The Tower persevered.
Young women were still tested for the spark, young men looked into flames that danced in Asha'man palms, and Ravak Gaidin's office was besieged by an onslaught of hopeful would-be Warders. Hama Valon had suffered greatly, but the world rallied around it; people came in droves, from Saldaea to Tear, rushing in and swelling the Tower ranks to the bursting point. There were even rumors of Malkieri among them, the great Borderland nation that had fallen to the Shadow so long ago that it was nigh impossible to prove that anyone was Malkeri, but Muireen had seen some of the drin with hadori, a cheap imitation of honor that they had not earned. The Master of Training's desk had become an insurmountable heap of intake paperwork: anyone that was not born with the spark or able to learn to channel immediately marched next door and asked to be a Warder.
All things considered, the irony was sickening. She had picked the exact time, in all of her time in the Yards, in all of her entire life, to attempt a prank. And her penance was a simple penance - Ravak Gaidin meant to teach her humility, to carefully pick apart the credibility she had earned among her peers by warping her appearance; to an observer, she was a favored student that was allowed to stay indoors and drink iced water and scribble all day. And then everything had happened and the Yards had a higher influx than it had had in decades, if the records were any indication, and Muireen do Morny a'Lordeine was the Master of Training's loyal and hard-working scribe.
Silently she simmered, filling out every last scrap of paperwork in dainty handwriting. She had done this to herself, and Ravak Gaidin could have been much harder on her; a burning cramp in her hand was nothing compared to what she suffered at the hands of her instructors. Her pride, however, was another matter. Plainly speaking, it was wounded; eloquently speaking, Muireen felt like a pincushion, pierced one too many times by little insults that should not have meant anything, but their combined damage was enough to drive anyone into a rage. And that meant it was enough to drive Muireen into a blind frenzy.
Ravak Gaidin said nothing when she announced to him that she was taking a walk and she deliberately shut the door to his office as quietly as she could; the handle didn't even squeak as she turned it. Her breath left her body in a shuddering sigh as she turned away and tears burned in her eyes: it seemed that she could not go a single day without crying since what had happened. The Yellow Ajah was offering Healing, but Muireen knew that no weave could fix what had been broken in her - fear was not absolved with a splash of Spirit and a web of Fire. And what was there to talk about? A to'raken had nearly killed her, she'd watched a Dedicated die by friendly fire, and she'd nearly died in the woods after a failed attempt at rescue. There was nothing that a kind, ageless face could say to ease that pain.
An uncharacteristic snarl settled on her soft features - it looked out of place on her rosy cheeks, and her curly hair bounced jovially in defiance. "It will settle," she whispered fiercely, and scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. "It has to." She took a moment to straighten out her plain blouse - the grey had not meant much before, itchy and uncouth and nothing like the silk ballgowns that she pretended she did not miss, but now... She carefully straightened her red ascot; it had been a haphazard mess before the Tower had been attacked, but now she paid her dress nearly as much attention as she did her weapons. She had six throwing knives tucked away on her person and four War Fans. Nani Gaidin said that she could not have poison yet, but that she would teach her to mix it one day. One day after she had finished serving her penance.
Muireen was grateful for the respite; she had seen what war looked like and was no longer certain that she wanted a part of it. She had learned more than enough to break Daev's nose, and the Tower had a strong hold on her now - like how the stories warned of Aes Sedai and Asha'man strings - but her ambition had clouded over and given way to an uncomfortable fog. Day in, day out. The world changed, the Tower healed, and she remained static.
She made her way to the Gardens, a bubble of tranquility in the chaos of the Tower. The earth had been scorched by damane, but only for a short while: Plantweavers had repaired the flowerbeds and bushes and trees almost immediately. It had seemed to Muireen that it was a waste of time and energy for the horticulturally inclined channelers to work on the bloody Gardens with Hama Valon still in shambles, but now that it had been fixed, she could see their rationale: she was not the only person who hid among the flowers. She settled beneath her favorite tree, tried not to remember that this was Avrya's tree as well, and pressed her back against the solid bark. An engineered brook babbled softly nearby; the Indigo Ajah had installed that nearly a century ago, according to her history lessons. Muireen tried to not to remember that her classes had been put on hold while she served Ravak Gaidin. She closed her eyes, steadied her breathing, and practiced the Flame and the Void - it was long past time that she mastered the ko'di - and lost track of time in serenity. Wind moved through the tree boughs, gently shaking leaves, gently tugging her hair and her uniform; it seemed that the world was breathing and that she was breathing with it. Thank the Light for all those bloody Plantweavers.
She could consider the dilemma of wanting to be a Warder who did not fight another day.
Every so often, a noise startled her from her meditation: a squirrel bounded up the trunk of her tree, chattering triumphantly once it nestled higher up. A gaggle of novices that looked like awkward goslings laughed about the latest rumor regarding Ravak Gaidin. A dog barked - it did not sound menacing, but perfectly thrilled; perhaps someone was playing fetch in the hedgerows. Her hazel eyes fluttered open at each interruption and her hand went to the knife tucked away at her hip; after it was clear that nothing was amiss, she returned to feeding her flame. To her shame, it consisted primarily of rage, and a large serving of fear. But she fed the flame.
Heavy footsteps interrupted her again - she grabbed for her knife and opened her eyes just in time to see the flutter of a black coat. A soldier, she told herself, and watched him for a moment longer. He was very tall, and his pale hair was cropped short - he turned from a cloistered hallway out towards the gardens and her heart froze in her chest: she knew this solider.
The flame exploded into an inferno; before she could breathe, she was on her feet the knife was free of its sheathe and hurtling towards Daev do Morny a'Lordeine.
"You," she shrieked, "You did all of this to me!" Daev somehow managed to dodge her knife, despite her training, and she screeched in rage. Tears blurred her vision, but it did not stop her from attempting to throw again. The knife wobbled and landed harmlessly in a bush. "You left me! And then I came here! And now you're here, thinking you can help save the world after its already burned to the ground! YOU COWARD!" Her third knife was stopped in mid-air, presumably by the One Power, and she found that her arms were locked at her sides. She screamed, her rage turned inarticulate, and struggled helplessly against the bonds. Daev approached her and she spat at him. A fat glob of spittle landed on a high cheekbone, but it gave her no satisfaction.
"I shouldn't have expected you to fight honorably," she snarled at him and still struggled. Tears streamed freely and obscured her vision almost entirely. "You didn't love with any honor."
Young women were still tested for the spark, young men looked into flames that danced in Asha'man palms, and Ravak Gaidin's office was besieged by an onslaught of hopeful would-be Warders. Hama Valon had suffered greatly, but the world rallied around it; people came in droves, from Saldaea to Tear, rushing in and swelling the Tower ranks to the bursting point. There were even rumors of Malkieri among them, the great Borderland nation that had fallen to the Shadow so long ago that it was nigh impossible to prove that anyone was Malkeri, but Muireen had seen some of the drin with hadori, a cheap imitation of honor that they had not earned. The Master of Training's desk had become an insurmountable heap of intake paperwork: anyone that was not born with the spark or able to learn to channel immediately marched next door and asked to be a Warder.
All things considered, the irony was sickening. She had picked the exact time, in all of her time in the Yards, in all of her entire life, to attempt a prank. And her penance was a simple penance - Ravak Gaidin meant to teach her humility, to carefully pick apart the credibility she had earned among her peers by warping her appearance; to an observer, she was a favored student that was allowed to stay indoors and drink iced water and scribble all day. And then everything had happened and the Yards had a higher influx than it had had in decades, if the records were any indication, and Muireen do Morny a'Lordeine was the Master of Training's loyal and hard-working scribe.
Silently she simmered, filling out every last scrap of paperwork in dainty handwriting. She had done this to herself, and Ravak Gaidin could have been much harder on her; a burning cramp in her hand was nothing compared to what she suffered at the hands of her instructors. Her pride, however, was another matter. Plainly speaking, it was wounded; eloquently speaking, Muireen felt like a pincushion, pierced one too many times by little insults that should not have meant anything, but their combined damage was enough to drive anyone into a rage. And that meant it was enough to drive Muireen into a blind frenzy.
Ravak Gaidin said nothing when she announced to him that she was taking a walk and she deliberately shut the door to his office as quietly as she could; the handle didn't even squeak as she turned it. Her breath left her body in a shuddering sigh as she turned away and tears burned in her eyes: it seemed that she could not go a single day without crying since what had happened. The Yellow Ajah was offering Healing, but Muireen knew that no weave could fix what had been broken in her - fear was not absolved with a splash of Spirit and a web of Fire. And what was there to talk about? A to'raken had nearly killed her, she'd watched a Dedicated die by friendly fire, and she'd nearly died in the woods after a failed attempt at rescue. There was nothing that a kind, ageless face could say to ease that pain.
An uncharacteristic snarl settled on her soft features - it looked out of place on her rosy cheeks, and her curly hair bounced jovially in defiance. "It will settle," she whispered fiercely, and scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. "It has to." She took a moment to straighten out her plain blouse - the grey had not meant much before, itchy and uncouth and nothing like the silk ballgowns that she pretended she did not miss, but now... She carefully straightened her red ascot; it had been a haphazard mess before the Tower had been attacked, but now she paid her dress nearly as much attention as she did her weapons. She had six throwing knives tucked away on her person and four War Fans. Nani Gaidin said that she could not have poison yet, but that she would teach her to mix it one day. One day after she had finished serving her penance.
Muireen was grateful for the respite; she had seen what war looked like and was no longer certain that she wanted a part of it. She had learned more than enough to break Daev's nose, and the Tower had a strong hold on her now - like how the stories warned of Aes Sedai and Asha'man strings - but her ambition had clouded over and given way to an uncomfortable fog. Day in, day out. The world changed, the Tower healed, and she remained static.
She made her way to the Gardens, a bubble of tranquility in the chaos of the Tower. The earth had been scorched by damane, but only for a short while: Plantweavers had repaired the flowerbeds and bushes and trees almost immediately. It had seemed to Muireen that it was a waste of time and energy for the horticulturally inclined channelers to work on the bloody Gardens with Hama Valon still in shambles, but now that it had been fixed, she could see their rationale: she was not the only person who hid among the flowers. She settled beneath her favorite tree, tried not to remember that this was Avrya's tree as well, and pressed her back against the solid bark. An engineered brook babbled softly nearby; the Indigo Ajah had installed that nearly a century ago, according to her history lessons. Muireen tried to not to remember that her classes had been put on hold while she served Ravak Gaidin. She closed her eyes, steadied her breathing, and practiced the Flame and the Void - it was long past time that she mastered the ko'di - and lost track of time in serenity. Wind moved through the tree boughs, gently shaking leaves, gently tugging her hair and her uniform; it seemed that the world was breathing and that she was breathing with it. Thank the Light for all those bloody Plantweavers.
She could consider the dilemma of wanting to be a Warder who did not fight another day.
Every so often, a noise startled her from her meditation: a squirrel bounded up the trunk of her tree, chattering triumphantly once it nestled higher up. A gaggle of novices that looked like awkward goslings laughed about the latest rumor regarding Ravak Gaidin. A dog barked - it did not sound menacing, but perfectly thrilled; perhaps someone was playing fetch in the hedgerows. Her hazel eyes fluttered open at each interruption and her hand went to the knife tucked away at her hip; after it was clear that nothing was amiss, she returned to feeding her flame. To her shame, it consisted primarily of rage, and a large serving of fear. But she fed the flame.
Heavy footsteps interrupted her again - she grabbed for her knife and opened her eyes just in time to see the flutter of a black coat. A soldier, she told herself, and watched him for a moment longer. He was very tall, and his pale hair was cropped short - he turned from a cloistered hallway out towards the gardens and her heart froze in her chest: she knew this solider.
The flame exploded into an inferno; before she could breathe, she was on her feet the knife was free of its sheathe and hurtling towards Daev do Morny a'Lordeine.
"You," she shrieked, "You did all of this to me!" Daev somehow managed to dodge her knife, despite her training, and she screeched in rage. Tears blurred her vision, but it did not stop her from attempting to throw again. The knife wobbled and landed harmlessly in a bush. "You left me! And then I came here! And now you're here, thinking you can help save the world after its already burned to the ground! YOU COWARD!" Her third knife was stopped in mid-air, presumably by the One Power, and she found that her arms were locked at her sides. She screamed, her rage turned inarticulate, and struggled helplessly against the bonds. Daev approached her and she spat at him. A fat glob of spittle landed on a high cheekbone, but it gave her no satisfaction.
"I shouldn't have expected you to fight honorably," she snarled at him and still struggled. Tears streamed freely and obscured her vision almost entirely. "You didn't love with any honor."
