04-25-2017, 09:19 PM
She slipped away. Again. Though half a smile watched her retrieve her things like she was polishing shoes with rocks. Until the distraction of channeling tore the majority of his focus toward his own version of the same chore. Except the sword: that he carried with bare hands. There was no room for other thought until channeling shifted away from molding the tempest raging into something useful and simply holding open the pinprick in the Pattern until they were both safe on the other side. Bubbles of the periphery returned to the surface then. Of Nythadri sneaking unshy glances his way every time he channeled. So timely, he had to wonder if the Black Tower had it wrong and women could sense something of saidin after all. Maybe she lent an ear to more than the one rumor. He wasn’t exactly building a strong case for sanity. Talk of peace, dedication, Malkier, violence and saidin draped rather creative conclusions about his shoulders. But like every personal layer, Jai clutched privacy’s cloak in a death grip as long as he could.
The suite was unchanged from before except someone wiped down the traces of his last presence: water prints were gone, sand swept, and windows thrown open. Even the bloody awful, gaudy stool was back in its spot. The same routine followed this time as before: dumping his things in a black mound on the floor. A few taps rained white powder from upturned boots. The sword carelessly dropped sheath, belt, and cords across otherwise pristine bedding. Only this time Nythadri caught him before he lost himself in the cave other men called a washroom. Large enough to feast in there, what with an enormous copper tub, enough porcelain basins to shame a Sea Folk, and mirrors sparkling on every other wall. The mirrors weren’t so bad, actually. It wasn’t often a man could gauge how he looked from all sides.
He turned toward Nythadri. If one thing undermined the possibility of extended age in Jai, it was the sheer open way emotion branded his face impressed. Seeing Nythadri disheveled in brightness as he did. Certainly not the proper and gentlemanly thing to do, to look her up and down; though Jai never claimed such ridiculous titles. She shrugged off the coat, to which he jutted a nod that she drape it along with everything else. The fluttering shift wasn’t made to be flattering, but memory of what it felt like pressed wet between his hands and her skin made up enormous ground.
A few minutes rummaging through cabinets otherwise beautiful enough to put a woodworker into early retirement found the remaining bandages. But glimpses of Nythadri walking about grappled him between the decision to pull one pant leg tight and high or drop the waist loose and low to access the crusted slice of thigh. Modesty wasn’t exactly an issue, since those chucked small clothes were long lost at sea. In the end, he propped one foot up and balanced it out best he could until giving up completely. The pants could use a good cleaning anyway.
Her voice struck chords across the air some time while he fumbled with circling long strips of white around a freshly washed and ridiculously tender split in his thigh. Jai shrugged in response. But the sympathetic smile emerging through the grimace in honor of her twinged cheeks gave him away.
“I would offer to heal you if I could.”
It felt like saying he would fly her to Shara. As he would attempt in an instant if she hinted at such a desire; but it was never going to happen. Although it would be something to work out: the way to fly. On a more realistic note, he couldn’t Heal a mosquito bite if his life depended on it. But to hear the admission from a woman vibrated his sense of the world: being of the misinformed opinion that most women could at least do that much.
He hovered on the colors of her rank, looking for the angle it played until giving up entirely. White Tower training was obviously a mystery as impenetrable as Nythadri’s constant composition. There was no point trying to puzzle out that mess.
Like she read his mind, pebbles immediately flushed his skin cold. The sudden douse of sensation smirked a turn at his lips and pivoted his eyes, provoked upward, toward her face. There was no trace at all of her channeling, but he knew saidar must be warping around them that second. The only reaction: an amazed shake. Then went back to oblivion.
Channeling longer than he cared to admit, Jai was unlikely to strengthen further. But the way of constantly flexing at the edge of his limits with saidin was gut-deep now. If it could be done with the Power, he did it. Though it was hard not to notice the rare pebble of saidar striking his hairs straight. Every time it did, he was astounded by how reliant on her hands Nythadri was. While he plucked a towel mid-air to wipe away fresh washing, she unfolded one from a pile nearby. The black threads were ripped of their sandy hostages by a net of Earth and she shook out the folds of white. By the time his boots were restored to an acceptable shine, he was lost to her routine altogether and sunk oblivious into his own. The sword and dragon unpinned by hand were carefully restored to their full glory by a tedious buffer of concentration: Air to cup them high and another of Water to glisten them back proud. Not exactly the easiest work in the best of times.
When finally he shrugged into the coat once more and was half-way up the line of buttons, he realized Nythadri had gone still as a scout. He watched her watch him, curious. All the way through to mindlessly buckling on Asad’s sword.
“What?”
Earnest curiosity lined his expression. Not at all accusing. Quite the opposite. A testament to his comfort with her: exposing sincerity.
She looked perfect. Like she’d done nothing all night but sit with a teacup. He grinned at that; knowing the secret behind her facade. More mystery to solve in the future: to try and guess what her perfect poise was hiding. Though he had a morbid sense after hearing of her ghost’s origins that she hid the light as neatly as she did the dark. Or tired to. Those pale eyes waving in the morbid winds of her humor would not soon leave his head.
Her hair curled undiffused ringlets again. Her cheeks were flushed by the sun. The Accepted’s dress pristine as bedding. Well, bedding before the slender impression of a sword trampled wrinkles across some servant’s hard work. How she managed all that so fast?
The whole of the time her cool words on the beach ran frustrating echoes in his head. He’d melted into her like it would be the last time they could embrace, then dripped achingly closer when her hand brushed away anger as slick as it had through his hair. Her strange power lingered ever since. Prodding him forward from behind. He felt the decision rumbling foreshocks of what was to come. To level on trust, or not. It wasn’t really a question at this point. Which really burned to realize now. He’d made the decision when he walked back to Arad Doman that morning.
“I already decided, didn’t I?”
He braced for whatever expression slapped the epiphany in his face.
“Damn.”
He gathered some sense, looked about the walls he knew so well, and put on the final touches.
One last pull snaked the excess strap of leather over and under the belt secure. There was no full drawing of the blade for childish brandishing as in his youth; not so much as a few inches free to show off the beloved steel beneath. As he had when sitting in the ignorant trenches of Black Tower training. Never draw a blade unless you intend to use it. Another clever saying percolating up from somewhere scribed bone deep. The only indication of affection now was fingering the cording until they swung a correct balance comfortable enough to nearly forget the weapon was there at all.
Then the detention broke, and Jai looked up a free man. And grinned triumphantly.
“Well then. As it seems i’m indispensable to global politics, suppose I should get back before the world collapses. By now the drinks must have run dry and the cards fell flat, another hour and nobles will be clawing out their eyes with the boredom.”
He held the grin at Nythadri’s expression all the way to her reflection hovering beside his as he checked the progress in a long mirror, tugging and smoothing the uniform here and there. And went on, “It’s a good thing we cleaned up.”
Saying the obvious. Like its a good thing soldiers have armor. A luxury typically isolated to the wealthy. He plucked at seemingly random hairs laying too orderly like poorer men plucked remnants of armor off the dead: he sought something specific, but the task seemed carried out indiscriminately. Ultimately, the arrangement branded him with the more more lovable, jaded disheveled look than the conservative-banker’s slick style. Then spun to face her, arms spread wide, modeling the result.
“Heroes are always the good looking sort. Yes?”
Leading grin and cocked brow, Jai barely glanced at the door and it swung open. When they passed by the king’s Guard without, he tossed the guy frowning at Nythadri an innocent shrug and offered her his arm.
“So. Walk out together and shove it in their faces? Or slip in ambiguously separate?”
Brows curled lightly on the question as they strolled in and out of night air, dancing toward their doom. His instinct said to flip the crowd a new stone on the board by walking exposed across their stage; like playing with the obvious was the best way to unhinge their game. But Nythadri was the expert.
The suite was unchanged from before except someone wiped down the traces of his last presence: water prints were gone, sand swept, and windows thrown open. Even the bloody awful, gaudy stool was back in its spot. The same routine followed this time as before: dumping his things in a black mound on the floor. A few taps rained white powder from upturned boots. The sword carelessly dropped sheath, belt, and cords across otherwise pristine bedding. Only this time Nythadri caught him before he lost himself in the cave other men called a washroom. Large enough to feast in there, what with an enormous copper tub, enough porcelain basins to shame a Sea Folk, and mirrors sparkling on every other wall. The mirrors weren’t so bad, actually. It wasn’t often a man could gauge how he looked from all sides.
He turned toward Nythadri. If one thing undermined the possibility of extended age in Jai, it was the sheer open way emotion branded his face impressed. Seeing Nythadri disheveled in brightness as he did. Certainly not the proper and gentlemanly thing to do, to look her up and down; though Jai never claimed such ridiculous titles. She shrugged off the coat, to which he jutted a nod that she drape it along with everything else. The fluttering shift wasn’t made to be flattering, but memory of what it felt like pressed wet between his hands and her skin made up enormous ground.
A few minutes rummaging through cabinets otherwise beautiful enough to put a woodworker into early retirement found the remaining bandages. But glimpses of Nythadri walking about grappled him between the decision to pull one pant leg tight and high or drop the waist loose and low to access the crusted slice of thigh. Modesty wasn’t exactly an issue, since those chucked small clothes were long lost at sea. In the end, he propped one foot up and balanced it out best he could until giving up completely. The pants could use a good cleaning anyway.
Her voice struck chords across the air some time while he fumbled with circling long strips of white around a freshly washed and ridiculously tender split in his thigh. Jai shrugged in response. But the sympathetic smile emerging through the grimace in honor of her twinged cheeks gave him away.
“I would offer to heal you if I could.”
It felt like saying he would fly her to Shara. As he would attempt in an instant if she hinted at such a desire; but it was never going to happen. Although it would be something to work out: the way to fly. On a more realistic note, he couldn’t Heal a mosquito bite if his life depended on it. But to hear the admission from a woman vibrated his sense of the world: being of the misinformed opinion that most women could at least do that much.
He hovered on the colors of her rank, looking for the angle it played until giving up entirely. White Tower training was obviously a mystery as impenetrable as Nythadri’s constant composition. There was no point trying to puzzle out that mess.
Like she read his mind, pebbles immediately flushed his skin cold. The sudden douse of sensation smirked a turn at his lips and pivoted his eyes, provoked upward, toward her face. There was no trace at all of her channeling, but he knew saidar must be warping around them that second. The only reaction: an amazed shake. Then went back to oblivion.
Channeling longer than he cared to admit, Jai was unlikely to strengthen further. But the way of constantly flexing at the edge of his limits with saidin was gut-deep now. If it could be done with the Power, he did it. Though it was hard not to notice the rare pebble of saidar striking his hairs straight. Every time it did, he was astounded by how reliant on her hands Nythadri was. While he plucked a towel mid-air to wipe away fresh washing, she unfolded one from a pile nearby. The black threads were ripped of their sandy hostages by a net of Earth and she shook out the folds of white. By the time his boots were restored to an acceptable shine, he was lost to her routine altogether and sunk oblivious into his own. The sword and dragon unpinned by hand were carefully restored to their full glory by a tedious buffer of concentration: Air to cup them high and another of Water to glisten them back proud. Not exactly the easiest work in the best of times.
When finally he shrugged into the coat once more and was half-way up the line of buttons, he realized Nythadri had gone still as a scout. He watched her watch him, curious. All the way through to mindlessly buckling on Asad’s sword.
“What?”
Earnest curiosity lined his expression. Not at all accusing. Quite the opposite. A testament to his comfort with her: exposing sincerity.
She looked perfect. Like she’d done nothing all night but sit with a teacup. He grinned at that; knowing the secret behind her facade. More mystery to solve in the future: to try and guess what her perfect poise was hiding. Though he had a morbid sense after hearing of her ghost’s origins that she hid the light as neatly as she did the dark. Or tired to. Those pale eyes waving in the morbid winds of her humor would not soon leave his head.
Her hair curled undiffused ringlets again. Her cheeks were flushed by the sun. The Accepted’s dress pristine as bedding. Well, bedding before the slender impression of a sword trampled wrinkles across some servant’s hard work. How she managed all that so fast?
The whole of the time her cool words on the beach ran frustrating echoes in his head. He’d melted into her like it would be the last time they could embrace, then dripped achingly closer when her hand brushed away anger as slick as it had through his hair. Her strange power lingered ever since. Prodding him forward from behind. He felt the decision rumbling foreshocks of what was to come. To level on trust, or not. It wasn’t really a question at this point. Which really burned to realize now. He’d made the decision when he walked back to Arad Doman that morning.
“I already decided, didn’t I?”
He braced for whatever expression slapped the epiphany in his face.
“Damn.”
He gathered some sense, looked about the walls he knew so well, and put on the final touches.
One last pull snaked the excess strap of leather over and under the belt secure. There was no full drawing of the blade for childish brandishing as in his youth; not so much as a few inches free to show off the beloved steel beneath. As he had when sitting in the ignorant trenches of Black Tower training. Never draw a blade unless you intend to use it. Another clever saying percolating up from somewhere scribed bone deep. The only indication of affection now was fingering the cording until they swung a correct balance comfortable enough to nearly forget the weapon was there at all.
Then the detention broke, and Jai looked up a free man. And grinned triumphantly.
“Well then. As it seems i’m indispensable to global politics, suppose I should get back before the world collapses. By now the drinks must have run dry and the cards fell flat, another hour and nobles will be clawing out their eyes with the boredom.”
He held the grin at Nythadri’s expression all the way to her reflection hovering beside his as he checked the progress in a long mirror, tugging and smoothing the uniform here and there. And went on, “It’s a good thing we cleaned up.”
Saying the obvious. Like its a good thing soldiers have armor. A luxury typically isolated to the wealthy. He plucked at seemingly random hairs laying too orderly like poorer men plucked remnants of armor off the dead: he sought something specific, but the task seemed carried out indiscriminately. Ultimately, the arrangement branded him with the more more lovable, jaded disheveled look than the conservative-banker’s slick style. Then spun to face her, arms spread wide, modeling the result.
“Heroes are always the good looking sort. Yes?”
Leading grin and cocked brow, Jai barely glanced at the door and it swung open. When they passed by the king’s Guard without, he tossed the guy frowning at Nythadri an innocent shrug and offered her his arm.
“So. Walk out together and shove it in their faces? Or slip in ambiguously separate?”
Brows curled lightly on the question as they strolled in and out of night air, dancing toward their doom. His instinct said to flip the crowd a new stone on the board by walking exposed across their stage; like playing with the obvious was the best way to unhinge their game. But Nythadri was the expert.
Only darkness shows you the light.