Jasin Natael awoke as a ray of sunshine filtered through the room and fell across his face. He lay there a while longer, luxuriating in the softness of the bed. The girl wasn't there.
He had taken to sleeping in since their arrival in Cairhien a few days past. It must be around noon for the sun to be high enough to reach their room. Sitting up slowly, he let out a yawn and stretched languorously. Neya stood on the balcony, wearing a simple night shift. Did she not realise how enticing she looked? In all fairness, she probably didn't. She was as oblivious as her brother, sometimes.
She'd been taking an incredibly long time soaking in the large copper tube in the next room, the day they arrived in the palace, so long that he'd fallen asleep on the bed. He'd awakened in the middle of the night to find her there, her back to him, but so close that he could have heard her heart beat, if he'd embraced saidin. He tried to do that as seldom as possible, these days, to avoid any unnecessary contact with the taint. How truly unnerving it was, to know that he was now subject to it.
After that strange first night, they began sleeping in the bed together, and she seemed to find that perfectly normal. She hadn't even mentioned it, in fact. It was a large bed, granted, but still, he would only need to reach his arm to touch her. He found it… unflattering… that she felt so at ease around him.
He hadn't thought much of her at first, in the early days following her release from Mierin's care. She was annoying, loquacious and incredibly persistent. She never missed an opportunity to call him by any sort of ridiculously cheesy nickname, even when they weren't in public, and she pestered him with thousands of questions, this little girl who talked of what was now called the Age of Legends as if she'd been alive in those days. He had been too busy brooding and reflecting on his predicament to pay her much attention. But as the days went by, and as he was forced to pretend to care for her, on al'Thor's orders, he'd found himself beginning to develop a certain fondness for the girl, with her easy smiles and her candid demeanour. She exuded such radiant effervescence, and she was so genuine.
Unfortunately, it wasn't until she disappeared that he'd noticed how much he'd relied on her presence, as if they were both survivors from a ship wreck that had landed on a strange island populated by primitives. That was a word that fitted the Aiel perfectly, as far as he was concerned. Of course, no one of this Age was particularly sophisticated, but these were odd specimens indeed.
Al'Thor had been furious upon hearing that Neya was gone. The boy seemed convinced that Natael and Lanfear had plotted to have her removed, although when Natael asked him why they would do such a thing, the Dragon Reborn had had no ready answer.
He had begun to think of himself as Natael early in his captivity. It was safer that way. He was less likely to give away any clue as to who he really was. To tell the truth, he wasn't sure who he was anymore.
The aftermath of his struggle with al'Thor in Rhuidean had been deeply disturbing. The more he reflected on the matter, the less he was able to comprehend it. He had been one of the Chosen for so long that he was having trouble remembering what it was like to be a mere mortal, a part of the common rabble. Mierin's shield only made things worse. He had gone from being one of the most powerful male channelers alive to one of the weakest.
Isendre had appeared two days after they left Rhuidean. It happened exactly as he'd described it before to Neya: the Friend of the Dark had slipped into his tent and simply removed her clothes, then waited for him to proceed, as if she'd had no doubt that he would do as he was supposed to. And, fool that he was, he had obediently fulfilled her expectations.
Obviously, she had been sent to spy on him. That was clear from the start. He could tell from the contempt on her face as he fondled her that she was not enjoying any of this. Well, he would be damned if he didn't get to enjoy himself. Why wouldn't he? There was nothing else for him to do. His former life had been ripped away from him, his immortality and the Great Lord's protection cut out in one swift movement. He could barely channel a trickle of the Power, and what little he had was corrupted. He had never imagined how vile the taint would feel, how wrong. He was so used to being one of the most powerful men in the world that he hadn't realised how much he depended on saidin. Without it, he was naked, defenceless. He had no other way of taking care of himself. He had always been depressingly inept with a sword – or any sort of physical weapon, really – not that it had ever mattered before. He remembered feeling contemptuous of his former male associates for their obsession with swords, Demandred most of all. Well, the man's real obsession was to destroy Lews Therin. Whether he accomplished that with a sword or another weapon was probably irrelevant at this point.
In any case, it made sense. Lanfear had sent Neya to spy on him, told her to get into his bed, and when Mierin realised her tamed minion had failed to comply, she had been replaced by Isendre and the Great Lord only knew what had happened to Neya.
And then she reappeared, out of the blue, looking the worst for wear. He didn't know what had happened to her and she seemed reluctant to talk about it, even now that they'd made peace. Al'Thor said Mierin wasn't involved, which only made it all the more mysterious. He remembered seeing Neya that morning, with her brown hair all tangled from sleep and her face pale from whatever it was she had been up to. She'd had a haunted air about her, not at all her usual light-hearted self.
He'd wanted to go to her, but that was out of the question. He could see how that would look from everyone else's perspective, what with him cavorting with a thieving woman that was unanimously hated, and that only days after his supposed lover had tragically vanished. He wouldn't be able to approach her as long as Isendre was here. Mierin wouldn't be too pleased with that. At least the girl was alive.
He wasn't sure what had happened to Isendre, not exactly. The woman was certainly dead, of that he had no doubt. As to who had done the killing, or why, he could only guess. Not that it mattered, of course. He was glad to be rid of her, he didn't mind admitting. She had been a more than adequate lover, but incredibly dense. In any case, it meant he was free to approach Neya again. Although it clearly wouldn't be easy, judging by the condemning looks most everyone still gave him.
He supposed he had more or less expected the girl to take him back without a word; they would pretend to make up and it would be as if nothing had ever happened. It was in everyone's best interest. They had been pretending all along, after all. She had no reason to be irate, let alone jealous. Therefore her outburst had come as a shock. After the girl had given him an earful – and two mighty slaps; she was stronger than she looked – he had been more confused than angry. After all, she was the one who'd disappeared in the first place, abandoning him to his sombre fate. He had more right to be angry than she did. The truth was that he hadn't noticed that she cared for him in that way. For that matter, he hadn't realised he cared for her, not until recently.
It really hit him that day after the attack, before Isendre's sudden… departure. Neya was wandering among the corpses, asking around, obviously looking for someone. Al'Thor had just left Natael's tent after their talk of Sammael and his possible implication in the attack. On a whim, he decided to go to her, to make sure she was alright. Before he'd gone ten steps, however, she had stopped dead in her tracks and stumbled to the ground. Apparently, she had found what she'd been looking for, and it wasn't what she expected. It made him hesitate. She sat there for a long time, obviously dazed, her eyes blank, tears rolling unheeded down her cheeks. When he finally decided to join her, however, Mandragoran had suddenly appeared out of nowhere to carry her away. Cursing the man under his breath, Natael had gone back to his tent, where Isendre waited for him. She had half-heartedly tried to entice him but he'd finally done what he should have done days ago, what he should have done the first time she had walked into his tent: he had sent her away. He was well aware that he was the most likely cause of her sudden departure, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
He was relieved when Neya apologised the next day, almost grateful. They'd spend most of the next few days together, talking and joking, in a much more natural way than they had in Rhuidean. She was her old self once more, delightfully annoying, teasing and sarcastic. She had been very curious about his relation with Ishamael, something she had never mentioned before. It surprised him that Ishamael had told her about it. They hadn't exactly parted in good terms.
It had been well before the War of Power, before the Collapse, when they'd still been known by their former names. He hadn't even earned his third name at the time. He was playing background music in any place that would let him. It was his first time performing in the Ansaline Gardens and he was nervous; it was a prestigious venue, often crowded with all sorts of important people. He had hoped to be noticed by the person that would finally enable him to become the famous musician he was destined to be. Instead, he'd met Elan Morin Tedronai.
He was well over three hundred years old, and already renowned, having earned his third name some fifty years past. He was also very striking, in an elegant way. They'd made eye contact as he was performing and the man had offered to buy him a drink afterward. They spent that night together at Elan's place, and most of the nights that followed. It had been a short, passionate fling, with half their time spent arguing and the other half making up. It had been pleasant, for a while at least. Then Elan had begun to show signs of extreme moodiness and it had all gone downhill from there, ending with Natael making a spectacular scene in – ironically enough – the Ansaline Gardens. He hadn't seen the man again until he'd decided to join the Shadow, and Ishamael – calling him Elan would have been a grave mistake at that point – had been quick to point out that anything that had happened between them was long buried in the past. Of course by then he'd been more than half-mad already.
He shook his head slightly, dispelling the reminiscences. He wasn't as nostalgic of the past as some of his former associates. The past was the past; the only way was forward. That was especially true in Natael's case.
Neya hadn't moved, he noticed. He wondered what she was looking at, what she was thinking about. Letting out another yawn, he heaved himself off the bed and walked into the other room to freshen up. After donning a new shirt, he joined her on the balcony. The light was making a halo around her soft brown hair. She was leaning casually over the railing, apparently lost in thought. It was hard to believe that such an innocent-looking girl could have outlived the most fearsome of all the Chosen and deceived Lanfear besides, and that under torture.
"Good afternoon," she said without turning, the grin obvious in her voice. "Did you have your beauty sleep?" she added teasingly.
He smiled at her back, moving closer, until he was standing right behind her. She turned around slowly, clearly wondering what he was up to. Before she could open her mouth, he kissed her as thoroughly as he knew how.
Neya was so stunned that, for a moment, she responded almost reflexively. Of course, that caused Jay to kiss her even more fiercely. He placed his hands around her waist, pressing her against the railing.
She had to stop this. Panting a little, she put her hands on his chest and disentangled herself from him, gently but firmly. "What's wrong?" he murmured roughly, sounding breathless. He reached up with his hand to brush back a strand of her hair. "Too fast?" he asked softly, one eyebrow arched teasingly.
She shook her head. "We can't do that," she whispered. He frowned at her. "I'm sorry," she said, moving away from him and into the room.
"And why not?" he called after her. "We've been pretending for over a month. It's about time we put all that practice to good use," he told her with a grin. He took a step toward her, but she raised a hand to forestall him.
"I mean it, Jay. I never make the same mistake twice," she said quietly.
"Mistake?" he asked, obviously confused. "What mistake?"
"I got close to Elan and look how that turned out."
He let out a short bark of laughter. "I hope you're not comparing me with Ishamael, girl," he said with some of the scorn he'd often displayed around her, back in Rhuidean. "The man was mad. He got himself killed because he was in over his head and couldn't even see it. I know better than that. I have absolutely no intention of being killed. Mark my words: immortal or not, I plan on having a very long life," he told her forcefully.
"I doubt anyone ever plans on dying or being killed," she pointed out.
"Neya," he said, raising his hands in a calming gesture, "I understand it must have been hard on you, but that's all behind you now. You're safe here. We both are. We are under the protection of the most powerful man in the world. What could possibly go wrong?"
"The most dangerous man, you mean. The most likely to get us all killed. Surely you can see that?" she said with a hint of desperation in her voice.
Cautiously, he closed the distance between them, enfolding her in his arms and stroking her hair. "I won't allow that," he whispered in her ear. Slowly, he lifted her chin to him, kissing her softly.
Soon, it was too late to stop anything.