The Grey Tower

Bile rose up in the back of the Amadician's throat, the world lurching and distorting. Silver-grey eyes went flat, his chest swelling outward. For a heartbeat he was still, and then Zeen could stand it no longer. The breath was expelled from his lungs in an explosive rush of sound. His fingers clawed at the edge of the flat stiff fabric that pressed in along the underside of his jaw, too close... far too close to his throat. I cannot get... it off! Mindless terror overruled rational thought. The scent of char and smoke was suddenly too present and it overwhelmed him.

Light, Light, oh Light, he had touched the... collar... no. No! The muscles of his torso went rigid as he tensed, bracing himself for agony that... did not come? The sound of his harsh breathing echoed back at him. Why...? What was Sheis waiting for? He could not- he could not- Long, thick fingers twitched and with that small, reflexive gesture, he remembered where he was again. The world righted itself, the things that he smelled fading back into the recesses of his memory. The room he stood in - his room - was nothing more than a simple room. He stared down at the edges of the rug that lined the floor beneath his bed, brows drawn together in confusion.

He had been unconscious for three days. That had been a week ago. Or... The scar that slashed across his forehead shifted as he frowned. Had it been a week already? That did not feel right... Light, why could he not remember?

I am free... Slowly, Zeen lifted his head. He was... free. The light in his eyes was wild as he glanced around. As if to reassure himself, he swung his arms sharply, lifted and stomped his feet, jumped in place even, the fact that he could move of his own volition severing as a soothing balm against the rough-edged fear that raced up and down his spine. It is real, he reminded himself over and over again. I am free.

It took the him far too long to remember that he could rid himself from the confines of the ugly black coat simply by taking it off. The Dedicated threw it across the room, suddenly furious at himself. He staggered backwards until his back collided with the wall, the impact causing the scars there to twinge in protest. Zeen let his chin drop nearly to his chest, his eyes falling shut as he sought to calm his fractured mind, slow his racing pulse. This could not continue. He could not... function like this.

Creator shelter me. He had been collared, and in all that time he had not uttered a single prayer. Even through the worst of the torture and suffering Sheis had inflicted upon him, not once had he beseeched that distant figure of the Light for help or relief. He tried to pray now. Shield me from the gaze of the Dark one. That seemed fitting, yet woefully inadequate. It had not been the Creator that had come to help save him, but one lone woman clad in the grey uniform of a Drin'far'ji... Fiona... The Amadician sighed softly. Her blonde curls had smelled the same as he remembered from his Arch. He shook his head, purposefully reordering his thoughts. The army that had attacked Hama Valon had been comprised of Darkfriends seeded amongst the Seanchan and mercenaries. Jaryd's spidery script had explained much.

....

Zeen found he could not continue the prayer, abruptly disgusted by the words he repeated by rote. They were empty and held no meaning. He looked up to the ceiling, shoulders sagging. What do I do? The crossbeams gave no answer. He could not move as hot liquid rolled down his face, pooling into the corners of his mouth. He shuddered, making no sound, as the twin trails of shimmering rivulets gradually slid down his throat.

-

The Amadician was glad for the darkness and stillness of night. He was in no mood to pretend he did not see the looks that darted his way.

Many of his peers were cautious. There were a handful of them that regarded him with suspicion. The Aes Sedai and Asha'man were worried and seemed to want to hover over him incessantly. Was he feeling well? He needed to sleep more. He had to remember to eat. He should not channel without resting in between. On and on and on they fussed... and he tolerated it. He could acknowledge all of those sentiments; he had destroyed the Weapons Hall once. He had brought down an entire section of the curtain wall that had ringed around Hama Valon. He had turned the sul'dam holding Red into a literal pile of ash. And there was a bounty of three hundred gold crowns on his head. He could not fault those their caution, their misgivings, or their well-meaning attempts to care for him.

It was the sidelong looks of pity that drove him into a frothing rage.

During the day, Zeen helped with the recovery efforts as much as he was allowed to. His Talent for Earth Singing was a boon, though he was not permitted to use it often... and only while under supervision. When he was not channeling, he helped cleared away debris until his hands cramped, his size and broad shoulders making him an ideal candidate. He ate when he was ordered to, he rested when he was made to, and when time came for him to sleep, he kept the nightmares at bay by running laps around the Yards until he vomited.

Tonight was no different.

The tall Dedicated's stride was uneven as he limped across the Tower grounds, a hand going to press in against his side as he sought to alleviate the painful stitch there. He had downed an entire jug of water, perhaps foolishly, the cold liquid now sloshing around audibly in his belly. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, inhaling as deeply as he could. He did not wish to go back inside. He would never admit it out loud, but the walls of his room... pressed in too close sometimes until he... panicked like a caged animal.

He wandered aimlessly through gently sloping trails of fragrant green, the sweat slowly cooling from his skin. Silver-grey eyes lifted towards the top of the Tower. He had not seen Jaryd since the battle's end. The Light protect you, Red. The weary Dedicated sat down on the first bench he found, staring down at the hands that rested in his lap. My hands. Hands he had killed his sul'dam with. His nostrils flared and for a moment, he smelled smoke. No. He shoved it away as roughly as he could. He was not... collared. He was in the gardens. The Grey Tower's gardens. There was no smoke here, no fog, no Dagan. My name is Zeen. His mind groped for a memory, any memory, that did not involve a bracelet and leash.

This image represents Aes Sedai. It also represents the two sides of the Source. More importantly, it represents balance, Jaryd had explained to him once. The Dark One is all about destroying that balance. Ripping it apart. He does whatever he must to gain power so that he might one day tip the scales in his favor and destroy the world.

The Creator is more subtle. He created the Wheel, so that time might continue, and the Pattern, so our lives might make sense. And he created the One Power, which drives both forward forever. If your thread of the Pattern has the ability to channel, it is because the Creator willed it to be so at the dawn of creation, for no thread ever actually ends in the Age Lace. And if that ability to channel is trying to destroy you, it is because the Dark One wants very badly to end whatever purpose you were given. The good news is....every man has the ability to stop him.

That had been completely unlike anything Zeen had been taught. Only the Children were worthy to fight back against the Dark One, the Fortress of Light the only bastion pure enough for the Creator's blessing to reside in. But the Children... they did not battle against the Blight. Most had never laid eyes on a Shadowspawn. They did nothing to push back against the Seanchan, or the Darkfriends that... that... His thoughts listed to the side as his mouth went dry and he had to force himself to breathe. Whitecloaks. They terrorized their own people, and burned innocent men and women that had nothing to do with the Dark One.

You simply need....to find your center.

Back then, he did not believe he had a purpose. He still doubted that he had one. And yet... yet he was alive somehow, against all odds. Still alive... so that he could fulfill his purpose? Jaryd would say 'yes' and promptly laugh at the bewildered look upon the Amadician's face. Zeen glanced around, suddenly discomfited. He did not understand. What purpose could he possibly have?

He had killed the two sul'dam, he remembered suddenly, two horrible human beings that did not deserve to be human beings. Two Darkfriends that delighted in the pain they caused him and his friend. The Dedicated felt no remorse. He did not regret it in the least; given half the chance, he would do it again, and gladly. Absently, he reached up and touched the scar across his brow. Red... Jaryd would... welcome him into the Red Ajah...

Zeen rose to his feet and began pacing back and forth. The Lady would as well... The broad man shook his head. He had never given much thought to an Ajah choice - it had been a little over a month since he had achieved the sword pin. Has it truly been only a month? It felt like an Age had passed since then, the few days he had spent collared, a lifetime. What could it hurt to think about his future Ajah choice? He shrugged inwardly. For lack of a reason not to, he began considering. Yellow, Brown, White, Indigo, and Gray were immediately dismissed. He had little to no interest in what those Ajah's represented, nor the patience required for them. That left him with Blue, Green, and Red. Curious. Or perhaps not. He preferred to act and those three choices would afford him the freedom to do so. The Amadician frowned, gnawing distractedly on his bottom lip.

Jaryd's strong opinions on the Blue Ajah aside... Zeen was wary of leaving "justice" up to the courts of the land to decide. The rest of the Westlands was not like Amador, it was true... but if Sheis and Regann had been captured and squared away somewhere to await trial... he did not think he would be able to tolerate it. No. Everything that he was, demanded that they die for their crimes.

Green or Red. Red or Green. Were those his two choices then? Was that the balance that Jaryd spoke of? Or... perhaps the Altaran meant... no, Zeen could not pretend to know what his mentor would say in this instance. Probably something about following his own conscience.

The Dark One existed. He touched the world, and therefore was a source of evil that had to be actively combated. What about other evils? Like those that preyed upon people unable to defend themselves... like my father. What of instances like the Seanchan and those mercenaries? Darkfriends had been among their number... but there had been men and women that fought because they had been paid to... or because they had believed that they were fighting for the glory of their Empress. What would he do then? I would still fight. Not because they were necessarily evil, but because they threatened all that he held dear.

The brown haired man felt his eyes beginning to cross and shook his head. He began the long trek back to his room, his steps lagging, body aching. Perhaps the balance that Jaryd had spoken of long ago was not about the act of choosing Green or Red... but in realizing which Ajah would allow him the greatest freedom to battle against the things that threatened to shift the word towards the Dark One. Evil existed in far more forms and guises than merely Shadowspawn. In that, the Children of the Light were correct.

He kicked off his boots, stripping out of his breeches and shirt. The yawn that cracked his jaw caught him by surprise. Zeen rubbed at his shoulder, his limbs feeling heavy and awkward. He fell face first down onto his bed, his eyes closing. He prayed that he would only dream of golden curls and soft blue eyes.