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Moridin lay in his bed, hovering on the threshold between sleep and consciousness. He had finally slept; the last time had been several days ago so he supposed it had been about time, too. The millennia spent sealed in the Bore in dreamless sleep had left him with an intense aversion for sleeping, and if the human body could keep functioning without, he wouldn’t have bothered. It was not because of nightmares, although his dreams were far from pleasant when he did sleep. No, the nightmares were preferable over the dreamless state of existence he and the other Chosen had been subjected to in their imprisonment.
For a while he could neither shake himself into full wakefulness nor drift back to sleep. He had a nagging feeling that there was something he should be attending to… And then he realised that he wasn’t alone in the room. This should have been cause for some alarm — there certainly was not supposed to be anyone in his sleeping quarters while he slept — but he didn’t feel alarmed. Wondering briefly if this in itself was cause for alarm, he finally forced his eyes open and looked around. When he was able to focus his gaze, he saw someone sitting in a chair by the fireplace. Mazrim Taim.
The young man appeared not to notice that Moridin was awake; he was focused on the book in his lap, seemingly at ease. The firelight cast shadows across his face, making his already distinguished features even sharper, more severe. Older. With his hair tied back like that — unusual for him — and without the coat with the ridiculous dragons he looked so much like Barid. The sight of him in a white silk shirt, casually unlaced at the top, was remarkably pleasant.
“Have you been here long?” Moridin asked.
The young man started visibly. “I didn’t notice you were awake,” he replied. “But to answer the question… Perhaps two hours?” He watched Moridin warily, but did not appear afraid. “I was in the middle of something when your zomara came for me. And when I got here, you were asleep. I thought it best not to disturb you.”
“Indeed?” Moridin sat up — he appeared to be fully dressed — and raised his eyebrows. “Why would that be?”
Something that was not quite a smile — he never smiled, any more than Barid did — twitched the corners of the other man’s mouth. “Self-preservation?” he suggested wryly.
Moridin chuckled. “Wise.” As his memory returned, he could recall sending for Taim, in hopes of a distraction, but he must have lain down for a moment and fallen asleep when the man failed to answer the summons promptly. “What kept you?”
Taim’s expression darkened a fraction before going blank. Moridin could see him consider and discard half a dozen replies before settling for what had the ring of simple truth. “Logain.” He somehow made the word sound both a curse and grudging praise all at once. “That man has a singular talent for causing trouble even when he’s not around.” He thought for a moment, then added, “Perhaps especially when he’s not around.”
Moridin stood up as one of the zomara ghosted into the room with a tray bearing a pitcher of spiced wine and two glasses. He frowned distractedly at the creature, but accepted the glass when offered, and Taim did the same. “You may have made a mistake in letting him leave the Black Tower alive,” Moridin remarked as he seated himself in the other chair, opposite Taim.
Taim didn’t quite flinch at the accusation, but the look in the dark eyes turned wary. “That is possible,” he admitted. “But I do not think so.”
“Is that so?” Moridin kept his voice casual, as if the question was merely a matter of academic interest, but the younger man was no fool and the danger was obvious to him.
To his credit, Taim maintained a near-perfect composure in the face of being questioned by the Nae’blis himself. “Yes,” he replied crisply. “If I had disposed of him in the Tower, I would have had a full-out rebellion to deal with. Should he fail to return from his errand for the Lord Dragon, however…” He gave a small, eloquent shrug. “The matter is out of my hands.”
Moridin tilted his head thoughtfully; he knew Taim for a resourceful man, who could, however, be prone to overconfidence. “And I suppose you will arrange it so that Logain does fail to return,” he said.
“That is being taken care of,” Taim replied, and while he was very careful to maintain a respectful tone while speaking to the Nae’blis, he either couldn’t or wouldn’t completely suppress his characteristic arrogance. He was proud of the Black Tower and his authority over it, his creation, and rightly so, but pride could go too far. So far, Taim had managed to walk the line without crossing it. Moridin was not sure if he did it on purpose, treating it as a game, or whether it was something that just came naturally to him. Either way, it was… entertaining. “Now, if I might ask…” Taim continued. “Did you really summon me just to talk about Logain Ablar?”
In fact Moridin had been thinking of a game of sha’rah, but such plans were subject to change. After all, they were already in the bedroom.
He stood up and plucked the book from Taim’s hands — Annals of the Final Night by Marsim of Manetheren; this particular copy held notes and commentary by Moridin himself — and set it carefully on the table. Loss of knowledge infuriated him, and the world had lost so much since the Breaking… And before; his own library had been burned to the ground, after he had announced his allegiance to the Shadow. Taim looked up at him warily. Moridin realised that he was wearing a fierce scowl and the saa filled his eyes in a steady stream. His anger was not directed at the young man before him, but Taim had obviously grown to expect anything at all from a man whose temper was even more mercurial than his own. And he wasn’t flinching away. This— this boy was matching Moridin stare for stare—
And Moridin couldn’t decide whether he was more furious or aroused.
Taim stood up as well, closing the distance between them. He was somewhat shorter than Moridin, enough so that at this distance he had to tilt his head slightly to maintain eye contact. He brought his hands up to begin unlacing Moridin’s shirt, but Moridin seized his wrists in a firm grip with one hand. He smiled thinly at Taim’s expression; doubt flickered in the dark eyes as the younger man tried to figure out whether he had misread the situation. But whatever confirmation he was looking for, he seemed to find it in Moridin’s eyes and his determination returned. He twisted his right hand from Moridin’s grip—
The vertigo hit Moridin without warning. Al’Thor’s face swam across his vision and he staggered, mentally cursing the freak connection between himself and the al’Thor boy to the Pit of Doom. He heard Taim call his name as though from a great distance, yet at the same time he was keenly aware of the warmth of the slim body against his and the strong arms around him, keeping him upright until the world slowly shifted back into focus. Moridin straightened and pushed himself away from Taim. Both anger and desire had left him, and he felt drained and numb. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, only then looking up at Taim.
The young man was watching him with a closed expression; Moridin had come to associate that look with confusion and uncertainty. “Are you..?” Taim began, but didn’t finish the sentence. One did not simply ask the Nae’blis whether he was alright.
“An inconvenience, that,” Moridin muttered.
“I’m sure.”
The silence that followed was tense and awkward and seemed to stretch on forever. Eventually Moridin managed to summon the energy to speak. “Sit or get out,” he said. He could hear the exhaustion in his voice, and undoubtedly Taim could, too. The young man gathered his coat, gave a minuscule bow, and he was gone. Moridin lay back on the bed, almost wishing one of the zomara would bring word of some disaster or another to require his immediate attention. Alas, not even Cyndane or Moghedien managed to mess up when it would have been convenient. Instead, he was left alone with his thoughts for the remaining few, long hours until morning.