DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Wheel of Time or any of its characters.
A/N: Hey everyone, here is chapter four. I wasn't sure where this chapter was going but I think it went and ran off without me. I think there'll be two more chapters after this one. Maybe three, depending on whether I can just sit and edit rather than adding even more! Please read and review if you have the time. As always, enjoy x
STUBBORNNESS
"There's nothing I can do," Nynaeve says for the fourth time that morning, nestled in the crook of what might have once been a window ledge or a small fireplace, absently watching the fine sands dance across the reticent landscape. Beside her, feet dangling over the wind-chiseled stone, Egwene purses her lips.
"There is," she insists, rolling her ankles and closing her eyes in deep thought.
On the other side of the camp, Perrin sleeps restlessly, tossing against an invisible enemy. Lan rests in the opposite alcove, his chin pressed against his chest, though Nynaeve cannot quite tell if he truly slumbers. And beneath the stone archway, eyes alert, intermittently turning over a cracked piece of brilliant white stone in her palms, Moiraine keeps a weather eye on the shadowed horizon.
Five hours they have been allowed to rest thus far. Another two, perhaps three, if a second Trolloc raid does not shatter their illusion of peace. The sun burns, the river flows, and the day wears on as if the world were not on the brink of the unfathomable. As if they had not endured the horrors of battle, and faced death and won.
Egwene shifts, still waiting for an answer.
"I've offered her teas, sleeping draughts, all the herbal remedies I can make with the ingredients I have left. Nothing has helped." The Wisdom turns a displeased gaze to the dunes beyond their hideout, her patience wearing thin. "And there is very little I can glean from the desert either. Whatever the matter is, I don't think there's anything we can do to help her."
The way Egwene's fingers twist into the end of her braid does not escape her notice. The way she purposefully traces the thread and frayed ribbons, suggesting the impossible.
"You would do it, wouldn't you?" Egwene says after a while. "If Lan asked. You wouldn't hesitate."
Stubbornness will not permit a reply, and her teeth grind together as she ignores her friend's searing glance. Even if Lan did ask she would never contemplate doing such a thing.
"After everything we've been through, aside from Perrin and Lan and..." Egwene swallows hard, forcing out the boy's name with some difficulty, "and Rand, who could more deserving of our trust?"
Jealousy clutches at her heart, stiffening her tired muscles. The sensation is all too familiar, strengthening her deep-rooted dislike for the Aes Sedai who seems to leave little but destruction in her wake. Folding her arms against her chest, Nynaeve wills her temper to abate, fighting off every scornful remark and pained retort before asking the one question that matters: "Why?"
"Because I think she needs something to hold onto," Egwene replies simply.
"She's not one of us. She's not from the Two Rivers."
"Neither are you, in truth." There's a certain sting of regret in Egwene's tone, but her resolve does not lessen. "Moiraine can't go back to Tar Valon, Nynaeve. She left everything, her home, her family, everything, for us. You were there when the Amrylin Seat told us what we needed to do. That she planned on exiling Moiraine from the White Tower so that we could leave in safety."
"And you truly believe that was her reasoning?" Nynaeve rolls her eyes at her friend's naivety.
"Why else would the Amrylin have banished her?" Egwene's brow furrows in confusion. "It was the only way she could ensure-"
"It was the only way Moiraine could ensure her mission went ahead," Nynaeve interrupts. "She told me herself the White Tower was full of women with their own ambitions and agendas. What makes you think Moiraine is any different?"
Egwene shakes her head dismally.
"Do you really think so little of her?"
Nynaeve refrains from answering that, forcing her gaze to the sheets of cascading rain and finding solace in the winds that drive them. She remembers vividly what the Aes Sedai had told her about life in the White Tower. She also remembers that flicker of kinship they had shared, the gentle way Moiraine had told her it was alright to be afraid, her voice carrying unexpected sincerity and wisdom, telling her that she was not alone in her fear and doubt, and that she would be there to guide her through it all if she wanted her to be.
Perhaps Moiraine was different. Perhaps, beneath all her aggravatingly knowing glances and distanced conversation, she truly did care.
It is that revelation that finally succeeds in tearing a hole in her patchwork defenses, and Nynaeve finds her gaze flitting to the Aes Sedai keeping watch over them, wondering what other undeclared sacrifices she had made over the years.
The longer she looks at Moiraine, truly looks at the woman, the more Nynaeve begins to see. She sees the way her eyes crinkle at the edges as she stares out across the desert, the barest hint of vulnerability in her regal posture, cloak splayed out and knees pulled to her chest as she clutches that white stone as if were a riddle to be solved. She suddenly sees, for the first time since leaving Fal Dara, how tired and pale and worn she looks. Sitting there, protecting them, doing whatever she can to keep them safe.
Egwene pushes herself off the wall, landing in the sand below with a soft thud.
"You saw yourself what the Aes Sedai did to the False Dragon," she says. "The same fate could have very easily befallen Rand."
Rand. Egwene still speaks of him as if he were present in this turning of the Wheel, rambling on as if he were out there roaming the wilderness, fighting to return to them. She hasn't the heart to argue with her, to force her to accept the truth. That Rand is gone and that she had, in the end, failed him.
They had all failed him.
"I know you think very little of Aes Sedai, Nynaeve." Egwene's voice drops to a whisper, her words sharp with unanticipated reprimand. "And I know you have every right to be angry, but Moiraine doesn't deserve your contempt. She deserves your compassion. You're a Wisdom, and Wisdoms are meant to heal people. So if your herbs and flowers won't work then please, for all our sakes, find something that will."
Rain comes that afternoon. It forms over the Spine of the World and the Aiel Waste beyond in a great mass of white cloud, casting a light shadow over the sprawling plains. The earth ripples beneath it, transforming into a hazy mist. It is not a menacing rain; neither is it a light drizzle. It is cool and soft, and every drop carries the scent of salt and pine needles.
Under the shelter of the archway, Moiraine observes the changing weather. The threat of another Trolloc attack no longer weighs heavy on her mind, but something, she knows, is coming. Not Trollocs nor Fades, nor a storm. And perhaps not now, not yet. But soon.
Something intangible waits in the darkness. It has grown in strength since they left Fal Dara, festering with every step they take. She can almost sense it, just as she almost senses the One Power meandering just out of reach, present only as a mere ghost of a memory but there all the same. An unsettling chill trickles down her spine and her eyes flit to the Warder's.
"We cannot afford to stay here much longer."
"The forest is not far," Lan answers, accepting her warning without further explanation. Then, to the three children watching them closely: "Pack your things. Stay close. Light willing, we shall reach cover by nightfall."
The deluge drowns out all conversation, and for two hours they ride hard. The River Mora soon disappears from sight entirely and the first signs of life begin to spring from the faint greenery ahead, clumps of weed and moss clambering over felled wood, and here and there unfamiliar blooms of rich mahogany and umber quench their thirst.
The rain drenches everything in its path, accompanied now by the occasional clap of thunder. Lifting her face to the sky, Moiraine closes her eyes and listens, trusting her steed to follow in Lan's path without instruction. Inch by inch she forces her body to be still. Feels the raindrops that smatter against her forehead and curl around her jaw. The heavy weight of the cloak wrapped around her shoulders, the strain of the horse's muscles beneath her and the endless patterns that form and disperse in the air. She feels it all, if only to distract herself from daring to feel anything else.
The forest air is blissfully cool compared to the intense heat of the Shienar plains. A sea of wild trunks, knarly and steadfast, stretch in an endless line in every direction, their great boughs forming a canopy of green protection overhead. Only the occasional raindrop seeps through and rustles the dried leaves amongst the undergrowth. Save for that and the sound of soft horse hooves, the forest is quiet. Quiet in a peaceful, ancient way.
"We will make camp here," Lan announces after some distance. "Perrin, Egwene, see to the horses. Nynaeve, replenish what supplies you can. Moiraine-" His hand catches the Aes Sedai's elbow lightly as she dismounts, voice barely audible, whispering to the wind. "Rest. Please."
There is a pleasant familiarity about the way Lan weaves a path through the trees, collecting firewood whilst she searches for greenwort and willowbark and any other herbs that might prove useful. It reminds her of their shaky beginning: she foraging for healing plants and he watching her with a distant curiosity, choosing to trust her against his better judgement - though she had given him little choice in the matter. She remembers the sensation of his eyes roaming over her hands as she made the poultice for Moiraine's wound, and the sharp, mildly concerned way she had warned him of the pain that would follow.
How little she had known of him then.
"You cannot be angry with her forever," Lan's voice breaks into her reverie, both chiding and questioning.
The retort comes without her bidding, a thought half-buried halting his steps.
"Neither can you."
She does not turn to see his face, for she knows she will find little enough expression there to indicate his feelings. But she has noticed, these last few days, the struggle growing within him, the guilt that tugs at his conscience whenever their gazes collide and the simmering anger that lives beneath.
"I am not angry with her," Lan replies, though the strain in his voice suggests otherwise. "Moiraine did what she believed she had to do."
"If your places had been reversed," Nynaeve asks, kneeling down to inspect a plant, observing it closely and rubbing the spiny leaves gently between her fingers, "would you not have done the same?"
"Yes," Lan admits after a time, his brows knit in severe resignation.
She does not mean to defend the Aes Sedai. Her own fury still flows deep within her soul for every bitter degree of loss, but alongside that anger there is also a strange, malcontented respect and, if she will allow herself to admit it, a gradient of admiration. For saving Mat when she could not, for accompanying Rand to the Eye and facing the Dark One in their stead, marking her life as forfeit, and for preventing Lan from following in her footsteps.
It strikes her how close she could have come to losing him had it not been for Moiraine.
Taking out her knife, Nynaeve cuts through the plant's stem, places it amongst her growing collection and sets off again, roaming the forest floor. Lan follows at a distance, the occasional knock of wood telling her his position.
"You are right," he says on the way back to their camp. "I am angry. But it is not Moiraine I am angry with."
Nynaeve nods in understanding.
"You are angry with yourself."
His silence is all the acknowledgement she needs to hear.
"You are not to blame for what happened to Rand." She stops walking, relieved when he stops beside her, when she senses some small, infinitesimal burden lift from his shoulders and his stance finally relaxes. "None of us are." Her next words taste peculiar, forming with some reluctance. "Not even Moiraine."
Lan almost chuckles at that, and her cheeks warm at the affection she discovers in his gaze.
"You are wise beyond your years, Wisdom," he whispers.
"I am not always."
Her own laugh catches in her throat, skimming over a sea of foolish, impulsive acts. Wisdom should have warned her of this, of the consequences of falling for a Warder, for a man who was once destined to rule a kingdom. Though her affection is unyielding Nynaeve knows, no matter how potent her feelings, that she cannot expect Lan to walk away. Not from his duty or his mission, nor from the other half of his soul. She would not hold him so dear if he were anything less than the unwaveringly loyal man she knew him to be.
For now she will simply cherish it: this impossible, wonderful thing they share.
"I might not fully understand the Bond you share with Moiraine," Nynaeve says steadily, sheathing any aversion or regard that might slip through her mask, "but I do understand why you cannot leave her, and I would never ask you to." Her eyes lower, speaking the harsh truth. "I only ask that, if we are to be parted, you do not forget."
His forehead meets hers, voice warm and comforting amidst the evening chill.
"I could never forget."
That night, bathed in the glow of firelight, Nynaeve finds herself once more in the Warder's embrace, nestled in the crook of his arms. His breath tickles the nape of her neck, his slow and rhythmic heartbeat lulling her to sleep. Egwene lies to her left, cocooned beneath her blankets, whilst Perrin gazes wistfully into the flames, his chin resting on his arms as if he were listening to a Gleeman's tale. Or perhaps, given the slightest pricking of his ears and tensing of his broad shoulders, he was listening to something more. And opposite, as aggravatingly composed and cryptic as ever, Moiraine leans against the fallen trunk that borders their small camp, watching over the dwindling dusk.
Before she drifts to sleep, Nynaeve imagines she sees something pass beneath the Aes Sedai's glance, a softness amidst seemingly cool indifference. Neither censure nor resentment is recognisable in her sweeping gaze, none of the hostilities that Nynaeve wields as weapons against deception.
Still her hackles rise on instinct, a consequence of the inescapable irritation that floods her mind whenever she meets the Aes Sedai's piercing eyes, whenever she hears her unbearably calm and melodic tone, her voice never wavering, like a millpond frozen in midwinter.
She is no fool, the Wisdom of the Two Rivers. She is a warrior and a healer and a lioness. And one day she will wring the truth of what happened to Rand from the infuriating, self-sacrificing woman who has brought so much change into her life. By the Light, she will. Yet as she glares across the flickering flames, Nynaeve senses her distrust again beginning to waver. For in Moiraine's eyes she imagines an unspoken understanding and a gentle, quiet gratitude. As if she were entrusting her Warder's heart to her care, silently asking that she might guard him from the evils of the world when she no longer can.