Mazrim awoke at dawn, as he always did. On those few nights when he actually slept, anyway. Neya was there, her back to him. He'd fallen asleep with an arm around her, holding her close to him. She smelled of blood and mud and perspiration. She hadn't bothered to wash up last night, or maybe she simply hadn't had the strength. She had been exhausted after Healing everyone she could lay her hands on, so tired he'd had to half-carry her to his tent. Fool woman. She could have burned herself out, channeling so much.
He couldn't believe what had happened. After years of carefully avoiding women, and any sort of emotional or physical attachment, for that matter, it had taken only a kiss and a word from her to get him into bed. Fool man, he thought bitterly. You're pathetic. What was he going to do now? Neya wouldn't settle for this; she would want more. Mazrim had nothing more to give her.
Light, what was he supposed to do? With everything that was going on now, it couldn't have come at a worst time. He had made sure not to get too close to the other men, not to attach himself to them. He had to remain distant, for their sake if not his own. Who knew what Moridin or Demandred would make of this? They had both made threats to come after his friends and family if he didn't obey their every word. That had been almost comforting, since he had neither. And if there was no one for them to coerce him with, that meant he had leverage, no matter how tenuous. Of course, they could still decide to Turn him to the Shadow against his will. That had been the real threat, although neither Forsaken appeared to be particularly fond of the process.
It had been clear for a few weeks now that Neya thought of him in a different way than she had before. Mazrim had felt it too, he couldn't deny it. He'd simply assumed that she would put these thoughts aside for the sake of – if nothing else – common sense. He had really thought she would. Considering what happened to her father, she should have been more aware than anyone of the dangers of being around men who could channel.
Not that Mazrim himself was mad, or would ever be. The Dark One's protection insured that he couldn't be touched by the taint. But that was exactly the problem: he was a Darkfriend, no matter how much he hated it. He had sworn an oath, an oath he could never take back. After Ishamael had forced it out of him, he had hoped the Forsaken would simply forget about him and leave him be. Hope had deserted him a long time ago, however. It was a luxury he couldn't afford.
He had discovered his ability to channel soon after his twenty-first birthday. It had come as a shock, of course, but Borderlanders were practical people, and he was more practical than most. Kissing his mother goodbye, he made his way to World's End, a day's ride away from home, and stood on the edge of the sheer cliff overlooking the ocean. He had stood there for hours, but in the end, he couldn't do it. He was weak, too weak. A fine Borderlander he was.
Weak men were known to drown their sorrows in drink and bury them in the flesh of loose women; after all, if Mazrim was going to lose his sanity and, eventually, his life, he might as well enjoy himself while he could. For months he went from one tavern to the next, each one dingier than the last, stopping at every brothel on the way. He drank from sunrise to sunset and lay with every person who would have him, and they were numerous.
Until that one night, near the border between Arafel and Kandor, when the woman he had set his sights on for the evening told him that she'd run out of heartleaf tea. She added with a coy smile that she didn't mind if he didn't, already shedding her clothes as she said it. That brought him up short. He hadn't thought about the possibility before, about what all of this… frantic fornicating… might entail. And what it entailed was this: how many children may he have already unknowingly begotten, how many children that would grow up without a father? All of a sudden, he realised how thoroughly he had messed up. It wasn't just about him. Men who could channel were a danger to their families, their friends, everyone around them. That had marked the end of his senseless spree.
He had departed the next morning at dawn and travelled all the way back to World's End, stopping by his home on the way. His mother had died two months ago, the new occupant explained in a chagrined voice. They had tried to locate Mazrim, searching several villages around, but couldn't find him anywhere. Something had had to be done about the body, eventually. In the end, they had cremated it, as was customary in Saldaea.
Later that day, as Mazrim had reached World's End, he had come closer to jumping off the edge of the cliff than he ever had. He was truly alone in the world, and this was the right thing to do. He knew that, but he still couldn't bring himself to take that one, final step into oblivion.
Cursing himself for a coward, he had turned north this time, to the Blight. If he couldn't take his own life, maybe a benevolent Myrdraal would take it for him. Instead, his survival instinct had kicked in and he'd found himself repelling waves of Shadowspawn, weaving countless threads of Fire and Earth to destroy the beasts. Out there in the Blight, alone, Mazrim had taught himself to channel, and to survive.
A few weeks later, Ishamael had approached him.
Mazrim had been keeping to himself since coming here, hiding from the few people who occasionally showed up in this Light-forsaken place. A fitting place to encounter the man who had made the world tremble with fear three thousand years ago. He was quite tall, taller than Mazrim, and the only thing you remembered about his face was that his eyes and mouth were pits of raging fire. He came in the dark of night, while Mazrim was experimenting with a new weave to extend the reach of the ward he'd set around his small camp. The man walked straight through the ward without setting it off and approached Mazrim from behind. There was no telling how long he'd been standing there before he finally spoke.
"You will need a much more powerful ward to keep the truly dangerous individuals out," he said, causing Mazrim to jerk around so violently he almost twisted his neck. He was standing in the shadows, his eyes emitting a light comparable to that of Mazrim's cook fire. At first, he thought he'd fallen asleep and was dreaming, but the man suddenly moved closer to the fire and crouched in front of it. Before Mazrim could say anything, the apparition continued to speak. "I am Ishamael," he introduced himself as blandly as if discussing the weather. "Mazrim Taim, you are now under my supervision," he went on matter-of-factly.
It had taken Mazrim a moment to collect his thoughts. "The Dark One and all of the Forsaken are bound in Shayol Ghul," he finally managed to whisper. What else could he say? This couldn't be happening. Had the madness taken him already?
Ishamael had laughed then, a mad cackle that made him look like he was about to breathe fire out of his mouth, like the dragons of legend. "Not now, not ever," he said conversationally. "Not me." His laughter abated abruptly as he fixed Mazrim with his fiery eyes. "You are strong. You have potential. The Great Lord of the Dark can give you power and privilege beyond your imaginings, if you but agree to serve him," he said. "I strongly suggest that you do. Failure to do so would be most… unpleasant."
"How unpleasant, exactly?" Mazrim blurted out without thinking. "Because I'm fairly certain I'd rather die than serve you. Or the Dark One," he added forcefully, with more bravado than he felt.
The taller man laughed again, but this time it came out as a dry, mirthless snigger. "If you refuse to bend, you will be bent. There are… methods… to achieve such results. I am not keen on applying them unnecessarily, however. It would be better for you to come willingly," he said with a sour twist of his mouth. "Turning unwilling individuals to the Shadow is a painful process, crude and time-consuming. If you force my hand, you will find I can make it even more agonising than is strictly necessary," he continued dispassionately. "The simpler method consists in threatening the lives of the people you care about, but it appears you've exhausted your supplies." Mazrim looked up sharply at that. The man chuckled once more, waving a hand dismissively. "I had nothing to do with your mother's untimely demise. Indeed, it would have been in my best interest to have her at my disposal, alive and hale. But no such luck," he said with a dramatic sigh.
"How long have you been following me?" Mazrim asked in a tight voice.
"Long enough," the Forsaken replied sweetly, "to know that you will come to your senses and spare yourself needless torment." So the man had also witnessed Mazrim's failed attempts to end his own life. He knew him for a coward. Much as it would satisfy Mazrim to prove him wrong, he already knew what his answer would be. Better to serve, no matter how unwillingly, than to have the ability to choose for himself removed altogether. He nodded eventually, causing Ishamael to grin like a maniac.
Mazrim swore an oath and, for his betrayal of every principle he had ever held to, he was rewarded with the Dark One's protection. He would not go mad after all.