Mists

[Adrian Kane]

Arikan

He withdrew the club for a second blow without time for a moment of satisfaction that it found a mark.  But rather than withdraw to regroup, the Hand flashed into the offensive, faster than Arikan could reorganize his thoughts. The Hand made him drop the would-be weapon, and its advantage, but he rushed forward in response to press the fight outside, toward escape and better footing. The floor behind was still slick.

They struggled. The Hand foresaw and defended his blows with inexplicable foresight, but the taste of fresh air surged the energy to push harder through his veins, but with every step he forced the Hand to take backward, the Child's uniform became increasingly difficult to penetrate, and upward hooks toward his jaw were limited to his one good arm. Arikan's endurance was waning faster than even he anticipated, and his pace quickly slowed.

The Hand's patience needed to only last seconds, and he exploited the moment Arikan left himself open to attack. The second blow to the unstable shoulder flashed his eyes, froze every muscle solid and he stumbled. It forced him to cede ground as payment. He expected the Child to take the opening to draw his sword and put this fight to a swift end.  It’s what Arikan would have done. Assuming he wasn’t exposing himself as a channeler. Close quarters though they were, against a weaponless opponent, the swordsman was the sure victor when he blocked the only exit.  Instead, the Hand closed, bladeless. It was all Arikan could do to keep up a steady defense.  His efforts badly blunted where the Hand made contact. They fought like swine in a barroom brawl not like soldiers on the field.  He diverted concentration to keep his feet long enough to look for another opening, needing it to come fast.  Because he was spent.

The first dazing blow to the head sent him reeling backward. It opened more distance between them.  More ground ceded. He was nearly back to the cell by then.  Forfeiting the space won earlier in the initial surprise doubled the effort to gain it back. He roared a response, unwilling to lose this chance at escape, but he saw the second aim toward his head late, and raised his forearms to awkwardly parry it. The Hand flashed a fake and everything spun.

He hit the ground hard, and a pinned ankle blinded the effort to brace his fall.  The compromised joint after a century of abuse popped under the wrenching strain, then swung freely, but the pressure in the knee above was near unbearable.  Where ankles flopped, knees resisted. He struggled for a position to relieve the twist, but an iron-toed kick took out the remaining fight.  The weight left his foot. Dizzied and beaten, he struggled to roll over.  The grimace on his face clearly defined the loss, and nothing moved except to curl up on himself. Soon, his gaze pierced to the figure looming above.

He was panting like they'd fought for an hour, while the Hand seemed unfazed but for checking his wounded forearm.  Meaningless whether the Hand was gauntleted or not, Arikan's concern for his ribs and face would be no less if he had been similarly armored.  Taking a beating while not but in his own skin, his concern was exponentially increased. He spat blood on the ground. Even if he fought his way upright again, the leg likely could not bear his weight.  Let alone carry him far. Their fight was done. The chance gone.

He didn't answer the taunt right away, needing a few moments to regain the composure to speak. Or perhaps regain the actual air to form words.  Instead he considered the snowy cloak sitting disheveled on the Questioner's shoulders, a stronger man than he'd anticipated, followed by the blade sitting quiet in the Child's scabbard unused.

His voice strained for air, "I don't remember Amador training Children like that.” An accusation, then thought little more of it.  The comment displayed the doubt their struggle sparked in his mind.  He may be the one on his back, but discipline with hope inspired perseverance exploited by lesser men sustained by discipline alone.  For the wise, every victory, no matter how institutional, was still victory. And he know knew something about his interrogator the man likely hoped to keep hidden. He was good in a fight, which meant despite his current profession, he hadn’t always been a spineless Questioner. He was something else once. Arikan would find out what it was. He always did.

Byron / Inquisitor Jeorune

Byron had recognized that the fight would do irreparable harm to his disguise. No Hand of the Light would be so experienced in such a scuffle. They would have no need to; they never had to work alone, always had a few Children around if things got rough. But, he was quick witted; had to be to have made it as long as he had, and as the boy looked to catch his breath and Inquisitor Jeorune inspected his wound, Byron's mind raced to piece together a plausible story. It was all so painfully shallow though; hadn't the weeks of preparation and drill he preferred.

This would likely be the boy's last attempt at escape along such an avenue; however long the boy had been kept in this cage, coupled now with injured joints and limbs, would leave the boy too weakened physically to try again, and both Byron and the Inquisitor had no interest in letting the boy recover. For a fancy-pants Channeller, the boy had proven far too well versed in fisticuffs for Byron to be eager to try it again with the boy at his peak.

So the boy's words were met with that same disappointed, almost fatherly, smile as the Inquisitor stepped into the room past the fallen boy. He'd swat hands away with whatever force was needed to grab the boy by the hair and pull him deeper into the room, along the mess on the floor. He wouldn't drag if it wasn't needed, as long as the boy cooperated and shuffled a bit, it wouldn't be so painful an experience. And if the boy struggled, well a swift boot to the ribs would likely see an end to that.

Inquisitor Jeorune had no need to defend himself against the boy's words. In fact, the boy was in the wrong for speaking at all; it had been one of the rules that the Inquisitor had put after all. The boy did not have the right to speak unless asked to. But, no further punishment was needed at the moment; being dragged across the floor like the misbehaving child he was was enough for now; let the boy relish in the mess of chamber bot and wood chips that marred the cell floor for now. Like rubbing a dog's nose in the mess it had made, to teach it the lesson not to do so again.

"The rules are simple. Speak only when I address you. Ask permission to speak when I address you. You will address me only as Inquisitor. You will do anything you are told. You will only act when told. There shall be daily routines, and you shall do these without complaint or hesitation as you are told. You will make no excuse and tell no lie.” He let the boy go next to the harsh pallet that served as his bed, then turned to walk back towards the door, and stepped out briefly, leaving the door open as he did as if to tempt the boy to try such foolishness again.

He was only gone a moment, however. Just out in the hallway was the boy's meal. Porridge, now a on the cold side, but still edible. With it came a simple clay cup of water, and a heel of bread. Not moldy nor any more stale then what he had to eat. He carried these items back into the room and eyed the boy a moment. "Temper tantrums accomplish nothing, boy. They are a waste of energy fit only to children or the most pompous and shallow of palace brats. I would think you would not wish to be mistaken as either. You shall eat, or you shall waste away and die. And it is a terrible way to go, I assure you. And if you cast the food aside, I shall leave you here to stew in your mess like some lowly street urchin.”

He would not give the boy the food until the boy had agreed to eat. It would be a foolish display to turn it down; there would be no finer fare coming for some time, and it was in the boy's best interests to keep his strength up. Without strength of body, the mind would begin to falter and grow feeble. And the mind was all the boy had left to defend himself with. Of course, the concoction was carefully mixed into both water and porridge, added after the boiling and carefully mixed in to help disguise the taste. He was unsure if it were too much or even not enough; but an exact balance would be figured out in the days to come.

Arikan

Upon being grabbed, Arikan rallied a valiant show of defense, if only to prove endless uncooperation with the Hand's maltreatment.  A stomp to the distended ankle would have put the resistance to a quick end, but the wind kicked from his lungs accomplished the job just as ruthlessly. When he was dropped off altogether unguarded along the wall, his scalp throbbed. Chunks of hair fell worryingly from the Hand’s grip, but he was far more concerned with the shoulder and ankle. He rolled off both, and glared through the grimace twisting his face. The Hand walked out unconcerned for the wide open door. That burned the most, but Arikan was left to deal with the broad meridian of damages he'd sustained without need for supervision. There was no chance he’d run for it. Not at that exact moment. 

He lay, eyes closed. Forcing himself to contain what felt like wild dogs gnawing on his bones.  The small of his back felt as though a spike was hammered into his spine.  White streaks coursed to the fingertips, fists he shook opened and closed to discharge the lightning.  Soon, calmer winds washed his mind. Shallow breaths steadied his lungs, working to not flare the ribs too badly. It left him with the slow throb of aftermath and the worser wound of hurt pride.  Sounds of the Hand's exit and return explained itself by carrying forth scents of a meal for his prisoner.  Arikan opened his eyes, cold and grey as corpse flesh.  The emergent moment seemed to have passed. He struggled just to sit up.

Disappointment dripped from the Whitecloak as sure as did the blood from his arm.  A satisfied smirk countered it by digging beyond the superficial to a stronger sense of survivability.  Endurance was a virtue akin to patience, but both were easy to lose when compromised.  He needed to maintain a reign on that emotion tight as skin if he were to recognize the exploitation attempts yet to come.  If there were any such; Questioners were brutality and gore incarnate, a trade that required little in the ways of original intelligence. He expected knives and needles, not taunts and manipulation. Not from someone with the intelligence of a rock.

“Every man has the capacity for evil, especially your kind,” he explained absently, testing the bonds of his voice, still strained and parched; but the comment was a merciful characteristic in himself to be so considerate.  Thoughtfully, he contemplated the minuscule history of one such flake in the storm of this world as was standing above him now.  Children of the Light were less than the wholesome, purebred stallions they positioned themselves to be, but this one fought too well, hinted at too much forethought, and controlled his emotions rather smoothly to be the average Child.  Out of what den did the Children originally find him? And how did Lythia find this creature? Arikan’s study was cold. And it gave him something to think about besides the fire inside.

He leaned his shit-tainted, bloodied scalp against the wall. The Hand had dragged him back through the mess made by his own fury, torchlight only now revealing the squalor. Full buckets require copious production on his part and dehydration leadened his muscles down under their own weight, but what amount was spilled across the floor flared his nostrils with its putrid concentration. He could feel it on his skin. Mixed with the taste of sweat and blood, he feared never being clean again as long as he lived. 

Eventually, Arikan found a voice again. It seethed a disgust he didn’t bother to contain, but his voice was raw and raspy. He’d barely drank, his lips were chapped and the broken nose was still swollen.
“What virtues possess you, Hand?  To be considered so worthy of the honor that is attempting to break me.  Whatever it is you are here to get.  I assure you, you will leave frustrated every time,” he gasped for air between words, struggling to speak but clearly determined to fling insults in return. “You serve no purpose, except to serve the whims of your betters.  When you finally balk the courage to slit my throat and your day of rest follows, you will tuck your wreck of a life into some corner of the world having proven your futile existence.  Then spend the rest of your days twisting questions mad through your mind as to what else could you have done to keep victorious glory slipping like knives through your fingers.  And only silence will answer you.  A gaunt stare in the mirror back from the pathetic wreck of man you are.  A feeble bag of bones draped by translucent flesh… I abhor every moment I am in your presence." 

The cool oration suddenly hastened in its tone as frustration leaned him forward.  It was clear he will not be following the 'rules'.  He seethed through clenched teeth an accent-laden demand, "And will yeh be repeatin’ that same inviscid speech every. bloody. fucking. time?!!” he spat a wad of blood on the floor after raising his voice, realizing he’d slipped into the low-class accent of his birth. It was coarse and common, and far from the bearing of a graceful ruler. His teeth grit tight. He hated that accent. That losing the tight grip of control meant something.

He paused to regroup himself. Although mastering such slips into baser language long ago, he regained vocal composure quickly. Swallowed it back where it belonged, and control forced his words into their practiced place. Palace brat, yes..  And eyed the plateware, "Let's say for a moment you were me and I were you,” his tone returned to neutrality after the disturbance revealed a momentary lapse back into imperialist Tairen sounds. "I would make more efficient use of my time, suffering you to more elegant attentions than what you are capable to demonstrate for me so far." 

The room was his evidence.  He paused, collegially, for the student whose mind would be bogged down by the processing of such higher thoughts. "If I were you and you were me, you would be the fool who refuses to eat.  And I would be the one thinking myself clever as to position such minimal sustenance for rewarding behavior." 
His voice grew hoarser with thirst and strain, a rather proletary sound, but the patronization was not rendered insincere by the sounds of long-suffering.  In fact, perhaps the opposite.  His head swirled with exhaustion.  He leaned the back of his head appreciatively against the wall, and adjusted his ankle to take the weight off the heel, but so long as he remained motionless, the words continued to come.

"I would also be the one unaccustomed to carrying out actual tasks myself as I have grown soft relying on reaping the rewards of others' sweat to compensate for my lack of original abilities.  The Aes Sedai I used to find you and for whom I now drool upon her feet to start my work.  The shield to render you closer to the world of mere mortals that I might not strain while grasping so high above me.  And finally the poison to work its charms on you while I crawl out of this lair to lick my wounds and mend my padding for the next round.  A sweet life I have fought to win myself, is it not?  Complete with a filthy outcast of a woman.  A leech unfit for the river of refuse out of which she climbed, but a woman no less.  How is the dear girl?  Sleeping well?" 

It took recognizing her signature in tel'aran'rhiod to realize the woman whose presence he'd come to know of late was one in the same.  "You realize you are serving not one but two Aes Sedai, yes?  Child of the Light?" 

A dire smile pasted itself a cold mask across Arikan's defiance.  "I'm sorry, I could go on, but for your sake, I shall be clear.  I have no intention of starving myself, but know this, I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work on me.” Two quick bends of his fingers and the food was delivered without having to get up.  As it should be.

The drink disappeared first.  A man may survive two or three weeks without a bite, but lacking fluids drained most men of life in two days.  The bread he pinched through the chalky bowl of slop, and the captured moisture was coveted. He licked his fingers, filthy with blood and refuse as they were. The rest he drained straight from the bowl.  Deplorable, yes, but he didn’t care.

The Hand left him alone after that, tending his wounds and contemplating the power wielded over him. There were no days to measure the passage of time in the darkness that followed.  Only the count of slow, steady breaths.  For the longest time, he lay in thought.  At first going over an exhaustive list of contacts once more.  Then considering whether the mark he left upon that warder in the dreamworld would accomplish its purpose: the confrontation between one Green to another, thereby removing dear Lythia from the list of obstacles standing between him and escape; gaining a major advantage if successful. 

The only measure of time was the flood of light leaking from the doorway every time the Hand returned to check on him.  The first, Arikan did not deign to look the man's way but rather simply continue to stare upward in the calm position in which he lay.  The second revealed he'd moved.  This time to sit as he had before: leaning against the wall with arms folded across bent knees.  He lifted his face, hollow of thought but for vacant concentration on something unseen when the light shone in, but all he noted was a cloaked outline backlit by the flames in the corridor beyond.  The third, he was unmoved from the seated position as found during the last check-in, but this time when the light tumbled into the periphery, he turned his face deeper into the crook of his arms, clumped his hair into his fists, and avoided peering into the brightness altogether.