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(Just for reference, bold is past events happening from his capture by the manor, normal is right now, and italicized is thoughts/voices.)

His eyes fluttered open, though he did not know if he had thought of opening or truly did. Darkness enveloped him so greatly he was not even sure of his vitality. Raising up, he righted himself to a sitting position. He vaguely remembered the battle that brought him here.

Sword flashed outward, fending off attacks that promised to stick him with a poisonous barb. The attacks came lightning fast. He barely had enough time to react. There was no time for thought. Down a hallway he was dragged. Darkness grew darker and darker. The intensity threatening to blind him from his attacker.

He blinked. He was sure of the action, though he still could not prove the action. His mind waded through a haze of confusion and unclarity. Somewhere, he heard something.

Another journey. A quest. A triumph wrapped in defeat. A vision, a truth, deceit and betrayed. Yesterday's thoughts and tomorrow's hopes, little seems to steady me today. I sit alone atop a mountain of uncertainty, a chain of ambition. A world of potential. Wasted due to hesitation. A balk at merit, of success. From yesterday I acknowledge the misplaced step. Tomorrow brings a clear footing I cannot take. And I am left with a simple and fulfilling question that utters its echo through all highways of thought and all rational logic to dictate how things function:

"Hello?" he managed, his throat dry. His voice came as a croak, a misinformed joke of humanity. He tried clearing his throat, tried to determine if the patpatpat he heard was real or not, tried to feel if he was still alive or damned into hell itself.

He pushed himself up, the words of the visionary striking a resemblance of all he had once spoken himself. His side burned with wound. He felt for it, feeling the moist of blood, the warmth of life spilling forth.

He struggled in vain to find an advantage to his assailant, though he fought nothing he had ever encountered before. Veins like arms reached out to him. This monster was spawn of the Blight. Lightning fast attacks darted for him, aiming for any strike to wound him. Any wound, he was sure, would mean certain death. The light faded, the world he saw becoming grayer and sickly with the void of life. And in a moment of desperation, he saw an opening and took it. The tentacle that gripped him released him from its death grip. Downward he fell, clambering over himself as he tried not to fall on his own sword.

The sting of a slice brought a gasp to him, his side now a furnace of fire. He had only a moment before the attacks resumed and the pain in his side was forgotten for his life mattered yet again.

He listened to the voice he heard. He became more and more certain it was inside his head, but that seemed of little concern. He pondered the question it proposed and as the single word came to his mind, he spoke it aloud as it was spoken in his head.

Why?

He stumbled toward the sound of dripping water. He used it as a beckon of hope and salvation. He felt that his crutch was hope unrelenting. He did not know what he might do should he reach the water and truly find he was lifeless and cold. The salvation he sought would surely be ripped from his reaching fingers. He wondered about death, too. He wondered about the taste of the water when he reached it. He wondered a lot of things, but what wondered him the most was the single question he had spoken aloud.

But the answer is not fulfilling. The answer is never simple. What I lack in knowledge I make up for in failure to act. I wish atop this mountain I call home I might discover a path down the steep slopes. That, for a day, I might be king of my world rather than pawn or vagabond of listless enthusiasm and unrelenting lackluster.

The tentacles, the vines of corruption that raced after him seemed to be herding him somewhere. He fought against them, his speed alarmingly slower due to the wound in his side. He held on with desperation. But the vines never stuck him with their poison. It seemed as if his slower speed was matched by his adversary. As if they were equals and each blow taken was a blow given. He fought now by the outline of shadows. Detail eluded him and somewhere in distant thought, he knew that should he mistake a shadow for an attack, it would be his end.

He needed perfection in what he did. He needed to be better than he had ever been before. And something swift struck him from the side, knocking him off his feet and across the floor.

He felt along the cold stone walls, his steps lazy and weak. He couldn't be sure if the dripping water was growing closer or not. He hoped it was. He hoped he was not wasting his time and energy. He needed desperately to reach the source of this noise and partake of its life-giving effects. He needed something pure. He yearned for this salvation. But the voice continued to distract him from his mission.

I am inspiration's antithesis. I am the antagonist of all that is joy. Not because it is something I cannot attain for my own self worth but because I fail to understand how to cherish it. I see victory before me, within my grasp and I flee as if it were a poison to antagonize my spirit and consume my soul into a back abyss that brings decadence and writhing pity. The story of isolation, of purification from all potential influences is a sorrowful revelation of irony. For any that are alone are never truly alone.

A stone unset on the gritty floor caught his foot, toppling his form to the ground. He grunted on impact, the shock of unseen attacks on his balance and pride more alarming than the fact he had fallen. He did not attempt to stand again, instead crawling.

He scrambled away from the pursuing onslaught of crushing blow against the ground. Boards splintered and all he could manage was to escape the next crushing blow. He finally managed to find his feet and jump, a brush of a tentacle speaking volumes as to how close he had been to finding death.

His jump, though, robbed him of the ground he assumed he would find. Instead, he fell weightless into blackness. Vision was now a crutch. He closed his eyes, listening for anything, hoping he might survive this fall. The fear of finding no ground, or the sudden surprise of the ground tormented his spirit. He fell for what felt forever until his feet thudded harshly on the wooden boards a story below. He tucked and rolled with the impact, minimizing the damage he would take.

His feet stung from the impact, but he stood victorious over a small battle and waited for the rush of another attack. It was then he felt heat racing toward him. He opened his eyes and saw fiery red hurling toward him.

He clawed at the dirty ground, willing himself to go faster. He felt lethargic and unaccustomed to the task at hand. His mind still spoke to him, as if reaching forward to him from the past.

Those who are fleeting from companions of life find their shadows more damning than the gentle reach of a compassionate hand. Why is it I run from relief? Do I understand what freedom I might endure if I give a chance to what I have never embraced? Can I envision what I do not know? Should I fear it? Reckless abandon to that which brings mystery and propaganda to my existence. I'm nudged to take this directive. To abolish what I have survived for so long. To condemn the injustice I have cloaked myself with. To refute the whispers and taunting that wreaks hell and scrutiny against my psyche that I am inadequate.

“Silence!” he screamed. He recognized the word only because he had willed it into existence. To anyone else, it would have been a garbled mass of sounds. His voice needed refreshing life. He crawled further still, lying to himself that the sound of dripping water was closer. He truly could not rationalize that he was closer. He hoped and prayed that he was.

Fragile, I am. Broken for uniqueness. Criticized for all that I am because others are not. Long is the journey, the quest. Forever is the duration of this madness. I hope, yield sweet hope, that eternity does not face me as a tyrant of selfish indulgence and demoralizing damnation.

He held his sword before him as the wall of fire raced toward him. He froze in a moment of shock. Finally, he dove backward, blind to where he would land. He watched the detail of the wooden boards above him grow until the bright red orange of his end reached him. But rather than consuming him, they raced above him. He fell, no burn marring his body as he felt himself enveloped by refreshingly cool water. His only regret was that he had not taken a breath.

His crawling brought him to a wall and a split decision of which way to take him. The sound of water was in front of him. But he could not go that way any longer. He must choose a direction: left or right? He chose left, his crawl becoming a frantic stumble, his drunken gait sober only in that he was filled with desperation.

Will I know the path to take? Will I command the allegiance of men greater than me? Can I defeat that which haunts my essence and delivers to me a fear so unrighteous that even the devils of my heart shake in terror? Will respect befall me and ensure that the wisdom of my ancestors is enough to fight through the black of night? Will mercy encompass my destiny and guide my footing?

His armor weighed him down. The gash in his side a fire that he fought to ignore. And farther down from the brilliant fire above he fell. Details scrutinized into nothing and what was once clear became muddled. Spots of black began to overtake his vision. He was not sure if it was the failing light or something else, but his mind seemed suck in a slow stampede of uncaring delight.

Something wrapped around his ankle. A quick jerk and he felt the water rushing over him as he was dragged through the body of liquid. The spots of black grew larger and larger and he recognized only one inherent flaw with what was happening:

He was losing his grip on his sword.

He clung to it with all that he had left. Light had faded once more and he could no longer see the spots that had plagued his vision. He tried for a breath and found water rushing into his mouth. He coughed, though there was no breath left in him to push out the invading villain. He sucked for another breath, knowing in desperation that he would surely die here.

A wall greeted his hands flailing before him. A dead end to his journey. His legs grew weak in the moment of defeat.

Or will I collapse to my knees, the whisper of a single plea escaping my parched and cracked lips...

“Why!?” It was an echo of thought and of voice. Though both were different in sound, his voice hardly recognizable as an advocate for speech, his mind comprehended both as the same, identical plea.

This is the prayer of a king, of a savior, of a man with everything to lose. I pray my loss is the gain of those I am servant to. For king is slave, to lead is to serve. To die in glory is to immortalize the deeds of a charismatic dreamer. I pray this ideal survives the darkness of opposition. I pray that all has not been fought in vain. I pray that the embers of courage will begin a blaze of inspiration and heroism; a heroism that is true to form.

He sucked in and did not realize for several breaths that he was sucking air instead of water. He lay on his stomach, coughing to purge his lungs of the precious liquid. He pushed himself up on his arms, his vision clearing and the torment of an unimaginable headache bashing against the inside of his skull. The air tasted so sweet. The burn through his body was enough to forget the pains of the gash. The burn and ache through his body reminded him just how mortal his body really was.

For true heroism is remarkably sober, very undramatic. It is not the urge to surpass all others at whatever cost, but the urge to serve others at whatever cost.

He leaned against the wall, a tearless cry pouring forth from him. He had little strength or will to return the other way. He was not sure he could find the way, even knowing he need only follow the wall on his right. Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. But without hope to fuel it, there is only defeat.

Before him, when he managed to lift his head was the Heart of Darkness. Before him, a beast larger than anything he had imagined stared at him with an unblinking eye of molten fury. Picking up his sword, he seemed to understand that it was waiting on him. It seemed that it was waiting for a fair fight. As if it dared him to bring death and an end to the torment.

Bloodlust brought a flurry of memories. Parries and slashes. Dodges and blocks. Attack after attack. The burning pain in his side and the fatigue of having nearly drowned. He fought the beast and its many arms that tried desperately to take his life. This was the end. There would be no escaping this, that one would die. He had already written himself off as a walking corpse. But he knew he had to defeat this monster to save his friends above. That THIS monster would stop at nothing until it lay lifeless and satisfied that it had met its match.

He fought with no ground gained. He fought harder than he had ever fought before. He remembered the most intense battles of his past, of his past lives, and nothing compared to this. He fought with the will of the Creator, and even that seemed to fade and diminish into the bleak abyss of a stalemate.

Finally, he witnessed a mistake in the beast and an opening for a final strike presented itself. Hoisting the sword on his shoulder, he jumped, using a tentacle to gain elevation. The leverage of the sword on his shoulder allowed him to throw the blade with more force than he knew he could muster.

The blade whirled through the air, point over hilt over point until the blade pierced the molten eye. A soul shattering scream erupted from the beast, tentacles flailing frantically as it writhed in its death throws.

One tentacle connected in desperate fury and knocked him across the room into a wall, collapsing him to a heap on the floor, the world around him lost to his unconscious thought.

I pray my cost is adequate. Else all is lost to the cruelty of savagery. And I am already defeated, swaddled in death, alone and cold, forgotten and disgraced from all I love.

The wall he leaned against shifted and fell away from him, splashing into precious water. He fell with it, his mouth reaching just so to touch the cool liquid. He drank and drank, leaning over the broken wall without thought. He relished in the cold water for a long time before pulling back over the toppled wall and listening to the voice finish its speech. What he did not know was that he had given the speech the entire time.

“Give me strength and courage. I face myself before I face my enemies. I only hope I am not the greater villain.”

He lay sprawled in the dark, his mind whirling with chaotic thoughts. Flashes of his past blinded him with their intensity and their vivid portrayal of reality. Places he knew he had never been. Places that were long destroyed and lost to myth and legend. Places the Wheel had ground to nothing in its perpetual motion of time.

Yet, he knew all if it was true. He knew all of it was him. That he had been there. And somehow, he took comfort in that.

The other voice, though, he almost thought was another inside his head. But he had never heard a feminine voice within his thoughts. Always masculine words to chide him to do whatever their bidding was. And for so long now, he had fought those desires.

But now.. He sat up. He couldn't see anything, the darkness so absolute, but he could hear someone approaching, carefully and with what seemed a reluctant haste. He recognized the voice, though it was filled with an uncharacteristic grief and sense of absolute abandon.

"Liana?"

How in the light had she ended up here? Surely she had not followed after him when the monster had taken him hostage. Surely not...

He pondered Liana's words for a moment before concluding that either she had partial amnesia or she had been severed from the One Power. He had witnessed a few Aes Sedai being cut off and the result had always been a denial of the past. Or maybe not a denial, but definitely an accord of disassociation.

He fumbled for the small pouch on his belt, hoping that his fight with the manor's occupants had not damaged the contents. Untying the leather cord, he lifted the flap, his fingers dancing to find the contents. He pulled free a small, carefully wrapped package and peeled back the edges until what lay inside was presented to him.

He lay the contents, a small amount of tinder, on the ground before him, his hand selecting the driest spot he could manage. Then, with much struggle, he took off what was left of his cloak. The last knife he had cut strips blindly in the dark. He wrapped the fabric around the tip of the knife and reached into the pouch again. Flint and steel came out of the pouch next and, a moment before he struck the two together, he spoke.

"Shield your eyes."

Striking, a flash of light erupted into the darkness. It felt brighter than daylight and was gone before the mind truly recognized what had happened. Again and again he struck, trying to catch the tinder on fire. When he finally succeeded, he quickly caught the makeshift torch alight and blinked squinting eyes to try and adjust to the light faster.

He stood, his side a burning mass of hatred where the wound still oozed life out of him. He looked around, took note of the location. It appeared to be an underground garden with stone walls as a maze. The walls were short enough to climb but tall enough to not be able to easily observe the rest of the layout. The darkness, however, would prevent anyone from seeing too far. Then he studied Liana. She seemed unharmed where all physical appearance were concerned. But there was a hollowness to her eyes. A pain that he had no idea how to relate to and yet, a pain he completely understood.

"We need to be moving," he intoned, a softness to his voice that rarely escaped. He knew she was more fragile than she had ever been before. He offered her a hand to help her to her feet. His next goal was to retrieve his sword.