Blackness took the sky, the silent chill of the wind streaming down the empty dust covered road. The moon shone overhead, giving a light that just barely lit the streets. Shadows danced in corners, alleys, almost everywhere young Jarin looked. Horses were tied at the end of the road, their tails shifting with the breeze as the blackness pressed in around them. The wind swept her cloak up in the air, but she pulled it back from flailing behind her. Few doors held lanterns above, not in Fal Dara.

Only a few days had passed since the battle, which Jarin heard so much about. The only thing on anyone’s tongue was the valor with which the men of Shienar fought, and the honor they bestowed upon so great a city. A beautiful city, they called it. Jarin spat. No, Tar Valon was beautiful. Her parents had moved her from that beautiful city into this ugly fortress against the blight. It stood for good purpose, but it had nothing close to the marble carved walls surrounding the beautiful tower.

The women’s apartments stood high at the end of the street, where no man would dare to enter. There, she lived with her mother, a beautiful mistress of Tarabon. The street ended, curving off to the left and to the right. The darkness covered those streets as well.

The door creaked as she threw it open, slamming it against the wall.. What kind of a man sends his daughter of seventeen home from an inn because he would not want her to have to much wine, while he is already a drunken fool? She trudged up the stairs, careful not to stomp. Her sisters had gotten into trouble from running in the hallways while others were sleeping. The door she opened revealed her mother standing in front of the small mirror running a comb through her hair, and her two sisters sitting on the bed nearby watching the woman. The girls turned their head as they heard Jarin throw her cloak on the bed.

“Jarin, dear, what is wrong?” her mother asked, taking the comb between her teeth as she ran her fingers through the silky strands of black hair.

Jarin sighed heavily as the shy little girls stared at her, their eyes growing wide making them look almost frightened. “Father sent me home again, while almost falling over the table after downing yet another pint of ale.” Her voice sounded bitter, her eyes flashing in anger. She threw herself onto the bed, facing the ceiling. “Why does he not trust me? Why must he send me home every time he sees a boy serving me wine?”

“He cares about you, Jarin.” The curtains flailed wildly as the cold wind pushed through the window.

“I know he does, but… where are you going tonight?” she asked, giving up on the subject on her father. A drunken fool, he is.

“The girls are coming with me. We just wanted to take a walk. I had to comb my hair. We will be back soon. You need rest, it seems.” With that, she placed the comb on the table and she quietly stepped out of the room with the girls right behind her. Jarin laid back on the bed, squeezing her eyes shut. She hated this city, this entire country. The Light burn me if I will be ruled by some drunken idiot!

Suddenly, a gust of wind swept through the window, knocking over the only lantern that was lit in the room. The loud crash of breaking glass followed, but the wind died down to a soft breeze. She looked straight up, seeing nothing but darkness, feeling nothing but the bed underneath her, and hearing nothing but the now calm winds.

She kicked her slippers off, then awkwardly pulled off her dress while still lying. Throwing her dress on the floor, she reached for the cover of the sheets, pulling them over her head. All was quiet, quiet and dark. Her green eyes slowly closed, but it was the singing of the breeze put her to sleep.

...

The bell tolled midnight, waking Jarin from her sleep. The wind gusted through the windows again, the curtains reaching into the room. Neither her mother nor her sisters were home yet, which was surprising. It was too late at night to still be walking.

The sound of a marching, or running, became audible through the window. Jarin peered out, seeing still nothing but blackness. What was the noise? No one would be out in the street at this hour, but the running was not one person, but many.

A metallic clang sounded throughout the city, followed by giant black cloaked figures crawling in the shadows. What were they? What kind of city was this, with people crawling in the darkness of midnight?

“Trollocs!” A mans voice sounded through the city, louder than any she had heard. The man ran into her view of the window, followed not far by three others, one much taller than the other two. A black cloak popped out of the shadows behind the mans back. A flash of silver caught Jarin’s eye. The snarling Trolloc’s sword made little noise, but the man fell just the same. Screams woke the city, sending people panicking throughout the streets.

Three other black cloaked figures emerged on the two children, and two more on the woman. Knives, hammers, and swords were visible as the Trollocs pulled them out. The two girls began to cry as they saw these, burying their face in their hands, backing away slowly. Suddenly, the woman pulled a knife from her cloak, whipping around and stabbing a Trolloc in the neck, then another in the stomach. Wretched hisses pushed out of their lungs as they fell to the ground, their weapons clanging as they hit the ground, but another came from behind, swinging the sword over head into the back of her neck.

Jarin ducked from the window, throwing her door open and rushing down the steps, hitting all the doors she passed by. The street door creaked again as she quietly opened it. A Trolloc was still standing over the bodies, but turned when he saw her. He dropped a dagger into one of the small girls, then pulled out another. The horned beast saw the terror in Jarin’s eyes, hissing with delight. The wretch bent over, pulling the blood stained dagger from the child, then lifted it, licking the blood from the blade.

Jarin heard a shout from far away, then a hammer came whirling through the air, smashing into the beast’s skull. It shrieked as it fell to the ground atop the girl, where it flailed a moment, then laid still. The knives dropped from its hands, both covered in blood.

The Trolloc twitched as she pushed him off of the body with all of her strength, its armor clanking and its helmet grinding against the two horns that spiraled out from underneath its large, long ears. Jarin lifted the small head, brushing the hair out of the girl’s face.

Her throat tightened, tears began to roll down her cheeks as she recognized the little girl that laid cold in her arms. Her family had tried to run from the gates to warn the city, tried to run home to warn and protect Jarin. Her sister, because of her, lay dead in her arms. The beat of her heart was non-existent when Jarin checked the pulse. Her face was stone cold and a pale shade of white. Jarin laid the girl down in disbelief.

Not more than five feet laid the other small girl, her arms still cradling a small bear. Jarin picked up her hand, rubbing it in hers for a moment, then laid it back on the stuffed animal. Her sisters lay together on the street. Dead.

The streets ran red with blood, up and down, with carcasses piled of both Trollocs and men, women, and children. The faces of the dead were not peaceful and serene, but ghastly and horrified, most had been split or severed completely from the body. Under two Trollocs lay her mother, holding a knife in her right hand. Her eyes were open wide with terror still, her mouth open as if to let out a silent scream.

The man lay little more than ten feet away from the children. Taking his hand in hers, she felt nothing but the cold solitude of death. She checked his pulse, feeling nothing still. No sign of life lingered in the man, nothing about him was the same. A Trolloc blade still lay in his back.

As she stared at him, feeling almost sick, from the corner of her eye she saw a small twitch of the finger. She took it back in her hand, checking the pulse again, while rubbing it quickly to give some warmth.

A massive black shape appeared down the street, turning its deathly gaze on her. She saw it, but remained with her father, drawing his dagger from underneath his cloak. The beast began to walk towards her, seeming to smile, though no face could be seen underneath the black cloak it wore. Nothing but fear, death, and darkness took her; no courage could be found before its eyeless gaze.

“Myrddraal!” she heard a man shout. She saw the man pounce out from a street corner, his silver armor and broadsword gleaming in the moonlight. Another man fell in beside him, sheathing two shortswords on his back and pulling the longbow from over his shoulder. He shot the beast in the neck while the other advanced with his sword overhead. The man severed the wretch’s arm from his body with one stroke, then the head with another. It collapsed to the ground. The two men turned to the girl as behind them, the Mydraal began to writhe as if refusing to admit he had been defeated.

“Run, the city is under attack!” They began to run towards her, but she struggled away from them when they tried to grab her to pull her up. “Come! We must go!”

“My father…. He’s still alive! I cannot leave him.” She looked up from her father’s face to the two men, silver tears pouring out of her eyes and down her cheeks. These men had saved her life, but now she openly defied them to save her father. They had no right to take her away from him, no right to sever the bonds between a daughter and father.

Just the same, the two men swept her up by her arms as several Trollocs came pouring down the street. Men jumped from every street corner to defy them, clashing swords as they flung themselves between the beasts and the women’s apartments. Gently falling from the sky came the rain at first, then it came faster and faster, splashing onto armor and onto the streets. Jarin closed her eyes, but tears still managed to squeeze out. The wind pressed against her back as the men dragged her behind the lines of battle, to the streets that had not yet been razed by the bloodthirsty Trollocs. There, in the rain and amidst the death, they left her, then ran back to the battle. Jarin tried to stand, tried to be strong. Her knees grew weak, then collapsed back to the street as she buried her face in her hands. Men had gone mad when they saw the horrors of battle, of death, but had they seen a sight such as this one? How could they find the strength to live amongst the horrors of the world which they had seen first hand? Death would be pleasant, even if by a Trolloc blade, already stained with another’s blood.

Jarin wiped the tears from her eyes, looking around for a moment. The street was entirely empty; the screams came from everywhere but here. A few feet away rested a dagger, which glinted in the moonlight as she picked it up. She gathered all the strength she could to stand, swaggering a little as she tried to gain her balance. Standing for a moment, she looked around. Smoke rose in the direction of the women’s apartments and from the walls it seemed. Finally, Jarin gathered enough strength, and took of in a run, squeezing the dagger in her hand so as not to lose it. She would need it before the end of the night.

The walls of the city grew nearer, but she ran from the smoke that followed. The clouds veiled the moonlight; fire was the only thing that lit her way. The road ahead was not yet littered with the bodies of helpless victims, but it was inevitable. Men could not hold of the horror when it had come so suddenly and so unexpected. The city would be ravaged, ruined, and razed before the end of the night. Fal Dara would not stand for long.

She ran into the stables at a dead run; no guards were there to stop her. Her horse, Firefoot, was the only one that remained. She threw open the gate and jumped on him without bothering to saddle him. She grabbed his mane and kicked his sides as hard as she could. Sensitive as he was, he whined then took of into a gallop. She led him out of the giant gates of the city, but where would she go? The only city nearby was Fal Moran, which was sure to have been attacked as well. Southeast, she would go; to Tar Valon. Again, she kicked Firefoot and held onto him tight as they passed into the fields outside of the city. No stopping for anything, no rest. She rode on and on, guided only by the stars to Tar Valon.

...

The stars began to fade as the first rays of the sun peaked above the horizon. The trickle of water turned into a rush as she approached a great river; she had reached the border of Shienar. A giant bridge stood at the end of her road much like the one she had crossed to enter the city from Arafel. Firefoot kicked up the dust, making the world behind her all but a blur; a shadow of the past. She stopped once to let Firefoot have water, then, once again, mounted him to finish her journey. The horse took off again into a gallop when she gave him another kick, then they rode off into the morning sunlight. The day passed slowly as the horizon revealed more and more, promising even more beyond it. As she crossed the final river to the city, the fabled Dragonmount came into view, followed by the white walls of Tar Valon, though far off in the distance. She stopped, her eyes staring intently towards the White Tower. “Jarin Sedai, a fine name,” Jarin said in a whisper, digging her heels into Firefoot. The breeze picked up again, her dress waved in the breeze behind her, blowing the grass beneath the mare’s feet. There were no beginnings nor endings to the Wheel of Time, but this was a beginning.