Fanfic:Little Miss Sunshine
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The battle had ended, but Fiona kept on. As long as she kept moving she didn't have to think about anything but what was immediately in front of her. She helped move bodies and cleared rubble; scrubbed cobblestones, marble, and glass clean of filth; chopped vegetables and meat; bound wounds and soothed the injured; and carried messages. Occasionally someone would realize how long she had been working and order her off to rest. When that happened she would drift to the next place that needed assistance, trusting chaos to keep over-busy minds from checking in on her again.
She tripped over a rock sometime in the darkest hours before dawn that night, sprawling forward and laying there in confusion for several long breaths. When she pushed herself up she realized gravel had torn the skin on the back of her hands, and the small indignity was just too much to bear after so much doubt and fear. She buried her face against her knees and struggled to control the veritable tsunami of tears that wanted to burst out of her.
Abruptly a heavy hand curled around her shoulder and hauled her up. She squawked and fought in panicked indignation, but to no avail. A breath later she stilled enough to realize Ferran Gaidin looked down at her with uncustomary concern. She prayed her red-rimmed eyes were less evident in the faint light of the moon. "You're running the ragged edge and no mistake," he told her. "It's long past time for you to rest, girl." Leaving her burden where it lay on the ground, he turned her about and marched her to the barracks, paying no heed to her disjointed objections.
"You won't come out until you sleep," he told her. "Burn my soul, but you're a stubborn one." To her annoyance he locked her in her room with a muttered oath she could barely hear through the door. It wasn't until his footsteps had faded that Fiona realized he had not worn the Master of Training's pin.
She had been out of doors for so long that the small chamber felt like it would collapse in on her and crush her. The sense of vertigo increased beyond bearing when she thought about the events of days prior, but she could not stop her mind from going there. She found some distraction in straightening her belongings, but once that was done she began to pace, resisting the urge to kick her door like an angry child. Finally she found a seat near her window and stared outside until the sky to the east had brightened from deep black to pale orange. Then, finally comforted by that sign of hope, she fell asleep with her cheek pillowed on her forearm.
There was no shortage of work in the days that followed, though it gradually became less gruesome. She made a point of choosing chores that took her far from the Yards, and she left her bow in her room. Every time she looked at that length of polished wood she thought of the Seanchan. It turned her stomach, and there were better things to do with her time than be ill.
She tried to visit Zeen. Asha'man Jhanic told her that Zarius Iiro was not feeling well; perhaps she should check back at a later time. The third time she approached the Aielman and was rebuffed she got the message. Perplexed and a little hurt, she closed her mouth and went back to her work. She would try again some other time, when -perhaps- tension was not so high.
Rebuilding what had been destroyed began in earnest, but regular classes had not been reinstated. She went out with the building crews at every opportunity, ignoring the workers' rude and occasionally ribald comments about her appearance as she helped reconstruct homes throughout the city. To them she was simply Yona, a blonde girl in gray who kept them smiling; she liked it that way, and did nothing to dissuade their perception.
One warm day she looked up from stacking short lengths of squared wood against a partially built stone wall to find a red haired man in a fancloth cloak standing nearby, the expression on his face unreadable. She wiped her sweaty face on her forearm then bowed uncertainly. "To what do I owe the honor, Ravak Gaidin?" She asked.
"You are needed at the Tower Fiona," he said, straightening and letting his hands fall to his sides. So you came to get me yourself? She thought skeptically, but she simply nodded and followed him in silence as he walked away.
The young Trakand usually enjoyed riding, but this was not one of those times. The length of cloth over her eyes had not shifted since Malina's no-nonsense fingers had tied it there some hours before and the mount they had chosen for her moved with such a jarring gait that she thought she might actually have a bruise on her bottom from repeated impact with the saddle. Leaning forward dangerously unbalanced her, but she could ease the bouncing for short periods of time by pressing her weight against the pommel at a distinctly awkward angle. To add insult to rapidly growing injury, the temperature had risen steadily throughout the afternoon until she thought she might actually drown in her own sweat.
Despite her discomfort she kept her mouth shut. Before she had agreed to get on that wretched pony, Ravak had given her a speech about the test she had been prescribed. The man's voice had been something akin to kind as he explained what lay ahead, and the unexpected warmth had done little to alleviate Fiona's overpowering confusion. They were still finding corpses in the ruins of Hama Valon and the Warder Council had deemed it time for "Lady Trakand" to be dumped in the mountains by herself for a week? She could not imagine anything she wanted to do less than wander around in those hills without company, and yet somehow she had agreed to go.
The group pulled up and for a few blessed moments she could move freely, shake the kinks from her shoulders, pull her damp shirt up from where it stuck to her back, and drink greedily of the water her escort provided. Then hands spun her in several quick circles before helping her back up onto the pony and they were off. They stopped twice more before they rested for the night, each time spinning her until her stomach heaved.
When at last the Master of Training lifted her from the pony her legs refused to support her weight and she fell. "I thought you rode a lot at home," Ravak said. His tone was teasing, but she felt him crouch next to her. What is this? She had grown used to his frustration with her "antics" as Ferran had put it once; to have him express concern for her wellbeing confused her beyond all understanding.
She rubbed at her thighs in stubborn silence for a moment before turning her face toward where his voice had been. "I did- but not blindfolded." She touched the cloth around her face. "Jolt is incapable of picking her own way, and I can't see what's coming to direct her." A hoot of female laughter greeted that statement as Malina inquired about the pony's name. Fiona sighed, turning her attention back to massaging the tension from her legs. "You try riding her for a day- I imagine your name for her would be significantly less complimentary."
They left alone then, and didn't return until the evening meal was prepared. Eventually she swallowed her pride enough to ask for a more comfortable place to sit. One of the Gaidin she did not know helped her to a spot against a tree, and she leaned against the bole, grateful to rest. When the time came she ate her meal without much enthusiasm then relaxed again, anxious for sleep.
Garish nightmares raced through her mind against the dark backdrop of the blindfold she wore. She tried to breath quietly and remain still, but tears of anger and grief still escaped despite her best efforts. When a hand unexpectedly touched her shoulder in the chilly pre-dawn she actually cried out, yanking away reflexively. "Light, woman, I'm not going to hurt you," Malina's voice said quietly. "I could hear you crying. Are you sure you're ready for this?"
"It's a bit late now, isn't it?" Fiona snapped, incapable of keeping her tone regulated. Her heart seemed intent on pounding out of her chest. "If I go back now, I lose my chance. Everything my cousins ever said about me would be proven true. I refuse to give up because I had a bad dream." Scorn dripped from her tongue as she spoke, but her hands trembled. It was more than a bad dream; the things that haunted her had actually happened.
"The small ones are always stubborn," Malina said, amusement tinging her voice as her fingers squeezed the Andoran's shoulder. "I will ride near you tomorrow if you need to talk. Breathe easy for now, Drin'far'ji- you are safe with us."
Fiona did not take Malina up on her offer to chat. The Saldaean woman did not seem the sort to have much patience for girlish fancies, and if she laughed at Fiona's fears the way she had laughed at Jolt, the young woman thought she might actually slap her. They rode in silence through the morning, occasionally stopping so the Warders could perform their disorientation ritual. The Andoran thought it a pointless gesture, but knew better than to say anything.
Finally after the midday meal one of them spun her a final time, and Ravak -she assumed it was Ravak- pushed a bag into her hands. "Remember, don't take off the blind yet," one of the strange Gaidin commented. Fiona sat where directed and clasped her hands over her knees as she listened to them ready for departure. How much work could it possibly take?She realized abruptly that she could really only hear one person moving about, and then that person crept away as quiet as a shadow.
The young noblewoman sat without moving for so long that her legs cramped and she felt unpleasant tingles working their way up the backs of her legs. When she finally did shift it was simply to drop the bag and slump to the side, curling in on herself as she hit the ground. She drew her knees up to her chest and pressed her fist against her mouth to muffle the sobs that erupted from some place deep within her, her other hand rising as if to guard her face. She cried until her head and chest throbbed, and still she could not control the grief that shook her body. Eventually her sobs began to lessen, and exhaustion crept in. The sleep that had eluded her the night before claimed her.
Unpleasant heat roused her some time later. She turned on her back with a groan, her hand automatically rising to the cloth that still covered her eyes. Slender fingers tugged until the cloth came loose and then she blinked rapidly, blinded by the sun that shone directly down on her face from above. "How long did I sleep?" she muttered, rolling over and pushing herself upright. There were leaves and dirt in her hair; it fell into her face as she rose and she sneezed loudly. For some reason that struck her as hilarious, and the salt residue of dried tears cracked as she began to laugh.
She scooted herself to the side to reach for the bag she had been given. What oddities did the Tower believe their Drin'far'ji needed to survive for a week? Not much, it seemed; half a water skin and a small amount of trail bread were all that greeted her seeking fingers. The bag itself was decently thick leather, and she contemplated it thoughtfully for a long moment. Then she pushed herself to her feet, one hand holding the bag and the other feeling over her person. They had taken her sewing kit, and with it her extra bowstring; the only other tool she had was her belt knife. "Unfortunate," she muttered, "but not completely impossible."
It had been almost two years since Fiona had had to use the skills that Loran Sarand had taught her as an eager youngster, but her father's lessons still leapt to her bidding as she considered her options. She would need water, a safe place to sleep, a fire, and food, probably in that order. She knew she wouldn't die if she didn't make a fire or find food, but she didn't fancy how unpleasant the last days of her journey would be if she failed to find the latter...and fire would- would- it would help. She told herself that firmly, and then refused to think about it any further.
The sun had already begun to dip toward the west. She would need to move quickly. With a sigh she tucked blindfold and bag into her belt and walked away from the clearing, listening intently for any sound of water.
Many of the smaller creeks had dried up in the high summer heat, but she could see where they might flow in the cooler parts of the year. She followed one of them aimlessly, head filled with thoughts that had nothing to do with her current predicament. Such it was that she nearly fell into a narrow stream hidden by roots and moss. She followed it for a time until she found a spot where it ran clear and clean of debris. She filled the skin with care, then sat near the stream to rest for a little while before searching for a place to sleep.
She didn't want to admit it, even to herself, but her loneliness contributed to her unwillingness to settle. Once she became aware of it the sensation baffled her. She could practice by herself in the Yards and sew or write by the hour in the privacy of her quarters. Even on the Trakand estate she had spent entire afternoons sprawled out beneath a tree reading with nary a care. Why did it bother her to be alone now?
The young woman bent to pluck a yellow flower and rolled it between her fingers, staring at the pattern made by spinning petals. "Because other than when the Seanchan attacked I've never actually been alone before," she told herself finally, and tossed the flower aside. Her voice felt flat and empty; she sighed, scrubbing at her face. Solitude was not the same as being truly alone. She had chosen to spend time on her own at the Tower, and had the option of seeking companionship at any time. Here…the only partner she had was silence, and the lack of sound was….deafening.
Pressing her hands over her eyes, the Trakand spun in slow circles, trying her hardest to calm the fear and grief that had risen in her chest even as she listened intently for something -anything- to break the monotony. Abruptly she stopped, frowning against her palms. Above the normal sound of the wind and rustling plants she could hear…..dice. Spinning, rolling, clinking together as they had in the tavern in Hama Valon before the Dark One unleashed his fury on the city. They tumbled endlessly as if her very skull had become a dice cup, and she need only bend over to spill them out. She resisted doing just that by the thinnest of margins. Instead she simply took a step.
Somewhere between her fifth and tenth steps she let her hands fall from her eyes and continued to move forward in the direction chance had chosen for her. Although she ducked and wove around obstacles she kept the same general course until she nearly gave up. Just as she had decided it was time to go back to the rock she had seen earlier, she pushed her way through a veil of brambles and found herself facing.a wall at least three times as tall as she.
Blond hair swung as Fiona tilted her head, staring at the wall in perplexed surprise. She knew there were ruins in the Mountains of Mist, but it hadn't occurred to her they might be near enough to the Tower that she would see them. The structure she faced seemed quite large, and certainly more than a simple house. A manor, perhaps? The wall itself seemed to be made of fine stone, the kind used to build the royal palace in Caemlyn. Had there been a city where she stood? She thought back, but could remember nothing from Synthia's lessons. Her curiosity took over where her history books failed her, and she began to explore.
An hour later Fiona sat in a small room within the ruins of whatever structure had once stood there. It had no roof; if it rained, she would be miserable. The clear sky seemed to bode well in that regard, however, and more importantly she had three solid walls to protect her. She had done her best to erase signs of her passage before she blocked the door frame with a collection of large stones. Her only likely companions that night were spiders and mice, and she had no fear of either. She settled back and ate a very small piece of her rations, trying to ignore the growling in her stomach. She would have time to find food in the morning.
Even with walls surrounding her Fiona could not settle. When she finally did drift off, memory assaulted her. "It can't be that hard to find an army, can it?" Her own optimistic voice rang clear in the smoke and ash filled air, and she cringed away. "I die free...and you just die." The last words of a dead man...the bow vibrated against her palm, the arrow hummed as it cut through the air. Morgan's cry reverberated in her mind and the blistering heat of Power-wrought fire pushed against her face as the place he had stood went up in flames. Light, no!
Zeen's fingers around a pale neck, the M'Hael staring blankly into space next to ash and dust, the slippery cool of silver chains in her hands. "I am sorry," the giant told her on his knees. His eyes knew her, looking at her as one might greet an old friend. Why, she wanted to ask him, but the words would not come. Why do you look at me like that? "It is a gruesome task," Jaryd said, his bruised lips cracking as he spoke, a disfigured finger pointing at something she did not want to see. Shadowy figures and horrible feelings chased her from dream to dream until at last she sat up and simply stared into darkness.
As the first light crept into her hideaway Fiona finally allowed herself to stir. Her body ached and her eyes burned, but she could not stand to remain still one moment longer. She reached for the bag that held her food with a hand that tingled and stung from tension. She tucked the remaining rations inside her shirt, set the water skin against the wall, and began to examine how the leather had been joined.
After a few minutes she pulled out her belt knife and pushed the point beneath one of the stitches at one of the upper corners. She worked carefully to loosen the stitches that held the two pieces of leather together; whoever made the bag had done an excellent job, and it took some effort to prise the end of the cord free from the leather. More time passed as she focused on the stitching; it surprised her to realize she was actually enjoying the work. When she had a decent length of cord free, she tugged on it sharply, throwing her full weight into the effort. It cut into her fingers and palms, but did not so much as stretch. "My thanks to the maker of this satchel," she told the air around her, then set herself to unraveling the stitching on the entire bag. She ate a small amount of her rations as she worked, and drank most of her remaining water. After some time spent over the bag she salvaged just enough cord to make three snares, if she could find places to set them.
Once done she dismantled the wall of rocks she had created and ducked out to begin her day. She trudged back to the stream to refill her water skin first. On her way back to her shelter she watched for signs of small game. That at least was a familiar process, and she could almost hear her father's voice directing her as she scanned the brush. She set her snares in three likely choke points, but it was particularly rudimentary construction, and she worried about their effectiveness. She wouldn't know until the following day if they worked, and by then her rations would be exhausted even if she went hungry.
She wandered for a while after, moving slowly to conserve her energy. The heat beat down on her, sweat trickled down her spine, and more than once she wished she had a hat. Some time after she set out she came across a hedge of dark, many-globed berries the size of her thumb. She had never seen such before, but they resembled raspberries in all but color and when she finally dared taste one they were delicious. She ate them until her stomach protested and her fingers were stained dark purple from the juice, then lay on the ground nearby and let her mind drift. What else did she have to do, really?
Eventually she picked her way back to her campsite, humming softly and picking up various bits of wood along the way. In addition to tinder and kindling she needed a particularly straight stick, a curved stick, a flat piece of softer wood, and a smaller bit that fit in her palm. She found a variety that might do, and once back in her shelter she began the time-consuming task of fashioning a firebow with her belt knife. She pulled the lace from the front of her shirt to use as the string, hoping silently that it would not come to harm. Once the pieces were constructed she set it aside. Until she had something to cook an actual fire would be a waste of physical effort that she could not afford.
Faced with another dark, quiet evening with nothing to distract her from her thoughts, Fiona crawled back into her haven. She rebuilt her wall and curled up in a corner, arms wrapped around her knees. She enjoyed boredom about as much as she enjoyed being alone, and the evening dragged on for what felt like eternity. Her stomach finally drove her to distraction; she ate the rest of her travel bread and prayed that she would have food in the morning. Rather than allow her memories to run rampant once she was done, she practiced breathing the way she had on the battlefield. Anything to keep herself busy.
She slept.
Her angry stomach woke her before the sun again, but at least this time she had slept soundly. As she stretched her hand brushed across her hair. She made a face, touching the matted curls with something akin to disgust. It would take hours to pull the knots and dirt out of that mess. It was hot and itchy, it kept getting in the way...she reached for her knife. The curls were the last remnant of a life she had left behind for good; did she really need them? Her fingers found the soft cloth of the blindfold instead of her blade and she paused. Her mother had loved her curls, and although she did not want the life Lady Madene had planned for her, she still loved her mother. Was it so bad to carry a mark of that love with her? After another moment of hesitation she wrapped the dark cloth about her head to contain the mess, tying the ends at the back of her neck with quick fingers.
She made quick work of moving the rocks out of the doorway, and headed out in the pearly-pale light of dawn, her feet -and growling stomach- taking her unerringly to the snares she had set. One held a rabbit. The others had been knocked apart by something passing nearby, but the cords were undamaged. She reset the first and moved the others to better locations, then went back to her camp.
Rabbits were easy to prepare so she took care of that first, then set about the business of making a fire with the bow she had created the day before. It took more time than she cared to admit -her father would have been horrified- but eventually she found herself coaxing the smallest of embers to life in the bed of shredded bark she had created for it. She fed it carefully, and when at last it crackled merrily, she settled next to it with a satisfied smile.
Hunger drove her to attempt to cook the meat long before she should have. The fire burned hot, and the outer layer of meat had nearly charred. She didn't care. Burnt, unseasoned, and stringy, that rabbit tasted better than any confection she had ever eaten as a child of a noble house. As she picked the last bit of meat off its bones she found herself wondering how many other Drin'far'ji had had similar thoughts as they ate their first meal in the wild. How many truly struggled to survive? Surely the Tower wouldn't simply toss a person out into the wilderness without some inkling of their ability to care for themselves?
She waited for the fire to die down a bit, then banked the coals and fetched her water skin. She would get more water, visit that patch of berries, and gather more firewood before checking her snares again.
Between the berry patch, other edible plants she found, and the success of her snares, Fiona lacked for nothing in terms of sustenance. She made a point of saving some of the meat, hacking it into rough strips and setting it out to dry in the summer sun. It couldn't properly cure in the time she had, but it was better than nothing. Hopefully it wouldn't make her sick.
She lived well during her stay in the ruins, and found herself fighting the stray idea of simply staying there. Would they send someone after her if she did not return? However, on the fifth day of her exile she woke to the sound of dice rolling in her head. She gathered her few belongings, checked her snares, and started walking. She paid little heed to direction or destination; she had a day or two before she needed to start back for the Tower, and the urge to see something new was overwhelming.
Her memories echoed in her head as she walked, and she found herself wondering whether being Gaidin would be anything like the battle she had just lived through. She had gone to the Tower in hopes of becoming Aes Sedai, and had been wholly unprepared for the disappointment that still cut at her when she thought of Mirin Sedai's voice telling her she could not learn. She had decided to train in the Yards so she could do something meaningful with her life, but...was she ready to take on that responsibility? Could she really spend the rest of her life defending another human being?
Her treacherous mind threw up an image of Zeen's face as he knelt in front of her outside the Tower walls. She had abandoned the Tower, safety, and sanity to go after him, and they didn't even know one another. The danger she had put her friends in filled her with guilt, the unexpected consequences of her decision haunted her, and yet if it happened again, she knew she would make the same decisions without hesitation. I could spend the rest of my life protecting him. Her cheeks flushed hot as she realized what she was thinking. It was a foolish girl's fancy, no more. The look he had given her aside, the Amadician didn't even know who she was. Zeen would find someone more worthwhile -Natlya perhaps, or Malina- and she would fade entirely.
"The likelihood of anyone at all wanting to bond a soft-brained noblewoman is non-existent," she told herself sternly as she ducked beneath the low-hanging branches of a cedar tree. "I will become Gaidin and I will serve the Tower. There are many who do such; there is no shame in that life." Something in her gut felt very akin to the way she had felt after Mirin had denied her, however, and she soon forced herself to think of other things.
Her feet carried her along a wild trail that took her to a steep, rocky slope, with an outcrop of stone at the top that looked as if it might be flat. It was not quite a cliff, but it would take some effort to navigate. The view from the top would be spectacular; suddenly beset with a mad desire to see it, she checked her belongings and began to look for a way up. Deer and other animals clearly traveled that way regularly; she soon realized that the path she had followed to get there continued up the rock face, switching back frequently.
Although the path itself was fairly clear, it was not meant for humans. Fiona had to pick her way with care, occasionally scrambling up rocks nearly as tall as she to reach the next ledge to rest on. It took her far longer than she expected in the summer heat, and she found herself questioning the urge that had driven her to climb. She dared not look back; although height did not typically concern her, she didn't want to think about how far she might fall if she slipped. When she finally reached her destination, she paused for a moment to catch her breath. She swung her arms back and forth, stomped her feet, and took a few deep breaths before turning to face the valley.
Lake Somal spread out below her like a glittering blue jewel, disappearing into mist long before it reached the shadowy shapes of distant mountains to her right. Fields and forest were interspersed in the space between the lake and where she stood, but that was not what drew her attention initially. A slight hill rose to one side of the lake, a tall spire rising from its top that caught the sun and shone like a beacon. The Tower! Excitement gripped her, and she glanced up and back at the sun, which had already begun its rapid descent toward the mountain peaks behind her. If I can keep myself oriented to that, I can get home.
She started to dance, stopped, then shrugged and let herself go. Just seeing the Tower felt like healing balm, and it wasn't as if anyone were watching her. As she danced with glee, her gaze dropped back to the scene before her, tracing possible paths through the landscape she could see. Trees blocked much of the nearest terrain, but beyond that she could see wide meadow, groves of trees, and the clear mark of streams. All was as it should be from that distance, as if the Seanchan had never been there at all, except- she frowned. A ways away, so far she could not quite discern what she was looking at, an odd mass of white and gray sprawled over a wide meadow.
The rattling in her head stopped dead.
Fiona automatically crouched, craning her neck for signs of danger as she scrambled back beneath the sheltering limbs of the trees that grew just beyond the stony outcrop. Twice since coming to the Tower she had felt her luck die. The first had preceded a bar fight; the second, Morgan's death. She did not like to think of what manner of disaster might befall her on a mountainside far from help, and thus she waited, and watched, and worried. Time passed slowly, each labored breath taking an eternity as she scanned sky and soil. Nothing happened.
The shadows had shifted by at least two fingers before she dared to move. Perplexed and wary, she crept to the edge of the rock and peered down. Nothing. She could hear birds in the distance and the wind in the trees, but otherwise nothing immediately alarming. As far as she could tell she was completely alone. "What in the Light?" She muttered, gnawing on her lip.
She sat up to look around, and realized that the only way toward the Tower was to climb back down the rock she had just scaled. She could either stay where she was or be exposed and incapable of defending herself for an indefinite amount of time. "Bloody ashes!" Fiona Trakand did not swear; the words felt odd rolling off her tongue, and did nothing to alleviate her unease. She glanced up at the sun nervously. It would fall behind the mountain soon, and she needed to be somewhere safe before it did. "I can't stay here," she told herself finally. "I may as well get it over with."
The climb down was infinitely worse than the climb up. She could walk for some of it, but at the switchbacks where sure-footed animals simply leapt down she had to lower herself feet first and pray she found a safe resting spot. The tension that wracked her body did not help; her fingers shook, her legs felt stiff, and all the strength of her archery practice seemed to have leeched from her arms. Still nothing happened.
When at last she dropped from the first ledge to the steep, but stable, ground at the base of the tumble of stone, her knees sagged with relief and she let herself relax face-first against the rock as she muttered disjointed thanks. Once her breath had settled, she readjusted the cloth that held her hair away from her face and checked the various items she had tucked into her pockets and shirt. Then she turned to pick her way down the last few feet of rocky slope to the narrow path that would take her to safety.
Almost as soon as she turned her foot caught on an invisible protrusion and her body lurched forward. If time had moved slowly atop the rocks, now it came to a complete halt. She saw the ground approaching, felt her arms windmilling desperately, felt a moment of hope when she almost caught her balance, and then her other foot slid out from beneath her. She twisted in mid-air, desperate to save her face from inevitable impact…..and time caught up with itself in a chaotic jumble of sound, color and movement as she tumbled head over bottom down the hill.
She fought to regain control and right herself, but she did not so much as slow. She felt more than heard a crack as her foot connected with something hard, ripples of pain spreading rapidly to pulse through her entire body. Finally a slender tree trunk broke her fall. All the breath escaped her at once and she stared up at the sky in a daze. There were stars floating in that endless expanse. They drifted oddly; something was not right there. She wanted to count them, or look for the moon, but her foot hurt too much for her to concentrate on the effort.
Eventually she tried to sit up. The world tipped precariously sideways for a moment before swaying back the opposite direction, and she nearly fell again. Once upright with her back against the tree she was able to think more clearly. The stars faded, the world stopped spinning, and she was able to take inventory of the damage done. She had managed to protect her face from the worst of the fall, but the rest of her body would bear the marks of her fall for days, if not weeks, to come.
The worst of it, and the most worrisome, was the sharp pain that radiated from her ankle every time she so much as shifted her foot. After much silent cajoling she managed to convince her hands to explore the damage. She found no immediate signs of a break, but when she pulled her breeches up and carefully removed her boot, she found a large purple contusion had already started to form just below the knot on the side of her ankle. It needed to be wrapped tightly with a poultice of arnica and willow bark, and she had none of the things necessary to do that.
"If you don't take care with your lessons, you'll end up in a sorry way, Fiona," she muttered in a fair mockery of an Andoran country brogue as she stared at the injury. Her tone became wistful, then. "Oh Synthia, if you could see me now." Her aging governess would likely have spontaneously given birth to a litter of kittens at the very thought of her lady in such a state….and then she would have hustled and bustled to make sure she was comfortable and well taken care of. To Fiona's surprise, she realized she didn't miss the fussing so much as knowing she would feel better soon.
Her thoughts shifted to the five days of walking she had ahead of her, and she felt despair begin to eat at her. How in the Light am I going to get back to the Tower if I cannot walk?
Although she had hoped to arrive in Hama Valon with her clothing intact, the pressing need to walk soon proved stronger than Fiona's vanity. She cut her breeches off at the knee with her knife, ripped the resulting cloth into strips, and firmly bound her damaged foot and ankle. They had swollen to the point she couldn't have put it in her boot even if it weren't wrapped, so she tugged the lace out of the shoe and discarded the rest. Then she forced herself to stand.
She didn't know if the dice had gone silent in preparation for her fall or if they had warned her away from something even more dangerous, but she wanted to be far away from that rock face just in case. Every step she took threatened to be her last as she stumbled from tree to tree, and yet she knew she could not stop. Would the Tower send someone after her if she didn't return? Unlike her musings in days prior, this time her curiosity was tinged with fear.
Some time into her awkward lurching walk she found a length of wood a little narrower than her wrist and a little taller than she was. It was not perfect, but with its aid she was able to move a little faster. The deepening shadows of the evening set in in earnest and her stomach growled angrily as she searched for a safe place to sleep.
Eventually she simply collapsed, crawling the last few feet to huddle at the base of a large tree. Once there she ate and drank greedily, twisted so her back was on the ground and her foot was propped up on the tree, and closed her eyes. It wouldn't have mattered if an entire host of Shadowspawn were after her; she slept.
Fiona had had a series of "worst days of her life" in the last month, each worse than the last. While the emotional upset of her trip over the Seanchan battlefield would likely haunt her for years to come, nothing at all could have prepared her for the physical distress she endured over the next few days. The pain did not lessen, and the swelling grew worse; the bruise spread to cover most of her foot and even crept up her calf. She soaked her leg in a stream until it went numb with the cold and she slept with it propped up as best she could, but nothing could undo the damage done by hours of walking.
She remembered to set snares the second night, but found them untouched the next morning. Hunger and pain drove her to distraction that day; when she found a game trail that seemed to go in the appropriate direction and then found that it led to a dead end of brambles and dead brush, she burst into tears, sat down, and did not move for several hours. Eventually she forced herself out to find appropriate places for her traps.
The next morning she woke to an odd sound. She cracked an eye, and found herself face to face with a creature roughly the size of her two fists put together. It looked furry, but when she examined it more closely she realized it was covered in hundreds of sharp spines. It was rooting about in the dirt near her head with its pointed nose, and she watched it in bemused silence for several minutes before deciding she wanted to touch it. As soon as she shifted, however, the odd animal turned on itself and scurried away faster than she had believed possible.
She found a fox in her snare once she finally dragged herself upright. The creature was small and scrawny and it took an inordinate amount of painful effort to start a fire, but the simple comfort of having warmth made the tasteless meal well worth the effort and the delay. After she ate she attempted to fashion a crutch out of the remnants of the food sack and a Y-shaped stick. It took longer than she expected -surely it shouldn't require that much effort to cut leather into strips thin enough to tie?- but eventually she was able to walk with the support of the crude crutch.
By the time the sun had dropped behind the mountains the leather had worn a blister into her left underarm, but she gritted her teeth and ignored it. The crutch lessened the pain of movement, and she was able to move faster; that was what mattered. She only had two days left before everything she had done since arriving in Hama Valon would be rendered moot. That could not be allowed to happen.
The snare yielded a rabbit the next morning, but she dared not stop to cook it until she knew how much further she had to go. She did, however, take the time to divest herself of the small amount of dried meat she had left and the scraps of the sack, and tie the carcass to her belt.Then she stumbled on, stopping occasionally to stuff her face with berries and other edible plants she saw.
Shortly after midday, with the sun pounding down and her entire existence focused on the singular goal of simply putting one foot in front of another, she topped a rise and found herself looking down over the rolling fields and farmland that surrounded the Grey Tower, perfectly framed by the trees she stood among. On undamaged feet she could have reached the Tower in a handful of hours; with her stumbling gait, she thought if she started in the morning, she might make it by sundown.
This close she could see the devastation wreaked by the Seanchan, and her chest ached with fear and grief. Fields that should have been rich with crops were trampled and barren. Farms that should have been bursting with livestock were abandoned and empty. Even without taking into consideration the physical damage to the city, the Tower would have to dip deep into its coffers to feed its people for quite some time.
Her thoughts carried her forward until something else entirely caught her attention. A gnarled tree stood alone in a clearing, its branches heavy with apples. The ground beneath was carpeted with leaves and fallen fruit, and a warm breeze wafted through. All in all it was a pleasant scene- except that there, stuck point-first in the ground, was an arrow. She did not need to get any closer to know that the blue cock feather was mangled, but she lurched toward it anyway, sinking onto her bottom next to the slender piece of wood. As her fingers wrapped around the arrow she had left behind when they infiltrated the Seanchan camp, memory wrapped around her like a vice.
The heat brought her back to reality. She had been lost in her thoughts for quite some time, judging by the sun, and for a moment panic consumed her. To the south, over a small hill and past a thick copse of trees, lay the Seanchan camp she and her friends had found. Was it still there, or had the Tower cleaned it up? She didn't want to know.
She also didn't want to stay where she was, but neither could she force her uncooperative body to take her anywhere else. Eventually she decided that even if there were Seanchan nearby, she didn't have the energy to care. If they came for her, they came for her; she could consider it part-payment for the rash actions that had led to Morgan's death. Something felt not quite right about her thoughts, but since she couldn't pinpoint what it was she shrugged and went about setting up her last camp.
She tucked the arrow into the back of her shirt and set off for the Tower as soon as she woke the next day. She wanted real food, a real bed, and someone to lift the infernal pain from her foot. She wanted to be given the title that she knew she had earned. She wanted to see Paks, Avram, and Muireen, to find Zeen and make sure he was okay, and to talk to Natlya.
To her surprise, she also found she wanted to feel the weight of her bow in her hand again. It had done its job well, and she had discarded it rather than face the horror of what she had done. It occurred to her that if she set aside her bow every time she had to use it, she would never be an effective Warder. It was time to face what she was training to become.
Tripping, stumbling, and mumbling curses that she did not care to understand, Fiona made her way step by slow step toward the gray walls of Hama Valon. Some hours after she set off, she reached an actual road. She eyed it thoughtfully; was she allowed to use roads, or was she expected to ‘rough it' all the way to the walls of the city? The pain in her foot made the decision for her. "The point of this test is to survive, is it not?" she asked the empty air as she stepped into the road and turned her face toward her home. "My chances of survival are greater on the road than off it."
A stretch of space that should have taken two hours took nearly four, and three times she had to talk to concerned farmers who would not accept that she did not want or need assistance. The second one offered food, which after some hesitation she accepted, sitting with him by the side of the road. She deflected conversation about her own experience, and instead listened to him talk about the condition of his land. Soon enough it was time to set off again, and she shook the stranger's hand with a smile.
The sun was still a half-hand above the horizon when she reached the city. She did not want to delay, but Ravak's instructions rang in her ear. Thus she dawdled outside the gate, trying to ignore the pulsing pain in her foot, until she deemed it "close enough." Then she made her way through the city, trying to ignore the eyes she could feel on her as she passed by Tower and town folk alike.
The entire Warder Yards had turned out to greet her, she realized when she passed into the Tower Grounds, and a carpet had been laid out for her to walk on. She stared at the scene in total shock, suddenly painfully aware of her frazzled hair, torn clothing, and the crutch she clung to for dear life. This is not the way I hoped to present myself to the Council! The feeling only grew worse when she became aware of two particular sets of eyes.
One pair she instinctively knew should not be there. A tall man lounged against a wall some distance away, his arms crossed over his chest. She would have thought him completely indifferent if not for the intent way he watched her. She took a deep breath, nodded her head ever so slightly, and glanced away. The tall man's arms fell to his sides and he walked away without looking back. It had to be happenstance.
The other eyes she had expected, although she wasn't certain what she expected from them. Ravak watched her approach with sober gray eyes, and she found herself flushing with both self consciousness and pride as she limped up the path toward him. She came to a stop two spans in front of him, her chin jerking up sharply. "I made it," she said in a challenging tone.
