The First Age

Music, lively and spirited thrummed over the noise of the tavern. At its center was a gorgeous creature. He had dark, swirly hair, eyes that many a woman had fallen into the trap of his gaze, and whose energy was larger than life. Or maybe he was just that bloody drunk.

But he had a hell of a singing voice. His vocal timbre was rich and velvety as his coat, and he boasted an impressive range. His emotions carried sarcasm that drew clapping as often as riotous laughter. He was presently singing an arrangement to the jubilant flourish of a hard-strummed lute. But beyond his technical prowess, his performance was masterful in infusing what he wanted to convey. At present, it was the sour sound of sarcasm for all their dismal fates.

He began by tapping a boot on a box. Then a hand on the bowl of the lute. Others joined in.

“Shadows creep, danger's callin' loud,
But we've got our dragon, its a jolly crowd,”

Magical fingers flourished up and down the strings just as the performer’s eyes flashed around the room.

“In the grand design, we're all just pawns,
But who cares, let's dance till the mornin' dawns!”

“Oy!”

The melody tapped steady, ironically upbeat for the irreverence in the lyrics.

“Oh, the ever-spinning Wheel of time,
Got’s us dancin' to its rhythm and rhyme.”

His voice swung high. His tongue sweeping the words.

“Lift your tankards high, let's all agree,
For this twisted Pattern, we're as free as can be!”

“Hah!”

And he finished with a flourishing rap of a half-drank ale and knocked it back with a satisfying “Ahhh!” for the grand finale.

All around him, thirty similar tankards sloshed and were guzzled like little puppets on his marionettes. Hardly a hall of ten thousand, but he smirked just the same.

Soon after, while gathering up the coin left on his table, a pair of hands snaked around his arm. A whisper fluttered his ear lobe that made him happy to turn and swiftly find the attached lips pressed to his.

She tasted like bad ale and apples, but as she thrust her tongue into his mouth, he caught sight of a figure that made him decide he was fine with it. When he caught his breath a while later, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and sank into a seat. “Now, now. At least let me get comfortable while your friend robs me.”

He pat his knee just as a woman she came with slipped out the door. “Come on.” He pat again and fixed her with an expectant look.

Surprise flashed her expression, and to Jole’s disappointment, she decided to take the con elsewhere. No hard feelings.

He laughed, and ate an apple on his way out.




“You brought a lute. You going to play for us?”

“As much as I’m paying you girls, you should be the one playing for me.”

She plucked his hand from the bed, pressing deeply into a callous built up there. Jole couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t have callouses. He’d taken to the lute easily enough, but it was an instrument he had to learn. Prior to that, stringed instruments are far more sophisticated, but the gist was near enough the same. He mastered it quickly. When she sucked on his finger, a devilish smile split his face from the distraction of nostalgia.

With a nice slurping sound that said she was done teasing him, she tugged her companion from the bed and wrapped her arms around her friend’s waist.

“We’ll dance if you play for us.” And their hips began to sway.

Jole never said he couldn’t be persuaded.

Given that he was presently extremely comfortable, pillows made for a nice pile behind his back, and one leg was strewn across the lump of blankets, he decided to use the One Power to levy the lute.

They gasped with delight, and Jole smirked as the lute landed on his bare lap.

“You’re a channeler!” One girl exclaimed. “Are you one of those men from the Black Tower?” the other asked.

“Please. Don’t insult me.” He smiled to himself as nimble fingers plucked at the strings. Its strumming music was simple. Sensual.

And this time, he enjoyed his show.




Pounding on the door was almost as bad as the pounding in his head. Except the door gave way and his head did not.

Light filtered in the room most annoyingly.

Jole shoved a pillow over his face. But what made him bury his head deeper was the pair of voices overhead.

“Dustier than the Waste in here.”
“Its a trolloc den. How can anyone sleep in this?”
“Is he alive under all that?”
“Oh Sleeper, Rise and Shine lest your dreams become as tangled as these sheets!”

This was bad.

Suddenly, his blanket was violent ripped away. And by blanket, he meant the pile of arms and legs criss-crossing his body disentangled themselves from his skin. It was out right chilly without all the snuggling.

With a grumble, he rolled over. The hangover fogged his gaze. If he was at all disturbed with his nakedness in front of two Maidens of the Spear, he did not show it.

They, on the other hand, had seen as much before.

“Come on, Jorin. The car’a’carn has summoned you.”

He flat out rolled over instead, throwing an arm across his eyes.

“Its too damn early.”

A spear pricked him in the ass. 

“Ow!” He glared, eyes flashing dark.

Knowing these two, they would beg him to resist just so they could tie him up and drag him out by his own ankles.

So he stumbled out of bed and into some clothes.

An hour later he was rubbing his head and glaring at someone else.





“What is it?” He asked, still groggy and still annoyed to be there at all.

He collapsed in a chair, throwing a leg over the side. Shirt unlaced and untucked, the scruff of days-unshaved face, and circles under his eyes, it was obvious he wasn’t worried about keeping up appearances.

“What do you know about the dreadlords?”

He scratched the back of his neck, thinking.

“Nothing.”

“You must know something.”

He shrugged. Despite the headache, the One Power flowed its trickle until a little green flame hopped from fingertip to fingertip like a toy.

Silence stretched out long and ominous until the demand inherent in the sound of his name forced him to look up. “Ashtaroth.” It was still unsettling to see Lews hiding behind a face that didn’t belong to him.

He grumbled. He had an answer, but his voice droned to give it. Far from the jubilant performer of the night before. “Dreadlord is a rank under Chosen. It’s given to weaker men and women who pledged their souls to the Great Lord of the Dark.”

“But what about when the taint infected saidin? It should have driven the male dreadlords mad.”

He shrugged again. “Obviously.”

“But it didn’t.”

“Obviously.”

He could hear the irritation in Lews’ voice, and he suppressed a smirk. Feeling smug, he decided to give him something. “Before the cleansing, we were all protected. Myself included. The Great Lord’s protection!” He made a grand gesture, then tiredly dropped his hands back on the chair and tilted his head to gauge the reaction.

It wasn't as entertaining as he'd hoped. He shrugged and went on.

“I assume the same was offered to all of them as well. It’s a perk. Sell your soul. Save your sanity. All your Companions should have taken the deal back then. Would have saved us all a lot of trouble.” He chuckled.

Lews did not.

“Fine... Why are you asking about dreadlords?”

“Ever heard of one who goes by the name, Arikan?”

Jole’s face tilted the other way. Newly interested. “Yes. Yes I have.”

The paper was smudged with dry blood. Jole sighed and simply took it, clearly not uncomfortable with the evidence of murder soaked into the parchment. His hands held worse. His hands did worse.

Lews was thin on the specifics, but learning that the note was literally staked to the body of the Dragon's second in command made him properly laugh. That didn’t go over well either.

“Come on? That’s creative if I say so myself.”

Rand al’Thor:
Get your shit together.
See you at Shayol Ghul.
- Arikan

“What do you know of him?”

Jole rubbed his face, finally feeling more alert despite the hangover. “I never met him myself. Though I heard he caused quite a stir a few years back.”

“Why would Forsaken be concerned about a mere dreadlord?”

Jole studied the man’s face. If he squinted, he could almost see the same righteousness as before surging back out of those eyes.

“Because, dear Dragon, in the War of Power, he was a ‘Forsaken.’ What? You don’t remember?” A challenge held his gaze. He knew the man hated it when he lorded his fresh memories over the reborn soul’s foggy ones.

Soon, he waved away the question in good jest. Of course their dear Dragon didn’t remember.

“Well. To be precise, he was one of us ‘Chosen to rule the world forever!'” He announced the title loud and obnoxious as if it actually meant something. Clearly that was going so well. The only kingdom that Jole ruled was his bed, and even then, he abdicated from time to time as the sore ass-cheek reminded him.

“Even reborn, he was a threat, and threats can’t be abided. There are only thirteen seats now and the music is still playing.” He waited, but when he didn’t get a reaction, his expectation turned to a frown. Didn’t they play that game any more? Guess not.

“What would Shayol Ghul mean to him?”

Jole lifted a curious brow. He had a suspicion but best he keep that information to himself for now. ‘Get your shit together’ didn’t sound like the tone of a man wanting to challenge the dragon. 

“Hell if I know. Asristin always had a stick up his ass. Maybe he’s asking you on a date.” Still nothing.

“Asristin…” he repeated the name like he was testing it. Jole decided to change tactics.

“He followed you, you know.”

That took the cursed man by surprise. Finally. Jole decided to indulge.

“Rather obsessive about it too. Like I said: a pain in the ass. I’m glad I didn’t have to deal with him in the war. Lilis… er, Merihem was afraid of him too.” His voice trailed with the unexpected wave of emotion. Asristin would have kicked his ass if it came to facing him. The bastard was unbreakable, and knew it too, but Jole was smart. It never came to that.

“'Too'? Are you saying you were afraid of him?”

A flash of darkness crossed Jole's expression, and he ignored the question.

“Then one day he up and flipped sides. I assumed you did something to piss him off. Did you?” The previous flicker was carefully hidden away, and he studied the other man carefully. But to his disappointment, no sign of recognition gave away a clue as to what happened. Either way, Asristin was full of himself enough to be the great Lord’s favorite. Or near enough to it.

“Why wasn’t he trapped in the bore with the rest of you then?”

Jole decided he was tired of talking.
“I want some wine.”

“It’s not even lunch yet.”

This time Jole fixed a look. “And a healer to wash away this headache.”

“Just in time to fill your head back up with more wine?” He crossed his arms, impatient.

But Jole only smiled. “I’m done talking for now. I’m too thirsty.”

He rose, sauntering by the pair of Maidens waiting outside and relayed his friendly requests as he passed. “Send the healer to my room. I’ll be there resting my vocal cords.” And he laughed boisterous and amused, humming to himself as he strolled.

Devika did not knock, just pressed her grip about the handle with the same whirlwind intent that had propelled her down the corridor. Any nod to privacy would be wasted on its occupant given his gleeful propensity for courting attention, and it gave him less chance to mount whatever pathetic display he intended to regale on the expected healer. Not that some kind of debauchery was not anticipated within. An assumption also made given the identity of the chamber’s occupant.

"Jorin, Jorin, Jorin," she said, brows aloft as she entered, tone resigned to disappointment. Her dark gaze scanned the general disarray of the room before planting on the man in question, mostly to ascertain whether he was alone; though likely any company would scurry the moment it was clear an Aes Sedai stood in the door frame. "Which of the Maidens have you offended for them to think it an amusing sport to sweet talk me to your door? Else perhaps it was not the Maidens you have annoyed today?"

If she knew anything of it she did not say. Vika teased like a lioness playing with a haunch of meat – assuming it was teasing, and one could never really be sure with her. Unsurprising she got on so well with the fierce women who guarded the Dragon; moreso than the man himself, despite the long years that had passed since she pledged her loyalty to him. "If you have some indelicate disease again, I am not looking at it,” she warned. Her lips curved into a smile. “Reds are so unfamiliar with those shrivelled little things anyway. Perhaps the best advice would be to simply cut it off."

Ah, the sound of his fake name. It was a good name, one invented so many years past that he still fondly remembered the first time it was uttered on the winds of desperation and chance. The impatience in the woman that entered said the great Dragon sent a healer after all, but not one happy to be in Jole’s humble presence, which was always quite surprising. Even in his prime, there was hardly an Aes Sedai he couldn't charm to his cause. He popped a grape into his mouth but didn’t bother shifting. It was too uncomfortable to move. Despite his shirt flung open as far as it could go, sweat clung his clothes to his body. It was bloody hot, and he yearned for the ice fans of the previous Age. Despite the oppressive air, the windows were shuttered and the room heavy with dimness. He wasn’t lying when he claimed the desire for a healer.

When he bothered to glance at the woman who interrupted his deep thoughts, his expression fell to flatness. “I am offended, Aes Sedai.” He clearly did not remember her name - else he wanted her to believe it was forgotten - even if he recognized her. “If I have annoyed our great lord Dragon, I will surely apologize immediately.” He smirked.

Head cocked to the side, three hundred year old eyes studied her up and down. He’d been threatened with worse, of course. And despite the modern Aes Sedai’s binding themselves to the truth, he wouldn’t underestimate this one’s capacity to make good on her promise. 

“Let me know if you ever want to acquaint yourself with my ‘shriveled’ organ, strictly for educational purposes of course, so long as we don't detach it. I’m happy to play the role of teacher.” He held that fiery gaze with mirth unflinching. He could make good on promises also.

“But not now. I’ve too disruptive a headache and our dear Dragon does so much want to talk. Let’s not keep him waiting?” A flick of the hand waved her over expectantly. 

Laying himself comfortably amid a mountain of pillows, one arm thrown up over his head, and a shit-eating grin plastered on his muddled face, Jorin was certainly in no rush.

Devika flattened a hand to her chest; made an expression that suggested disappointment at the relegation. Most Reds would have taken offence at both his manner and the insouciant way he lay flung back on his bed, with nary a hint of proper acknowledgement for the arrival of an Aes Sedai. Let alone the lewd topic of banter. But Vika favoured honey as much as the whip, and she’d grown up dockside. Her ardent stride brought her into the room, a twist of saidar unlatching and flinging wide the shutters as she did so. The burst of natural light did not much improve the view. He was a sweaty and debauched mess; one she studied with the same shrewd attention upon which he had subjected her moments before. Absent the absurd tilt of the head, of course. There was a carnivorous light to her gaze, though impossible to tell if she was thinking about his offer or something more intrinsic to her Ajah.

“I’m pleased your malaise has not affected your memory,” she said of his willingness to play teacher, “though I do hope you are regaling the Lord Dragon with more useful lessons. I suspect a man with so many wives does not need the kind of education you seem to profess your only valuable skill.” She came closer as bid, and looked down upon him with dark eyes. A manicured brow rose. When she leaned the gold draped about her neck shifted across the low neckline of her bodice. Vika's cool palm pressed against his slick forehead, but if the gesture was motherly, the words that followed were decidedly not – for all the sugary way she said them.

“The problem with being a teacher, Jorin, is that it is a very finite role. Are you sure you are still useful? The Maidens tell me you have been ill often of late.”

To set one thing straight, Jole liked living. So much that he could easily recognize the tells of one who wanted to kill him. It was ironically similar to the ones who wanted to jump his bones, but just then he wasn’t sure he could decipher which was which at the present. Best to assume the former until otherwise known. Such as when the Red leaned over him like a temptress, Jole did nothing but allow his dark gaze to drift. “Nice necklace.” His compliment was playful, but it was upon her eyes that he soon settled his contemplation.

He tapped his temple with a crooked finger. “My mind is a chasm of knowledge, Aes Sedai. Such as, allow me to help-“ and that devil-may-care grin peered deeply back as his hands mimed the modern movement: swirling around each other in a circle before a palm slowly stretched to cover her heart. “That’s Healing. You try now. I know you can do it.”

The Chosen at large were annoyingly quiet, which meant they were far from idle. None would be wasting away their immortality as Jole at present. Then again, none were shielded from all but a trickle of their powers. Dangling strings and poking prods at the great Dragon was entertaining for a long while, but the truth of the matter was Jole was bored out of his mind. Perhaps it was the Wheel’s destiny that news of Asristin resurfaced when it did, but there was one small issue plaguing the return of another infamous, and incredibly more talented soul, to the world. This dark-damned shield; and she’d never undo it.

And yet the Wheel might have presented a solution to that issue as well; currently hovering bosom over breast at this very moment.

He licked his lips, crusted with the dryness of a hangover, below the blanche of a face that had seen more than its fair share of shit in life. He decided to dangle a dangerous bait and see if she nibbled. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps my time here has come to its end. You’ll have to ask him yourself, but beware, he is so sentimental, and our friendship has endured… many centuries.”

His face tilted from one side to the other, waiting for the pieces to fall like locks in her mind. If not, she’d probably assume him mad, and Jorin would go about his day all the same.

“Would you like to know what it does? Besides distraction, of course.”

She plucked his hand away from where it hovered and laid it back against his own chest. Her own lay atop, the gold serpent on her finger intentionally prominent. There was no force behind the movement, or the pressure applied, but there was an undeniable thread of threat in the intimate gesture.

Devika had never trusted this man. Long years passed since she’d left the Tower and its perversion of her Ajah’s purpose, but if she accepted saidin’s cleansing she had lived too long in the grip of its tainted consequences. Her oaths to the Dragon were steadfast. He did not tell her everything, and nor would she expect him to; that red-fringe on her shawl had never endeared her, despite decades of staunch loyalty and the conspiracies she uncovered for his protection. It would have been a poor testament to her instincts to never suspect the man who remained constantly at his side throughout it all.

Suspicion and knowledge were different beasts though. The liquid dark of her attention did not break. Her expression betrayed little of her internal reaction to all but a confession from his own lips; truth or madness, and each equally damning. But he should not expect such tells from an Aes Sedai, and certainly not one as experienced as she.

Jorin had never harmed the Dragon. Trust had even loosened his chains – and he was chained, for even a fool could see he had once been kept here as a prisoner. If the Dragon often chose to eschew Devika’s confidences on account of her Ajah, the Maidens certainly did not, for they at least understood the temerity of her role here. And women talked. Devika protected the car’a’carn as much as they did, and with the same terrible ferocity. Yet as the years continued to roll by and the Last Battle still did not come, Vika began to fear assassination or betrayal was not the Dark One’s ploy at all. That it was the delay itself which was damaging, and the mortal-seeming man whose heart she could literally feel beating beneath the lay of their hands might well be the slothful monster responsible.

If any action tempted her in that vulnerable moment, it was not to gentle what remained of his power. For surely something castrated him into subservience already. He would not have spent his time here otherwise.

“Sometimes it is wiser to ask forgiveness rather than permission, no? Advice I’m sure you have lived by.” She leaned to say the words, as sensuous and intense as desert heat. Her fingers padded a contemplative drum across his own. But after a moment she only pat his hand, and finally found enough offence in his presence to retreat. She sighed as she did it, and cast sultry eyes over her shoulder.

“I have asked him many times,” she added. None who lingered close to the Dragon were beyond the scope of her scrutiny, and she had argued for years that he must be careful of this one even as it seemed she was not trusted with the light-bloody truth. The shield slammed down hard on the heels of her words, and bindings of air trussed Jorin tight. Vika’s expression tightened into a glare for his sheer stupidity in goading her. “But I trust the Lord Dragon’s word, Jorin. So this time, let us ask him together. Perhaps if you offer him that apology quickly enough, he will remember your sentimental friendship with fondness. Let us indeed not keep him waiting.”

A flick of power unlatched the door, where two Maidens waited beyond. The man was a fool if he’d thought an Aes Sedai had been sent to see to his comforts, and a bigger fool to walk away from the Dragon in the first place. Devika folded her arms. Jorin could walk, or he could be dragged; and she thought she knew which the Maidens would prefer.

She had the motherly viper-vibe down to an art, and for an infinite moment, Jole wondered if she might produce fangs with which to plunge into his throat. She leaned near enough for it, but the curl of disgust sent her away, and upon the retreat, Jole smiled to himself.

The amusement was short-lived. The squeeze of a shield soon penetrated his skin much to his disappointment to trade the sensation for healing. Supposing he was asking for a lot to claim what he had and still find relief from this headache afterward. Did she sense the other shield already in place? Did she shudder at his power? He watched closely for signs of either.

Curiously, additional bondage wrapped his arms, which he tested as though not his first time, and found them quite secure.
“You know how awkward it will be to stand all tied up like this? You could have just asked.” His reaction thus far was playful, lacking any hint of darkness or anger. Whatever her reaction, eventually, he slithered to his feet. It was rather unnatural, walking without the swing of the arm nor the twitch of his ever-moving fingers, but somehow, Jole made a show of it anyway.

“Don’t you want to know my name?” He hopped to her side with more energy than his previous infirm state belied. When Jole peered around at her face it was at an agile angle. There, she would find a teasing smirk fluttering his lips. “Well… My other name.”

She fixed him with such a dismissive look, he was almost offended.
”No.”

“You must be curious. Unless you’re clever enough to guess, but you can’t know for sure.”

”You are the one who got captured, Jorin. Or bested. Or betrayed. And you are also the one I will plug the mouth of, if you do not be quiet.”

If there was a moment for darkness, it was then. How could she not want to know? More, reminders of that particular day were not welcome, but he was liking where this was going. The fleeting dark fled his aura, and he smiled to himself as he slipped into compliant step just behind her.

One of the Maidens looked back as the low-peering look of Jole’s favor settled on her in turn. Her smile was a sneer of teeth that he might have taken for predatory amusement if they’d met in the dark. Another Maiden followed behind. It was a proper escort, Jole thought of himself. One Aes Sedai was certainly enough, though he deserved the honor of more; she must have noticed the shield easy to slip over his head, but for now, he was content to be imagined as a threat. He’d dreamed of this day; it was more attention than he could remember enjoying in a long time. 

Despite the warning, or perhaps because of it, he continued, voice hovering just out of sight.
“Oh, but if you do that, how will I be able to explain to my dear friend where to find the M’Hael’s murderer? Did you hear he’d been assassinated? Again. So tragic.” His eyes flashed excited for the scintillating news, though even if she dared not glance back, she’d hear the vibrant bounce in his voice. A Red may not care, but he anticipated she would perk an ear about assassins brushing too close for comfort. “What did you think we were talking about this morning? Until that dreadful headache interrupted such a nice conversation.” His tongue clicked a tsk, tsk of disappointment.

He was going to continue enjoying the sound of his own voice until she made good on her threat. He was humming the previous night’s tune—

“Oh, the ever-spinning Wheel of time,
Got’s us dancin' to its rhythm and rhyme.”

—when the gag finally pried its way into his mouth. It was a little uncomfortable but tolerable.

It seemed that the Aes Sedai stood on high authority with his Dragonship. It took little fanfare to grant their unexpected entrance.

Of course, when Jole was presented all strung up and obviously gagged, the most satisfying expression of surprise crossed the Dragon’s face. He laid aside what he was holding and approached. His gaze narrowed upon meeting Jole’s eye, and in that tired, more aged face than Jole cared to admit, he saw a truth that would likely surprise the Forsaken himself. Of course, there was nothing obvious Jole could do about his predictament at the moment. So he opted to sit in the same chair he’d occupied that morning, cross his legs and watch the show.

When the Dragon spoke, he commanded the room, but Jole thought he sensed a measure of pity between the words. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. “Devika, you can let him go. He’s not dangerous.”

Jole’s brows arched high. A polite but interesting way to put it despite the fact the Dragon’s assessment was momentarily accurate. It’s not like knives were hidden up his sleeves.

Though she might be as inscrutable as any sister, there was little about Devika that could be called serene. She waited in stormy silence for him to make the decision between shifting himself and being hauled by the Aiel women in the hallway, and only unfolded her arms when he slunk as insouciant as a cat towards the door. She mostly ignored him on the escort, blunt with her answers for the very reason she understood he craved the attention, and did not turn for the insidious whispers, though they pricked her skin. An impassioned temper lurked beneath her skin, and might have found ignition but for her narrow focus to a task. In that she was stubbornly disciplined.

The gag welcomed some blessed silence when he declined the invitation for quiet. Wiser for him to come to understand quickly that when she said she would do something, she would. Fair chance was certainly always given, but she would not be distracted. Afterwards she set a pace inconvenient for Jorin’s hobbled legs, but might provide plenty of sport for the Maidens behind them. Hair streaming from her shoulders at their speed, she meanwhile stewed on what he had said.

When they arrived the Dragon had the utter gall to look surprised. Devika offered her usual gestures of respect as Jorin sauntered his way to a chair, and sat with all the lordly comfort of familiarity. She followed that with a thin glare, before her attention returned. The Dragon looked beyond weary, all truth told; a realisation that always disturbed her in his presence, but steeled her now.

“What he is, Lord Dragon, is wasted,” she said.

Which was not, she imagined, what Jorin might have expected her to open with. She did not look for his reaction. Nor did the bindings loosen let alone free. A suggestion was not the same as a command, and the moment Jorin found freedom for his tongue he would begin to weave the narrative to his liking. Since he looked comfortable enough for a show, she intended to give him one.

“I have never spoken less than bluntly to you, even when you do not like it,” she continued. Which was certainly true, and did not always fall in her favour, but her ardour was always consistent and plain. The Dragon could rely upon that. Her chin titled with that passion now, and she looked every inch the prowling lioness for all that she stood in regal place. That she was angry was clear, if held in glittering check. At whom was less apparent.

“He whores and drinks, and undermines your very authority in the process. Whatever purpose he may once have served, he has surpassed it, unless that purpose is to make you look foolish. For you may think the leash is still kept tight in your fist, Lord Dragon, but it has assuredly run slack to allow for such confessions as he has just offered to me.” She let the accusation settle to understanding in those tired eyes, and Light bloody take the man for never trusting her with a truth that he should have long ago shared plainly from his own lips. Worse was the wound of his having assumed she would not suspect. A double folly and injury both, given the loyalty pledged and the ways she had proved herself ten times over. She even gave him time to refute it, injustice that it would be – as if a secret once slithered from its shell could ever be so easily contained. Jorin made this mess for a reason, she’d wager, but she meant to use it all the same.

When no refutation came, just stony silence and a look at the man in question, Devika pursed her lips; unsure if she was pleased or incandescently angry still.

“You have no need of a teacher. And he is no friend to you. Or the Light. If I thought you would listen to sense, I would beg you to balefire him this very moment and have done with it.” Her tone took a calmer cadence then, the outburst flared in all its fiery glory to the silence between storms. The Dragon wouldn’t, she knew; not after the thirty-odd years of companionship in which he had perhaps convinced himself this man meant no harm. Still, she did pause, lest she be proved wrong. A simpler, cleaner answer. But of course he did not.

“At the very least he should be Gentled now, Lord Dragon. What need has he of the power any longer? His soul is still sworn to the Dark One himself, and dangerous for it. He cannot ever be set free, no matter how dull his teeth. Perhaps you intend to let him rot at your side until Tarmon Gaidon be upon us, and have one less of them in the battle to come. If so I will bow to your judgement, as ever I have.”

Forsaken did not make mistakes, and there was far too much deviousness even in the mask Jorin presented to court for her to trust the pity in the Dragon’s gaze. Because oh she saw it; the softness eroded carefully over long years. Devika finally turned her gaze towards Jorin, openly seeking his reaction. To rotting, castrated of his power and resigned to literal shadow: the stagnant fate that awaited him here.

“Yet if what else he says is true, he may have one final purpose,” she finally added.

There was little slyness in Devika, but it did not mean she was not perilously sharp, and she certainly knew desire. Jorin had eyes on freedom. He could not be left to the power remaining to him, and Light send the Dragon granted that boon at least, lest the dull blade he so carelessly left lying around was one day plunged right into his back. It was a weapon of which Devika intended to make full use though; as the Dragon clearly intended once, and failed to harness.

For a moment longer her attention lingered, reading what she could of him, before she finally looked back to the Dragon. She did not know if what Jorin professed about Daniel Larnair’s assassination was true, but one look at the severe expression laid before her answered in all certainty. For a moment her eyes widened, but it was soon followed by a tight jaw and fierce flare of her nostrils. He should have come to her first. Light-forsaken fool of a man.

“Speak then, Devika. What is it you want?” When he folded his arms, the dragons on them flexed. It was possible he recognised the incendiary burn of her temper, and planned to navigate it with placation, but she wondered by the brief look he planted on Jorin then if something of sympathy and buried annoyance made him tractable instead. For if Jorin finally trickled the leaking truth of this poor secret, it was to the one woman apt to burst the very banks of it wide. Jorin might not know nor care of her storied reputation, but the Dragon certainly did. A compromise must be reached. Devika herself acceded to the Dragon’s will, but she’d be well within her rights to take this to the Tower, and they would not be so reasonable as she.

She did not sugar-coat it.

“I ask that you turn him over to me, so that I might set him to proper work. Let me use him as you have not, for the Light’s purpose and yours, to root out the Shadow. I will ensure he makes good on his word to assist you. But first he must be Gentled. He cannot leave Tear with a Shield you did not create.”

“If punishment is what you are asking, then say so. A Gentled man will be of little use to you. You are asking me for a husk.”

“And who else has more experience of it than I? Men survive it through purpose, and you could not possibly give him a greater one. So far as I have ever seen he does nothing with his time but languishes it away, though he has had every opportunity to be an asset to you. By now he might have earned more than your pity. Yet he cannot even manage a simple conversation when you require it. He needs more incentive, clearly. Else you need to accept that it is time to end the cruelty, and do what you should have done years ago. What I would still counsel you to do.”

Her plea was impassioned and fierce in equal measure. Truthfully, the Dragon’s reluctance to eradicate one of the Forsaken no matter how he presented himself sent a spike of cold fear into her chest. How deep did this poison spread? She needed to detach this bloody leach by any means available to her.

“Give him the chance to redeem himself if you must, if it's even what he truly wants; if it's even possible. But don't leave him the tools to betray you, Rand. What I would take could be returned. But if you are wrong about him, and he takes you from us, then you will have doomed us all, your wives and children included, out of pity for a Forsaken.”

“I have heard you, Aes Sedai,” he answered after a moment. For once she could read little in his expression. “And now you will let him speak.”

Her lips twitched, annoyed that he felt the need. But with a flick of her hand, she obeyed.

"Illusion is the first of all pleasures."
-Jole Addam Messosin,
The Second Age



Talk of balefire swathed Jole’s blasé expression with one of genuine concern. He knew the risk of playing with the flame, but he did not really think balefire was on the table. It was a terrible idea, and the opinion was not only in self-service. When something was so dangerous even the Shadow agreed to a truce, the Light ought to stick to the terms. Luckily for Jole, this new Dragon already learned the follies of scorching threads permanently from the Pattern, but he did make sure the suggestion was dismissed before relaxing once more.

He was an otherwise passive listener to the developing tale for his fate. Devika did have a way with words, blunt as a hammer as they were, but he admired the way she unfurled the plan for the Dragon’s tired eyes. Technically, it was his plan, but still, she sold it well. As such, Jole tapped his foot, the only appendage that was free to wiggle, to the rhythm of a song only he could hear, and when her stormy face sought his reaction, he gave her a daring nod of approval. It was obvious that was readily enjoying himself.

By the time the bonds evaporated, Jole was practically sitting on his hands to keep himself from clapping. It had been a merry show, and now, the true performer was ready to take the stage. He cleared his throat and stood.

After scratching at the ever-thickening neck beard lining his throat, he met the Dragon's steely gaze eye to eye.

“Are you ready to answer my last question?” He asked in reference to their earlier conversation.

Jole cocked his head to the side as though pondering what exactly that was. “Let’s see. Was it ‘why was Asristin not sealed in the bore with the rest of us?’”

The Dragon stared daggers. Oh so intimidating. 

Jole murmured thoughtfully and licked his lips, contemplating his answer. When he glanced at Devika, it was with curiosity over whether or not the name meant anything to her. It wouldn’t, so far as he guessed, much to his satisfaction. When finally that silver tongue did speak, out spilled an elaborate story.

“You had a lot of children. I mean how could you not? You were a dreamboat just like you are now.” He glanced at Devika to see how she would take to these little reminders of the past. Well, he assumed, and turned back. “That, and live for hundreds of years and you’re bound to produce a veritable army of offspring.” Jole himself hadn’t, but to each their own. Regardless, his irreverence was barbed with humor. He meant no harm in the additional explanation. It was best they were all three on the same page with the tale’s context.

“One day, you asked me as a ‘friend’” he emphasized the word to the extreme, “to provide your daughter — one of your daughters,” he paused to gauge any reaction, then waved it away having previously explained the reasons for bearing so many children. Predictably, there was little reaction, but Jole was used to as much, but still, he sensed the shield of pride slowly rising. It always did in Lews, and few subjects were as sensitive to him as family.

Jole was quite dwarfed by the absurdly tall Dragon Reborn, but he stood like a man defiant before the headsman all the same, gave a little turn to include Devika in the story, out of professional respect for the audience of two, and continued “— to create a dazzling fireworks show for her Nameday. And I did just that. And more.”

When his gaze drifted, it was with a light dancing in his eyes as if they were still watching the trails of such impossible fire. “I painted the sky with lights so magnificent their like was never seen again. I did it for myself, just to see if I could, but also for you, I suppose. Because you’d asked.” He shrugged. “Yet, you treated me like the hired help.” His gaze sharpened. “So go ahead and let your Aes Sedai take the rest of my power and send me away, but know that you are only pushing yourself further into His grasp.”

There it was; the stirring defiance. Nearby, he could practically feel the heat radiating off Devika, but he fixed the sudden seriousness of his gaze with an almost absurd lack of fear and planted a fingertip on the Dragon’s chest. Since the end of their little partnership was nigh, Jole might as well behave as freely as he desired. Ashtaroth was not known for his reverence of authority figures; the opposite, in fact.

He followed his own arm, stepping near as his voice sank to uncharacteristic thoughtfulness. “We all know you’ll never sell your soul, but that’s not what He wants. Every time you inch a little further into the Shadow, the less of the Light you take with you. So go ahead and justify your means to an end. I’m just the hired help after all.”

If the story stirred any thread of guilt behind that hard-as-rocks face, it did not show, but Jole had watched this Dragon for a long time, more, he knew the soul that slumbered inside that brawny shell; knew how to dig in the knife and twist.

The Dragon was too collected by now to rise to the challenge. Instead, he moved Jole’s hand away, squared those muscular shoulders and saw through the charade. He counted on as much; Jole long ago observed that this Dragon might actually be smarter than his predecessor. It was a lot of work, but Jole was smart too. In evidence of this Dragon’s sharp and calculating mind, he posed a shrewd conclusion. “You kept your word for thirty years. Moments after you learn a mere Dreadlord revealed himself, you look for a way to bolt. Tell me why.”

Jole might have smiled proudly if he wasn’t so deep in his role. The man was clever to notice that sequence of events, but Jole’s expression was flat and unresponsive as glass.
“I’m not your weapon, Lews. He is.” Despite the double-edged slice, those were probably the truest words Jole ever uttered. He wondered how Devika interpreted the strangeness of their report. Maybe he would have the chance to ask her later, but for now, he did not investigate.

A smirk accompanied exaggerated hand-waving as though it might erase the lapse of judgement that led to such bare honesty. It was only a nugget anyway, a nudge toward another target that Jole possibly knew more about than he let on. Merihem and himself were the only ones known to be afraid of Asristin, smart as they were, but Jole would wager all the Chosen guarded themselves from the Dream Lord none the less.

The Dragon had enough. He looked at his Aes Sedai and gestured for her to do as she willed. Jole was smiling a fool’s smile as he was escorted away, destined to become another’s prisoner. The worst case scenario was he would outlive this modern Aes Sedai and be free anyway before the world was ended. The best case scenario, well, was kept close to the chest. The firework story may have been pure fiction, but the most elaborate deceptions required complete commitment, and there was none more talented with illusion, in all its forms, than Ashtaroth.

A man once known as Elon would have attested as much... once upon a time… if he were still alive.