A/N: I don't own the Wheel of Time copyrights, and I had no part in writing
the series, this is just a fanfic.
~~~~~~~
Yaema knew he wouldn't last much longer. He knew his life was about to end. His worthless life, they had sent him away to die, for something he hadn't even wanted to have. It wasn't his fault he could channel. That didn't matter to them though.
****
It had started when he was five. Mysterious things happening all around him, things bursting into flame, dust storms appearing without wind, anything was possible. By age fifteen he knew he had a special power, he knew he was different. At age sixteen everyone else in the village knew. He hadn't meant for them to know. It had been a secret for so long. It was impossible to hide a building that had blown up. He was the only person nearby, they knew it had to be him.
Later that year they had sent him towards the blight, to spend his last time in a place where he could do no harm, only do good by destroying trollocs and myrdraal in his insanity. He had learned to control it somewhat. He could talk with the voice in his head, the voice no longer tried to take over, they shared the body.
He traveled south after they sent him away. If he could not live with his people, then he would not consider himself an Aiel. He bought a sword from a Caerhienin, and continued on to the Blight. He knew that he couldn't control his insanity much longer, it was starting to get harder to control, more things were happening without his meaning to do something. His emotions could kill, and he no longer wished to kill people.
He finally made it to the Blight. He id not know how he knew, the land was the same dry hot dead land he had grown up in, but in one step controlling it had become a fight, a fight he knew he could not win. The further in he went, the harder it became to control it. He ran out of food, he ran out of water. Then he stumbled upon a group of trollocs. He killed them all. Every last one of them, they were all dead.
He had been so long without meat, the trollocs were meat. He knew they were vile creatures made purely for evil purposes. Even so, he couldn't help himself, he had to eat it. He ate trolloc meat that night, and he drank their filthy drinks. He grew to hate himself for it, for he had just lengthened his life in eating. He was no longer on the brink of death.
He still had the sword he had bought, he was clad only in a loincloth. He had lost so much weight, his body would just not die. His hair was long and hadn't been cleaned in monthes, he had bitten his fingernails until they were short again. He hadn't seen trollocs for days, much less a myrdraal, or any other such life.
About one month later he spotted an army of trollocs and myrdraal to the west. They were heading right for his location. He knew they didn't know he was there, but he also knew they would find him in this flat, desolate, barren land.
Within 4 hours they had set upon him. He had channeled something, he did not know what, but it had taken so much out of him. He felt a loss, and he could no longer channel. He knew something had happened, something he had heard about in the stories. He was burned out. He had channeled so much that he had burned the power right out of him. He had also taken half the army down with it.
He battled for hours, hacking, stabbing, killing anything that came towards him. His body was stained red with blood, trolloc bodies lay all about, motionless, blood pouring forth from the fresh corpses. There was a smaller amount of myrdraal, still twitching, almost all of them, even shriveled up as they were from the loss of all their corrosive, black blood. They would not die so easily.
He could no longer see, and hearing was becoming a problem. He had lost his left arm a while back, it felt like years, he had lost track of all amount of time. His left leg was suddenly pushed out from underneath him, he could feel it, a long gash going down from his thigh to his ankle, crimson blood pouring out, mixing with the trolloc and myrdraal blood all around. His leg burned with the agony, from the pain of being cut, and from the corrosive blood touching the broken skin.
He screamed out in pain, a long, high-pithed scream that seemed to last for hours, all the while stilling slicing blindly at the bodies trying to kill him. A bloody mass suddenly fell upon him, a trolloc body, he knew from the stench.
Then, as quick as lightning, he felt detached, as if he was watching the battle from somewhere else. He looked down, and he saw his arm, and his head, poking out from beneath the body of a dead trolloc. The army was moving on. He knew something was wrong, he didn't understand how he wasn't in his body, then he realized it. He was dead.
~~~~~~~
Yaema knew he wouldn't last much longer. He knew his life was about to end. His worthless life, they had sent him away to die, for something he hadn't even wanted to have. It wasn't his fault he could channel. That didn't matter to them though.
****
It had started when he was five. Mysterious things happening all around him, things bursting into flame, dust storms appearing without wind, anything was possible. By age fifteen he knew he had a special power, he knew he was different. At age sixteen everyone else in the village knew. He hadn't meant for them to know. It had been a secret for so long. It was impossible to hide a building that had blown up. He was the only person nearby, they knew it had to be him.
Later that year they had sent him towards the blight, to spend his last time in a place where he could do no harm, only do good by destroying trollocs and myrdraal in his insanity. He had learned to control it somewhat. He could talk with the voice in his head, the voice no longer tried to take over, they shared the body.
He traveled south after they sent him away. If he could not live with his people, then he would not consider himself an Aiel. He bought a sword from a Caerhienin, and continued on to the Blight. He knew that he couldn't control his insanity much longer, it was starting to get harder to control, more things were happening without his meaning to do something. His emotions could kill, and he no longer wished to kill people.
He finally made it to the Blight. He id not know how he knew, the land was the same dry hot dead land he had grown up in, but in one step controlling it had become a fight, a fight he knew he could not win. The further in he went, the harder it became to control it. He ran out of food, he ran out of water. Then he stumbled upon a group of trollocs. He killed them all. Every last one of them, they were all dead.
He had been so long without meat, the trollocs were meat. He knew they were vile creatures made purely for evil purposes. Even so, he couldn't help himself, he had to eat it. He ate trolloc meat that night, and he drank their filthy drinks. He grew to hate himself for it, for he had just lengthened his life in eating. He was no longer on the brink of death.
He still had the sword he had bought, he was clad only in a loincloth. He had lost so much weight, his body would just not die. His hair was long and hadn't been cleaned in monthes, he had bitten his fingernails until they were short again. He hadn't seen trollocs for days, much less a myrdraal, or any other such life.
About one month later he spotted an army of trollocs and myrdraal to the west. They were heading right for his location. He knew they didn't know he was there, but he also knew they would find him in this flat, desolate, barren land.
Within 4 hours they had set upon him. He had channeled something, he did not know what, but it had taken so much out of him. He felt a loss, and he could no longer channel. He knew something had happened, something he had heard about in the stories. He was burned out. He had channeled so much that he had burned the power right out of him. He had also taken half the army down with it.
He battled for hours, hacking, stabbing, killing anything that came towards him. His body was stained red with blood, trolloc bodies lay all about, motionless, blood pouring forth from the fresh corpses. There was a smaller amount of myrdraal, still twitching, almost all of them, even shriveled up as they were from the loss of all their corrosive, black blood. They would not die so easily.
He could no longer see, and hearing was becoming a problem. He had lost his left arm a while back, it felt like years, he had lost track of all amount of time. His left leg was suddenly pushed out from underneath him, he could feel it, a long gash going down from his thigh to his ankle, crimson blood pouring out, mixing with the trolloc and myrdraal blood all around. His leg burned with the agony, from the pain of being cut, and from the corrosive blood touching the broken skin.
He screamed out in pain, a long, high-pithed scream that seemed to last for hours, all the while stilling slicing blindly at the bodies trying to kill him. A bloody mass suddenly fell upon him, a trolloc body, he knew from the stench.
Then, as quick as lightning, he felt detached, as if he was watching the battle from somewhere else. He looked down, and he saw his arm, and his head, poking out from beneath the body of a dead trolloc. The army was moving on. He knew something was wrong, he didn't understand how he wasn't in his body, then he realized it. He was dead.
