed a mix of comfort and structured command, the way he'd been raised and trained to speak--firm but fair, guiding but not unsympathetic. For all that he was merely a learning rank, Conneth Brill looked at Lucien Mantear as if he were far, far more. Waiting until Jaryd and his companion joined them, Lucien bowed his head in thanks to the M'Hael and nodded to Conneth, letting the man lead them. Eagerly, the Andorman took them out of the tower--striding near to running, and glancing back repeatedly as if anxious at their pace, despite the quick strides of all involved.

Down stairs, past hauled bodies, and into streets. Murmured bows and respectful salutes followed as the M'Hael was recognised, but Lucien only half-noticed, too busy watching Conneth and at the same time staring at the desolation. How powerful must the foe have been, to have sewn such carnage across Hama Valon? "I should have been here..." He murmured, staring with suppressed sorrow at the devastated roads and destitute buildings. At his back, he felt as much as sensed the tension radiating from the M'Hael, though he couldn't place its origin. He chose not to dwell, either. He had no desire to be embroiled in Tower politics, and anything that could keep the Male Leader of the Grey Tower in such spirits was nothing that Lucien wanted a part of. When Conneth finally came to a halt, it was near a large, intimidating pile of stone, wood, and marble--a collapsed inn, well-known to Lucien's recollection for its fine wines and savouring pork.

"They're beneath here?" He asked Conneth with a firm, but not unkind tone, to which the man nodded--wringing his hands. "I put them here myself, milord. I... I..." Lucien nodded, "if they're alive, we'll have them back to you, Master Brill. My word on it." As if Lucien had delivered him the words of the Creator, Conneth sputtered thanks without coherent words, babbling blessings and praises, which the Nobleman accepted with a smile and nod--a touch forced--before turning to the rubble. More guilt welled inside of him, and he sought to wrestle with it, assuming the void and shoving it all into the flame. All his doubt, all his self-loathing, all his anger and hatred for those that had attacked the place he'd come to call home. He banished his feelings of powerlessness, the knives of Jaryd's eyes, and the tension radiated by the M'Hael. All these things and more he shoved into the void, and then focused.

As always, saidin appeared to him like sunlight, a warm glow just out of sight of his shoulder. Without hesitation, he seized the True Source, sweet life flooding him in a flash of ice and magma in his veins. Ecstasy filled him, and he drew more of the power, suffusing himself with it, wrestling and dominating it to banish the flickers of agony dancing on the outside of the void. His blue eyes locked on the building, and he again drew more. He drew, and drew, until the font of saidin blazing within him was like an unfathomable heat. Until he felt as if he were full to bursting. He held as much saidin as possible without burning himself out, held as much as he could safely wield, perhaps more by a hair. Immediately he began to weave, flows of air that sought to brush aside the rubble like some massive hand, sought to push it aside and clear it from the collapsed inn. He was lost in it. Wondering in the feeling of such immense amounts of the one power. With this, I could have helped Hama Valon. With this, I could have burned the Seanchan away. I should have been here. I should have destroyed them! A low growl left his lips, and he set into his work, smashing apart debris as often as moving it.

He had not yet learned finesse, but for this, perhaps brute power alone would be enough.

[Sunny]

Jaryd

Jaryd turned away from Lucien after finding someone to care for the weeping woman, already looking for Kaia. He could sense her, of course, but for a moment he couldn’t see her, the crowds had closed around her and she was hidden. Where, where, where…? Panic rose in his chest and his fists closed at his sides as he fought the urge to lash out. She was gone, she wasn’t real, he was going to- Regann was going to- reality began to break apart and he stopped in his tracks, closing his eyes as he reached for his lover along the bond. Kaia!

When his eyes opened again she was there, gorgeous in red with sleek hair pulled away from her face with the same exquisite care as always. She looked at him with brilliant green eyes, her eyebrows quirked together ever so slightly and the bond flooded with concern. He smiled and shook his head slightly, but she put her hand on his shoulder and he knew she had sensed his moment of terror. “A man needs assistance in the city,” he said softly, his eyes sliding back to look at the Dedicated and his roughly-dressed companion. “His family is trapped.”

“Shall we help him?” She asked. Her lips smiled and she gathered herself as if to follow him, but he could feel the drag over the bond, the faint whisper, tired…. that she did not mean to share.

He shook his head, the fingers of his opposite hand lacing through hers, pulling them up to his lips. “I….I want to see if- if I can- I need to be able to-” He felt her understanding and her fear for him surge over the bond, and closed his eyes, his relief and thanks rising to meet her feelings. “Please...listen for me?” He touched his temple. “I may not even make it out the door.” Light, only a moment before he had panicked and she was only a few feet away. What did he think he was doing?

“I do not think this is a good idea, mi cueran,” she said, her tone gentle, but with edges of warning. As usual, she had read his thoughts. I have to learn to control that. She laughed, responding aloud. “Yes we do, but you haven’t yet.” Her laughter shifted to a sigh as she realized he was set in his decision. “I will be here,” she said quietly. “I’m tired, Jaryd. If you need me, try to tell me before it’s an emergency?” He nodded and pressed her fingers to his lips again, dark eyes intent on hers. That was the extent of the intimacy he was willing to express in public. He knew it frustrated her, and loved her all the more for respecting his reticence.

Before he could change his mind he turned and strode away, pulling the Void around him as a protective shield. By the time he had joined the two Andorans across the room he strode with something akin to his old confidence, his finger looped lightly through the ring on Watari’s hilt at his waist. He tried not to think overmuch about the woman he left behind, and forced himself to pay attention to his surroundings. This is real. I am not dreaming. It was an odd thing, having to remind himself about reality.

He made it through Hama Valon by focusing on Master Brill’s back and ignoring everything they passed. Thankfully the man was significantly taller than he, and thus the blank stare seemed to pass as something resembling Asha’man chill to those he strode past. He caught the ripple of bows out of the corner of his eyes and flinched. Very few people outside the Hall knew why their M’Hael had not been there to defend them, and the Hall had not told them. What would they do, if they found out where he had spent the duration of that battle? What if I’m still there? His breath hitched, and his fingers clenched around Watari. No! I am not!

They made it to the inn that Conneth called home.. Jaryd studied the mess with a critical eye as Lucien spoke to the man, reaching through his memory for the layout of the inn when it had stood, and tracing the fastest route through the tumble of of wood and stone. He reached for saidin and a moment later felt the Dedicated do the same. He held back, watching the young man with critical curiosity as he wove. The flows he created were well intentioned but bulky. He exerted far too much strength for a simple task, but the M’Hael continued to watch for another few minutes.

“Hold a moment,” he said finally, the weariness of the last two weeks evident in his voice although his tone was not unkind. “If you continue as you are you will exhaust yourself to no good end, and may not be able to keep the inn from collapsing on itself, and the people beneath it.” His gaze flickered to Conneth, who stood nearby wringing his hands. “Master Brill, I believe there is a pile of wood a little distance up the street. If you could find a seat there until we are complete?”

He did not wait for a response. Instead he turned back to the Dedicated. “See, there? That beam. If we brace that one with Air, then we can pull those larger rocks out.” He channeled, a net of Air darting through the air and diving into the earth, wrapping around the beam he had indicated. He split the flows then, forming more lines of Air. Those were thinner than the ones Lucien had used previously, more delicate, and they wove easily around a large chunk of stone, pulling it to the side and setting it down where it would not be dangerous. “Like so. Help me hold up the beam, and…move slowly. If it starts to slide we will have to stop it.”

They worked together in silence for a few minutes before Jaryd spoke again, this time referencing something he had heard the man mutter on the walk there. ““Nothing is worse than seeing the devastation of something you love,” he said softly, “but bearing a burden of guilt for your absence will do you no good, Lucien.” His flows split again, this time to form a bubble around them that blocked out sound. It was eerie to watch stone fly without hearing it crash, but at least they could speak without interruption. “You were not the only one who was not present. I myself was- otherwise occupied. In a manner of speaking.” For a moment, he thought he felt the collar around his throat. The Altaran paused, his scarred fingers visibly trembling as he fought himself for control once more. “I spoke truth earlier when I said we would need your help….perhaps more now than we did then.” His voice had grown savage, and he scowled as he yanked a slender piece of wood free from the rubble. A stair rail, perhaps. He tossed it aside.

Lucien had a history with the Shadow, and he didn’t like thinking of what would happen if the man found out the full story without someone near to restrain him if need be. “You’ll hear it from others soon enough, so I may as well tell you now. The attackers were renegade Seanchan working with Westlander mercenaries. It seems likely they were all Shadowsworn; the leaders certainly were. We haven’t yet determined all the details, but it seems obvious that the Shadow wanted the Grey Tower taken out. The important part for now is that they didn’t succeed.”

The Hall would likely be angry that he spoke with such candor, but….that was not a new state of affairs. He quirked his lips, threw another stone down the street, and watched the man with quizzical dark eyes.