Notes: The Path of Daggers spoilers! Several quotes and scenes are taken directly from the books.
Calling this femslash is misleading because (more spoilers) it's totally unrequited. This is more like bisexual-Berelain-has-a-nasty-crush-she-doesn't-want-to-acknowledge. I always thought there had to be more to their mutual hatred than a desire to claim Perrin, so have some lady-on-lady supposition instead!
As a side note, this story is set in a different AU than my T-series femslashes. I normally prefer the canon relationships, especially Perrin and Faile, but couldn't pass up more WOT lady hateships. Mentions of Faile/Perrin and Berelain/Perrin.
Read, review, and enjoy!
Ruins
When Berelain is alone she cracks her knuckles (relishing each jarring pop of release like a lover's kiss on her flesh) and thinks of the only person who's ever managed to get under her perfect, porcelain skin. It is a nervous tic, popping the space between her bones, though she will deny it until her dying breath.
She continues the crackling symphony as she twists (harsh, unladylike, ugly) at the base of her neckbefore the motion travels down her spine like the vibrating strings of a gleeman's strummed lute.
This private ritual is something she controls. (More intimate, personal, and embarrassing than anything else in her mind.) She never intends to share that side of herself with another, future husband or otherwise, and is perpetually grateful that it doesn't show like half-chewed fingernails or manically yanked-out hair. The words visible and weakness simply don't go together in Berelain's vocabulary.
Then (like always) Faile ruins it all.
"That's revolting," she says flatly.
Faile sits haughtily at the head of the table, slanted eyes looking down over a too-big-to-be-pretty nose. She idly pushes back dry cuticles, not bothering to glance up when Berelain strolls in the dark tent absent-mindedly cracking her fingers.
Berelain jumps, too startled by the other woman's presence to school herself into stillness. Her heart rises into her throat as she curses herself for wearing her embarrassment like a gaudy gilded badge across her chest, proclaiming her shame for all to see. Of all people in the world, Faile is the last she wants to catch her in a private moment. Better one of the Forsaken or the Dark One himself.
(This never happens. She doesn't just slip up.)
But the most beautiful woman in the world wants to crawl into a hole and die of shame. (She cannot shake the notion that she's been unknowingly violated- she entered thinking she was alone.) Berelain stands stunned like startled doe, lower lip fighting back quivers that simply don't suit her face at all.
Her dark eyes widen- mind twisting, heart pounding in fear- before she snaps back, "Perhaps you have too sensitive a stomach, Lady Zarine."
(They excel at defiling each other's holiest of holies.)
"Do not-"
Alliandre and Perrin enter the dark tent silently, flap momentarily catching in the Ghealdean breeze behind them, and Faile bites off her reply. She leans back into the shadows before calmly greeting the others as if nothing happened. Alliandre lights lanterns and candles around her liege-lady, orange glow emphasizing her pitch-black hair and hooked nose. Perrin looks cautiously (as always) at his wife but says nothing.
After the others file in for the meeting, the First of Mayene finds it difficult to concentrate. Faile watches her intently from across the map-strewn table, hands laying serenely on her armrests like a queen (or a warlord) upon a throne.
She would make a frightfully capable ruler: proud, intelligent, fearless, wise. The Basheres are second only to Tenobia herself, and have gift-wrapped kingdom at their disposal. (Meanwhile, Berelain has to beg and lie and simper and fuck to see her people safe. She will not let Mayene suffer beneath the feet of giants like Andor and Illian, no matter the personal cost.)
It all seems rather unfair to her.
The whole group looks to Perrin when he asks about the Prophet. Only Faile does not turn her gaze to her husband, and only Berelain seems to notice the scythes behind her eyes.
(Crack.)
Hardly moving, Faile casually pops the knuckle of her right index finger beneath her thumb. The beginning of a smirk flickers in the candlelight, and Berelain hates herself for cringing but the noise makes her want to cry for reasons she doesn't understand.
That mocking bitch, she quietly seethes. No outward sign of displeasure mars her elegant demeanor.
She does not give herself time to process the emotions coursing through her veins (because crumbling is not an option). She does not react to the memory of her cousin, Laurain, tugging cruelly at her hair when she is only six and telling her she will never be pretty enough to be a princess, even if she already holds the title. She does not acknowledge that she feels as helpless, small, and weak as she did all those years ago sniveling behind the hanging vines in the Mayene water gardens.
Most of all, Berelain does not admit that, in this moment in a tent full of her peers and superiors, Faile ni Bashere t'Aybara is bringing her pain in a way no one else could.
Sulin asks a salvo of sharp tactical questions that snaps her from her reverie. She recommits to ignoring her spiteful rival across the table. This is nothing to her.
(Crack.)
A middle finger this time- the one with the square, gold-flecked azure stone. It is a lovely piece of jewelry; one of few that Faile consistently wears.
Berelain stares back at her, impassive. She will not be moved. She idly crosses her legs and rests her chin on her fingertips as if bored. Faile's eyes narrow (the miniscule movement is a victory of the highest order); she dislikes this turn of events.
(CRACK.)
Her entire left hand snaps in a brutal crunch, loud and unrepentant. Alliandre glances up at the noise, but Faile's uncouth taunting goes otherwise unnoticed. The Saldean's tongue licks at her lower lip, appraising the First of Mayene like a starving wolf in a sheep pen. Her face is charged with a novel intensity that Berelain cannot pinpoint.
(Rage. Competition. Lust.)
The realization hits like a slap to the face, and unsettles her to the core. Faile has never looked at her with those intentions, never provoked Berelain sensually (though it may have proven a more fruitful form of torment) with body language that implies her knuckle cracking is only foreplay and the real fun is yet to come. Her eyes hold a promise.
(A promise Berelain's entire body aches to receive.)
Instead she clenches her pearly teeth and blushes hotly. She is a queen, not a harlot, despite what some say. Against her best wishes, the First of Mayene thinks, She would never... not with Perrin around. She's too faithful. Too stubborn. I'm misreading her.
(She refuses to acknowledge her own ferocious desires, not for kingdoms or security or gold, but her craving to make Faile shriek into satin pillows and release all that hatred that festers between them. She's dreamed of it. She wants it desperately.)
The rest of the meeting is a complete disaster. Berelain retreats to her tent as soon as they are dismissed, feeling Faile's inescapable glare on her back like a blade pressed between her shoulder blades.
Weeks later Faile insists they go hawking- Berelain rolls her eyes melodramatically at the overblown metaphor- and spends her time speculating with the ladies, maids, and Maidens about politics and the Prophet and the slew of unending problems they face.
The Winged Guards surround Berelain behind them; she's made it clear that she rides with her men (even if it stinks of horse and sweat, and the view isn't half so lovely as it would be with Faile, Bain, Chiad, Maighdin, and even long-faced Alliandre- how is this hunting party so loaded with beautiful women?- riding a bit closer) and they cluster protectively around her in return.
Faile's voice carries, high and clear, a soprano that manages by some miracle to permeate through the ranks, and serves as a strange juxtaposition to her husband's gruff bass. Looking at the dark, weapon-wielding Saldean, one would assume she speaks in a husky alto like Berelain's. Faile is an odd bird though (pun intended) and seems to enjoy crushing all pre-conceived notions about herself with an iron fist. The Mayener smiles just a touch at the thought.
(She won't say it aloud, but Berelain admires that in a woman. It's something rare-)
Three riders approach at a gallop.
Without sparing a second glance for the others, the man and two women report to Faile. The Winged Guards shuffle closer to the First of Mayene (who wishes they would stand still because it's already difficult enough to eavesdrop and the clinking of their tackle is unbearably loud) as she shifts daintily in her saddle. Her swan neck cranes to hear.
The rest passes in a blur: news of the Prophet dealing with Seanchan, Faile's lips tightening into a flat line of displeasure, then a cry from the rear ranks, "Shaido!"
With a gasp she whirls, clawing futilely at the dagger hidden in her corset. Two of the men on the periphery of her circle have fallen with spears jutting through their necks, two more are dropped by arrows before they can unsheathe their swords. Her horse, some unnamed mare borrowed from the camp stables, kicks and screams as the bodies fall around her.
Run! Faile! We must run!
Faile is screaming to tell Perrin- to ride like fire- long legs rigid in her stirrups, blade in hand. (More beautiful now than ever.) Suddenly her horse rolls, shot through the chest, dead before it hits the ground. She is covered by attacking Aiel.
"Faile?" Berelain whispers. Her voice drowns in the frenzy as she watches Shaido crawl atop her like ants from a kicked hill. (Here stands the First, powerless as a child. She cannot save her, and no one can know that she wants to.) The rush of an arrow past her nose makes her shriek, a pitiful yelp from a cowardly, kicked dog. The men around her are dying or dead and her escape path is quickly closing.
Run. She wants you to run.
Berelain spurs her dancing mare to the west, wiping tears from her eyes with a lace-gloved hand. She rides like fire back to camp.
(The world is upside-down.)
She doesn't quell the rumors her maids start about the dalliances with Perrin. After all, what if Faile is gone forever? He'll need a suitable woman to stand by his side, and he can do so much for Mayene with his wife out of the picture. Strike when the iron is hot, after all.
He's a blacksmith. He'll understand that analogy... They've certainly killed her.
Berelain's breath is shallow. Her eyes are empty in the privacy of her tent.
(She should be jubilant. Farewell, rival. You lost the game.)
Her knuckles pop loudly beneath her fingers, as if of their own accord.
She might have survived, that stubborn bitch.
Berelain doubts this notion, but presses the ache in her heart into submission by repeating it. She can't afford to shift her focus to a dead woman (even a dead woman with furious eyes who hates her with so much passion) so she casts her memories aside like a broken diadem. Perrin is her goal again. Her prey, her target, her tool. He is ta'veren, and is more useful to her- to Mayene- anyway.
Faile is dead. It hurts.
(Not a victory.)
No one can know.
(A rout.)
"You promised we weren't done," she murmurs to no one.