The Grey Tower

The whine of steel slicing through air was a sound to which Lucien had long ago grown accustomed, having heard it often in his youth and formative years. The subtle glint of light from the blade, the feel of the leather on his palms, the keen edge fresh from a whetstone, the balance of a custom-forged weight. The ease of the basic forms was a welcome reprieve to the Dedicated, an escape from the trepiditious reality of the world around him. Hama Valon defiled, its radiant squares and shining walls rent like rotted cloth. Black, towering spires of undulating smog heralded the continued burning of parts of the city; still smouldering through the sheer force of the devastation visited upon them. A pivot on his heel, and droplets of sweat flew from his brow, his eyes cold within the void. The faces of the dead haunted him, accusing, like a chorus of persecution damning him for his lack of presence during the attack.

So strong, Lord Mantear, they taunted in the imagined tones of slain children, and yet when we needed it, where was your power? A flare of self-loathing sparked through the void, rippling along the surface like a flash of crimson lightning, before dispersing back into his subconscious. He centred himself, focusing purely on the blade in his hands. Lightning of the Three Prongs flowed into The Creeper Embraces the Oak, shifting to Black Pebbles on Snow rapidly, his breath exhaled through the strike, which shifted with a movement of weight into Arc of the Moon. Lucien's body was coiled, his muscles tensed, and his movements not as fluid as they could have been. Arc of the Moon morphed into The Hawk Surveys the Plain, and from there to The Courtier tips his Fan, fluidly transitioning to Cutting the Wind, without a fumble despite the awkwardness of the initial positioning.

His movements were calculated for relief, for unburdening himself. He gave himself to the forms; The Falcon Stoops into a passable The Dandelion in the Wind, following towards a Lizard in the Thornbrush. The form flow was continued by The River Undercuts the Bank, and slid forth towards a pivot-turn, rapidly moving into The Wood Grouse Dances, then into The Red Hawk Takes a Dove, and concluding his movements with River of Light. Sweat coated him as he stood, locked in the final movement of the form, his bare chest heaving for air. He had stripped, of course--naked to the waist, with fitting breeches offering him his decency, and good boots to assure his footing. Immersed in the void, it was someone else's well-worked body, someone else's heaving lungs. He was fighting not just air, but his own guilt; fencing with his sense of obligation and an overwhelming burden of perceived failure.

Lucien knew, logically, that he had no way of knowing the Seanchan would attack. He had no way of comprehending the magnitude of the invaders' desire to see the Grey Tower and its union of men and women crushed. The reality was that he had been following a family duty that he had sworn to long before he had learned to channel. He had been doing his proper task and attending the High Seat of Mantear, in the event of an unexpected death. He was obligated. He was bound to it. Then why do I feel as if I'm making excuses? The void wavered as the thought crossed the darkness, threatening to fracture his Oneness. The flame worked to absorb the emotion that ravaged him, yet even then it was difficult. How was it that he could receive praise for his potential, yet fail so miserably?

It isn't my fault. He insisted, still locked in the completion stance of River of Light. It was beyond my control. The words were spoken insistently, and even in the coldness of the void he registered them, thought them, and the feeling of them washed over him. He felt the weight of his strength, then, like a physical thing. A mantle of power and responsibility that he knew was the truth of his reality, yet which he tried fervently to deny. What help could he have been? An immense one. The hard truth was that he could have made a difference. Whether or not he knew he had no way of preventing the attack, the tortured consideration that his presence would have saved dozens more lives needled him. He was one of the strongest in the Tower. In the world. He had power at his fingertips to change the landscape of any battle within which he participated, yet he had been gone.

He had been gone, and people had died.

His eyes fell to his sheathe, and he engaged in a Folding the Fan, the blade slicing air as he set it home at his hip, hand squeezing the leather on the hilt for a moment. "Forgive me," he said aloud, pale blue eyes turning to the sky, turning to the smog that polluted the blue above. "Forgive me." The words repeated, softer, a release of burden--an admittance of wrong-doing. He should have learned to Travel with greater skill. He should have spent more time working on rapid transportation. Had he not been delayed, perhaps the battle may have gone differently. Perhaps many things might have been different. Perhaps.