Fanfic:Zaephra's Three Arches

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Zaephra's Three Arches
Author(s)
  • Mim
Character(s)
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First Arch

Zaephra peered into the arch, noting the coruscating effects of the silvery-white light. The stone chamber was not dim, but next to this unearthly radiance, the light seemed a pale shade. Zaephra could feel an odd warmth emanating from the arch, and she stretched out her hand to touch it, slowly. She could sense impatience rippling through the room, but she did not hurry. It was fine for these women to be impatient...this was not their test.

She frowned at the combined coolness and odd warmth of the giant ter'angreal, then cast a glance back behind herself. It was possible this was all a joke...The faces were resolute, so Zaephra lifted her foot and parted the light with it. The light felt like silk on her bare skin, and she, cognizant of her nudity, stepped completely inside the Arch.

"Zaephra Sedai, why is it that you are teaching us history? We don't need history..." The Novice faces in the seats before her gave her pause. She covered it with serenity and took in the room around her. She knew it...had been in it...it was! It was the Mistress of Novices' office, and she...she was the Mistress of Novices.

Having determined that, she cast a stern glance over her two captives. Half an hour later, they left her office, and she gave a satisfied sigh. They knew now that there was more to being an Aes Sedai than the chasing of probable Warders. She nodded in satisfaction, then sat up straight.

Someone was in the office. Someone who could channel saidar, and in greater amounts than Zaephra herself. Warily, Zaephra turned her head. Silvery light danced in the corner. Her mind tried to interpret it, but her mouth was already open. Her knees hit the fine Tairen carpet with a muted thud.

"Great Mistress," she whispered, her grey-blue eyes gone huge and adoring. Every speck of emotion was genuine, an oddity in Zaephra, who so rarely felt anything. "Great Mistress," she repeated, not lifting her eyes from the runners of roses.

"You are dung," the silvery voice of Mesaana chimed, as the Forsaken took her chair. "But those you teach...tell me, dung, have you any to learn...darker truths?" Mesaana sounded uninterested, but considering the trials the Forsaken had gone into to put Zaephra in her position, Zaephra knew her desire was genuine.

"I have...some," she said, not lifting her eyes. "Not as many as I should, Great Mistress. I am fallible," she whispered, "I am nothing." She abased herself, verbally, while the Forsaken nodded.

"Yes," she said, finally, "but you are what there is. Have you ever thought of pledging at Shayol Ghul, child? You have strength enough to please the Great Lord, and he was most pleased with your...parentage."

Zaephra straightened abruptly, then fell to her face. She had learned well the power of the Forsaken, and she bore scars already. "I would never consider myself pleasing to the Great Lord," she whispered, breathily.

"You could be," the Forsaken said, cupping her chin. Zaephra bore the weight of her head on her neck, baring her throat to the Forsaken's long nails without fear. "All you must do is bring your father back into the Shadow. The Great Lord never intended to see him set free. He belongs to us. You belong to us."

Zaephra shivered, and realized that this, truly, was her greatest desire. She wanted to belong to the Shadow. She did not care that it would entail the loss of the freedom and the self-respect her father had gained for himself, she would see him imprisoned for the chance to join the Shadow. The tiniest position under the Great Lord was worth more than one life. She stared, unblinkingly, adoringly, into the Forsaken's eyes. "I'll do it," she pledged. "Anything you desire."

The Forsaken began to outline her plans, but Zaephra's attention was drawn away, to a flickering, silver light. She recognized it-how could she not? But she'd passed her Arches decades before...

It wavered. She wavered. The Forsaken's voice rose into a shrill shriek. Zaephra rolled away from her foot, eluding her weave. Slicing it, she crawled for the Arch. She fastened her hand around it, then pulled herself in, shivering with terror. The light split her, and she tumbled onto the rough floor tiles.

Second Arch

"The battle keeps raging on," the man at her side said. "See how they have managed to encircle us?" She recognized the man with a startled sound. Her mother's warder. From the look of him, he had been through much. His eyes were bloodshot and his cloak was ripped. He had blood on his skin. She blinked again, trying to understand.

"Around us? But if they're around us," she said, slowly, facts flooding into her mind, "if they're around us, we'll never make it to the Blight. We must be in the blight to fend off the counterstroke," she argued, pedantically.

"We are cutting the way for you," Sylantry said, apologetically, his large hand covering hers. With a start, she realized that this man was her lover, and that he was...tired. Her warder. If he were her warder, that meant her mother was dead. Somehow, she knew that Annaudra had managed, even in death, to arrange her life to suit her. It felt strange to realize that. She bent close, kissing him.

"Zaephra, not here," he whispered, but he didn't stop her. She let him carry her away, let him do what they both pleased. After all, this was the Last Battle, headed by the Dragon himself, and they were in the "shock troops." Zaephra knew well the chances of their survival, and she knew, as well, that there were precious few hours left to them.

The last night of their lives bloomed into a striated, strange sunrise. Zaephra raised her weary head and nodded, simply, to Sylantry. She knew her part. She was to wait behind, conserving troops and energy with Healing. Sylantry was not so fortunate...he was among the troops.

The day passed in a wave of carnage and gore, blood and smoking flesh. Zaephra did what she could, and gave mercy where she could do nothing. The Dark One did not gain those souls he did not reap. She closed the eyes of a smoking corpse and moved on, to stare into the wrecked remains of a hauntingly familiar frame.

She checked the pulse, even though she felt it to be unnecessary. Surprisingly, a faint beat echoed under her fingers. She reached up, to put her hands to the victim's head, and felt blinding pain.

"Sylantry," she gasped, turning towards the field. The weak man under her hands writhed, and she turned back to him, torn. Save a life or save his life? He held on, in the field. She bit her lip, and fought free of the clawing hand.

She ran, broken-field, across the bloody ground, looking. She searched as she ran, looking for the grey stallion that was his. He was here, he was here. She found a grey horse, but it wasn't his. Feeling wild, she peered about yet again, and this time-yes, that was it. His. She raced that way, barely keeping her skirts out of the way of her flailing legs.

"Sylantry," she gasped, collapsing beside the horse. "Love." Her hands felt along the familiar sweep of him, looking for a pulse. "Sylantry." She shook him, then shook him again. He breathed once, a coughing sound. She grasped his arm and did what she could, delving him.

As her Power touched him, he screamed. She started backwards, looking at the dark emerald radiance he spewed out through his open wounds. It formed a thick cloud, sweeping over the space between them, and before she could think, she had inhaled.

In a flash, she understood. Someone had set a trap in Sylantry, a trap requiring the use of the Power to be sprung. This was to be his death...and hers. She scanned the battlefield for an escape, and, thankfully, saw the silvery arch.

Weeping in gratitude, she half-stumbled, half crawled to the Arch. Her lungs burnt and ached. Her insides felt like roasted meat. She could feel great loosenings in her insides, as she heaved herself over the threshold.

Third Arch

Surprisingly, she was uninjured. She felt her chest, remembering the searing pain in her lungs, but there was not even a bruise. Only drying tears, mixed with the fluid from the chalices, dripped down her, not pus. She breathed in, in relief, and faced the third arch.

Inside her mind, her confidence was wavering. Could she stand this, yet again? She had no choice. And this would be the worst, she knew it. Knew it in her heart. She took one step, tears falling over her nose even though she was in no pain. She took another. Her foot fetched up against the stone, and she more fell than stepped into the Arch.

The days since the Last Strike lengthened into a month, then a year. Instances were few and far at first, more tales than truth, Zaephra thought. Then, the first struck the Tower.

Zaephra had been called as was the proper protocol, seeing as she was an Indigo Sitter. She peered through the slab of glass in the infirmary door in disbelief, then peered in again.

It was the same sight. There was a mad Aes Sedai inside the small cell off the Infirmary. A mad female Aes Sedai.She blinked. What did this mean? They had cleansed Saidin, had conquered and vanished the Dark One himself. How was it that this Aes Sedai should be mad? Had there been a secret counterstrike, as there had been before, only at saidar and not saidin?

As the Hall pondered, Zaephra became more certain that that had to be it. Aes Sedai were panicking now. Seven more of the Tower's strongest had been stricken, had been stilled while screaming gibberish and channeling destruction. Zaephra had led some of the circles herself, and she could still feel the severing click in her bones.

All the time, she worried that it would be herself next, that she would be stilled while gibbering. She bent her head and wept. It would be more worthwhile to die than it would be to die that way. Simply as that, she made up her mind. Find a cure or find a grave, for herself. She would not go mad.

She became so involved in her search that she lost touch with the Tower, did not really realize what was going on about her. She only vaguely remembered the Hall sitting, all male for the first time, and she only half heard their decree. A new Ajah, the Orange, was to begin collecting the surviving female members of the Tower, and they were to be summarily stilled. Atop their list...Zaephra Wyrd.

Zaephra worked on, unaware. As she drew close to the end of a possible cure, she stopped, and looked down into the courtyard. Men were there, seething and boiling lines of men, and they were unrelieved by a white skirt. She peered in disbelief, and shook her head. Had the disease been so far spread?

Her door caved in. She turned. "We have come for you," said the leaden voice of the M'Hael. "You will come with us."

"But I've a cure," Zaephra argued.

"We don't want your cure," he said, low and menacing. "For eons, you women caught and gentled every man you could find. Do you not think we aren't thirsty for revenge?" he breathed, ripping her papers.

She took advantage of his weakened grip to break away and run from him, dress in ragged ruins down her back. It flapped open, showing her breasts, and she held it closed. There was nowhere to escape to save the Arch. She dove for it, feeling the slice of the M'Hael's dagger between her shoulder blades as she did. A thin scratch welled blood, over her heart.