#janduin

Charn has simple but well made work clothes that reflect his upbringing as someone form a culture that still practices agrarian farming in a sci fi utopia. It's simple brown that looks more rough and rustic standing in contrast to Miren's sleek white lab outfit, but still contains the hints of modern amenity: his over the shoulder cape, the buttons on his coat and shirt. This is someone who lives in a society where he could be wearing something more clearly modern, but deliberately choose something humble and simple.

Then you have Rhodric in a much sleeker and darker version: the rustic agrarian element has been traded for a straight lines. Everything is imminently practical, from the thick soled work boots, to the leather vest with it's own clip and zippers, to the trousers that allow for range of motion. Rhodric was living through a time of war and now apocalypse. Even his people, sworn to peace, have been altered by the realities of the world they live in, and what their role as servants to Aes Sedai, leaders in that war, demanded.

Centuries later, the cadin'sor has been entirely lost, and Jonai is in what we can recognize now as Tuatha'an style clothing, which makes sense since this is where the two cultures split. Gone are the sleek uniform lines Rhodric was wearing but the deliberate rustic vibe Charn had has not returned. Instead everything is clearly (and messily) hand made. Threads are hanging off a poncho that is clearly hard used. Everything is ill fitting- on Jonai and every one else in this scene. Adan's shirt hangs askew because it's to large while Sulwin's skirt drags in the skirt because it's to long. Their are all these efforts at bright colors and patterning- but their irregular and imperfect. The breaking is taking it's hold and exacting it's price.

Two generations later, Jonai's great grandson, Lewin and his fellows have something that that is first step towards modern Aiel cadin'sor. Everyone has adopted browns and grey, brighter color has been dramatically scaled back, and while stuff still isn't fitting great, it's fitting better. Practicality is back as the main focus, and we see sharp lines return as well. Lewin is the ancestor that most resembles Rhodric, because like with Rhodric he has had to make concessions in himself for the realities of a violent world. The veil appears for the first time, and the colors are now locked in: brown and grey, to match their desert environment.

Jumping forward centuries again to the pre-Clan Aiel, we get Mandein, a sept chief from right before the Aiel cultural identity starts to codify. He is wearing a leather cuirass over a simple linen shirt- the colors are consistent now. and everything is well fitted. The biggest difference is how his rank as a chief is conveyed: he is slathered status symbols, from his cloak, to his sea shell necklace, to his spear with special inlay- all things that demonstrate his singular importance in a society grappling with scarcity. Their is also no uniformity when we see the other sept chiefs during the meeting- everyone is styled differently, draped in different kinds of status symbols. The modern Aiel as a culture now exists, but a common cultural identity is still in the process of forming and getting locked in.

I love the show's dedication to "we have to give the book Aiel rattails a cameo somehow."

[Send me a fandom, character, or pairing and a one word prompt and I'll write a quick drabble for you! Still taking these by the way!]

From where she crouched on the bank of the River Erinin, Shaiel gazed out at the Andoran shore and tried to recall being Tigraine Mantear.

It was a cold morning, and she had wrapped herself tightly in the coat of her cadin’sor, her veil raised as much to keep a chill from his cheeks as to be ready to kill. First light was just beginning to break, turning the Erinin from black to a pale glassy blue and illuminating the small town on the opposite side.

Walls that had been indistinct shapes an hour before loomed now, solid and two stories high. There wasn’t enough light yet for Shaiel to make out the banners that waved above some of the squared watchtowers- but she knew it would be the white lion on red, followed by the sigil of whichever house claimed the town as its own. That was the custom, this side of the Dragonwall.

She wondered absently who had ultimately prevailed in the Succession and if they were the ones holding this town. There had been a Succession- she had learned that much since crossing the Dragonwall, though she did not know the details. She had not tried too hard to learn them. She had told herself that it was because she didn’t want to know how many had died for her choices. But maybe that had just been an excuse.

She hoped Galad was well. She hoped for that desperately. But she knew it was not likely. Not the way Taringail had been raised to play the game. And he would have been in the thick of it- Taringail would as soon give up on breathing as give up on his hopes of power. She longed to see him on the battlefield almost as much as she feared seeing Galad.

But if either her former husband or her son were fighting, it would not be in this town on the border- where no one expected the Aiel to strike.

Do you know its name? Janduin had asked her in the small hours two days ago, when Waterseekers had returned with reports of the river, and the town beyond. He had waited until they were alone, so as not to put her in an uncomfortable position before her spear-sisters, something she was thankful for.

Shaiel had not. Tigraine Mantear would have. Tigraine had known the name of every town in Andor large enough to have tower walls, especially those on the border with Cairhien or Murandy. But Shaiel had needed to forget so much of being Tigraine Mantear- not because she had wanted to, but to make room for all the things that came with being Shaiel. Hand signs and spear work techniques and which plants indicated water and how to treat a garra bite and- the list went on and on.

Was there really a time when I thought I would never fit my new life? She wondered, running a finger along the edge of her spear. She could remember those doubts and fears- at first that she would be too brittle, too rigid in herself to become Far Dareis Mai. Then that she would be too soft and weak, that she would never measure up to even girl children with skirts above their knees, never mind her teachers and spear sisters.

And now…

“You don’t have to do this, sister.”

Shaiel blinked and looked up. Sulin had moved out of the brush to crouch beside her. All along the river bank were two scores of other Far Dareis Mai and another of score spears from other warrior societies. Tigraine would never have known the signs- no wetlander noble girl could hope to spot an Aiel that did not wish to be spotted- but Shaiel could see the faint shadows, the careful rustling of leaves and brush, spot the occasional flash of cadin’sor shifting, that told her the truth.

Sulin had been one of Shaiel’s most faithful teachers. She was Goshien, not Taradad- but in Chumai for her brother’s wedding when Shaiel had arrived there. Sulin had insisted on being among those to oversee Shaiel’s training. All Maidens had pride in being Maidens. But Sulin had pride in Far Dareis Mai as an ideal and would not accept the slightest degeneration in the society’s standards. She had been the most brutal and exacting of all those who taught Shaiel- accepting no excuses and expecting not one whit less then she would any prospective Maiden.  If Shaiel were blindfolded at midnight, one punch would be enough to tell her if it was Sulin attacking her not- she would know the woman by the shape of her fists alone.