Cast:
Jaice -- Accepted of the White Tower, ex Atha'an Miere Deckhand
Celebril -- Lord Elendril; Blademaster. Former Captain of the Golden Eagles.

Hint: If you have not read the log further down this page entitled: 'A Protector Gained and Lost' you may wish to do so prior to reading this one.

Background:

Jaice sat on the edge of her bed, one hand placed over a book that she was not really reading. Kyra's message still played out in her mind, though it had been weeks since she'd given it. We must talk. That was all; and yet, that was all one might expect from Lord Celebril. Still, she thought. I don't know if I want to.

Letting out a quiet sigh, the Sea Folk Accepted put the book aside and stood to stare out the window. It was a cramped room, but Jaice made it bearable by keeping this window open at all times. From here, she could even see Southharbour, and the ships there. Jaice would have loved such a view as a novice... but now it only added to the questions in her mind.

This Celebril business wasn't making things any easier. It was hard enough sleeping at night without playing that argument through her mind over and over again. Over a month ago, now. Men were so confusing, particularly these Shorebound ones. And I can take care of myself, no matter what he thinks. I won't have any man throwing off his dreams for mine, and if he doesn't like it, he can go jump in the river. It was another minute before she realized she was angrily gripping the windowsill, and as she forced her hands to relax she noted again the designs of clan and family tattooed there. I've made it this far, she thought. I can make it further, without his sacrifice. And it's time we straightened that out. Whirling about, she strode gracefully toward the door. An evening practicing her project in the Grove might be nice; and if the Andoran Lord's own practicing habits were anything to judge by, he'd be there too.

Setting: Ogier Grove, Tar Valon

The sun is just fading behind Jaice as she wanders into the Grove, a light, banded cloak thrown over her shoulders to ward off the evening chill. Leaves rustle above her with the soft breeze, and that same breeze stirs her skirts about her with each fluid step. The darkly tanned woman casts her blue gaze toward the pond, and toward the practicing figure there, but she does not approach; instead, she heads off on a tangent to the blademaster, ending in a quiet grove of trees in which she can practice.

Celebril does not see her as the flashing shard of silver that is his deadly arms' extension slices through another series of motions that might dazzle the eye, floating on the crimson planes of dying sunlight that shaft betwixt branches. He does not need to see; in the heightened awareness of the masters, he can hear, smell, feel: these are enough. Slowly, he comes to a halt, Folding the Fan. Looking in her direction, he throws his coat on unhurriedly.

For Jaice's part, she seems to have put the handsome Blademaster's presence out of her mind, and were he able, Celebril would see a silvery glowing nimbus shimmer into view around her as she prepares for the evening's work. Settling herself on a carpet of grass, she spreads her skirts about her as her mind focuses on tiny preparations: a small globe of light as the sunset dims, a brief weave of spirit to begin her project. Thus absorbed, the young woman does not turn as Celebril finishes his own task for the evening.

Celebril, meanwhile, has left his rock, and approaches her place of concealment through the open paths of the ancient Grove. Making no effort to hide his coming, he draws within sight--the edge of her clearing, and only stands there. Not leant against a tree, not knelt; only does he stand, arms crossed upon his chest, watching and waiting silently.

There isn't much to see, save for the glowing yellow-orange ball that floats just over Jaice's head, casting a warm hint of colour along the nearest trees. Light knows what Jaice herself is working on... her hands rest limp on her knees, her legs crossed comfortably beneath her, though an expression of concentration remains solidly on her delicate features. After... how long? It could be two minutes, it could be twenty... Jaice lets out a sigh, closes her eyes a moment, and speaks without turning about. "Hello, Celebril."

"Hello, Jaice." The words, so casual on the surface, are spoken with a different weight: heavy and grave. Their speaker stands pale and otherworldly in the magical light Jaice has created, caught between it and the spars of fading sunset in a scarlet glory that threatens to limn him in a sort of flaming aura. "I did not intend.. what happened between us," he adds solemnly.

It's hard to say what Jaice expected. It had been over two weeks since she had gotten the message Celebril wanted a meeting, and probably more like a month since that fight in the street. What did she expect? Certainly not this, if the surprised look in those blue eyes is any indication. But that is the only indication, for Jaice's features remain schooled in that blasted Sea Folk unreadability. She turns to glance at you over her shoulder, one intricately-designed hand shifting to support her weight as she leans back. "Oh?"

"You cannot think," Celebril begins quietly, "That I wished to be driven from you." His eyes never look down; he is a proud man, so rather do they meet your own gaze, and hold it. "We have our differences; it is clear that we do not... understand... one another. It would be foolish to think we could, after such a short time." He pauses, but seems on the verge of saying more.

Jaice is probably just as stubborn, for those blue eyes do not drop as you meet her gaze. She stares at you evenly, for all the world looking as calm and unruffled as the pond's mirrorlike surface. "Agreed," she finally says. "I suppose that's as it should be, now."

Celebril's lone, single motion in all of this unnaturally-disciplined stillness is a simple, solemn nod. After this is completed, he replies, voice soft and at home here immersed in nature's splendour. "We both have a great deal of learning to do--yet an Oath was taken." Pursing his lips for a moment, he pauses, then adds, "I intend to honour it... yet it will not be that simple a thing, will it? We both know this now, I will guess."

Jaice inclines her head slightly, that sharp, inquisitive gaze narrowing as the young woman studies you in the warm glow cast by her fire-light. "You promised to see me through my training, Lord Celebril." Though her tone is light, there can be no mistaking the Atha'an Miere's stubborn determination. She's made it this far, she can make it further. "I am sure you can understand how Accepted are expected to go through their training themselves. The second... you said you would travel with me once I am done. There is nothing wrong with that; I have never had a problem with two friends travelling together." Is she daft? But then... perhaps the thought of someone pledging the rest of their days is so foreign to her that she assumed the simplest explanation.

Celebril begins to speak in answer, but holds his tongue as she finishes. Long silence descends, and longer; finally he nods again, eyes never leaving yours. "I understand. It was presumption for me to think you would need aid in your efforts; I ask forgiveness--for that. I do not ask you to forgive me my loyalty, or my friendship--in Andor, these things are admirable, and no insult to you--or myself." These last words are said solemnly, and his eyes are alight with curiosity, despite his stern look.

Now those dark brows furrow slightly; you seem to have caught Jaice off-guard with that last statement of yours. "I do not see loyalty or friendship as anything needing to be forgiven. They are qualities I hold in high regard. I just--" The slender Atha'an Miere does avert her gaze now, staring off into the darkness of the trees. "--I just think every person should have their -own- goals in life; not simply helping another along with hers."

Celebril listens to this silently, though he still does not dare move nearer. His answer, in that quiet and unassuming voice so unexpected in a heron-mark swordsman, comes slowly and thoughtfully. "And yet is not helping others a viable life-goal? Or one other? You do not know me, Jaice; I have served myself for long years. Too long. I am not seeking servitude--partnerships-" and at this he dares a grin, "-are formed on an equal basis."

"Partnership?" Jaice remains motionless in her comfortable position on the grass, her head tilted up to regard you. "But what does lazing about Tar Valon for years until I can travel get you? A partnership means each person gives, and each person gets. I do not want you to be always giving, and me to be always getting."

Celebril laughs softly, dropping down to his knees--which incidentally brings his eyes and yours to a nearly-level height. "You have already said that you will not need my help during your training. I see no need for me to lie about this city like a lay dog during that time." As his spontaneous, charismatic grin springs to his lips, he asks, "Do you?"

Jaice shakes her head, the beginnings of a wry smile working its way onto her lips. "I do not. Which is why I took offence to the idea." The man was finally making some sense. That pale gaze studies you a moment longer, and her next question is a quiet one. "What did you mean, exactly, when you pledged to come with me when I leave the Tower?"

Celebril asks simply, his look forthright and his smile earnest and honest, "Do you truly wish to know? I will be your friend, first and foremost; whatever else the Wheel may weave for us is unseen to me."

Jaice seems satisfied enough with that. She gives one decisive nod of her head, getting to her feet in a fluid rustle of skirts. "And that is all I want, for the moment. Your friendship means a lot to me, Celebril... I do not have many among the Shorebound that I trust as much. But I do not expect extravigant shows of bravery or generosity from my friends either; and I do not expect them from you."

Jaice waves her hand vaguely at the sword at your side, "Bird-blade or no."

Celebril's smile holds the beginnings of a wry smirk that is more heard in his voice than seen, as he responds, "My friend, do not ask me to be aught but what I am. If I am brave, then bravery will follow me--if I am generous, generosity will be my mark. Extravagance, however--" Now, he smiles, and catches you up in a quick, friendly hug before you know what hits you, "--I'll leave that to the courtiers!"