DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Wheel of Time or any of its characters.
A/N: Hey all, here's chapter two! I never intended to delve much into what might occur upon Moiraine and Lan's return to Fal Dara and initially went straight into the next leg of their journey, but then I ended up writing this. I also had to google the map to get some idea of where to take the story and have no sense of time-scale so bear with me 😅 Please read and review if you have the time. I'd love to know your thoughts. As always, enjoy x
BROKENNESS
His footsteps are as inaudible as the door he closes behind him, ghost-like and reverently rehearsed, traversing over board and carpet until they stop several paces behind her. The pillow beneath her head should feel soft and inviting, the woven blankets should yield some shallow degree of comfort. But no amount of warmth can eradicate the chill that has settled in her spirit. The pillows are like stone; the sheets are a suffocating wall of protection. And the distant stars glitter with a sadness they did not hold before.
"I'll stay with you tonight."
She resists the urge to face him, to discern what feeling, what emotion might have driven him here and not elsewhere.
"You should be with Nynaeve," she whispers, neither accusation nor amusement lacing her tone.
"Perhaps," the Warder replies carefully. "Though I do not think she wishes to see me. She asked me to bring back Rand..."
"And instead you brought me," Moiraine finishes, as if speaking it aloud will make it easier to bear.
"I wish to stay tonight," Lan repeats the request, and she waits as he weighs his words, considers how to voice his feelings when the bond no longer allows them to be felt. "I need to."
The deliberate quaver entices her gaze, and Moiraine shifts slightly, pulling the blankets with her until she can see every inch of his unguarded expression. He is all aglow in the firelight, gazing down at her, fighting with demons both past and present.
"I need to," Lan says again, and chuckles to himself. "I'm so used to having you in here." He touches his forehead, his temple, smiling a little, and she wonders what it is he is thinking of as he sits on the edge of the bed and takes her hand. "But you're also here." Their palms entwine against his chest, resting over his heartbeat. "And that is something that can never be taken from me, from either of us."
"Can't it?" Moiraine asks in so small a voice she barely hears it.
"No," he insists, squeezing her fingers. "It can't."
Doubt feathers through her mind, and a whisper tumbles unbidden into the shrinking space between them.
"You deserve more than this."
But Lan only continues to smile. His eyes crinkle in earnest, the force of his bones interlaced with her own serving as a promise, a renewal of the vows they had taken all those years ago.
"I chose this, Moiraine. I chose you, and I choose you. One Power or no power, you are still my Aes Sedai and I am still your Warder, and there is nothing in this turning of the Wheel that could convince me otherwise."
She cannot quite return his smile, cannot manage any utterance of gratitude for fear of losing her futile hold on the tide of her rising emotions.
"I miss you," is all she can whisper, tightening her grip on his hands despite the flaw in his optimistic hope.
"And I you," Lan whispers back.
Night brings new horrors, memories and afflictions that do not dissipate with the glowing embers. The remembrance of the Eye, of all that had occurred in that forsaken part of the world, coils and forces its way into his every thought. What had begun as a shallow pain begins to burn around the edges, the void widening as time continues to pass. This, he muses, must be something of the pain a Warder feels when he loses his Aes Sedai. And yet she is still there, curled away from him on the other side of the bed. He need only reach across the expanse to feel the solidity of her, to ensure he has not dreamt these last few hours. And yet he knows, even if he did, she would remain wholly unreachable.
Her breaths are erratic, laboured with what he supposes to be a concoction of fear and exhaustion and the overwhelming consequences of her actions. Of their actions. Her body trembles; his hand on her shoulder does little to soothe. But perhaps it had never been that action alone that had alleviated her worries. Perhaps it had been the successive well of encouragement and calm he had guided safely through the bond that had stilled her nightmares.
"Moiraine?"
He knows instinctively that she is awake, even if he cannot sense her alertness in his mind.
"I cannot keep from shaking," comes her tremulous reply.
His warmth at her back, knees tucked behind hers, arms sliding around her frame until his palms come to rest against her chest. Her fingers, strikingly slow with purpose, intertwine with his, holding onto him for all she is worth. As if the pounding of her own heartbeat might send her careening off some invisible precipice and down into the waiting darkness.
He has held her like this before, on occasion, warding her from whatever invasive thoughts linger near. And it strikes him that he hasn't her pain to guide him this time. He cannot sense her concerns, the foreboding that so often mirrors his own, the graceful way in which her fears mould to his. This time there is only the chill of her skin and the shallow rasping of her breath.
"I'm here," Lan murmurs against her ear, resting his forehead against her shoulder. "I'm here, Moiraine."
She hasn't the energy to voice a reply, but the twitching of her fingers against his own is tell enough.
Come dawn, the Warder follows his Aes Sedai through the city and around its enduring walls. To ascertain, as best their abilities will allow, the direction in which the Horn of Valere had been taken, and to ensure they have not overlooked any trace of the enemy. He does not stop her from doing as she chooses, shews neither pity nor reproach nor over-protective concern whenever she stops wearily in her tracks, whenever she thinks he cannot see how tired she truly is. He is content to let her do whatever she can to help. Even if he knows the fallout, the aftermath of all they have witnessed, will come for them soon enough.
A mighty wave of grief they have only just begun to acknowledge.
"You do not have to do this," he says when the encroaching shadows of early morning creep beneath the walls, when the heat of day is just beginning to warm the sands.
"Do what?" Moiraine replies, already rising to continue the task at hand.
He blocks her path, meets her steely gaze with one of intervening fire.
"You are allowed to rest, Moiraine."
"We have little enough time as it is," she argues back. "The sooner we leave, the better our chances. Until then, there is work that must be done."
The full heat of the Shienaran sun burns high above the city before they stop again to rest. In the shade of the Eastern gateway they meet with the children from the Two Rivers, the Warder keeping watch lest anyone should happen to overhear their conversation. They will not like it, Moiraine knows. The plan she and Lan have devised. But needs must and time forever runs against them.
"Are you going to do us the courtesy of telling us what it is we're supposed to do next?" Nynaeve folds her arms stubbornly, waiting for the Aes Sedai to at last reveal the next stage of their journey. "Or are you expecting us to follow you blindly once again?"
As ever the Wisdom is the lioness seeking to protecting her pride, and as soon as the words White Tower are uttered by Moiraine, she digs her heels in firmly.
"If," Nynaeve interrupts lightly. "If we return to the White Tower, it is only because we have decided to. And if I am to become an Aes Sedai, it is only because I will it. Not you, or the Wheel." Her boot scuffs the dust. "Not anyone."
Moiraine, however, remains as unruffled as ever, a faint slither of amusement crinkling around her eyes. "You presume you will be accepted."
"I'm the most powerful channeler you've seen in a thousand years, aren't I?" Nynaeve counters, contempt heavy on her lips. "I have not forgotten what the Amrylin Seat said, but I refuse to be manipulated by you, or any other Aes Sedai again." The accusation seems to smother what little air remains in the heat of the desert. "From now on we choose our own path."
"Then which path do you choose?" Moiraine queries, catching the uncertainty in Egwene's eyes and the stiffening of Perrin's shoulders. "The Wheel calls to you. To all of you. And it will. Again, and again. When the Pattern seeks you out, you need only decide which path to follow, and the Wheel will weave the rest. I do not say these things to frighten you; only to prepare you for what lies ahead."
When retaliation does not come and a warm westerly breeze begins to loosen the spiralling tension, Moiraine again addresses the Wisdom.
"You are right when you say your powers are the greatest we've seen in a thousand years, but you must learn to channel with control - not only for the safety of others but for your own sake. If you do not learn to control the One Power, it will, in time, control you."
Nynaeve scowls, deaf to any sincerity she might happen to hear, but her rebuke never arrives.
"I want to go." Egwene's voice is oddly quiet, different, rising to challenge her friend. "I want to go to the White Tower, Nynaeve."
Her declaration is spewed out with such conviction that there is no room left for doubt; nothing can persuade her otherwise. All the words in the world could not have pried her decision in a different direction, no matter how forceful Nynaeve's objection. Perrin listens in silence, following wherever the girls will go. They will return to Tar Valon, Egwene decides, and that is all there is to be said on the matter.
When the others retreat, Nynaeve to tend to her patients and Perrin to the injured Ogier, Egwene stays behind. There is an anticipatory determination in her stance, reminiscent of one standing on the verge of an epiphany. The Warder is about to suggest they do one last lap of the city when Egwene proposes the unexpected.
"Will you show me how to help them?"
Horror rises in Lan at the request, an excuse still forming on his lips when something shifts beneath Moiraine's emotionless exterior. For a brief moment her flawless mask slips, and he half expects her to finally collapse beneath the weight of it all, of what Egwene is asking her to do. But one firm look from her is all it takes to assure him.
She has borne all the Wheel has demanded of her thus far; she will bear this yet.
It is with a quiet grace that Moiraine guides the girl, adjusting her hands and whispering words of encouragement as she teaches her how to knit bone and mend muscle and soothe burns. Softly instructing her in the simplest of healing weaves, reminding her to let herself drift and allow the power to pass through steadily, always retaining careful control.
Only when the torches burn low and the skies descend into the haze of early evening does Moiraine allow Egwene to continue unsupervised.
As soon as the girl is out of sight, Lan is at her side. But Moiraine says nothing, and he has not the words to ask. He can only hope that, as he follows her down corridor after corridor in search of what he prays will be respite, he will learn to voice what he is accustomed to leaving unsaid.
She does not ignore those that call out to her as they pass, begging to be healed, for the Aes Sedai to take their pain away. Though she can do no more than offer meagre aid, all are soothed by her calm words of reassurance and comfort, often persuaded into a restful sleep. Only Lan detects the weary brokenness beneath her melodic tone.
The night air breezes through the city when at last she turns, as if suspecting his thoughts, and says, "I am not going to break, Lan, but I will admit to being a little tired. If you do not mind, I would sit with the Builder awhile."
The remark catches him off guard, his watchful gaze unable to hold hers, until she coaxes it back.
"I'm not going anywhere."
He is reluctant to depart from her side, but when the time comes for him to meet with the remaining Lords of Fal Dara, he leaves her sitting comfortably with the Builder and promises to return when all preparations have been decided.
"We Ogiers are not renowned for our speed," Loial explains, batting away the rumours of his death as if his injury had been nothing more than an untimely inconvenience, "and a very fortuitous thing it is too. We bleed slowly; thereby we heal slowly." He yawns in apparent amusement, muttering as he begins to drift back to sleep. "Yes, a very good thing indeed."
Through the far window, Moiraine watches the cloudy shadows spread over the night sky beyond the city wall. Feels her fingers itching to move over Loial's wound and quicken his healing. The Ogier must see something in her expression for he pats her hand gently.
"You humans never stay still for long," he says. "Always intent on running about instead of letting yourselves fully heal. It is a long journey south, Moiraine Sedai, and the world is not as it used to be. I will rejoin you when I can."
On the third day, when all that can be done in Fal Dara has been fulfilled, the sun burns low in the sky, heat already sizzling across the sandy dunes. To the east, the entrance to the Ways stands sealed; they will not be returning through any gateway used by the Dark One's forces.
The roads here are as unpredictable and dangerous as any in the Borderlands, and in the open desert, with nowhere to run or hide, a Trolloc raid could easily end all they have worked for. Moiraine can but hope that, somewhere in the tangled Blight, Rand is not yet lost to them.
For two hours they ride, until the heat becomes untenable and they are forced to rest for a while in a much anticipated spot of shade. Fal Dara has all but disappeared in a cloud of desert sand, the far reaches of the Borderlands and their craggy mountain ranges now the only remaining landmarks in sight.
Traversing these plains on foot would have been madness indeed.
As she observes those distant peaks, Moiraine wonders how far gone Rand will be by the time they meet again. How much of the Two Rivers boy will remain and how strong his powers will have become. And how, by the Light, she will explain to their young companions all that must yet be done.
"When we were in the Ways..." Lan stands beside her, cloak billowing in the mid-morning breeze. "What else did Machin Shin say to you?"
"That in leading our charges to the Eye of the World, I would be responsible for their deaths," is Moiraine's plain and emotionless reply. The same reply she has given him before. The same intonation. A rehearsed answer that might hide any number of unspoken truths.
"Is that all?" Lan asks gently.
"No."
His brows crease in concern, eyes scanning the horizon, searching as she does for any sign of impending danger.
"Then what else?"
Her fingers brush over the weapon at her hip, the sword Lan had pulled from the massacre at Tarwin's Gap and insisted she carry, familiarising herself with the curve of the blade.
"Nothing I care to speak of," she replies eventually, praying he will not press her further. That he will understand her need for quietude, should those voices return to torment her waking thoughts too. "Why, what did they tell you?"
His hesitation is admission enough.
"Nothing I care to speak of."
For a time they follow the River Mora, grateful for the flow of blue amidst endless golden sand. The sound of it ripples beneath every conversation and every wordless moment of rest, a constant force that grounds and reassures. The road to the city of Fal Eisen cannot be more than fifteen leagues ahead, and beyond that road lies a wide expanse of nothingness, the land of Shienar sprawling for mile after mile.
"He's not dead," Egwene murmurs, kneeling at Moiraine's side as the water bubbles between the sunbaked rocks. Her admission strikes the desert air, abrupt and unanticipated. "I'd know if Rand was dead. I would knowit."
Heat whips around them, dizzying and unrelenting, a blistering distraction from Egwene's desperate gaze. Somewhere out there Rand was indeed alive, but her promise to conceal his fate from his friends still stands. Another burden, another secret, she had not asked to shoulder.
"You said he'd gone," Egwene insists, catching her sleeve before she can refill another waterskin, lowering her voice lest the others should overhear. Her fingers curl around her wrist, rooting them to the spot. "Why not say he was dead if that is what happened?"
Revealing the truth proves impossible. For no sooner has she beckoned the answer Egwene deserves, it dies instantaneously on her lips, leaving only a silent sigh.
The girl's eyebrows lift in incredulity, gaze returning to the constancy of the river.
"Words are important," Egwene whispers knowingly, "and how we use them is important. You taught me that. And this time, I'm listening carefully." Her lips press together as she watches the water cresting against the bank, absorbed by the blinding shimmer of the afternoon sun. "Do you think he will come back to us?"
The truth comes easily now, though she can hardly bear to speak it.
"The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills."
That first night they do not rest, crossing the desert by the light of a hazy red moon. Hundreds of miles stretch before them, their path devoid of life save for the gentle rustling of dry grasses where the river curves into the dunes. The road to Far Moran lies some fifty miles to the East but it is far away enough, Lan knows, to cover them from the sight of darkfriends and Trollocs. For raids are common in these lands, and the roads, no matter how well worn, cannot be trusted.
"You're not going, are you?"
Her voice bites into his concentration, drawing his focus from the horizon, from the three figures riding ahead of them. Nynaeve does not look at him as she speaks. She has barely spoken with him since they left the city behind, but he cannot deny he has expected some form of this remark to arise. She is, after all, a Wisdom. Observant and brave and bold.
"With us to the White Tower," Nynaeve clarifies, casting him a swift glance.
His expression barely shifts.
"No."
"Because you can't leave her," she whispers knowingly. "Even now, with the Bond between the two of you broken. Now that you are free?"
In the quiet, unmoving halls of Fal Dara had he revealed to her all, almost all, that had passed at the Eye of the World. What he knew of their fight against the Dark One and the unexpected consequences of doing so.
"I do not believe our bond has been broken," Lan amends, hoping she will understand. "It is only masked."
Her surprise is momentary, obscured by moonlight and the fierce glare she casts toward the river, hiding whatever emotion it is she feels. His voice is soft, firm, when he speaks again.
"I have to believe there's a way to unmask it."
Nynaeve's eyes snap to his.
"And if there isn't?" she asks, worry for his sake marring any distrustful feeling she might harbour for his Aes Sedai.
He knows that she too is thinking of Stepin. Of the loss of Kerene and the painful memory of losing the Warder to an unsalvagable grief. But he is not Stepin, and his connection to Moiraine has not been fully severed. Not surely. Not yet. And he will not rest if there is a chance, however slight, of recovering what has been stolen from them. Not while he still breathes.
"I will not abandon her," Lan says. And then, "Neither will I abandon you. When the time comes for us to part ways, you will be ready."
Her mask falters, frustration and bitterness melting into soft affection, an echo of the way she had looked at him only a few nights ago, before hardening once more.
"But you will not come with us."
"There is much we do not know," Lan offers slowly. "And little enough time to gather the information we need."
"For what?"
His reply is tinged with anticipatory dread.
"For whatever is coming next."