09-04-2016, 05:21 AM
The answer was very precise. Nythadri had assumed the question was the boredom of a man weary with waiting rather than an actual question with an actual answer. Her eyes travelled the height of the ceiling, craning her neck only a little before abandoning the effort and returning her gaze to him - which, of the two views, she found far more appealing. It was easy to watch when he paid her no mind, and Nythadri had never been shy in any case. He was beautifully tall, and broad… though honestly, these days she could find a point of attraction in most men. It was the assiduousness of the words that caught most of her attention. She didn’t really care how high the ceiling was, but she found it fascinating that he could find – or even thought to look for – mathematical harmony in something so mundane.
When his lids then slipped over his eyes, concern narrowed her expression – particularly when the seconds trickled to minutes. The crisp black of his uniform stayed the hand that itched to place itself on his shoulder. She didn’t quite trust the base instinct to comfort with touch, lest it worsen whatever fragile composure had suddenly shattered – and for what reason she could not really determine.
Was he channeling, or pulling the Power to him?
She couldn’t honestly say, she just knew that – judgemental or not – the Asha’man were not so removed from the taint that their build of power was as air-tight as the Aes Sedai. The White Tower had had generations upon generations to perfect control over saidar, and the female half was pliant by nature. The Black Tower had barely had a lifetime, and everything Nythadri had ever learnt of saidin suggested it raged like a storm. If he was struggling with something internal, whatever its source, it was best to withhold from interference and remain vigilant.
She swept a precautionary gaze across the hall, seeking allies should the situation deteriorate, but felt no stab of true fear. Perhaps because all her senses truly saw was a man with his eyes closed, a strange expression on his face and sweat beginning to bead on his skin. Or, she considered wryly, maybe she trusted to the safety of the Tower’s walls more than she’d previously thought.
To be Accepted was to be patient, either through design of person or through sufferance. So she waited.
He seemed to return to consciousness eventually, though she thought there was something pale and wearied in his expression. It almost stoked a kinship, except that it was based on assumption and maybe the desire to discover someone as disenchanted with Tower life as she. The surprised flicker of a smile warmed her lips at the apparent slip; compliments like that were not everyday occurrences, assuming he meant her and not the architecture, but otherwise she ignored the error since it appeared to embarrass him. His light brown eyes dipped almost as soon as she’d had time to note their hue, and his demeanour went from almost boyish charm to the shield of formality.
Hilt then heart. It was a Borderland gesture, and she supposed his height and innocuous colouring might place him there. But his accent didn’t. The thought shrugged itself off; Tar Valon was a melting pot of culture, and Nythadri herself hardly represented the archetypal Andoran, with her raven hair and ice-pale eyes. Even her attitude was contrary to her upbringing, and most of the time the Tower only exacerbated her urges to rebel against certain forms of conformity. Like now.
Nythadri revelled in shucking the chains of formality when they were tightest, and ordinarily she would have chosen to do so now. A quirked eyebrow, the ghost of a smile, and a retorted ‘forgive what?’ would have been her habitual response. What was he apologising for? Some men had strange senses of honour, and northern men were particularly renowned for it. Usually she would not shy from offending those honourable sensibilities, but given his fractious performance in the great hall she could appreciate the comfort of ritual. He actually got something of a formal curtsy, which she certainly wouldn’t have usually offered unless it was clear she would be punished for its absence. Not that he would know enough about her to appreciate the rarity.
“Forgiven.”
The words were soft and without judgement, despite the rather sarcastic addition of obviously she kept within the confines of her thoughts. She didn’t relish this kind of prescribed interaction, but it was a part she was expected to play because of the ring on her finger and the rainbow hem that swirled about her ankles. Her fingers itched for the comfort of her bow and the soothing harmony of strings. Her soul ached for the freedom of music and taverns and anonymity. For normality. She remembered a white orchid. The feeling faded. There was little point taking frustration at her own predicament out on him. Accepted were supposed to be happy with their situation, striving towards the goal of Aes Sedai. As though that were the only true and right life a channeler could lead.
She took a step closer; not so much that her neck ached to look at him – she was moderately tall herself, but he could rival an Aiel – and nor did she stand inappropriately close. That was more for the public situation than modesty on her part, though should it coax a little less reserve she would certainly not complain. In any case the ultimate intention was that it made it clear to the other petitioners that she was occupied. Though she doubted he would appreciate her next question and she would be back to her mindless duties soon enough. “Are you okay?”
When his lids then slipped over his eyes, concern narrowed her expression – particularly when the seconds trickled to minutes. The crisp black of his uniform stayed the hand that itched to place itself on his shoulder. She didn’t quite trust the base instinct to comfort with touch, lest it worsen whatever fragile composure had suddenly shattered – and for what reason she could not really determine.
Was he channeling, or pulling the Power to him?
She couldn’t honestly say, she just knew that – judgemental or not – the Asha’man were not so removed from the taint that their build of power was as air-tight as the Aes Sedai. The White Tower had had generations upon generations to perfect control over saidar, and the female half was pliant by nature. The Black Tower had barely had a lifetime, and everything Nythadri had ever learnt of saidin suggested it raged like a storm. If he was struggling with something internal, whatever its source, it was best to withhold from interference and remain vigilant.
She swept a precautionary gaze across the hall, seeking allies should the situation deteriorate, but felt no stab of true fear. Perhaps because all her senses truly saw was a man with his eyes closed, a strange expression on his face and sweat beginning to bead on his skin. Or, she considered wryly, maybe she trusted to the safety of the Tower’s walls more than she’d previously thought.
To be Accepted was to be patient, either through design of person or through sufferance. So she waited.
He seemed to return to consciousness eventually, though she thought there was something pale and wearied in his expression. It almost stoked a kinship, except that it was based on assumption and maybe the desire to discover someone as disenchanted with Tower life as she. The surprised flicker of a smile warmed her lips at the apparent slip; compliments like that were not everyday occurrences, assuming he meant her and not the architecture, but otherwise she ignored the error since it appeared to embarrass him. His light brown eyes dipped almost as soon as she’d had time to note their hue, and his demeanour went from almost boyish charm to the shield of formality.
Hilt then heart. It was a Borderland gesture, and she supposed his height and innocuous colouring might place him there. But his accent didn’t. The thought shrugged itself off; Tar Valon was a melting pot of culture, and Nythadri herself hardly represented the archetypal Andoran, with her raven hair and ice-pale eyes. Even her attitude was contrary to her upbringing, and most of the time the Tower only exacerbated her urges to rebel against certain forms of conformity. Like now.
Nythadri revelled in shucking the chains of formality when they were tightest, and ordinarily she would have chosen to do so now. A quirked eyebrow, the ghost of a smile, and a retorted ‘forgive what?’ would have been her habitual response. What was he apologising for? Some men had strange senses of honour, and northern men were particularly renowned for it. Usually she would not shy from offending those honourable sensibilities, but given his fractious performance in the great hall she could appreciate the comfort of ritual. He actually got something of a formal curtsy, which she certainly wouldn’t have usually offered unless it was clear she would be punished for its absence. Not that he would know enough about her to appreciate the rarity.
“Forgiven.”
The words were soft and without judgement, despite the rather sarcastic addition of obviously she kept within the confines of her thoughts. She didn’t relish this kind of prescribed interaction, but it was a part she was expected to play because of the ring on her finger and the rainbow hem that swirled about her ankles. Her fingers itched for the comfort of her bow and the soothing harmony of strings. Her soul ached for the freedom of music and taverns and anonymity. For normality. She remembered a white orchid. The feeling faded. There was little point taking frustration at her own predicament out on him. Accepted were supposed to be happy with their situation, striving towards the goal of Aes Sedai. As though that were the only true and right life a channeler could lead.
She took a step closer; not so much that her neck ached to look at him – she was moderately tall herself, but he could rival an Aiel – and nor did she stand inappropriately close. That was more for the public situation than modesty on her part, though should it coax a little less reserve she would certainly not complain. In any case the ultimate intention was that it made it clear to the other petitioners that she was occupied. Though she doubted he would appreciate her next question and she would be back to her mindless duties soon enough. “Are you okay?”