Mazrim could feel a headache coming. Had he gotten drunk the night before, again? Everything was fuzzy. It felt like his brain was filled with cotton. Mishraile was going to give him that half-disappointed, half-scolding look again.

Mishraile? No, that wasn't right. Mishraile had joined Logain, had helped him escape, on Mazrim's orders. How long ago? Days? Weeks?

Mazrim was reclining on a rather uncomfortable pallet – he'd slept in such conditions often enough to know this. But where in the Pit of–

Then he remembered. Hazy memories came rushing back in flashes. The wild channeling, the sudden pain, the freezing cold. Neya.

He sat up abruptly, eyes wide. The world was plunged in darkness, but he could distinguish someone slumped on the chair next to his pallet. It wasn't Neya; the snoring was not loud enough.

Mazrim's breath caught as he realised that he couldn't feel her anymore. The bond was gone! He stood up, or tried to. He ended up stumbling and half-falling in the chair. "Watch out!" the person who had been sitting there cried out. "What are you doing, man?"

"Natael?" Mazrim said in a puzzled voice. Almost reflexively, he summoned a thin thread of Fire so he could see. A distant part of his mind was mildly surprised to be able to channel. Where were his guards? Why was he not shielded? In the faint light, Mazrim recognised the former Forsaken, barely an inch away from his face. Hastily, he heaved himself off the other man and staggered to a precarious standing position. "What are you doing here?" he demanded in a croaky voice. He cleared his throat roughly. There was a sour aftertaste in his mouth. "What's going on? Where's Neya?" Hopefully, the so-called Musician would answer that last question first.

"Whoa, calm down. One thing at a time," Natael said. He rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes, yawning as he did so. Mazrim opened his mouth impatiently, to repeat his questions, but the bard forestalled him. "Neya's fine." He paused, glancing up at Mazrim, head cocked slightly to the side. "Well, she's still unconscious, but she'll be fine," he amended.

"Why's the b- bond gone? It can't be gone. I weaved it myself. She- She couldn't have removed it. W- Why would she do that?" Mazrim sputtered. Burn his tendency to stutter when he spoke too quickly! Or when he felt like panicking, which he usually avoided at all costs. First he'd done it in front of Demandred, of all people, and now he was at it again, in front of flaming Asmodean. Trolloc balls!

Natael huffed. "Calm down, will you? And for the love of the- Light, just sit, you oaf, you look ready to fall again." Mazrim complied irritably. Truth be told, he felt somewhat lightheaded. "She's fine, I told you," Natael went on. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before continuing. "The bond… It just… Well, you see…"

"No, I don't. Maybe I would, if you actually explained, instead of blurting out random words," Mazrim said dryly – and quite unfairly, given his own stammering.

Natael glared at him. "You died," he announced sharply.

He'd…died? That didn't make any bloody sense. He was alive, wasn't he? Almost involuntarily, Mazrim checked his own pulse at the wrist. Yes, his heart was beating, alright.

Natael's lips twitched in a smirk. "Of course you're alive, you pillock." Mazrim flinched. He hadn't realised he'd spoken out loud. "You died, but Neya Healed you," he went on in a lowered voice.

Mazrim was stunned speechless for a minute. "Neya…brought me back…from the dead?"

Natael shrugged. "Looks like it."

"Where is she?" Mazrim asked after a brief hesitation. "I need to see her."

The other man shook his head ruefully. "Not now, I'm afraid. Her watchdog is not allowing anyone inside the tent. I already tried to get past him, and only managed to annoy the peasant enough that he threatened to put an arrow through my throat if I didn't run off." He gulped reflexively, as though he were attempting to swallow said arrow. "In any case, as I said, Neya's unconscious."

He could say that as many times as he wanted, but Mazrim wouldn't believe it until he saw her with his own two eyes. He had gotten too used to the bond, to the permanent awareness that Neya was alive and safe, to trust the man's word on it. "I need to see her," he repeated forcefully, staggering to his feet once again.

Natael half-raised a hand, as though to steady Mazrim, then sighed heavily. "You're welcome to try, but–" Mazrim was already walking out of the tent before the man could finish his sentence. He had no idea where Neya was, but he would turn the entire flaming camp upside down to find her, if he had to. After taking a few steps, he realised that Natael had followed him outside. "Stubborn man," the bard muttered under his breath. Mazrim paid him no attention.

"What happened, anyway? Is the battle over?" Mazrim asked as he stalked away, although he wasn't particularly interested in the answer. Neya was all that mattered. Light, let her be safe.

"Obviously. Al'Thor is dying, the rest of the world is alive. Well, some of us are, anyway. It's this way," he pointed out when Mazrim took a wrong turn. They reached their destination a few minutes later. "She's in there," Natael said, indicating one of the tents, "but he won't let you in, I'm telling you." Mazrim couldn't see any guard posted outside. In fact, the area seemed deserted, though he could hear faint cheering and singing in the distance. "Don't say I didn't warn you," Natael grumbled when Mazrim moved forward to lift the tent flap.

Neya was there, just as promised. She looked so frail and tiny, lying on the makeshift cot, and so frighteningly pale. The man who was sitting on the chair next to her sprang to his feet as Mazrim entered. "What do you think you're doing, barging in unannounced? Who in the bloody Pit of Doom do you think you are?" the man challenged him, directing a threatening finger at Mazrim's chest. He reminded Mazrim of someone, but he wasn't sure who. He couldn't think of anyone Neya would want to watch over her while she slept, especially not this old crank who reeked of stale tobacco and cheap perfume.

"May I have a moment with her?" Mazrim asked with all the patience and civility he could muster. He never took his eyes off Neya.

"No, you bloody well cannot. Get out, lad. She needs rest," the man said firmly. He planted himself in front of Mazrim, though he barely reached his shoulders. "Maybe when she's awake, but certainly not now."

"Just a minute? Please?" Mazrim pleaded. "She saved my life." Light, she really had. He couldn't believe she had actually raised him from the dead. For that matter, he couldn't believe he had died in the first place.

"Listen, lad," the older man said more gently, "my daughter saved many lives today. Now she needs to rest. You can visit her tomorrow, alright?"

The old codger wouldn't budge, would he? Well, there was no use antagonising her…father? No, Neya wouldn't like th–

Mazrim blinked in sudden realisation. Her father? Hadn't Neya told him that her father was dead, that he had killed himself and the rest of her family after the madness took him? "You're not her father," he whispered. "Who are you?" Without thinking, Mazrim seized saidin, readying a blast of Air to knock the man out. A Forsaken in disguise? Neya was ta'veren. Perhaps they were still after her, despite the outcome of the battle. Perhaps Natael had been misleading him. It could be a trap.

"What? Of course I'm her flaming father, you bloody son of a goat! Are you calling me a liar?" the man asked indignantly.

"She told me that her father was dead. That her whole family was dead," Mazrim explained. Could Neya have lied to him? Why would she do that? Light, he was being paranoid again, wasn't he, blaming Neya when she couldn't even defend herself?

"Oh," the other man said, realisation dawning on him. He chuckled awkwardly. "Well, that is, we adopted her, you know? Natti and Neya's Ma, they were raised together, and the al'Kanes, they were our neighbours. So after that sad business with her Da and all… We took her in." He snorted. "You should have seen the look on Mat's face when we announced that he was going to have yet another sister."

Mat? Yes, Mazrim saw it now. The man looked like an older version of Matrim Cauthon, didn't he? And Neya came from the same village as al'Thor, the village from which all the ta'veren hailed. Mazrim had never asked what had happened to her, after the incident. He certainly hadn't expected this. Peace! He'd almost knocked his lover's father unconscious! The grandfather of his future- Mazrim hastily released the Source, feeling foolish and worried all over again. To his embarrassment, he felt his cheeks colour in shame.

The baby! He hadn't even spared a thought… Had completely forgotten about…

The baby. His child. Neya and Mazrim's child.

Blood and ashes, he was going to be a dreadful father. Provided that he was allowed anywhere near the child in the first place. He doubted that Demandred…

He blinked. Was the cursed man even alive? Mazrim hadn't thought to ask Natael.

Old Cauthon was staring at him sideways, as though wondering if he'd gone mad. Mazrim had to choke back a bout of hysterical laughter. He itched to pelt the man with questions, to ask about the baby, but…

Did the old man even know about it? Was it safe to ask? Neya would likely slap Mazrim senseless if he broke the news without her express permission.

He cleared his throat. For now, he could only hope that both mother and child were safe – there were no signs to indicate otherwise. He would come back soon, in any case. Surely Cauthon Senior wouldn't stay here all day. By the looks of him, he could fall asleep at any moment. "You will let me see her when she's awake, yes?" Mazrim asked again, voice lowered to a murmur. It didn't hurt to be polite, to mollify Cauthon. The man nodded warily. Without another word, Mazrim turned on his heels and exited the tent.

Natael was waiting for him outside. Why? Why was the bloody man following him around? Had they assigned him as Mazrim's personal escort, for whatever reason?

Mazrim shuddered at the thought.

Natael smirked when Taim left the tent moments after entering it. What had he expected? The old man was as stubborn as anyone from the Two Rivers, and Natael could attest to their mulishness better than most.

Taim's face was surprisingly impassive. When he'd awakened, he wore a look of such confused disorientation, of near-panic, that Natael had been tempted to knock him out cold to spare him the realisation of what had happened. Taim had taken the news relatively well, however.

When Natael had found out about his own…resurrection, he'd been frantic. It didn't help that Neya had just ditched him so unceremoniously. Oh, and that he'd almost been killed a second time in less than an hour.

Yes, in his defence, it had been a rather busy day.

Still, Taim's poise was remarkable. No wonder Elan had chosen to elevate him – or the Dark One had, more likely. In a way, Taim had taken Natael's vacant position. He felt no jealousy at the thought, of course. Returning to the Light was obviously the best decision he'd ever made.

Not that he'd had much choice about it, admittedly.

"What happened to you?" Taim demanded out of the blue. The Saldaean had barely spared Natael a glance as he'd exited the tent, obviously lost in thought, but now he was quite rudely staring at his face, squinting. Natael had taken a seat on a half-rotten crate. Despite having slept for at least twelve hours – a whole day had passed since al'Thor's victory – he still felt bone-weary.

"The Last Battle happened, Taim. You may have slept through most of it, but some of us didn't," he added with a sly smile. Natael had lost consciousness soon after Taim, in truth, but teasing him was amusing.

Taim didn't rise to the bait, however. He was frowning, arms crossed over his chest. "Your face…" He swallowed audibly. "Blood and ashes, they severed you," he whispered, his eyes widening. "I've seen it before… Several acquaintances in Saldaea were… Peace! They have no intention of holding on to their part of the deal, do they? They're going to gentle us all!" He passed a hand through his hair. It could use a trim, Natael noted. And that beard… Well, it would have to go.

"Technically, I made no deal. That was for you and Dem- and Bao." He would always be Bao now. After making certain that Taim was safely tucked in the previous night, Natael had fallen asleep while mentally composing the first ballad of the Fourth Age: Ode to a Potato.

An intimidating Chosen nestled somewhere in time

A dangerous king - no warnings, no signs

Judgment day and the daunting Wyld arrives

That was all Natael had come up with before drifting off to sleep. He let out a small chuckle, which earned him another glower from Taim. "They didn't sever me," he reassured him. "It was my own foolish mistake."

"You burned yourself out?" Taim had a knack for stating the obvious, it seemed.

Natael sighed dramatically. "To save your arse, in fact." Taim's arse was certainly worth the trouble.

Taim looked puzzled. "But I thought… You told me… Neya saved me, you said." He seemed ready to stutter again. It was an odd quirk, and an unexpected one. Quite at odds with Taim's apparent aplomb. It was almost…endearing.

"Neya Healed you," Natael agreed. "But someone had to take you back to her from the battlefield…" He shrugged modestly. "I never imagined it could happen so quickly. One moment I was holding a gateway open, and holding you upright, and the next…" He couldn't help a shudder. He knew his plight wouldn't last, but the feeling had still been quite unpleasant. Reflexively, he grabbed at saidin. Of course, there was nothing there. It was…unnerving. No wonder it drove people mad. "It's as though it's never been there. Like I dreamed the whole thing." He scoffed. "How silly of me, really. That's one of the first things they teach you, now as well as back in my days… 'Don't draw more than you can safely hold. Don't channel if you're feeling exhausted. You may not realise just how depleted your strength is.' It was a mantra, in our age. Children could recite it by heart. I truly didn't see it coming."

"I'm…I'm sorry, Natael. I can't believe you would… Why did you…" Taim took a deep breath. "How can you be so bloody collected about it?"

Natael grinned. Taim seemed genuinely flabbergasted. As if he couldn't believe Natael capable of such a selfless act. Well, it had been purely accidental. Natael would never willingly sacrifice himself to save other people, even one as handsome as Taim. He waved a hand dismissively. "I'm not worried about it. Neya will fix me, whenever she sees fit to wake."

Of course she would. Neya had Healed the madness, hadn't she? She could reattach limbs. This would be a piece of cake, for someone with her skill.

Taim was still scowling. "How can you be so sure? They may have Healed stilling, but this is… Natael, this is different. I'm not sure even Neya…" He trailed off, and an odd expression flickered across his features. Was that…pity? Or mere compassion? Natael had a hard time associating either emotion with this man, who had ravaged his native land and then proceeded to Turn dozens of men and women to the Shadow.

"Taim, she resuscitated you! I'll wager she could Heal me with a blindfold, after what she did to you," he went on confidently.

Taim shook his head slowly. "I know that what she did was nothing short of miraculous but… When you think about it, it's not impossible. My heart must have given out, causing the bond to break, and Neya…restarted it. Healers have been known to do that. And I don't mean channelers. There are ways to…" He cut off abruptly, looking abashed. "What I mean to say is that your condition…"

"…will be easily mended," Natael insisted. The alternative was…unthinkable. He was Joar Addam Nessosin, greatest musician of all times, and one of the most powerful channelers the world had ever known! He wouldn't live forever – he'd reluctantly accepted that – but he would live a bloody long time. And after that, he would live on through his music. It was almost as good as immortality. He could settle for that.

He glared at the Saldaean. Blood and flaming ashes! Why did Taim have to be so defeatist? Now Natael was doubting his unshakable faith in Neya. Burn him!

Natael would channel again, or die trying to prove Taim wrong.