Mists

[Adrian Kane]

Byron / Inquisitor Jeorune

The boy simply could not seem to follow rules. The temper tantrums did not help the boys reputation any. The boy seemed to feel he was something special, something important and bound for greatness. Yet the state of his cell, the crass displays were those of a spoiled child and a broken mind. The boy was insane, lost to delusions of grandeur. That the those delusions hadn't yet wilted despite the boy's situation was another sign of the delusions that fueled the boy's tarnished, cracked mind.

The boy's words were rather calming to Byron's mind, at least briefly. That the boy still thought him to be a Hand of the Light, even if a rather unorthodox one. Baring any future problems, the belief would only grow stronger as Byron's grasp of the mind of this Inquisitor Jeorune deepened. Of course, there was always that chance that the boy were playing the same game as Byron. He would have to continue to watch for signs of such.

To Inquisitor Jeorune, the boy's words also fell on deaf ears. The Inquisitor had some inklings of the relationship between the witch Lythia and the Nicole girl. It was a stretch of Byron's own assumptions and something he would have to work on with Nicole. Corele. Whichever she preferred these days. Should it ever be necessary that they both be in the same cell as the boy, or should she ever be found in a situation she had to deal with the boy in his absence, he would have to develop a report with her that she had something to work with that would mirror the Inquisitor and Byron.

The boy's questions did prompt a few interesting lines of thought in Byron's mind to help explain the existence of a man such as Inquisitor Jeorune. Why would he be amongst the Hand of the Light. An answer formed quickly, and would take some time to fill out. There were reasons he preferred to have time before adopting a role; to research and prepare and practice, and thus avoid such annoying little situations as this.

So Inquisitor Jeorune left the boy's cell with the tray and bowls. Least the boy throw another tantrum and break those too. The cell was shut and locked, leaving the boy alone in the dark once more, to let the concoction mixed into the food and water take its effect. He did not stray far from the cell for some hours; checking on the boy twice during that time to be certain the concoction had taken the right effect. And after the second check up, he departed.

He eventually found his way back to the room that Corele had settled into for the time being. He dropped the act of Inquisitor Jeorune, too tired by that point to really bother organizing his thoughts into the right directions, and worked at removing his pristine white tabard, careful not to stain it any on the by now dry blood staining the sleeve of the tunic beneath. "Well...this, dear woman, has been a very long week. But, it is finally safe to get some sleep. I do not know about you, but I feel I could sleep a fortnight or more.”

Byron / Inquisitor Jeorune

Byron sat through Corele’s tending of his arm without much comment; he was too exhausted. It was a nice change of pace; having competent help for something like this. He made a point of working alone, so those few times he did end up with something that needed stitching or salves, he tended them himself or found a discreet wisdom or healer to tend it if the situation allowed. Again, there were reasons why he preferred to do these sorts of things on his own schedule. Time to prepare, time to think and plan and plot. He just shook his head ruefully as the wound was tended.

And once that was done, it was the uniform's turn. It needed to be cleaned, washed free of the blood, stitched neatly and hung to dry. The boy would have to be punished should he manage to stain the Inquisitor's uniform a third time. Another hour was lost to that alone; making sure every trace of blood was gone, and that the stitching was tight and proper, that the damage would be nearly unnoticeable. Why did the Children insist on wearing white? So much trouble.

But finally, the work was done. The boy was not sleeping, and Byron was finally able to find some rest. And when morning came, he awoke with all the temperance and discipline of a Tower trained Warder. He might have been poorly suited to the task of protecting an Aes Sedai on some grand battlefield as Warders were known for in stories and ballads, but he had still gleaned quite the menagerie of skills from the training. A well tuned internal clock amongst them.

Of course, as much as he did awake with the crack of dawn (or there abouts, seeing as he couldn't actually tell the time for being in a cave with no view of the sky), he only stayed awake long enough to check on the boy again, then returned to sleep. A few more hours, to help shake off the grogginess of so many days awake. When next he awoke it was to the distant smell of Corele preparing breakfast. Which was about as effective at shaking the last dredge of exhaustion away as the extra few hours of sleep had managed.

Roused, he dressed and made his way to the scent of food. He discussed briefly with Corele, filling her in on some of Inquisitor Jeorune's mannerisms and personality. In part, such that should she cross paths with the boy, she could have something to work with, but it also helped him better come to grips with the few details he had to work with. But eventually, it was time to check on the boy.

When he returned to the boy's cell, he set a bucket of water and a rough bristled brush down at the door. The boy would begin his chores. Cleaning his cell first and foremost; now denied of sleep, the boy would likely fall in the filth he had spread. Even a healthy man would in time. He raised a lantern, casting the light about the cell and watching the boy in silence for a moment. The first dose had surely been too strong; the boy was near unresponsive when he had first entered.

The lantern was hung from the corner of the door, and he stepped deeper into the room such that the boy could actually see him, rather then just a dark silhouette. "Do not shy from the Light, boy. Even one such as you can still find forgiveness. Now, it is time for your morning chores. You shall clean this cell. If you do not, you shall fall ill from your own filth.”

Arikan

Forgiveness. 

Forgiveness from what?  And whom?  The Creator?  Forgiveness was a paradox.  A righteous entity sanctifying the carnal deeds of the unjust: a shroud of iniquities every man wore.  Creator included.  The Creator was apathy incarnate.  So complete his job when he turned his back on his creation it was a wonder the world did not demonize him rather than the Great Lord.  They should. 

The light crept in.  Despite his best efforts to block it out, it plucked at the corners of his eyes and clawed its way through his lids.  His hair was longer now, but what was once a sweeping billow of dark silk was now clumped in strands still too short to divert the glare.  He eventually glanced between the oil-clogged fibers staggered across his forehead and gazed flatly at the Hand, piercing the shadow of annoyance gnawing away at his patience to do so.

Yet as he lifted his face, testing the fiery pool of light, he winced at what he found.  The lamp, small as it was, seared his eyes as though staring into the sun.  How dreadful the pallor he must appear, sunken against the shadows.  He was losing what he was, and could feel it by the moment.  Therein festered the real pain of this existence.  The Hand's presence meant little so far, except as a wound to his dignity; being subjected to someone so inept.  The constant recognition of people lacking capacity for the barest of intelligence was exhausting. 

"You.  Are.  Completely.  Incompetent.”  He spoke slowly, High accent hovering on each syllable, lips rich with a Tairen Councilman's svelte diction.  Encouraged by the success of speaking and holding his accent no less, and growing accustom to what shrank his pupils to pins, leaving a pair of silvery sickles to finish proving his point, he carried on. 
"The Source protects me from taking ill.  I don't even remember what it's like to be sick." The sound of disgust filled the cell.  Annoyed at having to explain the ways of ascension to those left behind.  The Aes Sedai apparently found Amador's supreme-most moron to not know that.  "Try another threat when you think of one."  He said idly, then resumed his previous position, head down, hiding from the burning light.

"Besides if you wanted me to prance around as your chambermaid, you shouldn't have split my ankle you idiot.”  He spoke with the annoyance of being on his last nerve, but he didn’t need to look at the ankle to know how rotund it must appear. The injury was large with fluid now, and throbbing even as it lay unmoving.  Such ignorance was astounding.  Forethought: a skill children should master, but yet most never acquired. Oh he could walk if it meant a chance to escape, but scrubbing the floor was not exactly a proper motivation to try.

Whatever it was the Questioner gave him must be wearing off.  His thoughts were connecting again.  In the wasteland of black time that was this existence, earlier attempts to speak left only the pathetic sound of incoherent mumbles in his ear.  If this was morning, he hadn't slept, that was clear now, but thankfully the disturbing sensations crawling across his skin this long night were slowing. 

"Shouldn't you be digging out your toys by now?  The nail beds first, perhaps?  Or will you go straight for the delicates?" 

Byron / Inquisitor Jeorune

Again, while Byron might have made a comment about just who was at fault over the boy's injuries, or might have bantered the particulars of the situation, Inquisitor Jeorune saw no need or point in such a conversation. The boy was at fault after all. The boy had tried to escape, had attacked the Inquisitor, and surely deserved more punishment. But that would come later. Instead, he stepped up to the boy and stared down at him.

The boy was a pitiful sight; filth aside, the boy's limbs were atrophying from lack of exercise and a poor diet. Not nearly as pronounced as it should have been, considering the apparent length of time the boy had been trapped within the small cell, but still evident. The bruises and swelling from the injuries sustained during the past few days were also taking their toll. But, at least the boy had survived the night. Byron greatly disliked having to work on such short notice with things he was not familiar. He prided himself on being knowledgeable of the poisons and herbs with which he worked. Had he the time, he would have tested the concoction he had fed to the boy on someone of lesser import; perhaps a heartless approach in the eyes of some, but far more efficient then risking the death of one's target.

"I had thought, boy, that you had more pride than this. You wish then to wallow in your own filth?” He eyed the boy's ankle a moment then just shook his head dryly and stepped away, turning his back on the boy to return to the hallway a moment to gather a bucket of water and scrub brush, some other odds and ends the boy would need to clean the cell. "You are no better then the witch. Relying on the Source for protection and power. Do you expect an ally to come and save you? I wonder what they would do, should one of them find you in this state. I imagine it would not be pleasant for you, would it? No, I suspect they would only seek you out to see you ended, boy.”

"This whole time you have sat here, rotting away in this cell, and none have come to your rescue. What ever power you once held is long gone isn't it? Just a pitiful shadow of a boy, rotting away forgotten and abandoned." He shook his head, finding the entire situation pitiful. Byron would never have waited so long in a cell. He would have escaped, or have ended his own life by now. In such a situation, the boy was nothing more then a loose end; a dangerous source of information for his enemies. No one could last forever, and it was seeming likely now that no one would trouble themselves with trying to rescue the boy.

"You whine and mewl like a child. Sulk and throw temper tantrums. You show your true colours." He squatted down a moment, picking through the remnants of the table, tossing a few bits of wood aside until he found two of suitable length. A dagger was produced, whittling the bits of age-dried wood till they could serve as splints for the boy's hurt ankle. Rags would serve as bindings and padding for the simple splint, and the pieces were casually dropped at the boy's side. He would either splint his own ankle, or he would not. The bone would heal eventually, but it was up to boy if he wished to be able to walk properly when it did heal.

He would have to find a new table for the room, although clearly it could not be left within the cell with the boy. Inquisitor Jeorune suspected the boy would smash and destroy anything he could out of childish spite, as some foolish display of resistance. Byron of course just wished he had more time to work with. These things were slow affairs; time consuming, leaving little room in one's schedule for other tasks. Not exactly his preferred sort of activity. He turned to watch the boy, curious as to whether he would be smart enough to bind his ankle.

Arikan

The shelf of his emotions was narrowing.  Non-dispersed by a suctioning when in a moment of stillness before crashed forward from the pressure all of a sudden.  The flat, pliable topography was a personality of memory now, and the Hand was making use of it; Arikan rubbed his eyes.  Containing as he did, the fury balling his fists.  The sockets burned with fatigue.  Red with raw physical stress, and rimmed by folds at the corners never present before. 

He found himself staring, motionless and undesiring to see, but unable to shove aside now, the dregs of miserable inadequacies pointed out to him that was this nest.  But unlike the folds of safety harboring the young in their vulnerable years, the nest was the precursor to harder coffins.  Lined with decay already. 

He glanced at the things the Hand carried in, and disgust turned his stomach. Un unacceptable concept to fathom. Cleaning after himself was a sign of subjugation.  Solely because the Hand wished him to follow an order.  He rubbed his eyes again, harder, angry at the physical boundaries locking him in a poisoned shell, while yet careful to not touch the tissues behind the lids with dirt-tainted fingertips.  He would never be clean again, he feared, nor would he know the feel of soaped skin, the breath of fresh wind.

Baited with his own inadequacies, a quiet warning slipped his lips. Warning the Hand to stop. "Don’t,” he seethed, seeking the Hand's eyes to define the seriousness of the threat.  But the Hand ignored it.  Ignored his gaze, and turned away.  Arikan had no choice but to stare at the back of his head. He couldn’t follow through. So he chose respond more fully.  "If I were to be ended, my Great Lord has but to wish it.”  Though softly spoken, verbalizing such truths gave him confidence.  A connection he could sense to this day dangled his thread to the Pattern, vulnerable to the master's touch should He so desire.  The faintest stroke by such a hand and it would willingly dissolve.  A precipice of which he was aware every breathing moment, as far back as he could remember.  That steady beam of purpose: it was faint, but distinct, from that of the Source, but always there.  A counterpart to it, really; another majestic pulse in which to delight.  A gift to protect from the taint at first, now, a welcome, but terrible companion.  His best friend as a child.  The only beloved he truly needed to please. 

He was not ended.  Therefore must be useful to the Great Lord.  Let the Chosen rot in the beds they made themselves.  New Chosen would someday rise. He intended to be foremost among them. He just needed to figure out a way back to the heights.

The Hand stood there, watching with a scowl for a reaction.  They met each other's gaze that time, each waiting to see who would act first and held until Arikan threw his hand defiantly across the splints and dragged them close enough to put to good use.  He had to dig deep through the muddled waters of foggy memory for the last time his hands bound such an operation.  He made no effort to swallow the sounds that came with it; too tired and uncaring that the Hand witness the discomfort.  One such as he would not be moved either way.  It would be torture to compress the fluid and bend the joint through unnatural folds; likely the Hand already intended to do as much anyway.  Better it be done by his own decision. Through grunts and stifled cries, tired hands bound the injury as best he could, tied the rag in place. 

The supplies across the floor jaded his nerves, clawing at his chest, pounding, trying to tell him to defer longer, but his logic was faded, the deductions unclear.  From the bucket and brushes at the Hand's feet, across stone and fragmented wood, to the pallet on which he sat, the floor stank the senses and stuck to the flesh.  Everything within the faint world of limited lamplight was bare and reeking, weeping as though impregnated with tears.  Moving around would give him something to do.  A task on which to focus his disheveled thoughts.  While yet the threat of growing weakness urged him to take up any assignment of physical resistance, he eventually thrust the bandaged leg to one side and took up the chore.