Filling the Days

[Morven]

Devika Sirideán

Aes Sedai of the Red Ajah

✥

Devika stood with hands clasped for the rest of the proceedings. It was wasteful, allowing Jorin the chance to speak, and Devika did not enjoy watching the evidence of their long-standing connection, or the knowledge he so gleefully hoarded and used to dangle in sport. Or the fact the Dragon still allowed him to prevaricate over the question, and yet again provide no answer. The name meant little; just glimpses into a foreign past. Yet her lips twitched in dislike when she realised the story revealed which of the damned she dealt with.

When she looked at him before, Jorin had had the effrontery to nod at her like this was some collaboration of efforts. She could not say why he desired the outcome, beyond that he must have some scheme at the ready. One she would not be regretful to crush. Her presence darkened as the man drew closer, then even dared to lay a finger. Had it been anyone but the Dragon himself, Jorin may well have lost the digit, but it would be disrespectful to act like the Dragon could not defend himself. And perhaps it served well for him to feel the sting of this man’s insubordination one last time, and so heed her own warnings from moments ago.

Either way Jorin had no power here. The dying throes of his insult felt like the beginnings of a child’s unruly tantrum.

When the Dragon’s permission was granted she nodded gravely. There was no smugness in victory, and she had never cared for the act; much as, for once, its recipient was well-deserved to suffer it.

“I have another request. One of the Maidens, if any of them might desire the honour of becoming the Dragon’s Spear instead of his shield. There will be places it is unwise for me to take him, and I could use another pair of trusted eyes.” It did not need an answer now; those women were proud, and Devika liked them, but most would be understandably resistant to leaving the car’a’carn’s side. Afterwards she glanced at Jorin’s unsettlingly jovial expression, and finally added to the Lord Dragon, “Do you wish to witness?”

But by then his attention was required elsewhere. She imagined he found it a relief to defer the duty, and Devika only minded in as much as it delayed what must be done. She inclined her head in acquiescence before she swept from the room, Jorin and his escort in tow. In the anteroom beyond, an Asha’man was occupying one of the seats, the Dragon’s guard all atwitter with handtalk from their various stations. Devika could not understand the signals, but she did not need to, judging by the smirks and fluttery looks. He was tall, handsome, blonde – and likely in the unknowing midst of a discussion about what strong babies he would produce.

“Asha’man Thayn,” she said in passing. The Ajah kept ledgers once, detailing every man to enter the Black Tower and so record evidence of his particular madness. Whiteraven had hated that scrutiny; petitioning his sister at every turn to shrug aside the Red’s purview over his men, and of course the bloody Blue had capitulated by making things difficult. Which likely explained the utter chaos of the place since. Such practice may have changed since the cleansing, but this was a face old enough to have known the Dragon in his youth and the Asha’man’s farmhouse in its infancy. Old enough to remember the Reds of old, too. There certainly weren’t many of those left.

“Assassinated, demoted, assassinated.” She counted them off slowly upon each finger, voice sultry soft with mocking admonishment. “My condolences. And congratulations, perhaps?”

But it was a thread to pull on later, and she did not linger.

*

Rooms were kept for her at the Stone, though she rarely had need of them. As such nothing of import was left in them, but they were lavish with Devika’s particular tastes. The Sirideáns shared both ancestral blood and trade with the Seafolk, and even today Mayene stayed rich on the domination of Sharan shipping lanes and oilfish. The furnishings within were rich with exotic and travelled flavours, deep jewel colours, and the hinted scent of spices. She released the Maidens at the threshold and allowed Jorin the freedom to wander within. Much to their blatant amusement for such a seemingly intimate invitation.

When she closed the door and turned, it was to look Jorin up and down anew. “Most men do not consent to this. None that I recall have ever accepted their fates calmly. But I have seen men beg for it before, thinking it would cleanse them of their madness. It did not, of course. It just made them less dangerous to us, and to the people they loved.”

Jorin knew nothing of madness of course. Nor, did she imagine, of true and selfless loss. Those men suffered greatly for all their good intentions, and most succumbed to final acts by their own hand. In self-sacrifice they relieved the world of a heavy burden, but it was not one Devika would name as fair. She spoke the words with compassion for the fallen and not as a tyrant, but neither was there regret for the part she played. She watched Jorin in open interest for the mystery he presented; allowed a brief pause to see if this wolf would continue the charade of domestication. It made no difference to the outcome, of course. But she had considered the story he told the Dragon during their walk.

She lifted a hand to beckon him closer, and so take a soft hold of his chin. The touch was not necessary; it was to see if he would allow her. To see if he was really willing to make this trade for freedom. Suspicion did not make her trusting, no matter how pitiful he appeared, and if she was afraid she hid it entirely as she met the bloodshot eyes of a man bound to the Dark One himself. He was sly with it, but compliant all the same. She suppressed a shiver.

Then saidar filled her.

The weave was only spirit. Many years had passed since she had last had need to perform this particular duty, but she was deft with it nonetheless. His severance was clean and mercifully quick, but it was an act that also knocked the air straight from a man’s lungs. Jorin stumbled backwards as though suffering an unexpected, physical blow. She might have warned him but for how wily he was with his claim to superior knowledge, and surely one of the Forsaken would not be unfamiliar with the weave or its effects. His breathing laboured tight and coiled in recovery and she followed him with a step forward, as though to steady his fall. But of course he had been a fool not to anticipate more. As she grasped his chin once more, Jorin’s expression shifted substantially; into genuine alarm and frank accusation. "Stop. What are you doing?"

The second weave was also spirit, and came on the heels of the first. Only this one she had never woven before, and had never intended to on another soul. But the Wheel Weaves, and Devika was ever its servant.

Only then did she step away. There was no apology in her dark eyes. Just an acclimation of her own.

“Hm,” she said, one brow aloft. “You really are hungover.”

"Does that mean you're going to Heal me now? It's the least you can do after violating me."

But for now she only sank into one of the plush chairs and crossed her legs, languid as a cat who’d just let the mouse dart from beneath her paws to see what it might do. She would call it a necessary evil before she called it a violation, especially on a man who could not even claim ownership over his own soul. If anyone could claim to be violated, it was she, for a sacrifice made in the name of the Light. “What do you wish me to call you now? For I will not call you Ashtaroth.”

"You figured it out. Good for you." He smirked at her. "But why not? That's my name."

She did not deign a response to such a stupidity, though she considered it might suggest he intended to be less circumspect with his secrets now he was not directly beholden to the Dragon. It was Jorin who would suffer for it though. In the realm of the Light, and certainly in Tear, that name was as good as a death sentence. And those were only the practical reasons to shun a moniker chosen by the Dark One himself. Her eyes narrowed a little in displeasure, but ultimately she made a dismissive gesture with her hand. She asked from courtesy.

“This need be only as difficult as you make it.”

[[Jole’s dialogue written by Jaxen]]