The First Age

It had been months since Malaika had left the Tower, and it felt at once as brief as the blink of an eye and tortuous as the stretch of eons. Little of the city had changed, but the gaze that viewed it had. Her face had begun to slow long before she’d sworn on the oath rod, but she’d never felt old before; like the creep of autumn winds crumbled her bones to dust. Once she’d been fascinated by the many lives that played out under the protective shadow of the White Tower. Now they passed in a blur almost unheeded but for the acknowledgement of absence. Is this what it was to be Aes Sedai? To be free of every link, every connection, that bound her to the ephemerality of others’ lives? Finding Zurafai had ripped something free; she’d decided it was safer not to care, and wiser to retreat to the carapace of her own thoughts alone. Yet she’d still gone to the wedding.

The ceremony had been a simple, beautiful thing. Mere months ago, she’d have been enthralled at the union of words and emotions so freely on display; honoured to have been included in its witness, and captivated by the minutiae of a life she could not have. But beneath the façade of quiet serenity, she had instead found the day taxing. Insistent on maintaining her place in the periphery, she’d felt more observer than participant. Jealousy was not in her nature – at least, she had not thought so – but the surrounding happiness left her uncomfortable; a trespasser strayed onto territory in which she had no right to invest. Mistress Osilia did not seem to notice; when she was not smiling, tears were sparking in her eyes – oft times both at once. On numerous occasions she’d caught Malaika’s hands in her own, offering endless gratitude that the Aes Sedai had come, for the help she had given, for the gift she had bestowed. The emotion, though well and genuinely meant, fluttered Malaika with uncertainty. She felt fraudulent.

She stayed until it felt appropriate to leave – long before the celebration reached its zenith. Already she’d begun to feel dizzied by all the people, all the noise and laughter, until it felt like she viewed the whole thing through a sheet of glass that kept her distant. Afterwards, she wandered to the docks. Restlessness weighed heavy on her soul, now more than ever, but it was not the exuberance of a youth eager to fly the nest. It was something duller, flatter, and tied inextricably to the tatters of her identity. Her hands rested on the bridge railing, and she watched the waters lap up the sides of the merchants boats silently.


Jai wasn't the only Kojima man to feel the call of wanderlust. Andreu had known it his whole life, but stayed back, imprisoned by the bars of his own mind. When thing turned sour and confusing, he let himself go, and disappeared into the anonymity of a city that often swallowed him up. Such as this day. He was a morsel for a hungry mob, swept along the currents of traffic, until the stomp of hooves and roll of carts were replaced with the footfalls of boots on wood: the docks.

He had no dealings to draw him to the boats. He knew none of the faces darting back and forth on their errands. Yet he recognized the brokerage of deals. He suspiciously eyed men laden with cloaks and samples of their wares, imagining each one bearing weapons just out of sight. He had his own, of course. A knife tucked into the small of his back, hidden beneath the billow of a cloak dirtied across the hem from walking the streets the last two days. Unkempt, disarrayed appearance much like the growth stubbling his face randomly and the grit and grim caked beneath his nails. The pendulum of his identity swung constantly back and forth - charming, handsome, and suave when he wanted. Problem was, he usually wanted to run from the spotlight, not dance in the heat of it. He kept his hands stuffed in his pockets as he strolled. Another pair of weapons, hidden. Andreu was hardly a trained fighter, but savagery made up for technique, although he wasn't completely oblivious.

He came to rest alongside a railing. A tiny shadow of a woman hovered nearby, but a cursory glance told him she was no threat however her ethnicity. Dru's prejudices were irrespective of race. Except maybe Aiel.

He curled the long distance downward, placing his forehead across arms draped over the railing, and listened to the sound of the water slapping the docks beneath. Despite the noise and bustle of the main highway in and out of Tar Valon, the River docks, he found a sense of peace and quiet. Perhaps because he was as far away from everything familiar as he could possibly be. It gave an active mind a moment's rest from the marathon of life.

He glanced up however many minutes later, surprised to see she was still there. The wind tugged at raven black hair, and curiosity slowly pricked at his conscience. He lifted his face from the rail and stretched his back, knuckling his spine as he uncurled. He focused on the way the air fluttered her cloak and hair, and shut out the fishy scent of stagnant water.

He opened his mouth to speak no less than three times, but caught himself before spilling empty words. It wasn't shyness. Light knew Andreu Kojima was not shy. In the end he drew a long, contemplative breath of air and rubbed his eyes. He should probably sleep soon. The manic high he'd ridden the last two days was crumbling beneath him.


Caia'li's warder was a man of contradictions. Bow to an enemy, then cut him down. Break his back burying the anonymous dead, but unwilling to write a letter home. In the days after his sister-in-law and cousins left for Caemlyn, then traveled up river back to their snowy homelands, Vladamir whittled away the time jotting stanzas of poetry in one of the many taverns ringing Southharbour. 

The deep crevices of his stoney face had become a familiar sight to the harbourmaster's workers and tavern maids alike. Only once in the past week had his expression softened to something near to amusement. That being when a dark-haired, pale-skinned serving girl wagered she could make him smile before the night was up. Well, it almost worked, but the lass tried hard.

A face that was decidedly not familiar was that of a roguish wanderer slithering through the docks of late. None took any interest in the man, but that only heightened Vladamir's worry over his identity. He moved with too much confidence to be a beggar, yet by all appearances -- and scents -- he was practically that. He was a tall fellow too, moreso than even Vladamir himself by an inch or so. Which meant he had the height of either an Aielman, but not the coloring, or he was northern. Shienaran. Though clearly he lacked the topknot of a warrior, the scowl on his face might as well have been a perfect match for a Lancer. In the opinion of an heir to the Lordship of Fal Sion Keep anyway.

For that reason, Vladamir had made to follow the man the last few hours. And to his surprise, the fellow lined up alongside a face -- at least a profile -- that was familiar. The quiet presence of one Malaika Sedai. They knew one another, of course, but primarily as shadows in the library, nearly back to his days as a trainee. Before either of them were veterans of the Tower. 

His eyes narrowed. Tucking the tiny book of poetry in a pocket on his belt, he ensured the sword at his back was stable and the rest of his belt secure, and joined the pair, footfalls as silent as the long shadow of his form cast across the planks. 

Unlike the northman, Vladamir came alongside Malaika much more closely, yet still maintained a respectful distance. He bowed his head to her and above her tiny shoulders shot the stranger a warning glance. This was not someone to bother, and he best be about his business. However, he kept his tongue, and instead turned toward the waters they both seemed so enraptured with. Somewhere down there, the world was churning with danger though they could not tell by simply studying the flat sheet of water coursing away from the island both he and Malaika Sedai called 'home.' 

"Greetings," he offered, though did not wish to assume their familiarity such that he would offend her by being too informal. However, there was a reason he had interrupted, and so he explained to her quietly his concerns. "Forgive me, madam, but I felt it wise to join you.”


Oblivion raised a fortress, and within it Malaika was sheltered. Time barely touched the place she dwelt, and though her gaze drew out across the water she’d be unable to recount any of what she’d seen. Her thoughts ran in circles; intricate, looping, elegant circles, but still circles. Academically she understood the weight of heaviness in her chest, but acknowledgement did little to ease the burden.  Melancholy drummed like the dull patter of rain, and just as ceaseless.

She never noticed company - though even if she had, she’d never have intruded upon another’s retreat to silence. Her hands rested neatly on the railing, posture rigidly straight, unmoving as a statue. But she flinched minutely at the drawn out sigh of another’s breath so close. A gentle intrusion, all things considered, but she had been a thousand miles away. Her head turned at almost the same time another unheard shadow loomed, and her gaze diverted to a face she did recognise.

The solid shield of the man was an effective reminder. Tar Valon was a haven, but she should know better; these were not safe times. Some months ago the Tower had executed a young man for attacking an Accepted in a tavern, a travesty almost unheard of within the Shining Walls. She had not witnessed that morbid attraction, but even she had heard about it. A humble nod greeted Vladamir in return, quietly grateful for the solid foundations of his formality, and his respectful distance. If she continued to stand in silence, she did not think he would take offence. Given what little she knew of him, he would perhaps even prefer it to inelegant small-talk.

She did look to see what had plucked at the strings of duty and earned a Warder’s attention. The stranger looked vaguely of the Borderlands, though she was unaccustomed to such identification. Little curiosity ignited as she took in his dishevelment, nor the tired lines of his face. She considered retreat, to excuse the Warder his self-imposed obligation to watch over a foolish Sister, and to leave the stranger to his own contemplations. Burdensome though they seemed.

“You are not a beggar.” She did not qualify the judgement with whatever her cursory glance had revealed, but the words were softly certain. “And if you are a traveller, you do not look pleased with where your journey has led you.” It was not so much empathy as it was the desire to relieve the burden of accusation from the stranger’s shoulders that she spoke. Or prove the Warder’s caution, but Malaika did not like to think ill of others. She’d met another vagabond on these streets once, and he had revealed to be anything but. Appearances were a deceptive mask, but she also believed in privacy. She asked no questions, not directly at least. Some men would grasp at the promise of a listening ear. Or perhaps he would simply walk away.


If Andreu had struggled before, the warrior's appearance unhinged him. How many times the last day had he shot suspicious glances behind his shoulder and saw that intense face? How many miles had he walked and yet that shadow persisted? Andreu lost touch with reality for far more innocent coincidences. The image of his baby brother stalking through the snow crept memory across his expression. And though the heartfelt curiosity of the good Lady glanced the edge of his conscious, it was too shallow a gesture to reach him. The rational side collapsed beneath the crushing weight of conspiracy.

His hands gripped the railing until the splinters dug spikes through his palms. If only he felt the sensation, but he was numb to anything but a whirlwind of panic. His heart beat wild, and he gripped instinctively, and curled his face closer to the earth, teeth grinding veins to suddenly ridge along his brow. The water was far below, and likely to swallow any attempt but the most able-bodied swimmer to stay afloat. The slap of it against the seawall appeared but gentle licks from their height, so innocuous. Deceptively friendly as its depth and speed.

Do not attack a warder! A desperate voice called within, the same voice that told him not to attack an Asha'man - or an Accepted. So tenuous was obedience, very little delineated when the voice was and wasn't heeded.

He sneered hatred at the man who so defiantly followed him to this peaceful spot and intercepted his only chance at reaching out, pleading for the help of another human being. The hilt of a sword loomed tall, though, and all of Andreu's thoughts suddenly froze glacially still. He released the railing and straightened, arms heavy at his side.

As soon as he made a move, the warder tensed to strike, but Andreu lifted his hands peacefully, reached behind his back, and withdrew a sheathed dagger he'd carried there. "Peace, be still." He urged with more of his own voice than he recognized. Gone were the usual clips of sarcasm, the hints of intrigue, and the tearing fabric of his reality. He knew what was real now. Such as the leather hilt and sheathe of the weapon laid atop his palms. It was small. A relic of the family's, though nothing near as significant as Asad's honorable sword. It bore the Kojima initials on the pommel, but was otherwise a humble weapon. Far unlike the enigmatic Andreu Kojima's usual manic selections. It was more befitting this version of him: old and worn and practically useless.

He laid it at his feet as some kind of offering to the two in his presence, and turned, resolute. In a flash, he hurled himself over the edge. Thankful he didn't know how to swim.


Malaika wasn’t skilled at reading the nuances in others – at least, not by looking at their faces – but in this case even she understood the gravity of how tightly the man gripped at the railing. Despair caved in the shadows of his expression, making a grotesque skull of his face, and her eyes were drawn in morbid fascination. The Tower fortified itself against emotion; what it felt, it hid carefully behind walls of serenity. Its daughters were no different. She was unused to seeing such a pure, raw display so openly bled out in front of strangers, and though the tragedy of it stirred some urge to comfort, she was unsure how to feel. Or why she felt some stirring of kinship.

She’d turned from the wall by now, though she didn’t move any closer. Little crossed the neutrality of her expression. Her formality was not born of blood and nurture, as for Vladamir, but of something far more intrinsic to her very nature. He didn’t provide much of an answer, but he may as well have unravelled before her very eyes.

Ill-practised at reading faces, even after so many years, but voices. Voices sang intuitively. She had lived a lifetime gauging the whim and desires of her masters by intonation alone, and something in his tone daggered shivers across her skin. Saidar flew on insistent wings, brightening every detail of her vision. Concern laced her glance at the coiled warder, then paused in askance at the stranger’s glare. It told a tale she did not understand, but unease pressed a steady instinct on her soul. A sense of dread began draining her pallor before she had any inclination of what he was about to do. Cautiously, she watched him lay the knife at his feet, eyes beginning to narrow to contemplation; she needed time to comprehend the mystery.

But then he jumped.

Her eyes widened. Malaika was habitually slow, but Aes Sedai do not earn the shawl without worth. Reflex shot out wide bands of braided air, and a single step closed the gap between her and the railing. No thought crossed the threshold of action; she burned perilously bright, not even sure if it would work - even saidar had limitations, after all. But the weave only snapped beneath his weight and momentum. The sound of his body crashing into the water haunted. 

Light.

An Aes Sedai did not show fear, and whatever anomalies counted Malaika among the softest of her Sisters, betrayal of weakness was not one of them. She hadn’t screamed or gasped, and to an onlooker only appeared to return to the railing to observe the man’s watery fate. But inside she felt tremulous. If the depth of her distress touched her eyes there was little she could do about it

She did not understand the desire to take one’s own life; perhaps because hers had never belonged to her. The concept horrified her. But moreso, she had been so irreverently absorbed in her own self-pity, she had utterly failed to recognise the signs of his distress.

The failure struck her deeply.

The guilt would never wash clean; it settled into her skin as tight and unrelenting as the oaths she had taken so many years ago, and shivered her core with failure. Malaika felt as though she stood vigil at the railing a long time, every heartbeat a betrayal to the splash that resounded in her ears. The distress she felt was stark, but internalised. Shouldered alone, though the sobriety of her expression - its sheer stillness – hinted at how deeply she took it. Aes Sedai were not infallible, and Malaika did not hold herself to a pedestal of unattainable perfection. The Wheel wove the Pattern as it was meant to be. But she had been perched on the edges of a listless despair – a self-pity she did not deserve – and she took it personally. Face ashen, she yet gripped the power. Its sweetness tasted sick, but she held on. In case it was needed.

Other men came; they were ghosts in her peripheral, the splashes as they dived in after cruel echoes. Strangely displaced, she only stepped back when she realised she was in the way, though she was disinclined to lose sight of the dark waters below. Her gaze found the Warder instead. Solemn. She read nothing in the stone of his expression, but didn’t misconstrue apathy. She tried not to find condemnation in the blank lines of his face, but the shadows betrayed the rawness of her guilt. She saw it because she feared it. And perhaps because she deserved it.

The sailors might yet find a man gasping onto the last breathes of life. But rivers claimed life fast, and she already knew they would find nothing. Still, she stayed a long time in silence.

A few steps retreated her, finally, from the railing. Her brow clouded as she took in sight of the object shed before the man had jumped.  Her brain had finally made a picture of disparate puzzle pieces, and when she knelt to retrieve the knife it was with understanding. She cradled the blade in both palms, disgusted to feel a note of anger amid the grief. Either he had not wanted to die anonymous. Or he left behind a family who must be informed of the loss. It was a burden, either way.  A bitter burden. But one Malaika would accept wordlessly.