The Grey Tower

“So...”

One word, laden and rife with emotion and meaning as it trailed off. Zeen allowed himself to relax into the smile that transformed his face, hands folding across his stomach as he leaned back in his chair. Long legs stretched out in front of him, crossing at the ankles. Within the privacy and safety of his personal rooms, he had the freedom to simply... be. He nodded at Callie. Even if he did not live in her head and she in his, he had spent enough time with her to know when she was trying to appear nonchalant.

“We leave, as planned, at first light.”

The sharp glint that came to her eyes was unmistakable, the Amadician grinning outright at the reaction that she did not bother to hide. Fierce elation and anticipation burst within the confines of his skull, along with warmer gratitude. “Thank you, Nugget.”

His head tilted to the side ever-so-slightly. “You said once, that I would wet my big Asha’man breeches at the sight. Your words have festered for years, I will have you know.” They had not, and they both knew it. He did not insult her by outright saying why it was that he had agreed to go now, and she did not insult him by wanting him to. “I could not let that stain to my masculinity stand.”

The grizzled warrior made a noise that was both a snort and a laugh, a rare glimpse of visible fondness softening the planes and angles of her face as Callie regarded him for long moments. “What did you tell them?”

“That this is something I wish to do.” The Asha’man’s answer was far too quick and far too casual.

Callie’s dubious look spoke volumes.

The Fang of Hama Valon shook his head, making a dismissive gesture. “Oh, very well. I also may have said that they could not actually stop me, and that if I do happen to meet a grisly end out in Tarwin’s Gap, they and the Hall would have no issue finding another to serve as M’Hael. Someone more... malleable than I.” Teeth flashed into view, Zeen utterly unapologetic as broad shoulders shrugged.

“It’s not wise to antagonize the other two, Nugget,” came the expected admonishment. Then she closed the distance between them and slapped him upside the head.

The sting was more surprising than actually painful. He turned just enough to glare at her. “I did not realize you cared so much about Tower hierarchy.”

“I don’t.” Her glower was every bit a match for his. “That’s for putting the idea in my head that you might die. I’m sure the Hand Twirler wouldn’t like it either.”

Zeen blinked up at his bondmate, taken aback. “If such a thing came to pass, I would find a way to release you both before - ” Another slap to the back of his head stopped him from finishing. His entire body rocked forward from the force of the blow and he found his palms slamming down on the desk in order to keep his forehead from colliding with scattered paperwork. “Light, woman! One scar on my face is more than enough!”

“Maybe a second one will help get it through your thick idiot skull that you should stop talking about dying.” Callie was furious. “Especially when the person you’re talking with is supposed to keep that from happening.”

The former Green flushed, realizing his error. His irritation flickered out like a gutted flame. “I apologize. I spoke without thinking.” The admission came out quietly, subdued even, silver-grey orbs earnest.

The Arafellin sighed sharply, lips pressing together so tightly for a moment that the scar that ran through her mouth stood out in a livid, red line. The anger radiating from her rose higher, spiking, before cooling by gradual degrees. She did not speak again until it was nothing more than a faint simmer. “I know. It’s a common problem with you.” She gave him a tight, mirthless smile. “Just... don’t talk again for a while. We have preparations to make.”

Zeen nodded, silent.

“Light in heaven...” he breathed, pulling up short on the reins as the large dun gelding he rode obediently came to a halt. His Warder’s horse stopped next to him. The Amadician looked down from the rise that he had just crested. As agreed, the silence between he and Callie had lasted up until this moment, but she did not feel overly upset that he had broken it.

The broad man pushed himself up in the saddle so he could survey his surroundings better, twisting this way and that to glimpse as much as he could. The expression that sat crookedly on his face was something akin to child-like wonder, Zeen completely enraptured by what he saw.

Wide, silver-grey eyes tried to take in everything at once. As far as he could see, row upon row of neat orderly tents glittered in the waning light of the setting sun. The barely contained cacophony of clashing swords drifted up to his ears as the soldiers below sparred, the zip of arrows soaring through the air to thud into practice targets, the clang and hiss of weapons and tools being repaired by well guarded blacksmiths... and the smells that wafted up... Light, how he had missed the smells! The tang of metal and leather that he could practically taste on his tongue, the sweet smokiness of cook fires, the musty scent of horses and hay and feed for the animals... He did not even mind the occasional distant whiff of human waste and manure. The organizational skills and coordination it took to prepare and then execute this... the sheer magnitude of it... left him awed and speechless.

Zeen had not seen a company - no, an army of this size... ever... not even when he had been given scores of men to lead as befitting his former rank of Commander. This... Blessed Creator, they must have been at least twenty thousand strong. Perhaps even thirty thousand? He felt giddy. He could not help but grin over at Callie, his unabashed delight broadcasting across the bond.

She shook her head at him, sighing sharply before the sound morphed into a quiet chuckle. “I told you,” was all she said. At his emphatic nod, the Borderlander warrior gave him a grudging, reluctant smile. “Come on, Nugget, I suppose introductions are in order. They’ll be happy to have you and your twirly hand things.”

It was soon known throughout the camp that the M’Hael of the Grey Tower was among their number. Any chance of going about his business quietly and without fuss evaporated like morning mist boiling away beneath the noonday sun. Zeen did not mind the attention; in truth, he relished it. It had been far too long since he had been a part of something like this, truly an active part of it and he threw himself into helping with the remainder of the preparations. It felt... good. He lifted and carried and moved and dug and cleaned like any of the other soldiers present. He answered the gawking, open-mouthed stares with his most disarming smile and it was not long before the looks directed his way became something more.

Some regarded him with the same wary disdain as a rabid dog, though those occurrences were few and far between. He was undeterred. Zeen was in his element; he reveled in it. Light, but he felt... alive. He moved easily from group to group, exchanging greetings, drink, stories, games of dice with the men and women that would fight and bleed with him. He had not been born along the Border, it was true, but he was here now. That meant something to these soldiers, and he suddenly found himself surrounded by brothers-and-sisters-in-arms. Every now and again, he caught glimpses of ageless faces, fringed shawls from women that were not affiliated with his Tower. But even they offered him brief nods of acknowledgement despite whatever machinations whirled behind shuttered eyes, and left him alone.

The lure of seeing how many potential lovers he could draw to him with a quirk of his mouth and a curling crook of his fingers was tempting. So very, very tempting. Zeen fought against it, the brown haired man managing to refrain from indulging in his desires. Another time... when the reality of the Blight was not quite so looming and close. Light.

At Callie’s instruction, the Amadician remained partially armoured at all times; he lived and slept in his well fitted underjerkin, removing it only to keep the leather supple and well conditioned and the metal buckles rust free. The oil he used was high quality; clear, amber tinted, expensive, smelling faintly of tree resin. He kept a running tally in his head at the end of each day, more for his own amusement than anything else. A silver penny for every little drop that coated the clean rag and his fingertips.

Four sunrises and sunsets passed. He had over five hundred names buzzing through his head, along with the knowledge that he would not remember them all. Callie fared better in that regard; they had not encountered someone yet that she did not seem to know. Five vials of the oil were used up. That was around two hundred and fifty gold crowns. Zeen’s thoughts drifted to the pieces of armour that he had not worn yet, grey eyes glazed over as he cinched closed the last of his straps before buckling it securely shut. He pulled in a deep breath experimentally, satisfied that the leather was not on too tightly. Perhaps he could get one of the squires or pages to deal with keeping the metal free of stain or defect. Especially along the pauldrons. He despised polishing and scouring.

As he began to settle in the same pattern as the previous evening's, something... drew his attention eastward. It teased and flitted just beyond the very edges of his hearing, grey eyes curious as he looked around. He was not imagining it. There were others that shared the same wary frown, the same tense line of shoulder and jaw.

It was the warhorses that figured it out first.

Hooves thudded into the ground like muffled heartbeats. Everyone around him sprang into action at once, Zeen pushing himself to his feet slowly. The White Tower Aes Sedai and their Gaidin were caught up in the same flurry and Zeen knew without a doubt that something was happening. Had it begun? He felt along the bond, Callie’s blazing hatred telling him all that he needed to know.

Flashes of static energy rolled through his hands, prickling up along his forearms before a heady rush of heat shot straight through his spine and pierced into his brain. He could feel his body tensing with anticipation, his pulse quickening.. Not a single torch or candle or campfire remained unlit, and more still were being brought out, replacing the ones that had burned too low to reuse. Night was falling. He made his way back to his tent in record time, maneuvering himself into chainmail with motions that time had not dulled. He admired the painstaking detail that had gone into the engraving of the plate pieces of his armour, cursing under his breath as he threw on those same pieces.

The tent flap snapped open. “Nugget -”

The Asha’man glanced up, wordlessly meeting his Warder’s eyes.

“Good,” was all Callie said. “It’s started. Remember: it’s going to be big and scary out there. They even have war drums. Don’t wet yourself.”

“Your concern is duly noted.” That came out drier than the Waste.

“I have a pair of spare breeches,” she countered helpfully.

Despite himself, Zeen began to laugh.

Saidin burned from the inside out. Saidin seared at the very marrow of his bones, scorching his world from horizon to horizon. From deep within the Void, Zeen visited his reality upon the Shadowspawn that poured and gushed out of Tarwin’s Gap like an overwhelming tainted tide.

The M’Hael gave a quick glance over at the sputtering remnants of the conflagration he had tried to create; he had run out of easily combustible material. Very well. Looping cables of Fire spun out from where he stood, wrapping around furred snouts, cloven feet, sharp talons and beaks, humanoid features made all the more grotesque because they were vaguely recognizable as having once been. A sharp pull on his weaves and over a dozen Trollocs simply ignited.

Nothing had prepared him for this; not his worst nightmares, nor his darkest thoughts... he could not describe it and he was smack dab in the middle of it all. He had set himself just out of range of the archers, but ahead of the rest of the army. They had given him their trust, to deliver upon what he had said he could. He was Green; he was the Fang of Hama Valon. Of course he would bloody well deliver. He had given his word. Let the Borderlands and the White Tower see the might of the Grey Tower... his Tower. Callie was as his shadow, undaunted and undeterred.

Another shower of arrows pelted the ground ahead of him. There was a very real possibility of being overrun and crushed to death if he made even the slightest error. That thread of doubt ghosted along the edges of the Void, but he ignored it. He did not fear this; this was something he could control. This was something he could fight. The only thing that made his blood run cold was the memory of how utterly helpless he had been as Dagan and the remembered feel of choking metal around his neck.

His hands clenched into fists, forcibly relaxing, before clenching again. He was free. There was no collar. Zeen fed Air into the fire that sizzled and danced over the immolated husks, fanning the heat and temperature higher, hotter, thin flows of Spirit guiding the inferno up, up, up, until it became a towering, writhing pillar of living flame. It bucked and thrashed without instruction from him, and he carefully let it free to wreak havoc. It spun and twisted deep into the ranks of advancing Trollocs. Blistering waves of superheated air whipped free, hungry and seeking, incinerating whatever it touched, and still it barely slowed the tide.

His head tilted ever-so-slightly to the side, the broad Asha’man considering his options. There was no time for anything fancy. He could not stop the advance, but he could impede it. Not too close, or we might fall to our deaths as well, came the thought tinged with dark humour that the Void immediately filtered out.

The Amadician drew in as much saidin as he could hold, stopping only when the life-affirming glory of the Light spiked briefly into pain. Weaves of Earth filled the space in front of him, Zeen’s touch along the brilliant green strands as intimate and as familiar as a lover’s caress. He coaxed the flows into place, the barest hint of his touch all that was required to guide the thick strands to where he wanted them. The element that he controlled quavered, eager to please. He held onto half a dozen wedge-like shapes, all roughly as tall and as wide as he was. The corners of his mouth lifted as he drove the Power wrought spikes down and into the ground, tunneling deep, deep, deeper into the earth. He ignored the strain that felt as if it was tugging down at the core of his very soul, the soles of his feet planting heavily inside his boots as he braced himself.

Zeen cut across different types of soil and rock, encountering a spongy-like material that he had no name for, before angling upwards through rock again. Each change in the texture of the ground he drove through with the male half of the Source registered as a different sensation that pushed back against his mind.

“Please let the Nugget not bring a worm down on us...”

Zeen did not think the faint whisper from the grizzled woman was meant for his ears, but he heard it nonetheless. She was right though. A Blight worm would be very very bad news indeed. The Asha’man simply let his weaves dissipate. He took a steadying breath and channeled as much Earth as he could, slamming it down onto the destabilized area he had created. The impact pealed out like a clap of thunder, the army behind him shifting as the ground roughly two hundred spans ahead of him began to crumble. He reached down into the earth once again, and yanked, Fire leaping up to his command. The M’Hael leaned backwards with a grunt, taking an involuntary step back.

Lazy waves of viscous molten earth drifted upwards, rolling and undulating like ocean waves, devouring the Shadowspawn that had the misfortune of being in the vicinity of Zeen’s weaves. He held on for as long as he could, shaking from the strain. A heartbeat... two... time slowing down and stopping for a fraction of a second as saidin fought against him, sensing his weakness. He hung suspended between seconds, trapped by the terrible pressure that squeezed his mind like a vice. It mounted... surged... before all the tension within him snapped and the Power slipped from his grasp. He would have fallen backwards had Callie not surreptitiously stepped up behind him, bodily stopping his descent with hers. Armour banged against armour, Zeen feeling his very bones rattle as they collided together.

The lava disappeared, retreating back to where it had come from.

“I have to fill in the sinkhole -”

“Later. You’re going to bring a worm down on our heads at this rate, and I don’t particularly want to be eaten.”

Zeen dug his heels into the ground. Or rather, he attempted to, but Callie was having none of it. She ignored his protests. The ranks of the army parted ways for them as she half-pushed, half-dragged him along, not stopping until she had deposited him in front of the White Tower Aes Sedai that was serving as one of the Healers.

“Zarius Iiro.” The voice was warm even if the ageless face bore no outward expression.

“Aes Sedai,” he answered as politely as he could, still trying to catch his breath.

“Do you require Healing?”

He hesitated as the distinct sounds of battle reached his ears. He looked out in that direction for long moments before silver-grey eyes went to his bondmate, the request that his fatigue be washed away dying on the tip of his tongue. Callie stared at him expectantly. “I do not. Water please, if you have any to spare. All I require is some rest before I head back into the fray.”

The grizzled woman smiled at that.