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Dedicated Poettre Valis: "Let Us Go Then, You & I"

MRP: Let Us Go Then, You & I
Tue Nov 18 20:11:22 2003

OOC: Warning: Don't read this if you're a pansy!

It was night, and it was a typical one. The sun had descended only moments before, abandoning the denizens of this Tower to a dark befitting the self-imposed title of their home. Teachers had long since dismissed their lessons, but the day was far from over. The occasional Soldier was still toiling in one of the training yards, perfecting the technique with the sword, digging a hole as manual punishment, feigning business so as not to get caught by one of the roaming Dedicated or Asha’man. The mess hall was full at this hour, also. It had originally been a sizable inn; its gradual expansion mirrored the Black Tower’s own. The sprawling figure housed most of the Tower’s Soldiers and Dedicated, all devouring their food like it was the last real meal they’d ever eat. For some, it was—one never knew when a delegation from the Dragon would call for men and expendable lives. Other men huddled with their families in small houses, clutching their children to them as if they might fly away with the slightest breeze.

It was a typical night in that all of the men and the women of the Black Tower were forced to cope with the knowledge that the morrow might bring their death. They were nothing more than soldiers, if of a more dangerous sort. No matter the increasing numbers of new recruits, people joined this Tower knowing that they would probably die within the next few years—if they even survived their training. It was a miserable existence, but for many, it was the best that the world could offer.

Poettre was, as customary, splayed out on his cot. He contemplated the events of his day and the prospects of his evening with something akin to boredom—it was routine. He was tired of the same thing day in and day out. There was little to do to remedy the situation, of course. The Black Tower’s rules were designed to be so rigid that the Dragon’s tools had no room for wriggling. For that reason, Poettre occasionally regretted his decision to join the Black Tower.

But then all he had to do to convince himself otherwise was consider what he would be doing if he hadn’t come here. It had been a stretch on his parents’ finances just to get him apprenticed to a working class scribe and writer. What kind of life would that have made for Poettre? He probably would never have gotten the opportunity to leave Caemlyn; he would’ve had to sell himself to the highest bidder for the rest of his life, never certain if his work would yield enough money to get him through the month or even the week. It would never have been a prosperous living. Well, a career as soldier for the Lord Dragon was hardly the most lucrative either, but it was significantly more entertaining, even if they seldom got a chance for merriment. He would never have discovered saidin, either.

Long limbs spread and stretched, rippling beneath black fabric. He loosed the collar of his shirt and unbuttoned it all the way, allowing the tails to spread and let some air caress the skin of his wirily muscled chest. He lolled about thus for an interminable amount of time. Eventually Poettre gathered the energy to wrest himself from bed and to his wardrobe. He had an arresting desire for a colorful ensemble tonight, but the Tower’s rules prevented it. The Dedicated scowled as he rifled through the contents of the cabinet, searching for something that fit his mood. Nothing. He mumbled disconcertedly to himself for a few moments; finally he rid himself of this day’s shirt and replaced it with one of nicer tailoring and fabric.

He surveyed his appearance in a nearby mirror—he had had to buy one from a vendor, as the barracks weren’t overly accommodating when it came to a person’s grooming—and for once was less than satisfied with his reflection. Oh, there was nothing wrong with his appearance. He had only a little fat on his frame, the consequences of his love of food, and he was otherwise fairly muscular. His complexion was clear; the traces of stubble on his cheeks only added to his allure. Faintly bushy pale eyebrows framed bright eyes. His hair was behaving, as well. He could find nothing tangible that piqued his senses. He simply felt and looked…bored. Listless. In an effort to return his emotions to some semblance of normality, the man ran his fingers through his hair, erecting it to its usual spikes. It did little for his mood, but it was enough closure to send him reeling through his door, discontent at least momentarily forgotten.

The Black Tower didn’t employ much of a watch—there were always enough men and women on hand to give a shout at some sign of danger. There was a heavier guard in front of the officers’ dwelling, including that of the M’Hael, but the barracks were separated from that part of the perimeter. Poettre went without interception as he wandered around the village. He hadn’t the energy to make a circuit of the inns—he’d probably just settle for the first of the row.

The first inn was called the Dragon’s Nest. Few ventured there; some considered the name blasphemous to the Lord Dragon. Poettre had been there before, if only to dispel its seedy rumors for himself. He hadn’t found much of interest. There were other inns down the way that were more entertaining than this one.

When he entered, he found the interior to be much as he remembered it. A bar stretched along one wall, framed by mirrors with shelves of liquor displayed. A few stools lined the wooden front, designed for less personable men and women, those who came alone and wanted to concentrate on the solace their alcohol provided. A portion of the room was zoned off as dancing space, but Poettre had never seen it occupied. There were tables surrounding that designated area. Tonight the inn wasn’t particularly vigorous, but this Dedicated had never seen the inn anything more than barren. There were a few men seated at the stools to the left of the entrance. Their eyes were dark and wary as they glanced up to gaze at the intruder into their midst, and they quickly returned to their drinks—they were much more interesting. Small, quiet groups occupied a few of the tables, each seated a few tables apart to prevent interlopers or eavesdroppers.

Poettre was satisfied. He took the few steps necessary to the bar and ordered a mug of lukewarm ale immediately. He had lost his craving for company, anyway; given that the Dragon’s Nest was virtually deserted, it suited his tastes. Perhaps he would get completely bloody drunk. Life would be easier to handle that way.

He was beginning to feel much happier with the way of the world by the time his sights caught the bottom of his second mug of ale—he hadn’t much tolerance, though he’d never admit to it. The Dedicated smacked his lips disdainfully as he glanced around the room, studying the inn’s patrons. They were mostly of the older crowd, grizzled Dedicated or Asha’man. All of them sported a prominent scar or two. Poettre suspected that they sought this inn for its mediocre drink and its quiet atmosphere. He snickered none too quietly to himself as he ordered another mug, eyeing the tumblers of alcohol lining the wall in front of him contemplatively.

He nearly fell off his stool when the door swooped open. The other men were significantly less awkward; they gave the stranger the same once over that they had afforded Poettre. A few of their eyes dwelled on the newcomer, however. It was a woman, for one, and given the predominantly male population of the room, femininity was all one needed to attract attention. This one was a looker, too. She had long midnight hair; it traced the top of the rise of her buttocks. That alone was enough to keep a man staring. It flowed down her back in dark, shimmering waves, concluding on a fabulously curved expanse, only accentuated by her tight black trousers. She, too, was clad all in black, and Poettre noted that she had his own taste for fine tailoring and flattering clothing. She was petite and thin, thinner than he would’ve normally fancied, but the girl made up for it with her figure—she was curvy, with surprisingly large breasts. She had legs for days…Poettre fairly salivated.

She arched a winged eyebrow at the inn’s denizens. The door swung closed behind her, and most of the men returned to their foaming mugs. Poettre glanced around him and noticed that several were snatching surreptitious peeks at the woman in black, all as appreciative as his own no doubt was. With considerable effort the Dedicated tore his eyes from the girl’s impressive figure, rapidly downing the rest of his mug. Light, he’d need another five of these before he could tame the arousal coursing through him…and his breeches.

She sauntered down the row of stools and took a seat two stools down from him, ordering a glass of the inn’s finest red. Light, her hips rolled as impressively as a Sea Folk’s! Poettre stole another glance at her, telling himself that it was only to determine what rank she was. The lack of pins on her collar designated her a Soldier. He valiantly attempted to forget the wonderful swell of her breasts beneath that tight fabric, but the effort seemed only to remind him of that which he was attempting to disregard. He groaned almost inaudibly and leaned forward in order to disguise the single mindedness of his masculinity. He took another hefty swagger from the mug in front of him, thumping it down a bit harder than he had intended, thus attracting a glance from the woman to his right.

He disguised his sudden embarrassment with a roaring cough, completely unaware that the effort was futile. The woman’s face lit up, and her lips twisted in a sardonic grin. No words exchanged, she swirled the still-full glass of wine in her hands, stretching her arm slightly so that the fabric on her chest pulled taut. Finally Poettre submitted to temptation and turned to look straight at her, eyebrow arched questioningly. “Why the long face, handsome?” she queried, grinning wider at his reaction.

Poettre schooled his expression to calm emptiness immediately. The girl’s grin suggested that she knew full well the source of his discontent; her flickering glance to his faultily covered crotch confirmed the suspicion. Blood and ashes, he cursed to himself. Downing the rest of his mug, he mumbled to the innkeeper for another. He took a sip and then remembered that the girl had addressed him. For once, he was tongue-tied. “Not a good night,” he muttered as a response. He contemplated adding to it, but the moment had already passed. The girl’s sights had moved on to other territory, examining the remaining patrons of the inn. Suddenly irrationally jealous, Poettre concentrated on his mug for a few minutes, trying to forget.

The Dedicated wriggled in his seat as he attempted to find a comfortable position. He found none. The girl left her stool, glass in hand, and made as if to move past Poettre, closer to the door. At the last moment she turned, and her hand darted to the object that Poettre was attempting to hide, clutching it predatorily. He gasped, eyes wide as saucers, glaring at her in disbelief.

No words were exchanged. Poettre was given a few moments to study her face thoroughly, but he found himself otherwise occupied. However, he couldn’t help but note the woman’s beauty. Her appeal reminded him of innocence corrupted. She had dark, wide blue eyes that met his full on, but there was a smirking set to her lips, suggesting both omniscience and mockery. She was pale with her blonde’s complexion, rosy cheeked.

Her lips parted slightly. She pulled her lower lip back and seized it with a few white teeth, watching him with that same glance, making him feel like a cornered dog. Her hand darted mischievously along his length, scarcely even touching him—it hinted at the pleasures of which her derisive gaze deemed him unworthy. She caressed him thus, doing so almost as if she found the very act dirty, earthly, far beneath her godly status. Even so, her body responded. The girl’s chest heaved a bit, pressure stretching her blouse and outlining what it was designed to conceal. Poettre panted, feeling himself grow almost to the point of pain.

As quickly as it had begun, it was over. The girl’s hips swayed idly as she crossed the room. Poettre’s half-intoxicated mind could only wonder why she left the inn when she’d only drank half her glass of wine.

MRP: When the Evening is Spread Out Against the Sky
Tue Nov 18 20:14:17 2003

Poettre awoke the next morning with a pounding head and an ache in his groin. He had only vague recollections of what had happened after the Soldier’s departure. He had tossed about the idea of following her and begging at least a name, but the prospect of more drinks had distracted him. He had swallowed another couple of tankards—he’d lost count around the sixth—and remained at the inn in the hopes that the woman would return. After an interminable amount of time, he had returned to his barracks. He had hazy memories of stumbling and pausing to vomit several times on what seemed an unbelievably long journey home, and that was all.

It took him a bit of coaxing to get out of bed. Poettre spat pitifully in his chamber pot, but his stomach was already empty from last night’s vomiting—all he could manage was spit wrought with acidic bile. He quickly recognized the futility of remaining in bed all day; his absence would not go unnoticed, and he didn’t need another punishment. Poettre forced himself to go through his normal daily routine; besides, he would feel better after he’d gotten some food into his stomach.

The day passed unremarkably. The Dedicated managed to pass all of his lessons, though he could not perform at even his customary mediocre level. He refrained from another night on the town—even though by nightfall his hangover had dissipated entirely, the thought of more alcohol was enough to make him nauseous again.

Poettre found himself constantly returning to that drunken encounter. As the days progressed, it seemed the event had been permanently imprinted upon his mind, so that the female’s smirking gaze returned again and again. He reenacted the events that had transpired until he knew every subtle detail, from the line of the woman’s jaw to every nuance of her sparse words. He could not understand the nature of his infatuation; it was childish and silly of him to focus on a female with whom he had barely spoken, especially when there were so many others to choose from. As with all things, it was only a matter of time before she was erased from his mind—or so Poettre reminded himself when he stared up at his ceiling every night and could think of nothing but her.

As he had told himself, memories of the girl began to fade. At first, it was a maddening progression—he would find himself struggling to recall something as simple as the swirl of hues in her eyes, only to discover that the detail was lost on him. Soon he forgot the frustration of senility. Though she remained an aching regret deep within him, it became increasingly easy for Poettre to return to his caddish habits. Eventually, Poettre had forgotten the evening and the girl within it completely.

It was early afternoon the day Poettre lounged beside the Tower’s front gatehouse. He was to teach a battling lesson to what Soldiers wished to attend, and this was the designated meeting spot. A few had already gathered, but there weren’t enough for the Dedicated to start the lesson.

After a bit of waiting, Poettre abandoned propriety and seated himself next to a wall, sure to create a cushion of Air, both for his own comfort and to assure that he wouldn’t soil his uniform—that was a punishable offense. Soon enough what students had gathered followed suit, though many of them hadn’t the experience to duplicate Poettre’s pillow. He grinned and rested his head against the bare wall behind him. This was one of the few sections of the Black Tower’s wall that was complete. At least half a wall surrounded the Tower’s perimeter, but rarely did it stretch to its full height and width.

The day was a warm one, so Poettre gradually began to doze off. His skin was free from perspiration, given that Soldiers of the Black Tower were taught the trick of ignoring the weather upon entrance, but Poettre seldom had the concentration or frame of mind to maneuver the trick successfully. The day’s warmth lulled him to a peaceful level of sedation; his eyes fluttered as he struggled to maintain consciousness and gradually began to fail.

He awoke to a dream. She was as beautiful as he remembered her as being. Her eyes were shockingly blue; it was almost impossible to pay attention to any other aspect of her face but those gleaming orbs. Nonetheless, his eyes drifted elsewhere, drinking in the sights afforded him like a parched man. Dark lashes alit her blinking gaze like so many butterflies, a sickening amalgamation of black and blue. Winged eyebrows reflected his dream girl’s emotions, frowning and creasing together in thin winged lines; they were a paintbrush’s arching strokes, thick in the center and tapering off to oblivion. A succession of expressions crossed the beauty’s porcelain face. He wanted to reach up and loose the cascading black waterfall of her hair, confined at the nape of her neck for practicality’s sake, but his muscles were languid entities of their own, disobedience embodied.

Poettre blinked to dispel the fanciful image, lifting his hands to rub his knuckles against his bleary gazes. When he opened his eyes once more, what he had thought to be solely a creation of his overactive imagination proved to be real—she was there, peering down at him. She smirked at his wide-eyed expression, straightening from her crouch and glancing about the area. Poettre suffered a few moments’ disorientation; he was unable to recall where he’d fallen asleep, and when he discovered he was perched adjacent to one of the Tower’s walls, he couldn’t recall how he’d gotten there. The gathering of Soldiers, most eyeing him belligerently at best, reminded him of the afternoon’s schedule.

He surged to his feet, though he was not certain why. It could have been that the M’Hael would have his hide if he discovered that Poettre had fallen asleep while waiting for his students, but Poettre was more inclined, albeit reluctantly, to admit that he didn’t wish to appear a fool in front of the unexpected visage of the woman from that night previous. He spent a moment or two fretting over his appearance, but his clever usage of a pillow saved him the embarrassment of brushing dirt free from his black attire.

The female Soldier returned to her spot amidst her peers. Despite her beauty, she blended in well—the girl he had met in the Dragon’s Nest seemed only a facet of this thoroughly complex creature. There was an air of mischief suggested in her guileless blue eyes, but that was the only connection Poettre could make with the girl with whom he had been infatuated. She was even dressed differently. Her Soldier’s uniform hung loosely about her frame, disguising her curves ridiculously well. There was little of the temptress about this one. Poettre was tempted to dismiss her as just another of the women whom the Tower attracted, but it was impossible to ignore the smirking curve of her lips, the gaze that hinted at so much more than a platonic student-teacher relationship.

All of these thoughts were considered within a simple moment or two. Afterwards, Poettre brusquely drew himself to his full height and regarded the class gathered before him, careful not to allow his eyes to rest more than a cursory moment on the girl. He introduced himself and after a few fumbling tries opened a gateway to the Waste. He ushered each student through, stepping back so he could pretend to make sure they all got through safely. His female Soldier was the last to step through. She cast him an amused glance, winged eyebrow inclined just slightly, as she nonchalantly slipped through the gateway—even that was enough to send him reeling.

Poettre spent the next few minutes desperately attempting to regain his composure. Just when he thought all was safe, it was proven otherwise! He found himself scowling at each of the students in a reckless effort to seem no different from normal, but he had a feeling that all but the least perceptive sensed both his efforts and his turmoil. He was making a fool of himself, and he resented himself for it. Most of all, he resented that bloody harlot for being the first woman ever to have this amount of control over him.

Fortunately, the lesson went well; at least, it went as well as any lesson with inexperienced Soldiers could go. Poettre taught them several weaves aimed to kill, maim, and destroy, all of them variations of Earth and Fire. Several proved talented in both strength and the combination of the two elements; Poettre suspected that they would discover they held the Talent of Spinning Earthfire.

His female was the best student in the lesson. Though she wasn’t the strongest, being only a woman, she outmatched men and women combined when it came to agility and dexterity. Poettre was both surprised and enthralled. Most of the women he’d pursued hadn’t the intellectual capacity of a goose; their channeling was rarely more than mediocre. Not only was this girl the most beautiful he’d ever encountered, but she was quickly proving herself a more valuable soldier than most Dedicated, female or male.

Poettre could resist the temptation no longer. As much as he had tried to avoid any personal contact with the girl, she seemed perpetually at the corner of his eye. He would turn just in time to find her waltzing into his line of vision, hips swaying enticingly—no amount of loose clothing could disguise the sheer femininity of that stride. She would catch him watching her and turn to gaze at him; at these times, it was all Poettre could do to snatch his eyes from those dancing azure orbs before she caught sight of the desire lingering within his own. Sometimes their roles would switch, and he would be the one catching her watching him. Whenever he turned to stare into those depths, she, unlike Poettre, did not snatch away her gaze like she’d been burnt—she looked on, not entranced, but fully knowledgeable of the power she wielded.

And so he found himself breaching the short distance between the two of them, his feet progressing even while his mind protested. She had her back to him; he was spared the embarrassment of silence after his approach. He watched the ripples in the musculature at the back of her neck, the slight gestures her hands made as she channeled, all with the same fascination as he might have studied her naked body—it was equally enticing.

When she did not turn, he took advantage of the opportunity, placing his hand on her shoulder. It was the first physical contact they’d had since that night an Age ago; it sent a jolt up his arm, straight to the brain. She turned, blue eyes glancing first to the intruding limb and then to its owner. “Soldier,” Poettre said, his voice amazingly steady, “what’s your name?”

Noting the gravity of the question, the end of the girl’s lips curled upwards in some semblance of a smile. It was as if she mocked his desire to put a name to the face that haunted him; it was another taunt aimed to paralyze, debilitate. “Saro,” she replied. As her lips twisted upwards, baring grinning, gleaming pearls, Poettre identified it as truth—she was his sorrow.

MRP: Like a Patient Etherized Upon a Table
Tue Nov 18 20:17:23 2003

Poettre could’ve happily wasted the afternoon teaching his channeling lesson. He felt ten times the fool; not even the most dedicated of teachers enjoyed lessons as much as he did this one. Fortunately, Poettre did not enjoy the lesson for its sheer intellectual value, or for the glimmer of young faces learning something new—he enjoyed it simply because it seemed the only time he’d have to enjoy the pleasure of Saro’s company.

He was usually fairly nonchalant and frank; if he fancied a girl, he let her know and propositioned her early into the game. Rarely was he so possessed with a woman that he found himself unable to follow his usual routine. This was one of those rare occasions. As trite as it sounded, Poettre had never felt so keenly for a girl. Of course he had in the past suffered infatuation and perhaps even a minor affliction of love, but it did not compare for the surge of emotion he felt for Saro. It was ridiculously illogical, but there it was, nonetheless. He could not comprehend how one chance meeting in a common room could have affected him as much as it had…

…And it drove him mad. Throughout the remainder of the lesson he had to remind himself not to stare at Saro, wherever she was and whatever she was doing. Though he attempted to disguise his attraction, he suspected that only the most oblivious of his students neglected to notice the constant vigilance he kept on the female’s lithe figure. Fortunately, Saro seemed to affect several of the males in the lesson similarly—most of the glances the students cast Poettre were more pitying than critical, though he could not disregard the unmistakable vibes of dislike and jealousy emanating from the other girls in the lesson. His fingers twitched for a few moments’ contact; that was all he required. Instead, his sights drank in what he could of her, caressing her flesh, displayed or otherwise, in the manner his digits could not. It was a tantalizing experience, but it did not satisfy as its physical counterpart could.

All too soon, the lesson was over. Poettre heard himself dismiss his students as a man apart; the sounds his mind and mouth formulated seemed to be the endeavors of a separate entity. He struggled to find some method of dismissing all the students but Saro, but the only solution he could come up with was to ask her to stay after class, and that was hardly the most original (or believable) of ideas. The Dedicated ended up opening the gateway back to the Tower, being sure to stand immediately adjacent to it as the students filed through. His Saro was one of the last, but to his dismay, she was accompanied by one of her female classmates. If it hadn’t been for their conversation, Poettre wouldn’t have hesitated to address her, but he was reluctant to interrupt her when she was otherwise engaged.

He pursed his lips irritably as he watched her saunter past. Much to his chagrin, he would have been content with a mere glance in his direction, but Saro did not offer even that. Poettre stifled any childish impulses at sullenness, took one perfunctory glance about the perimeter of the area to ascertain that there were no stragglers, and stepped through the gateway. As the gateway closed behind him, he stared after Saro’s retreating back. Poettre felt that if his eyes bored continual holes into those sauntering shoulders, she might turn back and honor him with one of those sultry glances, one that she hadn’t the consideration to offer him throughout the class. The effort proved futile, however, as the Soldier continued back toward the Black Tower, the dark figures of village buildings swallowing her as one of their own as she boldly approached. Poettre noted with juvenile satisfaction that the girl returned none of the appraising gazes other men afforded her; she maintained her conversation with the femme alongside her with stubborn persistence, her eyes seldom straying from her companion beyond the need to ascertain her location.

Poettre finally abandoned his fruitless endeavor. It took more effort than he cared to admit to tear his gaze from Saro’s receding form. It was late afternoon; classes were either long concluded or just getting out. There was a general stampede in the direction of the mess hall, but otherwise, the grounds were still.

Irrevocably, his gaze returned to where he had deserted Saro’s figure, only to find her long gone. Possessed by a ridiculous form of panic, Poettre searched for her, but she had disappeared, perhaps having been carnally swallowed into one of the buildings. You and the rest of the world, buddy. The Dedicated’s hands clenched to fists at his side, stubbornly refusing to give up hope. He clenched his teeth in a reflective gesture, body tensing with determination.

Abruptly the moment passed. Poettre’s head sunk in something akin to defeat, but in truth, the temporary disappointment spurred him onward. He would abandon his pursuit for the time being, but he was by no means acknowledging permanent defeat. For now, he would probably only be setting himself back when it came to the quest for his project—no creature could appreciate being the object of a goose chase, no matter how flattering the pursuing dogs. He concentrated for a few moments on stifling his frustration, easing his tensed muscles one by one. When he was confident that he could walk without stomping and refrain from glaring thunderheads at the slightest insult, he followed suit and joined the other recruits in the dining hall.

He sighted many individuals with whom he wouldn’t mind a conversation under normal circumstances, but today he was more concerned with privacy for thought than socialization. He secured himself a plate filled to the brim and then a seat toward the end of one of the benches; those more interested in conversation sought it towards the middle of the long tables. He returned to procure a mug of watered down ale before finally seating himself.

The food and drink were a welcome respite from the ravages of his mind. Their very physicality calmed him, reminding him that there was more to life and the world than emotional discord.

It was only a temporary lull, however. Though his mind did retain some of its calmness, he could not ignore the ever-prevalent issue of Saro. A frown settled upon his features. His nerves grew so on edge that any lilt of feminine tones caused him to jump to ascertain their source, each time being disappointed to find that it was not she—it was not his Saro. He chided himself for deserting his pursuit so willingly, since it could have been a simple process to find his Sao after he lost sight of her. He couldn’t help but wonder at his own intentions when the girl filled his every thought for a month and then was dismissed in a few moments’ time.

Poettre turned to his food with a ferocious determination, devouring the sustenance upon his plate as if he had to kill it before it would submit to the ministrations of his stomach. He stabbed his meat with a bit too much alacrity, startling the men and women within his vicinity. After the blatant display of nerves, he forced himself back to calm, brows furrowing as he considered the precise source of his discontent. It was Saro, obviously, but what had brought about that particular expression? Perhaps it was his all-encompassing urge to continually refer to the woman as his Saro. Some part of him felt that if he branded her as his within his mind, someday reality would reflect his thoughts. It was a silly idea, but it was the only realistic excuse Poettre could fathom. He didn’t care to admit that particular weakness.

He relinquished his fork with resignation, leaning back and stretching his long legs in an echoing gesture. The Dedicated sighed, appetite either satiated or abandoned. His light eyes perused the dim interior of the dining hall; suddenly he was weary of his thoughts as his sole company; he wanted someone to distract him from the tribulations of his emotions. He glimpsed Marie sitting with a few of her friends on the far side of the mess hall and with a half-hearted attempt at a friendly expression ventured over to her.

She didn’t notice his approach until he was just behind her, the sound of his footfalls alerting her to his presence. Poettre took advantage of the vacant spot beside her, grinning famously. His grin dissipated some when he noted that she wasn’t returning his greeting—in fact, she had pursed her lips and turned stubbornly to one of her companions, blocking him out with conversation. Light, what was with women today and their childish reliance on conversation as a savior? Poettre rolled his eyes skyward and nonchalantly slipped his hands down to the girl’s waist, noting with pleasure her surprised reaction.

He was less than pleased with the glare she turned to fix on him shortly afterwards. “Is there something I can do for you?” she said, normally innocent tones tainted by the iciness of her voice.

Poettre felt the sights of the women surrounding her center on him with equal distaste; he was the center of attention, and for once, he didn’t think that was the best position to be in. He glanced from one girl to the next, noting their various degrees of dislike—he must have done something wrong to Marie, but what? “Well, nothing, if you’re busy…” He retrieved his hands slowly, unaccustomed to refusal.

“I am,” the Soldier responded curtly, a frown creasing her features. She made as if to return to her conversation, but at the last moment she turned back to Poettre. “You can’t treat girls like that, Poettre.”

“What…?” His mouth formed an aghast O-shape as he stared at her. He had no idea what she was talking about, and it was obvious.

Marie glanced away, pursing her lips with irritation before turning back to him. She gazed at him like he was a pitiful being incapable of understanding, a child that required everything explained in no uncertain terms. “We had a date, Poettre. You told me it was a good one, that you’d call on me within the next few days to set up another. You never came. I decided to investigate it for myself; I left a few notes for you at your door, and each time, you didn’t respond. I’m not one to take dates so seriously, but Light, man, did you ever stop to consider that maybe, just maybe, I seriously liked you? Did you realize that it would’ve been the polite thing to tell me that you’d changed your mind, just to save me a few restless nights?”

Poettre’s only response was an unbelieving stare. Abruptly possessed by a mixture of disgust and disbelief, he wrested himself from the bench, immediately retreating. Their exchange had attracted the attention of everyone at her table and those surrounding it; as Poettre walked away, he felt the joined gazes of all around bore into his back like so many stinging prongs, branding him with their hatred.

He fled—that was the only way to describe it. Poettre retained his dignity as if it were armor against the judgmental stings of those around him, so none guessed at his true intentions—for all they knew, he was offended, or apathetic, or had thought of multiple productive things to do, things that were far more important than Marie’s paltry emotions. He put his hands in his pockets nonchalantly to attribute to his generally indifferent attitude, eyes crawling across the people in the dining hall as if they were slugs on the ground beneath him. They watched as he exited, disgusted whispers exchanged here and there.

Poettre wasn’t entirely sure he cared. He definitely didn’t feel ashamed of his treatment of Marie; maybe he had done wrong, but he doubted that the girl had wasted any nights over him. He sighed as he left the dining hall and made his way back to his room; he’d had enough of company for the time being. As if his day hadn’t been bad enough, now Marie was trying to force guilt trips on him! He’d had enough of people for the rest of his bloody life. He wanted to stay in his room for the rest of his flaming life; he didn’t give a fig for his responsibilities. The Black Tower—and the rest of the world—would survive just fine without him, at least for the evening.

The sun had descended past the horizon by the time he reached his barracks. His mien was enough to notify all the men that made as if to converse with him that he was not in the mood. Poettre’s room was dark when he entered it; the furniture was illuminated by dim light, just enough for him to move to one of the corners without running into anything to secure his staff. Perhaps he would feel better after he’d whacked at something for a while.

He turned to the door, staff in hand, but a slight noise caused him to turn and glance blankly around the expanse of his room. Able to discern very little beyond the door, he extended his hand and channeled a ball of Air and Fire above his palm. The element cast a dim light on everything in the room, shadowing its contents in an eerie light. One figure in particular stood out from the rest. Her dark hair surrounded her face in silky waves, a curtain of night completely unsusceptible to the efforts of the Air and Fire in his hand. The rest of her body, however, was not so easily disguised. In fact, it stood out in stark relief against the dark background of his room—the dim light from his hand highlighted her porcelain flesh beautifully, and she sported most of her bare flesh proudly. The loose black blouse she wore, most of its buttons undone, represented what remnants of modesty Saro possessed. Nothing was really displayed beyond her legs and her stomach, but Poettre felt himself respond regardless. And her eyes… They glinted like sapphires caught in the light, winking mystically in his direction, suggesting all but declaring nothing.

“Hello,” she said, the gesture so mundane that it was lost on him. She leaned back, her hands resting her balance on the bed behind her. For all the world like an inexperienced farmboy, Poettre’s eyes widened as he took her state of undress and the bed behind her in consideration. Saro’s head fell as she chuckled softly to herself, dark hair falling to curtain those murky depths. She glanced back upward, eyes partly obscured by those waves of hair. “Do you want me, Poettre?” A hand lifted to toy with a button next to her covered breast; her head tilted to the side as she gazed at him, considering. “Come and get me.”

And he did. His staff fell forgotten to the floor; it thumped loudly to the ground, but Poettre did not hear it. His senses were absorbed in the beauty of the creature before him. She was all eyes for him. Her lips met his in a searing lightning connection, shocking him to the point that he was trembling despite himself. He was so entranced by her kiss that he somehow managed to forget that he had only to slide his hands beneath her blouse to feel that treasured expanse of bare flesh, to caress and cup her as he had dreamed. He was quickly reminded as Saro shed the remainder of her clothing, baring herself to him and urging him to touch her cosseted flesh…

MRP: Let Us Go, Through Certain Half-Deserted Streets
Tue Nov 18 20:20:15 2003

It was the most amazing sexual experience Poettre had ever had. When he opened his eyes the next morning, they were bleary slits, unable to experience much beyond the warmth of the woman beside him and the tapestry of light on the ceiling above. He turned from his side to his back and felt Saro stir. Her hair functioned as her pillow on his arm, quickly transferring with the rest of her head to his chest. He stroked the silky waves, loving the feel of her soft, wet lips against his neck. He returned the caress with equal tenderness, something he had never sincerely experienced until the lovely creature strolled into his life..

She was beautiful as she sat up and straddled his waist. There was little that was sexual to the movement, but somehow, Poettre was completely satisfied. He smiled up at her, self-conscious feelings at least momentarily forgotten. His hands drifted to her hips and waist; their callused pads rubbed against her deliciously soft skin delicately, almost as if he thought to bruise her if he was careless.

The morning ended all too quickly. It was a blur of laughs and hushed conversation; of midnight, porcelain, and jewels; of childish confessions of both love and lust. His lips seemed permanently imprinted with the memory of her adjoining flesh; his mind was stuck on the memory of her eyes gazing unerringly into his as her mouth gasped at his ministrations below; his mind was stuck on those tentative words she had uttered only moments ago: “I think I love you, Poettre.”

His first reaction was a tumultuous mixture of disbelief and awe—how could this lovely little thing, this unbelievable goddess, possibly love him? Still straddling his waist, Saro traced her fingers along the curve of the musculature on his chest, her head cocked to the side. Her eyes evaded his, almost as if she, too, was nervous about proclaiming those awful words, so easily misunderstood. With a surge of love and gratitude Poettre realized that Saro was just as nervous as he!

He sat up abruptly, surprising her, her eyes widening and lips forming a silent question. The Dedicated knocked her onto her back on the bed, adding an altogether different light to their innocent cuddling as his hips neared hers. The developing smirk on her lips suggested her acknowledgement of this inevitability, but amazingly, Poettre’s thoughts were focused elsewhere. He took her into his arms, wrapping her in his embrace, veritably crushing her against him, the softer parts of her anatomy smashed against his chest. His thoughts repeated the caress of her language again and again; otherwise he knew he would laugh at himself and consider it all a lovely, fanciful dream.

“I love you!” he gasped, rocking her back and forth in his arms. She was such a tiny thing, but now she was safe; he would protect her from anything that might harm her, and he would always be there to do that for her. He was hers for the taking. “Light, Saro, I love you…” His lips rubbed against the tender flesh at the hollow of her throat, causing her to shiver. “I love you,” he repeated, feeling that if he said it often enough, his lovely girl would believe him; the entire world would know!

She tore from his grasp. Poettre thought he noticed a fleeting frown of disgust cross her face, but no, it wasn’t possible—how could it be, when she was so lovely, when the world was so perfect, when she loved him! She moved across the room and balanced herself coyly against the door, naked flesh pebbling visibly at the cool touch of the wood. Saro smiled slowly, allowing it to widen into a grin as finally she proclaimed, “And I you, Poettre.”

She pulled her gaze from his, eyes glancing about the interior of his room. Poettre suddenly felt almost inadequate due to his décor; never had it been more important to him than now that she appreciate the efforts he had made to make his room comfortable. Saro’s eyes returned to his, but this time her expression was still. She was not displeased, but…was she pleased? He could not tell; his love was unreadable, when she chose to be. Poettre frowned—he wanted her to suffer no pain. He stood and crossed the room to her, snaking his arms about her waist, his head falling to rest his forehead against hers. “Saro… My sweet Saro…” The words were a caressing whisper, falling upon her ears like sweet kisses to bathe her in love. “I don’t want you to feel any pain. Light, if I could, I’d take all of your pain and suffer through it myself—and I wouldn’t care. Blood and ashes, you’re so wonderful; no one as wonderful as you deserves to feel a moment’s hurt.”

Saro laughed. She laughed. It was a contemptuous tittering; Poettre suspected she laughed at his naïveté. Light, if only she could be naïve, too! Then she would see the world as the lovely place he perceived, and they could enjoy it together, two ridiculously happy creatures in a world that was theirs to do with as they liked. He was not injured by her pessimism, but he felt sorrowful. She would not have been so skeptical if some sort of pain, something against which Poettre could do nothing, hadn’t plagued her.

He made as if to kiss her, but she pulled free at the last moment, almost as if she wanted the touch of his lips but was too afraid to lay claim to it. Saro crossed the room, slowly putting on the clothes she had shed yesterday. Poettre took the hint and did the same. If she was ready to go home, then he would escort her. He searched the room for the clothes from last night, but most of it remained at large—perhaps it had been kicked under the bed in the fever of their passions. He shrugged and pulled out a clean uniform. Fortunately he found his shirt from the day before, so his dragon pin he removed from one shirt and transferred to the next.

When he was finished, he found Saro struggling to organize her long hair into some semblance of neatness; she was trying to make a bun at the back of her neck. Poettre grinned and urged her to sit on the edge of the bed—he had suffered through many mornings after, helping many a girl calm her hair to decency. Saro definitely had the most healthy, beautiful hair he had ever seen; it fell to his ministrations calmly, nary a strand escaping his patient fingers as he wove them into a loose braid. When he finished, Saro looked both surprised and grateful as she patted the back of her head contemplatively, twisting this way and that to get a better view of the back of her head. Satisfied, she turned to Poettre, curling her arms about his neck and gracing him with a kiss.

It lasted longer than either of them realized, for soon after, a knock and an obnoxious voice intruded the embrace. Poettre jumped and stuck his head out the door, hand extending to Saro to hold it as he spoke to the visitor—it was a Dedicated from across the hall reminding him that he had a lesson to teach shortly after breakfast. Poettre had forgotten, so he thanked the man, but he was reluctant to consider what an early lesson would do to constrict his time with Saro.

The moment the man was gone, Saro pulled him back to the privacy of his room, twisting her fingers in the blonde hair at the nape of his neck. He smiled ruefully and kissed her slowly, deliberately. All too reluctantly, when the kiss broke, Poettre queried, “Shall we?”

Saro nodded, and with a miniscule sigh, took his proffered arm. They left his room. Breakfast had already begun, so the halls were relatively empty, but the couple could not escape the typical childish snickers of the attitude, “I know what you were doing last night.” Both grinned at the appraisals but were otherwise unaffected. They were in love, and it probably showed.

The walk to Saro’s barrack took much too short a time. Poettre wanted to be with her forever; he never wanted her to leave his side. Unfortunately, they both had other responsibilities and considerations, and so their time was short. He wanted to linger with her outside her door as they exchanged their goodbyes, but that opportunity proved nil.

A man was sprawled out by what Poettre presumed was Saro’s door. At the sound of their approach, he came to his feet, his eyes wide as he stared at Saro. His clothing was overly wrinkled and soiled; Poettre suspected that he had spent much of the night in that position. The man, a Soldier from the absence of pins on his neck, pulled a hand through his hair self-consciously, countenance still struck by the image of Saro. He was a bit stocky, but he was tall, though not quite as tall as Poettre. He had wide, bushy eyebrows, and his skin was plagued with a few days’ worth of stubble, all signs of his discontent.

Poettre glanced from Saro to the man and back again. Saro appeared unconcerned. She held Poettre’s hand stubbornly, squeezing his fingers almost painfully—Poettre wondered that such strength could come from such a small thing. Her face had contorted with anger and apathy, somehow, and Poettre was not pleased with the result. He could only hope that she would never force such indifference on him.

“Where…” the man stuttered, glancing back and forth between them. “Where were you last night?” He forced the words out individually, each one highlighted with painful emphasis. “I want to hear you say it.” It seemed he already knew the answer, but he was determined to have her guilt.

“It’s none of your business, Liam.” Saro’s tone was curt. She verily pushed him out of the way as she struggled with the key at her door.

“Isn’t it?” He crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes focused on Saro. Poettre had apparently been forgotten, if only for a few moments. “I don’t understand why you’re angry, Saro,” the man said softly, tone suddenly tender. “I’m sure we can work it out.”

“Can we?” Saro glared up at him, arms akimbo. Liam backed up a few paces despite himself; Saro was definitely a force to be reckoned with. Again, Poettre fervently prayed that she’d never get that angry with him—he wasn’t sure he could survive it. “You hurt me, Liam. I want nothing more to do with you. We’re through, and you should’ve grasped that a week ago, you daft lout.” She turned back to her door, hands shaking so much that she could not manage her key. What had this idiot done that affected her so?

Liam stepped forward to aid her with her attempts, but she smacked his hands away, hissing. He knocked her out of the way—and that was the last straw for Poettre. He stepped forward and sent the man reeling with a hard thrust to the jaw, pushing his entire body aside in the gesture. “Enough of that. She wants nothing to do with you. You best be on your way.” The man glared at him, and then turned to Saro. Her face was empty, impassive, and she would not meet his gaze. Liam returned to Poettre and stood glaring at him for a few moments, as if to cow him into giving up the girl he so obviously fancied. Eventually he turned and fled, leaving them alone at Saro’s door.

She was trembling. Her porcelain skin was stained red by the pressure of her door against her forehead. Poettre stepped forward and tried to take her into his arms, suddenly overwhelmed by the pain through which she was suffering, but her door yielded to her key at just that moment, and she evaded his grasp. He tried to enter after her, but she shut the door in his face.

Poettre smiled bitterly. He understood her pain, and he understood that she wished to be left alone. He would give her that, if only for the day. This evening, he would see what he could do for her, even if it was nothing more than the oblivion that the joining of their bodies could give.

It didn’t even occur to him to be jealous. Saro was irrevocably his. He could not be jealous of a man she had obviously liked the week before—the week before she had not been his. Though their exchange had been undeniably fervent, Poettre could not blame her. It would take both of them some time before they grew accustomed to their newfound love. Until then, Poettre would give her some space, and he would be content to do so.

It was the most wonderful day of his life.

How quickly things change.

The M’Hael’s office was still and all but silent. Poettre’s breath echoed in his own ears, and every movement, however miniscule, roared like a thunderstorm. He felt slightly dizzy; he was so light-headed that he had difficulty holding his head upright or even distinguishing if he was upright. The Dedicated turned his head to catch a glimpse of the world outside through one of the waiting room’s windows, but he ended up lolling his head unreasonably as he perceived the specters floating to and fro. He jerked his head to stare back at the flames with which he had earlier been obsessed—the movements of those outside were too disturbing.

He was disoriented for what seemed an eternity. Poettre had to remind himself to move slowly so that he didn’t suffer the consequences of his blasted fever. He finally regained understanding of his whereabouts, and then he wished he hadn’t—he would rather be elsewhere. He had a few preferable locations in mind—for example, he had a picnic planned with Saro that afternoon, and he had no doubt that their romantic rendezvous would conclude in the bedroom. A young Dedicated awaited an audience with the M’Hael on the other side of the waiting room. Poettre might’ve once considered comely and worthy as a project, but she served as no comparison to his Saro. No girl was anything in comparison to those gleaming sapphires that served as her views, midnight hair that served as a pillow and a disorientation of night, pale skin decorated with pink splotches of excitement that served as his nightly (and sometimes daily) inspiration…

The scratching of the secretary’s quill ceased abruptly, bringing Poettre to consciousness. When he glanced upward, he noted the man’s brown eyes staring worriedly, but he did not articulate the suspicion flickering in those gleaming orbs. Finally, he said, “M’Hael Canin will see you now.”

He will, will he? Poettre muttered obnoxiously as he stood and stumbled across the room to the door of Canin’s adjoining office. About bloody time. He had been waiting there for at least an hour; the exact amount of time was interminable due to Poettre’s feverish state. Needless to say, he was not feeling particularly amiable, and so it was unlikely that he’d take kindly to anything the bloody M’Hael proposed.

The man was seated at his desk, hunched over a bit of parchment upon which his quill scratched angrily. Poettre wondered at the man’s lack of composure—Canin was usually admirably calm. Today his nerves were on edge. Despite Poettre’s childish refusal to yield to the man’s authority, he was cowed into hoping that he hadn’t been the cause of Canin’s disgruntlement. When the man glanced upward, his face was schooled to hide all emotion—but his eyes flickered malevolently. Something was wrong, and Poettre suspected he would suffer the brunt of the M’Hael’s wrath.

“Poettre,” the man finally said, his voice unusually stern. Light, what had he done this time? He took a seat, disregarding the M’Hael’s lack of permission—he was much too ill to suffer this man’s every whim. “I do not monitor the romances of those in my army. Anyone is allowed to marry, and in the meantime, they can fraternize wherever they wish.” Oh, great, a meaningful pause… What next? “However, relationships are not encouraged, particularly from Soldier to Soldier—or Dedicated to Soldier. Not only are these harmful; they can be worse depending upon the people involved. Some men—and women—want nothing more from relationships than a little mischief.” Canin cast Poettre a suggestive glance at this, and Poettre’s frown deepened to a scowl. He straightened his spine and sat thus, tense, as he awaited the M’Hael’s continuation.

“Get to your point,” he finally spat, suddenly unreasonably angry. Canin was correct—he had no right to intrude on Poettre’s affairs, or anyone else’s, for that matter.

The M’Hael’s glance was more a glare. “You’re a good Dedicated, and you’ve done me lots of favors without complaint, so I’ll ignore that.” He scribbled a little more on that parchment, and Poettre’s anger festered as he waited again. “Your relationship with Saro is doomed, Poettre. The harlot will render you useless if you continue on your current vein. Break it off now. That’s an order.” More scribbles. Poettre wanted to grab the quill and shove the sharp end into the artery at Canin’s neck. “You are dismissed.”

Poettre wanted to scream, to kill, but instead he forced himself to remain calm, at least outwardly. He stood, and for a moment or two, he did nothing—he simply stared down at Canin with absolute loathing. Someday, he vowed, he would be above this man. Al’Pazi would pay for his words about Saro. He would.

And so he fled for the second time that week. Only a few days ago he had done the same in escaping the dining hall and into Saro’s arms. Today he hoped to do the same.

She was there. She was lying on the ground, grass the only blanket necessary. The field was littered with bright spots of color, the random paint splotches of an expert hand. Besides Saro’s singular figure, it was deserted, as this particular field tended to be. That was the reason they had selected it as their rendezvous point, of course. It was shielded from view by one of the women’s barracks; due to their short tenure as barracks, some of the grounds had been left untouched, places where life flourished even in a place so spiritually desolate.

Poettre’s head was spinning; his body was threatening to collapse foolishly due to the damn illness that still possessed him. He had to pause at a tree on the border of the field, though he couldn’t attest that he minded. Besides being with her in the flesh, there was nothing better than watching his love. She was even more beautiful when she didn’t know she was being watched. There was nothing feigned, nothing unnatural about her; after all, women did act differently when they knew that eyes were fixed upon them; they had to live up to the expectations of the wide variety of spectators. Even Saro was not excluded from this flaw. Furthermore, she was one of those feminists that thought they had a place here. Poettre didn’t mind since it was his Saro, but even his love could not blind him of the fact she was a woman and this was a man’s world.

She curled her fingers upward as if reaching toward the sky. The light played across those slender digits, but the sun evaded her grasp. Light, as trite as it sounded, Poettre would have happily sacrificed everything if it meant bringing the sun down to her, isolating it as her toy. He didn’t care for the rest of the world—they had no right to question his feelings for Saro, or Saro’s motives. His lips pursed as scenes from moments ago rewinded across his vision, but quickly he shut his mind to such insidious thoughts—this was neither the time nor the place for such things. He could not allow al’Pazi’s words to cause mutiny in the one relationship in which he felt completely secure.

Saro turned in a stretch and caught sight of Poettre’s brooding figure reclining against the rough bark of the tree. She cocked her head to the side and beckoned him closer, a smile looming upon her features. He had never seen her smile like that for anyone else. He did as she suggested, seating himself behind her. He spread his legs and allowed her to settle her back against his torso, her arms resting on his legs.

He breathed the scent of her. She didn’t use anything in the way of perfume, but he knew from personal experience that the soap she used was partly constructed of rosemary—it lent her a spicy aroma that permeated the area and infiltrated the senses. The silly girl had an entire stock of the stuff stored in her room’s chest, as there was no telling when next she’d get the opportunity to purchase such luxuries. As a result of the storage, all of her clothing retained the scent. Poettre would always associate the scent of rosemary with Saro.

The Dedicated kissed her neck through a curtain of her loose hair. He willed that this moment would last forever, but he knew it was impossible. There would always be people like the M’Hael standing in their way. Perhaps this would be their last time together in private.

With that he grew pensive. He turned his face away from her, eyes regarding the green landscape surrounding them. Soon, this, too, would be swallowed by the oncoming winter. His arms tightened marginally around her, as if their physical proximity could somehow push away the demons others used to force them apart. Poettre felt Saro’s body loosen in a sigh, but he suspected that her sigh was one borne more of resignation than relief. She, too, realized the futility of their situation, much as neither cared to admit it.

Thoughts roiled. Perhaps all was not futile. He wheeled Saro around rather roughly, turning her around so that she was facing him. The Soldier uttered a miniscule squeak, eyes widening slightly afterward as she caught sight of her love’s expression. He was surely a sight to see—he had a heated light to his eyes, suggesting his heart’s fervency; his fingers were digging almost painfully into Saro’s arms as he regarded her.

“Light,” Poettre said, his voice a mere gasp of raw emotion. “You’re so beautiful, dearest.” He sat in relative awe as he watched her. He felt such a fool, but Light, who could refrain? In this light, her hair was transformed to this dark halo of mixed colors, brown and red and black swirling in harmony under the wind’s caresses. Her normally dark eyes were also transformed; the evening sunlight caressed her face, lightening her eyes to spires of ice. Poettre had never imagined that he could be so enraptured by a woman’s face, but Saro had a singular effect on him—he was sure he’d never feel this way for anyone ever again, never this keenly. His hand traced the sharp line of her jaw, committing the feel of her smooth skin into his memory. He replaced his fingers with his mouth, but he allowed it to stray no further.

His eyes bored into hers, switching from eye to sapphire eye. “We need to get out of here, Saro.” After that first sentence, all hesitation was wiped away, replaced by a steadfast commitment. The dangerous moment had passed. His courage was supplemented by his determination and his realization that he could not retreat, not now. “The M’Hael… There are just too many things standing in our way. We need to go someplace where we could live as we liked, where we could be alone, where we could love each other without fear of punishment.” He paused, carefully considering his continuation. She had yet to speak, but her face was emotionless, a sign that she was waiting for him to finish. She would make no judgments until then, or so Poettre hoped. “I used to be a scribe, a writer…We could move somewhere, a city, and you could get a job doing something, but only if you wanted to, and we could support ourselves, get a little house or maybe even a room in an inn if we couldn’t afford more… Maybe a manor or even a palace or something would hire me, and then we’d be living fine… No more cots for us, no more tiny rooms, just you and me… It might not be easy, but it couldn’t be worse than living here and being under someone else’s rules, could it? We’d be together, and we’d be free…mostly, at least…”

He trailed off, watching her. He couldn’t help but again recognize how gorgeous she was. Her gaze was downcast; her lips were pursed. Finally, Saro glanced up at him and away again; when her eyes returned to his, her gaze was steadier. She gave a short nod, almost as if she could not trust her voice to speak steadily. “We’ll need to leave immediately,” she finally said. Her voice was firm, but her hands betrayed her inner conflict—she fiddled with her nails or twisted her fingers back and forth. “We should meet tonight, perhaps.”

Poettre fairly bounced. She liked it! She liked his idea! He took her face in his hands and kissed her hard, rubbing his lips against her. “Yes.” He kissed her again, harder this time. “Yes…” Abruptly he jumped up, turning around and pushing his hands through his hair. His stance was not as steady as he would prefer; he wavered slightly from the fever that still confused his senses. “I must go pack.” He offered her a hand to pull her upright, and pulled her into his arms to kiss her yet again. “I’ll meet you tonight. At dusk.” He rubbed his thumbs against her arms, gazing into her eyes. They wouldn’t be caught. They couldn’t be. Poettre just knew that with their love as a bolster, nothing could get in their way. It just couldn’t happen.

She was the first to walk away. As she did, for once the Dedicated was blind to her physical charms—he took them in, of course, but his gaze was focused inwardly. He was imagining his life from this point, imagining how it would unfold—would they marry? Would she bear his children? If so, how many? Despite the difficulties they would no doubt face for at least the first year, his lips curled upward in a joyful smile. Sometimes, he decided, life could be glamorous and beautiful.

Much as he was reluctant to admit it, Poettre was nervous as hell. There were so many things that could go wrong. He didn’t mind risking his own life, but what of Saro’s? Their lives rested on an intricate balance, upon a few small things that with the slightest hint of incompetence could send them reeling to eternity. For example, he had made a deal with one of the stable boys—he had legitimately purchased two horses and paid the boy a handsome sum to assure that he would make sure that one, the stable doors were unlocked as well as the doors to the two stables, and two, no one but he was on duty that evening. There was no telling if that boy would remain loyal even despite the amount he’d been paid, and Poettre knew the boy’s loyalty would not last more than a few days at best. Though he’d tried to be cautious, Poettre had no idea if anyone had seen him carrying his belongings, load by small load, to and from the clearing behind the women’s barracks. One pair of intruding eyes, and all could be lost…

The sun had descended. Poettre distracted himself from worry by leaning against a tree and counting all of its leaves. Fall would soon take hold, and all of these green creatures would fall lifeless to the ground. For now they served as welcome camouflage against anyone who dared to let their eyes roam. Simultaneously, he worried that Saro would not be able to find him in the darkness, and would think that he had abandoned his promise to meet her here.

He stood, pacing restlessly if silently. Figures darted to and from the dark figure of the barracks nearest him, but none strayed so far as to come to his shelter, not even couples seeking a private retreat. And no sign of Saro.

And so the hours passed. And so the night came and went, darkness slowly being replaced by a light from the east. And still no sign of Saro.

Ironically enough, at least his fever was gone.

Poettre imagined that it had been the longest night of his life. Strangely enough, though, it had all passed in something of a blur—his thoughts had been muddled, his mind’s eye unclear. The night had an air of surrealism about it, or perhaps it had been too real. It did not seem possible that his love, his beautiful, beautiful Saro, could have been guilty of the crime of jilting him, Poettre Valis…

The sun had passed the horizon completely by the time the Dedicated gave up his vigil. It was a cold day for fall, surprising for Andor. Poettre felt little of it, or perhaps he felt it all the more keenly. He forced himself to apathy, praying that his wayward emotions would listen to reason and succumb to the harsh reality of indifference. Instead, he found himself straining against the bit, wishing more than anything to be allowed free rein with his emotions—he wanted to scream, attack, maim; he wanted to wrap his hands around the Soldier’s pretty neck until she strained and turned purple. Instead, he forced the feelings downward, acknowledging that he would accomplish nothing with such futile wishes. Perhaps he would gain his vengeance through more peaceful endeavors—there was little Poettre enjoyed more than a good session of plotting.

The Dedicated exhaled a long sigh through flaring nostrils as he shouldered his burden. To think, last night he had been more than willing to abandon everything he had begun here, to risk his own neck, all over a girl! The great Poettre Valis, diminished to…this… He shook his head in either mockery or accord; he couldn’t tell the difference. With the weight of his belongings and the warmth of the sun on his back, the idea of desertion seemed all the more preposterous. The M’Hael had been right about her. How had he allowed that harlot to convince him to do something like this?

He bit back a curse at the realization that he had been the one attempting to coerce her to come. She hadn’t, obviously—maybe she had recognized the idiocy of the action, even as he had not. Perhaps she was waiting for him, even now, hoping to caress him with a river of tears to compensate for the night he had spent waiting for her. The bitter thought made him feel both anxious and expectant.

He was looking forward to at least a day of solitary confinement to get over what had happened. Fate seemed to be working against him. The women’s barracks had been unusually quiet when he had passed them, but the main streets of the town contradicted that entirely. They were all abuzz with the news of some sort of commotion, getting particularly active when he reached the street where the M’Hael’s residence was. Houses spewed scowling Asha’man, all of them stony-faced and bristling. Even his own barracks emitted a steady stream of men taking their leave, most of them jogging or striding purposefully. Poettre frowned, but he wasn’t of mind to intercept one of his peers to see what was going on. He just wanted his bloody bed…

Finally Poettre reached his room. He opened the door and almost felt like smiling, until he saw the burden sagging the bed he was so anticipating.

Her head had fallen in—what? an admission of defeat? Had Saro acknowledged the pain she had caused him? Was she paying for it now? Poettre wished he could feel pleasure from those sadistic thoughts, but he felt…nothing. He felt empty, and perhaps even remorseful. Her body was wracked with sobs that continued even after Poettre entered; he suspected that she had been so self-absorbed that she hadn’t noticed Poettre’s ingress. He let his own head fall and knuckled his forehead with a sluggish sigh.

This caught Saro’s attention. Her face was almost juvenile in its image of pleading. Poettre tried so desperately to refrain from responding to the desperation traced on those features, but the effort was futile. His Saro was sad, and, for now at least, Poettre lived to comfort her. He found himself dropping his saddlebags without further regard and seating himself next to her. Much as he wanted to soothe her in the comfort of his arms, he regretted that neither of them would take kindly to the action—Poettre was still raging with her betrayal, and Saro was upset enough that something like that would do little to console her. He sat just close enough that their thighs brushed against each other, a pleasant, permeating warmth. It was enough.

For some reason, Saro cried even harder. She clutched her head in her hands as she rocked back and forth, tearing her hair in an effort at calming herself. It was to no avail. She allowed herself some pitiful sniffling, immediately afterwards blowing her nose on a silk handkerchief that Poettre bemusedly identified as his own, from the initials on a corner.

She wasn’t quite so composed when she finally phrased veritably. “I feel so guilty, Poettre.” She paused here, clenching her hands into white-knuckled fists. “I just couldn’t do it. It…sounded like such a good idea, love, and I couldn’t refuse it when you asked, but when I went to pack…” She paused and glanced at him, her expression suddenly fearful. “You’re not angry, are you?” He said nothing. He didn’t want to lie to her, much as it shamed him to allow all his plans for vengeance to slip through his fingertips, so he said nothing. “Are you?” Her blue eyes were unusually liquid, unshed tears glimmering from those depths. Much as he wished to remain furious with her, his resolve wavered at the sight of her despair.

He exhaled slowly, so slowly that it was drawn out into a sigh. Saro declined into another bout of tears. She tossed aside his handkerchief distractedly; it was too sodden to serve its purpose; instead, she wiped her nose against the end of her sleeve. The room was dark, but both the stain and the Soldier’s face reflected what dim light invaded the room from under the crack of his door. “No, Saro,” he whispered. Uttering the words rendered them truth. His anger melted away, evaporating in the foolishness of his love. He sighed and took her in his arms, willingly or no, rocking her back and forth slowly in love rather than desperation, keeping her flattened against his chest, face nuzzling his neck. “I was angry, but… It’s all right, Saro. I understand. I regretted it, too,” he covered, wondering if she would believe him. He had questioned the logic of deserting afterward, but…if she had showed up, the sight of her probably would have banished all of his doubts. He would do anything for this girl.

Her lips sought his. Forgiveness sealed in such a lovely, quivering package could hardly be refused. “I love you, Poettre,” she whispered, and Poettre believed her, forgetting all the pain she had put him through—but such is love.

Poettre wasn’t sure what he had expected upon his return, but he was sure it hadn’t been what it had turned out to be. A part of him wished desperately that he hadn’t fallen for Saro’s bait so quickly, but what choice had he? He was in love with her, much to his chagrin, and that meant he would have to suffer the consequences. Besides, who could refrain? She was beautiful, wonderful, honest, loving, great in bed… That was how they had spent the day, of course, after she had settled down long enough to cease her weeping. It seemed all Saro had needed was a little reminder of how much Poettre loved him before she was restored to her usual, spectacular self.

They slept the morning and most of the afternoon away afterwards; apparently they had been so worried about what the other would do when the morning came that they hadn’t been able to get any sleep. All of Poettre’s doubts and worries were wiped away when Saro was in his arms. It was as if by only her presence she was able to expel any unfavorable thoughts he held towards her. He was grateful that she possessed such an ability—he couldn’t bear to be angry with his Saro.

That night, however, events took a new turn. Poettre and Saro had laughingly forced themselves out of bed shortly after nightfall; even while their hearts protested at the separation, their stomachs could concentrate on little more than their need for sustenance. They had a slight argument on where to eat, amusingly enough—Poettre wanted to take his love out in style, but Saro wanted nothing more than a simple meal provided by the mess hall. Hardly one to refuse he what she wished, Poettre agreed, albeit reluctantly, and they helped themselves to a traditional meal of meat, potatoes, and vegetables.

Poettre had to pause to admire the amount of food Saro could eat. Much as they were close, they’d never done anything as mundane as sharing a meal together, and certainly not in the dingy confines of the dining hall. Therefore, neither of them had had the opportunity to observe each other in a natural habitat, doing something that required clothes and did not require channeling… She was beautiful, even as she selfishly plowed forkful after forkful of food into her mouth. When she cleared a plate, Saro wasn’t hesitant about going back through the line and getting another plateful, each time securing herself one only slightly smaller than the helping before. She managed to eat more than Poettre—impressive, considering her short stature in comparison to Poettre’s tall one. It was adorable.

A dark figure loomed alongside Poettre during Saro’s third helping and his second. At first he ignored the intruder; it was probably just a lone Soldier or Dedicated wishing for company during their meal. The figure did not leave, however. Eventually Poettre, exasperated, glanced up to make the stranger continue on his way, but his words froze in his throat as he noticed the two pins gleaming carnally from the black-clad man’s collar. The Asha’man, sensing Poettre’s abandoned intentions, smirked. He gave Saro a contemptuous glance—Poettre wanted to wipe the scorn off the bloody goat-kisser’s face, and would’ve, had it not been for the setting—before gesturing with a toss of the head that Poettre was to follow him.

Scowling, Poettre was given little choice. He kissed Saro on the cheek, promising dutifully to return to her within a few moments, and followed. The man took him outside of the mess hall, far from the entrance, almost as if he was wanted to talk less than savory business. Poettre smirked and steeled himself against the cool breeze, placing his hands in his pockets and rubbing his fingers together for warmth. The Asha’man seemed impervious.

“Dedicated Poettre, I presume,” the man conjectured, tilting his head critically. “You’re not what I expected.” The man rummaged through his pockets and presented a pipe with a bag of wrapped tabac. Saidin incinerated a tiny flame inside the pipe, and exhaled small billows of smoke.

“Well,” Poettre responded quickly, uncertain what he was supposed to respond to that. He was bloody annoyed. He didn’t appreciate some arrogant flaming Asha’man intruding on both his meal and Saro’s and then bad-mouthing him. What kind of reaction did the idiot expect, anyway? “Can I do something for you or what?” The Dedicated’s irritation was scarcely veiled, not that he really cared. Let the man fume at his disrespect and arrogance. He deserved it.

The Asha’man chuckled, apparently unaffected by Poettre’s irritation. He shuffled his feet and took a few lazy puffs from his pipe before he deigned to respond to the man he had so rudely interrupted. “The name’s Anders. I’m in charge of leading the squad that’s to hunt down that bloody deserter.” He paused here, almost as if he expected Poettre to have some idea of what he was talking. “You knew someone had deserted, didn’t you? Ha! You didn’t. You must be pretty spectacular, when the M’Hael sees something in you and you can’t even keep up with current events.” He took another few puffs from his pipe. “Anyway, we weren’t able to leave immediately, so now it’s night and we need someone with Delving. You were recommended by your teacher.”

Here Poettre had to do a double take. He had been recommended by that foul piece of flesh? The Asha’man who had taught the lesson had been surly as hell; he hadn’t given Poettre one hint of commendation. In fact, he had told Poettre that he was “the worst bloody student” he’d ever had the displeasure of teaching. How nice of the teacher to take it upon himself to discourage likely heroes. And what did Anders mean by the M’Hael seeing something in him? What had led him to believe that Canin thought more of him than any other Dedicated? Poettre certainly didn’t see it.

“We thought it might spice things up a bit if we invited a Dedicated,” the Asha’man said with a chuckle, almost as if it was beyond even his imagination to invite a Dedicated on a manhunt. Was he ashamed? Poettre wondered what kind of herb his teacher had been when he’d suggested that Poettre tag along. Sure, he had that Talent, but it wasn’t that uncommon; surely there were enough Asha’man with the Talent that a measly Dedicated wasn’t necessary. If truth were told, he was a little hesitant to sacrifice a night with Saro for the Black Tower.

“So… yeah,” Anders finished stupidly, fumbling with his pipe. “Dress warmly. There’s no telling how long we’ll be out searching for the moron. Meet in front of the M’Hael’s house in an hour.”

Poettre was left standing in the frigid cold, his own breath creating misty clouds in front of his face. He scowled after the Asha’man, wrapping his arms around himself in an effort at maintaining the warmth that had long since deserted him. He felt…empty, inside and out. He stumbled on a large rock as he turned back to the haven of the mess hall, his Saro’s face smiling up at him as he resumed his place next to her.

It was a haphazard group that assembled before the M’Hael’s dwelling. All of them were men—not a surprise, since this wasn’t an errand for even the most masculine of women. Poettre hesitated before he joined their ranks; all of them looked surly and forbidding, and the cold didn’t help their tempers. Much as he prided himself on his courage and tolerance, associating with men like this would be a test of endurance. He might have contemplated turning heel and returning to his room (and Saro), but Anders was among the assembly, gesturing him forward. He gritted his teeth and took a few steps forward, feeling entirely out of place. He was ten years younger than all of these men, and he didn’t appear to be prepared, either. He had taken Anders’s advice to dress warmly, but his clothing seldom got any use outside of walking to and from lessons—the gear these men possessed were not the flattering clothing that Poettre preferred, all of them having seen quite a bit of wear and tear. He felt like a prided noble’s puppy moved from his master’s arms to the dogfight.

He was the last to arrive, besides the team’s commander. Poettre didn’t know the man, and he didn’t bother to introduce himself. He gave instructions, none of which were particularly helpful—he assumed that the men knew the routine and so didn’t go into much detail. The officer led them to the stables, where Poettre had the opportunity actually to use the horse he had been silly enough to buy: an attractive, sturdy-looking bay gelding, and then it was through the Black Tower’s outer gates. It was the first time Poettre had left the fortress since he’d enlisted a year previously.

Someone opened a gateway, which scared only the horses and Poettre; he tried to disguise his jump, but he noticed Anders pointing and snickering to his companion anyway. The Dedicated gave his best grin in return, which somehow gave the Asha’man the impression that he was welcome to keep Poettre company, as soon as they stepped through the gateway. The man urged his black male forward and questioned with a leer in his eyes, “I figured you’d forget a sword, so I brought one for you.” He handed over a sword in its scabbard, the type of basic weapon that the forges spat out in a vague attempt at keeping up with the new recruits that enlisted day by day. Poettre gritted his teeth but accepted the weapon; he supposed he’d need it, though he couldn’t really see why.

“Since you’re oblivious,” Anders continued, “lemme tell you about what we’re doing here today.” He paused, digging in his pockets and producing a package of chewing tabac. He offered Poettre some, but he declined; he couldn’t bear to ruin his teeth that much. The man chewed rather obnoxiously as the long awaited explanation spewed forth. “This kid’s a Soldier. He deserted sometime last night. We know he took one horse and all of his belongings, so he obviously wasn’t plannin’ on comin’ back. Trackers were sent right after he was reported missing, so we know where he is, kinda.” He spit, staining the cold ground below, leaving steam in his wake as he edged his horse forward. “We should be getting pretty close by now.” The Asha’man continued, explaining that the man needed to be shielded and restrained rather than destroyed on sight. The man would have to be killed, of course, but he would be hanged when they returned to the Tower unless he provided more trouble than they were anticipating. Anders went through all of this systematically, but Poettre could tell that even he couldn’t take such an errand lightly. A man would lose his life tonight, and maybe more, if he felt the need to take others with him.

Conversation quieted as they neared an uninterrupted wall of white. The men exchanged glances at the sight of the blizzard; it wasn’t even winter in Andor, but already snow berated the lands. This would make their errand all the more difficult, if it was a natural phenomenon, and if the Soldier had instigated it as camouflage, he was stronger than any of them had estimated. One of the leading men had the foresight to clear their path with a whoosh of Air. As they entered the area, the commander gave instructions that they were to separate, and whoever found the deserter was to send a similar burst of Air and a flare to notify the others of the man’s capture and location.

Poettre’s nerves were on edge. He was reluctant to venture into that vast oblivion unattended, but he couldn’t ask for accompaniment without painting himself the fool. As the men split up and headed each in his own direction, the Dedicated sighed and heeled his mount forward in the one direction remaining him. He felt stupid, cold, and lonely, and the feeling only intensified when he seized saidin. He had been brought along because he could Delve, supposedly, so he might as well make himself useful. He sent tendrils of the Talent to the area surrounding him, but he found nothing beyond the resonation of metals deep within the earth. The snow swallowed all noise, if there was any to be found. He continued his as of yet fruitless search.

An hour or more passed—he couldn’t tell. Time had frozen into ice around him, palpable for once in caressing his numb limbs and face, but otherwise nonexistent. He had long since slumped in his saddle as his horse meandered along, unable to maintain an upright position. It was so bloody cold. He kept a constant circle of Delving about him…and finally sensed something out of the ordinary.

He sat upright in his saddle, peering about himself fervently. The white spanned without interruption. Poettre dismounted, pulling his horse in his wake. His boots screamed crunches in the thickening snow at his feet, the sound resounding in his ears. He kept a shield at the ready in case the Soldier jumped out at him. The Delving was irregular; he wasn’t sensing ore, but rather, metal already constructed. He blinked—the site where the irregularity was located was right next to him. He scanned the ground, and there was the Soldier, shuddering randomly with the cold beneath a layer of snow. He had curled around himself, but it hadn’t done much to dissuade the cold—the ends of his appendages were tinged with blue and black—frostbite.

Poettre carefully pushed the prepared shield between the man and saidin. The man shivered, twitched, and made a feeble attempt at straightening up, but he ended up rolling over to his back. The man was familiar… Poettre bent over and peered closer, sending a warm weave of Air over the man’s face to melt and brush the snow off his face. He blinked—it was that man with whom Saro had had an argument during the first days of their relationship… What had his name been? Ah, yes: Liam.

He looked like a child wrestling against mortality, a child desperately calling for a father figure and being astounded to find that there was no response. Poettre kneeled next to him, his joints cracking under the stress due to the tension from the cold. He stroked a finger across the man’s cheek, dumbstruck and uncertain what he should feel. He felt…normal, and he didn’t like that. Of course, wisps of indescribable melancholy were intermingled with the normality, but it didn’t make any sense to him—he felt obligated to feel sadness, honor, regret; anything but this dreaded apathy. He wanted to shake himself and the man before him, demanding an answer from both creatures, but an answer for what, he did not know. He supposed he could understand Liam’s reasons for leaving, if his assumptions were correct. Saro had left him—what could a man do but give up after he had tasted such ambrosia and found that he would never sink his lips into it again? Poettre would be driven mad if he had to watch his Saro go through her day-to-day life without playing any part in it.

Still… Poettre regretted that it had been he who had found the Soldier, and that he had known the man. Knew him presently, if not for much longer. He didn’t want to see this man dangling from the Traitor’s Tree; even if they hadn’t been friends, they had known one another. Poettre had never had to endure the agony that one must go through when one sees a friend lifeless, on display. He supposed he would, now.

He straightened to send the required flare and gust of Air, but an unusually large shudder from the heap in front of him distracted him. The Dedicated returned to hover worriedly over the man, though he couldn’t understand why he was worried when the Soldier would die in the morning. The man’s dark eyes were open. “You’re… You and Saro…” Poettre could do nothing but straighten ever so wearily. He didn’t want to nod and thus affirm the man’s grief, but he couldn’t deny his accusation, either. Liam made an attempt at standing and failed miserably; instead, he rolled over onto his back and let the snowflakes rain down upon him. His black garb was oddly speckled—half of it was completely layered with white, and the rest was just now being similarly painted.

“Why’d she…have to do this to me?” he sobbed, his voice breaking. Poettre wondered where he gathered the energy to weep. “She made everything so wonderful again… She said that she still loved me, that she’d meet me in this field at midnight… I’ve been waiting ever since…” Poettre stood as if frozen, blending into the curtain of frigidity shielding him from the rest of the world. He watched the man’s every movement—though they were both miniscule and few and far between—with perfect clarity, incredulous at his mind’s ability to sort out details even after such a confession as Liam’s.

He tried to say something, but he choked on his attempt at speech. When his mouth and throat finally regained the ability to speak, he could utter only one word: “What?” It was more a whispered thought than a coherent word.

“Oh, Saro…” He wept, turning his head to let the tears fall across one cheek and down the other. It wasn’t cold enough that they froze on his cheeks, but Poettre estimated it came close. “How could she do this to me?” How could she do this to me? Poettre echoed, features frozen. “I’ve waited…and I’ve waited… But I can’t do anything… without you… my Saro…”

The man collapsed. His face went slack and his eyes fell shut. The Dedicated paused, wondering what he ought to do. His emotions screamed that he ought to turn around and walk away, never informing the rest of his party that the man was close to death, but the rest of him counseled against it. He looked around, his mind searching for echoes of saidin. Nothing but white. He bent and tested the man for a pulse, and a dull beat responded, though it had slowed. He didn’t have any Talent with Healing. Perhaps he should send a flare and get help as soon as possible so that the man would survive at least until morning. It was a bleak future, considering Liam couldn’t hope for more than one last glimpse of daylight, but…

What was he doing? Crouched over the dying figure, he felt even more the fool because he was focusing on everything but what the man had said. He had said that Saro had told him they would run away together on the same night she had told Poettre the same. He couldn’t help but think that she had told Poettre that so that she could organize a way to escape without his interference. How long had she been cheating on him with Liam? His face hardened as he gazed at the prone figure of the man before him. As conceited as the thought was, he couldn’t understand how Saro could choose a disappointing specimen like this over himself. He couldn’t comprehend that all she had told him had been lies—she was a marvelous actress.

He stood, his hand on Liam’s head, and pulled the man upright by the hair along with him. His heart had captured Liam’s fleeting beats, accelerating in pace until his breath came in labored gasps. He turned the man around. His fingers were frozen as he removed his gloves and wove them carefully in his belt. One hand still clenching Liam’s scalp, his other hand reached for his sword. It objected at being pulled from its sheath, but once freed, it whispered metallically of the promises of oblivion that it guaranteed. Poettre imagined it a separate, individual entity so that he didn’t have to acknowledge that it was his decision, his hands that forced the moment to its crisis.

That made it easier. It made it easier to continue through the morbid motions. Even when the flesh of the man’s throat resisted the pressure of the blade’s tip, Poettre blindly surged forward until rivulets of blood streamed down the shallow hollow in the sword’s center. He ignored the furious, echoing sound of ripping as he pulled the blade across the man’s neck ever so slowly. He wanted to savor every moment of the action. This was his first kill, the first time he had ever felt that a man truly deserved death, and he would not permit himself the cowardice of leaving the deed half-finished once it became too much for him. He gritted his teeth and continued onward.

He stopped when he realized that he was sawing at the base of Liam’s opposite ear. He forced himself to send the requisite flare and wind to alert others of Liam’s capture, as it were. His fingers, clenched white-knuckled in the corpse’s hair, took some convincing before they allowed the body to fall lifeless to the ground, spreading the insidious rancidity across the pure, white snow. The corpse sunk into its depth and received a bath of melted snow until the body gradually cooled to the temperature of the snow surrounding it.

The crunch of something shifting distracted him from his gruesome daydream. It was Anders, dismounted, holding Poettre’s long since forgotten mount by the reins.

As he watched Saro sleep, he wondered at his own actions. He hadn’t expected the hunt to go like that, needless to say. It wasn’t only Liam’s confession that led him to this conclusion—it was the unbelievable monotony of it all. He had expected there to be a fanfare to their return, a congratulatory party, but the Black Tower had been as barren as it had been when they had left. He had expected the man’s memory to be honored more than it had. All of them accepted his explanation that the Soldier had come at him with his bare hands, and that Poettre had little choice but to make an end of him before it was his life that was lost and not the Soldier’s. Not even Anders contradicted the blatant lie. Whether or not they suspected what had truly happened, it was dismissed—the man had died, even if it wasn’t by traditional hanging on the Traitor’s Tree. They could still hang his body.

He stared down at his hands, empty. They shook almost imperceptibly. He felt tears come to his eyes and fall forward down his still-numb cheeks, tears that he didn’t bother to wipe away. His hands were clean, but Poettre saw only red. He suspected his hair was still matted with blood, and he knew that the soles of his boots were coated with the stuff. All of him was bloody, physically and mentally.

Saro’s breathing was so unbelievably calm. What’s wrong with you? Poettre wanted to scream. Why can’t you see what’s happening around you? It didn’t make sense that she could lie there, her face slack and peaceful in her sleep. How can you sleep through this? He watched her, unmoving, shoulders shaking in silent sobs. You killed a man tonight, Saro. You did. Yet you sleep… Do you dream?

Feet moved even while mind protested at the action. He edged forward, his boots clunking dully on the hardwood floor. Still she did not stir. He stood over her for a few moments, wondering if his hands could still find the nerve to touch that untainted, rotten flesh. Eventually he seated himself next to her, spine rigid and light hazel eyes glued forward. He was a statue. Tears froze to skin; he shed thoughts of individuality and self-worth in favor of apathy. But no…he was flesh. Emotions returned, or perhaps they had never left. He could not force himself to abandon life; he felt his emotions too keenly to disregard them.

She was so warm against him. He thought of Liam’s body, dragged along on a makeshift bed of Air behind one of the men’s horses as they made the short journey back to the Tower. He watched as Saro twitched and then moved her hand to cradle her face. He recollected how Liam’s arm had kept falling free from the invisible bonds, catching beneath the solidity of that very cushion; he couldn’t forget the life-like crack that shrieked as numerous miniscule bones in that hand were shattered beneath the weight of a dead body. Saro’s eyes were closed, shut against the horrors of the world. He couldn’t forget the way one of the men had desperately tried to pry Liam’s eyes closed, but it was so bloody cold that they wouldn’t budge. The man had gazed lifelessly above him as he was towed unceremoniously back to the Tower. They had been too afraid to attempt to warm the body, or rather, they had been too afraid of the odor that might have resulted from such recklessness. Saro shifted, almost as if she was about to awaken, but sleep had taken her prisoner. The body was now hanging at the Traitor’s Tree, though they had had to glue it shut, as it were, so that the man’s severed neck wouldn’t cause the body to fall prematurely. It would still stare at all those that passed it, eyes that warned, “Don’t let love take control—look what it did to me…”

“Poettre?” The voice interrupted him from his reverie, sending a quiver through his body. Perhaps it was of shock—he hadn’t meant to awaken Saro, and he hadn’t expected her voice to sound so…different. He didn’t understand how this voice had ever sounded appealing to him. Now its every nuance reflected the pain she had afflicted upon others, and now, the life she had stolen. What would she do when she saw Liam’s body on the Traitor’s Tree in the morning?

Or would Poettre tell her beforehand? A hand snaked up his back. Despite his promises that he would not blame her, that he would not flinch from her touch…he did. He wanted to give himself some time before he took his reaction to Liam’s proclamation seriously, but he destroyed that possibility when he shrunk away from her touch. He looked at the offending hand, disgusted, and then to her face. The damage was done—his look of repugnance could not worsen the situation any worse than it already was. Saro’s face was contorted in a distasteful frown—no matter how beautiful she was normally, anger warped her features beyond repair.

She hoisted herself from bed, carrying the sheet along with her as if she was ashamed to display her naked body to him at a time like this. As she attempted to shrug clothing over her thin, pallid frame without losing the sheet, Poettre had an unhealthy urge to tear it from her, to punish her with physical pain in recompense for her selfishness and thoughtlessness. He tore his gaze from her and forced himself to keep his gaze steadily focused on his hands, which wasn’t an improvement. He kept seeing the blood that had stained them barely an hour before, and that only accentuated the pain he felt for falling into Saro’s trap. He trained his gaze upwards, canting his head to the side. She had managed to pull on breeches. Her back was to him as she rummaged through none too orderly a wardrobe for a clean blouse. She was a slob, an obnoxious pig.

Saro was still fastening buttons when she finally turned to him. Her normally porcelain face was splotched with red spots of color, but Poettre didn’t know if they were from embarrassment or anger. Both? “I don’t know what your problem is, Poettre.” Buttons fastened, she turned to a mirror to straighten her hair. Even in the middle of the night, she was vain, so vain that she couldn’t afford to return to her room without orderly hair. Poettre could still see her reflection from his vantage point on the bed. “I don’t deserve to be treated this way.” All of her sentences start with I… “I don’t understand you at all, Poettre. I’m alone for all of one night, and already you’re cheating on me.” He bent over, cradling his face in his hands as he snickered derisively. Light, she’s stupid! He hadn’t told her where he was going, but he had said that the M’Hael had asked him to go on some sort of errand overnight. She couldn’t believe that, even when it was the truth. He inclined his head just enough so that he could see the vague outline of her face in the darkness. “I’ve got men drooling for me, and they’d do anything they could to get their hands on me. Can’t you see what you have, Poettre?” Yes… “Who are you to throw this away?” She gestured vaguely to her clothed flesh. Was she expecting some sort of exaggerated apology just because she had pulled her flaming body to attention?

A prickling sensation tickled his arms and the nape of his neck, and a moment later a candle next to his bed sprang into life. At the sight of him, it was Saro’s turn to recoil. Earlier, the room had been too dark for her to get a good look at him, but now… Poettre caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror she had recently discarded. His face was ashen. Flecks of dried blood clung to one of his eyebrows, and it was obvious he had done a faulty job of washing the rest of the blood from his face—it coated his hairline disturbingly evenly. His coat and pants looked like they’d been generously sprayed, and the soles of his boots were thick with caked blood. He looked like a misplaced madman on the loose.

She had a hand over her mouth. Poettre wasn’t surprised—from his appearance, he might’ve just committed murder. Ha, he spat at himself, I did. “What…happened?”

Poettre just watched her as she shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. She finally turned and made for his washbasin, pouring a bit of water into the waiting bowl and stirring it to warmth with the addition of saidar. Do you regret what you said, bitch? His face was impassive as he bored holes into her back, his mouth twisting as his thoughts continued. How long had you been sleeping with him after you met me? Was he bigger than me? Was that why you sought him out? He wasn’t sure if he meant the words issued from the back of his mind. Or was one just not enough for you? He didn’t want to consider that maybe she had simply loved Liam and not him. He wanted her to suffer—he wanted to render her the enemy so that maybe he wouldn’t be the only one suffering.

Saro returned to him, washbasin and cloth in hand. She soaked it in the warm liquid and hesitantly approached him with it. This time, he neither flinched nor recoiled, but forced himself to be considerate of her ministrations. She washed the spots of blood he had missed in his half-hearted wash of melted snow and then went to work on his hair. He allowed her to take off all the layers of clothing down to his pants, but when she made for his belt, he stayed her hand—his mind was too wrapped up in thoughts of Saro with another man inside her that he couldn’t bear to allow her to see him naked. She said nothing, neither after their continued silence nor after he forced her hands away from his pants.

Soon, however, Poettre was free of blood, and they had nothing to do but stare at one another, something that neither of them was eager to do. Poettre couldn’t abide it for long; he quickly gave up and braved gazing Saro straight in the eye.

He didn’t know what to say to her. He wanted to ask her if what Liam had said was true, but… Did he really want to know the answer? The man wouldn’t have lied, knowing that he would die come morning, if not sooner. Poettre had no choice but to take his last words as truth—Saro had told both of them that she would run away with them. Poettre couldn’t decide if she was redeemed at all by not running away with either of them. She could’ve destroyed two men instead of one, had Poettre less sense.

He had no choice. He reassured himself of this as he whispered, “Saro…” Her name was acid on his tongue. “I… This is the end.” Saro’s head fell. She couldn’t even look at him. What was she so ashamed of? “I love you, Saro; I really do, but…” And now for the typical ending— “I can’t do this.” She stood. His head was downcast, so he could see only her feet. “Please get out.” He surveyed her hesitation as her feet remained steadfast, almost as if she wanted to object, wanted to tell him she loved him, needed him, couldn’t live without him… But then, even those feet disappeared as they retreated away and through the door. Its slam shut sounded like a life’s sentence, and in a way, it was.

Poettre retreated into sobs shortly after Saro left. He wasn’t sure what exactly brought it about—it was probably a mixture of everything gone wrong. It was the realization that Saro was gone, out of his life. It was the realization that it appeared as if she had been using him through the duration of their relationship because Liam hadn’t gone as planned. He would never know. It was the realization that he had taken a man’s life tonight without any justification beyond jealousy—he had decided that the man no longer deserved to live. He had.

Both the sobs and the torture faded as sleep overcame him. He was swallowed into its depths as a mother might cradle her child, and never was the sensation more satisfying. He dreamt of nothing—and he was glad. He was afraid of what he might have dreamed.

The next morning, he had already forgotten about the night’s episodes. When he rolled to his side, rubbing his eyes blearily and wondering why they were harder to open than usual, he noticed that he hadn’t bothered taking off his pants. His surprise at finding Saro missing from his bed for the first night in weeks sent him bolt upright as he scoured the room, aghast to find her lovely presence vacated. The sight of his boots, still soiled with Liam’s dried blood, reminded him of the night’s events.

He did not cry—he no longer knew if he was capable of such a thing. He vaguely recalled something about a review that morning to go over last night’s events, something that he could not afford to miss even with his heart’s pangs as an excuse. He almost went in the same clothing as the night before, until he realized that he would need a new set of clothing, today. He methodically dressed himself in fresh clothing and made his way to the specified meeting place—the M’Hael’s dwelling.

The meeting was uneventful. He was required to report how he had found Liam and why he had had to kill him. All of the men had accepted his earlier explanation, even Anders, so he elaborated and made it sound as realistic as he could. It seemed wrong to feign grins and mirth, but he did it anyway—he supposed the men would attribute his jollity to his need to come to terms with the Soldier’s death. Either way, they would not note his pallor and think it anything more than the aftereffects. The M’Hael, on the other hand, kept his eyes intensely focused on Poettre. At first he was worried that the man was going to catch him in his lie, but afterwards, Canin commended him on his actions and reassured him that he had done the right thing. Poettre wished he could believe him.

There was a short ceremony announcing the Soldier’s name and specific method of desertion shortly thereafter. It wasn’t particularly official; only those who happened to be passing by stopped to witness Liam’s remembrance. Throughout the M’Hael’s brief oration, despite himself, Poettre scanned the crowd for an indication of Saro’s blacktopped head, but he saw nothing.

He saw her later when he was returning to her room. She was sitting in an alley where she could see the Traitor’s Tree, face emotionless. Poettre paused, regretting the brief words he had admitted the night before. Never mind that she had been cheating on him—he wanted her back. He wanted the warmth of her embrace, her lips against his, her delectable little body—he wanted her lies, her pretense. He wanted her to pretend she loved him with all her heart until they could both regain control of their hearts successfully enough to face life alone.

As if she noticed his attention, her eyes drifted to his. They shared a mutual glance for a few electric moments—and then he turned away. He forced himself to take a breath and then another, and then he applied the same philosophy to his feet. It would help him survive both bloody hands and a broken heart.

“Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…”

T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”

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