The Seals of Time Bio Page - Asha'man

Na'cueran

I left the Mess Hall when the clock marked midnight. I suppose it is approximately an hour later, when I sit here and write these words. It happened to me tonight, when I understood where lays the solution of purifying the calumny that rested upon my name. Those young and old men that arrive at the Impact Range daily for my classes whisper Darkfriend and murderer, for they do not know the story as whole. It is the fear of the unknown, which drives people to desperate actions. Like a child that never read a book, or seen the Blight, runs into an Ogier. Of course the child will be frightened and will attack the Ogier. He does not know the difference between Trolloc and the creature before him. How will he know? If someone rolls the story before him. My talents were never placed with metaphors, so I will continue forth to the story of my life...

My name, as it is known for all my living companions, is Na’cueran, Knife Heart in the Old Tongue. I do not know why I picked the name at first place. I knew clearly that it may spotlight me later on, but seems the Pattern wove well. My given name, however, is Lusharc Dul. I don’t think many among the living are familiar with the name, though. Throughout the years I learned that values that must be kept at constant are few, and names were not among them. My name altered as my coats and as my appearance and living style. The road made even my goals seem dim and unimportant. But I’m running ahead of myself.

I am six feet tall and weight average for a working male. I am muscular enough to wield the aggressive sword forms without difficulty, but I was never among the large-sized humans. My hair is black and occasionally I cut it short. My eyes are dark brown, however easily mistaken for black from a distance. My body was never one of the values to keep straight. I used to be a fair swimmer, and am a good runner. I never lacked abilities in sports and always treated well with horses. Quite the average human being you will never put your finger on amidst the crowd, I wager.

And that’s exactly how the story begins, ten years after my birth. I never really learned where I was born, but as far as I remember back is at the age of ten, at the city Illian. The town’s square was usually crowded on weekends. And the noon of one of these days of Jumara was of no difference. Men wore long coats with raised collars, and beards that leave the upper lip bare. Women, both high and low, favor wide-brimmed hats held in place by long scarves wound around the neck in a utilitarian and decorative fashion. High ladies adorn themselves with decorative slippers worked with gold and silver, their dresses are cut high at the hem to show these slippers to best advantage.

I was a small boy, only high enough to struggle through the people boots. On the far side of the square there used to be a stage, on which public merchandise was sold for the highest price. The rest of the square was filled with daises and peddlers. I knew four other boys at my age in Illian, and as I paved my path behind them I also knew how fools they were. I did not quite hated them, rather disdained them. As our struggle came to an end, the huge stage revealed before us, as we breached the last line of golden-lined boots.

There was a loud selling on the stage, I do not recall of which item, but the one following it was one that shocked most of the crowd. A line of rags wore youth stood on the stage, as the announcer yelled their price. It was not of daily agenda buying slaves in Illian. But my friends and myself were shocked of all. One of the middle women was sister of Brian, dressed in brown, tore dress. Her face was the engraving of despair. “She said she owe some money, but...”

Brian muttered, staring at his sister. As a man from the crowd offered a price, Brian did not hesitate and shouted a higher price. Of course, Brian my friend could not pay the tenth of the price offered. The other three beside me tried to calm Brian, but the offer was already suggested. Thank the Light, the lord from the crowd offered a higher price and won the woman. Then Brian turned to me, his face serious and white as a sheet. I used to be known as the quick minded among the group, for my quiet nature and listless appearance.

“Do something.” He demanded, his voice surprisingly stable. I then took the deadly decision in my life. One of these moments when you can feel the Pattern lean over you, watching, as you make the twist that align your thread in the Pattern accordingly. However, if I were to return to that moment, I would have done the same.

Leaping on the stage, my body was small enough to surpass the hired guards. The lord that bought Brian’s sister was already on his half way to the stage, to pick his prize. I am not sure who I knocked down the announcer, but I think I just kicked his leg. Everything seems to be working as a great rescue mission, but the dream ended when I discovered the chains that bounded the woman’s wrists and ankles. The town’s guard managed to get on the stage by that time, not bothering to draw steel against a young boy as myself. One of them lifted me with ease, and another one stroke Brian’s sister hard, as if she was guilty for my actions as well. As if the humiliation of being sold publicly was not enough, the guard kept hitting her, there on the stage.

Years later I killed the guard, but until that time, the Pattern slapped me hard. Brian placed the guilt on my shoulders. His sister was sold from hand to hand, until she died a sudden death a few years later. Apparently the despair was too heavy to carry. But for me, the burden was even harder. My family could not do anything. Both my parents worked nearly all day and night to support my two sisters and me. But that was no different than any other family in Illian these days. A walk outside the house for me was endangering risk. Boys I’ve never seen before under the leadership of Brian stalked me into an alley and by the time I left it, I could barely walk. Eggs and even rocks smashed into out house’s windows and one time my father’s cart was broken and burnt.

I tried to protect myself, but I was short and slim, not as offensive as I eventually turned to be. I picked a staff every time I left the house, and even managed to hold the others off for a short while, until one of them seized the staff and broke it. I found it easier to manage for my small size the staff as sword, rather as a quarterstaff. I tutored myself with the sword-like stick in our small back yard for several weeks. Eventually there were times I could strike the others hard enough to flee in time and actually manage to escape. It was only a period of time, and even though I knew it back then, it lasted for four whole years. I then departed to Ebou Dar.

At any point of my life I said, or will say that I got familiar with Ebou Dar costumes and habits. Ebou Dar is a tough city for a lone child, and although I was near my twenty winter’s age when I left the city, I did not enjoy a single moment of it. Challenges and risks were of daily matter, and it seemed only a true Ebou Dari could hold it for lifetime. Even the time spent in taverns, festivals and celebrations was sour. I was disconnected from my family, friends and homeland. And all along I lived with hate. Hatred that grew with each passing day. Close to my twenty birthday I was on the edge of breakdown. Life was decaying on daily basis, like a skin on a dying man. The streets were hard, the manners were strict, and the working places were only a function of time. I considered sailing north toward Arad Doman along with an acquaintance who owned a ship, but then a word reached my ears in some dirty tavern in Rahad, where I used to sink in ale. There is nothing much to further on the period in my life in Ebou Dar. A depressing period in which I was forced to live like a dog.

Brian became a successful lord in Illian, and a member of the Council. Like the guild’s fireworks, something flared inside of me, burning, aching and torching. And so I sailed back to Illian. It was a curt visit of five days, if my memory still. I killed Brian the night I entered the city. I then owned the green-hilt sword, which I still have today. Brian’s mansion is as clear in my mind as though it was last night. He was asleep when I breached in, and at final decision I made my mind not to wake him. The day afterwards I hid in a deserted structure on the suburb of Illian. There, in that stink place I decided to kill the debt I owed to Brian’s friends. I left Illian four days later, after I killed five of them, and learning what I could of the rest. The rest were well spread from the Aryth Ocean to the Spine of the World. But I had nothing else to do, or anywhere else to go. And the hatred still burnt.

I had enough money to buy a horse and depart northwards to Far Madding. The only things I loved that time were my sword, and training with it, and the horse. In Far Madding I was forced by the Peace Seals to murder the man with bare hands, but other locations were easier. Throughout the years as I traveled across continents, I learned much and seen much. I knew the world better then I could dream of as a child. Amadicia, Andor, Arad Doman, Saldea, Tar Valon and few more visits as I crossed borders to shorten my path. I thought I’d live forever. The system of crime capture in most places was so corrupt and disoriented, some times I spotted the guy on the street, and simply stabbed him right where he stood. I believed nothing could stop me.

And then, about four years from my departure from Ebou Dar, I headed north, with a goal to reach Shayol Ghul and swear fealty to the Dark One. I made hard decisions along my travels, but nothing came as easily as this one did. It seemed only natural that I wasn’t like other men. I was plain evil, and if I liked it or not, it felt like my duty to the world. My soul was black and tainted, and my blade was dark from blood. I thought I would find others like myself in the shadows. Lurking and seducing, I headed north.

As I reached the borderlands, I realized the Shadow was one step ahead of me. A Fade paid me a visit before I even crossed the Mountains of Dhoom. He took me away, a dark remote place, where I swore to the Great Lord. And then the massacre period in my life began. Fades were ordering me around to murder Light men, deserted Darkfriends or their families. The killing lost meaning to me. Once it was with purpose. Righteous or not, I had a goal in my head when I shoved the blade into the fool’s chest. But when I was ordered to bring the head of a minor lord in Tear, or wrack the house of a merchant in Caemlyn, in was pointless. Of course until years later I did not notice that. So I kept on killing. The Fade ordered, and I obeyed. It was simple.

My channeling ability I discovered nearly three years after I aligned with the Shadow. It was, as I remember clearly, in a village south of Caemlyn. The townspeople, unlike other villages’ population, decided to execute me after I killed a runaway Darkfriend. It was pointless to fight the mass, but I did. However the travels shifted and shaped my personality, I was afraid of death that day. A massive eruption brightened the night and flames danced all around. Hurling and hissing, they scorched the townspeople. I hurried to escape and isolate in an inn inside Caemlyn. I knew the meaning of the event, and even felt it closer this time. I had no doubt such thing will happen soon. So I made my mind to ride north, a half a day ride, a distance short for two different worlds, to the Black Tower.

Here I reach the second part of the tale. The Black Tower caused a twist in my life. No, I am not sure twist will be the right term. Even a change will be said at the least. But anyhow phrased, my whole life turned upside down since that day, a year ago. I was soon to find out that the Black Tower was neither a nightmare nor a fantasy. Actually, it was not vastly different than the rest of the world, rather its affect on the world and its population. The Black Tower, as any other place, slaves men to the truth. What do I mean?

We are all thralls to the feet of the community. We live by codes, dedicated to terms. This tornado we are all born into is built by the Pattern. It shapes the threads of life, and life shapes the Pattern. And what is the Pattern? The world of course. And what does it mean to be extraordinary, does it necessarily mean to be exiled? Obviously yes. A parent, a friend or a lover might accept us the way we are, but them alone do not shape the Pattern in a way to alter terms and codes of styles. They are only tiny parts of the whole. And so are we.

The Black Tower is not necessarily a sanctuary. It depends on what you’re escaping from. Of course it provides shelter from those who mean harm to the like of us, but aside from materialistic way, we just leap from one Trolloc pot to another. The Tower is hardly a place to grow. Perfect to train, however. Once you are in it, it is much like being reborn. I did not know a single man that his life didn’t change entirely since crossing these black-foreboding gates. Unfortunately, or perhaps not so unfortunately, a man may only notice this picture when looking back. I’ve been there twice, once since parting the Shadow, and twice right here and now, when I feel I reached the peak of my strength. We are swept into a massive eddy, which we cannot escape however hard we try. And as every seaman knows, the only way to escape is to let go and allow it to carry, in hope it’ll throw you away someday. It takes more than mental power to flee the system of bases other people weave us. More than once in my life, in the Black Tower and outside of it, I felt like being shepherded through a course ready ahead by human touch.

But I suppose not many are interested in philosophies of a growing Asha’man. I started my days in the Black Tower as anyone else. Through runs, work out, physical training and One Power training. The Black Tower was used to the Taint back then, and the infirmary held many more beds than it has today. Death and madness were not of fear; actually they were, but some managed to further and see beyond the fear of death, and concentrate on living, they were a fixed agenda. We fought the bounds that tried to tie us to ground, to a life consumed by slow decay. We were trained for the glory of the Dragon Reborn and Light, to be Weapons are his service. We did not realize the consequences of our acts. We killed, and butchered and slaughtered, but did not see the men we’ve become. Again, pulled by the eddy deep and hard. Everyone else were arrogant and superior, why should we be any different? We could destroy the world.

Soldier; I spent time as Soldier as average as any other in the Black Tower, however my tasks were double. Not once I received tasks from dark messengers at night, and that time, I filled all that was ordered of me. I wasn’t naive...rather, stoned. That was yet to change, however. As Soldier I met with men and boys that became my friends, the first true ones. Rubious, Jason and Brilven are only some of them, as well as Tahrmon al’Farlain. We spent time alone together, joint classes, trained side by side and fought Trollocs backs to backs. For a while I felt like the little innocent boy in Illian so many years ago. That’s where the twist began to spark, about the time I was raised to Dedicated.

Dedicated; Such a powerful word, much more appealing than the untrained, dangerous to himself, Soldier. We all felt pride in our chests as we were raised after the construction of the Fortress in the Blight, and the events around it. I think I will take a moment and explain the twist that has been made in my since that travel to the Blight. We Traveled to the Blight, and located the hill that has been marked by the M’Hael, Tahrmon, beforehand. We were divided into two groups, the guards, and the builders. Those who were talented with Ore Mining and Earth were laboring on the hilltop constructing the walls and the structures. The rest, myself among them, were scattered around the hillside, guarding the construction area. There I faced for the first time the issues with the delegation with the Shadow. Trollocs were racing uphill and we faced them. Light against Dark, one Darkfriends against his allies. There were no choices for me to pick; so I fought. I killed and I devastated. With the b****************************

But there was another issue that will probably never flee my mind, at Fortress one. It was Mar al’Kern. He was my role model to adhere to. A trained Asha’man by the M’Hael himself and the best men of the Tower. So I asked him to teach me to Blademastery, and he agreed. He was part of the Black Tower at that time, I think. He was already melted into the black walls, already at the eye of the whirlpool. But he managed to thrust himself out by the end. My fault as well. On a glance backward, I would have surrender my sword training for him to grow old in the Black Tower, instead of being nearly killed and burnt out because a Gholam chasing me and him in Two Rivers. Graendal was in that case. I believe she is still after me, but I cannot verify the owner of each Myrddraal trying to assassin me. Though I no longer live in fear of the Forsaken. I made peace with my death many months ago already. The period of my time as Dedicated is quite foggy to me. But the twist I mentioned earlier was working bigger that time. I began receiving tasks with orders to kill, steal and destroy. Spying was over for me. And then some emotions broke to the surface. I did not kill who I was supposed to, and satisfied my superiors by stealing ter’angreal and valuable information.

My first Asha’man period was the hardest of all. Both Shadow and Light clashed inside of me as tidal waves against cliffs. The Shadow was dangerous, tempting and compelling and promised death wish to all that part it, however the Light was protective and comforting. As Mar and the others pulled me into the Light, greedy and lust hang on the other side. It was a conflict too difficult for a human to decide, and so the consequences happened as it did. As an Asha’man I taught, learned, fought and less trained. I felt like the weapon I was meant to be; but I was wrong and there was much to learn, as I still do.

The first suspicious happened that time as well. In Tel’aran’rihod lesson, guided by Asha’man Dekahda, we stumbled upon an evil bubble, and were transferred to the Blight, rather Thakandar. And Be’lal was already waiting for us. He and I aligned, and worked together as we knocked the entire group unconscious. Be’lal shifted Dekahda and myself elsewhere, a mountain top, where Be’lal placed compulsion patterns between Dekahda and a golden ring that I wore. And so, I could activate the compulsion weaves every time Dekahda looked at the ring under my shirt. A while after that visit in the World of Dreams, I commanded Dekahda to kill our M’Hael. Dekahda was not successful, but the compelling did not failed. Tahrmon had suspicious that someone within the Tower is a traitor, but the identity was kept secret.

Not long after the case, Tahrmon left the Black Tower to isolation, leaving behind Cameron al’Moran in the position he’d abandoned. Just as life went on, with the normal agenda for any average Asha’man, I thought my troubles were finally over, for Mar al’Kern also departed from the Black Tower (I believe I mentioned the reason earlier) awhile before Tahrmon’s. I was ready to sit back and fold my arms behind my neck, just as Tahrmon returned with that bloody dog. I am not sure yet which of the suspects alarmed the ex-M’Hael to my true identity. Whether it was someone outside the Black Tower, which identity I could never verify, or the dog, that seemed to have extraordinary senses, or was it Aegius Castion. I never gained full trust of the ancient man. His case was familiar to mine. He pledged his soul to the Light as well, however he was not revealed beforehand.

And then everything became the entanglement of my life. Tahrmon was back and alive, heading north to investigate some sort of Gates issues with some Asha’man, among them two of my best friends, Rubious and Brilven. Shaidar Haran, the Dark One’s personal delivery Fade, ordered me to travel to Shadar Logoth and halt the party from entering the city via the Ways. So I Traveled. Shadar Logoth was never a fond destination of mine, but I knew the city for its dangers when I entered it. Locating the Gate, I was soon to reveal to be too late. I hide, along with a pack of Trollocs and Myrddraals I gathered with me, and assaulted the group of Black Tower men, most of them known to me. Finally I managed to drive all the party scattered around the Ghost City, and I was left alone with Tahrmon. My M’Hael and mentor for occasions was not surprised.

As if nothing could go any worse, the Dragon Reborn appeared outside the city, channeling unimaginable amounts of Saidin to the city. Later we knew it for being the cleansing act. Thank the Light I did not run into any Forsaken that day. Anyway, alone in the city with Tahrmon, it seemed the man was… ready to die. I could not, and did not want, to kill him, but it was as if he was in a way dead already. I was only my blade that sank through his chest. There are seconds in life that you know you shall regret later, but duty to yourself and someone else was irresistible. It was the moment I raced for all my life. I grew stronger under the man instructions, I watched him move and channel, I knew his weaknesses and strengths, and knew I could not beat him in battle. I only wanted to delay him long enough for the others to get lost in the Shadar Logoth. But then again, the moment was right. We fought and we both lose.

The tension of the Black Tower men as they arrived after the cleansing was so great, I had to use Illusion to speak with them, in fear of my life before interrogation. The trial was committed at last. I thank Tahrmon for enlighten my dark eyes. Those days it was clear which cliff collapsed. No one is too deep in the Shadow not to be able to convert. Perhaps the Pattern had that intention all along. Tahrmon will be reborn someday at some age, and I will serve the Light as well as I can into the Last Battle. Ii was sentenced to demotion and constant guarding. I swore fealty to the Light, and pointed other Dreadlords in the Tower.

As Soldier once more, I was forced into humiliation and low spirit. Invisible bonds tied me to the Light stronger than I ever felt before. That period marked a new age in my life. As if I was reborn for the third time. Asha’man Jericho returned to the Tower back then, with specific order from the Lord Dragon to test on me if a Darkfriend could truly be converted back to the Light. Jericho, you understand, was a hunter. He hunted Darkfriends and renegades of the Black Tower for years. His lessons with the sword were the hardest, and most effective. No doubt the tales of his breaking classes were not confuted. At the end of my training, near Jericho’s depurate again, I was severed by him for using the One Power when I was not allowed to, and sent south to Amadicia and work my way back. Of course theoretically it was of not difficult, but severed and devastated, I hang in a nearby village and returned to the Tower only several months later.

Asha’man Cameron returned my pride and trust along with the sword pin and the dragon pin. And here I am today, training, teaching and researching my Talents. And as I look back I see many men and women in my life joining and parting, some I will never see again as Krynn Sedai from the White Tower or Tahrmon al Farlain, some I doubt their existence in the world, such as Mar al’Kern. Others that comprised turning points in my life, such as the occasion of the Black Wind, and the Blademaster Deathwatch Guard that unknowingly allowed me to free myself from it. And also some that crosses roads with my life thread in the Pattern, between them young Soldier Qintal and others of his recruit generation. And as I look forth, I see many more of all these categories yet to be added. More events that I will probably never write about anymore, more twist that will be only visible to the Creator, more curves of the Pattern, more blades to cut my thread of life from continuing.

But until then, I plan to live a life.

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