[[Why was it always water? Lan mused to himself with a fatalism that was, surprisingly, not at all unpleasant. Would he forever be pulling women out of the water, only to find their way of thanks to be snatching his life out of his grasp, handing it back only when it had been altered irrevocably.]] Not that it mattered, really: Lan had known since boyhood where he must end up. However many times it diverged, his path ultimately could lead to only one place. But these deviations had a way of turning the world, as he perceived it, upon its ear. Perhaps he should emulate a deep-Waste Aielman, and avoid on principle anything deeper than a puddle.
Lan found himself glancing sidelong at the slim profile of this diminutive wife, with something that was not quite chagrin. He still could hardly believe it—his wife. She caught him looking and flushed, nervously averting her eyes. She seemed inordinately embarrassed by his presence as she scrubbed out her mouth thoroughly with salt and soda; not by the necessity of the task, just his witnessing of it. In the candlelight, however, Lan could still see the faint greyness clinging around her eyes. Nynaeve did not much enjoy traveling over water. And yet that did not stop her: an assassination attempt and near drowning, and going out on the water on top of it all had failed to put Nynaeve off. Then again, Lan suspected there was very little under the Light—if anything—that would put that one off she had taken into her head to be her duty.
Finishing the ablution, she left the washbasin and padded back to stand before him where he lounged on the bed, her posture demure. Eyes downcast, she began with slow fingers to unravel her long braid. The tall flames from the uncut wicks painted her face from below with wedges of harsh light and soft contours of shadow. He watched as the light danced in and around the hollows of her eyes, her collarbone, the spaces between her fingers. Midway up the braid, those fingers fumbled to a halt, and her lower lip crept unconsciously between her teeth. Nynaeve was a forceful woman, enough to give an Aes Sedai pause. For one so ardent, even relentless, in the chase, her hesitance now that she'd caught him was odd, if not quite perplexing. In some ways, she was very much a child, still: but rather than off-putting, Lan found her sudden shyness inexplicably endearing.
The pucker between her brows did things with the dim light that entranced him. "What is the matter, wife?"
At the honorific she jerked up, big dark eyes glittering: a rapturous smiled blazed across her face, as bright and fleeting as balefire. Then she was studying her naked toes once more, chewing at her lip with renewed diligence. At last, she mumbled a single word, nearly tripping over the blurred syllables in her haste to get it out. "Myrelle."
"Myrelle." he allowed evenly, leaving the question implied. He knew it irked her, the fact that his Bond was held by another. In point of fact, he did not find it the most equitable of arrangements either, but it could not be helped, not until Nynaeve gained the shawl of a full Sister. He often cursed Moiraine for this, her last gift, and blessed her in the same breath. She had known too well exactly what sort of man he was, and with her Blue's dreadful practicality she removed his choice from the matter. And after all, Lan ceded now, the means of it were immaterial—however hateful, passing the Bond forced him to remain alive until he could see his way clear from one duty to the next. It had brought him here.
Nynaeve, however she tried to squash the ill-feeling down where he could not see it, we not half so forgiving. Getting no further rise, she rounded on him, blushing like wine. "And I don't want her—"venom made the pronoun an obscenity "—in bed with us!" She flung a vague, accusatory finger down and out behind her; Lan was amused to note the direction she indicated lay nearly just opposite to where the Green actually was, hundreds of leagues away.
Lan found himself laughing, the deep-seated sort of mirth he had felt so seldom in his life, and never of late, the sort it seemed only Nynaeve was capable of eking from him. She stared at him, abashed; it was something she rarely meant to do. Rising, he enfolded her in his arms, crushing her face against his breastbone, her narrowed shoulders snug between his elbows. Her hands were pinned in front of her, and for a long minute he stood there, holding her to him, feeling his own laughter pass through her slighter frame and to his restraining hands. At last, he moved away a bit, tipping her back enough so that he could look full in her face, his hands still clasping her upper arms. She half-glared back up at him with those dark round eyes as he held her captive, hair only half undone, still pale, candlelight cutting through her shift like paper.
"Woman," he chuckled, "I have been about this Warder business near as long as you've been alive. She may," here he forestalled her protesting open mouth with a climb in tone, "may notice a rise in my breathing...if she has nothing better to be about. But you," and he punctuated the imperative with a gentle rattling of her shoulders: the words grew soft and tender, "are the only woman in my head, el'Nynaeve ti al'Meara Mandragoran."
There was a bang of impact and he toppled spread-eagled to the bed; she'd neatly clipped his knees from under him with flows of Air. Blinking through the ringing in his ears, Lan though briefly that she might have punched him in the mouth. Bringing up a hand, he found that she was still kissing him.