She couldn't have said exactly how long she'd been here. As far as she knew, it had been at least seven or eight months. Sometimes she felt she'd always lived here. She rarely wondered about her family anymore. What was the point? She knew she would never see them again. She had resigned herself to that.
She had no idea what was happening out there in the world. Elan didn't mind sharing his knowledge regarding the Age of Legends, but any question about current events was met with a shrug and a shake of his head or nothing at all. Last week, after their conversation about Demandred and his motivations for joining the Shadow, she'd asked him if any of the other Forsaken were loose in the world. He had corrected her automatically – 'Chosen, pet, how many times must I remind you?' – but she had received no proper answer. He would prattle at length about the people they had been before pledging their souls to the Dark One – 'The Great Lord. Are you dense, pet?' – but rarely made mention of them after they'd become his cronies – not a word she'd ever used around him, she was not that dense. As a result, she'd taken to call them by their former names, as he did most of the time.
It was incredible how knowing about their previous lives had diminished her fear of them – some of them, in any case. They were all dangerous, to be sure, but sometimes she couldn't help but compare them to children. Spoiled, petty children. But for the possible exception of Mierin Eronaile, the men seemed to be the worst in that regard, Nessosin most of all.
She could understand why most of them had turned to the Shadow, although their reasons were feeble at best, but Joar Addam Nessosin, who was now known as Asmodean, had only come over because someone else had won the prize he thought he deserved, a musical award of sorts. Elan had explained that, during the Age of Legends, people gained status through public recognition. Apparently, being recognized as an artist had been the hardest path of all. He told her that Nessosin had dedicated his life to becoming the greatest musician of his time. She could understand that failing to receive his award must have been frustrating after spending so much time to obtain it, but to throw away everything to pledge his soul to the Shadow seemed an overreaction to say the least. Elan had merely shrugged when she'd pointed that out. She couldn't say whether he used the man's third name as a sign of respect or contempt, or both.
She wished she knew what was going on. Something had to be happening, otherwise Elan wouldn't be here. She didn't know whether he'd managed to keep out of Shayol Ghul for the last three thousand years or had been freed from it only recently. She didn't dare ask.
Elan had never asked her anything about her own life, which was a good thing, as far as she was concerned. Early in her captivity, she had devised a likely background story for herself, in case he ever questioned her. She hoped it might keep her family safe but, in all likelihood, he hadn't inquired because he already knew all there was to know.
She was beginning to like him. It amazed her, this ability to adapt even in the dreariest circumstances. A few months ago, the very thought would have sickened her. She knew she wasn't supposed to actually like him, that it wouldn't help her escape her present situation, only make it more tolerable, but she couldn't help it. Anyway, did it really matter anymore? If she was stuck here with him forever, she might as well make the best of it.
He remained here much more often than he used to. He would go away for a few days, a week at most, then come back for a day or two. They often practiced with their respective blades and sometimes he played the piano. She didn't know if he'd been considered a good musician in his days, as she possessed absolutely no musical notion herself, but she loved to hear him play. Recently, he had agreed to teach her how to play, although he hadn't gotten around to it yet. They had taken to speaking in the Old Tongue, so that she now felt as comfortable with it as with the Common Tongue.
She had just fallen asleep when she heard something crash on the floor next to her. Sitting up, she stared frantically around the room. Elan was sprawled on the ground beside the bed. It looked as if he had attempted to sit on the bed and fallen off of it. Was he drunk? She couldn't see clearly. The only light came from the fire in the other room. Getting out of bed, she approached him carefully. "Elan?" she whispered. He was lying on his stomach, so she turned him over, not an easy feat. She felt something wet on his chest. She couldn't make it out in the gloom, but it smelled like blood. "Elan?" she repeated, louder this time. "Can you hear me?" He didn't move, didn't say anything. She felt at his throat for a heartbeat. It was faint, but it was there.
What to do? She couldn't even see the wound. The candle by her bed usually burned when she needed it to, seemingly on its own accord, but right now it remained desperately extinguished. She could try to drag him to the other room, where she could light one of the glowbulbs – remnants of the Age of Legends – but she might make everything worse by simply moving him. She needed to channel, to Heal him with saidar. But how? She had no idea how she'd done it last time. It had just happened. She tried to remember how she'd felt, what she'd done. She'd been angry and desperate and near hysterical; she'd started to shake him. Well, she certainly felt the same way.
Should she try to shake him?
Abruptly she stood, slapping her forehead and cursing profusely. You wool-brained idiot! She couldn't move him to the other room, but she could take one of the glowbulb here. Letting out a few more expletives, she hurriedly brought back one of the artefacts and placed it near Elan's unmoving body. The white light showed her his face, pasty and pale. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. In a panicky rush, she felt for his pulse once more and found it even weaker than it had been a moment ago. Desperate, she removed his coat and shirt and winced at the sight of the wound. It looked very deep. Some blood was still leaking out of the gash. She started to panic in earnest this time, feeling tears running down her face.
Then suddenly, that sentiment of pure joy and peace filled her again, and this time she was very much aware of its power, of the ecstasy she felt at holding it.
She shook her head. She had to focus on the task at hand. She… did something with the Power, trying to sense how she could fix the wound. She wasn't sure how he was still alive, as whatever had made a hole through him seemed to have pierced his heart. She'd reflected before that maybe he didn't have one, that none of the Forsaken had one, but it seemed ridiculous now. Whatever else he might be, he was still human. Taking a deep breath, she guided the Power that was coursing through her into the wound, fixing the internal damage, knitting the skin whole again. She didn't think about what she was doing; she didn't hesitate. It came naturally, as if she'd done it a thousand times before.
When it was done, she considered what to do with him. Eyeing the bed, she endeavoured to weave a thread to haul him up there. It took a few attempts, but she finally managed it. She felt exhausted, drained. Saidar deserted her as soon as Elan rested safely on the bed.
Then, without really thinking about what she was doing, she lay next to him on the narrow bed and fell asleep almost instantly.