~Dorian

 

Standing ready for this trip Dorian felt even less inclined to go on that errand with Corin than when his mentor had told him what they were going to do the night before. It was nothing special of course. A minor errand to fulfill, nothing to fret about. Any trainee should count himself lucky to be let out of the Tower walls for a while. Days off were still too rare, even after more than two years that he had already spent under the Yard's tutelage. Two of which he had spent with Danian and it even though it had been months ago - three months and eleven days to be exact - Dorian still didn't feel ready to continue with his training like he had before. There was just nothing there to do it for. Nobody to accompany him. Nobody to go through everything with him, nobody to help, no body to support, nobody to talk to. Even though the Yard was buzzing with Trainees and Tower Guards Dorian regarded it as a deserted waste, bereft of what had kept him going. Since the day Danian died nothing was able to complete the hole loneliness was gnawing into him. It was as though life had lost the rest of joy and excitement left to it after losing so much. There was just nothing left to enjoy. Nothing left to ease the numbness inside him.

 

After having spent the better part of two full months in and outside the infirmary, an eternity in Dorian's record, his injuries slowing him down and weakening him again and again, he had known it would be bad. But still he hadn't expected it to be that bad. He had been at Danian's funeral, had visited his grave every day since, finding some kind of comfort and sanctuary at the place where they had laid his twin to his final rest. And yet everything else seemed to be so empty and futile. Everything had gone cold and empty, despite his fellow trainees sympathy and commiseration, but maybe just because of that. Dorian soon got nothing but sick on feeling those pitying gazes and commiserate gestures everyone seemed to have for him. Everyone tried to soothe him, reassure him. Help him. Help him to recover. Help him to build up at least some of his maimed vocal cords so he could at least croak words, even though his formerly melodious voice would never return, something else that made him bitter and hardened his resolve of making Moridin Grey pay for everything he did. Yet nobody seemed to realize that they just couldn't help him. That their comfort wouldn't bring back his voice, wouldn't heal his scars and most of all wouldn't bring back his brother. A brother and friend he had forever lost. A bond that had been snapped and left him empty and barren to every kindness directed at him. He even began to despise himself for his scruffness he began to hold against nearly everyone. Light, even Tiegan had avoided him after he had been strong enough to leave his bed and told her to stay away from him. His world had become a secluded nutshell. An empty nutshell seperated from anything that could matter to him. Anything that could hurt him again.

 

One of the very few people he somehow hadn't managed to drive away from him was Corin. His mentor had obviously made a kind of art out of interrupting his seperation by maintaining his training just as before. Dorian sometimes thought the only thing that was holding himself at bay and stick to his training was his thirst for revenge. A thirst he wanted to satisfy by drawing his uncle's blood and making him regret every cut he had ever directed against his family. Revenge was a poor ideology to live by, but for the moment it was everything Dorian had and so he was bound to continue his training, to defeat the inadvantages of his blindness and overcome his physical shortcomings to put an end to his uncle's threat. To show Moridin Grey what a poor job he had done by cutting Dorian's throat, the scar and marred voice of his only another reminder of what he needed to do, no matter what.

 

And so he waited, bound to obey, to fulfill his obligations as a trainee, to try his best to advance, to reach his goal eventually. What was Tar Valon but another place full of memories of Danian? Full of memories of how they had spend their days off in taverns and just enjoyed themselves against all odds? Tar Valon couldn't be worse than the Warders Yard where every step he took, every voice he heard, every day he trained there, brought back painful recollection of the past and a life that was no longer shared with his brother. Tar Valon and the Yard had stood for sanctuary once, now that had made way for pain and a means to take revenge. A long road to go yet Dorian would be persistent and use every opportunity he would get. And if Corin wanted to help him there he would wait for him.

 

~Corin

 

Trivial tasks, his life had been reduced to trivial tasks, or so it seemed on this occasion. Still had the tables been right between himself and Sirayn he would have jumped at the opportunity to serve even in this capacity. But they were not, not even close. Dragonmount itself could be placed in the chasm that had built up between them and still there would be room. A fool's fool is what he had become, he was sure of it. If there was not the slightest chance that the message carried information on her he would not have wasted valuable time on it's retrieval. A true sign of how she owned his mind so completely. Even the warm embrace shared with Lavinya, a new experience he had not expected; a path he should not have taken could not shake the need to build the bridge. Couple that with the infuriating depression that had taken Dorian and it was enough to make him want to beat something and hard. If he thought he could keep his mind focused long enough he would have put the boy in the sparing ring and tuned him up a few times. But the likelihood of the boy taking on the brunt of all his frustration and not just that related to Dorian Grey kept Corin outside the ring and in a mood that seemed to grow fouler by the day.

 

Hope had renewed itself if only in representation of a few possible words and further chance at finding a way to build a bridge. There had to be a bridge, he was certainly not ready to give up; not even close. It was a fools hope and a puppets lie, but he certainly hoped he was not yet ready to yield to a life apart from her. Morning was well underway with a good hearty breakfast warming his stomach when Corin set out toward the end of the yard and a meeting with one of those issues. At least if the kid had even the slightest sense of what was good for him he would be at that spot waiting regardless of his opinion on the invitation as it were. They would be back by dark for certain, but he was not about to tell Dorian that. In fact he had told him to pack for a trip, the added weight would help remind him of the ankle that failed him before; a glimpse back at what an angry mentor might find joy in. Beside the workout would do him good, he had gotten soft with all the doting over the loss of his brother. It was time the kid moved on and Corin was going to see that happened if it killed him. The dead had their own path to follow, one the living could not walk.

 

With stealthy steps he moved in behind Dorian's left shoulder; relying on the noise of the yard to mask most of his movement. “Good! You remembered to pack and show up. That saves me having to kick your sorry butt all the way here.” Corin's voice was bold and commanding as he walked back around the front of Dorian, finishing his address while facing the other. “I have a ... a package to receive and you are coming with me. I expect you to keep up and stay alert. I don't want any more trouble and I certainly don't believe you will stick to studies if I am not here to watch over your very shoulder. Let us be at it then, and remember, keep alert.” With the pep talk, if it could be called that, over it was time to be gone. Past time actually, they would have to make a little time up with some back alley short cuts to ensure Corin made the meeting point on time. Without further indications to Dorian, Corin turned on his heels heading for the gate with Tar Valon beyond. The boy had wallowed enough in self pity. He had always fought to be like any other in the yard so today he would be treated as any other.

 

The walk for the most part was quiet, Corin deep in his thoughts and schemes and Dorian deep in his solitude. Incidental small talk fluttered between them at random intervals as Corin surfaced from his thoughts between plans. Air heavy with warm moisture turned thick with the stench of rotting garbage and the pungent smell of urine; the sun penetrating past the buildings in small dingy pools of light. His familiarity with a few of these types of places still didn't sit comfortably with him. Had he been told he would know this side of Tar Valon, or even that it existed he would have told the person they were mad in the mind and needed help. But need had changed that, twisted it to a reality he disliked about himself; several things about himself since the nightmare he had hatched in that light forsaken cabin.

 

“Dorian,” Corin's words were softer now, quieter. Partly because of the place they were in and partly because guilt had begun to gnaw at him. The man had lost a twin, a bond closer then standard family ties. Perhaps he was riding the boy too hard, look how he himself had been acting of late with the continued separation from her. “I know you still feel hollow, you always will have that emptiness, but over time whether you believe it or not, that hole will shrink. It will never fill in, but it will shrink. You have to ....” A noise up ahead and the movements of shadows stilled Corin's tongue; hand already firmly gripping the hilt of his sword. With sudden caution floating in the detached presence of the void, he peered around the next corner. His mind registered the sight at the same moment instinct seemed to already have his feet in motion. Time seemed to slow again like it had before when death danced so near, it's whispers warm on the hair that adorned the back of his neck. The soft hiss as his sword came free of the scabbard registered lightly in the back of his mind. But his focus was on the shadowed shape that separated from the other as it now slid down the wall toward the ground. With feet in full stride he moved after the shadowy form in full flight deeper into the maze of alleyways; darting down ever changing routes in an attempt to avoid it's pursuer.

 

The letter, Corin's mind was stuck in a loop as it repeated the words over again. He needed to ensure the attacker had not claimed the prize he sought, the prize he needed. But who could have know about it. Turning yet another corner Corin skidded to a stop, the sound of his blood pounding in his ears from the exertion. The alley split into three pathways no more then a person wide and deep with darkness. Straining he listened but could not catch the sound of footfalls over the pounding in his ears. Forcing him self into deep calming breaths he continued his station trying to ascertain the direction of the other. But after long moments it became apparent that there would be no further pursuit. Still Corin and Dorian had arrived just as the attacker made his kill so perhaps he had not been able to collect the letter yet. Corin began to back track to were he expected to find the boy and the body. He had told the boy when he had run off to check the man and watch over his body. Or at least he hoped he had, the boy was blind, there was no way he would have been able to keep up with the chase in these tight corridors. So it was only logical that he would be there.

 

Arriving back to the body, an ice cold grip clutched his stomach when he did not find Dorian. The boy had to be close, how far could a blind fool man wander? Sparing a moment to quickly check the body for any sign of the letter, Corin pushed down a wave of loss that tried to thread it's way up inside. The letter was gone and any information it might have carried. It seemed there would be no added tidbits to ponder and sort for the continuation of the bridge he was working to construct. Slipping his sword back into it's scabbard Corin took a moment to survey the alleyway. The boy had to have gone one of two directions from here. Judging by the partial bloody outline of a shoe sole heading further down the path he had taken in pursuit it seemed that Dorian had indeed tried to follow him. With a sight Corin began working his way down the alley, slowly checking each cut off as he went for signs of his disadvantaged mentee. The day it seemed was destined to be a black one.

 

~Dorian

 

He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists hard when Corin finally stopped to talk to him. Did he think his words could soothe him or could do anything to melt the lump of ice his heart seemed to have become? No, if anything Corin’s words let rage boil inside him, boiling till it seemed to fill him to the brim and yet he somehow kept control of himself. He didn’t even know why he didn’t say anything or reacted in the least himself, maybe because he knew that he was not even close to a match to Corin and was too tired of getting into hopeless fights that ended with the death of those he loved and treasured. But maybe he remained only silent for the sole, sad fact that Corin was close to the only person he had left in the Yard. With Danian gone and Tiegan too…He had never thought she would leave him like that, but obviously it had been too much for her…obviously both of them had changed too much and he most of all. Well maybe it was only him who had changed and thus driven anyone from him. Anyone but those who had to make do with him it seemed. Dorian wanted to hang his head when suddenly noises from the street made his ears perk up and he had his hand on where usually his blade would sit in training, just as he heard real steel being drawn by Corin. Light he did regret having been compelled to leave his blade at home. If it was for him he wouldn’t even take it off in his sleep…And yet the rules of the Warder’s Yard made him helpless once more.

 

His ears told him the story his eyes were unable to see: Corin running off after the thief, for thief he must be, he reasoned as he heard the victim call out to him already lying on the ground just as he heard another pair of footsteps – fast, heavy footsteps approaching. A hand tugging weakly at his coat, a whisper coming to his ears, barely inaudible. “…Take this, boy…Master Danveer…take it…run…don’t let them get it…Run!” Before he could reply or even catch a breath, he heard the footsteps coming closer and suddenly he felt paper brushing his hand, closing his fingers around the feeling of sealed parchment before he could utter another word. Run! It was as if he had heard it before. Not by a voice dying, a voice fading so much like his brother’s and yet so different…He knew he would never forget the sombreness in Carl Ranoch’s voice as he told them to leave their home, to run for their lives and seek refuge somewhere far beyond their home. A voice that had told them to abandon everything, not even giving them time to bury their murdered father or bid a proper farewell to their weeping mother. And yet they had obeyed, together they had run, thinking if they only ran fast and far enough, no one could ever come get them and they would never be separated like their father had predicted them to be. And once again Moridin Grey had found them…

 

“Run!”, the croaking voice’s echo dying on the pavement brought his attention back to the present and immediately without further ado he felt himself running like hell, running until his lungs burned, careless about the people he bumped in, not even bothering to apologize. He had to get away, that was the only notion crossing his mind. He would be able to worry about finding Corin later, but now he had to escape, had to get away from the thug’s blades that was sure to bite into him just as his uncle’s blade had bit into his throat and opened it from ear to ear. He really wasn’t inclined to let someone else finish Moridin Grey’s work. Not inclined at all.

 

Despite the physical training that had hardened him and improved his physical conditions, Dorian soon felt his throat burn as if on fire, a pain that made his aching lungs subside in insignificance. He knew he couldn’t keep up with this much longer, let alone had he run into that many people, places and indefinable…things that his body felt bruised and battered, longing for rest. He didn’t know if it was safe, yet he finally stopped in front of an inn which permeated a miasma of different smells and voices to the outside and after a quick pause, reassuring himself that no one was following him as well as he possibly could without being able to see a stalker, he slipped into the inn, collapsing on one of the first chairs he perceived as unoccupied. For now he cared about nothing less than being able to take a breath and let his muscles rest. It only dimly occurred to him that he had no idea where the Light he had run to and where Corin might be. The mysterious black maze that the white city of Tar Valon was to him had swallowed him completely. Him, the letter and probably his adversaries that were doubtlessly striving to take a hold of him.

 

~Dilora~

 

There was something surreal about Tar Valon at this time of day. With the sun in the position it was, it cast strange shadows over the white walls, the odd sweeping shapes of shells or fishes seeming to move impossibly slowly as the sun wheeled through the sky. She had been sat there, all afternoon, watching the play of clouds overhead cast their patterns down on the buildings below to give those fish scales. It was easy to become transfixed with something that wasn’t really there, and Dilora could easily see why people were in awe of Tar Valon.

 

True, that was usually to do with the reputation of the sisters that dwelt therein, but Dilora could totally see it.

 

She took another sip of her wine and reluctantly drew her eyes away from the window. Her companions were undertaking diverse chores and settling their own business before Dilora set off again, once more leaving the settled life of the city and heading off into the far more permanent hills and roads. For now, she contented herself with a look around at the various patrons inside the tavern from where she had watched the sky for most of the day. The usual mix of merchants and commoners mixed with the nobility and, amazingly, all seemed to get along well.

 

That was one thing Dilora had noticed every time she visited Tar Valon: there was precious little crime here. Her purse had been perfectly safe ever time she had visited here so far and there were never any signs of struggle or trouble, not visible ones anyway. The Sisters of the White Tower kept order well here. It made for good commerce.

 

When had she started drinking wine, anyway? Her tastes had certainly changed. Maybe the refined atmosphere she was in had reflected on her personality, like those lizards that blended into their surroundings. Cor had mentioned them once, scurrying around in the heat and lifting one leg up so as not to burn itself. The lizard, Dilora meant, and not Cor. Sighing, she looked up and drained the rest of the wine. It was a melancholy day, and she did not feel at all herself.

 

A movement at the door alerted her, as usual. Her ears would pick up the sound of the doors opening in most places, usually so she could view who was coming in and, if they looked wealthy or apt to make a deal with, she would be able to approach them first. This time it was not a merchant she saw entering, but a figure looking around as though either lost or in trouble. Those ones can often pay the most of all. A little kindness goes a long way. Her spirit flashed, thinking this could be quite the challenge, and she got up from her table briefly, casting a look around to make sure no one would touch her wine while she was away from it. She rose and crossed to the doorframe, putting her hand on the new arrival’s arm and greeted him like an old friend.

 

“Oh, it’s you! I’ve really missed you!” Several people looked around at the glee in her tone, then went back to their drinking and conversations, disregarding the occasion as “one of those things.” Dilora smiled, and kissed the newcomer lightly on the cheek as one would welcome a long-lost friend or brother, but she felt every muscle in his body stiffen at her proximity. She bent towards his ear, still in the doorway, and whispered.

 

“People are watching, so relax and act like you know me. I was just wondering if you needed anything, as I am a peddler and could be just what you’re looking for. What do you say?”

 

~Dorian~

 

Confused irritation seized him as he slumped, somewhere in the crowded common room of a nameless inn that merely hinted at the safety he sought so desperately. How often had he wished he could be just anyone, longed for the ability to blend into any crowd that suited him for his purposes. To him all of them were formless voices after all, everything blending into the same darkness that surrounded him, so if he was silent, if he moved without making any noise, he too would become part of the darkness. A tired, humourless smile curled up his lips as he mused about this image of his childhood. The thoughts of a child to who people were but voices and smell, and yet his illusions had never really served any point of solace, not even when he was too small to actually understand that he was different, that he would always stick out of any crowd.

 

“Well you’re just the special one”, Danian used to say at that. The memory of the good-natured voice of his brother, whose smile had been something that had always kept him going, briefly warmed his aching heart, longing to hear this smile in his voice again. Casting down his eyes, Dorian heaved a sigh full of sadness and regret, knowing all too well that he would never hear this voice again, never get any comfort or counsel from Danian. All he had, all he was cling to were memories, memories and the drive to go on, the drive propelled by burning hate and an unbearable thirst for revenge that had seared the boy he had been once from his bones entirely. The hate had left a man, bitter, staring sightlessly across a room full of merry voices without even noticing them. He knew a part of him had died that day with Danian in the rain. He sometimes feared, sometimes knew for sure that this part had been laughter, joy and happiness, lost and never to return again, disappearing in a residue of hate and cynism. The boy that shouldn’t have been the one to live in the first place had been cut off the Pattern and yet the man that remained went on to find something to cling to in a world of hopelessness.

 

Her voice somewhat jerked him out of his dark thoughts and brought back the confusion and even worse the feeling of being entirely lost. Light, he hated that feeling. Clenching his teeth, he swiftly tucked the letter away in his pocket, hoping she hadn’t registered the faint movement below the table. Her voice didn’t sound threatening and yet Dorian was unarmed, blind and lost, short as helpless as could be for someone who was having a scavenging murderer at his heels – again – just a moment before. He stared at her warily as though he could actually see the true nature of her approach marked on her face.

 

Restraining himself from asking her flat out who she was and what she wanted, he leaned back slowly, slumping even more if that was possible under the circumstances, before he finally decided to take her opening and see where it lead to. Obviously there was enough curiosity and – much to his regret – gullible stupidity inside him. He’d see how far he could trust this one. He just knew one thing: he so wasn’t going to manage another run if he had to. Might be she’d cut his throat in an instant when she knew what she wanted, but for now his bones were aching too much and his throat still was on fire from the breathless run.

 

“So here we shall meet again”, he finally said, well rasped to tell the truth, but at least his voice was there and hadn’t abandoned him again like so many times before. He raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise, fully leaping into her play. “I never thought I’d see you here in the White City. What kind of your business brings you here and how did you stop by the very same etablissement as I did?” He raised his eyebrows just the tiniest bit further, his face staying blank, waiting. Let’s see where this is going…

 

~Dilora~

 

Seated opposite the man with a couple of drinks on the table in front of them, Dilora wondered what she could possibly offer this man.  It seemed her ruse had worked to get him to sit with her though, and the attention from those sat around in the tavern had returned to their drinks and their own daily problems.  Placing both hands on the table, Dilora cracked a large smile in case anyone else was watching. 

 

“You look like a man of taste.” she began, taking a drink from the tankard in front of her.  Dilora raised her hand to get a tankard for the man opposite her and was halfway down her own, deep in her study of the man when the other pint arrived.  Their walk to the table had been accompanied by more of the same inane chitchat – totally false – but ultimately necessary in order to keep up the façade.  Now she had him right where she wanted him.

 

“Yes indeed, you do look like a man of taste.  And from your posture I’d say you were training at the White Tower?”  The man’s posture gave it away completely.  The way he held his shoulders, his carriage, lots of little telltale signs that Dilora had noticed over the years and over the times she had met Tower Guards and Warders alike.  “Well, I know this was incredibly elaborate in order to get you here, but I had a proposition for you.  I could tell the moment I saw you that you had some connection to the White Tower and wondered if there was anything the people inside needed.”

 

She waited for his response, wondering if she had been too forward with her sales pitch.  Dilora took another drink and tried to compose herself.  This was the first time she’d been that underhanded in trying to secure a sale after not having had much luck so far, and it surprised her.  She wasn’t usually this determined to make a sale.  Usually she would rely on her charm and wit to achieve sales, but it wasn’t working as well of late.  Was she getting old and jaded?  Dilora didn’t want to think about it.

 

Certainly her hairbrush had no silver hairs in it.  She was not yet in her thirtieth year, so it couldn’t be that.  Times were hard, and people were less apt to part with their hard-earned coin than before, especially for the luxury items she currently carried.  Believing Tar Valon would be full of riches, Dilora had invested in luxuries – a sales gambit that was proving to be a bit of a failure.  When she travelled to Cairhien she vowed to carry a lot of medicines and preserved food, perhaps some sacks of flour and sugar so that at least the basic staples of bread could be supplied.  A covered wicker basket that Dilora had found among the myriad stalls of the marketplace would be good when fastened to the outer wall of her wagon close to her window so she could simply reach outside to grab firewood whenever it was necessary.  I can’t travel like this forever… 

 

She turned her attention back to the present.  “What are you doing this far in the heart of Tar Valon?”