A Plan of Action
Ramaes Gavron, Written by Renee
Posted on Wed, Aug 25, 2010 20:52 pm
Between bites of cheese and meat – and some very strange conversation – Ramaes began to realize that the novice sitting across from him was just a little bit drunk. It did not surprise him, not really. Having grown up around the docks of Tear, he had seen his fair share of drunkenness. There were quite a few sailors, after all, who headed for the first tavern the second their boots hit the quay.
Glancing over the balcony, he realized that Tahmelah was right: apparently no one had seen his few moments of channeling at all. At least, there were no eyes peering up in his direction, and no one seemed to be heading towards the halls that led to the balcony where they sat. Instead, everyone seemed to be doing exactly what they had been doing before: enjoying the party.
His mouth opened, probably to protest the idea that he should dare her to do something. That wasn’t how it worked, at least not in his book. Where Ramaes came from, girls usually ended up wiggling their way out of actually completing any dares (with scoffs or indignant sniffs), let alone accepting them in the first place.
But her statement — Tell me what you want. — seemed almost impossible to ignore. How often would he get a chance to really say what he wanted to a girl without suffering for it? Probably never, at least after tonight.
She was staring at him, eyes wide and apparently innocent – if a little blurred – waiting for him to say whatever it was that he wanted. The problem was, he didn’t know what he wanted. One day, he would have to remedy his constant state of indecision, but right now he really saw no need to. Except … except he might never get another chance. It was a temptation he was absolutely unable to resist.
“I want to find out what it’s like to be an Asha’man.” He blurted, and then almost clapped a hand over his mouth. Her expression wavered from interest to confusion to … something else. Was she scheming something up in that head of hers? He turned an interesting shade of red, dipping his head so that his unruly hair fell over his eyes, obscuring her from his vision.
He wished he had said something else, anything else, but he had been unable to stop himself. It was as if there had been no choice – at least not on his part – in the matter. He stared at the wine bottle still clutched loosely in one fist, suspicion rising into his mind. Had she done something to the wine? After a moment’s thought, he decided it was impossible. After all, he had brought the wine up here just a few minutes ago, and he had given it to her, not the other way around. There hadn’t been time to drop something strange into the bottle.
“Sorry.” He muttered, belatedly looking back up at Tahmelah again. Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, a tiny voice mocked him. Sorry, sorry, sorry! When will you ever stop being sorry, Ramaes! The voice wasn’t wrong – Ramaes probably spent more time being sorry than anything else, despite his youth. But, on the other hand, the novice had an awful lot to be sorry about.
“I just said the first thing that popped into my head, I know it was stupid.” He was mumbling now, and still hadn’t stopped blushing, feeling like the fool that he was. What kind of thing was that to say, anyhow? I want to find out what it’s like to be an Asha’man. Bah! His embarrassment was rapidly evolving into self-disgust, but he didn’t dare show his new friend his emotions. That was just asking for trouble. Of course, he had absolutely no idea that his emotions were playing across his face, easy enough to read for anyone who was, oh, older than five.
Instead of laughing at him for being a Light-blinded idiot, Tahmelah was staring at him, and Ramaes could almost see the wheels turning in her mind. Suddenly, she grinned, lurching to her feet and nearly toppling over the banister. Instinctively, Ramaes’ hand jerked out to steady her, only to be slapped away in drunken irritation.
“I won’t fall, Ramaes.” She snapped, seemingly unaware of the fact that she was slurring her words and swaying a little even as she steadied herself on the banister, gripping it so tightly he could see her knuckles whiten.
In contrast, Ramaes was fairly sober – he had only had a few sips of the wine, himself, and for some reason he had always had a higher tolerance to alcohol than most of the boys his age at home. Maybe it was something in his blood – his father had always said … but he shied away from that thought, the wounds of remembering his father still too new to be reopened.
“But where are we going?” He hissed, trying to keep her from crashing headlong into a wall – or down the stairs – as she headed off in some random direction, apparently with a plan in mind. Light, was she going to go find an Asha’man? In her state? Light! She’s going to get us both killed. He thought, but followed her anyway, determined to think up some method of distracting her from what was probably a very bad idea.
I thought ‘we’ could go pick a fight with a soldier, if you like. Or you could do something completely random. Tada!
In reply to War Cry[show]/[hide]
He didn't back down from her challenge. Wondering what under the Light she would do with an empty belly and a full bottle of wine, Tahmelah cast her gaze upward, a theatrical, beseeching glance she'd never admit she'd picked up from her oft-beset mother. Well, what were the chances he'd get it up all this way? Rising to her knees, she glanced down, forgetting to be disgusted at the fact that saidin was this close, that a man who could - and was - channeling was within arm's reach of her. She felt nothing, and that disappointed her. She didn't see anything, either, and as she ran the gamut of her senses, some empirical knowledge prompted her to be horrified. Shouldn't she be shrieking in terror as the round, silver tray settled to the marble tiles as though it were some kind of demented, flat, giant butterfly? She felt curiosity, mostly, a deep and capricious motivator, and swallowed back a half a dozen questions.
What was wrong with her, anyway? A sensible woman would run back the way they'd come, but Tahmelah was frozen, paralyzed somewhere between sitting and kneeling. His hand decided her, snaking out and selecting the largest chunk of cheese: perturbed by his lack of manners, she lifted her chin from staring at the tray and caught sight of his eyes. They mocked her, viridian light dancing inside each. Her spine stiffened as he let out a mangled lowing sound, one she automatically translated. Being an innkeeper's daughter meant you had half your conversations with people in the strangest situations: a mouthful of food was nothing when you'd had men dancing foot to foot with only a swath of towel between themselves and complete immodesty. Hearing the challenge issued in his "Whaaat?," she struck, daring him to call her a coward again. Anyway, it wasn't as if the One Power could make the food go bad, was it?
Her hand paused above a succulent selection of summer ham, defying the voice in her brain that urged her to go ahead already and prove to him that she wasn't afraid. Across from her, he chewed, causing her to wrinkle her nose at his sheer noisiness. She kept a covert eye on him, waiting to see if he reacted to the food at all: he seemed to be fine. Her stomach growled demandingly and she shook her head, breaking her glare. Light's peace, but how did she tell the man she'd been wondering if the poison in him would infect her if she ate what he'd touched? Snatching at a big, round slice of the pink meat spread temptingly before her, she tried to avoid his gaze. After a moment of awkward silence, he waved a bottle of wine at her, and being a fool, she accepted it. The corks had been drawn, allowing for easy pouring of a favored selection, and so Tahmelah had no trouble pulling free the bit of spongy wood.
He had the upper hand, she realized, as warmth bloomed in her belly, rapidly traversing her bloodstream to fuzz her mind and loosen her tongue. She couldn't tell him the truth, of course: the last thing you wanted to tell an Aes Sedai, even one who was merely playing at the role and hadn't a sparrow's chance in Shayol Ghul of attaining it, was what you were afraid of. They had bargaining chips enough on the table without being handed the key to your own compliance. Coercing a bland smile to her lips as her fingers twisted aimlessly in the air, she shoved the piece of meat in her fingers into her mouth. What to lie? Somehow, she had to get this situation back in hand. Her hand. And she was certain the food couldn't kill her: if she could eat an earthworm on a dare, pink and raw and squirming, she could certainly manage her supper.
She upended her green glass bottle again, straining to buy time. He watched her steadily, still as a mountain, his eyes calculating. Had he guessed? Could he know she was afraid of him?
Initiation, her mind prompted her, and she seized the thought with both hands, unlike the wine bottle, which slid precipitously from her fingers before he stopped its fall. Her smile widened, lost its grimly macabre quality, became more natural. "Well, that was quite a show," she said, her voice breathier than she would have liked. "Light, and no one has come pounding down the door yet, either. I'm convinced," she said, winningly. "They were right about you." Holding up her bottle in more cautious fingers, she touched it to his in a celebratory gesture. Her mind was a bit swimmy, but she discarded that warning feeling of warm inebriation. "It's your turn," she murmured, seizing another piece of cheese in case their executioner really was on her way. "You did my dare, after all." He stared at her blankly for a moment, and she shook her head. Light, if the boy was this dim all the time, he wouldn't make it in the Tower until first frost, much less all the way to the shawl.
So she took his dare into her own clutches. This warm, this secluded, saidar was eager for her, and she did not have to think to fall into its secure embrace. Pleasure crossed her face, limning it in bliss: mouth half-open, eyes closed. They opened slowly, and the smile she gave him was a different breed from her usual brash grin: distracted and dreamy. Curving her palm, she frowned, a long crease forming in her forehead, pointing out a place a wrinkle would never take hold in an Aes Sedai's ageless face. It was tricky to do what she had done so unconsciously before, but was that because she wanted to understand it, a girl with her first, large, blunt needle wanting to stitch the finest tapestry, or because he resisted her?
"Tell me what you want," she said, finally, still uncertain about whether her little trick had worked.
