Chapter Text
Among his peers, Talmanes Delovinde was considered exceptionally levelheaded. It was probably his most defining characteristic, especially considering how average — or less than average — most everything else about him was. A lord from a middling family, dark eyes and dark hair characteristic of most Cairheinin, stature a bit less than most men, especially those from other countries, a face that, while not repulsive by any means, wasn’t anything to write home about. His mother and father had beat into him his entire life that to show anything was to show weakness, and considering how precarious their family’s status was at any given point, giving nothing away at all was what kept the Delovindes in the Game. Before the civil war, Talmanes’ reserved demeanor meant he played Daes Dae’mar reasonably well and that he was good at cards. During the civil war and the following siege of the city, that same signature unshakeable calm was what earned him leadership over the Cairheinin cavalry, despite his being one of the youngest there. Talmanes the unflappable, able to think under pressure, unafraid to make the hard decisions, never fazed by the bloody horrors of war, leading his men as steadfastly as ever, no matter how dire the circumstances.
Now the other officers in the Band of the Red Hand, most of whom weren’t Cairheinin — and Daerid hadn’t grown up a lord, so he wasn’t as deeply entrenched in the politicking — mainly considered him uptight, and while not quite the same as being considered “calm” or “levelheaded,” amounted to much the same result. Talmanes, who never bats a lash at anything, unless it pricks his Cairheinin pride.
It was what he was known for and, for many reasons, it was who he was. And it all suited him just fine.
He would ride along at the head of the column with the others, engage in conversation, maybe get a needling from Nalesean that he would return in kind in his usual flat manner, and direct the men under him as necessary.
Then he would retire early, pull out the brandy, and drink himself to sleep alone in his dark tent.
Every morning he would wake with a sour taste in his mouth that he would scrub out vigorously with salt and soda and a splitting headache he had learned to ignore at this point, then repeat the process all over again.
He didn’t know why tonight was any different from every other night. But the day’s findings, as much as they were like any other bodies left to rot in the sun after being butchered — and there were a lot of those out there since the war broke out — were somehow so much worse than usual and left a palpably bleak mood hanging over everyone.
Guards were set for the night, squads chosen out for the burial parties. Nobody said much of anything else, certainly not Talmanes and, surprisingly, not even Nalesean. The somber atmosphere in the camp was much more oppressive than normal and was making it hard to push down the memories, even here with the others. Almost directly after finishing the evening’s meal, Talmanes drained the rest of his wine and rose, vaguely saying something about getting some rest, beginning to make his way to his tent. What surprised him was that Mat stood up along with him, with a muttered, “Yeah, I could use some sleep, too,” and started up the slope to his tent on a low hill some distance away from the others.
Mat was usually up late with the others, trying to cajole Nalesean into losing some more money to him at dice, or regaling them all with some story from his time in the Waste or of some woman he knew back in Tear, or getting sucked into some of the men singing another round of “Dance with Jak o’ the Shadows.” A small part of Talmanes wanted to be there on those nights, wanted to join in, envied the fun they could be heard having, envied the other officers their closeness to Mat. But he knew he was the “uptight” one among the officers, and he was even less pleasant company when the memories started coming. It was always best to just gracefully make an exit before then and be grateful for his lofty position in the Band. It was what was expected of him at this point anyway.
That nothing lively was going on this evening wasn’t exactly a surprise, so he probably shouldn’t have been shocked that Mat retired early, either. Talmanes found himself watching the other man walk slowly up the hill for a moment before turning back himself.
No, Talmanes knew why tonight was different.
Something was wrong with him. He could feel his resolve crumbling in slow motion, had felt it falling apart piece by piece for the last couple months. One person shouldn’t have such an effect on his self control.
He clenched his jaw and pushed the thought away.
When he entered his tent, as hot inside as the night was outside, Nerim, the Light shine on him, proffered a bottle of brandy and a worked silver goblet without a word, then took his leave just as quietly.
Talmanes sat for some time, staring flatly at the tent walls, taking the occasional swig directly from the bottle. Sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon; it was one of those nights.
By all rights, it really shouldn’t be, he reasoned with himself, as he felt the familiar cold begin to wash over him despite the suffocating heat. He woodenly took another drink. It wasn’t as if he had seen any of the Tinkers.
But he couldn’t stop seeing Mat’s face when he had returned with the scout, that Vanin, earlier that evening, and that was the crux of it. Mat had done a fair job hiding his horror; Talmanes was fairly certain no one else caught just how stricken their commander was, but Talmanes had seen those same eyes looking back at him in the mirror for the last year and a half. Seeing them reflected in someone else’s face, in Mat’s face, hit him a lot harder than he could have expected. It was a wonder no one else saw.
He hadn’t seen the wagons, but even the brief explanation from Mat was more than enough for him to imagine them. And those eyes. It was just like Cairhien. The tent really was suffocating, closing in, memories swirling across his vision in lurid detail, bleeding into one another. Galldrian dead, the burning of the granaries. Screams as the fires consumed the Foregate, people burning alive in the streets. The smell of cooked flesh everywhere. He had been there, was just returning from his family’s estates in the countryside, barely made it into the city gates. He could particularly remember the slashes of rank in his silk coat had been singed past recognition, the hairs on his arm burned off. Then the riots. People being pulled from their homes, killed for no reason other than they were there, torn to pieces in a matter of minutes, or worse; there was always worse. Families, women, children, the men forced to watch. Not just the commoners, no one was safe. His family certainly hadn’t been. The men forced to watch. Starvation. Light, the things people are forced to eat when there’s nothing else. Soldiering was the only thing left, or die with nothing and no one left to mourn. And the bandits and the terror through the countryside, towns abandoned, burned, devastated, bodies lying for the ravens, their pitiless eyes staring as they gorged themselves. His own country estate ransacked and destroyed, old servants butchered, strewn across the lawns in pieces. The smell of blood and rot heavy in the air. The hopelessness of a fight, some desperate attempt at resistance, against an unbeatable army of savages, bent on destroying his country, him, for good this time. Those dark eyes looking back at him whenever he passed a mirror. They certainly weren’t his anymore.
Talmanes stared at the tent wall, face expressionless, heart trying to hammer its way out of his chest. It certainly was one of those nights. He took another gulp, watching impassively as the people he knew were being torn apart all over again.
Strange, that underneath it all, all the titles, all the money, they were all the same. No different from the commoners, from the Tairens, the Aiel.
Strange.
And he would get up again tomorrow and get on as he always did. Because he was good at being reliably levelheaded. Someone needed to be able to compartmentalize all the horrors of war, the unnecessary slaughter, the uncertainty of the next day. If not for himself — and he wasn’t certain it wasn’t — then for the men who followed him.
Most of those who fell under his command toward the end of the civil war were men just like himself, lords, some lesser than he, some greater, of all ages, driven to soldiering out of desperation. How many of them had broken down at some point or other, shocked by the brutality of a world that wasn’t supposed to be this way? But Talmanes was unshakeable, a veritable rock that his men had more than once figuratively clung to during their own storms, where they felt their own foundations being torn up by the roots. Simply being this pillar of calm and certainty was enough, and in many cases was exactly what was needed. He could not be anything else, could not be seen trying to push down the memories that haunted him, could not be seen drinking the nightmares away every night.
The flickering images flashing across his vision were starting to become more bearable, the pleasant haze of the brandy dulling their sharp edges.
Talmanes was who he had become, out of necessity, out of a desperation to survive, but sometimes, like on nights such as these, that weight of who he was now felt near to crushing. But he didn’t know how to be anything else. Collected and in control, even when the dreams came and tore their way through his sleep and the memories haunted his waking hours. Another, deeper swig. Even then, in some of his darker moments, he found himself hoping someone would see him, would see what he saw staring back at him everyday, and somehow lessen the burden. Foolishness of course. An empty fantasy that he would coddle himself into a ball with on the nights when sleep was especially elusive. And he hated himself for it.
Because along with that growing need for escape, he had begun to realize that, just as Talmanes was his men's rock, especially before forming the Band, Mat was his. Mat, who never lost, not when it mattered most. Mat, who claimed he wasn’t a lord but somehow had friends in the highest places imaginable and had a better grasp on the Old Tongue than most lords Talmanes knew. Mat, who gambled and caroused and had an eye for the women, who grouched about his duty, but never shirked it, and never let anything get him down for long. Mat, who was Talmanes’ opposite in every way. And for all those reasons, and maybe none of them, Talmanes would follow him to the Pit of Doom and back.
And like most other things, he wasn’t unique in this. Everyone adored Mat. For the obvious reasons, of course — his uncanny luck and his mastery of warfare he would never truly explain the source of — but also for the way he saw every man as he was, not what country they were from or who their father was.
…no one was safe…
Talmanes had felt seen for the first time in a long time when Mat had looked back at him in the rain that day against the Shaido, not as one of the Cairheinin, defeated and therefore lesser, not as a middling noble with nothing left but himself and his serving man, but as a commander, a soldier who knew what he was doing. And he found himself wanting Mat to see more of him, to see how much of a stranger Talmanes had become to himself.
…the men forced to watch. Those eyes certainly weren’t his anymore. Pitiless eyes. The smell of blood and rot heavy in the air…
Another gulp.
But he wasn’t a complete fool. Talmanes knew very well that he was only where he was in the Band because he and Nalesean were the ones to force the issue and chase after Mat when he tried to quietly slip into Andor — no matter what he said, those were the eyes of a man who was trying to escape. And while Talmanes was honored beyond words to have command of the First Banner of Horse, he wasn’t foolish enough to believe that he had any place of import over the others. The Tairen lords and Daerid were much more amicable than he was anyway, always conversational, not so “uptight,” didn’t seem to be suffocating under the weight of everything they’d seen, everything they’d lost. Why would Mat see him more than the others?
…the look on Mat’s face…
He grit his teeth. Somehow that was mixing in with all the rest now.
No. Even if Mat never truly saw Talmanes — maybe his parents really had beaten it out of him and there wasn’t anything left there for anyone to see; that would fit in well with what the Pattern had woven of his life — Talmanes had seen Mat this evening. Even if Talmanes was forever alone in his own fight against the nightmares, he needed to make sure Mat didn’t have to be alone to face his.
He didn’t realize he’d gotten up until he was a few paces out of his tent and walking up the slope toward Mat’s, his sword knocking awkwardly against his leg.
The night was almost as sweltering as his tent, but the slight breeze felt refreshing on his sweaty face. The camp seemed to have collectively settled in early for the night. Occasionally the breeze would carry a far off shout from the south, someone in the burial party calling out to another. Through his blurred vision, Talmanes could just make out a patrol on guard duty — Reimon’s Eagles this night — making their rounds along the perimeter to the east. His own Thunderbolts were a little ahead, sleeping nearest Mat’s tent tonight. A few were still stirring as he passed and he responded vaguely to the murmured greetings that floated his way. He stumbled a little in the dark on his way up the incline, his feet heavy and seeming to find every rock sticking out of the ground.
“Mat?” he found himself calling.
It struck him then what he was doing and how absurd this was. What under the Light was he thinking? Mat had gone to bed over an hour ago and his tent was dark. He was probably long asleep at this point.
He should definitely turn back before he did something stupid he was going to regret. He already looked ridiculous, walking up here in the dark, calling out to his commander like some desperate fool.
Instead, Talmanes felt his mouth open again. “I have some brandy here, Mat. I think you should take it.” He looked at his hand in surprise. He was still carrying the half-drunk bottle. “It is very good for dreams, Mat. You do not remember them.”
Light, what was he saying? As well admit to having his own nightmares!
But he could feel himself being compelled forward, boots crunching loudly on the uneven ground, like all he wanted was to confess everything, just lay it at Mat’s feet, be seen. Everything was getting so heavy he could almost feel the weight of it all dragging behind him.
He really was drunk.
What did he even expect would come of this? What if Mat was still up, unable to sleep like he was, haunted by the mutilated, half eaten bodies of the Tinker dead? Did he expect Mat to come sweeping out of his tent crying out that he was so glad Talmanes was there, that they did not have to be alone anymore, and the two of them would drink the rest of the night away together and finally fall asleep in each other’s arms?
He viciously quashed the tiny voice in his head whispering that that was indeed what he was hoping. None of that was true, of course. He was managing just fine, alone, and didn’t need or want anyone else — certainly not Mat — he just figured Mat could use a drink stronger than wine.
Desperate and drunk. It certainly was one of his lower moments. He took another drink and kept on up the hill.
“Mat? I do not believe you are asleep, Mat.” He probably was. You just don’t want to be alone anymore. He hated that voice. “I saw your face.” Oh Light, what was he saying? Talmanes tried in vain to stop the next words from tumbling out of his mouth. “It is better once you kill the dreams. Believe me, I know.”
Light, he wasn’t supposed to say that! What was wrong with him? Please let no one have heard that, he thought frantically as his treacherous feet continued forward clumsily, tripping over another rock and nearly landing him flat on his face. Please let Mat be asleep. He’s asleep and I’m going to leave, right now, and no one will have any memory of this. And they would all wake up the next morning and go back to normal. And he would make sure to stay in his own tent tomorrow night, alone, his emotions decently hidden away again. The way things ought to be.
“Mat?” He hated the slight crack in his voice.
He suddenly squinted through his blurred vision into the darkness. There was something he couldn’t quite make out…
Then everything was happening at once. Materializing in the darkness and seemingly up out of the ground just a few paces away, Mat came surging to his feet shouting, “Aiel in the camp! Rally to the banner! Rally to the Red Hand! Rally, you dog-riding grave-robbers!” At the same time, a dozen or so shadows streamed forward from the dark shape of the tent ahead, straight for Mat. Talmanes gave one surprised yell and a start backward, dropping the brandy bottle in a shattering of glass, vision still swimming, then he was unshakeable once more, wrenching his sword free and taking up the cry, pushing forward to engage the attackers and cover Mat’s escape.