Hey, I know that guy!

This will be our last battle

But we are heroes

Nate.

Someone applied pressure to his shoulder, once, twice, then a third time, more insistently. They were shaking him now. Couldn't they let him sleep? He hadn't had a proper night of rest in days!

Or had he? He couldn't remember. Where was he, anyway? His bed felt uncomfortably ground-like.

Nate! Are you alright? Can you hear me?

"Mmph."

That was supposed to be "I'm fine, how are you? By the way, what happened?" but given that he couldn't articulate any of that, perhaps he wasn't as fine as he had initially assumed. He tried again, but coughed instead of speaking. There seemed to be smoke in the area. There was noise, too. A lot of it. Ear-piercing wailing, guttural screaming, frantic shouting.

He opened his eyes, but only for half a second. It was too bright, and he groaned at the sudden headache the glare induced. He had managed to distinguish Taim, though. He was crouched at his side. "Erm, whappen?" Every syllable was garbled. He sounded drunk.

"You suffered a small concussion, I think. You fell when the earthquake began and hit your head on a rock. I had to drag you away from the fires."

Earthquake? Fires?

Oh, right! The Last Battle and all that.

"I'm going to try to Heal you," Taim murmured. "There's no one else. Damer is…" He cleared his throat. "Hold still."

Damer is what? Natael wanted to ask, but couldn't. Was the Asha'man dead? It seemed too cruel; they had just been reunited.

He felt two warm hands touch his temples. The Delving took a while. "It's… I think there's no serious damage," Taim finally announced. He sounded relieved. "But I'm afraid to make matters worse by attempting to allay your pain and discomfort. Will you be alright, or would you like me to give it a try anyway?"

"Head," Natael managed to say. "Ouch."

"Yes, the headache, I know. That's due to the concussion. Or rather, to the rock on which you hit your head, I suppose. I-" He paused, and Natael caught fragments of conversation. "Damer, what are you doing? You're in no condition to-"

"If I don't do anything, he might be incapacitated for the whole duration of the battle, M'Hael. Concussions have to be taken seriously, even minor ones. It could get worse rather than better, if we don't watch it. Wouldn't want him to drop dead on the battlefield, now, would we?"

Indeed, Natael would rather not drop dead. On the battlefield or elsewhere.

"But your arm-"

"My arm's gone, m'lord. Corele took care of the wound, though, so I'll be fine. Will you move so I can Delve him? Please?"

His arm was gone? Another limb lost. The Trollocs weren't even there yet! (Or were they?)

Oh, but there were these loud people… There had been an attack… The earthquake had not occurred naturally, had it?

Someone else was touching his face, presumably Flinn. His hands – um, hand, sorry – was colder than Taim's. A minute later, Natael's migraine was ancient history. He felt once again refreshed and ready to…well, not lie on the ground. That would be a good start.

Flinn's hand was gone. "Now let me have a look at that gash, m'lord."

Natael opened his eyes cautiously, but the glare of the sun was lesser. He turned to Taim and realised that he was bleeding: his left cheekbone was a bright crimson and blood was slowly dripping onto the lapels of his coat. The wound was situated just above his eyebrow. "Are you alright?"

Taim nodded with limited amplitude, because Flinn was Delving him. "Just a scratch."

"I wouldn't say that," Flinn muttered.

"It doesn't warrant urgent Healing, is what I meant," Taim insisted. "Surely you have more important injuries to look after…including your own. You need rest, Asha'man. Don't exert yourself so soon; the battle has only just begun."

Flinn ignored all of that. He was a loyal and obedient soldier, but Healing was his specialty; when it came to blood and pus, he was the higher authority. Taim's "scratch" vanished almost immediately. "There. Now you're both good as new. Please try to remain that way as long as possible, m'lords, because I have to go to Mayene now. Cauthon's orders." He walked away without another word.

Taim stooped to help Natael to his feet and embraced him the moment he decided that Natael was stable enough. "You gave me a scare. Don't do it again."

Natael held him tightly and smiled against Taim's neck. "I promise I won't pass out again if you don't get any more scratches."

Taim released him and eyed him seriously. "Deal."

"Now…what happened, exactly? I remember the madmen, and the disembodied voice, but… Where's Bao? Al'Thor?" He looked around. With Flinn gone, they were alone in the area. "Everyone else?"

"After the quake, Cauthon ordered the various leaders to disperse, because we were too tempting and easy a target. Al'Thor and Dem…and Bao have departed for Shayol Ghul, with Moiraine Damodred and Nynaeve al'Meara."

Natael cocked his head. "The woman in the yellow dress? That was al'Meara? The one who wanted to stuff prophecies in Bao's unmentionable parts?"

Taim grinned. It was comforting to see him smile, despite the situation. "So I gathered."

"That's going to be a fun trip to the Bore," Natael remarked. "Accompanied by a harpy, a former Chosen who hates his guts and a deadly Aes Sedai… I almost pity al'Thor."

Taim's grin vanished. "I don't," he said in a cutting tone. "I still can't believe he had the gall to accuse you of betraying him. After everything he's done! Or hasn't done, more accurately."

Time for Natael to be the level-headed one again. "He did apologise, though." He patted Taim's shoulder. "Never mind al'Thor. What do we do now? Have we figured out who screamed for the Dragon Reborn to fight him in person? Who are the madmen?" Before Taim could speak, he tried to answer his own questions, or to at least narrow down the possibilities. "It can't have been Moridin's doing. And the other men are supposed to be dead, aren't they?"

"Bao briefed us before he left. To his knowledge, there are only three Forsaken still in play: Moridin, Moghedien, and Lanfear in her new Cyndane body. Both women are…mind-trapped. Whatever that means."

"That means they're under the control of the person who holds their cour'souvra, the mind-trap that contains their soul. In this case, I assume it's Moridin. But, mind-trapped or not, Moridin must have given them some leeway before he went to Shayol Ghul, especially if they were the only two Chosen left on the battlefield." Natael whistled appreciatively. "I have to hand it to al'Thor, he did a good job getting rid of the competition. I mean, the enemy." He blamed the temporary lapse on his concussion. "Then again, it's possible that either woman used a weave to disguise her voice and sound like a man. Moghedien always had a knack for mimicking us."

"WHERE ARE YOU, YOU BLIGHTED COWARD?" the voice demanded, right on cue. "FIGHT ME, LEWS THERIN! LET US SEE, ONCE AND FOR ALL, WHO IS THE SUPERIOR GENERAL."

"It sounds a lot like Demandred," he noted. "If Demandred had gone berserk." Was someone impersonating Demandred, for some reason? What would be the point? By now, the allied armies of the Light were aware that Demandred was on their side.

Or was it Demandred's doing? Was this one of his bizarre schemes? Was he going to betray them after all?

"FEAR NOT, I SHAN'T KILL YOU," the voice continued, this time in the Old Tongue. "BUT YOU'LL WISH YOU WERE DEAD!"

"Mm, the accent's all wrong, though," Natael murmured, frowning in concentration. "Barid Bel was born and raised in Adanza, but this person sounds more like a native of-"

"YOU WILL LIVE TO RUE THE DAY YOU DISFIGURED ME, YOU KJASIC ARROGANT IDIOT!"

The copper penny finally dropped. "That's…that's Tel Janin." He turned to Taim. "It's Sammael!"

"But…al'Thor said…"

"…that he was dead, yes. Consumed by Mashadar. Demandred confirmed it indirectly. And yet…" He raised his hands, palms up. "The distinct accent of a native of Jalanda… The remark about disfiguration… The idiomatic expletives… All signs point to Sammael. If it's not him, then it must be Moghedien, impersonating him to perfection." Lanfear wouldn't stoop so low as to impersonate another Chosen. "Moggy always had trouble imitating Sammael's peculiar accent, though… If it was really her, she wouldn't have said anything in the Old Tongue, for fear of being unmasked. Because, see, all of the Chosen have an accent when they speak the Common Tongue, since it's not their native language, but it's much more difficult to tell which accent. Not so in the Old Tongue."

"And what about the madmen? Who are they? Where do they come from?"

"I have no idea," Natael admitted. "The Chosen infiltrated many nations, but few of those nations kept their male channelers alive."

Except the Sharans who, according to Mintel, forced them to breed with the female Ayyad, until they reached a certain age, upon which they were executed, before they could go mad. In any case, the male Ayyad were all accounted for.

"Cauthon confirmed that there were no male channelers in Seanchan," Taim said. "They're hunted down and eliminated like rabid dogs, and the Seanchan are much more effective than the Red Ajah. Even if a few survived, there wouldn't be hundreds of them."

"Perhaps…" Natael hesitated. "Men who discover that they can channel sometimes go to the Blight, don't they? To sacrifice themselves in a useful manner, eliminating as many Shadowspawn as they can before they're overwhelmed." He wasn't really asking; he knew that Taim had done exactly that. Except that people had gathered around him and persuaded him that, powerful as he was, he had to be the Dragon Reborn.

Natael was still secretly convinced that Taim, False Dragon though he may be, was at least slightly ta'veren. Demandred, too, like as not, considering everything that happened in Shara.

"Yes?" Taim prompted him. "And what? You think that the Shadow has been covertly recruiting them, brainwashing them and training them in Thakan'dar for years?"

Natael shrugged. "Well…"

"It's possible, I suppose… But there are hundreds of madmen, Nate. Relatively few male channelers actually make it to the Blight in the first place, you know, unless they live nearby. They have to successfully avoid the Red Ajah, for one thing. Others off themselves as soon as they realise what they are, or are killed by their friends or loved ones… And, well, since the Cleansing, most of them have flocked to the Black Tower."

"Or to Shayol Ghul," Natael said. "There will be Dreadlords as well as Black Ajah sisters among the Shadowspawn, don't forget that. But most of them would be sane," he added pensively. "While this rabble…"

"They're all mad," Taim said. "That was clear even from a distance. A great majority of them weren't even wearing clothes."

"I'm at a loss," Natael admitted. "Truly confounded."

"It doesn't really matter, anyway. The fact is that they're here, and apparently led by Sammael, one of the greatest generals of the Age of Legends."

It was indeed more likely Sammael; Moghedien's schemes tended to be more…discreet than this. The Spider liked to spin her webs in the shadows. Sammael, however, could be brash, when it suited his warmongering tactics.

"IF YOU REFUSE TO FACE ME, GNAT, I WILL UNLEASH BALEFIRE UPON YOUR PATHETIC ALLIES UNTIL THERE'S NONE LEFT!" Sammael threatened.

"The one good thing, I suppose…" Natael said, "is that there seems to be only men. That means they can't link at all." It was a meagre consolation, but if it had been Demandred and his Sharan army instead, the threat would have been much more serious: his male and female Ayyad could form a full circle, and he had the-

The Sceptre! Natael frantically searched for the precious sa'angreal. Taim picked it up and handed it to him. "It flew out of your hand when you fell, but I recovered it immediately. I still have the bracelets, as well." He tapped his pocket.

"Oh, good, you're alive," someone said. Natael recognised Logain's voice and sighed with relief. He had come at last. Gabrelle stood at his side. She didn't look too happy to see them; Natael figured it had something to do with the fact that they were partly responsible for the death of many of her sisters.

"Better late than never," Taim grumbled. "What of the alliance with the Aes Sedai? Did Androl-"

Logain waved his concerns aside. "Don't fret. Androl has a good head on his shoulders. They made plans for the battle, but nothing's carved in stone. We will bond and link at need during combat and, should the Light be victorious, we will review our temporary collaboration and devise a more lasting compact. I expect both of you to participate in its elaboration," he added sternly. Gabrelle cleared her throat loudly. Logain glanced at her. "Uh, yeah. It's been decided that the Two Towers Alliance will deal with the madmen forthwith, since they're the more imminent threat. So…you two should find some women to link with and get ready."

"No need," Taim said. "Nate and I can link together." He extracted the bracelets from his pocket. "A ter'angreal," he explained.

Gabrelle squinted at it. "I've never heard of such a thing…"

"Neither had I, until an hour ago," Natael confessed. In truth, they hadn't tested it yet. He clasped the bracelet around his wrist and waited for Taim to do the same, then they both seized saidin. Natael's eyes widened at the sudden surge of Power coursing through him as Taim relinquished the lead of the circle.

"It does what he says it does," Logain told Gabrelle, to allay her suspicions. Her face didn't change, though. Logain shifted uncomfortably. "Well, then," he went on with mock enthusiasm. "Let's go kill some naked madmen."

What a carnage.

Dumai's Wells was already a distant (or, more accurately, suppressed) memory, as was the Aes Sedai mass suicide, but Natael was quickly reminded of how much he hated the sight of blood spurting and body parts flying. Blood and ashes, the stench! It was abominable, and almost enough to make him sick, but he held it in. This time, he didn't want to disappoint Taim or to let him down in any way. He would not embarrass him in front of the Aes Sedai. He had to stay strong.

They took turns leading the circle, since it was a rather unpleasant business. The madmen were numerous and noisy, but they weren't very efficient. They were disorganised. Sammael had managed to bring them together to the battlefield, but he'd had no time to teach them discipline, or any sort of fighting technique – or manners. They seemed barely human. Their screeching and wordless taunting were easily disregarded, but not so the random streaks of balefire they used on the armies of the Light.

The Two Towers Alliance suffered some unfortunate losses, and some of the Aes Sedai and Asha'man had to be despatched elsewhere. There was no sign of Sammael. He hadn't stopped yelling and baiting Lews Therin, though. "YIELD OR DIE!" was a favourite of his. "SURRENDER LEWS THERIN TO ME, MAGGOTS, AND I SHALL BE MERCIFUL." Natael almost wished that al'Thor were here, so that they could indeed hand him over and put an end to the shouting. "MY DREADLORDS WILL BURN YOUR WORLD TO THE GROUND!" Their world? Did he happen to live on another one? Also, these men hardly qualified as Dreadlords. They were feral beasts.

The problem with these attackers was that they were unpredictable and had no regard for their own safety. Some of them had apparently seared themselves out, but they ran forward relentlessly, waving crude weapons such as clubs or what looked like…oars? Losing an arm didn't incapacitate them and, even on one leg, they kept going. A few were actually crawling on their bellies, leaving trails of blood as if they were giant, wounded slugs. It was quite disgusting.

The Light had the upper hand, without a doubt, but they were expending large amounts of energy and Power. Would they be able to withstand another attack, after this? They wouldn't exactly have the luxury of resting for several days in between battles. They'd received succinct reports of fighting in other areas, and Natael knew that the Sharans had joined forces with the Seanchan – an improbable alliance, in Natael's opinion, but one dictated by Cauthon, who was in charge of the armies of the Light – and were facing Shadowspawn together. Where, Natael wasn't sure. There were several battlefields already.

Only a few dozen madmen left. Natael would have given his own weight in gold for some water right then.

Ugh, water? He must be really thirsty indeed. Perhaps a cup of water followed by several cups of wine, then. Yes, that would be-

"Watch out!" a nearby Aes Sedai cried out.

Natael barely had time to turn his head. Thankfully, Taim had amazing reflexes and also happened to hold the lead of the circle at that moment: he used Water and Air to deflect the column of Fire, which came from behind them.

What in the Pit of Doom?

"LAST WARNING!" Sammael roared. "YOU'RE SURROUNDED! GIVE YOURSELF UP, LEWS THERIN, AND I WILL SPARE YOUR PEOPLE!"

Well, they weren't exactly "surrounded", considering how few madmen remained, but an army of female channelers had materialised on the opposite side of the battlefield. Black Ajah? Natael wondered. They weren't dressed like Aes Sedai at all, nor like any civilised woman he had ever met, for that matter. They were covered in crude leather and various animal furs.

"Burn me, where do these flaming people come from?" Taim said aloud. Usually, the more he swore, the more he was exhausted or angry; either way, it wasn't a good sign. Angry and tired people made mistakes. He had shifted to face the other way and was already attacking the women, but Natael decided to keep an eye on the men. There were few left, but the arrival of their female counterparts (one had to assume) created the perfect distraction.

"DIDN'T SEE THAT COMING, DID YOU, LEWS THERIN?" Sammael bragged. "YOU FOOL! YOU'LL NEVER DEFEAT ME! I SURVIVED THE EVIL FOG! I'M INVINCIBLE!" That last part was even louder than the rest. He may have survived the "evil fog", but the encounter had obviously damaged his brain.

Natael's best guess was that Sammael had managed to open a gateway soon after being enveloped by Mashadar. Being perhaps disoriented or even near-unconscious, he had Travelled to…wherever these people came from, and never bothered to notify Moridin or anyone else that he was still alive. Or Moridin had wished to keep an ace up his sleeve and hadn't notified Demandred, because he was afraid he would betray the Shadow? That seemed less likely. Demandred's sudden change of heart had been utterly unexpected. No one could have predicted it, except Shendla, or another powerful Dreamer.

In any case, Sammael had discovered that the area in which he'd landed was a secret trove of channelers, and he had made good use of them. But where-?

"The Land of Madmen!" Taim exclaimed.

Natael jumped; he had his back to him, and all of his focus was on the battlefield. He hadn't expected someone to shout in his ears. "The what?"

"I thought it was a legend, a myth," Taim went on. He didn't stop pelting the attacking female channelers with offensive weaves, but he was excited to share his epiphany. "A large island, far to the south. The Sea Folk have many stories about it, but…well, they're hard to believe, just like the exaggerated tales of Shara one sometimes hears in taverns in the small hours of the night, when everyone's drunk. Rumour has it that, when the female Aes Sedai of old realised that the Dark One had poisoned saidin, they gathered and quarantined all the male channelers they could find and broke the land apart, on purpose, creating an island that was designed to be a…prison, or an asylum, of sorts. But some of the channelers' families refused to let them go and willingly isolated themselves along with the madmen. Perhaps, with time, they came to…tame them."

"How have I never heard of this place?" Natael complained. To be fair, maps were a rare commodity in this Age, especially accurate ones, and they rarely depicted anything beyond the Aryth Ocean or the Aiel Waste. He had never even seen a map of Shara, let alone Seanchan. "Given the name, however…I'd say you're onto something."

So Sammael had conveniently transported himself to a land inhabited by inbred channelers, possibly by accident...or not. Perhaps he'd heard the rumours and decided to see for himself, then to lie low until the Last Battle, all the while assembling an army that no one would suspect even existed.

A bit like Demandred had done. These two were similar in many ways. They both begrudged Lews Therin and wanted him dead for the same imagined offence. They were both cunning generals with obnoxious personalities. The only difference was that…well, Demandred had eventually "snapped out of it", as the youngsters said.

"We should unlink," Taim said, breaking Natael's train of thoughts. "I can deal with the women while you wipe out the rest of the men."

"Are you sure?" He didn't want to part with Taim. He had gotten used to their comforting, intimate circle, to their shared power.

"We're the most powerful channelers on the battlefield now. We'll be more useful individually, given the circumstances." He removed his bracelet without waiting for Natael's assent. Natael didn't remove his, just in case they needed to link quickly.

The Amyrlin Seat had been wielding a sa'angreal of her own but, soon after the battle had begun, Cauthon had sent her somewhere else. There had been Logain, linked with Gabrelle, but they had also been assigned to another battle site, and Cauthon had ordered Natael to surrender the Sceptre to Androl Genhald, who had been recalled with Pevara what felt like hours ago. There were only about seventy pairs of linked men and women left on this battlefield; the rest had been called back when the number of madmen began to dwindle. Meanwhile, the Yellow Ajah worked from a safe location, Healing injured channelers and generals in priority. They had established a makeshift hospital in the tiny nation of Mayene. The Black Tower's best Healers, Flinn included, were posted there as well, along with many non-channelling volunteers, mainly people too old or too young to be cannon fodder – er, soldiers.

They could handle this new development without reinforcements, Natael knew it, but they would be useless afterwards. They would be exhausted, utterly depleted, and that was a big risk, especially for channelers. "We should retreat and request some back-up."

"We already requested assistance," an Aes Sedai informed him. "Cauthon says he can't spare anyone. We must hold this position, no matter what."

Well, Tarmon Gai'don had escalated quickly, if everyone else was busy. That meant that this battle depended entirely on them. Natael temporarily augmented the volume of his voice. "One circle out of three, eliminate the rest of the men! Everyone else, focus on the ladies!"

They would have to deal with Sammael himself at some point. The Sceptre would have come in handy, but Cauthon either didn't trust Natael with it, or it was truly more useful somewhere else.

"NESSOSIN? IS THAT YOU, YOU GUTLESS TRAITOR?"

Natael reflexively glanced around him, losing track of the madmen he was pulverising. No trace of Sammael nearby; he must have spotted Natael at a distance, using a sight-enhancing weave or perhaps some sort of spyglass.

"IT IS YOU! LOOK AT YOU, ACTUALLY GETTING YOUR HANDS DIRTY, INSTEAD OF COWERING IN A TENT WITH SOME WINE AND WRITING HURTFUL SONGS ABOUT YOUR BETTERS! ATTABOY!"

To be fair, it had been a while since someone had made a disparaging comment about him…

"I know he's being sarcastic," Taim said, "but truly, you amaze me today. More than usual, that is. I'm so proud of you, Nate. Don't listen to him."

It took Natael several seconds to realise he'd lost his grip on saidin, and he hastened to seize the One Power again. Taim often complimented him, usually when he least expected it, and when he needed it the most, but it always came as a surprise, even after all the time they'd spent together. It always destabilised him.

This time it could have actually killed him, but Natael let it slide. He needed to hear this. He also needed to silence Sammael, one way or another. On a whim, he once again enhanced the sound of his own voice, to match Sammael in volume.

"THERE WAS ONCE A BITTER LAD NAMED TEL,

WITH A RED SCAR FROM NOSE TO CHIN.

HE FACED THE FEARSOME DRAGON,

BUT LEWS BLINDLY STEPPED ON HIM."

Taim blurted out laughing, and so did a few of the Aes Sedai and Asha'man in the vicinity.

Sammael was, in fact, of average height. Unfortunately for him, he was the only one among the Chosen – everyone else was comparatively tall, including most of the women. That was why they relentlessly teased him about his size. Well, also because he was an easy target and ridiculously amusing when angry. He would shake his fists at them like an inebriated midget.

"SHUT UP, YOU INFURIATING WORM!" Sammael shrieked.

"WELL, I DO TAKE REQUESTS! DO YOU PREFER THE OTHER ONE?" Natael asked politely. He felt like the Dark One, speaking in all caps like that.

"DON'T YOU DARE-"

"OH, THERE WAS ONCE A STUMPY MAN NAMED SAMMAEL,

WHO CAME RIDING FROM OLE JALANDA TO SATELLE.

AND THE BRAGGART DID SWAGGER AND BRANDISH HIS BLADE,

AS HE SPOKE OF TREASON AND THE MEN HE'D BETRAYED."

"THIS IS THE LAST BATTLE, YOU IDIOT, NOT ONE OF YOUR RECITALS!"

Natael sang on. Why not? He was perfectly capable of keeping the madmen at bay and performing at the same time. The lyrics came back to him as if he'd written them the previous day.

"BUT THEN HE WENT QUIET, DID OLD TEL JANIN,

WHEN HE MET THE DRAGON INTENT ON CHASTENIN':

'YOU TRICKED US AND LIED AND FORSOOK US ALL,

NOW I THINK IT'S HIGH TIME THAT YOU CONCEDE OR FALL'."

"I'LL NEVER CONCEDE! MY TIME HAS COME! I WILL SHOW YOU AND LEWS THERIN AND BLOODY DEMANDRED THAT I AM THE SUPERIOR-"

Natael scoffed. As if al'Thor or Demandred gave a fig. They weren't even there. On to the last part:

"AND SO THEY DUELLED, CLASHED AND SLASHED WITH SWORDS OF STEEL,

AS THE CHAMPION OF THE LIGHT CHARGED IN FULL OF ZEAL.

AND THE BRAGGART SAMMAEL WAS BOASTFUL NO MORE,

WHEN MUCH OF HIS UGLY NOSE LANDED ON THE FLOOR."

"My nose in intact, burn you!"

It took Natael slightly too long to realise that Sammael was standing near him, sword in hand. The blade reflected the weaves of Fire that they were raining down on the enemy as it descended toward Natael in dream-like slow-motion.

Good grief, his own nose was going to land on the ground.

Ugh, those were terrible last words. Or last thoughts.

Fortunately, there would be time for him to come up with something more meaningful: Taim knocked the blade aside with a blast of Air, so that it bit into Natael's shoulder instead of his beautiful face.

It was still quite painful.

The jolt of pain and the strength of the blow forced Natael down to his knees. If Sammael wanted to decapitate him, he wouldn't have a better opportunity. But Taim didn't leave it at that: he used Water and Earth to destabilise Sammael until he lost his balance and crashed on his arse, dropping his sword in the process. It would have been comical, in other circumstances. If Natael had not just narrowly escaped death, for instance, and if he wasn't still in mortal danger.

Baiting Sammael into revealing his position and attacking them directly had been the point, of course, but Natael hadn't expected a sword fight, of all things. They were channelers, for peace's sake! He tried to kick the weapon out of Sammael's reach, but the Chosen was faster. Not only did he stand and grab it first, he also used the Power – at last – to launch a knife at Natael's heart.

He moved just in time to avoid being stabbed to death, but the knife hit his already injured shoulder, which, once again, really hurt. Natael actively clung to consciousness – now would be a terrible time to pass out. He eyed the knife queasily, wondering if he ought to remove it. Either way, Flinn was going to be annoyed with him. He quickly realised that he couldn't take the blade out, though. If he succeeded, he would faint but, more likely, he couldn't even bring himself to touch it. The very idea made him gag.

While he struggled with this dilemma, Taim and Sammael fought.

For a few seconds, Natael observed the deadly duel that was taking place in front of him. Sammael, needless to say, was cheating, using both his sword and the Power to attack and defend. Unlike Taim, he wasn't tired. Taim's reflexes seemed slower, now that Natael's life wasn't at stake. He needed help.

As Natael gathered his strength to make a move, Sammael casually used the Power on him. Nothing lethal: the bastard simply used Air and Spirit to force the knife out of Natael's flesh.

Needless to say, he screamed in agony…but that was a good thing, actually. The pain somewhat cleared his mind, and seeing him suffer also seemed to energise Taim, who redoubled his efforts to vanquish Sammael.

Natael had trouble holding on to saidin. The fatigue, now coupled with a hearty dose a pain, was catching up to him. He took a deep breath and rose to his feet with some difficulty. He was immediately assailed by a wave of nausea, which he successfully fought down. He could barely stand, and saidin was like a slippery eel that he couldn't quite seize. He had reached his limits, he knew it. If he channeled much more, he would-

Wait, what was Taim doing on the ground? He was in the same position Natael had been a few seconds earlier, on his knees, blood dripping from his face. Sammael turned to Natael, leering. "You two pathetic vermins thought you could defeat me? I knew you were baiting me, but I figured you'd have a few tricks up your sleeve, at least, Musician. At least make me work for it, burn you! I need a real challenge to prove my superior skills! Where in the Pit of Doom are Lews Therin and that other treacherous weasel, Barid Bel?"

Well, ironically enough, they were at the Pit of Doom. Natael watched Taim from the corner of his eye. He seemed to be massaging his wrist, or…

Natael's eyes widened as Taim linked with him through the ter'angreal bracelets. It was hardly an explosion of strength, like before, but Sammael wouldn't expect it.

Natael didn't tergiversate: he balefired the Chosen.

Or tried to. The weave…melted before it could reach its intended target.

Ah, yes. The True Power. Natael had forgotten about that little detail. The Chosen were usually reluctant to sample it, except in last resort but, given the circumstances, Sammael had no reason to hold back. He would use every weapon at his disposal to lead the Shadow to victory – and to stay alive.

The Chosen sighed. "You were always the weakest amongst us, Nessosin. Always scheming, but never actually doing anything. Always submitting to your betters, always a follower rather than a leader. Always cowering away from the action…until today." He chuckled. "Well, I suppose you were right: you don't belong on the battlefield." He pointed at Taim without looking at him. "This man will die because of you. All of these people will die because of you, because you're useless, no matter which side you're on. The world will-"

This time the balefire took effect. Natael had transferred the lead of the circle to Taim, who was out of Sammael's line of sight. And Taim didn't skimp on the amount of Power he used to weave the balefire. He put every ounce of strength they had left into it. Sammael vanished from the earth, and from the Pattern itself.

Their link was immediately broken. Natael's hold on saidin loosened…and then there was nothing to hold on to. Once again, Natael fell to his knees, gasping.

"Well, it seems we'll be forced to rest, whether we want it or not," Taim noted. "I couldn't channel to light a candle. Or channel at all, it feels like. I've never been so depleted of strength or energy in my entire life." Natael didn't respond. "It was worth it, though." Natael could barely think, let alone speak. "Nate, are you alright? Is it your shoulder? We need to get you to Mayene." There was a hand on Natael's back. "Nate? Come on. The Aes Sedai and the Asha'man will deal with the enemy. It should be a piece of cake, now that Sammael-" Taim crouched beside him. "Peace, Nate, are you crying?"

Was he? Oh, it was quite possible. It wouldn't be surprising at all. "I'm seared out. So are you, I'll wager. You-" No, don't blame him. You surrendered the lead. It's your fault as much as his.

"Is that an expression from the Age of Legends that means…exhausted?"

Right. They used a different term for it, nowadays… "Burned out," he murmured. "It's gone. Saidin is gone."

Taim sat down and patted his arm. "Don't be silly. We're fine. We just need to sleep. It's gone temporarily, to be sure. I had to use everything I had, you understand. I had to be sure. But it's not gone, Nate. It can't just be gone." He was rambling – he must be trying to locate saidin within himself, and finding nothing. He was beginning to realise what had happened. "It's only…it's the fatigue. Damer made us feel like we were fully rested, but now it's all crashing down on us. The sleepless nights, the stress, that ugly business with Hessalam…" Yes, Flinn's Healing was partially responsible, Natael surmised. It made them feel like they had energy for days, but they really didn't. Healing required energy. And Taim was right: they hadn't had a proper night of sleep in a long time. They should have taken a break. They hadn't even eaten anything, after being Healed by Flinn.

That was the first lesson, the very first thing a channeler learned: don't channel if you're too tired or you'll sear yourself out.

But peace, he'd never imagined that it would happen like that, so fast, without warning. His body hadn't told him: now, careful, my lad, we're dangerously low on energy, best have a snack and take a nap before we duel the Chosen!

He'd foolishly assumed that they would deal with Sammael's army and the Chosen himself, then take a short break to recuperate, then fight…whoever needed fighting, and so on, until the Last Battle was over and they could sleep peacefully for ten days, without interruption.

"Blood and ashes, it's gone," Taim whispered. "Nate, what have I done?"

Natael wanted to comfort him, of course, but he couldn't find the words, not right then. He didn't blame Taim; he blamed Sammael and the Dark One and the Pattern and the Creator and-

"Oi!" one of the Aes Sedai shouted. "It's been five minutes! I can't keep up the ward and protect you forever. Either you participate, or you go somewhere safe."

Oh…right. They were still on the battlefield. In the middle of it. Natael hadn't even wondered why he was unharmed (aside from his wounded shoulder), because he was shell-shocked, but the Aes Sedai nearby was wasting Power just to keep them both alive.

Was life really worth living, though? Without saidin, he was…nothing. He was so dreadfully empty. There was a hole in him, and he had a feeling that the size of the hole was proportionate to his former strength in the Power: enormous.

"Nate, get up," Taim said sternly, supporting his shoulder – the uninjured one, thankfully. "Up!"

Natael sighed but complied. He was as good as dead, but he still didn't want to disappoint Taim. He was also too tired to protest.

"We need to find a safe space to open a gateway to Mayene…" Taim stopped when he realised what he'd said. "Er, I mean, we need to find someone who…" He shook his head. "You know what I mean."

Unfortunately, yes. "How are we supposed to get to a safe place?"

Taim stooped to pick up Sammael's sword. "The few madmen who are left have largely dispersed. We'll go this way."

"And you'll expertly skewer the madmen who can attack us from a distance with that blade you don't know to use?" Now was not a great time to be catty and sarcastic, but what else was he supposed to be, under these circumstances?

"I'll keep you safe, m'lords," a man said. Judging by his clothes and the silver sword on his left collar, he was one of their Dedicated, though Natael didn't recognise him. He surrounded the three of them with a protective shield woven of Earth, Spirit and Water.

"You're needed here, Anders," Taim said. "We'll be fine."

Of course they wouldn't be fine. They would never be fine again.

"M'Hael, with all due respect… I owe it to you. To both of you. You're heroes, and the Black Tower needs you."

Natael emerged from his gloom at the improbable sentence. To call Taim a hero was one thing…but him? What had he done? He didn't even know this boy. Also, considering that they weren't channelers anymore, they didn't belong at the Black Tower.

Taim looked equally baffled. "Heroes?"

"The Black Tower is a safe haven," Anders explained, "and not only for channelers. Everyone can be who they are without fear of being persecuted or punished for it." He sighed. "Do you know what they do to people like us, where I come from? I hear that it's tolerated in some places, provided that the men – or women – are discreet, and that banishment is common in other regions, but in my town and in the neighbouring villages, people are flogged, m'lords. Flogged and branded. Their families and friends shun them. Their lives are essentially destroyed, and they often opt to kill themselves rather than live with the shame they've brought upon themselves and those associated with them. Even before the Cleansing, being a male channeler was considered a lesser offence than this." He bowed his head slightly. "But not at the Black Tower. And that's all thanks to you, m'lords. Your progressive views, your intransigence regarding intolerance, the fact that you are regularly seen together in public... I just wanted to tell you that it means a lot to me, and to others like us as well, I'm sure. Now, will you allow me to guide you to safety? Please, with your permission, M'Hael, Ghraem?"

Natael blinked. He was stuck at the part where people were getting flogged-

But Taim was smiling. It was an infinitely sad smile, though. "We'll allow it, Dedicated. But you are to return to your post as soon as we reach Mayene, is that understood? Unlike us, you can still be useful on the battlefield."

"Are you truly burned out, m'lords?" Taim nodded. "Both of you?"

"I'm afraid so. Learn from my mistake, Anders. If you're feeling too tired to channel, take a break." He removed the now-useless bracelet that Demandred had given them…what, a few hours ago? It felt like days. He then gestured at Natael to do the same and gave the ter'angreal to Anders. "Just in case you need to pair up with another Asha'man," Taim said. "It'll allow you to link with him." Anders accepted the artefacts reverently. "Now let's go. Quickly. Ghraem seems just about to pass out again, though he promised he wouldn't."

Well, it was a promise he wouldn't be able to keep. For the second time that day, the world faded out of focus. Natael felt two strong arms catching him as he slowly sank to the ground.

Author's note : I've never written a song before, and I have zero musical knowledge, so the first Sammael ditty is based on something I heard in "The Big Bang Theory" (S02E14). The second one is a cheap plagiarism of Ragnar the Red from the videogame "The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim".