Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Wheel, except the enjoyment it has given me over the years.

A/N: This one has been floating around in my head for a while. Hope you enjoy it. Was unsure of the rating this one should have, but then I realised it didn't really matter. If you have read the Wheel, you have read worse.

Dark Sun. Chapter One.

He sat by the fire, half empty glass nearly forgotten in his hand. It held the finest vintage that he had found in this age, terrible of course in comparison to what had come out of Sheshwan Valley thirty years before he had been born, but still the best he had found. He had become almost used to it by now. He felt a pause and then silent agreement. Strange were the things that you could grow used to.

His feet rested on the rug before the fire, his gaze however was drawn to the table set upon the rug. Or more correctly the black and white chequered board on the dark wood table. On that board rested the only piece of the game he had made. The Fisher King. The blindfolded man on a tile of black and white, blood dripping from a wound in his side. The fool.

He had once thought he controlled that piece. That he played a game he could not lose. After all, how could you lose when you controlled both sides of the board? He had once thought so many things. A mind so full of thoughts, spiralling in so many directions at once. A web that spun endlessly until those threads had finally touched each other somewhere deep and profound in the recesses of his mind. Then those threads had wrapped him in logic so sound, so perfect that he had walked the path willingly yet again.

His logic. That he had done this before. Always. That there was only one way out. Something continuously remained of the other. The ages mirrored and revered time after time. The memory held on to, a lesson desperate to not be forgotten. His thoughts, his logic had been incomplete. Why had he never thought, if he had opposed the other since eternity began, that something may remain of him also? An echo, a warning. 'Why had I never thought instead that I was perhaps the Fisher King?'

So many thoughts. Too many but then not enough. He felt impatience growing that would soon mirror his own. So many thoughts but as the sun crested the horizon far in the east and the sky outside began the slow march from deepest black to the various shades of grey mixed with ever increasing blue, only one thought made its way through his mind time and again. She had not come home.

'Find her.' The voice of the duality sounded in his mind for the first time in hours, the elder voice. The one he had first opposed. It had finally snapped.

He brought the wine to his lips slowly. Deliberately. He almost winced at the taste as the near coarse material worked its way down his throat. A deep unsophisticated richness, unbalanced. There were forests that needed the fire to burn. For long buried seeds to germinate from the heat, for life to begin again. Sometimes the barbarians brought new life, rejuvenation from stagnation. 'Other times,' he looked at his glass, 'simply swill.'

The younger voice of the duality came. 'Remember our bargain. Find her.'

The hand that didn't hold the glass gripped the wooden arm rest of the chair. He strained. It groaned. That was all he allowed himself. 'I recall the bargain. I heard her attempting to leave. I wanted to stop her. You threatened and…demanded patience.' He felt the unease of the other and showed it his anger. This was his fault. This impossible situation. This abomination. 'Give it to me.'

There was a pause, a consideration and then foolishness. 'Look for her. You will find her. Have faith in her. You will not need it.'

'Give it to me' he growled. 'As are all like her she is stupid. It was my right to stop her and you took that from me. With it I can find her in moments. GIVE IT TO ME!'

The pause was longer this time mixed with a sense of foreboding. 'If this is what you think and I give it to you…no one dies.'

He tossed the glass into the dying flames, the alcohol causing it to flare briefly. He bent forward in the diminishing light and picked up the piece of the Fisher King and studied it. Without he could do as he liked yet it could take hours and if something had, if something were happening, something more…He couldn't accept that possibility yet. With it would take moments, less than an instant. But if he found what he thought…

The elder voice came again, strained. 'Swear no one dies, on the bargain Elan. Swear like old times, before the Gates, and you can have it.'

He stood and slipped the Fisher King piece into his pocket. He moved over the creaking floorboards, across the small room, to the door. Methodically he put his jacket on, followed by a simple black cloak and picked up his heavy wooden staff. He pulled the door open and the heavy, cold dawn air hit him in the face. 'I so swear Kinslayer. However if it is more than I suspect and I find reason…'

He stepped down onto the cobblestone street as the other snapped angrily at him that he agreed. Instantly Saidin was there, burning on the horizon. He snatched at the pit of fire and ice, a paradoxical gift from a creator that knew he would spurn it, time and again, and wove as he inverted.

It was a simple weave, though those of this time would undoubtedly think it complex. He knew the one he searched for…right down to a somewhat familiar yet unique pattern of identifying chromosomes. One he memorised. One he had taken and preserved inside the Fisher King piece long ago. He turned his face up to the sky as the weave spread out. Distant suns still visible in the dark grey sky.

As the weave spread he idly considered how much convincing it would take to have someone of this time believe that to be true. His understanding of the human mind, mass perception, ingrained dogma and the pillars that a human consciousness built reason around did not lead to a kind conclusion for the degenerates of this age. The idea that he was responsible for that held no weight, if not he than an-

The weave closed around its target.

He was moving before he thought. He barely restrained himself from running. He did not, as ever, want to draw attention. Nor warn her he was coming. He moved through the streets of Caemlyn with the hood of his cloak pulled up, staff at his side. He ignored those he passed who walked huddled against the morning. Those that had errands to run but would prefer to still be abed. He ignored those who swayed drunkenly outside of inns and those passed out in the streets. He ignored those that begged for money, food and medicine. He ignored the refugees huddled in alleyways.

He once stepped to the side and let a patrol of city guard pass and twice did the same for merchant's wagons eager to make an early start. All three times he resisted the almost overwhelming urge to burn all to a crisp and simply walk unhindered through the smouldering ashes. He ignored the dualities new reminder that as she lived no one was to die as he ignored the early hawkers who tried to sell their wares. Those foolish enough to step in front of him with their goods quickly found someone else to bother once they saw his face.

The overcrowded, refuge of a cesspool mistakenly believed to be a city passed him by in agonizing slowness but eventually he came to an Inn in the newly rebuilt Lower City. Somehow despite this part of the city been newer than the rest, the sign above the Inns door was faded and charred in places, yet he was still able to read the inscription of The Burning Lance well enough in the dim light. The name made his mouth twist.

He did not bother knocking, ready to use the power to assist in getting inside, he was however surprised when the door swung open easily on well-oiled hinges. He walked into a common room full of stale low hanging pipe smoke, stained floors, mismatching furniture and a smattering of bleary eyed men deep in their cups. The scum at the tables hardly noticed his arrival but the lean hardnosed woman behind the bar eyed him wearily.

His stride hardly faulted, he could feel exactly where she was, to his left a few paces and up. He walked straight toward the stairs until the inn keeper's voice sounded from behind. "All my rooms are taken and all my patrons are in their rooms," he debated with himself as he turned and saw her point to one of the tables, "except for that one. You'll not be heading upstairs. If you have a message you can leave it with me and I will see it gets delivered."

He heard the other groan and then he began to mutter about the bargain over and over again as he lowered the hood of his cloak and moved forward. He muted the voice to a whisper as he slowly walked, he held Saidin now, it could not be removed without great effort. He let something enter his eyes, not his old tricks, but a depth leading to nowhere and the innkeeper began to flinch with every footfall. He stopped in front of the bar.

"Your patrons, is one of them, or did one of them bring a girl about this high," he indicated a point in between his elbow and shoulder, "with long black hair, green eyes and skin that was slightly darker than if it had been well tanned in the middle of summer?"

He saw her flinch again as she recognised the description. He channelled and she paled as both hearths in the common room flared to life. "My patrons," she stuttered, "have paid for their priva-"

"Your patrons," he cut in as he brought a finger down on the bar and began moving it around slowly. Blackened, smoking wood was left in its wake. She stared wide eyed and shaking as he continued in a voice that had even made onetime compatriots squirm, "have paid for your discretion. It is sometimes very wise to be discreet." He paused until she nodded in understanding. "However right now is not one of those times."

Shaking violently she put a hand on her side of the bar to steady herself. "You..," she paused and swallowed, "you are one of them?" he simply nodded in return letting her think whatever she wished. To his surprise the woman leaned forward and whispered, eyes wide, "It is far easier to be discreet when there are no bodies in my Inn."

The words made his blood run cold and his felt his cheek twitch. More than that must have shown on his face however as sweat began to pour of the Innkeeper in waves. He leaned forward, letting her fear linger for far longer than was necessary. "Agreed." She almost collapsed, "yet should I ever have to return here due to a …indiscretion…"

He had thought the word would linger, but the innkeeper was shaking her head before it was even fully formed. "There will be no need, I swear by the Light. I will never utter a thing." She pointed. "They're in room four. Left at the top of the stairs, first door on the right."

"On your life than." He smiled brightly and she swayed as if she was about to faint. He tossed a gold mark on the table and louder he said, "For helping me find the girl and for any other issues that may arise." And with that he turned and walked to the stairs, not bothering to wait for a reply.

The men at the table paid him no heed. One had fallen asleep while he was talking to the innkeeper, others stared at empty cups and one or two gazed drunkenly toward the hearths with bemused expressions on their faces.

He took the stairs evenly, no hesitation in his stride. He knew what he would find now. He reached into the cold and unforgiving part of his soul, surrounded himself in the logic, the understanding of the animalistic rage that some part of him was surprised he felt. He reached deeper, to what made him what he had been, who he would always be. To the part that knew none of this mattered, that this was simply one of the few times he would live knowing the full truth, a stopover before an ignorant rebirth.

He felt trepidation from the one whose soul had been link by the balefire, he seemed to be screaming. He reached deeper into what some would term his darkness, but was rather simple undeniable logic, nothing, and no one, really mattered in the end. There was only one truth. He drew on Saidin as deeply as he could manage and pushed through the door, giving a nudge with the power at the lock.

There on the bed lay two people. One a blond man he did not recognise, fast asleep, a tattoo on his shoulder. In front of him lay Semirhage's gambit. The product of a round of punishment demanded by the Great Lord a few months before the bore had been sealed the first time, kept to be used against him. It had failed, he had cared not. He still remembered the starved, beaten, mewling creature he had been forced to retrieve after the Dragon had died, could still remember how she looked when the terms of the bargain had been struck.

She lay before him now, blinking dazedly from the bed up at the sudden burst of light. The sheet covered her lower half, the man's pale white arm stood out against her subtle chocolate as it wrapped around her middle. He held one of her breasts in his hand as he slept. The other, with its darker point, was exposed in the early morning air. Eyes unfocused as she frowned, hair wild, delicate mouth in a pout.

He thought of The Fisher King again in that moment and knew that if it was he, that he was looking down at what had become the bleeding wound in his side. The child, the one who should not be. Aleesa. The rage came as he took in the scene before him, he bathed it in the darkness and let it consume him. On the bed confusion melted from his daughters face, to be replaced by horror as she took in her own nakedness and the man beside her. She pulled the sheet up as green eyes panicked. "Father …?" her bewildered voice was soft, its natural huskiness deepened as she groaned. "What, why? Father what is happening? I only…" she brought hand to her head and looked at the nightstand. "Light why am I so dizzy? I only had one drink."

He froze in the act of reaching for her hair and throwing her out of the bed. Her fear was genuine, the confusion unfeigned. Deep inside a wall collapsed, a cord snapped. The logic, the oh so simple, unquestionable truth of the logic broke inside of him. He suddenly walked a place he had not known existed. Virgin ground trembled before him. The logic, the darkness …pulsed slowly as it built anew, its depths unfathomable. From the other, from the duality, a slow lit burning cold. He brought the cup on the nightstand to his nose.

Forkroot.

For the first time that he could recall, the others rage matched his own. His body seemed to move of its own accord. His hand shook as he helped his daughter out of the bed. She swayed on unsteady legs, crying out as he purged the filth of what remained of the previous night from her body, repairing what he could of her innocence. She trembled against him as she whimpered, a hand clutching at her stomach and lower abdomen. He relaxed his grip on her waist slowly and reacted quickly when she began to fall, her legs still too weak to support her. Decision made, he picked the naked bleeding wound in his side up in his arms, wove a gateway before the thought could fully form and carried her to her bed.

She clung to him as he tried to release her. "Father how? Please stay. Please don't go."

Her words pulled at him but the darkness, the logic screamed. Images flashed. Vengeance burned. His voice reverberated from the other side of death. "Sleep child. I will return soon." Her eyes widened and she shook her head pleadingly, but a simple weave of spirit left her gracefully unaware.

He stepped back into the room at The Burning Lance and let the gateway close. The elder raged. 'Kill him. No man can walk in the Light and do such a thing.' The younger was more reserved but no less emphatic. 'He must die.'

Instead he took a seat in the small room to wait. The logic flowed within him, the knowing, stoking the towering inferno of his rage. Yet still, a small part of him was left to wonder. 'How you fools managed to best me, not once but twice…' the voice trailed off, left to die like the useless thing it was. His thoughts hardened. 'The next time you stand across the field from me and you see my banner and ask yourself why, Kinslayer, remember this moment. Remember it well.'

The duality flinched at his words but the elder challenged with venom, incensed. 'And you Betrayer? You had no part in this? You who want an end to all, why does this even matter?'

He looked to the man on the bed, at the raven tattoo on his shoulder, at the other peaking from beneath the sheets. He snarled. 'I played that hand millennia ago, fool. This I could have prevented before it began. Remember well.' He ignored the rest as he had for years now, he had no answer still.

They waited in silence after that. Their rage mirroring and reflecting, growing in ever tightening circles. His knuckles white as they gripped the staff before him. Holding Saidin should have allowed him some small measure of calm, time to reflect and plan. Instead it fed his rage, the river of molten ice burning for revenge. His link, his connection, to that other soul allowing him to channel unaided more than ever before.

The Seeker on the bed stirred, sitting with a startled suddenness when he realised something was missing from his bed. His eyes widened in alarm at seeing a man before him, almost managing to reach for one of his knives before the staff took him across the jaw, sending spittle, teeth and other bone fragments across the wall. The return stroke snapped his nose and fractured an eye socket. He could have used other means but he felt the need to be primordial. He needed to feel the impact resonate, to feel the pain he caused. He settled back and waited.

The innkeeper's voice came first. Insistent and urgent up the stairs, followed next by the sound of soft footsteps. The blond man on the bed tried to sound a warning but it came as no more than the wet gurgle of a man drowning in his own blood. He watched as the door opened and two women entered, the innkeeper standing behind. In the hand of one a circle of silver metal connected to the bracelet on her wrist by a silver leash.

The two Sul'dam started in surprise. The younger voice of the duality raged about a broken peace and vengeance. He didn't bother to respond. He hadn't need permission. He nodded to the innkeeper who closed the door and left quietly.

He channelled and this time he did use his old tricks, this time he did give into his burning rage. Eyes aflame, the room smothered in a quickening blackness, he tore at their souls. He tore them to shreds. He stripped away the layers of their lives as he questioned. He trapped them in their own nightmares, their screams feeding the fires that burned, feeding his very soul. At the end he left them a quivering mess, blood leaking from every orifice, naked and pleading for their lives in the middle of the Waste. He left them there as the sun rose, a water skin for each, knowing it would only prolong the inevitable. He had found the answers he sought.

The duality tried to stop him then as it saw, alarmed, but his control was absolute. With Saidin raging he walked the halls of the Tarasin Palace, laying waste to all he saw. He rendered stone from stone and tore it down around his ears. He turned day to night, and rained death and lightening. He punctured the Earth's crust creating a new fault line in the upper city and watched the lava flow. Other parts of the city he lowered below sea level. In the middle of the maelstrom all that sought to oppose him he burned to a cinder.

Once at the beginning of all things, at the beginning of every first age perhaps, men lived by a simple creed. An eye for an eye. So very crude. With time and sophisticated thought, it evolved. As his burning rage and the dualities deepening horror intertwined and reached a glorious crescendo in Ebou Dar, he knew what that evolutionary pinnacle was. An eye for an eye? No. An eye for an Empire.

Later, as he sat in small room in a house in Caemlyn and watched his daughter's fitful sleep, he knew. After twenty years the Dragons Peace was at an end. And the Seanchan would pay.

A/N: Hope that was fun to read. The Wheel of Time has so many possibilities.