ASMODEAN

Probably the man among the Forsaken with the most unusual reason for turning to the Shadow is Asmodean… he never rose to the exalted heights that many had foretold, and was never ranked among the great composers of the Age.

- excerpt from 'The Forsaken'

The hall was near full already, although it would be another half an hour more till there was any activity on the grand stage that the many people have gathered from all around to watch. It was a big night for music lovers. Every four years, the world's greatest musicians and composers performed their newest works in the biggest concert there was. Some of those sitting in the audience had travelled for miles to be there. There was a palpable feeling of anticipation in the air.

Joar Addam Nessosin sat in the rafters, looking down at the crowd from on high. None of them thought to look up there. It made him feel safe, in an odd sort of way. And… there was something pleasing about being able to look down on those people. He knew that too many of them looked down on him. Too many of them. Soon, though, a time would come when they understood, or so he hoped.

He knew how many of the crowd did not want him to be there tonight. He knew that some of them did not even know he would play for them tonight. He had been one of the very last composers invited to attend, and even then, some claimed he would have been left out had the festival not been held in his home town of Shorelle. His music had never really lived up to the promise many had predicted so many years ago. Enough to earn him a third name, but that was hardly enough for Joar Addam; the third names seemed to be awarded to almost anyone these days, as evidenced by the fact that almost every composer there had one. Nothing less than what had been promised to him in his youth could be good enough for him. He would be remembered as the greatest composer of the Age, bar none.

It never seemed fair to him. He truly loved music. He was easily strong enough in the power to earn a place in the Hall of Servants, but he had chosen to pursue the path of the musician rather than continue with Aes Sedai training. He was good; he knew that much. His songs had been performed across the world when he was still just fifteen years of age. But there was always someone better. It could not be allowed. All he wanted in his life was one thing, and it was to be the absolute best.

The crowd was beginning to stir; soon the opening act would come on stage. Joar Addam considered climbing down, thought better of it. At least they had been sensible enough to save up his talent for the crowd, whether they appreciated or not. He would be one of the very last acts on. 'Because his piece was one of the most recently composed', the organizers had explained. Not what he had expected to hear, but good enough, he supposed.

Joar Addam had been one of the few people to have composed a piece especially for the show. Most of the other composers were relying on the crowd having not heard some of the older or rarer pieces, but Joar Addam knew better than that. Besides, he had just come off something of a dry period with his work. He had gone several years without writing anything new at all, which had been more frustrating than anything Joar Addam had ever experienced. But then, a few years ago, something had just – clicked – in his head, and he had started composing again, even more songs than before. That had happened around the same time that some people had claimed as the start of what was beginning to be known as "the collapse of society". But for Joar Addam, it had meant nothing but a rejuvenation.

There was a marked change in the style of his work, as several critics had noted; it was quieter and darker, with less substance than his earlier songs, perhaps, but more emotion. And it reflected Joar Addam's new outlook. He honestly felt different within himself. Sometimes, he felt like he hated the world. Other times, he knew he did. He worked so hard, all the time, and what had it gotten him? He was closer to achieving his ambitions, perhaps, but those people didn't appreciate him. No one appreciated him. He would have doubted his own parents had he seen them in years. His own mother had disowned him, said he had wasted his life. There had to be a way to show them he was capable of being what he wanted to be, and to punish those who had tried to make him who they wanted him to be. As long as he was in control of his own life, he didn't see that anything else mattered.

Joar Addam sighed, and slowly he climbed down the ladder back to the stage floor. He wanted to go over his piece one more time before the performance. No doubt this newest song would satisfy those who had called his current work unnerving, he thought. It was strange. It was common for songs to have as many notes and chords as could possibly be fit in the music, to create as many complicated combinations as possible, thus demonstrating the skill of the musician who played it, or so it was generally said. Joar Addam used to compose songs like that, too, but now his music was much simpler. It was quieter, and more thoughtful, or at least, that was the intention. Some people said it wasn't so much music as a collection of sounds, but Joar Addam like to think it was just a new style of music. It burned him that people didn't appreciate it, though. Someday they would. Someday, they would have no choice.

What he wanted, more than anything in the world, was time. He could fulfil the potential that he had been promised, with time. He could make everyone see his greatness, with time. He had to make people appreciate his music, and soon; he did not want to die without being remembered. He would fill the world with beautiful, endless music. Maybe it was impossible to wish for thousands of years of life with which to give the world his talent, but he had to try. All that mattered was that at this time, in this place, he was alive, and he would prolong that for however long he could, no matter what it took.

With eternity at his disposal, surely he would reach that greatness and, perhaps even more important, the recognition of it that had eluded him.

- excerpt from 'The Forsaken'