Mists

[Adrian Kane]

Arikan

The trail of lamplight faded. The afterglow harsher in its absence now he'd grown used to its presence.  Weary lids darkened his view of the world, and he rested his face against his knees yet again.  Echoes of questions resounding.  Good and simple men?  A black and white fable smeared with gray. Nothing was so cut and dry. The trolloc wars comment made him smirk a laugh. Arikan commanded fifty thousand trollocs once. He lived the Trolloc Wars.

"The armies of the Light protects family and loved ones?” he balked.  "Tell me of your family and the ones you love, Inquisitor.”  He paused after the title leaked out, "If anyone loves you in return, perhaps I might believe this." 


He stood before a shallow pool of water in a court of algae-climbing stone.  The reflection of a man armored in overlapping plates, dressed in a ceremonial red cloak clasped to shoulder-rings, and belted with newly christened weapons stared back.  Somewhere beneath the surface of that reflection siphoned the only pure thing in this cursed land: the only source of water fit to drink.  This world of nothingness surrounding the stone oasis was fertile as freshly turned soil, but the crop was no grain for men to consume.  From such poisoned cracks sprang bulges of putrid flesh swarming with oily blood.  Fissures of souls in the shape of men, half alive, churned their beds as gardeners to their plots, breeding an army to send the most majestic of men weeping to their knees.  Or, the most majestic of women to their knees: begging for mercies he would not show them.  The women of Tar Valon would weep a thousand tears beneath the sweep of chaos to come.

A gauntleted fist closed secure around the hilt of a virgin sword.  The blade was once touched by those same soulless bodies working thakan'dar.  He would need to be careful cleaning it once war broke.  For soon the day would come it would taste its first blood, and its master intended to avoid falling to his own mortality from a mere scratch.



To sleep.  He lay without; remembering sporadically, reliving choice moments piercing his mental prison.  The Hand returned hour after hour, or perhaps day after day, although he'd left the promise of a bath 'tomorrow' ringing temptation in his ears.  He bore food and drink, and slowly something not quite strength nor quite relief perfused muscle again and washed the throb of wounds aside, but he had not the mind to follow nor care why.

Their discussions continued.  A surprising amount of philosophy came from the whitecloak: a begrudging title bestowed upon even an Inquisitor of the Light.  The background was there, he decided finally, having watched him enough.  The Hand was too steady-fingered, too fond of his gloves, too balanced in his stance to have jumped straight to the trade of a torturer without intervening training.  He must have been a soldier first. Inquisitor second.



"Lo and the Great Lord shall stretch forth His hand and claim what is His. And then shall the Lord of Evening come,” an enthralled voice read aloud.  His voice, but although hesitant, he could not stop just yet.  "And He shall take our eyes, for our souls shall bow before Him, and He shall take our skin, for our flesh shall serve Him, and He shall take our lips, for only Him will we praise.." 

He retreated from the tome, considered the fleshy shade of its leathery bindings. All too human was the grain. It whispered screams when he touched it first. Now, it was silent as the grave. Arikan looked away, briefly bowing before the gaze of the one that brought him here. 
"Great One, I am unworthy to read such words.”  His jaw clenched, and the dark armament that was their chosen leader regarded him. 

The Great One spoke in turn, then quoted the remaining words of prophecy from memory, intending his newly selected proxy to hear it all. His voice scratched the ears, and Arikan could not look upon him even then. He listened intently. Heart chasing after itself.
”We gather now for war. The end will soon begin, Arikan.  You know His promise. If you succeed, He will name you one of his Chosen to Rule the World. If you succeed… Let the lord of chaos rule." 

The dreadlord bowed with unquestioning obedience, "let the lord of chaos rule,” he repeated, and left moments afterward.



At some point, he shared some passages of that same prophecy with the Hand, unsure why even as he did.  Perhaps thinking to convince him the foolishness of men's blind allegiance to the Light, but he fell silent for long moments upon the Hand's cold comment in turn.  In its entirety, the prophecy mentioned new Dreadlords heralding the return of the Lord of the Grave, and never the Old nor whether their lips shall sing the same praises. He thought on it for a while, but the concept was too far beyond the shallow waters of his present mind to comprehend a conclusion.

This time, the Hand peered down a truer line of sight than he'd thought possible by calling the Great Ladies and Lords of old shortsighted as they conquered the foreign lands of this Age, intending through their conquest to strip the world of the life they intended to rule.  His response was a convoluted accent laboring over the burden of every syllable. Yet the basics of civilized speech remained in tact, unlike some lisp-laden, Illianer imbecile who could not form a mere sentence.  A drawn breath, and he righted himself.  "A ruler without an army rules nothing”. An acknowledgement, yes. Arikan was aware that ruling a dead world was antithetical to the purpose of ruling.

He smoothed his hair straight back from his face, disgusting curls falling away. He was never going to be clean again. Even when he escaped, broke the Hand’s neck with his bare hands, and tasted fresh air again, he knew he’d always feel this grime. He thought of the sea then. A distant line on the horizon from the city of Tear. Atop the Great Stone he once walked balustrades when the hours of staring at Callandor grew too frustrating to continue. He could barely remember it now. How long ago had that been? Eighty? A hundred years?

The food he swallowed was as bland as before, uncaring by then to hate the sustenance to which he'd become dependent.  The Hand he tolerated, comments returned in like kind, defending the justice of his glorious lord when the occasion called for it.  Throughout the sightlessness of insomnia by which he acted, moments of emotion frequently crossed his face.  Some blank or unaware until the moment ended with pinching the bridge of his nose in vague, headache-fouled annoyance.  Other times he seemed to stare a distant gaze toward the wall, expression washed anew with the clearest of all summoned memories, heart racing, lips parted so slightly were beset with far-off wonder. 

Finally, following yet another however many days it was deprived of sleep, straw rustled across stone and he looked up from where he lay, the Hand's figure floating the silence that'd come to settle between them this time, and those distant, wondrous moments were explained by a quiet admission. 

He was too indifferent to reach for the cleverer, insulting motivations of their previous chats than a man simply revealing shards of honest rationalization. Maybe he was simply feeling nostalgic. By then the haze was heavy, and the rot of weariness began to set its hold when at long last Arikan shared a purer sort of regret that the Hand, and all he represented, could exist without ever having known true and desperately needed attention, "We may speak with Him, did yeh know this?  In the Pit of Shayol Ghul, if a man's courage holds through to reach the cavern below.  He can be heard..,” of any detail though, Arikan would not describe no matter how firmly it was pressed.

Byron / Inquisitor Jeorune

Each visit seemed to grant another tiny piece to the very large puzzle the boy represented. Each such piece and glimmer of insight was noted and catalogued for ongoing reference, to allow it to be checked to previous admissions or comments when the opportunity presented itself. Naturally, Inquisitor Jeorune would never share those notes with a witch's servant, especially when knowing that 'servant' was a witch herself. But, seeing as Inquisitor Jeorune was rotting in a shallow grave, or a somewhat deeper one had his remains been found by his fellow whitecloaks, Byron was a bit more open with those notes, allowing Corele to look them over and to compare notes, so to speak.

Most interesting were the comments of the boy's experiences at that Light-forsaken mountain, or bits and pieces of the Darkfriend's prophecies. These were noted with extra care for every word used. Byron was no philosopher, and so refrained from allowing any of his own opinions to be noted down; that was the work of more learned mines then his. Again, it was a promising sign that the boy's resolve was weakening, and that he would soon be open to more direct questioning. Time was of the essence, and the concoction that was preventing the boy from sleeping had already proven itself worth the trouble of collecting it.

But it would not last forever, and Byron took what chances for rest he could, in preparation of the long nights that would come when he ran out of the herbs and had to rely on more traditional, hands-on means of keeping the boy awake. Hopefully, Lythia Sedai returned before then.

A bushel of fresh straw waited in the hallway; another 'reward' for good behaviour, although equally so it was a matter of the boy's health. With it might even come a blanket; one of coarse and itchy wool, and just a bit too short and narrow for a full grown man, but it was still something more then the boy had been afforded under Inquisitor Jeorune's care.

"I wonder, boy...how do you know it is truly the Father of Lies, and not one of the Forsaken? And how many of your kind are tricked to further the goals of one of the Forsaken or another, thinking they serve the Dark One? How could they know the difference?” He had little doubt that there would be a grand and manifest difference between the Forsaken and the Dark One, but how could one simple darkfriend know that difference? Surely the Forsaken, with their ancient knowledge of the One Power, could manage terribly convincing tricks to lead one astray, after all.

Arikan

Time must have passed.  Meals arrived.  Though, he reflected, he was unsure how many despite the earlier resolution to keep track.  Everything blurred together.

There were moments of continued conversation, the revival of each he somehow participated in but could not quite remember what was said before or after. 

The throb to the ankle dulled, eventually allowing a careful walk along the wall.  They were infrequent, those acts of moving about, thus carried out only when ordered: to retrieve the fresh straw or fetch the blanket; the former strewn neatly around, the latter kept near.  He didn’t even remember when the Inquisitor gave him the blanket. Had it always been there?

Every time the door opened, light illuminated the lump of a man sitting in the same place against the wall.  Eventually the ill-fitting blanket turned into cloak that draped across his shoulders.  Every return of the light took longer to beckon him aware, until this most recent interruption cut off whatever seance occupied a sleepless mind.  He had to be directly addressed before looking up.

Footfalls beat acknowledged as the warning of far sounding drums.  A bowl shoved into his hands, the warmth of it spread to his lap.  He ate as the instinct of a mortal man would eat, automatic and careful, but incognizant of actual hunger.  Continuing only until he was told to stop. 

The blanket was no longer gathered to a cold chest.  It became something ornamental.  The face of it studied like an abstract thing.  The edge of it pinched like the threads were fibers of the imagination.  What was being asked slowly filtered the catatonia.  Something stirred in his gut, and his hands thrust forth suddenly, swinging from their perch on his knees and shoved back a dark swath of hair.  Strident laughter thundered forth, inappropriately sincere for the humorless situation. He could feel himself losing his grip. What was worse was he didn’t care.

His neck flopped back, weak beneath the skull screaming silent accolades to the gods overhead.  He laughed until it hurt.  Until thick tears glazed his eyes.  The offering was a whimsical farce: no god turned an ear to pits in the earth, and was all the more obscene for it.  Unfortunately, the Inquisitor was the only witness to such hilarity; a pure, echoed hysteria.  Convulsively musical.  The Child of the Light, more accurately, the only fleshy witness.  The demons circling a cocoon of safety around the brother they sensed would soon join them scattered with excitement, feeding happily upon the shrill nectar on which they suckled. It was so humorous because that was exactly what he did to the lesser friends of the dark. Impersonated something so evil and vile that he let their imaginations run away with them. It was a familiar ruse among the highest of them.

He eventually found the breath to answer, "Perhaps, yes.”  Many were fooled.  It was an easy hallucination to create.  Infinite illusions injecting terrors to the mind.  An easier insanity to prick at the senses when reality of tel'aran'rhiod was malleable to a dreammaster's craft.  Yet still reproduced by a select few in the waking world.

The laughter silenced.  The demons ceased their excited orchestra.  The alter in his mind went cold.  He regarded how the Hand lazed patient in his white shroud then snapped suddenly.  Throwing his head to his knees, hiding.  Panicked with memories of that fear, and there was no escaping it.  "Perhaps, but in-“he rubbed both temples, concentrating "-Shayol Ghul-“ he darkened, departing into focus.  Speech evasive, "-I do not think this is so." To channel in that sacred place was a thing forbidden.  The desire to try crushed beyond the bone and stripped from the soul.  He, the Heart of Darkness himself, read their thoughts.  He sensed the desire; smelled defiance.  Shayol Ghul was His domain, and there, He was lord. 

Byron / Inquisitor Jeorune

The boy's mind was seemingly starting to fracture and splinter from the days without sleep and unknown time in captivity, but at least the boy was proving easy to handle so far. He had been expecting the boy to have far more physical mood swings and paranoia, which would have created far more work on his part and slowed things down considerably. Another tiny sliver of information was given over, perhaps the most pertinent to the goal Lythia had set him to.

If she were to swear false oaths to hide in the enemy's camp, it would be all for naught if she were to be put under the Dark One's direct attentions. Surely, much as the Tower had the Oath Rod, the enemy had something similar? And there was always the risk that the Dark One could simply see through such a façade.

Inquisitor Jeorune folded his arms over his chest, staring down at the boy as he huddled and curled away from the light. "Many Darkfriends I have questioned claim to have seen that dread mountain. I doubt they were ever really there. A trick or illusion, a nightmare perhaps.”

He was probing; he had indeed questioned a few Darkfriends in his time; minor ones, whom had indeed sworn they had been to Shayol Ghul, but each had been so certain they had gone to sleep in their beds only to awaken there, then awaken again in their beds. So perhaps then it was some trick of the dreams, of Tel'aran'rhiod. If that were the case, then it would be that much harder for one to hide their allegiances, wouldn't it?

Byron couldn't help but wonder then, just how many of the Forsaken or their dread lords could Dreamwalk. Was it a common ability in the enemy's camp? Could they reach and influence anyone they wished? Most disturbing. But, surely if that were the case, then things would have been going much worse for the forces of the Light. So no...a rare thing, perhaps difficult to employ in such a fashion? Did proximity or personal knowledge of a person make it more powerful? Could they find the dreams of anyone in Creation, or only those they knew or had met? A whole new front to the war between Light and Dark, another front on which he was all but useless. And so, all the more reason to be of as much use as he could in what avenues he could influence.