04-20-2017, 06:16 AM
He was silent and still a long time.
When Jai balled his hair into fists, she wanted to soften his grip and ease the fingers away. Only his wasn’t the sort of pain soothed by kindness; it was the sort that needed to run its course. She recognised that; and kept her distance. Nythadri had never found patience difficult; cool, distant and enduring as stone, she watched him the way one watches a storm behind a pane of glass. No part of her moved but the salted strands of hair lifted by breeze. A sensible woman might have taken the opportunity to leave. Warn those above of the rousing beast below. But she waited; watching as his world crashed about his ears. And rebuilt in the shape of nightmare.
That was the second time today Daryen’s name had stoked a vicious and complex reaction. If he lost it completely? Not much she could do, supposing she would attempt anything at all. She cared more for her own life than Imaad’s, if it came down to such sudden and shocking violence. And though Nythadri exacted the highest fortress of composure for herself, she did not demand it of others. She would warn him away from stupidity; gild her tongue in gold to chase away idiocy and make him see sense, but she would not overbear him with it. There were no strings to tie about his wrists; no crushing attempts at control. If he did not heed her, she would not block his path.
When he spoke her heart beat hard in her chest; measured, but loud enough to feel like it shuddered her entire ribcage. It was the formidable current of devotion in his words that did it. And the bloody pain. Not just at the Seanchan, but at the imposed isolation. The friend that turned his back. The faint impression of a pained frown shadowed her brow, the only indication that what he said struck a terribly deep chord. The expression smoothed itself after a moment, as she cut the imploring ties of empathy and drifted back to composure. Too deep and dark a fall to follow the path of those stirred memories; to identify with the sharp sting of rejection in his voice. She was too well-practised to commiserate misery with misery. Instead, seeing him so dishevelled only fuelled her collected exterior. It was easier to be calm for someone else than it was for herself. She was steady in the storm.
“Then you have a choice,”
she said, voice soft; measured and absent its usual current of dark sarcasm. “You take that blind walk bedside him, trust him. Or you don’t. It isn’t about whether men have scars. There aren’t really any clever or witty sayings; not even trust no-one. It just is. Or it isn’t.”
He stood abruptly. Her eyes followed him, but she did not move; even after the dramatic offering of his hand, her own did not emerge from the shadowed confined of his coat. Not immediately, anyway. Maybe she looked for signs that temporary insanity had now passed; that the earth beneath his feet had stopped shaking, and he stood solid. Or maybe it was just that now his hand offered goodbye, and she was absorbing the remnants of the evening like the last grains slipping through an hourglass. Reluctant. After a moment a smile bloomed slow and playful. When it touched her eyes like light, she reached out; and found herself crushed against his chest.
His arms snaked beneath the coat, rapturously warm; reminding her the tender limits of a sorely abused self-discipline. Unlike the last time his embrace caught her by surprise, when she relaxed into him it was with arms that wrapped about him rather than twisted knots behind her back. The intensity of the look he gave her might have wilted another woman. But she was not most women; and was supremely confident he would not find answers she was not willing to give. A dark brow rose.
“A whole ocean, is it? Sounds like you’re reneging on the terms to me. And here I took you for a betting man.”
When his head pressed into her shoulder, she brushed a hand over his hair; smoothing a path over his ill-treated scalp. Blessedly relieved to hear the release of his laughter. Light! The tension of the last few minutes had seeped into every muscle. It was probably premature to assume the storm had passed, but she was reassured at least that it had receded. When Jai shut down completely, he was impossible to reach. Although blood and ashes – Daryen’s chambers? A hum of dry laughter left her own throat; defeated. Strolling out of a bedchamber; that would testify her innocence. But the Light knew there were few risks she was not willing to take; even for no reward, just for the sake of whipping her fingers through flame unscathed. That, and she was not sure she was willing to leave him alone to brood on the things she had told him. “Sure. Why not.”
She slipped from his grasp to retrieve her clothes, and though her fingers trailed she did not linger to the bitter-sweet flush of sentimentality. A deft bend and the dress was bundled under an arm; it took longer to find her discarded shoes, nothing but patches of shadow against the cooled sand. Then she hovered over the decision to gather what remained of his things too, but did not want to touch the sword. The fact they presently moved of their own accord suggested she needn’t have bothered. Silly to have forgotten that Asha’man were not dissuaded from using the power for trivialities, the way women of the White Tower were. She watched his expression for the minute tell-signs of his grapple with saidin, moments before the distracting flash of silvered light robbed the clarity of sight. How many Gates had that made in one day? Few women were that strong.
“Hmm.”
Her only appraisal of the room as she passed from sand to carpet. One who lived the modest life of an Accepted – even one who had once been nobility – had no right to snub the grandeur of a king’s bedchambers, but Nythadri had never been the sort seduced by luxury. Her gaze over its ornamentation was cursory, disinterested. The drift of her thoughts was entirely practical; the forefront of which was erasing traces of that beach retreat. She shrugged Jai’s coat from her shoulders once the Gate winked shut, catching his eye as she held it out to him. “Thanks.”
Her lips flickered teasingly, as unembarrassed to be half-dressed in revealing light as shadowed darkness. And then she wandered away, before the weight of temptation had the chance to snare either of them.
The floor was luxurious soft under her toes, and the room boasted any number of mirrors to assess the damage. Relaxed as though the chambers were her own, she ran her fingers through stiff tangled hair, brushed them gingerly against cheeks burned pink from the day’s burning sun. They twinged pain. “I would offer to Heal you. If I could.”
She could see him in the reflection; offered a sincere half-smile. Saidar flooded her in the same instant, and she held his gaze long enough to ascertain he would not over-react. She would not stoop to ask permission simply because of his sensitivities, but neither was she completely without caution.
And then she turned her attention to the creased dress; shaking it out before threads worked magic through the creases.
When Jai balled his hair into fists, she wanted to soften his grip and ease the fingers away. Only his wasn’t the sort of pain soothed by kindness; it was the sort that needed to run its course. She recognised that; and kept her distance. Nythadri had never found patience difficult; cool, distant and enduring as stone, she watched him the way one watches a storm behind a pane of glass. No part of her moved but the salted strands of hair lifted by breeze. A sensible woman might have taken the opportunity to leave. Warn those above of the rousing beast below. But she waited; watching as his world crashed about his ears. And rebuilt in the shape of nightmare.
That was the second time today Daryen’s name had stoked a vicious and complex reaction. If he lost it completely? Not much she could do, supposing she would attempt anything at all. She cared more for her own life than Imaad’s, if it came down to such sudden and shocking violence. And though Nythadri exacted the highest fortress of composure for herself, she did not demand it of others. She would warn him away from stupidity; gild her tongue in gold to chase away idiocy and make him see sense, but she would not overbear him with it. There were no strings to tie about his wrists; no crushing attempts at control. If he did not heed her, she would not block his path.
When he spoke her heart beat hard in her chest; measured, but loud enough to feel like it shuddered her entire ribcage. It was the formidable current of devotion in his words that did it. And the bloody pain. Not just at the Seanchan, but at the imposed isolation. The friend that turned his back. The faint impression of a pained frown shadowed her brow, the only indication that what he said struck a terribly deep chord. The expression smoothed itself after a moment, as she cut the imploring ties of empathy and drifted back to composure. Too deep and dark a fall to follow the path of those stirred memories; to identify with the sharp sting of rejection in his voice. She was too well-practised to commiserate misery with misery. Instead, seeing him so dishevelled only fuelled her collected exterior. It was easier to be calm for someone else than it was for herself. She was steady in the storm.
“Then you have a choice,”
she said, voice soft; measured and absent its usual current of dark sarcasm. “You take that blind walk bedside him, trust him. Or you don’t. It isn’t about whether men have scars. There aren’t really any clever or witty sayings; not even trust no-one. It just is. Or it isn’t.”
He stood abruptly. Her eyes followed him, but she did not move; even after the dramatic offering of his hand, her own did not emerge from the shadowed confined of his coat. Not immediately, anyway. Maybe she looked for signs that temporary insanity had now passed; that the earth beneath his feet had stopped shaking, and he stood solid. Or maybe it was just that now his hand offered goodbye, and she was absorbing the remnants of the evening like the last grains slipping through an hourglass. Reluctant. After a moment a smile bloomed slow and playful. When it touched her eyes like light, she reached out; and found herself crushed against his chest.
His arms snaked beneath the coat, rapturously warm; reminding her the tender limits of a sorely abused self-discipline. Unlike the last time his embrace caught her by surprise, when she relaxed into him it was with arms that wrapped about him rather than twisted knots behind her back. The intensity of the look he gave her might have wilted another woman. But she was not most women; and was supremely confident he would not find answers she was not willing to give. A dark brow rose.
“A whole ocean, is it? Sounds like you’re reneging on the terms to me. And here I took you for a betting man.”
When his head pressed into her shoulder, she brushed a hand over his hair; smoothing a path over his ill-treated scalp. Blessedly relieved to hear the release of his laughter. Light! The tension of the last few minutes had seeped into every muscle. It was probably premature to assume the storm had passed, but she was reassured at least that it had receded. When Jai shut down completely, he was impossible to reach. Although blood and ashes – Daryen’s chambers? A hum of dry laughter left her own throat; defeated. Strolling out of a bedchamber; that would testify her innocence. But the Light knew there were few risks she was not willing to take; even for no reward, just for the sake of whipping her fingers through flame unscathed. That, and she was not sure she was willing to leave him alone to brood on the things she had told him. “Sure. Why not.”
She slipped from his grasp to retrieve her clothes, and though her fingers trailed she did not linger to the bitter-sweet flush of sentimentality. A deft bend and the dress was bundled under an arm; it took longer to find her discarded shoes, nothing but patches of shadow against the cooled sand. Then she hovered over the decision to gather what remained of his things too, but did not want to touch the sword. The fact they presently moved of their own accord suggested she needn’t have bothered. Silly to have forgotten that Asha’man were not dissuaded from using the power for trivialities, the way women of the White Tower were. She watched his expression for the minute tell-signs of his grapple with saidin, moments before the distracting flash of silvered light robbed the clarity of sight. How many Gates had that made in one day? Few women were that strong.
“Hmm.”
Her only appraisal of the room as she passed from sand to carpet. One who lived the modest life of an Accepted – even one who had once been nobility – had no right to snub the grandeur of a king’s bedchambers, but Nythadri had never been the sort seduced by luxury. Her gaze over its ornamentation was cursory, disinterested. The drift of her thoughts was entirely practical; the forefront of which was erasing traces of that beach retreat. She shrugged Jai’s coat from her shoulders once the Gate winked shut, catching his eye as she held it out to him. “Thanks.”
Her lips flickered teasingly, as unembarrassed to be half-dressed in revealing light as shadowed darkness. And then she wandered away, before the weight of temptation had the chance to snare either of them.
The floor was luxurious soft under her toes, and the room boasted any number of mirrors to assess the damage. Relaxed as though the chambers were her own, she ran her fingers through stiff tangled hair, brushed them gingerly against cheeks burned pink from the day’s burning sun. They twinged pain. “I would offer to Heal you. If I could.”
She could see him in the reflection; offered a sincere half-smile. Saidar flooded her in the same instant, and she held his gaze long enough to ascertain he would not over-react. She would not stoop to ask permission simply because of his sensitivities, but neither was she completely without caution.
And then she turned her attention to the creased dress; shaking it out before threads worked magic through the creases.