08-15-2018, 08:03 PM
Lythia said it; quickly, smoothly, without pause. Lennox. Whatever Nythadri’s reaction to it, it was blanketed quickly beneath calm features, her vacant eyes fixed on the distant mountains. The name rang heavy, and then the echo faded to something bearable. Something to think on later. Moments later, the Aes Sedai’s disappointment cut a familiar tread; it was what she was used to, and the criticism was strangely soothing when it should have fired her ire more. It was conceited and foolhardy to put words in the mouth of an Aes Sedai, but she felt stoically unrepentant for having done so. There was self-validation in the error; that knee-jerk reaction to repel authority.
She didn’t wilt under the sting of chastisement, achingly brief as it was; she was the type to find strength in the adversity.
A frown threatened to tug her lips down. Frustration smothered a thick, cloying embrace even as she understood the stark truth for what it was. Not that she fully accepted it, even then. So why allow men to keep their own weapons at all? Why not strip them of all identity the day they stared into the flame and the flame stared back? Cut them out of the heart of life entirely? In the days before Tarmon Gaidon it was a kinder justice than the slow death of identity the Asha’man were apparently subjected to. Did they do it just for the pleasure of breaking a man down to build him up stronger? The thoughts strummed a vehement discord. Then they’re not brothers at all, just another of the White Tower’s pawns.
Easy to turn her back on all the words that did not fit her ideals, and she might have done so but for one admission: It does not make it right. The Aes Sedai said it herself, and though the most arrogantly naïve part of Nythadri wanted to demand why nothing was done to change it, she held her tongue. Behind the rashness she knew a thousand answers to that unasked question, and none of them needed to be condescended to her. So she said nothing. Something of her returned silence suggested she was really listening, though the keen edge remained. Questions, so many questions, arguments, passions hummed to the forefront of her mind. She wanted to contend the point, to glean wisdom from the heat of debate – almost to push the Aes Sedai’s patience to its limit, until she could truly say she understood. But now was hardly the time for such discussion, and she couldn’t even say when she might see Lythia again. It left the whole thing sorely unfinished, like an open wound, but Nythadri would not broach the subject with anyone else.
She didn’t nod, but there was a reluctant recognition of something she needed more time to fully absorb. Acquiescence was a rare offering from Nythadri, but she owed Lythia that much; fair consideration of the guidance presented, even when youthful passions heartened it to fall on deaf ears. The Green could have chosen to tell her nothing. She’d do well to remember that. Nythadri might not like the powerlessness, but she was grateful for what it was. By now, she’d had enough time to collect herself; to fold all the emotion back neatly behind those pale eyes. And she was ready to be dismissed.
When she returned to the others, strategizing was the last thing on her mind. But she’d tolerate it; she’d tolerate this whole sorry twenty-four hours
She didn’t wilt under the sting of chastisement, achingly brief as it was; she was the type to find strength in the adversity.
A frown threatened to tug her lips down. Frustration smothered a thick, cloying embrace even as she understood the stark truth for what it was. Not that she fully accepted it, even then. So why allow men to keep their own weapons at all? Why not strip them of all identity the day they stared into the flame and the flame stared back? Cut them out of the heart of life entirely? In the days before Tarmon Gaidon it was a kinder justice than the slow death of identity the Asha’man were apparently subjected to. Did they do it just for the pleasure of breaking a man down to build him up stronger? The thoughts strummed a vehement discord. Then they’re not brothers at all, just another of the White Tower’s pawns.
Easy to turn her back on all the words that did not fit her ideals, and she might have done so but for one admission: It does not make it right. The Aes Sedai said it herself, and though the most arrogantly naïve part of Nythadri wanted to demand why nothing was done to change it, she held her tongue. Behind the rashness she knew a thousand answers to that unasked question, and none of them needed to be condescended to her. So she said nothing. Something of her returned silence suggested she was really listening, though the keen edge remained. Questions, so many questions, arguments, passions hummed to the forefront of her mind. She wanted to contend the point, to glean wisdom from the heat of debate – almost to push the Aes Sedai’s patience to its limit, until she could truly say she understood. But now was hardly the time for such discussion, and she couldn’t even say when she might see Lythia again. It left the whole thing sorely unfinished, like an open wound, but Nythadri would not broach the subject with anyone else.
She didn’t nod, but there was a reluctant recognition of something she needed more time to fully absorb. Acquiescence was a rare offering from Nythadri, but she owed Lythia that much; fair consideration of the guidance presented, even when youthful passions heartened it to fall on deaf ears. The Green could have chosen to tell her nothing. She’d do well to remember that. Nythadri might not like the powerlessness, but she was grateful for what it was. By now, she’d had enough time to collect herself; to fold all the emotion back neatly behind those pale eyes. And she was ready to be dismissed.
When she returned to the others, strategizing was the last thing on her mind. But she’d tolerate it; she’d tolerate this whole sorry twenty-four hours