It was evening by the time the new camp was set up atop a hill nearly a mile to the south of Dumai's Wells. The wagons that had not been completely burned down were arranged in a circle, and in and around the circle men were moving about in groups, talking in loud voices, laughing, drunk on the relief at being alive. Not all shared the sentiment, at least in such excessive cheer, but overall the mood was nearly festive.

Asmodean sat by one of the wagons, leaning against the wagon wheel. He couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness that had stayed with him ever since the battle. He felt out of focus, somehow. And filthy. He had been able to wash the blood off his skin, but his coat was ruined — and disposed of already — and he was beginning to wonder whether going shirtless would have been any worse than the bloodstained garment he was wearing. His saddlebags, along with a change of clothes, had been lost in the confusion and nobody had been considerate enough so far to offer him a spare shirt.

Absently he rubbed at his left arm. There was not even a scar; the Marle fellow was good, by the standards of this Age. Of course he was not a patch on the Restorers of old, but only one of those was alive in this Age — and if he never saw Semirhage again he would be so much the happier. Of course, if he kept following al'Thor, he was more than likely, almost guaranteed to come up against the rest of the Chosen sooner or later. The thought made him shudder despite the unseasonal heat. Rahvin had been bad enough. He didn't look forward to repeating that… How many more times? Aginor, Balthamel, Ishamael, Be'lal, Lanfear and Rahvin were dead. That left six. One could perhaps argue that Ishamael and Lanfear had been the most dangerous ones — although that was like saying that decapitation was slightly more harmful to one's health than a sword through the heart; you were dead either way.

A shadow fell over him and he looked up to see Min Farshaw standing before him. She dropped a bundle of cloth in his lap and crouched down to his level. "Found that in one of the wagons," she said. "Thought you could use it. Unless you're wearing that bloody thing for a dramatic effect?"

Asmodean inspected the plain linen shirt; it would do. "An interesting idea, Miss Farshaw, but no. This is… much appreciated, I assure you. Thank you."

"I've told you before to call me Min," she said mock-sternly. "Silly woolhead of a bard." That elicited a smile from Asmodean; she knew who and what he was, and had no problems calling him a silly woolhead? A remarkable woman. She returned the smile, although the look in her big, brown eyes was concerned. "Are you alright?"

Asmodean had to laugh at that. "Oh, I've seen worse than what happened today," he replied, acutely aware that he didn't sound all that convincing.

"That's not what I asked, though," Min said gently.

"I suppose it isn't," Asmodean replied with a sigh. Then he chuckled wryly. "I hope you realise you're way too good for al'Thor."

"Oh?" she replied, laughing. "Do you think you could make a better offer? I have always liked older men, but perhaps not quite that old." She shook her head in amusement and took his hand with both of hers. "But yes, I am aware," she continued blithely. "I just hope he never figures it out. He's enough of a woolhead to try and leave me behind if he gets it into his head that he doesn't deserve me!"

"'Try' being the operative word, I'm certain." Asmodean had no doubts that Min would get her way if she really decided to do something — not that that was a bad thing, necessarily, not at all. At least with regards to al'Thor. She was good influence for him; anyone could see as much.

The woman grinned. "Indeed." Then she glanced over her shoulder to where al'Thor was talking to Taim and Dobraine some distance away. "I should go back," she said. "Those two are striking all the wrong kinds of sparks; wouldn't want anything to catch on fire…" For a second her expression darkened and Asmodean could guess what she was thinking of; there had been more than enough fire this day. Then she smiled again, and if it was a bit forced, the sentiment behind it was genuine enough. "You take care of yourself. Don't sit here alone all night, you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am," Asmodean replied with equally forced cheer. Min gave him a quick pat on the shoulder, and then she was dashing off after al'Thor and the others. Asmodean watched her go, looking so young and carefree in those high-heeled boots of hers, dark curls bouncing as she ran. An illusion, of course. Nobody was carefree this night, not even Min Farshaw with all her indomitable spirit. The sight of her made Asmodean feel old.

The evening turned into night. Asmodean wandered the camp, not entirely sure what had made him leave his less than comfortable but relatively peaceful corner, but unwilling to go back now that he had left it. Perhaps he was taking Min Farshaw's advice. Perhaps the stifling heat — which he could ignore all he liked but never quite stop being aware of — and the tensions running high in the camp made him restless. Or perhaps he was… looking for something. That was not a possibility that had crossed his mind until he happened upon the corner of the campsite where some of the Asha'man were gathered. Not all of them, not by a long shot, and Asmodean suspected that a fair number of them were keeping watch around the camp, both against outside threats and as a visible, silent reminder for those within to stick to their best behaviour.

He found what he hadn't realised he was looking for by one of the campfires. A handful of men, most of them young but not all, none of them wearing the Dragon pin that marked the fully-ranked Asha'man; hierarchy seemed strict among the men of the Black Tower. The Dedicated Brys Arawin was sitting on a crate, staring into the fire. Two even younger-looking boys were playing cards on the other side of the fire. A pretty man with long, black hair on two braids sat cross-legged on the ground, inspecting the blade of the sword across his knees. The one called Marle lay on a bedroll to one side; he was the only one of the lot not wearing his black coat and instead seemed to have bundled it up for a pillow. Asmodean raised his eyebrows at that; he wasn't sure Taim would approve. The M'Hael's approval or lack thereof didn't seem to disturb the blond man's sleep in the slightest.

Arawin looked up as Asmodean halted beside him. "Master Natael," the Dedicated said, nodding a greeting.

"Dedicated Arawin," Asmodean replied. "Mind if I join you?"

The pretty one with the braids gave him a sharp, openly suspicious look at the question, but Arawin shrugged. "Go ahead."

Asmodean sat on the ground between Arawin and Braids, as he had mentally named the other one. After a moment of silence — not even the two playing cards were speaking — Asmodean spoke. "I didn't have a chance to thank you for rescuing me, back there," he said. "I know it was a coincidence, or I assume so, but regardless, you saved my life, showing up when you did. And I thank you."

Arawin didn't respond, but instead one of the card players, a boy whose ears and nose were too big for his face, did. "We saved you and lost Daril," he began, then stopped abruptly, as if surprised or embarrassed that he had spoken up. "Not a terribly good trade if you ask—"

"Hopwil, enough." Arawin's words were quiet but weighed with authority that belied his age. "It wasn't his fault. Daril should have shielded himself before dashing into the middle of a flaming battle. Maybe the rest of you won't make the same mistake." There were quiet nods and muttered yes, sirs at that, as well as an audible snort from Marle, who appeared to be awake after all.

Silence fell again, and if it wasn't exactly awkward, neither was it comfortable, precisely. Asmodean wished he had his harp; it was a remarkably efficient tool for making awkward silences more bearable. No sooner had he thought this, than three more young men in black coats — Soldiers, with neither the Dragon nor the Sword pin — approached the campfire. They saluted Arawin… And then addressed Asmodean instead.

"Bard… I mean, um, Master Natael," one of them stammered. "We was wondering… just wondering, mind… if you could maybe play something?" He proffered an object that Asmodean hadn't noticed him carrying. "We found this in one of the wagons. We know you usually play harp, but we thought you… probably know how to…" He trailed off again, but the hand offering the instrument didn't waver.

Asmodean glanced around; everyone around the campfire was watching him — well, everyone but Marle, who might as well have been asleep again. He looked back at the young man holding the flute, then his companions. They had all lost friends this day, and done terrible things, each of them killing more men than they could count.

He took the flute.

The newcomers settled down to listen while he inspected the instrument; he had indeed played the flute before — several kinds of flutes, in fact, although his preferred instruments had always been ones with strings, and the grand piano simply because of the grandiosity of the music it could produce. But he did know his way around a dozen more instruments. Although the flutes he was used to were rather different from this one. A few tentative notes told him everything he needed to know, however, and soon he was ready to begin.

He played no funeral dirges; if there was a sorrowful note to his songs, it was not that of death and despair. No, there had been enough of that. Instead he played songs of farewells, of seasons passing, of long journeys and of coming home to find it all changed. The black-clad men listened in solemn silence, and Asmodean was careful not to look too closely, but he thought silent tears glistened on more than one face. A hush fell over the closest campfires as well, and he had the sinking feeling that his audience had grown larger than he had imagined. Well and so; hardly the largest audience he had played for. Just… perhaps… one of the most sincere.

He wasn't sure how long he had played, when suddenly the silence around him gained an alarmed quality. After a frozen moment the Soldiers and Dedicated were scrambling to their feet and saluting — and Asmodean knew without looking who was standing behind him. Because the song was at an end anyway, he stopped playing.

"At ease," Mazrim Taim said. Slowly, the men settled again, but the mood had been broken; everyone except Marle — who hadn't moved during the whole episode — looked awkward, as if wondering whether they should be somewhere else. "Master Natael," Taim said quietly. "A word with you. In private."

"Very well," Asmodean replied. He handed the flute back to the Soldier who had brought it, and stood up.

Taim gave him an appraising look. "You look different without all the lace," he noted.

"Yes, I'm sure you look different out of that uniform, as well," Asmodean replied. A chorus of astonished gasps — and a snort from Marle — followed the statement; obviously not many people talked back to the M'Hael in this manner. Perhaps Asmodean shouldn't have, either, where the others could hear. Oh well. A heartbeat later — as the startled look on Taim's face finally registered — it occurred to him that the comment could be taken in some rather different ways which he hadn't intended. "…That aside. You wanted to talk. Shall we, then?"

"Absolutely. One moment, though." Taim turned his attention back to the others. "Arawin, Marle," he addressed the two sharply. Arawin all but jumped to his feet again and made a precise salute, and even Marle got up with some alacrity now that he was being directly addressed by the M'Hael. He picked his way through the gathered crowd to stand beside Arawin and his salute was every bit as proper even if he was missing his coat. Taim gave him a look that Asmodean could only describe as 'extremely unimpressed', but proceeded to fish two small objects from his pocket. "You've both earned this," he said as he deftly attached the golden Dragon pin on Arawin's collar. "Asha'man Arawin." With Marle, he simply handed the pin over with a frosty glare. "Asha'man Marle. I trust I won't see you in casual dress again."

"No, M'Hael," Marle muttered, nonetheless failing to sound actually abashed. "Thank you, M'Hael."

Taim nodded curtly. "Carry on." Then he turned to leave, and Asmodean hurried after him.

They made their way across the camp in silence until Taim suddenly spoke. "Do you have children?"

Asmodean nearly tripped over his own feet. "Children?" he repeated, hearing the startled disbelief in his own voice. "Not that I'm aware of… Light, no." He shook his head slowly. "How come?"

Taim shot him an amused glance. "That scene back there," he said. "It looked like you're used to that kind of thing."

Asmodean gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Oh, no, not at all," he replied. "The very opposite of 'used to', I assure you. But one learns to improvise when one lives long enough…" No sooner were the words out than he realised he might have said too much. To cover for his mistake he grasped at the first topic that came to mind. "What about you? Do you have children?" Again, he realised a heartbeat too late that this might not have been the best possible topic even for the purposes of distraction. What a question to ask a male channeller in this day and Age! "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "Stupid question. It's been a long day."

Taim made a dismissive gesture. "It's quite alright," he said wryly. "And the answer is no." He stopped walking, and Asmodean realised they had come to the other edge of the camp. Taim gazed out into the darkness, somewhere beyond the ring of wagons, frowning.

"So…" Asmodean said, looking around. "I presume we're 'here', whatever it is you wanted to talk to me about…"

"Al'Thor," Taim said curtly. "He's out there. Alone. He won't talk to anybody. I don't think he even heard me when I tried to talk to him." He sounded almost angry, but Asmodean could see the concern at the root of the anger. And he couldn't say that Taim was wrong to be concerned; half the world was holding its breath, waiting for the Dragon Reborn to go mad, and what Taim was describing…

"I'm sure he's not…" Asmodean began, but he was cut off.

"Insane?" Taim snapped. "How do you know? I've seen men lose their minds after mere weeks of channelling, at the Black Tower. My ten years has got to be a cosmic joke by the Wheel itself. None of the prophecies say that the Dragon will be sane by the time of the Last Battle…" He trailed off, frowning. "…Or do they?"

Asmodean shook his head mutely; as far as he was aware — and he had spent a substantial amount of time since waking up familiarising himself with the different prophecies of this Age — the matter was not addressed in any of them.

Taim nodded grimly. "I didn't think so. The question is, what do we do if he does lose his mind?"

Asmodean stared. "What do we…" he repeated faintly. Taim was watching him intently, black eyes shadowed. He appeared to be completely serious. Asmodean wanted to shake him. "There is nothing we can do! Don't you understand? If he's lost his mind, if he loses his mind, there's nothing anyone can do! It's over!" He realised he had raised his voice and looked around, but nobody seemed to be listening. He tried to clamp down on the feelings of frustration and helplessness and fear, but it wasn't easy.

Taim watched him with an unreadable expression, and when he spoke again, his voice held nothing but resolution. "There is always something we can do," he said, advancing on Asmodean. "Do you hear me, bard? There has to be. I won't accept anything else!"

Asmodean took an involuntary step back — somehow Taim seemed to loom over him even though the Saldaean was only marginally taller. "Do you think the Wheel cares what you will or won't accept?" he asked, hearing the bleakness in his own voice.

"The Wheel doesn't care," Taim replied matter-of-factly. "But, Master Natael… Do you think I would have lived this long if I cared about whether anyone cares, including the Wheel itself?" He flashed that familiar almost-smile and continued without giving Asmodean a chance to speak. "Of course I hope it doesn't come to that… I pray it doesn't, and let me tell you, bard, I'm not the praying type. But if it does, if it does, I'm not going to just sit down and wait for the world to end. And neither will the Black Tower, or anyone else if I have any say in the matter, and if the Black Tower keeps growing at the rate it has so far, I damn well will have a lot to say. I may not be the Dragon, but—" He cut off abruptly, as if taken aback by the level of passion he was displaying.

Asmodean nodded slowly. Absurd as it was, he could almost imagine Taim uniting the nations if something did happen to al'Thor. Not that it would matter in that event; Taim couldn't exactly fight the Great Lord in al'Thor's stead. But he had no doubt the man would try. Asmodean had to respect the sentiment, even as a part of him marvelled at the sheer arrogance of it.

"Anyway," Taim went on, more calmly, "I was hoping you could talk to him. Maybe you could get through to him. Get him to come back to the camp. Anything could be out there, and him in that state…"

There was only one possible answer. "I'll talk to him," Asmodean said.

That talk turned out about as fruitful as Asmodean had expected, perhaps even less so. Al'Thor had barely acknowledged his presence, let alone responding when he had tried to talk to him. The scene, the young Dragon Reborn sitting alone in the dark, rocking back and forth, muttering to himself, was not in any way reassuring and Asmodean had been all too glad to get away when Perrin Aybara had showed up and promised to keep an eye on al'Thor. This was not anything Asmodean was equipped to deal with.

As he was walking back to the camp, he suddenly felt saidin being channelled — and then he was shielded and caught in flows of Air. "No use screaming," an unfamiliar voice said behind him. "Nobody five yards away is going to hear you."

"Who is this?" Asmodean asked, trying to sound calm despite his wildly racing heart. He was shielded; whoever it was, the person knew he could channel. Trying to contain his fear, he went on, "What do you want from me?"

"You may call me Osan'gar," the voice replied.

Asmodean let out a nervous laugh. "That… that tells me absolutely nothing!" He could hear the edge of desperation in his voice. He tried to turn his head, to look at his assailant, but the bonds of Air wouldn't allow the movement.

"It's not meant to," Osan'gar said, sounding annoyed. "And what I want is simple enough: your co-operation."

Asmodean tried to shrug. "I don't seem to have a lot of choice, do I?"

The other man chuckled. "Less than you think… Asmodean."

Hearing his name spoken aloud was like a punch in the gut. The world lurched dizzily under his feet. "I h-have no idea what you're talking—" he stammered, but he was cut off by a contemptuous snort.

"Spare me the bard's tales. I've known who you were since the first time I saw you at the fa—" Osan'gar cut off mid-word and, despite his mind reeling from panic, Asmodean had the feeling that the man had revealed something significant. Osan'gar went on, "Do you think the Chosen have forgotten about you? Do you think the Great Lord ever will? You can't evade their punishment, not even death will spare you… Unless you do exactly as I say."

"Really?" Asmodean gasped; he couldn't quite make the word sound as sarcastic as he wanted to.

"Nothing too difficult even for you," Osan'gar said, contempt clear in his voice. "Just make sure to stay as close to al'Thor as you have. You will be contacted with further instructions. And if you even think of betraying the Great Lord again, know this: the Friends of the Dark are everywhere and even the Dragon cannot protect you all the time. And when you die… the Great Lord will have you for all of eternity."

Then he was released. Asmodean stumbled but miraculously managed to regain his balance. He heard footsteps receding but it was too dark to see anything more than a silhouette of a man walking in the opposite direction. Apparently this Osan'gar wasn't too concerned over being recognised. Not that Asmodean had any desire to run after him. Not that he was all too certain he could run if he tried; he was fighting just to stay standing, to breathe evenly, to not fall apart in hysterics. He staggered back to the camp, hoping that nobody would notice him and he could just find a quiet corner to curl up and hide in, preferably forever. Or at least until he could stop shaking and hyperventilating.

No such luck, alas.

"Natael? Did you not find—? Light, man, what happened?"

Asmodean jumped at the sound of Taim's voice — too close, too loud, too curious. "Nothing," he gasped, acutely aware of how absurd it must sound. "Nothing, nothing… nothing!"

Taim swore under his breath, clearly torn between attempting to get more information out of Asmodean and heading out to check on al'Thor. "He's not dead, is he?" he asked sharply.

Realising finally how the scene must look to Taim, Asmodean shook his head frantically. "No, no, no," he managed, still shaking his head. "No, he's fine, he's fine—" Well, at least compared to being dead. He stifled a hysterical giggle with some effort; if he started laughing he wasn't sure he was ever going to stop. No, focus. He gulped a breath and wrapped his arms about himself; he thought he must be shaking visibly and his knees kept wanting to fold. "Aybara is with him."

That seemed to reassure Taim somewhat — which, of course, only meant that now he could focus his full attention on Asmodean's state. "Then what happened to you?" he asked, but seemed to realise that he wasn't going to get a coherent answer right now. "Come, I think you should sit down before you fall over…" He put a supporting arm around Asmodean's shoulders and tried to nudge him on, but Asmodean collapsed against him, sobbing silently. Cursing under his breath, Taim caught him awkwardly. "Oh for Light's sake…"

Keenly aware that the situation had degenerated way beyond repair — he wasn't going to walk away from this with his dignity intact — Asmodean let Taim help him sit down on the ground. For what seemed like forever there was nothing he could do but let the panic run its course. After a while he realised that he was still being held. A wry thought surfaced; apparently Taim hadn't fled the scene. It took a while longer until he was able to breathe normally again. Another while until he was able to detach himself from Taim. Taim sat back on his heels, watching him warily. Asmodean drew a shuddering breath and wrapped his arms around his knees. Was he going to have to be the one to break the silence? Probably. Taim was displaying deeply uncharacteristic patience — although Asmodean was beginning to suspect he didn't know the man as well as he might think he did.

"Terribly sorry about that," Asmodean said eventually. His voice was hoarse and not entirely steady, and the casual tone must sound rather comical all things considered, but he doubted he could make the situation any worse if he tried so there was that.

Taim shrugged. "Don't worry about it," he replied, affecting nonchalance, as if holding hysterical musicians in his arms was a common occurrence to him. "So… Do you think you could tell me what exactly happened?" he asked cautiously.

"It doesn't matter," Asmodean replied with weary resignation. Either he managed to sound more convincing than he felt or Taim just decided to let the matter lie, because Taim simply nodded.

"I can't sit here much longer," Taim said then, but surprisingly there was no impatience in his voice; he was merely stating a fact. "I have people to supervise. Is there someone you'd like me to get? Min Farshaw, maybe?"

Asmodean shook his head. "No, I'm fine, no need to disturb her sleep. Assuming she is sleeping." He hesitated. He didn't want to be left alone, but he couldn't keep Taim from his duties. "Would you mind if I walked with you? I really do hate to inconvenience you any more than I already have, but…"

Taim arched a sceptical eyebrow at the 'fine' part, but shrugged. "By all means." He stood up in a graceful, fluid motion. Asmodean followed, not quite as gracefully. They started off across the camp at a casual pace. "I appreciate what you did back there," Taim said after a while. "With the soldiers and Dedicated. It made a difference, I can tell."

Asmodean shrugged awkwardly. "I played music. I am a bard. That's what I do." He wasn't sure how he felt about making a difference, and he didn't feel up to exploring said feelings right now.

"Is that so?" Taim murmured, glancing sideways at him. "I wonder…"

"Is what so?" Asmodean asked, trying to sound suitably casual, but he could hear the nervous edge creeping into his tone. His nerves were still raw after the encounter with Osan'gar, whoever that was. He didn't need Taim prying into his identity on top of it.

"You're no simple bard or I'm the Amyrlin Seat," Taim said matter-of-factly.

Asmodean tilted his head and made a show of looking at him as though comparing him to the Amyrlin Seat — never mind that he had never met the woman — then shook his head. "No, the nose is all wrong," he said. "But who knows? The stole might suit you?"

Taim gave him a look that could only be described as 'extremely unimpressed'. "Keep your secrets, Natael," he said. "If that's even your name." He turned his attention briefly to the pair of Asha'man who saluted as they walked by. "I suppose, whatever you are, you're not out to harm al'Thor," he continued in a lowered voice. "That's good enough for me. For now."

And that, in turn, had to be good enough for Asmodean. How exactly had it ever been a good idea to bait Taim like that? But he couldn't help himself, not when the man was strutting around, making grand statements like that, overall taking himself entirely too seriously. But, a small voice at the back of his mind reminded him, did Taim not have reason to take himself seriously? The display at the Wells had certainly been serious enough. He shuddered at the memory — and ignored the wary look Taim gave him. The world had best start taking Mazrim Taim and the Black Tower seriously…

They walked around the entire camp, stopping to exchange a few words with several of the Asha'man on guard. Everything seemed mostly calm and under control; the captive Aes Sedai were too intimidated by their Asha'man guards to display much attitude, and their Warders might glare at anything that moved but they wouldn't do anything that might bring trouble to their Aes Sedai. The captive Shaido were the meekest of them all, in a disconcerting parody of the Da'Shain Aiel Asmodean remembered so well.

Taim caught him frowning at the Shaido and mistook it for worry. "They're quite harmless, or so Rhuarc claims," he said. "Something about their honour code. They become practically servants if they get captured in battle."

Asmodean made a noncommittal sound; he could have pointed out everything Taim had got wrong in those three sentences, but he didn't really want to talk about the Aiel. It felt entirely too much like nostalgia.

Finally they halted by one of the campfires in the Asha'man corner of the camp. The men sitting around the fire all wore the Dragon pin, but they stood and saluted their M'Hael with as great alacrity as the soldiers and Dedicated. One of them, a Domani judging by his colouring, vacated the crate he had been sitting on and moved to sit on the ground. Taim nodded at him and took the seat; Asmodean sat on the ground beside the crate. Some of the Asha'man looked at him with poorly disguised curiosity.

"Have you adopted al'Thor's pet bard, M'Hael?" one of them, a young man with black hair and a thin moustache, asked, earning a warning glare from the fellow next to him, a hard-faced man with reddish-blond hair and grey eyes.

Taim merely arched an eyebrow and said, sounding distinctly amused, "If I have, Rochaid, that's none of your business."

"Pity he doesn't have his harp," the Domani said.

Asmodean sighed and prepared to make some suitably courteous response, but Taim spoke before he could think of one. "He's not here to entertain you, Altair."

"Why is he here, then?" the redhead asked.

"I adopted him," Taim replied curtly, in a tone that severely discouraged any further questions or comments on the subject. It didn't quite stop the curious looks, which were now aimed at the both of them, if not quite so openly at the M'Hael. Especially the redhead and the one called Rochaid seemed to be reaching all the wrong conclusions if the knowing look they shared was any indication. Asmodean shrugged mentally; it was nothing new to him. Half the people who knew Jasin Natael thought he was sleeping with al'Thor. As far as misconceptions went, it was relatively harmless. Much more so than the truth. He did wonder if Taim was aware of the looks — almost certainly — and what they were likely to signify — possibly not.

The rest of the night was blessedly uneventful. Most of the Asha'man slept at one point or another — they had done some intense channelling during the battle, after all. Asmodean must have dozed off himself; he woke up some time later to find himself slumped against Taim, a corner of the crate digging painfully into his side, his head propped against the M'Hael's arm. Taim was sitting so still — and must have been for quite a while for Asmodean to manage fall asleep like that — that for a moment Asmodean thought he was asleep, too. Then his brain caught up and he realised that he couldn't possibly be asleep or he'd have fallen off the crate.

Asmodean sat up straight, wincing as the muscles in his neck and shoulders protested against the awkward position in which he'd slept. He looked around but most of the Asha'man around the fire, which was now little more than smoldering coals, were also sleeping. The only one awake besides Asmodean and Taim was the redhead, and he was reading a book by the light of a small sphere of saidin. Asmodean looked up at Taim, who was staring into the fire; he looked tired but perfectly alert.

"Why did you let me fall asleep like that?" Asmodean muttered.

Taim glanced at him briefly before turning his attention back to the dying fire. "Is there I reason I shouldn't have?" he asked.

"Well, if it's perfectly acceptable to be using the M'Hael as a pillow…"

"I've endured worse indignities in my life, I assure you." Taim's voice was wry, very wry. "Gedwyn," he went on, addressing the redhead without looking at him. "Wake up Rochaid and go check on Torval and Dashiva."

The redhead, Gedwyn, jumped almost guiltily, but set his book down and turned to Rochaid sleeping next to him. He shook the younger man by the shoulder. "Get up," he growled. "We've work to do."

"Why me?" came the sleepy protest. Asmodean winced; the man sounded younger than Arawin all of a sudden.

"Because the Light has no mercy on lazy sons of goats like you," Gedwyn replied crisply. "Now. Up." The other man obeyed, finally seeming to realise that they weren't alone. The pair saluted and headed off into the night. Asmodean thought he saw Rochaid elbow Gedwyn in the ribs before they vanished from sight.

"They're children." He didn't mean to speak out, and didn't realise he had until he heard his own voice, heavy with disbelief.

"I don't ask their ages," Taim replied.

And how old are you? But Asmodean didn't ask out loud. Taim said he had been channelling for approximately ten years. As a sparker, that likely made him younger than thirty. The slowing made such things difficult to gauge — men didn't start slowing until mid twenties, no matter how young they started channelling, but Taim couldn't be many years past that point. He appeared older, though. Asmodean supposed that being a male channeller in this Age had that effect. Among other effects. He grimaced, having inadvertently reminded himself of the taint and the fact that he was now equally susceptible to its effects than any poor fool born with the spark.

"Why are you here, bard?" Taim asked after a while.

"Isn't it a bit too late for philosophical questions like that?" Asmodean countered. "Why are any of us here? Why did the Wheel weave us along the precise paths that led us all to be here, on this hilltop, on this night?" He shrugged. "I don't know. That's something Ish—" He cut off abruptly; naming Ishamael in casual conversation like that might not be the cleverest thing to do. He felt Taim's gaze on him, searching, considering, and cursed himself for a fool. In the end Taim ignored the slip, however; Asmodean didn't delude himself into thinking it had gone unnoticed, but he appreciated not having to come up with an explanation right now.

The conversation died there, but the silence that followed was not an uncomfortable one. At least any more so than any ordinary silence. Asmodean thought of al'Thor, hoping Aybara had indeed stayed with him. He was sure he had. He stubbornly tried to avoid thinking of Osan'gar; he couldn't afford a repeat of the earlier meltdown, not with Taim already as suspicious as he was. He had never thought the Great Lord would forget about him or his betrayal, unwilling as it had been. He had always known he was a dead man ever since Lanfear had placed that shield on him and left him at al'Thor's mercy. But he had not thought that there were people actively keeping an eye on him, or that ordinary Friends of the Dark had been informed of his… status. It wasn't like the Chosen to air their dirty laundry before lesser beings, such as the people of this Age. Then again, with Ishamael gone, there hadn't been much in the way of leadership among the Chosen — that is, even as much as there had used to be.

He shuddered and closed his eyes, hugging his knees. After a moment there was a rustle of cloth, and then something was draped over his shoulders. Startled, he opened his eyes to look and recognised the heavy, stiff fabric of the Asha'man coat. He stole a sideways glance at Taim, who was staring at the fire as if he had never moved… except that he was no longer wearing a coat. Asmodean wasn't sure what to make of the gesture, but as Taim didn't seem to be expecting thanks, he offered none and instead inspected one of the embroidered sleeves.

Absurdly enough, huddled inside Taim's coat he felt almost safe.