(A/N - You're going to read it? Gosh, thanks awfully. If you like it, you can leave a nice little review. If not, leave a little review anyway, and tell me why. I know this story has no relation to any events in the books, but my brain can only cope with so much, so please excuse my whimsical little tale its horrible bouts of inaccuracy.)

*Disclaimer* - Mr Jordan, I realise I am going totally against your wishes by using an established character in a fan fiction piece. I'm sorry, please don't sue. I'm not gaining any profit from this, and feel terribly guilty about the whole debacle. Thanks.

CHAPTER ONE

Mat ran a gloved hand over his slick face. Flinging the rain from leather clad fingers, he grimaced in distaste. Was there no end to this miserable, grizzling rain? Squinting balefully at the sky yielded only an eyeful of an unrelenting expanse of grey cloud, and a fat splash of rain on the tip of his nose. Muttering darkly to himself, Mat tugged his broad rimmed hat lower, covering his scowl. He was indeed in dour spirits. Pips whickered and snorted, his sides bellowing with stout disapproval. Mat reached and patted the roan's neck absently, and Pips blunt, be-dripping nose came into view as he raised his head to cast a doleful eye at his rider. Mat hitched his shoulders in mute sympathy, and continued to study the camp.

It was quiet, even for a miserable day such as this. The only movement that caught his eye was the occasional listless flit of a sodden banner. The still silence was, however, regularly punctuated by barks of coughing, or a low moan. Mat's scowl deepened.

Grown men, all but crying for their bloody mothers.

The fact that the uncharitable thought stemmed from concern rather than disdain irritated him all the more.

A long, plaintive shudder rippled through Pips' frame. Mat ignored his mount's plea. He could do with a drying off and something warm in his belly as much as his horse, although spiced wine would be preferable to Pips' daily ration of warm mash.

Another bout of coughing reached his ear, harsh and painful sounding. Mat shifted in his saddle, wincing at the uncomfortably numb sensation in his seat. How many men now? Fifty? A hundred?

No fatalities though. In fact, the first casualties of the insipid sickness were recuperating well, albeit slowly, in the scant comfort of the tent rather ostentatiously known as 'the infirmary'. But the sickness was raging through his men nonetheless, seemingly not content until it had laid low his entire band. Including myself, if I don't get out of this bloody rain.

It was all Per's fault he was here, of course. Whenever he ended up in ridiculous situations like this, you could bet it was as a result of Per's suggestions.

Mat could see the healer's pinched, white face now, eyebrows drawn in concern. 'It would really raise their spirits My Lord.' Despite the cajoling tone, there was determination in that soft voice. 'Fourteen more men are in the green tent.'

'Infirmary', Mat interjected. It was childish, no doubt, but the man simply would not let the matter drop.

'Infirmary,' Per amended, 'and morale is very low.' Per paused dramatically, eyes shifting with nervous vigour 'There is talk' he proceeded in a ridiculously hushed voice 'that this is the work of.' Per paused again, nervously wetting his lips, '...higher powers.'

'Per', it had taken a goodly amount of effort to keep his voice below bellowing level 'It is nothing more than a bad chill. It is to be expected if they insist on carousing in that rat-infested town in this...' He threw a disgusted look at the growing puddle encroaching through his tent opening '...weather.'

Not that a little bad weather carousing wasn't an integral part of the majority of Mat's evenings, but that really was beside the point.

'My Lord,' Per continued in that insufferably affable tone 'this will get worse before it gets better. My healing knowledge can only stretch so far.' Per spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness 'I am a firm believer that a strong mind encourages a strong recovery. You are their emblem of strength.'

Mat, his head now cradled in his hands, gave a muffled groan.

'If they see you undaunted by this .setback,' Per persisted 'then it will surely give them the encouragement needed to make a swift recovery.'

Mat rubbed his eyes wearily; he would not give in. Emblem of strength! They probably wouldn't recognise me if walked through that bloody green tent right now.

The thought caused the dawning realisation that his presence had been more than a little scarce lately. In fact, he had barely left the comfort of his tent since they arrived in this miserable place.

Blood and bloody ashes, Per was beginning to make sense. Mat hated it when that happened. Mat glanced up at the healer's expectant face.

'All right, all right', he yielded 'what do you want me to do? Sit majestically on my trusty steed, heroically surveying my band of loyal men?'

Evidently, Per had missed the inherent sarcasm in his tone, why is why Mat now found himself astride Pips above the camp of the beleaguered Band of the Red Hand, cold, wet, and thoroughly irritated. It had not been entirely fruitless, however. He had noted about a dozen of his men in all, shambling from tent to tent with horse blankets clutched around them. Several had laboriously raised their hands in salute upon espying him, unmistakable in his broad hat with ashandarei in hand, and one fellow even managed a feeble cheer, which changed abruptly into a rather nasty coughing fit. Still, Mat mused, it hadn't been a total waste if time. Not quite anyway. Satisfied he has subjected himself to the mercy of his ruthless healer for long enough, Mat nudged Pip's into a walk, and headed back to his tent.

Mat pulled the tent tie taut, closing his view from the dismal dusk outside. Relieved of his sodden garments, and in a considerably lighter mood, he turned back to the task at hand. After much deliberation over the array of bottles before him, Mat finally grasped the carafe bearing the Tairen Sigil. He was saving it for an occasion that merited its worth, but deemed deserving of an extravagance after the trials of the day. Unstopping the wax plug with the aid of a candle flame and a willing knife-tip, Mat poured the crimson liquid into a cup. Easing his weary frame onto a mound of scattered cushions, he watched the play of candle light on the liquids sleek surface and it swirled. Mat lifted the cup to his lips, and had a tantalising waft of the fragrant liquid before he heard an urgent scratching at the tent opening.

'What?' he all but barked, irritated by the interruption.

Per's anxious face came into view, the flitting light tracing ethereal shadows on his wide eyes and pale skin.

'My Lord', the words were strained with urgency 'I think it's time to call on a healer.'