"But I thought the taint was lifted. They told me that nearly the instant I stepped foot in the Black Tower." The Soldier was frowning, his brows knit in confusion, as if he couldn't understand what his comrade had put in front of him. "I'm right, aren't I? The taint is cleansed?" His companion, a swarthy young fellow whose silver sword marked him a Dedicated, nodded slightly.

"You're right, the taint is cleansed, so don't worry. This is a different sort of sickness, one we can't pinpoint." The Dedicated lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Even that girl -- the Healer who is bonded to him -- has no idea what's going on. Something has broken in his mind, but no one knows why or how." The Soldier nodded, as if absorbing this information.

"Do you think there's a chance that this sort of thing is common, or might become common?"

"Like I said, no one knows the cause. There's rumor that it has to do with the Bond itself, but those are just rumors. As far as I've been informed, whatever is wrong with him began with simple nightmares, and escalated to this." The Soldier nodded again, interest painting his expression.

"It could be stress-related, you know. Asha'man are always under a lot of stress, aren't they?" The Dedicated shook his head slightly, negating the idea.

"They have different responsibilities, of course, but nothing that would cause this sort of thing."

It was the sun that woke him, drifting through a gap in the dark curtains that framed his single square window. Groggily, he opened his eyes, lifted his head from the sweat-soaked pillow he'd slept on. His blankets were also damp, which he didn't notice until he cast them aside, the fine hairs on his body lifting at the shock of cold air. Automatically, his emerald gaze slid across the small, square space that had been his home since he'd been raised to Asha'man, but he found nothing out of place. Dirty clothing littered the floor, mixing with old orders and a handful of maps. What had once been an orderly, neat area now resembled something that had been struck by a natural disaster. Tahmelah's mouth would have twisted in distaste at the sight of it, but he had long ago stopped thinking about what his bondmate thought of his living space.

Frowning, he stared at his own room once again, as if to ascertain the fact that no one was there. For a moment, while draped in the nightmares that he'd become accustomed to, Ramaes could have sworn by the Light of the Creator himself that he had not been alone. Even in sleep, he had trained too long and hard to be completely unaware of his surroundings. Not that he could have told if anyone had disturbed his surroundings, as catastrophic as they were.

His head ached, as it almost always did, and without really thinking about it he reached to his left, rolling slightly. A moment later he was chewing on some of the leaves that he'd been practically ordered to make a part of his regular diet. They only eased the pain slightly, enough to allow him to function for a few hours before the effect faded. Beyond the closed door, he could feel Tahmelah, knew that she was aware of his awakening.

Not for the first time, he squashed what he was feeling, pushed the pain aside and forced it to become inconsequential. Tahmelah, after all, would feel the effects of his suffering if he let it bother him in the slightest. He had become an expert at masking the bond, when he remembered to. When he remembered anything, for that matter. What he did while in those black spaces where time ended, he had no idea. And he hadn't been able to ask Tahmelah. The horror of what answers she might give had kept that question locked away within his mind for several weeks now. He didn't want to know where he went when time slipped away, or what sort of person he became.

Tahmelah's constant worry was something that ate at him though, and it was enough to get him moving. Standing, he dressed as quickly as his aching body would allow him to, which was considerably faster than the average man would dress anyhow. That was another gift of the training he had received. He was slow to anyone who'd been in the Tower long enough, but still quicker than a man outside of it -- or at least, a man who wasn't trained to battle.

His boots were always the most difficult part. Sometimes, it seemed as if he couldn't make his fingers work, no matter how hard he tried. This time, he was lucky, and the laces fell into place almost as if aided by saidin. That was another thing he missed -- holding onto the One Power was so difficult now that he rarely attempted it. What he had done during the Tournament had nearly killed him, and both he and Tahmelah had known it. He had tried to block that much from her, had tried to mask the bond, but the weariness compiled with the strength and energy that channeling so much had pulled from him had made such things impossible. He'd been in the Infirmary for an uncounted number of days after the Tournament, and Tahmelah had not let anyone else tend to him but herself. Pure stubbornness on her part, he'd guess.

For her benefit, Ramaes took the time to shave. Three days or more of stubble darkened his jaw, and his hands shook so badly that he nearly cut himself more than once. He managed, though, with only a few nicks for his trouble. He didn't dare channel -- that might very well drive him back to the Infirmary -- but he did wash the few specks of blood off with a splash of tepid water from his basin. The bubbled, cracked mirror hanging above it reflected someone that Ramaes didn't recognize at all. Pale skin and sunken eyes, the bones of his jaw sharp, as if he were starving instead of merely exhausted, in every way possible. It was as if all the life had been sucked out of him. How Tahmelah, as a Healer, could even bear to look at him he did not know.

But maybe she doesn't look at me with the eyes of a Healer. He thought, but dashed it away as one might an irritating biteme. What had once been between them was now gone, he knew that. Or at least, he thought he did. The worry he sometimes felt through the bond between them was nothing more than a Healer's natural concern for a patient. That was what he told himself, anyhow. It was just easier that way.

Barely half an hour after the mid-afternoon sun had brought him from a nightmare-filled sleep, Ramaes opened the door, stepping into the world beyond his own room for the first time in what felt like years. Tahmelah was there, her arms folded across her chest, face an emotionless mask. She tried so very hard, and he hadn't a clue why.

She didn't turn, which told him that it had been obvious he was coming. He grimaced, but decided not to berate himself for that. He'd thought he was masking the bond more thoroughly, but mayhap she had merely heard his footsteps.

"You need a bath, Ramaes." She said, still not turning. Did he really smell that bad? Look that bad? "If I have to order you to go down to the lake, I will, but you may prefer the bath I had a couple Soldiers heat for you instead." And now she did turn, looking him directly in the eyes, her arms dropping to her sides. Absently, Ramaes noticed that her hand automatically went for the pommel of a sword she had taken to wearing on one hip. Wasn't there a rule about bearing weapons within the Tower? But knowing Tahmelah, even if there was a rule she had decided to break it. Maybe she thought she needed more weapons than simply the One Power alone.

She was staring at him, and after a moment he realized she wanted him to say something. Briefly, he searched his mind for what she'd just said, completely oblivious to the fact that anyone else would have been able to recall it easily. "Thanks, Tam." He finally muttered, not really recognizing his own voice. Similar to his face, his voice had changed. It was hollow, rasping, and only had a hint of the old Ramaes in it. He wasn't ready to admit that it sounded like the sort of voice a dead man walking would speak in. 

"His eyes are strange." The woman hovering over the sickbed frowned, and yet somehow still managed to look relatively attractive doing so. A young man stood next to her, his arms folded across his chest. He was little more than a boy, to tell the truth, his face still soft and rounded, as of yet untried in the 'adult' world. The Black Tower would draw it's hard lines in that smooth face, though.

"How do you mean, Jenya?" He asked, lifting his gaze from the unconscious man on the bed, one eyebrow arching upwards. The Healer turned her gaze away as well, turned her entire body in fact, putting her back to the sweating, moaning patient behind her.

"He's been in and out of the Infirmary for weeks, now, and it's just something I noticed. I've seen patients like this before, and they always get the strangest look in their eyes, before..." Jenya trailed off, her face pinching once again into that not-unattractive frown. Her companion grimaced, knowing the rest of her sentence even though she hadn't finished speaking.

"Let's hope we can save this one, then." He said, and nodded once again, firmly.

The two were so similar in appearance, and shared so many of the same habits and expressions that it was impossible not to realize they were related. Brother and sister, to be precise. Jenya was the eldest by a little over a year, but most assumed they were of an age. She, of the two, was the only one who could manage the weaves required for a proper Healing. If she'd been in the White Tower instead of the Black, she might very well have been Yellow Ajah. Her brother, on the other hand, had all the regular strengths of a male channeler, but had seen fit to offset his destructive skills by learning herbology, which was a great help to her.

"He'll sleep for a few hours yet, and then I'm afraid we'll have to move him out." She said, taking the three steps required to cross the tiny room, and channeling a thread of fire to heat a pot of cold water. "His warder requested we give him an infusion of forkroot for the time being, to keep him from channeling. Do you think you can handle that, Jerim?" Her brother nodded, though he couldn't help but to ask the question that immediately came to mind.

"Why forkroot? I know in small doses it's not nearly as debilitating as in larger, but still..." She waved his question off with an impatient hand, reaching out with the other to pull her heavy black cloak from a peg on the wall. Early autumn it may well be, but the days were growing cooler and cooler, and today had a particularly damp bite to it. No use getting sick if she could avoid it. Being a Healer did little good when you couldn't channel the weaves on yourself.

"She mentioned that he seems to get weaker every time he channels, and not only because he pulls so much of the Source every time that it nearly kills him." She glanced over her shoulder at the prone Asha'man, a shadow of pity crossing her face. "It's almost as if he wants to die, from what she's said. You heard about the tournament?"

Jerim glanced at the sleeping man himself, echoing his sister's pensive-attractive frown without realizing he had done so. "Was he the one who nearly burned himself out? I remember hearing about that. Rumor had it that he shouldn't have even been able to seize saidin in the state he was in, but he went and competed anyway. And against his own Warder!" His sister nodded, the fleeting expression gone from her face.

"That's pretty much the gist of it, brother. His Warder told me that he felt like the walking dead when he stepped onto the field, and yet still managed to wield saidin. He passed out cold on the Blasting Grounds, and it took three Healers to wake him, including her. They said he was so close to death that it was a blessing of the Creator Himself that he survived."

Jerim shook his head, and turned towards the carefully organized shelf of herbs and tinctures, selecting a small packet of forkroot and a few other nameless herbs that would clear the taste of it from the tea itself. "Forkroot it is, then." He muttered, and bent to his work as his sister stepped out the door, closing it against the brief blast of cold, near-winter air.

Slowly, painfully, the world came into focus. With a muffled groan, Ramaes opened his eyes, wincing at the brightness of the world around him, despite the dimness of the room in reality. Struggling with himself, and realizing only after some tentative motions just how badly he hurt -- Light, he bloody hurt! -- Ramaes slowly levered himself into a sitting position.

The place he found himself in was all too familiar: the Infirmary. It seemed that he had awakened in the Infirmary more often in the past few weeks than he had in his own bed, and that was saying something. For once, though, Tahmelah wasn't here. He had known that much, at least, before he'd even opened his eyes. He'd spent nearly a month squashing the link between them, trying to spare her from his agony as much as possible, but at the moment he was far too tired to concentrate enough to do even that. He felt as if he'd been dragged all the way from Caemlyn to where he now lay.

"Ah, so you're awake." Much more slowly than he would have liked, Ramaes turned towards the voice that had spoken, realizing only then how blurry and unfocused his vision really was. What might have been a real face on another day was little more than a smudge of pale above a shadow -- someone from the Black Tower then, thank the Light. At least he didn't have to deal with one of the locals (which had happened a few times). "I know you probably can't see very well, so just wait until you feel the cup in your hand, and I'll help you drink it if you need me to." The voice was friendly enough, but Ramaes still felt his face twist into a scowl. I don't need anyone to coddle me!

Abruptly, he felt a pair of hands on his, and then the smooth warmth of what could be nothing other than a teacup. Until the hands fell away, Ramaes didn't know how badly his own hands were shaking. Light, will I ever be able to handle a sword again? He could barely remember the last time his hands had been steady. He almost dropped the cup, and felt the hands of his fellow Tower initiate before he could protest, wrapping around his fingers and lifting the cup to his lips.

"Drink, Asha'man, it will help. I'm Soldier Jerim, by the way. My sister, who's been tending you, should return by the time your vision restores itself." A note of cheer touched Jerim's voice, but Ramaes thought it might be forced. "Don't worry, you'll be on your feet in no time. Jenya will make sure of it."

Ramaes opened his mouth, intending to say something (he wasn't quite sure what), but instead found himself swallowing something -- the tea, obviously -- and almost choked. It was hot, almost scalding, and slid down his throat like fire, sinking into his belly and resting there like a lump of coal for an instant before it spread. "Drink it all, Asha'man." The Soldier admonished, and released Ramaes' hands, which he found were now steady enough to support the cup without any aid.

He took another drink -- a careful sip, really -- and cleared his throat before trying his voice once again, almost afraid of what it would sound like. Apparently his visit to the Infirmary had been longer than before, for his voice sounded closer to normal than it had in what felt like years. Still rough around the edges, but mostly what it had once been. "How long have I slept?" And where in the Light is Tahmelah? Why isn't she here instead of your sister?

"You've been here for three days, Asha'man, but try not to talk. Just drink the tea and get some rest." Ramaes scowled, but bit back the acidic words that were on the tip of his tongue. Bloody Soldier thinks he can order me around like a child! Still, he knew something of the stubbornness of Healers, and considering his general lack of knowledge regarding the process of Healing (he was better at blowing things up) he decided to take the Soldier's advice and do what he was told for once. Besides, Tahmelah will give me the rough side of her tongue if this Soldier and his sister report that I wasn't a model patient. Tahmelah had, after all, become something of a legend inside the Infirmary -- or at least her temper had.

So, instead of arguing, he drank the tea.

"Did you give it to him?" Her almond-shaped green eyes were sharp, and from the way she was standing nearly everyone in the Infirmary knew her mental state. In this particular case, there could be no mistakes. But Jenya had known Tahmelah for nearly a year now, ever since the Asha'man had started working in the Infirmary, discovering her Talent with Healing. She had seen this woman in every mood possible -- had been there when she'd come, infuriated, shortly after Ramaes had bonded her. So her nod was smooth, and her expression unruffled.

"Yes, we gave him the tea just before he left this morning. And I've had more of the forkroot sent to your rooms so you have a supply at hand." Jenya tilted her head to one side, a faint gleam of amusement haunting her gaze for an instant. "You don't think he'll object to moving into your rooms for the time being?" The other woman grimaced, and made a gesture with one hand similar to what one would use to swat away a biteme.

"Of course not. The orders to have his own rooms renovated are perfectly legal, so unless he wants to pay out of pocket for a room in the village -- which he would never do -- he's stuck with me." Jenya nodded, and shared a glance with the fiery Asha'man, the sort of glance that it seemed only women could share. It was the same glance that made men irritable, and spoke volumes for the complexities of women.

"I don't know the long term effects of a forkroot dosage, Asha'man, but it will aid his sleep, which may well rid him of the nightmares, and keep him from channeling. With any luck, his mind will stabilize and you'll be able to withdraw the dosage after a few weeks." Tahmelah nodded, though Jenya thought she'd seen something in the other woman's face -- a hint of worry? -- but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared, leaving the young Healer without any real answers.

"Don't be afraid to call for me if there's need, Jen. But if it's at all avoidable, I'd rather spend my time mending Ramaes." Again, Jenya nodded, having already guessed at such things.

"I've already arranged for several young men and women with a good deal of potential to help me while you're absent, Asha'man. Not to mention my dear brother." A genuine smile touched Jenya's lips, but faded after a moment, as she turned her mind back to business, as usual. "Well, I won't keep you. He's still a bit unsteady on his feet, and the first dosage of forkroot will make him a touch slow. But on top of all his other injuries, he's doing rather well."

Tahmelah nodded, and turned, presumably to go back to her rooms and settle Ramaes in, but Jenya touched her arm, stopping her. The woman turned, lifting one eyebrow. It was rare that Jenya did such things, but the concern on her face must have given her thoughts away, because before she could speak Tahmelah did. "Don't worry, Jen. I've been studying the known effects of forkroot for nearly a week now. I'll be careful."

Jenya nodded, satisfied, and watched the woman go, her face a mixture of expressions. 

He sat on the edge of a rickety folding chair, trying to make himself as small as possible, and wondered just exactly why he was here. Oh, he had seen the papers -- according to the neatly printed bit of parchment lying on Tahmelah's desk, his own home was being renovated. His things had been moved while he slept his days away in the Infirmary, and now rested in a tidy little pile near the door. A pallet had been laid out for him, tucked away against one wall and looking more bereft than his own bed ever had. The rest of the room breathed Tahmelah. Maybe she had cleaned it before he'd come, but he couldn't be sure. Thank the Light that the woman wasn't the sort who liked bright colors and lace -- her rooms were nearly as somber as his had been, albeit more orderly.

He could feel her, still, somewhere off to his southwest. The rest in the Infirmary had apparently done him some good, for his head was clearer than it had been in weeks, and his eyes were no longer burning from lack of sleep. That must have been a blessing for Tahmelah as well, come to think of it. Still, he had expected her to come earlier, rather than having him wait. As to exactly why he had expected this, he did not know. Maybe because this was the first time he'd been in her room since she was a Dedicated, maybe because he thought she might not trust him enough to leave him alone in her home for so long. He'd been here all morning, after all. Still, he hadn't touched a thing that belonged to her. He'd pulled his own blankets from the heavy trunk they had been brought in, and set the chest from the end of his old bed at the end of the new. He didn't own much, and had never been the sort of man to collect things. In fact, he was more organized now than he had been in months -- his maps had been rolled neatly and tied together with a bit of twine, and all the old orders had been discarded.

Sighing, even though he knew that Tahmelah was nowhere near it, he glanced at the heavy wooden door. She, unlike him, had spent the coin to acquire a decent living space, a tiny but well-furnished apartment on the second floor of a shop inside the Village. It looked as if she had scrubbed the walls, too, considering the distinct lack of dust and cobwebs. Or maybe she had hired a maid to clean up such things every so often, or perhaps the owner of the shop below did it.

Looking around, Ramaes realized that he had enough coin himself -- he never spent money on anything, really -- to rent a room of this sort on his own. That would give Tahmelah her precious space back, and they could resume their habit of utterly ignoring each other if he wasn't here.

Yes, maybe that is a good idea. He thought, frowning slightly at little more than his own thoughts. I don't know that a room this small can hold the two of us without some sort of disaster. He sighed, and glanced at the door yet again. Where could she be? Still somewhere to his southwest, obviously, and as far as he could tell she wasn't injured or tired or anything other than mildly irritated -- but then, she was almost always mildly irritated at something or the other. The influx of new Soldiers had increased lately, and that meant that Tahmelah had more injuries to handle in her day. Ramaes himself had -- up until recently -- spent most of his time organizing scouting missions and reconnaissance. He had little knowledge of Healing, and nothing of herbology beyond the basics that were necessary when you took men into battle. He could splint a broken leg, wrap a bloody gash, and was a decent hand at stitching. But save a life? He may as well have tried to fly.

Finally, he decided that the best idea would be to get something to eat. According to the Healers in the Infirmary, he had nearly channeled himself into death, and he had been Healed before falling into unconsciousness for three days. As a result of this, he was ravenous, but had pushed his hunger aside in order to wait for Tahmelah's return. It was quite evident, however, that she wasn't about to take a break from her normal routine to come visiting someone she'd rather not be around. So, sighing, he levered himself to his feet, and went to dig around in the chest for one of his heavy black cloaks. It had been getting colder as of late, and after that Healing, he felt as weak as a kitten. Not something he was used to or liked in the slightest. Even Tahmelah could have overwhelmed him, in his state.

The purse at his side was slim -- he kept most of his coin in a compartment at the bottom of his single locked chest -- but it was enough that he'd be able to eat well for once. And oh, did he intend to. His boots thumped softly as he made his way down the narrow, creaking stairs, nodding briefly at the shop owner -- an elderly man who was missing quite a few teeth -- and stepped out the front door, shutting it behind him to ward off the uncommon chill. He was on the outskirts of the village, the Black Tower easily visible down the main road. He walked down that road, heading away from the place he now called home (and suspected he would be calling home for some time), moving towards the variety of taverns. He passed by several that practically vibrated with the level of noise within them -- it was mid-afternoon, but already the drunks were out in full force -- and settled on one of the quieter, smaller taverns.

The inside, as per usual, was dimly lit, but blessedly clean. The smell of hot food drifting out from the kitchen made his stomach rumble alarmingly, and his mouth was watering even before he found an empty table to sit at.

"You must be from the Tower, lad. The uniform gives it away every time." The voice that greeted him was dry and full of a soft humor that he found rather refreshing -- too often it was the well-endowed, bright eyed young women who served. While he liked a good look now and again, their barely veiled commentary never failed to irritate him. Instead of the normal genre of serving lass, the person hovering at his shoulder was in her middle years, and apparently regarded the entire population of the Black Tower as 'a young, adventurous group, but fairly honest despite it all'. He smiled, and asked her quite nicely for the largest plate of food she could put in front of him, as well as a pot of tea.

"You won't be having ale, then?" She said, and he could hear the regret in her voice, as well as the mild confusion. Ale meant more copper (and sometimes even silver) than tea did, and he was sure that the woman served more of it than she did tea. He smiled, though it hurt his face to do so, and nodded.

"Just the tea, Mistress." He said, realizing his voice had reverted to it's normal self once again. "And keep it all coming, please." She nodded, smiled, and turned, calling out sharply to a girl who was obviously her daughter. Ramaes, sighing, leaned back in the chair (which creaked, but nearly everything he sat in creaked anyhow) and waited for his late lunch to be served. He would eat, and then return to Tahmelah's room once again, hopefully to find her there.

I expect you'll be hungry again by the time you read this, so I've asked Master Terim to leave a platter of food and a pot of tea for you. I'll be back to check on you tonight, there are things that will require my attention until very late.

-T

Ramaes frowned at the note that had been tacked to the door, shaking his head softly. She really didn't want to see him then, not if she had found something to occupy her until 'very late'. Maybe she thought she would be lucky enough to return and find him asleep. Sighing, he pulled the note from the door and let himself in, wondering if the shop owner -- Master Terim, apparently -- had left the platter as she'd said he would. One glance around confirmed that he hadn't, but then Ramaes had only been gone for a few hours, and it wasn't yet dark out.

He did see another note, laid on the desk. Sighing, and wondering what new news it would impart, Ramaes plucked it up, even while setting the first note down next to it.

There's a key in the drawer for you. Take it and do not lose it. The M'hael has ordered you to light duties until you are fully recovered, and at the end of your recovery you'll be returning to your own rooms. Don't do anything stupid, and try not to make too great a mess of my home. Also, when you are finished with the platter that Master Terim so kindly provided, you will bring it downstairs and thank him for his concern.

-T
Frowning at the second note more than he had the first, Ramaes crumpled it in his fist, and then opened the drawer. Just as she had said, there was a key, sitting on the center of a small, neat stack of papers. He plucked it up, tucking it into his pocket, and shut the drawer, glancing around the small (still clean) room with a sigh. He was tired, but didn't want to sleep and miss out on the opportunity of more food -- and when had he become so obsessed with eating? -- so decided the best course of action was to find something to do while he waited.

That something, of course, happened to be digging around in Tahmelah's desk.

The majority of Tahmelah's possessions revolved around her work: Healing. In all honesty, Ramaes had found nothing at all that was supposed to be in a woman's rooms. There were no letters professing her undying love to anyone -- not even him, which was both a relief and a sadness at once. There were no flowery, frilly dressed packed away in her trunks. A few plain ones, yes, with some rather interesting colors -- who wore yellow when they had red hair? -- but nothing to indicate that Tahmelah had any preoccupation with the womanish side of her. Everything, so far as he could see, was bent towards three things: Duty, duty, and ... yes, duty.

Ramaes' things, on the other hand, were a mixture of sentimentalism and that ever-present duty. Among his black uniforms, maps and scribblings regarding the current war-time movements were small mementos of his past. Letters from Valerie, letters to Valerie, and letters to Tahmelah. The only written word he had from his warder were the two notes she'd left him here. And the only thing that brought memories back to his mind of happier, more frivolous times with her was the beaten, empty wine-bottle from that long-ago Sunday festival.

Sighing, Ramaes raked his hand through his hair, that ancient gesture that was as much a part of him as the ability to channel, and glanced out the window. It was dark out, but the sun had only set a few hours ago, and still Tahmelah had not returned. The shop keep had come and gone, and Ramaes had returned the tray that he had eaten off of. Oddly, though he had slept soundly in his own rooms without Tahmelah's presence -- other than that of the bond, anyhow -- he found that despite his growing weariness, he could not sleep here. So instead, he laid his body out on the hard pallet on the floor, snuffing the candles with his fingertips before he did. And then he spent the majority of the night staring into the darkness, waiting for the telltale sound of Tahmelah's boots on the corridor outside the still-shut door, or better yet, the feel of her returning through the bond.

He had left the bond wide open today -- there was no point in shutting it away anymore, for he had the creeping feeling that his nightmares would not return. And since he had come from the infirmary, he hadn't missed any time, which he considered to be a good thing. Granted, he'd been conscious less than a full day...

He woke without realizing he had ever gone to sleep, woke to find the room still empty and dawn yet not showing over the horizon. Either a full day had passed and he had slept through it, or he had only slept a few hours and morning had not yet come. Either-or, it was still disturbing that Tahmelah had not returned to her own rooms as of yet. What could be so important that she would not sleep? He wondered, but pushed the thought from his mind. According to the bond, she was still hale (if a bit tired), and there was nothing he could do about it. He was not confined to her rooms, but he would rather not go out again and miss her when she returned, only to return himself and find yet another series of notes.

He'd rather see her, for once...

With a muffled sound -- of agony or regret? -- he rose, levering his body upright and wishing he'd slept on the bed. It wasn't as if Tahmelah would have returned in time to wake him, not considering how shortly he'd slept. Still, he knew he couldn't have brought himself to take her bed when it was so obvious she didn't want him in it, so he would suffer the hard floor beneath the pallet with no complaints. Well, no audible complaints.

It was still dark, though, and he would get nothing done if he was mired in darkness. Daylight was a good hour or two off, and light duties meant that he'd probably spend his days shuffling paperwork. Frowning, he concentrated, reaching for the ever-present mote of saidin in his mind. It came, but there was an oddness to it. What is this? He wondered, and realized that even if he could draw as much of the One Power as he wanted, he could barely channel above a trickle. Was his sickness affecting even that?

Still, it was enough to channel a thread of fire, and light the candles, which was all he had really wanted to do anyway. He would have to speak with Tahmelah about it (if she ever came back) and ask her if it was an after-effect of being Healed. Light, he didn't know! He knew absolutely nothing about Healing and that side of the One Power.

Light flared into existence, and he stumbled around the room, ignoring the ache in his stomach. He was hungry again, but he had expected that, and it could wait. First he needed to put something that didn't smell like an Infirmary on, and ready himself for the rest of his day. If he was lucky, Tahmelah would show up before dawn and he'd have a chance to thank her for what she'd done -- a chance to apologize for all he had done in the past weeks -- a chance to say so many things that he hadn't said.

By the time he had redressed himself, though, the sun had finally risen over the horizon, and the graying light did not reveal his warder.

“Isn’t that the Asha’man that’s insane even despite the taint being Cleansed?” Jereth narrowed his eyes, trying not to look as if he were watching the man. They were in yet another lecture, one that had more to do with politics and diplomacy than it did with channeling.

“Yeah, that’s him. He doesn’t seem insane to me, though. Are you sure you weren’t just listening to rumors again, Jer?” His companion, a short, thin Soldier from Cairhien, glanced at him. Fifteen feet in front of them, half-hidden by several tables, was the subject of their conversation. He didn’t look like much, from here. Just another Tairen, and one that apparently wasn’t very good at lectures.

“Nah, I heard it from one of the Soldiers down at the Infirmary. Apparently he channeled so much that he nearly gentled himself, and on top of that nearly killed himself.” Jer raised his eyebrows, and then shook his head, discounting the story.

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Krissan.” He said, and then turned his attention back to the Asha’man at the head of the classroom -- or at least what passed for a classrom.

What the M’hael considered light duty had a lot to do with speaking and writing and very little to do with channeling. Apparently, Tahmelah had stuck her nose in his business yet again, for he was sure he would have been outside if she hadn’t. The Soldiers in front of him were only half paying attention, and most of them were staring off into space, completely ignoring him. It was giving him a headache, and irritating him, but there was little recourse for it. Since early this morning he hadn’t been able to channel more than a trickle, which meant he couldn’t use it as a disciplinary tool. Otherwise, some of these Soldiers would have been suffering a touch of Air on their backsides for their impudence. He still had his physical strength though, and decided to use it instead.

Crack! His palm moved down so quickly he could almost hear the air whistle around it, slamming atop the desk he was standing behind with such force that the rickety old thing shuddered. Several heads whipped around, and perhaps a dozen pairs of eyes were staring at him, all widened in surprise. “You will pay attention,” he grated “Or you will be spending the rest of your time today tending to the latrines.” Several of them made faces of disgust -- latrine duty was one of the worst you could get, and usually handed out in punishment. Ramaes remembered his own days as a Soldier -- which from his perspective had seemed a lot more difficult than the treatment that these Soldiers were receiving now.

“Now, to continue...”

There she was! The person he had been looking for since he’d come out of the Infirmary, and she was less than fifteen feet away from him. I should have known that already. He thought, grumbling mentally at his own inattention to the bond. He simply had been so bogged down in useless busywork that he had forgotten to touch upon that intimate thing, to ‘check’, as it were.

She was walking quickly towards the group of buildings on one side of the Black Tower that was reserved for anything that had to be handled indoors -- lessons, paper-pushing, reading, study, Officer meetings, you name it. He had been in that mess himself a few times, though it was rare enough that he was summoned to anything. Still, if he didn’t hurry he would lose her, bond or no bond. That section of the tower was akin to a maze, and it was definitely a maze Ramaes hadn’t memorized.

He took three steps in her direction, and was stopped as solidly as if he had just walked into a wall. What? His mind barked in confusion, and then he realized something: there was a wall -- of Air. Had she seen him coming and thrown it up herself? No, that was impossible, she hadn’t even been looking in his direction, and the bond hadn’t given off any sharp spikes of irritation. But if it hadn’t been Tahmelah, then who...? His question, even silent, was answered for him even before he had a chance to look around.

Plump, red-faced, and with hair that reminded Ramaes strongly of a crow’s nest, another woman had planted herself firmly in front of him, and was frowning at him as if he were some sort of errant boy. Beside her stood a thin, pale-faced young woman, who’s silver sword marked her Dedicated. Ramaes stared first at one, and then at the next, confusion evident in his face. “What is going on?” He said, and reached out a hand. The wall of Air was gone -- if even it had ever been there. His mind had been playing tricks on him as of late.

“You be Asha’man Ramaes, yes?” His gaze snapped to the short, red-faced woman and he nodded slightly, though he was still confused. “Then you be in the wrong place, boy.” The woman’s voice had sharpened, and Ramaes could have sworn that the as-of-yet nameless Dedicated next to her had a ghost of a smile touching her lips. “You be staying away from that lass until you be well again, boy.” He stared at her, the confusing first wilting and then blooming in his mind once again.

“Excuse me, ma’am...” He began, but cut off as she reached out and slapped him -- slapped him! -- with one hand. It hadn’t been a light tap, either. She had aimed correctly, right on the soft part of his arm, and beneath his black uniform it stung.

“Don’t you be callin me ‘ma’am’, boyo. I ent that old.” The woman paused, as if gathering her thoughts, and then stared up at him, beady eyes bright in her beet-red face. “That lass over yonder did ask me to make sure you focused on your duties, boy. My own here,” She gestured at the Dedicated next to her. “She be helpin me to achieve that goal.” Ramaes turned to stare at the Dedicated now, narrowing his eyes slightly. Well, now I know where the wall came from. He thought dryly.

Slowly, Ramaes realized what was going on (even if the woman had just explained it clearly). This was Tahmelah’s doing! It would explain why she’d been absent the night before and why she’d been avoiding him all day. He hadn’t thought she would have taken it so far as this though! Recruiting someone to spy on him, so that she wouldn’t have to worry about it herself! That was just....just....low!

Another slap to his arm, harder this time, brought his attention back to the squat woman in front of him. “Don’t you be thinkin’ of doing somethin’ stupid, lad.” She said, and scowled at him furiously. “That woman be a nice girl, and you got no call to be doing somethin’ stupid.” Tahmelah? Nice? She must have laid it on thick to get these two on her side. Ramaes hadn’t known a more temperamental person in his entire life!

“Now you just get back to what you’re supposed to be doin’, boy.” She said, and with a disapproving sniff, shuffled off, her daughter in tow. Ramaes stared after them, half-angry and half-amused, wondering what Tahmelah had been thinking when she found these two to do her dirty work. She was probably thinking that it would work. He thought wryly, and turned himself, aiming for the mess hall, where he would take his lunch.

The rest of the day was a repetitive series of lectures and paperwork. He wasn't even 'allowed' to train Soldiers in swordplay or staves, something that would have definitely broken up the monotony. I'll go mad faster from this than I would have otherwise. He thought grimly, as he stepped outside, tired and prepared to return to his rooms and sleep -- before he remembered that he didn't have rooms anymore, which only served to further darken his mood.

He felt a little better after he ate, but not enough to be looking forwards to another night alone in Tahmelah's room. Would she ever come around him while he was still 'recovering'? Maybe she'd slept with the woman who'd confronted him last night. If she'd recruited her and the Dedicated to channel a wall in front of him when he was too weak to even break past it, she might very well take advantage of one of their beds. Or better yet, sleep in the Infirmary itself. Someone who spent all day tending to the sick probably was used to the smell, and Ramaes knew from experience that Tahmelah had no qualms against dropping into one of the sickbeds after a long bout of Healing.

Still grumbling under his breath, he returned to the small shop that Tahmelah -- and he, at least for the moment -- lived above, fully expecting to find the room utterly empty. To his surprise, though, when he checked the handle to see if he would have to dig out his borrowed key, it turned smoothly. But the bond doesn't suggest that she's here. He thought, and pushed the door open, confused but still elated. Maybe he would get a chance to say all those things after all, and maybe have a chance to explain some things...and maybe and maybe....

Maybe he would end up getting knocked on the head by a shadowy someone and end up out cold on the floor again.

It just wasn't his week, apparently.

If Ramaes had thought he'd had a headache during his phase of nightmares, he'd been most grievously wrong. This was a headache, one so vicious it made his eyes water. Eyes, which when opened, gave no hint at all of where he was. There was nothing in front of him but an eternal, thick blackness. Have I gone blind? He wondered, and quelled the tremor of horror in the back of his mind. But he hadn't, of course. There was light, creeping into the room from a crack beneath the door, it was simply that his eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the darkness of the room. Where am I? And where is Tahmelah? The bond was still there, but oddly, there was no indication from her side of it that she was reacting as he might have -- not even the slightest worry. Did she have this planned? Endless questions poured through his mind, each more worrisome than the last.

Does she even care? Was the last, and the most terrifying. The thought that his warder, despite the bonds between them -- both physical and mental, Power-enhanced and natural -- would simply cease to care about his fate was the thing that finally drove him to his feet. A bad move, for his part. Almost immediately he stumbled, falling back down to the ground. It's wood. He thought, feeling the scratchy-yet-smooth surface beneath his palms. That meant he was inside somewhere...that and the fact that the wood was warm and not chill to the touch.

The bond told him that Tahmelah was within a reasonable distance -- in fact he could feel what she felt almost as clearly as if she had been in the next room (and maybe she was, for that matter). It simply disturbed him that there was no worry from her end. His days had been getting worse and worse, and for what seemed an Age, all that he had felt from her side of the bond was a distant coldness, as if she were trying to blot out the fact that he existed.

What is this? He wondered, for the nth time, but realized he would get nowhere by wondering. Action was what was needed, and so -- much more slowly this time -- he pushed himself back to his feet, standing perfectly still. For a moment he remained in the darkness, and then cursed himself for a fool. He could bloody channel couldn't he? Shaking his head at his own stupidity -- maybe the knock had loosened a few more screws in his head -- he reached for saidin, and found....

A shield. A Light-cursed, bloody shield! He pushed at it, battered at it, to no effect. That was enough to cause him to draw a breath in shock. He was strong, much stronger than he had been when Tahmelah had overwhelmed him, shielded him, and hogtied him with bonds of Air. There were few enough in the Black Tower that could have maintained a shield against him without linking --- Of course! And now it made sense, in a strange way. At least, it was the only explanation he could think of. There must be at least four linked channelers out there to have held this shield on him, maybe even more.

But he had not been born a channeler, and there were certain skills that came with being the son of a docks-man. Certain skills that he had improved on and expanded while training in the Black Tower. Despite his inability to channel, Ramaes knew he was a weapon. He was no Gaidin, but he had his wits about him, and anything he could find was worthy of being a weapon. Though, anyone who can channel would simply tie me up in Air and laugh. He would have to outsmart them, then.

Moving with a terrible slowness, Ramaes explored his temporary prison, fingers splayed out in front of him, walking like the blind. He touched walls, and after an indeterminate amount of time -- less than an hour, mayhap -- had mapped out the room he was in. It was slightly longer than it was wide, with little in it beyond the floor he stood on and a few empty shelves, lined in dust. A storage room of some sort? That would make the most sense. There weren't many places in the Black Tower that were empty, but he could imagine that a few store rooms ended up clear now and again. It certainly wasn't a dungeon of any sort, and the fact that Tahmelah could still be felt so closely though the bond meant he was still within the Black Tower.

For a moment, his mind plagued him with thoughts of betrayal, screaming at him, but he pushed those thoughts aside. There was no way that Tahmelah had betrayed him. It was impossible -- no, not impossible, just highly improbable. Despite the steady level of distant anger they had shared since he'd bonded her, Ramaes had an idea that beneath it all, she truly did care about him. At least, he hoped so.

In his explorations, he had discovered the door. It was simple enough, as far as he could tell, but thick enough that even his stocky, wide body couldn't have knocked it down. The Tower had been built that way, of course. Strong, if not stronger, than the White, made to last. And it was still growing. But it bothered him that he didn't know where he was, save for that he was still in the Tower itself -- unless, of course, he and Tahmelah had been Gated out. That was a possibility as well.

Finally, realizing there was very little he could do, Ramaes sunk back to the floor. Soon enough, those who had shielded him would come around. Soon enough, he knew he would be told why he was in the position he was in. There was always a reason, wasn't there? And he was determined to find out the answer to this question. And after ...after he would have a very long talk with one Tahmelah Keiake.

"Are you certain this is necessary? I'm not sure how long I can maintain pretending I don't care.“ The woman glanced sideways at her tall, dark companion, the conflict easily evident on her face. He, on the other hand, was statuesque, arms folded across his chest, staring mildly at the door across the wide, empty hall as if there were nothing more important behind it than the dust it had once contained.

"You know why this is being done, Asha'man. Do not fail us in your duty." He said, and the woman shivered at the sound of his voice. It was like ice, cold and without a hint of remorse in it. She hadn't known this particular Asha'man for very long, but his voice had always had that chilling effect on her. It was as if the bloody man didn't feel at all! But this...this trial -- her mind practically spat the word -- this was almost too much. This was not what she had planned for when she had asked him, and the others, for their help. But they had to break the madness that had been seeping into Ramaes for so long now. He seemed unaware of time, himself, but she had felt him slipping away for many months now, and no longer had been capable of warding herself against it. Once the seemingly endless nightmares had started haunting her mind, she had gone to ask for help. There was only so much a Healer could do to a patient who was both unwilling and unaware. "But are you sure?" She asked again, her brows knitting in concern.

A look that was colder than the ice previously evident in the man's voice made her mouth close with a snap, teeth clicking together. She knew the answer. It must be done, else all hope was lost.  

I am going mad. He thought, and then laughed hysterically when he realized he had been thinking that very thing for some time now. Time, which was another thing that seemed to have slipped away from him. It was not going the way it had been -- there were no patches of nothingness in his mind to explain these time lapses -- it was just that he had no sense of time at all. There was nothing between him and total insanity except for the darkness that had swallowed him whole. That, and the bond.

It was the bond that became his link to the real, living world. Let Tahmelah be a cold, distant knot inside of his mind. That was enough, at least, to tell him that something lay beyond those doors. In his darkest moments, he had imagined that the Dark One himself waited past that darkness, waited to gobble him up, and mark Ramaes as one of his Own. Why that thought had cross his mind, he did not know. But it was there, all the same.

The shield still held, and Ramaes had long ago stopped testing it. He could have been here an hour, a day, a week, a month. He didn't know. The world had blurred into something that seemed unreal to him. Now and again he would stretch out a hand, wiggling his fingers in the gray-black, just to assure himself that he was still alive. He thought he might have been hungry earlier, but that thought had passed as well. Thirst, it seemed, was the thing that ate at him now. For some reason, though, he could not recall how long a man could live without drinking water. He was left alone with his memories, the bond, and little more.

"I don't think he is going to make it out of this." She said, worry edging her voice, anger sharpening it. Still, her companion made no effort to assuage her fears. He merely looked at her, with that flat, iron gaze of his, and she fell silent. Behind them, sitting comfortably in another room, were two men and four women -- six in all, holding the shield that made it impossible for Ramaes to do as much as light a candle. They had not been holding him in that room long -- only a day and night had passed, but from what she could tell Ramaes had long ago lost his sense of time.

She longed to reach out to him through the bond, to offer some form of comfort, but dared not. Would he ever forgive her for this? True, the bond had been something that was his doing and his doing alone, but in the end she knew it was necessary to save him. The Asha'man's first idea had been to sever the bond entirely, to leave Ramaes to go mad inside that little closet without even that small comfort. Tahmelah had known better, though. If there was one thing that would save him, it would be the idea that he had nothing left but that fragile thread that remained between them. But when had it come to this? She had only meant to show him what it meant to be utterly helpless, only meant to try and ease his pending insanity. The blank spaces had been what terrified her the most -- but those had passed some days ago, after she had bested him in the Tournament.

She chewed on her lower lip, face pensive, and put all her will into masking the bond. She wasn't nearly as good at it as Ramaes was -- he had done remarkably well at masking what he'd been going through from her. By this point, though, she was fairly sure that any slips on her part would slip past Ramaes' conscious mind and be discarded as insanity. She couldn't hear his thoughts, but she knew well enough that he was resigned to his own madness. It was such a horrible thought that it twisted her stomach, and yet she prevailed.

"This part ends, now, Asha'man. Now, we begin the true test." Her companion rumbled, and she glanced at him, moving her hands to cover her mouth, to hide the little 'o' of horror that went there. This was the second part of the long process, the part that, in the end, would hopefully allow Ramaes to walk from that room mentally whole -- on some level, she knew that he'd never be the same again. Insanity broke something inside the mind of a person, and could not be cleaned away completely.

She swallowed, tasting bile in her throat, and nodded her assent. Her assent. They would not continue this without that nod, she knew. And the only reason was because -- despite the fact that she was masking it -- the bond was still there. She would share Ramaes pain without any relief from his end. He wasn't currently capable of masking the bond, not yet.

"Let it be done, then." She said, and shuddered at the coolness in her voice. Oh Light, let it be done!

The door opened, and Ramaes lifted his head, blinking rapidly to ward off the sudden shock of light. Too bright, and it was likely a blessing for the silhouette that stepped inside. Had Ramaes been able to see, he might have done something -- not that he knew what, exactly -- but before he could react, the silhouette had passed him by, moving behind him, and once again the door shut, plunging them into darkness.

"The taint has been Cleansed, boy, and yet you seem to persist in going mad. Why is this? I do not know, nor do any of the Healers who have examined you." The voice that issued from behind him was utterly cold, devoid of emotion. Ramaes didn't recognize it. He tried to stand, tried to turn and confront his invisible companion, but could not find the strength. Through the shield, he felt the man seize saidin, and sighed as the bonds of Air wrapped themselves around him. "To dispel any illusions of idiocy, young Asha'man." The cold voice said, and Ramaes thought he detected a note of dry humor in it, but couldn't be sure.

"You are to be tested now, young man. Pray to the Creator that you survive this test and come out of it a whole person once again." There was a pause, and when the man spoke again, his voice had cooled by several degrees, making even the stalwart Ramaes shiver. "And that you come out of it alive." And then, while Ramaes sat, unable to stop anyone from doing anything, he felt the man's hands laid on him, in a similar fashion to that of a Healer. They were cool, and it was only at this instant that Ramaes realized he'd been sweating profusely. He felt something cold pressed into his palm, something that reminded him of a ring, only far too narrow to wear around one's finger -- maybe a woman might have been able to, but not him. "Sleep, Asha'man Ramaes, and when you wake let all this madness be past."

And so, he slept...