Author's Note: Sorry for taking a while to update. Between midterms, and
just school in general, life has been hectic. And even with all of the
time that it took to write, I am not sure that I like this chapter. I am
open to any suggestions, in fact I could use the help. And if anyone can
correct my spelling on Jain Farstrider, I know that it is wrong, but for
the life of me I cannot remember what book it was mentioned in.
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As the sun touched the trees on the horizon the city was ablaze in shades of red and orange. Sunset faded into dusk, and the land was washed of all of its color, as the gray of twilight reigned. Finally, the black of night settled in, covering Caemlyn like a blanket.
In a small room, in an even smaller house beside the Horse and Buggy, a young mother kissed her golden headed babes on their brows, and whispered prayers of safety and words love before blowing out the lamps. She walked slowly down the hall, to her bedroom where she would spend then night wrapped in her husband's arms, his warm breath on the back of her neck.
Across the street, beside an alley where a young girl once slept huddled in the snow sat a squat two story house. Here, a single window was lit, standing guard against the night. A wrinkled and worn woman sat in an equally worn rocking chair, her aged hands moving deftly over her quilting. It was years since her husband had last called her to bed. A sudden fever had taken him just before dawn. Now her young grandchild lay sleeping, curled at her feet, a well loved copy of Jain Farstrider beneath her head. The elderly woman lay down the fabric, and gently carried the child to bed. She smoothed the girl's hair across the pillow, before lying down beside her for the night.
In a cozy room on the second floor of the Horse and Buggy, a young woman slept, her knees pulled to her chest, the blankets held tightly beneath her chin. Her long dark hair fell loose down her back, the long thick braid abandoned and undone for the evening.
All throughout the city, shutters were closed and drapes were drawn. Lan sat facing the window. His right leg crossed his left at the knee, and his right boot was propped against the window sill, where the night's breeze softly rustled the curtains. He watched as the city's candles and lanterns were extinguished, and one by one the lights blinked out, until the entire city surrendered to the darkness.
The whet stone made its hundredth pass over the blade for the night, making a light scraping sound as it progressed over the steel. The blade did not need to be sharpened, but the process had become a nightly ritual for the warder. The stone seemed to whisper as it began its path again.
Night time was the hardest. Sleep was fitful and punctuated by fierce dreams of blood and pain. These dreams would awaken him in a cold sweat, an unspoken cry at his lips. Several days had past since his last attempt at such. Now he sat, and the stone traced the edge of the blade. The action required no thought. His arm moved rhythmically from the hilt to the point. The only sound that of the stone on the blade, whispering words of vengeance.
Days were spent in the private dining room. Leah had been provided with coin for a seamstress, and several fine dresses were soon to be delivered. After two days, her hands had ceased to stray over the fine fabric of the skirts as if to make sure of their continued presence. By the third day it was no longer necessary to tap the underside of her chin. Her eyes would fiercely meet any that challenged her. Her curtsey had been perfected, not the deep sweeping curtsey of a servant, but the slightest decline of the head, and bending at the knees. As Nynaeve had begun life in the country side, little of the language needed altered; instead he was able to focus on names and places necessary for Leah to know.
Once supper had been eaten, Lan would adjourn to the common room below. There he would sit, his eyes in a mug of ale, looking for all of the world as if he heard not a word in the room, when in actuality his ears strained for the slightest rumor of those he sought. Had he been a hound, his ears would have been at point, so intent was he on the surrounding din.
Leah had left the privacy of the inn rarely, but always in his company. A proud woman, finely dressed in the company of an armed man was sure to be noticed. They did not stroll through the streets, but moved as if driven by some urgency. There was no great purpose to these outings other than to be seen. Their stride was a part of the act, one more small touch to ensure remembrance.
The true challenge still lay ahead. He needed to be sure that Moghedien believed that Nynaeve was in Caemlyn. He needed her to come.
It was not only stories of Moghedien that he sought. He listened also for any tale of strange occurrences. Tales of dice games abandoned as all roles yielded crowns, or of mass marriages. Tales of men falling from great heights with no more than a scratch, or women dying from the slightest jolt. These stories would be a sure sign of Rand's presence in Caemlyn, and Lan was not ready for him to arrive. Not yet.
He had forced himself to be patient. But now, he was so close that he nearly trembled. The images had come so often for so long they were nearly reality. His blade was on Moghedien's throat. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her chest heaved. Her eyes darted back and forth. On her knees he made her beg for her life. Plead to be spared. A smile touched his lips. He could feel the heat of the blood spatter on his skin as he pierced her jugular. A sharp bite on the inside of his cheek brought the distinctive coppery flavor. Not his blood. In his mind it became Moghedien's. In his mind he could smell it, that acrid scent characteristic of a blood letting. He could feel it on his hands, both slick and sticky at the same time. Now he really was smiling as the whet stone traveled down the blade, and he carried on his silent vigil for daybreak.
........................................................................................................
As the sun touched the trees on the horizon the city was ablaze in shades of red and orange. Sunset faded into dusk, and the land was washed of all of its color, as the gray of twilight reigned. Finally, the black of night settled in, covering Caemlyn like a blanket.
In a small room, in an even smaller house beside the Horse and Buggy, a young mother kissed her golden headed babes on their brows, and whispered prayers of safety and words love before blowing out the lamps. She walked slowly down the hall, to her bedroom where she would spend then night wrapped in her husband's arms, his warm breath on the back of her neck.
Across the street, beside an alley where a young girl once slept huddled in the snow sat a squat two story house. Here, a single window was lit, standing guard against the night. A wrinkled and worn woman sat in an equally worn rocking chair, her aged hands moving deftly over her quilting. It was years since her husband had last called her to bed. A sudden fever had taken him just before dawn. Now her young grandchild lay sleeping, curled at her feet, a well loved copy of Jain Farstrider beneath her head. The elderly woman lay down the fabric, and gently carried the child to bed. She smoothed the girl's hair across the pillow, before lying down beside her for the night.
In a cozy room on the second floor of the Horse and Buggy, a young woman slept, her knees pulled to her chest, the blankets held tightly beneath her chin. Her long dark hair fell loose down her back, the long thick braid abandoned and undone for the evening.
All throughout the city, shutters were closed and drapes were drawn. Lan sat facing the window. His right leg crossed his left at the knee, and his right boot was propped against the window sill, where the night's breeze softly rustled the curtains. He watched as the city's candles and lanterns were extinguished, and one by one the lights blinked out, until the entire city surrendered to the darkness.
The whet stone made its hundredth pass over the blade for the night, making a light scraping sound as it progressed over the steel. The blade did not need to be sharpened, but the process had become a nightly ritual for the warder. The stone seemed to whisper as it began its path again.
Night time was the hardest. Sleep was fitful and punctuated by fierce dreams of blood and pain. These dreams would awaken him in a cold sweat, an unspoken cry at his lips. Several days had past since his last attempt at such. Now he sat, and the stone traced the edge of the blade. The action required no thought. His arm moved rhythmically from the hilt to the point. The only sound that of the stone on the blade, whispering words of vengeance.
Days were spent in the private dining room. Leah had been provided with coin for a seamstress, and several fine dresses were soon to be delivered. After two days, her hands had ceased to stray over the fine fabric of the skirts as if to make sure of their continued presence. By the third day it was no longer necessary to tap the underside of her chin. Her eyes would fiercely meet any that challenged her. Her curtsey had been perfected, not the deep sweeping curtsey of a servant, but the slightest decline of the head, and bending at the knees. As Nynaeve had begun life in the country side, little of the language needed altered; instead he was able to focus on names and places necessary for Leah to know.
Once supper had been eaten, Lan would adjourn to the common room below. There he would sit, his eyes in a mug of ale, looking for all of the world as if he heard not a word in the room, when in actuality his ears strained for the slightest rumor of those he sought. Had he been a hound, his ears would have been at point, so intent was he on the surrounding din.
Leah had left the privacy of the inn rarely, but always in his company. A proud woman, finely dressed in the company of an armed man was sure to be noticed. They did not stroll through the streets, but moved as if driven by some urgency. There was no great purpose to these outings other than to be seen. Their stride was a part of the act, one more small touch to ensure remembrance.
The true challenge still lay ahead. He needed to be sure that Moghedien believed that Nynaeve was in Caemlyn. He needed her to come.
It was not only stories of Moghedien that he sought. He listened also for any tale of strange occurrences. Tales of dice games abandoned as all roles yielded crowns, or of mass marriages. Tales of men falling from great heights with no more than a scratch, or women dying from the slightest jolt. These stories would be a sure sign of Rand's presence in Caemlyn, and Lan was not ready for him to arrive. Not yet.
He had forced himself to be patient. But now, he was so close that he nearly trembled. The images had come so often for so long they were nearly reality. His blade was on Moghedien's throat. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her chest heaved. Her eyes darted back and forth. On her knees he made her beg for her life. Plead to be spared. A smile touched his lips. He could feel the heat of the blood spatter on his skin as he pierced her jugular. A sharp bite on the inside of his cheek brought the distinctive coppery flavor. Not his blood. In his mind it became Moghedien's. In his mind he could smell it, that acrid scent characteristic of a blood letting. He could feel it on his hands, both slick and sticky at the same time. Now he really was smiling as the whet stone traveled down the blade, and he carried on his silent vigil for daybreak.