Author's Note: Ho-hum – another fic. born of being bored spitless. This one's based on my fixation with the heroic trio being together again, of how much can change and how much, if anything, can remain the same.

This started as a twee, hey-buddy-ol'-pal story with a sugary ending. Then it all went a bit pear-shaped.

Disclaimer: I don't own Perrin or Rand or Mat or anything. Except Dell's Common. I thunk that up all by myself (is proud).

Common Ground

'Perrin?'

He jerked his head up to meet a dozen sets of eyes, all fixed on him.

The palest of those eyes narrowed. 'Are you well?'

Perrin cleared his throat. 'I'm fine.' That sounded gruff. He scratched his beard and tried to focus on the map beneath Rand's planted fists.

Rand had already forgotten him. Light, how long had it been. A year? Two? The man looked different. But then, so did he.

'Rally to the south,' Rand was saying, pale face pinched and hard. 'The Band I expect to round the cavalry in a sou'westerly formation.'

'My lord.' Daerid stepped forward, knuckles worrying his shaved head. 'I have heard Ma… - General Cauthon, I mean - had another tactic in mind.'

A fist crashed onto the map, scattering the miniature formations. 'Burn it, where is Mat?' Rand snarled, pacing so the tiny figures crunched beneath his feet.

'I believe he is with his wife, my lord.'

Perrin caught the dry scent of amusement at that, though not one smile flickered across the faces of those assembled in the low-lit tent. Rand's fury rivalled the acrid stink of the braziers.

'My Lord Dragon, many have travelled hard today.' That from the stark looking man called Taim. 'Heads may be clearer in the morning.'

Scrubbing at his eyes, Rand managed a curt nod.

As one, the Maidens stepped into escort formation, eyes in storm-shades of greys and blues locked on their saviour.

Perrin hadn't expected a goodbye. He didn't get one.

Head buzzing with scented emotions, Perrin stepped into the cool twilight and watched Rand's little procession troop towards the camp.

He would have to warn the man that many of the group were not pleased – disapproval had hung like wood-smoke in the tent. He might have even caught the damp reek of betrayal….but that was food for another day's worries.

The moon, old and heavy, spilled sickly light on the vale of scrubby hills and woods that huddled the camp. Sighing, Perrin stalked down the grassy bank and towards the mass of lights, that busy sprawl of man, woman and beast.

His idle thoughts scattered as he neared a large tent bustling with raised voices. Its banner flag bristled in the breeze, making the painted twin ravens a crackle of snapping beak and wing.

Shoulders hunched, Perrin tried to pad past the tent as quickly and quietly as possible.

Too late.

A small, cloaked figure burst into the night. Her scent, female and somewhere between distress and fury, spiked the breeze.

Light, not again….

'That bloody flaming—'

Ah, right on cue.

'—stubborn-stupid bloody curse of a bloody….bloody….'

Careful, Mat.

'…Woman!'

A flicker of a smile from the cloaked figure before it slipped away. A heartbeat later and Mat came storming from the tent.

'What do I have to do?' he demanded of no one in particular. Then, spying Perrin's half-hidden form, tramped over, brows slashed in a frown. 'I mean what more could she want? Blood?'

From what he knew of women, Perrin couldn't rule that out.

'Talk to her.'

'Talk?' Mat snorted. 'All we do is flaming talk.'

'No, all you do is shout.'

'We discuss.'

'You shout.' He put just enough emphasis on that before turning away.

'That's it? That's your advice?'

'I don't give advice.'

'Light, is it too much to even look at me? I'm asking for help. You were married once - can't you just….?'

A nightlark wittered in the silence.

'Light. Perrin, I'm sorry.'

Some things never changed – still as quick with remorse as he was with his tongue.

'I'm a woolhead, all right? Perrin?'

Fists clenched hard enough to score his palms, he walked on, walked until Mat's voice had faded to a whine.

They needed him. Always. Never the other way round. What was the use when the only thing he needed was….

Pain shot up his arm. Dazed, he watched blood bead his knuckles as around him leaves whispered from the tree he didn't remember punching. He had walked some way without even realising – right into a tangle of copse.

Perrin slumped against the tree, fist cradled to his chest as the true pain bared its claws, a pain that had his chest aching fit to burst. A great, tearing sob escaped before he could wrestle it down.

Teeth clenched, he pushed from the tree and stormed on, forced his awareness to the soft loam beneath his boots, the smell of rotting leaves and burst berries. An owl swooped, soft wings flung wide. He sensed its quarry flee, all scamper and whisker-trembling fear. He gorged on the secret smells of the night, its earth-breath on his tongue, its whisper on his skin. It forced the pain down, wadded it into that place kept so tightly locked. Smaller, tighter, 'til it was a nothing, a bitme's itch under his flesh. Good. Good.

A low growl sounded and Perrin paused, his nose prickling. The smell was acrid, like cool air crackling before a storm. He knew it well.

Fear

Perrin crept through a snarl of gorse, not caring how the thorns snagged his flesh.

Saliva stang his tongue. Blood – he could almost taste its copper-reek; sweet, maddening.

Crouching, he peered into a squat clearing. It stank of decay; toadstools, ripe to burst, sagged where berries scabbed the dirt beneath a gaunt rowan tree. The moon's glare pinned him through its branches before the growl hooked him deeper to find a creature set belly to earth, its silver pelt aglow with moonlight.

Closer now he could see its fur was matted, its eyes a flat yellow. One of its paws was wrenched at an odd angle and Perrin scented sickness in the dried, blackened blood. Only the creature's teeth looked vital, bared in a rictus of hate.

The snare snaked from a peg sank deep in the grass. Perrin reached for his belt-knife and the trapped beast coiled on its haunches, growl a deadly rattle.

'Brother, I will not hurt you.'

It struck then yelped, its long limbs trembling. It loosed something between a whine and a snarl before dropping to lap at its bloodied paw.

Breathing hard, Perrin squatted to inspect his own wound. It was not deep, just a streak of bloody scratches on his palm.

Perrin locked the wolf's gaze. 'That was not necessary.'

A toothy leer. Perrin saw the pinkish froth of blood on the fangs.

Two-legs.

The thought was thick with disgust.

I know your kind.

'I can help you.'

Silence.

'Where is your pack?'

I have no pack.

The wolf was in its prime, despite its shaggy pelt and the hollows beneath. No youngling, this. Perrin glanced around warily. The others had to be close by.

'What is your name?'

I have no name.

Not a lie. Not that it could have been; wolves were incapable of human deceit. Still, it was a shock when nothing came to him. Nothing but grey and emptiness in this creature's mind. Nothing of itself.

'I can free you.'

I will be free two-legs. By sunrise I will be less, but I will be free.

That took a moment to sink in. Perrin's stomach lurched when he realised the blood on the creature's paw was not solely from the trap.

'You must not injure yourself.'

I must be free

'Then let me help,' he snapped, letting anger singe the command.

The creature pushed to its haunches, ears pricked, tilted eyes unblinking.

Your kind cannot be trusted.

'I am not only of my kind.'

He formed an image of a charging creature, horns glittering as steel.

I have scented your spoor on the wind. I know you, brother of wolves.

Perrin kept silent as its pink tongue bobbed from sleek jaws. It seemed almost to be mocking him.

'Why are you here?'

I hunt

'What is it you hunt?'

Two-legs

A shiver of dread thrilled him. 'Why?'

The answer came in a blaze of anguish; a sleek she-wolf snapping white puffs from the breeze, tail lashing in abandon, sun like living flame on gold-bright fur.

Perrin merged that riot of thought to its essence; Thistledancer.

'Your mate.'

The wolf's eyes flashed.

The metal jaws had her. Then the two-legs came.

'She died?'

She… Confusion tinged its reply. Left.

Perrin swallowed. 'What of your pack?'

They moved on. I hunted the two-legs. I lapped their blood. Jaws lolled in a wolfish grin. It was very good.

'Will you find your pack?'

An incredulous pause. I hunt on, brother.

Perrin could think of not a thing to say. For a wolf to have no mate, no comrades? That was nothing short of death.

'You have to find them.'

They are no use to me now.

'But you are alone.'

The wolf tilted his head, a quizzical look in its yellow eyes. You walk alone.

'I have a pack,' he snapped.

Yet you wish to be apart from them

'No. Yes. Sometimes.' He looked away from that piercing gaze. 'It's difficult.'

Falcon was a good mate?

He stamped a flare of grief. 'Yes.'

That is why we must hunt, brother. Blood for blood.

Its golden eyes were too fierce, empty with nothing but hate and bloodlust. The eyes of the lost. Wearily, Perrin reached his belt knife and sliced through the snare.

The creature rose with no sign of pain, head aloft as it scented the air.

'I will help you find your pack. They—'

Gold eyes suddenly inches from his, teeth glinting, breath a gagging tide of decay.

I hunt alone.

Perrin choked as the wolf, fangs bared like slivers of pearl, backed into the undergrowth. Eyes shone gold in the black.

You are lucky, Young Bull.

And then it was gone.

Perrin dabbed his throat, saw his fingers came away with a smear of blood. Somewhere in the dark a howl cracked the night then faded in mournful silence.

He swayed to his feet, almost tripping over a ground-knot as he staggered to the camp. Smells tingled the air as he drew closer, his steps ragged and slow; the stench of cookpots and ale was like foul breath, the laughter and curses and banter a wasp-whine in his head.

Away. The word blazed sudden and bright, like brandy on flame.

Feet steady on the earth now, knees bent, eyes piercing the gloom. A deep, lung-aching breath and he ran, loped through the trees, branches flailing by, grabbing and never quite reaching. He burst into a swathe of green, scrambled up a tor flooded in moonlight, hunched on the cool grass, gripped his fingers into the earth

Fear gnawed his belly as he sucked a breath of chill night air, closed his eyes, let her come to him….and saw nothing but a dead, yellow-eyed snarl. A howl choked his throat.

'Perrin?'

Mat, scruffy and slouched and toting a huge jug of brandy, offered a small smile. 'Thought maybe you'd want a little company.'

Yesterday, this morning maybe, he would have baulked, made excuses, walked away. Tonight, he was too numb to care.

'I've just had a pleasant discussion,' Mat slurred. 'Seems the wife and I can be civil to one another after all. On special occasions anyway.'

'What occasion.'

Mat glanced around, swaying only a little, before finding something suitably ridiculous. 'A full moon, of course. Honestly, there's no respect for tradition these days.'

'You sound like Old Cenn.'

'I feel like old Cenn.' Mat flopped to the grass and uncorked the brandy. His dark eyes were glossy. 'What's so interesting up here anyway?'

Perrin looked at the moon, scarred now by cloud. 'Nothing.'

The darker boy shrugged as he reached for his dice cup, popped it open and filled both halves with brandy. 'To the moon,' Mat declared, handing Perrin half and holding his makeshift cup aloft with the other. 'And all who sail in her.'

'I'll drink to that.'

Mat swore as his cup was unceremoniously snatched. 'Oh that's just charming. Lord Fancy-Breeches comes waltzing in and takes my hard-won liquor.'

'Shut up,' Rand muttered as he settled on Perrin's other side, a sudden breeze tangling reddish hair from his brow. The same gust almost sent Mat's hat spinning until the boy took it off and jammed the brim into his belt.

Silence slumped over them.

Mat fidgeted beside him, swaying now and then so his shoulder bumped his own. Being civil to Tuon was obviously thirsty work.

'This place seems familiar,' Rand said finally.

'Wait, don't tell me; Caemlyn road, second field on the right - right?' Silence smeared the grin from Mat's face. 'What? It looks like any other bloody field.' Still grumbling, he took a slug of brandy.

Rand's eyes had narrowed. 'But it does,' he muttered, almost to himself. 'It really does.'

Mat worried at a clutch of forget-me-nots then sighed. 'Dell's Common - that's what this place looks like. Dell's bloody Common.'

'You're right.' Rand's smile was strange. For a heartbeat he looked too open, too young in the moonlight. 'I thought you would have forgotten.'

'Got nipped by a snake-worm there – I'm bound to bloody remember.'

'Of course. Elam Dowtry ran off bawling about you being bitten by a tombfang.' Perrin let a smirk ghost his lips. 'Then you fainted.'

'I did not faint. I passed out.'

'Not before you sicked up—'

'Right in front of Merisa Ayellin.' Rand finished, sounding almost like the Rand of old. 'You didn't leave the house for days.'

'Light! Nostalgia? From you two?' Mat took a fierce swig of brandy. 'Anyway, Merisa said I was—'

'—lack-witted?' Perrin suggested on the heels of Rand's, 'Worth avoiding?'

'Handsome.' Mat jammed his hat back on. 'Honestly, you two should be on the stage. No, really. People will pay to hear wit like that.'

Perrin scratched at his beard in the next round of silence, earning a slurred snipe from Mat about being wool-faced as well as wool-headed.

'I've forgotten.' Rand was staring into the dark, fingers slowly tracing the brand on his other palm. His eyes were pale, unblinking. 'I've forgotten our home.'

'I've forgotten my coat,' Mat muttered, hugging himself between shivers.

Grey eyes fixed the darker boy with a glower. 'Can't you be serious for once.'

'Oh, did I break the mood? Let's light a campfire, shall we, roast some bloody apples - it'll be just like old times.'

'Shut up'

'Me? I'm not the one harping on about home.'

'No,' Perrin snapped. 'You're drunk.'

'And you're half-dead and he's crazy.'

Rand laughed.

'You want to know what I think?' Fists clenched so hard his knuckles creaked, Perrin rounded on the pair and found Rand first. 'You're so cold you're hardly there at all. And you,' he snarled, finger jutting at Mat. 'Can't handle a Seanchan nit without a gallon of gut-rot in your hide.'

He didn't know who's eyes where the widest. Rand's lip twitched at the corner. Just once. Other than that his face might have been carved from marble.

Mat could have out-gawped a fish. Shivering, Perrin turned his back on the pair and closed his eyes against the breeze. The air was a choke of brandy, disappointment, and a small, damp pulse of hurt.

Then a sound snapped the silence. Measured, slow, sardonic.

Mat was on his feet, not a shade of unsteadiness about him. He smiled as Perrin turned, a dry, brittle smile, and stopped his snide applause.

'Behold,' he boomed, sweeping an arm wide before his invisible audience. 'The beast has awoken. See him bawl like a bear with a thorn in its paw. What a transformation. Feast your bloody eyes!'

'Mat—'

The boy turned on Rand. 'What? Mat, bloody flaming what? I'm sick of his whining. Some of us have to get on with things. What makes him any different?'

Rand frowned. 'You are drunk.'

'Congratulations, my lord.' Mat's twisted smile made that sound like the vilest oath. 'How many governers did it take you to figure that one out?' He turned that dark glare on Perrin. 'And some of us don't have time to pine like moonstruck bulls. Some of us get on with things because we bloody have to. We could all mope around with a face like a slapped rump but do we?' Mat stepped so close their boot-tips almost nudged. 'Light, do you want to end up like…like…some big, stupid animal, snapping at everyone who tries to help?'

'Help?' Rand asked mildly.

'Yes, bloody help. Well I won't bother breaking my neck to find you next time.' He punctuated that with a series of finger-jabs. 'I…won't…even…try.'

Perrin grabbed the jug and splashed its contents to the grass. 'Finished?'

Cursing, Mat snatched back the pitcher and squinted into its mouth.

Rand had lowered his face into his hands. 'We used to look at the stars.' Grey eyes shone very bright above caged fingers. 'On Dell's Common. We used to lay and look at the stars.'

Mat looked heavenward with a theatric sigh. 'Clouds – well, isn't that just the worst luck?' His mock dismay hardened into a sneer. 'At least there's no bloody snakes.'

Perrin raised his drink. 'Just a moonstruck bull.'

'And a puppet lord,' Rand muttered darkly, his cup joining Perrin's.

'And the Seanchan nit's Toy.' Mat clashed his empty jug to the toast.

Rand was the first to go, his half of the dice-cup abandoned, his steps slow and weary.

'We were wrong you know.' Mat murmured as they watched him leave, smile a sickly joke. 'It's nothing like Dell's Common.'

Then he too was gone, shadow stretched too thin on the wavering, silver-iced grass.

In bleak silence, Perrin tipped a grim toast to the night. The moon looked on, cold, mocking, as he caught a phantom howl on the wind.

You are lucky Young Bull.

Light, if only that were true.