An Early Evening Run

[Eidolon]

Malaika

Malaika was amused that he assumed she lacked the ability or education to defend herself with methods beyond the One Power. It had been one of the things she had made sure to fit into her busy Accepted schedule, much to the surprise of those who had known her for being gentle and placid in nature. Uncharacteristic though it might have seemed, few were aware of the thoughts that ran through Malaika’s head, and it had actually been entirely logical. She’d never had ambitions of aspiring Green - which was why most Accepted took defensive classes - but she’d experienced not being in control of her own gift, knew what it felt like to be utterly helpless, and when the Tower itself had been attacked had vowed never to rely solely on saidar for protection.

“I trained on the fields while still an Accepted, and what I learned has already proved useful once.” Her lips quirked up in a dry smile. “Although, I daresay I am more than bit rusty now.”

She’d studied under Lythia for a number of years before being raised, but had not had the time or inclination until now to resume those studies, which had focused mainly on hand-to-hand defensive techniques. It had only been a matter of days since her encounter with Lythia and her Warder in the stables - the first time she had seen the Green since gaining the shawl - and it had sparked a reminder to speak with the woman about furthering her tutoring. Once she’d found time to broach the subject, she hoped that either Lythia might find the time to help herself, else would point her in the direction of someone with time and willing… though Light she wasn’t looking forward to all those aches and pains again.

Ebou Dar had proved to her the value of such training, and the basic skills she had learnt had probably saved her life, or at least spared her a far more grievous injury. It had not protected her entirely, though, she thought while flexing he stiff fingers resting in her lap. Since that particular incident, Adira’s subtle naggings had changed from hiring a maid to look after her well-being, to bonding a warder if she was going to insist on being so ‘reckless.’ Which Malaika wasn’t, generally. Reckless, that is. And why would she wish to be a leashholder? To use someone else’s life as a shield? Now that was reckless, and frankly quite awful. But apparently she was the only one who thought so.

Usually at such a juncture, Malaika would have expected a lecture on the merits of Bonding. Outside of the Green Ajah, Aes Sedai were not expected to have martial training themselves; it was far more beneficial to expend their time and energy into mastering saidar, and there were those who never even left the tower once they were raised. Some did train in one weapon or another, of course, but on the whole, those that frequently found themselves in dangerous situations relied on a gaidin or gaidar for support. Two halves of a whole, Malaika had heard it said, and those words always echoed with thoughts of the a’dam. How is it truly different? To take one person’s life and value it below your own; to use it as loose change to bribe death to come back another day. It was one of the few things Malaika was genuinely cynical about, though she recognised now isolated she was in that opinion.

Sensing the melancholy of his expression and the strange seriousness to his tone and latter words, Malaika had been about to be unusually open about her own feelings on the bond; feelings she did not generally share since they were so deviant. She was still wary about making assumptions about the apparent emotions of such a prolific actor, but he seemed genuinely troubled (at least, the fact he had eventually dropped the joke suggested he was sincere. Probably.), and it moved her to want to try and relate. If a man can dedicate his life to this, am I right to find it so objectionable? She absently touched the part of her neck where the collarbones met, frowning. I couldn’t expect someone to die for me, willing or not…

And then she became aware of the teahouse Mistress returning. Byron appeared to play different parts for different people, and she knew ahead of time that Osilia’s presence would override any genuinely serious melancholy he had at his situation, to be replaced by boyish charm and silly grins. Though she had clearly been going to say something, Malaika closed her mouth, hesitated, and then changed her mind at the last minute.

“I think you sell yourself too short,” she said in the moments before the woman descended on them, resting back in her chair and flickering her eyes to the motherly woman. It was a good job her tray was laden, because she suspected Byron would have earned another clout on the head otherwise. Malaika smiled behind her ringless hand at the exchange, and just as Byron returned to his role of jokester, she returned to her appointed role of the ‘good Lady.’

“No, not yet, Mistress Osilia,” she said, dark eyes returning to the man in question in jest. She had quite clearly been rapt for the entirety of his tale, so she didn't fear he might miss the joke. Malaika felt remarkably comfortable in his company, considering the short span of time she had known him. She was aware that it was uncharacteristic of her; there were people she had known years she was not so at ease with, and only two she had ever been exceptionally close to. Broekk of the White Ajah, a friend with whom there had always been a prominent line of respect, and Pasha, a novice the then-Shea had once shared a room with, and perhaps the only other person who had ever been able to make Malaika so quick to smile. Two in more than twenty years, so she appreciated the rarity of the event.

Third impression, she almost corrected, though admittedly the only one she had cared to share. The Aes Sedai tilted her head. "I'll take it back if it makes you happy. I'm not sure I've ever seen a true Gleeman pout so much anyway." She wasn’t going to coddle his ego with any true thoughts of her impressions of him, and was quite content to play along with this bizarre yet oddly entertaining roleplay. And anyway, she rather suspected that he enjoyed playing Mistress Osilia's victim.

She turned her attention back to the woman.

”Mistress Osilia, so tell me; for how long have you known our would-be Gleeman?” She was quite sure Byron would find enough material to keep amused himself from that question, and no doubt the teahouse mistress would covet the open opportunity to embarrass him further.

Byron

The tone of her voice and the way her words clipped off was more then evidence enough for Byron to know she would have said more had they not been interupted. And perhaps it was for the best? Byron himself was the first to rally when he needed to be taken down a few rungs, and equally the first to admit when he wasn't deserving of praise. He had no doubts that if and when he did find an Aes Sedai that would most benefit from his hodgepodge of talents, that he would serve her brilliantly. And in the mean time...he'd continue to play the fool. A rather entertaining role.

Playing the part of the fool, Byron grew comically flustered at the accusation of 'pouting', sitting dumbstruck before launching into a tirade of defensive denials and flourishing hand gestures denouncing the mere thought that he might 'pout.' That was for women and boys and Cairheinin noblemen, not would-be Gleeman Gaidin. Most certainly not a pouter! Of course, his rambling was low enough to not interfere with Mistress Osilia, who just rolled her eyes melodramatically and went about topping off their tea puts with hot water and letting them steep.

"Well, Lady Malaika, I doubt I know him even now. He has a bag of masks as deep as the Tower is tall I think. But he first came in here four years ago. I hired him as an entertainer, and he would play or sing or dance or tumble some nights. More oft then not he was gone for weeks or months, but when he was around he had no end of new stories to tell. Didn't know he was of the Tower until some men came and dragged him off for penance. Didn't see him again for two years, and then all he could talk about was cabbages and locusts. As if he hadn't done a single interesting thing in two whole years."

She clearly thought there must be something more to it. He could come up with no end of stories and larks from but a few months absence, and to return with nothing but how to thatch a roof and when to plant cabbage in a two year absence was rather out of character. "Not that I doubt he spent some time tending a farm, he knows enough of it to support that. But I'd wager he was up to no good somewhere. Likely saving the true story as a nest egg when he's too old and senile to have adventures. Always got to save a few good ones for when you're stuck in a rocking chair by the fire, yes?"

She cast Byron a sharp grin, clearly confident that she had him figured out and likely eager to hear the real story one day. He, in turn, managed a perfect 'wool-headed-fool-of-a-man' look as if he hadn't a clue what the two were talking about, carefully putting his far flung arms back in his lap, and she rolled her eyes again and looked back to Malaika, shrugging in apparent dismissal of the fool man, "Sometimes though, he does remind me of my departed brother. Dekan always had such a way with words. Ah, I could almost imagine Byron to be his son, for the way he carries himself." She spoke fondly, giving Byron a motherly smile while he was watching some of the patrons head home for the evening.

She tidied up their table of a few of the empty plates and settled it all on her tray, "Well, enough of that then. He gives you a hard time, you let me know. Bring out a bowl of leeks. He hates the things enough that the mere thought of them should keep him in line, right Byron?" Her smile was mischievous when she looked to him, and he had managed to pale and wilt a bit at the mere mention of the vegetable, and then she was off to clear up the emptied table.

Malaika

Masks, indeed, she thought. Or maybe even mirrors, considering Osilia’s admission that he reminded her of a passed brother (and no, she certainly did not miss the name). She imagined he adapted and reflected as opposed to having a stock of ready-made personas to adopt according to whim. Osilia saw what she wanted to see, just as Malaika saw what she wished to see - Byron’s tales were riddled with holes and intrigues and misdirection; to a Brown such things were as gold to a magpie. Another willing victim snared in the colour and light of his weavings, she thought wryly.

Dekan was not such an uncommon name, but she doubted anything about Byron was so simple or blithely coincidental. As Mistress Osilia gave the man a motherly smile, Malaika turned her gaze to watch him too, dark brows drawn ever so slightly in discomfort. He was acting oblivious, which seemed adequate enough confirmation. She was sure he had his reasons to visit Dekan’s sister, and she did not think Osilia had any clue as to the reality of her brother’s life and death or Byron’s involvement in any of it… but it still sat uneasily. Knowing she sat opposite the man who had facilitated Dekan’s end - for all that he may have deserved it - while Osilia remained blissfully ignorant, and even remarked on the apparent similarities of their disposition.

“You just get more and more complicated, don’t you,” she murmured, but didn’t say anything else about it. Suddenly it didn’t seem appropriate to discuss, not with Osilia bustling about with a kindness and cheer Malaika had warmed to. She watched the woman clearing tables, quiet for a long moment. The Wheel Weaves, she thought bleakly, and ignorance can be bliss. Sometimes it was better to remember people fondly than shatter that bliss with truth.

Interesting that it turned out he had been dragged away from the teahouse belonging to his dead master’s sister, though. Byron had been very vague about the nature of his penance, and though Mistress Osilia had only discovered he was a gaidin because of it, he had never strictly said it had been issued by the Tower. Out of politeness Malaika had not tried to inquire further, and she would still keep her suppositions to herself. He’d told her that a few of the members of his old band had deserted before the end, and it didn’t seem unfeasible that they might, upon finding out what had happened to their old master, have decided they had some claim to the loot Byron had taken. Certainly Malaika imagined Byron had reasons other than the ones Osilia conjectured to keep the story to himself, or at the very least away from Mistress Osilia herself.

She wondered if he would ever tell Osilia the truth - any of it - and then silently warned herself against becoming sentimentally involved. It was none of her business. None of it. For a while she stared at the stream rising from the hot water, then eventually tilted her head. As she often did, she spoke on a subject entirely unrelated to the flow of her thoughts. “Should I even ask about the leeks?” She didn’t look up, and whatever conclusions she had made of the unwitting piece of information Osilia had revealed, Malaika simply looked vaguely amused now, as though Byron really were nothing more than an entertaining fool.

Byron

It was true that Osilia was Master Dekan's sister, and it was equally true her existance was part of the reason young boy Byron had found his way to the Tower. The house Mistress didn't remember, or at least hadn't linked, a grungy boy delivering a weathered parcel of money writs and coin and a letter of final farewell from her departed brother, with the handsome and bumbling young man that had turned up four years ago. She had no way of knowing that the letter had been a clever forgery by the young Byron, given weight and credence for his first had knowledge of Dekan. The true Dekan, the one Osilia had never known, wouldn't have thought twice of killing his sister for a couple crowns.

Byron was a remarkable cards player, and shows of emotion were something often known as a 'tell' amongst the more experienced Noble players. It was something he had long learned to control, especially with his training as a Warder. So the faint look of remorse, perhaps guilt, that showed in the very brief tightening of his eyes and expert avoidance of eye contact, no matter how brief it was, would have lost him a very rich hand if there were coins on the table. Did he feel guilty for killing Dekan? No, never. Did he feel guilty for letting Osilia think her brother was a good man? Not at all. He did feel guilty about being her friend though, knowing he had killed her brother.

When she finally drifted away again, Byron wore his charming smile once more and seemed none the worse for wear, clearly confused at the acqusations of being complicated and laughing warmly at the thought of it, "I am not so complicated. Creator strike me blind if you haven't seen deeper then most, and we've only just met!" His grin turned to a grimace at the mere mention of leeks, shaking his head in dismay and swallowing hard at the thought of them. "Please don't? Light but if they aren't the Dark One's doing! Have you tasted them before? Bland and stringey, make me want to gag at the thought of them. Terrible things."

He settled in again, elbows onto the table and leaning in comfortably, seemingly quite at ease. He then shifted a bit, reaching across to take up her little kettle and top off her own cup before doing the same for his, "As I mentioned, it is hard to offend me, yes? but talk of leeks is a sure fire way to do just that." He said it with a playful grin, clearly taking no actual offence at such a topic.

Once Osilia vanished back into the kitchen, his smile softened a bit and he tapped his fingers on the table top, studying Malaika intently a moment before shrugging dismissively and speaking quietly, "Couldn't show up at the Tower with a small fortune, could I? No, likely not. So who better to get it all? Master Dekan spoke of her quite highly, as much as he would have sold her for a shoe. Gave her everything, and a very cheery letter...forged, of course. She's happy though. At least something good came of it all, yes?"

He chuckled softly and glanced towards the kitchen door, "She has fond memories. Fake, perhaps, but fond. It doesn't sit well with me though...like a burr in my boot while on parade. Nothing I can do about it without ruining a name and reputation that otherwise fits quite nicely. A warm blanket to hide under from time to time. Childish, no doubt, but I've never made any claim of being mature have I?" He was silent a few moments longer, before clapping his hand off the table and leaning back in his seat, tea cup in hand and sipping the hot drink gingerly, letting her decide to press the topic or move on.

Malaika

“Vegetables are vegetables,” she said with a hint of bemusement, glad in some ways to have returned to a lighter topic of conversation. Malaika could enjoy food and flavour when she made time for it, but mostly she ate because it was necessity and was not very fussy. She understood the grin to mean he was joking, but it was amusing to think that he should be offended by leeks, of all things. She wondered if there was a story there, and if it was related to his time tending cabbage, but respected that it was, apparently, too horrific to share.

The way he leaned in, drumming his fingers along the tabletop as if deliberating what to say - or maybe whether to say anything - and then what he actually said had a confessionary air about it. She was not sure what she had done to make him feel he owed her any sort of explanation, and for a moment was concerned that she had given him the impression she judged his actions. He certainly didn’t need to justify himself to her, and she would have interjected to say so if it had not dawned on her that it was probably his conscience dictating the offering, rather than anything to do with her. Some people cared about what others thought, no matter who they were. Byron might welcome and even encourage accusations of fool, but he didn’t paint anything about himself as heartless.

She listened quietly, nursing the cup he had poured, and was not much surprised by what she heard. “I don’t think her knowing would do either of you much good. The truth isn't as easily healed as other wounds, and some things we would rather not know, hmm?” She was passing back his own words again. Whether Byron had the right to deceive Osilia like that was another matter, but Malaika was not a Grey to swim through the murky depths of moral ambiguity and try to pile right from wrong. The road to darkness was often paved with good intentions, but the truth was that in his situation she would have done much the same thing, except she did not find it so easy to ignore guilt and would not have stuck around.

Though what he said about Mistress Osilia didn't surprise her, what he said about the nature of his own masks did.

Malaika was quite thoroughly a Brown, but she had spent years in the White Halls with Broekk both as a novice and as an accepted, so it was fairly inevitable that some of that clinical psychology had rubbed off. She understood people intuitively rather than academically; Broekk, no doubt, could have waxed lyrical about the nature of children’s coping mechanisms among adults, but Malaika grasped what he meant on a gut level. She had her own blankets and measures for security, and she did not think them childish.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she said, making an absent sign of promise with the hand that didn’t hold the cup. A rather juvenile gesture in itself, and one she had often shared with her brother when he’d used to confide his latest escapade, or show her the latest stray he’d hidden in an abandoned barn or one of the caves out by where they had lived. She couldn’t even be sure if that memory was really hers, or something that had only happened in the Arches, but it always made her smile. “Although you won’t get far making sure your reputation stays in tact if you go confessing to every stranger who takes an interest in your past.” Malaika wasn’t a gossip, and even had she not spontaneously promised to keep what she knew to herself, she would not have deigned to say anything to anyone anyway. It wasn't in her nature, and she was far more study-minded than social besides.

Byron

Well, that was enough of that. He offered her a thankful smile that quickly turned rueful as she pointed out he shouldn't make a habit of letting everything out in the open, and finally he was settling back in his seat, feet returning to the arm of his neighbouring chair. It was borderline unsettling just how spot on she could be in her observations, and he couldn't help but both wonder and dread how much she had peiced together that she hadn't voiced. But, at the same time, that added a level of depth and interest to her that most likely wouldn't have noticed. At face value, while certainly easy on the eyes, she might seem a rather weak conversationalist.

Rather then voice any further comments, or worse still bare his rather pathetic soul any more, Byron returned once more to the antics he was better known for. Hands clasped behind his head and settling back quite comfortably, any lingering doubts or worry about their last topic seemed to vanish as he looked to her, "I have to admit, good Lady Malaika, I've not met many prestigious women that are quite so fond of my stories. Most find it pompous or arrogant, or grow offended thinking that I prefer speaking of myself rather then hearing of them."

Women were, of course, quite intricate. It was a challenge he quite enjoyed to figure out what each was like, or at least to learn how best to get a laugh and smile. At first glance most would no doubt think his most driving goal was simply conquest and notches in his belt, and certainly he did nothing to dissuade such opinions. "But, I did promise to answer your questions, and am quite endeared to the thought of being able to tell my stories to your hearts desire."

He especially enjoyed the moments of intense focus as she seized onto one little tidbit or another, and it was a hard fight not to smile happily every time he was able to peak her interest to such an extent. He couldn't help but think of a kitten playing with a string, likening each flash of clearity in her eyes with the kitten catching the string.

Malaika

Prestigious? If she had been prone to idle laughter, she probably would have then. Most days she felt more scholar than Aes Sedai, with ink-stained fingers and dust in her hair. Not to mention that she still felt like a child among her peers in the ajah, no matter the honorific attached to her name and all the bowing and scraping of the lower ranks that seemed to come with it. Hard-work, discipline, dedication, commitment, and years of exhaustion had led her to the shawl, but it had felt a lot like duty at the time. If she could not rely on another to control her gift, then it was her own responsibility to make sure she was safe, and the Tower was the most efficient road to that end. Earning the shawl had been a by-product more than a goal, and thought of being part of an elite was at odds with Malaika’s simple view of herself.

She couldn’t understand how people could be so incurious, so it seemed strange to her that no-one at the Tower (or at the least only a very few) had ever thought to question deeper than Byron’s outer shell, not least because his apparent persona was so conflicting with his gaidin title. People surely didn’t just assume he was incompetent? Or perhaps the oft serious nature of the Aes Sedai and the Tower left little tolerance for clowning and foolery among the elite ranks of gaidin; Byron’s masks made him too easy to dismiss. She wondered if that was a facet of his intention in keeping up the charade (though mostly she imagined it was the only way he knew how to exist); he had cited lack of compatibility as the most sincere reason for not being bonded, so were his masks a test, or a wall?

She shrugged the notion away - and her gaze, since she had a tendency to stare a little too intensely when she was thinking on a person rather than something more abstract. It probably wasn’t very fair of her to extrapolate and guess upon the intricacies of a man who sat guilelessly across the table from her, even if such meanderings were as natural as breathing. Malaika would tell of her past - and frankly - if she was asked, but she didn’t like to speak as much as she liked to listen. She enjoyed watching people, understanding people, relating to them (even if only in her own mind) and sometimes forgot that, unlike books, it was sometimes necessary to be reciprocal.

She sipped her bitter tea, and didn’t bother to prevent the amusement from softening her expression. “If we’re going to be frank, I’m sure many find my company dull and dismissible, but I think we’ve already established that appearances rarely tell all.” It was quietness rather than shyness, and she did not lack confidence, but there was also something quite cautious in her nature. Some mistook that for fragility. Or weakness. Byron’s chattiness suited her, and alleviated some of the tension she usually felt at keeping up her end of the conversation; it explained in part why she was so unusually comfortable.

“I’d hear everything, if you’d consent to tell it. Although I imagine there aren’t enough hours left in this Age, let alone in one evening.” Her eyes drifted up to the ceiling, and any former intensity faded as she mused on where to start. She thought to ask of Arad Doman, since it was one of the few places she had visited, albeit for the scarcity of a few passing hours and on business besides. Her recollections of the market, though, were vivid; the heat, the scent of spices and musk of perfume and swathes of dazzling, vibrant fabrics. Tall, copper-skinned women calling out wares in exotic accents, with seductive smiles, bejewelled fingers and luxurious black hair. The long moustaches of the men, and the arguments! Light, the temperament of the people in even those short moments of observation, so quick to laughter and to fight and to forgive. The colour, the noise, the smells; it had dizzied her, even made her ill, like a child eaten too many sweets. Her senses had been painfully raw, but she had loved it; the pages of her books brought to life. Honours, customs, traditions; before merely words, now given meaning and actuality that had been lacking before.

The memories stirred a profound wanderlust, and Malaika almost regretted being so long in leaving the halls of the Tower. Tar Valon had its own charms, and she was content to keep her wanderings close to home for now. But it would not be long before it was not enough, and she dearly wished to see all the things she had for so long only read about. Her gaze lowered, and for once her thoughts and words worked in harmony. "You've been to Bandar Eban?" He'd already mentioned it in passing, and recalling what he'd said about Domani women she felt the need to add, with a wry smile: "If you've a tale that's not too scandalous?"

Byron

"Books and covers, yes? Now there's a thought. What -would- I look like as a book? Or, if there was a book about me. Dreadful thought...I like to think my stories are only so entertaining for my ability to tell them? More vivid and life like. Knowing my luck, I would end up with some stuffy writer prone to unwieldy vocabulary that would scare off all but the most focused of readers." He frowned and tried valiantly to keep a bang of hair out of his eyes by blowing at it with puffed cheeks.

Another delicate sip of his tea, careful not to spill any on himself as he was lounging across the two chairs, and he glanced to her with a look of confusion. "Well, I assume you do not have many conversations with men outside the Tower then? Warders and servants and guards aside, only crude or very distracted men would find you dull or dismissible, good Lady Malaika. Not so talkative, perhaps, but your eyes are quite expressive. A treasure to behold. But as for Bandar Eban and stories that are not too scandalous, I might have one or two."

"Now, talk of a hundred some ways of touching a man's face aside, you might be well aware that the men there are known for their tempers and the women of their...liberal attitudes? Not that I would label many, if any, wenches, but the way they dress? Carry themselves? Speak? I dare say they have illusion and veil down to a science. Sell you your own shirt off your back and leave you thinking it was the greatest day of your life. Honoured to give her your coin, you would feel. If you were so easily melted that is." He grinned knowingly, having quite proudly proven rather immune to their airs and nuances. "Can't play a player, as they say."

He thought a moment, collecting his thoughts before finally finding something suitable for her tastes. "Ah! Yes. Well, was shortly after receiving my cloak...which, I do hope is still hanging in my wardrobe...I can't remember the last time I aired that thing out...? But yes, shortly after being raised to Gaidin. Quite looking forwards to it, I was. I had quite the nest egg of gambling winnings secreted away throughout my bunk space. It was a rather fun game, to see how long I could go without it being found during an inspection."

"Well, I was borrowed by a pair of Aes Sedai off to, of all things, buy silks and fine jewellry. Light, but I thought we were doing something important! Secreted off by a pair of Aes Sedai so soon after finally being given the freedom to spend my ill begotten loot. Two days later I've lost every copper and am lugging parcels and bundles about Bandar Eban, too tired to even appreciate the fine fashions, or the women wearing them. By the time we returned, I'd become quite the eye for cobble stones and mud. I feel sorry for the first fine steak I had...Domani food is...well, spicey certainly, and I cannot fault that. But it is...well, it just isn't enough now is it? Not when you're carrying bolts of silk and cases of jewels. Only thing that made it any easier was that my coin purse was thinning out at a most disturbing rate."

Byron rubbed his chin in thought, eyes narrowed suspiciously and staring at his tea cup, voice low and thoughtful, "Can't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, they knew about my gambling as an Accepted of the Sword, yes? Knew I had the coin, and arranged for me to spend it all on two rather unpleasant Reds. How else do you explain the trip? And how they just happened to not have a coin between them?"

Malaika

Malaika adored her books; they loved all who opened them without reserve or question, and could hold all the complexities of people without the sufferance of betrayal or the difficulty of misunderstanding. She had not always been so interested in people; that had come much later in her Tower training, after she had first stabilised in herself, but before then books had been people to her. And friends. Everything, in fact. It had actually helped her to think of people as books, once; it had been at Broekk’s suggestion, in the first few weeks after her Arches test, because for the longest time Malaika had struggled to relate. Even now she was not skilled at reading expression; it was tone and words she relied on, a strength made a talent, quite ironically, through years of being too afraid to look people in the eye. His reversal of the analogy that had helped remedy one of the consequences of her upbringing among the damane made her smile; a wry, amused thing. He’d touched on something personal quite unknowingly, not least because she was a sister of the Brown.

”Your assumptions are correct enough.”

Malaika did not speak much to men full stop and, she remembered with a hint of embarrassment, had once fled from an Accepted of the Sword in the library after he’d reached a book down from a shelf for her. She could still remember the boy’s bright smile and effervescent personality; the way he’d tried his best to ease her discomfort with charms and smiles and questions, but his efforts mixed with her own awkwardness had, back then, made her frantic and panicked. A long time ago now; she had still been in novice white, and only just reaching a stage in which she had begun to accept herself as a person rather than a creature. But for all the changes since that time, some things had not changed that radically; her interactions were still limited even in the Tower, let alone outside of it. Today had been the first day she had ever attempted conversation with the non-channelers of Tar Valon - of her own volition, at least, and for entirely curious and social reasons. No wonder it shows. She hoped the obviousness of her naivety didn’t reflect badly on her status.

In a moment of stripped honesty, she mirrored his confusion. She’d told him others found her company dull because she had found it to be true - and precisely for the reasons he had said too; because she was quiet and rarely contributed to conversation. Aside from her sisters, with whom she conversed quite freely, she knew she did not leave the most memorable or favourable impression. It wasn’t a bad thing; Malaika did not need to be a social butterfly to feel self-worth. It was just a fact. She was hard to get to know, so it was not surprising that few had reason to make the effort.

His association between good company and appearance was also… intriguing, and perhaps a distinction he made in respect of his gender. A compliment, she assumed, but a bizarre one... and yet another place in which her opinions diverged from what was probably considered the norm. If Malaika was beautiful she did not know; if she was ugly she did not know it either. She found herself quite ambivalent to the thought, and it was clear by her manner of dress that she was not preoccupied with such things. Damane were categorised by strength and talent, but among the nobles rich enough to own such a commodity, their attractiveness was also a point of barter and prestige. In her affectionate moods, sul’dam Riana had used to tie ribbons in Malaika’s hair, and she had often seen others paraded around like dolls on their leashes. But beauty was an ephemeral and slippery thing. Something about the inference of good looks and worth made her uneasy, but she knew he had not intended to insult her - probably the opposite, in fact, as no doubt the charm would have usually elicited smiles and blushes. Since she did not want to offend him, or have him think he had offended her (and he hadn’t; she just found the notion strange and a little uncomfortable), she said nothing and distracted herself with her tea.

Expressive eyes? Malaika was an Aes Sedai, and picked and chose the emotions she revealed on her face. But he was a Warder, and used to catching the faintest of nuance, so it amused her that he had been reading her as she had been reading him. She wondered what conclusions he had made, but accepted she would probably never know. She realised - not least because her own silent tongue had come into discussion - that she had not revealed much about herself, if she hadn’t taken any measures to hide it either.

”I know something of Arad Doman, yes.” The small smile was back. She was very well-read, and her limited experience of the place brought an extra life and vibrancy to his words. She half closed her eyes as she listened, melting to memory and the turns of his story. Aside from everything else, his talk of the ground resonated for the strangest reason; Malaika had a lifetime experience of cobblestones and mud. And tiles and carpets, grass and flagstones. And shoes. Even now she had an odd tendency for noticing people’s shoes. Her eyes didn’t remain closed for long. She had half-guessed the conclusion before the end, and the amused look on her face made it clear enough.

“It wouldn’t surprise me.” There was not much the Aes Sedai could not accomplish; Malaika’s own trip to Arad Doman had also turned out to be devised of smoke and mirrors, with a lesson hidden at the centre of the maze, and ultimately a scar to remember it by, too. “An Aes Sedai never teaches a lesson by halves - I would've considered myself lucky to get away with a short stint as a packmule." It went without saying that an initiate's life at the Tower was filled with such obscure lessons and tests, and that Malaika had experienced them too. She tilted her head as a quite unrelated thought occurred to her, but such was the way her mind often worked. "Did you use sursa? To eat, I mean. I've seen them in the dining hall before, on special occassions, but..." She shrugged, suggesting she either lacked understanding of how to use them, or perhaps at the oddness of eating with sticks.

Byron

Byron nodded in agreement. It was likely that the shopping trip had been a lesson in disguise, but he had quite cleverly managed to totally miss the point. He had the odd ability to always look on the bright side, and he had counted a few personal victories on the trip. Such things as still having some coin when they got back to the Tower, or even making one of the Red Sisters laugh, of all things. Not -all- of them were as unpleasant as their reputation.

"During my time as a caravan guard, I was often told that looking or speaking the part wasn't enough. You had to know the part too. How to eat, current events to complain about, even some often over looked little things like names of shops and their owners, or skilled tailors. I'm fair to middling with the accent, rather out of touch on the current events, but I'm a fine hand with the sursa." As he spoke, Byron raised one hand and positioned his fingers as if he were using the sticks in question. He watched his hand and carefully moved his fingers, clearly trying to remember exactly how it went before finally brushing his fingers against his palm and taking up his tea cup again.

"One of the Aes Sedai I was with, she was terrible...TERRIBLE...with sursa. To the point she was either going to starve herself for the entire trip or have to admit defeat and ask for a fork. Too much pride, that one. I finally convinced her to let me show her how it was done in private the night we spent there, and she was as adept as a native the next morning. I, of course, was sleep starved and had near lost my voice for all the stories I had to tell to keep her from losing her temper over not being able to hold those sticks." Some might have believed he and the Red Sister had been up to more then sharing stories and playing with sursa all night, but those few that had a better understanding of Byron would know with little doubt that he really had just taught her how to use sursa.

Malaika

She watched Byron's demonstration with an idle attention, but it was his words she really listened to. It occurred to her that she didn't know how to be anyone but herself. Her Tower training might mute how much of herself she shared with others, but she never pretended to be anything other than Malaika. She wondered if it was her half-remembered upbringing that made it so; if such things were unknowingly ingrained into her being. In her homeland they were fond of a saying: that ‘everyone has a place in the Pattern, and the place of everyone must be readily apparent.’ Men like Byron simply didn’t exist in Seanchan - or any people who made an art form of pretending to be what they were not, who devalued themselves adopting ranks beneath them, or overreached to ones far beyond their given station. It would be considered a great lack of honour, and punishable by death, she imagined. They say Borderlanders are sticklers for honour, she thought, but the Seanchan are even stricter.

“It’s a wonder you manage to remember which Byron is the real one.”

In what he said next, the fact there was room left for implication was lost on Malaika. As perceptive as she could be for some things, those sorts of nuances she very rarely picked up on. It was mostly a reflection on the way she had lived and been taught; she had spent the majority of her life surrounded by women, and had known from an early age that she would never wed or bear children. It was not forbidden now that she walked the path of Aes Sedai rather than damane, but not many Aes Sedai ever pursued such a dangerous road. Malaika knew a few choose to marry - some, even, in her own Ajah - but she had little notion of the frivolity of sex and relationships, so the thought never occurred to her. Even if it had it was none of her business. What she actually thought was that it sounded a very Bryon-esque thing to do, to suffer the wrath of a disgruntled woman just so he could spare her a dented pride. A mindless kindness that walked the line between altruism and plain stupidity, but she thought that was precisely why he did it; because there was no good reason not to, it was just that that most people could not be bothered.

"I've been to Bandar Eban, though only very briefly," she volunteered suddenly, sipping her tea and watching some of the other patrons sitting in a window alcove. It was quite dark outside by now, but she was accustom to keeping the oddest of hours, so the fact barely noted in the back of her mind. "Tear, Bandar Eban, and Ebou Dar, though the latter two only for a number of hours. They are very different from here, and very different from the books I've read, too." It did not occur to her to add Seander to the list, or Tar Valon. Or the ocean in between. Whatever vague musing had caught her attention, she turned it back to him now. "Where is your favourite place to visit? If I could only travel to one place on the continent, where would you tell me to go?"