~Damian~

 

And if your heart stops beating

I'll be here wondering

Did you get what you deserve?

The ending of your life

 

Deserved? No, he certainly hadn´t deserved what he had got now, being dragged nearly through the entire city by a tope slung around his neck, pulling tight already - Light, he despised Amador more than any other place in this World! They wanted to get him used to what the hangman would have in store for him, they had said, laughing and spitting at him, without him even bothering to wipe it away.

 

Too long already. Too long it had been that the Whitecloaks had had him, too long to make him lose the little dignity he might once have had. Damian Cain as he had once been called, though those times seemed to be so far back that he had already come close to actually forgetting even that detail about himself, had become a shadow. A shadow not as they thought of him, cries of Darkfriend and Shadowspawn still in his ears, coming from everywhere as he mounted the wooden stool that should proof fatal for him in what? Minutes? Seconds? What did he care. He had been a shadown, seeking its secluded embrace, having given up the search for comfort or even a spark of humanity long since.

 

He had been Darkfriend, shadow, rat, rebel, bootlicker, the lowest of the low, the scum of this world until now, enduring all the kicks, beatings and insults with a blankness of mind that had even startled himself sometimes. He had been toy and playmate in so many ways, his mind had finally decided to grant him the small mercy of forgetting most of it, hiding it somewhere in the depths of a trampled and beaten conscious. He had endured all that, succumbed to all that until the point of mere apathetic reception waiting for the final blow after which he wouldn´t rise no more. It hadn´t come. Not yet. He had lived. Living a life that didn´t deserve its name and yet his heart was still beating and breath rasped in his lungs as his feet didn´t even feel the rough wood under them, as little as the skin on his neck felt the stringy scratch of the rope that was rudely slung around his neck.

 

Whatever was happening around him, Damian Cain was beyond all care. It would end today. The final blow for which he had been secretly longing all these years would come today. Differently than expected, but it would come and it would end. Finally. A release, yes, that was what it was. The Red Ajah. The Children of the Light. Both inquisitors imposed on him and yet he had lived through anything they had done to him. Had lived through the pain of the gap he felt, the gap that had been ripped into his life, his very soul, a gap that he still felt now, being the only thing that somehow told him he was still alive apart from his vital signs. Some might call it courage, some endurance or strength, some mere stubbornness, but he, Damian Cain had lived.

 

He didn´t even flinch as the rope was pulled tight and ignored some voice muttering words of absolution, needless and pointless as they were, there was no consolation in them. And yet there still was something inside him, Damian noticed, something of that unbreakable will to live remaining. Something that terrified him to the bones all of a sudden as he felt the stool being kicked away from under his feet, not even giving him time to cry out for help, to plea, to repent, confess, whatever they wanted.

 

He would have done anything, he realized in that very moment, that precious moment that taught him once again how big a treasure life was, no matter how. That one moment that should be the happiest and yet most horrible in his entire life. The moment he met the hangman´s eyes, masked by blackness as he nodded in approval. No, his neck hadn´t broken. The hangman had done his work and Damian was left to choke miserably, feet kicking helplessly as if trying to keep him up, to ease the pull of the rope.

 

All of them kicked, he recalled dimly, the last thing he saw being the little crowd of people standing around him, losing interest in him and turning away, leaving him to his inevitable fate. He wasn´t important. Just another Darkfriend hanging. Who cared if he was guilty or not? It was over…

The axe flew over the crowd gathered in the village square like an odd, featherless songbird, whistling softly as it cut through the air.

 

It didn’t alter its trajectory as it sliced through the rope suspending the twitching man above the ground. Its blade, sharper than any razor, cut through the hemp like a hot knife through butter as it continued on its way.

 

THUNK

 

It landed heavily, burying its head deep into its wooden nest: the timber of the hangman’s gallows. The man who couldn’t fly fell bonelessly to the earth, his freefall a graceless thing powered by gravity.

 

The throng of villagers which had looked on passively as the drunken Whitecloaks laughingly dragged their prisoner toward his doom, their impotence visibly battling with their apathy as they watched their fellow’s plight, now found energy. Scattering like a covey of quail, they frantically ran for cover, hiding in the shadows while another challenged the oppressors. The screams of terror from the townsfolk mingled with the less numerous, but more important, angry shouts of the handful of Whitecloaks whose drunken debauchery had taken an unexpected turn.

 

Forge burst forth into the town square, a 12-foot tall mountain of angry muscle easily visible in the turmoil. He had observed the lynch mob doing its grisly task as he approached this nameless village in this back part of nowhere, but he couldn’t allow a man’s murder. Guilty or not, the hanged man at least deserved a trial and the massive Ogier refused to let their game go on.

 

His mind worked feverishly, wondering at the Wheel weaving him into such an unlikely scenario, as he sped toward the group of Children.

 

He disliked traveling through Amadicia. The Children of Light were one of the few groups of humans who tended to attack Ogier on sight. “Confusing” them with Trollocs was usually the claim, but Forge suspected that the Whitecloaks considered his kind just another type of Shadowspawn. He wished now that he had avoided the shortcut this time, too. The Whitecloaks were entirely too violent a group of humans, and he should have known the chance of shaving a few weeks off his journey wouldn’t be worth the risk. Now it was too late to undo, and the soldiers’ lust for killing would merely change targets.

 

Still confused with the unexpected conclusion of the lynching, the drunken Whitecloaks had just managed to notice the angry Ogier sprinting towards them when he was amongst them wreaking havoc, his incredible speed giving lie to his great size.

 

Forge didn’t bother drawing his second axe from its loop on his travel pack. His oaken quarterstaff connected with heads and arms with bone-cracking alacrity, his ham-sized hands breaking bones where they connected with human flesh. Angry shouts of defiance transformed in an instant to pain-wracked wails of anguish, as the Ogier fell on them like a mountain. As swiftly as the conflict began, it was over.

 

Six drunken Children of Light sprawled in the dust, their arms, bodies, and heads broken and bleeding. Forge didn’t think any of them would die, but he wasn’t too concerned with their welfare at the moment. Before long, more Children would be on their way after him, and those wouldn’t be deep in their cups.

 

He quickly retrieved his axe, a seven-foot long exquisitely crafted masterpiece of sung wood and Aes-Sedai wrought steel, as much a piece of art as a deadly weapon, and thrust it through the spare loop on his pack opposite from its twin. Kneeling, he checked on the hanged man. His face was bloated and purple and he stank of human waste where he had soiled himself when his body shut down from being hanged. Easing a finger thicker than a sausage between his throat and the severed noose to loose the rope’s death grip, the Ogier’s gentleness in stark contrast to his violence moments before, Forge waited to see if he had acted too late.

 

Moments passed before the human gasped in the breath of life, his eyes opening wide with shock as he did so. He choked out a painful, “Wha--?” before lapsing back into unconsciousness. Disregarding the foul-smell, Forge hefted the man across his shoulder and began to run, his long legs unlimbering in a ground-eating stride.

 

Death would be appearing soon to finish the job, and its minions would be wearing white cloaks.

Ezekiel remained silent as he watched the scene from afar. He twisted his mouth in disgust at the other Whitecloak's, wobbling around drunkenly, readying everything for the execution. Normally, the Children's laws dictated that a proper interrogation and trial would have to take place before proceeding to the final punishment, but the other Whitecloaks were too driven by the ale, if nothing else, to take the law to their own hands and Ezekiel had no intention to intervene.

 

Oh, Ezekiel followed procedures, as it was a way to stay out of trouble. Being obedient and the likes. But since this wasn't his party, nor did he want to be invited, he was more then happy to stand aside and let things unfold. As far as he was concerned, he was a questioner and when it came to Damian Cain, all the questions were already answered. He was a Darkfriend. That was revealed a long time ago. No one could escape the noose. He might have evaded it for a while, but in truth, it only grew tighter around his neck.

 

Pursing his lips, Ezekiel watched as the stool got kicked aside, leaving the filthy darkfriend dangling, gasping for air. No one expected his neck to break. If that would have been the intention, some height would have been added to the drop. Seeing the life being sucked out of a Darkfriend was much more rewarding. Giving him those precious moments before death to reflect over his poor existence. Ezekiel tilted his head to the side, wondering what was going through Damian's head at that very instant. Begging for redemption perhaps. A void request at that, but just as amusing.

 

But just as Damian's body started to get stiff, an axe flashed through the air and cut him down. His body fell like a sack of potatoes. Ezekiel couldn't tell if he was alive still, but he wasn't worried. The Whitecloaks would take care of the temporary annoyance and if the man still lived, they would start over.

 

Blinking, Ezekiel couldn't believe his eyes. The rescuer, probably a Darkfriend too, was not what he expected. A huge beast appeared and started attacking the Whitecloacks, rendering them unconscious in a matter of moments. At first Ezekiel thought it a Trolloc, yet he found its behavior rather odd. There was no apparent loyalties between Shadowspawn and darkfriend. Then again, Trollocs got stupid when they got hungry.

 

Signaling to Dram, a young initiate that he brought along to scout, he sent him off to the fortress to bring reinforcement. Peering at the happenings, Ezekiel remained concealed. There was no point in getting himself injured like the rest. Observation was the key.

 

To Ezekiel's surprise the beast picked Damian up, turned on its heels and ran. "So it wasn't food after all...", he mused. Running to his horse, Ezekiel threw himself on the saddle and started trotting in the direction the foul beast disappeared to. Waiting for reinforcement might have meant losing its tracks and Ezekiel couldn't allow Damian to walk free again.

 

 

 

Ezekiel

Hand of the Light

It was another day in the Fortress. Too long, Captain Lolaria Kamiaine had been out in the world, enjoying the sweet air and the whip of the wind. The office that had once given her some measure of happiness now felt like a prison. A prison of paperwork and petty squabbling. Life outside the fortress had slowly been working to change her views, though she was still a Child of the Light. Letting out a breath she didn't know she was holding, the olive skinned woman stood and stretched muscles unused to sitting in a chair for so long.

 

Perhaps it was time for a venture out in to the hallowed halls. Though paperwork waited for no man, there was time left this day, and candles worked for pushing back the darkness. Perhaps there were new recruits to run through their paces... Smiling to herself, Lolaria strapped on her sword belt, rearranged the blinding white cloak that rested on her shoulders, and took a moment to build the composure and calm that went with being a Captain. Nodding once, she opened the heavy wooden door to her chambers and closed it behind her.

 

It didn't take her long to make the way down the heavy stone corridor and close to the exterior of the Fortress of the Light. It was an impressive building, but she'd been there longer than some of the Children had been in long pants... She walked with crisp stride and definite purpose. She had nearly reached the massive entryway when a young man nearly bowled her over in his haste.

 

Reaching out, she placed a dark hand on the man's shoulder and looked at him with cool eyes. "What is the trouble, child?" Lolaria took a moment to examine the look of panic on the man's face and the soldier within her prepared for his answer. "A Darkfriend was on the gallows... He has been rescued! Questioner Ezekiel told me to come get reinforcements." The poor man was panting and almost beside himself. A Questioner...still, she was most likely the person who could get to her horse fastest and be off.

 

"I will not detain you then, go get reinforcements from the closest Legion you can! Tell them that Questioner Ezekiel and Captain Kamiaine are already on the move." Nodding, she lifted her hand from the man's shoulder as he took off running in one direction, and she opened her stride and loped off in another.

 

Storm was restless as she fairly threw on the saddle and tack. She hadn't seen him for several days, and the Captain believed that the grooms weren't as attentive as they could be. Strapping a shield on to one side of the saddle, she made the final preparations and leaped on the dappled grey. Snorting in the slight chill, she spoke soft but firm words, and the great horse sprang in to movement. There were still a few stragglers wondering what had happened with the hanging, and got the direction in which the pursuit had gone. With another word, Storm shot off in the direction that the prisoner, Ezekiel, and a supposed Trolloc had gone.

 

-------

Captain Lolaria Kamiaine

Children of the Light

~Damian~

 

Darkness. Cold crept into his body, numbing his limbs as he sat trapped in yet another cell. He had long lost any memory of where he was or how long he was there. What did it matter? What mattered anymore at all in a world of cold and darkness as anonymous and alien as he was tainted and worthless in the eyes of his captures who didn't even bother with further torment in attempt to quench any further bits and pieces out of him. It was over. Just like that. After all these years. Deceived. Betrayed. Trapped. Everything gone. Which crueller torment coould there be but take everything from him that would make an ordinary man cling to life? Whoever had been in charge here, these women had done their job well and Dana most of all.

 

The worst part was when the memories came back. Memories that nobody could take from him. Memories that were bound to haunt him forever.

 

He couldn't imagine any happier time of his life. Every hour they spent together was making him feel so...rich and fortunate, even though his material status was rather meager. And yet as they lay on the staw-covered ground, huddled together on their blankets as naked as their Creator made them, there could have been no moment that would be more blissful to him than that, feeling her bareness against him, radiating warmth that made the fire blazing close to them nearly obsolete, heated as they were in a loving embrace that hinted at nothing but peacefulness and mutual devotion.

 

"You know...", he breathed into Dana's hair as he caressed it softly, feeling the soft seductiveness of sleep drawing at him. "You know there is nothing I wouldn't do for you."

 

As she remained silent he huddled against her, assuming she had fallen asleep already, her head laying on his chest, open eyes looking away from him towards something that seemed to fill her with expectation as the prey of a predator, ready to leap when her victim expected her least to. She knew there was no better moment than this and turning around to kiss him good night, Damian almost didn't feel the blade cutting in his chest.

 

Eyes widening in shock, he could barely speak, let alone scream with the agony flaring inside him. The agony of physical pain, yet what consumed him was the agony of the betrayal he saw in her eyes as he was suddenly finding himself prey to thirteen Aes Sedai all around him and Dana naked right in front of him, still holding the blade, indifferent about her own nakedness as she jereked the dagger from his flesh before kissing him one last time. A kiss full of cruel mockery and he say his own blood on her lips as she whispered: "Yes, you will do anything for me, my love. You will."

 

Blackness released him from everything. Blackness that should be relief and curse as well. Blackness that would mark the rest of his life. And then there was pain.

 

Pain still seemed to pulse through his entire body when he finally opened his eyes, blinking irritably as the daylight momentarily blinded him. Feeling came back first. The feeling of...motion. He was moving. And yet it weren't his own legs that carried him. Those he didn't even feel as they dangled jelly-like against...someone...He was carried, Damian understood and for a moment panic seemed to overcome him and he thrashed, struggling to break free. He would have screamed, but his throat seemed to be on fire, making uttering a mere word nearly impossible. As impossible as to break free, he realized after the first attempt. An attempt that doubtlessly could have been managed far better by a lifeless doll than him, weak as he was.

 

Then he remembered the hanging. Remembered the Whitecloaks, the laughter and cheering. Remembered dying. His life being choked out of his body. Then falling before nothingness came.

"

Only when he was put down, he realized that he wasn't hanging anymore. Someone - he nearly gasped when he saw the broad face framed by hair and tufted ears - something had carried him away. "Wha-?", he flinched as his throat burned ablaze. He couldn't talk. Even trying was pure agony. As agonizing as... "Dana...", he croaked, only aware of having uttered a sound by the new fire exploding inside his throat. Even breathing hurt more than he could imagine anything like that hurting. His throat was too swollen to speak. And yet he had to find out...who what this...being...that had saved...or taken?...him? What about the Whitecloaks? What... Damian shook his head, too weak to even raise his head as he felt himself collapse against the body of whoever it was who had saved him. Tell me...Help me... his eyes seemed to plead, before going dim again. Or if you have to kill me, be quick about it...

Just over half a mile away, the forest edge beckoned like an elusive lover.

 

His breath came in deep gasps, his lungs straining desperately along with the rest of his body as he tore across the exposed fields that separated him from the marginal safety of its depths. His right arm pumped exaggeratedly in an attempt to compensate for the left, which was raised awkwardly to support the unconscious human dangling over his shoulder. The oaken staff in his hand was held like a long baton, but this race was against Death not another runner. The Ogier’s long legs sped over the ground in a blur covering the intervening distance with incredible speed, urged on by the desperateness of the situation.

 

His initial frenzied burst of speed, a sprint nearly as fast as a horse could run, earned him and his unconscious passenger the scant shelter of the sparse woods that bordered the outlying farms near the village. Now they were far away from unfriendly eyes. Or so he hoped.

 

He paused just inside the edge of the wood to catch his breath and to search for any signs of pursuit. He knew they would come, it was just a matter of when and how many. For now, though, he saw nothing to indicate an immediate threat. Looking to the sun, he saw that he had only a couple of hours before nightfall. If he could avoid capture until then, he had a decent chance of escape. Well, if he was being completely honest he didn’t like the odds of escaping at all, but he certainly wasn’t going to give up.

 

He knew he couldn’t maintain his earlier pace for long, so Forge settled into a ground-eating easy lope alternating every half a mile or so with a fast walk. With his unwieldy burden, it was the best way to cover long distances and still maintain enough energy to sprint if the need arose. Intermittently, his near-dead companion struggled in his stupor, uttering pain-garbled words unintelligible to the massive Ogier. He hushed the man like a father would a child, patting his back with a giant hand and never broke stride. Stopping wouldn’t help either of them now.

 

He flitted through the forest like a wild animal, unsure of where the hunter was and unwilling to be an easy target.

 

The woods he was passing through, though, were as tame as a family dog, the relaxed atmosphere oddly juxtaposed against his desperate flight. Centuries of farmers harvesting wood here had virtually made it into an extension of their gardens, only the reaping was firewood instead of fruits and vegetables. He would have preferred it to be wild and overgrown with thickets. At least that way there would be places to hide. As it was, his only option of escape was to out-distance his pursuers, wherever they were.

 

But he didn’t know where to go.

 

His heartbeat was calm but his mind worked feverishly, trying to solve the puzzle before him as he put more miles behind him.

 

He wasn’t very knowledgeable with the surrounding area, so he kept his eyes open for any high ground. If he could find a tall enough summit, or even a tree large enough to support his weight, he could climb it and see what lay around him. But so far, he hadn’t had any luck.

 

Forge continued moving through the dusk of early evening, a giant will o’ the wisp through an otherwise empty woodland. One place appeared much like another, and each step put that much more distance between him and the Whitecloaks. As evening darkened into night, he stopped. It wasn’t an especially good place for a camp, but he was tired and he hadn’t seen a better option available.

 

As he eased the hanged man onto the ground, his passenger opened his eyes wide. His distress was obvious, as he choked out “Wha-? Dana…”

 

With sorrowful eyes, the Ogier looked down at the haunted and hunted man. “Rest easy. There’s time for talking later.” Forge didn’t know if his words were heard, because moments later a soft rasping snore came from the human.

 

Despite his fatigue, Forge remained wide awake as darkness fell and the stars appeared, sitting with his back to an elm tree with an axe across his knees.

 

The work was far from finished.

After the initial trot after the Darkfriends, Ezekiel decided to slow down his stallion. He had to be wary. His foes could pop out of every corner. Even though he wasn't the most ingenious tracker, missing the prints the funny looking Trolloc left was nearly impossible. The path the filthy creature left behind was rather visual and so with much patience and a touch of endurance, Ezekiel followed. A bit unsure what to do if and when he caught up with the strange twosome.

 

Ezekiel was bitter. He hated complications or delays. He always liked to finish things he started and detested to leave things half way. He was determined not to let this one go, though. Being aligned to the Dark One came with a price. Damian had to pay his. Tainting one's soul was a free ticket to an immature death. One that the Children of the Light were fast to deliver. In most cases, anyway.

 

Stopping his stallion, Ezekiel climbed off of it and crouched behind a bush. And there they were. Damian, passed out on the ground with the Trolloc crouched next to him. For a split of a second, Ezekiel wished

The vile thing would just eat the human. One less thing to worry about. But after a prolonged moment, Ezekiel changed his mind. The death of this particular Darkfriend he wanted to savor. He wanted to see the light in his eyes die off, to witness his last frantic kicks in the air and finally watch as his lifeless body swung in the soft breeze. It was called closure.

 

Ezekiel wrinkled his brow as he heard, what seemed like, the Trolloc Talking. Some could spew a word here and there but this one was talking fluently. Ezekiel paused a moment to reflect but was quick to dismiss it. It was impossible to consider that the beast was not related to the Darkness that seemed to ensnare so many. Its recent actions were more then enough to compromise his life. Aiding a Darkfriend was just as severe as being one.

 

Staying put, Ezekiel refrained from making his presence known. Waiting for back up seemed wiser. But after a while Ezekiel noticed the Trolloc starting to prepare himself for departure. He knew he had to make a move to at least delay him, until the rest arrived. Flashes of the Trolloc throwing off the other Whitecloaks only hours ago echoed in his head but he could not be deterred.

 

Climbing up on his stallion, he rode in, in plain sight of the Trolloc who was in the process of picking up Damian. Sword in hand, Ezekiel looked right into the creature's eyes. "You are surrounded, Trolloc." Bluffing was needed at that moment. Ezekiel's features, however, didn't seem to reveal the hidden lie. "Move and I will personally end you."

 

 

 

Ezekiel

The Hand

As the first word shattered the illusory tranquility of the pre-dawn, Forge felt his stomach give a strange flip. Like that of a rabbit caught in a snare.

 

Bent over his still-unconscious companion, with one knee on the ground and neither hand wielding a weapon, he was in no position to attack the mounted Whitecloak who looked boldly into his eyes. The fervent light of conviction shone fiercely in the Child’s own orbs, but Forge cared little about the Whitecloak’s rabid devotion to his order. The drawn sword held more of a threat at the moment.

 

“You are surrounded, Trolloc. Move and I will personally end you,” the zealous Whitecloak declared.

 

Forge remained motionless as he considered the situation, only the flicking of his ears betraying the notion that he wasn’t an incredibly lifelike carving. His mind worked feverishly, however, desperately searching for a way out of this mess. It was his ears, though, that gave him a hunch. And the Whitecloak’s own horse that gave him a plan…

 

The Child appeared calm, but his horse snorted and pranced nervously with the tension of the situation, Or is it something more?, its hooves tearing up clods of forest floor mulch and leaf litter. Aside from the horse’s antics, the only other sound in the forest was the normal early morning twittering of birds and the chirping of crickets that had stayed out too late. Would they be acting so normally if there were dozens more armed soldiers around us, Forge wondered. I don’t think so. And I think his horse is scared of me.

 

On a whim, Forge quickly stood up and threw his arms over his head. “RAWR!” he yelled, his deep bellow echoing through the forest and silencing the early morning symphony. More importantly, it scared the horse nearly to death.

 

Screaming in terror, it reared violently, hooves pawing the air as it desperately tried to get away from this strange bear-like creature who was going to eat it. It nearly went completely over backwards as the Child fought to re-gain control, but the horse’s agility proved more impressive than the Whitecloak’s seat. The horse flung its rider to the ground and disappeared into the woods like the Dark One himself was hot on his trail.

 

The Whitecloak went flying through the air, losing his grip on his sword in the process, and landed with a THUD. Before he could scramble to his feet and locate his sword, Forge was on him, pinning his arms to his side with great ham-sized fists. Strangely, many vile, angry curses were flung from the mouth of the devoted Child of the Light. At another time, Forge would have found the odd combination very amusing, but right now he had more important things occupying his mind.

 

The massive Ogier pinned the struggling Whitecloak to the ground, holding him there with one knee as Forge drew a knife and cut off the Child’s pristine cloak.

 

“Do your worst, you goat-spawned son of the Dark!” shouted the Child, defiantly resisting his perceived oncoming doom as his eyes helplessly focused on the blade. As the profane and hate-filled tirade continuously spewed forth from the soldier’s lips, Forge realized that the Children apparently didn’t know much about Ogier. How could any educated person confuse us with a Trolloc?

 

Quicker than many would believe imaginable, Forge sliced the cloak into ribbons and lifted the Questioner to his feet. Forge had noticed a red shepherd’s crook emblazoned on the front. Placing one sausage thick finger over the Questioner’s lips to silence him, Forge offered his perspective. He had no idea what the consequences would be.

 

“First of all, I’m not a Trolloc,” he said, the deep bass of his voice oddly relaxed despite the stressful circumstances. “I am an Ogier. I’m going to tie you up, because I don’t want innocent blood to be shed. You’re only doing what you think is right. I am doing the same. I don’t know if the man behind me is innocent or not, but your fellows should never have tried to lynch him without a trial. That goes against what little I know of your laws.”

 

The Whitecloak’s eyes grew nearly as large as the Ogier’s at the speech, but Forge didn’t pause long enough for a response.

 

“I’d appreciate it if you stopped yelling. It’s giving me a headache, and I think we can both agree that your gently persuasive discourse,” Forge chuckled ever so richly at the little joke, “isn’t going to alter the situation.”

 

The Questioner nodded, although his angry glare remained defiant. Forge swiftly tied the Child to a tree with the ribbons of his cloak, then he gathered up the Child’s sword and plunged it firmly into the ground at his feet.

 

“You may be able to free yourself before your comrades arrive, or you may not. Either way, I’m sure I will see you again if the Light wills it. I wouldn’t want you to lose your sword before then.”

 

With those words, and a long look into the Whitecloak’s suddenly uncertain gaze, Forge gathered up his prone companion and loped into the distance. The Ogier knew as soon as the horse bolted, that their chances of escape weren’t good. If he couldn’t find a horse for sleeping beauty, there was no way they would outrun the pursuit.

 

But he ran on anyway.

The chase was becoming long. Too long. Captain Lolaria Kamiaine wondered if their troops would even be able to catch up in good time. It took more time for a unit of soldiers to travel than lone riders to. She’d been going easy on Storm, not pushing him too hard through the night. Indeed, he could break a leg in unknown territory at night. The loss of Storm would hurt her deeply, though she was not quite ready to admit it. Dawn would be here soon, light was beginning to peek around the edges of the horizon and flash in to the trees. She picked up the pace, leaning out of the saddle here and there in an attempt to stay on the trail.

 

A deep and resounding roar echoed through the trees so suddenly, she started in the saddle. Attesting to his excellent training, Storm didn’t twitch a muscle. Speaking soft words to him, he leapt ahead, wind streaming through his mane and through her hair. Small branches whipped past her face, scratching it in places as she raced towards the origin of the booming voice.

 

Silence returned to the early-morning woods, and it was again difficult to tell which direction in which to travel. Lolaria had never been much of a tracker, so she required quite blatant markings. Luckily, Ezekiel’s stallion was not careful in its trek through the woods. It was still a challenge to follow the track…and the echoing of the previous voice confused its origin. Doggedly, she rode on, not wanting to lose the trail.

 

Pausing for a moment, the Captain heard the slight sounds of struggle…and cursing? Curious, she rode closer and discovered the incapacitated Ezekiel, pulling his sword towards the tree with his feet. Raising an eyebrow, she slid down to the ground off Storm’s broad back. “I won’t ask how you lost this.” Picking up the man’s sword, she sneered at the white cloth tying him to the tree. Pulling it across in a quick arc, the cloth was severed and the Child was free of the tree. Sparing a moment to cut bindings at his wrists, Lolaria handed the sword back to him, hilt first, contempt still slightly present in the corners of her mouth. “Attend to your horse, Hand. I continue the pursuit.”

 

Turning on her heel, she made her way back to Storm, who was obediently standing where she’d let the reins drop. He was the perfect example of warhorse, trained, strong, obedient, and fiercely loyal. She might give the Hand member a ride if he asked, but Storm would not like it. He would do what she asked…but he would not like it. With a hand on the reins, she raised a white gloved and mailed hand to stroke at the side of the dappled grey’s neck before preparing to step back up in to the saddle.

 

------

Captain Lolaria Kamiaine

Children of the Light

Some wounds never heal

Some tears never will

Dry for the unkind

Cry for mankind

 

He had never thought he could cry that much. That long. Cry in helplessness. Cry in solitude. Left by the one he hated and loved the most and knew he always would.

 

“Rest easy. There’s time for talking later“…

 

He had heard those words once before. Before…Before when Dana had been with him. When she had still been with him, claimed him as her possession. Made him do whatever she fancied him to do. In the time when he had been reduced to all but a dancing puppy, eager to please his Mistress. Eager to do whatever she wanted, no matter what.

 

Everything for the Power. Everything for life. A life that had lost its worth ad merits of living long since. Yet he hadn’t shrunk away. Bore everything she put him through. Cruelty. Humility. Devotedness. He had never thought he’d learn that much about those things just when he had about lost everything that had ever mattered anything in his life. And yet he couldn’t hate her.

 

And yet she had done this to him. It had been her who had pierced his heart with far more than just one fiery dagger. It had been her who had taken him, imprisoned him, made him her slave, her whim. Made him beg, cry, serve after ripping the Power away from him. She and her Twelve of Power. Power he knew would never be his again. The Power that had been floating inside him, keeping him whole. Keeping him alive.

 

“Rest easy. There’ll be time for talking later” had been her very words after she had sedated him enough to get him in and out of the Tower without drawing anyone’s attention. Words foreboding and yet soothing even the icy pain that burned in his chest. The pain that wasn’t even half as icy as his heart had gone on realizing that she had been the one who had finally betrayed him. That she would be the one who would do to him what many had tried before and not even the Taint on Saidin had the chance to accomplish. For one single moment, a moment more joyful than anything he had ever felt before, her smile and the warmth of her voice made him hope that he had her back just as before. Her smile seemed to freeze on her face and draw into a cruel grimace when his strings to the Power snapped followed by his desperate yet futile cry of agony that would never be forgotten.

 

Damian almost expected Dana’s still grinning face over him when he opened his eyes next. For a second he was scared of actually finding her sitting next to him again. Of living through his ordeal again like he had in countless dreams before. Dreams…Dreams like this one, he realized, gathering enough courage and sense of his environment to know that he wouldn’t find himself in a wet, moulding Tower cell again if he opened his eyes.

 

He actually heaved a sigh of relief, feeling the light of a fading sun leave its warm residue on him and the forest and the…well whatever he or IT was that was sitting opposite him watching his coming round in this strange place rather intently. Getting, or rather stumbling to his feet, Damian realized that his legs were rather shaky, yet his entire body seemed to ache in pain, a hint of fever still heating him more than was natural. And yet….

 

“I’m not dead”, he said, or rather croaked as his throat seemed to be swollen to three times its size and he wondered how he was able to breath at all after… “What happened after…the hanging?”, he wheezed, his voice – if it befit to that name – a mere whisper, interrupted by short, quick breathing. Just as much as his throat admitted. Light he had never felt so weak and…stupid before as he did now, trying to restrain himself from openly gaping at the…creature sitting in front of him. Sitting and still being a head taller than his middle-height self. “Light…”, lacking anything better to say, he forced himself to utter despite the pain burning in his throat and the dizziness that still made his surroundings swim, even when he sat down again, stifling a groan when his muscles protested against the strain. “Why…Who…I mean…what is an Ogier like you doing here?”, he finally managed to get out. “…you are an Ogier aren’t you?”

 

Light he had no clue what had happened. No clue where all the Children, let alone his wits had disappeared to. Pray for safe return, he thought. Just let it be the latter ones.

 

~Damian Cain

witless, clueless, voiceless

“I am.”

 

Forge answered softly, never lifting his head to look at the human he had carried so far. The running through the forest was taking its toll. No food, less rest. And the Children of Light were herding them now. For two days he had kept ahead of them, ever since he’d tied up the Questioner, but now it was only a matter of time…

 

His body was wracked with more aches than he could count, and his chest heaved with the exertion and stress of being the stag with a pack of wolves on its heels. His stomach had long since come to the conclusion that his throat had been cut, and it no longer even bothered to growl in protest. Catching a whiff of himself as a stray breeze momentarily wafted by, he didn’t exactly smell like a rose either. Salt from dried sweat coated his coat and tunic, and he had gotten so used to the rank odors emanating from his companion that he didn’t even notice them any more.

 

Life on the run wasn’t pretty.

 

Raising his gaze to look squarely into the eyes of the little man, Forge continued. “You’re not dead, yet.” There was an added emphasis on the word “yet” that was audible and caused the human to take a fearful step back before catching himself.

 

“We’re in a spot of trouble. I’ve carried you for better than two days ahead of the Whitecloak searchers. But now their pincers have us hemmed in, and like a chokevine they will soon begin to squeeze in on us.”

 

Sighing, a sound like wind through a giant oak, Forge stood, towering over his overwhelmed companion. “But we’re not dead yet, so there is still hope.” Hefting his travel pack over his shoulder, the two wicked looking axes gleaming menacingly in the early dawn light, he added, “Would you mind telling me why they’re after you? I don’t like killing, and I’d hate to kill someone because I was in the wrong.”

 

Forge stood silently, looking down at the hanged man, his oaken quarterstaff held forgotten in a massive hand. He must have looked threatening, because the stranger he’d been alone with for so long, gave a painful swallow and his eyes grew wide as he searched for words.

Ezekiel cast a few glances at Lolaria as he rode a bit behind her. She was an arrogant woman. He didn't know her to a far extent, nor he cared to. He didn't suffer women in general. They had a tendency to complicate matters. The more strong willed they were, the bigger the problems they caused, and Ezekiel suspected that Lolaria could easily triumph if she decided to compete against a mule for stubbornness.

 

But it mattered not. All Ezekiel wanted was for Damian's execution to go through and for that vile creature to have an appointment with the noose as well. What it was didn't matter anymore. It attacked several Whitecloaks including Ezekiel himself. Attacking the messengers of the light meant there was darkness in it.

 

Ezekiel wasn't accustomed to prolonged riding. Lolaria had told him on several occasions that he should turn back and head to the fortress. He was a questioner after all, so pursuit wasn't one of his specialties, but Ezekiel considered leaving as defeat. He was determined to finish what he started and capture the fugitives.

 

One of the scouts suddenly appeared from the distance and rode next to Lolaria, whispering something in her ear. Ezekiel couldn't make out what the man said, but by the glint in Lolaria's eyes, he could tell that they found them. Signaling with her hands, Lolaria split the entire force into three groups and signaled two of the groups to surround the premises as her group continued forward. Ezekiel was not inclined to abide by Lolaria's commands and just decided to tag along with her group.

 

They rode slowly. Closing around the fugitives further. Time seemed to stretch and Ezekiel was surprised as he realized he was overwhelmed by anticipation. He smiled when he spotted the two figures. A big bulgy one and a diminished one. When she shadowspawn spotted them it picked up Damian and tried to flee, only the trap was already set and there was no way out.

 

Dismounting and ignoring Lolaria's warnings, Ezekiel came closer to the pair. He left a fair distance between them, just to be on the safe side, but he couldn't help the urge to want to be there when they were taken. To see the look in their eyes as all hope seemed to be suck away. Having the sure knowledge that their lives were no longer theirs.

 

"You left without saying goodbye last time we met. I found it to be incredibly impolite. Had to make sure it wouldn't happen again. Having you running about abusing good manners in such a fashion...can't have that." Ezekiel eyed Damian for a moment and smirked. "And to think you risked your life for that disgusting excuse of a man. He was dead long before your patheitc rescue attempt. You're going to regret ever meddling in our affairs, shadowspawn. But don't worry, I'll be sure to remember to say goodbye when the noose tightens around your neck."

 

Moving back to his horse, Ezekiel watched as Lolaria signaled the troops to close in on the pair. Swords, lances and bows in hand, they all made sure the huge creature won't manage to escape again. "Don't you ever do that again." Lolaria said as she passed by him. Ezekiel only smiled. insignificant arguments were too vulgar for his taste. All he could think of was that he got what he wanted. But he couldn't leave yet. Not until he could witness them both meeting their end. Painfully, if possible.

 

 

 

Ezekiel

Questioner

Even before his unexpected companion had rendered his question, Damian’s eyes went wide as his complexion paled even more, had that been possible. Sounds caught his ear, sounds that were barely audible until it was too late. Obviously the Ogier hand’t noticed in his curiosity and apparent physical exhaustion.

 

Damian opened his mouth, halfway ready to utter a warning, but he knew that it would come too late. They had found them and the silent triumph gleaming in Questioner Ezekiel’s eyes as he dismounted made his knees go weak, yet he fought to stay upright, keeping his blank composure, silently enduring the humiliation of defeat. There simply was no escape. “No matter what you do, they find you”, he heard himself mutter under his breath. Words uttered by so many that had tried to escape and yet the rope had found them all, the rope or worse…

 

The screams kept him awake at night, their residue echoing in his small cell just as the drumbeat did. The drumbeat that never ceased. The drumbeat that told him his turn would come again and some day he would be one of those who would never return. Screams and drums day in and day out, making him lose every notion of sanity or salvation at this place where hope ceased to exist, where hope was beaten and flayed out of you, where you lost everything that made you feel alive. Everything but pain and the drums and the screams.

 

Sometimes he thought he didn’t hear them anymore, that everything around him must have stopped, that he must have stopped. The only thing that silences the screams and drums, that dulls the pain and sets you free is death finally carrying you away. Death. He had awaited it every day, every hour, every minute he spent in the cells deep under the Fortress of the Light, had awaited it like a dear friend, like freedom that seemed to be denied to him every time when he realized he couldn’t hide, couldn’t struggle, couldn’t keep away from the drums and the strings pulling him out again to another day full of false confessions and pain. Never ending pain and the triumphant grin in the face of his tormentors. They had driven him far enough to welcome his hanging with open arms and he remembered himself smiling when he was heaved on the hanging cart, smiling at the men that would finally release him and laughter filled his head as they tightened the rope around his neck, reassuring him that his agony had come to an end and the drumbeat would finally cease forever…

 

Here they were again, coming back to him like a long-lasting promise: the drumbeat filled his ears again, the rhythm of his own heart swelling in his ears, making his head throb and pulse as he stared into those pitiless eyes facing him and the Ogier who had saved his life before only to end up in this. Something inside Damian started to laugh at the irony of chance and the pointlessness of life. How much better would it have been if Dana had simply killed him, yet fate hadn’t chosen to treat him that kindly.

 

Eyeing the points of the spears cornering them, only inches apart from finishing them off entirely made the coward inside him crumble and weep in despair and helplessness. He had always been a coward, always run away, always been too weak to hold on, so why should he keep up this pointless life. The Children were right and Forge had been wasting himself on him. Damian snarled in disgust about himself. How could he be standing here and let this happen again, even worse drag someone else into this business from which he knew, no way of escape existed. Why did he still try after all? What was the point of it?

 

Suddenly the drums went louder and louder inside his head and everything seemed to spin around him. He saw himself chained in the same dark cell he had been occupying for countless years, weeping and helpless. He saw Dana standing over him, a disdainful smile curling on her lips, disgust plainly visible in her eyes that looked at him coldly, observing him like a bug lying on its back ready to be crushed. He wouldn’t get up again. The realization struck him like so many times before. Today was the day when it simply would end, when the drums would fade away with the pain, never to return.

 

He suddenly knew what he had to do and maybe Forge would have a chance if he acted quick enough. I’m sorry, his eyes said as he cast an apologetic glance at the Ogier who was as cornered as he was. “I’m sorry”, he whispered between swollen vocal cords, making himself shout “RUN!” and a smiled lit up his face as he made his tired legs break into a run, crashing against the Child of the Light in front of him, paying no heed to the pain of the spearhead that penetrated him. Run…he thought as something hard struck the back of his head and the breath was knocked out of him as his unconscious form hit the ground. His smile widened before everything faded away. The drums had stopped.

 

~Damian

Running from the Drums

Forge saw the look in Damian’s eyes and knew the human was going to do something rash and hasty. The whispered, “I’m sorry,” was merely confirmation.

 

Damian flung himself at the nearest Whitecloak before Forge could grab him, but the Ogier smacked him over the head before the lance pierced him deeply. Catching the unconscious human as he crumpled to the ground, Forge held up his other hand in a gesture of surrender.

 

“Hold!” he said boldly to the encircling soldiers, his deep bass voice carrying easily over the sound of prancing horses and creaking saddles. “There’s no need for more violence. We will go with you peacefully.”

 

He counted ten Whitecloaks all together, which didn’t worry him. The zealous, almost fanatical, light in their eyes did, though. If they weren’t rational, many lives’ blood would water the grass here today, including one Ogier’s he was certain. The strangely feral look from the Questioner he had bound and left alive convinced him that there would be no compassion found here. The man looked at him as if he were a beast of the Shadow, despite the fact that Forge had went out of his way to spare his life or even injury. Some humans just never learned.

 

Standing to his full height, Forge cradled Damian like a father would an injured child. He turned to what he took to be the commander of the patrol and said, “We will go with you peacefully. If your men obey your laws, there won’t be any trouble. Of course if they did that, then none of us would be in this mess.”

 

At first, Forge thought the commander would try and ride him down, the anger blazing in her eyes certainly indicated his words were not taken kindly. But the leader composed herself before speaking.

 

Perhaps we will see justice down, after all, thought Forge before she spoke. If so, I have nothing to worry about.

"Silence." Ezekiel's voice echoed through the forest. The command was directed to both the creature and Lolaria. He didn't care how much that would infuriate the woman. She might have been in charge when it came to recovering the fugitives but she was not in charge of bringing them to justice. That was his turf. Shooting her a warning glance, Ezekiel moved his eyes back to the fugitives.

 

"You will come peacefully if you value your life, Shadowspawn. Not that it matters in the long run. You're just prolonging the inevitable. Which is exactly what your little rescue mission achieved. Look at him." Ezekiel shifted his eyes to Damian. "Is that a worthy cause? Is that a saint trapped in a murderers' den? And what are you? Some kind of hero? This is not the grand arena and we are not killers. He will pay for what he did. And so will you."

 

Getting up on his horse, Ezekiel signaled the men to secure the creature with ropes. He could see Lolaria from the corner of eye fuming, which only increased his amusement. "We go back to the village to finish what we started." Shifting his eyes to the shadowspawn, he gave him a long hard look. "Hopefully without interruptions this time. We leave at once." Moving his horse forward, Ezekiel took the lead, avoiding any kind of eye contact with Lolaria. As much as he enjoyed getting on her nerves, he did not desire any confrontation with her. At least not until the job was done.

 

Looking back from time to time, Ezekiel made sure that the creature was secured. His hands were bound behind his back as his feet, though they were tied a bit loosely so he'd be able to walk, but not run. Damian was carried on one of the horses, a lifeless sack of dirt. No bounds were necessary with him. He could hardly carry his weight, let alone run away. It was just the shadowspawn that they had to worry about. He was Ezekiel's main concern.

 

Looking at the setting sun, Ezekiel sighed. It would take a few days to get back to the village and he felt that every moment that passed was an opportunity for the Darkfriends to escape. He couldn't allow that. He couldn't fail a second time. not without feeling that he had failed himself and most importantly, the cause.

 

 

 

Ezekiel

Questioner

The giant Ogier trudged along silently in the midst of the heavily armored soldiers that surrounded him. His hands and feet were bound by heavy ropes, but they weren’t what was keeping him hostage. He could easily have broken free of those bonds, but the unconscious man on the horse in front of him was going nowhere in his current state.

 

And honestly, I am tired of carrying the lazy, Light-cursed fool, Forge thought to himself, the amusement in his mind a stark contrast to the imminent danger his current situation presented him. I don’t think I could survive the fight with all these Children of Light, either, not without killing them anyway… and I’d hate to do that unless they forced my hand. And it wouldn’t be easy with my axes strapped to the back of a horse instead of in my hands.

 

With the thought, he flexed the hands tied behind his back to keep the blood flowing to them. The heavily callused pair were as big as large hams, and strong enough to crush granite and bend steel, but the tightly knotted hemp were annoyingly cutting off the circulation. The mammoth arms rippling visibly with muscle despite the coat he wore defied the captivity that the pitiful cords that wrapped him assumed, but his mind was what truly restrained his strength. Now was not the time to be hasty. No, it is best to wait, he thought sagely, the voice in his head sounding eerily similar to his old master blacksmith. He could almost see his master Stonemason standing behind nodding agreement.

 

Ogier can be patient, and that is what I must do, added the voice. Then he began ticking off the points in order to make a plan and keep his hopes up. After all, death could be waiting just over the next rise in the road. These Whitecloaks were capable soldiers, and a foot or two of steel run through his chest would definitely ruin his day, as well as prevent him from having any other days to make up for it in the future. We have several days before we reach our destination. An opportunity will present itself to both escape and save the unfortunate human. I must be ready, but until then, I will remain quiet.

 

Speaking up had done nothing but earn him a spear butt to the stomach when he had corrected the Questioner for labeling him as a Shadowspawn. Apparently, the fool was too stupid to know the difference between an Ogier and a Trolloc, and the patrol of Whitecloaks was lock-stepping right in line with the vile little man’s wishes.

 

Tonight, we will see what sort of precautions they take… who knows what may happen? But the time will come, and I will be ready. The determination was rock solid in his mind, and the vow to himself was as unbreakable as good steel. The time would come, and he wouldn’t mind if he could smash the little Questioner in the process… the man had shown nothing but brazen contempt for Forge’s compassionate sparing of his life. If that is how he wants to play the game, then that is how it will be played. But be careful where you go, little man. Or else a mountain will fall on your head.

 

The Whitecloaks nearest him gave each other strange looks when the smile spread across his face.