DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Wheel of Time or any of its characters.
A/N: Hey all, here's chapter three! I might have got a bit carried away with this chapter. I thought I'd finished but no there was more to write and now I have to go and make some more chapters hehe. Diving a little into Nynaeve's point of view in this one as well as Lan and Moiraine's. Please read and review if you have the time. As always, enjoy x
RELENTLESS
Morning brings a violent sandstorm.
Stings of gold and amber cut across the plains in great blizzards, shrieking winds obscuring all other sound. The landscape around them shrivels down to a mere four metres, making it impossible to travel at an acceptable speed. Only the banks of the Mora, occasionally appearing between the fiery clouds, gives any clue to their direction, and the waters, which had once bubbled clear and blue, thrash red beneath the relentless winds.
It is safer, Lan realises, to rest now rather than during the vulnerability of a cool, clear night. For the winds here are not like those that had ripped through the Mountains of Mist, announcing the arrival of the bringers of death at Beltine. Though they may howl and ravage, rising in shrillness and speed, they carry with them no evil.
A curve in the bank provides some meagre shelter where groups of flailing reeds tower up to create a barrier between the sand-battered boulders. The horses, with some difficulty, are encouraged to bed down, whilst the Two Rivers children tuck themselves against the rocky banks.
"What I wouldn't give for a pint of Master Al'vere's finest ale right now," Perrin mutters, opening his arms and wrapping them around the two girls.
"A warm fire would be nice," Egwene says as she burrows into his shoulder with a soft sigh.
"And a bath for me," Nynaeve murmurs.
In another place perhaps they might have sung or shared stories of old - but this is no place for such tales, and the loss of Rand and Mat runs too fresh. It is not long before they all succumb to sleep, Perrin fighting to the last. Though the threat of a Trolloc raid seems unlikely, Lan remains wide awake and settles himself to keep watch beside his Aes Sedai, his keen eyes sharp against the blistering sands.
He has borne many things, has learned to bear even more, but the incessant trembling of Moiraine's fingers, grasping at what they can no longer obtain, drives him to near distraction. Not an hour passes before he can stand it no longer. She does not stir, so deep is she in the depths of troubled slumber, when he slides his fingers between hers and wills the pain etched into her features to subside.
As soon as the sandstorm begins to recede she wakes, fixes him with a knowing stare, silently chastising him for not waking her sooner so that he too might rest a while. A promise that she will keep watch the next time. Lan nods; she squeezes his shoulder in gratitude, and the day unfolds anew.
They continue as such for many days. Travelling by night and resting whenever the dunes begin to shift and the winds obscure their path. No Trolloc would find them in storms such as these, and any mark they might have left is soon blown away, any evidence of their whereabouts swallowed by the seemingly endless desert.
A man could go mad here if he did not have some destination in mind.
The further they travel into the heart of Shienar, the hotter it becomes. Without the shadow of the mountains, the sickly chill that forever lingers in the north, places in which to shelter are few and far between.
"Nynaeve?" Egwene asks one afternoon as they rest beside the river, when the sun climbs high and the sun-baked sands are smothered in shimmering waves of heat. "Can you hear anything?"
The Wisdom's horse whinnies as she rubs a hand absently between his eyes, a repetitive motion she has often found herself doing when faced with a question she'd rather not answer. The rush of the Mora fills the silence, a firm breeze billowing about their skirts, but Egwene's gaze does not falter, waiting with patience for whatever reluctant admission she might give.
"You know I can't," Nynaeve answers. "It's been a long time since I was able to listen to the wind."
"I just thought," Egwene mumbles hesitantly, "after what happened... you might be able to again?"
But though the wind blows and tangles around her sand-strewn braid, Nynaeve hears nothing.
The memory of that night brings with it a shudder of nervous anticipation; the Wisdom's hands wring together as she remembers the power they had both witnessed. The horror and exhilaration. Life and death entwined. The pull of darkness behind her eyelids as she slipped away and the burning of her skin beneath Egwene's furious tears. And then that strange, beautiful burst of light, and the shock of life being forced back into her leaden lungs.
Neither have dared speak of it, and the winds have remained silent ever since.
"Do you think we should tell Moiraine?" Egwene breathes, leaning closer. "About what happened? Maybe she can explain-"
"We're not telling her anything," Nynaeve snaps, animosity barely concealing her fear. "She'll only lie to us. Again."
Egwene's smile is tinged with sadness, but her reply is cool with exasperation.
"Nynaeve, you know she can't lie."
The air stills, and the intensity of the heat, the constant force of the sun bearing down on them, dizzies her mind. Egwene feels it too, shielding her face with a scarf beaten by fine sand.
Overlooking the river, Perrin stands in solitude, forever considering and pondering. The axe he refuses to use weighs heavy on his back, and every so often his head jerks to one side, ears pricked as if hearing something other than the water's churn, and then shaking himself to dismiss it.
He hasn't been the same since Beltine. None of them have. She misses Rand, and she misses Mat. She misses the Two Rivers and the simplicity of the life they had once lead.
"We've already lost Rand." Nynaeve grasps Egwene's hands in her own, silently begging that they keep what happened between themselves for as long as possible. "I'm not losing you two as well. Whatever happens, we stick together. Alright?"
"When we get to Tar Valon..." Perrin startles them as he speaks. "Do you think we'll find Mat?"
He does not turn to face them, and his voice is gruff with disuse. Egwene shifts uncomfortably.
"He might not want to be found, Perrin."
"We'll still find him," Nynaeve counters, dividing her efforts between soothing the Blacksmith and placating Egwene. "I promised you we would, and we will. He deserves to know what happened to Rand." Her eyes narrow, a ripple of anger slicing through her jaw. "We all do."
But when she turns, determined to glare unabashedly at the Aes Sedai, all thought dissipates into panic. For five Trollocs clamber around the rocky bank, weapons raised, their footfall leaving a furious cloud of red in their wake. Perrin shouts something, but her focus is overwhelmed by the blade swerving toward Lan, and he, caught in its intended path, does not hear Nynaeve's warning cry.
A blur of blue. Moiraine takes the brunt of the attack, deflecting the jagged weapon with surprising speed before she pierces the creature through.
"All of you! Across the river. Now!"
The cry jolts through the Wisdom's body, muscles spasming into action as Perrin and Egwene fly past her, pulled along by their horses.
"Run!" she hears Lan command, his form nothing but a flash before her.
The river swells, noise disorients her senses, and for a moment everything descends into frenzied madness. And then there's a hand on her shoulder. Piercing eyes that are both comforting and terrifying all at once.
"Trust the river."
"What-"
But she hasn't time to ask, hasn't time to fully grasp Moiraine's meaning before her skin is greeted by cool, swirling waters. Salt and heat and cold jumble her limbs, confusing her thoughts, a fierce current pulling her away from the eastern bank and out into the Mora. Panic comes but momentarily. Then calm, a surety found in the flow of the river and the braid heavy against her chest, her hands clinging to it for dear life.
Another five Trollocs emerge from the plumes of orange, their towering forms running and falling against the tide of battle. She should do something, should force the One Power from her hand and shield them from the Darkness. But Perrin is already dragging her to the far bank, an arm about her waist as she thrashes in protest.
"We have to help them!"
"We have to run, Nynaeve." Egwene pants above her, struggling to hold the horses steady. "They want us to run. The Trollocs will not follow us across the river, but we are not safe yet." A lone spear strikes the sand between them as if to prove her point. "We must go!"
"Come on," Perrin insists, grabbing her hand and leading her away from the bank, away from the battle jarring against the stillness of the Borderlands.
Sand clings to her wet skin, irritable and burning, but all her thoughts are for the man on the other side of the Mora. The Warder, agile and quick and strong, left to fight without the protection of the True Source. Her soul burns with the need for action, but the One Power slips from her grasp as if refusing her permission to harness it.
Yet, as she steals a glance over her shoulder, Nynaeve begins to realise her fears are in vain. That the bond that exists between an Aes Sedai and her Warder runs much deeper than she could ever hope to understand. For their movements are like spring rain flooding over a dry river bed. A dangerous, well-rehearsed dance that leaves no room for error.
Moiraine is ferocious. Swift. Light itself, even without the One Power at her fingertips, felling beasts twice her size and strength. She is no stranger to the blade, and whilst her attacks carry a certain deftness and grace, it is clear, as she steps beside Lan, who had honed her battlefield skills.
Her distrust of the Aes Sedai may remain unsullied, but there is no doubt in her mind: she can still trust her to keep Lan safe.
"Come on, Nynaeve."
Perrin takes her arm, ushering her up into the saddle. No option remains now but to flee.
Muffled howls of rage steal over the churning of the river, the amber sands strewn with dark blood and the felled bodies of Trollocs. Muscles coiling and releasing, Lan strikes down the last remaining, allowing his instincts to take over as he dives and pierces and spins again, swinging around until he meets one more blade. The collision sends a flurry of horror up his spine, muscles tensing as he stops, sword suspended in mid-air, forced against hers. Moiraine's eyes stare back at him, widened only slightly, the barest crack of surprise marring her expression.
"You did well," he breathes, slowly lowering his blade and watching her mirror his movement.
"I have you to thank for it."
She looks small, frail, even with the weapon in her hand, despite having fought with as much stealth and strength befitting any soldier of Malkier. With as much efficiency as he had demanded of her in training all those years ago.
Though he knows they have slain the last of them, Lan is reluctant to sheath his sword, his hearing on edge. Light knew how the Trollocs had succeeded in surprising them. On the far bank, their two horses nicker and whinny, eager to move on. Moiraine sways on her feet, but there is little enough time for them to rest. The Two Rivers children could be an hour's ride away by now.
"You are unharmed?" Lan asks, instinctively reaching for Moiraine through the bond, but there is only a deafening silence in answer and her pensive eyes staring through him. Her expression does not alter, but eventually her gaze shifts and stops abruptly, finding whatever it is she is looking for.
"Moiraine?"
She's at his side in an instant, confusion washing over him as she cautiously takes his arm, peeling away a tear of fabric to reveal the injury beneath. He hardly feels it, almost begins to say so, but her hands have already begun to weave. Guilt and sympathy and anger rise as one within him as she too comes to recognise the futility of her actions, her movements stalling, falling, until her hands come to rest at her side.
The way she clenches her trembling fingers into fists does not escape his notice, neither did the occasional flick of her wrist during battle as she fought against her own instincts - such small motions that could very easily have gotten them both killed.
"I am sorry," she says, and though he cannot quite ascertain what it is she is apologising for, he shakes his head.
"It is of no consequence, and you have nothing to apologise for."
Admonition flickers warily in her answering gaze.
"Truly, Moiraine. It is nothing more than a scratch. It will heal well enough on its own." He places a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You are not injured?"
A sharp quirk of her jaw is all he receives in reply, frustration evident in her stance. There's a gash embedded in her hairline and her arms are soaked in Trolloc blood that glistens where it has not already dried in the stifling heat. She stares down at them with an expression of profound detachment that might have frightened him had he not recognised that same detachment in himself. After years of fighting, the battle against the Dark has made veterans of them both.
"A few bruised ribs perhaps," Moiraine answers honestly. "Nothing more."
Still Lan's eyes roam over her, looking for a deeper wound he cannot see, for the pain he knows is buried within her, purposely placed far out of his reach.
"We will get used to it," he says comfortingly, coaxing her attention, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears, back to him.
Terror cuts into her unsteady tone.
"Will we?"
"Given time," he says, as fervently as he might make any promise. They will, they must, if they are to endure. "And perhaps a little practice."
She almost smiles at that, amusement momentarily overcoming the gathering shadows.
"Lan, if anything were to happen to you..."
Her voice breaks off, unable to say what he would have so often felt and known through their bond. That familiar surge of emotion, wracked with fear, relief and incredulity, and beneath it all a fierce, unwavering love that has never faltered. A closer love than that of any friend or family member; closer even than that of a lover. They have never spoken of it in words, if such a love could ever be described, but the need to voice it now, here, presses like a dagger between his lungs.
"I know."
It is all he can offer, all he can trust himself to say. Moiraine's hand splays against his chest, her lips morphing into something that is not quite a smile and threatening to disintegrate into something far worse.
"I know," Lan says again, gently pulling her towards him and feeling the shuddering of her frame as her forehead meets his shoulder. Reason whispers they have already lingered too long, yet still his arm wraps around her waist, lips pressing softly into her hair as he holds her. Allows her to hold onto him, to this. To remind her that, even after all she has lost, she still has his loyalty and his protection and his love. And for a while they stand there, motionless beneath the burning rays, each cherishing the presence of the other.
Heat smothers everything, and when at last the sun's unforgiving rays disappear behind a cluster of promising rainclouds, when their bones ache from riding and their horses cease to gallop, the three companions finally stop to rest. Tiredness floods their muscles, the lingering warmth beading on their brows.
Slipping down from the saddle, Egwene flops into the sand and lies down on her back. Beside her, Nynaeve twists her hands around her braid, and Perrin stands at the edge of the river, watching for any sign of the Aes Sedai and her Warder.
Minutes pass, then an hour, then a second, before any of them choose to speak. It is Perrin who breaks the silence, announcing the return of Lan and Moiraine long before the others can see any sign of the faint sand billowing toward them. Egwene claps in relief as they approach, but Nynaeve finds her temper rallying into a storm that cannot be quelled.
"Don't you ever, ever do that again!" she cries before the Aes Sedai has chance to dismount, all the frustration she has spent hours keeping under wraps breaking forth. "Or Light help me, I will-"
Her string of intended curses is cut short by Lan's abrupt burst of laughter. Moiraine barely blinks as she wrings the remaining river water from her cloak.
"You did say you wanted a bath," the Warder shrugs.
It isn't funny. It shouldn't be funny. But the more Lan chuckles to himself - the more she understands that they are all, for the meanwhile, once again safe - the harder it becomes to scold her lips into a frown.
"You should have let us help," Nynaeve grumbles, raising her chin in stubborn defiance, but Moiraine only shakes her head.
"You are ta'veren," the Aes Sedai says, as if that word alone were explanation enough. There's a strange familiarity to it, a gentleness and a danger, but Nynaeve hasn't the energy to ask what it means, and her attention shifts again to the Warder.
"You're injured," she exclaims, rushing to his side and fumbling for her satchel, though Lan insists he does not need any aid. It is nothing serious, but she cannot resist the instinct to heal, cannot stop herself from reaching for her healing herbs rather than giving into the power that kindles within.
"Let me," Egwene makes to step beside her, but the Wisdom holds out her arm, shoots her a warning glare.
"I'll do it," Nynaeve says, perhaps too sharply, ignoring the way her friends' eager hands fall dejectedly to her side. Pretending that the sudden silence has nothing to do with the sting of her tone. Yet her hands are gentle as she tends to Lan's wound, drawing out each movement if only to prolong the time she can spend near him. For his silence is different to the others'. His is warm and understanding.
"Maybe we should light a fire?" Egwene suggests.
"Not yet." Perrin casts a wary look over the horizon. "We're not safe yet."
A strange glint ignites in his eyes as he speaks, as if they had caught the light of a lantern. Egwene blinks, recognition lifting her brows, which only further fuels the Wisdom's curiosity and fear for her friend.
"Perrin, how do you-"
"We will rest here a while," Moiraine determines, running a hand over her horse's mane before hoisting herself back into the saddle, "but we must travel a little further before night comes."
Her tone brokers no argument, and the careful warning in her eyes, asking her to let the matter rest for the meanwhile, forces the Wisdom to follow in silence.
It is all Nynaeve can do to hold her tongue, to keep herself from arguing with the Aes Sedai who had deliberately pushed her into the river. Though the reason for her doing so, as she attempts to light their fire that evening when flint alone will not do, becomes startingly clear. She would not have been able to shield them from the Trollocs as she had shielded them in the Ways because the One Power again, when she calls it, does not rouse at her command. It does not bend to her will no matter how much she wishes it, and so the gathered branches remain unlit.
Storming off in a huff, Nynaeve allows her anger to brew. Allows it to swirl and expand inside her chest, burning hot like a fever within her bones. Keeping it caged, she paces the sands, walking for mile after mile in circles, always with her companions in sight, until she can no longer contain it and the power comes in the form of a single stroke of lightning, engulfing the night in a brilliant flash of white.
The power rushes through her veins, unexpected and inelegant and uncontrolled - just as Moiraine said it would be. But her fury refuses to be humbled, and she will not, not for anything, ask the Aes Sedai for help.
The others do not speak a word when she returns and sits herself down by the now lit fire - no doubt courtesy of Egwene's prolonged efforts. Neither does she lift her gaze to scrutinise their expressions betwixt the flickering shadows. She does not care that that single bolt of lightning will have alerted every Trolloc and Fade within ten leagues to their presence. She does not care that she still feels soaked to the skin when Lan presses them onward into the night, promising rest come dawn - should the next few hours prove uneventful.
"Tell us," Perrin says when the twilight clouds have dispersed into the far corners of the earth, his voice low and gentle. "Tell us again of King Aemon and Menetheren."
And so Moiraine tells them. Stories of their home, details of their ancestral land, of the people who lived there and the cities they built and the Kings who ruled over them. Of a time long since passed; of the little knowledge that now remains. Stories to uplift and comfort their spirits. She tells them of the river that flows through Emond's Field, from Taren Ferry to Whitebridge, flowing all the way from the springs deep in the Mountains of Mist. She tells them all this and more beneath a moonless sky, until all have given way to sleep.
At long last their journey brings them to a cluster of ruins: stone archways and the remnants of what might have been a farmhouse providing much-needed shelter from the harsh elements. Lan, of course, offers to keep first watch, but even his face is beginning to show signs of strain, the dark rings beneath his knowing eyes telling more than he would ever admit.
Tucked against the rugged foundations, the Two Rivers children are already sleeping soundly.
"Get some rest," Moiraine whispers, squeezing his shoulder.
On nights like these the heavens are laden with hues of disconcerting blue, and the distant peaks, barely visible without the silvery moon to ignite them, are a faint, threatening smudge on the horizon. It is during these nights that Moiraine finds herself awake, staring at the receding sunlight until nought but the blackest of shades remain.
She dare not think of the White Tower, the city of Tar Valon gleaming in the spring sunlight. Of Alanna. Maigan. Even of Liandrin and all her scheming ways. Of the Amrylin Seat in her glorious, golden regalia, encircled by all the colours of the Ajah. On nights like these she dare not think of Siuan, lest the Dark One should see fit to taunt her further.
Come the first cracks of dawn, Moiraine wakes Lan for his watch. But sleep has slipped beyond her grasp, and nothing can fill the void in her spirit where the Light had once danced brightly. Even his arm tethered about her waist cannot reconcile her to rest. He will try in vain to coax her to eat something substantial, will press the waterskin into her hands and beg her to drink more. But Moiraine simply conjures a ghost-like smile, pats his knee in appreciation and stares at some long-forgotten horizon until morning breaks.