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Site Picks Asha'man Tahmelah Keiake & Asha'man Ramaes Gavron: Stolen Time Asha'man Tahmelah Keiake “Would Dedicated Ramaes Gavron please come up?” Poettre Valis’ even tenor voice intoned, every syllable spelling an impending doom for Tahmelah. She winced as her once-friend, near-lover practically vaulted tables and leapfrogged chairs in his indecent haste to attain his pin. She’d known it was coming, feared it daily – but she still wasn’t prepared. The space between their ranks – hers superior, his inferior – had been her breathing space, space in which she actively rebelled against the unfair geas he’d laid upon her. He had had no right to bond her, and by doing so to keep her, she’d made certain he’d lost her. Turning her head from his wide and disbelieving smile, that ingenuous defense of his, she seethed, her heart aching with pure hate. Now he was an Asha’man, too: he’d find his rooms, probably discreetly by her own, and he’d begin his siege. Day in and night out, he’d watch, waiting for the worst moment to explode back into her tentative existence. He’d wait until she had confidence, pride: he’d wait until her career was progressing and she could think past what he’d done to her and Heal again. He had to know she was walking a fine, thin line with her distractedness – her double-minded-ness, she called it – and yet, he offered her no respite. If only he’d have the decency to run off and get himself killed! Shock rounded her perfect, small mouth into a surprised “o” – that hadn’t been what she had meant, although the idea wasn’t without merit. What she had meant, she told herself, unconsciously adopting Byran’s pedantic tones, was that it could all have been avoided if he could but have waited a month. One turn of the moon, that was all the time that had passed between her Winternight raising and today. The moon had been heavy and full on the horizon the morning of Iris’ near death, and it was again, today. Ignoring the dais, Tahmelah’s eyes swept the thin ranks of remaining Asha’man, but they hadn’t spied Iris since that grim dawn – nor Jasper. Did it mean that she’d gone again, and Jasper pursued her? Rumor said that it was Jasper that had set Iris and Byran free of the gaol, although it hadn’t been proven that either had ever escaped those cells. And anyone who had ever seen Jasper had to doubt that – the woman was justice, from the curls on her head to the flat, booted soles of her feet. There were precious few female Asha’man, even fewer now that those two were nowhere to be seen. Lien, Raylin: they were women only on the outside, like Tahmelah herself. Of course, neither of them had to deal with Ramaes tonight – and she supposed, neither did she. There had been the pretty Gaidin in the Dragon’s Talon last night, and she had seen some of the half-puzzled looks that Byran gave her when her tongue slipped and she forgot the past enough to return one of his conversational sallies with a pert reply. It was very, very hard some days to recall that he was married: did dropping your wife through a trapdoor on your own hangman’s noose constitute an Andoran divorce? And if it didn’t, did it matter? She’d never love the T’sorovanm’hael again – who could? He was an emotional bomb, lethal as any weave she could think of. Assembly ended on what would typically be a bright note, but Tahmelah was glum. His day would stretch out, empty, before him, just like her own raising day. There’d be no Festival tonight, though, but she suspected he’d still have a bellyful of wine and end up on her doorstep. Feeling vaguely ill-used at just the idea, Tahmelah scrubbed her nails against her rough woolen coat: an Asha’man could wear what she pleased, but the black made the most sense. Brushing a loose curl back into the stern knot at the base of her skull, she took a private moment behind the dubious shelter of a high wall, constructed for the purpose of teaching siege warfare. The same wall was re-built most days and destroyed most afternoons – Tahmelah felt a sudden pang of empathy for it. She, too, was destroyed most afternoons, as she laid awake on her too-soft bed, trying to catch sleep in the hours allotted to her for her personal use. Early mornings, like this one, were the time she spent cleaning and re-stocking the Infirmary, punctuated by rounds to supervise the Dedicated and Soldiers practicing to become Healers. Medicine was her art, her expression, but it didn’t relieve her these days – only tired her. She might be confident in her dispensations and weaves, but she couldn’t Heal herself, and she couldn’t regain her enthusiasm for the path she’d chosen. Was it merely burn-out, or was this what she’d live with for the rest of her life? The idea of being this empty forever bothered her greatly, but where was there a font she could use to re-fill herself? Late night was her watch. She sat awake in the sleeping hours, neatly avoiding any mention or sight of Ramaes in her days or nights. She couldn’t avoid the thoughts of him, though: they were close to second nature now. When he fell asleep, she was almost herself, saved from having to feel the echo of his every conflicted emotion and physical strain. She knew far, far more than she’d ever wanted to about him now, but it didn’t warm her toward the idea of being saddled with him in her head forever – what could? Taking a deep breath, resettling her even features into the absent mien she’d adopted, Tahmelah re-emerged from behind her wall and started toward the Infirmary. She’d carefully crafted her daily routines to keep them as far apart as possible, and she wasn’t going to change her ways just because he was supposedly her equal now. He had to earn that right, the betraying Tairen bastard. He might be Asha’man, but he was no more her equal than the mud she cleaned off her boots! If they were in Saldaea, and he had forced himself on her in the usual way of men and women, she could ask for his manhood – but what would she be able to demand, now? His head? Half-amused by that thought, she battled a surprising wave of homesickness. After Jakkob had arrived, she had been content to call the Black Tower her home, but right now, she even missed him. He might lie to her and have other women while waiting for his share of her Da’s inn, but he was just a man in the end, and he couldn’t honestly hurt her now. Ramaes didn’t get that assertive treatment – he could battle her on any field right now and win. With the realization that she was grinding her teeth, Tahmelah slipped into the Infirmary. Why hadn’t she been born a man? Not six hours later, Tahmelah held two things: a small satchel and a sheaf of orders. The Dedicated on duty were supposed to deliver her to Shienar, to attend some cavalry raiding into the Blight, but a judicious drop of ink and a touch of Illusion had altered the orders just enough so that she could be gone now. Two extra days were what she’d bought by her subterfuge – two days of relief from Ramaes and his upcoming debacle. Let him hold his own head over the basin tonight – if he drank so much, he deserved to vomit. Choosing not to recall that drinking was her method, not his, she presented herself to the stone-faced man, several decades her senior, who snapped to lazy attention at the sight of her round face and the pins on her collar. Some men had never accepted the idea of female Asha’man, and she had no time to argue with this one, even if he wasn’t a stone-brained idiot. She was going home, even if it was on stolen time. Asha'man Ramaes Gavron For the first time in four years, Ramaes was wearing something other than black, and it felt decidedly strange to be doing so. Walking through the Tower in clothing he had forgotten he'd owned, and a few new things besides, he was drawing a multitude of stares. He was recognizable, of course. New Asha'man were almost always easily recognized, if for no other reason than that there were so few Asha'man left in the Tower. Most were roaming the known world, organizing and commanding legions of men against the horrors of the Seanchan, the Blight, and a variety of other folk that were generally regarded as enemies. Some, however, remained in the walls of the Black Tower, set to train the new recruits, who recently had been appearing in a flood rather than a trickle. There were enough Dedicated to handle nearly half of the raw recruits - most regulating themselves to lessons that went beyond mere seizing - or embracing. What was left were handed to the Asha'man, both new and old. Ramaes himself had trained a dozen soldiers in the week since he'd been raised - in everything from politics to offensive channeling. He hadn't even seen Tahmelah since the day he'd been raised, when she'd been at the assembly only because it was mandatory. And, as far as he could tell, she hadn't been impressed with his ascension to the rank of Asha'man. But then, she hadn't been impressed with anything that had to do with Ramaes Gavron since Wintersnight. Since he had bonded her. Not that Ramaes imagined Tahmelah was being the slightest bit reasonable about her sudden dislike of him. They had gone from an item to near-enemies in less than a month, and Ramaes wasn't satisfied to shoulder all the blame for it. Just most of it. At last, though, there was some respite. Not much, but some. Instead of training new recruits how to make themselves useful, he was headed to Shienar, to play babysitter for a half-dozen Dedicated. He was serving as a replacement for some other Asha'man, despite that they would both be in the area for nearly a day before Ramaes would be left to himself. Still, getting out of the Tower would be nice, even if it was to the edge of the Blight. He doubted he'd have any time to visit Tear at all unless sent there at some point in the future on official Tower business. But he didn't really mind that so much, anymore. Four years was a long time away from home. Long enough that he had almost erased that part of his life, replacing it with the life he had been pushed into the day he'd realized he could channel. Light, that had been a long time ago. There was always Valerie. But her letters had appeared even more rarely than usual following her wedding. She was living her own life, now, one that Ramaes was glad she had found. At least one person in his life deserved happiness. More than one, really. But she seems bent on remaining unhappy. At least, according to the bond. But that was neither here nor there. "You'll come out of the Gateway about half a mile south of the camp, Asha'man." That was the Dedicated, who was even now holding open the Gateway in question, with the help of another man garbed in black. Ramaes' absence of a black uniform apparently made little difference to these men - they had seen it before, after all. Ramaes himself had watched a number of Asha'man step through Gateways leading to every corner of the known world. Once upon a time, it had been his job to open and help maintain the Gateways in the traveling yard. "The Asha'man you'll be replacing is called..." The Dedicated glanced down, scanning a piece of paper in his hand, frowning. "Asha'man Keiake." Something in Ramaes' face must have been noticeable, for the Dedicated in front of him raised one eyebrow. "You know him?" "Her. And yes, I do." The Dedicated nodded, obviously new enough that he didn't know who Ramaes and Tahmelah were to each other - bondmates, at the very least. And in the past? Well, it had been no secret to the Tower that something had been going on. Soldiers were being promoted faster than ever these days, though. It wouldn't have surprised Ramaes to know that this man hadn't even been in the Tower prior to Wintersnight. "Well, good luck, Asha'man!" Ramaes nodded, braced himself, and stepped through the Gateway. Tahmelah Keiake "Oh Mela," her mother muttered, in the manner of mothers everywhere, perched at the edge of the copper tub on a three-legged stool, "you mustn't go back to the Black Tower." Tahmelah, asea in the huge basin, kept her own counsel about who she was and where she belonged. Home wasn't as much home now as it had been before the Black Tower, strange as that seemed: the smell was odd, the food spicier than she liked, the pace too slow and the work feminine and demeaning. Yesterday, in an empty minute, her mother had handed her an embroidery hoop. Fingers roughened from swordplay calluses only snarled the silks, and she had forgotten how to ease the needle through the linen - not that she wanted to remember. What about it could she possibly need to know? What conjunction of colorful silk and tiny needle prevented death, reversed trauma? It was a frippery, a stupid bit of nothing, and she hated it - but still, her day's handiwork lay over the back of a chair, a few pale rosettes her mother had exclaimed over just as she had when Tahmelah had learnt the craft years before. She had had practice stitching - stitching muscle and fascia, skin and tendons. Biting her lip to keep from telling her mother where she'd learnt such tiny stitches, Tahmelah sat in her tub, letting her mother pour water over her unruly curls. "Your hair is a nest of snakes," her mother clucked, working at a knot in the cerise snarl. "And your hands are like a farmgirls'. You'll have to rub a whole goose into each one to have a lady's hands." It was a familiar litany, but on a new tangent: nothing satisfied Mother when she was determined to have things her way. Her will be done, and if it was, Tahmelah would be neatly coiffed and gowned, kept on hand to be tossed at every passing dignitary in the hopes that one might take her to wife and give her mother the chance to attend court instead of merely hearing about it. When she'd been fourteen, that had seemed fine enough, but she was one and twenty now, and it was ridiculous. Asha'man didn't marry noblemen just to please their mothers. In fact, she couldn't honestly think of another Asha'man who had even mentioned his mother, much less run home to her at the first opportunity. Disappointment seemed to be her name and her calling card - she had disappointed Da by being born a girl, disappointed Ma by acting like her brothers, disappointed Poettre by haring off from the Black Tower (would he notice? Did he already know?) and...There, she set her lips: if Ramaes Gavron dared to be disappointed in her, he had only himself to blame, now didn't he? Indeed. Standing up, retrieving her hair from her mother’s clawed grasp, Tahmelah reached for a wide-toothed ivory comb. A dutiful daughter would have given her mother the comb at the first glint of disapproval, but Tahmelah yanked the device onward, never quite managing to meet her mother’s angry gaze with her own, defiant, stare. Unbound and straightened by the water’s weight, it flowed to her hips, far too long for a woman in an army. It was long past the time she should have cut it all off, and yet, she always hesitated when the time came to call for shears. Yes, she had been privy to the sight of a woman hauled by Trollocs with a lockgrip in her hair, but still, the crimson banner of war stayed in place, even daring to grow longer, like luxuriant moss. “Must you bind it up while it’s wet?” her mother inquired, testily. “It only ever made the curls worse.” Tahmelah’s knuckles went white around the third of her bright hair that she held in her hand, waiting to be plaited. Without comment, she continued blithely on, ignoring her mother’s sighed commentary on her sheer willfulness. In the morning, she’d be gone, or perhaps best done tonight: she was only just strong enough to Skim alone, and she didn’t know Shienar well at all, anyway. Of course, she’d seen where she was to go, when the Dedicated’s Gateway had taken her there, and that was an advantage… She startled at the touch of a hand on her shoulder: only her mother, holding the sleeves of a bedrobe open for her. With a shrug, Tahmelah pulled the thing closed around herself, tying it with the slender thong sewn to the inside. Strange, how the woman in the glass, staring back at her, could look so…feminine…and yet so hard. Was that ambition, or merely the side effect of heartbreak? Forcing a bright smile to her mouth, she left the bathing room for her own ancient bedchamber, half dusty and clotted with partial cobwebs and bits of memory. It was the solace she’d been imagining, but she could definitely have done without her mother’s attentions. Unfortunately, the two seemed to come hand in hand… In the thin hour before daybreak, false dawn, Tahmelah woke, stretching. How strange it felt, to sleep at night, and to have no concern about crossing Ramaes’ path in the light of day! With some concern, she noted that he seemed to have moved during the night, somewhere to the northwest, but that was no concern of hers. Field maneuvers, or maybe just a training expedition – there were dozens of reasons for Ramaes to be in the Borderlands, and not one had to do with her. She was the only Asha’man to be assigned to the cavalry – wasn’t she? Changing clothes, leaving the perfumed robe behind for the rough nap of black woolens and a cloak, Tahmelah crept through the morning stillness, a silent trespasser in her own home. Stealing bread and cheese from the cold pantry and the shelves, she held her meal in one hand and wove with the other. She stepped into the darkness, feeling the reassuring solidity of the barge she always likened Skimming to traveling on under her feet. Illusion might be all it was, but it was a convincing one, and one she was happier to keep. Picturing her debarking point as the low hillock some distance to the rendezvous point’s west, she braced herself for the sudden stop, forcing a dry bite down her throat as she did. Bread without rusks from the rough grinding and cheese without streaks of rancid fat were both strange luxuries, but she couldn’t relish either. It was…homey…to pick out the stonelike grains and avoid the greasy discolorations on the Black Tower’s simplest fare. She had grown accustomed to it, even the way it smelled: her nose had wrinkled at the odor she’d once been accustomed to, insisting another was more familiar, that no, this was not her home. Hadn’t she tried, though? Given it a go, as one of her trainers had said? She stepped free of her weave, her eyes stuttering over the horizon, and her thoughts fled her. Ramaes is here, her mind informed her, a few seconds too late – a few seconds after the bond had betrayed a deep and conflicted relief, as if he had been searching for her. What do I do now? she asked herself, feeling panic’s bright butterfly wings in her stomach. Had he come to haul her back for Poettre’s sadistic games of forgiveness? Did he have a more mundane chore, perhaps? What favor would he ask, if she begged him not to tell that she had only just arrived? Ramaes Gavron Sleep had been a useless endeavor. Ramaes had lain for hours, completely awake, and for some reason unable to calm himself long enough and completely enough to slip into what would have been a grateful darkness. Instead, lying on his back in a tent that had been hastily raised in his honor -- he was Asha'man now, after all -- he had spent the hours of the night staring into the darkness, waiting. And now it was dawn..well, almost dawn. The darkness in his tent had given way to the marginally brighter atmosphere of pre-dawn, gray and black shadows outlined by more shadow. In an hour, maybe less, it would be even lighter outside than it already was, and the camp which he had stumbled into would finally awaken. Borderlanders might always be on edge, but they still shared certain patterns with any other army. There were watchmen at every compass point, all through the night, and the veterans didn't seem to sleep at all. But the young and still as of yet un-blooded still slept in, even if sleeping in meant waking at dawn rather than before dawn. So, when Ramaes stepped out of his tent, unable to stay abed for another minute, the camp was relatively silent. There was another reason he had decided to rouse himself, though. Tahmelah was here, finally. After two days of waiting -- and not sleeping well, either -- she had finally seen fit to show herself. Where she had been, Ramaes had no idea. Somewhere to the southeast. She's here, now, though. He thought, lifting one hand to rub at his eyes. The lack of sleep had made him look more haggard than usual. He was fairly sure his eyes were red-rimmed and likely had the added bonus of dark circles beneath them, but he didn't particularly care at the moment. Tahmelah was here, which meant he would get to see her. Despite the fact that Ramaes would have been glad to say he'd come all this way simply to find her, he knew better. The orders in his pack stated quite clearly what his purpose was, and he did have a job to do. Much as he disliked it, he would be sending Tahmelah out of the Borderlands at sunset -- presumably to return to the Black Tower with a report of some kind. After that he was here, replacing her as the commanding Asha'man of this particular mission. But for now, he was more interested in finding her. And just like always, a flash of red gave her away. She was a hundred feet from him, walking towards the center of camp -- to go to her own tent? To find him? "Tahmelah." He said, knowing even as he said it that he probably didn't need to. The bond worked both ways, after all, she knew he was here. He watched her turn, and steeled himself for the anger he assumed was about to roll through the bond when she saw him. Surprisingly, it didn't come. Ramaes stopped, a bare twenty feet from her -- when had his feet carried him so far? -- shocked into immobility. There wasn't anger. Confusion, a little apprehension. No anger, though, which was a surprise insofar as he was concerned. He was so used to her being angry that the lack of it was strange. That didn't keep the irritation from her voice, though. Not angry did not mean she wasn't irritated. And that, he felt. "What are you doing here?" Tahmelah Keiake "No, I won't." It was totally nonsensical to argue with Ramaes' orders, but she balked at the messenger and the message. Poettre had sent her out on this harebrained quest, and she was going to commandeer this group in the Blight. She was ready now, and prepared to die: Poettre couldn't stop her unless he carried her back to the Black Tower over the pommel of his saddle. Ramaes couldn't even do that: she wouldn't stand for it. With an eyebrow uplifted, she dared him to try: to point out that her stealthy leaving and her badly covered trail had marked her for Tree fodder. If that were the case, which she doubted, she'd ascend the gallows with grateful relief - it would get his buzzing emotions out of her head. Actually, she suspected that her bravado would cease without rage to power it, just as Ramaes had won through her utter hatred of how he'd bonded her. There was no way out of it, and she was not so angry today - strangely, some of her bitter frustration had melted at the degree of relief that had come her way from the newly-raised Asha'man. Yes, she knew he might still love her, but that was completely out of the question - he still wasn't forgiven. If her pub trawl had gone the way she'd intended, he'd be mad at her, too, which would make life between them livable again...but it hadn't, and here they were, caught repeating the same bit of dramatic dialogue. She had every right, though, to be angry about his displacing her in her first out-of-Tower calling. What she didn't have were solutions to this: apparently, he was trying to explain that he hadn't asked for her to be returned to her Infirmary after two supposed days babysitting a hillside for a troop of Shienaran calvary that had only just arrived the night before. This was her task, and she wanted it. Ramaes was one of the few who should know to back away from anything Tahmelah wanted, but he stood poker stiff, pointing to his papers as if they were some kind of Tairen flush. Unless she saw all nine councilmembers and the King himself, she wasn't giving this up, and apparently, neither was he. "You should return to the Tower, Ramaes," she continued, being the very voice of sweet reason itself. This entire affair smelt like Byran, anyway - and she hadn't yet decided what to think of him, back to lurking around the Infirmary like Iris hadn't happened. In fact, she hadn't thought much about anything in the past month, and it was starting to show. That was Ramaes' fault, too, and he deserved to take the credit for it. Frowning, she seized his orders and tossed them, watching them fly off on the whistling new-spring breeze. "Just let it go," she admonished, her hands on her hips, head tilted back so she could see his face, hovering a good two hands above her own. "Return to the Tower. Say we weren't here. Get on with the rest of getting yourself killed," she suggested, not unkindly. "As for my part, I'll do what I came to do, and see the Blight in the bargain. You can go back to whatever's been keeping you up all night and all day, for all I care." A lie, but it wasn't the first, calculated to ache, that passed between them, and she doubted that there'd be a last. Challenging him to defy her with her tilted green eyes, she waited for him to give up and head home in defeat. Ramaes Gavron Ramaes Gavron was trying very hard to figure out just exactly when he had made a mistake. He had his orders (which were currently clenched in one fist), but apparently they were useless. The stubborn, fiery-haired young woman he had known since he had come to the Black Tower had made it quite clear just how useless those orders were. At least, to her. "Return to the Tower." She had said, and Ramaes almost wished he could comply. But orders were orders. Weren't they? He knew better than to try and talk her out of whatever plans she had fixed in her mind, though. He had learned -- via trial and error, of course -- that arguing with Tahmelah was about as successful as arguing with a wall. No matter how logical his words might seem inside his head, it simply didn't matter once they came out of his mouth. Not once she had her mind set, anyway. Still, he had to try. "Look, Tahmelah, it's not as if I'm here to ---" An expression of frustration drifted over her face, coupled with the bond. "Say we weren't here." Ramaes stared. She expected him to lie? Of course, considering their history, that wasn't so much. A long series of strange pranks and stranger moments cataloged the time that they had spent together. A white lie to spare Tahmelah from --- from what? Returning to the Tower? Maybe she just likes it here more. He thought, and frowned, weighing his options. He could very well return to the Tower, and report just what she had suggested. At best, they'd only send him back to find her. At worst, they'd send another Asha'man -- or two -- to physically drag her back. Finally, he gave up. "Fine." He sighed, throwing up his hands slightly. "I can't exactly force you to return to the Tower." She smiled, and nodded. Satisfaction rolled through the bond like syrup, and Ramaes grimaced. "But I'm not going back either." Poof. The satisfaction was gone, as if it had never been. And now she was staring. "Look." He said, holding
up the papers as if they were some sort of weapon, shaking them.
"Not only do these tell me to find you and send you back, they
also assign me as your replacement. So if you don't want to
go back, don't. But I have to do my job." He smiled, shaking
his head slightly, and channeled. An instant later all that was left
of the orders were ashes. "So I guess you're stuck with me for
awhile." Tahmelah Keiake "So I guess you're stuck with me for a while," Ramaes said, blandly, completely missing the irony. She was stuck with Ramaes forever, within or without the bloody flaming Blight! Whereever she went, he went as well, if only as a silent guest inside her brain. Silent? She reconsidered that adjective as she stared at him in mute disgust, not bothering to hide her displeasure over his choice. His emotions were hardly silent when they tromped about her skull like...like a pack of Soldiers dismissed an hour early! His frustrations whooped in her ears, his pains made her want to scream, and she wasn't even going to tread into the questionable terrain of his other...bodily functions...things a woman would excuse herself from, that she had no choice but to experience second hand from miles away! Oh, but there were times that she wanted to assault him, shove a bond into his head, just so he could feel what he made her have to feel, but she suspected that would only make matters worse! Irritated, she watched the cloud of floating ash, well aware that it was both their heads if he suddenly got too noble to lie. He'd always come through before, but this was a strange new twist on pranks and games. Still, she couldn't pull rank on him now (he wouldn't let her) and she couldn't just leave him, either: what if the bloody fool got them both killed? Really, he needed her, and Poettre had to know that... The stiff paper his orders had been neatly printed on disappeared, a late snowfall without ice or chill to accompany it. Tahmelah watched it for a moment, until the tiny pieces were too far away to see without the enhancement of saidar, thinking. The map in her mind said that they were perhaps two days' fast trot south of Adulah's Leap in the Dragonwall, the pass she'd chosen for its direct access to the Blight beyond. She'd intended to take quick inventory, then give the men their marching orders - although, since they were horsed, she supposed it would really be riding orders. And even then, they knew the Blight far better than she, but how much could she trust them to keep her skin on her back, relatively unscarred? It was a good question, but one better suited for a more analytical mind than Tahmelah's. All she could dredge up was that she must remain in control while allowing herself to be advised, and with Ramaes present, she supposed that made that task twice as hard. Men looked to men, she knew that, but she was the party leader, and she would make the choices. Flipping her loose red curls over her shoulder, she cast a calculating glance toward the men, mostly gathered in the vee of two long tents, where a fire blossomed and steam rose from a kettle. Morning mess, same the world over - when had it ceased to be that genteel convention, breakfast? Morning mess it was, and had been, and ever would be...because she was a bloody soldier. There was a third tent, slightly battered but cheery in striped canvas. She ducked inside, caring not a whit that it was markedly Ramaes' - it smelled like him, and a few of his things were still scattered beside a chipped and stained basin. There was a sharp knife there, no doubt left from that manly de-hairing: she swept it up and exited the tent in a long stride. It wasn't a big tent, and it would be cramped with the both of them in it - he'd just have to find somewhere else to sleep, simple enough. What would give the men the proper idea faster than Ramaes accepting orders? A wry, small smile curved her lips as she gathered her hair in one hand, forming a tight tail. The knife hadn't been meant to slice through such a thick mane, but it was easier to end than it had been to begin. The last few silky strands escaped her fist, scattering like Ramaes' orders. Her neck felt cold, and bare, and she was suddenly aware of how much her ears stuck out, but she no longer had her traitorous hair, just waiting for the first Trolloc to come along and take a great handful. Brushing the carmine strands off her clothing, Tahmelah moved purposefully toward the fire and the tents, planning her orders as she went. Mess, and then back on the horses: there was no reason to linger here and risk attack from the Black Tower. She didn't quite trust that Byran wouldn't be dispatched to haul her back to the Tower, just to prove how sadistic Poettre truly could be. Yes. The sooner they were gone, the better. With the new spring breeze tickling her bare neck and making her feel as nervous as a cat, Tahmelah rounded the corner and got her first glance of her ragtag army. Ramaes Gavron Putting two Asha'man in charge of any one thing at any given time was probably a bad idea. It was capable of producing a variety of problems, dependent on how those two particular Asha'man worked together. Sometimes, when the Black Tower decided to send two Asha'man out on a mission, they possessed the foresight to choose their weapons carefully. In this case, however, there had been no real choice in the matter. Additionally, the two Asha'man in question did not get along particularly well. The past was the past, as the saying went. And Ramaes and Tahmelah's past had been buried deep. In retrospect, Ramaes would regard this particular mission to the Blight as something of a blessing. Currently, he was wondering whether or not he would escape with his skin intact.
Light! What did she do to her hair? Ramaes stared. An hour past, Tahmelah had possessed her usual cascade of brilliant red curls. Now, the curls were still there, but the bit about cascades was completely demolished. This was, of course, due to the fact that she had cut her hair. Thankfully, Ramaes was able to bring his body under control before his face betrayed his thoughts. He was also able (quite miraculously, in fact) to keep his jaw from becoming unhinged. It looked nice, though. In a short, scary way. "Shall we?" He said, crossing the space between them in five loping steps, and gesturing towards the kettle of nondescript something that was apparently supposed to provide some sort of morning repast. She looked at him - glared, really - and then apparently decided to go along with it. Why not, after all? It was just breakfast. Or morning mess. Or whatever. The food was, of course, relatively tasteless. Bland, hot, and filling. Probably not very healthy, but it would serve. They had a job to do, after all. Trollocs and the like had been swarming in and out of the Blight for months now, ever since it had become apparent that the end of the world was looming over the horizon. The Seanchan had not gone so far north as this, yet. That in itself was a small blessing, but Ramaes had yet to decide whether or not facing Seanchan would be more productive than facing trollocs. Trollocs, after all, seemed to reproduce themselves at an amazing rate. The Seanchan, despite a great deal of rumor, were quite mortal. Once they'd been wiped from the face of the known world, they would cease to exist, on the most part. Ramaes had an idea that trollocs would be around no matter what happened. Similar to insects.
The horse that Ramaes had been provided with did not look very pleased with him at all. For the entire process of readying the mare to ride into the Blight, Ramaes had suffered a far more baleful eye than Tahmelah - in all her wonder and glory - had ever managed to direct his way. Perhaps he just wasn't good with horses. "Hurry up, Ramaes. I want to get going." And there she was, competing with the mare in question, her emerald gaze fiery and hard. Fists on hips, a frown tightening her mouth... Short hair. Ramaes gave an empty smile and simply continued what he was doing, at his own pace. Try as she might, Tahmelah was not going to pull rank this time. They were equals now, after all. Both Asha'man. The dragon pin tucked away in his right pocket stated as much. And it was barely after dawn, anyway. There was plenty of time to go crashing through the Blight in search of trollocs. Tahmelah wanted to leave quickly for an entirely different reason. Likely something to do with the fact that she should have been in the Black Tower by now. Tahmelah Keiake The dry, cold finger of new spring’s wind ran up the back of her bared neck, making her shudder in a series of jerky movements she vainly attempted to conceal. Six horses, three tents, and four Shienaran warriors, two complete with con that marked them as nobly born, were the extent of her despotic reign – well, and Ramaes, she tallied, mentally. As she strode through the winter-sere grass, which crackled and gossiped under her boots like barmaids in the Dragon’s Talon, she took in the nearly identical dark-topknotted men, swords strapped to their backs in easy reach of their hands. Warrior greeted warrior with an incline of the head: if any of the raucous laughter she’d interrupted had been at the idea of an “Asha’woman,” the men weren’t suicidal enough to keep at the jokes with her in earshot. That meant they were smart enough, and smart enough meant that she might actually get them into and out of the Blight still attached to their heads. That’d be far more pleasant than digging a hole in frozen tundra for a man roughly the size of a Dhurran. Nonplussed, Tahmelah let her gaze fall to each in turn, studying them for dissimiliarities. They all had the same dark hair, swept up in a proud, stiff pommel, and most sported almandine dark eyes, rather like her own. Hers were Saldaean, though, and tilted backward, which gave her an oddly endearing face (a face only a mother or a besotted idiot could love, she’d decided long ago, staring diffidently into a mirror) and the Shienaran mens’ eyes lacked that rakish tilt. Their katanas, razors on leather hilts, were also identical, except for one carved with a fanciful webbing that might be a spider’s – or a snowflake. Who knew, and honestly, who cared? “Report,” Tahmelah snapped, her voice curt and distant to her ears. Different voices with different names – Shenji, Jaroku, Hiran, Keraken – told her of Trolloc sign, uneventful watches, light snow to the north and west, all at once. She took it in, her face a study in perfect ice, calm and crystalline. No one would guess that her blood was racing through her veins, or that her stomach was being buffeted by butterflies with oliphaunt’s feet – no one but Ramaes, and he said nothing. She could have thanked him, but she knew he was far away, tucked into some dark corner of his mind, contemplating – contemplating what? The ruin of what they might have been? Laughable. Chances were strong that the despicable man was considering breakfast, or wishing for a different horse…why would he be standing around thinking about her? For the next few days, she’d be exactly where he wanted her to be, after all! After that quick report, the men moved to strike tents and stuff packs: Tahmelah didn’t stop them. Snuffing the fire and burying its remains under the sandy soil of the Hills of Absher, she was lost in her own thoughts, thoughts that hadn’t found any conclusion by the time that one of the men returned, leading a roan mare with a skittish, sideways prance. War-trained, or close to it, Tahmelah supposed: she knew the rudiments of horsemanship, and this horse would likely be a better choice for the Blight than any she could have brought with her. Extending her palm, fingers tucked away lest they be bitten (who would Heal the Healer?) she allowed the mare to sniff her palm before she accepted the reins and the cupped hand lift of the stoic Shienaran. “This is Dawn Star,” the man – was he Shenji, the Shienaran whose con depicted the horse astride the sword? She rather thought he was, but they all did look alike. From her position atop the mare, she could just look down on him: it wasn’t that the horse was small, but rather, that a Shienaran warrior was simply that large. He gave her some hurried, terse instructions, which she minded, correcting her posture at his urging and changing her tense hand on the rein for a relaxed one. Across the collapsed campground, another soldier was doing much the same for Ramaes. Well aware that she who struck while the iron was hot got a sword faster than he who didn’t, she nudged Dawn Star forward with a gentle kick to the ribs. The war-trained mare settled immediately into a rolling gait that made Tahmelah feel mildly queasy – or was that just her nerves? She was, after all, entitled to the megrims: she was a thousand miles from the Black Tower, on a mission so generally haphazard that she wasn’t quite certain of the goal, for the first time, surrounded by five men. Some of the Asha’man told stories that started like this – the kind of stories Tahmelah just didn’t want to hear… Ridiculous thoughts, she decided, discarding the whole unlikely notion. You ought to be thinking about what’s waiting for you over the Dragonwall, not what might happen to you on this side of it. Decided, she kept the lead, vaguely aware of Ramaes riding behind her. Ramaes Gavron Snow, at least to Ramaes, was still a fascinating event. A brief conversation with one of the Shienaran had given Ramaes most of the information he needed to know. It was still strange, though, after so long in Tear. And though there had been a very definite winter in the Black Tower, Ramaes had mostly forgotten about it. One didn't think much about the weather when in the midst of a grueling training, after all. But this! Even knowing he was riding towards the horrors of the Blight, Ramaes still found himself caught in a state of awe every so often, just looking at the soft white stuff that was fluttering down around them, and crunching quietly beneath the hooves of their horses. The downside, so far as Ramaes could tell, was that it was a lot colder than he was used to. Wintering in the Black Tower had been relatively warm --- at least in comparison to the climate here, so far north. It made him wonder just how strange the Blight was that it could always maintain the sort of sickening, damp heat he had learned about in the Black Tower. Tahmelah, mayhap in reflection of the bitter days they had been suffering through, was snappish. Or maybe it was simply her version of being 'official'. That, Ramaes could understand. And had it not been for the bond, he would have believed it. The Shienaran all took it at face value, of course. Ramaes knew better. Something was weighing on Tahmelah's mind --- it might have been his presence or something else entirely. But he got the general idea that Tahmelah was doing little more than going through the motions --- which meant she might not have any idea what, exactly, she was doing. Belatedly, just before falling off of his rather cantankerous horse, Ramaes realized that he had been staring at Tahmelah, and pulled his gaze away. Save for the occasional chill conversation, he and Tahmelah hadn't really spoken since the outset of this little mission. He was still trying to figure out whether or not she hated him. It didn't feel as if she did, but weren't there ways of dampening the link of a bond? Sighing, Ramaes adjusted himself atop the saddle, and tried to focus on watching the perimeter, rather than the back of Tahmelah's head. He had finally ceased to be shocked when looking at her, now. Now, the short hair looked to him as if it had always been that way, though he could picture her beforehand. It looked normal, now. Almost. Still, he had no idea why she would have chosen to cut it. He hadn't even bothered to ask, though. Questioning Tahmelah's actions was never a good idea, no matter the situation. He had learned that before the bond, thankfully. Tahmelah Keiake The aura granted her by saidar kept out the worst of the new spring wind, no longer a playful breeze but a knifing slice to her raw and running nose, but what was left was still enough to make her wish that new spring bore more than a passing resemblance with Andor's warmth. Surreptitiously mopping said feature with her handkerchief, Tahmelah eyed the mountainous terrain surrounding them. Their pass was low, a keyhole between imposing cliffs, but vital to the Shienaran nation's survival: without proper defense, enough Trollocs could be whisked through that ominous eye and into the heart of the Borderlands, a black plague that left no prisoner, be it man, woman, or child. It was only reluctantly that Tahmelah gave the double-fisted signal to stop: the afternoon light had died, and while she could ignore her growling stomach - lunch had been gobbled in the saddle, bread, cheese, and meat compacted into a singularly unappetizing combination with only flat, leathery water to follow it down - she couldn't ignore the fact that the land was treacherous and the horses vital. To preserve the animals, she'd have to call a halt to the caravan, and she had expected more distance for a day. They'd start at first light the next day, she swore, glaring at the mountain pass she could no longer see, and until then... "You and you," she said, her fingers pointing, "first watch. You and you," she designated, including Ramaes in her finger's decision, "Second watch. You and I," she said, signalling the last man, a hulking brute (just like the other three, really) "last watch. Dinner, now, and camp." She felt like a mother hen, ordering her chicks about: never mind that every man Jaem of them was bigger than she! Under her watchful gaze, horses were hobbled, both tents were erected, and a tripod with an iron cauldron soon wafted appetizing steam into the air. For Tahmelah's part, she was hardly idle: she moved among the horses, doing what she could to ease their exhaustion. For the most part, the horses were still eager, and that she would endeavor to prolong as long as she could. She did what she could for the warriors, as well, her hands gentle on their heads as she wove Water and Air, refreshing and renewing. Each weave compounded her own drowsy loginess, but the sheer cold of the night kept her awake - would it keep her alive, was the question. If the Trollocs came pounding into camp, she'd only be useful as a medic - but who could sneeze at that? Any idiot could throw huge weaves of Fire around, or whatever Ramaes specialized in these days. It took skill and training to Heal. As she accepted a wooden bowl of glutinous brown something from a sword-roughened hand, she cast an approving glance over her camp. For what it was, it wasn't half bad - it wasn't, for instance, the earthen shelters in sweltering Illian, or the baking tents in the summer heat of the Blight. Once she'd finished her meal, the warm food acting as a sedative, she ducked into the smaller tent. Her saddlebags and another set - Ramaes', she supposed - had been deposited in separate corners. She'd deal with that in a moment, but for now...With a luxuriant sigh, she peeled off woolen gloves and sat down to wrestle off her boots, exposing long, narrow feet with crooked toes to crown them. There was a hole in her stockings where there'd been none before, but she cared not a whit for her socks! She'd get another pair from Ryndil, or from the distributors...once she was back in the Black Tower. Working her comb through her drastically shortened locks, she nodded assent to an invisible person - the embodiment of some sleepy thought in her head, and nothing more. Begrudgingly, she laid out her bedroll, noting how little space would be left once Ramaes had done the same. She couldn't guess it would be better in the tiny tent allotted to the four warriors, and taking one to herself, simply because of her gender, would be wrong. Men crammed in close conditions in cold weather caught the lung fever, and even after Healing, they'd need days of recuperation, days she couldn't afford. No, as much as she hated it, Ramaes stayed with her. Loosening her britches and peeling off her coat, Tahmelah turned at the sound of parting fabric, feeling strangely indecent. "You can come in," she decided, her tones cool as the night wind outside. Turning away, ignoring the curious voice that had once prompted her to delve down his trousers as if he kept treasure there (well, she had been drunk) Tahmelah extinguished her ball of saidar and left Ramaes to undress in the dark. Served him right if he tripped and fell, she decided. Ramaes Gavron She'd been ignoring him all day, but Ramaes had expected as much. And, to his credit, he hadn't let it bother him as much as he could have. As much as he would have, had it been a month past and not today. Ramaes didn't know what strange thing was occurring within him, but he was beginning to realize that the mutual silence between himself and Tahmelah was beginning to be routine. And with worries of what they would find once they entered the Blight weighing on his mind, Ramaes wasn't thinking too much on matters of the heart. The days were too long and cold to leave energy for much more than sleep, in fact. Despite all his training, Ramaes wasn't used to travel. And so, when Tahmelah finally brought the small group to a halt (despite the fact that Ramaes was supposed to have been in charge) and issued orders for watch rotation, Ramaes went along with it. A strange numbness had crept into his bones during the day, and dismounting was more of an effort than he would have been willing to admit to. Sore muscles let him know just how they felt about moving out of the saddle, but Ramaes pushed the pain aside and focused on the basic tasks of setting up camp. Soon enough, his rather unfriendly horse was brushed and hobbled, and the camp was essentially set up for the night. He had put the tent he and Tahmelah shared up himself, driving the stakes deep enough into the ground that only the stiffest of winds might bother it. Ramaes didn't bother to attempt any sort of companionship with the Shienaran, either. This mission, with any luck, would be fairly short, and Ramaes wasn't going to waste time he'd use better training trying to develop a relationship with men he'd never see again. They were all soldiers, after all, and shared that bond if no other. So he ate and moved with them in silence, keeping his thoughts quieted in the back of his mind. He might have been prone to brooding back in the Black Tower, but here was neither the time nor the place. They might have stopped rather late -- by the time camp was set it was already dark out -- but Ramaes knew he wouldn't sleep very well (if at all) before his watch. So instead of going directly to the tent, he took a short walk, out towards the edges of the camp itself. Boots crunching through snow reminded him of just how cold it really was, but he didn't pay attention. Already he was pulling on the old practice of ko'di to push external irritations away, and by the time he made the edge of camp, well away from the others, he barely felt the cold at all. Besides, practicing sword forms was a guaranteed way to warm someone up, wasn't it?
Aching, but feeling better than he had in days despite it, Ramaes returned to the tent he had set up for himself and Tahmelah long after the sun had set. Eventually, it had become too dark -- the light of the moon covered in clouds -- to practice safely. But his muscles were aching in a far more familiar way, now, and he thought he could finally sleep no matter what his thoughts might say to him once he stopped moving. Tahmelah was already inside the tent -- both the bond and the fact that he could hear her moving let him know that pretty little fact. He waited, though, until she spoke. He wasn't about to walk into her tent without permission, even if his saddle bags were inside already. And she wanted to think she was in charge, anyway. Ramaes was willing to let her, if it kept them from having a screaming match, which was not something he wanted to do anytime soon. It would happen eventually, of course. There were too many things as of yet unsaid between them for this silence to last forever. A darkness that was darker than it had been outside swallowed him as he stepped inside the tent, letting the flaps shut behind him securely. A mental clock was something he had learned to maintain in the Black Tower, and if he guessed correctly he still had about five hours before second watch. Tahmelah, of course, had taken the last watch. He undressed easily enough -- there'd be no tripping in the dark for him -- and arranged his bedroll as quietly as possible. Lying on his back, he stared up at the shadowy canvas of the tent, listening to Tahmelah breathe. She wasn't sleeping, either, no matter if she was deadly quiet. "Sleep well." He said,
finally, and rolled over. Tahmelah Keiake His ragged breathing slowed, steadied, smoothed out into the inexorable rhythm of sleep. Subdued, Tahmelah followed him, but the road was bumpy and her sleep was thin, at best. It wasn't just his presence that set her on edge, but the simple, artless salutation - the endearment implied, the forgiveness enfolded. Sleep well. Not, "spend all night tossing back and forth in throes of misery, you silly short-haired idiot," but sleep well. She wouldn't have told him to sleep well if their places were exchanged: she would have laid silently, barely an arm's length from him, close enough to see the moonlit silhouette of his chest, rising and falling with his even breaths. Did that make him a better person than she, she wondered, or did it just make her angry? She was angry, bitterly and deeply: he had betrayed her most basic right, the one that not even the Black Tower had demanded she give to it. Her privacy had been her last bastion of self, the last refuge of her bewildered, clamoring mind, and Ramaes had taken it without so much as a "by your leave." Now, she was never alone, never disconnected from the rough and tumble madness of the Tower: she had no choice but to accept her own feedback and his, as well. If he itched, she itched; if he was hungry, her stomach growled despite however much she ate. Her body wasn't her own, and neither was her mind: it had thoughts of him where she wanted none. Sometimes, it was more than she wanted to bear, but bear it she did. Turning to her side, uncognizant of the fact that she'd settled slowly into a position the mirror of his, she pursued him down the rocky road of night's dreaming.
Soft noises awakened her: someone was trying to be silent. Slitting her tilted green eyes, Tahmelah lifted a hand to her shorn locks, then turned toward Ramaes. He was dressing in the dark, the jingles she'd heard the buckle of his belt as he stuffed his shirt inside. If he noticed her looking at him as he dressed, he said nothing: but then again, what could he say? She'd already felt, seen, or guessed at most of his anatomy, anyway - there were few secrets left between them, and those she still had, she guarded jealously. He finished dressing by driving his feet into his boots, stomping out of the tent, and she lay still. Now, she was alone, but not really: she felt him, heard his shock at the frigid air. He'd been born in Tear: she supposed this might honestly be his first real exposure to the arctic climate of a Borderland winter. She'd never been to Tear, and he'd never offered to take her, either, but then again, he'd never had the chance. His pin was so new that the gold paint hadn't flaked off the spikes in the tail yet - hers had begun, but was nothing like, say, Ryndil's, or Giraf's. Twisting to her opposite side, she tried to find solace in sleep again, but it wasn't coming. Her conscience prickled her like a thorn on a rose, and she couldn't determine why. It's almost dawn, anyway, she thought, discarding the last two hours she might have slept. Usually, she was awake at night, manning the Infirmary, balancing chamberpots and bandages, tallying stores of herbal remedies and cooking pots of thick salves. The Infirmary had become her world in the past few weeks, perhaps to save her from the constant void of cutting Ramaes out of her life. When she'd needed comfort, she had once gone to the Men's Barracks, sat on his bed, and complained at length - now, she didn't dare, and she didn't want to, either - did she? And would it matter at all if the answer was yes and no? As in, yes, she wanted his friendship back, but no, she didn't want this imposed closeness? He didn't honestly deserve forgiveness for what he'd done, and she'd been right to tell him so, but she hadn't been prepared for the loss of her best (and sometimes only) friend when she'd cast him out of her life! It had been a cruel double blow, unprecedented in her easy-going history, almost as vicious as the unwanted bonding itself. They had been supposed to be lovers, not enemies, and now, she couldn't stand the sight of him while still craving his presence. It was enough to drive a girl mad, if she wasn't already there. Dressing silently in the dark, she ducked low to exit the tent and made her silent way to the embers of the campfire, for two cups of tea. Ramaes Gavron I offered to take her with me It seemed an age since Ramaes had thought of home. Or, the home that was. He supposed that the Black Tower was now his home. Even if he returned to Tear, he doubted it would ever feel the same as it had before he'd begun to channel. Things were just different now. For one, there was no more Valerie to share his days with. She might be in Tear still, but Ramaes doubted she'd want him to visit. And he doubted that their friendship, however strong, would be the same. Now, the most important person in his life was the one person who wouldn't even speak to him, at least not anymore. She probably hates that we have to share a tent. He thought, and frowned, nibbling absently on a heel of bread. Patrol detail was proving to be utterly dull. Granted, Ramaes was quite glad that nothing eventful had occurred -- he wasn't in any hurry to fight trollocs, after all. But sitting on the edges of an ice-cold camp was bloody boring. Still, it had to be done. Better that than be caught unawares by some creature from the Blight. Or a patrol of Seanchan. Or anything, really. "I thought I'd bring you some tea." Ramaes barely managed to keep from jumping out of his skin, and managed to look only a little surprised by the time he whirled around. The last person he had expected to see was standing in the snow behind him, bearing two cups of what smelled like tea. Tahmelah. And apparently, at least to her, it was obvious she had caught him by surprise. And in more than one way, at that. "Thanks," he mumbled, and reached out to take one of the cups, still trying to form some coherent sentence inside his mind. It wasn't as if he could very well ask her what she was doing here -- that much was obvious...sort of. So he just let it rest, and instead said something that was probably just as stupid as half the rest of the thoughts he was having. "You startled me." Weren't all men just wonderful at stating the obvious, after all? Tahmelah Keiake The night clung to her like a swath of drapery: out here, under the stars and dwarfed by the misted mountains that rose like juggernauts intent on grasping the stars, it was easy to understand why Ramaes started at the sound of her voice. Tongues of steam curled around her wrist, foggy bracelets, warm and wet. Reluctantly, she ceded a cup to Ramaes’ groping hand, and pressed him over on the upturned log he’d chosen as a seat. He gave way reluctantly, as if he couldn’t stand to have her so close: not two months before, he would probably have scalded himself with his tea to make room for her to sit beside him. Time had hurried on, and even the sweetest things changed. With sad green eyes, weighted by unshed tears, she took the sliver he allotted her, feeling the rotting log splinter under the pressure of one untied boot. The silence between them was as thick as a Soldier’s first attempt at a griddlecake, but nowhere near as mushy in the middle. Once, she supposed, they might have sat together and dreamt fond thoughts of kisses under the moon, but now, thoughts and moon were gone, evaporated on the bright rays of time unending. The moon would be back, but the thoughts were banished – how could she let them return from her declaration of exile? To do so would be to forgive him, and there was no forgiveness for what he’d done to her. The tea was bitter, like her thoughts: she sipped it, knowing as she did that every cup came from leaves brewed again and again, uncaringly dried in the pot each afternoon and rebrewed the next night. It was warrior’s tea, hearty and hot without much more to recommend it: Tahmelah couldn’t help but contrast it to the carefully-blended brew her mother served on rainy afternoons to her embroidery circle. Ladies and maids alike sipped that delicate brew from dainty cups while their needles clicked and their tongues clacked: gossip and needlework went together. She had no taste for either, and no fondness for gossip, but still, she missed the tea, and the cozy warmth of the parlor fire. Time had taken that, too, and given her nothing except two pins, the gold paint flaking off one and the other, crusted with blood. That was what she and Ramaes had in common now: they were no longer people, only weapons. In a way, it was a lesson she had not yet learned – what teacher was there? What classroom? Their leaders were a lech and a liar – how could that aid them? Were they meant to learn that perversity in the face of adversity was a virtue, and that a quick tongue saved their hides at the cost of another’s? She couldn’t swallow those lessons, although she suspected she should: there was simply no relevance in them to the thoughts of noble and brave deeds she’d cherished in her dreams of being Asha’man. Perhaps she should have been Aes Sedai after all, she mused, but there was no appeal in learning to deceive with the body and the mind, either. She ignored Ramaes’ startlement: she had seen and felt it for herself. Panic, blooming like the feathered shaft of an arrow, had stabbed into her heart and sped her bloodflow. Even now, his heart was racing, but she felt no more panic. It could be her proximity, she supposed, but she didn’t press to unravel the mystery. The first few encounters they’d had after he’d bonded her had made it painfully clear just what he felt for her, and in a way, she supposed she was escaping that just as much as she was fighting his violation of her mind. She’d never asked to feel as he did, but she wasn’t going to admit to it again. Besides, the fact that he’d done this to her rather precluded their being lovers – how could she trust him? As easily as that, she was back up to the wall dividing the indivisible: one pair of staunch friends had become two embittered enemies, one still bewilderingly and blindly in love and the other…well, the other was simply stubborn. And proud, her mind added, with a hint of that great virtue. She scowled blackly, taking a deep draught of the tea in her hand (drunk from a battered tin cup without even the artifice of a handle to relieve its stark utility) and stared toward the horizon. Ramaes was glancing that way, too: she took advantage of the moment, studying him while he was distracted. They’d said everything she could think of at least once, and nothing had changed, really: she was still angry, he was still bemused, she was still his Warder and he was still her responsibility. Stifling the voice that protested her acknowledgment of that mental umbilicus between them, she sighed, resting her cup on the knee of her black woolen pants. “I bet you don’t remember how we met,” she said, not looking at him. “The fire, in the garden, and you standing there like you’d never seen so much as a candle. I should have known when I slapped you that you’d be nothing but trouble, you know.” That was another thing that was Byran’s fault, another way he’d found to discourage her advancement. Well, he’d never thwarted her forthrightly, but then again, he was a snake waiting to strike, hidden in a dark corner… He’d probably succeeded, too, in making sure that Tahmelah had no desire to serve in the Black Tower, but he’d struck too late. Between his mistake and her ambition, her die was cast, and she was the Dragon’s to kill or keep, now. Until the Last Battle was won or lost, she didn’t have the luxury of belonging to herself, or to anyone else, for that matter. “You’re a jealous, conniving jackal, Ramaes Gavron,” she sighed, swallowing more tea, “and you’ve finally managed to make sure that I can’t ever leave you. I should hate you forever, but,” she said, standing up from the soggy, sagging log, “sometimes I just can’t. You were the best friend I’ve ever had, and if I hate you, I lose him, too. Oh, you can’t understand,” she griped, shaking her head, missing the feel of silky curls bouncing belligerently around one another. “Just, I think from now on, it’s better if we don’t speak.” Ramaes Gavron The words coming out of Tahmelah's mouth hurt, and on some level Ramaes was fairly sure he deserved them. But for some reason, he was beginning not to care. Here they were, sitting in the cold on the edge of a camp, days away from a possible run-in with a bunch of trollocs or something worse out of the Blight, having yet another heart-to-heart which should have ended in Ramaes asking for forgiveness (again). For once, though, he didn't feel like it. He was sick to death of feeling like he'd done something wrong. "Just, I think from now on, it's better if we don't speak." She said, without looking at him. Instead, she was staring into her battered tin cup of tea. Ramaes hadn't touched his, and it had grown cold. Finally, he stood, dumping the tea into the snow, where it hissed in protest. Finally, he turned, and faced Tahmelah. Through the bond he felt her shock -- maybe she hadn't expected him to get up? For some reason, he wasn't feeling anything at the moment, though. A stillness had settled into him. Maybe it was duty overriding regular common sense. Maybe it was something else. For once, though, while knowing he should have been angry, he wasn't. "This mission dictates that we have to be around each other for the next few days, Tahmelah." He began, and barely recognized his own voice. He sounded like he had in Tear. When he'd actually been in control of his life. A bitter smile touched his lips, and he continued. "But you're right. We don't have to speak to each other." He lifted the empty cup, gesturing towards her with it. "Thank you for the tea." And then he left. Just turned around and went back the way he'd come. And now the anger made it's appearance. It was strange, being angry. It reminded him of a time he'd almost forgotten about. One hand reached out, briefly, to pluck up something small, silky, blue and with very little lace. He could guess that the women here could make anything they owned into any size you could think of. It dangled from his fingers limply, and he carefully laid it over the edge of one of the display racks. “That would be more appropriate, I think.” He went on, and glanced at her one last time before brushing past her, and moving out of the small store. He hadn't been particularly angry, then. Not like now. He had bonded Tahmelah, of course. And he was willing to admit that the way he'd gone about it had been wrong. But he had done it for her own good, hadn't he? He'd been attempting to do the right thing and it had somehow exploded into his face. So much for gratitude. Or even understanding. No, it seemed that Tahmelah Keiake would never understand his motivations. And worse -- it didn't seem like she wanted to. It really was too bad. Tahmelah Keiake He might be pretending that there was nothing between them when he walked away, but Tahmelah felt the truth. Her brow quirked smoothly upward at the whiplash of rage that came back at her, boiling like the teapot, howling a strident whistle over on the metal tripod that held it over the embers. For the sake of those who still slept, Tahmelah plucked the thing from the heat with a scowl, laying it safely down to one side of the ringed stones that kept the campfire coals from setting the savannah steppe on fire. The sudden silence was a blessing, but it did nothing to ease the tension in her back or shoulders. Was this what it had felt like for Ramaes, these past few weeks? He still deserved that, she told herself, staunchly, stepping forward to relieve Ramaes' partner of his night vigil. The topknotted man - she should know which he was, but they really did all look alike - gave her half a grateful nod before slinking back to his blankets. She watched him go, knowing he'd wake the Shienaran she'd assigned to partner her, and started to walk a loose circumference of the camp. If she held still, the frigid cold would put her to sleep, deep hypothermia that there would be no awakening from. It was a wonder Ramaes had managed to escape frostbite, really, but then again, he wasn't unobservant enough to have stood still, like an amateur, despite the fact that they both were new to being real soldiers. He'd imitated his Shienaran partner, who walked this wild country like he owned it. Ramaes continued to seethe even as dawn broke: she had thought he'd be asleep by then. The camp rose slowly, but without leisure: each man had some morning task that was quickly and silently accomplished. Feeling like a gear out of place, Tahmelah watched the horses made ready, the breakfast portioned out, fresh tea made - she'd been wrong about the ancient taste of the liquid, then - and the tents struck and rolled tautly closed before being secured to saddles. The entire process had seemed an effortless ballet, a graceful dance often practiced, and perhaps it was. With another cup of tea and some bread and cheese to fill her stomach, she was more than prepared to give back to Ramaes what he was giving her - pure, unadulterated and unalloyed anger. Somehow, though, that old feeling had paled. It couldn't be an indication that it was finally time to stop mincing about like a wounded puppy told to stay behind - could it? She cast a glance his way and didn't see him turn quickly away: he was well and truly angry. She clung to saidar most of the morning, wearing it despite the skin-crawling cold, and she suspected he was hiding in the battle with saidin. The Shienaran legion left them alone, for the most part, only daring to confront one of them or the other when they wanted to make some request or ask to see the map that Tahmelah had in her saddlebags. After a while, she found that she liked the interruptions, and despite the heavy, glaring weight of Ramaes' green eyes, she kicked Dawn Star forward, letting her trot at the head of the small group. The afternoon was as uneventful as the morning: the Dragonwall grew closer, and the pass they'd been directed to slowly coalesced in the mountains, a cavity between jagged teeth. There was rot and gore to be found there, Trollocs by Tower intelligence, and Tahmelah was supposed to gauge their number and armaments before she returned to the Tower - without getting killed. It wasn't much of a job for a Healer, she suspected, but any chance to show versatility was a useful opportunity: if she returned with all four men and Ramaes, she'd be able to put herself forward for more...prestigious...ventures, where a Healer was a necessity. In this reconnaissance work, she was a luxury, and possibly a hindrance. At least I can ride, she thought, smugly, Dawn Star's reins gathered loosely in her gloved hands as the horse roamed forward. Ramaes was sitting stiffly, and she knew he ached - she had to feel it. Experimentally, she poked that knot in her mind that was Ramaes, and it budged. In her mind, it was soft and yielding, a pliable thing she could wrap around itself - and thrust away. Blessed Light, but her mind seemed to be her own again! Almost jubilantly, she nudged the horse into a canter, and heard the incessant clopping of hooves behind her as the Shienarans followed suit. Let Ramaes stay in the rear, she decided, her eyes fastened on Adulah's Leap, the mirage oasis starting to gather at the edge of the horizon. We're making good time, she thought, proudly, and we should arrive there tomorrow, I think. She pushed the horses and the men past sunset, and when the party stopped, even Tahmelah had to admit that she ached. When Ramaes came to their tent, she turned away from him - and he said nothing, only laid down to sleep. She stared at her wall of striped canvas until the moonlight ceased to differentiate between red and white, and then she slept, too, dreaming vague nightmares of being stranded alone in a howling storm.
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