The Grey Tower

She could still smell the ashes from a funeral pyre that cradled no body; the scent of charred oak was burned into her brain, permanently trailing her - haunting her.

The place in her mind that had once held him felt disoriented and ragged, not at all like the gaping chasm that most Aes Sedai said that it felt like. It was not like he had died, but as if he had never existed to begin with, as though balefire had burned his thread from the Pattern. That was a possibility she could no longer ignore: none of the other Warders had vanished from balefire, they had merely died. It was a bleak prospect. At least, if it was only death, their threads would intertwine again when the Wheel respun them. She searched for him in Tel'aran'rhoid, aimless and bleak - already, her control had slipped one too many times, and she had nearly trapped herself with a shadow of what she wanted to be real rather than what was.

Silas was gone. Illyria remained.

His only legacy was hidden away safely with Saffiah Ella in a Borderland, and she was never to know who she was or where she came from. It was laughable, an Amadician and a Seanchan producing a channeling child, but given their respective strengths in the Power, it was nigh impossible that little Emila would not access the Source as well, perhaps a Wilder like her parents before her. Saffiah would tend to her. Never with a mother's love, but she could protect her from the Black Ajah - Saffiah had sworn herself and her drunken Domani to Emila's protection, in exchange for nothing. Emila's absence hurt more than Silas' - it was sharper, hotter, like a dagger in her gut. But at least Illyria knew that she was safe. That was the best that she could give her child.

I won't even know her name, Illyria mused softly, turning over the little black curl that she had clipped from her head before surrendering her to Saffiah's custody, And with the Creator's blessing, I never will. She twisted the lock between her forefinger and her thumb for the thousandth time - and for the thousandth time wishing that she could track her daughter with need: but Illyria Malkom was nothing if she was not resourceful. She had crafted little ter'angreal - one for Emila, Saffiah, and Esmatal before departing back into the night - they were beyond her sight, even with her Talent, and their dreams were blocked. Emila was protected from everything. Including her mother.

The little lock of hair - all that was left to prove that Emila ever existed - was tucked back securely into a Warded locket, which Illyria then stuffed beneath the high neckline of her dress. Widows wore white, for a year and a day, in some places - but the Aes Sedai had not had the strength to admit it outwardly yet. She wore powder blue, in a conservative cut, darted and hemmed in a slightly older fashion. Her ageless features hid how long she had been channeling, and the little Oathsworn pin on her dress declared that she clung to the Tower's tradition more tightly than most: many people were grateful to be free of their wretched Oaths as quickly as they could be.

The locket was cold on her skin: she could feel the Ward, humming softly with the energy of saidar that had been tied off permanently - beside it hung a delicate chain with Silas' pins. He had not worn them when he left for the field, and they were hers to keep. That was all she had left of him - a golden sword, a golden dragon, and a wedding ring that she had not been able to remove.

She was weary of grief.

She was weary of living.

She was weary of the scent of charred oak.

It had always been clear that there were risks in Bonding, especially a Green - but she had never expected that the price would come so soon or that it would be so high. It felt so childish, now: she had stolen happiness when it would have been safer to remain alone, and Light, was she paying for it now. She had moved out of their shared quarters as soon as she had declared to Rodric, the new Captain-General, that she was ready to surrender to the inevitable: furniture was returned to storage, new walls would erected where they had knocked out a wall to accommodate their expanding family, and Illyria had taken a tiny, minimalist room nearer to her Ajah Courtyard.

All that was left were the reminders that she could not bear to throw away.

He had died with his prized ashandarei, so at least there was not that to contend with, but she had never considered how much clothing her husband owned. Silk shirts. Linen shirts. Formal coats, coats with holes. Breeches with holes. Breeches without holes. At least four pairs of boots that all looked identical. What was she to do with an entire wardrobe for a man that was gone and had no use for it? She certainly could not wear any of it; she had already tried one of the coats, and it had dwarfed her - he had been much taller than she was, and the sleeves had flopped uselessly past her hands. The black wool was sturdy enough that it had not minded the insult of her tears, but she knew that would not last. Already, his scent no longer clung to his clothing as it once had - if that was gone, there was nothing.

She toyed with the dragon pin that hung around her neck anxiously and tears burned in her eyes. I can't remember the sound of his voice...

Something needed to be preserved. The small mountain of clothing loomed before her, all beyond her Talents. She knew a few tricks with the Power - she could stretch the lifespan of a loaf of bread by a week, if she tried, but she knew nothing about Keepings beyond that. She clutched the golden dragon a little tighter and the edges dug into her fingertips. She could research Wards, if words would stop sliding off the pages when she tried to read. There was not enough time for all the studying that she would need to do -

Jaryd.

Jaryd was renowned for his skill with Wards. He...The Red... Jaryd... Kaia.. The Indigo squeezed her eyes shut and tears streaked down her ageless face: The Keeper of the Chronicles had died suddenly, too suddenly for a Yellow to weave a Gateway to the M'Hael's office. At least she had a choice in the matter and had declared her husband dead. Kaia Ariasca had died in Jaryd's arms. Some rumors said that she had not even the chance to speak before she had died - but it was clear that the loss of his bond had wrought devastation. Was it right to intrude? Was she selfish enough to beg a favor of a grieving man?

Silas' favorite coat sat on the top of the pile, brown wool, caked in dust that he'd never bothered to wash away.

Illyria Malkom realized that she was far more selfish than she wanted to believe. She stood from her desk - the chair scraped loudly against the stone tile of her floor - she snatched the brown coat from where it laid limply. The soft, mid-morning light that drifted in from her window seemed to wash the color out of the garment - it seemed as though the color had been washed away from everything, since his Bond had vanished - she folded the coat along the seams gingerly, as if her touch would strip away anything that was left of him. Quickly, it was bundled into a neat square, and she nearly ran from her quarters - the Red Ajah had moved from the Basement and taken up a more permanent residence in the Tower. Her slippers slid along the glossy floors: the Aes Sedai could not remember the last time that she had gone faster than a walking pace, but the learning ranks were quick to clear a path for the wild-eyed Indigo. She arrived in the Red Quarters, chest heaving with exertion, and it was easy to tell Torianin's quarters from Jaryd's: Torianin had a plaque on her door that declared her name, and Jaryd's door was bare.

Her knuckles rapped on the door so hard that they stung. She bit her lip, ignored the tears welling in her eyes, and tried to keep her expression schooled to impassive, collected calm - but Light, it was impossible - and she fumbled for words. What would she say when she was faced with a mirror of her grief? How could she ask him for a favor when she could offer nothing in return?

Whoever had said that death was lighter than a feather had never been left in the raw, aching wake of surviving.

Jaryd lay perfectly still in the middle of an unfamiliar bed in an even more unfamiliar room, surrounded by strange furniture and unopened crates. He had his legs drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped about his ankles, as if by holding himself in place he could hold his soul together as well. The position did nothing to alleviate the throbbing pain in his chest. He ground his eyes against his knees until sparks flared, and still that ever-present ache consumed him.

Kaia? He did not like how tentative he sounded in his own mind, and liked the lack of response even less. Perhaps she was angry at him and had blocked him out. Perhaps she simply slept….she had been so tired. The possibilities whirled in his head, but none made sense. He reached for her and recoiled as he touched not the warmth of her mind nor the smooth surface of a block, but instead plunged into a hole torn in his soul. No delicate bridge to his lover’s heart could have survive such a catastrophe, nor even a wall through which he might someday pass to feel her in his mind once more. The wound gaped into eternity within him, raw, empty, burning to the touch. Kaiiiaaa…..!

The slender Altaran wailed again, curling tighter against himself as he struggled to control the battering ram of grief and guilt and loss that slammed through him yet again. His face was caked in dried tears, his body stiff from constant tension. How many days had it been? How long since- he shuddered and flinched away from the thought, sobs wracking his body as his thoughts twisted and jumbled together.

A flash of white light overtook his vision behind closed eyelids.

This is just another punishment, he reminded himself. You’ve survived many of these. He turned to rest on his knees, his forehead pressed against the coverlet below him, and his hands stretched over his head. Regann preferred that; when he knelt that way, she hurt him less. “Shaeya will be good,” he whispered. “Please, please just make it stop.” He would rather the burns and broken bones than the ravaging horror that consumed him. He would rather be dead.

I should be with her.

Kaia did not appear, and the waking nightmare did not end.

Time blurred together. He ate when given no choice and cared for himself with mechanical precision. Every two nights he slept. It has been two days, Kaia’s voice would remind him, and he would blindly reach for the teacup. He had promised her, and he never broke his promises. Sleep always brought dreams of his lover, but no rest.

At first he dressed as directed. Then he realized his Aes Sedai caretakers had given him simple outfits of white or pale gray. He had insisted on his regular wardrobe, and from that point on dressed as he always had. Red breeches. White shirt. Red vest with gold embroidery, a sash so deep red it may as well have been black. Kaia knew him best that way, and thus that was how he would stay.

A knock sounding on his door startled him out of a reverie. A servant went to answer it, and Jaryd drew back on himself, pressing into the back of the chair he sat in as if he thought he might disappear if he pressed hard enough. He did not want- could not- would not- accept another strange caretaker. He wanted to be alone, and they would not let him.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself looking at a face he knew...ageless, pale, and twisted in grief, gray eyes cutting through the fog that surrounded his mind and demanding his immediate attention. Illyria? She was Seanchan, he knew that; a part of him screamed for escape. Yet his memories of her as Mistress of Novices seemed more important than that knowledge in that moment, and he pushed his fear away. She is sad. The simple thought was all it took to act.

The Altaran’s dark eyes swiveled to pin his current minder to the wall. “Get out,” he said clearly, a long finger pointing to the door. She met his gaze, but did not move. “Now, Cristianne.” His voice could have frozen the fires of Shayol Ghul; after a moment, she rose and departed, her perfect serenity marred by the haste with which she moved. She pushed by the Indigo with a murmured exclamation, then disappeared. “You, too,” he added. He didn’t even have to look; servant disappeared after Aes Sedai with a soft squeak.

Once they were alone, Jaryd stood and motioned for Illyria to enter, studying her face as she approached. She had lost Silas, he remembered suddenly, just as- no! His hands rose to his face as sobs threatened to overwhelm him again, and for a moment they stood in silence. Eventually he collected himself and gestured to a chair. “Please, have a seat,” he said unsteadily. He realized his visitor held something dark clutched in her hands, and cocked his head to the side. “What brings you here today, Illyria?"

Illyria's eyes widened at the shock of realization: the door swung open not to reveal Jaryd Kosari, but Cristianne Trakand, a Yellow that specialized in psychological trauma. Her mouth hung agape as her eyes met Cristianne's hardened features: Jaryd had been a Warder, she realized. He was tap-dancing along a razor's edge, slicing away sanity as he went. She had been warned of the suicidal madness that gripped Warders that lost their Wards before she had been taught the weave for claiming a Gaidin as hers; if she felt abandoned among wreckage and desolation, Jaryd was the firestorm that threatened to rain devastation on the world. He had enough power with saidin to rival most men alive, so she had heard - there would be a second Breaking, if the Grey Tower did not tread lightly.

The Andoran Healer's suspicious, emerald gaze shifted from her towards the back of the room, and Illyria could hear the former M'Hael shuffling towards the threshold before she could see him. He was dressed in Altaran fashion, in varying shades of cranberry to maroon, with a shock of white for a simple laced shirt contrasted with his dark skin. His eyes met hers, and what she saw made her want shrink back in fear - the man's gaze was hollow, empty, seemingly... The Void, she reminded herself, steeling her spine as he snapped at Trakand and her assistant, It is merely the Void. Cristianne moved past her in the small space of his doorway, her voice barely audible over the whisper of her heavy skirts: "Do not undo my work, sister," and then she was alone with the Red.

He gestured silently for her to follow him into his dark rooms; heavy curtains hung over the windows. Illyria realized the scarlet fabric was likely in place to hide the fact that his windows had been boarded up so that he could not leap to his death. His room was barren - any earthly possession he had looked as though it was tucked away in a box, and even then, it was not very much for a man that had been living so long. She noticed that there was not a single piece of furniture with a sharp corner or edge in the entire parlor, and she offered a silent thanks for Cristianne's thoroughness. She pressed the door open wider as she passed, gathering her light-colored skirts and stepping lightly - just then, a revelation struck the Asha'man, and his spidery, slim fingers rose to cover his face; his exhalation was heavy, nearly a groan. He cradled his temples in grief, as if the weight of the world had just come crashing back down upon him. Illyria clutched Silas' coat a little tighter, and her hand twitched with uncertainty. Cristianne's warning had been clear, and if she touched him, she might shatter all that was holding the man together.

Illyria had a coat, a ring, a few insignias of rank. Perhaps all Jayrd had was the memory of a warm, soft touch. She did not want to take all that was left of his lover in an attempt to soothe him. She shuddered where she stood, flailing for serenity. Tears gathered in her eyes and she ignored the impulse to reach for Silas' pins as Jaryd stood before her, slowly gathering what was left of him into a coherent whole. Eventually the man swallowed, pulled his hands from face, and gestured wearily to a chair. "Please, have a seat." His voice shook, as though he was wrestling still. She stepped past him - careful not to touch him - and seated herself on a plush, red-velvet footstool. The chair had no back and lacked the ornate carvings of most parlor-chairs, likely for his protection, she realized, and kept Silas' coat securely in her lap.

He took the stool that was across from her and looked at her with an intent expression, though his eyes were filled with a distant light. Here yet not, she told herself, I should have never come. "What brings you here today, Illyria?" The Indigo choked on her uncertainty: she had not even known what she would say to him when she had left her quarters, and now that she was here, inspiration was even more fleeting. She gathered the tattered coat closer to her, not breaking eye-contact. "....I...." Her voice shook and it took all of her Tower training to keep from sobbing before the barely-familiar man. How was it that they had passed through these same halls, lived convergent lives, been dealt the same cruel blow, and never formally met before this occasion? "The coat," she said finally, in a small, tight voice. "It was his." She bit her bottom lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood. It was a rare expression from the woman: her expression was soft, beseeching, imploring - she knew that she would beg on her knees if the Red asked her to.

I cannot let everything fade.

Time passed slowly after Illyria sat. Jaryd held himself perfectly still lest he disturb her thoughts, only his eyes moving as they traced over her ageless face. If we both hold still long enough, then- that was madness, and he knew it. “The coat,” the Indigo said, her voice barely audible. “It was his.” Her teeth bit into her lip; he could see each rounded bit of ivory cutting into her skin in perfect detail, could hear the rustle as she clutched the dark fabric against her body. He stared at it, counting each breath as his chest rose and fell, until he realized why she had come to see him specifically.

Death cannot be Healed, Cristianne had told him firmly a few days before. You must learn to control your grief, Jaryd. How he had hated the matronly Trakand in that moment! When he slept he dreamed of Kaia. He clung to her the way Illyria clung to the coat in her arms, cried for her to stay as the Aes Sedai surely must have cried for Silas. He had been allowed to keep her possessions, but had not yet had the heart to open the crates. Did they smell like her?

His attention turned back to his new companion but rather than speak he simply leaned forward and reached for her. He remembered too late the terrible scars that marred his hands, leaving palms and fingers mottled every color from pale pink to swarthy brown, too-smooth in some areas, twisted and rough to the touch in others. He felt her eyes on that evidence of the torment he had endured and hastily turned his hand palm down, fingers wrapping around the dark wool.

“If you will allow me, I have an idea,” he said. He no longer knew how to make his voice gentle, but lowered volume at least made it less harsh. The Aes Sedai reluctantly let go, and Jaryd lifted the garment in front of him, examining it carefully. Then he stood and spread the article on the table where Cristianne had force-fed him his last meal.

The Void never left him of late, but he had avoided channeling since he had been summarily dropped into his current quarters. The One Power brought both ecstasy and bitter pain, every feeling magnified beyond bearing. It also brought temptation. As he struggled with that molten core of fire and light he fought not only the True Source but also his own desire to simply cease to be. If he let go, let saidin take control, let his strength pour into the ground around him, he could pull the earth up and end it all. It would take only a moment...a heartbeat, a blink of the eye, and he would be free. Control wavered as he stared blankly at the table, and saidin surged hotter in recognition of his weakness.

This is not the way, mi cueran. Phantom fingers ran through his hair, and Jaryd felt hot tears sliding down his cheeks. Why? he pleaded, but received no response. Eventually he sighed softly, eyes turning back to what he was doing. If Kaia said he could not, then he could not.

Dark fingers curled into the tabletop as the Altaran forced the One Power to his will with a growled curse. The way would come soon enough. It had to. For now...he could preserve Illyria’s memories for a little while longer. Knowing how she felt, he could not deny her that gift.

His hands lifted and his fingers splayed over the coat, directing nearly transparent flows of Spirit and Air that danced and shimmered as they wove together over and around the coat. Flows of Earth, Water, and Fire followed, instinct telling him where to tie each knot. Layer after layer spread over the coat, until finally he had covered it entirely.

The Asha’man tied the flows off and released the Power, staring down at Silas’ jacket with distant eyes. Then he lifted it from the table, turning to find Illyria standing just behind him. He tilted his head to the side, then unceremoniously swung the garment out and laid it over her shoulders. As he tugged it shut in front of her and her chin dropped to press against the wool, his lips curved up in the barest of smiles.

“The Ward I placed on this coat could survive a second Breaking,” he told the Seanchan woman, his voice gruff. “So long as my Ward stays in place, you will have...this piece of him.” His chest ached and his eyes burned. If he stood there much longer he would crumple against her and whimper like a lost child.