The Limits of Possibility [Attn: Matty]

[Jenny]

Emmond Salere Days passed. Each morning, he made himself get out of bed. He made himself exercise, bathe, dress. Then he went downstairs for breakfast. Almyra's family welcomed him with open arms. Almyra must have informed them privately about his history, because Emmond heard no questions. He ate Almyra’s food and dandled her grandchildren on his knee. He laughed at jokes and smoked tabac with the men after meals, where they exchanged stories and local gossip. He went through the motions of life without really living. Sometimes he wondered how he could possibly go on. He shoved that thought aside and buried it deeply within himself. For Emmond, survival was a habit. And as long as he didn’t think too hard, he could… exist.

Then one day he thought to himself: Why am I not happy? Here in the safety and warmth of Almyra’s kitchen, in the calm and comfortable embrace of a normal working-class family, it was everything that he could have ever wanted. It was the life that he had dreamed of, that he told himself he would have lived, if only he had not sworn to the Shadow. If only he had not lost Herah. If only he had not been blinded. If only he had not left Elia. If only...

And as always, he treated his regrets with contempt and flung them aside. Regret leads to hesitation. Hesitation leads to death. He emptied himself of emotion and entered the Void. Then he seized saidin and wove a thread of Fire to light his pipe. He sat there, on the steps outside the back entrance to Almyra’s kitchen, and sent rings of smoke into the air.

Only then did he admit that he wanted to return to the Tower. But how? Would Elia bind him again? Would Murdock kill him? He turned his pipe in his hands and smiled grimly at its warmth. All it takes is one spark to burn down a house, he thought. I can be that spark.

Footsteps. Emmond tilted his head to listen. An unfamiliar rhythm. Too heavy to be a woman. His fingers crept for the knife at his belt.

[Chris]

Maever Donovan Maever was still not quite used to his role as the Head of the Yellow Ajah, though he took much excitable pride in this position and was determined to do well with it. Did people treat him any differently because of it? Ummm… it was difficult to say. Maever was generally anxious around large groups of people and outside of the Infirmary, he didn’t notice subtleties like a change in attitude unless it was extreme. The Game of Houses was not something he, as a mere farmer’s lad, had ever taken interest in, and even if he did he would have been ever so bad at it.

This didn’t mean he was unaware of his surroundings or the people around him though. The Illianer was not the sharpest of men but when it came to people’s wellbeing, he made up for it with a keenness that did him well with his patients. People said “I’m fine” all the time, but the truth of it was so few people genuinely were, and sometimes it just took a bit of noticing to see what the issue was. This is what happened with the fellow Maever met on his way back from Mar a’Mael, where he had spent the day with the children, making sure they were well, giving them sweetbuns, and taking part in whatever games they had planned. He liked to spend time there several times a week and they knew his face there – it was ever so lovely to walk in and have a gaggle of children crowd around him because they liked him and wanted to see him. It did the Yellow a whole world of good.

He thought that this man looked familiar, but then if they were not regularly in need of Healing he didn’t know much about the Grey Tower, not as much as he ought to. The man tended to keep to himself, after all. But the Illianer was always aware, always alert (through alarm rather than an Asha’manly need to “BE PREPARED AT ALL TIMES”), and he noted the way the man tilted his head at his approach. Mostly because he anticipated some sort of rude comment or attack, but there was something about the way he turned his head, subtle shifts of his body and eyes that Maever noted. But most of all, he looked… he looked like he was sad, before hearing Maever approach.

That was it. He’d heard Maever before seeing him, and Maever hadn’t been subtle in his approach either.

Hrmmmmm. Maever continued walking, going right past the man, whose head following along as he walked, and moved away until he saw the man was no longer interested. The Illianer stood there for a moment, pretty sure that the man would still be looking if he could actually see him – and he was in his line of sight – before, with a stealth that came with nimble dancer’s feet, he sidled his way back towards the man, in front of him about twenty feet away, silently. No response.

And he still looked sad.

So Maever did the only thing he could do, which was to go and sit with the fellow, making his way over and putting himself next to him on the bench. “Hullo!” he said politely. “I do be Asha’man Maever, of the Yellow Ajah! I did just see you and, ummm, well, you did look like you do be needing some company so here I do be.” He reached into his medic’s bag, a little bag he carried wherever he went, and pulled out some mint leaves to chew on. He held the bag out. “Ummm, mint?” he asked, intrigued to see what he did with his hands.

[Jenny]

At the stranger's voice, Emmond nearly leapt a foot into the air. His knife darted forward. But before it reached its target, Emmond felt a sense of menace. He gasped. Saidin! His knife twisted, and then slipped through his fingers. Where did it go? He did not know. He trembled. This was it, he thought. He had stupidly attempted to stab this stranger, who had turned out to be some sort of channeler. Surely this man would not look kindly on him.

But for some odd reason, the man did not kill him. Emmond sat down with a sigh and tilted his head back in frustration. A hiss of air escaped between his teeth. No, this would not do. He attempted to begin again.

"My apologies," he said. His voice was sincere and apologetic. "You frightened me. It is an honor to be spoken to, Asha'man, though it would be kind of you to give a little more warning of your presence next time. I'm blind, as you have no doubt noticed. Mint? Why not."

He held out his hand, palm up. Then he grinned.

"What have I done to deserve your attention, Asha'man Maever?"

[Chris]

It wasn't every day Maever saw a man with a knife, and had he thought he was in any likelihood of being stabbed he might have been a little less carefree in his approach. but he didn't sense any real harm from the man when the knife fumbled and fell. It had to be difficult, he supposed, being a blind man not knowing what was going on around him. What sort of horrible life had he had that he had to lash out to protect himself? The Illianer reached down and scooped the knife up from where it had fallen nearby.

"Oh, there do no be anything to apologise for," he insisted most earnestly. "I do be sorry for alarming you. Here, I did pick up your knife for you." He let the man have his mint, then in his other hand Maever gently placed the hilt of the blade. The Illianer was fairly confident he was not about to try stabbing him again and if he did, well, Maever would be quite disappointed. "Please, do just be calling me Maever."

There was no delicate way to approach the subject, but Maever figured that there was a happy ending involved, so he pressed on hopefully. "Well, it may no be any of my business, but as a member of the Yellow Ajah it do be my primary purpose to help anybody who do be needing it. I did suspect you could no see, so I did come to offer any assistance I could. I do be a good Healer, so if you do no be minding, I would be happy to take a look and see if there do be anything I can do? And if no, well, living situations and being comfortable do be part of what I do be offering as well!"

The man was looking at him and Maever wasn't sure what to make of his expression. He looked... wary, the Illianer thought, or maybe just a little fed up. "I do be Oathsworn," he said earnestly, "you can be trusting me to see you right."

No pun intended, Maever wasn't really intelligent enough to make a pun on purpose...

In the end the answer was a disinterested shrug, and the Illianer could only assume that people have Delved him before perhaps, or the diagnosis at the time was not a good one. Not to be deterred, the Yellow wanted to see for himself.

Maever did not delve like most people, who put both hands to someone's head. He could use both hands but the Illianer simply placed two fingers to the blind man's temple, seizing his modest supply of Saidin and Delving the man. The weaves were delicate and intricate, as he had more of a soft touch with the Power than many of his male peers - he was not strong, but he was a deft weaver, and everything was laced together just so. He closed his eyes, feeling what was not right inside the unnamed man's head, getting an idea of where it was wrong.

"Oh!" he remarked. "So, it do be looking to me as if the connection between your eyes and your mind do be severed. Ummm, the eyes do still be functioning - they do respond to light, and they do be moving - but the brain do no be told this properly, so it does just... shut it off. It do be very intricate and I will be needing an Aes Sedai to assist in a circle, but I do be thinking it be possible to restore a reasonable level of eyesight back to you. If you do no be minding a man channelling on you of course, I will no be offended if you would no like it!"

[Jenny]

Impossible.

That was the only thought that wormed its way into Emmond's stunned mind. What this Asha'man was saying - this man who called himself Maever and spoke with the silly Illianer accent - his statements could simply not be true. After the Seanchan attack, and after the loss of his sight, Emmond had tried everything. He had scoured the infirmary, sought the best Healers the Tower could offer, and even searched within the Black Ajah. Again and again he had been told one of the core tenets of Healing: that what had been Healed could not be Healed again.

Part of him rebelled in violent rage. To think that the cure had been hidden from him all this time? He wanted to curse the cruelty of life, to shake his fists against the unfairness of it all. Another part of him quivered with snarling fear. He did not dare to hope too much or dream too far. Or maybe this man was toying with him, in some sick form of torture. Haha, let's promise the blind man that he could see. What fun!

But despite his shock and anger and disbelief, Emmond was a practical man. He would try it. Of course he would! He would try anything.

"I don't mind," he said, his voice smooth and warm in a deceptively mild tone. Then another thought occurred to him. The memory of a voice that could both caress and command, and the faint scent of rosemary and juniper.

He grimaced.

"But not with an Aes Sedai. An Accepted, perhaps?"

Spoiler: show

(OOC: Woohoo! Let's get this Healing thing over with. Time for Maever to shine!!)