The Feast of Lights - 112 FA

[The Lace of Ages]

The Feast of Lights is a holiday marking the end of a year and the beginning of the next, celebrated by filling homes and streets with lights, lamps, and candles. It is a joyous holiday celebrated by much of the Westlands, and this open thread is available to any who would like to participate in the festivities regardless of their location. Of particular note, this is also the time of year when the Towers recognize their apprentices who have managed to climb a rank during their training. To recognize our first character progressing from Soldier to Dedicated, Cirus, we have a prompt for what this celebration looks like inside the Black Tower. This thread will be open to stand-alone posts from your characters' points of view, in or out of the Tower,  from December 20th to January  20th. We look forward to seeing what you come up with, and have a wonderful holiday season!

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For months the Black Tower had felt like a grave. Tension and gloom were packed tight enough inside the Tower that it had become a fact of life for those who remained within its walls. Everyone, from Asha'man to Soldiers to servants, was irritable, morose, and angry by turns, and the quiet that fell throughout the Tower as a result had been heavy and unrelenting. Few people walked the halls and grounds of the Black Tower, and fewer still were in any sort of mood to chat. Assassination and the possibility of war made sure of that. Despite everything, it was year's end and that meant an assembly in the Hall. Soldiers, Dedicated, and Asha'man had gathered, packing in tightly on rows of benches set up for the ceremony. A smaller group stood at the front, newly ascended Dedicated and Asha'man along with members of the War Council poised to recognize each of the young men who'd ascended this year.

In the Fourth Age, with the ghosts of the taint behind them and the promise of long life ahead, the Asha'man had created this assembly to recognize those trainees that had reached the next stage in their training. While many had been Dedicated or Asha'man for months, the recognition at the end of the year had become unbreakable tradition over time: all who had ascended during the past year would be recognized, given their pins, and honored. The ceremony itself for newly ascended Dedicated and, Asha'man was a somber affair, punctuated with calls to continue their vigilance and training, but the celebrations following it tended to last all night. The Legions would officially recognize their newest members, while Soldiers and Dedicated would celebrate their own with food, drinks, and parties. There had been debates about cancelling or postponing this year, considering many felt they were still recovering from the assassination and such a gathering would leave them open to attack or treachery, but the War Council had rejected that out of hand. The people of the Black Tower needed this night.

The mood in the Hall as people arrived had been grim. As the Hall filled, however, the assembly thawed and moods brightened.  Conversations floated through the crowd, occasionally punctuated with shouts as those assembled waited for the ceremony to take place. Despite what had been lost this year, these young men represented a brighter future for the Tower, and ceremony and subsequent celebrations represented the possibility of healing. There ceremony itself would be mercifully short, simply calling the assembled name, presenting them with the appropriate pin, and in the case of Asha'man announcing their chosen Legion. With the relatively small crop this year, it would be done in perhaps as little as an hour.  Most of the people were eagerly awaiting that moment. There was a saying in Caralain, that nothing could prepare anyone for a Black Tower celebration, and after the year they'd had, everyone deserved a chance to cut loose.

[Cirus]

It felt strange to be standing up on this stage without Gareth in the crowd. He’d always hoped, dreamed that the man that had saved his life in Caemlyn would be there when he walked to sit with the dedicated, or at least there to slap his back as walked past the Asha’man as he made his way back to the seats of the Dedicated. Instead he was missing, presumed dead, gone after the assassination of the last M’hael, and war teetering on the brink of the black tower.

He waited for his name to be called. Nervous, scared that he would trip as he made his way over to be presented with his sword pin. Scared that someone would object to his raising, that a captain would say he wasn’t worthy because he had failed in his duties somehow. That a captain would say there had been a mistake and he shouldn’t have been up there.

“Cirus”

His concerns didn’t come to pass. He stood, saluted the captain presenting the pins, received his pin, and went to sit on the side of the stage reserved for those who had received their new pins. As he sat his thoughts shifted away from his dead friend to the people who he had met since. Those who had helped him overcome his disability in the One Power, many whom he would now be joining. Sorin Shirega, a soldier who had shown him that he wasn’t the only one terrified of what he might become. Dena Damodred, his first friend in years that wasn’t just another soldier. Elaira Taravin and Ishara Trakand, two women who had helped to pull him from the streets of Caemlyn and proved to him that not all who could channel were demons and monsters.

The thoughts brought a smile to his face, and weight in his heart, for he was a Dedicated now. His rank in the tower had improved, as had his relative freedom, but so had his responsibility and the weight of the coat he wore. He would be expected to stand and assist those who struggled, to lead, to learn, to become worthy of the dragon pin. He swore to himself then and there that he would not disappoint, for Gareth, who had been robbed of the chance to stand tall and proud with the black coat and twin pins, for Captain Damodred and Captain Aravell, both of whom had pushed him to be better when he thought he was already pushing himself hard enough, and for Sorin, who had run in terror the first time he had seen him working. For every child like him who lived in terror of what might happen to them, for every soul lost in Alirycas and every other border town that was cut short, he would be worthy! Damn the wheel if it tried to deny it to him, and damn the shadow if they dared stand in his way.

He looked out, hoping to see those friendly faces that had carried him this far, he did not expect that Elaira and Ishara would not be here, for this was a matter for those sworn into the Black Tower and their friends and families, but he hoped to see Sorin and Dena. Hoped that after they were dismissed tonight he might have a chance to talk with them both, to thank them for helping to push him, to assist him. Maybe he’d even get a chance to share a few laughs and drinks with them, to talk about when Sorin would wear the sword pin.

When the ceremony was over he moved out of the building, one of the last to leave as many had stopped to congratulate him. His words of gratitude felt genuine, not like they had when he had become a soldier. For the first time in a long time he felt he had conviction in his voice. He had been reminded of their purpose, his purpose. Reminded of what he was, even if he didn’t wear the dragon pin. He was a guardian, a shield against the darkness both in men's hearts and in the evil that resided in the north.

[Sorin Shirega]

Sorin, sitting stiffly on a bench as close to the door as possible, wished he were somewhere else. Just about anywhere would have been preferable to being stuck in a room filled with men who could channel. Even after months here, being trapped with this many of them still made his skin crawl. He glanced nervously around the room, paying little attention to the ceremony taking place up front. He didn't know most of the men being promoted, didn't want to know them, so that what was meant to be a celebration was to Sorin just something else he had to endure. He shifted in his seat as it seemed to drag on, longing to escape the packed hall.

Looking down, the Soldier tugged at his uniform sleeves, wanting to be sure they covered the tiny red crescents that still marred his arms from the day's lessons. In doing so, he almost missed hearing Cirus's name, the only one he recognized. As far back as he was sitting, he hadn't been able to identify the other Soldier in his place at the front of the room. They weren't really friends, but Cirus had been kind to Sorin whenever they'd had to work together, a fact which made Sorin less afraid of him than he was of nearly everyone else in this place.

Thinking about it, Sorin realized that he would miss seeing the other man at those times, an understanding which quickly turned to annoyance with his own feelings. He probably wants this, will have worked to earn it, Sorin scolded himself. You really are a worthless animal, thinking only of yourself.

The rest of the ceremony passed by him in a blur as he struggled with emotion he had no right to feel, and when the doors opened, the Soldier rose to his feet. He wanted out, and now, but when he saw the crowds heading to the doors, decided he didn't want it quite badly enough to push through them.

Once the initial crowds had mostly dispersed, Sorin hurried towards the doors, taking a deep breath once he got outside. A few groups lingered here and there, but the majority of the departing men were long gone by now. He walked fast, planning to go to the stables and spend some time with Midnight, but when he spotted Cirus just ahead of him, Sorin reconsidered.

You should go congratulate him, it's the least you can do, he thought to himself. He knew he should, but his shyness and the anger Sorin still felt with himself made it a difficult task. He hurried to catch up with the other man, fixing his gaze firmly on the ground in front of him.

"Cirus," Sorin said, his voice even quieter than it usually was. "Well done." Even as he spoke, Sorin kept walking. If Cirus acknowledged him, then Sorin would stop and listen to whatever he said, and if not, he would continue on to the haven of the stables.

[Gareth Trakand]

A dense fog hung upon the air akin to a pearl necklace draped about a woman’s neck as the streets finally began to empty for the evening. The night lamps and candles burning in shop windows and homes produced an eerie glow due to the fog, yet it held no sway upon the cheery mood of lingerers that still strolled through the night. After all, this was a night of celebration as well as merriment for all to cherish. Tonight was a time of laughter, exchanges of affections, and even of parades. The Feast of Lights marked the end of the year while also welcoming in the new one. It signified new beginnings-hope. But not this time, for tonight, it would represent the end for one.

Adhering to empty alleyways strode a lone cloaked figure, his boots nary made a sound as he trod as softly as a light autumn breeze. The draped fabric flurried behind him, caught in a dance upon the wind—with every inch of this figure overlapped in black, except for his light blue eyes. His identity required concealment; his Lord and Master had drilled such instruction into him. Hence the fog provided the perfect cover for this man and his mission. Here he could go unseen, to be nothing more than a shadow of foreboding death.

Betwixt the branches of an old oak tree came a flickering glow of a candle burning in the bedroom window of his target. The man he was assigned to eliminate lived in a large brick manor that rose three stories high. Seizing Saidin could quickly deliver him to his destination but drawing upon the source in such a populated area at this hour of the night had laced risks. Tonight’s mission would require physical stealth if he wished it to prove successful.

Each branch of the oak tree bent beneath his weight as he ascended towards the glowing light with precision and care. Nearer and nearer he drew as the murmuring of voices from within grew louder. He positioned himself to the left side of the window, flattening his body against the brick wall. Patience became his ally as he abided his time for the man’s visitors to disperse. Hours passed as the cloak of night drew even darker when at last the trickling of guests disappeared into the fog. Silence fell upon the manor as candles became snuffed out one by one until only the one above him remain alight. The cloaked figure listened as the man shuffled about his room, no doubt dressing for bed. With the last light extinguished and the drapes closed shut, his time was finally at hand.

With the skillful use of his dagger, he managed to open the latch upon the sill. Once inside, he slid past the drapes descending into the blackened room. His instructions on killing the man currently asleep in his bed were perspicuous; he needed to appear to have succumbed to natural causes. Suffocation would be his method of choice.

Just as the would-be assassin reached for the pillow cushioning the man’s head, his target awoke, and the man met him with widened eyes of terror. A struggle commenced between the pair; they knocked over an end table, a candle, and a few books in the fray. Still, the cloaked figure won out in the end, using his determination and strength to overcome his opponent. He shoved the man back down upon his bed but not before his target managed to pull down his face covering. The older man’s green eyes shifted from terrified to surprised confusion.

“Wait, I know you. You’re the Trakand Prince... Talana’s boy. They said you were dead.”

“Trakand?!” replied the man in black with a cocked head and a blank look of disconnection with the name, “You’re mistaken, sir; my name is Leon Aldar.”

The hooded figure remained dominant over his victim as he pried the pillow out from behind the man’s head. Just then, another struggle ensued as the other man was not yet ready to die, but he was overcome by his assailant once more. With the intention of his attacker painfully clear, the man pleaded desperately for his life.

“No, please! You aren’t yourself. Gareth... Don’t do this! I have a family!”

“And I, sir,” coldly stated Gareth as he smothered the man with his pillow, “Have a job to do.”

He watched with detachment as the man writhed beneath the pillow until, at last, his body went limp. With his task complete, he tidied the room, re-latched the window, then vanished out the back door and into the night. Another success was his. No doubt his Master and Mistress would be pleased with him. But with more blood on his hands came a further descent into the darkness in which he dwelled, but also to the fading hope of ever saving the man locked deep within.