Syncopic al’Shain

The Accepted swung her head up at his word, her eyes watery and wide. There was a moment of pause, her face slacking a brief moment as her tongue found itself and loosed in response. Locke crossed his arms; she was petrified. As well she should be – most trainees in her position would have wet themselves had they done anything like this to an Aes Sedai, but to him, something so new and foreign and, for the most part, fearsome, well. It was to be expected.

“It was an accident,” the girl sunk low, and her tone spoke of hopelessness and doom.  “I was practicing my hundred weaves, and something startled me from the bushes, and water is my weakest element, and so I felt I should practice it, and then it fell, and it fell on you, and the laughter, and the wet….oh Light, I’m so sorry.” As long as this was no idle nonsense, then. And you are being truthful – there is no faking fear. I have smelled too much of the real thing on people about to die.

“I think I’m going to-” she began, and then her eyes rolled up into her head, and she keeled over in a dead faint. Oh good. Locke examined the frail little thing, slumped to her side, her dress drinking in the muddied water in the puddle she had herself just recently created by mistake. The water seeping in would soon render her not a sight for public domain, lechers and perverts aside. There were scars on her back – many, and varied, and old. The root of her fear of angry men, perhaps – or perhaps something more sinister. Both. I am not that scary all by myself. It was then that Locke noticed that some of the girls from the class had lingered, and now, they too were frightened.

“By the Light, did you kill her?! It was just a mistake!” Shudders and shrieks.

“She fainted, you moron.” Locke cut his eyes to the speaker, a quiet Accepted that had not participated overmuch. A back-row type. Afraid to volunteer her thoughts, afraid to be wrong – she would have a right to be afraid of being wrong, implying something like that. She paled at his glare, but stayed still, apparently afraid to be the next victim. You can’t possibly be serious.

…

…She is serious.

“You will report to the Mistress of Novices immediately, Jaquelin, and you will explain to her than you are to receive whatever punishment is acceptable for both being stupid and… well. That’s it actually. You are stupid.” Locke knelt and looped his arms around the fainted girl, lifting her gently from the waters, taking care to roll her in to his chest, that she would not be on display to the world. One would not think someone as whip-thin as Locke capable of simply lugging another human being around, but long hours of wearing plate armor in the field had given his muscles surprising power, if not surprising size. “Shoo, all of you. Were you not dismissed?”

The stragglers scattered to the winds, and Locke contemplated on the nature of the rumors that would inevitably spread from this occurrence. She will be up and walking around in minutes, and will remain dead in the chapters of Novice hearsay for generations. Damn it all. Blood and bloody ashes. Et cetera. She was light, for someone her height, and her hair was much longer than he had cared to notice in the heat of the moment, in his anger, in his plain confusion. Locke curled his arm a bit, giving her head more support, and to better examine the creature he had sent into transient cerebral anemia. Chiding himself for forgetting, he channeled the water from her hair and clothing; he had forgotten about the importance of the act in his thinking of the potential fallout of this ridiculous occurrence. A Saldaen, by cut and curve of her bones. He continued quietly to the Infirmary having to explain to a handful of passerby that she had fainted after realizing she’d dumped an enormous ball of water on his head in the Gardens. A good number of the Aes Sedai that the tale was related to broke into laughter, or at least wry grins. A Green sister outright guffawed – it was in those moments that Locke realized that he had been making progress here, within the walls.

This clumsy little Accepted had managed to give him what was apparently going to become the very first shared inside joke between an Asha’man and an Aes Sedai. Everything for a reason. Light, what a complicated pattern I’m set in. And the best part was, this was not a bad first joke to have. This was hilarious. This is not hilarious to her. Oh dear. A Saldaen at the butt of a joke. Locke pursed his lips and considered the nature of the vengeful wrath of a woman from the north while channeling the door of the infirmary open.

Conversations were had with Yellows, and she was laid down on a down covered cot, and patted with a cool, damp cloth.

“I can wake her with a simple tincture, Asha’man, should you wish it.” The Yellow sister moved from the bedside and peered into a shelf with innumerable jars and vials set atop it, running her thin finger along the front corner as she perused each in kind. Finding what she was looking for, the finger was lifted, a small “Aha,” was exclaimed, and she turned, pleased, awaiting permission.

“Do you have an oiled riding cloak in the front closet, by chance?” Locke asked, sudden, grinning.

“I… do not. There is a lady’s parasol, though, I cannot imagine why you w – Oh. Asha’man, that is not nice.”

Locke sat next to the Accepted, whom Yvonne Sedai had identified as Kipcha al’Shain, settling the yellow parasol over his shoulder, open. It was decorated with flowers and tassels. Grinning, and ready for rain, Locke bid Yvonne to apply the tincture. Kipcha stirred, after inhaling whatever it was that was within the vial, sputtering. She looked first in the wrong direction, and was greeted by nothing but a clinically white wall. In turning, however, it seemed she suddenly remembered the events leading up to this inglorious point.

“You may practice here, with me. I am now prepared for everything your presence entails.” Locke set the parasol to whirling and kicked back in his chair. “You are alright, I hope.”