Room 99, Frozen Prior to Ch. 30

[we_bring_hell]

The room is spartan; sufficient to her needs. There is a single painting on the wall, painstakingly straight. It seems to be a mounted jigsaw puzzle of a tower at sunset. There is the faintest smell; some kind of organic ash, mixed with the oil of a mechanism. It's not unpleasant.

Her robe has somehow transitioned to the closet, and there's a skeleton on a stand in the corner; she recognizes the ribs. It grins at her familiarly. In the closet there are rows of long-sleeved shirts much like her usual habit, and some other shirts she frowns at. In a drawer there are trousers and spare niqabs and gloves and socks. Her journal is here on the desk.

This is all burying the lede: perpendicular to the white, crisp bed is a second one. There is also a set of free weights in one corner for some reason.

On the table by the bed is a device she only vaguely recognizes the function of, but it seems to be active. She presses the universal glyph for play. After listening to the strange yet familiar apocalyptic hymn, she lets the songs keep playing, but only the second one holds her interest.

She finds another CD in the drawer and puts it in; the first words send prickles up her spine; it's about running away and checking into a spartan room to hide from loss.

Half the words she hears mean nothing to her, but the other half pierce her through.

I write down good reasons to freeze to death
In my spiral ring notebook
But in the long tresses of your hair
I am a babbling brook

She plays it all the way through, and then again, and then again, and then again, and then she listens to the seventh song until she knows it word-perfect, even the words that are gibberish to her.

---

A new Milliways day finds Harrowhark at a table in the bar, studying her notes, black trousers and shirt and niqab. The key to room 99 is on the table before her, and she sings tunelessly under her breath, when that day is coming who can say, who can say. In Canaan House, time is frozen.

Comments

[glib_tongue]

Dorian Pavus, in contrast, looks askew.

Fresh out of the Emerald Graves, he's ruffled, with a few grass stains on his knees and a curl out of place. He looks tired. His collar isn't perfectly starched. His kohl could stand a little reapplication.

The Herald's Rest is too loud. The Liberalum arrived via Sister Nightingale's little birds in his absence. Dorian very badly wants some decent wine as he starts his work.

Speaking of little birds, the veil might well mean he's incorrect, but -- "Lady Nonagesimus? Ninth?"

[we_bring_hell]

She looks up from her notes; her mouth is invisible, but her eyes have a cool smile in them.

"Indeed. The Bar cannot properly bless my makeup so I'm doing without. Greetings, Pavus."

[glib_tongue]

Dorian hikes the massive tome under his arm so it sits more securely. "And to you, Ninth. I trust you've been well?"

[we_bring_hell]

"I've decided to stay here to steal a little time against my world," she says, which is not at all an answer to the question asked.

"Would you like to sit?" She looks at the book with undisguised nerdery.

[glib_tongue]

"If you wouldn't mind. This is quite heavy." Dorian sits; it's not as though he slams the book down, but there's still a quite solid pfuh as leather hits wood.

She's not troubling to disguise her interest. Dorian figures he might as well save her the trouble. "It's not much that's likely to be of interest to anyone without a reason to be curious about the ancestral lineages of Tevinter's oldest houses. I've a little project I'm working on, that's all."

[we_bring_hell]

Her eyebrows move expressively. "Ah. I have devoted my share of brain tissue to the ruling lines of the Ninth. I will pass."

She continues to stare at the book, though. "Such a profligate use of paper," she marvels.

[glib_tongue]

"Profligate? Perhaps." Dorian squares up the book in front of him, and then carefully opens it to a random page in the middle. The handwriting is crabbed, in a runic-looking script, and tiny. Very tiny.

"It's over two thousand years of inbreeding, internecine conflict, murder, and assorted eugenical fuckery, however, so perhaps it's a true miracle it isn't three times as long." Dorian taps the page. "House Erasthenes. One I'll be examining quite closely -- but not without a bottle of wine or three."

The way he speaks, it's clear he loves him some SAT words. Like tiny throwing stars, aimed at the throat of everything loathsome about his homeland.

[we_bring_hell]

Her eyes brighten. "I'll clarify - I've never seen so much paper in one place."

She gestures at the journal. "Except for the cover, this is synthetic." The cover is all too organic.

"The histories of the Ninth I used to read are written in stone and bone. The contents sounds similar enough, though." At least the interesting parts.

[glib_tongue]

Up goes one beautifully sculpted eyebrow. "Even with all the house's necromantic skill? The histories are reduced to mere begats?"

[we_bring_hell]

"What could be mere about ten thousand years of inbreeding, internecine conflict, murder and eugenical fuckery?" she asks.

She is herself the outcome of murder and eugenical fuckery, in fact.

"We have little enough in the way of martial glory, other than Matthew Nonius. And even those histories are written in the grave markers of Cohort soldiers whose bones could not join the monuments."

"The Ninth's history is based around something not happening," she says with cool irony. "Each year it does not is accounted a victory."

[blue_ajah]

The last time she had seen Harrowhark Nonagesimus, the young woman had fled from her at a run.

From her own table, Moiraine watches as she settles in, and considers her approach.

[we_bring_hell]

Harrow is aware of Moiraine. She has known she will have to face her; not just her own panicked escape from the bar, but her subsequent failures of strategy and their dreadful consequence, are all bound up in the small blue-clad figure.

(Harrowhark Nonagesimus knows all about having teachers you are terrified to let down; she is, in fact, a world expert on it. The first time she let someone down they hung themselves.)

She pushes the black iron key marked 99 around with a gloved forefinger and tries not to be a coward.

[blue_ajah]

Time, perhaps, will do what is necessary, she thinks. She is willing to wait and see what might happen, at least for now.

(She has nowhere else that she needs to be right now. Dale is in Seattle, and even if he were not there is an understanding between them when it comes to matters involving Milliways and the worlds beyond.)

She opens the anthology of poetry that she had been given here and pages through it, searching for one verse in particular.

[we_bring_hell]

After a while, she exhales, tucks the journal under her arm and grips the key tightly, and approaches.

"Moiraine Sedai," she says, in a voice that is quite level. Controlling bodies is something the Reverend Daughter of the Locked Tomb understands. "Greetings."

For the first time, the pallid brown skin of her face is visible deliberately. Only a sliver, but it's striking after her intense privacy. The veil that swallows her face otherwise reflects that privacy well enough, though.

[blue_ajah]

"Lady Ninth. Light illumine."

Moiraine closes her book and gestures toward a seat at her table.

"Would you care to join me?"

[we_bring_hell]

"Actually," she says, "may we speak in private? I have retained a room."

Having emotions is public is for chumps. If she had known there were rooms here she would've taken one long ago.

She adds, somewhat awkwardly, "That is--I had presumed we might discuss what has been transpiring in Canaan House, and I would prefer to discuss that, away from the common room."

[blue_ajah]

"Certainly," the Aes Sedai says, with no sign of hesitation.

She beckons to a nearby waitrat and gives it charge of her book. It, in turn, squeaks affirmatively at her and carries its cargo off to the bar for temporary storage.

Moiraine stands, gracefully, and inclines her head to the other woman.

"Lead the way."

[we_bring_hell]

Harrow squares her shoulders and leads Moiraine up the stairs to room 99. "I thought to stay here until I have regained my equilibrium from some recent events," she says, almost penitently, her eyes on lock as she opens it. "Time is not passing in my world while I am here, and a headstart is the only advantage one can claim by choice, after all."

As she opens the door her wards reach out to her magic, like great eager murderous puppies, and she soothes them with a single pass.

[blue_ajah]

"You would not be the first."

Moiraine knows this room. The look Harrow gets as she opens the wards is sharply considering.

"I myself have used Milliways as a place of study and preparation, as it happens."

The Aes Sedai glides through the open wards, the open door, and into the middle of the room. Her gaze falls on the image of the tower in its field, and a faint, almost rueful smile curves her lips.

[we_bring_hell]

"Please sit." There are exactly two chairs; Harrow is not prepared for a dinner party.

She sets her journal down on the writing desk (it is massive, scrolltopped, and nothing like a raven). She smooths her gloved hands over her trousers.

Behind the veil, Harrow bites her lip. "It has not been long since I saw you, but the days were eventful," she begins. As an opener, she immediately regrets it.

[blue_ajah]

"You were greatly distressed when last we spoke," she says.

It is an understatement, to be sure, and she is certain that they both know it. It is also an invitation to explain, if Harrow wishes.

In case she does not, however, Moiraine offers an alternative by saying,

"And Gideon? Has she recovered as expected?"

[we_bring_hell]

She stares past Moiraine, at the untouched bed at the foot of her own. "In body. She..."

"I was childish," she says. "When we spoke last. I felt the weight of the secrets I bear as the heir of the Ninth House. I feel them more keenly now. If I was distressed when I was here last, Moiraine Sedai, in truth I have no word for how I feel now."

"I am," she swallows, "compromised. And I must not return until I know I can set at least some little right."

[blue_ajah]

"I see," she says, not unkindly.

"If there is aught that you would tell me, I would listen, and offer what advice I may."

[we_bring_hell]

She exhales. "I would rather not, in fact. But I am the Reverend Daughter. To whom can I give confession?"

She could consecrate her own makeup. She is the Reverend Daughter. But that ordination seems a hideous joke right now.

"I am meant to be smart. This is not," she swallows, "arrogance. I was born for a purpose, to be the adept and genius who would restore the Ninth. It is what I am for. It is the only excuse for... the crime of me."

She recounts the sins that lie between her and the object of her devotion:

"I have made grievous errors. People are dead because of my jealousy and stupidity. I have squandered Griddle's faith and her loyalty hangs by a thread. I have come to the grave of the universe to mourn and to hide from my mistakes."

[blue_ajah]

Moiraine listens in silence as she speaks, then considers her for a few moments afterward before she replies.

"It can be very, very difficult for the exceptionally talented when they make mistakes. Especially when the results are fatal."

A beat of silence.

"Perhaps you might consider that you have come here not to hide, but to learn."