Disclaimer: I own nothing of course, it not mine, it's all RJ's.
A/N: Not sure if this is a one shot or not, anyway enjoy. Sorry for some reason I can't get the spacing at the beginning of the paragraphs to work properly.
The Anniversary
The streets of Four Kings, the larger then average village on the Caemlyn Road, were full to overflowing with people. Villagers, travelers and merchants in equal number as well as almost every farmer for leagues around had come to Four Kings, swelling the village to near bursting.
The merchants that normally would have departed during the day and even for the previous two had all stayed put, not wanting to be sleeping by the road; leagues shy of any village, on this day. As anyone in any nation, from Illian to Tar Valon, from Tear to the Borderlands would have been able to tell you, today was a day for celebration, to rejoice, for today was the last day of Spring, the day that eight years ago The Dragon Reborn and his armies had assaulted Shayol Ghul and the defeated the shadow. Today had become know as the Festival of Light.
To the people of the world it was the day that the plagues, pestilence and walking dead had stopped. The day the seemingly random acts of evil that had terrorized the population of every nation, as they appeared with no warning, seemingly from nowhere, had stopped. The day the pattern itself seemed to stop unraveling and became fixed once more. It was on this day that people celebrate victory over the Dark One by the Lord of Morning.
As the sounds of merriment drifted up of the street and flittered through his door from the common room below Dalin Zahear grimaced. He peered down at the wine bottle in his hands, thinking of those that should be here, but weren't. In one smooth motion he lifted the bottle to his lips, savoring the taste before carefully placing the bottle on the floor next to the others. Slowly he stood, and as an unnecessary need for caution filled him, he moved to the door to double check it was locked before moving to his saddle bags.
Digging through the layers of clothes so he could reach the bottom of the bag Dalin searched for something he had not looked at in a year, something he both dreaded and longed to see, just to look at was inside, to watch the light bounce of them and feel them in his hands again. The back of his arm brushed against the silk bag first, the only thing in his saddle bags made out of the material, before he firmly grasped it and pulled it out into the light of the room. The two lanterns of either side of the room seemed to flicker when the light hit the bag.
Carefully he returned to the bed that he had been sitting on and, taking another long swallow of the wine, carefully set the bag down on the bed beside him. It was small in size hardly able to hold a handful of coins, made of black silk and tied of by a simple black cord, the only thing he owned of that colour.
Whilst black, the bag seemed to reflect the light and it drew Dalin's eye like nothing else could. After gathering his courage and with one final pull on the wine to finish the bottle, Dalin reached two trembling hands forward, untied the knot and carefully tipped the bag upside down. His breath caught in his throat as he gazed down at his two most precious possessions, at once beautiful and horrendous, priceless yet nothing was worth the price he had paid. At the same time they filled him with pride and shame, joy and anger. On the bed before him lay two pins, one made of silver in the shape of a simple sword, the other sparkled, crafted with gold and rich red emerald, in the shape of a sinuous dragon.
Tentatively Dalin reached out and stoked the sword with his left hand, feeling the texture of the metal for the first time in a year, for only the eighth time since that horrible day eight years ago today, almost precisely eight years since he had last worn them. Quickly he moved over to the dragon, feeling the ridges and grooves that could be seen in the fine craftsmanship of the sparkling creature.
Sadly and with no small amount of anger, Dalin recalled, despite the fact that the Asha'man had been betrayed by the White Tower at the Last Battle, and where left to die on mass, dragon pins such as these where not uncommon, just not real. Just today, he had seen boys wearing such pins made of bronze and lead, grown man as well. He had stopped counting when he reached twenty. It was almost a slap in the face to those that died, to wear them without earning them, even if they where cheap imitations. It was only a small consolation that they where only worn on this day.
Against all his wishes to Dalin's mind remembered scenes that he suppressed every other day of the year but didn't have the willpower on this day. He recalled that after narrowly escaping from Shayol Ghul with his life, just after al'Thor had managed to seal the bore permanently, as they had been ordered, he opened a gateway and left. He remembered his last view of another Asha'man, of those that remained alive, no more than two hundred of the thirteen hundred that had not defected to the shadow with Taim and had followed al'Thor to Shayol Ghul. He remembered landing exhausted on the other side of his gateway in the only place he could think of to go, the Black Tower.
He could still feel his shock, feel it echoed in his bones, at immediately been greeted with the sight of thousands upon thousands of Trollocs streaming over the grounds and, seeing his arrival, having them charge at him as one. He dimly recalled thinking that the shadow must have attacked the Black Tower, and found it empty. Too exhausted to fight he had but one option, flee. Opening another gateway that he barely had the strength to form, he recalled hurling himself through with the gateway closing behind him, cutting three Trollocs in half as it did so. He remembered promptly collapsing to his knees panting for air, then onto his side as his arms could no longer support him. It wasn't long before exhaustion took him.
That was his last memory of the day that they where celebrating in the streets below, his last conscious thought been that many other Asha'man wouldn't make it back from Shayol Ghul. Of those that did almost all where likely to head to the black tower and, if they were anywhere near as exhausted as he, most would be killed before they got their new gateways open. Dalin knew he had just been lucky; that had any Trollocs been any closer, even a single one, he would have died. Fore the split second it would have taken to kill it would have cost him his life, as he would have been overwhelmed.
He remembered wakening up in the middle of the Almoth Plain with the three cut in half dead Trollocs not knowing what to do or where to go. It was then and there that he removed his pins, knowing that it wouldn't be safe to wear them out in the open where no one but the Aes Sedai actually believed saidin was no longer tainted, even though the Aes Sedai had put out a declaration declaring it clean.
Staring down at the beautiful emerald and gold creature in his hands Dalin briefly recalled his fruitless eight year search to find another survivor of that day, for he knew that there were some, if not many, perhaps thirty or forty. So far he had encountered not a single one but, as he came to realize, that was hardly surprising. They were probably just the same as him, alone and bitter, working a normal job while keeping an eye out for other survivors.
Hoping to drown his sorrows Dalin opened his second bottle of wine and took another long swallow. Hoping but not succeeding in removing the bitter taste from his mouth. While he searched for his brothers the world didn't wait. With grim satisfaction he watched from the side lines as the Trollocs spilled forth from the blight under the guidance of the remaining Dreadlords, some former Asha'man but most Black Ajah.
He watched as the Aes Sedai, the remaining armies of the nations south of the blight and the Seanchan struggled to hold them back, year after year until finally three and a half years after the last battle the last Dreadlords, now mostly former Asha'man with only a few Black Ajah left alive, had been killed among the ruined city of Chachin, the former Capital of Kandor. After that the remaining Trollocs had been in disarray and had been easily turned back towards Shayol Ghul. In all, close to three hundred Aes Sedai died in that war, the Second Trolloc war as it was known, double what they lost at the Last Battle. Not one Asha'man gave aid.
Rumor's of the Asha'man where everywhere of course, after just seeming to disappear after the Last Battle speculation was rife, and it seemed the Aes Sedai never gave an answer about their whereabouts, which had become common knowledge. Dalin gave a bitter laugh, remembering that his initial plan had been to follow those rumors until they lead him somewhere but all that had done was lead him straight to the Aes Sedai.
In the beginning those rumors had been real enough, as far as rumors go, but it seemed he wasn't the only one paying close attention to them. After the first few months everywhere he went, to the source of any particular rumor, the Aes Sedai would either already be there or soon would be. It became near impossible for him to ask questions as invariably the fact that a male was asking questions would soon get back to the Aes Sedai. And after he pushed his luck one to many times it did.
Bitterly he recalled the last rumor he chased, five years ago now, a particularly strong one that seemed to be everywhere and always the same version of it was told, which in retrospect should have been all the warning he needed. It was the first time a rumor started up about a man wearing the uniform of an Asha'man with pins described perfectly and all, right down to the shade of red that was in the dragon pin. The man had been in Caemlyn just the day before, so he went.
What he found was a rumor that had been started with the direct purpose of drawing himself, or any other Asha'man for that matter, to Caemlyn, the Aes Sedai where waiting. It was only a great amount of skill, a little luck and the fact that Rand al'Thor had taught him how change his appearance using saidin that he made it into Caemlyn unnoticed. There where groups of Aes Sedai at every gate into the city, with the description and a drawing of the face he had been wearing the last time he had investigated a rumor. Had he tried to turn around he would have been apprehend on the spot.
Once in the city he found that the goldsmith that had made the dragon pins for al'Thor had in fact made some for the Aes Sedai, and that they had been parading a warder dressed as Asha'man. Dalin looked down at his hand, clenched into a fist and remembered his rage at learning that.
Later, after he had slipped away, the Aes Sedai had asked the goldsmith to make more pins, apparently so they could try again with a group of Asha'man, instead of just one. He had flat out refused, no matter how much gold the White Tower offered him, claiming to have had a change of heart and would never make a real pin again unless asked to by an Asha'man. He could still recall that mans shaking face, sweat dripping down of his brow and his stuttering words as he swore under the light in hope of his salvation and rebirth that he would never make another for the Aes Sedai, or anyone else for that matter, unless he already had one.
On impulse Dalin snatched at saidin and wove the mask of mirrors making his clothes look like that of his one time uniform. Quickly he attached his pins to his shirt to make it look like they were where they should have been, stood unsteadily and looked in the mirror. He saw what he knew he would, a man of median height with short cropped brown hair, well muscled and his one time remarkable deep green eyes that now where dull and almost lifeless. Twenty nine years of age yet at first glance appeared much younger while on closer inspection would make him seem years older. Bitter, resentful set to his features to go right along with the drunken look he was sporting at the moment. His unshaven face didn't add to the picture very nicely at all.
Drunkenly laughing to himself he stared at his reflection amusement, in a slightly slurred incredulous voice, Dalin whispered, "this is the man they need?" His reflection laughed right back. In the years following the last battle the Aes Sedai, due to their, as they like to call it, misunderstanding of the battle plan, had found themselves with an unexpected problem.
Males born with the spark that they found could no longer be stilled, they had not the right since their declaration that saidin had been cleansed and they had not the means to teach them due to the fact that it seemed like all the man that had been bonded to Aes Sedai were either dead or their Aes Sedai were. In retrospect the Aes Sedai where desperate.
He later found out in a quite visit to Tar Valon that by the time that they had set that little trap in Caemlyn, they had already found sixteen men born with the spark, twelve of which would die trying to learn to control saidin. Despite the mortality rate there was no way that he could bring himself to teach those men. From what he had seen with his own eyes when he had entered the tower disguised as a servant, they wanted to become Aes Sedai, not Asha'man.
Dalin ruefully shock his head and turned away from the mirror, carefully taking the pins off, putting them gently back in the silk bag and removed the mask of mirrors from his body. After carefully putting bag in the bottom of his saddle bags to stay for another year Dalin stumbled over to his bed and collapsed.
He was not a heartless man, though life had done it's best to make him one, he had kept tabs of those men at the White Tower, the four that had survived had gained a rudimentary control of the one power, though one developed a block. At least now when one with the spark went to Tar Valon they had a chance. That lessened the guilt, somewhat. Alcohol did the rest.
Using saidin, Dalin quickly snuffed out the lamps, plunging the room into total darkness. Closing his eyes and trying to ignore the feeling that the room was swaying, he tried to get some sleep, after all the merchant train he was guarding was leaving early in the morning and this was the last night he would be in a bed for weeks. At least this time he wouldn't be the only one in a bad way in the morning.
It was nights like these that's his thoughts drifted back to that day eight years ago, a day he wished he had never lived, a day he sometimes wished he had never lived past. It was easier to die in battle a hero, than to live with no direction home. Sleep was a long time in coming that night, the sounds of merriment from outside and below making it near impossible.